“I learned your reputation started before you earned that red star behind bars,” he says, nodding to my chest. “Your time in the Spetznaz didn’t end on good terms, but the fact that you weren’t executed led to even more interesting leads surrounding the details of your discharge. Some would call you a traitor, you know,” he says, and I flex my fist.
“Some? Would you?”
“Me, I’m a man who’s borne that same title,” he says, stripping his jacket off at last. “And it may be self-serving to say, but traitors are some of the best people I’ve ever met.”
I grin, and at last we extend hands to shake firmly. “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Andrei.”
“And you, Konstantin Alkaev. I think we could have a lot to reflect on together, but I assume you haven’t set this rendezvous up for small talk, have you?”
I wave off the waitress as I shake my head at Andrei and spend the next few minutes filling him in on the events leading up to what brings me to the table with him this morning, and the other assassin listens with the same attention to detail that I would.
“I have heard much about your work through Dmitri. How you carried out a string of assassinations and brought the Bratva’s flourishing slave trade to its knees. And I believe,” I say after finishing my account, “that I was brought here to be manipulated while whatever remnants of that slave ring tries to recuperate itself. I’m strong enough that nobody could challenge me, but they want to pressure me into letting them rebuild. What happened on that yacht was a message.”
“No doubt,” Andrei says, his hands steepled in front of him. “But something doesn’t fit. When I rooted out the slave ring, I was thorough. The Bratva should have been cleansed of this filth.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but here we are.”
Andrei nods, his frown deep. Then he looks back up at me. “I’m surprised that you’re here, frankly. Those who gave you this position did so because they thought you could be played, maybe overwhelmed by the new responsibilities.”
“Many who are born into poverty and later given the world on a silver platter are often wooed into doing great evils,” I say, crossing my legs, “but I cannot ignore the hardship I faced when I was young. I’m in a position to finalize the changes you strove for in the Bratva, really change things for the better. But I can’t do that as long as my subordinates think it’s acceptable to get away with carrying on the slave trade.” Andrei nods, and I lean forward, looking him in the eye. “Andrei, I want you to help me put this to rest, once and for all. Cleanse the Bratva of this filth. I need someone who’s been on the inside to root it out.”
The man across the table from me gives a solemn nod. “It will be done. And if we succeed, I’ll be proud to call you pakhan.” He grins and adds, “Though the American-born locals might be more apt to call you ‘Godfather.’ In any case, I think I know what could solve our problem in one fell swoop. But it will take time. And it will take money — more than either of us have, I can tell you that much.”
I nod, expecting him to continue. “And if you’re proposing this, I suspect you have a means of bringing in this kind of money?”
Andrei narrows his eyes. “You could say I’ve had my eye on a job.”
10
Rosie
I have never known what it’s like to have money.
Even back in my sunniest, most carefree childhood memories, wealth was never a factor in my happiness. I have known love and joy, but never fortune. We lived in a rundown trailer park, for god’s sake. Years before my father’s gambling addiction and alcoholism catapulted us into neck-deep debt, we struggled to make ends meet, both my parents toiling away with whatever they could possibly manage. Granted, I was a young child then, and that life was all I’d ever known. So I was more or less oblivious to how impoverished we really were, how close to the very edge we lived.
So when Konstantin tossed a limitless credit card my way and told me to use it however I wanted, it took a long time for my brain to even compute his words into something comprehensible. For all my life, I never even knew people could own limitless credit cards. In fact, I tend to view all credit cards with suspicion and distrust, since my father has maxed out card after card in his pursuit of booze and blackjack, plummeting us even further into debt.
At first, I assumed Konstantin was either playing a cruel joke on me or just testing me to see how gullible or greedy I am. Maybe he wants to gauge whether I can be distracted by pretty, shiny things, caught off-guard while entranced by the glittering mirage of consumerism.
Or perhaps he really does feel guilty for buying me, and he’s trying to make it up to me by offering me money and gifts. He wants to appease me, prove that he’s not the monster his background builds him up to be. But I also get the sense that he doesn’t quite know what kinds of things I would even like. To be fair, I hardly know what I like.
My life for the past eight years has never been about what I like, what I want, need, or aspire to. Ever since Daisy and Sunny were born and my mother passed away, my life has centered entirely around taking care of them. From the moment I first named them and held them in my arms, it was clear that life as I knew it was totally over. It wasn’t about goofing around in the woods, looking forward to birthday presents, or getting attention from my parents anymore. It was about changing diapers and staying up all night and doing whatever I had to in order to keep us all alive.
Sometimes I wonder how different I would be if things had turned out differently — if my mom was still alive and my dad had never lost his mind. Who would I be without the weight of the world on my shoulders?
I shift uncomfortably in bed, crossing my ankles under the sheet and sipping my glass of water thoughtfully. I should know better by now than to dwell on pointless ‘what ifs’ like that. Especially when there are present-day, real-life problems popping up to screw with me every five minutes. For instance, right now I need to determine how the hell I’m going to look out for my sisters while I’m holed up in this mansion, not even in the same state.
I shudder to think of how terrible the past day or so has been for them. Without me around, who will care for them? Who will make sure they have food?
Luckily, I have done a pretty thorough job of preparing them for all kinds of awful situations. They know how to call 9-1-1. They know the number for child protective services. They know not to disobey or anger Dad whenever he’s in a bad mood — which is just about all the time nowadays. I even printed out a map of the area for them while I was at the public library one time, going over the streets and various important locations. I circled our address, along with the locations of the police station, fire station, bus station, grocery store, and homeless shelter, just in case. I spent hours grilling them on how they should act under different circumstances, such as if anything were to happen to them while I’m gone.
One good thing about our current living situation is the fact that there is a sweet, elderly woman three houses down who is always more than willing to look after the girls if I ever need to go somewhere without them. She was a godsend last summer when I had to work long hours as a waitress and didn’t want to leave Sunny and Daisy at home with my dad while I was working. Of course, Ms. Liddell is quite old and frail, so she would not be a great caretaker for most children. But my sisters are well-trained from years of having to be quiet, soft, and polite in order to escape our father’s violent temper. They love to help Ms. Liddell tend to her garden, bake cookies, make lemonade, and other simple little tasks. Most evenings when I came to collect them after work, I would find all three of them snuggled up in their respective armchairs, game show reruns playing on the ancient television set.
I hope that’s where they are now — hunkered down at Ms. Liddell’s house watching TV, far from my father’s destructive reach. At least if they’re with her, they will have something to eat and a place to sleep without having to worry about Frank Barnes thundering into the house in the middle of the night in a drunken stupor. Sure, I w
ould never expect Ms. Liddell to allow them to stay with her indefinitely, especially since she’s got to be pushing eighty years old and the last thing she needs is to become a mother figure to two very energetic, precocious twin girls. But I like to think that in a way, it’s a mutually beneficial dynamic, since the girls are always so willing and enthusiastic about helping her around the house.
I try to assure myself that they’re definitely with her right now; that they’re safe and sound at Ms. Liddell’s house, and I need not worry. But I know there is still a chance that they could just be at home, starving and shivering in fear because their big sister, the closest thing to a mother they have ever known, is gone.
I have to blink several times and bite the inside of my cheek to stem the flow of tears threatening to spill out. I can’t let this break me. I’m stronger than this. There is nothing I can do about the situation outside this mansion, no way for me to check in on the girls, so I might as well take my mind off of it somehow. It isn’t helpful to anyone for me to lose my mind over something beyond my control.
But it’s difficult to distract myself from my thoughts. Unless…
I glance down at the credit card laid out on the end table on my side of the bed, its holographic gold face lightly shimmering in the early morning light. To my right is a sleek silver laptop, fully charged and ready for use. I have to admit that it is a little endearing to have such a big, powerful man seemingly doing his very best to provide me with creature comforts.
I have never even owned a computer, myself, because we simply never had the money. I know how to use, of course, after painstakingly teaching myself how to use the public access computers at the library back in Mississippi. In school, they taught us how to type, but it was up to me to learn how to use the Internet, how to apply for jobs and send emails. With a glittery golden credit card on my left and a shiny silver laptop on my right, I feel quite literally surrounded by luxury. This is not a world I have much experience with. In fact, the last time I can remember spending any frivolous money on myself was when I used some of my waitressing tips to get my nose pierced. I bought the cheapest, smallest little stud they had available, and even then I refused to eat anything but dollar-store bread and lettuce for a few days to make up for my purchase.
Running a finger delicately over the little nose stud, I remember how angry my father was once he finally noticed the piercing. It took him a week to notice. I wince at the memory of his double take, the color fading from his cheeks as he turned white with rage and his hands curled into fists. He had been so angry with me, so offended that any daughter of his would “do something so filthy and trashy to her body.”
After scrimping and saving for months to afford this one small luxury for myself, I was devastated at my father’s over-the-top reaction. In fact, before I could stop myself, I had angrily muttered in response, “Right, because drinking yourself to death is much classier than getting your nose pierced.”
It was the first time my dad hit me so hard I had to get medical help.
Thankfully, it took place over the summer so nobody at school got to see me with a black eye and bloody lip. After Dad threw a few rapid punches my way, I calmly left and walked all the way to the nearest clinic, where a nurse took pity on me and gave me a massive discount on an ice pack and some pain medication. She mopped up the blood, dried my tears, and begged me to let her call child protective services. But I knew that if CPS came, there was a good chance I would end up separated from my little sisters, and that was a fate I just could not abide. So I thanked her, paid her with every last meager cent from my little thrift store wallet, and walked back home to face the music.
Luckily, my dad was so drunk by the time I got home, he had completely forgotten the whole incident, and the twins were still at Ms. Liddell’s house for the night. I simply blamed my black eye on my nose piercing, telling Daisy and Sunny that it was a freak reaction, a rare side effect of having someone jab a needle through my nose, but that it totally didn’t hurt and was nothing for them to worry about.
My father, thank god, never mentioned it again.
I paid so dearly for that one small gift to myself, a reward for managing to juggle all the endless responsibilities I am saddled with. And now, I have the power to buy myself nearly anything I want, and I’m sitting here reminiscing sadly about the past.
For once, I’m going to get what I want, at least in some small, frivolous way. Besides, I think to myself as I open the laptop and drop the credit card in my lap, online shopping is probably a good way to distract myself from my troubles.
I open Amazon and start shyly perusing the more practical categories of home goods, looking at different colors of towels and dishes. Then I remind myself that there is really no need for anything like that here. This mansion has all the essentials in it already. I look around the room, wrinkling my nose. Everything here is lavish and extravagant, but it’s also… sleazy.
The place looks like it was decorated by a megalomaniacal Russian nightclub owner or something, and it definitely does not suit my tastes. Even the bed sheets pulled up to my waist are an overly slick gold color, more fitting as a circus tent tarp than a blanket. I quickly order a new set of sheets and pillowcases patterned with phases of the moon in gray and white. The whole thing costs nearly two hundred dollars, and my heart races as I enter the credit card information and press submit. To my amazement, the purchase goes through successfully.
It’s the most money I have ever spent at one time. In fact, two hundred dollars is generally enough to last the girls and me for a few months of groceries and necessities.
I feel slightly invigorated, and a little bit nauseous. But Konstantin did tell me to buy whatever I wanted, anything to make me feel a little more at home. So I go on to purchase several vintage-looking T-shirts with classic rock band logos on them, three pairs of jeans in what I hope is my size, a pair of black ankle boots, a black faux-leather jacket, a black felt hat, a couple of plaid flannel shirts, some socks, and a long, slinky dark red dress. It’s strange, seeing the Amazon cart filled with so much clothing that all seems to go together. I smile to myself, surprised to see that maybe I do have a sense of style all my own, after all. It’s remarkable how put-together a person can look when there’s enough money involved.
“What will it be like to have more than one pair of pants?” I murmur aloud, admittedly a little giddy at the prospect of having a somewhat complete wardrobe for the first time in my life. There’s still a persistent pang of guilt beating at my heart, but I force myself to ignore it in the name of distracting myself from worry.
By the time Konstantin returns around mid-morning, I am downright effervescent with consumerist high. I can hear his key in the front door from across the silent house, and I quickly shut the laptop and push it away from me as though I have to hide my shameful purchases. Even though he was the one who urged me to make them in the first place. It hits me now just how awful it is that shame and fear are my default emotions. I have been so intensely, rigorously programmed to conceal my needs and desires, to hide my soul away lest my father comes home to destroy anything left out in plain sight.
The Bull knocks gently on my bedroom door and I clear my throat to call out, “Oh — come in! I’m in bed but I-I’m decent.” The words sound flimsy and needless once I remember that we have already had sex. He’s already seen me naked. Nothing he could find in this room would come as a surprise to him.
Still, I do appreciate his gentlemanly knock, as well as the way he averts his eyes when he walks into the room. He stands tall and solemn, his eyes cast across the room toward the window. Morning light streams in through the blinds, softly illuminating his handsome features. Somehow, he manages to look simultaneously intimidating and gentle, his serene expression barely even hinting at the power he keeps hidden away inside. Like gray clouds gathering overhead just before a storm. He is a fenced-in danger, a rabid dog kept on a tight leash.
I gulp.
“How did you
sleep?” he asks in that thrumming baritone.
“Good,” I lie. Actually, I tossed and turned for a few hours, my mind racing.
“Did you use the credit card I gave you?” he continues.
“Y-yes. I hope that’s okay,” I reply sheepishly. “I promise I didn’t buy anything too ridiculous.”
“You can have anything you want,” Konstantin says meaningfully, turning to look at me. His gray eyes seem to pierce right through me, sending a cold shiver down my spine.
“Where did you go?” I ask suddenly, before I can think better of it.
He pauses for a moment, then to my surprise, he says, “I contacted an old ally of mine and we discussed a plan to clear out some of the filth clogging up the Bratva.”
“The slavers?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “Fuck them. I want to take them down.”
Konstantin raises one eyebrow, clearly taken aback by my outburst. I blush.
“I mean… they are the ones who did this to me,” I explain, “and knowing that there are other girls out there in much worse conditions… I just — I want to help you. However I can.”
There is a long moment of silence, and Konstantin appears to be ruminating over my admission. I am worried at first that he will either laugh at me or be angry, but instead he simply replies, “We have an idea in mind to bring in the kind of money required for our plan, but it would require one hell of a distraction to pull it off.”
“Distraction?” I question, cocking my head to one side.
Konstantin nods, the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips.
11
Konstantin
My suit is gunmetal-gray, a black shirt underneath it unbuttoned at the top, showing the peak of my chest as the buttons keep it closed snugly over my rippling muscles. There’s more stubble on my face than usual — I’ve neglected the razor in the past couple of days’ planning.
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