The Debt: Mafia Vows One

by SR Jones

  “It’s okay, I’m not that bothered about it.”

  “What decadent things do you do then for a treat?” she asks.

  Her question pulls me up short because I don’t. There aren’t things I think of as treats. “I don’t have treats. Maybe it’s a girl thing,” I tell her with a laugh.

  She stops walking and turns to me, her face serious, green eyes focused on me and flecked with gold. “That’s genuinely sad, Damen. Treats aren’t a girly thing; they’re a human thing. Whether it’s a pair of cashmere socks that are to die for when you put them on, a good book, a hot bath, or a mug of hot chocolate, we all need a treat now and again.”

  She’s a decadent treat, and she’s all wrapped up like a fine chocolate in her bright colors. She wants to be careful I don’t decide I want to unwrap her and devour her.

  “Come on. First lesson in living sensuously and decadently. A cheese toasted sandwich.” She takes my hand and leads me toward a white van with a cue of about ten people waiting in line for the food. When we finally get served, we both order Croque Monseiur and a bottle of water each, and as we turn to walk along by the river I take a bite.

  I can’t stop the small groan I give as the cheese-laden greasy, but oh-so-fucking-delicious, filling hits my taste buds.

  Maya is watching me, and her eyes widen a little when I make the noise. She lowers her gaze to my mouth and licks her lips. Does she realize the signals she’s giving off? Either I’m a lot farther along in my game of making her want me than I would have expected, or she’s messing with me. Am I going to find myself watching videos of her finger fucking herself sooner or later?

  “Told you it was sinfully good. Later, we’ll move on to chocolate.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her but don’t say anything. She bites into her food, and her moan is anything but contained. It goes straight to my cock, and I have to force down the bite of cheese currently sitting in my mouth because my throat is closing up with the shock of desire hitting me.

  I force my voice to sound light as I ask, “I take it that noise means you like it?”

  She turns to me, smiles, and then winks. “This sandwich is so Paris.”

  I bust out laughing and shake my head. “You’re nuts.”

  She is, but in a way I’m finding more beguiling by the minute, and my game, my seduction of her isn’t quite working because she might just be the one seducing me.

  “Admit it, Popeye, Paris is soooo … Parisy.” Her voice brings me out of my introspection. “I mean Athens is cool, ya know. And I loved New York when I went. London’s all trendy and the like, Berlin even more so, but Paris? This city is like the essence of itself or something. It’s weird. It’s almost too Paris.”

  “Can you get too Paris?” I ask as if it’s a serious philosophical question, and she plays along, cocking her head to one side.

  “From my experience so far, I don’t think you can.”

  “Good, because next we’re going on a river cruise.”

  We went on the river cruise yesterday, and it was awesome. Then we had champagne at a bar on the Left Bank and ate a wonderful meal. Damen told me all about the artists and writers who had spent their time living or staying on the Left Bank. He explained that although these days it’s expensive, back in the day it was cheaper than the upmarket Right Bank, and people who were of an artistic mindset, and poorer because of it, lived there.

  He knows a lot of stuff. I do too, and unlike most guys, he doesn’t mind when I share my little facts. Instead, he seems to like it. I told him about the catacombs and how they supposedly held more than six million people, which seemed to blow his mind. He said we could go look if I wanted, but I declined. I don’t want to be surrounded by death, not when I’m feeling strangely alive for the first time in years.

  I don’t know why I thought Alesso was so hot and didn’t see Damen in the same way. In the space of the last few days, Damen has claimed residence in my head, taking up all the space where I used to daydream about Alesso and marking it as his own. The man is damned sexy. I want to climb him like a tree or lick him all over.

  Today we did more sightseeing and went to the Louvre. While it was undeniably amazing, I agree with Damen that the Musee D’orsay is better. Then we went to the Eiffel Tower and to the Arc De Triomphe.

  I’ve noticed women looking at him all day, and what’s weird is he doesn’t seem to. I’m so used to men looking at women that it’s unusual to be with a man who doesn’t. He truly doesn’t turn and stare at every half decent woman walking by.

  In fact, the only woman he seemed to notice was me.

  It’s sexy, it’s intense, and it’s a little scary. Something tells me if I pushed it, if I went for it, I could have Damen, but the thing is, unlike Alesso, I’m not sure I could handle him.

  It’s leaving me all messed up and achy. I want sex bad. I’ve been horny as hell for months now. It’s as if my looming marriage to a psycho, then the death threats, then the marriage getting called off, never mind my dangerous game with Alesso, have all ramped up my adrenalin levels to epic. And they say when you feel a sense of danger it can heighten the libido. Look at all the war babies!

  It seems the threat of imminent death can drive us to do the most life-affirming thing—sex.

  Can I, though? Dare I? With Damen?

  I’ve been sitting in my bedroom reading for the past hour, and I think he’s been in his room too as I’ve not heard him moving about, but now I can hear something from the sitting room area. We’ll need to decide what to do about an evening meal soon, and I think it will be nice to eat at one of the restaurants here in the hotel. I bet they’ll be extortionate, though.

  Deciding to go ask Damen if he has any preferences, I open the door and step into the living area.

  Fuck my life. This man!

  Damen is wearing only loose grey gym shorts, and he’s doing one-handed pushups. His back is glistening with sweat, and his eagle tattoo seems to beat its wings on every move.

  He’s so beautiful that I want to do nothing more for the rest of my life than watch him. Even his lower back is a work of art. I’ve never noticed that area on a man before. He has these dimples right at the base of his spine, and his skin is tan all the way down. Does he sunbathe nude or something?

  He stops what he’s doing, jumps to his feet in a display of physical dexterity that impresses me in a non-sexual way, and cocks his head. “Yeah?”

  Arrogant wanker.

  “When you’re done being all alpha, do you fancy eating?”

  “I’m not being alpha; I’m working out.”

  “In the living space, where you knew I’d see you. You call me a tease, Damen, but you’re a bit of one yourself.”

  He smirks and grabs a towel, wiping the back of his neck as he faces me, breathing heavy, making his pecs rise and fall. And what pecs they are. He rivals the classical sculptures we saw for sure.

  “So … you like what you see?” His grin broadens.

  Ugh, I’ve given myself away. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to be doing all your sweating and grunting in the living area when you have your own bedroom for those sorts of things.” I sound like a prim school mistress.

  “Sweating and grunting? I don’t think I grunted. And there isn’t enough space on the floor in my room to do this, ya know, since I took the smaller one. Being a gentleman and all.”

  He walks closer, and I instinctively take a step back. He smells of man. Musky and spicy with a hint of fresh sweat, which is delicious. He raises his arm again, this time to wipe his hair roughly with the towel, and I stare at the way it bunches his biceps, and his armpit is kind of hot.

  Oh my God! What is wrong with me? Who finds armpits hot?

  I need some sexual relief. The only reason I’m lusting after this infuriating man is because my family kept me a virgin for way longer than is natural. It’s inhumane to make a woman of my age refrain from sex. As soon as we get home, I need to find a man to take my virginity. Or … I could get the gu
y in front of me to do it.

  Would he?

  He’s hinted he would, if I pushed for it. But would he go through with it? He has to know Stamatis is my father, and deflowering me wouldn’t be good for his health. Then again, he doesn’t strike me as a man who lives his life in fear of anything much.

  “You’re staring,” he says.

  Shit, I am. “Do you want to go eat or not?” I sound impatient and snippy, but I’m overwrought and horny.

  “Yeah, I’ll jump in the shower and be ready in ten.”

  It takes him fifteen minutes, but it’s worth the wait when he knocks on my bedroom door. I open it to see him standing there in a fitted white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, tucked into dark jeans that taper and cling to his sinful thighs.

  I’m weary floaty trousers, a scarf print top, gold bangles on my arms, and a gold and turquoise necklace, along with turquoise shoes with gold straps. I feel glamorous in an old-fashioned way in this get up. Like Elizabeth Taylor or someone.

  “You look stunning,” Damen says, offering me his arm, which I take with a smile. My tummy does a funny little dip at the gesture and the scent and feel of him close. I can sense the heat radiating from him and want to lean into it.

  What must it be like to have a man like this as my husband for real? Someone big, competent, and protective, but also someone who doesn’t take kindly to men hurting women. The way he’d reacted to my father hitting me tells me Damen doesn’t think the sort of abusive behavior I’ve grown up with is okay.

  I’ve always yearned a little, deep down, for a protector. Someone who would make me feel cherished because I’ve honestly never had it. Most little girls get it from their father, the first man they look up to, and they grow up measuring other men against that father figure in their life. I do too, but I do it in a different way. I don’t want a man like my father—disinterested, cruel at times, and weak along with it.

  I measure every man against my father to make sure they’re nothing like him. Damen is nothing like my father. He’s not disinterested. He might be ruthless, and he might like playing this weird game we’ve got going on, the same way I do, but he isn’t disinterested. He took me to the Musee D’orsay because he knew I’d love it, and he understood that about me because he’s watched me, observed me, taken interest in me. I’m not sure if he is aware how much his actions show his awareness of me and what I like. I’m most definitely unsure how he’d react if he realized.

  “Where do you want to eat?” Damen asks as we leave our room and head for the elevator, the familiar click of the door next to ours ringing out as our constant companions join us.

  “How do they know when we’re leaving?” I ask Damen.

  He glances behind him for a moment. “I text them and tell them we’re on the move.”

  “Ah, makes sense.”

  As we step into the elevator my phone goes. I pull it out of my purse and smile. It’s Mom. She’s probably calling to see how the faux honeymoon is going. I answer and start to jabber on at her excitedly about the Musee D’orsay, then I remember myself and glance at Damen. Dad says I’m always prattling on about things and people don’t want to hear that, but Damen doesn’t look annoyed. He’s smiling at me.

  “I’m glad you’re having a nice time, darling, but this isn’t only a social call.” Of course not, God forbid either of my parents call me simply to chat.

  She goes on. “We got another note, and it’s … is Damen there?”

  “Yes,” I glance at him.

  “Put me on speaker, darling.”

  I do as she says and then push the stop button on the elevator. Damen’s gaze turns to me.

  “Hi, Damen.” Mum’s voice floats out of the phone at me. “We got another note, and I called Maya and yourself straightaway.”

  “Okay,” he says, “can you read it out?”

  “I haven’t told anyone else, not even Maya’s father, I mean her … I mean Spiros, and I haven’t told Stamatis either. It’s scary because I don’t understand how Yannis can know.”

  “Know what?” Damen keeps his voice even, patient.

  “It says: Mother of the bitch, just because the bitch is out of the country, don’t think she’s safe or that you are either. You fucking whore, you better watch your back, and your whore daughter better watch hers.”

  Damen doesn’t say anything, but his face is tight.

  “It means it can’t be Yannis, right? He hasn’t been told yet about you two. Stamatis is doing so tomorrow.”

  “Have you told anyone?” Damen asks my mother.

  “No,” she says.

  “What about you?” Damen swings his gaze my way. “Did you tell Stella?”

  I shake my head. I’ve been dying to, dying to Facetime her and show her the hotel, but I didn’t. It would put Damen and myself at risk when we don’t have many men to watch our backs, and until Stamatis tells Yannis and his family, I’m under orders not to open my mouth. “I wouldn’t until I was told I could,” I answer.

  “Listen, Marina, you can’t keep this to yourself. Who is looking after you?”

  “Some new men Spiros is paying. Stamatis has called Alesso and Markos off until you guys came back from honeymoon.”

  “I’m going to call Stamatis and have a word with him. I think you need some of his men there, even if it can’t be Alesso or Markos. Your daughter is safe, I promise you this. So you focus on keeping yourself safe. Keep the doors and windows locked, make sure you trust the men guarding you, and keep your phone by you. Either myself or Stamatis will be calling soon.”

  He turns and gives me a dark look before pressing the down button. The elevator jerks, and we begin to descend again. “I need to go stand outside and make this call, okay?” he says as the doors slide smoothly open.

  The lady at reception is gesticulating at us. “Sir, was there a problem with the lift?” She’s already moving out from behind the desk toward us.

  Damen holds his hand up. “No problem at all, just wanted a moment with my new wife.”

  She flushes and nods briskly before heading back behind her desk.

  Damen places his palm at the back of my neck and guides me out of the hotel. It’s strangely sensual. I mean, I should be outraged that he’s guiding me around this way when we’re not a couple, but it feels protective. It feels nice.

  Once we’re outside, he pulls me into him, shielding me from the street with his body. Our two constant companions appear from nowhere, and one loiters on the sidewalk a little way down from the hotel entrance and lights a cigarette. The other stands near the doors.

  “Stamatis, listen, Maya and her mother have had a new threatening note, and it can’t be Yannis sending them, unless we have a leak, because the writer knows Maya is here, in Paris.”

  “Motherfucker.” Stamatis swears loud enough I can hear it, and Damen holds the phone away from his face for a moment with a wince.

  “Yeah, my thoughts too. Whoever this is, they’re knowledgeable about the family and their movements. Maybe Alesso and Markos should start looking into staff of both families, yours and Spiros?”

  “Agreed,” I hear my uncle snap.

  Then Damen hangs up. No chat, not even a goodbye.

  “Come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me back inside. “We’re eating in tonight. It’s safer.”

  I’d wanted to eat in the hotel anyway, and I know he’s keeping me safe, but his high-handed manner irritates me. I pull my hand away, and he gives me the side eye but doesn’t say anything.

  We reach the gorgeous glass restaurant, one of many, and I turn to look at Damen. “So we’re eating here, are we? No choice.”

  He’s pissing me off now.

  He turns to me and sighs. “I thought you’d like it, Maya. It’s fresh and modern and pretty. We can go to the formal dining room if you prefer.”

  Why is he talking to me as if we’re work colleagues? Worse, as if I’m a colleague who irritates him?

  I felt close to him today; it was
almost magical. I let my guard down, let him see the real me, and not many people do, but now he’s all business again.

  “Why are you looking at me like I kicked your puppy?” he growls.

  “You’re mean,” I say.

  He has the cheek to look genuinely taken aback. “I’m not mean, Maya.”

  “You’re all formal suddenly with me, and it’s upsetting me.”

  “This is not me being all formal, as you put it, this is me in work mode. Fucking keeping you safe.”

  He leans in close, voice low as he fairly grunts the words at me.

  “Fine, Popeye, we’ll eat in here.”

  I had used the nickname fondly earlier, but now I throw it at him nastily, knowing it will remind him of what Yannis said to him when he called him Roid Rage.

  Damen follows me and doesn’t say a word.

  I pick up my menu and hide behind it, not wanting to deal with him right now. It is full of delicious sounding fare, and I only wish I felt more like indulging. Instead my stomach is sour, and to be honest, I don’t want to eat.

  “Can we skip this, please? After that letter and the phone call, I don’t feel too hungry. I’d rather simply have a snack in the room, if you don’t mind.”

  He raises one brow then gives me a curt nod. “Fine, of course. Let’s go.”

  We head back to the elevators, and I smirk as I notice our ever present guards unpeel themselves from the sofas they were sitting on in the bar area with a direct view to our table in the restaurant. They’re good at discreetly following us.

  Once back in our room, Damen orders himself a steak, and me a sandwich and side salad, at my request. I don’t feel like a proper meal, and I can nibble at this. I’m too worried about what the damn letter means, and too upset at Damen’s change of persona, as silly as I know that is.

  We eat the food when it arrives in silence, and Damen even turns on the TV in the living area and channel surfs before settling on a news program. After about fifteen minutes of this, I sigh and stare out of the window.