Chapter 15 Ilya
FIFTEEN
ILYA
I’m supposed to be going over the books, but I’m staring at the aquarium instead.
Somebody in Russia will want all the numbers for this month, and I need to transfer their take through all the different bank accounts and shell companies.
The restaurant’s accounting needs to be double-checked too, all the numbers fudged and inventories handled.
One of the discus fish darts across the aquarium and pokes a sea snail on the tank’s glass. Normally that alone would calm me and let me get back to work, but my thoughts are nowhere near the business.
Micah is next door, playing his cello for the restaurant diners. I could sneak back and listen to him again. I want to hear the beauty of the notes; I want to see his brows furrow in concentration.
And I want to tie him down again, and take the flogger to his ass.
Somebody knocks on the door, and I startle out of my daydream.
“Come in!” I say in Russian.
Boris enters, carrying the lockbox with the current take. We generally empty the cashbox a few times a night, so there’s less money lying around to tempt the workers and potential thieves.
“How’s business out there?” I ask. “Everybody behaving themselves?”
“Yep.” Boris sets the lockbox down on the coffee table and unlocks it, getting to work counting.
“Little Kolya’s doing a good job buttering up the suckers.
He’s even convincing them to buy the watered down liquor.
” Boris laughs. “He tells them it’s the good stuff from Russia and gives them a story about how his Papa drank it on his death bed. ”
I chuckle along. I know Kolya’s father, and the man is healthy enough to last another thirty years. The only booze we keep here is the cheapest stuff we can find, poured into high-end labels.
They can’t taste the difference, and even if they could… What are they going to do? Complain about getting ripped off, while they’re knee deep in gambling debts?
Boris finishes his count and hands the wad of cash to me. I check it over before locking it into the safe behind the painting of a generic beach landscape.
The safe holds all the cash we’ve collected for the week so far, as well as choice items we’re holding as collateral from the gamblers who are more reticent to pay.
It’s a lot of money, but I have so much saved up that I could quit the business and still have no financial woes. The most difficult part would be ensuring my money stays with me, and that no overzealous investigator attempts to freeze my accounts.
Boris is still in the room when I sit back at my desk. At first he’s observing the aquarium, but he keeps casting glances my way.
Finally, I huff, “What?”
Boris turns around and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “That boy you hired at the restaurant. Michael.”
“Micah,” I correct.
Boris shrugs. “Micah, then. How long is he going to stay here?”
Forever.
“I don’t know. Until he finds another job?” I answer brusquely. “Why?”
Boris stays quiet for long enough that I grow impatient. When I’m about to kick him out, he says, “I heard what the guy said the other day.”
“Guy?” I repeat, confused now. “Who said what?”
“The one pretending to be a cop.” Boris takes his hands out of his pockets and looks down at them, clenching his fists. “I went to check if you needed help.”
Oh.
I force myself to remain calm. “You heard the fake cop make fake accusations?”
“Cut the crap, Boss,” Boris mutters. “You’re fucking that kid, right? That’s why you hired him. That’s why you’re hanging around him. That’s why you keep taking him home, and you don’t want guards around anymore.”
My heart pounds hard in my chest.
This is it.
This is when all my life’s sins catch up to me.
I won’t get judged by God, but by my fellow gangsters.
It’s fitting, in a way.
But I’m not going to give up now. If Silvano Cresci and Kyran Winters can be openly gay and command respect, I’m not going to go down without a fight.
I get out of my chair, bracing myself on the desk. “You’ve got a problem with that, Boris?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Boris sighs loudly. “Boss, I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing. You hired him at the restaurant. And I did some digging—”
“That I didn’t tell you to do,” I snap.
“I found out he got arrested a few years back on drug charges,” Boris says. “Which is fine, but if he’s selling you a story about how he’s some cute innocent waif, it’s a fucking lie.”
My mouth goes dry.
My first instinct is to yell at Boris and tell him he’s fucking lying, that Micah is innocent.
But even Micah has been quick to correct me. We’ve both been cagey about our pasts, and I didn’t want to pry.
He could have told me while I was spilling my guts about my father, though.
“And…” Boris cringes when he looks at me, then stands taller.
“And, I heard him talking to somebody on the phone. The restaurant staff say he calls somebody almost every night. You say he has no other friends or family, then who’s he calling?
Why would he be telling somebody not to worry, that he’s fine, that he’s…
.” Boris flounders, then says in English, “I’m doing what you asked. ”
I grip the edge of the desk.
“You must have misheard,” I say harshly. “It wasn’t Micah on the phone. You misunderstood the servers. We both know your English is crap.”
“It was Micah,” Boris insists. “Look, everybody gets stupid when they find a hot young thing. It’s natural, Boss. You know what happened with Savin. We didn’t let him hear the end of it. But after Artyom—”
“Mishka is not like Artyom!” I bellow. I storm over to Boris, and I grab his shirt. “You will shut the fuck up, you piece of shit, and you won’t say another fucking word about Mishka. Understood?”
Boris’s eyes widen, and he braces himself for one of my famous blows.
That temper that I’m known for, the same one my father had.
I raise my fist.
Boris closes his eyes.
I’m not even wearing gloves.
I sigh and release Boris, disgusted with myself. “I know you’re looking out for me. But Micah isn’t…” I run my hand through my beard. “He can’t be like Artyom. He can’t. Don’t suggest it.”
Boris backs away a few steps. “You’re going to risk everything for him?”
“Everything?” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m risking nothing, Boris. Don’t worry. I’m not going to be stupid like Savin. Micah works at the restaurant. He’s getting a salary. It’s a very respectable job, until we find him a real job as a musician. I’m not mixing business and pleasure here.”
Boris doesn’t look like he believes me, but at the very least, he’s smart enough not to press further. He walks toward the door, but stops with his hand on the doorhandle.
“I don’t care,” Boris says. “That you’re fucking a man. It’s not my business. I’m not going to tell anyone.” He laughs. “Just as long as I don’t have to help you nurse a broken heart when he realizes what an old man you are and leaves you.”
I scoff and flip him the bird. “Get out of here, you motherfucker.”
Boris smiles and returns the gesture, before heading out.
Well, at least I didn’t beat up the one person I’m still certain is my friend, all because of a pretty boy with sad eyes and beautiful music.
I’ve been in too deep since the day I met Micah.
I lock up my work, lock the office, then go back to the restaurant. It’s close to final call, and Micah has already finished playing for the night.
I expect to find him in the break room, but he isn’t there.
“Have you seen Micah?” I ask Taka, one of the servers, who is currently resting in the break room.
He gives me a guilty expression, because he knows he isn’t supposed to be on break yet.
“Yeah, uh, I think he went into your office to wait for you? He said he wanted to take a nap.” Taka scratches at his arm.
He’s wearing long sleeves now, but I know there are track marks underneath the fabric. I’d reprimand him if I were running a legitimate restaurant, but as long as he does his job and doesn’t cause issues with the diners, I don’t care.
It’d be hypocritical of me to fire him for taking the drugs another branch of my organization peddles.
“Thanks,” I say. “And get back to work. Don’t leave Yolanda on her own.”
“Yes, sir,” Taka answers, chastised.
I move on to the restaurant office. The door is propped open, and I peer inside to find Micah on the loveseat. The cello takes up most of the corner of the small office.
My restaurant laptop is slightly askew, and I frown at it.
Did I leave it like that? But I don’t think I touched it since last night.
Maybe Mandy, the assistant manager, was answering emails.
The laptop itself is attached to the desk with a thin chain, to prevent any of the employees from taking it out of the room.
I shake the small sense of unease away and walk over to Micah. “Hello, Mishka,” I greet.
Micah sits up, and while he smiles at me, there’s a touch of something uncertain in his expression. “Ilya. I wasn’t expecting you this soon.”
“It’s been slow night,” I say, sitting down next to him. Micah slots himself against my side, and I wrap my arm around his shoulders. “You have fun playing?”
He nods, then hesitates. “I was thinking… I might try a piece I composed some night,” he ventures. “It’s not as good as the rest of what I play, but it would be different.”
He’s doing it again: downplaying his own skills and achievements.
“You can play whatever you like,” I say, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “And I’m sure it’s good. You have the good ear for music.”
“Thank you,” he mumbles, but he sounds pleased. “I can play it for you first, to make sure you think it’s okay. I’ve been working on it for a long time.”
“I’d love that.” I kiss the top of his head.
This could be the end of the conversation.
But Boris’s words linger in my mind.
There is only one person Micah could have been calling.
“Have you…” I sigh, unsure if I should even bring this up. I want to believe in this gentle life we’ve built. But it won’t stay this way if I have to worry about some fucking cop killing Micah. “Have you been calling Adam?”
Micah immediately tenses.
He doesn’t have to speak for me to know the truth, but I wait anyway.
I want to know if he’ll tell me.
He hesitates, then he nods. “He just keeps trying to make sure I’m okay.”
My heart sinks in my chest, because it’s a lie.
A complete, and utter, lie.
I’m not sure what he’s lying about—either Adam’s tone, or his intentions, or what. But in the end, it doesn’t matter.
Micah doesn’t trust me with the truth.
“Do you want to go back to him?” I ask.
Micah startles again, and he looks up at me. “No,” he says. “But…” He looks away before continuing quietly, “Sometimes I think I should.”
“Why you should go back?” My hand curls into a fist. “You should do only what you want to.”
“I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve you,” Micah replies.
“You deserve a man who leaves you at restaurant with the bill?” I growl. “You deserve a man who hurts you? You deserve a man who makes you feel small? You deserve a man who makes you cry?”
He flinches. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”
“No.” I take Micah’s hand. “You don’t want to be with me? Fine. I will not be like my father, who kept my mother small and scared. But I will not let you go back to him. Block his number, Mishka. If he tries to force you back, I will not care that he is cop.”
Micah’s grip on my hand is tight. “I don’t want to go back. I want to be with you. But it isn’t that easy, Ilya.”
“Why not?” I demand.
He lets out a quiet, despairing little sound that cuts straight to my heart. “You don’t know the kind of person I am. You don’t know what I deserve.”
“You know what kind of person I am,” I say. “I told you. You think I am better than you? You think you are so bad, you will taint me?”
“I don’t… I don’t know,” he says. He starts to release my hand, but I don’t let go of him. “Ilya…”
“What?” I demand. “What is so bad about you that you deserve to be hurt?”
I’m scaring him now. I know I am.
But I can’t let this go.
“I don’t know!” he says, trying again to pull away from me. “But there has to be something wrong with me!” His eyes are desperate, wild, when they meet mine. “Otherwise, it would be easy to walk away.”
“Walking away is hard!” I say. “It’s always hard!
These men, they bind you to them. You have no money, no job, no friends.
You are nothing without them, because they want you to be nothing.
But I tell you now, Mishka, you are not nothing.
You are beautiful, and kind, and you deserve better.
If it isn’t me, I will be sad and angry, but I will accept.
As long as you accept that you do not need to ever return to a man who destroys your…
your soul. A man who makes you think you cannot play music. ”
The sound he makes is strangled, and I realize it’s a sob that he’s trying to hold in. He doesn’t want me to know he’s crying.
I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. “Mishka, Mishka. You are worth more than that pig. You are brighter than him. Don’t let him erase you.”
Micah cries harder, but he clings to me instead of continuing to try to pull away from me. I rub his back, letting him get it out, and several long moments pass before he starts to calm down again.
“I don’t want to be erased,” he whispers raggedly. “I want to be seen.” He lets out another broken sound. “I want to be worthy.”
I tilt his head up so I can see him properly. His skin is red and splotchy, his blond hair is disheveled, his eyes tear-stained, but for once, there’s an extra spark behind his eyes.
I smile and kiss the corner of one eye.
“Good,” I whisper. “I see you, Mishka. And I will help the world see you, and hear you, too.”
“Thank you.” He clutches me, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. “Thank you, Ilya.”
The emotion that grips me is sudden and intense.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper.
But my heart says, I love you.
It is much, much too soon to say something like that. I’ll scare him away.
On the other hand: even my gloved hands and shouting hadn’t scared him.
Maybe he’ll accept the kind words, too.
On another day.