Order Of Protection Ch 01 07

Author's Note: This story is heavy on action and romance but contains no explicit sex. Fair warning, if that is what you are looking for, just move on. The rest of you, buckle up, keep your arms and legs inside the cars and enjoy the ride. -Partwolf

Moscow, 1997

The young woman sat nervously in the waiting room of the office suite, clutching her purse to her chest as if it is a shield. She barely looks around the room, the ostentatious decorations wasted on her, the effect of the flaunted wealth and power meaningless. She has sat here for hours, watching a parade of wealthy and powerful men enter and exit the room while she waits in the corner, trying to blend into the furniture and not be noticed.

That is not so easy, for despite her dress and manner she is a beautiful young woman. Glossy black hair tumbles down in waves to the middle of her simple black dress, framing a delicate face and her dark brown eyes. Her body is full of promise, her breasts full, hips wide and legs long and graceful. The men in the room gaze at her, some openly leering, others more discreet. A few try to strike up a conversation, to flirt with her, but she politely declines their attention.

The men do not know who she is to Yevgheny, so they take the hint and leave her alone again. They know better than to incur his wrath, as few survive it.

The late day has turned to early evening, the window showing the sun starting to lower above Red Square in the distance. She is the last one waiting in the room, only his secretary and a large man guarding the door are left. She has not having moved from her seat in hours, and she moves her legs to stretch them out. Standing, she stretches like a cat, her graceful movements practiced, and begins to pace in front of the antique couch. "I can do this," she whispers to herself. "I have to do this."

A man in an expensive suit leaves the room, barely hiding his anger behind a veneer of manners. He doesn't look at the others, he storms out and enters the elevator leaving an uncomfortable silence behind.

"Mikhail." The sound comes from behind the office door, and the large man at the door immediately turns and enters the office. It is an impressive room, decorated with Russian antiquities and offering sweeping views of Moscow, and the man behind it is no less impressive. Yevgheny Zubkov is intimidating even when sitting down, and Mikhail keeps his eyes down as he approaches his boss, standing with his hands behind his back two paces from the hand-carved desk.

"Sir," he answers.

"What do we know about her?" He looks out over the river, not bothering to look at his employee.

"Her name is Ekatarina Klishnina, twenty-two years old, living in Sergiyev Posad for the last year. Thirteen months ago, she was studying here in Moscow, working as a dancer at Rasputin's." He handed her the photo of her from the club, the investigators on the payroll had swung into action as soon as Ekatarina had shown up and requested a moment to speak to him.

"I remember her, she was a great fuck. A smoking hot body and a virgin to boot. She didn't stop fighting me and you know how much I like it when they struggle. Who would have expected a virgin in a strip club! What a night." He smiled as he thought about her, she had refused his advances, but no one turns him down and lives. Her struggles only inflamed his passions, and he took her hard, bound and gagged, again and again in the private room of the club as she fought to get free. "She no longer works there?"

"She returned to her home a month after that," the big man said. "Her mother was sick and passed away, she inherited the small home." He pulled a photo from his jacket pocket. "She gave birth four months ago to a daughter she named Natalya." The baby was beautiful like her mother, dark hair, chubby cheeks, healthy. "No boyfriend or husband, neighbors said she was a single mother, nice woman, works as a waitress at a local restaurant. Nothing remarkable."

"I see." The numbers added up; Yevgheny was careful, but accidents happened in rough sex, and he had people who could take care of accidents for him. People with his wealth and power could never be held accountable in Russia, where bribes and favors were a way of life. Even without it, his position within the Russian Mob scared even the police away. "Is the daughter with her?"

"Our men have checked the house, she is not there. No one saw her leave."

The boss tapped his fingers on the table. "Did she say what she wanted?"

"No sir, just a moment of your time."

He nodded. "Bring her in."

The man immediately turned and walked to the door, opening it and stepping out into the other room slightly. "Miss Klishnina, Mr. Zubkov will see you now." He stood aside while the trembling woman walked into the room, finally looking into the eyes of the man who had raped her. His eyes showed no remorse, only curiosity and a cold promise of pain.

"Mr. Zubkov, thank you for seeing me," she said, her voice breaking slightly.

"My pleasure," he said as he held his hand out for her to shake, and she did so. Briefly and reluctantly. "Please, sit. Would you like a drink, Ekatarina?"

"No thank you, sir."

"Very well, what can I do for you? Do you need a job again?" His crew owned Rasputin's, along with two other strip clubs, five brothels, and numerous other criminal enterprises.

"No sir, I no longer dance. It's about my daughter, Natalya. Our daughter." She pulled the birth certificate out, it listed the father as unknown, along with a photo of the baby. "I don't mean to cause you trouble, sir. I wouldn't have dared given your name as her father, but you are. I was a virgin when you took me, I've been with no other man. I am here only to ask for help."

"I see." Yevgheny inspected the birth certificate and looked at the photograph. Taken in the hospital, the girl was in her arms, sleeping peacefully. "What kind of help do you need?"

"My savings have run out, and I can't make enough money as a waitress to cover the cost of child care and my home. I have no family left to help me. I'm begging you for assistance, sir. I will never reveal her father to anyone, but I have to live."

"I understand." I took her hand, she was shaking as I patted the back of it with my other hand. "You have nothing to worry about, Ekatarina. Your struggles are over, I'll take care of everything."

Her whole countenance changed, a smile came over her face, the kind of smile that could light up a room. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

Yevgheny stood, and she did with him. He looked over by the door where Mihail was standing. "Mikhail, please make sure this young lady is taken care of."

"Yes sir," he said. He opened the door and waited for her, she turned one last time to thank him before they left.

"We have to go visit his lawyer," Mikhail said. "He will take your information and set up an account with automatic payments."

"That would be wonderful," she said. They entered the elevator, she shifted on her heels nervously as he stood behind her. The door opened on the parking level, a black Mercedes was waiting for them, a driver holding the door open. "We have to drive?"

"Yes, his office is a few kilometers away. The driver will drop you at your hotel."

"I don't have a hotel, I took the train in this morning."

"No problem, we can drop you at the train station when we are done."

She nodded and moved towards the door being held for her. When she put her hand on the car, Mikhail moved forward, grasping her jaw and the back of her head with his big hands. A sharp twist, and a loud snap echoed through the parking garage. Mikhail caught her as she dropped, her neck broken, her eyes looking at him in shock. He picked her up as the driver moved to open the trunk, which had already been lined with a tarp. He placed the woman inside, slamming it on her as her consciousness left her and she died.

Mikhail got in the back of the Mercedes as the driver got in and started the car. "Where to?"

"Sergiyev Posad," Mikhail replied as he pulled out his phone. He dialed a number. "It's done," he said softly.

"Clean up the loose ends," Yevgheny replied.

"It will be done." He hung up the phone as they pulled out of the garage into the Moscow traffic.

Hours later, they pulled into the alley behind her small house. The watchers had seen no activity, and no one could find the baby. "Come on," Mikhail told the driver. Using a piece of wood, he broke several lights in the area so the alley was shrouded in darkness. They went to the trunk, removing the dead woman and leaving her at the base of the stairs. The local police would be paid off, ensuring the death would be ruled an accident.

Taking her keys and purse, Mikhail opened her door and left the purse on the chair in the small kitchen. Using a flashlight, he looked around for clues as to where the baby might be. The apartment was plain, small, just one bedroom. The crib in the corner was empty, some clothes and diapers around, but no bag. Checking the rest of the place, he noticed what wasn't there that a young mother would have. A stroller, and a diaper bag. Her purse held nothing for a baby.

He checked the refrigerator and the notes stuck to the wall near the phone for clues, taking a few that might be helpful. Slipping back out the door, he went down to the driver who was standing guard over the dead body. "Let's go," he said as he got in the back.

Father Ivan Kempechny watched the car drive away from his hiding place on the roof of a nearby building. He said a prayer for the member of his flock, left dead there in the darkness of the alley, knowing who the killer was but sworn not to say anything. She had come to him that morning, with her baby crying in her arms, as she explained what she had to do. He had strongly advised her not to do it, but she was desperate and alone. She handed him the baby, and he had given his word that he would ensure her safety if she did not return.

There was no place in Russia that would be safe for the baby now. Shaking his head, he left the rooftop, heading back to his office at the nearby Russian Orthodox Church. He had contacts with international adoption agencies, and he had the foresight to have her sign the papers giving her for adoption before she left. Natalya could never be listed with any orphanage, never go through any open court proceeding. He knew a judge who would sign the adoption papers, and the agencies would find someone in America who would happily adopt the beautiful baby, even if the paperwork was shrouded in mystery.

A week later, Natalya was sleeping on her mother's shoulder as the plane crossed the Atlantic, bound for Minneapolis, Minnesota. In her mother's purse were the adoption papers and her new birth certificate. She was now Jessie Donato, daughter of airline executive Anthony Donato and his wife Cindy.

Mikhail never found her, a fact that cost him his life.

Ch. 2

2018, Minnesota

Jessie's POV

A mugging gone bad took my father when I was two years old, and now cancer was taking my mother from me at twenty-one.

I sat in her bedroom, holding her hand, waiting for the pain medicine to kick in so she could sleep. Her once-beautiful face was pale, her eyes sunken, as the pancreatic cancer ate her from the inside.

The last six months had been horrible. I was going to school at Northwestern University on a full ride scholarship, in my junior year of the Mechanical Engineering program. I had come home for Thanksgiving when I found her. When I came through the door, she was lying on the floor holding her stomach, barely able to talk with the pain. I rushed her to the hospital, where she was taken from the emergency room to the oncology ward. The next day, the doctors in the room told us that the cancer was advanced, so advanced that surgery would not be possible.

I dropped out of school to care for her, and our savings quickly disappeared beneath the mass of bills left over from her insurance. I held her hair out of her face while she threw up after the harsh chemotherapy treatments, then held her shoulders after her hair had fallen out. The two rounds of chemo left us broke, and in the end, they accomplished nothing. The tumor hadn't shrunk enough to operate, and the cancer had metastasized.

I brought her home last month after she begged me to just let her die in her own house. We were broke now, our savings gone, her car sold, jewelry, everything. The house that was paid for, she took out a reverse mortgage on. I offered to use my savings, to sell the car I had worked through high school to buy, but she refused. "You don't pay for my bills," she told me as she pushed the money back to me. "My bills will die with me."

She squeezed my hand, weakly. "It's time," she told me as tears ran down my face.

"No, Momma!"

"I have no more strength to go on, Jessie. I'm tired of fighting it. Let me enjoy these last moments with you, my daughter."

I brought her hand to my lips, it was cold, and her skin was grey. "I love you, Mom."

"And I love you." She coughed, a little blood coming up that I wiped away with a tissue. "In the bottom drawer of the desk is an envelope, it has my will in it. There won't be anything left for you, I'm sorry I can't give you more."

"I don't want money, Mom, I want you."

"There will be some hard things for you to learn in that will, Jessie. Know that we never did anything to hurt you, only to protect you. You're my daughter and I'd do anything for you. Your father did too, he loved you. He'd be so proud to see the woman you've become."

We talked until the drugs took her to sleep. I made sure she was comfortable, then went out into the kitchen to make my dinner. I'd stopped at the food shelf and was lucky enough to find some fresh vegetables and frozen sausage among the canned goods and pastas. I started a pot of water to boil while I pulled ingredients together in a pan. I started the sausage first, rolling it into small balls before cooking it in oil. A green pepper and part of a red onion followed, finally some sliced mushrooms. The tomato sauce was canned, I didn't have enough fresh tomatoes to make my own sauce like I normally would. While the mixture cooked, I pulled the loaf of French bread out and sliced it at a slight angle. I put half in the freezer for later, it wouldn't stay like the pasta would in the fridge, and this meal needed to stretch for the rest of the week until I got to the weekend shifts at work. I could make enough tips to buy food on Saturday.

I put butter mixed with garlic powder in the bread I had sliced to the bottom crust, then put that in the oven. The water was at a rolling boil, and I added the bowtie pasta to it. After I stirred it, I opened a can of chicken broth and started to make a soup as well. Mom couldn't handle the tomato sauce, she could barely tolerate the broth and noodles I was making for her.

Dinner was a quiet affair. I had sold my laptop and iPad last month, and I stopped paying for cellphone service too. Mom's cable TV had been stopped three months ago as we cut our expenses, so I watched a DVD of Sons of Anarchy on the 21" television I'd moved into the room. I ate the pasta slowly, savoring the flavors. When I was done, I made a half-dozen meals in Tupperware containers and put them in the near-empty refrigerator.

The soup was done, I'd taken some of the cooked pasta and added that. I made up a bowl, adding a glass of water to the bed tray before taking it into her room. I pushed open the door to her room, bringing the tray over to set on the table next to her bed. "Dinner's ready, Mom," I said as I reached for the light.

I turned to wake her, and instantly knew it was too late. "Mom..." I sank to my knees, looking into her vacant eyes. Her hand was cold, and I reached down and checked her pulse while watching her chest. "Oh God, Mom." I collapsed on the bed, hugging her to me as the tears fell. She was free, I consoled myself. Free from pain, free from stress, free from cancer.

I don't know how long it was until I could sit up. With no phone service, I had to walk to the neighbor's and ask if I could use their phone. Thirty minutes later, the county coroner was removing the body and I was alone.

I didn't sleep that night.

I went into her room, turning on the lights and sitting at her desk. I remembered her words to me, and opened the drawer, flipping through the folders until I got to the one called "WILL." I opened it up, inside were two envelopes, one labeled "Last Will" and the other labeled "For Jessie".

I opened the will first. It was a standard document, she had left everything to me and had left me as her executor. That would not be fun, as she had more bills than assets now. As soon as I had all the documentation, I would have to start notifying the creditors. Legally, I had no obligations to make good on her debt, they would be fighting over the scraps left over when her estate was settled. She left instructions for her to be cremated, for me to scatter her ashes on the same Lake Superior overlook where she had scattered Dad. None of this was a surprise to me; I had been researching what would have to happen at the library and had already printed the forms I would need. The fact that I was afraid of Mom dying didn't change that I knew it would happen, and I had to prepare.

I put the paperwork down and opened the second envelope. Inside were originals of a couple documents; my heart stopped when I saw the first was a Certificate of Adoption.

I dropped the paper, unable to read further. I closed my eyes, remembering back to what Mom had told me earlier, the part I didn't understand. She had told me there would be some hard things to understand, but that she was my mother and had only done things to protect me. I wiped the tears from my eyes, looking down at the form again.

My real name was Natalya Klishnina, mother was Ekatarina, age 21, from Sergiyev Posad, Russia. My father was listed as unknown. Mom and Dad were listed, it was an international adoption brokered by a Russian agency. I was four months old at the time.

The final document was a letter, from a Priest. "Natalya, if you are reading this, you are now an adult and your parents have decided you should know the truth. I cannot tell you if you want to know that truth; while the truth can set you free, some truths should remain buried forever. This might be one of those."

I took a deep breath and kept reading. "I was your mother's priest for over a year after she returned from Moscow. She had left school and quit her job, needing to move back home to care for her sick mother. She was pregnant, frightened and alone. Your grandmother died soon after you mother returned, and I was the only other person there at your birth." I wiped a tear. "This is one of those points you have to ask yourself how much you want to know. If you continue to read, you cannot unsee it. If you were my charge, I would

beg

you to stop now, to burn the rest of this letter and go on with life. You will be happier if you hear just about how good a woman your mother was, and how much she loved you in the short time you had together. Hold onto that memory, do not stain it by reading on."

I put the letter down on the desk, getting up to go to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water, looking out over the houses in the older neighborhood. Our house was small and simple, built in the 1920's. As I drank the water and let the night breeze blow over me, thinking about what I had learned. I shouldn't want to know, but I needed to.

I went back to the letter. "Last chance, turn this page over and you will learn things no daughter should ever know."

I turned it over, my hand shaking