konstantinvorshevsky

[konstantinvorshevsky]

"I don't see your name on the list, Ms. St. Clair. I'm sure Lara would have welcomed you showing the floor how it's done." The man's tone was unapologetically mocking. Hell would freeze over before she bloodied her manicure when she had an army of loyal drones to do the dirty work for her... "Then again, I suppose it's a truly French pastime to look down upon those more competent than oneself."

Fight club: After 1st fight.

"Mon dieu," Delphine muttered under her breath, talking to no one in particular "This is just as entertaining as watching paint dry," she reached for her clutch to take out her cigarettes, shaking one out of the pack and putting it between her lips.

"The next one better actually have at least some finesse or I'm going to have to be much more fucked up to get through the evening." And she'd planned on being very fucked up to deal with present company.

[konstantinvorshevsky]

A bar, not a battlefield... Konstantin wasn't so sure about that.

The bodyguard's attention had indeed been piqued, but not for the reason his ex-wife had assumed. Konstantin dismissed the man—one of his best, and thankfully, most patient—with a silent and characteristically curt nod of his head. Once he'd departed into the crowd, though undoubtedly still within safe distance, the Russian leader's imposing figure filled the space beside Lyudmila's.

He ordered a martini to echo her own, the alcohol a requirement to endure the lecture that would no doubt follow his greeting:

"You should have stayed home." He wished she had.

@mobscene-starters Event: Fight Club 2025 - Pre Fights

"Something strong. With gin, please."

Here she was again.

None of the memories from the previous fights were particularly pleasant—quite the opposite, actually. In truth, had the prospect of staying home not promised a slow unraveling of her nerves—tormented by thoughts of what might unfold, of who Konstantin might be paired with—Lyudmila would’ve happily withheld her presence from the club’s opulent chaos.

But tonight, the lesser of two evils had prevailed.

A martini was pressed into her hand, crystalline and cold, just as her temporary bodyguard—filling in while Nadya took the night off to prep for her fight—stepped up, clearly reacting to someone’s arrival like a guard dog catching a scent.

“God, you’re already giving me a headache. This is a bar, not a battlefield,” Lyudmila muttered, irritated. She didn’t even lift her gaze, merely waved a languid hand, as though brushing away smoke, to let whoever it was come closer.

[konstantinvorshevsky]

The tone was unappreciated, and as he watched her silently for a lengthy moment—cold eyes narrowed, but expression unreadable—he knew she would regret it quicker than he could address what had just unfolded.

"There is a reason we do not fight unless victory is assured."

Tonight was a good night to be a Vorshevsky instead of a Kurylenko, it seemed. At least so far as his cousin was concerned... The Russian's reaction wouldn't have been nearly as measured otherwise.

"That was the first and last time I see you in the ring."

FOR: @mobscene-starters EVENT: Fight Club, 2025. WHERE: The Underground. Post Sveta & Elaina fight.

"I don't want to fuckin' hear it. Don't say a word, da?"

[konstantinvorshevsky]

"The only person Lara Rutherford ever compliments is herself." Wasn't that what this entire night was about? "The transparency is purposeful. I either look weak, or I do her bidding. And I do not consider my hand being forced a compliment."

who: @konstantinvorshevsky where: the underground when: pre-fights

"We are last in both our categories. Should we take it as a compliment?"

[konstantinvorshevsky]

It was a stroke of luck, he supposed.

The French tended to congregate in their own corner of the room, rarely straying beyond the safety their heavy hitters offered. Cowardly as always. But this one had passed over their white fucking lines—undoubtedly in shock at the particularly brutal bout she'd witnessed— just enough for him to catch her on the periphery.

And none of the coked up wastes of skin at their table could do anything about it without earning the wrath of Rutherford. Her power was rarely convenient to him, and yet tonight...

Of course, the Russian knew who the blonde was. Had made a point of learning it, in fact. Whilst what remained of his own sister was buried six feet under back in Launceston, this one still walked around as if the room should kneel at her feet, regrettably unscathed. She still fucking breathed where Larissa did not. Konstantin found a brief moment of amusement as he wondered, and ultimately decided no, if Laurent would be able to endure the same pain he had. Because what kind of gentleman would he be if he couldn't return a favour?

One day, they would know for sure. But not tonight. Good things came to those who waited, and Konstantin was as patient as they came.

"Delicate, are we?"

FOR: @mobscene-starters EVENT: Fight Club, 2025. WHERE: The Underground. Post Tolya & Jean.

Odile couldn't sit anymore, the chair pushing from beneath her as she stood.

"No..." eyes transfixed to Jean's figure. She stared, frozen in her spot. She knew she should've been used to this by now, but there was some things even she struggled to stomach. "I don't think I can watch this..."

[konstantinvorshevsky]

FMK: Mila, Eleanor & Nadezhda

F: Nadezhda M: Lyudmila K: Eleanor

[konstantinvorshevsky]

fml: Sofie, Maria and Kathleen

Konstantin agrees: fuck my life.

F: Kathleen M: Sofie K: Maria

[konstantinvorshevsky]

Top 3 hate fucks

Delphine St. Clair

Lara Rutherford

Cassandra Acton

[konstantinvorshevsky]

FMK: Melissa, Lara, Adriana

F: Adriana M: Lara K: Melissa

[konstantinvorshevsky]

FMK: Nadezhda, Lyudamila, Cassandra

F: Nadezhda M: Lyudmila K: Cassandra

[konstantinvorshevsky]

@eleanorxshipley Location: The Orchid, Camden. Dated: 24/9/24.

If Lara Rutherford wanted to play petty, then Konstantin Vorshevsky was more than willing to offer a little in return. It wasn't typically the way he operated—there was enough of it between the other factions for him to at least try and rise above—but occasionally, it was okay to have a cheat day. Good for the soul and all...

'We shouldn't be here,' his bodyguard had offered rather unhelpfully. Evidently. The Russian was under no illusions that stepping into a Rutherford-owned bar in the middle of the Italian controlled borough was a riskless choice, but they had already proven themselves so spineless outside of their easy, yet highly-planned attacks, he didn't honestly believe anything bad would come of it beyond precisely the mild irritation he was attempting to evoke. His presence did more work than their crafted assaults.

"That, is an even worse idea," Anton added, finally following his boss's distracted gaze over to the bar it had been switching to all night.

There were no doubt countless ways he could use Rutherford's friend to be petty, too, but as he considered whether or not it was an appropriate time to approach the woman he'd spent a few rare good days with earlier in the year, he realised that he didn't really want to. What he did want was to make use of a rare venture out of his home, and an even rarer encounter with someone outside of his circle, to do something other than consider his next move so far as London was concerned. A deserved distraction.

"Wait, Konstantin—"

Too late. The man was already getting to his feet, buttoning up the front of his jacket as he passed the bodyguard by with a heavy-handed pat to the shoulder.

"I'd ask if you'd like a drink, but I can't imagine you're not waiting for somebody," he greeted, offering her a smile that was, rather surprisingly, genuine. He didn't let his gaze linger, though he did briefly search for any sign that she might've been caught up in his recent onslaught on Kensington and Chelsea. Konstantin cared little so long as the job was done, but he did, in spite of himself, hope what'd happened hadn't been difficult on her. "Maybe you could do a charitable thing and give me some respite from my own company whilst you do? I promise to be less tragic than when I was scarring myself with the strudel. He's criminally boring, and that's coming from me."

[konstantinvorshevsky]

Of course he had glasses ready. Food ordered, too...

The Russian absolutely despised calling this place home, and the emptiness and bare surroundings was a testament to as much. For a while, after making the decision to let Lyudmila remain in their once shared house, he had considered a hotel room, instead. The security implications deterred. Still, Konstantin sat on his couch, slumped backward in relative comfort, trying his hardest to hold up the impression he didn't hate being alone in it with every fibre of his being.

Nadya didn't need an invite to join him. He did hold a hand out for the bottle, though.

"Vodka, a plan, and you. My three favourite things. You missed my birthday by a few months. What did I do to deserve all this?"

where & who: @konstantinvorshevsky's home

There was a hum that seemed to vibrate within the borough that quickened her pulse. A sensation that left a certain unease that she continued to navigate through. A shift? No matter the notions that trickled in her mind, only one could bring a calm.

A text sent in a jest of warning upon her arrival, one of the finest bottle of Russian vodka in hand, Nadya found herself at the home of the closest person to her. One of the few that saw all sides of who she was. A man who always had her safety in mind, despite her inhibition of seeing it herself at times; driven by her own determination.

"Kosta, I do hope you have the glasses ready. I have questions." Her voice rings out, making her way to where she would find him. "Then I might have a proposition regarding a certain Italian flea."

[konstantinvorshevsky]

As the two men continued their exchange, the Russian took a metaphorical step back, eyes narrowed in careful observation. There were many ways to judge a man beyond his words alone. Konstantin hadn't been expecting him to lash out physically, but in spite of one of his men stepping forward as if ready to put an end to it, he raised a hand to stop him in his tracks. Better to let it unfold.

The Rutherford's errand boy fell silent for a moment, his head tipping back at an uncomfortable angle as he seemingly attempted to recover from the blow. There was no verbal acknowledgement of pain. Even his expression remained impossibly stoic as a small trickle of blood started to form near the bottom of his nose.

"You. You asked my opinion, you absolutely monumental cretin, and I know full well you can't even spell rhetorical."

"Posture a little harder, huh? I don't think the Russian has quite got the hint you're ready to bend over just yet. You're being too subtle."

Ayaz couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh after that; so humourless that even Konstantin switched his attention, this time. Kerem was right about one thing. It was judged by who he aligned with and who he trusted. And he was choosing this.

"Of course, I'll allow you time to consider your options," Konstantin finally interjected, idly adjusting the cufflink at his sleeve. "I am, however, gravely impatient when it comes to matters regarding Haringey, you understand. If you wish to take him with you as you depart, as it seems you may have more unresolved issues than I initially assumed, my men will be happy to assist you."

Kerem was here because their time with the Rutherfords had stayed unchanged. As time had gone on, the shackles had only gotten tighter. And with each passing month, fuck, passing year, they grew weaker. Once upon a time, Kerem's father had told him that he'd know when the time was right.

And although he was no leader yet, they were his people.

Kerem couldn't justify keeping them under that pressure when there was an option to get out. His thoughts were interrupted, Ayaz speaking, as Kerem let his gaze flick between the two men. Konstantin was not a man to be trifled with.

But if Kerem wanted to prove that this wouldn't just be simply to save their own behinds: he was willing to do it.

Stupid fucking cunt, he thought, as he took three steps to Ayaz. Why didn't you keep your mouth shut? It was the only thought he had, before he drew his leg back, and allowed his boot to connect with Ayaz's face. "I didn't hear Mr Vorshevsky ask you for your opinion. You're here, and alive, by his grace. Learn when to shut the fuck up."

It wasn't often that Kerem resorted to violence, but it didn't mean he didn't have it in him. He'd been at the helm of many violent occasions, but it wasn't the first thing he jumped to. But when it was called for....

With a sigh, he turned to where Konstantin stood and bowed his head in way of apology for the outburst. “A leader’s competence isn’t judged by his survival alone,” letting his eyes wander over to Ayaz, tilting his chin as he looked down upon him. How many times had Kerem felt he was kissing the boot of the Rutherfords, because of Ayaz's queen of London. Or the viper, known as Melissa Lin. “It’s judged by the choices he makes—who he aligns with and trusts. And right now,” he paused, turning to face Konstantin, “I’m not interested in keeping ties if they’re leading us to the grave. It's only in moving forward, and building something bigger, better, that we'll get out of the hole we were forced into.”

[konstantinvorshevsky]

Ayaz was in half a mind to stay silent. What was the point in wasting his breath? No matter the path Kerem chose, the Turks were fucked. If he died here tonight, if he became nothing more than a petty way to get back at Lara Rutherford, at least he would do so happily knowing Kerem's choice ultimately didn't fucking matter.

"Align with the Russians. Make an enemy of the French. It worked out well for him," he finally commented, nodding his head in the direction of Konstantin.

Konstantin hadn't known what to expect of the man in the chair, but he should've been able to discern from his closeness to the Rutherford heiress alone that he wouldn't be so easily cracked. Considering he was at a massive disadvantage, he seemed calm and collected. As if he was invited to this exchange as much as either of them, rather than being dragged against his fucking will. Impressive, in a sense, he supposed...

Decidedly ignoring the not completely unwarranted statement, Konstantin turned back to the potentially useful one. "Not just you. All of them. Your success or lack thereof will be an easy gauge of your competence as a leader."

“Oh, I’m listening.” And he meant it. "You have my undivided attention."

For too long, they’d been stuck under the Rutherfords — unable to move from the near slave-like conditions. Realistically, he wasn’t sure meeting with the Russians would be better should the Rutherfords find out, but it was movement. And they’d had none of that in a while.

But Ayaz, taking another second to look at him, his brow raised. This was an advantage he hadn’t had in a long time.

“Maybe I was initially a little brash.” Kerem hadn’t always been the best with his words, but he wasn’t terrible. Not by any means. “I think I should reconsider my initial observation. Certainly beneficial, especially as a parting gift.” he looked at Kosta— that word hanging over his head: a noose or a present? When is a gift, not a gift, that quote came to mind? But as he peered at Ayaz, scuffs but nothing of great significance for Kerem to think of.

A leaving gift. “And by parting…you mean just mine or my people’s departure from…?” He wouldn’t do what Nevra did — he couldn’t and wouldn’t leave them behind. “I’m very interested in what you have to say.” Looking at Ayaz, as a smirk tugged at his lips. “I’m so glad you get to be a part of this conversation. I’d absolutely love to hear your input.”

[konstantinvorshevsky]

Konstantin: Konstantin. Konstantin: Indeed. Konstantin: I'll be in touch with a time and a place.

Melissa 📱 Konstantin.

Melissa: Good evening, Kosta. Melissa: Are you available for a meeting? Melissa: It's one of importance, I believe that we should discuss the decisions that were made by a certain member of our organization. It isn't meant to reflect myself, Andrew or Johnathan.

[konstantinvorshevsky]

"Given that he runs Haringey on behalf of the Rutherfords, I find it odd that you don't see disposing of your whip as a tactical advantage." Maybe he was spineless. "If nothing else, a parting gift to them, should you choose to listen to my offer."

If he truly was meaningless as claimed, though, he would repurpose...

The man observed the Turk in contemplative silence. No, Konstantin didn't see the gang as worthy of associating with the Russians, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd used a lesser entity to their benefit. London had proven they didn't have the resources to be choosey. This could work for them both, though, at least in the short term, and if the man before him couldn't realise as much, he was clearly too bereft of brain cells to be engaging in these types of dealings at all.

"I'm offering you a chance to remove yourselves from beneath the Rutherford thumb. If that's something you're interested in, then sit. If it's not, leave, and bury the chance of ever working with us along with it."

Two steps forward patted down, aware he was at a disadvantage...and that if this was gonna' be over, at least he'd made it to a seat with Konstantin, himself. It was both an honour and pissing-his-pants worthy: he just hadn't decided which one was taking president. However, as the light moved, he saw the outline of an all too familiar face: and he came to a faltering stop.

Body turning to the side, unsure if he should even bother to run.

Kerem's heart stopped. Shuddered, then stopped again.

At first, it was genuine fear. Were they being associated together? Because they fucking weren't. How Ayaz's fucking grudge against him caused him such grief that he'd gone to the Russian's lead...but it took only one more step forward in the dimmed light.

Was the gift...looking up at Kosta, he gave a strong nod. "I know him, yeah." Although he wouldn't call him a friend by any means. Even if he'd meant so much to Berat. After the fist-fight these two had got into only a couple months back: he held no fucking sympathy for him...not right now. Nothing.

The massive, empty space seemed to stretch endlessly, "That's...one hell of a peace offering, considering he's pretty much worthless to me. But I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless."

[konstantinvorshevsky]

Unsurprisingly, he was not foolish enough to greet a relatively unknown entity outside. Who was to say he wouldn't bring friends..? Well, for that to be a concern, would require the Turks to have any, he supposed... Konstantin was warned of his arrival and waited in quiet patience until his army of security checked the Turk for weapons, eventually escorting him into the disused building.

It was a massive space. Cold and hollow. His words of greeting echoed against the vaulted ceiling. As too, did the scoff of the man sitting in the chair beside him.

"I hope you don't mind that I invited company. A peace offering, if you will, though I'm sure he'll learn much from sitting in on our negotiations." Konstantin glanced to said company, observing the look of disdain he wore with interest. For the most part, he was in good shape. Konstantin had laid no hand on him, and the few injuries he did have were gained only from the struggle required to pluck him from the streets of Haringey. The Russian turned back to Kerem, then: "You know him, yes?"

FOR: @konstantinvorshevsky WHEN: Shooting: 21st of August, 2024. Meeting: 23rd. WHERE: Warehouses.

Kerem stood at the edge of a crumbling building, hands trembling, not with fear but with adrenaline that pulsed through her veins like wildfire. This was, without a doubt, the most scared Kerem had been in his fucking life. He was man enough to have control of himself, so his shoulders hadn't completely seized up, and yet, as he took a step forward, he could feel the panic rising. Whatever this meeting was, it would end one way or another. Had Emine and his relationship with the Russians already burned up? Kerem had always been one to offer solutions, to find a way out of the most tangled of situations because he’d never truly had the status in his father's shadow.

How did he approach him? Remaining near the entrance, he rapped his knuckles against the metal. This, this was the least volatile way. And yet, as he peered into the dark of the practically derelict building: he saw nothing. Heard no one.

"Hello? Mr Vorshevsky?"