by S. C. Daiko
I know that look; in the past, I would have taken her up on it, asked her on a date after we’d landed, treated her to an expensive dinner then invited her back to my hotel and fucked her. “No, thanks,” I say in a gruff tone.
I watch her make her way along the cabin. Tight red pencil skirt. Jacket nipped in at her trim waist. I picture how Eva would appear dressed like that; she’d be so goddamn sexy. An empty sensation spreads over me; I miss my kitten so much.
Closing my eyes, I slip back in time to that night when I visited her seven days ago, when she’d asked me to make love to her.
I’d tried to start off slow and gentle. She’d writhed on the sofa as I licked her. But I didn’t just lick her, I devoured her. I pushed two fingers inside her pussy while my teeth nipped at her clit. My tongue had speared deep and I’d murmured, “You’re mine, Kiska. No one will take you away from me, so help me God.”
She’d come apart, her swollen cunt clenching against my mouth, her hands pulling my hair as she’d cried out my name. I’d slid up her luscious body, breathing in her green apple scent and slotting my hips into hers to bury myself balls deep. Then I’d silenced her gasp with a possessive kiss.
We’d rocked in harmony, faster and harder as our bodies demanded more. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Our fingers had grasped, teeth had bitten, and we’d clamped our hands over each other’s mouth to silence our moans.
We were completely in tune.
Two halves of one whole.
I’d whispered how much I loved her, how beautiful she was; my eyes had locked on hers and I’d thrust into her over and over, battering the entrance to her womb. On and on, I’d fucked her. On and on, she’d bucked underneath me, digging her nails into my shoulders and mewling like the kitten she is. For the first time ever, we’d climaxed in absolute unison; we’d stilled our rasping breaths with passionate kisses and had declared undying love.
Undying love.
It was and is everything.
Yesterday. Today. And tomorrow.
So. Help. Me. God.
My eyebrows draw together, and I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. Everything hinges on what will happen when I meet Roman. I’ve hatched a plan in my head, but I have no clue if it will work.
I rub my hand over my dress shirt, tracing the scar in the middle of my chest. I don’t like uncertainty. In fact, I fucking hate it.
Our flight arrives on schedule; we go through immigration, pick up our suitcases and trundle them past bored-looking customs officials. The arrivals hall at Sheremetyevo International Airport is busy, but I spot a dark-haired man standing to the side holding up a card with my surname written in bold. Sokolov is a common enough name, but I presume he’s the driver Roman said he’d send. My fingers twitch. Yuri and I were unable to fly with our guns, of course, and I’m experiencing withdrawal symptoms from my Glock.
Jesus, fuck, am I walking into the lion’s den here? Unabashed, unprepared and unarmed. I almost want to turn around and board the next plane back home.
Except, I’m here to do a job.
To clear the path for a future for Kir, Eva and myself.
I’ll see it through.
“I’m Gleb Sokolov,” I say to the dark-haired man. “Who sent you?”
He confirms he’s been sent by Roman Aulov. We follow him to the parking lot and get into a black BMW. It’s already dark in Russia, owing to the time difference and the fact that it’s early November. And colder than it was in New Jersey; I’m glad to have my thick overcoat. A dismal gray sky covers the landscape, matched by the grayness of the Soviet-era buildings we pass on our way into the city center. People are cycling on the sidewalks like thirty years ago, but it’s a different Moscow to the one I remember. The Muscovites are dressed better and seem more affluent.
Yuri and I are silent throughout the ride, except for the occasional comments as we point out familiar landmarks. We don’t know if the driver understands English, and we’re certainly not going to discuss anything in front of him in Russian.
Presently, we’re dropped off at the Kempinski 5* Hotel, just over the river from the Kremlin. We’ll have the view, but we won’t be doing any sightseeing; I’ve booked us on the flight back to JFK tomorrow night; this is just a flying visit. Literally.
At the front desk, the receptionist hands me a brown envelope. I open it and pull out a cell phone.
What the fuck?
The ringtone sounds immediately, and I hold it to my ear. “Welcome home,” I recognize Roman’s voice by its distinctive rasp from an overindulgence in Laika cigarettes. “Mikhail Vladimirovich would like you and Yuri to meet him this evening. I’ll be there as well. He’ll send a car to pick you up at seven.”
Mikhail Vladimirovich Balandin, the Boss of Bosses.
My pulse rattles in my throat.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Gleb
I’ve reserved a suite for myself overlooking Red Square; Yuri is in the next room with an interconnecting door. Again, we keep conversation to a minimum, wary of the accommodation possibly being bugged. I stand by the window and gaze at the spot-lit onion-shaped domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. I suck in a quick breath; I’d forgotten how stunning it is.
How I want to phone Eva... I’m missing Kir and her so much my heart hurts. I don’t phone her, though; it would be foolhardy. Any call I place in Moscow might be traced. Although I’m not on any wanted lists, as far as I’m aware, the authorities might know I’m associated with Balandin. He lives freely here, due to his connections with people in high places, but I still need to be careful.
After taking a shower, I change into a clean dress shirt and pants. I put on a tie, shrug on my suit jacket, and knock on the connecting door to Yuri’s room. “Ready?”
“Ready, Boss,” his voice comes through the partition.
I reach for the photo of Papa with Mikhail in Afghanistan I’ve brought with me. They served together back in the early 1980s when they were conscripted into the Soviet army. I shove the picture in my pocket and head out of the room.
The same driver who drove us here from the airport is waiting for us outside the hotel. He takes us to a high-rise apartment block in Mosfilmovskaya Street twenty minutes away. We find Roman in the lobby, grayer and broader than I recall. He grasps my hand in a firm, bone-crushing shake before leading us to the elevator.
“Did you have a good flight?” he asks, tugging at his sleeves as we ride up to the penthouse.
I confirm that we did and enquire politely about the health of his wife and kids.
“They’re well.” His tone is brusque. “How is your brother?”
An innocent question, but a superfluous one. “He’s well, thank you,” I answer, “as you know.”
Roman smirks in response; it’s thanks to his and my so-called godfather’s network of spies that my family has been safe all these years.
At the door to Balandin’s apartment, a bodyguard checks us for weapons before ushering us inside. I set my jaw, my muscles tightening, as a tall, elderly man approaches.
“It is good to see you Gleb Nikolayevich,” Mikhail Balandin uses my patronymic name as well as my first one, given that Papa’s name was Nikolai.
Balandin grasps my hand and shakes it. “I remember you when you were a small boy.” His words seem friendly, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Even though Mikhail has aged, he’s still dangerous. He’s involved in weapons dealing, contract murders, extortion, drug trafficking, and prostitution on an international scale. He doesn’t refer to our more recent contacts, but simply invites Roman and me to follow him and his henchman through to the living room.
We sit on armchairs and are served Beluga caviar and Vodka by a middle-aged maid dressed in black. “Gleb is here for some answers with respect to the woman who tried to kill him,” Roman says. He spoons caviar onto the skin between his index finger and thumb, then licks it off the traditional way.
Balandin leans forward and focuses his attention intentl
y on my face. “Do you remember Lidiya Gavrilov?”
I think for a moment. “The name rings a bell, but I can’t place her.”
“She was the kid sister of Viktor Gavrilov,” Yuri interjects. “He was in the same street gang as us way back when you lived in Moscow, Boss.”
“Precisely,” Roman knocks back his vodka. “Natasha’s real name was Lidiya.”
I can’t stop my mouth from falling open. “So that’s why she accused me of not recognizing her?!” I rub my chin. “She must have been about five years old when I knew her...”
“What was she doing with Vadim?” Yuri asks, helping himself to the caviar.
“Keeping an eye on him for me,” Balandin says calmly. “I sent someone to clean up at Vadim’s after you were rushed to hospital. They found a file on her laptop. Appears she was fixated on you, Gleb, and insanely jealous of Eva Petrenko. Everything she said to your woman was a lie. It was Eva she wanted to kill, not you. She encouraged Vadim in his obsession with Miss Petrenko and pushed him into a turf war with you. My guess is she expected you to win, that Eva would be a casualty and she’d then get her claws into you.”
“Jesus, fuck,” I shake my head, “she came to Colorado to try and harm Eva.”
Roman wipes his mouth with a serviette. “Your son, too. I’m sorry I didn’t find out in time to warn you.”
I pull in and slowly release a deep breath. “Thank God they are safe.” I tap a finger against my lip. Has Balandin got someone watching me as well? And, if so, who?
Wipe that.
Not ‘if so’, but ‘almost certainly’.
Comes with the territory.
A bitter taste fills my mouth.
I have no proof that anything I’ve just been told is true or not, I suddenly realize.
“I want out,” I give voice to my concerns. “I’ve had enough of this life. Think of it as early retirement.”
Balandin shoots me a surprised look. “But I’m your godfather,” his tone is conciliatory, almost wheedling. “You will be the only Vor in Fairwood. You’ve wiped out the opposition.”
“I’m sure there’s someone else you can set up in my place,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.
I haven’t got a leg to stand on, and I know it. Balandin only has to say the word and Yuri and I will be dead men walking. I’ve gone against his wishes. On a whim, he could have us both killed in this apartment, or he could organize an ambush of his car when we are taken back to the hotel. My heart fucking sinks. What will happen to Kir and Eva if I’m murdered? Who will look after them? Sweat beads my brow and I clench my hands into fists. I sense Yuri twitching by my side, ready to fight to the death.
My only trump card is Balandin’s connection and allegiance to Papa’s memory. I’m not sure of the exact details, but I believe my father saved Balandin’s life when he was shot by the Mujahideen. That’s why he helped me with the train-wreck in London; I fucking hope he’ll still feel that loyalty now.
He laughs coldly, and then changes the subject to discussing the weather. Apparently, an early snowstorm is on the way.
I decide not to join in the conversation.
Don’t let them intimidate you, Gleb. Act like you have the upper hand... even if you don’t.
I’ve been told I have piercing eyes; I use them to good effect. I glare at Roman and after a short while he glances away.
One down; one to go.
Balandin returns my stare, however, his gaze cold and flinty.
Neither of us backs down.
I assume a poker-face.
Don’t show any emotion; he’ll use it against you.
“You’re an ungrateful bastard,” he suddenly spits, his cheeks turning red. “After all the business I sent your way. After all the years of protection I gave out of the kindness of my heart. After helping you clear up the mess your brother made of things in England.” He shakes his fist.
I wait for the death threat, but it doesn’t come. I remember Russians happily flip sides, and then go back to working with the same partners. There are few permanent grudges; it’s like, ‘You had to do the thing you did,’ and all is forgiven.
He’s waiting for me to change my mind.
I shake my head and play my trump card. “It was you who encouraged my father to start laundering money for the Brotherhood. He wasn’t Vory. He had no clue what he was getting into.” I don’t come out and say it was Balandin’s fault Papa was murdered, but I imply it. “I’ll give you details of all my clients in the money laundering and loan shark businesses in return for your continued protection wherever I might relocate.”
I burn Balandin with my eyes, and finally he looks away. Then I reach into the pocket of my dress shirt and withdraw the photograph showing two young men leaning against a tank, Kalashnikovs in their hands. Balandin stares at it, the color draining from his face. Sudden tears fill his eyes. “Your father was the brother I never had. It nearly broke my heart when he was killed.” He rubs a hand through his thinning hair.
“Papa loved you too, Mikhail Vladimirovich. He spoke about you often.”
Balandin tips his head back and gazes at the ceiling. On a long exhale, he mutters, ““I will do as you ask, for Nikolai’s sake. My man in Fairwood will make himself known. You can arrange matters with him.” He pushes back his chair. “My word is my bond,” he says in heavily accented English. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m tired,” he waves his hand dismissively. “This meeting is at an end.”
We all leap to our feet.
Yuri places himself in front of me.
Just in case.
But there’s no need.
Balandin’s bodyguard has left the room with him.
We grab our coats. Roman exits the apartment with us and even says he’ll ride in Balandin’s car as far as the hotel. The driver will take him home to his wife and family. “That went as well as could be expected,” he rasps out a cough in the back seat of the BMW. “I’m sorry you’re quitting. You would have had a brilliant future in the organization.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I press the palms of my hands to my eyes and blow out a breath, not quite believing what just happened. Thank you, Papa.
“Think I’ll change our flights for the early bird tomorrow morning.” I can’t resist a slow smile. “With the time difference, I might just make it to Tiffany’s before they close.” My smile widens. “I want to buy Eva a ring.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Eva
The panic attack hits me like a bolt from the blue. One minute, I’m settling Kir down for his afternoon nap, tucking my old teddy alongside him, the next my knees are shaking so badly they start to buckle. Dizziness buzzes in my head and I almost hit the floor. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body, nausea swells my esophagus and my heartbeat races. Somehow, I manage to stagger across the room and lower myself on the chair in the corner.
Breathe, Eva. Just breathe.
I gulp in air like I’m in danger of drowning.
Fuck, I haven’t had an episode like this in months.
Stop it. Think positive thoughts. Don’t dwell on what could be happening in Moscow.
Gradually the palpitations ease, and my head clears. I give myself a little shake; a pile of laundry in the basement needs folding. Slowly, I get to my feet and tiptoe toward the door.
One step at a time.
Holding the hand rail, I make my way down the stairs. I’m still feeling a tad woozy. Before proceeding farther, I’ll make a cup of tea, then maybe I’ll go to my own room and sleep it off. I walk into the kitchen and fill the kettle.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates.
I pull it from the pocket of my jeans.
Gleb!
My heart freaking leaps.
“Kiska,” I hear the smile in his voice. “I’m back.”
I gasp. “So quick.” My voice is disbelieving. “Are you okay?”
His laughter comes down the line. “I didn’t get killed in Russia.”
“That�
�s not funny.” My stomach churns. “I’ve been worrying myself sick.”
“I’m sorry, my sweet.” He pauses. “Our flight just landed and I’m still at the airport. Just want to sort out some business then I’ll be with you and Kir.”
I bounce from foot to foot, my face beaming. “I can’t believe it.”
“You’d better believe it, Elousha.”
My hands tremble. “Please, come as soon as you can. Ya lyublyu tebya.”
“I love you too. I’ll be at your place before Kir’s bedtime. We can order takeout. There’s a lot I need to tell you. I’ll stay the whole night.”
A spiral of happiness radiates through my chest. “I can’t wait.”
I have a lie-down but can’t sleep I’m too restless. When Kir wakes from his nap, we go for a walk in the park. I grin like an idiot the entire time we are there, running around with him, playing chase and whooping loudly. He stares at me like I’ve gone insane.
Which I have.
I’m mad.
Madly in love.
And I want the world to know.
Back home, I give him his supper, jump in the bath with him, and dress us both. Kir has finally given up drinking milk from a bottle, so we sit on the sofa together while he sips from his cup.
“Papa will be here soon, sinochek,” I huff out a breath, “I’m so excited.”
My boy giggles and offers me his Sippy cup. I pretend to take a swig then hand it back to him. “Spasibo.”
I settle him in my lap and start reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. He pokes his fingers in the holes where the caterpillar is eating through everything, and we laugh together, pretending to have tummy aches as the critter gobbles up junk food.
Impatiently, I keep checking the time.
When will Gleb be here?
At last my phone pings with the message he’s at the door.
