SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  I can be in here as long as I want. There’s no one timing me. No one pounding on the door, cursing at me to hurry up.

  I feel like a foreigner in my hometown.

  I’ve had the same tattered, tan towel since I was a little girl. It’s see-through and smells like fish from being hung to dry on one of the clotheslines cutting through the kitchen. I’ve never seen a towel like the beautiful, fluffy ones stacked on the shelf.

  Unable to contain my giddiness, I grab one and throw it over my shoulders, taking an extra beat to enjoy the softness. After drying off the rest of my body, I wrap it around me and tuck in the corner to secure it above my breasts.

  Water drips from my hair onto my shoulders and down my back. Without thinking, I reach for another towel, then catch myself. It’s wasteful to use another one just for my hair. But it’s there, and I need to get back to my room without dripping all over the beautiful wood floors.

  I’m not sure what being Kirill’s girlfriend entails, but I have a feeling I’ll be the one washing any towels I use. Since I don’t mind doing laundry, I decide to use the extra towel and appreciate the luxury this one time.

  A rap on the door startles me out of my thoughts. I clutch the towel around my chest with both hands.

  “Anastasiya?” a voice calls.

  I place my hand on the bathroom door to steady my shaky knees, then swallow back panic and ask, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Slava,” he says gruffly. “You have nothing to worry about. You’re safe with me.”

  “Safe,” I whisper. It’s an uneasy feeling after living with my guard up my entire life. I don’t know what it feels like to be completely safe. Always on edge, waiting for Papa’s next outburst.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to let you know I was here so you weren’t surprised when you came out.”

  His thoughtfulness slightly softens my cool attitude. I like Slava already. Walking out in my towel in front of someone other than Kirill would have been totally awkward. Respect for my modesty was the last thing I expected from a mafia thug.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, then pause before adding, “I’m ready to come out now, so can you—”

  “Of course!” he says quickly. “I’ll be in the living room.”

  I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore before slipping out of the bathroom and hurrying to my room. I dress quickly and drop the towels on the floor next to the door. Slava can show me to the laundry area later.

  “Where’s Kirill?” I ask, fastening my necklace as I enter the living room.

  Sunlight filters through the massive windows, both brightening and warming the room. Though lavish and extravagant, it’s comfortable and lived-in. I wonder how many of the pieces are Kirill’s and how many belong to his uncle.

  Slava sits on the couch with his feet on a glass table. He looks up from the TV. “He had a few meetings in Nizhny Novgorod today, but he’ll be home tonight—probably late.”

  “You look familiar. Have we met before?” I ask, peering at him.

  When we were young, kids were always running up and down the hallways, whether on our floor or another in the high-rise complex. Maybe Slava was one of them.

  One thing I will never complain about is my childhood. As an adult, I can look back and see what I missed out on from a standpoint. But I was a very happy kid. Life was simple, innocent. You don’t realize what you’re missing if you never had it in the first place.

  “No,” he says firmly.

  It takes me a few tries, but I finally find a cupboard with plates and glasses. “You’re sure?” I ask, filling a cup with water.

  “Unless you used to visit men in prison, I’m certain we have never met, Anastasiya.”

  “What were you in prison for so young?”

  “Stealing. Fighting. I beat a guy to death.” Slava shrugs, as if telling me he murdered someone is as normal as talking about the weather.

  It’s another reminder of how sheltered I’ve been. Though everyone knows about the existence of the mafia and the boys in street gangs trying to be like mafia, I never thought much of them. I knew to stay away and mind my own business.

  “You don’t regret it?”

  “Regret what?” He looks at me. “Prison? No.” He shakes his head.

  “Killing people?”

  He stands, tugging his jeans up before coming toward me. He’s only a bit taller than I am, but his biceps bulge under his black T-shirt. I can’t help but think I’ve awakened a sleeping bear. Thankfully, there’s a kitchen counter between us. “I’d rather be the one killing than being killed, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t think I could.”

  “What? Kill someone?” he asks, scanning my eyes. “You could do it if you had to.” He places his hands on the counter and leans forward. “I saw you struggle and fight to survive when Kirill grabbed you. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn’t have shot him if you had the means?”

  “Honestly?”

  He nods without taking his eyes off me.

  “I don’t know.”

  I gaze out the window next to the sink. In the winter, there are times when Moscow looks so ugly and dirty that I don’t even want to get out of bed. And then there are days like today, when the sun illuminates the morning dew, giving the appearance of diamonds dangling on the tips of tree leaves.

  He smiles. “Panic, pain, fear, oppression—they all make people do things they never thought they would. We’re nothing but animals with brains. We do what we must to survive,” Slava says. “That’s why you’re here, yes?”

  “What’s the good in surviving if you can’t live?” I ask.

  Living is being able to walk the streets alone without fear. Is it living if I have to have a bodyguard and look over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Will I ever truly be able to live again?

  The tea glass on the counter must be his because he picks it up and sips it. Slava is a stocky man with huge muscles and multiple tattoos, but sipping tea in a luxurious Moscow apartment, he looks almost bourgeoisie. “Kirill was right about you.”

  “What was he right about?”

  “You’re very smart, Stasya.”

  “What about you.” I change the subject. “What’s your passion, Slava? If you could do anything, what would it be?”

  “Tattooing.”

  It shouldn’t be surprising, considering how many he has, but tattooing isn’t really a career.

  He continues. “I started doing it while I was in prison and got really good. It made me feel powerful to have a skill other people didn’t, and to be better than the ones that did. I’ve always liked art, drawing.”

  “I draw too!” I say, happy to make a connection with him. “What are your plans today?”

  “Watching you,” he says dryly.

  “Perfect!” I clasp my hands together, excited about the idea that popped into my head. I look around and open a few drawers in the kitchen. “Do you know where Kirya keeps the pencils?”

  “No, but I have a strong feeling they wouldn’t be in the kitchen utensil drawer.”

  I rush to the hallway toward Kirill’s room, but hesitate before going inside. I don’t feel comfortable going through his personal drawers without him here. Slava creeps into the hallway, eyebrows raised in interest.

  “The last room on the right is an office.” He nods. “He may have some shit in there.”

  The office of a mafia man could hold things I don’t want or need to see. And no matter how interested I am to know what goes on, I can’t bring myself to riffle through his belongings yet.

  “I have a better idea! Let’s run to the store and grab some notebooks and pencils. Then we can sit at Park Zaryad’ye and sketch.”

  “You’re a barrel of fun, aren’t you?”

  “Well, you can’t follow me to work, so I’m assuming I’m not going back to my normal life.” It’s been three days since I showed up at the bank. My coworkers have probably been cursing my name for sticking them wit
h extra work.

  “Kirill has taken care of everything with your employer,” he says. “And we do need to go shopping.”

  “I just asked you to take me shopping!”

  He rolls his eyes. “Real shopping.”

  “I have everything I need.” I dismiss him.

  “Actually, you don’t. You’re going to need dresses for when you go out with Kirya.” He scans my outfit—a perfectly acceptable gray pencil skirt and oversized sweater. It’s very fashionable right now. “You can’t wear that.”

  “Slava.”

  “Yes?” He looks up.

  “Take me to a store where I can get pencils and notebooks.” It’s a long shot to try to give him a command, but as Kirill’s girlfriend, he has to listen to me, right?

  Slava crosses his arms over his barrel chest and straightens. “That was not part of the orders I was given.”

  I bite my lip, thinking for a minute before blurting out, “I’ll let you give me a tattoo.”

  “What?” he asks, dropping his arms and leaning closer, as if he didn’t hear correctly.

  “If you go to the park and sketch with me, I’ll let you give me a tattoo. Anything you want,” I tell him, hoping it sweetens the deal. “But I get to pick the placement.”

  He eyes me with distrust, but shrugs. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

  There was only one thing going through my head when I threw out the tattoo idea. I want to gain Slava’s trust. If we establish that, he may give me more freedom—or a sense of freedom. I heard Kirill tell him I was a free woman, and if that’s true, I can spend my newly-unemployed days how I want—not on orders from Kirill.

  I understand Kirill’s ultimate motive is to keep me safe, but I can’t help but feel like a prisoner. Do I want the alternative of being picked up by Oleg Sobakin’s gang? No. But being told what to do, where I can go, and the kinds of outfits I need to wear doesn’t feel like freedom.

  Hopefully Slava and I develop a friendship. Because if we don’t, my life with Kirill won’t be any better than life with my father.

  * * *

  Having Slava’s “protection” is nothing like I thought it would be. I thought he’d be by my side, walking around, intimidating people. I thought I’d have to make small talk and pretend it wasn’t annoying and creepy having someone on my heels everywhere I go. But most of the time, I barely know he’s there. He hangs out in my peripheral and lets me do what I want.

  He even let me call Svetlana to ask her to meet me for lunch at a restaurant. Though, using the words “let me” seems a bit harsh. When I asked, his exact words were: “What are you asking me for? Do I look like your fucking father?”

  “Please excuse my appearance, my dear Stasya,” she says, patting her dark curls. “I was so excited to hear from you, I came straight from work.”

  I stand up to greet her, kissing her on the cheeks. “You look lovely.” Though her red pants are to die for, the first thing I noticed when she arrived was her jacket. It’s one I made for her using one of Vanya’s old hockey jerseys.

  “I get so many compliments on this.” She sits across from me. “Everyone wonders where I got such an interesting Scarlet Army coat. A Canadian man in Red Square even offered to buy it off me.”

  “You should have taken his money,” I tell her.

  “Never. I love your designs. People can pay you for them, not me. Which reminds me!” Svetlana spins around and digs in her purse. She slams a copy of Burda, our favorite women’s fashion magazine, on the table and quickly flips the pages. “This! I need you to make this for me!”

  She points to a beautiful, black, leather skirt with four thin, horizontal stripes. I bring the magazine closer to see better. The stripes look to be a red piping. “I could do that.” I nod.

  “But where will you get leather?”

  “My boyfriend has connections.” I laugh, though it’s only funny to me.

  I glance at Slava quickly. Just as I was complimenting him, saying how cool he’s been, there he is standing like a creepy stone gargoyle in the corner. Can’t he watch me from a table, drinking tea? Does he have to stick out like a—well, like a criminal?

  “Boyfriend?” Svetlana asks, leaning closer. She looks Slava’s way. “Is that him?”

  “No!” I shake my head quickly as my skin bristles.

  “Then why is he staring at you?”

  “Because my boyfriend thinks I’m going to get kidnapped by the mafia. So, he gave me a bodyguard.”

  Svetlana just stares at me with wide eyes, trying to figure out if I’m telling her the truth. She sets an elbow on the table and places her chin in her palm. “Can you repeat all of that? You sound absolutely insane.”

  “I’m sure you heard that Vanya defected?”

  She nods and takes my hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m happy for him. It’s hard, but I know he has a better life. Maybe if I start thinking of myself as royalty, having someone following me around won’t feel so uncomfortable.”

  “I think it’s romantic,” Sveta says dreamily. “Imagine having someone love you that much.”

  Some women find the mafia lifestyle intoxicating. They seek out boyfriends because they want the money and power that goes along with it. I don’t understand being so desperate for material things that they would sacrifice their lives. I’m not claiming she is one of these women, but when she says having my boyfriend’s protection is romantic, it makes me wonder.

  Maybe I should invite Slava over.

  “Two violent mafias are fighting over me because my brother didn’t think about how his choice would affect his family.” I roll my eyes. “Romantic is not how I’d describe it.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Stasya. I’m sorry for—”

  “No, Sveta,” I interrupt, shaking my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude.”

  The last thing I should be doing is taking out my anger on my oldest friend. Sveta is one of the only people who keeps me grounded. She’s always been good to me.

  “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your situation, my friend, but if you need me, I’m always here for you.”

  “I’m always here for you as well. And,” I add, tapping the skirt from the magazine on the table, “I will dress you in the finest clothing. That’s what friends are for.”

  10

  Kirill

  Being a player’s agent is much easier than I originally expected it to be, especially without the theatrics of defection. The first few players I spoke with after Ivan Kravtsov snuck out of the Soviet Union had mixed feelings about his choice. But after his heroic story of escaping a cruel, communist regime and is new lavish lifestyle got splashed across every newspaper and magazine in the West, he’s considered a legend.

  I don’t even have to contact players anymore. They seek me out.

  The Soviet system is imploding, even the scarlet hockey machine, and no one wants to be buried under the rubble when it comes crashing down. A few of the older guys jumped at the chance to go to North America with that shitty Sovietsport contract, but the younger guys didn’t grow up with the same blind patriotism as they did.

  They grew up with dollar signs in their eyes, wondering: If they are among the best players in the world, why aren’t they paid the way players in the NHL are paid? In the past, Soviet officials kept athletes on a tight rope when traveling, but even with the checkpoints in place to shelter them, there was no way they wouldn’t notice the freedoms people outside of the Soviet Union had. Now that they’ve seen Ivan succeed, there’s a rush to get out.

  It’s after midnight when I get home from Nizhny Novgorod. I’m so exhausted from the long day of driving, I know I’m going to be out like a light when my head hits my pillow. But the trip was worth it because there are four guys from the team there who are looking at moving to the NHL. Three of them signed with me today, while one is holding out because he thinks things are going to open up for Soviet athletes to do everything themselves soon.

 
At first, it annoyed me that he refused to see the benefit of having someone else negotiate a contract on his behalf, especially with how savvy the NHL teams are. They’ve been fucking players out of money and benefits for generations. But I respect his decision to try to do it himself because being screwed by the NHL is still better than playing for the Central Scarlet Army—where the compensation is a shitty monthly stipend and the pride of being a national hero.

  And, hell, I’ll take three out of four every time.

  When I open the door, the glow of the TV screen startles me and I grab the gun at my hip. I’m so used to coming home to an empty apartment, I almost forgot Stasya was here.

  Almost.

  Waking up with her ass pressed against my cock this morning has been running through my mind all day. It took all of my power not to slide between her legs and wake her up with a huge surprise. But I’d never take her that way unless she asked me to. I want her to want me.

  It’s not that I forgot she was here; I just didn’t expect her to be sprawled across the couch sleeping when I walked in the door. I thought she’d be waiting for me in my bed.

  After removing my shoes and coat, I walk quietly to the couch. Stasya looks like an angel. Her luscious lips are parted, forming an “O” shape. It stirs life into me.

  I bend down and scoop her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. Her eyelids flutter open, but close again quickly. I’m actually glad she’s so tired. I don’t feel like fighting tonight.

  Instead of taking her to her bedroom, I head straight for mine. If she doesn’t like her sleeping arrangements, she’ll move—as she proved to me last night.

  Gently, I place her on the bed and pull the blankets over her. Her wavy, blonde hair covers her face, so I reach out and tuck it behind her ear. She looks lovely and innocent when she’s sleeping.

  There aren’t many things I miss about communal living, but one is seeing Stasya every day. I’ve missed going to sleep every night knowing I’d see her bright beautiful smile the next morning. To me, she represents everything that’s good with the world—even during gray Moscow winters where nothing was good.