by A. Zavarelli
Long red fingernails scrape up my thighs. When she sucks my dick into her mouth, I lean back on a sigh and finish off my cigarette while she bounces up and down between my legs.
I like a room with a view, which is why I requested her presence in the gym today. Around us, her work is broadcast and reflected by mirrors on all four sides. But my eyes aren’t on the mirrors or even her. They are on the door. And when it opens at exactly three o clock, I am not disappointed.
Honeyed eyes rake over me with contempt before settling on Mara’s head in my lap. Tanaka makes a point to look at my dick, and then she makes it a point to appear unimpressed. She is a liar and a snob. When my eyes dip to her chest, two hard nipples scrape against the thin fabric of her white leotard. Pure like her virgin pussy. I’d be willing to bet my left nut that she is soaked for me, but she does well to hide it behind her disdain.
Frustration drives me to fist Mara’s hair and shove my cock as deep as she can take me. I fuck her mouth while my eyes fuck the uptight ballerina across the room. The release is violent, and it happens sooner than I would have liked. Tanaka lost interest in my games before I could even get started.
My head falls back against the chair while my dick convulses in Mara’s mouth. She tries to draw it out, but I am well and truly done.
Across the room, Tanaka sets up camp with her water bottle and tote bag, making it apparent she has no plans to evacuate anytime soon. For such an obedient Italian girl, she seems to have no trouble defying me. Her ankle is immobilized with a brace, and she is still hobbling around on crutches, yet she attempts to maintain an exercise regime worthy of a concentration camp.
“What is she doing?” Mara scrunches her face in bewilderment when she spies my new toy stretching her leg on the padded floor.
“Who knows.” I zip up my pants and toss Mara her skirt. “But I have business to take care of.”
Tanaka dutifully ignores the spectacle as Mara dresses unabashedly. When it’s time for her to go, I do not give false assurances of another reunion, and she doesn’t ask. I retrieve some cash from my wallet, not for sex, but because she’s used to men taking care of her. She thanks me in Russian and leaves.
I should go too, but I find myself rooted in place, eyes on Tanaka. For two weeks, we have carried on this routine. There are no words exchanged between us. I spend my days with Vory business, and she spends hers chasing impossible dreams in this gym.
She came here without a fight, but with each day that passes, her resolve glows brighter. Ballet has been her life until now, and she has not yet come to accept that her old life is dead.
I lean against the doorframe and flick the lid of my lighter between my fingers. “Why don’t you find a new hobby?”
Her golden eyes flash with fury, and to my own irritation, it stirs my dick back to life.
“Find a new hobby?” she clips.
“Yes.”
“Are you truly that oblivious to the amount of my life I have dedicated to this ‘hobby’?”
I make a flippant gesture to her useless ankle. “Does it matter now? I think it’s time to stop beating a dead horse.”
Her nipples are hard again. Almost as hard as her jaw when she’s nettled. My eyes carve a path up the curve of her neck to the spot where her pulse thrums in staccato. She catches me staring and makes an unconscious effort to remain modest, tugging her skirt lower and the straps on her shoulders higher. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips, and she lays into me with a voice like a whip.
“From the age of six, I have trained as a dancer. You think your mafia is exclusive? Try the ballet, Mr. Kozlov. I attended summer intensive programs that most could only ever dream about. The corps de ballet offered me a contract before I even finished high school. While other children played outside and experienced all that childhood had to offer, I was in the studio. I have ascended the ranks of this hierarchy in spite of significant odds, and if we were to compare our worlds, then you and I would be equals. My entire life, I have bled for this dream, and you believe it is your right to casually suggest I find another hobby?”
A forceful exhale concludes her rant, but it seems to have stolen her precious energy along with it. Perhaps it is the recovery, but regardless of her fiery temper, she appears almost lifeless after the smallest exertion. Her present state is at odds with her mind, considering the girl is anything but weak.
From the moment she laid eyes on me, she believed herself superior. But the reality is that she is a spoiled little bitch who has been locked away in her castle too long. This girl who compares her ballet to my mafiya is completely ignorant of the world and how much power I hold over her fate. I expected as much of her.
What I did not anticipate was that she would be so lovely to look at. When Manuel offered up his prized daughter as collateral for a debt, I had decidedly painted her as a gargoyle in his image. But in truth, she looks nothing like him.
A waifish girl, she is too thin for my tastes. Her body is the testament of a struggle between femininity and girlishness. Caught in the clutches of both, it’s undecided of which she wants or needs. But there is no denying the unnatural grace she carries. Whether it’s the subtle flip of her hand or the curve of her leg, she is almost inhumanly beautiful. She is elegant, manicured, and well groomed. In short, she is everything I am not. Yet when I first saw her, I was admittedly captivated to the soft-spoken beauty in a way that was unfamiliar to me. She is nothing like the Russian girls I am accustomed to. She is nothing like any girl I am accustomed to.
She is undoubtedly intelligent, but the level of her naivety gives me whiplash. There is an innocence about her that provokes doubts in me. Doubts that are at odds with every value I stand for. The longer I endure her presence, the clearer it becomes. I would do well to stay away from her because she is of no importance to me. And as shameful as it may be to see something so lovely destroyed, it might come to that in the end. I must remember this. Whatever fate befell my mother, so too will Tanaka’s be.
There is no such thing as pain. There is only discipline.
My leg comes off the floor, only to collapse again a moment later. The defunct limb has failed me, just as the heartless Russian so rashly observed. Even the slightest movement produces a backlash of agony throughout my ankle. The muscles I have painstakingly forged over the years are dying. After a lifetime of abuse, the reckoning has finally come, and in turn, the dark cloud above looms larger.
Illogically, my deepest fear takes root in my gut. A vision of me crippled, unable to move or walk at all. I may as well be, if I can never dance again. My eyes burn with repressed emotion, but I don’t give into it. Tears are a weakness I seldom indulge, and I’m not about to start now.
“Tashechka.”
Nonna is in the doorway, hands tucked into the sides of her plain gray dress. Nikolai’s housekeeper is a modest, quiet woman who favors simplistic dresses and headscarves to perform her duties. Since my arrival here, I have come to understand that those duties also apparently include me.
“Your lunch is waiting for you in your room.” Her Russian accent is thick, but discernable.
Lunch, as she calls it, will likely be soup with a hearty meat dish and sometimes potatoes. Often, she includes a fruity drink with berries inside, the calorie content of which I don’t know, but the sugary taste swiftly dissuaded me from consuming it. Already, in my time here, I have packed on five pounds, and the numbers on the scale from this morning’s weigh-in still haunt me.
“I’m not hungry.”
Nonna frowns, and I look away. I don’t mean to disrespect her. She has been nothing but attentive. Too attentive, in fact, and it’s the only reason for my ire. At home, I have a strict routine with my meals to keep me centered and focused, but here, food has turned to chaos. I am accustomed to providing my own meals. Often, I would be expected to cook my father’s dinner. It was one of the many things he deemed necessary to prepare me for marriage. But my father stuck to the business of eating the food provided and sc
arcely paid attention to my plate. It was a system that worked for both of us. But since being under Nikolai’s care, my meals appear like clockwork. Meals I have no right to enjoy when I’m not dancing. Even if I were, I’d rarely allow myself to indulge so often.
To my relief, Nonna disappears without a fight, leaving me to focus on my practice. It is the only thing I can focus on, present circumstances considered. Though it’s sometimes tempting in my moments of despair, I refuse to ruminate on the stark reality of my situation. After only two short weeks, dancing feels like a distant memory. The blood, sweat, and tears I have devoted to my craft cannot have been for nothing. My position in the company will surely be at risk. I would be surprised if they haven’t replaced me already. But these are thoughts I won’t be a slave to. Abandoning hope now would mean sacrificing everything I have worked for merely because I do not possess the strength of will it requires to succeed.
It makes little difference that I have been traded for a debt. It is of no consequence that my father has betrayed me, and Nikolai will likely kill me if his demands are not met. I am intimately acquainted with impossible odds, and I have always resolved that, regardless, I would prevail. Vivi always told me that my mind was the most powerful weapon at my disposal, and she was right.
It is with this intention that I close out my practice and exit the gym. I tend to avoid Nikolai if I can help it, and so far, it hasn’t been difficult. It’s only on rare occasion that we come in contact since he dumped me in my room and informed me it would be in my best interest not to attempt to escape.
He should have saved his breath. Just like my father, Nikolai lives his life under lock and key. From everything I’ve observed so far, it’s also apparent that his system is light years ahead of my father’s as far as technology is concerned. Between the fingerprint scanners and pin codes and voice recognition systems, I am not entirely sure how anyone ever leaves. By challenging me to escape, he was merely indulging himself in a good laugh at my expense.
Even if those things weren’t in place, there are other fail safes. Nonna is always watching me, aware of my movements. Her loyalty to Nikolai is unwavering, and I don’t doubt for one second that she’d throw me under the bus the moment she got a whiff of trouble. More dangerous than Nonna are the guards who work for him. Vory members who come and go, speaking to each other in their native language and dutifully ignoring me.
Life at Nikolai’s compound is familiar to the one I have always known, but I am still a prisoner. In that regard, nothing is new. The only variance is the scenery.
Nikolai’s stone fortress is tucked away in the wilderness known as the Berkshires, which is just a hop, skip, and a jump from Boston. It is secure. Decadent, but built for function. Though I am free to roam the house, I have not made it a point to venture far from my bedroom or the gym. Nikolai often utilizes an office on the second level, and so far, I have done my best to avoid it. Dotted along the same grand hall are several bedrooms, including my own, and two bathrooms. Oddly enough, these are the most extravagant areas of the home, with heated floors and open stone showers.
Overall, I find Nikolai’s tastes to be uncommonly old fashioned. In stark contrast to the modern technology that rules his security, the pieces in his home are highly individual and antique. Every chair, lamp, table, and rug are solidly built and well utilized with a long history behind them. While I hardly want to credit the man sporting the disorderly fauxhawk and motorcycle boots with choosing such fine, artistic furniture, somehow, I just know that he did.
Admittedly, certain qualities about him have blindsided me. He exudes an authoritative presence. The kind who could command an audience with one sweep of his glacial eyes. Rather than using this power for the greater good, it seems he chooses to deploy it on a large percentage of the female population as an expression of his virility. His omnipotent energy is a wasted gift on a soul devoid of even a speck of light within the shadows.
These are thoughts I will keep to myself. What he does or doesn’t do with his life is of no importance to me. I only wish that I was not forced to witness the conquests so casually broadcast throughout the house. During my time here, I have been privy to a multitude already. One thing I can say with certainty is that Nikolai is not singular in his tastes. Brunettes, blondes, redheads—he partakes in every flavor. Why he chooses to display these activities openly remains a mystery I have no ambition to solve.
I may be untainted by the sins of the flesh, but I am not ignorant to the ways of men. In my world, it is an expectation that men indulge themselves at the end of a long day. Dante was no different, and I was brought up with the understanding that it was my place to turn a blind eye when my eventual husband sated his desires elsewhere.
It was not a difficult task—perhaps because he had not yet taken me—and I felt no ill will toward the women I didn’t have to see. But Nikolai chooses to flaunt his escapades, and for reasons I can’t understand, it bothers me more than it should.
Today, however, I am lucky. When I stop at the threshold of his office, it isn’t a woman I find, but another man. A man with startling blue eyes and a striking resemblance to Nikolai’s build. He is also heavily tattooed and unmistakably Vory.
“Nakya.” Nikolai addresses me with stiff familiarity. Diminutive forms of names are common in his culture, and even Nonna addresses me with one, but this is the first occasion Nikolai has done so. In any case, he makes it clear that this new terminology does not make us friends. His eyes pass over me with little interest in the cause for my intrusion. He merely wants me gone.
“I would like to make a phone call,” I announce.
The blue-eyed stranger speaks to Nikolai in Russian, and in return, Nikolai murmurs a quick reply. From a young age, I was tutored in three separate languages, all of which would benefit my father in some way. Although Russian was one of them, my skills still leave much to be desired. Without speaking it often, I can only distinguish a few of the words between native speakers, who tend to converse much faster. From what I’m able to gather, the blue-eyed stranger is asking about me. He seems surprised by my existence, and in turn, Nikolai appears increasingly anxious to rid them of my presence.
“Nakya, this is Alexei,” Nikolai states perfunctorily.
“Hello.” I bow slightly, as I have been trained to do, only to realize the absurdity a moment later. These men are not of the same culture.
Alexei pierces me with an unrelenting stare. It occurs to me now that in my rush to make my sudden request, I didn’t take the time to change into something more appropriate than a leotard and leg warmers. At home, my schedule is such that I tend to live in my ballet clothes, only dressing appropriately at night before my father returns. And at the company, it is not uncommon to see many of the dancers parading around naked. In ballet, you learn quickly that modesty comes second to necessity. Most of the costumes show everything anyway.
But the sudden flash in Nikolai’s eyes alerts me that I am out of turn. When only a moment ago I told myself it didn’t matter, now I can’t seem to calm the erratic palpitations in my chest. By some sort of divine grace, I maintain my composure, hoping that Nikolai will dismiss me. The urgency of my phone call now forgotten, I am eager to return to the sanctuary of my room.
Nikolai grants my reprieve with a cool inflection in his tone. “I am busy, pet. Go to your room, and we will discuss this later.”
I retreat as I’ve been ordered. But the entire way back, I gulp mouthfuls of air, dreading the turn of events my actions will bring.
“Nakya.”
The chill of Nikolai’s voice startles me, and when my eyes rise to meet his, a weighted awareness returns to my chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
The magazine in my hands falls together. I was right to worry. His energy is dark and distinctly volatile. It was out of line barging into his office when he was in a meeting, but to admit it would be a mistake.
“I’m not doing anything.” My voice
is too soft, barely audible, but it does not tame the harshness of Nikolai’s features.
“What do you mean to do, coming into my office dressed in …” He gestures to my clothing. “It’s not appropriate.”
If he weren’t so nettled, the irony of his declaration might be humorous, considering there are women leaving this house at all hours of the night in various states of disarray. What unspeakable offense I’ve committed by wearing a leotard is a puzzle only his mind can solve.
When he stalks toward me, instinct triggers me to hunch down and protect my head by curling into myself. My heart is sluggish, and my palms clammy as I wait for the inevitable. But when it doesn’t come, I dare to peek up at him, only to find him frozen midstep, his expression uncertain and his eyes dazed.
His actions are at odds with the certainty I feel in my gut. Life has taught me well that when the storm comes, you take whatever shelter you can find. When he doesn’t move, I dare to try.
Scrambling from the chair with feverish limbs, I hobble desperately in the direction of my only sanctuary—the bathroom. Deprived of my crutches and too far gone to reach for them, I’m nearly immobile. Even with the brace, pain splinters every step, and tears prick my eyes. Before I’m halfway across the room, my legs give out, and I collapse to my knees.
Nikolai watches wordlessly as I totter forward onto my elbows, clutching the carpet between my fingers as I crawl away like an injured animal.
“Nakya,” he bellows. “Stop. Stop this right now.”
Logically, I know I should, but I can’t. I’m too terrified of what will happen if he catches me. And so I go on, dragging my body forward until my fingertips cross over the threshold of the cold bathroom floor. The marble gives me something concrete to grab onto, but it’s of little use when Nikolai’s iron grip catches me around my good ankle.
