Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  Danushka places her hands on her hips. “You meant our father. And how do you know, curious minds are inquiring. How are you aware that Anatoly still has a place in his cold, stony heart for his brat?” She places an arm around Zariah.

  There’s a slight gleam in my wife’s eyes. She wants to know too. There’s no way in hell I’ll mention that Anatoly has come around a time or two. It dawns on me. I went to him last month—it ended up with Zariah and I fighting. So, my wife can’t fault me for a visit she knows about. “Anatoly still backs Malich. I spoke to him.”

  “Brawns, yeah, that’s what you have.” Danushka laughs, stepping toward me. “You listened to our father.”

  My hand grips her neck. “Brawns? Huh? What else do I need besides brawns to end you, bitch?”

  Zariah tugs at my arm. I slide her hands away from me. Natasha is at her side, attempting to pull me from Danushka. The bitch gasps for air as my little heart falls on her bottom. Natasha scampers up. After reading all those baby books, I can only pray to God Natasha is too young to remember me choking the life from her half-aunt.

  “Stop, Vassili,” Zariah screeches. “Yuri, Mikhail, make him stop!”

  “Why?” Mikhail growls my word as my grip around Danushka’s neck tightens.

  Zariah gasps, “Grigor’s sniper rifle is on your father—Mikhail, Yuri. Your father! Grigor is ready to strike!

  Fire burns across my skin. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, the side where confidence ruled. The side where obliviousness worked. The side where I forgot not to underestimate my fucking half-sister.

  4

  Zariah

  I have been selective with my words. These past few weeks, nightmares have plagued our family. So, I endeavored not to blurt out that I saw a live-streaming video of a tiny red dot in the middle of Malich’s forehead. He’s been in a somber mood in his bedroom. Danushka warns that it’s punishment for joking about leaving her at the hotel a few minutes ago. Now, I reach down and bite the bile back into my throat while helping her stand.

  Danushka’s body goes flush against mine. The silk blouse she’s wearing is hardly buttoned; it presses against mine. Tiny breasts warm against me, nipples hard. Her breath sends creepy waves across my cheek.

  She murmurs, “Thank you, friend.”

  The coupling of her actions and the look in her expensive “blue” eyes sends vomit burning a line up my throat. With a gulp, I reply, “You’re welcome.”

  I glance over at Vassili. He’s huddled with the guys. They’re the team I should be a part of, but with a sociopath at my side, I have to bide my time before I can help my family. The glint in my gaze tells them not to act.

  No form of retaliation will help Malich, while Grigor is in a rented mansion across the street from his. The term rock and a hard place mean nothing. We’re fucked.

  The sun slams down on us. The scent of fish guts doesn’t churn my stomach anywhere near as much as Danushka does. Seagulls swoop low, squawking around in search of food. The wooden planks shake with each move we make. Vassili plucks Natasha up into his arms. He starts to pull me near him, but Danushka grips me on the opposite side, pressing us hip to hip. Now, my husband won’t touch me. At the end of the dock is a ruined fisher’s wharf. Standing before it is a man with a square-shaped face. A group of men is around him.

  Horace Molotov.

  “That’s my Horace, Zariah. I underwent the scalpel almost thirty times just to catch a man like him.” She bats her faux blue eyes again, and I’m left to determine if she believes he’s handsome. He does exude power, even from twenty yards away. She continues to drone on, “Shorter, skinnier, higher cheekbones—I did it all for his attention.”

  With a pep in her step, Danushka runs ahead, toward him.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He was your father-in-law’s right-hand man,” Yuri shares. “That mudak got the seat at the seven that our father declined. One of the first, who isn’t blood to have a say.”

  Mikhail continues with the quiet rage he has going, and I suspect Vassili isn’t in the mood to talk.

  We continue, although very slowly, heading toward the pier. I scoff. “It’s clear Horace no longer needs that seat.”

  “Zariah.” Vassili steps before me. “I’ll have a word with Danushka. She’ll send you and Natasha home.”

  My hands go to my hips as I stare at him. “No, that won’t work because the second I leave Danushka’s side, you’ll forget that you have a wife, a child, and a growing baby to return to. Either things are going to go your way and ‘light’s out for Danushka.’ Or shit ends badly . . .”

  “And lights out for my father,” Mikhail huffs.

  They exchange glances. The plans they’d cooked up, while I entertained Danushka all the way to Italy, are hidden by marble-carved faces.

  “I’m the attorney, Vassili-baby. The fucking mediator—until we find a true opening. Let me do this.” I start ahead as Danushka calls out for us. I don’t require my husband’s response, don’t need it.

  “My darlings,” she says, clapping her hands together. I slip against her side, taking her awaiting arm. Horace holds his hand out.

  “Mrs. Resnov.” His fleshy lips hardly move as he locks gazes with mine. With Vassili over ten yards away, he says, “You and my wife are so beautiful together.”

  With her arm around me, Danushka strums a few fingers down my cheek. She purrs, “We truly are. After my father’s death, the three of us can celebrate in one of my rooms. Drinks, lingerie, games. Or the four of us, though I doubt Vassili would . . . Zar, would he?”

  “No,” I stutter, almost positive that she’s mentioning group sex. Yet, this might be the first time in my life that I opt not to read into someone’s statement.

  “That’s too bad,” Horace says with a grin. He starts past me, prepared to shake more hands.

  Vassili looks him up and down. “Put your fucking hand down, mudak! I know exactly who you are. We all do.”

  At his sides, his cousins also have their square jaws held high.

  Horace clears his throat. “Well, perhaps I should reintroduce myself. A new era is upon us, Vassili.”

  “What are your plans?” Yuri gestures. “My entire family has seats at the seven. My uncles, my aunt—”

  “Nyet, not precisely,” Danushka cuts in. “No woman truly has a seat at the seven, Yuri. Our aunt’s husband has that seat. Malich forfeited his seat, now my husband has it.”

  He chuckles. “How many piz’das is this guy married to? Because I’ve gone to enough of your weddings Horace. No divorces. Danny, I thought you had balls. Now you’re just a little blond piz’da on his payroll with a momentary title.”

  Those doctored eyes of hers cloud with tears. “Don’t make me cry, Yuri. You’re the nicest cousin I have . . .”

  “Yes, don’t make my wife cry, Yuri,” Horace grits. “Grigor is ready to put down your father at any given second. Play nice.”

  Vassili hands me Natasha and moves to his face. Mikhail’s stiff-arm pushes me even further back.

  Vassili growls, “Horace, keep making threats.You’ll find yourself in an unmarked grave before you can blink.”

  The men behind us begin to edge for the back of their blazers and suit jackets.

  Horace’s entire body tenses.

  “Alright, guys,” I cut in, hoisting Natasha on my hip. Her bright brown eyes glance around, anticipating an action she shouldn’t ever be aware of. “Let’s talk out a game plan. You want your father dead, Danny. He’s never been there for you. Vassili, I presume the same scenario, different story. Let’s hash out our plan.”

  5

  Vassili

  Over the years, Anatoly and I have shed each other’s blood. My knuckles have throbbed after more fights with him than any opponent in the octagon. The last time I choked him, craving to dominate the last of his life source, I had reason to stop. My cousin, Simeon, would’ve done me in. At the time, I’d have met my maker and reaped the consequences. H
eaven or hell. No problem.

  But I can’t do him in. No matter how many years Anatoly shaved from my mother’s life, I can’t do it.

  Horace has us all seated around the table. Natasha is asleep against my chest; her breath is at my ear. It’s all I need to remind me not to be numb to the entire situation and go off. Zariah was on the right track when she’d mentioned playing mediator. I can almost see myself to the point of ending it for all of us if Natasha was not in my arms right now. As an impatient man, I’d have fought until my last breath. Instead, I’m seated and hugging pure innocence. My left hand clasps my wife’s thigh under the table.

  “Before we get shit started,” I begin. “Horace, you look at my wife the way you did when we walked up, I’m liable to forget—”

  Danushka cuts in, “Grigor—”

  “I’m liable to fucking forget about Grigor having a sniper rifle,” I finish in a growl. “I’m liable to forget all the wrongs my mudak of a father has done and kill you instead.”

  “I will respect her as if she were my own babushka.” Horace’s head dips. “Now, I would’ve rather we all meet at one of my homes in Moscow, but I’m sure Anatoly has received word that you’re all here with me.”

  Yuri shakes his head. “Don’t think we’re working with you, yet. We may not grant our blessing for Anatoly. We may stay out of it.”

  “You can stay out of it then,” my half-sister spits. “My brat and I have everything covered.”

  First, I assume she’s speaking of Grigor. This delusional idiot smiles toward me. All the muscles in my body melt as I ask, “What’s the plan to murder our father?”

  Horace grimaces. “We’re old friends, Vassili. Let’s start with strengths. My new life coach swears by it. Setting a foundation with our strengths will solidify our relationship; after which, we can chat executing various outliers that would weaken said relationship.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, various outliers?” I ask. Mikhail is seated on my opposite side. I purposefully took the spot next to him. If he snaps, we’re all dead.

  “We won’t extinguish everyone in the seven,” Horace advises. “Anatoly’s family. Simeon’s mother and father—his entire family must expire. Also, you all may not be aware, but I have a very good friend in the Seven now. His name is Don Roberto Dominicci—”

  “Nyet!” Yuri shakes his head. “That can’t be true!”

  “You’d dismantle an entire operation?” Mikhail rubs his temple. “It’s blasphemy for an Italian . . . “

  “It’s the Bratva,” I cut in, agreeing with him. “There are no Italians at the Table of Seven.”

  Horace grins sheepishly. “He is the first Italian at the Table of Seven. I inducted him myself.”

  “You don’t have that right,” Mikhail scoffs.

  “Dominicci is a billionaire, so . . .”

  “So?” Yuri wouldn’t get it if it bit him in the ass the fact that Money is King. These idiots are blinded by power, with a few screws loose in their brains.

  Horace laughs. “So, we will rule as one, with capital and physical force. We are not all lucky to be born as a Resnov as you see.” He nods toward Zariah.

  Danushka’s face brightens with a smile. “The future is diversified. I, for one, am happy to advocate for interracial relationships.” She plucks up Zariah’s hand, holding it high.

  “This is bullshit,” Yuri mutters about Danushka ruining everything.

  My wife rolls her eyes removing her hand from Danny. “I take it. I’ll be the token black woman of this shindig.”

  “Black people don’t—” Horace cuts himself off.

  “Finish your statement,” I growl.

  “Yeah,” Zariah chimes in with a chortle. “Maybe you should since the Bratva has become a multicultural establishment. How do I inquire about a discrimination policy?”

  “Oh, friend.” Danushka laughs along with her.

  The chair scrapes the cement floor so hard that one of the wooden legs snap off. I lunge from my seat. The fighter in me feigns for something to break, someone to break.

  Yuri’s eyes are questioning. We’ve exchanged very few words while entering the room. Those fucking words have gone something like this: We’re all pussies. At this moment, we can’t turn alpha and rip Horace and his crew a new hole.

  Don’t worry about Danushka. She became dead to me the second she came for my wife and daughter. I can taste her demise. Not now. We are fucked.

  I’m a Russian bull who’s consumed a bathtub filled with vodka and haven’t gotten drunk. Tonight, vodka and champagne are poured freely. Though Horace is hiding out from my father, he’s rented a villa inland for us to stay. That bitch-sister of mine is delusional enough to believe we’re at a family reunion. Zariah and Natasha leave the main hall first, followed by Mikhail. For the most part, Danushka has kept one of her girls on Yuri and Mikhail in an attempt to stop us from communicating. She grants him mercy when Natasha becomes fussy.

  I move across the mocha-colored clay tile, my boots padding the ground as my vision sways. The new glass of expensive champagne in my hand becomes the catalyst for my loss of reality.

  What if Zariah decides this world isn’t for her? The Resnovs, though I’ve kept her from, are like kings and queens. Aside from Danushka and Horace’s half-brained power trip that will crash and burn, I’ve steered the bad away. All the Resnov heirs are marked. That mudak, Anatoly Jr., my father had attempts on his life when he was a kid. I grip at the stairwell, recalling how paranoid he can be. Even with enemies gunning for him, he still sits on top.

  I feel someone watching.

  With a groan, I turn so slowly that Mr. Overstreet dominates my mind for a second. The bastard was beating on Zariah’s mother, Zamora. I ambushed him in his car one evening, and he couldn’t quite turn around without peeing in his pants. I turn, and my boot misses a step. Letting out a tipsy chuckle, I slide to sit down on the stairs, staring down at an Italian.

  “You keep following me, and I’ll kill you!” I point my index finger, not quite meeting its mark. The motherfucker won’t stop swimming before me.

  “I . . . I have to,” he stutters, staying on the bottom step.

  “Sergio, Sergio?” My gaze narrows, and I rub at the stubble along my jaw.

  He seems ready to backpedal, regardless of my sister’s orders. Though he stays put, he licks his lips and asks, “Who is this Sergio?”

  Rubbing a hand over my face, I mumble, “I killed that bitch a thousand times for my wife. You can’t be Sergio . . .”

  “No-no, I’m not. I have to ensure that you abide by the rules.”

  In a flash, I’m down the stairs separating us. “Rules, what rules?” My forearm slams into his throat as I continue to clutch the champagne. I bash his face in with a left hook.

  “Don’t follow me!” I growl the words my father often spat into the wind. Nobody would be following us from one whore house to the next.

  “He’s following you, brat.” Danushka appears at my side. Her fingertips strum down the side of my jaw. I push at her, but she stays there. “You should do something about it.”

  I sniff. “Then you send a message to that piz’da, Grigor.”

  “He’s our brat, Vassili. Grigor wouldn’t hurt you or what belongs to you. However, I suggest you do something to him,” she points to the Italian, “…for following you.” She stops caressing my jaw to grab the bottle of champagne from my hand. With a flick of her wrist, the bottle crashes against the wall near the Italian’s head.

  “Wha-what are you doing, Ms. Molotov?” he stutters. “These are your orders, your husband’s orders!”

  My forearm crunches against his throat, and I push him all the way back to the wall.

  “You’ll learn to join us, Vassili,” Danushka purrs, holding out the neck of the bottle. “Why not now, brat? Consider it a peace offering.”

  Drops of champagne dot my boots as I take the jagged bottle. I press it into the man’s stomach, imagining that it belongs to Danushka
. His arms come out, slapping and popping, offering all the little swats that a bitch would. My dark gaze is wrought. I can’t kill my half-sister yet, so he will have to do. After stabbing the bottle into his abdomen a few times, I continue holding him with my forearm. I jab and jab at him.

  “Yes,” Danushka shouts. “Yes. This is beautiful, brat.” She grabs his chin; his brown eyes are questioning and filled with agony. “You’re the first to see such beauty. Vassili and me!”

  At the sound of her whiny, elated voice, I crack his neck.

  The dead Italian falls at our feet.

  I take a few steps back. This is a dream. No, this is a fucking nightmare. My knuckles are embedded with a few pricks from broken glass. I press my lips to the back of my hands and bite out the biggest shard.

  “I could wash you,” she says.

  “Nyet,” I growl. Something about my half-sister is broken. I don’t mean the half that’s willing to murder our father for notoriety. Her blue eyes are gleaming in lust. I start up the stairs.

  “Vassili,” she calls after me.

  “What!” I glance back down at her. I’m halfway up the stairs, at the same spot I was when I got the paranoid feeling.

  She tosses up a fresh bottle of champagne. “You’re not ready for us to have the perfect night yet, Brat! We will one day.”

  “The fuck we will, Danny. You’ve always been a weird, little shithead.” I point two fingers at her. “Once you put Anatoly in the grave, I’m out.”

  Her head tilts. “I love you so much, Vassili. Maybe I’ll never let you go.”

  I’ve already turned around. I continue up the steps with the new bottle of Dom in my hand. We were ten years old when Danushka first climbed in my bed. I punched the bitch in the throat and climbed out. Shortly after, Anatoly sent Sasha and me to the home of another one of his whores. Up until now, I’ve assumed she might have tried to kill me. That mudak, Anatoly, made me paranoid enough to believe it.