DEVIL IN DISGUISE: A Russian Mafia/Second Chance Romance (Saints and Sinners Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  As a Southern gentleman through and through, I usually have the utmost respect for women. Perhaps it’s the booze in my system, or her standoffish attitude, but I feel like teasing this girl.

  “A feral nickname,” I drawl, “but I presume that’s not on your birth certificate. Humor me.”

  Her eyes focus on mine like she wants to extract my intentions, then she relaxes a little.

  “I’m Katrina,” she says, sounding tired.

  I snap my fingers toward the bartender to signal that I need his attention. “I’ll take a water,” I say to him as he reaches us. He still doesn’t look too happy to be tending to me. “And what will the lovely lady be having?”

  “A glass of chardonnay will be just fine,” she replies quietly.

  “Brimming with both beauty and class,” I compliment with a sly grin, then relay her drink request to the bartender in case he missed it. “Katrina. That’s a beautiful name.”

  She lowers her head slightly as if embarrassed by my praises, but the smile on her lips is genuine. I can tell by the way it reaches her eyes. She must feel more comfortable now.

  “Are you always this nice?” she asks, looking up at me. Beneath her thick, black eyelashes are hypnotizing grey eyes.

  “I’d like to think so,” I reply, shaking my head out of the momentary daze, “but my brother just said that I was born a tyrant.”

  “Well, I can picture you that way, too,” she replies. “You look strict—or rigid—at best. And I saw the way you treated the bartender.”

  Beau walks back to us with another man in tow before I can respond to her observations.

  “Katrina, Harris, this is Waylon Harding,” Beau introduces us. “He’s an acquaintance of mine.”

  I’ve seen Waylon Harding before—from afar. He’s been in Daddy’s circle of associates for years. But honestly, I don’t remember him very well. My first impression is that he looks like a bull with long, arms like a crane. He’s wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt, and I can see his biceps bulging through the fabric.

  I wonder how the two men started hanging out. Waylon looks more like a private security guard than one of Beau’s party-loving fraternity brothers or business executives he entertains on behalf of the company.

  “Harris! Look at you!” Waylon exclaims. “I haven’t seen you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper!”

  The man engulfs my hands in his like a vice and it’s taking all my willpower to maintain my poker face. If he’s trying to pass a message across, I understand it loud and clear.

  4

  Cookie

  The sunlight warms my eyelids until I have no other option but to stop ignoring the fact that it’s daylight and I need to wake up.

  Why does my head hurt so damn badly? And where the hell am I?

  I open my eyes to find a strange, large man lying next to me, his chest rising and falling softly.

  That’s never happened to me before. I’ve always been fully aware of who I’m going home with. I carry mace in my pocketbook just in case I feel uncomfortable.

  I totally would have maced this dude.

  He’s not one of the men I met last night. I remember them well. Waylon, Beau, and his brother Harris. After an initial instant attraction, I’d been disappointed to find out Harris wasn’t my date. Then again, he’s the kind of guy I’d always dreamed about having a real relationship with. Well dressed, dirty-blonde Brad Pitt hair, a playful smile, and full of compliments that seemed genuine. Instead, the other two swept me away from Harris quickly and—

  Suddenly, bits and pieces of the night flash in my mind. Beau walked me to Waylon’s car, but he didn’t get in. Waylon and I each drank a glass of champagne before we arrived at an alley off Central Avenue. When I exited the vehicle, my stomach was swirling so much, I almost vomited on my black patent heels. When I saw the large, tattooed man with small scars slashing his face move toward me, I’d screamed and kicked, thinking he was there to kill me—or at least hurt me.

  When the intimidating man spoke, he sounded like that Russian boxer from Rocky IV. But he never touched me.

  The stranger didn’t, but Waylon did. I dug my heels into the gravel and tried to back away when he’d dragged me to the huge man with an Eastern European accent. I lift my hand to my cheek as the image of him slapping me across the face comes back to my memory.

  That’s the last thing I remember. You would expect nothing to faze me after sleeping with this man last night but I just can shake the weird feeling off.

  I pull the comforter up, clutching it against my bare chest. I’m naked in bed with a stranger in what looks like a lavish hotel based on the surroundings. Ornate gold guilded mirrors, a king-sized bed with luxurious linens.

  Suddenly, the sleeping stranger wakes up, his lids fluttering as he stirs. His piercing hazel eyes unnerve me, inspecting me reverently as if I’m a sculpture at an art gallery. Especially since I have no clue who he is or how I got into bed with him.

  After what seems like ages, I finally gather the nerve to break the silence. I squeeze my eyes shut before asking, “Can you tell me what happened last night?”

  “I saved your life,” he says in a matter of fact, though heavily-accented tone.

  “I understand that,” I whisper, remembering how Waylon treated me.

  “I do not think you do. But we will discuss this another time.”

  “Did we—” I cast my eyes to the bed, swallowing the words instead of saying them. When did I become the world’s lamest prostitute?

  “No.”

  Relief washes over me, but I can’t explain why. Fucking random men has literally been my job for the last two years. “So, um, what’s your name?” I ask lamely, barely getting the words out loud enough for him to hear me.

  “Stanislav,” he replies calmly in that thick foreign accent. I’m pretty sure it’s Russian. His shifts his body, turning toward me and propping his head on his hand. The seemingly casual position that puts his rippling muscles and inked skin on display.

  Reluctantly, I pry my eyes away. “Good Lord! That sounds like a vampire.”

  He tilts his head and his eyes narrow in confusion. “A vampire named Stanislav?”

  “Isn’t that Dracula’s name?” I ask coyly.

  By his reaction, I can tell I’ve gotten the name wrong, but I don’t have any clue what the famous blood-sucker’s real name is, so I’m going with it. It’s not like I’m not worried about offending him. I’ll be out the door in ten minutes flat.

  “He has no name.”

  “Um, yes, he does,” I counter.

  “Do you read books?” he asks in a lazy fashion, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck.

  “Excuse me?” I’m appalled he has the gall to insult my intelligence. The fact that I haven’t read Dracula doesn’t matter.

  “Have you read this book?” he continues.

  “Dracula? No. I haven’t.”

  “You should read before stating incorrect information. Then you will know he has no name,” he chides me like the teachers at my high school. The urge to prove him wrong kicks in.

  “His name is Dracula,” I bite my lip, trying to think of the character’s first name. “Something Dracula.”

  “He is Count Dracula. That is all,” Stanislav concludes.

  “Count Stanislav Dracula,” I tease in a really bad fake foreign accent.

  The Russian just looks at me with a tired, almost bored expression. “Are all Americans this way?” he asks.

  “What way?”

  “Uneducated.” The word drips with European disdain for Americans.

  The war veterans who live around the block used to ply Dre and I with tales of their exploits in Europe and how Europeans think Americans are a bunch of loud, selfish, uncultured swine. The veterans weren’t telling tall tales; my very own European client is treating like I’m a second-class citizen, but I don’t let my emotions find their way onto my face.

  “I think you mean stupid. Are you asking
if all Americans are as stupid as I am?” I ask pointedly with an airtight poker face.

  The Russian doesn’t show any shred of remorse. Perhaps he doesn’t feel the need to be apologetic to a prostitute or maybe he was just made that way; blunt.

  “You try to make this joke using book you have not read. Then you defend your ignorance. Is very American thing to do.”

  “If you hate us so much, why are you here?” I ask, pulling the white blanket back across my chest as it threatens to slip off. His penetrating eyes follow the movement of my hand before bringing his gaze to mine. But he doesn’t make any move.

  “Freedom.”

  I scan him, trying to figure out what he means. Freedom from what? Communism? I wonder, making sure my face doesn’t betray the gears turning in my head. Unable to come up with any possibility besides state execution, I decide I should hear it from the horse’s mouth.

  “What are you running from?” I ask, cradling my head in my palm as I wait for an answer.

  It’s all part of the job. Men always love a little pillow talk because what could a lowly prostitute do with any information they divulge. The Russian is no exception.

  “I come to America for a lot of reasons, not only freedom,” he begins, as I adjust my position on the bed, aware of the fact that I’m still naked under the blanket. “America gives me opportunity to start new life and get out of the mafia in Russia.” Stan runs his fingers across the tattoos on his body absent-mindedly as if the touch transports him to another place and time.

  I lean closer to him, waiting in anticipation for the story to continue.

  “My sister, she get trafficked by boyfriend for sex ring.”

  The statement hits me so hard I feel woozy. It’s bad enough my mother coerced me into prostituting to provide for us, but technically, I can stop if I wanted to. We’d be homeless and on the streets, but I still have a choice.

  I can’t imagine how devastated and hopeless his sister must feel being taken from her family and being forced to have sex with a never-ending barrage of men. At least I know the kind of men Mama’s setting me up with. Well, I usually know.

  “I get information that she was brought here, to America, and I come to find her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, heartbroken for this stranger and his family.

  He shrugs. “Sorry does not help,” he replies. “Is not your fault.”

  This makes me smile a little bit. I think I am beginning to like his blunt way of speaking. “How did you end up in the mafia?” I ask.

  Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a voice keeps telling me to wrap up this conversation because Mama is probably wondering when I’m coming home. Not that I care. Let her wait and wonder. The only reason she’d care if I got sold into sex trafficking is because she lost her cash cow.

  I’m too immersed in Stan’s tale to go back to my own personal hell.

  “I get recruited in prison,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “You’ve been in prison?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  Of course, he has been to jail. He’s a fucking Mafioso, I chide myself internally.

  His eyes seem so distant, it’s obvious that he didn’t notice my hesitation. “I murder my mother’s boyfriend,” he says flatly.

  Instinctively, I shrink back, though I don’t feel unsafe around him. He notices my movement, but doesn’t do anything.

  “I go in the apartment while he trying to strangle my mother. It is my instinct,” he explains, his voice soothing like he is trying to convince me of something. “My mother, she was prostitute and her new boyfriend always angry with her. Maybe they have fight or he was just drunk, but I cannot control my anger when I see him try to kill her, so I smash vodka bottle on his head and he die,” Stan concludes.

  Suddenly, I feel like a horrible person for recoiling when he told me why he was in prison. But after hearing the story, I understand. Some crimes are justified.

  “How old were you?” I asked, conscious about the fact that I’m overreaching now. I don’t know how much I can probe before reaching the limits of this man’s privacy.

  “Sixteen,” he answers.

  “Sixteen! They put you in prison at sixteen?”

  He shrugs. “In my country, kids go to prison for crime like murder. Fourteen—fifteen. I am cold-blooded killer. I get initiated into mafia during my time.”

  Silence fills the air as I struggle to find the words to say. I’m not used to having this kind of conversation, so I just stay there with my jaw clenching and unclenching like a defendant on trial.

  Thankfully, the Russian senses my discomfort, because he changes the topic—back to Dracula. Evidently, he still needs to prove how much smarter he is than I am.

  “Anyway, American girl, in the book, Dracula never reveal his name. He is, however, based on Vlad Dracul — Vlad the Impaler.”

  “I knew it!” I snap my fingers, feeling like an actual teenager for a moment.

  “You knew nothing,” he says, rolling his eyes like Mrs. Hodge did every time Dre or I raised our hands to answer a question.

  “Vlad, Stanislav. They sound equally vampiric,” I insist in a teasing lilt.

  I think he’s too annoyed to speak because he just stares at me. Maybe making fun of his name was going a bit too far.

  “I can’t call you Stanislav,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I did not ask you to,” he says in the flat tone I’ve come to appreciate.

  “Touché,” I mutter. But I’m not giving up. “Do you have a nickname?”

  “Nickname?” He repeats like the term is foreign to him.

  “Like, another name friends call you,” I offer.

  “My friends call me Slava.”

  I snort in disbelief. “I can’t call you Slava, either.”

  “Again, I did not ask you to,” he repeats, which earns him a smack on the arm and an eye roll from me.

  This dude needs to get over himself.

  “How about Stan?” I suggest, hoping that will lighten things up a bit. “Stan sounds American.”

  “After this conversation, I am certain I do not want to sound like American,” he says. That condescending European undertone crops up in his words again.

  “I’m not stupid, Stan,” I emphasize the nickname I created for him even though he hasn’t approved it yet. “Just because I confused real-life and folklore doesn’t mean I’m stupid. It means I’m not a Dracula expert.”

  “This is obvious,” he replies, averting his eyes to the cracks in the ceiling.

  “Reading Dracula doesn’t make you smart,” I protest, turning toward him. He does what he does best—shrugs.

  Nothing gets me more fired up than being disregarded as unintelligent. Being a prostitute doesn’t automatically mean I’m an airhead. He had a justified reason to kill his mother’s boyfriend, I have a justified reason to sell my body for money. The need to prove how smart I am to this foreigner overwhelms me.

  “I’m in the top three in my class,” I say sullenly, sounding like a spoiled brat.

  “I do not know what this means,” Stan says, his expression blank.

  “Ranking. Schoolwork. Grades,” I explain. “I have the third-highest GPA in my class.”

  The blank expression tells me he still doesn’t know what I’m talking about, or he’s not impressed. Probably both.

  “I’m smart,” I declare, lowering my eyes and picking at the bedspread, defeated.

  “I believe this.” Stan nods. “But in the future, you should not use examples of things you know nothing about to make a case. Is easy to discredit you,” he says. When did the Russian become a professor?

  “I accept that,” I say, agreeing with him. He’s right—and it’s good advice. It’s time to wave the peace offering.

  “I didn’t mean to offend your country,” I say, trying to sound remorseful.

  “Is not my country!” He throws his arms up in frustration. “Dracula is Romanian!”

  My eyes widen, and I burrow into
the covers, fearful he might turn his anger on me. “Sorry!”

  “You are frustrating,” he declares. Then he reaches out and touches my face. “I will not hurt you, Katrina.”

  I swallow with relief and close my eyes, enjoying his calloused hand on my cheek for a moment.

  “You should be glad I found you. Frustrating would not bode well with the man you were with,” Stan continues.

  “What does that mean?” I ask, half in shock.

  “He would not take you talking back with him. He would smack your smart mouth. Or worse.”

  “How do you know so much about him?” I ask, emboldened by curiosity.

  “I do not know much about him. But I know his kind,” he replies.

  “How do you know his kind?” I ask, willing my breath to settle as panic builds in my blood.

  “Because I am his kind,” Stan says flatly.

  His words make me pause. I lick my lips, but my mouth is so dry it barely does anything. “So, my reaction to being frightened every time you raise your hand is justified,” I ask, looking for some sort of reassurance.

  “Yes,” Stan assents to my question.

  I feel my heart skip a few beats; I expected reassurance, not agreement.

  What I have gotten into?

  “If I were going to hit you, I would have already. If I were a man who would hit you, I wouldn’t be a man that would save you, would I?” Stan continues, spreading his palms.

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who just told me you were his kind. What did you mean by that?” I ask. He certainly knows how to keep someone hanging on every word.

  “We know many of same people.”

  “Why would you be involved with people like him?” I ask, deciding it’s time to dig in and get real.

  “Is the business I’m in,” Stan replies again, flatly. He’s so blunt and reserved, I’m convinced he could lie on every answer and still pass a polygraph test with flying colors. The inability to be ruffled probably comes in handy for someone in the mafia.

  Though, I did get him to the point of frustration, so I consider that a win.

  “The mafia? Is that what had you hanging around an alley in a shady part of Charlotte at night?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around his words.