Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3) (4 page)

When she stops outside of the schools gates, I am surprised. Not only did she walk the girl here this morning, she is walking her home as well. Granted, the neighborhood is shit, but the girl is old enough to walk the few blocks home without her mommy at her side.

The girl greets Tati with a smile, but they do not embrace. I find their encounter odd, wondering if they should embrace as she is still a young girl. I follow them back to the apartment. Once they are a block away from the school, Tatyana wraps her arm around the girl’s shoulder and she leans into her side, welcoming the touch.

It is lovely.

I didn’t know how it would make me feel, to see my ex-lover and my child together, but I enjoy the sight, even from a distance. I find that my heart softens a touch. If nothing else, even if Tati has been a cunt for keeping my girl from me, she obviously loves her. That is something I can appreciate.

I don’t know that my anger will ever dissipate toward Tatyana, but seeing the two girls together, I think that maybe, in time, it could. Then perhaps we could live amicably, separately, but not with hate in our hearts for each other.

Today, I still hate her, and I will tomorrow as well. But maybe one day I won’t.

I am definitely being followed, and now, so is my daughter. I shiver as I pull Kiska closer to my side and I quicken my stride.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice laced with confusion.

“Nothing, I just need to get you home. You have homework and I made dinner. I thought tonight we could enjoy our meal together,” I lie. She rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything. I hope that I am convincing.

I ask her questions to distract myself from my obvious stalker situation. I ask about her friends, about her teachers and her classes. Today she had art and music, two of her absolute favorite classes, aside from math. She is Kirill’s child for certain. I cannot carry a tune, nor can I tell the difference between a work composed by Bach or Beethoven, and I am terrible with numbers. Kirill, however, is a mathematical genius and adores classical music.

I hurry us along upstairs and safely in the apartment. Though, if a weirdo tried to break in, it wouldn’t be difficult. Our locks aren’t indestructible and our building isn’t even remotely close to being secure.

Once we are inside, I feel a bit better; but the feeling still lingers—somebody is watching me, following me. A shiver runs through me as I plate our food before I warm it up in the microwave. Lasagna. Not the fanciest meal, but hearty and warm.

Together we eat, my daughter and me. I talk to her. I engage in this moment with her, because I know the older she gets, these will be few and far between. She is already embarrassed of me at times. No longer am I her mommy, but just mom. Soon, she’ll not want to even be seen with me in public. I never want that day to come, but I know that it surely will.

“Do you think we could look for my papa one day soon?” she asks out of nowhere. My head snaps up.

“Why do you ask?”

“Neveah said that I didn’t have a dad because you were a slut and you don’t even know who he is. I told her she didn’t know what she was talking about, that I knew exactly who my dad was. But she called me a liar and a bastard,” she admits, looking down in her lap.

My fork clatters to my plate and I rush to my baby girl’s side before I wrap my arms around her.

“Kiska Barysheva Orlova you listen to me, yeah?” I ask wrapping my hands around her shoulders and giving her a slight shake so that she’ll look at me.

When she does, I see wetness shining in her eyes. That little bitch made my baby cry and I have half a mind to call her bitch of a mother, too.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“You are not a bastard. Your father and I loved each other very much. In fact, I have loved no man as I love your father—not ever in my life. He is my soul mate. If you want me to try and find him for you, then I will. But not for some little brat in your school, okay?”

“Really? But you always said that it wasn’t safe,” she murmurs. I shake my head.

“I was scared, but I think—I think I could have been wrong,” I admit.

It is hard admitting that I could have been wrong, to admit I could have been wrong for a decade to my own child.
It is humbling
.

As a parent, I try to always be the best example I can be for my child, to make all of the right decisions. But I can’t help feeling that I have failed my baby. I have failed her in the worst way, and that makes me sick.

Maybe it is time to try and find Kirill. Not only for her, but for myself, as well. If he does not want me, then maybe he will want her. I can’t help but think that my time with love is over, but my daughter deserves to be loved, and he will love her.

Mrs. Hernandez shows a few hours later and I kiss my baby goodnight before I grab my duffle bag and leave for work. Tomorrow I will start hunting for Kirill. I’ll start where I met him, in New York. Hopefully by lunch I will at least have his number.

It may take me several weeks to work up the nerve to actually
call
him, but Kiska, she needs this, and I aim to give my daughter everything in this world that she needs.

T
ATYANA WALKS TO THE
bus stop and climbs inside. I watch as men ogle her from their perched spots against buildings. They look to be drug dealers, but they’re watching her intently. Her patterns are too routine. Any person could watch her for less than a week to figure her out. I already have. I don’t like where she’s living, where she has my daughter living.

It is time to let my presence be known.

But not until later.

Not until after she’s off of work.

No, I’ll watch her until then.

I’ll wait.

I watch as she walks in through the back entrance of the club safely before I make my way toward the front. The bouncer at the door is different tonight, a big man with dark mocha skin and short clipped hair. He takes my money without even looking at my face. If I did something inside of this building, he would never remember what I looked like. Piss poor security.

Once I am inside, I walk to the bar and shiver at the thought of drinking that piss they refer to as Vodka. Instead, I order a beer. It’s equally as disgusting, but at least it isn’t insulting.

The house lights dim as the stage lights brighten and then my Tati is in the center of the platform. She’s dressed in a shimmery bra and thong panties, both completely see-through.

“Fuck me, that’s the hottest bitch I’ve ever seen. She’s the only reason I come here,” the man next to me says.

My chest swells a bit with some emotion similar to pride. She is beautiful—exquisite, to be exact—and the fact that other men desire her only makes me that much prouder.

I am not a man that likes to hide my woman. I want to show her off, to show other’s what I have and what they cannot. The flashier the better. I wasn’t always this way.

When I was younger, I wanted to keep her hidden from the outside world. There was a reason for it then. That reason being a man named,
Ivan Chekov
, who is no longer alive. Now, I want to show the world my beautiful possession. And she will be mine again.

Tatyana bares her body for the audience, and men throw money and whistle at her. I continue to nurse my one disgusting beer and watch. Other girls take the stage, but my eye’s aren’t on them. No, they’re on Tati giving lap dances, something I did not stick around for the last time I was here. She’s conversing and flirting, men’s hands on her bare breasts and ass.

That
makes me angry.

Men watching her is one thing; their hands on her body, another.

I leave the club, unable to stay for a moment longer, and
I lie in wait
. There is an alley between the exit and her bus stop. I back my car into the alleyway and wait for her.

Tonight, she will finally see me.

Tonight, she will answer questions and she will answer for herself.

It is time for her to own up to her actions from years ago.

I watch as the bouncers and dancers file out of the building. Tatyana is last. She’s talking to the bartender, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable. Her body is rigid and her movements jerky. When he reaches for her, she takes a step back and shakes her head before she turns and quickly begins to walk away.

I watch the poor bastard stare after her for a beat before he throws his hands up and turns away from her. She is the only one walking in my direction, and I can’t help but grin as I step out of the car.

I lean against the dirty, brick wall of the pitch black alleyway as I wait for her to walk by. I hear her breath hitch as I wrap an arm around her waist and another around her mouth, pulling her into the alley and slamming her back against the wall.

I press my weight against her and look into her eyes. She looks frightened, terrified, her eyes darting around and her body trembling—she looks fucking gorgeous.

The man is staring at me intently. My heart races inside of my chest as I take him in. He’s going to rape me, I know it. He doesn’t say a word as his eyes scan mine. They’re dark, almost black, and cold. His face is covered in a short but full, dark beard and his hair is a little long, a little unkempt.

Then he opens his mouth and speaks. My heart goes from feeling as though it is racing to feeling as though it has completely stopped.

“Tati,” he murmurs.

It is him.

Kirill Baryshev.

He’s here.

He’s found me.

He removes his hand from my mouth once he realizes that I recognize him. My body sags a bit in relief that I’m not about to be raped and murdered in a shitty alleyway.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. My first words to the love of my life in a decade.

“I could ask you the same thing, since I identified your burnt body,” he barks.

I jump at the venom in his words. He’s so angry, but what he’s said makes no sense. I left him, yes, but I don’t understand what he’s talking about.

“What?” I ask in confusion.

“You’re cute when you’re acting,” he says as he tucks a piece of stray hair behind my ear.

He’s still close, his body pressed against mine, and I can’t help the reaction of want that runs through me. His words confuse me about as much as his presence, but my body doesn’t care. It wants him, every piece of him.