My friend is the boss of the Russian mafia

Legends abound about the brutality of the so-called "Russian mafia" operating outside Russia. In North America, it’s practically mandatory to mention bloodthirsty Russians in any gangster film or long-running police procedural drama. Any self-respecting detective—whether a sergeant or a lieutenant—will inevitably brief a rookie (and, of course, the audience) on the chilling details of the latest crime committed by individuals of Russian origin. Chicago, New York, Detroit, and California cops regularly proclaim from TV screens that Russians are the most ruthless and inventive criminals, feared even by Los Angeles’s notorious "black" robbers and leaving Italians and Mexicans far behind.

In Canada, the film industry trails its southern neighbor’s by a factor of about a hundred. Consequently, most Canadians, who are rarely exposed to the realities of organized crime, base their opinions on gangsters entirely on American media. Ask any Toronto or Montreal resident about the largest mafia group in their city, and they will likely say, “Italian.” But if you ask about the most brutal criminal group, after a moment’s hesitation, they’ll shrug and say, “Probably the Russians,” simply parroting what they’ve picked up from television.

However, real stories about "Russian" mobsters bear little resemblance to their cinematic or TV portrayals.

Here is one such story.

Let me clarify upfront: I wasn’t directly involved in these events, but I know all the key players personally, and I can vouch that this story happened almost exactly as described.


 íà÷àëå àâãóñòà äâóõòûñÿ÷íîãî ãîäà òðèäöàòè òð¸õëåòíèé Áîëüøîé Ìîðîçèëüíûé Ðûáîëîâíûé Òðàóëåð "Áèçîí", ïîñòðîåííûé â ïîëüñêîé Ãäûíå íà ñóäîâåðôè èìåíè Ïàðèæñêîé êîììóíû, áûë çàäåðæàí áåðåãîâîé îõðàíîé Êàíàäû â å¸ òåððèòîðèàëüíûõ âîäàõ. Ïðè÷èíîé àðåñòà ñóäíà ñòàëî ìàñëÿíîå ïÿòíî, òÿíóùååñÿ íà ìíîãèå ìèëè çà ñóäíîì. Êàíàäñêèå âëàñòè ñîïðîâîäèëè òðàóëåð â ïîðò ñòîëèöû Íîâîé Øîòëàíäèè, Ãàëèôàêñ, è ïîñòàâèëè íà ÿêîðíóþ ñòîÿíêó â Áåäôîðäñêîì çàëèâå.  Ïîäíÿâøèåñÿ íà áîðò ñóäíà ýêîëîãè îáÿçàëè êàïèòàíà ïðîèçâåñòè íåîáõîäèìûé ðåìîíò äëÿ ïðåäîòâðàùåíèÿ äàëüíåéøåãî çàãðÿçíåíèÿ âîäû â ãàâàíè, à ñîïðîâîæäàâøèé èõ îôèöåð áåðåãîâîé îõðàíû ïîðåêîìåíäîâàë ïðèâåñòè â ïîðÿäîê øòàòíûå ñïàñàòåëüíûå ñðåäñòâà.

The Bizon’s captain, however, had no funds to cover the repairs, and the prospects of a quick return to its home port of Murmansk seemed bleak.

The ship belonged to Samrat Nord LLC, a company under the Union of Northern Fisheries, controlled by businessman Mikhail Alexandrov. Alexandrov, only marginally concerned about the plight of the fishermen, showed no urgency to rescue the aging vessel from detention.

The crew of the Bizon found themselves stranded. While businessmen and lawyers argued over "who's to blame and what to do," the ship’s crew sought to pass the time as best they could.

Their entertainment options were scarce.

The 20 permanent crew members, including the first mate and engineer, used the lifeboat daily to go into town. Meanwhile, the 39 seasonal workers—responsible for sorting, processing, weighing, and packing the catch—played cards, dominoes, or sunbathed on deck.

After two weeks of inactivity in the Canadian harbor, frustration began to grow among the fishermen over the "social" inequality aboard the vessel. The discontent stemmed from the terms of the contracts they had signed before setting out to fish in the North Atlantic three months earlier. According to these agreements, the fishermen would only receive their wages upon returning to the home port and delivering the catch to the cannery.

In contrast, the permanent crew received fixed salaries regardless of whether the trawler was actively fishing or docked for repairs.

The mechanics, electricians, radio operators, helmsmen, cook, and even trawl deckhands would complete their work shifts and head into the city, enticed by its lights. There, they spent their pay in bars and restaurants, as much as their finances allowed.

This forced downtime had no financial impact on the permanent crew, which infuriated the fishermen. After months at sea, informal leaders emerged among the disgruntled workers. Seven or eight of the boldest men began rallying the rest, urging rebellion.

The golden age when a galleon captain could be strung up on the yardarm for withholding pay is long gone, drowned in the waves of history. It’s not that people have lost their spirit, but over the past 300 years, everyone has gained “something to lose.”

Thinking of the families they had left behind in the vast expanse of their homeland, the Bizon mutineers dared not resort to physical violence against the captain. Storming his cabin and raiding the ship’s safe would have been pointless. However, they were not about to restrict themselves to empty threats.

“I can’t take this anymore!” shouted Gennady Bespaly, a first-year fisherman from Kondopoga, toward the slightly open porthole of the captain’s cabin. “Living in these pigsty conditions is unbearable!”

“Give us the boat, Pyotr Ilyich, and we’ll go ashore,” added Dmitry Kalyuzhny, a forty-year-old fisherman.

The captain, observing the growing crowd of fishermen on deck through the thick glass, simply shook his head in refusal.

“He won’t even talk to us. Doesn’t see us as human,” grumbled several voices.

“Well, since negotiations are going nowhere, I’m swimming out of here,” declared Bespaly.

With that, he stepped to the side of the ship, calculated the distance to the water, scanned the shoreline, picked a tall building as a landmark, and jumped overboard.

The water turned out to be much colder than the fugitive had anticipated. It wasn’t as if Gennady Bespaly had never swum in northern waters before—of course, he had. Every summer, he would take a dip more than once or twice in Lake Onega or Lake Nigozero. But back then, every swim had been fueled by generous helpings of alcohol, shared with his comrades over shish-kebab grilled near the Assumption Church or while fishing off one of the boat docks on Spring Street.

But this time was different.

What Gennady had not accounted for was that in the second half of August, at forty-four degrees north latitude— a thousand miles south of his hometown—the water in the ocean bay could still be bone-chillingly cold. When he surfaced, gasping for air, his wild, guttural cry echoed across the harbor, reverberating over all twelve square miles of the bay:

“F..k!!!!!”

Had this expletive reached his comrades’ ears a second or two earlier, it might have halted their bold leap. But it was too late. The moment Gena’s bare heels disappeared overboard, his six comrades followed without hesitation.

It was no more than three hundred yards from the leaky ship’s side to the suburban yacht club’s docks—a distance any experienced sailor could cover in ten, maybe fifteen minutes, under normal circumstances. In a swimming pool, clad only in trunks, the task would’ve been trivial. But in frigid water, wearing jeans, shirts, and sneakers, it was a different story entirely.

The captain, realizing the gravity of the situation, stormed out of his cabin, barking orders to prepare a boat to rescue the fugitives.

It’s hard to say now what prompted the old skipper’s swift decision. What truly motivated him? Was it an act of basic humanity? Or was it a much more pragmatic fear for his career—or even his life?

I can’t answer that, and frankly, I’m not sure I’d believe the captain’s version of the story either. After all, under Canadian law, for every refugee smuggled into the country by sea, the captain of the vessel must pay a hefty fine of $15,000 per person from the ship’s cash reserves.

“Seven are swimming toward a foreign shore,” he might have thought, “That’s over a hundred grand. The ship’s owners will skin me alive, and before that, they’ll make me sell my apartment, my car, and everything else I own.”

Or perhaps I’m projecting my own cynicism onto the man, and his thoughts were entirely different. Maybe he thought something more like this:
“Damn it, the men are going to drown. They won’t make it to the docks in those clothes. I’d bet anything on it. How will I face their families later?”

Either way, the lifeboat set out, catching up with four of the brave seven, pulled them aboard, and returned them to the ship. The remaining three escapees, however, made it to shore, where they were promptly detained by local police and taken to the hospital for examination.

The doctor quickly confirmed that the Russians were in good however, made it to shore, where they were promptly detained by local police and taken to the hospital for examination.

The doctor quickly determined that the Russians were fine, aside from mild hypothermia. The trio was then handed over to the immigration authorities. Over the next two hours, with the help of a Russian-speaking translator whose English was far from perfect, the escapees managed to stammer out applications for refugee status to the border authorities.

Their complaints about poor food on the ship, the appalling living conditions, and their references to the International Convention for the Control of Fishing Vessels of 1995 failed to impress the officials in dark blue uniforms. However, the revelation that dozens of fishermen had not been paid for three and a half months caught their attention. To the Canadians, this was a flagrant violation of human rights. They documented the details, promised to investigate thoroughly, and called in a lawyer from the International Transport Workers' Federation.

The next day, the founder of the Toronto-based law firm Pearson and Partners flew in. John Pearson, a world-renowned lawyer who had frequently represented the Maritime Transport Workers’ Union in international courts, wasted no time. That same day, he met with the three escapees and then boarded the Bizon.

On the ship, Pearson spoke to most of the fifty-seven crew members. To lawyer’s satisfaction, the sailors’ testimonies corroborated everything the detained escapees had told the Canadian authorities.

Following his investigation, Pearson returned to shore with five more sailors from the Bizon. These included the four who had been fished out of the harbor by the trawler’s lifeboat the day before. All of them expressed a desire to remain in Canada.

“Tomorrow they will beg us to let them return,” the first mate muttered bitterly as the departing five disembarked. “Do they think paradise is waiting for them? At best, they’ll end up in a homeless shelter.”
But the first mate was wrong.
The fugitives didn’t return, not even three days later. Instead, lawyer Pearson returned to the trawler.

This time, he gave a rousing speech to the assembled sailors, promising a swift resolution to the labor dispute. He assured them that the Canadian union would ensure they received their unpaid wages, and that the money would later be recovered from the ship’s owners.

Pearson’s words filled the disgruntled deckhands with newfound hope. But for the captain and the permanent crew—those who were not owed wages—this news was less than welcome.

The permanent crew of the Bison understood that the deck workers hired for a single voyage were unlikely to return to their home port. Upon arriving back at Sheremetyevo, Moscow International Airport, they would scatter across the country, but those hailing from Murmansk would face cruel oligarch  Mikhail Aleksandrov and his gang. Meanwhile, the looming lawsuit between Samrat Nord and the Canadian trade union could drag on for months, casting a shadow over the crew members loyal to the company.

Hoping to secure at least some money, the fishermen followed the example of their comrades and went ashore with the entire crew.

The shelter operated by the religious and charitable organization, the Salvation Army, was located on Gottingen Street, just three hundred yards from the famous Halifax Citadel.

The fortress, built by the British at the end of the 18th century, gained renown for never having been captured by the French.
“Couldn’t take it?” the French would mock English bragging, “Because our ancestors never tried.”

Both were right.

The concrete floor of the spacious hall, referred to as the "homeless shelter," was marked with lines in various colors. When thirty Russian fishermen entered the room for the first time, they were perplexed.

“Hello, guys!” Gennady called out cheerfully from under a basketball hoop at the far wall. He was bouncing an orange ball on the smooth floor, engaged in a one-on-one game with Kalyuzhny.;“It’s called a shelter, but it’s really just a fantastic gym at the church. See those lines on the floor? They threw me off at first too. It took me until the second day to figure it out: two volleyball courts fit inside the basketball court, and within the volleyball courts are markings for badminton. But the best part? All the sports equipment in the storage room is never locked. What a miracle!”
“And where do you sleep?” asked Valeriy Fedorov, Gennady’s peer from Murmansk, with suspicion.
“Don’t worry,” Gennady’s older comrade interjected, “Over there by the wall are army-issue dismountable beds in bags. And the 'soldiers of Jesus Christ' hand out clean linens daily.”
“Soldiers? Is this some kind of military organization?” someone from the crowd asked.
“No, not at all. They call themselves that because they wear uniforms with insignia.”
“And what about the food?” the newcomers eagerly inquired, their curiosity shifting to the basics of daily life.
“It’s not bad—certainly no worse than what we had on our vessel.” Gennady replied. “And unlike on that ‘leaky bucket’, the showers here always have hot water, and everything is spotless.”

After the Russians settled in and had lunch, immigration officers visited them. Those applying for refugee status were photographed, fingerprinted, and informed that the legal process and other formalities could take a year or longer. They were also promised relocation to individual housing soon. However, those opting to return to Russia had their seafarers’ passports confiscated.

During individual conversations with potential emigrants, the officers noticed a common theme in their motives. It became clear early on that a labor dispute could not serve as a valid reason for emigration. The Bison fishermen, however, unanimously claimed that their vessel was controlled by the "mafia" and insisted their lives would be in danger if they returned to their homeland.

Two days earlier, the crew had told a lawyer, who had flown in from Toronto, a completely different story:
"On other vessels designed for months-long fishing expeditions in open waters, crew members enjoy significantly better living conditions. On similar trawlers, even those built fifteen years ago, the entire crew is accommodated in either single or double cabins, each with its own toilet and shower. These vessels also have a hospital compartment, a dining room, a galley, two TV lounges, a sauna, a utility room with washing machines and shoe dryers, and each cabin is equipped with a personal radio.;What do we have? None of the above."

Yet today, during interviews, no one mentioned the lack of proper living conditions. The entire situation began to feel like a coordinated effort, almost a conspiracy.

After discussing this among themselves, the Canadian officers decided to approach the Salvation Army priest, who was overseeing the shelter, and implored him, in the name of God, to encourage the refugees to be truthful.
That evening, representatives from the autoworkers' union entered the dining room where the fishermen had gathered for dinner. They handed each man $50 and a pre-paid phone card.

"Call your families and discuss the situation with them. The media in your country provide an incomplete and inaccurate picture of what’s happening here."
The next visitor was an Anglican Church priest, who offered to deliver a sermon to the fishermen:

"One day, a mother noticed her three-year-old son, Robert, tiptoeing away from a basket of newborn kittens. She had forbidden him from touching them. Seeing him walk away, she asked:;'Have you touched the kittens?';'No,' the child replied confidently.;But the mother pressed further:;'Are they soft to the touch?';'Yes,' Robert answered happily. 'And the little black one even meowed when I stroked him.';We might smile at the child’s innocent duplicity, but we must ask ourselves: who taught this little boy to lie? His parents? Of course not. No one taught him this. As David confessed in scripture: 'I was born a sinner, sinful from the moment my mother conceived me.';And as the Apostle Paul wrote: 'When Adam sinned, sin entered the world. Sin brought death, and death spread to everyone.';This sobering truth applies equally to kings, toddlers, and us all. But remember this: just as one man’s sin brought condemnation to everyone, one righteous act brought justification and life to all.;God does not wait to punish us—He extends His grace and forgiveness freely. Yet we must understand that even small sins, like lying, remain sins.;Repeat after me:;'Our Father, be merciful to us, sinners.'"

After baptizing those who joined him in prayer, the priest quietly left.

A former diver, Vladimir, spent fifteen years inspecting the hulls of ships in the Murmansk port before immigrating to Canada. For the next ten years, he worked full-time as a mechanic in a Halifax prison and part-time in court as a translator, switching seamlessly between Russian and English. It was Vladimir who translated the priest's final words, leaving the sailors exchanging bewildered glances as they tried to make sense of what they had just heard.

"What did he mean?" Fedorov asked the translator.

Vladimir replied in a calm yet instructive tone.;"He didn’t want to spell it out, but he basically said you guys were lying, and the immigration service doesn’t believe your story about the mafia. If you want to stay in Canada, you’d better prepare thoroughly for the interview. At the court hearing, the immigration representative will pick your story apart."
"Can you advise us on what to do?" a voice called out from the group.
"Don’t agree to a unified story. It’s not worth creating a common defense. Everyone should have their own individual reason for refusing to return to their homeland," Vladimir replied. "I recently helped an 18-year-old Moldovan who arrived in Canada from Le Havre, France, inside a shipping container with his 16-year-old pregnant girlfriend. During his preliminary hearing, when the judge asked why he fled France, the boy said, ‘I’m sick of Africans and Arabs. Paris is teeming with them.’ Thankfully, I had anticipated such a response and translated his words differently."

Pausing for effect, Vladimir continued with a wry smile:;"I fabricated a touching story about his mother, who I claimed was a former member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Moldova. According to my ‘translation,’ her life was in danger back in Chisinau because members of the Moldovan nationalist party had sworn to hunt down all her relatives. ‘My mother told me,’ I translated in sync with his ramblings about immigrants in France, ‘that they promised to find and exterminate her family, no matter where they were.’
The judge’s glasses nearly fell off his nose. He was so shaken by my version of events that he didn’t even press further about the girlfriend’s pregnancy—even though her age meant the boy could have faced legal trouble. So, I urge you to think carefully before you say anything to the judge. And better yet, while the trial is ongoing, find yourself a local single woman. A letter of sponsorship from one of them will carry more weight than vague claims about being targeted by the so-called ‘Eastern European mafia.’"

Before leaving the fishermen, Vladimir offered them one final piece of advice:;"There are about ten thousand Americans roaming around the city center right now. Travel companies bring them here daily on cruise liners. Keep in mind, these Yankees act like they own the place, even though they’re just guests. Avoid getting into any kind of conflict with them. By tomorrow evening, they’ll be back across the ocean, but you’ll still be here, sitting behind bars and waiting for a flight to Sheremetyevo."

After finishing his lecture, Vladimir left. Shortly afterward, the fishermen dispersed in small groups, heading toward the city’s central quarters.

At the end of the 20th century, Halifax, the provincial capital of Nova Scotia, had a population of roughly 300,000 people. Most of the residents lived in single- or two-story homes scattered over an area comparable in size to the American city of Knoxville, Tennessee. The city’s business district—referred to by locals as “downtown”—was relatively compact, spanning just three square miles. However, this tiny area contained over one hundred bars, pubs, and restaurants.

Such a high density of drinking establishments might surprise a newcomer, but the 'Bison' crew already knew why. Three ocean cruise liners were docked at the city’s pier, with three more arriving yesterday and another three scheduled to replace today’s ships tomorrow.

The money the Russians had received from the Canadians disappeared quickly that evening. The $20 loaded onto their phone cards didn’t last much longer. It was inevitable. The local beer, while tasty, was shockingly expensive, and premium vodka like Smirnoff or Grey Goose was completely out of reach. Who had ever heard of three tiny drinks—barely filling half a glass—costing 30% of your cash? And a single minute on the phone with one’s wife cost two dollars. Still, the men desperately wanted to call home, share their hopes, and hear comforting advice from their families.

The following week dragged on in dreary anticipation of any news or developments.

The Canadian immigration bureaucratic machine was slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, beginning to pick up speed. Meanwhile, the Salvation Army started receiving its first phone calls from unmarried Canadian women offering to take in Russian refugees free of charge.

The luckiest among the refugees found temporary families, while the more desperate decided to venture out in search of a better life in neighboring settlements.
In Canada, the term “neighboring settlement” has a notoriously vague definition—much like in the eastern part of Russia. Once, the famous Soviet bard Iosif Efimovich Aleshkovsky, when asked by a journalist about the location where he had served his four-year sentence, responded:
“I was in a prison eight hundred kilometers northeast of Chita.”

In other words, Aleshkovsky couldn’t name a settlement any closer than five hundred miles from the capital of Zabaikalsky Krai. One of the Bison’s herring packers measured distance in a similar fashion.

A middle-aged man, visibly worn down by life, decided to try his luck on a dating site. To his surprise, he received an invitation from a Russian-speaking Canadian woman in Moncton, New Brunswick. Eager for companionship, he clarified the town’s location with one of the shelter’s volunteers. Learning that Moncton was 160 miles away, he calculated that it would take just four days on foot—or two and a half hours if a ride picked him up.

However, a lone traveler trekking alongside a high-speed, three-lane highway caught the attention of a Royal Canadian Mounted Police patrol 20 miles from Halifax. The officers were initially baffled, as the man, with his backpack and worn-out boots, seemed completely out of place. On a road bordered by dense forest, miles from the nearest populated area, he was unable to explain who he was or what he was doing there. Fortunately, one of the officers recognized him from the news. Realizing he was one of the Russian sailors, they whisked him back to the shelter with flashing lights and sirens.

Back at the shelter, boredom had set in. The men had long since run out of money, memorized every corner of Halifax’s city center, and grown tired of volleyball and card games. Days blurred together, monotonous and uneventful, as identical as mass-produced goods. The fishermen either lounged on their folding beds or gathered near the shelter’s entrance, watching passersby. They spent their time swapping stories about comrades who had ventured out to find new opportunities and teasing those who were still mustering up the courage to follow suit.

One warm evening in early September, a taxi pulled up to the shelter’s main entrance. The driver—a tall, broad-shouldered man with striking blue eyes and a long tail of wheat-colored hair tied at the back of his head—stepped out. He approached the group of Russians casually, greeting them in their native language.

“Hello, fellow countrymen.”;
“Hi,” the fishermen responded in unison, their curiosity piqued.;
“Do you want to earn some money?” the smiling blond asked, his tone suggesting he was a man who valued his time.;
“Who would refuse?” Kalyuzhny replied.;
“Good. Then don’t go far this evening. Around ten o’clock, the ‘boss of the Russian mafia’ will stop by and pick two of you for a delicate job.”;
“Let him stop by,” one of the men said, speaking for the group. “There’ll be plenty of volunteers ready to earn.”

Word of the impending visit spread through the shelter like wildfire. By ten o’clock, every single resident was sitting on their folding beds, nervously eyeing the front door.

At ten minutes past ten in the evening, a massive figure appeared in the doorway of the shelter. The guest stood at least 6'6" tall and weighed around 300 pounds. His short-cropped blond hair barely covered his head, and a contemptuous smile played across his lips. His thick neck flowed seamlessly into his powerful trapezius muscles, as wide as his cheeks, creating the impression of sheer physical dominance. His shoulders were broad and ended in such muscular arms that some fishermen silently noted they were thicker than their own legs.

The giant’s plaid shirt rose and fell with every breath, stretched tightly across his massive chest. His blue jeans strained at the seams with every step, barely containing the bulk of his muscular thighs. The worn sneakers on his feet, with untied laces dragging along the ground, somehow added to his menacing aura. The thug surveyed the nearly forty Russians with a cold, calculating gaze, then pointed at the two youngest among them.

“You, and you. Follow me,” he ordered.

Without waiting for a response, the giant turned and walked out into the street, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

“It’s strange that the head of the local cartel drives a taxi,” one of the fishermen remarked, watching the man leave.

“Nothing surprising,” answered a thoughtful-looking seafood sorter, glancing up from his book. “He needs a legitimate income. Otherwise, the local tax service might start asking questions. A taxi is the perfect cover—always on the move, always available, always with an alibi. No matter where or when something happens, he’s ‘working.’ Either he was driving all night or sleeping all day after a night shift.”

“Smart. Cunning. Clever,” the men murmured in agreement, nodding from different corners of the room.

The taxi rolled slowly through the quiet streets of the night city, with the two young fishermen sitting silently in the backseat. The driver—lounging lazily behind the wheel—steered his Toyota Camry with one hand, his other arm resting casually on the window. He glanced around indifferently, his sharp eyes scanning the deserted sidewalks. Occasionally, a passerby would try to wave him down, but the taxi sailed past without even slowing.

Only once did the driver hit the brakes. Three blocks from the shelter, two tipsy young women in short skirts stumbled into the road, narrowly avoiding the Camry’s front wheels. The driver muttered under his breath, his voice low and unintelligible to the passengers:
“Not your night, girls.”

He turned the wheel slightly, maneuvered around the women, and continued without another word.

It was only then that Fedorov and Bespaly began to realize something was wrong. Watching the man mutter in a language unfamiliar to them, it dawned on them that the so-called mafioso might not be Russian at all. Already pale from fear, the young men turned even paler, their nerves betraying them with a slight tremor in their legs.

Desperate to calm himself, Gennady mustered the courage to speak.
“Excuse me, sir,” he asked timidly. “What… what do you need us to do?”

The driver’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror. He grinned but said nothing.

A few minutes later, the Camry pulled into the parking lot of a small plaza—a collection of shops, medical clinics, hair salons, and fast-food restaurants surrounding a large, empty lot. Unlike North America’s shopping malls, which are anchored by a central building surrounded by parking, plazas feature parking lots in the center, surrounded by rows of businesses.

The mafioso parked his car in front of a long row of shops. Turning off the engine, he twisted around to face the two passengers.
“Stay here until I call you,” he said curtly, then stepped out of the car.

The two fishermen watched nervously as the giant disappeared through a glass door beneath a red neon sign that read Rogers Video. Beneath the sign, another smaller white light flickered the word Closed.

“What do you think this place is?” Gennady asked, leaning toward his friend.

“It’s a video rental store,” Fedorov replied, pointing at the rows of shelves visible through the window. “Look, you can see the cassettes and DVDs. That’s where he went.”

The two men watched as the giant loomed over a much smaller man inside the store. He jabbed a thick finger into the shopkeeper’s chest, his massive frame towering over the frail store owner. Even from the car, it was clear the mafioso was demanding something, while the shopkeeper threw up his hands in a defensive gesture, as if pleading his case.

“Probably can’t pay for protection,” Gennady muttered, his voice low.

Then, suddenly, a terrifying thought struck him. His eyes widened, and he leaned in closer to Fedorov, whispering urgently:
“Do you think he brought us here to… to finish off this debtor?”

Fedorov’s expression darkened at the suggestion. He pulled back slightly and shook his head in disbelief.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” he said, his voice shaky.

“Maybe we’re just supposed to trash the place,” Gennady offered, clinging to the hope of a lesser evil. “Like a warning, you know? Break some windows, flip some shelves—just scare the guy. No one needs to die.”

Before they could speculate further, the door of the shop swung open. The mafioso stepped out, his face as unreadable as ever.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Fedorov muttered as the massive man approached the car.

The taxi driver emerged from the video rental shop and walked purposefully to the rear bumper of the Toyota. With a flick of his massive hand, he popped open the trunk. The two young men sat frozen in the backseat, watching intently as the mafioso began shifting things around inside. From where he sat, Valera could barely make out what was happening. A couple of times, the giant reached into the trunk, pulled out unidentifiable objects, and placed them carefully on the asphalt next to the car.

“What is he doing back there?” Bespaly whispered, his voice trembling.
“Taking something out,” Valera replied, though his words came out more like a question than an answer.

“Assault rifles? AK-47s, maybe?” Bespaly gasped, his imagination spinning into overdrive. He exhaled sharply and muttered, “We’re screwed.”

The trunk lid slammed shut with a heavy, ominous thud, like the closing of a coffin. The sound reverberated in their ears, chilling them to their core. In that moment, the air in the Camry seemed to grow colder. The two young men felt a knot tighten in their stomachs, their hands clammy with fear.

Then, the back door of the car creaked open, and the mafioso’s low, gravelly voice rumbled like distant thunder.;

“Get out,” he growled.

The boys exchanged a terrified glance before slowly climbing out of the car on shaky, unsteady legs. Their steps felt heavier than ever as they reluctantly shuffled toward the rear of the vehicle. Every sound—their shoes on the pavement, the distant hum of streetlights—seemed amplified as if the world itself had gone eerily quiet to witness their fate.

They stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the dimly lit video rental store. The two young men couldn’t bring themselves to look up at the towering giant, who loomed over them like a mountain. Then, without warning, the so-called "boss of the Russian mafia" reached out and thrust something into their hands. A mop and a bucket.

The boys stared at the items in stunned disbelief.

“Wash the floors,” the giant commanded in a tone that brooked no argument. “Wipe the dust off all the shelves. Clean the staff dining room. Scrub the sink and toilet in the restroom. I’ll give you four hours. Five dollars for each hour of work.”

For a moment, the two men stood frozen, unsure if they were supposed to laugh, cry, or pass out from sheer relief. They had been bracing themselves for an execution or, at the very least, some dark and violent task.
 
But this? This was… janitorial work?

Without another word, the "mafia boss" turned on his heel, climbed back into his Camry, and started the engine. The sound of the car pulling away left an almost surreal stillness in the air. The two young men, mop and bucket in hand, stared at each other, still too stunned to speak.

“Did that… just happen?” Bespaly finally asked, his voice a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

Valera didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the mop, then back at the video rental store, the faint red glow of the Rogers Video sign casting an eerie light on the sidewalk. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Well… let’s get to it. At least we’re not dead.”