The Handler : A Dark Russian Mafia Romance (The Cells of Kalashov Book 2)

by Vi Carter

  I can’t let him leave.

  A scream erupts in the pit of my stomach and races up my throat. When it pours out of my mouth, my father swings around with tears in his eyes. It’s a brief pause before he tugs the red cap further down and disappears out the front door.

  “Stop it, Maeve.” The smell of smoke and alcohol envelopes me as my mother drags me into her arms.

  “He doesn’t want us.” Her words are the final nail in the coffin.

  No one wants me.

  Even the woman that holds me will only want me when she needs something.

  “I hate you,” I speak to her chest, and she drags me closer.

  She cost me my father and my friendship with Dana. Everyone knows she is a drunk. I push her away, and her unbalanced frame lands heavily on the ground. Shock morphs into anger, and I’m running down the hall with her on my heels. She’s not fast on her feet, and I consider knocking Declan’s bike into her path, but I don’t want to hurt her. I dive into my room and lock the door. It rattles, and she screams at me from the other side of the door.

  “You’re such a brat. No wonder your father left.”

  My hands cover my ears, and her words become muffled as I lower myself to the bare floor beneath me—splatters of paint coat the boards from my attempt at painting my room. Closing my eyes doesn’t cut off the pain. I never knew pain like this.

  A part of me died at that very moment, in that room. A part of me that I didn’t believe could ever be revived.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PRESENT DAY - MAEVE

  The keys rattle in the door, and I press my foot to the base of the wood that normally gets jammed. Years of forcing the door open this way have damaged the base further; any day it could cave in. Pushing the door open, I hold my breath. I know the drill by now. Being away in college all week leaves my mother and brother alone, and they can barely keep themselves alive.

  “Mom,” I call as I force the door closed behind me. It takes three attempts before the lock slides into place, sealing me into the house. I step around the pile of cardboard that’s being stacked against the skirting board. The yellow floor tiles are neglected and grubby.

  The moment I step into the kitchen, I drop my bag on the floor. The table is flooded with plates with food caked onto them - the type that will take an hour of steeping to remove. I lift a pile of unopened mail and drop it back down as I scan all the empty vodka and wine bottles. Walking around the table, I force the window open and let some air filter in to try and get rid of the smell.

  “Mom.” I call louder as I open the back door and place a chair behind it to hold it open. My heart leaps as Sandy pounces off the counter and races out the back door. I don’t even look at the counters to see what the cat’s been doing. Takeaway bags and opened food are stacked high. It always looks like this when I get back from college. My weekend will be cleaning, working at the local grocery store, and trying to get some homework done.

  Sandy’s silver bowls are empty on the floor. I don’t want to stay in the kitchen any longer, but I’m not cruel either. Opening the cupboard, I take out a moldy loaf of bread and place it on the counter. Pushing aside red sauce and some jam, I stare into emptiness. I close the cupboard and move onto the next, which holds a bag of sugar and some salt.

  Sandy has re-entered the kitchen and cries up at me as she circles around my ankles.

  “Yeah, I’m working on it.” Kneeling down, I open the bottom cupboard and grin at the bag of cat food. Sandy leaps up on my knee, and I swipe her off.

  “Here we go.” I barely get the food into the bowl before Sandy’s eating them. Filling up her water dish, I call my mother again before leaving the kitchen.

  “Mom.” She must be passed out somewhere. The sitting room door is closed, and I push it open. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but once they do, I wish I could step out of the room—the air freezes in my lungs and the ground under me shifts. A man stands over my bleeding brother. My brother’s gray t-shirt—that’s nearly threadbare—is coated in flecks of his blood. His jeans hang off his thin frame. My gaze bounces around the scarcely furnished sitting room before landing on my mother. The air re-enters my system, and I try to control my racing heart. My mother is in a heap in the corner. Her wild eyes won’t settle on anything. Mascara runs down her worn-out face. I’m tempted to step closer to her, but a shove to my back sends a shiver up my spine. The gun is nudged into my back again until I’m standing in the center of the room.

  “What have we got here?”

  I spin around at the voice. It’s deep and holds an edge, like a sharp knife that nicks the skin. It makes me uncomfortable and cautious. Even without the gun, this man is dangerous. His bald head seems to absorb the light. Heavy brows curtain his blue eyes that assess me. He takes a step closer. The leather coat creaks as he reaches out a tattooed hand and lifts my blond plait before dropping it back down onto my bare shoulder. I want to yank my top up, but it’s meant to hang off the shoulder, so I tighten my hands into fists.

  “You’re a pretty little thing.” His grin is razor-sharp, and alarm bells start to ring as I take a step back.

  “What do you want?” My voice sounds stronger than I actually feel.

  “Leave her alone.” Declan moans from the floor, and I’m relieved he’s alive. His pale skin had me wonder if today was the day that I would find my brother dead. Now that I see he isn’t dead, I wonder what mess he has gotten us into. I try to convey my question toward him with a stare that he meets briefly. His eyes slam closed as the man above him drives his black military-style boot into my brother’s stomach. I’m moving, but a hand pulls on my arm and drags me back.

  “Stay where you are, bitch.”

  “Just tell us what you want.” I can’t look away from Declan as he gasps for air. The man above him grins down with enjoyment. His gaze swings to me, and he spits on my brother like he’s a dog.

  “Declan here owes us twelve grand.”

  The earth beneath my feet shifts, and I need to sit down, but I don’t move. I don’t look at my brother any longer as he whimpers. I want to glance at my mother, who hasn’t said a word, but she’s alert and watching. I can hear her useless breaths from the corner of the room.

  “And if he doesn’t pay?” I ask the dreaded question.

  Blue eyes roam across my chest, and he takes a step closer to me, his gaze fixes on my exposed shoulder. “I was going to send your mother to one of our brothels until the debt is cleared. But now that you are here, I think you would be a very good money-spinner.” His fingers reach out and grip my chin, and I’m ready to step away from him, but I hold still, and his eyes gleam with approval that I don’t want.

  “I could take a test drive before we agree to anything,” the guy standing over my brother sneers.

  “Leave my sister alone, bro. I’ll get your money.” Declan tries to stand, but a large boot is pressed against his chest and pushes him back down. He holds out his thin arms, and I hate how faded he looks. He’s a copy of what my brother once was.

  “Your sister?” I take a step away from baldy as he speaks, and his fingers fall from my face. I didn’t expect him to let me go so easily.

  “This is the deal I’m going to make.” He places the gun in the band of his trousers, and it’s like the room sighs in relief. But I’m not fooled. This man would pull it out in a second. I’m keeping an eye on his friend, who I don’t doubt is packing a gun as well.

  “You have twenty-four hours to get me my money. If it’s not here when I return, I’m taking you.” His eyes bore into mine, and he takes a step towards me. This time when his fingers tighten on my arm, there is nothing gentle about it. I’m slammed against his chest as his other hand roughly dips into my pants. Terror grips me by the throat before I snap out of it, and I’m struggling. I’m trying to push him away as a deep-rooted fear starts to freeze me from the tips of my toes and travels quickly up my body. I don’t want to freeze, I can’t, or he will rape me. His fingers i
nvade inside me, and then I’m free as he steps away and places his fingers in his mouth. Horror ripples through me, and my stomach lurches; It’s over in a second.

  “I’m nearly hoping you don’t have the money. See you in twenty-four hours.” His laughter floats out the door as his friend takes his foot off my brother’s chest and follows him out. The moment they leave, my mother’s cries grow by the second. I want to comfort her, but I’m on my knees, trying not to think about the invasion on my body.

  “Declan.” I’m searching his face. His soft brown eyes—the same as mine—smile up at me.

  “Hi, Kiddo.” His grin has always been a comfort when shit hit the fan, but now that I’m older and have taken a pounding from life, his grin doesn’t comfort me; it just makes me sad, and it makes me remember what once was.

  “Twelve thousand, Declan?” I shake my head, and he lies fully back. His top rises, and I hate how prominent his bones are.

  “When did you last eat?” I take his arm in my hand, and he doesn’t stop me as I turn it over. I expect the fresh needle marks, yet seeing them still dries up any hope that was about to flourish. Each week he makes me the same promise that he will get clean, and when I get back, he’ll be a new man. The stupid part of me wants to dream that he will. I snort at my naive thoughts. Yeah, and maybe my mother will stop drinking, and my father will walk through the door. Why not go wild and let me quit my job that keeps the roof over our heads and food on the table.

  “I’ll get the money.” Declan’s smiling up at me through cracked lips that plead for water, that he doesn’t even know his body is craving. I rise, and my mother continues to wail in the corner. She’s managed to get her cigarettes and lighter out of her pink dressing gown pocket, so she’s not that traumatized. I enter the kitchen, and the smell has me swallowing saliva. Taking down a mug, I fill it with water and return to the sitting room.

  My brother drinks and slowly sits up.

  “You remember that Christmas…” he’s laughing at the memory that hasn’t left his lips yet.

  I examine his face; a cut above his eye is still bleeding.

  “The one where mum knocked over the Christmas tree, or the one where she fell into the bath?” The list was endless, but none of them were funny. Not when you craved your father to walk through the door every Christmas, but he never did. Each year I grow harder until it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, only surviving.

  “The one where you swore you saw Santa Claus.” Declan finally says, and his long arm wraps around his waist like he can keep the laughter in that spills from his lips and fills the room. His laughter fills the room with a small amount of light that I bask in for just a moment. I’m smiling down at my brother. It reminds me of us under his blanket late at night after our mother had passed out from drinking. Declan had a way with words, a real natural storyteller. He would take me away from our home and bring me to the magical lands of Ireland where pots of gold sat at the end of rainbows, and banshees wailed about death. He made me believe for those brief moments that maybe there was something more to this existence than this.

  “It was one of mum’s boyfriends.” He’s still laughing, but his words sober me up.

  The endless stream of men through the door never got old. Each one as much as a write-off as my mother, who still wails in the corner like a fucking banshee from one of Declan’s stories.

  I’m tempted to tell her to knock it off, but I don’t waste my breath. I need to bandage Declan up.

  “Can you stand?”

  I hate how easily I lift Declan from the floor. It’s like a light sack of tinder for the fire.

  “Don’t leave me.” My mother whimpers from the corner. Anger bubbles in my veins, and if it could morph into something more, it would scorch her.

  I leave with Declan. His room is a bare mess. His bed frame is long gone. The dirty mattress on the floor is covered by a sheet that I can not lie him on. He hobbles over, and I stop him.

  “I need to change it, Declan. It has sick on it.”

  “It’s my sick.”

  He’s ready to lie down when I whip the sheet from under him. I don’t meet my brother’s eyes.

  “How are you going to get the money?” I ask the stupid question as I throw the sheet onto the pile of clothes next to his chest of drawers.

  He lies down and groans as I pull open his curtains and let some light flitter into his room.

  “Come on, Maeve, close them.” He slings an arm across his eyes. But I don’t close the curtains. I force open a window to let in some air.

  “Declan, this is serious,” I say while staring out onto our lawn that died a long time ago. My gaze travels further as a group of young people huddles together while one jams to a beat that another makes.

  “I don’t know how I’ll get the money.”

  I step away from the window at my brother’s admission and leave him as I grab the first aid kit in the bathroom. My mother’s cries have ceased as I re-enter my brother’s room and kneel down on the floor beside his mattress.

  “What about Lenny?” I ask and cringe. I hate even mentioning Lenny’s name. But he is a local loan shark.

  My brother turns his face towards me, and I hate the sadness I see in his eyes. It’s like all his pain is swimming in circles and sucking the soul out of him. A force that I can’t stop. My hand touches his dark hair, and I want to plead for my brother to come back to me and help me.

  The weak thought has me focusing on his cut.

  “Lenny broke my legs the last time,” Declan says and hisses as I press down heavily on his cut.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to be raped over and over again.” My words are harsh, and Declan’s lanky frame goes rigid. He’s five years older than me, twenty-nine, but most days, he reminds me of my little brother.

  “I’ll figure something out.” He turns away from me onto his side. I sit with the bloodied cloth in my hand until his breathing evens out, and I know he’s asleep. When he wakes, he might not even remember the threat that hangs over our heads.

  MAFIA PRINCE: BOOK ONE IN THE IRISH MAFIA SERIES IS OUT NOW!

  Start Reading Today! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08R42FP86

  Contents

  WARNING

  EPILOGUE

  EVIE

  CHAPTER ONE

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVIE

  CHAPTER THREE

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EVIE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER SIX

  EVIE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EVIE

  CHAPTER NINE

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER TEN

  EVIE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EVIE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EVIE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EVIE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LUCCA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LUCCA

  EPILOGUE

  EVIE

  MAEVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  PRESENT DAY - MAEVE

  About The Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Enjoy this book? You can make a big difference

  Reviews are the most powerful tools in my arsenal when it comes to getting attention for my books. Much as I’d like to, I don’t have the financial muscle of a New York publisher.

  (Not yet, anyway.)

  But I do have something much more powerful and effective than that, and it’s something that those publishers would kill to get their hands on.

  A committed and loyal bunch of readers.

  Honest reviews of my book help bring them to the attention of other reade
rs.

  So if you’ve enjoyed this book I would be very grateful if you could spend just five minutes leaving a review.

  Thank you very much!

  THE HANDLER Copyright © 2021 by VI CARTER.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition: May 2021

  About The Author

  When Vi Carter isn't writing dark contemporary romance books, you can find her reading her favorite authors, baking, taking photos, or watching Netflix.

  Married with two children, Vi divides her time between motherhood and all the other hats she wears as an Author.

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’m very lucky to have such amazing readers and Beta Readers. I want to thank the following people who worked with me on this book.