Chapter Two
Ava
The music blares from Sarah’s car speakers as I watch the smoggy night sky. Sarah and I have always bonded over music and sometimes we would sit for hours on my bed and drift away to it. She is the closest I have to a sister. I sing along quietly, shaking off the tense ache in my neck and the jitters from Stepan's sudden appearance from earlier. I had not seen him in so long, let alone meeting some long-lost brother on the same day.
One is enough so why would they be poking their noses around now?
I have been making due thus far, no thanks to them. I’m just trying to pay my family's debt, take care of my plants, and form a slow life around the rocky memories.
I look down to adjust my cleavage, pulling on the low neckline of the red dress Sarah convinced me to wear. It’s also hard not to fidget at the thought of Stepans’s asshole remarks and Roman’s defined jawline.
And his beautiful eyes.
What the hell Ava. Stop.
Sarah twists down the streets as we continue to sing, and horribly at that. She whirls down an avenue lined with old resurrected warehouses, converted into restaurants, bars and clubs. People litter the sidewalks with their groups of friends as a growing attention meets me at the hollow pit in my stomach. I stay to myself most of the time so when Sarah and I go out, on rare occasions, it makes me anxious to socialize. Like, what do I say?
Hey, I am held here against my will and if I run I know I will be chopped up into little pieces? Oh, and my parents were assassins.
Sarah on the other hand is usually the life of the party. Mingling and weaving through the crowds of people. But as for me, I become a shell in public to observe. A chameleon of some sort, seen and not heard but smiles when needed. She usually drags me around on her arm, but always finds a way to include me. She is a force to be reckoned with and people are always immediately drawn to her charisma. It just takes me a few shots to truly encompass the meaning of “liquid courage”.
The small car suddenly feels hot. I knew I would have to put on a face to morph into what I needed to be socially acceptable tonight. I hate even thinking about how I felt like I had to. But I trained myself to be gentle growing up in such a volatile lifestyle, and that is my force to be reckoned with. It at least gave me the ability to know the complete opposite of kindness and that I wanted nothing to do with that world.
Or at least it’s the only thing that I have control over.
She parks at a dead end, tucking into a poorly lit parking spot. A glowing purple sign reads ELECTRIC brANCHES illuminating the dark metal building behind it.
I taunt my head forward, “You have to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter under my breath. Out of all the clubs she chooses, not only one we haven’t been to —ever, but one that is owned by the Volokhov Bratva.
Sarah hums into a chuckle, taking a sip of her water, “You bet!” She must have realized it was a solid question when I kept my body forward and eyebrows lifted. She lowers her water bottle slowly from her mouth, “Is there a code I am missing from going to our bosses' businesses? I mean, they don’t even go to their businesses… Well, other than today. But that’s beside the point,” she says waving her hands. “Everyone knows that they have others run it while they do what they—”
I reach for her hand, “—You are right, it has always been like that, but they are still our bosses,” I say, agreeing. I don't want to hurt Sarah, and I really don't want to get too far in about the Bratva tonight, avoiding any means and conversations to keep my secrets hidden.
A fire was burning in me, igniting and swallowing the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wish I could tell someone. Anyone. I felt powerless about what was expected of me. To always keep up the facade because if you go against the grain of the Volokhov, you are tossed to the wind.
Leaning in, Sarah grabs the steering wheel and rests her chin on the top, “Today was just a weird day, honestly… and they probably wanted to see your masterpiece that their errand boy told them about.” She soothes a dazzling smile, trying to reassure me that it was ok to let go. To free fall and flow with life. She always knows how to make me feel better but sometimes it makes me feel weak, like I am some small animal that needs to be handled with care.
I watch her adjust the blue straps on her dress, and I feel like we look like the fucking fourth of July with me in satin red.
I open and close the clasp on my small purse, over and over, “You are right, they wouldn’t come here. I mean what are the chances?”
Now I’m reassuring her. Or maybe myself.
The fire extends to my throat. I am on the cusp of blurting out the truth I have kept within me and revealing just how awful they are. Nobody has ever known that part of me except for those in the Bratva, and mafia members are usually not the squishiest, warmest people to share frustrations with, to say the least.
I watch people stride along the cracked sidewalk, “Plus you got me to wear this,” I say pointing down, “so let’s have some fun. Right?” She was right about one thing, they don’t go to their businesses to enjoy them.
In all my memories I saw my parents leaving in their fine attire to the next secluded yacht party, or ball, or some kind of big flashy private event to avert ears. Underneath the vale of booze, drugs, and money, they were scheming to make the next big deal. Organizing plans to backstab each other for what they wanted. Power. I was dragged along to many as a pretty prize to be traded into marriage so my parents could grow stronger within the Bratva. As if being invited, included, and hired as hitmen for the Volokhov was not enough for them. They never let me down with their shit remarks about if I was just more active in seducing these men, they would have been more powerful. The more the remarks were made, the more they backstabbed others to claim a spot at the top.
The painful memory of the attempt of being sold sent a shiver down my arms.
I flip down the passenger sun visor and the memories with it, even if it is for tonight. I scrunch my nose with disgust at paying patronage to the Volokhov family. Their presence was normal for the city, so I don’t blame Sarah for not understanding completely. It was just a normal Monday to her.
The coiling expression of my face fades with a swipe of the mirror. Staring back is my strawberry, plump cheeks, red lips and black mascara. I fold my glasses and set them in my hand-purse.
My dress clings to my ribs and my lower stomach exposing parts of me that I normally would not show off. I automatically regret wearing this. My auburn hair waterfalls over my shoulders and my nails freshly painted red. Simplicity sprinkled with some dress up is what I felt like. The thought of the last time I wore anything remotely this skin tight fled from my brain.
I try to pull up the scoop neckline again as I huff, “This damn neckline will not stay still.”
“My bet is on a man falling in love with you from the near sight of those —ahem,” she replies jokingly, dancing in her seat as my hype woman.
Flipping the mirror back in place, I roll out a laugh. Excitement boils over the fire in my throat, spilling it into my chest, making my heart flutter. Of all people to experience a little fun, Sarah was the best person to do it with. I know she means well with her crude flirting and nudges of jokes. She will always have my back. When I was forced to work at the Cafe, it was around the time she moved to Baltimore and our friendship was an instant hit. She is a grounding of normalcy for me.
Sarah grabs her keys, “Well we can’t sit here all freakin’ night!” Sarah trumpets, exiting the car.
The club smells of salt, perfume, and cannabis as we enter the void of flashing lights. Loud music bounces, drumming the floor with the bass as it reverberates up my legs. I scan the black and purple space of erratic movement and chatter as I exhale and brace my outer thighs. I snap the material down over my curves and survey for any sign of the Bratva on the dance floor.
They wouldn't be here.
Sarah grabs my hand in a jerk, weaving us in between the shifting bodies of laughter and movement, swaying us as we curve our steps toward the blue luminescent bar. I squeeze into an open seat, ignoring the men on either side of me, as gorgeous women lean into them between their legs.
“Can I have two lemon drop vodkas please?” The bartender nods at me as I lean my elbow on the bartop. Sarah becomes distracted by some friends we've become accustomed to as our “club friends” as she dances on the sidelines with them. I trail my eyes to the center and watch the ripple of people dance under the muted strobes. The opening of black curtains, from the second level, catches my eye. A sign hung on the metal stairs.
VIP . Great .
Grabbing our drinks, I humph with a snicker and a shake of my head. The pretentious VIP looking down on the peasants, like we are working ants with our well-liquor in hand. I know whoever sits in that particular VIP is usually associated with the Bratva.
I drift carefully past the shouts of others, tugging my arms inward. Sarah is chatting with our friends when I hand her the drink. I recognized Josh almost instantly, who is known for his sweet baby face, grace and for being a huge flirt.
He winks as he sways his body over to me, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the phantom who hides from everyone.” His hands grace the lower curve of my back, pulling me in for a hug. I nervously sip my drink as he smiles down at me.
The VIP section catches my attention, forcing my sip down. Roman is standing there in a dark suit that hugs at his hard body. He takes a slow drag off of his cigarette as he stares me down with black eyes. The exhale of smoke and his tense jawline, screamed no remorse.
Smiling back at Josh, I slip to the side from his arm, “What can I say, I like to keep everyone guessing.” I shift to Sarah, “Want to grab a booth?” For the first time, in a long time, I didn't wait for an answer. For one, I didn’t want to hang-out with Josh and two, my heart feels like it is going to jump out of my chest from seeing a Volokhov here.
I pace as fast as I can in these Mary-Jane platform heels, to the dark purple crescent-booths, catty cornered from the VIP. It was the furthest I could get, and I’d hope he didn't recognize me compared to the layering of a plaid skirt, leggings and my chunky boots from earlier. It was like light and day from this single layer red dress, clinging to me like flesh.
Sarah follows and sits her drink on the table. She looks back to see if Josh followed us. He is hot, bothered and ready to pounce on anything, and in our luck, we lost him through the crowd. I mean, I wouldn’t mind that right about now from anyone other than Josh. But I wasn’t sure if the heat in my body was from the anger of seeing Roman, the liquor, or eagerness for the destruction of touch.
I tilt my head to Sarah as she climbs into the middle of the booth.
I inch to her side, “Roman is here… maybe I was wrong thinking they wouldn’t be,” I say as she immediately looks up at the VIP section. I press my palms into my cheeks, “That doesn’t mean look,” I say as I strain, gritting the words from my lips.
Oh no. He knows I know he is here. fuck.
“I see more than just Roman up there, but it’s going to be OK, let loose. We do us, they do them.” The same reassuring tone surfaces, coddling me, like telling me there are more of them up there will help somehow.
My curiosity has the best of me as I sip on my drink, lifting my eyes toward Roman. The anger grows in my throat as I finish my drink. Stepan, Roman, and four other rather large men, sit on black couches. Stepan is laughing with two of the men, while the others are entranced by the waitresses’ sway, bringing them their drinks. Shadows play across their faces and their black suits. Their nonchalant postures, enjoying their high statuses, confirm the heat in my body was the utmost hate for not escaping the hold they have around my life. How easy it was for their status to lure others into their talons, no matter the fear they had for them. Fear didn’t and will never outweigh the want for the comfortability of convenience and power.
“You are right. It doesn’t matter, it just worries me because you know,” I cross my arms with apprehension, “they are… well, you know. I want to make sure I stay focused on the Cafe and don’t jeopardize anything.” It was true and not me playing the reassuring game back yet again with her.
At this point who am I trying to convince?
I didn’t want the filthy animals thinking I was trying something sly, so they wouldn’t shoot me down without a care. They could make the couple million that I'm enslaved to faster, without owning me or my cheap labor. It is a sick game.
We were made as the example to the Bratva tiers. Beheading my parents and cutting their thieving hands off, but keeping the soft and timid daughter on a leash. Surprisingly, I don’t wear a collar for their pleasure.
“Mmmm hot Italians—two o’clock,” Sarah pronounces, puckering her maroon lips around her straw. She sucks her drink down, fixating her doe eyes on them as they notice us.
I brush my loose waves over my shoulders. Chasing away the thoughts of the Volokhov family, welcoming the escapism of having some fun and trying to let loose for once.
The two tall, and very handsome, men walk toward us, in dress shirts and black slacks. I wrap my hands around my glass as I brace for impact. I shuffle my heels, crossing my ankles as one of them steps forward.
“Hello, ladies, let us buy your next round of drinks. We couldn’t help noticing why two beautiful women would be by themselves.” His voice strains over the bass of the music and the bustle of people.
Sarah hands her empty glass over, leaving a slice of lemon at the bottom. “How kind. My name is Sarah and this is Ava.” Her eyes fade slowly toward me, tilting her chin slightly down. Her thick lashes drop to her cheeks, fluttering like slow butterfly wings. Her signature move with men and the silent code of dual femme fatale.
Playing off the hint, I lean in, “We… um are both drinking Lemon Drop Vodkas,” I say softly. The other man steps forward, picking my glass off the table.
“I’m Leo and this is my cousin Renato.” He flashes his white, straight teeth as he reaches across the table. His soft hands hold my fore-fingers as he bends to kiss them, “It is a pleasure to meet you. I will be back, and I hope you and that pretty red dress will join me on the dance floor.” His eyes shoot to my boobs then back up before walking toward the bar.
What a fucking gentleman.
Sarah winks at me as she follows Renato into the wave of people. They dance in a trance, wading into the movement until they are swallowed whole. A shift in my body made me wriggle nervously with the silky material of my dress like someone or something was boring its eyes into me. I look to the second floor, testing to see if my keepers are watching their property. Stepan and Roman are talking, while women dance with the other men.
Roman has his eyes on me as Stepan’s would trail off and back again, casually and unbothered. The dark area hid their eyes, leaving only blackness with the occasional flash of red and purple party lights. Roman is like a statue holding his glass of dark liquor, resting it on the top of his thigh. He did not flinch or show any hint of sway in his eyes as Stepan continues to talk into his ear.
My lip slightly curls, “Fucking creeps,” I say under my breath, looking away as I stand from the table. I want to give into my urge of anger, so I start to walk toward the metal staircase. My mind catches up to my emotions, stopping at the sight of Leo bringing Sarah and me our drinks.
Fucking leave it Ava.
“Thank you, Leo.” I focus on my velvety deliverance, wishing I could give those ass-hats a middle finger instead, but I know I wouldn’t. Sarah swoops in quickly, grabbing her drink as Leo hands me the other. He pays no mind to her, inching closer to me.
His white shirt glows under the black light as we start to sway to the music. Backing me into the wave of the dance floor, he places his hands on my waist alternating feet with me. I was ready for the music and movement to swallow me whole at this point if just to get away from my mind.
I swing my hips against his waist, sipping the fresh lemon vodka as it sweetly burns my throat. Leo was not a good dancer, by any means, but his soft hands made my skin weep for more. The scent of aftershave and his sweet smile is elating. He keeps his hands on my waist as he circles to my backside, grinding himself into me. I suck my drink dry as I lean into him. His hands run down my sides as I lay the back of my head onto his chest, losing myself in the continuous beat.
The bass flushes my mind blank to where there is nothing tethering me to my sorrows, my obligations, or my identity. Leo brushes his hand over my abdomen and reaches for the empty glass. I have never been with a man that has ever stayed around. Sex has always been me trying to fill whatever urge I had, to let go, but I was never able to like this music. Leo turns me around, growing closer to my face. His radiating heat claws at my consciousness to his sweaty forehead.
One of Leo’s hands is around my hip as his face begins to trace slowly in my vision. The outline of his square face blurs, meshing into the flashing lights. My breath becomes shallow and my arms heavy like lead. Dizziness rocks me as I try to keep myself up, like the thump of the bass was actually going to swallow me whole. My slur of words make Leo narrow his eyes, watching me with intent. His hands press hard against my ass as he pulls me into him. My eyes roll as my legs start to give under me. I lock my knees to keep myself up, pulling slightly away from Leo.
Drinking alcohol of any kind is not much of a pass-time hobby of mine. Maybe the two pints of burning lemon were not the best idea, but I have never felt this drunk so quickly. I push away from Leo, swaying as I try to keep my balance.
Where is Sarah and why is this club so fucking hot?
I shove past the couples and movement, trying to find air. The bile in my stomach flames to my throat. I didn’t have time to find Sarah. I feel like I am going to throw up in front of all of these people. By pure luck, a green-lit hallway in the corner has a hanging bathroom sign.
I knock myself through the door and walk toward the mirror, slamming my tiny purse on the counter. I hover over the sink, as I press my palms down, locking my arms straight. Looking in the mirror, my face is foreign and my eyes are blank.
And everything went black.