Dynasty: A Mafia Collection

by Jen Davis

  I felt the blood drain from my face. It was a record of all my extra court time. Whenever I wasn’t working, the pros let me join their group lessons. They loved it when I jumped in because I picked up all the balls in between drills so the members could keep playing. I hadn’t realized the pros turned in the numbers upstairs. “There’s no mistake, Mr. Cusimano.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “When I said you could have some extra lessons, I didn’t mean this.” He slapped the paper. “You’re taking advantage of me.”

  “Mr. Cusimano, it’s not like that—”

  “I can’t have this happening. I’m running a business.”

  “But I just—”

  “No I just. It’s unacceptable, Carter. I let one employee walk all over me, and then it’s anarchy. No. I’m going to have to let you go, effective immediately.”

  I steadied myself on the bar. “Please, I need this job. I’ll never play outside of my team practice again, and I’ll work every shift you’ll give me. I can run the beginner clinics, help out in the nursery, work the front desk—”

  “My decision is final, capisce?”

  “But you encouraged me to play. You said I’m good for the club’s image.”

  He chuckled, but his eyes looked hard. “I meant you’re an attractive young lady. Your pretty face is good for business.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Listen, I’ll be straight.” He seemed less agitated now, like objectifying me was lowering his blood pressure. “You broke your winning streak last week. I was counting on you to go undefeated this season. Would’ve been great publicity for the interclub program.” He lifted the comp sheet. “Worth all I pay to watch your cute little figure prance around in a miniskirt—”

  “It’s a tennis skirt, asshole.” I clinched my fists at my side.

  Mr. Cusimano’s lips tightened.

  My adrenaline was pumping bad ideas into my head. I snatched the paper out of his hand and shook it in front of his face. “I’m paying you back for every single gratis minute I spent on the court. I don’t ‘prance’ for play, capisce?”

  His nostrils flared. “You’re through here. Never bring that disrespectful mouth inside my club again.”

  I snagged my tennis bag and stomped away before my hubris tipped over into self-destruct mode. The temperature had dropped since I’d been inside, and a steady stream of icy rain fell from the overcast sky. I lifted the hood of my windbreaker over my head and zipped it up to my chin, encasing myself in a mini body bag. My cell vibrated in my pocket. I had a couple missed texts.

  Dad: I got the job!

  Dad: With a signing bonus!

  Dad: Olive Garden tonight?

  Finally, after months of uncertainty, Dad had a reason to celebrate, and predictably, I would torch his fifteen seconds of happiness. If I wasn’t allowed back in the club, that meant I was off the team. Dad bragged about my records and wins to anyone who would listen. Tennis and a straight A report card were the only two things I had to make him proud of me.

  The aftershocks stemming from my big, disrespectful mouth were settling into my nervous system. I couldn’t go home without a game plan. I changed course and headed toward the park where I could camp out and think in solitude. The wind picked up and whipped icy rain across my face, making my blustery commute almost unbearable. I trudged on and owned the biting winter air, as if enduring the conditions would somehow right my unremitting wrongs.

  By the time I reached the park, I was shivering like a strung out Chihuahua and sought refuge from the rain under a picnic shelter. While I marinated in self-hatred, I pulled out the invoice and stared at the long line of numbers. Even if I got another job, it would take months to pay off the balance. I could forget about moving out with Kiki in June.

  The fancy Range Rover I’d seen at the club earlier rolled onto the lot in front of my little sinner’s sanctuary. I squinted to make out the driver: Vladimir. Oh, God. Before I could untangle my legs and scamper off into the woods like a spooked raccoon, the car door opened. “Carter.” He rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I crammed the invoice in my pocket.

  He removed his Burberry trench coat, wrapped it around my shoulders, and led me inside his warm, clean SUV. I sat there, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne that lingered on his raincoat, and tried to come up with a non-humiliating reason for succumbing to the elements in a deserted park that was only a ten-minute walk from my house.

  He turned on the seat warmer, cranked up the heat, and cruised out of the parking lot.

  “Where are you taking me?” I stuttered, unable to keep my teeth from chattering.

  “Home. You’ll catch the death.”

  “Please, don’t.” I touched his arm. “I can’t face Dad right now.”

  “As you wish, Carter.” He made a call, spoke in Russian, and drove down the winding road that led to his luxurious, secluded hideaway in the woods.

  Chapter 4

  Protégé

  When we rolled up to the house, Vladimir slid the Rover into the vacant spot next to a mouth-watering red Ferrari. We got out of the SUV, and he escorted me through a door that led to an immaculate kitchen with a long, granite bar lined with barstools, stainless steel appliances, and a breakfast nook by the window that overlooked a basketball court and a guesthouse.

  Inside, Boris waited with a blanket in his arms and a contemptuous regard for me plastered across his face. Vladimir removed his coat from my shoulders and hung it up. Then he unzipped my inferior rain-drenched jacket and tossed it on the doormat, took the blanket from Boris, and wrapped it around my shoulders. He sat me down at a barstool and untied my shoes.

  I stopped his hand with mine, the blanket slipping from my shoulders. “I can—”

  “Hold the blanket in place. You’re shivering, Carter.”

  I didn’t argue. I wrapped the blanket tighter around me as he removed my soggy shoes and holey socks, which exposed my callused and blistered feet. I had worn out my tennis shoes months ago and didn’t want to use my savings to buy another pair.

  As if my situation could get any more humiliating, the rainwater had dissolved the grip a Band-Aid had around my big toe, and a flap of opaque skin dangled from the side of my foot. “Curse of the sporty,” I said.

  Vladimir shook his head, slipped a warm pair of fur-lined slippers onto my feet, and said something in Russian to Boris—probably warning him he was about to barf from the sight of my gnarly toes.

  He guided me out of the kitchen, past a formal dining room, and into the living area where he sat me down on a leather sofa in front of the fireplace. He tucked the blanket under me, which inhibited my movement. With my arms restrained, swaddled inside the tightly wound blanket, I felt like a captive bird that just had her wings clipped.

  Vladimir sat beside me and lifted a steaming teacup to my mouth. I hesitated, but he waited for me to change my mind. The aroma was pungent and too strong for my taste, but once I gave in, I found the flavor irresistible. “How are you feeling?”

  My gaze drifted back to the tea. I wanted more of the hot, exotic refreshment. Vladimir loosened the blanket and placed the cup in my hands. I took another sip, licked my lips, and resisted the urge to gulp it down. “I’m fine. You don’t have to go to any trouble for me. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “What has you so upset? Guy troubles?”

  I snorted. “You could say that. Mr. Cusimano fired me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I play too much tennis. I took advantage of his generosity.”

  “That’s your terrible crime?”

  “One of them.” I fiddled with the fringe on a silky throw pillow. “He said some things, I said some things, and then he banned me from the club. I’ll have to quit my team.”

  Vladimir tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Anything else?”

  I scoffed. “I’m just getting warmed up.” I lifted the rain-dampened invoice out of my pocket. “A
s a matter of principle, I insisted on paying Mr. Cusimano back for the sixty hours of court time I’ve amassed over the last three months. I shouldn’t have to—it’s a job perk and he said I could—but hell if I’m going to owe that asshole anything.” I winced at my language. Mr. Cusimano was Vladimir’s friend.

  “May I see it?” He plucked it out of my hand. Without looking at it, he spoke in Russian and passed it on to Boris, whom I hadn’t realized was lurking over my shoulder.

  Boris fired a nuclear death ray at me and tucked the soggy paper into his black suit jacket.

  I held out my hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You didn’t tell him to pay it, did you? There’s no way I can let you do that. Dad will kill me if he finds out I came crying to you about this.”

  Vladimir eyed my shaky hands.

  I curled them up in a ball and tucked them under my legs.

  “The amount is insignificant. I can make your financial problems disappear. Let me.”

  For a second, I considered it. “I appreciate your offer, but I’ll find another job.”

  He sat back, eyeing me a moment. “What are you studying in college?”

  “Double major in business and sports management. I’m going to be a sports agent.”

  He smiled like he was proud of me. “I have a business. You’ll work for me. Problem solved.”

  My mouth gaped.

  “Furthermore, I will personally speak to Anthony Cusimano and see to it he welcomes you back to the club. Your membership will be restored, you will have unlimited court time and private lessons, and you will enjoy all the amenities the club has to offer—without limit. Consider it a job perk.” He winked. “Think of me as your mentor, Miss Cook. Anything else you need help with?” He stood and straightened his suit jacket.

  “Wait. Work for you? What will I do?”

  “Boris, you can assess her skills and assign jobs to keep my new protégé productive?”

  Boris grinned sadistically like an overgrown housecat with a mouse tail dangling between his lips. “Of course, boss. I’ll put her to work.”

  “It’s settled then. Starting Monday you will report to me every day after practice. Your homework will be completed, you will keep up with your athletic schedule, and you will stay out of trouble, understand?”

  “What about Dad? He’ll lose his mind when I tell him.”

  “Then maybe it’s best you don’t.”

  Wouldn’t be the first time I lied and snuck around behind Dad’s back.

  On the car ride home, Vladimir stole glances at me, making me feel completely self-conscious. I broke the awkward silence. “How did you know my sister?”

  Vladimir steered the car into the parking lot of the church by our house and turned off the car. I wondered if he knew Sophia was buried just over the hill in the cemetery behind the church. “I must be honest with you, Carter. Your sister and I were more than acquaintances. We were in love.” His expression was like Dad’s when he spoke of her—bright and wet.

  “What are you talking about?” Sophia was in high school when we lived in Brooklyn. Did Dad know? He couldn’t have, not the way he talked about Vladimir after they met at the coffee shop last week. I mean, Dad was clear that he’d just met Vladimir, and that meant it wasn’t a coincidence Vladimir bumped into Dad at Starbucks.

  Vladimir studied my reaction as if he could hear the Tilt-a-Whirl inside my head. “Sophia was my world. You look so much like her, Carter. Her golden eyes, silky blonde hair. I never married, never started a family, never found another woman who could compare. She was younger than you when we met and equally as beautiful.”

  I fidgeted with the zipper on my coat, unnerved by the comparison.

  He lifted my chin. “She talked about you all the time. Her spunky little sister Carter, always getting into trouble with her papa. Sophia would be proud of all your accomplishments. Helping you fulfill your dreams gives me great satisfaction.”

  Oh, God.

  ***

  That night, I lay in bed and wrestled with a devil on my left shoulder and an angel on the right. The angel—who I believed to be the spirit of Sophia—pleaded with me to tell Dad everything that had transpired between Vladimir and me. She’d always been my sensible voice of reason. Inside, I knew she was right, but over on the other side, the ornery little devil jabbed his pitchfork on my sense of duty.

  If you tell your dad, you will incinerate his pride because you went behind his back and begged a stranger for money to cover up for your never ending trail of bad judgment calls.

  Sheesh. The devil was right, too, but Dad had finally landed his dream job. Last week, I’d seen an official looking letter from the mortgage company on Dad’s desk. If Vladimir hadn’t hired him, we would’ve lost the house. Vladimir wouldn’t take it well if I walked away, and I couldn’t jeopardize Dad’s new CIO position. I convinced myself to stick with the plan, and if things got too weird I would tell Dad. Until that time, I’d been promoted from smoothie barista to Mr. Vladimir Ivanov’s indentured servant.

  Chapter 5

  Kill Shot

  On Monday, I had a package waiting for me when I got to the club. I opened it and found a pair of hot pink Asics and a dozen pairs of cushiony athletic socks. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment, but I was grateful, yet slightly freaked out, by the forwardness of my new boss.

  I changed into my new kicks, tossed the old ones in the can, and joined my teammates on the court. I was back in the club as if my conversation with Mr. Cusimano had never happened. He even met me when I got off the court, apologized, and welcomed me back—weird.

  Not knowing what the plan was with Vladimir, I waited outside after practice and assumed he would magically appear like he had in the park. I looked around for the Ferrari or Range Rover, but he wasn’t there.

  As I stood in the parking lot, still perspiring from a tough practice, a souped-up, black Cadillac with tinted windows crept up next to me. The glossy, after-market wheels glistened in the sunlight like black ice. The window came down and revealed the driver: Boris. There wasn’t a more perfect car in the world for that beast of a man.

  I opened the passenger door and slid inside. “Nice ride.”

  He had a stinky stogie between his teeth and was wearing a plaid pimp hat with a dotted feather tucked into the rim. As he rolled off the lot, I noticed his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which revealed a tattoo of a black dagger inked on his neck. In his expensive-looking black suit, a fat gold chain around his neck, and an ominous expression that sneered, “Please give me a reason to kill you,” I mentally cautioned myself not to do anything to piss off the big guy.

  Russian polka music reverberated through the car, and I sat quietly in the passenger seat and processed the Big Fat Mess I’d walked into when I accepted Vladimir’s offer. I was certain it was a gift, the problems I created for myself. Everyone had a talent; mine was doing the exact opposite of The Right Thing.

  “What’s all that?” Boris pointed to the wad ’o crap dangling from the lanyard around my neck.

  I let out a little snort and held it up. “This is a rape whistle, and this is a mini thing of mace. I walk everywhere. I have to protect myself. And this is my house key, another key to my best friend’s house, and a cherry-flavored ChapStick.”

  “Why don’t you drive?”

  Because Dad doesn’t trust me. I lifted my shoulders. “I like to walk.”

  He let out a humph which I suppose meant he was satisfied with my answer.

  A wooden cross adorned with faux jewels and bound in a lacy pink ribbon dangled from the rear-view mirror. It had Russian letters scribbled across it in a child’s handwriting. Boris tapped his rings on the steering wheel when he noticed me admiring it. I wanted to ask him who made it, but I didn’t think it wise to strike up a conversation with a snarling grizzly bear.

  As we cruised down the hill past the church, I recognized the Chevy pickup driving past us on the other side of the road. The driver zeroed in on me as we passed.


  “Shit.” I slunk down in my seat to hide—two seconds too late.

  Boris turned off the radio. “What?”

  “I’m so sorry.” I covered my hands over my face and sat up just enough to peek through my fingers and take a look behind. “Shit, shit, shit.” The truck turned around.

  Boris glanced in the rearview mirror. “Who is that?”

  “It’s too late. He saw me. Pull into the park up here on the right. I’m just going to let him shoot me and get it over with. I’m dead anyway.” I curled my legs up to my chest and watched the truck closing in on us. I lifted my tennis bag up to my lap and unzipped the side pocket.

  I may not win this round, but I won’t go down without a fight.

  Boris opened the glove box and pulled out a long black gun.

  “Jeez. What the hell?”

  He glared at me like I was the crazy one. I pulled my fat orange-and-yellow Nerf gun out of my bag and waved it at him. “Chill, Putin, it’s a game. Ever hear of dart tag?”

  Boris eyed my toy and slid his gun back into the glove box. “You give up that easily?”

  “The odds are against me. He and his buddies play video war games like it’s their religion. Plus, it’s stupid and not worth my time. I surrender.”

  “Do what I say.” Boris sped through the lot and parked by the picnic shelter. “Hide behind the wall.” He pointed to the shelter. “Davai.” That meant, “Hurry the fuck up,” in Russian, I supposed.

  The truck pulled in and parked next to the Caddy. My friend Ryan and his gun-toting buddy got out of the truck and tried in vain to conceal humongous plastic machine guns behind their backs. When they approached the Caddy, Boris leaned against the car and puffed on his stogie. Ryan stooped down and peeked inside the car.

  “Good afternoon, gentleman,” Boris said. He exhaled a gray cloud of tobacco smoke.

  The guys scrunched up their faces.