by SR Jones
I smile blandly at the men and move on toward the kitchen where I can hear Maya’s voice.
Star is right behind me when we enter to see a scene out of some sort of food apocalypse.
“Oh my God, Maya!” Stella stares. “We’re not feeding the five thousand, you know.”
“I like to put on a good spread,” Maya says as she pokes cocktail sticks into cubes of feta cheese wrapped in a green leaf.
“Are they wrapped in mint?” I ask.
“Yes,” Maya says with a grin, “it’s a delicious combination.”
“I wish Violet could have come,” Stella says.
“Yes, me too, but she’s got that tiny baby. I’m amazed the big, bad wolf left her long enough to come here.” Maya rolls her eyes.
“The big, bad wolf can probably hear you,” Alesso says, gesturing behind him. “Study door’s open. Right, I’ll leave you ladies to…this.” He sweeps his arms out, shakes his head, and then hoists my bag up onto his shoulder.
When he’s gone, Maya comes to me. “I’m so glad you could make it. A little birdy tells me you’ve seen Stamatis,” she whispers dramatically.
I turn to Star, hurt that she’d tell after I asked her no to. “Don’t look at me, Mom. Seems Stamatis told Damen, who told his wife.”
“He tells me everything,” Maya says smugly, then with a grin. “And if he doesn’t, I get it out of him, using sex.”
“There are times when I wish you weren’t quite so like a daughter to me,” the housekeeper says as she tsks her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Keep such details to yourself.”
It’s a big, noisy house, full of pretty young women and big scary men, but there’s love here; you can feel it.
Still, I need to talk to Star about what that interfering old bat said to me the other night outside the restaurant.
“Can we talk?” I ask her.
“Sure. Let’s go outside, sit with a glass of wine by the pool; if you don’t mind, Maya?”
“Star.” Maya turns and puts her hands on her hips. “How many times have I told you to make yourself totally at home?”
“I didn’t mean that. I simply thought you might need a hand.”
“Oh, no, you’re good. Go visit with your mom. I have Rita and Stella.
“Okay,” Star says with a grin. She heads to the cavernous fridge, pulls it open, and holds up a bottle of white wine. I nod and smile when she grabs two glasses as well, and I follow her outside.
We sit as she pours the wine. The sun is setting, and there is a cool breeze off the ocean, which is heaven after the heat of the city. Birds are singing, and all around us the world is carrying on as normal, while nefarious men like those inside the house plan their dark deeds. I shiver and take a sip of the wine, welcoming the cool down my throat, followed by the slight warmth of the alcohol in my stomach.
“Are you okay, Mother?”
I shake myself out of my reverie and turn to Star. “Just a little concerned for you.”
“Oh, why? I’m fine, the baby is fine.” She pats her stomach, and I smile.
“No, darling, I didn’t mean that. I ran into a lady the other day, a somewhat powerful lady. You know the Alanis family?”
Star nods. “Yes, I’ve seen the daughter in the society pages. Maya hates her. Says she’s an awful snob.”
“Well, it was the matriarch of the family I had an encounter with.”
Star turns to face me. “How? Where?”
“I’d been for a meal with Stamatis, and she collared me outside the restaurant. Told me to be careful who I mixed with, said he wasn’t a nice man.”
Star snorts. “Of course, he’s not a nice man, Mother; he’s a cartel boss.”
“Yes, and it made me realize who I was mixing with … who you’re mixing with.”
Star gets a look on her face, and it’s one I know well—a mulish determination. Any minute now she’s going to shut this conversation down.
“I’m not mixing with him, Mother. I’m in love with him and having his baby. And Markos isn’t involved in that side of things much.”
“He’s in that room right now, talking to Stamatis and that Russian thug.”
“Mother,” she hisses. “He’s Ukrainian, and where is this coming from?”
“She said … she said Stamatis is a cartel boss and that he is involved in shipping of very bad things—drugs, guns, maybe even people.”
“No people.” Star juts her jaw and stares me down. “Stamatis, Damen, Markos, they wouldn’t do that, and Andrius would kill them if they did. He rescued a woman who had been trafficked, Justina, his housekeeper, and he hates that shit. Dear Lord, Mother, why do you think they rescued me?”
I ignore the sting at her words about being rescued because it reminds me of why she needed rescuing. “So no women?” I ask again, relief flooding me.
“No, Mother, of course not.” She sighs. “God, I thought you were happy for me.”
“I am. I’m so very happy, but I’d feel responsible if I didn’t tell you, after what that lady said to me.”
“Well, it’s nice that you’re caring now, when it’s too late, but I’m fine. Markos has my back. He loves me and cares for me. He manages the casinos mostly, but yes, Stamatis runs high-end items that are black market. He’s not, so far as I am aware, involved in drugs on any sort of large scale, or weapons. I think that’s the territory of Andrius’ boss, Allyov. But, even if they were running drugs, it wouldn’t change how I feel about him.”
I don’t know what to say to her because her words about me finally caring burn deep in my soul.
Instead of trying to defend myself—because how can I?—I nod and smile and sip my wine in silence as I fight back tears. I don’t have the right to cry and make her feel bad because she’s right. I didn’t care, or not enough to force the blinkers from my eyes.
“It is nice and cool now, no?” The heavily accented English tells me exactly who has arrived.
Oh, God, Andrius. I don’t turn to look at him, too scared to.
“Lovely. Makes a change for once to have a breeze.” Star smiles at the man behind us. “Andrius, I do believe you’ve met my mother, but it was in less than ideal circumstances.”
I swallow and turn to him. His cool gaze rakes over me, and I tamp down my fight or flight response at his perusal. “You look different,” he says. “You are not at that place anymore, I hear.”
“No … of course not.”
“So you know now it was wrong, what they did?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“Good, then we can start again. I am Andrius, pleased to meet you, Rhea.”
He holds out his hand, and I take it. His palm is huge over mine, and his grip is firm but not painful. He gives me a shake, and then he smiles. He smiles, and it’s utterly beautiful. I’ve never seen a person’s face transformed quite so much by a smile.
“Pleased t-t-t-o meet you too,” I stutter.
My English is rusty, after so long in the commune where I only spoke Greek. Luckily, I have retained enough to get by and converse. I think Andrius speaks some Greek, and I know Damen speaks some Russian, but it seems it is easier for them to converse in English when they are together.
“You are happy now in the apartment you have?” Andrius seems determined to make conversation with me, and I wish he wouldn’t because he scares me to death.
“Yes, thank you. It’s very generous of Star to let me and Gus stay there.”
“Mother.” Star sounds shocked. “It isn’t generous; you’re family.”
“Family who betrayed you, Star.” I can’t look at her as I say the words softly.
Andrius wanders around the chairs we’re sat on to the edge of the pool, looks down into the water, and speaks with his back to us. “Betrayal is a strong word. Perhaps it wasn’t a betrayal but a mistake. Guilt is one thing, but shame is another; you shouldn’t feel shame. You didn’t know what you did was so bad at the time because you’d been led to believe it was the right thing, the good t
hing even.”
“Yes, but that’s no excuse.” I shake my head, impatient at everyone who keeps trying to excuse me. This man, this terrifying man should do what he wanted to do when he first came to our commune and put a bullet in me.
I let my daughter be put up for auction.
There it is again, the overwhelming horror of it crashing over me and making me panic. I try to swallow it down because I’ve never had a full-blown panic attack in front of Star before, and I’m not about to start now.
I take a shaky breath in and blow it out through my mouth, but it’s not helping. Normally, I can stop an attack from getting too bad with the technique my therapist gave me, but now, it keeps on coming.
Crap. I need to get out of here. My heart is tripping over itself, and I’m scared I’m going to faint.
In my line of vision, Andrius’ hard face appears. He’s squatted down so he’s on my level.
“Breathe,” he says simply. “Out, breathe out.”
I do as he says and push out a breath. Oh, I hate this so much. This thing blights my life. When the panic comes, I might as well be facing a firing squad because that’s how terrible I feel.
“Put your feet on the floor,” he tells me. I do as he says, sitting to the side and planting my feet on the floor.
He reaches down and takes my shoes off, shocking me. What is he doing?
“Okay, put your feet back down and feel the ground underneath the soles of your feet.”
I do as he says, still struggling to fight off the impending panic.
“How does it feel?” he asks me.
“What?” I’m confused.
“The ground, the tile, underneath your feet; is it hot?”
“No, not hot. Warm,” I say, and then I burst into tears. Hot, uncontrollable, horrifying tears.
“Mom?” Star’s voice is panicked.
I try so hard not to show too much emotion in front of her because I don’t want to burden her with worrying over me, as well as her own recovery.
“Go fetch Stamatis,” Andrius orders.
No, I don’t want him to see me like this. About to protest, my sounds are cut off when big arms wrap around me and my snotty, tear-stained face is pressed against Andrius’ shoulder, probably soaking what looks like a very expensive shirt.
“Rhea?” Stamatis’ concerned voice reaches me. “Hey,” he says. “What’s this?”
“PTSD,” Andrius states. “Trauma, guilt; she’s a survivor but also sees herself as a perpetrator.”
How does he know all this?
“What the fuck, you a shrink now?” Stamatis asks.
Andrius gives a dark laugh. “No, my friend. I am also a survivor, and a perpetrator, and I know what losing it looks like for someone who has been through hell.”
He thinks I’m losing it, but he also understands and has gone through something similar himself.
“Okay, come on.” Stamatis reaches down and lifts me into his arms, and Andrius lets go.
Ashamed, I peek at his shirt and see my mascara all over it, but my eyes are still streaming with tears, and my throat is choked with emotion, so I can’t apologize.
Stamatis strides through the house with me, up the stairs, and kicks open a bedroom door with his foot before putting me onto the bed. He heads into the bathroom and comes back a moment later with a washcloth.
“What’s wrong, Rhea?” he asks gently as he wipes my face.
“I-I-I- failed my c-c-child,” I say, my teeth chattering. I’m so upset.
“Yes, you did,” he replies. “However, your husband failed you first, by failing to provide for you when you were young and pregnant, leaving you both vulnerable to that cult.”
I’ve told Stamatis during some of our conversations about how we came to be members of the community.
“Your parents failed you when they let you down and didn’t help a vulnerable, pregnant young girl. Our society failed you by not giving you any alternative other than giving up your baby or joining such a group. So maybe in some ways you failed your child, but only after many people had failed you.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” I wail.
“No, it doesn’t, but we all make mistakes in this life, and you are making up for it. You got your son out of there, and you are dealing with your ex-husband so that your son is safe from that group’s malign influence. You’re here for your daughter now.”
“But she’s still in danger,” I splutter, all sense lost now as the emotions tear me apart.
“What? Nonsense. Why would she be?”
“Because Markos is a gangster. Because you are a gangster. Because your men are all very, very bad, and you seem to have collected a harem of gullible, vulnerable young women.”
It’s only when I stop speaking and the deafening silence in the room infiltrates my brain that I realize what the hell I’ve just said.
I look up and see the thunder brewing in Stamatis’ gaze, and my fevered panic turns to ice cold dread.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rhea
“A harem?” he growls.
“I didn’t mean that, but—”
“No, you fucking did mean it. Let me remind you, I have no … how did you put it? Ah, yes, young, vulnerable girls around me. I haven’t been with anyone, but you, for the longest time, and you’re hardly young.”
I flinch at his words.
“Maya is my daughter. Do you think I’d let her be with Damen if I didn’t think he was honorable?”
“But you’re mafia, yes? So is he.”
“Listen to me, Rhea, and fucking understand what I’m telling you. You know the Alanis family?”
I nod, not daring to speak because I seem to have lost my mind, and along with it, any mouth-to-brain filter.
“They’re respectable, or so they like to think. Made their money the good way, yes?”
I nod.
“The right way. Through commerce. That store of theirs has stood for decades, but did you also know they own the cheap mass market Kalina stores?”
I shake my head. “No, of course you didn’t. Well, the biggest Kalina store went up two years ago, and in order for it to be built, blocks of housing had to be cleared and the people bought out and relocated; except, not all of them wanted to go. So the Alina family went through the courts, but when that took forever, and it looked as if they were going to lose, they employed less savory measures to get their way. Jonathon, fine, upstanding Jonathon, sent some rather rough men around to pay those residents a visit, and what do you know? They sold up.”
He starts to pace the room, hands behind his back. “Now me, I’ve never sent heavies to intimidate old folks who simply want to live out their lives in their own homes, and not have to move. I’ve also never used my sway to bribe the political class to re-write tax laws to suit me and my own.”
He laughs and shrugs. “I don’t pay tax on many of my ventures, as I’m sure you’re aware, but a lot of my businesses are legit, and I do pay tax on those, and unlike those fucking vultures, the Alanis family, I don’t mind. I give more to charity each year than they give in a decade, but they hold fancy balls, so everyone can see how generous they are.”
He hunkers down to my level as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“There’s a man I know, only vaguely, and he’s a banker. He gave loans to people he knew could never pay them back, for years, leading up to 2007, and it brought his bank down. Is he in jail? No, don’t be silly; he’s heading up a hedge fund. The difference between those upstanding businessmen and me is wafer fucking thin.”
I start to cry again because it seems once I’ve started, I can’t stop. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and then reaches out and brushes a tear from my cheek. “I don’t understand how someone can infuriate me and tug on my heartstrings in the same moment,” he says wryly. “You do, though.”
“I’m sorry for what I said. It’s just I don’t think I could bear for Star to find herself so in love with Markos she can’t get out of
it, and then discover he’s running drugs and women.”
He laughs again, and this time it’s a lot more amused than bitter. “Firstly, the horse is firmly out of the stable on the Star being in too deep with Markos front. They’re head over heels for one another and having a baby. Secondly, we don’t run women. Ever. I would never fucking get involved with trafficking people. And if I lost my mind and decided to, I think Damen would take over. I’m not fucking joking. As for drugs. I don’t run drugs; however, I do facilitate the movement of certain recreational plants grown in Crete and other places by providing shipping route security.”
“So how do you make your money?”
He comes to sit by me and takes hold of my hand. “Well, funnily enough, increasingly these days by legitimate business. But I’m a supplier of hard to find items. I have a network of people who work with and for me who can acquire things and get them to places that might need them. I’ll give you one example—I’m a prime supplier of alcohol to Saudi Arabia.”
I frown. “But they don’t drink.”
He laughs. “Rhea, they don’t drink, openly, and of course the women don’t drink in higher society, but the men? The shit they do behind closed doors is a different matter. I shipped over a hundred thousand euros worth of whisky to those fuckers not too long ago. They want alcohol, they have three choices. Get it from a contact at an embassy or an ex-pat community. Brew their own, which is what a lot of the poorer people do. I heard of one woman who made wine that was better than the most expensive shit you buy in France, but I never tasted it, so I can’t tell you if that’s true. Or, the final option is to get it on the black market, which is where someone like me comes in. I get the finest Cuban cigars and sell them to the US. Although,” he pauses with a sigh. “Those fuckers changed their laws, and now that’s not as lucrative as people can bring them in legally so long as it is for personal use.”
I smile through my slowing tears at his disdain on the words personal use.
“Then there’s fine jewelry, art, the luxury goods market. I move things people want from places where they are in abundance to places where they can’t get them easily, and much of the time, the way I move them isn’t exactly legal, but I’m not selling crack to little kids. I’m not selling land mines to militia. And I’m most definitely fucking not trading in human flesh. So as far as my business is concerned, my conscience is clean.”