by Tia Siren
“Because I was worried about what you would think. I could see the headlines: President's daughter drops out.”
“Leave the press to me. When I'm finished with them, they won't dare to mention you anymore,” her father said.
*****
As he was about to leave for the airport, Slava's phone bleeped. It was an email. He opened it and read:
Hi Slava,
Please find attached the first in the series of articles. I hope you like it.
Igor
Slava clicked on the attachment and began to read.
St. Petersburg 2015
Night of Knives - The First in a Series of Articles About the Unsolved Murder of a Woman.
She was a woman in her forties. A woman to whom life had not been at all kind. Neighbors remember her as being slight and extremely pretty. What stood out most, though, was her kindness. She was willing to help anybody, and she regularly looked after some of the older women in the street. The street she lived on was just like most of the other residential streets in St. Petersburg: full of apartment buildings and play areas. It was a close-knit neighborhood where people knew each other and took an interest in each other.
You could be forgiven for thinking that the woman in question worked in a local factory or shop, but you would be wrong. Illona Kuklov was a prostitute. On the night of January 13, 1985, it was bitterly cold, and she had just let her last client of the day out of her apartment. Somewhere around ten p.m., there was a scream. It was a scream that makes those I have interviewed about the incident still have sleepless nights.
When neighbors rushed into her apartment, they found Illona struggling for breath in a pool of her own blood. She had been repeatedly stabbed, and the weapon was still poking from her chest. Illona's murder has remained unsolved, but it shouldn't be. There is more than enough evidence to bring the murderer to trail. Several witnesses, a murder weapon, and a shirt are all pieces of vital evidence that have been ignored by investigators.
This newspaper has uncovered the truth about this gruesome murder, and we are able to reveal that the chief suspect in the murder is Stanislav Kuklov, Illona's son. He is better known today as the Russian Ambassador to the United States of America.
Follow each day this week as we exclusively reveal how this man has avoided arrest for so many years and what can now be done to bring him to trial.
Slava put down his phone and smiled to himself as his plane took off for New York.
*****
“But how do I hold her?” Slava said as he looked at the tiny bundle in his arms.
“Oh, I can see you've got a lot to learn,” Octavia said as she walked up the gangplank on Serene. “Bottle feeding and diaper changes—you can learn the lot.”
“Octavia, come here please,” he said. As he put his arm around her, he kissed her. “You have made me so a happy, I can't tell you. She is so beautiful. I'm afraid I will never be able to give her away to another man like your father did on our wedding day.”
“You will if he's as good a man as you,” Octavia said.
Later that day, Slava received a text message from Igor.
“Judge says he's an animal. Gave him thirty-five years.”
*****
THE END
BWWM Romance - The Russian’s Love Child: Tyra’s Story
“It's okay, Tyra. Hold on to me,” Natalie said as Tyra collapsed into her arms.
Father Smith had told me it would be like this, Tyra thought. But which of the emotions had he meant? The Grief or the guilt? Tyra was experiencing both. Two of the most powerful human emotions were wracking through her at will.
“Tyra, we're so sorry for your loss.” Tyra lifted her head from Natalie's shoulder. It was Mr. and Mrs. Radley Samuels, Tyra's boss and his wife.
“Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.” Tyra hadn’t thought she could speak, but the words came out somehow. Natalie handed her another tissue, and for a moment Tyra could see clearly again. She looked to her left and saw a line of people waiting to express their condolences to her.
“If only I hadn't been so selfish,” Tyra said to Natalie as they walked up the cemetery path. It had taken an eternity to work through the line of mourners, and Tyra was exhausted. “It was foggy, and I knew Dad didn't want to drive that day. It was me, me moaning that they hadn't been to see me in my new home in the city. Lord knows I think I even suggested they weren't interested in me anymore.” She held on to Natalie again as another insufferable wave of guilt rammed into her. “No, I killed them. Dad would never have taken Mom out in the car on a day like that normally.” Natalie didn't know how to comfort her friend. They were both twenty-three and just beginning to make their way in the world. Losing parents wasn't supposed to happen until later in life.
*****
Three weeks after the funeral, Tyra stood outside the jewelry store on West 47th Street and looked at it, really looked at it, for the first time. I've been working here for seven months, and this is the first time I've properly taken the place in, she thought. Grief-stricken and riddled with guilt, she felt her senses had become sharper since the passing of her parents. It was as if someone was making her take notice of the world, making her appreciate what could so easily be torn away in an instant.
West 47th Street was full of jewelry shops, but none as grand as J.P Samuels. They might as well have called it Jewelers to the Rich and Famous, she thought. For that was what it was: a place where the rich came to gorge on expensive stones. The front of the store was imposing. Between the cleanest store windows in New York, there were columns of polished black granite. The entrance was in the middle of the store, and it too was surrounded by shiny black stone. The door itself was made of bulletproof, reinforced glass. What Tyra liked best about the facade was the sign. It was made of copper and ran the length of the store. The background was dark, and the letters that had been forged onto it were polished and stood out better than any other letters on the street.
“Welcome back, Tyra. I'm so sorry to hear about your mom and dad,” Leon said.
“Thanks, Leon. It's very brave of you to say so.” She'd found that most people just turned away from her, not knowing what to say. Not Leon. It was his job to stand inside the door and keep out the undesirables. He was perfectly equipped to do so at six foot seven and two hundred and fifty pounds, but it involved hours of standing in the same place, day after day.
“Tyra, my girl,” Radley Samuels said. He'd been waiting for her. Normally he didn't stand in the shop.
He had others to do that for him. His job was managing the business his grandfather had started. “Come with me.”
Tyra followed him through the store. They walked past glass cabinets filled with beautiful necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings, and watches. At the back of the store, they went through a door and down a corridor. The first door on the right led to a security room. Tyra had never been in the room, but she had seen inside once when the door had been open. It was full of monitors and the latest lockdown systems. It was all high tech, and she didn’t know anything about any of it.
Radley pushed open the first door on the left and showed her into his office. How can anyone spend hours in an office with no daylight? she wondered. There were pictures of his ancestors on one wall and a giant flora vase in the corner. What she liked most about his office was the carpet. It was deep red with the company crest woven into it.
“Tyra, please sit down.” He pointed to a button-backed armchair that stood in front of his mahogany desk. “I want you to tell me how you are feeling. You've been through a lot, and I want to make sure you’re feeling up to working again.” I wish I had a daughter like her, he thought. She's so graceful and kind, yet determined and motivated, he thought.
“Well, honestly speaking, I'm still feeling awful.” You can tell him everything; he cares for you, she told herself as a moment of doubt crept into her mind. “I weep a lot, especially in the evening, and I feel guilty. So guilty.” She noticed how close
ly he was listening to her. The furrows on his forehead were deep with concern for her, and his eyes were looking directly into hers, seeking any sign that a return to work may be too early.
“There is nothing I can say to you that will make you feel better. All I can do is tell you what happened to me when my son was killed.”
Killed? I didn't know he'd had a son, she thought. Knowing that someone close to her had also suffered such a loss and could relate made her feel better.
“My son was only nineteen. He was studying business at New York University and working here on weekends.” He stopped talking for a moment, produced a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his forehead. Tyra knew him to be fifty-nine. He was quite tall and very thin. It was as if he was so involved in his business that he forgot to eat.
He looked at her with a pained expression as he continued. “One morning he left home to go to college, and he never came back again. A man who had been drinking all night decided to get into his car and drive to the apartment of the girlfriend he had left for dead the previous evening. When he fell asleep at the wheel, it was my son he hit.” His voice cracked. “He was just walking down the street, minding his own business.” He took the handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Oh my god. That's awful.” Tyra put her hand to her mouth.
He nodded. Perhaps I shouldn't have burdened her with this, he thought. “At first, everything was a blur. It was only after the funeral had taken place that it really hit me. After the funeral, everyone seems to disappear. All the kind words and supporting arms are no longer there. You are suddenly alone.” He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair and looked at a photo on his desk. Tyra couldn't see who it was of. She assumed his son.
“The undertaker had warned me about it. A deep hole, he'd called it, and I fell into it.” When he paused, Tyra thought about where she was mentally and recognized what he was describing. “The undertaker also explained that there is something called the cycle of grief. You go through stages of grief, and if you are lucky, eventually you come out the other end. The last stage is called the acceptance stage. You stop all the blaming and come to terms with what's happened. Of course, you're still sad, but it gets easier.”
“It's very kind of you to tell me this. I had no idea. I was afraid I would have this level of pain for the rest of my life.” Tyra looked at her hands. Her nails used to be so manicured, she thought.
“When I employed you, Tyra, I saw something in you. You are one of life's good people. I can see you care about people. When you talk to clients, you are patient, and most importantly, you listen to them. Did you know I have no relatives?”
Tyra shook her head.
“No.”
“Well, I don't. Not one, and no friends. There's only my wife and me.” He looked at her and wondered what he was about to say would do to her. “I am going to leave the business to you.” He stared at her, not wanting to miss her reaction.
“Pardon?' Tyra said. She wasn't really in the mood for jokes.
“I am going to leave the business to you,” he repeated.
What the hell is he playing at? She thought. This isn't funny. Doesn't he know I've just buried my parents? She went to stand up, but he put up his hand and stopped her.
“For the last time, Tyra, you will inherit this business.” Someone knocked on the door; it was his wife. “Tell her, Eliana. She doesn't believe me.”
“How are you, Tyra? We are very worried about you,” she said, ignoring her husband's plea for help.
“I've been better.” What are they playing at? she thought. Surely Jewish people don't give things away like this.
“My husband, as you know, isn't given to pranks. We have decided to leave the business to you. Of course, you are young and have only just started in the business, but we see you have what it takes.” She put her hand on Tyra's shoulder and looked into her eyes. “You are intelligent, and you have an enormous appetite for the business. We have never seen anyone with your enthusiasm. We are both sixty next year, and all we have done with our lives is sit in this store.” She looked at her husband and gave him an assertive nod. “In five years’ time we will retire and travel. You will take over as manager, and when we die, it will all be yours. Take the time between now and then to learn all you can about the business.”
“Are you okay to come back to work?” Radley asked. Tyra looked at him and burst into tears. It was a gesture so great that her emotions overflowed.
Eliana sat on the chair arm and put her arm around her. “You have been through a lot, but you have us, and we will help you all we can.”
*****
Tyra started up Google and typed in “The Hope Diamond.” She read: value $350 million dollars, 45 karats, 9.1 grams. “Three hundred and fifty million dollars,” she whispered under her breath.
She and Radley had agreed that she would work in the shop four days a week and spend two other days shadowing him. He'd made a list of things he had to teach her. He hadn't realized how long the list would prove to be. One thing he couldn't teach her was diamond cutting. While he was an expert at grading and valuing gems, he'd never enjoyed using tools. Tyra had told him that she'd go to college in her own time and learn.
“How do you like your desk?” Radley asked as he poked his head into her new office. Tyra wondered if the room had been intended as a broom cupboard when the place was built, but she didn't want to complain. She was grateful it at least had a window and was more than grateful that the Samuelses had seen so much potential in her.
“Lovely thanks. I was just looking up information on the Hope Diamond. It really is quite spectacular.”
He stepped into the office and looked at the picture with her. “It sure is. One of the best diamonds in the world, and it's coming here. I can't quite believe it.”
“Neither can I.” She'd never heard of the program called Diamonds for All before. It was an initiative set up by the National Association of Jewelers with the aim of bringing famous diamonds to places where the public could go and see them. Based on reputation, Radley had been asked if he would like to house the Hope Diamond when it came to New York. His store had the best security of any in the city, and it had a strong room big enough to house a large show cabinet, four security men, and the viewing public.
“Listen, Tyra, I know I said I'd show you the sales figures this afternoon, but Mrs. Johnson has told me she's feeling ill and would like to go home. Can you fill in for her this afternoon?” Tyra nodded.
The shop was divided into departments. Not that the clients would notice. To the untrained eye, the store was one large area full of glass cabinets. To the staff, however, it was different. Usually there were four sales people and two security guards on duty at any one time. Each sales person was responsible for six cabinets. Tyra didn't know why, but she enjoyed working on the cabinets where the most expensive ladies’ jewelry was housed.
“Wow,” she muttered when she saw the man who was talking to Leon. Leon had a great eye for people and was a master at keeping scruffy, drunk, or loud people out of the store. The man Leon was talking to was none of these. He was beautifully dressed, six feet tall, and well built. Tyra wasn't an expert on men's suits, but she knew enough to see that it was expensive. Leon pointed to Tyra, and she watched as the man walked toward her. When he got closer, she saw the dreamiest emerald green eyes. She inadvertently adjusted her hair and checked to see if her blouse was tucked into her skirt.
“Hi. I have an appointment. My name is Dima Asakov. I'm looking for some jewelry for my mother's birthday.”
“Certainly, sir.” Although she had never seen him before, he was obviously one of the store's high net worth individuals. Very rich people were allowed to make an appointment, during which they got VIP treatment. Why don't you pamper me instead of your mother? she thought. I could use it right now. She was quick to chastise herself for being unprofessional.
He noted her features with interest. Black, beautiful, tall, thin, lo
vely curves, perfect breasts, and beautiful face. His mother always said it was the sign of a classy man when the man kept eye contact with a woman despite the size of her breasts. Whenever he met a woman, he reminded himself of this. Most days it was easy, but today it required Herculean effort.
“Follow me, Mr. Asakov.” The VIP suite was the most comfortable place Tyra had ever been in, but it lacked atmosphere. It wasn't used nearly as often these days. The financial crisis had seen to that.
“Please take a seat,” she said. He chose the sofa. In the room, there were two armchairs and a sofa. Made of velvet, they were red, which gave the room a regal feel. Radley had spent a small fortune getting the lighting right. The ceiling was dotted with tiny spotlights, but around the sales table they were larger. The sales table was a small glass affair between the sofa and the armchairs, just a coffee table really. Radley had been advised that displaying jewelry in a homely setting would lead to more sales.
“I'm Tyra. It's lovely to meet you. Tell me about your mother, about what kind of woman is she.” Tyra was the only sales assistant who bothered asking questions about the intended recipient. She thought it allowed her to make better choices on behalf of the clients.
“Yes. Where shall I start?”
“Well, how old is she?”
“She's twenty-two years older than me,” he said.
“Thirty-eight then,” she said, playing his own game.
He laughed. “That would make me sixteen. “No. She's forty-nine.” Twenty-seven, Tyra calculated instantly.
“Sorry, I know it's a lot to ask, but can you tell me what color eyes and hair she has? Is her skin light or dark?”
“She's got blond hair, like mine, and her skin color is the same. Her eyes? Do you know, it's amazing how you think you know somebody so well and still don't know things like eye color.” He looked embarrassed. “Is it very important?”
She nodded. “Have you got a sister?” He nodded. “Call her; she'll know.” After a very short conversation in Russian, he hung up.