Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless)

by Victoria Vale

  “Try the crepes,” Oleg says in his thick, Russian accent. “They’re exquisite.”

  And just in time, because the slightest shift in my thoughts toward Elena has my cock twitching in reaction. It’s too easy to imagine her as she was this morning, her bikini and flimsy cover-up doing nothing to hide her toned body from me. She’s even sexier in the light of day.

  I can’t think of her like that—not while I’m doing business. Not ever. One of the many lessons my mother taught me was to never let my dick guide me in business decisions. Once I was old enough that she noticed me spending more time than usual in the shower, she sat me down and told me in her no-bullshit way to fuck whoever I wanted as long as they weren’t connected to any business dealings. She forbade me from fooling around with any woman who belonged to another member of the cartel, past or present. I was never to knock up any woman who wasn’t my wife. Such mistakes were enough to get a man killed. It was hard for me to believe that at the ripe old age of fourteen, but experience has shown me that Mother’s lessons were always right on the mark. I’ve seen entire criminal dynasties fall apart over a piece of ass, so I keep business and pleasure separate. Which means Elena Aguilar is absolutely off limits.

  With that in mind, I help myself to cream-cheese filled crepes with strawberries, even though I’m not hungry. Oleg is old-school, and his strict Russian upbringing dictates certain protocols. He never discusses business in front of women, and he won’t get around to the reason for a meeting until pleasantries have been observed.

  We’ve been sitting at our table in a secluded corner of the Indian Creek Country Club for an hour, engaging in small talk. Now, I force myself to eat slowly so as not to offend him. He might here as my guest, but he’s footing the bill. Aside from that, the deal I’m trying to broker with Oleg will take the Pérez Family to the next level, ushering us into the digital age. It’s one segment of the underworld we don’t yet have a stake in, aside from the handful of commodities I refuse to touch—human trafficking and sale of endangered and exotic animals. Everything else is fair game, and the Yezhov bratva is light-years ahead of us on that front. A partnership would also add additional muscle to our ranks, which will be needed if things continue heating up between us and the other crime families fighting for dominance.

  Oleg talks to me about his wife, children, and grandchildren, a new house he just purchased in Martha’s Vineyard, and the litter of puppies he’s expecting from his impeccably bred hounds. I answer his questions about how my sister is doing and sidestep anything having to do with my dating life or marriage prospects. But Oleg won’t be put off. As is customary between us at these meetings, the moment our plates are clean he segues into talk about his youngest daughter.

  “You’ve avoided me long enough, Diego,” he says with a teasing smile. He’s a large man—as tall as me and built like a bull. Only the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and white hair give away his age. “My little Nataly is beginning to worry you do not find her beautiful. When will you allow me to host a dinner in your honor? It would be a good occasion for you to get to know my little girl, and for your men and mine to break bread together.”

  I take a long swallow of my bourbon to buy myself some time to think. Oleg introduced me to his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Nataly, last year at the party for her twenty-first birthday. It was the first step toward partnership, and the first time he thrust Nataly under my nose like a prime cut of juicy steak. The rumors of her stunning beauty were brought to life when I laid eyes on her, but something inside me failed to react in a visceral way. Appreciating Nataly’s looks was easy; trying to imagine spending the rest of my life with her … not so much. It wasn’t only because I’ve always been against marrying and starting a family. Maybe it was the age difference, or the weird 17th century vibes I get at the idea of an arranged marriage. Either way, marrying Oleg’s daughter isn’t something I want, so I’ve avoided this conversation wherever I can.

  “A dinner party sounds like a good idea,” I say carefully, not wanting to commit to anything permanent. “I agree, it feels like the next logical step as we negotiate the terms of our alliance.”

  Pushing his empty glass toward the edge of the table, Oleg leans in and looks me in the eye. His expression smooths out, becoming stark and serious. “It’s time for us to stop dancing around the matter, Diego. You’re a smart man, just as your father was … God rest his soul.” He pauses to execute the sign of the cross, and I follow suit, a hollowed pit of guilt growing in my middle. “We both know that a partnership between us will benefit you better than it will us.”

  “That’s an interesting assumption, considering you’re only able to traffic your goods through any port on the southeast because I allow it.”

  Oleg shrugs. “Da, but business at your little club will dry up like the Sahara if I enforce the same protection rules on you as everyone else. I never wanted to do that because your papa and I were friends. He offered aid when I needed it, and I did the same for him.”

  “I don’t see why that arrangement can’t continue between us. I’m not my father, but I’ve capably run and expanded our business since I became head of the family.”

  “You have, and it makes me proud to see,” Oleg relents. “But if the Yezhov and Pérez families are to become partners in every sense of the word, then a deeper commitment is necessary. I cannot consider moving forward without certain assurances.”

  Fuck. This is what I had hoped to avoid. Instead of sly suggestions and manipulation, Oleg is now resorting to an outright ultimatum.

  “I won’t be forced into anything,” I warn him, my voice low. I might be half his age, but we are equals here. “I’m open to negotiations, but ultimatums won’t be considered. At all.”

  Oleg’s nostrils flare, and I suspect he wants to take me by the ear and shake me like the young boy he sees me as. “Be very careful, moy drug. With the Irish and the Armenians nipping at your heels, you cannot afford me as an enemy.”

  I could remind him that the Irish gangs have limited power outside the northeast, but that would be splitting hairs. Besides, the threat of the Armenians is a real one—though Oleg neglected to mention that those bloodthirsty bastards hate Russians as much as they hate Colombians.

  “I don’t want you for an enemy,” I reply instead.

  “Then you, your sister, and your lieutenants will attend the dinner party. We’ll eat and drink and leave all talk of business at the door. You will sit beside Nataly and charm her—take the time to know her. I’ll allow you to court my daughter, an honor I’m sure you know has been denied every other who has asked. When an adequate period of courtship has passed, I am certain you will come to love her. A marriage making our two families into one will then be a natural progression.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a suggestion. It sounds more like a demand.”

  Oleg smirks. “If I align my family with yours, you’ll have access to my dark web connections. That will be worth ten times your weight in gold. If I am to give so much, I expect you to be willing to do the same. I will not force you to the altar … but to refuse the generous offer of my daughter’s hand in marriage will have me rethinking this arrangement.”

  There isn’t much I can say to argue that point, and the bastard knows it. I come to my feet and button my jacket. “Send the date and time for the dinner, and we’ll be there. I will consider your other … suggestion.”

  “That is all I ask,” Oleg says, standing and offering me his hand. “You are wiser than your years, syn. I know you will come to see why things must be this way. And perhaps you and my Nataly will fall deeply in love. She will make you happy.”

  My only response is a terse nod before I turn to walk away. Oleg using the Russian endearment for ‘son’ usually feels genuine, but just now it feels like another manipulation—a subtle warning that with one decision I could go from being like a son to him, to being his enemy.

  There must be something else I can offer him. Marriage and c
hildren have never been in the cards for me, not even to produce a miniature version of myself to have as an heir. I’m perfectly content to leave everything in Jovan’s hands once I’m gone.

  The average lifespan of a Pérez boss has never gone beyond fifty, which means by the time I die, I could have sons and daughters old enough to suffer my loss. Maybe, someone could even put a pistol in their hands and command them to shoot me in the head. They would have to live with the mortal sin of patricide for the rest of their lives.

  6

  Elena

  As my first day in captivity goes on, I’ve become more restless. The brain-fog cleared after eating, sleeping, and generally doing nothing productive. Now, I can only think about how and when I will try to escape.

  The door to my room has been opening with no warning all day, with various people appearing on the threshold. First came two maids—Mariana and Antonella. Mariana is considered the ‘head maid’ and also the cook; Antonella takes orders from her. I was told these two women would be responsible for my care, while various men on Diego’s security detail will ensure I never leave the room. Mariana is an older woman—probably in her sixties—wearing a floral dress, support hose, and a pair of orthopedic shoes. Antonella is young and pretty, looking enough like Mariana that I assume they’re related. She wears a pair of scrubs and comfortable sneakers, and keeps a head full of cinnamon brown hair pulled into a high ponytail.

  Antonella sets my breakfast tray on the nightstand, while Mariana presented me with a few changes of clothes and a wide array of hygiene products—including a new toothbrush still in the package.

  “Señor Pérez has asked Antonella to select more clothes for you,” Mariana informs me. Her accent is thick, her voice low and husky. “For now, the things we brought belong to her … the two of you are similar in size.”

  Except for the fact that Antonella has a smaller chest than I do. Gazing at the two tank tops and T-shirt in the pile, I wondered if they’ll fit. But I won’t complain; anything is better than continuing to lay around in this bikini.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, before looking at my breakfast tray. It’s enough food to feed four grown men.

  Seeing the direction of my gaze, Antonella laughs. “We don’t know what you like yet, so we put a little of everything on your tray,” she says, her accent lighter than Mariana’s but still distinct. “Once you’ve been here for a while, we’ll get to know what you like.”

  Vomit wells up in the back of my throat at the idea of being here long enough for these women to learn my preferences. The lavish meal served to me on pretty white and blue china looks like death to me … an attempt to fatten me up for the slaughter.

  “Please let us know if you have any allergies,” Mariana adds, peeking at me from beneath her lowered lashes.

  Odd how she avoids looking at me, while Antonella stares with open curiosity.

  “Nothing that I know of,” I tell her, as if it really matters.

  “Good,” Mariana replies with a little nod. “We will return at lunch time.”

  Once left alone, I tackle the breakfast tray. I’m not stupid enough to waste good food, and my stomach started growling an hour ago. I manage to kill off the scrambled eggs, a few slices of bacon, a croissant, and half a small bowl of fruit before I can’t stomach another bite.

  After that, I take my clothes and toiletries into the bathroom. Mariana thought of everything—shampoo and conditioner, body washes in three different scents, lotions, a loofah sponge, hair ties, toothbrush and toothpaste, a small manicure kit, and even a box of tampons.

  “So thoughtful,” I mutter with a sarcastic snort.

  I take my time in the shower—washing and conditioning my hair and scrubbing away the odor of chlorine. I look a little more like my usual self when I step out and look over Antonella’s clothes for something to wear. The fact there aren’t any underwear makes sense, but the idea of going commando in this strange place gives me the creeps. I choose a pair of soft, worn-in yoga pants and a tank top, rolling my eyes at how snug everything fits. Antonella is about my height and slender, so the leggings are a nice fit, but I’m spilling out of the tank top.

  Whatever. It isn’t like I’m going to be entertaining any guests from my cushy little cell.

  Not long after I get dressed, a knock sounds at the door. On the other side, I find a man with huge biceps, dark hair and eyes, and a scowling face. He introduces himself as Luis and tells me he’s in charge of securing entertainment for me. After listening to a list of acceptable and prohibited items, I request a television and some DVDs, a yoga mat, and any books or magazines that can be scrounged up. Everything is delivered within an hour, except the yoga mat, which I’m told someone has to leave the island to purchase.

  I spend the rest of my day trying not to pace the room or climb the walls. The books are a hodgepodge of thrillers and mystery, with a few old romance novels thrown in. The DVDs run along the same vein, romantic comedies and dramas mixed in with action and horror flicks. It’s a really weird assortment of things for a house filled with hardened criminals, but I’m grateful for the variety.

  Diego doesn’t appear at the door to my room until dinner time. By then, I’m picking at a meal of roasted chicken, potatoes, and glazed carrots while staring numbly at the television. My attention is only half-focused on Never Been Kissed when the door swings open and I find him standing there in the same getup he wore this morning. He looks haggard and exhausted, though, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

  He looks me over, his lips pinching more when his gaze settles on the neckline of my tank top. My tits are fighting for freedom, thrust upward by the snug constriction of the top around my ribs.

  Clearing his throat, Diego looks away and retrieves a cell phone from his jacket pocket.

  “Come stand here so I can watch you send your text,” he says with a little less gravel in his voice than usual. He sounds as tired as he looks, which I find odd. Aren’t mob bosses supposed to live the high life—women, money, cars, and clubs? What’s he been doing all day that has him looking like he’ll fall over in a dead sleep any second?

  I don’t care. I wouldn’t spit on Diego Pérez if he were on fire, so I certainly don’t give a shit if he’s had a rough day. He isn’t the one who woke up this morning with a hangover from being drugged, in a strange house under the threat of execution.

  The lockscreen of his phone is a photo of a young woman who is absolutely stunning. Her skin is a lighter olive shade than his—more like mine—and her hair is shiny, black, and cut into a sleek bob. Her eyes are large and hazel, with shades of green and brown mingling together. She has full lips, and a heart-shaped face.

  “That your wifey?” I joke as he uses his thumbprint to unlock the phone.

  Diego’s only response is a rough grunt. He opens a new text thread and thrusts the phone into my hands. The look on his face says everything his mouth does not: I shouldn’t abuse this privilege. His promise earlier to ‘punish’ me if I get out of line goes through my mind, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

  “Keep it short,” he says, standing close to look over my shoulder. His breath is warm and tingle-inducing on the side of my neck. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Biting my lip, I type in one of the few phone numbers I have memorized—the manager of my boutique, Belleza. Tracy has probably been blowing up my phone all day. My small staff know to always expect me there first thing in the morning with coffee, music blaring over the speaker system and a rack of new clothes ready to be displayed.

  Belleza is my passion, a dream I’ve had ever since I sat on my mama’s lap to learn how to use her sewing machine. If I can’t contact anyone else, I know Tracy will at least take care of the business for me. If the worst should happen, I can only hope Tracy and the rest of the crew won’t close our doors. The sketchbook I keep in my back office is filled with designs that haven’t yet gone to production. Belleza could operate for years after I’m gone.

  Sw
allowing the lump in my throat, I push aside thoughts of my eminent death and focus on my message. I don’t want Tracy to worry, and Diego is standing too close for me to attempt an SOS.

  I type out a quick—and hopefully not alarming—text.

  Hey Trace, it’s Elena. Sorry I wasn’t there to open this morning. My abuela is very sick, and I bought a ticket to Los Angeles as soon as I got the news. She’ll need care when she’s released from the hospital, so I could be gone a few weeks. Hold down the fort for me until I get back. I’ll give you a call once I get a new phone … had too many cocktails and dropped mine in the toilet. Oops!

  Diego snatches the phone from me before I can press ‘send,’ and gives my message a quick read. Before he can put his phone away, a new message comes through and I hold my breath, thinking it must be a reply from Tracy. My heart sinks when Diego opens the text to reveal a picture that’s a clear invitation from some faceless woman. The selfie was taken at a flattering angle, showing a woman with a full, lush figure wearing cherry red lingerie. Only her lips and chin are showing, but a tendril of black hair hanging to her shoulder makes me think of the woman on his lockscreen.

  “Hot date?” I mutter.

  Diego darkens the screen, then slips it back into his pocket. Without a word, he turns on his heel to leave.

  “You can’t keep me here,” I call after him.

  He swivels to face me. “I thought we had already established that I can.”