Dynasty: A Mafia Collection

by Jen Davis

  “Your boyfriend calls you Cookie?”

  I ignored him and sautéed the veggies in a skillet to soften them up before I added the broth. After an eternity of awkwardness he said, “Never make a bet you’re not willing to lose.”

  Screw you, cheater. “I’ll remember that.” Preparing all the delicious food made my stomach growl. If I served dinner at eight, I wouldn’t get home until, like, nine. I rifled through my tennis bag to scrounge up some emergency food rations. I found a cup of peanut butter and a bounty of Almond Joys my little sister had rejected from her Halloween candy stash. I unwrapped one of the candy bars, dunked it in the cup, and scooped a heaping helping of peanut butter into my mouth. Kiki had advised me it was gross to tool around with a wad of peanut butter in my mouth, but so what? It wasn’t like I was going to make out with anyone.

  I jogged downstairs to retrieve some vino from the wine cellar, which was the size of the entire second story of Dad’s house. I found a bottle that likely cost more than my tuition and trotted back upstairs. I rounded up the poodles and put them in their crates in case Vladimir wasn’t in a good mood.

  I headed to the guest bedroom to shower. Once I was clean, I was about to help myself to the liquor cabinet to settle my nerves, when I heard the garage door open. I’d tried to conceal the red mark on my face with powder, but there was no way to cover it up. He would notice right away, and I didn’t want to see him angry again. Over what I wasn’t sure, but Boris had flipped out over it. Maybe Vladimir would react the same way.

  Vladimir breezed through the door. “What’s that delicious smell, Carter? Don’t tell me you went to any trouble for me?” He hung up his coat, slipped on a pair of house shoes, and set down his briefcase in the mudroom next to the garage door.

  “Oh, it’s just a lentil stew.”

  He walked up to me, planted his hands on my shoulders, and kissed my cheeks. “I apologize for my late dinner time—demands of my job. You must be starved.”

  I fluttered my eyes like a love-struck idiot; the kisses caught me off guard. Is that the usual greeting in Russia? Does everyone get the special treatment? “Oh, no. Don’t worry about me,” I stammered. “I’ll eat later.”

  Vladimir lowered his hands and pushed open the swinging door to see the table set for one. His eyes sharpened. “You don’t expect me to eat alone, do you?” He held the door open and ushered me to the formal dining room.

  Boris appeared by the table, set down another place setting, and pulled a chair out for me. Before I sat, I whispered to Boris. “I can’t stay too late. I have to be home by ten o’clock.”

  “You are grown woman and have curfew?”

  “It’s not a curfew, more like a respect thing. Dad worries about me.”

  “You’ll be home by curfew.”

  Vladimir joined me at the table and set down the bread and dipping oil between us. “You got in a fight with your boyfriend?”

  Oh, shit. Apparently all Russian men think a bruise on a woman can only come from abuse. Suddenly, I worried this might twist back on Coach in some bad way. There were some serious cultural miscommunications going on. “No fight. No boyfriend, either, just a little competitive action on the court.” I dipped my bread in the olive oil, like, a hundred times.

  He gave me all of his attention. “You won your match today?”

  My belly quivered. “Mm-hm.”

  He nodded his approval like my win was a positive reflection on him.

  I bit my lip, unnerved he wouldn’t stop staring at me. “Oh, and thanks for the new tennis shoes. Pink is my favorite color.”

  “My pleasure. Tell me about your game.”

  “It was awesome. My partner and I took over the net and won the first set, but in the second set, our opponents killed us with lobs and dominated two to six.”

  “How did you manage your comeback?”

  “When you’re losing, you have to change your strategy. Rakhi and I never do this, but we switched sides for the super tiebreaker. I played the deuce side, and she moved to ad. It messed with their minds. We won ten to two. Want to know the best part?”

  “Isn’t winning the best part?”

  “No. The girls we played today creamed us in two straight sets earlier in the season.” I leaned forward like I was about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “The payback is the best part.” I slapped my hand on the table, which caused the wine to ripple in the decanter. “Sorry, I get carried away when it comes to competition.”

  “Don’t apologize. I adore your passion.” He locked his gaze on mine. “At what point in the match did your opponent hit you?” He brushed his finger across his cheek.

  Boris appeared from around the corner and riffled through the china cabinet.

  “It happened during warm-ups.”

  “Your teammate hit you then?”

  Boris stalked behind Vladimir’s back like the Big Bad Wolf peeking around a tree.

  “Ummm, we had to win this match today to keep our playoff hopes alive so Coach fed us some tough shots to keep us on our toes and I was out of position. I should have backed up so he treated it like a match situation and fired the ball at me—”

  Vladimir inhaled sharply.

  “Not to hurt me or anything. Just to teach me a lesson.”

  He blinked his cool blue eyes and tapped his fingers. He looked angry enough to snap the table in half with his bare hands.

  “No, no, bad choice of words. I’m sorry—”

  Boris held up his hand to shut me up and spoke to the boss in Russian, presumably to calm him down. Whatever he said kicked his intensity level down a notch.

  “Interesting technique Coach uses to train his girls.” He lifted his glass to initiate a toast.

  “Oh, I can’t. I mean I don’t imbibe on school nights.”

  “Just a drink to be social. Za tebya.” Vladimir’s glass hung in the air.

  I didn’t want to insult him, plus I seriously needed to relax. I lifted my glass and clinked. “Za tebya.”

  Chapter 9

  Marble Slab

  On Friday, I had officially survived my first week as Vladimir’s employee. My attempt to mimic the artistry of a chef was as laughable as me trying to return a serve from Serena Williams. After our first meal together, Vladimir told me to forget the recipe books and make what I liked to eat.

  We had moved from eating botched fancy meals in the formal dining room to having a variety of appetizers and cocktails around the bar in the kitchen. With the new, less intimidating plan, I was busy with prep and assembly, and I could relax enough to hold a conversation without having an anxiety attack.

  When Boris and I got back to the house after practice, I went to my room, the guest room, showered, and got ready Friday Night Style—jeans, bling, hair, and makeup. During the week I donned my sporty girl attire, but I made an effort to raise my stats at social events. I just had to get through dinner, a few cocktails, some chitchat, and in a few hours I would be free from the Russians for an entire glorious weekend.

  Once I was ready, Boris kept me company at the bar while he listened to a radio commentator jawing about college bowl games. UC was out of contention and finished for the season. He had his reading glasses on, a stack of papers fanned out around him, and was jotting down notes in a little black book.

  “What are you, a bookie?” I joked.

  He didn’t respond.

  Crap. Was he a bookie? I tied on an apron I’d found in a drawer and then opened a can of cannellini beans and dumped them into a glass bowl. I added salt, a dash of pepper, diced tomatoes, and a big bunch of finely chopped parsley. I folded the ingredients together, squeezed a lemon over top, and scooped spoonfuls of the mix onto bite-size tortilla chips.

  “You know, I’m capable of doing more than making dinner. I can do business things.”

  “You call that dinner?”

  I placed a couple of them on an appetizer plate and set it next to Boris. “They’re delicious.” I stuffed one in my mouth.
/>   He glared at me. “You’re in good mood.”

  “It’s officially the weekend. T.G.I.F.F.F.”

  His expression didn’t change. “Is code for?” He tipped his hand.

  “Thank God It’s Finally Fucking Friday?” I grinned and popped another bean thing in my mouth.

  “You have big plans tonight?”

  I guess he’d observed the obvious up-tick in my weekend style. “Oh, the usual.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hanging out with my friends.”

  “Where?”

  “Hockey game.”

  He stared at me.

  “What?”

  “I am waiting to hear the rest of your plans.” He leaned forward. “You and your college friends don’t go home to bed after the game, right?”

  Yikes. I busied myself at the chopping block and diced an eggplant for a dip. “Um, we just hang out and, you know, talk. What are your plans? Married? Got a girlfriend?”

  “Who is driving you home?” Both his hands lay flat, palms down on the bar like an overweight panther ready to pounce.

  Using the knife, I slid the eggplant into a clear bowl and put it in the microwave to soften before I pureed it. “I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I can do whatever I want in my free time.”

  “The big boy or the basketball player?”

  I snorted at his shallow depiction of my friends. “Um, it’s none of your business, but if it makes you feel better, a girl is driving me home.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I tossed him a mischievous grin. “Why do you say that?”

  “You always say ‘um’ before you tell a lie.”

  “Really? Thanks for the tip.”

  “And you suck in your bottom lip when men stare at your body, cross your arms when you’re nervous, and pull your hair forward when you’re paid a compliment.”

  “Jeez, stalker.”

  He kept staring at me like he was mentally downloading my quirks for his F.U.C.F.—Fucked-Up Carter File. The garage door opened. I went to the bar to prepare the drinks and to escape Boris’s unnerving assessment. All I had to do was carry two small glasses and a bottle of vodka to the kitchen counter and set out some pickles, caviar, and black rye bread.

  Instead of downing pure alcohol like a proper Russian, I paced myself and sipped on less potent mixed drinks throughout our evenings together. There was no way I could keep pace with these bad boys.

  As I poured a shot of vodka into my glass, a knowing smile crept up on Boris’s face. “Are you sure you should drink before you go out to meet boys?”

  I topped my vodka off with a long stream of soda water, a lemon, and a lime wedge. “One drink isn’t going to kill me. It helps me relax.” I slurped down half my drink.

  “One glass of wine helps you relax. One mixed drink makes you talkative, two drinks make you flirty, three drinks touchy-feely. I haven’t studied your behavior after three, but I have a good idea what kind of mood you’ll be in.” He arched an eyebrow. “Watch yourself around the boys.”

  “You’re an ass.” I pushed past him and met the boss at the door. “Happy Friday, Mr. Ivanov.”

  “Privet.” He kissed my cheeks and checked out my upgraded style.

  “How was work?” I placed my hand on my stomach to settle the butterflies that did a flyby every time he came home and greeted me that way. I finished my first drink while the boss hung up his coat and changed into house shoes.

  After he turned around, he looked at me, then to Boris. “Is he bothering you, angel?”

  I caught a glimpse of my evil-eyed babysitter and shook my head. “No problems here.”

  Boris spoke in Russian. Vladimir laughed at whatever he said. Do they know how rude that is? Boris poured a couple generous shots and said a toast. They clinked and downed.

  The boss set his glass down and turned to me. “You have a date tonight?”

  I must have seriously looked like a slacker during the week. “Just hanging out with friends.” I popped some pita bread in the oven and set the appetizer tray in front of him. “Try these.”

  Playboy breezed into the kitchen from the back door unannounced. He had a heavy gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gash across his cheek, and a fresh ruddy abrasion that looked like someone had clocked him. I subconsciously touched my own cheek, where the red mark had settled into a vague bruise that I covered up with foundation.

  He held his hands up to the boss as if apologizing for the interruption. Vladimir waved him in. As Playboy seemed to be explaining what had happened to his face, he plopped the bag on the counter, unzipped it, and revealed the contents: stacks and stacks of fat cash.

  Look away, look away, look away, Sophia said.

  I wasn’t supposed to see that. I turned a blind eye and busied myself in the kitchen. Vladimir patted him on the back and lifted his chin to get a look at his wound. My stomach turned. Playboy argued and raised his hands as if to say it was all good. The boss gestured for him to sit. Boris got some first aid supplies out of a drawer and set it out on the counter.

  The boss saturated a kitchen towel with vodka, pressed it against Playboy’s cheek to sterilize the wound, and stitched it up right next to the food I had prepared. Acid built up in my throat. After the boss applied a bandage, Boris patted Playboy on the shoulder and poured three rounds of vodka. Vladimir made the toast that time. They clinked glasses, threw back their shots. Playboy wiped his mouth, snatched a piece of bread off the counter like a ballsy seagull, and strutted back outside. I dropped my gaze to the floor and pretended I wasn’t fazed, but my shaky hands ratted me out.

  Vladimir stepped in to smooth it over. “As you can see, I run several different businesses. This one,” he tipped his head toward the gym bag, “is a small cash-only side business.”

  I nodded and sipped my drink. Every single day that week, Playboy had delivered a stuffed gym bag to Boris. I’d seen plenty of gangster movies, and I knew whatever they had going on was no small side business; it was organized crime. It had to be. I mean, they didn’t even want to take the guy to the hospital to get sewn up. What else could it be? I reminded myself to breathe, pulled the bread out of the oven, and set it on a marble slab to cool.

  Boris rested his big hand on my shoulder. “Need some spending money for the weekend?” He offered up a bankroll of hundred dollar bills, ready to shave off a few Benjamins.

  “No thanks. I have some.”

  He slapped a stack of bills in my hand. “It’s payday. I insist.”

  I tried to give it back to him, but he wouldn’t let me. “It’s too much,” I said. “I hardly did anything. Besides if I show up to the game with a hundred dollar bill, my friends will think I’m a stripper or something.” I laughed at my stupid, alcohol-induced sense of humor.

  “Actually, dear, with a hundred dollar bill your friends will think you are hooker. Strippers carry twenties.”

  Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…

  Boris turned to Vladimir. “I have some business to attend to, boss.”

  “Go. I will take care of Carter tonight. Do svidaniya.”

  They threw back another round and ate some bread, then Boris put on his hat and coat, snagged the gym bag, and left the house. The boss and I were alone—together.

  Chapter 10

  Dumped

  Vladimir loosened his tie and slid off his suit jacket. I jumped when I spotted a gun tucked into the left side of his pants. Totally organized crime. Totally.

  With thumb and finger, he took it out slowly. “For protection.” He placed it in the drawer where they kept the car keys. “Better?”

  I nodded, trying my best not to look freaked out. Maybe I’d watched too many movies.

  He unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, lazed against the counter, and studied the appetizers: beans from a can and store-bought tortilla chips. He was tolerant of my lackluster domestic skills. He picked one up, examined it, and then lifted it to my mouth. “L
adies first.” His voice was soft, eyes playful.

  I giggled. “Sorry, you surprised me. No one has ever—” I sucked down the rest of my drink. God, my new boss was bad—and hot.

  He lifted the tortilla chip again. “Good. I’m first.” He winked.

  My heart fluttered. “Wait.” I picked one up, too. “At the same time.”

  “Odin, dva, tri.”

  I opened my mouth, stepped out of bounds from my comfort zone, and let him feed me. I chewed and chewed and chewed and then popped a chip into his mouth. His lips closed around my fingers, and he nibbled on my thumb. “You’re delicious, Carter.”

  The fluttering in my heart moved lower. Much lower.

  He picked up my hand and admired my blue fingernails, each adorned with a tiny kitten motif. “How cute.”

  “Oh, you know, my little sister has a thing for cats. We match.” I wiggled my fingernails and tried to blink away my embarrassment.

  “She’s lucky to have such a sweet sister.” He patted my hand and then went to the bar.

  I inhaled the scent of cologne left in his wake. Heavenly.

  He poured himself a long straight shot of vodka. “Another drink, Carter?”

  I loved the way my name sounded when each R rolled off his tongue. I already had two drinks, and according to Boris, three made me touchy-feely. Whatever. As long as I didn’t get to four I was fine. “Hmm. One more, but cut me off after that.”

  “Because you don’t want to be tipsy for your date? Boris said you go out with a football player.”

  I pulled my hair forward and fingered-combed my waves. “Boris thinks he knows everything. I told you, no date.” I wonder how tall Vladimir is, six-foot-two or six-three?