Chapter 10 Nameless #2
On December 29, he came without a phone call. By this point, he may as well have had a key. Two large blue and white checkered bags hung off his arms, and I followed him curiously to the kitchen as he told Mama about his day. Inside were foods we probably wouldn’t otherwise see in our entire lives.
Pomegranates, Baltic sausage, black caviar, pineapple, and an assortment of cheeses piled up on the tabletop as he proudly paraded them in front of Mama. She hadn’t even seen the marbled steaks yet.
It was generous, and very thoughtful, and when he glanced at me with that satisfied expression, I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around him, kissing him on the cheek—right there in front of Mama (she was kind enough to pretend she didn’t see).
But he winced, and stiffened. His Adams apple moved in a hard gulp. Even his smile was gone.
My joy quickly turned into mortifying embarrassment, and I left the kitchen before anyone could point it out.
I was nearly crying, and pretended to look out the frosty window in the living room when I felt him behind me.
“Don’t cry,” he said, and his arms wrapped around my waist from behind. “Katya don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re crying.”
I was, but there was no way he could see that because I wasn’t facing him and I would be damned if I let him know that.
“It’s not the time for some things,” he said, leaning his chest against my back and pulling me in. “I am sorry, Kotik. Don’t cry.”
I wiped my cheek before I remembered I wasn’t crying, and his arms tightened around me.
“Is it because Mama was there?” I squeaked, afraid I’d crack, and then it wouldn’t stop, and I would be ugly and puffy-eyed on top of being unwanted for the rest of the day.
“No,” he said. “You’ll understand someday.”
“Will I?” I snapped, the anger coming on so unexpectedly that it couldn’t have been anything but the cumulative frustration of his telling me nothing for months.
Nothing. I wanted to yell, maybe even slap him if I was feeling dramatic.
But he held me tightly, not allowing me to turn around to face him.
After a pause, he said, “Trust.”
And that was all I got on the subject, but he didn’t let me mope in peace.
He stayed until evening, not quite late enough to count as overnight in Mama’s eyes, but late enough that she’d already put Maxim to bed and retired to her bedroom to read questionable novellas with shirtless, long-haired men on the covers.
I turned off the lights, leaving only the speckled green and red bulbs glowing on the tree.
The glass ornaments amplified their reflection into something brilliant dispersing among the branches.
Vitali sat on the floor, leaning against the blanket-covered radiator with his long legs stretched out before him, leaving hardly any room for me.
One might think it was intentional, because when I moved to sit beside him, he caught a hold of my waist, and his hand clamped tight against my mouth to stifle the yelp as he wrestled (ha!) me down.
The floor shuttered, and the ornaments softly clinked as they swayed.
I tried to hide my laughter as he rolled on top, hovering above me braced only by a knee and his forearm.
A handful of fir needles stuck in the fine fibers of his sweater, and in his hair.
I unconsciously reached to pick them out, but paused, my hand less than a centimeter from his cheek.
Everything went still, broken only by the twinkling lights and soft hiss of the bundled radiator.
The way his eyes were on me, and only me, brought warmth to my cheeks. But after what happened, I didn’t want to risk touching and having him recoil. My heart could not handle any more that day.
We were motionless, and then he broke his gaze away, letting his eyes drift to his hand over my lips. He wasn’t quick to let go, moving his thumb against the swell of them instead—unhurriedly dragging my red lipstick until his fingers firmly cupped my jaw.
He took in a slow, uneven breath as his thumb pressed to the corner of my mouth, forcing my lips to part. I let my eyes drift closed, and he let out a single ragged breath, the kind that breaks all restraint in a man.
And rolled onto his back.
Vitali tucked an arm under his head, adamantly staring at the ceiling. He did not blink once as I propped myself up on an elbow, lightly touching my cheek where I could feel the gritty texture of the smeared Dark Cherry No4 I put on that day.
I didn’t mean to—but my eyes flickered down to the denim pulled taut against his inner thigh. It caught me off-guard, as if I was a school girl who had never seen a cock before.
God—but why was my heartbeat in my throat.
He wasn’t fully hard, but the fabric struggled against his size. Thick, and so terrifyingly proportional to the rest of him.
He exhaled through his nose, and I snapped my attention back to his face before he caught me admiring the way his pants bulged.
God forbid. Katya wasn’t supposed to be this girl. But I was.
“Swallow,” he murmured.
I choked. “What?”
“The chocolates,” he said, giving a light nod.
I followed his eyes. Little gold wrappers with purple swallows in flight. He freed a hand from beneath his head and plucked one off the fir branches above us.
“I liked these when I was a kid,” he said, working the twisted wrapper open between his thumb and index finger. “Didn’t see a lot of candy.”
Instead of popping it into his mouth, he held it out to me. The thing was hardly bigger than a pinkie.
“Ey,” he grunted when I reached for it. “Half.”
I held the laugh in my throat, my body shaking from the efforts, as I struggled to break it in two while he held on to the other end. I succeeded, but it was smeared all over our fingers and could hardly be called chocolate anymore.
“You can pick one next, Kotik,” he said, gazing across the edible ornaments. “I know you don’t like chocolate.”
I scooted closer to get a better vantage point. Many of the good ones were gone, courtesy of Maxim.
“Are the swallows the ones you liked best?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s what I had.”
Well, there was only one way to go, then. He was right, I didn’t like chocolate, but always made one exception. That was what I pulled off its string on one of the bottom branches where my brother didn’t think to check.
“Bird’s milk?” Vitali squinted at the shiny square wrapping.
“It’s the only one I like. The inside is the best part. Try it.”
He had to use both hands to handle the fragile gold wrapping, then stared at the exposed candy while I watched his expression.
“And you like these.”
What a strangely unwarranted amount of surprise, I didn’t even think he knew I didn’t like chocolate.
“Half,” I said, lifting it out of his fingers.
His hooded eyes rested half closed as he watched me bite it, and I couldn’t help but imagine sharing it with our mouths against each other’s, feeling the sweetness melt between us and leaving behind only the taste of the kiss.
Of him. Of rolling on top of him and feeling him, hard against me.
But not that day.
That day, I broke it in half, destroying the soft center and giving us both something ugly and crushed. But still just as sweet.
* * *
Before he left, citing his favorite excuse of ‘business’ at even that late hour, he pulled me aside in the hallway.
“One more thing,” he said, and pulled an encyclopedia-sized gray box out of the bag, and held it out to me. “For you.”
“It’s not New Year’s yet,” I protested, but took the box anyway. “And you’re supposed to wrap it.”
He chuckled and leaned against the door. “It’s not that kind of present. If I give it to you on New Year’s Eve, it will defeat the purpose. You have to wear it for me.”
He couldn’t have said anything else to catch my attention the way that did. ‘For me’ had become the magic words to make me putty in his hands. So, I opened it.
Inside, the champagne fabric picked up the hallway light like it was fluid. I gasped, and couldn’t help but let my fingers run over the heavy silk gazar. Vitali took hold of the box and allowed me to pull the whole dress out.
It was a thing of beauty like I’d never seen, not even on TV.
The meticulously stitched bodice was fitted with stiff lining and I had no doubt would hug me like a corset.
The rest of the fabric flowed with an underlining of sparkle as I turned the dress over.
Whatever I’d been mad about was immediately forgiven. I could barely remember my own name.
“You like it?” His voice startled me, and when I glanced up, he was tenderly studying my face. Preserving the moment.
“Where am I supposed to wear this?” I whispered and touched what had to be Swarovski crystals sewn into the neckline. “I can’t wear this in front of Mama, she will kill me. It’s too short.”
“Would it help if I got her a matching one?”
I laughed, but it was a nervous laughter. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it.
“Vitali,” I whispered, and had to swallow the tears again. If I tried to kiss him and give in to the pleading of every molecule in my body, he’d hurt my feelings and pull away again—I knew that. But God, I wanted nothing more. He must have seen it on my face, because how could he not?
“You can thank me by wearing it tomorrow. Tell Mama I asked you to, I think I’ve softened her up enough over the past few months to earn it. But I have to go, Kotik. I’m glad you like it. Your legs will look phenomenal.”
I was still staring at it when he left.
It would be ruined come New Year’s Day.
* * *
About Russia
Bird’s milk – a soft chocolate covered marshmallow candy
ZAGS - a government civil registry office that kept track of birth and death, marriage and divorce registrations, name changes, and any official documents and certificates for these events
About Bratva: “Brotherhood” emerged during the post-Soviet transition. Its structure was built imitating and including the “Vory” prison organized crime culture that has been around much, much longer.
It is worth mentioning that Vory v zakone (“thieves-in-law”) is the top-tier leadership in the broader organization of bratva groups.