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7
Manya
Ilove you.
He’d said the words so confidently the other night, without any of the hesitation that had frozen them within my own throat. I hadn’t even meant to say them; it had just been building in me for so many days. It had all gotten too much: the week we had spent in Russia and the closeness we were developing. The adrenaline chasing us still from the events back in America, and the city spread out beneath us as we fucked against that glass.
I had been overwhelmed, and in the very best of ways.
I was still overwhelmed, those words still lodged in my throat trying to find a way out. I’d almost said it so many times in the three days since then: the morning when I woke to his face next to mine and his arm possessively curled around my waist, the night when he helped me braid my hair before dinner, and even during rush hour when we walked down the street alongside traffic.
I love you.
It was there constantly, in every moment, in every little action he did.
Even now, as we walked together through the front door of the mansion, the words rested within my chest like a slow burning fire. He was bringing me with him on business, just like I’d asked. When he’d received the invitation that morning over breakfast, he’d handed it to me and explained that it was important men and their wives that were asking him to dinner.
Important men.
I knew to expect the guests to be high-ranking Bratva members, but as we entered into the large parlor where they were gathered, I was still struck by the amount of gold and diamonds glittering off of their throats and fingers.
Eight other men sat around the plush furniture, their eyes heavy on my husband and I as we walked in. I could hear the heavy Russian conversation around me, the speed so quick and voices so many that I was having difficulty following. Some were chatting about Dmitri and I overheard mention of the Koalistias, but aside from the conversation, one thing stood out the most.
They were all men.
My fingers tightened around Dmitry’s arm, suddenly realizing how oddly I stood out against all the expensive suits in my fine velvet dress.What happened to the wives’ part of this dinner?
“Dmitry Koalistia! You come into my home with no gift for your hostess, without calling ahead to let her know you were even coming to the motherland!” A loud female voice cut through the conversations as if being called forth by my thoughts. A large, beautiful woman stood in one of the opposite doorways, her graying brown hair swept up into a large sleek braid.
“Kuma Yasif,” Dmitry responded smoothly, leading me over to where she stood and letting go of me gently in order to return the embrace.
Godmother, “I come into your home on the arm of my new wife, Mandy Koalistia,” he stumbled slightly over giving them the American name I had chosen that he so very rarely used himself.
It was appreciated, even if his godmother’s eyes widened slightly upon hearing it. The fact that he knew I preferred being called Mandy by those who weren’t him meant something. Those three words surfaced again, just beneath my tongue.
“I see that,” his godmother laughed, kissing his cheek and pushing at his shoulder as if to excuse him back into the room with the men. “I’ll take her then. You go deal with business while I introduce her to her family in the kitchen. I know my husband has a bone he wishes to pick with you.”
Dmitry looked to me, waiting for my slight nod before leaning forward to kiss my cheek and wandering back over to the men. His godmother took me in the curve of her arm, leading me through the door she had come from and looking at me questioningly.
“You prefer English, yes? Good. I will speak to you in English then. You may call me Kuma Yasif too. I see how he looks to you before making decisions. This is good. Means you are not milk-and-water, like I’m sure his father wanted. Dmitry has no need of a wife who looks to the shadows and is afraid to use the sharpness of her tongue.” She spoke briskly as we walked, leading me into a large kitchen with a handful of other women of varying ages.
They sat around the island there, bottles of wine and vodka spread between them with what looked to be scones and chocolates as well, all speaking in just the same rapid Russian as their husbands in the other room. Kuma Yasif only had to clear her throat for the conversation to quickly die down.
“This is . . . Mandy Koalistia,” she intoned importantly, nodding at all the widened eyes as they turned to me. She stumbled over the Americanness of my name much more than even Dmitry had. “Mandy, this is Moira Gusev,” she said, nodding her head to the youthful black-haired girl with moles who looked even younger than me. “And Tanya Ivanov.” She beckoned to a woman, with a single strand of silver in her honey-blond hair. “The slosh drinking all of my malt liquor is Lena Yasif, my daughter-in-law.” Her words were harsh, but her tone was fond as she nodded to the girl about my age with red curls cascading down around her shoulders. “And the one wearing the hideous pantsuit is Ylena Kozlov.”
“It’s a statement,” the brunette in the pantsuit, Ylena, huffed. She smoothed the front of her blazer down, looking over me curiously and setting her squared chin into the palm of one hand almost thoughtfully. “And Mandy? That’s rather American for a Koalistia, what did he do, marry you for his green card?”
Laughter sparked around the table, forcing the tension between my shoulders to tighten even further. If I had been expecting a rescue from Kuma Yasif, such notions were abandoned as she looked to me as if waiting to see what I made of myself. Her milk-water comment seemed to rest between us almost uneasily.
I lifted one shoulder delicately, allowing it to roll before taking a seat at the island myself, pouring myself a glass of wine and ignoring my anxiety that I may appear arrogant. “My name is Manya, Mandy is easier for Americans to pronounce,” I muttered, skipping over all of my real reasoning for having chosen it. “It was Manya Sorokin before marrying Dmitry.”
A kind of hushed silence met my admission. I finished pouring my glass before gazing up at the women surrounding me. Kuma Yasif was glancing back over her shoulder towards the parlor, hiding her expression, but the rest of them now stared at me in open confusion.
“Sorokin. . .” Lena trailed off, her eyebrows furrowing as she swung her gaze to her mother. “Mama, isn’t that. . .?”
“Yes,” Kuma Yasif said briefly, her face a mask of impartiality as she took the seat beside me, pulling a half-drunk glass of vodka over to herself. “Yeva Sorokin had one daughter, I told you this. You need to remember your family lines better before your husband decides to trade you in for a younger model.” Her words were short and pointed, obviously trying to turn the conversation elsewhere.
“No, no. That’s not what she is saying,” Tanya broke in, waving her fingers prettily at Kuma Yasif as if to wave away her words. Her gray eyes were intent on me as she leaned onto the island in front of her. “I think she want know what we all wonder. A Sorokin marry a Koalistia, how? How do you lie with the man whose father killed your mother?”
