‘One day you will fall deeply in love with someone and you will understand that no matter what the other person does you will be unable to kill the love you have for them.’
‘I will never fall in love with anyone,’ I swear bitterly. ‘Never.’
Sixteen
Dahlia Fury
I wake up two mornings later and Zane says to me, ‘We’re going to Rome.’
‘What? When?’ I ask with a big stupid grin plastered all over my sleepy face.
‘Today.’
‘Huh? Why?’
He shrugs casually. ‘Weekend break.’
‘But why didn’t you warn me?’
‘It’s a surprise. A bit like your surprise party.’
‘OK, great.’
‘We’ll be travelling incognito though.’
My grin dies away. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll be travelling as Mr. and Mrs. Zhivanecskaya.’
I stare at him stunned. ‘You mean we’ll be using fake passports?’
He reaches to the bedside cabinet drawer and extracts two passports. He looks into the first, then passes me the second one. I look at it and there it is. The photograph of me that Yuri took for security purposes teamed with the name Dahlia Zhivanescskaya. Age 24.
‘I can’t even pronounce my last name,’ I whisper.
He says it slowly.
My eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘Why do we need fake passports? Are we going to be smuggling drugs, or some kind of contraband?’
‘Not drugs. You’ll be carrying 15 million Euros worth of diamonds.’
The passport falls from my hand. ‘What?’ I splutter.
He actually looks at me sheepishly, as if asking someone to illegally carry 15 million Euros worth of diamonds is a sheepish matter. ‘Don’t worry,’ he adds in a conciliatory tone, ‘there is no chance of us getting caught. We’ll be flying private and I know the people at the airport.’
I shake my head in disbelief. Us? He means me! ‘You want me to be a diamond mule?’ I’m not sure if that is what the idiot carrying the diamonds is called, but this conversation is so out there my brain can’t compute. Then I become absolutely livid. ‘How dare you even ask me to do such a thing?’
He seems surprised by my reaction. ‘Do you have a problem with it?’
‘Yes, I fucking have a big problem with it.’
‘The others didn’t,’ he says mildly.
I glare at him. ‘I don’t know what kind of women you’ve been dating, but yes, I do mind very much. I’m not carrying diamonds for you. You must be out of your head to think I would do something like that.’ Then another thought occurs to me. ‘And how am I supposed to be transporting these diamonds?’
‘Inside your vagina,’ he says slowly.
My mouth drops open. ‘Oh my God. I don’t believe this. You think it is OK to ask me to stuff a bunch of diamonds up my vagina and take them across borders for you? I really thought better of you.’
‘Will you at least think about it?’ he asks in a wheedling voice.
That fucking makes me explode. ‘Fuck no,’ I yell.
‘Damn. Does this mean I’ll have to take someone else instead?’ he ponders, staring away from me.
Then it hits me. ‘You bastard!’ I cry and, pulling up a pillow, smack his head as hard as I can. He goes down laughing.
‘I really thought you were serious,’ I say, and continue hitting him.
He grabs a pillow and swings it into my body. Immediately I slam my pillow back at him really hard and feathers start flying around us. I get on my knees to take my attack to the next level but he tackles me and brings me down. Pinning me down with his body he grins at me.
‘You’re an asshole, you know?’ I pant.
‘You deserve it for assuming I’d ask you to do a low thing like that,’ he says with a laugh.
‘I don’t know you well enough for you to play those kinds of jokes on me,’ I say primly.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You don’t know me well enough? How well do you have to know me? I suck your pussy!’
‘Nevertheless it was a horrid prank,’ I say, pretending to be angry.
He smiles at me. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t help it. You’re delicious when you are outraged.’
I crack a smile. He is so gorgeous it is impossible to even pretend to be angry with him. I want to kiss his throat. ‘So why are we really going?’
‘Because the oppressive heat of summer is gone, Italy is an explosion of color. Autumn is also harvest season for truffles, chestnuts, and pumpkins so it is the best time to eat pasta al tartufo or pumpkin risotto.’
I look at him curiously. ‘I got all that, but why are we travelling incognito?’
‘Because I love it. Incognito means there is no need for security. We will go to a villa that Boris has rented and paid for in cash. Nobody will know where we are. We will be completely free to go anywhere we want and do anything we want.’
‘Just the two of us?’
He nods.
‘No one is coming with us?’ I ask because it is such a novel idea.
He shakes his head.
‘No Noah?’
He shakes his head again.
‘No Yuri or Boris?’
He repeats the movement of his head.
‘Not even the driver?’
‘Just you and me, rybka.’
‘Actually it sounds awesome.’
‘I think so too,’ he says softly. He reaches into the drawer again. I lift my head up to look. ‘What’s that?’ I ask curiously.
Taking my finger he slips a platinum ring with a massive stone on it.
‘That’s a diamond by the way,’ he says casually. Then he adds a plain band on top of the first ring.
My lips part with a strange emotion, but neither the gesture nor the moment has any real significance to him.
‘There, it fits perfectly,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. I take a deep breath. I have to act normally. I have to be cool. Maybe a little humor. ‘You do realize that you won’t be getting these babies back after the vacation, don’t you?’
‘They’re yours,’ he says, an odd inflection in his voice.
I swallow hard. Does he even realize what he is saying? Quick change the subject, Dahlia. ‘Are you sure travelling with fake passports is safe? What if we get caught?’
‘These are real passports. The owners died in a car crash and their families sold them on to forgers. These here are exactly the same type of documents used by Mossad agents. There is absolutely no way anyone can tell the difference unless they investigate deeply, but nobody’s going to investigate us deeply. We’re just going to spend the weekend in Rome.’
‘OK, but if we end up in prison …’ I warn.
He drops his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s an adventure, little fish.’
His hands start spreading my thighs. I glare at him. ‘I’m still angry with you.’
He slips a finger inside me. Of course I have to be soaking wet. ‘No, you’re not,’ he says with a chuckle.
Ah, what the heck. It’s hard to pretend to be angry when you’re having such fun, anyway.
Seventeen
Dahlia Fury
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0wZQbK938Y&nohtml5
(Happiness)
I’ve been to Venice before, but never to Rome so it is all, as Stella would say it in a fake post accent, ‘terribly exciting’. We are just like two tourists. I really get into character. I catch myself wondering what Dahlia Zhivanescskaya would do right then. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined travelling on a fake passport with a Russian mob boss.
I must admit my heart races like a bullet train when we are asked to show our passports, but Zane doesn’t even bat an eyelid, and quite right he was to be so chilled about it all. We were waved through after a cursory examination of our passports. The adrenaline spike dies down and at this point I am beginning to really appreciate the adventure I’m on. I’ve just broken God knows how man
y international laws and you know what? It feels absolutely brilliant.
Maybe even a bit Bonnie and Clydeish.
Like any other tourists we go pick up our luggage like everyone else and walk to Customs. We don’t hold hands. That would be silly at this stage of the relationship … until that is, he takes my hand and then it’s panic stations … Oh my God: we are holding hands!
The weather outside is beautiful. Bright and pleasantly warm. We get into a taxi and Zane gives him the address. Twenty minutes later we’re in fabulous Rome. Wow! What an amazing city. I stare at all the wonderful buildings full of history and beauty. We pass the Coliseum and I crane my neck out of the taxi to stare at it.
‘We’ll see it tomorrow,’ Zane says.
I turn to him. ‘Great. I’ve always wanted to see it.’
‘It is one of the most fascinating places on the earth,’ he says quietly.
The villa is located in Formello about twenty kilometers from Rome, and is surrounded by lush trees and greenery. The wrought iron gates are opened by a small, white-haired man who nods at us formally as we drive through to a gorgeous house painted in burnt orange. It has a white stone balustrade and slated wooden shutters painted duck-egg blue on the windows. There is an ancient green Mazda parked by the side of the house.
We step out onto the dusty road and a tiny woman comes out of the large wooden door and smiles in greeting. The man who opened the gates comes up the driveway as the taxi driver is taking our bags out of the boot.
‘Benevenuto Senor e Senora Zhivanecskaya,’ the woman says. Her face is full of wrinkles and her eyes are brown and rheumy, but her smile is real and full of spirit.
‘Grazia, Senora Rossi,’ Zane says.
I smile at her.
By now the sprightly old man is upon us and his weathered face is split into a large welcoming grin. He reaches forward and grasps Zane’s hand in both of his. To my surprise Zane starts talking to him in fluent Italian. After a while the man lifts his hand and bids us both goodbye. The woman, presumably his wife, nods at us, and they both get into the rickety car and drive off.
‘It’s just you and me now, rybka,’ Zane says with a wink.
‘I didn’t know you could speak Italian.’
‘Many Russians can speak German, French, and Spanish too.’
‘Wow! Impressive.’
Zane hauls up our luggage and we go into the villa. It is cool inside with terrazzo flooring and cold white walls. The hallway leads to a very large lounge with exposed beams, a massive fireplace, and a graceful rusted-iron chandelier. It is sparsely filled with reproduction rococo style Italian furniture and an upright piano in one corner of the room.
The lounge opens up to a dining room with a long, highly polished table and eight tall chairs. At the back of the house there is a large country style kitchen with a much smaller farmhouse table and wooden chairs with straw seats. All the rooms wrap around an oriental style courtyard in the middle of the house.
Up a flight of stone stairs there are three spotless double bedrooms with en-suites. We put our bags in the master bedroom. It is a beautiful room with a king-size bed covered in a damask bedcover, a large tapestry on the wall, and a velvet daybed. I go over to the window and see that there is a swimming pool right underneath the window. To my delight there is also a lemon grove in the grounds.
It is nearly five by now and I turn to Zane with a happy smile. ‘What do you want to do, Mr. Zhivanescskaya?’
‘Guess, Mrs. Zhivanescskaya?’ he says, coming towards me.
‘Oooo, but Mr. Zhivanescskaya I—’ The rest of my words are cut out by his mouth swooping down on mine.
I lie on the softly scented pillow and I think that though all our other sex sessions have been awesome this one has been undoubtedly the best. Why? Because Zane is a different man. His body is without that strung-wire tension and his eyes don’t house that peculiar wariness that I always associate with him. He even looks younger.
A gust of wind redolent of the smell of lemons and fallen leaves comes in from the open window and blows over our heated skin. Outside it’s still light, but it is a kind of translucent light never found in England. I turn my head and look at Zane. A lock of his hair has fallen on his forehead. I push it away with my hand. He opens his eyes and looks at me.
‘Do you think it will rain?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says softly.
‘I really like it here,’ I say, yawning and stretching lazily.
He takes the opportunity to slip his finger into me. It makes my body arch and his finger crooks in me and starts stroking the delicate tissues inside me.
‘Oh, Zane,’ I whisper.
‘I love watching you come,’ he says and continues playing with me.
Eighteen
Dahlia Fury
We shower and get dressed. Zane wears a charcoal suit with a silk, oyster shirt and I slip into a white dress with a full skirt and knot a pale blue sweater around my neck. Doing my make up I watch him in the mirror. His hair is still damp and he looks virile and full of vigor.
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ he says.
‘I’ll come out when I finish putting on my face,’ I say.
I keep my make up very light and, wearing blue pumps with espadrille heels, I go outside. The air is beginning to cool. I find him smoking a cigarette on the terrace. The last embers of the sun are in the sky, giving his hair a reddish hue. When he hears me he turns around and looks at me. I shiver, intoxicated by the magic of that moment.
His eyes light up as if from within and he smiles slowly. ‘Oh fuck, I’m going to be fighting off men all night, aren’t I?’
I blush and twist my pretend wedding band around my finger. ‘And I’m going to be scratching out women’s eyes all night, aren’t I?’
‘You really think so?’ he asks cockily.
‘I know so,’ I tease, feeling shy. He is so, so, so different, so out of character. I love this warm, cheeky, gorgeous man.
He takes a last drag of his cigarette and kills it in an ashtray on the wrought iron table, then comes towards me. ‘How hungry are you?’
‘Starving,’ I admit.
He puts his hand on the small of my back. ‘Good. Let’s go.’
There is a bright yellow Fiat Cinquecento waiting outside.
‘Where did that come from?’ I ask.
‘It was in the garage,’ he says looking at me closely. ‘Don’t you like it?
‘Yeah, it’s cute, but I didn’t expect you to hire one.’
‘When in Rome …’ he trails away, and opens the passenger door for me.
I get in and it smells of new leather and the sickly sweet smell of air freshener. I turn around to watch Zane get into the driver’s seat. The sight of him folded inside the interior of such a small car makes me giggle.
‘Rome is not made for big cars,’ he explains.
I soon see why. The streets are narrow and full of parked cars. There is hardly any parking space, and when Zane parks in a minute space with only an inch front and back to spare, I see the wisdom of the tiny car.
He locks the car and we walk down a narrow Roman street with only a little sliver of sky above us. There is no sidewalk and cars and mopeds whizz by right past us. Laundry hangs out of first floor windows and in tiny balconies filled with flowerpots.
Street musicians are playing outside the restaurant. There are tables outside and people are sitting at them. They have the air of locals and look at us curiously. A balding man in a white shirt and black apron rushes out to greet Zane.
‘Ahhh Aleksandr,’ he calls loudly. ‘Che meravigliosa sorpresa.’
‘He’s telling me what a marvelous surprise,’ Zane translates for me.
The man’s dark eyes slide towards me. ‘E chi è questa bellezza?’ he asks.
Zane looks down at me and winks mischievously. ‘This beauty, Luca, is my wife, Dahlia.’
Intense heat creeps up my neck and into my face. How casually he had called me his wife. How
awesome if we were not pretending. If we were really married. If I was really his wife.
Luca makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Bellezza,’ he cries dramatically. ‘But of course a beautiful man catches a beautiful woman for his bride,’ he says switching to English.
‘Hello,’ I say.
He tilts his head. ‘English?’ he asks with a frown.
‘American,’ I confirm with a smile.
He holds up a knowing finger. ‘Ah, I knew it.’
‘Come, come,’ he invites warmly, and gestures us towards a table covered with a black and white striped table cloth. As we are being seated, he says, ‘Let Luca make something,’ he brings together his thumb, index and middle fingers together and kisses them with a loud smacking noise, ‘for you.’
‘OK.’ I grin at him appreciatively.
He looks at Zane. ‘Cacio e Pepe con Tartufi?’
Zane looks at me. ‘Would you like to try a handmade egg pasta with Pecorino Romano cheese, black pepper, and black truffles?’
‘Sounds great.’
Zane looks to Luca. ‘What would you suggest for the main?’
‘Saltimboca.’
‘That’s Roman dialect for ‘jump in your mouth,’ Zane tells me. ‘It’s a fry up of tender veal wrapped in Parma ham and sage and marinated in white wine.’
‘Yeah, sure. I’m game,’ I say.
‘Va bene,’ Luca approves, and goes away, head held high and humming to himself, oblivious to all the people in the restaurant.
‘What a character he is,’ I whisper to Zane.
Zane smiles. ‘It’s all a charade. He’s as sharp as nails. He counts the parmesan shavings he drops on his customers’ plates.’
I laugh.
The waiter arrives with aperitifs for us.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘It’s Luca’s sense of humor,’ Zane says. ‘He made you an Americano.’
‘An Americano for an American. Nice one.’ I try it. ‘Hmmm … not bad. What’s in it?’
You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 2) Page 9
