Kissing The Enemy

by Helena Newbury

  But Rico didn’t leave. He walked around to stand beside me.

  Aw, shit. Shit, no.

  “Did you know about him and Irina?” Nicky asked.

  I willed Rico to be smart. No use both of us dying over this. Thankfully, he was. “No,” he said.

  “You got a problem taking over?” asked Nicky. “Make no mistake, you’re inheriting a war and a fucking nasty one. We’ll want you to eliminate every one of those Russian bastards. No mercy. No matter how many of ours it takes. Got it?”

  Rico slowly nodded. “Got it.”

  “Good,” said Nicky. He pushed himself off from the table and waved his hand at me. “Get rid of this piece of shit.” He led the other Saints out of the room and closed the door behind him. Rico and I were left there in silence, the only noise the crackling of the fire.

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d been ready to give it all up...but for Irina. Not like this. Not to be chewed up and spat out by The Saints and replaced by my best friend.

  “I had to,” muttered Rico, as if he was trying to convince himself. He leaned against the fireplace, its light silhouetting his big body, and gripped the mantelpiece so hard I thought it would snap. “If I’d have said no, they’d have got someone else to do it.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t do this. They’re using you, Rico. You heard them, they’ll carry on this war until we’re all wiped out. They don’t give a shit about us.” I held out my hands. “You want my job? You got it. I don’t care anymore. But you gotta make peace with Vasiliy.”

  “Peace?” Rico spun to glare at me. “Listen to yourself. Ever since I’ve known you, all you ever talked about was power: holding onto power, getting more power. The Saints are right, she’s fucking corrupted you!”

  “No! She’s got me thinking straight! We gotta stop this! You and me!”

  Rico suddenly hauled me out of my chair and pushed me away, sending me staggering across the room. “Since when did some woman tell you what to do?” He slammed his hands into my chest, sending me staggering again. I could feel the heat of the fire behind me. “Think, Angelo! Snap out of this, because I can’t protect you anymore!”

  I took a deep breath and went to straighten my lapels, trying to hold in my rage. But my suit jacket wasn’t there, just my leather jacket and t-shirt, mocking me for dreaming of a different path. “Irina—”

  “Fuck Irina!” Rico yelled. And he gave me another shove. My foot clattered awkwardly on the hearth and then my heels kicked against the logs in the fire, raising a cloud of sparks. Burning pain shot up my ankle as the flames licked at me. I staggered sideways, slapping at my singed jeans, just as Rico’s fist caught me under the chin.

  I spun and crashed down onto the table, sending pictures of Irina and me spilling onto the floor. Then Rico was hauling me up by the throat and slamming me against the wall with the fireplace again. The back of my head mashed against the big mirror that hung above the hearth. The backs of my legs prickled with heat from the roaring fire.

  Rico stepped back, drew his gun and pointed it at my head. “Ever since you met her,” he muttered. “Ever since the day you met her, you’ve been—” He was talking almost to himself, trying to justify what he was about to do. He shook his head and cocked the gun. “I never thought a woman would come between us,” he said.

  And I suddenly saw the jealousy in his eyes. Shit! How could I have done this to him? “Rico—”

  He pulled the trigger.

  Pain exploded in my head. The whole room seemed to shake as the gunshot reverberated. I waited for everything to go dark. But Rico just stood there, anger and hurt twisting his face, the smoke still rising from his gun.

  Blood was trickling down the back of my neck. I slowly turned around and looked at the mirror. There was a bullet hole a few inches to the left of where my head had been, cracks fanning out around it. A few slivers of mirror were missing—the ones that had erupted out and slashed at my neck. I could see Rico staring at me in the mirror, just as he must have been able to see himself.

  “Get out,” he said coldly. “Get out of the city. Get out of the country. I’ll tell The Saints I killed you, but I can’t ever see you again.”

  There was nothing more I could say. I turned and walked out of the door without looking back.

  41

  Irina

  I drove slowly—putting off the inevitable, I guess. So the news about Yuri reached Vasiliy before we did. When we arrived, he was already pacing the hallways, his anger obvious in the heavy slam of his feet against the tiles. We walked through the door and heard him rushing to the top of the stairs to see who it was. I braced myself for the shouting to begin—

  But for a second, he just looked relieved. “Irina!”

  I’d been looking at the floor, too afraid to meet his eyes. I looked up and the expression on his face made my heart ache. He’d been so worried about me, he’d forgotten his anger for a moment. He still loves me….

  Then he seemed to catch himself and he started down the stairs, his expression growing darker and darker. “What the fuck is going on? The three of you go to Irina’s house to get clothes, you don’t come back for hours and then the hospital calls to say Yuri’s close to death!”

  I braced myself again. This was where Mikhail would tell Vasiliy what happened.

  “We were at Irina’s house,” said Mikhail calmly. “Yuri got a phone call—I don’t know who from. He drove off in a cab. When he didn’t come back, we took his car and came back here. What happened to him?”

  I stared at him, slack-jawed. I hadn’t realized what a good liar he could be.

  Vasiliy’s face twisted in rage. “Some bastard stabbed him, right in the heart. Probably one of the Italians. When I find out who, I’ll personally gut the bastard.”

  Mikhail shook his head. “Why would they kill Yuri?” he asked. “More likely, it was someone Yuri’s had dealings with in the past. He had plenty of enemies.”

  “Has!” corrected Vasiliy. He closed his eyes. “They’re operating on him. But the damage to his heart was severe. He may not survive.” His fists were tight, white-knuckled balls of rage. “I’ll kill the man who did this,” he whispered. “I’ll make it fucking slow.”

  Mikhail nodded and put a hand on Vasiliy’s shoulder. It made me sick: he’d use even this moment of horror to wheedle his way into Vasiliy’s affections. “I’ll help you track him down,” he said. Then, while Vasiliy’s eyes were still closed, he turned and looked at me.

  I frowned back at him. Why are you doing this? Mikhail hated Angelo. Why would he cover for him? But his expression was unreadable.

  Vasiliy sighed and opened his eyes. He suddenly looked very tired: of all the death and suffering I’d seen him face in his career, Yuri’s stabbing was hitting him hardest of all. Only the death of his wife had broken him like this. And me betraying him, I reminded myself viciously. Yuri had been the one rock he’d had left to cling to. No wonder he was lost...and furious. “It is too dangerous here,” he said. “Irina, you must go back to Moscow immediately.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but he cut me off. “No arguments.” Then he turned to Mikhail. “And you will go with her. Your name is all over the news. The police want to talk to you. I told you you were getting your hands too dirty! I will handle things here. You will return when things have calmed down.”

  I expected Mikhail to argue—New York was his territory. But he slowly nodded. Some time in Moscow was better than years in jail.

  I finally found my voice. “I’m not going back to Moscow,” I told Vasiliy, throwing a look at Mikhail. “I—”

  Mikhail put a big, possessive hand on my shoulder. I turned to snap at him but something in his eyes made me hesitate. “If I could have a word with Irina in private?” he asked.

  Vasiliy sighed and waved us away. Mikhail ushered me into the sumptuously-furnished drawing room. He turned to close the door behind us. “Look,” I said as we both turned to face each other. “I don’t know why—”


  He swung and slapped me across the face. His hands were like hams and he put all his anger and frustration into it. I flew sideways, falling into the big leather couch, my cheek blazing with pain.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

  I slowly opened my eyes and stared at him in shock and outrage. Was he crazy?! Vasiliy would—

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Mikhail. “You are going to come to Moscow with me. In fact, you’re going to move in with me. You and I are going to get to know each other very well.”

  And suddenly I saw it. How could I have been so naive?

  “You’re going to do exactly what I say,” he said. “Everything I say. Or Vasiliy’s going to find out that Angelo killed Yuri. He’ll hunt him down like a dog and torture him. You’ve never seen Vasiliy when he’s vengeful. Your boyfriend will beg for death. And he doesn’t have his mafia friends to protect him anymore.”

  What? “What did you do?” I croaked.

  “I sent photos of the two of you together to Angelo’s bosses,” said Mikhail sweetly. “They’ll have pushed him out by now.”

  I opened my mouth to scream at him, but suddenly that big, clammy hand was across my mouth, pushing me back into the couch while my legs kicked uselessly in the air. “I told you to shut up!” he said testily.

  I could barely breathe. His big, flabby hand half-blocked my nostrils and I couldn’t suck in enough air. I stared up at him in panic. For all his being out of shape, he was much bigger than me...and now he had something he could hold over me like an axe.

  “Will you be good?” he asked.

  I nodded, tears in my eyes.

  He released his hand.

  “Vasiliy won’t believe I...like you,” I croaked.

  Mikhail straightened his suit. “Not now,” he said. “You’ll tell him that you’re coming to Moscow under my protection. But over the next few months, you’ll start to spin him a story: you’re getting to know me, you’re starting to fall in love with me…in six months, you’ll tell him we’re getting married.”

  He leaned close so that he could whisper. “But actually? You’ll be in my bed every night, starting tonight. I’m going to enjoy violating his little princess in every way there is, and I’ll teach you to fucking obey. I don’t really care if you ever love me or not. But you’ll marry me into Vasiliy’s fortune and you’ll give me a couple of kids to seal the deal. Within a few years, I’ll run New York and Moscow.”

  “I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t make him believe that.”

  “Oh, yes you can, Irina. You’ve already shown me what a good liar you are. You managed to string me along while you were really fucking that Italian piece of shit. I think you can convince Vasiliy of anything you want...and you’d better, or Angelo’s going to die.”

  We stared at each other. I knew he was right. I would lie to Vasiliy and I’d do a good job of it, too. I had to.

  The nightmare I’d always feared was coming to pass, but it was far worse than I’d ever imagined. I was going back to Moscow and marrying a gangster...but it wasn’t just some suitor I didn’t love. It was a man who hated me as much as he lusted after me, who’d spend every night finding new ways to cause me pain. And I couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t complain, or the man I did love would die.

  I drew in a long, shuddering breath and willed the tears to draw back from my eyes. I had to use every scrap of Malakov ice to get through this. I had to wear that mask like never before. “Is my face red?” I asked Mikhail.

  “What?”

  “Is my face red, you son of a bitch? Where you slapped me?”

  He slowly grinned. “Only a little. It hasn’t bruised yet.”

  I stood up. “Then I should do this now.”

  He didn’t try to stop me rising. He knew I was under his control, now. He sprawled on the couch as I walked to the door, his eyes on my ass.

  I found Vasiliy in his study, looking at a map of New York. He was already planning where he was going to strike the Italians next: which businesses to burn, which politicians and police to bribe or threaten to bring their empire down. I remembered what I’d said to Angelo: this was going to turn into a bloodbath without him as leader...and now that had actually come to pass.

  Why hadn’t I run with him when I had the chance? By now, we could have been in the air, on our way to another country. I’d given that up to try to do the right thing and now the war was beyond our control anyway.

  Vasiliy turned and looked at me. “What?” he snapped, still leaning over the table. Then he frowned at my expression and straightened up, turning to face me properly. “What?” he asked again, his voice softer.

  Just tell him. If he knew how Mikhail was blackmailing me, he’d destroy him.

  But not before Mikhail could tell him what happened to Yuri. Mikhail would die, but so would Angelo.

  “I’ve thought about it,” I said. “I’ll go to Moscow. But I don’t want to be all by myself, in your house. I want to go to Mikhail’s place.”

  Vasiliy’s brow knitted. “Irina, you hate Mikhail. Don’t think I don’t see it in your face, every time you look at him.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve realized I need to make sacrifices. And I need someone who can protect me. I might even grow to like him.”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “I know I tried to push you together. But I want you to be happy.”

  I shook my head and pulled him into a hug. It was the only way I could hide my tears. “I will be,” I said. It horrified me that I could lie so well to someone I loved so much.

  But it was nothing compared to what I’d have to do next.

  42

  Angelo

  I walked. I guess I could have called a cab but I was too broken, too emotionally wrung-out, to get my phone out. The highways were plowed, but not the grass beside them where I had to walk. The snow was knee deep and, as the afternoon wore on, it started to snow again. My leather jacket and the sweater beneath it turned white but I didn’t even bother to zip the jacket closed. The cold felt good. Numbing.

  The fire that had always driven me had gone out. I’d failed my dad—his territory might stay in Italian hands but it would be a wasteland by the end of it, a ghetto where no one wanted to raise their kids or run a business. I’d failed Rico, my best friend, abandoned him for a woman and put him in an unwinnable position. He’d likely die, in the war to come. As would all my men.

  I’d lost everything. I’d been fighting my whole life and now I couldn’t fight at all. I didn’t have anything to fight for. I felt utterly cold inside, save for one bright spark.

  Irina.

  We couldn’t stop the war, now, but maybe, when this was all over, I could contact her and convince her to run away with me. It was a slim hope, but it was all that kept me going.

  My phone rang. I pulled it out. “Yeah?”

  I knew it was her as soon as she breathed. That’s how well I knew her, now: I could see the tremble of her lips as she inhaled, feel the rise of her firm breasts against my chest. I knew it was her and I knew she was on the edge of tears. “Irina?”

  “...I need to go away,” she said at last. Her voice was haunting, deep dark pain dredged up from her soul and shaped into words. “Back to Moscow.” She inhaled again and I heard her voice catch. “I can’t see you again.”

  What? There was an iron band around my chest and it was slowly constricting. I sank down and sat on the grass, the snow soaking through my jeans. “Why?”

  She took a deep, pained breath. “Too many people are going to die. Yuri will probably die. Because of us.”

  “But...us being apart: that won’t change anything!”

  “No. But maybe it’ll make it right. We should never have been together. I should be with a Russian. You should find some Italian girl.”

  “I don’t want some Italian girl!”

  “We don’t get to choose, Angelo. This isn’t a fairy tale and people like us don’t get happy endings. We do what we have to do.” H
er voice caught again. “I’m going. Stay safe.”

  “Irina—”

  “Goodbye.” And the line went dead. I sat there staring at the phone, snowflakes drifting down to melt on the screen. What?!

  I called her back. She didn’t answer. I tried again and again until she finally turned her phone off.

  It made no sense. Not unless the others—Rico and Vasiliy and Yuri—had been right all along. Not unless this thing we had was stupid and impossible and she’d finally woken up to all that.

  What if they were right? What if I’d been lost in some fucking romantic dream that was never going to end well? What if I’d lost everything...for nothing? People like us don’t get happy endings.

  That last spark of light and warmth went out and I just went...cold.

  I got up and started to walk towards the city, but I’d stopped noticing how tired my legs were, or how bitterly cold the air was. I started to see why Irina liked the cold so much. If you got cold enough, you stopped feeling anything.

  It was late morning by the time I stumbled into Little Italy. I saw the smoke and the blue and red lights long before I got there. Russian gangs were out: not just Mikhail’s people but the street rats, the hangers-on, anyone who had an axe to grind or who just wanted a good fight. They ran straight past me. I was covered in snow, my neck was bloody and I was stumbling along on legs I could barely feel anymore. They probably mistook me for a homeless guy who’d been mugged.

  I looked at the streets I’d once ruled. There was the coffee shop where the owner had given Irina and me an espresso. There was the indoor market where a lady had wrapped a scarf around my neck. Everything was either burning, smashed or daubed with graffiti.

  I had to know why. I didn’t understand what Irina had done to me. I remembered being strong, being unbeatable. I’d once accused her of working witchcraft on me and that’s what it felt like, like she’d reached right down into my heart and rewired it so I only cared about her. She was gone, but that didn’t change the way I felt. I needed to understand.