Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #5: THE OATH
Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander（Heated Rivalry烈愛對決TV版; 1965黑幫AU）
Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #5: THE OATH
NIAGARA FALLS, ONT. 17:16, 9-NOV-1965
***
In the evening, Canada's temperature dipped below zero, and the heaters were running at full capacity. During the dinner rush, residential and commercial areas reached their peak electricity consumption. At a hydroelectric plant in southern Ontario, an improperly installed relay overloaded and tripped. Within a minute, the surge of power demand from southern Canada was rerouted to a power plant in Lewiston, New York, the Lewiston relay overloaded and tripped in turn.
Eight minutes later, radio and television signals across Ontario began to drop in frequency, and the streetlights on the main roads started to flicker.
***NORTHEASTERN, NORTH AMERICA. 17:27, 9-NOV-1965
***
At 5:27 PM on the evening of November 9, southern Ontario and ten American states plunged into a total blackout.
***Before the power failed, Ilya was in the living room watching television. The lights flickered, and then the singer's movements slowed down like a gag in a comedy. The music became intermittent, and the screen stuttered with horizontal lines before a final hum of current heralded the absolute darkness.
A thud followed by a string of curses drifted from Shane's room on the first floor. Ilya looked up from the sofa toward the sound.
Shane had returned around three in the morning. Although Ilya had spent the entire night watching the dull election coverage, he at least knew that the winning party remained the current administration and that the political landscape wouldn't change much. Still, he had stayed in the living room waiting for Shane to come home.
Once home, Shane hadn't uttered a word. Ilya thought he was just exhausted, thinking a nap would fix things, but from the moment Shane woke up at noon, the only exchange they had was "You are awake?" followed by "Fuck off, Rozanov."
Shane had locked himself in his room. The intimacy they shared after dinner the night before seemed to have been a mere flash in the pan, and they had reverted back to being the distant Rozanov and Hollander.
After the blackout hit, Shane briefly left his room, pulled a flashlight from a cabinet, threw it to Ilya, and retreated back inside. An hour later, Ilya used a match to light the gas stove in the dark and cooked the ingredients he'd bought at noon. By candlelight, he ate his roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, leaving the salad and pan-seared pickerel for Shane, but Shane didn't take his dinner back to the room until nearly seven.
A little after seven, Ilya washed the dishes in the dark. He heard Shane leave his room and the metallic jingle of keys being tossed, so he rinsed the soap off his hands and immediately gave chase.
"Don't follow me," Shane snapped, walking into the garage.
Ilya didn't argue. No matter how much he wanted to know what he had done wrong, he ignored Shane's barked orders and climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes. Shane said nothing and started the engine.
***
BLACKWOOD RINK, OTTAWA, ONT. 20:08, 9-NOV-1965
***
The Mercedes stopped in the parking lot of the Blackwood Rink.
"Stay in the car, Rozanov. Even if you follow me, I won't let you inside," Shane dropped the line and stepped out of the car.
Ilya cursed as he kicked the back of the front seat. He watched through the window as Shane entered the rink through the back door. He was likely headed to the office. There were no games on Tuesday, and with the blackout, the rink couldn't possibly schedule practices. There wasn't even staff in the parking lot toll booth.
The car radio had already announced that the primary cause of the outage was a power plant in the south, with restoration expected in a few hours. Broadcasts reported that suburban residents were flocking to the Parliament buildings in the city for warmth, Ottawa's downtown traffic was in shambles, and subway passengers were stranded. Police and medical systems were reaching their breaking point.
Then, adding insult to injury, a fine snow began to drift in front of the headlights; like a layer of white noise. Just like the night before, dry, warm lips carried the rye scent of kvass. Ottawa's first snow smelled of soap.
Ilya roared in Russian as he kicked the car door open and marched toward the back entrance of the rink.
He raised his flashlight, carving a path toward the rear door, the beam swaying as he walked. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a massive shadow in the distance. Ilya pointed the flashlight toward it. He had thought it was just a pile of crates covered in tarps at the corner of the parking lot. If it hadn't been for the thin layer of snow outlining the shapes, he wouldn't have noticed at all. But the more he stared at the "crates," the more their silhouettes stung his intuition—he couldn't ignore it.
Ilya approached and brushed away the snow, tapping the surface through the black tarp, which returned a metallic echo. His scalp went numb as if his fears had finally aligned with the source of the sound.
He pulled back the tarp—two black Lincoln Continentals.
A Lincoln Continental was by no means an ordinary person's car. An average family couldn't afford one with an entire year's income, and it wasn't the kind of practical vehicle Shane drove. Instead, they were reserved for people of a specific status—high-ranking individuals.
Then, two sudden, thunderous cracks startled Ilya so much he nearly dropped his flashlight. He immediately looked toward the source. The rink was pitch black, and the snow was falling heavily. A chill ran down his spine, not from the cold, but because that numbness in his scalp had finally formed into two words: Gunshots. Shane.
Ilya bolted, sprinted toward the rink, and slammed his body against the back door. It was unlocked, and he nearly tumbled into the hallway wall.
Shane.
He skidded several times on the floor before regaining his footing. The floor was wet, and Ilya shivered until he shone his light down and realized with relief it was only melted snow from the night before. Ilya drew his M1911 from the holster beneath his jacket, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round. There were no lights in the hallway, and Ilya could only rely on memory to run toward the office, the flashlight casting a swaying a wide fan of light on the floor ahead, impossible to steady.
Shane.
Then came another gunshot.
"Shane!" Ilya's shout echoed in the hallway as a loud crash erupted from the direction of the office door.
He focused on the office a short distance away. His heartbeat and the chaos within the room momentarily drowned out his instincts, preventing him from hearing the scuff of leather shoes on the rubber flooring. Suddenly, a whistle cut through the air, and a searing pain grazed the back of his left hand. The impact sent the flashlight flying. The fan-shaped of light spun across the floor, hit the wall, and went out.
Ilya immediately ducked into the shadows on the right, pressing his back firmly against the wall.
The door was just steps away, yet Ilya was forced to huddle here because the enemy had reinforcements, and he didn't know how many. His vision was a void of black. The typical hum of the rink had died with the power, leaving only the muffled thuds and insults from the office echoing down the hall.
He smelled the lingering mustiness of the air conditioning, the pungent chemical scent of floor wax on rubber, and the metallic tang of blood beginning to seep from the back of his left hand. Cold sweat pooled under his arms as he forced himself to patiently count his heartbeats, trying not to imagine what was happening inside the office, focusing only on getting back to Shane.
Moyo solntse.
Just then, an unusual scent drifted into his nostrils.
Amidst the complex odors, it was a faint scent of leather, not from a jersey or a jacket, but more like sweet paper mixed with earth. A blurred image began to take shape in his mind. On the dashboard of one of those Lincoln Continentals, there had been a box—Cuban cigars.
The moment he reached the conclusion, his muscle memory synced, and his muzzle snapped toward the source of the scent. In the void, a faint metallic click sounded ahead of him, and Ilya pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Muzzle flashes momentarily illuminated the space. He pulled the trigger repeatedly by instinct, the gunshots deafening in the narrow hallway until the shadow ahead slammed heavily onto the floor.
The wails ceased, and only then did Ilya stop firing. He waited, one second, three, eight, twelve, nineteen.
And the hallway remained silent.
He immediately turned and scrambled toward where the flashlight might be. He fumbled in the dark until he found the switch, and the beam revealed the figure on the ground, unmoving. Ilya scanned the hallway, snatched the revolver from beside the corpse, and ran back to the office door.
Sounds of struggle and cursing came from inside. Ilya crouched by the door. "Shane!" he shouted, but there was still no answer, only the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the walls.
Holding the flashlight in his left hand to secure his field of vision and his gun in his right, he braced his right wrist against his left and charged inside.
"この野郎！" Shadows grappled out of sight. The wall behind the desk vibrated from an impact, and glass shattered. Ilya couldn't get a clear shot. "叩き斬ってやる！"
Finally, one figure was shoved against the wall and reached for a long staff, swinging it forward. The figure staggered back, and Ilya saw the staff lengthen, instantly splitting into two sections. When the staff swung again, Ilya heard a scream. An object hit the bar, and then the staff was thrust home, followed by a sickening retch as the shadow collapsed.
Only then did Ilya see clearly.
The flashlight illuminated a floor covered in blood and broken liquor bottles. The sound of heavy breathing filled Ilya's ears. He snapped the light around. Shane raised a hand against the glare. His shirt was splattered with blood, and the katana in his hand was slick with red.
"Shane... you—"
"Ilya!"
A sudden, dull pain at the back of his head made Ilya lose his footing. He pitched forward, his steps unsteady, and fell toward the coffee table, clutching the edge to keep his balance. His vision spun, and his feet couldn't find the floor. But there was a fan-shaped of light on the ground, he saw four feet scrambling in the white light, one pair was familiar. Ilya tried to reach for the revolver, but he fell off the table. He shouted for Shane and tried to push himself up from the sofa, only to be met with a second heavy blow. He lost consciousness.
An icy coldness woke him from the floor. He was drenched in water, his head throbbed, and his vision was a blur. He gasped for air, inhaling water into his nose, the stinging pain only offset by the scent of ethanol. Sake. It wasn't water.
"I'll be in a lot of trouble if you kick the bucket like this, pischello."
Ilya narrowed his eyes, focusing on the blurry figure ahead. He recognized the voice. Though the light was dim, he eventually saw the face of Roger Crowell.
"Crowell," Ilya spat through gritted teeth.
"Senti, pischello..." Crowell stood at the door, with one of his associates behind Ilya and another to the right. Directly in front of that man sat a dark-haired figure in a rolling chair.
Shane—
"You need to stay alive for me to settle accounts," Ilya ignored Crowell and looked at the rolling chair.
Shane appeared to be bound to the chair, his body swaying slightly, semi-conscious but alive. Then Crowell's lackey backhanded Shane, who immediately let out a pained groan. Son of a bitch.
Ilya clenched his jaw, tasting the rust in his mouth. "This isn't what we agreed on!" he roared at Crowell. "You said you only wanted the trade locations and patrol times. You said you didn't need any bodies!"
"Pischello, are you really a vor v zakone from Boston?" Crowell leaned down, drawing close to Ilya. "I said I didn't need them, but that doesn't mean I can't use him to hold his mother to ransom. Do you know his life is worth more than all your intel? If you cut the lineage of a poison flower, you kill the roots."
No, it couldn't be Shane. Crowell's ugly face was thick with stench as he said, "Remember our deal. You give me the locations and times, and I give you the freedom to stay on Canada. Without him, you can move even more freely. So why care? Pischello."
Ilya could agree to Crowell's new proposal and hand Shane over. Yuna would surrender, the Sixth Family would successfully topple the Suzuran Clan to expand their territory, and Ilya would gain his unhindered freedom in Canada. He wouldn't have to look over his shoulder for the Five Families. He'd have the money and resources to start over here.
Start over in a Canada without Shane.
Ilya felt his breath hitch as the pain in his head went numb, and he felt a warm liquid trickling down the back of his neck. He looked toward Shane in the chair, wondering how much he had heard. He wished Shane would curse him, hate him for the betrayal—at least that might offer some comfort. He wished he'd never gone to the Montreal racetrack, never let his anger toward Yuna cloud his judgment, and never been foolish enough to think the Sixth Family would play fair. If he hadn't placed that bet, none of this would be happening.
Ilya remembered the snowy night, the front seat of the Mercedes, Galina's restaurant, and the stands at the hockey game. He remembered the sunset tracing the silhouette of the Canadian boy by the window, the sound of clear laughter, and the shimmering brown eyes in the dusk.
Meeting Shane Hollander was the most beautiful thing Ilya had experienced since losing everything; it was the home he had been searching for.
Ilya didn't want to stay in a Canada without Shane.
However, what Ilya saw in those eyes was despair.
Shane had lost his will to fight. The look he gave Ilya was one directed at the void. The Canadian boy who would normally bark "fuck off" was now utterly broken before him. Then his sun closed its eyes and bowed its head, as if accepting death to satisfy Ilya's ambition.
He was witnessing the person he loved heartbroken because of him.
By the time Ilya realized what he was doing, he had already slammed his head back into the nose of the lackey behind him and lunged forward from the floor.
Crowell couldn't dodge. Ilya slammed into him with full force, knocking him out of the office. Crowell exploded in a string of Italian curses, but just as he reached for his sidearm, Ilya smashed the ashtray he'd been hiding in his hand into Crowell's face. The glass shattered in Ilya's hand, the shards biting into his palm, yet the pain wasn't enough to sting.
Because Shane's disappointment was the only pain that went skin-deep.
Ilya snatched the gun from Crowell's loosened grip, but before he could stand, another heavy blow struck the back of his head. This time, Ilya held on. He gritted his teeth, rolled quickly, and pulled the trigger of the stolen pistol upward.
Warm blood splattered across his face as the lackey lost his strength and collapsed onto him.
Ilya roughly shoved the corpse aside, clutched the back of his head, and used the wall to pull himself up. The sound of Crowell's frantic footsteps echoed down the hallway. Ilya raised the gun and fired blindly into the darkness until the magazine was empty. He instinctively moved to give chase, taking a few steps forward before his pace abruptly halted.
Ilya turned back, glancing at the office door; it was deathly silent.
Shane.
He stumbled back into the office. "Shane!" he shouted as he grabbed the doorframe, but the sight of the two figures on the floor drained the blood from his head. He kept calling Shane's name until a sob choked his breath, and he collapsed to his knees.
Shane's body suddenly convulsed as he yanked his right hand from the neck of the man beneath him. The moment the tip of the tanto left the incision, blood sprayed. Crowell's man clutched his throat, choking on his own blood as he died.
Shane stood up without haste, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. His bangs were soaked, and his suit and white shirt were stained red. He calmly wiped the short blade dry with his shirt before sliding it back into its wooden scabbard.
"Shane..."
Shane ignored Ilya and limped toward a drawer. He peeled off his soaked suit jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and tossed them to the floor.
There, in the pitch black, revealed by the a wide fan of light, were pure white blossoms drooping like small bells, rooted amidst swirling dragons and waves, soaked in the blood of enemies, blooming across Shane's back—the Lily of the Valley.
Shane never let Ilya see the tattoo on his back, never even exposing it in the cottage. Ilya had tried every trick to get him to take off his shirt but had only ever managed to trace the green leaves at the edge of the ink.
And yet, in the moment he failed him, he saw its true form.
"Shane..." Ilya knelt on the floor, looking up at the valley lily tattoo. "Please."
Shane pulled a towel from the drawer, wiped the blood from his body, and took out a clean shirt.
"Hollander," Ilya’s voice trembled. "I am so sorry."
Shane suddenly stopped putting on the shirt and let out a heavy sigh.
"Hollander," Ilya crawled across the floor, reached for Shane's calf, and climbed up.
"Hollander." He kissed Shane's suit trousers, his hip, and his lower back.
"Hollander." He climbed that body he was so obsessed with as if it were his only lifeline.
"Shane," he whispered against the flowers, kissing them before burying his face in Shane's shoulder, inhaling the scent of soap soaked in the smell of blood. "I am so, so sorry."
Shane breathed heavily, his entire body going limp in Ilya's arms as he tilted his head back.
"I'm sorry," Ilya said, his voice muffled against the neck. "I even let him get away. Roger Crowell escaped."
Ilya wrapped both arms around Shane's waist.
"We have to clean up this mess together. The office, Crowell, and the Sixth Family," Shane's tone was resigned as he gripped Ilya's hands around his waist. "Ilya, do you understand? We."
Shane turned around. Those eyes that had once lost their fire were now fixed on Ilya—confused, suspicious, and afraid of being hurt again.
Ilya, filled with remorse, tried to move closer. Shane didn't pull away. He stood his ground, and so Ilya timidly brushed his lips against the corner of Shane's mouth.
A vor v zakone of the Russian mob must strictly adhere to the "Thieves' Code," rejecting social norms and long-term relationships, and meting out severe punishment to traitors. Other than the Pakhan of the brotherhood, a vor obeys no authority.
Ilya had received the eight-pointed stars tattooed beneath his collarbones in his youth, proving his loyalty to the code. But in this moment, he would abandon the code of the vor and the pride in his knees. He would obey an authority outside the Russian mob. He would become the traitor hunted by the vor.
He would be Shane Hollander's dog alone.
Ilya recalled the unfamiliar language, clumsily mimicking the pronunciation, "Yes, wakagashira."
It was a oath more lethal than I love you.
Shane kissed him back.
－
♪Listening: Matt Maltese "Always Some MF"
There's always some motherfucker
Seeking the affection of my girl
Let's play, let's play, motherfucker
You ain't a fly on the ass of my love for her
Glossary and Historical Notes:
- Roger Crowell: In this fic, Roger Crowell is a member of Montreal's Sixth Family, which explains why he speaks Italian.
- "Senti, pischello": Italian for "Listen, kid."
- "Moyo solntse": Russian for "My sun."
- "Kono yarou! Tatakikitte yaru!": Japanese for "You bastard! I'm going to cut you down!"
- The Northeast Blackout of 1965: This massive power failure occurred on November 9, 1965, affecting Ontario, Canada, along with Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Vermont, New York, and New Jersey. Power began to return to some areas between 10 and 11 PM that night, though the longest outages lasted until 7 AM the following morning.
- Vor v zakone (Thief-in-Law): A title that must be recognized and bestowed by other thieves, typically earned through an absolute refusal to obey the law, such as serving a prison sentence on behalf of a boss. While they hold a prestigious rank within the Russian mob, they are still subordinate to the Pakhan (the leader of the Bratva). They bear eight-pointed stars tattooed beneath their collarbones and on both knees, representing an oath sworn from the chest and a pride that vows never to kneel.
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