by Amarie Avant
She chuckles. “Cutie . . . cutie pie.”
“That’s you, girl.” I press my index finger into her chubby stomach. “That’s you. Our little chat isn’t just about husbands. Any man who hurts you answers to me. Got that?”
My little doll laughs again. I glance around, only to realize we’re still rooted at the door to the bedroom. I’m torn between the family I coveted all my life and what’s better for them. I open the bedroom door, and we start out. “Let’s go get your milk—”
The door to the en suite bathroom bursts open. Zariah struts out. Jeans and a crumpled blouse cover her body. She grabs Natasha from my arms. “I’ll get the milk. We’re leaving now.”
I grab her arm. “Can you take a moment and fucking think, Zariah.”
“I have!” She shouts, then her eyes aren’t meeting mine. I turn around. At the bedroom door, Yuri’s about to make a retreat. Zariah puts our daughter in his arms like she’s a bag of potatoes. With her hands on her hips, Zariah growls. “For seven years, I stuck to my guns, Vassili. Turning around was something I shouldn’t have done. Guess I shouldn’t have said never last night!”
“Zariah,” Danushka sighs, exiting a set of double doors at the farthest side of the hallway.
Now we have a fucking audience.
“I’m leaving him, Danny,” Zariah sniffles. “Good luck with the parent-icide.”
“Aw man,” Yuri stares at her. “Look, Zar. We can all talk this out. You’re family; you’re my kuzen now.”
“No,” she snaps at him. “Yuri, you’re a murderer. Vassili, Danny, all of you. I’m done wi-with all of you.”
Danushka’s eyes narrow. “We’re survivors, Zar. I thought you understood that.”
“Whatever you say, Danny! I thought I married a man who wanted nothing to do with you people,” she sneers. “First, I get introduced to you,” she nudges her chin at Yuri. “Next, your fucking father. All of Malich’s family. Even Danushka. There’s no end, is there, Vassili? I don’t want this anymore.”
I lean against the wall, one ankle locked around the next as I watch Zariah. History repeats itself. This is Vadim’s Gym, day one—love at first glance for me all over again.
This time though, it’s better to let her go than to fight for her. To fight and keep her safe.
“Zariah, I guess you’re like Taryn now?” Yuri sniffs, his puffy jaws set in disappointment.
“Yes, and my goodbyes were overdue.” Zariah shifts Natasha to her opposite hip.
Danushka steps in front of Zariah and my child. With a hungry gaze, I watch.
“Natasha is a Resnov, you know.” Danushka shakes her head. “I’m disgusted with you, Zar. You hurt my brat. You’re supposed to be my best—”
“Danny, don’t waste time on my old bitch.” I run a hand over my buzz cut. “I’ve had the same piece of pussy for way too long. Where are the girls Yuri had last night?”
Zariah stares at me, Natasha too. Her smile freezes on her face.
“I can have—”
“Not those bitches, sestra,” I smile, calling Danushka ‘sister’ for the first time. “Tell those bitches to find more bitches for me. The only leftover pussy I had is now leaving.”
8
Zariah
My daughter and I have been sent home, arrived in a super jet, left in business class. I’d called my mother while we sat at the airport in Italy. If there’s one thing my mom can do, it’s coordinate the time for arrival. She’s hitched a flight from ATL. She’s been worried about the repercussions of Kong’s coma. He still has yet to awaken. With an overnight diaper bag in one hand and Natasha sleeping in my other arm, I start through the terminals of LAX. Sunglasses shade my red-rimmed, swollen eyes. I meander through the airport as I did after finding out my husband accosted an ‘innocent’ man. In that, I hadn’t known the bastard was avenging the assault of my mom.
As we descend the escalator, my hot, tired gaze tracks the crowd of people sifting through luggage. Across from them is an area of seats. Part of me wants to smile when I see my mother, already seated with her luggage. The real me just wants to crawl into a tiny ball and scream until my lungs and throat bleed. She stands, grabs her rollaway, and starts over to us.
“Oh honey,” my mother groans, plucking Natasha’s limp body to her chest. My daughter opens one eye, peeks at her grandmother then returns to her slumber on Zamora’s shoulder.
“Mom, why didn’t you catch a Lyft? I could’ve met you at home.”
“No, no.” She waves me away.
With Natasha out of my arms, I grab her rollaway.
“Hey, don’t you need to get your luggage?”
I blink a few times, opting not to mention that Danushka sort of kidnapped us. I’d worn the most designer digs I’ve ever had in my life. “The luggage was lost when we arrived in Australia.”
“Oh, baby. Well, Sammy’s here. As a matter of fact . . .” She pauses from talking to me to pull out her phone. “Hey, yeah, she’s here . . . Yeah, Cutie Pie too . . . Thanks.”
I simper. “It’s the middle of the night. How—Why is Samuel here, Mom?”
“Because I called him. He’s called you too, you know.” She walks with me toward the barrage of sliding glass doors. “Your brother called. Everyone I know is calling because of that Australia incident.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble as the doors swoosh open for us. “You know, Momma, you’re the only one I called. My cellphone is off.”
We continue out into the warm summer night. Part of me wants it to rain so that I can cry again as I pull off my sunglasses. My mom drags me along to a designated area. I notice her expression the instant she’s found Samuel through the haze of rides. Her disappointment plunges into the abyss of nothingness. She waves him over, and his convertible glides before us.
“I apologize, Zar,” he starts out, dressed in a navy suit against his super-dark skin. He has a few gorgeous shades on my father. Though his white-teeth gleam in a smile, he rubs my back with sympathy. “I was just leaving dinner when Mora called. I would’ve gone home and switched rides.”
“Do you have a car seat?” I ask voice strangled.
“Yes, ma’am.” He takes the overnight diaper bag. “Mora, let me get this stuff in the trunk, and I have a hug for you too.”
My mother stops herself from giggling; her skin flushes red as she holds Natasha and pats her back. “Oh, no. Don’t hug me, Sammy. I came running. No shower. I was cooped up on that flight all evening.”
Samuel and Zamora, who love to call each other by their nicknames, stop to chat. I take Natasha and squeeze us through the back of the passenger seat. Once I have her buckled and settled in, I sit opposite her. I grab my designer glasses from my purse and then stop. How ridiculous do I look already? The ride to my home is filled with silence until my mom speaks.
“Okay, so . . . when is Vassili coming home?”
I chew my lip, infuriated by her comment. My mother is as oblivious as my father has always said. “Never.”
“Zariah, you two are grown-ups. You’ve entered into a relationship and now have a daughter to consider,” Samuel reprimands.
“Thanks for the reminder, Dad,” I mumble to myself. My father’s ex-best friend, my mentor, and the guy who signs all my paychecks is right.
“Oh, hell, no, Zar.” My mom chimes in. “I’m not having any of that. I refuse to believe you’ve been slapped around or called out of your name and taunted by him.”
“Nope.” I almost sneer. Well, I was taunted before we left.
My mom kisses her teeth. “Whatever the hell you two are going through can be worked out! Or does it have anything to do with Kong?”
My lack of response becomes Zamora’s reason to latch onto our past issues. I’m reminded of how vital Vassili’s fights are. Images of his torn patella after fighting Gotti cross my mind, and I still can’t respond to my mother.
In a soothing voice, she says, “Sweetheart, your husband has a demanding career. He has fans and enemies. Th
ey all want to have their say about the fight. Sounds overwhelming, Lord only knows how much. As far as I’m concerned, Vassili gave his best performance. The other guy may have been on drugs or something. You have to stick by your man’s side.”
Ha! Stick by your man through thick and thin. Far as I’m concerned, we are about the most loyal women on earth. Or maybe that’s just the petty bone in me prepared to dominate. With a sigh, I say, “Momma, can we stick a pin in it for now?”
The next morning, I awaken to the scent of bacon. I roll over in bed. I never knew how massive it was until Igor died. While Vassili’s heart and soul were a thousand miles away, I’d curled into a tiny ball in the center of it. I sit up, reminiscing about how his return led to our last fight.
The double doors are open. The sunlight streams in from the skyline right outside of the room. I grab my iPhone and power it up. A symphony of buzzing goes off in my hand. Pulling in oxygen, I open the voicemail application. My thumb scrolls over an endless succession of messages. Most of them are from Tyrese Nicks, the newest attorney at Billingslea Family Legal. Just as I start to click on the first one, a call comes in.
It’s none other than the culprit himself.
“Zariah?” Tyrese’s voice is a touch deeper than usual and more endearing than I’ve ever known.
A flurry of tears wash across my cheeks. Why did he call me so many times? “Hey, what’s up? Oh my god, is Felicidad okay? How are the children?”
“What?” The sound of air rushing in the background, and then what I assume is a door closing. “No, there’s nothing wrong with them. Ms. Noriega and her children are safe. I was . . . ahem, Noriega is missing.”
Yup, dead in a ditch somewhere, compliments of Danushka. “When did he go missing?”
“I take it you haven’t listened to any of my voicemails.”
“No,” I start to tell him we can talk later when I’m at the office. If I go. The naïve card is a little easier to finagle when I’m not standing in the counselor’s face. “My phone has been off a few days. What happened to that thug?” I wince, at my choice of words and inability to feign shock. The gang member and cartel runner is no longer a threat to my clients. Our clients. Tyrese forced my hand when I took the case for his wife, Felicidad Noriega.
“Somehow, he got out of Twin Towers.” He mentions the correctional facility in downtown Los Angeles. “I was calling you repeatedly about that until I saw you were in Australia. I started to call you after the mob at the event center. So, this Killer Karo and Kong thing . . . Hey, when are you going to stop me from talking. I figure I’d go on until you cut me off.”
Through the receiver, I can feel his smile and see his dimples deepen. We make a good team whenever we work with Felicidad to keep her and her children away from Noriega. Kneading the nape of my neck, I try to reply, “Can we not talk about that?”
“Alright, I understand the husband is not a topic of discussion—ever. You sound a little off. Zariah, is something wrong?”
I laugh through the tears now. “Ha, I’m not your client, Tyrese.”
“We’re friends.”
“We’re not,” I grit out. Vassili and I are on the outs, but I’d rather slit my wrists than do anything to harm the love I have for him.
My husband’s voice is in my ear, and he’s saying the worst words I’ve ever heard him say. “The only leftover pussy I had is now leaving.”
Although he’s said those foul words, no more than 24 hours ago, that same friggen mouth stole my breath. My Vassili has said, “I’m fighting for more moments with you, Zariah. I need you always to appreciate what I do for you, for our daughter.”
That bastard gave up on us!
Instead of hearing the sound of my husband’s voice, another man jokes with me. “I refuse to believe we’re not friends, Zariah. You and I almost got capped by the Dos Locos Gang.”
His chuckle is as smooth as the bourbon and whiskey my father coveted when I was a child. I lick my lips in trepidation. “I’m getting a divorce, Tyrese. Will you draw up the documents?” I pause from telling him that he’s also every checkmark on a man that I could’ve married.
“You want me to create divorce documents for you? Have you tried counseling?”
“Boy, you flirted with me relentlessly on the first day that we met,” I chortle. “No way in friggen hell do you care about any attempts to save my marriage, so save it.”
“I don’t like to see you sad.”
“Yeah, there you go. Crossing the fucking line, Counselor.”
“Zariah, you’re a very gorgeous woman. But I’m not an idiot—”
“What, you don’t want to be in a coma by flirting?”
“No. I can handle myself.” Again he offers a laugh, one that sounds good right about now. “I, honest to God, don’t like to see you sad. I appreciate how you’ve changed my outlook at work.”
“Oh, yeah? The plan. Work with the infamous ex-DA Samuel Billingslea at his cheesy, family-oriented law firm. Check. Bulldoze your way up to head DA in Los Angeles, I remember. No check yet. That’s fine; these things take time.”
“I’m not that asshole anymore, Zar—”
“Keep me posted about Felicidad. I don’t know if any of Dos Locos will retaliate against her on Noriega’s behalf . . . if they think she had something to do with it. Bye.” I hang up. Shaking my head, I growl at myself. How stupid did I just sound? How would Felicidad have anything to do with her husband’s death? The bastard planted fear in her heart. He kept her alienated from her family in the States. He had the backing of a Mexican cartel in her hometown. I climb out of bed, ready to start the beginning of the week.
I should’ve taken my ass to church yesterday, I consider with a sigh. I turn on Mandisa and pray that her Christian music will keep my mind off Vassili. For even a half a second.
9
Vassili
More whores than Anatoly keeps on rotation are surrounding me. Not a single one has on a top. Tits of various sizes and shades are in my face. Seated on the couch, I push a girl from my lap. A tattoo artist makes himself comfortable in a leather rollaway chair before me.
Danushka is here too. She’s in some sort of lacy, see-through bodysuit. She grabs the girl that’s sulking away from me and plants a hard kiss on her mouth.
“Okay, out!” she shouts, slapping the whore’s ass. “All of you out.”
The artist sniffs, looking me over. “You don’t have any space.”
Danushka’s thumb drags across my pec. “He has space. Right there. What are you getting, brat? Another machine gun? Cats near the kremlin?”
“Nyet.” My gaze burns through her. She’s like a fly, the kind that keeps coming back after you thought you’d murdered it. “Cor Ne Adito.” I spit the words.
“Khorosho.” She smiles.
With a shot of vodka at his lips, Yuri pauses. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Oh, my inquisitive cousin, I forgot you’re not that bright like my brat.” She chuckles. “Don’t rip your heart out. It’s Latin.”
I turn in the seat. “Try to use the same style as this text on my back, eh?”
The artist nods.
Yuri grunts. “I don’t like the meaning of that. It’s dumb.”
“You’re dumb, you fat fuck,” Danushka spits.
“Who you calling—”
“Look at you,” I cut him off, glaring him up and down. “You are a fat fuck, Yuri.”
His cheeks almost puff up like Natasha’s, though his are covered in tiny hairs. He glares at the two of us. “Vassili, kuzen, we go home now. Malich didn’t raise us to disrespect our women. Fuck this slut.”
“She’s my sister!”
Danushka sits back, a grin on her face.
Yuri scoffs. “She’s the devil. And you don’t need no motherfucking ‘don’t rip your heart out’ bullshit on your back.”
I growl, “What happened to Zariah is like Taryn?”
“I . . .” the fucking teddy bear mutters, “We all
hurt each other’s feelings yesterday.”
With a smirk, I stare up at him. “Where’s your self-respect, Yuri?”
“He’s no Russian bull. He’s not.” Danushka kisses her teeth.
“Just because I refuse to bash your face in like any other man would...” Yuri wags a finger at her, “doesn’t make me any less of a man. Vassili, you are my brat! You’re not her brat. You are mine.”
I flex my arms, chest puffed up, and focus on where the newest addition to art is going.
Yuri’s fingertip comes toward me as if he’s going to jab me in the forehead. The artist moves out of the way. My forearm swipes over his in the nick of time. I bring his arm beneath mine and twist. I’m up from the chair in seconds, while Yuri’s back is to me. His fleshy cheeks jiggle.
“Get off me,” he grunts, “You mudak!”
“Stop being a piz’da,” I growl in his ear.
From her seat, Danushka lifts a little and pulls out a pearl-handled gun. “Brat, he is our blood, but alas, it is your call. What should we do?”
“You want to shoot me?” Yuri’s jaws shake with fury as he shouts.
“We would probably have to kill Mikhail when he comes down the stairs. Or I can send word to do it in his sleep.” Danushka lets the trigger-guard twirl around in her finger. “All your call, brat.”
“You and Mikhail get the fuck out of here,” I roar into Yuri’s ear. We’re not strangers to a brawl. After fighting for Zamora Haskin’s boyfriend, we ended up in the slammer. There was too much testosterone roaring through us when we fought.
Yuri turns around. He doesn’t even make an attempt. “I’m supposed to be your manager, Vassili. We should be sending flowers—some shit to Kong’s family. You, mudak, you should be sending flowers to your wife. Flowers and fucking chocolates. You’re entertaining whores. Did you sleep with them last night?”
