Chapter 9
It’s Saturday morning, seven o’clock, and I shit you not, my wife has been gone since four thirty. Her work ethic makes my work ethic look like I’m sitting on the couch all day flipping through her magazine. I mean, I’d rather be sitting on the toilet flipping through it.
Thinking about the magazine makes me reach for it.
I rip out the middle and tear off the suit dude, leaving only my hot wife.
What do I wanna do with this? It’s a great shot of her, and I’m not gonna waste it.
I peel off my bandage and secure the image on the wall next to our shared toilet.
There. Nice and a great position, right across from the shower.
I can jerk off in the shower to my wife nailed on the wall. Well done, Russian, well done.
Feeling good, I yank on my sweatpants and pad to the dresser, dig up a shirt, any shirt, whatever.
Gray, I guess. I put it on and slip into tennis shoes, get my ball cap to cover up some of the facial damage I took, and grab my phone, thinking I don’t feel like making coffee. Gonna get one on the way.
Outside, the grounds look as they should. Calm and crawling with my armed men watching my house. I walk to the garage, get into my truck, hook up my phone to the car, and drive off for the city.
Chicago never sleeps, it seems, and definitely not this early in the morning, even on a weekend. It’s a little less crowded than on a Monday, which is what I like about getting shit done on a weekend when everyone else is resting. I don’t rest.
I hate rest. I need shit to do and today I know what to do thanks to that asshole suit I pounded in the gym. I’m feeling a bit of a bruise on my ego that he had to remind me to buy my wife a ring, but I’m okay with bruises. They heal.
At the shop, I pull up to the Closed sign and see a suit fixing the display.
We lock eyes and he taps his watch, mouthing something I can’t decipher and don’t give shit about because his hours or rules don’t apply to me.
I get out of the car and walk up to the glass door, glaring at the Closed sign.
The suit appears on the other side. “Good morning, sir. We open at nine.”
“You don’t have to open to let me in.”
“I’m sorry—”
I raise my tattooed knuckles and rap on the glass. The tattoos get his attention, and he opens and steps out of my way.
“Thank you very much,” I say politely. “I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Mr. Boriskov. What can we do for you?”
See? Everyone has their we. “Coffee and a… I think it’s called an engagement ring.”
He blinks. “Are you going to propose to someone?”
“We’re already married.” I tap my head. “In here.”
The man stands at five foot eight, and he’s wearing an orange shirt and a blue tie paired with a gray suit.
His fear-filled brown eyes tell me I’m scaring the shit out of him, so I find a chair and sit down to watch the pristine marble floor for a bit.
“I want a nice ring. Big stone. That’s all I know. ”
“What does the lady like?”
“She likes big men with big dicks.”
“Me too, so this should be easy,” he says and prances off, leaving me laughing.
The store’s empty, no jewelry, but there are some cool watches out in the open next to me, and I itch to take one, put it on my wrist, and see if he’ll say anything when I walk out with it.
But I don’t do that shit no more, though old habits die hard, and I pick up one watch and admire its weight and size. Big, bold, tells time.
The man returns, and pain slices through my fingers when I return the watch to the display. He thrusts a big box in front of me and tells me to look through it while he gets me a coffee.
I open the box and pull back the velvet cloth to see diamonds of all shapes and sizes propped on golden circles.
“Fucking beautiful.” That deal with the South Africans is solid, and I’m thrilled I got into that pot first. Since my wife’s family deals in these commodities and other forms of art or beauty I have zero understanding of, I’m gonna need some help so I don’t pick out something shitty.
She must know diamond quality and size and whatever the fuck.
“Do you need help choosing?” the man asks.
“I want the best one.”
“What does the best mean to you?”
“Are you psyching me out?”
He nudges the coffee toward me, and I sip. Mmmm. “What’s in here?”
“Vanilla.”
“Sweet. Warm. Goes down easily. I want a vanilla ring. Which one is a vanilla ring?”
The man’s eyes light up, and he bends, coming real close to me as he looks over the box’s contents. I sniff. That cologne smells familiar. “What kind of cologne you wearing?” I ask.
“Hunter for Men. It’s fantastic, adorable, sexy, and also warm. Would you like a sample?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Motherfucker. I can’t escape the suited refined society.
“And,” the man says, “we happen to sponsor the marketing campaign for that cologne, and in the launch shoot, the model, who knows her diamonds, chose this ring.” He picks up a beautiful large round diamond ring with a thick band. Yellow gold, not white. “Warm. Sweet,” he says.
It’s not a coincidence. It’s the connectedness of we, the moment when the universe aligns us. “You said the model chose the ring?”
“Mmhm.”
“You are sure she chose the ring because you saw her choose it with your own eyes.”
“Good heavens, Mr. Boriskov, I wouldn’t lie to you. Kaya, that’s the model’s name, picked the ring. Let me show you what it looks like on her hand.”
He walks off, then comes out from the back with the dreadful magazine, finds the spread, and points to Kaya’s hand, showing me the ring I’m holding in my palm.
I get a second look at the image. My wife is beautiful.
No question about it. I yank the magazine from his grasp, rip out the centerfold ad, and tear off the suit dude.
I give him the dude, folding up the image of my wife to slip into my pocket.
Maybe I’ll go around the continental US and buy every copy.
Do they distribute internationally? “We’re done here. Bill me.”
The man’s cool and collected, unruffled by my theatrics. He folds the image of the billionaire and slips it into his pocket. Nice. I like this man. “What’s your name?”
“Jaxon.”
I extend my hand. “Mikhail.”
“I know who you are.”
“That’s good. We gonna be doing business together.”
“We already are. Ivana is a regular here.”
“Excellent.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t send her.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Everyone else does.”
“Not to grab these kinds of rings.”
“Especially for these kinds of rings.”
Shit. “Why?”
“Because she knows best.”
“Well, so does my wife.” I grab my folded image from my pocket. “That’s my wife.” I note the pride in my voice, even nod, all grins like a college boy who scored his first lay.
“Congratulations.” He places a hand over his heart. “Lovely match. Rough and sophisticated. Rwarr.” He makes a gesture with his fingers. I think it’s a claw. I’m unsure, never seen this gesture before.
“Bill me?”
He smiles and grabs his calculator, punches in numbers, gives me a discount, which I appreciate, then thrusts the calculator in front of my face. I almost stroke out at the sequence of figures. “Jesus. All that for a rock?”
His eyes widen, and I have a feeling his inner lion is about to come out, so I wave my hand.
“Here.” I thrust a bundle of cash at him. “Just take my fucking money.”
My wife has great taste. She married me, didn’t she? Mm-hm.