Dimitri (The Italian Cartel Book 1)

by Shandi Boyes

  Aware he only said his comment to return my serve, and a little unsure how to react to his confession he killed Eddie because he hurt me, I stab my house key into the rusty lock on my apartment’s front door before pushing open the water-damaged wood.

  “We’re behind on the electric bill. There’s a torch on the kitchen counter,” I advise Dimitri when his multiple flicks of the light switch fail to illuminate the room.

  It’s the fight of my life not to let my laughter be heard when he crashes into the entry table I purposely forgot to warn him about. He can’t bitch-slap my attitude back to next week because he didn’t look where he was going.

  After lighting a candle on the dresser in my room, I head for my overflowing closet. One of the benefits of stunted growth is the ability to wear clothes from my teen days. My height hasn’t altered since I got my learner’s permit, and despite my budget only affording me the privilege of grease-laden food, my waist is around the same size as well.

  I sense Dimitri’s presence before I hear him rummage through the bag I’ve just commenced packing. With Estelle at work, it isn’t hard to miss the disapproving huff of someone hating my sense of style.

  “You won’t need any of this.” He upends my bag onto my bed before he drags his narrowed gaze over my candlelit room. The further his eyes travel, the more disgust crosses his features. “You won’t need any of this.”

  I sound like a whiny brat when I snap out, “You said I could pack my things.”

  “Yeah, things you need. Not this junk.”

  Heat creeps up my neck when I struggle to hold in a blood-curdling scream. “These are things I need. They’re all I have.”

  My anger shifts to confusion when he replies, “Then we’ll get you new things.” He slants his head to the side and arches a brow. “Better things.”

  I thought begging for my life was embarrassing, but this is ten times worse. “I can’t afford new things. That’s why I have these things.”

  “Sorry. Let me rephrase.” Think of the most arrogant man you’ve ever seen in your life. His attitude wouldn’t be one-third of Dimitri’s right now. “I will get you new things.”

  “Fine.” He’s shocked by how quickly I cave, but I’m done arguing for today. I’m cold, hungry, and hormonal. If anyone should be in fear of their life, it shouldn’t be me. “But I’m taking this.”

  I snag the most hideous-looking dressing gown you could imagine in your life off the end of my bed. It’s a replica of the one Fran Drescher wore on The Nanny, one of my all-time favorite sitcoms.

  “And them.”

  I snatch a pair of panties out of Dimitri’s hand that I only ever wear when I’m worried about exploding tampons.

  “And this.”

  My voice is nowhere near as punchy as it was when I snag my nanna’s photograph off my nightstand. Even with her death still not feeling real to me, I miss her so much.

  “Is that it?” My brashness isn’t the only thing taking a back seat, so is Dimitri’s bossy demeanor. He doesn’t know who the lady in the frame is, but the wetness filling my eyes makes it obvious that she was important to me.

  My head bobs up and down two times before it switches to a shake. “One last thing.”

  After blowing out the candle, so we don’t start a fire, Dimitri follows my walk to an ancient tape recorder on the entryway table, taking a wide birth to ensure his crotch doesn’t once again become friendly with its poky edges.

  Once I’ve exhaled to clear my voice of nerves, I push record on the device before lifting it to my mouth. Dimitri almost jumps out of his skin when I scream at the top of my lungs. “I got the job! Thirty-five smoking big ones an hour for the next four weeks minimum.” I have to be over-the-top dramatic, or Estelle will never believe my ruse. “The thing is, the ridiculous amount is because it’s a live-in position. Mr. Petretti is graveyard ready.” I drift my eyes to Dimitri when I feel the heat of his rising blood pressure. “He’s old, like hideously archaic. He has wrinkles and gray hair. I doubt even Viagra can help him now.” After hitting Dimitri with a frisky wink, hopeful it won’t see me murdered where I stand, I get back to the task at hand. “Anyhoo, I just wanted to let you know why I’m AWOL… because I’m wiping an old dude’s ass like we always knew I would. Ciao, chica. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  With a hard swallow, I hit the stop button before placing the recorder back into its rightful place. Even with me seemingly exuding a ton of confidence, my hands shake when I tie a red ribbon around the recorder’s overused exterior. It’s our equivalent of a blinking red light on the answering machine we can’t afford.

  I want to believe Dimitri will uphold his side of our agreement once his daughter is returned, but a part of me is worried he’s never been taught the principle of honesty. He said it himself, he cheated on his wife multiple times, so why would he be honorable to a woman he hardly knows?

  I’m snapped from my dreary mood by Dimitri’s curt tone. “Let’s go.” He nudges his head to my partially cracked open door as he’s over the depressing environment I call home as much as me.

  After a final glance at the dim and dreary space, I shadow his walk to the elevator cart, my steps slow and lethargic. This place might be a dump, but it’s the only true home I’ve ever had.

  We ride the elevator in silence. I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s uncomfortable, it’s more foreign than anything. Silence isn’t something I often crave. I did it many times before my parents dropped me off to live with my grandparents. Even something as simple as breathing too loudly got me in trouble when Mother woke up angry. That was more often than not when I was a child.

  I safeguard my grandmother’s picture under my dressing gown when our trek through the foyer of my building reveals the heavens have opened up. It isn’t pouring rain like it was the night I first crossed paths with Dimitri, but it has the possibility of wrecking the only photograph I have of her.

  I’m just about to dart through two parked cars when my arm is jerked out of its socket. I’m about to give Dimitri an ear full, but the brutal roar of an SUV whizzing past my face stuffs my words into the back of my throat.

  “Jesus Christ, Roxanne! You almost got yourself killed.” My eyes bounce between Dimitri’s when he pins me to the back of an outdated minivan with shaky, splayed hands. “You need to start paying attention to your surroundings, or one day, it won’t be a close call.” My dress is soaked through, but I don’t feel the cold. There’s too much fury radiating out of Dimitri for me to feel the slightest chill. “Did your near-miss at the hospital teach you nothing?”

  “That was you?” Shock highlights my tone. The eyes peering at me through the crack in the window all those months ago were undeniably dangerous, but they didn’t have the risqué edge Dimitri’s have, so I was confident it wasn’t him. “You were outside the hospital when I was discharged?”

  My confusion augments when Dimitri shakes his head. “It wasn’t me.”

  He sounds honest, but I’m done acting as if I have air for brains. “Then how do you know what happened? I didn’t tell anyone, and I doubt Estelle shares her friend’s stupidity with the customers at her work.”

  Before he can answer me, I spot some truth in his eyes.

  “You had someone following me?” Another flare darts through his eyes before the cut line of his jaw turns fascinating. “I told Estelle I wasn’t making things up. She thought I was going crazy, that I needed my head examined.” I laugh like I’m in desperate need of a psych workup. “But that wasn’t it at all. I was being followed… by you.”

  Dimitri’s anger picks up right along with his clutch on my arm. “It wasn’t me.”

  The way he speaks down to me doesn’t deter me in the slightest. “But it was someone you ordered to watch me. Why were you watching me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My eye roll matches my maturity level. “You know why, you just don’t want to tell me.”

  “I said I don’t know!” He pushes me back with e
nough strength to crack the rear shield of the van before he hightails it to his sleek ride. “Get your ass in the car before your promise of being away for a month won’t see your roommate sleeping in your bed.” He peers back at me for the quickest second. His eyes are deadly and black. “Not even reformed Goths like sleeping on their friend’s blood-sodden mattress.”

  He’s hoping his underhanded threat will have my knees knocking together. That might have been the case if I hadn’t spotted the tiniest flicker of light beaming out of my apartment in his narrowed gaze. It isn’t the shimmer of a recently lit candle. It’s too bright and breath-stealing for that. It’s a beacon of hope that the man I sold my soul to isn’t as malevolent as he wants me to believe.

  Besides Estelle and me, Dimitri is the only person who knows we’ve fallen behind on our bills. Braydon only visits during the day, and Estelle keeps his thoughts far from the fact our television’s standby light is never on or that our microwave’s clock has been on the blink for months on end.

  Furthermore, despite his impressive bank balance, I doubt Braydon has access to a computer genius who can find a credit card transaction I fought tooth and nail to have reversed from my card in less than a second—my father didn’t say goodbye to me, so there’s no way I wanted to pay his bar tab—but Dimitri sure as hell does.

  Are Smith’s skills impressive enough to have electricity reconnected to a property in under five minutes? If you had asked me that very question two hours ago, I would have said no. Now, I’m confident it was him. Dimitri’s phone’s screen wasn’t lit up when I joined him in the elevator to ride it to the lobby, but that doesn’t mean anything. He used it to communicate with Smith earlier tonight without touching a button. Who’s to say he didn’t do the same thing this time around?

  My clue hunt ends when my name snaps out of Dimitri’s mouth in a thick, accented roar. He’s standing at the side of his vehicle, holding open the back passenger door for me. Although his expression is as impassive as it was when he held his gun to my head, something in his eyes has changed. He’s either shocked how quickly Smith works, or he’s hoping I missed his handiwork.

  I’m leaning more toward the latter.

  He’d hate for me to think I have more power than he deems necessary because even mobsters know there’s no greater strength than a woman determined to prove a man wrong.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dimitri

  The click-clack, click-clack of Roxanne’s inexpensive shoes tap along the marble floors in the foyer of my home when she shadows my walk into the quiet space. Her heels aren’t the only disturbance. Her hot breaths as she takes in empty room after empty room are just as meddling. They hit my neck as they did my face when she slid past me to enter the backseat of my Range Rover idling at the front of her apartment building.

  I had hoped she wouldn’t notice the illumination of her living room since it was eight floors above. Regretfully, she’s as nosy as she is attractive. I should have instructed Smith to wait until we had left Erkinsvale before remotely connecting Roxanne’s electricity. Alas, I hadn’t anticipated a near-fatal to occur within seconds of exiting Roxanne’s apartment.

  That woman should be dead. She’s a klutz who speaks without thinking and leaps in front of cars without a single consideration for her safety.

  The hate that’s bred in me since I was born usually craves a bloodbath. If it had been anyone but Roxanne, my hand wouldn’t have darted out to clutch her arm. I would have watched the carnage, smirked, then moved on.

  Things are starkly different this time around. I’m not seeking a cape, nor do I want the title of hero. I merely want my daughter back, and as much as this kills me to admit, I believe Roxanne can help me achieve that faster than planned.

  She was right when she said our spark is undeniable. It was blistering when we went toe to toe in the elevator, and it didn’t dampen when I insulted her idea of style. It will make my ruse more authentic this time around, and if I keep her off my father’s radar, everyone will come out of this agreement in one piece—including Fien.

  “Take off your shoes. Their clicking is driving me bonkers.”

  I don’t give a shit about the noise Roxanne’s shoes make while we walk. I just need to notch up my asshole radar a few decibels until the sly grin she’s been wearing since we left her apartment is gone.

  She isn’t here as my guest.

  She’s here as my slave and will be treated so accordingly.

  After tugging off her shoes in a manner that reveals she knows they’re worthless, Roxanne follows my trek up a long curving stairwell. I purchased this property the month Audrey was kidnapped. It wasn’t to be our family home but more a means to ensure our family would forever live in comfort.

  This property is where I host my foreign dignitaries. The events here range from one-on-one meetings with the clients’ favorite prostitutes to all-in orgy fests. Tomorrow night’s festivities will be milder than previous guests’ level of kink, but it will be the perfect place to commence plans I’ve had in the works for months. My father will be in attendance along with hundreds of men we class as both competitors and allies. It’s ideal and has me hopeful I’ll see Fien in person sooner than I’m hoping.

  “This time tomorrow, these rooms will be filled with important members of my association. You’re to treat them with respect and to be courteous at all times.”

  When the sweet smell of Roxanne’s heated skin streams into my nose, I half the length of my strides. The fear her body coats itself in is so intoxicating, I’m tempted to throw her to the wolves just to see how engrossing it can be.

  Regrettably, if I want my enemies to believe my ploy that I’m moving on, I need to be the jealous, neurotic prick I was when Audrey’s beauty caught the eye of an admirer.

  I cheated on my wife, but if someone so much as looked at her in the wrong manner, they would have lost an eye at the very least.

  “The event is black tie. Hors d’oeuvres will be served in the parlor at seven. Main festivities will commence at nine.”

  My pace slows even more when Roxanne garbles out, “At night?” When my brow props high into my hairline, she nods. “Night. Right.”

  “I’ll meet you in the foyer at six forty-five sharp.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes flicker like she’s mentally jotting down everything I’m telling her. “Will we be doing dress shopping before or after noon? I want to know whether I should hit the carbs at lunch or breakfast.”

  She’s joking. However, I’m not amused.

  Now is not the time for jokes.

  “Sorry,” she apologizes for the umpteenth time tonight. “I blubber when I’m nervous.”

  I want to say she’s nervous because we’re alone in a very big house, but alas, that would be a lie. For some absurd reason, she isn’t afraid of me. She knows I could end her life in an instant, and that she’s under my control until my daughter is returned, but fear isn’t the sole emotion that passes through her eyes when she spots my inconspicuous glances. Desire is there as well.

  She fought for her life not because she believes it’s worth fighting for, but because of what she hopes it could be.

  That’s the exact reason I’ve fought so hard for Fien. Her video earlier tonight showed she’s a happy, well-adjusted toddler, but that doesn’t mean her life couldn’t be better. I can give her more than she’s ever had because only I can give her a father’s love.

  With my mood teetering toward the negative, I push down on the handle of the master suite’s door with more aggression than needed. Roxanne’s deep exhale fans my nape like Justine’s did when I opened the door of my room in my family’s compound, except her exhale is more in exhilaration than fret.

  A similar-size four-poster bed sits in the middle of the back wall, a private seating area/reading nook is on its left, and an office/library is on its right. With my room used more for business adventures than sexual conquests, my desk looks more original to the space than my rarely used mattress. I’m one
of those people who catches sleep on the fly. Little power naps here and there keep me going well into the wee hours of the morning where I usually crash on the couch or in my office chair.

  I’m about to give Roxanne the standard old you-can-wear-one-of-my-shirts routine, but the lowering of my eyes to the hideous sleeping ensemble she’s clutching for dear life stops me. At first, I was shocked she’d pack something so warm, our nighttime temperatures never get close to freezing, but when I sent Clover and Rocco home, it made sense. We’re not in winter, but the iciness of untouched waters is always a little cool.

  Roxanne’s emotions don’t know which way to swing when I say, “While you shower and change, I’ll conduct my meeting with Alice before grabbing you something to eat.” She’s excited about washing up and being fed, but her eagerness waivered during the middle portion of my sentence.

  Good. That’s exactly how my competitors should see her. Wide-eyed about everything I do, terrified she could lose me at any moment, and seemingly under my thumb—the perfect Cartel wife combination.

  “In you go,” I say with a smirk, praying a smile will hide the yearning roaring through my veins. I’m not thickening below the belt because she appears to have the makings of a mafia kingpin’s wife, it’s from the way her pupils widen when she spotted Alice standing at the top of the stairs waiting for me. She’s being hit with the same crass feelings that swamped me when the dweeb she called her ‘boyfriend’ located her clit. I didn’t want him touching her, but for the life of me, I couldn’t stop him. It was like seeing a family sedan stuck on the tracks as a train barrels toward them. I shouldn’t have watched, but I did, and I devoured every second of it.

  As I do again now.

  The tint Roxanne’s eyes get when she’s jealous is even more intoxicating than when she comes. It makes them a murkier green like they’re too tainted for me to corrupt.