10. Dimitri
10
DIMITRI
I sleep for shit. I doze but keep waking up, intensely aware of Adriana next to me. The scent of her hair, her soft breathing, the curve of her ass and hips, visible even in the frankly criminally unsexy set of pajamas that Nataliya purchased for her.
Around six am, as the staff start moving about the yacht, I quietly reach for my phone and fire a text off to Janice.
Are you back at work yet?
It takes all but a minute for a reply.
Jesus, what time do you call this?
I smile.
I know you work out at five in the morning. Are you working today?
Yes. I’m feeling much better, thanks for asking – wink emoji .
I laugh. Can you get some clothes for a woman I have staying with me?
Of course. Nataliya said she’d go when I had the bug. Did she forget?
I type impatiently . She did buy clothes, but I don’t like what she purchased.
Oh? Nataliya has great taste in clothes.
Jesus. She does, but she shopped for this girl as if she’s a fifty-year-old matron who’s on the board of five charities.
She sends three laughing emojis and then: So what do you want me to get? Full on glamour? Model on a yacht? Cocktail clothes?
I think for a moment. I want classy but sexy. Instead of loose linen pants and cotton t-shirts think silk slip dresses. Silk pants. Fitted t-shirts. Day dresses. Bikinis. Oh, and a sexy night slip. Silk or satin. Some heels.
There’s a longer pause before: Size?
Nataliya purchased a size six in dresses, eight in tops, and six in pants, and it all fits.
Three dots and then : If you want lingerie, I need a bra size.
Crap. Don’t have it. Nataliya bought those strappy tops instead of a bra, and she’s been wearing them under shapeless sacks.
She needs a bra if you want her to wear tighter clothes. I presume she’s top heavy with the size differential, so she’s going to need the support if she has a bigger bust.
She has big tits , I helpfully supply.
She sends an eye roll emoji. I still need a size. Big tits doesn’t help me when I’m buying a bra.
Fuck. My dick is hard now, thinking about Adriana’s tits. I nudge her gently, and she groans.
“What bra size do you wear?” I ask.
“What?” She blinks and stares at me as if I’m insane, which I think I am.
“Bra size. I’m ordering you some more clothes.”
She yawns. “I have clothes.”
“They’re hideous.”
“I like them.”
“You would.”
She yawns again.
“Bra size, then you can go back to sleep, Sleeping Beauty.”
“34D,” she mutters, and her eyes are almost closing again.
I kiss her forehead. She’s too tired to object. “Go to sleep, Littleblue.”
She does. As if she’s all safe and secure and not in bed with a man fighting every single fiber of his being not to tear those shapeless pajamas from her and ravage her.
I text Janice. 34D
Her reply is swift this time. Okay, thank you. What about heels? Mid or high?
I study the back of Adriana’s silky head. I doubt she’s used to wearing high heels. Mid , I type back. Get some jeans too. Designer trainers. Some jewelry, make it a mix of fashion and fine, and bags .
Three dots appear and disappear a few times . How much are we talking here, Dimitri? Fine jewelry and designer bags aren’t cheap.
I don’t even need to think. Cost is no issue. I want her dressed like a queen. Only the best. Sexy but subtly so. Less mob wife, more Hollywood movie star on the weekend but knowing she’s going to get papped.
Her laughing emoji comes first, and then she writes, That’s incredibly specific.
Yes, isn’t it just. It should concern me how much I know exactly what kind of clothes will suit Adriana and how much I want to see her in them. She’s not my fucking doll. She’s not even my girlfriend. Or my whore. She’s my captive. When all is said and done, Adriana is here against her will. I am protecting her, but she’d be out there doing whatever it is she does if she hadn't been plucked from her life and stolen away by Dorian.
Now, here I am, stealing her away too. I’m dressing it up in justifications. Obeying Jacob. In keeping her safe. But I know, deep down, that I don’t want to let her go. If Dorian and all his men dropped dead of a mystery ailment tomorrow, I wouldn’t tell her. That’s fucked up. That’s dangerous. I should pass her over to my father, or to Virgil, and tell them to keep her safe. But I know I won’t.
I haven't even kissed her, and I’m consumed by desire for her.
I like specific , is what I type back to Janice.
I put my phone away. I know exactly how I want Adriana to look. She’s stunning, and in the right clothes, she’ll be the envy of every single man who sees her with me. I want Dorian to see her dressed like a fucking queen and to know he’s never going to get within an inch of her. I also want Ari and the others to see her with me. Right before I kill them and pluck their eyes out the way I threatened Jinx, for daring to fucking look at her in that trashy underwear they dressed her in.
My plan to not be photographed like some Instagram influencer might have to be revised. As someone who owns and runs two of the hottest nightclubs in this city, if I go out with someone on my arm, to a known hotspot, I’m likely to be photographed for the gossip pages. It doesn’t usually happen because anytime I’m with a woman, which is incredibly rare, I sneak them in the back.
The more I think about things, my mind turns from possessive thoughts about Littleblue to tactical matters.
I need to know who these people who want to auction Adriana are. Damen is working on that, but what’s the best way to flush out prey? Make it reveal itself. If I let them see one of the girls they’re supposed to be receiving in a few weeks is with me, they might show their hand. Perhaps they’ll contact Dorian. Since I have all the gang’s devices, I’ll receive the message.
It’s risky, but I like it. I’ve never been one to sit around and simply wait for things to happen. Much better to force them on one’s own terms.
When Littleblue has her new wardrobe, we’ll go out on the town, and I will take her through the front entrance of my nightclub. I can make sure I have extra security right before we do it. It’s best not to be on the yacht once I’m seen with her, as it’s too vulnerable. I can take her to my club a few nights after the party here, then hunker down at home on the compound and wait.
Jacob wants the party on the yacht; it’s a fixation with him to make the city see what happens when you screw us over. I should do that soon. Move it up the timeline to urgent, and when he’s satisfied that his enemies have been shown what we will do, I can get off this fucking boat.
I’ll move back to the compound with Adriana and take her out on the town. More than once. Ostentatiously show her off. Get those bastards to show themselves.
Better to have them come at us when we’re prepared, rather than at a time when our guard is down. I’ll need to ensure pictures of me with Adriana are taken and distributed far and wide.
I will speak with my stepfather first. I’ll let Jacob know before I take her out, so that he can send my mother and sister away well before these events are put in motion. We can make sure we have extra guards at the house, and then Adriana and I go for our night out. I'll place a few calls to editors of local papers and magazines to ensure that we’re seen.
The pictures will be circulated. And then we’ll wait.
It’s a solid plan. As good as anything else I can think of.
Once I get more information on the stepmother, and the debt she owed to Dorian and his organization, things should become clearer on that score too.
For Adriana, though, her life is forever changed. She might always require permanent protection. Perhaps something like witness protection if Jacob could organize that.
Unless she's with you , a small voice whispers in the back of my mind. I immediately push the idea away.
Even if she could deal with the kind of life I lead, I doubt she'll be happy taking what little I have to offer. I've never fallen in love because I don't really believe in it. I've never fallen in love because I don't believe that I’m loveable in return.
I can't be. If I was, my father wouldn't have done what he did. For a parent to look at their own child and feel the things he did, the things he wrote in that note; I still feel sick when I think of first reading it, even though I found it all those years ago. For a father to look at his child and think, I’d rather be dead than raise this baby , surely it means that there must be something fundamentally wrong with that child. For him to think he’d rather hurt that child and its mother than bring it up; well, that child has to be a burden not a blessing.
Sometimes, I wish I could speak to Russian Nonna and pretend my father was a good man again, even if only for a short while. My paternal grandmother always told me my father was a hero. I believed her and worshipped his memory until I found out the truth. She passed away in her native Russia, alone. She refused to come and live here. She said she would never live in the evil capitalist empire . It's sad because she would have probably lived with us in Italy, before we moved to America, but that wasn't an option because of my piece of shit ex-stepfather. Then, after he died, we came here, and she flat out refused to even consider joining us. We barely saw her after we moved to America.
I miss the stories she would tell. I miss her tales of my papa, even if they were lies.
My mind drifts back to Lombardy and the Christmas she gave me the family crest. The snow on the mountains was so beautiful and looking at those distant, awe-inspiring peaks was one of my favorite things. Until I heard Anton, my stepfather, threaten to take a maid out to those mountains and leave her in the snow to die alone and never be found. Then I feared the mountains, and I feared my stepfather, and so I stopped talking about my Russian papa.
Then, in America, I found the note, and I knew why mother never discussed him and why she didn’t let Anton tell me the truth. The truth was ugly and twisted. He hated me so much when he saw me, he tried to kill my mother and me, and then he killed himself.
I prefer the version of him Russian Nonna told.
Sometimes lies are better than the truth. Sometimes a lie can be beautiful.
I can see the note as if it’s in front of me right now. My father’s sloped, elegant hand saying awful things, purging his soul onto the thick, yellowing paper.
My son is a curse. My wife is a curse. They are evil. They are here to torment me. I must end them. Remove them. Forever .
Shit, I suck in air and try to blank it out.
Adriana lets out a small whimper under her breath, then she throws her arm out, hitting me on the side.
There’s a panicky feeling breathing under my skin, the same one I always get when I think about my father and what he did. The awful truth of the blood that flows in me.
I stare at Adriana and feel the violence too close to the surface. Too dangerous and transformative. An energy that could become something else entirely if I let it.
If I don't get out of this bed, I'm going to end up doing something that will break my promise. I'm a man of my word, so I push the covers back and slide out of the bed. I pad quietly into the adjoining bathroom. After a long, cold shower, I dry my hair, and spritz aftershave around the base of my throat. The long gold chain holding the cross is nestled between my pecs. I hold it up and watch as the gold reflects the light.
Russian Nonna gave me this, but before then it belonged to my father. There were many times I was tempted to rip it from my throat and throw it into the trash. Something always stopped me. It’s all I have left of him. He may have been deeply flawed, and he may not have loved me, but he was still my father. This and the family crest are the remains of the Baranov legacy.
I look over my shoulder, turning so my back is in the mirror, at the large tattoo between my shoulder blades. It's the Baranov crest. It's a beautiful work of art, and it took more than one visit to the tattoo parlor to complete. It's the only ink on my body. The rest of the men who work for our organization are covered in ink. For some of them it denotes their place within the organization. For others, they have elements of Russian or Ukrainian history marked on their skin. It's my lack of those markings which helps me stand out from the brigadiers like Virgil and the others. This ink, though, is my penance.
My phone buzzes on the stand below the mirror, and I pick it up. Speak of the devil. It's a message from Virgil.
Morning, beautiful.
I roll my eyes at that but smile a little.
I hope you slept well on the boat. Jacob says I should supply a few girls from one of the dance clubs for the yacht party. Let me know if you would like that. He says you didn't keep any of the girls from Dorian’s little harem.
The dance clubs aren't strip clubs. They are regular night clubs, but we found that having sexily dressed men and women dancing helps bring in the ravers.
My clubs don't have dancers. They are seen as being cool, or hot, or whatever it is the kids call it these days. We have some of the best DJs and up and coming groups playing our venues. I don't have a clue about that side of things, which is why my manager, Sadie, is a godsend. She has her finger on the pulse of new acts. She knows what people twenty years younger than her are into.
Our clientele ranges from college kids to baristas at the trendiest coffee shops, artists, and bohemian types, to Silicon Valley millionaires. They all want to partake of the vibe.
I send a reply to Virgil. That sounds good. I’ll let you know when. Three or four girls will be enough. I'm going to ask Sadie to create a guest list for the party. Perhaps you and Jacob can circulate some invites to the kind of people who need to be there. After all, there's no point even holding a party on the yacht if the right people aren’t there. We want everyone within our world to see that we've requisitioned it and taken everything that Dorian had. Did you send some guys to his house? Yuri should have given you the keys.
The reply comes quickly . Already been. He has dreadful taste in deco. I trashed some of the rooms just for fun, and two of our men are living there now, partying. As we take over his empire, we’ll take more of his territory. Ari has gone to ground. I have feelers out everywhere. One of our cops is meeting with your father today. He has informants who allegedly have an ear into these guys and their operation.
I type back. Okay. Sounds good. Speak later .
Then I delete all the messages.
I take the card out of the back of the phone and flush it down the toilet. I take a new card out of my toiletry bag and insert it into the phone. I text Jacob and Virgil the number, so they know this is the new contact.
We live by a never-ending stream of burners and disposable cards. I have a personal phone. The one I messaged Janice with, but I only ever message innocuous things on there. I’d never refer to work.
Of course, messages can be retrieved even after phones and memory cards are destroyed. We have good relationships with the cops, though, and Jacob is very careful not to do shit that would cause the feds to come sniffing around. The arms he moves are borderline illegal, but close enough to legal as to make a case against him hard.
Dancing on the line without crossing it is a skill Jacob has in droves.
Stepping into the bedroom, I pause and stare at Adriana.
Her hair is fanned out, a dark pool of shining tresses. Her face is turned toward me. Like this, with her eyes closed, she looks even more striking. Even more innocent. Christ, she’s utterly beguiling.
I can’t stay in this bedroom any longer. I need to move. Do something so I don’t slide back into the sheets with Adriana and wrap myself around her body.
I can’t wait until the clothes get here, and I can see her dressed in the finery she deserves.
Until then, I need to work off my raging hard-on in the gym.
Jinx is already in the corner, going at it with boxing gloves and the punch bag. He sees me and stops to salute with one gloved hand. “Boss.”
I ought to make things right with him, or at least less shitty. I nod at the ring in the corner of the room. “Want to go a few rounds?”
He frowns.
“No holds barred. I won’t expect you to treat me like the boss. I have some aggression I could do with working out.”
“Fuck it, why not? So long as you don’t break my pretty face.” He smirks.
Jinx is far from pretty. He already has a broken nose. His features are flat, his eyes dull. He looks like the kind of person you’d cross the road to avoid. He’s shorter than me, and not as broad, but he’s probably heavier because he eats his own weight in cow every day and lifts weights, and I think he takes steroids too.
He might have bigger muscles, cartoonishly so, but he also is slower and less sharp; I think I can beat him. I’m itching to find out.
It’s fight or fuck, and the woman I want to fuck is off limits for now.
I step into the ring.