by Amarie Avant
I start to tell him that this is the end of the line, but Vassili doesn't ask what I expected him to. He inquires, “Do you think your father is clean, squeaky fucking clean?”
“What?” My eyebrows knead together in confusion. “Hum, this is going left field. Forgive me if I ever gave the impression that I or my father was better than you, Vassili.”
“I ain't asking.” His brown eyes sweep up and down my body. Not like before, there’s no desire here, only interest in the truth.
“He has his faults. My dad has made upwards of 300 grand a year during his seven years term as chief of police—I’m sure that’s nickels in your eyes. Look, I always thought joining in on the integrated LAPD Commission crew would be his next step. But my father has talked of campaigning for mayor this November… He has friends…” And he is “mildly” crooked. Licking my lips, I steer clear of my father’s indiscretions. “He has higher goals to achieve than the Commission. He will become the mayor. So while he’s campaigning, how does it look if I am sleeping with a Resnov?”
Vassili is quiet for a moment. Perhaps my argument has penetrated. “Nobody on the streets backing the Resnov name is afraid of Washington, sweetheart. Fuck his friends. I could give a damn about his goals. Though I have no intention of stepping on his toes.”
I huff. This man listens to nothing! “Whateva, Vassili.”
“I don't want to get to know Maxwell Washington.” His hand skims over my leg. It's rough and hot and makes my pussy drench with delight, but this time, fate doesn’t push it away. The rain is drumming against the window, there’s no stopping us… but me. I push his hand away.
“I won't ever say anything about you, Vassili. But the more we become involved, the deeper our association…” I pause for the oxygen to reach my brain. “My father won't like this. Regardless of me being a grown-ass woman, Vassili. Maxwell Washington is a man who gets what he wants.” He won't touch me, but he might go after you.
Vassili laughs. “Beautiful, you're tired. Should I walk you to the door or will that piss off your dad? He's been peeking through the window for some time now.”
I glance over my shoulder. Damn, I've gotta move. Yet, I am aware that Vassili is avoiding my request to part ways.
“You're invincible in the ring, Vassili. And I'm positive you've been more engaged in the family business than you had claimed to be while we chatted over the phone. There is nothing for us. This was just one night of shooting the breeze for old times’ sake.”
“Run along, beautiful,” is all Vassili says in response.
My mouth tenses. Would have been nice for one final kiss goodbye. I snatch up my purse and get out. The rain isn't as commanding as before. Just a dampness seeps onto the shoulders of the hoodie and the top as I step to the door. It's opened and Vassili pulls out from in front of the house.
“I never took Taryn for a truck kind of girl, Mercedes emblem aside.” He says, eyeing me suspiciously with a thick terry cloth towel in hand.
“Thanks, Dad,” I reply, grabbing the towel. “It's not Taryn’s.”
“Rhonda?”
“Nope.” I start toward the vast staircase without so much as an interest in his inquisitiveness.
“Then who? I know goddamn well Ronisha isn't driving around in that thing? Zariah, you start at Levine and Son law firm next week! And I'm sweet talking colleagues about a potential mayoral campaign.”
“Doubt I'm in need of a reminder, Dad,” I toss over my shoulder. “I've been exercising this muscle for a while now.” I tap the crown of my head although I disregard his mention of Levine and Son law firm. That was his dream for me. Though, I’ll be in a cubicle bright and early on Monday, I have no intention of working there.
“Are you talking back to me?” His voice is lower, closer. Harder. So much harder than usual. I turn around and my father is inches away. Does he think I'll coil like my mom? I wish a man would try to hit me. Blood or not. One of us would have to die, I would fight until my last breath.
“First of all, you’re my father and older than me, so I'll try being as respectful as possible. Second of all, I was out. I simply choose not to tell you with whom as I am twenty-five years old. Third, and I implore you to take heed, I will not ruin your campaign for mayor once you begin. My actions will not be a reflection of your capabilities because I know how to handle myself. So if you have any other questions that you'd like me to answer—or plead the fifth, rather?”
His animosity decreases and I realize that mine is boiling hot. Though I lived in Northern California for much of the time, I was previously in my mother’s territory. Shit, is her divorcée mannerisms rubbing off on me? Yes, there’s underlying resentment I have for my dad since I grew up in a hostile environment.
But what has my lips set in a sneer the most is having my cake and not being allowed to eat it too.
I cannot have Vassili Resnov. He isn't a man to be had. I cannot be his. He's a Resnov. Come Monday morning, I’ll return to the focused mindset where my career will be my life. One day, once I’m established, I'll meet a man of like mind and if he so much as looks at me sideways, I will bite his head off and find a divorce attorney to take, take, take.
My father forces me to the present with a bright grin.
“Pleading the fifth isn’t necessary.” He pats my shoulder, with a smile of his own. “You're just like me, Zariah. Very convincing speech. You will get what you want…”
The underlining tone is I will get what I want as he always does. Too bad he isn’t aware of exactly what I covet. A man who should never be mine.
“Just continue to surround yourself with winners,” Dad implores.
“All right, Dad. Are you still apartment shopping with me tomorrow?” I inquire to lighten the mood.
“Yes, I've enlisted an agent.”
“Why? I've already checked off a few places on rent.com.”
“Rent.com? Funny.”
“Dad, I know you live in a white man’s world, but my money is funny at the moment. I'll be leasing a studio or perhaps a one bedroom. And it most definitely won't be in the Hills or anywhere that an agent would be willing to waste his or her time on commission.”
“All right, how about we look at two of your preferred places and two of mine?”
No need. I shrug, realizing that this is not a winning battle until the ink is wet on an inexpensive apartment. “If you feel like wasting your time, Dad.”
“Nonsense. Anytime with my daughter isn't a waste. I've had alternating Christmases and Thanksgivings with you since you've been up north. I assumed your mother would let up when you moved to Berkeley for law school.”
What about you spend time with Martin? The few times my dad made the trip to Atlanta during my undergrad, he never got around to seeing his first born.
I meander toward my room, praying to God that my time here would be short lived.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I glance at the text from Vassili.
See you. 8pm sharp on Thursday. Though I grumble, a part of me welcomes his dominate demeanor.
Vassili
Ulyanovsk, Russia
I love my country. Having been born after the Berlin Wall collapsed; that had a little something to do with it. But that being said, it hurts me to my core every time I return home. When I'm in Russia, my only thought is how long will it take me to get back out of Russia.
The compound my father owns covers a vast area in the suburb of Rublyovka, compared to Beverly Hills in prestige. In a neighborhood of trillionaires and slimy government officials, he fits in perfectly. I pull up to the gates, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight that the color of my knuckles are pallid. The guards on either side of the gate offer no less than glares. Fucking mudaks.
They covet my position as Anatoly’s first born. Have at it.
I toss a stiff middle finger and then pull inside of the courtyard. Luxury supercars are scattered around a lengthy lap pool. Before I step one foot out of the SUV, my father is meandering down the
front steps of his home. He’s in a tailor-made suit in coal gray. Though the sky is cloudy, gold shades cover his eyes, which match the gold loafers on his feet. His skin is darker. Not the ashen color it was the last time I was here a few years back.
He greets me as a father would his son and this shit is awkward. It's the same routine I've completed with Malich a thousand times over, yet I'm numb to Anatoly.
“Come, come.” He ushers me past more guards and inside of his home.
The ceilings are high as the sky, all murals lined in gold. My father leads me to a grand dining room. A heavy wood table, fit for a king, is loaded with food. Women, each more beautiful than the last, are at our service.
One languishes over my father, pouring him vodka nonstop. Another feeds him between kisses. Two are flocked around me and I stop the blonde’s attempt to spoon up a bit of my borsch soup with a raised hand. “Girl,” I snap. She paws me instead while I feed myself and another rubs my shoulders.
“So what is my brother up to?”
Though I never took my job seriously, I’m supposed to keep tabs on Malich. I pause from frowning. This is the reason for my visit. The Red Door is mine, all mine. The criminal activity, which garners five times as much, well, that's supposed to be my claim to fame.
Little does my father know, I'm too busy to assign bitches to the highest bidder at The Red Door and ensure those rich guys are also tied down with premium drugs and our signature smuggled water. Malich handles it for me.
The other night with Zariah, I went into Malich’s office at The Red Door. There were papers on his desk that my father should know about. Malich is embezzling from the alcohol. There were two sets of inventory; same dates, but different charge amounts. Telling Anatoly this will only amplify the disappointment my father has always felt for me. It means that I haven’t watched Malich good enough. Now, I don’t give a fuck how Anatoly feels, but it will mean that my uncle lied to my face, and I can’t have that.
“Malich is good,” I reply. Shit, I have more loyalty for my uncle. I fork up a bit of food and shovel it into my mouth. Inside, my veins are on fire. I’ll check into it and then. I stop analyzing shit, because the proof was in my motherfucking face.
“He's good?” Anatoly nods, a mask of uncertainty slowly unveils and he raises a glass. “My first born is home. Ladies, show him a good time.”
“No.” I brush my forearm against the blonde bitch again, whose even thirstier for affection than she was a minute ago.
“What is this?” Anatoly’s eyebrow rises. “ty che, blyad?—what the fuck? Vassili isn't a whoremonger anymore?”
I have a taste for one woman only. Can't tell my father that though or he will want to meet Zariah. I glance away from the bitch that has been feigning for it and then to the female on the opposite side of me. She's more chill when it comes to pouring my vodka and massaging my neck.
Like Zariah, her hair is a chocolate brown, but thin and blunt instead of strong, thick, and long. The silk robe she's wearing, glides across these set of tits that might've been perfect. If I hadn't learned to compare every female trait to Zariah’s. I recall the morning after Zariah and I woke up on her balcony. It took a hot shower, jacking off, and a train to get me off.
“Come ‘er,” I tell her. She tosses back her shot glass and then her mouth is all over mine. The other woman takes it upon herself to begin unzipping my pants.
“Oh, I must go.” Anatoly arises.
He and the other women have hardly made it to the door when the darker one’s tongue lodges down my throat and the blonde girl’s coils along the ridge of my cock.
Mhmm, the auburn girl’s mouth moans against mine, as I press my hand against the crown of the blondes head, forcing her deeper. Auburn kisses a trail down my neck, to my chest and meets the blonde in an intimate kiss. They both begin to flick at my cock. Sweet pink tongues sliding and gliding wet trails across the rigid planes of stiffness.
Though I haven't been satiated in seven years, ever since Zariah Washington came into my life, my hand clamps onto the blonde’s throat. I tug firmly enough to gather her attention.
“Get this bitch wet for me,” I order.
The auburn girl grins, bashful eyes glancing up from my erection. Fuck me. She has this coyness about her like Zariah, whereas I know hers is for play, I stand quickly. With one swipe, the food before me goes crashing to the left. The girls jump and giggle. When the auburn lifts her ass onto the table. The blonde goes straight for her pussy, and I exit stage left. There’s no way I’ll rat out my uncle, not for this life or my closest blood tie.
In the main hallway, I head straight to the door.
“You leaving?” Comes a heard voice from over my shoulder.
I ignore it.
“Vassili,” the voice nears. From my peripheral an arm reaches for my shoulder. I grab the goon’s wrist, yank it low, and bring it down. The man in suit is flipped over. I place my boot onto his chest, pull out a freshly rolled cigarette and my lighter.
“Walking up behind me is a bad idea…bad motherfucking idea. Got that?”
“Your father would like to see you,” another hard voice says.
I turn a dead glare at Semion, my father’s most trusted and deadly left hand. Besides, being the bratva, he’s family. My father’s sister’s son.
“C’mon, kazen, play nice,” Semion says, no emotion on his face whatsoever. He has one dude on his right and two on his left. I hold out my hands, in peace, I don’t have a gun, but if they keep at it, I will take them all down with my bare hands.
Semion walks beside me, the two twins in front, the one in the back helps up the mudak that was dumb enough to try and touch me. We head down toward the west wing. One of the twins opens up double doors to a cave-like room with shimmering 24 karat gold walls. My eyes narrow since there’s no natural lighting. The sound of giggling and Anatoly echoes against the low hanging ceiling. Then we step into a jacuzzi room, where my father is playing with three of his girls.
“Moy syn—my son.” He starts toward the stairs. “You aren’t leaving so soon?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“We must talk business.” His attention returns to the women. They huff, while getting out of the Jacuzzi after him and leaving the room.
“I’m watching Malich.” The glare in my gaze tells him this is for show. “What other business do you have that needs my attention?”
“Tomorrow I attend the council meeting in Monte Carlo. We’ll gamble,” he says, though he means talking about eliminating whoever in the political world is fucking with the heroin trade.
“Nah, I’m going home. Can’t help.”
Anatoly rubs the back of his neck and laughs. “Home? That new president of yours rides my cock. You wanna go home? You are my first born, Vassili. Don’t be a pussy.”
I shrug, turning to walk away.
“Every morning I tell myself that my coward of a son is more like Sasha. More and more like Sasha.”
I pause, glaring him dead in the eyes. Sasha is his blood, the daughter he didn’t care about.
“Or your mother, maybe you’re—”
My forearm slams into Anatoly’s neck. A vision pulls me under. Sasha was nine. I went into her room and there were three of my father’s goons, running a train on her. I picked up a lamp and bashed one in the head. The other two thought that shit was funny. But I fought my first fight. Only to be stopped by my sister because she couldn’t stand to see my ass kicked. They had already handed it to me before she could struggle into her clothes and stop them. While blood leaked down the side of my face and with one eye swelling by the second, I cleaned her up and let her cry in my arms for a while. She begged me to keep quiet, but I went to my father’s home and told him what they’d done to his daughter. The mudak rubbed his neck and let my words roll straight through. Then he reached down, gripped my chin, and asked me why my eye was swollen shut. When I said those bastards and I fought, he laughed and patted my head. Said everyone they’d so much as wr
itten a love note in grade school would die. He hit me softly on the chin and told me to keep fighting.
And I kept fighting. Not because Anatoly took interest in me. But because true to his word, those three mudaks and their families, were murdered. Though not for the right reason. They were murdered for touching his first born.
The clicks of every man’s gun going off safety is instantaneous as Anatoly yelps in shock. He’s pressed back against the gold wall, unable to breath.
“Say something else, Anatoly, and I will fucking kill you. Mention Sasha or my mother again and God cannot save you.”
I can feel one of the barrels at my temple. “C’mon, kazen,” Semion says.
“If… if…” My father’s face is red, and shaking as he tries to catch his breath. These motherfuckers will be too happy to pull the trigger before my father passes out or gives the signal. But they don’t realize it’s not necessary to squeeze this mudak’s life source. I can snap my father’s neck in an instant.
I let go.
Anatoly’s chin is held high, face a dark frowning mask as he rubs. “They could’ve killed you, Vassili!”
My voice doesn’t rise above a whisper. “Long as I take you out too, I don’t mind.”
I turn toward the door again. The piz’da who met me at the exit has his finger on the trigger, still itching to give it a squeeze. I walk on by.
“One day, you have to forgive me, Vassili,” I hear my father shouting. The bitch move he had just pulled by mentioning my little sister, Sasha, and my mom warned that I’d rather burn in hell than forgive him.
###
My sparring partner is one of Vadim’s up and coming MMA fighters. He's an undercard with a wild knack for flipping the script. With a flurry of left and right fists to his face as I draw first blood. His right eye is red. I concentrate on that.
Vadim is cussing in Russian.
Frown deepening, I pummel until the gash above his eye sends blood running down his nose and chin. His forearms come up.
