Jaded Devil: An Enemies-to-Lovers Mafia Romance

by Nicole Fox

  That’s all by design. My father is not one for traveling unprotected.

  In his case, it is more than justified. When you’ve survived as many assassination attempts as he has, investing in proper protection just makes good business sense.

  I see only my own reflection in the tinted window before I open the back door and duck into the car.

  My father and uncle are waiting for me inside, both dressed in sharp gray suits and open-collared white shirts.

  When they were younger men, it was obvious to anyone that Stanislav and Budimir Kovalyov were brothers. They had the same square jawline and hollowed-in cheekbones that I inherited.

  The same bushy eyebrows. The same beer bellies. And the same intolerance for disrespect.

  But as they’ve aged, they’ve begun to look less and less similar. My father, Stanislav, has shrank into himself, developing a slight hunch that has him looking up at the world through narrowed eyes.

  Five years ago, his lustrous black hair fell out, a by-product of the cancer treatment. When it grew back, it came in stark white.

  None of this has made him less frightening, however. He is still the don of the Kovalyov Bratva. And he still wears that title like a crown of gold.

  With his curly hair and easy smile, Uncle Budimir is less imposing. But there’s a coldness in him that runs deep. He’s ruthless in a way that my father isn’t. The kind of man who is cruel just for sport, whereas my father is cruel only out of necessity.

  “You look like shit,” my uncle remarks with a booming laugh.

  I sigh as I slide into my seat. “Good to see you, too, Uncle.”

  “Budimir is right. And you did not wear a suit,” Stanislav observes, his lips pursed up with displeasure. Thirty years in America, but his Russian accent is still thick and well-preserved.

  “I don’t want to feel like I’m being strangled by a tie all night.”

  “It’s not about what you want,” Budimir replies coolly. His accent is slight. Only the faintest hint of the motherland still lingers. “Your father prefers you dress the part.”

  I grit my teeth. “And what part is that, Uncle?”

  “You are the heir to the Kovalyov Bratva—”

  “You are not a child anymore, Artem,” Stanislav interrupts, his tone impatient.

  Budimir shuts his mouth immediately. I’ve seen this happen so many times that it doesn’t stand out to me anymore. Stanislav is the older brother. He is the don. It’s expected that everyone else takes a back seat whenever he walks into the room.

  But I’ve started to notice little things about my uncle lately. In particular, the way his mouth turns down at the corners every time my father cuts him off or overrules him.

  Like it’s eating him up inside.

  “So nice of you to notice, Father,” I answer sarcastically, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from my tone. “Seeing as how I’m thirty as of last month.”

  Stanislav’s eyes narrow on me. “It takes more than age to be a man, my son.”

  No one else says a word for the rest of the ride. We pull up at the back entrance of The Siren, the Bratva-owned nightclub where tonight’s meeting is taking place.

  “Who will be at the meeting?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Budimir answers first. “Don Maggadino and his sons. Gallo. Brooklier. And Dragna.”

  “Dragna?” I repeat in surprise, sitting up a little straighter and turning to my father. “You actually invited him?”

  “This is a meeting for all the cartels that answer to me,” Stanislav says, glancing out the window. “Dragna answers to me. Therefore, he will be at the meeting.”

  “Yeah? Then why didn’t he tell you about the drug shipment from the Antonio cartel he was trying to import without our approval?”

  A vein across his forehead pops a little but he keeps looking out the window. “I dealt with that.”

  Budimir gestures for me to keep quiet. I ignore him. I’m short on patience this morning.

  “He was trying to cheat you out of four million dollars!” I snap. “You’re going to reward that disloyalty by including him in a meeting? At the very least, he should be excluded from the inner circle for a while. See if that improves his attitude.”

  My father sighs. “That would humiliate and offend him.”

  “That is the fucking point,” I growl.

  At last, Stanislav turns his gaze on me, but his expression is icy. “Being the don is not just about throwing your weight and watching the ants scatter to the wind, Artem. Diplomacy is needed. Intelligence is needed. Brute force is never enough to hold power.”

  I’ve heard variations of this speech before.

  Just like always, it takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.

  “So that’s it?” I persist. “You’re going to look the other way and let him walk all over you?”

  At that, my father’s eyes spark with a fiery anger I have not seen in a long time. That fire, that fury—that is what has allowed him to reign supreme in the Los Angeles underworld for so long.

  “Do you take me for a fool, boy?”

  Boy. He called me boy. It is a slap in the face—he knows it, I know it, Budimir knows it. Hell, the driver in the front seat and the hot dog guy on the street corner probably know it too.

  My anger swells up in my chest, but I bite it back and keep my mouth shut.

  His gaze is still rooted on me. “Well?” he asks. “I don’t ask questions for the sake of hearing myself speak. Answer. Do you take me for a fool?”

  I squeeze my fists at my side as tight as I can. “I take you for the don,” I grit icily.

  “Good,” he nods. “As it should be.”

  We clamber out of the Range Rover and into the side door of The Siren.

  It’s packed to the rafters already. Lights arc across the ceiling. Bodies grind together on the dancefloor. Rising above it all is the thunder of the music.

  But we don’t go out to the main dancefloor. One of the Bratva men on security detail leads us down a dark hall and up to another imposing iron door.

  On the other side is where the meeting will take place. No doubt the other Family heads are already here. Father does not tolerate tardiness.

  Just before the bodyguard opens the door for us, Father holds up a hand to signal for him to wait.

  He turns to me and rests a wrinkled old hand on my wrist.

  I frown in confusion. “What?” I ask.

  He’s got that look on his face, the one I’ve learned not to like.

  “You’re not coming in,” he says finally.

  I blink. “What?”

  Budimir lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, nephew.”

  I shrug them both off and turn back to my father. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “You’re not coming in, son,” my father repeats. “Not today. You’re not ready.”

  I’m too stunned and furious to speak. He looks into my eyes and nods once.

  Then he turns once more and walks through the steel door.

  Leaving me alone in the hallway, with rage boiling in my veins.

  Esme

  THE MONDRIAN HOTEL—LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  “Hey girrrl! The fun has arrived!”

  I force a smile as my cousin Tamara bounces into my hotel suite at the Mondrian Hotel in Los Angeles.

  Everything about Tamara screams “socialite party girl.” She’s wearing a black leather mini skirt and an oversized white linen blouse that hangs carelessly off one shoulder. It’s very Cali, very fashion-forward.

  Classic Tam-Tam.

  She pauses suddenly once she registers my glum face.

  “Seriously?” she asks, pouting a little. “Is that the welcome you give your favorite cousin?”

  “What makes you think you’re my favorite cousin?” I tease.

  She wrinkles her nose and flicks her long, straightened black hair off her shoulder. “First of all, duh. And secondly, um, yeah, this is most definitely not th
e welcome you give your favorite cousin. I’m gonna go back outside and we can try this a second time, kay? Kay.”

  I snort a laugh and shake my head at my ditzy cousin. Tamara is definitely a good time and I love when we get to hang out, but I’m just not in a very social mood today.

  Not after what happened just before we left Mexico.

  I’d planned on spending this whole trip cooped up in the hotel room. Still, a part of me is glad not to be alone.

  I stand and give Tamara the hug she’s been waiting for. To my surprise, even when I try to pull away, she holds on to me, prolonging the hug a little.

  “You okay, chica?” she asks as she releases me.

  I frown. It isn’t like Tamara to get all serious right off the bat.

  “I’m fine,” I reply with a shrug, even though I feel anything but fine.

  Tamara’s voice drops low. “Has he been awful lately?”

  She doesn’t have to say my father’s name for me to know who she’s talking about.

  But I hesitate anyways. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of this.” She traces the bruise along my jaw tenderly with her fingers. Her eyes are wide with sympathy.

  “Oh.” I’d forgot all about the slap. “It’s not a big deal.”

  I can feel Tamara’s eyes on me for a moment before she opens the large, trendy leather bag she’s carrying. Her blonde highlights glint under the sunlight as she rummages through her bag.

  When she comes up for air, she’s got a makeup kit in hand.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, confused.

  “I’m gonna fix your face.”

  “My face is fine,” I argue. “You can barely see the bruise anymore.”

  “I beg to differ. Trust me, you don’t want that thing exposed when we’re hitting the clubs later.”

  I laugh bitterly. “I hate to burst your bubble, but we won’t be hitting anything tonight except for an early bedtime.”

  Tamara rolls her eyes and starts pulling out a range of different concealers and some blush.

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “Tamara…”

  “Hush up, girl, unless you wanna get stabbed in the eye with mascara,” she says absent-mindedly.

  She forces me to sit down on the white sofa facing the window and gets to work on my face.

  I concede defeat and let her do what she wants to. It’s easier than arguing.

  My thoughts float aimlessly as I stare out at the LA skyline.

  I can imagine Papa’s voice in my ear. Sit in your cage and be quiet, little bird. Sit and smile. It doesn’t matter if you’re happy or not. Just keep smiling.

  “Earth to Esme! Where’s your head at, girl?”

  I blink and focus on Tamara. “Doesn’t matter,” I mumble. “How about we head to the spa now? I’d really love to get out of this room.”

  She doesn’t argue. We get our bags and head down to the spa with two of my new guards in tow.

  I notice Tamara checking out Ansel. He’s the taller of the two guards and he’s got a pair of tattoos on his face, which contribute to how dangerous he looks. I’m willing to bet anything that’s a large part of why she’s attracted to him.

  “I wouldn’t go there,” I mutter to her as we enter the spa, leaving my guards stationed at the entrance. “Matter of fact, I wouldn’t get involved with anyone who works for my father.”

  Tamara snorts. “What makes you think I want to get involved with him?” she asks. “I’m just interested in fucking him.”

  She says it casually, but it leaves me reeling. Maybe because it’s just such a foreign idea.

  What must it be like to do something just because you can? Just because you feel like it?

  The spa has exactly two tones, pearly greys and muted ivories. I know it’s meant to promote calm and healing, but to me, it feels lackluster, completely devoid of personality or life.

  We’re greeted by a petite blonde woman who is as pale as her surroundings.

  She leads us to a private room, which is, surprise surprise, as white and dull as the rest of the spa.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” she says with a smile. “I’ll be back with some refreshments for you both.”

  The moment the door is closed, I turn to Tamara, feeling the immense need to unburden myself. “He’s trying to marry me off, you know. My father.”

  Tamara’s eyes grow wide. “You’re only twenty-two!”

  “Apparently, that doesn’t matter,” I say. “Nothing I want matters. And I don’t think it ever will.”

  “You need to get out of here.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “That’s exactly what I need to do. But I can’t see a way out of this life.”

  “No,” Tamara says, shaking her head, “I mean, out of this spa. What you need is to take control of your life, and it starts with baby steps.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s an elaborate plan to get yourself to a club tonight.”

  Tamara puts a manicured hand on my leg. “Okay, forget about me. What do you want to do today?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Tamara squeals in delight and claps her hands together excitedly. “Then it sounds like my plan is the winner!”

  I just sigh. “Have you forgotten the two armed guards waiting outside this spa for us?”

  She rolls her eyes dismissively. “Please, girl. I’ve been sneaking out since I was thirteen years old,” she says. “Those two don’t scare me. If they happen to catch us… well, they’ll just have punish us, won’t they?” She winks flirtatiously.

  I can’t help but laugh. “You’re insane.”

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Tamara says enthusiastically. “Pretty please?”

  I realize how much I actually want to go.

  A night out with my cousin—who has never even heard of the concept of having something to worry about—sounds like the perfect antidote to all my despair.

  But then I think of Miguel.

  The image of him beaten and bloodied on that chair has haunted me for days now.

  What happened to him was my fault.

  “I don’t know,” I say nervously. “Let’s just enjoy our spa appointments, okay? We don’t have to do anything reckless right now.”

  Tamara sighs noisily but I ignore her and swap my clothes out for the soft robes that were left for us.

  I settle on the spa table and try to relax, but I realize how tense my body is. No matter how much I try to breathe, I can never get enough air into my lungs.

  This is what my life is going to be for the next several decades.

  Perfect.

  Pampered.

  And completely horrible.

  Endless spa appointments, private piano performances for Papa’s colleagues, eventually a nightmare of a wedding to some pig of a man.

  I’ll be a living, breathing doll with no voice and no freedom. Forever trapped in my colorless world, counting regrets like other people count money.

  I sit up suddenly, get off the table, and reach for my clothes.

  Tamara looks at me in alarm. “Chica, what’s going on?”

  “New plan. Let’s get out of here right this second,” I say, before I can change my mind.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  A dazzling smile lights up Tamara’s face. “Now we’re fucking talking. Follow my lead.”

  Esme

  I follow Tamara back through the spa, towards the entrance. The doors are closed, but I know my guards will still be at their posts just outside.

  “How do you plan on doing this without being seen?” I ask.

  Tamara throws me a pitying look. “Oh, sweet, innocent Esme,” she murmurs. “Do you really think there’s only one way in and out of here?”

  “You’re heading for the entrance,” I point out.

  “You really don’t pay attention, do you?” Tamara asks. “There was a door to the left as we walked in. Staff quarters. There’ll be an exit throug
h there.”

  Tam is a psycho, but she’s a fun psycho. Life always works out for people like her.

  And, true to form, it works perfectly and smoothly. The staff quarters are empty, with an exit door at the far side of the room like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

  We’re about three steps away from freedom—when the door opens and one of the spa therapists comes in.

  She too is decked out in an all-beige ensemble, but she’s not the woman who greeted us when we entered. At least, I don’t think she is. Everyone who works here looks the same, though, so I can’t say for sure.

  “May I help you?” she asks politely.

  “Sorry, we got a little turned around,” Tamara says, flashing a smile. “We’ll head back into the spa now.”

  Tamara grabs my hand and pulls me towards another door off to the side.

  “Um, ma’am, that door will take you back into the hotel,” the therapist says in confusion.

  “Same difference!” Tamara chirps. She pulls me through the door before the woman can say anything.

  The moment we step out of the blinding whiteness of the spa and into the color of the hotel, we both start running. We probably don’t even need to, but it feels good.

  We rush through the massive lobby to the grand golden doors of the hotel. Then we burst outside into the perfect L.A. sunshine.

  As Tamara hails a cab, a laugh bursts from my lips. She looks at me for a moment, a smile settling over her face, but she doesn’t say anything.

  The cab drops us off outside of Tam’s building, a huge, pink building with a lattice of roses up the front. We race upstairs, still cackling like maniacs, and into her chic two-bedroom apartment.

  The moment Tamara closes the door behind us, I breathe a sigh of relief and throw my bag down on the glass coffee table.

  “I can’t believe it,” I laugh. “We did it!”

  “Well, I did it,” Tamara reminds me with a friendly nudge in the ribs. “You just tagged along.”

  “Fair enough,” I smile. “You can have all the credit.”

  She grins. “Aren’t you glad you decided to listen to me?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t get a big head about it.”

  But we both know I’m lying. I would’ve never done something this reckless on my own. And truth be told, I’m not stupid enough to think I’ve gotten away with anything just yet.