Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  Asya’s heart becomes steady by the second, and she snores softly. I smile, remembering when she was in a deep, good fucking sleep. Moya milaya snored to the heavens. I kicked her ass out of bed once.

  It took one instance to learn my lesson. A jagged knife nicked the side of my neck. After that, I placed blankets and pillows in the tub, then slid Asya's loud, sleeping ass inside of it. She liked that. But she didn’t snore at all during bad dreams. For those, I held her, sang an old Russian song. It’s a wonder my awful voice never awoke her. My crooning rivaled her snoring. No matter how dead sleepy I was, I’d sing a soft tune until that good, loud snoring returned. At those times, I couldn’t bring myself to place her inside the tub.

  With her in my arms, I kneel some, grab my money and head for the door. I haven’t the slightest idea why Anastasiya left me, and I won’t be figuring it out in America. She won’t speak Russian. She denies me, though her body draws near.

  We have to figure out why. Together.

  I press my lips to her forehead. Almost all my life, I’ve kept Anastasiya safe.

  “Moya milaya, you are my everything,” I murmur against her forehead. I pull out my phone and dial Luka. In Russian, I order, “Bring the car around back. Fuel the jet.”

  “Where too, boss?”

  “Home.” I breathe easy, impatient about our beautiful land and the place where our paths first collided. Home is where she’ll open up to me.

  The fucking shakedown.

  I did my first ride-along at age ten. I was unstoppable after that. The only thing that fit better in my hand than a book was a gun. Sometimes the shakedown ended in money, always ended in sweet death. That was the Resnov way. The wise never asked for a coin. The foolish borrowed and returned our money before we found them. Then there was the idiot, who needed money, begging for fucking death.

  We come looking for you; only blood would suffice.

  Today, there’d be something more beautiful than death.

  I was almost fifteen, seated on a rickety chair at the kitchen table of my next mark. The bitch owed a betting house that belonged to us. I’d woken up early that day and thought fuck it; I’d have my first kill of the day before dawn. With a proclivity for murdering unexpecting people during their regular daily routine, I’d gotten into the woman’s flat and would do her in when she woke up.

  A pot simmered on the stove, with leftover borscht that I’d found in the refrigerator. The sun hadn’t slammed across the horizon yet. A tiny lightbulb flickered on the ceiling, glowing down on my Glock as it rested on the table beside my bowl of soup. While flipping through the pages of Wuthering Heights, I took my first bite.

  I spat the borscht back into the bowl and swiped it off the table. The food had ruined this calm element that I needed for torture. Seconds later, shuffling came from the bedroom. Illumination from the hallway bled across the soon-to-be-dead woman as she clicked on the light. She was clutching a rusted pipe. Her form of protection clattered to the ground as she eyed the Glock weighing my palm.

  Her skin turned a shade of gray. Before she could question me, I spoke.

  “You owe Bogdan.” I leveled the gun.

  “I-I . . . Dah. I do. You don’t work for Bogdan. You’re a Re-re-res . . .”

  With a wave of the gun, I helped her out, “A Resnov, dah. Bogdan runs the betting house. He doesn’t own it, we do. Regardless, it’s disrespectful not to pay your debt.”

  Her head lowered. “I-I respect all Resnovs, even you.”

  I laughed a little. “Even me, eh? The bastard prince?”

  Now her fingers trembled toward her chest. “I’m nervous. I didn’t mean—”

  “Nyet? Was it a slip of the tongue. It’s psychological, given that those are truer than not. Let’s be honest. You wish you hadn’t offended me?”

  “Dah.” She shuffled back a little. “I will go get your money—”

  The chair clattered to the ground. I was up and across the area. I stood eye to eye with the mark. My shoulders extended double hers. After all the heavy lifting I had done, she’d be an easy death, with my bare hands. But we weren’t to that part yet.

  “You look at me,” I said — the nozzle skimming the tears gliding down her cheek. “You think, I’m the Resnov that nobody gives a shit about, but his ma. Dah, a ma should always love her child.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I haven’t finished making my point.” I gritted. “Aside from being an unwanted Resnov, you think, this kid is fucking stupid. Right? We're at the part where you don’t lie through the teeth that you plan to keep—even in death.”

  “Please. I promise. I have your money!”

  This should’ve been the point where I murdered her. Something stopped me. “Miss, I was here yesterday morning. I took my time, went through everything for my payment. No hiding spots for money, no fucking money! That pistol you have under your mattress won’t suffice. Or did you think you’d shoot me with that shit if I allowed you to search for your phantom money?”

  “I—”

  I squeezed the trigger. The gun went off a fraction away from her face. Blood trickled from her eardrum and down the side of her cheek.

  It was a pain that I knew well. My father did the same thing to me--just because, and my ear rang for days. Sometimes my ear still acts up.

  The woman gritted, folding over. I reached down, grabbed her by the back of the neck, and went to the other ear. “Since you lied, I’ll make a call to the doctor. Lady, you will die a thousand times today, for me.”

  I stopped talking at the sound of rustling in the room. The other door led to a bathroom. These things I already knew because the shakedown meant infiltrating someone’s life first. Going in guns blazing wasn’t me. I was invisible enough to catch someone off guard.

  “Who is that?” I asked. My fingers chewed further into the back of her neck.

  “A little girl. A stupid, da-daft little girl.”

  I looked up, keeping my hand on the back of the woman’s neck. My eyes collided with a honey gaze, full lips. Even in jeans and a long-sleeved floral shirt, I knew she was one of them. The girl that could’ve been a handmade matryoshka doll on a marble mantel was from Moscow. She lived in one of the mansion’s—a Resnov mansion. Hating the fact that the blood coursing through her body meant we owned her, I tried to turn away. The intensity of those eyes held me captive.

  The beautiful, little thing was skinny, no tits yet. The girl had to be maybe eleven or so. Too young for me, but worthy of more than the life forced upon her.

  The mark wriggling at the side of me straightened up, and our connection crashed. She said, “The girl’s just a dumb kid. Please don’t harm her. I’ll owe more than—“

  “Dumb,” I snarled, insulted by her choice words. The look in the girl’s eyes didn’t signify that she was unteachable.

  “Milaya, why are you here?” My voice softened as I removed my hand from the back of the woman’s neck. The kid glared at me for a fraction of an instant. Her glower was enough to deduct that ‘milaya’ and other sweet nicknames were out. She couldn’t care about the woman before I’d addressed the girl; she had a look of indifference about her. “Are you okay, girl?”

  Those honey eyes pinned me, warning any help I offered her would be all wrong.

  “Why is she here?” I asked the woman again. “She has a beautiful home to live in.” I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with the inference — a beautiful home to blind her from a lack of future.

  “I’m her nanny.”

  “Tell me about her,” I growled, knowing protocol at the golden mansion. The girls went out with their owners. Mostly they left and never came back. It sickened me how young some were taken.

  “She doesn’t speak anymore. She was brilliant, loved the arts. She could tell you everything about a painter, even the dead ones from history. Um-um, the French renaissance, was her favorite. Now, she’s an idiot. She has a cold, and the new headmistress hates germs.”

  That was a little m
ore than I needed to know. I only meant to decipher why the trophy had left her mantel. They never did. I let the woman’s words sink in: don’t speak, very smart.

  She had secrets. I wanted in.

  Stepping down the hall, I stopped before the girl.

  “Trust me,” I said, placing my hand flush against her face. Her skin was hot to the touch — her teeth sank into my palm.

  “I won’t hurt you, kid,” I said. My calm voice and touch didn’t lessen the pain.

  “These are the things you shouldn’t see,” I murmured in her ear as she struggled to be free of my touch. I let off a shot on the mark — a single shot. The kid didn’t so much as jolt. And here I was, attempting to save her from a nightmare by covering her eyes.

  “You have medicine? Go get it,” I said, removing my hand from her face. She tried to look. Why wasn’t she afraid, but more curious and challenging.

  “You shouldn’t see shit like that, milaya—girl,” I stopped myself from calling her sweetheart again. “Get your shit.”

  She glanced at my hand. I hadn’t noticed I was still touching her arm. I let go. The jaded girl went to the bedroom. Fuck, she could’ve been grabbing the gun. It was empty anyway. I dragged the nanny into the bathroom because a woman or a girl shouldn’t see death even if it was just a bitch.

  When the girl came out of the bedroom with a handbag, she swung at me. I dodged, slipped around her, hugging her from behind. “Stop—I’m here to save you,” I growled. Save her? How? I hadn’t the slightest idea.

  She slaughtered my forearm with pinches. The vampire of a girl was about to sink her teeth into me again. I flipped her around, crushing her body against my chest. She couldn’t breathe, but she could fucking hear me.

  “I’m taking you now, milaya,” I snapped. Why had I told the kid this? She came into this world marked with an owner. But stopping myself was impossible. I added, “Come willing; I’ll give you back your life. Act up, and I’ll take your ass back to the mansion.”

  Warmth spread across my chest; she was breathing hard. No, she was laughing. I rested her against the wall and watched as she cackled. The laughter was torture to my ears, torture, and disbelief. Her eyes flickered, saying all the words she refused:

  There was no saving her.

  “Girl, you don’t bite me, pinch me, then this,” I said, holding out my hand, “is all we have between us. An agreement.”

  A last bit of laughter bubbled over, then the kid chewed her lip, wresting with the one choice she had. My mind a whirlwind of how I could save her. I’d have to go to the man who had all the rights to her: the devil, my father.

  She took my hand.

  We headed toward the door. I grabbed my book off the table and slid it into my back pocket. Then my shoulders squared with more confidence than I’d ever had in my life. I’d need that to convince the mudak that I hated with all of me . . .

  To give me her.

  The bastard hadn’t given me shit in my entire life though he asked a lot of me. In return, I had given him bodies. A cemetery full of the dead.

  Now I was determined that a river of blood would be my leverage.

  I wake up on the jet, neck stiff from sleeping on a leather chair. For a moment, I wonder why I hadn’t gotten my ass up and headed to bed. My lips press into a smile. Asya. A vibration from my cellphone in my pant pocket trills one last time. A call woke me up from the first day I met the only woman I’d love.

  Coming to a stand, I yawn, then pull the phone from my pocket. Vassili’s ‘house phone’ flashes across the screen for a split second. Fuck, I head toward the bathroom, brush my teeth, then return to the center of the jet. The door to the bedroom in the back is closed, giving off the faint sound of snoring. She hates me enough already, so I’ll let her sleep. After opening the tiny window shades on either side of the sitting area, I sit back down and press redial.

  “Hello, brat,” another woman is answering, speaking in my native language. Her words are unsteady. Not from fear, unlike when we first met. But from an attempt to get the dialect right.

  Though she can’t see it through the cellphone, I smile. “Dah, you are getting better, with your pronunciation, Zar. Where is my brat?” I reply, alternating from her native language to mine.

  “Ummm,” my brother’s wife begins. “The nursery,” she tries out in Russian. “Alright, that’s enough learning the language for today. Aren’t you supposed to be helping Vassili plan our son’s first birthday? What happened to ensure we incorporate your family customs?”

  Clouds warp into smoke, gliding by outside of the tiny jet windows. Last night, I was closer to my brat, Vassili, and his family. Los Angeles was my destination until Anastasiya. I groan, “Something came up,”

  I can hear her bare feet and how they stop moving through their house. She’s hesitant, asking, “Oh, like dead bodies?”

  “You’re bolder than usual, Zariah.”

  “You seem to be less . . . Cold and calculating.” She chuckles. “Here’s Vassili.”

  Vassili’s first words are, “Give me a sec.” Now more footsteps. The piz’da is fleeing from his wife so that we can have a real conversation about the Bratva. As the oldest, Vassili was worshipped by our father. They could shed each other’s blood from Russia to Australia and still that mudak sperm donor loved him. What Anatoly Resnov did wrong, he treated everyone else like crap. Even our individual mothers.

  Waiting for my brat, I tap an old warn copy of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s “The House of the Dead,” against my thigh. Most people pass on this bit of work from Dostoyevsky, saying it’s not his best. I say fuck that; this book is the godfather of all prison memoirs. All Dostoyevsky’s novels are haunted; this one has a bit more truth that hooks me in. I've highlighted passages all the way through. Damn near every line holds meaning to me.

  “I’d say business first, but that means you’re on your way?” Vassili huffs.

  “Nyet.” I stop myself from glancing at the bedroom door rear of the jet. “Listen, nothing will stop me from my nephew’s first birthday in a few weeks. For now, I’ll have an assistant at your place within 48 hours to . . .”

  He chuckles softly. “Simeon, I almost prefer your Mumbo jumbo about bloody fucking hands, you mudak. I’m giving my son a party. Zar is antsy. Half the reason she’s in the dark about it is that she knows you’ve got a few more brain cells than—”

  “Than you?” I counter, eyebrow arched.

  “Fuck, you had to finish that sentence. I was saying: than you let on, Simeon.”

  “That’s fine too. Since we’re throwing shots, I should add my IQ is higher than yours, brat.”

  “Ha, shots. Sim, guess I’m planning this party all by myself. I’m good with that, really good. There’ll be an octagon. MMA memorabilia. The works.”

  I sigh. “Poor kid.”

  “Hey, you convinced Zariah to step aside so that we could plan this birthday party. Now, you’re backing out.”

  “Not for long. But I promise, you sing that fucking happy birthday bullshit song, Vassili, I’m pulling out my guns.”

  “That was my compromising factor, Sim, for Zariah to not be apart of party planning. We have to sing it.”

  “Alright, then. Empty your swimming pool. I’m bringing vodka.” The smile disappears on my face. “Vassili, we need to talk about Dominicci.”

  All the laughing ceases, Vassili clears his throat. “So, you mean war? War with Don Roberto Dominicci.”

  Face shaded of all emotion, I grit. “Dah.”

  “Okay, so he was a pawn when our half-sister, Danushka, orchestrated a coup against our family, Simeon. I’m not downplaying the situation, but Don Roberto gave us a peace offering.”

  “Danny aside, he was disloyal to our father.”

  “We fixed that problem,” Vassili snaps.

  “Brat, nobody can infiltrate this conversation, just say it. We took that bitch out. We murdered our father. Anatoly was a disease, the type of man who would screw over his mother. He got what h
e fucking deserved. Even still, we have to vindicate our blood, show our strength.”

  “Almost a year later, and you’re still angry Sim? Dom Roberto gave us ports lining the west coast of Italy, access to museums . . .”

  “A horde of shit, Vassili, dah. That’s what he did to pay penance for choosing our little sister, Danushka, over the entire family. Her greed was the end of her. His greed must end him, as well.” I growl.

  Vassili did the deed with Danny; it had to be done. She was beautiful and dumb and blinded by power. The Resnov Bratva didn’t sanction Danny's actions when she tried to make a deal with the Italians. She put those roaches parallel to us. That’s blasphemy. “You forget one thing, Vassili. I abhor disloyalty with a passion. The only reparations allowed are that person’s last breath. All the crawling he’s done on his knees since Danushka died was to lead to the same conclusion. You know that.”

  “Let’s chat this out after Junior’s birthday,” he tries.

  I hear shuffling around in the bedroom, which is good enough for me. Anastaysa waking has stopped me from making a baseless promise, so I reply, “Brat, I’ve got to go.”

  “Sime—“

  I hang up.

  One reason can cease me from setting out a plan once it’s toiled in my mind. Dominicci is safe for now. I’m a man of many skills, and what takes precedence has just awakened. Right now, I’ll set aside vengeance for an academic nature. I need to observe the woman I love, get in her head. If I remember correctly, it took ages for her to open up for me.

  Asya

  My eyelids lull open then closed. The clouds I’d slept on disappear beneath me as my ears pop.

  Fuck. High attitude.

  Where am I? Crap.

  Who am I with? Double crap.

  Where am I going? Forget crap. I’m dead.

  Sliding into a seated position against the pillow-soft headboard, I flick the lamp on the right side of the bed. A faint glow casts across the room. The tiny jet curtains are closed. On the dresser opposite me is two chrome Colt 1911s. The pearl handles gleam. They’re gorgeous enough to send my tongue sliding out and over my bottom lip. The platinum engraved with moya milaya—my darling.