YELENA
Sebastian walks me the three blocks to the party. He is very
handsome, I’ll admit, though I was never raised to have my
head turned by a pretty boy. In Russia, beauty is for women.
Power is for men.
What impresses me is his height. I’ve never seen a man who made
me feel small. Even in my heels, Sebastian towers over me. I have
to tilt up my chin to look in his face.
I’ve always loved and hated my own height. I like feeling strong. But I
hate the way everyone wants to comment on it, as if they’re the first
person to notice. Their jokes are unoriginal, and the way their eyes
comb over me is even worse. They want to collect me like I’m a
trading card that will complete their set.
But of course, I’m not available for collection.
I’m the daughter of Alexei Yenin, Pakhan of the Chicago Bratva. My
father will find the appropriate match for me when the time is right.
I’m not excited for that. Marriage does not appear to be a happy
institution, from what I’ve seen. Too many men beating their wives,
controlling every moment of their day, and taking mistresses
whenever they please.
In Russia, it’s not a crime to beat your wife. It’s only a criminal
offense if she requires hospitalization. You may have to pay a small
fine—but that is paid to the government, not the woman.
I watched my own father hit my mother many times. And she was a
good wife.
I don’t think I’ll be a very good wife.
I’m not a very good daughter. Or at least that’s what my father tells
me.
I think it’s better to be smart than to be good.
We arrive at the house on Madison Street where Grisha is throwing
his party. Grisha is my second cousin. He likes pretty girls, fast cars,
and expensive drugs. I wouldn’t say we’re close friends, but I’m
allowed to come to his house because he’s family.
Tonight he’s celebrating his twenty-sixth birthday. I turned twenty-five
last week. There was no party—my father just looked at me coldly
and told me I’m getting old. He used to say that to my mother: “Men
age like wine; women age like milk.”
Well, she ages like ivory now because she’s bones in a box.
Lucky you, father. You won’t have to be offended by the lines on her
face.
That’s what I’m thinking as I climb the steps to Grisha’s house. It
makes me scowl, so that when his friend Andrei opens the door, he
startles and says, “You look like you’re about to murder someone,
Yelena.”
“I might,” I say, pushing past him into the house.
Sebastian follows along after me. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable,
coming into this house where he knows no one. I guess a man that
big doesn’t get intimidated easily.
It’s dark in the house, the rooms lit only by blue track lights that give
everyone an alien look. The music is throbbing. The air is humid with
body heat.
Deep End—Foushee (Spotify)
Deep End—Foushee (Apple)
I find Grisha. He’s already half drunk. His usually slicked-back hair is
flopping down over his eyes, and his shirt is half-unbuttoned to show
his bare chest and his collection of gold chains.
He throws an arm around my shoulder and kisses me hard on the
cheek.
“There she is,” he says in Russian. “My little Elsa.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap in English.
“I thought you said your name was Yelena?” Sebastian asks.
“He means Elsa from Frozen,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You gonna turn me to ice?” Sebastian says lightly.
“She might,” Grisha says. “She doesn’t like men. Just like Elsa.”
“I like you,” I say sweetly to Grisha. “But then, you’re not much of a
man.”
Grisha laughs and takes another swig of his drink. He’s drinking
directly out of a bottle of Stolichnaya Elit. “Want some?” he says to
me.
“Sure,” I say defiantly. There’s plenty of people here who will rat me
out for drinking, but at this moment I really don’t give a fuck. I take a
long pull, enjoying the bright citrus flavor of Grisha’s expensive
vodka. I could take a bath in that.
Grisha squints at Sebastian. “You look familiar,” he says.
Sebastian nods like he gets that a lot. “I played point guard for the
University of Chicago,” he says.
Grisha shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. Then he snaps his
fingers. “Ah! I know your brother Nero. We raced each other once.”
Sebastian grins. “Did you win?”
Grisha scowls. “No! He’s a tricky fucker. Took twenty K from me.”
“That sounds like Nero,” Sebastian agrees.
Bored of my cousin, I pull Sebastian away from Grisha. If I let him,
Grisha will go on about drag racing all night long. And I’ve heard
more than enough on that particular topic.
I’d rather hear more about the other thing Sebastian mentioned.
“You’re an athlete?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”
This is the first time I’ve seen the smile fall off his face.
“You played basketball?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Were you any good?”
“Yes,” he says, without arrogance. “Pretty good.”
“Why did you quit?”
He hesitates just a fraction of a second. “I got bored of it.”
Hmm. I think this good boy Sebastian just lied to me.
That heavy pull of vodka is starting to take effect on me. I can feel
pleasant warmth spreading through my chest. My mood lightens
ever so slightly.
“You want a drink, too?” I ask Sebastian in an almost-friendly tone.
We head into the kitchen, where Grisha has a veritable cornucopia
of alcohol laid out: liquor, mixers, beer of all types, and a horrific-
looking punch that I wouldn’t drink to save my life.
“What do you like?” I ask.
“You ever drink tequila?” Sebastian asks me.
I wrinkle my nose. “Does this look like Tijuana?”
Sebastian just chuckles. “It’s not so bad,” he says. “You just have to
take it right.”
He grabs my hand, his large, warm fingers closing around mine. This
is presumptuous, but I allow it out of curiosity. He pulls me over to
the countertop, where I see several bottles of Patrón.
Sebastian pours us each a shot. I go to pick it up and he says, “Hold
on.”
He takes my hand and turns it over, exposing my wrist. Then he
brings his lips to the delicate flesh where my veins show blue
beneath the skin. He kisses me there. It’s only a brief kiss, but I feel
the fulness of his lips and the surprising heat of his mouth. It sends a
shiver all the way up my arm. He looks at me with eyes that are dark
and deep, beneath heavy brows.
“Now the salt,” he says.
He picks up a shaker and sprinkles my wrist with salt. It clings to the
spot where his lips touched.
“Like this,” Sebastian says.
He licks the salt off my wrist. His tongue is rough and hot. He takes
the shot in one gulp, then bites a wedge of lime. Then he sets down
his shot glass with a flourish.
“Try that,” he tells me.
We’re standing very close to each other in the hot kitchen. His
method of taking a shot is ridiculous. But I can’t deny that my heart is
thumping, and I feel a strange compulsion to do exactly as he said.
There’s a kind of elegance to his movements—I want to see if I can
imitate it.
I take his hand, which is almost twice the size of mine. His fingers
are outrageously long. I bet he could span two octaves on a piano.
I turn his hand over and see a smooth wrist, lean and brown, with
tendons running up the forearm. I raise his wrist to my mouth and
press my lips against his skin. I sprinkle salt on the damp patch.
Then, looking Sebastian dead in the eyes, I run my tongue up his
arm. I feel his flesh shiver, and I see the twitch of his jaw. I taste the
burst of salt.
I take the shot, chasing it with lime. It still tastes awful, though
admittedly not as bad as usual.
I wonder if I’d taste tequila on his mouth if I kissed Sebastian.
Of course, I’m not going to kiss him.
But I find my eyes lingering on his lips, which are full and finely
shaped. I’ve never seen a man with a face like this. With his thick,
dark curls all around his face, he reminds me of a saint in an oil
painting.
He’s so unlike the boyeviks I usually see. At first that made me
disdainful. But now I find myself . . . intrigued.
“Do you want to dance?” Sebastian asks me.
There’s plenty of people grinding against each other in the living
room. Grisha’s house is five stories stacked on top of each other. It’s
in awful condition because he’s always throwing parties, and always
pissing off his housekeepers so they quit and he has to hire another.
I know all Grisha’s friends. I don’t want to dance with Sebastian
under their watchful eyes.
If we went upstairs, we’d find people fucking in every available room,
or playing blackjack on the level above. On the rooftop Grisha
installed a cedar barrel sauna, big enough to fit eight, and a large hot
tub next to it. He won’t let any girls in the hot tub unless they’re
topless.
None of that sounds appealing to me. Instead, I say, “Come on,” and
I pull Sebastian in the direction of the basement.
The basement is unfinished, so not many people want to come down
here. Bare lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling. The floor is cement. It’s
much cooler than upstairs. It smells damp, and the ceiling thuds
alarmingly overhead, as if it might collapse from the weight of
everything above.
Sebastian has to duck his head to go down the stairs.
I find the light switch, surrounded by bare metal without any proper
cover, and I flip it up. The bulbs crackle on, casting light in swinging
circles.
“You play pool?” I ask Sebastian casually.
“Sometimes,” he says.
I take two cues down off the wall, handing the longer one to
Sebastian. I take my favorite.
“What about a friendly wager?” I ask him.
“Sure,” Sebastian says. “How much is friendly?”
“How about a hundred to start?”
He lets out a low whistle. “Let me see what I’ve got.”
He takes out a billfold which looks plenty thick. He slips out a
hundred-dollar bill, without flashing the rest of the cash. If Grisha
were doing that, he’d be sure to let me see exactly how much he
was carrying.
Sebastian lays the bill on the polished wooden rail of the pool table.
“What about you?” he says teasingly. “How do I know you’re good for
it?”
“You won’t be seeing my money,” I inform him. “Not now or after.”
Sebastian laughs. “I like the confidence,” he says.
He racks the balls, and I take position to break. I split the stack
cleanly, sending balls ricocheting in every direction across the
smooth green felt. I already sank the 9, so I take stripes. I line up my
cue behind the 11-ball. I can feel Sebastian’s eyes on my body as I
bend over the table. I’ve got to bend over a long way because of my
heels. I can feel my skirt pulling up.
I give the cue ball a smart tap, sending it hard into the 11, just left of
center. The 11 cuts off to the right, spinning directly into the side
pocket, landing with a satisfying thump. Without pausing, I sink the
13 and 14 as well.
“Uh oh,” Sebastian says softly. “I think I’m in trouble.”
I miss my next shot by an inch. Sebastian takes his cue and surveys
the table. Quickly and smoothly, he sinks the 2 and the 4. His large
hands are steady as he spreads his fingers across the felt, stabilizing
his cue. He only has to give the ball a glance to calculate his angle.
He’s incredibly precise, and incredibly sure of himself. He sinks the 1
and the 5 as well, before missing the 3.
I hadn’t realized that I was holding my breath. I know that if I miss
any more shots, I probably won’t get another chance.
Scowling, I approach the table like it’s a battleground. I picture where
the cue ball will land after each shot, making sure I’m not going to
strand myself. Once I’m certain of my strategy, I sink the 10, the 12,
and the 15 in rapid succession.
Now only the 8-ball is left. It’s pressed up against Sebastian’s 3.
They’re both rather close to the left corner pocket. I’m afraid that I’ll
knock them in together, if I’m not careful.
Cautiously, I take aim. I split the balls apart, knocking the 8-ball into
the pocket, and nudging the 3 aside. The cue ball rolls a little too far,
trembling at the edge. If it falls in too, I lose the game. But it stays
put.
I pluck up Sebastian’s hundred-dollar bill and tuck it into my bra.
“I win,” I say.
“I think I just got sharked,” Sebastian says.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I say.
Men always overestimate their skills. And underestimate mine.
“Should we go one more?” Sebastian says.
“Double or nothing?”
“I’m not sure you have any money,” Sebastian says with a cheeky
smile. “Other than what you took from me. What about . . . for every
ball I sink, you take off a piece of clothing. And I’ll do the same.”
I scoff, shaking my head at him. It’s a transparent ruse.
On the other hand . . . I can’t resist the temptation of humiliating him
further. I’d love to win the game while he stands there in his boxer
shorts.
“Alright,” I say. “But I break.”
“You broke last time,” Sebastian points out.
“Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” he says, his voice low and intent.
Sebastian racks the balls again, and I take my position on the other
end of the table. I break, though not as cleanly as last time. Only one
ball drops into the side pocket—the 3—and only just barely. I throw a
look at Sebastian.
“That’s one,” I say.
“We’re counting the break?” he says.
“Of course we are.”
“Fair enough,” Sebastian shrugs.
Crossing his arms in front of him, he grabs the bottom of his black t-
shirt with both hands and pulls it over his head. I can’t help staring as
he bares his long, lean torso, deeply tanned and rippling with
muscle. He’s even more fit than I expected. His shoulders and chest
are thick and full, his abdominal muscles cut all the way down. A trail
of dark hair leads from his belly button into the waistband of his
jeans. My eyes follow it all the way down.
When I snap them back up again, he’s grinning at me.
“Like what you see?” he says.
I toss my ponytail back over my shoulder contemptuously, facing the
pool table once more.
I don’t know if it was the sight of Sebastian or my own haste to keep
playing, but I miss my next shot. Worse still, the cue ball rolls into the
pocket, so Sebastian can position it wherever he likes behind the
line.
“B`lyad!” I swear in annoyance.
I’m even more annoyed by Sebastian’s smug expression as he takes
his spot at the top of the table. Without even aiming, he sinks the 10.
“Your turn,” he says.
He means my turn to strip, not to play. Irritated, I slip off my left shoe.
It’s a Manolo Blahnik and I don’t fancy putting my foot back into it if I
get my soles dirty on the dusty concrete.
Sebastian sinks the 12 as well.
“Can’t have you standing lopsided.” He grins.
I take off the right shoe. Now my heart is beating fast. I had planned
to run the table, not put myself on the receiving end of a streak. I
can’t believe I missed.
Sebastian puts the 15 in the corner pocket.
Frowning, I pull the elastic out of my ponytail so my hair falls loose
around my shoulders.
“I’m not sure that counts as clothing,” Sebastian says.
“Yes it does,” I hiss.
“Whatever you say.” He sinks the 14 easily.
Fuck.
I should have worn a lot more layers before I agreed to this game.
Slowly, I reach behind me and unzip the back of my dress. It’s an
electric-blue minidress, which didn’t cover much to begin with. It’s
about to cover a whole lot less.
I pull down the shoulder straps, letting the dress fall to my feet in a
puddle. Now it’s Sebastian’s turn to let his jaw drop.
His reaction is, at least, satisfying. He looks mildly stunned, like he
just received a blow to the head. He doesn’t even pretend not to let
his eyes roam over my body in my black silk bra and panty set.
Hopefully my figure will have a similar effect on him, and he’ll miss
his next shot.
Instead, the opposite occurs. Sebastian faces the pool table with a
new level of focus. Before he was playing around—now he’s dead
serious. He wants to win this game.
His next shot is tricky. With my solids in the way, he doesn’t have a
clean shot. He has to bank the 9 off the wall to sink it in the side
pocket.
He hits the ball slightly off-center, and for a second I think he’s going
to miss. But it hits the edge of the pocket and falls in.
Silently, Sebastian turns to face me.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
I didn’t mean for the game to go this far.
I’m suddenly conscious of how tall he is, especially now that I’m not
wearing heels. I’m aware that we’re alone down here, in this dimly lit
space, with the music thumping so loudly overhead that no one
would hear us. Sebastian’s eyes look dark and deeply shadowed.
A bet is a bet.
My hands are trembling as I reach behind me to unclasp my bra.
“Wait,” Sebastian says.
He crosses the space between us in two long strides. He looks down
into my face. He hasn’t touched me yet, but I can feel the heat
coming off his bare chest. I’m pinned against the pool table, no more
room to back up.
“You don’t have to strip,” he says.
I lick my lips. “We made a deal.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “I want something else . . .”
I look up into his eyes, seeing the flecks of gold in the brown irises,
seeing how thick and dark his lashes are.
“What?” I whisper.
He brings his lips down to mine.
He kisses me with a mouth that is warm and tastes slightly of salt
and lime. His lips are even softer than they seemed against my wrist,
but the kiss isn’t soft. It’s deep and hungry.
His right hand finds my hip, and his left hand slips under my hair to
cradle the back of my neck, pulling me closer against him.
The whole world seems to drop away with that kiss. I can’t feel the
cold concrete beneath my feet, and I can’t hear the music pounding
overhead. All I can hear is my heartbeat thundering in my ears while
I seem to float in space.
Then we break apart, and I’m in a basement again.
“Should we finish the game?” Sebastian asks me.
“No.” I shake my head. “I have to get home.”
He looks disappointed, but not sulky. He helps me gather up my
dress and shoes so I can make myself decent again.
“Don’t forget your shirt,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he laughs. “Right.”
Once we’re dressed, Sebastian follows me back upstairs. He waits
while I call an Uber, and even offers to ride back to my house with
me.
“Just for company,” he says.
I shake my head. “My father wouldn’t like that.”
“You’ll give me your number though, won’t you?” he asks me.
I hesitate for a long moment. I know what I’m supposed to do, but
suddenly I don’t want to do it.
“Yes,” I say. “I will.”
Sebastian copies the number into his phone, looking pleased.
“Talk to you soon,” he says.
I ride back to my house, my stomach churning.
My father bought this massive stone mansion two years ago, when
he came here to replace Kolya Kristoff as head of the Bratva. He
never asked my brother or me if we wanted to move from Moscow to
Chicago. He didn’t give a damn what we thought.
I can see the lights on all across the main floor.
He’s waiting for me.
The security gates part automatically, and I tell the driver to go all the
way up to the front door. He looks slightly awed at this house.
“You live here?” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Unfortunately.”
I climb out of the car. Iov opens the door before I can even touch the
handle. His face is bruised, and he’s hunched over slightly, like he
might have broken a rib.
“You didn’t have to kick me,” he says sourly.
“You slapped me too hard!” I say.
I push past him, impatient to get in the house. I’m exhausted and I
want to go to bed.
But first I have to speak to my father.
He comes padding silently into the entryway, wearing his velvet
slippers, his silk pajamas, and his long, belted robe. His iron-gray
beard is neatly combed, as is the thick gray hair reaching down to
his shoulders. He looks like a medieval king. The kind who would
invade a nation without hesitation.
“How did it go?” he asks me.
“Exactly as you said,” I reply.
The tiniest of smiles pulls at the corners of his lips. “Did you engage
his interest?”
“Of course,” I say.
Now he does smile, showing his straight teeth the color of bone.
“Good,” he says. “Well done, moya doch.”