by A. Zavarelli
Alexei’s days are still his own. Spent working in his office. But at night, we dine together. And go to bed together. And he holds me. Sometimes it’s about sex. But sometimes, it’s just about us.
The sadness has slowly ebbed away over time. It does not disappear completely. It never does. There are still bad days. Days when the memories haunt me. When the pain feels unforgiving and relentless. But I am learning how to process it.
Changing old patterns and thoughts does not come easily. I still struggle with my deep-rooted fears every day. I worry that this is just a dream. And that soon, I will wake up at Arman’s again.
Alexei has not brought him up. Nor have I.
For now, I am giving him something that I swore I would never give again. My trust.
I am trusting him not to destroy me. I am trusting that if I work hard on my own demons, so will he. Because we have no choice. We have to be better than we were. For our child. And for ourselves.
I spend my days fighting. Fighting to overcome my fears and learning the things that I never had a chance to. Magda teaches me something every day. She teaches me how to cook, to sew, and even how to sing Russian lullabies.
I’m slowly learning the language. So that I can communicate with Alexei in that way. As well as our baby, who will speak both languages.
I spend time with Tanaka, at least once a week. She seems sad at times, locked inside of her own head. She does not speak about her and Nikolai. I only know that when she is here with me, she is happy. We have become close friends.
And more and more, I think about Mack.
I think about seeing her. And hoping that there is still some chance to recover our friendship too.
Soon, I think.
I will contact her soon.
My life has completely changed in so little time. I went from having nothing, to having everything. And it scares me almost all of the time. I think of my baby and wonder what Alexei will be like with his son. I know he will be a good father. But I also know he is nervous. He worries about letting us down.
I see that fear bloom more as my belly grows larger. I see it when he spends time in the nursery, examining the things I bought. And often, I see it late at night. When he is inside of me and looking into my eyes.
I don’t try to reassure him. Because like me, Alexei needs to figure this out on his own. My words will not ease his worries, just as his words won’t always ease mine.
Today, when I pass by his office, he is staring at the chess board on his desk. But Franco is nowhere to be found. Only Alexei, deep in his own thoughts.
I watch him for a while, in the silence. In his element, his brain working in a way that I will never understand. I watch the way his eyes calculate all of the moves, his hand brushing over his jaw. He is so incredibly handsome. My heart is beating too hard, too fast. I ache for him in ways that are not familiar to me. I ache for his words, his touches, his eyes on me.
When I have those things, nothing else in the world exists. He always leaves me longing for more.
“You could say hello,” Franco says from behind me.
I startle at his presence, curious how long he was standing there. Watching me, watching my husband.
“Why don’t you join us,” he suggests. “Somebody besides me should see the man’s chess skills.”
I hesitate, but Franco ushers me inside before I can come up with any excuses. When Alexei sees me, he gives me a curious look.
I was bored this morning, so I spent extra time playing around with my makeup. Smoking my eyes and trying out a new lipstick.
“You look different,” he notes.
I boldly take a seat on his desk and swing my legs off the side, meeting his gaze. “And you like it.”
He smiles, and so does Franco. And then they turn their attention to the game that never seems to end.
“Franco tells me you have some mad skills,” I note.
Alexei waves off the suggestion. “He always lets me win.”
“I never let you do anything,” Franco grunts.
“Can you teach me?” I ask.
Alexei seems surprised by my request. He reaches for my calf and feathers his fingers over my skin, tickling and massaging me.
“I cannot teach you, but you can learn.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just watch, Solnyshko.”
So I do. But I keep getting distracted from the game by the man playing it. His hand is still on my leg, my feet now resting on his thighs.
Alexei is giving and caring and warm. But he is also his own island. He does not accept these things from anybody else.
“What about that one?” I ask him, pointing at the cracked chess piece sitting atop his desk. The one that I know has absolutely nothing to do with this game and everything to do with something else.
He looks at the piece and then back to me. Franco keeps his focus on the game, and I’m glad.
“That is from the first time I ever beat my father at the game,” he tells me. “Or rather, the first time I ever allowed myself to.”
I reach out for it hesitantly, examining it between my fingers. It is odd that he has kept it all these years. But it is significant to him.
“Why?” I ask.
“My mother told me I should always allow him to win,” Alexei answers. “And I did. Until he told me I was not a worthy opponent.”
“It’s cracked,” I remark.
“It is,” he replies.
There is nothing else said, but it answers my question. Alexei’s father was enraged by this. And for some reason, it pleases him. I suspect that Sergei has always been insecure over his son. But I also suspect it has nothing to do with his hearing and everything to do with his intelligence.
Like me, Alexei had to adapt to the world he was born in. And I have no doubt he is always the smartest man in the room. Calculating his moves like he does on the chess board. Standing with his back towards a wall so he never misses a cue in conversation. His eyes working overtime to assess everyone in his orbit. Trying to appear as though he is normal.
But this man is nowhere near normal.
He is a genius in a room full of cavemen. Highly adapted and overqualified for everything he does. And yet he slums it with his Vory brethren and a wife like me, feeling as though he will never fit in. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I hope he never does. I hope he never realizes how much better he could do than the likes of me.
Franco’s phone rings, interrupting the game. He speaks in short and precise sentences, giving Alexei a nod before he steps outside.
“How long do you think he’ll be gone for?” I ask.
“Not long enough for what you have in mind,” Alexei answers, wheeling his chair closer.
“You mean what you have in mind,” I retort. “Pervert.”
I reach for his hand that rests on my thigh. With an empty space reserved for another tattoo. One he has not added yet. An idea strikes me as I grab a pen from his desk. One that will probably reveal too much. But I do it anyway. And he lets me.
Pressing the ink to his skin, I write my name in that space. The one I feel like I have a claim on.
“When do you get my name carved in your skin?” I ask.
“Soon,” he answers. “If that is what you wish.”
I have an opportunity here. To be vulnerable. Or to keep my armor in place.
I did not think I could ever choose vulnerable again. But I do.
“I would like that,” I tell him.
He wraps his arms around me and presses his face against my belly, peppering it with little kisses. My hands move through his hair, mussing it up before he pulls my face down to kiss him.
“Lyoshka,” I murmur against his lips.
“Yes, my sweet?”
“You are so hot.”
He smiles at me.
“I don’t think I ever tell you,” I continue. “But you’re hot, and you should know it.”
He grabs my chin and his eyes flick from
my mouth to meet my gaze.
“Solnyshko,” he says sincerely. “You terrify me.”
I swallow, and he kisses me softly.
“I know,” I tell him. “Because you terrify me too.”
43
ALEXEI
JUST AS I do every month on the 3rd, I arrive at a Vory owned club for the usual meeting. The meeting where we discuss numbers and operations and anything else that Viktor adds to the agenda.
And just as I do every month, I set up the flash drive in the computer downstairs and prepare the projector.
This is the way things are always done. The same routine I have performed as long as I have been Sovietnik.
And then we drink. Always for about thirty minutes or so until all of the Vory have arrived. We discuss business and ask after the other’s family members.
It is the way things are always done.
Only, this evening is different.
This evening, I am betrayed.
When Viktor calls the meeting to order, he directs one of the Boeviks to operate the presentation as he always does. I take my seat beside him, prepared to discuss the details of our gambling operations.
What I am not prepared for is what comes up on the computer.
“What is this, Lyoshenka?” Viktor asks.
I stare at the video in confusion. It is from my own home. A video I have not seen before. From a low quality camera placed somewhere in my own sitting room.
I am on the couch. And Talia and Magda are behind me, near the stairs. Magda is telling her something. And it looks like Talia is calling out to me, but I can’t be sure. I don’t turn around, and Talia’s face fills with confusion as she tries again.
“Turn it off,” I demand.
The Boevik is fumbling with the computer, removing the flash drive, but the film doesn’t stop.
Viktor is rigid beside me, and I know that my worst fear is confirmed.
Someone has just made a mockery of me in front of all the other Vory. Someone has announced my defect for all of them to see.
Instinctively, my eyes move to Sergei.
Viktor stands up beside me. Yelling something.
When I glance back at the screen, I’m moving across the room myself before I can make sense of what I’m seeing.
Images of Talia. Strung out and being fucked by other men.
And then one last single slide appears before I tear the computer from the table myself.
How does it feel to know your beloved Sovietnik is deaf and married to a whore?
I smash it against the wall. Until nothing but pieces remain. Viktor clears the room, but not before I see all of their eyes on me. Questioning me. Doubting me.
The rage inside of me cannot be contained.
I smash my fist through the wall four times before Viktor shakes me out of it.
“Let’s go to the control room,” he tells me. “We will check the security cameras.”
I’m walking with him, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
“Nobody is allowed to leave this building,” Viktor tells Nikolai before he shuts the door.
He waits while I go through the footage myself. But there is nothing. I cannot see anyone touch the computer from the time I installed the flash drive, no matter how many times I go back over it.
And then Viktor asks the question that is already at the back of my mind.
“Did you bring this flash drive from home?”
“She does not have access to these files,” I tell him. “And she has no reason to do this.”
“Are you certain of that?” he asks.
I nod.
But inwardly, I am questioning it. Doubting her. It would not be the first time I have misjudged someone so wrongly.
“Those photos are from her time as a slave,” Viktor notes. “Most likely Arman’s own security system. Perhaps we should start with him.”
“Yes, perhaps,” I agree.
“The only problem,” he amends, “is that Arman has never been in your house.”
His truth is too difficult to acknowledge. I’m still not willing to accept it myself. So I retrieve the hard drive from the computer. Setting out to prove him wrong.
Viktor is silent while I work. Contemplative.
There is no evidence the computer has been tampered with. And the flash drive is one of my own. Only, it does not contain the information I transferred this morning.
When Viktor sees the realization on my face, he grips my shoulder in a show of support.
“Perhaps her relationship with Arman was not as it seemed,” he states. “There is no way you could have known, Lyoshenka.”
I want to defend her. To argue that he is wrong. But there is no evidence to support that statement. And I know what comes next.
“You must face your Vory brothers,” Viktor tells me. “You always knew it might come to this.”
“I did,” I acknowledge.
Keeping my defect from them was a risk I was willing to take. Now that I am exposed, I will pay the consequences of my lie.
“Come,” Viktor says. “Let’s get it over with. So you can go home.”
The men are waiting for us in the basement. Solemn and drinking quietly amongst themselves. It is not the same atmosphere as when I arrived. They, too, know what must be done. As a high ranking Vor, keeping a secret like this from them is considered a betrayal. And punishment must be doled out. If they do not give it, they themselves appear weak.
I strip my shirt over my head and toss it aside, gladly taking the drink that Viktor hands me next. There is not a word spoken in the room. When the drink is finished, I turn to Viktor. And as with everything else we do, he is the first to perform the honor of punching me in the gut.
He does not hold back. The pakhan must never show weakness. And his punch nearly doubles me over. But I take another drink, and then each of the men take a turn. Punching my face. My chest. My back. Even Sergei. Which is the worst of them all.
He takes pleasure in it. And he gets me twice.
When the ritual is finished, Viktor calls a Boevik over to add a fresh tattoo to my body. One that means I have betrayed them, but have earned my way back in with honor.
There is no honor though. Lying on the floor, bloodied and exposed for all of the Vory to see me for what I am.
The rage is building inside of me. The rationalizing no longer valid. There is only one explanation. One person that I have brought into my home. That I trusted. And she was the only one who could have done this.
“Lyoshenka.” Viktor kneels down in front of me, squeezing my shoulder. “Franco is waiting outside. Time for you to go home.”
I sit up and meet his gaze, as well as the rest of the men in the room around me. The men who respected me. Who trusted my judgment and my abilities.
Now, they hold questions in their eyes.
“Go,” Viktor says again. “Take the footage with you, if you’d like. I will continue to do what I can on my end.”
I have gone through the footage on my security system from last night and this morning. But I cannot find the proof I need. I cannot find the evidence of her betrayal. It should bring me relief. But it does not. I need the proof.
I need what I know is true. That this has all been a game to her. That none of it was real. That she played me.
I find her computer in her room. And on that computer, I find the photos from the slideshow. The photos from Arman.
It is right there in front of me. But still I question it. Question her motives. It feels too easy. Something about this isn’t right.
But I realize, when I look at the tattoo of my dishonor, that is just what I want to believe.
I am tearing the sitting room apart when Talia comes downstairs.
It is two am. And she wore the black silk nightdress as I requested.
My beautiful fucking liar.
My traitor.
She is gutting me with her innocence. The way she looks at me right now. So soft and sweet, and yet so fucking
ruthless.
When she sees the anger on my face, she takes a step near me. I hold up my hand and tell her to stop.
“Where is it?” I demand.
“Where is what?” she asks, so innocently.
I am shaking with my rage. With my betrayal. The things I have done for her. I have lied to Viktor. Risked the other Vory to retrieve her. I have protected her as I said I would. Avenged her, as I promised. And now here she stands, refusing to own up to the truth. Just as Katya did before her.
I believed them different, but they are the same.
I can’t even look at her.
“Where is the camera?”
“Alexei?” she stares at me as though she is confused. “Are you drunk?”
“No. For once, my mind is perfectly clear. Are you proud of yourself?” I ask. “You must be. You fooled me better than even Katya.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks again.
“You do know I have cameras in every room of this house,” I tell her. “I will find it. And will you still deny it then?”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” she answers.
Magda appears at the bottom of the stairs, followed by Franco a moment after. They are all staring at my disheveled state, the broken remnants of decorations on the floor.
“Take her up to the third floor,” I demand of Franco. “Set her up in a room there.”
“What are you doing, Alexei?” Talia demands.
“I don’t want to see your face,” is my reply. “I want nothing more from you.”
Magda attempts to protest as well, but I turn away. And continue on my mission. Breaking and shredding every possible hiding place.
By the time Franco returns twenty minutes later, I have run out of places to search.
“Mr. Nikolaev?”
“The camera was in this room,” I tell him. “Recording my private affairs.”
“And you still believe it was Talia?” he asks.
He seems doubtful. Just as I know Magda will be. Their faith in her feels like another betrayal.
“I want all of her belongings sent upstairs,” I demand. “This evening. I don’t want anything left behind. She is to stay on that level from now on. You can inform both of them.”
