Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  “I have no excuses to give for my actions,” Nikolai tells me. “It was a mistake, Lyoshenka. I know I deserve to die for what I have done to you. And sometimes, I wish you would tell them. Tell them the truth. I don’t want to carry on this way. I want to repair the damage I have done. So please tell me how.”

  “This discussion is over,” I inform him. “So unless you have other business with me, you can leave.”

  Nikolai frowns and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “What should I tell him then?”

  “That is up to you,” I reply. “I’m sure you will think of something.”

  An odd expression takes over his face, and his eyes move to the ceiling. Though I cannot hear it myself, I know exactly what it is. The girl. She is having another episode. Which I’ve watched from the monitor on my wall for far too long today.

  The tension in my body is at the point of exploding if I don’t release it soon.

  “What is that?” Nikolai asks.

  “That is none of your concern.”

  He frowns, but does not argue when I gesture to the door. He pauses one more time to listen to the sound above and then leaves as I requested.

  By the time Franco returns with my captive, I am even more on edge and entirely too drunk. But his repentance cannot wait. Because at this moment, it is exactly the thing I need.

  I nod at the gagged man tossed over Franco’s bulky frame in approval.

  “Take him to the basement.” I grab the bottle of cognac from the bar. “I’ll be down in just a moment.”

  8

  TALIA

  THE DAYS BLEND TOGETHER in a repetitive pattern of pain and sleep. Magda feeds me broth and the prescribed medication every morning. Everything is too vivid and sharp to my fragile eyes, and I beg her to shroud the room in darkness.

  She agrees to my request and allows me to sleep. There is no other choice. I cannot move from the bed. Or at least I believe. Until one night, I find myself on the floor, curled up the way I used to at Arman’s when he took my mattress away. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but familiar. I want to stay there.

  When Alexei picks me up and returns me to the bed, my murmured protests are met with his harsh words.

  “You sleep on the bed in my home,” he tells me. “Always.”

  And then he leaves me to my own special form of hell.

  Three weeks pass before the symptoms dissolve and my mind is clear. The first time I sit upright in bed and glance around the room, I have to remind myself where I am. With sober eyes, everything looks different. More expensive.

  The walls are made of stone. And the colors around the room are rich and dark. Golds and burgundies throughout the drapes and area rugs to match the mahogany furniture.

  It is large. Too large for me. And the curtains are drawn back again, allowing natural light to invade the space. It still feels too bright. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed and put weight on them, they are stiff and I have to hold onto the mattress for the first few steps.

  Soft material brushes against my skin, and I glance down. I am wearing pajamas, I realize. Soft pink cotton. It is a strange sensation against skin that has been naked for so long.

  I move around the room, touching everything that is foreign to me. Things I have not seen or felt for longer than I can remember. Books, canvases, paintbrushes. The textures feel bizarre against the pads of my fingers. On the back of the canvas, I find a staple which I pry off with my fingers.

  Instinctively I press it into the flesh of my palm, easing the tension in my chest with the familiar comfort of pain. Then the door opens and I toss it to the floor.

  Magda meets my gaze, her eyes following the movement, and she frowns. There is a tray of food in her hands. Real food.

  “You should be in bed.” She gives me a sad smile as she places the food on the nightstand. I observe the brightly colored fruit on the tray and my mouth waters at the sight of it. There is also soup and some crackers.

  Magda gestures for me to come back to the bed, and I do.

  “Eat slowly,” she instructs me, “and stop when you are full. You don’t need to worry about food here, Miss Talia. Any time you are hungry, you can eat.”

  I nod, unable to focus on her.

  As soon as she leaves the room, I disobey by gorging myself. It isn’t long before I’m in the bathroom purging it all back up. It’s only after the fact that Magda’s instructions begin to make sense. I brush my teeth and make it as far as the soft rug in the bathroom before I lay down to rest. I fall into a deep sleep, only waking when Alexei retrieves me once more.

  I can tell by the oak and cloves in his scent that’s it’s him. He picks me up and carries me back to the bed again. I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, tracing over the patterns there with a finger while he watches me.

  “What will you do with me?” I ask.

  “I am keeping you,” is his reply.

  His words don’t affect me one way or the other. Which seems to disturb him more than anything when I meet his concerned gaze. I’m back to myself now. To the familiar state of despondency. Even without the pills. And it pleases me. That I can stay numb forever, maybe. It will make it easier this way.

  “Would you like to call Mack?” he asks.

  “I don’t know who that is,” I answer.

  He tilts his head to the side, examining me. After a moment, he seems to have decided something.

  “You feel she has betrayed you?”

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  His lips press together and he nods.

  “I will come for you tomorrow,” he tells me.

  And then he leaves the room.

  9

  ALEXEI

  FRANCO AND MAGDA are both watching me with matching expressions of concern on their faces. I ignore them and toss back the cognac in my glass.

  “Everything ready?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir,” Franco replies. “He’s waiting in your office.”

  “Talia is bathed and dressed,” Magda adds.

  I nod and check my reflection in the mirror. I’m nervous, but it isn’t obvious to anyone but me. If there was another alternative, I’d like to believe I would take it. I tell myself that what I’m doing is best for the girl. For Talia. She will be safe here with me. Out in the world full of monsters and wolves, she would not survive.

  This is what I tell myself as I make a gesture with my hand for the others to move to my office. Magda hesitates.

  “Mr. Nikolaev, may I be excused from the occasion?”

  Her face leaves little doubt to what she thinks of this. She does not agree with it. Magda has strong maternal instincts, and she feels protective of Talia. Just as she was protective of me when I was a boy with nobody else to rely on.

  “No,” I tell her. “Talia will want you there.”

  She wipes her hands down her dress, smoothing it out before giving me a soft nod. “Very well.”

  Her and Franco head to my office and leave me to gather Talia. When I step into the threshold of her doorway, I find her curled up in the chair by the window. Her ankles are crossed, and her pale white fingers clutching a book between them. She’s staring at the pages, but I don’t think the words are even registering. Her mind is far away. Somewhere that nobody else can ever hurt her again. The chair swallows up her tiny frame, and the deadness in her eyes scares even me. There is still much work to be done with her.

  Her gaze moves from the pages to me. The expression on her face never changes. She is always flat, despondent. Just as I knew she would be. It is the very reason I told myself she would be perfect. But looking at her now, I need more from her. I need to see a spark in her eyes. Something that tells me there is still a sign of life inside of her.

  “I need you to come with me,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t argue. Her thoughts and actions have not been her own for so long, it is an automatic response on her part when she rises and moves towards me. I could be leading her to her death, and still sh
e would not argue. In fact, she would probably celebrate. It is the thing she believes she wants.

  Magda has dressed her in a white lace gown. She looks pure, even though we both know she is not. She also looks like a haunted angel. Still too thin and sporting dark rings beneath her eyes. But she is beautiful, nonetheless. Her blonde hair is long and falls into her eyes, like a shield against the world. She doesn’t want others to see her. She can’t even stand to look at herself. A fact evident by the still covered mirror in her bathroom.

  These are all things I knew and expected in my mind, but I’m not certain I can accept them as I once thought I could. I want to shake her out of it. Demand that she feel something. But I know it is not yet time for that.

  So instead, I reach forward and smooth the errant strands of hair back behind her ears, leaving her face fully exposed. A flicker of unease moves through her eyes, and I can tell she wants to pull it back into place. I do not allow it, my fingers gripping her chin and moving her gaze up to me.

  “Do you question if I will send you back to Arman when this is over?” I ask her.

  She blinks, but doesn’t reply. I can see the answers in her eyes. She would die before she allowed that to happen. It is what she believes I will do, and anything I say or do to prove otherwise is a wasted effort. Talia has been betrayed by everyone who was ever supposed to love her. Words mean nothing to her. I suspect even actions themselves, she will always second guess. Always seeking out the true motives beneath them.

  The truth is, she will never trust me. Nor I, her. It is the way we are programmed. Duped by too many in the harsh school of life. She is my equal in this regard. The perfect partner. Emotionless. Someone who can stand beside me for the benefit of tradition without the complications. I need to remember that when I look at her.

  “You are at a precipice,” I explain to her. “Wolves nipping at your heels. I think you already know this, yes?”

  She bites her lip and gives me a tiny nod.

  “And then there is this wolf in front of you. One whom you already know wants something else from you. It is this simple.”

  She doesn’t argue. Instead, she waits for me to explain. To carry on as she considers every word carefully.

  “You could go back to Boston…”

  She flinches involuntarily at the very mention of it. As I knew she would.

  “Which I cannot in good conscience allow you to do,” I finish. “Knowing what you would do there.”

  Her gray eyes search mine, wordlessly. So many questions, but she does not voice them. That would show me that I have power over her. She already knows I do, but admitting it is something else. This is the spark that makes me believe all is not lost in her. There is still fight, even if she cannot accept it herself.

  “I will not be sending you back to Arman,” I tell her. “Because you will be staying right here with me. As my wife.”

  The only response from her is a vacant expression. I want more. I need more. My chest is tight, but I forge on.

  “With me, you will be safe. I will provide you anything you could ever want. Clothing, shoes, jewelry… you will have the best of everything. And you will be protected. As my wife, nobody will ever touch you again.”

  She accepts her fate without a fight. It should not disappoint me, but it does. Her only question is an honest one.

  “What do you get in return?”

  “In return, I will have fulfilled my duty and maintained tradition for appearances. You will stand by my side when I have guests, and at all other times, you will be free to do as you wish. Within the boundaries of the house.”

  There is no reply from her. The words mean nothing to her. It would be easier if she told me she didn’t want this. But she doesn’t. So I take her by the arm and lead her down the hall.

  The door to my office is open, and everyone is waiting. Magda’s eyes move over Talia, searching for some sign of protest. For a sign of distress. Anything. But there is nothing to be found there.

  I meet the officiant’s gaze and nod. “We are ready to begin.”

  Since he is on the Vory payroll, there is no need for vows or any other long drawn out procedures. He simply nods to the desk where the certificate waits. I help Talia into her seat and then take mine beside her. Then I hand her a pen and show her where to sign.

  She glances at the tip, probably considering if she can do any real damage to herself with it. And then she presses it to the paper. Her fingers tremble after the first swoop, and I close my hand over hers to guide her. We sign her name together, and then she looks up at me. There are more questions in her eyes, but she doesn’t voice them. How do I know her name? What else do I know about her?

  I feel as though she needs something from me in this moment. So I praise her in the only way I can think of.

  “Good girl.”

  I clear my throat and take the pen into my own hand, signing my space on the paper. When it’s all said and done, the officiant pronounces us husband and wife.

  Alexei and Talia Nikolaev.

  Franco and Magda watch as I slip the black gold wedding band onto my finger and then repeat the action on hers. Her band is also black gold, featuring a large ruby and a selection of black diamonds on the side. I could not imagine my wife wearing a simple ring like so many others. I could not imagine Talia blending in when she was born to be noticed.

  She is beautiful, this wife of mine. With her dove gray eyes and pale skin. She will be the one every other Vor notices at parties. The woman that every other Vor covets. But she is mine now.

  Still, it will not be official for me until she bears a permanent claim on her hand. One that she can never remove and nobody can ever question. I am anxious to mark her, but first, we must have at least several photos. Viktor will undoubtedly want them. As will anybody else who questions the legitimacy of my marriage.

  My Vory brothers will want her. Even at the risk of death, they will want her. It is up to me to let them know that she is mine. That no secrets will live between us, and that she will never betray me. Even if I cannot believe it myself, they must believe it. Talia must believe it too. That death is the only result of such an action.

  I have been weak once. But I cannot ever show that same weakness again.

  So I request Franco to take exactly ten photos of us. Which he does. The ten photos which I have already strategically allocated places for around my home. Places that all of the other Vory will see them when they visit. The reminder that if they touch her, they will die.

  Talia poses with me without any fight. There is no smile on her face, and no emotion either. But when I tilt her chin up to look at me, she does not turn away. I hold her in my arms and then kiss her cheek. Even after the last flash has gone off, we cannot bring ourselves to look away.

  I ask the others to leave, and they do. And then it’s just Talia and I, facing each other. My gaze moves to her lips, and my own mouth is telling lies before I can even question it.

  “It is bad luck not to kiss your bride.”

  “I don’t like to kiss,” she replies.

  But she doesn’t move away, even when I lean into her space, feathering my fingers over her jaw. My breath fans across her lips, and she shivers.

  “You will kiss your husband,” I tell her.

  And then my lips are on hers. At first, it is cold. There is nothing from her. But when I tangle my hand in her hair and demand more, she gives it. Her hand clutches at my shirt and she parts her lips for me. Allowing me in. I take from her, for far too long. Until she can barely hold herself upright. And when I pull away, I regret doing it at all. Because I want more.

  Her eyes move over my face, seeking out answers that I don’t have. I need to tell her my secret. She needs to be aware. It’s on my tongue, but I can’t force the words out. I don’t want her to know that part of me just yet. I don’t want her to think me weak when she needs my strength. When I promised to protect her, there needs to be no doubt in her mind that I am able.

 
; So instead, I remove the tattoo kit from my drawer and set it on my desk while she watches.

  “You would like some pain?” I ask her.

  She nods.

  Again my fingers move over her face, hard against her silky skin. “Then I will give it to you.”

  She sits through the process of the tattoo on her hand without so much as a twitch. This girl is accustomed to pain. She likes the pain. It is probably the only thing that feels good to her anymore.

  I enjoy giving it to her this way. Marking her as my own. Seeing my star and my name carved into her flesh stirs a sense of pride in me when I wipe away the last of the blood and bandage it.

  “Now, everyone will know that you are the wife of a Vor,” I tell her. “And if they touch you, they will die.”

  She does not question it. She just watches me, quietly. Thoughtfully. Waiting to see what I will do next. So pliable.

  “This star you wear has meaning in our world, Solnyshko. You do not yet trust me. You may never trust me. But that star gives you power. Protection. And so I want you to do something for me.”

  I take her other hand in mine, so small and delicate and cold, and brush her fingers over the bandage.

  “When you feel anxious or uncertain, I want you to touch that star. Always. Remind yourself, Solnyshko, of the one thing you can be sure of more than anything else. That you are safe if only for having that on your skin. You do not require any other armor when you wear my star.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and there is doubt in them. Uncertainty. Even still, her fingers are moving over the bandage as she battles her thoughts. And I know in this moment, this is a step towards progress. That she can be reprogrammed. That I have given her something to believe in, no matter how small.

  I am hard, from touching her. From being so close to her. And what I really want to do next is pull her legs apart and bury myself inside of her. To fuck her and fill her and claim her in that way. I do not think she would protest.

  “You would let me fuck you,” I say aloud. “Right now, if I wanted to.”