Pretty Savage Astor Family

Svetlana Yulia  Kozlovsky

As the old woman clad in maid clothing entered the room she smiled a stiff yet warm smile at me which I didn’t reciprocate, “Miss, I am here to help you dress.”

Ostensibly, this was the only greeting that I was spared, the elderly woman steadily paced through the room entering the walk-in closet, I hadn’t had the chance to notice, much less explore.

I may not be girlish but I was a shopaholic and the closet I walked in was a heaven set-up for me. Whereas it was a choice of comfort for Americans, we Russian women preferred dressing up to the hilt every single day. I was not versatile in preference, after all, I was once brought up in old money. Rack after rack limited-edition branded fabrics and accessories was just what I needed to calm my nerves.

And the footwear collection. I knew since young my Achilles heels were in my heels. Back in Russia, I had collected hundreds of them from far and wide, high and low, none less than five inches. My feet have seemed to stop growing at fifteen so I never needed to give any away.

‘Damn! The girl must be an asshat to leave this closet to elope with some hobo!′ The whole closet was filled with top-notch brands, classically rich but nothing flamboyant, more in the lines of tastefully modest yet sexy. The closet sure was drafted by a fashionista. It didn’t have the crazed number of shoe racks like in mine but they were good to pat my crossed temper for how this family had been giving me lemons.

After an hour, I got ready with a bubble bath. It was relaxing after all the strenuous dread I had gone through. Miraculously, the girl had the same shoe size as me. Which is good, people feet don’t really grow or shrink overnight, it would’ve been hard to explain.

Staring at the familiar reflection, I sighed in relief. I cringed thinking back to the wet Chihuahua I’ve been looking for days. I was no beauty Queen nor a victim of a superiority complex. I’d worked for this body and look. Not that bastard man would understand but threading, waxing, resisting cravings, strenuous beauty routines, and workouts for firm butts and boobs took a chunk of life out of a woman.

In my teenage years, I was short, late bloomer perhaps. I grew my boobs and butt in my early teens, bursting out of my teenage insecure body, in my late teens did I finally grew inches to balance the racks. Before I consistently wore girdle and bandeau which is exhausting but necessary when you’re a woman in a world where humanity is scarce.

Womanly curves are curses on young women with no man to protect them.

I was wearing a knee-high royal blue dress with white strappy stilettos and a white cloth-hair band of the same material as the strips of the dress and the straps of the stilettos.

The girl seemed to be into randomizing contrasts.

She most probably was the same size as me but with her shoulder fitting and other curves. Though I was grateful for the untouched lingerie; her bras were some size smaller than mine and my busting boobs were suffocating and spilling out just like the underwear which couldn’t hold my ass, my butt crack was peeking out, but under clothes it was manageable. I could tell by the dress being lifted slightly higher than my knees, I was some inches taller than the girl.

The girl had a branded custom-made closet, for calling out loud. When I leave, I will definitely be stealing the teal dress that had taken my heart away and several of those stilettos and gladiator heels.  Taking a last look at myself I followed the maid to the Breakfast table.

The Mansion was nothing girly like the room but sophisticated and tedious like the man who came in the room to threaten or pep talk me—whatever that is called because it sure didn’t feel like a welcome wagon for an AWOL daughter.

Americans! If it was my supposed father, he would’ve whipped me to the inch of my life binding me to a pole in the freezing snow but Americans were too hedonistic. Bratva’s fathers weren’t too indulgent.

All through my dress-up, I had made sure to have a light conversation with the maid so I have a little heads up with what I was against. I collected that the man was her father and he was ‘Mr. Astor’ to the staff. When I was relaxing in the tub with Sandra’s phone I’d stealthily written his essentials on the search engine and here we go.

One picture of him was all the lead I needed. Under it, Seth Astor was mentioned in some political boycott campaign. I at once took note of the basic info about him.

Crossing several hallways and following down to stairs, we arrived in a grand hall. The dining room was inaugurated place that had enough room for two badminton courts to fit. The table was fit for their last three generations.  

Sandra’s father, who I had discovered was Mr. Seth Astor- an ex-general, a renowned major nominee senator, and the chairman of Astor Corporation was on the head of the table. A woman I recognized as Ashley, his wife was on his left, and two young men on his right, one in his late teens, Asher Astor. The other in his late twenties who I knew was the eldest prodigy son, the CEO of the Astor Corporation, Aston Astor.

The family looked too packed together, they hardly had space for another member in their big ass, mostly vacant table.

On my arrival, they didn’t even look up but continued their meal. I didn’t miss the slight scowl on the mother’s face and it was enough to know they weren’t really the typical mother-daughter duo. The only person who seemed bothered was the man on the head of the Table.

He looked up and indicated to the seat next to the teenage boy. I went there, sat, started filling freshly squeezed, from the scent I am guessing, apples and carrot with a substantial amount of r****h in it. As I was pouring, a tongue clicked, I looked up to see Ashley narrowed eyes drilling holes in me.

For a while, my hand froze, ransacking my actions to see what I did wrong. When I came up with nothing mentionable I greeted instead, “Good Morning.” Never have I ever been more proud of the accent that left me. Years ago, I lost it as I was brought up traveling from the States to Moscow all my life.

The prim and dressed to the nines classy middle-aged woman’s eyes narrowed further and slit sharpened like shards. She took an exasperated breath like she was so done with whatever it was that I’d done. “Sandra, you’re awful with your manners. If that was what you were going for, of course.” As she said that, she didn’t stay but stood up, excused herself saying she had her fill sourly. Like she’d her fill of lemons.

Though pissed, I didn’t get malicious vibes from the hostess of the house so I let it rest. She doesn’t hinder me, I’ve no reason to be a thorn in her side. No matter how I wish to slaughter her neck

I paused for a sec then carried on anyway, if I wasn’t thick-skinned I wouldn’t be in one piece. This level of disdain a toddler in my clan could deliver better. I focused on the good, fat-filled American food laid instead.

Breakfast Burrito, Belgian Style Waffles, Cinnamon Rolls, Eggs Benedict, Toasted English Muffin, Pancakes and Maple Syrup, many others I couldn’t name. The diversity of immigrants in American sure had done their menus favor.

I wasn’t picky, Assassins were trained to live on the edge, in rags, with crumbs in slums. Status, money, or kindred all melted away when you were on training to be a first-class murderer. This is one of my most exuberant covers so far.

I could pretend to be anything to the point of excelling the original but there was no role that ever fit me anymore. Any disguise or apparel made my skin crawl by the knowledge I could never be me in broad daylight. We weren’t what we pretended to be and we definitely weren’t who we didn’t even know anymore.

Morphing a lot tends to make you lose touch with reality.

After a minute or two, the supposed father and the elder of the brothers left too but not before giving me a shit-eating grin, like he was amused with the dalliance of his sister. You’d expect a man to make it an issue of reputation but the Astor Family seemed to be upside-down in the logic department.

One couldn’t recognize his own flesh and blood, other seemed to be having the time of his life in their Family dignity that was left in shambles by the daughter that eloped right before her wedding. And not to forget the mother who seemed to have some screw loose for no obvious reason.

I couldn’t help but snort. ‘Such a dandy happy family!’ I mumbled under my breath to steam out a little bit of the irony.

I was still not over the fact that I had a doppelganger who was probably having the steaming time of her life with some sexy rider or hot hobo as they put it. I am assuming hot and sexy because... Duh! It was the only reason I would come up with to leave a life of luxury.

If you were protected, fed, clothed well then shagging some dude in the name holy matrimony wasn’t so bad. People in the street were begging for morsels and selling themselves for bucks. But the more you have, the more you seemed to desire.

As they left, the youngest of the brother threw his fork and knife on the table with a clank. He turned to me with a mischievously eager look on his face and inquired gleefully, “Did he take you to their turf? Where did Dad people find you? Were you with your toy boy or was it your sugar baby? Tristin thinks you knocked out two men, everyone in the Mansion is talking about it.”

He sounded as if he was asking of some adventure and not about a failed elopement. I rolled my eyes heavenwards: typical teenage boy.

If he knew what I did the days I was a fugitive for, he would puke the breakfast he had just gobbled down like a starved Titan. “You’re too over it in your head. It’s nonsense, focus on your studies.” Patting his head, I decided to play cool.

I wasn’t bothered by the ‘knocked out’ men thing. In agitated states, people tend to do a lot of things they normally wouldn’t be capable of. Dumb luck is what people will call it, once the smoke dies down.

Instantly fuming in anger the boy was red-hot iron, “You think just because you stepped out of your powder room, you’re a woman icon? You’re not my mother to tell me anything!”

I raised an unimpressed brow trying to flare his anger further, he was getting on my nerves, “You don’t know that.” If my speech didn’t, I’m sure my scowl delivered the message.

He gaped at me with wide eyes and squeaked out, “What the hell do you mean?!”

It didn’t.

I gripped the table knife harder. The boy was too noisy. The knife wouldn’t kill him but with the right pressure and acceleration in precise joints, it could cause permanent damage.

I drew a deep breath, the moron wasn’t worth losing a good cover, “You’re a nuisance. Be wary, if I was a serial killer or…  an assassin, you’d be the first I’d get rid of… just to make it less noisy.”

The boy looked spooked, he should be. Getting away undetected wouldn’t be an obstacle but he looked too naïve to die. He has a miserable life ahead of him.

Though I’m sure it was more my demeanor than my words that made him of stone. I couldn’t help grinning like a damn deranged at the petrified boy before leaving the table.

Though, I might have spoken too much but presumably if they had concrete proof that the girl was in fact just depressed and enraged they would naturally assume that I was bluffing to win the argument.

Getting into the room, I decided to collect the significantly basic information about the family so I am not caught anytime soon, starting from g****e searching all articles and social media accounts.

After three days of observation, stalking through the internet and indirect investigation from the maids, I realized too many important things: the girl’s name was Sandra Iris Astor, and was a well-mannered and kind ass. She wasn’t a public figure like her other family members. The only thing you could collect from the internet is her name and her artwork but nothing of private life. Her real mother was a mystery but she was adopted by Ashley and Seth. She was twenty-three just like me.  

Her identity tucked away behind the curtains could be for a sinister agenda or simply some over-the-top security protocol. In both cases it was no harm to me, I was keeping the window open in any case of inconvenience.

Aston, the eldest brother was a couple of months younger than her which obviously makes her the result of a fling. Asher was a teenager, still attending high school.

Both of them don’t bother themselves with the girl. Her supposed mother and she had a hot and cold relationship but none the less Ashley Astor was the one who took care of everything for her, from her Keto diet plan to her chipped pinky fingernail.

Finally, her father, who was an ex-military General before taking over the family business on his father’s death: He was a stern man but probably cared for his daughter in some twisted way.

She was definitely pampered but caged. No wonder she eloped, it sucked, as Americans would say. Her life was just too directed, like a script she has to follow on daily basis. She was a 23-year-old woman for calling out loud and couldn’t select her own tampon brand!

Back to the story, she escaped from home because of an arranged marriage she didn’t consent to. On the internet, there isn’t anything about it that makes it a confidential business. Probably the girl had an affair and eloped the first chance she got. Which meant she won’t be back any time before the honeymoon phase faded, a relief. And lastly, I was grounded! I couldn’t even go to the porch without being escorted!