The Scandal: Mafia Vows

by SR Jones

  The door swings open before I push the buzzer, and Damen grins at me. “Stamatis, come in.”

  The man is my son-in-law, but he’s more like a son to me. In many ways, I see Damen, Alesso, and Markos as my adopted sons, which is crazy because they are all big, grown, scary-ass men, but it’s the way I feel.

  “Daddy.” Maya comes out of the living room and hugs me. “Just in time. We’re about to sit down. Hope you like Stifado.”

  “I love it; did you make it?”

  She snort laughs. “Father, be serious. Of course not, Rita did. If I’d have made it, you’d all probably be quite unwell later.”

  “She’s not joking.” Damen leans in to say.

  “Hey!” She hits his arm but laughs.

  I follow them into the dining room and pause at the door. Rhea is in there, back to me, and she’s wearing a cocktail dress. Like some fucking movie star come to life. It’s black and has a v at the back, which I can see because her hair is swept up into some sort of fancy style, one I don’t know the name of. The dress hits at her calves, and she’s wearing low black heels.

  “I got her that dress today,” Maya says. “Behind her back.”

  “Babe, sometimes, you can be a bit pushy, you know.” Damen nudges her. “Just make sure she’s happy for you to give her things.”

  “Have you seen her clothes?” Maya asks, scandalized. “Honey, she looks like something from a bad seventies movie. Not cool seventies, Damen, but bad seventies.”

  “Yeah, not really sure what you mean. So long as she’s happy to be your charity case, fine, but don’t push it is all I’m saying.” He bends down and kisses her on the cheek. She pouts but sighs.

  “Okay.”

  I bite back my smile. Damen has a great way with Maya. He tells it like it is but always with a gentleness that stops her from being too hurt. I’ve grown to love my daughter, but she’s a force of nature, and I can imagine that sometimes people find her too much.

  Strolling over to Rhea, tipping my head at Alesso on the way, I reach her and see she’s making a drink … or trying to. It seems she’s attempting to make a martini but messing it up. She’s about to tip the whole mixture, ice included, into the glass, and I can see it going everywhere.

  “Here.” I take the cocktail shaker from her, and my hand brushes hers.

  I resist the urge to rub my thumb against her velvety skin. She’s wearing nail varnish, and I bet that’s down to Maya too.

  “This for you?” I ask.

  She nods. “Apparently, if I’ve never had a martini, I’ve never lived.” She glances over at Maya and smiles.

  “Listen, if she gets too much, let me know.” I strain the martini into the glass, drop in an olive, and hand it to her. “Although when it comes to this, she might have a point.” I smile, and Rhea does too.

  It’s smooth, practiced, and utterly false, like those Oscar night smiles you see. What does it take to get to the real woman beneath this poised but vacant surface? Is there a real woman under there, or is she a blank slate from years of living in a cult?

  In some sick way that appeals to me. I could train her up, make her all mine. My own beautiful, real-life doll. I push the fucked-up thoughts away and pour myself a glass of ouzo, adding water and watching it turn cloudy.

  She sips at her martini and coughs as it goes down. “Oh, erm that’s strong.” She fans her cheeks.

  “You didn’t drink in your … the … place you were at,” I finish weakly.

  “The commune?” she asks. “No, well, except for wine on feast days, then we drank, but nothing more.”

  “So you’ve never had fine Scotch or brandy?”

  “No.” She takes another sip.

  “How about a cigar?”

  “Oh, gosh no. They aren’t for women, anyway, are they?”

  “They can be.” I think of a mistress I had back in the early years of my marriage. Fucking beautiful blonde who used to love nothing more than wrapping her blood-red painted lips around a cigar and blowing the smoke out in a perfect circle, knowing that every male around was hard watching her display.

  “I don’t know if I’d like it,” she says.

  “Ever sat in a jacuzzi under the stars and sipped at champagne?” I tease, and she giggles. A real giggle, not her polished smile or laugh.

  “As if. No, of course not, and you know I haven’t.”

  “I’d love to show you some of those things,” I say, voice low.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Truthfully, I don’t know. I shouldn’t. My wife wants me dead. My son is dead, and my business is murky as fuck. You need time to find out who you are and what you want. We should stay far away from one another, but I can’t lie. I would love to help you explore the finer things in life.”

  “By finer, do you mean sex?”

  Okay, she’s bold. Direct. I like that.

  “It could be part of the menu … doesn’t have to be. Not if you don’t want it.” Bullshit. I’m lying my ass off to her. I want to fuck her, and I will fuck her. I’ll seduce her and make her want me, but it’s always best to let them think it was their idea.

  “I don’t know what I want anymore.” She turns those amazing golden orbs my way, and I swear a man could drown in them. “I’m lost, in more ways than one. We were taught people like you were sinners, but you aren’t the sinner; I am. I’ve done terrible things. You think you’re a bad man? Maybe you are, but I’m a very bad woman because I did inexcusable things. You ought to run a mile. You don’t want to be tainted by me.”

  “Oh,” I say, leaning in. “But I do, very much.”

  She’s near the bottom of her drink now, and after glancing around and ensuring no one is paying us any heed, I take the olive out of the glass. I put it to her lips. At first she keeps them shut, so I rub the olive lightly over her mouth. She flicks her tongue out and tastes what I know is that glorious mix of heady alcohol and sharp, tangy olive, and then she parts for me. I push the olive in, letting my thumb and forefinger touch her lips.

  I remove my fingers, and she bites down on the olive. I watch her chew it and swallow as if it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve seen in my life, which I think it may just be.

  “Mother, you look beautiful.” Star comes over, and she’s got that glow some women get in early pregnancy.

  Markos is at her side, as always. If you asked me which one of my guys would be the last person I’d expect to find someone, it would have been Markos, but he has, and they look deliriously happy.

  Maya claps her hands and asks us all to be seated. I don’t know where she wants me, but I end up between Markos and Maya, far away from Rhea. I had thought maybe my daughter was bringing me here to try to match make, but she’s hardly subtle. I’m sure if that had been her intention, then I’d have been right next to Rhea. Perhaps Maya has simply picked up on the fact I’m feeling like shit right now and wanted me to have some time with family?

  I take her hand in mine and give it a squeeze, and she beams at me. “I’m so glad you’re here, Daddy,” she says.

  She’s started calling me that, daddy, and it’s oddly touching. She’s a grown woman, but she got brought up by my piece-of-shit brother, so I doubt she got much fatherly love.

  I wonder, not for the first time, when she and Damen will have kids. I want them to because I want an heir beyond Maya to leave all this to. It’s not my place to ask, though, so I don’t. If nothing is announced within the next year, I’ll have a quiet man-to-man with Damen and find out if it’s on the cards.

  After the meal, Maya, Star, and Rhea go into the living room with glasses of wine, while Damen takes out the cigar box and hands some around, along with a brandy each.

  “Where’s Stella?” I ask Alesso.

  “Working tonight,” he says.

  The woman runs an animal shelter, one Alesso bought for her, and it is her obsession. I watch Alesso and think out of the three men in the room, he’s changed the least from finding love. He’s still the same hard
bastard underneath his easy-going exterior.

  “So…” Damen leans back in his chair, his broad shoulders taking up so much space. “How are things?”

  “I’m leaving Helena,” I say.

  Alesso sits forward in his seat, and Markos, who is leaning his chair back like some kid in class, almost falls to the floor.

  “Okay, more of an answer than I expected.” Damen takes a puff of his cigar and eyes me. “You alright? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m alright.”

  “Good.” Alesso shakes his head. “Sorry if this is out of line, but about fucking time. You can’t let her try to kill you slowly with hatred.”

  “No, I can’t, and I won’t, not any longer. I told her tonight I want a divorce, and she has a few weeks to find somewhere else to live.”

  “You’re kicking her out?” Markos asks.

  “Yeah, you have an issue with that?”

  “God, no, not me. I just thought it might be easier for you to leave.”

  “It might be, but I fucking made that house what it is, and she doesn’t deserve to live in it. Not after the way she’s treated me and Mikhalis. I’ll set her up somewhere just as fancy if she wants, but that house is mine.”

  “Shit, well, if you ever need any help just shout.” Damen swirls his brandy around in his glass, watching it for a moment. “Spoke to Andrius today.”

  “Oh?” Please God don’t let there be any more shit coming my way.

  “Yes. He’s good, over the moon with being a father, and crazy happy with how well Violet is doing, but he said something that made me take notice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said that Konstantin is maybe making some moves into the less legal side of things in the UK.”

  Konstantin? Holy fuck. He’s the only man, other than Andrius, in this world who gives me pause. The man is rich, clever as fuck, and deadly as sin if you cross him, or so I’ve heard. He lives near London and operates a lot of legitimate business out of the capital.

  “Why would he want to move into the less legal side of things? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Andrius says it is to do with some personal shit. He didn’t go into detail, but it might mean things come up to do with our deal with Allyov because as you know Allyov also has a deal with Popov, who runs that territory. I think Andrius was putting feelers out, to see where we’d align if things went down.”

  “Don’t need to be involved in any war between Popov and Konstantin. If those Russian fucks are going to go at it, we pull out, okay?”

  Damen nods, but doesn’t look too pleased.

  “Keep an ear to the ground,” I say. “Ask Andrius to keep you informed, and if I have to, I’ll talk to Allyov, but I’m not getting involved in some Bratva war. Those fuckers fight way too dirty, and we have a good set up here, no need to risk it.”

  I didn’t make my fortune by getting involved in every catfight going. I’ve fought my corner when I had to, but I don’t get involved in stupid dick waving contests. I have no need to. Allyov is a Pakhan and highly respected, but what I am doesn’t come with a title or a clearly defined hierarchy. I’m bigger than Allyov and Popov combined when it comes to money. Konstantin, however, he’s got serious cash behind him.

  I don’t say anything but if push comes to shove, I don’t want to be on the wrong side of Konstantin and Andrius, and my gut instinct is they’ll stick together, if what I have heard is true.

  “Is it true he and Andrius fought together?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Alesso says. “Lived in a ditch for a week together under siege or something.”

  Interesting. I file the information away because I always like to know everything I can about the various rivals I might come up against.

  “Excuse me a moment, gentleman.” I give them a smile and head out of the room. I need to take a leak, and then I ought to get going.

  I jog up the stairs and head down the corridor to the bathroom, but I pause when I see the door to Markos and Star’s room open and Rhea in there. Is she … is she dancing?

  Knowing I should move on, but unable to stop watching, I stare as she sways in her tight cocktail dress. It’s an odd dance. She’s standing there, swaying and holding her arms up as if she’s praying almost. Is she? Oh, fuck, is she still under the spell of those fuckers at that weird compound?

  There’s a mirror in front of her, but her eyes are closed. As if she feels my gaze on her, they snap open, and we both simply stare for the longest time.

  She stops swaying, brings her arms down as if embarrassed, and hugs herself. It’s such an insecure gesture, it touches me where my damn heart would be if I had one left.

  Heading into the room, I glance around wondering if Star is here too, but it’s just us.

  “What are you doing?” I ask her.

  “Dancing.” She shrugs and bites her lip. The cool Ice Queen shell has crumbled a little for the moment. “Whenever we drank wine at the commune, we always danced too. I missed it, I suppose. Not the place; just dancing, you know?”

  I don’t know. I don’t dance. Hate it, in fact.

  She moves toward me. “I better get back downstairs.” She stumbles as she nears me, and I realize she’s more than a little worse for wear.

  A war wages within me between the decent man who will let her pass and help her back downstairs, and the bastard I know I’ve always been who wants to press her against the wall and smudge that lipstick all over her face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rhea

  There are moments in your life that become defining. For me there was the moment I found out I was pregnant. The moment I found out my parents had abandoned me. The moment the commune took us in and gave us safe haven. The birth of my two children, and the day I truly understood what a terrible thing I had done to my daughter. Those blips in time have all defined me, changed me, and shaped the woman I am becoming.

  Stamatis holds onto me as I stumble into him, and he doesn’t let go. Instead, he presses me against the wall and seals his mouth over mine, and it creates another defining moment.

  He tastes of smoke and liquor. He’s the pure embodiment of sin as his lips crash against mine.

  I’ve only been kissed by one man before. The man I am still betrothed to in the eyes of our community, my husband, and yet here I am, letting this dark, sinful man kiss me as if his life depends on it. There’s such hunger in his kiss, such yearning.

  His mouth is soft and hard at the same time. He holds me loosely at the hips, but his body is strong against mine. My heart is pounding, and I feel as if I’ll faint if I don’t get some air.

  I pull away from him, scared if I don’t that I’ll either pass out, or let him take me here and now.

  Gasping in much needed air, I touch my fingers to my lips and stare at Stamatis. I should walk down those stairs and avoid this man from now on. I don’t.

  My whole life I’ve lived by rules. My parents’ rules. My husband’s rules. The commune’s rules. Now I’m free of those strict guidelines, and I want to cut loose, do something crazy for once. Just once.

  This won’t be the biggest sin I’ve committed. Letting this man into my body, which is what I want more than anything, is a mere blip compared to what I did to my daughter. To Star.

  I swallow down the guilt before it spills out into the raw scream that always seems to be waiting in the base of my throat.

  “I want you, Rhea,” Stamatis murmurs against my throat. Then he gives a harsh laugh. “Fuck that, I need you, and I’m not a man who says that lightly. Tell me now if you want me to walk away, and I will. I’ll turn around and never bother you again.”

  “Or.” I breathe in a ragged blast of air, as his lips nuzzle my neck, making my body shiver.

  “Or … go on home to your apartment and let me in when I come knocking.”

  I shouldn’t, but I know I will. Gus is at a friend’s house tonight, and if that’s not divine intervention, then I don’t know what is. It’s his first sleepover,
and for it to coincide with Stamatis saying this has to be fate, I tell myself.

  “I’m going home.” I push from the wall, giving him a shaky smile as I wobble past him.

  I’m drunk, and I shouldn’t be making such a decision in this state, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  I call a cab. On the ride to my place through the dark city streets, I panic about what I’m doing. By the time I get home, I’ve sobered up some. I didn’t actually drink all that much, but I rarely have more than a few drops of wine, so it went to my head. It feels clearer now, though.

  Deciding to try to sober up some more because despite my panic, I know I’m going to do this. I want to remember it clearly and not through some mellowed out, champagne haze. I brew a cup of coffee and sip at the bitter, dark liquid. I walk into the small but beautifully decorated bathroom and turn the shower onto cold. I step under the shower head with a cry as the icy pellets of water beat down on my shoulders like millions of stinging bees.

  It works, though. The shower, the coffee, and a quick clean of my teeth, and I feel much more normal. I put on some loose black trousers, and a simple t-shirt, and then I wait.

  After about twenty minutes of pacing, I decide Stamatis isn’t coming. With a sigh, I walk to my bedroom to change into my nightdress. The nightdress I usually wear is one I had in the commune for years. It’s pale blue with tiny white flowers on it, and has a high neck, long sleeves, and long hem. I found it comfortable, but Star bought me a new one. She said she didn’t like to see me wearing those clothes of oppression, as she called them.

  The nightdress Star bought me is nice too. It’s long, almost to the floor, a sort of satiny material in cream, with black edging and bold black flowers on it. The neckline is not high, and the sleeves are short, but it’s not too revealing. It reminds me of something the women in the old movies would have worn. I’ve never put it on, but I do now. As I throw off the clothes I was wearing after my shower, I pull the nightdress on and shiver as it caresses my sensitized skin.