by Amarie Avant
My cousin’s eyes flit around with a bewildered look.
“You came over, whining about not sucking on your old lady’s tits. And you capped him, and hauled him away.”
“Oh, you’d dumped the cop beneath the stairs by your home. I came and finished him because you were being a pussy?” Yuri tosses back.
“No Sherlock, I just don’t murder mudaks for no reason. I thought we’d figure out who he worked for.”
“My dad,” he says of Malich. “Your dad, or Zariah’s.”
“Ring-ring-ring/” I nod, sarcastically.
“So, who did the cop work for?”
My eyes bug out. “Are you serious right now, Yuri. You killed him before we could get that far.”
“You were my accomplice.”
“Kazen,” I gesture, “I’m not wearing a fucking wire, we need to figure this out!”
“Okay!”
I reach up and grab my cell phone from my back pocket, open the email account and view the “deleted” items. Then my thumb mashes onto the email entitled with the cop’s name. I open it up for the first time, and just as I suspected the dead man is there. Someone excavated his body, and in the photo, the stiff is near a muddy area. A close-up photo of his Los Angeles Police Department Badge shows that he’s none other than Frank Gaspar. Now I have two bodies to my name. I slide the phone over. Yuri glances at it in disinterest.
“So?”
“Some-fucking-body pulled him up from the LA River, and all you’ve got to say is ‘so’?” I nudged my tense jaw at the phone. “Who did this?”
“Well, my pop didn’t. I remember everything now, you were ready to start pointing the finger at all of us. Malich didn’t do it.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Yuri.” I say through tensed lips. Although, I still feel bad for thinking so negatively about my uncle, he’s more than a father to me.
“It leaves one of two people. Vassili, we can’t take out Anatoly, but we sure as fuck can go murder Maxwell Wash—”
I reach over and slam my hand over his mouth. “Don’t fucking say that, Yuri! Not in my house. My wife is that bastard’s daughter!”
Yuri pushes my hand away.
“And again, Vassili, I say ‘so’?” He holds out his hands. “She doesn’t like his ass anymore. One crooked cop off the streets is no sweat off my back.”
“Maxwell Washington is the Chief of police. Bet your ass that the entire division will search for him, unlike they did for Gaspar.”
“Can you stop saying his name?” Yuri inquires. “I’m not a fan of mentioning the names of people that I… you know.”
“But you have no problem adding to the list?”
“Better them than me, Vassili. You have always been lukewarm in this game. You’re not in the bratva, but you’ll ask me to get some motherfucker in a basement just to get the attention of a piece of pussy!”
I slam my forearm along his chest. “That was my wife. I never asked you to help me torture for anybody but—”
“Dah, and you got whatever the fuck that Italian guy’s name was in the basement for Zariah, as you requested. I don’t have a fucking problem with helping you. But I recall a certain someone telling me to stay the hell away from his woman before you married her, in not so nice words.”
I shake my head. “Really? You’re bringing up old shit? I have a wife for that!”
“You have always been my brah! Fuck, a kazen, you have always been moy brat—my brother! So, forgive me if I recall bullshit, that still hurt. Then you call me to get rid of this cop, I do it. You call, I do it. Oh, and before this, you sent me to Atlanta to follow Zariah around like a stalker, while she attended college. I still had my assignments for Malich. And I still managed your MMA fights, Vassili. Where the fuck is my thank you for once? Calling me inside to—to argue with me about some cop on the beat, this is my god baby’s birthday! Fuck him, fuck that Italian dude, fuck you! I’d say fuck your wife, but I actually like her, and she’s family now. You, I don’t like.”
I hold my tongue. Shit, I have another assignment for him. He’ll be in Atlanta for me by the end of the week. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Yuri, you are more than a fucking brat to me, okay?”
He almost smiles at the thought of us really being brothers. “And…”
“And.” I gulp down the tension in my throat. Shit, I’ve only said sorry a few times in my life, in all cases it was to a female. Zariah, Sasha, and my mother. “We will figure out who dug up Gaspar’s body and emailed me.”
“We you say? We will work together?” His eyebrow bunches. “No, Yuri, ‘manage the situation,’ as you always say?”
This fool is pushing it. I rub a hand over my face. “We work together.”
“And if it’s Zariah’s father? Do we get to kill him—shit, if you want to do the honors, I’ll just dump. Igor has had it in for him for years. Back when he was a lieutenant, Washington dropped coke on Igor’s wife’s, brother’s, best friend’s cousin’s, little brother’s—”
“Yuri,” I warn in a testy voice.
“Just want to recreate the picture. Everyone was pissed. The guy’s still in jail.”
“Well, fuck that. We need to get back to my baby’s first birthday. When that’s done, we’ll figure out if it’s Washington or Anatoly that is behind this email, and then we’ll deal with it accordingly.”
Zariah
These last two weeks have been a whirlwind. Watching Natasha as she bulldozed her smash cake was the highlight of it. Second only to me promising to Vassili that I will always be there, regardless of how scary his matches can be.
We had a great time in Brazil after the fight with Tiago. His confidence brings me life. Yet, my mind continues to roam to the night after the fight. When we went to the bar with Yuri and Taryn.
Sitting at Billingsley Legal, the family law firm I work for, I click the top of my pen, listening to the rapid sound, letting it soothe my constant worry. My room isn’t the biggest in the building, but it’s cozy with a custom suede couch and pictures of my family all around.
I haven’t been to work in over ten days, and I’m stuck on how Vassili gave me the cold shoulder at the bar, regardless of the fuck marathon we had before and the amazing sex we had after. All I wanted was one dance!
Usually, I can’t get his hands off me, not that I’d ever want to. But every once in a while, I’m stuck with the cold shoulder. We can be out, holding hands. There are certain instances where he won’t kiss me. But I swear the second we are behind closed doors, he’s all over me….
Like he most often is, out in public. I guess I hadn’t noticed it in the past couple of months because, hey? What can I say? We have argued about his return to the cage after the loss to Louie Gotti the damn Legion, who reminded Vassili of a man he murdered for me when I was seventeen.
We rarely talk about his parents. Damn, am I trying to make a connection here? He will become distant and need his space after mentioning something despicable his father did to his mother. But Vassili hasn’t talked to his father since the night we woke up married in Vegas. He told the bastard never to call again… So that leaves me.
I glance down at myself in a designer, peach colored pantsuit. There’s a little pudge to my stomach that I haven’t been able to rid myself of, but I always assumed that my after-baby hips weren’t too big. Heck, ass and hips are a good thing. And the thug of a man that I married never had a problem with it. I need to work on this tummy. With that consideration, I click faster, unable to concentrate on work. At 175 pounds, I am twenty pounds over what I was when Vassili and I met.
“I trick people well with custom suits and high heels, but damn, not in the bedroom.” My thumb moves in rapid succession with the pen.
Samuel pops his head inside the room. His thick eyebrows arch before he steps inside, a cream suit pops against his dark brown skin. The smile on his face fades. “Why so down?”
“Nothing, nothing.” I place the pen on the table.
He assesses me a second longer then offers a confident smile.
“Meeting in a few. We have a new—”
“Uncle Sammy, that new guy is a dream,” Connie sneaks into the office behind him. She’s a redbone with a slim shape, yet lord only knows she can wear blood red and not have this sexy oomph that most women have. She’s too starry eyed when it comes to love. She’s the woman I never wanted to be until I met Vassili.
“Who’s this new guy?” I ask, aware that whomever he is will be the topic of discussion at Pokilicious, me and Connie’s favorite lunch hour restaurant, tomorrow.
Samuel regards his niece with a look. “You two can chat about Mr. Nicks after hours. I don’t want him meandering down the hall, hearing anything that can cause him to file for sexual harassment. Zariah, how’s Mora?” His inquiry ends the previous discussion but presents an array of questions of my very own.
“She’s… good… as usual,” I begin. My eyes narrow in thought. It never fails, Samuel asking about my mom. He always uses her nickname, Mora, short for Zamora. Something my dad never agreed with. And damn it, but my mother and I can be deep in discussion or chuckling while watching our favorite show, and here she goes. Mom subtly asks about—
“Tyrese Nicks,” Connie butts into my thoughts. Her light brown eyes have a faraway look.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Connie to stop playing ‘high school’ and go for the goal, but Samuel is mentioning lawsuits again on his way out.
“Counselor, you better leave him alone before you catch a case,” I joke.
With a tiny giggle, Connie leaves me to my own devices.
***
An hour later, Vassili texts me, “Lunch?”
Since Samuel is squeezed in the 11am meeting, and I’m not certain how long it will take. Especially if he has to introduce “Tyrese Nicks.” I bite my lip and respond.
ME: Make it late??
While stepping out of my office, there is an island of cubicles in the center of the room where the interns and secretaries sit. With Billingsley Legal, a new and upcoming law firm, there is room to grow. Larger offices surround the perimeter.
I head to the conference room, chatting with my assistant, Lanetta, about an upcoming mediation between my client and her ex-husband, when I feel someone watching me. Not with hatred or anything, but the intensity is real.
Lanetta turns around as I do. “Oh, Tyrese, please let me know if you’d like any help until a new assistant can be assigned to you,” Lanetta bats her fake eyelashes.
The man before us nods politely to her, although his gaze never leaves my own. Tyrese is a cool six feet, with creamy brown skin and the brother has a serious pair of dimples that place him in his late twenties at best, and also double as panty droppers. I can tell by the quality of his suit that he blazed through law school. Just like me. More power to my black brother for coming from a well to do family.
“Welcome to the team, Mr. Nicks.” I extend a hand.
“Zariah Washington, you don’t remember me?”
“Resnov,” I correct him with my award-winning smile. “And I can’t say that I recall…”
His brown orbs cloud at the sound of my last name. Shit, so now I can’t place Tyrese Nicks. Nevertheless, what I do recall is the fear that slammed into my chest the instant Vassili told me he was a Resnov. Mommy didn’t raise no fool. Apparently, he is aware of the name.
And he doesn’t associate the name with anything good. How to continue when one minute, the man is eyeing me like chocolate pudding and the next, sneering at the surname I married into?
Lanetta heads into the conference room, as he says, “Your father and mine were partners a very long time ago. I’ll never forget how… inspired you looked when sitting in on the Sullivan case. You looked at Samuel …”
The way you’re eyeing me? With a hunger?
“I heard my name,” Samuel cuts in.
“I was reminding Zariah about Sullivan.”
Samuel offers a grunt of disgust for the highly decorated cop who murdered four women.
“I was just about to tell her that you restored my faith in the justice system during his extensive litigation process.” Tyrese smiles at me, and the lingering gaze of his slowly slides away.
Samuel pats his back. “It’s trials like those that made me leave the DA office. Us defense attorneys need the police to assist with evidence. Felt like I was on my own.”
My mentor pats my shoulder as well. Damn, that was a dig at my father, who wasn’t too keen on cuffing his own, but every word Samuel just said was fact.
My phone buzzes as Tyrese holds the door. That’s a saving grace. Like hell do I want him ogling my ass as we walked in. I step a few paces away and they head inside.
VASSILI: meet at 2?
I smile and reply with a thumbs up while stuffing my cellphone into my pants pocket. Although skipping a meal will help counteract all my extra thickness, lunch with my husband and daughter is the cherry on top of the cupcake I shouldn’t have.
Vassili
Venice Beach
An hour earlier…
The Ukrainian who I’ve sparred with for almost fifteen years, Nestor, taps gloves with me. We’re in the cage at Vadim’s Gym. This is my first practice match since leaving Brazil. Adrenaline slams through my veins, on my toes I go, keeping a tight profile.
“Tighter, tighter,” Vadim, my trainer, shouts, “You ain’t champ no more, keep your chin down, elbows tight!”
My eyes narrow, although I keep my eyes on Nestor. I cock my head for him to make the first move. He punches at my chin. Air zips past as I move. I jab for his nose. My thirst for blood isn’t lost on him. In a split second, Nestor is saved from having to reconstruct his nose, while tucking his forearm in front of his face. I issue swift body shots to his lungs. If it weren’t for the gear he’s wearing, his ribs would’ve been slaughtered. He lurches to the left and the right, with each hit. Catching his footing, he comes back with a right hook that slides across my chin.
“Stay on him!” Vadim shouts in Russian. “Vassili, pen him.”
Then I catch him with a left, right, left. Nestor’s knees buckle, he grunts and slides back onto the ground.
“C’mon, brah,” I wave a gloved hand. “Get the fuck up, I’ll put you down again, I promise.”
“Don’t get cocky,” again, Vadim reminds me that I’m no longer the champ.
Nestor clenches the ground. I step back to my corner, not taking my eyes off him. Like a yoyo, Nestor jumps up to his feet. He shakes out the pain and disequilibrium.
We go back to our toes, chins down, fists at the ready. I let him feel me out and imagine Alvarez, no Karsoff, that motherfucker will be my next match. Might as well have ambitions. Nestor tosses a low kick toward my shin. It’s one of those filler movements to see where I’m at. Nestor thinks he’s closing in on me, bringing me back to the clench. The confidence is all in his eyes. He reaches low and targets my chin, my hands press the back of his neck, bringing his chest forward, my knee slams into his gut. The padding along his abdomen saves him from the type of “knee” that realigns organs in a fighter’s stomach.
“That’s what the fuck I like to see!” Yuri shouts out from the seating area.
While Nestor rests, Vadim gives me the body ropes for conditioning, and I know today, he wants to break my body down until I’m resurrected. Newer. Harder.
An hour later, Vadim grips the back of my neck. “You are a beast! Your comeback is now, Vassili. Your grandfather’s blood is on fire in your bones.”
I dip my head to his compliment. “Who am I murdering next?” My glare roams from him to Yuri. “I need a fucking date. I’m dying here.”
Yuri’s fat ass is damn near swallowing the folding chair. He sits forward. “Alvarez’s team hasn’t responded—”
“Fuck Alvarez, I want Karsoff. Put that shit on the calendar so I can go play tea with my daughter already.”
My cousin gives a huff as Vadim goes to the runn
er stroller were Natasha is currently sleeping. He smiles in at her. “Vassili, you got a win the weekend before last. Give people a chance to respond. And like you just said, enjoy your beautiful little girl.”
I grab the hand towel from Yuri, stretch it and pop him. “You, manage the fucking situation or I score my own fights.”
“Oh yeah?” Yuri’s voice raises until he looks over toward the stroller in concern. Nobody wakes my daughter. She has more guts than I do. He whispers through gritted teeth. “You called Alvarez out whole hardly standing on your own two feet in Brazil. Now you wanna step over him for Karsoff? Everyone calls me stupid, though.”
“Yeah, you are, mudak. Get me Karsoff or La—”
“This guy is out of his mind?” Yuri tells Vadim.
My coach glares at me while addressing Yuri. “He has aspirations. All he sees is getting the belt back—”
My fist slams against my chest. “My motherfucking belt.”
Vadim flicks my ear. “Close your cunt. Get the fuck outta here, Vassili. My other fighters love to talk shit when you stay a moment longer. And no matter how milyy—cute—Natasha is, that baby is also meaner than a—”
“Volk—wolf,” Yuri finishes.
“You’re the Godfather and you say that of my child?” My face is hard but my thick accent rings with laughter as Vadim agrees to his metaphor.
I grip the handles of the stroller and head past the workout gear.
“Yuri, anything on the email?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. Throwing a thumb over his shoulder, Yuri asks, “You want a ride? I’m parked in the alley.”
“Nyet. I parked a few blocks away. Natasha loves to watch the singers and dancers and shit, and I’ll get a little cool down.”
“Fuck? Kazen, you haven’t worked out enough?”
He heads toward the back of the gym, and I start for the Venice beach exit.
Outside, the sun blazes across the beach. And not one spot along the coast is left as families and couples enjoy the beautiful summer day. I start for the trail, and head off in a jog. Off in the distance, a young Michael Jackson wannabe is gathering a crowd. My baby girl will wake up soon. This is how you wake up a bully without getting into a world of trouble… music.