Dirty Kisses_Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

by Kenya Wright

  But the secrets, those were the motherfuckers that I despised. Secrets killed people. They broke up homes and destroyed families. They simmered in murky evil and waited until everything was going great in life to rise up and poison.

  Tonight, I was holding onto a secret that could get us all killed, and I had no idea how to save us.

  And what about the girl? There’s too much in my head!

  But I was getting too ahead of myself. I had to think of everything that had happened before these Russians showed up at Emily’s event.

  I walked outside and breathed for a few minutes, running the past twenty-four hours through my mind.

  Why the hell did I answer that phone call?

  Last night, as usual, I’d been cleaning up everyone’s mess. I got the phone call, grabbed my bag of tools, ran to Rumi’s place, and walked into some fucked up shit.

  I should’ve never answered the damn phone.

  Rumi lay on the floor with a knifed-out smile. I’d put on my gloves, cut open his stomach, and yanked out his intestines. Pink and slimy, they slithered out. A rank smell filled the air.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Darryl paced at my side.

  “I’m making it look like a Russian hit.” I pulled the intestines out more and wrapped the bloody thick rope around his neck.

  “Is that how they do it?”

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  Darryl held his stomach. “You’re fucking sick. That’s a dead body, man.”

  “I’m not the sick one.” I smeared blood on Rumi’s chest and tried to breathe through the funk. “If I’m so sick, then you should’ve called someone else.”

  “Oh fuck, I’m going to throw up.”

  “Get out of here. I don’t need more shit to clean up. Why don’t you handle Emily?”

  “Fine.”

  “And don’t call anyone.”

  “I won’t.” He rushed away.

  Motherfucker.

  I should’ve never answered the fucking call.

  Why did I do it?

  At Rumi’s place, I finished my work. Minutes later, the door opened. I figured it was Darryl, but then a muffled cry snapped my eyes away from Rumi’s corpse.

  A black woman stood behind me, shaking. She was young, probably eighteen or nineteen. She’d been dressed for seduction—matching red panties and a tiny bra that did nothing to hold her huge breasts, and so scared, her scream had been lost in her throat. She just stood there with her mouth open and her hands caught in mid-air.

  Fuck.

  She ran off.

  “No! Don’t go!” I grabbed my gun and took off after her, racing down the hall. She shoved shelves of dildos as if to block my way. Huge plastic penises rained down and coated the floor. I almost tripped a few times.

  Sick fuck. How many dicks did you need, Rumi?

  I jumped over some more as she slammed the hallway door closed. Her footsteps sounded far off.

  “Wait!” I rushed to open it and caught her image down by the front door. “Hold up! I won’t hurt you.”

  She screamed. Her ass jiggled in those tiny panties. It wasn’t the best time for a reaction, but my dick jerked to attention.

  I might’ve caught her faster, if I hadn’t been a little bit distracted by her body.

  She got to the front door and fumbled with the lock. Fear had her focus fucked up. She checked over her shoulder. Tears ran down her face. Dread hit her eyes.

  “Hey, I won’t hurt you.” I sped up and caged her body to the door, taking her into my arms and covering her mouth. “Listen. I know what it looks like.”

  She trembled against me, barely reaching the center of my chest. There was no ring on her finger, no husband waiting for her to get home, but there could’ve been a boyfriend. Not that I should’ve cared.

  Her long dark hair hung in loose braids over one shoulder. Her skin was soft and creamy, and I had an urge to know what it felt like. I leaned in a little, getting the smell of strawberries and honey. I didn’t know someone could smell sweet like that, and my mouth watered.

  “I won’t hurt you.” I released one of my hands from the door and ran my finger down her cheek. I needed to find out just how soft her skin really was. The desire to touch her overwhelmed.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  Our gazes met.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered, pulling me from the trance she had me under.

  “I won’t hurt you, but I can’t just let you go either.”

  She whimpered.

  Motherfucker. What am I going to do with her?

  It would’ve been easier to kill her, but that wasn’t me. I never played that role. I cleaned up shit. I buried secrets. I hid things. I crept in shadows, watching shit go down.

  “I’ll let go of you, if you don’t scream.”

  She nodded.

  I let go and showed her my gun.

  She shrieked and then covered her own mouth.

  “You and I are the same. Okay?”

  She whimpered but bobbed her head.

  “We’re the same because we both walked into some fucked up shit and now we have to figure out a way to get out of this without no one killing us.” I had to keep on talking. Her body distracted me. Close and pressed against her, my dick came alive, wanting to touch her more. But this wasn’t the time or place, and I needed to get her out of here before someone tried to kill her.

  “Please.” She struggled against my hold, rubbing that soft ass against my dick. “I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”

  Anything? No. Stop. I’ve got shit to do.

  I gritted my teeth, wondering why she was even here, half-naked and so sexy. Rumi liked hookers—young ones—and she looked innocent as hell.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Jesus.” I turned her around and forced my dick to calm down.

  She gazed up at me with those sweet eyes. “I-I won’t t-tell anyone.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “But, just in case. . .I have to make sure.”

  “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry.” I leaned away and tightened the grip on my gun. “Remember. I’m sorry.”

  “Wha—”

  I slammed her head with the butt of the gun. She fell to the floor, blinking her eyes and then closing them.

  Kennedy would’ve killed me if she saw it. Emily would’ve beaten my ass herself. And my mother would’ve helped them both tear my behind up.

  Sorry, ladies, but knocking her out is better than murdering her.

  I let go of last night’s memories and blew out a long breath.

  This week was the wrong time to quit cigarettes. My fingers itched to light something. My lungs yearned to burn.

  My mind returned to the present moment. Back to Emily’s art showing. Back to the current problem.

  Why did the Russian want to talk to Emily?

  I stood outside the gallery, trying to keep myself calm. Things were too close to getting out of hand.

  The front door opened.

  The Russians walked out, two rich, scary looking men flanked by ten others. The two rich ones got in the limo, talking to each other the whole time. Neither saw me.

  I glanced over my shoulder and looked through the gallery’s glass wall. Emily had returned to her event, slowly walking around. Whatever she’d talked about with the Russians didn’t show on her face.

  I have to find out what they said to her. Why the fuck would Darryl tell them to come here? It doesn’t make any sense. And where the fuck is Kennedy?!

  I pulled out my phone and texted her.

  Me: Where are you?

  Kennedy: Home.

  Me: Why?

  Kennedy: I’m sick. I need some rest.

  She’d seemed just fine an hour ago. In fact, it wasn’t until I pointed out the Russians to her that she disappeared.

  There’s some other shit going on that I don’t know about.

  I texted D
arryl.

  Me: Where are you? We need to talk.

  No response came.

  Maybe the Russians had them. At this point, I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Cleaning up after his sister and him was getting to be exhausting. I almost wished the Russians would keep his ass for the rest of the year.

  And what about the girl? Maybe, she woke up.

  I’d wrapped her up in one of Rumi’s massive suitcases and rolled it out. She was now in my guest bedroom, tied and lying on the bed, her mouth duct taped. My soul crumbled from having to do it.

  What the fuck am I going to do with her?

  At Rumi’s place, I’d wiped down as many fingerprints as I could think of. I doubted they’d even find Rumi’s own prints in that house. I took the security footage, knife, and everything else. I should’ve been a little bit more relieved, but instead, a tornado of worry tore through my gut. By the time I got the girl and went back to the house, it was morning. I tied her hands and legs, taped her mouth, and then placed her on my bed.

  How could I be so stupid? I thought this was the end, but I think this is just the beginning. Maybe, I can get her a plane ticket out of here or something.

  I would just have to wait until this Russian shit settled over.

  My phone buzzed.

  I checked the text, hoping it was Darryl.

  Emily: Meet me at your place in an hour.

  I thought of the half-naked woman trapped in my bed. The last thing Emily needed to know was that I’d kidnapped someone.

  Me: My place isn’t good for tonight. Let’s meet at yours.

  Emily: I might have a pest control problem. Let’s meet at yours.

  Pest control? Bugs. Fuck. She thinks they’re going to bug her.

  Technology elevated everyone’s game. I handled a lot of freelance jobs for lowlifes who wanted to monitor their workers or enemies. I had a special love for the mini cameras. People could put things anywhere and monitor a person’s every movement. But the smart gangs used this too and it appeared the Russians were on point.

  Me: Then, we meet at X’s. My place is a no for tonight.

  I knew she wouldn’t want to get Xavier involved. She always felt guilty with him. But more people needed to be involved. Whether she understood it or not, the bodies were already piling up. And goddamn it, I needed help keeping secrets.

  Emily: Let’s not get X in this. Why not your place? I don’t care if it’s a mess. We’re not having high tea, Max! We need to talk.

  Me: Doesn’t matter. Not my place. I’ll see you at X’s in an hour.

  I shut the phone off and headed to Darryl’s, hoping I could swing by to see Kennedy too. She said she was sick. I thought it was bullshit. Kennedy knew something, more than I did. Darryl was hiding something, and Emily was a goddamn nuclear weapon with a shattered mind.

  Fuck that. I can’t deal with all this by myself.

  Chapter 5

  Emily

  Kazimir left my office.

  He mentioned he represented the lion in that painting and I was the mouse. I didn’t doubt it. He damn sure looked like a lion to me—a ferocious one ready to eat me alive. I’d dealt with dangerous people, but this was out of my league.

  Every second, minute, hour, and day had to run perfectly. There could be no slip ups, and there weren’t many to trust. Not even Darryl; he’d just end up getting me into more bullshit.

  The art showing went on, but I was barely there mentally.

  In my office, I changed out of my Cynthia personality, leaving the wig, heels, and outfit there. My afro was braided into a valley of small cornrows formed into tiny designs—spirals and swirls going around my head and then down. The many ends dangled well past my shoulders and curled at the tip. I had a girl in the projects that could braid hair any way. She could braid a person’s name on the right side of the head and put a bunch of hearts on the left.

  I put on jeans, sneakers, and a black jacket. I pulled out my desk drawer and stared at my gun.

  Should I bring it with me?

  I sighed and shut the drawer. The chances of my using it would be low. If these Russians wanted me dead for some reason, they would be better at pulling out their guns and shooting than me. I thought of what Uncle Xavier had told me years ago.

  “You’re not a shooter. Put the gun down. Besides, you’re the most dangerous weapon on the block—a woman with a brain that can outthink anybody.”

  I shut the drawer.

  I shifted into my new persona. The only thing I kept on me was my heart locket—the one my Uncle had given me for Christmas last year. While he wasn’t really my Uncle, he’d been there for me more than anyone had.

  “Keep this with you, Em.” He placed it around my neck. “I want to always be with you.”

  I headed off to meet Maxwell at Xavier’s. After I closed the event, I spied two cars across the street. I checked the back of the building and two Russians stood outside, talking to each other and smoking cigarettes.

  He already has them watching me. That makes sense.

  Too bad I didn’t like being watched. I shut off all the lights in the gallery, opened the utility closet, lifted the hatch on the floor, grabbed my trusty flashlight, and climbed down into the abandoned tunnel under my property. It was the main reason why I’d bought it.

  Working with criminals wasn’t an easy feat. Some came to me drugged up on power, ego, or whatever they’d sniffed, smoked, or injected. Sometimes, it was better to have several escape routes mapped out for a safe departure.

  This lion is keeping me in the dark for now. He doesn’t need to know my movements or where I am tonight.

  I slammed the latch closed and traveled in the direction of Xavier’s lair.

  When people thought of the New York City underground, the vast subway system, sewers, and water tunnels came to mind. Far lesser people knew of the obscure and lesser documented tunnels—often running from building to building and throughout Manhattan. When we were kids, Maxwell, Darryl, and I had found the first hidden tunnel by accident. That night, I’d checked the records on it at the library, overly obsessed with the idea of secret tunnels and hidden passageways that many didn’t know about.

  It was the Farley-Morgan tunnel right under 9th avenue. The records had reported that it was an old postal tunnel that ran under the east side of 9th avenue between the Morgan mail sorting facility and the basement of the famous James A. Farley post office. The heavily secured road tunnel was used to move mail to and from Penn Station, where letters and packages would be transported on Amtrak trains. Apparently, Amtrak even had a special mail only train for a few years, running along the northeast corridor. They stopped using the passageway in the 2000s. That tunnel became our playground—our haven from the gangs trying to recruit us, the social workers searching for us, and the creepy guys taking too much of an interest in little kids alone on the streets.

  Regardless, I became obsessed with finding secret tunnels throughout New York, spending weeks reading through books in the library and then dragging Maxwell and Darryl to search them out. There were the McCarren Pool tunnels in Brooklyn. McCarren was the borough’s biggest public pool. The tunnels had been built for behind-the-scenes passages for maintenance employees, boiler room access, etc. It was a huge network leading all over the place. We must’ve run through those for weeks.

  People wouldn’t believe how many passageways had been built and hidden right under them. There was the East New York freight tunnel more widely known among graffiti artists. Columbia University had an old steam tunnel system that dated back to when the campus was an insane asylum. There were even ones under Rockefeller center.

  However, Harlem had a labyrinth of tunnels not on record. I couldn’t find one ounce of information in the library and later online of why they existed. The most I could think of was that the tunnels must’ve been made back in the 1800s and the records were lost.

  With the latch shut, only a black quiet surrounded me.

  I turned on th
e flashlight and finished my journey down the ladder.

  Under the city, there was only silence, darkness, and rats. They scurried along, so unused to humans they steered clear of me when I walked forward. At times, I made my walk through here, instead of dealing with the hustle and bustle of the streets. Kennedy came down once and went right back up, scared out of her mind of being down here.

  But for some reason, this labyrinth had been my home. And at the scariest times of my life, I sought the tunnel’s hidden comfort over anything else.

  Down here, I contemplated the craziness that had just happened.

  As usual, Darryl had brought trouble to my door.

  “Like the lion in this painting, trapped by rope and other things, I need your help. I need you to be a little mouse and nibble away the problem,” he said. “And when you do this for me, you’ll find there will be many rewards.”

  Kazimir had asked a question about money laundering. Clearly, he wanted me to clean his dirty money.

  Why me? There were tons of more capable people in New York, probably hungry and willing to do anything for him.

  My plan had been to get out of this shady business. I hoped my art would be the train riding me away.

  Fucking Darryl. How the hell did you get in trouble with them?

  That was the biggest problem. I could wash the lion’s money. I could do any damn thing he needed, as long as my brother was safe.

  But is he safe? And what did he do to get in the lion’s claws to begin with?

  That was the biggest problem. The money was a task. The labyrinth of trouble my brother always had me navigating through was what would give me gray hairs before I reached my sixties.

  Maybe that was why I loved moving through these dark tunnels. It was like life. I constantly navigated a network of darkness, structured like a spider’s web. It was easy to get lost and much easier to be bitten by spiders. One had to move through the deceitful corners and search out the passageways with no map at all, just instinct and the need to survive.

  Fucking Darryl. If the Russians don’t kill him, I will.

  Footsteps echoed through the tunnel. My flashlight served as my only guidance, creating a glowing path in front of me.

  Kazimir’s sexy face appeared in my head. I didn’t want to admit it, but I couldn’t believe how handsome he was. His midnight-black hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. His slacks molded to his legs perfectly. Upon seeing him, I wanted to sleep with him. Had he been at my art showing for anything else, I would’ve fucked him.