Mafia Romance

by Aleatha Romig, Skye Warren, Annika Martin, Natasha Knight, Kaye Blue, Michelle St. James, Renee Rose, Parker S. Huntington, Alexis Abbott, Willow Winters

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  Trapped. “Penny.”

  “How long have you been working here, Penny?”

  The way he says my name, it sounds perverse. Like something dirty.

  I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to talk to him at all, but ignoring him feels like turning my back on a rabid animal—he would go in for the kill. “Two years.”

  That’s not exactly true. I worked here longer in the back, scrubbing dishes so no one would know they had a kid working here. When I turned fifteen I got upgraded to waitress. Most people know I’m underage. No one cares.

  He nods towards his coffee, still black in the mug. “I prefer two creams. Three sugars.”

  This isn’t Starbucks. He has a mug and a little plastic tray with non-dairy creamer and sugar, like everyone else. Except we both know he isn’t like everyone else.

  My muscles are pulled taut, like the strings holding up a tent. About to snap. I reach for the tray, pulling out the creams, the sugars. He looks at me like it’s something obscene, pulling open the creams, tearing the corners of the sugars. It feels obscene, watching the white enter the black.

  He’s unnaturally still, yet completely relaxed. Not quite human. Definitely not sane.

  I find myself filling the silence of his body, my movement jerky and too fast in the face of this statue. I grab a spoon and stir, disturbed by the way I’m obeying silent commands. I don’t mean to do that. There’s something about him that compels me. An innate power. Or maybe plain old survival.

  “Is that—” My throat gets tight. It’s hard to stand in front of him, feeling naked. Exposed. “Is that everything?”

  His eyes are a clear grey, giving the impression I can see deep inside them. “What time do you get off?”

  Men ask me that question all the time. Every night. Every hour. It’s just a habit, I think, for some men to proposition a girl of a certain age that they come near. Others think that a few bucks in tip means I’ll meet them behind the dumpster.

  Most of the time I tell them I have a boyfriend. It’s the truth and it shuts them up, usually. Maybe it’s shitty that I need to resort to that excuse, that a simple no, thank you doesn’t suffice. Living in the west side you learn how to work within the system, because God knows you can’t change it.

  Only, I don’t want to tell this man about Brennan.

  That feels like a challenge he would be too glad to accept.

  “That’s not really—”

  “Appropriate? I’m rarely appropriate.”

  I was going to say that it wasn’t any of his business. Except that’s also a challenge he would be glad to accept. There’s nothing I can say, no way that I can fight him that won’t make him hit harder. “I’ll come back and check on you in a little bit.”

  “I’d rather you sit down with me.”

  I take a step back, moving on pure instinct. A flinch away from fire. “Please stop.”

  Strangely enough, he listens. He lets me run into the kitchen, where I huddle in a corner until Ruth Mae bodily shoves me back onto the floor. The corner booth is empty.

  Beside the mug of coffee and the slice of pie, there’s a hundred-dollar bill.

  Because this isn’t about money. That’s what he’s saying with that tip. That he has more money than God. That he doesn’t need whatever pennies I can put together.

  It was never really about money, was it?

  It’s always been about ownership.

  He’s the king of this godforsaken land. He can have anything he wants. Me.

  Chapter Ten

  After leaving the diner I visit Jessica to give her my tips for the night. It was supposed to be her shift anyway, I figure, and she and her baby need the cash more. It’s not like this money is going to make a dent in the debt. She’s sympathetic about the news, but not very surprised.

  “You know what you should do,” she says. “You should move in with Damon Scott. Like really wrap him around your little finger.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I haven’t worked so hard, fought so long, hidden myself away only to belong to someone else. When I was six years old I could have proved to Jonathan Scott what I could do, if I wanted to be owned by a dangerous man. Now I’m fifteen. Only three more years until I can leave Tanglewood.

  “Would it really be so bad? He’s hot, at least.”

  “I wouldn’t even know how to wrap someone around my little finger.”

  She shrugs. “I could give you some tips.”

  I force myself to stay calm, to relax my hands so I don’t squish the baby I’m holding. Luckily little Ky is more interested in a dragon that lights up than our conversation. “I don’t know. Maybe the game is the safest bet. If I help Daddy win.”

  Jessica applies rouge to her perfectly contoured cheek. Her hair is flat-ironed flawlessly, her eyes sparkling. It’s something she does when I come over, because I can hold Ky. And she needs to feel pretty, she says, even if she’s only going to stay inside.

  It’s the only way she can get fifteen minutes to shower.

  Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “And if you don’t win?”

  My stomach drops. “Then I’m screwed. Literally.”

  She turns to face me, leaning back against the counter. The look on her face, the grief, like I’m already gone, it rips me to shreds. And I’m looking at her, already in pieces. She’s always been like this, as long as I’ve known her. We’re mirror images of each other. The same.

  “You have to take what you can get, for as long as you can get it,” she says, her voice soft and earnest. “Right now you’re young. You’re pretty. That’s enough to keep Damon Scott for a few weeks.”

  A knot forms in my throat. “That’s the coldest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “He treats his girls good.”

  Treats, like we were dogs. Like I’m a pet. I refused to do tricks for the father. I’m not going to start for his son. “I don’t care. He still wants to own me.”

  She meets my gaze in the mirror. “Better than my pimp treated us, that’s for sure.”

  My stomach drops. “Oh, Jessica. I’m so sorry.”

  She gets up from the stool and takes Ky, her smile sad. “Don’t be sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong. But I’m worried. Worried that you’ll fight Damon even if he’s the lesser of two evils.”

  The lesser of two evils. That describes him well. “Maybe you’re right,” I whisper.

  “It’s not all bad. There are always bright sides.”

  There’s love in her blue eyes as she kisses her son’s chubby cheek. His skin is darker than hers, his hair darker. He has her eyes, though, made a navy color by whatever genes his father contributed. A man I’ve never met. She doesn’t mention him often.

  “Is that what his father was?” I ask, my voice low. Low even though Ky can’t understand us talking about his father. “The lesser of two evils?”

  There’s no judgment here. Only a dark and twisted sisterhood.

  “He worked for the man my father owed money to. I was a gift. I could have said no, I guess. Could have said I wouldn’t sleep in his bed, but that only would have made things harder for me.”

  “God, Jessica.”

  Her expression is deadly serious. “Don’t fight them. It only makes it worse.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know if I can just… accept this.”

  “Sometimes the best way to get past something is to go through it.”

  This was the worst advice I could imagine, made more terrible by the fact that it was right. “What if I move in with Brennan?” I ask, grasping at straws.

  “And he can protect you from these men?” she asks, the answer plain in her voice. No, he can’t. And being with him would only sign his death sentence.

  “There has to be another way. Anything. The cops.”

  She laughs, then. “You know who dragged me back to Nico when I tried to run away? That’s right. A cop.”

&nb
sp; Anger burns, old coals stoked hotter. “So much for serve and protect.”

  She picks up a figure with silver armor and a sword. A knight. “They serve and protect the king.”

  The man who owns everyone. Jonathan Scott. “Then who is Damon in this analogy?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want him for an enemy.”

  He’s the prince, of course.

  Not quite as powerful as his father, but close. Close enough to be a danger to me. They’re really two sides of the same coin. Either way I’m a peasant girl in a kingdom of gilt and glamour.

  Whatever Daddy did, whoever he tried to betray, the Scott family would destroy us.

  “What if I don’t survive?” I whisper.

  “Oh honey, that’s not the problem. The question you need to worry about is, what if you do?”

  * * *

  “Move in with me,” Brennan offers.

  I blink at him from his kitchen table, the same table where I first met his parents. “Your dad lives here.”

  The older Mr. Peterson is a quiet man, brooding, made even more so by the death of his wife. He works at the garage each day and late into the evening before going home to watch the nightly news. We pass nods of formality in the hallway. That’s the extent of our conversation.

  “He won’t mind.”

  “He won’t mind an underage girl moving in with his underage son?”

  Brennan shrugs. “He knows what your dad’s like. He’ll understand.”

  Maybe he would, but I wasn’t sure I could do that anymore than I could give myself to Damon Scott. Either way I would be forfeiting my life, surrendering to a man, and God, if I were used for anything at least I’d rather it was my mind.

  “I don’t think so. Besides, I can’t leave Daddy to deal with this alone. They’ll kill him.”

  Brennan looks unimpressed. “He’s brought it on himself.”

  I can’t help but gasp. “He’s family.”

  “Fine.” It’s rare that he’s ever snapped at me. He’s usually easy-going, which is why we get along so well. Why we’ve lasted so long.

  “Please,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to be angry with me. I just need to figure out how to handle this. There must be something we can do. Like maybe a payment plan.”

  “And while time goes by, your dad’s not going to gamble?”

  Okay, maybe he has good reason to be mad. I’m deflated like an old balloon, its plastic stretched and small. I put my head in my hands, covering my face. “You’re right. There isn’t an answer.”

  He grimaces. “Look, I’m sorry. This is a tough situation. I know that. But the core issue isn’t time, not really. It’s money. You don’t have anything worth that much money. And you won’t, not ever.”

  I peek through my fingers. “Is this you trying to make me feel better?”

  “Yes,” he says, sounding rueful. “And not doing a good job of it. It’s just—he’s a heavy weight. You know? I don’t want you to hold on so long he pulls you to the bottom.”

  The words land inside me, hard with impact. He’s right, of course. Daddy’s addiction will sink him. And it will sink me too, if I let it. Am I just supposed to walk away, though? I’m ashamed to admit that the thought scares me even more than it should—not only because of what would happen to Daddy. Because of what that would mean for me. I’d be well and truly alone in the world. And if I’m going to be underwater I’d rather hold onto an anchor than nothing at all.

  “What if—” My voice cracks, though less from fear. More from a strange, dark excitement. “I know this is bad. Maybe I shouldn’t even talk about it. But you’re my best friend. And I have to at least consider this option—what if I paid off the debt a different way?”

  It speaks to how common such ways are in the west side that Brennan doesn’t ask what I mean. Sex. “That’s really fucking stupid, Penny.”

  I flinch. Of course it is. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you.”

  “You shouldn’t even be considering it. There are worse things than your dad being held accountable for his debts. This could break you.”

  “Do I seem that fragile?”

  “You’re strong, Penny. But these men, they’re fucking mountains. They will crush you. And they’ll enjoy doing it.”

  He sounds so sure, as if he understands the impulse to crush me. As if he would enjoy it, too. Maybe it’s inherent in men. And only the rich can indulge it. “Look, I’m not… I’m not saying I want to do it. I’m saying, isn’t that option better than Daddy dying? In a totally objective way, I mean. After that we’d both be alive.”

  “You and your damn logic,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound angry anymore.

  Only sad.

  “What else is there?” I ask, honestly unsure.

  “There’s pride,” he says.

  “Yours or mine?”

  He laughs a little. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  And so after a week of circling the problem, a week of failed attempts to solve it, I find myself in a cab heading deep into Tanglewood. The windows are down, letting muggy air brush into the black interior. Gouges mar the plastic handles, as if someone tried to get out. And failed.

  I have this sense that everything has led me to this moment.

  Everything has led me to Damon Scott.

  The Den is a gentleman’s club, which doesn’t mean there are flashing marquee lights and free buffets inside. It’s an exclusive membership, where you have to know someone powerful and pay a lot of money. In other words, my father’s never been inside.

  I stand in front of the carved wooden door, wondering what I’ll find inside. Half-naked women?

  Completely naked women?

  For all I know they won’t even let me in the door, but I’m counting on my body to carry some weight. The same way it can be used as the entry fee to a high-stakes poker game.

  The sun ducks behind the buildings, sending hot rays across my vision. It leaves the steps in shadow. I wonder if that’s on purpose. A smile tugs at my lips. As if rich men can bend the elements to their will. Then again they brought me here, didn’t they? As surely as rapids in the river.

  The knock sounds quiet on such a heavy door. This is the historic part of downtown. There are no doorknobs. No fancy fingerprint scanner or security camera, at least not that I can see.

  With a creak the door opens.

  The dark silhouette is tall and familiar, the dark eyes a strange relief.

  I would have expected a doorman. Maybe a bouncer. Not the man himself, his jacket missing, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He looks disheveled, as if I’ve pulled him out of bed.

  Well, maybe I did.

  “Damon Scott,” I say, making my voice as hard and as haughty as I can.

  He gives me a small smile. “Penny.”

  “I’m here to talk about my father’s debt.”

  One dark eyebrow rises. “Do you have ten thousand dollars? That was fast.”

  Of course I don’t have the money. It may as well be ten million dollars, because I’ll never make either amount. He doesn’t even want the debt repaid, not with cash. He wants a different currency.

  “Can I come inside?” I ask, hating how nervous I sound.

  He could tear me down with just a sentence. With a word.

  Instead he steps aside, opening the door wider. The foyer is empty. No naked women. Nothing at all except an antique side table that actually seems demure. Only in the face of such understated class do I realize fully that I expected a bordello, garish and blunt.

  “Follow me,” he says, turning away.

  I watch his broad back, the smooth white linen. He doesn’t wait for me. He doesn’t have to. I hurry to keep pace with him, entering a room with plush leather chairs and a tinge of cigar smoke in the air.

  “Have a seat,” he says, pouring two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass.

  He sets it down in front of me. It make
s a soft chink against the warm wood table.

  “I’m not thirsty,” I blurt out, my hands twisting together.

  His handsome face is drawn into stark lines. “Tell me what you came here to say.”

  I had felt more sure of myself in the cab. In my bedroom, imagining Damon Scott’s glinting black eyes as he told me I’d be his. Now that I’m here, my presumption seems embarrassing. My naivete even more so.

  “The debt,” I start, my tongue thick and ungainly. “I can pay with… Well, you know. That’s what I came here to tell you. That I’ll have sex with you.”

  “I thought you were keeping your dignity?” he asks, his voice even.

  If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.

  This is what I figured out while talking to Brennan. That my pride isn’t about sex or money. My pride is about controlling my own fate. And that’s what I’m doing here—setting the terms. This is what dignity looks like for me. Owning my own body. Deciding how it’s used.

  He looks down at his hands, the way they’re folded together.

  When he looks back up at me, his dark eyes are haunted. “I’m not my father.”

  There is a hot air balloon in my chest, large and rising. It feels uncomfortable to look at him, but I can’t look away. “I know you aren’t.”

  “You said I was like him, and I understand why you said that. There are things that I do, because this is the world that I operate in. But I don’t hurt young women. I won’t hurt you.”

  A strange sense of sorrow fills me. I shouldn’t be sad that he’s giving me time. I should throw a damn party. My heart stutters as if I’m losing something important. “Why not?”

  “Does it matter? I won’t press your father on the debt. You have more time now.”

  Unease moves through my stomach, because we’re back to his terms. “How much time?”

  He looks away, giving me a glimpse of his hard profile. It makes me realize how much I don’t know about him. Does he have friends? Or family besides his father?

  Does he have a woman upstairs?

  “Long enough,” he says finally.

  Tension tightens the air around us, a strange pressure that builds as the seconds tick by. I should take the reprieve with a smile, but I find myself more worried than ever. “Is everything okay?”