Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, you wanna tell me how you managed to just leave that little part of your story out, somehow?” Lulu asks, incredulously.
“Lulu,” Ani groans, rolling her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Ani, I know the whole thing was, like. . .Ick. Especially because of you know who,” Lulu stresses, her face screwing up, before taking another sip of her coffee. “But I didn’t know you went through all of that. And now, you’re telling me he wants you to call him? I mean, I’m your girl, babe. I was your guardian angel at Headquarters. We’re Bonnie and Clyde, baby. Why'd you leave me in the dark about a fucking mafia man?”
Ani lets out a sad laugh, running her finger around the rim of her mug.
They’ve just finished another episode of Project Runway, and Ani’s used her caffeinated, liquid courage to tell Lulu about the strange circumstances from yesterday. . .and a month before. Lulu is still in her pyjamas which consist of her old high school cheer warm up shirt that’s been cropped and beige sweatpants, eyes wide at the news Ani’s dropped. The dark circles under her eyes don’t take away from the emotions that run across her face.
“Baby, I know you’d never judge me, but this was. . . he just. . .” Ani trails off, looking intensely at the paused credits on-screen, on the curled paws of her cat on Lulu’s lap.
Lulu’s urging her to keep speaking with her hand, suspense and impatience pushing her to slide closer on the couch.
“If you say he’s different, Ani, I’m gonna kick you out this house,” she threatens, pointing her broken fingernail at her. “And then I’d force you to buy me a new set of these sparkly little bitches.”
“Different! Who the fuck do you think I am? Fuckin’ starry eyed, amateurs over there?” Ani bursts out laughing, gesturing to the TV. “No, I’m a professional. I’m thinking about this professionally.”
Relieved, Lulu sits back a little, taking another sip, her long lashes adding to the dramatic effect of her side eye. She goes back to painting her toenails, the array of decorations she puts on them lining the coffee table.
Ani brushes her hair from her face, deciding instead to calm her nerves, by walking to their sun-bathed kitchen and stuffing her mouth with chips.
“The guy fuckin’ tied me up, Lulu. He may be different from Ivan, but not in that way.”
“So, why’re we talking about him? Not that I’m, like, not the perfect person to come to with things like this, but he’s not banned from the club, even? You didn’t call your fucking managers? What happened to all of our rules?”
Ani shrugs, hiding behind her hair, mulling the question over. “He gave me back my ring. He stole it from them, so I could have it. It helped us get out of there.”
“He’s not going to be your next Ivan, Ani.”
“God, no. Gross,” she says, licking her lips of the crumbs and throwing herself back on their couch, careful not to disrupt Yuka’s slumber. “I’m not looking for a replacement. I’m done with the Ivans of New York.”
“He works for them.”
“Well, he was offering this time to work for me. I could use somebody that likes to break glass to have around these dingy, little neighborhoods.” Ani counters, sly smile on her face as she looks up at Lulu.
Jokes aside, she didn’t have a clue what Igor was doing—pushing his number on her, even going so far as to follow her, to converse with her. He’d had enough time to stop her before she’d left their table. Now, she’s confused about the whole interaction. His face, his eyes that drank her in without suffocating her. She didn’t realize her face had fallen until Lulu brushed her mussed hair from her eyes, bringing her back to earth.
She doesn’t want to bring up the fact he was inside of her. That it had felt almost good at first, and not just because, in that moment, she was back in control. That there was something about resting her hands on the solid planes of his chest that made her feel grounded for the first time in awhile. That she’d internally cringed a little with every one of Ivan’s attempts at making her come. That Igor had looked into her eyes and not at her chest, before trying to kiss her. That she had cried for what felt like hours in his arms, wrapped around him. That his thumb had traced her cheek over and over, wiping away tear after tear.
He simply kept repeating her name, holding her head to his chest, the heightened rate of his heartbeat thumping against her ear, until her crying softened to silence.
She’d barely been aware of anything during the waves of pain that overcame her, her walls crumbling. But he’d gently pulled his softening dick out of her, pulled her closer to him, until her forehead was resting in the vulnerable, naked space under his chin, and smoothed the warmth of his free palm up and down her exposed leg.
It was too intimate then, for what they were to each other, and it was too intimate now, to bring up, even to Lulu. And it was all that Ani could think about, could feel the phantom sensations of when looking at him last night. She saw the same memories in the shine of his eyes, no indication of his feelings reflected in them.
“You wanna talk to him about what happened?”
“Yeah,” Ani admits, softly, turning to pet her cat, her friend oblivious about exactly what.
She wanted sense. Closure. Even though it felt almost dangerous to.
“Meet him at the Piers, okay? Pick a busy time. Find out why he’s trying to make connections and then dip,” Lulu instructs, reminding Ani of things they both have learned to do long ago.
She pokes her nose, grinning, “I know, babe. I’m a professional.”
Lulu pats her cheek, playfully, “That’s my girl. You know, sometimes, I wonder what I would even do without you.”
Ani scrunches her nose. “You’d have thrown way too many fucking parties here and gotten our asses on a most wanted list.”
Lulu laughs, flipping her hair. Stretching from her place on their couch, she saunters to the pole in the far corner of the living room. “I’m trying to spice up their night life here a little bit.”
She’s spinning around, stretching her body out, graceful in the ease of something she’s done a million times before. Ani snorts, opening her phone to look at the number she stared at for too long when she woke up.
~ ~ ~
The Piers are warmed by the sun today and Ani has difficulty seeing when she steps out of her taxi that reeks of cigarettes and mildew. The beginning of March has offered some relief from the state’s usual brutal treatment to its inhabitants, sunshine breaking through the clouds for the better part of the day. She’s still made sure to be bundled up, her heavy coat and thick denim protecting her from the risk of catching a cold. This isn’t meant to be a long meeting, anyway. Logically, she knows it shouldn’t be happening at all. Yet, she’s taking steps to a bench that offers rest to a single hooded man.
“Beanies cost about ten dollars at a store, you know. Or are you trying to make this look like some drug deal on purpose?”
Ani’s seating herself next to his startled form, pleased at causing some kind of reaction from him.
The light catches his eyes the moment he turns, and Ani looks away, pressing herself further into the rough bench.
“They don’t—they don’t care about us,” Igor’s reply comes out almost softly, waving his hand at the people walking along the piers. “You want to move somewhere else, we can.”
“What, like, a cafe? No. This isn’t some kind of fucking date. And I’m not going to be doing you any fuckin’ favors.”
Ani’s brows furrow further at the smile that’s twitching at the corners of his chapped lips.
“Okay,” he shrugs, sitting back against the bench and gazing out at the view, his fingers absently playing with the in-seam of his dark wash jeans.
“Is that what you were expecting?” Ani asks. “Because I came here to talk. You know, about the whole shit show—fucking Ivan—that whole. . .thing. . .”
“There are lots of other more interesting things to talk about. Ivan is not the only thing we have in common,” Igor grins, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. This time it’s not from squinting at the sun. “And I don’t expect anything. You told me to come here, so I did.” He shrugs, scratching at his cheek.
Waiting for a rebuttal, he looks at her, and Ani’s mentally cursing the slight breeze for causing her to feel winded.
When she makes no sign of having any reply, Igor folds his leg over the other one, leaning further back, and Ani’s taking in the size of him with a clear head for the first time. How much he keeps contained in his baggy clothes and stiff form.
“I don’t need anything from you, Ani. And Vanya’s family. . .they are. . .cruel. But they are not my family. That is my job. And I don’t do anything other than try to keep, what you would call, ehm, shit shows under control.”
It’s the most Ani’s heard him speak, and she tries to take in the bluntness of his dismissal.
“Are you calling me a shitshow?”
He turns to her, looking at her intently, his hand gripping the back of the bench. His face is far from the stoic one she saw so much of in the past. He’s leaning in, and Ani’s clinging onto his words like she needs something from him instead.
“No. Ivan’s marriage to you. The divorce. He is a shitshow. A fucking waste. So much you have no idea.”
All she can think of is her flood of emotions, the way she’d clung to Ivan’s wasted form and begged for his respect.
She’s silent, and Igor takes it as an opening. He moves closer, eyes burning into her, tracing every detail of her face. They’re alive in a way that makes the colors bright, like the thoughts he keeps so locked up are only kept behind a glass wall.
“I gave you that ring, because it is yours. I gave you my number, because I thought you maybe need it.”
“I don’t need it.” Ani insists, almost insulted that he would take pity on her.
“I know. . .I know you do not. Maybe I would like you to,” he admits, a gentle smile easing his concerned expression for a moment. Pulling back, he runs a hand over his head, his hoodie falling. Ani realizes she was sharing his air. He swears something in his native tongue, adjusting slightly.
Composed, he turns to her again. “The last day, I did not know how to say that I am sorry for the shitshow. And for how I treated you.”
“Do you have any idea how terrifying it was for me. Like, all of it? Ivan didn’t mention anything about you guys, not even his fuckin’ parents, then he just fuckin’ runs off. And your first instinct was to hold me down like some hostage.” Ani interjects, the anger from that day flaring up from some forgotten place inside her. “And if you think I’ve been waiting for some kind of bullshit from Ivan or you, you have me so wrong.”
“It does not matter to me. I wanted to apologize,” He counters, softly. He’s leaning into her like before, unable to keep himself to the distance. “That is not usually my job. You get that? Ani, I handle security for the Zhakrov’s smaller business meetings. You’re—you were just a—“
“A whore?” she challenges, tilting her head.
“A girl,” Igor states, like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s been waiting on the tip of his tongue. Something somber flickers in his eyes. “A pretty girl.”
Ani scoffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
That days’ events pass through her mind, and she remembers how she swung on him. His arms trying to keep their distance from her before they were wrapped around her.
“Pretty girls are not my business. And me being here is not the Zhakarov’s business. They are too concerned with their own bullshit to worry about where I rest,” he says, voice so serious, something stirs in Ani at the words. “And Garnik, Toros, they are. . .” He shakes his head, a grimace forming on his lips with their names. “They are the whores. . .for the Zhakorovs.”
Ani can’t help but let out a laugh at that.
The air around them lifts with the joke, and Ani studies him likes he’s been doing to her.
The cold breeze has tinted his cheeks a light pink, his eyes are focused on hers, the blue soft against the lines that frame his eyes. He’s tense, his shoulders rigid, despite the softness of his lips. Taking him in, Ani tries to imagine him in a cafe setting, wondering if his muscles would relax, if his hands would cradle a mug the same way hers do every afternoon.
“Yeah, you bet your fuckin’ ass they are,” Ani smirks, picking at her nails.
Suddenly, she feels self conscious, more exposed to him than the first day he saw her. “I don’t really think you’re a fag, by the way. . .” she admits. “And I’m sorry I called you all of those things.”
Eyebrows raised, Igor clears his throat, his thumb rubbing the worn wood beside her arm. “I wasn’t waiting for an apology. But, ehm, it is accepted.”
He winks at her, and Ani looks away, bright red heat flushing her cheeks.
“Yeah, well, I’ll get back to you about yours. But you’re still a weirdo, you know. Carrying around a notebook like a fuckin’ detective. Who does that?” Ani huffs, laughing to herself.
She thinks of the slip of paper with his number, secured under her jewelry box
“I do. It is my trademark,” he asserts, flipping his hood up again. The smirk on his face disappears behind the fabric.
“Okay, big guy. Fuckin’ ‘trademark’,” Ani laughs, pulling her coat around herself more, the movement seeming to stir Igor from his dazed-like state.
Standing in front of her, he stretches his arm out. “I can show you what else is trademark.” He’s grinning, and Ani studies the lines of his palm, the scarred skin between his pointer finger and thumb.
Slowly, he upturns it, and Ani takes it, hesitantly. His hand bleeds warmth into hers, enveloping it as he leads her to the street corner away from the pier. He leans against a seasonal food stand that’s closed for business.
“Is this the trademark?” Ani jokes, crossing her arms.
“No. This is where I ask you to dinner.”
The statement takes her aback. There is no way in hell the Zhakorovs’ muscle is asking her to dinner. “I told you that I’m not doing you any favors,” Ani repeats, smile fading from her lips.
“No, I’m doing you a favor. You eat the shit at the club? When’s the last time you ate real food?”
Confused on where this is going, Ani looks around, trying to grasp for some understanding of his angle. “What the fuck is ‘real food’ supposed to mean?”
“Homemade, warm, free,” Igor suggests, lighting up a cigarette. “No price tags. I don’t know. I am not a dictionary. And English is not my first language.”
A mischievous grin breaks open on his face as he flags down a loose taxi, and Ani’s trying to catch her breath. As the taxi steers towards them, Igor steps up to her. Ani doesn’t have the slightest inclination to step back.
“You let me pick the places we go from now on, okay? You like the cold too much for me,” Igor chuckles, his free hand cupping the side of her face, rough thumb brushing her chilled nose.
The clouds of his breath kiss Ani’s lips and face, and he smells like mint and cigarettes. His eyes are shining as his thumb traces down to gently pull on her bottom lip. Ani should have a million different remarks to throw at him, but the sensation of his callouses makes her shiver, and the only thing she wants is to savor it.
Tracing back over the smooth skin of her cheekbone, his eyes flit back to hers.
Pulling away to open the door for her, he suggests, “Come eat dinner at my home. Maybe you can get back to me about my apology, then.”
“Yeah,” she smirks, “Maybe. I can’t make any promises.”
“I do not expect any.” He closes her door and taps the hood of the taxi, eyes following the car until it leaves his sight.