Don’T Bite the Apple

By Vaniza Waznis

On paper, David Epslamowitz has it all. At only thirty years old, he is the proud owner of one the most successful hedge funds and resides in a posh three-story penthouse on the most prominent street in the Big Apple. He is known on the street as a devoted philanthropist renowned for his good-looks and obnoxiously infinite bank account. Nevertheless, David struggles internally for the balance of what truly inspires him while at the same time trying to fulfill his deceased fathers expectations. Ultimately he fills this void in the eyes of an alluring French actress and learns what truly fulfills him love. It seems that nothing can keep David from being with her but the closer he gets, the more it seems someone is trying to sabotage the relationship. Slowly, David discovers that not only is someone out to ruin him, but that he and those close to him are in extreme danger.
Living in a suburb of the Big Apple since a teen, Viktor Kozlov became the most sought-after assassin, just like his father before him. Hes been hired by the government, the mafia and anyone who could afford him for his extraordinary ability to make his hits appear as accidental deaths. However, Viktor struggles for the balance of who he is and who he is destined to be until one day when an unusual client arrives at his house with an extra unusual request.
Dont Bite the Apple is a suspenseful thriller that will keep you pleading for clues to solve the mystery of Davids fate. Fear, laugh and cry with David as the twists are revealed and you discover why, when, and who connects him to the most dangerous assassin in the world.
This story epitomizes the question of what it is to be successful. Success is not measured by wealth; rather, it has to do with the difference between what you were born with and what you did with it. In that search for who you are, the greater your access to money, the more temptations that are available to you and those around you, especially in the Big Apple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475973754

Vaniza Waznis

Vanessa Waznis, a Long Island native, moved to New York City when she was twenty years old to work as a model.  Her work enabled her to travel around the world and afforded her the chance to experience diverse cultures while living in Europe.  Vanessa’s experiences abroad were instrumental in developing her understanding of human behavior which let her to pen Don’t Bite the Apple in 2009.  Vanessa is currently studying creative writing and resides on the upper east side of Manhattan with her fiancé and Pomeranian named Penelope.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A FROSTY DRAFT CREPT down the staircase of my spine. I was crouched, still as a corpse, at the bottom of the basement steps. Every muscle in my body was clenched, electrified with fear and anticipation. My thoughts were scampering through the maze of my mind, desperate for a solution. Was he still alive? Or was it his ghost that I sensed so strongly, staring at me like a hungry animal?

My eyes strained to focus and fill in the outlines of clutter that surrounded me in the pitch blackness. There was only a thin strip of light peeking from under the door at the top of the steps, a narrow line reflected in a puddle just beyond my quivering knees. My eyes were wide in the reflection; I almost didn’t recognize myself. My normally neat, slicked-back hair was disheveled, my masculine features distorted with fear. I slid my hands along the cold cement floor toward the black liquid. The thick goo stained my fingers … Blood? My heart raced as a rancid odor filled my nostrils and entered my throat. I gagged violently, nearly vomiting. I need to keep quiet. I buried my nose in my palm and remained perfectly still. Only my eyes flickered anxiously around the room. What on earth is that wicked smell? I couldn’t compare it to anything I’d smelled in my short, sheltered life. But in my imagination, it became the smell of death.

I curled my clammy fingertips under the edge of the wooden step before me. It came loose with the slightest tug. Just a loose wooden slab concealed all the answers to my fate. I lifted the bulky journal from its hiding place and studied it as it lay flat on my trembling palms. With one finger I traced the raised words on front. A Bite of the Big Apple, he had titled it. I inhaled deeply, swallowed the thick saliva in the back of my throat, and lifted the heavy cover.

If you have come across this journal, I am most likely dead. Its contents should be monitored and shared appropriately, for they are rather controversial.

The floor creaked above me. I instinctively slammed the book shut but then forced myself to read on. I knew that if I didn’t find the answers I’d come here for, I might be dead by tomorrow. And then my fingers were flipping the pages before my heart was ready for what came next. I angled the book to catch the faint light from the top of the stairs, flipping pages until I found the most recent entry—September 10, 2012. Today!

I heard her footsteps on the wood floor above me as she moved closer to the basement door. I won’t have time to read much. I flipped back to the front of the book and scanned the pages carefully, looking for my name, David Eplslamowitz. I needed to know when this all began and who it was that had hired the assassin to kill me. I found it on a page three-quarters of the way through, dated September 10, 2011. Exactly one year ago. I continued to read …

I knew this day would come eventually, and I knew exactly who would come barging in my door, slam down a brick of cash, and promise ten more—this time wanting David Epslamowitz dead. David Epslamowitz—the luckiest man in the world, people call him. If luck means money, perhaps it’s true. But money is the opposite of good fortune. And wherever it exists, there is also evil, greed, and temptation.

CHAPTER  black.jpg  1

One Year Earlier …

I TOOK A FULL sip from the glass of water sitting on a gold coaster on the podium before me, waiting for the fence in my throat to swing open. As I placed the empty glass back on the coaster, an arm reached across and refilled it immediately.

Just take your time, my petite, gray-haired assistant mouthed from across the room, holding up his wrinkled hand. Whenever you’re ready. I glanced around the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. Each table held an ostentatious centerpiece of orchids, spray-painted white and gold and set into a perfect crystal vase. The refracted light from the vases glared into my eyes with each flash of a camera. There must have been a hundred-person staff circulating the ballroom, making sure each and every silver plate and swan-shaped napkin was aligned perfectly.

I gazed into the crowd and then, through the lenses of the news cameras, into the eyes of billions of viewers. There is no escaping it, David. Let fate take its course. My eyes met the ceiling and I let out a deep sigh. Here we go …

For any of you that don’t know me, my name is David Epslamowitz. I sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth. We are gathered here tonight to honor a phenomenal man who left us on September eleventh, ten years ago today: my father, Alexander Epslamowitz. It is on this date for the past nine years that I have chosen to honor Epslamowitz Group, which currently has more than twenty billion dollars in assets under management, making it the largest and most successful hedge fund in the world. My father founded the company when he was just twenty-nine years old. Since that very first year, he chose to donate ten percent of the company’s profits annually. I have continued that spirit of liberality and increased our donations to twenty percent of our annual revenue. I paused briefly. However, I am not here tonight to talk about my father. I am addressing you all tonight about a very different matter.

I looked out over the ballroom, where the guests sat attentively in their assigned chairs. Nouriel Roubini, John Rothstein, Penelope Berger. I could have named each and every one of them. It was an extraordinary gathering: politicians, economists, philanthropists, even the president of the United States. I will be addressing you all tonight for the very last time. My audience gasped in unison, exchanging looks of concern and confusion. They probably thought I was stepping down as the CEO of Epslamowitz Group to live like the spoiled brat I was destined to be. I let another deep breath escape me, so controlled and hard that I sounded like a Lamaze instructor.

Just as I opened my mouth to continue my speech, a sight at the back of the room robbed me of my voice. There he is! My stomach dropped. He was about forty feet away, sitting at a table. He wore a suit and tie, like everyone else. His hair was combed back and held in place with a heavy layer of gel. He blended in—to everyone in the room but me.

He was the man who would make history tonight, for many reasons. First, for defying the toughest security on earth—for stealing into a heavily protected hotel where I, the president, and so many other important people had come with our additional security teams. Second, for managing to smuggle deadly metal into that very room. I almost laughed at his boldness. He’d gone so far as to sit down among the audience, as if he were an invited guest. How did he do it? Did he pay off my security guards? I recalled my father’s words: People will do anything in the world for the right amount of money.

I resumed my speech, but my eyes didn’t leave his beady black ones for an instant. As my father’s was, my time on this earth will be cut short, I said. Again there was a collective gasp, and a wave of hands covering mouths. My audience looked on with strained, sympathetic expressions, perhaps expecting me to announce I’d been diagnosed with a fatal disease.

I watched his hands fidget inside his stiff suit jacket, assembling the pieces of a sniper rifle. Epslamowitz Group will now be completely managed by my twin brother, Ari. People cried out in protest, and hands flew up in outrage. My brother causes more upset than the fact that I’m dying? The uproar from the crowd was his cue to snap the final piece of the weapon into place. No one seemed to hear it but me—loud and clear. I even felt it, a pang in my heart as if he had already pulled the trigger and shot a thousand-mile-an-hour bullet into my chest.

I swallowed hard, noticing my brother’s furrowed brows and wishing I had given him a proper explanation before the speech. And a proper good-bye, for that matter. His eyes were filled with tears of fear and sadness. I couldn’t possibly have explained to anyone that I would be assassinated tonight—there would have been no point. It is inevitable, I thought. No one could have stopped it. I looked up at the sky and said a prayer under my breath. Then I watched him pull the trigger. A single bullet moved toward me in slow motion, right between my eyes.

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Wake up, Mr. Epslamowitz … It’s time to wake up now. My closed eyelids lit up orange. I opened them slowly, in synchronicity with the blinds. It’s September 9, 2011, Mr. Epslamowitz. Please wake— I silenced the robotic voice with a button inches from my pillow, and then rolled onto my back to recall the details of my dream—one of what seemed like a thousand nightmares I’d had in the past two weeks, provoked by anxious thoughts of the speech I would give in two days. It was an annual event, broadcast live. This year’s special announcement would be that Epslamowitz Group had had its most successful year yet; we would be giving a billion-dollar donation to ASHS, a charity I’d started a few years ago to fund organizations that work to prevent terrorism and other organized crime. I’d established it in my father’s honor, as he died in the World Trade Center attack and was a true contributor to the cause of world peace. Not like some other philanthropists I know, just donating for the tax deductions.

The upcoming speech certainly wasn’t my first rodeo, but my nerves had multiplied over the past few weeks, mostly because the president would be there in person—not just on camera from the White House, but physically: he would be getting onto Air Force One with his family and flying to New York City to sit in the same room with me, to watch me speak.

I thought about my dream and laughed. It was as if my subconscious had been saying, Hey, it’s just a silly speech. Be thankful you don’t have tougher things to worry about, like being assassinated by some hit man as the whole world looks on. I often have those kinds of dreams—the ones that start a week before an important meeting, say, or a flight. I’ll show up with no clothes on, or arrive just as my flight is supposed to take off.

I also thought of yesterday’s session with my psychiatrist, and I heard her voice, her no-nonsense perspective: You push yourself too hard, David. You are not your father. You are you, which is better, because you still have your life, a chance to find things that make you feel fulfilled besides work. As she spoke she tapped her pen rapidly against a yellow notepad, which I imagined filled with doodles of the two of us: me with a big Charlie Brown head fallen back, projecting tears; her standing over me in my puddle of tears, laughing at how pathetic and spoiled I was. Perhaps you are feeling unfulfilled, romantically? she suggested. Why must she always go down that road? It’s a dead end! Besides, what could my lack of a girlfriend have to do with nightmares about my speech? According to M magazine, you’re the world’s most eligible bachelor, she reminded me. She often referenced that particular article, published two years ago. She flashed a quick, suggestive smile, raising her fingers to make air quotes. You’re ‘the perfect catch,’ David; yet I haven’t seen you with a girlfriend in the ten years we’ve been working together. She was right; I hadn’t had any serious ones, not since Mela, the girl who broke my heart when I was just a teenager.

I climbed out from under my plush white comforter, spread it up to the headboard, punched each pillow, and stacked it neatly on the bed. I brushed and flossed my teeth and then took a bottle of Windex from under the white marble sink and cleaned the blue toothpaste from it. Some people called me anal retentive, just because I wasn’t the stereotypical lazy rich kid, like the ones in the eighties movies with a servant for every room in their house. And I didn’t have a live-in maid, like most of my friends did—my maid just came once a week, to vacuum, dust, and sweep. My apartment was minimalistic, anyway—it almost appeared unlived in. And it practically was. I was hardly ever there.

I threw on a pair of gray basketball shorts and a black Under Armour T-shirt through which my pectorals and abs were completely visible. They weren’t too big—more like the lean, athletic muscles of a tennis player. I slipped my business and personal phones into my shorts pockets, toying with the thought of leaving them behind. It was exhausting having the phones attached to my hip every waking moment. I placed them face-down on the nightstand and walked out. I’m going to leave them behind for a change.

The smell of hot dogs and roasted nuts was strong in the summer breeze as I slipped through the revolving doors of my building. The eleven o’clock sun cast tree-shaped shadows on the buildings that lined Central Park. The typical weekday chaos had been replaced with a stress-free atmosphere, New Yorkers enjoying the perfect ambiance of their Labor Day weekend.

I jogged across the street toward the park, missing the rear wheel of a taxi by a few inches. You could always tell New Yorkers from tourists by the way they crossed the street. The locals were always the first ones to cross the instant the traffic light turned red, while the visitors stood at attention, waiting for a little, white computerized man to grant them permission to cross—and often missing their cue as they looked out over the skyline with an Uh … are their backyards on their roofs? expression. When they finally ventured across, they’d be holding hands or what have you, frightfully aware of what they believed was every New York cabby’s mission in life: to run down pedestrians.

This was a major breach of my Saturday routine. I was all alone, away from my apartment and office with no cell phone, allowing the magic of Central Park to become my sanctuary. Ten whole years, I thought. It had been at least that long, certainly before my father died, since I’d set foot in the park, although it was only two minutes away from both my home and my office.

I’d like to say that I’d stayed away from the park for sentimental reasons—because it brought back memories of times my father and I shared. But I really can’t say that it did. When my father died, he left me with all the financial decisions and obligations regarding my family’s wealth—and then, as if that weren’t enough responsibility for an eighteen-year-old, he topped it off by leaving me in charge of his international hedge fund (his pride and joy, and a fifteen-hour-a-day job in and of itself ). At age eighteen, I became the man my father was: a workaholic, incapable of enjoying a stroll in the park.

However, memories of my childhood resurfaced as I walked through Sheep Meadow, where my twin brother and I so often played catch with Svetlana, our nanny. On random summer days, Svetlana would take us to Manhattan to visit our father’s office, and Ari and I would sit impatiently, bored out of our spoiled little minds and praying that our father would stop trying to teach us about finance and let us try being normal ten-year-old kids. Eventually Svetlana would insist on taking us to the park. Our father would occasionally call our cell phones to say, Nice arm! or, Good catch!—pretending he’d been watching from his office and that he gave a shit whether we could throw a baseball properly.

I walked along a wood-framed trail filled in with gray shards of slate—the former dirt path I had followed thousands of times as a kid—until I came to a twelve-foot-high glacial rock. I climbed it and perched on the peak. A sparrow sang and dipped in a small pool created by a crevice in the stone; my eyes followed him as he flew off into a skyline perfectly framed by oak trees. I took my time as I lowered my gaze to the gazebo I had been obsessing about since I was thirteen years old.

I was sitting on this very rock, and she in the gazebo, the first time I ever saw her. She was sobbing out loud, her face in her palms, but what I saw was her sun-streaked hair, like drips of honey pouring down her face. She was barefoot, and her slender legs dangled carelessly from beneath her violet-colored dress.

I scrambled down and placed a sympathetic hand on her back, crouching in front of her. Excuse me, are you all right? She looked up, her skinny fingers brushing damp strands of hair to the sides of her face, and I was immediately overwhelmed. The most beautiful blue-gray eyes I’d ever seen widened and stared deeply into mine—and at that moment, my life changed forever. My heart pounded, and I had that powerful feeling people probably get when people win the lottery, combined with the stomach-dropping giddiness one gets on a rollercoaster—all the symptoms which can only be identified as; love at first sight.

She seemed to look right through me as I studied her face intensely. I was stunned by the perfection of her lips, the rosiness in her cheeks that deepened when she smiled back into my eyes. Her expression said she had the same warm feelings pulsing through her.

My name is David, I said, putting my hand out to shake hers. Are you okay? She didn’t answer me or take my hand. I continued to speak. My father lives right over there. I pointed up toward some windows in the sky. I’m here for the summer—

Shhh. She cut me off, placing a few fingers over my lips. Beautiful. It was the first word she said to me, and I could tell right away she had an accent. She grabbed my arm and pulled me onto the bench beside her. She tilted her head, pointing at a flock of birds with a slight gesture of her chin. Look at the way they sway across the skyline in harmony, she said with awe. Was I to believe she was sobbing at the beauty of a few pigeons straggling across the sky? New York City pigeons, no less—the infamous rats with wings? Only actors in movies cried about nature, about the beauty of birds or sunsets. Besides, my parents were going through a divorce: I knew the difference between tears of joy (my mother’s, usually) and those of sadness (my father’s).

Something had devastated this beautiful stranger, and I was desperate to comfort her. Eventually her tears dried, and she grabbed my other hand, which was nervously rubbing my khaki slacks. It was the first time I had held a girl’s hand. She unfolded my fingers and straightened my arm sideways, shaking my hand. Nice to meet you, David, she said. We’re going to be good friends, you’ll see.

I laughed. Oh we are, are we? Well, I don’t even know your name.

Mela, she said. She combed her hair with her fingers and then rested them in her lap. My name is Mela. Pronounced mee-la. I’m Italian. It’s Italian for apple. She smiled.

You must have gotten that name from those rosy cheeks. I was flirting shamelessly, and I knew my cheeks were probably as flushed as hers.

Mela stood and faced me. Then she lowered her face to mine so I could see the elegance of her lips as she spoke slowly. You got me all figured out. She blushed again, giggling.

Well, since we are going to be such good friends, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I gave you a nickname—would you, Apple? Her blushing cheeks bunched in a smile, and she nodded shyly.

She never told me why she was crying that day, and I never asked. I finally decided it had to do with her family, because every time I’d ask her about them, her eyes filled with tears. She did let me in on a lot of other secrets, though—things not taught in my all-boys private school on Long Island, things I never would have learned on my own. But she was wrong about us being good friends; she became my girlfriend. My first. And although we were young, it was the strongest love I’d ever felt—stronger than my love for my parents, my brother, or pets.

We spent every single day of that summer together. From up in my father’s apartment, I would stare down at the gazebo until I saw her, and then I’d run down to the park and come up behind her, watch her face flush and her smile grow wide. We’d walk around the city, ride the Central Park gondolas, share our life stories, and laugh about our differences.

The main difference was our social status. That’s the reason we cannot be together forever, she told me. Your parents will never allow us to get serious, David.

I laughed and swept her into my arms. That’s ridiculous, Apple, I’m going to marry you. I promise you. I kissed her face and pulled out a silver Tiffany bracelet from my jeans.

As I fastened it around her wrist and playfully flicked the dangling Apple charm, her jaw hung open, as if she had never gotten a gift before. Then she smiled jubilantly. This is the most precious gift anyone has ever given me, she whispered. I love it. She looked as though she might cry. I picked up a sharp rock and carved our initials into the gazebo. Forever and ever, she wrote underneath.

I knew my mother would love Mela as much as I did. I didn’t believe my family would be as shallow as Mela had accused them of being—at least not until that awful day at the end of the summer, when my mother came into the city to help Ari and me pack up to go back to Long Island for the school year. My parents were in the midst of their messy divorce, so I was hesitant to tell mother that I was in love. I knew she would rag on about love not existing, or warn me not to end up like my emotionless workaholic of a father and mess it all up. When I finally broached the subject, her enthusiasm caught me by surprise. Great, hon, she said. So did you meet her at temple? Why don’t you invite her to lunch today? We’ll invite her and her parents to join our Labor Day party.

I didn’t correct my mother about where we met; I didn’t think it was relevant. So the next day Apple joined my mother, Ari, and me for lunch. This is Mela, I said. She just moved here from Italy. Her parents work for the MTA. I watched as my mother processed this information. She tried her best to smile politely but could only muster an obviously phony smile—the kind that shows all your teeth, awkwardly. Mela picked up on it, of course—how could you not?—but she didn’t seem offended or disappointed. She already had predicted how my mother would react.

The lunch continued and my mother completely ignored Mela, having nothing positive to say to her. Every once in a while she flashed another of those hideous grins. My eyes widened when Mela declined the Labor Day invitation. Well, actually, I would love to join, but it’s a busy weekend for transportation, she said. My parents wouldn’t be able to take off work.

My mother offered to have our driver come get her. See? I whispered. My mother does like you.

After lunch was over and my mother had left, my conversation with Mela didn’t last long. She made an excuse about having to help her father with a chore. I grabbed her hand one last time and looked into her wide eyes. I love you, Mela. Please say you will come for Labor Day so I can introduce my lovely girlfriend to my friends and family. We are forever, my sweet Apple—right?

And ever, she said with a warm smile, but deep down I knew something wasn’t right. I figured she was upset that our summer together was coming to an end. But I already had the solution all planned out, and I was waiting for the Labor Day party to let her in on my plan: I would tell my father I wanted to live with him and learn about finance. I knew he would love that idea and let me stay with him. I’d go to school in Manhattan and could be with Mela every day after school.

The day of the party, on the way to pick up Mela, I had my driver stop for a bouquet