by J. L. Drake
“Want to dance, Karen? Looks like the guys are talking shop.”
“Sure. I’ve been dying to get out there.” She sucked down the rest of her drink. “I think the cute one likes you.”
When we stood up, I motioned to Svetlana to join us. She looked at Vladimir to check if it was okay. Jeez. What a tool.
He said something in Russian, kissed her hand, and she stayed at his side.
Whatever. When we joined the dancers, they wrapped scarves around our waists and showed us how to swing our hips like belly dancers. Karen busted out some dirty dancing moves with the twenty-something-year-old, but I turned my back on the male dancers and shook it with the ladies. Dad looked like he wanted to stab his eyes out with kabob skewers, as he watched his wife dancing with a much younger, hotter dude with a full head of dark, wavy hair.
I knew better than to make my man jealous.
“Karen, why don’t you come back to the table now? They’re serving the appetizers,” Dad said. His face was burning red.
I stepped in and tried to pull Karen away, but she didn’t take the hint.
Karen raised her hands over her head and shook her bootie dangerously close to the dancer’s crotch. Dad chugged a glass of water and dabbed the sweat off his forehead with a napkin. I couldn’t tell if he was more pissed or humiliated by his wife’s behavior—and it was all going down in front of the manly Russians.
Dad dropped a stack of pita bread on Karen’s plate and dumped a big scoop of hummus next to it. “Try this, honey. You’ll love it.”
Translation: Down, girl.
The dancer swished the scarf at Karen’s behind, totally digging her sloppy, flirty cougar drunkenness. Poor Dad looked like he was about to go medieval on the dude. Enough. I tugged on Karen’s arm and took her spot. “Sorry, my turn.” I kept the beat with the dude to deter her from cutting back in.
“You can have him, Carter. I’ve got my man.” She plopped down in the chair next to Dad and tried to kiss him, but he turned his cheek.
I glanced over at my dance partner. He looked jazzed at my enthusiasm to fight off my stepmom so I could have a run with him. He clapped in time with the beat and eyed my body as I danced. I turned my back to go back to the table, but the dude caught my arm and pulled me back. I prayed the Russians missed the fact he’d touched me.
To mask his dangerous faux pas, I danced until the music ended. Then I went back to the table without making eye contact.
Vladimir will understand why I stepped in, right?
As everyone filled his or her plates from the family style platters, a text came in on my special phone from Vladimir. I couldn’t tell what it said, because the words were in Russian.
I snuck a peek at him and laughed.
The pakhan didn’t see the humor.
Chapter 52
Shark Bait
The next day, Vladimir wouldn’t return my calls or texts. I stayed in my room and started packing. I had a feeling he would nix my apartment plans, but he hadn’t brought it up yet. If he asked me not to move, I would oblige. I was already nervous about The Dancing Incident.
Before I was due to meet Boris, I went to the cemetery to visit Sophia—something I hadn’t done for years. I needed her guidance, and I couldn’t confide in anyone among the living about the Russians.
I loved Vladimir, but I feared him, too. I stewed all night over the dancer and now he was giving me the silent treatment. I had to admit doubts were creeping in about marrying him. Nobody said relationships are supposed to be easy, but where was the line? Love is love—when you have it, when someone cherishes you like Vladimir cherishes me and when all you can think about is the next time you’re with him, it’s worth fighting for, right?
It was all so confusing. I thought about doing the right thing for once and confiding in my dad, but I couldn’t risk it. I needed Sophia’s angel wisdom, but I was no longer able to distinguish between her voice and the devil’s anymore.
I shuffled through the church parking lot and trekked through the snow to reach her gravesite. I spread out a stadium blanket, sat next to her memorial, and spilled the secrets I’d been hiding from my friends and family. I lifted my engagement ring out of my pocket and held it up.
Should I call off the engagement?
Nothing.
I jumped when I heard a car door shut. Boris was leaning against the Caddy, watching me from the parking lot. If I married Vladimir and moved to Russia, Boris and the Bratva would become my new family. Dad and Karen and Megan and Kiki would be out of my life.
I’m in with the Russians, and there was no way out.
I slid my engagement ring on my finger, folded up the blanket, and said goodbye to Sophia. I got into the car with Boris and left my sister behind.
Neither one of us spoke until we neared the house. “I only danced with that guy to get Karen away from him. Did you see Dad’s face?”
“Wasn’t your problem to solve.”
When we got home, Vladimir was leaning against the bar, his eyes rimmed in red. I crashed into him and swung my arms around his waist. A thick, bloody steak was soaking in marinade on the counter.
“You’re late.”
Shit. I squeezed him tight. “I’m so sorry about last night. Forgive me?”
He went to the bar, tipped the vodka bottle, and poured himself a generous shot. The sun hadn’t gone down yet, and he was already smashed. “Of course, angel.” The seething tone of his voice didn’t match the sincerity of his words.
I glanced down at my engagement ring. The once bluish-green stone had turned a dark ruby red. I turned my hand to see if it was a trick from the light. “What happened to my ring? It changed color.”
Vladimir picked up my hand. “It’s the nature of the stone. Alexandrite from the Ural Mountains near my home. In the sunlight, it reflects the cool and vibrant colors, but at night, when the sun goes down, it shines blood red.” Vladimir lowered my hand and looked out the window. “But the sun hasn’t gone down yet. Perhaps you’ve done something to anger the stone?” He laughed and went to the bar for another shot.
When Vladimir’s back was turned, I looked to Boris for guidance. He wouldn’t make eye contact. Boris spoke to the boss in Russian. I forced myself to breathe so I wouldn’t pass out.
Vladimir didn’t like whatever it was Boris had said. “Take the night off. I want to spend the evening alone with my bride-to-be.”
Boris glared at me as he passed by on his way to the mudroom.
Holy shit. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut and make him something to eat to try to absorb the alcohol he was drowning in. I tried to keep my hands steady as I sliced a block of cheese. He watched me work but didn’t speak. In a hurry, I carelessly sliced the top of my index finger. I turned my back and cupped my hand to inspect the damage. Blood dripped down into my palm. My stomach turned.
Careful not to make a big deal out of it, I wrapped a towel around my finger to stop the bleeding. It soaked right through. I jumped when I felt Vladimir standing right behind me. He had a sense for blood like a damn shark—and I was a hunk of chum bobbing in the ocean.
Shark bait.
He picked up my hand and unwrapped my makeshift bandage. Blood oozed from the cut when the pressure was removed. I felt lightheaded. He lifted my hand, stuck my finger in his mouth, and sucked the blood that pulsed from my wound. I leaned against his body to stay upright and fought the urge to scream, gag, or pass out.
Boris returned to the kitchen and his gaze darted from my limp body, to the knife, to the bloody towel on the counter. Vladimir removed my finger from his mouth to check the bleeding. He spoke to Boris in Russian, licked the fresh stream of blood that had tried to escape down my hand, and sat me down in the chair.
From experience, I knew when they spoke in their native tongues it was because they didn’t want me to know what they were saying. Boris got a first aid kit out of a drawer and set it down in front of Vladimir. I gasped when he pulled out a suture needle and thread.
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“It’s not that bad. I don’t need stitches.” I hopped to my feet.
“Hold her still.” He held a towel under my hand and doused my wound with vodka.
I winced from the sting of the alcohol. Boris sat me back down. With steady hands, Vladimir penetrated my finger with the needle and threaded the black plastic through my skin over and over until the wound was stitched closed. It was over in a flash. I’d barely felt it.
“Thanks, babe. That wasn’t bad at all.” I reverted back to damage-control mode.
“You doubted me?” he hissed. His eyes were distant and cold, angry and murderous. The man I loved—the man who loved me—had left me to the mercy of the pakhan.
I shook my head, slid off the chair, and got back to work on the zakuski while the Russians engaged in a heated conversation—an argument judging by the volume. Boris held out his hands and spoke calmly to diffuse the situation.
In my gut, I knew what the argument was about. Boris was trying to talk my fiancé out of killing me. Would Boris let him do it? Would he help? By the looks of things, Vladimir had pulled rank and Boris had no choice but to stand down. My only hope lost the argument, put on his hat and coat, and left the house.
I was alone with my killer.
Chapter 53
Tossed
In order to live, I had to steal Vladimir away from the pakhan. Keeping up the pretense that everything was cool, I peeled an avocado, smashed it up in a bowl, added some cayenne pepper, and then moved to the pantry to get some tortilla chips. When I turned back around, he had vanished. I felt nauseous, but I carried on like everything was okay. Vladimir loved me, and I would go to war with the pakhan to bring him back.
I transferred all the snacks to a tray and made a pitcher of ice water with lemon and lime wedges. I believed Boris would stop the boss if he tried to hurt me like he had on Christmas Eve. He probably didn’t go far. I changed into some sexy lingerie, slid on a pair of jeans and some low heels, zipped up a jacket, and carried the tray and pitcher outside.
The pakhan was seated next to the fire, bouncing a tennis ball for the poodles.
“Here you go, babe. Sorry it took so long.” I picked up a chip, dipped it in guacamole, and lifted it to his mouth. “I made it spicy this time.”
He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I like it better the old way.”
“Want me to make it over?”
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Gustav trotted back with the ball and nudged me.
“Thank you, precious.” I retrieved the wet ball from his mouth. “Mama loves you, Goosey.” I kissed his long snout and patted his head.
“You are a lucky guy, my friend,” he said to the dog. “You give my love a filthy tennis ball, she treats you like a king. I give her the world, I get disrespect.”
I glanced inside to see if Boris had returned: Nyet. I went back to the kitchen under the guise of getting dinner started and hustled to get my special phone. Our messed-up relationship had reached the tipping point. The pakhan was waiting for the right moment to kill me. I could see it in his crazy eyes.
Inside, I turned on the stove, slid an iron skillet over the flame, added some olive oil, and plopped the bloody meat in the pan. While the steak cooked, I slid over to the drawer where Vladimir kept the car keys and his gun and peeked inside. The keys were there, the gun was not.
I shuffled back to the stove and flipped over the meat. The pink flesh sizzled in the iron skillet and droplets of hot grease spit on my hand. Out back, Playboy was smoking a cigarette and stalking me from the basketball court. I retrieved my phone and tapped Boris’s number, then the door swung open behind me.
“Making something good?” the pakhan asked.
I casually slid my phone back into my pocket. “Of course, babe.”
He hugged me from behind and kissed my neck. His gun was tucked in his pants and poked me in the back. “I like it pink and bloody.”
I dumped the rare steak on a plate. He lifted a fork from the utensil drawer and pulled a long chef’s knife from the wooden butcher’s block. Blood oozed from the meat when he cut into it. He glared at me as he put it in his mouth.
“You like it?” I asked.
He chewed and swallowed, set down the utensils, and leaned in for a smooch. “Love it.” I tasted dead meat on his breath. “Who were you calling?” He lifted my phone from my pocket and scanned my calls.
“Um—”
He wrapped his hand around my throat and pushed me against the wall. “Every time I turn my back, you sneak off to call my right hand man. If I were the jealous type, I might think the two of you have something going on.” He slammed my special phone against the wall.
I sucked in a deep breath. “Please stop. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I don’t know how to make it right.” He loves you, he loves you, he loves you…“I did a stupid thing. It won’t happen again.” My knees buckled.
He let go of my neck and held me up by my arms.
My gaze drifted to the knife resting on the plate behind him.
He turned to see what had caught my attention. “Do it.” He released me and stepped aside.
I caught my balance against the counter. It was him or me. One of us would leave in a body bag. When I didn’t have the guts to go for it, he slapped the handle of the knife into my palm and held out his arms to give me a clean shot. “Davai!”
For a moment, I considered it. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I kissed his stone face and set the knife down. “I love you, Vladimir.” I prayed Boris would come back to rescue me.
He laughed, put his arm around my shoulder, and pushed me back outside. I turned on my Fiesta Playlist to lighten the mood and to remind him of our time together in Florida. I needed to make a comeback before the buzzer sounded. I swayed to the sound of Latin music and sang along quietly en español while the pakhan gathered up a couple empty vodka bottles, some Coke cans, and a wine bottle. He lined them up on the wall at the edge of the patio.
What was he up to? When he turned around, I unzipped my jacket to distract him with my sexy, baby doll teddy. He pulled my body into his. I knew I could win Vladimir back. I wrapped my arms around his waist. My elbow knocked into his gun. I jumped.
He clicked his tongue. “As my wife, you must get used to having these around.” He slipped the blue steel pistol out of his pants. “They’re part of the family, like you.”
“Please, put it away. I’ll get used to it when I get to Russia.”
“I want you to learn now.” He placed his left hand on top of the gun and pulled back, causing the gun to make a click-click sound. Then, with one arm around my waist, he aimed his weapon at the makeshift firing range he’d set up on the railing.
“Cover your ears.” I did. He fired his weapon and shattered a vodka bottle into a million shiny pieces. He moved down the row and sent the wine bottle and cans into oblivion, too. As he fired, spent bullet casings popped up and then danced on the floor. He hit every mark with precision and didn’t stop until he ran out of targets—six shots to be exact.
I lowered my hands from my ears. “Wow. You’re a good shot.” Expelling bullets was a good thing under the circumstances, but the pakhan was lethal enough without a loaded gun in his hand. “How many bullets does it hold?”
He clicked on the safety. “Seven. It’s more challenging to fire at moving targets.”
One bullet remained in the chamber.
“Hmm, what shall we shoot next?”
Gustav trotted up to us with a tennis ball in his mouth and dropped it at our feet. Anastasia was curled up on the rug by the door, nervous about the noisy gunfire. “Good boy.” He picked up the tennis ball and bounced it. Gustav tried to snatch it, but the boss intercepted.
He spoke to the dog in Russian, and Gustav sat up straight and obedient, eager to please his papa. “Your precious boy wants to play a game, Mama.”
“Vladimir, please—”
“I’m going to bounce the ball like this.” He p
ounded the ball on the concrete, and it bounced about eight feet, and when it came down, Gustav leapt into the air and caught it. He took the ball back and patted his back. “Khoroshaya sobaka.”
He lifted his gun and unlocked the safety. “This time, we’re both going to go for the ball. The winner gets a kiss from Mama.”
I clutched his forearm and tried to lower his hand, but I wasn’t strong enough. “Please, don’t.”
“Odin.” He bounced the ball once. “Dva.” He bounced it again. “Tri.” He bounced it harder the third time and the height of the ball peaked a couple feet over his head.
I had two choices: Crash into him to try to knock him off balance, which could backfire and get Goosey killed, or do nothing and hope he was only trying to scare me. I crouched down, covered my hands over my ears, and prayed Sophia would wrap her wings around Goosey and protect him from the monster who claimed to love him.
Gustav jumped up to catch the ball.
The pakhan took aim.
Bang!
He fired and hit his target—the ball.
I covered my mouth and nose to mask my scream and the insidious odor of burnt rubber.
Gustav learned his lesson and trotted off to find solace next to his more intelligent half, Anastasia.
“I win.” The boss set his gun on the table and moved into my personal space to collect his prize. When his lips touched mine, I opened my mouth, let his tongue inside, and reciprocated—not out of love or passion, out of fear.
His lips trailed down my neck, and I swayed to the music to calm him and to extinguish the unsettling rush of bad boy adrenaline emanating from his body.
He held me tight and synced the rhythm of his body with mine. “You like to dance?” He emphasized the word dance like it was bile on his tongue.
“Only with you, babe.” My legs began to shake. I needed to buy some time. I unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off. “Let’s soak in the hot tub.” I pecked his devil tat on the cheek.