Page 72 of Vasily the Nail

O’Connor’s eyes go wide at that. “What? No! I was fucking pissed, yeah, okay? I was planning on duking it out with you. But I didn’t send a goon squad. Whatever happened, it wasn’t me!”

Artyom rips the chopstick out, and that has O’Connor yowling and tucking his hand into his stomach since the other one is still impaled.

Artyom uses that bloody chopstick as a pointer at every other boss at the table. “Was it you? Did you attack my Alex? Or you? You? Did any of you send a squad out to beat up a kid just walking down the street minding his own fucking business? No?” That chopstick goes right back to O’Connor, digging into his cheek, too dull to puncture with the way Artyom wields it but rubbing a bloody streak. “You’re the only one this dumb, O’Connor, but it is your lucky fucking day because my wife loves that piece of shit Irish pub, and I need a wedding gift for her. So you get to stay. What you do not get is road. You do not get trucks. You do not get to move merchandise through this fucking city, you got me?”

He wants to argue. I can see that. They run a fuck ton of guns through here. Those guys are obsessed with guns.

“You keep your land, but I am not fucking playing when I say if I see a single fucking badged IRA goon on my land for any reason at all? They will be executed on sight. You got businesshere, you send your women. You send one of Bernie’s men. You send a fucking pigeon with a note tied to its foot. I don’t care. But I will put a bullet right in your fucking brain if I see you again. And if any of your people give my wife grief because she loves your stupid ass scotch egg rolls, I will raze your land. Now get the fuck out of here.”

He rips the second chopstick out of O’Connor’s hand. Vlad gets him on his feet and leads him out, walking side-by-side with an arm across his shoulder, old pals heading out of the popular restaurant after having too much sake in the private room.

The chef stands back up and throws a fresh plate of raw vegetables onto the grill.

Day 13

Analiese

Vasily’s tub isn’tdesigned for two people. In order for us to both fit, he has to flop one of his legs over the edge, and we’re constantly negotiating the rest of our limbs as he moves me around. I’m pretty sure the downstairs neighbors are going to come yell at us for making it rain in their bathroom for all the water that’s getting splashed out.

We’re not even having sex.

No, the first thing Vasily said to me this morning as I handed him his coffee cup was, “Let’s take a bath together.” He had his morning cigarette, I slapped some hand sanitizer on him and shoved his toothbrush in his hand, and next thing I knew, I was reclining against his chest in the tub while he soaped me up and then shaved my legs.

Totally weird. I’m pretty sure Camilla would have said something if this was normal. I’ve seen sexy scenes in movies where the lady uses a flat blade to shave her man — which looks exactly like how I would kill a man on accident — but never him wielding a Lady Bic on her shaggy legs in the bathtub.

I don’t hate it, though. He’s meticulous, and his calloused fingers gliding up the smooth trail behind the razor has me making rumbly signs in my throat.

Which has Vasily making gruffer sounds in his chest and his cock poking at my back. So when my leg joins his over the side of the tub, I expect to get some orgasms out of this. But then he grabs the shaving cream again.

I should tell him I wax. I don’t want the hair in my bikini area to grow back stubbly. But I keep quiet, and not because I’m worried that he’ll be angry if I stop him. I’m just enjoying the pampering so much that it’s okay, I’ll fix it next time around.

Hopefully I’ll be with Vasily for that. I’m painfully aware that I’ve known him for thirteen days now and we haven’t discussed what’s going to happen yet.

I consider if now is the right time. I don’t know what the rest of the day is looking like, and as likely as not, he’ll be gone for most of it. I may not get another opportunity. Before I can decide how to phrase it, though, Vasily says, “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

I blink at that. We weren’t talking, but it still feels out of place. Is this his way of asking me if I want to leave him? Should I say Flagstaff? “Definitely not Phoenix,” I laugh to give myself time to decide if there’s a right answer.

He responds with his own deep chuckle and a brush of his lips over my shoulder. “Yeah, I guessed as much. Believe me when I say my first answer isnot Flagstaff.”

Any tension I may have had over how to answer melts at that. The relief is bittersweet, though, as I’m reminded that he has that monster in his brain telling him he’s going to die in Flagstaff. I want to ask him why he doesn’t leave — if he leaves and never returns to Flagstaff, he’ll never die here — but Isuppose when your dead mother whispers something like that in your ear, you assume there’s no simple escape.

“Hmm, when you say anywhere, how much control would I have over my life? If I said the rainforest, would I have to live in, like, a mud hut? Or could I have a nice house?”

He thinks about that for longer than I’d have expected, but he’s also shaving an extremely sensitive and curved area. After a long thought and some careful passes with the shaver, he says, “Let’s say a place where you’d want to settle down. Have a family if you wanted. You’d have to work, but you’d have a comfortable life. Not wealthy, but comfortable.”

“Ah. Well, that’s a different question.” I’m hoping he can’t hear the smile in my voice, but he definitely feels the shiver up my spine when my imagination crafts not the location or even the climate but a simple front porch of a modern house with me in one of Vasily’s arms, a toddler in the other. I’m in the ugliest maternity clothes ever, my belly protruding. For whatever reason, I’ve given Vasily some classic business casual gear and a moustache I absolutely hate.

“Why are you giggling?” he asks.

“Just a silly thought. My father used to take me to Tahoe every year. Taught me how to ski and everything. Tony hated it there, too boring. Too cold. So it ended up being just me and dad, and then the last year, his nurse had to go with us. He couldn’t ski anymore, kept trying to shoo me out. Didn’t want me to miss out on the fun. But there was nothing I could have done that would have been more precious to me than sitting in the lodge with the snow falling outside and fire crackling, spending that time with them.”

Vasily reaches over to the hand towel hanging nearby and dries his fingers before casually swiping up my cheek, catching a tear.

“Crud, sorry. You asked me an innocent question, and I turned it into drama.”

“You’re fine,” he murmurs. “Perfect. That’s . . . that’s lovely that you got to do that.”

“It’s weird hearing you say ‘lovely’.”

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