Russian Tattoos Obsession (8 page)

“I want to take you out. Let’s get you cleaned up. We’ll go someplace nice.”

“Dinner is ready.” I picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the chili.

Vladimir put his hand on top of mine, scooped up a bite, and gave it a taste. He pursed his lips. “It’s awful, angel.”

I laughed, surprised by his candor. It did kind of smell like the inside of my tennis bag.

“There’s your beautiful smile.” He picked up my hands and lifted them to his heart. “For me, let me take you out to a nice dinner?”

Awesome. Call me a whore, point out you know my darkest secret, and then make everything better by buying me dinner.

“That’s sweet of you to offer, but I didn’t bring anything to change into today.”

He held out my arms and examined my hideous green and yellow tracksuit. “Hmm, I might have something for you to wear.” He put his hands on my shoulders and steered me out of the kitchen. He turned me around in front of the guest bedroom. “As I said, I couldn’t think of anything but you all weekend. I told Boris to pick you up so I could see you, but as my
sovietnik
he refused.”

I wrinkled my forehead.

“I had to keep myself busy.” He opened the door, put his hand on the small of my back, and led me around the corner to a walk-in closet. On the floor, there were boxes upon boxes of fancy shoes, expensive purses filled the cubbies, and gorgeous designer dresses lined the walls.

All that stuff must have cost a duffel bag. I had to think of the best way to respond. I needed to turn this around. I felt much safer around Nice Boss than I did around the devil-eyed
pakhan
.

“What do you think, angel? Can you find a dress to wear tonight?”

Game Plan Change Up: I hugged him. “You’re too good to me.”

“You deserve it all and more.”

I pulled back. “It’ll take me a while to get ready. I need to wash my hair.”

“I’ll wait a lifetime for you.”

Chapter 14

Purr

Out of all the glamorous dresses to choose from, I decided on a long, dark red velvet one with a slit up the side. I paired it with Prada heels with straps that wrapped around my ankles and a gorgeous Gucci cross-body purse.

I admired my reflection and wondered if Ryan would recognize me as girlfriend material if he saw me dressed as a sophisticated woman rather than a buddy-buddy gym rat sporting baggy sweats and a long scraggly ponytail—my official weekday uniform. Then I wondered how Vladimir would see me. Was I just his precious Sophia’s spunky, fucked-up little sister who needed to be rescued…or in some messed up way was I her
replacement
?

I emerged from the bedroom with my hair waving over my shoulders. Boris eyed my attire and gave me his
look
. I put my hand on my hip. “Boss
picked it out.”

“Ah, she speaks.”

I flashed him a sarcastic grin.

“He’s out back.” Boris held up a full-length shearling coat. I slipped my arms into the sleeves, and he issued a warning over my shoulder: “Behave yourself tonight.”

“If you’re referring to alcohol consumption, I won’t be drinking. No one serves underage girls outside of this house.”

“If you say so, dear.”

Out on the patio, the heat lamps were ablaze, and the scent of burning firewood filled the air. Vladimir changed out of his work clothes and donned a slick black European style suit with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned a few notches—he
did
have tats on his chest along with a couple gold chains around his neck. A blue-eyed inked devil peeked at me from behind his shirt.

“You’re stunning, Carter.” His gaze moved slowly up and down my body. “Something is missing, though.” Vladimir held up his hand and dangling from his finger was a gold choker encrusted with champagne diamonds. “It accentuates your beautiful eyes.” He motioned for me to turn around.

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could utter a word—

“I insist.”

I gave in and lifted my hair so he could clasp it around my neck. Once it was secure, I let my hair down and brought my hands up to my neck to feel the necklace. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you.”

My heart pounded and my stomach was all fluttery from the Molotov cocktail of emotions swirling in my gut. I’d been so lonely and depressed the last few days—because of Vladimir—and now I was filled with nervous excitement because he was treating me like his most prized possession.

He escorted me through the house and when we reached the kitchen, he lifted the car keys from the drawer. “This is a Ferrari night. Want to drive?”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Ivanov.” I resisted his insane idea all the way to the driver’s side. I gave up the struggle then, knowing I wouldn’t win. “I don’t have much experience.”

“I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” He sat me down and adjusted the seat so I could reach the pedals. He slid in on the passenger side and positioned my hands on the wheel.

“Put your foot on the brake and push the button.”

I did what he said. The engine purred.

“What do I do now?”

“Relax, angel. Listen to the sound of the engine. When it’s ready to go, you’ll feel it. The car has a mind of its own.”

He was right. Moments later, the tone of the purr registered lower. “Now?”

“You’re a natural.”

“Where’s the stick?”

“No stick. To reverse, hold down the brake and tap the paddles.” After a few more instructions, I rolled the Ferrari out of the garage, tapped it in drive, and pulled out onto the main road. Damn, it was intimidating. I felt like a jockey holding back a thoroughbred from breaking for the finish line, but after a few minutes, I got accustomed to the rhythm of a fine machine and got the beast under control.

When we rolled up to the valet, I spied the Cadillac parked up front. Boris must have left while we were out on the patio. I had the impression the big guy was not just Vladimir’s
sovietnik
. He was more like a bodyguard and was there to keep an eye on him—or
me
.

As we breezed through the dining area, all heads turned to us. Vladimir wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and we followed the manager past a couple of jumbo-sized bouncers and up a flight of stairs which led to a bar area.

Boris was there with a teacup in his hand and a bottle of vodka on the table in front of him. He was dealing cards to some old guys while another dozen or so seedy-looking Russians filled out the room. There were girls there, too, wearing gobs of make-up, low cut dresses, and ridiculously high heels. I jumped when I spotted Mr. Cusimano seated at the bar, locking lips with a busty brunette who was definitely
not
Mrs. Cusimano.

Boris and his cohorts took notice as Vladimir and I passed through on our way up another flight of stairs to a fancy private dining room on the third floor. Artwork featuring Russian architecture lined the walls, shelves held an eclectic mix of shabby chic antiques and nesting dolls, and the room was illuminated by candelabras.

The boss had made it absolutely clear Friday night he was not interested in me That Way. Remembering his look of disgust flushed me with humiliation, but this setting seemed a bit romantic for an oligarch/protégé kind of dinner.              

Was that why Boris had admonished me when he got a gander of my wardrobe choice? Was this a test?

The maître d’ pulled out my chair and scooted me in. “How do you say thank you?” I asked Vladimir.

“
Spasibo
.”

“
Spasibo
.” I smiled at the sweet-faced old man.             

Vladimir sat down across from me and set a napkin in his lap. “I hope you’re hungry. The chef is preparing a traditional Russian feast—
lacto-vegetarian,
of course.”

I knew what he was doing. He was trying to
fix
me.

A couple bites of fancy food and I’ll be good as new, right?
Well, it doesn’t work that way. Food isn’t the problem nor is it the solution and despite what my shrink says, I’m not punishing myself, I’m not trying to get attention, I’m not engaging in self-destructive behavior…

A server set out a spread of pickles, skinny marinated mushrooms, sauerkraut, and black bread with a crock of butter, and a small dish of salt, and the waiter swooped in and set down a line of shots each tinted a different color. There was no way the staff would have the nerve to card me.

I wondered if the boss had gotten a head injury over the weekend and suffered from acute memory loss. “Is this a joke?” I crossed my arms, ticked he had the nerve to set me up like that again.

“Infused vodka. The house specialty. I want you to have the best of everything.”

Okay, I felt like an ass. I could tell I’d insulted him. I gave in. “What are the flavors?”

“Pineapple, cucumber and dill, and horseradish.”

“Horseradish? For real?”

“Want to try?”

“I’m going to have to work my way up to that one. Let’s start with pineapple.” I pointed to the golden-tinted one.

“First,” he said, “pick up a bread slice. Tonight, you will drink like a Russian.”

He lifted the dark rye bread to his nose and sniffed. I followed his lead. Then, he buttered his bread and sprinkled some salt on it. I did the same and set the bread down on the plate.

Vladimir raised his glass to mine and made a toast in Russian.

I held my drink back so he couldn’t clink it. “Not until you tell me what it means.”

“Something good.” His glass hovered in the air.

I gave in. “To something good.” We clinked glasses and downed our shots.

Chapter 15

The Pakhan

Vladimir took a bite of bread. I tore mine into bite-sized pieces and glanced around the room, taking in the fabulous décor. “You pick the next one.” I pointed to the shots.

He picked up the horseradish infused vodka. “This one.”

My throat still burned from the last shot. Since he had made the first toast, I held my glass up and initiated the next one.
“
Za zdorov'ye.
”

He clinked my glass, grinning at what I suspected was a horrid accent, and repeated the sentiment. We downed our shots. It tasted good, but my nose burned like when I put too much wasabi on my cucumber roll. “How do you say, ‘the vodka is nice?’”

“
Vodka khoroshaya
.”

“Say it again.”

He obliged.

“
Vodka khoroshaya
,
Pakhan
. That’s what Boris calls you.
Pakhan
means ‘boss,’ right?”

The truth: I’d looked it up. Specifically, it meant
godfather
as in
crime boss
.

“You catch on quick, angel.”

I picked from the appetizer tray and arranged little piles of marinated veggies on my plate. He wouldn’t stop staring at me. I felt self-conscious and was relying on the alcohol to loosen me up so I could eat something. “Where did you meet my sister?”

“It was a long time ago.”

I worried I might ruin the light mood, but I pushed anyway. “Dad packed away all of Sophia’s pictures and never talks about her. I’m his only reminder she ever existed.”

Vladimir brought a napkin to his face and patted his mouth. “That’s why he’s so protective of you. Your resemblance to Sophia is—”

“Haunting?”

“Remarkable.”

“Do you see her when you look at me?”

His lips parted, and the answer was on the tip of his tongue. Then the waiter interrupted when he delivered trays of food: radish cakes, baked cheesy bread, eggplant caviar, and a beet and kidney bean salad. Vladimir welcomed the distraction and turned his focus on filling my plate with a sample of all the
zakuski
on the table. I still had internal bleeding from the verbal lashing he’d sliced me with early Saturday morning, but he was extending the olive branch and I needed to take it.

Vladimir had apologized and was honestly trying to make it up to me—crime boss or not, the gesture was sweet and genuine. I thanked him and plunged my fork into a saucy beet thing. I stabbed at it trying to make it small enough to swallow without chewing. I set down my fork and picked up my water glass.

Unsure of what my problem was, Vladimir lifted his shoulders and took a bite of the same dish I’d hacked to pieces. “It’s good. No meat. No fish. No eggs.”

I put down my glass when my hands began to tremble from being so nervous. “Stop trying to
fix
me.” I tossed my napkin over my plate, bolted outside to the scenic patio that overlooked downtown, and welcomed the chilly breeze that cooled my clammy skin. As soon as I reached the railing, Vladimir wrapped his suit jacket around my shoulders as if he could extinguish my flame of insanity. I shook my head. “I’m so sorry—”

“It must be lonely to grow up without your big sister.” He turned me around and tried to rest my head on his chest, but I stepped back.

“I felt lightheaded from the alcohol. I’m fine now.” I took his hand and tried to drag him back inside. He didn’t move.

“Coney Island.”

I turned around.

“Sophia worked at a pizzeria near the boardwalk.”

“She was a senior in high school when she worked there.”

“And I was a seventeen-year-old Russian immigrant, living the American Dream.”

I mirrored his smile, encouraging him to continue.

“I’d never seen a more beautiful young woman in my life. Her golden eyes, her long, blonde hair waving in the wind.” He looked up at the stars as he conjured up the memory. “When her shift ended, I approached her. The moment our eyes met, I knew we would be together forever.”

“Sophia and I were very close, and she never mentioned you.”

“She had planned to tell you everything, but our lives were interrupted when my work took me back to Russia. I had to stay longer than expected.”

“Because you went to prison?” I lowered his hand and pointed to the tattoo of a watch on his wrist visible under his Rolex. “Time served. I noticed it when you took your watch off the other day. I Googled it.”

I worried he might be mad, but he actually seemed impressed. I picked up his other hand and continued. “This cross means you served one prison term. This ring tattoo of a crown means you’re the
pakhan
, the Russian letters across your fingers spell out your nickname ‘B-O-C-C’ which translates to ‘Boss,’ the five dots represent four guard towers and you in the middle. I don’t know what all the other stuff means, but Boris has way more ink than you do.”

He squeezed my hands and lowered them down to my side. “Don’t dig too deep. It’s not a pretty story. I wish you’d let me in on your secrets. So much pain behind your eyes.”

“So, by the time you got out of prison, she was
gone
?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

He smiled weakly, but I could tell he was holding back. “I think of her every day. Seeing you at my house the night we met, I couldn’t help but wonder if—”

“If what?”

“Let’s get you out of the cold.” Vladimir put his arm around my shoulders, and I inhaled his heavenly cologne as he guided me back inside. Instead of sitting when we reached our table, he spoke to the manager in Russian. The guy nodded and led us back to the kitchen. At first, I didn’t get it. I followed him curiously.

Our waiter cleared off a prep counter, and brought in two bar stools. Vladimir guided me to sit and scooted his chair next to me. The manager delivered a bottle of wine and set it on the table along with a corkscrew. Vladimir went to the bar and got a couple of glasses. He opened the wine, poured our drinks, and clinked my glass.

“Like home.” He winked.

Finally, I understood. Our first dinner together in the formal dining room was noticeably painful for me. Sitting down at a fancy table and staring at each other didn’t fly in my comfort zone. He’d picked up on my apprehension and moved our gathering spot to the kitchen. We ate
zakuski
standing at the bar, sipping drinks, and talking—like a Russian family.

He was nothing if not thoughtful. “Thank you,” I said, not specifying but he knew anyway.

The chef gave us a cooking lesson as she prepared the orders. She even taught me how to grill kabobs, which I managed to do without gagging. Hearing the meat sizzle and watching the fat bubble up and melt down, feeding the flames, usually made my stomach turn. I guess Vladimir was the distraction I needed to maintain my sanity.

He even ate, like, three skewers of meat and veggies and said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. I’d had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t really a vegetarian. He’d dropped a few pounds since I’d become his personal chef. We took a break from cooking to sample the food and to enjoy our wine like we did at home, and before the clock bonged
curfew
, the tension had lifted.

Vladimir and I were, “Over our bullshit,” as Boris would say.