by J. L. Drake
He swept my hair over my shoulder and fingered the lacey straps of my negligee. “Is this how you will attract a lover while I am away?”
I took a step back. “Vladimir, please—”
The pakhan backhanded me across the face. The force of the blow knocked me down. I fought to stay on my feet, but my body crumbled. I skid across the concrete and shredded the skin off my elbow. My right eye throbbed where his ring landed. I lifted my hands to protect myself from another blow.
What am I supposed to do?
Act like nothing happened?
Apologize?
Make a run for it?
He turned around and downed another shot. It was then I understood why he’d kept his tats covered. Immortalized on his back was an inked portrait of my sister’s head. A blue-eyed devil held her by the hair and blood dripped from her neck like flames.
He killed her. He killed Sophia.
It had to mean that. What else could it mean? I clambered back to my feet and checked around for something to club the bastard over the head with. Before I had a chance, Playboy padded up the back stairs. The pakhan glared at me as he spoke to his patsani. Playboy flashed me a menacing grin.
The boss held his hand out for me to come to him. Reluctantly, I did. What choice did I have? He lifted my hands and looked into my eyes as if it were our last goodbye. “I hope you learn your lesson, angel.” He removed my engagement ring, kissed my battered cheek, went inside, and locked the door.
The pakhan had fed me to his wolf pack.
There were two doors that led inside—the one he locked opened to the living room, and the other went into the kitchen. Behind me there was a set of stairs that led down to the tennis court. If I could make it to the kitchen, I could get the keys and charge the gate in the Rover, but the odds of me making it past Playboy to get inside were nil.
Plan B: I stepped backward as Playboy closed in.
I had to make a run for it through the woods. I was in way better shape than that chain-smoking bastard. If I got a head start, I could make it down the stairs, but I had next to nothing on—jeans overtop my lingerie. Even if I could outrun him, I would have to plow through the snow in my bare feet, scale the barbed wire fence, and somehow find my way to the main road before I succumbed to the elements. This idea was, by and large, a losing plan, but it was the only chance I had.
Playboy removed his jacket and offered it to me.
I kicked off my heels.
A sadistic smile crept up on his face when he realized I wasn’t going down without a fight. I took off in a sprint and made it to the bottom of the stairs, but when my feet sank into the snow, Playboy pounced on my back and tackled me face down in a hard, ice-covered snowdrift.
The force of the impact knocked the wind out of me. He straddled me and secured my wrists behind my back with cable ties. I struggled to catch my breath, but my lungs would not inflate. I needed air—breathe, breathe, breathe…
Chapter 54
Obsession
I woke up sprawled out on a filthy blanket in the back of the murderer van. I guessed that was what they would bury me in. I wondered if seeing how they would dispose of my body was part of my lesson. I tried to sit up, but Playboy shoved me back down with his foot.
Skinhead had the wheel, Grimace rode shotgun. Playboy taunted me in Russian, probably explaining how the three of them were going to gang rape me before they strangled me, shot me in the face, or went at me old school and beat me to death.
Where was Boris in all of this? I had the feeling he’d wanted to “teach me a lesson” a half-dozen times at least, but once Vladimir and I were engaged, I’d thought…
Shit. Vladimir was right. I am naïve. Boris didn’t give a damn about me either.
Playboy lit a smoke and flicked the lighter at me over and over. I prayed it would be quick. If Boris had been in charge of cleaning up the pakhan’s mess, he would’ve popped me like it was another day at work, hacked my body to pieces, dumped my remains in the Ohio River, gone home, and toasted “the little shlyukha deserved it” to the boss.
My heart pounded when the van stopped, and Grimace opened the back door. We were parked in front of a XXX strip club. The pakhan was done with me for good. Instead of killing me right away, he was first going to teach me a lesson by forcing me to be one of The Girls.
No way.
I would rather die.
Screw him.
The plan: as soon as my feet hit the ground, I would run for the highway. Before I could take one step toward freedom, Playboy clamped down on my arm, cut the bondage from my wrists, draped his coat around me, and escorted me inside. He licked my swollen cheek where the pakhan had backhanded me and said something in Russian that made the other two goons laugh.
When the door opened, the stench of stale beer, cheap hairspray, and unscrupulous dirtballs hit me in the face. Inside there were two topless girls pole dancing on a stage in the middle of the bar. The music was loud, the girls were around my age, and the men stuffing cash in their panties turned to get a gander of the fresh meat that got ushered in by the Russian brigade.
Mr. Cusimano was one of the customers. He glanced my way, showing no signs of guilt or remorse, and went back to watching the show. Does he realize what’s happening?
Playboy sat me on a stool and checked out my lingerie peeking out from under his coat. He unzipped me, whistled, and laughed with his comrades as he pointed to the stage.
I wouldn’t let those losers yank my chain. I zipped it back up, crossed my arms over my chest, and sat unaffected by their stupidity. Playboy dismissed the other two with a flick of his wrist, and they settled in to watch the show a few seats down. Playboy flagged the bartender and held up two fingers.
“I’d like a Sierra Mist, please.”
The bartender ignored me and set down two generous pours of vodka.
No way. I could not handle alcohol. I hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. My nerves and hormones were so out of sync I felt like I might spontaneously combust. Playboy picked up one of the glasses and offered it to me. I didn’t take it. That amount of alcohol, which was, like, a double shot, would seriously compromise my ability to think clearly or defend myself.
If they tried to make me dance on that stage in an effort to try to put me to work—I wouldn’t do it. Damn the consequences. Playboy stood, hooked his hand around my elbow, and whispered something creepy in my ear. Despite the language barrier, I knew a threat when I heard one. I reached for the drink before he had a chance to set it down.
“Spasibo.” I lifted it to my lips and took a sip. I lowered the glass, but he put his hand underneath it and guided it back to my mouth. I took a deep, cleansing breath and downed it like a Russian.
Playboy pointed at one of the topless girls and offered his hand to lead me to the stage. Ironically, one of the songs from my House Party playlist was pumping as the strippers worked the pole. I shook my head. His smile faded. He downed his vodka and motioned to the bartender to refill our drinks. He held out his hand again to help me up to the stage.
“Nyet.” I watched another long flow of vodka refilling my glass.
Playboy scooted the drink in front of me. Before the alcohol completely consumed my clarity, I had to come up with a game plan. The Russians were leaving in the morning. I would walk away from this nightmare unscathed or be a corpse before the night was over. My life depended on outsmarting those dimwitted goons.
Play the game, play the game, play the game…
I wrapped my fingers around the shot glass, lifted my drink, and grinned at Playboy. He lifted his glass and smiled back. We clinked, cheered, and downed our shots. The boys laughed when I set down my glass and almost fell off my stool. I had to work quickly before the alcohol knocked me unconscious.
I needed to up my odds. I slapped my hand on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. I held up two fingers over our shot glasses and then extended my hand and pointed two fingers at Grimace and Skinhead. They whistled and clappe
d their hands. As the guy poured our drinks, I leaned over to Playboy and placed my hands on top of his thighs. He liked wherever I was going with that idea. I patted around until I felt his cell phone in the front pocket of his jeans. I tapped on it. “Boris.”
His smile faded. “Nyet.”
I shook my shoulders to the beat of the song. “Da.” I pointed to the stage. “Boris.”
The bartender set out our drinks. Grimace lurked over my shoulder, leaned forward, and sniffed my hair. I must have had a freaky expression on my face, because Playboy cracked up.
Win the game. I swiveled around in my chair and met my admirer’s shallow eyes. I pointed to myself and then to the stage. “Da?”
He nodded.
I held an imaginary cell up to my ear. “Boris.”
As Grimace thought it over, Playboy jabbed him in the ribs. Skinhead glared at me like he would rather gut me than watch me dance. I committed to my game plan. I put the imaginary phone to my ear again. “Boris.” I pointed to myself and then to the stage. I opened my coat and rocked my shoulders to the beat to give him a sample of the goods. “Da?”
He stared at my chest and pulled out his phone. The other two yowled at him, prompting him to lumber outside. Playboy yanked my hair and swiveled the chair around to face him. He pointed in my face and barked. I only needed one of them to call Boris. From that point on, I had to burn some time off the clock and pray my keeper would come to my rescue.
Playboy unzipped my jacket and Skinhead yanked it off, leaving me in a strip club surrounded by two bad dudes, wearing sexy lingerie I’d worn to turn on my lethal fiancé who ordered his thugs to teach me a lesson. Playboy offered his hand to walk me up to the stage.
From a common sense perspective, I should have done it. My goal was to buy time, and I was sure I could work a pole well enough to keep their interest until my keeper got there—but screw them! My vodka cup runneth over. I’d had my fill of Russian gangsters and their Bratva Code of Bullshit. “Nyet.”
Playboy yanked me off my stool and dragged me down a dark hallway. I called out to Mr. Cusimano for help. He turned and looked right at me, but instead of coming to my rescue, he stuffed a bill into a boney brunette’s G-string.
Skinhead snatched the vodka bottle and followed close behind. I had trouble keeping up, with my wobbly legs in pumps. I stumbled a few times, which prompted Skinhead to grab on to my other arm. I glanced behind and saw Grimace closing in behind.
They shoved me inside a small room with a brass pole surrounded by a few chairs and illuminated by a red spotlight. Instead of the pop songs that blared in the bar area, the music in there was a dirty bump and grind kind of instrumental beat. The only lyrics were moans and sex sounds coming from the next room.
Playboy shoved me toward the pole and yelled. When I didn’t respond, he shook me violently, reprimanding me for not following orders. I tried to fight back, but I was so disoriented, I didn’t have the strength or courage to defend myself.
Tired of my resistance, he shoved me backward into Skinhead’s arms. He squeezed me around the waist and dragged me down to his lap. He said something creepy in my ear, and I felt a cool blade pressing against my throat. I screamed. He covered my mouth. Playboy held out a fistful of my hair while Skinhead cut it off right next to my scalp—a memento for the pakhan, no doubt. He didn’t give a damn about me; I was his obsession. Our love was nothing more than a game to him, and he’d won the moment I’d agreed to marry him.
At that point, I lost faith. I’d been swinging so long and so hard I’d run out of courage—and hope. It was time to let go. I would spend the last moments of my life enduring beatings and spread apart with those filthy animals oozing between my legs.
As I lay in Skinhead’s arms, in shock, Grimace pushed a bottle past my lips. I drank willingly. I would rather die of alcohol poisoning than at the tip of a knife. I tuned out their catcalls and whistles and tried to drain every drop of vodka from that bottle.
Grimace took it away before I could drink too much and stole me away from Skinhead. I coughed from the acidic burn of the vodka, and he dragged me to the pole and motioned for me to have at it. When I didn’t do what I was told, Playboy saddled up behind me, held my hands against the pole from behind, and grinded against my body as he howled a victory song.
When I refused to give them what they wanted, he barked a final warning in my ear. Frustrated by my rejection, he flung my hair to the side and sank his teeth into the back of my neck. I screamed and wrestled to get free, but he jammed me against the pole. Paralyzed from the pain, I couldn’t fight back. The final chapter of my life was about to unfold.
I’m sorry, Sophia, Dad, Kiki, Megan, God.
Playboy flung me around. My body dangled from his arms like a limp noodle. As I prepared for my final breath, a big hand lifted my chin.
“Have you learned your lesson yet, lapsha?”
Chapter 55
Ghosts
Boris got a motel room like the one we’d checked into the last time I needed an emergency clean up. Being with him seemed the better of the two options, although I had no clue what the boss had ordered him to do to me.
He wrapped me up in his big black coat, guided me inside, and sat me down on the edge of the bed. I blinked to reorient myself as he turned my head to assess the damage the pakhan had inflicted on me. I fought to stay strong in the spirit of fixing things—no crying, no whimpering, no whining. If Boris thought I would go home and cry to my papa, I would be in the ground before dawn.
I was rounding third and heading for home. If I could get over this last hurdle, I would be okay. The boss was done with me. They were leaving in the morning. I would be free.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“What happened?”
“Um, I hit myself with my racquet defending a shot to the face.” I demonstrated the swinging motion.
“Looks like someone hit you.” He lined the back of his hand against my cheek. “Finger marks.” He slid off his coat I was wearing and examined my body to see what else had been done. He pushed my hair over my shoulder so he could see the bite mark on the back of my neck.
“Just that,” I said.
He ran his fingers over my ribcage.
I winced. “And maybe a couple of cracked ribs—nothing else.”
He picked up my arm to get a look at my skinned elbow.
“I just need some Band-Aids.”
“Did they touch you?”
I knew what he meant. I shook my head.
He studied my expression. “Good. Very good.” He lowered his hand to his belt. My heart pounded as he unbuckled it and slid it off. “Hold out your hands.”
I curled my knees up, buried my face in my lap, and did as he said. He tightened the leather strap around my wrists, pushed me back on the bed, and looped it around the metal headboard. I kept my eyes closed as the reality set in that Boris would be my first, last, and only.
He stuffed a gag in my mouth and tied it tight behind my head. Then he tucked a pillow under my head and covered me with the tattered bedspread. I begged him to let me go, but the gag muffled my pleas.
“Shush. I have to go out and get you clothes and something to eat. You don’t want the boys to come back to babysit, do you?”
I shook my head.
“I’m waiting for my orders.” He blotted my face with the sheet. “I have to do my job, understand?” He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “Try to rest.”
When the door closed behind him, I called out to the universe for Sophia. I wanted her to be with me at the end so we could be together. Not so she could lead me to the Pearly Gates; I had no interest in cloud hopping or harp strumming. I wanted revenge.
I told her my plan to ditch the tunnel that led to the other side, so I could stay on earth as a ghost, follow my killers to Russia, and haunt them for the rest of their evil lives. I wouldn’t rest in peace until I found a way to scrape that tattoo of Sophia off that monster’s skin—preferably with my
teeth—if such goals were attainable for pissed-off little ghosts.
After I worked out my plan for the afterlife with Sophia, I lost consciousness. I woke up in a fog when Boris shook me back to life. When I came to, I spotted a large serrated knife with a shiny blade laying on the nightstand. Under the yellow light of the lamp, I could see crude notches engraved in the handle. The knife had kept track of how many victims it had offed, too.
I turned my head and focused on a still life of a flower vase in a picture frame on the wall. I didn’t want my murderer’s face or his weapon to be the last memory etched in my mind for all of eternity.
“Look at me.” Boris tilted my head to meet his eyes.
I turned my focus back to the knife. Boris followed my gaze and picked it up.
“I’m going to cut off the gag. Hold still.” He sliced the fabric and pulled the material out of my mouth, freed my wrists, and brought me to an upright position.
I sat there, stunned, not at all trusting his nonchalant tone, but also perplexed as to why he was removing my restraints.
Has the boss forgiven me?
“How much did you drink?”
“A couple shots. I’m fine.”
He checked my arms and legs for needle marks.
“I’m clean.”
He led me into the bathroom, flipped down the toilet seat cover, and sat me down. He pushed my hair aside and cleaned the bite mark on my neck. He rubbed an alcohol swab over the wound. It stung, but I didn’t flinch. He smoothed some cream on it and then covered it up with a bandage. Next, he wrapped athletic tape around my ribs, and then wet a washcloth and wiped off my face and cleaned up my elbow.
After he patted me dry, he lifted a small vial of liquid out of his pocket, popped off the top, and dabbed some sort of oil on his thumb. He spoke in Russian and smeared it on my forehead and on each of my wrists. It smelled like essential oils. A blessing, I figured. He helped me get dressed, led me back into the room, and sat me at a small table. He cracked open a Coke, set out a container of white rice with a fork stuck in it, and unwrapped a sleeve of crackers.