by Amarie Avant
“What the fuck do you mean, yours? Vassili, you are moy syn—my son. You are my family!”
“Make me believe you.”
“Does my word not mean—”
“Shit. Anatoly your word doesn’t mean a motherfucking thing to me.”
Anatoly stands up from the mud bath, and slaps a hand against his chest. “I had nothing to do with my nephew’s death!”
I stare at him like I have the eyes of a new man. One who doesn’t have a history with this psychotic bastard. One who never hated his mom for running away from a monster like him. Now, I’m second guessing my father’s manipulative ways. Maybe Anatoly didn’t remove his blessing from Malich’s family. Those Italians have always feared us…
Zariah
After the chat with my father, I head toward Billingsley Legal. While driving, I call the hospital and am connected to Yuri’s room. “Hey, Yuri, how are you? Are you hanging in there?”
“Feel like shit. There’s a gaping hole in my calf. But there’s no getting me down. Where’s Taryn?”
I silently take a breath. “Oh my, I’m so sorry. Vassili took off. And I never called to tell her you were in the hospital—”
“It’s okay, Zariah, it’s okay.” He cuts into my sorry attempt for an apology. Hell, the guilt of knowing Taryn is a hoe is eating me alive. “Zar, I know you have that knucklehead to deal with. Vassili came to see me on his way to the airport. I told the mudak to stay home. Malich sent for my brothers.”
“Oh no,” I sigh, heading onto the freeway. Malich has bred mostly sons, Mikhail is the oldest of the brothers. He and five other brothers, who’ve made homes throughout the states, come around during New Year’s, which I’ve learned is bigger than Christmas for their family. Each brother has a mainstream job, and a good head on their shoulders due to Malich’s wisdom. Mikhail followed in Malich’s footsteps and became a doctor. Igor’s death is setting everyone into action.
Yuri continues with, “It’s just that, I’ve been calling Taryn, not like I can do anything else, and she doesn't answer.” He huffs. “I’m worried.”
My heart clutches. Yuri is a big ass cuddle bear. He’s lying in the hospital worried about Taryn not answering his calls. When I finish my attempt to encourage him, and we get off the phone, I dial my high school friend and she promptly answers.
“Hola, Zariah,” she chuckles endeavoring to speak Spanish.
“Girl, where are you at?” My lips are set in a frown.
“Cabo San Lucas, heifa! It’s my man’s birthday, and we are celebrating.”
I can hear someone in the background, he has a dreamy Spanish tone. Can’t be the guy who sent her to New York. That one sounded stuffy. “Taryn, c’mon, girl. Yuri is in the hospital, he keeps calling you.”
“I know.”
“We will be thirty in two short years, Taryn, damn. Not twenty. If you give a damn about him, answer him, and see how he’s doing.”
She huffs. The music in the background becomes muffled. “When I return, I’ll go check up on him. I know I gotta break up with him sometime, so I will.”
“Are you about to cry?” My lips tense. “Seriously, I don’t want to hear it. There’s a man here in California who has gladly given you his heart. Heck, Yuri doesn’t need tears, he needs loyalty. I’ll see you when you return,” I finish the call, and hang up.
Through the rearview window, I notice an unmarked cop car a few spots back. My father didn’t heed my stubborn response. He’s got a security detail on my six. I take comfort in the fact that he must have some sort of love for me
It’s lunchtime and the drive-thru line at Hot Chilly’s is chaotic. I squeeze through the opening, where the cars are illegally jamming the intersection and make it into the Billingsley Legal parking lot.
My cell phone rings as I’m getting out of the car. The automatic tone says, “Incoming call from Husband.”
I dig through my purse, and apprehend my iPhone. Too fixated on answering it in the allotted time, that I didn’t remember I could have just pressed the radio button.
“Hello,” I speak into the receiver.
“Baby,” Vassili begins. Oh, the cold shoulder has been replaced. Another Resnov man that has an anxious tone. “I’m sending you—”
I cut in, “Where are you?”
“Still in Moscow.”
“Then save it.”
“Zariah, I’m sending you a photo of my sister.”
“Dan… dan us… Danushka?” Damn, of all the times, I say the woman’s name right, when my friend has the same exact name as Vassili’s sister.
“Yes.”
“Why, I have that photo ingrained in my memory. Pasty skin. Mousey brown hair. And a nose too big for her skinny ass body. What do you want!”
He breaths into the phone. “I don’t think my father allowed the Bertolucci’s to go after the family. Danushka might have, and I want you to stay away from her, if she ever comes around.”
“Oh, so now you want to share information. Save it. I won’t speak to you until you’re right here in my face, so I can smack the dog shit out of you if need be. If it makes you feel better, rest easy knowing that I’m an obedient little wife and haven’t forgotten about what your sister looks like. If she pops out of the bushes, I’ll call you. Not sure how that will help, since you left our home, and left me a voicemail with half a cryptic ass message.” I pause. Damn, I’m acting like a brat, but there were better ways to handle Igor’s death. Hell, I kept seeing images of him an Anatoly murdering each other. Fighting fire with fire as Vassili is hell bent on doing, is not the way to go. So, I soften my tone, “Hello, Vassili? Are you still there.”
“I’d never abandon you, Zar.”
“I love you, Vassili.” I hang up. The moment he returns home, I’ll talk to him. But he’ll have to be willing to be a team, and then we can seek out the Bertolucci family.
***
Samuel is standing next to Tyrese’s office when I start to head past, with a respectful head nod, but he cocks his head at me.
“You, step inside, too.”
“Alright…” I follow him inside. Tyrese isn’t wearing his signature suit today, but a short sleeve button up as he sits behind his desk. He doesn’t even offer his signature dimple. Either this heatwave has him lethargic or we are in deep trouble.
“Not sure how we secured such a high-profile case, as this firm usually works with a lower socioeconomic. However, the company on payroll, which issue out subpoenas called me personally,” Sammy says. “Zariah, I know you’ve helped Tyrese become acclimated with the office, but no more assisting him with Mrs. Noriega’s case—”
“Assisting me?” Tyrese’s eyebrow piques.
“I won’t.” I glare at Mr. Nick’s daring him to speak up. I’m still not ready for Samuel to know that Nicks and I are co-counsellors on the case. “What’s going on?”
Samuel huffs. “Well, I had it in my mind to commend you, Nicks, on Mrs. Felicidad obtaining her green card in such a swift manner, it takes some serious connections, and balls. But now you’re suing a US Citizen for half of everything that he owns, and that man so happens to be a known member of the Loco Dios. The company refuses to submit the subpoena. Zariah, I don’t want you in this mess. Tyrese, it’s not too late to back out.”
“But Felicidad was,” I stop myself, and resort to a more formal response, “Mrs. Noriega was abused by her husband. She has rights.”
“You’ll stay out of this, Zariah. I’m bringing this to your attention just to keep you aware, if Tyrese chooses to continue to represent Mrs. Noriega there might be consequences. He’s new, so this is a warning to him, too. You…” he glances at me with all sincerity. “Your mother would kill me.”
“Well, Mr. Nicks?” I cock a brow.
“I’ll pay a bum off the street to serve him, if necessary.” Tyrese asks.
“That might be necessary,” Samuel stands up. “Zariah can no longer assist you. Any questions or consultation required, see me.”
My mentor
stalks out of the room.
“So,” Tyrese speaks up. “I’m to assume Billingsley must’ve been so emotionally invested in keeping you away from this case, that he didn’t look at the paperwork before telling you to stay away. Zariah, your name is all over the summons.”
“Yes, good call on getting a transient to have him sign the papers. Will you go vet one, or should I?” I arise.
“Not so fast, Zariah.”
Lips set into a line, I sink back down, arms folded. “This is my case, Nicks.”
“I’ll see to it that the summons is delivered by this afternoon. But let me make something clear, Samuel has had conferences to attend, prior to attending court, he’ll know. That is if the Noriega chooses not to retaliate once he gets the subpoena.”
I scoff. “Look, we agreed to have your name on the subpoena. Lanetta made that mistake, when I requested her to write one up. She uses a generic form.”
“We don’t have time for mistakes, Zariah. For your safety. And I have talked with Lanetta about it,” his tone is hard as if he reprimanded my assistant to the fullest extent, “because after you made the request, with Lanetta, I also told her to ensure that I’m on the line, not you. Shit, I could fire her ass myself.”
“Thank you, Tyrese.” I nod in agreement.
“I can’t bring up your husband, right?” he shakes his head with a laugh. “I guess, I’ll just be grateful he can keep you safe.”
Our eyes connect. I’m too angry to read Mr. Nicks the wrong way. “Yes, he can. And I have the genetic makeup of a man who gets paid hand over fist to rub people the wrong way, too. I can handle myself. But we do not have time for mistakes.”
“I’ll revamp the subpoena with my information and it will be given to Noriega this afternoon, Zariah. I understand that you’re going to continue assisting with this case for whatever reason, but I don’t want you in court during litigation.”
“Alright,” I nod. “I’ll write reports, but I’m going to continue to stay in communication with Felicidad and her children.”
He bites his lip. And holds out a hand across the table. I reach over and shake it. “Zariah,” he says, not letting me go. “I really like you, and despite the craziness of this case, I’m enjoying getting to know you.”
“Okay,” I narrow my eyes somewhat, as a sign for him to remove his hand.
“I’d prefer you had nothing else to do with the Noriega’s, but you made a promise to Felicidad, so therein lies my agreement with you still having a hand in the case.”
“I have no say,” I tell him. “Just a cheerleader for Felicidad. Okay?”
“Shit, this is the moment where I offer a wisecrack, like I prefer it if you were my cheerleader.”
I offer the usual sardonic look he always receives whenever he flirts, but there’s genuine concern in his gaze. It’s my cue to head out the door now.
***
Mom advised against working until I drop. This is a morsel of wisdom that I chose not to take today. My eyes burn from staring at the computer screen, and from staying wide open so as not to cry about Vassili. Like my mother warned, I’ve submerged myself in work so long, I’m unaware until Tyrese taps on the door.
“It’s almost eight, can I go home yet?”
With my mind on sleep and as I skim through the neurologist’s statement about Edgar Versa, I mumble, “Go.”
“You know exactly what I mean.” He takes on a wide-legged stance.
“You chose to stay, Mr. Nicks. I’ve locked up shop more times than I can count. Besides, we shook hands, you have the Noriega case. I’ve been consigned to ‘social worker’ status whenever Felicidad needs.” I have it in my mind to argue with him but end up yawning. He’s right, it’s time to head home. “Let me finish my sentence, okay?”
“Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, I exit my office. Tyrese is in the hallway, leaning against the door. He glances me up and down. The dimples in his cheek deepen. “God, you are beautiful.”
“Don’t piss me off, Nicks.”
“Look, I woke you up.” When I give him a confused glare, he elaborates, “I watched you for a while, before I knocked. You were sitting in front of piles of documents, dosing. Your head kept …” he starts to chuckle, as he gestures that my head continued to dip. “Since you aren’t your usual sharp, sophisticated self, I snuck in the truth. Shoot me. It’s cute, you know.”
“Be respectful.” I tell him, stalking to the alarm, and quickly punching in the code. Tyrese unlocks the front door, holds it open and we step outside. The air is hot, and the sky is a pretty light purple, with fragments of orange where the sun just dipped over the horizon, it’s going to be a long summer night.
I’ve taken one step out of the door when I notice three Escalades are surrounding my car. There are enough Mexican gangsters to start their own sports team, leaning against the sides of each SUV.
“Zari…” Tyrese’s tone dies as a man comes from the side of the wall. He was hidden by the door. He’s holding a sawed-off shotgun to Tyrese’s head.
“Ay dios, mis amigos, look at the two of you,” Juan Noriega says. Has to be him. I can spot him on a Where’s Waldo billboard in Vegas. I googled him. He has so many tattoos on his neck and chest, if I squint my eyes, it looks like he’s wearing a turtleneck. And the motherfucker is all but five feet tall. “You scared, puta?”
Tyrese is pulling close to me. His tone is rather confident under the circumstances, “You all need to disburse at once!”
I glance down at Noriega and ask, “Do you own these SUVs? I’ve got an inventory of all your assets. Since Felicidad is taking half, how about I just take these two, you can keep the other one?”
Fuck! And I promised not to attend a court hearing! I am truly my father’s child.
His laughs, all his teeth are capped in gold. “You’re a hot little piece of ass, aren’t you? Isn’t she Chico?”
A brick house of a man, who I must assume is Chico steps forward. Now him, I’m afraid of. One of his arms is bigger than the combination of my thighs! His dark gaze shoots up and down my frame.
“Alright, guys, you need to get in your cars and leave,” ‘Tyrese tells them. “Noriega, I’m sure you have a slimy ass attorney just waiting to handle this case.”
“Oh, no,” Noriega shakes his head. “I like her. Tyrese Nick’s, your name is all over the paperwork, but this bitch knows my bitch by first name. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Chico’s gaze lands on mine, and then his pupils dilate. He mirrors the fear I’m internalizing. “I know this girl. Juan, we gotta go.”
He nudges his chin. “Que chucha tienes?”
My eyebrows knead. I’m not certain what Noriega asked, but I assume, despite my verbal outburst, he isn’t aware of my hand in assisting his wife.
Chico says, “She’s that fighter’s wife—”
Police sirens ring.
***
An hour has passed. The sky is dark and with the bad neighborhood I work in, there isn’t much light. The red and blue lights on top of the masses of police cruisers bounces a glare off the window of each of the other cars. I can’t see Noriega’s face as he is seated in the back of the car furthest from me. But I swear, he’s making connections as I give my statement to Officer Greene.
“How long are you going to hold them?” I ask.
Greene rubs his goatee, and then he looks into my eyes. “How long do you need us to? The guy with the sawed-off shotgun, is going away for a while. But there can be drugs beneath the dash, or anywhere else you’d like them to be found in those SUV’s, Mrs. Washington.” He makes sure to look me dead in the eye while giving my maiden name.
Lips pursed, I shake my head.
“You have time to consider it.”
I bite my lip.
“Your call,” he shrugs. And then walks away.
Tyrese comes to stand next to me. “Your husband should’ve texted or called you at least twenty times by now, Zariah. He had reached out to you at le
ast five times by the time I ate my chilly burger on our first night working this case.”
I rub a hand over my face, glad that my eyes aren’t burning with the need to cry. Fatigue weighs down on me, and my mind is too muddled to lie. “He’s got a fight coming up.”
“Can I drive you home, please?”
“No.”
He rubs a strand of hair from my face before I can protest. “Follow you?”
“You’re gonna do it anyway. You did it the night we got the case.”
“So it’s ‘we’ now.”
“We did get guns put to our heads together.” I smile to keep from crying. I just wanna go home and hold Natasha as Vassili spoons me.
His dimples deepen. “So are we friends now?”
“We’re colleagues, Mr. Nicks.” I shrug, my usual blasé self.
Tyrese backs up toward his Jaguar as I head to my car. And then Tyrese Nicks follows me home… So much for getting married, and believing my husband would always and forever be my savior—Okay, dammit, he isn’t even aware of this. And won’t be until the final remarks of the pending case, but Vassili just took off, without so much as a word, so I am being petty.
Vassili
TWO NIGHTS LATER
Just as I was flagged for returning to my homeland, a police cruiser lines up behind my Mercedes, and BLURPS the lights at me. And I thought Mr. Washington had backed the fuck off? I pull over, grab my license and insurance and zip down my windows.
“Hands on the steering wheel,” a masculine voice blares through the speakers. “Both windows down.”
Doing as told, I shake my head.
The beloved boys in blue step out of their cruiser and come to both sides of my car, flashing the light in.
“What did I do, this evening, officer?” I start to grab my license and insurance from my lap.
“Hands on the steering wheel,” he says again, flashing the light in my face.
The illumination burns my retinas. My hands clench the wheel. He pulls out his phone, and starts to make a call.
“Keep your head forward, too,” the cop on the passenger side commands.
I lift my middle finger from the steering wheel as response. A few moments later, the cop on my side holds out his phone.
