Loving The Russian Mafia Boss

Chapter 3: P'yanyy (Drunk)

Chapter 3: P'yanyy (Drunk)

The burning I felt on my side was a constant reminder of the dangerous decision I had made. I had been living in the Ivanov manor for nearly a week, and I was proud to say I had basically mastered my job and routine. Anya was easily my favorite part of the experience; I didn't know how I'd survive without her guidance.

She had told me that she previously worked as a stripper in one of the copious amount of gentleman's clubs scattered throughout the dowttown New York area. She worked in the mansion as a hostess now, as many of the Russian gentlemen knew her by name.

Anton and I hadn't had any run-ins since my first day on the job, and I was ecstatic. He was quite literally a psychopathic lunatic, and it didn't take me long to find out why they call him, 'Beast'. I had overheard stories at the dinner table from other english speaking workers, people who had worked here much longer than I had, that Anton was feared by most all of the other origin-run mobs, mainly because of his all too well known immense brutality.

To say I was afraid of him would be an understatement. I'd much rather have the boogeyman in my closet than Anton Ivanov. 

"I hear he keeps the heads of the people he's killed like taxidermies on his wall."

"I hear he's actually the brother to satan himself."

"I hear he's actually really good at ceramics."

I struggled to keep my water in my mouth after Glenn mentioned pottery making. "Where the hell would you hear something like that?" I laughed, wiping my mouth of the stray water that fell from it.

"What, so you find Mr. Ivanov being related to the devil more truthful than being good at ceramics?" Glenn asked, teasing me from across the table. "Actually, yes. I would rather imagine Anton sipping on Bicardi with the devil than at a pottery wheel playing with clay." I answered, receiving small laughs from the other english speakers at the table.

Many of the more 'domestic' workers in the Ivanov manor were actually really warm and friendly. I didn't have much trouble making friendships in the strange setting, and seeing as we were all stuck here, we all seemed to enjoy each other's company.

Glenn was the other mechanic who worked and traveled occasionally with the members of the mafia. He was a trusted confidant, and though he carried a carefree attitude, he was truly trustworthy.

It was dinner time, and at dinner, even the workers were served alcohol. Following the Russian stereotype, alcohol was as common as water in the Ivanov household. I never was a drinker; I had difficultly handling liquor, so I spent a lot of times watching the drunken shenanigans from afar. But, tonight, tonight was different.

I had worked enough and it was time for me to take a break; I deserved it. "Marko," I called from across the table, "Can you pass me a bottle of Bud?" I received a raised brow from the man, but nonetheless, he passed the bottle.

I popped the cap off, and indulged in a few sips. I wasn't going to get drunk tonight. I wasn't going to get drunk.

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"So, I wake up in the bed of my friend's truck, in the middle of the woods!" I laughed, slamming my fist on the table like a gavel at the end of my story. Chuckles danced around the table at the conclusion of my story.

I was on my third beer, and being a lightweight meant I was rock hard drunk. The people at the table were beginning to leave for bed or to get ready for a late shift. My vision was beginning to get blurry, and I knew I needed to stop drinking.

I took it upon myself to clean up the table, brushing off the cleaning staff. I collected glass plates and cups of red wine and water alike, taking the piles to the kitchen to clean them. I was a crazy, happy drunk, thankfully.