by Amarie Avant
In cotton pajamas and an aristocrat’s robe, my dad appears once the steaks have begun to sizzle on the iron-grill. I move away from the stove, a hard smile on my face as I hug him.
“Good morning, Dad.” I kiss his bristled jaw.
“Good morning, Princess.” He looks past me, eyes the food approvingly, and goes toward Natasha. This is the part I hate the most. My daughter is too young to ‘fake the funk.’ A term my mom and her cronies used in the past. As he pulls her up off the floor and into his arms, she doesn’t push away or catch an attitude, which is her MO. Her innocent, chubby fingers paw at the evil man’s face. Too bad she doesn’t have a copper pot in her hand. Had she “BOPPED” him on the head, I’d have scold her now and gifted her with French Fries later.
“You two headed to church soon?” my dad asks, grunting faintly as he reaches down to place Natasha back near her symphony.
“Yes.”
He rubs the back of his neck, then leans his elbows on the glossy counters. “I should go to church today. Lord knows I’ve been blessed in my career for over thirty years.”
Not on your life, I consider, smiling at him. Mom’s gunning for an intervention with Vassili and I. Since my husband and I are acting so bizarre, I doubt that adding Maxwell to the mix will help. She has holy oil, holy water, and one of those prayer cloths in her arsenal. It hurt to her core when I mentioned coming here.
“Uh oh,” I hasten toward Natasha and squat down. My thumb roams over her mouth. There’s a tiny bit of slobber on her face. There always is. My stomach muscles churn as I play it off. “Are you coming down with a cold, Cutie Pie?”
“Is she?” My dad’s eyebrow raises as he squats beside me. A second later, he’s breathing heavy and standing to his full attention. “Grandpa is too old for this, Princess Natasha.”
“Do you have any Vicks Vapor Rub?” I ask, determined to set a scene. Feels like I’ve been tossed to the deep end of the pool. My mom wants me to make amends with Vassili. He will literally kill me if I bring Natasha around him . . . with Danushka nearby. Hell, I could kill myself for allowing our baby anywhere near Danny after she held a gun to my daughter’s head.
My father is the lesser of two evils.
“How about I stay? I’m not dressed, I’ll look after Natasha.” Dad says, searching through the cupboard. “Having her around people, with her onset of sniffles, isn’t a good idea.”
I hesitate as he hands over the Vicks.
“Princess,” he pauses. “We haven’t been close since you . . . you married—”
“He’s still her father.” I stop from balling my fist.
Maxwell nods. “It’s taken you coming home for me to understand that you have feelings for the guy. The same as I’ll always have feelings for your mother for the blessing of children.”
Bullshit, I stop myself from chortling. My return has cured Maxwell Washington of his innate hate for my husband. I lick my lips because this has presented me with a good enough moment as any to create a few stipulations. “I’m glad you understand, Dad. While Vassili and I are divorcing, I need you to promise that he’s not on your radar. That neither you nor any officers of the law will hound him.”
“We are peace officers.”
“Ha.” I relax my tensed muscles, jut out a hand, and grin. “Dad, Vassili and the daughter you love have created a little girl. . .” I stop myself from mentioning that we also have another baby on the way. Clearing my throat, I add, “We made this little girl. I can’t have him harmed.”
He clasps my outstretched hand. “Got it.”
I squeeze—as if the action does anything. “No following Vassili, Dad. Leave him alone. No harming him or giving orders . . .”
“Zariah, I don’t appreciate what you’re inferring . . .”
I chuckle. “Dad, I’m an attorney who covers all the possibilities.”
Later on, I pick up my mother at one of her old friend’s homes. Old ‘girlfriends.’ Back in the day, the terms ‘besties’ and ‘homies’ was out—‘girlfriends’ was in. While I pretend Natasha is coming down with a cold to keep her safe from Danushka, Mom’s friend waves at me from the front door, with crumpled Kleenex in hand.
My mother slides into the car, dressed in jeans and a shirt. Now, this is a far cry from how we grew up. Ruffled dresses, itchy stockings, lengthy slips. Though my mom became more lenient with the years, she’s not that friggen indulgent. I glance her up and down as she pulls an antibacterial gel from her purse and rubs her hands.
Zamora lays her head back with a sigh. “Lord, I’ve been waiting for you to come to get me. Girlfriend says it’s fall allergies. If I catch a cold Zariah, I’m-I’m . . .” My mom stops speaking as she digs through her purse again.
“What are you looking for?” I try to glance at her, but I’m pulling onto the main boulevard.
My mom’s palm covers my vision for a split second as she does a quick oily cross on my forehead. We’ve been in this scenario before. Where I swerved, and we almost died since Momma is two parts filled by the faith and one part goofy. At least, today, I’m prepared.
I mumble, “Oh, I figured.”
“Heh, did you prepare for this?” she asks, flicking her now wet hands at me.
“Yup,” I laugh, wiping the dribbles of holy water from my cheek while one hand is on the steering wheel.
“Did you—”
“Yes, mom, where is your holy rag?” I grin at her.
“I don’t know what you think is so funny.”
“Sorry, I appreciate your support,” I reply. Any prayers Zamora has lifted to heaven on my account have rained down as mercy in the past few weeks alone.
“Turn here.”
“Turn?” I arch an eyebrow, following her directions. Instead of veering left near a shopping center that leads to the church, we start toward an industrial area. “I thought we were going . . .”
“No.” She plays with the Satellite Radio until an old Kirk Franklin song comes on.
“He’s Able,” she sings, shaking her head. “Yes, He is. Zariah, we’re not attending church today. Vassili is at the convention center in an hour. We can catch up to him before or after the PR set.”
“What?”
“Did I raise you to respond in one-word sentences?” she snaps.
“Okay, Mom,” I cringe.
She scoffs. “How will we get the two of you back together? Huh, Zariah? I need you to try. This is cause for getting down on your knees, praying to God. Not acting like your marriage is some sort of sham. You don’t know what divorce feels like. You don’t need to.”
“Who said anything about . . .” I groan. Had I told my mother about divorce? Of course, the term divorce was meant for everyone who can negatively impact us. Danushka, definitely. My father, for even more obvious reasons.
“Samuel told you?” I ask.
“Yes! One of your coworkers helped you draw up the papers. Why not do them yourself?”
Because, like Dad, I need Mr. Nicks on the same page, I stare at her instead of uttering the words out loud. “Mom, everything will work out.”
“In the name of Jesus!” She snaps.
I murmur her words, with no desire to alarm her any further. Life would be so much easier if people like my mom or Yuri were in the loop. They’re invested in our future. I open my mouth to tell her the truth, and then I huff.
20
Vassili
Questions fly at me from various angles. I sit on a stage, rubbing my knuckles against my lips. Nestor does a shit-job of fielding the ones I have refused to answer and giving the “okay” for others. Vadim is on the opposite side of me. The old man is becoming angrier by the second.
My coach is desperate to save my brand. I won’t say this shit out loud, but Yuri was always good at managing the situation.
Across from me are cameras, lights, people. Too many fucking people. I’m not a people person. Vadim believed this would be better than addressing fuck-offs like Alex on the Sports Network. The coach t
hought this open venue would help.
“We would like to know where you went after Kong went into a coma?” one asks.
“Well,” I pause for effect. Vadim coached me not to give them Killer Karo. He said give ‘em Vassili—the real guy. “The entire ordeal came as a shock. Kong is a man with a wife and a family. I am too. While we all go into the cage because this is a game, it never became more real to me until that second . . .”
For a man not interested in having long conversations, I realize I haven’t answered the question.
“I needed to take a moment away from the spotlight. That may make me sound like a selfish guy, but I have so many young fans in the world. I had to give myself time to realize what I’ve done and to respond in the way that aligns with the role model I strive to be.”
Through the crowd, my eyes connect with my wife. I’m going to kill her. She’s here. The worst place for her to be. Unable to tear my gaze away from Zariah, I continue. “I’m not the same Killer Karo who stepped into the octagon a decade ago—who talked too much. I needed a moment to deal with…”
My voice is strangled. An infrared beam from Grigor’s rifle is right between Zamora’s eyes.
I start to stand, pulling the earphone from my ear that cut down on the background noise. My words ringing in my ears, blood rushes like the mighty Volga River. Voice raw, I conclude the entire conference with, “If I, if I could take it back, I would . . .”
Maybe I mean Kong.
Maybe I mean knocking him the fuck out.
Maybe I’m referring to the deal I made with that bitch—my sister.
Vadim took over. He had to have noticed it too. The fucking light between Zamora’s eyes that would’ve snuffed her out in less than a second. I sit in the passenger seat of Vadim’s old school Cadillac. Nestor and the rest of our team have the same confused looks on their faces as Vadim had when I brushed them off in Australia.
I grit out, “You drive slow as fuck, old man.”
“Nobody’s dead,” his voice cracks. “Keep that shit in mind, Vassili. Be the calculating fighter, not the fighter that bashes in skulls.”
“I’m both—I’m going to do both the second I cross paths with Danny. I will calculate exactly where to bash her motherfucking dome in, knock her lights out!” I growl. With a quick move, my forearm slams into the palm of my hand. Nyet, I don’t want to do that to her. She’d be knocked out the second my steel arm crashes against her jaw. I flex my knuckles and fingers. I want her to be aware of every second it takes for me to kill her.
His ride starts up the hill that leads to the mansion Danushka and Horace own in Hollywood. “Listen, Vassili, you need me—”
“Vadim, I don’t need—”
“The fuck you don’t! You need me to coach you on how far you can go with that girl. Keep in mind that Anatoly isn’t interested in her dying by your hand because he hasn’t . . .” In Russian, he shouts the words ‘given the fucking order.’ As if my coach thinks the translation to English wasn’t going through my thick skull.
Chest puffed out, my fingers curl into fists. My callused thumbs rub over my powerful, curled fingers. Fuck Anatoly, fuck his orders, fuck . . . I slam my head back against the seat and roar.
“Khorosho, get all that shit out now, Vassili. Talk it out with the piz’da because she spared your old lady’s mother.” Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he pats my shoulder. “That means she needs you.”
We get out, slamming the door behind us. Water continues to rush in my ears, but it’s not my blood that’s threatening to erupt. Two fountains are on opposite sides of their home.
I need Vadim here more than I can imagine. I’m playing by Danushka’s rules until my father is ready to strike. Every second in her sight ruins me for the MMA world. I could see myself slaughtering more fighters, wanting to kill them all to get my hands on my sister until I can wash my knuckles in her blood.
Double doors that could almost touch the sky are open. Instead of her guards, the bitch saunters out, arms outstretched. “Brat!”
Also, I hate it when she calls me brother.
I give her the stiff arm. My palm presses hard against her forehead. No matter how hard the bitch swings, she can’t throw a jab. Danushka doesn’t even try. Her blood-red mouth is set in a smile as I ask, “Where the fuck is Grigor? Have the two of you lost your fucking minds?”
“I thought it was you who had lost your mind.” Her fingers are soft as she wraps them around my wrist. She gives a leisure tug, pulling my hands toward her swan neck. “You want to choke me?”
Vadim is at my side. He stops short of making a suggestion—like he does when I’m in the cage. His eyes cloud with confusion as he stares at her.
“She likes it.” I move so quick that Danushka’s chuckles taper off. My forearm slams into her throat, and she’s back against the left door. “You like fucking with me, Danny?”
Her teeth grit into a grin. “We could really fuck with each other, brat.”
My fist stops right at the tip of her lips. She doesn’t even flinch. She kisses my knuckles, and I move away from her. My hand is ready to grab a tuft of my mohawk. It hasn’t been gone long enough. I’d be fucking bald if I still had it.
“Young lady,” Vadim clears his throat. “This is your blood, your brother.”
I’ve never seen my coach so flustered. Is he saying I’m blood, so she’ll stop metaphorically fucking with me or, in a literal sense, stop attempting to?
“Yes, he is.” Danushka drags a finger along his jawline, blue eyes teeming with desire.
“I’m married,” the coach gulps. “He is…your brother is too.”
“I’m getting a fucking divorce, Vadim,” I blurt.
The old man stares at me as if my statement isn’t working in my defense. Danushka is weirder by the second.
“Awesome,” Danushka bats her lashes. “Once we catch up to Anatoly, take him out, and you’re divorced, then we—”
“We what?” I growl.
She offers a silly laugh. “We reign as King and Queen . . .”
“What happened to your husband?” Vadim speaks, flustered, running a hand through his thinning hair. Probably something he hasn’t done in ages, but she brings out the worst in people.
She presses herself to him, peppering kisses along his jaw and then whispers something in his ear. I gulp down the vomit in my throat. His eyes widen, he nods.
“L-Let’s go!” Vadim’s voice grows hard as he works to steady each word. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Vassili.”
“See you all soon.” Her manicured fingers wiggle.
In the car, Vadim clutches the steering wheel. A curdling throat sound comes from deep in his throat before his cheeks puff. He opens the door and lets it all out.
“Danny has that effect on me too,” I growl.
“She wants Horace dead too, Vassili. She wants the two of you . . .”
“Don’t fucking say it.”
He rubs a hand across his mouth, then mumbles, “Jesus, I can’t say it!”
“Good.”
“You tell that wife of yours to keep her ass away until this situation is handled,” he reprimands.
My head falls back, jaw set. “I told her already.”
“Zar and our little Bully need to be away from this—all of this shit. You told your girl to start the divorce process, dah?”
“Dah.”
“Send them somewhere, Vassili. They are family. Send them somewhere and have Mikhail or . . .”
A flurry of my fist slams across my chest as he whips his ride in reverse and moves away.
“I can’t have Mikhail do anything now! Danny believes Malich and Anatoly are divided. She’s got eyes on the hospital. Mikhail has returned to the ER; everyone is playing life as usual. Except for me!” My fist continues to King Kong across my chest. “Except for me and my motherfucking family.”
He huffs. “Should I talk to Zar? We can’t let anything happen to her.”
“I can ha
ndle this by myself,” I growl.
“Nyet. I’ve coached you for over a decade. Kept you from flying off the handle when a couple of refs called it with their eyes wide shut. Kept you in line. This might be the hardest fight of your life, Vassili. I’m not going anywhere.
21
Zariah
‘Don’t come to see me,’ roamed through my head. Vassili left that text message from an “unknown” number when my mom and I had started toward the car. She’s been complaining that he didn’t see her when she waved her hands, cutting them across the air. Almost two months have passed since he’d disrespected me in Italy. It has been about a month since Anatoly set my heart on fire with fear, only for Vassili to remind me of what love felt like.
Contemplating how every part of my being adores and misses my husband, I shift in a rocking chair. Natasha’s burrowed against my chest. My growing baby has started to make his presence know. My stomach is a tight, slightly protruding rock. Maybe Vassili is right. He’s predicted a son.
Heart clutched in my throat, I concentrate on Natasha’s soft breathing and cling to her warm body. I glance around the new nursery. What had been my older brother, Martin’s bedroom, then a storage room, is transformed again.
Maxwell has surprised us with the room. A convertible crib of beautiful mahogany. A princess-like treasure chest is filled with developmentally appropriate toys. He’d done it all for us to stay.
To make this our home . . .
To stay for as long as we so please.
All I crave is to fly into Vassili’s arms.
“You miss daddy,” my voice croaks. I plant a kiss on the top of Natasha’s curly hair.
“Maybe she misses Taryn?”
Blinking a few times to stave off the glossiness from my eyes, I glance at the door. In a suit, Maxwell stands there. For all the crimes he’s committed, he has the nerve to put on an empathetic façade.
“Taryn has her pretty much all day,” he says. “Pretty Princess could miss her.”