Chapter 11 Cartier
CARTIER
The new resident, Elena, helps me prepare the dining room for lunch, moving around on silent feet, hunched in on herself as if trying to remain invisible. The song ‘Beautiful Trauma’ by Pink comes on the radio, and her lips follow the lyrics soundlessly without paying any attention to the meaning.
I don’t mention her connection to Leonid and Andrej. We save conversations about the past for the scheduled therapy sessions when our guests are in a safe controlled environment.
But I saw the shock in Andrej’s eyes when he recognized Elena.
Like all the women who seek refuge in our shelter, her life has taken its toll on her looks.
Even so, Elena is undeniably beautiful. With large brown eyes, chestnut hair that only needs some time and care to regain its previous vitality, and high cheekbones, she must’ve turned heads when she knew Leonid.
As Gianna’s friend, I’m curious to know what happened between them. But as a professional, I worry that Elena will have reservations about opening up knowing Andrej’s connection to the shelter.
I text him after lunch, but he doesn’t reply.
I try again an hour later, and still nothing.
“What’s going on?” Mika comes bounding into the office carrying a stack of freshly laundered, crisp white sheets. At my vacant stare, she adds, “You’re staring at your phone with frown lines, and you’re giving off enough anxiety vibes to make the cat run away.”
“Cat?” I turn my phone over to hide the screen and focus on Mika.
“Yeah, I might’ve, kinda, adopted a stray cat that’s been coming to the back door for food.”
“Since when?”
“Oh—” Mika flaps a hand, balancing the sheets on one arm “—since a few weeks ago.”
“Mika! You never said.”
“There was nothing to tell. But I might’ve accidentally picked up a basket for her to sleep in this morning.
” She flashes me a smile that says it’s too late to do anything about it now.
“And your distraction didn’t work. I still want to know why you’re frowning when you should be basking in the afterglow of multiple orgasms.”
Heat flares in my cheeks, and I widen my eyes at her. “Shh. Keep your voice down.”
“It’s okay, the cat’s asleep.” She perches on the edge of the desk still holding the laundry. “What’s he done? Besides show you what you’ve been missing.”
“What makes you think he’s done anything?” I ignore the second comment.
“Oh, let me see.” She places a finger on her lips and stares into space. “He arrives with flowers and bruised knuckles, and now you’re staring at your phone like a love-sick teenager. Need I go on?”
I slump back in my seat. She’s right. I haven’t stressed over a guy not texting me since I was sixteen. That time, the first boy I ever really liked had been avoiding me while he cozied up with another girl in the same grade called Sheena Hoxton.
I don’t want to be that person.
But I can’t help thinking that something is off since he saw Elena.
“He’s not replying to my messages.”
“And you’re worried about this, why?” Mika’s eyebrows practically disappear.
“He knows Elena.”
I fill her in on what happened in the kitchen earlier.
When I’m done, Mika stands up, inhales deeply, and releases a huge sigh. “Girl, you’ve got it bad. The guy is besotted with you, so I don’t understand the problem.”
Before I can respond, someone arrives at the front door, the sound ringing inside the office.
“I’ll go.” I’m already up and out of my seat. I’ll take any distraction from my phone right now because despite Mika’s encouragement, I still sense that something is off kilter.
The man waiting on the top step, eyeing up the street behind him, is wearing a plain black sweater and black pants underneath a long tweed trench coat. Dull gray eyes meet mine when he turns around. His hair is mostly silver, and the grooves etched across his forehead are deep, irreversible.
“How can I help you?” Something about him has my hackles raised, and I step outside, pulling the door closed behind me.
“Cartier?” He has a faint accent. “Cartier Black?”
“Yes.”
I’m trying to link him to one of the women who are currently staying with us, and the only person it could be is Elena. I should’ve brought my phone outside with me. Without it, I have no way of letting Mika know that we have a potential security breach.
So, he takes me by complete surprise when he says, “My name is Yuri Asimov. I’m your uncle.”
I’m waiting in a window seat in the café on the next block when Yuri Asimov arrives.
It’s neutral ground.
I didn’t want to meet him at all, but Mika persuaded me to hear him out before writing him off completely.
As a precaution, we changed the codes on the security alarms at the shelter.
I still feel uneasy that he knew where to find me, but if he is telling the truth, and he is family, I guess the least I can do is listen to his story.
“It’s coffee and a chocolate brownie,” Mika pointed out. “Not a lifetime commitment.”
I haven’t told Andrej. He still hasn’t replied to my text messages, and if he knew that I was meeting a stranger claiming to be my uncle, he’d be right here beside me, tossing some intimidating scowls Yuri Asimov’s way.
Yuri sits opposite me in the booth without removing his coat. Perhaps he isn’t staying long. A girl can hope.
I wait for him to speak.
“I apologize for turning up out of the blue.”
He peers at me from beneath heavy brows, and I notice that, even when looking directly at me, his eyes flicker towards other conversations taking place inside the café.
“I tried to find you when you were younger, but the adoption process made no provision for contact from your biological family. Forgive me,” he adds. “I am your father’s younger brother.”
My biological parents died when I was barely two years old. I have no memories of them, only a photograph taken of the three of us when I was a baby. In the image, I’m wrapped in a white lacy shawl, cradled in my mom’s arms, and smiling up at my dad who is looking at me rather than the camera.
That’s it. That’s all I have. A fading image of my dad’s profile, not enough to see any resemblance to the man sitting across the table from me now.
I was seven years old when my adoptive family sat me down, gave me the photograph, and told me about my history.
I was too young to fully comprehend what it meant, but I remember lying in bed at night, eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to drag memories of my biological parents from a deep bottomless abyss inside my mind.
I had the proof in my hand that I knew them.
Which meant that there had to be a memory somewhere.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t even conjure a fragment of a memory from the short time that I had with my parents.
In time, I stowed the photograph away, buried beneath the new memories that I made with my adoptive family. The ache inside my chest healed, became a faint silver scar that I hardly ever thought about. Almost invisible.
I don’t know how I feel about this man wandering into my life now and dragging the past out into the open. I’ve made peace with it. The wound has healed. I’m Cartier Black. I have no desire to be anyone else.
“Why are you here?” The question sounds harsh, but I don’t apologize.
My coffee has cooled too quickly, a creamy film forming on the surface making me feel nauseous. I want to get back to the safety and comfort of the shelter. I want Andrej to fold me into his arms and tell me that I’m his beautiful baby.
I don’t want to hear this man’s stories.
I don’t want him to invade my world with a family that has no part in my life.
I shouldn’t have come.
“Is it wrong to want to meet my niece?” His eyes are cold. There is no warmth in his voice either.
He reminds me too much of Ivana, cold and empty, and I wonder what happened to them to suck all the fun and energy and vitality from them.
“I only have your word that you’re my biological uncle.” I hold his gaze. I don’t want him to think that I’m afraid. “My parents—my adoptive parents—never mentioned an uncle. I entered the care system because there was no one else.”
“I was too young, Cartier. They would never have allowed me to look after you.”
“I’m sorry.” I grab my purse and slide my legs out of the booth. “But I’m not an Asimov. That was then, and this is now. I’m happy. If you want what’s best for me, then please don’t contact me again.”
I stand up, but Yuri grabs my wrist to stop me from leaving. “You might want to hear what I have to say, Cartier.”
I stare at his hand wrapped around my wrist, and he releases his grip slowly.
“I apologize.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Forgive me. I reached out to you now because I know that you are involved with Andrej Ivanov.”
My pulse spikes at the mention of Andrej, my breath hitching inside my chest.
I sit down heavily, still clutching my purse. “How do you know this?”
“I haven’t been stalking you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He brought it up, which means that he clearly understands how wrong this is, on so many levels.
“But I make it my business to know what the Ivanovs are doing.”
“Why?”
Andrej broke a man’s jaw for dancing too close to me. He attacked an artist for kissing my hand. I don’t want to imagine what he’ll do to this man when he finds out that he knows about us.
His lips twitch, but there’s nothing pleasant about his smile. “Let’s just say that we are business rivals.”
“What kind of business?” I ask without thinking.
Now, I wish that I’d been more curious about what exactly Andrej and Leonid do. At least it would’ve provided a gauge to measure the accuracy of Yuri Asimov’s claims.
He sits back in his seat. “Shipping. Distribution. Haulage.”
Deliberately vague.
“Do you keep track of all your business rival’s personal affairs?”
His mouth twitches again; the guy has a serious aversion to smiling. “Not all, no. Our family and the Ivanovs go back a long way.”
I’m tempted to tell him that I’m not a part of his family, but I let it go. I’m still trying to process the idea of him tracking me and Andrej with a spyglass in one hand and a camera in the other. Does he have photographs of us together?
“Sounds a lot like stalking to me.”
“I know how it sounds.” He leans forward again, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them. “But I can assure you that I have your best interests at heart.”
I shake my head. “You don’t even know me. You could’ve reached out to me in Florida, or in Montenegro, or when I first came to Chicago. But instead, you waited until I met Andrej before the big, I’m your uncle, reveal.”
I’m back on my feet.
“No, you might tell yourself that you have my best interests at heart, but this isn’t about me, is it?”
My chest is heaving with a mixture of emotions that are crushing my chest. The only thing I am certain of though, is that I need to get away from him. Then, I’ll figure out what to tell Andrej.
“Please sit down, Cartier.” His voice has softened a little, the abrasive edges smoothed over.
“Five minutes.” I sit down for a second time. “You have five minutes to tell me why you’re really here, and then I’m leaving.”
He takes a deep breath as if psyching himself up for what he’s about to say. “You’re right. I could’ve reached out to you before, but I gave up looking for you a long while ago. Then your name flagged up on my radar with Andrej Ivanov.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.” I’m done with the evasive replies. If he wants me to listen, he needs to start being honest.
“I have contacts … within the Ivanov organization.”
“Spies you mean?”
He shrugs. “Spies, contacts, call them whatever you like.”
“Three minutes.” I have no idea how long he has left, but this conversation is making my skin crawl.
“When I said that we were rivals, it was a slight understatement.”
I knew there was something off with this entire conversation.
“The Ivanovs and the Asimovs are enemies.”
“Enemies?” I choke on the word, wishing that I’d ordered water instead of coffee when I arrived.
“I’m here because I want your help, Cartier.”
“With what?” I still don’t understand where this is going, but I know now that I shouldn’t have come.
“With taking our enemy down.”
“No.” I swallow bile that burns the back of my throat. “Andrej is not my enemy. My best friend is married to his brother. Whatever this is—” I gesture to the air surrounding our heads because I don’t know what else to do “—I’m not a part of it. And neither is Andrej.”
I slide out of the booth and this time I take a few steps before his words stop me in my tracks.
“They’re Bratva, Cartier. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
Bratva? As in Russian mafia?
I think about the money to fund the shelter. Leonid’s mansion that’s more like a fortress surrounded by cameras and bodyguards. Andrej’s penthouse apartment. The connections. The way the security teams reacted to him at the art exhibition and the nightclub.
My legs shake as I turn around to face him.
“What does this have to do with you? Are you Bratva?”
The picture of me and my parents pops into my head. The word Bratva conjures up images of thick-necked thugs with buzz cuts and black suits. I can’t relate the people in that old photograph to the Russian mafia. He must be lying.
But then he hits me with the ticking time bomb he was saving for last.
“Cartier, the Ivanovs killed your parents.”