Page 31 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Bonnie

Cruising down a long stretch of road in Texas, I’m annoyed that Kostin still won’t tell me why we’re leaving the office in such a hurry. Just yesterday he was lounging around half-naked, eating pineapple bits on a toothpick while I pretended not to notice him staring at my ass as I swam around the pool.

Now, his hands are glued to the tan leather steering wheel, oldies playing as we ride with the wind in our hair. A dandelion-yellow Mustang takes us from one place to another, but I have no clue where the other place is, or why we’re going there. Kostin has kept his lips sealed about it thus far, but I’m always the type to pry. I need to know the truth.

I watch Kostin for a minute, before taking the necessary steps to break the peace between us. It could be like we’re on vacation as a married couple, or boyfriend and girlfriend at the least. The kids are at home with the sitter, and we’ve rented a car that resembles a shooting star to zoom through the desert landscape with.

Maybe we’re headed to Vegas, to gamble the night away with the mysterious suitcases full of money that Kostin carries around. I wouldn’t ask questions about where it came from, if he let me put it on the roulette table.

More likely, we’re traveling to a new hideout - much further from the club than the last one. I don’t know if Kostin is afraid of the cops, but he certainly doesn’t seem scared. He’s just quiet, but that’s what worries me.

He’s usually fairly talkative, teasing me and making crude sexual comments. I sort of miss it.

Kostin runs his tattooed fingers through his thick brown curls. I can see through some of them like honey in the sun, and I know our boys will have similar hair. They already have curls spring up from their little heads, but it’s blonde now. Hair tends to get darker as we become adults.

It seems a shame to break his focused state, but I need to know what’s going on. I’m a naturally anxious person, and this mystery is really driving me bananas inside my head.

I clear my throat loudly, but it’s drowned by the flap of the hot wind and a lazy electric strum from the radio.

I try again, this time following it up by a loud, “Hey.”

Kostin turns his head. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask you again, why we’re leaving the headquarters?” I say, anticipating a foul reaction. I know he doesn’t like me bothering him, but I have to know - for the sake of my sanity. I don’t like mysteries; they drive me bonkers.

Kostin doesn’t answer for a moment, retracting back into his head before speaking. “Your boss was a raving lunatic,” he shouts over the sound of the wind.

“Jerry? Yeah, I thought everyone knew that,” I reply.

Kostin shakes his head, his eyebrows still just as serious as they’ve been all day. “Not in the way that you think, Bonnie.” He looks over to me, eyes dancing over my body, but with a different intent than he usually has. He almost seems concerned for me.

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused by his words and expression.

“My guys found some fucked-up shit at his house, weapons being the most innocent of the stuff. Let me ask you this,” he says, slowing down the car to reduce the sound of the wind. “Did girls stay long, at the Diamond Score, or did they tend to disappear?”

“Turnover was high,” I reply with a shrug. “But that’s normal. Nobody wanted to deal with Jerry’s bullshit, so women would just leave if they ever got into an argument with him. Sometimes he went too far, but he never touched me.”

“You’re goddamn lucky he didn’t,” Kostin says, shaking his head. “You would’ve been dead.”

“I’m confused,” I say, but my heart beats faster as my stomach floods with dread. What is Kostin alluding to?

“Your dancer friends never left the club; at least, not on their own accord. Jerry took them to his house and did things to them,” Kostin explains.

“Things?” I ask, my throat tightening. I can imagine what sort of things Jerry could do to a woman, but the way Kostin is talking makes it sound even worse than what I’m able to imagine.

Kostin places his hand on my thigh, as thought to comfort me before he continues. He squeezes me, sinking his fingers into my flesh and bringing flashbacks to the night I let loose with him in the club. I remember it like it was yesterday.

“Jerry was blowing people up,” Kostin says.

“What?” I ask, pulling my head back so hard that it bangs against the headrest. I wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“He was building ingestible explosives, and testing them on women from the club,” Kostin continues. “His basement was full of their remains.”

“You’re kidding me,” I say, but I know he isn’t. His face says it all.

“I wish I was, Bonnie, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad I shot that motherfucker before he could do it to anyone else.”

‘Anyone else’ includes me. I feel sick to my stomach, the beer mimosa not mixing well with the news of what Jerry is responsible for.

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