Russian Love: Books 1 - 3: Russian Lullaby, Russian Gold & Russian Dawn

by Holly Bargo

  She nodded and his heart twisted to see her so despondent. He rose to his feet, knees creaking with protest, and she rose with him. They walked back to the taxi which returned them directly to the hotel.

  “Take a shower and put on something comfortable,” he instructed her. “I will order supper and we will talk.”

  She nodded again and obeyed. She did not see his pensive expression as she walked to the bathroom. Pyotr rubbed his knuckles and wondered if he had it in him to beat up an old man for wrecking his Cecily. He hated to see her so defeated.

  “So, tell me what happened,” he said when she rejoined him, smelling fresh and lightly flowery from her shower. He pulled her onto his lap and she nestled there in silence for a moment before speaking.

  “I was late to work, about half an hour, and Javier just went off the deep end. He’s been kind of weird lately, like the more business the restaurant gets, the unhappier he gets.”

  “I think he must resent that the restaurant’s success depends upon your skill.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But his temper’s been uncertain lately, that’s for sure. Anyway, Sal—he’s the junior cook and all-around assistant—was finishing up kitchen prep and he…” She shuddered.

  “What did he do?”

  “He didn’t actually do anything, but the looks he gave me were just evil. He was glad to see me be thrown out.”

  “All right, you arrived late, Javier was upset, and Sal gave you dirty looks. That doesn’t sound like an excuse to fire you.”

  She sighed. “Javier has a daily special. Tonight, he wanted me to make these Mexican crepes with corn smut. I—I just couldn’t do it. I mean, I come from a rural community. We throw away corn as unfit for livestock that is covered with fungus like that. We sure as hell don’t eat it.”

  He listened and held his silence.

  “Anyway, I substituted porcini mushrooms for the corn smut. Javier got all bent out of shape about it and said I ruined the dish. But none of the diners complained. Not a single one. I pointed that out and he practically started frothing at the mouth and yelled at me to leave.”

  The last few words ended on a sob. Cecily turned her head into his shoulder and wept. Pyotr held her, knowing that she needed simple support, not words, from him. A knock on the door announced the arrival of their supper.

  “Vozlyublennaya, I must answer the door,” he said, gently disengaging her.

  She nodded and sniffled and rose to her feet. Pyotr pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She pressed the clean linen to her face and inhaled the scent of him from the fabric. Really, other than her dad, she didn’t know any man who still used a handkerchief.

  The hotel’s room service waiter rolled in a table. Pyotr took care of the charges.

  “Sit,” he said as he removed the steel covers from the plates. “You must eat.”

  She nodded and sat in the desk chair, leaving the arm chair for him. He rolled the table to her, the pulled the armchair over. The awkward arrangement did not interfere too much with the consumption of their meal.

  “So, what do you wish to do now?” Pyotr asked her.

  “I don’t want to go back to Cleveland,” she replied with a stubborn pout.

  Well, damn, he thought. He shoved the disappointment aside. “I have some contacts in the area. I can ask—”

  “Pyotr, I don’t want you to become any more beholden to the Bratva than you already are,” she protested, cutting him off. She took a deep breath and said, “I’ll find something.”

  “You have my support always, dorogoy.”

  “I’ll pay you back for everything.”

  “Nyet. There is no money between us.”

  “But—”

  “Nyet. You wear my ring, you are mine. I take care of what is mine.”

  Her cheeks blush a pretty rose, but she did not refute his statement. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction from her silence acceptance. After supper, Pyotr took Cecily to bed where he made long, slow, intensely sweet love to her until she sank into a deep, exhausted slumber. Wrenching himself from the bed, he pulled out his phone and stepped into the bathroom. Closing the door, he called. The conversation was conducted in softly spoken Russian.

  “Vitaly.”

  “What is it, Pyotr?”

  “I want out.”

  Silence.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Cecily will not have me if I remain.”

  “She means more to you than the brotherhood?”

  “Does Gia not mean more to you than anything else?”

  Silence.

  “I will speak to Maksim for you. He won’t be pleased.”

  “He gave me a month to settle things with Cecily.”

  “When did the countdown start?”

  “Twenty-five days ago.”

  “You’re cutting it fine.”

  “I know. I will go back to Cleveland to wrap things up, but then I am coming back here. I need her.”

  Pyotr’s voice, this with emotion, nearly broke on those last three words.

  “I know,” Vitaly replied softly. “I know.”

  “I return in two days.”

  “Does Maksim know?”

  “Da.”

  Vitaly’s sigh whispered across the connection. “I will see you in two days. And I will speak to Maksim on your behalf.”

  “Spasibo.”

  Life was hell on a mobster who found a higher calling.

  Chapter 9

  Pyotr and Cecily spent the next day and a half purchasing the necessary accoutrements for the new apartment. Mrs. Macdougal supervised deliveries with a critical eye and a pitcher of iced tea.

  “You find yourself a good car,” he told her as they stood among boxes. He pressed a credit card into Cecily’s hand. “I must leave. Use this for what you need.”

  “You trust me with this?” she asked, gaping in awe.

  “Cecily, I trust you with my heart.”

  Hers just melted at the declaration.

  “I will return as soon as possible. Call me every day. I need to hear your voice.” His voice thickened. “I need you.”

  She nodded, tears in her eyes.

  “When I come back, my furniture will follow. The apartment will not look so bare then.”

  She nodded, still unable to speak around the emotion that clogged her throat.

  Then he kissed her, a long, deep, drugging kiss that melted her bones and brain cells and left her clinging to his shirt. Cecily nearly begged him to stay, but she held her tongue. She knew Pyotr’s life was not yet his own. One did not just quit the Bratva. She almost wished he would not, because getting out just might kill him.

  Pyotr did not glance back at her as she watched his broad back retreat. She did not wave good-bye at the taxi that pulled away from the curb and took him to the airport where he’d fly back to the cold, snowy north. Cecily wanted to dissolve in a puddle of tears and depression, but she knew herself made of sterner stuff than that.

  “Where are you going, dear?” Mrs. Macdougal inquired.

  “Job hunting.”

  “Not looking like that, you’re not,” the old woman said acidly. “Your eyes are all red and puffy and you look like someone killed your puppy.”

  Cecily’s shoulders sagged. “I must find work.”

  A heavily veined, wrinkled hand patted her arm. “Now, dear, you just have yourself a good cry and get it all out. Your young man will come back. He loves you, you know.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I know. But... his life is not his own and coming back will be difficult, if not impossible.”

  “He’s involved with the mafia, isn’t he?”

  “No, not the Italian mafia,” Cecily replied, gaping. What could a sweet old lady like Mrs. Macdougal know about organized crime?

  “Well, he’s not Chinese tong or Japanese yakuza now, is he?”

  Cecily could only gape in astonishment.

  “The Crips and Bloods and the Albanian and Ukrainian gan
gs have the run of Houston, you know. That’s why I never go there. The mob still has its claws in Vegas, although they’re not so obvious about it anymore. And Chicago and New York, of course. But San Antonio... here we have La Eme. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russians have been making forays into Texas.”

  “Mrs. Macdougal, how do you know all this?”

  The old woman’s eyes twinkled and she said with airy nonchalance, “My husband, rest his soul, was a Texas Ranger.” She shook her head. “That idiotic television show has nothing whatsoever to do with the real Rangers.”

  Cecily must have looked even more bewildered, because her landlady elaborated.

  “That hairy little man, whatshisname Norris, starred. My William wore that silver badge with pride and didn’t punctuate every arrest with absurd shootouts, car chases, and explosions.” She shook her head. “Those Hollywood folks have no sense of accuracy.”

  “Er... it makes for good drama, though,” Cecily ventured, not sure whether she would even say anything.

  The old lady chuckled and she said, “Well, it must. I can just remember William pointing out everything they did wrong in that show. He got such a kick out of that.” She sniffed. “I do miss him so.”

  Cecily found herself wrapping the suddenly fragile lady in a hug and whispering her sympathies. Mrs. Macdougal sniffed a few more times, then pushed away from her young boarder.

  “Tonight, you’ll visit with me,” she said in a strong voice. “We’ll eat pizza and watch old movies. Do you like Gregory Peck? I’ve got Arabesque on one of those disc player thingies. Caroline set it up for me. Mr. Peck starred with Sophia Loren in that. Absolutely divine movie.”

  “Who’s Gregory Peck?”

  Mrs. Macdougal laughed like a giddy young girl. “Oh, my dear, you have no idea what you’ve been missing.”

  Cecily didn’t want to admit she didn’t recognize the name of Sophia Loren either as she allowed her landlady to draw her back to a private parlor that used to be a sewing room. She glanced at the old pedal-operated Singer sewing machine tucked away in a corner.

  Mrs. Macdougal caught the direction of her gaze and said, “My mother used that. She was the first lady in the neighborhood to have a sewing machine like that. It made her the envy of all the other ladies.”

  Cecily wandered over to it. Her hand hovered inches from the satin gloss of the black metal, fingers itching to touch. “Does it still work?”

  “As far as I know, it does. I haven’t used that old thing in sixty years. Now look in that cabinet beside the television and find Arabesque for me. If you can’t find that, then we’ll watch Auntie Mame. That’s another one of my old favorites. Rosalind Russell had a fine hand with comedy. I never did like Gone with the Wind, did you? That Scarlett O’Hara was an utter ninny, and Clark Gable just couldn’t hold a candle to Gregory Peck, no, not at all.”

  Cecily did as asked and pulled out both DVDs in their cases.

  “You found both? Excellent! I’ll call for pizza delivery and you pop in a movie.”

  It was just like a girls’ night out, except one of the girls was an octogenarian and fell asleep before the first movie ended. Cecily eased her landlady down on the sofa and pulled a hand-crocheted afghan over her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and kissed the kindly old woman’s forehead good-night before taking herself off to bed, thinking that her dear friend Giancarla Synvolka looked an awful lot like a young Sophia Loren, but with glasses. And, yes, Gregory Peck had been handsome in an Old World, sophisticated kind of way, the kind of elegant handsomeness that one simply didn’t find today.

  Well, that explained her mother’s fascination with movies that were older than she. She chuckled, recalling some of the wittier dialogue in the movie. She’d never considered that aspect of film before, when movies and actors had to rely upon clever dialogue and wit instead of computer graphics to hold viewer interest. She supposed it was like a chef throwing in lots of weird ingredients to make macaroni and cheese new and exciting when simply using top quality ingredients and skill would revive an old, familiar dish.

  Lying down in the bed she’d so recently shared with Pyotr—the sheets still carried the faint smell of him—she sent silent thanks upward in a prayer. Cecily had enjoyed her girls’ night in with Mrs. Macdougal, who had jollied her into a better frame of mind. Tomorrow, she vowed, she would go job hunting with clear eyes that weren’t puffy from a night of weeping.

  Her first order of business the next day turned from job hunting to procuring transportation. Loath to use Pyotr’s credit card and knowing that her savings wouldn’t cover the cost of a reliable car, she scoured dealerships for the best value she could find. After dithering for several minutes, she eventually put a down payment on an older Volkswagen Beetle, which she thought would be fuel efficient as well as reliable. Besides, she found the bright yellow color cheerful.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a fruitless quest for employment. Cecily was determined not to give up so readily. As evening approached bringing every restaurant’s busiest time of day, she decided to cut her losses for the day.

  “You incompetent fool!”

  She stopped in her tracks, overhearing the crash of pots and pans and breaking dishes.

  “You’re fired! Get out of my kitchen!”

  A lanky man of indeterminate age scuttled from the back entrance of a restaurant.

  “And don’t come back!”

  Cecily crept closer, just close enough to hear: “Now, where am I going to find a decent chef at this time of day? Fuck!”

  Drawing a deep breath and gathering her courage, she stepped forward and said clearly, “I can do it.”

  The middle-aged man with a black bandana tied around his head looked up, eyes glittering. “What? Who are you?”

  “My name’s Cecily Carrigan. I’m a chef, a good one. I’ll cook for you.”

  “You know anything about Tex-Mex cooking?”

  “Enough to get by.”

  He shrugged. “Well, you can’t be any worse than that idiot. Come on. You’ve got one chance. Impress me.”

  She followed him inside. He tossed her an apron. She set down her purse and put on the apron. Moving to the sink, she washed her hands and watched the seeming chaos of a busy kitchen. Her keen eyes picked out the hidden patterns, the order that masqueraded as busy confusion.

  “Where shall I start?” she asked the man who watched her watching his kitchen.

  He pulled a ticket and handed it to her. “Can you make this?”

  She read it and nodded and got to work. The restaurant owner followed her every movement with his sharp gaze. This young woman, a little plump—curvy, they called it—moved with almost languid efficiency. That seeming slowness masked a graceful economy of motion; she wasted no energy where it was not needed. He observed as she handed skillets and knives and spatulas with the skill of a true professional.

  “Where did you learn your knife skills?” he asked.

  “Cleveland.”

  His eyes narrowed. “There’s word going around that the new chef at El Buey Azul is from Cleveland.”

  “Not anymore,” she answered tersely as she transferred still sizzling slices of beef from skillet to plate.

  “Oh?”

  “I work here now.” She drizzled a mole sauce over the meat and wiped off the edge of the plate. A few deft spoonsful later had Spanish rice, frijoles, and pico de gallo on the plate as well. She put the order on the counter and rang for service.

  She glanced at the restaurant owner who met her gaze and gave her a small smile. “Yes, I suppose you do. Finish out tonight’s service and we’ll talk afterward about that job.”

  She smiled at him and his own smile broadened.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Cecily Carrigan.”

  “Well, Ms. Carrigan, I’m Jaime Tobiano.”

  Her eyes widened and her eyebrows rose in recognition. He laughed.

  “You’ve impress
ed me thus far. Keep it up and I’ll make a real chef out of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Jaime.”

  She nodded. He tore another ticket off the clip and handed it to her. “Get to work, sweetheart.”

  Hours later, her feet hurt, her hands ached, and a small burn from a grease splatter rubbed uncomfortably against her sleeve. But she felt elated and positive. She was working for Jaime Tobiano, only one of the famous chefs of San Antonio. Working for him was like working for those big-name chefs on TV, only without the cameras recording every profanity and mistake.

  But she had a job and it paid well. She’d managed to impress him by turning out perfectly browned scallops that weren’t rubbery or raw, creamy risotto flavored with saffron and red bell pepper, and steaks that remained tender and juicy regardless of whether they were medium rare or well done. She rolled her shoulders to loosen the aching muscles.

  “So, you’re the rumor that turned El Buey Azul around,” Jaime commented as he joined her in his office and handed her a sheaf of papers. “Welcome to La Lengua Felíz.”

  Cecily glanced at the government forms, filled them out, signed them, and handed them back. She looked more critically at the nondisclosure agreement and then looked up at him.

  “If you work here, you must agree not to share my special recipes with anyone,” he explained. “In fact, you’re not permitted to cook them anywhere but in my kitchen.”

  She raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

  “No, you didn’t do anything tonight that required knowledge of my signature recipes,” he confirmed. “If you agree to that, though, you will begin tomorrow.”

  “All right,” she said and continued to read the paper.

  He frowned slightly at the delay, but grudgingly admitted to admiring her persistence in reading the agreement before signing it. However, sign it she did. Then she asked him a startling question:

  “Do you know of any martial arts studios or boxing gyms around here?”