by Amarie Avant
“I apo-lo-gize. Like I said, I’ve more brains than placing myself at the mercy of a Resnov. I'll do the job myself anyway. Me explaining the situation a minute ago, was just a form of apology, so you’d understand why I arrived very distraught… angry. Just to be clear, you can't touch me either. It would be the smartest thing you ever did… allowing me to walk out of here,” she concludes on a hesitant note. Yet the fire in her eyes tells me she believes the crap she just dished about me needing to be ‘smart’ enough not to place one hand on her head. When all I really desire is to place my hands all over her body.
I can see my cock grazing against those dark pink lips. “I accept the apology. But we are far from done here. And what's this aura of invincibility you have?” This fake ass fearlessness?
She smiles, for the first time, digging back into her purse. This time pulling out a business card. My fingers brush against hers purposefully, then I clasp her hand in mine.
Our eyes connect. “I can make you fear me in all those delicious ways that you’ve only ever dreamed. Would you like me to do that for you?” I ask, clutching her hand, the card is crumpled between us. “The only pain I’d offer would come from your begging more, okay, beautiful?”
“Please stop…” her mouth murmurs.
I let her hand go, cock a grin, reading the card. “Maxwell Washington. Chief of Police.”
“My father.” She adds smugly.
I nod slowly, this has to be her logic for how invincible she is. Even in the cage, I’m not that fucking cocky. My time will come. Washington’s will too, in the streets.
“I'm not stupid enough to traipse into any gym threatening a life without an insurance policy.”
I flick the card back over, the mannerism lets it be known that her metaphoric Teflon vest is weak shit. “Why not have your pop handle it?”
Ms. Washington grumbles. “My father isn't the biggest fan of my best friend. Besides, I don't want Sergio out and ready to use another woman or God forbid, Ronisha allows him to use her as a punching bag. She’s let him back enough times before.”
“So you'd risk your life, your freedom—if you’re caught?”
“She is my best friend,” she belts out through gritted teeth. “Ronisha’s had a hard life. When we were kids, her father was on the force. He was my father’s partner, back on the beat in South L.A. So that meant she and I were close. Ronisha’s father died when she was seven. By that time, she and I were thick as thieves. Any way, she and her mom had to move to The JD projects, but that doesn’t mean I throw away my friend. She had an aneurism when she was nine, I was eight—that stuck with me. I’ve always felt so bad. She would have been a ballerina, while I only argued with my father to pay for ballet class for the both of us, because her mom didn’t have the funds. Besides, in my father’s eye, he justified the expense because it looks good to his friends that I was a ballerina. Sheesh, Ronisha lived to dance. Now she has no balance.” Ms. Washington stops to breathe deeply, speaking to me as if we’re old friends. I’m stuck on her every word.
“Ronisha is beautiful. May not look it from the picture, though, but she’s also still nine. Still the nine-year-old girl who had an aneurism. Sergio and other boys like sweet, naïve girls like her if you know what I mean.”
My body stiffens. I blink away images of another young girl who didn’t even make it as a teenager. I should have saved her.
Unaware of the sudden discomfort I’m feeling, Ms. Washington wipes the tears from her eyes. “Look, I came to the wrong place. Disrespected the wrong gym. You say it ain't yours. I say anytime a Resnov likes a business, you respect that place. I only came back to this room because you, or your goons are more than capable of force. Also, telling you the truth, might cushion how crazy I just was. Now, I’ve told you too much.” She arises. “But I don’t believe you’ll snitch on me.”
“No snitch here.” I stand before her. The sweet floral scent of her infusing in my nostrils. There's no way in hell I'll let any of those Italians hurt her. “Give me til evening, Sergio will be dealt with.”
“Why are you insisting on helping me? I just showed you my father’s card, and I know for a fact, my dad isn’t dirty. So, it was pretty much to get outta here alive—that is all.”
I laugh. “Nobody will touch a hair on your head.”
“Don't play me.” Ms. Washington raises her index finger.
“Let's sit,” I take the chair next to her. She doesn't sit. My glare is hard enough for her to plop down beside me.
I rub my jaw. “Sergio doesn’t have much longer to breathe. You have my word. Now, we talk my compensation…” All I want to do is see you again. By force I not, I will see Miss. Washington again. Whatever happens after that is all up to her.
Zariah
Compensation… My tongue is stapled to the roof of my mouth. The loss of comprehension, well, this is a first. No actually this is the second occasion. The first statue of confusion came the when I laid eyes on Vassili. So damn fine. Even with his body drenched in tattoos, I can tell that each muscle is precisely defined. Vassili’s shorts rode low against an impeccable v shape and those never-ending abs.
His jawline is likened to one of those doodles that an artist spends a lifetime sketching, and not an amateur but one whose meticulous, gifted. It’s perfectly squared and bristled. I have already imagined running my finger along the jagged scar that’s given the beast somewhat of a distinguished character. When his lips weren’t set in a line as we argued a few minutes ago, he had this cocky grin about him that added pure liquid lust to my panties. Then there’s his smushed nose—the solitary flaw—which only adds to the fear I felt when finding out he is a damn Resnov.
But his demeanor has shaken me to my core. And here I am, unable to comprehend for the first time. I was born with a big mouth that advocated for injustice even in kindergarten. One day soon, I’ll be a top litigator, a shark for those who have been dealt a great disservice, and I’m in the company of a fucking Resnov.
Damn, it’s like I loaded a .9 millimeter and pressed it to my own dome. Or rather my chest… In another world, I could be super easy. For a Russian mobster, Vassili is super hot. I always mocked the Russian’s accent, but his sinks into my bones, turning them to putty. His voice was slow, deliberate, dripping in sex and heavy with strength—or maybe I'm crazy? Can a voice sound like power?
My legs were jelly the entire time I spoke to him downstairs.
Now he’s sitting across from me. He’s offered me a deal of a lifetime. Ronisha is my heart, and all the hurt she’s endured over a man is enough to be committed. Yet, I’m not ready to shake hands with the devil.
“Vassili, I will not spend the night with you,” my tone is soothing yet certain. If he weren’t a Resnov and I were a slut, yes of course. I would jump on it! But he’s part of the Russian syndicate, and my parents have invested into me, education and virtue. I look just to the left of his eyes. Damn his eyes! The sides of his hair is cut low, and the rest of his chocolate waves seem to fall near those eyes. Eyes so fucking dark it is sin just looking at him. Hence my inability to do so.
“Ms. Washington, all I can offer you is one night,” he says, turning ever so slowly, left to right in the swivel leather chair. Stacks and stacks of abdominals continue to beckon my eyes for a look. And I’m so damn tired. Today should’ve consisted of copious amounts of six-inch stiletto shoe purchases on Rodeo Drive, and purses, and a few more power suits before I head off to college. But Ronisha’s mom called me at 4am, stating she was hopping onto an ambulance.
I stifle a yawn and stare at the bold tattoo across his chest. KILLER KARO. Nothing short of selling my soul will allow me to leave this office.
“Alright, Mr. Resnov…”
“Vassili,” he says, that accent reminds me of satin, rough yet with an underlying soothing ring to it. “Call me, Vassili,”
“Well, Vassili, I’ll do whatever I have to, in order to leave this gym.” I smile. As a future lawyer, lying is in my genes. I ha
ve no intention of seeing you again…
His wide mouth spreads in a killer straight-white tooth smile. So far the wolf only flashed a grin when coaxing me to follow him. Obviously, I survived. This smile is different, it’s expectant, and it makes him all the more beautiful. Almost as if 24k gold wrapping paper is tantalizing me, shielding me from something dark, sinister. My grip is firm against the rough padding of his murderous hands. He adds just enough strength to send a tremor shoot through my body. Dread and lust clash, causing the lips of my pussy to swell and my instincts to kick in at the same time.
###
It’s almost six pm. Rush hour. My eyes are swollen with tears as I walk toward the exit of Los Angeles Community hospital. I rub the complementary antibacterial gel over my manicured fingers and hands. Ronisha has yet to awaken, and I spent all afternoon seated by her side. Alternating from an uplifting Tamela Mann to Beyoncé and even a few of our old favorite Mary, Mary tracks on my iPhone since the nurse said that Ronisha should be able to hear it. I’d asked the doctor so many questions, that he reminded me that we’ve been here before. Sergio beating Ronisha’s ass is dejavu.
Swoosh. The sliding glass doors part. The warm sun hits my skin and the helplessness fades away, or rather caves for an even greater feeling of anxiousness.
Vassili Resnov. His name roams through my mind as I pull the keys from my purse.
Why did I show him my father’s business card? In the moment, it seemed like my “get out of jail free” card. More like not getting capped in the ass and tossed in the LA River. But damn, I almost got myself murdered.
My legs are so shaky when I get into my Mercedes AMG, that I have to hold the door handle while sliding into the leather seat.
I crossed paths with a Russian mobster and I'm alive. Apparently, I've agreed to give myself to him for one night… yet, he never asked for my name. I'm sure he can look up my dad's information and find me.
Maybe he was bluffing? He had that “talk shit” down to a T. Perhaps, I slithered through his defenses and … my mind is delirious, as I imagine him before me, hard body slick with sweat. When he wasn't bossing me around, I could tell he wanted me.
“Zariah, he's just full of testosterone,” I tell myself, while heading onto the freeway overpass.
I've never had a bad boy. I've never had any man really. I do have an idiot ex boyfriend who still thinks there’s a spark but that's neither here nor there.
Though Vassili’s arms were drenched in tattoos, not a single bit of skin left untouched, I could see just how defined his muscles are. Hell, he probably spends his days boxing and beating down pussy.
I almost jump out of my skin when the automated voice on the radio tells me a call is coming in from my mom.
“Hey, mom.” I answer.
“Zariah, what's going on? I've called you repeatedly. Are you okay?”
Shoving Vassili and those deliciously dark thoughts from my mind, I reply, “It's Ronisha again. Sorry, I had my phone on ‘do not disturb.’ I didn’t want any calls or texts to interfere with all of those machines in her hospital room. Her stupid boyfriend…” My voice breaks again.
“Oh God, that poor baby is at the hospital, again? I wish someone had some balls. Instead of ramming his pecker into easy—“
“Yeah, well, I’m with you on that. However, Mom, please be so kind as to refrain from referencing ‘my father’ and ‘pecker’ in the same sentence.” I cut in. And that damn word ‘easy’. Her sentence always defaults to ‘easy bimbos’ ‘easy blondes’ ‘easy blue-eyed sluts’ when there's only one chick my father is currently with. The secretary he left my mother for. I don’t know what’s harder for a Black woman. Being cheated on in general? Or losing your man to white woman?
I’ve never been in love, and cannot imagine either situation. But I try to sympathize with my mom.
“Zariah, I should come out there. I am coming out there. I’ll cash in on those frequent flier miles I haven’t used since… in two years. Tell that man to cancel your plane ticket. I'll come get you and see about Ronisha. We can drive back to ATL in your car. It will be a nice road trip prior to your beginning college. I'll show you the new items I have for your dorm—unless you'd like to move in with me. How does that sound?”
Hmmm, does she mean how does it sound for me to move in with her or the road trip? I know she’s lonely, and I’m partially the reason to blame because no matter how it’s perceived, I technically chose to live with my dad two years ago instead of her during the divorce. It was my mother’s idea, since she had to return to the workforce. Though I breathed freely because I was able to continue at a Pressley Preparatory Academy, a distinguished private school.
Worry for Ronisha is at the forefront of my mind, I attempt to persuade her, “Mom, what if I just attend UCLA for the first semester…”
“Girl, no you will not! Your father applied to his alma mater without your knowledge. Besides, those good intentions of yours will only stunt your growth. Sweetheart, you aren’t Ronisha’s mother. You can't continue to look out for her to the detriment of yourself. Spelman is your dream.”
Vassili
“Vassili, you crazy?” Yuri grumbles, one handing the wheel of his SUV while on the way to my uncle Malich’s estate. The choppy gray Venice Beach water has disappeared from sight as he navigates Neilson Way and then turns on Ocean Park Blvd.
He’s right, I’m fucking crazy. I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. I’m cut from a bad cloth and she’s pure goodness. Something told me that deep down beneath the anger she felt for Ronisha that she was innocent. I’m playing with my phone. I just found out her full name. Zariah Washington. I like it. And she’s eighteen to my twenty-one. Her birthday just passed this March. Good, I don't fuck jailbait but I’d be lying through my teeth if I claimed that I wouldn’t wait. In retrospect, I waited very long for Zariah anyway.
“This bitch’s pop is the chief of police and you want to carry out a hit for her? Malich would be elated about your first but for a bitch, that bitch? Washington isn't on…”
Yuri’s voice trails off since I stopped looking at her graduation photo and shoot him a glare. It’s not even necessary for me to tell him to stop disrespecting her and calling Zariah out of her name.
He treads lightly, eyes squinting somewhat as he gathers his train of thought. “Uh, Washington isn’t on payroll, Vassili. And you’ve already told Malich that you aren’t interested in the family business. This is bullshit,” he shakes his head again. “Think about your pop, Vassili, think!”
I'm the oldest of a football teams’ worth of siblings. My father, Anatoly, is old school in his ways. The throne is passed to the oldest, and I have the birthright. Anatoly preferred one of my other younger brothers to come to the US in order to watch his kid brother, Malich, who is the West Coast connect. Anatoly wanted me by his side, preparing me to rule our own country one day. But fuck it, my father is so paranoid. And the sadistic bastard lost me when I was twelve. The motherfucker things agreeing to my terms of living in California would somehow soften me enough to return to the Resnov syndicate. I’d put two slugs into my father’s forehead before I returned to the family way… Damn, just thinking about how much I hate my father reminds me of Zariah’s words
“Sergio and other boys like sweet, naïve girls like her if you know what I mean.”
Sweet, naïve girls are easy to manipulate. My hands claw into fists as I concentrate on the fact that defending Ronisha isn’t even a drop in the bucket to what I should’ve done to my father for her.
But regarding my uncle Malich, I respect him. So far he hasn’t crossed my father, his pockets are just as heavy as Anatoly allows. Although, Malich isn't set in his ways. Old ways that mean business is first. Malich is a fan of MMA, because their father, my grandfather was a boxer and won a title. He held the title for years before heading the Resnov mob family. He had a hand at both. While my father only believes in one or the other.
A few years ago, my father found ou
t of my interest in MMA as if the motherfucker thought I forgave him for being a snake in the grass. He’s in my ear about the octogen all the way from Russia. He believes that if I had stayed in Russia, I’d assist with the production of illegal import Russian Vodka, illegal arts, guns dealing. But that shit isn't me. And anything Anatoly has a hand in, I want no part of.
“Vassili, you’re playing with fire,” Yuri’s tone is laced with caution while he stops at the wrought iron gates before his father’s mansion.
“I know, Yuri. Now find Sergio, with the prayer hands on his bicep. I want him in Malich’s basement by dark.”
###
My boots step over piss, water, and vomit, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. Sergio’s arms are tied above his head to a beam along the ceiling. One of Malich’s goons thought that water torture would be a good starter as his stomach is bloated. There are weights strapped to his dangling feet, stretching his body further. The guys did just enough to break his fucking spirit, leaving the big motherfucker in tears.
I take a drag from my cigarette and puff through my nose. “I’ve been told you enjoy hitting women. Big piz’da like you, can’t find someone your own size to fight?”
“Please… please…”
He starts to beg God, yet my heart hardens further. I rub a hand over the side of my neck, where, conveniently there’s a tattoo of an eye inside a triangle. It’s a symbol of God's omniscience, His ability to see everything. Yet, I don’t feel convicted.
He speaks Italian. He’s praying to the Almighty God. I know every word because Anatoly made learning the language a requirement when I was a child. Every bit of his training is to prepare me for the syndicate. Though I’ll probably never get the chance to one-up an Italian who speaks ill of me unaware or negotiate an arms deal off of a port in Sicily.
“Listen,” I clasp my hand against the back of his neck, bringing his tear swollen gaze to mine. Time to cut in before he compels to the Holy Spirit again. “I believe in God too. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll pray for your soul later. But tonight you either go,” my cigarette point up and then down. “I can’t see further than your death, but you dying is inevitable.”
