Sold To The Russian

by Isabella Laase

  “That’s okay,” she insisted more firmly. “I’ve only been in New York for a few days. I haven’t any money, but I’ll come back.”

  “You don’t need money if you’re related to Pavel Petruskenkov,” scoffed Galena. “My father would kill me if I let you walk out of here with nothing, and Pavel wouldn’t appreciate it, either. He only charges my father half of what the Turgenevs did, and last month, we needed to put a new roof on our house. Pavel said he didn’t owe him any money until September to cover the costs. The Turgenevs would have broken his legs if he didn’t pay them on time. None of us are sorry to see them crawl back under a rock.”

  From another rack filled with brightly colored clothing, Galena removed several pairs of cut-off jean shorts. “Here, take a few of these and pick out the color flip-flops that you want. If you’re going to hang around on a beach, you need sunglasses, too.” When Zoya still hesitated, Galena scolded, “Pick them out, or I’ll pick them out for you, and you’d look terrible in orange.”

  To make her point, she held up an orange pair of sandals before she sighed. “I take it back. You’re freaking gorgeous, and you’d probably look great in any color, but please, pick something out. It would insult my father not to offer Pavel these gifts. Those white necklaces would look great with your skin tone.”

  It had been a long time since she’d had anything new, and Galena’s sincerity was hard to ignore. Zoya fingered the necklaces and bracelets made from shiny ceramic beads and metal. “What exactly does Pavel do for your father?”

  “He provides for our protection, of course. Nobody fucks with us knowing that we’re loyal to the Petruskenkovs. You sure as hell can’t rely on the police to protect a Russian family. Pavel pushed the Turgenevs out in a matter of months because most of their soldiers abandoned them when he gave them jobs. Pavel doesn’t treat his people like shit, and he pays them better, too.”

  Galena held a flowered shirt with very little fabric against Zoya’s shoulders, adding innocently, “Are you Pavel’s sister or his niece or what? I didn’t know he had any relatives other than his sons and the brother who is in charge of everything back in Russia.”

  “I…” she stumbled. “It’s sort of complicated…” Not even this kind young woman would earn her trust, but she’d been unprepared for the question.

  Galena picked up a white fitted t-shirt with an angry shark on the front. “Isn’t it always? I think you should take both of these shirts. This one is much dressier, but the t-shirt will be good for relaxing on the beach.”

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” she responded sincerely. “But thank you. Do you think Pavel will be angry with me?”

  “What’s there to be angry about? Tell him they came from Aaronson’s store on the boardwalk. My father will be thrilled, and Pavel will understand, I assure you. Why don’t you go into one of the dressing rooms and change into a pair of those shorts and one of the shirts. You look like you just got off the boat in that old dress. As soon as I get my lazy-ass cousin back here, we can go over to Brighton Avenue and get a real sit-down meal at my mother’s restaurant. She makes amazing blinis.”

  In Georgia, Zoya had been a bold teenager who’d never shied away from taking risks. Forming a friendship with a girl who reminded her of her sisters seemed trivial compared to the dangers she’d faced in the last few months. She picked up a pair of the red plastic shoes that matched the pretty midriff top. “I would like that very much, but I came on an airplane, not a boat.”

  “We can work on your English, too,” said Galena with a sigh. “It’s a whole new world around here, Zoya.”

  Pavel stood in front of the small restaurant on Brighton Avenue and prepared to say goodbye to his cousin Liam. Dusk was still an hour or so away, but a cooler breeze had kicked off the ocean, offering a welcome respite from the summertime heat. In his younger years, he would have embraced staying out late and visiting the local bar scene, but guilt and responsibilities had long since redefined his daily routine. He was looking forward to a quiet evening in front of the television with a cold beer and the Yankees game, at least after his reticent houseguest disappeared into her room.

  A generation earlier, Pavel’s American mother had defied her conservative family to embrace communist ideology in the Soviet Union. Caroline Jackson Petruskenkov’s insistence that her three children were fluent in English combined with his Bronx heritage to make New York an easy destination choice when he’d made the decision to emigrate. Like most of the Jacksons, Liam’s brown hair held a touch of deep red and his sharp blue eyes didn’t miss a thing. He was a few months older than Pavel, recently divorced from his wife of fifteen years, and a weekend dad much like Pavel saw himself. A cop in one of the local precincts, his job made for a complex personal relationship with a high-ranking member of a local crime family, but Liam had never been on their payroll, giving them both the rare gift of a true friendship with no strings attached.

  Two attractive girls wearing snug shorts, fitted midriff shirts, and dark sunglasses came out of Aaronson’s restaurant across the street. One was significantly taller than the other, and their exposed skin glistened across taut thighs to catch his attention. Without her frumpy cotton dress, it took him a few seconds to recognize that the taller of the girls was Zoya. Her full breasts and olive-toned skin awakened both his cock and the attention of several nearby gawking men and overgrown boys. An inexplicable rumble of jealousy sparked an urge to confront the bastards, but she appeared to be oblivious to the attention.

  He had the strategic advantage, watching her until she’d reached his side of the street. She removed her sunglasses to reveal hints of a makeover and her hair was shorter with a blunt, shoulder-length cut. The overall effect gave her the appearance of a quintessential American girl, but the biggest transformation was a smile that reached her eyes for the first time since he’d met her.

  “Zoya,” he said as she passed him. “What are you doing here?”

  She froze before focusing on the sidewalk. Her companion was Abel Aaronson’s oldest, a thin, attractive girl who’d always treated him respectfully. The Aaronson kid looked back and forth between Pavel and Zoya until she filled the stony silence. “Good evening, Mr. Petruskenkov. Zoya and I were just out for a walk after dinner.”

  He snapped his fingers in her direction, commanding sharply, “Go home.”

  “Good night, Zoya,” she said nervously, handing Zoya her shopping bag. “I’ll call you this week, if it’s okay with you, sir? Maybe we can hang out again?” Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the street to run back to her mother’s restaurant.

  “So this is Zoya,” Liam said in English with an affable smile. “Linda didn’t tell me that she was so very beautiful.”

  “I was planning on keeping her out of sight until I could figure out what to do with her, but my disobedient wife appears to have a mind of her own.” Returning to Russian, he asked Zoya, “Why are you here? You didn’t ask me for permission to make this excursion.”

  A tiny spark of attitude lifted her chin. “I didn’t think that you would agree.”

  “Why wouldn’t I agree?” he replied sarcastically, trying to keep his voice low. There was no reason to share his drama with every passerby, especially the men who continued to stare at her. “An innocent immigrant who doesn’t speak the language, walking the streets of a rough neighborhood without any protection?”

  “If you weren’t going to agree, then why would I ask? You told me to stay close to the house, and I’m not far.”

  “As your husband, it’s my job to keep you safe. There are still threats to Russians on these streets. You will not leave the house without my permission and the appropriate supervision. Have I made myself clear?”

  “You didn’t have guards in front of your house or doors that locked from the outside, so I assumed I was free to go. It’s not my fault that you were vague in your instructions. And don’t forget that I’m Georgian, not Russian. Given the political unrest between our countries, t
hat’s a distinction worth remembering. Besides, you’re not truly my husband, are you? You’ve made that clear to me many times since I arrived.”

  Although it had improved in the last year, Liam’s rudimentary knowledge of Russian after a few college level courses had never granted him full conversational skills, and he tended to limit himself to greetings and simple exchanges. With a chuckle, he spoke in English. “Tell her that I don’t give unsolicited advice very often, but her tone leaves a lot to be desired, and she appears to be missing those veins sticking out of your neck. Being quiet right now might be her best option.”

  Pavel translated, and Zoya scoffed. “He didn’t say that. You’re lying to me.”

  “This is my cousin, Liam Jackson, and why would I lie to you over something that trivial? His sister is the person who is caring for the boys. You can trust him, so I would mind his advice.”

  Her expression softened, and her tone lowered to a respectable level. “Ask him… please… ask him how Anton is doing? The nightmares aren’t as bad when there’s a small light left on after dark.”

  Liam responded in basic Russian. “Anton is fine. But he bites people.”

  “Come,” said Pavel, taking her arm. “I’m taking you home where we will continue this conversation in the privacy of my living room.”

  Before she could propose another sassy comment that was destined to annoy him, Lesta Kuzmich emerged out of the passing sidewalk crowd. One of Peter Turgenev’s top men, he’d stayed loyal to the old regime when others abandoned the weak leadership. A few years earlier, the mayor had targeted the Italian mob in an effort to clean up the city, and the huge void in power had coordinated perfectly with the collapse of the Iron Curtain to give Russian crime families a foothold in America. Even the hard-working, honest citizens of the Russian community had emigrated from a communist-controlled government where cheating the corrupt state and evading the law was considered heroic. With Damir’s help and the Turgenevs’ incompetence, Pavel had expanded their focus from simple extortion of local merchants to dabble in the darker world of money laundering and fraud. His brother had been happy with his progress, and when Damir was satisfied, the threat to Pavel’s sons was lessened, easily defeating any lingering sense of misplaced morality.

  “Lesta,” said Liam. His tone was calm, but he’d moved in front of Pavel and Zoya. “It’s nice to see you on such a pleasant evening.”

  “Good to see all of you, too,” Lesta responded with a mock politeness. “And I know just about every beautiful woman in Brighton Beach, but not this one. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  An expert in the rules of an undeclared war, Pavel’s temper gave an ugly rumble. “We were just leaving. If you need to discuss any business with me, I will meet you here, tomorrow at nine a.m.” He nodded his dismissal to Kuzmich and increased his grasp on Zoya’s elbow to lead her away.

  “Stop,” she insisted, pulling on his arm. “I’m not going to be treated like a child in disgrace. I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t run away from you. I went shopping and had dinner with a new friend.”

  “Your new friend seems to have a mind of her own, Pavel,” Lesta laughed. “Perhaps she’d rather come with me?”

  The last of Pavel’s temper snapped. He grabbed Kuzmich by the collar and pulled him close to his face. “Get the fuck away from here,” he growled. “I’ll see you here, tomorrow at nine if you need to continue this conversation.” He pushed the bastard to the ground and moved his hand toward the weapon attached to his calf, monitoring his opponent for any signs of aggression, but the smaller man was the kind of zmeya who relied on others to fight his battles. Holding his hands up, he stayed where he’d been dropped.

  Satisfied, Pavel turned to an open-mouthed Zoya. He snapped his fingers and pointed toward the street, but she remained frozen in place. She’d learn one way or the other that his word was law, and any deviation from his orders would cost her in a most personal way.

  “I suggest that you take my cousin’s advice and stop talking,” Pavel said to her with his teeth gritted. “Because when I get you home, you will regret all of this attitude in a most personal way.” Turning to Liam, he added in English, “I was looking forward to a peaceful walk home, but could you drive us? I am anxious to define what acceptable behaviors look like in this relationship.”

  Liam laughed as Pavel opened the back door of the car and snapped his fingers to direct her to the back seat. “What did you say to him?” insisted Zoya. When Pavel didn’t answer, she climbed in with a frown. “There may be a lot of Russian spoken around here, but I need to take some stupid English lessons if I’m ever going to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Oh, I think you will figure out what’s going on very quickly,” he mumbled, slamming the door behind her.

  Chapter 6

  With new makeup, a haircut, and stylish clothes, she’d enjoyed her ‘American’ afternoon listening to the sassy, give-and-take relationship between Galena and her mother. No matter what they’d promised, however, Pavel was angry, and his dark unsmiling face had grown even more frightening when the stranger stood next to them on the street. The man’s leering glances had made her regret the impromptu makeover, but the image of him lying on the ground where Pavel had dropped him had left her with a strange combination of self-righteous satisfaction and underlying anxiety.

  Pavel’s silence and closed expression did nothing to ease her concerns during the short ride to his house. During a quick survey of his property, he discovered that she’d left the back door unsecured. “I’ll get you your own key,” he mumbled, “but don’t ever leave my house unlocked again. This is New York City, for God’s sake. Even when you’re inside, if you’re here alone, the doors have to be locked, and you need to be alert to any unusual sights or sounds.” He used his foot to nudge her discarded shopping bag. “And where did you get the money to buy these things? Do I need to count the cash in my children’s piggy banks or have you found another way to rob me?”

  “I… I didn’t take anything from you,” she lied, trying to ignore the memory of his money hidden in her suitcase. She kicked her flip-flops toward the shopping bag. “Galena gave me these things. She said that you’re friends with her father and wouldn’t object, but I can return everything if you insist.”

  “It’s fine, this time. The Aaronsons are loyal to my family.” He pointed his finger in her direction. “But… in the future, you will tell me where you’re going, and you won’t accept gifts without my permission. This family’s position is volatile, and there is no way for you to understand who you can and can’t trust. You must rely on me to make those decisions, or I can lock you in your room until you learn how to obey.”

  The closed house had grown uncomfortably stuffy during the long afternoon. He took off his t-shirt, exposing the myriad swirling tattoos that trickled across his flat abs and broad shoulders to complete those she’d seen on his forearms. “And it’s hotter than hell in here. Turn on the air conditioner when it’s going to be so hot outside.”

  “I don’t know how to do that,” she snapped, averting her eyes from his solid frame and trying to ignore the inexplicable pulsing between her legs. “And none of this was my fault. You weren’t clear in your ridiculous demands.”

  “Well, I’m going to be clear now,” he said, crooking his finger to direct her. “And you’re going to remember to watch your tone and learn how to obey me. Come here.”

  This was all happening too fast. The bruises on her face had almost healed, and her lungs no longer hurt when she took a full breath. There was only one threat, and the Petruskenkov brothers slowly blended into a single frightening entity. Despite his good looks and calmer temperament, he was one of them, the dark mobsters who’d likely murdered Anton’s parents and ruined countless of innocent lives. None of them were to be trusted, and there was no way that she would willingly take a step toward him.

  “I told you to come here,” he warned, snapping his fingers. “Don’t make me come for you.
In this household, you will respect and obey me without question.”

  “Don’t come near me,” she shouted, holding out her hands and taking a step backwards. Her rising temper defeated the meek victim who would have remained frozen in fear. “You can’t do this. I will… I will contact the police. Women have rights in this country.”

  “One afternoon with a pair of Russian immigrants, and you think you’re an expert on American laws. There are many stronger powers in this city than the police, and I am one of those. Come here, before I become angry.” Despite his insistence that he was somehow working to control his temper, his dark eyes burned with a frightening furor. When he took another step toward her, she removed a large glass vase from the bookshelf and silently prepared to defend herself. “Put that down,” he snapped. “I brought that from Venice, and I don’t want to replace it.”

  “Then stay away from me. I’ll obey you, but your instructions need to be clearer. When that happens, we will both be fine.”

  “You will do what I tell you to, but all you’ve done is shown me disrespect. Put that down before you make this worse than it already is.”

  Determined to seek revenge for months of horror, she gave into her temper, blindly grasping her weapon of choice, but it wasn’t until he’d taken another step toward her that the vase left her hand, roaring toward him with a mind of its own. He maneuvered to avoid it, but the expensive Venetian glass hit the portrait of his mother behind his back, breaking both into a thousand pieces that scattered across the living room rug.

  For a frozen second in time, they stared at the mess as the horror of what she’d done slowly sank in. He’d murder her. She would die right there at the hands of an angry Russian mobster whose temper would explode until he didn’t even see her anymore, just a limp body who needed to pay for her actions with her useless life. He turned back to her with an arched eyebrow and spoke with an unnatural calmness. “That… will change the path of our evening. Dramatically.”