by SR Jones
I know it’s not true.
Sighing, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m still plain, boring, and insipid looking with the unflattering hair and the lack of any adornments, but I put on mascara. Worse, I know why I did so.
The real reason.
I don’t want Andrius to see me as ugly.
I can tell myself it’s because he noticed the eyeshadow under my eyes, and the whole pale and sickly disguise thing I’ve got going on, but I need to stop him from being suspicious. I can tell myself Allyov might be on the look out for a new mistress, and this is the start of trying to get him to notice me.
It’s a big fat lie. I don’t want to look as unappealing tonight as I normally do.
My plan has always been to casually start to look better. A bit of blush here, a dash of lip gloss there, and then one night let my hair down, wear a skirt.
Flash a little thigh, get Allyov interested.
I’ve used my time running around in the restaurant being invisible to listen to him and his men talk, to listen to the gossip and rumors, and then when he is free of his latest mistress. Bam, I’ll let my hair down like in the proverbial cliched movie scene, and Allyov will see me for the first time, really see me.
He’ll want me, as his, because I fit the profile of the sort of girl he likes perfectly.
Instead of a happy ending, though, he’ll get nothing more than an anaphylactic reaction for his troubles.
Is he definitely free of his last mistress, though? If I time this wrong, I will miss my chance. Too soon, and he might not be in the frame of mind to notice me; too late and he might have a new mistress by the time I start simpering around him.
Shit. I can’t seem to think straight.
I shake my head at my reflection and head for the door, mascara in place, dark shadows under my eyes gone.
The night is busy but uneventful, and it seems I did the whole mascara routine for nothing, because Andrius doesn’t show. Neither does Allyov. It’s after midnight, and I’m taking the heavy linens off the tables when the front door opens.
I turn to tell whoever it is we’re closed when the words freeze in my lungs.
Andrius stalks in, followed by two other men and a glamorous woman. He’s pissed off; I can tell by the set of his jaw. He glances around impatiently, gaze landing on me. He doesn’t look at me like he did before, outside. There’s no mocking coolness, or a hint of the fire behind it, only blank impatience.
“Fetch us glasses and a bottle of whiskey,” he orders.
“Yes, sir.”
I scurry off to the bar and place the order. The bartender huffs out a long breath. “Tell whoever it is to fuck off, we’re closed. Unless it’s Allyov himself, of course, but he doesn’t drink whiskey.”
“It’s Andrius with a few friends,” I say.
“Shit.”
He turns away from me and looks at the well-stocked bar behind him. Finally, he reaches for a bottle of Macallan Rare Cask, one of the more expensive whiskeys we stock.
He puts the whole bottle on a tray, loads it with heavy tumblers, an ice bucket, and taller glasses. Then he adds a bowl of olives and two bottles of ginger ale.
“Take this to him,” he orders. “Make it quick.”
I pick up the tray, and it’s heavy! The damn thing is groaning with the heavy glass the barman has piled onto it. I carefully carry it across the room, my arms shaking. As I near Andrius and his table, I slow to navigate around a displaced chair, and the carpet must have been rucked up because my foot catches, and I fly forward.
Time stills as my arms go out in front of me, the tray tips forward, and a fuck-ton of glass crashes to the floor. Thank God the carpet is thick and soft because most of it doesn’t break, but the whiskey bottle does. It smashes against the table leg, and glass and alcohol splash against Andrius’ trousers.
He stares down at the mess in astonishment before looking at me, lips hard, eyes narrowed.
There’s a shout from over by the bar, and the barman comes rushing over. “Go and get a cloth. Now!” His face is white.
I rush away, running toward the kitchen, and I can’t breathe. I’m so scared; my arms are like jelly when I push against the heavy kitchen door. Breaking through into the noise and clatter of the cooking area during clean up doesn’t help my jangled nerves.
“I need a cloth,” I blurt out.
Luckily for me, Julie, one of the managers, is nearby, and she takes one look at me before sprinting to get a cloth.
“What happened?” she demands as she hands it to me.
“I smashed a bottle of whiskey, and it’s gone all over Andrius and his expensive suit,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”
I rush back out the door, and she follows moments later, arms loaded with paper towels and cleaning fluid.
When we reach Andrius, the barman is stuttering out a long-winded apology and directing a young waitress to get them another bottle of whiskey and more glasses.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I bend down and start dabbing at Andrius’ trouser leg.
“Leave it.” The snarled words make me flinch.
“But … y-y-your trousers are w-w-wet,” I stammer and make another ineffectual swipe at the material.
“I said leave it.”
He knocks my hand away, and I fall back, not from the force of his action, which is nothing more than he’d use to swat at a fly, but at the shock of the hard metal my finger brushes under the material.
A gun. Oh, fuck, a gun.
What am I doing here? Why did I think I could get into this world and do some sort of fucked up Miss. Marple old-style murder on a mob boss?
I land on my arse on the glass.
Crap.
I’m sitting on glass and whiskey, and I want the world to open up and swallow me into its fiery core.
Andrius watches all this, then gives a violent shake of his head. “Fuck!”
He stands, knocking his chair back, and for an awful second, I think he’s going to hit me, but he bends down and scoops me up.
One moment, I’m sitting in crushed glass and alcohol, the next I’m in his arms. His big, no his massive, arms, crush me to him as he strides through the room with me.
We reach the kitchen door, where I think he’s taking me, but he makes a right and goes down the long corridor to the toilets. He kicks open the door to the ladies’ room, the one reserved for customers.
I don’t go to the loo in here because it’s not for staff, but I’ve been in a few times to clean it. The carpet is as thick as outside, there’s three spotless toilets, and huge Belfast sinks with scented handwash and lotion. Thick paper towels are in baskets by the sinks instead of hand dryers, and there are dainty wrapped soaps for anyone who doesn’t fancy using the handwash.
Andrius deposits me on the plush carpet and reaches for my waist, where his big fingers proceed to undo the button on my trousers. For a moment I freeze. I’m so shocked by the turn of events; I can’t move.
Then panic hits me. Is he going to rape me? I might find him as attractive as I find him scary, if I’m being truly honest with myself, but I don’t want him… at least, not this way.
He tugs my trousers down, and I give a cry and shove at his chest as he stands.
“Quit it,” he grunts. “You might be cut.”
Then he turns me around, hunkers down, and inspects my bottom.
Heat fills my cheeks as he looks at my white-panty clad behind. Then he’s muttering in Ukrainian. It’s a language so familiar to me it makes me want to cry, but I no longer understand what those familiar sounding sentences mean. I’ve forgotten much of what I knew. The cadence, I recognize. The familiar rhythm of the sentences, but I can’t understand most of the words. Unlike Russian, which I’ve been re-learning for the past year.
He reaches for one of the thick paper towels and turns a tap on, wetting it. Then he squats down again and proceeds to dab at the back of my left thigh. I’m shocked when he brings the towel away to see
blood on it.
He dabs again and again, then takes a dry towel and does the whole gentle dabbing thing once more.
After a while, he seems satisfied. “There’s no glass inside, but you’ll need to put antibiotic cream on it when you get home.”
He’s pulling my trousers up as he talks, as if he hasn’t had his face in my arse. Oh God, the shame! Then he’s walking away from me, toward the door.
“Your trousers will stink of whiskey, might come out in the wash; might not.” He stops as he nears the door and turns back to me. “If you have to buy a new pair, please get them to fit. You tripped on the carpet tonight, but wearing such baggy clothes isn’t a good idea.”
He opens the door and pauses again. “And you ignore me when I tell you to leave something alone ever again, your backside will hurt more than it does now. I’ll put you over my knee and spank you until your ass is bright red.”
I stare at him, my face flushing at his shocking words. We watch one another, and I hate the bloom of arousal throbbing at my core at his threat. His promise.
Then he’s gone, and I sag against the sink, heart hammering a hundred miles an hour.
What just happened?
Did Andrius, a fucking hitman for the Russian mob if the rumors are to be believed, dress my wounds?
There’s a bead of sweat on my brow, and my cheeks are pink as I look at my reflection.
Did he … did he threaten to spank me?
Oh fuck, I’ve got to get out of here. I’m in way over my head. Old, possibly half senile, Russian mob bosses with peanut allergies may be one thing, but a hulking great hitman with ghostly eyes is quite another.
I run some water and pat it onto my cheeks trying to cool down. The arrogant bastard, I fume as I look at the twin spots of color high on each rosy apple.
Yes, he helped me, but he threatened to spank me. Who does that? That’s a sexual harassment lawsuit right there.
The cheek of it!
I might be scandalized by what he said but my libido isn’t. She’s half running away with a fantasy of Andrius doing what he promised. Taking me over his knee and spanking me with his big hand.
“Oh, Lord, get a grip, Violet.” I’m a complete mess.
Why did he have to say the one thing bound to make me a quivering heap of want.
I’ve had a desire to be spanked for as long as I can remember. It makes no sense. I have no daddy issues. I loved my father, and he never raised his hand to me. I don’t remember getting any sort of corporal punishment at school. I’m not into BDSM or being bound and gagged, so why the spanking thing, I don’t know. But ever since the age of about fourteen, I’ve had this fantasy of a big, strong man putting me over his knee and turning my arse pink.
My inner feminist curls up and dies a little every time I bring the fantasy out for an airing, and I have to appease her by looking at Jason Momoa photographs, subverting the male gaze and all that.
That Andrius might have knowingly homed in on my fantasy is as scary as fuck. That he might have no clue and genuinely be the sort of man who spanks women for being clumsy… even more so!
After trying to get myself under control, I finally exit the toilet, only to bump into Julie as I near Andrius and his crew.
“Violet, go get your things.” Her normally friendly demeanor is frosty. “You can pick up your pay check later this week, but you’re fired.”
“What?” I stare at her as my world crumbles. Not only will I be broke, but I won’t be around Allyov any longer. No more seeing what he is doing, hearing what his plans are. I’ll be back out in the cold.
I may be seriously second guessing my plan, but to have any chance at my revenge end this abruptly is dismaying.
“No, she isn’t,” Andrius pipes up from his table. He takes a swig of whiskey and gives Julie a cold stare. “She’s not fired.”
“But, sir, she … your trousers … the whisky.”
“She’s not fired,” he says again. “And I expect this to be forgotten about. We all make mistakes, and I doubt it is one Miss Johnson will make again.”
His eyes turn to me then, and I see the amusement dancing there as his spanking threat surfaces once more within my subconscious.
My cheeks heat, and I swallow hard.
“That will be all, Julie,” he tells her. “Miss Johnson can go too. We can help ourselves if we need more to drink, and we will lock up.”
He is going to lock up? I look at Julie, and my mouth drops open. Can we leave him here to help himself? He’s one of Allyov’s henchmen, yes, but he doesn’t work here. And would Allyov want him in here after-hours?
“Of course.” Julie does this weird little bob that’s half bow, half curtsey and then scuttles off.
Chapter 4
Violet
A couple of weeks pass, and I’m a mess. I can’t eat much due to the constant nausea I now experience, due to my through-the-roof levels of anxiety.
I vacillate between deciding the next night will be my last at the restaurant and an inability to actually walk away.
Keeping my ear to the ground has paid off. I learn Allyov is indeed on the look out for a new mistress.
The time is coming when I will either need to act, or get the hell out of dodge.
I know by putting my plan into action, I’m placing myself in grave danger. Allyov is a disgusting older man who picks up young women to have affairs with. He grooms them and changes them to what he wants them to be. But here’s the thing. So far as all the gossip goes, despite his extreme paranoia about his safety, he doesn’t take his two thugs into the bedroom with him.
It means my only chance at revenge for everything done to my family is this.
To become his mistress.
It will take time, but once he trusts me, has me holed up in an apartment or hotel suite, he’ll come to me unguarded.
Naked, in bed with me? He’ll be unarmed. Vulnerable. And this powerful man has one major vulnerability. He has an allergy so severe the tiniest peanut particle can kill him if he can’t reach his EpiPens. Wouldn’t it be tragic if I moved them out of his way after kissing him passionately and setting in place a tragic reaction?
I shudder at the idea of intimacy with him … he turns my stomach. But I have only one goal in life now, I remind myself.
Vengeance.
Justice.
For the death of my mother and sister who were burned alive in their home in Ukraine. A fire I should have been caught up in too and only avoided because I was late home due to tarrying with a school friend.
That fire also killed something in my father. He always looked older than his years and developed heart problems. Once he died and I found the papers and his diary it all made sense.
My family was killed by the mob, and they’d done nothing wrong. Nothing more than refuse to pay a ridiculous portion of their business to the Allyov family.
It had been the senior Allyov at the time, a man still in Ukraine and now in his late eighties, who had made the decision from what Dad’s diary said, but his son had carried the order out.
Allyov had gone to my home and poured gasoline over my sister and mother before burning them alive. Ever since reading those words in Dad’s diary, I’ve been obsessed with what was done to them. I keep seeing it as if I were there. I suffer horrific nightmares, along with strange flashback type experiences, which makes little sense to me as I didn’t see it happen. Although, I did witness the horrifying aftermath, when I glimpsed their charred bodies before the police at the scene carried me outside screaming hysterically.
Soon after, Dad moved us to the UK to keep me safe. He left everything and everyone behind. We never went back to the Ukraine, and so far as I was aware, he never even called his brother or sister. Both his parents were already dead when we left, but I lost my whole family on my mother’s side that day.
For my entire life in England, I knew we were different. I’d had it drummed into me from an early age never to let my Ukrainian roots show. I had elocuti
on lessons, and my accent quickly disappeared. I forgot my native languages. My family was all bilingual, speaking Russian and Ukrainian. In the last year, I have been picking up Russian again. It wasn’t too difficult for me. Despite not speaking the language for many years, there must have been a residue of knowledge still in me.
Most people might think what I’m planning to do is extreme. I don’t. I saw the charred bodies of my mother and sister. I had nightmares for years. I’d wake screaming with the images of their twisted, blackened limbs in my mind. Because he was afraid of us being found, my father never let me see a therapist. Perhaps if I had, I’d have dealt with my grief and rage more healthily.
As it was, despite not knowing the whole situation, by the time I was fourteen I had put two and two together. I knew my family had died in an awful fire, and soon after Daddy and I had to leave our home, our remaining family, and all our friends. It didn’t take a genius to work out someone had killed my mother and my sister.
A deep hatred had wormed its way into my heart then. Finding the papers after my father’s death put a name to the burning hatred. Once I read the later entries and realized the man who murdered my family now lived in the UK, I began to daydream about the day I’d meet him face to face. How I’d look him in the eyes before I killed him.
Of course, I had been naïve. I hadn’t understood how much protection a man of his stature within a crime organization would have. Now, I do. But I have a weapon, one that makes me deadlier than those thugs Allyov carries around with him everywhere he goes. I don’t have anything left to lose. No family, no lover, not even any real friends except for Aliya who isn’t here. Nothing.
I’m a ghost.
I’m also a woman, young, petite, innocent looking. These men, these dangerous, dark, and deadly men will underestimate me at every turn. And once I get alone with Allyov and the time is right, I’ll strike.
It’s not even as if I have to do anything as extreme as stab him; nature has handily provided me the perfect murder weapon. A dab of peanut butter on my tongue, nothing more, nothing less.
