Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  My eyes widen. “What do we do now?”

  “Now, we go after head of snake.” His eyes gleam and I wish, for the millionth time in my life, that I could read emotion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  VASILY

  “It is very small and not white,” I say in apology. The flat I’ve brought Naomi to is barely larger than the train cars we traveled on in Italy. “It is a place that is safe.” I debate whether I should share the routes of escape and the cache of weapons but decide against it. I will not be gone long. “I have a meeting and then I will take you to Lake Ladoga. We are only three hundred meters from the Solnechnaya Station should you wish to leave,” I add. “There is a park across the street. In Russia, dollars are accepted everywhere. Euros too.”

  She runs a hand lightly across the gray stone counter that separates the foyer from the kitchen. Beyond the stove and small refrigerator is a table and beyond that a bed. Nothing else besides clothes, cash, and guns are present.

  “I like that it’s small,” she says, moving farther into the single room. She drops onto the bed and smooths the coverlet she has wrinkled. My heart tightens at the vision of her in my small space. The need to succeed is greater now for I want her here, with me, always. We have not talked much of tomorrow, only that the idea of the cool, white dacha in the north appeals to her. But how long will she stay there? How long will she want to be with me if her existence is threatened at every juncture? Peace will not be won with a simple painting but instead through violence. I can only pray that it is not her blood nor mine that flows. No, praying is not my only tool. I flex my hand.

  I’ve been the killer of the Bratva for two decades. I came to them when I was ten. Alexsandr, the old warlord, trained me to think as well as kill.

  Elena taught me to hate.

  This woman? She is teaching me to . . . love.

  For her, for my sister, I will find peace for us if I have to kill everyone in the south of Moscow to achieve it.

  “And I don’t mind sitting here because it has only your germs. Your germs are ok but I have access to a lot of money so we can buy a bigger place if you like.” She looks at me through a veil of lashes. “If you aren’t mad at me for screwing up in the club, that is.”

  “Nyet,” I say fiercely. In two strides I have her hands in mine. She does not look at me, of course, but I do not care. She sees me all the same. “You were brave. Very brave. Put it out of your head, Naomi. I am sorry that you had to see those things. I should be whipped for taking you there.”

  “But you’d like that.” She grins to herself, so pleased at the small joke she has made.

  Worry gives way to laughter for I cannot hold back my smiles at her amusement “Yes, perhaps that is no punishment. Then I should be tormented in another way.”

  “Why do you like it? I’ve figured out you don’t like to be touched softly and that the harder I bite or scratch you, the better it is. I guess that makes you a masochist.” She answers her own questions as she is wont to do. “Does that make me a sadist because I like it when you get excited?”

  “These labels mean nothing, Naomi. I like your firm touch because it is yours. Nothing else.” It’s not a full truth, but I do not feel like explaining my sordid past to her. She would stare at me in horror and disgust much as she did the donkey fucker if she knew what I have done.

  She shrugs. “You haven’t talked much since we left Venice. I figured you were pissed off. I can’t read people well, remember?”

  I squeeze her hands tightly. “I do not wish to cause you more distress. Elena Petrovich has summoned me. I must go and see what it is that she wants. Once that is over, I will take you away and we will begin to reconstruct the dacha.” I walk to the kitchen and open the sink door. Under the sink I pull off a taped brick of cash. “There are dollars and euros here if you need them.”

  Naomi barely looks at the cash. She’s rubbing a pattern in the bed covering and appears lost in the motion. I gather my gun and an extra magazine. Undoubtedly Elena will have me searched, but I will bring these regardless.

  “Is that who called you on the phone when we arrived?”

  “Da, it was.”

  “Who is she?” It’s whispered and I almost miss her question.

  I hesitate as I have brought so much filth to Naomi that I regret exposing her to even more, but she deserves to know. She deserves to know who she has taken into her body, who professes to keep her safe.

  “She is the daughter of the old Bratva pakhan or boss. She is one of the last true Petrovichs. The rest of us are . . .” I search for the right word. “Fostered into the family and given roles. When I joined, my sister and I were given to Elena until I proved I could be a fierce soldier, so then I became boyevik. Boyeviks are the footmen of the family. We enforce the will of the Petrovichs. When Sergei comes to power after his father’s death, he makes me head soldier—but he does not trust me and rightly so because I plot his death. Once he is dead, I think, then I no longer am the Bratva soldier because we are of the old ways. A woman cannot lead the men. I say this not because women are weak but because Russian men—we are closed minded. But the old guard does not turn to me. They say I am not a Petrovich no matter that I have spent two decades in their service. And I cannot kill Elena so closely after Sergei’s death or no one will trust me. So when the council places this test before me—obtain this painting—I accept the challenge and cling to the idea that it can bring about a painless revolution. But I am returned. The painting must be in Elena’s hands, so I will go to her, see what kind of threat she presents, and return.

  “Sounds dangerous. Maybe I should go with you.” She continues to rub a pattern in the sheets.

  “Nyet. Stay and wait for me. I will return to you shortly.” I hold my breath. Wait for me forever, no matter what, is what I want to plead but I do not. I cannot. She inclines her head and I take that small agreement with me all the way to the exclusive neighborhood that houses Elena.

  When Elena Petrovich is in the city, she stays in a grand penthouse flat on Ostozhenka, the “Golden Mile.” When her father was alive, they lived off Tverskaya, where the tsars once inhabited palatial homes, but the old staid flats of velvet and gilt-covered ceiling reliefs were thrown away for a modern residence of gleaming chrome and marble.

  “Vasily Kuznetsov Petrovich,” I announce myself on the intercom. The doorman nods his head and points his white-gloved hand toward the far elevator. I watch as he keys in the code for the penthouse.

  Elena’s manservant—a boy no more than fifteen by his budding facial hair—greets me with a short bow when the elevator arrives at the top floor. The marble floor and walls are blindingly white. There is hardly a speck of color in the main living room. On the floor is a plush white rug, and there are low-slung white leather couches that are positioned to showcase the view of the city.

  “Vasya! Finally you are here,” Elena cries, flying toward me in rush of silk, brown hair, and Chanel perfume. Elena has always worn Chanel. The scent makes me sick. “You must see my latest acquisition. I just received it yesterday.”

  She takes my hand and leads me down a hallway that opens off the entrance. The door to a walnut-paneled office is open. Inside there is a glittery white and glass—or perhaps in Elena’s case crystal—desk, a white leather chaise lounge, and two chairs. To the right of the desk is the triptych, hung with the center panel elevated. “What do you think?” Her sly smile challenges me but I do not rise to her bait.

  “I think that to hang it in your study invites unwanted questions.” The security in Elena’s apartment is something I oversaw. It will be easy enough for me to take it from her.

  “Now Vasya, don’t pout. The owner called me the other day and asked why the Petrovich wolf was after him. I played dumb because I did not know why you are chasing all over Italy for some mat painting.”

  The real purpose of the errand reveals itself. The council sent me on this trip hoping I would not only fail but be killed in the process.
Have they been working with Elena all along, and when I got too close to achieving what they thought was impossible, the strings were pulled and I was yanked back to Russia? Or are there only a few betrayers?

  The only thing that prevents me from leaving is the possibility that Elena will reveal all to me as she gloats.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted this painting? I would have procured it for you.”

  “My task was to procure it for the Bratva. If it was just a test, then it appears I have succeeded. I found it and it is now returned to the bosom of the family.”

  Her tight smile betrays her frustration, and she fists her hands as if she would like to punch me. Oh my dear Elena, not as much as I would like to choke the life out of you.

  “Vasya, I feel like you are drifting away from me. I heard you had a companion with you at several establishments that I didn’t think you would like to visit. Perhaps you have changed in the years you have served as a soldier for my family?”

  “I am the same as I always was,” I reply, but I employ serious concentration to prevent a shudder of fear from showing. I do not want Naomi to be known by this woman.

  “You have secrets from me, and I do not like that.” She sits on the chaise and toes off her red-soled stilettos. “Must I remind you that we arranged for you to move from warrior to general together? I fear you have forgotten all that I have done for you.” Her words are heavy with disappointment. “After all, how many stupid little street boys are sent to be educated at Cambridge?”

  “It was your brother that promoted me after Alexsandr’s death.”

  “But it was me that told him to do that and you know it!” she exclaims and stamps her foot. “Look at all I have done for you! You are the only Petrovich street boy to go to Cambridge. I arranged for that and for your sister. I did that, Vasya, so that you and I together could run this family.” Her tone turns cold, sharp like the point of an icicle. “But here you are, running off to Italy on some treasure hunt. You should have come to me the moment the council presented you with this challenge. You do not need a mystical painting to secure the Bratva as your own. You need me and me alone. The fact that you went on this hunt without warning or consultation makes me concerned that you have lost your way.”

  So then only a few betrayers on the council. Someone—Thomas, Kliment—revealed the council’s offer to me and Elena, fearful of the possible loss of her status, intervened.

  “I serve the Bratva, not just one person with the organization. This was the council’s edict.”

  “You should just kill them like you killed my brother.”

  We stare at each other, because this is the first time she has voiced the suspicion that others must have held.

  “I did not kill your brother. That was done by Nikolai Andrushko, and we have disposed of him.”

  “I’m having trouble trusting you,” she pouts. Her one foot rubs up against the calf of her opposite leg. Elena is a beautiful woman. No doubt other men would respond, but I have nothing inside me for her but hate. “I need you to prove your loyalty once more. Like you did when I asked you to kill your sister.”

  Yes, she needs to die. I will kill her and take Naomi and disappear. There are other places in this world that are quiet and remote.

  I hear a rustling and see the silk of her dress pool on the floor, and I’m thrown back to the early days of my time here when my cock responded to a woman’s touch without much understanding. When my body responded to vile stimuli and I learned to hate myself.

  My stomach clenches and my balls shrivel. Already I feel contaminated—like Naomi with the blood of the donkey fucker smeared over her. It has been so long since I’ve been commanded to perform for her. I can hardly believe she wants me again. I am too old, scarred, and hairy for her and have been since I was fourteen. That was when she decided that Alexsandr could have me. My thick fingers and hairy balls displeased her. It was one of the best days of my life.

  “What do you ask of me?”

  Her laughter trills out. “I am giving you a choice, Vasya, because I care about you.” She claps her hands and this time I look up. A young naked boy is led into the room by the manservant. The boy is ten, perhaps eleven? It is hard for me to tell. He is prepubescent. There is no hair anywhere but on his head.

  My throat tightens and my tongue feels thick. He looks at me with luminous eyes. Fear is there as well as disgust and confusion. His member is stiff and red. The young manservant barely older than the captive does not look at anyone but his hand is fisted at his side.

  “Come in my dears, you are blocking the entrance.” Elena motions the two boys farther into the room. Two more people enter and this time I can barely hold my bile down. It is a terrified Naomi being led by Ylofa Yavlinksy, a thug brought in off the streets and well known for his delight in raping women. I had planned on executing him and a few others when I seized control of the Bratva.

  At the sight of Naomi in their grasp, fear rushes over me followed quickly by rage. I am willing to sacrifice but to require it from the pure Naomi who has done nothing but to love me? No, this injustice cannot be born. I want to leap forward and tear Ylofa’s neck open like a true wolf and devour him.

  I will torture him. I will keep him alive in the basement of a dacha in the woods and visit him monthly to renew his wounds. He will beg for death and I will not give it to him.

  Naomi has one hand on her baseball cap and her lips are moving. She is seeking inner strength and I pray that she finds it.

  Whatever Elena wants, I shall do. I shall do this and then wash myself for three days and beg for forgiveness. I shall do this and return to take the painting, and once I have delivered the painting to Dostonev, Elenaida Petrovich will be on the shelf of grotesqueries.

  “Ahh, we are all here. This is so wonderful.” Elena claps again. “Vasya, here is your loyalty test. You have three choices. My new initiate, Grigory, can pleasure me. He is ten years old and has only had a few lessons. Perhaps you could give him instruction on how to touch me? After all, I never had as good of a student as you.” Naomi flinches at this. She will never let me touch her again. “Or, you can watch as Ylofa rapes your woman. That would be less physically pleasurable for me, but perhaps as entertaining. I do not know. We will have to test it out.”

  “What is the other option?” I ask. Nothing she requests of me will be too much so long as the others can go.

  Elena clucks her tongue. “Always the protector, eh? It is so strange to me that you and Nikolai have such strong protector instincts when all you have been trained to do is kill. Why do you care about this blyad and mudak? They are disposable. One woman? One boy? They can all be replaced. But you, Vasya, you are important to me. I’ve trained you, educated you, and positioned you to lead the Bratva with me at your right hand—your consigliere—to use an Italian term in keeping with your little vacation.” She giggles.

  “What is the third option?” I repeat.

  Sighing, she opens a drawer and draws out a slender filet knife. “You are made a eunuch. If you are so willing to sacrifice yourself, then you sacrifice your manhood and you once again become my volk, for what woman would have you?” She smirks. “Ylofa will not take your cock, of course. That is unnecessary. He will only cut open your sac and remove your balls.”

  I stare at Naomi, for she is staring at me. The blue of her eyes is so pure—like heaven. “Would you still have me?” I ask. Her brows furrow but I tell her with my eyes that I will have hands to touch her and a mouth to kiss her. I can pleasure her with my fingers, tongue, and toys. I do not need my cock as long as she will accept me once we are finished here.

  She widens those blue spheres until they are all I see. There is no Bratva or Moscow or Russia or Elena. There is also no rejection as I feared. Her stare is one of acceptance and . . . love? I am unsure exactly what is there but it welcomes me, forgives me, comforts me.

  “I will do it,” I say to Elena but I refuse to look away from Naomi. “Allow the others to lea
ve and you may take whatever you like from my body.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Earlier . . .

  NAOMI

  I am not as fond of Russia as I had hoped.

  Vasily left me in the apartment alone. For an hour or two, I was entertained. I found cleaning supplies. I scrubbed. I straightened things. I organized the few dishes in the kitchen. I washed linens. Cleaned the tiny fridge. And then I got bored.

  There is no Internet in this place, and my newest laptop is utterly useless without it. Vasily must connect through a cell phone service, but there is no Wi-Fi for me to tap into. We are too remote. I fiddle with my computer for a bit anyhow, coding theoretical scripts and imagining the results once launched, but it’s useless if you can’t test anything, and I quickly tire of this game. I could use my phone as a hot spot, but it would be too slow for me to do anything productive. I pout.

  Vasily was still gone, so I call my brother Daniel to say hello.

  “About fucking time,” he greets me. “I was hoping to hear from you again sooner. I thought you were going to call me back when you were in Italy. How come I’m suddenly a millionaire? Ten times over?”

  “I cleaned out a few accounts of Vasily’s competition.”

  “And sent it to me? Do you hate me that much?” His voice raises a little in anger and I hear a feminine voice murmur to him on the other end of the phone.

  “I don’t hate you at all. I’m surprised you think that.”

  “Sarcasm, sis. Sarcasm.”

  “Oh. Well, don’t worry, you paid an estate tax penalty on things. It all will look very clean on your banking records.”

  “Jesus Hermione Christ, Naomi. You can’t just hand me illegal money like that. I near about had a fucking heart attack at the sight of it.”

  “You should get your cholesterol checked,” I advise him. “You’re far too young to have a heart attack. How is Regan? Does she like the ranch?”

  “Regan is beautiful and kind and charming and gracious and she has the best ass in tight jeans I have ever seen.” I hear a feminine chuckle on the other end of the phone. “She’s also standing right here. Do you want to talk to her?”