by Holly Bargo
“I must talk with Vitaly and Pyotr now,” Maksim said.
Olivia nodded, taking the hint without rancor. She took Dzhon’s hand and led him away with a promise of hot chocolate. Maksim led Vitaly and Pyotr to his office. He gestured for them to each take a seat while he sat behind his massive desk, a position of authority.
“Pyotr, what is this about you wanting to leave the Bratva?” he began without preamble.
Pyotr did not know how to tell Maksim without coming across as a henpecked wimp, so he decided to simply be truthful. “I love Cecily and she does not approve of what I do.”
“And you would bow to the whims of this woman?” Maksim scoffed.
Vitaly raised an eyebrow at their boss, silently calling him out on the hypocrisy.
“I love her as you love Olivia,” Pyotr said.
“So bring her back here.”
Pyotr shook his head. “She does not wish to return to Cleveland.” He shrugged and added, “It’s cold. She dislikes the cold.”
“Is merely nippy outside,” Maksim said with an airy wave of his hand. “We are Russians. Cold makes us strong.”
“Cecily is not Russian.”
“Neither is Giancarla and she is happy here with me,” Vitaly added.
Pyotr shot him an irritated glance that said, You’re not helping. “You married Gia; Cecily is not yet my wife. Gia’s family is here, Cecily’s is not.”
“Where is your Cecily from?” Maksim asked.
“Southern Indiana.”
“It gets cold there, too,” the Bratva boss pointed out. “Nyet, you are too valuable to me. Bring her back here and live happily ever after.”
“How much?” Pyotr asked baldly.
Maksim blinked once. “How much for what?”
“He wants to buy his way out,” Vitaly said.
“I made a quarter of a million dollars betting on your fights over the past weeks. A quarter of a million dollars. Your value to me is immeasurable, Pyotr. You cannot buy your way out.”
“I am getting too old to fight, Maksim,” Pyotr said, dismayed by the monetary value placed on his head.
Maksim’s ruddy went pale with cold fury. In a voice as sharp as ice, he said, “You will fight when you are told to fight. And you will win.”
“I don’t fight to lose, but I am aging out of the sport. I will not be able to fight much longer.”
“No excuses! Get out of here, Pyotr. You have a fight tonight and I expect you to win. It will go poorly for you if you do not.”
Pyotr nodded and rose from his chair. Vitaly rose, too.
“Vitaly, stay.”
The boss’ second-in-command nodded and sat back down.
Chapter 11
Vitaly delicately affixed butterfly bandages over the split over Pyotr’s cheekbone. He pressed his lips together, holding back a wince as he doctored the other man’s injuries.
“You shouldn’t go back into cage,” he murmured, not looking away from the dark bruise swelling the big blonde’s left eye shut.
Pyotr lifted his split lip into a sneer even as he blinked. “You don’t really think I’m going to bow out now? Maksim wouldn’t approve.”
“You take another hard blow to the head and you might not get up again,” Vitaly warned. He didn’t like the unfocused look in Pyotr’s eyes or the way he had barely staggered on his feet after that last bout in the cage.
Pyotr spat, the saliva red with blood: “Heads he wins, tails I lose.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Vitaly snapped.
“I’m stuck, Vitaly.”
Maksim’s second-in-command shook his head at Pyotr’s bleak expression. “Explain that to her. If she loves you, then she’ll come back.”
Pyotr shook his head, which made him dizzy. “She values her principles more than me.”
“She’s a woman.”
“A woman cannot have honor?”
“It is her man who holds her honor.”
“Cecily holds her own honor.”
The announcer called for the next match. With a grunt, Pyotr heaved himself upright.
“Pyotr, don’t do this.”
He looked back at his friend and comrade, his expression bleak and set.
* * *
“You’ve been working for me for how long now, Cecily?” Jaime asked one evening as he walked her to her car.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Three months. I’ve really enjoyed it and it’s been a wonderful experience.”
“You’re a terrific cook,” he complimented, admiring the way the light from street lamps gleamed on her short blonde curls and turned them to silver. “And very pretty.”
Her cheeks darkened underneath the dim lights, a sure sign of a blush. “Thank you, Jaime.”
“So, have you heard from your fiancé?”
Cecily heaved a sigh, which drew Jaime’s gaze to her ample bosom. The V-neck of her tee shirt showed no cleavage, but sweat had dampened the fabric so that it clung to her skin. He settled his hand at the base of her spine, just above the flare of her butt. She glanced up at him again in surprise.
“No, I haven’t heard from Pyotr lately,” she admitted.
“Perhaps it is time to rethink your engagement?”
“I can’t give up on Pyotr.”
“How do you know he hasn’t given up on you?” Jaime asked, his voice soft and sweet with that sexy Spanish lilt. “You’re too good a woman to be left dangling. So, where is this Pyotr?”
“He’s still in Cleveland.”
“And what keeps him there?”
“His boss won’t let him quit,” Cecily mumbled.
“Won’t let him quit?” Jaime repeated incredulously. “Is he involved in a cult or the mafia?”
She looked away, unwilling to answer. Jaime stopped walking and took hold of her arm. “Are you in trouble with the mob, Cecily?”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “No, no I’m not.” She sighed. “But Pyotr... he works for the Bratva.”
“Bratva? That’s Russian mob.”
She nodded and a tear trickled down her cheek. Touched by her sorrow, Jaime drew her into his arms.
“Don’t weep for him,” he whispered just as the floodgates opened.
She cried for missing Pyotr, the loss of him, the fear that he would never join her. Jaime’s arms felt good around her as he generously endured her tears. After several minutes, she swallowed her sobs and stepped backward. He let his arms slide away from her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, too embarrassed to look him in the eye even as she wiped hers with the back of her hand. She sniffled and dug in her purse for a tissue.
Jaime lifted her chin by placing two fingers beneath it and exerting a little pressure. “A man would count himself lucky deserve such tears from you.”
She gave him a tremulous smile, eyes shining with yet more tears.
“Come, let us get you home,” he said briskly. “You are tired and, frankly, so am I.”
She nodded and he escorted her the last yards to her car as he did every night. He waited until she started her engine before waving her on.
Jaime watched the receding taillights with a thoughtful expression. He’d liked the feel of her soft body pressed against his. He’d come to respect the woman for her strong work ethic and talent in the kitchen. She had tremendous potential; she could become one of the big celebrity chefs if she pushed hard enough for it. She just needed experience with a wider variety of ingredients and cuisines—and that would come with time.
He walked to his car and drove home and dreamed of her.
* * *
Eight... nine... ten!” the announcer shouted into the microphone. He turned and lifted the fighter’s sweaty, blood streaked arm into the air. “Give a round of applause to tonight’s winner, Barry Gorski, the Iron Shark!”
Cheers erupted as Vitaly dragged an unconscious Pyotr from the cage. He pressed his lips together in a thin, angry line. Two burly men hastened forward, carrying a stretcher betw
een them. With practice expertise, they loaded Pyotr’s limp body onto the stretcher, picked it up, and carried it to the back room being used as a locker room.
“Der'mo, he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder,” Gennady commented as he obeyed Vitaly’s order to wet down some clean washcloths.
“If he doesn’t come to quickly, we’ll need to take him to the hospital,” Vitaly said, his
tone grim as he began to wash the blood and sweat off Pyotr’s skin. “Chert, I wish he would have listened to me and quit before this happened.”
“Where is he?” Maksim’s voice boomed.
“He’s back here,” Vitaly called.
“What the hell happened out there? I lost thirty thousand dollars on him tonight!”
Vitaly met his boss’ livid gaze with his own icy gray eyes. “He’s trying to leave the Bratva the only way he knows how, either by winning enough to pay his debt to the Bratva or by dying.”
“He owes me another thirty thousand dollars,” Maksim snarled. “Get him to the hospital. I need him to fight next week.”
Vitaly approached his boss with slow, measured steps. He stopped mere inches from Maksim’s barrel chest.
“He will not fight next week.”
“Bah, he is merely sulking.”
“Pyotr is one of the best men with whom I have had the privilege of serving,” Vitaly said, very syllable dripping shards of ice. “He has been nothing but loyal and dedicated and you would see him die rather than leave.”
Maksim’s expression twisted into a sneer. “You tread a fine line, Vitaly. Be careful you do not step over it.”
“Does he mean so little to you?” Vitaly persisted. He glanced back and gestured toward the unconscious man. “Do we all mean so little? Because that could be Gennady, Bogdan, or even me.”
“A man does not leave the brotherhood,” Maksim said simply. He raised his arm and shoved up his sleeve to reveal the tattoos and scars covering his forearm. “We do not mark our hides without purpose, without dedication.” He turned over his forearm, showing off a thick, ugly scar that ran from wrist to elbow. “Do not speak to me of his sacrifice. When I was accepted, I had to prove my loyalty by slicing my own flesh.” He tugged down his sleeve. “I ask no such thing of you.”
“He loves her like you love Olivia, Maksim,” Bogdan said quietly. “No woman has ever looked at me like Cecily looks at him.”
“Olivia would never have demanded that I abandon the brotherhood!”
“Cecily doesn’t see a brotherhood, she sees a criminal organization,” Pyotr’s weak voice remarked. “I won’t force her to abandon her principles so she can be with me.”
Vitaly, Gennady, and Bogdan rushed to his side. Pyotr blinked his pale blue eyes as he tried to focus on the other men who bent over him. He grunted and groaned with the effort to sit upright. But nausea and dizziness sent him right back down.
Vitaly settled a hand on his chest. “Stay down, Pyotr. You’re concussed. If we have to, we’ll wheel you out of here.”
Maksim approached and looked down at the blonde giant. “You disappoint me.” He spat on the floor, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Pyotr closed his eyes against his boss’ disgust and rasped, “Don’t tell Cecily.”
“She’d want to know you’re hurt,” Bogdan protested, his voice quiet and worried.
“I don’t want her to know I failed.” Pyotr’s eyes flicked open.
Vitaly’s blood turned cold at the bleak despair he heard in Pyotr’s voice. However, he infused his voice with mild warmth as he said, “You’ll come home tonight with me. Giancarla and I will watch over you.”
“I do not need you to babysit me.”
“You have a concussion, Pyotr. That’s not something to treat lightly.”
Pyotr said nothing, but only closed his eyes again and turned his face away from Vitaly. He did not resist as the three men cleaned him off and then wrestled him into shirt, trousers, and shoes. Bogdan fetched a wheelchair and the men hoisted Pyotr into the chair and wheeled him out, taking a circuitous route to avoid as many of the crowd as they could.
“Hey, man,” one of the other fighters greeted as he rolled past.
Pyotr, head drooping, raised a hand in acknowledgement.
“Will he be back?’ the fighter asked.
“Da,” Pyotr replied, his voice dull.
“Nyet,” Vitaly snapped and stifled the impulse to smack the back of his blond head.
When they arrive at Vitaly’s home, Giancarla met them at the front door.
“What happened?” she cried out, arms curled around her tiny daughter. She bent her head down so that one hand could cover her yawn.
“Pyotr lost tonight’s match,” Vitaly replied. “He’s concussed and needs to be watched. You are tired and should go to bed.”
“Should I call Latasha?” Gia didn’t bother to deny being tired. Who would have thought pregnancy and motherhood would be so draining?
“Is she working tonight?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” She retreated into the house, leaving the door open, to call her friend. Iosif answered the call.
“Do you have Latasha’s phone?” she asked, puzzled.
“Nyet. Her calls are forwarded to mine when she’s on duty.”
“Oh. Damn. Iosif, Pyotr’s hurt. Vitaly says he’s concussed and needs to be watched over through the night.”
“I will come as soon as I let Latasha know where I’ll be.”
“Thanks. Iosif.”
“You go to bed. I can hear you yawn. Vitaly should take greater care with his wife.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “If Vitaly took greater care with me, I’d be wrapped in cotton wool, then bubble wrap, and then hung in a plastic baggie filled with plastic peanuts just in case.”
“I heard that,” Vitaly’s voice called from the next room. But he didn’t deny his protectiveness.
“Okay, thanks, Iosif. We’ll see you soon.
She ended the call and walked upstairs to the master bedroom to fetch a pair of Vitaly’s sweat pants and a tee shirt. They’d fit Pyotr; the two men were of a similar size. Briefly, she wondered if they were similar all over, but then chastised herself for the thought.
“Can you get him into the bathroom and in the tub?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “He stinks.”
“I’ll bathe myself,” Pyotr growled and staggered to his feet.
Vitaly moved to catch him as his legs buckled, grunting as the other man’s weight sagged into him.
“I’ll get him cleaned up,” Vitaly said and walked his friend into the nearest bathroom. Gia followed and set down the clothes for Pyotr. She pulled out a thick, fluffy bath towel and matching washcloth.
“Pink?” Pyotr asked.
“Don’t blame me,” Vitaly replied as he lowered the other man to sit on the closed toilet seat. Without looking at his wife, he said, “Fix Pyotr a cup of hot tea with plenty of sugar, would you? And then go to bed. You’re tired and must take care of yourself and our baby.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “The tea will be in the microwave.” She looked at Pyotr and said, “I’m sorry, Pyotr.”
He raised despairing blue eyes to her and said, “Please, don’t tell Cecily.”
Her gaze softened and she said, “No, I’ll leave that to you.”
His eyes rolled back and his body twitched.
“Pyotr!” Gia screamed. The baby, hearing her mother’s distress, started crying. She watched the big man’s convulsions hurl him to the floor and bellowed, “Vitaly! Call an ambulance!”
Chapter 12
Cecily looked at the text message on her phone. It had been four months since she’d heard from Pyotr, seven long months since had had returned to Cleveland to plead with Maksim to release him from his oath. Noticing her frown as she read the message, Jaime came over to her and asked, “What’s wrong, mi linda?”
She looked up at him, eyes welling with tears. She swiped her th
umb over the screen of her phone and it went dark. With jerky movements, she returned the device to her pocket.
“My…” she took a deep breath to compose herself. “My fiancé is injured.” She sniffled. “They’re not sure if he’ll recover.”
Expression suffused with concern that hid his triumph, Jaime ordered one of the sous chefs to take over her station as he drew her away to his office. “Sit down,” he bade her and poured her a dram of whiskey. “Tell me.”
“He’s... he’s a fighter, mixed martial arts sort of thing.”
“I follow the sport,” Jaime said. “What’s his name?”
“Pyotr Idaklyka,” she replied. Her expression took on a sort of pride. “He’s very good.”
“I’m sure he is,” Jaime placated. “But I’ve not heard of him. Are you sure he’s professional?”
She shook her head. “I think he fights in underground matches. He won’t tell me.”
“Cage matches?”
She nodded, eyes welling with tears. Jaime winced. Underground cage fighters were notorious for their brutality—and their short life spans.
“He lost, didn’t he?”
She nodded again, the tears overflowing and running down her cheeks, still rosy from the heat of the kitchen.
“And he’s injured, isn’t he?”
She nodded again, unable to tell him what Latasha’s email said: head injury, coma, possible brain damage. She took a shaky breath and said, “I’m so sorry, Jaime. I know it’s not even been a year, but do you think you could let me have a week off so I can go see him. My best friend—she’s a nurse—says that it’s best if someone familiar visits with him.”
Jamie looked at the sparkling ring on the third finger of her left hand. He had to respect the woman’s fidelity for a man who didn’t care enough to stay with her and keep her bed warm, even has he found himself loathing that man for not appreciating and loyalty and devotion he obviously did not deserve. He reached over to cover her hands with his. She looked up at him, startled by the contact.
“I have respected your engagement, Cecily,” he said slowly. “You go back to Cleveland for a week. Decide whether this man who never calls you, does not seem to care for you, really deserves your fidelity. Then, because I suspect he is not worthy of a woman such as you, you come back to me.”
