1



The neon glare from St. Petersburg's Nevsky Prospect was the only light that shone in Sergei Arkedyvich's dim, spartan office. The gangster was seated in an armchair by the wide window, burning cigarette dangling from his meaty lips. He considered the liquid line over halfway down the vodka bottle before him, and regarded the paunchy man sitting across from him.



"What do you think, Mikhail Feodirovich?" Sergei asked, "fancy another?"



Mikhail Feodirovich's eyes were cast down and distant. He tapped a pack of cigarettes against his knee in a steady, idle rhythym, jaw working over nothing. Slumping forward, Italian silk shirt stained and unbuttoned to his hairy, bloated paunch, Mikhail allowed a vague low grunt as he continued worrying the cigarettes and clenching his jaw.



"Hey, Mikhail Feodirovich!" Sergei said, leaning forward. "What's the matter with you?" He clapped a heavy hand over Mikhail's shoulder.



Mikhail Feodirovich startled and straightened himself, his eyes wide. "Forgive me, my friend," he said, fumbling with the pack to withdraw a battered white cylinder. "I was caught up in business."



"Business?" Sergei laughed, "we've settled all that. That nasty situation in Grozny should not be a problem for us now. And like I said, word is that we'll be able to start shipping through Transnistria again within the month."



Mikhail nodded his head slowly and stabbed the cigarette between his lips. "Yes, yes, yes," he said, snatching a lighter from the table and igniting his smoke, "I know all about that." He drew deep and released a thick cloud of smoke. "I'm talking about other business."



"The football?"



"Yes." Mikhail took another drag. "The football," he exhaled.



Sergei snorted. "What's to worry you?" he laughed, reaching for the vodka bottle. "Zenit is the best team in Russia. Your boys ran away with the league last year. And semifinalists in the Champions League!"



"Quarterfinalists," Mikhail corrected. "And that was last year. Might as well be ancient history."



"Why do you say that?"



Mikhail narrowed his eyes. "We are going to lose Jorge Costa. Already I've gotten bids for him from six clubs."



"Ah, yes," Sergei nodded, tilting clear liquid into the glasses. "It would be a shame to lose that one. He was sensational last year." The gangster cocked his head. "What kind of bids are you getting?"



Mikhail looked up. "PSG offered us seventy-five million this morning. Manchester City called this afternoon with eighty."



Sergei let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "My god," he smiled, "why are you so glum about this? You could buy an entire team with that kind of dough!"



Mikhail frowned. "Jorge Costa is irreplacable," he said. "He's strong, fast, and an excellent reader of the game. He creates almost as many goals as he scores." He stubbed the cigarette out among the dozens of others in the ashtray. "He is the absolute heart and soul of this team."



"Come on," Sergei cajoled, "eighty million Euros? You'd be crazy not to take it. There are dozens of better players than him out there. And with that kind of cash, you could afford them."



Mikhail shook his head sadly. "They won't come to play in Russia, though," he said. "No top player wants to come out here. It's too cold. And too rough. And most of all, the league is simply not good enough."



Sergei shrugged. "You said it yourself," he replied. "The Russian Premier League is shit. So who needs top-class players? Let him go and use the cash to replace him with a couple monkeys from Africa. Make sure you get a little taste yourself."



Mikhail folded his arms. "I cannot," he said. "Jorge Costa is the only way to win in Europe. He was a whisker away from getting us past Napoli last year."



"I never realized how seriously you took this football nonsense," Sergei laughed. "I thought this was just a good front for the other business."



"I need this," Mikhail said, "and Jorge Costa is the only way."



"Fine, fine," Sergei shrugged, "so offer him a new contract."



Mikhail shook his head. "I had Roman Abromovich on the phone yesterday," he said. "They're prepared to offer him two-fifty per week. I can't compete with that. Plus," he continued, reaching for another cigarette, "I know he wants to play for a top team."



"So," Sergei said, baring his teeth, "he needs convincing."



Mikhail waved him away. "Not like that," he said. "No threats. No violence. I need him to want to be here."



Sergei eased back in his chair. "So, what do you have to offer that the others cannot?" he inquired. "Perhaps a girl?"



Mikhail's eyes flickered. He looked away. "Ah," smiled Sergei, "so perhaps the rumors are true?"



"I don't know anything about that," Mikhail muttered, eyes on the floor.



"Come now, Mikhail Feodirovich," said Sergei. "There is no room for prudishness in business." He settled back in his seat, eyes twinkling. "I think we've all heard rumors that Jorge Costa is a man of... particular taste."



Mikhail shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't pay attention to that tabloid nonsense."



"Suppose it's true," Sergei mused, bringing a hand to his chin. "We could give him exactly what he wants. If we find the right one to blow his mind, he'll never want to leave St. Petersburg."



Mikhail set his jaw. "You are confident?"



Sergei smiled. "I know men like Jorge Costa. Inside they are sappy creatures." He indicated his chest with a finger. "Guided by the heart. If we can satisfy that, he will never wander."



"It's going to take more than some glossy skank to keep him happy," said Mikhail.



Sergei flashed his teeth. "Don't worry," he said. "I've got a few ideas. I'll figure something out. For a price, of course."



Mikhail allowed a thin smile. "If you can help me convince him to stay, you can name your price."



Sergei lifted his small glass. "To success, on and off the field," he intoned.



"Cheers," Mikhail mumbled. The two men touched glasses and drained them.



2



Ilya Andreiivich was running late, as usual. He had slept past ten and lingered too long over his museli to make the mid-morning bus to the Narvskaya Metro. Grumbling, the eighteen-year-old shuffled from the table into his room and considered the pile of clothes on his floor. He lifted a simple white t-shirt and examined it for wrinkles and stains. Gingerly, he held the shirt to his nose and inhaled. He thought for a moment, cast his eyes back to the floor, and shrugged. Tossing the shirt onto his bed, he snatched up a pair of tight black jeans from the floor and shimmied into them, fastening the clasp around his slender waist.



Before tugging on his shirt, Ilya turned to examine himself in the thin mirror hanging on the inside of his door. A fading purple bruise ringed his right eye, shocking on his fine, youthful features. He pressed a finger against the bruise and winced, soft green eyes watering. Frowning, he considered his lithe, narrow frame. He ran his hands along his sides from his hips to his ribcage, shaking his head in dismay at the yielding softness of his flesh. Flexing his meager chest, he scanned his torso from top to bottom. He considered his best feature to be his flat core, demarcated by two lines that ran parallel down his stomach before angling into a v-shape that plunged down beneath his boxers. The rest of his form disappointed to him, soft and small and weak.



"Pathetic," he muttered to himself. Shaking his head, he tugged the white t-shirt over his head and struggled to free every strand of his long, thick mane of auburn hair. He engaged in a brief search for his light jacket, scrambling around on the floor and tossing aside piles of socks and underwear. When he had retrieved it from behind the bed, he snatched his wallet, keys, and phone from the bedside table and hurried for the door.



It was a mild summer morning in St. Petersburg. Vague shapes rushed along the streets, ducking into shops and alleys and darting across the roads. Ilya clutched his jacket close as he hurried over the sidewalk, occasionally glancing at his wristwatch to remind himself just how screwed he was. He was so caught up worrying about making it to at least his third class of the day on time that he didn't even notice the black Lexus glide up to his side. The tinted passenger's window whirred down.



"Boy!" called a voice, startling Ilya. He glanced over to see the Lexus motoring alongside him slowly. A cold shudder passed over his body. Ilya quickened his stride, head fixed forward. The car kept pace with him.



"Hey, boy!" the voice called again. Ilya ignored the man and continued ahead. His eyes darted to the right for a shop or alley to duck into. "Boy!" the voice insisted. "Don't you have a moment for your uncle?"



Ilya froze. The car stopped alongside him, idling. "That's good," the man said. "I just need to speak with you for a moment."



Ilya hesitated, then turned toward the car. He took a deep breath and prepared to approach. Before he could take a step, a burlap sack was forced over head from behind, engulfing him in a suffocating darkness that swallowed his screams. A pair of powerful arms seized him around the waist, pinning his arms to his sides. A sharp pain pierced the side of his neck, followed by a dizzying liquid injection that burned through his veins. Rough hands dragged him forward, shoving him forward until he collapsed onto the Lexus' leather backseat. The last thing he heard before succumbing to senselessness was the back door slam shut and the engine roar. Then nothing.



3



"Good afternoon, Ilya Andreiivich," murmured a low, garbled voice in the dark. Senses swimming, Ilya struggled to raise his head and pry his eyes open. "No need to rush. Take your time," the man said.



Fluorescent light blinded Ilya when he finally cracked his eyelids. He was lying on a thin mattress on the floor of a boxy concrete room. The dull ache of disuse tingled his limbs. "What," he began thickly, tongue seeming to fill his mouth, "what is going on?"



"Relax," said the man standing at the door.



Struggling, Ilya shifted himself into a seated position and squinted at the shadowy figure. "Sergei Arkedyvich," he sighed. His head sagged down. "Are you going to kill me?"



Sergei gave a loud laugh. "Kill you? What would give you that idea?" he asked, moving forward. "Why would I want to kill the youngest son of my dear friend Leonid Ivanovic, god rest his soul?"



Ilya's head remained down. He closed his eyes.



Sergei took another step toward the bed. "Could it be because we entrusted him with the simple task of carrying a bag from one end of town to the other, and he somehow managed to fuck it up?" Sergei's words sharpened as he neared. "Because in the second it took for some low-lifes in Kupchino to jump him, nearly fifty grand worth of Afghani smack disappeared? Or because I didn't find out about it until almost two days later because he ran and hid like a frightened cat?"



"I said I didn't want to do it."



Sergei reared up and backhanded Ilya across the mouth, his meaty paw's smack echoing in the tiny room. "You just don't get it, boy," Sergei breathed, eyes placid. "You don't do things because you want to." He reached forward again and seized Ilya by his shaggy dark hair, forcing his head back. "You do them because they are expected."



Ilya's soft eyes were red and welled with tears. A thin crimson stream trickled from a fresh gash at the corner of his mouth. His eyelids slipped shut. "If," he began in a choked voice. "I know you are going to kill me. Please just do it now."



Sergei shook his head, flashing a wolfish smile. "I already told you I'm not going to kill you. Even though I have killed men for far less. And don't think the fact that I was friends with your father means anything. If he were alive to see what a pathetic little bitch you'd turned out to be, he'd beg me to kill you. Actually," he sneered, eyes flashing, "he'd probably want to pull the trigger himself."



Ilya's head dropped as tears began to stream from his eyes. He moved to wipe them away, but Sergei caught him by the wrist and twisted it, forcing his head back up. "Buck up there, angel." The paunchy gangster peered into Ilya's streaked face, piggy eyes narrow and probing. You are a pretty one," he mused. "Got yourself a girlfriend?"



Ilya looked down and shook his head. "I didn't think so," Sergei smirked. "Do you like girls?" Ilya nodded. "Liar!" Sergei laughed, robust chuckles booming. "I've had you pegged for a swisher since you could walk. You never were much of a man."



Ilya struggled to free his wrist, but could not break Sergei's iron grip. The gangster grinned. "Just look at that. Pathetic." He released Ilya's arm and took a breath. "Well today just might be your lucky day. Do you know Jorge Costa?"



"No," Ilya mumbled, words garbled and choked.



"What," Sergei asked, "don't you care about football?" He gave another loud, booming laugh. "Of course you don't." He patted Ilya on the head, tousling his auburn hair. "Well, young one. Jorge Costa is Zenit's best player. In fact, he's one of the best footballers in the world today. There's a lot of interest in him coming from Europe. Some friends of mine are very interested in convincing him to stay in Russia."



Ilya wore a quizzical expression on his tear-stained face. "What does this have to do with me?"



"You're the one who's going to convince him."



Ilya's eyes widened. "Me? Why?"



Sergei smirked. "Jorge Costa is a man of particular tastes," he said, "and I think you may be exactly the kind of girl he's looking for."



"Girl?"



Sergei clapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh, Sergei," he said, "always getting ahead of yourself." He reached into his jacket and fumbled around for a moment before withdrawing his phone. He tapped it a few times, then smiled and turned it toward Ilya. "Look," he said.



On display was a tall, dark-skinned man kneeling on a football pitch. His head was thrown back, arms spread wide, a triumphant smile frozen on his earthy features. He clutched his shirt in his hand, powerfully muscled torso naked and glistening under the floodlights. Around him thronged a crowd of players wearing delighted expressions, crowding in exultation. Ilya's eyes raced up his meaty thighs, drank in his rock-slab abdomen, lingered on his sinewy arms, before devouring the bulging chest rippling beneath the player's broad shoulders.



"Jesus, I knew it," Sergei teased, "you're drooling!"



Ilya broke his trance and shook his head. "No, no," he protested. "I'm not,"



"It's ok," Sergei broke in. "In fact, it's perfect. You are going to seduce Jorge Costa, win his heart, and use his love-addled brain to convince him to stay."



"Seduce him?" Ilya stammered, "but I, I mean, I've never even,"



"He will love that about you," Sergei smiled. "Sweet, innocent little virgin. You'll drive him absolutely wild."



Ilya dropped his head, fresh tears flowing. "I can't," he sobbed, "I can't do it."



"Not with that attitude," Sergei said. He considered the weeping boy. "Well," he continued, "if you really don't want to do it, I suppose I could just stick with my original plan and toss you into the Neva in a sack."



Ilya froze. Slowly he raised his head, wide bloodshot eyes pleading.



"Did that change your mind?" Sergei asked. Ilya gave a tiny nod. "Good. So you'll do it?" Ilya nodded again. A grin broke out on Sergei's face. "That's good," he said. He reached out and caressed Ilya's soft cheek, wiping a tear away. "I know you've got what it takes. So soft, sweet, and innocent. You're perfect." He took a step back and looked the boy up and down. He frowned. "We're going to need to make a few changes first."



4



Locked in the barren room alone, Ilya lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Although he was still woozy from the injection, his mind was far too overwhelmed for him to fall back asleep. He placed a hand over his chest, pounding heart throbbing through his thin shirt. He had been dreading the day when he would be made accountable for his mistake with the drug delivery. The knowledge that he had been a hair's-breadth from meeting his end made his skin crawl. He gulped air in deep gasps, trying to settle his nerves. The walls seemed suffocatingly close to him. He tried to ignore the fact that the door was locked, that he was trapped inside this concrete cell.



As he lay in the dark, his mind drifted to the picture Sergei showed him. Jorge Costa. He was indeed handsome. But how was Ilya meant to seduce him? He was seized by a fresh wave of panic. Such thoughts could not be in his mind. He had spent his entire childhood teaching himself to ignore the strange feelings that overcame him around the other boys. He knew that these compulsions would lead only to violence and death in the cruel world he grew up in. And yet Sergei had seen right through him...



Ilya's reverie was broken by a scraping noise at the door. The lock snapped out of position, and the heavy metal frame was forced open, slamming against the interior wall with a deafening bang. Ilya, startled, sprang up onto his elbows. A bulky wall of woman burst through the door and came bustling into the room, leather boots clacking against the concrete floor. Flanking her followed two young-looking girls lugging hard-shelled trunks, straining under the weight.



The large woman strode directly up to Ilya and scowled down at him. "Go on, get up," she barked, arms folded over her massive bosom. As Ilya scampered to rise, the woman reached down and seized his shirt, dragging him to his feet.



The boy's head spun as he found himself standing before the woman, rubbing his eyes and trying to get his bearings. "What's going on?" he asked.



The woman ignored him, and her eyes studiously running up and down his body. "So, you're the one," the woman said. "Sergei Arkedyvich has really lost his mind this time," she sniffed with clear displeasure. Her eyes locked on Ilya. "What are you waiting for?" she snapped. "Get those clothes off?"



Ilya froze. His eyes darted to the two girls who had hauled in the trunks. They stood watching with curious indifference, arms folded. Ilya's jaw gaped as he struggled for words. "I," he stammered, "I,"



The large woman swung her arm, landing a stinging slap on Ilya's cheek. "Enough!" she shouted, "get a move on!"



Ilya, needles of pain exploding in his face from the impact, cast his wet eyes down and hastily began to tug his shirt off. The three intruders stared intently as he unsnapped his black jeans, slid them down to his ankles, and stepped out. He stood up, eyes down.



"Come on, you idiot," the woman barked, gesturing at his boxer-briefs, "those, too."



Cheeks burning, Ilya fingered the elastic band around his waist. Slowly, he slid the underwear down, feeling cool air on his exposed, shrinking genitals. He lowered himself to a squat to tug the boxers over his feet, then cautiously rose. Instinctively he moved his hands to cover himself, but the woman swatted them away.



She stood back, eyes narrowing, scanning over his naked form. "I suppose I can work with this," she mused.



"What's happening?" asked Ilya.



The drew herself up, shaking her stringy blonde hair from her face. Her great bulk seemed to fill the room. "I am Ludmilla," she told him. "Sergei Arkedyvich has tasked me with making you presentable. From the looks of you, that may take a lot of work," she said, prodding his narrow chest with a sausage finger. Her eyes narrowed. "You are to do as I say. I'm sure Sergei Arkedyvich made you quite aware of how miserable he can make you should you fail."



Ilya cast his eyes back to the floor and nodded slightly. Ludmilla clicked her tongue. "Ok," she said. "Let's begin." Behind her, the girls popped open the trunks and began removing items. "Clean him first," Ludmilla ordered. She reached down, grasped a handful of Ilya's scraggly pubic hair, and gave it a hard tug, smirking at his pained expression. "Then this," she continued. "By the time we finish, you're going to be a real beauty."

