by Amarie Avant
The ugly fuck’s eyelid twitches. He’s not a fan of equality, since he actually has the harder assignment.
Grigor drinks the coffee and eats the breakfast pastry as he drives us to the compound my father owns, Rublyovka. The mega mansions are suitable for trillionaires and dirty ass government officials. The gates open, and armed guards on each side track us as we enter.
My half-brother slurps down the last bits of the drink, and squeezes next to the cluttering of supercars that are parked around a lengthy lap pool. Shit, this man has become a hoarder. It’s like a car dealership out here for the ultra-exclusive.
There are five armed men, even uglier than Semion surrounding Anatoly as my father meanders down the front steps of his home. His suit isn’t a blinding highlighter color, but black. The many accessories he has on are all black.
“I’ve been in mourning,” he says, holding his arms out. “Come, come, give your father a hug.”
“Nyet, I’d rather not.” My tone is calm and I’m my usual standoffish self with him. “Are you mourning your nephew, Igor?”
My right hook shoots out like a missile landing against his chin.
Anatoly’s brain snaps in place in his body, his legs anchor down and he falls backward.
A bunch of hammers cock back and machine guns are pointed into my face. A hard slam from behind goes to my left temple. Before I crumple down to the ground next to my father, I realize that of all these mudaks, it had to be my cunt of a brother, Grigor, who knocked me out.
Zariah
How do I breathe without any air? It feels like quicksand is consuming me and the devil has ahold of my ankle, speeding up the process, as I awake on day two without my husband. I’m torn between praying for God to keep him safe or hardening my heart to the only man I’ve ever fallen madly in love with. I called and called him last night, each ring took the air right from my lungs.
This morning, I open the facial foundation that I only use to make my face look super flawless for professional photos or those special date nights, and now I’m using it to hide the puff under my eyes. I shower and slip into a summer dress, the bright yellow brings my façade back to life, and for Natasha’s sake, I step into the nursery with a smile. She’s in the changing station, my mother has another new item from Mrs. Takahashi laid beside her.
Our beautiful baby’s brown eyes sparkle as she looks me over. “Daddy?”
I clutch my chest and can’t straighten my face when my mom turns around from Natasha, scooping her up onto a welcoming hip.
“Oh, honey.”
“I’m okay, Mom.” My voice tremors.
“You should stay home from work today.”
An imaginary knife tears across my chest. Vassili suggested that I stay home so many times. He doesn’t seem to believe in us. That I’d like to be there to help him work things out. But I know somewhere deep down, he believes in us. My husband just never had a chance to learn how to grieve as a child. Heck, I had trying times to learn, yet nowhere near as trying as his.
“No, I can’t stay home. I have to work.”
Zamora offers a faint smile. “I’m going to compare you to your dad now.”
I scoff. “Don’t—”
“No, he has his qualities. Resilience is one of them. Yet, balance? Not so much. Work can help get certain things off your mind, but there comes a time when you still must address said things.”
“Humph, save this conversation for Vassili.” I place up a hand, begging her not to continue with my gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mom. We ruined your birthday week.”
“Why? I don’t know how you or Vassili masterminded any of the travesties that occurred two nights ago. And if you ask me to watch my grandbaby, I’ll find a belt.”
I sniffle at her joke, with no energy to offer a comeback.
***
My eyes land on a side profile of the balcony of my old bedroom and tears flood down my cheeks. I can still see Vassili climbing the tree effortlessly almost ten years ago to sneak into my room as I showered. Jesus, please, please, please, I silently beg. Let him be okay. You are part of my marriage, we can’t do this without You. Don’t let us …
A hard sniffle rattles through me, and I flap my hands near my eyes to cool down the achy, hot feel of my skin. I scoff at myself, I’m sitting in my car, across the way from my father’s home. My home. And I’m crying. Why didn’t I just force him to give me attention at the end of July? He blew me off after returning from Temecula with Berenice. The asshole was too busy to see his only daughter. Now, I look like shit.
I clutch my keys and get out of the car, and head up the steps to the glossy black door. My fingers are crossed that he is home, and then I let myself into the house.
“Dad,” I call out. “Dad?”
If memory serves me correctly, twice a week he stays home, to prepare for a golf match. Regardless of how ‘busy’ he’s been in the past and unable to include me in the schedule, I’m sure golf is of the utmost importance. “Dad?” I call out again, ears perked, heading to the kitchen.
“Zariah?” There’s shuffling upstairs.
I start up the staircase, and head to my parents’—well, my father’s bedroom. The door is open, so I hesitantly step inside hoping he’s decent.
He is.
My father is in checkered shorts and a polo. The fucker does have time for golf! But on the other hand, Berenice isn’t decent. I see a flash of her milky white breast as she covers herself.
“I hope you’re comfortable in my mom’s bed. Dad, did you at least have the decency to change the mattress?”
“Good morning, Zariah.” He grabs my arm, and pulls me from the room while his mistress’-turned-whatever the fuck she is, face pales in color.
“What prompted this impromptu visit? Igor Resnov, eh?” he asks, hustling down the stairs on my heels.
“No. Wait, what do you know?” Suspicion has me eyeing him with an imaginary fine-tooth comb for any signs that he’s had his hands in this.
“For your sake, Zariah, I have not inserted myself in the mistakes you’ve so chosen to make! What’s with—” his hard tone cuts. Dad glances me over. “You’ve been crying?”
“I’m here about,” I gulp, “About Juan Noriega.”
He chuckles. “Russian money not good enough for you? That wetback is even worse. I’m telling you, stick with the white boy, and not further slumming in the gutter. At least you’ll secure the throne when Anatoly dies. Hell, they have the president in their pocket. No need screwing a roach and breeding a bunch of those babies too.”
My eyebrows rise. Racist? I never pegged my father for a racist. Sexist, yes. Socialist, you betcha. But as Chief of Police, he must have some morals, right? I place my hand on my hip and utter one single word, “Sullivan.”
My father’s eyebrow cocks, he moves toward the marble mantle and readjusts a crystal figurine, as if he isn’t all that concerned. “Why are you bringing him up?’
“The cop turned serial killer. You and Sammy weren’t really good friends after the entire LAPD didn’t do their fucking job and built a case for him to try. He had to use his own resources for the trial!”
“Zariah, check your tone with me.”
“I remember, you and Lieutenant Sullivan were just as friendly as you and Sammy in the past. Heck, he should be golfing with you right now. Why did Sammy work so hard to put him away?” I spit sarcastically. “There are a lot of questions swimming through my mind, father. I can wake up, start being a bitch, if you’d like. Or would you prefer I keep my eyes closed and just allow you to tell me about Igor?”
“Allow! Cute, I’m being blackmailed by my daughter.” My father grabs a silver case of cigars, moves away from the fireplace and sits on an antique chair, with his leg crossed. “Jesus! What has that fucking Resnov done to you?”
“Talk or I start digging,” I tell him, as he opens up the silver case and grabs out a Cuban. “Sammy got his brakes tampered with during the Sullivan trial. Don’t worry, I’m intellig
ent enough to know it wasn’t you. But my IQ also keys me into the fact that you either sanctioned the request or turned the other way. Probably had your face in Berenice’s bosoms, instead of at home with your wife, who was a little leery about you then. And I don’t mean due to the hits. You were jealous about mom’s concern for Sammy…”
“Zariah.” He points the cigar at me, voice contrite. “Shut your fucking mouth, before—”
“I wish you would hit me.” I stand before him, as he sits there. My dad takes his first puff of the cigar. I glare down at him, arguing, “I swear, before I sic my husband on you, I’m going to jump on your back, and try to take you down myself. Now, back to Sullivan. It isn’t necessary for me to know about that skeleton. And here’s how you can keep me from pulling even more skeletons out of your closet. Two things. First of them, tell me about Noriega; and second, you’ll tell me what the hell you know about Igor Resnov’s death!”
Maxwell rubs his knuckles along his lips. “Look at me, child, I don’t know anything about Igor’s death. That is assigned to a lower detective, not the Chef of police.”
“Oh, I’m positive you insured the assignment went to one of the less seasoned detective.”
He puffs more smoke. “Or maybe a burnt-out detective that doesn’t give a damn.”
“Humph, yeah, that scenario works, too. But you know more than you’re letting on, father. Talk.”
“Talk? Alright, let me gossip with my daughter, eh? There’s talk about the Bertolucci family having done something, but none of my guys give a damn. It’ll be a cold case soon.”
“Thank you for the name.” I shuffle Bertolucci to the back of my mind, aware when my father is telling the truth. It’s a shame, he is. Family? What is that, some sort of an Italian mafia? I huff. What’s next, the black mafia? “Now, Noriega.”
“He has a few friends on the force.”
“You allow that?”
“Me? Nope, bad for business. We have a guy who sends them to Internal Affairs when necessary, you know how I feel about IA, so it wouldn’t be kosher for me to—”
“Snitch? Ha! What happened to handling it in the department or is it just the people who look like Noriega that you toss over to Internal Affairs?”
“Princess, I don’t condone drug dealing.”
“You condone everything else.” I shake my head, ready to change the subject again. “I’m having Noriega subpoenaed today.”
“Why? You had better luck being one of his famous baby mamas. He doesn’t slap them all around.”
“His wife, I’m her divorce attorney.”
My dad takes a long drag of his Cuban and contemplates for a moment. “Zariah, you come in my house making inferences that I do not appreciate. In some regard, you’ve been spot on. We keep our own safe.”
The glint in my eye tells me that sick fuck Lieutenant Sullivan would’ve received a slap on the wrists and been sent away with his pension had my father been Chief of Police at the time.
“However, I am rigid in my ways, unpersuaded by some fucking Russians or no good Mexicans,” he spits the words, and I take a step back.
“Well, damn, dad, tell me what you really think. Some of your friends would be appalled by your tone. Even your Latino political figures.”
“I know how to put on a mask, and I don’t hate all Mexicans just illegals and drug dealers.”
I roll my eyes, my father has friends on the force who dip into evidence, especially when it involves cocaine.
“Since you’ve wiped your hands of me, Zariah, and now have chosen to come around,” he glances down at me, “I see the ring still on your finger. For now, I’ll have a police detail on you by the time you make it to the freeway. Because I love you, but that’s all the love I can give, Princess. At least, while you’re married.”
“I don’t want it. And I have no intentions of divorcing anytime in this lifetime. So, keep your detail.” I argue.
“You’re gonna need it.”
Vassili
Aside from the boulder that must’ve fallen on my head, I wake up on day three, away from my family, and on a bed of clouds.
The mattress I’m lying on is halfway to the ceiling, and that’s speaking volumes. I’m on the third floor of my father’s home, and the walls soar high.
I touch a hand to my skull. It’s bandaged.
“Fuck,” I grunt, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. They’re dangling because of how far I am from the floor. The room around me is fit for a king. Real gold wallpaper, antique furniture. Silk slippers are on the ground. I shove my feet inside of them and head to the door.
Once open, I’m stopped by a guard, with the barrel of his gun to my face.
My lips are in a tight line as I warn, “Move. Before you regret it.”
He lowers it somewhat. “I’m going to tell your father you’re up. Okay?”
“He isn’t the boss of me, neither are you.”
The man starts to pull a walkie talkie. My hand slams against the barrel, angling it over my shoulder, and I jab straight for his nose. Too easy.
“’Tchyo zag a ‘lima—what the fuck!” He screams, gripping at a waterfall of blood coming from his nose.
I snatch the walkie talkie. “Anatoly, can you hear me?”
“My son, you’re up. I’m in the mud room.” His tone is friendly. Sometimes he gets like this when angry. Either the punch I tossed rewired his brain, or he’s in a psychotic episode.
In fifteen minutes, I’ve made it to the basement. The room is cave-like, with dome shaped walls, and even more shimmering 24 karat gold on them. My gaze shades to the darkness of the area. At the far side of the room, past a steaming jacuzzi, is my father, with his usual horde of model-type cunts. This time, they’re in a mud bath.
One kissing his face, the other massaging mud into his back, not sure what the third is doing, her bare ass is to my face and she’s down low, probably sucking his cock.
The kissy face chick moves, and I can see that Anatoly’s eye is sealed shut, like Zamora’s was the day Yuri and I came by her place in Atlanta.
“I’d offer you some pussy but,” he gestures to his face. “My son, I regret never having attended one of your matches. That hook of yours, boy, oh boy! Semion, take notes your ugly motherfucker.”
My cousin eyes me.
“Where the fuck is Grigor? I’m surprised he got to me before you.”
Semion grunts. “He was closer. I would have tried to kill you…”
Anatoly cuts in, “and I would have had to put your ass down like a fatted cow, Semion.”
“Damn, kazen, we should switch parents. You’d be in my spot. Then that ugly face of yours might not look like a dog’s ass, since you wouldn’t have had to spend your days being jealous.”
He lunges for me. The men around him stop him.
I don’t flinch.
“Let him go,” I say, smiling at Semion.
“Nyet.” My father waves them away. “The two of you can play later. You all leave now. Vassili, step into my office.”
He gestures toward the mud jacuzzi. The women wave me over.
“I’ll pass.”
When everyone leaves, aside from his whores, Anatoly says, “You’ve gotta stop exciting your cousin. If he hurts you, I’ll kill him, Vassili. And Semion is otherwise indispensable.”
Semion hurt me? I grunt. “So, you’re being a father today? How will you handle Grigor? He hit me.”
Anatoly shrugs. “Grigor is my favorite. He gets as many passes as you do for being firstborn.”
“Them make him your successor.”
“Nyet. Grigor is pale. Skinny. Looks like that Twilight vampire fuck.”
I glare at him sideways. “Who?”
Anatoly groans. “Bitches, the most beautiful ones wrap you around their pinkie. One I use to have, she loved the Twilight Saga, I’m just saying… whatever, right? You aren’t here for movie trivia. Maybe I’ll never die? It costs me a mil a day to look so good. It’s this drink I ha
ve. The maker says it’s almost like the stream of eternity. You know I’ve been sick?”
“So, you say. But I’m not here to feed you borscht and nurse you back to health, either.”
“That’s what these women are for, my son.” He kisses one. “But truly, I was dying until I drank from the stream of water.”
He is delusional. I take on a wide-legged stance and ask, “Did you allow some Italians to shoot up your brother’s home?”
He laughs, the girls do, too. “I’m appalled that you think so little of me.”
“Did you?” My shout is amplified by the structure of the cave, the women jump.
“No.” Anatoly offers a smug frown.
“Then how?”
“Must have something to do with that public official, Albert Bertolucci. He died a few weeks ago.”
“What was he up to?”
“The guy was gunning for sanctions. Bertolucci wanted to increase the requirements for international claims at the ports in the area. One of the seats of the seven owns a steel company in Italy.”
I rub the old scar along my jaw. The Seven Chairs or whatever the fuck he’s referring to has been mentioned before. Malich always said that Anatoly wanted him to have a seat. Even with all power, it was best to have Resnovs take every seat. Semion’s mother has a seat. The rest of my father’s siblings do. There are about three seats that aren’t claimed by Resnov’s. But each seat is claimed by billionaires.
“Then why didn’t the guy handle it?”
“He’s a bitch, all paper no balls,” my father huffs.
I shake my head. “And Bertolucci’s family retaliated? You’ve had powerful men murdered around the nation. Seems like this one—”
“His family thinks they’re the mafia or something.”
“Did you hear about this quest for retaliation! And why, why did they go after Malich’s family, not yours?”
