Chapter Text
Victor needs a drink.
He really needs a drink.
It’s only 8:30 in the morning. Maybe he needs to find a different line of work.
I don't think there are any books called “How to Quit the Mobster Life", he thinks wryly.
He stifles a yawn, dry eyes adjusting to the yellow sunlight. While he’d love to get a few more hours of well-deserved shuteye, just the threat of Yakov sending him to the trenches is enough to make any man quake in his boots. And while he’s just ballsy enough to give Yakov lip, that’d require a level of energy he lacks on this Monday morning.
Sitting up, he throws off the bedsheets and grimaces at the sudden cold. He wishes Yakov would hurry up and make peace with the Irish mob. Then he’d have his damn Bailey’s for his damn Irish coffee. That’d make his mornings a helluva lot more tolerable. That, or he could just turn off the stupid sun.
But for now, he settles with the daily grind, wrestling with his bowtie and straightening his jacket lapels in front of the mirror. Makkachin looks up at him adoringly before dashing to the adjacent room, searching for his food bowl. Unlike his kid brother, Makkachin never harped at Victor for being a “vain dandy” or a “damned politician” during his morning routine, bless his heart. Victor misses those hours of sleep that he’ll never get back, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy shaving in peace.
His polished Oxfords creak on the wooden stairwell, paying no mind to grace or common decency in general. Makkachin’s paws scratch down the stairs behind him, cheerful as always. A bit too cheerful, in Victor’s opinion. It’s ridiculous to do neighborhood rounds this early, and Yakov knows it. He’s probably doing it just to make Victor squirm. It’ll teach you discipline, he’d say. Victor snorts. Only a cap to the cranium would discipline me, he’d reply.
Streaming through gauzy blinds, warm sunlight washes the whole house. It gives a comfortable glow to the otherwise-Spartan interior. The brownstone is completely silent, save for Makkachin’s snuffles as he searches the kitchen for God-knows-what, probably stray dumplings (like that’s ever going to happen again, he thinks). Victor watches him fondly. Makkachin’s not too smart, but he’s one cute poodle pup.
Victor parts the curtains next to the front door, searching for the car. Alexei’s late, but it’s hardly unusual. Traffic’s hell, in this part of Chicago. He grabs an apple from the kitchen as he waits.
A shiny black Oldsmobile slides up to the curb, honking its horn twice. Victor grabs his cap off the hook as he steps outside, making sure the door locks behind him. He glances up the sidewalk, then down: an old habit, ingrained from years of vigilance. A few guys in suits wander the street, cars milling about. Nothing special, so far. He opens the car’s back door for Makkachin first, letting the dog hop in while he slides into the passenger side.
“доброе утро, Alexei,” Victor says, shutting the car door.
“Доброе, sir,” he replies. “Morning rounds?” He says, in a thick Russian accent.
“You know it.”
The Oldsmobile pulls into traffic, the engine purring steadily. Victor watches the familiar houses slide by, one after the other, each one as boring as the rest. He knows it’s best to keep a low profile, but it doesn’t stop the bite of envy in his mouth whenever they pass through the affluent neighborhoods. They’ve got money, dammit, so why should they live like they don’t? He tugs the brim of his cap down his face. A cool spring breeze ruffles his hair, and when he cranes his neck he can see Makkachin leaning off the car’s side, floppy tongue and squinty eyes. The sight makes him snort in amusement; he would take a picture, if he had a camera.
They pass by the slums, dirty-faced children tearing through the streets, screaming in Russian as their mothers hang laundry lines from the windows. Victor waves to their tired faces as the car clunks to a stop. Keeping his hat low, he quickly steps out of the car and heads into a decrepit apartment complex, signaling the driver to go. If the fancy car and Lenin cap haven’t already given him away, his being in a Russian neighborhood certainly marks him as a Carabosse member. He traipses up the stairs, which creak even louder than the ones at home. Makkachin trails after him loyally.
Why he makes daily trips to a shabby neighborhood to communicate with shady folks is beyond him. It’s a security meeting, a formality like every other. It’s all a bore. Even growing up in the Carabosse racketeering business, Victor’s never had much of an interest in salesmanship and strategy. He's twenty-seven, and in 1923, that's a miracle in itself.
But here he is, using his lucky life to sit in smoke-filled apartments, listening to a bunch of old mobsters drone on about profit margins and money laundering.
It's exhausting, having to act his age.
By the time he leaves that shoddy neighborhood, it’s past noon. The crisp spring air is blissfully cool, ruffling the jackets of errand boys on their bikes and sweeping stray newspapers about. Chicago is at peace for the moment, but it doesn't reassure the nagging sense of dread in his gut.
He walks with Makkachin, making rounds and killing time. Yakov might object, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He rides the six blocks to security briefings every morning, just to get Yakov off his back, then takes his sweet time enjoying the city. What’s not to love?
They pass by the 24-hour corner stores, operated by Russian friendlies and dealing in cigarettes, bubble gum and vodka (depending on who you ask). Victor schools his expression, staring into the filthy windows as if daring them to skip out on paying tribute. It's kind of funny to see the shopkeepers stiffen up, straightening their backs like soldiers. Six years after the war, and they're still learning to cope. (“Not unlike me,” he mutters.)
Passing by the financial district, they ride the western border between Russian and Italian turf. The buffer zone’s getting smaller, Victor notes. The Crispinos have become more ambitious than ever, at the expense of Victor’s people.
He doesn't know why the Carabosse has to fight for its ground. They were all, at one point, outsiders. Didn't they all come to America for a better life, as tired, huddled masses? Sometimes, looking back at his childhood in St. Petersburg and where he is now, it's difficult to tell when life was better. Sure, the money is amazing, but there's always an aura of suspicion here that never followed him in Russia. Nothing good could ever come of this, he thinks grimly. If we lose a battle, we’ll lose everything. If we win, then what? Another war, with another business. Perhaps the Carabosse used to care about family. Perhaps the Crispino Family, the Hasetsu Branch, and even the cops cared about family as well. But it's never been anything but business for a very long time. This tension? It's all business.
They're not enemies now, but Victor knows that summer makes for sticky collars and midnight fistfights. It ain't a good time for a turf war; but then again, is there ever a good time?
The setting sun casts a rosy glow over the skylines when he gets back home, having glided through the day in an apathetic breeze. He spends so much of his time wandering around that it’s hard to remember if any of it was worthwhile. Pins and bolts slide back one by one as the front door clicks open. He feeds Makkachin, leaving him to stick his nose in the food bowl, and hustles upstairs. The steps complain squeakily as his shoes venture up. “Fuck stairs,” he grumbles.
Formal wear has always been a favorite of his; like gold wrapping paper for shitty presents. At night he trades his day suits for starched-collar shirts, waistcoats and fitted jackets, and it makes him feel like the clean, orderly, got-his-shit-together person that patrons expect him to be. It’s not entirely unlike a play at the theater: he entertains others’ fantasies, and drops them when he’s alone.
He wishes he was alone more often.
Every night, he goes down to a diner nestled between a credit union and an upper-class barbershop. It’s a ritzy place, by Chicago standards; the monthly rent alone costs more than what Mila pays the beat cops every quarter. The Triple Flip is a damn good investment, though. Its clean red brick exterior makes it stand out from its neighbors, warm yellow bulbs beckoning through the shiny glass. The perfect spot for late-night swingers and off-duty cops, and Victor’s pride and joy. He practically runs the place himself, with the help of a few trusted employees and distributors that he met through the grapevine.
The doorbell chimes merrily as he sidles in. The boy wiping down the lunch counter lifts his head in greeting, sees Victor, then scowls as he turns away. Victor ruffles the kid’s blond hair as he passes by. Yuri jumps indignantly, like a cat sprayed with a garden hose.
“Quit fucking up my hair, jerk,” he snaps.
Victor throws his arm up, giving Yuri a half-assed salute. He looks ridiculous here in his in his white gloves and waistcoat, and Yuri tells him so as he walks deeper into the shop.
The diner is deserted, but Victor isn’t bothered. They’ll all flock here soon enough. Light from the storefront recedes as he turns down a short and narrow hallway. A burly employee sits before an enclave, beyond which is a door marked “PRIVATE”.
“Evening, Vanya,” Victor says. Vanya rises, nodding to Victor and opening the door. Victor descends the dark stairwell, hearing the door shut behind him.
The only things he doesn’t like about the Triple Flip, he thinks, are the stairs. Too many stairs make him feel trapped, claustrophobic. Too much like the trenches.
Light emanates from below, and the upbeat music gets louder the farther down he goes. The party’s in full swing; the patrons much prefer to drink at night. He can feel the vibrations from the dancing and brassy jazz numbers through the floor. All of it would bring a weaker building to the ground. A cacophony of whoops and cheers erupts as Victor pushes open the door at stairs’ end; Christophe must be performing, he muses.
The crowd roars around Victor as he nudges past tables of businessmen smoking cigars and flapper girls draped over dapper boys. He winces, thinking about the pints of alcohol that will be all over the floor by morning. There’s so much smoke in the air that the building could catch fire and no one would notice. He doesn’t remember when he started caring about these things. Perhaps it was the war . Everything seemed to be the war’s fault, these days.
The bartender nods at him with a knowing smile as Victor slides into a chair. “The usual, Victor?” He asks.
“A Manhattan tonight, Georgi. Let’s keep it interesting.”
“Sure thing.”
He sips the cocktail gratefully, waiting for the rush of intoxication that he’s waited for all day. The speakeasy’s booming, more alive than Victor’s felt in a long time. Drinking at the speakeasy is as much a routine as any other—drink, scan crowd, drink, repeat. He knows the face of every regular customer, every fashionable jazz song, every one of Christophe’s (admittedly impressive) cabaret dance moves. Victor knows how long he’s done this for. And while the clientele is questionable at best, it still beats the vanity and underhanded maneuvering upstairs that he deals with daily.
It’s why he hates going out for business; a couple hours of drinking with people he can’t stand, pretending that everyone at the table doesn’t secretly wish he was dead. What he loved, during the Great War, was the camaraderie. Not a trace of ulterior motives or sleight-of-hand motion; just constant fear of death and a shared sense of impending doom. Diplomacy couldn’t get any less subtle than a shell to the head.
Victor is tired. Of deception, of loneliness, of being haunted by memories. Every day, every month, every year of his life. He waits to get lost, ends up drunk as a skunk by midnight, and wakes up with a splitting headache and an itch to do it all over again. Living was gray and meaningless as it was; he could get gunned down in the street, keel over from an aneurysm or fall off a ten-story balcony and he wouldn't have a care in the world. France left an oddly-shaped hole in him, and while nothing quite fits right, the alcohol and parties patch it up for just a little while. He wishes that he had that same happiness in the daytime. The Triple Flip is where life gets color back in its cheeks.
A wispy figure settles on the chair beside him. “Hello, stranger,” she says. She bats her eyes playfully; he stuffs his apathy into a box, shelves it in the back of his brain.
Victor looks her up and down and plays along. “Evening, Miss Mila. Ain't you a bit young to be hanging around these parts?”
She turns away shyly, tucking her head into her shoulder in the way that makes all the boys go mad. “Maybe?” she flirts. The curls in hair don’t budge at all. It’s pretty impressive. Without being asked, Georgi slides a gin and tonic towards Mila, which she accepts with a smile.
“Thought you were supposed to be at the security group meeting today,” Victor says, watching her sip her drink.
“Got caught up in something,” she replies dismissively. Victor grins devilishly.
“Was there a girl?”
She sputters, blushing. Victor hides his triumphant smirk behind his hand. Huffing at him in mock irritation, she downs another gulp of the drink. “It was none of your business, that’s what it was.”
“Fine, fine. But if Yakov ever finds out that his favorite bookkeeper was playing hooky for a date, he won’t be happy…”
“Ugh, I regret talking to you.”
“Me too.”
She twists in her chair to look him in the eye, expression serious. “But really, could you do me a favor and not, you know, mention this to him?”
Victor tilts his head pensively, tapping his chin. “Well, there’s this lovely little lounge I’ve had my eye on for a while, and some money you could help me launder—”
Mila elbows him in the shoulder.
“Okay, okay!” He raises his hands in defeat. “He’ll never hear about it from me. You know I’d do it for you anyway, right?”
She snorts into her glass. “I know. Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be an ass about it, though.”
“You know how much I love busting your chops.” Truth be told, he still finds it strange sitting next to Mila in a dark speakeasy, all gussied up in a little black dress and fancy chandelier earrings. She was always the scrappy girl that he left behind when he went to France. Like Yuri, she’s a kid from the streets that got taken in by the mob, and as good as family. How the time flies.
The audience erupts into whoops and cheers as the song ends. The band begins belting out a bubbly, upbeat jazz number with a quick pulse. Mila finishes off her drink with one last draught, hopping off the bar stool and grabbing Victor by the arm. “Dance with me,” she says. And he obliges.
She pulls Victor out to the crowded floor and takes his hand, easing him into the dance. He looks up at the stage, feeling the stamp of the dancers’ feet on the stage vibrating through the floor. Probably half-blind from the spotlights, Christophe leads the girls with gusto, hopping like a firecracker in his embellished suit. Victor wolf-whistles; Chris looks down at him and winks.
He spins Mila round and her dress flares out as she pirouettes. Exhilaration rushes through his veins, no doubt fueled by alcohol and opium and cocaine and God-knows-what-else. Stage light bathes them in a golden haze and he feels his heartbeat matching the song’s pace. Trumpets and piano clash, bass rolling upwards sharply. A familiar scene, and he knows how it usually ends.
Victor knows everyone who frequents the bar. They bring friends, acquaintances, family and the occasional honey. He sees their faces on the dance floor, on the stage, at the tables. Mila shrieks with laughter as Victor tips her back and pulls her up again, but he watches the crowd. They all seem so far away, like looking through the wrong end of a spyglass. The pansies in drag are ostentatious as always, twittering like birds in their sequined dresses as they finger colorful cocktails. Fairy-like flappers flirt with statuesque women in tailcoats and top hats. Police Commissioner Edwards shares a booth with Senator Goulding, both laughing uproariously and puffing cigars wider than quarters. Victor comes here so often that there’s rarely a face he doesn’t recognize, but maybe there’s—hold on—
The world spins when Mila twirls him around and their hands come together with perfect synchrony. Flashing her a brief smile, he chances another glimpse over her shoulder. A new group of guys at the corner. Hmm. He’ll have to ask around later to find out where they got the password. Meanwhile, the music rises to a fever pitch, a wobbly and dramatic cadence topping it off. He turns his attention back to the stage and claps with the rest of them, breathless and alive. Already he feels the euphoria melting, the spell wearing off. More, he demands.
At the corner of the room, a group of men watch Victor with interest.
“That’s him, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised….” Phichit hurriedly flips to a new page of his notebook and begins scribbling, hunched over in the poorly-lit booth with his hat shielding his face. “Now, if only I had a photo—”
“Won’t be difficult,” Seung-Gil dismisses. “He goes all over town. We only need one.” A miasma of cigarette smoke clouds his face. He tilts his head towards Otabek. “You sure you can get close to them?”
“Already got a connection. Now it’s just time to milk it for all it’s worth.” Otabek stretches out in the booth, martini in hand. “An interesting character, this Victor guy is. This story better win us a Pulitzer, for all the trouble we’re going to.”
“Yeah, he’s interesting for sure,” Phichit says absently. Yuuri watches him draw a messy fringe over a terrible sketch of Victor’s profile.
“He’s probably loaded, too,” Seung-Gil adds.
Yuuri catches the glint of spotlights outlining Victor’s face, turning his silver hair white and surrounding him in a glowing aura. It’s impossible to look away. It’s also impossible not to notice the wistfulness in his eyes, an unmistakable fatigue. “He’s...” sad, and beautiful, he thinks. “An easy target,” he says.
“Let’s wait until the timing’s right,” Otabek says.
But it starts in the speakeasy, as many illicit affairs do. A little wander of the eye, a look that lasts a little too long. Victor is intrigued, and all-around enraptured.
It’s after his third (or fourth? Seventh?) drink that he notices a pair of eyes, watching him. Watching him—not Christophe’s routine, not the band, not Georgi the bartender. A young Japanese guy, unfamiliar to him, sitting at the table in the corner surrounded by an interesting group of friends. Brown eyes framed by a pair of square spectacles, staring at Victor as though he wasn’t looking at a mob boss’ kid.
It’s kind of cute, Victor thinks childishly.
Victor smirks, meeting the man’s gaze. Enjoying the view?
The man in the corner smiles; a pretty, coy thing. Doll-like, even. But Victor reads faces for a living, and he sees danger in that smile. He’s definitely flirting. The speakeasy is dim, probably twenty different kinds of diseased, and hazy with Norwegian pipe smoke and opium. But that smile he’s giving him, a sharp-edged thing that could slice him six ways to Sunday, is so seductive it should be illegal. At least, no more legal than the Manhattan in Victor’s hand and the pansy in his buttonhole.
He feels a bit light-headed, but not from the drink.
That is, until a large hand claps Victor on the shoulder and leans in his ear.
“Vitya. Emergency meeting. Now.” He turns to see Yakov’s retreating back heading to the hidden door to the diner.
He looks apologetically at the guy in the corner before pushing off his chair and following Yakov, pulling on his overcoat and grabbing his hat.
“What great timing,” he grumbles. The low roar of the club abruptly cuts out as he slips out the door, until all that’s left is a ringing in his ears and the pretty face in the corner burned into his retinas.