Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

I remained on my man’s side, trying to get used to this new level of power, this dominating man, and the world he moved in.

Xavier had a thing about silence. He droned on about it all the time, spouting out quotes from ancient white men.

“Euripides said that silence is true wisdom’s best reply.” Xavier cleaned his gun. “But then silence is one of the hardest things to argue against.”

I sat cross-legged in the section of the bus he referred to as a living room. He’d filled the area with a makeshift bookcase made from old milk cartons. Across from the shelf, there was a beat-up olive-green loveseat that Xavier slept on.

“Shit.” Xavier wiped the gun with his cloth. “Half the time, a motherfucker just need to shut up to look brilliant.”

I exhaled, not ready to think of Xavier or New York. But Xavier had a good point that still rang true today. Silence would be the key in this world. It was time to learn and take it all in, instead of run my mouth.

Kazimir had blown off the president of a major powerhouse country—his own country. Officially, Kazimir didn’t really have a lot of countries he could legally live in. I was hoping we’d make this place our home. Smirnov had contacted Kazimir three times, and Kazimir’s final response was a hard slap to Smirnov’s general.

My nerves frazzled. I didn’t even take in Kazimir’s massive plane and all the luxury it exuded.

So…can you just slap military generals around in Moscow?

We boarded the plane. Instead of regular seating, there was a small living room. Kazimir took me to a leather seat. I sat down, and he got in the seat next to me. A stewardess pushed a cart toward us where champagne bubbled in two glasses.

The pilot came in and chatted with Kazimir in Russian. I captured a few words and phrases here and there. They went on about sports, and the pilot updated Kazimir on his kids.

I glanced out the window. The general remained outside, not on the phone or talking to anyone but staring at the plane with a high level of hatred blazing in his eyes.

I gulped in the fear I’d been holding in since Kazimir slapped him. New York and simpler times returned to me.

“You hear Rocky got shot in his head last night?” Maxwell carried a huge bag of groceries into my kitchen. “The funeral will be closed casket.”

Once a week, we cooked dinner together. I knew it was Maxwell’s only home-cooked meal. If I left Maxwell in full control of his life, he’d eat gummy worms for breakfast and powdered white doughnuts for lunch, and then pop a vitamin at the end of the day as if he was taking his health seriously.

“Someone shot Rocky?” Xavier chopped potatoes on the counter.

Darryl and Kennedy ignored the whole conversation as they made out on my couch. We all pretended not to see the disgusting public display of affection.

“Yeah, man.” Maxwell placed the bag on the counter and pulled out a large bag of gummy worms.

“Come on, Max.” I grabbed the bag from him. “Don’t mess up your appetite.”

“It’s my fruit for the day,” Maxwell argued and came my way.

“Go on, man.” I kept the bag behind me. “It’s just sugar.”

“We need sugar to live.”

“Y’all get out the damn kitchen with all that shit! Always playing around when I’m cutting.” Xavier waved the knife around. “And why the hell did Bobby get shot?”

Maxwell turned his attention back to Xavier. “Remember I told you Bobby slapped ‘K.J. down on Broadway’?”

I rolled my eyes. The guy’s name was K.J. down on Broadway. He wouldn’t answer if you didn’t say the whole thing. And because he was the main numbers guy in Manhattan, a lot of people said the whole name.

“Bobby slapped him on Friday.” Maxwell acted it out. “Open hand. Straight to the jaw.”

Xavier whistled and shook his head. “So, K.J. down on Broadway had to kill him.”

“Yeah.” Maxwell nodded.

“What? Why did he have to kill him? He just got slapped.” I pulled milk out of the bag and put it in the fridge. “That makes no sense.”

“A man can never slap another man.” Xavier set the knife on the counter to show how serious his point was. “Listen, a man can punch a guy in his jaw during the winter. I mean, knock his ass out. And both of those men will be cool and playing basketball in the summer.”

“That’s right.” Maxwell yanked the gummy bear bag from me. “A punch is fine.”

“But if you get slapped by another man.” Xavier wagged his finger. “You got to kill him. There’s no way around that. The streets will be talking. A man get slapped like he’s a chick? Shit. You got to shoot that motherfucker, or they’ll be giving his ass dresses for Christmas.”