by Daiko, SC
Mrs. Konin waved me off, but I dragged my feet on my way to the library. What if Taras said no to my request? How would I break it to Emma?
* * *
All through the rest of the day, anticipation about how I would tackle Taras burned within me like a fever. I kept a calm façade on the outside, but my insides churned.
“Will you talk to Papa tonight?” Emma frowned nervously as I tucked her into bed. “I was gonna ask him to watch me dance when I said goodnight earlier, but I chickened out.”
The realization hit me like a bolt from the blue.
The poor kid is afraid of her own father.
I smiled down at her, my chest tightening, resolved to do everything I could to help her. “There’s no need to be scared of him, poppet.”
“He’s always so strict with me. I’m not even allowed to go online unless there’s an adult with me…”
Christ, how can I tell her it’s for her own safety? I don’t want to make her even more frightened.
Bending, I kissed her smooth forehead. “Your papa loves you, I’m sure. Goodnight, Emma. Sleep well.”
She blew out a sigh and gave me a sad little smile. “G’night, Zoe.”
I drew the drapes and tiptoed across the floor, shutting the door quietly behind me before going to my bedroom.
For the second night in a row, I changed into my halter-neck dress, made up my face and went down to the formal dining room.
This time, Taras didn’t swear at me. He simply quirked a brow, picked up a pack of cigarettes and flipped it open, then pulled one out and lit it with a gold lighter. “You’re here for my answer, I presume?”
I nodded, my stomach fluttering, and gave him what I hoped was a determined stare.
“I’m still thinking about it.” He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled a plume of blue smoke.
“But…” I protested.
He narrowed his eyes. “Enough, Zoe. Don’t try my patience.”
His face hardened, and he glared at me dismissively. I felt rejected, as if I counted for nothing… which was probably the case as far as he was concerned. Except, I’d promised myself I’d see this through, and I would for Emma’s sake.
“There’s another thing,” I croaked, my throat thick with nerves.
“Go on!”
I folded my arms. “Have you ever watched your daughter dance? She’s hugely talented…”
“What concern is that of yours?” The words left his mouth like he was spitting splinters of ice.
I fought the sting of angry tears behind my eyes. “I’m Emma’s nanny. Her welfare is my concern.”
He leapt to his feet so quickly, his chair crashed to the floor. In two paces he was towering over me. He muttered something under his breath in Russian.
A curse, or something else?
“A nanny is a hired position, one that can be terminated at any time,” he said through gritted teeth. “My role as Emma’s father is forever, and I’ll be the one to decide what’s best for my daughter, not you.”
“True, but she thinks you don’t care about her,” I came straight out with it.
He glowered at me for a long moment, and the harshness in his expression wavered a little. Frustration flashed in his green eyes, as if he was fighting himself. “She couldn’t be more wrong.” He swiped a hand across his brow. “I receive reports from Mrs. Gorelov regarding her progress, which I believe is exceptional.”
“That’s not the same as actually seeing her talent for yourself and showing how proud you are of her.” I sucked in a breath. “I mean, didn’t your parents encourage you when you were learning to play the cello? They must have done…”
“My father never watched me play,” he said as if it was nothing.
Like father, like son.
“I would love to watch you… I’ve listened to you, but I’d love to see you play…” My voice was surprisingly steady given that my heartbeats had skyrocketed. “To show you how important it is to be admired for your talents, I mean.”
Indecision flickered across his features. His gaze danced over my face and an awkward pause followed. “Not sure that would be appropriate, Zoe. You’d have to come to my room and I don’t think of you as that kind of woman.”
My cheeks flamed and suddenly I felt uncomfortable. Maybe I was being too pushy? Except, I needed him on my side because of Emma. “I’m not that kind of woman, I’m just a nanny.”
He laughed. He freaking laughed!
“You irritate the hell out of me, Mary Poppins, but I can’t help liking you a little.” He paused, evidently to collect his thoughts. “Only because you care about Emma, of course.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. My cheeks flamed even more.
“You sing beautifully, and I must admit I’ve enjoyed our duets the past several nights,” he added, “but I can’t allow you to watch me play.”
I lowered my head, disappointment like a bubble in my chest. “Okay…” I said softly.
Suddenly, I felt his hand on my chin, lifting it. “The cello is a part of my life I keep hidden from the world,” he whispered, looking me directly in the eye. “You must never, ever tell anyone.”
I was about to ask him why, when he placed his index finger on my lips. “Shush. No questions. Do you give me your word?”
“Will you let Emma dance for you?” I came right back at him.
He laughed. “You are a minx, Zoe Addison. I could have you shot for defiance.”
He was joking, I hoped. “I promise I won’t say anything,” I said calmly, “if you compromise and watch your daughter.”
“Then Emma can dance for me,” he chuckled.
“On Saturday?”
“On Saturday,” he repeated. “Now run along, Mary Poppins, before I do something I might later regret.”
The second time he’d said those words to me, provoking the same quiver through my body. A quiver that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
“Goodnight, Mr. Melekhov.”
“Please, call me Taras,” he brushed a warm finger down my cheek, “for Emma’s sake. She needs to believe we are a united team for her wellbeing.” A smirk. “See, I can be a good father…”
I resisted leaning into his touch. Way to go! But, lying in my bed later, thinking about him, the flame he’d ignited became impossible to ignore. I caressed my hand down my body, imagining it was his hand, then I fingered myself, imaging they were his fingers. I lost myself in waves of pleasure and came apart moaning his name.
Chapter Seven
Taras
I sat at my office desk, smoking and waiting for my attorney to pitch up for a meeting. The past several nights I’d kept my window closed when playing the cello; things had gone almost too far with Mary Poppins. I’d agreed to watching Emma dance tonight; I would make no further concessions.
I tossed my smoke in the ashtray, leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes.
Christ, I’d been a damned fool to allow Zoe to duet with me. I barely knew her, and I’d trusted her with one of my biggest secrets.
Papa would turn in his grave.
I thought about my father. He was a quiet, serious guy who never spoke more than a few words to anyone, and he’d instilled in me the need to be a man’s man. He disapproved of my playing the cello, didn’t consider it a manly activity, but he put up with it because he was grooming my brother, Ruslan, for the Vory life, not me.
Despite the fact I wasn’t raised to be a Vor, Papa taught me to never show any weakness, to never trust anyone, and to never fear my enemies. He said it was the only standard in life. My belly knotted, and I squirmed in my chair as I remembered him. As old-school as could be, Papa was a graduate of numerous terms behind barbed wire and covered in the tattoos that donated his high rank in the Vory. I fucking loved him, knew he loved me unconditionally, and, like Mama, I turned a blind eye to his criminal activities.
Then, something happened.
Something terrible.
Sitting in my air-conditioned office today, the memory made my chest ache. I swiveled in my executive chair, opened my eyes, and lit another Sobranie.
In the Moscow underworld, Papa held a high-ranking position. He would enforce hits, groom newbies and settle disputes between rival gangsters. The day Ruslan came home, white faced and splattered with blood, will forever be etched in my memories.
It was Papa’s blood.
Papa had tried to mediate between two mobsters.
He’d put himself in the line of fire.
A sniper shot had brought him down.
Mama and I rushed to the hospital and sat by Papa’s bedside after he came out of surgery.
He was in a coma.
No one could say he wasn’t a fighter; it took him two and a half months to die from his wounds.
The funeral was lavish. Scores of mob bosses in pinstripe suits, flanked by bodyguards, lined up to pay their respects to their fallen comrade. State police videotaped the entire event as part of their attempt to piece together the Vory hierarchy.
Shortly afterwards, Ruslan was killed by a car bomb and then Mama died of a heart attack. I was bereft, only eighteen years-old and betrothed to Nina, the granddaughter of Balandin, the Boss of all the bosses.
He took me under his wing, and I began meeting many of Papa’s old friends. They influenced me at a vulnerable time. I started off as a recruit and did everything they told me to do.
Eventually they inducted me into the Vory. If I got an order to kill someone, I’d kill them, or I’d be killed myself. Don’t mess up or you could walk into a room and not walk out.
The Vory was changing, however, increasingly tamed by a political elite that was far more ruthless, in its own way, than the old criminal bosses. There were more opportunities to be had abroad and, when Gleb Sokolov decided to throw in the towel here in Fairwood, Nina’s grandfather made me an offer I decided not to refuse.
Would I have done things any differently if I knew the fate in store for my wife? How hard she’d find it to cope away from home? After arriving in the USA, we lived in an environment where law enforcement was around us all the time. Although I’d bought us protection from corrupt politicians, we were under constant surveillance. Agents parked their cars outside our house and followed us wherever we went.
Nina hated the lack of privacy, hated the feelings of insecurity even though I did everything I could to take care of her. If only she’d hung in there, she might have been much happier due to me being more firmly established nowadays. Most of my businesses were legit, and those that weren’t were watertight protected.
Who are you kidding, Taras? Evil coils inside you like a snake. The words were Nina’s, not mine, but they were true…
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. “Enter,” I barked.
Demyan came in, followed by Felix Nikolaev, a tall grey-haired man who’d been my brief since I’d arrived in the US. A successful criminal defense lawyer, he worked on most of my deals.
He opened his briefcase and lifted out a sheaf of papers. The global arms trade was booming, and I made full use of the vast supply available in this country. As a trafficker I used fake ‘End-User Certificates’ to show that the shipments I sent abroad were legal. I got Demyan to sign them… I never put my name on any documents… but I checked the destinations of the weapons.
Evil lurked inside me, but I did have some conscience. I made sure the shipments weren’t bought by terrorists or rogue states. Nor did I accept payments in drugs or smuggled wildlife. I took advantage of the dark web for my contacts, undercutting the government… the biggest arms exporter in the world.
Demyan put my pen down and I looked Nikolaev in the eye. I trusted him about as far as I could throw him… which wasn’t very far. “Like to grab some lunch?” I asked.
“Sure,” he smiled a fake smile. “Usual place?”
I counted a swanky restaurant among my assets. “Of course,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I spent the rest of the day taking care of business, then returned home. Emma appeared at her habitual time when she’d normally say goodnight; she was dressed in a ballet dress and accompanied by Zoe.
“We can go down to the gym,” Zoe said in a voice that flowed into my ear like warm honey. “Emma is incredibly excited.”
My daughter blinked rapidly and clutched her hands together, clearly nervous.
“I’m looking forward to watching you, Emmochka,” I called her by the diminutive form of her name.
“Really, Papa?” her face broke into a smile that melted my heart. She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the door. “I prepared a routine with Mrs. Gorelov and Zoe picked out the music.”
I caught Mary Poppins’ eye, and she fucking blushed. It was only when Emma had taken up her position in the middle of the gym, and Zoe plugged her phone into the sound system that I realized why her cheeks had turned red. Bach’s Cello Suite No.1 in G started up, played by Mischa Maisky… I recognized the piece… of all the instruments she could have chosen, she’d selected mine. I flashed her a furious look and she glanced away.
We stood next to each other, watching Emma dance, and within seconds I forgot my anger. Nina and I used to attend ballet performances in Moscow, the Bolshoi, and I knew something about it. My daughter was hugely talented, I realized. She danced nimble, delicate little steps, seeming to flit across the room. She was telling a story with her lithe body and sweet facial expressions. Supporting her weight on one leg, she extended the other directly behind with a straight knee. Then she pirouetted on the points of her toes, twirling round and round until I almost felt giddy at the sight of her. My chest swelled with pride.
Eventually, she ended the routine with a deep curtsey. She looked up at me expectantly and I threw caution to the wind. I stepped forward and raised her up. “Emmochka, you took my breath away.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Was I good?”
“More than good, myshka. You were brilliant.” I bent and kissed the top of her head.
She rolled her shoulders back and smiled from ear to ear. “I’d like to be a professional ballet dancer when I grow up,” she announced.
Immediately, I hardened my expression. Then I felt an unexpected nudge against my ribs. Fucking Mary Poppins. She glared at me.
“A lot can happen between now and then, Emma. You might get bored of ballet.” I was clutching at straws, and I knew it.
“I’ll never get bored of ballet,” she breathed. “I love it too much.”
“Come on,” Zoe interjected. “Let’s get you ready for bed and leave this discussion for another day.”
She shot me a stern look over the top of my daughter’s head. “You did good, poppet,” she said to Emma. “You’ve made your papa proud of you.”
I couldn’t resist a warm smile. “You can say that again.”
“I made you proud of me,” Emma giggled, and the tension between us disappeared. “Good night, Papa.”
“Good night, myshka.”
They left me to my own devices, and I went to have dinner alone. Afterwards, I sat smoking, fully expecting Zoe to make an appearance and chastise me for attempting to break my daughter’s dreams. I steeled myself to explain that Emma’s future would follow a different path than ballet school. I couldn’t let her go out into the big, bad world.
I smoked for longer than usual, waiting.
I poured myself a shot of vodka, waiting.
I paced the floor, waiting.
Mary Poppins didn’t appear.
Growling to myself, I stormed up to my room and grabbed my cello. The window was closed and the AC humming. Fuck it! I shut it down and threw open the sashes.
Then I picked up my bow and launched into playing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.
Silence from upstairs.
I played it again.
Still silence.
I started playing the third time, and, hallelujah, she joined in, singing the words that spoke to the darkness in
my soul, the song about desire and rejection, failure and transcendence, but primarily about a relationship that had gone stale.
Her deep honeyed voice seemed filled with sadness. A longing for the unattainable. Had Mary Poppins been disappointed in love? I worked my jaw. What the fuck did I care? She was nothing to me. Just the hired help. Caring about Zoe would be a sign of weakness and could only lead to disaster.
Evil coils inside you like a snake.
Nina’s words echoed in my head, making me remember the Moscow Bratva’s thirst for violence. They’d turned me into a killing machine, the darkness within me swallowing the light. Although I was no longer theirs to command, no longer followed orders but gave them, a serious businessman who held a secure place among the feared, I knew the violence I was capable of. A vein in my neck throbbed. Any threat, and I’d revert to my old persona. Blood would then flow.
And yet… and yet, Zoe’s throaty singing had done something to me. The more I thought about the emotion she’d poured into it, the more jealous I became of whoever had elicited those feelings in her.
Ridiculous.
I was being ridiculous. Me, Taras Melekhov, the Bratva Boss. Warmth pooled in my chest, however, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
Chapter Eight
Zoe
“You’re working for WHO?” Mum’s disbelieving voice reverberated in my ear.
“Taras Melekhov,” I repeated calmly, checking no one could overhear. I’d perched my ass on a bench in Central Park with my phone in my hand, fulfilling my promise to Livvy that I’d fess up to our parents.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Mum sounded pissed off.
Mega pissed off.
I blew out a sigh. “Because I knew you’d overreact…”
“Have you any idea who he is?” she shrilled, and I could imagine the horrified look on her face.
“Yes, Mum, I know.” I shifted in my seat, keeping my tone measured.
