He's Strong. He's Hot. He's Foreign. (And He's in the Mafia?)

“I swear to God if you lead me around blindfolded one more time,” I grumbled as his hands went over my eyes, leading me towards the bedroom.

“It’s all about the surprise, darashya,” he whispered, opening the door.

“Something gives me the idea you didn't do all of this by yourself,” I muttered as I studied the new dark satin bed sheets. The lights were off and the room was lit only by candles. The sheets were covered with rose petals and the whole room had a slight hint of vanilla, my favorite scent.

“True, and I’m also going to need some help with the next part,” he murmured, placing his hands on my waist.

“Really? What kind of help?” I asked slyly, wrapping my legs around his waist as he hoisted me up.

“You know what kind,” he smirked, our mouths inches apart.

“Oh well, I’m not sure I’m qualified for that position,” I laughed after I said this, realizing the hidden pervy-ness to my statement.

“You are too much, darashya,” he said laughing along with me. Before I could recover from my laughter, his lips were against mine, kissing me with a built up passion, renewed by our most recent promises.

“You tell me if I hurt you, Jane, alright?” he said, laying me down on the bed, lifting my shirt over my head.

“Mmhmm…” I mumbled, kneeling on the bed and unbuttoning Peter’s shirt.

“No, Jane, you have to promise me,” he growled, holding my face in his hands and bringing my head up to face his, “You remember that time…”

“Peter it was just an accident, stop freaking out about it,” I sighed, resting my head against his bare chest after I took his shirt off.

“Darashya, the main thing that worried me was that you didn't tell me while it was happening, you have to tell me if I’m hurting you,” he purred, kissing my hair.

Ever since I ended up bruised after we had sex, Peter always felt the need to be extra gentle with me. I always told him he couldn’t help being strong, and that I was too lazy to lift weights ,but he constantly found a way to place all of the blame back on him. That was probably the one thing wrong in his brain, he thought his darashya could do no wrong. Of course, that sounds hypocritical because I have always looked upon Peter as a strong savior who was my constant escape from any pain. But he simply was, and I wasn’t going to get down from my cloud nine until I was forced off.

“Okay okay I promise to tell you,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“You’re pretty sour for someone who’s getting married,” he remarked, pushing me back on the bed and climbing on top of me, resting most of his body weight on his elbows.

“It doesn’t feel like I am yet,” I whispered, holding his face between my two shaking palms.

“You’ll have plenty of time to get used to it, my sweet,” he assured, staring down at me with the kindest face I had ever known. He gently lowered his face to meet mine, locking our lips in a tender kiss.

I cried through the next wonderful hours, not because of Peter’s touch, but because I was still having trouble comprehending that I was living the dream I had dreamt ever since I was a little girl: I was in love, I was engaged, being swept away in the arms of the perfect man in my own little fairytale world, where only he and I existed.

My whole body became relaxed and jaded as Peter lay down next to me, overcome by bliss. He looked over at my face, moist with tears.

“You are truly something else, darashya,” he murmured, dabbing at my face with the end of the sheets.

“Thanks I guess,” I hiccupped.

I settled against his chest as he pulled me close, his hands stroking from my head down to my back. Sighing contently, I rested my hands on his chest, nuzzling closer to him.

“I love you,” I mumbled, closing my eyes. Before Peter could even respond, I quickly sat up in bed, realization slapping me in the face with a wet fish.

“What’s the matter, my sweet?” he grumbled, his eyes half-open, sitting up and wrapping both arms around me, trying to bring me back into our gentle rapture.

“Peter…” I started, my face painted with horror, “We’re engaged…”

“Right…?” he prompted, taking my hand in his, his thumb playing with my ring.

“And we’re getting married…” I stuttered, “So that means….” I took a dramatic pause, only to continue in a much softer voice; “We’re having a wedding.”

After a moment of silence, Peter broke out in laughter, “That’s what’s bothering you, Janey? As I just said, you are something else.”

“No, there’s more…my brother is the only one that can give me away,” I sighed, hiding my face in his shoulder.

“Give you away?” Peter questioned, moving hair away from my face.

“You know, to walk me down the aisle and give permission for me to marry you, and I know it’s not required but it’s a tradition in my family because we’re a bunch of stupid hicks with fucking Confederate flags on our flag poles, you heard me, Confederate flags!” my voice raised to a scream, going into freak-out mode. I felt anger and confusion coursing through my body and circling around my mind, causing my head to burn and ache.

“My sweet…you need to calm down,” he purred, placing his hands on my shoulders, kissing my face over and over in an attempt to quiet me. I instantly fell victim to his affections, heaving a sigh and whispering, “Okay.”

“Now calmly explain what’s troubling you,” he whispered, holding my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I need Jeremiah to give his blessing or my family will never accept our marriage, he’s the closest thing I have to a father in their eyes, but in mine, you’re the closest thing,” I explained, my voice shuddering slightly. I gripped Peter’s hand and whispered, “My father would approve of you one hundred percent, I know it.”

Peter gave me a small smile and kissed my forehead, “Don’t worry, darashya, I can convince your brother, just as I have unknowingly convinced your father up in heaven.”

“You think there really is a heaven?” I asked, my eyes downcast.

“My belief is that there’s something more to this life than living and dying and you are my solid proof,” he whispered, lowering his head slightly so our eyes could meet once more, his blue eyes gentle.

“So I’m really going to become the new Mrs. Dombrovski?” I mumbled, looking up at him, a smile breaking through my lips.

“The best one of them yet, Natalia still walks around as if someone drove a stick up her ass,” Peter chuckled, referring to his brother Nicholas’ wife, who was so beautiful it made me feel inferior but was also so arrogant it made me feel liberated.

“It was probably Nicholas that did that, no doubt,” I laughed. One of our favorite things to joke about was Peter’s brothers and all of their narcissism and greed.

Peter eventually coaxed me back under the covers, whispering Russian into my ear; my lullaby. I soon drifted into a surprisingly sound sleep, dreams dancing across my mind but never straying far from the man who was holding me all through the night.

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“I love the snow!” I exclaimed, running into Central Park ahead of Peter. I stomped through the snow, feeling like a little kid again. I stopped in front of one of the many frozen ponds, staring at the ice that covered the snow like the many blankets I would wrap up in when I went home. Hopefully Peter would be one of those blankets, if he didn't have to work at the hotel.

“And I love you, Janey,” Peter whispered, his hands clutching my waist, pulling me against his chest from behind.

I sighed contently and closed my eyes, feeling the snow fall on my face and Peter’s breath in ear, enjoying the contrast.

“My father said he would like to meet you,” he said quickly as if to get it over with.

My whole body stiffened with fear. From what Peter told me, Mr. Dombrovski was a bitter man. "Everything about him reminds me of Russian winters," Peter had said, "He is cold, unrelenting, harsh man." Of course, the thought of meeting this man sent shivers down my spine.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” he prompted, squeezing my waist a little.

“What do you want me to say?” I finally choked out, “Yay, can’t wait to give the man who beat you when you were a kid a big ol’ hug? Should I call him Papa Dombrovski?!”

My voice became slightly hysterical as I turned around to face him, hot tears trickling down my face, “Peter you can’t expect me to thrilled about this, I mean, what would you say if I told you my father beat me?!”

“My sweet…” he murmured, taking my face between his hands, wiping away my tears with his thumb, “You are the first girlfriend I’ve had since I moved here, and now that our relationship is getting stronger, I feel like you should meet him…and my brothers; I am not saying you have to be friendly with them.”

“When do we have to go?” I muttered, resting my head against his chest.

“Right now would be nice,” he said, his hand gripping mine. “This is much nicer though” he kissed my forehead, murmuring, “You know, in Russia public displays of affection are considered rude.”

“I know, you’ve told me this multiple times, especially after you pushed me away when I tried to kiss you on a street corner,” I giggled, giving him a slight shove that did virtually nothing.

“And I’ve also apologized for that multiple times,” he sighed, gathering my hair at the back of neck, smoothing it out.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything Peter, because I know for a fact that you’d never intentionally hurt me,” I said matter-of-factly, tapping his chest.

“Whatever you say, my sweet,” he exhaled, taking my hand and leading me out of Central Park.

“Where are we going to see them?” I asked.

“The hotel, of course,” he said, slowing down to a lighter pace so I could keep up, “Now, while we are walking I must tell you how to behave around my family…”

Peter drew in breath before beginning “Not even us holding hands is acceptable, we must have no physical contact whatsoever, once again it is considered rude…now my brother’s names are Nicholas, Victor, Ivan, and Dmitri, I am just warning you, they are all full of themselves,” he rolled his eyes. I laughed, “You’re pretty close with your brothers too I see.”

“Closer than I am with my father, when you have a brotherhood sealed in blood, nothing seems to tear you apart.”

“I wish I could say the same for me and my brother,” I muttered.

“You can, you just don’t know it, I believe there’s always an unspoken bond between siblings,” he explained, kissing my cheek.

“Whatever you say, Peter,” I laughed.

Suddenly my dream took a different turn. Central Park and Peter seemed to collapse around me, only to have my family’s Kentucky farm rise and my brother Jeremiah rise up in its place.

“Go get me a beer, Janey,” Jeremiah prompted, his fingers going through my hair.

“Get off of me,” I muttered, slapping his hand away, “You’re only sixteen, Aunty said you ain't supposed to be drinking.”

“Well ‘Aunty’ ain't here Janey, and if you don’t get me a fuckin’ beer I’m gonna tell Aunt Dinah that you broke the dishwasher,” he sneered, giving my hair a quick tug, making me let out a sharp squeal.

“Mama would whoop you if she knew how you were drinking” I mumbled, standing up, but before I could walk towards the kitchen, I felt Jeremiah grab the back of my shirt, yanking me back on the couch.

“Mama isn’t here, and neither is Daddy, I’m the only one you got left, so get me a beer and like it, or I could show Gabe your journal,” Jeremiah whispered threateningly, his hand encasing my throat, causing me to gag. Gabe was my huge crush at school. He was the star of the baseball team and a senior. I knew he would never like me being a loser freshman who lost both her parents. My whole diary was basically a devotion to him. I drew pictures of him, I wrote about how he looked at me or how he didn't. You can tell I was a hormonal hurricane as a teenager.

“Let go,” I gasped, punching his shoulder repeatedly.

He laughed and pushed me away, causing me to fall back on the floor.

“I fucking hate you!” I screamed, storming into the kitchen, grabbing a beer and popping the cap off.

“Here,” I snapped, holding the bottle out to him, avoiding his gaze.

“Thanks Janey,” he sniggered, kicking my butt as I walked away.

“That’s it!” I screamed, turning around and leaping on my brother, punching him as hard as I could. I heard the beer bottle crash on the carpet. That was going to leave a stain.

“Get the fuck off me!” he shouted, pushing me to the other end of the couch. He was one top of me, his hand over my throat once more, hissing in my ear, “You’re a fucking crazy bitch, Jane, and you actually think you got a chance with Gabe, don’t you? He would never want you; no guy will ever want you.”

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I woke up with a start, sitting up in bed. I felt cold sweat trickling down my neck, causing me to shiver. I looked around for Peter, craving his comfort. I leapt out of bed, wandering around our apartment, searching for him and calling his name, but I found no one. I sighed and fell back on the white leather couch, reaching out and touching the bruise on the side of neck, permanently decorating my neck with a spot the size and shape of Jeremiah’s thumb colored in purple and blue, thanks to Jeremiah’s ‘playful’ grip.

I noticed a note on the table, written in Peter’s neat print.

Dear the future Mrs. Dombrovski,

I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see you wake up, my sweet, but there was some urgent business I had to take care of at the hotel. There is also some urgent business I have to discuss with you. I will be back as soon as I can so we can talk.

Love,

Peter

I groaned and got up, deciding to distract myself by baking until my heart gave out of high blood pressure. At least I got a chance to try out the new kitchen.

A few hours later while I was comparing brownie recipes, which included baking many batches of brownies, I heard the door open and slam. I gave a little jump of excitement and raced out of the kitchen without even bothering to take of my apron.

“How was work?” I asked, my arms around his neck, giving him a kiss hello. But he did not respond, it was as if his whole body had become stiff.

“Peter? Are you okay?” I asked, standing on the toe of his shoes.

“We have to talk, darashya,” he sighed, leaning down and giving my neck a soft kiss. He stared at me, regret and grief on his face.