Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva)

by Fox, Nicole

  “They were already planning to kill me.” I wipe blood off my hands. “That’s why they were so adamant that I personally murder Gio Calvino. They wanted to kill me or entrap me. Either way, they had no interest in being allies. We’ll just have to wait to see how Duilio’s son reacts to the murder—if he cares about power and staying alive, he won’t test the Bratva. But if he is a fool, then he will end up like them.” I point to the bodies on the ground. “Bleeding like stuck pigs.”

  Ilya nods once. “Understood.”

  “Good. Call the crew. I have to change.”

  I take off my tie and head toward my office gym.

  * * *

  “Mr. Alekseiev, welcome back. And Mr. Sevostyanov, always a pleasure.”

  The doorman bows his head as Ilya and I step back into the hotel. The floor still vibrates from the music coming from the ballroom, but by this time of the night, there are more than a few empty parking spots out front. When I step back into the ballroom, there are only a few stragglers left, each in the later stages of intoxication.

  Ilya’s wife, Sophie, bounces over toward us. She is an ethereal beauty. Her blonde hair is so pale, it borders on silver. Every one of her features is delicate. I spotted her at one of our nightclubs—a shy little thing, dragged along by her friends—and was intrigued.

  But when Ilya saw her, it was like he’d been struck by lightning.

  He still looks at her the same way he did five years ago. A softer man might think it’s cute, but all I can think is that my lieutenant is going to be shot one day because he’s too busy staring at his wife.

  “Honey, look what you missed out on.” She raises a plate of puff pastries stuffed with beef. Pirozhki. “I can’t believe Lev would take you away from your favorite snack.”

  “My second favorite snack,” he corrects before kissing her temple. It turns into a playful nibble. She laughs. They start kissing, Sophie’s hand barely holding onto the heavy plate.

  “Mmm. We should get home,” Ilya says. She nods into his chest. He takes the plate from her and looks at me. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Ilya,” I reply. “Good night, Sophie.”

  After they leave, I walk over to one of the displays of Mariya’s Revenge. I pour myself a couple of shots before downing them.

  The last of the stragglers trickle out, one by one. Seated at a table, I watch the cleaning staff come in. They give me quick smiles before starting to clean up. I continue to drink and observe.

  One of the crew, an older man, stops by the table to start picking up the numerous discarded shot glasses. He doesn’t look at me. I can see his hands nearly shaking as he is forced to get closer to where I’m sitting.

  “Is it hard to work this late?” I ask quietly. He nearly jumps, but doesn’t dare to make eye contact.

  “Um, no, sir. Not exactly.” He scratches at his neck. “A little bit, maybe. I have a daughter and son at home. They’re at school during the day and I get home after they’re asleep.”

  I sip on a few fingers of vodka poured over ice as I examine the man. He’s thin, wrinkled, with the slightest paunch hanging over his belt. His eyes are drawn tight with exhaustion.

  “What is your name?”

  “Roberto, sir.”

  “Are you married, Roberto?”

  He nods emphatically. “Yes, sir. We celebrated our twenty-sixth anniversary a month ago.”

  I take another sip. “Do you love your wife?”

  A blush rises into his cheeks. “Yes, of course. She’s a good person, she’s good to me, she’s good to our kids.”

  I look straight into his face. He is trembling. I wonder what he thinks I will do to him. I toy with the clasp of my watch before I ask him, “Aren’t you sick and tired of her pussy, Roberto?”

  The color drains from his face immediately. He clears his throat like he’s fumbling for words, but when he draws himself up and speaks again, there’s a haughty pride in his voice. An undercurrent of strength beneath the fear. “I don’t need to go around sleeping with other women to boost my ego.”

  “Is that what you think I do?” I ask. It was meant to be a joke, but there’s too much alcohol in my system to stop the sharp, icy edges from stabbing through.

  The bravery that Roberto showed a moment before disappears in an instant. His hands start to quiver enough that the shot glasses clatter against each other.

  Pity. I almost respected him for a moment there.

  “I’m so, so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that … when I was younger, I might have done that and if I—”

  “Do you think I am beneath you, Roberto?”

  “Of course not. Oh God. No. Sir, I’m sorry. Sometimes, it’s just so late when I work, my mouth tends to get ahead of itself and I say things that I don’t—”

  “You should go,” I cut him off. “Take your coworkers with you. You can come back in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir, absolutely. Again, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  He hurries away, stopping briefly to talk to his two coworkers before they all leave.

  Not a single one of them looks back.

  And when they’re gone, I am alone.

  2

  Allison

  As Jeffrey Douglas walks to the witness stand, he’s crying. It must be difficult for him to cry with the fake eyeglasses he scrounged up to look more relatable to the jury.

  His lawyer, Ron Ramsey, strides up to the witness stand. Side by side, they nearly look like father and son. The same shade of brown hair, the same broad chest, and the same clean-shaven faces. The biggest difference is that Ramsey sports a deep tan, thanks to his clients’ dirty money paying for tropical vacations.

  Jeffrey, on the other hand, isn’t going to see the sun for twenty years once this verdict comes down. And that’s as it should be, I muse. Even though I know better than to make a legal case personal, there’s nothing I hate more than a drunk driver. I can’t avoid squaring my own past with the terrible crime Jeffrey committed. There was no justice done in my case. At least there will be in his.

  “Mr. Douglas,” Ramsey says, his voice carrying a faint, ambiguous accent. It’s as fake as the rest of him. “We’ve heard people speculate what happened on the night of June 7. What actually happened that night?”

  Jeffrey rubs his neck and swallows back a sob. “Well. It’s all … it’s all hard to talk about now, but at the time, I didn’t realize it would lead to all this. I didn’t realize anything had happened at all. I wouldn’t have left a teenager on the side of the road, someone so young and full of life—”

  He breaks off, his hands covering his face as his whimpers fill the courtroom. I glance over at the jury. The sympathy on their faces triggers a bullet of anxiety in my chest. There’s no way this sob story could sway them. Right?

  Nearly three minutes pass before he wipes his face and sits up again.

  “I—I’m sorry. It’s just … it’s awful. I feel so badly for her parents, for her friends … for the whole community. Um, I’m not a perfect person. I’m far from it. But I was just … at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I was … yes, it’s true I was at a nightclub. Maybe I wasn’t sober, but I wasn’t drunk. At all. I knew I had to get up early for my job. It—it’s my fault. Because I wasn’t completely paying attention.”

  I focus on his tear-stained face. I know a confession isn’t coming, but there’s still that stray hope that wants to come home.

  Do the right thing, you bastard, I say to myself silently. Tell them you killed her.

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” he repeats, shaking his head. He wipes his face with his hands again. “I saw the car in front of me brake. Those red lights. I thought I saw something rebound off the front of the car. I thought … at most, I thought maybe it was a dog. I stopped near where I thought the car was when I saw the brake lights. I must have driven past or not far enough … I looked around the area. I never found anything. I swear, I pray and wish every
day that I had looked harder. But at the time, I assumed the darkness was playing tricks on my eyes. So, I left. I drove away and I went to sleep, not thinking anything more about it.”

  His gaze shifts over to our side of the courtroom. For a second, our eyes meet, but he quickly shifts to looking at the district attorney, Elizabeth Hardick, who is sitting in front of me, furiously writing notes on her legal pad.

  “Mr. Douglas, would you have called 911 if you had hit this young woman?” Ramsey interjects.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind,” Jeffrey says with a sudden stroke of conviction. “I wouldn’t have hesitated. The … the police brought up that I’ve crashed my car before and that I was drunk. That’s true. But it was three years ago. I’d just broken up with my fiancée, I’d gone to AA, and … it was a Good Samaritan that saved my life that day. His name was Greg Lowe and I’ve been waiting a long time to pay it forward. I know how much it means to me that Greg called an ambulance for me. I would have done it for anyone else without hesitating. I owe Greg that and I owe God that.”

  I notice a woman in the jury box nod, like a church parishioner getting into the preacher’s sermon. She’s wearing a crucifix. If this case ends up with a hung jury, I’ll know she had something to do with it.

  I can feel the bile rising in my throat. There’s a bad, bad feeling in the air.

  “Thank you, Mr. Douglas. Your honesty is admirable.”

  Ramsey sits down.

  Elizabeth springs up to her feet and approaches the witness stand like it’s her prey.

  “Mr. Douglas, you just mentioned your DUI. You talk about it like it’s your only DUI, but it’s not, is it? Did you break up with a fiancée every time before you were caught drunk driving?”

  “I wasn’t drunk—”

  “The state begs to differ. How many DUIs have you had?”

  He blinks, all the grief disappearing from his eyes. For a second, I see the real him, the true him: a man who would run over twenty teenagers just so he wouldn’t have to call a taxi.

  But then he bows his head, covers his mouth with his hand, and the repentant man is back. “Four.”

  “Also, as we heard from Officer Maguire, your car was conveniently stolen right after this incident. Still haven’t found it yet, have you? In fact, you hadn’t even reported it stolen until after the police got involved with this case.”

  “It was a clunker. It wasn’t worth getting the police involved.”

  “This nightclub you were at—Black Glacier—you visit it frequently, don’t you? And the bartender recalls you being drunk there shortly before the hit and run. What do you think about that?”

  Elizabeth taught me this method of cross-examining a defendant—volley them with all of the holes in their story. Even if they find an excuse for every one of your points, the jury will still sense that something doesn’t add up and they won’t like it if they think the defendant is repeatedly lying to them.

  I glance over at the jury box. The woman with the crucifix is frowning as she stares at Jeffrey.

  “I think the bartender must have mistaken me for someone else. I only bought one drink. I’m sure he’s just confused. They get hundreds of drink orders.”

  I cover my mouth to hide my smile, but Elizabeth doesn’t hide her smirk. She’s about to tear the throat off her prey.

  “You believe he was confused?” She steps closer to the witness stand. “Just like you were confused about the difference between a teenager’s body, a dead dog, and a figment of your imagination?”

  “Objection. Argumentative,” Ramsey interjects.

  “Sustained. Move along, Miss Hardick.”

  She should have stayed on him about the bartender. The bartender recognized him in a photo lineup. I grip my hands together, looking over at the jury. They’re intensely focused on the exchange. Except for the youngest man, who is staring at another jury member with a low-cut shirt, but I’m certain he can be swayed by the others.

  This isn’t going to lead to a hung jury. Jeffrey Douglas is going to prison and Jenny Dressler is going to get her justice.

  At least, I really fucking hope so.

  * * *

  As we all return to our seats after the court recess, the judge adjusts his glasses.

  “Will the jury foreperson please stand?” he asks. The oldest man on the jury takes to his feet. “Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?

  “We have, your honor,” the juror says.

  “Please hand it to Deputy Richards.”

  I watch the juror give the deputy clerk the verdict form. The clerk hands it to the judge. The judge reads it before handing it back to the clerk.

  The deputy clerk clears her throat. “For the crime of vehicular manslaughter, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”

  My jaw drops. Chaos erupts.

  The judge starts to bang his gavel. The sound of Jenny Dressler’s mother crying is excruciating over the chaos of her father shouting and the angry hubbub of the other people who came out to see justice be served.

  Jenny’s father rushes past me, roaring, trying to get over the bar that separates the galley from the judge’s perch.

  The bailiff grabs him before he can mount it, shoving him down.

  “This is a court of law!” the judge bellows. “Treat it like one or be thrown out!” He slams his gavel again and again.

  Finally, the court slowly quiets, the silence only permeated by Mrs. Dressler’s muffled crying.

  Mr. Dressler raises his hands in defeat. He looks so tired.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. The bailiff releases him.

  Dressler goes back to his seat next to his wife. He doesn’t look at her or the judge or at anyone, really. He just stares into the distance like there’s nothing worth seeing anymore.

  The last of the proceedings resume. I keep my eyes on the jury as Deputy Richards finishes speaking. They’re avoiding looking in the direction of the victim’s family and Elizabeth.

  After the jury is thanked and excused, Mr. Dressler walks up to Elizabeth, followed closely by his wife, who is still shaking with tears.

  “What the hell happened?” Mr. Dressler hisses. “You let that monster free.”

  Elizabeth takes a deep breath and stops packing her things for a moment to look Mr. Dressler in the eye. Her voice is firm—empathetic but professional. “He’s a good-looking man who is a good actor. He knew how to play the jury. I’m sorry, but there’s—”

  “That’s not good enough. I don’t want your excuses. You blew it. You could have gone after him much harder and all you did was act like a pretentious ass. You were too confident and you didn’t try hard enough.”

  Elizabeth sighs and runs a hand through her blonde hair. She opens her mouth to speak again, but I cut in. “I’m sorry,” I say, butting forward. “I’m deeply sorry for the loss of your daughter, but DA Hardick did what she could. The defense has an easy job—all they need to do is plant doubt in the jury’s minds. They only need to convince a couple jury members that he could be innocent and they could persuade the other members if they were charismatic enough. It’s not fair. I completely agree. I wish it turned out differently.”

  He slides his gaze to me like I’m a piece of dog shit stuck to his shoe. “You ‘wish’ it turned out differently,” he repeats slowly. “Your ‘wishes’ aren’t going to put my daughter’s killer behind bars, which is the very least of what should happen to him. Save your wishes for a new DA that will actually do her job.”

  Mr. Dressler looks Elizabeth up and down, disgust written all over his face. Then he storms away, half dragging his wife with him.

  I let out a deep breath that I hadn’t even realized I was holding in.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten involved,” Elizabeth says to me, gathering her files. She shoves them into her briefcase. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the case I should have brought you in on. Take a breath. You need to relax.”

  I look down at my hands. My fists are clenched so tightl
y that my nails are digging into my palms.

  “I don’t understand,” I mutter. “He was guilty.”

  “All we had was circumstantial evidence. We didn’t have surveillance footage, we didn’t have his car, we didn’t have any proof that there wasn’t another car on the road that night. I believe he’s guilty too, but the jury did their duty. They couldn’t say for absolute certainty that he did it, so they had to let him go.”

  “He’s just going to go out and do it again,” I protest. “My father said he’s suspected in another hit and run, but he was never charged because of a lack of evidence.”

  “Your father is right. Just keep breathing, Allison. Sometimes the bad guy wins and we can’t let that get us down or we’ll be too defeated to fight the next one. Come on. I’ll take you out for lunch.”

  I scrape at the nail polish on my thumb. Coral pink. I thought it’d look professional, but now it just feels pointless.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, looking up. In her heels, she’s nearly three inches taller than me and with her dark blonde hair, she could star in a law show.

  I feel dull and insignificant next to her. In comparison, a casting director would make me a dead hooker with a crack addiction because the mixture of fluorescent lights and my dark hair always makes my skin look pallid.

  “I know my father pulled some strings to let me shadow you, but we don’t need to hang out. I’ll end up spending the whole time complaining about the case and you’ll want to kill me.”

  “Allison, I’d never kill you. Mostly because your father would have the whole NYPD trying to convict me and I don’t have time for that in my life.” She zips up her briefcase. “I’m not asking because I want to please your father. I’m asking you because you’ve sat with me through this whole case and I’m hungry. So, instead of a third night of Chinese food, let’s go find a place that serves something decent, and I’ll give you some more advice on this prosecuting stuff.”