Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) (7 page)

Chapter 11

Fight Dirty

I was over my anger at being abducted, and I was grateful that Vladimir had saved my life, but there was no scenario in which we were ever going to resume our love affair. I was trapped with him for the time being, so my game plan was to be civil, but also direct with my feelings. “Vladimir—”

“Feel up to a short walk?” He nodded toward the barn. “There’s a pond with ducks and swans beyond the apple orchard. The dogs love to splash in the water.”

“Sounds good.”

Dmitri jogged out of the house with a coat and a scarf for me. It was springtime, but the air was chilly. Vladimir led me down a dirt path, and Dmitri lit a smoke and tagged along. He didn’t make eye contact or interact with me in any way. He knew better than to show any form of familiarity or friendship with me in front of the boss. Vladimir would slit his throat if he found out Dmitri had been affectionate with me.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast. Warm enough?” Vladimir asked.

“I’m good.” I glanced up at him. “You look different.” It was weird seeing him in outdoorsy mode, wearing jeans, a flannel jacket, and boots instead of his usual suit and tie ensemble, but it wasn’t just his wardrobe that had changed. It was something else.

“I dropped a few pounds.”

“Yeah, I noticed. It’s not that, though.”

He twisted his lips and we walked in silence. When we reached the pond, the dogs dove in and chased away the ducks. Vladimir and I took a seat on a bench at the edge of the water, and Dmitri skipped rocks across the pond.

I laughed at the playful poodles. “Anastasia almost caught the wing of that gray and white  duck—”

“I stopped drinking.”

His admission blindsided me. It couldn’t be true.

“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since the night I hurt you.” He picked up my hand. “My actions against you were inexcusable, Carter. It was the lowest point in my life. My rock bottom. I swear to God, I will see to it that you get home to your family and that you live the long and wonderful life you deserve. If I live a hundred years, I’ll never forgive myself for the pain I’ve caused you.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but I didn’t know what to say. Out of all the scenarios I’d worked out about what he was doing after that night, sobriety never made the list. He was the
pakhan
. It was impossible for him not to drink. Culturally, if nothing else. But in his position of power, it was a trust thing. Deals were made with a handshake and a round of vodka shots.

“I’m not the same person anymore. That’s why Maksim is after my head. I’ve lost my edge, my drive. I have no interest in running the family business anymore. He’s taking advantage of my situation to dismantle my family and take control of the city.”

“How does Boris feel about your sobriety?”

“All of our problems are stemming from my weakness.”

“Can’t you just
quit
being the boss?”

“We only have one retirement plan in our world.”

“What is it?”

“Death.”

“There has to be another out. You can come back to America and work with Dad again, or you can hide anywhere in the world. Run away and they’ll never—”

“What happens to me is not your concern. All you need to know is that I will get you home and you’ll never hear from me again. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but believe me when I say I would do anything to take back what happened. I have failed you in every conceivable way, and I’ll make any sacrifice necessary to ensure your safety.”

His jaw tensed and he squeezed my hands. “If I could rip my beating heart out of my chest and show you the vile blackness of guilt I carry inside, it wouldn’t expose an ounce of the shame I feel for hurting you. There aren’t enough bullets to put in my brain to make the pain stop.”

I was angry at Vladimir for all the hell he’d put me through, but even in my darkest hour, I never wanted him dead. I wanted him to be sorry. I wanted him to be ashamed of himself. But I never wished anything horrible would happen to him.

“Getting sober takes guts and willpower, especially with no support from your family. Words are empty, but your actions speak volumes. You recognized you have a problem and stopped drinking—that means everything to me. I forgive you, Vladimir.” I stood and hugged him. “I’m so proud of you.”

While I was impressed Vladimir had the strength to put down the bottle, I was hurt he wasn’t able to do it before he demolished our relationship. He’d sworn he would never drink around me again, then his broken promise nearly cost me my life. I cradled his head against my chest and wept, mourning the future we would never have together. “Why did you wait so long?”

I’d never had closure after he left America. Never once did he reach out to me, check to see if I was okay, or even apologize. I lived in terror for months, not knowing if he was plotting another round of revenge against me, or if I ever mattered to him at all. Not knowing how he felt was the most terrifying part of my nightmare.

“Not getting sober sooner is my biggest regret. I would give anything to change the past. I had everything I could ever want in life—I had you.”

There’s the man I fell in love with.
I had a new respect for Vladimir, and I was genuinely proud for him, but I had to keep my distance and not repeat the mistakes that landed me here in the first place. “Vladimir—”

He shook his head. “My apologies. You don’t have to say it, Carter.”

My heart sank. “It’s too late for us, but after this is all over, you’ll meet someone else. And she’ll get all the good parts of you.”

Vladimir tossed me a wicked grin. “
All
the good parts?”

I laughed through my tears and shoved him in the shoulder. “Stop it. You know what I mean.”

His eyes were saturated with sadness, but he still had a sense of humor—and his ego was still intact somewhere in there.

“Time to fight.” Dmitri broke up our intense conversation and led us to an open grassy area next to the pond. He wanted to teach me some more moves in case I had to protect myself again. Judging by the timing of the interruption, Dmitri was trying to put some separation between Vladimir and me. It was in my best interest to keep my emotional distance from Vladimir and not get too close to him again. I wanted to be supportive of Vladimir’s decision to get sober and I would be there for him as a
friend
—nothing more.

Even though I was the weakest member of Team Ivanov, the guys credited me with thwarting the intruders. They were proud of me for using my brains and knocking out the light. Vladimir said if I hadn’t blacked out the room, those guys would’ve succeeded in capturing me and would’ve killed Dmitri to cover their tracks. And by stopping them from delivering me to the Ovechkins, I had saved Vladimir’s life as well.

According to the guys, the most important thing I could’ve done in that moment was to find a weapon to use against them—like Dmitri had done. It was encouraging that they believed I had a chance at hand-to-hand combat against two bad dudes more than double my size.

Mentally retracing my steps in the Dungeon Suite, there was a flower vase, a heavy glass ashtray, and I had a handful of sharpened pencils at my disposal. Like Dmitri had done when he was caught without a weapon, I could’ve whizzed whatever was nearby to slow them down, or even immobilize them with a good shot to the head—that was plan A.

Assuming I was unsuccessful, Plan B focused on strategic strikes, AKA kicking my attacker in the testicles or gouging out his eyes. Dmitri loved my shiv idea, but he had a whole arsenal of ways to fight dirty along with tips on who was a real threat and who was just a poser.

He said the guy who’s yelling and waving his hands in your face has got nothing but a big mouth. The guy to watch out for was the one with his hands at his side, listening with little or no reaction. That’s the guy who’s plotting how to kill you. Boris would be the poster child for the latter personality type.

Dmitri slid off his shirt and tossed it aside. His muscles rippled as he waved Vladimir over for a self-defense demonstration. Vladimir accepted the invitation and stared down Dmitri. Vladimir was taller and much thinner than Dmitri in his present state, and Dmitri had about thirty extra pounds of pure muscle to his advantage.

“This is a demo, right? You’re not going to fight for real, are you?” The way they were eyeing each other and jawing in Russian was terrifying. It didn’t take much to set off Vladimir, and Dmitri sure wasn’t going to take shit from anyone—not even the boss. If those two decided to go after each other for real, I would have to hoof it back to the house and fetch Boris. They could do a lot of damage to each other in that amount of time.

The tone of their conversation escalated, and Vladimir struck first, drilling Dmitri in his side. Dmitri grabbed Vladimir’s wrists in self-defense and cautioned him to back down just by making his nasty fighter face.

“Knock it off, guys.”

Vladimir lifted his knee and tried to bust him in the balls, but Dmitri turned away and got nailed in the hip.
Now he’s pissed.
Dmitri released Vladimir, wiggled his fingers to spur him on, and crouched down in ready position.

Oh, shit.
“Seriously, this is not cool.”

Vladimir swung first, but Dmitri blocked him and punched him in the side in rapid fire succession. I yelled for them to stop, but they kept at it. Those two testosterone junkies were going to pound the life out of each other.

Plan A: Find a weapon.

Plan B: Fight dirty.

Both options were a no-go. I wasn’t going to use a weapon on either of them, and no way would I attempt to get between them to fight dirty. I had come up with a new strategy.

Plan C: Play to your opponent’s weakness.

Both guys were strong, bull-headed, and determined to go at each other until one of them was knocked out cold, but both of them had the same weakness—me.
Let the games begin, guys.
I screamed, covered my arms over my head, and crouched on the ground. The guys stopped fighting, unwilling to give me a nervous breakdown just to satisfy their egos. Vladimir rushed over to me and pulled me up to my feet.

“Carter, it’s okay. We’re not—”

I seized my opportunity and mock-punched him below the belt. Then I pretend-stabbed him in the eye, like, ten times with one hand, and with the other I whacked him in the leg with a stick Goosey had dropped at my feet when he came to check on me after I feigned a panic attack. Vladimir held up his hands in surrender and grinned, impressed with my fighting—or acting—skills. Dmitri clapped his hands and doubled over he was laughing so hard.

“Never underestimate your opponent, boss.”

Vladimir’s eyes shone with admiration. “Well played, angel. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

“Step aside, boys, make room for the champ.” I flexed my muscles and growled. About time Team Ivanov added a kickass female to the lineup. I was a runt compared to the guys, but my brains against their brawn was a winning game plan.

Chapter 12

Whipped

When we got back to the dacha, Boris was in the back yard puffing on a stogie while he grilled kabobs. He had changed out of his dark suit and into a pair of faded jeans and a white undershirt. His chest hair poked out over the top of the shirt, and a thick cross pendant attached to a gold chain hung around his neck. Seeing the Russians in their outdoorsy, domesticated state was going to take some getting used to.

Their property was set up like a real, working farm. There was a barn with animals, freshly tilled earth with little green plants sticking up, and a chicken coop behind the house. I wondered if the guys tended to the daily chores themselves. I couldn’t imagine they did, but then again, they were full of surprises.

Dmitri lit a smoke and gathered wood for a bonfire, and Vladimir left to attend to business before dinner. It felt fantastic to be outside, free to breathe all the fresh air I wanted. In the dungeon, I’d felt like a wild animal living in a shoebox with air holes punched in the lid. I was curious about the animals and was on my way to explore the barn when Pasha called to me from the kitchen.

I went inside to see if he needed help. He poured me a cup of iced tea and told me to rest. I didn’t argue. The pain meds Boris had given me were wearing off, and my shoulder started throbbing again. While Pasha stirred a big pot of steamy bean soup, we chit-chatted about America, specifically about things Vladimir had told him about me, like my tennis training, my love of football, and all my favorite Russian foods Vladimir had introduced me to.

Pasha laughed when I reminisced about how Vladimir had pretended to be a vegetarian so I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable around him because I didn’t eat meat. He had hired me to work at his private estate, and one of my duties was to serve as his personal chef, even though my culinary skills were limited to microwaving burritos, heating up spaghetti sauce from a jar, and opening up a bag of tortilla chips and dumping them into a bowl.

Pasha beamed as I described the kinds of food I’d prepared, imagining his high-rolling big brother settling for a can of microwaved beans for dinner just so he could spend time with me. “Vladimir told me about your inexperience in the kitchen. He said he had higher-quality food rations in Siberia.” His endearing grin and admiration for Vladimir made me smile.

“Yeah, he dropped a few pounds when I became his personal chef, but he never complained. He choked down my disastrous dinners like a champ. What about you? Married, got a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriends, no wife.” He set out a spread of marinated veggies, caviar, bread, butter, and a flaky spinach pie.

I picked up a couple dishes to carry them outside, but he wouldn’t let me lift anything heavy. Instead, I brought out some cloth napkins and candles, and Pasha followed with an armload of
zakuski
platters and three bottles of homemade vodka.

Were they going to down all that alcohol in front of Vladimir?

I admired his willpower. In his position at the top of the
Bratva
food chain, I couldn’t imagine how he was able to pull it off. Back home, Boris and Vladimir drank vodka like it was water. Boris wasn’t keen on the boss getting sober. Maybe he was dangling the bottle in front of him to chip away at his willpower. After I woke up from a medically induced coma, hooked up to an IV drip, and hadn’t eaten for days, I still couldn’t get out of downing shots with him at dinnertime.

Once Pasha set out the food, he fluffed up some feather pillows, spread a quilt across a wooden chair, and made a cozy little nest for me. I took a seat and he tucked the blanket under my legs, and rearranged the pillows so they were in the perfect positions. Pasha was the sweetest guy in all of Russia. I told him not to go to any trouble and that I didn’t need help, but he didn’t listen. The truth was, my shoulder was killing me and I appreciated the added support.

Dmitri joined us at the picnic table and crouched down in front of me so his face was level with mine. This was the first opportunity he had to speak to me without Vladimir around. His eyes were droopy and he tapped his heart as he spoke. He’d been teaching me how to string together short phrases, but the only word I understood was “sorry.” I didn’t catch everything, but I understood he felt guilty that I had gotten hurt.

“It wasn’t your fault. You kept me alive.” I held up a closed hand to initiate a fist bump. “Dmitri,
moy droog
.”

He left me hanging and didn’t reciprocate. I could tell by his forlorn expression that he didn’t feel like “my friend.”

Vladimir met us at the table, glanced at Dmitri, and forced a smile. Back home, he had taught me only a few Russian words. I had gotten the sense he didn’t want me to learn the language so he could converse with Boris without worrying I would catch on to what they were saying. Dmitri and I had been locked in the dungeon for only a short time, and he’d taught me how to communicate using short phrases and basic sentence structures.

Boris joined us and set down a platter of steamy meat and veggie kabobs. While the guys praised his efforts, he took a seat at the head of the table and motioned for us to fill our plates. As the patriarch of the family, Boris exuded strength and wisdom. He wore his father figure role like a crown and seemed at ease and relaxed around his brood. In happier times, this was how I imagined my life would’ve been with Vladimir and his family.

Pasha loaded my plate with a sampling of all the meat-free
zakuski
on the table. I could not fathom how this gentle giant could have been raised by Boris and still have such a docile nature. Maybe he got his sweetness from his mama, Anya.

Once everyone had food on their plates, Boris opened a bottle of vodka. Five shot glasses were lined up in front of each of our place settings. I was seated beside Vladimir, and Pasha and Dimitri were across from us. Boris poured Pasha and Dmitri’s glasses to the rim and I flipped over my glass—the official Russian code for Not Drinking—before the bottle tipped in my direction. Vladimir followed my lead and flipped over his glass too. It had to be torture for him to resist the urge to drink with his family.

Boris grumbled, prompting Pasha to flip both of our glasses right side up.

“Can’t quit before you begin.” Boris tipped the bottle and filled my glass.

Vladimir argued in Russian.

“The girl is fine. You won’t lose control again. Drink with your family.” Boris aimed the bottle, and as alcohol pooled in Vladimir’s glass, I didn’t see a harmless drink, or social politeness, or a show of power. I saw a toxic cocktail of anger and pride that would swell with each round until it spilled over into violence and bloodshed. Despite what the Russians thought, I had learned my lesson—never put yourself in the line of fire when the
pakhan
was headed for an all-night bender.

I didn’t know if it was courage or my survival instincts kicking in, but just before the glass was full, I reached over and batted the bottle out of Boris’s hand. The dishes clambered and the vodka spilled all over the kabob platter. Boris reached over the table to grab my arm, but Dmitri blocked him. Vladimir stood between us and shouted at me to go to my room, but I was shell-shocked and my legs were weak with fear. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Boris unbuckled his belt and slid it off while Vladimir and Dmitri tried to calm him down. I had no idea what they were saying, but it appeared they were trying to prevent Boris from taking the belt to me, as he had threatened to do if I ticked him off again. Pasha had been a silent observer, but then he did the strangest thing. He called out to Boris, unbuttoned his shirt, and slid it off. Dmitri waved off Pasha, unleashed a string of
nyets
, and then slid his shirt off, too.
What the hell?

Boris seemed appeased at whatever the shirt removal thing had resolved. Vladimir dragged me away, but I craned my neck and saw Dmitri leaned over with his hands flat on the table and Boris towering over him with the belt raised. “No!” Vladimir pulled me into his chest and covered my face.

Crack!
The sound of leather slashing bare skin whipped through the air. “Please stop. I’m sorry, Boris.
Izvinite
.”

“This is your beating, Carter,” Boris said. “Lucky for you, your bodyguard took it for you. Remember these marks on his flesh the next time you think to cross me.”

The whip cracked again and again. Dmitri stood there and took it, never uttering so much as a whimper. I felt sick to my stomach. Was Dmitri sparing
me
by taking the beating or protecting his investment in his family’s freedom? According to the deal he made with Vladimir, he had to get me home in one piece. If I had been on the receiving end of that abuse, my body would’ve crumbled into a lifeless heap and mentally I would’ve retreated into my protective shell that I may have never come out of again.

Boris paused to catch his breath. “Your papa spoiled you, Carter. If there was a belt waiting for you at home when you defied his authority, maybe you don’t sneak around with bad guys behind his back. Maybe you don’t grow up like a princess thinking you can do whatever you please. Maybe you respect authority and don’t end up in Russia held captive by the
Bratva
.” He took one last crack at Dmitri and lowered his belt.

The horror of what I witnessed was too much. My legs gave out and Vladimir carried me into the house and up to my bedroom. I wailed with grief that once again, I was responsible for hurting someone I cared about. The sound of that thick, leather belt pummeling Dmitri’s skin was my fault. Whatever physical pain he felt from Boris’s abuse equaled the anguish swirling in my gut for causing the beating. It wasn’t my intention to start a war with Boris. I only wanted to be a good friend and protect Vladimir from a relapse.

“Carter, listen to me. It’s over.” Vladimir set me down on the bed.

“Why did he hurt Dmitri? He didn’t do anything.”

“It’s the way Boris raised us. Growing up in our family, Boris taught us to respect his authority. When one of us did something worthy of a beating, he gave our brothers the choice to step in and take it for the guilty one. He applies the same logic to the young recruits in our
Bratva
. It’s his way of keeping the boys loyal.”

“Dmitri
volunteered
to take my beating? Pasha too?” God, that was the most barbaric thing I’d ever heard.

“It may seem cruel to you, but his methods instilled in us a sense of family loyalty. The brother who was spared the beating had it worse than the one who took the physical abuse.”

“Boris did that to you even when you were a little boy?”

“Russia was not a nice place to grow up. He did his best to keep us out of trouble on the streets and toughen us up for our future in the
Bratva
. Boys in our family don’t grow up to be pussies. Don’t judge Boris’s methods based on your pampered American upbringing.”

After what I’d just witnessed, I could not wrap my head around the idea that Vladimir was defending Boris’s actions. “Is Dmitri okay?”

Vladimir pulled back the curtains and pointed out the window. The guys had their shirts back on and they were seated at the table eating and downing vodka like the assault had never happened. Dmitri was a hardened fighter accustomed to taking a beating, but good lord, the pain level of getting whipped with a belt had to be excruciating.

I would’ve rather crawled under the bed, curled up in a ball, and died than show my face, but Vladimir insisted the best way to move forward after our disastrous dinner was to go back out there and join the family. I imagined my penance was to grovel at Boris’s feet, lick his boots, and beg forgiveness, but Vladimir said it was over. I messed up, Boris punished me by assaulting Dmitri with his belt—we were even.

My legs trembled when we approached the table. Boris motioned for me to sit next to him. Acid came up my throat and I prayed I didn’t barf on the table. My internal organs felt like they were being cranked through a sausage grinder. But I did what I was told and settled in next to the big guy.

He filled my plate with mounds of homemade noodles, a scoop of kasha, and piles of marinated veggies. He acted casual and unaffected by the abuse he had doled out to his innocent victim. Vladimir sat beside me and loaded up his plate too. For the Russians, dinner was an evening long affair. Boris, Pasha, and Dmitri downed vodka shots and soaked up the alcohol with pickles, bread, and a variety of red, black, and orange caviar. Vladimir refused to drink, but ate with his family and joined the conversation.

I kept quiet, dropped my gaze to my plate, and squashed the outside of an eggplant, forcing gray goo to ooze out from under its purple skin. I beat it down with the back of my fork until it was the consistency of baby food. Then I dragged a long, skinny carrot over to the eggplant mash and creamed the life out of it too. I lifted a bite to my mouth and slurped the remains off my fork. I had lost my appetite, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by refusing to eat.

Boris dropped a dollop of sour cream on top of my pierogis. “Pasha was asking about your college degree. Tell him what classes you are taking to become a sports agent.”