So physically, I’ve got to look pretty damn put-together.
But here in the lounge, nobody can see me. So I pull my legs up underneath me on the velvety couch and open up my tablet, getting as comfortable as I can. Who knows how long I have before the thugs show up to ruin my day, and possibly my life?
Nervously, I scroll through pages of my own ads, hoping for a bite. But besides a few wishy-washy comments, there doesn’t seem to be much interest in the stuff I’m selling. After all, none of it is particularly fancy. I live a very simple life, and the accoutrements of my existence are equally simplistic. But damn, I’d still hoped for at least a few offers.
A lock of dark hair works its way loose from my braid and dangles annoyingly between my eyes, as though to add just an extra pinch of frustration to my day. I sit up straight for a moment and try to tuck it back behind my ear. But it keeps falling free again, and so finally with a groan of irritation I yank the hair tie off the end of my braid and shake my head, sending the freshly-wavy hair tumbling in a brunette cloud around my shoulders.
“Whatever,” I mutter aloud, raking a hand back through my hair and rolling my eyes. I hold up my phone to check my dim reflection in the black screen, to see my face framed with a mane of wild hair. So much for looking put together. Oh well, I think to myself, perhaps this cave woman aesthetic will strike fear into the hearts of the mafia guys.
My phone vibrates in my hand and the little ding-ding of the text tone goes off as the screen lights up with a text from Natalie.
It says: “stud on premises, I repeat, stud on the premises.”
I furrow my brows in confusion for a moment, and then as the realization dawns on me, I can actually feel the blood draining from my face and my stomach flip-flops with fear.
The next moment, there’s a soft knock at the VIP door and Ashton’s sweet, timid voice says from the other side of it, “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Uh, tell them we’re not open yet,” I answer firmly to buy myself some time, hoping my voice isn’t shaking as much as my hands are. I fumble to stuff my tablet back into my bag and untuck my legs from underneath myself. I smooth my tank top down and frantically try to restore some semblance of normalcy to my hair.
The door creaks open and Ashton pokes her head through, her blue eyes wide.
“Um, h-he’s very insistent, Katy.”
He? Did they only send one minion to collect my debt today? For a moment a barrage of wild thoughts rampage through my brain. Maybe if there’s only one of them, they’re planning to just drag me away. Maybe if there’s only one of them, I can fight him off. I’m fairly strong! I can totally take down a burly, bloodthirsty mafia thug on my own! Totally reasonable!
“Katy?” she prods, looking a little scared. Regaining my composure, I get to my feet and walk over, my heart hammering in my chest, but with resolution in my steps.
I gesture for her to come inside for a moment, and I explain quietly and quickly, “Okay, Ashton. Everything is going to be just fine. I just need you to stay cool and go get Natalie and get both of you into the storage room, ‘kay? Just hang out there and be very quiet. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”
I can see her shrinking in fear, her dainty hand coming up to cover her mouth. “What?”
I put my hands on both her shoulders and say emphatically, “You’re okay. Just go hang out in the storage room, alright? I’ll come get you when everything is over.”
“Actually, that really won’t be necessary,” interrupts a deep voice with a light accent.
The VIP door pushes all the way open and there is a tall man standing there, wearing a navy-blue suit with a dark gray tie. My brain seems to flounder for a moment trying to place his face, as he looks vaguely familiar. Then it hits me.
The guy I slept with a few months ago.
“You may not recall me,” he says, sidestepping Ashton and extending a hand to me.
I instinctively stand up straighter and move ever so slightly in front of Ashton as though to shield her somewhat. With some trepidation, I take his hand and give it a quick shake.
“I do,” I reply swiftly. My heart races as I take in his suit, his accent that I couldn’t properly identify before, his timing — he was a mafia guy. I should have known it all along. This is Brighton Beach, after all.
“Go to the storage room,” I murmur to Ashton, without breaking eye contact with the Russian guy. As she moves to leave, he gives us both a vaguely sympathetic expression.
“I told you that won’t be necessary. I am here of my own accord, and I tend to handle matters more, ah, delicately than some of my associates. There is no reason to hide,” he explains. The look in his eyes seems genuine, and I give Ashton’s hand a squeeze and nod for her to go.
She mumbles a fearful “okay” and slips out the door, shutting it behind her.
Closing me in with him.
He stands watching me for what feels like a very long minute, his hands pushed into his pockets and his expression unreadable. Despite his disclaimer, I am still completely on edge. I refuse to believe that it’s possible for mafia guys to be “delicate.” From all that I’ve seen, they don’t have much of a particular proclivity for handling issues using anything but muscles and intimidation. And to be sure, this guy has no shortage of both. Standing in front of me, I note both his muscles, taut beneath his finely-tailored suit, and his piercing, dark blue gaze.
“Have a seat, if you like,” he finally says, breaking the tension only slightly.
“Since this is my establishment and you are a guest, sir, I feel it’s only appropriate if I offer a chair to you first,” I reply sharply, before I can stop myself and edit my words. There goes my attitude. It’s a reflex, and one that has gotten me in trouble many times before.
He shuffles his feet and fixes me with a hawk-like stare and I fold my arms over my chest in silent response. It’s some kind of bravado stand-off. A few tense seconds pass and then, to my surprise, he steps past me to sit down on the couch. He crosses a leg wide over his lap and stretches both arms over the back of the couch, taking up as much room as possible. It’s a compromise — he sits down first, but he takes the best seat.
Still, I feel a little smug as I sit in one of the silky gold-embroidered chairs, crossing my legs and setting my hands in my lap before fixing him with an expectant look.
“Today you owe a debt,” he begins.
“And you’ve come to collect it,” I respond quietly.
“Not quite,” he answers, swiping a hand quickly over his mouth. “I know there is nothing for me to collect.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. I’m caught. “Not at the present moment, no. But hopefully soon I can get the money—”
“There is another option,” he interrupts. I furrow my brows at him and cross my arms over my chest as though it could slow my heart rate.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
I can tell he wants to smile, and I’m not sure whether to be relieved or frightened by it. Then he leans toward me and opens those full lips to say, “Be mine.”
I sit for a moment in dumbfounded silence. Then I stammer, “Wh-what?”
“For a year, I will own you.”
6
Katy
Fury gathers like storm clouds in my head. I want to stand up and scream at him in indignation, tell him to go to hell. But this time, something stops me from speaking my mind. It’s a sensation of resolve. It’s the feeling of being backed against a wall. What can I do but listen to the parameters of his offer? It’s not like I have any better alternatives off the top of my head.
“What do you mean?” I ask gravely.
He steeples his fingers and I am momentarily distracted by his big, strong hands. I wonder what kinds of things those hands have done, and in the back of my mind I can’t help but remember what they felt like on my skin…
“You will be my woman for a year, servant to my whims and desires. I will not hurt you, unless you want me to,” he add
s. There’s that smile again, not on his lips, but lurking in his deep blue eyes.
“In what capacity will I ‘serve’ you?” I ask, trying to temper my sardonic tone.
“Sexually,” he replies simply, totally unabashed. I wonder if he’s made this kind of offer before. How often does this happen? Or am I the only girl currently being offered the ultimatum of “pay up now or become an indentured sex servant?” Perhaps he’s only mocking me.
“Are you serious?” I prompt.
“Absolutely.”
“How can I know that those thugs aren’t just going to show up later tonight and beat the hell out of me? How can I know for sure that you’re not just conning me?” I ramble all at once.
He holds up a hand to silence me. “I am a man of my word.”
“And you have the power to call them off?”
At that, the smile finally appears, lending some surprising warmth to his face.
“I have that power, yes.”
“And when I met you before — was that just part of the job? Staking me out, doing some reconnaissance before moving in for the kill?” I continue. His smile disappears as swiftly as it came, leaving him stony-faced.
“I do not kill,” he replies, his voice deep and serious, but there's something restrained in it.
Something shifts in the air and suddenly I feel goosebumps on my arms. I had only meant it as a turn of phrase, not literally. I open my mouth to say something — I don’t know what — but he quickly stands up to leave.
“I will give you some time to consider my offer,” he says with an air of finality.
As he opens the door, I jump up and ask him, “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”
He turns and looks at me hard. “Ivan.”
“I-I’m Katy,” I respond, as if he doesn’t know.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says, and with that he disappears through the VIP door.
I slump down onto the couch and sit there in stunned silence for several minutes, my brain running in a thousand directions at once. Then, finally, I walk out of the lounge and up to the bar, where Natalie is standing looking rather pale.
“What the hell was that about?” she asks in a fervent whisper. “You okay, short-stop?”
I tap the bar with my nails and she quickly pours me a shot of bourbon, which I toss back immediately. Licking my lips, I reply quietly, “I don’t fucking know. I’ll get back to you on that. Uh, could you do me a massive favor, Nat?”
“Er, yeah. What?”
I slide my purse strap over my shoulder and turn to leave. “Watch the club tonight, huh? I-I think I need a night off. Sorry.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. You got it, boss.”
Charles and Ashton both give me slightly panicked looks as I pass by, and I can’t offer more than a simple, sheepish half-smile in response. But they’ll be alright. My crew is shockingly self-sufficient, and they can handle themselves for a night.
Me, on the other hand…
Neglecting my umbrella, I walk to my car in the rain, hardly even cognizant of the water soaking my clothes and hair. I drive home in silence, even more confused now than I was when I left this morning.
* * *
I feel like I’m pushing my way through a dream as I make my way up the stairs to my apartment, turn the key to my door, and enter the place I’ve called home for the past few months.
My eyes pan the living room as I walk through it, but it’s like my eyes are seeing everything through a fine mist, like the world is just a little bit out of focus.
Once again, that same question is haunting my every thought: why is this happening to me?
I slip my shoes off on the way in, and I set my purse down somewhere, but none of it really registers in my mind.
Why can’t I just have a normal life? Why couldn’t my dad’s failing club have passed to me with no strings attached? I could have sold it to the business douches at the club for a tidy profit and move upstate, maybe finish college and settle down for a quiet life at a desk job somewhere.
That wasn’t going to be my life, though.
Maybe I ripped a bunch of people off in a past life, I decide with a laugh as I make my way around the living room, staring at all the crap Natalie and I had dragged out last night.
What even is some of this junk? Looking around at all the possessions I had to sell, a pointedly empty feeling hits me from the pit of my stomach.
I hate having to deal with the Amber Room, but at the end of the day, it’s the only asset I’ve got.
There are some old designer clothes strewn about in boxes, some paintings that served no better purpose than maybe a conversation starter for guests, and some old jewelry I only ever wear for work in the first place.
My job is my life.
The anger that’s been burning low in the back of my mind flares up again, and I give one of the boxes of crap a sharp kick.
I don’t even know what to be angry at, really. Should I hate myself for letting myself get into this position? At my dad for dumping this on me? At Ivan for suggesting that I...that he…
I can’t ball my fists any tighter as I stomp into my room and slip out of my work clothes, just wanting nothing more than to be comfortable right now.
My bedroom is one of the few safe places I have left.
I flop back onto the soft mattress, spreading my tired bare limbs out on the comfortable sheets I worked so hard to keep clean.
“You will be my woman for a year, a servant to my whims and desires,” I repeat Ivan’s words at the ceiling, mockingly exaggerating his accent and making a face.
Who the hell does he think he is?
The voice in the back of my mind reminds me that he might be the only thing standing between me and getting pimped out by Oskar and his gang of goblins.
The back of my mind is an asshole.
I turn over and bury my face in my pillows, wishing I could make all this tension just...go away, if only for a little while.
But as I’m lying there on my stomach with the thought of Ivan hovering in my mind, my imagination can’t help but drift back to that first night we spent together over three months ago.
After seeing what kind of body the guy has, not even that suit he was wearing today could keep me from remembering what’s under it. Those rippling muscles, the look of absolute assuredness in his eyes that he would have total control of the bedroom for the next hour. I remember running my hands over those tattoos of his before he pressed that rock-hard body against me.
Snapping to my senses, I stop that train of thought in its tracks when I feel a familiar, warm tingling in my body, and I catch myself even as I’m starting to grind my hips into the bed. Shame rises to my cheeks.
This is the guy who just asked to own me for a year. To deprive me of my freedom to act outside his will, outside his grasp for twelve whole months.
...but how bad would that have sounded during the night we spent together?
After all, wasn’t that half the fun of it, at the time? I’d shirked all responsibility, left all the stress and all the worry over the club behind me as I set foot into his bedroom. Now that I remember glimpses of it, it was a nice place, too. A lot nicer than what I have, that’s for sure.
That’s what you get from mob money, I guess.
That thought makes me angry. This guy is the mafia. He’s a monster. A criminal.
But he isn’t as bad as the rest of them, now, is he?
I turn over on the bed and stare angrily at the ceiling again, furious at the sensations plaguing my body. There’s no way I’m going to let myself be the possession of some mobster who has access to anything he wants.
So why am I so wet?
My hand wanders its way down between my legs, and as my fingers brush my swollen lips through the fabric of the thin cloth covering them, I feel a comforting warmth through my body.
I also hear a hard NO come from my better judgment. This is the man who could determine whether a bunch of thugs have their way wi
th me.
Absolutely not. No. Under no circumstances.
All those thoughts do is make my heart race faster as I’m slipping my underwear off.
A little whimper escapes me as I part my lips and gently start to massage my clit. There’s more tension bound up in me than I realize, just like the last time I was with him. With Ivan. How did I not even get his name during the whole time we spent together?
My clit is reluctant to warm up to my touch, it’s been so long, but compulsion makes me keep massaging the sensitive skin as my legs move slowly up and down the sheets, relishing in the feel of the fabric against my inner thighs.
My fingers are moving a little faster as I get wetter, and then the night I’d buried under all the stress of work starts to come back to me. How strong Ivan was, how I had wanted to wrap myself around him and never let go.
He was just some gorgeous stranger, and I let him fuck me. I might not be able to imitate how his massive crown felt diving inside me, but my hips rocked up into my touch as I remember the way he felt grinding against me, holding me so lovingly even though it was a one-night stand.
He used me, I think to myself as I feel my fingers wetten as they touch my desperate, needy cunt. My whole body has been wishing for that release again, I realize.
The thought makes my heart flutter. The body I’ve been wanting to press up against me, to hold me tight and hold me up with an inescapable grip while he fucks me has been that of a mobster this whole time. A hardened criminal.
I let out a soft moan, not sure where the transition from idly touching myself to torturing my clit happened, but now I’m squirming on the bed sheets, my fingers covered in my own wetness, and my heart is racing.
He wants me. After all those months, he thought of me and wants me in his bed, in his hands, and around his cock again.
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