Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  Clutching a hand to my chest, I ask, “Malich is . . . He’s done with Vassili?”

  “Done.” Yuri nods. “I should be done too, but— the two of us have to save him. Mikhail told our father that Danushka’s antics were the reason Igor died. You know, Igor was my pop’s favorite? Even if he wasn’t, Vassili picked the wrong side.”

  “What would happen to him?” I ask in response. A river of tears flood down my cheeks. “Yuri.”

  “We both know how this ends, Zar.”

  “What will we do, Yuri?” I sink onto the couch next to him. My hand burrows into the cushion, breaths becoming pants. “What can we do!”

  “We’re fucked, kuzen. Malich is done waiting for Vassili’s response. He will connect with Anatoly. That’s assuming Vassili’s father isn’t already aware of their coup.”

  “I thought Anatoly went into hiding?” I ask. If Anatoly has gone into hiding, it would appear that Danushka has the upper hand, right? Where I’m from, if you’re confident enough to believe you can win a fight, there’s no reason to hide. This isn’t an old fashion street fight. “Anatoly’s not in hiding?”

  “They’re brats, Zariah. Anatoly has no reason to hide from Malich. Now, he has reason to go after Vassili. Danny is happy right now, coming up with plans. Though, she doesn’t have as many loyalists as Uncle Anatoly. Right now, he’s taking a tally of how much that bitch and my kuzen are screwing him over. He’s good at waiting, watching and checking off how much he will do . . .”

  A few days later, I bake a Russian Honey Cake from one of Sasha’s recipes that Vassili says he’ll never forget. I’ve asked him countless times why he refuses to write down any of his dearly departed sister’s favorite dishes. In response, I received a grunt. One time, I’d stumped him with the notion that he should pass it on to Natasha. No grunt or response came my way, but I could tell he was considering it. I silently pray that I have done the cake justice from memory, and then dress Natasha in her best.

  “Oh no! We’re all supposed to go out to dinner tonight,” my mom says, watching me latch a white gold cross around Natasha’s neck. Malich had given her the necklace at her Christening. Though the ceremony was held at my mom’s church in Atlanta, he’d completed a few customary Russian rites. All I can hope is that her great uncle remembers as much for when we head over there tonight.

  Not for Natasha’s sake. Yuri already confirmed that my daughter and I are neutral in the ordeal. Regardless, even if Vassili’s making all the wrong moves right now, I will fight for my husband.

  What about when there’s nothing left . . . The vile thought worms its way into my mind.

  “Should we all go?” My mom asks.

  “Huh?” I blink away from Natasha, whose fat fist is pawing softly at her necklace. With the closest attempt to a smile, I offer Zamora my undivided attention.

  “Should we all go?” she repeats. “I know that Sammy has been included in your Sunday dinner tradition with you and Vassili. Sometimes they’re at Malich’s. Should I ask Sammy to come? Then we can all talk about Vassili.”

  “About what?” I snap. I’m instantly reminded that I’m my father’s daughter. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Child, you get a pass. Given the circumstances.” She huffs. “Maybe every so often, Vassili needs time alone.”

  “Mom, don’t do that. There’s no such thing as giving a man an inch when it comes to you. Zamora Hankins, you’re always ready to give him a mile.” I lower my voice as if Natasha is aware of where this conversation is headed.

  “There’s a difference between a man hitting on you and needing a moment…”

  “Mom,” I grumble.

  “Space,” she snaps. “He could need space. We can ask his uncle Malich if this is a trend in their family. Hell, this could be a Russian thing. And you, my dear, married a Russian. You need to learn about their customs.”

  Feels like water is becoming white noise in my ears as I fail at making my case. “I’ve known Vassili for a decade, Mom. It’s not an annual trend or something he does every ten years. We didn’t make it.”

  “Didn’t make it, my ass. You’re not divorced yet. And you said you’d have your coworker draw up the papers days ago. You’re having second thoughts.”

  “Don’t keep Sammy waiting on my account.” I wink. Yup, that little action made me seem a bit psychotic. So far, my melancholic remakes have had mom texting me devotionals at work. Now, she lifts her eyebrows. “We didn’t schedule this dinner for me, Zar. But for us to have the chat you refuse to. We thought with wine. . .”

  “I get it,” I chuckle, cutting in. “You thought with wine, candlelight, and the ambiance. Hmm, I’m stopping there. Maybe I don’t get it. Momma, please get ready for your date with Sammy.”

  An hour later, Natasha and I are in an affluential area where Malich has owned a mansion for ages. Who knows if he remembers the man he was before Igor died? Yuri shared that it has taken years for his father to be molded back into that man after the death of his wife. Malich has to remember he’s the one who has every family member he knows at his house for dinner. Before anyone leaves, they come to see him, telling him their needs. He’s the patriarch. The provider.

  But when I pull past the wrought iron gates, only two imports are in the lot. Yuri’s SUV and Malich’s late-model Mercedes. My heart falls. Did Mikhail return to the ER? I would give the doctor a call, but he wasn’t the same since his brother’s death, either.

  I get out of the car and open the backdoor. Natasha is latched into her convertible car seat. The puffy tulle of her dress is extra dramatic around the belt straps. I pull her out.

  “Mommy, love,” she tells me.

  I offer her a quick, puckered kiss. “We’re here to see Uncle Malich. You ready to see your uncle?”

  “Albina!” She shouts the name of Igor and Anna’s two-year-old daughter. She was almost the same age as Natasha is now when I first met her. Malich had opened the door with Albina in his arms.

  “I hope little Albina’s here too,” I murmur, pressing my lips to Natasha’s forehead for one more good luck kiss.

  The door opens, and Anna stands there. She’s dressed in black, which makes her skin fade. The dark undertones of the lack of the right vitamins and lack of sleep are viable beneath her skin. Anna hugs me and then takes Natasha from my arms.

  “Albina will be so happy to see you, Natasha.”

  She starts into the house; I shade my eyes. The walls are sky-high, but not an ounce of evening light gets through the velvet drapes. With my eyes adjusted to the dark, I lock the door.

  “Zar, go ahead in the kitchen. Malich is waiting for you.”

  A lump of trepidation is in my throat. I ask, “Will we all have dinner?”

  The ghost of a woman offers a faint smile. “I’ll send Natasha and the girls down shortly.”

  My heart sinks. Anna’s the prime example of the worst-case scenario when falling in love with a Russian mobster. “You sure you’re not hungry too?”

  “Thank you, Zariah, but I am not hungry.”

  “Vodka?” My smile shakes as I watch them ascend the steps.

  “Nyet. I’m sorry.”

  I head down the vast area, with its out-of-date furniture, and into the kitchen. Malich is seated at the island. He has a butcher’s block in front of him. None of the pleasing aromas that generally come from the kitchen surround me. Nothing is the same.

  I hear hustling down the steps. A few moments later, Yuri is in the room. “Pops, you said you’d book—”

  Malich comes to life, eyes startled until he glances at me. He contains his anger. “Zariah, you came.”

  “Hi,” I murmur, hugging him.

  Like Anna, he’s lost some weight. His skin is pallid.

  Malich asks, “Where is Cutie Pie?”

  “Anna took her upstairs to visit Albina.”

  “Those two are best friends, I see,” his response is friendly enough but lacks the care I grew accustomed too. “I’ve started to cook.”

/>   “I don’t smell nothing, old man,” Yuri says, heading to the wall oven. “You’ve been down here for ages, muttering about what’s for dinner. What exactly did you cook?”

  “Yuri!” Malich’s fist slams onto the table. From my assessment, he has to have been standing at the island for a very long time, his mind far away from here. “Son, why don’t you whip something up for us all, seeing that you have no career. No aspirations!”

  Yuri stares at him, eyebrows snatched in confusion. “Dad…”

  “You’re no longer managing the situation,” Malich mocks the same words that Yuri would tell Vassili when my husband says he’s the manager. “You’re a grown man, son. What is your contribution to this family?”

  “I’ll cook,” Yuri huffs. He retreats toward the refrigerator then comes back. “I’m not some bum who does nothing, Pops. Vassili needs time to think—”

  Malich cuts him off with the wave of his hand. His voice is grave and low as he threatens, “Say that name again, son.”

  I gulp. Malich still has enough heart to offer me half of a smile as signal that I’m not banned.

  Not like Vassili.

  12

  Zariah

  The scent of coffee beans rouses me from dark thoughts surrounding my husband. I’m seated at a large table toward the back of a knockoff Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf in LA. The light from the front windows shimmies across much of the room but barely reaches me. Shades cover my eyes again. At least this is a bright, early LA morning. Samuel has a monthly meeting here. The tiny café is away from the office, and the carrot cake is the star of the place. Us attorneys are on rotation each month to arrive early and claim the largest table for our group. My stilettos dangle from the high-seated stool. I glare at all the other patrons who think this table is a free for all. Lucky for me, my aura is dark enough to keep the rest of the folks in need of a ‘pick me up’ from testing me.

  My mom texted me during my dinner with Malich that Samuel would come to the café this morning in my stead, I declined. Leaving the house while the sun had yet to say ‘hello’ worked. I needed to flee my mom’s presence by any means. Poor Natasha, she misses Vassili with a vengeance, and I snatched a kiss while she slept this morning.

  It’s 7 am and an hour left before the rest of the attorneys will trickle in when Tyrese steps into the establishment. The summer sun creates a halo around his warm brown skin, classic suit, and Italian loafers. Women are mid-sip of their drinks, and a few are even jamming carrot cakes in their mouths when they stop to stare. All I can think about is the token times my white-thug of a husband donned a suit. No matter how Vassili acted the last time I laid eyes on him, old school R&B broken heart songs ain’t got nothing on me.

  Tyrese removes a pair of sunglasses that cost more than anyone is wearing in the room. His gaze slithers across the customers; thick lips pull upward once he finds me. Or it’s my imagination. Tyrese has been with Billingslea Law Firm for a little over two months, so he’s aware that we all meet here and at what time. Last month, he was put on the calendar for November and was reminded to arrive extra early. But that was for November—not the start of September. This is my month.

  “You’re early,” I quip. “Had I known, you could’ve taken this month and yours too.”

  “I wanted to talk to . . .” His palms start for the backs of my hands.

  “Talk.” I press mine into my lap.

  “Zariah, I’m concerned about you.” Tyrese groans. “We haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

  “Now that we’ve teamed up on Noriega’s case,” I pause, aware of how I gritted out the word. Vassili and I were a team. Removing my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I pray to God that my eyes mirror him and not the frayed emotions of my heart. “Tyrese, I’m not divorced yet.”

  “That’s what we need to talk about.” He leans closer to me. “Your safety concerns me.”

  I snort. “You think—”

  “Fuck,” he mouths under his breath.

  I track where Tyrese is now staring. My assistant, Lynetta, is strutting into the coffee shop. I murmur, “Well, if everyone was going to come early, I could’ve been fashionably late.”

  Without laughing at my watered-down joke, Tyrese arises from his seat. He places his hand on my shoulder, the thumb strumming across my skin. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “No need.”

  “Then, when are you going to view the documents that I drew up for you, Zar?” He glances at me, wanting a quick response. All I can offer is a shrug as Lynetta moves through the crowd and toward us. Tyrese pulls out her seat. She proceeds to flirt relentlessly until the entire team has arrived.

  Friday marks a few days shy of three weeks since I’ve seen my husband. Lord knows how many times I’ve hovered over his contact in my phone, with the urgency to tell him about Malich. Anatoly must’ve known Danushka was after him when she and Horace forced us all to Italy in lieu of Russia. All Malich did was blot out my name and Natasha’s from Anatoly’s shit list.

  So, I sit in my office all day and call to check on Natasha each time my thumb hovers over Vassili’s number. When it’s time to leave, I glance into Samuel’s niece’s office. Aside from him being my mentor, his niece was another reason I’d passed the bar on the first go. Connie isn’t there. I bite my lip. For the past few days, I’ve walked out with her to deter Tyrese from asking me about the documents.

  The smoggy heat descends as I open the door. Tyrese is coming out of his office around the perimeter; his pace is quickening. “Zar,” he calls, in a respectable, firm tone.

  Removing my phone from the pocket of my skirt, I pretend to be unaware and answer an imaginary call while stepping outside. I’ve just taken a few steps from the front door when a Bentley with blackout tint stops parallel to me. The luxury vehicle is so close that the heat from the engine singes against my skin.

  “Hey, Zariah,” Tyrese calls out as the window zips down.

  “Get in,” a man with a clipped Russian voice orders. Standing at my full height and with the car so near, all I can see is the outline of his custom suit. The outline is fitting of the Incredible Hulk. He’s a little larger than Mikhail, and nobody else in Vassili’s family comes to mind. Who the hell is he?

  With Tyrese worried about my ‘safety’ around my husband, I play this cool as a cucumber. “Just a sec, sir.”

  “I said get in,” he growls.

  But my legs are already strutting back toward Tyrese, who has made it out the door. “Oh, um, yes?”

  The driver’s voice is deathly low, “Get in or he dies.”

  “Okay,” I growl under my breath. “Give me a moment.”

  Plastering on a smile, I weigh my options. Piss off the stranger, who I owe absolutely nothing to. Or give my colleague another reason to worry.

  I walk back toward the building. Alright, poppa didn’t raise no fool. Of course, one doesn’t turn their back on a threat. If the stranger desires to do me any harm, I might as well include my partner in crime—when it came to the Noriegas.

  Tyrese stares past me as he attempts to get a good look into the car. “Who’s that?”

  “Family,” I gulp, then plaster on a smile. Intuition tells me that this is the truth, so I shrug and repeat, “My husband’s family.”

  Tyrese’s light brown gaze zips across my own as if at this moment, he wishes for his words to sink in. He touches my biceps, rubbing them softly. I don’t push away like I’d done at the coffee shop. I’m too afraid to tell Tyrese about my fear. Because one, my husband made me fearless. Two, regardless of if whoever sent for me is team Danushka or team Anatoly, I have to know what’s going on with Vassili.

  For all the times my thumb has hovered over his contact, I’ve called him a thousand more times. It’s always at night when desperation suffocates the life right out of me. When I’m too exhausted to analyze our last moment together. When I need him like my next breath.

  “Yes?” I clear my throat, realizing Tyrese hasn’t said a word eit
her.

  “That’s your husband’s family, Zariah.” His grip on my arm becomes a little firmer. “Please tell me you’re safe.”

  “Stop being paranoid, Mr. Nicks,” I murmur, unable to catch the hitch in my tone. “I’m dissolving a relationship with my husband, the same as half the human population. We have a daughter that his family adores.”

  “And they’re pulling up to your job like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  I stop myself from glancing over my shoulder. Shit. From his stance, I can tell that the attorney is ready to grill me. When I started walking outside, was my car in the lot? Had whoever sent for me ‘removed’ it from the equation so that I’d take the ride—nice ride. I chortle, removing his hands from my arms. “Have a good weekend, Mr. Nicks.”

  My coworker stares at me intently as I turn in my heels and strut back to the car. After the fiasco with Yuri, Tyrese shouldn’t see the fear engulfing me. My palms are sweaty, my knees weak. I open the front door and climb inside.

  “Good thinking,” the man’s voice wraps around me like smooth steel. I haven’t even looked at him yet, but I offer Tyrese another wave and smile while shutting the door. I sit back almost too afraid to get his true description. I inhale deeply and another scent rouses me. This one doesn’t couple well with the beast seated beside me. I start to turn my head.

  “Don’t look back yet, sweetheart.” The voice is deep, kind. Deceptively kind. His cologne infuses in my nostrils, offering a pleasant, calming scent. A marriage of masculinity and luxury warn that were the two of us friends, I’d be safer than I’ve ever been.

  From the corner of my eye, Tyrese is leaning against the door, still watching. And I’m seated, face forward, intelligent enough to heed the words of the man seated behind me.

  “I had hoped to meet you under different circumstances. Better contexts, my daughter.”