Out of sight, out of mind. Safe in the arms of a criminal.
12
Stasya
Being with Kirill over the last few weeks has been different in so many ways, but one of the things I find most unusual is that he and Slava drive almost everywhere. Must be a mafia thing, because Moscow has extremely efficient public transportation. Though I take their beauty for granted now, when I was young, walking into a station felt like entering a museum. When we were bored, Vanya and I would get off at every stop just to see the gorgeous artwork. Other stations were like a history lesson, with brightly colored murals depicting the timeline of the USSR. They weren’t the dirty, smelly, concrete caverns I’d heard about subway stations in other cities.
Truth be told, I’d always choose the metro because driving scares me. After having been on a waiting list for nine years, my entire family was excited when Papa finally received the call that there was a Zhiguli available. Though I’m not sure how much it cost, Papa drained our savings to buy it. It wasn’t anything special, a drab, red box on wheels, but it was ours.
We barely had it for a year before the accident that killed Mama. The main roads in Moscow are set up in a series of rings that start at the Kremlin and push out. Each ring was a wall at one time, protecting the Moscow Kremlin from invaders. Technically, we all understand the rings, but none of us, not even Papa, knew how to drive on them. Many of the roads in the city are circular, twisting and turning without much ability to see what kind of traffic you’re turning onto. There may be another car coming—or worse—a bus, like the one that hit our car. Mama died on impact, Papa suffered multiple lacerations on his face and chest and almost lost his right arm, and the car was destroyed.
So yeah, driving everywhere has taken some getting used to and Slava’s aggressiveness doesn’t help. The man is crazy behind the wheel. Every time he turns, I think we’re going to be the next accident.
Today, he’s driving us to the Izmaylovo District, a historical area in the eastern part of Moscow, just off the Moscow Automobile Ring Road, or MKAD. Despite its historical significance as the land belonging to the Romanov family, I’ve only ever been to this area one other time, years ago, when Vanya and I came to see a Lokomotiv football game. I don’t remember there being any kind of market or stores around the stadium, but then again, we came on the train, so I didn’t see it from the motorway.
“What’s that, Kirya?” I ask, pointing to the massive structure that looks like a marketplace—open on the sides and covered with a metal roof. There are hundreds of cars in the parking lot and hordes of people walking up to it.
“That’s Cherkizovsky Market, Stasya. You are about to see perestroika in action,” Kirill tells me with a laugh.
“We’re going there?” I ask.
“Yes, Slava and I have work to do.”
Kirill and Slava don’t strike me as the type of men who sit behind a table, manning a booth at a market.
“What kind of work do you have here?”
Kirill Antonov knows my deepest, darkest secrets—with the exception of my Dimitri Morozov mistake—it’s only fitting I know some of his. Since I’m his “queen” now, asking shouldn’t be out of the question.
“I think you’ll find observing is a better way to answer your question. Keep your eyes and ears open, and you will understand.” Kirill pulls on black leather gloves and nods at my hands, which are folded in my lap. “Put your gloves on.”
“It’s not cold today,” I say, puzzled at why I would put gloves on in July.
Kirill’s eyes are as hard as his words. “Listen to me, Stasya.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Do you mean blindly follow your orders, like Slava and Igor?”
“I’m going to ask you to do things that you may not understand at first. But you will.”
“Will I? Are you going to explain everything to me?”
“I promise you, I will.”
It’s not the answer I expect. Instead of challenge him, I stuff my hands into the gloves and turn my gaze back to the window. We’ve pulled up in front of the market.
Kirill exits first, then takes my hand and helps me get out. As soon as I do, Slava speeds off faster than he should in a crowd as large as this. Within seconds, we’re engulfed in a sea of citizens—men, women, children—all headed toward the market.
“What did you mean about perestroika in action, Kirya?”
He moves closer, putting an arm across my shoulders to protect me from people pushing. It’s a slight gesture, but it gives me warmth. Kirill is a man of his word. He cares about me and wants to protect me. “This is what happens when a country restructures and allows private investors to rent government-owned spaces. It started as a physical education facility for Moscow State, but it’s had a lot of uses over the last twenty years.” His lips tickle my ear when he whispers, “Rumor has it, there’s an underground bunker that was built for Stalin during the Great War. But I don’t think it was ever used.”
As soon as we enter, I’m speechless. Underneath the aluminum roof are booths and tables as far as the eye can see, each one overflowing with items no Soviet has ever been able to purchase in the GUM store. This place is filled with anything anyone could ever want.
I stop in the middle of the aisle to absorb everything, feeling my eyes getting wider with each new discovery. Blue jeans. Brightly colored clothing in all shapes and sizes. Fur coats and boots. Toys and records.
“I feel like I’ve been transported to another world,” I whisper.
It must have been loud enough for Kirill to hear, because he answers immediately. “You have,” he says, leaning down again so I can hear over the hum of chatter. “Welcome to Cherkizov.”
Someone bumps me hard and I turn around, ready to shout a few words. Whoever it was is already gone, lost in the sea of hungry shoppers.
Kirill moves his hand to my back and guides me forward. “This way.”
“How could a place like this exist in Moscow without me ever seeing or hearing of it?” I ask him as we walk.
“Remember what I told you in the car? Opportunities present themselves when you have your eyes and ears open.”
Indignation bubbles in my stomach. I’m not stupid. I know what’s going on in the world.
Before I open my mouth, I catch myself. Kirill isn’t calling me stupid. He’s calling me naïve, which is something very different.
I’ve blindly followed the communist way because it’s all I’ve ever known. Even over the last few years, when everything has gone to hell, I’ve kept faith in my country and its systems. If I ride the storm and stick to what I’d been taught, the Soviet Union would provide, like it has my entire life.
But Kirill is right. I am naïve. Staying in my pattern and pretending the Soviet ship wasn’t sinking made me blind to what was going on around me.
“This is where you’ll be selling your clothing someday.”
I snap my head to him. “What clothing?”
“We have so much to discuss, Stasya. But right now, I have work to do. Come.” He loops my arm with his and leads me down the aisle. “You can sit through my first meeting.”
“Why can’t I sit through all of your meetings? I thought you said you would tell me everything.”
“Sometimes when people come to me, they want to be anonymous. They might be giving me information. They might feel unsafe because of threats from other groups. There are hundreds of reasons. They trust me to keep my word. And I don’t plan on losing their trust. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“I will tell you anything you want to know, Stasya, but it’s safer for all of us if you don’t see the faces of those I’m telling you about.”
It makes complete sense. And to be honest, I don’t want to know any more than I have to. Which is why I haven’t pushed him to tell me every detail about what he does. The less I know, the safer I am.
We weave between booths, dodging men rolling large packages on metal dollies and women rifling through piles of
scarves.
A large man in a black leather coat bumps my shoulder as we pass. When I look back, he’s scowling, but bright red scars curve from the outside of his lips up to his jaw, making it look as if he’s smiling from ear to ear. Without taking his eyes off me, he spits something on the ground.
I shudder involuntarily, stumbling as I shift my eyes straight ahead.
“Am I going too fast?” Kirill asks.
“Not fast enough,” I mumble, craving more distance from the scowling man.
Kirill stops in front of a stairway. Just as he starts down, a rush of people run past us, knocking me against one of the tall, white shelving structures separating the booths. I’m not hurt, just surprised.
When I look toward the commotion, I see Slava grab a short, skinny man by his shirt collar and pull him close. He’s snarling something I can’t hear. The man shakes his head, sneering at him and spitting something in broken Russian and a language I don’t recognize. Slava raises a gun to the man’s forehead.
No! He wouldn—
Brains and blood splatter across a wall of “I Love Moscow” sweatshirts.
I scream and grab onto Kirill, hiding my face in the nook between his body and arm. He puts his arm around me and ushers me down the stairs. Once at the bottom, he tightens his arms around me and holds me as I shiver.
“It’s okay, Stasya,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”
“What happened, Kirill?” I ask. “What was that?”
“Business.”
I pull back. “Business?” I ask, my bottom lip trembling. “This is the business you came for? Why would you bring me to see that?”
Disgusted, I turn my back and fold my arms across my chest, hoping hugging myself helps soothes the shaking.
“That would have been you, Stasya.” Kirill spins me around and pushes my back against the wall. His massive body heaves as he looms over me. “If Slava and I hadn’t grabbed you before the men in that Vaz that was following you, you would be dead.”
I meet his eyes. “You don’t know that.”
“I do!” He slams his palm on the wall, inches from my head, and I wince. “Last week, Sobakin’s men kidnapped Evgeny Bobrov’s mother. You know Zhenya, yes?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. Of course I know Zhenya, my brother’s teammate and friend.
“They gave him one day to pay. One day!” Kirill yells.
I flinch, turning my head from him. He grabs my jaw, squeezing it so I can’t look away. Every time my chest rises, it hits his, a touch that might be comforting in another situation, but not here.
“She looked directly into their video camera and pleaded for her son to pay. Then they chopped off her head mid-sentence.”
No. NoNoNoNoNoNo.
Vomit rises from my churning stomach and a tear slips down my face. I’d met Zhenya’s mother at many hockey games. How could someone do that to her?
“I could never live with myself if that happened to you.” He releases my chin and spins around.
As a million thoughts hit me at once, I slump against the wall and rub my cheeks with my hands.
It took me a while to process, but I saw the magazine Kirill left out for me a few weeks ago. The one that has pictures of Vanya’s new, extravagant life. He’s living in luxury and making no secret of it. If they didn’t want to kidnap and hold me for ransom before then, I was definitely a goner once Sobakin saw that.
I’ve been thinking of Kirill as one of the bad guys, not realizing the heaviest things that weigh on his mind. Fearing for people he loves. Trying to keep them safe. And living with the regret of knowing some of them will still die.
I’m just about to reach out and touch his shoulder, but before I can, he says, “I have kept you safe this long and I intend spend the rest of my years protecting you. Now move.”
* * *
Underneath the market is a world of its own. We pass multiple doorways. Inside, a few look like bedrooms, with filthy mattresses and grimy blankets littering the ground. Other rooms have tables lined with sewing machines and fabric rolls stacked to the ceiling. The grounds are dirty and disgusting, even for the city’s standards. My stomach rolls with each room we pass.
I want to turn around, run up the stairs, and find the nearest metro station. There’s no way I’m getting into Slava’s car. Not after what I saw. I don’t care if it’s business or protection or what. I’m not part of this life. Murdering people isn’t normal or acceptable—or something I’ll get used to.
But I have no money, no way of leaving this place without Kirill or Slava. And even if I could leave, I’d never be able to find my way out.
“Pay attention, Stasya,” Kirill commands. “If something ever goes down, you’ll need to be able to get out of here.”
The advice surprises me, but reinforces what he’s been saying since day one. I’m a free woman. I can do what I want. He’s trying to protect me. He wants me to be able to get out on my own.
“It’s all so confusing,” I mumble.
It’s the understatement of the century. How could I ever find my way out of here? We’ve twisted and turned so many times through this underground maze, I don’t even know which direction we came from.
“At first, yes, but you’ll figure it out if you pay attention. You’re smart, Stasya,” he says, without looking back at me.
Flies hover above bodies sleeping on the floor. I stare hard, squinting to make sure I see the rise and fall of breath. The stench in the hallway smells like people haven’t showered in days, maybe weeks.
Kirill stops in front of wooden double doors labeled with a small brass plate: Chaynaya Komnata.
A tearoom is the last thing I expected to see in the filthy underground of an illegal marketplace, but I suppose it makes sense. It’s customary to meet over tea, so why would I think the mafia would be any different?
I’m completely stunned at the treasure behind the double doors. The Tearoom is small, but grand.
Igor sits at a booth facing the door, which, I’ve recently learned, is a way of being vigilant. You can’t see who’s coming if your back is to the door. I follow Kirill to the table, hovering behind him slightly.
A beautiful antique samovar sits on the edge while etched crystal glasses set in podstakanniks litter the table. There are two things directly in front of Igor: a gun and a mirror with a line of white powder. He leans down, holds one nostril, and snorts the powder into the other.
Though I haven’t spent much time with him over the last two months, he makes me want to vomit. Hearing Kirill and Slava discuss keeping him away from me has me constantly vigilant.
“I’ve been holding down the meeting until you arrived.” Igor sniffs and rubs his nose with the pad of his thumb before looking up.
Kirill looks around. There are a few other tables with patrons, but he doesn’t seem to see the person he’s expecting. “That doesn’t bode well for you, considering he’s not here.”
When Kirill gestures for me to slide into the booth next to Igor, I fight to keep the disgust off my face.
“He had to piss.” He shrugs. “Stasya!”
Up close, his stained teeth look even more yellow than they do from afar. His clothes reek of cigarette smoke and body odor.
“Please, call me Anastasiya,” I say. The nerve of him to be so familiar with me.
“We’ll be friends in no time.” He pats my thigh.
I jump, scooting closer to Kirill, but before I say anything, Kirill’s arm whips in front of my face and he presses his gun to Igor’s forehead. I squeeze my eyes closed.
“The fuck, Antonov?” he asks, but doesn’t move a muscle.
“Don’t ever, ever touch her again,” Kirill says calmly. “If you so much as brush her shoulder as she sits here, I will blow your motherfucking head off.”
A man approaches our table and my stomach drops. Though his hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, I’d know those bouncing, brown curls anywhere.
Dimitri Morozov.
He lowers his arm and shoves the gun into the holster at his hip. “I thought you’d be happy to see an old…friend.”
The way he pauses before the word “friend” makes me suspicious. There’s no way Kirill knows what happened between Dima and me. It would have been impossible since he wasn’t even at the New Year’s party that night. He’d moved out of the apartment many years before and hadn’t been back since his mother moved—the same night he beat Papa.
“He is no friend of mine.” I scowl. The last time I saw him was when he refused to help me. I walked miles to get to that training base and he sent me away like I was a dirty leper.
“So, you want to go to America?” Kirill asks as Dimitri sits in the chair across from us.
“It’s the only reason I’d be here talking to you, Antonov.” He glances at me, his face twisted in a look of disgust, as if I’m beneath him. It stirs up the rage inside.
“Is that any way to talk to the person who can help you get over there?” Kirill asks.
“The way I see it, you’re going to get my money before I go, or after. I’m looking for the least violent route. Tell me the terms. I’ll agree and be on my way,” he demands.
“I vote for the violent route,” I mutter under my breath.
Kirill snorts. “No love lost between you two is there?”
“There had to have been love in the first place for it to be lost,” I say glaring at Dmitri.
“Why did you even bring her in here?” Dmitri asks, shoving back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, as if he’s annoyed. “If you’re trying to mark your territory, you might as well piss on her.”
Kirill jumps up, his hand flying to the gun at his side. “Watch your mouth, Morozov.”
It’s funny, Dmitri brought up the dog analogy, but he’s the one averting his eyes and cowering like a bitch.
“You know,” I say, looking up at Kirill who still looms over the table. “I don’t know how you know, but you know. So let’s put it aside and move on to the business at hand.”
SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1 Page 11
