Snow: Chapter 24

When I get out of the cab outside Golod, I can see the lights have already been turned off, and the chairs are overturned atop the tables, ready for the floor to be swept and mopped.

However, I can see still someone moving around inside, back by the pass-through window to the kitchen. When I try the door, it’s unlocked.

I slip through, smelling the lingering scents of the dozens of dinners that were served hours before.

No matter how many things have changed, at least Lyosha’s cooking is still the same. I still feel that twinge of nostalgia, especially now, when the place isn’t full of a bunch of gangsters. When it’s just me and great-grandmother’s portrait on the wall.

I head toward the back of the restaurant, where the kitchen, office, storeroom, and large walk-in refrigerator and freezer are located. I poke my head into the kitchen, seeing Lyosha still puttering around, sanitizing the countertops and readying everything for the following day’s service. He lays damp dishtowels over several large bowls of bread dough, which will rise overnight, ready to be shaped into loaves and baked the following morning.

On the stove, a massive steel pot of goulash is simmering, practically large enough to take a bath inside. It will simmer twelve hours or more, until the meat, vegetables, and spices have all blended into a delicious savory stew. The rich scent is tantalizing. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in many hours.

“Sasha!” Lyosha says in surprise. “You’re up late.”

He has a deep rasp from decades of smoking. He’s so short that he barely comes up to my chin, with a monk’s tonsure of steel-gray hair.

“I’m looking for Papa,” I say.

Lyosha nods toward the office.

“He’s settling the till,” he says.

It’s the last task of the night. I head over to the office, finding my father sitting at his desk, his glasses slipping down his nose as he manually totals the pile of receipts from the day.

“Hello, little love,” he says, seeing me standing in the doorway.

He raises his eyebrows at my outfit—Snow’s hoodie and shorts, so large that I’m practically swimming in them, coupled with my own Mary-Jane’s, which don’t match in the slightest.

“Hi, Papa.”

“You’re a little late for dinner,” he says. “But Lyosha may still have something for you, if he hasn’t packed it all up already . . .”

“That’s alright,” I say. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay here.”

“Yes,” he says hesitantly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just . . . no reason. No one came by here?”

“No one unusual,” he says.

“Good. That’s good.”

I can tell Papa wants to ask what’s going on, without really wanting to know. His natural avoidance wins out. He bows his head once more, continuing to tally the bills.

“Business is good now,” he tells me. “Even if it is all Bratva.”

Unfortunately, all that profit goes to Krupin, not Papa.

“Have you spoken to Mama?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, not looking up from the bills.

“What did she say?”

“She said she didn’t have time to talk. She was going to the ballet with her sisters.”

“Oh.”

“Did you come in through the front?” Papa asks.

“Yes.”

“Will you go lock the door for me?”

“Sure.”

I leave the office, closing the door behind me. Then I thread my way through the tables, stripped of their tablecloths, vases, and place settings. I can see the floor hasn’t yet been swept. I can do that, after I lock the door.

I turn the deadbolt, securing the front door. But as I pull my hand back, someone grabs my wrist, simultaneously clamping their hand over my mouth. I try to scream. The sound is blocked, coming out as a muffled gurgle around the man’s hand.

Though the arms wrapped around me aren’t nearly as strong as Snow’s, it’s enough to keep me pinned against the stranger’s body. I smell the sharp scent of cologne, and hair pomade. It’s Yakov, I know it.

“There you are,” he hisses in my ear. “I just came from your boyfriend’s apartment. You left something there.”

Letting go of my wrist, but keeping his hand clamped over my mouth, he pulls something out of his pocket. He dangles it in front of my face. It’s my own crumpled underwear. Snow grabbed my clothes, purse, and shoes, but he couldn’t find my panties.

“I wasn’t sure they belonged to you,” Yakov whispers, “until I saw what you’re wearing now. I’m guessing you don’t have anything on under that.”

Shoving my underwear back in his pocket, he reaches down the front of my shorts. His fingers slide over my bare skin. He’s right, I’m completely naked under Snow’s clothes.

I scream and struggle in his arms, not wanting him to touch me. His hand is still clamped over my mouth, smothering my cries. I hate him. I hate him so much. All I can think of is the video I watched: Yakov, an hour ago, beating an old man nearly to death. The idea of those same hands groping my body makes me want to vomit.

“Hold still you little whore,” he grunts, squeezing me all the tighter. His free hand grips me by the throat, his fingers digging into my neck. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain, making me lightheaded. I know what Yakov will do to me if I pass out.

He hisses in my ear, “Stepanov thinks you’re a virgin. He’s in for a nasty surprise. You’ve been spreading your legs for a street trash boxer. And you act like you’re too good for me? I’m Krupin’s right-hand man. His top lieutenant. You should be begging to take my cock.”

With a wild sweep, he knocks the chairs off the nearest table. He bends me over it, using his knee to force my legs apart.

“Beg for it,” he hisses at me. “Beg me to fuck you.”

I’d rather die than let Yakov inside of me. That pile of steaming garbage.

In wild revolt, I swing my right elbow backward, connecting with the side of his head. It knocks Yakov backward far enough that I can turn over and knee him in the groin.

Yakov doubles over, grunting with pain. I try to run away from him, but he’s too quick. He grabs my wrist again, yanking me back toward him. He backhands me across the face, so hard that bright stars explode in front of my vision. I fall backward, hitting the back of my skull against the hard tile floor.

Yakov is on top of me in seconds, grabbing my wrists, pinning them on either side of my head.

“You fucking bitch!” he shouts, his spit flying into my face. “You’re gonna learn your place if it takes all night for me to teach you.”

I’m kicking and struggling, but he’s stronger than me, and powered by anger and hate. My head is throbbing. The stars are gone, replaced by black butterflies, fogging my vision. I can’t pass out. I can’t pass out . . .

I blink my eyes hard, trying to clear my view.

Suddenly, I hear a loud clunking sound. Yakov stiffens, then tumbles sideways off me.

I expect to see Snow standing there. He must have left the hospital after all and come here to save me.

Instead, I see my father holding tight to the neck of a wine bottle. He’s hit Yakov on the back of the head, not breaking the bottle, but possibly fracturing Yakov’s skull.

Papa is shaking like a leaf. He looks utterly terrified at what he’s done.

But he did it. For once, he did something.

I roll over and stagger to my feet. I hold out my hand for the wine bottle.

Papa hands it to me. He’s staring down at Yakov in horror.

“Oh no, oh no,” he says.

I look down at Yakov. He’s writhing around on the ground, clutching his head. He’s bleeding and sputtering, his face purple with rage.

“You fucking . . . you fucking little . . .” he howls.

I remember how Yakov looked down on Meyer, when the old man was curled up at his feet in a ball.

I raise the wine bottle over my head.

“No, Sasha!” my father shouts.

I bring the bottle down on Yakov’s skull, once, twice, three times. The third time, the bottle shatters, spraying wine across the floor.

It doesn’t matter. Yakov is already dead.

“Sasha,” my father moans. “What have you done . . .”

“It doesn’t matter Papa,” I say coldly. “I know how to get rid of the body. Yakov showed me.”

My father is whiter than paper. His trembling hands are pressed tight over his mouth.

“Papa,” I bark at him. “Grab his feet. Help me drag him into the kitchen.”

Lyosha, who is old and deaf, missed the entirety of the commotion in the dining room. Thus, he’s surprised when he sees us dragging a dead gangster across the floor.

“What’s this?” he says mildly.

“An uninvited guest,” I say.

“That’s very rude,” Lyosha says. “Even at a restaurant.”

It takes me several hours to dismember the body, even with the array of finely-sharpened knives and cleavers in the kitchen, and even with Lyosha’s help. Papa only lasts a minute or two, before having to flee back to the dining room. To his credit, he scrubs every inch of the floor and tables, obliterating every last trace of the mess, while Lyosha and I work.

Once we’ve finished butchering the body, I tell Lyosha that we should dispose of it with the kitchen waste. The sun has risen, illuminating the steel countertops, which still bear the grisly evidence of our work.

“There might be a better way . . .” Lyosha says.

He looks in the direction of the meat grinder.

By the time we’ve gotten rid of every trace of Yakov, and cleaned the kitchen as well, it’s late in the morning. I scrub my hands and arms over and over in the large, industrial sink. I use the heavy-duty boric soap and a wire brush, scrubbing till my skin is pink and raw.

Then, heading to the staff room, I strip off Snow’s clothing. I’ll have to get rid of it. It’s too filthy to give back to him, and I can’t risk anyone else seeing me wearing it.

I borrow some of the waiters’ extra clothing—black slacks and a white dress shirt, with a crisp white apron over top. I’ve already twisted my hair up in a tight bun. This is how I might have dressed in another life. If I wasn’t spoiled and the restaurant hadn’t failed.

Though I’ve been up nearly the whole night long, I’ve gone past the point of tiredness. Instead, I return to the kitchen where Lyosha is starting to pull out handfuls of freshly risen dough so he can shape them into round little loaves and put them in the oven to bake.

“Can I help you?” I ask him.

“Please,” he says, making space for me at the countertop.

Side by side, we oil our hands and roll and shape the soft, warm dough.

This is vastly preferable to the kind of work we’ve been doing all night long. I’m clearing my mind with the good, warm bread dough, forgetting the awful specter of Yakov.

I can still smell the goulash cooking. It has a sickly-sweet smell now.

Lyosha is behind on his work because of me. We have to move quickly to finish the bread, then begin the prep for lunch. Lyosha sets me chopping onions and peppers, huge bins of them, while he slices mushrooms and dices up garlic. He’s much faster than me, his gnarled hands working the chef’s knife in a rapid staccato beat against the cutting board.

The waiters begin to arrive for the lunch rush. No one comments that my father is wearing the same clothes as the day before, with the addition of a sport coat to cover the stains on his dress shirt. No one notices how tired and pale we all are, or the smell of fresh blood that lingers in the kitchen, below the more pungent note of bleach.

I plan to go home now that I’ve helped Lyosha catch up. However, before I can take off my apron, my father comes into the kitchen.

“Someone’s asking for you,” he says.

“Who is it?”

He leads me to the doorway and points.

I see Stepanov sitting at the table closest to the window, along with several of his men.

I swallow hard, wondering if he somehow knows what I’ve done.

It doesn’t seem possible.

I don’t think Yakov told anyone he was coming to find me. I know what he wanted to do to me—that was his own depraved desire, not Krupin’s orders.

So why is Stepanov here?

I consider sneaking out the back.

It’s no good. I can’t hide from Stepanov forever.

Instead, I grab a basket of the fresh-baked bread and carry it to the table in my waiter’s uniform.

Stepanov smiles when he sees me approaching.

I set the bread down in front of him. He looks up at me beneath his heavy brows, his dark eyes hungry as they always are.

“I like you serving me,” he says.

“Papa said you wanted to speak to me,” I reply, trying to keep my tone cool and professional. Still, I can feel my pulse rising out of fear that he knows something.

“Come, sit down,” he says.

“I’m working today—“

“I don’t give a shit if you’re working,” he growls, grabbing my wrist and pulling me down into the booth right next to him. “I’m not a cruel man,” he says quietly, into my ear. His hot breath tickles my neck. “I plan to treat you well. But you need to learn to obey me. Did you know that you’ll be mine, soon?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. Has he made some kind of a deal with Krupin? Does Krupin think I’m stock he can buy and then sell again at a profit?

From Stepanov’s seat, I can see all around the restaurant. I see dozens of gangsters and thugs sitting at my family’s tables, eating off the beautiful plates my grandmother commissioned. They’ve invaded our restaurant, taken it over. They steal our profits and our labor. They’ve taken my freedom. And now this man beside me wants my body, too.

I hate them all.

I can see the waiters delivering the food. Dozens of the Bratva have ordered the goulash, the specialty at Golod. I watch them spoon up the rich chunks of meat, swallowing it down like ravenous wolves.

Stepanov’s waiter arrives with a tray full of plates. He hands the dishes around. Stepanov has ordered the goulash as well.

“Do you want a bite?” he asks me.

I shake my head, recoiling back from the spoon.

“No,” I say. “I don’t eat that.”

I watch Stepanov eat it, though. I hope it fucking chokes him.

He keeps one arm possessively wrapped around my shoulders. He thinks he owns me. But only I decide who I’ll give myself to.

And I’ve already decided on Snow.

“Would you like me to get you some more bread? Or some wine?” I say to Stepanov, struggling to sound polite. All I really want is to get away from the smothering weight of his arm.

“No,” he says. “You can go. But remember,” he fixes me with his dark, hooded eyes. “In one more day you belong to me. And I expect quite another level of service entirely. You can practice now, or I’ll take my time in training you.” He chuckles. It’s an ugly sound. “I’ll enjoy myself either way.”

I jump up from the table and hurry back to the kitchen, where I’ve stowed my purse. I run out through the back door, sprinting back home toward my parents’ house.

One more day?

He thinks he’s taking me home after the fight.