Dynasty

by Jen Davis et al.

  As we breezed through the dining area, all heads turned to us. Vladimir wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and we followed the manager past a couple of jumbo-sized bouncers and up a flight of stairs which led to a bar area.

  Boris was there with a teacup in his hand and a bottle of vodka on the table in front of him. He was dealing cards to some old guys while another dozen or so seedy-looking Russians filled out the room. There were girls there, too, wearing gobs of make-up, low cut dresses, and ridiculously high heels. I jumped when I spotted Mr. Cusimano seated at the bar, locking lips with a busty brunette who was definitely not Mrs. Cusimano.

  Boris and his cohorts took notice as Vladimir and I passed through on our way up another flight of stairs to a fancy private dining room on the third floor. Artwork featuring Russian architecture lined the walls, shelves held an eclectic mix of shabby chic antiques and nesting dolls, and the room was illuminated by candelabras.

  The boss had made it absolutely clear Friday night he was not interested in me That Way. Remembering his look of disgust flushed me with humiliation, but this setting seemed a bit romantic for an oligarch/protégé kind of dinner.

  Was that why Boris had admonished me when he got a gander of my wardrobe choice? Was this a test?

  The maître d’ pulled out my chair and scooted me in. “How do you say thank you?” I asked Vladimir.

  “Spasibo.”

  “Spasibo.” I smiled at the sweet-faced old man.

  Vladimir sat down across from me and set a napkin in his lap. “I hope you’re hungry. The chef is preparing a traditional Russian feast—lacto-vegetarian, of course.”

  I knew what he was doing. He was trying to fix me.

  A couple bites of fancy food and I’ll be good as new, right? Well, it doesn’t work that way. Food isn’t the problem nor is it the solution and despite what my shrink says, I’m not punishing myself, I’m not trying to get attention, I’m not engaging in self-destructive behavior…

  A server set out a spread of pickles, skinny marinated mushrooms, sauerkraut, and black bread with a crock of butter, and a small dish of salt, and the waiter swooped in and set down a line of shots each tinted a different color. There was no way the staff would have the nerve to card me.

  I wondered if the boss had gotten a head injury over the weekend and suffered from acute memory loss. “Is this a joke?” I crossed my arms, ticked he had the nerve to set me up like that again.

  “Infused vodka. The house specialty. I want you to have the best of everything.”

  Okay, I felt like an ass. I could tell I’d insulted him. I gave in. “What are the flavors?”

  “Pineapple, cucumber and dill, and horseradish.”

  “Horseradish? For real?”

  “Want to try?”

  “I’m going to have to work my way up to that one. Let’s start with pineapple.” I pointed to the golden-tinted one.

  “First,” he said, “pick up a bread slice. Tonight, you will drink like a Russian.”

  He lifted the dark rye bread to his nose and sniffed. I followed his lead. Then, he buttered his bread and sprinkled some salt on it. I did the same and set the bread down on the plate.

  Vladimir raised his glass to mine and made a toast in Russian.

  I held my drink back so he couldn’t clink it. “Not until you tell me what it means.”

  “Something good.” His glass hovered in the air.

  I gave in. “To something good.” We clinked glasses and downed our shots.

  Chapter 15

  The Pakhan

  Vladimir took a bite of bread. I tore mine into bite-sized pieces and glanced around the room, taking in the fabulous décor. “You pick the next one.” I pointed to the shots.

  He picked up the horseradish infused vodka. “This one.”

  My throat still burned from the last shot. Since he had made the first toast, I held my glass up and initiated the next one. “Za zdorov'ye.”

  He clinked my glass, grinning at what I suspected was a horrid accent, and repeated the sentiment. We downed our shots. It tasted good, but my nose burned like when I put too much wasabi on my cucumber roll. “How do you say, ‘the vodka is nice?’”

  “Vodka khoroshaya.”

  “Say it again.”

  He obliged.

  “Vodka khoroshaya, Pakhan. That’s what Boris calls you. Pakhan means ‘boss,’ right?”

  The truth: I’d looked it up. Specifically, it meant godfather as in crime boss.

  “You catch on quick, angel.”

  I picked from the appetizer tray and arranged little piles of marinated veggies on my plate. He wouldn’t stop staring at me. I felt self-conscious and was relying on the alcohol to loosen me up so I could eat something. “Where did you meet my sister?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  I worried I might ruin the light mood, but I pushed anyway. “Dad packed away all of Sophia’s pictures and never talks about her. I’m his only reminder she ever existed.”

  Vladimir brought a napkin to his face and patted his mouth. “That’s why he’s so protective of you. Your resemblance to Sophia is—”

  “Haunting?”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Do you see her when you look at me?”

  His lips parted, and the answer was on the tip of his tongue. Then the waiter interrupted when he delivered trays of food: radish cakes, baked cheesy bread, eggplant caviar, and a beet and kidney bean salad. Vladimir welcomed the distraction and turned his focus on filling my plate with a sample of all the zakuski on the table. I still had internal bleeding from the verbal lashing he’d sliced me with early Saturday morning, but he was extending the olive branch and I needed to take it.

  Vladimir had apologized and was honestly trying to make it up to me—crime boss or not, the gesture was sweet and genuine. I thanked him and plunged my fork into a saucy beet thing. I stabbed at it trying to make it small enough to swallow without chewing. I set down my fork and picked up my water glass.

  Unsure of what my problem was, Vladimir lifted his shoulders and took a bite of the same dish I’d hacked to pieces. “It’s good. No meat. No fish. No eggs.”

  I put down my glass when my hands began to tremble from being so nervous. “Stop trying to fix me.” I tossed my napkin over my plate, bolted outside to the scenic patio that overlooked downtown, and welcomed the chilly breeze that cooled my clammy skin. As soon as I reached the railing, Vladimir wrapped his suit jacket around my shoulders as if he could extinguish my flame of insanity. I shook my head. “I’m so sorry—”

  “It must be lonely to grow up without your big sister.” He turned me around and tried to rest my head on his chest, but I stepped back.

  “I felt lightheaded from the alcohol. I’m fine now.” I took his hand and tried to drag him back inside. He didn’t move.

  “Coney Island.”

  I turned around.

  “Sophia worked at a pizzeria near the boardwalk.”

  “She was a senior in high school when she worked there.”

  “And I was a seventeen-year-old Russian immigrant, living the American Dream.”

  I mirrored his smile, encouraging him to continue.

  “I’d never seen a more beautiful young woman in my life. Her golden eyes, her long, blonde hair waving in the wind.” He looked up at the stars as he conjured up the memory. “When her shift ended, I approached her. The moment our eyes met, I knew we would be together forever.”

  “Sophia and I were very close, and she never mentioned you.”

  “She had planned to tell you everything, but our lives were interrupted when my work took me back to Russia. I had to stay longer than expected.”

  “Because you went to prison?” I lowered his hand and pointed to the tattoo of a watch on his wrist visible under his Rolex. “Time served. I noticed it when you took your watch off the other day. I Googled it.”

  I worried he might be mad, but he actually seemed impressed. I picked up his other hand and continue
d. “This cross means you served one prison term. This ring tattoo of a crown means you’re the pakhan, the Russian letters across your fingers spell out your nickname ‘B-O-C-C’ which translates to ‘Boss,’ the five dots represent four guard towers and you in the middle. I don’t know what all the other stuff means, but Boris has way more ink than you do.”

  He squeezed my hands and lowered them down to my side. “Don’t dig too deep. It’s not a pretty story. I wish you’d let me in on your secrets. So much pain behind your eyes.”

  “So, by the time you got out of prison, she was gone?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

  He smiled weakly, but I could tell he was holding back. “I think of her every day. Seeing you at my house the night we met, I couldn’t help but wonder if—”

  “If what?”

  “Let’s get you out of the cold.” Vladimir put his arm around my shoulders, and I inhaled his heavenly cologne as he guided me back inside. Instead of sitting when we reached our table, he spoke to the manager in Russian. The guy nodded and led us back to the kitchen. At first, I didn’t get it. I followed him curiously.

  Our waiter cleared off a prep counter, and brought in two bar stools. Vladimir guided me to sit and scooted his chair next to me. The manager delivered a bottle of wine and set it on the table along with a corkscrew. Vladimir went to the bar and got a couple of glasses. He opened the wine, poured our drinks, and clinked my glass.

  “Like home.” He winked.

  Finally, I understood. Our first dinner together in the formal dining room was noticeably painful for me. Sitting down at a fancy table and staring at each other didn’t fly in my comfort zone. He’d picked up on my apprehension and moved our gathering spot to the kitchen. We ate zakuski standing at the bar, sipping drinks, and talking—like a Russian family.

  He was nothing if not thoughtful. “Thank you,” I said, not specifying but he knew anyway.

  The chef gave us a cooking lesson as she prepared the orders. She even taught me how to grill kabobs, which I managed to do without gagging. Hearing the meat sizzle and watching the fat bubble up and melt down, feeding the flames, usually made my stomach turn. I guess Vladimir was the distraction I needed to maintain my sanity.

  He even ate, like, three skewers of meat and veggies and said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. I’d had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t really a vegetarian. He’d dropped a few pounds since I’d become his personal chef. We took a break from cooking to sample the food and to enjoy our wine like we did at home, and before the clock bonged curfew, the tension had lifted.

  Vladimir and I were, “Over our bullshit,” as Boris would say.

  Chapter 16

  Ticked

  The next day it was drizzling outside, so I took a shortcut through the weight room to get to the back parking lot where Boris picked me up. A shirtless Leonardo, the studly basketball player, up-nodded as I walked past. “¿Cómo estás?” He flexed his muscles.

  “Bien.” Thanks to a good public education, I’m fluent en español.

  “In a hurry?” He mopped a gym towel across his face.

  Well, I would face the Wrath of Boris to hang out with you for a minute or two. “Not really.” I set down my tennis bag and filled a cup of water from the cooler.

  His dreamy olive green eyes lit up as his gaze moved up and down my sweaty bod. “I haven’t seen you. You don’t work upstairs anymore?”

  I shook my head.

  “I just finished up. Want to grab a shake?”

  My belly fluttered. “Oh, I wish I could, but my ride is here.”

  “Another time?”

  “Sí.” I walked to the door, but stopped and turned around when a brilliant idea popped into my head. “I have an extra ticket to the ballet this Friday. I don’t know if that’s something you’re into or not, but—”

  “I’m into it if you are. No puedo esperar.”

  I felt tingly all over. “Yo tampoco.”

  We exchanged numbers.

  When I met Boris, I was sure my aura was glowing. “Privet.” I plopped down in the front seat with more enthusiasm than usual.

  He glared at me as if my good mood was a signal of imminent disaster. “Privet. Your day was good?”

  “Yeah, practice was good. I got my calculus homework done in English lit. Good.”

  He didn’t put the car in reverse, which made me nervous. I take after my dad. He rambles when he’s nervous. I ramble when I’m nervous. “Yep. Good. Very good.” I tapped my foot.

  “What made your day very good? Something special must have happened.”

  Jeez. “Actually, yes. I have a favor to ask.”

  He nodded for me to continue.

  “Well, Kiki’s parents gave us an early Christmas present—tickets to the ballet.”

  “Ah, so thoughtful.” His dark eyes were set on lie detector mode.

  “Yes, they’re fabulous. Anyway, the tickets are for this Friday.” I waited to gauge his reaction, but his expression hadn’t changed. “So, I was wondering if I could have the night off?”

  He tapped his fingers on the dash as he processed the request. “To go to the ballet with Chinese girl?”

  “Mm, hm.”

  “Of course, I will send a limo to take you in style. Two lovely ladies shouldn’t drive downtown alone. It is my gift to you and your friend.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s so nice.” Driver meant babysitter.

  “My pleasure.” He pulled back on the shifter to put the car in reverse.

  “But—”

  “But?” He slammed the car in park. The Cadillac engine revved.

  I exhaled. “We’re going with some friends.”

  Boris licked his lips. “Now the story changes?”

  “No, no, no, the story didn’t change.” I tried to keep it light. “I gave you the abbreviated version instead of the long-winded one.” I balled my fingers into a fist and put them in my lap.

  He nodded at my hands. “This is how you mask your untruth?”

  Everything was so serious with him. I laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all good, Boris. It’s just a night out with my friends. No alcohol, I promise.” I put my hand on my heart. “I appreciate the offer for the car, but Kiki’s date is driving.”

  “Your date is good guy?”

  “Sure. Yeah. He’s a nice guy.”

  “He goes to your college?”

  Dammit. “No.”

  “Older boy?”

  “We’re about the same age.” I turned on the music to try to change the subject. “What’s that Russkiy song we listened to the other day? The one about the sky. I think I have the chorus memorized now.”

  He played the song. “About the same age? What does that mean?”

  “Please don’t interrogate me, Boris. No surprises—I promise.”

  He drove off the lot and tipped his head as he considered my request. “Friday night I will take you home early.”

  “Spasibo.” I clapped my hands.

  “But,” he pointed his finger at me, ticked something he said had made me happy, “you will serve the rest of your time on Sunday.”

  Ay caramba.

  Chapter 17

  Quick And Dirty

  Since Vladimir and I had buried our little problem, he had come home early every night that week. We talked. We laughed. We celebrated my team’s advance to the playoffs. We noshed on marinated veggies and bread and enjoyed our wine and vodka. Things were going so well, I looked forward to our time together. In fact, the Carter Love Fest bordered on obnoxious.

  It was the last week before winter break and Vladimir helped me study for exams. He wrote words of encouragement in Russian on my statistics practice tests—after he helped me correct my mistakes—and we engaged in mock business negotiations, Russian style, that involved generous shots of vodka chased down with dark bread slathered with rich butter and sprinkled with coarse sea salt. It was sweet of him to spend so much time with me, and I loved seeing him in Boss Mo
de.

  For one of our negotiations, we pretended I was a produce supplier, and he owned a restaurant. I gave him an estimate for what I thought was a fair price for the order he placed, but he asked for a twenty percent discount. I countered a ten percent discount and, as a goodwill gesture, I would toss in a couple extra heads of cabbage under the table.

  “Twenty is my final offer,” Vladimir said, pouring on his alpha male persona.

  Determined not to squirm under pressure, I stared him down while I crafted a comeback. I kept my mental focus and extended my hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ivanov. Regrettably, I am unable to accept your terms. Have a pleasant day.” I tried to walk away, but he tightened his grip on my hand and wouldn’t let me go.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t have reached more favorable terms, Miss Cook. Now we’ll do it my way.”

  “What? Are you—?”

  “In one hour, you will personally deliver my order. I will receive a fifty percent discount off your lowest offer, and all cabbages will be delivered under the table. Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Cook.”

  Was he serious? Did he seriously negotiate like that?

  I shook out of his grasp and made a T with hands. “Timeout.” I glanced over at Boris, who was seated across from us, writing in his black notebook. “Is he on my team or yours?”

  Vladimir tipped his hand, indicating I could have the big guy.

  I straightened my shoulders and plastered my game face back on. “It certainly is a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Ivanov.” I checked my watch. “I have to run. Let’s do this. I’ll have my associate Boris go over the final details of your order with you.” I suppressed a winner’s grin. “I look forward to a long, mutually beneficial business relationship with you, and I would hate for there to be any bad blood between us. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well played, angel. You’re hired.” He kissed my cheeks. “Welcome to the family.”

  I cracked up. Boris fired off some angry words in Russian, but Vladimir laughed it off. Boris hated to see the boss joking and fawning over me, but I thought it was sweet. I’m sure the boss had way more important things to do, but he liked spending time with me, too.