Boston Underworld: The Collection
Page 57
From the corner of my eye, I glimpse his shoes beside me. Black leather oxfords. Polished and well cared for. Knots tied with precision, peeking out from beneath gray twill trousers. Expensive.
I’m curious. And yet my eyes resist the urge to travel further. Until he commands it. It’s not the command itself, but the deep accented voice that I recognize. The voice with the hard consonants and soft melody. A contradiction.
That voice, I’m certain, is the same one I heard two nights ago. When Arman was eating dinner and the doorbell rang out. Arman never greets company in the middle of dinner. But that night, when one of his men came barging in, he did. Whoever had arrived that evening was important. This man had power over Arman, which made me curious. In this castle, Arman is King. And I’d never seen him bow to any other.
But on that evening, he did. He graciously allowed for the interruption and even offered for the stranger to dine with him while I sat on the floor. The man declined and chose to stand for the few brief moments he was there. I wanted to glance up at him even then. But that was breaking my own rules. I never look at them. So instead, I focused on his shoes. Black oxfords. And listened to the voice. Deep and melodic. Unmistakably Russian and laced with warning. A warning that Arman didn’t seem to like.
He left, and I pushed the whole incident from my mind.
But now my resolve has abandoned me. So my eyes travel up. And up, and up, and up. He’s tall, this man. Taller than most. Much larger than Arman. And that pleases me.
I wonder if he’ll kill him. I wonder if he’ll let me watch.
He looms over me, his shadow eclipsing my much smaller body on the mattress. He’s broad shouldered and powerful. The type of man with a presence that can’t be ignored. Athletic and toned. A fighter, I think… maybe. Most of Arman’s friends are fat and old, and stink of cigars and vodka. But this one is sharp, both in dress and manner.
He wears a black suede jacket and a gray flat cap atop his head, which casts his face in shadow. I can’t see him, but he can see me. The weight of his examination is heavy, and my pulse responds. I don’t know why. Only that I’m anxious, and I want him to leave.
He doesn’t.
Because he’s here to fuck me. Only, he’s drawing it out. Taking too long. My dissociative fortress is caving in on me. Emotion seeping in. One I haven’t felt since Dmitri’s betrayal.
Anger.
It’s roiling around inside of me, catching my breath and stealing my peace.
I lift my chin and try to meet his gaze. I don’t know this man. But I want him gone. I have rules. I don’t talk. Because I’m afraid what might spill out if I do. The truth I won’t be able to contain. The space inside of my head is the only sanctuary I have. And he’s ruining that. I turn my focus back to the lines on the wall, but I don’t want him to see. I don’t want him to see me counting. Because that’s private. That’s mine.
“Get on with it, will you?” the words snap from my tongue in a harsh cadence, a shock to my ears.
My voice is rusty and foreign. Demented. I sound like an animal. Because I am.
The intruder remains silent. Nothing but silence, for a full minute. I know, because I count every second. And then his deep voice reverberates off the walls, surrounding me.
“Look at me when you speak,” he demands.
I turn my head back towards him slowly, only to find him kneeling in front of me now. Breathing my air, taking up my space. The shadow is gone, and his face is unmasked. Harsh and serious, with the type of blue eyes that can only come from Slavic genes. Ice cold and shocking in their intensity.
It has been many months since fear has held a place in my head or my heart. But the presence of this man stirs it to life again. Pulling me even further from my dissociative state than I’m willing to venture. Not a single one of these men have ever had the audacity to get intimate with me. To get right up in my face and look me in the eyes. I am merely a body with three holes to them, and they make their choice and cause me several minutes of discomfort before it’s all over. But not this one. I don’t know what it is he wants from me. I don’t want to find out either.
The way he is staring at me disturbs me on a different level. He isn’t just looking. He’s seeing. All of my darkest secrets. The part of me that nobody ever gets to see. But he does. My armor means nothing to him.
He is different than Arman. This man scares me more than Arman. He’s too well put together. Too calm. His emotions do not show on his face for all to see. And his hands… they are huge. Heavily tattooed.
I imagine one of those hands around my throat, crushing my windpipe. It would only take one.
“Do not worry.” He brushes the matted hair away from my face in a surprisingly gentle manner. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
There’s a haunted sadness in his eyes. And something else too. A flicker of guilt. It’s a rare emotion in the men who come to visit me. It sets off all of the alarm bells in my head. If he’s not going to fuck me, then I don’t know what he has to be guilty for.
The confusion must be written all over my face, but he doesn’t explain further. Instead, he holds up a packet in his hand and shows it to me. Pain killers. He releases them from the foil and signals for me to open my mouth.
For just a split second, my eyes dart to the left. In the direction of my stash. Where I have every intention of putting these two pills when he leaves the room. So that I can make my seven days a reality, and not eight.
But this stranger is watching me carefully. Too carefully.
My lungs cease to function when he stands up and walks to the other side of the mattress.
I flop over onto my side, pressing it down with my weight. As if that would stop him. The man is a tank. He could toss my entire body into the wall with one hand, should he so choose. But I can’t let him win. Not this battle. The only battle I have left. My hands claw at his arms when he reaches down, but he’s too strong. And I am too weak. And now I’m merely a spectator as my peace is snatched away from me in horrifying slow motion.
He finds the pills easily. Some half and some whole, and some only a fine powder. For sixty days I have saved those pills. I have planned so meticulously. And in five seconds, he has uncovered my secret. He has destroyed everything.
“Please,” I find my rusty voice again. “Leave them.”
His eyes meet mine, and now… now they are even colder than before. Frozen over with a disturbing level of hatred.
His fingers pinch my face and his lips part. But the words he means to speak don’t come. Instead, he takes a breath. And then another. Calming himself. His brows draw together and his eyes search mine. I am a whore. A slave. A subhuman piece of merchandise that Arman will use until he finally tires of me. It should not matter to this man if I die.
He flicks the painkillers in his hand onto my tongue and then retrieves a flask from his jacket. He holds it to my lips and the liquid sloshes into my mouth, strong and rich. Cognac. It is not the thing Arman drinks, and I am grateful. This man doesn’t let up. He forces me to drink what’s left in the container. I know why. I know what comes next. But I don’t want to accept it.
When the flask is empty, he pulls it away and pinches my jaw between his fingers, prying my mouth open. He looks inside, and without an ounce of finesse, he seizes my tongue and searches beneath it.
But the pills are not there. He ensured that with the amount of liquid he made me consume. When he eases me back down onto the mattress, I can only hope the combination will usher me off into oblivion. His fingers sweep over my cheek. Gentle again.
An abominable noise escapes me when he bends down and scoops up every last remnant of my stash. The thing that is mine- the only thing I had- is now in his pocket. The dying ember of hope, snuffed out by one careless mistake on my part and one man too cruel for words.
The door opens and he does not seem to notice. Only when my gaze moves behind him, his posture straightens and he rises. There is another man in the door. A man like th
My destroyer of hope replies and it makes the other man laugh. The older man slaps him on the back and nods before his face slips into a more serious expression. It appears as though they are trying to come to an agreement on something.
The older man takes a step forward, gripping my chin in his hand and forcing my gaze to him. He is inspecting me. Much the way that Arman inspected me when he first purchased me.
“I think you are correct, Lyoshenka. She will be the perfect gambit. Hit Arman where it hurts, yes my little dove?”
My chin jerks impulsively in agreement. The temptation of hurting Arman in any way makes me nod. I’m nothing more than a dog with a bone. A product of my environment. I want to hurt Arman, even at my own expense, which is probably what this man is referring to.
He releases me with a satisfactory smile and says one last thing to his younger companion before leaving the room. And then blue eyes is back in front of me, for a brief moment. He brushes the hair away from my face again.
“Go to sleep now, Solnyshko.” His breath is hot in my ear, scented with the oak and vanilla of his drink.
Before I can even comprehend what any of this means, he is gone.
Throughout the evening, time creeps forward in the way that it always does during these events. Sluggishly. I’m waiting for my pill. The only thing that separates day from night anymore. Eventually, the door opens and the other slaves are brought in. The men have been sated and now it is time for them to conduct business and leave us here in the basement.
There are three other girls here this evening. They walk into the room like zombies in their drugged states and slide down the wall onto the cement floor. I could tell them what to do right now, and they would not argue. The addiction is the only thing that matters to them. The next fix. They do what they are told and then they get what they want.
We have common ground, but I don’t trust them. I can’t. Because the last time I tried to bond with another slave, she told Arman. My parting gift from that short friendship was a broken arm and a dislocated jaw. A reminder of what happens when you betray Arman.
I stare across the void that is my cell and examine the girls faces. They are all young like me. Thin and probably pretty once. Now their eyes are sunken and their skin dull. Cracked lips and dry, brittle hair. It makes me wonder what I must look like to them. What I look like at all. I can’t remember anymore.
I want them gone, I decide. Because we are not alike. That’s what I tell myself when they stare back at me too. I just want to be left alone where I don’t have to worry who to trust or what to say. I want to go back to counting the lines on the wall, but then I remember the truth. My mind is too fragile to accept it right now. That my hope has been snatched away from me so easily. That I’m not getting out of here in seven days.
That I’m not getting out of here at all.
Unless I find another way. The chains around my ankles aren’t long enough to wrap around my neck. I know because I’ve tried. Everything in this room has been considered. Examined. And when that failed me, I tried to leverage the only power I had. Provoking Arman and even Karolina into a state of violence that would finally set me free. But that never worked either. I’ve considered every option at my disposal, and the pills were the only thing that made sense. The only option I had left.
And now they are gone.
The numbness is dissipating again. The carefully constructed sanctuary I created to protect myself has been fatally wounded by the stranger with the blue eyes. I hate him. I hate him so much a tear actually squeezes from my eye.
I need the numbness to survive. And he took that from me.
Now all I have is this room. My silent thoughts. And these girls who stare at me like I belong here. Like we’re the same.
“What did he do with you?”
The skinny brunette with an accent breaks the silence. It takes me a moment to understand her question is directed at me. I’ve seen her before, but she’s never spoken to me. So why now? I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
She mistakes my silence for apparent confusion.
“The fourth man,” she presses. “Mr. Nikolaev. Did he fuck you?”
They all lean closer, waiting for my response. I still don’t answer.
The brunette turns to her friend. “See, I told you, a sadist.”
“No.” The blonde shakes her head. “I don’t believe it. She doesn’t have a mark on her.”
“What does it matter?” the third girl asks. “Why do you want to know what he did to her?”
“Because,” the brunette explains, “Alexei Nikolaev is a recluse. He never leaves his house. Never comes to functions. He doesn’t own slaves, and he has never even been to an auction. Yet, he came here tonight. It is a huge thing. There are always rumors, but to see him in person… even Arman was surprised. He didn’t want him in here with her due to his reputation, but nobody says no to him.”
“What sort of reputation?” one of the other robots asks the same question that’s in my own head.
“He is a Vor,” the brunette whispers. “Red Mafia.”
“He’s not just a Vor,” the blonde sneers. “He is the councilor to Viktor Sokolov. The boss. Alexei Nikolaev has a reputation of being ruthless to anyone who crosses him.”
The Russian Mafia?
“I think he has business dealings with Arman,” the brunette rambles on. “Something fell through and Mr. Nikolaev is not happy about it. Arman is trying to mend fences. But one of the other girls said she overheard Alexei asking about his slave at dinner.”
They all look to me again, even though I’m nothing more than a silent participant in this conversation. I don’t have an answer for them. I don’t know what he wants. But I hope I never see him again.
The door opens, and this time, it’s Arman. He’s drunk and his eyes are lasered in on me. Which is never a good combination as far as I’m concerned. He stumbles over to me and grabs me by the hair.
“What did he do with you?” he demands. “Are you ruined?”
I don’t answer. I never answer him.
He shakes my head back and forth, yanking some of my hair out in the process. “Don’t play stupid with me, girl!”
And then to my relief, he lets go of my hair and moves around behind me. Then he promptly shoves his fat disgusting fingers right up inside of me.
“I knew it,” he laughs mockingly. “The man is all show. You are still perfectly intact. You aren’t ruined, little dog. So perhaps I will keep you around a while longer, yes?”
I turn away from his taunting words. The reminder that I will never be free of my cage. I wish for blackness. And it comes in the form of his fist in my face.
3
ALEXEI
“HOW ARE THINGS WITH KATYA?” Viktor asks.
I observe him from my space across the table. The restaurant has been cleared out to accommodate him. To most, I’m sure he is as fearsome as the rumors would have you believe. The Pakhan of the Vory v Zakone. But to me, he is simply my friend. Someone I respect and admire and who has given me a place in this life when others would not.
He values me. And he is risking his life by traveling this far with me. But even though my position within the organization is officially as his councilor, I am also his most valuable asset. My job cannot be done by any other within the Vory. My ability to manage the gambling operations and fatten Viktor’s wallet substantially is a skill set belonging only to me. There are hackers who pride themselves on their work. Who boast publicly under pseudonyms and taunt the authorities. I am not one of them. I simply fly under the radar as I have always done. As I learned to do at a young age.
My skills are unique. Forged over a lifetime of dedication and hard work. It is not talent. It is not luck. It is nothing less than perseverance that makes me the best at what I do.
For this reason, Viktor holds me in high regard. But I’d also like to believe he considers me a friend. And perhaps, as his role has evolved over the years, even a son.
I do not like lying to him. But when it comes to Katya, I must. Viktor would not stand for such a betrayal. If the truth were ever uncovered, he would surely have her slaughtered. She has made a mockery of me. And in the Vory world, there is only one punishment for such a crime.
As little as I care for her, I still cannot in good conscience sentence her to death. Viktor is old school in some ways, and modern in others. He does not follow the original Vory tradition of forsaking all family. To him, a family outside of the Vory is as important as the brothers themselves. A happy home makes for a loyal Vor, he likes to say. The organization is very old, but it has evolved to the times. Now it is common practice to marry suitable prospects within our own culture, or for the sake of alliances. For a man with my rank, Katya is the most obvious choice. The one who Viktor and her father Anatoly insisted upon. So this ruse continues. He wants my reassurances. And I will give them, for now.
“She is busy planning a Christmas party.”
Viktor waves his hand and dismisses the idea as preposterous. “That is nonsense. She should be planning a wedding, Lyoshenka. Anatoly has asked me for a date several times already.”
I take a spoonful of Borscht and bide my time. I am running out of reasons to give him.
“What is holding you back?” he asks. “You are thirty-five this year. Do you not believe it is far past time to start a family?”
“It is,” I agree. “I want that very much.”
“And yet, you hesitate,” Viktor argues. “I’m starting to believe you have doubts.”
The waiter comes and clears our bowls, and Viktor leans forward to study me.
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