You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 2) (12 page)

Aleksandr Malenkov

‘M
ama, I wrote a piece of music for you.’

Mama’s mouth opens in a gasp of surprise. ‘You did
what
?’

‘I wrote a piece of music for you,’ I repeat.

Mama stares at me curiously. ‘Since when have you wrote music?’

I shrug. ‘Writing music is easy, Mama.’

‘You wrote it for me?’ she asks, touching her chest with her right hand.

‘Yes,’ I say happily. Her blue eyes shine like stars and make me feel proud. 

‘Let me see it,’ she says, wiping her hands hurriedly on her apron.

‘I’ve called it Crying Angel,’ I tell her as I hand the sheets over. She takes them as if they are something rare and precious. I see her eyes moving from side to side, and her head nodding slightly, as if she is listening to the music in her head. She reaches the end and looks up at me. ‘Oh Aleksandr, this is beautiful,’ she says excitedly.

‘Shall I play it for you?’

‘Yes, but quickly. Papa will be home soon.’

I sit at the piano and open the lid. The keys are yellow with age. Mama stands behind me. I lay my fingers on the ivory colored wood and begin to play. We are both so engrossed in the music we do not hear or see papa arrive.

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he roars.

My fingers still, my mother jumps with fear. We turn towards my father guiltily. He is standing in the middle of the room and swaying on his feet, his head is tilted down, his eyebrows are raised and his eyes are wide open. He looks like a bull about to charge.

‘I thought I told you never to touch that fucking piano. How are you going to be a fighter if you play a sissy instrument like that?’ he rages.

I stare at him mutely.

‘What are you staring at you little fucker? Come here,’ he screams.

‘Wait. Wait. It’s all my fault,’ my mother says in a trembling voice and moves quickly so her body blocks mine.

‘Of course, it’s your fault, bitch. I should smash the motherfucking thing to pieces. Fucking piano. Turning my boy into a weak-willed fucking freak.’

‘Please, please don’t,’ mama begs desperately. ‘It’s my mother’s. I promise I will never let Aleksandr play the piano again.’

He crosses his massive arms over his chest and glares at me. ‘I want to hear him say it.’

My mother starts crying softly. I stand up and position myself in front of my mother. ‘I promise never to play the piano again,’ I say clearly.

‘Right. You better not be lying to me. I swear if I ever see you playing that fucking instrument again, I’ll smash it to bits,’ he says.

Dahlia Fury

P
urely by accident I find the sheets of music two days after we return from our holiday. I go into Zane’s bedroom to get the book I was reading the night before, and find them lying on the bed. One look at them and I immediately recognize them as Zane’s writing. Zane, I can hear, is in the shower. He must have brought them upstairs with him and left them there while he took a quick shower.

For a few seconds I do nothing. Simply stare at them. Then I move. I don’t think, I just pick up the notes and run upstairs to my room. There is a fax/copier machine up there that I sometimes use to copy stuff for work.

I switch it on and wait for the damn thing to warm up. 

‘Come on, come on,’ I whisper, but it slowly takes it time making its bleeps and clicks. The light turns red.

‘Come on,’ I urge. My palms are starting to sweat.

Finally, after forever and a bit passes, the light turns green. 

Immediately, I feed the first page. There is a whirling noise as it starts its slow journey. I never realized how freaking slow this machine is. The paper wheezes out at the other end and I feed it the second page. It goes through at a snail’s pace. I open my door and listen. There are no sounds from below.

I feed the next one, and the next one, but I am too nervous to finish. I have four pieces. That should be enough. I collect all the papers and rush downstairs. I don’t know what I will do or say if Zane is out of the bathroom, but thank God, he is still there. I replace the sheets on the bed exactly how I found them and run out of the room. My heart is in my throat, and there are patches of sweat on my T-shirt under my arms, but a small secret smile curves my lips.

‘Thank you, God,’ I whisper as I skip up the stairs back to my room.

I switch off the machine, and hide the photocopies under my pile of unread submissions. Then I call Stella.

‘What’re you doing?’ I ask her.

‘Painting my toenails yellow and waiting for the oven to ping,’ she says.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Nothing yet. Just warming it up so I can put a pizza into it.’

‘What happened to your diet?’

‘I decided that diets are not for people like me. There’s just no point living if you have to starve yourself all the time.’

I laugh. ‘You don’t need to lose weight anyway. I don’t know why you bother.’

‘It’s all these damn celebrities and their air-brushed photos. If I lived in America I would sue them for giving me an inferiority complex.’

‘Where did you get the pizza from?’

‘Antonio made it.’

Antonio works in an Italian pizzeria down the road from Stella’s apartment and he makes pizzas to die for. ‘What type of pizza is it?’

‘Pepperoni with extra cheese.’

‘How much longer before the oven is ready?’

‘Mmm less than ten minutes. Why?’

‘Can I come over and share your pizza?’

‘You better hurry then.’

‘I’m leaving now.’

Noah isn’t around, but Yuri gives me a lift to Stella’s.

‘Call me when you’re done. I’ll be at Starbucks across the road,’ he says.

‘OK,’ I say and using my old key let myself into the building and race up the stairs. I open the front door and the whole place smells of baking pizza.

‘Fantastic timing,’ Stella says, opening the oven door. She is wearing a red tank top, Daisy Dukes, and is walking about barefoot with toe separators attached to her toes.

I go to the cupboard and take out the big pizza plate and two smaller plates. I put the big plate on the countertop and Stella slides the pizza on it. She uses a pizza cutter to slice it into eight parts.

‘Are we having salad?’ I ask.

‘I wasn’t going to, but we can if you want to.’

I open the fridge, pull out a bag of salad and dump it into a bowl. Stella smothers it with bottled dressing and we carry everything to the sofa. Stella sits on one end with her feet up and I take off my shoes and sit on the other end. The soles of our feet touch and we smile at each other. Just like old times. Stella picks up a slice and bites into it.

‘Oh fuck,’ she groans with her mouth full. ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ she tells the pizza slice. ‘Mmmm ...’

I chuckle and take a bite. ‘Mmmm … Really good, isn’t it?’

She wipes her mouth on a paper towel. ‘If Antonio wasn’t already married I swear I’d marry him.’

‘He isn’t married, is he?’ I ask curiously.

‘Yeah, he is. She was there with their kid the other day.’

I take a bite. ‘I forgot to ask, has Mark come around with your shoe?’

‘Yup, he came by the next day. Funny thing was he brought it to me in a box, which kind of impressed me. Most men wouldn’t have known the value of a Jimmy Choo.’

‘He’s a nice guy. It’s sad it turned out this way for him.’

She stuffs the last bit of her slice into her mouth, chews and swallows. She pops open her can of Coke and takes a sip. ‘Don’t worry about him he’s rather dishy. Someone else will snap him up.’

‘You know, Stel, I actually wanted to talk to you about something.’

She reaches for another slice. ‘You’re not coming back to live here,’ she says and bites into her pizza.

I smile apologetically. ‘Well, if you don’t mind I’d like to carry on paying rent for a while and see how things go with Zane.’

She waves her hand. ‘You don’t have to pay rent while you’re not living here, Dahlia.’

‘Zane has put a lot of money in my account so I want to. It will make me feel safe and confident if I know I have this place if things don’t work out with Zane.’

‘Sure, babe. You can have this place for as long as you want.’

‘Thank you, Stel.’

She pulls a pepperoni slice from her pizza, pops it into her mouth, and chews. ‘Now tell me what you’re really here for?’

I grin at her.  She knows me so well. ‘Well, I wanted to ask you about that composer, Andre Rieu. What’s he like?’

She shrugs and looks at me curiously. ‘He’s a bit like my dad, but he’s actually quite friendly. He’s a fan of Tintin.’ 

‘So he’s friendly then?’

‘Yes. I would say so.’

‘When is your next appointment with him?’

‘Well, he lives in a castle in Mastritch. He only books me when he’s touring in England. Why?’

‘Oh, so you won’t be seeing him soon,’ I say disappointed.

‘Afraid not.’

For a second I feel deflated then I try another tack. ‘Don’t you have any other clients who are in the world of classical music?’

‘As a matter of fact I do. Andre referred me to this violinist and a cellist.’

‘And do you see them often?’

‘Actually I think I have an appointment with the violinist, his name is Eliot, tomorrow.’

‘Can I come with you? I need to see him just for one minute.’

She looks perplexed. ‘Why?’

‘I want to show him a few pages from a musical composition I found. Just to know what he thinks of it. What sort of quality it is.’

She frowns. ‘Musical composition? Whose?’

‘Zane wrote it.’

Her eyebrows rise. ‘Zane? Zane? That big scary Russian mafia boss who kidnapped your sis so he could do you writes music? Next you’ll be telling me he plays with dolls.’

‘Very funny.’

‘No, I’m serious. Are you really telling me Zane writes music?’

‘I knew he played because I’ve heard him play and he’s really, really, really good, but I didn’t know he composed until today. I need a professional opinion of his ability.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just think he has more talent than he realizes. I think he could be something great in the music world.’

‘Sure, I’ll ask Eliot and if he doesn’t mind, you’re welcome to tag along. And if he doesn’t want to do it we’ll try Katherine, the cellist. She’s very friendly.’

‘Great,’ I say, and take a big bite of my pizza.

Stella sighs. ‘I guess I better get something green into me. Pass me that bloody salad, will you?’

Dahlia Fury

I
’m so glad I put the music sheets into a clear plastic file. My hands are so clammy they would have been soaked right through by now.

‘Stop fidgeting, you’re making me all jittery,’ Stella gripes, glaring at me.

‘I can’t help it,’ I tell her.

We are in the lift going up to Eliot’s flat. She turns to me and adjusts the scarf around my neck. ‘Will you please relax?
I’m
supposed to be the drama queen, remember. It’s all going to be just fine. You’ll see.’

‘I just so want for Zane to have a choice. To know that he doesn’t have to be a criminal when he’s so talented. I wish you could hear him play.’

‘I’m not into classical music. Puts me to sleep.’

‘I wasn’t into it either … until I heard him play. He is truly brilliant with an intuitive feel for every note.’

She smiles placatingly. ‘OK, OK, don’t get you knickers in a twist, I believe you. Anybody who can make classical music sound brilliant to a person who never used to listen to it must be eye-wateringly good at it.’

I smile back. ‘He is, Stel. He
really
is.’

The lift doors open and we walk along the short corridor. Stella turns to me in front of a door. ‘You ready?’

My stomach churns and I feel as nervous as I used to feel before an exam that I was unprepared for. I take a deep breath and straighten my spine. ‘Yes.’

She places her finger on the bell and looks at me, her face serious. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

I grin. ‘You’re an idiot, you know?’

She laughs and presses the bell. ‘At least I’m not a moron.’

‘There’s no difference,’ I tell her as the door opens.

Eliot is exactly how I imagined he would be. Glasses, nondescript clothes, wispy brown hair, and grave eyes that regard me with unconcealed curiosity.

Stella makes the introductions and he takes my hand in an unexpected death grip. His hands are soft as a baby’s, though.

‘Come into the living room,’ he says, and leads the way into a dark blue corridor. His living room is minimalist and neat to the point of being clinical, with brand new cream leather sofas and a gleaming stereo system. The blue walls display a collection of framed photos of him receiving various awards. 

‘Have a seat,’ he invites.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and perch at the end of the nearest sofa. Stella comes to sit next to me.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asks.

I look at Stella. I’m not sure whether to say yes or no. Perhaps the offer was extended out of politeness and accepting it would serve only to make this encounter longer and become more awkward, but refusing might make it seem as if I’m only interested in one thing.

‘Thanks but I don’t drink before a session,’ Stella says with a smile.

‘I’m fine too,’ I add quickly.

‘Right,’ Eliot says stepping forward. ‘Let me see this little composition of yours before you completely destroy it,’ he says with a smile.

I realize that I am holding my file so tightly it’s almost crumpled into a ball.

‘Oh,’ I say with an embarrassed laugh and, smoothing it ineffectively, hold it out to him.

He takes the file, pulls the photocopied sheets out, and looks at me warily. ‘Why are these a photocopy?’

My fingers twist painfully in my lap. ‘Oh, well. They’re … they’re … not my music,’ I stutter, suddenly feeling guilty for no reason. I clear my throat. ‘I’ve not stolen them, or anything like that. They’re actually my boyfriend’s and I didn’t tell him that I’m bringing them to you. I wanted to surprise him if … if you have good news to give me, that is.’

‘I see,’ he says with a curt nod and looks down at the papers. He frowns. ‘This looks like a symphony for a full orchestra.’ He remarks with surprise. ‘You say your boyfriend wrote this?’

‘Yes, his name is Aleksandr Malenkov. I’ve put his name, address and phone number at the back of the last sheet.’

He doesn’t turn to look at the last sheet.  Instead, he gazes at the music, then looks up at me in disbelief. ‘Did you say he has had no musical training?’

‘That’s what I believe.’

‘He’s not a musician?’ he asks again. His voice is full of incredulity.

‘No. He’s a … um … businessman.’

‘That’s incredible,’ he declares, his eyes scanning the notes excitedly.

I glance quickly at Stella. She widens her eyes at me.

‘Is it good?’

‘Good? It’s amazing. This is the work of someone extremely talented and accomplished. There are very few people in the world who can compose at this level.’

‘Really?’ I ask, beaming with happiness.

‘I’d like to show this to someone and get back to you.’ Eliot looks buzzed and as excited as I am feeling.

‘Oh yes, please. That would be just brilliant,’ I say eagerly, leaning forward, my whole body straining with joy.  

Before Eliot can answer, my phone goes. I take it out and see that it is Mark. I instantly reject the call and put the phone back into my bag.

‘Sorry about that. I should have switched it off,’ I say as my phone rings again. I flush bright red. I take it out and it’s Mark again. I hit reject and smile apologetically at Eliot. ‘Sorry. This is such amazing news,’ I say, and my phone rings again. I frown. This is not like Mark. Mark has never done that.

‘You should take that call. It’s sounds urgent,’ Eliot says with a grin.

‘Thanks. Please excuse me,’ I say, and press answer.

‘Mark?’

‘Thank God I got you,’ he says, relief pouring from his voice.

‘What is it?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m with Stella. Why?’

‘You’re not anywhere near Malenkov’s house, are you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I don’t have time to explain right now, but just tell Malenkov that there’s a bomb planted in one of his cars. I don’t know exactly but I think it’s set to go off when the engine starts.’

‘What?’ I explode.

‘Look, I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I promised to be the best friend you have, and this is me keeping that promise. Call him now and tell him to stay away from all his cars today. There’s a bomb in one of them. Most probably the one he uses most.’

‘Is this a joke?’ I ask desperately.

‘It’s not a joke. It’s fucking serious, Dahlia. I can’t tell you more at the moment. Just warn him, he’ll understand, and please, Dahlia, keep safe. I’ll call you later.’

‘How do you know this?’ I ask, my voice quivering with fear and confusion.

He sighs. ‘I’m about to enter a tunnel and I won’t have any reception for a while, but I’ll explain everything later.’

He disconnects the call.

‘What is it?’ Stella asks.

I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, and hit Zane’s number on my phone, but it goes straight to answer machine. He always answers my calls. That sends me immediately into panic mode.

‘What is it?’ Stella asks again, her voice bordering on hysteria.

For an instant I look at her blankly, not really seeing her, then my mind becomes single pointed. I spring to my feet. I can’t waste a single moment explaining anything to anybody. Zane is in danger.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got something important to do. I’ll liaise with Stella and contact you again,’ I tell a surprised Eliot.

My body pumping with adrenaline, I turn to Stella. She is staring at me with her famous WTF expression. Maybe later, if this turns out to be a sick joke, we’ll laugh about this, but now I’m too frightened by Mark’s tone to do anything but run to Zane. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, OK?’ I tell her quickly, and rush out of Eliot’s home.

The lift is old and it was slow on our way up so I don’t use it. I open the fire exit door and run down the three flights of stairs. Outside, I realize that it is going to take too long for me to call Noah and wait for him to come. As far as he was concerned I was going to wait for Stella to finish her massage and we would be an hour. Who knows where he’d be right now?

As if the Gods are with me, I see a taxi turning the corner into the street and its light is on. I run to the edge of the street and hail it. I get in quickly and give him Zane’s address.

‘Sorry, love,’ he says shaking his head. ‘Can’t take you there. There’s a huge jam in that area. Big accident earlier. People died,’ he tells me.

‘Just get me as close as possible, and please hurry,’ I say to him.

‘It’ll cost ya,’ he warns.

‘Charge me whatever you want, but please get me there as quickly as you can,’ I say anxiously.