I’m a history nerd and when it comes to art, I love knowing everything there is for different types. Which helps when I work on my own paintings at home. Even my sculptures are directed by how much something inspires me.
When I first moved to Moscow, I spent a lot of time learning all I could but it’s not always easy especially when you can’t read the language that well. Now I can read it, but speaking Russian is still not my forte.
“Dema, are you about done for the night?” Meghan asks as the doors to the front of the tattoo parlor open. I don’t worry about the door but I don’t have the luxury, I’m normally packed with back-to-back appointments for tattoos or piercings. I recently became officially certified but before I did, I practiced on myself. I’m proud to say seven of my own were ones I did.
“Yes, I just finished with my last client for the night,” I say, tossing my paper towel in the trash can and put the disinfectant cleaner back in its place. I’m very OCD about keeping my station neat and clean. I learned it from Meghan.
Our boss is Katya and though she’s not around much she likes things to be a certain way and it’s good I’m a neat freak. It’s hilarious because you’d think as an artist, I’m messy. At home in my art room, I am. Anywhere else, things have to be in their place at all times.
As Meghan goes to the front door, I ignore her as Kronid steps around the reception desk with his usual glower in place.
If there were a man who I fantasized about constantly it would be him. He’s a big part of my dreams at night, though I’ve never actually spoken more than two or three words to him.
He tips his head in mine and Meghan’s direction as he keeps walking, heading for his office in the back. When Katya isn’t here, Kronid is the one we all answer to. This means my fantasies about the dark-haired beautiful man that never smiles is completely off limits.
Not that I’d ever go there. I’m too much of a coward to approach a guy.
“Are you going to come out with Nikita, Sascha, Alek, and I tonight?” Meghan asks. Her question pulls my head from a direction it has no business going down. Kronid can have any woman he wants. Why go for someone like me? I’m nothing special. I’m not like Meghan who’s completely and utterly gorgeous with her bright fuchsia hair and toned body. I envy her since the woman could probably eat a pack of Oreos without gaining an ounce.
Shoot, it’s bad enough I’ve had to get my friend Trista back in the States to send me like ten boxes of Oreos. Whenever she sends my goodie packages every month, she has to send extras. I never eat ten boxes, but Meghan and Nikita get into my stash. It’s frustrating because the shipments aren’t cheap.
Trista is my only friend back home that I still keep in touch with and she’s actually been saving to come out for a visit. I offered to send her the money or pay for her ticket, but she always tells me not to.
“I can’t come out. You know I’ve got to finish the painting I’m working on,” I mutter, having to come up with an excuse.
“I get it, but you need to get out of the house some more. All you do is come to work and go home, take care of your grandparents and then work on your art,” Meghan sighs, her eyes lit with disappointment since I’m not coming with the three of them.
“What if soon as I finish this piece, we all go out? I promise I won’t bail on you,” I suggest, knowing I may well regret saying that.
“Deal.” She smiles and looks over her shoulder. “Looks like my last client just got here. This chick wanted a small butterfly tattoo put at the bottom of her neck, so I’ll be done in no time.”
“Want me to hang with you while you finish it?” I ask, knowing she hates dealing with clients who go for the simple stuff. She prefers the detailed pieces that you can bring to life.
“That would be nice of you.” She smiles.
“Okay,” I murmur and stand from my chair.
As I walk behind Meghan, I allow my eyes to drift to the back of the shop. Thoughts of Kronid fill my head and I can’t help but wonder why he never smiles.
Chapter Two
Kronid
Grabbing the vodka from under my desk I take a glass with it and set it on the top. Then I begin to pour myself a hefty drink but stop immediately at the sight of residual blood on my hands. The small specks are a reminder of how my day’s gone, and how it’ll likely continue to go. If anyone were to ask what my job title is, I’d tell them I’m the general manager for Pins and Needles . . . though it’s only a front. While I do run shit here, my real job is what happens behind closed doors.
My boss, Katya, founded Pins and Needles about ten years ago. While the purpose of the business alludes to being an elite tattoo parlor, it’s not the only thing we do here. If you ask those who work in the shop, they know nothing about it, though. I run Katya’s mail order bride business. It’s not human trafficking since the women seeking rich husbands come to us directly, or more specifically our broker . . . but it’s not exactly something we advertise to the Russian officials. While it’s not illegal in any regard, they’re always looking for a reason to come here, to dig around and snoop. I’m sure they’d be able to obtain some sort of search warrant. It’s not like the Russian Federation even needs to obtain a warrant for eavesdropping on our email or text communications anyway.
I release the bottle and head into the bathroom connected to my office. It’s nothing special, but at least it means I won’t have to go into the public restroom all the tattoo clients use. Grabbing the bar of soap, I turn on the hot water and lather it against my hands, scrubbing until my hands begin to turn a faint pink. I scrub and I scrub until I don’t see any other blood, then dry my hands off.
Fuck, this job is aggravating. There have been so many times where I’ve had to bash skulls in, too many times then there should’ve been . . . but when these arrogant motherfuckers tell me the women haven’t been what they wanted, demand a refund, said they’ve beat them or some other sort of abuse. That’s when I lose all control. I don’t give a fuck what the women have or haven’t done at that point.
“Boss, we have a problem,” Michail, my second-in-command, speaks from behind my office door.
“Then come in,” I call over to him as I pick my glass back up and finish off the strong liquor. While it stings the back of my throat he speaks, filling me in on whatever today’s problem is going to be.
“Remember Khristina, who was being sent to Germany with the investor?”
I nod at his question, remembering the woman very well. She was a quiet one yet was simply beautiful. Not the overdone beauty like many of the women I see on a weekly basis. She had the natural beauty, and if she had fillers or Botox like the rest, I was never able to tell. “What about her, is her new husband not happy?”
Michail scoffs and shakes his head. “He’ll be downstairs within the hour. Khristina came back here today.”
“What for?” I ask about Khristina but I’m curious for the reasoning Michail has ordered Katya’s soldiers to go after the man and bring him here. It only happens on the most serious of circumstances.
“Gregor, the scum, beat her within an inch of her life. She lost their child because of what he did. She’s upstairs in her old room. I’ve told her we’ll take care of her for as long as she needs and we’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
I nod, understanding what he’s said while thoughts run through my mind. How did this happen? We vet many of the men these ladies go to, ensuring they’re ending up in good hands. Katya was a trafficking victim, which is how she ended up with her dead husband, Sergei Kolosov. She’s now married to a member of the Skulls Renegade MC and they share a few children together. I believe their eldest daughter is around seventeen now, and the others range from fifteen to one.
In the last five years since being Katya’s head man in charge here in Moscow, this hasn’t once happened. I’m the man reviewing the applicants’ profiles, matching them with women who will not only satisfy them, but women who fit what they’re looking for. I developed a dat
ing system so before the tenth date both parties can decide if they want to proceed or not. Khristina and Gregor seemed very happy with one another. She only left Moscow around a year ago.
“I’ll go speak with her, make sure she’s alright and all of that,” I tell Michail, who takes a step back and allows me to pass him. We both leave my office and I lock it behind me. Michail stands outside of the doorway which is where he’s usually posted unless I have him doing something for me.
I go down the hallway and head up the stairwell. Once I’m on the landing, I press my thumb up against the scanner and the door opens with a loud clicking sound. Our building was an old clothing factory back in the early 1900s. Sadly the brand didn’t stay alive and the building was vacant for many years until Katya bought it about fifteen years ago. There are five floors in total, including the basement. The first floor is where the tattoo parlor is, however, the back section of it is where there’s access to the basement and upper levels, so those working in the tattoo shop know not to go there. It’s off limits, and for good reason.
The floor I’m on now and the two above it, are where the brides stay. It’s where we train them, tell them how to act, what to be doing, how to present themselves, and much more. Given Katya’s always been a fan of architecture she ensured to make the women’s area more than appeasing to the eye. On each level of their domain there’s about fifteen bedrooms with personal bathrooms attached, multiple living areas, and kitchens. She treats these girls better than they’ve been treated their entire lives if you ask me, and given some of the things they’ve said on their intake forms . . . I don’t blame them for wanting to get out of Russia.
I step onto the black hardwood floors and see many of the girls sitting around, cackling while they watch TV. I don’t even have to say a word before Lia, one of our longest hopeful brides, points back toward Khristina’s room. “She’s in there, poor thing.”
I’ll check in with Khristina and then I’ll head downstairs, anxiously awaiting the moment Gregor’s disgusting ass gets brought here. We keep the downstairs area for the dirtier side of our business. It’s not only where Katya keeps some of her guns and whatnot, but where we have a couple rooms to use as we see fit.
Funny how just a bit ago I was beating a bloody pulp into some wise guy on the street who thought he could grope Lia in public. He figured she was a common whore, but a whore she isn’t. It’s my job to act as the general manager for Pins and Needles, but it’s also my job to protect these women. A job I don’t take lightly.
Walking up to Khristina’s door, I rap my knuckles against it. “Khristina, it’s me.” Most of us here speak English because the future husbands prefer it if they don’t only speak one language.
“Come in.” I can barely hear her voice, but I accept her invitation and push open her door.
The sight before me is enough to make my blood boil until it’s coming out of every orifice I have.
Her medium-brown hair is stained with dried blood while her face is a combination of the same blue that adorns her eyes and a custard like yellow. Her upper lip is busted and it appears she was able to get a couple stitches.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, tearing my eyes away from her. If I keep looking, I’m going to fuckin’ kill him tonight. Fuck!
“Am I that horrid to look at?” Khristina asks and my eyes find hers. Her bottom lip trembles as she looks at me. My relationship with the women here is much like an older brother, which is ironic considering I don’t speak to my own sister often.
“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” I tell her, sliding my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
She cackles lightly and squints, grabbing her side. “Oh, fuck. I forgot it hurts to laugh.”
I draw my brows together and take a few steps toward her. “He did more to you?”
“I have broken ribs, on top of it all.”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Khristina.”
She lowers her head and stares at the ground. I notice the way her hands linger down to her stomach, probably remembering what was once there. “I could handle it all you know, but what I can’t handle is this . . . this loss.”
“I’ll handle him like I handle everything else,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Will you kill him, Kronid?” she questions, looking into my eyes once again.
“If you want me to I will,” I answer her honestly.
“I do. I want him to suffer the same way he made me.” She shuts her eyes and tears come streaming down her cheeks.
I kneel down in front of her and speak truthfully, “I’m going to make sure he never does this to anyone else.”
After a few minutes of consoling Khristina and making sure she’s okay, I ask Lia to check in on her. She’s the mother hen of sorts when it comes to the women here, the one I can always entrust to make sure things are going okay upstairs. I go back down to the main level where my office is and decide to head to the front and see if the mail has come for the day, just as I get a text from Michail telling me it’ll be two hours before Gregor arrives. The receptionist in the front hands me my mail and my eyes linger on the one woman who’s only ever been able to gather my attention—Dema.
She’s a beautiful woman, but she’s not up for grabs. She’s a tattoo artist and she doesn’t know anything that goes on upstairs or downstairs for that matter. She’s just a normal girl who works a typical job.
Nothing makes her special and yet here I stand, eyes still boring into the way she smiles as she tattoos her client, and the way her eyes are so focused on her craft. Something about Dema’s always spoken out to me, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll never be able to have her. Just like every other day, I shove my selfish desire deep down in the pit of my stomach and head back to my office. There’s still much work to be done before Gregor gets here.
Chapter Three
Dema
Meghan ended up getting an emergency call and asked if I’d take her client for her. I immediately said yes, since I didn’t have anything better to do. I brought the chick over to my chair and asked her to take a seat.
I go over the design she wants and spruce it up a little bit, giving it more detail. I hate ordinary designs but that’s the artist in me talking. I like things to be complicated and beautiful. I start pulling out ink colors the client wants used in her butterfly tattoo and notice I’m completely out of pink and green. Ugh. This is just my luck.
Great, and Meghan’s gone so I can’t ask her to grab some for me from Kronid. In the past years since I started working here, there’s only a few rules set in place. The most important is for those who work in the front section of the tattoo parlor. We aren’t allowed in the back under any circumstances. We also can’t go into Kronid’s office. But what we can do is go to his office and ask him to get it for us, but I know he isn’t here. He said he had some stuff to do downstairs a bit ago, so I’m shit out of luck.
Sighing, I go to the front desk to see if the receptionist’s still there, but she’s not. I bet she’s probably gone out for her dinner break. How typical. She doesn’t say anything about heading out, so we’d know to keep an eye on the front doors.
I roll my eyes and pick up the phone to call Kronid’s office. Maybe he’s there and he just was busy or something. Regardless, I call to make sure. I’m trying to keep from having to go back there if possible. As much as Kronid fascinates me, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t intimidate me. Not once since I started working here has the man spoken more than one or two words in a day to me, a simple ‘hi, how are you’, ‘hey’, and that sort of thing. When I think about it, I’m lucky enough if the man even acknowledges my presence.
I’m used to this treatment and kind of prefer it this way. Other than the few people I speak with, I’m invisible to those around. That or they look down on me.
When Kronid doesn’t pick up, I put the phone back in its holder and go see if I can snag the colors from Meghan’s station, if she has any. I notice right away sh
e does have the colors I need and make a mental note to find Kronid and ask him to open the storage closet for me so I can replenish her station before she’s back, plus stock up my station.
With colors in hand, I step back over to my station and begin working on the ordinary butterfly I’m trying to make as unique as possible. As I continue to draw the lines of the tattoo, I talk to the girl to keep her from freaking out about the pain. Telling me to hurry because it hurts. I mean what does she expect? The tattoo isn’t just going to jump out of my ass and land on her foot. There are twenty-six bones, thirty-three joints, one-hundred and seven ligaments, and nineteen muscles in the foot alone. Of course, there’s going to be pain.
Okay, so I’m somewhat of a smart ass. I can’t help it. Blame it on the fact I grew up in the States for the first part of my life and enjoyed having fun. Now that I’m in Russia, the highlight of my days consists of my inner smartass coming out.
Soon as the outline of the tattoo is done, I ask the girl if she wants me to stop and we can continue another day, or if she wants to keep going. I give the girl props when she nods and asks me to keep going. Saying how me talking her through it helps. I sometimes think the clients like hearing my American accent. To them its erotic whereas hearing, oh say, Kronid’s masculine accent doesn’t do shit for them, but I don’t understand it. I’d call it sexy as hell. I don’t think he’s from Russia because his accent sounds different, but just like living in any country for a long period of time, you begin to pick up on the dialect.
I color the butterfly in, mixing the colors and pretty much highlighting a dull tattoo into something magical.
Finally, I finish that last bit of her tattoo and put the ink gun down. I clean the excess ink off her foot and place the bandage on top of it.
Blood & Agony: A Dark Criminal Romance (Pins and Needles: Moscow Book 1) Page 2