Andrei: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  For a while, I just stare at the door. I’m bothered by how fast my heart is pounding in my chest. By the creeping knowledge that I didn’t handle that as well as I might have. Or maybe that I succeeded in pushing her away and it doesn’t feel as good as I hoped it would.

  Whatever the case, it’s done. Now she knows to keep her distance. Now I can make myself cold and emotionless again.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Her comment returns to me: I’m not so sure about that. It takes me some time to puzzle it out. Then it hits me.

  She did kill someone.

  Like me, she killed the weak, naïve child she used to be. We have that in common.

  17

  Jamie

  Sometimes, I like developing my photographs the old-fashioned way.

  I’m not one of these die hards who is exclusively digital or film, although I do favor digital for the ease of editing. But this evening—one whole day since Andrei’s major Fuck You—I’m in the dark room watching my photos come to life in the developer fluid.

  Sitting over them, it’s like I’m watching little snippets of this past week bleed into existence.

  I was supposed to be just taking shots for The Beast exhibition, but the one that’s slowly appearing now is a hazy selfie of me and Andrei, lying in bed together. Andrei is not smiling, but there’s a glint in his eyes, like he’s happy. Or, like he could be happy.

  I feel a punch in my chest when I think about the morning we took that. It was a few days ago. The whole setting felt surreal. Here’s Andrei, this Beast, this Bratva boss, and we’re in bed together after having sex, joking and kissing and making endless deals. Our deals have led to so many sexy, steamy times.

  As I transfer the photo from the developer to the stop fluid, I remember how he sounded when he told me about his parents. The pain in his voice wasn’t simple, not outright despair. It was more subtle than that, hidden under his gruffness. He was trying to be hard, but I could sense the sadness.

  As the selfie is stopping, I start developing a Beast photo: this one of Andrei in his Minotaur mask leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, shirtless, looking cocky with his head and horns tilted forward. His body appears to ripple as the film comes to life.

  After a minute, I move each one across: the Beast to the stopper and the selfie to the final stage, the fixer.

  As they process, I put another Beast into the developer. This one is of Andrei right after we had sex, his chest covered in red marks from where I scratched him, heaving, looking so powerful I feel a thrill run through me even now. The light is fantastic in this one, and I swear, as it comes to life, his eyes are the brightest thing in the photo, even hidden in the Minotaur mask.

  Like he’s looking straight at my soul. Dramatic, I know. But that’s really how it feels.

  But he doesn’t want me anymore. At least, that’s what he wants me to believe. And, really, surely that’s for the best? I mean, even if I’m scared that I’m starting to develop feelings for him, surely it’s better to end it now, before it gets out of hand.

  But, as I pin the selfie and move along the other two photos, I add one to the developing fluid that’s like a sucker punch right to the gut. Andrei has only ever taken one photo of me, by accident, when he was tinkering with the camera. It was one of the evenings where I was cooking him dinner.

  I stare down at it as it seeps into vibrant reality.

  Piece by piece, ink bleeds, and there I am: standing there in a baggy T-shirt falling way, way past my knees. His T-shirt, or at least one of the T-shirts we’ve provided him as our prisoner. I’m standing half turned toward him, lips caught in a natural smile. It captures my happiness in a way no staged photo ever could.

  I’m so caught up in looking at it, in remembering how much I felt like a couple as I cooked for him, that I mess up the timing and end up almost ruining it.

  Correcting my mistake, I move on.

  But that’s just it, isn’t it? Correcting my mistake. That’s what Andrei wants to do. He wants to correct the mistake of us two getting too close, because that is how he sees it: a mistake, something that needs to be reversed. But isn’t he just telling himself that because, like he said, he sees himself as weak because of what happened to his parents? Hell, I can empathize with that.

  My thoughts go around and around like a never-ending carousel, except instead of horses and chariots, this carousel is a bunch of memories of me and Andrei.

  Sighing, I pin the photos I’ve done so far, and leave the dark room.

  I planned to stay here much longer than this, but I’m too distracted, the same way I’ve been ever since Andrei basically told me we’re over … or that we never started. I can’t figure out which.

  I don’t want to be alone. Plus, I know that Molly isn’t working tonight. I decide to swing by my friend’s place and surprise her. Her face always lights up when I drop in unexpectedly. I’ll pick up some wine on the way and, hopefully, my problems won’t seem so unsolvable after some banter with my bestie.

  I end up going a bit over-the-top with the shopping for our impromptu ladies’ night. I know that some people might find this obnoxious, just turning up with a hamper—yes, hamper!—of wine, crackers, face masks, a board game, nail polish, and a couple of rom-com DVDs. But Molly and I do this sort of thing every couple of months, and we love it. It’s an unspoken tradition.

  So, as I walk down the hallway to her apartment, fishing my spare key out of my purse as I just about balance the hamper with my other hand, I’ve got a big cheesy grin on my face.

  I’m still smiling as I open the door, as I walk through her apartment to the noises in the bedroom—thinking she’s watching Netflix or something—and right up until the moment I hear what the noises really are.

  Sex noises. Molly moaning, a deeper voice panting heavily.

  Oh crap.

  So, this is really awkward.

  I’m about to walk away when I drop my keys, which I forgot I was still holding, maybe because balancing the hamper and replacing them in my bag was too acrobatic for me this evening.

  “Wait,” Molly says. “Did you hear that? What the hell? Do you think it’s a burglar?”

  I raise my voice quickly. “It’s me, Mols! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had … company.”

  I know for a fact no amount of makeup could hide how ketchupy, fire-engine-red my face must be right now. I’m so embarrassed, I could melt.

  “Oh, Jamie!” Molly giggles. A deep voice whispers something. That must be the mystery man. But I can’t hear enough to make him out. I wonder who it is … one of her Tinder dates? But she deleted the app, didn’t she? “I’m guessing this is one of our impromptu ladies’ nights, huh?”

  “Bingo,” I laugh awkwardly. “I brought you a hamper. I’ll just leave it on the table and, uh, see you tomorrow or whatever.”

  “No!” Molly cries. Then she giggles, and I guess the man is tickling her or kissing her. Or something more … carnal. “Just wait in the lobby for, like, fifteen? E—My friend has to work tonight, anyway.”

  E …

  Elliot?

  Eddie?

  “Um, sure,” I say, just glad for the chance to get the hell outta here.

  I leave the hamper on her coffee table and basically run down to the lobby, scrolling through my phone as if Facebook memes will get rid of this awkwardness I’m feeling.

  I go on Molly’s profile, but it’s just the usual event-planner stuff, no sign of a new man. In super-stalker mode, I scan all the men she’s friends with whose name start with an E. If that seems weird, well, screw it. This is the twenty-first century! What’s a little light stalking between friends?

  But, unless Molly is hooking up with an elderly relative named Ethan, or a man with a Pride filter on his profile pic named Ezra—as in, the profile pic where he’s posing with his husband—I have no luck.

  Eventually, Molly comes walking across the lobby in sweatpants and a sweater. I look for a man behin
d her, but she’s alone. Her hair is frizzy and she has that fresh, alive expression I recognize immediately. Heck, I’ve been looking at it in the mirror all week.

  “I can go,” I say, standing. “I really don’t mind, seriously.”

  “What? No!” She throws her arms around me. “He’s gone now, anyway.”

  “What? Did he sneak out the back door or something?” I ask. I was sitting right near the front door, and nobody walked in or out. Look at me, Inspector O’Gallagher! “I didn’t see him.”

  “Maybe I want to keep him a secret.” She winks. “He’s so hunky, Jamie, I’m scared you’ll try and steal him!”

  “You’re smitten,” I giggle. “Jesus, Mols, is it serious? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “Ha-ha,” she says, waving a hand as she turns and heads back where she came from. “Are you coming up or not?”

  We go back up to her apartment. I’m burning with curiosity, because I really haven’t seen her like this in ages, maybe ever, even if she tried to dismiss it with that sarcastic laugh. Normally, for Molly, men are just there. She never gets enthusiastic about any of her boy toys. It’s more just like … meh. Like her whole dating life can be summed up in that one word.

  Sitting on her couch, we crack open the wine and put on a romantic comedy which we only half watch.

  “So?” I say, after minutes of tortuous small talk.

  “So, what?”

  I throw my hand up, the one not holding the wineglass. “Who the hell is this mystery man?”

  “That’s a secret,” Molly says ominously.

  “What, does he work for the CIA?”

  “Oh no,” she whispers, eyes gleaming. “It’s much more secret than that.”

  “Okay, now I’m dying to know!”

  “What about you?” she says, grinning. “How are you and Mr. Giant?”

  “No, no! You don’t just get to turn it around like that. This place still reeks with the sex you just had, and now you’re gonna try and redirect it to me? Do you really think I’m gonna let you get away with that?”

  She becomes surprisingly serious. “Listen, Jamie, I’m not going to tell you who he is, or how we met, or anything. Not until … not until I know it’s more than just a short-term thing.”

  “Jeez, okay,” I say apologetically, taken aback by the change in mood. “I’m sorry, Mols. Really, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She brightens. “No, I didn’t mean it like that! It’s just … this could be something, you know? I just don’t wanna risk it.”

  “Sure, I get that.” I sigh, thinking of Andrei. “You have no idea how much I get that.”

  “I think this is the part where you allow me to skillfully steer the conversation toward you and Andrei, right?”

  I just about manage a laugh, sipping my wine. “If you’re determined to stay tight-lipped about Mr. Mysterious, then yeah, I guess it is.” I feel my shoulders slumping. I fight the urge to be a killjoy. But it’s hard. “It’s complicated, Mols, really complicated.”

  “Maybe it is,” Molly says, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “But that look you just got right now, there was nothing complicated about that. Smitten as a kitten, much? I mean, hell, I wish my dad could buy me a Christmas present that’d satisfy me to the max like that.”

  “Whoa,” I say. “That’s not really fair, is it?”

  “What, because it’s not Christmas?”

  “Ha-ha,” I grunt, setting my wine aside. “I didn’t ask Dad to buy him so I could … so I could use him or anything. It was either that or let some psycho asshole buy him, and then what? He’d be dead right now.”

  Molly nods slowly. “And he’s going to live a long and happy life as your father’s pet now, instead?”

  “I’m not saying it’s right, okay? I’m not saying any of this is ideal. But I don’t see how me getting Dad to buy him to stop him being tortured by some lunatic makes me the bad guy!”

  Molly touches my hand softly. “I never said that.”

  “You’re sure as hell making it sound like that, though!” I explode. I sit forward, reaching for my wineglass, and then let my hand drop. I don’t want wine. I want—I don’t even know. For life to make sense? Yeah, that’d be good, for starters.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Molly says. “I’m sorry. I can see how much you care about him.”

  “Care about him?” I repeat, trying to make my voice dismissive. “Like you said, he’s Dad’s prisoner.”

  I turn to find Molly arching her eyebrow at me. “Since when do you think you can lie to me, huh? You care about him.”

  “Fine. But so what? What does that even mean? I care about a man who, in a million years, I could never have anything even close to approaching a relationship with. Who basically told me to go fuck myself earlier.”

  “What? What happened?”

  I tell her about Andrei’s sudden gruffness, how he did a one-eighty on whatever bond I thought we were developing.

  “It’s probably for the best,” I conclude. “It’s so stupid. Fair enough, we had some banter or whatever at The Clover, at my exhibition, and maybe that made me want to stop him from being tortured. But this? Lying in bed with him, talking about our pasts, telling him about my photography work? It’s so, so stupid.”

  “It doesn’t sound stupid,” Molly points out. “It sounds great. It sounds like exactly what you need.”

  I really explode at that. I can’t help it. I jump to my feet and pace across the room, standing near the window with my back turned to Molly.

  “What I need?!” I say. “So, let me get this straight, what I need is to fall head over heels for a Russian—we’re at war with the Russians, by the way—when I promised myself I’d never get close to another man again? You know, because of how Declan abused me every day when I was a teenager. Is that really what I need, Molly?”

  She walks up slowly behind me. “Jamie,” she says after a long pause. “I think how passionate you are is a sign that this is what you need. I get it, it’s scary. But you can’t spend the rest of your life being scared just because of what Declan did to you.”

  “Just because? Just because he …” I bite down, not wanting to voice all the various ways he tortured me. I haven’t even told Molly about all of it. “Just because maybe I feel something for Andrei, it doesn’t mean I should forget who I am. What I am: a scared broken little girl who needs to learn her fucking lesson.”

  She grabs my shoulders and flips me around. She’s blurry. The whole room is blurry. I blink away tears. “You are not that and you know it!”

  “I know.” I wipe my cheeks. “I guess everything’s just piling up on top of me.”

  We return to the couch. On the TV, the hero is running around town looking for the heroine’s favorite brand of doughnut. It’s a funny, cute scene, and I find myself wondering if Andrei and I could ever do something like that. Maybe, in a different universe, Andrei is darting around the city looking for a camera I left on a bus or something.

  But, in my life, things are way more confusing than a Hollywood rom-com.

  “So we’ve established that you care about him,” Molly says several minutes later.

  “Yeah,” I say drily. “I guess we have.”

  “Then why not …” She hesitates. Finally, she murmurs, “You could help him escape, Jamie. If you care about him that much.”

  My gaze snaps to her like a spring. What she just said, it’s so taboo, so dangerous. If Dad or Declan or even Rafferty heard her say that, her uncle would be executed, no question, and she would be, too.

  “Jesus, Mols,” I whisper, even though it’s just us. Suddenly, I’m worried there are Family spies in the walls. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “What?” she laughs darkly. “We’re not even allowed to talk about how fucked up it is that your dad is a slaver?”

  I flinch, taken aback by the sudden venom in her voice. She sounds livid. “I never said it wasn’t fucked,” I say. “But we both know where conversatio
ns like this lead. I hope you haven’t been saying this to the wrong people.”

  “Oh no.” She scowls. “Don’t worry, Jamie. We’re both well-trained Family girls, aren’t we? We could win the Looking the Other Way Olympics.”

  I can’t really deny that, since it’s one-hundred percent true. When we were little kids, obviously we had no idea what was going on. But, as we got older, we slowly learned who our families really were. By the time we graduated high school, we knew. We couldn’t pretend otherwise. But what could we do? Did we contact the police? Did we turn anyone in?

  No, we pretended we didn’t know. Because it’s easier that way. Even as the boss’ daughter, if I were seen going into a police station, there would be consequences.

  “Where is this coming from?”

  She takes out her phone and then shows me: a news article I’ve already seen. An attack outside a night class for learning Russian, where, apparently, a member of the Bratva was sending his American cousin. It doesn’t outright state this, of course, but it’s clear enough: the cousin of a well-known member of a Russian criminal organization was killed in the attack.

  “They don’t care,” Molly sighs. “They’re going to destroy this city. The Russians aren’t even fighting back. My uncle told me they got Andrei to record this hostage video, and so they’re too scared of what’s going to happen to him. You need to help him escape.”

  “I can’t!” I yell. I’m pissed off, because she’s making it sound like I want this to happen, like I’m fully on board with how messed up this is. “They have a two-lock system for the elevator that goes down to the cell. I never know the code. The only way to let somebody down is from below, and the only way to let somebody up is from above.”

  “So?” Molly retorts. “Arrange a time with Andrei. Tell him you’ll let him up.”

  “But both sides are guarded.”

  “I’m pretty sure Andrei can take care of one of the guards … and you can figure out a way to distract the other one.”

  “I don’t know the code. And what if Garret’s on shift? Do you want Andrei to kill the man who took care of me for half my childhood?”