Kotik

Chapter 21 Moscow

Moscow

“Allo?” said the woman on the other end of the line.

“Irina Ivanovna, is Elena home?”

Everything had been so hectic that I’d missed the mandatory weekly calls with Elena. I hadn’t even given her my new number. Either of them.

“Who is this?”

“Katya.”

“Katushka! No, she is not home. She has been working so much. I can let her know when she gets back, but she is on the overnight shifts. Maybe tomorrow,” her mama said.

“Please. I have a new number—could you please pass it on to her?”

When I hung up the phone, I remained very still, as if Elena would call back any second.

Friends called each other. They supported each other.

They told each other when they moved into a mafia cache house and found an arsenal full of guns.

When they did unspeakable things on the hoods of expensive cars while holding a gun.

Perhaps it was best I didn’t tell her. I might be in it deep, but there was no reason to drag her through the mud, given that she had her own issues. I’d already gotten too many people involved.

The cellphone rang and I nearly fell out of the chair. My idiot brain thought it would be Elena.

“Allo?” I squeaked.

“Kotik, it’s me—I just got in. Hello. I need you to do something, and do it very quickly.”

The last phone call I had with Vitali was a week ago, and I’d hung up on him.

“Hello. Alright.”

“You’re still angry, that’s fine. We will talk about it at a different time. I need you to get in a taxi and go to a store in the City Center called ‘Silk Lotus.’”

His tone had me moving at once. Mama peeked out from the living room to see what the rustling was about, but she did not question my comings and goings.

I still thought of myself as living in her home, but this wasn’t her apartment.

That changed things between us in a way I didn’t like.

Hurricane Olga Nikolaevna wasn’t meant to be a light drizzle on a gloomy day.

“What do I do there?” I wiggled an arm into a coat, trying to balance my purse strap and the cellphone.

“They’ll take your measurements, and then you’ll go next door. They’ll do your hair and whatever else you need.”

I paused, scrunching my nose. “You had me panicking—if this is your idea of—”

“It’s not an apology, Kotik. I just don’t know your measurements. They have to adjust the dress, and we only have a few hours before Sergei wants us across town.”

“Sergei?”

“Listen, I want to take credit—I do. But this is a work thing. It is very important. I’ll come get you from City Center and we will go directly there, so bring a bag to carry your clothes.”

* * *

I got the taxi, spent twenty minutes imagining what I was headed into as we drove across town, burst into the Silk Lotus, and spent another forty-five being poked and stabbed and muttered at.

It was hard to blame the nice (ha!) lady.

She was all done up with her red hair and tasteful eyeshadow, and here I was—disheveled with the remains of yesterday’s mascara still smeared under my eyes.

And yet, I was the one who came in with a pre-paid fortune, no doubt.

This kind of store—the kind with only one mannequin in the window and soft lighting—did not work on last-minute alterations for nothing.

The salon next door proved to be no more hospitable.

The nice (ha! ha!) lady there took one look at my clothes and made a sour ‘let’s get this over with’ face she wore for the rest of the time.

I thanked God for Vitali making the calls; otherwise, I don’t think she would have bothered to put in any effort.

Fortunately for me, when I left the chair, the car already pulled up into the ‘NO PARKING’ zone by the curb.

Was I mad at him for something? I could have sworn I recalled being angry, but it couldn’t have been at him.

Not the man who got out of the car, the street lamps hitting him like spotlights on a movie star.

He always appeared put together, but this was Vitali—all business—in his high-necked button-up that looked like something Parisian.

He paused on the sidewalk, taking in the building where the shops had been built into the first floor. New to him, so he hadn’t taken another woman here before.

The hairdresser saw him too, and her expression grew pouty as he strolled toward the door, and dropped into a deep scowl when he entered and the first thing he did was smile at me.

The pleasure I experienced at her reaction was sexual.

“Kotik, you are stunning.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Did you like the dress I chose for you?”

It was hard to look away from him. Seeing him daily—and then his being gone for so long brought about a new appreciation for his good looks.

He wasn’t just a good-looking man showing up with flowers anymore.

It was my Vitali, waiting for me, coming back to me.

Looking at me in a way no other man ever had.

But I still found the guns.

I had to remind myself that this romance did not belong to me. It was his. The apartment, the dress, even that spiteful hairdo—they were all his.

The collar I still wore was his.

I was—

…I wanted to be his.

“I haven’t gotten to look at it fully, yet,” I admitted. “There were a lot of alterations. I hope they’re done…”

“They’ll be done.”

And they were.

The dress was stunning, but not in the way my New Year’s gown was.

Still, gorgeous with black lace atop silk, off shouldered and (of course) very short.

The feel of it was all luxury, and when Vitali helped me zip up the back, his fingers lingered, running up my spine, to the nape of my neck, and across the gold of his collar.

For a moment, I thought he’d whisper something in my ear when he paused. His breath warmed my skin in a tide of anticipation. But he didn’t, instead letting out a low, appreciative growl. It rumbled through me, and all at once I understood the idiom of weakened knees.

God—he smelled like the kind of cologne they put in commercials with jazz music and a background of the Hollywood Hills.

Of course, he opened the car door for me.

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the gifts, but this was so last minute. I don’t even know where we’re going,” I said as he pulled out onto the road. “When did you even get back in town?”

“I would have given you more warning, but you did not return my calls, Kotik. There are only so many times I will dial the phone, but I will overlook that given the situation.”

I bit my tongue. Thanks. So kind of you.

The city lights reflected off his watch when he turned the steering wheel, and something about that was more glamorous than my dress and heels combined. I had a moment to reflect on it, because I did not speak again for some time.

“Some people are in town,” he conceded under his breath, but recovered his level tone before continuing. “Sergei’s bosses. If you ever hear people talk about ‘Moscow,’ that’s what they mean.”

“Sergei has bosses?”

“They operate on a bigger scale. Money laundering, foreign investments, healthcare privatization.”

Did I want to know this? My heart said no, but I asked anyway. “What is Sergei’s role in it?” I didn’t want to know about Sergei, but I couldn’t ask Vitali outright about his own.

He would probably tell you…

Because despite everything, he had been honest with me. He didn’t deny Elit. He didn’t try to pass on the responsibility for the guns when I first called him. Just said whatever it was, he’d take care of it. Instead of gratitude, I threw a fit.

He would tell me what he had to do with Moscow if I asked, but I wasn’t ready to ask.

“He’s an Avtoritet. The local Authority. Deals with the police and ensuring we don’t all go to prison.”

“So, they’re like mafia bosses?”

He laughed—genuinely laughed at me. “Kotik, there is no ‘mafia,’ what are these Western ideas?”

“It’s not a Western idea…”

“Have you ever heard of Vory v Zakone?” He didn’t wait for my answer, which was a good thing because I hadn’t. “They’re older than Kurov’s faction or anyone like Sergei. Probably the reason you are familiar with gulag tattoos. That’s who Moscow is, but you don’t need to mention it around company.”

“Oh.”

He patted my leg, then his hand slid higher to the hem of the dress. “You look beautiful, Kotik,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

The flutters in my stomach brought on a grin despite my uneasiness. “I missed you too…”

His fingers traced the lace, the pressure on my upper thigh bringing back warm memories of a wintry day. His taking what he wanted. Not allowing me release until he deemed me spent…

“You’ve spoken to Misha?” he asked.

I nodded, my thoughts derailed. He told me not to call Misha, and the idiotic part of me grew giddy at whatever punishment he’d think up for that.

Why was the idea of goading him on so appealing?

He didn’t like asking, and didn’t like giving choices, and maybe some part of me wanted to test how far I could get before his composure snapped… good things happened when he snapped…

And my thoughts were right back on track, more aware of his hand than ever.

“Good,” he said.

Fine. Didn’t want to fight anyway.

“I need you to understand the apartment was never meant to be permanent for you. I should have checked that it was ready.”

I’d already spent weeks blaming him for something he wasn’t even aware of, and the flutters disappeared at the thought. Now he was apologizing, and that made me a bad person.

“You rescued us from a bad situation when I needed it most.” I sighed, chewing on my cheek like it was my pride. “I have no right to say anything. I was just scared.”

“Katya,” he said sternly. “I don’t want to hear that again.

You always have the right to voice things with me.

Especially if you are scared—and I will always do my best to make sure you never feel this way.

But you have to understand, I am a part of a bigger organization.

Things go on in Kurov I am not privy to, and I prefer it.

You are mine—and this means I will give the world to you, but when it comes to my work, you have to be on my side.

No matter what. You see a problem, you call me, you let me take care of it.

If I tell you it’s not a good time—it’s not a good time. ”

“I know…”

“I don’t think you do. I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if I didn’t have to. You have to trust me. This was a simple thing, but there might be a time you get really scared, and you feel there is no way but to call the police. I can’t have you do that. Never the police. Say it.”

“Never the police,” I agreed. A year ago, the idea of my renouncing law enforcement would have been laughable.

“Good Kotik. Touch up your lipstick, we’re almost there.”

I flipped the sun visor down, and a face I did not recognize stared back at me. The amount of product she used cost more than all the make-up I had at home. I’d never be able to replicate it, because this wasn’t the same Katya anymore. My lipstick was the only thing I could call my own.

My Dark Cherry red. The one I wore before any of this came into my life. The one he smeared across my cheek on that December night. The one he liked.

He might have dressed me up, but even with this new, temporary face, it served as a reminder that he wanted me before all this.

It was so easy to paint him in the light of forcing me into the person he wanted.

So easy to make him the bad guy. But he didn’t take things away—he gave, and he gave generously.

Well, except the vodka. He took away the vodka.

“What is on your mind?” he asked.

“I don’t know…”

“Kotik, do not insult me. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“That you are very handsome,” I said, “and I am lucky to be with you.”

“Luck.” He grinned. “I am lucky to have found you, but it is not luck that you’re with me. You’re trying to avoid the subject.”

“Can I? Please, just this once?”

“Can you have a good time tonight if you do?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his chin, the corner of his mouth twitching into a frown. “I don’t like not knowing what you’re thinking. But we can talk about it later. After.”

I let out a measured sigh of relief, and tried my best not to let silence invade the space between us. “Why did Sergei want me there?”

“Whenever he has to entertain, he likes to bring out his most beautiful girls. Just to flaunt the options. Show the big guys his inventory—what they can have.”

“He wanted me there with the prostitutes?”

“Oh, no.” He grinned, and did not look away from the road. “I wanted you there so they could see what they can never have.”

* * *

About Russia:

Avtoritet – “Authority” referring to the local head of organized crime. Essentially a district manager

gulag – early prisons/forced labor camps that are credited with forming the early Vory v Zakone