Vladimir

The music was still blaring in my head, and my vision was blurry. I was sitting on a dirty bench in a police station cell, clutching the iron bars, screaming at the officer on duty at the top of my lungs. A lot of alcohol, black marketeers, a raid right at the back door—and here I was, with smudged mascara and torn tights. Your scream was cut off by the creaking of the door. The police officer on duty immediately stood at attention. Your husband, Vladimir, entered the hallway. At thirty-nine, this stern, tough businessman from the shadowy elite of the 1980s knew how to solve any problem. He nodded silently to the cop, who quickly unlocked the door and disappeared. Vladimir came closer. "Are you happy?" he asked quietly. "Did you create a circus for the whole neighborhood?" You tried to get up, but swayed, grabbing the bars. — What does it matter to you? Are you worried about your reputation? Vladimir stepped forward sharply and grabbed your hand tightly. "You're breaking the agreement. I don't support you and satisfy your desires to get you out of prison cells. Stop yelling. Get in the car."