The Punishment: The Downing Family Book 3

by Wild, Cassie

  There was nothing vulnerable about Nadia Burov. Thinking that there was would be a mistake.

  I didn’t plan on making any mistakes if I could help it.

  She looked me up and down, holding a highball glass in one hand. The other rested on the doorframe.

  She took a sip of the amber liquid, then turned and walked away, leaving the door open.

  I followed her inside, trailing along behind her, standing there as she dropped down onto the couch, smoothing the nightgown down as she crossed her legs.

  “Well?” she asked, staring at me pointedly.

  I cleared my throat. “I need a favor.”

  She shoved upright, barking out a laugh. I remained where I was as she moved over to the windows and looked outside. I said nothing as she took a sip of her drink—whiskey, of some sort, I thought from the sharp odor assailing my nostrils. When she looked back at me, eyes full of cynicism and a cold sort of humor, I fought the urge to look away.

  “You want a favor,” she said, sneering the words. “I help you come to the United States because you have dreams of being a dancer. I offer to take you into my home. Haven’t I done enough favors for you, Daria?”

  I didn’t respond. I had earned the money that had brought me to the US, and it had been my talent that had landed me the scholarship. And I knew damn well that if I’d moved in with Burov, she would have worked me like a dog. She didn’t do anything out of kindness.

  My silence finally got to her, and she quirked a brow. “Well, are you going to tell me what this favor is and what it entails?”

  “It’s simple enough.” There was a faint tremor in my voice, and I paused a moment, waiting until I was steady before continuing.

  “I need you to make a phone call for me,” I finally said.

  She lifted one elegantly arched brow, studying me over the rim of her glass.

  “That is all you want? A phone call?”

  “For now.” I didn’t look away under her hard stare. She intimidated the hell out of me when I’d first come here. Shock had kept me compliant when she taught me the basics I’d need to know for working in the club. But neither shock nor intimidation factored into my attitude now, and I held her stare unblinkingly.

  “Hmm.” She made the sound low in her throat. Moving away from the window, she crossed over to me, not stopping until she was a few bare inches away. “No longer quite so scared and timid now, are you, Daria?”

  I lifted my chin a fraction. “Are you going to make the phone call or not?”

  If she wouldn’t help me, I’d have to figure out another method, but something told me that wouldn’t be an issue. She took another sip from her drink, eyes intent on my face.

  “Who, exactly, is it you want me to call, Daria?” she asked, her accent thickening her words.

  I told her.

  Surprise lit her eyes, and she stared at me. I could see the thoughts racing through her eyes and waited for the barrage of questions.

  None came.

  She tossed back the rest of her drink and cut around me.

  I turned, unwilling to leave her at my back for even a second.

  As I waited for a response, she moved over to the small bar set up in the corner and picked up the open bottle, pouring a generous two fingers into her glass. The familiar black label with white lettering caught my eye. Whiskey. I wanted a drink myself, something to steady my nerves, but I didn’t dare ask.

  She turned back to me, lifting the drink to her lips and drained the glass.

  When she slapped the glass down on the bar top, she returned to stand in front of me, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on her breath.

  “You so certain that is who you want me to call?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes narrowed, unease glinting in their depths. “Why?”

  I swallowed the knot in my throat, responding with slow deliberation in an attempt to keep my voice steady. “That is my business. Will you make the call?”

  Eight

  Brooks

  It wasn’t even dawn, but I was already awake.

  I’d been getting by on four or five hours of sleep a night ever since I got back to Philadelphia the week before.

  The few hours of rest I did manage to squeeze in every night were haunted by dreams of the hours I’d spent with Daria—or the hours I’d spent searching for her after Duardo had grabbed her.

  I didn’t particularly enjoy either kind of dream. If I was dreaming about the times we were together, then I woke up, half expecting to find her in bed with me. Then I’d shudder awake, remembering how things had gone in New York after I’d been shot. If I dreamed about how she’d gone missing and I spent days tearing Miami apart trying to find her, then I woke up panicked and thinking she was still missing.

  Whichever sort of dream haunted me, once reality returned, I’d find myself thinking of how she’d been laughing with Cedrick when I’d seen her. After I’d spent the whole fucking day looking for her, worrying about her, I’d found her sitting down at dinner with another man.

  I had never been the type to get jealous. It was an emotion I hadn’t really understood.

  Until now.

  Those wide-open, easy smiles she’d given Cedrick were unlike the smiles she bestowed on me, nervous smiles, sad ones, sometimes even scared smiles. And I couldn’t really remember when any of the time we’d spent together had involved her laughing.

  Last night’s dream hadn’t been much different. I’d been running around the island, searching for her all to no avail. When I’d woken up around four, I hadn’t seen the point in trying to grab another hour or two of sleep, not when it meant dreaming about her again.

  My second cup of coffee sat on the table as I flipped through the newspaper, drawing out the sports and business sections for closer perusal once I was done glancing through it.

  I was about to close the paper when the large font of a heading caught my eye.

  How Exploited Women Are Often Forced Into Sex Work.

  My gut churned, and I almost closed the paper without reading the article. Thinking about what had happened to Daria had me reconsidering, and I finally skimmed the first few lines. I found myself clutching my coffee cup, all but empty some minutes later after reading the article for a third time.

  It was horrible, taking a deep and personal look at the lives of some women who had been forced to prostitute themselves or act as escorts for wealthy men. There was even one from an unnamed woman, twenty-two years old, who had basically been sold to the owner of a strip club to pay off her father’s gambling debt.

  A headache pounded behind my eyes, and I closed the paper, leaning back in my chair. I passed a hand over my face, feeling the rasp of the stubble I had yet to shave.

  It’s like you no longer exist, one of the women interviewed was quoted as saying. You’re this plaything, this possession, the punching bag…all of them all at once, and that’s your only identity. I’ve spent years in therapy trying to forget about the months I was trapped in that life. So many still are.

  Was that how Daria had felt?

  If so, was it really a surprise that she was ready to fling herself into a life that had nothing to do with what had happened to her?

  That didn’t seem like the case, but I had no idea what was going through her mind. I’d never been in a position where I’d been helpless to do anything about what was happening to me.

  Brooding, I studied the paper, about ready to flip it back open and read the article a fourth time. Instead, I folded it carefully and carried it into my home office, tucking it under a paperweight on one of my bookshelves.

  If I were smart, I’d throw it away and try to take that unnamed woman’s advice—forget about the time with Daria.

  She’d clearly been ready to move on and do that. Whether it was the blood on her hands as she bent over me or the realization that things like that were a risk if she was with me. Or even her fighting to deal with what had happened, she’d left me behind. Again.
Once, when she left Florida without so much as a word, and then when she avoided coming to see me at the hospital.

  It sucked.

  It hurt.

  But I couldn’t force my way into her life.

  Maybe if I were her, I’d do the same thing. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to outrun my life once or twice. Who was I to blame her for opting to avoid the hassle?

  * * *

  Six hours later, I sat across the boardroom table that took up much of the large back wall of my father’s home office.

  Declan was there, and we had Sean on speaker.

  My father, Seamus, sat at the head of the table, listening to the various reports about the businesses.

  “When do you plan on going back to Miami, Sean?” Seamus asked. He was a big man, and even though he was pushing seventy, his physical strength was still obvious. His black hair had gone salt and pepper gray, but that didn’t soften his appearance.

  There was little soft about Seamus Downing, and that had been the case ever since Mom died years earlier. Dad hadn’t always been a stern piece of work, and I sometimes thought that if Mom had lived, he would have understood my desire to find a life outside the family business.

  That was a thing of the past, though, and I knew it.

  As Sean told Dad that he’d wanted a few more days with Isabel, my father shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just why did you ask to be the head of things down in Miami if you plan on spending half your time in New York? Brooks is here in Philadelphia. You’re in New York. Who the hell is watching our interests in Florida?”

  Sean was quiet a moment, then said, “I’ll fly out tomorrow. I already promised Isabel we’d go out to dinner tonight.”

  Declan shot me a pained glance at the expression that crossed over Dad’s face, although the look was gone when Seamus directed his attention back at us.

  He eyed me closely, then jabbed a finger at me. “And what about you? How is your shoulder? Are you healing up?” Although he’d been in the United States for more than thirty years, his voice was still thick with the music of his Irish accent, although that accent didn’t soften the whip-like impact of his words.

  I shrugged, a remnant of pain rippling through me as I used both shoulders. The bullet wound was healing, and two days ago, I’d seen a doctor for a follow-up. I still had to go back in a few days to get the stitches out, but I wasn’t anywhere near as sore as I had been.

  “Good enough,” I said. “The doctor gave me some exercises to help rebuild my strength, and I’ve got to see a physical therapist once the stitches come out.”

  “Wuss,” Declan said, although there was a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Yeah, definitely. What can I say? The thought of not having full use of my arm bugs me a little.”

  Seamus squinted at me. “Is there permanent damage?”

  “There shouldn’t be, as long as I rebuild the strength and get physical therapy so I can regain full movement.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got it under control so don’t worry.”

  Seamus grunted in response, then fixed his eyes on Declan.

  As he ran my older brother through his paces, questioning everything from the latest profit report to finding new distributors, I tried to pay attention.

  But my heart wasn’t in it.

  My thoughts wandered, yet again, to Daria.

  What was she doing?

  Had she seen Cedrick again?

  And why the fuck did it even matter to me to begin with?

  * * *

  Declan and I had spent the afternoon following up on Dad’s orders, delivered that morning before he left to go for his daily swim in the big, indoor pool located at the back of the house.

  We’d finally finished, and I asked Declan if he could just drop me off at my place. Some of the workers at the house could make arrangements to return my car.

  “We’re not going back to your place yet, man,” Declan told me, hitting the interstate and heading east, back toward downtown.

  “I thought you said that was the last stop.”

  “It was. Now, we’re going to go get a bite to eat, maybe have a drink or two, and you’re going to tell me what’s got you dragging around like you just lost your dog or something.”

  I gave him a baleful look. “I’ve never had a dog. None of us did.”

  “The comparison still stands,” he replied, a small smile playing on his mouth. He took an upcoming exit, and I slumped in the seat as I figured out where we were going.

  There was an Irish pub that had been a family favorite back when Mom was alive. Dad never went there anymore, but Declan, Sean, and I would sometimes go and talk about Mom. Maybe they, like me, wondered what our lives would have been like if she hadn’t died.

  Dad hadn’t climbed quite so far up the ladder when she was still alive, and I knew it had eaten at her. What he did for a living. How we could afford such a nice house. Why she didn’t have to work. I’d thought that maybe he’d quit after she got sick, then died, but instead, he’d thrown himself into the job even harder.

  Once we parked, I climbed out but loitered by the car, staring at the comfortably shabby looking restaurant.

  “Come on, Brooks,” Declan said.

  I shot him a glance then sighed and followed him into the building. “I’m not up for having a heart to heart, man.”

  He barked out a short, amused laugh. “Plenty of times when I haven’t been up for one either, but you nagged me into it. Turnabout is fair play.”

  I blew out a hard breath and wondered if he’d believe my mood was shitty because of the gunshot. The cops hadn’t had much luck finding the shooter.

  We didn’t have any time to talk about it, though. We’d just been seated when a familiar voice called out our names. I looked up to see my cousin Dominic approaching. I slid from the booth, a smile forming on my face.

  But then I caught sight of who was with Dominic.

  It was Cedrick Waterson.

  He nodded at me while Dominic and Declan greeted each other. As they spoke, I slid a glance toward Cedrick. He must have sensed it because he slanted a look my way, brow arched.

  I didn’t plan on saying anything—not a damn word. But staring into his pretty boy features, anger and jealousy started to burn in me again, and I couldn’t stop the sharp smile from spreading over my face.

  “I saw you and Daria out together last week. Looked like you two were having a good time.” Cedrick blinked, a look of confusion flitting through his eyes. It made me want to punch him even more. “Forget about your date already?” I sneered.

  I was aware that Declan was looking at me, but I kept my attention focused on Cedrick.

  A soft laugh escaped him. “Date? That wasn’t a date. I bumped into her when I was in New York. My sister is into ballet and has been talking about trying to get into one of the schools here in town.” He shrugged. “I figured since Daria and Isabel both attended the Burov Academy, I’d check it out and maybe talk to them. When I saw Daria, I asked her to join me for dinner.” He quirked a brow. “More than once, you came up in the conversation.”

  I felt like I’d been hit with a two-by-four.

  It must have shown on my face because all three men were now eying me, their expressions ranging from confusion to understanding.

  Cedrick was the one to break the silence. “Anyway, we had dinner. I saw her again on Saturday when I went by the apartment looking for Sean. She was on her way out and had just come by to pack up some clothes.”

  “So, she was moving out?”

  “I don’t know. She said she had to go to Miami for something, but we didn’t have time to talk because she had a plane to catch.”

  “Miami,” I said slowly.

  “Yeah.” Cedrick cocked his head, expression puzzled. “She said she had things to take care of there. Is that a problem?”

  A piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  Did she think I’d been shot because of her? Isabel had su
ggested as much, but I’d brushed that away.

  Was she going back to Duardo to try and handle things on her own?

  She wouldn’t.

  But I had a terrible feeling I was wrong.

  Nine

  Daria

  My hands were shaking.

  I stared at my reflection, at the high and tight ponytail on top of my head, at the overly garish makeup, from the cotton candy pink lipstick to the smoky-eye effect Peaches had done on my face.

  I looked nothing like the elegant ballerina who had once danced in one of Moscow’s finest schools.

  There were both positive and negative aspects to that.

  Since I looked nothing like myself, I could always hope nobody would ever be able to connect the stripper in the Miami nightclub to Daria Gorev.

  But at the same time, I fought to remember who I was and what I was doing here.

  I wasn’t one of Duardo’s and Marcos’ little pet dancers.

  I had a purpose here, and I’d damn well accomplish it.

  The mental pep talk helped to chase away some of the shadows in my eyes, and when I rose from the makeup table, my expression was one of resolve.

  I’d had Nadia call Duardo before I left New York City, and I’d told him that I was ready to make things right between his family and me. He told me the debt had already been paid, but I played dumb, saying I hadn’t been with him long enough for the debt to be resolved, which led him to ask me where I was and what exactly I wanted from him.

  “I just want to make things right,” I told him. “Isabel knows how unhappy you, your brother, and father are with her and I don’t like that. I never meant to cause her trouble. This is my way of fixing things.”

  I had no idea if he believed me.

  Once I’d gotten to Miami and returned to the club, we’d talked again.

  I’d told him I was only there to dance, and he assured me that was acceptable to him. He’d even given me a timeframe, handling the whole thing like a business deal. I guess, to him, it was.