Dynasty: A Mafia Collection

by Jen Davis

  “Is there something I can help you with? You seem to have lost something.”

  “Just looking for our friend Carter, sir. Happen to know where she went?” Ryan asked, widening his stance commando style.

  Boris crossed his arms. “You want me to be a rat?”

  I covered my mouth to stifle my giggle.

  “Who are you?” Ryan’s buddy asked.

  From my hiding spot behind the shelter I snuck up behind my unsuspecting victims. First, I popped Ryan’s friend in the back with my wimpy handgun and then took down one of my best friends with a kill shot to the head.

  “Gotcha.” I lifted the gun to my lips and blew away imaginary smoke from my two perfect shots. When they turned to meet their assailant, their shoulders slumped in defeat as the realization sunk in I had outplayed them.

  “That’s how you do it, boys.” I smacked Ryan on the ass.

  He reeled me in for a hug and spanked me back. “That was hot, babe.” His muscles were strong and chiseled as if his body had been carved from petrified wood.

  Ryan’s friend headed back to the truck, not at all as good a sport as his buddy. Boris watched their reactions with a glint of satisfaction in his menacing eyes.

  Ryan wrinkled his forehead and sized up Boris. “You hired a bodyguard?”

  I laughed. “Oh, right. Uh, this is Boris. He works for Dad’s new boss. He’s taking me to check out the office. Boris, this is my friend, Ryan.”

  Ryan shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Boris didn’t return the sentiment.

  “Hey, what’s our bet tonight, Cookie? San Francisco or Seattle?” Ryan asked.

  I put my hand on my hip and twisted my lips as I thought it over. “Hmm, it’s going to be close. Both have great offenses, but I think San Francisco’s defense will dominate.”

  “Yeah, but don’t forget, Seattle has the Twelfth Man factor at home.”

  “True. It’ll be a tight game, so I’m going to have to go with my tried and true, no fail approach—hottest QB wins. I’ll take San Francisco.”

  “That guy has nothing on me.” He flexed his bicep and kissed his bulging muscle. Ryan was a freshman running back on the UC football team and worked out more than I did.

  “You wish.” I shoved him in the chest. “What do I get if I win—I mean when I win?”

  “When I win,” Ryan said, “you have to wear my jersey Friday night, and I’ll treat you to dinner if you pull it off, deal?”

  “Deal.” We shook on it. “What time are you coming over tonight?” I asked.

  “We have an end-of-season team thing, so I probably won’t get to your house until the third or fourth quarter. Save me some pizza?”

  “Yep.”

  His cowboy boots clicked on the blacktop as he walked back to the truck. Over on the basketball court, I caught a glimpse of this super-hot Spanish guy, Leonardo, shooting hoops with his friends. He worked out at the club and had been hanging around the smoothie bar for a couple of weeks. He spotted me and tossed me an up nod.

  I mouthed ¡hola! and then sucked in my bottom lip and turned away, embarrassed he had caught me checking him out. I leaned against the Cadillac next to Boris and held up a closed hand to initiate a fist bump. “That was badass, man.”

  Boris studied my gesture and knocked his thick, tattooed knuckle into my pale boney fingers like an eighteen-wheeler crashing into a Smart car.

  Ouch. I shook my fingers to relieve the pain. “I’m glad you’re on my team.”

  Chapter 6

  Hell One, Heaven Zip

  When we arrived at the house, Boris ushered me to the kitchen and motioned for me to sit at the bar. He placed a teakettle over a gas flame.

  “So, what’s my first assignment? I can compose letters, do research, bookkeeping, slide presentations, spreadsheets—”

  “You will use vegetarian skills and make dinner for boss tonight.” He handed me a pad of paper and a pen. “Make list.”

  Mentally, I prayed for guidance. “What happened to the chef?”

  “He left us unexpectedly.”

  There was no way I could pull it off. My idea of a weekday dinner was a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. What the heck did Boris expect me to do?

  For our first course, Mr. Ivanov, I have opened a can of condensed tomato soup, added some water from the faucet, dumped it all into a microwave-safe bowl, and nuked it on high for a minute and a half. For crunch I have crumbled a handful of Goldfish crackers—

  “Davai.” Boris tapped his finger on the counter next to the pad of paper. “Write down what you need. I will send runner to pick up groceries.”

  I cocked my eye. “Can you give me a hint?”

  He clicked his tongue like I was a moron. He held his hands out in front of the pad of paper. “Carrots, potatoes, beets, legumes, you know?”

  I stuck a piece of gum in my mouth, chewed, and blinked at him like a dim-witted cow. He chuckled. Not like it was funny, more like he was stupefied by my ignorance. From behind the counter he pulled out a stack of cookbooks. He set them down in front of me and motioned for me to get to work.

  In the spirit of going along with it, I opened one up. “What’s this, Russian?”

  “Da, Russkiy.” He poured two cups of tea.

  I could translate the Russian words into English on my phone—but still.

  “What kind of vegetarian is Mr. Ivanov?” After a blank stare from Boris I elaborated. “For example, I don’t eat meat, fish, or eggs, but I do eat dairy. I’m a lacto-vegetarian.”

  “He’s same vegetarian as you.”

  “Why doesn’t he eat meat?”

  “Why don’t you eat meat?” He slid a teacup on a saucer over to me.

  “Thank you.” I spit my gum out into the trashcan. “I find dead things unappetizing.”

  Boris sipped his tea and completely ignored my question. I gave up, rifled through the pages, and found a picture of a seemingly doable recipe for a vegetarian stew. As I scribbled down a list of ingredients, a guy pushed open the kitchen door and handed Boris a gym bag. With his slicked-back black hair and obnoxious swagger, the dude looked like a total player.

  He conversed with Boris in their native tongue and pointed outside. I followed his gesture and snuck a peek out the window. There were two other shady looking guys in tracksuits smoking and shooting hoops down at the end of the driveway next to the guesthouse.

  The whole time he was talking, the guy stared at my body, salivating, like I was some tasty morsel wrapped in bacon. He made a smooching sound and motioned for me to come to him. I sucked in my lips and looked to the big guy for guidance.

  Boris reprimanded him and snapped his fingers at the dude—who smelled like he had been swimming in a vat of Abercrombie cologne and cigarette butts. The playboy held up his hands in surrender and backed out of the room with a grin on his face.

  “How do you say ‘asshole’ in Russian?” I asked Boris.

  His red face softened, but I could tell he was still irate. “Lapsha.”

  “Lapsha means asshole? I’ll remember that.” The devil on my shoulder poked me in the neck: Get over yourself. It’s a cultural thing. Sophia said, Get the hell out of there!

  If I had a car I would’ve listened to Sophia—damn the consequences. I shouldn’t have been in a house full of men who looked like they wanted to eat me alive. From outside, I heard the peacock alarm going off, and the orgasmic hum of the Ferrari engine. As I waited for the door to open, I wrestled with my conflicting emotions—excitement and fear.

  The devil jumped over to the right side of my shoulder, grabbed Sophia by her wings, and shook her violently. She tried to fight back, but the devil overpowered her. Out of strength and resolve, Sophia flew away into the sky leaving a stream of silvery white feathers in her wake. The devil kicked back and leaned against the crook of my neck—hell one, heaven zip.

  “Boss likes a drink after work.” Boris motioned for me to follow him to the bar. He lifted a bottle of vodka out o
f the fridge and turned over three shot glasses.

  I heard the car door shut in the garage. The poodles cried, Papa’s home! from the other side of the kitchen door. When Vladimir came in, I expected him to flash me a crooked smile, have a drink, relax—no such luck. He burst through the door raging into his cell in Russian. He stormed through the kitchen and trailed off to his office on the other side of the house.

  Boris listened and then excused himself to handle damage control. Toenails danced on the hardwood and then one of the poodles yelped. When Boris came back to the kitchen, he didn’t specifically say what had lit Vladimir up, just that there was a minor issue back home in Russia he needed to handle. Apparently he needed to handle it without me in the house. Boris took me home before I had a chance to screw up dinner.

  Chapter 7

  Whacked

  Surprisingly, I’d slept soundly after The Situation on my first day at work. I shouldn’t have been so relaxed. I had a crucial, must-win match that afternoon. Our team was tied for first place in our division, and our opponents were the co-leaders.

  During warm ups, Coach fed the basket and pounded balls at us to keep us aggressive. “Be ready for anything, ladies.”

  My statuesque partner Rakhi, who had the wingspan of a condor, and I were up first.

  “Play like it’s for a trophy,” Coach said. “Three balls, no mercy.”

  Coach nailed the ball down the middle on the first feed. I called Rakhi off it and sliced it crosscourt at Coach’s gut. He pounded it back. I got my strings on it but hit it into the net. He lobbed the next feed over my head.

  “Switch!” I yelled.

  Rakhi hustled back to chase it down, and I slid over to defend her spot. She popped back a floater right into Coach’s sweet spot. In a match situation, I would’ve shuffled back to the baseline to return the overhead on the bounce, but I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of our opponents who were warming up on the court next to us. I should’ve adhered to my personal mantra: “Live to fight another day,” which meant don’t dive for shots you can’t reach or otherwise set yourself up for an injury when it’s not absolutely necessary, say match point or something. Stupidly, though, I held my position at the net not willing to give up on offense.

  Coach had his arm up, racquet back as the ball came down. “It’s coming to you, Carter. Shuffle back.”

  I bounced on my toes on the service line. No way would I back down.

  Coach cranked the overhead shot. Wham! The ball nailed me on the right side of my cheek. The shock—more than the force of the blow—caused me to drop my racquet. It didn’t hurt that bad; it was a tennis ball not a baseball. Coach apologized. He thought I could defend it. I told him it was no big deal, but I was embarrassed I’d lost the point in front of our competition.

  ***

  After our match was over, I jogged out of the club and slid into the Caddy. I said a cheerful hello to Boris, pumped that we’d creamed our opponents.

  “You won.”

  “Yep. We’re officially in first place. We need three points next week to clinch playoffs.”

  “Congratulations.” The car sat idle. He glared at me but didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything either. How unnerving. The only sound was the tapping of his gold rings on the steering wheel. “Everything okay?” Veins were bulging out on the side of his head.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Who did that?” He motioned to my cheek. He put off such a badass vibe. I was sure he’d seen or inflicted worse.

  I put my hands up and laughed at his overreaction. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Answer me.” He wrapped his big hand under my chin and turned my head to inspect the damage. I had iced it before and after the match, leaving my skin bright red from the cold pack.

  I pushed his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”

  “Name.”

  What the hell was his problem? “Um, me. I did it. I hit myself with my racquet defending a shot to the face. I feel like an ass.”

  “But you’re right handed. If you hit yourself, you strike left side of face.” He picked up my right hand and demonstrated the swinging motion.

  What the hell? Was he former KGB back in Mother Russia? “Okay. Jeez. Calm down. I got nailed with a ball during warm-ups. Can we go now?”

  “A man did it.” He rubbed his beard. “Women always lie when men hurt them.”

  I pulled a can of almonds out of my bag, noshed, and ignored his spot-on observation. Yes, a man did it, but he didn’t mean to hurt me—he was just trying to scare me. As the saying goes in tennis, “High you die.” My opponents would’ve never shown me mercy. “It was my fault. I should’ve backed up.”

  “Better get your story straight when boss asks.”

  Chapter 8

  Sucka

  A hefty Russian guy wearing a permanent frown on his face was carrying groceries into the house as we pulled up the driveway. He was the butler guy who had greeted us at the door on the night of the party. Boris took the bag from him and handed over the keys to the Cadillac.

  Before the dude got in the car, he admired my bare legs and studied the red mark on my face. He shifted his gaze over to Boris, as if questioning the source of the damage. I sucked in my bottom lip and turned away.

  “Did you bring change of clothes?” Boris asked, admonishing my tennis skirt.

  “I can pull on some sweats. I’ll bring something to change into from now on.”

  Boris carried the groceries inside and then opened up a leather notebook, put on a pair of reading glasses, turned on a sports program on the radio, and pretended he wasn’t babysitting me. I kept a bag of ice next to me on the counter and pressed it against my face intermittently as I chopped up zucchini, onions, potatoes, beets, and carrots in the food processor for the stew.

  While I worked, I Tweeted and returned a few texts. I tried to muffle my giggles, but my friends were cracking me up. Boris set out a plastic bucket on the kitchen floor and instructed me to toss the vegetable butts, skin, and extras in there for the birds. The peacock was out by the basketball court strutting around with his feathers fanned out to impress the peahen.

  “What’s the peacock’s name?” I asked.

  “Igor.”

  “What’s his girlfriend’s name? Is she Russkiy, too?”

  Boris glared at me over his glasses. “Natasha.”

  “Mr. Ivanov loves animals, huh? That’s why he’s a vegetarian?”

  Not a peep from the big guy. Jeez. If I had ignored his question he would have held me upside down by my ankles and shook me until I came up with an answer. Fine. I’ll entertain myself. From where I was chopping, the feed bucket was about six feet away. Instead of scooting it closer, I tossed the leftovers out free-throw style. Yeah, I knew my game was annoying him.

  “That’s three in a row,” he said, not looking up from his book.

  “I’m on a winning streak.”

  He peeked over his reading glasses. “Care to make wager?”

  “Seriously?” I would never back down from a challenge. “What’s the bet?”

  He tapped his pencil on the counter. “If you miss your next shot, you show me your phone. The way you and your friends waste time fascinates me.”

  “Fine. If I miss, which I won’t, I’ll let you see my phone for ten seconds.”

  He scoffed.

  I put down the knife. “Okay thirty seconds. What do I get if I make it?” I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter.

  He scratched his bristly salt and pepper beard. “What do you want?”

  Honestly, I didn’t want anything from him, but since I was confident I would make the shot, I came up with a brilliant idea. “Truth or Dare.” I put my hand on my hip and cocked my head, proud I’d outsmarted him.

  He studied my pre-victory confidence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “If I win you have to pick truth or dare. So, if you say ‘truth’ then I get to ask you a question, and you have to answer i
t truthfully. You can’t lie.” I pointed a stern finger at him. “If you choose ‘dare’ you have to do whatever I say.”

  “What’re you going to make me do?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you, but as an example, the last time one of my cocky friends chose dare, I made him chug an entire bottle of hot salsa. Once you’re in, there’s no backing out.”

  He tapped his fingers on the bar.

  “Take it or leave it, tough guy.” I held out my hand.

  “I’ll take it, of course.” He shook—crushed—my hand and nodded for me to go for it.

  I chunked off a piece of zucchini, lifted it over my head, and tossed it easily into the bucket. “Woo-hoo!” I did a victory dance. “Truth or dare, sucka?”

  He removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. “Double or nothing?”

  “No way, really?”

  “What can I say? I don’t know when to quit.”

  I felt kind of sorry for him. He was always listening to games on the radio and scribbling down notes or stats or something in a leather binder. Maybe he had a gambling problem. “Double or nothing it is.” I agreed before he had a chance to come to his senses.

  As I chopped off another piece, Boris got up and stood by the bucket to get a better view. I held the chunk up like before, aimed, and tossed a perfect shot. Just as it was about to float in, he batted it down to the floor.

  “Hey, no fair.”

  Boris cocked his head. “Of course it’s fair. Fan interference. You didn’t make the shot. I win.” He held out his hand. “Double or nothing means I get your phone for one minute.”

  “Whatever, cheater. If you want to snoop on my phone that bad I’ll give it to you, even though we both know you played dirty.” I turned my back, lifted my phone out of my sports bra, and slapped it in the palm of his hand. “Go.” I counted out loud as Boris scanned my texts, taking in as much data as he could in the allotted time.

  I peeked down to see what my friends were saying that had him so enthralled in our conversation, but he turned to block my view. “Fifty-nine, sixty.” I snatched my phone back and scanned my texts in search of anything embarrassing. Nothing too bad, just some post-victory tennis texts, a few flirty texts from Ryan—he loved to tease me—and an urgent reminder from Kiki I needed to secure a date for the ballet the following Friday. I slipped my phone back in my pocket and finished chopping up dinner. My mouth needed an off switch.