Serafin: Social Rejects Syndicate (Kings of Krakow Trilogy Book 1)

by Deja Voss

  Serafin

  Kings of Krakow Book 1

  Deja Voss

  Copyright © 2021 by Deja Voss

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  28. COMING THIS APRIL

  Foreword

  19 Authors - 19 crime syndicates - 19 countries

  Check out all the Social Rejects Syndicate World Books here!

  1

  Serafin:

  Krakow: Poland, 2002

  I shake off my sore knuckles and shove my fist in the pocket of my leather jacket as I close the door to the apartment. I whistle to myself, brimming with pride and satisfaction, taking the steps two by two.

  Mia Dolata is going to go to Studniowka with me, and she has no reason to tell me no.

  She was too proud to let me buy her an evening gown, so I did what any normal man would do in my position. I made sure her boss at the bakery gave her a raise. And the weekend off. Paid in full. It took a little bit of charm and a little bit of muscle, but I loosened my grip on his throat as he called her and told her the great news.

  Maybe I’m not such a great guy, but for Mia, I turn into a pile of warm mush. I’ve held her hand through cheesy romantic movies, taken her ice skating, and rescued so many kittens that I have to take three different kinds of allergy medications just to get through the day. I’d rescue a hundred more if it kept her interested in me.

  My family says it’s just hormones, that I’ll grow out of this soon and meet a woman of my own stature, someone who comes from a family with the kind of wealth and power that the Kings of Krakow have. Those painted up prostitutes don’t have as much class in their whole body as Mia does in her little finger. It’s not hormonal. It’s the solid truth.

  The night air is cool, and spring seems to be taking it’s happy time getting here this year. I think about walking into prom with Mia on my arm wearing a tasteful blue evening gown, covered all the way down to her ankles except for that little circle in between her shoulder blades, and instantly I’m warm.

  I could get my dick wet any day of the week with anyone I pleased, but nothing makes me harder than the thought of that little circle of freckles on her back. The way her hair always smells like a fresh baked Christmas cake no matter what season. The way she gets so excited about the littlest fucking things, the stupidest fucking things that no other girls my age appreciate, like snowflakes in my eyelashes or a cloud that looks like the face of Jesus.

  Every day of Mia’s sad existence is a fucking celebration, and I want to be a part of it.

  The girl is so dirt poor she can’t even afford to pay attention, but she does. She notices. Everything.

  Her face lights up from the window as I walk down the alleyway behind the bakery. She’s got a dusting of flour across her forehead. She waves her arms and smiles, and the back door swings open.

  “Misiu,” I say, my little mouse, my pet name for her. I kiss her hand and her smile grows wider. I love the way she smiles so big, her lips disappear and all you can see are teeth. “You’re glowing.”

  She shivers and pulls her ragged cardigan tight around her body. “I have some amazing news.”

  I rub my hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her. “Are you finally going to be my girlfriend?”

  She blushes and bats her eyelashes. I would marry this girl tomorrow if she just said the word. I don’t give a fuck if we are not even out of school yet. When you know, you know.

  “Mr. Zielinski gave me a very generous raise!” she says.

  “Is that so?” I ask.

  “Yes! It’s enough that I’ll be able to help my father build that wheelchair ramp for mama. Just in time for spring. Oh, she’s going to be so excited.”

  My teeth clench. I have enough money in my wallet right now I could buy her family’s whole house if I wanted to. Why did she have to born into a family where her father couldn’t even support them? It makes me so angry. She deserves so much more.

  And yet she won’t take it.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, tapping a cigarette out of my pack and lighting it up. I suck down a couple puffs, blowing the clouds of smoke over her shoulder. “That’s your money, Mia. You work hard for it. You should be able to do whatever you want with it.”

  “And what would I want to do with it other than help my family?” She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head to the side like she’s trying to figure out some intricate puzzle.

  “Your family does nothing but take from you Mia. They don’t help you. They don’t support you.”

  “They are all that I have in this world. They are a part of me, Serafin. Would you let your own mother suffer alone inside in pain all day?”

  My mother has never suffered a day in her life, aside maybe giving birth to me, which is why she never had any other kids. She knew my father was a smart hardworking man and she let him handle things, as she should. As Mia could with me. She’s just too fucking stubborn to admit it.

  “You’re going to Studniowka with me,” I say, tossing my cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with my boot.

  “I thought that was a given,” she says in her sing song voice. “My mother’s been helping me sew my dress for a month now. It is kind of suspicious Mr. Zielinski gave me that weekend off, though, now that I think about it.”

  “Misui,” I pull her body close to mine. I can smell the vanilla in her hair, the fruity chapstick on her lips.

  “I don’t want to know,” she says.

  “Why are you so smart?” I put my lips just a centimeter from hers, feeling the air rush from her mouth. She quickly dips away and reaches in her pocket, popping a mint in her mouth. It’s never ending, this cat and mouse game, and for whatever reason, I don’t mind it at all. I live for it. It only feeds my fire.

  “Misui…” I look at her and shake my head, taking one step closer. She bites her lip and smiles. I know she wants me. How could she not? I’ve got it all, the money, the power, the family, the looks. I’ve got everything she could possibly need to spend the rest of her life in complete bliss. She’d never have to work another day of her life. She could be my trophy, my princess, mine forever.

  “Serafin!” she shouts, her eyes growing wide as saucers.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, little mouse,” I say, shaking my head.

  “No, Serafin! Behind you!” she shrieks. I don’t have time to look over my shoulder before a set of hands are gripped around my neck. I jam my elbows into whoever it is, dig my boot right into their shin, but they don’t let up.

  “Run!
” I hiss.

  “I’m calling the cops!” she says. “Let him go! I am calling the cops right now.”

  Everything is going blurry as the air leaves my body. The grip around my throat loosens.

  “What does she know?” a gruff voice shouts in my ear.

  “She is nobody. A peasant. A whore,” I say. The words cut my mouth. They are lies. She is everybody and everything. The classiest most perfect woman in the entire world. I don’t look over my shoulder to see her expression. I can’t. My sweet little mouse needs protected at all costs. She doesn’t deserve to feel the suffering of my father’s decisions. This isn’t random, of that I’m certain.

  As the brick makes contact with the side of my skull, I realize what I’ve should’ve known all along. I never deserved her love. I fall to the pavement, the acidic taste of blood flooding my mouth. My ears are ringing so loud, I can’t tell up from down. I can’t hear her screams anymore. I am mortified she had to witness this, that she had to see the man I really am, the man she suspected me of being this whole time.

  My face begins to burn as the man hovering over me dumps something in my eye. White hot pain sears through me. I can’t see. I can’t move. My body is in total shock.

  Their laughter fades, and I try to pick myself up from the cold pavement, but I can’t move. I try to crawl away, but the squealing of tires grows nearer, and I feel every bone in my leg shatter as the car runs over me.

  “Serafin,” she sobs, her voice beckoning me forward. I don’t know if it’s truly her, or if it’s my brain hallucinating, releasing all those chemicals one does right before they die. “I love you. The police are coming. Hang in there.”

  “Get away from me,” I choke out, my words choppy. “Get as far away from me as you can. I never want to see you again.”

  Not on this earth, and not in hell, where I am certainly bound for. The sound of sirens lull me to rest, as my body gives in to the comfort of unconsciousness.

  2

  Mia:

  Twelve years later

  “You gotta come out of there sometime, Mia.” My best friend and roommate Janka stands in the doorway of my bedroom with a bottle of vodka in her hand. I can tell by the way she’s twirling her long black hair between her fingers and the sing song tone of her voice, she’s already had a little to drink.

  I stub out my cigarette and immediately light up another one. I take my paint brush and load it up with blue oil paint from my pallet, slapping it onto the canvas with dramatic flair. This thing has so many layers it probably weighs more than I do, but something about it feels incomplete.

  I don’t know if it’s missing a light source or a shadow, or what’s wrong with it, and in this moment, I seriously regret not paying more attention in art school.

  “It stinks like a Petrol station in here,” she says as she slinks across the room on drunken legs and yanks on my window, a burst of winter air hitting me right in the face.

  “Paint thinner,” I say, motioning to the bucket of solvent.

  “You’re gonna blow yourself up!” she shouts, grabbing the cigarette from my hand and running out into the living room. I shrug and set down my paintbrush, taking a step back so I can see the entire picture as a whole.

  Blowing myself up might not be the worst option right now.

  I’m a divorced loser with no steady job. Janka and I get money, but it’s definitely not in a way I’m proud of.

  When I could still afford her, my therapist suggested I work out my feelings through picking up painting again, but the only thing I seem to be making is a bigger mess out of my life.

  I clench my paintbrush between my teeth and fix my ponytail.

  “What’s it supposed to be?” Janka asks.

  I shrug and cock my head, examining the blue and gray piece of abstract art I’ve been cranking away at day and night for the last three weeks. “A metaphor?” I ask.

  “Makes sense,” she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I love it. It’s gorgeous, but it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re being too generous.”

  It’s been a long time since I painted. Even talking about it is an incredibly sore spot for me, which Janka knows. Back before the divorce I was really starting to make a name for myself outside the city, even getting some of my paintings featured in a local gallery. There was a point in time where I really truly thought I could make a career out of doing something I love.

  Bartek put a stop to that real fast though as soon as the divorce proceedings stopped. He dragged my name through the dirt and made sure he was entitled to all my paintings in the settlement.

  I almost quit forever.

  “You should totally sell that. I bet you could get at least five hundred Zloty for that.”

  I laugh because she’s so innocent about some things, art being one of them. A painting this size would warrant at least twenty times that. A thousand zloty wouldn’t even cover groceries for the week, and I’ve been pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into this sucker for a month now.

  Janka is innocent when it comes to some things, but when it comes to other things, the raven haired vixen knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s the kind of woman who is devious and manipulative, and even though men know it, they keep coming back for more.

  “Speaking of zloty, I have a job for us tonight.”

  I scratch at the paint smudge on my forehead and wrinkle my nose.

  “Rent’s due in a week,” she says, matter of factly. “Unless you have some other option, we can’t afford to turn this down. Besides, you need to get your ass out of the house. Breathing in these fumes all day is going to kill all your braincells.”

  I sigh and grab the bottle of vodka from her hand, taking a long swig. Maybe if I was beautiful like her, confident like her, tall and mysterious like her, I’d actually enjoy these jobs. Instead, I always end up feeling like the third wheel, or a hairy mole on an otherwise perfect complexion.

  She walks over to my closet and starts flipping through my clothes. “Just because you’re divorced doesn’t mean you have to dress like an old maid.”

  “Hey, it’s not a hundred percent my choice,” I retort. That’s only half of a lie. Bartek got most of my stuff in the divorce including my clothes, and I know it was only because he was trying to keep me reliant on him. When I started buying new things, though, I always gravitated to comfort over fashion. I’m happiest in jeans and a cardigan or sweats and a tank top.

  She grabs a red sequined tube top from a hanger and tosses it to me.

  “That was my Halloween costume,” I remind her. “Where are you taking me? A haunted house?”

  “Oh, it’s better than that. We’re going to the casino tonight, baby!” she says with a toothy smile.

  “Okay, you have my attention, you evil bitch.”

  “I knew you’d like that.”

  What isn’t there to like about the casino? The drinks are free and we can usually shove enough food in our purses from the buffet to feast for at least a few days. I don’t have a lot of cash to gamble with, but I always manage to find some pocket change to feed my addiction.

  “Maybe you can even meet yourself a hot date while we’re there. How long has it been since you had a hook up? Maybe if you got a little dick you wouldn’t be painting caves covered in cobwebs and calling them a metaphor.”

  “Shit, it does kind of look like that now that you mention it,” I say, shaking my head at my masterpiece. It has been a long time since I just went out and had fun. My vagina is definitely a cobweb filled cave at this point. “I thought we were working though.”

  “Oh it’s an easy job. He’s seventy eight years old for fucks sake. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  I throw off my chunky sweater and slide the tube top over my head. It’s uncomfortable as hell, the sequins cutting into my armpits every time I move, but I have to admit, I don’t hate what I see in the mirror.

  She whistles at me and nods in approval. “I
have the perfect shorts to match.”

  I plug in my curling iron and take a makeup wipe to my face, trying to scrub off the paint remnants from my skin. Janka returns with a pair of black leather shorts and some fishnet tights.

  “Everyone’s gonna think I’m a prostitute,” I say.

  She giggles and hands them to me. “Isn’t that the point?”

  I don’t know what’s worse in the eyes of society, being an actual prostitute, or doing what Janka and I do.

  I put on the tights and shorts and a pair of high heel black leather boots. I curl my dirty blonde hair into tight ringlets and then tuck it on top of my head in an elegant upsweep, picking it with a rhinestone comb. Janka helps me perfect my smokey eye look, and I glob on enough mascara that I can barely keep my eyelids open.

  I grab my fancy bottle of perfume out of the drawer in my vanity, spritzing a little under my armpits and on my neck. I only use this stuff on times we go out on jobs. Something about it makes me feel a little classier, a little more confident.

  I’ve been milking this bottle out for the last twelve years and the scent of sandalwood, vanilla, and expensive musk always makes me feel beautiful. I cringe as Janka grabs the bottle and starts spraying herself down with it like cheap body spray.

  “That’s seven hundred fifty zloty an ounce!” I whine.

  “And how the hell did you end up with it?” she asks. “Did you lift it from somebody’s hotel room? Did you steal this on a job?”