Groaning internally, I turned, pasting a bright smile on my face. “What happened to ‘It’s time for your break, go put your feet up?’” I hiss to Arina, who’s giving me the same plastic grin.
“The entire head council of the Ghazaryan Bratva just showed up, that’s what happened,” she said, that unnerving social smile still in place. “Now, get your ass out there and be the adorable little thing they’re expecting because I want to live long enough to go on my date tonight.”
“Really? I get the Ghazaryan Bratva and you get Mikhail, the insanely hot bartender?” I say, “This is not a fair trade!”
She shoves me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades and I stumble slightly as I enter the dining room atDobro pozhalovat' domoy,which means ‘Welcome Home.’ Every Russian expatriate in Boston finds their way here soon enough. The food, the deep red leather booths, and the gold gilt ceiling bring a sense of Mother Russia, and even the most hardened of souls leave with a sense that all is right in the world.
Unfortunately, the Albanians currently clogging up my tables is not here to enjoy our flakypelmenior immerse themselves inour spectacular vodka-tasting menu. They’re here to show off their expensive suits that somehow look cheap, smoke horrible cigars against the restaurant’s rules, and make comments about my ass, or lack thereof.
These are not subtle men.
Actually, they’re complete bastards.
“Dobro pozhalovat',welcome, gentlemen.” My insincere social smile is pinned firmly on my face as they all look up. “Can I start you off with somepirozhkior a tray of pickled vegetables?”
“I think it’s time for you to dump this shit job and sit on my lap,goxha zuskë.” The Head Douchebag in Charge adjusts his pathetic erection in his pants. It is not subtle.
I don’t know much Albanian, but I’m pretty sure he just called me something nasty.
“How about drinks?” I carry on, my smile a bit tighter.
There’s more insulting commentary, and finally, the smirking idiots deign to order their meals. The one closest to me reaches out his filthy grabby hand and I swing my hips to the left, avoiding him. It’s a move I’ve used a hundred times, though usually in the club portion ofVozvrashchaysya Domoywhen I pick up shifts as a bar back.
The money our mother sends us every month doesn’t stretch as far as it used to, and Inessa and I don’t feel like we can ask for more. She's risking Uncle Rurik's wrath by keeping us in Boston as it is. We didn’t go to our Aunt Polina’s that night whenMat'spirited us away from our home. Instead, we were put on a jet and sent here.
The lack of money is the reason I’m working double shifts in this place instead of going to school. When Mother sent us to Boston,the plan was to send both of us to college. But as the money dwindled, Inessa insisted that it made sense for her to finish her degree and then, I can go.
After putting in the Albanian’s order, I linger by the kitchen, knowing it’s cowardly but not willing to face them again without a tray of very hot food between us.
Inessa… I’ve tried several times to point out that if we move to a less expensive apartment, sell the car, and depend on mass transit, there would be enough money to cover tuition for us both. She’d been shocked, asking me if I knew how dangerous this city was, insisting that my safety was more important than saving money.
I don’t have the nerve to remind her that she’s the only one who uses the car, even though we live ten minutes from campus and my bus to work takes at least half an hour.
Inessa and I only have each other to depend on - she reminds me of this often enough - but she’s right. The friends I’ve made here would never believe what our life was like in Russia, much less understand it.
“Girl! Come here.”
My mouth tightens as one of the idiots shouts at me from across the dining room, making the other diners turn toward the noise.
I don’t know which Ghazaryan brother this is, just that they are all assholes. I know Gregor Sidorov, the owner ofDobro pozhalovat' domoy,has given them several warnings. Apparently, barring them entrance is past his comfort level, not that I can blame him.
“Here’s your drinks,gentlemen.”I slightly emphasize ‘gentlemen’ knowing that it won’t do a thing to improve their manners.
It doesn’t.
This time Ghazaryan gets an arm around me before I can twist loose, dragging me down on his lap. He stinks of horrible, hand-rolled cigarettes and garlic. I should be brave, slap him and twist free, refusing to serve them. Instead, I freeze, shoulders hunched when he pushes his sweaty face against mine.
“This is where you belong,goxha zuskë,”he says, laughing when I cringe away from him.
“Fisnik Ghazaryan, you have a guest waiting for you in the club.”
It’s Gregor’s son Boris, his eyes are furious but his smile is polite as he helps me off the slimy bastard’s lap.
“Fine. We’ll eat in there,” Fisnik rises, hitching up his trousers and jabbing a finger at me. “But I want her to serve us.”
“There are designated servers in the club,” Boris says, “they’ll be happy to-”
Fisnik chuckles, patting his cheek hard enough to be considered a slap. “I think your papa will tell you to keep me happy, little Siderov.”
