Tossed
In order to live, I had to steal Vladimir away from the pakhan. Keeping up the pretense that everything was cool, I peeled an avocado, smashed it up in a bowl, added some cayenne pepper, and then moved to the pantry to get some tortilla chips. When I turned back around, he had vanished. I felt nauseous, but I carried on like everything was okay. Vladimir loved me, and I would go to war with the pakhan to bring him back.
I transferred all the snacks to a tray and made a pitcher of ice water with lemon and lime wedges. I believed Boris would stop the boss if he tried to hurt me like he had on Christmas Eve. He probably didn’t go far. I changed into some sexy lingerie, slid on a pair of jeans and some low heels, zipped up a jacket, and carried the tray and pitcher outside.
The pakhan was seated next to the fire, bouncing a tennis ball for the poodles.
“Here you go, babe. Sorry it took so long.” I picked up a chip, dipped it in guacamole, and lifted it to his mouth. “I made it spicy this time.”
He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I like it better the old way.”
“Want me to make it over?”
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Gustav trotted back with the ball and nudged me.
“Thank you, precious.” I retrieved the wet ball from his mouth. “Mama loves you, Goosey.” I kissed his long snout and patted his head.
“You are a lucky guy, my friend,” he said to the dog. “You give my love a filthy tennis ball, she treats you like a king. I give her the world, I get disrespect.”
I glanced inside to see if Boris had returned: Nyet. I went back to the kitchen under the guise of getting dinner started and hustled to get my special phone. Our messed-up relationship had reached the tipping point. The pakhan was waiting for the right moment to kill me. I could see it in his crazy eyes.
Inside, I turned on the stove, slid an iron skillet over the flame, added some olive oil, and plopped the bloody meat in the pan. While the steak cooked, I slid over to the drawer where Vladimir kept the car keys and his gun and peeked inside. The keys were there, the gun was not.
I shuffled back to the stove and flipped over the meat. The pink flesh sizzled in the iron skillet and droplets of hot grease spit on my hand. Out back, Playboy was smoking a cigarette and stalking me from the basketball court. I retrieved my phone and tapped Boris’s number, then the door swung open behind me.
“Making something good?” the pakhan asked.
I casually slid my phone back into my pocket. “Of course, babe.”
He hugged me from behind and kissed my neck. His gun was tucked in his pants and poked me in the back. “I like it pink and bloody.”
I dumped the rare steak on a plate. He lifted a fork from the utensil drawer and pulled a long chef’s knife from the wooden butcher’s block. Blood oozed from the meat when he cut into it. He glared at me as he put it in his mouth.
“You like it?” I asked.
He chewed and swallowed, set down the utensils, and leaned in for a smooch. “Love it.” I tasted dead meat on his breath. “Who were you calling?” He lifted my phone from my pocket and scanned my calls.
“Um—”
He wrapped his hand around my throat and pushed me against the wall. “Every time I turn my back, you sneak off to call my right hand man. If I were the jealous type, I might think the two of you have something going on.” He slammed my special phone against the wall.
I sucked in a deep breath. “Please stop. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I don’t know how to make it right.” He loves you, he loves you, he loves you…“I did a stupid thing. It won’t happen again.” My knees buckled.
He let go of my neck and held me up by my arms.
My gaze drifted to the knife resting on the plate behind him.
He turned to see what had caught my attention. “Do it.” He released me and stepped aside.
I caught my balance against the counter. It was him or me. One of us would leave in a body bag. When I didn’t have the guts to go for it, he slapped the handle of the knife into my palm and held out his arms to give me a clean shot. “Davai!”
For a moment, I considered it. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I kissed his stone face and set the knife down. “I love you, Vladimir.” I prayed Boris would come back to rescue me.
He laughed, put his arm around my shoulder, and pushed me back outside. I turned on my Fiesta Playlist to lighten the mood and to remind him of our time together in Florida. I needed to make a comeback before the buzzer sounded. I swayed to the sound of Latin music and sang along quietly en español while the pakhan gathered up a couple empty vodka bottles, some Coke cans, and a wine bottle. He lined them up on the wall at the edge of the patio.
What was he up to? When he turned around, I unzipped my jacket to distract him with my sexy, baby doll teddy. He pulled my body into his. I knew I could win Vladimir back. I wrapped my arms around his waist. My elbow knocked into his gun. I jumped.
He clicked his tongue. “As my wife, you must get used to having these around.” He slipped the blue steel pistol out of his pants. “They’re part of the family, like you.”
“Please, put it away. I’ll get used to it when I get to Russia.”
“I want you to learn now.” He placed his left hand on top of the gun and pulled back, causing the gun to make a click-click sound. Then, with one arm around my waist, he aimed his weapon at the makeshift firing range he’d set up on the railing.
“Cover your ears.” I did. He fired his weapon and shattered a vodka bottle into a million shiny pieces. He moved down the row and sent the wine bottle and cans into oblivion, too. As he fired, spent bullet casings popped up and then danced on the floor. He hit every mark with precision and didn’t stop until he ran out of targets—six shots to be exact.
I lowered my hands from my ears. “Wow. You’re a good shot.” Expelling bullets was a good thing under the circumstances, but the pakhan was lethal enough without a loaded gun in his hand. “How many bullets does it hold?”
He clicked on the safety. “Seven. It’s more challenging to fire at moving targets.”
One bullet remained in the chamber.
“Hmm, what shall we shoot next?”
Gustav trotted up to us with a tennis ball in his mouth and dropped it at our feet. Anastasia was curled up on the rug by the door, nervous about the noisy gunfire. “Good boy.” He picked up the tennis ball and bounced it. Gustav tried to snatch it, but the boss intercepted.
He spoke to the dog in Russian, and Gustav sat up straight and obedient, eager to please his papa. “Your precious boy wants to play a game, Mama.”
“Vladimir, please—”
“I’m going to bounce the ball like this.” He pounded the ball on the concrete, and it bounced about eight feet, and when it came down, Gustav leapt into the air and caught it. He took the ball back and patted his back. “Khoroshaya sobaka.”
He lifted his gun and unlocked the safety. “This time, we’re both going to go for the ball. The winner gets a kiss from Mama.”
I clutched his forearm and tried to lower his hand, but I wasn’t strong enough. “Please, don’t.”
“Odin.” He bounced the ball once. “Dva.” He bounced it again. “Tri.” He bounced it harder the third time and the height of the ball peaked a couple feet over his head.
I had two choices: Crash into him to try to knock him off balance, which could backfire and get Goosey killed, or do nothing and hope he was only trying to scare me. I crouched down, covered my hands over my ears, and prayed Sophia would wrap her wings around Goosey and protect him from the monster who claimed to love him.
Gustav jumped up to catch the ball.
The pakhan took aim.
Bang!
He fired and hit his target—the ball.
I covered my mouth and nose to mask my scream and the insidious odor of burnt rubber.
Gustav learned his lesson and trotted off to find solace next to his more intelligent half, Anastasia.
“I win.” The boss set his gun on the table and moved into my personal space to collect his prize. When his lips touched mine, I opened my mouth, let his tongue inside, and reciprocated—not out of love or passion, out of fear.
His lips trailed down my neck, and I swayed to the music to calm him and to extinguish the unsettling rush of bad boy adrenaline emanating from his body.
He held me tight and synced the rhythm of his body with mine. “You like to dance?” He emphasized the word dance like it was bile on his tongue.
“Only with you, babe.” My legs began to shake. I needed to buy some time. I unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off. “Let’s soak in the hot tub.” I pecked his devil tat on the cheek.
He swept my hair over my shoulder and fingered the lacey straps of my negligee. “Is this how you will attract a lover while I am away?”
I took a step back. “Vladimir, please—”
The pakhan backhanded me across the face. The force of the blow knocked me down. I fought to stay on my feet, but my body crumbled. I skid across the concrete and shredded the skin off my elbow. My right eye throbbed where his ring landed. I lifted my hands to protect myself from another blow.
What am I supposed to do?
Act like nothing happened?
Apologize?
Make a run for it?
He turned around and downed another shot. It was then I understood why he’d kept his tats covered. Immortalized on his back was an inked portrait of my sister’s head. A blue-eyed devil held her by the hair and blood dripped from her neck like flames.
He killed her. He killed Sophia.
It had to mean that. What else could it mean? I clambered back to my feet and checked around for something to club the bastard over the head with. Before I had a chance, Playboy padded up the back stairs. The pakhan glared at me as he spoke to his patsani. Playboy flashed me a menacing grin.
The boss held his hand out for me to come to him. Reluctantly, I did. What choice did I have? He lifted my hands and looked into my eyes as if it were our last goodbye. “I hope you learn your lesson, angel.” He removed my engagement ring, kissed my battered cheek, went inside, and locked the door.
The pakhan had fed me to his wolf pack.
There were two doors that led inside—the one he locked opened to the living room, and the other went into the kitchen. Behind me there was a set of stairs that led down to the tennis court. If I could make it to the kitchen, I could get the keys and charge the gate in the Rover, but the odds of me making it past Playboy to get inside were nil.
Plan B: I stepped backward as Playboy closed in.
I had to make a run for it through the woods. I was in way better shape than that chain-smoking bastard. If I got a head start, I could make it down the stairs, but I had next to nothing on—jeans overtop my lingerie. Even if I could outrun him, I would have to plow through the snow in my bare feet, scale the barbed wire fence, and somehow find my way to the main road before I succumbed to the elements. This idea was, by and large, a losing plan, but it was the only chance I had.
Playboy removed his jacket and offered it to me.
I kicked off my heels.
A sadistic smile crept up on his face when he realized I wasn’t going down without a fight. I took off in a sprint and made it to the bottom of the stairs, but when my feet sank into the snow, Playboy pounced on my back and tackled me face down in a hard, ice-covered snowdrift.
The force of the impact knocked the wind out of me. He straddled me and secured my wrists behind my back with cable ties. I struggled to catch my breath, but my lungs would not inflate. I needed air—breathe, breathe, breathe…