A HEIST GONE WRONG.
A GANG SHATTERED.
Volya Angelov, known by the public as the Priest for his cult-like following, knows how to make a deal and take what's rightfully his. He and his criminal prodigies have siphoned Gorod Krestov's wealth for years...
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♰ NOVYYE SAINTS 01: MONOCHROME ——————————————————
Volya Angelov always said nadeisya tolko na sebya. Rely only on yourself.
The rule stemmed from the code of thieves, or vory, which he lived by. Died by. Preached to anyone and everyone he encountered on the streets. The people of the Slums. The remaining bourgeoisie as he pick-pocketed them in the Financial Wrap.
His favorite of the nineteen amendments: rely only on yourself.
Even as he pours over an old lectern in a church tower high above the River Rusalka, he is wordlessly pushing his motto as the document from the People's Commissariat for Railway Affairs wasn't stolen by an informant or mercenary. He nabbed it off a desk himself. Thus, he must concentrate on the prize because of its upcoming importance and remain oblivious to the cacophony below.
Mysh, however, hears every lyric. Each line of snow snorted off the standing tables pushed against the walls. The roar of the jazz orchestra's hours-long set. Every foot slamming on painted tiles as the swollen crowd dances a toddle. Or the Charleston. Whatever it is, it's American.
She slides out of her armchair and looms over to see the chaos. The women dancing on their highs. With no shoes. No bras beneath glittering, short dresses. Bold lines of eyeliner streaming down sallow cheeks slick with sweat. Champagne splashed shirts of men who stripped off their suit jackets halfway through the show.
They are scandalous together. That close, that free. Packed and pressed together, lighting dousing them in a rainbow of colors, flickering and flashing high on wooden walls.
They shriek. Voices crescendoing with the piercing notes of a clarinet dancing at the top of the altissimo range. Like sirens or cries from the deranged with spastic movements of the arms.
And then nothing.
"Madness," Mysh whispers, fingers tight around a fresh cigarette.
The band kicks into overdrive: saxophones squealing, trumpets blaring, drums bludgeoned to a beat. The dancers flow freely on their alcohol. On their doses of cocaine sold to them at the door by one of Volya's Javanese contacts.
"Profit," mutters Volya.
Back at the desk, he works at an askew angle to forge the Commissar's signature. A fresh glint races through coal dust irises found in the eye-sockets of those born and bred in the Slums. They match the black waves tapered down to his ears by stable hands. It didn't matter whether it was a throat or a hairline: Volya always made a clean cut. And he didn't dare trust another man to handle a razor mere centimeters from his throat.
"They come back for a fix. Not the entertainment. If we get rid of the band, we'd have more for the lottery," says Mysh.
"How many times have I told you: Saint Cecilia's isn't a cocaine den. It's a cabaret. And we run it accordingly."
