SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  Let it be clear, I’m not poking fun at the war or the horrible Soviet tragedies that occurred during it. I’m annoyed at how serious my grandmother makes everything—even a silly joke.

  “That is not being a good communist, Stasya.” She lifts the ladle from the borscht and points to the portrait of Vladimir Lenin, father of Communism, hanging on the wall over the stoves. It’s the same portrait you’ll see in every Russian household. I’m pretty sure they were built into the walls during construction.

  “Will Comrade Lenin send his ghost to haunt me, Babulya?” I move toward her slowly with my arms raised in front of me, as if I’m a spirit coming to get her.

  “You’d do well to pray for his ghost! Better than sending KGB!” she says, then looks at Lenin’s picture again as if it may be concealing a camera and spying on our every move.

  It’s not such an outlandish thought. Reality breeds paranoia.

  “You’re going mad, Olga Vladimirovich.” Maria Androvna shakes her head as she chops onions.

  Babushka shoots her a dirty look before turning back to her borscht.

  I laugh and back out of the room, rubbing my hands together to warm them up as I walk to our room. When I enter, Papa is at the table, watching television and snacking on a plate of pickles. He’s holding a glass of vodka in one hand and a photo of my mother in the other.

  He glances over his shoulder, scowling when he realizes it’s me who’s entered the room. I’m used to that kind of reaction. After Mama died, I became the sole target of his anger and resentment. It’s funny how much he pretends to love her now that she’s gone, yet when she was here, all he did was hit her and yell at her. Even though she had a better job and had more connections than he ever did. Maybe that was the reason he was so hard on her.

  He tosses the photo on the table. “What do you do around here, Anastasiya? What do you bring to the family?” Papa asks. He’s picking a fight, something I’d usually ignore in his drunken state, but I had a hard day at work and I’m unable to hold my tongue.

  “Well, I was the one who went out with Nikolai, so his father would save us that television you’re watching before it went on the shelf at the store, so I guess I brought that to the family.”

  Papa jumps to his feet and rushes toward me. I raise my arms to block my face, so he punches me in the side of the head instead. I slap his chest and try to push him away, but he perseveres, landing a few more blows before I fall to my knees.

  “Papa! Sto—!”

  He kicks me in the stomach, cutting off my plea for mercy. I’m doubled over in pain, shaking and trying to catch my breath. My arms tremble, waiting for the next attack.

  “Enough!” Kirill commands as he bursts into the room.

  My head snaps up, surprised at hearing his voice. He moved out of the apartment over a year ago, and hasn’t come around for months.

  “This is not okay, Mikhail Grigorovich. You cannot hurt her anymore.” He grabs my father and whirls him toward the table. Papa reaches out to brace himself, sending the pickle plate crashing to the floor. His shoulders heave as he stands up.

  He stares at Kirill, his black, rage-filled eyes narrowing with each heavy breath. “What happens in my family is none of your business.” He grabs the vodka bottle and smashes it against the table, then charges Kirill.

  I try to scream, but no sound comes out. The simple act of breathing hurts so badly, I feel dizzy. I push myself back, resting against the wall as I watch the two men struggle, silently rooting for Kirill to win.

  He easily pushes off Papa’s attack, sending him into the wall, but my father wastes no time, rushing him again. He wields the jagged glass, slashing Kirill across the face. Blood spurts from his face, splattering on me. I cry out in both pain and fear. But Kirill isn’t even phased. If anything, it brings him strength. He roars through clenched teeth and pummels Papa with both fists, not letting up until my father drops to the floor—inches from me. Even then, my neighbor doesn’t stop, kicking relentlessly until Papa is an unmoving lump.

  “If I ever find out you hurt her again, I will kill you.” Kirill’s voice is smooth, cold—frightening. “That is a promise.”

  I lift my gaze slowly and scan at my childhood friend, from his scuffed black boots to his black jeans and leather jacket. Where in the world had he gotten that?

  Our eyes meet for a split second before he rushes out of the room. His heavy footsteps pound through the hallway, getting lighter and lighter until I can’t hear them anymore.

  I stare at my father with absolutely no remorse for the happiness humming through my veins.

  Babushka, who had been watching in horror from the doorway, rushes into the room, bypassing my father and falling to her knees in front of me. She slides one arm across my shoulder and tilts my chin up gently with her other hand.

  “Are you all right, Stasya? Can you walk?” she asks.

  I nod, though I’m honestly not sure if I can. Pain sears through my abdomen when she tries to help me to my feet. She may be short in stature, but she’s one of the strongest women I know.

  Once I’m upright, she grabs a blanket from the couch and wraps it around my shoulders. Biting back the pain, I let her guide me across the hall to Maria Androvna’s room. The two women wrap my ribs tightly with cheesecloth while I do everything I can to keep from screaming from the excruciating pain.

  I wish I would have said something—anything—to Kirill before he stormed out of the apartment that night. It was last time I saw him before tonight.

  “I could kill him if you’d like.” He leans closer, scanning my eyes for permission. I’m inhaling his sweet, minty breath every time he speaks. “I’ve wanted to do it for years.”

  Rage rises in my heart, rekindling the darkness I’ve kept buried deep inside. I’ve wished death on my father so many times I’ve lost count. Anything to keep him away—to stop him forever.

  This Kirill, the cold-blooded gangster, could be my hero—again.

  He smirks. “He’s not going to last long in the new Russia anyway, Stasya. He puts his nose places it shouldn’t be. Gambles with the wrong people. Lies to the wrong people.” He dips his head lower, his lips inches from my ear when he whispers, “Hurts the wrong people.”

  I don’t know if it’s fear, lust, or an involuntary reaction to the memory of the night Kirill saved me from my father’s wrath that makes my lips tremble. All I know is I desperately want to kiss him. If I turn my head, our mouths will touch. Every part of my brain is telling me to do it—to press my lips to his. I swallow hard, fighting the urge.

  Suddenly, he snakes one arm around me, spins me quickly so my back is against his chest, and grips me firmly against him. Fear strangles a surprised gasp in my throat.

  “Stop!” I spit through clenched teeth while struggling to break out of his grasp.

  Instead of releasing me, he clutches me tighter, digging his fingers into my side. His free hand flies from his back pocket to my neck. The blade flips out, scratching my skin with every quick, sharp breath I take.

  “Keep grinding your ass into me, Stasya,” he rasps against my ear. “It feels good.”

  A tear slips down my cheek. This time, it’s fear, not lust, making me tremble. And my terror excites him. It’s evident by his hard length pressing against my back.

  What did I do that made him lash out so quickly? At first, I saw the Kirill I used to know—the man whom I trusted with my life. I don’t know the monster holding me.

  7

  Kirill

  I feel Anastasiya’s throat jump, as if she’s going to say something, but before she has the chance, the door swings open and Stanislav and Igor burst in. They’re wearing black masks, concealing their identities until I decide it’s safe to remove them.

  “There you are,” Igor says, as if me holding a knife against a woman’s throat is as normal as watching The Irony of Fate on New Year’s Eve. “That’s the sister.”

  “I’m aware,” I say dryly.

  Stasya’s he
art beats rapidly. The quick rise and fall of her chest shakes my arm, causing the sharp, cold metal to dig into her skin. I know exactly how to hold my knife so it produces panic, not harm. Though I hate putting her through this, she needs to feel this fear so she understands the weight of her situation.

  If she denies my protection, she’s dead.

  “Sobakin’s men are going crazy,” Igor sneers, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “I told Slava how funny it was watching that piece of shit Vaz try to keep up with us.”

  We recruited Igor from a martial arts studio we get a lot of guys from. We want fighters—people angry with the system and willing to take matters into their own hands to get want they want.

  But those men come with a past and I don’t know Igor’s yet. I don’t trust him, which is exactly why I have him working directly with me and Slava. I’ll keep him close until I can figure him out. There’s something about him that makes internal alarms go off, but I can’t pin down the reason.

  Slava taps his temple. “A room full of smarts, where the key is lost.”

  I grunt, but keep my hold on Stasya firmly until I send Igor away. The less interaction he has with her, the better. “Prostakov! Bring the car around to the back. Slava will wait there and let me know when you arrive.”

  Igor exits as soon as he’s directed, but Slava hesitates.

  “Why the fuck are you still standing there?” I ask.

  He checks the door, making sure Igor is out of range before asking, “What are you going to do with her?”

  “Anastasiya Mikhailovna and I have come to an agreement, haven’t we?” I ask her. When she nods, I loosen my grip, but she’s still rigid under my hands. “I’m taking her to my flat.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Kirya!” He rubs his face with both hands. “What are you doing?”

  Stanislav—Slava—Rybakov is the one person outside of my family I trust with my life. Best friend shit aside, he’s still required to obey my orders and decisions without question.

  I let out a breath and release Stasya. She rounds her shoulders, casts her gaze downward, stepping backward, as if trying to sink into the wall. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and full of terror. It’s the same reaction she has for her father after he hits her.

  There is only one soft spot in my heart—and it belongs to her. I never wanted her to look at me like that, but I’ll make it up to her. Once we’re alone, I’ll explain. “It’s the only way to keep her safe from Sobakin.”

  “Her safety is the last thing you should be worried about,” Slava huffs, rolling his eyes.

  “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

  “Don’t worry. You don’t have to ask for me to give it to you.”

  “From this moment, Anastasiya Mikhailovna Kravtsova is a free woman, but she is mine.” My voice is hard, so there is no misunderstanding. “She is to be protected at the highest level. Do you understand?”

  Slava nods, straightening his shoulders, like a soldier receiving orders from his superior. No matter how long we’ve been friends, he knows where he stands in the hierarchy.

  “Any and all interaction with her goes through me first. Do you understand?”

  He nods again.

  “I will speak to Igor myself, but I expect you to watch him, especially when it comes to Stasya.”

  He glances at the door. “I don’t trust him, Kirya. We need to discuss it before you allow him to be alone with her.”

  “There is no discussion needed. He is never to be alone with her.”

  Slava shifts his eyes to Stasya, who’s still breathing heavy, her heart pumping with fear. “Does Viktor know?”

  “Know what? That she’s with us?” I ask, playing dumb. “Yes.”

  “But does he know she is your weakness?” he asks in English. Slava always tells it like it is. It’s a quality I love and hate about him.

  The language switch puts Stasya on alert. She leans forward, narrowing her eyes, as her fear gives way to curiosity. I understand her distrust, but I can’t explain everything to her right now. We have time for that.

  “Go check to see if Igor is here,” I command.

  He nods and leaves promptly.

  Slava is right. But this isn’t the time for the discussion.

  “I want your decision, now, while we are alone,” I tell Stasya.

  “You made my decision,” she responds. “You told them we’d come to an agreement.”

  “I have to do things to keep rank in front of my men, Stasya. But the choice is yours.”

  She looks around the room, but her posture says she’s tired and defeated. “I assume your flat is nicer than this—or any room Sobakin will have me in.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile. “You’re coming with me? That’s your choice?”

  “I didn’t plan on dying today. Selling my soul seems like a better option.”

  “Maybe someday you won’t see it that way,” I say, taking her hand and leading her to the door. I’m not proud of the way I handled this situation, but I had to make her understand.

  Stasya pauses before we move into the hallway. “I have one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to go home first.”

  I grab her arm. “If you think this is a game, you are mistaken. This is real. I can’t change your circumstances, but I can protect you from the worst.”

  She glares at me. Jaw tight. Eyes cold. “I am accepting your protection, Kirill Konstantinovich, but I will be allowed to go home and get some of my things.”

  “I’ll send Slava to gather your things this week.”

  “No! I’m not compromising on this.” She holds firm. “Slava cannot possibly know where I keep all of my most treasured possessions.”

  “Fine. But I’m going in with you.”

  “Fine,” she agrees. I half-expect her to stick her tongue out at me like a petulant child.

  Anastasiya Kravtsova never ceases to surprise me. Even with teased, blonde hair that makes her look taller than she is, she barely comes up to my neck. A gust of wind would probably blow her slight frame over. But she has more fire blazing inside her than a hearth in January. I thought she would be scared of me, but she’s not. She’s hard and fierce, making demands like she has the upper hand.

  It’s stupid—and so fucking sexy.

  Maybe someday she’ll realize my motives are pure. The only thing I care about is her safety. It’s all I’ve ever cared about since the first time I heard her cry as the result of her father’s hand.

  Once we’re alone, I can explain. I can ease her mind. I’m not much different than the Kirill she knew before.

  More leather, less fear.

  Before we exit, I retrieve a blindfold out of my back pocket and spin around to face her, lifting it to her eyes.

  “What’s that for?” She steps back, eyeing it with anger.

  “Safety. I can’t let you see where we are or where we’re going.”

  “Enough of this, Kirya!” she says, slapping the blindfold out of my hand. She straightens her shoulders, raises her head, and looks me in the eye. I’ve woken the beast inside and I like it. “I made my choice and I don’t plan on going back on it. You told Slava I was a free woman. The only time a woman should have a blindfold on is if you’re surprising her with something wonderful.”

  “Remind me to blindfold you in my bedroom,” I tease. I can’t help it. Stasya’s feisty side has my cock rock hard and pressing against my zipper.

  “You wish,” she says through clenched teeth as she elbows past me into the hallway.

  I’d never seen Anastasiya stand up to her father. Not in all the years he beat and berated her. Yet, here she is with me—someone who could do far worse things than he ever could—standing toe-to-toe and giving me orders.

  She’s the epitome of a strong Soviet woman, but not the wrinkly, weathered babushka Westerners conjure. She is young and beautiful—a woman who grew up in times of extreme and difficult change. De
spite years of being broken and beaten, she developed the strength of a lioness, yet kept her kind heart.

  I always knew the lioness was there, and I’m going to help her embrace it. If there was ever a flicker of doubt in my mind my old neighbor was my soulmate—it’s extinguished.

  Stasya was born to be my queen.

  8

  Stasya

  Slava waits in the car in front of my apartment on 2-Ya Kabel’naya Ulitsa. Walking in with Kirill seems normal, as if there hasn’t been an almost ten-year gap since the last time we’d done it.

  As soon as we enter, I unwrap my scarf and begin to slide my shoes off, but Kirill stops me. “We won’t be long.”

  I nod and walk confidently through the cluttered hallway, steeling myself for my father’s wrath. I can’t imagine he cared much that I didn’t come home last night, but that doesn’t mean he won’t chastise me for it.

  My head aches from whatever Kirill drugged me with and the mixture of smells coming from the kitchen. My stomach lurches, but I continue. It will take some time for all of this to hit me, but right now, I’m intent on grabbing my things and getting away from my father.

  Papa is at the table watching television when I slip inside. He looks up with glassy eyes and sneers. “Look! The whore is home!”

  I wince at the name—because he’s right. That’s exactly what I’m agreeing to by being with Kirill, but responding will only encourage him, and I don’t want to hear it, so I keep my mouth closed and head straight for the balcony. Vanya must have an old hockey bag in storage out there.

  As I riffle rapidly through the items stuffed into a waterproof bin, I look up quickly and watch Kirill step into the room. His large, intimidating frame fills the doorway.

  The chair legs scrape against the floor as Papa jumps up. “What are you doing here?” he spits at Kirill. “Get out! Get out of here!”

  “I had to bring Anastasiya to where the dog is buried before she can make peace and move forward.”

  Once I’ve found a bag, I silently move through the room, stuffing my things into it. I’m not bringing everything I own, just a few essentials—clothes to get me through a few days and treasured items I’ve saved through the years.