Dirty Minds: An Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

I kept my hands to the side. “I’m sorry.”

“Fix your sheet.”

I looked down. One breast was hanging out. Dirt and grime lined up the bottom of the fabric. I yanked it up and wrapped the sheet tighter around me.

“You look disgusting.” Loathing coated Jean-Pierre’s words. “I hope you’re happy. You’ve got your sheet dirty. And where’s my jacket?”

I pointed by the door.

He glared. “Did you even go to the bathroom?”

I whispered, “No.”

“Get in the stall and go!”

I limped over to another stall. My sheet had fallen to my hips.

“Fix yourself!”

“Fuck you,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?”

Silent, I limped to the stall, turned around, and tried to close it.

In seconds, he marched over and pushed the stall door back open. “No. You lost your right of privacy, when you killed my men.”

“I didn’t kill them. I knocked them out.”

“Piss or shit, and then let’s go!”

I inched back to the toilet. “Could you turn around, please?”

“You think I’m stupid enough to put my back to you?”

Good for you. I was going to knock you the fuck out.

For few seconds, we both scowled at each other.

Jean-Pierre’s words came out in a hiss. “Do you need my help?”

“No.” I raised the sheet, sat on the toilet, and urinated.

The whole time he glared at me. “Who taught you how to fight?”

“Life.”

“Is that a person’s name or metaphor?”

“Both.” I grabbed some toilet paper, used it, flushed, and rose.

He remained in front, blocking my way. “You didn’t kill them?”

“I only knocked them out.”

Jean-Pierre took off his shirt. Like I figured, the man was all muscle underneath. Nothing as big as Kazimir’s size, but who could compare to a god. Still, Jean-Pierre held his own in the strength department.

No wonder it’s so hard to knock you out.

Shirt off, he stepped closer into the stall.

My nerves flared on edge.

What are you doing?

I inched back.

He dangled the shirt in front of me. “Put this on.”

“No, thanks.” I shook my head. “Your shirt is dirtier than my sheet.”

“Put it on!”

I gulped in fear and did as he said.

“And put the sheet in the trash. We’ll get you some more clothes soon.” He didn’t put his back to me, but he didn’t look at my body either. The whole time, he kept his eyes eye level with mine as he scowled.

I dropped the bed sheet and put on his huge shirt. The bottom hung to my knees. It reeked of piss. The toilet that I’d dumped his head in, probably hadn’t been flushed. Warm water soaked the collar and most of the front.

Great. Now we both smell.

I buttoned the shirt up and grabbed the sheet.

He backed out of the stall.

I walked over to the trash can and stuffed the sheet into it.

“Good job.” Jean-Pierre headed over to the bathroom door, pushed it open, and barked at the guards outside. “Get a doctor in here. She knocked them out. We have to watch her.”

One of the guys entered, quirked his bushy brows, and then spotted the knocked-out men on the floor.

I realized Jean-Pierre and I were super close. Not listening to the guards and Jean-Pierre’s conversation, I leaned his way as he barked off more orders and when he raised his arm to point to the passed-out guards, I slipped my hand in his pants pocket and took his phone.

Holy shit. I’ve got it.

Thank God his shirt was super long. I let the left arm sleeve fall over my hand, as I gripped the phone within my sleeve.

Okay. I have to get alone again.

Jean-Pierre grabbed my wrists and dragged me forward. I pressed a button, hoping I turned the phone off. It vibrated in my hands, and then stopped. The last thing I needed was anybody calling Jean-Pierre. while I had his phone on me.

It’s too soon to go to the bathroom again. Maybe he’ll leave me in the car for a few seconds. I can call Kazimir, and he can track us.

I hurried to keep up with Jean-Pierre.

Three guards followed behind us.

I didn’t think anyone noticed I’d grabbed the phone. I thought we would be heading back out of the restaurant. Instead, we went toward the kitchen.

Good. I can get a knife.

But Rafael stood in there. A black woman stood on his side. A huge curly afro surrounded her face.

Who’s this? Blue never told me about black woman in the Corsican. I would’ve remembered that.

I glanced at her as she stirred a pot and stared at me in shock. Surely, I must’ve looked crazy. Jean-Pierre and I were both wet from the toilet bowl situation. He now had on no shirt. He’d slicked back his soaked hair. A new bruise knotted his forehead.

Meanwhile, I wore his drenched, toilet-water t-shirt and nothing else.

The black woman with the afro, said something to Rafael about croissants. I squinted to catch her accent.

She’s American. Maybe the south. Not Northeast. And not the west. Who’s this?