“I wanted to give you a few US dollars, but Damir is convinced that you’ll run given a chance. He doesn’t like to lose. You’ll get meals and snacks on every flight, and there will be plenty of people who speak Russian on the plane out of St. Petersburg. You have a layover in Istanbul then a direct flight to New York City. Pavel will meet you at the airport, and you’re traveling with a child. Everybody will help you along the way.”
He parked the car in front of the stark spotlights of the terminal entrance where a few sleepy travelers walked into the building. “One more thing, Zoya,” he said, turning around in the driver’s seat. “There’s a marriage certificate in there between you and Pavel. It’s the only way that we could arrange your immigration status on such short notice. When you go through customs in America, remember that your name is Zoya Petruskenkov. You’ve been married since January first, and you are a naturalized Russian citizen. Damir had the power to make it legal, at least on paper, so if you make a mistake, they’ll arrest you for fraud and take Anton away from you. You must be diligent, especially when you go through customs and immigration in New York.”
Like everybody who’d lived in the former Soviet Union, she’d been taught at a young age to distrust authority, and his threats only added to her burden. “It’s amazing,” she said bitterly. “I’m only twenty years old, and I’ve already been married twice. Once, you forced me into a real ceremony and a fake marriage, and the second time, there was no ceremony and it was a real marriage. You have an amazing talent.”
He had the decency to look guilty. “I’m sorry, Zoya. You deserved better than all of this, but when Damir wants something, he isn’t dissuaded. You have been with him long enough to understand that.”
“There is nothing about Damir that I understand. I don’t speak Turkish or English. I have no money, and I have his own nephew to care for. If the plane is delayed or I miss the connection, I have no resources to even feed him. Even if he hates me, how could he do this to his sister’s child?”
“I would have bought you to keep you in Russia, but Damir insisted on sending you to Pavel. He was Damir’s right-hand man before he left to expand their business in America. And I’m sorry. Truly sorry for all of this and for everything that has happened to you.”
“That didn’t stop you from raping me, did it?” she asked, meeting his eye until he was forced to turn away.
He pulled their suitcases out of the trunk of his car and used her airplane tickets to check them in at curbside for a uniformed porter to take away. With no money and the little boy to care for, she had no options except for the one they’d placed in front of her, but looking backward was the surest path to defeat. America would provide her next chance to escape, only this time, she’d take Anton with her. Dropping the envelope into her small bag, she firmly took Anton’s hand. Without saying another word to Sacha, they went into the airport together.
Chapter 3
Working to control his temper, Pavel Petruskenkov rubbed at the headache forming between his eyes. The woman behind the counter was exasperating at best, but none of this was her fault. If anybody should be blamed, it was his fucking older brother. When Pavel had left Russia, he thought he’d put enough distance between them, but he’d been wrong. No matter where he was or what he did, Damir would find a way to destroy his peace.
Just a few days after Sacha Belsky’s middle of the night phone call, Pavel stood at the JFK International Airport looking for an untrustworthy whore who was his damned wife in the eyes of the law in two countries. Nobody had explained to him Damir’s motives for talking her into this arrangement, but escorting their nephew safely to the US couldn’t have been the only reason.
Since the death of his wife a few years earlier, Pavel had only one purpose for a woman, a quick fuck when he needed the release, and none of them had been welcome in his home. He had no idea what to do with one of Damir’s hand-me-down sluts spying into his personal and business life, but in a complex hierarchy rooted in a twisted combination of loyalty and blackmail, when his pakhan commanded, Pavel still obeyed.
“I understand that they weren’t on their first flight.” He forced a patient tone while he spoke to the flustered, aged ticket agent. “I called the airlines yesterday, and they said that the plane had been canceled. They were supposed to be on today’s flight, but they were not, so I repeat my question, where are they?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Petruskenkov,” she said, looking nervously over her glasses. “Are you sure she didn’t call somebody to let them know where she was? Maybe she left a message with a family member?”
“There is nobody for her to call other than me. She speaks no English and is traveling with a small boy. Did she even get to Istanbul?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, still tapping away at the computer’s keyboard. “We have her in Istanbul, arriving on time without any incident, but the plane to New York was canceled. I’m just not seeing her on the next flight. Let me get my manager over—”
A bright smile lit up her round face. “Found them! They flew to Chicago last night and landed here early this morning. I’m surprised that she didn’t contact you, but we can have her paged. I’m sure she’s in the airport someplace. Security can help look for her, too.”
“Never mind. She couldn’t have gotten far.” The last thing he wanted was to work with anybody wearing a badge. He nodded politely to the agent and began his search for a woman and child he’d never met. Once he found her, getting rid of her without ticking off his brother would be his next challenge.
It was five o’clock on a Friday night and the baggage claim was filled with both exhausted business travelers and excited tourists. In a scene bordering chaos, clusters of people created a dizzying maze for those trying to negotiate the room, and screaming children chased each other in circles while the winding baggage carousels groaned and creaked to bring their stores to chattering strangers.
Separated from the havoc by more than just a physical proximity, a withdrawn young woman with a small boy on her lap and two beat-up suitcases at her feet sat on a bench tucked into the corner. The boy was crying into her shoulder, and she patted his back and murmured into his ear. With thick, unruly dark brown hair that fell past her shoulders, she was much younger than he’d been expecting, with full breasts and long legs filling a worn, rumpled cotton dress. Damir had never settled for anything less than a stunning whore, and this one was no exception.
He caught her exhausted gaze, and she stood, wiping an ugly purple bruise on the side of her face while balancing the heavy child. “Are you Zoya?” he asked in Russian.
She nodded, her blue-gray eyes showing no hint of a smile, and the kid stared at him as though he were Hitler in the middle of the Battle of Leningrad. This was Katya’s kid, alright. In addition to their physical similarities, his feisty little sister had mastered that same death glare, usually just before she took a chunk out of his wrist with her baby teeth.
Turning to the young woman, he snapped, “Why the hell didn’t you call and let me know you were here? I’ve been looking for you for over twenty-four hours.”
Meeting his glare, she spoke Russian with a heavy accent, but her trembling chin contradicted her firm tone. “I have no money to call, and I was given no contact numbers that I could read. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” The boy whined again, and she whispered to him until he quieted. “He hasn’t eaten in hours. Could you please… please just find him some food? It isn’t fair for a little boy to be treated like this. He’s done nothing to hurt you or your family.”
“He actually is my family,” he reminded her, looking suspiciously at her cloth bag. “Are you saying my brother sent you to America with no money? Or did you spend it frivolously at some extravagant shop in Istanbul as soon as you had the chance?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” she retorted. “Your brother didn’t trust me enough to give me any money. He’s a…” Her brow furrowed to a deeper frown, and she trailed off before she switched her tone t
o something more respectful. “Please, he hasn’t eaten since the breakfast they gave him on the plane. We had help in Istanbul when we were stranded, but here, I couldn’t find anybody who spoke Russian or Georgian.”
The Georgian heritage explained her classic beauty, but if her version of events was true, his brother was even more of an ass than he’d acknowledged. If one of his sons had missed a meal, they’d be screaming their heads off, and they were years older than this little guy. He picked up one of the suitcases, and lifted the sturdy preschooler from her arms. “Grab the other suitcase,” he ordered, “and follow me.”
There was a few seconds’ delay before his nephew’s tiny face contorted to a deep scowl, and he exploded, dropping his stuffed animal to the floor and releasing an ear-piercing, furious scream that drew the attention of everybody in the room. The Petruskenkov dark anger burned deeper than a temporary eruption, and he fought hard, kicking and screaming until his dirty shoe landed on Pavel’s crotch, sending shooting pains from his genitals to embrace his entire body. Gasping for breath, Pavel leaned over to let the boy slide toward the floor, but the little shit managed to sink his teeth into Pavel’s forearm before his feet hit the floor.
Grabbing the discarded toy, Anton ran to Zoya, and she picked him up, smiling a little too widely. “Are you laughing at this?” he whispered warily, his teeth still clenched against the pain. “Because that would be a mistake.”
“Niet,” she said respectfully, lowering her gaze to the floor. “I haven’t laughed in a very long time.”
The overcrowded airports had been filled with banks of black and white television screens and a maze of gates and terminals. Strangers had helped her when her follow-the-crowd approach had failed, and a handful of Turkish bills from an unattended bag had kept them fed during the weather delay in Istanbul. There had been no such opportunity in New York, and they’d spent hours on that bench. Afraid to close her eyes for fear Anton would wander off, her worst nightmares were recognized when she was helpless to care for him, her own exhaustion, fear, and hunger weighing them down even further.
She’d been making plans to admit defeat and turn Anton over to the authorities when her new master finally claimed her. The physical resemblance between the two men was strong, but the younger one appeared to be taller and certainly leaner than his brother. With rugged American blue jeans and a black t-shirt showcasing his toned muscles, his dark blond hair was cut short with shimmery highlights that mirrored a tan line on his forearms and a scruff of a beard covered his chin.
She hated herself for blindly following him to the closest food stall. Anton had clearly not approved of him, either, but instead of striking or even shouting at his tiny attacker, Pavel had ordered them meat patties on seeded white buns and thin potato strips fried to a golden crisp. He sorted through the manila envelope filled with her paperwork while the boy dipped his potato in ketchup and offered it to her with a smile. His little face was so sweet that she nibbled on his fingers to make him giggle. With the magical resiliency of a child, he was already recovered from his drama-filled day.
Pavel spoke without glancing up from the pile of documents spread across the table. “I’m sure you understand that our marriage will at least appear to be legal here and in Russia. My brother has a great deal of influence to make this happen in a way that few would question.”
“I have no idea what those papers say,” she snapped. “I can’t read Russian.”
“Watch your tone,” he warned. “I have no patience for disrespect. This one is Anton’s birth certificate, and these are his parents’ death certificates. That will make it easier…” He stared at her closed expression. “Are you really going to pout because I scolded you?”
“I… I didn’t know that his parents were dead,” she whispered. “And I’m not sure that he did either. I don’t know how to talk to a three-year-old about death.”
Pavel’s permanent frown deepened. “Three? Anton turned four a week or so ago. I can only imagine why Damir didn’t tell him about his parents, but he told me weeks ago. Or at least Belsky did. I try not to talk to my brother.”
Anton leaned back into the bench. “Mama died in the car. Papa too. I was there, but I didn’t died.”
His chilling comments startled her. She started to take him into her arms when Pavel thundered, “Wait. Leave him alone.” She hesitated, but her new master impatiently snapped his fingers. “Don’t push me, Zoya.” Turning to the little boy, he added, “Anton, where was the car?”
“In the bottom of the hill,” he said matter-of-factly. “There was a fire, but it didn’t burn me.”
“We don’t tell stories here,” said Pavel sternly. “Do you know what it means to be dead?”
Anton nodded emphatically. “Yes. It hurts to be dead. It makes people sad. My mama was sad when she died. And you should never go near Dadja Damir. Mama told me. I was hiding from him, and Mama told me to stay away from him forever. She was hurt, then she died, and he killed her. She told me to remember. It took a long time for the truck driver to take me to Zoya, but I didn’t bring the suitcases because they was heavy, but I got my bunny from Mama’s bag.”
“Was dadja there?” he asked impatiently. “Was he in the car?”
“No,” he said, scrunching his tiny face in concentration. “He was far away. Back in the parking lot where they was fighting, but Mama told me to hide in the car before we went to the sea where we would be safe. I saw him when Zoya came for me, and he scared me. Zoya is my friend.” To make his point, he offered her another French fry and a brilliant smile.
Despite his errors, there was an unnerving sense of accuracy in the little boy’s account. Zoya stared at her second Petruskenkov master, evaluating his complicity in a family filled with murderers. “What do you know about all of this?” he asked angrily, pointing his finger at her face.
Caught off guard, she stumbled. “I… don’t know anything about a truck driver or a parking lot. Damir sent me to the police station with Sacha Belsky to pick him up, but I’d been told that the housekeeper probably took him there. Sacha didn’t ask any questions and neither did I. We were heading back to St. Petersburg within ten minutes. I’m not even sure what town we were in.”
“You are not to repeat that conversation to anybody. Do you understand?” When she didn’t acknowledge him, he growled, “This is non-negotiable. You must never tell anybody what he said. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and he paid their bill with a handful of green American dollars. He left a tip for the waitress, but as they slid from the booth, she pocketed the cash when he was distracted by the luggage. This time, she would do a better job of hiding her nest egg.
In the parking garage, Pavel stowed their suitcases in the trunk of his black sedan, and the exhausted child was sound asleep before they pulled onto the heavily traveled expressway. They drove at a snail’s speed, past myriad ugly brown industrial sites until he entered an urban neighborhood with tall buildings, subways rumbling over elevated tracks, and more honking cars that clogged over-packed streets lined with shops, bars, and restaurants. Given a chance to orient herself, she tried to remember every corner and landmark until he pulled into the driveway of a beige two-story house with a glimpse of the ocean in its backyard. “Where are we, exactly?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.
“The far edge of Brighton Beach. There are so many immigrants around here, it’s like being in a self-contained Russian satellite, but be careful and stay close to the house. It isn’t always safe, and there are many people who would take advantage of your inexperience and your ties to this family.” He opened the garage door with a button on his visor and carried their suitcases into the house, leaving Zoya to waken Anton.
The simple frame dwelling was a far cry from the elegant St. Petersburg townhouse, but other than a half a dozen photographs of two school-aged boys with curly blond hair, the stark white walls and sparse furniture did nothing to make it any more inviting. With a key from his pocket, Pavel secu
red the weapon from his calf in a heavy, carved wooden box on top of the closet shelf.
She set the heavy preschooler next to a navy blue couch, and he immediately moved to run his sticky fingers over the biggest television set she’d ever seen. Anton pointed to a familiar portrait hanging above the red brick fireplace. The woman’s judging expression had followed her halfway around the world. “That’s my mama’s picture,” he scolded, crossing his arms and adding a scowl that was remarkably similar to his uncle’s. “You stole it from her.”
Pavel ruffled the hair on top of the little boy’s head. “That’s a copy of the original that hangs in my father’s house in St. Petersburg. He had one made for me and one for your mama, too. And it’s a picture of your grandmother, not your mama, but they did look alike. Your grandmother was born in a hospital very close to this house.”
“Did she die?” asked Anton seriously. “Died is a bad thing. It makes people sad because they don’t come back, and it leaves you all alone.”
“She did die,” said Pavel. “But you aren’t alone, Anton. You have me and my sons to take care of you. You will be fine, I promise.”
Anton paused, staring hard at his bunny. “Mama said you were our friend.” He thought for a second or two longer before he reluctantly handed his precious toy to Pavel. “You can have my bunny.”
“Thank you,” said Pavel with a small smile. “But that looks very special, so you should keep it. Did your mama give it to you?”
“No.” With a sigh of relief, he snuggled the worn rabbit to his chest. “I’ve had it forever since I was a baby. Did you love Mama’s necklace, too?” he asked, pointing to the picture.
“That necklace is at Dadja Damir’s house. And that’s your babushka, not your mama, remember?”
Despite his patience with the little boy, her master delivered to her a silent glare, reminding her that her life was worth the cost of an emerald necklace, and he moved to the kitchen without giving her any additional orders. Across the entrance hall, an old card table and a few metal folding chairs were the only furniture in the dining room, but the corners were piled high with toys and books. Anton dropped his stuffed animal on the floor to explore the trucks and action figures.
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