“I like the work, sir,” he says, cutting his eyes to me in another brief glance.
“How are the English lessons coming along?”
He lets out a grunt and says in a thick accent, “Is hard,” before switching back to Russian. “I prefer Russian, but I know I need to understand what’s being said around me. I don’t want to be a liability.”
I nod my head, pleased to hear he’s not going to give up on it. “You’ll catch on. It takes a while. I have several tutors who are willing to work with any men I send their way. Have Artyom show you the file with their pictures. I’ve found that most of my men pick up English a lot quicker when paired with the tutor of their choice.”
His mouth tightens, and for a second he’s so pissed that he meets my eyes long enough to say, “Artyom told me there was only one tutor. She’s sixty-five and smells like old tuna. She makes me sit with her and watch old reruns ofThe Beverly Hillbillies.I can’t understand a fucking word out of their mouths.”
I laugh because this isn’t the first time Artyom has played this joke on a new recruit. “I’ll email you the photos I have of the tutors we usually use. I think you’ll find them much more to your liking since not a single one is older than twenty-five, and from what I’ve heard, they all smell very nice.”
He’s still fuming, but I can tell the idea of a young, beautiful tutor is helping to ease his bruised ego.
“Aside from the tutor mix-up, it looks like everything is working out. Keep your ass in line and things will continue to go well.”
“Yes, sir,” he quickly says, waiting for me to dismiss him.
When he sees my nod, he gets up and leaves. I send him a quick email with the info about the available tutors and then move on to all the other shit I need to do. It’s two o’clock by the time I manage to go downstairs to get some lunch. The smell of lasagna and fresh baked garlic bread fills the kitchen.
“Smells good, Valentina,” I say to the grey-haired woman who’s bent down and peering into the oven to check if it’s done to her liking. Evidently it isn’t because she lets out a little huff and shuts the door again.
She turns to me with a smile, patting my arm as she shuffles past to grate some fresh parmesan. “You need to eat more, Mr. Fedorov,” she says, gently chiding me. “I made extra, so eat a big plate tonight, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Like all my staff, Valentina is originally from Russia. English is rarely spoken in my house. I prefer to keep Russians around me if at all possible. They’re familiar enough with who I am and what I do to not ask questions, and I’ve never once worried about them going to the police. That’s an American mentality. Russians know better.
“Let me know if you decide you want a big bowl of borscht. Aren’t you sick of all this Italian food yet?”
I laugh and shake my head. “You know I love it, but you’ll be the first to know if I ever get tired of it and want a change.” I may have obvious reasons for disliking the Italians, but there’s no denying their food is delicious.
Putting the cheese aside, she reaches into the fridge and hands me the sandwich she made for me earlier and the platter of fresh fruit that she knows I love. I smile when she also hands me the half sweet tea, half lemonade drink that she knows I have a soft spot for.
“Thanks, Valentina. I’d be lost without you.”
She smiles, showing the multitude of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but her blue eyes are still clear and bright, making her look younger than her sixty-eight years. I’ve tried to get her to retire, but she absolutely refuses, so our compromise was she would have her own chauffeur instead of having to drive herself around, and she only comes in for a few hours and not every day. She always makes a ton of food anyway, ensuring there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge at all times.
“You need a wife,” she says, making me sigh and start to back away. “She would make sure you eat all your meals.”
“Thanks for the lunch,” I say, backing out of the room. I have no desire to hear this speech again.
“I’ll put supper in the fridge for you,” she hollers out to me before I disappear back up the stairs.
Going back to my desk, I go through the information my realtor sent me about a new building that’s just become available. Part of putting down roots here means that I need a business to funnel money through, and nothing makes money like a strip club. Plus, it has the added benefit of providing my guys a place to relax when they’re not working.
I take a bite of my sandwich and start writing an email to my lawyer. Vadim handles everything for us. I offered him a job, even going so far as to pay enough so he’d take me on as his only client, and he’d wisely accepted my offer. I trust him to get everything rolling with this new project.
Stabbing a piece of pineapple, I start working on a message to my accountant. Andrei came to America a few years before me and earned his degree here, but as soon as he heard I was in town, he came and offered me his services. I let him know about the new business venture while I pop a few grapes in my mouth, chewing as I type.
Once it’s done, I sit back and take a drink. My mind keeps drifting back to Charlie, and it annoys me more than I want to admit. I pull up her apartment building again, scrolling in to get a better look. It’s not a complete dump, but it sure as hell isn’t nice. Looking at a crime map, I cringe at the amount of reports that have come in from that area. There was even a sexual assault reported last month that was less than a block away.
Why the fuck do I care?
I can’t answer my own question, or at least not in any way that makes sense. The sun starts to set, and I’m still sitting here like I’ve got a fucking schoolgirl crush.
“Fuck this,” I growl, getting up and grabbing my lunch dishes. I stomp down the stairs, knowing Valentina’s already left and that the house is empty. Setting them in the sink, I grab my phone and send a text to Artyom, asking him for an update.
Watching.