SINNERS: A Russian Mafia/Sports Romance (Saints & Sinners Duet Book 2)

by Sophia Henry

  I pull a homemade afghan over my legs and turn on the television. Most of the time I don’t understand what’s going on, but Dima told me it will help me learn English more quickly. People don’t speak like dictionaries in real conversations.

  The grab the cordless handset off the table and answer, “I’m listening.”

  Shit! I catch myself and add a meek, “Hello?”

  “Anastasiya?” a familiar gruff voice asks.

  My heart lights up hearing my grandmother’s voice. “Babushka! How are you?”

  “I’m worried about you, little bird,” Babushka says. Static crackles in my ear. “You sound just as depressed as the day you arrived in America.”

  “I’m adjusting,” I say, pulling the phone from my ear and extending the antenna like Dima does. The static disappears.

  “Why don’t you come home? Live with me?”

  “What am I going to do there, Babyula? Think about Kirya all day? Mope around? At least here I have a fresh start. There aren’t memories of him in the clouds here.”

  “Fresh start? What does that mean? You lie around on the couch at that hockey player’s apartment. Is that a fresh start?”

  I glance down, wondering how Babushka knows I’m sprawled out on the couch watching a television show in a language I can’t understand.

  “It’s like your looking through the window,” I say under my breath.

  “I don’t need a window to see your soul, Stasya. It’s time to get your head on straight again. If you’re going to waste your opportunity in America, come home. I have plenty of things to keep you busy.”

  Babushka is the epitome of resilience in the face of tragedy. Among the twenty million people the Soviet Union lost in the Great Patriotic War, she lost almost her entire family. During the Siege of Leningrad, where opposing forces encircled the city in an effort to starve the population. During those 872 days, she lost her mother, two sisters, her grandmother, and an uncle. Somehow, her father and her sister made it. Later in her life, her husband died in a horrible accident at the factory where he worked. No matter what happened, she pushed through.

  “I’ve only been here—"

  “You’ve been there a month,” she cuts me off sharply. “Have you opened the packages I sent you?”

  “No.”

  Two weeks ago, I received fifteen or twenty boxes from Babushka. I assumed someone cleaned out Kirill’s apartment and boxed up my possessions—maybe even some of his—and sent them to her. Either way, I couldn’t bear to open any of that right now. I’m not ready to deal with the emotions the memories will evoke.

  Dmitri helped me push them into the room he uses to workout at home. I never go in there, so I don’t have to see them.

  “What?” She snaps. I can see her now—pacing around her kitchen, gesturing with her free hand, cursing at me. “You must open those boxes right now, Stasya! Go!”

  The urgency in her voice concerns me. What’s so important about the boxes?

  “All right! All right!” I slide off the couch and hustle to the spare room, still holding the cordless phone to my ear.

  “Why haven’t you opened them?”

  The packages are piled up in four rows against the wall. I kneel down in front of them and grab one. “I didn’t want to deal with any memories,” I say honestly staring at the box.

  Tension creeps up my shoulders and into my neck.

  “Hang up and call me later.”

  “Why?” My chest tightens.

  Silence hangs thick in the air, which is uncharacteristic for my grandmother. When she’s on a roll, she doesn’t stop.

  “I can’t bear to hear you dealing with the memories,” Babushka says quietly. “But tomorrow you will call me with your news.”

  “What news?” I ask.

  There’s no answer from the other end—only a dial tone.

  She hung up.

  What could possibly be in the boxes that she needs me to see? I glance at the stacks again. This time, I notice one has the words OPEN FIRST written all over the side. I push the box in front of me aside and grab that one. Must be the place to start.

  Folding my legs Indian-style, I take a deep breath before pulling it into my lap. I pick at the corner of a thick strip of tape sealing it shut until it peels away. Inside the OPEN FIRST box is another box with an envelope taped to the top. I remove it carefully and slide my finger under the flap.

  It’s a letter on light blue stationary. When I unfold the paper, I recognize the scrawling, almost illegible handwriting immediately. My heart beat speeds up. My stomach drops. I swallow back emotion and read:

  My love,

  I’m sure you will be cursing my name when you read this letter, wondering how I could let you go. I ask that you dry your tears and trust me one more time, for I’ve always had your best interests at heart. Nothing would make me happier than having you as my wife. The thought crossed my mind many times since I realized I loved you all those years ago. But I love you too much to do that to you. Being by wife is a death sentence. Your heart is too pure to live a criminal’s life. There are better ways for you to make your mark on the world.

  Which is why I need you to trust me once again. Even if you hate me right now, please trust me. I’ve made the following provisions for you:

  - The rent at 13 W. 57th Street New York, NY, has been paid 10 years in advance. You will open up your first clothing store here. You will live in the apartment over the store once circumstances around your move to America have settled. Slava or Drago will let you know.

  - You are now a co-owner of New World Management. But don’t worry, my love. You won’t have any responsibilities regarding the company. The agency will pay all of your expenses and fund your store until you are making enough profit to pay for everything yourself. Which will be soon after your grand opening, I have no doubt.

  - Olga has sent you approximately twenty boxes. These boxes contain all the clothing that was made at Cherkizovsky. You should have enough inventory to start your store. In order to continue production, you will need to find new seamstresses and space for them to work. I’ve paid your former employees at Cherkizovsky generously and let them move on, as I know you did not want to be involved in Moscow’s underground black market.

  I will always provide for you, Stasya. Even after every woman in the world is wearing one of your original pieces and you can afford anything you desire. You will never worry. You will never want. I am a broken man, moving through life with my heart living outside of my body. The only thing that allows me to go on without you is the knowledge that you will thrive away from me. You own my heart and soul, Anastasiya, you always have and you always will.

  For your safety, I will not contact you again.

  Yours always,

  Kirya

  P.S. Start renovations for the store and apartment immediately. The sooner you get away from Morozov the better.

  P.P.S. That’s jealousy talking. He is a better man than I will ever be.

  There’s another page. I slide the top one under the second.

  “No,” I whisper to myself.

  It’s the Pushkin poem “I Loved You” written out so carefully, I can make out every word without straining.

  I loved you; even now I must confess,

  Some embers of my love their fire retain;

  But do not let it cause you more distress,

  I do not want to sadden you again.

  Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly

  With pangs the jealous and the timid know;

  So tenderly I love you, so sincerely,

  I pray God grant another love you so.

  Tears drip onto the paper, creating wet splotches and smearing the ink. I wipe my cheeks quickly and hold the letter away from my body, preserving the only words I have left from Kirya.

  I can’t believe he made me co-owner of his Sports Management Agency and rented me a space in the heart of New York City, down the road from iconic retail stores. He did eve
rything possible to set me up with the best life he could give me before sending me away.

  And he jumped in front of bullets meant for me.

  Though, I guess with the mafia they were probably happy to take him out.

  There are so many emotions swirling in my chest after reading his letter, I can’t focus. I’m grateful to have someone who loved me the way he did. Though, I’m still sorrow-stricken, I’m excited and overwhelmed by the opportunity—and possibilities—that lay ahead.

  For the first time, I can push through the grief and feel hope. Not because he laid the groundwork at my feet, but because he believed in me. He believed in my dreams. He believed in my ability to get the business up and running.

  I don’t even believe in myself that much. I’ve never run a business before. After he started his sports management business, Kirill shared paperwork and numbers with me. Because my background is in accounting, I’m familiar with balance sheets and profit-and-loss statements. Math is the easy part of the business. But I have no clue how to run a store.

  We were supposed to open a booth at Cherikovsky Market, the underground black market in the Eastern part of Moscow, but that never happened. Back then, every item was manufactured in a small room underneath the market. Though keeping the operations at Cherikovsky wasn’t an option, I was set on having every piece made in Moscow, but Russian seamstresses.

  Still, excitement drives me as I tear off the tape from the box in my lap. I reach in and pull out items made over my last few months in Moscow. After ripping into the other boxes, I’m sitting in a sea of colors and fabrics. Digging in with both hands, I seize a few pieces and throw them into the air, letting them fall onto my lap and all around me.

  The feeling of being completely overwhelmed passes thorough me in a wave. Tears prick at my eyes.

  “You can do this,” I whisper to myself. Putting the affirmation into the world makes it real.

  One thing at a time.

  I spring up and run to my bedroom to snatch a notebook and pen. Then I return to the room and start sorting the clothes into piles, taking inventory of each piece as I go.

  Soon, I’ve organized the entire room, repacking the boxes by items similar to each other and labeling the outside so I know what’s in each. Now, I know exactly what I have to sell. Plus, when I bring it all over to the space Kirill rented for me, I’ll be able to find what I need immediately.

  Moving forward isn’t easy, but knowing he put this much effort into making sure I had a better life gives me a reason to live. For the first time, I’m excited about the future—even if the future doesn’t include him.

  4

  Stasya

  “It’s nice space,” Dima says, nodding as he looks around the empty store. His body is stiff, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  I’ve been here multiple times, but this is the first time I’ve brought him. He didn’t seem very excited when I told him about the letter from Kirill, which wasn’t a huge surprise since he and Kirill never got along.

  But I thought he would be happy for me when he heard about the store. This space gives me a reason to be in New York. Now I don’t feel like an unwanted infant who got dropped on someone’s porch because it was “safe.” Being able to continue my design career and have a store in such a huge market has given me new life—and enhanced my mood dramatically. Despite having a good relationship with Dmitri and getting out of the house more, I’d been extremely depressed prior to the letter.

  The space is absolutely amazing. Huge windows looking directly onto West 57th Street span the front of the shop, giving it a bright and open feel. The hustle and bustle outside have me excited about future foot traffic already. In the back, there’s a stock room and a small office.

  Since receiving Kirill’s letter, I’ve spent more time sketching what I want the space to look like—from how may clothing racks I want and where to put them to the location of the counter for the registers. Before the letter, I’d only thought about how to set up my table at Cherikovsky, designing a store never crossed my mind.

  I know I need to hire a contractor but I’m trying to get my vision in place so I can explain exactly what I want.

  And what I want is spectacular, over-the-top beautiful.

  I’ve already thought of the name for my store—Prekrasny—beautiful. As soon as a woman walks in, that’s how she should feel. The store shouldn’t overpower her, it should make her the spotlight. Hunter greens and navy blues are in style, but those heavy, dark colors are the opposite of what I want for this space.

  “It’ll be white with light blue and silver accents,” I tell him excitedly. “and sparkle.”

  “Sparkle?” He turns around to look at me.

  “Yes!” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, inhaling the vision I have. When I let the breath out, and open my eyes, Dima is still gazing at me with a smile playing on his lips. “What?”

  “I’ve never seen you shine as bright as you do right now.”

  “I’ve never had the opportunity that I have right now.” I rush to him and grab his hand, pulling him toward the window. “That is West 57th Street, Dima! We’re just a few blocks away from the busiest department stores in New York City.”

  In Russia, I never thought about having a store until Kirill planted the seed. Before I met him, I’d been making clothes for myself, family, and friends using old items we no longer used or fit into. He’s the one who set me up with everything I needed to design and sew my own fashions. He even hired an entire team of seamstresses who made everything to my exact specifications.

  Kirill called himself an “investor,” but I call him a lifesaver.

  He knew I didn’t have any interest in the “mafia wife” lifestyle—someone who lives off her husband without an identity of her own. Without the ability to design, that’s exactly what I would have been.

  Dmitri leans over, looking out the window as if it’s just another street. “It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

  There’s no emotion in his voice, which almost makes me regret bringing him. Why can’t he show any happiness for me? I pretend to care about his hockey games. I pretend that being at the arena and supporting him is interesting to me when it isn’t. It never was. Hockey was my brother’s passion, and I supported him because that’s what you do when you love someone.

  “Do you want to see the space upstairs?”

  “Sure.” He spins around and follows me.

  “Can you at least act excited?” I ask, yanking the heavy, glass door open and gesturing outside.

  He cocks his head. “Stasya! Why would you say that? I’m very excited for you.”

  “You don’t seem like it,” I say, huffing as I lock the door behind us. Once I’ve finished, I unlock the door to the left of the store that leads to an enclosed staircase.

  He whips around to face me. “I am, I swear. I just can’t see the things you envision. My mind doesn’t work the same as yours.”

  His explanation is understandable, but I can’t help but feel a sense of disappointment. He never seems exciting about anything that doesn’t involve him. Maybe he’s jealous because he’s used to being the center of attention. Maybe he doesn’t know how to support someone else pursuing their dream.

  I climb the stairs with Dima on my heels. When I unlock the door at the top, I let him walk in first.

  “Wow,” he breathes. This awed reaction is the one I wanted from him downstairs. But this apartment has a layout, so it’s easier to see how beautiful it is without much imagination.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Jesus, Stasya, a place like this in this area has to have cost—” he stops like he always does when he realizes he’s talking about Kirill’s gift to me. The excitement in his eyes dims. “When are you moving in?”

  The apartment is absolutely beautiful. It’s convenient to the store—obviously. It’s in Midtown Manhattan—an amazing area in the heart of the city.

  But it’s lonely.

  Kirill is dead.
There is no danger for me anymore. Yet, I can’t bear to be alone—no matter how beautiful and perfect the space is.

  I wish I could be more independent—a word I hear a lot in America. Women, especially, have a pressure to be independent here.

  Then there’s me. I don’t want to depend on anyone for money, but I don’t want to be alone either. The concept is still foreign to me, and that’s hard for me to get used to. Being part of a unit and always having people around has been ingrained in me. Since being alone was never an option, it was never something I craved.

  “I’m not,” I say, testing his reaction.

  “You aren’t moving in here?”

  “I mean, I will if you want me out of your place,” I add.

  “No!” He blurts. Our eyes meet and I give him a small smile before looking away.

  “I really appreciate you letting me live with you, Dima, but I don’t want to outstay my welcome. If you want me to move in here, I will, absolutely.”

  “You can stay at my place for as long as you need to,” he assures me. “But why wouldn’t you want to be here?” he asks. “This place is amazing.”

  A shiver runs through me. It’s only been two months since I left Russia and everything that happened is still fresh. Terrible visions interrupt my dreams every night. “It’s hard for me to be alone right now.”

  “I understand. You’re afraid and mourning.”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that.” Explaining to Dima shouldn’t be hard because he understands what it was like to grow up in the Soviet Union, but I want to word it so he knows I appreciate him. Not just having someone to live with. “You know how hard it is to go from communal living to being completely alone, right?”

  Dmitri’s eyes are vacant as if I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand.

  “It wasn’t hard for you?”

  He shrugs. “After years crammed into those apartments and even more years living with thirty sweaty, smelly hockey players, I was ready to be alone.”