MOBSTERS HONOR by YVONNE CROWE
Jovan Vukasin (Jован Вукашин), is the Boss of a Serbian Gang in London, with a James Bond complex.
Why has his street cred plummeted to the level of radio active waste; and why has he set out on a series of blunders that can only spell disaster in the long run, putting his ultimate goal of emulating James Bond’s lifestyle on the Riviera in jeopardy?
After settling on a daring raid, targeting the Ukrainian London gang Pakhan’s cache of diamonds, which are expected to arrive in Tel Aviv, he sends out his troops to relieve the opposition of their gemstones, which results in hilarious consequences.
What honor amongst thieves?
How does Danylko, the Ukrainian pakhan, react to this?
The story rockets through Tel Aviv, Bulgaria, Serbia and Africa, with a fast turnover of candidates for the top job, before returning to London, where chaos reigns supreme with no firm guiding hand directing the business.
How can Scotland Yard keep the ultimate gangland war from erupting in London?
All of this leaves God convulsed with mirth, at the futile attempts of mankind to usurp Himself in the scheme of things.
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Description
Find more from this author on:
About the author:
Currently I teach English to Muslim immigrants from Iraq. Both of these experiences were so enlightening, giving me an insight into the spirit and courage these people, whom I admire tremendously and respect, portray in their everyday lives and their story is so compelling I will be writing a novel about their lives.
What inspired you to write your book?
Diamond heists are always fun and good chase scenes from country to country and interesting city to interesting city keep up the pace
Here is a short sample from the book:
Bratislav Blasevic was in a frenzy of black rage. One of the Cpпска мафија / Srpska Mafija, Serbian Mafia, which was his raison d’etre, operating in London, he was the current right hand man, to the Boss, Jovan Vukasin (Jован Вукашин), aptly named son of the wolf.
However, this does a disservice to our four legged handsome animals, which kill only out of necessity. Jovan, a homicidal maniac, whose ancestors had unfortunately reared up on their hind legs some centuries before, killed because of the thrill it gave him.
This made him an unpredictable and dangerous man. The man was a worry, but he was their worry, for the moment.
Having been forged in the Yugoslav bloodletting of the 1990’s, where the soldiers got a taste of the power and bloodlust, Jovan was a shoe in. When international sanctions were imposed on Serbia and the republic became economically isolated, crime became the only way of survival and they took to it like ducks to water. Makes you wonder about sanctions, when they create monsters like Jovan and his ilk.
The man cowering before Bratislav was the assassin he had hired to carry out his Boss’s orders. The word had gone out that they needed someone who could carry out the job and not be traced back to them. Bratislav had done his best to ensure this, but who the јебати cared now.
“I killed him Bratislav. I killed him good for you,” the assassin protested. Drawing back his heavily booted foot, Bratislav gave the man a swift kick in the chest which sent him careening across the room, while he exploded once more.
“I told you to kill the Croatian Minister of the Interior, you son of a whoredog.”
The man looked up bewildered at him from where he had tumbled across the floor, hands outstretched in supplication as he pleaded.
“But he is the Interior Minister for the Embassy.”
“Are you a complete idiot?” Bratislav screamed. “ He’s a фуцкин faggot who decorates the фуцкин embassy. What’s he got to do with politics?” Bratislav was up with the play on the most commonly used English profanity in the world today and didn’t hesitate to use it.
“But he is the interior, umm, Minister. You told me to kill the Interior Minister and I killed the man who decorates inside the embassy, so this is him. I did a good job for you.”
Bratislav’s face went from red to black with fury and his minions were concerned he would have a stroke on the spot. Then they would be out of a job. None of them wanted to work for Jovan’s rivals, who were as unhinged as he was, and for sure the Boss would get rid of them if they couldn’t wriggle their way out of this fiasco.
“I told you where to go, showed you the place. How did you get from there to the faggot’s house in your фуцкин stupid head?”
“I follow him Bratislav and I think is not good to kill him at the Embassy. Is best I kill him at his house. Nobody there to protect him.”
“Oh Christ.” Bratislav broke out in a sweat “Who asked you to think?” Pacing the floor, anyone in striking distance stayed well back out of his reach. “фуцкин mess. Christ, Jovan will kill me for this.”
Drawing back his booted foot, he gave the halfwit in front of him another boot, this time in the gut. This caused him to vomit on the floor, which infuriated Bratislav even more.
Putting his hands to his head, as though to stop it from exploding, he muttered to himself, “What the јебати am I going to tell Jovan? God, he’ll cut my throat.”
Turning back to his minions, he snarled. “Kill him, and get rid of the body.”
As his two most trusted hitmen stood rigid with fear, he approached them, his mouth twisting viciously as he tried to control the tic in his left eye. “Which one of you фуцкин morons hired him?”
The blood drained from their faces, leaving them so white, you couldn’t tell where their skin ended and their tee shirts of the same color began. Both tried to avoid his eyes, which were almost bulging out of their sockets, making him look like a bug eyed monster.
Andreja, (meaning man/warrior), wished his parents had never given him a name he thought he had to live up to, as he tentatively raised his hand. He knew the futility of even beginning to offer an explanation.
“Kill him as well.” The bodyguards standing nearby, bundled the unfortunate man out of the room, leaving his remaining sidekick rooted with fear. These men who can dish out death as casually as downing a glass of slivovitz, didn’t like it so much when it was their turn.
“What the јебати am I going to tell the Boss?” Bratislav cried out to the God of his people, to which they had returned at the end of communist rule of their country. HE in turn, looked down on him and laughed uproariously. One up for him, he was having a great day. Tough if Bratislav wasn’t.
The Serbian’s cell phone rang and he looked at it as though it was a sub machine gun ready to spit its bullets at him. He finally reached out and picked it up, holding it at arms length. Just as well, because the venom and vitriolic burble issuing forth, carried half way down the road. So much for the secrecy they all prized so highly. “Jesus, he would be lucky to keep his own head. Shivering he waited until the diatribe had calmed down to a roar and timorously ventured.
“Jovan. I can explain.”
“I фуцкин doubt that very much. You’ve made me the laughing stock of London. Get over here NOW!!” As he slammed down the receiver, Jovan put his head in his hands and wondered how the hell he was going to explain this cock up to the Head of this Family of homicidal psychopaths, who was living the life of luxury in Monte Carlo, something Jovan definitely aspired to, being a devotee of James Bond. A couple of major coups and he should be able to arrange the Head of the Family’s early demise and step into his shoes. Watch out then, James Bond, Jovan Vukasin will have arrived and it will be no contest for sure.
Bratislav looked around the room with dismay. He doubted very much he would survive this night, which would leave two vacancies in the rank. Bugger it, he should have stayed in Serbia and sold his sisters and brothers to the human traffickers. Hang on, he is one of those isn’t he?
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