Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

by Catherine Wiltcher

  They don’t exist to him. He doesn’t even glance their way, and it makes me wonder about all the women who have come before me. Did he bore easily? Is that the reason they never stayed the night? Am I the first to figure out that this complicated man needs ‘complicated’ in return? There’s a part of him that has never truly loved anything, and another part that has simply learned to never expect it.

  “How much have you earned today?” His hand slips from my back to my waist to mirror mine.

  “About a hundred euros, and a hundred pounds in weight. I didn’t sit down all day.”

  “I’m proud of you, baby,” he says, making my heart flutter again.

  “Did you murder anyone today?” I enquire.

  “Not yet…”

  “Then I’m proud of you too, baby,” I intone, and he laughs that wonderful loose tenor I love so much.

  “Halfway,” he accuses.

  “Overkill,” I return.

  We walk the next couple of steps in a contented silence, so different from our car journey this morning. That ‘thing’ I crave is back in spades, and I want to dig my three-inch heels into the present and never let it go.

  “What did you want to be when you were a kid, Issa?” he asks.

  “I didn’t care so long as I could draw it.” When he doesn’t respond, I feel obligated to continue. “There’s a small town called Collioure on the Côte Vermeille about five hours drive up the coast from here. Artists like Matisse, Rennie McIntosh, Picasso… They all lived there, at one time or another, infecting it with their magic. My adult dream is to sit in a beachfront café there, sketching the waves in the shallow bay all day and drinking in the inspiration…

  “Thought you said you hated water?”

  “I’m learning to appreciate it from afar. What about you?”

  “I wanted to be a survivor.”

  “Congratulations. It looks like you made it.”

  He turns and catches my face between his hands, his thumbs tracing the arcs of my cheekbones “We should take The Cristo up the coast to Collioure. I want to see you sketch waves.”

  There’s a yearning in his voice that takes my breath away.

  “What would you do while I sketched?”

  “Drink whiskey, dream up new ways to defile you, show the local gangsters who’s boss.”

  “Buy up a load of property,” I say with a grin. “Open a casino…”

  “At least I’d be free of the smart retorts for a couple of hours. You know what they do to me.” His eyes start gleaming with wicked intent again. “We won’t be making our dinner reservation at this rate.”

  “That’s a shame,” I say lightly. “Do you have something better in mind?”

  “Yes, you’re wearing it. On second thought…” He drops his hands and plunges his face into the crook of my neck briefly, making my head spin. “Why on earth do you smell like a nineties rave?”

  “Extra vintage Calvin Klein.” I flash my wrists at him and he pretends to gag.

  “What is it with you and bad perfume?”

  “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you buy me something that’s not going to make you do the scrunchy-up face thing?”

  “What scrunchy-up face thing?”

  “This scrunchy-up face thing,” I say, reaching up to smooth the frown lines from his face, feeling him shudder beneath my touch.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  Taking my hand, he leads me into the next street where there’s a perfumery that’s miles swankier than the one I found this morning. “Stay here,” he says to his men as he guides me up the stone steps and into the empty shop.

  Standing under the glare of the strip lighting, with rows and rows of choice swirling before my eyes, I try and eavesdrop as Aiden starts chatting to the man behind the counter.

  “What sort of thing do you like?” he barks at me over his shoulder.

  “I guess this isn’t a great time to tell you I don’t like perfume,” I say sheepishly. “I find them too florid or too extravagant. They’re like flowers at a wedding that wilt before the night is through.”

  “No such problem at ours. Chanel Allure,” I hear him say, and I watch the man spray a white tester strip and hand it over to him.

  “Is this what you give to all of your girlfriends to make them smell the same?”

  “No, sweetheart,” he drawls. “This is what I give to my wife.”

  I swear if my heart does this fluttering thing again, I’m going to be dead by the morning.

  He hands me the stick and of course it’s perfect. Fresh and sensuous, with a spice that is quintessentially me. It’s scary how he’s managed to soak up all my quirks so quickly. He’s flaying me open with every unexpected gesture.

  I give him a shy smile, and ten seconds later we’re leaving the store two hundred euros down.

  “I’m paying you back.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He hands the paper bag to me with a smirk. “I should warn you though, I charge interest.”

  I watch him pull his keys out of his jacket pocket, wanting to climb in there myself and never leave. “You have hidden talents, Aiden. You’re a perfumer as well as a master criminal.”

  “Let’s just say I’m good at covering stuff up. Started from a young age, and I graduated with honors.” I wait for him to elaborate but, of course, he doesn’t. “You still hungry?” he asks when we reach his Maserati.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Right answer.” Coming in close behind me, he leans over to open the passenger door, but it’s just a pretense for him to slide his hand between my legs and cup my heat. I push back on him with a soft moan as his fingers press harder. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs. “I can feel you throbbing for me already.”

  “Why is it the right answer?” I whisper, as he shifts his body to screen his actions from his men.

  “Because the only thing I want to eat tonight,” he growls, “is you wearing fuck all but this perfume.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Aiden

  I left her sleeping in my cabin, sore yet sated.

  In the space of twenty-four hours, I’ve unleashed sexual heaven and hell. Her reticence was unfounded. Her innocence was a sham. Underneath it all, my wife is an insatiable minx, and I want to dye her every shade of filthy. When I close the door behind me, I do it with scratch marks down my back, a bleeding lip from demanding teeth and a deep satisfaction inside that’s slaked my appetite until I can return to her arms again.

  I make my way across the gangplank and onto the quayside where Frankie’s waiting for me, an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. Instead of a greeting, I snatch it off him and flick it into the ocean.

  “I needed that,” he grumbles.

  “I need you more, preferably not dead from a lung disease. Give me an update on the casino.” We walk toward his parked-up black Escalade together, falling into an easy step.

  “Business as usual, if not better. A good murder always brings in the crowd. The new front window was fitted and approved, the front entrance is so clean you could eat your new wife’s pussy off it.” He shoots me a grin. “And the cops are sitting pretty with the story we’re selling.”

  I slide into the passenger seat as Frankie takes the wheel. “Make contact with Rossi. He needs to know we had nothing to do with his son’s death.”

  “Already done. As to whether he believes us…” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “No black hands in the mail yet, but they only repatriated the body this afternoon.”

  I check my watch. Nine fifty p.m. “And Dubov?”

  “He arrived at the casino fifteen minutes ago with Maxim and a couple of others.”

  “How many others?”

  “Ten. Right now they’re happy gamblers in a private room.”

  “What about the—”

  “Yeah, I sorted it.” He clucks in disapproval and rakes his hand through his hair. “Are you a hundred percent sure about this? Zaccaria—”

  “Fuc
k Zaccaria,” I say. “This has nothing to do with him. It’s a family matter, between my father-in-law and me. If he wants Karina Dubova’s head so badly, he’ll stay the hell out of it.”

  Promises are easy to make in my world. They’re even easier to break. I warned Issa at the beginning that they were temporary structures which could crumble at any moment.

  “Have we located her?”

  Frankie hesitates. “Cambridge, like you said. She came out of surgery six hours ago.”

  “And?”

  “Successful. Time will tell if her body rejects it.” He drops the clutch and we ease through the center of town. “Are we going to discuss the clusterfuck of revelations that Rossi dropped on us last night?”

  “I’m still deliberating on it.”

  “You’re also bleeding on it. Your lip’s a mess. Did you get into a fight with a whiskey bottle?”

  I brush my jacket sleeve across my mouth. “My kitty cat has claws.”

  Frankie laughs. “I guess it’s going to be even harder to rehome her tomorrow night, then.”

  “Step on it, would you?” I say irritably. “There’s a Russian bastard waiting for a reckoning.”

  I don’t want to think about Issa, let alone talk about her. Not in the same context of fucking her over, when all I want to do is the fucking part.

  Frankie does as he’s told and the Escalade surges forward. “If Rossi didn't order the hit fourteen years ago, who did?”

  I chew on his words as I check my cell. “Someone yanked the strings and it wasn’t the 'Ndrangheta. Why would anyone want to kill Rossi’s son anyway? Find out who Rossi’s enemies…” I trail off and we catch each other’s eye. “Son of a bitch,” I mutter.

  “There’s something else.” He pulls out his own iPhone from his inside pocket and hands it to me. “It’s unrelated, but it’s surprising.”

  “Surprising?” I pick on the word with a scowl. “Are you trying to kamikaze my evening?”

  “Yeah, well, see what you think of it first. Scroll down to my emails. It’s the last one from Gabriel. He was monitoring Eloise’s store security like you requested. She had a visitor a couple of hours ago, and you’ll never guess who.”

  “Cindy fucking Crawford?” I pull up the video clip and start playing it. All of a sudden my mind’s not on supermodels anymore.

  I watch Issa’s friend rush forward to greet the new arrival. I watch her place a tender hand to his cheek in a gesture that pushes all the casual relationship rules to the limit.

  “What the hell?” I breathe. “Is that—?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do we have audio?”

  “Not yet. Dubov carries a jamming device. Gabriel’s working on it right now.”

  “Tell him I’ll buy him a new pair of angel wings if he unscrambles it tonight.”

  We pull up to the casino with my mind working on overtime. I leave Frankie to deal with the car and head straight up to my office to pour myself a double.

  I drink it straight—no ice, not frills. I think of Issa lying naked in my bed as the first taste slithers heat across my tongue. When it slips down my throat, I consider all of the pain I’ll never be able to share with her. When it burns acid-sweet in my stomach, I remember a note stuffed into my dead’s father mouth that bought me a one-way ticket to this hell.

  I was content making billions, corrupting the system and killing in the name of anarchy and sin. I had a purpose. I had a goal…

  Issa hints at better.

  She hints at more.

  But hints don’t disperse the darkness, and forgiveness will never triumph over vengeance. Somewhere still trapped inside me is a kid of sixteen who’s still kicking about the park with his mates and a four-pack of Stella, with a future like a child’s twisting kaleidoscope. There isn’t a clear focus yet, but there’s a hell of a lot of color.

  Issa has color.

  Two men stole that life from me. A third gave the order. All will die before I allow myself to taste that kind of happiness again.

  There’s a knock at the door as I’m pouring out a second.

  “Come in.”

  A Russian platoon comes marching into my office, with Maxim leading the charge. Frankie shoots me a look from the doorway and I give him a nod. A beat later, ten of my own are filing in after them and lining the back wall. It’s a dick swinging display at its finest, and my guys have the edge.

  The office is large enough to accommodate the bodies, but not the atmosphere. Tension is rising up like a convection current, and then dripping down on French, English and Russian alike.

  “Knight,” says Maxim gruffly, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

  “Lebedev.”

  The scars on the left side of his face look livid under this yellow lighting. Is he frowning? Scowling? Smiling? It’s impossible to tell. The scars are a disguise—a liar’s dance of an expression. His one good eye is giving him away, though. It’s refusing to focus, darting about my face like a black hummingbird. He’s stressed as fuck, and so he should be. The love of his life just had a kidney transplant…

  That’s when it hits me. Why is he still hanging around with Dubov when he could have disappeared into a hospital sunset four weeks ago?

  “It’s an honor to introduce you to my Pakhan.” Could he sound any more insincere? He stands aside to let the man behind him into my limelight. “Aleksandr Dubov… Aiden Knight.”

  Dubov is taller than I expected, with thick pewter hair that matches the color of his three-piece. He and Zaccaria are the same age, but he’s more maligned with the weight of his avarice than the Italian is. There’s a slight stoop to his shoulders as he leans in to shake my hand, and his face is a patchwork of jagged, criss-crossing lines. I recognize his eyes though. Dark, intelligent, soul stealing…

  “Welcome to my casino,” I say, slipping into Russian. “I trust you’ve been made to feel welcome in my absence? I apologize for the delay. I was unexpectedly detained.”

  “Nothing too taxing, I hope?” he says gruffly, sounding like a Moscow-vodka-bar-drinking-fifty-pack regular.

  “Taxing in the best of ways.” I toss him a smirk. “I was busy fucking my wife for the third time today. You know how demanding new brides can be.”

  The sly smile drops from his face. His hand follows suite.

  Suck my dick, you bastard. I just set the tone for this meeting perfectly. My territory. My rules. My wife’s perfect, alabaster skin.

  “Frankie? Drinks.” I direct Dubov to the leather chair in front of my desk. “This is the reason you requested to see me, is it not?”

  The Russian fixes me with a narrow gaze. There’s a hell of a lot going on behind his set expression, but I don’t scare easily. “Leave us,” he snaps, waving at his men. “All except you, Maxim. I wish to speak to Mr. Knight alone.”

  This is unexpected. I’d anticipated a ten-men cull before the first toast at least.

  No one speaks as they file out of my office, one-by-one, like unpaired arc animals.

  “Sit down please, Mr. Knight,” he says, sweeping his gaze back to me.

  “That’s my line.” I lift my eyebrows, refusing to budge.

  There’s a tense standoff before he’s conceding with a grunt and lowering himself into the chair. Circling my desk, I do the same, refraining from throwing my feet up on the desk to show him the diamonds.

  “For a gambling man, you play your hand too early,” he declares with a sneer.

  “Just because I own a casino, don’t go casting those aspersions.” I throw him another smirk as Frankie places two whiskeys down on the desk between us. I don’t bother asking how Dubov takes it. He hurt Issa.

  He hurt Issa.

  My mind is a raging inferno suddenly. I have to fight the urge to reach out across the desk, grab his tie and smash his face into the expensive joinery until he’s choking on the splinters.

  “You’re unhappy with me,” he states, watching me carefully.

  “What on earth would give you th
at idea?” I singsong back at him.

  “Eleven bruises and the Semion eagle.”

  Before I know it, I’m on my feet and reaching for my gun.

  “No!” he thunders, and it takes me a second to realize he’s shouting his command at Maxim. His Brigadier has gone one further and is already aiming in our direction. “Put your weapon down, Lebedev. Mr. Knight is well within his rights to be angry with me for what I did to Ielena.”

  “Issa,” I say automatically, earning a sharp look from Maxim. I shoot him one back, the duplicitous motherfucker. I open my mouth to spill his dirty secret, and then I notice he’s aiming his gun more at his Pakhan’s head, not mine.

  Issa was right. Maxim fucking hates her father.

  My expression turns quizzical, and he drops his arm first.

  “It is just as I feared,” sighs Dubov, crashing back down to his seat. “You have fallen in love with my daughter, and she with you.”

  This brings me up short.

  Love?

  I don’t do love.

  It’s a tired, old emotion for the weak and directionless. I know exactly where my life is headed: murder, vengeance, and a massive alcohol problem.

  “I’m not in love with her, Dubov,” I respond coldly. “But I’m not rejecting her for what you did, either.”

  “You should. For her sake.”

  I’ve had enough of this.

  “I particularly enjoyed the waterboarding touch, you piece of shit,” I say, losing my cool. “It brings a whole new meaning to a father-daughter bonding session.”

  He frowns. “What waterboarding?”

  “I wouldn't get too hung up on it, if I were you. It’s the least of your crimes.” His confusion is niggling at me, though. “Her extreme fear of water?” I prompt. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out—”

  “Ielena has always had a fear of water,” he interrupts tersely. “Ever since she was six years old.”