by Nicole Fox
I smile and nod, trying my best to look like I’m in on the joke, but the words make my throat feel tight. I’ve never been much of a crier, but the pregnancy hormones have made me feel more emotional than usual.
“God, I’m sorry,” Samara says, stepping close and laying a hand on my arm. “I’m an idiot. You know that, right?”
“No, you aren’t.” The words come out sounding choked, and I hate it. “You’re fine.”
She pulls on my arm until I’m facing her, and she squeezes my fingers. “No, I’m not. I suck.”
“My life isn’t miserable,” I say, but my smile is weak, and I know Samara doesn’t believe me. I certainly wouldn’t.
“Of course, it isn’t. But joking about whose life is worse after your father just died and…” she doesn’t mention the pregnancy, but her eyes dart down to my still flat stomach. It isn’t the baby that makes discussing it uncomfortable, but my mother’s reaction. Samara has had a front row seat to our feud. She knows all of the details. She sighs and bites her lower lip. “It isn’t nice.”
I grab both of her elbows and shake her slightly, trying to plaster on a genuine smile. “It’s fine. The pregnancy hormones have made me weepy. It isn’t you.”
Samara reluctantly accepts my explanation and goes back to work, and I start cutting out small circles of dough for the top of the kurniks.
“You could just tell her, you know,” Samara says quietly, her voice the softest it has been all morning. “Or me. Or someone. It might make you feel better.”
I look up, but she isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on the pan of sautéing vegetables, so I decide not to say anything.
There is nothing to say.
My mother thinks I’m staying quiet on the identity of the father of my baby because I’m ashamed of him or because I want to protect him. Or, perhaps, because she thinks I want to raise my child alone and be a single mother. To her, I’m sabotaging my own future by insuring a lifetime of working my ass off to pay bills, feed a kid, and take care of myself. But my mom doesn’t know the truth. No one does.
Samara’s phone rings, interrupting my thoughts, and she wipes her hand on the towel hanging over her shoulder and pulls it out. She stares at the screen for a few seconds, weighing whether to answer it or not.
“Who is it?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not sure. I don’t recognize the number.”
“Voicemail,” I suggest. I never answer my phone to a number I don’t know. Samara takes it anyway, looking up at the ceiling as she says hello.
Immediately, her face falls. She turns her gaze to me, staring at me as though she is trying to remind herself this isn’t a dream. I reach across the island and grab her hand.
“Is she okay?” Samara asks, her voice wavering. She nods as the person on the other end of the line speaks. Then, she pulls the towel from her shoulder and drops it onto the counter. “Yes. I’ll be there soon. Thank you.”
She is in motion before the call has even ended, grabbing the pan of rice from the stove top and taking it over to the aluminum pie dishes.
“Who was that?”
Samara begins dumping a layer of rice into the bottom of each cup, measuring it out with a skilled hand. “The hospital.”
“Shit. Is everything okay?”
Her hands are surprisingly steady as she tells me her mom was in a car accident. “A truck hit her in an intersection. She is in surgery.”
She puts down the rice pan and reaches for the sautéing veggies, and I swat at her hand. “Stop cooking. You need to go to the hospital.”
“But I have to—”
“Go to the hospital,” I finish, grabbing her shoulders and pushing her away from the stove. “I can finish up here.”
She shakes her head. “You aren’t a cook, Zoya.”
“I’ve watched you enough to pick up a few things,” I say, giving her a sad smile. “Besides, I’ve eaten kurnik before. I know enough to figure it out from here. Go.”
She looks nervously towards the food for a moment before whipping off her apron and grabbing her purse hanging from a hook next to the door. “The oven is preheated and the pies need to go in for thirty minutes or until the tops are—”
“Golden brown.” I wave her on. “I know, I know. Go be with your mom.”
The mention of her mom seems to bring the reality home, and she chokes back a sob, her eyes going misty. “Thanks, Zoya.”
I nod. “And don’t worry about dinner, either. Stay as long as you need to. I’ll be here.”
“I’ll call you,” she says over her shoulder as she heads out the door. “I love you.”
As soon as she is gone, I worry I’m in over my head. Boris has never been a particularly picky eater. According to Samara, he eats whatever he is served without much complaint. But perhaps that is because he has always eaten Samara’s food and it is delicious. He might have a complaint or two if he bites into a bit of raw dough or uncooked chicken. I push aside my doubts and finish the meal.
The rice is already cooked and Samara, ever the planner, has prepped the meal by making the chicken mixture the day before. So, really, all I have to do is layer the different ingredients and make sure to cook it all the way through.
She has already filled the cups with the rice, too, so I make my way around the tray with the chicken mixture, followed by the softened vegetables, and then repeat the entire process again. It is simple, and my mind begins to wander as I work.
I hope Samara’s mother is okay. She mentioned surgery, but not what kind. For a broken leg? For a brain bleed? I had no way to gauge the severity, and I hoped she would call with an update when she knew more, though I vowed not to pester her while she was at the hospital. There would be enough people messaging her condolences and prodding her for information without me joining the ranks. Plus, Samara and her mother were really close. I should have driven her to the hospital. My mom went with me to my doctor appointment this morning just in case the doctor gave me bad news about the baby, and yet, Samara received bad news, and I just let her go. Hopefully, she makes it all right.
I wonder what I would do if something happened to my mom.
With Dad, he was sick. We knew he would die. So, when he did, it was almost a relief. Not because I was glad he was gone, but because I had been mourning him for months while he was still alive. Looking at him as he lost weight and seemed to shrink into himself was difficult and at a certain point, death seemed like the better option. The last time we spoke before he lost consciousness, he told me he was ready.
I can’t imagine my mom sick, though. Her personality couldn’t fit inside a frail body. Her stubbornness and fire and anger—mostly at me—needs room to breathe. Seeing her body emptied of those things would wreck me, I think. Because, despite what she thinks right now, I love her. Very much. And I know the things I’m not telling her are tearing her apart, but the ugly truth is that I couldn’t tell my mom who got me pregnant even if I wanted to.
Because I don’t know who he is.
I don’t know his name or what he does for a living. I don’t even know what he looks like.
He wasn’t wearing a mask or anything. At least, I don’t think so. Truthfully, I don’t remember much of anything.
Samara had been hounding me to go out on a date for months, and I’d finally agreed, dolling myself up in my best dress with my brown hair twisted back in a knot of braids and a full face of makeup on. But at the last minute, Samara couldn’t make it. Something came up, and I was left with the prospect of wiping away an hour of hard work and staying home with my parents, or flying solo. So, I went out. The club was in a seedier part of St. Petersburg, but I didn’t feel unsafe there. I went straight to the bar for a drink, hoping to dance, maybe meet a nice guy.
Everything after that goes fuzzy. If I was drugged, I have no clue who it would have been, but that feels like the only adequate explanation for the black spots in my memory. My thoughts around that night are like a picture on a d
ry erase board that has been partially scrubbed clean. There are faint lines here or there where the eraser missed, but it isn’t enough to piece anything back together.
I remember a car and the feel of leather against the backs of my thighs, and I remember waking up in my bed the next day with the feeling that something was wrong. My body hurt in ways I’d never experienced before, and I desperately combed through the scant memories I had, trying to figure out if I’d chosen to lose my virginity to a stranger I met at a bar. I’m still not sure. Did I know him? Did he take advantage of me? Did I want it?
I lay the circles of dough over each of the pastry tins, brush them with an egg wash, and fold down the corners, crimping them with a fork. The work is repetitive and it helps me focus on something, anything, other than the swirl of panic in my stomach that rises up each time I think about that night.
I want to tell my mom the truth, but what will she think about me? And, even worse, what will she do when she learns the real story?
We are maids living and working for the estate of a well-known crime family. My father’s position as the groundskeeper guaranteed we were useful to Boris, but now that he is gone, my mother is doing her best to cover the gaps. Boris doesn’t seem to mind, but he would not take kindly to her running around the city trying to enact vigilante justice on whoever did this to me. Especially when her actions could reflect poorly on Boris. People would think he couldn’t keep his employees in line. They would question his authority.
I don’t know for certain that my mother would seek justice, but I can’t imagine her sitting idly by, wondering with me whether I was victimized or not. She would want to find the answers, and I’m not sure if I want to know. If it was a powerful person in the city, someone with connections to the Levushkas or another crime family, I would rather let the matter drop. I have enough on my plate with bringing a child into the world that I don’t need to add worrying about my mother’s safety or our jobs at the estate to the list.
No, as angry as she is with me, I am doing what is best for her. For us.
Besides, I don’t know anything for certain. Maybe I drank more than I remember and blacked out. Maybe I threw myself at an attractive man and wanted this.
I choke back another bout of nausea as I finish crimping the edges of the pies and slide them into the oven. Try as I might, I can’t fight back the one thought that has raced through my head over and over again since I found out the true cost of that night:
Maybe this is all my fault.
Chapter 5
Aleksandr
“Cyrus is a dumbass.” Boris shakes his head, an amused smile on his face.
“I guess I don’t find it as funny that we regularly worked with dumbasses,” I say. “If he isn’t competent, we should find someone else.”
Boris lays a thick hand on my shoulder. “He is competent at importing weapons, which is all we need him for. Everything else will come with time. And fear.” Boris laughs. “I thought he was going to piss himself when you threatened to dice him up.”
With a little space, I can see that I maybe took my intimidation too far. I could have scared Cyrus shitless with words alone. Still, though the knife play might have been unnecessary, I won’t feel bad for it. He should know better than to talk about a member of the Family that way. Especially to me. Now, I can be sure Cyrus wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“How much money do you think Mikhail has lost us by not paying attention?” I ask.
Boris glances over out of the corner of his eye and sighs. “I wish I knew. Probably more than you’d be comfortable with.”
I hate that Mikhail’s business failings are common knowledge and that no one thought to tell me about them. More than that, I hate that I didn’t realize he was screwing up. As his brother—the ‘responsible one,’ as Cyrus called me—I should have recognized that Mikhail was too deep in whatever shit he was doing to do his job properly. I should have caught it before he made himself into a laughingstock. And I absolutely should have known about the rival family in St. Petersburg.
“What did Vlad say?” Boris asks, referring to the urgent message I’d sent him during our meeting with Cyrus. I should have known about our rivals before I stepped foot off the plane. The fact that I didn’t needs to be addressed, and I need to know what my father wants me to do about it.
“He said he’d call me.” I pull out my phone and click the screen on. No new messages. “I need to see him in person.”
Boris snorts. “Good luck.”
I try calling him, but the link clicks dead after a single ring. My father is the boss, but he only comes out when absolutely necessary. He has several houses all over Russia, and very few people know where he is at any given time. For all I know, he could be in St. Petersburg right now, just like me. He keeps his movements a secret. If I need to know where he is, I usually call Mikhail, but he isn’t exactly available right now. I check my watch. He should be checked into his rehab program by now, which means they’ll have his phone. I wonder if he told Dad about rehab. Should I bring it up?
Just as I’m about to slide my phone back in my pocket, it buzzes.
“Shit.” I drop my phone in my pocket and run a hand through my hair. I know I shouldn’t dwell on it, but I can’t help but think he would have taken the call if it had come from Mikhail. Regardless of everyone else’s high opinion of me, my father always favored Mikhail. I don’t know if it was because Mikhail was slated to take over the family or if he simply didn’t like me as much. Regardless of the reason, I’d spent my life trying to be as important to my father as Mikhail, and it had earned me nothing but heartache.
“He cancel?” Boris holds open the warehouse door for me, and I step outside. Next to the car Boris and I arrived in, there is a second identical black car.
“Clearly he doesn’t understand what ‘emergency’ means,” I grumble. I nod towards the car. “I thought you were going home.”
“I have another meeting,” he says. “But you should get back to the house and settle in.”
I shake my head. “I have another meeting, too. With a weapons dealer. Cyrus needs to know he isn’t the only game in St. Petersburg. If he can’t keep his shit from being raided, we’ll find someone else.”
“Your father know about that?” Boris asks, bushy eyebrow raised. “He and Cyrus have been tight almost as long as you’ve been alive.”
“He would know if he picked up his phone.”
Boris pauses for a moment, and I wonder if he is about to say something in defense of his brother, try to persuade me to talk with him before doing anything rash. But instead, he slaps a hand on my shoulder and then walks over to his car. He doesn’t look back as he peels out of the gravel parking lot.
It takes me less than ten minutes to drive to the hotel where the dealer was staying. He has booked a private conference room off of the main lobby for us to meet. Hotel staff bring us espresso and a plate of biscotti that sit untouched.
“I know you and my brother began negotiations last month, so maybe you can catch me up on what you discussed.” I pull my chair in closer to the table, hands folded in front of me. My tie feels too tight around my neck, but looking the part of a professional is important, even in the criminal world. I don’t know Leonid, and as badly as I want to loosen the tie and unbutton the top few buttons of my shirt, I want to make it clear the Levushka family is a serious operation. We don’t enter into contracts lightly, and we take our business dealings seriously.
“I’m glad we are meeting up,” Leonid says, sliding a few papers to the center of the table and turning them sideways so we can both read them. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with Mikhail, but he hasn’t returned any of my messages. The contracts he left for me don’t make any sense.”
I pull my brows together. “Don’t make sense how?”
He folds the top page back and points to a paragraph in the middle. “I’ve highlighted all of the pl
aces where the names, drop of locations, and monetary amounts are incorrect or ridiculous.”
Over half of the page was highlighted.
“I’m not sure if this contract was meant for someone else or not,” he says. “My name is in here a few times and it does talk about importing weapons, but then there are other paragraphs that seem like they were copied and pasted in from another contract.”
I grab the contract and begin to skim the document. In it, Mikhail referred to Leonid as “Leonard,” “Lev,” and “Nikolay.” And there is no clear explanation of how frequently payments will occur, but the base amount listed is a laughable amount—barely half of what we pay Cyrus now for one of his shipments. The contract is nonsensical and it looks like it was written by a person with no grasp of business or reality. It’s embarrassing.
“Mikhail gave you this?” I ask.
Leonid has the good sense to look embarrassed when he nods his head. “We had a great conversation, but then he left this for me. I tried to get in touch with him right away, but I haven’t heard. I wanted to give you guys priority since the Levushkas have always been good to me, but I didn’t have a choice. I have to make money, so I signed a contract with another family.”
“Another family?” I ask. “Who?”
Leonid shakes his head. “Sorry, man. You know I can’t say.”
I know, but that doesn’t quell my curiosity. Is he working with our rivals in St. Petersburg? If so, between the weapons they’ve taken from Cyrus during raids and what they are now going to get from Leonid, we will be embarrassingly overpowered if someone doesn’t take care of this situation immediately. And I don’t have to wonder who that ‘someone’ will be. It’s me, of course. It’s always me.