The Volkov

The Volkov crime family. The Russian mafia. A nasty piece of work. Sex trafficking. **** suppliers. Modern slavery. A dark place. Once you were affiliated there was no way out. Unless you preferred ****.

The only thing that kept the Volkov in check was the stalemate with the Moorfield. The Moorfield had a more family-friendly aesthetic with barbecue and beach babes, compared to the vampiresque Volkovs. Their women were pale, seductive, and killer.

Greg was spent. Mila had drained his balls completely. He had no idea this was going to happen, and questioned why he hadn’t sought out prostitutes earlier. He lazed on the seat as Mila purred on his lap.

A man entered the booth, he was tall and broad with a black mustache and buzz cut.

“Mila! No sex with the customers!” He growled.

She tucked the 500s deep in her panties, “Aww… I was just having a little fun… Dmitri.”

Dmitri grabbed Greg by the collar and dragged him out.

Greg was taken to an office at the back. It was damn luxury. Gold and silver trim on everything. Snake-skin sofa. The man at the desk was handsome. He must have been thirty. He had medium length blonde hair combed back with strands on his forehead. He was broad. Muscular. A perfect jawline.

“What are you… A cop or paperboy?” He said in a thick Russian accent.

”I-I.. I’m an accountant… Or I was until I was fired,” Greg said quickly.

”Accountant eh? Why did you get fired?”

“Aggression towards a co-worker…” Greg said.

“Hmm… not a bad quality in an accountant,” the man said, “I am Victor Volkov… You work for me now, accountant. Or you die…”