Vassili
Zariah is gone when I wake up on Friday morning. The moment I awaken, my mind is on the little things, like telling her ‘have a great day at work.’ Stuff that places a smile on her face. This is part of my routine. I do shit like this because for Christ sake, I can’t be a man like my father. And there should be no doubt in my wife’s mind of my love for her… like there was last night. So, as part of the usual routine, the thought pops into my mind to call her for virtually no fucking reason other than to just say I love you, and yeah, have a great day at work.
But reality slams into my chest, and the shit hurts so fucking bad. My heart isn’t up to the little things. I turn on the shower, allowing it to get hot enough to burn my skin, to remind me what … feeling feels like.
I’m torn between being the man I promised her I wouldn’t be and the man who was given the opportunity to become the one she loves. That might sound confusing. But without Malich and his family around during summers in my childhood, and when I was a teen, getting the hell away from Anatoly, I would do more than beat Zariah’s pussy. And I would’ve never known what true love is, because I’d have guarded myself with more cunts than I can satisfy myself with.
After showering, I have a towel around myself while digging into my top drawer for my passport. I dress quickly, and work over the words in my mind about what to say to my wife.
In the kitchen, Zamora has Natasha in her highchair, with scrambled eggs before her. She eyes my Louis Vuitton canvas duffle, and tilts her head at me. “Oh, Vassili. I made you breakfast. It’s staying warm in the conventional oven, but will you do me a favor before you leave?”
Shit, I was just about to ask if she’d watch Natasha today… until I return. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for breakfast,” I reply while opening the stainless-steel oven. Inside is a plate with more scrambled eggs, kielbasa sausage and toast.
“Sliced fruit is in the fridge,” she says, still glancing at my duffel bag. “Vassili, you are a praying man. I owe you lots for being a good husband, the recent events with Mat—”
“Nyet, you don’t owe me anything.” I cut in, although I know where this is headed.
“Alright, well, will you pray before you leave? Wherever it is you’re going, just pray about it.”
“Dah.” I eat.
***
Ten minutes later, I’ve kissed my daughter, and officially asked Zamora if she’d watch her today. Her eyes were expectant, so I told her I prayed already—even though we both can tell that the mumble I sent to heaven landed on deaf ears.
While pressing the garage opener, I dial Zariah’s number. Mid second ring I’m sent to voicemail. I close my eyes wishing I hadn’t used her body like I did last night. Shit, she just sent me to voicemail on purpose.
“Zariah,” I begin, still working in my mind on what to say to this woman I love with all of me. “I won’t be home tonight,” I start with the truth, while backing out of the windy driveway. “Probably not tomorrow night or the next.”
Realizing that I haven’t told her much of anything I add where I’ll be. And end the call.
*** The Next Day***
At LAX, I took the first available flight to Moscow, through KLM Royal Dutch Airlines. There was an extended layover in Amsterdam. By the time I arrive in my homeland it’s the next morning. Grigor and Semion are posted at the terminal entrance when I arrive. My cousin’s dog-ass of a face is set in a deep brown, while Grigor is wearing another power suit, breakfast bag and a cup in hand.
“Privet, brat—hello, brother.” Grigor holds out the items.
“I didn’t fucking send for you,” I tell him, glancing over his attempt at a kind gesture. “Don’t the two of you have a demanding job? I’m well aware that Anatoly requests alerts every time I enter the fucking country, but damn, you’re the right hand, and you,” I address Semion, “are the left? Equal operation.”
The ugly fuck’s eyelid twitches. He’s not a fan of equality, since he actually has the harder assignment.
Grigor drinks the coffee and eats the breakfast pastry as he drives us to the compound my father owns, Rublyovka. The mega mansions are suitable for trillionaires and dirty ass government officials. The gates open, and armed guards on each side track us as we enter.
My half-brother slurps down the last bits of the drink, and squeezes next to the cluttering of supercars that are parked around a lengthy lap pool. Shit, this man has become a hoarder. It’s like a car dealership out here for the ultra-exclusive.
There are five armed men, even uglier than Semion surrounding Anatoly as my father meanders down the front steps of his home. His suit isn’t a blinding highlighter color, but black. The many accessories he has on are all black.
“I’ve been in mourning,” he says, holding his arms out. “Come, come, give your father a hug.”
“Nyet, I’d rather not.” My tone is calm and I’m my usual standoffish self with him. “Are you mourning your nephew, Igor?”
My right hook shoots out like a missile landing against his chin.
Anatoly’s brain snaps in place in his body, his legs anchor down and he falls backward.
A bunch of hammers cock back and machine guns are pointed into my face. A hard slam from behind goes to my left temple. Before I crumple down to the ground next to my father, I realize that of all these mudaks, it had to be my cunt of a brother, Grigor, who knocked me out.