“Oh sure,” I grumble. “It’s only other people’s women who are in danger around them.”
She wrinkles her brow and gives me an apologetic look. “It’s not personal.”
“It is for me!” I shout, springing to my feet. “I’m the one who’s going to eat a bullet if you brother doesn’t get his money.”
“Elena … I wish there was something I could do.”
“You can! Help me get out of here. Diego never has to know it was you. I’ll make sure he gets his money eventually, I swear.”
Marcella gives me a sad look and slowly shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Even if I could do that, you wouldn’t be able to hide for long before they found you. Diego has connections everywhere.”
Before I can reply, someone knocks on the door. It turns out to be the maid, Antonella. She’s carrying a huge box, which she drops in the middle of the room.
“Your clothes came in,” she says, sounding as if she’s presenting me with a Christmas gift.
She and Marcella start digging through the package, throwing items of clothing across the bed. I ignore them and head to the champagne for another refill. I’m starting to feel a little buzz, and it’s helping take the edge off. I’ve been here for a week now, which brings me closer to the moment of reckoning. If my father has been in touch with Diego, I haven’t been told about it. The wondering and waiting are already starting to drive me insane.
“Oooh, this is cute!” Antonella exclaims, lifting a white dress from the box.
It’s meant to be form-fitting and looks like its perfect for a cocktail party. A pair of matching heels comes out next.
“Where the hell am I going to wear that?” I snap. “To my execution?”
Antonella spreads the dress out on the bed and lays the shoes beside it. They have gold trim and shiny red soles. “You never know. Besides, Señor Pérez let me charge all this to his credit card. Seemed like a waste not to take advantage of it.”
I give Antonella an approving nod. “Agreed. Please tell me there’s a diamond tiara in there, too.”
“Nope,” Marcella replies. “But this little number is sexy as hell.”
She’s holding up a set of black silk pajamas—a camisole and shorts trimmed in delicate lace. Antonella is ooh-ing an aah-ing over jeans, tops, and activewear, while Marcella pulls a few more sets of similar pajamas that could double for sleep or seduction.
It all seems a little ridiculous considering I’m a fucking prisoner here. But then, I figure Antonella probably ordered all these things knowing we’re almost the same size and expecting it all to be given to her once I’m gone. I can’t say I wouldn’t take the same opportunity were I in her shoes.
“Oh, thank God,” I say, as Marcella pulls out handfuls of underwear and a couple of bras.
I snatch a pair of white cotton panties and a matching bra from her and rush into the bathroom. Wearing undergarments again shouldn’t seem like a small blessing, but just now it’s all I have. Being able to put on clothes that don’t belong to someone else makes me feel a little more in control. I select a simple pair of jeans and a T-shirt, noticing that even these items are made by high-end designers. Knowing Diego’s credit card bill has shot up as a result of my presence here offers a little vindication.
The girls help me store the clothes in the closet. Then, Antonella takes the box and leaves after mentioning that lunch will be served in about an hour.
Marcella stands in the middle of the room, glancing around as if looking for an excuse to stay. “Look, I’ll try to reason with Diego, but I can’t make any promises. He doesn’t like me getting involved in his business. I might have been born into this, but I’m not supposed to take any real part in it.”
“What about your parents?” I ask. I might have been pissed that she won’t help escape, but she’s the first friendly face I’ve seen since being brought here. “What happened to them?”
“They’re both dead,” she replies without elaborating. “My father was killed when I was a baby—I never knew him. Mama passed about ten years ago.” She moves toward the door, avoiding my gaze. “I have to go. I’ll let you kill off the rest of the champagne. Maybe I’ll stop by again with something stronger.”
“Tequila would be nice,” I quip.
Marcella pauses at the door and grins at me. “I knew I liked you. By the way … I’m still rooting for you, Elena.”
She leaves without another word, and I fall onto my back with a sigh. Staring at the ceiling, I think over the few insights Marcella gave me. One thing I’m certain I understand about this mafia-world is that the women might be sympathetic to my situation, but none of them will step out of line to help me.
No one is going to save me. I’m going to have to save myself.
10
Diego
“There has to be another way!”
Every man in the conference room flinches when I crash my fist against the table, making glasses rattle and ice clink. I’ve gathered my lieutenants to discuss the Russian alliance, and the upcoming dinner at Oleg’s house in two days. I’ve been mulling over solutions to my problem and searching for a way out of this arranged marriage bullshit.
“There isn’t, jefe,” Jovan says from the seat to my right. “We’ve explored every angle. Oleg has the upper hand here.”
The others nod in agreement, their heads bobbing but their mouths closed. My mood has gotten worse with every day that Elena is under my roof. Our paths haven’t crossed since her escape attempt, which I should take as a sign that she’s accepted the reality of her situation. The sooner our contracted thirty days ends, the sooner I can go back to feeling any semblance of normal.
I need her out of my house, out of my reach … out from under my skin. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know the woman and don’t want to beyond the bare facts of our association. She’s a means to an end—a dead one if Santiago fails to come through.
“What if we shut them out of the docks … or impose a fee for allowing their shipments through?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and pinching the bridge of my nose. My head has been pounding all morning from lack of sleep.
“It could work,” Carlos chimes in from his end of the table. “It might pressure them into agreeing to the partnership without the other condition.”
“Or it could piss them off and cause us more problems,” Jovan fires back. “Do you really want to start a war with the Russians while we’re still dealing with the Armenians?”
The Armenians have been terrorizing our docks for months now, ever since I cut them off for trafficking women and children. Apparently, they’ve found another way to funnel their cargo into the city, but it hasn’t stopped them from trying to make my life a living hell. I’ve had to increase security at the waterfront all along the east coast to keep watch over my own goods. The Armenians seem to think they now have the right to kill my men and steal my shit. They’re a smaller cartel, but not to be underestimated. Jovan is right that we don’t have the luxury of making a new enemy of the Yezhovs with the scum-sucking Armenians breathing down our necks.
“We need this fucking deal,” I remind them. “Work your sources, find any potential weak points we might exploit, or something … anything. Figure it out!”
My technology expert and resident hacker, Jaime, speaks up. “With all due respect, jefe. Couldn’t you just marry the bitch?”
I grind my teeth while staring Jaime down, contemplating knocking his teeth out. He’s the most valued of any man here except for Jovan, so I stay my hand.
“Marriage is out of the question,” I snap. “No one—and I mean, fucking no one, forces my hand. Instead of opening your mouth to spew useless shit, why don’t you focus on hacking the Yezhovs’ systems and finding me something useful!”
“Sorry, jefe,” he murmurs, lowering his eyes.
“Get the fuck out, all of you,” I grumble, snatching up one of the Scotch bottles near me and filling my glass to the brim. I don’t bother with the lime, sucking it
down like its water while trying to keep from losing my shit.
Everyone but Jovan does what I say, getting out of dodge before I continue taking my irritation out on them.
“Go away,” I snap, glaring at Jovan while he tips his chair back and sets his feet on the table.
“Not until you tell me what the fuck your problem is. Jaime had the best advice I’ve heard all day. Why won’t you just marry the girl? You don’t have to love her—hell, you don’t even have to like her. Stash her in a condo in the city or some shit, but put a ring on it and all our problems go away.”
My hand tightens around my glass. “You know why. I’m not marrying anyone, ever. Not even Oleg’s daughter.”
“Hell, I’d marry her if he’d allow it. Sexy little thing … nice tits.”
“Unless you have an idea that doesn’t involve me registering at Pottery Barn, get lost.”
Jovan straightens, letting his feet hit the floor. His playful expression becomes grave. “Actually, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been keeping tabs on Santiago Aguilar like you asked.”
“And?”
He shakes his head, lips pinched tight. “He’s making moves to leave the country. Permanently.”
Shoving my glass aside, I get to my feet. “Motherfucker.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jovan drawls. “What kind of father leaves his daughter to pay his debt?”
I start pacing, running a hand through my hair. “The kind of man who stands back and lets a couple of mafia-men drug and abduct his daughter. He’s a fucking lowlife.”
Jovan crosses his arms over his chest and watches me, one eyebrow raised. “You’re pretty fired up. I mean … it’s not like we actually expected him to come up with the money.”
I shrug off his remarks, but inside I’m seething. Elena might be a thorn in my side, but none of this is her fault. I’m going to have to kill her, and knowing that makes me want to punch something. I’ve always been prepared to carry out my threat, but didn’t count on Santiago leaving me with no other choice.
“What do you want to do?”
“Santiago is signaling that he has no intention of paying up. You need to convince him that that’s a bad idea.”
Jovan frowns. “Do you really think it’s worth the trouble? He’s already failed to repay his debt twice now.”
I turn on Jovan, my face flushing hot as his reminder hits home. “When did you start questioning my orders?”
He doesn’t look the least bit intimidated. The others would be pissing themselves right about now.
“When you stopped acting like the Diego I know,” he fires back. “What is it with this bitch, huh? You got a hard-on for her or something? Shit, I would too, she’s a hot piece. So fuck her first, then waste her. But you can’t go back on your word, or talk will spread to every boss from here to Cali that the head of the Pérez Cartel is a pussy.”
With a roar, I throw myself at Jovan, yanking him out of his chair and hurling him against the nearest wall.
He holds his hands up in surrender, his lips twitching with a coming laugh. “Did I hit a nerve? You need to get laid, and fast … get your head on straight. I’m right, and you know it.”
I do know it, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to break his jaw. “Stop worrying about my sex life and do what I fucking say. Can you manage that?”
Jovan dislodges himself from my hold and straightens the jacket of his Valentino suit. “One ass-kicking coming up, jefe.”
I sink into my chair once he’s gone, my blood rushing and my senses begging for some kind of outlet. Bones breaking on the other end of my fists, a wet pussy around my cock … something. Anything to take my mind off all this bullshit even for a moment.
Glancing up, I find the portrait of my parents that has always hung in this room. When I’m gone, my portrait will replace it, looming over the new boss and his council—a reminder of the greatness of the Pérez family.
My parents don’t look like the typical loving couple, but then their marriage was exactly what Oleg has planned for me and Nataly—an arrangement made for the sake of strength and survival. It wasn’t something I ever wanted, because I knew it was all I could ever have. Any fantasies of a real wife and kids who love me died when I was still young and stupid enough to believe in them.
I look into my father’s eyes—dark and empty. He had just started sprouting gray hairs at his temples when the portrait was painted. I have his face—all hard edges and sharp lines. My mother is even harsher in appearance, severe and unsmiling. I don’t remember ever hearing her laugh.
What I do remember are the arguments. My mother was never content with her place as the boss’s wife, and my father never stopped trying to put her in her place. She thought him weak, and he thought she was a bother and a burden. To hear her tell it, she would have been a far better boss than her husband.
This is the sort of future Jovan is suggesting for me. The kind I’ll have if I give in to Oleg’s demands. But marriage would eventually lead to children; in dynasties like ours, they always do because an heir is needed. To put any child of mine through what I suffered would be the cruelest thing I could ever do. My only consolation is that my father died before Marcella could grow old enough to witness what I did, to live what I lived.
I tear out of the room, desperate for a change of scenery away from the ghosts of my past.
11
Elena
I’m awakened out of a restless sleep by the sound of voices. Sitting up and yanking the blankets over my chest, I stare at the dark square of the door. My heart starts to race as I wonder if it’s Diego and why he’d come here in the middle of the night. I feel exposed as if his eyes are already on me, and I could kick myself for wearing the scanty pajamas Antonella ordered for me. I had planned to shun the silky, lacy scraps, but a deep longing for pretty things won out. I miss my cashmere blankets and my own silky pajamas. It felt good to slip between the sheets after a shower feeling feminine and comfortable.
The mood is gone as I slowly slip from the bed and creep toward the door. I realize now that neither of the voices is Diego’s. That only brings me the barest bit of relief. There’s always a guard outside my door—even through the night—but never two. If what they’re talking about involves me, I want to hear it.
When I press my ear to the door, their voices are muffled, but not enough to obscure the words.
“What the hell is he gonna do with her now?”
“Fuck if I know. I feel sorry for her, but a deal’s a deal. If Aguilar doesn’t pay up, his daughter’s dead.”
My skin grows instantly cold, like ice-water has flooded my veins. My heart drops as I grapple with what I’m hearing.
“There’s still a few weeks left. The fucker might actually pay up.”
“He’s leaving the country, estúpido! Why would he run if he plans to pay?”
I sink to my knees, holding both hands over my mouth to muffle the sobs bubbling out of my throat. My eyes sting with hot tears and my stomach wrenches as if I’ve been punched.
My own father will leave town rather than try to find a way to save me. When given no choice but to pay for my life or lose me, he chose himself. I don’t doubt he’ll hole up with my uncle in Brazil, hoping Diego doesn’t eventually find him.
Tremors roll through me as I realize that the end is near. Diego was already annoyed at the inconvenience of having to keep me locked down, and I made it worse by trying to escape. I find it hard to believe he’ll have the patience to wait until the end of the month. I could be dead in a matter of hours.
I stand on shaking legs and make my way back to the bed. But once I’m there, I can’t bring myself to lay back down. It feels wrong to continue being passive. It’s been days since my first attempt at getting out of this house. I had hoped to give it at least a week before trying again, but the time that has passed since then will have to be enough. Besides, the clock on the nightstand says its three a.m. Diego should be asleep
by now. If I can get past the men outside my door, I can run and hope the hallways aren’t filled with security. I know there are more guards patrolling outside and the island police force to contend with, but I’ll have to eat this elephant one bite at a time. First, getting out of this room.
I move as quickly and quietly as I can, trading my pajamas for yoga pants and a T-shirt. The sneakers Antonella ordered are too small, leaving me no choice but to go barefoot. Turning in circles, I search for anything I can defend myself with. My silver dinner tray and the nail file from my manicure kit are the best I can do; but better these weapons than none at all.
Tucking the file into my waistband, I hold the tray by one of its handles and take a deep breath before yanking open the door. There’s only one man in front of me, and he’s so startled by my sudden appearance that I have just enough time to strike first. The tray vibrates in my hands and makes a loud clanging sound when I whip it across his face. He drops like a stone.
“What the fuck!”
I whirl at the sound of that roar and find the second man running toward me. He must have been walking away when I attacked his friend. Panic sets in, and I can’t react fast enough to dodge him before he takes hold of my shoulders and slams me against the wall. I flail and free one arm, clawing at his face.
“Goddamn it … you bitch!” he growls, wrestling to get me under control.
I kick him in the shin and it dislodges him enough for me to reach for my nail file. My arm comes up in a swift arc, slashing the point across his face.
Cursing and bellowing in pain, he covers his bleeding cheek with one hand and makes a grab for me with the other. I thrust with the file, embedding the metal shaft in the center of his palm. As he doubles over, I yank the pistol from the holster on his hip and jam a knee into his side. He goes down, grunting and groaning, so I turn and run. The hallway seems endless, my bare feet thudding on the hardwood floors too loud for my liking.
Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Page 7