Page 22 of Vasily the Nail

No, I think to myself. Even if he was speaking like a Midwesterner, no one would believe he was Todd from Des Moines. I snicker at the thought as I take a bite of the messy roll, only to moan in pleasure at the taste. It’s bits of steak slathered in beans and cheese, and the seasoning on the steak is smoky and bright, but the green sauce on top is surprisingly spicy and acidic. “Oh my God, what is this? It’s delicious.”

That has Kseniya laughing so hard her hand goes to her belly. “I always heard you Mafia princesses were sheltered, but you’ve really never had a wet burrito before?”

I frown, not liking being labeled like that even though she’s not wrong. “We have a chef. She doesn’t cook anything like this.”

Kseniya points at her plate with her fork. “Well, this is really good. They always do a good job at that truck. But next time I’m over, I’ll bring my husband’s chimichangas, and they’ll knock your socks right off.”

“Your husband cooks . . . Mexican?”

Kseniya snorts. “Hisabuelitawould tan his hide if he didn’t.”

Oh.Oh. It clicks then. Not all of us go tomade men, as Kseniya described them. Some of us are used to broker agreements between rivals. My best friend, Camilla, was nearly married off to the Irish. It’s a very real concern for me now.

But it’s Vasily. Who raped me, but I have to continually remind myself that it wasn’t some nightmare because it’s so easy to turn the removal of the blindfold into a metaphorical thing. The risk that, despite what Vasily has promised, I might never return to Phoenix just doesn’t hit the same as the idea of getting married off to a rival syndicate.

I lean forward and whisper, “You were sold to a Mexican cartel?”

Kseniya snorts so hard her bean soda shoots out of her nose and she has to sop it up with the thin dispenser napkins she brought up from the food truck. “Oh my God, I can’t wait to tell Miguel you thought he was cartel. He’s the night supervisor at the Days Inn. We dated back in high school. When I came back from college, oh, two years ago now, we decided that we’d fucked around with enough other people to know we’re gonna be stuck with each other—oh honey, what’s wrong?” she asks, suddenly snapping to attention.

I didn’t realize I was showing my feelings so hard, but her story just reminds me of everything I’ve missed out on trying to ensure my best future. I never had a high school boyfriend. I never got toleavefor college, so I’ll never get to come back. I’ll never get to sleep with other men— other than this mess I’m in now— or decide for myself who I’ll marry. My value may have gone down substantially, but I’ll still be part of some trade.

“Nothing,” I say, shrugging it off. No point crying over what I can’t control. If I’m lucky, this won’t have even devalued me that much. I’m just not a virgin. It’s not like I’ve done anything so horrible or had my reputation so sullied there’s no coming back.

Kseniya doesn’t push it. We finish up lunch, and while I’m clearing off the table, she opens the gigantic case she brought with her, revealing an entire portable manicure set-up.

Vasily didn’t send her here to bring me lunch or wring information out of me or torment me over how much better my life could have been. He sent her to do my nails.

He’s being kind to me. He’s caring for me.

He raped me.

And now he’s taking care of my needs in a way I couldn’t expect from my hypothetical future husband. It’s more likely I’d get chewed out for having broken nails if they were noticed at all.

The thought puts something on my face that has Kseniya giving me another concerned look. “I promise I know what I’m doing,” she says quickly. “I’ve got a license and everything. I went to art school, but this is what pays the bills until I can figure out what I want to do with my education.”

“It’s not that.” I wipe my tears away, irritated with myself. “I’ve been a bit of a mess lately, and I just really need my nails fixed, so this is . . .”

She softens at that, smiling gently as she takes my hands and examines what I’ve got going on with them. “Vasya’s a good guy. He has a lot of demons, and he’s a hard man to get close to. He’s definitely still haunted by . . . well, he doesn’t handle loss well,and we’ve all lost important people along the way, you know? But he’s loyal. He protects what’s his. He’ll take care of you.”

So then she doesn’t know how exactly I came to be here. I may have just met her, but she’s been candid enough with me that I believe what she says. Or, I know she believes it whether it’s true or not, and she knows thatgood guyis a tough sell when, at the end of the day, Vasily is a criminal.

But she and Igor have both said he’ll take care of me, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m in a better position than I thought I was.

I can’t decide what color nails I want. I’ve always gotten basic French tips, but before I can even ask, Kseniya says, “Don’t you dare say French. I will fuck it up out of spite.”

She has at least forty colors in her caddy. There are glittery ones and metallics, ones that change color if you look at them from different angles and ones that glow in the dark.

She waggles her eyebrows and makes a comment about how fun they are at night when you’re doing “stuff,” even putting air quotes around it, and I don’t get what she’s saying. But then my brain lurches to the topless bar, to the darkness, to Vasily guiding my hand between us so I could feel with my fingertips why his penis felt so strange.

I have no idea what those piercings look like. I haven’t seen or touched it since then, only felt it through his shorts last night while he did—

—What even was that? I’m not so naive that I don’t understand he was fingering me, but why did he do that? Whatwas the purpose of it? He didn’t get anything out of it. In fact, I heard him masturbating in the shower afterward. So why didn’t he just have sex with me?

Not that I wanted him to, of course. I just don’t get it. I don’t get why I’m here. And now I’m thinking about what it would have looked like if I’d been able to see my nails as I felt his piercings. I even wonder if the capture balls on the piercings themselves glow in the dark.

I swallow and firmly decide against glow in the dark or anything too fancy, but she has these really pretty pastels. They seem like a good entry into the world beyond French tips.

“What are you debating between?” she asks, and I pull out a baby pink, a peach, and an ultra-soft blue, but then put the blue back.

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