Jaded Devil: An Enemies-to-Lovers Mafia Romance

by Nicole Fox

  “Here!” he says as he pulls up the picture on the phone and hands it over to me with reverence. “Her name is Selena. We named her after my abuela.”

  I look down at the round-faced baby girl, wrapped up tight in a yellow blanket with pink flowers embroidered around the edges.

  My chest squeezes tight. “She’s beautiful, Miguel.”

  He nods and winks. “She looks like her mother, thankfully.”

  “I’m so happy for you. For both of you,” I say, handing the picture back to him.

  “What are you doing up so late?” Miguel asks hesitantly.

  I gnaw my lip anxiously. “I was planning on going for a run.”

  His dark eyes turn nervous. “I can accompany you around the grounds if you’d like,” he offers.

  I put a hand on his forearm. “Please, Miguel,” I beg. “I need to get off the compound, just for an hour or two. I want to run by the ocean.”

  “I’m not authorized to let you go unaccompanied…”

  “I know that. You don’t need to come with me. I’ll be fast. Safe. No one will see me.”

  He’s tugging nervously at his mustache. “Señorita, you know I can’t allow that. I’m under strict instructions from your father. You are not supposed to leave the compound without his permission.”

  “Papa will never know, Miguel,” I plead. “Please? Just this once?”

  I feel bad about putting him in this position, but I’m desperate to feel the salt air on my face.

  Just for a little while… let me pretend I’m free.

  “No one will know,” I promise him again.

  He sighs, looks down between his feet, then back up to me. I see his eyes softening and I know I’ve won.

  “Only an hour?” he asks solemnly.

  “Not a minute more,” I tell him. “I swear.”

  He nods once, gruffly. I could hug him I’m so happy, but the clock is already ticking. Instead, I give him my most grateful smile and take off in a hurry towards the back of the compound, to a little side door in the garden wall that leads me out to the ocean.

  I can smell the salt air as I reach the sand and break into a run. It feels good to move, to sweat, to taste the ocean breeze. It tastes like freedom.

  I didn’t know it then, but it was the last freedom I’d have for a long, long time.

  Esme

  I promised Miguel I’d only be gone for an hour. True to my word, I make it back with two minutes to spare.

  It’s near midnight and the night is quiet. Once I’m back within the walls however, I notice that the house is still lit up. Artificial light filters in from the first floor onto the lawn, turning the grass purple.

  I circle around the house in search of Miguel. I arrive at his post but he’s nowhere to be found.

  My heart starts thudding in my chest. Silently, I head into the house and towards to my room as fast as I can. Towards safety.

  I’m passing the third-floor drawing room when I hear Papa call my name.

  “Esme.”

  I freeze. Dread settles over me like a blanket of thorns. I think about ignoring him, but years of experience tells me that’ll only make things worse.

  The door to the drawing room is ajar. I push it open a little further and walk in.

  The room’s balcony doors are open to the ocean breeze. Papa sits outside, his back to me, his face angled up towards the moon. How had he even heard me passing by?

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Esme, my darling,” he repeats. “Come and sit with me for a moment.”

  I gnaw my lip. I don’t really have a choice, though. I just have to hope for the best.

  I walk out onto the large balcony and sit down in the chair next to his. There’s a disturbing tension in the air.

  Something is most definitely not right.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  He offers me his hand. I have no choice but to take it. He squeezes my fingers for a moment. It’s an old gesture, one that he hasn’t done in many years, not since I was a little girl.

  “Did you have a nice run?” he asks casually.

  I hesitate for a second before admitting the truth “I, uh… yes, I did.”

  Papa nods. “Cesar liked late night runs as well.”

  My face pales. He hasn’t spoken Cesar’s name in so long. It sounds so wrong coming from his lips.

  Ever since the funeral, Papa has refused to speak my brother’s name. It’s like he blames Cesar for his own death. Despises him for it. All the pictures of him were taken down and his name became a dirty word.

  As if he wanted his only son—my only brother—permanently erased from existence.

  I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. I try to withdraw my hand from my father’s, but he doesn’t let go.

  “You played well tonight, you know,” he murmurs. “The men from Colombia were impressed.” He’s smiling, but the warmth of it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Gracias, Papa,” I mumble, only because I know how irritated he gets when I don’t respond to him.

  He tsks in annoyance anyway. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  He’s still smiling, but I know that look of his—it’s a deliberate smile. He called me out here for a reason.

  “Yes, Papa,” I say respectfully.

  “My beautiful daughter,” he continues. “What a prize you are.”

  I look down, say nothing.

  “I’ve seen all the women in the world,” he tells me. “There are plenty of beauties out there. You are pretty enough, yes, but there are many women who are prettier.”

  He reaches out with his other hand, grabs my chin, and turns my face side to side like he’s studying me for flaws.

  He releases my chin and brushes back a strand of hair from my face. “I have good news for you, my doll.”

  My body tenses up. This is it. We’re getting to the point of this late-night visit.

  His grin broadens, but there’s still no warmth in his eyes. There never has been. It’s just like a wolf smiling at you before he takes a bite.

  “The time has come,” he announces, “for you to get married.”

  His words engulf me with ice-cold dread.

  No. Please, God, no.

  This can’t be happening. Not yet.

  I thought I had longer.

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Please, Papa, don’t make me get married.”

  The smile never wavers off his face.

  Not even when his hand rears back in the darkness and then swings through the air, making harsh contact with my cheek and the left side of my jaw.

  The sharp crack of knuckle on flesh rings out.

  He slapped me.

  I collapse backwards, skull rapping against the back of the chair. Pain sears through my face and my eyes start to water.

  Don’t cry, I hiss inwardly. Don’t you dare cry in front of him.

  “What a shame, Esmeralda,” Papa continues calmly, as if nothing had happened. “You sound ungrateful. I did not raise you to be an ungrateful child.”

  My instinct is to lay my hand across my stinging cheek, but I resist the urge and blink back my unshed tears.

  I let my mask slip. I should’ve known better than that.

  “Papa, I didn’t mean to be ungrateful,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I know you will only ever do what’s best for me.”

  I hate myself for saying it, but it’s what he wants to hear. And as sick as it is, that’s the only thing that will make this nightmare stop.

  Tell him what he wants to hear.

  Wait until he’s gone.

  Only then can I cry. Only then can I retreat into my room, scream into my pillow, and pretend none of this is happening.

  “You are young and beautiful,” Papa continues, his eyes glazing over. He wears the same look anytime he is trying to broker a new deal. “You must do your part for the family. You will do your part for the family. Won’t you, Esme?”

  He turns to look at me
. The smile is back, the cold sneer that cuts like the sharp edge of a dagger.

  I nod, not daring to look up at him. “Yes, Papa. I will do my part.”

  “That’s my little bird. Now, come with me. I want to show you something.”

  I frown. Surprises from my father are never good. But he’s still clinging tight onto my hand, and just like everything else that’s happening around me, I don’t have a choice in the matter.

  Robotically, I follow him out of the drawing room. I expect him to turn right, but he turns left instead and goes downstairs. My heart thuds unevenly as he leads me to a room at the bottom of the staircase.

  The thick steel door is flanked by two of Papa’s guards. One of them opens the door for us to pass through.

  The moment I walk into the room, I scream, my voice cuts through the quiet of night like a siren’s wail.

  “No!”

  Miguel sits limp on a chair. He’s bound and gagged and his head hangs low on his chest. His clothes are ripped, bloodied, and his features are marred by the vicious beating his face has taken.

  “Miguel,” I whisper as hot tears roll down my cheeks.

  He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t look up. I don’t even think he hears me at all. He’s just groaning softly as blood streams from the many cuts on his swollen cheeks and forehead.

  I turn to my father in horror.

  He’s regarding me with cool detachment. “You see what your actions have caused?”

  “Is… is he dead?” The words feel like acid coming out of my mouth but I have to ask.

  Oh, God, his wife, his newborn daughter. What have I done?

  “No,” Papa replies in a bored voice. “But the next time he disobeys one of my orders, he will be. He understands that now. Do you?”

  His eyes bore into mine. I nod slowly. “Yes, Papa.”

  “There will be no more midnight outings for you, my daughter,” he continues. “I have turned a blind eye for too long. But you are not a child anymore. It is time you learned to obey. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He smiles. I wonder if there was ever a time when I had loved the man standing in front of me.

  All I can see now is a monster.

  “Good.”

  I glance towards Miguel but I dare not move any closer to him. I only hope he knows how sorry I am.

  I flee the room as fast as I can and run to my bedroom. Then I throw myself down on my bed and cry until sleep takes me.

  “Señorita Esme?”

  A voice calls me out of my dreams the next morning. I open my eyes, but I can barely see. They’re still puffy and red from crying until I fell asleep.

  A stocky man with a thick, dark mustache is standing over me, gently shaking my shoulder. Could it be…?

  “Miguel?” I say sleepily, hopefully.

  Maybe last night was just a horrible nightmare.

  Maybe it never happened at all.

  Then I blink and my vision clears.

  It’s not Miguel.

  Instead, I’m looking up at a stone-faced man I’ve never seen before. He has a shaved head and several serrated scars along his jaw. His eyes are cold as marble.

  The hope vanishes as quickly as it came.

  “Who are you?” I ask in alarm.

  “Your new guard, señorita,” he replies. “Your father sent me to wake you. You need to get up and pack your things.”

  I scramble upright in alarm. “Pack my things? Why?”

  The man’s expression doesn’t change. “Your father has a meeting in Los Angeles. You will be accompanying him.”

  My frown deepens and my heart beats faster. “What’s in Los Angeles?”

  But the man is turning away from me. He doesn’t answer. He already has one of my bags out and opened up on the luggage stand. A Louis Vuitton duffle I’ve used only once—the time Cesar and I flew to Paris, when we took the picture I was looking at last night. Just the sight of it makes my heart throb painfully.

  My brother swore he would protect me from Papa.

  But he lied.

  He died and left me here alone.

  No one can protect me now.

  Artem

  A PENTHOUSE IN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Grebanyye koshmary.

  Fucking nightmares.

  I haven’t dreamed of her in months. And now, out of nowhere, comes that old fucking nightmare.

  Marisha in her white dress.

  The silent, black O of her mouth as her screams fade to silence.

  And the blood.

  So much blood.

  Red and thick, staining the white of her dress…

  I swing my legs off the bed and drop my head into my hands, trying to shake away the black whirlpool that threatens to pull me apart from the inside.

  When that doesn’t work, I do what I always do—reach for the whiskey.

  I keep a bottle by my bedside for moments like this. I take a swig straight from the bottle and relish the welcome burn that surges down my throat.

  “Sukin syn,” I mutter gratefully under my breath in Russian. “I fucking needed that.”

  The images fade at once.

  I’m good again.

  Until I feel a hand graze my bare back.

  I whip around, seizing the arm and twisting it back, ready to snap the elbow if need be. It’s an automatic reflex from years of training—break first, ask questions later.

  I hear the girl’s panicked cry before I see her face. Her blue eyes stare back at me, wide with terror and confusion.

  She is lying naked and tangled in my sheets. Her short blonde hair no longer holds the glossy sheen that caught my attention last night.

  “You’re hurting me,” she whimpers shakily.

  I look down and realize that I’m still pinning her arm.

  Sighing, I release her. She lets out a pained little gasp before scurrying away to the opposite corner of the king-sized bed in terror.

  I turn from her and rise to my feet. “Get dressed and get out.”

  I try to remember what we did last night, but I can recall only a few vague grey flashes. I do remember that she screamed so loudly that she had given me a headache. I’d finally shut her up by putting my cock in her mouth.

  But even that left me feeling unsatisfied.

  Then again, it’s been a long time since any woman has come close to making me feel satisfaction.

  I expect her to high tail it out of here. But when I hear no movement, I pivot again and catch her staring at me.

  “Do I need to pay you or something?”

  “Pay me?” she sounds confused. “For what?”

  “For last night.”

  Her blue eyes go wide as she realizes what I’m asking. The fear gets flushed out by indignation.

  “I’m not a fucking hooker, asshole!” she spits.

  I shrug. “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Furious color floods her face as she leaps out of bed and starts stumbling around in search of her clothes, huffing in anger. She has to step over several empty bottles of whiskey to get to the sequined silver dress lying on the ground next to my bar cart.

  She bends over to snatch up her dress and wiggle it on. I remember now why I picked her from the crowd last night: those tits are the work of a very talented plastic surgeon.

  Once she’s grabbed her fuck-me Manolo Blahnik stilettos and neon-red Bottega Veneta clutch, she turns to me.

  Her bloodshot eyes are rimmed with smudged mascara and eyeliner. “Do you even remember my name?”

  I laugh out loud. “What do you think, princess?”

  She glowers at me for a moment, too pissed for words, before storming past me and out of my bedroom.

  I stand still, head pounding from last night’s booze, until I hear the front door of my penthouse slam shut.

  Good fucking riddance.

  When the apparently-not-a-hooker is gone, I head to the bathroom to survey the toll last night took on me.

  I look l
ike shit. I probably shouldn’t have gone so hard with the drugs and the drinking. It was a stupid thing to do the day before a big meeting.

  My reflection stares back at me. Out of habit, I reach up and touch the scar next to my left eye. My body stiffens, and I force the hand back down to my side.

  Not today. I won’t go there today.

  The dream of Marisha had stirred old memories, ones I’ve spent several years drowning. But it only takes the smallest of reminders to make them resurface.

  I don’t have time for distractions today, though. Father will be watching at the meeting. He has been watching me closely for the last few months. Testing me.

  Tonight will be the culmination of everything.

  I step into the shower and turn it on. The water is so cold that it stings, but that’s what I’m after—a little pain to keep my mind sharp, present, aware.

  More importantly, it keeps the memories at bay.

  When I’ve had enough, I dry off quickly and pull on a pair of dark pants and a long-sleeved henley shirt. My father prefers that I wear suits to these meetings, but I deliberately avoid them.

  Fuck what he wants from me.

  No one tells me what to do—not even my father.

  Even if he is the don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

  I roll up the sleeves, displaying the tattoos that encircle my arms. My Rolex reads eight fifty-six in the evening—I’ve slept the whole day away—which means my ride will be pulling up in front of the building in exactly four minutes.

  Father is never late.

  I head downstairs to the lobby in my personal elevator. The elevator doors peel apart in the main foyer to reveal a straight-line path towards the glass entrance of the building.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kovalyov,” the concierge greets, just as I spot the top-of-the-line Range Rover that my father favors pulling up in front of the building.

  There’s no denying the luxury SUV is a sleek ride. Even at first glance, it’s intimidating as fuck. And that’s without knowing about the performance tread tires, the bulletproof ballistic glass windshield, or the high-powered automatic weapons stashed in various compartments around the vehicle.