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

by Victoria Vale

  He laid in my arms and told me he loved me. Maybe he thinks I didn’t hear him, since I was exhausted and half asleep when he murmured those shocking words. I can’t explain how it happened, or reason it out when it makes no sense. That doesn’t stop me from knowing its real.

  I don’t have to tell Diego that I’ve given up all ideas of leaving him. He shows me he already knows that by easing up on his vigilance. I’ve left our penthouse several times for takeout and fresh gauze for his shoulder, and he never seems worried that I wouldn’t come back. Part of me—the last rational shred of my mind—insists he’s grown cocky. He thinks he’s pushed me so firmly under his thumb that he knows I wouldn’t dare cross him.

  My heart tells me a different story. With the revelations of Diego’s past and the frightening reality of nearly losing him, came something I never thought we’d share.

  Trust.

  And because I trust him, my concern shifts away from his injuries and lands on worry over this mess with the Armenians. I don’t know all the ins and outs of this feud, but I learned from Diego that the other cartel started the war by murdering half a dozen soldiers in order to steal some cargo. Ever since then, the two factions have been at each other’s throats, with casualties on both sides. Diego seemed to think joining with the Yezhovs would make the Pérez cartel too intimidating to fuck with, but the attack at the docks has proven otherwise.

  Within hours of returning to Indian Creek, Diego calls Jovan, Jaime, and a handful of other lieutenants into one of the living rooms. Instead of gently prodding me from the room like he usually does when talking business, Diego pulls me down onto his lap. He slouches on the sofa, one hand cupping my ass as he addresses his men.

  “What we’re about to discuss doesn’t leave this room,” he says, the look in his eyes contradicting his casual tone.

  He’s furious about what happened the other night, and became more enraged when learning that eight of his soldiers were killed in the gunfight.

  “As I’ve started recovering, some of the details I forgot are coming back to me,” he continues, idly running his hand up and down my back. “I got clocked on the head pretty hard, but I remember hearing a phrase in Armenian. Jaime can you translate?”

  Jaime frowns and picks up his phone, tapping at the screen. “I can try, boss. Ask me to translate Russian or Gaelic and it’s no sweat. I’m still learning the Armenian.”

  I perk up at that, surprised to hear this. All this time, Jaime was presented to me as the cartel’s resident computer nerd and nothing more. He’s big and his body is jacked, but I’ve never seen him with a gun, and I know he doesn’t go out on jobs with the other men.

  “How many languages do you speak?” I ask, too curious to keep quiet.

  “Six,” Jaime says without looking up from his phone. “Armenian will be the seventh once I master it. But the others are English, Spanish, Gaelic, Russian, Arabic, and German.”

  “You’re like a Swiss army knife,” I joke. “Just when I think you can’t get more surprising, something new comes out.”

  Jaime offers me a quick glance and a smile, then looks to Diego. “I have some common phrases I keep around for quick translations. What do you remember?”

  Diego rattles off a sentence in the foreign language, pausing and stuttering over some of the syllables. Jaime has him repeat it a few times, his eyes darting and his lips moving silently as he scrolls through his list of phrases.

  “Arman,” Jovan says, picking up on the first word. “That’s a name … where do I know that name?”

  “Arman Sargzyan,” Diego replies. “Head of the Karmir Brotherhood … a subset of the Armenian Power cartel.”

  “Fucking shit,” Jovan groans, running a hand through his hair. “I thought that pendejo was still in Greece.”

  “So did I,” Diego says. “But I know I heard the name. Maybe he ran to the States to escape extradition? He’s wanted in his home country.”

  “Arman Sargzyan sends his regards,” Jaime says suddenly, interrupting Jovan and Diego’s back and forth. “I’m pretty sure that’s the translation. It was a warning. They knew you were wearing a vest. The idea wasn’t to kill you … it was to let you know Arman’s in town and he’s brought the Brotherhood with him.”

  “Goddamn it,” Jovan mutters, getting to his feet and pacing back and forth. “We’re so fucking fucked!”

  “Calm down,” Diego says, still not reacting to what he’s hearing. His calmness is unsettling. “We are far from fucked. We have the Yezhovs. Just because I married Elena doesn’t mean the deal is off. Some of Oleg’s men were killed that night too, not just ours. A powerful, mutual enemy is just the thing to make our alliance official.”

  I go stiff on his lap, my blood running cold as something he said niggles at a memory in the back of my mind. I’ve heard words similar to the ones Jaime just translated. The language is unmistakable now that I know what it is—with loose, flowing vowels like stringed instruments, and staccato, harsh consonants peppering it like drumbeats.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, feeling like I might faint. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Diego frowns, his eyebrows drawn down. “What’s wrong, gatita?”

  I stand up and press a hand to my forehead, trying to remember the night of our engagement party more clearly. I can’t be wrong about this. Lives are hanging in the balance, including mine and Diego’s, and I can’t risk sending him after the wrong man. But, as I turn over the words Diego spoke in my head, one of them screams at me like a blaring siren.

  Arman. I’ve heard that name before, and I remember exactly where.

  “I’ve heard that language spoken before,” I say, my voice quavering from how shaken I am. “I wasn’t sure what it was then, but when you said that phrase I … I think you were set up. Someone fed the Armenians information about where you would be and when. I’ve heard that name, Arman, before. It’s not a common name is it? I’m not crazy, I know what I heard.”

  Diego gets to his feet and reaches for me. He looks worried as he takes hold of my arms, rubbing them up and down. “No, baby, you’re not crazy. If you say you heard something, I believe it. Now, this is very important. I need you to tell me who you heard speaking Armenian.”

  There’s anger in his voice as well as concern, because I know he’s having the same thought I am. He hasn’t taken me anywhere these several months where I might have heard that language spoken. He knows as well as I do that there’s a traitor in our midst.

  “It was at our engagement party, when I went to the bathroom, and when I tried to … when I …”

  Diego nods. “I remember. What did you hear?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t remember actual words, I just know how the language sounded and the name Jovan just said. It was Viktor … he was hiding out in that back room during the party, and I heard him speaking Armenian to someone over the phone. He mentioned Arman by name.”

  Letting go of me, Diego takes a few steps away and then drives his fist into a wall. The impact rattles framed paintings and makes me flinch. He releases a string of curses, gasping and grunting through the pain of exerting himself too much. I want to take care of him, but I know better than to make him look weak in front of his men—even people he’s as close to as Jovan and Jaime.

  Diego’s face is a twisted mask of fury when he turns to face us, his chest heaving as his breaths come fast and panted like a bull’s. His lips curl up into a sneer as he locks eyes with Jovan.

  “Gather the lieutenants, right-fucking-now,” he orders. “We’re going to take a little ride.”

  Jovan leaves the room with a grim nod, and Jaime follows, saying something about setting up communication from upstairs.

  Diego comes to me then, his hand surprisingly gentle as he cups my cheek. “I have to go, gatita.”

  I grab his hand before he can pull away, fear sending adrenaline spiking through me. “You’re still healing, and I know you’re in pain.”

  “I’m fine,” he snaps, yanking his
hand from my hold. “Stay here, don’t even look out through the curtains. I’m increasing security until I get back. And I will come back. Do you understand?”

  Words fail me, so I nod in response. He tears from the room without a look back, leaving me to sink onto the sofa, alone.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I close my eyes and pray he’ll fulfill his promise. I know he’s going after Oleg, but I can’t predict what will happen from there. Is this what life as a mafia boss’s wife is like? If so, I guess now is the true test of whether I can survive it.

  28

  Diego

  I’m almost surprised to find Oleg in his penthouse. When the elevator doors slide open, my pistol is already drawn. The pain in my shoulder and my rage over his betrayal have shortened my fuse, making it a distinct possibility that anyone who gets in my way will eat a bullet for lunch. Jovan and a dozen other soldiers pour in behind me, their weapons raised as they clear the space in search of any pressing threats. We find none.

  Most men would flee the city, if not the country, after trying to assassinate the boss of another cartel. But Oleg isn’t most men, and the security he feels in his own power is apparent when I realize he isn’t even prepared to fight off a counterattack. We find him in the glitzy sitting room where he entertained us during the dinner party—wearing a smoking jacket and enjoying a cigar, a glass of Yezhov Vodka resting on his knee.

  At the sight of me, he comes to his feet and the glass slides to the floor with a ‘thunk,’ sending the stinging scent of Vodka up my nostrils. He clearly wasn’t expecting me—yet another insult heaped on top of the sins he’s already committed. Despite the thirteen guns pointed in his direction, Oleg watches me with calm, steady eyes, still puffing on his cigar.

  “Diego,” he murmurs, raising an eyebrow. “You should be at home resting. I heard about the injury you sustained, and was grieved to know how close you came to death. Galina wanted to look in on you, but I thought it best to wait until you had more time to recuperate.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes and taking in the cluster of my men waiting for the order to riddle him with bullet holes. “What’s this, moy syn?”

  “I’m not your son!” I bellow, pointing my gun directly at his chest. “You’ve proven that you have no principles and no loyalty. But your friends made one crucial mistake. They should have killed me.”

  Oleg puts his cigar out in the ashtray with a sigh and then folds his arms over his chest. “You think I had something to do with the attack. Forgive me if I am confused, but I was made to understand that the Armenians acted alone. Have you forgotten that several of my own bratva were gunned down as well?”

  “Pawns,” I grit out from between clenched teeth. “Sacrificed for the sake of your revenge against me.”

  Oleg takes a few slow steps toward me, and the echo of several guns cocking in response fills the room. He holds both hands up to show he isn’t a threat. “What reason would I have to seek revenge? I thought we were family, Diego, though I am starting to rethink my position now that I’m standing here with all your guns fixed on me.”

  “Don’t play this fucking game with me, Oleg!” I roar, so close to pulling the trigger it’s uncanny. I’m angrier over the deaths of my men and the prospect of Elena being made a widow than anything else. Just the thought of her unprotected and alone in the world boils my blood, and this motherfucker would have been the cause. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me how pissed off you were that I didn’t choose Nataly. Tell me that an alliance with Arman Sargzyan was attractive enough for you to mow me down to get it!”

  Oleg comes boldly closer … so close that his chest presses against the muzzle of my .45. For the first time in years, I get a glimpse of the ruthless monster hiding behind his refined demeanor. His blue eyes turn into ice chips, and a vein in his forehead pulses so hard it might blow any second.

  “Out of respect for you, and the love I had for your parents, I have tolerated your accusations. But I’ve had enough. Arman Sargzyan is a shitstain on the world and a double-crossing svoloch’. The suggestion that I would ever …” he’s so worked up he can’t even think up the right words in English. He turns his head and spits, muttering, “Blyat.”

  My confidence falters as he goes on cursing in Russian, his face reddening and his hands clenching into fists. I’ve known Oleg my entire life and have never caught him in an outright lie. He’s a ruthless bastard, but a straightforward one. It’s why I found it so hard to believe he could behind this. But … my gatita isn’t a liar either.

  “Elena told me she overheard Viktor talking to someone over the phone,” I say, keeping my pistol pressed against his heart. “In Armenian! Arman was mentioned by name.”

  Oleg’s anger melts away into shock. “Impossible.”

  My nostrils flare with indignation. “You calling my wife a liar?”

  “No, but I know my son.”

  “Do you? Where was he the night of the shipment?”

  He blinks, looking at me like I’m speaking ancient Greek. “What the fuck do you mean? He was with you! I sent him with the other soldiers to guard the guard the docks.”

  I lower my pistol, realizing we’ve both been played. “I don’t know if any of your men told you, but Viktor wasn’t there. If I had to guess, I’d say he made himself scarce to avoid the crossfire. Your son is a traitor.”

  Oleg sinks into his armchair. Lowering his head into his hands, he lets out a pained sigh and shakes his head. I narrow my eyes and watch him, trying to decide whether I’m witnessing a master actor at work, or a grieving father. If Viktor really was behind the attack, then Oleg knows as well as I do what happens next.

  “Bozhe, nyet,” he murmurs in a low, broken voice. “Not my son.”

  I hear the quaver in his voice, as if he’s about to break down and cry. He’s not faking it.

  Raising my hand, I signal my men to lower their weapons. “Where is he?”

  He lifts his eyes to meet mine and they’re flooded with tears. “I don’t know. Not here.”

  “Any idea where he might have gone? Don’t bullshit me, Oleg. He has to pay for this.”

  He sits up straight and blinks away his tears, becoming his stoic self again. “I know he does, God help him. I will not interfere. But, no … I can’t imagine where he’s gone. He has a condo across town; he might be there. Otherwise, I couldn’t tell you.”

  I press a finger to my earpiece—a direct line to Jaime. “Address.”

  “Coming right up, jefe,” he replies.

  I turn back to Oleg, switching the safety of my weapon on. “Your son’s life is forfeit. It now belongs to me. Don’t stand in my way.”

  Oleg waves a dismissive hand, all business now. “As is right. You will see no resistance from me.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Keep your guard up. Arman is in town and he has the Brotherhood with him. Later, we’ll have to talk about the potential for a turf war. He’s a greedy son of a bitch, as you know.”

  He bobs his head in a nod, but his eyes are unfocused, his mind elsewhere. I lead my men from the room, leaving Oleg to his mourning. The next time he sees his firstborn son, it’ll be as he stands over Viktor’s coffin.

  29

  Elena

  Diego has been gone for too long. It’s been hours and he hasn’t called or come home. The house is as silent as a mausoleum, leaving me with nothing to do but sit and worry. For a while I try to distract myself sketching new designs. The lines start to blur together, so I put my design book aside and try to get lost in a novel. When that doesn’t work, I flip through the channels on TV. I spend an hour watching infomercials and soap operas without fully engaging, my mind racing through every possible reason it could take him so long to return.

  He would have gone to Oleg’s penthouse first. If that prick was in any way involved, he’s probably dead by now. If Viktor was home, he’s gone, too. That would be the end of it, though, and my husband would be here. My mental wheels turn frantically as I go over what else Diego might do i
n this situation. I’ve come to know him well enough that it isn’t difficult. If either of the men weren’t in the penthouse, he would start combing the city looking for them. There are only so many places in Miami they might choose to hide. If they don’t turn up, Diego would come back here to consult with Jaime and track them down.

  But he’s not here, and I can’t stop thinking that something terrible has happened to him. He was already injured, and I could see the pain all over his face before he left. He hasn’t been taking his pills, even though he does religiously swallow his antibiotics twice a day.

  Oleg isn’t stupid, and neither is Viktor. They must know Diego is on to them, which means they’ve had time to prepare for a counterattack. Did my husband and his men walk into a trap? A barrage of bullets? A bomb set to explode? Do any of those things happen in reality, or only in mafia movies?

  Pacing the bedroom, I grunt with frustration. I feel weak and helpless, unable to do anything to help my man. By keeping me ignorant about how things work in his world, he’s blinded me, tying my hands behind my back. It’s meant to protect me, but just now I can’t help resenting him for it. Sitting around and patiently waiting to find out what’s going on isn’t my style, and it’s driving me insane.

  “Fuck this,” I mutter, reaching for my phone. I’m going to call up to Jaime and demand he tell me what’s happening and where Diego is. I’m owed that much at least.

  Before I can dial, the phone starts ringing, displaying an unknown number. Diego had Jaime remove the encryption, allowing anyone to contact me and vice-versa. I usually ignore unfamiliar numbers, but the sick feeling in my gut tells me this is important. It has something to do with Diego.

  I quickly answer, one hand pressed to my belly as I go still in the center of the room. “Hello?”