The Pakhan
Vladimir took a bite of bread. I tore mine into bite-sized pieces and glanced around the room, taking in the fabulous décor. “You pick the next one.” I pointed to the shots.
He picked up the horseradish infused vodka. “This one.”
My throat still burned from the last shot. Since he had made the first toast, I held my glass up and initiated the next one. “Za zdorov'ye.”
He clinked my glass, grinning at what I suspected was a horrid accent, and repeated the sentiment. We downed our shots. It tasted good, but my nose burned like when I put too much wasabi on my cucumber roll. “How do you say, ‘the vodka is nice?’”
“Vodka khoroshaya.”
“Say it again.”
He obliged.
“Vodka khoroshaya, Pakhan. That’s what Boris calls you. Pakhan means ‘boss,’ right?”
The truth: I’d looked it up. Specifically, it meant godfather as in crime boss.
“You catch on quick, angel.”
I picked from the appetizer tray and arranged little piles of marinated veggies on my plate. He wouldn’t stop staring at me. I felt self-conscious and was relying on the alcohol to loosen me up so I could eat something. “Where did you meet my sister?”
“It was a long time ago.”
I worried I might ruin the light mood, but I pushed anyway. “Dad packed away all of Sophia’s pictures and never talks about her. I’m his only reminder she ever existed.”
Vladimir brought a napkin to his face and patted his mouth. “That’s why he’s so protective of you. Your resemblance to Sophia is—”
“Haunting?”
“Remarkable.”
“Do you see her when you look at me?”
His lips parted, and the answer was on the tip of his tongue. Then the waiter interrupted when he delivered trays of food: radish cakes, baked cheesy bread, eggplant caviar, and a beet and kidney bean salad. Vladimir welcomed the distraction and turned his focus on filling my plate with a sample of all the zakuski on the table. I still had internal bleeding from the verbal lashing he’d sliced me with early Saturday morning, but he was extending the olive branch and I needed to take it.
Vladimir had apologized and was honestly trying to make it up to me—crime boss or not, the gesture was sweet and genuine. I thanked him and plunged my fork into a saucy beet thing. I stabbed at it trying to make it small enough to swallow without chewing. I set down my fork and picked up my water glass.
Unsure of what my problem was, Vladimir lifted his shoulders and took a bite of the same dish I’d hacked to pieces. “It’s good. No meat. No fish. No eggs.”
I put down my glass when my hands began to tremble from being so nervous. “Stop trying to fix me.” I tossed my napkin over my plate, bolted outside to the scenic patio that overlooked downtown, and welcomed the chilly breeze that cooled my clammy skin. As soon as I reached the railing, Vladimir wrapped his suit jacket around my shoulders as if he could extinguish my flame of insanity. I shook my head. “I’m so sorry—”
“It must be lonely to grow up without your big sister.” He turned me around and tried to rest my head on his chest, but I stepped back.
“I felt lightheaded from the alcohol. I’m fine now.” I took his hand and tried to drag him back inside. He didn’t move.
“Coney Island.”
I turned around.
“Sophia worked at a pizzeria near the boardwalk.”
“She was a senior in high school when she worked there.”
“And I was a seventeen-year-old Russian immigrant, living the American Dream.”
I mirrored his smile, encouraging him to continue.
“I’d never seen a more beautiful young woman in my life. Her golden eyes, her long, blonde hair waving in the wind.” He looked up at the stars as he conjured up the memory. “When her shift ended, I approached her. The moment our eyes met, I knew we would be together forever.”
“Sophia and I were very close, and she never mentioned you.”
“She had planned to tell you everything, but our lives were interrupted when my work took me back to Russia. I had to stay longer than expected.”
“Because you went to prison?” I lowered his hand and pointed to the tattoo of a watch on his wrist visible under his Rolex. “Time served. I noticed it when you took your watch off the other day. I Googled it.”
I worried he might be mad, but he actually seemed impressed. I picked up his other hand and continued. “This cross means you served one prison term. This ring tattoo of a crown means you’re the pakhan, the Russian letters across your fingers spell out your nickname ‘B-O-C-C’ which translates to ‘Boss,’ the five dots represent four guard towers and you in the middle. I don’t know what all the other stuff means, but Boris has way more ink than you do.”
He squeezed my hands and lowered them down to my side. “Don’t dig too deep. It’s not a pretty story. I wish you’d let me in on your secrets. So much pain behind your eyes.”
“So, by the time you got out of prison, she was gone?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.
He smiled weakly, but I could tell he was holding back. “I think of her every day. Seeing you at my house the night we met, I couldn’t help but wonder if—”
“If what?”
“Let’s get you out of the cold.” Vladimir put his arm around my shoulders, and I inhaled his heavenly cologne as he guided me back inside. Instead of sitting when we reached our table, he spoke to the manager in Russian. The guy nodded and led us back to the kitchen. At first, I didn’t get it. I followed him curiously.
Our waiter cleared off a prep counter, and brought in two bar stools. Vladimir guided me to sit and scooted his chair next to me. The manager delivered a bottle of wine and set it on the table along with a corkscrew. Vladimir went to the bar and got a couple of glasses. He opened the wine, poured our drinks, and clinked my glass.
“Like home.” He winked.
Finally, I understood. Our first dinner together in the formal dining room was noticeably painful for me. Sitting down at a fancy table and staring at each other didn’t fly in my comfort zone. He’d picked up on my apprehension and moved our gathering spot to the kitchen. We ate zakuski standing at the bar, sipping drinks, and talking—like a Russian family.
He was nothing if not thoughtful. “Thank you,” I said, not specifying but he knew anyway.
The chef gave us a cooking lesson as she prepared the orders. She even taught me how to grill kabobs, which I managed to do without gagging. Hearing the meat sizzle and watching the fat bubble up and melt down, feeding the flames, usually made my stomach turn. I guess Vladimir was the distraction I needed to maintain my sanity.
He even ate, like, three skewers of meat and veggies and said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. I’d had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t really a vegetarian. He’d dropped a few pounds since I’d become his personal chef. We took a break from cooking to sample the food and to enjoy our wine like we did at home, and before the clock bonged curfew, the tension had lifted.
Vladimir and I were, “Over our bullshit,” as Boris would say.