Dynasty

by Jen Davis et al.

  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 clapped 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.

  I chugged the pop and noticed Boris had set his black notebook and cell out on the table. How could he work at a time like this? As I drank, he tapped his finger on the phone, waiting for his orders. My body began to shake. I scooped up a bite of rice and lifted it to my mouth. Half of it made it; the rest tumbled down my shirt.

  “Want me to help you eat?”

  I shook my head and fed myself again with similar results. I gave up and nibbled on a cracker. “Which one of you killed my sister?”

  Boris’s expression turned murderous.

  “Don’t deny it. I saw the tattoo of her inked on Vladimir’s back. That’s how you assholes brag about your crimes, right? I know that knife on your neck means you’re a hit man. Does one of those links on your arm represent my sister?” I pointed to his blue snake tat.

  “Your sister’s death was a tragic accident.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Not bullshit. Vladimir was in Siberia at the time of your sister’s death. I never told him about the accident until after he was released. The news would’ve killed him.”

  That was what Vladimir had told me, too. Maybe it was true. “So you did it?”

  “Think, lapsha. Why would I, why would anyone in the Bratva hurt her? Vladimir is like a son to me. The accident was just an accident. She lost control of her car and crashed. Not my fault, not Vladimir’s fault—not your fault either.”

  Tears dripped down my cheeks. “I don’t believe you. I saw the tattoo. Her face, the flames, a blue devil—”

  “Guilt, my dear. Vladimir feels responsible because if he hadn’t gone to prison, they would’ve stayed together in New York. No car wreck in Cincinnati.”

  I would never know if he was telling me the truth, but his facts did validate Vladimir’s alibi, hence she didn’t die by his hand. “When is he going to call?”

  Tap, tap, tap, tap…

  “What time is it?” I asked. When he ignored me, my gaze darted to the alarm clock next to the bed. It was almost midnight. I looked down at my wrist and at the shiny oil mark Boris had rubbed on me. It looked like an X—no, it was a cross.

  Oh, God. Holy oil—Last Rites.

  I knew then he had already made up his mind. It was two hours past my curfew. I wasn’t going home. “How are you going to do it?”

  Tap, tap, tap, tap…

  “Are you going to make it hurt to get back at me for all the times—”

  A loud boom came from the door. “Freeze!” Two officers wielding guns stormed the room and aimed their weapons at Boris. “Put your hands up.”

  I leapt out of my seat, my hands high, totally confused by the huge uniformed man with his gun pointed at Boris and the bushy-haired officer next to him—

  “Officer Montgomery?”

  “Are you all right, Carter?” Officer Montgomery asked, her entire focus on Boris, her gun pointed at his chest.

  Oh, God. I’m safe.

  But Boris wasn’t. If I squealed, the pakhan would have my whole family whacked. This was my chance to do the right thing for once.

  “Don’t shoot! He’s the one who saved me.”

  Chapter 56

  Dead Silence

  With my hands up in surrender, I skittered around the table, sat on Boris’s knee, and curled my arms around his neck like a human shield. Officer Montgomery’s partner kept his gun aimed at Boris, and she peeled me off his lap and sat me on the bed. “Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head. “How did you find me?”

  “Your dad called the station when you didn’t come home. He was adamant something was wrong. You never miss your curfew,” she said. “After we had a talk about your grandpa, I put an APB out on the Cadillac.” She stood up and put her hand on her gun, still tucked in the holster. “Trouble seems to follow you, Carter, and by ‘trouble’ I mean him.” She nodded at Boris.

  “Please put down your gun,” I said to the male officer. “I called him for help after I fought him off.”

  “Fought who off?” Officer Montgomery asked. She stood Boris up, frisked him, and removed his gun from its hiding place. “Why am I not surprised to find this?” She slapped handcuffs on him and told him his Miranda rights while the other officer steadied his gun on Boris. I waited for the big guy to make a move. I had little confidence he would let the police take him down.

  “You’re safe. You don’t have to lie anymore,” Officer Montgomery said.

  “I’m not lying. I was with my sicko ex-boyfriend. I agreed to meet him so we could talk about getting back together.” I sucked in a deep breath to buy some time while I constructed a bullshit story. “We had a few drinks, and he started talking smack about how he missed me.” I dropped my gaze to the floor. “We made out, and then he put his hands all over me. I wanted to leave, but he wouldn’t let me go. We got into an argument, and then—” I glanced over at Boris.

  “Look at me,” Officer Montgomery said. “Then what happened?”

  My lips quivered. I lifted my hand and touched the throbbing fingermarks on my cheek.

  “Did he assault you?” she asked.

  “He tried, but I fought him off. When he left, he took my clothes with him and told me not to leave. I didn’t know what to do. I was naked, drunk, and stranded in this shitty place. I was afraid my dad would be angry—he told me never to see him again—so I called him.�
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  The cops eyed each other.

  I picked up the shopping bag and snatched the receipt. “He bought me clothes and food and medical supplies—”

  “Where else are you hurt?” the male officer asked.

  I rolled up my sleeve and showed him my bandaged elbow. The officer pulled back the Band-Aids and winced at my skinned up elbow.

  “Rug burn. I skidded across the carpet after he hit me.”

  Boris’s cell vibrated on the table.

  “Why didn’t you call the police, sir?” the guy asked.

  Boris threatened the officer with his villainous stare.

  “I begged him not to until I could pull myself together before I called my dad. Please, can I answer my phone? It’s Dad. He must be worried sick.” I snatched up Boris’s phone and tapped the screen, but before I had a chance to say a word, a voice spoke in Russian—the pakhan. I closed myself in the bathroom and waited for him to finish his order.

  “Ouch. That sounds painful, babe.”

  I waited for him to speak. He didn’t.

  “Miss, come out of the bathroom,” the officer ordered.

  “I’ll be right out.” I turned on the faucet to try to drown out my voice. “I’ve got some bad news, boss. Your patsani are a bunch of fuck-ups.”

  The cop banged on the bathroom door. “Come out now.”

  “Boris is in handcuffs as we speak. Only I can get him out of this. My family and friends stay safe. In return, I leave you and Boris out of this mess. Agreed?”

  Nothing.

  “I need an answer. You let me go, and I let you off the hook, deal?”

  Dead silence.

  ***

  I refused to get into the ambulance, so I rode up front in the patrol car with Officer Montgomery. Boris was in the back of the cruiser in cuffs. I had the sense to claim his black notebook—filled with his illegal gambling notes—as my personal diary, so the cops couldn’t confiscate it. I needed every weapon I could get to use against the Russians.