Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (22 page)

“Just say the word and I'll carry you, Princess,” Alek says with the leer.

It's tempting, for sure. Five inch heels on grass are no fun for anybody and so eventually I just kick them off. I stuff them in the top of my bag and walk barefoot. Roman looks at my feet with alarm. But he does look for quite a long time, it seems like. Already I’ve got a dusty film covering my bright red toenail polish. Great. Just great.

I know they’re not going to tell me anything so I just follow as we head down a curving asphalt path to a large tent. There have to be hundreds of people here, and I hear the sounds of something like house music coming from one end of the tent.

It's still pretty early in the afternoon but I'm sure there are a few dozen people over there dancing with their arms up. Russians. They're hilarious. Something about dancing in the middle of the afternoon just cracks me up.

But I have to admit, it smells amazing here.

“What’s that smell?”

Alek glances over his shoulder at me. I guess they were talking, but I really didn’t notice. He goes back to Roman. I start to head in the direction of the food smell but Alek catches my elbow.

“Don't go wandering off now, Princess,” he cautions me. “You wouldn't want to get lost in this crowd.”

My eyebrows go up. “Oh really? How could I possibly be any safer than with you guys?”

I see Roman crack a half smile out of the corner of my eye. He does seem to like it when I point out how big and powerful he is, just like any man would.

“Yeah, that's a good point,” Alek agrees. “Still, not everybody here knows who you are just by sight. But you definitely don't look like a Russian girl. So just, you know… Stay close.”

He’s smiling, but I can see that he means it.

“All right, whatever you say,” I say in a clipped voice. I know how to keep my mouth shut, after all. I've been practicing my whole life.

With Roman and Alek on either side of me, I really do feel safe. Even as we walk through the crowd, I can sense people's eyes turning toward us. Not everybody, but the ones who look, look really hard. After a while, there seems to be a sort of weight following us around.

I know this feeling. This is the feeling I would get when Daddy would take me to see the big man, his boss. The Don's Don. It suddenly occurs to me that Roman and Alek might actually be a little bit more of a big deal than I had previously thought.

We stop, not suddenly or anything. We just come to a halt as though it's perfectly natural, but I can sense Roman’s tension. He's looking at a group of men in folding chairs gathered around a table. Just four guys playing dominoes, but I know it's never really just four guys playing dominoes.

“Yeah, I need you to meet someone,” Alek says distractedly. The brothers exchange a look that goes over my head, literally. My eyes scan the crowd, and I see another lady in inappropriate footwear smoking a long cigarette at the end of a picnic bench. She's wearing a bright yellow Louis Vuitton suit and balancing a snakeskin clutch across her lap. Grade schoolers roughhouse in front of her and she doesn't even notice, really, tapping out long bits of ash onto the trampled grass without even really looking to see if she’s going to put some little kid’s eye out or anything. So that's nice. I like her already.

“You need to meet Olga,” Alek says.

“Olga?” I say, already knowing he's talking about that blonde chick. She squints through gobs of heavy black eyeliner. Actually, come to think of it, there's about a dozen women here who really need to take a trip to the Lancome counter, like for real.

“In Russian, it's actually a very pretty name,” Alek informs me as he tugs me by the elbow. I pick my way carefully across the stubby grass and dirt until Alek gets me to the table.

“Olga, this is Marie. Marie… Olga,” he says, and then he turns around. That's it. I've just been handed off with no explanation, no nothing.

Honestly. My life!

She sucks her teeth loudly as her eyes slide up and down my outfit. With a sigh, I just drop my ass on the bench. If this is how the afternoon is going to go, then fine. Whatever.

“So, you're Marie?”

“Oh, you heard?”

A slow, sarcastic smile stretches across her too-red mouth. “Yes, just now. That's what Alek said, isn't it?”

And just like that, I can't stand her. She's got that sarcastic thing, where she thinks she's smarter than everybody and is dead set on a mission to prove it. Christ. Wasn’t there a kindly old grandma or somebody they could drop me off with? Maybe a kids’ table I could sit at?

“Yes he did. He sure did.”

At the dominoes table, the men have stopped playing and look up at Roman and Alek as they approach. Even though nobody is doing anything, I can see subtle signs that the meeting is not entirely friendly. Not entirely unfriendly either. More like cautious wolves sniffing each other before they make a decision.

“How do you know Alek and Roman?” I say, just making conversation.

Olga shrugs. “We’re cousins, I guess. Once removed, twice removed… Removed so many times we’re practically not cousins at all.”

“That explains the resemblance,” I snap. I don't know why, I just feel like snapping, I guess.

But actually, she seems to like this. She smiles for real, and I notice that she's got a little light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose underneath about a pound of pancake makeup.

“You hungry?” she says to me. I know that this is the universal sign of tentative acceptance.

“Actually, I'm starved. Something smells amazing here!”

Olga snaps her fingers at one of the little boys who ignores her, so the next one who runs past she actually sticks out her foot and trips him. When he gets up, pouting and red-faced, she holds out a $20 bill between her purpleish fingernails and waves it at him. “Sasha, run and get us some
pelmini
.
Golubsti
 too.”

The boy jams his quivering chin against the back of his forearm, but he holds out his hand to take the money anyway. “Yes, Mama,” he says obediently.

Yikes.

We smile uncomfortably at each other for a couple of minutes until Sasha comes back with Styrofoam plates piled with food. He sets them on the grimy wooden table top with a handful of napkins and a couple of plastic forks.

“
Xorocho
,” Olga says fondly and tugs him by his shirtsleeves until he relents and lets her plaster a smeary red kiss mark across his forehead.

After he scampers away, Olga hands me a fork. “You like Russian food?” she asks, and it is almost like a dare. Actually, I'm sure it's a dare. Part of me is certain that this is actually meerkat or elk or bear, or whatever the hell it is that Russian people eat. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna show any kind of picky habits at this moment.

Besides, it really does smell amazing. There's these little things that look like Asian potstickers and these other things that look like cabbage. Oh yeah, cabbage for sure. I use the side of my fork to get a healthy wedge of one piece and just dump it on my tongue so she knows I'm no wimp.

She narrows her eyes at me to make sure I'm really eating it but I have to tell you, it's amazing. Salty, a little bit sour. Sort of tastes like a meatball wrapped in cabbage with a watery tomato sauce. More tart than I would've thought, but good. Really good, actually.

“This is great…” I mumble around a mouthful of meat and grain. Damn. I should have tried this sort of thing a long time ago.

She shrugs modestly. “Not as good as homemade, but pretty good.”

That's cute. That the same kind of thing my grandma would say if you complimented restaurant lasagna.
Not as good as homemade.
 It never is, is it?

“You drink vodka?”

Maybe I judged this lady too fast, after all.

“Sasha!” she hollers, snapping her fingers in the air. I'm mystified that she doesn't just pop a nail right off, but I guess this is probably something she does all the time.

When the little boy runs up, she points meaningfully at a blue cooler under an umbrella by some folding chairs. Sasha follows her gesture and then nods, returning in moments with the cooler. I can hear ice splashing around in there and suddenly realize I'm very thirsty.

Olga pulls a couple of cups out of the cooler and sets them on the table, then uncorks a bottle of clear vodka and pours it into the cups. Way too much. Way, way too much. It's only three in the afternoon, and I'm pretty sure Roman does not want me getting drunk.

Oh well, then I guess he should really have kept a better eye on me.

“
Za vas
!” she toasts, holding her plastic cup in the air and winking. I imitate her and bring it to my lips, but I don't even know what to do. Do you just drink vodka like wine? Or is it like doing shots or something? I watch what she does and take just a little bit, less than she took. It burns in my mouth.

But I seem to have passed her test. She nods, smiling to herself and puts a dainty bite of dumpling on her tongue, smacking her lips together happily.

“Actually, I lied before. I know who you are, I just couldn't make it to your wedding. So you are the one who's going to make an honest man out of Roman, huh?”

I shrug. I have no idea what anybody here knows about Roman or doesn't know about Roman, but I know for certain he wouldn't want me gossiping about him.

She takes a deep breath and looks me up and down again critically. “Well, that's good. He needs a girl like you. Strong, I can tell. Strong, right?”

I shrug again. Strong compared to her? I don't know, but I don't plan on arm wrestling her to find out.

“Yeah… He was always such a sweetheart. Such a teddy bear, you know what I mean? Well of course you know what I mean…”

Excuse me?

“Such a joker… You know, I don’t mind telling you, there are a lot of girls who probably would like to see your head on a platter right now…”

I blink twice.

“Oh I’m just kidding! Not like literally… Oh, ha ha. Not
literally
, Marie. Just like, Roman has a lot of potential. He’ll probably be
Pakhan
one day, you know? The boss?”

No, I definitely didn't know that. Roman? Are we sure we got the same guy?

Olga takes another healthy swig of the vodka, sighing loudly with pleasure. I take a tiny burning bit on my tongue and try not to throw it back up immediately.

“The boss, you say?” I mumble carefully. I want to hear more, but I don't want to arouse her suspicion or anything.

“Well, sure… Roman or Alek, either one. Or both, I guess that could happen too. It's in their blood, you know.”

I glance back over to where Roman and Alek are talking to the old men. Everybody's got their arms crossed but their postures seem more easy, less tense. Whatever it was that they were trying to figure out at the beginning, it looks to have been resolved. Now they're just talking, eyebrows knit together, with lots of nodding and thoughtful frowns.

“Yes… There was a time we thought nobody could get to the invisible man… Did you know they call him ‘invisible man?’”

“No. Is that like a nickname or something?”

“It's more than a nickname… It's like his job. People don't see him, he says. He thinks ever since he got the, you know —” she gestures at the side of her face, indicating the side of his face. The scars. “Ever since then, he kinda thinks that nobody can see him anymore. Not like Alek over there. The supermodel. He really sticks out.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say. I'm afraid to agree, but I'm afraid to disagree too. Something in me is hungry to hear more about them. I suddenly realize that even though we spent the last weeks together, I've mostly been running away. It didn't really occur to me to just it down and ask them about themselves. Oh great, now I feel like a jerk.

“What, um… What happened with that?” I whisper almost fearfully. Suddenly, I want to know. I really want to know.

Her eyes flicker toward me and darken. It looks as though she's hesitating, wondering whether she should really tell me. I tip my plastic cup against hers and toss back the whole rest of the drink, hoping that will encourage her. She barks out a short laugh abruptly and then refills another couple fingers of vodka in my glass.

A great strategy, or maybe not. I can already feel the vodka warming up my insides, and it's got to be 90° out here. Getting drunk is one thing, but throwing up in a garbage can in front of three hundred of your new Russian relatives is a totally other thing.

“Well… I don't know how much you know about this… You probably heard that Alek was engaged, right? To Irina?”

I nod, lying through my teeth.

“Well, Irina’s father was… A problem. Not always a problem, but where Irina was concerned…”

I can totally relate.

“So Alek was with her… But Roman got caught in the middle or something. This is back in Atlanta. Somehow Irina's father got it in his head that she and Alek were going to elope, but when he looked for Alek he found Roman instead. There was… Well —” she swallows hard, her gaze going far away. “There was a fire. Irina's father wanted to know where she was, Roman couldn’t tell him because Roman didn't know. But he didn't believe him. He knew that the brothers were always together. And I guess they were, up until then.”