by SC Daiko
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Strolling alongside Mama, I hug my coat around my body. Fall has well and truly arrived. The nights have drawn in and the days are getting colder. Time is passing, and my baby is growing; he's curious about everything and keen to play and explore. He's so active; he's even started running and I love how he keeps giving me cuddles and kisses. Problem is, I seem to be living my life in limbo while I wait for Gleb to tell me when we can be a proper family. I pull out my phone and check for a message from him.
Nothing.
I'm impatient and it's driving me crazy.
"How's Papa?" I ask Mama to distract myself. "How is the dance studio doing?"
"He misses you, my dear. But he's working really hard. The investment Gleb made in the business, paying for proper advertising and a re-fit, has made all the difference." Mama's eyes glow. "Papa has so many new students he'll soon have to take on more staff."
"Awesome," I say. "And you? Have you gotten over the trauma of what happened at Gleb's?"
She stops pushing Kir's stroller and turns to face me, opening her arms and hugging me. "It was all Vadim's fault. He was a monster and I'm glad he's gone. I'm only sorry Olga had to lose Dmitry. He was a good man."
My heart aching, I agree with her. We carry on with our stroll and soon we arrive at the park.
"Wanna walk," Kir calls out.
"Say, please, sinochek."
"Wanna walk please," he whines, and I bend to unbuckle him.
Autumn leaves whirl in the air, and he chases after them, laughing. I laugh with him and so does Mama. It feels good not to be watched over by a boyevik day and night. At first, I was still terrified, frightened of my own shadow, and even now I keep a lookout for any danger... I can't help it. But Gleb wouldn't let Kir and me live here on our own if he wasn't confident we'd be okay.
He's deliberately kept away from us. Mama is careful and makes sure she isn't followed. We shouldn't be a target.
I look over my shoulder, just to be sure, and blow out a relieved breath; there are only a few people around and none of them appear suspicious. Except, how would I know what counts as suspicious? I cross my arms tightly over my chest.
A large bird swoops down from the tree above us, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Jesus, will there be no end to this paranoia?
The phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans.
I reach for it.
Gleb.
I'll be with you at around eight this evening, he messages, and my heart freaking leaps.
A wide grin spreads across my face.
"Good news?" Mama winks.
I hug her. "The best."
Kir has taken forever to settle; he must have picked up on my excitement. Eventually, he fell asleep and I've had a bath, shaving every inch of my body before washing and drying my hair. I'm waiting in the living room by the crackling log fire, memories of the first time Gleb and I made love sending my pulse racing. He'd made me beg for him, and I'd swallowed my pride and had done so. I knew then it was doubtful our story would have a happily-ever-after ending. Can I let myself hope for one now?
The doorbell chimes. "Kiska?" Gleb's baritone voice gives me tickles inside; I open the door to him.
I'm enveloped in his strong arms, his nose pressing on the top of my head as he breathes me in. He tilts my chin up and melds his mouth to mine. My breath catches, and I slide my tongue along his bottom lip, feeling him harden against my belly. I arch up on the tips of my toes, kissing him deeper.
"God, Elousha. Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya skuchal po tebe," he groans.
"I love you and I've missed you too, Gleb." My arms loop around his neck as he pulls me against him.
Our heads switch sides, our tongues dancing, our lips sliding. The chemistry burning between us crackles like electricity.
We cling to each other, breathless, stumbling then stabilizing. My hands clutch at his hair, tugging; his fingernails dig into my hips, yanking me closer.
He sucks my tongue, biting down as I fuse my leg to his, wedging myself against his hardness.
I want to crawl into him.
He grips me tighter, marching me backwards, kissing me until my spine presses against the wall. He thrusts his pelvis and my teeth nip at his mouth, my tongue desperate for more.
Our kiss has become frantic and so fucking hot. Except, without warning, he breaks away and holds me at arm's length.
"Can I see Kir?" he rasps.
"Of course," I smile at his impatience, take his hand and lead him upstairs.
We stand by our son's bed, watching him sleep, his little chest rising and falling with each breath, my old teddy at his side.
Gleb bends and kisses his forehead, then pulls the comforter up to tuck it under his chin.
"We need to talk, Elousha," he whispers.
I take down to the living room, offer him something to drink... which he declines. "How are you feeling?" I sit next to him on the sofa and trace my finger down his sunken cheek.
"All the better for seeing you." He threads his fingers through mine and plants a kiss on the inside of my wrist. "It will take up to a year for me to be fully recovered, but Dr. Hughes says I'm making excellent progress."
I cuddle into him, my heart filling with relief and absolute unconditional love. "That's good." I snuggle deeper. "What have you been doing since you got out of hospital?"
"Clearing up the mess left by Vadim." Gleb plays with my hair. "Yuri has carried out most of the work as I'm not physically up to it yet. There's still a lot that needs to be done. The Feds have been sniffing around as well."
"God, I hope that won't mean trouble for you," I gasp.
He places a finger under my chin, lifting my face so he can stare hard into my eyes. "Don’t worry. I've bribed the right people." Gleb seems to be choosing his words carefully. "I'm going to Moscow next week," he adds.
"Why?" My insides flutter. "Won't that be dangerous?"
"I'm meeting my friend, the one I told you about. He can't talk to me over the phone; I need to speak with him in person." Gleb's tone is serious. "I think he might be able to shed some light on Natasha."
Sudden dread grips me. "I don't want you to go. They murder people in Russia, no questions asked."
"Only way I can get guarantees you and my boy will be safe." Gleb holds my arms and heat drenches his eyes, turning the dark blue into electric indigo. "I'd kill myself to protect you."
Hot tears wet my cheeks. "Please, don't let that happen."
He snorts out a bitter laugh. "I'll try not to, but, seriously, you and Kir are the most important people in my life. I've been working hard to sort out a future for us."
"What kind of future?"
"I'm thinking of relocating to Colorado after I've wound up my businesses in Fairwood." He strokes my arm. "I wanted to run it by you first." Before I can say a word, he adds, "I'll set your parents up in Denver. I know you wouldn't want to separate Kir from them."
I grasp the sides of his beard and kiss him, hard. "Will it be safe there?" I tilt my head.
"I'll make damn sure that it is," he growls, pulling me toward him and kissing away my tears. "You, me and Kir belong together, end of story."
I lift his sweater and run my hands up his strong stomach muscles to trace the line of the scar from his wound. I lower my head and kiss it, the ridges hard against the softness of my lips. I was convinced it was getting shot that made Gleb take the sudden decision to leave organized crime, but now I can finally let myself believe his feelings for Kir and me have played the major part. "I love you," I whisper against his warm skin. "Don't you dare get yourself killed in Russia."
"I said I'd try not to," his voice rumbles through his chest.
I look up at him.
This man.
This incredible man.
No longer the Beast, but my soulmate.
Prepared to give up the Vory life for me and our son.
"Make love to me, Gleb."
And he do
es.
Twenty-Six
Gleb
The Aeroflot flight from JFK to Moscow's Sheremetyevo International Airport will take just over nine hours. I didn't want to draw attention to my visit, so I've decided to not to charter a private jet. It's strange hearing my mother tongue being spoken by the cabin crew and listening to the captain's announcements in Russian. A foretaste of my imminent arrival in the country of my birth, but it doesn't sit well with me. With a shudder I remember my father once said, "In Russia they kill you," words I repeated to my brother twelve years ago and echoed by Eva last week. I run a hand through my hair.
Yuri and I are traveling business; we took the last flight of the day... so we could get some shuteye... which is what we do after we've eaten dinner. Or at least Yuri does: he's snoring in the seat next to me as if he doesn't have a care in the world, but I'm carrying too many burdens from the past to drop off to sleep that easily.
I remember when I arrived in the U.S., not long after my parents and Daniel's first wife were murdered, I established myself in the Russian enclave of Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, also known as 'Little Odessa'. Using the cash that I inherited from Papa, and contacts I'd made, I set up a cigarette smuggling operation and soon became involved in helping to run an illegal gambling establishment. I got out of there just in time, following a tip-off that someone had grassed to the Feds.
That tip-off came from Roman. He warned me investigators were getting close to identifying me; he also told me that the Boss of all the Vory, our so-called godfather, wanted me to move to Fairwood and divide the turf with Vadim. I didn't argue and neither did Vadim; when the Boss of Bosses gives orders, everyone jumps to obey. Life settled down after that, more or less, until Vadim started rocking the boat and Natasha showed up.
I squirm in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I catch sight of a tall, blonde flight attendant sashaying down the aisle of the airplane. She bends and gives me 'the eye'. "Can I get you anything, sir?"
I know that look; in the past, I would have taken her up on it, asked her on a date after we'd landed, treated her to an expensive dinner then invited her back to my hotel and fucked her. "No, thanks," I say in a gruff tone.
I watch her make her way along the cabin. Tight red pencil skirt. Jacket nipped in at her trim waist. I picture how Eva would appear dressed like that; she'd be so goddamn sexy. An empty sensation spreads over me; I miss my kitten so much.
Closing my eyes, I slip back in time to that night when I visited her seven days ago, when she'd asked me to make love to her.
I'd tried to start off slow and gentle. She'd writhed on the sofa as I licked her. But I didn't just lick her, I devoured her. I pushed two fingers inside her pussy while my teeth nipped at her clit. My tongue had speared deep and I'd murmured, "You're mine, Kiska. No one will take you away from me, so help me God."
She'd come apart, her swollen cunt clenching against my mouth, her hands pulling my hair as she'd cried out my name. I'd slid up her luscious body, breathing in her green apple scent and slotting my hips into hers to bury myself balls deep. Then I'd silenced her gasp with a possessive kiss.
We'd rocked in harmony, faster and harder as our bodies demanded more. We couldn't get enough of each other. Our fingers had grasped, teeth had bitten, and we'd clamped our hands over each other's mouth to silence our moans.
We were completely in tune.
Two halves of one whole.
I'd whispered how much I loved her, how beautiful she was; my eyes had locked on hers and I'd thrust into her over and over, battering the entrance to her womb. On and on, I'd fucked her. On and on, she'd bucked underneath me, digging her nails into my shoulders and mewling like the kitten she is. For the first time ever, we'd climaxed in absolute unison; we'd stilled our rasping breaths with passionate kisses and had declared undying love.
Undying love.
It was and is everything.
Yesterday. Today. And tomorrow.
So. Help. Me. God.
My eyebrows draw together, and I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. Everything hinges on what will happen when I meet Roman. I've hatched a plan in my head, but I have no clue if it will work.
I rub my hand over my dress shirt, tracing the scar in the middle of my chest. I don't like uncertainty. In fact, I fucking hate it.
Our flight arrives on schedule; we go through immigration, pick up our suitcases and trundle them past bored-looking customs officials. The arrivals hall at Sheremetyevo International Airport is busy, but I spot a dark-haired man standing to the side holding up a card with my surname written in bold. Sokolov is a common enough name, but I presume he's the driver Roman said he'd send. My fingers twitch. Yuri and I were unable to fly with our guns, of course, and I'm experiencing withdrawal symptoms from my Glock.
Jesus, fuck, am I walking into the lion's den here? Unabashed, unprepared and unarmed. I almost want to turn around and board the next plane back home.
Except, I'm here to do a job.
To clear the path for a future for Kir, Eva and myself.
I'll see it through.
"I'm Gleb Sokolov," I say to the dark-haired man. "Who sent you?"
He confirms he's been sent by Roman Aulov. We follow him to the parking lot and get into a black BMW. It's already dark in Russia, owing to the time difference and the fact that it's early November. And colder than it was in New Jersey; I'm glad to have my thick overcoat. A dismal gray sky covers the landscape, matched by the grayness of the Soviet-era buildings we pass on our way into the city center. People are cycling on the sidewalks like thirty years ago, but it's a different Moscow to the one I remember. The Muscovites are dressed better and seem more affluent.
Yuri and I are silent throughout the ride, except for the occasional comments as we point out familiar landmarks. We don't know if the driver understands English, and we're certainly not going to discuss anything in front of him in Russian.
Presently, we're dropped off at the Kempinski 5* Hotel, just over the river from the Kremlin. We'll have the view, but we won't be doing any sightseeing; I've booked us on the flight back to JFK tomorrow night; this is just a flying visit. Literally.
At the front desk, the receptionist hands me a brown envelope. I open it and pull out a cell phone.
What the fuck?
The ringtone sounds immediately, and I hold it to my ear. "Welcome home," I recognize Roman's voice by its distinctive rasp from an overindulgence in Laika cigarettes. "Mikhail Vladimirovich would like you and Yuri to meet him this evening. I'll be there as well. He'll send a car to pick you up at seven."
Mikhail Vladimirovich Balandin, the Boss of Bosses.
My pulse rattles in my throat.
Twenty-Seven
Gleb
I've reserved a suite for myself overlooking Red Square; Yuri is in the next room with an interconnecting door. Again, we keep conversation to a minimum, wary of the accommodation possibly being bugged. I stand by the window and gaze at the spot-lit onion-shaped domes of St. Basil's Cathedral. I suck in a quick breath; I'd forgotten how stunning it is.
How I want to phone Eva... I'm missing Kir and her so much my heart hurts. I don't phone her, though; it would be foolhardy. Any call I place in Moscow might be traced. Although I'm not on any wanted lists, as far as I'm aware, the authorities might know I'm associated with Balandin. He lives freely here, due to his connections with people in high places, but I still need to be careful.
After taking a shower, I change into a clean dress shirt and pants. I put on a tie, shrug on my suit jacket, and knock on the connecting door to Yuri's room. "Ready?"
"Ready, Boss," his voice comes through the partition.
I reach for the photo of Papa with Mikhail in Afghanistan I've brought with me. They served together back in the early 1980s when they were conscripted into the Soviet army. I shove the picture in my pocket and head out of the room.
The same driver who drove us here from the airport is waiting for us outside the hotel. He takes us to a high-ris
e apartment block in Mosfilmovskaya Street twenty minutes away. We find Roman in the lobby, grayer and broader than I recall. He grasps my hand in a firm, bone-crushing shake before leading us to the elevator.
"Did you have a good flight?" he asks, tugging at his sleeves as we ride up to the penthouse.
I confirm that we did and enquire politely about the health of his wife and kids.
"They're well." His tone is brusque. "How is your brother?"
An innocent question, but a superfluous one. "He's well, thank you," I answer, "as you know."
Roman smirks in response; it's thanks to his and my so-called godfather's network of spies that my family has been safe all these years.
At the door to Balandin's apartment, a bodyguard checks us for weapons before ushering us inside. I set my jaw, my muscles tightening, as a tall, elderly man approaches.
"It is good to see you Gleb Nikolayevich," Mikhail Balandin uses my patronymic name as well as my first one, given that Papa's name was Nikolai.
Balandin grasps my hand and shakes it. "I remember you when you were a small boy." His words seem friendly, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Even though Mikhail has aged, he's still dangerous. He's involved in weapons dealing, contract murders, extortion, drug trafficking, and prostitution on an international scale. He doesn't refer to our more recent contacts, but simply invites Roman and me to follow him and his henchman through to the living room.
We sit on armchairs and are served Beluga caviar and Vodka by a middle-aged maid dressed in black. "Gleb is here for some answers with respect to the woman who tried to kill him," Roman says. He spoons caviar onto the skin between his index finger and thumb, then licks it off the traditional way.