by Zoe Blake
Enough!
I needed to get out of this bed and stop thinking about everything that happened in it and out of it last night.
Slipping out of the bed, I tiptoed across the room to the bathroom. Still not sure if he was somewhere in the house, I pushed the door closed as softly as possible. Flicking the lock, I raced over to the toilet. Second-guessing myself, I ran back to double-check the lock before finally sitting down.
As I reached for the faucet to wash my hands, I noticed the diamond bracelet on my wrist.
Blinking several times, I stared at it as if I expected it to vanish like a mirage.
Careful not to get the bracelet wet, I toyed with it as I walked back into the bedroom. Spinning it around my wrist and watching the early morning sun cast tiny rainbows over the diamond facets.
For the life of me, I couldn’t remember him putting this on my wrist. I couldn’t blame the champagne. At most I had been a little buzzed at the restaurant, which loosened my tongue to devastating results, but I hadn’t drunk enough to not recall someone putting what looked like a crazy expensive bracelet on my wrist!
I kept spinning it, but I couldn’t see where it clasped. It looked like just one continuous thick band of silver and diamonds.
Perplexed, I peered around the room to decide what I should do next.
It was then I noticed a small lounge area with two chairs and a coffee table. Draped over the back of one chair were my belongings.
Grateful not only for the clothes but for something that was familiar and my own, I scrambled to put on the bra, sweater, and skirt, keeping my eye on the open bedroom doorway the entire time, expecting a tall Russian to come sauntering through at any moment.
Despite getting on my hands and knees and looking under the chair, I couldn’t find my panties.
Darn it. This was a full set from Victoria’s Secret. An unusual splurge for me.
It seemed funny that I was complaining about losing a fifteen-dollar pair of panties when I had a bracelet that was probably worth at least a couple thousand on my wrist.
Sitting in the chair to zip up my boots, I belatedly noticed the handwritten note on the table with the Cartier box next to it.
Checking the box to see if there were any instructions on how to remove the bracelet, I picked up the note and gasped when I saw the five crisp hundred-dollar bills under it.
My stomach twisted into a humiliated knot. Feeling angry and sick, I focused on the note, hoping the money didn’t mean what I thought it did.
His handwriting was atrocious!
I could barely make out the heavily slanted scrawl. Plus, it seemed he wrote everything all in lowercase. Walking over to the window, I held the page up for more sunlight and read.
Emma,
You looked too beautiful to waken. I had an early morning meeting I could not reschedule. Please help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I left you money for cab fare and breakfast if you wanted to dine out. I will call you later. I got your cell number from Mary. I’ve already texted you mine.
Dimitri
P.S. Don’t take the bracelet off. I want to see you wearing it when I see you tonight.
P.P.S. I’m keeping your panties.
I blushed at the last line.
How had he gotten Mary’s cell number? Oh, right, as I lay cuddled up in his arms, he had asked me for her number so he could text her that I was spending the night. It was such a thoughtful gesture, I’d fallen asleep with this warm feeling in my belly.
The man really was a frustrating ball of contradictions.
Arrogant super scary bully one minute.
Thoughtful and generous the next.
At least the money wasn’t on the dresser money.
Although someone should sit Dimitri down and explain to him the value of the American dollar. A girl didn’t need five hundred dollars for cab fare and an Egg McMuffin! Wishing he had left smaller bills, I reluctantly took one of the hundred-dollar bills, vowing I would pay him back.
After leaving the bedroom, I ran back and snatched up the Cartier box before heading downstairs. Maybe there was an item number somewhere in the packaging that I could look up online. The man couldn’t honestly expect me to walk around with a diamond bracelet on my wrist all day. I wasn’t a Kardashian. Diamonds didn’t go with broke student chic.
Shaking my head, for the thousandth time I wondered what he saw in me.
Clearly, he saw a different, far sexier and adventurous version of me than I did.
Pulling my sleeve down over my wrist to cover the bracelet, I sheepishly handed the cab driver the hundred-dollar bill as I bit my lip, bracing for the barrage of curse words I knew were coming my way.
“I can’t take this! You have nothing smaller?”
“I’m really sorry! I could run inside and get my purse if you want?”
The man sighed. I cringed. I really hated inconveniencing the driver this way. If it were my money, I might have even been guilted into telling him to keep the change, but I’d already done that once this week and it had cost me my coffee money till next month. Plus, this technically wasn’t my money, it was Dimitri’s.
The man slammed each bill into my palm as he gruffly counted out the change.
Holding a fist up to my mouth, my shoulders hunched as I squeaked out, “And a receipt, please.”
After catching the slight slip of paper that he threw at me, I exited the cab with a ‘thank you’ shouted over my shoulder.
Reflexively pulling on my sweater sleeve, I entered my building only to be greeted by complete chaos. Several large gruff men with construction tools passed me in the hallway. The clamor of bodies and activity got louder as I turned the corner.
Our apartment door was wide open, and I could hear Mary shouting.
“Careful with that! It’s an original Buffy the Vampire Slayer signed script!”
Crossing the threshold, my brow creased as my jaw fell. Our tiny space was filled with men. They had removed the blinds over our windows. There was the sound of electric drills rending the air.
“Heads up, lady,” came a gruff, heavily accented voice from above me.
Tilting my head back, I saw a man on a ladder drilling several holes into the drywall. Sitting in a box on top of the ladder seemed to be some sort of security system.
“Emma!” cried out Mary. “Thank God you’re finally here!”
While still cradling her framed Buffy script to her chest, with her free hand she grabbed my arm and pulled me deeper into the apartment. It was too loud to talk in the living room, so she dragged me to her bedroom and shut the door. It was only marginally quieter in there.
Gesturing to the door, I asked, “What is going on?”
Shoving several perfume bottles and scarves aside, Mary propped the script up against her vanity mirror before turning excited blue eyes on me. “It’s the craziest thing. At the ungodly hour of seven o’clock, there’s a knock on our door. I open it to find this drop dead gorgeous man dressed in the most expensive suit I’ve ever seen.”
Mary tilted her chin down and continued in an exaggerated Russian voice. “Iz zees the aparrrtment of Eeema Doyle, he says. I said yes. Then he says, my name iz Vaska.”
Grabbing her hands, I implored her, “You sound like Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle. Just tell me what the hell is going on in your normal voice.”
Mary pouted. “Spoilsport. Fine.”
Apparently, while I was sleeping, Dimitri had arranged for a small army of men to come to our apartment to install new door locks, a security system, and bars on the windows.
“Some men send flowers after a night of passionate sex. Yours sends a high-tech security system,” giggled Mary.
“This isn’t funny, Mary. This can’t be normal!”
“Sweetie, what about your entire relationship has been normal?”
She had a good point, but still… I wasn’t sure how I felt about all this. It seemed a bit controlling and overreaching to me. First, he demanded he be the
only one paying my tuition and now this. I self-consciously tugged on my sweater sleeve, which reminded me of the heavy piece of jewelry shackled to my wrist… oh, yeah… and the diamonds!
I didn’t have much experience with men, but this certainly wasn’t how any of my friends’ relationships ever went.
Looking at the digital clock by her bed, I cried out, “I will be late for class! Crap, I need to shower. I can’t shower with all these men here!”
Mary gestured to the far wall in her bedroom, on the other side of which was our elderly neighbor. “Do what I did. Go over to Mrs. York’s and use her bathroom.”
“Good idea!”
Mary followed me back to my room, where we both had to step around a pile of wrought-iron bars that were meant for the windows.
As I dove into my closet, searching for something to wear, I called out, “Do you think it will piss the landlord off we did all this?”
Mary waved her hand in the air. “Who cares! The guy’s an asshole. Besides, I’m kind of happy about the additional security.”
She had a point. It thrilled neither of us to be living on a ground-floor apartment, but it was the best we could afford.
Still…
An hour later, I was racing across the quad to class.
As I took my seat, I finally spared a glance at my phone to shut the ringer off.
There was a text from an unfamiliar number.
Good morning, моя крошка.
There was no doubt who it was from… Dimitri.
Just reading the words sent a shiver up my spine as if he had whispered them in my ear.
Slouching down in my chair, I yanked on my turtleneck sleeve to cover the bracelet I still couldn’t unlatch.
I was in over my head.
Dimitri was playing a sophisticated game of chess, and I was over here playing checkers.
Maybe it was time to end our mismatched game before it was too late?
Chapter 15
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under ‘t’. - William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Dimitri
I accepted the hot cup of coffee Vaska offered with a scowl. There were a thousand places I’d rather be than standing inside this cold, filthy warehouse. All of them with Emma.
“What has you in such a foul mood?”
Lifting the plastic lid to make sure the coffee was black how I liked it, I inhaled the earthy aroma before responding, “I left a warm bed to deal with these two morons.”
Vaska rubbed his hands together for warmth. His breath a frosty mist in the air. “At least yours wasn’t empty,” he grumbled.
“Karina mad at you again?” Vaska favored the volatile red-haired escort who had a tendency to throw tantrums… and knives… when she was drunk.
He shrugged. “I’m getting too old for this shit. At first it was fun but now… hell, I don’t know.”
I knew how my friend felt. Since Emma came unexpectedly into my life, my old ways seemed jaded and lackluster. I couldn’t ever remember allowing a woman to spend the night in my bed. Yet when I awoke with her curled up like a little kitten in my arms, I couldn’t imagine waking up any other way for the rest of my life.
I clasped him around the neck and met his eye. “If we are to get old, we will get old together, my friend, and thanks for overseeing that task this morning.”
“Actually I should be thanking you. That roommate of hers is something else.”
“You and she would probably get along. She shares your taste in cheap liquor,” I said, recalling the gasoline tequila shots from last night.
Vaska laughed as he clapped me on the back. “Let’s get this over with. There’s a rare steak and a bottle of Chianti with our name on it at Gibson’s.”
Pushing the sleeve of my wool overcoat up, I checked my watch. “They’re late.”
It was then we heard the roar of an engine. A metallic gold Ferrari Thunderbird roared into the loading dock of the empty warehouse where we were standing.
“Jesus Christ,” huffed Vaska under his breath as we exchanged an annoyed glance.
The Petrov brothers emerged from the vehicle, wearing matching white and red Adidas tracksuits.
Without turning to look at him, I asked Vaska, “You still carry that .30 caliber Tokarev with you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Shoot me.”
He chuckled. “I’d rather shoot them, but this is a new suit.”
“Vaska Lukovich! Dimitri Antonovich!” the brothers called out in unison as they approached us.
Looking over their shoulders, I observed three more men in equally obnoxious tracksuits emerging from the back of the Ferrari. Vaska’s shoulders shifted as he widened his stance. He had noticed them as well.
Five against two.
Hardly seemed a fair fight.
For them.
“My friends! You are looking good,” said one brother. It didn’t matter which, they shared the same brain.
With a raised eyebrow, I pointedly checked my watch. Neither Vaska nor I had said a word yet.
The other brother pounded his chest. “We are the same! See! You look!”
He pushed up his tracksuit sleeve to expose his wrist. He had the same Ulysse Nardin Hannibal Tourbillon watch as me. It was a gift from a high-ranking Russian official after I’d made him tens of millions of dollars selling off abandoned military weapons from Russia’s 14th Army in Transnistria. Its watch face depicting the Hannibalic War made it strikingly unique.
It told me the Petrov brothers had no imagination; people who mimicked others rarely did. It also told me they could afford a half-million dollar watch and an outrageous status-symbol car. They must move more product than we originally thought.
I exchanged a look with Vaska. We didn’t have to speak for me to know he was thinking the same thing. We had assumed the brothers had somehow stumbled upon the two crates of ORSIS-CT20s. After all, how could these two morons possibly have the diplomatic and military connections to get them through the usual backroom channels?
Throwing his arm wide behind him, the other brother asked, “Do you like our ride?”
I nodded. “It’s a great way to spend twice as much as for a Mercedes SL550.”
Vaska chimed in, “With none of that annoying good engineering or sleek style.”
His smile faltered. His eyes clouded over with that empty, vapid look stupid people get when they are not quite certain if they’ve been insulted or not.
I took a sip of my coffee. “As much as I’d love to chat about cars and watches in a freezing warehouse all morning, I really do have other matters to attend to today.”
“Anatoly, Andrei, if you would be so kind as to show us the merchandise? We do have other matters to attend to this morning,” interjected Vaska with an annoyed look at his watch.
With identical smirks, the two brothers turned, gesturing wildly to the men behind them and shouting instructions to pull out the crates.
Two men struggled with a long wooden crate between them as they followed the brothers back to us. I turned to toss my empty coffee cup in a nearby metal trashcan before signaling for the brothers to proceed.
Anatoly or maybe it was Andrei, what the fuck did I care which one, grabbed a crowbar and attempted to unhinge the nailed-down lid without much success.
Since this would obviously be awhile, I turned my back and checked my phone, frowning when I saw no answering text message from Emma. I had already texted her twice and gotten no response.
Glancing over my shoulder to see that the second brother had yanked the crowbar out of the other’s hands and was now also struggling to lift the lid, I took a few steps away and called her.
It went straight to voicemail.
Hello! You’ve reached Emma Doyle.
I’m probably in the library reading, so please leave a message!
“Emma, this is Dimitri. Call me back when you receive this message.”
Trying not to ge
t annoyed, I focused my attention back on the matter at hand.
The brothers were now pushing and shoving at each other, arguing like children.
Their overpriced sneakers squeaked on the cement floor as they shuffled back and forth, trading verbal and physical jabs.
Vaska reached into his coat pocket and drew out a silver flask. Unscrewing the cap, he took a swig before handing it to me. I took a swig. “Damn you and that rotgut Moskovskaya Vodka you like!” I grimaced as I handed the flask back to him.
The brothers now each pulled out gold-plated Desert Eagle handguns and were pointing them at each other as they shouted juvenile insults. A more obnoxious I’m-a-wannabe-gangster gun could not be found, which meant it was fitting both carried one.
Vaska sighed. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Gentlemen, if I may?” I said as I stepped forward.
I retrieved the crowbar from the icy floor and easily jimmied the lid open. Vaska tossed it aside. I reached past the straw packing and pulled out one of the large caliber sniper rifles.
Flipping the gun on its left side, I looked for the manufacturer’s markings. It was the fastest way to see if I was dealing with a Russian-made gun or a much lower-quality Afghan knock-off. Etched into the metal, where I would have expected to find a stamp with an arrow in a triangle that would have signaled the factory in Izhevsk, or a simple star that would have meant the other factory in Tula, I saw a string of serial numbers with Latin letters.
Without a word, I handed the gun to Vaska. He also looked to the left of the receiver.
We exchanged a knowing look.
The guns were cheap knock-offs from Afghanistan.
“So do we have a deal for both crates?” asked Andrei. “I need to know now. We have many interested buyers, but as a courtesy to the Motherland we are coming to you first.”
“A courtesy,” repeated Vaska. “Did you hear that Dimitri, the Petrov brothers were giving us a courtesy.”
