Vassili
All weekend long, I became more acquainted with Zariah's gorgeous body. We talked more than I've ever in my entire life. It's Monday night and I just finished sparing with Nestor at Vadim's.
With my gym bag over my shoulder, I push along the wet sand. There's not a person in sight this evening. It smells like rain.
My body was pushed to the max tonight, now my muscles feel like shit. Jogging along the dark Venice shore, I'm not ready for my usual after-workout routine of cooking dinner and television.
Zariah's smile is ingrained in my brain, and I can just hear her arguing about eating Russian food. The only cooking of mine she will eat syrniki.
A quarter of a mile away from my home, my cell phone rings. I pull it out, press the decline button to my father's call, without breaking a sweat. The piz’da heard me full well during our last conversation. Anatoly has called nonstop since I left Moscow, which is new for him. Most times I cross paths with him, it's me threatening his life, him threatening mine, and the sound of guns being clicked off safety.
I was six years old the last time I was scared when a gun was placed to my head. My grandfather, Anatoly Senior, had gone senile. We were all foot soldiers to him. Soon as we came to visit, my grandfather would get confused. He'd cock back the hammer, even pulled the trigger a few times, but my dad had taken all of his ammunition by then.
“Don't show fear, Vassili,” my grandfather would say—after being reminded of who I was to him. Then he'd place a hand behind my neck and exclaim that I was his right hand. Now his actual right hand was rotting away in jail because someone had to take the fall for murdering the head of defense.
My gaze narrows as I notice someone standing beneath the stairs to my place. He's in the shadows of the wooden pillars, blending well with the wooden pillar of the stair. I pretend not to notice. But in half a second, I've learned that it's one of those “to protect and serve” motherfuckers.
With a hard frown, I play stupid, continuing at my current pace.
There’s a baton at his side. In the last second, the cop lifts it. Fog mists from his mouth as he says, “A message from—”
The stick whips against my palms so roughly, it breaks my skin. I grab the baton from his hands.
“You're gonna fucking hit me?!” I whack him across the head with the stick determined to break the damn thing. Then my hand goes to his neck, slamming him against a pillar. His feet dangle, his white face turning red. I’m numb to those feeble attempts of his, punching me in the face and neck.
“Next time you’re given an assignment, back your shit up,” I squeeze tightly. I've never been so angry in my life that I don't even enjoy the weakening of his pulse. One second I'm holding him up, next he’s dead weight. I slide him down to the ground. Fuck, what have I done?
I reach down and check his pulse.
Weak.
I glance around. There are million dollar homes in each direction. Bright lights shining, but nobody is looking out the window, and the lights at my place are out.
Were you here for Maxwell Washington, my father, or Malich?
My father just called so that shit is a little suspicious. I just returned from Russia to sell out my favorite uncle to my mudak of a father, so that adds Malich to the fold. Chief Washington is on the list for obvious reasons.
I dig into my phone and dial the only person who would get his fat ass up at this hour.
“Come over. I'm at the bottom of the stairwell at my place.”
Yuri huffs and then hangs up.
Less than thirty minutes later, I hear a creak of the wood steps and heavy breathing as my cousin comes downstairs.
When I step out of the shadows, his gun is to my head in an instant.
“What the fuck, kazen, I owe you a slug to the balls for treating me like shit, but there'll come a time when you can pay up.” He places the gun back down.
“Is my father fucking with me?” I knead my temple, almost too tired to give a damn.
“Seriously? You had me leave the comfort of my bed for—”
“Look,” I growl, not ready to ask him if his father did this!
Yuri peers through the darkness. “Who is it?”
“A cop.”
He pulls out his iPhone and turns on the flashlight application. Ducking his head, Yuri moves to where I placed the unconscious cop and he digs in his pocket again. Less than ten seconds later, there's a quiet puff sound. That fool put a silencer on his gun.
“You fucking killed him?”
“Dah,” Yuri nods, stepping back out from beneath the stairway, with a badge in his hands. “By the top of the hour, we will know who his family is.”
“Yuri,” I search his gaze. He's closer to me than all my half brothers and sisters. Closer than I ever was to both my parents or Sasha even. “Do you know him?”
“Wow! You think?” He points a thumb over his shoulder. “Man, Vassili, you and your father have a dysfunctional crazy relationship, but shit! I've never laid eyes on him. We acquire bigger fish, much better ranking than that. The name doesn't ring a bell so my pop hasn't put him on you for your dad. Now, I need to know who you're screwing with before I leave with the stiff. Like I said, give me a few and his entire family—”
“We aren't killing his family, Yuri.”
He cocks an eyebrow and then he leans over, hands on his knees to laugh. “I forgot. The girl. This is all because of the girl. She's that cop’s daughter from the past, huh?”
“Dah.” I rub my tensed face. Relieved that none of my family sicced a dirty cop on me.
“Then I'll kill her dad.” He offers.
“Nyet.”
“Don’t worry, I'll do it without so much as having a conversation with your precious girl. You said stay away, I didn't forget.” He placed up his palms. “I may be big, but I can get in and out without—”
“Nyet, Yuri. Just get rid of the dead fucking cop,” I growl through gritted teeth.
###
The speed-punching bag torpedoes at top speed. My fists slamming down on it rapidly, as Kendrick Lamar’s newest rap blares in my eardrums.
It's been nine weeks since Zariah and I've jumped into the deep end. We've gone from The Griffith Observatory to fucking faces on the “It's a small world” ride at Disneyland. Since she and her father are fans of the Lakers, I got courtside them tickets to the playoffs in April; it wasn't until the second quarter that her dad texted about not being able to make it.
Besides that, there's been no more resistance from her father.
Benny, one of Vadim’s Gym’s employees catches my eye.
I pull off one earphone while one handing the bag. “What?”
“You got visitors.”
“Who?”
“How should I know?” He cocks his head to the front. “Fans probably. I made them stand at the front desk.”
I glare at him.
“Whoever they are, hurry them along, Vadim isn't happy with you.”
My eyebrow cocks.
“You weren't here yesterday to workout. Matter of fact, looks like you've eaten well. Remember how much you hated getting down to weight as a rookie?”
“I'll make weight,” I snap.
“Sure, the belt can sit across from you in the sauna as you pedal.”
“Fuck off, Benny,” I huff, imagining the sauna suit clinging to the sweat on my skin. Duct tape used to lock in every entry point while I'm coasting on a bike in the sauna. I shake my head imagining my title belt draped across the sauna seat. At least that will be new, I haven't had to shed pounds and shit water in at least a year or two.
This is what love does to you. Makes you soft. Makes you lenient.
There's nobody standing at the front desk, beach goers are biking or skating by on the pathway outside, so I step out the double doors to take a look.
There's a dude in a suit, puffing on a cigarette, next to a blond chick in an ultra-tight dress, who is chatting on the phone. They look out of place, with the beach as a backdrop. I start to step back inside when the suit notices me.
“Karo, Karo!” He smashed the cigarette into the steel bike rack.
“Vassili,” the blond corrects, hanging up her phone, without so much as a goodbye to whomever she was speaking to. “Mr. Vassili Resnov, I'm Jennifer Pruit. This is my business partner, Dale Landry.” She has a business card between her fingers in a half second.
“Talk to my manager.” I shrug her off, but the bitch still has her fingers extended. “Ms. Pruit, save the card for my manager.”
“Have you heard of Power Water?”
I stop dead in my tracks. This newer line is blowing Smart Water out of the motherfucking water these days.
“Let’s do dinner tonight, Mr. Resnov. Bring your manager. Bring a date.” Jennifer’s blue orbs lock onto mine as if she's imagining riding my cock.
“All right, I'll do both.” I address Dale only, hopefully she can see that my only interest is Power Water. Besides, this past weeks training camp, for the Vegas fight, has started, and though Zariah and I are two months solid, I haven’t laid eyes on her in almost a week.
Soon as I return to the back of the gym, Vadim shouts from the cage. “Vassili, get your ass in here. I swear, if you can't keep up, I'll be sparing with you myself.”
“My takedown is for snow-haired mudaks, too, Vadim,” I shoot back, climbing the steps. “Let me know if you'd like to wake up sooner or later.”
I somersault and come into a stand, dominating the canvas. My sparring partner, shakes his head. Though these days I reserve the cockiness to entertain the fans on stage, sometimes it gets the old man to crack a smile.
We rarely ever smile.
###
“I rarely get to see my favorite kazen these days. With the girl, too? You tell me to stay the fuck away from the girl.” Yuri points his cigarette at me. “Now you want me to go to dinner with the girl?”
“That's right, glupyy—stupid.” I lean back in the chair, shot glass in my hand. We are sitting at a card table in his father’s home.
“When do I get to meet the girl?” Malich asks, coming into the room. He places the LA Times newspaper under his arm and pulls off his glasses. He's genuinely interested. I can recall the day Yuri’s brother, Igor, which is Malich’s oldest, began to talk about engagement rings and shit, Malich was right there. Ready to meet the girl, telling Igor how the girl reminded him of their mother.
Zariah might like him, set aside the syndicate, they'd make good friends. But for starters, this week I'm telling her that Anatoly is my father. It's now or never. Then I may, or may not, introduce her to more of my family.
If I've underestimated our love, then I lose her. If that happens, introductions with my uncle are unnecessary, anyway.
“You coming to Vegas?” I ask. Malich’s only claim to entertainment are my matches. Well it was, before I started fighting out of state and internationally. He does anything for his family, but I'm sure the next time he gets on a plane, a tragedy or celebrating a new life will be the cause.
“Vegas? Ah, how about you bring her for dinner.” He rubs the back of his neck, actually considering it. “Maybe I can, it's not all that far. Should I get Yuri or one of these other knuckle heads to—”
Yuri cuts in, “No way, pop, if I can break bread with the girl tonight, I'm going to Vegas on Friday. Shit, I’m probably not going to be able to get that shipment in San Pedro in two days, Vassili has to be in New York for promotions. I go too.”
“What about your responsibilities, Yuri? I should fucking…” Malich threatens, his backhand poised, though he’s all smiles while doing so.
“Don't talk back to your father, you fat fuck,” I argue, shuffling the cards. They both chuckle. Damn, how personal of a relationship would I have with my father if I called that motherfucker ‘pop’ instead of father, mudak, piz’da or, the obvious, Anatoly. All of which I call him to his face, so there's that.
“Shit, had I been more like your dad,” Malich says, “Yuri, Igor, all of my boys would have showed more respect. There'd be no saying I'm going to New York or Vegas with my kazen.”
“C’mon,” Yuri picks up his cards, one at a time. “I'm perfect in every way.”
Malich pours us all another round. I hope for Christ’s sake, Yuri doesn't scare off my woman. Come Thursday, it's truth time.