by Renee Rose
I should tell her I believe her. Because I’m mostly sure I do.
But again, I can’t trust my judgment. I need to look at the data. Follow trails. I need to be sitting behind a screen—the only place I know how to live.
“So I’m a prisoner here.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I walk past her to sit at the long rustic farm table to eat my eggs. “Maybe think of it more as detention. You’re here as a consequence. We’re still examining the finer points of what happened.”
“You do that.” She picks up the t-shirt and toiletries and walks out in her bare feet. “You won’t find anything on me.”
I crane my neck to watch her climb the stairs.
I sure as hell hope she’s right.
7
Natasha
I go upstairs to my room, but the crunch of car tires on the dirt drive outside sends me to the window.
I watch as Maxim, Oleg, the giant bratva enforcer, and Story, his musician girlfriend, climb out of an SUV. Story’s hair has changed color since I saw her last week. Instead of all platinum, her bob is now accented with two bold chunks of a beautiful magenta in the front.
Oleg brings a cooler in with him, and Maxim carries a plastic crate filled with what looks like wires and cords or other electronic equipment.
I hear the door open and shut, and Dima’s surly tones before he heads out to the SUV. I should go downstairs, but I hesitate, feeling awkward. I don’t know how they all feel about me now. I open my door quietly and stand out on the upper balcony, looking down. They don’t see me.
“I’ve never seen Dima so upset. Is Nikolai that bad?” Story asks from the living room. “I thought Ravil said he was going to be okay?”
Maxim grunts. “It’s possible Dima’s mood relates more to a certain redhead who’s under his skin.” He peers into Nikolai’s bedroom.
“Hey, guys.” I lift an awkward hand and come down the stairs.
“Heyyyy, girl. How are you?” Story wraps me in a hug when I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I instantly feel better.
“Not great,” I admit.
“We stopped in and fed your cat before we came. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Whiskers. Thank you so much.”
She looks me up and down. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought to bring you some clothes. We brought food, though.”
I tug on the stupid dress. I didn’t put on the fishing shirt, since I don’t have any shorts to wear it with. At least I can use it as a sleep shirt tonight, though. “Yeah. I’m about ready to cut a hole in a pillowcase to wear it instead.”
Story smiles. “I’m sure you could rock a pillowcase, and I’m pretty handy with a pair of scissors if you want to try.” She gestures to her black leggings, which have deliberate slashes up the thighs and down the sides of the calves, showing her pale skin. She’s always a few measures of punk but underneath the counter-culture clothes, she’s model-beautiful, which makes her mesmerizing. I think that is literally how Oleg fell in love with her. He got obsessed with watching her perform on stage.
Dima comes back in with another box that looks like it's filled with computer equipment, and he and Maxim shut themselves in the office.
Story heads toward the kitchen. “We did bring some groceries although Dima says he already picked some stuff up.”
I follow her into the kitchen where Oleg had set the cooler and help unload stuff. It’s good—way more than the basics Dima bought. A couple of bags of salad mixes, fresh vegetables, and fruits, some deli meat for sandwiches, and an already roasted chicken.
“This is great, thanks.”
She touches my arm. “Hey. Is there something going on with you and Dima? He seemed tense.”
I turn it back around on her. I need information here. “Why does everything think there’s something going on between us?”
Story shoots a glance to Oleg, who pulled up a chair at the table to sit. Oleg shrugs. “I don’t know, it seemed like he was into you,” Story says. “Am I wrong?”
Deciding what I really need here now is some girl talk, I tip my head toward the front door. “Want to go outside for a minute?”
“Sure.” Story immediately follows me out, not hesitating or asking permission. She doesn’t seem to know or think that I’m a prisoner here. But I doubt that she is a part of the bratva thing. She just happened to fall in love with one of its members—her giant, mute protector. The guy who looks at her like she’s more beautiful than the moon itself.
We go outside onto the front porch and sit on the steps. “I’m seriously so mixed up. I could use a second opinion here,” I admit.
“Okay, give me the scoop.”
“I mean, I thought Dima was into me, too. He seemed interested. He booked a few massages, and he tips big. But that’s when things just got weird.”
“Weird, how?”
“He couldn’t relax. He’d have a boner the entire time and just got progressively more grumpy with each session. I thought he must be attracted to me, but he never asked me out. And do you remember that time I came to your show?”
“Of course. You two came together, right?”
“No! That’s just it. I asked him if he was going. I was trying to make it a casual date-thing, you know? But he said no. And then he turned up anyway and glared at everyone I talked to—it was so weird.”
A slow smile spreads across Story’s face. “He obviously is crushing on you.”
I nibble my lip. I want to tell her the rest—everything. I’m dying for a sounding board here. “We sort of hooked up this morning. But then he said it was a mistake,” I blurt.
Her smile fades. “Oh. That sucks.” She pulls me into a hug I didn’t know I needed.
I have to fight the tears back, or I will completely lose it.
“That’s so weird. Is it...I mean, I don’t know what happened to Nikolai, and I’m not supposed to know, but is it about that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But it feels more like he has a girlfriend back in Russia or something. Have you heard anything about that?”
“I can ask Oleg. All I know is that the reason Dima booked a massage with you was because Nikolai said he was going to. Dima was really pissed at him—and he’s usually so easy-going, I knew something was up.”
“What?”
“Maybe they’re fighting over you? Like they both like you, so Dima’s going to let Nikolai have you? Or they both agreed not to pursue you? I don’t know, I’m just spitballing.”
I consider my conversation with Nikolai this morning. He didn’t seem like he wanted me. But then again, he was sort of pumping me for information about what had happened between us. And Dima did seem pissed when he came in, and I was massaging Nikolai’s hand.
Could Story be right? This is nuts!
The door opens, and Maxim and Oleg step out.
“Are we leaving already?” Story asks in surprise. Oleg nods. She gives me another quick hug. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after Mr. Whiskers. And if someone drives out here again, I’ll pack you a bag of clothes.”
“Thanks.”
Story and I aren’t that close, but it seems like we should be.
When I get back—provided I make it through all this—I’m going to seek out her companionship more often. Go to her shows. Maybe listen to her band practice—I know they have a studio in the building now.
I stand and walk inside, feeling much better. Nothing beats having a friend to talk to, even when nothing gets solved.
Maybe one thing got solved. I am certain Dima’s into me.
So I don’t have to cower like a scared little bunny.
I have power here, and I plan to use it.
Dima
As soon as I get my computer open and set up so it’s untraceable, I video conference with Dr. Taylor to show him Nikolai’s wound and give him an update, then I start hacking. Alex Volkov will be sorry he fucked with my family.
I check Natasha’s phone and find he’s called again, and sent an
answer to my text.
I’m sorry, it says. I didn’t mean for things to go sideways like that. Please give me a call, so I can explain.
Still nothing that completely clears Natasha.
I don’t type an answer. I’ll have to think of something I can say to bait him into revealing more, but first, I must do my homework, pulling on every thread I can find to unravel every secret Alex holds.
I start my cyberstalk. There’s not that much. His unmarried mother gave birth to him in Champagne, Illinois six months after moving to the United States from Moscow. No father is listed on his birth certificate, but he’s presumably Russian since she hadn’t left the country before her trek to the U.S..
She has the equivalent of a Master’s in Russian literature and taught Russian and Russian lit at the University of Illinois Champaign-Urbana and now at the University of Chicago.
I can’t find any evidence that anyone pulled strings to get her a job, but she did have enough money to hire a lawyer to handle her immigration paperwork. I don’t find evidence of financial hardship, nor do I find any hidden caches of riches.
Alex’s cover story had been true, other than the false name he provided and the lie about his occupation. His undergrad was in criminal justice, and he was hired right out of college to work for the FBI. I’m surmising his fluency in Russian helped, especially with the rise in Russian mafiya cells across the country. They probably recruited him specifically to infiltrate one.
I get a sick feeling in my stomach when I admit the thought I’m trying to push away.
What if they hired him specifically to infiltrate us?
What do they want with Ravil? With us? Surely it’s more than taking down our weekly poker game although Nikolai does move huge amounts of cash as our bookie. He takes bets on all manner of things, online through dark web sites I have set up and in person.
I need to hack into the FBI, which isn’t the easiest task. Things are kept behind layers and layers of firewalls. But I’ll have to try. I set up some programs to start beating down the firewalls, then I move on to stalking my beautiful prisoner.
I sprout a chub just remembering what she looked like on her knees this morning, her berry lips wrapped around my cock. How she looked so damn willing. I was an asshole for letting her do that. The biggest mudak alive, but I’m finding it hard to be sorry.
Even if I can’t have Natasha, I don’t want to take that experience back. I’m glad I get to go to the grave knowing what it’s like to have watched Natasha come. God knows I’ve fantasized about it long enough.
I research the hell out of her mom’s trip to Russia, but everything seems totally above board. She’s staying with her sister in St. Petersburg. I see no evidence that she’s in hiding or has tried to disappear—not that anyone can disappear from me.
“Are you hungry?” The sound of Natasha’s soft voice makes my cock lengthen down my leg. I try to find some of my earlier anger toward her to shield myself against her allure.
“No,” I snap but make the mistake of turning to look at her. She freezes in the doorway where she’s holding a plate with two sandwiches, a mixture of shock and hurt on her expressive face. “Yes,” I change my mind when she starts to turn away. “Spasibo.” I thank her and hold my hand out for the plate, trying not to look her full in the face because I can’t stand what her beauty does to me.
I want to pull her onto my lap, nuzzle her neck, and soothe away all the harshness I’ve doled out to her, not just since Nikolai got shot but since she started giving me massages. Since she punctured the screen I use to keep a safe distance from anything emotional or sexual.
She looks at my screen over my shoulder, and I don’t bother trying to hide it.
“You’re stalking my mom.” She sounds offended.
“I told you I had to check out your story, amerikanka.”
She frowns at me. “And?”
I shrug. “I’m still investigating.”
I take a bite of the sandwich she made, expecting her to walk out, but she doesn’t. “Was one of these yours?” I ask with my mouth full, indicating the second sandwich.
She shrugs. “I can make another one. I didn’t know how many you’d eat.”
Gospodi, I’m such an asshole.
I hook my foot around the leg of the office chair Maxim had sat in and tug it closer. “Have a seat.”
Damn. Did I really just invite her to sit with me? What am I thinking? I’m already way too obsessed with my memories of her punishment this morning.
She takes me up on it, scooting even closer to look at my screen as she picks up the second sandwich. She holds it in both hands but doesn’t take a bite. “What would happen if you found out I did know about Alex?”
I whip my head around to stare at her. Her face is smooth, those sea-green eyes studying me. She seems wary but not terrified.
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you asking me that?”
She shrugs. “I want to know. Would Ravil… kill me?”
The idea sends a lightning bolt of fear straight up my spine, like the mere mention of someone killing her makes my body revolt. What would Ravil have us do to someone like Natasha? Would he order us to harm her?
No. In the few years my brother and I have been with his cell, I’ve never heard him give orders to hurt a woman, even if she’s trouble.
“Nyet.”
“What would he do?” She stares down at the sandwich she still hasn’t eaten.
I consider. Not so much because I think she deserves an answer but because I haven’t thought it through yet, and I should in case it happens. “We’d have to flip you,” I answer her honestly when I realize the only answer.
She takes a tiny bite of the sandwich and chews. “Flip me how?”
My gut churns as I consider the way we might flip her. We could threaten her mother. Throw them out of the building. Find anything dear to her and hold it hostage. There are a multitude of ways to use fear rather than violence. Ravil’s practiced at the art of theatre when it comes to making things happen. We don’t actually have to break that many laws—or that many fingers although that does still happen often enough.
But I couldn’t stomach any of those things with Natasha. No, there’s only one way I would allow her to be flipped, but it would require something of me that I’ve sworn I won’t give.
I turn back to my screen and lie. “Pressure points.”
She shivers. “Like what?”
“Enough questions, amerikanka.” I turn back to my screen, popping the last bite of the sandwich in my mouth.
“Why do you call me that?”
“Why do you think?” I say with my mouth full, playing the part of the asshole again. It’s the only role that feels safe with her. I close out the search on her mother and start down the path I’ve been most looking forward to: antagonizing Alex.
“Are you judging me?”
I stop clicking keys and look her way. “What? No. Because you’ve become Americanized? Of course not. You grew up here. I admire how well you fit in, that’s all. Nobody would even know you’re Russian, except for your last name.”
She sits back, finally digging into her sandwich. “I worked damn hard at it,” she says. “It didn’t just happen because I grew up here.”
“Oh?” I give her a sidelong glance. I don’t want to get sucked into her story—don’t need any more fuel for my obsession with her, but I can’t resist. “Why? Were you embarrassed to be Russian?”
“Pamela Harrison,” she says like I should know who that is.
I swivel to face her. Now I need to know the whole story.
She licks a crumb of sandwich from her lips, and my dick twitches at the sight of her pink tongue. The memory of how she used it on me this morning is still fresh.
“She lived in my apartment building. We used to play together. It was the summer before fifth grade, and we spent nine hours a day together. And then school started. Someone made fun of my accent on the first day, and at lunch, Pamela pret
ended she didn’t know me. Turns out, I was just her fall-back friend—good enough to play with at home, but at school, I was Russian garbage.” As if the memory of it brought out Natasha’s fifth-grade self, I hear the trace of her former accent for the first time. “You know what the worst of it was? I was so lonely that I still played with her at home. I let her use me. I was her fall-back friend for two more years until I finally had enough backbone to cut her loose.”
“Pamela Harrison was a cunt.” I turn back to my screen and pull her profile up on Facebook. “This one? She’s an ugly cow—that’s why she was jealous. Not because you had a beautiful accent.”
Natasha lets out a small chuff of laughter.
It’s the first time she’s smiled or laughed since I dragged her here, and it does something squirmy to my insides. Dredges up guilt for taking away her smile, along with the desire to make her do it again.
“I will give her five parking tickets as punishment for her fifth-grade crime on our sweet Natasha,” I pronounce as I open the Cook County police department records and use my back door access to get in.
“What?” The ring of laughter in her voice makes it all worth it. “You can do that? Oh my God!”
“Is that enough? Or should we punish her more severely?”
“You can’t do that, Dima.”
I steal a sidelong glance and catch her smile, which lights the whole office.
I start filing the false tickets. “I can, and I will. She deserves it. You know who else deserves a pile of unpaid parking tickets?”
Her smile falters. “Who?”
“Alex Volkov.” I will make that asshole pay for nearly killing my brother.
“Oh.” Natasha doesn’t protest, she just sits and watches me work, chewing her sandwich slowly. “You’re good at that.”
“Damn straight.” I manufacture a dozen unpaid parking tickets—enough to trigger a warrant to issue.
“You know what else is going to bite Alex in the ass?” I ask.
“What?”
“Not paying his taxes for the past three years.”
Natasha gasps. “Dima, you can’t—” She stops when I raise my brows and shoot her an oh, really? look. “I mean, what if you get caught? Won’t they be able to trace this back to you? You’re pretty much daring them to come after you now.”
