Fearless 2

by Amarie Avant

  “Nobody told me shit.” Yuri pushes his food away. “I have things to do. I could use the extra funds. What about the art dealings? I’ve handled those requests every quarter?”

  Our family has an artist. One of my half-sister’s can freehand the Mona Lisa with her eyes closed. It seems my father is capable of investing time in his children when they have a select skill that benefit him. We have a connection at Smithsonian, and receive an inventory of new shipments to the West Coast Museum. With Yuri’s assistance, my sister replaces the originals with her own knockoffs, and he places them on the black market.

  Yuri huffs again. “I need money.”

  Malich puts his fork down. “What’s wrong, son? I cannot see the two of you going broke anytime soon. The matches. The Killer Karo clothing and memorabilia. The sports water. Your commercials still play, Vassili?”

  “Da!” I nod.

  “What’s with you, Yuri? Have I raised you to be greedy?”

  “Nyet, otets—no, father.” He rubs a hand over his face.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you then?” I ask, feeling my cousin’s anxiousness.

  “I’m proposing to Taryn, shit, is that okay with you?” he argues.

  “Fuck, yeah. That doesn’t have anything to do with me. You sure, though?” I glare him straight in the eye. They’re inseparable when we double date, however, he’s even more of an idiot than I thought for even considering actually settling down with someone like Taryn.

  “What do you mean, am I sure?”

  I place up a hand, not one for arguing. Make your own mistakes with that bitch, my face says it all.

  “I’m proud of you, my son,” Malich tells him. “Ready to make an honest woman out of your girl. When I made the decision to remove myself from my brother’s grasps, it wasn’t with the heavy heart I had expected. Your mother pleaded with me a thousand times before she died, to cut ties with Anatoly. He had just taken over, after your grandfather died, and I just couldn’t see myself leaving such a hot head to rule the bratva.”

  “It’s all about respect not force,” I mumble in agreement.

  Malich nods. “Da! It is. That numbskull is unpredictable. Anatoly would’ve been dead a month as the boss, without someone to smooth the waters for him. Too slimy,” his eyes apologize to me for talking about my father. I shrug. “I’ve always told my sons, you too, Vassili, to never have regrets. I didn’t pull out soon enough. Regrets like that stick to your heart, never go away.”

  “You were trying to save Sasha.” I wolf down my food, feeling uncomfortable for having such strong emotions around my cousin and uncle. But with Malich’s face getting all long while contemplating the past, I had to speak up.

  “Yes, myself and your aunt continued to support Anatoly after Sasha was born because we saw the way he treated your mother. He was rapidly changing. He needed us in America. We saw that as a prime opportunity to take Sasha. If only he’d let us raise the girl. But…”

  “My piz’da of a father wouldn’t allow it.” I frown.

  “So yes, we will always have a few regrets, trying for a better future isn’t one of them. But, not removing myself from the fold soon thereafter will always be on my mind. Now, Yuri, you are a millionaire. I am, of course, wealthy enough with the money I have made helping Anatoly build his empire over the years. But with that being said, what type of ring do you want to purchase this girl?” Although Malich is cushioning the truth with a joke, I feel that he isn’t too keen on Yuri settling down with Taryn. The bitch is a gold digger, plain and simple. Telling Yuri the truth won’t help at all. Some people cannot be told. They have to see it for themselves. So, if he wants to drop money hand over fist, like I did with Zariah, I hope he simmers the fuck down until he realizes how unworthy she is.

  “I want a ring made, like Vassili.”

  I bite my fist. This isn’t gonna work well for you, brah.

  “And you love this girl?” Malich inquires. Something in his voice is desperate for his idiot son to see the light. Every once in a while, Yuri gets pussy whipped. Tore the fuck down over some sour cunt.

  “Is the bitch worth it?” Igor asks, plain and simple.

  Yuri growls, is already on the defense, and so I keep my jaw compressed. Really there is no help for him.

  “We love each other,” he says.

  Yeah, whatever you say, kazen, is written all over my face. “Uncle,” I change the subject to something more important than Yuri dishing out money he won’t be able to have returned for a custom-made ring. “I need your help with something. Yuri and I have been trying to handle it for about a week, but shit got in the way, and we’re no closer to finding out who sent this email.”

  I slide my cell phone from my pocket, and Malich appears relieved. There’ll be more fatherly pep talks before Yuri attempts to go for broke. My uncle places on his prescription glasses as I tell him to open the email regarding Frank Gaspar.

  “Who is this little shit?” he asks, glancing through the photos of the decomposing body.

  “A rookie cop,” Yuri says. “I don’t recall Anatoly ever wanting us to put anybody on the beat on payroll. Only Detectives and higher ups. Have you heard of him?”

  “Frank Gaspar? Nyet. Never.” He places down the phone. “But we will know everything there is to know about him by the end of the day. You killed him?”

  “Vassili punched him around a little, I did the deed.” Yuri shrugs.

  “Well, he looks like a nobody, but I’m assuming this email implies that somebody wants to make something out of nothing?”

  We both nod.

  Malich sighs heavily. “You think your father did this to rattle you? We aren’t picking up his shipment. And he went ahead and sent it anyway. Hmmm, he’d be mad at me, not you, though, Vassili.”

  “Then it’s Zariah’s father!” Yuri slaps a hand onto the table.

  “You’re still having trouble with Zar’s pops?” Malich’s eyes widen in surprise. “We’re all family now. What’s going on there?”

  My shoulders lift a little. “Zariah and Maxwell aren’t on speaking terms. He hates me just as much as I hate him. Zariah sent him a birthday party invite but the mudak didn’t come.”

  “Jesus,” Malich says. “That beautiful baby and her gorgeous mother don’t deserve the silent treatment. He’d miss a grandbaby’s first birthday because he hates you? That’s bullshit. Shit like this makes my blood pressure increase. I’ll make the call, figure out who this Gaspar is. See if he works for Anatoly or Washington. We’ll go from there.”

  ***

  Later in the day, Malich is in the state-of-the-art kitchen again. The aroma of his famous meatball mozzarella soup wafts through out the room. It’s the same soup that set Zariah’s nerves at ease the first time she met with the majority of my family, months after we were married. He picks up a plate of Russian bread and comes to sit down next to me.

  “Uncle, you cook like we’re celebrating a holiday,” I tell him.

  Zariah, who arrived after work, sits next to Igor’s wife, Anna. The women hold their own loud ass conversation. Anna smacks Igor’s hand as he reaches for a pelmeni—a Russian dumpling.

  “You’ve had enough,” she reprimands him, and then she’s instantly back to laughing and chatting with Zariah. One of Igor’s oldest daughter’s is sneaking a third pelmeni to Natasha, and the rest of the family is crowded around.

  “So, uncle, any update?” I ask. He offered to cook dinner this evening so that it wouldn’t be suspicious for him and Yuri to come over after I’d been in their company all day. The subject of Frank Gaspar isn’t something to be discussed over the phone.

  He nods. “I just got a response while grabbing that last plate. You want to finish eating or talk?”

  “Talk,” I respond. I have a month to make weight for my match with Karsoff. Camp week is hell with a French fry loving daughter, and a wife who had no problems cheating on me with Fatburger in the past.

  Yuri rises when we do. My wife hardly pays me
any attention as she and Anna have switched subjects to some sort of new facial wash.

  We head away from the loud house and out onto the patio. Yuri leans against a column, and I pace the area while glaring at the turquoise lap pool.

  “Okay, so for starters, Frank Gaspar isn’t named Frank Gaspar. And he’s not a cop,” Malich says, sitting at the patio table.

  I stop pacing. “Who is he?”

  “An actor, a nobody. That automatically clears Washington.” Malich drums his fingers on the table. “Knowing that crooked mudak, he’d just have his own come after you, not hire an actor to pretend to be a cop, and put him in a uniform. The real Frank Gaspar is on the force, just not in Los Angeles where it would be easy for Washington to send someone after you. The real Gaspar is alive and breathing and working at a precinct in Fontana.”

  Yuri and I exchange glances. He rubs the back of his neck, and determines, “We had a few matches in Fontana, back in the day. Vassili is too big these days for that area. But who the fuck would still be angry with you, brah? What have you been up to?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t been to Fontana, since firing that slimy ass promoter. Shit, the last time I was there, you were, too.”

  “Oh! The promoter who skimmed off the top, the bottom and the middle?” Yuri chuckles.

  “You two done chatting it out?” Malich asks.

  “Dah,” I grunt as Yuri sits across from his dad.

  “Good, because I’m aware of who did it. Danushka. So, either your father was desperate to scare you, or she’s parted paths with him.”

  I sink down into the chair to my cousin’s left. Can’t have a daughter without a son was always my father’s motto. There was a time where the mudak forgot about me, because he had babies popping up all over Russia. But Danushka is his second born. Just a few days younger than me. Shit, my father always jokingly said, if he had a girl first, he’d break her neck and start over. No matter how badly my father treated Danushka as a child, her tenacity was astounding. She worked her way up in the bratva, snatched assignments from others, in order to be recognized in our father’s eyes besides being viewed as just a bitch. Shit, she thought me, and my sister, would disappear after my mother finally got the guts to run off with us.

  “You aren’t sure if she’s working for Anatoly?” I finally ask.

  “Nobody knows. But that’s just how she rolls, Vassili. Take a breath.” My uncle encourages. He adds, “We’ve seen her in action. In the past, I’d heard about your father asking for a political figure in Italy dealt with, for example. Prior to a member being appointed to the task, the guy or girl is dead. Danushka signs her name.”

  “Dah, that cunt loves to catch my father’s eye when he least expects it,” I scoff. “What the fuck does that bitch want with me?”

  “There isn’t a shadow of a doubt in anyone’s mind, Vassili, your father still wants you to be his successor. That’s why Danushka is fucking with you.”

  My hands slam against the patio table with so much force that Yuri has to push back in his chair to get out of the way. The legs of his chair snap as he falls back, in order to remove himself from the path of the table as it flings across the grass. It leaves tracks of mud and grass in its wake, and slams into the pool. I catch my breath as the table sinks to the bottom. “I am not fucking with the bratva! Anatoly needs to get it through his head, Malich. I refuse.”

  “Nephew, take it easy,” Malich’s voice is tempered. “Blowing a gasket will not stop your father or change his beliefs. You are his first born. Good as royalty in his mind.”

  “Where the fuck is this cunt? Where is my half-sister?” My wild eyes rove back and forth from the two of them.

  “Nobody knows,” Yuri says with a grunt, getting up. “I’d call Anatoly and ask him what the hell is going on, but that motherfucker is incapable of a straight response.” I stand up, and start pacing over the cement slab. My fists swoosh out before me as I punch, cross, jab into the air. “You think he sent her?”

  “Would be better that he had,” Malich says. “She’s a wild card. So if he sent her to screw with your mind—like she’s clearly doing—then he would have her on a leash. If she’s acting on her own accord…”

  My voice booms, “I don’t want her around my wife and children.”

  “Have you told Zariah about her?” Yuri asks.

  “Fuck yeah, I showed Zariah a photo, everything. She knows to stay away from Danushka…”

  Zariah

  Only a few months have passed since I met Danushka Molotov and we’ve connected in such a short time. We crossed paths on one of the lowest days in our lives. We were two melancholic wives in the alcohol section of Whole Foods, in Beverly Hills. My husband was pissing me off, because at the time, I just couldn’t fathom how he’d want to return to the cage after a torn patella. I’d tortured myself with YouTube videos of the worst MMA fights to ever occur, where the men were breaking their legs and having their skulls cracked. That was the worse time in my marriage with Vassili. I was so very afraid of him returning to the cage. And Danny, although Russian, was dealing with her own demons about marrying a fellow Russian. We talked for a few moments. It was a start of a relationship that I needed. I have Taryn who isn’t married, and I suspect may never settle down as long as she still has her looks. Where I’m from, too many friends are a bad thing, and so I didn’t have any married friends until I met Danny.

  I know, I know. She has the same first name as Danushka Resnov. And my husband’s forehead vein pops out each time he reminds me to steer clear of his sister. I’ve done my due diligence. Background checks and everything. And his sister looks like the Terminator. Pale. Brown hair. Big nose and muscular. Danushka Molotov looks exactly like Kate Moss.

  I’m shuffling along with the hubbub of Los Angelinos to work when Tye Tribbett’s latest CD is interrupted by an incoming call. Starting off my day without praise and worship is something I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. I’m a mess and three quarters without a sane mind! But I stop singing along and press the touchscreen to accept her call.

  “Danny? I received your text last night, are you really back in town?” I gush into the phone.

  “Yes. And I’m hijacking you at noon today for lunch.”

  “Ha, that’s fine. So, did you get the house?”

  “We did. As you know, my husband and I traded in Bel Air for Italy for a few months. Our new home is in escrow now. We’re vetting potential caretakers for our home here.”

  “Humph, look no further, I don’t mind moving into your home while you’re away.” I joke. The home I share with Vassili is large in its own right, but Danny’s husband has a hand in the steel industry and international banking. Aside from how busy he is, their home in Bel Air could entertain a person for a year from grand courtyards, to a theater and bowling alley. They have a baseball field, there’s no reason to leave their home.

  “I’ll pencil you in for an interview,” Danny joshes back. “Horace is conducting background checks and all. But I want to invite you to Italy.”

  “Girl, I told Vassili that we have to take a trip to Apulia one day soon. I’m so happy that you guys are working out, and we will come to your housewarming if you have one,” I say, traveling down the street, Billingsley Legal is a few blocks ahead.

  “Oooooh, we bought the house with furniture in it, but I wouldn’t mind having friends over for a week or so. Horace could spare at least a week to entertain. I have you to thank for that, Zariah, I wasn’t much of a talker before.”

  “That’s what marriage is about. To compromise, you have to talk it out.”

  “My family is different. We are old school Russians, and I’ve had such a negative mentality. I knew that if I married one of my own, it wouldn’t work out. Russian men,” she says in her thick accent, and I can just imagine her dash crunching. “But I fell in love with one. And, here we are, Horace and I are working out.”

  I pull around the cars, which are headed into the Hot Chilly’s drive-t
hru line, across from the law firm. These idiots sure know how to act when it comes to good food.

  “Alright, Danny, I’m heading into work. What time and where should we meet for lunch?” I ask while maneuvering around the tail end of an illegally positioned car.

  “I have actually learned to cook. At least I attempted to. Horace and I took a class. If you are feeling courageous enough to try one of my new recipes, meet me at my place at noon? We can always go out instead, my treat.”

  “I’ll meet you at your place.” I swoop into a spot.

  ***

  At Billingsley Legal, I seek out Tyrese Nicks. He exuded the wrong kinda vibes when we crossed paths last week. From his eating me with his eyes, to the distaste he has in my last name. And what’s up with the history we have and the assumptions he’s made?

  It’s been over a week since Vassili cornered him in my office, and due to my husband’s recent acts of aggression which sent us to Atlanta, I had no time to correct Mr. Nicks. Until he has chosen to promote or move on to other endeavors, we have to work together in a common accord. With the legal firm’s main goal to edify families, all of the attorneys and members of Billingsley Legal get along together, well, we try our best too, anyway.

  I find him in his office, typing away.

  “Good morning,” I assert myself at the door.

  The typing stops. His gaze drags over me from head to toe and back again. I’m wearing a dress that accentuates my curves, and stops mid-calf, yet is appropriately fashioned with a thin cardigan. High heel peep toe booties and bangles finish off my ensemble. Those dimples of his are resurrected as he grins and says, “Come in.”

  Eh… that’s not entirely necessary for what I need to get across, but I oblige and take a seat across from him. “So how are you liking the new job?”

  “Pays the bills.” Flippant fucker as if I can’t tell his navy-blue suit doesn’t hug his muscles in a way that screams it was made specifically for him. He comes from a good black family, and I am not aware of that due to any sort of knowledge of him, but his diplomas behind him. He offers a half smile. I don’t match that. “I’m learning how to sympathize with people, Zariah. My previous professor suggested that I give a damn about people before I become...”