Wrath Read online

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the old man shouted behind Wyatt, echoing the mobster’s earlier words.

  Wyatt faced him. The man had gone pale, as was his son.

  “Better for us to take a beating than what they will send next,” said the old man.

  Wyatt shrugged.

  “Dimitri. They will send Dimitri.” The old man’s eyes widened in fear.

  A sigh tore from Wyatt’s raw throat and he slumped. He was tired, weary from months on the road, and now he’d fucked up. This family was going to pay for his mistake. He could almost hear his adoptive mother’s voice in his ear. Family first, Wyatt. You protect your own before anything else. Well, he sucked at helping his family, but perhaps he could do something about this one.

  How?

  His gaze roved around until it landed on a sign in the window behind the family. Help Wanted. Wyatt pointed at it.

  The old man’s brows winged up. “You want to work here?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  Alek’s expression lit up. Well, he was certainly excited about it, but then: “No,” the old man said. “We need a chef.”

  Wyatt punched his chest. I am a chef.

  Well, he was. Once.

  It was clear the old man wasn’t happy, but Alek kept signing erratically at his father, and whatever he said made the man hesitate.

  “Why you not speak?” the man asked, his Polish accent thick.

  Wyatt touched his scarred throat and then made a break sign with his hands.

  “You no’ talk?” the man asked again.

  He shook his head, then jogged to Betty—why the fuck was he jogging?—and opened his duffel bag. There wasn’t much inside. A spare change of clothes, his wallet… and his knives. His pride and joys that took him to the heights of being a Michelin starred chef and the lows of the pawn shop, almost. The collection was worth hundreds of dollars, maybe thousands and was his last resort before accessing his old bank accounts, and thus giving away his position to his family. It was either pawn them, or get a job to fix Betty. Well, this was a job. He could kill two birds with one knife. Earn enough to fix the bike and stick around in case those fuckers showed again—and then get the fuck out of Dodge.

  He snagged the knife roll out of the bag and walked back to the old man where he unrolled the package. Gleaming metal blades shone in the sun. After a pensive look at the knives, the old man turned to his son who nodded emphatically as he signed.

  “Okay,” the man said. “Alek thinks you being here will help keep Bratva away. Maybe this is the way we go from here. You can have the job.” Then he mumbled, “Let’s hope you cook well enough, too.”

  A coldness dropped in the pit of Wyatt’s stomach. He rolled his knives back up and tucked the package under his arm. Was he really doing this?

  “My name is Filip. You can call me Vooyek like everyone else—is name for uncle.” He nodded at his son. “This is Alek.”

  The boy stared at Wyatt’s throat—at his scar. When he looked up, his eyes widened at having been caught, but Vooyek didn’t seem to notice.

  “Come, Alek. We have to prepare for dinner.” He tugged his son by the collar, then shot Wyatt a concerned look over his shoulder. “We see you in the morning at seven. We open at eleven for lunch.”

  Um. Wyatt looked back at Betty, and then at the Polish pair. Alek must have caught the uncertainty on Wyatt’s face because he shrugged away from his father and pointed at the bike.

  It’s broken. Wyatt made the broken sign again.

  “Is not working?” Vooyek asked.

  Wyatt nodded, hand on hip. Or should he shake his head? Fuck.

  Alek signed something to his father and Vooyek scratched his head. “Do you not have a place to stay?”

  Wyatt shook his head.

  A young woman burst out of the restaurant doors. She had curly red hair and looked not much older than Alek. Maybe eighteen. They had the same bright blue eyes and freckles on their noses.

  “He can stay at Misha’s place,” she said. “She hasn’t been there for weeks. Hi”—she smiled at Wyatt—“I’m Roksana.”

  Another woman, an older one about the same age as Vooyek, came bursting out. A brown floral scarf tied her long graying hair away. Under her flour dusted apron, she wore a long skirt and flowing top. If Wyatt didn’t know any better, he would say she was still stuck in the Woodstock era with her beads around her neck holding a peace symbol pendant.

  “He stay,” she said, eyeing him appreciatively.

  Before Wyatt knew what was happening, it appeared as if the entire Polish community spilled out of the restaurant and were weighing in on the decision—at least four more people, two old and two in their thirties—until finally Vooyek put up his hand and shouted, “Enough.”

  Then he waved his hand at Wyatt. “Okay. You have a place to stay if you like. Room over our garage.”

  Two

  A warm, lilac scented breeze ruffled Misha Minski’s hair as she locked her street-side yoga studio after a hard day’s work. A full class did wonders for her anemic bank account. If only she didn’t have to close early to go to her next job, adding another class to her roster might have been worthwhile.

  A tap on her shoulder brought her attention to the bright blue-haired woman standing next to her in the city street. Bev was around sixty and never missed a class. She had the body of a forty-year-old, and Misha was happy to say she’d had a hand in creating it. That shiny blue leotard looked great on her—better than some malnourished and drug addicted girls Misha worked with at the club.

  “Thanks for the class, hon,” Bev said, flicking her sweaty blue curls from her shoulder. “I’ll see you on the weekend for Bikram?”

  “You betcha!” Misha grinned. “Bring your A-Game. It’s going to be a tough one.”

  “Got a hot date with Morty on Saturday night, so you know I will.” Bev waved goodbye.

  “Thanks for a great class, Misha,” said Cassy, another student. She winked at Misha from underneath her black bangs. “Oh, and by the way, you were right about that pose doing wonders for my sex life.”

  “Right?” Misha laughed. “I told you! Next time, crank the heat—it really gets your blood flowing. See ya.”

  “Bye!”

  Misha sighed and went back to her studio lock. She loved teaching yoga. The students were so varied; from the older, limber ladies like Bev, to the younger shy girls, to the hipster boys. There was nothing sexier than seeing a man work to keep his body in shape, especially when it was so easy these days to get what you wanted with a pill or the flick of a button.

  She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the city central monorail. There had been an attack on the rail a few months ago where a train derailed and people almost lost their lives. If it weren’t for one of the Deadly Seven, things would be very different. Seeing the news story her best-friend Lilo broke was still hard to digest. One of the Seven had used some sort of paranormal power to stop the train falling. He’d moved metal around with a thought.

  It was a new age they were living in, a strange one, and it excited Misha with a sense of adventure. Reading the story had reminded her that life was not only finite, but full of endless possibilities.

  When she arrived, the train platform was a little on the light side. With the memory of the almost-tragedy still sharp, most people preferred to take the subway or other modes of transport.

  Not her.

  Misha’s bag buzzed. The sound of Snoop Dog’s Drop it Like it’s Hot came from deep within. While she dug around for her vibrating cell, she copped a few wolf-whistles from a group of horny teenagers ogling her yoga attire—more specifically the areas on her body that lacked yoga attire. She wore black cut-off pants and a colorful midriff top that flashed her tanned abs. The spring sun was perfect for catching some vitamin D. Unfazed, she smiled and waved back cheekily.

  She’d sort them out in a minute, but first… she answered her insistent phone and walked toward the edge of the platform to wait for the appro
aching train.

  “Tata, is everything okay?” She hadn’t heard from her father in weeks, which was virtually unheard of.

  “Mishka,” he stated. “You must come home.”

  “Is everything okay?” It better not be something to do with Dimitri. He’d promised her current working arrangement was enough to cover the protection fee for her family’s restaurant.

  “Tak, tak. Is okay.” He let loose a string of words in Polish, but Misha only had a limited vocabulary in the language. Born and raised in Cardinal City, she had never visited the country her parents immigrated from.

  “Tata,” she said. “English.”

  A big, loud sigh came down the phone. “You have to come home and talk sense into new chef.”

  Noticing the teenagers edging closer, she stepped onto the train as its doors opened and took up a place near the door. “We talked about this. I can’t keep coming home every time you have a problem. You need to start solving them on your own. Roksana is old enough to have a go. And what about Ciocia Violeta. She’s there every day.” Her aunt was the feminine influence in her life after her mother passed away, and while Misha attributed much of her laid back attitude to the woman, Ciocia wasn’t good with conflict. Roksana was a bit flighty, but despite her youthful face, she was twenty-one and certainly old enough to handle her own battles.

  “That’s why we hired the new chef, so you no’ need to come in all the time.”

  She was sensing a but.

  “But,” her father continued. “He is impossible. Doesn’t listen to us. We try and try and try to explain how to make the kopitka, but he make something fancy and customer no’ coming and you have to tell him.” A shuffling sound came over the phone as her father must have moved for privacy. When he spoke next, his voice was low and surreptitious. “He make gnocchi, Mishka. Not kopitka. He make Italian food in Polish restaurant.”

  “Well, that’s because they’re the same.”

  He gasped. “You know that’s not true!”

  It was. “So just tell him it has to be made the way you like or you fire him.”

  “You no’ seen this man. Nobody tells him what to do. He is dangerous, and big like a house.”

  The vision Misha conjured in her mind was riveting. A giant, dangerous chef? Sign her up for that adventure. Sensing her father needed to rant some more, she let him ramble on. The conversation went round in circles for the short ride to her next place of employment. As she listened to her father, knowing the vent was good for his blood pressure, she idly glanced around the cabin and caught sight of the horny teenagers still watching her, conspiring amongst themselves. Did they follow her, or were they going the same way? Whatever the case, they certainly had their eyes on her.

  “Tata,” she said. “I have to go.”

  “You have more yoga classes today?”

  Her heart squeezed at her lie. “Yes. I’m very busy tonight, but I can come and see you in the morning. I’ll have a chat with your impossible chef and help him see sense.”

  After a grunt of thanks—which was also unheard of—her father cut the call.

  Misha stared at her blank cell as the doors opened. He never said thanks. Filip Minksi was a proud man who had suffered from debilitating arthritis most of his adult life. He’d once blurted out in a fit of despair, that the condition made him feel like a burden, so he powered through what he could on his own. This chef must really be escalating things.

  Well aware of the trio following her like lost puppies, Misha headed down the short street to where The Kremlin nightclub prepared to open. A few yards from the entrance, where the surly Russian bodyguard manned the door, she quickened her stride and smiled brightly as he ran a big hand over his shaved head. The six-foot-five man had trouble fitting through the doorway with his massive shoulder span, but Yuri was a softy at heart. She’d had nothing but quiet, kind words from him, and he kept the worst of the rabble out with an iron fist.

  “I brought a few puppies, Yuri.” She slapped his rock hard pec with the back of her hand. “Should we teach them a few tricks?”

  He looked down at her with a frown. “They causing you trouble, lapochka?”

  “Oh, Yuri.” She felt her eyes soften. “When you call me sweetheart, I almost think you’ve changed your mind about you and me.”

  His brown eyes darkened with unmistakable desire. “No, lapochka. When you change your mind about more than one night, then I am yours.” He raised his brow in question.

  “Sorry, big guy. You know I’m all about spreading my wings.” She would not be caged.

  Not an escort like some other girls in the club, she treated her body like a temple, but she wasn’t exactly stingy with her sexual conquests. Pleasure was a gift from the goddess, and she took her happiness wherever and whenever she could, especially when so much of her life at the moment was the opposite.

  Although Yuri shrugged, disappointment burned in his eyes before he went back to standing like a soldier, eyeing the boys whose bravado faded fast. “You want me to turn their puny puppy bodies into sausage?”

  Misha pivoted and winked at the group. “What do you think boys? Will Yuri turn you into sausages, or will you come back as paying customers to see the show a little later?”

  Each boy blushed from head to toe, and the tallest one gave a salute before saying. “Um. We’ll come back and pay.”

  “Yeah, no worries. We’ll pay,” said the second, and all three walked away.

  Yuri grunted. “One of these days, lapochka, you will not have me around to keep you safe.”

  “One of these days, Yuri, I will not be around to keep you entertained.” And the little life left in his eyes would turn dull and dead like the rest of Dimitri’s soldiers. She gave him a soulful glance and then sidestepped to go inside.

  Sweet stale beer. Old cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose and walked down the dark hallway leading to the main club area. Establishments like these never had windows, designed to trap you inside without any idea what time of day it was. All the better to con you out of money.

  She traveled through the maze to the small backstage dressing room. Lockers were to the right of the door. Racks overflowing with stripper costumes were in front, and on the side walls were mirrors and dressing tables littered with makeup and supplies. She dumped her yoga bag in her locker.

  “Namaste, girls,” Misha said brightly as she slid onto a stool in front of a mirror with bulbs glowing softly around it. Sweet mother of the sky, her curls were energetic today. Blond frizziness abound.

  “Angel,” Anastasia greeted Misha using her stage name. Anastasia was a brunette in her early thirties. A skinny smoker with fake breasts and old eyes behind her blue eyeshadow. “How can you be so chirpy this early in the day?”

  “Babe,” Chyna said to the right as she tugged on her skimpy Cat Woman leotard. The girl looked to be in her teens and it broke Misha’s heart every day to see her in there. Catsuit on, she stuck an afro comb in her black hair and began teasing. “Angel just said afternoon. How can you think it’s early?”

  Anastasia huffed and went back to putting on her eyeliner.

  Two more girls graced the dressing room: Katarina and Dominika, the twins. Both red-headed Russians hardly spoke a word of English. They stuck to themselves and performed a burlesque duet wearing a soviet furry outfit that ended as a tiny fur bikini—and then nothing.

  Misha strolled over to the roster by the costume rack. She was on second and last and had to waitress in between. Yuck… also scheduled to the east section where the Nazi sat. Dimitri put her there more often these days. The Nazi came in a few times a week and treated anyone not blond and blue-eyed like the jam between his slimy toes. Of course, as the only blond, blue-eyed girl, Misha got the full force of his brutal attention. She couldn’t tell how many times she’d had to give the man a lap dance, and how many times the bouncer had to stop him touching her with his greasy fingers—he also sucked at tipping—but was never kicked out. Whatever connection he had w
ith Dimitri kept him safe.

  Unease bloomed in her stomach. The Nazi’s attention had become insistent over the past few weeks. He’d asked multiple times for a private topless lap dance and even tried to entice her out back for a full service demonstration. Thankfully, the full service wasn’t in her Dimitri-approved catalog of expertize, so when she declined, the bouncers backed her up.

  “Now, who will I be today…” she murmured to herself as she scrolled through the clothes rack. Cowgirl, Wonder Woman, French Maid, Fallen Angel… a pang of anxiety wound tight in her chest when she realized it probably wouldn’t matter. Dimitri might send word of the outfit he expected her to wear. Collecting herself, she took a few deep breaths. In—future. Out—past. From the way the girls dragged their feet, she wasn’t the only one in need of a pick me up. It was time for their pre-show ritual. Misha spun to face the room and clapped her hands. “Girls, who am I today?”

  They put down their tools and swung on their stools to face her. A zip of excitement ran up Misha’s spine. This was the part she loved. She plonked her hands on her hips, embodied the character she envisioned, and flamboyantly flourished her hand and tossed her hair. Deliberately obtuse with her actions, she wanted the girls to work for the answer. More flourishes, more shimmies.

  “You are the circus person, da?” Katarina placed her chin on her knee, a slow red-lipped grin lifting her cheeks.

  “Nyet.” Dominika thwacked her sister with a fluffy Russian hat. “Look at the way she moves hand in front of the breasts. Is too much action for circus lady.”

  “Ooh. Ooh.” Chyna jumped from her stool and stuck her hand in the air. “You’re one of those old Flapper girls.”

  Anastasia stood and waved Chyna down. “Sit down before you hurt yourself, love. She’s obviously a clown.”

  A clown? Eyes widened around the room. They paused. Then burst out laughing. Who would have thought of a clown in a strip club? With tears running from the corners of her eyes, Misha scooped up a feathered fan and fluttered it in front of her. “I’m a Brazilian Samba Dancer. See?” She shimmied her shoulders for effect.