Page 11 of Pageant

I roll my shoulders and get into his shiny black car. When we pull up to his house, I can’t stop staring. We’re in a leafy part of the city, and the houses are large and stand on spacious lots. Inside, the hall is huge and tiled with marble. Gilt mirrors hang on the walls and there’s a chandelier overhead. A fucking chandelier, like this is the Kremlin.

Heels click over the tiles. I turn away from the décor and see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on walking toward me. She’s tall for a woman, and slender, with a cascade of lustrous dark blonde hair over her shoulders. The clingy dress she’s wearing shows off her incredible body. There’s barely any makeup on her face, that I can see anyway. She must be Ivan’s daughter. Who knew this ugly fucker could produce such a stunner.

“This is my wife, Lilia,” Ivan says proudly, a possessive hand sliding around her waist.

That is his fuckingwife?

“This is Elyah Morozov. He got into trouble back in the old country and he’s starting fresh here. We’ve been teaching him about football.Realfootball, not that European shit.”

I grit my teeth as a shadow passes over Lilia’s expression. He could have stopped atThis is Elyah Morozov.

“I am new driver,” I say to her. Did I say that right? English is bloated with stupid, unnecessary words.

Her smile falters, and after saying an uncertain hello, she turns away from me to greet Dima and Bogdan and ask after their wives. I can’t stop staring at her. Every new glance reveals more of her beauty, and my body, dead and boxed in for so long, suddenly feels alive.

You just killed a man for touching this woman. Lower your fucking eyes.

Ivan’s children come downstairs, and I’m introduced to a bored twelve-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy. Inessa and Alexei. I glance from the children to Lilia. Unless she started having children when she was six, they’re definitely her stepchildren.

I follow everyone into the dining room, trying and failing not to stare at my boss’s wife’s ass in her tight dress. There’s a sway to her hips that could make a grown man weep, especially a man who’s spent the last four years in a Russian prison full of ugly, violent men.

At the dining table, the last place free is next to her. I sit down, hyperaware of my arm just an inch from hers. She’s tanned golden and wears a diamond bracelet on her wrist, and there’s an enormous diamond engagement ring next to her wedding band. Gone are my fantasies of motherly pats on the cheek as Mrs. Kalashnik insists that I have another helping of potato salad. In their place are visions of her slender fingers running along my jaw as I kiss her, then digging into my shoulders as I push her thighs wide with my knees, my cock jutting between us. The image of her naked body hits me with such force that I forget every word I know in English and mutter my thanks in Russian when she passes me the breadbasket.

Someone pours ice-cold vodka into a small glass in front of me and I knock it back. It burns my throat and tastes like home. All the food does, actually. Ivan wasn’t wrong when he said his wife can cook. There’s beetroot soup, pastries full of meat and potatoes, herring salad, and blinis with sour cream. It’s warm in the house and I push up the sleeves of my black sweater and throw back another shot of vodka.

Lilia’s gaze fastens on my forearm. There are drops of blood decorating the tattoos on my skin.

“How do you like American football?” she asks.

It’s an innocent question, but there’s a knowing expression in her sea-green eyes. I pull my sleeve down. “More violent than I thought.”

“Is violence something you’ll have to get used to here?”

If I pretend that I don’t know what she’s talking about and insist I am just a driver, she will not believe me. Ivan is fooling himself if he believes his beautiful young wife doesn’t know exactly how he makes his money. I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face. “Do not worry. I will be fine.”

When the meal is over, Ivan and his wife escort me to the front door. Lilia is an inch taller than her heavyset, graying husband. He has his arm around her waist, and the sight of his fingers digging into her hip is getting on my nerves.

“Eight tomorrow morning, Elyah,” Ivan tells me as we say goodbye.

“Da, spasibo.”

As I walk back to my car, I glance behind me at the house. A cozy setup he has here. Ivan seems fine, and while his men aren’t the smartest I’ve worked with, they’re all making plenty of money. I’m a free man; I have a job and a stomach full of good food and vodka. In the morning I might catch a glimpse of the delicious Mrs. Kalashnik, and perhaps I’ll find a way to make her smile at me.

I already like America.

At five minutes to eight, I ring the Kalashniks’ front doorbell. Today I’ve exchanged my sweater and jeans in favor of a black button-down shirt, black pants, and leather shoes. I was expecting one of the children to open the front door, but Lilia herself is standing on the other side, dressed in pale green pants and a white sleeveless blouse. There’s a gold chain around her neck and her hair is pinned up with a few wispy tendrils around her face. She can’t be much more than eighteen, but she dresses like she’s trying to project an air of maturity. I suppose she has to when her husband’s pushing fifty.

“Dobroe utro,” I greet her, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. I can’t help myself. The morning sun is burnishing her beautiful face, and suddenly I’m thrilled to be standing right where I am, on this doorstep.

Lilia looks at me blankly for a moment, and then understanding flickers in her eyes. “Oh, good morning. Sorry, your accent is thicker than what I’m used to.”

“You speakRusskiy?” I ask, following her to the kitchen.

“No. My grandfather tried to teach me Russian when I was small, but I was more interested in my toys and helping my mother in the kitchen. Russia seemed very far away to me. I love the food, though.”

A shame. I imagine her voice sounds beautiful when she’s speaking Russian. “What is your father’s name?”

Though she’s Lilia Kalashnik in America, in Russia the only polite way to address this woman would be with her patronymic, a name derived from a feminine form of her father’s name.

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