Fearless 2

by Amarie Avant

  The boy, panhandling about twenty yards away, has the moves to boot.

  The umbrella is shielding Natasha, but she kicks out her foot. Her baby shoe somersaults into the air. She’s awake.

  “Girl, do you know how much I spend on your shoes?” My tone is even more playful as I stop to retrieve the expensive, stylish tennis shoe that Zariah always complains about. She purchases those ugly “stride” shoes, mentioning how they assist in walking but our baby is too pretty for that.

  The name brand tennis shoe is wedged into the sand. When I turn around, there’s a man standing before the stroller, sliding open the partition. In a flash, I’m there.

  “Who the fuck…” The threat is lodged in my throat.

  A pair of eyes the same as mine smile back at me.

  Grigor! One of my many little brothers is donning a power-suit. He looks ready for Wall Street, but here he is in Venice, California. I grip his lapel. “Why are you here?”

  “No hug, brother?” The idiot still has the silly smile on his face.

  “Daddy! Daddyyyy!” Natasha pounds a fist onto the table before her. Organic fruit puffs tremble with each hit.

  “Oh, she is beautiful.” Grigor reaches out, and I slap his hand. He bares his teeth, shaking out the pain in his hand. “It never fails, Vassili. You don’t have to be so rude.”

  “Fuck You. Just because your cunt of a mother was such a simple piece of pussy doesn’t mean you have to be —”

  Grigor interrupts my comment with a dose of seriousness. “Vassili, dad wants to talk to you.”

  “Where’s Semion?” I ask of my father’s sister’s son. Of all the damn kids Anatoly had, he only wanted me for the bratva. And he only utilizes that ugly fuck, Semion, as his lap dog. There has to be logic in that Semion is so fucking ugly, you’d have to be crazier than the devil to cross him.

  “At the car.” Grigor nudges his head to the side. Along the tiny street is a Maybach. My cousin, Semion’s enormous square head bobs as he leans against the side of the car. Noticing the back of a head, which must belong to my father, I keep it pushing.

  “You came a long way for nothing, brat—brother,” I toss over my shoulder.

  It’s a quarter after twelve, and I need to shower and dress. Natasha and I have our routine, she takes her two-hour nap, during my training, including the drive to and from Vadim’s gym. Usually I play hard with my child in the afternoon, because Zariah will complain if our girl refuses to fall asleep on time. We’ll be pushing it as it is to pick up Zariah by 2pm.

  Natasha is pointing to seagulls squawking in the water as I jog past. At least, she will get a good night’s sleep, waking up early. Now, I’ll have to improvise to wash off all this sweat. Grigor’s impromptu arrival throws me off my game for a moment, and I almost pass the street that I parked on. In Venice, with all the million-dollar homes and tiny streets lining the ocean, one could get lost. But I owned a home in the area, prior to marrying and settling down.

  At Park Street, I move the stroller off the pathway since the street I parked off, the sidewalk doesn’t connect with the pathway. The wheels navigate over the sand for a moment before wedging into the ground.

  “Where you wanna go for lunch, beautiful, huh?” I ask.

  “Daddy, da-daddy,” she slobbers.

  “Oh, you’re happy today, no teething?” I unlatch her from the seat, hoist her on my arm, folding up the stroller, and then heft that beneath my other arm. “Daddy stinks, sweetheart,” I tell her as she begins to slobber on my shoulder.

  We head through the sand, and onto the sidewalk. I lean the stroller against the front side door of my Mercedes SUV, open the backdoor, and place Natasha in her car seat. While climbing into my car, I glance back at my beautiful daughter and my mind is on the woman who made her so gorgeous. Zariah.

  ***

  Forty-five minutes later, the sweat has salted against my muscles and my damp shirt clings to my chest. “Dad’s a fuc—Dad’s a mess,” I tell Natasha as I place her on my hip and we enter the kitchen.

  “Eat, eat,” she growls.

  “Yes, this is where we eat, but not yet, girl. Let me shower,” I tell her, a little too excited to hold on a conversation with my child. There was a time I could go days without talking, but the baby’s book Zariah read, I snuck a peek at a few pages, and learned the more I talk to Natasha the more vocalized and intelligent she will become. Of course, my daughter will become an MMA fighter like her father, but there will be times I prefer her to use her words and not her fists. “You want French fries?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Okay, baby girl, we will get those French fries, but don’t fight me if we aren’t at the restaurant soon enough.”

  I start down the hall to the front of the house where the double staircase is. My hand just grazes the carved wood staircase when I hear a noise. Someone is in my house!

  Zariah

  Surprisingly the meeting ends well before one pm. Connie has the task of helping Tyrese become acclimated with the office, which causes Lanetta and a few of the other female workers to sulk. Like what where these hoes intending to train him on? Filing and shit?

  Damn, I’m getting a little edgy. I take this as my key to get some sustenance in my body. These extra layers of fat aren’t fooling my brain. I am hungray!

  I pull out my cell phone and text Vassili a change of plans.

  ME: How about you come get me now…

  I add an emoticon, and then press send.

  “Zar, Zariah,” Connie corrects herself, with a professional nod, “Tyrese and I are headed to lunch. You should come.”

  “Vassili should be here soon,” I reply. And if he doesn’t get the message to come early, there are a few snacks in my cabinets that have my name written all over them.

  “You should really come.” She lowers her voice, as we head toward our offices. “His eyes are all over your ass right now.”

  “I’m married.”

  “And that wedding ring of yours compliments all the junk in your trunk. I’m sure he’s aware. Flirting never hurts...”

  Sometimes I just can’t with Connie. She assisted me with training for the bar, having passed the October prior. Yet, her mentality can be lacking. Vassili and I are very jealous people. And I am too goal oriented to piss off my husband which means I do not have the time or the balls to cheat.

  “So, are you joining us for lunch?” Tyrese catches up with us.

  “Oh, where are we going?” Lanetta asks, running up after him. Damn it, I want to school her on a few things. When my father’s secretary, Berenice, started to stick her claws into him, she did it subtly. Lanetta needs to learn the game.

  I speak up. “Pokalicious has the best sushi, but that’s our Wednesday spot. Greek Street is our favorite, for Greek,” I shrug.

  “Which do you prefer?” he asks.

  “Depends on what you all agree upon. This is a democracy. Can’t vote, I have other arrangements.”

  “Oh, is Vassili taking you to lunch?” Lanetta hops in.

  Well, mentioning it myself seemed like bragging. I nod, and turn to strut away. And damn it, Tyrese Nick’s eyes are glued to me, yet again, reminding me that the chat we need to have can’t come soon enough.

  Vassili

  My eyes close for a fraction of second as I process the past hour. Grigor and Semion had me convinced that the man in the Maybach being guarded by that dog faced fucking cousin of mine was my father. Anatoly doesn’t exit from hiding without heavy security. Hence, my assumption that Anatoly was in the backseat of the car.

  A familiar scent hits me. It’s of lemon, fir cones, and black currant, the scent is a favorite of Putin, and my father, forcing my frown to deepen.

  I kiss Natasha’s soft cheek. “Don’t play nice with grandpa,” I tell her, recalling the first time Anatoly came to my neck of the woods. We were at a daddy-daughter day at the park near our home. She was on a swing when three SUVs pulled up.

  Zariah knows nothing about that.


  She never will.

  We enter the dining room. There’s a China cabinet to one side, in the middle is a fortress of a table. Crystal goblets, silver chargers, and other trinkets give the table a posh home magazine feel. On each side of the lengthy, custom made table, three men stand. My eyes cut to their holstered guns. Then my wrath directs to my father. At the park, he was incognito with a red wig. Yet wearing one of his usual colorful suits. Today, he swapped the bright blue suit for a canary yellow one, with an even brighter blue silk tie. Enough jeweled on his fingers to certify him as a real bitch. Fucking idiot.

  “Bring her here, bring her here,” Anatoly clasps his hands together. “My little Chak Chak,” he says, having given Natasha the nickname of a Turkish dessert, which is deep fried and drenched in honey, and a staple with Russian tea.

  “Cha… Cha!” My daughter trades teams instantly, chubby fists pumping in the air.

  “Moy syn—my son!” Anatoly snaps at me. “Bring my granddaughter. I wasn’t invited to her first birthday, have some common decency. Let’s save the ‘you’re disappointing me’ for later. Unless you’re ready to agree with the only proposal on the table?”

  “Nyet. I’m good with disappointing you, it’s the norm for us,” I snarl. Though I cuss in front of my child, I place my hand over her ear, the other is trapped against my sweaty ass shirt. She has this habit of picking up words that are said in emotion—or lack thereof. “Have I ever made it seem like I give a fuck about your psychotic requests?”

  His hard eyes match my glare, and then they soften while he holds out his hands for Natasha. “Chak-Chak, are you walking yet?”

  “A couple of steps.” I turn to one of the men. “If those guns go from any of your waistbands, you’re all dead.”

  The man’s gaze falls to the floor.

  “Pah!” My father scoffs. “Semion is about the only one of these fucks who doesn’t care for your threats.”

  “Good, Good. Make him your legacy.”

  “My nephew?” He considers the idea with disdain, ready to argue, but I place Natasha on her own two feet, and take both of her hands. Again, I want to tell her not to play nice, but she’s pressing off from her knees and attempting to hurry to the piece of a crap of a father of mine.

  His praise for my daughter curdles in my ears. Though I cannot recall being so young, I remember my sister, Sasha. Out of all my father’s children, Sasha and I had the same mother. Anatoly did not glance her way much of the time he came over. And no matter how hard I tried to make it up to Sasha, she chose the lifestyle my father got rich on. Drugs.

  With my support, Natasha takes heavy, shaky steps down the length of the table to her grandfather.

  “I like black people,” Anatoly’s words come out of nowhere. “Can’t say this for your wife—beautiful shape— but this girl, my Chak Chak is the perfect color.” He tugs out of his suit, and places his arm next to hers, they’re both a golden complexion. “Fuck, I could sunbath for days and not obtain this flawless hue. Girl, you are 24 karat gold.”

  She laughs at his disgusting comments. My father holds out a velvet box. “Chak Chak, this is for you.”

  He opens it, and the diamond earrings inside are so ridiculously large that she’ll tumble attempting to walk with them in her ear. The moment he leaves, those go to.

  I sit on the chair next to him, and pull out my cell phone. It’s almost two pm.

  “Vassili,” my father says my name, in a testy tone, when I assumed he always took great pleasure in saying ‘my son’ just to irritate me.

  I toss the phone on the table. “You afraid I’ll call America’s Most Wanted?”

  He’s paranoid. Natasha stands in his lap and pulls out his handkerchief in a matter of seconds. Next, she goes for his tie. I smile as he gulps.

  “Chak-Chak, too many people want to kill me. Not you, too?” He smiles at her, with a million-dollar row of veneers, while removing his tie from her tight fists.

  “Cha… Cha… Daddy!” She shouts.

  This mudak proceeds to gift her with all of his attention. “I have too many kids, sweetheart. Shit, you aren’t even my first grand baby, but you are the most important one. You belong to moy syn. You are princess of the bratva, yes you are.” He laughs.

  “She isn’t princess of the fucking bratva, Anatoly.” I sit back in my chair. “What do you want? I have shit to do.”

  With his tie removed, my father addresses me again. This time, the usual pure anger in his eyes is knocked down a few notches. “You and I have a business to run.”

  “Oh, you’re going legit now? I may need a new manager if Yuri keeps slacking off.” I am far from comedic, and my carefree stance slithers beneath his skin.

  “How’s The Red Door?” He mentions the lounge that I own in honor of my dearly departed sister, Sasha.

  “Good.”

  “I see Resnov Vodka is still the prime seller.”

  “I have a contract.” I grunt. “The family vodka is about the only legacy that I give a fuck about, Anatoly.”

  “Return my girls to The Red Door.”

  I shake my head, not even wasting my breath with a response.

  “What do you want, Vassili? The last time I came to California, didn’t I tell you that there’d be consequences of noncooperation.”

  My hand slams against the table. The sturdy wood splinters. “You do not threaten me!”

  Natasha jolts, her cute little face puckers into a frown. And then she bursts into tears.

  The men become tense. Each one easing his hand along the butt of his gun.

  “Pull them out, and die,” I growl through tensed lips.

  “Chak-Chak, your otets—father is a very bull-headed man. He is blood of my blood. He will get passes, trust me, beautiful, no one in this world will touch a hair of his head or your head.”

  “Or my wife’s.” I argue.

  “Or your mothers of course, what sort of man would I be?”

  Our eyes lock onto each other’s. This motherfucker murdered my mother.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Anatoly reads my mind. “I loved your mother, Vassili.”

  Tears burn against my eyes. My knuckles are numb. I glance down at them. Their also ashen gray due to holding them into tight fists. My breaths come short, as I think about all the crap my mother was put through by this man. He made her weak.

  I hated her.

  I still have him to hate for it.

  “You removed all the girls from The Red Door, Vassili. Make your father happy for once and return them,” his tone is callus. “You’ve had ample time. No, you’ve had more time than necessary. I was sick for a while, so you have had more time than necessary to stop being stubborn. Do it now, before something happens.”

  “Dah, I’m aware of the repercussions of my actions. If we weren’t family, I’d be dead. If it makes you feel any better, Malich was the one who handled anything that had a connection to you. He ensured that the cunts were safe, and the rich old fucks kept coming. All the mistrust you have for your baby brat—brother is bullshit. Malich plays into the rules where one must do what they’re parents asks, or their older brother, in your case. But I give respect where respect is given. And I can’t’ recall a day in my life that I gave a fuck about you.”

  “Vassili,” he breathes heavily, still cooing into Natasha’s ear as she cries against this neck. “I tried so very hard with you. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that you, and that other fucking girl were always so much like your mama. But they are both dead now.” He says of Sasha and his first wife. “You are moy syn,” he argues through gritted teeth. “Mine.”

  “Sasha. Do you even recall your own daughter’s name?”

  “Daughter’s names? Hmmm, I don’t recollect many of them by name, no.”

  “So, I allow you to sex traffic your high-end prostitutes at The Red Door. What’s next?”

  “You head it, instead of Malich. I don’t need my little brother, Vassili. I sure as fuck don’t need
my nephew. Semion gets a snug wee bullet to the skull when you become king. Contrary to how you perceive things, everything I have ever accomplished was for the benefit of my first child.” He kisses Natasha’s head as she snores softly.

  “I’ve been thinking.” I stare at him for a beat. “If we took this moment in time and dissected it. Tore it away from the image of the man who had my mother tied to a street sign in our hometown and had a sign of vulgarities strung around her. If we took this precise second and forgot about the families you’ve had murdered, the whores you had strung out or given “the world to” in order to fuck other rich old fucks for money. What would we have? Anatoly, what kinda man are you without the power and fear?”

  He rubs Natasha’s back softly, and I swear the glare he gives me tells me that she is the only safe person in this house. Blood is slamming through my veins. But I won’t fight him. My child is here. There was a day when I would fight my father fist for fist, only to be stopped by multiple guns to my head. In his warped mind, me being his first born is like my golden ticket to act like any other over-privileged white American boy. I can play fool. Cuss him. Fight him. Just like those Facebook home videos that some people think are funny and tear my fucking heart out because in another world you respect your elders. But not him. He’ll go toe to toe with me no problem. He’ll let me push the limits.

  Nobody else can. Malich will suffer. Yuri and Igor will be marked. I continue with, “so what kinda motherfucker are you without the team, huh?” I glare through him, realizing he had to have sent the email. It would be too coincidental for him to come two days after. I’d ask him, but the mudak is a liar.

  He bestows a loving kiss at the top of Natasha’s head. “The kind who gets shit done.”

  “I’ll think about the bitches, okay?” I lie. Because motherfuckers like him just want attention.

  “Returning them to The Red Door?” His eyebrow cocks in hope. When I nod, he asks, “What’s to think about? I’ve lost a mill a week, fucking with you for over a year, Vassili.”