I wondered if they would like me any better if I joined in their complaining and martyrdom. Or if I joined in with them against the money girls. But I wasn’t going to do any of that. I would never let Marco see me as a victim, not that way or any other.
While I get coffee from the pot and toast from the buffet, the three of them start to bitch about the clothes allowance Marco gave them. Before I can speak, Olga looked down her nose at me and said, “You’ve got more than enough clothes.”
Daria scowled, “She doesn’t even look all that good in them,” and Svetlana chipped in, “Fashion’s wasted on her bony ass frame anyway.”
Olga picked it up, “Must be like trying to fuck a broom closet.”
Daria cackled at me, “You rattle when you shake, girl?”
Svetlana hissed and her eyes narrowed, “You believe that no-one’s ever found out yet?”
Daria deadpanned, “I believe that no-one bothered to try.”
The other two girls’ eyes flicked at me slid then away in slits. Olga covered her mouth, “That true, girl?”
Svetlana nodded. “She never did it with anything but a shampoo bottle or a broom handle.”
“All the men she meets, all the men at the wedding yesterday,” Olga hooted, “She palm them all off? Give them all bony hand jobs?”
“Or titty rolls,” Svetlana held my eyes, “Pancake titty rolls.”
“That or maybe a rub between the thighs?” Daria’s chin lifted and her voice hardened. “Isn’t that right, child?”
The stony silence I give them is never going to help me to bond with the girls, but I don’t have anything to say. I don’t need their approval and I’ll get by without them being on my side if I have to. Still, in spite of myself, my cheeks prickle under the skin. They’re mean and they’re petty and I know it’s because they’re jealous, but it still hurts.
Marco comes in. He’s unshaved and wearing a loose linen shirt. He would be a great looking man if he could pull the smug grin out of the corners of his mouth. He greets Olga, Svetlana, and Daria. They smile up at him like girls in Sunday school.
As he brings coffee and eggs to the table he says, “So, Katya,” And there’s the grin, “You see what a perfect man I have for you, my lovely Russian doll? He’s powerful, handsome, strong. Everything a beautiful Russian princess could desire in a man.”
I keep my face straight. “All that a girl could wish for her new slave owner to be. Right, Marco?”
“Come on, Katya. You know how it is.” He offers a pleading smile, “You’re not going to go chasing fairy tales.”
“As if. Marco. As if.” I keep my voice light. Inside I’m afraid. As much afraid as I can remember ever being. That Vassily will find me out, I know it. He will really see through me. He will crack me wide open in a second. That man will get straight to the inside of me in the time it takes for his eyes to flash.
All my protective layers and shells will be useless against that killer and I know it. He will see exactly who I am.
My little Katya, the little girl that I keep safe and hidden, he will throw off the covers and expose her in an instant.
I cannot let that happen. I have to protect her, whatever the cost.
Before we finish coffee, I ask Marco, “The passport that you used to bring me in on,” he cuts me off.
“I’m keeping it, Katya. It’s for your safety.”
“Of course,” I nod like it’s understood. “Sure, Marco. But can I see it, please. I want to see that photo of me.”
He won’t get it to show it to me. He makes excuses. I knew he would. But he’s a simple man. A simple man who believes that he is powerful. When he goes into his office and I’m not too far behind him, he presses his lips together and without thinking, he touches a drawer in his desk. Second drawer down on the left.
That’s a start.
The next thing I need is something to get the Russian killer out of my head. I can’t think clearly while the memory of the taste and the heat of his breath lingers in my throat. The thought of it even now makes my shoulder roll and I stretch my neck. Behind those eyes is a man who would open me wide. Unzip me in one move. And just the thought is enough to make me feel the heat start to rise.
I run to hide. The shower is the only place I can get the tiniest shreds of privacy in this place. I close the door and slip the latch in the tiny, shared washroom. As I start the water and pull off my clothes, my breath groans. It’s quiet. I’ve lived this way long enough that I won’t give myself away that easily. But it’s a sign.
My body, my insides want him. the little animal spirit wants him. Little Katya wants him.
I step under the cascade of water. On an impulse, I turn the knob all the way to ‘cold.’
When the freezing gush shocks my back and wraps around my body I shake. I stand. Determined. I will endure this. I will make my body forget about him. At least for now.
I stretch my limbs and shudder, rubbing arms and my thighs. The need starts to take over. I have to resist it. If I give in to this, I’ll be lost. Wild, I reach out of the shower, put a foot on the cold bathroom floor. The water makes my foot slip and I almost fall. The little cabinet is a stretch across the tiny bathroom.
Shaking, I open the cabinet. there’s almost nothing in here. All the girls guard their stuff, just like I do. there’s nothing to be found in here.
Except for some toothpicks.
Sat, huddled in the corner of the shower cabinet. Shivering under the patter of the freezing flow. I find a place. High. At the top of my thigh. On the inside. Near my tender lips. the toothpick scratch isn’t much. But I work it. More. More. Harder. Yes. Then. At last. Release.
I sink back against the cold, wet walls and I watch as the flow of silver water is run through with a billowing crimson ribbon. I still have an image of him in my mind but now I’m safe from it. He’s on the other side of the red river.
For now.
ikhail and I spent a long, dry morning with accountants, bankers, and a snitch. Dreary meetings, one after another. Some of them more tense than I expected. The last one was the worst. A meeting with a snitch leaves me feeling like I need a very long shower. I would have gotten myself hosed if I could.
Coming off all of that, I’m in urgent need of a change of air. I take Mikhail with me for a drink at Marco’s salon. The bar is stylish, comfortable and extremely well kept. Whatever else anyone might say about Marco, the hospitality in his salon is flawless.
On the way here, Mikhail ribbed me that I wanted to come for another look at Marco’s ‘little fox.’ Settled into our booth with drinks, Mikhail grinned mischievously as he peered at me, taking a sip of his Negroni. He knows better than to say anything more about her, though.
I’m not thinking about her. Several times I remind myself not to. I don’t recall the whisper of her breath as her dress rustled, crushed between her my straining pants and the unmistakable rub of her hot mound. Nor her scent. I don’t think about that at all.
Instead we talk about the morning meetings and what little we have been able to learn.
“Dirty work for sure, Boss. But there’s no getting away from the evidence.”
I nodded. All of the money trails back from Vovo lead to Panama. In Panama’s capital city, a well-known cut-off for money launderers generally and Russian mafia especially, everything pointed to one private bank in particular.
“Shady as fuck, Boss,” Mikhail says as he pulls the bank’s website up on his phone. The minimal website offers Russian as the first language and English as the second. Spanish, the dominant language in Panama is fourth, below French.
The bank that appears to occupy a single suite of offices on the eighth floor of a building where several thousands of companies have their registered headquarters. Vovo’s has been ‘managed’ by a company called Vinci whose only office is hosted in the same building on the same floor as that bank in Panama.
The guy who runs the Hotsteppas club has a lot of contacts in the Financial Distric
t. He worked Wall Street for a while before he got into the club business. I write him a text message.
Marco comes into the bar and he sees us in the booth. His arms are wide as he rushes to our table to greet us. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming.” Over his shoulder he shouts to the bartender. “Robbie. Get Katya out here.”
The mixed feelings that arise take me unawares. My pulse hardens and thickens. Even though I’m weary at the idea of Marco doing more of his white-slaver routine at me and the thought of it is enough to make me want to slap him, I notice that at the mention of her name, my first reaction was a surge inside.
Mikhail’s grin is pretty annoying, too. He sees the look in my eye and he turns quickly to Marco. “What do you know about Panama?”
“It’s where the hats come from, right? And there’s an important canal.” His neck has reddened, and his response is a little slow, like his timing is off. Mikhail goes on like he hasn’t noticed Marco’s discomfort. “Russians in Panama, in particular.”
Marco clears his throat, “Not my line of country.” And he makes a smile.
Over Marco’s shoulder I see her. Katya stands in the shadow of the doorway. Her beauty takes me by surprise all over again. She’s quiet and still. She keeps her eyes down but I know it’s to avoid my glance. It certainly isn’t any kind of deference or shyness. Not Katya. When she does look up, I get a rush. It’s like hearing the first pounding note of a killer bassline, making you hungry for the song. And you know that it’s going to make you want to dance.
Man, I want to fuck her so bad. How can I shake this? My cock is telling me, go on! It will just be a fuck. You know it will. And I fucking know that it won’t. I know if I start something with that girl, my life will be in freefall.
She shifts. Her hip cocks and I sense that she’s holding back a smile in spite of herself. She has an annoyingly high opinion of herself, that’s for sure. I’m careful not to show it but I’m pumped to see her. If I had no business connection with her at all, this tension would be distracting. If the connection were straightforward it would be a complication and a problem.
As it is, the whole situation is awkward, bordering on painful. Still, not all in a bad way.
Marco’s talking. I know she’s waiting for him to notice that she’s there. Waiting because, as soon as he knows, he’ll make an ass of himself about it. I hold back the smile.
He senses me looking over his shoulder. When he turns and sees her, she stands up straight and puts on an innocent smile. It’s the first smile I’ve seen her make. Seeing it makes me want to see her face look up at me with a real smile.
Marco waves his arms and makes a fuss about how she should hurry over. I’m thinking, for someone in her situation, she still has a pretty devilish sense of humor. She has every reason to be afraid of Marco, and he can be unpredictable, to say the least, but if she has a drop of fear it’s not visible to the naked eye.
As she starts to come near, out of the corner of my eye I catch a movement at the side door. An instinct kicks in and I jump up. I couldn’t say why. I just have a feeling. I don’t ever ignore those. The side door is hardly open but I see a figure. Stocky, he’s probably wearing body armor under the thick jacket. He has big dark shades and a black knitted hood.
He opens the door and lobs something into the bar. I know what it is. He didn’t wait to shoot, just tossed it in and turned to run.
Katya is halfway across the floor, right in the line of the grenade.
I bark, “Get behind me.” She hesitates. “Now.”
As she does it, I leap forward to scoop up the grenade. I throw it past the fleeing figure. Could be a one-second fuse, could be two. Either way, he’s not going to risk running into it. That tells me something. He turns, and I have my Glock out, ready. He has a short, AR15-style assault rifle. I fire once. A little trail of red droplets shows that I clipped his ear.
Mikhail is crouched beside me, aiming his 9mm with a two-handed grip. Even Marco has a weapon drawn. I shout at the intruder, “Put the gun down.” He lowers the aim, threatening Katya behind me. Before he can get off a shot, I fire three rounds in quick succession. One each side of his head and the third shot scoops a track of blood and hair as it grazes the top of his head.
When the grenade explodes behind him, he’s ready. He tumbles, then rolls back into the dust and rubble. He’s timed it perfectly. A professional. I chase after him. He’s already halfway down through the smoke and dust in the blackened staircase before I reach the door. I let off a shot but he’s moving too fast for me to get an aim.
By the time I get down the wrecked stairway to reach the street door and out into the light, there’s no sign of him.
I run to the nearest corner, cross the street, look in every possible direction. He’s long gone. Most likely had a vehicle waiting. Maybe Marco has a camera running at street level.
~~
After I’m sure there’s nobody in sight, I turn back. Mikhail is on the stairs, only a few steps behind me. When we get back up to the bar in Marco’s salon, Marco has already got his CCTV feed up on a little tablet screen. I’m more immediately concerned with Katya. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are blazing.
She stares at me. Her voice is hoarse. “You don’t tell me what to do.” I frown. She breathes hard. She says, “Not like that. Don’t ever speak to me like that.”
I start to say something but what’s the point? I just ask her, “You’re okay?” and I don’t wait for the answer.
Marco says, “Thanks for not drilling him in the salon.”
“What would have been the point? You saw how expert he was with the timing of the grenade fuse. He had no rush at all, he just waited for the count, ducked down in perfect time. He wouldn’t have had as much as a subway ticket he could have been traced from.”
“I could have understood you wanting to kill him, though.”
“He had body armor. He’s also not done. If I’d dropped him here, we’d just have had someone else to look for and a lot of nothing to go on.” I looked him in the eye, “I’ll kill him alright. But I’ll pick the time.”
On Marco’s screen, grainy video shows the rear door of a black SUV parked by the side entrance downstairs. The rear door isn’t fully closed. Our attacker jumps out of the building and into the SUV. As it pulls away fast, we see a cloth flap over the license plate. The SUV turns at the first corner and it’s gone.
I make Marco run the part with the attacker leaving the building. Slow it. Freeze it. It’s so short there are only four blurred frames. But I study them all. I’ve seen you, fucker.
“Why, Vassily?” I notice that Marco’s Sicilian accent is more pronounced. Maybe he’s nervous. “Why does somebody attack my salon like this? Look at the fucking mess.” He’s pulling his hair. “Look at the marks from the smoke. It’s on all of the drapes. God knows what it will cost to fix up the fucking stairs.” he’s looking around. “I’m grateful you acted so fast, Vassily. If that thing had gone off in here, Madonna!”
I can’t stand too much of his whining, so I nod to Mikhail to let him know that we’re leaving.
As I move to the door, I take a look at Katya. She’s straightening her dress and still glaring at me. Breathing hard. She says nothing.
I tell her, “Well, you’re welcome. No need to thank me.” Then, “Just as long as you’re alright.” I give her a moment, but she doesn’t move or say a word. Her eyes are on fire. But I don’t have time. Something bad is happening here. I shrug as I leave.
Following me out, Mikhail shakes his head and says, “I guess some people hate to be helped.”
My pulse pumps and thickens.
Vassily: Perfect Pain - a Bad Boy Mafia Dark Romance Page 8
