Plan Of Attack
From that point on, our sovietnik insisted on being involved in all our endeavors. We huddled around the bar, an unopened bottle of vodka between us, and devised a plan that seemed as complicated as overthrowing the Kremlin. The demands of Vladimir’s position were heating up in Russia. He and Boris would leave the States in three days to settle some sort of rival conflict that had escalated back home.
Of course, Vladimir wanted me to drop everything, ditch life as I knew it, and board his private jet. That game plan had compounded problems. Small detail, but I didn’t have a passport. Vladimir scoffed at the idea and said he could get me one in five minutes, but Boris intervened on my behalf and denied him. I was an adult and there was no need to leave the country illegally—or against my papa’s wishes. Boris sealed the deal by adding it was best to handle the conflict before introducing me to the life.
Vladimir held out a moment more, until Boris flashed the For Her Own Safety card. I’d stay here, waiting.
Their world was fascinating, really. I wondered if rival conflict translated to mafia war, but I didn’t push for details. I got the sense this was the minor issue back home that had him all fired up on my first day of work.
The Official Game Plan:
Vladimir and Boris would go back to Russia in three days.
I would apply for a passport and have it in hand in time for spring break.
Vladimir would fly back from Russia, and together we would confess our love and marriage plans to Dad.
I would fly back to Russia with Vladimir, we would spend spring break at his dacha, summer home, and we would plan our June wedding.
These things were decided, but the last piece of the equation—when or if I would return home to America after spring break to finish the last few weeks of the semester and to reach a peace agreement with Dad—was still under negotiation.
“Vladimir, we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. I need time to ease out of my life here. If I drop out, it won’t look good on my record when I apply to colleges in Russia.”
“You’ll go to any college you want. I’ll see to it personally.”
“Newsflash: I don’t need you to see to it. I earned my way. I’m not going to throw away everything I worked so hard for.” He’s like me; he has to understand that.
Vladimir tapped the tips of his fingers together and eyed the vodka bottle. “As my wife, you’ll enjoy the privileges that come with being married to a man of a certain influence, understand?” His cheeks were red, jaw clenched.
“Of course she understands, boss.” Boris reached for the bottle.
Vladimir held up his hand to Boris in a stop motion and took a deep breath. “Let’s do this. We’ll stick to the plan as it is, and you will decide when or if you go home after spring break. You might love your new country so much you may never want to return to America.” He picked up my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. “Your happiness is my only concern.”
“Perfect. Spasibo.” I stood on my toes and kissed him. He ran his fingers through my hair with one hand and with the other he squeezed his arm around my back. He was a different person without the vodka, and he was willing to give up drinking—for me. In return, I would give up my family, friends, and country to spend my life with him in Russia.
When you love someone, you make sacrifices.
Our make-out session was getting a little sloppy. I could tell he was excited when he whispered in Russian and nibbled on my ear. I cracked up, embarrassed the Juicy Love Fest was going down in front of Boris.
“There you go, boss.” Boris patted him on the back. “Now, let’s talk about the wedding. Russians believe in elaborate celebrations. My mama will spoil you rotten, lapsha.”
“I can’t wait to meet your family, Vova.”
“My family can’t wait to meet you, angel.”