Shark Bait
The next day, Vladimir wouldn’t return my calls or texts. I stayed in my room and started packing. I had a feeling he would nix my apartment plans, but he hadn’t brought it up yet. If he asked me not to move, I would oblige. I was already nervous about The Dancing Incident.
Before I was due to meet Boris, I went to the cemetery to visit Sophia—something I hadn’t done for years. I needed her guidance, and I couldn’t confide in anyone among the living about the Russians.
I loved Vladimir, but I feared him, too. I stewed all night over the dancer and now he was giving me the silent treatment. I had to admit doubts were creeping in about marrying him. Nobody said relationships are supposed to be easy, but where was the line? Love is love—when you have it, when someone cherishes you like Vladimir cherishes me and when all you can think about is the next time you’re with him, it’s worth fighting for, right?
It was all so confusing. I thought about doing the right thing for once and confiding in my dad, but I couldn’t risk it. I needed Sophia’s angel wisdom, but I was no longer able to distinguish between her voice and the devil’s anymore.
I shuffled through the church parking lot and trekked through the snow to reach her gravesite. I spread out a stadium blanket, sat next to her memorial, and spilled the secrets I’d been hiding from my friends and family. I lifted my engagement ring out of my pocket and held it up.
Should I call off the engagement?
Nothing.
I jumped when I heard a car door shut. Boris was leaning against the Caddy, watching me from the parking lot. If I married Vladimir and moved to Russia, Boris and the Bratva would become my new family. Dad and Karen and Megan and Kiki would be out of my life.
I’m in with the Russians, and there was no way out.
I slid my engagement ring on my finger, folded up the blanket, and said goodbye to Sophia. I got into the car with Boris and left my sister behind.
Neither one of us spoke until we neared the house. “I only danced with that guy to get Karen away from him. Did you see Dad’s face?”
“Wasn’t your problem to solve.”
When we got home, Vladimir was leaning against the bar, his eyes rimmed in red. I crashed into him and swung my arms around his waist. A thick, bloody steak was soaking in marinade on the counter.
“You’re late.”
Shit. I squeezed him tight. “I’m so sorry about last night. Forgive me?”
He went to the bar, tipped the vodka bottle, and poured himself a generous shot. The sun hadn’t gone down yet, and he was already smashed. “Of course, angel.” The seething tone of his voice didn’t match the sincerity of his words.
I glanced down at my engagement ring. The once bluish-green stone had turned a dark ruby red. I turned my hand to see if it was a trick from the light. “What happened to my ring? It changed color.”
Vladimir picked up my hand. “It’s the nature of the stone. Alexandrite from the Ural Mountains near my home. In the sunlight, it reflects the cool and vibrant colors, but at night, when the sun goes down, it shines blood red.” Vladimir lowered my hand and looked out the window. “But the sun hasn’t gone down yet. Perhaps you’ve done something to anger the stone?” He laughed and went to the bar for another shot.
When Vladimir’s back was turned, I looked to Boris for guidance. He wouldn’t make eye contact. Boris spoke to the boss in Russian. I forced myself to breathe so I wouldn’t pass out.
Vladimir didn’t like whatever it was Boris had said. “Take the night off. I want to spend the evening alone with my bride-to-be.”
Boris glared at me as he passed by on his way to the mudroom.
Holy shit. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut and make him something to eat to try to absorb the alcohol he was drowning in. I tried to keep my hands steady as I sliced a block of cheese. He watched me work but didn’t speak. In a hurry, I carelessly sliced the top of my index finger. I turned my back and cupped my hand to inspect the damage. Blood dripped down into my palm. My stomach turned.
Careful not to make a big deal out of it, I wrapped a towel around my finger to stop the bleeding. It soaked right through. I jumped when I felt Vladimir standing right behind me. He had a sense for blood like a damn shark—and I was a hunk of chum bobbing in the ocean.
Shark bait.
He picked up my hand and unwrapped my makeshift bandage. Blood oozed from the cut when the pressure was removed. I felt lightheaded. He lifted my hand, stuck my finger in his mouth, and sucked the blood that pulsed from my wound. I leaned against his body to stay upright and fought the urge to scream, gag, or pass out.
Boris returned to the kitchen and his gaze darted from my limp body, to the knife, to the bloody towel on the counter. Vladimir removed my finger from his mouth to check the bleeding. He spoke to Boris in Russian, licked the fresh stream of blood that had tried to escape down my hand, and sat me down in the chair.
From experience, I knew when they spoke in their native tongues it was because they didn’t want me to know what they were saying. Boris got a first aid kit out of a drawer and set it down in front of Vladimir. I gasped when he pulled out a suture needle and thread.
“It’s not that bad. I don’t need stitches.” I hopped to my feet.
“Hold her still.” He held a towel under my hand and doused my wound with vodka.
I winced from the sting of the alcohol. Boris sat me back down. With steady hands, Vladimir penetrated my finger with the needle and threaded the black plastic through my skin over and over until the wound was stitched closed. It was over in a flash. I’d barely felt it.
“Thanks, babe. That wasn’t bad at all.” I reverted back to damage-control mode.
“You doubted me?” he hissed. His eyes were distant and cold, angry and murderous. The man I loved—the man who loved me—had left me to the mercy of the pakhan.
I shook my head, slid off the chair, and got back to work on the zakuski while the Russians engaged in a heated conversation—an argument judging by the volume. Boris held out his hands and spoke calmly to diffuse the situation.
In my gut, I knew what the argument was about. Boris was trying to talk my fiancé out of killing me. Would Boris let him do it? Would he help? By the looks of things, Vladimir had pulled rank and Boris had no choice but to stand down. My only hope lost the argument, put on his hat and coat, and left the house.
I was alone with my killer.