Zhilov’s wife, Verona, stayed in her own apartments to the farther south wing of the mansion. He married her to coup her family’s lands, and after having the deeds transferred into his name, he wisely made her sign a pre-nup. Tall and angular, she could have been mistaken for a relative with her thicker features and dark hair, eyes, skin.
Nait’s older brothers had teased him relentlessly about his pretty face that was cursed with the demon eyes. Well, it wasn’t quite so pretty now, he bore scars from fights with his brothers, brawls on the streets, working as an enforcer, and the ambush had toughened up his already masculine features.
Duce Delducci’s boot had cut a deep gouge near a cheekbone. Someday, Naithon was going to pay Duce back for the attack.
Naithon responded to his brother, “The old man banished me, Mislo, didn’t you get the memo?” The brothers spoke in Romanian, their mother tongue. The chauffeur studied his nails; he had a hard enough time with English.
“Ja, well, he’s had three months to think about how much his mistress, dear Iyla would have cried over his exiling you.”
At Naithon’s silence, Misolav coaxed, “Come on. You have no job, no home, no money, Elena is preparing your favorite, cartofi cu carne de porc, stew of pork and potatoes. Papa wants you back in the business. He has so few he can trust.” He waited while Naithon pondered his choices.
Mislo was right. The only work he’d be able to get at his young age and lack of education would be with a gang. Life in gangs was notoriously mean and short. Perhaps he could learn everything about his father’s enterprises then when he had a cushion of cash, go out on his own.
Why not use his father? Zhilov stole from him, and cared nothing for him but as a body to do his bidding. Now it was his turn.
Chapter Three
Named after her grandmother Kiri Rose, Kiritina, meaning little Kiri skipped home from the school bus stop. Ringlets of cherry wood, the color as if distilled in oak barrels until it was a dark and rich reddish brown, flapped against her back.
Actually, she was only graduating kindergarten, but her class had been given their new room assignments for first grade starting in the fall. When school started, she’d be a big girl then, so she was practicing walking to and from the bus stop.
Dancing with joyful anticipation, she hummed her favorite song from an animated film, it wasn’t until she was almost upon it that she saw it. Even then, her brain didn’t resister what her eyes beheld.
Slowing as she reached the front door to the three-story residence, beyond the white columns on either side of the portico, she could see… Kiritina inched closer, squinting. Her stomach lurched, it must be a toy.
Creeping closer, she slapped a palm over her mouth, green eyes wide over her hand. Then, oh no, no, her lunch gorged up her throat, her hand fell to her chest. Eyes popping, her mouth opened and closed and opened but the scream was caught in her throat.
Her new puppy, Muffin, was lanced down the middle, the flaps of his furry body splayed open, and he was nailed to the front door, his bloody entrails oozing out. His little head lolled unnaturally to the side, tiny pink tongue dangling.
The scream climbed up her throat and broke loose and hurtled into piercing shrieks of despair bounding throughout the neighborhood.
The front door opened, and her brother Duce poked his head out. Saw her horror, twisted his neck to take in the decoration on the door, and grinned. “Hey, Kiri, baby button, Piero dissected your first dog so I called dibs on this one.”
Admiring his work, he smiled broadly at her, pleased with himself. “Whattya think?”
The screams dried up but her lips still flapped open and closed trying to force words out. Face as stark and white as a winter night, “W- why? Why? Why would you-” she couldn’t finish.
Stepping out onto the portico, his brows daggered down in a scowl. Duce crossed his arms. He was in his early twenties, the oldest of the Delducci brood. “I told you, little girl, what I want.” His nasty gaze lowered to between her thighs.
“But I- don’t, under, Duce, I…”
He took a few steps off to the side of the porch. Wrapping an arm around a white column, he swung around it, and smirked down at her.
Averting her eyes from the destroyed dog, Kiri started up the steps to the landing.
Grinning at her distress, Duce said, “Yeah, you know what I want. I told you before. You let me stick it in you and I’ll leave your pups and stupid dolls alone? Okay? I’m gonna get you eventually, chile. Pa says he’s gonna preserve your virginity, he plans on selling you in marriage to gain more land when you are legal age.” He laughed at the confused look on her face.
“You’ll understand some day, baby button, but I’m getting my action off you first. They’ll never know I got me some; all bitches lose their hymens from bicycle accidents, tampons, shit like that. I’m bored of the other bitches around, and I’m tired of boinkin’ our homely sister Melonie, she’s only ten and already getting a pudgy belly and a butt on her. Butt ugly, get it?” he laughed like he thought he was hilarious.
His dirty gaze slimed up and down Kiri’s tiny body. With a lewd smirk he said, “On the other hand, you’re gonna grow up curvy and gorgeous like our slutty ma,”
Recalling their mother had run off with another man leaving her family behind, sobered him. “Really,” he snorted bitterly, “how do they expect you to grow up normal when your own whoring mother ditches you? Come on now, you’ll keep your mouth shut about what I’m gonna do to you-” he reached for her.
With a squeal of fright she dodged his hand and ran into the house.
Scurrying across the foyer and to the stairs, she didn’t look back; she could hear his thudding boots coming after her. Kiri fled to her bedroom, rushed inside then slammed and locked the door. Leaning her back against it, she panted out of breath, her pulse racing in terror.
A loud bang bashed the door jolting her body forward and shocking her heart.
“You open this door you little bitch!” Duce pounded on the door until the wood bent and splinters fragmented around the hinges.
Her brain buzzing with fright, Kiri couldn’t think what to do! There was nowhere to hide, she was on the second floor, she couldn’t go out the window. In a panic, she whirled around the room looking for a weapon, even as she searched she knew it would be futile. Duce was huge and fifteen years older than her, she hadn’t a chance against him.
The ringing of the doorbell clanged through the house, the pounding ceased. She heard Duce muttering through the door. His footsteps moved away and she heard him thudding down the stairs. When she heard him open the front door, Kiri snuck out and hid at the top of the stairs. She peered around the corner.
Two young men stood in the doorway. One of them glanced up at her, Kiri snatched her head back to hide behind the wall.
“I’d just a’soon kill you where you stand you bleedin’ bastard,” one of the young men had a weird guttural accent. A blue knit hat covered his head, blonde curls turned up under the bottom. Both males wore dark sunglasses.
Duce chuckled. “Yeah, sure, no doubt, gypsy boy. But you need our corridor to move your guns. So pay the fuck up and get the hell out.”
“Nice holiday decorations,” the other man commented, nodding towards the dog nailed to the door. Both visitors didn’t look more than teenagers, but they were big, both had muscles on top of muscles, lean hips. The bulge under their jackets told Kiri, who had been around her mobster family long enough to learn, were guns.
Snorting a smirk, Duce took a leather bag the man handed to him. “Yeah, cool, huh? My baby sister will learn to give me what I want, won’t she?”
Kiri couldn’t see their eyes, but she could see the brows rise on both young men, and the blond tilted his head facing up to where she hid. She tugged her head back again.
“You nailed her bloody dog to your fucking front door? You’re one sick bastard, Delducci.”
Duce laughed. “This coming from the infamous Crack Adranokov. Crack
as in no neck too thick for you to break, eh, Naithon?”
The other man glanced at the dog then around the inside as far as he could see, he asked, “Why would you kill your sister’s dog? What’d she do to you?”
The side of Duce’s mouth curved in a wicked smile. “It’s more like what she’s gonna do for me. Young, tender meat, gentlemen.”
Both men stared at him. The man with dark hair asked, “Are you saying like in fucking?”
Duce crossed his arms, nodded. Lifting his amoral smile higher, he confessed, “Gonna get me some before our old man sells her. He can’t do that ‘til she’s legal age, so I got me some years I can play with her. Gonna enjoy all the changes to her body as she grows up, you get my drift?”
The head of the man in the knit hat swiveled up to Kiri. She thought she was out of sight but a mahogany ringlet curled out a bit from the wall. “You talking about banging your…baby…sister? She’s not even what, four?”
Laughing, Duce set his hands on his hips, shrugged one shoulder. “Chick’s a chick whatever age. She’ll be the freshest, the tenderest, juiciest lamb you ever gonna get, boys. You gypsy scum want a taste of her you’ll have to come by later, after I’ve had my fill, bring cash.”
A limo pulled up to the house. The driveway was wide enough for three cars to sit side-by-side. The door opened, the chauffer climbed out, opened the back passenger door, and Ignacio Delducci stepped out. The elder Delducci frowned at the two males on his porch.
Neither teen said another word. They turned and strode across the porch, their boots clumped down the steps. Making their way to their car, they didn’t pause, greet, or even look in Ignacio’s direction.
Now that her father was home, a buffer between Kiri and her brother, she hurried down the stairs. Her black patent leathers slapping the tile of the foyer, skirt flouncing around her thin legs, she ran to her father. When she went to throw her arms around his waist, Ignacio turned sideways to avoid her hug.
“Papa,” she pouted, “you home. I- I need ta talk ta you.”
“Kiri,” Duce warned as he closed the door.
She didn’t acknowledge his threat. Either way, if she kept her mouth shut or told on him, she’d have trouble. “Papa, please…”
Ignacio’s gaze lit on his eldest son’s guilty face then transferred to his youngest child’s pale, frightened countenance. Her big green eyes read like a trashy novel. “Ah,” he sighed, unbuttoning his suit coat. “It’s time for boarding school for you, girl. Your mother’s aunt in Northern Italy will find me a secure, girls only institution, far away from any males or city trouble.”
“What?” Duce blurted, glaring at Kiri he moved towards his father. “What the hell, Pa?”
Black brows with a few grey hairs slivered in them lowered over bored eyes that settled with jaundiced cynicism on his son. “I can’t sell a well-used daughter. She’ll bring me a lotta good land. I can’t have you getting her pregnant when she hits puberty. No,” his eyes flicked to Kiri who stood frozen, eyes blinking in confusion, he said, “she’ll stay locked in her room until I can get her on a plane, I’ll have the only key.”
Brother and sister burst out with words of protest speaking over each other, but Ignacio turned his back on them muttering, “I need a drink.”
Chapter Four
Seventeen Years Later
Two large, burly men entered the room hauling a man between them. The man’s head hung, sweat dripped from his hair, blood oozed down his face. His feet scraped the floor as they half-carried him inside.
“Here, Boss,” one of the men said. “We caught him red-handed. He was drinkin’ and sellin’ cases of the vodka on the black market. He denied, denied, denied.” They dumped the man on the floor.
“Yeah,” the second male chuckled, “he drank tons of the stolen shit himself, and gave it away to his friends and family practically faster than he could sell it.”
Naithon Adranokov sat, his fingers twined in his lap, thumbs tapping. Seventeen vicious, harsh years passed since that last payoff to Duce Delducci. Those violent years carved Naithon like a savage hammer and chisel into the brutal, callous man he was now at 32.
He still had dreams of torturing then butchering Duce, then wiping out the rest of his entire family. At the end of the dream, it would turn into a nightmare as flashbacks of the ambush and vicious beating Duce and his brothers had given him, then a pair of four-year-old green eyes taunted along with them as he blacked out.
Life had only gotten worse after the near death thrashing. Nait blinked out the memories and looked down at the sniveling man sprawled on his office floor.
The bleeding man hunched over, supporting his body on a forearm. He struggled to lift his head to Naithon. Face a mangled pulp, tears gushed, he spat out a tooth. Swallowing blood, he blubbered, “Gaw, please, Boss, I didn’t do nuthin’, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t do it.”
At Naithon’s stoic expression, sniffing, the man slobbered, “Please, please, I’ll pay it back, I’ll pay double, please, Boss, gimmie a second chance!” Crying frantically, his body shuddering with terror, he begged for mercy.
His expression wooden, Naithon said calmly, “You knew the consequences of stealing from me, Arvin. I let you screw the strippers, and treat your friends to the casino, and you stole my bloody vodka. Come over here.” He pointed to the floor by his chair.
Arvin cried harder, “No, please, no, Boss, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again! Please,” he sobbed, “have mercy.”
Face sharp and rough and as merciless as corroded tank, Naithon held his finger pointed to the floor. The bottom of the afghan draped over his legs just barely covered his feet, a corner touched the polished wooden flooring. He waited patiently while Arvin Polaki looked around the room, knowing it would be the last time he saw it.
Naithon’s office was darker themed than his home. His mansion had cream-colored carpets, sturdy masculine furniture made of chocolate brown leather. Not the arcane furnishings of his father’s ancient manor in Romania, Naithon’s taste ran to modern. He preferred huge windows that let in strong light, and favored cultured ivory and gold marble, and plush cushions. To offset all the dark inside Naithon, his decorator had surrounded him with lighter furnishings.
He wanted sofas and chairs strong enough to hold his men as they lounged without fearing a chair leg would break, or a seat crash in. The only black in his home was the gold-veined, onyx fireplace that matched his eyes. Just the black matched, not the gold, there was nothing bright or sunny in his eyes.
Currently they were in Naithon’s office. Tan leather chairs, built-in bookshelves of oak, dark yellow birch tables with glass tops, some paintings of Romania decorated the champagne walls. The floor was wood planked to make it easier for him to maneuver. Naithon stared blankly at Arvin sitting on his butt sniveling.
Gulping his resignation, Arvin wiped at his tears, and crawled so he was within arm’s reach. Climbing weakly to his trembling knees, he lifted his head. His last words were, “I’m sorry, sir, for stealing from you.” Naithon leaned over and with one hand, gripped Arvin’s throat.
As he strangled the man, his fingers digging in like a vice, Naithon said calmly, “If it had only been the second time I caught you, warned you, I would have made it quick, broke your neck like I normally do, it would have been painless and over in a second. But, you got caught again and again and again, you were warned dozens of times and yet continued on. So,” he squeezed.
Arvin’s eyes bugged out, he choked, gagged, but didn’t fight back. He knew better. Naithon would get angry, and then really hurt him before killing him. So, Arvin remained still, except for the choking and gasping, until he made no more sounds and his body hung like a boneless cat in Naithon’s grip.
Slowly, one by one, Naithon opened his fingers and Arvin slumped to the floor. “Get him out of here,” he ordered.
The two men came forward and lifted Arvin, and dragged him out the way they’d hauled him in.
“So,” a voice dra
wled from the doorway. In the same guttural accent as Naithon’s, his best friend, Mazonn Diavolo commented, “Already tough as a bull, wheeling everywhere has made your arms even more powerful and your hands freakishly strong, Nait. I guess it was a good idea after all, your decision not to have an electric one.”
Mazonn was the negative copy of Naithon. Both good looking men, even with harsh expressions and scars on their tough faces. Naithon had fair hair and ebony eyes, Mazonn’s hair was black and he had light blue eyes that often twinkled in amusement. Nothing ever twinkled in Naithon’s eyes.
Naithon pushed the aluminum hand rims and steered the wheelchair over to the bar. The wheels rumbled over the hardwood. Three coats of polyurethane painted over the resin ensured the planks were always glossy and gleaming. A low shelf had been added to the bar for his accommodation. He chose a bottle of his own Desăvârșit Vodcă, in English, Perfect Vodka.
Pouring the clear liquid into a rock glass, although it had only a faint scent, he sniffed it anyway. The familiar, slightly pungent perfume filled him with bitter memories. A grievous reminder of the wretched years when he went from destitution to prison; from prison to the devastating plunge into a wheelchair, and then on to building his own empire.
The casino and strip joints and various other enterprises brought in the money he used to build his dream, a vodka distillery dynasty. There, he could design, fuse his old country’s harsh roots, with the modern, lustrous, wealthy American. Create something of his own like painting a picture or birthing a baby.
“Nait.” Mazonn had come up behind him, grasped a bottle of bourbon and poured three fingers in a glass. Taking a healthy sip, he said, “Misolav is here.”
Naithon’s hand paused, the glass an inch from his mouth. Taking a long drink, he said nothing. Setting the glass between his thighs, he pushed the wheelchair, the wheels clunkering back across the wood. Stopping at an end table, he set his drink down and pulled a pack of Sobranie Black Russian cigars from his pocket.
Distilled Duplicity Page 2
