Dynasty: A Mafia Collection

by Jen Davis

  Karen put her hand on Dad’s leg and squeezed his knee in support of my mini pep talk. Her lips quivered, and then she tilted her head up, blotted her index fingers under her eyes, and flipped down the visor to check for mascara smears. Our financial situation had reached the tipping point. Dad had to get this job.

  “There’s a peacock.” I tapped on the window.

  I guess the bird heard me, or maybe it was afraid of the car, but it cawed and escaped to the safety of a low-hanging tree limb. It sounded totally freaked out.

  Beware. Turn around. Run for your lives…

  At the top of a flight of marble stairs, a scowling butler opened the double mahogany doors and swept his arm forward, but didn’t utter a word. His invitation skills could use some work. The scent of burning firewood greeted us in the entryway, which was illuminated by an impressive crystal chandelier that hung above our heads. If it fell, it would kill us all.

  The butler handed us house slippers in exchange for our street shoes, a Russian thing, I surmised. I changed out of my flats, and a domineering man with bushy eyebrows met us in the foyer. His body was so massive, I bet he could bench press ten of me.

  “Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Cook. I am Boris Chuchin, Vladimir Ivanov’s personal assistant.” His creepy Russian accent was so thick, I could barely understand him. Dad introduced Karen and presented Boris with a bottle of wine I was certain cost more than our weekly grocery budget. Boris didn’t smile or nod or even pretend to give a shit about the wine—or Karen.

  “And this is my daughter, Carter.” Dad put his hands on my shoulders and nudged me toward the big guy like he was serving up some tasty offering to appease the Village Giant.

  Boris, who resembled a buffalo standing on his hind legs, let out a humph sound and glared at me like I was something nasty Dad had dragged into the master’s house on the bottom of his shoe.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ch-ch-chuch—” I held out my hand.

  “Boris.” He stroked his bristly salt and pepper beard and eyed my hand like I had bird crap splattered across my palm. “I will let Vladimir know you have arrived.” He narrowed his eyes at me and then left to fetch his boss.

  Jeez. Are college girls germy plague-carriers back in Russia?

  As we waited, a black and white drawing of a woman with a lopsided face caught my attention. The picture hung on the wall next to an office to the right of the foyer. I squinted to see the signature: Picasso. The genius could afford anything he wanted.

  From across the room, Boris opened a set of French doors, and Vladimir breezed into the living room with the confidence of a sexy, expensive-suit-wearing, long and lean Russian god.

  “Ricky, my friend.” He cruised over to Dad and greeted him with a smile and a handshake like they had known each other for years. His perfectly tousled blond hair was slicked back in a devil-may-care manner, and soft ringlets congregated above his crisp, white collar. I made a mental note to sneak a picture of him for my best friend Kiki. I did not possess the vocabulary to do this sexy Russian justice.

  Dad introduced Karen, and then Vladimir directed all his energy down on me. His stare was intense and his blue eyes lit up with adoration as though he recognized me. “Privet, Miss Cook.” His words were laced with a delicious Russian accent. “Your papa speaks highly of you. It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh.”

  Flesh. I felt my cheeks warm. “Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand for a businesslike shake, then pulled it back when I recalled Boris’s grossed-out reaction to my gesture. Vladimir’s lips curled into a smile. He lifted my hand. The warmth of his touch, the scent of his expensive cologne, and the rush of nervous excitement that his lips were about to make contact with my skin made my belly tingle with anticipation.

  “Champagne?” Boris slid in between us with a silver tray glistening with five flutes of liquid gold, momentarily breaking the spell his boss had over me.

  I inhaled a shaky breath and glanced away, embarrassed by my reaction to Dad’s incredibly hot, potential new employer. Vladimir placed his other hand on top of mine and patted it apologetically. “Pardon me for staring, but you have your sister’s beautiful hazel eyes.”

  I blinked like a clubbed seal. “How do you know my sister? She’s dead.”

  Chapter 2

  Neverland

  Vladimir straightened his back and relaxed his penetrating stare. “My apologies, Miss Cook. I should have been more sensitive. The accident—such a pity.”

  A pity? Sophia went up in flames.

  “Sorry, I should’ve told you,” Dad said to me. “Funny story. After we got to talking the other day, we discovered Vladimir knew your sister way back when. He lived in Brooklyn at the same time we did.” Dad’s forehead was as shiny as a greased pig. He dabbed off the sweat beads onto his sleeve and then draped his arm across my shoulder. “Some coincidence, huh?”

  I shook off my bewilderment and gave Dad a reassuring smile. “Yeah, what’re the odds?”

  “Let’s get some fresh air and enjoy our drinks outside.” Vladimir extended his elbow to escort me to the patio. I shrugged off Dad’s arm, placed my hand on Vladimir’s ripped bicep, and strolled away with him out back to a tropical Ohio paradise.

  Despite the early December weather, the patio felt toasty and inviting. Heat lamps and potted palm trees lined the terrace, and a fireplace burned real wood next to the built-in stone bar. Vladimir handed Karen a glass of champagne and then offered one to me.

  “Oh, I’m not old enough.”

  “One small glass for a toast. I insist.” He had rings on all of his fingers—some were real and the others were tattoos.

  I glanced over at Dad.

  “One glass.” Dad would have never agreed under different circumstances.

  Vladimir handed out the rest of the champagne. We raised our drinks. He said something that sounded charming in Russian. Of course, the three of us had no idea what it meant. He lifted his glass higher and translated the toast, “To new beginnings.”

  We repeated the sentiment, clinked, and sipped. The bubbles tickled my nose. I had never tasted champagne—beer, wine, tequila, vodka, bourbon, yes—but nothing fancier than a top-shelf margarita on the rocks.

  Vladimir wrapped his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the chic seating area by the fireplace. “Your papa tells me you’re a tennis player.” When he lowered his arm, his hand swept over the long, bouncy, blonde waves I had curled into my hair. “You play for your college team?”

  “Vladimir plays, too.” Dad sounded relieved to move on to a subject more palatable than his dead daughter.

  “I’m on two teams. My college team is finished with competitions for the year, so my teammates and I play in an interclub league to stay competitive.”

  “Carter is an incredible athlete,” Dad said. “Her team conditions every morning before class, and then they play in the afternoon for a couple hours. The best part is, she practices at the tennis club next to our house, Queensgate, so she can live at home and commute to campus.”

  “Lucky me,” I said, more sarcastically than I’d intended.

  “You must be a talented athlete,” Vladimir said, taking in my muscular biceps and shoulders. I bit my lip and fantasized about the cut of his body under his perfectly tailored suit. When his eyes finished making a lap around my body, he smiled, unashamed I had busted him checking me out. I liked his scrutiny. It felt different than those horny guys on campus whose hungry eyes practically stripped girls naked as they walked through the quad.

  “Just competitive.” I smoothed down the fabric of the curve-hugging green velvet dress I’d borrowed from Kiki.

  “Competitive is an understatement,” Dad scoffed. “Last year during a high school soccer game, she fell and broke her arm—”

  “I didn’t fall. The fullback tripped me.”

  “How awful,” Vladimir said. “Did your team win the match?”

  I pointed at Dad. “See? He gets it. What matters is the outcome of the game. Details
about broken bones are just background noise.”

  Vladimir’s eyes sparkled. He understood my win-or-die trying competitive spirit.

  Dad tossed his hands up and laughed. “See these grays, Vladimir? I had a full head of thick dark hair—then, she hit high school.”

  There’s his happy face.

  “Finish the story, princess.” Dad’s cheeks were rosy, his complexion glowing.

  “I stayed in the game, scored two goals, my team won. The end.”

  Vladimir licked his lips. “I admire your fire, Miss Cook.” He lifted his champagne glass and rattled off something in Russian that sounded incredibly bold and supremely confident—and toe-curlingly sexy. He tried to clink my glass, but I held it back.

  “Not until you tell me what it means.” I challenged him with a wry smile.

  He lifted an eyebrow, unaccustomed it seemed to being denied. “Something good.” He flashed a wicked grin and raised his glass, not willing to reveal his secret. His teeth were crooked, but dazzling white.

  I sighed in mock defeat and raised my glass, momentarily giving him the impression he had won. Then I clinked his glass and replied, “Za zdorov'ye.” I was sure I’d butchered the to your health toast I’d picked up from Dad’s Russian culture book he’d been studying, but Vladimir seemed intrigued at my attempt to impress him.

  “Touché, Miss Cook.” Vladimir winked and downed his drink, amused either by the idea I had outplayed him or my horrid attempt to speak his language.

  The staff laid out a spread of hors d’oeuvres on the table behind us. I’m a vegetarian, and it’s chancy for me to find food at parties. Even if I thought I had a green light, sure enough, I would taste chicken broth or bacon and have to choke it out into my napkin. Just the smell of cooked meat was enough to trigger a gag reflex. I decided to play it safe and steer clear of the buffet, so Dad wouldn’t have to worry about my ‘overreaction’ to rotting flesh.

  “My personal chef has prepared this meal with my tastes in mind. I don’t eat meat,” Vladimir said. “I hope it’s enough to sustain you.”

  No. Freaking. Way.

  Boris brought out a bottle of vodka and set it down in front of his boss. Worried I had stolen the limelight from Dad, I made a plate and wandered off to sit at an outdoor couch at the edge of the patio that overlooked the pool. I didn’t want to be a distraction as they imbibed and hopefully discussed the details of the job Dad so desperately needed.

  I felt the searing heat of Boris’s intimidating gaze and tossed him an obligatory grin. He narrowed his eyes at me like I was some troublemaking rodent that needed to be exterminated and disappeared inside the house. Flipping through my phone, I saw my aunt had sent me a picture of my little sister cuddling a calico cat in her lap. Since we would be out way past her bedtime, Megan was spending the night with Karen’s sister. I texted her back.

  Sweet! Tell Chloe meow, meow, meow.

  Kiki had sent me a string of images from her downtown holiday adventure, including a hot one of our friend Ryan, who I’ve had a crush on since high school. She and our friends went to Fountain Square, which had ice-skating, and a nativity scene with a real reindeer, and a band…

  I heard the tapping of toenails on the patterned concrete and set down my cell. Two big, poufy poodles pranced at my feet and whimpered for attention. “Hi, cuties.” I held out my hands to greet them.

  Boris towered over me, restraining them with long, leather leashes. “This one is Gustav,” he pointed to the black one, “and gray bitch is Anastasia.”

  “Oh, they’re so sweet. I used to carry twin poodles around with me when I was little, a black one and a white one—well, it started off white and then turned gray because I wouldn’t let Dad drown her in the washing machine.”

  I picked up my cell and tapped the screen. “See?” I showed Boris a picture of my late sister Sophia hugging me as I cuddled my favorite stuffed animals in my arms. It was taken in Brooklyn before Dad moved us here to a suburb of Cincinnati. It was a windy day, and our wild hair was flying all over the place. I laughed, remembering the fun we’d had at Coney Island. Our biological mother ditched our family when I was a baby and Sophia was eight, leaving my big sister to fill her maternal shoes.

  Boris glanced at the picture and managed a tiny smile that looked painful for him to conjure up. “You look like big sister.”

  “Dad said my resemblance to her is haunting.”

  He made a humph sound and handed me the dog’s leads. “Take them out back to play. Be careful of construction.” He picked up a remote from the bar and turned on the lights to illuminate the yard.

  Across the patio, Karen and Dad cooed. I turned to see what they were gawking at, and then it was my turn to be wowed. The construction Boris was referring to was a nearly completed tennis court.

  “Next time bring your racquet,” Vladimir called out to me. His meat-free bachelor pad was too good to be true. Alcohol, playful poodles, and a tennis court: My own personal Neverland.

  Chapter 3

  Infestation

  The next morning, I went for a run and then headed to the tennis club to cover the early shift at the smoothie bar. I picked up all the hours I could get and saved every penny. Kiki and I were moving into our own apartment in June. I hadn’t laid the news on Dad yet because he would come up with a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t do it.

  The crime rate in Clifton, the dangers of two young ladies living alone, you should save your money…ugh. The idea of Dad’s thought process gave me a migraine. When he’d asked why I was working so much, I said I was saving for a car.

  I jogged up the sidewalk and noticed a shiny black Range Rover with bright red leather seats parked in the lot. A small metal badge on the back of the truck read ‘Autobiography.’ That must mean extra expensive in car speak. Maybe someone famous was there to visit the club owner Mr. Cusimano, an Italian tennis god with connections to all the important people in town.

  Rumors had been swirling he associated with the mafia, but that seemed ridiculous. Well, he did gamble a lot—and it’s illegal. Maybe the rumors weren’t that far-fetched.

  I walked to the bar, tied on an apron, and yelped when I turned around and spotted Vladimir reading over the menu board. His muscular, sweaty bod was covered in a black and blue Lacoste ensemble complete with coordinating shoes with little green gators on each side. In my shabby sweats and a craptastic t-shirt from little sibs weekend, I felt like a miss-matched athletic hobo compared to him.

  “Dobroye utro. Good morning, Miss Cook.” His soft, blond waves were curled up into tight sweaty ringlets above his shoulders.

  Sexy. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’ve never seen you here before.” I laughed at my awkwardness.

  He dabbed his forehead with a gym towel. “I only play weekends. Just finished up a match with Anthony.”

  “Mr. Cusimano? You must be special. He usually only hits with pros.”

  He gave me an arrogant wink and asked me what to order. I told him I would make him something healthy. My stomach did flip-flops as the Vitamix annihilated the greens. I pushed the stop button and poured the thick sludge into a plastic cup.

  When the veggie bile hit his taste buds, he winced.

  Way to go. Give the guy who can have anything liquefied spinach. “You don’t like it?”

  “Tastes like sewage.” He set it down and waved his hand over it.

  I laughed and poured him a glass of water to chase down the slime. “I said it was healthy, not that it tasted good. By the way, the spread at your house was awesome last night.”

  My tennis coach, a stocky dude who carried himself like a badass, steely-eyed pit bull, stalked past the counter and flashed me ‘the look.’ He glanced up at Vladimir, then back to me.

  Had I sounded flirty? Louder than necessary I said, “So, my dad had a lot of nice things to say about you after the party.”

  Perhaps also catching Coach’s admonishing glare, Vladimir smiled. “Your papa is a smart man. With a beautiful
family.”

  “Are you going to hire him?” As soon as I said it, I knew I’d crossed the line. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  He made a tsk sound to forgive my forwardness. “I called him this morning. He’s going over the contract.”

  “That’s great.” I put my hand on my heart. The stress of him not having a job had weighed on all of us. “Oh, let me make you something else. Do you like peanut butter?”

  “You have tortured me enough. Let me take you out to breakfast.”

  My mouth gaped. Did he just ask me out? It was fun to fantasize about him, but the invitation felt awkward. This was my dad’s new boss. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Ivanov.”

  He paused like I had given him the wrong answer, and he was waiting patiently for me to correct my faux pas.

  “I mean, not now. I just started my shift. Another time?”

  He inhaled sharply and set a bill on the counter. “Keep the change.” He headed to the locker room.

  I picked up the money and stumbled to the register—it was a hundred dollar bill. My stomach felt queasy. An important guy like Vladimir probably wasn’t used to being turned down. Should I have been more receptive to his invitation?

  Between customers I kept myself busy re-stocking the grab-n-go items and sports drinks, and then a red-faced Mr. Cusimano appeared at my counter, rubbing the back of his neck like he had a termite infestation under his skin. The guy could be a crank, but the last time I’d seen him that stressed out, he’d lost a couple stacks on a boxing match.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cusimano. Can I make you something?”

  He didn’t answer. His body was tense and his face so agitated, it appeared he was being burned alive from the inside out.

  “Are you okay? Can I get you some water?” I reached for a cup.

  He handed me a sheet of paper. “Go over these numbers and let me know where accounting has made an error.”