by Nicole Fox
“Three … hundred …” she barely breathes the words as all of the color drains from her face. She really doesn’t know what her husband’s been up to. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
I step forward, more menacing than I probably need to be, and get right into her pretty face. “Lady, you better find it. Because as long as your husband is hiding out like a big pussy, you’re next in line to make good on this. Figure it out.”
She swallows and meets my eyes. “My boss is right upstairs. He’s probably going to be down here any time. His name is Sergei Kovolov and he’s got a mean temper. If he finds you here …”
“I know who your boss is,” I snap. “I doubt he gives too much of a shit about his secretaries unless he’s fucking them. You fucking that mobster?”
She shakes her head, a “V” forming between her eyebrows. Great. She doesn’t know Kovolov is Russian mafia, then, either. This girl is either really dumb or really trusting.
“Look,” I say. “I’m gonna give you some time to look around, see if your husband left anything of value to help you pay on this debt. That fucker spent enough time at the craps table; he had to have come away with winnings somewhere along the line. Bought you a nice car? Nice jewelry? Probably stashed away some cash somewhere he thinks you’d never look. Have a look around. Pull that shit together. If you don’t, I promise there are other ways for me to get what I’m owed, but I promise you won’t like them.”
The color drains from her face. “I don’t … I can look but …”
“But nothing. Find the money and this will be quite painless. But if you run, I’ll find you. Call the cops, I’ll show you pain you’ve never seen before. It’s up to you how this goes down, but I assure you, this conversation isn’t over. Got it?”
She nods and gulps, looking every bit like someone swallowing back bile. “I got it.”
I step away and see her let out a breath. “See you soon, Selena Russell.”
***
Selena
I feel sick.
It’s impossible for me to keep my thoughts in order. Matt owed a three-hundred thousand to a loan shark? Why? And Sergei is a mobster? Like, as in the Russian mafia? In Brooklyn? And how does this Finnegan guy think I’m going to come up with that kind of money? I’m just a secretary. I mean, sure, Sergei pays me well for my work, but it’s barely enough to pay my rent and buy groceries. It would take me my whole life to pay that kind of money off. I’m sure as hell not going to my parents for help. They have it, I’m sure, but it would just put an “I told you so” umbrella over my head for the rest of my life with them. I haven’t even told them he’s gone yet; I sure as hell can’t tell them he left me with a mound of debt.
Matt did leave behind his car. It’s actually totally stupid to have a car in New York City. You can get everywhere by subway, bus, or taxi and parking is stupid expensive, but Matt always said he didn’t trust anyone else’s driving. I only live about half a mile from work, and normally I’d walk, but Sergei insisted I used the parking spot provided.
I wonder what the car is worth. And if it’s paid off. I just never asked questions about our finances. I trusted Matt to manage everything. I was so stupid.
I grew up in upstate New York and came to New York City for college. My parents thought I was nuts for choosing SUNY Westbury when there was a SUNY school closer to home, but that was the point. I wanted to get away from home and experience something different.
Matt and I met in a bar out on Long Island. I was nineteen, just about to finish an associate’s degree in business. He was already working on Wall Street. I was enamored from the first date. He was twenty-five and already doing really well. I liked his boyish looks, cherub cheeks, curly brown hair, mischievous blue eyes. We had sex that first night we met, and started dating immediately. I finished my degree but Matt didn’t want me to work, so we moved to an apartment in Brooklyn together right away. At first, that seemed awesome. I loved running and working out, so I had plenty of time to do that. I shopped with my girlfriends, other young Wall Street wives, usually. We did a few charity things together. Sometimes I’d drop by Matt’s office with lunch and we’d fuck on his desk.
We got married two years later in my parents’ backyard. My father seemed okay with Matt; he liked that he was a Wall Street guy. My mom hated him but faked her way through the whole thing, making nice for all of her friends, who fawned over Matt and his career as if trading was better than curing cancer or something.
As soon as I’m in the door, I’m looking. I pull open every drawer, overturn every cushion. It’s only when I pull a chair into the closet and stand on it that I see the box pushed all the way to the back. My stomach drops. As I pull it down, there’s so much, I can’t even process it all. Credit cards maxed. Casino receipts. It appears my husband was a gambling addict.
And I had no idea.
There are a few things around the apartment. A Tag Heuer watch he told me was fake, that he said he bought off of some street merchant in Manhattan. A diamond bracelet from Tiffany. Not nearly enough to pay back the loan shark, but maybe a start, maybe a way to buy myself time to think.
Should I talk to Sergei about this? If he is who Finnegan says he is, maybe he can help me? Protect me? I don’t know much about loan sharks, but I’d guess his business isn’t founded totally on legal lending practices. Though, which is worse? Dealing with a loan shark or dealing with the Russian mafia?
It’s nearly seven when I finally look at my watch. Shit. I forgot I told Sergei I’d have dinner with him. Maybe I should tell him what happened with Matt. Maybe he can help me figure this out somehow.
I dress for dinner in a black dress that is modestly sexy. I don’t want to put off the wrong vibes. Sergei is my boss and even though he has heavily implied that he’s willing to mix business and pleasure, I’m not sure that’s what I want. Sergei seemed dangerous, volatile, before I found out he’s got ties to the mob. Now? He flat-out scares the crap out of me.
At seven on the dot, a knock at my door announces his arrival. He stands, dressed smartly in a well-tailored button-down and a pair of black slacks, looking at his cell phone with a deep frown on his face. When I open the door, he smiles broadly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve booked us a table at Le Petite Bistro,” he says. “My favorite French cuisine.”
He puts his hand on my back as we walk out to the waiting town car. As I slide in, I ask, “Have you been to France?”
He laughs lightly. “Yes, of course. Many times. I have to admit I have a bit of a thing for the food there.”
“Any Russian favorites?” I ask.
“Ah, my babushka always made a borscht that warmed my stomach,” he says. “She was a good cook.”
“Your … babushka?” I ask.
“Grandmother,” he says. “My mother’s mother.”
“Are you parents still alive?” I ask.
“My father is well,” he says. “My mother passed in childbirth with my younger sister.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “I was very young. I don’t remember her. My sister is now thirty, so it has been a long time. My grandmother raised us until we finished school and joined the family shipping business.”
“Oh, you all work together?” I ask.
“We do,” he says. “I cover North American enterprise. My sister covers South America. My father covers Europe and the homeland.”
“Do you see each other often?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “We talk by phone daily though. Mostly related to business. In person? We meet twice a year.”
“All business?” I ask.
“Usually. My father is a humorless man. My sister and I prefer the separation. We do try to visit my babushka a few times a year, though. She is very old now.”
We pull up in front of the restaurant then, and make our way inside. It’s small and quiet, very romantic. It makes me anxious.
We talk more over dinner. I ask if
he’s ever been married—he has not. He has no children. He would like to settle down, he says, and I see the implication in his eyes. It makes my stomach lurch. He asks me about my husband. I tell him that I met Matt when I was very young, that he left me just a month ago. I reiterate that I appreciate that he gave me a chance in this job. I really needed it, I tell him.
He tells me he finds me very beautiful and he can’t believe any man would let me go without a fight. He asks if I want to have Matt killed, then laughs and says, “That was a bad joke.”
Sergei is a good conversationalist. He almost makes me feel comfortable. Almost.
“Dinner was great,” I say as the waiter clears away our dinner. “Really the best I’ve had in some time. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says. “Would you like to share dessert?”
“Ah, no thank you,” I say. “I’ve overindulged. I’ll need to work out twice as hard to burn off these calories.”
“You’ve got a beautiful body,” Sergei says. “One sweet certainly won’t ruin it.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “I’m not really a sweets person. And it’s getting late.”
“Suit yourself,” he says. “Let’s get you home, then.”
Sergei insists on walking me back to my door when we arrive back at my apartment. I hold out a hand for him to shake, but he pulls it to his mouth and kisses it. It takes everything I have not to cringe away from his affections.
“May I come in?” he asks.
“I … uh …”
“A nightcap, perhaps?” he asks.
“I … well … I guess. Maybe just one since I denied you dessert,” I say as lightly as I can.
“Yes, well, I admit I am not used to being denied what I want,” he says with a light laugh as I unlock the door to let us both in.
I make my way to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine as he wanders my apartment, looking at the pictures I haven’t yet had the heart to take down—wedding photos, vacation photos. More than ten years of a life lived with someone I realize I did not know at all. And I’ve left the box out on the coffee table, so there are pages and pages of documents showing Matt’s debts. My debts now, I suppose. The thought sours in my stomach.
As I wander into the living room, where he stands, peering at the papers, he looks up. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, assessing me. He says, “I think there is something you’re not telling me, Selena. You need not keep secrets.”
Okay, here we go.
Chapter Three
Selena
We sit on the couch and I take a sip of the wine before talking.
“I don’t want to burden you with my drama,” I say. “I already mentioned I really appreciate his job. My husband never wanted me to work, so I never got much use of my degree. It’s nice to work. I like it, and I don’t want you to think I’m going to bring a bunch of drama into the workplace.”
“Selena,” Sergei says, “I live drama every day. Pirates snared my shipment today. It is hard to get much more dramatic than that.”
I laugh at this. “I guess that’s true. But still, I don’t want to bring my personal life into the office.”
Sergei takes a drink and holds out a hand to indicate that he can see I’m struggling with whatever all this paperwork is. He says, “Your husband has left you with a mess. That much I can see with my own eyes.”
I sigh. “He has, I suppose. A loan shark came to see me today, said Matt skipped out on three-hundred-thousand in loans. He intends to get his payment from me. Though I don’t have it. I don’t know what to do, and I feel sick about it.”
“Selena,” Sergei says, putting his wine on the table before turning to me. We are knee to knee. “I know you have not worked for me for very long, but surely you have realized I am a powerful man. A successful man. I can erase this for you. I can protect you from this nastiness. All you need do is ask.”
I shake my head. “You’re my employer,” I say. “It’s not appropriate. And I don’t know if I … feel comfortable … with the debt that this would incur.”
“Well, it is a simple debt to overcome. You’re a beautiful woman and I want to fuck you. It’s a simple proposition, an easy business deal.”
I suck in a breath at this, my eyes going wide at his boldness.
“Don’t act surprised,” Sergei says, sitting back against the couch cushion, manspreading, a picture of relaxation and confidence. “You came to me with absolutely nothing on your résumé. Why do you think I would hire a woman with no experience? I like beautiful things, especially when they can satisfy more than one of my needs.”
I’ve overheard people talking about Sergei’s non-business needs. Two men spoke plainly about him as they waited in the lobby the previous week. They said he often frequented an underground club that catered to very dark sexual fantasy. I’m not sure I could even begin to satisfy the needs of a man who likes that kind of sex.
When I don’t answer immediately, Sergei moves across the couch once more, pushing me down to the cushions, his hand up my skirt before I can say stop. His fingers rub against the silk of my panties.
“I’m offering you a way out, Selena,” he says in my ear, his breath hot, his tone one of desire. “Protection. Pleasure. There is no downside to this offer. Say the word and I’ll give you the world. This loan shark will be in a shallow grave by noon tomorrow.”
I’m stiff as a board as he strokes me. I manage to catch my breath, which I’ve been holding, and I come to reality. This is not something I want. I don’t want Sergei this way, no matter what kind of protection he thinks he can offer me.
Pushing against his chest, I say “No, Sergei. No. This isn’t what I want. You’re my boss and I …”
He kisses me. It’s a hard, relentless kiss of ownership, of power. It’s smothering. I keep pushing, managing to roll out from under him, I stumble a bit, holding out a hand as he stands, his eye s dark with lust. He smirks.
“Selena,” he says, shaking his head. “What I’m offering you is a good deal. I want your body. I want to taste your sweet cunt. I want to bury myself in you, put my seed inside you. I can give you everything for just the price of that luscious body.”
“No,” I say. “No. I don’t want this. I want you to leave.”
He doesn’t leave. He advances a step and I feel panic rising in my throat. Do I scream? Do I run? What do I do? Will my boss hurt me here, in my own home? What kind of man is Sergei Kovolov? Is he a man who doesn’t take no for an answer? Is he violent? Is he simply assertive?
“Come with me tonight, Selena,” Sergei says, taking another step forward as I take a step back. “Let me show you the life you could have with me. Let me shower you in baubles; let me show you pleasure. You can come willingly, or I can take you as you scream. I’ll get what I want either way.”
Question answered, then. I turn and run for it, heading for my bedroom. I can’t get the door shut and locked fast enough, though. He pushes through, and I scramble backward until my knees hit the bed.
I yell, “No! Stop this!” but he moves into my space, a smile that bears nothing but menace on his face.
I open my mouth to scream and he slaps me so hard that I taste blood in my cheek. His hand goes up my skirt again, pushing away the silk, shoving his fingers inside of me as he pushes me down, pinning me against the bed.
“I offered you protection,” Sergei says, his fingers moving in and out of me, my pussy dry as fear takes over. It hurts. Tears well in my eyes as he says, “I was kind. But no one says no to me. No one. So if you will not provide what I ask willingly, then I will take it from you.”
It’s only a loud knock at the door that stops him.
***
Finn
I decided to put on my kind face for once. It’s not just that Selena Russell is beautiful. I’ve met plenty of beautiful women, many of which were total bitches, who deserved everything they had coming. This one, though, she seems innocent. I feel it in my bones—she had no idea what sp
ecific brand of shitbag her husband was.
I still have a business to run, so I’ve got to get what I can out of this crap deal. I’ll find Matt Russell someday and I’ll beat his motherfucking face in. For now, though, I’ll play nice with his wife and get a down payment on this debt. Playing nice might also keep that douchebag Mafioso of a boss off my ass. It’s not like I haven’t ever dealt with the mob, but Sergei has a reputation and I’ve done my best to steer clear of him over the years.
When I knock on the door, it’s probably too loud, too aggressive. I tell myself to take it down a notch. I’m not trying to scare her. I’m playing good cop now.
