Zariah
The television is on when I arrive home. My eyes close tightly, dang, my father is home on a Saturday morning. Usually, it was just Mom and me waking up home on weekend mornings. We had this tradition of going to IHOP for breakfast, but due to being lazy Saturday morning people, we always got there when the breakfast crowd died down. Dad would be only God knows where. Martin is about five years older than me, so I can hardly recall him choosing home over staying at a friend’s houses.
I head toward the staircase, rubbing the tears from my cheeks, when I hear footsteps.
“Zariah, sweetheart?” My dad calls out.
“Yes,” I reply, in a muted tone so he is unable to tell I was crying. Though my eyes are throbbing from the long cry on the ride home. I fan my face before heading toward the sound of the news. Maxwell is meandering around the kitchen, pouring himself some coffee. He grabs for the spoon on the counter, eyes glued to the television.
“Pay attention to your surroundings.” My attempt to lighten the air doesn’t work as he finally glances over me.
“You usually disappear for the entire weekend.” Maxwell’s gaze is questioning.
“We both are ghosts on the weekend. Why aren’t you at Beatrice’s?” It wasn’t until I was sixteen, and my parents were separating, that I knew my father wasn’t this hero who spent all hours of his life advocating for and actually helping people I always thought my mom was an anomaly. He'd beat her, yet, save other people. Then I learned, he also spent the weekends at his secretary, Beatrice’s home.
“Her daughter was sick,” he says.
I nod and turn around to leave.
“Will you be gone in the impending weekends?”
“Probably not.” I hurry down the hall before more tears can wet my face. I slip into the bathroom to apply a cold towel along my skin, and decrease the heat. I then step out and realize I haven’t told my dad that the studio apartment I applied for has approved me to move at the beginning of the month. “Dad,” I call out.
He’s leaning against the counter, tone low. “Amp up the cruisers in my neighborhood.”
My curiosity piques as silently I wait for him to speak.
“Yes, rotate each hour. Zariah appears fine. If anyone eyes Resnov around my house, take him in. I don’t give a damn if that Russian scum is skipping along the sidewalk, chewing gum.”
I head up the stairs, my first instinct is to call Vassili. Yet, another sob unsettles my heart. On the way home, I’d ruminated over how I brought up Malich Resnov, at The Red Door. He never denied it. Never even missed a damn beat!
Like a wet rag, my body slams down onto the mattress. I kick of my boots, contemplating both Vassili’s father and his uncle. Malich is the lesser of two evils. In the beginning, just the surname shook fear into my bones.
Grabbing a pillow into my arms, I squeeze my face into it, stifling a loud scream. Why did I fall in love with a man who has Russian Mafia in his genes! With each curse of anger, I’m reminded of how I separated myself from Vassili over the years in college. He was the deepest addiction ever, and like with Phil, I had a reason never to look back. A big-ass reason.
And then our paths collided, again. There was no saving me.
Sounds of arguing perk up my ears. The sun isn't shining into the balcony like before. I must’ve fallen asleep.
The voices are woven in titanium, each order pristine. I rub a hand across my forehead, pushing back mounds of sweated-out tresses, and pulling myself off the bed.
“I came to the front door out of respect!”
I gasp, Vassili is in my house. I open the bedroom door and hurry toward the stairs.
“Fuck your respect, Resnov. Step outside and walk back to your car.”
“Or what? Those cops rough me up? I told those mudaks to do their worst, guess they backed off out of respect to your neighbors?” Vassili argues. Then his hard voice tapers out with feeling. “All I’ve asked is to speak with your daughter, please. We can chat man to man once you’re ready.”
My dad’s voice is louder now, “I’ll never allow—”
“Dad!” I hurry down the stairs, glancing between them. Outside there are three cruisers lining the curb. Damn, I’m the cause of this. I gasp, noticing a bandage around Vassili’s ankle and heel. He’s wearing Nike slides. “Your foot.”
“I’m good.” Vassili’s weary eyes meet mine. “Zariah, please talk to me. Mr. Washington, you have my word, if I piss her off, I won't be any more trouble.” There’s an undercurrent of finality to his statement, offering my father the end of us.
My father’s eyelid twitches. This isn't a good enough bribe.
“Can you?” I point to the staircase. Vassili bites his lip, nods, and heads toward me. The back of his hand grazes across my cheek, his rough knuckles reminding me of home. Momentarily, my eyelids surrender to the feel peace.
He then starts up the stairs. I stay put.
“Dad, you cannot intervene in my life.”
“You’re my child, Zariah.”
“True. For over two months, we’ve skirted a few issues, so I am somewhat to blame. Hell, today, is all my fault.”
“All your fault?”
I shake my head. “No more involving your friend’s down at the police station. I apologize you felt the need to bully Vassili. He isn't like—”
“You mean to tell me that he was adopted by those barbarians?” Maxwell scoffs.
“No, Vassili just doesn't repeat the cycle.” I snap. My glare speaks volumes, but I'm livid at the thought of my father using his power to harass Vassili. So I dig in. “He's like Martin, independent, choosing not to follow the mistakes of his father.”
The underlying truth hits him hard. The snake isn't quick to strike back. Just like him, my grandfather was a peace officer and a wife beater.
“Twenty-five and just as naïve as the day I first held you close.” He sighs. “Resnov has you believing he isn't in the family business? Independent you said. Let's add intelligent. Has to have stellar strategy, mental conditioning and reasoning. MMA champion. Beloved fans for days but no, no illegal activity the department or the feds can pin on him.”
“Now, that you’ve analyzed Vassili and me, Dad, you’re overdue for a self-assessment? Maybe, I've embarrassed you today, I've disappointed myself for overreacting. But if you run and then lose the election, only you are to blame. Not me or whoever the fuck I choose to love.”
Two at a time, I hurry up the steps and enter the bedroom. Vassili is seated at the edge of my bed, chewing on the nail of his finger. The despondency in his gaze crumbles my heart.
“I'm a mudak,” he says.
“No, you're not. I cried myself to sleep this afternoon.” The air between us thickens. He hates when I cry, and my words have made it worse. I step before him, wedging myself between his legs, and run my hand along the chocolate curls at his nape. “While I slept I had time to think. Babe, my mind has gone around and around, wishing you were a man of any other name and association. I just finished arguing with my dad, it took all of this to realize you are more than a Resnov. You add value to the name, and I love you for who you are.”
“You don't hate me for lying?”
“I placed us in this situation by continuing to have reservations, Vassili, all I have now is happiness and my trust in you.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Can you see a future with me?”
“Yes.”
“Marriage and children, Zariah, I won't continue this …”
I plaster my mouth along his. “I love you, Vassili. I would marry you in a heartbeat. How many children would you like, I'd gift them to you, right now, if I could.”
Vassili kisses me longer. “A boy and a girl, that’d be good.”
I sink down next to him. “We have to be on one accord. No assumptions or confusions.”
Vassili clasps my inner thigh. There is power in his touch. It offers strength and consolation as he offers the rundown of Malich and how he is the connect for Anatoly’s business, delegating “roles.” I force myself to listen, without judgment.
“The Red Door isn’t even a drop in the bucket. Just another avenue for Anatoly to interest me in the family.”
“He's paranoid about Malich?”
Vassili scratches the scruff on his jaw. “Yeah. I almost snitched on Malich, but he was looking out for my business. The bartender who served me, the very night I brought you along, was doing more than gambling on my matches. That cunt was scheming at my lounge.”
“Has Malich…” my throat clogs.
“Baby, it’s the Resnov way. Playing lenient when there's a lesson to be learned can come back and fuck us, the family, in the ass.”
“You said, us. Be honest.” My hands flex in discomfort. “Are you involved? Aside from owning The Red Door, which holds legal repercussions, as well.”
“No.”
I squirm in my seat. Yeah, I had placed Vassili in the position to lie to me about his father, but his facial expressions never give anything away. So I’m beating the dead horse. I ask, “Have you ever engaged in any syndicate activity?”
He's quiet for a moment. Then he looks me in the eye. “No.”
“Ronisha’s ex aside, have you—”
“That motherfucker is the only one who’s died by my hands, Zariah.”
“Okay, I feel like crap for what happened to your foot.”
“I'm good.”
I snuggle myself into his strong arms. The underlying fear I had for being with the Russian fighter faded into oblivion.