Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “Where did you go last night, Aiden?” I need to know. I don't want to know.

  He smirks again. “First lover was at eight p.m. Second one was at ten. I thought a third might be pushing it on my wedding night.” More whiskey tips down his throat.

  “I don’t have to listen to this.” Flying from the couch, I make it as far as the open-top Steinway before he’s crowding me against the ivory keys, my ass landing on the bass notes and creating a sinister version of Beethoven’s Concerto No. 2.

  “Truth is, there is no other woman, half-measure,” he declares, crashing his hands down on either side of me. “And there won’t be until I get the damn taste of black cherries off my tongue.”

  My weight shifts backward at his admission, and more notes are played in the tune of bewilderment. “Let me go, Aiden.”

  “Now why would I do a thing like that? You’re just getting interesting.” I turn my head to the side as he leans in even closer, getting me high on his whiskey breath anyway as he nudges a knee between my thighs. I flinch when he brushes my décolleté with the back of his hand. “Do you still hate me, Ielena, or is it mixing up with something else now? I felt you pushing back on me in my casino. Your V-card is up for sale sooner than I thought.”

  “Don’t you dare touch me!” But my words aren’t matching up with my body’s response.

  “One last time… Why did you really come to my casino?” He’s leaning into me, scratching my skin with his words. I’m remembering the feel of his lips during our wedding ceremony. The darkness. The possession…

  “I’m not some ornament you can stash away.”

  “I agree. You’re definitely not a wallflower.” He smirks, making me feel like I’ve stumbled into a private joke. “Turns out, you’re far more intriguing than my Warhol will ever be.”

  “I’m a settled score, nothing more, remember? Rich bitches are last in the queue.”

  “That was before you went and red-dressed me,” he says huskily, sending shivers up and down my spine. “Every man in my casino wanted you tonight… I didn't like it, Ielena.” His fingers trail downward in between my breasts and I let out a cry of pain.

  “What is it?” His hand retracts immediately

  “Nothing,” I whimper, but I’m not fooling anyone.

  His knee drops from between my legs. “I’ve inflicted enough pain in my lifetime to know when the reaction’s genuine. Frankie’s right, what are you hiding?” Before I can stop him, he’s sliding his fingers underneath the neckline of my dress and tugging down sharply.

  The skinny straps disintegrate. I rush to catch the material, but not before the top half of my chest is exposed.

  “Son of a bitch,” he breathes. “Who did this to you?”

  You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

  He takes a step back and an escape route opens up for me. I take it, bolting for the doorway, clutching at scraps of red silky material to keep the rest of my dress from slipping to the floor.

  “Ielena, wait!”

  Never.

  I run from his heavy footsteps all the way back to my cabin, and then into the en suite, ramming the bolt across as his fist starts pounding on the door.

  Bang. Bang.

  “Ielena, let me in.”

  “Go away!” I slide to my knees, burning up with shame and confusion.

  “Tell me who the fuck did that to you!” He sounds ready to rip my cabin apart for an answer.

  The tears start spilling down my cheeks. I thought I was stronger than this. I sat in that bar in Cannes, his bar, and swore to myself that they’d never break me. But his pity is the dam buster I never saw coming.

  He waits.

  I fall apart.

  He waits some more.

  I see the shadows of his feet under the door as he’s forced to listen to my pain, instead of seeing it stamped into my skin.

  Why am I breaking now? I never showed them the same ‘courtesy’ when they branded and beat me. Why won’t he leave me alone? Aiden doesn't give a damn about me.

  The shadows of his feet become something larger and more substantial as he sinks to the floor to join me. The hinges groan as he rests his back against the other side of the door.

  Still mute.

  Still waiting.

  I feel a sudden compulsion to do the same. This betraying night is full of impulses and contradictions. Crawling over, I press my shoulders into the wood, fooling myself that I can almost feel his body heat.

  We’re connoisseurs of the strained silence, but this feels different somehow. It’s not weighted with all the stuff we can’t think of to say… This one’s for all the words we can’t bring ourselves to speak.

  He shifts position to the soft scrape of an old-style lighter lid. “Are you done crying?”

  “It depends,” I croak, swiping wet palms across my cheeks. “When I open up, are you going to beat me, too?”

  “Who do you think I am? Luca fucking Zaccaria? I earn my monster stripes in other ways, princess.”

  “You were acting like a crazy man tonight.”

  There’s more movement and more clinking. “I’m not apologizing for kicking the shit out of that punk, Landon, if that’s what you’re asking for.”

  “Are you planning on beating up every man who looks at me?”

  “I’m pleading the fifth.”

  “You can’t plead the fifth. You’re not American.”

  “Ielena?” he says patiently, “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

  “Except divorce me.”

  This brings on another broody moody silence until I can’t bear it any longer.

  “Don’t you need to get back to the casino? Senator Sanders—”

  “Can win the contents of my safe for all I care. I want answers first, and I’m prepared to wait for them. I’m a surprisingly patient man.”

  “What if I can’t give them to you?”

  “You will.”

  A delicious warmth filters down through my body.

  “Did you kill him? The man in the lobby?”

  “That’s an ace of a question sweetheart, with a fair amount of topspin.”

  “And?”

  There’s a beat. “I wanted to… He roughed up one of my…one of the women who work for me,” he corrects swiftly.

  “Have you killed before?”

  “You wearing a wire?”

  My heart shudders on a missed beat. “No. Just the remnants of a red dress and my ugly scars.” Some of which you’ve seen. Some of which you haven’t.

  “I’m going to find out who did that to you eventually, Ielena.” The threat in his voice is a new explosion of crimson in our lives.

  I know you will.

  “Do you still want me to hate you?”

  “Not anymore… But I think it’s an inevitability.”

  “Nothing’s inevitable. Everything is built on shifting sands.”

  “Have you always been this smart?”

  “Have you always been this fatalistic?”

  “Occupational hazard.” He laughs suddenly, and the vibrations feel like victory through the door. “Where the fuck did you come from, Ielena? You meet me in the middle, every single time.”

  I find my lips curving into a reluctant smile. Our lightness has returned. It’s a sweet, exotic oil that rises to the top no matter how much dark he pours on top of us.

  “We half-measures find ourselves in the strangest equations.”

  There’s a pause. “How come you know so much about red wine?”

  “You really want to know?” I can feel my shoulders relaxing into the wood. “It’s a silly, childish story.”

  “I skipped the whole childhood thing so feel free to fill in the blanks through a locked door.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve ever told me about yourself.”

  “Bullshit. I told you I had a casino. The childhood thing just now was an escaped firefly.” But I’ve caught it and stored it in a jar in my mind anyway. “Red wine. Uptight wife
. Go.”

  “When I was eleven, my father held a big party at our estate in Paris.”

  “Yawn. I’m bored already.”

  “You’re so rude!”

  More chuckling. “I like this bolder version of you. It’s the 2.0 improved model.”

  I like you more, even though you’re a choice I’m finding harder and harder to make.

  He’s so charming when he wants to be—when you strip away the sneers and veneers, the death and decay.

  “I was a shy child so I hid under the tables for most of it,” I say, plowing on regardless. “I watched beautiful women dance and laugh and clutch at their wine glasses all night long. I convinced myself it was some kind of magic elixir.” I shake my head at the absurdity of it all. “A couple of years later, I overheard Maxim telling my father he’d bought a couple of vineyards in Bordeaux.”

  “Elitist fuck,” I hear him mutter.

  “I begged him to teach me about wine. I thought knowing about the best vintages would be an easy pass to becoming one of those graceful women, instead of feeling so lost all the time.” I smile again at the memory, of a man with half a face whom everyone feared patiently extolling the virtues of a merlot grape to me.

  “You don’t need the wine, you’re in a class of your own,” Aiden says suddenly, making my stomach flip. “Fucking irresponsible of Maxim, though. Turning a kid into an alcoholic.”

  “Were you born this hypocritical, or is it a condition you acquired?”

  “What’s the deal between you and him?”

  “He looks out for me.” And Karina. “You might think that everyone’s out to… um, have sex with me, Aiden, but you’re wrong. Maxim has never been anything other than a father figure.”

  “Papa Dubov didn’t cut it?” He blows out a breath. “You’re not lost either, Ielena.”

  “I’m still not found enough for you to call me ‘Issa’.”

  “Who gave that name to you?”

  “The only person who ever cared about me. Why do people call you The Raven?”

  “It’s a nickname from my non-existent childhood that grew up, sprouted wings and took on a whole different meaning.”

  Somewhere in my cabin, I hear a clock tick, and a strange compulsion overcomes me.

  “They hurt me because I wouldn’t tell them where my sister was.”

  “Who did?”

  “I-I can’t say.”

  “Is she worth it?”

  I nod at the empty room. “I’ll die before I tell them where she is, Aiden. I know Zaccaria will hurt her, maybe even kill her for humiliating his son.”

  Another question hangs between us, but instead of asking it outright his shadow disappears from under the door. “I need a drink after all this adult conversation, and you can’t spend the night on the floor of my en suite, no matter how expensive that marble was.”

  I don’t want him to go, but I’m afraid of what will happen if he stays.

  “Aiden?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  The door shuts and I scramble to my feet. Letting my dress fall to the floor, I slip into the white silk dressing gown that’s hanging over the towel rail and unlock the door. He’s switched the lights off on his way out, and the room is a welcoming swell of darkness.

  I climb into bed to the sound of the waves lapping against the hull. I re-play the events of tonight, over and over, until the film reel in my head warps and splits. Just as my exhausted body is drifting off to sleep, the cabin door opens again. He’s a swaying silhouette in the light—tall and solid, with a half-empty bottle swinging between his fingers

  “You asleep?” he slurs, propping himself up against the doorframe.

  I sit up, pushing the clouds of dark hair from my face. “Not anymore.”

  “Good.” He staggers toward the bed, and I wriggle to the far side. This man is unpredictable on a good day. Splash him with alcohol and he’s liable to ignite like dry tinder.

  The mattress dips and ripples as he collapses next to me with a groan. By some miracle, he manages to place the whiskey bottle on the nightstand without spilling it everywhere, and then he’s taking all the spare pillows and lining them down the middle of the bed like the Hadrian’s Wall of anti-seduction.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Safeguarding your virtue. I won't be held responsible for my actions if I see those legs in the state I’m in. They’re rule breakers, pure and simple.”

  “Rule breakers?” For the first time in what feels like forever, I start giggling. “What about your self-control?”

  “What about it?”

  “You have six other cabins on your superyacht for you and your ego, Aiden Knight. You’re richer than Croesus.”

  “Who the hell is he?” he rumbles. “Not another bastard I need to kick the shit out of, surely?”

  “He’s a dead king with lots of money.”

  “Hope he enjoyed it while it lasted.” He yawns. “Now lie down like a good girl and go to sleep.”

  He’s left the cabin door wide open, flooding light into all of our dark corners.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I say, peeking over the pillows at him. He looks so big, sprawled out on the bed next to me, with his black hair ruffled and his stubble more a meadow than a graze.

  He yawns again and slots his elbow behind his head to look at me. “Because I’m drunk.”

  “You were drunk before.”

  “I was functional drunk. Now I’m fucked drunk.”

  “Why didn’t you have a childhood?”

  He blows out another breath. “I’d have to be both drunk and high to answer that. I’m sleeping now.” He turns his head away and I drift back down to the mattress, listening as his breathing levels out. “You’re a dangerous woman, Ielena,” I hear him mutter.

  “Me?” I lift my head above the pillow wall again. I’m shocked he would call me something that he exhales like air.

  “Feel.” He feeds the word into the space between us like a morsel of truth. “You’re making me feel, princess. And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aiden

  “He branded her.”

  “He what?” Frankie grinds his cigarette into the ashtray and rips off his sunglasses, sizing me up for a lie and finding only certainty. “Jesus Christ.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I throw the casino’s cost reports down next to my uneaten breakfast bagel. I’m not in the mood for figures. Not those ones anyway. I prefer them slender and toned… Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  The early morning sunshine is tanning the upper deck, but it’s doing nothing to burn away the edges of my anger. “They got to her before they sent her up the aisle. She won’t say who, but I guessed from her reaction.” I take my father’s old lighter out of my pocket and toss it next to the reports. “Dubov had the shit kicked out of his own daughter, and then he branded her like cattle—like he does to his whores in Paris—right across her heart. My guess is he did it the same day he found out she was marrying me instead of Zaccaria.”

  The more I think about it, the more I fantasize about adding another decapitation to this week’s revenge roster. She was mine when he did this to her. He hurt something that was mine. I may be a vindictive piece of shit, but I always look after my property.

  Frankie goes quiet for a moment. Quiet for him means thoughtful. Thoughtful means he’s figuring out the best way to torture the living crap out of someone. He reaches across the table and takes Dad’s lighter, flicking hard for a dead flame. Grinding metal for a spark that will never come. It’s the same thing I did for most of last night, sat on the floor with my back to a woman who is sparking something inside me that can’t seem to catch, either.

  I don't want it. I don’t need it. She’s an Enigma code to crack, nothing more.

  “You saw it?” he asks eventually.

  “I saw the wing tips of the eagle. It’s the Semion Bratva insignia.”

  “
Poor kid.”

  “They did a bad job. It’s red and infected. I have a doctor on his way from Marseille who specializes in third degree burns.”

  He lifts his eyebrows ever so slightly in my direction. It’s still only eight a.m., and I’ve already tracked down this guy, paid him off and sent my chopper down to Marseille to collect him. That’s a lot to do for someone who I’ve said, repeatedly, I don't give a damn about.

  “Where is she now?”

  “Still sleeping.” I trace the mouth of my highball with my finger, hearing our father’s voice in my head again. “To catch a hangover you need to set a trap with vodka, son. Then you slam the key home with cold orange.”

  The double shot is a requirement. After last night, my pretty little distraction is bordering on a temptation. I passed out in a drunken haze and came around to a sleeping angel. I punched a hole through the wall of pillows just to see the way her hair bled dark silk all over the white bedsheets. I left before I made the mistake of a lifetime.

  I know it wasn’t pity that drove me to back to her cabin at two a.m. Sometime in the last couple of days, my hate has turned to tolerance and sprouted wings of respect.

  They beat her: She didn't crack.

  They scarred her: She took it all and more.

  My mind flits to the man I murdered in Siena yesterday, and how he’d begged and pleaded and pissed himself for forgiveness. He would have given up his sister’s name while he was still lobbing oranges and lemons at me. He gave up Rossi’s name easily enough.

  “Was Maxim involved?” asks Frankie.

  I shake my head. “They were acting too cutesy at the wedding. You don’t smile at someone who just took a heated iron to your skin. How the hell is he still Dubov’s Brigadier anyway? He’s been banished to Cannes these past four years.”

  “You only have to look at his face to know he’s wearing the answer.”

  I drum my fingers lightly on the wooden patio table. “I want you to find out, and do it quick. Are drinks with Dubov still scheduled for Wednesday?”

  Frankie nods and picks up my uneaten bagel. “He’s planning on coming to the casino in late evening,” he says, taking a bite.