by Nicole Fox
“I get it. Business is business,” I say. “But what if I can get you a corrected contract back within the week?”
Leonid winces. “It will be tight. Most of my shit is spoken for. You know I want to help you out, but if I pull back on another contract, they will have my head.”
“We’ll take whatever you have left.” I sound like I’m begging, which I basically am. “This contract can be a placeholder until you have more liquid inventory and we can renegotiate.”
“Okay, yeah,” Leonid says reluctantly. “Get me a contract within a week, and we’ll see what we can do.”
We shake hands and part ways. I take the contract with me, but I ball it up and throw it in the backseat as soon as I’m in the car. It is useless. Just another example of how bad I let things get. Of how far I let Mikhail fall off the wagon.
I push thoughts of Mikhail out of my head and head towards Boris’ estate. I need to get out of my suit and make myself a stiff drink.
Boris’ car isn’t in the circle drive when I pull in, but I let myself in the side door with my key. If I go in the front, I’ll be surrounded by his helpful household staff. Usually, I wouldn’t mind, but I’m not in the mood today. I want to go to my regular room, take a shower, and figure out what I’m going to eat. I could have had one of the biscotti in my meeting with Leonid, but my father always emphasized the importance of not eating or drinking while conducting business. It is a common interrogation tactic—to wine and dine a person before plying them for information—and it can be just as damaging in business. If you allow someone to feed you, you give them power over you, however slight that power may be. So, I arrive to Boris’ beyond hungry.
The side hallway is dim, only half of the hallway sconces turned on, but I’ve spent enough time in the house throughout my life to be able to make my way around in total darkness. Mikhail and I would play hide and go seek as kids while my father was in meetings. Once, Mikhail hid inside of a laundry chute, and I didn’t find him until I heard a maid scream when she opened the hatch to drop in an arm load of bedding and found Mikhail crouched inside like a tiny troll.
The thought of my brother compels me, despite my hunger and exhaustion, to call him. If he is following the rules of the rehab, then he won’t have his phone. But the last few times he went into the program, he charmed the charge nurses into letting him keep his phone in his bedside table. I know it would be better for him to disconnect from everything completely, but I still want to talk to him.
I want to yell at him for fucking everything up and screwing our family over. I want to ask him how he is feeling and whether getting clean is going to last this time. I want to tell him that I will take care of things until he gets back. But really, I just want to hear from him. My entire life is devoted to “the Family,” but Mikhail is the only person who has been my actual family. Mother and Father have always been at odds with one another, going so far as to live in separate houses, and while Father and Mikhail are close, he and I never shared that same bond. Since I was a kid, it has just been me and Mikhail, and without him, I start to wonder why I devote so much of my time and energy to this family when they give so little back.
It rings twice before going to his automated message, and I know it is turned off.
Good, I think. He is doing what he is supposed to.
However, something pricks the back of my mind. A question. A doubt. Before I can stop myself, I stop in the hallway, dropping my luggage at my feet, and search for the number of the rehab facility. I find it and dial. It rings five times before a friendly female voice answers.
“Hello. I’m calling to make sure Mikhail Levushka has checked in. He was supposed to arrive this morning.”
“Mikhail?” the woman asks, sounding like she recognizes the name. “No, I haven’t seen him.”
I pause, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. “You haven’t seen him or he isn’t there?”
“If I haven’t seen him, he isn’t here,” she says plainly. I hear a rustle of papers through the phone line. “It looks like we got a call that he would be checking in, but he never showed up. Maybe he is running late.”
“Maybe,” I agree, though I don’t put my stock in my own words. If Mikhail isn’t there, it is because he has chosen not to be. I ask the receptionist to call me when he arrives, and she says she will, but I’m not holding my breath. Mikhail will call me when he is ready. Probably with some half-assed apology about changing his mind and getting clean on his own. He’ll be confident he can handle everything himself, and when he fails, I’ll be the one to pick him up off the floor.
I grab my luggage and the bag feels heavier than it did a minute ago. Like someone snuck a bundle of rocks in there when my back was turned. I need a break. From work, Mikhail…everything.
But I will never ask for one. Not when so much is resting on my shoulders.
The suite at the end of the hallway has always been reserved from me. It is far from the main house, making it the quietest room in the estate, and it is close to the side exit, allowing me to come and go as I please. It was especially nice when I’d come into St. Petersburg with Mikhail and go out on the town. Rather than take a woman back to a motel, I could bring her to the Levushka estate. We’d slip in the side door without anyone knowing, and I’d send her on her way before morning. Boris wouldn’t have minded that I used his house to get laid—he probably would have been proud in the way only an uncle can be happy to know his nephew is successful with the ladies—but it wasn’t anyone’s business. Unlike Mikhail, I’ve never liked to broadcast my personal life. I give enough of myself to the Family without letting them in on my sex life, too.
I push the door open, excited to drop my things and flop down on the bed, except, the mattress has been stripped bare.
I sit my bag next to the door and step into the dark room. The curtains haven’t been opened, there are no towels or wash cloths in the on-suite bathroom, and the room smells musty, like it hasn’t been aired out since the last time I came to St. Petersburg for a visit three months ago.
Fucking fantastic.
My fingers vibrate with pent-up frustration, and I would give anything to have Cyrus’ face in front of me again. I’d give him a black eye to match his other one. My hands ball into fists at my side.
I know it is as simple as pulling back the curtains, opening the windows, and requesting fresh linens, but I shouldn’t have to. I have enough on my plate without having to worry about doing Boris’ maids’ jobs, too. This should have been taken care of. Boris knew I was coming, which meant his staff knew I was coming. Someone should have had the room ready for me.
I turn and storm into the hallway. The carpet is plush enough I still move soundlessly through the house, but I can feel the floors vibrating with every step. Everyone else must be able to feel it, too, because as I walk into the circular entryway in the center of the house, a maid with tight black braids swirling around her head pops her head out of a closet, quickly bowing when she sees me.
“Welcome, Mr. Levushka.”
“Who was responsible for preparing my room?” I snap.
The woman opens and closes her mouth several times, unsure how to respond to my obvious anger. I recognize her from previous visits, but I don’t remember her name.
“That would have been Zoya,” she says quietly. “If there is a problem, however, I’m happy to help.”
“Not necessary.” I remember Zoya. She is the petite brunette one that Mikhail always had an interest in. I only remember her name because of the repulsive way he would talk about her. Even Boris would join in on occasion, commenting on how she looked from behind while dusting a table. “Just tell me where Zoya is.”
She glances at a clock in the hallway. “On lunch, I believe. In the kitchen.”
By the time I get to the kitchen, my stomach is growling, and the frustration of everything having gone wrong all morning is settling in. This trip was supposed to be routine: meet with Cyrus, sign a contract, take a nap
in the suite. Instead, Cyrus couldn’t deliver the agreed-upon shipment because of a rival family no one bothered to mention to me, Mikhail fucked up another deal that could have covered the weapons Cyrus lacked, and then my beloved brother was a no show to rehab, which means he might truly and finally be cut out of the family business.
More frustrating than anything though, is that so much of this is my fault. If I’d kept a better eye on Mikhail, if I’d paid attention to the many ways he was falling apart, I could have stopped this. And the worst part is that I wasn’t even the one who recognized Mikhail needed an ultimatum. That had been my father. If it had been left to me, Mikhail would have gone on fucking up the family business until we had no business partners left. So, Mikhail screwed up, but I was the one who let him do it. Everything is my fault.
The kitchen door bounces off the wall, and the woman sitting at the island hunched over her plate jumps back, her hand pressing against her stomach in surprise. When she sees that it is me, her shoulders relax slightly.
“Mr. Levushka.” She tips her head. “Welcome back.”
Her hair is pulled back into a thick ponytail that is flopping to one side, wisps sticking out around her face. She should look like a mess, but the halo of flyaways only serves to highlight her wide, blue eyes. They are slate blue—almost green—and I can’t believe I never noticed them before. I have blue eyes. I see them in the mirror every morning. But mine don’t look anything like Zoya’s.
Her large eyes should overpower her slight frame and round face, but they are balanced by full pink lips. She chews on the corner of her lower one the longer I stare at her without saying anything. I don’t remember her being this attractive, and right now, even that is annoying to me.
“No one prepared my room.” She is eating a kurnik, steam billowing out of the golden crust. The sight of it makes my stomach turn. “The bed hasn’t even been made.”
“I’m sorry, but I was not informed you would be arriving—”
“My uncle knew well in advance.” I cut her off. “There is no excuse.”
Her lips press together into a line, and her nostrils flare. “I will take care of it as soon as I am finished—”
“Now.”
“Excuse me?” It is clear she is not asking because she didn’t hear me. It is a challenge. Of my authority and my position. A maid in my uncle’s household is taking a stand against me. If I didn’t feel so murderous, it would almost be funny.
“I’ve waited long enough as it is,” I growl. “I’m tired from travel, and I expected my room to be ready when I arrived.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Had I known of your arrival, I would have been sure to have that done for you. As it is, I need to finish my lunch break.”
“You need to finish your fucking job!” I yell.
She shifts her weight to one leg, her opposite hip jutting out, highlighting the soft curve of her body from waist to thigh. It is distracting. Her blue eyes burn into me, leaving angry, scorching marks across my face. She raises a dark eyebrow. “And what if I don’t?”
Heat pulses through my core, leaving me unsteady and uncomfortable. I stare back at her with every bit of rage I’ve gathered throughout the day, every bit of frustration and disappointment. The anger seeps out in my words like acid, burning across the space between us.
“You’ll regret it.”
Zoya meets my gaze and then throws her head back and laughs.
Chapter 6
Zoya
I must have a death wish.
I know I shouldn’t laugh. If my mother was here, she’d slap me herself. She’d probably think I’d finally lost my mind. I am laughing in the face of Aleksandr Levushka. Third in line to the Levushka crime family. Maybe I have lost my mind.
After a long morning of chores and taking over Samara’s lunch prep, I felt like I was starving. Before being pregnant, I could easily skip lunch with no issues. Sometimes, I would even forget to eat. Now, however, I’m hungry all the time. Hunger claws at my insides and turns my stomach. If I don’t eat, I’ll get sick.
So, I have to take regular breaks. Not long breaks. Just a pause long enough to shove a handful of walnuts in my mouth or drink a glass of milk. Plums have been a favorite. Samara noticed I was picking the plums out of the fruit bowl, so she started keeping extras in the kitchen pantry. My fingers have been stained purple from eating them every day.
But I’ve been busy enough today that I haven’t even had time for a plum. When I finally sat down to eat something, I’d only managed one bite of the chicken pie when Aleksandr stormed through the kitchen door and began barking orders. No one could really blame me for being frustrated. I’m a pregnant woman. No one can possibly begrudge me five minutes to sit and put some food in my body.
No one… except for him.
His eyes are deadly. He’d turn me to ash on the spot if he could. I don’t need to ask to know Aleksandr Levushka’s presence doesn’t usually elicit laughter. His own surprise is probably the only reason he hasn’t run across the room and grabbed me by the neck. Before that can happen, I try to bite back the response.
“I’m sorry,” I say, still smiling. I shake my head and try to bite back the grin. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”
He grinds his teeth together. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he says sarcastically. “I must have missed the joke.”
I don’t fully understand it myself. Suddenly, nothing seems funny. Nothing at all. I swallow past the knot in my throat. “Are you going to kill me?” I ask him quietly.
His eyes narrow. Did I guess right?
“Because otherwise, I’m not really sure how you could make my life worse.” I choke back a giggle. I feel delirious now. Like I’ve been awake for days on end and my mind is fuzzy. “I was born and raised to be a maid in this house, and my lunch break is the highlight of my every day. The only thing I’d truly regret would be letting this kurnik get cold.”
Aleksandr takes a step towards me, silencing my rambling. He is still on the other side of the island from me, but it feels like he could be standing an inch from my face. The urge to laugh dwindles and dies as he stares at me, his pale blue eyes slicing me open. “You think I can’t make your life worse?”
A shiver races down my back, and I fight to keep my body still. I don’t want him to know how much he frightens me, and I certainly don’t want him to know that the chill down my back wasn’t just out of fear. Aleksandr is handsome.
He and Mikhail have come to Boris’ house regularly enough over the years that I’ve seen them both around. I knew they were handsome, but seeing Aleksandr up close makes me realize that he is…kind of, well, beautiful. His skin is pale and smooth over his cheekbones and jawline. He looks like he could have been sculpted from the purest marble. The men are twins, I know, but Mikhail never struck me as beautiful. His eyes are more sunken in, dark circles pressed beneath them, and where Aleksandr is full and strong, Mikhail seems hollow.
Part of the allure might be that Aleksandr never paid me any attention. Mikhail made his interest in me—and every other young maid on the estate—common knowledge. He would whistle as I walked by, let his pale hands wander up my thighs when we talked in the kitchen, and winked lasciviously every time I passed by.
Aleksandr, on the other hand, hardly paid me any mind. So now, the fullness of his attention on me has me feeling flushed. Like the difference between feeling the sun on your back and then turning to stare straight at it.
I sigh. This has gone too far. I’m hungry and exhausted and emotional. I just need to apologize. In addition to being my employer’s nephew, Aleksandr has always been the nephew that the staff respects. I’ve heard plenty of the household staff complain about Mikhail and his bad habits, but no one has a negative word to say about Aleksandr. He can be intense – clearly – but if this argument gets out of hand, no one will take my side. Even Boris, regardless of his fondness for me, won’t turn against his nephew.
It’d be me versus the world.
“Listen, Aleksandr, I’m sorry for—”
“Mr. Levushka.”
I pull my brows together. “What?”
“Call me ‘Mr. Levushka.’” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down his straight nose at me.
I bite back one hundred different snarky replies. “I’m sorry, Mr. Levushka, for acting unprofessional just now. It has been a long day, and I allowed my emotions to—”
“It can’t have been too long of a day,” he interrupts. “Considering you didn’t even do your job.”
My hand tightens into a fist, and I realize I’m still holding my fork in my hand. How easy it would be to stab it through his thick bicep.
“I was not informed of your arrival,” I say, each word strained and tense. “If I had been, I would have prepared the room. And if you can allow me ten minutes to finish my lunch, I will take care of everything for you, and I will do it gladly.”
“I do not care if you do it gladly,” he snaps. “I care that it is done. Now.”
“What is your problem?” I drop my fork so I won’t be tempted to wield it like a weapon and walk around the island. “Aren’t you supposed to be the reasonable Levushka? That’s what everyone says, anyway. Why are you taking your problems out on me?”
“You are my problem,” he says with more anger than one unprepared room should cause any person.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Levushka.” I snarl around his name, eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry that I was born without the ability to read minds and anticipate your every need before it can even be spoken to me. How horrible that must be for you.”
A line forms between his brows. His handsome face is twisted in frustration, red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. “I should talk to my uncle about you. If he knew the state his home was being kept in, surely he would hire better help.”
I gesture around the room. “We are not living in squalor, Mr. Levushka. You know that because you come here to stay regularly. I have been the one to prepare your room many times before. The reason your room is unprepared is because the bedding was being washed, which happens regularly. So, the reason you are angry is because the room was being regularly maintained, which is what you just said you want. Do you see how confusing that is?”