This is an idea that I've been toyng with for a few years but only recently got that last bit of the puzzle that made the rest of it make sense.
It's a supernatural crime thriller that starts in WWII Russia but we catch up with it in modern day England.  Don't worry, the rest of the book is not so dark and violent - just this character when narrating his flashbacks.
Just looking for some feedback - good, bad and constructive.
Thank you!
PNC

I throw Papa’s heart to the stray dog.  Attracted by the scent of warm blood, she has been waiting warily for an opportunity to join this unexpected feast.  The organ slaps onto the broken pavement and she pauses for a second to see my next move before snatching it up and melting away into the shadows.

The horror of war is all around me but seems insignificant to the violence I have just committed.  Great monoliths of ravaged stone and steel reach up like fingers to the turbulent grey skies as if trying to scratch out the eyes of God, to blind Him to the monstrous savagery that has tainted my life and, lately, my actions.  But He is all about and is witness to my deeds; in the wind as it wails in outrage and moans in despair; in the rain beating relentlessly against my back.

I crouch over Papa’s torn body, letting the storm wash his blood from my hands.  Tears of Heaven, weeping over the death of this wretched man.  Lamenting for the predestined loss of my soul.

Rising unsteadily to my feet, my gaze never leaves Papa’s pitiful form as it is seems to dissolve into the muddy ground.  Hard to believe this was once a man whose commanding presence made me nauseous with dread.  The man whose love and pride turned to loathing when he discovered his only child was not his own. In retaliation against my long-dead mother’s deceit, through rejection and fear, he marked me and condemned me to a life of misery.

A stupid, ignorant, uneducated man, his first reaction in seeing me after so many years was to make the sign of the cross.  He couldn’t bear to look me in the eye, calling me an abomination, unnatural.  All I could see was an old man, spittle on his chin, gnarled hands flailing helplessly against my scarred chest, repeating that word over and over.  Volka.  Volka.

Looking down at him, I feel the years of torment churning in the pit of my stomach then bubbling and gushing upwards from my very core.  To my surprise, it erupts into laughter; nervous and guilty at first but as the repressed emotions spew forth, the laughter changes to a hysterical shriek growing louder and louder to match the howling wind.  I roar madly into the storm for I don’t know how long.  Finally I am spent and, gasping, sink to my knees.  My forehead touches the paving and all I am aware of is the smell of blood and concrete and piss and smoke.

Reluctantly suppressing the urge to stay there till I drown, I push myself back up to a kneeling position.  I pick up my knife and wipe it clean on my coat.  Gabriel Daryev is sitting on a crumbling wall, under the shelter of a battered umbrella he had liberated from the grasp of a corpse. He raises a scornful eyebrow in a gesture that clearly indicates he feels he has indulged my moment of madness for long enough.  Nimbly, he springs to his feet and strides off.  Like the dog, he is soon lost amongst the rubble but I know where he is going and will follow presently.

I sling Papa’s body onto the pile of countless other victims of the war that has destroyed this city.  Let him be another nameless casualty in a vicious catalogue of horror.  Who is to know he died by my hand and not that of the Germans?  Who would care?

Gregor Svetin, the father, is no more.  Alexander Gregorovitch Svetin, his son, is no more.

There’s a hearty fire burning in the grate, the room is dark and shadows drape around my shoulders like a comforting blanket.  I start from a dreamless, thoughtless half-sleep and feel my blood run cold with the kind of chill that could make bones brittle and snap.  I can’t breathe, a nameless anxiety gripping my heart and constricting my throat.  It’s like standing face forward into a gale and not being able to exhale for the force of the wind against you.  It’s the same feeling I used to get when Papa came into the room.

Something – no, someone – is coming.

Someone is on her way with Death snapping and slavering at her heels.