Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “It is a means to an end. Nothing more,” I tell him. “I don’t intend to kiss, finger, suck or fuck Ielena Dubova beyond what is necessary. Even talking is off limits. I’m planning to hang her next to my Warhol so she can have meaningful conversations with that instead.”

  “And her secrets?”

  “Mine before the week is through. I’m going to give my little virgin sacrifice a wedding night she’ll never forget.”

  “You’re acting like a dickhead, Raven,” he warns.

  “That’s because I am a dickhead, but I’m also filthy rich and handsome as hell so I can get away with it. What’s your excuse?”

  “I’m the dickhead’s best friend.”

  “You’re more than that, we’re blood brothers. Now get in the car.” I slide into the driver’s seat and press the ignition switch. “I need to wash the tantrums of a sulky teenager out of my hair.”

  Frankie shakes his head and swings in beside me.

  I let the engine purr for a few beats. “You coming back to The Cristo?”

  “Nope, drop me off at the casino on the way. We open up in two hours and Deputy Dawg from the Gambling Commission is hounding me for the latest gaming ops reports.”

  “Stuff another thousand down his throat.” I pull away from the curb and join a line of Porsches and Ferraris heading south. “That’ll cut off the air supply to his curiosity. You’d think after four years the guy would take a hint.”

  “Word on the street is he just bought an apartment in Fontvieille with cash. I reckon he’s developing a taste for your ‘hints’”

  “Then buy him another, and hopefully he’ll piss off for good.”

  Frankie chuckles and it’s a pleasant break from his disapproval. “You planning on buying everyone off, Raven?”

  “It’s worked so far.”

  “Except for your Russian bride. Cash ain’t talking over her.”

  I hit the brakes at the lights too sharply. “What the hell did I just tell you?” Propping the crook of my elbow against the door, I run a hand across my jaw. “Call Morrel about the passport and guns. Have the set-up ready. As soon as I have the name, I’m taking a trip.”

  “A honeymoon without the bride?” He pulls out his cigarettes.

  “As long as I get the wedding gift, I’m good with that.” I snatch the unlit Marlboro Red from his lips and crush it in my palm of my hand. “You know what they say… That shit’ll kill you.”

  “Says the man up to his nuts in Bratva and mafia.” He fixes his lips with another cigarette just to wind me up.

  “Says the man who works for the man up to his nuts in Bratva and mafia,” I respond dryly, ignoring the provocation.

  We're in this together. It’s the pact we made. As for the cigarette, I know he won’t be lighting it anytime soon. I’m not the brutal killer I was four years ago, but bad memories die slow. He knows what lurks beneath the spit and polish, and I’ll always have his respect for that.

  Silence falls as I consider the clusterfuck of the last couple of hours. I may be collared and leashed, but I still have bite. Zaccaria kept my revenge under lock and key for fourteen years. He turned it into his own personal servitude, and now it’s time to set myself free.

  It’s an hour’s drive from Cannes to Monte Carlo, but my Maserati shaves off fifteen minutes on the Moyenne Corniche. I don’t even glance at the coastal views as I navigate the meandering road with the pedal to the floor, racing up behind snap happy tourists in their Fiat Panda rentals, and messing up their pictures.

  I’m suspicious of beauty. I indulge occasionally, but I keep it at arm’s length. There’s always an ulterior motive beneath the gloss, like a layer of razor blades waiting to make me bleed for it.

  Frankie’s busy in the passenger seat. He’s tapping figures into a spreadsheet on his iPad, barely shifting as I take the hairpins at sixty. As for me, I’m stinking up the cream leather interior with sour grapes—both tangibly and figuratively. I had a quick fuck and a strong drink in mind for tomorrow. Now, I have a marriage to contend with and it’s messing with my focus. I feel caged, bitter and played, but it’s time to focus on the bigger picture.

  Two men were instrumental in the murder of my parents.

  Two men will pay for that with their lives.

  After dropping Frankie off, I head for Port Hercules, calling ahead to ensure that one of my deck crew is waiting for me by the outer port.

  Exiting the car, I chuck the keys at them and make my way along the quayside to where my sixty-meter superyacht, The Cristo, is berthed. I have an impressive property portfolio, but I never reside in any of them. Static walls are provincial. I prefer an ever-changing horizon outside my windows, not a blank expression. I require easy access in all areas of my life, and that goes for an easy exit too.

  I bought The Cristo the day I made my first hundred million. She was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, with killer curves and sweet graphics.

  Open her legs and she’s even prettier.

  Seven staterooms, a double height atrium in the main saloon, and a Jacuzzi... She also comes with an eight-person crew, all of whom I personally handpicked.

  “Afternoon, Felix,” I say, striding past one of them, ignoring his puzzled glances at my appearance. Felix is close to fifty, a hundred relations removed from the Queen, and has a loyal gray manner as mild as his appearance.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Knight.” No one speaks cut glass like him.

  “Fix me a Glenfiddich. I’ll take it on the lower deck once I’ve had a shower.”

  “Certainly, sir. Would this be before or after you receive your guest?”

  I stop and turn. “What guest?”

  Felix blinks. “A Mr. Maxim Lebedev is waiting for you on the upper deck, sir. He’s been waiting there for some time.”

  I bet he has.

  “Change of plan. Bring my drink there,” I say, heading straight for the outer staircase as a sea breeze races across the deck, wicking more red wine from my hair.

  I find the Russian on the cream leather couch that hugs the stern. He’s wearing black wraparounds to accessorize his smug expression and one ankle is thrown carelessly over a knee. To show he means business there’s a gun resting on the table in front of him and an extra-long drink in his hand.

  Mid-forties, he’d be a good-looking guy if the left side of his face didn’t resemble the jaws of a meat grinder. There are rumors of a fire. Rumors of his Pakhan’s displeasure… Whatever went down in the past, he wears his scars like a churned-up battlefield.

  “What happened to you?” he says, irritating me right away on two accounts. Firstly, he’s not bothering to stand and greet me, and secondly, his smoky accent is a reminder I’ll be waking up next to a female version of that in less than forty-eight hours.

  “To truly enjoy a vintage these days, first you have to fucking wear it.” I reach down for the gun and check the clip.

  Fully loaded.

  “Is that a new Riviera custom?” he enquires slyly.

  For his part, he doesn’t flinch. We don’t trust each other, but we don’t fear each other either. I don’t fear anyone except the ghost of missed opportunity.

  “Cut the crap, Maxim.” I toss the gun back down on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me about the marriage of convenience between the Semion and the Cosa Nostra? We had an understanding, you lying piece of shit. You keep me on the inside with Bratva, and I let you cut your deals inside my casino.”

  Maxim is Dubov’s Brigadier, even though they have a fucked-up, complicated relationship that no one’s allowed to ask him about. The Riviera may be one of Dubov’s cells, but he prefers to do business from Paris, except when his youngest daughter is about to get confettied in every sense of the word. Maxim was moved down here four years ago to oversee shit. All my Bratva dealings thus far have been with him directly.

  “Because I knew Karina would never go through with it.” He takes a sip of his drink and then pokes at the ice with his straw, invoking all the casual arro
gance of a man proven right. “I’ve known her since she was a little girl, Aiden. She’s doesn’t follow the rules. She bends them to fit the shape of her ambitions.” He bares his teeth and hisses out a string of Russian curses. “She was never going to stand by and accept that Italian vyblyadok into her bed.”

  “Holding out for another, was she?” I say pointedly.

  Maxim curses again, almost wistfully so. “That girl is not for marriage.”

  “Unlike her dear sister.”

  “Aren’t you going to sit down, Aiden? You’re making me nervous.”

  “Nope.” The bite of this conversation is akin to us swinging our dicks at each other, and I’m enjoying the psychological advantage of mine being level with his face. “I’m guessing you already know what’s happening at four p.m. tomorrow afternoon?”

  He removes his sunglasses and tosses them down next to his gun. “I assure you that Ielena will be equally…upset about the man she is being forced to marry. You are an associate to both Bratva and the Cosa Nostra, Aiden. You have no clear allegiance. You are a spinning needle compass who finds only himself. As such, you are a dangerous man.”

  “That’s the second time someone’s called me that today.”

  “Ielena’s life is already over. This marriage will taint her forever.”

  “If you’re trying to insult me, may I suggest crashing my Maserati instead?” Felix appears next to me and hands me my drink. “Keep them coming,” I urge in an undertone. “I’m jumping headfirst into a whiskey bottle for the rest of the evening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Aleksandr is unhappy with the match, too,” warns Maxim.

  “He’s still bending over and taking it up the ass, though.”

  “As are you,” he says, dropping the goddamn mic on me. “He respects you, but he doesn’t like you, Aiden. Like most of us here on the Riviera.”

  “I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to make money.” I knock back the whiskey and start craving another. “I take it they’ll be no touching speeches after the ceremony?”

  “Aleksandr will not be attending. Neither will Zaccaria. He is already back in Sicily, and I understand he will only be returning for the deal discussions next week. This is a transaction, not a fairy-tale, and it should be treated as such.”

  “He really is tossing his daughter to the big bad wolf. If I were a better man, I’d feel sorry for her.”

  “No need for that level of condescension.” Maxim shoots me a fleshy grin. “At twenty-two, Ielena is an innocent in many ways, but you may find yourself pleasantly…challenged by her.”

  “Does she have a core of steel running down her spine and into her rich-girl shoes?” I say, drawing on a very recent wine-soaked memory. Why can’t I get that teenage diva out of my head?

  His expression drops. “Why did Zaccaria choose you to be her groom?”

  “Why not?” I retort, refusing to play ball with the man who failed to pass to me in the first instance.

  “Because there are other mafia associates on the Riviera. Men who are more malleable to the idea of an arranged marriage to Ielena Dubova.” There’s a pause, and then the sound of more ice crunching. “I know you, Aiden. You wouldn’t have taken this lying down. If there was a get-out-of-jail-free card, you would have stuffed it down Zaccaria’s throat and fired a bullet home to make it stick.”

  “Maybe I’m in the market for a wife.” Relenting, I collapse onto the couch next to him with a gratified sigh.

  “Zaccaria makes his decisions like a Pakhan. He’s careful. Everything has a reason and a consequence. You’re a chess piece being manipulated into the wrong position.” Maxim glares at me. “Dubov wants to know what sway he has over you.”

  “Maybe she’s a prize for years of loyal service.”

  “I think not.”

  “I don't give a fuck what you ‘think’,” I say, losing my cool. “Now get the hell off my yacht so I can go and take a shower.”

  “As you wish.” He rises to his feet, sliding his gun under the back of his shirt. “This marriage changes nothing about our agreement. We will still operate inside your casino for the percentage that we agreed.”

  “Like hell you will.” I watch him restore his sunglasses, resisting the urge to grind them into his eye sockets. “What about my ‘welcome to the family’ bonus?” I lean back into the couch, resting both elbows next to my head, projecting like a king reclaiming his throne. “Tell Dubov I expect him to reconsider.”

  “What exactly are you bargaining with here? Ielena’s welfare? Is she to be punished if he doesn’t agree?”

  “Would he care?”

  The sudden direction of this conversation is pricking my interest. It usually takes ten minutes of a face-to-face to get to the point with Maxim. A quick glance at my watch tells me nine minutes fifty has already passed.

  “Go take your shower, Aiden.” With a grunt, he turns to leave, his non-answer giving me all the answers I need. Dubov wouldn’t give two shits if I beat his daughter up.

  But Maxim would.

  Why?

  “Shall I save you a seat at the ceremony?” I call out after him. “Even business transactions need witnesses.”

  “I’ll send a whore in my place.” He barely breaks his stride as he tosses this over his shoulder at me. “It’ll be more in keeping with the wedding theme.”

  He’s right. This time tomorrow, Ielena and I will both be royally fucked by a bitch called matrimony.

  “I’m not planning on hurting her, Maxim.” Not physically anyway.

  He stops and turns. Whipping his sunglasses off again, his remaining good eye spears me to the couch. “Do I have your word on that?”

  “I want my golden handshake first,” I say, neglecting to tell him that it’s dependent on how quickly she gives up her sister. It’s bad enough being beholden to one criminal organization.

  He spits out a Russian curse, something about dogs and dicks.

  “This inner conflict is a real stain on your bad guy persona, Maxim,” I tut, threading a light accusation through my words. “Has my pretty little Russian virgin been deflowered already?”

  “Give me your word, mu-dak,” he snarls, his face a mangled mask of fury.

  But my senses are primed for blood, and right now I can smell a ton of it. “Dubov doesn’t give a fuck about her, does he? So if you want my cast-iron guarantee...” I leave the sentence idling in threat.

  “Mu-dak,” he spits again.

  “Do you need me to spell it out for you? M–O–R–E––M–O–N–”

  “You have no idea how lucky you are, Aiden. These girls… Issa…”

  “Issa?” A second sea chill races across the deck, laying siege to the black and white stripe parasol above my head, but rattling the locks of my composure more. “Why the hell did you just call her that?”

  Maxim pauses. “It is Ielena’s nickname. She’s had it since she was a child.”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  “Is she here?” I demand, ignoring the odd sensation in my chest.

  He nods. “She’s in Cannes. At Dubov’s estate. She arrived from Paris an hour ago.”

  “Did you see her before you came here?”

  “Yes, briefly.”

  A killer smirk tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Was she, by any chance, wearing a plain white dress in anticipation of tomorrow?”

  Maxim doesn’t answer. He doesn't need to. I caught the surprised jerk of his head all by myself.

  Issa, Issa. You poured the wrong bottle over the wrong bastard on this Riviera.

  I’m still laughing as he disembarks from The Cristo.

  Chapter Four

  Issa

  Have you ever noticed how the mesh bits in lace look like the intersecting bars of a prison cell?

  I did. Five minutes ago. As I was sat on the edge of a strange bed in a strange room, in a strange wedding dress, with a strange perfume smothering my senses like a designer rag.

  My fingers w
on’t stop playing with the delicate trim on the high-neck bodice. It’s as if I’m trying to find a weakness in the yarn so I can plan my escape, even though I know that’s not an option. We have a plan—Maxim, Karina and I—and it doesn’t involve distraction or deviation of any kind.

  The dress is beautiful.

  Beautifully oppressive.

  It’s a Dorian Gray mirror gone askew. The material is stupidly fussy and over-detailed, and it makes me look about twenty years older than I am. Still, at least it covers up the bruises and the worse thing—

  “Come, Ielena. The car is waiting for you.”

  Marie enters the room clapping briskly, as if the sound will unchain my heavy heart from the bed and propel me to my feet. Her face is a painted mask of encouragement, but it reminds me of a colombina I bought in Venice once. The initial dazzle concealed the flaws. The cracks in the porcelain grew wider and more obvious as the truth clawed its way to the surface.

  That was another day I learned that nothing is what it seems.

  Marie’s claps grow louder in my ears. “Up! Up, lazy girl! What are you waiting for?”

  A knight on a white horse?

  A miracle?

  Reluctantly, I stand for her inspection. I’m not sure when or how Marie first entered my father’s life, but her presence is more front-and-center than my mother's these days.

  I loathe her.

  She's brittle and calculating, and our relationship is a ping-pong match of mutual hostility. Unfortunately, since Karina disappeared, Marie’s winning most of the shots. She’s subtle about it, though. Her words are well-fed piranhas. They’ll take tiny bites here and there, leaving me stung and permanently unsettled.

  She stops in front of me, a smoky swirl of coral-pink chiffon, and I brace myself for more teeth.

  “Oh dear.” She casts a critical eye over my wedding dress. “Oh dear, oh dear… Still, it’s the best I could do at such short notice. You have no idea the strings I had to pull to get you something suitable in time.”

  If she expects me to thank her for it, I’d rather choke on the lace.