by Shandi Boyes
“Do you have a contraception of choice? Most girls opt for the implant before backing it up with a diaphragm. If you’re not comfortable with that, we can look at other options, although I wouldn’t recommend condoms. Very rarely do the men use them, and even when you demand one, they sneak it off sometime between sliding from third base to the home plate.”
Men. Contraception. Condoms they refuse to wear when aiming for a home run. What? I don’t understand anything she is saying. I was sent to my death under the guise I was marrying Asher. There was no mention of other men.
Hearing my wheezy breaths, she lowers herself back down to my level. “Oh, sweetie, don’t fret. The men are gentle...” Her nose screws up as she pulls an uneasy expression. “... for the most part.” She rubs my arm in a soothing manner. It does little to eradicate my panic. “And the ones that aren’t pay well for the privilege.”
The room shrinks in on me as my lungs fight for air. I’m more panicked now than when Asher had me pinned to the wall by my throat.
Confused as to why I’m acting so skittish, the blonde peers over her shoulder. “Lenin?”
A man with inky black hair, a narrow face, and the height of Lurch from the Addams Family enters the partially cracked open door. He shakes his head when the blonde asks, “Shlyukha?”
My lack of conversation must have convinced her I’m foreign. I’m not. I’m very much Russian, which means I know what a shlyukha is. They’re the women my father lost himself in when my mother died, and what Uncle Nesti said I would become if I kissed any more boys in closets. I’m also not an idiot. I may be a virgin, but I grew up around rowdy, vocal men who had no shame sharing stories they weren’t aware a curious teenager was listening in on when she occasionally built up the courage to escape her ivory tower.
Before I can advise the blonde I’m not, and will never be a whore, Lenin answers her query, “Asher said she could pick between shlyukha or gornichanya.”
Leaning forward, I clutch the unnamed female’s arm. “I pick to be a chambermaid.”
I don’t know why I sound disappointed. It’s not because I’m so desperate for male company I’m willing to do anything to get it. I’m more disappointed that Asher’s punishment didn’t stray from the one he issues everyday commoners. My family lineage isn’t as highly ranked as it once was, but I still deserve to be treated with more respect than this. We were friends—once.
My spine snaps straight as my heart whacks out a funky tune. Would you listen to me? I’m upset I’ve skated past death only to be forced to become a maid. Who am I, and why am I complaining?
I’m drawn from my thoughts when the blonde asks, “Are you sure this is what you want? No matter which position you choose, you’ll still be serving Asher’s men—but one is less favorable than the other. You could do very well if you open your mind to the possibility not all shlyukhas are here against their will. I’ve certainly done well for myself the past two years.”
“You choose to do this?”
She takes the disgust in my voice in stride. “Yes. It’s no different from any other job. When done right, the reward far exceeds the effort.” After standing to her feet, she lowers her eyes to me again. “Are you sure you want to be a maid? They’re old and...” A gag finalizes her sentence.
Stupidly, I take a moment to consider the mirth in her tone before nodding. I’m ashamed I didn’t immediately respond with a stern no, but the entertainment highlighting her question deserved more than a hasty response.
“Okay. In case you change your mind.” She hands me a business card from the many tucked at the top of her clipboard. “All my details are on the front, but if for any reason you can’t reach me on one of those, ask Asher to contact me on your behalf. He has other ways of reaching me.”
Some of the panic on my face morphs into jealousy. She said her statement with too much ownership to miss, and although it shouldn’t frustrate me, it does—a lot.
After absorbing the necklace I stole from my mother’s jewelry collection earlier today, the blonde heads for the door Lenin is blocking with his tall, lanky frame. She whispers something in his ear before darting through the tiny gap he isn’t hogging. You’d think her escape would inspire my own, but I’m too busy adjusting my eyes to the light Lenin flipped on a second after her departure so I can read her business card without squinting.
“Velika Yury,” I read off the card.
Well, there goes any jealousy thickening my veins.
The Yurys have been called many things in their lives. Incestuous isn’t one of them.
Chapter Six
Asher
“Whose throat do I need to slit to get a drink around here?”
A man sitting at the end of the bar lowers the newspaper covering half of his face. As his icy blue gaze drifts over me, he takes two long drags from his half-smoked cigar. I can’t see the piece he has focused on my kneecap, but I can feel it. He’s never without a target, not even when he’s having a drink in an unmarked watering hole miles from the closest city limits.
After accepting the double nip of vodka the bartender just poured for me, I make my way to the man gawking at me with suspicion. He has a right to be cautious. He’s on my turf without my permission, and I have no issues relaying my displeasure about it.
When a blonde I’d guess to be in her late teens rakes her eyes down my body, I give her a flirty wink. She’s spaced out on the less-than-stellar drugs her Master primes her with every evening to keep her flighty personality on the down low, but I need her to remain calm. If a little bit of flirting does that, I’m okay with it.
Zoran, on the other hand, I’m more than happy to ruffle his feathers. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Zoran. Only last year, you would have had half a dozen whores hanging off your neck. Now you only have three.”
He smirks a smug grin before ushering the girls much younger than his granddaughters away from him. They won’t go far, only into the arms of the men flanking him. Unlike most men in my industry, Zoran has no qualms sharing—occasionally.
After stubbing out his cigar on the pricy countertop, Zoran locks his eyes with mine. “What do you want, ghost? Grow tired of sucking on America’s teat and want to experience what real men taste like?” He doesn’t need to grip his crotch to get across his meaning.
“Not entirely.” I smile to hide the tick in my jaw. “An American is the reason for my visit, though. I found out some interesting facts during my time in the US.”
“Such as?” He gestures for me to come closer, like he’s hard of hearing. He’s not; he just wants me within killing distance.
I slip into the chair next to him, not the least bit afraid for my life. As I said to Zariah earlier, you can’t kill a ghost. He’s already dead.
“Settle, Princess,” I mock the goon behind me when my lean across Zoran’s body has his hand hovering over his gun. “I’m merely reaching for a cigar.”
After snagging an untouched cigar from Zoran’s case of many, I cut the tip off with his diamond-encrusted cutter before lighting it with his platinum gas lighter. It takes a few hard sucks for me to get the cigar going, but when it does, the worry in Zoran’s eyes dissipates.
He shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Unlike Nikolai, I’m not a fan of smoking. I merely need to replace one of the weapons his goon on the door confiscated from me upon entry.
Zoran squeals when the orange ambers of my cigar mash into his cheek. He shrieks like a girl, his pained wails enough to launch the men paid to protect him into action. I take down goon number one with the gun my clutch on Zoran’s balls caused him to relinquish control of before removing the life from goon number two’s eyes with a bullet between them. I had planned to take down the third gentleman with a bullet to the heart, but one of Zoran’s whores attempts to flee the carnage, putting her right in the line of fire.
See? This is why my inability to kill women pisses me off. If I were a merciless bastard with a black heart, I could kill two birds with one stone. A
through-and-through bullet would save me from hearing her high-pitched squeal for a second longer, but since my mother raised me with more morals than a standard mobster, I jerk my chin to the side, demanding she move before taking my shot.
My delay nearly costs me my life, but Zoran’s goons are only worth the pittance he pays them. The low-ranked foot soldier in his mid-forties fires a bullet that flicks up the dark hair curling around my ear before shattering a bottle of whiskey behind my right shoulder.
My aim is more precise than his.
The glaze of death widening his eyes changes their color from light blue to murky black. While he falls to the ground, I grip the back of Zoran’s head and slam it forward. His forehead colliding with the bar is so forceful, I hear his skull crack. Happy I have him subdued for a minute or two, I swivel in my barstool to take care of his final goon charging my way. If he were smart, he would have fired at me while my back was turned. It’s a pity for him his honor won’t save him his life.
The blonde I winked at earlier screams a blood-curling cry when the man’s exploding brain splatters across her basically non-existent shirt. I nearly apologize before I realize my error. I just saved her sucking Zoran’s shriveled-up dick for the next seven years before he killed her and replaced her with an even younger girl. She should be thanking me.
I watch the women I’ve just freed from imminent death race out of the establishment they were slumming it in before focusing my attention back on Zoran. We’re not the only two patrons in the bar, but with the bartender happy to continue polishing glasses as he was before I gunned down four men in front of him, and the scent of shit wafting up from a group of foreigners in the far left corner, I’ve got no cause for concern.
Blood gushes down Zoran’s head when I yank it back so he sits slumped in his chair. He’s dazed and confused, but does a good job of acting ignorant when I ask, “How was the Puerto Rican coast? Heard it’s quite nice this time of the year.”
“I-I-I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to Puerto Rico.”
I purse my lips in an arrogant way. “Oh. I must have been given the wrong information.”
Zoran’s puffy eyes track my hand when I slide it into the breast pocket of my jacket to retrieve the weapon his goon missed. It’s not his fault. It’s flat and lightweight, and I’m known for favoring guns, so I’d never be accused of carrying a knife.
“What about this? Do you recognize this?” I place a knife on a section of the bar not covered with blood.
Zoran’s throat works hard to swallow before he shakes his head. I’m not shocked by his cowardice; I just wish he’d put up more of a fight. Revenge is ten times sweeter when your victim fights their fate. Zariah had more gusto than Zoran, and she’s only been in this game half his innings.
“Are you sure you don’t recognize it? From what I heard, you’ve been hiding from it on the Puerto Rican coast the past year.” I give him a few seconds to conjure up an excuse. When he fails to find one, I continue with my mission. “Its owner really wanted to handle this himself, but you know how life is. Things get busy. Fingers get lost—especially ones used to bid on a woman owned by another.”
Zoran sighs, optimistic he’ll leave tonight with only a missing digit. He could only hope to be so lucky. He’s minutes from having his life extinguished in a manner Nikolai would approve of, but I’ll pretend otherwise if it keeps his sobs on the down low. I’m jet-lagged, harboring more anger than I’ve ever had, and still recalling the smell that fanned off Zariah’s skin when I squeezed her throat to within an inch of her life. It had the same tangy scent Zoran’s trousers are exuding this very instant, minus the pissy odor. It was feminine, almost erotic. Even while dissecting a man’s finger, recalling her scent evokes a firm response from my cock. If she smells like that when she’s scared, imagine her scent when she comes?
Zoran’s whimper when his finger pops out of his knuckle covers my groan. It’s for the best. I’d hate to get a reputation that I get turned on from killing. I do, but I’d rather it not be spread by anyone but the women I use to expel the excess adrenaline I get from every kill.
I also shouldn’t be having thoughts like this about Zariah. Our families were enemies years before she orchestrated Dominique’s demise, and her death reminded me why I should have never let her near them to begin with. I was stupid and naïve, and my stupidity cost me dearly. If I had trusted my intuition, Dominique would still be warming my sheets, and I wouldn’t be fucking sideline whores as if they’re my main squeeze.
After wrapping Zoran’s ring finger in a napkin, I store it in my pocket. Nikolai doesn’t need proof that I’ve taken down the last man on his hit list, but I like adding trophies to my collection. The pompously large ruby ring that began Zoran’s demise twelve months ago will look fetching in my cabinetry of kills.
I stand, snagging Nikolai’s bloody knife off the counter on the way. “Any last words?”
Zoran’s blubbering annoys me. Not as much as Zariah popping into my thoughts during a claim of vengeance, but enough I slit Zoran’s throat before a syllable escapes his lips. Usually, I’d stay and watch the show. It’s quite humorous witnessing a grown man struggle to hold his throat together. No amount of stitches could save him, but supposedly two measly, worthless hands might.
Tonight I’m not interested, proving it isn’t just Zariah messing with my head. I’m more restless than usual. I’m the most unhinged I’ve ever been. Things never end well when I let my desires overrule laws I created. I learned that the hard way before I even became a man.
While wiping Zoran’s blood off Nikolai’s blade onto my trousers, I make my way to the door I entered not even twenty minutes ago. I’m halfway across the blood-stained floor when reality dawns: I just slit a man’s throat in a bar with five witnesses.
The bartender freezes like a statue when I spin around to face him. His eyes reveal his desire to run, but he’s too frozen in fear to do anything but stare at me, unblinking and unmoving. The fret on his face eases when I place a twenty on the counter. I’d like to leave a more generous tip—he has one hell of a mess to clean—but I didn’t consider the carnage when I decided to fulfill Nikolai’s request earlier than anticipated. I only calculated the cost of a drink. I can kill without mercy, but I’m not one to skip a bill.
“Keep the change.”
With a wink that exposes the adrenaline thickening my blood, I exit the death-desecrated bar. My slip into the back of an SUV with blacked-out windows occurs with four marked police cars skidding around the corner. I make a mental note that they’ve shaved four minutes off their arrival time. I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.
Yes, there’s always a next time.
As my vehicle moves away from flashing lights, I dig my phone out of my pocket along with Zoran’s dissected finger. Once again, Nikolai doesn’t need proof I’ve done as requested, but it’s more fun this way.
After snapping a picture with Zoran’s index finger presenting as my middle finger, I send it to Nikolai. With our difference in time, he should be asleep, so you can imagine my surprise when a reply pops up almost instantaneously.
Nikolai: That better not be your dick, you limp-dicked bastard.
I laugh while punching out my reply.
Me: I considered sending your wife a picture of my cock, but then I realized my phone doesn’t have a wide-angle lens. Tell her I’ll give it another shot to get it all in one photo when we FaceTime tomorrow.
My laughter bellows around the interior of my car when his reply is nothing but a screen full of knife emojis.
Happy to end our conversation with him threatening my life, I return my phone to my pocket. It’s halfway in when it buzzes with another message. This one shocks me to the core.
Nikolai: Thank you.
I stare at the two words of his message, equally stunned and pleased. Nikolai isn’t a man to issue praise. I can’t recall ever hearing those words leave his lips. Even when I guaranteed I had no issues helping him scratch
off the last name on the list of men who bid on his wife, he didn’t voice anything close to commendation. He would have eventually taken care of business himself, but with Zoran floating between safe houses, and Nikolai being needed on home turf, he knew this might have been our only chance of snagging him. I was inclined to agree. This was the safest and quickest option.
Although doubtful writing praise is easier than accepting it, I give it a shot by replying:
Me: You’re welcome.
Our conversation veers back to normal territory when Nikolai’s response pops up on my screen a few seconds later.
Nikolai: But don’t think I won’t slit your throat if you send my wife a photo of your dick.
Happy to leave him on tenterhooks, I don’t reply to his message. My failure to respond will keep him up all night, and for some fucked up reason, that pleases me greatly.
When I spot a familiar exit coming up, I scoot to the edge of my seat. “Take this exit.”
The driver’s dark eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Are you not going home?”
Not that it is any of his business, I shake my head. I’ve got a ton of adrenaline to burn off, and the whores in Khimki are more sophisticated than any at the compound. I know this because I own them.
When the driver makes a pfft noise, I pay closer attention to his dark eyes. They’re familiar, brimming with condescending amusement, and bubbling my blood with more than sexual arousal.
“What’s with the noise, Kostya?”
I don’t know why I’m letting a bottom-feeder like Kostya annoy me. I would have brushed off his whiny remark with my fists if my conversation with Nikolai earlier this evening didn’t play through my mind the instant I realized who my driver is, but now he has me wondering exactly how much has changed while I was away. Before I left for Vegas, family business stayed between family members, so how did a hired goon like Kostya know about my arranged marriage before me?
“It’s nothing urgent. I just figured you’d want to get in first.”