by Renee Rose
He pulls up in front of the building, and I take a deep breath.
“Knock them dead, blossom. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”
“Thank you.” I lean over for a kiss. It’s awkward because he didn’t lean my way or try to touch me, but he cradles my face and kisses me back lightly.
“You’ve got this.”
I step out of the car. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know up from down. Maybe that’s why I believe Pavel implicitly. My defenses are down, and Pavel thinks I’m perfect. All I can do is show up and be me.
Pavel
I don’t know how long it will take Kayla, but I figure there’s time to take her car to a carwash and get an exterior and interior clean. She hasn’t texted by the time it’s finished, so I take a chance and bring it to the Jiffy Lube for an oil change and tune up, sliding a hundred dollar bill into the guy in charge’s hand to get it done quickly.
Afterward, I drive around L.A., looking at it for the first time. I realize I don’t even know where Kayla lives. I was playing fantasy dom—meeting her at Black Light and then bringing her to a hotel room for the weekend.
Now, though, things have shifted.
I see a commercial real estate sign in front of a large apartment complex and some wild and ridiculous notion pops in my head. I pull over to call the number on the sign.
“This is Larry,” a guy practically yells over the phone. Sounds like he’s driving a convertible.
“Yeah, just wondering the selling price for the property on Wilmont.”
“Are you an agent?” he demands.
“No. This is Pavel Pushkin. I’m a real estate investor from Chicago.”
“It’s five million, eight. I won’t show it until you’ve proven you have funding.”
I ignore his last statement. “How many units?”
“Six one-bedroom units and six two. The top floor is a penthouse suite, and there’s a pool on the roof.”
“How big are the units?”
“Eight hundred square feet and one thousand.”
“I’ll be in touch,” I say and end the call without a thank you. Groveling isn’t my thing.
I stare at the building and run the numbers in my head.
Real estate is the true secret to Ravil’s wealth. He may run smuggling and gambling and loan shark operations—staples of the bratva business—but he invested his money wisely. Somehow, he made enough—or maybe he killed the right people to inherit enough—to buy the Kremlin—lakefront property in Chicago. Definitely worth multiple millions. And now, with his beautiful new crime-intolerant wife, Ravil has steered the organization in a relatively legit direction. He can because he’s now a real estate mogul, not a crime lord.
I wonder, briefly, if Igor bankrolled him. I never asked because it’s none of my business.
All this time, I’ve saved all my earnings, so when things have cooled down enough to return to Moscow, I could get myself set up somehow. Oh, I’d still work for the bratva. The only way out of the bratva is in a box, or so they say. But having my own business—sanctioned by the pakhan, of course—has been my goal.
Sasha just inherited something like sixty million when Igor died. I wonder if she could be talked into backing me on something like this?
But that’s a crazy thought. Why would I start a business venture in Los Angeles if I’m moving to Moscow?
Well, the why is pretty obvious.
I’m thinking with my dick.
But my mother’s alone in Russia. Friendless, isolated, depressed.
Because of what I did.
So giving any thought to not returning would make me even more heartless than everyone thinks I am.
Blyad’.
A text comes through on my phone from Kayla, and I put the car back in drive and swing in front of the building where she auditioned to pick her up.
There’s a calmness around her as she walks out that hits me square in the chest. It’s not the kind of hair-tossing confidence Sasha wields, but she looks grounded. Happy.
I get out to open the door for her, and she leans into me, lifting her face with a smile and big moon eyes. “You’re awfully nice to your slave,” she purrs.
“My slave earned it.” I brush her cheek with my thumb. “How’d it go?”
She exhales with a smile. “Really well. As good as it could have. I did a couple scenes for them, and one made me tear up. It was perfect, honestly. Thanks for the pep talk before I went in. It really helped.”
“You don’t need pep talks, little flower. You already have it all. Believe that.”
She keeps leaning against me, her tits pressing soft against my ribs. My dick twitches against my zipper at the contact. I want to throw her over my shoulder, run back into that building and find some supply closet where I can fuck her brains out one last time before I go.
As if she’s reading my mind, she asks, “What time’s your flight?”
I shrug. “I already missed it. I’m sure I can find another one going out tonight.”
“Do you want me to take you to the airport?”
This is new, too. We’ve always just met at Black Light or the hotel. When it’s over, I take a cab or rideshare, and she drives away.
I know I should tell her no. That I’ll call a ride share. There’s something desperate and clingy about us needing to stay together until the last possible minute.
But the fact is, I do want these last few moments with her. Even after a solid forty-eight hours and more orgasms than I can count, it’s never enough. There’s something thoroughly addictive about Kayla that makes me want to change every plan I’ve ever made.
I brush my lips over hers. “Yeah. That would be nice. Thanks.”
8
Pavel
I get up from the red leather couch in the living room of the penthouse.
“Too much of a chick flick?” Story asks. She’s curled up in Oleg’s lap on the other end of the sofa. She picked the movie playing on the television—The Spy Who Dumped Me. Nikolai’s in the chair beside us.
“Nah. It’s fine.” Although it’s true, now that we have three women in the house, our television diet has changed significantly.
“It’s stupid,” Nikolai says, then holds his hands up when Oleg glares. “I just mean why would you torture someone that way? It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re just sad you can’t wear a leotard while you question captives,” his twin, Dima counters. He’s at his makeshift desk—a table in the middle of the living room—because he likes to work where all the action is. Or because he can’t stop working. The guy would probably combust if he wasn’t sitting in front of a computer for at least twelve hours a day.
I haven’t seen Ravil, Lucy and the baby since dinner, and Maxim’s fucking Sasha’s brains out, based on the rhythmic sound of furniture banging against a wall in their room.
“I’ll probably be back,” I say. “I’m going to make a phone call.”
“I think the correct term is video-dom,” Nikolai wisecracks. “Show me your breasts, little slave,” he mimics.
One of these assholes overheard me once when I was talking to Kayla, and now I’m fair game.
“I’m calling my mother,” I growl and point at Nikolai. “I fucking dare you to make a joke with that.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t going to touch it.”
“You’d better not.”
Dima lifts his head and opens his mouth, but when I glower his way, he closes it again. “Yeah, me neither.”
“I’ll probably be back.” I walk out the front door of the suite and down the elevator hall to my bedroom, which doesn’t connect to the main penthouse. It suits me to have a little privacy, since I’m not the most social of the bunch.
I’ve been itchy and restless this week. The life I adored, revered for the past few years, suddenly seems basic. There’s been no one to beat down or torture. Working out and watching television on the couch with my suitemates used
to be enough on the off-hours. Now it’s mundane.
Kayla’s all I can think of, but this week, it’s not just about the things I want to do to her. How to torture her. Planning ways to make her scream. Shopping for implements and toys. This week, I’m remembering the things we talked about.
Kayla, I’m not saying no. That’s how I shifted from dom to boyfriend in a heartbeat. Because I’m incapable of saying no to that girl, especially when those big blue eyes fill with tears.
And yes, I would be video-domming her tonight if she wasn’t working a promotion with her housemates.
When I’m in my bedroom, I pull my phone out and call my mom back.
“Pavel! Are you home from your trip? How is the girl?” she asks in Russian.
“She’s good. She lives in Los Angeles. I was visiting her.”
“But how do you know her? What is she doing there? What’s her name?”
“Her name is Kayla. I met her at an event in Los Angeles. She’s an actress. I’ve been going to visit her on the weekends.”
“You’re serious about her.” My mother sounds surprised.
Not half as surprised as I am. I make a non-committal sound.
I’m serious about tying her up and licking her pussy until she screams...
I clear my throat. “How are you, Mama?”
“Oh, you know…”
“Have you left the apartment? Seen anyone?”
“No.”
“You should get out,” I say, but I know she won’t. She’s afraid. My father never let her out of his sight while he was alive. She wouldn’t even know how to go out and build a life. She needs support.
Briefly, my thoughts go to Nadia, Adrian’s sister. She was brought to this country under horrible circumstances—as a sex slave. Adrian tracked her here and burned down the building where she was being held. Then he worked on taking his revenge for what happened to her.
Unfortunately, the bastard Leon Poval, the Ukrainian slaver, is still at large.
But the point is, Adrian got her help. She video conferences a counselor back in Russia. She feels safe here in the Kremlin where everyone speaks Russian. She’s starting to get out. Hell, Adrian even brought her out to one of Story’s band’s shows last weekend after she met Story and her brother and the rest of the band rehearsing in the building.
“Mama, I’m moving you to the United States.”
“Nyet.” She doesn’t hesitate. I’m not surprised by her refusal.
“Da. Everyone in this building speaks Russian. You can make friends. We’ll find you something to do—babysit children, or assist Svetlana, the midwife, maybe. Something to keep you busy. I think it would be good for you.”
“I don’t know…”
It’s better than another outright refusal.
“Please, Mama. I’d like to have you closer to me, so I can look after you.”
“I don’t need looking after.”
“Well, I miss your honey cake. You could make it for me. And we will get together for dinner.”
She makes a non-committal sound, which I take as a good sign.
“Think about it. I’ll arrange things on my end.”
“Well…”
“It will be good for you. I’ll fly out and get you. If you hate it, I’ll fly you back. Yes?”
“Maybe.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll get you a passport and start the paperwork. I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, Pavel.” My mother sounds sad, but that’s nothing new. What’s new is this idea that I might be able to do something about it.
“Goodbye, Mama. I’ll call soon.”
“Yes, call soon,” she echoes distantly as I end the call.
I end the call and slap the back of the phone into my open palm a few times, considering. I need to talk to Ravil about my idea.
I exit my room and walk back into the suite, heading down the hall to the left toward Ravil’s wing. Hearing Benjamin fussing behind their door, I figure it’s safe to knock.
“Come in.” Lucy, the venerable defense attorney and Ravil’s new wife, sits in her glider in their room attempting to nurse the baby.
I look away because even though Lucy’s not modest, I figure Ravil would kill me if he thought I was looking at his wife’s breasts. “Is Ravil around?” I ask.
The baby latches onto her breast and starts sucking noisily. Lucy’s face goes soft with love for her baby. “In his office.” She speaks softly, but Benjamin still pops off her nipple to crane his neck and look at me.
I hold my hand up. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s fine. He’s been either fussing or nursing all day. Another growth spurt, I think.”
I’m not a baby person. Total understatement. I don’t know if I’ve held that baby more than twice since he was born, and I live with him. But I’m suddenly struck by the vision of Kayla nursing our baby, and a strange form of yearning comes over me.
Blyad’. I’ve got it bad.
I head into Ravil’s office and knock on the door. He’s sitting behind his desk, looking at something on his laptop. His gaze is predictably cool. I learned everything I know about mastering a situation from him.
I enter, shoving my hands in my pockets and leaning in the doorframe. “May I interrupt?”
“Yes. Come in.”
I don’t come in. I stay where I am. Maybe because I’m not fully committed to what I’m asking. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. Or if my reasons for doing it are pure.
“I was thinking about moving my mother to America. To live here.” I drop that bomb and watch it land.
Ravil raises his brows. He knows my history. Why Igor sent me to America. “All right.”
“She doesn’t speak English. I don’t know if I could get her to learn it, either. But we have a nice community here.”
Ravil’s lips twitch. “I’m sorry, did you just say the words nice community?”
My lips quirk in return. “Not that I’ve ever participated in it. But you know, I thought my mom might find some friends here.”
“Sure.”
“You’d let her live in the Kremlin?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” I push away from the door frame but hesitate before I leave. “I’m just curious—have you ever let anyone go?”
It’s a vague question, but Ravil knows exactly what I mean. “The only way out of the brotherhood is in a box,” he tells me. Of course, I know that. It’s bratva code.
Except he’s broken the code himself. He took a wife, which is forbidden, and he allowed Maxim to remain in the cell after he married.
“What about… sending a brother to a new location? Like how Igor sent you here to the United States?”
Ravil lifts a brow. “Igor sent me here for a good reason—to set up a smuggling route. I would have to have a good reason to diminish the numbers of the Chicago Bratva. Especially those in my inner circle.”
Well, fuck.
I don’t give up, though. Ravil can be a hardass, but underneath is an unmatched benevolence. “I can’t decide if you’re giving me a hard time to watch me sweat or you’re shutting me down completely,” I tell him.
Ravil has a champion poker face—nothing shows at all in his expression. But then he says, “No one is going to hand you the life you want, Pavel. You have to take it.”
My pulse picks up at the challenge. Am I going to take it? The life I want? Kayla, as mine forever?
“Let’s say I wished to relocate—not back to Moscow. To stay in your cell, but operate in a different city. Would you let me set up an operation there? Paying my dues and answering to you, of course?”
“I’m not going to discuss hypothetical situations. When you make your choice, we’ll discuss your fate with the organization.”
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to decipher the meaning of his words. In the end, I decide he’s giving me permission. Because I can’t believe he’d put a bullet in my head without a clear war
ning, and this was murky as fuck. He means we’ll negotiate terms.
He means yes. I give a mental fist pump.
“Thank you.”
He nods.
“Spasibo,” I repeat my thanks in Russian because I feel so much fucking gratitude I almost smile—a very rare occurrence for me.
Kayla
I venture into the kitchen with a towel wrapped under my armpits to grab a can of soda. I have an audition this afternoon before my weekend with Pavel.
“You look great,” I tell my roommate Kimberly, who is dressed in a pair of short-shorts with fishnets underneath and a child-sized red T-shirt with the name of a new energy drink across her tits.
“You should be going with us,” she complains. Normally I would be dressed in the same shirt, going out with my three roommates. We’re a promotions team. Or we were. But most promotions fall on Friday afternoons or evenings, which means I’ve missed seven out of the last nine events. “I don’t know how you’re going to pay the rent when you’ve barely worked in a month,” she says.
I get it. They feel let down. Maybe they miss me. It’s not like they can’t do the jobs without me. Jagger, the company owner, just finds another woman to fill in for me.
“Well, I have enough to get by.” I don’t want to tell her that Pavel’s been giving me money. I don’t want them inferring that he’s paying me for sex. They already think our relationship is bizarre.
Kimberly puts her hands on her hips. At five foot ten and in six-inch heels, she towers over me. I’m barely over five feet, but as my agent likes to say, I make up for the size in talent and hard work. That’s the pitch, anyway. “How long is this thing going to keep going?” she demands, and I bristle.
I’m usually the peace-maker around here. The one who makes sure everyone’s getting along, and there’s enough ice cream in the fridge when we all get our periods in the same week and are at each other’s throats.
“How long is my relationship going to keep going?”
She turns away, like she doesn’t want to show me the scorn on her face. “Right. Of course, you don’t know.” Her voice has softened. She pities me.
Now I’m really pissed.