by Jen Davis
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.
“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. “W
ow. 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 pounded 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.
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.