Owned by the Mob Boss Read online

  I shrug. I nearly say: Fine by me. But something stops me.

  “What is going on with you tonight?”

  “You invited a fucking detective into my home!” I growl, losing myself for a moment. “If you want to turn me in, there are easier ways to do it.”

  “Turn you in? For what?” She strides across the room, gesturing wildly. “I thought you were just a proprietor?”

  “Sit down, Camille.”

  “No!” she flares. “I won’t sit here listening to this shit when you’re the motherfucker who manipulated me into being a Mafia boss’ fucking … fucking slave.”

  I squeeze the vodka glass so hard it almost shatters. “Is that what he said?”

  “‘Bratva’ is the term he used. I Googled it. You’re the leader of the Russian Mafia, Erik.” She pauses, eyeing me. When I say nothing, she goes on. “Well, aren’t you going to deny it?”

  “I owe you nothing,” I tell her.

  “So that’s a yes.”

  “If I am what you think I am,” I say, rising to my full height, just inches away from her, “you should be more careful.”

  We are so close I can see the flutter in her neck. Panic? Lust?

  She gazes at me in that confused way that has come to mean conflicted desire. But there is a shadow of rage in her, too.

  “Is that a threat?” she hisses. “If it is, you should know something. I’m not some scared little lamb. I’ve been fighting my whole life and I’m not about to stop now! So why don’t you just back the fuck—”

  The doorbell interrupts her.

  Seconds later, Adrian’s voice rises. “Sir, ma’am, please, this way.”

  Camille composes herself at once, wiping any signs of the argument from her face. A moment later, it’s like nothing ever happened. I’m impressed.

  “Let’s just try to have a nice evening, okay?” she says, voice softening. “I don’t want to stress Mom out.”

  It’s the concern that does it, that makes me question this whole exchange. How can a man be angry at a woman who cares so deeply for her sick mother?

  I consider apologizing, but of course I do not. I refuse to give her that power over me.

  Angela is no less beautiful for her illness.

  She has the same wavy hair as Camille and the same blue eyes, alert and bright as Rob wheels her to the table.

  Rob is a different story: a scrawny, fidgety scrap of a man with greasy black hair hanging over his eyes. A man should prepare for a dinner, take some pride in his appearance, but Rob is wearing a crumpled shirt and saggy pants that haven’t seen an iron since the day they were stolen.

  “This really is some place,” Rob says after we have eaten our starters. It is the second insinuating comment he has made. He openly gawps at the silverware, the display cabinet with the antique china, the sconce lights. He has the air of a thief appraising a potential heist. “I bet this fork costs more than our apartment.”

  I feel Camille’s forced smile on me, willing me to keep up the pretense.

  “So you listen to a lot of audiobooks, Angela?” I say, ignoring him.

  “Oh, maybe too many!” she cries, slurring a little. “I’m working my way through Crime and Punishment right now.”

  “One of my favorites,” I say.

  “Really?” She frowns doubtfully. “I can’t get on board with it, truth be told. Don’t you think he drones on and on?”

  I smile. “I will have to allow you that, but there is a certain beauty in it.”

  Camille’s eyes widen as though I have transformed into a different man. Is she really so surprised I can be civil?

  “Beauty and a whole lot of blah-blah-blah!” Angela giggles. “Camille and I have always been more into thrillers, haven’t we, dear?”

  Camille nods. “We used to listen to them when I was a kid, after I’d done my homework. But you always ruined them.”

  “Me?” Angela gasps. “How?”

  “You always guessed the ending!”

  “How much does a place like this run you?” Rob interjects clumsily. “I mean, do you rent or own it?”

  “Own,” I murmur, shooting him a glance.

  “Hmm, must be worth at least ten million, right? Is that right?”

  “I prefer not to discuss money at dinner. I find it spoils my appetite.”

  Camille draws in a breath. “Remember when you spoiled that Poirot for me, Mom? We hadn’t been listening to it more than ten minutes!”

  “And this fuckin’ food!” Rob roars, drowning out his sister. “This is restaurant stuff, right here. Michelin star shit. You must pay your chef boatloads.”

  “Oh, Rob, do you have to curse?” Angela grumbles.

  “My staff is well-compensated,” I say, cutting into the steak.

  Camille cuts her mother’s food for her, paying careful attention as she chews. She dabs the napkin under her lip when she dribbles some orange juice.

  I find myself imagining her as a mother, something I have not yet done, and how wonderful she will be at it. It’s a thought out of left field. I try to suppress it, but it resurfaces over and over throughout the meal, an earworm that refuses to leave me be.

  “So we have discovered that you are a bibliophile, Angela,” I say. “But how else do you fill your time?”

  “Scrabble, I love Scrabble! I play with Jackie. She’s my caregiver when this one isn’t around.” She smiles lovingly at Camille. “I like to bird-watch, too. I was obsessed with it before …”

  Emotion enters her voice. She visibly pushes it down with a grit of her teeth. I see where Camille gets her fierce streak.

  “It must be peaceful,” I fill in the silence.

  “Oh, it’s about the most relaxing thing in the world.”

  “They must be really well compensated, right?” Rob growls abruptly, glancing at Angela as though she is rude for redirecting the conversation from money. Under the table I squeeze my fist, my patience becoming threadbare. “Your staff, I mean, in a big place like this. You know how to pay people what they deserve, don’t you, Erik?”

  Camille is shooting him frantic looks but Rob has his eyes fixed on me. They are wide, and, I now realize, coked-up.

  Does this man have no self-respect? If he was not Camille’s brother … but I do not let myself go down the road of what-ifs. It will not serve my anger well.

  “You paid Camille a hefty chunk, didn’t you? All that money just for a little housekeeping.” He narrows his eyes. “I suppose it involves a lot of carrying though, right? But I’m sure Camille knows how to bear the load, right? Right?” He is picking at the tablecloth.

  “I don’t understand,” Angela mutters. “Rob, is something wrong? What are you talking about?”

  I level my gaze at him. He must sense the rage pulsing through me, because he has the good sense to lower his eyes.

  “He’s just being silly,” Camille says, placing her hand on Angela’s. “Earlier, I told him how hard I’ve been working, carrying all the cleaning supplies up and down the stairs, shifting the heavy furniture so I could vacuum behind it. Rob, can’t we just have a nice meal?”

  “I think that would be best,” I say, my eyes still burning into him.

  He throws his hands up. “I was just talking,” he whines like a child.

  For the rest of the dinner, he sulks and I focus on Angela, enjoying drawing her out, enjoying the deep bond she and Camille so clearly share.

  After dessert, I lean across the table and touch Rob softly on the arm. He flinches, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

  “Perhaps we could have a private conversation?” I ask.

  He licks his cracked lips. “About what?”

  “What else?” I smile, sitting back. “Money, since you seem so interested.”

  He glances around as though an escape hatch is going to materialize. But then something in him hardens. He pushes from the table far too forcefully, the chair screeching in protest. “Fine by me,” he grunts. “Let’s go!”

  He ma
rches from the room.

  I stand slowly, ignoring Camille’s panicked expression as I leave to handle business.

  11

  Camille

  I glance at the door, worry driving through me like a spike.

  But I keep babbling nonsense, for Mom’s sake. She didn’t notice the fire heating up within Erik, nor Rob’s lame attempts to push his buttons, and I don’t have the heart to clue her in. She’s been through a lot. She deserves a nice evening with no complications.

  “…And then I have to change all the sheets. There’s a lot of beds in this house, so sometimes it can take an hour, sometimes less.”

  While my mouth runs, my mind fills with violent vignettes: Erik’s fist crunching into Rob’s belly. Rob doubling over as he begs for mercy. Bones breaking. Blood spilling.

  All through dinner, Erik managed to keep his calm, but I could see the cord of impatience running through him, the tightening of his jaws, his white-knuckled fist as he clutched the silverware.

  Would Erik hurt Rob? Surely not. He wouldn’t cross that line. But I’m terrified to discover I can’t be sure. He’s a criminal, after all.

  And not just any criminal.

  He’s a kingpin.

  “It sounds like he keeps you busy,” Mom says, but I barely hear her.

  “That’s the way I like it,” I hear myself say.

  In my mind, I hear Rob: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, shit, please, please—” And Erik will bring the knife to his throat and …

  My leg taps under the table; fight or flight. Run. Go. Chase after them. Stop him before he kills your brother.

  But I can’t alarm Mom. So I stay in my seat and panic.

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Mom says, drawing me back to the present.

  She eyes me in that all-seeing way she has had ever since I was a girl. I was never able to hide much from her, or maybe I just didn’t want to. It pains me that I have to keep a whole host of secrets now.

  “Are you?” she goes on. “Happy here, Camille?”

  I plaster a smile to my face. “Of course I am. And the money, Mom, it’s—”

  “Life isn’t all about money, dear.”

  I almost snort a laugh.

  I could lay out the costs of her medical bills, but that would be unfair. But right now life is definitely all about money.

  But is that all, really?

  Or am I just giving myself an excuse to stay with Erik?

  “Well?” she prompts.

  “I’m doing great. You’re doing great. That’s all I care about.”

  “Hmm-mm,” she murmurs. Her eyes swivel to the door. “I wonder what those two are up to. Money, he said. Do you think he’s offering Rob a job?”

  I shrug as casually as I can, mind overflowing like a busted fountain. I see Rob dangling from the ceiling as Erik works him over like a punching bag.

  My foot taps uncontrollably under the table.

  “Did I tell you Cecilia is engaged?” Cecilia is one of her friends from the MS support group.

  “That’s wonderful news,” I say, my voice a phantom. I force myself to turn to her, not wanting to make her suspicious. “Now it’s your turn,” I tease lightly. “We need to find you a dashing bachelor.”

  “Forget dashing,” she giggles. “I’d prefer hunky. A nice chunk of meat to toy around with.”

  “Mom!” I cry, laughing.

  “What?” she demands. “A woman must have her vices.”

  “What would your dream boy say to being objectified like that?”

  “Oh, in my fantasies, he doesn’t say much, so that’s not a problem.”

  I grip the table, grinning. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  We laugh—mine only slightly forced—and then the door opens and Erik walks in, alone.

  My stomach drops.

  “Where’s Rob?” I ask.

  “He needed to use the bathroom,” he replies, seating himself slowly.

  Sitting there in his expensive suit, his tattooed hand reaching for his wineglass, he looks the very picture of a criminal who has just executed a troublemaker.

  Is ‘going to the bathroom’ one of those nasty euphemisms? Like telling a little kid that their dead dog ‘went to a farm upstate’?

  Erik’s face betrays nothing.

  But a minute later, Rob enters with a cheesy smile on his face, far more upbeat than I’ve seen him in a long time. He rubs his hands together as he drops into his seat.

  “So, coffee?”

  For the rest of the evening, I watch Erik closely, fighting the instinct rising within me. He is handsome, I reflect for the umpteenth time, and gracious. This dinner has brought out a whole new side of him, one I never guessed at. He’s bossy in the extreme, it’s true, but this Erik is somebody I can see myself building a life with …

  I push the urge down, but it refuses to lie quietly. The bloody images in my mind are replaced with a picture of me and Erik at a gala or something, Erik courteously serving Mom a glass of orange juice, me standing at his side in some outlandish dress as his lady.

  I curse myself for letting myself get all romantic-comedy about it. I have to remember who he is and how this started. But as he leans over the table to share a joke with Mom, I find that impression of him slipping away, getting harder and harder to reconcile with the gentleman seated at the table with me.

  Later, once Mom and Rob have left, I ask him: “What did you and Rob talk about?”

  His intense eyes flicker, but then he just smiles.

  “What else?” he says. “Money.”

  “C’mon,” I insist, “you can’t get off that easy.”

  He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I offered him a job, coordinating certain shipments for me.”

  I sit back in shock. “A … job?”

  “That is what I said, yes. Work in exchange for payment. Employment. Occupation. Vocation. Shall I continue?”

  I’m too dazed to even take the bait of his gentle poke at me. “That’s … that’s very nice of you,” I say.

  “I needed someone with his particular skill set. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he replies nonchalantly, as if we don’t both know that Rob is a Grade-A fuck-up if ever there were one.

  “Well, thank you,” I say hesitantly. “I’m sure my mom and Rob will be thrilled.” I still don’t understand, but maybe I never will. Every time I peel back a layer of Erik, I find a new enigma hidden beneath.

  Who is this man?

  “So let’s posit,” the professor says, pacing up and down the classroom, “that a patient’s electrocardiogram reveals atrial fibrillation, right ventricular hypertrophy, and right axis deviation. What might the differential diagnosis in this case be … Camille?”

  I bite down, caught off guard.

  My head is far too full of Erik right now. I need to focus. The funny thing is, I know I know the answer, yet it is just out of my reach. I root around my mind, shoving Erik aside. Yet for long seconds I just sit there, staring.

  I must look like an idiot.

  Then Bethany discreetly slides a piece of paper across the table. I’m annoyed at first—I don’t want to cheat—but then I see that the answer is not written on it. It’s just a prompt.

  It jolts the gears in my mind and I leap upon the answer.

  “Good!” the professor cries. “So, class, what can we learn from this, specifically in terms of anticipatory care?”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I tell Bethany after class, when we’re packing away our things.

  She shrugs. “Nothing wrong with a lifeline every now and then.”

  “I would’ve been pissed if you’d written the answer,” I tell her.

  “Well, I didn’t, so no harm done.”

  “But why?” I urge. “I thought you wanted to be the queen of the realm, Miss High and Mighty, the Mother of Dragons and all that.”

  She laughs quietly. “Oh, I still do. But … look, maybe I was a little cold with you last time,
all right?”

  “Feeling guilty?” I jab, making for the door.

  “Hey, don’t be a bitch.”

  “A bitch?” I wheel on her, ready to bark, only to be surprised when I realize both of us are smiling. “That’s a little forward, don’t you think? Especially since—if I recall correctly—you were the bitch of all bitches last time.”

  We end up walking out to the parking lot together. She eyes Erik’s sleek sedan. I’m sure I see her mentally noting the upgrade from the busted-up Civic.

  “I’ve been giving some more thought to the study group. I think I was too harsh before. It’s a great idea. I’m in.”

  “Why the change of heart?” I ask.

  She shifts from foot to foot, as though searching for an answer I’ll like instead of just telling me the truth. Or maybe my time with Erik is making me overly suspicious. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real friend; I’ve been so busy with Mom and simply staying afloat these past few years that I just haven’t had time. I should give Bethany the benefit of the doubt.

  “I’m a little neurotic,” she mumbles, seeming embarrassed. “Ever since I went all get-out-of-my-face on you, I’ve been replaying it in my head, over and over. It’s stuck on a fucking loop, girl, and making the peace between us is the only way I can think to fix it.”

  “That’s honest,” I note.

  “Can we get dinner, or a coffee?” she blurts suddenly. “I know it’s late, but …”

  I want to, I realize. It would be so nice to just sit with another human being and pretend to be normal. But Erik is strict about me coming home—home, ha!—right after class.

  “I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I lie. Really, my morning will consist of waking up in silk sheets and shrugging clinging dreams of Erik from my consciousness. “But another time?”

  “Definitely!” she cries, utterly transformed from the ice queen she was last time. Is she mind-fucking me, trying to throw me off my game? I dismiss the thought. “Let me give you my number.”

  She takes out her notebook. How retro. She scribbles it down on a corner of a page, tears it off, and hands it to me, all beaming smiles. Part of me still wants to be suspicious, but every other voice in my head is screaming at me not to be such a psycho.