Hola.
Holy One Shot with 11000+ words!
This is something I couldn't stop thinking about, but since I have too many stories going on already, I couldn't start a new one. So, I thought I could make a One Shot out of it for now. The full story will be posted and written when I finish some of my other stories. Anyway, have fun.
NOT BETAED!
Family ties
Summary: No matter how tasty Belgian waffles, Eggs Benedict, French Toast or Mimosas are, I don't enjoy one second of this brunch. I would rather get shot. AxC, AU, OOC, Mob.
The swing squeaks underneath my weight as I swing back and forth slowly, my shoes brushing over the dusty floor, their leather dirty from the fresh grass around the playground. I probably shouldn't have picked white pumps, knowing well that I always end up here, the playground my safe haven in the middle of the otherwise holy place. Ironically, churches feel like hell to me, that's why even their small, rusty playgrounds designed for kids are a welcomed distraction. I close my eyes and lean my head against one of the metal chains of the swing, my brown waves of hair brushing my hips, a small smile curling my lips. I raise my feet to the air, now swinging fast, faster, the fastest, hoping that I could swing into a different time zone, a different land, a different galaxy even. Anything that could save me from my own, personal hell is appreciated. If I could swing toward the sky and reach a new galaxy, I would hug aliens tighter than I hug some members of my own family.
The sun kisses my skin, failing to warm my limbs, the midnight blue chiffon dress I am wearing a disadvantage without a coat. The wind is chilly, typical for a late April day, the smell of rain and grass filling my nostrils each time it blows. I should have listened to my aunt, her advise to take my coat with me now sounding wise. If she could hear me right now, she would give me her famous long look, her hazel eyes shaming you to the ground. She is already pissed because I dared to leave before the mass ended, something very rude to do apparently, but I have stopped caring about God and his fury a long time ago. If there was a God, I dared him to do his worst. Again, if my aunt could hear me right now, she would put me on fire with her glare.
Blasphemy isn't tolerated in my family, it's the most horrible thing you can do, even killing a family member doesn't beat it. Now, I wouldn't call myself an Atheist, but I also wouldn't call myself religious. I had lost my faith in God and religion as soon as my mother was buried many years ago, when I had been just a little girl who dutifully prayed every night before going to bed. Even though I had been so dedicated to the big guy above, even though I had walked his line like my family had wanted me to, he hadn't given a shit about my prayers when he took my mother from me. She had been at the hospital for three days straight, three days she had fought against death when it tried to take her from life thanks to a bullet wound, three days long I had prayed to God, begging him not to take my mother from me, begging him to let her live, but in the end, I was forced to visit her grave.
Don't get me wrong, I believe in God, but I don't think he gives a shit about us.
"You only care about yourself, don't you?" I mumble, knowing well that he is listening, the sky is his eyes, the wind is his ears. He loves looking down at us, maybe that gives him confidence and power, more than he already has.
"Do you ever regret the things you did to innocent people?" I ask with a frown, not expecting an answer since I am just as small as an unimportant grain of sand in the universe he has created. He only answers those he wants to.
I open my eyes and, ironically, the first thing I see is the cross hanging on the high steeple. I snort, looking now at the empty swing beside me, memories of my childhood coming to my mind. My brothers and I had been allowed to play at this playground exactly five minutes long each Sunday, before our nannies picked us up as if playing on a playground for longer than five, stupid minutes was life-threatening. Afterward, nanny number 3, who was responsible for me, would make sure that I didn't look like I just had fun on the playground, before she accompanied me to the one thing, I hated the most: the weekly brunch following the Sunday mass.
Imagine this: a room full of families from different ethnicities, who are in a love and hate relationship with each other, their men looking all serious and ready to shoot anyone who makes a wrong move, their women laughing and sharing recipes while ignoring the awkward tension professionally, their annoying kids, myself included, running around while screaming loudly just like kids are supposed to do, all of this around admittedly yummy Brunch food, sponsored by The Heathman Hotel in Kirkland. It was hilarious how these men were sitting on the same benches inside the same church, lying to the same God as they promised to cherish life and all the living, while they practically were trying to take each other down the rest of the time. I can't exactly remember having read about drugs, prostitution, murder and thievery in the bible, but these men must have read a copy, I don't know about. Maybe the big guy above has a guys only version, written by a killer for killers. A killers only special.
It is like high school all over again, a Mean Girls showdown between different suit wearing, gun toting, sophisticated men with their multi-member families in tow, all polished to look their very best since appearance was the most important thing after God.
In their world, everything revolves around what people see when they look at you – or more like, what you let people see. You have a problem? Don't show it. You are sick and will most likely die by the end of the year? Don't show it. You have a broken heart and feel like killing your ex? Don't show it.
You don't give a shit about all of this?
Don't. Fucking. Show. It.
Apparently, even if you are the daughter of a killer, you are expected to be a perfect, smiling, never frowning, never annoyed lady. You can't let down your mask, unless you want people to see your weaknesses, but that wouldn't be very wise, since everyone is yawing to find your weaknesses. If you show your weak spot, you will put your whole family, the whole dynasty, in danger. And nobody likes to be in danger, and when they find out that you are the reason for it, they will probably not like you, either.
The one and only rule is pretty simple: Don't do anything that could put you or your family in danger.
Danger could mean anything. It reaches from kidnapping to execution, gun toting men could be very creative with that. Usually, women and children are safe from attacks, unless things get really ugly, then they make an exception. Killers who have manners, I know how abstract that sounds, but honor is also something that means a lot to them. And family. And God. And pride.
Basically anything they could use as an excuse to kill each other.
I am killing you because you disrespected me.
I am killing you because you hurt my pride.
I am killing you because you tainted my family's reputation.
I am killing you in the name of God.
I wonder why said God is allowing them to play God on earth. Shouldn't he put them on fire? Doesn't that count as blasphemy, too? It's okay when they decide over life and death like God, but if I doubt him and his decisions, I will go to hell?
Yeah. I doubt that too.
To be honest, the aspect of burning in hell doesn't scare me at all. I have been surviving hell since the day I was born into this world. Being a part of my father's dynasty is only the tip of my metaphorical iceberg.
Raymond Timur Stepanow, my father unfortunately, is the head of the Russian Alliance, a gang of rough, Vodka drinking, mad Russians who paid little men to do their dirty jobs like dealing with drugs or killing innocent and not so innocent people. He was only nineteen years old, when he left Mother Russia and his life there behind, to begin a new life in the States. Although, it looks like he was trying to run away from his roots, his family name is something he is very proud of. It was all he had when he came to the States many years ago, when his valet had been empty, but his heart full of ambitions. By meeting the right – or wrong, depends on how you look at it – people at the right time, Raymond had managed to work his way up, starting as a henchman until he built his own dynasty. The Stepanow's quickly became the top of the huge, complicated family tree of the mafia world of the Western World, their cousins and grandchildren distributed around the States.
In my opinion, we are too many, and I would gladly suggest which one's we can get rid off. It's hard to love every relative in a big family.
Speaking of family.
"Anastasia, darling." Aunt Valentina's loud voice makes me sigh out loud, knowing well that my peaceful minutes are over. I look up toward her, watching her gracefully walk over the grass-covered floor, her posture straight and her painted lips pursed. I wonder what God is thinking about her slutty red lipstick. The salmon-colored dress she is wearing is hugging her tightly, her long legs looking even longer thanks to the pumps she is wearing. Like every Russian woman, she is using the excuse of an important event and carries her fur coat around her shoulders. If you want to be a part of a Russian mob family, you have to own a few of these. The more you have, the more you are envied. Fuck PeTA, right?
My face kinda resembles hers, at least my grandmother said so, her hair though lighter than my brown mess, her eyes hazel and not blue as mine. I guess, you could say that we have the same nose and lips, but that's it. And I certainly don't resemble her character-wise, thank God.
"What is it about this stupid playground and you?" She asks me, her Russian accent thick. I know well that she can speak accent free, but since she believes that it sounds sexy, she uses it whenever she can – even while reading Bible verses. Is she trying to seduce her way into heaven? I have no idea.
She doesn't wait for an answer.
"Father Welsh was disappointed with you, but that's nothing new." She scolds me motherly, her hands at her hips. I squint my eyes at her since she is standing right in front of the sun, just grinning like an idiot, knowing well that it will annoy her. I try not to laugh out loud, when she rolls her eyes in a frustrated gesture.
"You father was disappointed, too. You better apologize to him." She says, holding her coat's collar with her hands, her rings and bracelets glistening underneath the sunlight. A Russian woman can never have too many accessories.
"He should be used to it by now. And if he isn't, it's his loss." I answer with a shrug. She smacks her lips, huffing with a head shake. Her reactions are as dramatic as herself. She likes attracting attention, she loves to make everyone look at her with envy or sheer appreciation.
"Guard your tongue! Don't you ever talk about your own father like this, okay? If his own daughter can't show him respect, why should the rest of the world do so?" She mutters with a frown, her plucked brows furrowed, her hazel eyes glowing with the fire deep inside them. Like every woman in our family, she has quite a temper.
I keep my answers to her questions to myself as I get up from the swing I was sitting on, trying to brush away the creases in my dress with my hands.
"Dear God, your shoes look awful." My aunt notes as her eyes land on my white pumps, the tips of them a little green thanks to the grass.
"I have an extra pair in the trunk of my car. Good thing, we have the same shoe size." She is really good at talking to herself, totally ignoring my silence. I think she prefers me silent, she can deal better with it than my smartass remarks. I follow her dutifully to the parked cars around the corner, where the congregation has already crowded the parking spot, the mass officially over. My father and my brothers are standing beside our cars, their armed men protecting them from everyone else. I am halfway in the act of rolling my eyes because of their exaggerated behavior since I doubt that anyone would shoot each other in front of a church, but then I remember that these men are just not any men. It's probably wise to protect oneself with so many enemies around.
"Anastasia." My father's tone is scolding, just like his glare. I feel like a little girl again, but I put on my grown-up woman mask as I give him a polite, I'm really sorry for being the black sheep of the family smile. I peck his cheek, giving him the whole puppy dog eyes package I have mastered in the last few years, knowing well that his anger will vanish immediately.
"I'm sorry, father. I wasn't feeling well." Like every Sunday.
"At least try to disappear without getting caught." He mutters, his cheeks reddening. I look too much like my mother for him to be angry at me more than five minutes. It's a fact that I make use of a lot, and also something that angers my aunt.
"You can't just disappear from mass." She says with pursed lips. He silences her with a raised hand, his gray hair falling down to his crinkled forehead. He has the same eye color as me, his eyes are his trademark, they can make you squirm and dread your life with just one look.
"Come on, boys. Let's take these ladies to Brunch." He says, now turning to my brothers, Ethan and Paul, who more look like bodyguards than family members. They are twins, Paul is exactly four minutes older, and since they shared a womb, they are inseparable. I fear that they have made lots of first experiences together. Yuck.
Aunt Valentina and I share a car, while my brothers and my father share another one. The other members of our family, my cousins and uncles and aunts, some even not by blood, follow our convoy dutifully. The way to the Heathman Hotel takes longer than it actually would, but if fifty cars drive to the same destination out of the blue, of course, there is going to be some traffic.
"Look at these showoffs." My aunt mumbles as she looks outside her side's window, her eyes squeezed as they focus on the flashy sports car next to us. I look up from my task of changing pumps – she had a fitting extra pair of cream ones for me – and recognize the car immediately. It's a model I would recognize even with closed eyes, its motor's humming like a melody in my ears, I have a thing for shiny, black and fast cars – a Bugatti Veyron.
It also belongs to one of the Trevisan Grey's.
The Trevisan Grey's are an old, Italian family who are an important part of the mob world, since they are the second biggest family and the most powerful participant of arms trade. They have their fingers in all sort of pies and they are pretty good at what they do, too, which is why my father detests them with passion. Our families have been rivals since… well, nobody knows for sure, to be honest. We also don't know who started it, or what was the reason for this rivalry, but too much time had passed to think about stuff like that now. Men don't need much reasons to hate and kill each other.
Unlike my family, the Trevisan Grey's had added an American surname to their name since they wanted to be a part of the American society. My father thought of their gesture to be disrespectful against their roots. I had tried to persuade him to let me take an American surname, too, since I didn't want people to be scared off by his family name, but he had made it very clear that this wasn't an option.
"A man who forgets his roots, is no honest man, Anastasia." He had told me sternly.
I had kept my snarky comment to myself, thinking that I was no man and I certainly had no problem with forgetting my roots.
"It's just a car, Aunt Valentina." I say with a shrug, turning my head away. I hear her huff, knowing well that she is just looking for an excuse to talk shit about them. Our families love to be real dickheads toward each other, something I don't share with them. I don't see the point of our stupid rivalry and if it was up to me, I would have ended it a long time ago, but both sides are insisting on being assholes, so the rivalry still stands. I barely participate, but if they cross me, I don't back down, either.
My rule is simple, too. If you don't want me to be a bitch to you, then don't be a bitch to me.
"Who is driving it?" She mutters, trying to get a clearer view. Good thing, that our windows are dark, otherwise she would get caught nosily stalking. I roll my eyes at her.
"Dimitri? Do you know who this car belongs to?" She asks our chauffeur, a young boy in his early twenties, obviously too young to be a part of this world. I wonder how he managed to end up as my father's chauffeur. I see how he looks to his left from the corner of his eyes, before they are back on the street in front of him.
"Christian Hagan Trevisan Grey, I think, ma'am." He answers politely.
"With a car this pretentious, he must have a tiny dick." My aunt mumbles vitriolically, making me giggle. I love when she talks dirty, it surely is far more interesting than her goody two-shoes persona.
"You better not tell your father that I gave a Grey more attention than he deserves." She says to me with a pleading look. I roll my eyes at her fear, I don't know why she lets her brother control her so much, I would never let Paul or Ethan tell me how to live my life and they know better than to even think about it. My brothers and I have confusing relationship, I wouldn't say that we hate each other, but I am not entirely sure if we love each other enough. Maybe our different mindsets make us question our love for each other, after all they are obedient soldiers of my father and I don't can get over the fact that they kill when he tells them to kill. Like every brother and sister relationship, we try to get along by continuous ribbing based on sarcasm and snarky remarks.
"He won't hear a peep from me." I assure her, nodding toward our chauffeur. "What about Dimitri?"
I don't think Dimitri will be a snitch, but I just love to make her nervous.
"Oh, don't worry about the boy." She chuckles, a knowing expression on her face, before she leans down to pat his cheek with her manicured hands. "He won't tell anything."
Dimitri's eyes widen as he looks at her from the rear-view-mirror, a blush spreading on his cheeks.
"No, I won't, ma'am." He whispers, gulping hardly. Oh boy. I think she is fucking him. My father better not hear about this, I don't think he would let Dimitri fuck his beloved sister.
"Good boy." She says with a sensual smile, making me irk. Yuck. Don't get me wrong, my aunt is a pretty woman in her late forties, but there are some things I don't want to imagine her doing – for example, the too young chauffeur.
Twenty minutes later, when we finally arrive at the Heathman, there is a line of expensive cars heading up the driveway, the Bugatti Veyron is one of them. Dutifully, Dimitri, who is still sporting red cheeks and shy stares toward my aunt, parks the car in our reserved spot right beside my brothers and father. Ethan is nice enough to get my door for me, I thank him with a polite smile, although I could have opened that damn thing myself. Aunt Valentina makes me wear my fur coat, telling me that I need to enter the dining hall with it since it clearly shows prestige. I don't argue with her, the likelihood of persuading a nun to have a lesbian relationship with me is higher than talking sense into my own aunt.
Like in an overrated, Hollywood movie, we walk up the golden stairs leading to the dining hall where our weekly Brunch is hosted. With my brothers and father dressed in tailored suits and my aunt and me dressed in chic dresses and fur coats, we manage to turn in a dramatic entrance. I want to roll my eyes desperately, but as soon as the doors open for us, everyone turns their head to see who is coming. I know better than to fail my perfectly trained mask at the very first second, I have a couple of hours to get through. We follow my father to our usual table and sit down, I'm on his right and Aunt Valentina on his left, just like he prefers it.
Just like these people act like as if they are the Queen Bee's of high school, they also have a very prepubertal seating chart, which determines where the big shots sit. If you ask every family individually, they would say that they are the one and only highly regarded royalty here, the others just superfluous pests.
Humility?
No chances.
"Tzz. Look at what Aideen is wearing." My aunt whispered to me with an arrogant expression, as her eyes scanned a tall, red-haired woman sitting two tables away from us. That woman belongs to the Hynes family, she is a member of the small but mighty Irish dynasty. The Irish and we have done lots of business in the past, and I am sure that it will stay that way, since we share a passionate obsession: We hate everything that is Italian.
But that doesn't stop my aunt from gossiping.
"She shouldn't wear a white dress with that skin color. For Gucci's sake, she looks like a ghost." Aunt Valentina goes on, her criticizing eyes looking at every detail. When Aideen looks up and their eyes cross, they smile politely at each other and wave ambivalently. I roll my eyes at her behavior and turn away from her, my father is a welcomed distraction.
"Put on a smile, Anastasia." He says as soon as our eyes cross. "You need to show the world your beautiful smile. Maybe it will turn into a less ugly place."
I smile at him, my I'm your sweet, innocent daughter smile, although internally I am groaning annoyed. The world would be less ugly if people with ugly hearts wouldn't walk on it.
"Father, the Grey's arrived." Paul says from the other side of the table, a serious expression on his pale face, his dark blonde hair in a short ponytail. The tension on our table thickens as we watch our mortal enemies – at least, that's what my family calls them – walk in, in slow motion and elegantly. The head of their family, Carrick Carlito Trevisan Grey, a middle-aged man with grayish hair and a sharp jaw, leads the group of well-dressed, for Italians surprisingly tall, arrogant looking people to their table, the farthest one away from us. His wife, Grace Adalina Trevisan Grey, is a natural, Italian beauty with glossy, caramel colored hair and pearly white teeth showing thanks to her smile. They have three children, two boys and one girl, all very beautiful and immensely arrogant.
Their oldest child is Elliott Maceo Trevisan Grey, a muscular, bulky man with a goofy grin and dimples, although he has the personality of a pubertal teenage boy, he is a man to be afraid of, a man who could kill you with his bare hands. One time, he took a whole armed group down by himself, sans gun. The bloody mess he left behind that day, is still a huge topic, since then people have named him The Beast.
The middle child is Christian Hagan Trevisan Grey – tall, lean, and beautiful. He has a sharp jaw, and a sharp mind just like his father, he is famous for his games, his brilliantly planned games and strategies. His father uses him for the well thought out businesses, for the big games, because he is as deadly as beautiful he is. Apparently, his father made sure that he was a master of guns, he never missed.
Their youngest child is Elena Isabella Trevisan Grey, a breathtaking, hour glass shaped young woman with pouty, red painted lips and mesmerizing brown eyes. She is also a huge bitch, but since people only care about appearance, she gets away with it. As kids, we used to play weekly at our Sunday Brunch, but soon enough, she grew into a bitch, so our friendship ended.
I don't have a raging ire against Italians like the rest of my family, but Elena pushes all the kind of wrong buttons in me. I wish I was as strong as her big brother, Elliott, so I could kill her with my bare hands.
"Will we greet them?" Ethan asks calmly, always keeping his cool. Paul snorts, shaking his head.
"I'm not going to there table." He says, looking at my father for approval.
"Neither am I." My father says, smiling at Paul with pride. "We will wait for them to come to us."
"I don't think they will come to our table, either." I say, immediately earning a warning look from my aunt, it's saying 'don't interfere in men's business'. As a woman, I have to keep my mouth shut when men are talking, according to her. The men ignore my comment as they keep starring angrily at the Italian family, whose male members stare equally angry back. The tension between them is so thick and loaded, that it might be mistaken for sexual tension. I snort at that thought, knowing well that it would infuriate both sides.
"Raymond, old friend." Suddenly my internal hilarious joke is interrupted by a short, dark haired man with a black mustache hanging down on both sides of his mouth, his white teeth contrasting his olive skin. By the way he is dressed, it's easy to tell that he belongs to Los Amigos, a Mexican gang full of drug lords and pimps. He is wearing their trademarkpurple scarf around his neck, his suit at least one size too big and his cologne smells too strong, making me grimace.
"Alejandro, it's good to see you. How are your wife and children?" My father asks politely as they shake hands. They chitchat as if they haven't seen each other in a long time, although in reality, they have had the same conversation just last Sunday. Alejandro tells us about his wife, Maria, who is back from her vacation in Mexico, where she visited family and brought her sister along. Apparently, he wants to get her married, he says this while looking at my brothers with a meaningful look. I see how Paul shudders behind his back, making me giggle.
Bored to death, I pick up my Blackberry from my purse – my one and only escape from this boring ass Brunch. After I check up on my city on Simcity and use all my lives on Candy Crush – yes, I know, it's an old one, but it's also a classic, okay? -, I look around and see that nobody has his eyes on me. I use the opportunity to check my emails and stuff. No new emails or texts for me. Hmpf.
"Anastasia, the food is served. Let's get us something." My aunt taps my shoulder, making me look up from my phone. She nods toward the buffet where the black and white wearing waiters and waitresses have served all kind of Brunch food: fresh, warm Belgian Waffles served with all kind of fruits, delicious smelling Eggs Benedict with toasted bread, French Toast with the chef's special ingredient – I have found out that he uses truffle oil -, and of course, the most important beverage ever, the excuse for grown-ups to drink alcohol for breakfast: Mimosas. As always, the ladies are the first to go because killers have manners, ladies first and all that crap. My aunt and I follow the wife of Alejandro and her sister, Aunt Valentina is all over them as soon as we meet up at the omelet station, where I inspect the different type of omelets – with cheese, with ham, with ham and cheese, with tomatoes, you name it, they have it – while they chitchat about upcoming weeks charity gala, something that is hosted by Grace Adalina Trevisan Grey. Since it is socially expected, my aunt has been invited by the hostess personally, her phone call had roiled our house. I know Aunt Valentina well enough to know that she will only attend the charity gala because, a) it is expected since she was invited, and b) she won't miss the chance to criticize a Grey.
I ignore their chatter professionally by concentrating on the yummy food in front of me, my plate slowly filling with a croissant, some fruits and chocolate sauce. I contemplate making second plate, since I clearly want to try everything, but I decide that I would be the party rumor if I take too much food at once. People would probably say that I am pregnant, or something, and I really don't need that type of talk. Even if God's ire didn't put me on fire until now, my father's would when he found out that I am having illegitimate sex. He is never a fan of my boyfriends.
"Anastasia." I look up, seeing Maria staring at me with her big, brown eyes, a sweet smile on her full lips. I wonder why a woman as beautiful as her is with someone like Alejandro. I mean, he is rich as fuck, but he is also weird as unappealing as he looks.
"You look fabulous. Is this dress from Dior?" She asks me with her curious eyes wandering over my blue dress, her Spanish accent sounding alluring. I follow her glare and stare at my blue, chiffon dress which reaches my mid-thighs and has no sleeves. It's middle part is hugging my hips tightly, making the skirt extending into a bell shape. I'm wearing nude, transparent tights underneath it and a shiny necklace around my neck. My hair is falling down to my shoulders in glossy waves, a product of my early hair saloon visit, thanks to my aunt.
"Oh, yes. It's from next summer's collection." I tell her politely, instinctively brushing over the soft fabric with my free hand, the other one is holding my plate.
"Tzz. That's from the fall's collection, not summer." I hear how somebody huffs behind me, making me turn my head with squeezed eyes toward that rude person. And just like I have expected, it's no one else than Elena Isabella Trevisan Grey, aka the biggest bitch on earth. She is dressed in an admittedly pretty, nude colored dress with long tight sleeves and a modest collar showing only her collarbones, but the way the dress hugs her curves makes it sinful. Her blonde hair is combed back at one side and hold back with an immense, Vintage looking hairpin. In her hands, she is holding a plate full of Crepes and fruits. Our eyes cross, her green eyes burning with an intense fire from deep inside, her hate is visible.
"Good morning, Elena." I say sweetly, although I am nothing but sweet toward her. I would rather dunk her in acid. "Is there a problem with your Crepes or why aren't they tamping your cakehole yet?"
I should get some Crepes myself, I think. Dammit, Ana. Focus.
"Good morning, Anastasia. My Crepes are fine, thank you very much. They would make a great view on your face." She says equally sweetly. Her friends, some Italian girls I don't know the names of, chuckle standing behind her. Great. She has sidekicks. I only have Maria, who looks really frightened. Her sister and Aunt Valentina have made their way toward the table where a waiter is serving Mimosas.
I can't let the Italian snake win, I will have to take her by myself.
"And I am sure they will create a great view on your hips. Every man loves some love handles, right?" I give her the full, innocent puppy dog eyes look, watching her narrow her eyes at me, an unattractive blush spreading on her neck. It looks like a rash. Don't get me wrong, I have no problems with love handles and I am certainly not trying to defend the idea that every woman has to look like a Victoria Secret Angel, but I know that it will annoy her and her superficial ass.
"You are such a Russian doll. So full of yourself!" She spits out furiously, her sidekicks gasp as if she has given the comeback of the year. I roll my eyes at her, feeling how Maria tenses behind me. She probably suspects me going thermonuclear on Elena's ass, but I have something she doesn't have: class.
"And that is such an overused remark. Just like you." I go for the overkill with a smug grin, feeling like somebody should snap every time I say something. Her mouth – or cakehole, call it whatever you want – opens and closes, and before she can throw her plate at me, I roll my eyes and turn away from her, sashaying away with a roar inside my chest.
I really love this feeling.
"That was so intense." Maria whispers to me as we walk away from the speechless Elena and Co.
"That was nothing. Trust me." I answer her with a cocky grin, my eyebrow raised. Elena and I had far more interesting cat fights in the past, like the one time, we met at a college pool party and when we nearly drowned in the pool since we were trying to slam-dunk each other. Now, that was intense. It was also embarrassing, since someone had filmed the whole thing and named it Cat fight in Bikinis HOT and put it on YouTube. Ray and Carrick had been on the same page after a really long time, when they made sure that Luckygoblin1982 – the account name – didn't see daylight again.
"What did Elena want?" My aunt asks me as soon as I sit down, a disapproving look on her face. On my way back to our table, I have got myself a crystal glass of Mimosa, thanking the cute looking waiter with a dazzling smile. He nearly let the bottle of Champagne in his hands fall. I take a sip of my drink, before I answer my aunt.
"The usual. Polite declaration of hate." I roll my eyes and dig in to my food, it really tastes delicious. Aunt Valentina snorts, shaking her head.
"I hope you let her taste her own medicine." She says, cutting her ham and cheese omelet with the silver cutlery. The Heathman has gone all out, using only the best of the best, even the stupid napkins feel like cashmere. Meanwhile, my father and my brothers return with their enormously filled plates, making me envy them. When men eat like pigs, nobody talks behind their backs. Hmpf.
"I made sure that she doesn't enjoy her Crepes." I giggle softly, my eyes wandering toward the table, the blonde snake is sitting at, and I am right, she doesn't look like she is enjoying her food. I laugh out loud when I see her playing with her food, pushing it back and forth on her plate. My aunt follows my look, and shakes her head with a smug grin.
"I heard that she has a new coach. She is doing kickboxing." My aunt whispers to me. Good thing, I didn't get to see her newly found abilities as a kick boxer, then. My pretty face feels thankful.
"What happened to the last one?" I ask curiously, blaming Elena for bringing out the worst in me: a tattletale. My eyes wander to the men at our table, but thank God, they are oblivious to our conversation. My father doesn't like us talking about the Grey's, he doesn't want to give them more attention than they deserve.
"Her brothers kicked him out when they found out that she was more than friendly with him." She giggles. "It's a wonder that she is allowed to go outside after that stunt."
"Yes, how dare she have sex?" I ask, the sarcasm thick in my voice. No matter, how much we detest each other, I still can't cope with the idea that she is being treated like a kid by her misogynistic brothers. What's so wrong with a grown-up woman having a healthy sex life? What is it about men and their irrational idea of protecting their female relatives' virtue? My eyes wander back to the table of the Grey's, where they are all seated with their food in front of them, chitchatting and laughing at each others words. They look like a happy family, but that could also be a mask since in this world, appearance is everything. My eyes stare holes into the heads of Elena's brothers, I am judging their behavior with pursed lips and squeezed eyes. Suddenly, I am looking into a gray pair of eyes, their intensity surprising me as much as the blush spreading on my cheeks. Christian is starring at me, his beauty making me blush, because even though he is the enemy, he is still a hot motherfucker. I raise one of my eyebrows at him, before turning my head away from him. The last thing I need is a stare down with a Grey.
"Anastasia. We are taking pictures. Smile." I hear my father say and dutifully, I look up from my plate to smile at the photographer who is patiently waiting for everyone to pose. He is from the Seattle Times, because killers and drug lords always make the first page. Nothing more interesting than a room of people who would gladly kill each other.
"I will cut the picture out and put it in our Brunch album." My aunt tells me enthusiastically, as if we don't have enough of them already. But I guess that is her way to kill time, she never has worked a day in her life, her only job was to look socially acceptable on events. She was married once, but her husband died at a gunfire, and when my father had proposed to get her married again, she had declined, not wanting to be with someone else than poor Uncle Claus, she loved him too much to be with someone else. What a sad life.
Unlike her, I have not allowed my father to tell me how I have to spend my time, I know he has a weakness for me and I made use of that when I persuaded him to let me go to college and open my own restaurant afterward. Okay, he has paid for all of that crap, but I am slowly paying it back, because I don't want my future to be build on his dirty money. Now, I am the proud owner of a small restaurant in the heart of Seattle, which is specialized on Russian food. I love to cook, my first teacher had been my own mother before she died, and afterward our cook had taken over my lessons. Later, after my high school graduation, I persuaded my father to let me stay at my Uncle's place in Russia, so I could get some private lessons by Russia's number one, five star cook. He agreed begrudgingly, only if my brothers were allowed to show up whenever they wanted, a pathetic trick to scare me off from misbehaving. I had nothing to hide back then, so I gladly agreed.
After the whole photo shooting extravaganza, a few of our other relatives show up to sit with us. We usually don't sit with them while eating, only accepting them to our table afterward, not because we are arrogant, but otherwise our table would be too full and my father enjoys his food in silence. I politely talk to my cousins, asking them about their days and stuff, but actually not caring. It's expected from me to talk to them, so I do what I have to do. I feel like I have to listen to my father, until I pay my debts. That's why I dutifully put on a pretty dress and smile and show up each Sunday, expect the church part, that's where my limits lie. My father doesn't understand it, neither does he respect it completely, but we have come to a silent agreement: I stop making scenes, he lets me have some privileges.
"The wedding is next year. I have already picked out a dress, but I might change my mind, because I am doubting that eggshell is really my color." Cousin Darya tells me cheerfully. She has asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, but that doesn't have to do anything about our relationship, it's more her way to kiss my ass.
"I'm sure you will look beautiful." I smile at her encouragingly, although I have my doubts about an eggshell dress on her. My Blackberry vibrates in my purse, I get it out to look at its screen, a new text message from an unknown number.
You can't look away just like that when I am looking at you.
I frown at my phone, the text irritating me. What the hell?
My phone vibrates again, another text message.
Don't frown. Your pretty face will wrinkle sooner.
My eyebrows are high on my forehead now, I am shocked and a little bit frightened at the thought that someone is watching my every move and deliberately letting me know about it. Goosebumps spread on my skin, the tiny hairs at my neck standing on end as I look around as slowly and unobtrusively as possible to find my stalker. Cousin Darya notices my frown and gives me a questioning look, her chitchat about bridesmaid dresses interrupted by my mood change.
"Everything alright, Ana?" She asks me with a worried expression, probably thinking that I am frowning at her choice of color for the bridesmaid dresses. I have not a problem with wearing pastel pink, as long as she gives me enough alcohol at her wedding reception.
"Yes, everything is alright." I nod, smiling at her. Right on cue, my phone judders.
You have a pretty smile.
Oh for the love of God. This is getting really creepy, I think, biting my lip in worry. I look around, my father is talking furiously with one of my uncles about a new shipment – of what exactly, I am not sure, but I also don't want to know -, my brothers are arm wrestling with our younger cousins, Aunt Valentina has left the table and sits with Maria and her sister now. They are probably gossiping about someone. I don't want to attract attention, since I don't know how my family would react to those stalker texts I am getting. My brothers would probably start a riot, trying to find out who my creepy stalker is and I don't even want to think about what they would do to him. They would probably break all of his bones before they throw him into the harbor, because God forbid that someone is interested in their little sister.
Stop biting your lip.
I have to hide my phone underneath the soft, silky tablecloth, because I can feel Darya's nosy eyes on me. I realize that she won't stop nagging me, if I don't put my phone away, but I am also too curious to stay away from the mysterious texts I am getting. Torn between putting my phone in my purse or trying to read them without attracting attention, I bite my lip, the phone in my hand vibrating again.
I told you to stop biting it. Or I will do the same.
Who the hell is this person, I want to scream out. I don't like getting orders from my own family, and I certainly don't like them from a creepy stalker stranger who pesters me with inappropriate text messages. Furiously, I type an answer.
Who the hell are you?
With a confident grin, I place my phone onto the table – display down, of course – and lean back in my chair, anxiously waiting for an answer. As if my stalker senses my anxiety, he takes his sweet time to send an answer. Meanwhile, Darya tries to engage me in conversation again, but my silence and my visible disinterest are enough to make her shut up – manners be damned. She excuses herself and vanishes in a crowd of people near the bar area. My phone judders, and with it my heart. Here we go.
Someone who wants to bite that lip.
Holy. Shit.
This is becoming interesting and sinful. Sinfully interesting. Something tells me that I should put my phone away and forget about, better block the number even, but like I said before, God is not something I am a fan of and everything that is wrong according to him, feels appealing to me. No matter how many times I have to pretend to be a goody two shoes in front of my family, in the end, I am something else. My curiosity wins and I quickly type an answer, checking my surroundings out of the corner of my eye. No one is looking at me, everybody seems busy with whatever they are doing.
Maybe if you tell me who you are, I might let you.
It's bold, but I guess I want the person to taste their own medicine. As soon as I press send, I look around to see who looks at their phone, but since there are obviously too many people here, I don't catch anyone. Dammit.
Don't make promises you can't hold, little girl.
Little girl? This person better not be a geezer. I feel disgusted at the thought of sexting – because that's what this thing is turning into, let's be honest – with an old man. Wait. From where does he or she have my number? It has to be someone I know, I think, or someone has just super stalker abilities. Considering the people I am surrounded by, I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few hackers underneath them. My father has a hacker, I know that, hell, even I could have a hacker myself if I wanted to. It's easy to find one and it's easier to make them work for you with all the money, you are paying them.
Where did you get my number? And I am not a little girl.
I'm a grown-up, nearly 28-years old woman. I don't have to let anyone call me a little girl, especially not stalker creeps. I purse my lips at that thought, now scanning the room with more confidence. Where are you, fucker? I bite my lip as I check face after face.
I have my ways…. Little girl ;)
I huff, feeling furious at the way I was made fun of via text. It's easy to talk via text, it's easy to play games with me while that freaking creep watches me, without me knowing where he is standing. Try to make fun of me where you can't see me, fucker. With renewed purpose, I gather my purse and phone, nearly knocking over my crystal glass in the process, and stomp off toward the powder rooms, demonstratively adding an unnecessary swing to my hips as I walk. I hear how my phone vibrates in my purse twice, but I ignore it completely. Only when I have closed the door to a cabinet, once inside the powder room, I check my new texts.
Running away won't do any good.
The first one alone is enough to anger me more, as if I was running away, as if I was hiding. Crap. He – this has to be a guy – thinks that I am hiding. I don't want that. I am not hiding, this is me, trying to ruin his plans.
God. You have a great ass.
Behind closed doors, I allow myself to blush and giggle, although deep down I know that his stupid texts shouldn't have an affect on me. For all I know, this could be a serial killer – for real. But it's this girly, stupid thing that makes me blush at every compliment, sometimes a girl just wants to hear that her ass looks great, but that doesn't mean that she needs it. I know well enough that I could be considered pretty, I had great genes after all, but I also have days where I feel like I am the child of Jabba the Hutt and Hulk. It's perfectly normal to have up and downs.
I am not running away. I am just forbidding you to stare at me.
I sit down on the closed toilet, waiting nervously for his text. Thank God, he doesn't make me wait too long.
Shame. I love starring at you.
The door to the powder room opens and wild, loud group of Irish speaking women enter it. One knocks on my door, and I quickly tell her that it is occupied, earning a remark in Irish, which I don't understand. I call her a slut in Russian, she doesn't understand it either, so we are even.
Too bad that you can't.
My super, duper master plan has a weak spot. He is quick enough to point it out.
You can't stay there forever. Imagine what people will say when you stay at the restroom's for that long?
Clever motherfucker. Wait. How does he know that I am in the restroom? Did his stalker eyes follow me all the way to the ladies' room? Suddenly, I feel like I am being watched. I look around suspiciously, as if I could spot a camera filming me any minute now. Don't be ridiculous, Ana. He can't be that shrew, can he? I hope not.
What kind of creep are you? You follow women to the restroom? Yuck.
For someone who thinks of me as a creep, you are surprisingly calm. I would have guessed that you would go tell your daddy about me like the good, little girl you are ;)
Oh. Fuck you. I can deal you by myself, I don't need my daddy to help me. I will just bitch slap you with my words, you will see.
You know about my daddy's reputation? Well, I am worse than him :)
I sincerely doubt that.
I can be more dangerous than all the men inside.
It doesn't sound plausible, and it really isn't, I can't compete with the killers and drug lords, but it's a pathetic try to scare him off. It fails.
Sweetheart, you are probably the purest person here.
You talk like you know me, but you don't.
Oh, I do. Now, come out of that restroom.
What a huge fucking dick. Telling me stuff about me, as if he knows me better than I know myself. He also dared to give me another order, oblivious about how much I hate that. Can I be angry at him because of that? Yes, I can. If he thinks he knows me, then he should know that I hate orders. I have played his game for too long now, I won't bother answering him any more, let him write me as much as he want, for fuck's sake. I flush the toilet, not that I used it but I want to look as inconspicuous as possible, and leave my cabinet, the Irish women already gone, thank God. I stop by at the sinks to wash my hands, after all I touched the doors and stuff, and to take a look of myself in the mirror. My blue eyes are sparkling with ire, my mouth is pressed to a thin line, and my cheeks flushed. Most of the time, I am far more better at hiding my emotions and not showing them on my face, but somehow, these stupid texts and the son of a bitch type of writing has really hit a nerve. I shouldn't let this happen, after all there is a rule I have to follow: don't show it.
"Don't fucking show it." I mumble to myself as I reapply my lip stick. My phone, which I put back in my purse, vibrates, but I ignore it like a pro. I grin smugly at it, officially declaring my victory. I didn't have the last word, but I have totally ignored his last words. Ignorance can hurt more than sparky words. With a last glance at myself and after making sure that my dress sits well, I turn around to walk out of the restroom. Just as I step out, I am pushed back in. Before I can realize what is happening, a man in a black suit locks the door, then turning around toward me. Gray eyes are the last thing I see, before I am pressed against the nearest wall, my purse falling to the floor as his lips land on mine. It comes out of nowhere, taking my breath away literally, my oxygen lacking brain needs a little longer to comprehend what is happening. But when I finally understand that a stranger is pushing his tongue in mouth, his arms are around me like a vine, his mouth kissing, sucking, licking my lips wildly, I push him away with all the power I have, even slamming my heel into his shoe clothed foot, making him groan out in pain. I bite his lip hardly, when he doesn't let go immediately, and that helps.
"Fuck." He says, holding his aching lip, looking at me with widened eyes. I recognize him immediately, the kiss feels worse now that I know that I have been kissed by the enemy.
"Grey." I hiss, shaking with anger. "What the hell was that?"
"I told you, I would bite that lip, didn't I?" He answers, his lip swollen now. I think I bit him more than the other way around.
"That was you?" I cry out, my hands formed to fists at my sides. I could punch the living shit out of him. He can't just kiss me like that.
"Obviously." He says with an arrogant shrug, his shoulders broad underneath his suit. It's unnecessary to say that he really looks marvelous in it, and I bet he looks pretty damn fine without it, too. Stop imagining the enemy naked, Ana.
"Did you have a good laugh? I bet you all made fun of me." I say spitefully, rolling my eyes at him. I don't give him the chance to answer me.
"And what's that with the kissing? Are you a rapist now, too? I thought, assassin is the worst you can get."
He walks to the sinks and takes a look of his face, frowning at his bloody lip. I feel bad, even though it was a justified bite, but there was a time where we were childhood friends, meeting each Sunday at this exact Brunch, so for those times sake, I walk over to him, taking a soft towel from the counter and wetting it underneath the faucet.
"Let me." I say, and tap away the blood from his lips with the help of the wet towel, while I can't stop thinking about the old times, where things weren't as complicated as now, where I could talk to him without my whole family treating me like I was a traitor. As kids, we were allowed to talk to each other, but with time, Christian grew into the person, he is now, and I distanced myself more and more from everything that reminded me of my father's lifestyle – that included Christian, too. He became one of the men, I didn't like at all. Here and there, we saw each other, mostly on Sundays though, but I barely talked to him, I barely looked at him. I didn't want to be reminded of the loss of our innocence.
"I'm sorry that I had to defend myself against your rapist ass."I say dryly, making him roll his eyes.
"I wasn't trying to rape you." He mumbles, watching me through intense, gray eyes, his dark-copper colored hair falling to his forehead. He is a good-looking motherfucker, to be honest. I try not to touch his skin as I wipe away the blood from his lips.
"What were you trying then?" I ask softly, wetting the towel again, watching the remains of his blood running down the sink, before vanishing completely.
"I told you I would bite your lip if you don't stop biting it." Christian answers with a smug grin. Intentionally, I tap his bloody lip a little too hard, making him groan in pain.
"Well, that is no reason to scare me. And your texts could have costed you your life, if I had said something about them to my brothers."
He snorts, rolling his eyes.
"Please. As if Paul and Ethan could take me down." When he is especially cocky, his accent becomes more audible. I try not to like the sound of it.
"My whole family would hang you by your balls, Grey." The sad thing is, that I am not joking, they probably would do something horrible like that.
A soft chuckle leaves his mouth as he stops my hand cleaning his wound, his fingers around my wrist. He leans down a little, since he is at least one and a half head taller than me, licking his wounded lip once, his eyes starring me down, their fire burning my senses. I feel his breath brush over my skin, my tiny hairs on my neck standing on end.
"You are worth the pain, gioia mia." He whispers, making me blush again.
"What did you just call me?" I whisper back, my brows furrowed as I try to remember the few words I know in Italian, while totally ignoring the English part of his sentence. It's better that way. A smug grin curls his lips as he winks at me.
"It's Italian for 'little girl'." He says, making fun of me once again.
"I'm sure it is." I comment and wring out the towel underneath the running water.
"Aren't you giving me a nickname in Russian, too?" He asks cheekily.
"Oh, I do that constantly. My head is full of them, but I am not going to give you the translations, since I don't believe that you could live knowing them." I say with an eye roll, his grin gets bigger.
"Give me an example." He pushes, not backing off.
"Rapist." I say dryly, as serious as I can be. Christian laughs loudly, his laughter echoes inside the tiled restroom. I smirk proudly, I love that I could make him laugh.
"I love your wit, Anastasia." He says. "Even though, you just called me a rapist again."
"Please." I say, ignoring my fluttering heart. "Kissing a girl who didn't want to be kissed? That's rapist material."
He wheezes, shaking his head slowly. His eyes are once again giving me shivers, I try my best to ignore them.
"We both know that we waited a long time for that kiss, Anastasia." His tone is serious, gone is the humor between us. He is referring to all the times we met between our childhood and now, all the times we have given each other longing looks, all the times we were so close but so far at the same time, all the times we never had together, and all the times we never will.
"Christian." I say softly, nervously looking up at him. "Please. Don't."
Don't do this to me, not here, not now. Don't give me more reasons to hate the world we are living in. Don't make me cry, don't make me love.
"I used to call you 'little girl' all the time when we were kids. I thought, you would understand that I am sending you those texts." He whispers in pain, it breaks my heart to see him like this.
"Christian. Please. Don't." I say again, not strong enough to say what I really want to say.
"Did you forget everything about us?" He asks, his hands reaching forward to take mine, my whole body tingling when our skins meet. I shy away from his stare, my eyes landing on the door, which is locked, thank God. The last thing I need is, to get caught.
"Don't look away, Ana." He begs softly, tugging me forward by my hands. I close my eyes as I realize how close we are standing, his breath brushing my skin, my heart thumbing wildly in my chest. His fingers slowly wander on my hands, up toward my wrists, then my elbows, where they make their way to my waist. Suddenly, he pulls me even closer, my hands immediately land on his upper arms, then wander up to his broad shoulders. The tension is thick between us, it's loaded, loaded with all the memories we have together and all the memories we will never together. We are the modern Romeo and Juliet, we are never meant to be, we are forbidden, we are more, we are too much.
"Can I kiss you, baby?" He asks me, his lips already close to mine, my skin burning with anticipation. I want him to kiss me, as much as I don't want him to kiss me. I fear that it will leave me for wanting more, I can't have more with him, I fear that it will break my already broken heart even more. But I also want to have this one memory with him, even though I know that it will destroy me.
"Please. Christian, kiss me." I whisper at his lips, before slowly he puts them on mine, captivating my bottom lip with his, rhythmically sucking on it, I do the same with his upper lip, before he brushes his tongue against my mouth, asking for permission. As our lips touch over and over again, as my heart breaks over and over again, I feel my skin buzzing with tension, I feel my senses becoming clear, my whole being changes with one kiss. This is what I have been aching for, this is what we only get, so we enjoy it with all of our being.
I put my arms around his neck, his hands on the small of my back and between my scapulas try to pull me even closer to him. I think he wants me to become a part of him, so he never has to let me go.
Our tongues dance, around and around each other, never backing down, never letting go, we don't need air to breathe, we only need each other.
"Ana." He says in between kisses, repeating my name like a prayer. He says something in Italian, I don't understand it, but I know that he is telling me how much he loves me, how much he wants me, how he has missed me, because it's all the things I would say to him, because it's all the things he makes me feel through his kiss. I can't stop the tears from streaming down my face, it's not an ugly cry, it's not loud, it's quiet and something I live in myself, just like my love for him.
His lips capture mine again, before he easily lifts me up to make me sit on the sink counter, my legs are immediately around his hips, his kiss now hastier, his tongue taking no prisoners.
"If you weren't the daughter of my enemy, I would take you out, take you to dinner, to watch a movie, whatever you would like to do. I would meet your friends, you would meet mine, our families would meet and hang out. Our world would be one, we wouldn't have to hide. I would be the man at your side." He whispers to me, when we are out of breath. He looks like he is about to cry, but I know him well enough to know that he would never do that. Boys don't cry, after all, or so they think.
"Christian. Please. Don't." I say again. He ignores me as he presses his forehead against mine, kissing the corner of mouth once.
"If you weren't the daughter of my enemy, I would have told the whole world about my love for you. I would have put it on billboards, I would have screamed it at the top of my lungs from the highest mountains to the lowest valleys."
"But I am, Christian. I am the daughter of your enemy." I say while crying, my heart aching.
"If you weren't the daughter of my enemy, I would have married you already. I would have bought you a huge house with a white fence and blue blinds, a stupid dog, and I would have given you lots of kids. I would have loved you everyday more and more, until my last breath."
"Too bad that we will never have all of these things."
Sad, sadder, CG and Ana.
Until next time,
Melii xoxo
gioia mia - my joy, my delight according to Google :)