by Amarie Avant
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving. Try me, old man.” I move a few paces to a weight bench. Seated wide-legged, I glare up at him. “Make me. You too, Nestor.” My glare dances across the room, and I punch a stiff fist at my chest while threatening them all. “All you mudaks make me leave!”
The wrinkles on Vadim’s face part ways as he looks me over. “Who has the title, Vassili? Who has your motherfucking belt, you little shit?”
Fuck, I wonder, who has my belt. My first love was gone from me for the past 22 days. Not an entire thought was to be had for it unless one of Danushka’s roaches had an update on Kong. My teeth rake over my top lip as I consider the UFC match that occurred a week ago. I knead my neck. In the past, I’ve watch every motherfucking fight. Zariah would be wrapped in my arms, joking about all the testosterone on the television and how she needed me. Then I’d fuck her good before returning to watch every angle of every fight.
Rhy stands next to Vadim.
“You?” I growl.
“Welterweight UFC champ,” he brags. I’m used to the ass face spitting words at me with his cunt wide open. Although today, there’s not a snarl in sight.
“What should you say?” Vadim asks.
My eyes fly from the ass face to my coach.
“This gym is built on support, Vassili.”
I place a paw at my chest and chuckle. “Coach, you want me to say congratulations? That’s what you want? Or Rhy.”
In an instant, my nose is pressed against my enemies. “Mudak, you must want me to threaten you. You must want me to promise that you won’t be having that belt for too much longer.”
Vadim sniffs. “That’s between the two of you, Vassili. Also, you’ll be needing to find a new backing, because we aren’t behind you anymore.”
“I’m going to hold onto it longer than the last guy,” Rhy snarls. “As a matter of a fact, I’ll hold onto it longer than that weak ass, wannabe Russian who gave it to that roach, Gott—”
He doesn’t see it coming.
My fist slams into the side of Rhy’s face. Gripping his shoulder, I bring him down as my knee assaults his mouth. A few of Rhy’s teeth go flying. With my hyper senses, I note at least three, one canine.
“You all are done with me?” I start toward the weight bench I was sitting at, chest puffed out as I uproot it from the feeble bolts holding it down. The bench goes tumbling. That isn’t enough. I slam my fist into the mirror, relishing the sound of it crashing. I turn on the crew that is supposed to have my back.
I was five years old. My dad had to be looking much like I do now. Nyet, worse. His face was splattered in blood. My mother’s blood. Sasha had done something—something that reminded him of another man. Something that made the paranoid thoughts swarming in his head gather and collect. He’d asked my mother for the thousandth time if the little bitch had a different father. His fists flew across her face . . .
From my peripheral, I can see myself in the cracked mirror. The knuckles on my left hand drown in blood, much like the vision I had long ago forgotten.
“In my office,” Vadim growls.
Like the dead coming back to life, Rhy flies into a seated position, shaking his head. He starts up. Nestor stops him.
“Keep him here,” my coach growls at the Ukrainian.
“I’m going to murder you,” Rhy screams at the top of his lungs as I follow Vadim up the steps.
Wiping my knuckles on my boxer shorts, I follow Vadim past the old boxing ring and into his cluttered office. At least, he hasn’t removed my shit. Hordes of memorabilia and pictures of championship matches surround us as I slink down into a chair.
I want to start over.
I’ve asked Zariah that, but it’s me who wants this world we built to crash and burn. She’s been sitting in my spot on our first encounter. I had claimed Vadim’s seat while he was out. I’d worn her down relentlessly. Right about now, that day could start all over again. I’d make the same moves. Allow her space to focus at Spellman and then Berkeley. I should’ve gone to get her myself. Fuck Yuri. Fuck my entire family. I’d have kept her away from them all.
When I blink, Vadim is writing something on one of those receipt thingies that he gives to the newbies who meet the standards enough to work out here. I’ve always worked out free, but that doesn’t mean Vadim hadn’t eaten when I did way before my sponsorship.
He crumples the thin paper a little and tosses it at me. I catch it. “What the fuck, Vadim?”
“Those are the three different places that I barter for when equipment breaks. I want a new mirror, and I don’t give a damn if the bench still works. You’re getting me another one.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “You’re done with me?”
He scrubs his face with wrinkly hands. “You done being a piz’da?”
“Dah.” Vadim bursts into laughter. He gestures toward me. “I’m supposed to school you on my prized Welterweight Champ. Rhy had his cunt wide open, didn’t even see your left hook. So, how can I school you when Rhy needs to shut his mouth and see what’s coming.”
I laugh too. “Remember Kyiv?”
“Dah,” he nods. “You had that fight with the mudak who said he fought bears for a living. There’s only one other Russian UFC fighter I’ve ever seen footage of doing that. Rhy is a liar. The guy in Kyiv was a liar.”
“Khabib,” I mention the fighter in a different weight class than me. He’s the only one who fought fucking bears. “Those were good times, Kyiv.”
“Good times. Rhy is barely Russian, shit; he’s a little German. And to tell you, you are not Russian, blasphemy.” Vadim leans forward in his chair; he shakes the smile from his face. “Dumb rookies like Rhy aside, you need to know one thing. Next time you get in my face, Vassili, I will kill you.”
“I doubt that, old man. You have my word, though, there won’t be a next time,” I grit out.
“Khorosho,” he mutters. “It’s better that way. I don’t need your father coming after me. The Resnov blessing is right there, right below God. Now, I need the little shit I met on the first day to return. He was a fighter, Vassili. Not a hoodlum running around with more ties to the Bratva than his blood.”
“You know what’s going on?” I gesture, at a loss for words.
“The second I saw Danushka in Australia, I knew you were in a bind. Does Anatoly know the two of you are fraternizing?”
He seems to be holding his breath, waiting for my response. I nod.
“That girl has a death wish then.”
I groan. “I’m waiting for Anatoly to finish Danny. To get it over with.”
“Nyet.” Vadim shakes his head. “That mudak has never changed. When he was a boy about the age you were when Malich first brought you to me, he watched two dogs fight. They were Ovcharkas. Massive motherfuckers like at Black Dolphin.” He mentions one of the toughest prisons in Russia. “The one dog killed the other, and he took two slugs to the victor.”
For a moment, I chew my lip in thought. The MMA world stole my heart when I found out it had strategy. A strategy meant that no matter how you tweak shit if you followed through, you’d be golden. I can’t fucking stand people that are unpredictable. Danushka might seem like it. After all, her cards are on the table, the bitch can be cut down.
My father.
He’s another story. What compelled the mudak to drop his winning Shepard dog? The dog showed promise. I ask, “Why?”
“Because the winner killed the one he loved.” Vadim rubs a hand over his mouth. “He has this habit of seeing how far something or someone will go. When that person has made all the moves they have at their disposal or Anatoly’s past the point of no return, that person meets his demise. A fucking death that makes the pit of my stomach upchuck into my throat. So, while you’re consorting with Danny, keep that in mind. Anatoly is making a tally of every wrong—eh as if he hasn’t lived a life needing vindicating.”
“I’m doing it for him,” I mutter the truth.
In no world would I lift my h
and for the piz’da. Even when I left for America with Anatoly’s blessing, he asked to have a hand in The Red Door. I gave Malich all the details of how Anatoly wanted to be involved in my lounge, and that was the end of it. I did this shit for Anatoly, for the Bratva, and my wife doesn’t know it yet . . .
18
Zariah
The repast is held at a soul food restaurant. Tyrese and I skip out. Now, his Maserati swoops into valet at an stylish boutique hotel that boasts an exclusive lounge. He’s out of the car, handing over cash, and rounding on me in seconds. There’s an intensity in his gaze. Not the kind I’ve grown accustomed to when his eyes would glue to an outfit that hugged my curves.
Tyrese’s gaze reads one thing: He has to know how I know.
Alright, I’m not aware of exactly who he is. As an attorney, I’ll bait the truth out of him. I didn’t bust my ass in law school for no reason. The handsome black man will break for me, and once he’s broken, he’ll be on my team.
Our team.
Team Vassili and Zariah, because I’m not team Danushka, nor am I team Rapey Anatoly. He holds out a hand to help me out of the car. I ignore it. Tyrese’s muscles pull in. He offers half a laugh.
“You are going to talk to me, right?” he asks, shutting the door and coming to my side. “If you’re the Zariah I’ve met on a few occasions, we’ll get nowhere.”
“Oh, we will get somewhere.” I turn on him so very close to his face. “Mr. Nicks—or whatever your name is, you will tell me everything.”
“I can’t.” He chews his lip.
Taking a few paces back, I then strut toward the door and into a lobby of marble and glitz. I’ve had dinner here with my father and a few of his friends before. With my clutch grasped in hand, I start into the room. Tyrese loops his arm into mine.
“We’ll take a table for two and send the specialty wine list. Not the regular one,” he tells the hostess.
I blink a few times. He’s offering Will Smith from the ‘Bad Boy’ series vibes. Like a rich boy cop. I grew up around cops, I should’ve sniffed it on him earlier. I allow him to guide me. Men need to feel like they’re in control. He has a few more seconds before I snatch the reigns. The hostess starts to a table. Tyrese moves past her and pulls out the chair for me. I claim the seat, then the bastard descends across from me.
“You took me to a very public place, Ty,” I murmur, my voice as lush as the select wine list that’s on its way to us. “Why? How will we share our thoughts with others surrounding us?”
His mouth perches into a half-smile, the left dimple on display. “I can’t tell you, Zar. I honestly brought you here for a good drink, and if you’re willing, you can tell me more about your husband.”
My heart sinks. I assumed Tyrese was here for my father.
Not Vassili. Although mentioning an infamous serial killer/cop case like Lt. Sullivan was his way in, I should’ve expected this.
“No drinks.” I lace my hands before my flat abdomen. “I still love my husband, Tyrese.”
His entire façade tenses ever so slightly. “You’re afraid of Mr. Resnov enough to move back with your father. Take that into consideration . . .”
A server in a stiff white suit steps up to us.
“Bourbon whiskey,” Tyrese orders. “You sure you don’t want to preview the selection?”
Though I’m not mentioning my pregnancy to Tyrese, I snort. “You were playing a part, Ty. Flirt to get the information you need. It’s no longer necessary.”
The server clears his throat, not interested in tidbits of our conversation.
“That’s it,” I tell the server, who walks away.
He places his forearms on the white linen and leans forward. “I wasn’t flirting to get information out of you, Zariah. You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. The second I landed eyes on you, I swore to myself that I’d remove you from the Resnov snare.”
“What do you think you’re saving me from?” I lift an eyebrow, smiling sweetly.
“More than you know.”
My mother declined a ride to LAX, saying she plans to stick around. She also reiterates that church is in the cards for us tomorrow. If there is one area my gorgeous, kind-hearted mother doesn’t play, it’s church. I can remember so many times sitting in a pew at a shotgun house of a church down in Georgia with her family members. I’m playing with the devil now but come tomorrow, I’ll meet her there. Maybe I’ll even ask her what friends she’s staying with. She’s livid with me, bags packs, and Uber ready.
Now I’m seated in the front seat of my SUV, glaring at the side of my father’s luxurious home. Along the side of it, my old balcony warms my heart to memories.
Vassili came to me even before I knew I needed him, he was there.
“Mommy?” Natasha rings out from the backseat, right before the good old times can pull me under.
I blink, and there’s a police cruiser pulling in front of us. Rolling my eyes away from the sight, I glance into the rearview mirror. “Are you ready to see Gramps?”
She displays a few teeth in response to the singsong of my voice.
As I get out, Officer Jackson does as well. His biceps are flexed as he closes his door.
“Where’s Hutch?” I joke.
“Hutch?”
“You’re Starsky. Listen, if you want to kiss my father’s ass, then you have to know the oldies. Shaft won’t work, he rides solo all the time. So, you must be Starsky, and you left Hutch. I take it you have to be the in-charge. The other guy was so fresh behind the ears. He’s not yet used to the fact that his dream of saving lives and keeping the street clean is all a fallacy.”
I pause. He doesn’t respond to my “ass kissing” reference.
Jackson nods slowly. “That’s what you think of us? The LAPD gets enough backlash from people whose cellphone cameras show part of a scenario. You’re the daughter of the Chief!”
“Not all cops are created equal, Officer Jackson.”
“Call me—”
“Jackson,” I grit out. After a second, I look up at him through thick lashes, recalling that I’m in the middle of a “nasty divorce.”
“I-I,” I touch my forearm, displaying a false level of vulnerability. “I love my dad. He just didn’t think that–that I made a good decision. Kind of sucks when he’s right.”
Part of me wants to screech that this is all acting, that I desperately want to go home.
Jackson’s eyes become liquid gold as he looks me over. “I can understand that more than you know, Zariah. I thought I married a good . . . um. Do you need any help with your things?”
“Yes, I appreciate it.” I unlock the trunk of my SUV and then go to the back door to get Natasha out.
Once she’s on my hip, I glance down the street.
“What are you looking at?” Jackson latches the trunk door. He comes to my side, but I shrug.
“I thought I saw a car—um.” Fear clutches at me. Vassili wants me here for my safety. While he’s working Danushka, they’re friends, and I’m his enemy. Knowing the psychotic woman, any friend of his is an enemy of hers too.
Jackson stops glaring in all directions when I start up the curb.
“I’ll talk to your dad about increasing patrol in the area.”
“No need,” I tell him because I crave with my entire being that my husband will crash through my balcony. Well, not crash through, but I’d really love to see him sooner rather than later.
“I’ll do it anyway.” Jackson holds Natasha’s Disney-print rollaway on top of my designer canvas print. He follows me up the intricate paved steps.
The door bursts open.
With arms wide, my father’s pearly-white teeth pop against his dark skin. “You have no idea, Princess, how long I’ve waited for this moment.”
Yup. He’s been waiting for me to fail. Little does he know, once I have Tyrese Nicks on my side, that slimy agent will forgo my husband and the Bratva. Nicks will sink his teeth into my father and ot
her crooked cops in the LAPD. I’ll hand him the evidence that the force refused to provide Samuel when it came to LT. Sullivan.
I allow myself to be enveloped into arms that have harmed my mother. When he leans over to kiss Natasha’s forehead with the same lips that cheated on and cursed my mom, I allow that too. One day soon, my father will pay penance for all his wrongs.
19
Zariah
On Sunday morning, I start the day with the Lord’s Prayer and an onslaught of kisses to my daughter’s smiling face. My palm roams over my flat abdomen. I can hear Vassili telling me not to “baby” our son. I’d retort that maybe God has blessed him with another girl to keep safe. My heart isn’t set up to reminisce on my husband because I have plans to set in motion.
“Shhh . . .” I tell Natasha, planting her on my hip. Her ruffled, yellow pantsuit matches the dress I’m wearing. I start down the stairs, my jeweled sandals wedged into my purse. Of course, I’m conscious of every sound my bare feet make, the drumming of my heart. I silently curse myself for having my one-year-old as a partner in crime. I stop right outside of the door to my father’s study, and all the oxygen in my lungs depletes. Maxwell must’ve gotten up from the bed. The faint sound of footsteps above sends me and my little angel fleeing toward the kitchen.
Okay, Zariah, I tell myself. This is the worst time to initiate the search for any illegal activity my father has been up too.
In the kitchen, Natasha bangs copper pots on the ground. Without a highchair and a playpen, I need the sound of her constant ruckus to know she’s safe. I keep one eye on her, another on the hallway, and another on the fresh, raw potatoes I’m slicing. Yes, that’s more eyes than I have. These are hard times. Like any man, my father loves country potatoes. I’ve got T-bones marinating, for steak and eggs too.
