Anatoly's Retribution Read online

  Anatoly clenched the back of Daniel’s squirming head and made him look at his father. “Do you see him?” he asked Daniel.

  “Yes!” Daniel said, eyes watering.

  “Is he a dog?” Anatoly asked, pushing his mouth up against Daniel’s ear.

  “No!” Daniel answered, recoiling from the man’s hot breath.

  Anatoly roughly snatched him back. “Are you going to fuck with him again?”

  “No...” Daniel choked up and started to cry. The weight of his actions toward his father started to become too heavy to bear. “No, I won’t fuck with him again.” Tears streamed down his face.

  “Or what?” Anatoly asked, ignoring the man’s sobs.

  “Or…or…” Daniel cried. “Or you’ll blow my head off.”

  “Your words…not mine,” Anatoly said to Daniel. He let go of him, shoving the bully into the corner. “Not such a big man after all, eh.”

  “Thank you,” Franklin said to Anatoly.

  Anatoly shrugged, uncomfortable with the slightest kindness. “No need to thank me. It’s Christmas gift.”

  Daniel fought to breathe in the middle of his first panic attack. Snot and tears mingled on his reddened face. Pulling at his polo, he wiped a hand over his stained mouth and threw his head back against the wall.

  Anatoly felt absolutely no pity for the man or what he had done to him. In his mind, it wasn’t enough, but there were witnesses outside, so he had to be careful.

  “Get up,” Anatoly chided. There was nothing worse than a sniveling man. “Stop crying like baby. You dish it out, you must take it as well. This is life.”

  Daniel stood up, eyeing the gun that Anatoly held in his right hand. He moved quickly over to the sink by his father, nearly slipping in the residue left from the lamb sauce on the floor.

  Anatoly stalked up to Daniel, only inches from his face. “What are you waiting for? Wash yourself off and take your father back out to dinner. Your family might start to worry.”

  Trembling and utterly humiliated, Daniel went to the sink and ran his shaking hands under the stream. He could barely look at himself, having suffered a beat down by a boy closer to a child’s age than a man. But he was also embarrassed about the fact that it took a stranger to call him out on his unequivocal bullshit.

  Quickly, he cleaned off his face, straightened his hair and wiped his shirt as best he could, all while Anatoly watched him from inches away. He moved mechanically, unable to believe that he had been attacked by the stranger and that his father had done nothing about it. But he remembered what Anatoly told him and planned never to touch Franklin again.

  Franklin looked between his son and the stranger and saw the stark difference.

  The blonde, brooding muscular young Russian was a real man. His middle-aged son was just a boy.

  The reality of the fact that he had failed as a father to his only son crippled him with pain, but the idea that someone had come to his aid, conversely made him feel alive again.

  “Young man, you did a hell of a thing tonight,” Franklin confessed. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your story, but I can tell you this, your father would be proud.”

  Anatoly stuffed his gun in the back of his pants. He was certain that if he left now, the old man would be unharmed. “Time will tell, eh,” he said, reaching over to touch Franklin’s shoulder. “Take care.”

  ***

  Humming a tune, Anatoly breezed back into the kitchen past the busy wait staff after dealing with Franklin and Daniel, and stalked up to his steaming hot pot of borscht brewing on the stove. Suddenly, he was in a much better mood. Kicking Daniel’s ass had been just what he needed to release the anxiousness he was experiencing earlier.

  All day, he had contemplated something very important, and the more he thought about it, the more nervous he became, which was why he had abandoned his borscht earlier to go and have a drink at the bar. But seeing Franklin was like a God send. Without the old man knowing it, he had been given a sign that what he was about to do was the right thing.

  Anatoly dipped a ladle in the large pot, stirring the soup so it wouldn’t stick to the sides. He had been working on it for over an hour and now it was ready.

  Earlier, his boss, Dmitry, had asked him to fix up a special pot. He’d happily obliged with the hopes of using the opportunity to speak with his boss alone.

  Carrying a large white bowl of borscht topped with sour cream and chives on a platter, Anatoly pushed through the kitchen doors and reemerged into the restaurant. Eyeing a more chipper Franklin as he made his way out of the main hall, he moved down the corridor passed the armed guards to the party room.

  It was dark in the back, very close to gloomy. Strings of white lights were strewn across the rafters above the dance floor. Empty tables circled around the room with small votive lights at their center. The echo of Anatoly’s boots against the floor reverberated through the hollow space and mingled with the beautiful cry of Dmitry’s violin.

  He was playing again. Dmitry only seemed to play when he was alone, never wanting an audience, always locked into his thoughts, held captive by the past. It almost felt like Anatoly was spying when he entered the room, but Dmitry had wanted borscht instead of eating one of the Christmas dinners on the menu tonight.

  “Like home,” Dmitry had told Anatoly. “Nothing fancy.”

  Stepping down the wooden stairs, with the tray of food carefully gripped in his hands, Anatoly saw Dmitry on the stage, sitting on a bench by the shiny black piano. He looked so regal sitting there – so untouchable.

  Dmitry was still in his black tailored suit from earlier, jacket thrown over the top of the piano by a half-full bottle of Russian vodka and a single shot glass. His slender black tie was pulled to the side, the top button of his white tailored Oxford open. Though he was there in body, his mind was far away.

  Anatoly quietly admired the man for his solvent, resoluteness. In his time, he had wanted to be many men – mostly those on television, some seen in passing, but never had he sought the approval of anyone outside of his mother and this man…

  Dmitry had his eyes closed shut, blocking out the rest of the world. Alone in his thoughts and stewing in private trepidation, he sat on his shiny wooden perch, playing a selection from Vivaldi he had learned as a boy in Catholic school. The feel of the smooth wood under his fingers and the sound of the small instrument made him ripe with longing.

  It was days like this that made his existence hard. While he was rich beyond his wildest measure, he was still alone – even on such a family-oriented day. The men who worked for him were his family, his obligation, his purpose. Everything else and everyone else had faded into the darkness of his memories like the shadows lurking in the corners of the room, even though several names sat on the tip of his tongue, forbidden to be spoken.

  With apologies in each step for his interruption, Anatoly made his way across the dance floor and up two steps to the stage. Placing the tray beside his boss’s jacket on the piano, he reached in his back pocket and pulled out a thin red box and put it beside Dmitry’s meal.

  Dmitry’s eyes had already opened. He watched Anatoly without saying a word, until he saw the box.

  How curious?

  The bow dropped as did Dmitry’s chin. His deep, Russian baritone echoed through the room. “What is this, boy?” he asked.

  Anatoly took a deep breath as he tried to banish his nervousness. “It’s a gift.” His right eye twitched. “It’s Christmas. It’s a gift,” he said again, shrugging. What else did his boss want him to say?

  Dmitry put his violin and bow on the other side of the piano and picked up the box. He raised it to his eyes. “You bought a gift for me?” His blue eyes quickly turned back to Anatoly, freezing the boy’s movement.

  “I figured you could open it later. I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Anatoly tried to explain.

  But Dmitry didn’t want to wait until later. He had gotten gifts from most of the men he worked with. All the presents were thrown
under his tree at his mansion across town, but this one seemed different, special.

  “Sit down,” Dmitry ordered Anatoly. He motioned at the small stool by the end of the stage.

  Anatoly did what Dmitry said without another word. He grabbed the stool and took a seat.

  Dmitry narrowed his eyes at him. “Closer, Anatoly,” Dmitry ordered. “Don’t be shy.”

  Anatoly stood up, picked up the stool and walked it over to rest it beside Dmitry’s bench. Taking a seat, he looked at the box in Dmitry’s hand. “I wasn’t prepared for you to open it in front of me.”

  In his mind, he had hoped his boss might have gotten around to it much later, and while Anatoly was across town, not right in front of him to watch his reaction.

  This was uncomfortable.

  “Is it a bomb?” Dmitry asked with a frown.

  “Net,” Anatoly answered quickly.

  “Relax.” Dmitry grinned. His icy eyes sparkled. “That was supposed to be a joke.” He ran a hand over the top of the box again. “Anatoly, you’re a very serious young man for your age.” He looked at him for an explanation.

  “Is that a bad thing?” Anatoly asked sincerely. He knew he wasn’t much fun, but he tried to be dependable where he lacked social skills.

  “No. This is very serious work we do, but I’m used to having to put my foot in a boy’s ass your age. You haven’t given me the privilege yet.” In truth, Anatoly reminded him very much of himself at that age. He liked that about him.

  Anatoly ducked his head.

  “Another joke,” Dmitry said, raising a brow. “Remind me to make you take a vacation soon. You need to lighten up.” He heaved a heavy sigh and pulled at the gold string holding the box closed.

  Anatoly blinked fast, watching the deliberate movements of Dmitry’s long manicured hands. “Before you open that,” he interrupted. He saw Dmitry slowly look up at him and at that moment butterflies erupted in his stomach. God, he was losing his nerve with every second. Anatoly blew out a breath and interlaced his fingers. “I just wanted you to be proud of me, is all.” He lurched over and looked at the floor.

  “Proud?” Dmitry asked. “Interesting choice of words.” He pulled the string completely off the box and opened it to find a single, old picture inside. “Ah, something nostalgic to match my mood,” Dmitry said with a half grin before he could see the people in the photo.

  Pulling the small Polaroid out, Dmitry held it between his index finger and thumb. It was hard to see without his glasses, even harder to see in the dim lights, but yet, he recognized not the six-month old, blonde boy in the photo, but the slender, blonde girl with big startling eyes and a wide pink mouth. Her neck was long, her skin like freshly fallen snow. She clutched the boy in her lap and looked up at the camera, proud of her little bundle of joy.

  Anatoly kept his eyes averted away from Dmitry. “That’s my mother. That’s me. I was not a year old yet, and she was in her early twenties.” Anatoly could hear his boss’s heavy breaths, but he didn’t have the strength to meet his eyes and know whether or not he even remembered who the woman was. If he didn’t, this was going to get even weirder.

  Dmitry didn’t speak. He stared at the photo, face unreadable. Leaning a large elbow against the piano, he gripped the back of his neck and groaned. He sounded like a lion, caged for the first time. But he wasn’t the only one who wanted out. Anatoly wished to be anywhere but here at the moment.

  Finally, Dmitry tapped his large foot against the wooden floor and reached behind him.

  Anatoly’s chest constricted, unsure if Dmitry was reaching for his gun. Maybe he didn’t have any sons because he didn’t’ want any. Maybe he was going to kill him right here for even suggesting such a thing. But to Anatoly’s surprise, Dmitry pulled out his black, leather wallet and carefully put the photo inside it.

  Dmitry cleared his throat and blinked fast, pushing away what Anatoly thought might have been tears.

  “Do you believe me?” Anatoly asked.

  A flash of Alexandria’s young naked body on top of his in a hotel in Moscow many years ago flashed through Dmitry’s mind. “Yes, I believe you.”

  “Without a test or anything?” Anatoly was shocked that he had not met more resistance from a man as paranoid and thorough as Dmitry.

  “We’ll get to the test, but not for the reasons you’d suspect.”

  “Did you know about me?”

  “Once, I was told that Alexandria was pregnant. Then I was told it was by another man. Then I was told that she had moved on with her life. Then I was told nothing at all.” Dmitry curled up his lips. “I was never told the truth, it seems.”

  “Shit happens,” Anatoly said flatly.

  Suddenly, it was hard to form a full sentence. “Why didn’t you tell me, all this time?” Dmitry asked. His square jaw clenched, and for the first time, he saw Anatoly for who he really was.

  The question in his mind was why had he not seen it before.

  Anatoly was oblivious to the total meltdown Dmitry was having quietly in front of him. He glanced up sharply. “Like I said, I wanted you to be proud of me, first. I wanted to prove to you…you know… that I wasn’t just some punk kid looking for a handout.”

  “A handout?” Dmitry repeated. He was the Czar of the fucking underworld. He could handle a handout. What he could not handle was a son of his going hungry or struggling in this world.

  Anatoly felt uncomfortable. He wanted to leave, afraid that he had made the wrong choice. Christmas probably wasn’t the time to drop the news on Dmitry that he had a bastard son working under his nose.

  “I misjudged. I’m sorry, boss,” Anatoly apologized.

  The words stung Dmitry like bees to hot sweaty skin. The boy was his son, and yet he called him boss.

  Dmitry berated himself quietly for not being there for Anatoly. “You should not be the one apologizing. I made you, you didn’t make me.”

  Anatoly could feel the heaviness of his emotions starting to peak from behind his Teflon exterior.

  Scrubbing a hand over his clean-shaven face, Dmitry shook his head. “Kapotnya.” He smirked. “You said you were from there. You told me that first night who you were but I just…” He was lost for words. What the fuck? “I didn’t put it together.”

  Anatoly looked away. In his mind, he wondered if his boss felt him to be too shabby to be called a son. “It’s not like I’m much too look at beside a man like you. It was easy to overlook?”

  Dmitry locked eyes on the boy. Pointing a long finger at him, he chastised Anatoly for his doubt. “Hey, raise your head. Look at me,” he ordered in a stern voice.

  Anatoly’s head snapped up, and despite his worry, he looked at Dmitry.

  “I am proud of you,” Dmitry said, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes watered. Fighting back tears and the quiver of his bottom lip, he tapped the piano and pursed his lips together. “I’m prouder of you than you’ll ever know.”

  Even though Anatoly didn’t know it, Dmitry had raised a boy into a man once, and the result had been less-than-stellar. Ivan Medlov was a certifiable sociopath, probably due to the world that Dmitry had immersed him in at such a young age. But this young man was standing in front of him, strong and beautiful, wanting nothing but to be accepted and yet he doubted himself.

  Anatoly was lost for words. “Spasiba,” he said sincerely.

  “No, boy, thank you.” He relaxed his wide shoulders. “And your mother…how is she?” He had loved Alexandria once, and he loved her again, seeing the gift she had presented him.

  That was a sore subject. “She wants nothing to do with me,” Anatoly answered.

  Dmitry wasn’t surprised. Alexandria had always been complicated. “Because you’re a Vor?” he asked, already assuming.

  Anatoly wasn’t happy to say. “Because she doesn’t want me hurt by someone back in Moscow, if people knew I was your son. Because I killed a man who assaulted my sister. Because…shit…she’s overprotective.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there an
ything I can do?” All Anatoly had to do was name it.

  “No.” Anatoly swallowed hard. “I’ve tried. She won’t accept my calls – changed her number after she sent me to you. If she doesn’t want me, I don’t want to push her.”

  Dmitry tried to make his son see his mother’s reasoning. “She knew I’d take care of you. She knew you’d have a good life.”

  Anatoly smacked his lips together and shook his head. “Da, she did.”

  “Then, I can’t let her down,” Dmitry reasoned. And he wouldn’t.

  Anatoly shrugged. “You haven’t.”

  Dmitry had so many questions. He had missed so much. Picking up the bowl, he spooned the borscht before it could get cold as a sign of respect. His son, after all, had made him a home-cooked Russian meal for Christmas Eve. “So, son of mine, tell me everything.”

  Anatoly smirked. “Everything?” He scratched the top of his head and quirked his mouth.

  Dmitry grinned. “Everything that you can remember.”

  “That could take all night.” For a man like Anatoly, that kind of pursuit could take the rest of his life. He had never been required to say more than a few words. This man wanted to be briefed on his existence.

  “It’s Christmas Eve. What else could father and son do on such a night, if not talk. Start from your first memory and work your way to the moment that I laid eyes on you. I’ll do my best to memorize it all.” Dmitry took a sip of the borscht and smiled. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Anatoly relaxed his shoulders and went to his first memory. “When I was three, I remember my mother telling me that my father’s name was Dmitry…”

  Chapter Two

  Plan for the Worst …

  Miami, Florida

  Star Island

  N o one had slept a wink all night. Every single guard under the employ of Anatoly Medlov was called to high-alert and ordered to shoot and kill anyone who dared enter the property who was not already pre-approved by Mrs. Renee Medlov in advance. Marat had rallied the troops as soon as he arrived back with Anatoly from the club. In a meeting in the dining hall, he had given specific instruction in order to keep his ward’s family safe, taking no chances, especially with the boss’s pregnant wife and daughter still here.