Russian Tattoos Obsession by Kat Shehata

finish line, but after a few minutes, I got accustomed to the rhythm of a fine machine and got the beast under control.
    When we rolled up to the valet, I spied the Cadillac parked up front. Boris must have left while we were out on the patio. I had the impression the big guy was not just Vladimir’s sovietnik . He was more like a bodyguard and was there to keep an eye on him—or me .
    As we breezed through the dining area, all heads turned to us. Vladimir wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and we followed the manager past a couple of jumbo-sized bouncers and up a flight of stairs which led to a bar area.
    Boris was there with a teacup in his hand and a bottle of vodka on the table in front of him. He was dealing cards to some old guys while another dozen or so seedy-looking Russians filled out the room. There were girls there, too, wearing gobs of make-up, low cut dresses, and ridiculously high heels. I jumped when I spotted Mr. Cusimano seated at the bar, locking lips with a busty brunette who was definitely not Mrs. Cusimano.
    Boris and his cohorts took notice as Vladimir and I passed through on our way up another flight of stairs to a fancy private dining room on the third floor. Artwork featuring Russian architecture lined the walls, shelves held an eclectic mix of shabby chic antiques and nesting dolls, and the room was illuminated by candelabras.
    The boss had made it absolutely clear Friday night he was not interested in me That Way. Remembering his look of disgust flushed me with humiliation, but this setting seemed a bit romantic for an oligarch/protégé kind of dinner.              
    Was that why Boris had admonished me when he got a gander of my wardrobe choice? Was this a test?
    The maître d’ pulled out my chair and scooted me in. “How do you say thank you?” I asked Vladimir.
    “ Spasibo .”
    “ Spasibo .” I smiled at the sweet-faced old man.             
    Vladimir sat down across from me and set a napkin in his lap. “I hope you’re hungry. The chef is preparing a traditional Russian feast— lacto-vegetarian, of course.”
    I knew what he was doing. He was trying to fix me.
    A couple bites of fancy food and I’ll be good as new, right? Well, it doesn’t work that way. Food isn’t the problem nor is it the solution and despite what my shrink says, I’m not punishing myself, I’m not trying to get attention, I’m not engaging in self-destructive behavior…
    A server set out a spread of pickles, skinny marinated mushrooms, sauerkraut, and black bread with a crock of butter, and a small dish of salt, and the waiter swooped in and set down a line of shots each tinted a different color. There was no way the staff would have the nerve to card me.
    I wondered if the boss had gotten a head injury over the weekend and suffered from acute memory loss. “Is this a joke?” I crossed my arms, ticked he had the nerve to set me up like that again.
    “Infused vodka. The house specialty. I want you to have the best of everything.”
    Okay, I felt like an ass. I could tell I’d insulted him. I gave in. “What are the flavors?”
    “Pineapple, cucumber and dill, and horseradish.”
    “Horseradish? For real?”
    “Want to try?”
    “I’m going to have to work my way up to that one. Let’s start with pineapple.” I pointed to the golden-tinted one.
    “First,” he said, “pick up a bread slice. Tonight, you will drink like a Russian.”
    He lifted the dark rye bread to his nose and sniffed. I followed his lead. Then, he buttered his bread and sprinkled some salt on it. I did the same and set the bread down on the plate.
    Vladimir raised his glass to mine and made a toast in Russian.
    I held my drink back so he couldn’t clink it. “Not until you tell me what it means.”
    “Something good.” His glass hovered in the air.
    I gave in. “To something good.” We clinked glasses and downed our shots.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 15
     
     
    The