TRADED: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Naomi West

  Danica's eyes widen, the brilliant green catching the ample sunlight of the dining floor.

  "Worm my way in?" she asks, slightly offended. "You are aware of what my last name is, right?"

  "Painfully," I say, joking, but with a hint of truth; I'd be lying if I were to say that keeping Danica out of trouble was an issue I enjoyed dealing with.

  "Cute," she says. "But seriously, it's hard making ends meet up there; it's not fair that you and Dad get to reap all of the rewards of what our family built."

  Now I'm starting to get annoyed. It's like all of the conversations we've had about why she's not in the business have never happened. I'm starting to get the impression that this is the reason why she ever bothered to come visit to begin with.

  "The whole point of what you're doing is to keep you safe," I say, my voice hardening. "This business is dangerous. It's not fun and glamour. Dad and I put you through school and got you out of the city so that you could build your own life free from what he and I have to deal with on a regular basis. You go to school, get a good degree, make your own money, and you can live free and clear. And you want to fuck all of that up by getting involved."

  "Doesn't look so bad from where I'm sitting," says Danica. "Big house, pretty Polish girlfriend, and respect."

  "And all it would take is one misstep, one rat, or one screw-up for all of that to be destroyed. At least this way, you'll be safe should anything happen. Even if Dad and I were to …have something happen to us, you'd have your education to fall back on."

  "Yes, and you're the authority on keeping people safe."

  My blood runs cold at this. Danica knew the one thing she could say to make me lose my cool, and she went for it as soon as it looked like the conversation wasn't going her way.

  "Excuse me?" I say, my eyes fixed on hers.

  "I'm just saying, it's not like your plans for keeping the women of the family safe have worked out well so far."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Alina looking on with a somewhat shocked expression on her face. She's not sure what to make of this sudden spike in tension, but thankfully, she's wise enough not to say anything.

  "This is your one warning to say you're sorry and to drop the subject," I say, my gaze hard.

  I can see that Danica realizes that she's stepped over the line. She looks down at the table, now suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands. The moment seems to drag.

  "Just say ‘I'm sorry, Michal,' and we can move on to more pleasant topics."

  She's giving herself some time to come up with the perfect barb to turn the table—something she can say that will, at least, allow to her move a little out of the corner she's backed herself into.

  Finally, she relents.

  "Sorry, Michal," she says, her eyes downcast.

  "Apology accepted."

  Another long moment hangs over the table.

  "So, Alina, I, ah, love your outfit," says Danica, her voice small.

  "Oh, this?" asks Alina. "Just something Michal had lying around."

  I smile to myself at Danica retreating to the topic of simple compliments about clothing. At least she came to her senses.

  "Well, it looks great on you."

  I think about how little clothing Alina actually owns—most of what she's been wearing have been items that I bought for women I'd seen over the years—and a thought occurs to me.

  "I've got an idea," I say, after taking a sip from my drink. "Why don't you two go on a little shopping trip while you're in town?”

  Alina and Danica share a glance, the idea seeming immediately amenable to them both.

  "Yeah, sure," says Danica. "I wouldn't mind picking up some new things."

  "Yes, that sounds like a great idea," adds Alina.

  "We've been keeping this girl so busy that she's barely had the time to hang out with people who aren't me and Dad. And we're not exactly the ‘shopping trip' types."

  Danica smiles warmly.

  "Well, tomorrow's Saturday," she says. "How about we meet up in the afternoon? We can do some shopping for a few hours and grab dinner afterward? It's been a while since I've lived here in town, but I'm pretty sure I know where the best stores are."

  "That sounds wonderful," says Alina; her tone's light, and I can tell that she's happy to be able to spend some time with a possible girlfriend.

  "And I'll treat you both; how about that?" I say.

  "Famous last words," says Danica with a wry grin.

  Alina and her share a laugh. I'm just pleased that an awkward scene was avoided.

  We finish up, and Alina and Danica make their plans before we head back to our separate cars. Alina and I decide to take the rest of the day off, and the drive back to the house passes mostly in silence. However, I know my luck isn't to last, and sure enough, Alina is curious about the sore subject that was broached over lunch.

  "Can I …" she says, and I know exactly what she's going to say. "Can I …ask about what your sister was talking about? About not being able to keep her safe?"

  I tense up, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Hard. I don't want to get into it—to tell her about how my mother was killed years ago and how my father and I have been shouldering the blame for failing to protect her. But the cat's out of the bag now, I suppose. Still, I decide not to give her all of the gory details; no sense in getting her worried.

  "It's my mother. We lost her years back when I was still a teenager. She got caught in the middle of all …this."

  I leave it at that. Beyond not wanting to burden Alina with the details, it's simply too difficult a subject for me to want to talk about at any sort of length.

  "I see," says Alina. "I'm sorry."

  "It's …in the past. Like Danica said, my father and I decided to put her on more of a straight and narrow path in order to not let her fall into this world."

  "And she isn't happy with that?"

  "It's more of a ‘grass-is-always-greener' situation, as the Americans say. She sees the money we make, the way we live, and thinks it's all exciting when compared to her nine-to-five life. But she doesn't realize that the life I live is mostly tedious business management with occasional incidents where I fear for my life or freedom."

  This was a little bit of a lie; the life-or-death business is probably a one-a-month type of affair. But no need to scare her.

  And this is all she needs know. She doesn’t need to know that my mother was killed by the Donahues, the same group that my father wants to reignite tensions with. She doesn’t need to know that my mother was killed because I failed to keep her safe. And she doesn’t need to know my mother was killed in a manner so sudden and violent that my family hasn't been the same since.

  She doesn’t need to know any of that. Not a single word.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alina

  Danica's face is beaming as I open the door.

  "Hey!" she says through a mouth of perfect teeth, white as ivory. "You ready to do some shopping?"

  "Yes! Of course!" I say.

  Her eyes flick into the massive entry hall of Michal's house.

  "It's so big," she says, while looking around. "What does one man need so much space for?"

  "I wonder the same thing," I say. "He tells me he barely uses any of the rooms anyway."

  Danica shakes her head. "Maybe a few kids would help this place seem a little less empty?"

  "Oh," I say, blushing at the thought. "I hadn't really thought about that."

  "What am I saying?" says Danica. “You two have only been together for a week. Plenty of time to think about things like that."

  A moment hangs in the air; it's a tad awkward.

  "Um, well, anyway, you want to get going?" asks Danica, gesturing me to follow her outside.

  "Let's do it," I say.

  Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about the day ahead. Sure, I'd love to make a few friends, but this isn't just any woman that I'm with; this is Michal's sister. A misspoken word here or a faux pas there coul
d make its way back to Michal and complicate things greatly. I need to make a good impression. After all, if things go south with Michal and me, a simple breakup isn't the only thing I have to worry about—he might decide to renege on this arrangement that we have. If he were to do that, I wouldn't know what I would do with myself.

  But I choose to put these anxious thoughts out of my head as we step out onto the front lawn. The day is bright and sunny, and I choose to take this as a good sign. Danica is dressed in a stylish outfit of a simple, well-fitted, blue t-shirt and a pair of light-blue skinny jeans, both of which cling tightly to her slim, boyish shape. Her hair hangs loosely at her shoulders and a pair of fancy-looking sneakers complete the look. I feel a little silly wearing a pair of gray slacks and a white blouse from my work clothes, but I suppose finding nice things for me to wear is the point of our day together. Well, one of the points, at least.

  We walk toward a sporty, red convertible that's parked in front of the house.

  "Nice car,' I say, looking it over in admiration.

  "Thanks!" says Danica. "Just a rental, but I still like it."

  We climb in and head off. Danica turns the radio onto to a pop station, and I realize that with Michal always playing classical, it's the first top-forty music I've heard in a long while. We drive for a time in silence, enjoying the cool wind as we speed down the streets leading from Michal's neighborhood back to the city.

  "So," says Danica, finally speaking. "You and my big brother, huh?"

  I listen to her speak, noticing that her voice has only the slightest trace of a Polish accent. Despite her heritage, she's a very American girl in just about every manner I can think of.

  "Yes," I say. "He's a good man."

  "Well, let's not go crazy; he is a criminal."

  She says it in such a blasé manner; it's strange to me. Though, I suppose, when you grow up in a family like this, strange is your normal.

  "Yes, but I sense he has a good heart."

  Danica gives the idea a moment of thought.

  "Sure, he's not a bad guy. But you don't get to where you are in their business by being a saint, you know?"

  The topic makes me mildly uncomfortable, and I can see that Danica senses this. But she continues on anyway.

  "I remember once, way back when he was barely in his twenties, he came home from some little ‘errand' my father sent him on, his white dress shirt just covered in blood. And it was this fancy, new shirt, too—he said it cost something like two-hundred dollars. Can you believe that? Two hundred dollars for a shirt?"

  I shift in my seat and my mouth forms into a tight line.

  "Anyway, my father runs at him, telling him how goddamn stupid he was being for driving around with his shirt covered in blood like that, blah blah. Meanwhile, Michal's just going on about how badly he kicked this guy's ass. Finally, my father talks some sense into him and tells him to be more discreet in the future. Then, the next day, my brother has a brand-new shirt! Said my father was so happy with the, ah, ‘lesson' my brother taught the man he was sent to visit, that he bought him a new one."

  I don't know how to feel about this. I know somewhere deep down that Michal has to have a violent side to him, but hearing it in such clear terms …I feel ill at ease. Especially since it is clear to Danica that I am feeling more uncomfortable the longer she speaks about it.

  "He's …not like that anymore, is he?"

  "No, no," says Danica. "Ever since …our mother passed, he's calmed down. I think it took something like that for him to realize what sort of world he was living in. But when he was younger? A wild child, to put it mildly."

  "I see," I say, looking out the window at the city passing by.

  "But enough of that; I'm sure you'll come to learn all about my big brother. He's a good man; don't you worry about that. You've picked well."

  This makes me feel a little better. But I realize, to my unease, that I've been mostly ignoring the subject of Michal's business. It's an easier thing to ignore than to confront, but I know that this isn't going to be sustainable in the long-term.

  Soon, we arrive at a large shopping mall, the parking lot packed full of cars, pedestrians here and there. Danica slides into a spot, and we get out.

  As we walk, she casts a glance over my clothing.

  "Dressed to the nines, eh?" she says with a smile.

  "I have nothing else to wear but my work clothes; it's insane," I say.

  "Perfect," she says. "I know some stores here that have all of what the girls are wearing in New York."

  I smile. Though I can tell Danica has a bit of a catty side, she seems genuinely interested in being my friend.

  We enter the mall and spend the next several hours going from store to store, Danica snatching items off of shelves and piling them in my arms. We try on clothes, and she helps me pick out what, according to her, is the hottest stuff in the city. I don't know much about New York trends, but she does seem to have an eye for what looks best on my figure.

  At the register of the first store, my jaw drops when I see the total.

  "Michal said it's his treat, remember?" says Danica with a sly grin, the black, steel card in her hand. "Let's make him eat those words."

  "But …" I stammer, the amount of the total at this one store more than I'd dreamed of making in a month upon moving to the US.

  "Trust me, he's good for it. He makes millions a year and lets it just pile up in his bank account. Men have no idea how to have fun with money, if you ask me."

  Millions? I think. I know Michal was wealthy, but just how much is he worth?

  We hit store after store, the bags heavy on our arms. As the afternoon slips away, we decide to head back to the car and drop our purchases off.

  "Nothing makes me hungrier than shopping," says Danica, leaning against the convertible after stuffing the small trunk full of bags. "Let's grab some dinner."

  We make our way to a little bistro a short drive away from the mall. Over salads and wine, the two of us dish about various girl topics, eventually slipping into an easy back-and-forth. Danica eventually excuses herself to take a phone call, and I think about how relaxing the day has been. Michal's sister is definitely a rich New Yorker, through and through, but she's also fun and the type of assertive that I secretly wish I could be.

  Allowing myself to think positively, I consider the possibility that between my job, my relationship with Michal, and the blossoming friendship between Danica and me, that however strange this current arrangement is, it just might work.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Michal

  Flannigan's pub is before me, a squat, brick building with dark windows decorated with gaudy neon signs advertising various beers, the word "open" the most pronounced. The evening air has a chill to it, and as I stand leaning on my car from my vantage point across the street, I attempt to scout the place—to get a sense of just what I might be getting myself into.

  I'm here to start the process of squeezing the Donahue's businesses, and I'm not looking forward to it. The easy peace that's existed between our families has been on the rocks for the last few years, but I am loath to be one of the men to direct it to its grave.

  But if I want Alina, it's what I have to do. Though I know that the feelings I'm developing for her are a liability and distraction, I can't pretend that they don't exist. I can only react to them.

  Being that it’s a Monday night, the place looks about as dead as I'd expect, but that doesn't mean that there's any less danger. Pulling up my collar against the evening chill, I walk across the street and up to the bar, the jangling, rowdy sounds of Irish drinking music becoming clearer with each step I take.

  I take a deep breath as I place my hand on the door handle before pulling it open.

  The music hits me like a runaway car, the raucous tunes so loud I can barely think. The bar is an old-fashioned place, with a long, curving bar of dark, rich wood, brick walls, and low, homey lighting. There are only a handful of patrons, all men, in the place,
sitting at the bar, their eyes down and shoulders slumped as they sip their tall, dark beers and low, brown whiskeys. A mean-looking Irishman with a beefy frame that looks about ready to burst out of his flannel shirt eyeballs me as I stand at the entrance.

  In the time it takes me to walk to the bar, I already I have a headache from the music. I slide into one of the seats with its torn, red cushion and let my eyes drift over the packed-full shelves of liquors of various sorts.

  "Somethin' I can get ya, friend?" the bartender asks in a brisk, Irish accent, though his tone suggests that I'm anything but his "friend."