The Syndicates: A Dark Mafia Romance Collection

by Raven Scott

  “Okay.” Worry sloshed against my ribs when I stood up, and I tightened my fanny pack around my waist and hiked up my jeans as I fought a frown. Heading out of our small efficiency space, I locked the door behind me even though it was about ready to fall off the hinges.

  That was the one thing I never did— get involved with drugs. Long after Sylvie kicked her heroin habit, the effects remained, and she wasn’t the same. I stuck with her through it all, but I told her clearly I wouldn’t do it again. Whenever she got the itch, she would tell me, and we’d work through it.

  But I knew she stopped going to NA meetings recently. I suspected she’d stopped paying her drug dealer what she owed. I had a sneaking fear this ‘sick’ issue she was having wasn’t actually being sick, but because she’d started using again and was hiding it from me. Hopping down the stairs to the first floor, I ran my hand through my hair roughly in agitation.

  I loved Sylvie in a way that only trauma could develop, and we’d gone through so much together that a life without her would be hard. Even so, I’d do it if I had to.

  Memories swamped my mind’s eye as I emerged into the brilliant light of late morning, and I unlocked my bike with practiced movements. Both our parents died when we were young, and Sylvie and I met in a group home when we were teenagers. We decided to run away together, which wasn’t nearly as romantic as it should’ve been, and lived on the streets because it was better.

  Now, both of us were twenty-eight, and I felt like I was finally starting to get my life together. I saved every penny I could, and it was slow going, but at least it was going.

  Sometimes, I wished I could marry a rich guy and meander my life away in bliss and luxury, but I wasn’t going to take the easy way out. My dad once told me that nothing worth earning in life was easy, and I took that to heart. Climbing onto my bike, I reached to rub my chest absently, and my skin tightened and twitched under the friction from my shirt.

  “I’ll take the long way to the store.” Truth be told, the grocery store was only six blocks from my apartment, but I wanted to enjoy the day. The air was hot but not sticky, and the sun was hard but not blazing— at least not yet. For the slums of San Diego, not dying of heat stroke was an indicator of a good day. Pushing off to cross over the sidewalk and into the street, I lifted my butt off the seat to ease into a steady pace. Thankfully, there weren’t many hills in this city, and we were far enough from the ocean to avoid getting saturated by salty air.

  Honestly, I thought I did pretty well for myself, all things considered. I didn’t have a preferred job, though, and I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. Maybe, eventually, I’d try my hand at something else, but what that was, I really had no idea.

  Also, the taxless money was really nice even though it usually amounted to the same as a forty-hour workweek. At least the government wasn’t taking half of it.

  “Ugh-h-h . . . it’s such a nice day. Maybe I should ride around for a while after I put all the stuff away.” Snorting, I sat on my bike seat to cruise, and a grim smirk tilted my lips. ‘All the stuff’ was usually just water, dried vegetables, and just enough deli meat for two sandwiches. There was a bread store that sold nearly expired bread for a dollar, which I could put in the freezer. If I was feeling really wild, I could buy myself some peanut butter and a few apples, and my mouth watered at the notion.

  Gnawing on my inner cheek as I sailed down the street into a wide turn, I frowned at the grocery store sign hovering above the buildings of a plaza a half-mile away. How did my ride go from fifteen minutes to five? Oh, right. . . I think too much sometimes. Cars zipped past me, and I glanced around at the somewhat nice, kept up structures around me. This part of town wasn’t as well-endowed as downtown in the east end, but there weren’t many terribly awful spots, either. Of course, if I rode a little ways south, I’d end up in a hive of drug addicts and dealers, but they mostly stayed on their side of town.

  The more they stuck together, the less inclined the cops were to bust them.

  Turning into the grocery store parking lot opposite a small strip mall, I clung close to parked cars to avoid getting hit by someone backing out or pulling in. The bike rack was by the dumpsters, on the side of the building, and I bopped my head as I silently went over my pitiful list.

  “I should grab some cat food just in case.” Just as the grumble passed my lips, I rounded the front of the store only to grind my heel into the ground. Sylvie stood by the dumpster, in full view, with a guy that looked slimier than a used car salesman. Fumbling to pull my phone out of my pack, I swiped open the camera and zoomed in as a fire sparked in my chest. Glaring at my phone screen, I hit the ‘Record’ button while she handed this guy what looked like thirty dollars.

  And, there, right on the screen, he passed Sylvie a little baggie of what I recognized as black tar heroin despite being wrapped in paper inside the dime bag. They weren’t even discreet about it. Neither checked around to look for witnesses, and I clenched my jaw hard as betrayal seared my throat. Seething silently, I blew smoke out of my nose, and I videoed Sylvie stuffing the baggie in her pocket before heading around the back of the store.

  I was, generously, fifty feet away, and even with my terrible math skills, I knew that was close enough for them to notice me out of the corners of their eyes.

  “What the fuck? What the fuck, Sylvie?”

  The guy waited around a moment before following Sylvie, and my lip curled in disgust. No wonder she wasn’t eating— she was using again! I had this shit on video! There was no way she could deny it, now. Her lack of appetite had started a few days ago, so she must’ve used at least twice. Sylvie wasn’t one of those people that used five times a day, maybe four or five times a week when she was at her worst.

  But this was worse than her worst. My heart pounded hard against my ribs, and I stuffed my phone angrily back into my fanny pack to jerk my bike to the stand.

  Memories beat against my burning eyes, and shivers raced down my spine. Sylvie and I made a pinky promise so long ago, standing outside a womens’ shelter in the rain while we waited for the doors to open. With such clarity, I could remember her tone as she explained she wanted to get clean. Determination sparkled so brightly in her eyes even as she regaled me with the tale of her blowing a dude for drug money.

  Where had that gone? Why did I feel like I was the one strung out? Why did I have the ache that may never go away?

  “Fuck. Fuck, Jesus Christ. I can’t believe you!” Hissing, I was so angry, I jabbed the lock in place and stomped my foot just to release some energy. “You bitch!”

  I told Sylvie— I expressly, clearly stated— that I would fuck her up if she ever used again and I found out about it. I wasn’t going through the mood swings, the sweating, the screaming— never again. When she was in a good place, I told her straight that she’d be gone— g-o-n-e— gone!

  “Damnit!” Straightening to take a huge breath, in an attempt to calm down, I shook my head viciously, and my fake blonde hair clung to my cheeks from the sweat of my ride. “Okay, okay. I just need to calm down. I’ll do my shopping. I’ll bring everything home. I’ll go for a super long ride to figure out how to confront her, and then I’m kicking her out. I don’t care what she says.”

  3

  Illya

  Tapping my foot furiously as I watched Sylvie unlock the door through pupils narrowed to slits, I didn’t try too hard to hide how miserable I felt. It happened in slow motion— the click of the lock, the turn of the knob, and the door popping open. When the barrier swung open, my eyes snapped up, and Sylvie’s pointed features twisted like a deer getting whacked with a front bumper.

  Something flashed in her dark eyes, and I knew that she knew she’d been caught. I could tell by the look on her face that she was still under the influence, so it’d been less than two hours since she bought that shit behind the dumpster.

  Well, she won’t have anywhere to go but that damn dumpster in a minute.

  “Don’t even try to deny it. Get
your shit and get the fuck out.” To be honest, the drug use was bad enough, but Sylvie had lied to me to do it— the same, bullcrap story as every other drug addict. Her face froze at my hard-edged demand, and my eyelid twitched in agitation at the notion that she’d try to lie to me again. I had a pretty alright phone with a pretty alright camera, and there was no way she’d convince me that what I saw was something else.

  “Illya, I can explain. That wasn’t for me. This girl at work pays me a little to go get it for her, like . . . like a middleman.” A harsh guffaw burst from my throat, and I shook my head as Sylvie walked over to me with panic slowly settling on her features. Her voice heightened, developed a little stutter as her mind tried to keep up with her lie, and an ugly, black blotch opened up in my chest. “Please, I swear, I didn’t use. I wouldn’t . . . I would never jeopardize— ”

  “Get your shit and get out or I’ll throw you out.” In a place like this, there was no lease, no nothing, just pay my rent, keep my head down, and hope ICE doesn’t show up and clean the building out. Grinding the words through my teeth, I knew there was no help for me if Sylvie didn’t leave on her own— either I physically removed her, or I threw up my hands and walked out.

  Neither would be painless, I knew, and my heart twisted at the huge, fat tears that sprang to her eyes. Sylvie opened and closed her mouth a few times, standing there stupidly, and I grabbed her arm to yank up her thin sweater. She couldn’t react fast enough, and I ground my teeth hard at the track marks on her arm. I’d judge that she’d used three, maybe four times over the past week or two, but the amount didn’t matter. Throwing her arm back, I scoffed in disgust when she stumbled a little, and I raked my hand through my hair viciously.

  “How dare you lie to me, Sylvie?” Hissing through clenched, aching teeth, my eyes stung with how pathetic she suddenly seemed. I could barely look at her. “How dare you? Don’t you stand there and lie. Don’t say a single word. Either get your shit and get out, or I’ll throw you and your shit out the window.”

  “Illya, can we just talk about this . . . please? I made a mistake, okay— I know it— bu— ” Pulling my switchblade out of my fanny pack, I flicked open the pointy end, and Sylvie sputtered a little as her eyes grew big and her face pale.

  “I’m not gonna say it again.” She just stood there, staring at my switchblade as I twirled it around, not brandishing it per se but proving I was serious. Of course, Sylvie didn’t need to know how badly my stomach roiled, how weak my knees were. I mean, we went through a lot, and I thought we were best friends. Drugs killed more than just the physical, though. Her dark gaze flickered to mine, and I jutted out my chin in defiance even as I struggled to breathe.

  My heart pounded hard as she sort of deflated, and Sylvie shuffled heavily over to her cot under which all her stuff was stored. We didn’t have much, and Sylvie was very much a sentimental person. Watching down my nose as she sat down heavily, I held my breath in flaming lungs while my heart made a bid to squeeze through my ribs. Holding her head in her palms, she started crying in earnest, and my conviction wavered for a fraction of a second.

  Relapsing didn’t mean Sylvie was bad, just that she was weak. She’d done well while sober, and maybe something happened that tipped her over the edge. True, she kicked the habit, but it never truly went away.

  Flames licked my throat and engulfed my spine at the notion that Sylvie would turn to drugs because she felt like she couldn’t confide in me. We were supposed to have each other’s backs, but I seem to always have yours, and you don’t have mine.

  My switch trembled slightly as I snapped it shut, and the sharp click pulled a hiccup from Sylvie from beyond her palms. Walking over on unsteady legs, I knelt down and didn’t try to hide my sneer when she peeked at me through her fingers. The hope that her crying had moved me shimmered in her eyes, and my disgust coated my tongue as my stomach flipped dangerously.

  I put my hand on her knee, and Sylvie wiped her eyes with a sniffle that grated my ears. Reaching under her cot, I grabbed her duffle bag of shit and stood up too fast for her drugged up mind.

  And I threw that shit right out the window of our third-story apartment.

  Sylvie jumped up with a gasp of shock, running to the window and half hanging out of it. I heard the distinct thud of her bag smacking into the pavement, and I propped my fists on my hips when she whirled around to glare hotly at me. A scary kind of cold gripped my bones in a vice, cooling my breaths and slowing my heart even as she trembled with rage.

  Her duffle bag had some important items in it— expensive stuff from her grandparents that she couldn’t dare part with.

  “You better go get that before someone snatches it.” I barely heard my own voice over the ringing in my ears, and Sylvie went wide-eyed as she switched emotions. Panic drenched her features, and I watched through a veil of grey when she ran out of the apartment. Shuffling to my own cot, I grabbed the locks I’d bought at the grocery store for an astronomical price, and the metal was frigid in my palms.

  It’d take me minutes to change out the locks, and I put my knife away to take up a screwdriver instead. Sylvie had clothes and stuff under her cot, but I’d throw that out when I finished securing the door.

  “I can’t believe this.” Grumbling to myself as I worked to unknot my gut and breathe a proper breath, I shook my head and sucked up air through my nose. The heat of my apartment was strangely absent, but I didn’t put too much thought on it as I started on the knob. Five years of friendship, extremely close friendship, was just . . . gone.

  Poof.

  “It’ll be fine. It’ll suck ass, but it’ll be fine.” Maybe, I could squat somewhere to save money. I really didn’t make a lot with all things considered, but I had fairly good credit, and I didn’t want to ruin that by neglecting my bills. Squatting wasn’t new to me, and I scowled under furrowed brows at the dull, brass knob as it started to come loose. “I’ll ask around at work. Marcella had talked about wanting a roommate.”

  In the fifteen minutes it took to change out both the locks on the door, Sylvie hadn’t come back, and I tossed lock parts onto my cot to walk to the window. Her bag was gone, but she was there, curled up on the sidewalk, bawling her eyes out. Guilt stabbed my heart, but I shut the window and blocked out the heat of the day to lean on the wall and slide down to my butt. Pulling my knees to my chin, I hugged myself, and the skin on my chest strained and stretched painfully as my ribs threatened to concave on my insides.

  “Don’t feel bad. I gave her three chances. She should’ve taken one of them.” Even as I grumbled to myself, my eyes stung and my mouth watered dangerously, and I buried my face in my knees. “Don’t feel bad.”

  4

  Illya

  Music pumped through my body from all directions, even from the concrete floor, and I reached down to adjust my heel strap absently. A gaping hole had opened up in my chest over the few hours between kicking Sylvie out and heading to work. Everything at home was too quiet, too still, and I couldn’t take it. Roge was shocked when he’d seen I’d come in early, but I simply explained that I was bored at home, so I might as well come in and make some money.

  And, truth be told, I was glad I came in early because Roge put me on VIP, and at least I’d have something else to focus on.

  Straightening to fluff up my fake, dyed, red hair, I gingerly knocked on the door, and A particular type of excitement and apprehension thickened my blood. VIP meant money— thousands of dollars, sometimes— and I hastily tugged my leotard up my chest a little. Couldn’t have whatever rich asshole in this room see a huge scar and not tip me, right?

  Haha . . . not funny.

  The door swung open, and I plastered a smile on my face as my gaze traveled up. Cool air rushed around me from inside the room, and goosebumps washed my bare arms and legs. The man on the other side of the threshold was taller than me despite my five-inch heels, and I actually had to tilt my head to find his stubbled chin.

  “I’m Illya.” My fake, Spanish accent
rolled off my tongue expertly, and the man’s cheek twitched noticeably to give me a glimpse of a dimple. Hard, brown eyes scanned me through fine points, and my smile widened when he stepped aside to let me in. “Thank you.”

  He must’ve been a bodyguard by the number of scars on him— just visible, there had to be a dozen— but I couldn’t focus on looking at them in that moment. Three men in nice suits sat on the crescent sofa, two occupied by my coworkers, and some relief seeped into my veins. Sometimes, VIP was a risk, especially if I was alone, and the rich guys were assholes.

  “I didn’t think they let you cover so much skin here, mi novia.” The man sitting in the middle, by himself, scanned me as I sauntered over to him, and I could feel my smile turn brittle. “Why don’t you take that off slow, huh.”

  “Aw, getting to the good part already? That’s a little fast for me.” The guy with Marcella’s ass in his face burst out laughing at my response, and I sat down in Middle Guy’s lap as he went red. Surprise tickled my chest at the brightness in his eyes, his face tinging pink with appreciation, not anger, and I wound my arms around his neck. “Let’s savor the moment.”

  “You got me. That was a good one.” He chuckled, his hand sliding up my back, and I played my part, biting down on my bottom lip when he leaned in. “I’m Mateo.”

  “Illya.” I mean, my name was foreign enough that most people thought it wasn’t real, anyway, and Mateo’s brows roses in surprise. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mateo.”

  “I’m sure it is. Do you actually dance, or do you just shake your ass?” Gesturing to my pale pink leotard, Mateo’s surprise boiled down to curiosity, and I hummed softly. Patting his shoulder, I popped up, and he sat back in the sofa to prop his head in laced fingers.

  “You’re the first person that’s ever asked me if I danced instead of shaking my ass.” Tilting my body to take off my heels, the whole world shifted at the loss of those five inches, and Mateo downright grinned at me. He seemed like a really happy guy, and my own smile became a little more genuine. “Okay, I haven’t done this in a while, so pardon me if I’m a little, well, bad.”