The Score (18 page)

Ivan grinned, waving off the tremor in Anton’s words. “Whatever, man. Call your little boy before the guards forget about the money I just shoved into their pockets.”

***

“Happy birthday, little man.”

Viviana felt her smile grow as she watched her son’s eyes light up at the sound of his father’s voice. It had been well over a month since Demyan last seen his father, let alone spoke to him. The stress the child must have been feeling about it daily was started to manifest physically. From temper tantrums, to taking giant leaps backwards in his potty training, to even his speech and desire to talk, Demyan was clearly lost without his father. Viviana didn’t know how to explain it to him, not properly.

“Papa?” Demyan asked.

“Yeah, Demyan. How old are you today?”

Demyan grinned as he attempted to pull himself up higher on the counter where Viviana had turned the home phone on speaker. “Papa! It’s my happy birthday, today. I’m
three
!”

Viviana stayed silent as Demyan then went on to speak about everything and anything he could possibly think of to tell his father. Right down to the fact that his mother changed the comforter on his bed to the blue one. He chatted about his new cars, and Rocco, before moving on to his trip to the park with Erik.

Anton took the rambling in stride, saying little and letting the child talk. He always did know how to handle his son so well, even when everyone else couldn’t understand the boy.

Then, very quietly, Demyan asked, “Where is you, Papa?”

The change in the room was instant and palpable. As if time had stopped for just a moment, as did everything else. Demyan’s heartbreak and distress was clear to hear and unfortunately, his mother could see it, as well. Viviana’s heart leaped into her throat at the same time Anton’s stuttering breath crackled through the phone’s speaker.

“
Are
,” Anton corrected. “Not is, are. That’s what you mean to say.”

“Okay,” Demyan whispered. “It’s
my
happy birthday …”

Maybe Demyan wasn’t able to verbalize what he was trying to say properly, but Viviana knew what he didn’t finish saying:
and you’re not here
. Anton always made such a big deal out of his son’s special day. This year was intended to be no different from the last, or the one before.

Until the arrest happened.

“I know it is, little man. Papa just had to go away for a while, but not forever. I—” Anton cut off, clearing his throat with a painful, low curse. “
Ya lyublyu tyebya,
Demyan. I love you, my boy. Papa always, always loves you, no matter what. You are my
malysh
.
My
little boy. Only Papa’s, even if I’m not there.”

Demyan looked back at his mother, his blue eyes rimmed with tears and hesitance. Like all children would, he assumed his father’s lack of presence was somehow his fault. Viviana wavered on her inner thoughts, trying desperately to get a grip on the emotional chaos she felt for her son, and for herself.

Anton saved her the time and effort. “You have to be a good boy for Ma, Demyan. No more nastiness, no more yelling, or fighting. She misses Papa, too, just like you do. I will not be happy if I come home and your mother tells me you didn’t listen to me. Is that understood?”

Demyan nodded bleakly, a childlike frown turning his features boyishly sad, even though his father couldn’t see it. Viviana felt her lips crack with a smile.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” Anton said. “Now, give Ma the phone so Papa can say goodbye.”

“But, no, Papa—”

“Demyan, I just said no more fighting.”

As hard as it was for Viviana to listen to Anton discipline their child, considering it was the first conversation they had in so long, she also knew deep down inside that it was needed. Demyan refused to listen to her most times, and neither Erik, Ivan, nor their bull Rory could be around twenty-four-seven to give him the male presence he so desperately craved. So, she forced her mouth to stay shut as Demyan screwed balled fists to his eyes and whined.

“But,
Papa
!”

Ten seconds of angry wailing later and Anton asked, “Are you finished?”

Demyan sniffled, toeing the cupboard with his sock foot. “Yes.”

“Good. What did I say before?”

“No more fighting,” Demyan mumbled unhappily.

“What else?”

“I’m
yours
.”

Viviana swore she could feel Anton’s smile when he said, “And I love you. Now, go find your mutt.”

Seemingly satisfied, albeit sadder than he had been, Demyan reluctantly scurried out of the kitchen in search of Rocco. Viviana felt like cement stuck to the floor, unable to reach out and pick up the phone to take it off speaker, but unsure of what she should say now that her son was gone.

“Vine?” Anton asked.

Hoarse and tired, Viviana replied, “I’m here. Thank you … for that.”

Anton sighed. “You should have told me he was giving you issues.”

“He’s just a child. It’s not like I can blame the behaviour on anything but his age and circumstance right now, Anton.”

“If you just let me talk to him when I call—”

Viviana felt the heat in her blood flare up instantly. “So he can hear his father is a Rikers inmate? I don’t want him relating that to you!”

“You would rather he think I fucking abandoned him, then?”

“He doesn’t think that.”

Anton scoffed, all dark and hateful. The sound cut straight to her aching heart. “Right, baby. Sure. That’s the last thing he would assume.”

“You don’t understand, Anton.”

“No, I do. But I hear how goddamned heartbroken he is and it makes me fucking sick. I know it’s my fault. I only want to help. It doesn’t matter if it’s only thirty seconds, but you have to let me talk to him, Viviana. He’s my son, too—my boy. Stop keeping him from me!”

“You’re right about one thing,” she spat back. “It is
your
fault. Every day I’m the only one reminding Demyan that his father will be home soon. I tell him how much you love him. He sleeps in our bed because he thinks you might come home at night when he’s asleep. Is that what you wanted to hear from me, Anton? That he’s totally lost and out of control? That I’m just managing to keep hold of my sanity between him, the investigation, and this pre—”

Viviana just managed to catch herself from blurting out that she was with child. Silence covered the kitchen and call. In the background, a familiar voice was attempting to calm the situation.

Rarely did their conversations turn sharp and bitter, now. Sure, there was still a lot of low lying anger simmering below the surface, but Viviana rarely brought it up to Anton. Being where he was, she figured he didn’t need to be locked up like a caged animal and pissed off all the same.

And, Viviana wasn’t entirely sure she was as angry as she was … Well, like her son, lost and out of control without Anton.

“Vine, please …” Anton started, his plead strained and desperate.

“I’m sorry, Anton. I didn’t mean—”

The flower arrangement sitting in the middle of the kitchen table caught her gaze, stopping the words. As Anton promised her when she was pregnant for Demyan, a bouquet arrived for her every morning on their son’s birthday. This year, the prettiest tiger lilies had made her heart beat faster and tears fall.

“Friday,” he said softly. “You can tell me anything …
everything
… on Friday, baby.”

The tightening sensation in Viviana’s throat increased, making it hard for her to speak, let alone breathe. “Everything,” she managed to say. “I promise.”

“Ya nye magu zhit' byes tyebya.”

The Russian on his tongue was still as dark, deep, and heavy as it always was. The syllables of every word drizzled down like liquid gold to wrap and suffocate Viviana even more. After three and a half years of marriage, and his unrelenting stubbornness about her learning some of his mother tongue, she finally did understand a little.

That statement was no exception.

“I know, Anton.”

“Never, Vine,” he said forcefully, so sure and strong. In English, the words broke her further. “You know I can’t live without you.”

Chapter Fifteen

A day later, Viviana slid into Ivan’s BMW silently, her tired, red-rimmed eyes shielded by large sunglasses.

“How’s Demyan today?” Ivan asked.

“Better after speaking to his father. I’m starting to think hiding where Anton actually is might not be the best choice for him. And obviously it’s hurting Anton, too. I hadn’t really considered that, but I should have.”

Ivan didn’t say anything at first, simply flicked the ash of his cigarette out of the window. “I’ve known Anton for a long time, Vine.”

“And?”

“And when he became a father, many things about him changed overnight. He was not the kind of man who found a need to feel guilt because of his actions, but he does now. In Rikers, he’s alone with his thoughts to keep him company. His guilt is a constant battle that you only added to yesterday. He knew when he offered you the choice to start over new that it could very well mean giving his son up to another man, maybe, one day. I think for you to keep Demyan from him now, even if it is for a good reason, it’s not healthy to Anton. As much as he needs your voice, he needs that little boy, too.”

“I haven’t been giving him that,” Viviana said sadly.

“No, but he’s abided by your wishes the best he could.” With a wave of his hand, Ivan added, “If we truly consider the time he may still have to spend behind bars during this trial, it could be a while. A couple of months, maybe. Are you willing to keep Demyan from him for that long?”

No
, she thought immediately. But it wasn’t that simple.

“I can’t take my child to that place, Ivan. I just
can’t
.”

Viviana’s heart rate fluctuated wildly at the thought. Rikers Island was no place for a little boy with its stone walls keeping prisoners locked away. How would Demyan feel if he needed to walk away from Rikers only to realize he couldn’t take Anton with him? Would he see his father cuffed? Could he, at his age, understand what that meant?

“I wouldn’t want my daughters visiting me there, either,” Ivan admitted. “It’s not a nice place. Anton hates it more and more every day. But say our plan fails, what then? Do you plan on keeping his children from him until they’re old enough to make the trip themselves?”

Children. The one word reminded Viviana of the life still growing within.

“I’m not taking my children to that place,” Viviana repeated strongly. Reaching over the console, she plucked up the manila envelope. It had been the entire reason for their meeting and the one thing that possibly guaranteed Anton’s freedom. “That being said, failing isn’t an option.”

Ivan tossed her a cocky smirk from the side. “Good luck, then. It’s all on you, now.”

Viviana slid out of the car without another word.

The small, cozy coffee shop was just that. Tiny. Quiet. It gave off a safe atmosphere. A happy, calming place with earthy tones and plant life on the counter. Very few people milled about inside, most in corner booths with their heads tucked low reading, or playing on their electronics. At the cash register, Viviana ordered, paid for a chai tea, and waited for her it to be served as she scanned the rows of tables, looking for the one person she came here for.

There, at the far back behind a half partition wall, sat the judge who would preside over her husband’s case. The same man Viviana had danced for, and who probably barely remembered it because of the drugs that had been purposely placed into his drink to confuse him enough not to recognize her. Tucked safely under her arm were pictures of that very incident, but how far would it be able to take her?

With her tea in hand, Viviana slipped down the rows of tables, the click-clack of her heels tapped down to cheap, linoleum floors. The closer she became to the table, the more her nerves grew. Doubling in size, her heart was pounding as her hands turned clammy.

It’s all on you
, Ivan had said.

That was a hell of a lot of pressure to have.

Viviana refused to fuck it up.

“May I sit?” Viviana asked as she approached the table, keeping her tone demure and sweet.

Judge Kander’s head snapped up away from his tablet at her voice, brown eyes seeking out Viviana’s. Confusion and surprise flit over his aging features, but he covered it up with a cough and shake of his head.

“Mrs. Avdonin …”

Of course he would recognize Viviana. Pictures of her, Anton, and their son were plastered on newscasts daily. The trial was high-profile, which put all of them under the microscope. It wasn’t such a surprise that the judge knew who she was.

“Judge,” Viviana said with a smile. “May I?”

“I can assure you this is not acceptable or appropriate. For your husband, it may very well be detrimental.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“There is nothing for us to speak about,” the judge continued, his cheeks turning red. “Being seen with you would not look good for either of us. Please, go. I would hate to hurt your husband’s case by needing to report you for this. If you leave now, I will overlook this … indiscretion.”

“I’ve done nothing for you to report me, yet.” Viviana made a dismissive noise, glancing back over her shoulder at the few people still preoccupied by their books, electronics, and coffees. “No, you see, I’ve been very careful, Judge. You can’t even begin to imagine the precautions I’ve taken to speak with you like this.”

“Mrs.—”

“Viviana,” she interjected coolly. “You may call me Viviana.”

“I shouldn’t be calling you anything at all!”

“Funny, you had no qualms when you were calling me sweetheart not too long ago.”

At those words, the judge blanched. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t you remember?” Viviana asked coyly.

Judge Kander spluttered over his words. “I-I … but, I—”

“Cat got your tongue?”

Viviana had taken special care to appear a certain way for the meeting. The clothes she wore, a tight, pencil skirt and V-neck blouse, were meant to showcase her curves and the stiletto heels not only made her legs longer, but added an extra notch of sex appeal with their incrusted gems on the spike. The makeup she applied, what bit she had, popped her lips and cheeks with a rosy color, while the dark sunglasses hid the truth and disgust in her gaze.

As the judge went to stand, Viviana tossed the envelope to the table with a careless flair. There was no chance of him leaving the café without her speaking the words she needed to. Eight-by-ten photos slipped out of the package, sliding over the smooth top damningly. The judge’s eyes scanned what bit of the photos he could see quickly, color draining from his face.

A particular photo rested at the top. One a bit more sordid than the rest. A still-life photograph showcased Viviana kneeling over the judge on a leather couch in nothing but a white lace, sheer thong and bra. His fist had clenched into the side of her panty, pulling the flimsy fabric away from her flesh.

In his gaze, trained solely on her face, even in his uncertainty and confusion, there was lust. The damning photos did not appear to have been taken inside a strip joint. In fact, they had turned out perfectly. As if perhaps a couple had been caught unknowingly.

That alone was better than Viviana or Ivan could have asked for.

Too bad the poor girl who took them had to die for it.

The judge choked on air. “My God.”

“I’m sure you can see the precarious position I’m in, Judge.”

“You?” he croaked.

“Only in the pictures,” she chimed lightly. “I think we should chat, don’t you?”

Again, the judge glanced up, his eyes flitting back and forth between Viviana’s.

“How?”

Leaning down over the table, Viviana took her time spreading the pictures out before them. Each one was possibly worse than the one before. She hadn’t let him touch her much, sure, but never once had his stare on her faltered during the show.

“I’ve a better question for you,” Viviana said with a smirk. “How could you possibly have not known it was me, Judge, isn’t that what they’ll ask?”

“But—”

Viviana shook her head, black hair tumbling down. “Ah, ah, ah. Go on, report me. They’ll investigate, and rip you apart in the process. I bet they’ll be forced to release my husband because no one can be sure who is working for who. Give me ten minutes with Anton Avdonin released from Rikers, and I will have him on the next flight out of America where the judicial system of this country can never touch him again.

“Either way,” she continued calmly, “… it’s a win for me. My son will have his father, and I will have my husband. I don’t care where it is that we have him, so long as it’s not behind bars. What will you have, Judge?”

***

Waiting in the defence chamber of the New York County Supreme Court building, Anton didn’t think he had ever been more edgy in his life. Restless and anxious, he paced along the length of the long, oak table as Ivan read over his opening statement. Because a jury had been dismissed for only the judge, the daily progress of the trial should be quicker. It didn’t matter, though; Anton still felt sick.

The morning passed him by quietly, in a strange sort of way. Even the guards at the prison who escorted him to the courthouse hadn’t given him much of hard time. Oddly, Anton knew, like everyone else around him, that his whole life was on the line, now.

“You okay?” Ivan asked.

Anton shrugged under the weight of his Armani suit. “Not really. Did you get that motion about the press passed?”

“Yeah. No cameras in the courtroom, but like always, there’ll be a reporter or a few taking notes.”

“Good.”

That was a relief. The last thing Anton wanted was for his trial to be streamed daily, every word, every accusation, and assumption, on the television of anyone who tuned in. Really, he didn’t give a shit about just anyone, but he did care for his wife and his mother Sasha. They were already facing enough grief because of his actions, they didn’t need to have more piled on. Viviana would likely be at the proceedings every single day, anyway, and Sasha when she could, but the media didn’t need any more fuel added to their fire.

“Where is she?” Anton asked.

Ivan closed his files, leaning back in his chair. “Calm down, man. Vine is coming. Despite wanting to be early because of the press, the bastards were out bright and early. You happened to miss the lot of them because they brought you in through the back. She won’t be so lucky.”

Damn it.

“Is she …?” Anton trailed off, making a rounded motion over his abdomen.

“Hell no. Not yet, anyway. She’s only like … three months, or something. I don’t think she’s even told anybody because of what happened last time. It’s probably hard on her to think about it all right now. I’ve got to say, you sure pick the shittiest times to knock her up, man. First time was a bomb, second time you got arrested, and this time—”

“Didn’t fucking plan it the first time, asshole.”

Ivan sat up straight in his chair, cocking a brow. “But you did plan this one?”

Anton wished his tongue hadn’t suddenly grown two times its normal size. What in the hell was his friend getting at? “It wasn’t like that. We were trying before I even got arrested the first time when she miscarried.”

“But she got pregnant after the miscarriage, after you knew you might be going to prison, Anton.” Ivan drummed his fingers to the table, glancing away. “That might not have been the smartest play on your part.”

“Wasn’t like that, either,” Anton muttered. “We were still trying to move on from the Natalie bullshit, then losing the pregnancy, and weren’t careful. I didn’t intentionally get my wife pregnant because I was facing serious time. That’s just … Jesus, do you think I’m that horrible?”

“I think you’re so in love with her that you’d do anything to keep her.”

“Not that, Ivan. I wanted another child, but I didn’t intend for her to be pregnant at a time like this.”

Smiling a little too roguishly for Anton’s liking, Ivan shrugged. “Well, whatever you intended, it looks good on you.”

Anton’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

“The family man. A sweet, charming son. A pregnant, devoted wife. Your family is especially beautiful—one the public may feel they can relate to, in some way. If they can’t, they’ll certainly want to. You’re successful in both personal and public matters. You live in a beautiful home, drive nice cars, and own your own businesses.”

“Are you serious?”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “Of course I am. Whether you like it or not, public opinion matters. When you’re back out in the world, the last thing you need, or want, is an angry group of people outside your home with their proverbial pitchforks.”

“You keep saying when I’m out like it’s actually going to happen.”

“Because it will,” Ivan stated confidently. “Stop worrying. Instead of appearing reckless or uncaring, like the prosecution has been portraying you every chance they get, you actually come across as normal. How could that intelligent, good-looking, pregnant woman have possibly married a mobster, Anton? How could the man they say you are possibly have a child as sweet and innocent as Demyan?”

“You just said she hasn’t told anyone about the pregnancy,” Anton pointed out.