My heart sinks a little when I notice that we’re leaving the docks, heading out onto the deep blue bay. This looks to be some kind of pleasure cruise for gamblers — something right up my father’s alley, even if the decor and dress code are leagues higher than his usual fare.
And still… I don’t understand why I need to be here with him.
We spend the entire day out on the water, which I admit is almost nice in a cautious kind of way. I pile a plate with delicate little quiches and fritters, finally filling my stomach after so long without a solid meal. Of course, I do so with a heavy sense of guilt, knowing the twins are at home going hungry. I make a silent vow to myself to never let the household be empty of food ever again, even if it means having to steal.
In the evening, just as the sun is beginning to set, we pull back into the docks. Most of the people leave immediately, but my dad slithers an arm around my shoulders and says, “Time for us to go down below deck. There’s something I have to do.”
His tone is light, but I can detect something sinister lurking just below the surface. I’m instantly on guard, knowing that whatever my father has planned cannot be anything good. But he’s almost giddy as we walk down the steps into a stately room with classical music playing from a fancy stereo system. The furnishings are lush and velvety, a chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. This place looks more like the inside of a swanky hotel room than the below deck of a boat, even one as elaborate as this.
A group of brutish-looking, burly men stand up from a round mahogany table when we enter the room, all of them eyeing me with a kind of ravenous awe. I swallow hard, fear gathering in my core. My heart races as my dad says, “I did what I was told. I got her here. Your guy is gonna hold up his end of the bargain, right? I need to be sure before I let my baby girl go.”
“What?” I burst out, pushing away from him. I feel sick to my stomach. What the hell does he mean, let me go?
Underneath his flippant attitude and the veil of drunkenness, there is a twinge of pain in my father’s eyes, and I know this is for real. This is not a joke. He is giving me away. But in what way?
One man steps forward from the group and looks me up and down with a critical expression. “I would have expected you to present her in a more, ah, appealing manner,” husks the man in a cruel voice. There’s a heavy Russian accent coloring his words.
“You sayin’ my girl ain’t pretty enough?” my dad says, bristling defensively.
“No, no, she is sufficient. But even a diamond may not shine if it is covered with dirt,” the man quips, clearly referring to the dowdy, shapeless flannel shirt that hangs down nearly to my knees.
“Oh, you mean the clothes? Well, this is really the best we got,” Dad remarks, shrugging. Then he reaches over and nudges me. “Take off that shirt, Peanut. Show ‘em what’s underneath.”
I stare at him, slack-jawed, for a long moment. I cannot believe what he’s asking of me. This has to be some kind of nightmare that I will wake up from any minute now. I know my father is a drunken, useless son of a bitch, but I never expected him to do something like this.
“Now, Rosalie!” he orders, taking an aggressive step toward me. I shrink away and immediately start to obey, unbuttoning my flannel shirt with shaking hands and letting it fall to the ground so that I’m standing before this group of strangers in my tight black leggings and threadbare sports bra. The leader of the group purses his lips and nods in apparent approval.
“She will certainly do,” he appraises, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Nice doing business with you, Mister Barnes. Now, get the hell out.”
“My debts are paid off?” my father asks.
The man rolls his eyes, regarding him with pure disgust. “Yes. In full. Leave.”
“You got it,” Dad replies, with a flourish and a bow. He gives me a nod as he turns to leave, his final words to me falling limply from his mouth: “Be good, Peanut. Daddy’s sorry.”
“No!” I shout, running after him as he disappears up the stairs to the top deck. But two of the men rush forward and grab my arms, holding me in place while I scream in horror.
“Be quiet. The deal is done,” commands the leader.
“Please, there has to be something else I can do — I need to go home — there are two little girls who need me,” I plead, tears burning in my eyes. “How long do I have to stay here? They’re hungry and alone! You have to let me go, please!”
“Want me to shut her up, boss?” growls the man on my right.
“We can soften her up for the client, break her in a little,” offers the man on my left.
The leader shakes his head. “No, no. She must be kept in pristine condition for the Bull. He will want her untouched, for certain. You know how it is. Some men like their jewels polished and set, but others prefer a diamond in the rough.”
“Who is the Bull?” I ask, tears coursing down my cheeks.
The leader looks back at me as he walks away to make a call on his cell phone, giving me an almost bemused expression. “Ah, the bitch is eager. But you will find out soon enough.”
5
Konstantin
We’d arrived at the yacht in a limousine while Anton showed me pictures of what was to be my very own condo suite. He wasn’t kidding about its accommodations.
“Again,” he’d said, “all of this is only temporary. If you wish, Sergei’s manor will soon be ready for your personal use. There are just a few things we need to take care of there before letting you have free reign of the place, you understand.”
Clean the blood out of the carpets and make sure none of Sergei’s dirty laundry is too easy for me to find. I’d understood his meaning perfectly, and I knew that this was standard procedure for power changes. My job as an effective leader would involve finding out what I could from the pieces that were left over from the cleanup, though.
Now that I’m onboard the yacht, I’m in a position to start doing just that. The view from the top deck is just as stunning as the view of the yacht was from down below. It was almost a comfort to know that the sleazy, decadence of wealthy Russian tastes hardly changed in the United States. The golden letters spelling out the ship’s name, The Tsar’s Palace, told me that much.
I’m wearing the same clothes I did when I stepped off the plane, unlike Anton, who stepped into a bathroom to change in the airport, and I suspect I’m still the best-dressed person on the yacht. My tailored black suit might be tight-fitting, and I’ve long since abandoned my tie to unbutton the top of the red shirt under it and free my neck, but I’m not wearing the leisure suit so many of the other patrons seem to be sporting, and that’s a fact I pride myself on.
Music fills the air as I walk with Anton across the deck, the clinking of glasses and cheering of drunken voices all around me immersing me in the purest atmosphere of a Russian celebration I could hope for.
“I take it this is routine for Russian-Americans?” I say quietly to Anton as we walk, and he gives a boisterous laugh. I don’t know where the glass of vodka in his hand came from, but it’s already half-empty.
“You’ll find the accommodations here a little more upbeat than what you’re used to back home, my friend,” he says with a warm smile. “It’s something to get used to. It’ll be a little uncomfortable at first, I promise you that, but that thick accent will drop the more you enjoy everything the USA has to offer.”
I’m not sure how much I like the sound of that, but I nod, glancing around the crowds that revel under the dark sky, the stars blotted out by the city’s looming skyline lights. I see a variety of faces among the Russians, a few of them important men I recognize from back home. I’ve met precious few of them, while others have even been clients of mine, and we must avoid eye contact. Such are the politics of the Bratva. The older men are accompanied by lovely young women, almost uniformly. All of them are dressed exquisitely, their hair and makeup painstakingly arranged, and I wonder how many of them are here of their own free will.
“La
dies and gentlemen,” Anton says as we near the center of the deck, “everyone, your attention, please! Our guest of honor has arrived — show some respect!”
Heads start to turn to us, and I start doling out nods of acknowledgement. I’m easily the tallest man in the room, and several of the people in the crowd had already taken notice, so surveying the crowd around me is a simple thing. The DJ lowers the music, and Anton stands in front of me, beaming broadly as a couple of other burly men make their way out of the crowd to stand at his side while he announces me.
I’m not oblivious to the fact that Anton is making a show of riding my coattails tonight. He’s always been a diplomatic type, serving as advisors to other higher-ups around the world throughout his career. I suspect there’s something deep inside him seething about my promotion, but for the time being, his support is important.
“I don’t want you all to forget why we’re here tonight,” he says, lowering his voice to a speaking volume as the crowd quiets down. “This is an exciting time for us, a time for inspiring change and greater fortunes than ever before, both for those of you born and bred here in America,” he says with a nod to several of the guests who raise their glasses respectfully back, “and for those of us fresh off the boat,” he grins back to me. There will be little or no mention of the Bratva specifically, of course. This is hardly mixed company, but it’s in poor taste to speak ‘publically’ about what it is we do.
“And tonight, we raise a glass to our newly arrived associate who will help us realize this dream of a brighter tomorrow. My dear friends and colleagues, the esteemed Mr. Konstantin Alkaev!” There’s a scattered applause as Anton introduces me with a comically sweeping gesture, and I force a smile, nodding to those around me and raising a modest hand. This kind of pageantry is hardly the kind of business I feel comfortable conducting. I can already tell that the mantle of leadership will feel uncomfortable on my shoulders. I have been a leader of men in the past. Maybe I’ll flourish doing it again. But I’m a man of action, first and foremost, and not even this position could keep me in an armchair if I wanted to let it.
“Thank you all,” I say, my deep voice showing my heavy Russian accent as I pronounce the English words slowly, with Anton gesturing for me to say something. “I am not one for speeches, but I look forward to getting to know you all as we move forward.” I know that what’s about to follow is a tedious series of introductions to rancid old men I’d rather not deal with at all. “Zazdarovje!”
"Zazdarovje!” the Russian-speaking crowd raises a glass along with me, and there’s a scattered applause as the music resumes.
What follows is a surprisingly lighthearted affair. I was expecting to be ushered to the side immediately, but the people seem amenable to enjoying the party as I make my way to the bar and start celebrating with the crowd.
Of introductions, though, there is no shortage. With Anton and his two bodyguards — my two bodyguards as well, I realize — I’m greeted by everyone who is anyone in Brighton Beach. The top arms smuggler in the region shakes my hand and shares a drink with me as we reminisce over an old job we did together back in St. Petersburg when I was first getting started. A small-time politician who happens to be the son of one of the more influential Bratva leaders in New England greets me like a son, giving me a tight embrace and giving me a rundown on the political climate around Brighton. One of my former clients, a man who paid me to eliminate one of the most notorious narcotics kingpins in Russia, even approaches me — introducing himself as if for the first time, of course — and tells me what a pleasure it will be to have me so close to home.
One by one, as the vodka flows and the dancing becomes less restrained, men of the Bratva come to pay their respects to me. It’s a truly strange feeling. I’ve lived in the shadows my entire life, from the cold streets of Moscow to the wretched walls of a prison, and now, it’s my skill at hunting human lives that has gained the fear of all those around me.
In time, once the more important people have made their rounds introducing themselves and meeting one another, Anton finds me again, having wandered off to speak to a few others.
“I hope everything is to your liking, pakhan,” he says in a low tone, a broad smile on his face as he addresses me by my new title. I give him a light chuckle, clapping him on the back as I step away from the bar. “Everything easy on the eyes?”
“I’m not used to having so much carried out in my honor,” I say truthfully, “but it would be immodest to ask for a better welcome to America.”
“I mean the girls, Konstantin,” he says, his eyes narrowing and his smile broadening as he gives a nod to the crowd.
There are a few women by the dance floor, talking to each other, in dresses whose necks plunge down deep at the collar, and I watch Anton ravish them with his eyes. In truth, I’ve hardly had time to speak to the women here, not that I hadn’t intended to do just that when I got half a breath, but the way Anton carries himself makes me less than eager to conduct myself in any way that could associate me with him.
“They’re lovely,” I say simply, catching the eye of one of them across the room, and she flashes me a shy smile before saying something to her friend with a blush. I have an intimidating presence, but Anton’s words make me wonder how many of the women here are being paid for, and how many were simply bought.
“If you think they’re lovely,” he says, and I can already anticipate what his next words are going to be, “then I have a sight for you. Come, I have something special to show you.”
Before I can say anything further, he nods towards the doors of the yacht that lead to the elevators, and I follow him in, pushing past a few other half-drunken guests vying for my attention. He walks past the elevators to a door that has a guard posted at it, who nods at both of us before opening the door and standing aside. I notice that Anton’s two guards are absent as we approach.
“What is the meaning of all this, Anton?” I ask as we step inside, but he only smiles back at me as the room comes into view.
The room we’re in now is like the penthouse of an apartment, built into the yacht. It’s dimly lit, with ample open space and hardwood floors stretching to what seems to be the back of the ship, judging by the window on the far side of the room with an unimpeded view of the bay outside. Lovely artwork hangs from the walls, and planters overflowing with vibrant plants sit below them. There’s even a small, inactive hot tub in the middle of the room. It’s clearly the closest thing to a VIP suite this club of a yacht has.
The first two people in the room I notice are burly men, not unlike Anton’s guards who followed us around all day. One stands on the inside of the door, regarding us silently as we enter. The other stands behind one of the couches, his thickly muscled arms crossed.
On the couch in front of him is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Her pale skin seems to stand out like a centerpiece in the darkness around her, somehow at once infused with it yet distinct from it, and the ocean-blue eyes that look up at me are bursting with the kind of knowing fear that wrenches at my heart — a despondent look tempered by hardship yet ever more surprised at the depths of depravity its owner has been exposed to. She’s dressed — or rather half-undressed — simply, her exposed bra and leggings making her look fresh off the street. Everything about her tells me she’s never imagined being where she is tonight in her wildest dreams, or her worst nightmares.
I wonder if the empathy I feel swelling within me shows through my stony killer’s gaze. It only lasts half an instant before Anton shuts the door behind us.
“I know this isn’t really your kind of thing,” he says, a wicked smile on his face, “but the men and I thought that you deserved a proper welcome to America — something the plastic opulence outside can’t provide.”
I watch Anton stalk around the room toward the couch. There are two other couches on either side, and he rests his hands on the one to the right as the other muscle stands aside to give me an unimpeded view of the
young woman.
“So I thought I’d take the liberty of arranging this little party favor for you,” he says pleasantly, stepping over towards her to take her by the chin. She glares daggers at him as he turns her around, showing off her straight, dark hair. Her expression seems to be muted by default, and I can’t blame her. So much of her beauty resides in the fury she can muster in that look she aims at Anton, even though she’s powerless to act on it.
“You’re kind,” I say, guarding my tone carefully, showing as little emotion as I can, “but I must refuse your generous offer. You’ve done more than enough to show your respects today, Anton.”
“Ah, but you don’t understand,” he says, raising his eyebrows and turning her face to look at me as he does. “This American gem was not easy to arrange, my friend. As you can see, she’s truly one of a kind, fresh and unbroken, an untouched virgin. And when I say that she’s your party favor for tonight,” he says, withdrawing his hand from her at last and stepping back, “I mean that she is yours. This young woman is your tribute for your new role — she belongs to you, now.”
“Then I will do with her as I wish,” I say firmly, stepping forward towards the couches. The young woman’s eyes are on me, the careful gaze of a wounded deer being approached by its predator. “Would you interfere with your pakhan’s wishes?”
“Well, sir,” Anton says, folding his hands behind his back, “I can see that you really don’t understand.” He lets his hands part, and that’s when I see the glint of the pistol in his hand as he points it at me from his hip, as casually as if he’d been taking out a cigarette lighter. Our gazes meet coldly, and to see the veneer of politeness drop from his eyes would have been a relief under any other circumstances. “We’re all delighted to have you in America, make no mistake. But a few people — myself included — have some...concerns, regarding your reputation.”
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