by Nicole Fox
She pulls on the dress. I’d have preferred her naked, but I must admit that the outfit looks surprisingly good for a dress that barely leaves any secrets untold. She leans against the sink as she puts her makeup on brusquely.
After she’s done, she strides out toward me.
“So, if I do this tonight, I’ll see my daughter soon?” she asks. Her voice is steely, but I can detect a slight warble of fear and uncertainty in it. She desperately wants a seat at the table. But for now, we are still playing my game, and I hold every last card.
I stare at her, trying to get the image of her bare ass out of my mind. I need to get her back under my control. I need to get myself under control.
“If you do what I say, you’ll see her again. If you don’t, you can kiss any chance of that goodbye.”
She leans over me again to grab the shoes. “Let’s get the hell out of here then.”
10
Maksim
The line outside the Pied Piper twists and turns around the warehouse building. The sidewalk is lit up by the strobe lights flashing through the window, showing the women in their skimpiest outfits and the men in their priciest ones. The owner of the Pied Piper, Jimmy Hanson, is one of the few men who didn’t need any of the standard harsh encouragement to pay off his loan to the Bratva. The success of this nightclub is the reason why.
With my hand on Cassandra’s elbow, I move around the line to reach the bouncer. A former MMA fighter, Cole Ronko, nods at me.
“Mr. Akimov.” He gestures for Cassandra and me to step past the door’s threshold. “Mr. Hanson has reserved the VIP lounge for you. Your subordinates are already here.”
I nod. Everything is as it should be.
When Cassandra and I enter the club, the world is on fire.
The walls are covered with paintings of a forest ablaze. The revolving lights swirl around the air, slicing through the darkness with beams of red and orange. The dance floor is writhing with sweaty bodies, pressing and sliding against each other, but the interior balcony—part of the VIP lounge—only holds a little more than a dozen people.
As I move with Cassandra across the club, the air is thick and dense with body heat. I move Cassandra in front of me, my hand on her back, as I guide her to the VIP lounge. It’s the perfect vantage point—to see and be seen.
Cassandra has been more compliant since our conversation in her room, but I’m still surprised at her deference. I’m almost disappointed at the abrupt change in her attitude. Part of me prefers the fighter in her.
As we step onto the interior balcony, it’s easier to see the Bratva soldiers, all of them intertwined with the models and beautiful women they’ve deemed worthy of joining us. Bogdan is the first to see me. He nearly shoves the busty brunette off him. A wave of silence falls over the VIP area as the other soldiers start to take notice.
“Evening, boss,” Bogdan says. He nods courteously at Cassandra. “The host will be back soon with some champagne for you both.”
“You know Bogdan,” I say to Cassandra, my hand still on her back. “That’s Avgar over there—he’s the newest to the family. That’s Luca. That’s Yury. Konstantin. Joseph. Ivan. Gennady. Eduard.”
“Hello.” Cassandra gives them all a small wave. An echo of greetings repeats back to her. She bows her head as if she’s embarrassed.
I guide her to the empty booth in the corner. She sits down first. When I sit down beside her, she doesn’t move any farther in to give me room. Our legs end up pressed together. Does she think she is brave? Does she think I am rattled by these petty defiances?
Does she know that part of me actually might be?
The VIP hostess—a platinum blonde with a tight skirt and a crop top—carries over a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and two glasses.
“Would you like a party favor, Mr. Akimov?” the hostess asks with a wink.
I shake my head. I want my head clear tonight. No drugs for me. To my left, I can feel Cassandra’s thigh radiating heat and twitching with the motion of her tapping heel.
The hostess smiles. “No problem. If you need anything, just call my name. It’s Amber.”
After she leaves, I pour Cassandra and myself two glasses of champagne. Gennady steps up to the booth. He waves away a model who is trying to cling to his arm.
“Boss, could we talk privately for a moment?” he asks, irritation scratching his voice.
I glance at him. Gennady is one of the older soldiers. He should have moved up by now, but he’s impulsive, a slave to his anger, and he has a certain lack of respect for the Bratva’s social order. The only reason I’ve kept him around is because he’s deadly with a pistol.
“I’m busy.” I slide one of the glasses over to Cassandra. She takes a nervous sip from it. When I look back over at Gennady, he’s staring at Cassandra, his jaw set and his eyes burning. “Gennady. Step down and step away.”
“With all due respect, sir …” Gennady snarls. My hand settles over the neck of the champagne bottle, the cold glass sinking into my palm. “I ain’t Jesus. So I’m not going to dine with my enemies and I’m sure as hell not going to drink with a Balducci whore.”
Ah, Gennady. That was a mistake.
I break the champagne against the table edge. Before the shattered glass even hits the floor, I swing the neck of the broken bottle like a battle ax, cutting Gennady across the face. He hits the floor with a surprised groan.
A hush falls over the area, leaving the upbeat music in the background. Gennady clambers to his feet slowly. A thick tide of blood issues from under his right eye and across to the spot right above his jugular vein. Gennady takes a step back, touching the blood, moaning in pain.
“Bogdan.” Bogdan takes two quick steps forward. “Take care of this,” I order.
Bogdan indicates to Eduard, and the two of them seize Gennady, wrenching his arms behind him back and dragging him down the steps and out of sight. Amber runs up to the lounge, passing them as they go with a worried glance back. I can see the trail of blood glistening in the black light.
My heartbeat has remained deadly calm throughout.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Akimov. We’ll get you another bottle,” Amber says hurriedly. Another bottle girl comes to clean up the broken glass. “May I take the broken bottle, sir?”
She flinches as I hold it up for her, but she takes it and scurries away.
I turn to Cassandra. She isn’t as frightened as I expected her to be, but her arms are crossed over her body, clinging to the hem of her dress. There’s a splash of champagne on her cheek. I offer her my hand. She takes it, her fingers a little cold. I guide her to Bogdan’s booth and settle her back down. As she’s sitting in front of me, I use my thumb to wipe the champagne off her face.
I turn back to everyone else. “Proceed.”
The soldiers all turn back to the women they’re with. The women aren’t as confident as they were, but as more liquor is poured, they melt back into their roles, laughing and stroking the men. It’s as if nothing has happened.
I sit down beside Cassandra. She messes with the strap of her dress, rolling it between her fingers. Amber returns with a new bottle of champagne and two new glasses. I pour the glasses again, handing one of them to Cassandra. She gulps it down.
Neither of us says a word. We just settle back against the cushions in the booth, left alone with our respective thoughts.
Gennady is an arrogant fool, but still, I can’t escape the uneasy feeling that I made a mistake. If I wanted Cassandra to be more wary of my power, I accomplished that, but it also looks like I chose her over my own men. My men should know that Gennady disrespected my decisions and needed to be put in his place. They should know better than to think I’d put a Balducci before the Bratva. But all appearances are to the contrary.
But even more than the political repercussions of my lashing out are the emotions—or at least, whatever passes for emotions in the heart of a Bratva don. Why did I act so rashly? It was a stupid, baseless comment that Genn
ady made, the kind that is uttered by my men all over the city on any given night. We protect what is ours; we conquer what is not; we destroy those who oppose us. This is the way it is and the way it always has been. There is nothing wrong with that, and in fact, it is the foundation of my success.
Yet it irked me. More than that, actually. It infuriated me. It set my blood on fire, reducing the world to two things—the weapon in my hand and the man who dared cross me. It felt like he insulted my equal, my partner, rather than my property.
Make no mistake—Cassandra is my property. She is a pawn in a golden dress, and I plan only to fuck her, use her, and then dispose of her. I should attach no feelings to—what did Gennady call her?—this Balducci whore.
But I fear that it’s far too late for that.
So be it. I made a mistake. I just can’t let it happen again.
The club easily slides back into its anarchy and hedonism. Gennady’s blood is cleaned up and it’s like nothing ever happened—on the outside, at least. On the inside, my head is still churning with unwelcome thoughts.
I stay seated, drinking the champagne. I keep my eyes near the door, watching the patrons prowl in. They all want the same things—to get fucked, to get fucked up. To want and be wanted. To see and be seen. The basest of wants. The simplest of desires. None of them have a plan. None of them have a purpose.
Not like me, at least.
Cassandra abruptly shoves my shoulder. I turn to her.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
“I need to do something,” she says. “I don’t know if you brought me here just to show me that everyone else is willing to kiss your ass, but I’m going to dance. You can join me if you’re not too busy being worshipped.”
I stand up, giving her enough room to slide out of the booth. She slips out, fixing the bottom of her dress.
“Lead the way,” I say, indicating to the dance floor.
She takes my hand, pulling me toward the crowd. We trail through the other patrons until she finds enough space for both of us. She turns around, her eyes locked on me as she dances close, her hips rolling near enough that she brushes up against me every few seconds.
I see right through her little ploy. She took me out here to exercise some control over me again. She knows her body is her best tool against me, and she is using it to her fullest advantage. I have to give her credit for the initiative and not being terrified after the Gennady scene, but she’s not quite as powerful as she thinks. I have never been a slave to my libido.
I grab onto her hips, pulling her tight against me. Her body stills, our eyes still locked.
“Don’t stop now,” I taunt. I pull her leg up, the hem of her dress creeping up. “You were having so much fun.”
Cassandra places her hand over mine, gripping it tightly. “I’m not stopping.”
She pulls my hand away. Her leg drops down, but I keep our bodies tightly pressed against each other. We sway against each other, so hot, so close. She slips her other leg in between my legs. Right as her leg reaches my groin, I grab her arm, spin her, and pull her back to me. With her back pressed against my chest, my arm pulling her arm tight across her chest, I grind up against her. Her ass slides up against my cock in perfect rhythm with the music.
“I didn’t know you could dance,” she says, slightly breathless.
“There are many things you don’t know about me, princess.”
She twists her arm around, grabbing onto my hand and sliding it down to her breast. I squeeze, and for a moment, I lose myself in the sensation of her flesh beneath my grasp. Her ass continues to sway against me. It’s a lightning round of pleasure.
I pull away from her. When she turns to check where I am, I grab onto her. I spin her around, my arm around her waist. I hold her close to me while my other hand rests on her hip. We move to the music, a single unit. A man behind her bumps against her, forcing her closer to me. She clings to me to keep her balance. As she looks at me, there’s that haziness in her expression that I saw in her bedroom the night before. Lust.
If I don’t fuck her now, I’ll lose my goddamn mind. It will be far worse than what happened to Gennady.
The VIP lounge has a private room behind it. I grab Cassandra, nearly ready to carry her away as I pull her back toward the lounge.
As I reach the stairs, Bogdan comes down to meet me. He stops me, his hand on my shoulder, and leans forward to whisper in my ear.
I take a slow breath and then untangle my arm from Cassandra. She stands there, the hazy look soon overtaken by confusion.
She’ll understand soon enough.
I turn toward the entrance doors to see what is coming for us.
The group of six men walks into the nightclub. They are wary—as they should be. The people around them diverge, moving in small groups away from the men. They’re heading toward the open booths on the right side of the balcony like Esme, the nightlife columnist I called for intel, said they are known to do. Tension reverberates with the music.
My full focus should be on these men, but I can’t help turning to look at Cassandra. Her reaction is the one I want to see most of all.
Her forehead is furrowed with confusion. She can sense the unease from the rest of the patrons, but she can’t see the men to understand why.
She will see very shortly.
As the men stalk closer to us, the crowd parting, I keep watching her until they’re a couple of feet away from us.
Her face changes. Her eyebrows shoot up, the confusion sharpening like a knife, focused on the faces in front of her. When it all clicks into place, her jaw tightens and her lips press together into a thin line. Then the corners of her lips turn downward, and her eyes narrow.
It’s a shedding of emotions, each one revealing a rawer face.
Confusion.
Understanding.
Then rage.
The group moves past us, up the stairs, heading toward another set of booths on the balcony. Cassandra’s eyes follow the man in the middle. Never yielding, never blinking. Rooted. Fixed.
For good reason.
Gianluigi Balducci moves to the front of the group as they get closer to the booth. He doesn’t notice us. If their tunnel vision didn’t betray their inability to handle their liquor, their blotchy faces would.
I turn back to Cassandra. All the energy that had been charging through her is gone. She looks like a kid locked out of the house on a cold night. I know how that feels.
Something uneasy stirs in my gut.
I have never once questioned my decisions. Others have—my lieutenants, Ravil—but they have always been proven wrong in the end. The things I choose have taken the Bratva to a place of indomitable strength.
It is not arrogance or luck that I rely on. I merely see all the pieces on the chessboard. I know how to move them to get what I want.
But as I take in Cassandra’s expressions, there’s a festering apprehension that my objective wasn’t as well-defined as it should have been. My plan was to dangle Cassandra in front of her father and take her away in the same way that Gianluigi keeps taking so much from me.
But standing here now, the plan feels flawed. Even as the tension drains from the room, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been too focused on the trees to notice the burning forest.
11
Cassandra
I once saw an embroidered pillow in one of my professor’s offices at J-school that his wife had stitched for him. It said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” It seemed so cute with its little red threads.
But in my own life, it seemed like a bold-faced lie.
I ran out of New York like a bat out of hell as soon as I had the chance. New York—and by extension, my father—tried to follow in my footsteps, stowing away in half-remembered dreams and inexplicable anxieties. Every corner seemed like it hid a threat to my newfound freedom.
Little by little, I shed the baggage I’d brought with me. “Fake it ’til you make it,” as they say, and tha
t’s exactly what I did. I started every day with a mantra: You are not your family. You are not your past.
After a while, I even started to believe that.
But right now, I realize just how wrong I was.
I never truly escaped. I never truly left my past behind me. When I see my father pass by, drunk and arrogant as always, I see it now: I ran away from home. But home never ran away from me.
I know I ought to say something. Eventually, I’ll have to say something. I left my family right after the birth of my daughter, right after she was stolen from me. I’m certain my father knew where I was for the first four years that I was working at the flower shop and the diner, but he didn’t try to find me. Maybe he knew I needed space. Maybe he knew that if I saw him again so soon, I’d curse up a blue streak that would put sailors to shame. I spent huge swaths of those first four years dreaming up the speech I’d deliver. I pictured it reducing him to a blubbering wreck of tears and remorse. God, it was gonna be a good one. All I needed was the chance to give it to him the way he deserved.
Yet, here he is and I’m speechless.
So many things I could say, that I’ve wanted to say for a very long time now, but my mouth has apparently decided to disconnect from my brain.
My father is like one of his bombs: brash, violent, and the force of his actions goes far beyond the intended targets. Collateral damage, in his eyes, is merely the cost of doing business. I’ve spent years thinking about the people he’s killed as the don of his Mafia, and even more about the bodies of their loved ones left in my father’s wake. Innocents and bystanders alike—all dead.
Business, business, it’s always about the motherfucking business in Gianluigi’s eyes. “The give and take,” he would call it. But I never saw him doing much giving. He’s been taking, hand over fist, for as long as I can remember.
I think about myself and how he took my daughter. I’m his daughter and he took my most vulnerable moment and turned it into more fucking business.