ARISTARH & MISS NICKY
The Heartbeat was crowded like usual on a Friday evening. No, not like usual, Nicky smiled from the observation tower, because it was indeed a special evening: finally, Nicholas was going to be there, this time as a patron, not as the owner’s little brother. Thinking about how his life progressed over the past few months, about the peace and fulfilment he found in submitting to Vincent, Sebastian and Joraan, her heart filled with joy.
With a lot of love and patience, the three men put her poor brother’s shattered soul back together, making him whole again. There was almost nothing left from the lost, painfully shy man she met a few months earlier, whose existence revolved exclusively around his sons. Of course, that didn’t change, except that Claran and Matthias’s well-being also became the other men’s concern.
A little sigh of contentment escaped from Nicky’s sensual lips, as she thought about Aristarh, the greatest gift life gave her, the gentle Russian with a soft voice and tender touch. Since they got engaged, and even before that, the man expressed his affection and adoration for her in thousands of beautiful ways.
But above all, he never ceased to show Nicky how much she was cherished for who she really was, inside and out. Aristarh was the only man who saw behind her perfect appearance, who looked into her soul and healed it, took away all the insecurities and fears that were still haunting the woman.
No matter how bad a day was, the strong, warm arms of the Russian wrapped around her made Nicky forget everything, his sweet lips covering hers washed away all the bad things, sending pleasurable tingles all over her body. The words of love and passion whispered in her ear made the woman feel important and valuable.
“What is it my dove, my princess, my love? Are you happy for your younger brother? Because I’m very happy to see him blooming like that,” Aristarh’s gentle voice brought Nicky back into the present.
“Yes, my prince, my heart is filled with joy and gratitude. I'm proud of my little brother, of the man he became. If it wasn’t for your help...” The woman shuddered involuntarily. ”That horrible man deserves the worst punishment for what he did to poor Nicholas and my nephews.”
“And he will get it, trust me on that, my dove, but not right now. I have some pressing matters to attend to, but dealing with that ex-senator bastard is next on my list,” Aristarh hissed.
“Bratva-related matters?” Nicky asked, her chest tightening, as she already had a bad feeling about the whole thing.
“I’m afraid so,” the Russian sighed. “I promised I won’t keep things hidden from you, my dove, no matter how dangerous those things are. We are on the brink of a civil war, although I have made, and will continue to do everything in my power to avoid it.”
“A war? Inside the organization? But aren’t you their supreme leader, the ataman, as they call you? Who wants to go to war against you?” Nicky gave her lover a worried and confused look.
“My successor. As I’ve told you countless times, I intend to step down once we get married. Since the wedding is only a couple of months away, I’ve thought about appointing my successor, to avoid last minute drama. Only that my favorite candidate is embittered and disappointed in the way the “Bratva” handled certain situations in the past, and he made it clear there will be blood.”
“I don’t understand,” Nicky said, even more confused. “Why did you choose as successor a man who’s clearly against you, instead of appointing Serghei, your own flesh and blood?”
“Serghei is interested in cooking, not in being the leader of our organization, and I’m not going to take that dream away from him,” Aristarh smiled warmly. “Besides, I have a debt of honor and blood to my successor, that still has to be paid.”
Nicky didn’t say anything, because, by then, she knew the heart of the man and his way of thinking. For the Russian, loyalty and honor were above anything else, the very principles he was using as guidance in life. However, deep in her heart, the woman was scared she was going to lose her lover, as he wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice his own life, if that would prevent the civil war.
At the same time, she was wondering how could someone like Aristarh, with an innate sense of justice, treat someone so wrong. It had to be a misunderstanding, Nicky thought, shaking her head, or worse, something carefully orchestrated by a person who, at least for the time being, stayed well hidden, waiting for the right moment to strike.
“There he is,” Aristarh kissed his lover’s forehead. “I’ll go to the dance floor to greet him, otherwise he may consider himself offended.”
“Good idea,” Nicky smiled, straightening a rebellious strand of hair, “I’ll join you and get behind the bar, maybe I’ll manage to find out some bits of information.”
“Welcome to New York, Igor Konstantinovitch,” Aristarh said, two minutes later, opening his arms to greet a man in his late forties to early fifties, elegant, distinguished and handsome, who was making way through the sea of dancers. “Make yourself at home, please,” he gestured to the booths reserved for the guests of honor.”
“Thank you, ataman,” the man took a deep bow, “but I’m afraid I would have to refuse your invitation. You see, my son, or rather the shadow of what he could have been, is somewhere in the crowd, and I have to protect him personally. It’s a lesson you and the others taught me the hard way, five years earlier.”
“Listen to me, Igor Konstantinovitch, the ones who harmed your child won’t remain unpunished. There is a man named Ardan, he’s like a son to me. I've told him about what happened and he promised to find the monsters and make them pay. Each and everyone of them.” As he spoke, Aristarh looked straight into the other man’s eyes, so he could see the sincerity in his gaze.
“I still have to go to my child, he needs me,” Braginsky coldly spoke, leaving the booth, only to gasp in shock a few seconds later. “Sebastian Bloom, is that you? It must be you, I would recognize those blue eyes anywhere,” he said, hugging the man he ran into.
“Look who’s here, Igor-fucking-Braginsky, shamelessly hitting on one of my men! Come here, brother, I missed you!” Vincent wrapped his arms around the Russian, giving him a bear hug. “But where is Ferris? I thought the two of you stayed together even after you got out of the juvenile detention center.”
“He—he died,” Braginsky made a visible effort to speak. “He and the mother of my child were shot eleven years ago. Those who did it were never caught, neither were the ones who tortured and beat my son within an inch of his life, five years ago.”
“Bloody bastards!” Sebastian hissed through clenched teeth. “I hope the boy is alright now,” he added in a compassionate voice.
“He’s happy, because there are no memories of the incident that could cause him nightmares. As for the rest... My poor Kellin has the brain of a thirteen-year-old in the body of an eighteen-year-old. Fortunately, Misha Makarov, his loyal guard, doesn’t leave his side. I don’t know how I could ever repay the debt I have to him, Misha is also the one who found my son and brought him home.”
The last remark of his successor made Aristarh flinch, because the property Braginsky bought after his husband and the woman who carried his child was secluded, and the exact address was known only to a handful of men, and that Makarov guy was not among them. In fact, it was the first time when the “Bratva” boss heard it, and he made a mental note to speak to Tarquin and ask him to run a check on the man.
Meanwhile, at the bar, Nicky was revolted by the scene in front of her. A tall, well-built man in his mid twenties held a boy of no more than seventeen, judging by his fragile constitution, by the nape of his neck, whispering something in his ear and elbowing him in the side from time to time. Each time the muscled fellow did that, the kid winced in pain, to the other one’s visible amusement.
“What would you like to drink?” Nicky moved in front of the two, discreetly signaling to Arnett, Hayden, Alasdair and Avery, who were at the other end of the bar, to come and sit next to the two.
“Two vodkas,” the older of them answered, in a contempt-filled voice. “You are moving too slow, old lady,” he huffed, “If I were you, I’d stay home and babysit my grandkids. Don’t you have nice-looking, curvy girls in this city, to hire one or two as bartenders?”
“Here is your vodka,” Nicky unceremoniously slammed the glass in front of him. “And a freshly pressed juice for you, honey,” she smiled at the pale boy. “With a bit of Oriental herbs sprinkled in it, you look like you need some colour in those pale cheeks of yours.”
“Take that away, old woman, and bring him vodka, like I said. Soon, he’s going to marry my sister, Daria. I want to make a man out of him, not a wimp. Real Russian men drink vodka, not this shit,” the muscled man wanted to take the glass of juice, but Alasdair snatched it away.
“Hello, cutie, are you the new boy in town?” the redhead grinned, showing all his teeth. “Come on, let me introduce you to my friends.”
“But... Misha will get angry, I...he is my guard, doesn’t leave my side,” the boy whispered, casting a fearful glance in the hunky guy’s direction.
“Oh, I’m sure there won’t be a problem,” Hayden waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, “Miss Nicky is great company. By the way, I’m Hayden, those are my red-haired cousins Alasdair and Avery, and this handsome young man over here is my fiancee, Arnett.”
“Kellin Braginsky,” the boy hesitantly offered his hand. “Wait a minute, you said Arnett is your fiancee? Cool!” As he said the last word, the kid smiled brightly, but his mood darkened the next second. “Misha says that only a man and a woman should sleep with each other and produce children, and that being gay is something despicable and condemnable.”
“Isn’t like that at all,” Alasdair touched Kellin’s pale cheek, “love is love, it doesn’t matter who you are attracted to. It’s a greater sin to share the bed with someone of the opposite sex who you don’t feel nothing for, than to be with someone of the same sex, but whom you love.”
“Don’t put ideas in his head, wimp, he’s going to marry my sister and that’s it,” an angry Misha cut Alasdair short. “Come on,” he brutally yanked Kellin’s arm, “let’s go to your father.”
“He isn’t going anywhere,” the redhead spoke in a flat, cold voice, “but you will. Come on, get lost, shoo!”
“Disrespectful brat, I will show you who Mikhail Makarov is,” the guard hissed. “Tonight, you dug your grave, little fucker.”
But the redhead shrugged and turned his back to the Russian, ignoring him altogether and making him boil in anger. There was nothing Misha could do against the boy, and that feeling, of complete and utter helplessness, made him see red before his eyes. It was just like back then, when the LA “Bratva”, at Braginsky’s direct order, took over and destroyed his father’s illegal prostitution operation.
The then fourteen-year-old Misha promised to avenge the offence, restoring the name Makarov to its former glory, making itbe respected and feared in the world of organized crime. But he didn’t act hastily, preferring to wait for the perfect opportunity that appeared in the form of Kellin Braginsky, the boss’s only, beloved son, coming home from school, by foot, unguarded.
He kidnapped the trusting boy, unarmed, singlehanded, and, for a week, unleashed hell on the poor creature: sleep deprivation, starvation, water deprivation, beatings, even electric shocks, Misha didn’t hold back on anything. Then, when the boy was almost dead, he brought him to the father, bloodied, beaten and scarred. The plan involved the child’s death after a couple of days, and the providential savior taking his place in the grieving parent’s heart.
But Kellin fought for his life and eventually survived, but with no memories about the event, and with a major mental retard. It was like time stopped for him at the age of thirteen, although his body developed normally. Still, Misha didn’t despair; instead, he convinced Braginsky to let him guard the boy, which the boss enthusiastically approved.
From this position, the young Makarov continued to abuse poor Kellin, who suffered in silence, not daring to complain to his father, who trusted the guard more than anyone. Besides, although Braginsky loved his son fiercely, guilt gnawed at him every time he looked at the boy, blaming himself for not being able to protect him better.
And now, after he worked so much to win the boss’s trust, to create a rift between father and son, when the marriage between the retard and his twenty-two-year-old sister Daria was already agreed on, that little green-eyed, red-haired bastard was about to ruin everything.
If this was LA, he would already have bitten the dust, but unfortunately Misha didn’t have any influence in New York City. But his boss had, the man smirked, an evil idea coming in his mind.
“Boss, I’m sorry to interrupt you”, he went to the private booth where Braginsky was enjoying the company of Vincent, Sebastian, Aristarh, Joraan and Nicholas, laughing for the first time in many years, “but something’s happening at the bar, and I don’t know what to do about that,” Misha continued, feigning concern and disorientation.
“What do you mean? And why is Kellin alone? You were supposed to never leave his side,” Braginsky spoke in a surprisingly harsh voice.
“At first, I wanted to call you on the phone, but then I thought you wouldn’t hear me, so I’ve decided to come here,” Misha replied in a meek voice. “The lady at the bar intended to poison Kellin, and some boys surrounded him, I feared the worst.”
“Igor, I know those boys,” Sebastian smiled paternally, “one of them is my youngest, Hayden, accompanied by his fiancee, Arnett. The other two are my nephews, Alasdair and Avery. Your kid is in good company, but we could go there together and you can see it for yourself.”
“As for the lady at the bar trying to poison the boy,” Aristarh turned to Braginsky, a warm, beautiful smile on his face, “she probably offered him a juice or a tea. She brews the best Russian tea in New York, the water boiled in samovar, like our mothers used to do.”
The little group was at the bar now, and Braginsky couldn’t take his eyes off of the scene before him: Kellin, surrounded by the four boys Sebastian mentioned earlier, laughing, a full, pleasant, carefree sound. After the laughter died a little, his son started to tell the others about some of the shenanigans he got involved in as a child, and he was doing that without stuttering or stopping to remember words.
More than that, Kellin’s vocabulary was that of a kid his age, not the rudiment he used at home. The ideas were expressed with clarity, easy to understand, the sentences and phrases coherent. Plus, the kid’s voice wasn’t broken and sad, like the one he used in Misha’s or his presence, Braginsky thought, amazed, happy, but also intrigued by the sudden change.
“You forgot the part about all the cream cakes that disappeared without a trace, the ones eaten by the dog,” the Russian mobster quoted in the air.
“Papa, please, I will never disobey you again, forgive me, just this time, please!” Suddenly, Kellin was kneeling in front of his father, crying his eyes out. “Just once, I’ll never defy you again!”
“Son, but I...what’s going on here?” Braginsky cast a confused look around him, forgetting for a moment about the boy who was still on his knees.
Nicky exchanged a look with Aristarh, who nodded in approval, then turned to the LA Bratva boss “I want to have a word with you, mister, would you please follow me,” she gestured to the stairs leading to the observation tower.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” Braginsky asked, casting a look around the office. He couldn’t stop himself from admiring the impeccable taste of the owner in decorating the room.
“About the boy who was still on his knees, broken, defeated, crying a river when we left. And about the kid who was so full of life some minutes ago, laughing and telling silly stories to a group of boys his age. Oh, there would be one more, a teenager treated with contempt by a tall, muscled man, twice his size, who nudged him in the ribs and found it very amusing when the said teen winced in pain. Not to mention that the said man tried to force the teen to drink vodka.”
“Look, I don’t understand the sudden change in Kellin’s personality, although I’m immensely happy to see him back to his former self. As you can probably imagine, I was, and still am, utterly shocked to see him reduced to...that.” Braginsky covered his mouth with one hand, realizing what he just said. “But I guarantee for Misha with my own life, his behavior was always irreproachable.”
Smiling discreetly, Nicky turned on the sound system and the huge screen mounted on one of the walls. To his great shock, disbelief and revolt, the future ataman of Bratva saw how his only son was treated by the one whose job was to protect him, and heard the insulting words that brute threw in Kellin’s direction. Even more, he witnessed how the guard behaved in Nicky’s presence, his lack of courtesy and respect.
And then, the images captured by another camera showed the little group of kids surrounding his son, starting to rub his back, massage his shoulders, while one of the redheads, the one named Alasdair, gently lifted Kellin’s shirt. Tears started to run down Braginsky’s cheeks, as he looked at the poor boy’s bruised side, all of a sudden the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.
The boy remembered everything from the start, but, by the time he fully recovered, the serpent nested deep into his father’s heart, winning the man’s trust and even affection. Playing dumb was the only option Kellin had, although he knew his only surviving parent would eventually reject him.
“Misha must have been very devoted to your son,”Nicky’s gentle voice brought Braginsky back from the painful revelations, “but he also had a family, a mother and a sister. Did you ever wonder when he had the time to visit them? I mean, being so busy guarding Kellin and everything...”
“He usually scheduled the visits when I was away with business,” the Russian answered, “he convinced me that it was the best thing to do.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved,” Nicky placed her hand above the heart, “this means the kid was with you. For a moment, I was afraid that you left him in that monster’s care,” she said the last word with irony, “By the way, your son has a beautiful name, was it you who chose it?”
“No, his mamma did,” Braginsky smiled to the distant memory. “She was of Irish origins, barely eighteen and a virgin when her wretched uncle sold her into prostitution. I liked her innocent air, and since my life partner and I wanted a child for quite some time...”
“And now back where we were,” Nicky said, her expression sad. “You left Kellin with him, didn’t you? And you never bothered to speak to him on the phone.”
“Oh, no, this is not true!” Braginsky passionately defended himself. “I used to call every other hour, but my son didn’t answer my calls. After a while, I stopped calling, indeed, but only because I thought those calls were upsetting Kellin.”
Nicky’s phone beeped, and she answered the call, listening carefully to whatever the person on the other end of the line was telling her. “Right now,” she said when the call was finished, “a FBI operative team left your house, after searching Misha’s room, Kellin’s bedroom and the basement. Oh, those who killed your life partner and the mother of your son were arrested. The one who harmed him is in Ardan’s care.”
“What did they search for in my child’s bedroom and in the basement?” Braginsky asked, fearing the answer. And how come they arrested Ferris’ and Sorcha’s killers, when we left no stone unturned, also having the police on our side?”
“Because you were blinded by anger at the beginning, blaming your Bratva associates, of whom you later became totally estranged, choosing to believe the poisonous words whispered in your ear. Aristarh’s family also perished, but I didn’t hear him blaming the entire organization for this, only the ones who were responsible. As for what the FBI team is looking for in Kellin’s room, have you ever thought why he played dumb for so many years?”
Nicky’s words made Braginsky remember how, every time he came back from a business trip, his son looked tired, frightened, and sick. He was hugging himself, stuttered a lot and avoided his father’s company like plague, spending a lot of time in his room. He was blind and deaf, the Russian bitterly thought, insensible to his son’s pain, at the torment of that scared, but so brave boy.
“Yes, the monster locked him in the basement while he was away, and yes, your son had gathered evidence against him over the last three years. Don’t say you are sorry, show your son you mean it,” Nicky warmly and passionately spoke. “Use the day for business, let Kellin spend time with kids his age, but give him every second of the evenings, talk to him, listen to him.”
“The ataman is a wise man, and he proved that once again, when he chose you as his future bride. You are warm and gentle, but also fierce and protective, just like a Russian mother,” Braginsky stood, taking a bow.
As he went downstairs, the man’s heart felt light and free. Yes, he thought, he will make up for the wasted time, his son will feel again the warmth of a fatherly embrace, will know that he is loved and protected, that nothing was going to change that. New York was their home now, Braginsky thought, just like it was supposed to be from the start, a safe, warm, friendly place. A place for his son to bloom.