by Holly Bargo
“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 thumb 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.”
Her jaw dropped. “Jaime, I never suspected…”
“Of course not,” he said, the haughty arrogance of the old Spanish hidalgos evident in his chiseled features. “Unlike your fiancé”—he spat that last word—“I am a man of honor.”
Cecily’s mouth worked, but no sounds came forth.
“You are a brilliant chef,” Jami continued, bringing her hands to his full lips and kissing the backs of her knuckles. “And a lovely woman with a kind heart and a generous, loving nature. Do you not think I see you helping the other cooks when they are overwhelmed or uncertain? Do you not think I see you console a waiter when a customer has been harsh?”
Cecily looked at him, noticed the handsome planes of his face, the thick black hair pulled into a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck. She rather thought he looked like celebrity chef Aarón Sanchez or Omar Allibhoy, but...tougher, harder, like he’d grown up hard and fought the system—whatever the “system” was—to mature and become a top chef in a foodie town like San Antonio. The idea that he’d be interested in her never occurred to Cecily.
“But...but...you date actresses and models,” she squeaked and looked down at her lap.
He shrugged. “Window dressing. Publicity. Arm candy. We go out for an evening, an event where paparazzi snap photos and write lies, and then never see each other again.” He shrugged again, such a Gallic gesture that Cecily idly wondered if she could copy it with half as much grace. He did not mention the numerous one night stands with those actresses and models. “They mean nothing to me and I mean nothing to them. But you...you, Cecily, mean a great deal. I have witnessed your skill, admired your kindness. You are a woman a man can and should treasure for a lifetime.”
“I had no idea,” she muttered, stunned. She looked up again, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You go back to Cleveland,” he commanded with a slight sneer of contempt for the northern city of cold winters and violence. “See this man who cares so little for you that he never calls, never visits. And then, when you have settled things with him, you come back to me and we shall see what blossoms between us, eh?”
“I... I…” Cecily’s jaw finally snapped shut, because words failed her. Her boss liked her. A lot. To a greater degree than she ever suspected. She couldn’t castigate herself for having led him on because she hadn’t even known he liked her. She certainly couldn’t see how she would have encouraged him, because she was sure she hadn’t. That still didn’t make her feel any less guilty for having been unfaithful to Pyotr. She finally mustered a weak defense, “He’s been trying to come back.”
“Not hard enough,” Jaime condemned a man he did not know. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Cecily, I know something of gangs. My older brother was a gang member; one of my younger brothers still is a gang member. Gangs rule the neighborhood where I grew up.” He sighed “I myself ran with a gang for a few years. It’s possible to get out if you really want to.”
She looked at him, afraid to believe his words, yet fearful that he spoke truly.
“What happened to your older brother?” she asked.
“He died,” Jaime replied curtly. Cecily winced and did not press further.
“How did you get out?”
“I moved away, went to school, then moved again,” he answered. What he did not mention was that the old gang had spread during his years away, had re-established contact with him, and now maintained a loose association with him. They, more or less, left his restaurant alone and granted him the occasional favor. In exchange, he paid them protection money or the occasional five-star meal. He shrugged that off as the cost of doing business, not as involvement with a gang.
“Pyotr said he’d have to buy his way out of the Bratva.”
Jaime’s shoulders rolled in that expressive, Gallic gesture again. “I do not have experience with the Russian mafia, but the street gangs of my experience cannot hold you if you wish to leave.”
Cecily thought that, perhaps, he made them sound altogether too much like a social club: quit paying dues and end one’s membership. She was sure it just wasn’t that easy, but she had no concrete information to refute his implication that Pyotr could have left the Bratva for her if he really wanted to.
She hated not being able to deny that, because the Bratva was more than a street gang.
Cecily pulled her hands from Jaime’s loose grip and wiped her e
yes. She rose to her feet. “I’ll finish out tonight’s service. I’ll catch a flight up to Cleveland tomorrow morning and be back within a week.”
Jaime stood, too, and nodded. He opened his arms and she moved into his embrace. She absorbed his warmth and support for a long moment, taking strength from it, then gently disengaged. She pulled a tissue from a box on his desk and blew her nose. She used another, clean tissue to wipe her eyes and thought that it was probably a good thing she never bothered with makeup, else her face would be even more frightful than it undoubtedly was with red, puffy eyes and red nose.
“You okay now?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She took a step toward the office door, paused, and looked back at him. “Thanks, Jaime.”
He gave her a small smile. “Just promise me, linda, that you’ll come back to me.”
She gave him a wan smile without commitment and walked through the door to return to the kitchen. She wondered, would she go back to him or the restaurant? Cecily didn’t think he mean he meant just the restaurant, although she knew he appreciated her as his head chef. Her salary reflected that confidence. She’d repaid every penny borrowed from Pyotr. Doing so had kept her disposable income almost nonexistent after rent and necessities, but she felt more independent and less like a moocher. Pyotr wasn’t the only one concerned with pride and honor.
She had appreciated his financial help, but she desperately missed his presence in her bed and in her life.
The rest of the night passed in a whirl. None of the other cooks, dishwashers, waiters, or other employees asked about her meeting with their boss or the telltale signs of crying. That night when she returned home, she looked in on Mrs. Macdougal, reassured herself that the nice old woman slept soundly and peacefully, and went upstairs to her lonely apartment. Aching with physical and emotional exhaustion, she pulled out her tablet, quickly looked up round-trip flights to Cleveland, and booked the best deal she could find.
She looked longingly at her bed, but knew she had to pack first. Her flight left in six hours and she knew there’d be no way she would succeed in forcing herself to rise one minute earlier than necessary to get to the airport. She dragged out her suitcase and packed enough for a week. Thank goodness, she’d washed laundry a couple of days ago!
After a quick scrub in the shower, she donned pajamas and tumbled into her bed. A moment before falling asleep, Cecily set the alarm.
The next morning, she hit the snooze button. Twice. Blinking at the clock, she realized that she was running thirty minutes late and lurched upright. She threw on some clothes, grabbed her coat from the closet and her purse from the dresser, and rushed downstairs. Cecily took a moment to dash off a quick note to her landlady, letting her know that she’d gone on an emergency trip and would be back in a week. Then she raced outside to hop in her car—that she’d bought with the money she had earned—and break every speed limit to the airport. At least she didn’t have to stop to refuel.
She waited for her turn at the self-serve kiosk to print out her boarding passes. Cecily hauled her suitcase to the ticket counter where an attendant asked to see her identification and her boarding passes before accepting her luggage. Having sent her suitcase on its way, she advanced to the security line which moved with all the haste of cold molasses. Finally—finally!—she passed through the indignity of being scanned and the contents of her purse being poured out onto a table and examined for suspicious substances or devices. At last released from the intrusive investigation, she ran to the gate to catch her flight as the final boarding call was announced.
“You’re cutting it fine,” the attendant commented as she scanned Cecily’s boarding pass.
Cecily gasped for air, not having the breath to respond. She walked down the jetway and onto the aircraft, finally finding her seat between two large men.
“Excuse me, but I’m 38D,” she said, running a hand through her tousled curls.
The man sitting in the aisle seat looked at her boobs and smiled. Thirty-eight D. Yeah, she got it. She was not amused. But the man rose from the seat to allow her to pass in front of his seat so she could take hers. He returned to his seat rather too quickly, forcing her to rub up against him. Cecily shot him an annoyed glance, which he ignored.
The next few hours were spent squished between two men who leered at her, with the guy in the aisle seat allowing his hands to wander now and then. One of these days, Cecily told herself, she would fly first class.
When the aircraft landed and passengers were finally permitted to deplane, the aisle seat guy stood and took a step back ostensibly in an exercise of chivalry. However, when Cecily rose to accept his offer to access the aisle, she felt his hand on her butt.
“Hey!” she snapped and took a step backward step, stomping the heel of her shoe into her instep.
The man grunted and muttered, “Bitch.”
Cecily didn’t bother responding. She hurried forward and made her way to the baggage return area to retrieve her suitcase.
Half an hour later, she hauled her suitcase to the taxi stand and caught a ride to the hotel nearest Pyotr’s apartment. She sighed with frustration when informed that they had no availability.
“You really should have called first to ensure a room was available,” the front desk clerk said with a supercilious tone as he looked down his nose at her.
With a tight smile for politeness’ sake, she retreated to a sofa in the lobby, pulled out her phone, and called Latasha.
“Hey, girl!” Latasha answered.
“Latasha, do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, sure. My shift doesn’t start until three o’clock.”
“Great,” Cecily breathed. “I’m in Cleveland. The hotel doesn’t have any availability and I need a place to stay. Can you put me up for a few days?”
“You’re here? You came? What took you so damned long?”
“What do you mean what took me so long? I just got word yesterday evening that Pyotr was hurt.”
A tense pause followed that announcement. Then Latasha said, “Cece, we need to talk.”
That didn’t sound good.
“Okay,” she replied. “Can you pick me up?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
Cecily gave her the name of the hotel and Latasha promised to pick her up within half an hour.
“Ma’am, you cannot loiter in the lobby,” the front desk clerk sneered.
She turned a sour expression to him and said, “I’ve got a ride coming. Cool your jets, buddy.”
“Ma’am, you need to leave now or I’ll be forced to call security.”
“Grebanyy pridurok,” she muttered, happy to know how to curse in Russian.
The clerk’s eyes widened at Russian profanity. “Are you associated with Mr. Maksim Andrupovich?”
Cecily bared her teeth at the man and said, “No, I’m engaged to Pyotr Idaklyka.”
The clerk turned pale, no doubt considering the unforeseen consequences of having offended the brutal fighter’s fiancée. Word was that the Bratva’s enforcer had turned more than unusually vicious in recent months. Anyone in Cleveland who had dealings with Mr. Andrupovich trembled in fear at the thought of having to face the hulking blonde beast.
“If you’re sure you have a ride coming?”
She cast him a look of weary contempt and nodded, then turned her attention back to the windows facing the porte cochere.
A car Cecily didn’t recognize pulled in front of the hotel’s main doors. But Cecily did recognize the smooth, café au lait complexion of her best friend as she exited the shiny vehicle.
“Hey, girl!” Latasha called out. Cecily rose to her feet and trotted to her friend. Arms wrapped around each other, the women hugged.
“Let me look at you,” Latasha said, leaning back and examining her best friend with a critical eye. “You’ve lost weight.”
“I’ve been working like a dog,” Cecily said. She took a deep breath. “Can we get out of here?”
“Sure, Cece.”
“He looks the same,” she murmured as her eyes followed the tall, broad-shouldered form of Iosif Drakoniy. She looked at Latasha. “You’re still with him? He’s a bad man, Latasha”
“And Pyotr isn’t?” Latasha shot back, then red tinged her light mocha cheeks. “I know he’s a bad man, but he’s no worse than my gang member brothers and he treats me like a queen. I feel safe with him, like nothing bad will ever happen to me.”
Cecily nodded. She understood. “Pyotr makes me feel like that, too.”
The two women followed Iosif out of the hotel. He stashed Cecily’s suitcase in the trunk of the car.
“I’ll sit in back with Cece,” Latasha announced. “That way we can chat.”
Iosif frowned, but he nodded and opened the car door, ushering the women into the vehicle. He climbed into the driver’s seat and they were soon on their way.
“Nice ride,” Cecily complimented, stroking the burnished leather upholstery.
Latasha ignored the comment and said, “Tell me everything that’s been going on since you left.”
“I think what’s going on up here is probably more exciting. Tell me about Gia’s baby.”
“Emilia is the most darling little girl,” Latasha gushed, allowing herself to be distracted. “She is absolutely the cutest thing and already has enough toys and outfits for an entire daycare.”
“Has Gia graduated yet?”
“Yeah, about a month before Emilia was born.” Latasha chuckled. “I wish you could have been there. Everything was quite restrained until the part after. Jeez, these Russians really know how to throw a party.”
“I’ll bet Olivia arranged it.”
“You know she did.”
“And how are you, Latasha?”
“I’m good, better than good. I’ve got a great job as an emergency room nurse and I’ve got Iosif.”
Cecily glanced at the rearview mirror just in time to catch a small, satisfied smile curl the dour man’s lips. “So, you’re living with him, huh?”
