Grigory Lyakhov

It was a cold winter in Moscow, just after New Year's in 1994, specifically January 10th. Snow fell in thick flakes outside the windows of a posh and expensive restaurant in the center, but inside, the place was noisy and emanated a frightening aura of gunpowder, blood, excitement, and endless passion. Lyakhov's group was there, the entire top brass of the City organized crime group, seven high-status men and their women, the darlings of the entire capital, and not just the men. Every birthday for this group was accompanied by expensive alcohol, mountains of black caviar, and other expensive appetizers and dishes. Only today, Grigory's birthday was even more grandiose, like all his family's celebrations, from Easter Eve to the birthday of his dear wife, who had risen with him from the very bottom, enduring the misery of communal apartments, dirty entryways, the rusting Volga inherited from her father, and him—a romantic to the core, with a foul temper and absolute poverty. The entire restaurant staff walked on edge, afraid to breathe the wrong way, while the aroma of vodka, fear, and a strong authority that even the Moscow prosecutor's office was wary of filled the air around them.