Chapter 1
10 years Later
Attica Correctional Facility
Attica, New York
Under a picturesque evening sky of the sun preparing for a triumphant setting on the now bluish, gold horizon, a small group of brooding men were released from the strong holds of their ironclad cells into the patchy, muddied, over-run recreational grounds of the Attica maximum security correctional facility for their daily one-hour walk in the yard.
With armed guards up on the risers holding binoculars, serrated barbwire covering the tops of the mountainous white-washed walls and additional men walking the perimeter with weapons and radios, there was not an ounce of freedom or opportunity in the fresh air.
Still the group of prisoners walked in the yard, huddled together, taking in the macabre view and laughing quietly like it was another carefree day at the beach.
Despite the system’s best efforts, not much could affect Leo Rasputin or the men of the Rasputin Organized Crime Family. None of the men of the family were related, but they were in all ways relatives. They trusted no one who did not wear their tattoos or did not do crime with them. They only held sacred the laws of their governing body, the Vory v Zakone, and despite the warden’s efforts to break them, they feared no man, recognized no government and took no prisoners.
In fact, it was their basic tenants on life that had kept them secluded from other prisoners for quite some time.
Nearly six months ago, a bloody, murderous riot in the mess hall started by another prison gang and aimed at the assassination of the Rasputin leader, Leo, had left them with no choice but to revert back to the savage creatures that they were. Never had such carnage been recorded within the walls of Attica since the riot of 1971, an event that made history and set new rules for prisons across the country. After that, the Rasputin men became historic figures in their own right. No more was there a question of who was the deadliest gang on the yard.
The warden, a simple man with Christian values and small stature, had developed a plan after that to get Leo under control. Only nothing about the plan had worked. Confining him to solitary did nothing. Taking away his privileges and visitors did nothing.
And threatening Leo had done only one thing. Piss him off.
Most of the guards were too scared to be truly aggressive, and none of the other prisoners would dare go near them.
Very recently, pissing Leo off had led to a strange order of events, including the warden’s 21-year old daughter being in a near life-threatening car wreck, his home being set on fire in the middle of the night and his grandmother, who was in a retirement home in Montana, being found in Las Vegas four days later in a hotel tied to a bed with a note that simply said ‘Checkmate.’ And all of the events happened within one week of the warden simply ordering that Leo be roughed up.
Now, there was only the final solution left.
There were no more answers for the new warden, who had only recently taken over after the death of the hard nose warden before him, who had in fact taken over after the 1971 riots. There was no proof that Leo was responsible for what had happened outside of the prison walls to his family, no end in sight to what could happen and no time for a transfer. The warden had to handle things now.
Staring out of his window through elegant drapes, dark wooden blinds and bullet proof glass, Warden C. W. Stowe sipped on his gourmet green tea, watched the men whom he loathed more than Satan himself walk the grounds, and waited patiently as Frédéric Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2 played in the background.
In prison blues that clung to his muscular wide body, the ruggedly attractive, Leo looked up at the warden’s window from the walking trail and spit as he smoked on his cigarette. “Fucking suka. I know that he’s looking at me. I can feel it.”
“No matter, boss,” one of his lieutenants, Igor said, stretching his sleeve-tattooed arms around and rotating his head in circular motion as they walked. Igor was a red-head with a splash of freckles on his deceptively innocent face but tall and broad with an athletic form that explained why so much damage had been done to the mess hall. Armed with an elementary education and still unable to read or speak much English, Igor was all brawn and no brains.
“What are you doing?” Leo asked with a frown.
“I’m getting ready. Don’t want to pull muscle,” Igor explained.
“Put your arms down,” Leo ordered, swatting at him. “You look like an idiot.”
“I just want to be… ”
“Igor… ” Leo warned, pointing a sharp, thick index finger at him. “Now is not the time.”
Igor tucked his head and dropped his arms.
Oleg, Leo’s second-in-charge, put his hand on his little brother’s shoulder and snickered. “Patience, Igor. You’ll get your chance.”