Page 25 of Vasily the Nail

“Am confused.”

“So am I. I don’t want you to–to force yourself on me, but I don’t understand why I’m here if it’s not for that.”

“I not keep lady for sex.”

I spin around and shove him away, a move I could regret, but honestly, nothing I’ve done so far has made him lash out at me. I’m starting to not worry about that.

“And stop with the stupid accent and the broken English! Kseniya told me you can speak normal.”

Vasily glares at me, again keeping me suspended for too long before saying, “I don’t like how you say ‘normal,’ like foreign people aren’t normal.”

Which would have me feeling guilty.

If his English hadn’t been perfectly and clearly spoken with only a low, clipped hint of a Russian accent.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I have no idea why I’m here. So, no, I don’t want you to . . .” I sigh. What a ridiculous thing to explain. “I just don’t understand what you’re getting out of this.”

He has the audacity to smirk at me, and I’m getting those small dog feelings like I want to just attack him with everything I’ve got but I know he’ll knock me down the moment he’s had enough. “I told you already. For these two weeks, you’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine. Perhaps I just wanted someone to be home when I got home and to warm my bed when I’m not in it and challenge me when I’m trying to help her make pancakes.”

I let that stew for a minute. He’s just claimed he has no issue getting women, and hopefully he’s not talking about sex workers.

Dear Lord, please don’t let it be sex workers.

Dear Lord, please don’t let his voice continue being this hot. It’s completely unfair that it’s even more alluring when it’s just a hint on perfect, proper English.

If he has no issue getting women, presumably without paying them, then it seems like he should also be fine with getting girlfriends. In fact, there’s proof here of girlfriends. “The women’s clothes in your closet—”

“They are unimportant,” he says, suddenly distracted by one of my curls. I’d think he was attempting to change the subject, but then I see his pupils. Blown, like they always are. I’ve yet to see him clear-eyed in the light.

“You take a lot of drugs,” I say, not meaning it to be an accusation.

“That is also unimportant.”

“The work you do, doesn’t it affect that?”

He shrugs and nudges me to the side to take over on the pancakes, but I stay next to him and watch. “I suppose my brother takes that into account when he tells me what to do,” Vasily says with an amused smile curling his lips. “And it does give Kostya something to do.”

“Kostya?” I repeat, recalling the name from the drive up from Phoenix. It was long enough that there came a point where boredom overcame terror and I started paying attention to the comments occasionally volleyed at my brother.

“My cousin. He’s my driver, lucky bastard.”

“How is that lucky?”

“His father was theavtorivetwhen we were first sent here. He was too young to take over when Uncle Konstantin was executed, so my father took over.”

“Wait, that makeshimlucky?” I ask as Vasily pours little more than a dollop of batter in the frying pan, but it spreads to the size a pancake should be and begins to puff and bubble almost immediately. “He could have been the leader, and instead, he’s your driver because you literally can’t keep your nose clean. And since it’s your brother who’s leading, he babies you instead of making you get yourself together. And that somehow makes him lucky?”

Dread immediately hits me. I’ve said too much. Way too much.

Vasily has the spatula in his hand, hovering over the edge of the pancake like he’s about to nudge it, but then he pulls back.

He’s going to hit me with the spatula.

Nope, he erupts in the most gut-busting laugh I’ve ever heard, wraps the spatulaed hand around my waist, and kisses me hard for no more than two seconds, but it’s enough to leave me shocked catatonic. “Yes, this is it, this is why I wanted you here. I’m so glad I was right about you. But no. I understand what you’re saying, but no. There is no glory inavtorivet, not here. Our fathers did things the Bratva was unhappy about, and we were sent here as punishment.”

“What did they do?” I ask, unable to resist. That’s an extreme punishment, knowing they were in Russia then, but I’m used to the extreme punishment being the metaphorical cement slippers. It’s crazy that they’d be sent here instead when there are plenty of Russian-American Bratva who could have taken over in Flagstaff.

“Decided to be trail-blazers. Uncle Konstantin married a Spanish woman, and Papa married a Finnish woman. It was fine at first, but then there was a power shift. The men who took over weren’t nearly as progressive. Our mothers were executed, and we were sent here. And now ouravtorivetis basically a target. My uncle was murdered, my papa was murdered, my brother will one day be murdered, and then I will be murdered. If we are lucky, there will be no one left to take over, and the curse will end with me.”

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