by V. F. Mason
But I refused to give up my love life on the altar of their ambitions. The line had to be drawn somewhere to stop this madness.
“And you’re running away to Russia, because…?”
Was it amusement I saw in his gray eyes?
“To have some time to think about how to proceed… without my father constantly threatening me.”
“Is that all?” Why wasn't he satisfied with my answer? It sure sounded better than the truth.
“Fine. For adventure. My life is nothing but dull. I never break the rules. I’m tired of living like this.” Oh my God, who said stuff like that to a hot guy? He’d think I was freaking nuts.
Radmir chuckled, to my surprise, and then his hands slid lower as he placed them on my hips, raising me almost to my toes so that our eyes would lock and our lips were inches away from each other. “Russia is a good choice for that,” he murmured, and I closed my eyes, expecting something and not caring in the least that we had just met and how odd it was. After all, people didn't know much about each other during one-night stands either, but it was enough for them to have sex. Not that I knew it from firsthand experience, because in the past, I preferred a steady relationship.
But I’d make an exception for him.
“Come,” he suddenly said, breaking the moment and the mood. He opened the door, and for a second, bright light blinded me and I had to put my hand on my forehead to block it out.
Holding my hand in his, he moved toward the pilots’ cabin instead of the first-class cabin, and I stopped in my tracks, pointing at the back. “You’re going the wrong way.” He ignored my words, just tugged harder on our joined hands, and I had no choice but to follow.
He stepped inside, where one pilot sat pressing some buttons. He greeted Radmir with a smile and nod. The second pilot’s seat was empty.
Huh?
Didn’t two guys usually operate the commercial flights? Where the hell was he if the plane was about to takeoff?
“Oleg, this is Vi. She’ll be with us for the duration of the flight.”
The pilot saluted me, while removing his cap from his head, and picking up the radio. “Boeing flight 103 is ready for takeoff.” Then he pressed the off button, leaned back in the seat, and flashed me a wide grin. “Have you been in the cockpit before?”
“Umm, no.”
Radmir reached behind me, and in a second, a seat in the middle between the two pilots’ seats appeared. He pointed at it. “Sit, krasivoglazaya, and enjoy this beautiful flight.”
Too stunned to question it, I plastered my ass on the seat while wondering how he could decide something like this, when he ended up in the second pilot seat, putting on headphones and flicking some switches. He fastened his seatbelt and then raised a brow at me as my mouth opened and closed in shock.
He was going to fly this freaking plane?
The stewardess chose that moment to walk in. Her eyes widened noticing me, but she quickly covered it up and said, “The doors are closed. We’re ready when you are.”
Oleg nodded as she left. He was saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. I’d like to….”
I didn't listen to what he said, because Radmir softly caressed my cheek and then whispered into my ear, low enough only for me to hear. “Get ready for your adventure.” And just like that, I ended up on a flight to Moscow with a sovietnik of the Bratva as my pilot.
But I’d learn all this later. Back in that moment, the only feeling rushing through me was utter happiness at finally doing something wild with a handsome stranger.
Logical and rational it was not.
But because it was not, I had freedom. And what could possibly be better than that?
Radmir
Studying modern New York from the window of my limo made me wonder one more time what the fucking appeal of this city was to everyone.
Busy streets with people running toward God knows where, not even bothering to look around them. The constant smell of foods unsettled my stomach. The hyperatmosphere as if life couldn’t wait until a better time, that work and the overriding desire to move forward was more important than life itself.
This was beyond my understanding, although a lot of people compared it with Moscow. I didn't give a fuck about Moscow either. I never bothered to permanently reside there, so maybe it explained my distaste for this city. Although I had to admit the chilly breeze and colorful nature in spring was worth a stay for a day or two, as they had amazing parks.
Why the fuck did I even bother to think about the weather?
“We’ll be there in a few, sovietnik,” Petor said politely, and pleasure ran through me at the title, not so much for the respect it gave me among the Bratva, but for getting my identity back. Piece by piece, maybe I could find a man there instead of a raging animal who lived for nothing but revenge. But then again, being called cell number twenty or fucked-up Russian piece-of-shit for almost six years would probably do it to everyone.
Suddenly, old memories and the rage came back, and I snapped, “Stop the car and wait for me somewhere around here.” Quickly, he did just that, and I got out, breathing heavily and counting my heartbeats as my fists clenched while I shook my head from the internal voices.
“Sovietnik, not so mighty now, huh?” Ben raised my plate and spat in it, making a show for everyone to see as the prison cafeteria quieted. “Here, it should be tastier.” He threw the dish in front of me, and I rose swiftly to deliver a blow to his smug face, when the thought of Vivian entered my mind reminding me, in this place, I had a reason to live.
I sat back down, not touching the food, but not giving any reaction either, and in a few minutes, he grew bored and went away, leaving me with the satisfaction of knowing I hadn't jeopardized my chances of seeing my angel.
Strolling down the line toward one of the most prestigious galleries in the city, I wondered if Vivian got everything out of life she had ever wanted.
The girl had many dreams.
Finally, I stopped right in front of the building with a bohemian look, which was located on the edge of the exclusive Upper East Side. The small two-level establishment was made out of white brick with huge windows opening a view into the gallery inside. I saw wooden floors, exquisite white and black chandeliers, and delicate pink colors appeared here and there in the form of vases or figurines on the tables.
The huge sign on the building said, “Vivian Jackson Gallery.” Painted in blue, it was big enough for everyone to notice, and pride rushed through me at her success, because my girl had been about to give up her dream all those years ago. No one possessed her talent for guessing and feeling the emotions of other people.
However, all this didn't even matter as the minute anyone’s eyes landed on it, they would notice the unique black-and-white photos hanging on the walls, which created a story of their own.
Each portrait had people in different stages of their adulthood, catching the moment of their happiness. It allowed the viewer to notice every wrinkle, every flicker in the eyes, the emotions passing through them as they lived in that moment, creating a desirable connection with those feelings of happiness, and for a second, you believed you were part of it. In my case, it only inspired a longing like a raging inferno that no amount of water could soothe.
But the real beauty, at least to my eyes, stood right in the middle of the gallery with her back to me, wearing her favorite blue, retro, cocktail, party swing dress, a fucking name I had to learn since she only wore dresses. She finished the look with black high heels that showcased her amazing legs and emphasized the curves of her body, which my hands itched to touch.
Her silky brown hair fell down her spine in heavy waves that swayed from side to side as she moved, and I didn't need to see her brilliant sky-blue eyes to know they probably sparkled with excitement and wonder. She had this look anytime she saw something of her own creation.
All those thoughts made me almost laugh out loud, fucking poetic sap I’d become, but then all the information I
had gathered rushed back at me, almost knocking the wind from me, and fury settled inside me again.
And in that moment, Vivian spun around and our gazes clashed in the window. She hitched a swift intake of breath and stepped back as the papers she held fell to the ground.
Yes, my krasivoglazaya. I came.
I walked to the door and stepped inside, ready to claim everything that was rightfully mine.
Vivian
What was he doing here?
Gulping for air, I hectically searched for a reason for him to show up in my gallery after months of silence. Wasn't he done with me?
What the fuck was he thinking, showing up here like this?
Radmir entered the gallery, the door shutting loudly after him, while the bell above echoed all around the place. We stared at one another, my eyes drinking in his masculine beauty, because I didn't have enough time to study him all those months ago.
Although he reminded me more of his old self with his tailored suit that emphasized his muscles, clean-shaven face, and the smell of cigars and expensive cologne that I associated only with him. His hair, grown longer, was put in a man bun. Somehow, it only made him hotter—to my annoyance.
Everything female awakened inside me as his hungry gaze roamed over my body, and I craved his hands and mouth on me, imagining what he could do with them.
But then reality kicked it, reminding me how carelessly he left me on that bed and never bothered to contact me in all this time.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounded shaky from the turmoil going on inside, and I cleared my throat.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He took a step in my direction. Instinctively, I moved back, and he froze. “Vivian,” he said my name huskily as if trying to caress me with it. He used to do that all the time six years ago; all he had to do was speak, and I’d know how much he loved me.
He’d never used this voice again, not even during our night together five months ago.
What changed?
“Why are you here?” Repeating my question was better than dwelling on his mood or the past. I couldn't lose myself in him again, to be the weak woman who only followed her heart, while he stomped all over it without a care in the world.
“God, you are beautiful,” he muttered. Coming at me full force, he wrapped his arm around my waist before I could even blink.
“Let me go—”
He covered my mouth with his, pushing his tongue deep and exploring my mouth in a probing kiss where the outside world ceased to exist. His other hand slid into my hair, gripping it tightly as he smashed our chests together, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, enjoying the kiss, powerless against the tornado of emotions he inspired in me. Sucking on my lower lip and biting it lightly, he whispered, “Mine.”
The word was like cold water fired from a hose on me during winter, destroying the haze of desire he had managed to create in just seconds. I pushed him away. Since he didn't expect that, his arms loosened around me, and I took a few steps back while he looked at me, confused.
Unbelievable!
“Yours?” I asked, but before he could reply, I asked again, “Yours? All of a sudden, I’m yours again?” His hands fisted as he rolled his lips, still damp from our kiss.
“You were always mine, Vivian.” A hollow laugh burst from inside me, echoing in my gallery.
“Was I yours when you showed up on my doorstep five months ago and fucked me like a whore? Was I yours when you never contacted me after that? What changed, Radmir? Now I’m worthy of you?”
His gray eyes darkened, and something akin to hurt flashed there, but he quickly masked it with indifference so I couldn't read his emotions. He had the nerve, showing up here as if nothing happened and acting all offended. “I didn't know,” he finally said, holding my accusing stare. “The whole truth… I had no idea.”
“You had no idea? I sent you letters. Photos. I… I explained everything many times. I begged you to let me visit you in prison, and you always refused. And you think you have the right to stand there and claim that you didn’t know?” I suspected he’d be furious with me for getting married, but I never thought he’d bring me more pain, instead of making it all better. He was no longer the man I fell in love with, and it just dawned on me.
“What?” He frowned, a deep line appearing between his eyebrows. “You never once asked for it. I never got anything from you.”
It was my turn to be confused. I folded my arms, studying him, and he didn't hide anything from me. He legitimately had no clue what I was talking about! How could it be possible? I used to make trips to his prison each month, hoping this time he would see me, but every time, that awful guard Benjamin stated with satisfaction that Radmir refused to see me. I made one last trip after Jake was born, wanting to show him the beauty our love had created, but even then, he said no. I gave up after that, convincing myself he’d forgive me someday for getting married.
Why would the guards keep me away from him? It just made no sense.
My head started to ache from all those thoughts, and I rubbed my forehead hoping to soothe it.
Then another thought dawned on me.
If he never got the news about my marriage to Alex, never read any of the letters I had written to him… then he had thought I married Alex of my own free will and had his child!
He thought I betrayed him in the worst possible way. For a man like him, who lived and breathed the Bratva code… loyalty was one of the things he valued most in people.
My eyes widened as a gasp escaped me, and I covered it with my fingers, too shocked at this realization to say anything.
“You thought I moved on?” He nodded, agony evident in his expression. “How could you think that? I still wear your cross.” His eyes heated as he dashed toward me, but a little voice stopped him dead in his tracks and we both turned our heads to Jake.
“Mommy.” He sounded unsure as he walked slowly from the back of the studio where he had a small room with all his toys and TV, so he could either relax or read while I worked in the gallery.
Jake chose today to wear jeans and an oversized jersey with the number 17 on the front and back, custom made by a local designer. It was the number of the legendary Russian hockey player Valeri Kharlamov, and Jake could watch his old games for hours. Since the number 17 in the Russian Hockey League forever belonged to Kharlamov, no one could have it anymore, so I couldn't order suitable shirts for him. He cried for days, so I ended up just asking the designer to recreate it.
He tugged on it now, as his attention shifted to Radmir, and he said in awe, “Daddy?” Identical gray eyes studied each other, both too stunned with the meeting. Something sparked between them, and I felt almost like an intruder in this moment, but nevertheless, I couldn't look away.
The son and the father saw each other for the very first time, and I was afraid my heart would break from all the emotions bubbling within it.
Radmir
Whenever I thought about the possibility of having kids before Vivian, I laughed it off, because my lifestyle made it almost impossible. I wasn't sure I wanted my child to experience what I had gone through.
After Vi, I dreamed of having a little family, calming myself with the thoughts of controlling the process from the pregnancy test to delivery. This way, my family would stay safe.
Never, though, had I expected to meet my son for the first time when he was five years old as he gazed at me curiously and immediately called me daddy.
My eyes drank in his small figure, not missing any details, mole, or scratch. His eyes were identical to mine, as well as his dark hair and fierce stance. But I could see Vivian too in his bright smile, pointed nose, and high cheekbones. It seemed like he took after both of us.
He was simply perfect, and I couldn't be more grateful for having him.
Jake’s face turned from happy to sad as he dashed toward me. I kneeled just in time, because he almost sent me flying back on my ass when he hugged me so fiercely as his tears soaked my shirt.
Although I controlled my emotions, a single tear slid down my cheek as I held him close, drinking in the smell of my child, my flesh and blood, created in pure love.
Protectiveness like never before washed over me, and love that had no barriers or end. I would always love, cherish, and protect him, my son.
And give him a choice. He wouldn't have to be a member of the Bratva and dirty his hands in this fucked-up lifestyle, which led to situations like this.
“Don’t leave again, Daddy. We missed you.”
I heard Vivian’s sob, but when I raised my eyes to her, she spun around, hiding from me.
My heart broke for all three of us.
“Never,” I said with confidence, because no one would ever again separate me from my family.
He squeezed me tighter then leaned back. “Are you coming home with us?” His voice sounded so hopeful, my little warrior.
“Yes.” My voice was hoarse from the emotion.
“Sweet.” I put him down as he kicked his feet. “Can we order pizza today, Mommy? It’s the second Monday of the month!”
“Sure, baby.” He beamed at her. “Grab your bag, and we can go home. I’ll call the pizza place on the way.” For his tiny legs, he moved fast.
“How?” I asked, trying to understand what the hell was going on in her life and coming up blank. Those were the questions the reports would never have answers to.
“We have pictures of you all over the house. He knows he has a father. I never hid you from him. He knows how we met, the clean version without all the drama and dirt.” She wouldn't meet my eyes, almost as if she was ashamed to admit all this to me.
God, I had to beg on my knees for her forgiveness.
“He knows I was in prison?”
She shook her head. “I told him you are a pilot who has a dangerous job and you couldn't be with us for now. With him,” she corrected quickly, and I was afraid I’d snap and destroy her gallery.
Pilot.
That was a fucking lie mothers usually told their kids when the father was not in the picture, so they would have some hero in mind, instead of a loser who abandoned his family.