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

by Sophia Henry

  “Hanging around? Please explain,” Stan asks, his face scrunched in confusion.

  “Creeping around? Walking,” I emphasize, “in alleys at night?” I offer hoping that he catches on quickly.

  “Ah.” He shakes his head. “No, that was not mafia business. I will buy that building.”

  “Why would you want to buy that run-down piece of shit?” The words come out without thinking.

  I don’t know much about Russia—except that they’re the eternal enemy according to American Cold War propaganda—so maybe that building is nicer than the ones he’s used to back home.

  Or maybe he’s going to murder me in that run-down piece of shit.

  “I will open tattoo business,” he replies matter-of-factly.

  “A what?” I ask.

  “A place where I tattoo people—a store.”

  “No, I know what you mean.” I wave off his explanation “Is—is that even legal?” I ask him again, sounding more and more like a kid; which I am.

  He shrugs, unaffected by the thought of it being legal or not. The reaction should tell me all I need to know about him. Yet, he’s intriguing and exceptionally handsome—if you like tough, tattooed, rugged foreigners. Which, I didn’t know I did until now.

  “This I do not care. I buy building. What happens inside is no one’s business,” Stan declares.

  “Then how will they know where to go to get a tattoo?” I ask.

  “You tell me you are smart.” He reaches out to tap my temple. “But you do not speak this way.” He continues, “Your mouth will get you into trouble. Your mouth will get you killed.”

  “Are you threatening me?” I ask him, trying to sound unafraid but preparing to spring off the bed if he tries to grab me.

  “Is not me you need to be afraid of, Katrina. Is just friendly warning.”

  Stan leans closer to me until our lips are inches apart. I catch his scent as I inhale—the faint remains of a woodsy cologne and sweat. Not nasty smelling sweat; manly morning sweat.

  “You speak like that to the wrong person and—” He forms a gun with his index finger and thumb and presses it to my forehead.

  “I know I have a smart mouth,” I admit quietly, pulling my head back from the makeshift gun. I swallow thickly holding back the shock of my new reality and the kind of people I’m involved with now. “I’ve had to deal with assholes my entire life. I’ve handled it by growing a thick skin and learning to talk tough.”

  “Why you deal with assholes?” Stan asks, intrigue lifting an eyebrow. He settles back on the pillow, tucking his arm under his head.

  “Mama always had a boyfriend. Sometimes it was for a night, sometimes a month. A few guys stuck around for a year or two—until they couldn’t handle her anymore.” Once I start, memories flood my mind until I can barely see Stan lounging right next to me. “There were even a few nice ones. But they ran away pretty quickly once they realized Mama was only in it for what they could give her, not who they were. It was always the same for as long as I can remember. Until recently.”

  “How did this change?” he asks.

  It’s refreshing to have a conversation with someone who’s interested in what I have to say and not just humoring me. Normally, my conversations are one-sided. I do the listening while men do the talking.

  “Her health and looks deteriorated quickly since finding out she has cancer. She refuses to go to the doctor again because she knows we can’t afford treatment,” I tell Stan.

  I should feel anger or sadness knowing my mother is dying, but the only emotion that surfaces is relief. I know it’s selfish of me to think such thoughts, but my mother is the reason my life is so messed up. Usually, I take responsibility for my actions and not blame others—but in this case—the blame is justified.

  “Since she’s not able to pull in men anymore, she pushed me into it,” I say, steeling my emotions because I can’t afford to feel anything or except sympathy from anyone, especially not the man next to me.

  “Where you find these dates? These men?” Stan asks, curiosity reflecting in his tone.

  “Where do you find dates?” I counter, unnerved by his penetrating stare.

  “I don’t date. I fuck,” he says with so much confidence that it annoys me.

  “Aren’t you a big, tough man,” I reply, rolling my eyes and scoffing.

  This Russian probably has a new woman every night to warm his bed, I just happen to be the one on duty tonight. The man looks like he can afford it. If he is staying at this hotel then he definitely can; only the rich sleep in historic hotels like the Dunhill.

  I look around the room of the hotel with its ornate bed, renaissance looking furniture, and view of the city from the window. It seems like there’s a Commons’ construction crane on every corner, a testament to the recent growth spearheaded by one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the city. It seems like they have a hand in everything—multi-use developments, houses, skyscrapers.

  Being part of that kind of family legacy must be nice.

  “It’s no big deal—it’s just sex,” Stan says, bringing me back to reality.

  At least we can agree on that. It’s just sex. No feelings. No attachment. Just a way to earn money.

  “You have been hurt, yes?”

  “You’re pretty naïve for someone who looks like you do.” I scan him again and swallow hard. Tattoos creep out of every space not covered by his grimy, formerly-white T-shirt. Though his English is good, his accent is so heavy I can barely understand a word coming from his mouth.

  “I don’t understand this word. What is ‘naïve?’”

  “Clueless?” I offer. Though his coal-black eyes burn with fire, his expression is blank. I don’t know how to speak a word of Russian, so I can’t even try to help him understand his language. Frustrated, I tap my head and spit out, “Stupid! Dumb!”

  I flinch, expecting anger or violence, but he doesn’t come at me. He just laughs deep and loud.

  “Your mother find you these men.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I nod in agreement. There is no point in trying to cover up Mama’s actions; the world isn’t all Rainbow Bright and My Little Ponies after all.

  Where had that comparison come from? My longing for a more innocent time.

  “Your mother makes you have sex with them for money?” he asks, curiosity laced all over his voice.

  “Not just money,” I correct him, earning me a look of confusion so I proceed with my explanation.

  “Gifts, rent, food. Whatever.”

  Women are products to be bought and sold. My mother first, and now me. Sometimes I wonder if her mother was the same way. I was hoping to break the cycle by going to college, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.

  Despite getting a scholarship that covers full tuition at North Carolina University in Chapel Hill, I can’t afford room and board. I can’t even try to find a cheap place to rent because its a policy for Freshman to live on campus. I’ve been putting away money for years, but my meager savings would barely get me through the first semester and what would I do when the funds run out? Run back to Mama so she can make a mockery of me and get me back on the streets?

  Maybe I can trick in Chapel Hill. There’s probably good money there. Since it’s part of the research triangle, there are plenty of doctors and scientists around.

  I have to remind myself that it’s better to have a concrete plan when the urge to go back to doing this envelops my thoughts. I’m going to college to get out of this life.

  Maybe Drago here can help, I think.

  I feel stupid for not having thought things through before engaging with this Russian mobster. Instead of the tough act, I should have played the vixen from the start.

  “Why don’t you get a job?” Stan asks me, oblivious to the scheme brewing in my head.

  “I get paid to go on dates with men. That is a job,” I say, sounding a bit too cheery about it even for my taste.

  “Hmm,” is all he
says in reply like, he is trying to assess me.

  Stan’s eyes never seem to leave my face; something I find both unnerving and exhilarating. The man has hazel eyes, not the stereotypical blue ones that I've heard many Europeans are blessed with. So what if he has a black heart, he’s rich, so I couldn’t care less.

  On that note, it’s time to be mysterious and announce my intention to leave. “As much as I’d love to continue this heart-warming conversation,” I tell him, already moving to get out of the bed. “My mother probably thinks that I am dead in a gutter somewhere in a pool of blood.”

  “She might not be wrong if Waylon had given you to someone else.”

  A shiver shakes my entire body and causes my knees to buckle, but I swallow back the fear and continue.

  “Goodbye, Stan.” I pick up my dress in one hand and hold the flimsy motel blanket against my chest. He doesn’t make any move to get up, so I arch my brow expectantly. “Can you go into another room, so I can get dressed?”

  “Alright.” He sighs and rolls his eyes like a teenager.

  When he gets out of bed, he’s completely naked. I’ve never seen anyone built like him. It’s like he’s been carved out of stone and tagged with black graffiti. He walks up to me, towering over me so much that I’m in his shadow. No one could look more menacing and macho as this specimen staring into my eyes right now.

  “I will see you soon, Katrina,” he promises before entering the bathroom and closing the door.

  Excitement pools in my core as I interpret what his words could mean.

  5

  Harris

  The image of the lady in red from the other night keeps flashing in my head, even after three days.

  Katrina; her name still echoes in my mind. Most times I take note of people out of habit, but this girl is a recurring memory for me.

  Why? What makes her so special? I ask myself as I commute to work on this wet Monday. It rained nonstop last night and I don’t even know if we’ll be able to work, but I didn’t get a call, so I’m dragging my ass to the jobsite just in case.

  “I’m Kat,” her voice echoes in my head again as I pull my truck into a parking spot across the street from the site.

  Her demeanor held a curious mix of independence and innocence wrapped in a gorgeous, petite frame. I’m tempted want to ask Beau about her, but I’m concerned because he introduced her to Waylon. Why would he do that? I hope she realized what a scumbag he is and got away from him quickly.

  If Beau and shady Waylon hadn’t interrupted us, perhaps I would’ve had the chance to get to know her better. I have a knack for being a good judge of character and I have a feeling Katrina is a damn smart girl. That’s what made me go against my urge to ignore her.

  When you spend most of your life being an average student, you tend to have a radar for picking out smart people. Befriending the right people helped me pass more than a few classes over the years.

  I jump out of my truck and stuff my keys into the front pocket of my jeans.

  I didn’t even sleep with her, Beau and Waylon whisked her away before we could even have a proper conversation, and when they returned, she wasn’t with them. So why has she occupied every waking thought?

  The smell of cheap lavender assaults my senses. My head snaps up to the woman passing me on the sidewalk. It takes me a moment to realize it isn’t Katrina, they just happen to share the same taste in fragrance. As unrefined as the perfume smells, it lingers in my memory.

  “People in the olden days would say that I have been bewitched,” I mutter under my breath. “Maybe she’s an enchantress.”

  I pause and glance around to see if anyone had heard me.

  I’m talking to myself and sniffing random women on the street. It’s a new week; time to stop daydreaming about a girl I’ll never seen again and focus on the job.

  And the shit I’m about to take for blowing off Colt and the boys on Friday night. The thought of it makes me groan.

  “Mornin’, Miss. Betty,” I greet the older black woman at the front desk of the pop-up office on the work site as I slide my card into the time clock.

  “Good mornin’, Harris,” she replies. “You have a good weekend?”

  “I did, thanks for asking. How’s Mr. Tucker feeling?”

  “Oh, you know how it is for us old folk, Harris,” she smiles. “Aches and pains all the time, but we thank the Lord we wake up in the morning and push through another day.”

  “Amen!” I smile and tip my baseball cap to her. Miss Betty has been working for Commons for as long as I can remember. Despite being in her sixties, she’s still sharp as a tack. All the foremen want her on their project.

  When I head out to the building, I see Colt and a few guys standing around sipping coffee and talking, just as we do every morning. I walk toward the group in long strides, hoping they aren’t too pissed.

  “Mornin’, Harris,” Colt says, stretching out his hand for a shake. “Sorry, we couldn’t make it to the bar on Friday.” He lowers his head. “I didn’t have your number, so I didn’t know how to get ahold of you.”

  It takes a lot of willpower to not let the relief on my face show, then I do the most natural thing anyone would do; play along.

  “Yeah, I got there a little after nine and couldn’t help but wonder where everyone was,” I reply, looking disturbed. Lying comes fairly easy to me since my entire life around the guys is a lie. I’m always making things up or trying to remember what I said previously so I keep my story straight. Thankfully, I’m young enough to have a fairly simple backstory.

  “Tony’s wife passed on Friday,” Colt replies solemnly, sounding genuinely hurt by the death of our colleague’s spouse.

  “Oh no,” I say, noticing the vibe seems unusually subdued. Normally, everyone’s cutting up on a Monday morning recounting stories about our ’wild’ weekends. “Where is Tony?” I ask no one in particular, waiting for someone to answer me but none comes as swiftly as I’d like. Everyone else is in a world of their own and did not even hear me.

  “He had to drive home to upstate New York to make funeral arrangements,” Raphael answers. “Poor chap, they had barely begun their life as a couple and he’s gotten the carpet pulled out from under him.”

  “He must be devastated,” I say, unable to process what the death of a loved one feels like, I’ve never had to experience something like that but it is an inevitable part of the cycle of life.

  I imagine it’ll hit me hard when Granddaddy passes. He’s not the stereotypical cute, cuddly grandfather sneaking us candy and shots of whiskey. He’s a self-made billionaire whom I look up to with god-like reverence.

  Granddaddy traveled the state expanding his empire and giving us philosophical talks about family and discipline. He was a true visionary—and when a visionary gives you advice, you take it. Technically, he’s retired, but he still has his hand in everything Commons Property Development does.

  “Pull your panties up, gentleman!” Colt announces. “It’s time to get to work.”

  “Here we go,” I mutter under my breath as I strap on my tool belt, pushing Tony’s loss and Katrina’s memory out of my mind.

  6

  Cookie

  Mama had been furious about my late arrival back at the apartment, but I didn’t care. Since my encounter with Stan, life has been a little more colorful. Almost like a glimmer of hope has given me the ability to see with rose-colored glasses.

  Even Mama’s gritty behavior seems to get to me less these days. She must notice because she keeps making weird comments like:

  “Men don’t love women. They take what they can get from us and toss us out like yesterday’s trash. You best remember that, Katrina!”

  Or:

  “There’s no such thing as love. A good relationship is when you find a man who takes care of you without beating you.”

  I don’t understand why she keeps bring up love, because I never mentioned the word. I’m certainly not in love with Stan. Sure, he’s gorgeous and sexy
in an intriguing, dangerous way. But I can’t get involved with someone in the mafia—even one who claims he wants to leave and make a fresh start in America.

  There’s also the pesky fact that I can’t get the cute boy from Mangione’s out of my head. I still wish he would have been my date on Friday night, but I’m not that lucky. I get hooked up with gross, old men and Russian gangsters.

  I already know there’s no such thing as love. She’s taught me that for years—not just in her rhetoric about men, but in how she treats me. It’s not romantic love, of course, but she can’t possibly love me.

  No one can save me. Not her, not the Russian, not any man.

  I’m the only one who can save myself from the mental torture of our pitiful life. I’m the only one who can give myself a better situation.

  If only she knew what I’m planning.

  I have a real shot at attending NCU in the fall, and if Stan can help me get there, I’m doing everything in my power to make it happen.

  Mama doesn’t realize that we have the same dream. We both want me to marry a rich man, have kids, and live happily ever after—whatever that is. But because Mama never went to college, she doesn’t realize that’s where the men are. North Carolina University is the premiere college in the state. All the rich kids go there—or Duke University—which is a town or two over.

  At college, I have a chance to meet someone and get an education. Either way, it gets me out of poverty. I don’t want to depend on someone. If I marry rich, fine, let him take care of me and fawn over me and buy me all the things—but I’m going to have a hand in whatever business my future-husband is a part of. I refuse to be left with nothing if the marriage doesn’t work.

  When the phone rings on Tuesday morning, I’m not surprised when it’s Waylon Harding telling me that Stan wants to meet up with me again. The thing that surprises me is why it took so long. He directs me to meet the Russian at Eastland Mall after school.