The Scandal: Mafia Vows

by SR Jones

  “Hello?” I say as I answer.

  “Always so formal.” He chuckles.

  Sometimes I don’t know if he’s laughing with me or at me.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  He sighs. “As good as can be expected when it’s a night with the wife.”

  “What sort of night?”

  “Her brother and his wife are coming over, and I have to pretend we are happily married. She’s agreed if I do, she’ll finally go and see a lawyer this week.”

  I hate the idea of him living with her. He says they’re in separate rooms, but men lie. He says they hate one another, but then why play happy families for her brother? The whole situation is messed up.

  We shouldn’t be doing what we are, but each time I consider stopping I simply can’t. Something deep within me overrides my common sense, and it seems, my common decency.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asks me.

  “I have an interview,” I say. “It’s as a cleaner. I’m not qualified for much of anything, but I clean well, and it’s at the business school in town. The hours are mostly in the early mornings just after I drop Gus at school, and the evenings, so I might miss some of our nights together, depending on what shifts they give me each week.”

  “No,” he says. “We get so little time together as it is.”

  “Stamatis.” I sigh. “I can’t live on air, and I can’t keep borrowing money from my own daughter. It’s humiliating.”

  “I’ll pay you,” he says.

  I suck in a breath. “For what?”

  “Being my companion.”

  “No. Who do you think you are? I’m not a whore, and I don’t know what gave you the impression I was.”

  I hang up the phone, shaking.

  It rings again, and I ignore it. Then it goes again, with the text sound. I glance down.

  Rhea, speak to me, or I’m coming over there, brother-in-law coming over or not. Answer the damn phone.

  I take it, and walk as far from the living room where the kids are as I can. The phone rings, and I answer immediately.

  “Don’t fucking hang up on me,” he growls.

  “Don’t boss me about,” I retaliate.

  “I don’t think you’re a whore, far from it,” he says.

  “Why offer to pay me then?”

  “I don’t want to see you less.” He sighs, and his voice lowers and goes gruff. “Damn it, Rhea, you’re about the only bright spot in my week at the moment. I don’t want you working for a pittance either. You deserve better.”

  “I don’t. I deserve this. It’s good honest work, and I need to start somewhere.”

  “How about some good less than honest work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could use someone to help me out with certain things. Correspondence, filing.”

  “At your home? Are you mad?”

  “She’ll be gone within a few weeks, trust me. I could start paying you now; call it a retainer. Don’t say no. Please.”

  It always slays me when he says please. It’s my weak spot because I know he could simply try to order me about, but he doesn’t. He asks, and that is his power when it comes to me.

  “Okay, but only if you truly have some work for me to do, and you can find something for me to do at the moment. Maybe some letters you can bring for me to file and open?”

  “Done, and I’m sorry I offended you.”

  “I’m sorry I hung up on you.”

  “Goodnight, my Rhea.”

  “Goodnight.” I hang up and hug the phone to me. Stamatis is paying me to do a non-job. He’s doing so in order for us to be able to keep on meeting. I should be ashamed, but I’m not. Maybe I have no shame left? I think I felt so much when it hit me what I had done to my daughter that I don’t have any emotion left within.

  Sighing at my depressing internal monologue, I head into the hallway and listen for the boys, making sure they are okay. Then I pad down the hall to my bedroom. This place is so luxurious. I don’t have to work for any of the comforts that were so hard to come by at the commune. We pumped drinking water from wells, or the stand tap in the main street. We grew our own food mostly, and prepared meals from scratch. If we wanted furniture, our men made it. If we wanted heat, our men cut the wood. If we wanted clothes, we made them. I think about how different it is for someone like Maya. Everything she’s wanted materially in life she’s simply bought. She doesn’t even work. Not properly. Some days, when Gus is at school and I’m alone in this place, I feel as if I might lose my mind from the dark thoughts circling in there. I should take the cleaning job; it will keep me busy. But then I wouldn’t get to see Stamatis half as much. Our time is already pretty limited.

  I flop onto the bed and eye the book on the nightstand. It’s some novel about a young innocent virgin who meets a gazillionaire weirdo, and they fall in love over their shared… Well, so far, I haven’t found anything they seem to share. Which brings my mind right back to Stamatis and me. What do we share? Nothing really.

  Markos and Star seem to have quite a bit in common. They often sit quietly together, talking about all sorts of deep and meaningful things. Maya brings light to Damen and he brings a gentle, guiding hand to her. As for Alesso and Stella, I don’t know them well enough, but my observations are that they seem to have found a haven in one another of sorts. But Stamatis and me? What do we share?

  In some ways I like him to take control. I know this, and I also understand it is perhaps not the healthiest thing for me. I lived in a community where a few people were our leaders, and one man our overall unquestioned leader. Zeus. Ultimately, we did what he said, and few of us asked questions. Now that I’m on the outside, I find deciding on anything difficult.

  Some days I stare at the food in the cupboard and haven’t a clue what to eat. Others I flick through the endless television channels and cannot find one thing to watch in over one hundred choices. I saw Maya’s walk-in closet the other day, and it didn’t fill me with envy; it gave me anxiety because how does she choose?

  This society is drowning in choice. Crippled by it, I believe in some ways. Young people don’t meet the local boy or girl from their village and fall in love. No, they swipe left or right on an app, their brains overwhelmed with the amount of sexual partners on offer. I sound old-fashioned, but I can’t help but think the world has gone wrong somehow.

  I pick up the book and read a scene where the hero punishes the heroine. Would I like to be punished in such a way? I don’t know. It turns me on in one sense, but in another, it scares me. I want to give up control, I know I do, but I’m not sure I want to give it up in that sense. Not because I don’t trust Stamatis to stop if I needed him to, but because I don’t trust myself to ask him to stop. I think I have a core of self-loathing so deep, I’d end up pretending I wanted more, harder, more, more, more, until I bled. He could put me on a cross and beat me until I lost consciousness, and it still wouldn’t atone for what I’ve done.

  **

  “So … you believe you ought to be punished?” My therapist has her usual blankly sympathetic face in place. Sometimes, I wonder if anything I could say would shock her, but I presume not. She’s probably heard it all, grubbing around in the depths of the human psyche as she does.

  “I know I should.”

  “By the state? You want to be prosecuted for what you did?”

  I shudder because that’s still a possibility. “If that’s what the state decides to do, but it wouldn’t be enough.”

  “Perhaps a public flogging,” she jokes lightly, but her face grows serious when she sees my expression.

  “I have … they aren’t fantasies, or at least they aren’t sexual fantasies because they don’t turn me on, but I have these daydreams where I’m being publicly punished for what I’ve done, and it feels good. Like it’s right for me to be made to suffer.”

  “Okay. Maybe, at some point there might be ways you can safely explore such daydreams, but I’d say that now, with t
he emotions so raw, and the guilt so heavy, wouldn’t be a good time.”

  “Do you mean BDSM?” I ask.

  “It’s one option. People can find things like past trauma can be helped by BDSM if practiced in a very safe environment with a partner they trust, but this isn’t what you’re telling me. I’m hearing that you feel you deserve to be hurt, abused even because you feel you yourself abused your daughter.”

  “I did. I let those people take her and make her an … you know.” I can’t say the word anymore. It makes me physically sick.

  “Yes, you did. So did others in your community. However, your daughter wasn’t harmed. In fact, your daughter found love, did she not?”

  “Yes, but it was a twist of fate. All I keep thinking about is what would have happened if she hadn’t met Markos?”

  “But she did.”

  We go over this ground a lot.

  “What-ifs are not our friend,” she says with a wry smile. It’s a phrase she’s told me a few times now.

  “I know, but they are my constant companion,” I reply. “I think about what might have happened all the time. It’s like a constant loop in my head, one I can’t stop.”

  “I think next week we ought to perhaps start looking at some aspects of mindfulness. Accepting your thoughts and feelings, observing them, and then letting them go. We’re almost out of time today, but I think in the future that will be a good direction for us to go in.”

  I nod and smile at her.

  “For this week, I want you to try something, okay? Every time you get a what-if thought, hold your hand up and say loudly, Stop. Obviously, you can’t do this while you’re traveling on the bus, or at the market, but when you’re home, if you get these thoughts, hold your hand up, palm out and say stop firmly. Next week we’ll look at redirection once you’ve stopped the disruptive thoughts, and we’ll also look at some ways of introducing more mindfulness other than the audios you’re listening to.”

  “Am I going crazy with the never-ending internal monologues?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Oh no, most of us have them. It’s just that some of us have more friendly ones than yours. We’re going to try a few different tricks to either make yours more friendly, or turn it into background noise that isn’t quite as bothersome.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “Time’s up for today. Have a good week, Rhea.”

  “Thanks,” I say again as I step out the door.

  I head down the stairs and out into the bright light of day. It’s so hot it feels like I’ve walked into an oven. It’s that dry, baking heat of a mid-summer day in Athens, and the air is thick with fumes. I wish for once I could afford a cab instead of having to take the long bus journey back to my apartment. I need some food too, but don’t want to spend too much. I head to the cash machine on the corner. I find if I use notes, I spend less than if I use my card. I have to focus on what I’m putting in my basket because twenty euros is all I have.

  Tapping in my PIN, I shield my eyes with my arm and check my balance. I blink … something must be very wrong. I look again. It says there is ten thousand euros in my account. That cannot be right. Worried, and not wanting to spend money I don’t have, I turn on my heel after taking my card back, and walk the two blocks to the bank. I’m a hot and sweaty mess when I get there, and I enter the cool air-conditioned foyer with a grateful sigh.

  I take a ticket and wait for my number to flash on the screen, telling me to go to booth six. When I get there, I explain to the cashier my worry at finding a ton of money in my account.

  She checks for me and then smiles. “No, it’s correct. Looks like a regular transfer has been set up from a Mr. Kantos. See?” She turns the screen to me, showing me the deposit.

  Stamatis. He gave me ten thousand euros? And it’s regular? What the hell? This is too much.

  “Okay, thank you,” I mumble as I gather my things and walk to a far corner of the cavernous building’s foyer. Once there, I take out my cell and call Stamatis.

  “Yes,” he says smoothly when he picks up.

  “Can you talk?” I ask.

  “For you, of course.”

  “Stamatis, I know you said you’d help out, but there’s ten thousand euros in my account, and the banker said it is a regular payment that has been set up.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he replies.

  “It’s too much,” I whisper. “Far too much. I can’t.”

  “You can. I pay my staff well.”

  “I haven’t done any work yet.”

  “That’s going to change this evening. I have something I want you to look over for me. I’ll bring it to you tonight; meet me about eight? I presume it is still on for Gus to stay with his friend?”

  “Erm … yes.”

  “Good. Meet me at eight at Delphine.” He names one of the most expensive restaurants in Athens.

  “Oh, and Rhea, go buy an outfit; that’s an order. I expect my staff to dress … nicely.” He chuckles, and then he’s gone; no goodbye.

  What does he mean, nicely? Does he want me to buy something work-like? Or does he mean something sexy? I’m assuming he means sexy.

  Not sure where to go, I walk out of the bank, and see Alanis’ store in front of me. It’s a small, old-fashioned, and extremely upmarket department store. Still family run, and the family are billionaires these days. They could close the business, but they choose to keep it going. They still have a hand in the running of it, or so I’m told.

  I cross the street, and enter the building. It’s darker inside than either the blinding light on the street, or the bright foyer of the bank. The air is scented with something akin to fig, and the atmosphere is hushed. Beautiful women stand behind counters, with brand names of cosmetics I’ve never heard of.

  Not needing make-up but wanting to find something to wear, I head up the escalators to the second floor.

  Most of the names on the walls mean nothing to me, but I recognize Armani, so I head over there. After about fifteen minutes of looking hopelessly at dresses and not sure what would suit me, I spy an assistant. I head in her direction to ask for help. There’s a man by her side, and when I glance at him, I notice he’s very good looking, and even to my naïve gaze is clearly wealthy.

  “Yes?” the lady asks with a smile.

  “I have a … erm date, tonight, at Delphine, and I would like some help finding a dress.”

  “Allow me,” the man says.

  Does he work here? He appears far too rich to be a store assistant. Then again, maybe the staff get a discount on the clothes?

  “Okay,” I reply, a little nervous of him for some reason. “I was looking at the Armani,” I tell him.”

  “I noticed; great choice.” He leads me to that section and stands back, eyeing me up and down, taking in my body. It doesn’t seem like the disinterested gaze of a man at work, helping a woman choose a dress. Instead, his gaze feels like a caress.

  “This is the one,” he states confidently, pulling a rich green dress off the hanger. “It will match your hair. You have a very unusual beauty.”

  I smile, not sure what to say, and take the dress he proffers. Once in the changing room, I try it on and see he’s correct; it does suit me. It’s just below the knee, tight, with a crisscross of material over the waist area, nipping me in and making me curvier than I am. I love it.

  When I get to the till to pay, I look around for the man to thank him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The lady puts the dress in a bag for me, along with a card, and hands it to me. I get my purse, but she waves her hand. “It’s paid for. Mr. Alanis says it’s a gift … from him.”

  I stare at her in shock. No wonder the man looked wealthy; he’s the owner. Son of the famous Alanis family, so famous even little old me has heard of them. “I can’t,” I mutter. Stamatis will not like this.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t take payment; it’s more than my job is worth.”

  I leave the shop, shaken for some reason. When I get outside, I look at the
card slipped into the paper bag.

  Wear this for your date, and if he turns out to be a dud, wear it one day for me. This is my number. 0695564532. Jonathon.

  My first thought is that he has an English first name.

  My second thought is get rid of this number.

  I screw the card up and throw it into a nearby bin.

  I try not to panic about the fact that a wealthy, handsome man has given me his contact details, and I know already I’ll never call him because I’m too into Stamatis.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Stamatis

  When I arrive at Delphine, I’m ravenous and pissed off. My bitch of a wife is making things far more fucking difficult than they need to be, and now there’s some sort of shit going down with the Russians. I’m not sure what, exactly, but Andrius is coming to see us this weekend, a business visit, and I’m sure we’ll find out then.

  The concierge gives me a bow almost, and I nod and smile. He’s a good man. I’m shown to my table and notice Rhea isn’t there yet. I’m early, by about five minutes, so I’m not worried. I sit and peruse the menu, ordering a scotch on the rocks when the waiter comes over.

  I glance up from my phone, and a business article, to see Rhea in the doorway. I stare, and then stare some more.

  The woman looks radiant. She’s wearing a green dress that could have been made for her, and her red-gold hair is pinned up on top of her head loosely, with some curls escaping. She’s not wearing much make-up from what I can see, except for a slash of bright pink lipstick.

  Fuck.

  Suddenly, I’m not hungry for food anymore, but I’m hungry for her.

  She walks to me, and heads swivel as she passes people by. She’s a nobody in Athenian café society. Yet, some of the nation’s TV stars and models are staring at Rhea as if they want to know her. Beauty, I think to myself. Rare, radiant beauty. It has a currency of its own.

  She reaches me and smiles her cool, almost aloof smile, and I stand and pull her chair back for her. She sits and fiddles with her bag for a moment, clearly uncomfortable.