Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  They never made it shopping on the weekend; Rusya never bought her something beautiful. On Sunday, Yuri decided to hold court to make sure they were ready for the meeting. She ended up locked away with him, Rusya, Anto and the other Russians, going through documents, discussing the strategy, setting expectations for Esma. The Turks spoke English but not Russian. The Russians spoke Russian and some English. It was agreed that the conversation would take place in English and that the Turks wouldn’t know Esma spoke Russian. That way she could hear and share anything said in Turkish but would not be expected to share any exchanges made in Russian with the Turks.

  The meeting was held in a small warehouse, away from prying eyes. The room was heated, not cold but cool enough to make Esma wished she’d dressed more warmly. They sat at a long table on uncomfortable chairs. Anto, Rusya and Yuri sat together on one side of the table, facing the Turks and the other two Russians sat at opposite ends, facing each other. She thought perhaps these new Russians had less to do with negotiations and more to do with protection. Esma was seated next to Anto at the end of the table, near one of the other Russians thugs.

  Esma served the coffee, which annoyed her but she kept her thoughts to herself. She was a woman after all. It didn’t matter that this meeting could not have happened without her. Nope, not with all the testosterone in this room. So she clamped her lips together as she filled cups, then sat in her chair like a good Stepford wife and only spoke when someone looked her way for an explanation.

  She could see the suspicion in the Turks’ eyes as they took their seats and the meeting got underway. There was no trust between the two parties, though the Turk’s leader, the boss, Salik Guvan, was friendly and charismatic. The first thirty minutes were wasted as he and mostly Anto exchanged pleasantries that lightened the heavy mood.

  But Salik also seemed distracted by Esma, his eyes straying to her often, asking for clarification of words far too frequently. He seemed well-educated, which meant that his English should be adequate to carry him through the meeting without her help. He was not being subtle and she worried that his focus on her would draw Rusya’s attention.

  Throughout the morning the men talked back and forth, interrupting each other often. Negotiating the terms of their bargain, disagreeing on percentages, expectations. Through it all, Esma took notes, interpreted words, listened carefully to everything that was said. Drugs, money laundering, extortion, weapons, sometimes women were discussed. It shook Esma that the man who occupied her thoughts almost every waking moment was also a cold-blooded criminal who talked easily about making men disappear if needed, of having ‘frank’ discussions with dockyard managers who were uncooperative. He never brought that with him into his exchanges with her. It was not part of who they were together. It helped her remember to be afraid of him.

  When they broke for lunch, Esma stood apart from the men as they helped themselves to the catered meal. The conversation was more relaxed now, friendlier. They were finding common ground as men, as criminals, as business leaders, but she didn’t want to be among them. She wasn’t part of this world and she knew it. She took a bottle of water and a sandwich from the tray, tomato and cheese, which she despised. But there was cheese on all the sandwiches, and she could never stomach the combination of meat and cheese together, so she had little choice but to settle for something simpler. She didn’t hate cheese, she silently explained to the sandwich as she walked the length of the warehouse, to the wall that was furthest from the men. It’s just that cheese belonged alone in a sandwich or melted on other things, like pizza.

  She leaned against the wall as she ate. It was cold on her back and the chill seeped through her light sweater. She was hyper-aware that her nipples were standing at attention like little well-trained soldiers. Her brain was tired and she was wearing out; the tension and the swift exchanges of Turkish, English, and Russian. She was out of practice and not used to the intensity. It was so much easier to do written translations in a quiet room and at her own pace.

  She finished her sandwich, wiped her lips with a paper napkin and took a sip of her water, her eyes following Salik Guvan, as he stood, walked to the table holding the catering and surveyed it. He picked up half of a sandwich, popped an olive into his mouth, then turned toward her. She watched as he approached, not changing positions, not shifting her posture. Better to appear nonchalant.

  He was like any other Turkish male. Tall, dark, a set of arrogance to his mouth. Not bad looking but nothing that made Esma’s heart beat faster. She was keenly aware that there was only one man in the world who had that effect on her. As she flicked her attention from Salik to Rusya, she saw that she had his attention too. And so did Salik, though the Turk didn’t notice as he strode up to her.

  “Esma.” He flashed a charismatic smile at her. In Turkish, he said, “Where in Turkey?” He leaned next to her against the wall, close enough that his arm brushed her shoulder. It was intentional and as he bit into his sandwich, he shifted his elbow so that it brushed her breast.

  “Istanbul.” There was a lot at stake for Yuri and Rusya in these negotiations and she needed to be diplomatic. Careful. Needed to play his game a little. “And you?”

  “Istanbul, hey. Everyone’s from Istanbul it seems, except the Russians.” He shrugged as he ate the last of his sandwich.

  He seemed to be waiting for a reply and when none was forthcoming, he added, “Why are you working for these savages? A good Muslim girl. You should be in Istanbul working for us.” His cadence was conversational, nothing in the tone implied the hostility in the words. He turned toward her, his right shoulder leaning on the wall. “Nothing to say?” He brushed her hair with the fingers of his right hand. Subtle and hidden from a distance.

  She shrugged, not moving, her eyes steady on the group of men. Rusya distracted by his father and one of the other Turks, not looking her way anymore. “I’m not a good Muslim girl.”

  “All the more that you should come work for us.” It seemed to annoy Salik that she wouldn’t look at him, so he stepped away from the wall and stood directly in front of her, his back to the group of men, blocking her line of vision to them. She craned her neck. He was a tall bastard.

  “The Russian’s pay me well.” It was off-handed the way she said it, as if Salik wasn’t pressing her against the wall. As if Salik wasn’t looking at her like he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her there.

  “Perhaps we won’t deal unless the Russian’s make you part of the bargain.” He flattened one hand against the wall, next to Esma’s head.

  Esma grinned, said in English, “The Russian’s won’t bargain me.”

  Salik touched her cheek with the back of his hand, a feathering caress that contrasted with his ugly words. “Whores are bought and sold all the time. I have the money and they want to deal.”

  Then Rusya was there, stepping between them, bumping up against the Turk with his chest, forcing him to step back. He touched a hand to Salik’s shoulder, palm flat and shoved him, not hard, but with intent. “Hands off my interpreter!”

  All conversation in the room stopped. Esma was crushed up against the wall, Rusya’s back hiding her from everyone’s view. She held her breath as tension blanketed the warehouse.

  “Until we’ve bargained,” Salik said.

  Rusya took a step away from Esma, closer to the Turk, forcing Salik to take another step back, giving Esma space to slide out. “No. Esma is not part of any bargain. We deal straight up here, or we don’t deal at all.”

  Salik’s eyes flashed, standing toe-to-toe with Rusya. “Maybe we don’t deal at all.”

  Rusya reached out and grabbed Salik’s throat, a quick unexpected snap, a crushing grip and walked him backwards across the warehouse. Then Anto was there, and Yuri. Yuri grabbing Rusya, Anto pulling Salik away before the Turk could strike out at Rusya. Salik’s men had their hands inside their jackets. The other Russians had their guns half-pulled. And Esma stood frozen against the wall, more afraid for Rusya’s life than hers.


  Anto laughed, big and cheerful, as if this was just another day of negotiations in a boardroom, threw his massive arm around Salik’s shoulder and gave him a friendly shake. “She’s a fucking woman,” he said as he led the Turk away. “They’re a dime a dozen.”

  Rusya’s eyes redirected his fury towards Anto as he struggled under Yuri’s grip, but Yuri held him, pushed him back towards Esma with effort. “Stop it, you idiot. What the fuck is going on?”

  Rusya turned his anger on his father as Yuri let him go. “He was fucking around with Esma.”

  Yuri scrunched his face in disbelief. “Are you that stupid, Rusya? Who the fuck cares that Salik wants a little piece of her ass. Give her to him. You’re not going to let this deal fall apart over her!”

  Esma saw the bone-crushing rage in Rusya’s face, and shoved her body between the two men, pushing on Yuri’s chest with her hands, pushing back at Rusya with her body. She felt Rusya’s heat on her back. She had seconds to diffuse this. “Rusya,” she said keeping her voice modulated so that no one else but Rusya and Yuri could hear. “I don’t need a fucking knight in shining armour. I could have handled the prick on my own.”

  Rusya grabbed her arms, crushed her biceps in his grip. He was going to make her regret this later, being so disrespectful to him, but now, now there were men in this room ready to open fire. She didn’t want to die, she didn’t want Rusya to die. And she was worried about Anto, whether he deserved her worry or not. She stared into Yuri’s hard flinty eyes. “And you, Yuri. I’m not part of the bargain. You try that, I will personally gut you.”

  She saw Yuri’s eyebrows raise fractionally, saw him start to raise his fist, and then Rusya shoved her behind him. “Stop. She’s upset – let it go, Yuri. We don’t want to fight among ourselves right now. We’ll look weak.”

  But Yuri wasn’t yet placated. “Is that how it is, Rusya? You like this woman? Want to keep her?” He stepped back from his son, a few paces, ran his hands through his graying hair.

  “Maybe.”

  Thanks Rusya, Esma thought, anger and hurt swimming through her, synchronizing until she was one big ball of agonizing emotion. Maybe. Fuck!

  “She’s a fucking Turk, not someone to marry! Jesus. I want grandchildren someday. Russian grandchildren! Not some Muslim scum running around the house.”

  “Back the fuck off, Yuri!” Rusya shouted as Esma jerked away from him, took a step back, her attention focused solely on Yuri. It was her turn to clench her fists. She could fucking take this bastard down with her bare hands. Or if she couldn’t, she’d die trying. But what was the fucking point of fighting for her honour when all she got was a solid ‘maybe’ from Rusya. The fuck with them all.

  “Both of you, go the hell.” She turned, stormed away, towards Anto. She knew he wasn’t a safety net, not someone she could count on, but he was the only fucking friendly face in the room.

  After that, they broke for the day. Negotiations were over until everyone cooled off. Anto and one of the other Russian’s went with the Turks. Anto told Rusya he would talk them around to coming back.

  Yuri, Rusya, and Esma travelled back to the house in silence. Esma said not a word, curled into her seat, her body turned away from both men, her head against the car window, looking out at the bleak landscape.

  Once they arrived, Esma stepped out of the car, but held back. Yuri didn’t look back as he stormed into the house, but Rusya turned. “Come inside.”

  She hugged herself with her arms, standing alone on the pavement in the driveway. “I want to go to a hotel, Rusya. I don’t want to be here.”

  Rusya’s eyes settled on her. “No. Inside. We’ll talk.”

  Esma rolled her eyes a little. “Because we’re so fucking good at that.”

  Rusya’s face darkened. “Fuck.” He walked back to her, circled her arm with his hand and tried to drag her forward.

  She refused to move her feet, refused to let him lead her.

  He rounded on her. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I want to go to a hotel!”

  He snatched her arms, slammed her up against him, his furious face inches from hers. “I don’t give a fuck what you want! You need to learn your place. You need to not disrespect my father.”

  Esma shook under Rusya’s words but didn’t back down. “But it’s okay if he disrespects me. Not only me, but my entire culture.”

  “A culture of convenience, right Esma? When it suits you to sling the faith around, you do.”

  Esma started to open her mouth, but Rusya didn’t give her time to respond. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, holding her hard despite her shrieks and struggles, and carried her into the house. As he entered, he dropped her on the floor and she landed on her ass with a thud. “You fucking prick!”

  Rusya pulled her up, slammed her against the wall. Then leaned into her, his lips so close to her ear that she felt his hot breath. “Not another word, Esma. Not another fucking word. Go upstairs to your room and stay there until I come for you. Understood?”

  She didn’t answer, snapping herself out of his grip and turning toward the staircase. The fuck, she thought. Sending her to her room like she was a misbehaving child. He didn’t know how good she was with knives. Maybe she should fucking show him.

  She stormed upstairs, stomped to her bedroom, and slammed the door. She grabbed at her hair, paced into the middle of the room, then dropped to her knees. “Arggggh!” She was so fucking angry, she could kill him. Why the fuck couldn’t he love her. Why the fuck not? Why? She slapped her hands on the carpet several times, then stopped, surveyed the room, deciding what to do next.

  She couldn’t leave. The house was miles from nowhere and it was fucking frigid outside. She could call a cab, but Rusya would bar her way out the door. Besides, how would she call one? She didn’t even have a fucking phone. She was a prisoner of her own making. She should have agreed to go with Salik. Maybe she could have found refuge along the way, a place where she could disappear, hide from everyone.

  She took a few solid breaths and decided what her brain already knew. She needed a fucking drink. Just one to take the edge off this nightmare of her life. She climbed to her feet and paced the length of the room, then back again. Then to the door. As she opened it softly, she listened for noise, but it was quiet, so she poked her head out and peered into the hall. The whole house seemed a tomb, not even voices from downstairs floating up. She stepped out, her heart beating a little faster. All she needed to do was find a liquor cabinet. The booze in this house was free-flowing, she figured she’d find something without having to look too hard. She stole down the hall, tried the first door she reached, pushed it open. It was a bedroom for guests like the one she was in. She slipped inside, had a quick look around. Nothing.

  She repeated this exercise, going from door to door, room to room until she found an occupied room. Rusya’s, she realized as she stepped inside. She closed the door softly behind her and flicked on the light. Lingering, inhaling his scent, clean, sandalwood, feeling like a voyeur as her eyes touched on his things. Pyjama pants folded neatly on top of the black duvet on his bed. His shoes under a chair, expensive polished leather, left and right, side by side at exact angles. A tie and some change on the dresser. He was like no other man she’d ever met. He was so perfect and she was so… not. The lust reared up in concert with her hurt. Asshole that he was, she still wanted him. He could mishandle her, treat her like shit, let the world spit on her, and she would still let him fuck her. That’s who she was. That’s all she was.

  Then she spied it. Vodka on the night table. She stood at the door, leaned back and let the solid wood caress her tired bones, her hands behind her as she studied the bottle. Men like Rusya, it’s why she drank. Men. All men. Every single man. Fucking pricks. She hesitated, tried to talk herself down, then failed, pushing herself off the door, and walking to the night table. The bottle, beckoning, mocking as she traced it with her eyes, as her fingers brushed the neck. Smooth glas
s under her fingertips. A little drink to take the edge off, to help with the hurt. To help her feel less unworthy.

  She sat down on the bed beside the bottle, then wrapped her fingers around it and tugged it toward her, setting the flat bottom on her lap as she twisted it her hands. The coolness of the glass against her palms felt good, so she raised it to her face, rolled it over her forehead, letting it soothe her. She shook the bottle, peering at it. Not much left, a few gulps. All she needed.

  Her fingers shook as she unscrewed the cap, closing her fist around it as she brought the bottle to her nose. Sniffed it, the fumes sliding up her nostrils like a tobacco-filled hookah. Reaching her brain, waking it up, making it needy. One drink, a sip. It’s all she needed. Then she’d be okay. She brought the bottle to her lips, then stopped, she couldn’t do this to herself. Her hands trembled and the bottle shook as she drew it away. She licked her lips, felt the tears in her eyes. She was stronger than this, she had to be stronger.

  Then Rusya walked in. He stopped abruptly when he saw her, saw the bottle in her hands. He was on her before she had time to react, one hand in her hair, the other grabbing the bottle away from her. His panic-filled voice hammered her. “Did you drink?”

  She looked at him, stricken and shook her head.

  “Fuck, Esma!” He threw the bottle across the room, shattering it.

  The dam broke and she started sobbing. Years of unshed tears that she couldn’t control because she almost took a drink, then changed her mind, but Rusya caught her and thought she had. She didn’t want any of this anymore. She struggled from his grip, evaded him when he tried to grab her, and fled his room. No where to go but her own room, trapped in a house in Moscow in winter.

  Inside her room, she tried to slam the door on him, but he burst in, pushing her back, slamming it himself. Then to her, he said. “You don’t fucking get to leave like that. Not in the shape you’re in.”