Chapter Two
Mikhail (Misha) Ivanovich
I’ve been watching her for three months, since I pissed my father off. Apparently going on a five day bender and losing a hundred thousand dollars in an Italian owned casino in Atlantic City is enough to get put on shit duty. I tried to tell him that the gorgeous Ukrainian hostess gave the best blow job I’ve ever had, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t think that was worth losing that kind of money over. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. That is, until three months ago.
I’ve been watching a woman more beautiful, more desirable, every day for three months. When she’s going to see Frankie Moretti she puts the huge rock on her finger, and as soon as they part ways, she takes it off. They don’t sleep together. They barely spend any time together. They go out to dinner once a week. They meet at the church sometimes. And they are always together at family outings, church functions, anywhere they will be seen. They put on a good show, they hold hands, and he kisses her like he wants to. But I think it’s all an act. I think he’s gay. There’s no other reason they’re not having sex. She’s so fucking hot there’s no way possible a straight man could keep his hands off her. If she were my fiancée, I would keep her tied to my bed spread eagle for days.
Her hair is so thick and dark I want to bury my face in it. Her eyes are so blue I want to drown in them. Her lips are so luscious I want to eat them. Her tits are so big and round I want her to smother me with them. If she took my last breath in our first kiss I would die a happy man.
I watch her fiancé kiss her more chastely than a five year old kissing his kindergarten teacher. If she were mine, I would own her gorgeous mouth and make sure she knew it every minute of every day. Then he climbs into his car that is too expensive even for the son of a mob boss. She waves at him, and as soon as he turns the corner she removes her huge ring and tucks it into her purse.
She taps her phone, I assume to arrange for a ride back to her brownstone. It’s not in the nicest of neighborhoods, but it really is a pretty, feminine home. I’ve broken in, once or twice, while she was sleeping. It’s not like I watched her sleep, I just went through her things. Well, once I watched her sleep, but I didn’t masturbate or anything, until I was in my own bed anyway.
She must be returning to her house, because there are only a handful of places she goes, which are her brownstone, the school where she teaches, her humble Roman Catholic Church, her parents’ house, and her grandparents’ place in Flatbush.
So I climb onto my motorcycle, and when she’s inside the rideshare car, I follow. When she doesn’t travel toward her brownstone, or her parents’ place, I’m a little surprised. When she drives toward Crown Heights, I’m confused. Then my sweet, innocent fantasy enters a bar. It’s a nice bar, but it’s not under Ivanovich family protection. I don’t know if it’s under Moretti protection or not. I could get myself killed just stepping inside. But it might be worth it, to get a closer look at her.
I could talk to her, and she could tell me to get lost, and it would make me want her even more. I park the bike, and now I have to decide between being out in the chilly April air, or to risk death and rejection. My father says that the winters in New York are like a spring day compared to Siberia. It’s just another reason I am glad I was born in America.
I decide not to linger in the alley across from the bar. The street has a lot of nice businesses and apartments on it, and I’m sure someone will call the cops eventually. So I walk across the street and step into the bar. I might get killed for it, but at least my father won’t murder me for getting in trouble with cops.
The first thing I do when I enter is look around. There is a man and a woman working behind the bar, and neither of them looks Italian. The girl has long dark hair with bright red streaks. A waitress walks toward the bar, and she has short blue hair. This is not the type of bar that I would expect to see my fantasy walk into. But even though the workers are eccentric, the patrons seem to be mostly normal.
I take an empty seat at the bar. When the male bartender notices me, I catch myself before I order vodka. “Light beer, on tap,” I call out. He nods, and begins to fill a glass mug. If no one has noticed who I am by now, I probably shouldn’t advertise that I’m Russian.
He sits the mug in front of me, and I hand him a twenty. “Keep the change.”
He nods, and gazes at me for a moment. Does he think I’m hitting on him? My eyes shift to the bland drink in front of me, and as I take a sip he walks away.
I change my position on the stool, to survey the bar. That’s when I see her, out on the dance floor with a few other women, dancing to a 90’s pop song. They’re just playing around, moving their feet, and shaking their shoulders and hips. She giggles, and I wish I could hear her over the music and crowd noise. I want to know how she laughs and why, what makes her smile, what makes her come.
She leans toward one of her friends, whispers in her ear, then begins to walk toward me. She’s wearing a black dress with long sleeves and a round neckline, but it’s just a tad bit too tight for my fantasy to be wearing, in public anyway. Other men can see the outline of her gorgeous boobs, and the shape of her hips, and that pisses me off. She leans against the bar, and the man sitting beside her nearly chokes on his drink. She’s half way across the bar from me, and I can see the back of the dress. There’s almost nothing to it. She was wearing a sweater when she walked into the church, and the bar. She was trying to look sweet for her fiancé and priest.
That makes me wonder what’s going through her mind. Why is she out at a bar, dressed like that? I can’t think too much about that, though. Her gorgeous body and her sexy tan skin are making it hard to think at all.
“I’d like another white wine spritzer with pomegranate juice, a chocolate martini, and a pina colada, please,” she says. I finally tear my eyes away from the sexy as sin dress she’s wearing, to search out her beautiful face. Her hair was up when I saw her at the church, but she’s taken it down and it’s now a mass of waves around her beautiful face, and it sweeps away to one side. How does one girl have so much hair?
She’s smiling at the bartender, but not in a seductive way. The bartender replies, “You can have anything you want, doll face.” His eyes are on her lips, and I want to poke them out with my thumbs so he can never look at her again.
“Just the drinks,” she replies, but she’s still smiling.
“Your loss,” the man says, and turns to make the drinks.
That’s when she begins to look around. She takes in the bottles of alcohol behind the bar, the levers for the beer kegs, the man sitting beside her who is dying to talk to her. When she looks at him he freezes, and stares at his drink.
Then her eyes are on me. Her sultry blue eyes sparkle as she takes in my appearance. I should smile, I tell myself. I should wink. I should give her some kind of sign I’m interested, instead of staring at her like a fool, like the man sitting beside her did.
Instead I look away, again staring into my beer. I shouldn’t try to get her attention. I’m supposed to be following her around, trying to dig up dirt to use against her fiancé. I don’t know why. If we found out something about her, and tried to use it against her, Frankie would probably take her out. Or maybe my dad wants to find out where she goes, to track Frankie.
I don’t know why my father gave me this fucking job. I’m just going to fall in love with her, and end up doing something stupid. Because that’s what I do. I’m the fuck up in the family. I never do anything right, according to my father and older brothers. I don’t understand why it matters what I do. Ivan will take over the Bratva when my father is dead. Anatoli is the best enforcer the family has ever seen. And Natalya is the smart one, working the numbers better than any accountant. My father should have sent her to college. The only way that the Ivanovich Bratva will survive is…
“Hi,” I hear from behind me. It’s her. I know before I even turn around. Her soft, sweet voice is now burned into my mind. I shouldn’t turn around. I shouldn’t speak to her.
“Hello?” she says again. Then she touches my shoulder lightly, and I move to grab her hand. Our eyes meet, and lock. I’m still touching her hand. Her soft, silky skin is against mine. She exhales loudly, and her bottom lip quivers.
I want to smother her with my mouth, and never let her take a breath that isn’t from my lungs again. I want to pull her into my body, pick her up and sit her back down in my lap, in front of everyone in this place. I want to carry her out and kidnap her, put her on the back of my bike and drive until we reach Peru. I want…
“Sorry, I thought…” She doesn’t finish her thought. I suddenly want to know every thought she’s ever had. I want to chain her by her ankle to my bed, and force her to tell me what she thinks, what she feels, what she desires. “I’m Chiara, but my friends call me Chi.”
Shit. Shit! My living, breathing fantasy talks, and her voice sounds like an angel. And she’s introducing herself to me. I’m still holding her hand. I swear I wish I could cut mine off so I wouldn’t have to ever remove it from hers.
Now I have to lie. Damn. “I’m Mike.” I thought I’d go by Mike at school one year, thinking I could hide my lineage, my family. I thought if I went by Mike that the normal girls would like me. Instead, my brothers beat the shit out of me, and my father told me I’d never be anything but Russian, and an Ivanovich.
“Do you dance, Mike?” she asks me.
“Your drinks, Miss,” the bartender says, a little too loudly.
She tries to remove her hand from mine, probably to pay for the drinks. I don’t want to release it. I want to ask for her hand, right here and now, for the rest of my life.
“I should buy your drinks,” I say.
Her perfectly groomed brows furrow, the corners of her lips droop into a frown, and I never want to see her look at me like that again. “I won’t let you buy my friends’ drinks, Mike.”
“I insist,” I reply. I smile at her, to try to get her to smile at me. Having my fantasy smile at me might be too much, though. I might bend her over the bar and shove my dick into her from behind if she does that.
“No. I didn’t ask you to dance with me to con you into buying my drinks.” She’s gazing at me, as if she’s trying to figure me out. But she can’t, she won’t. She’ll never know me, the real me anyway. No good girl should ever have to know the real me.
I still haven’t released her hand, and I won’t ever let her go.
“Someone needs to pay for the drinks,” the annoying bartender exclaims.
I should punch him for speaking to her like that, and for daring to look at her.
“Can I have my hand?” she asks, almost reluctantly.
“No. Can I have it?” I ask. And I don’t regret it.
She giggles at me, and tugs her hand away. I let it go, sadly. She reaches for her purse, but I pull a fifty from my pocket quickly, and hand it to the angry man.
“That should be enough, shouldn’t it?” I enquire. “Keep the change.”
He nods again, and stomps off.
“Thank you, Mike,” she murmurs, and grins at me. “But that really wasn’t necessary.”
“Tell me what’s necessary, and I’ll do it,” I demand.
She smiles at me, as if she’s bemused. I love the way she looks right now, so innocent and slightly confused by what’s happening between us. She’s dazzling.
“What’s necessary is that you dance with me,” she says, as she leans forward to grab the drinks. Her beautiful round breast brushes against my forearm. I might suffocate. I might die right here and now. “Or you could help me carry these drinks.”
She takes two of the drinks, and steps away, but gives me a perfect, bright smile. I don’t know how I will survive if I’m not touching her. I might die today just from meeting her, and talking to her.
“Grab it, and come on,” she insists.
I take a deep breath, as if I’m about to jump into the deep end of the pool, and take the drink. I leave the beer. I was never going to drink it anyway. I follow her to a table near the dance floor, staring at her spectacular backside the entire time.