by Amarie Avant
Anatoly says, “Simeon has learned under my authority for so long, he knows exactly what we should do. That’s not enough champagne, though.”
Simeon gestures toward another son who isn’t aware that they’re half-siblings and not cousins. My aunt is now married. Her husband believes Simeon is his, and he’s such a fucking beta husband that he took the Resnov name. Some shit will stay in the dark, I guess.
Simeon places one bottle on the table and hands Anatoly the other. My father gives him a look. Or should I say our father? The look says to scat. This is the time for kings; Simeon isn’t one of us.
My arm glides around Anatoly’s neck. The chokehold is so forceful his face reddens on key.
“There is a new king among us,” I growl. “It is not me.”
A knife zips out from the inside of Simeon’s blazer. The blade plunges between our father’s rib. The champagne bottle in Anatoly’s hand crashes to the floor beside us. I grab the knife from his flesh and slide it from one side of Anatoly’s neck to the other.
His body falls to the floor.
My voice booms across the shock-filled room. “Anatoly Karo Resnov Junior has completed his reign. My wife had the help of a Fed to get rid of another man, Maxwell Washington. I will not fault her for it. Nobody will!” I declare.
Father or not, I’m past the point of giving a damn. I stand before my father’s corpse and continue with what must be done. “I’m aware of her faults. Betrayal of a Resnov is not one of them. The man she vindicated is now in prison, awaiting trial. I need him handled.”
“What prison?” Someone says from the crowd.
I look to my brat, Simeon. He told me how Anatoly would persuade me to believe my wife cheated. He told me everything. Fuck, he had to use pictures of Zariah leaving her father’s house with the Feds on the scene and Maxwell in cuffs. I loved her so much, too fucking much. My brother had to get through to me. I’ve never been so jealous in my life.
I did the agent in myself. Simeon disposed of his body somewhere in Florida before heading here.
Simeon might have a taste for blood, but his efficiency is more than enough to rule the Bratva. He mutters the name of the prison. A step ahead of everyone.
One of the crew has enough connections to confirm that it will be done.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
Then I mention Noriega, his gang, and any affiliates. Another set that head various areas of the Bratva promise to deal with Noriega’s closest friends. I’m making commands. Reveling in power while Simeon rubs at the blood speckled across his fingers. I haven’t noticed crying. Nobody has.
I stare at the floor. My pupils widen, eyebrows snatching together. Embarrassment strains across Simeon’s face. We all watch Sofiya on her knees, crying. Champagne mingles with the blood of my father on her palms. Shards of glass are around her too.
“Mama, nyet. There is broken glass. Please get up,” Simeon implores. He holds out a hand to help her. He’s like a father whose daughter took her first fall.
Sofiya slaps at his hand. Spits at her son, Malich, me. For a second, she reminds me of Danushka, lost and confused. Why is she crying for a rapist?
“Why?” Her voice strangles out the same question I have, but for a vastly different reason.
“You know why, mama,” Simeon’s hard voice lowers. He scoops her up. With the utmost care, he places Sofiya on a chair. Going to his knees before her, Simeon searches her over for shards of glass. He attempts at a smile while pressing his lips to her forehead. “It is best that you stop crying for Anatoly now, mama. He was bad blood.”
For a second, my father’s death is more real to me than I ever thought it’d be. Not because of my emotions, but the raw sadness emanating from Sofiya. Has she forgotten?
He caresses her cheek again then gets up. Anger and disappointment are in Simeon’s eyes for a split second, then his face grows harder. Back to business. I hook an arm around Simeon. Her response to our retribution has to have killed him.
“My brat is king! I am not.” I gesture toward Yuri, who hasn’t glanced my way since Simeon removed Zariah from the room.
Yuri shakes his head, mumbling, “I don’t want it, brat.”
Simeon grabs my face. “It should be us. All my life, Vassili, it was us.”
I can’t fail him now.
44
Zariah
The door opens, and Vassili enters the room. I’m already at the headboard of the bed. Nowhere is far enough away from the man who should be loving me. His shoulders are slumped. Haunted orbs land on mine. Not waiting to watch the hatred glean in his gaze, I fly out of my seat, hands hitting Vassili anywhere I can.
All too easy, my husband’s arms wrap around me. “Stop, Zariah. Baby, I apologize. It was all an act.”
His words go through one ear and out the other. In my fear, I toss my knee up. “I won’t let you hurt me or my baby,” I shout.
Vassili blocks the blow by swooping me into his arms. He plants me on the bed and kneels in front of me.
“I married for love, Zariah,” he grits. “I married a woman I admire. A woman who I planned on building a life with, a life of mutual respect.”
“Don’t hurt . . .” My lips tremble.
His head lowers. He kisses my belly. “We’re done. Done playing Danushka’s game—”
“She’s dead!” I cut in.
Vassili’s eyes connect with mine. “Anatoly’s game. We’re done, with all of it.”
Throat constricted, I ask, “Did you?”
“Baby, I’m sorry,” Vassili declares, his voice breaks. I look into his eyes, noticing the struggle there, the fear. “I had to treat you like Yuri when it came to my father. You had to be left out, Zariah.”
“You scared me,” I murmur.
The back of his knuckles stroke my cheek as if he’s reminding himself that I’m real. “I hurt you, Zar. It had to look real, I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
An imaginary grip continues to hold my throat siege.
Vassili’s hands engulf mine. “Anatoly’s dead. Simeon and I did it.”
“How?” I huff. Although, I’m actually wondering how my husband feels about what he’s done. My voice is too strangled to continue.
“A life of privilege was what too many people believe I was born into. I don’t give a fuck what people believe. It wasn’t a privilege, Zariah, you know that. I faced more hardship than some of those same doubters. You were my happiness.” His voice lowers as his eyes lock onto my lips. He offers the same taste that he had earlier. A good, pleasing taste. This time, Vassili’s hard body is tangible between my legs as he hugs me close. Our lips meet, a warmth blossoms across my chest, ridding the chill of anxiety. Heat spreads through me, tingling in ripples. All the love we’ve built floods back into my heart.
Again, I’m reminded of the breakthrough after the depression I felt when Vassili tore his patella. Life isn’t meant to be perfect, but we’ve fought for each other and persevered.
On jittery legs, I stand at the door of Samuel’s beachfront home, waiting for it to open. My mind was clear for the past few weeks, now it’s not. We’d extended or stay in Russia. I saw my husband cry for the very first time.
Then he declared his love for me and promised to never let me go.
The very next day, Anatoly’s body was placed in the dirt. There was a family reunion of sorts. Not like the one my mom had for us in the A after we married. No ribs. No oldies blaring through the radio. We ventured throughout my husband’s wonderful country and learned so many things. Now, Vassili has Natasha in one arm and he’s clutching a manila envelope with the sex of our other child. We arrived in Los Angeles this morning, with just enough time to attend our doctor visit.
I stop my leg from moving, ready for two revelations, one of which I already know. We are having a son, but who is my father.
The door swooshes open, Samuel’s wearing a black apron that reads, “The Grill Father.” He rubs his hands together as he often does when boasting
with Vassili about his steaks. His eyes land on me. A flicker of hope is there as my mom comes from behind him, hands on her hips.
“All of you look so refreshed and lively.” My mom pulls me into a hug first. She hugs each of us, saying, “My baby girl is glowing. Cutie Pie, you have this European flair about you. Son, look at you! After all the food we plan to eat today, you better get prepared to put an ass whooping on that little boy!”
“What do you know about that little boy, Mora?” Samuel asks her. He, too, hugs us all. He’s nervous when he gets to me and mumbles about steaks. Damn, I never thought I’d see the day that the brilliant attorney was at a loss for words. I gulp back trepidation too.
We all head into the kitchen. Seated at the breakfast nook, overlooking choppy gray water is my brother, Martin. He’s pulling at a bottle of beer when a smile brightens his face. “Good news, the witch is dead.”
“Martin,” I sigh as he pulls me into a hug. Our mom is in the background huffing beneath her breath. “You’re in HR, have a heart.”
He clasps my cheeks. “You okay?”
Our father died a few days ago. He had a heart attack while in prison, isolated from the general population. Or should I say Martin’s father? My brother and mom Facetimed with the news. Part of me thinks Martin was still blindsided by the fact that I might be related to Samuel. While I’ll always have a history with Maxwell, I can’t bring myself to look around. Today we learn if he’s my father, and for more reasons than not, I’d feel slimy crying over the man who raised me.
“I’m okay,” I murmur.
My brother removes his glasses, chews his lip. “All right, maybe that wasn’t the best way to greet you all. I could use the therapy I’m always harping to y’all about.”
“Preach,” our mom says, bumping him with her hip. “You sure you’re all right, Zar?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“We’re taking a walk along the beach, girls,” my mom’s cheeks brighten. “Give these men a chance to finish dinner. I expect dessert.”
“I second that.” I chortle, reaching over to kiss Natasha, who’s comfortable on my mother’s hip. “Cutie, would you like pie?”
“French Fry,” she counters, with juicy lips.
“Daddy will make you some French Fries,” Vassili says. He pulls me against him. I look up at his deliciously dark eyes and fall in love. Maybe he had something to do with Maxwell Washington’s death. Maybe he didn’t.
For now, I’m content with the fact that my husband owns the cage, and his brother, Simeon, owns the Bratva.
While we walk along the beach, my mother explains something that’s been nagging me all this time. Martin is my older brother. Why not test his DNA as well? She explains that Samuel had only slept with her once. She gives this dreamy example that only die-heart lovers like Zamora Haskins does. One that includes another dark chocolate man who she once had a humongous crush on. Wesley Snipes. Also, it includes the Waiting to Exhale movie. Similarly, Samuel’s wife/her best friend is dying of cancer. When she began to explain the bitter-sweet sex scene in comparison, I drown in laughter. Honestly, mom has always hoped that their one single time together conceived me.
This afternoon, my family and I sit around antique patio furniture that has my mother’s name written all over it. Martin is on one side of me while Natasha and Vassili are on the other. My mom canoodles with Samuel, cutting his steak and being her usual super lovey-dovey self.
“Can we get to the envelope?” I push aside my plate.
Vassili reaches over, placing a hand over my slightly protruding belly. “Is my son full?”
“Not until the cake is on the table.” My mom gushes. “A little cake, a little bubbly. Zar, you’ve got room, right?”
“Bubbly?” I cock a brow. “Momma—”
“You can have half a sip.” She gestures toward the men. Samuel, Vassili, and Martin all rise to leave the room.
I bite my thumbnail. “Damn . . .” I murmur.
“What?” She cocks her head, Natasha follows suit.
Leaning back in the chair, I groan. “Depending on the outcome of the test, I’m wondering if I should’ve felt—acted more distraught when it came to Dad’s death. Damn! I don’t even want to call him Dad anymore.” I place my hands over my face and rub. My daughter begins to paw at my shoulder. My eyes pop open, and I reach over to make sure that she’s not about to fall off Vassili’s chair.
But something catches me from the corner of my eye. A cake! A pink cake! Vassili’s holding it. Martin has saucers, with champagne flutes, while Samuel holds a few more flutes and a bottle.
Scooping Natasha into my arms, I plant her into my lap and groan. I place my hands over her ears. “Oh, Vassili, we can’t have another girl yet. I need a son. Someone to keep this one in check when they’re out and about without us.”
“What?” My husband starts to place the cake in the center of the table.
Eyebrows pulled together, I ask, “You opened the results? We’re having a girl.”
“Oh, yeah, we did open the results, sorry.” Vassili’s pleasing lips slide into a panty wetter smile.
Samuel clears his throat. “Vassili’s ready to whoop Rhy’s butt and retire, then he’ll spend the next 18 years coaching in a new MMA era, with his Junior.”
Martin pulls something from his pocket. A plume of blue confetti bursts in my direction. With tiny blue pieces of paper shimmering around me, I stare at the three of them. Natasha giggles in my lap, clutching at a few blue particles from her face.
“This is quite confusing. Pink cake, blue confetti?” I mumble.
After a beat, Samuel says, “You’re having a son, Zar. Someone else had a girl.”
My jaw drops. Vassili removes Natasha from my hands. With a voice that has failed me, I start up from the chair on shaking legs and realize my mom has been recording us.
“Momma . . .” I mouth.
“Daddy . . .” She mouths back, holding up her iPhone.
“Maybe not daddy,” Vassili murmurs.
Laughter bursts through me, laughter and tears as Samuel and I hug.
“You’re my . . .” I stutter.
“I am.”
I stare up at my father, the sparkles in my gaze mirroring in his. The man who did his best to help raise me the right way embraces me with the same reverence.
For the first time in my life, I can say, “I love you, Dad,” and that completes the sentence. It also completes the sentiment because I’m not in shame for caring for someone who has given me life and given my mother the worst pain ever. I’ll never say it out loud, but if Vassili had something to do with Maxwell’s death, then I’m numb to that. My entire soul is alight with happiness right now, and not a damn thing can take that from me.
45
VASSILI
Half a Year Later
Gray cement slabs for walls surround me. I’m standing in sweats and an A-shirt with my Killer Karo brand. I watch ESPN on the television bolted to the wall. All the channels are sports oriented; all focused on me. The shit has never gone down like this before. Especially not at the start of football season.
Killer Karo versus Rhy the Russian Rampage. My limbs are warm. Every part of me is ready to tear him apart. Some of the commentators are calling me a vet and the favorite. Others are calling Rhy the new, improved me, since he’d started under Vadim. None of their predictions will sway me. This is my fight. But I can’t stop doing one thing.
Thinking about my wife.
“Vassili, if I’m not at my seat, baby . . .” I rub the back of my neck, letting it sink in. The first time she left the seat, she was having my baby. The second time, that bitch of a friend of hers brought her back to the stadium, when I fought Tiago. The first match after my torn patella. Fuck, guess I can’t hate Taryn for Yuri’s sake when she understood how I felt about my wife always being there.
I’ll give the world the match they came to see. Let Rhy feel me out in the first round. Round two, I take his ass out, all
too easy, just because. Or, round two, I take his ass out because I have to get to the hospital. It’s Kentucky Yum Center all over again. Except, this fight is being held in Long Beach, California. This time too, we have a chopper on standby because my little king is coming into this world. He’s been baking for a little over 40 weeks.
I press the mute button, get to my knees, and thank the Man Upstairs. When I stand up, there’s a knock on the steel double doors.
“Dah?” I head toward it, fisting my cross at my neck for a moment.
“You have to keep warm, son.” Malich pats my shoulder as I enter the outer room where my entire team is standing.
We have new members. Dima is representing Killer Karo clothing. Not in this world would I even dream that Simeon would don one of my shirts. Even Malich has my shirt over his polo.
The old man grips my shoulder. “You have a belt to get back, Dah?”
“Fuck yeah!” I growl.
“You get that fucking belt.” Simeon takes my other shoulder. “Or I do it for you, the Resnov way.”
Dima, whose been sparring with me recently, gulps.
“Nyet, brat.” I pat the back of his neck. “This will be easy.”
His face is all a sinister mask until he grins. “Khorosho.”
“Dah, no Resnov way. Not today.” Vadim hooks his arm around both of us. “But that little shithead, Rhy, was on my team, Karo. You gotta kill ‘em.”
“The fuck happened with the saying, Kill ‘em, Karo.” Nestor snorts. “What’s this, you gotta kill ‘em? It doesn’t have the same spark.”
“The old man is going senile.” I shake my head. “Vadim said it backward.”
The coach wags a finger at us all. “Tonight, Karo will lay Rhy to rest, and he’s going to do it so good. He’s going to do that takedown so flawlessly that none of you bastards will ever have anything to say about Karo or me. Dah, we’re old as fuck. Karo, you’re a vet now. Seasoned… old.”
