3
TATI
“So, you got to see Viktor, huh?”
I smile as I lie back on the bare mattress, phone in my ear. The only belonging I was able to grab before they dragged me out of the club was my cellphone, and I’m so thankful for that right now. The first thing I had to do when my father’s men brought me back to this room was call Marla. We’ve been in touch on and off all these years, and thank heavens. Now that I’m stuck in this situation, I’m going to need her to keep my sanity.
I had to tell her about seeing Viktor again, Nikita’s best friend and mentor when I was a kid and all through high school. Before he was that, he was the one man in the lower ranks who always seemed to be around the house. Especially around dinner time. By the time I was old enough to start having budding feelings about boys, he was maybe in his early twenties. And by the time Nicki started becoming attached to his waist, he had to be nearing his thirties.
Oh, how I used to fantasize about that man. Back then, I used to try and spy on him when he didn’t think I was looking. Days when he and my brother would meet up in the kitchen and talk about girls or whatever the interest of the day was always had me sitting and listening on the stairs.
And then sometimes, I would catch them talking and sharing a cigarette on the back patio, so I would hide and admire Viktor from afar, tall and muscular, with short, dark hair and brooding, dark eyes. Viktor Morozov in his twenties and thirties looked a little more conservative than he does now, but he still looks like sex on a stick. The dreams I used to have about him would set my bedroom on fire if I ever revealed them outside of my diary.
I’m picturing him in my mind now, still tall, still muscular, but his hair is longer now, nearly to his shoulders, and it’s streaked with gray. His salt-and-pepper beard is full and well-trimmed. And those eyes, dark and sensual when he’s just gazing at me. I can almost feel them like hands on my skin.
I chuckle deviously in response to Marla’s question. She adds, “That man has aged like fine wine.”
“Hasn’t he?” I say wistfully. “The things I would do to him if I ever got the chance.”
She laughs. “He’sstilltoo old for you, you know. I think he’s, like, forty now.”
“Oh, come on, Mar. I’m not jailbait anymore. We’re both consenting adults now. He could probably use a young thing like me to spice up his life.”
“He’s Bratva. His life is spicy enough. No good will ever come from messing with a guy like that. Trust me, I know.” She laughs a little, and it dies away… and I remember what today is.
“Oh, Marla,” I say softly. “I’m sorry. I called you out of the blue to tell you my problems. I forgot all about what today is.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I mean, you’ve been in Europe all this time.”
“That’s no excuse.” I sit up and cross my legs. “How are you holding up?”
“It’s been seven years,” she said. “You’d think I’d be over it by now. I’m not, though. There’s no support group for girlfriends of late Bratva members.” She sighs and says, “I’m okay, though. No need for you to worry. Especially with your current situation. I’m thinking you might be a little worse off than I am at the moment.”
“I wish I could disagree,” I say, looking around again at my bare walls.
“He can’t keep you locked up like that… can he?”
“He can do whatever he wants,” I say as I trace the stitching on my mattress with my finger. “The only thing I’m confident of is that he doesn’t actually want me dead. Not yet, anyway.”
“Don’t talk like that. You know, he might be a Pakhan, but you’re still his daughter. I’m sure once he’s calmed down, he’ll see some sense and let you out.”
All I can do is chuckle at that. She gives my father too much credit. “Maybe when I do break out of here, we can hang out. Just because they caught me tonight doesn’t mean I shouldn’t stop trying to escape. I mean, even the great Nikolai Aronin can’t watch me twenty-four, seven. I’m bound to catch him slipping.”
She giggles. “I honestly can’t wait for that day. Maybe the first thing we ought to do when you break out is go shopping.”
“Or we can hit the club,” I say. “It’s been six long years since I’ve been in an American club. And at least a year since I got laid.”
“A year? Really? What about that one guy? The dude from France.”
“Yeah, we never got past second base,” I say. “Found out he had a wife and three kids in the South of France.”
She laughs. “I knew it. I told you about men in strip clubs. They’re all animals.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say with a little bit of regret. Pierre, the guy from France, I kind of had high hopes for. He was well-dressed and well-spoken and just nice. Or at least he seemed that way. “I’m glad I didn’t give it up to him. Can you imagine? He’d probably be at his job bragging about it before his side of the bed was cold.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want a repeat of the Guillermo incident.”
I shudder. The infamous ‘Guillermo Incident’ happened while I was in Spain a couple of years ago. Met a guy, and we hit it off pretty good until his wife showed up under my balcony screaming in Spanish about how much of a homewrecker I was.
