by Naomi West
But my father is stubborn; once he's set his mind to a plan, there's very little chance of talking him out of it. My resolve as determined as it can be, I open the door to my father's office.
"Michal," he says, the noon-day sun streaming in behind him. The din of the office silences as soon as I shut the door. "Something I can help you with?"
There's a wry little grin on his face, and I can tell that he knows something's bothering me. I begin to form the words to express what I’m thinking, but before I can, he directs me to the chair across from his desk.
"Have a seat; tell me what's on your mind."
He's being the sort of cordial that one can afford when one knows they have the upper hand. I slide into the chair and quickly cross my legs.
"It's the girl," I say, deciding to just get it right out.
"Why, which girl?" he asks, his brow knitting in faux-confusion. "There are so many girls here, especially with the latest ones we've just brought on board. You're going to have to be a little more specific."
"You know the one I'm talking about—Alina.”
"Ah, yes," he says, drumming his fingertips on the glass of vodka in his hand. "That one. And what would you like to discuss regarding this newest addition to our team?"
He wants to drag this out, to let me know that this conversation is proceeding at his own pace, and to make me acutely aware that he is in total control. I've played this game with him enough to know that being as direct as possible is the only way to get anything done.
"I think that she's too valuable to use as a drug mule."
My father's eyes go wide; he sloshes the ice around in his glass.
"'Too valuable'? She's another fresh-off-the-boat girl who we're going to get some mileage out of before we toss her aside. There are hundreds, thousands even, who can take her place. What exactly is ‘valuable' about her?"
I open my mouth to speak, but my father begins again before I have a chance to talk.
"Not to mention, she's easily my favorite out of this last little batch of beauties. I was hoping to, ah, keep her around for a little while. You know what I mean."
I do. I choose to keep the conversation focused rather than get taken on a detour about my father's taste in women.
"She's smart. You can see this; she's picked up this job quickly, and we haven't had a single issue with her in the weeks that she's been with us. She speaks excellent English, and despite how easy it is to find foreign blondes with big, blue-gray eyes and even bigger tits, ones who can speak English near-fluently and can do difficult administrative work are hard to come by."
"I see," says my father.
He takes a sip from his glass, thinking over what I've just said. I know that he has a taste for women exactly like Alina, but his desire to make this business of his as powerful and profitable as it can be overrides even his bottomless appetite for young blondes. By appealing to his never-ending search for talent, I've given him something to consider.
"But we've already put her through the process," he says after a time. "She's seen what sort of business this is. We can't simply toss her back into the office and hope that she doesn't talk. It's too much of a risk."
I've thought this over and am ready to pounce on the point.
"You're right. That's why I propose that we make her part of the business. The real part of the business."
My father's eyes go wide once again.
"You want to make her a part of where the money actually comes from? This girl who we've only known for such a short period of time? Why on earth would I do such thing?"
"Because," I say, measuring my words carefully. "I want your permission to take her as my own."
A small smile crosses my father's face and he sits back in his chair. Asking for something like this, for the permission to make an outsider a protégé of sorts, is no small thing. As my father's son, I have enough clout to ask for such a favor. But the responsibility is enormous. If Alina were to have a change of heart and go rat, then that would be on me.
"You realize what you're asking for, correct?"
"I do," I say, my face still and grim.
"A shame," he says. "I was so hoping for some intimate time with that little girl."
Relief washes over me as I see that he's likely going to go for the offer.
"Very well," he says. "I can grant this request. But there are going to be more, ah, terms and conditions than would normally come with such an arrangement."
I stay still and silent, unsure of what, exactly, he's going to propose. My father rises from his seat and begins talking as he walks towards the bar.
"Michal, my son, you've spent far too much time floundering in your current position. Sure, you can handle most of the ins and outs of our little family enterprise, but you …well, you have seemed content to stay where you are. You seemed hungrier when you were younger, eager to prove yourself not just as a worthwhile member of the business, but as a worthwhile son."
He prepares himself another drink, returns to the desk, and sits down on the end of it.
"But recently, it seems as though you've lost that …competitive edge. That you're happy to simply stay in my shadow."
I wonder what he's getting at.
"So, I think that this particular situation would be a wonderful opportunity to prove that you're ready for something more. I'm not going to be around forever, you know, and once I'm gone, this will all be yours."
And now I know. He leans towards me, his large frame looming over mine.
"You can have this girl, sure, with all of the responsibilities that come with that. But not only this. You're going to …step up to the plate, as the Americans say. You're going to be taking on more responsibly in our organization. You're going to prove to me that you're the kind of man who can run a business like ours."
"What would you like me to do?"
"Those are exactly what I was hoping next words out of your mouth would be."
He takes a long, slow sip of his vodka, letting the liquid linger on his palate before bringing it down in a loud swallow.
"There is the issue of the Donahues."
I should've known.
The Donahues are a rival crime family in Philadelphia andour biggest competitors. An old-school, Irish mob family, they've carved out a massive empire in the city that only ours can hope to rival. Working in prostitution, drug-running, and money-laundering, our family and theirs operate on much of the same territory. When I was a very young man—just a boy—I remember hearing stories of the Donahues and their brutal nature. Open conflict raged between our families for years, and only in the last decade were we able to forge a truce between the two families, marking clear boundaries between our territory and theirs.
I remember the day of this treaty with perfect clarity. I was a young man at the time, barely out of high school. The top men in our families agreed to meet in the basement of Eamon's pub, a dark room with old-fashioned, brown wood, mournful Irish ballads playing softly on the speakers. I remember seeing Eamon there for the first time—a large, fat man in a pinstriped suit, his hair a fire-orange, and his ugly features red and ruddy. When he introduced himself to me, I noticed his nose specifically—a large, bulbous thing that looked like a bumpy thumb. The rest of his family and ours agreed to peace, and the night was passed in happy revelry. I had my first Guinness that night and have faint memories of a whiskey-fueled tryst in one of the dressing room closets with a pretty, red-haired waitress.
But however much happiness there was that night, both families seemed to know that peace couldn't last forever, and it was only a matter of time before conflicts over territory, and thus money, broke out once again.
And here was my father implying that I would be the one responsible for starting the violence anew.
"And what do you want me to do, exactly?" I ask, the tension welling in my stomach at the idea of going to war.
My father shrugs. "Whatever you think will work. You're a smart man; I have complete faith i
n your ability to come up with something."
I can't believe what he's asking. He's treating the idea of muscling out the other biggest crime family in Philadelphia as though it's a simple errand. I was expecting him to attach some terms if he agreed to what I wanted, but this was beyond what I had in mind.
"What do you say, young man?" he asks, looking down into his drink. "Are you ready to prove yourself as my true successor?"
Despite the sentence going up at the end, I know this isn't a real question. He's likely been waiting for this opportunity for months; years, maybe. Simply wait until I ask a major favor of him, then tell me that it's time for me to start the process of filling in his shoes. He knows that I have no option other than to agree. What else can I say? No? Tell him that I'm not ready to start training for the job that I've been destined for since the day I was born?
"Yes," I say. "I am."
A smile breaks out across my father's face and he rises from his seat. His large hand claps down on my shoulder as he walks past me to the bar, and he returns a moment later with a pair of glasses, each with a measure of scotch.
"You've made the right choice," he says, holding the glass in front of my face until I take it. "There comes a time in every young man's life when he must put away childish things and take on the responsibilities of men."
He sits down at his desk and raises his glass.
"And, now, that day has come for you."
I raise my own glass, and we toast. I take a deep sip of my drink, the heavy draw of scotch burning my throat on the way down. A deep compulsion to leave the room comes over me.
"I have nothing but the strongest faith that you will rise to the occasion," says my father, observing the play of light through the scotch while holding the glass from the bottom with his fingertips. "You are my son, after all."
No words come to mind; I just want to leave. Tossing back the last bit of my scotch, I rise from my seat and replace the glass on the bar.
"I should get back to it," I say, turning my body towards the door.
My father bows his head in understanding. "You should," he says. "You've got quite a journey in front of you. Might as well get started now."
I mumble something and leave, walking the hallway with fast, long steps. Arriving in my room, I lock the door behind me and stand by the window, looking out onto this city, my thoughts unsteady from the scotch.
He got me, I thought to myself, my teeth gritting.
My father has been waiting for a moment like this. While it is no secret that I am being groomed to take over my father's position as crime boss, my current responsibilities mostly entail keeping the …front-facing portion of the business running. And I like it the way; the responsibilities of running the criminal empire that my father had built simply have very little appeal to me.
But now that I had asked my father for something, he saw an opportunity and took it. He now had me on the hook to begin the process of becoming his true successor. And once that process begins, there's no turning back. It's a dark path that I'll be walking down, and one that will forever change me. Deep down, I wonder if I even have what it takes. And taking out the Donahues …that will be a challenge unlike anything I’ve ever attempted. There will be bloodshed in the coming months, that's for certain.
But I can't do otherwise. I can't stand by and watch as Alina is used and tossed aside like all of the others, hooked on drugs and left dead, or worse.
I shake my head and toss these sentimental thoughts out. No, there's nothing special about this girl, other than that I'm especially attracted to her. I want her physically, and that's all, I tell myself. Who knows, I'll probably get bored of her once I've had my fun. And there's a very good chance she'll be a pain in my ass in the meantime.
If only this girl, this little girl who is in over her head, knew what she'd started. Hopefully, both of us will make it out to the other side alive.
Chapter Ten
Alina
Pacing around bedroom of my new "home," I think uneasily about what my future has in store for me.
I woke up early that morning, and before Michal left, he gave me strict orders to stay in my room for the time being. There's a bathroom attached and plenty of clothing in the walk-in closet and dressers, he told me, and if I need anything from the kitchen, simply ring the help and they'll prepare for me whatever I want. But food is the last thing I'm thinking about; the barely-touched bowl of oatmeal sitting on one of the dressers can attest to that.
And Michal took my phone away, of course. There's a TV in the room, but no connection to the outside world. He appears not to trust me, and he's not wrong—part of me wants to run to the nearest police station and tell them everything in hopes that they'll keep me safe from this world that I've found myself in. But then I remember that this would likely result in me being shipped back to Poland, if I'm lucky.
I've cried over and over, feeling helpless and like a prisoner in this oversized bedroom. Thinking about my future as a drug runner for these men, I feel sick to my stomach. I'm going to be putting myself I more danger than I've ever imagined. I think about making the drive from here to New York, the trunk of my car full of drugs. It's bad enough that I have to worry about the police, but what about other drug dealers? What if it's found out by other criminals that I'm carrying what I am? Sure, I may make the drive once, twice, or even three times and still be safe, but eventually, someone will catch me.
I alternate between crying and chastising myself for being so foolish and so trusting. I should've known from the beginning, from my meeting with that slimy immigration agent wearing clothes a man in his position could never afford, that there was something going on. But I somehow managed to convince myself that this was just a good opportunity that I was fortunate enough to find. If there are those who are unlucky, then surely, there should be those who are lucky?
I collapse on the bed, my body wracking with sobs again. When this crying spell ends, I feel drained, as if there are no more tears left in me. My thoughts then fall to Michal, that strange man in whose home I'm now trapped. What kind of person is he? He's a thug—I know this much for sure. I wonder how many men he's killed, how many lives like mine he's ruined, and just what sort of horrible he and his father have done in order to succeed in the business that they're in.
But I would be lying if I didn't recognize that there was something about him—something that seemed to reflect a genuine concern for me. As though he, when looking in my eyes, felt some sort of responsibility for me. And as I stare back into those green eyes—those gorgeous green eyes—it’s almost as if he truly wants what's best for me; that he wants to protect me. And as much as I hate to admit it, a little protection is exactly what I need right now.
There you go again, I think to myself, shaking my head. Trusting people and not understanding that some people are simply evil, especially when they show it right in front of your face!
I try to pass the day by watching TV, but I can’t focus on anything; my mind is simply too preoccupied with my present circumstances. Occasionally, I sit in the high-backed chair that looks out over the long, green stretch of Michal's backyard, the long rectangle of the pool shimmering under the cloudless sky. I wonder what it would be like to live a life like this, free from the weight that is pressing down upon me—to be able to walk barefoot through that emerald grass, to sit with my feet dipped into that pool, and to lead a normal life.
But such fantasies are dangerous indulgences, and I soon pull the curtains shut in frustration, shrouding the room a low dark.
The day passes, and as the evening arrives, I hear the low rumble of a car pulling out in front of the house, followed by the heavy thud of the front doors closing.
I realize that Michal is back.
Footsteps grow louder as he ascends the stairs, and soon I can see his feet through the crack at the bottom of the door. My stomach tenses as the knob turns; I don't know what to expect. The door opens, flooding the dark room with the fading sunli
ght streaming in through the hall windows. Michal steps in and looks around, his eyes settling on me as I lay in a heap on the bed.
"That's one way to pass the day, I suppose," he says, walking toward the windows and pulling the drapes open. The light pours in and hurts my eyes for a brief moment. "I know your situation is …less than enviable, but sulking in the dark won't help."
"What do you want?" I hiss, part of me wanting to grab the nearest end table lamp and attack him with it.
"We have matters to discuss," he says, taking a seat on the end of the bed.
"Oh?" I scramble to the other end of the bed and pull my body up small and tight. I feel vulnerable.
But in spite of this, I find my eyes lingering on his stunning face, his limpid green eyes looking at me with a soft, mournful gaze.
