Hey! So, as I said earlier, I'll start this story again. I changed a lot of things, and when I say lot, then I mean so. In fact, all that stayed the same is the environment the story takes place in. There may be grammar errors, since I'm not a native speaker, and I might as well put there incorrect slang words (for example british ones), or I don't know, but the number of possibilities is endless :) How I wish I was American... *sigh*

Since I feel the need to response: Erised Brophy, happy to hear from you, too :D I wouldn't even dreamed about you may still want to read all this silly little things :) Aaand GoddyLily: physical attraction was the first thing in my mind, since "outside catches you, inside makes you stay", or something like that. Though I'm really not sure - I feel a little bit ashamed, but I have no idea what I wanted to get out of it... I deleted the older chapters because They made me feel kinda bad...

I have nothing else to say but the fact, that I do not own Safe (though there's no big overlap), and reviews are welcome :)

January 9, 2012.

As I was standing on the platform waiting for the 7.20 train to arrive, I felt a huge knot forming in my stomach. I was nervous as hell; I couldn't even try to deny it. You know that feeling when you're going to your new workplace on your first day and you feel like "damn this shit, I'd rather go home and sleep"? Well, it becomes a little bit different when your new employment isn't really legal – like at all. Trying to relax a little bit I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my throat to go away and when it didn't, I focused on the music instead coming from my earphone. When you see my face, hope it gives you hell, hope it gives you hell. When you walk my way, hope it gives you hell, gives you hell… A big-hit in 2009, the song of The All American Rejects was still among my favorites, it reminded me of my brothers' fraternal "you suck", "no, you suck" fights.

The train arrived, the wind caused by the speed made my blond curls dance around my face. Sometimes I wondered how can so many woman use lipstick without their hair getting stuck in the sticky surface. I got on the train, and being a rude youngster who doesn't even give a chance to old ladies, I sit down immediately and leaned my head against the glass. The surface was cold, but also had a really awakening effect sending cooling-waves all over my face. According to my calculations, it took around twenty minutes from 71st street where I was to reach the Stillwell Avenue in Coney Island, and a couple of extra minutes on train Q to arrive at my final destination, Brighton Beach. The image of what that place, the so-called "Shtab" could look like popped into my head, and the familiar feeling of slight nervousness made me shiver.

Because it was what it was – "shtab", an HQ for the organization, the Odessa Bratva.

The single mention of the Russian Mob made most people shudder with fear and/or disgust. Being raised in a family permeated by crime like a fly in the web of a spider, it had no such effects on me – in fact, I kinda didn't care, like "I haven't seen it, never happened". I had that sometimes useful "mental problem" that if I don't know a person face-to-face, their name or photo in the news doesn't touch my heart or brain. Seeing it myself would've been a different story.

I had the intentions of just looking out the window for the above-mentioned time, but it seemed as though fate had something else planned for me – the train just left the stop at Bath Beach, where I used to live, when I felt someone knocking on my shoulder. I jumped at the sudden disruption, and turned around to see a familiar face.

"Grisha!" His huge smile turned to be a big grin, his look more than satisfied to hear the pleasant surprise in my voice. Grigoriy Golovkin was one of the best friends of my youngest-older brother, Luka. Since Grisha was only three years older then me, I found the common ground with him – I couldn't say he was highly intellectual, or matter of fact, civilized either, but he was funny, had the same taste as me, and when he dated my twin sister, Natasha, I found out he was extremely loyal. Too bad Tasha broke up with him… We were friends, nevertheless.

"Tamara!" he answered and took the seat next to mine while I took out one half of the earphone.

"What are you doing here?" I asked smiling. "Isn't the subway way too 'assful' for you?"

Suddenly, someone grabbed my knit cap from behind, and pulled it off, ruffling up my hair. Behind me sat the better half of Grisha, Vitaliy Ivchenko, whose grin might be indeed a huge smile, but his eyes shined much more with merriment and self-complacency. He looked like everything but a Russian – he had olive skin, soft, boyish features, brown hair and eyes (he even strengthened the boyish-impression with always chewing bubblegum, even now) while Grisha could've fit as a national symbol with his bright blue eyes, fair skin tone, rather noticeable cheekbones, and sandy-blond hair. They both had strong, big-boned built, though, as nearly all of the Russians I knew.

"We've heard you're starting the 'family business', too, so we were like 'hey, go, and keep company!" said Vitya, showing no intention to give my cap back.

I wasn't utterly satisfied with the answer, so raised my eyebrow which made Grisha roll his eyes. "Okay, Vitya wrecked his car, and now it's like a very expensive piece of crap, with awesome blue flames painted all over it."

"It was your fault" Vitya stated without any emotion in his voice. It was a simple fact he shared with us, no room for arguing, but Grisha did it anyway.

"You navigated it into a pylon!"

"Because you screamed 'deer on the road, deer on the road', and started to pull the wheel."

"Deer?" I repeated it in confusion. "Where were you?"

Vitya supported his elbows on the back of our seats, and leaned forward to look into my eyes. "Manhattan." Even if I wanted, I couldn't left unnoticed the 'guy's a total mess' tone in his voice.

Grisha folded his arms in front of his chest, and noted resentfully, "That hobo wore brown, and carried a TV-antenna on his head. You would've confused it as well!"

I decided not to argue with that statement, as did Vitya.

"May I ask what do they have planned for you?" asked Grisha some times later, after he asked for the thousand times in the year if my sister asks about him. "No offense, but you're not the imposing-type…"

I put on a devilish smile. "That's classified." Grisha's jaw dropped – he was sure I'd let him know about my 'job description'.

"Oh, c'mon, Toma!" he began with the tone of an insulted boy. "Tell us, your secret's safe here. You know me!"

"Yes, well. Indeed. That's the main reason I won't say a word – you, guys, are worse gossipers then any granny."

"I'm silent as a grave" Vitya murmured from behind me but I just shrugged. He was reliable in point of fact, but these two were like peanut butter and jam – they go together, no matter what. You can't simply tell something to one of them without the other becoming aware soon.

I remained silent, stood Grisha's first pleading, then accusing gaze, put the earphone back and pretended I was listening to the music when in fact I took off the volume.

After a while he got bored of looking at me staring out of the window. "You're a killjoy."

I didn't even want to argue with him, all I did was turn the music on, and relaxed on the voice of Lzzy Hale - I'd have kill for her voice. And her clothes. And hair… Let's just say that if I'd ever laid my hand on her, I'd never give her back.

Actually, my soon-to-be position wasn't a secret at all, it'd only take few hours for them to hear rumors about it, but I wanted to have their friendship as long as I could. My thing to do was easy – gathering information about every single man and woman, even child having connection to the Bratva. Knowledge is power – and if someone knows about your operations and tries to sell you out, then you must know and act before it actually happens. The Bratva had a whole "Security Department" dedicated to information in, on, around and about the people operating for them, or having any business-connection. The head of this was the Sovietnik, the most trusted counselor of the Pakhan, the boss, who was Emil Docheski presently. My oldest brother, Nikolai functioned as kind of a risk analyst, got the needed what's what and who's who and joined those big dogs planning the activities.

It was only few months ago I attracted the Sovietnik, Igor Krukov's attention. I attended Massachusetts Institute of Technology, or as everyone calls it except my mother, MIT with the determination to acquire an architectural degree. I successfully graduated and had no aim of becoming a hacker or something, but I had many friends back at the university who studied computer science, and they taught me some things which I thought was really useful and fun, so decided to self-educate myself. I didn't grow into a big hacker, but I found it entertaining, and focused on searching engines – I built some programs, like a face recognizer, which could even take in consideration the height and built of the person in the picture. It just happened Nikolai talked about it to Igor, who (as a veteran) found it a sterling spring board, and one day, when I was supposed to have Sunday lunch with Dad, he was there, asked countless questions about my skills, and finally made me an offer. (Apparently, my reliability was not a question – ever since I was a grown-up, the Bratva was an open topic among the close family. I can say it's kinda weird talking about fraud and money-cleaning during a diner.)

At the time I was working for an architecture company as a recruit. I wanted to start my own business, and since we were wealthy but not that wealthy, my only option was to work till I have enough money – I have stayed at the company, it'd have take me at least eight years to start my own. With the money Igor offered me (they didn't say 'payment', but a honorarium, like 'you do something for me, I give it back one way or another, and the way just happens to be money'), the time reduced to two years at top. Of course I heard the idiom 'once you're in, there's no way out', but it wasn't like I became an actual member, more like an outworker. At least I thought so – I haven't asked for the authority's opinion.

So basically that was my job – to build a searching engine with some other man, refine and make sure it works just fine, and in case it doesn't, solve the problem. Hell yeah, I've just became the programmer of the Mob…

The twenty minutes or so flew away like a migratory bird. Music always had such effect on me – it made me think, dream and hope, mostly about stupid, silly little things like what could be the name of that man who came across me on the street, or who gave that big, fluffy teddy bear to that little girl sitting three chairs ahead. Whenever I saw someone, a relative, a friend or a totally unfamiliar person, I instantly started to think about their life story, what they could be like and what made them the way they are now. Sometimes it was boring and full of clichés, but it made me use my brain and fantasy – I loved to do so.

From the Stillwell Avenue we had to take another train which took us to the Brighton Beach station. I haven't spent much time in the neighborhood, but I found it nearly the same as Bath Beach, where my family used to live in my childhood – apartment houses, family businesses, Russian language here and there… Ever since I was four, I've been raised in an American-way, and English became my first language spoken; I could speak Russian of course, but sometimes accidentally mixed up the letters and someone even told me once that I have a terrible accent. Being in the centre of Russian population in New York was homey and odd at the same time.

"Can we go or do you want to continue and admire the landscape?" Grisha asked, milling around. Cold pinched his face, which wasn't a surprise since all he wore was a scarf and a leather jacket in the middle of winter – there was no snow, sure, but it was still cold. He was literally insane and incapable of living by himself.

I shook my head. "Nope, guess I'll buy a coffee first."

Vitya raised his eyebrow. "Where?" When I pointed at the Starbucks not far away from the station, he laughed shaking his head. "You're such a snob."

"Why? I love Starbucks…"

"Yeah, and I love Chardonnay" sneered Grisha rolling his eyes with a playful smile around the corner of his mouth. I understood what he was implying and didn't like it at all – those who were raised much more "Russian-like" tended to refuse some of the things seemed average for Americans, Starbucks among others. And they kinda taunted those who were more "Americanized", either in a friendly manner or rudely. Even my older brothers valued home-made things more then restaurants, fast-food and deep-frozen things; it's likely Nikolai has never eaten in Burger King or ordered pizza from Pizza Hut, at least not from his will.

"Whatever" I grunted, and before they could react or say anything, made my way towards the stairs taking me down to the ground, from where I called back. "You can go if you want, don't have to wait for me."

I was barely halfway, when heard them coming after me in hurry.

"Don't you think we'd left you?" inquired Vitya, when he finally touched my shoulders, making me slow down.

"Yeah" nodded Grisha in agreement, coming up to my left side. "Have you ever been there? I doubt so. Besides, you're blonde, more precisely, a blonde woman, which means your skills of orientation approximates zero. Can't risk you getting lost."

"Have you ever looked in the mirror?" I raised my eyebrow, referring to his hair color, which was an even lighter shade of blonde then mine. He decided not to pay attention to the mocking and displeased query, and started to whistle a cheerful melody. I looked over to the right side where Vitya walked, asking for silent support, but he just shrugged his shoulders and bursted a bubble.

The Starbucks was literally across the road, between an Israeli fruit market (with a manicurist on the second floor) and a toyshop. Grisha and Vitya decided to stay on the corner of 7th street where we was about to go, so I went in the store alone. The air was surrounded by the deliciously tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee, which made me take a big, gratifying sniff. Due the neighborhood I was in, it was slightly smaller then the one I used to go in Mapleton, but it still took me around fifteen minutes of just standing in line to get to finally order.

"Good morning. Can I give you something?" asked Can-I-Help-You?-Sarah with such a cheerful tone in the morning that made my nerves cry.

"No, I just wanted to say good morning to you" I grumbled somewhat coldly (there nearly noting I hate more then waiting helplessly), but regret it as soon as I saw the innocent puppy-eyes the clerk gave me, and apologized with a sigh. "Sorry. First day at work."

"Yeah" Can-I-Help-You?-Sarah mumbled in a taken aback tone. "Mine too."

I don't know if it was on me, but after that morning, I never saw her there again.

After I got the ordered Caramel Macchiato, I rushed out, knowing Grisha very well – I was a bad waiter, but he was even worse, and a complete pain in the ass when nagging. After the pleasant, comforting warmness inside, it was such a Hell stepping out to the cold, noisy street, that the thought of staying there all day flashed into my mind, but then successfully overcome the urge, and headed towards the corner. The traffic light at the pedestrian crossing was red, but I wasn't giving a damn what a red palm told me – I looked around, and when saw no car moving that way, decided to simply cross. Just as I stepped down on the road, a black Audi sedan with tinted windows appeared and came round the corner. At least, it tried to, but I was on the center of the road so the driver was forced to slam the brakes on so hard it made a grinding noise. A yelping sound came from my mouth – fortunately, the car stopped right in front of me, but when I jumped back instinctively, I dropped the paper cup by accident, and it landed on the windshield and hood of the Audi.

I was so shocked; my heart was beating in my chest, like a bird in a cage, and somehow I forget I was the one breaking the rules by crossing during red lights. All I could think of was how he dared nearly running over me! Unfortunately, the driver was much angrier then me.

"Ty che?!" came the Russian swearing, after the door opened, and the driver got out. He was tall, with "Russian features" as Grisha's – high cheekbones, face of rectangle-form, big nose, heavy build, blue eyes, light-brown hair, and he was wearing a suit. That should've been a warning sign, but I ignored it. He walked to the side of the hood, looked at the spilled coffee with horror (I realized many-many years ago, Russian men love their car like their children), then turned to me, his accent heavy. "The fuck are you doing, Blondie?!"

"I-I'm sorry? You just, like, nearly run over me?" I remarked in a questioning mode, my face burning red with shame, fright and anger at the same time.

"Are you color-blind, woman?!" he barked, pointing at the traffic light, which was still shining red. After I just stared at him in disbelief, he growled with resignation, and turned to the hood again. "Look at it! Eto pizdets!"

Having no idea what I should've done, I turned around and searched for Grisha and Vitya. They were standing on the side of the road, Vitya waving constantly something like "don't", and Grisha did the same in slightly higher spirits. I couldn't believe her – I was nearly hit, and they were playing Activity?

"You are the strong, protective men! Don't wave, come, be strong and protect me and my coffee!" I shouted towards them, and it made them about-faced, as if they didn't know me. It made me much more angrier then I already was, and due I was about to offer at least my napkin to the Russian dude mourning over his car's polish or something, I decided to take a French leave.

"Asshole!" I hissed loudly, threw the napkin to the ground, and stepped on the sidewalk.

"Tupa shmara" came the answer, then all I heard was the closing of the car's door, starting of the engine, and the car passed by me. It wasn't but only few seconds till it take another corner and disappeared from my sight. I was happy it did. Still grumpy a bit because of the nearly-accident and the guys' postponement of assistance, I put my best leg foremost, and bypassed them, but since they were at least a feet or so taller then me, they quickly caught up.

"You know what? Payback is a bitch" I said as soon as I heard them walking right behind me. "Guess you should watch over your new car when it arrives. Who knows what sign might be appearing on it someday? And I saw your Playstation is dirty, maybe I should give it a bath…"

"Are you angry now, Tomochka?" smirked Grisha, showing no regret.

"No, I'm not. And move it away from my face!" I snapped at Vitya, who was holding a pack of chewing gum in front of my eyes, which irritated me though not as much as the childish nickname Grisha used. "That crazy dumbass nearly killed me, and you just stood there, like nothing happened!"

Vitya frowned, submerging in thinking, then he grumbled slowly, "You know, that big, shiny red palm means 'no-no'…"

I narrowed my eyes. "How I hate you."

From the Starbucks it took only ten minutes of walking to reach the address that was given to me – in fact, we'd have reached It sooner if only I had talked with those two, who came there every day for ages now, because I wouldn't have had to watch every house number carefully. Or, we'd have reached it sooner if I'd have only known Krukov would be in front of the building, walking around in small circles.

He was a tall, lean man in his early fifties, with the eyes of a deer-hound and the attitude of a bear – he was dangerous but calm, and if you don't hurt him, he'll spare your life. I heard others calling him "Perepelyatnik", which means sparrow hawk, because of his hooked nose. I didn't think Krukov would have had a liking for it.

"You're late." That was all he said when we got within earshot – his voice emotionless, like Vitya's usually, but lot more frightening. I felt like a grade school student standing in front of his teacher, and felt an insurmountable urge to apologize blushing.

"I'm sorry, I had a little…"

He didn't let me finish. "No need for sorry. Just don't do it anymore" he said while throwing his cigarette butt to the ground, and then he stepped on and crushed it. "Can we go in now?"

I nodded in agreement, and followed him right away to the fence door. The building was most likely build in the 20's as well as all the other building around, pure ol' red bricks. It was four stories high, all the windows either barricaded or shuttered – guess it wouldn't have been great for profane eyes to gain inside the Bratva's doings. I thought it could have been a condo, which was either shut down or simply abandoned, with its southern wall right on the side of the pavement. The yard was hidden by high aluminum walls, that kind they use around places under construction. I didn't know when Grisha and Vitya decided to stay outside (maybe to smoke), I just suddenly realized they wasn't there when Krukov shut the door behind us. The backyard was covered in white pebbles, with green grassy surfaces on the two sides of the driveway on the other end of the yard, with the mustard yellow iron gates leading to the street next to this. It looked far too big for one condo, maybe it was two sites merged in one. There was several cars parked inside, and if I'd only paid attention to them, I'd have recognized one from not so long ago, but the cars' world never captivated me.

Under the roof of the building was a concreted place with lots of old, white plastic chairs and tables piled up in one corner, some of them looked kinda broken, but Krukov just went forward, till he reached the front door, and I had no opinions but to follow him. As soon as I went inside the lobby I realized how someone re-edified it. I wouldn't say it was homey, but it looked much better then the outside, with yet more tables and chairs, and a lot of hanger – I also saw quit a few jacket, implying there was a lot of mobster around. It frightened me – not because they were mobsters, rather cause they were here, and I was the new meat around. The walls were painted a light shade of blue, with black and white tiles covered the floor. I saw pipes running over my head right bellow the ceiling – water, gas and steam. Judging by the low, dull noises they made, they still worked. As I followed Krukov to the staircase heading upstairs, the muffled sounds I heard earlier became recognizable: pack of men laughing, shouting and so on. The corridor's echoing made it even louder. Krukov quickly passed through it, I had to keep up with him, but I stole little glances here and there through the slightly or wildly open doors and counted around fifteen men, just down there. We went up another and another staircase, and finally stopped at the top.

This was nearly awfully quiet, I only heard muffled human voices when we reached the end of the corridor – it was much lighter then the other floors, since there ware several windows opening toward the street, and the paint's color was a much nicer light-brown tone. Had I known nothing about the place, I'd even said it was friendly. Krukov went straight to a door in the middle, knocked once, and then opened the door. What I see from behind him was that the room was middle-sized, rather dark, and full with illuminating flat surfaces – computers. I could barely see anything beside it, since Krukov blocked my sight, but I also heard mouse clicking and hitting of keyboards. Somehow I guessed that was the place I was supposed to work at.

"Anton! Priyekhat'" demanded Igor, and then guided me away from the doorway. Out came a man, around 5, 9"ft tall, with freckled face, bright blue eyes and flaming red hair. He wore glasses and a really nasty gray pullover with jeans – that stereotypical programmer. When the red-haired closed the door beside him, pushed up his glasses on his nose, and walked next to us with his arm folded in front of his chest, Krukov pointed at me. "She's Tamara Lyubova, the girl I talked to you about."

The denomination "girl" hurt my feelings and pride since I was already twenty-four, but decided to be wise and stay put.

"You are Nikolai's sister?" asked the one called Anton, and I nodded, slightly surprised by the fact he had no accents at all, unlike Krukov, who sounded like a rusty old machine, his pronunciation rough and nubbly. "You two look quit the same. I can see the relationship with Luka as well, but I guess there's just something in your eyes…"

I heard the same thousands of times before, and though it bored me, I smiled politely, and waited for further instructions. Krukov looked at his watch.

"I still have some cases outside waiting for arrangement. Would you show her around, tell her when he needs to know?"

"Of course."

"Well, then…" said Igor, nodded to us as a goodbye, turned around and stormed away, taking the steps of the staircase in twos. When he was out of sight, Anton turned to me.

"So, I'm Anton, your fellow… Err… Companion. You, I, and Sasha are going to take care of that searching engine they asked from us. Do you want to look around?" he asked, once again pushing up the glasses. I guess it was some kind of compulsive action.

"That would be great" I agreed, and took off my coat. It was rather warm inside, not homey-warm, but one could comfortably linger around in pullovers, as did Anton. I was about to ask if there was a bathroom or something because I could use one, when a door on the end of the corridor opened. It was a heavy steel door, probably leading to a gravelly flat roof. I didn't look up to see the newcomer, looked out the window instead, but he decided to drew my attention by simply talking.

"Hey, Ivankov!" he called stridently, and in Russian. "You finally got a girlfriend? Is she made of iron? 'Cuz robots don't count."

I recognized his voice – I turned around and saw that "dumbass who nearly killed me" standing there with his mobile in his hand. When he saw my face he looked just as surprised as me.

"No" laughed Anton rather forcedly. It was bright as the sun he felt awkward because of his presence. "She's the new gu-girl. The new girl. Vassily, this is Tamara Lyubova. Tamara, this is Vassily, Vassily Docheski."

Docheski. Vassily… Wasn't that the name of the son of the Pakhan? As soon as I put together this very complex picture, I felt myself blushing, which made him smirking after he put himself through the first little shock of "reunion".

I called the son of my boss's boss an asshole and covered his car in coffee.

That was the moment I felt I'm so fucked.

Little Russian Dictionary

Ty che – What the fuck

Eto pizdets – This is fucked up

Tupa shmara – Stupid whore

Priyekhat – Come here or something like that

I didn't dare to try and translate the sentence Vassily said by Google Translator, so I left it that way… Hope you don't mind :)