Empires and Kings (A Mafia Series Book 1) Page 6

“Do you know?” he abruptly questions, a thread of guilt lacing his tone.

  Nodding, I confirm, “Yes, Vee. Women.”

  “Women?”

  “You sell them.”

  “You’ve been listening in on more conversations than I had hoped.”

  “I’ve lived here most of my life. Anyone who lives here has to know what you do. Maag knows, too, but she pretends she doesn’t.”

  “Do you disagree with what my family does?” he questions, wrapping his fingers around mine—this time not to hurt me, but to garner my attention.

  When I look up, Vee’s head is tilted to the side as he waits for my answer.

  “I don’t disagree or question any of your decisions.”

  “You’re lying,” he accuses.

  Shaking my head while holding his eyes, I respond, “Not at all. I don’t think any of those women are there because they don’t want to be.”

  His uninjured hand lifts toward my face. I watch until I can no longer see it, feeling him gathering the hair from my cheek. After he carefully places it behind my ear, his eyes focus on his finger as it trails down my neck. The skin at my throat burns with every passing inch.

  “You’re not only a beautiful girl. You’re an intelligent one, as well.”

  Close to breathless, I collect myself to bring us back to where we were.

  “Veni’s a young man who will soon realize he’ll be filling his father’s shoes. You’ve given him a lot to live up to.”

  “How so?” he questions, dropping his hand from my neck.

  “You’re Vlad Zalesky,” I claim in subtle praise. Looking around the vast kitchen adorned in blood-red walls and appliances of stainless steel, a room usually filled with servants, I continue, “You came to this country when you were still a young man. You didn’t bend to fit into your new world. You forced your new world to bend and fit to you.”

  The motion of his inhaled breath travels the expanse of his chest. Just because Vee has done the many vengeful and disgusting things he’s done doesn’t mean there’s still not a heinous reverence owed to him. He’s done what he’s done—and as far as I understand, he’s done it alone.

  “You’ve insulted me,” he accuses quietly, almost desperately.

  Clutching his hand in mine, fear obligating me to hold it tightly, I snap my eyes to his.

  “No, I didn’t,” I argue quickly. “I meant what I said in reference to Veni. He has your shoes to fill.”

  Again, so quietly, nearly as a confession, Vee admits, “I don’t want my life for him.”

  “No?” I question, continuing to work on his hand.

  Although I’ve finished, I’m stalling, attentively curious as to what exactly he would want for Veni.

  “Faina will eventually marry. She’s a strong woman who will one day keep a man in his place.”

  “She’ll rule her husband as she does you,” I carelessly convey.

  The small twitch of a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, causing the roguish man to appear a slight shade lighter.

  “She’ll someday run this family as I do. Through her husband, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Vee takes his hand from mine and inspects my work. His fingers bend, then straighten, three times in succession before he’s satisfied he’ll survive until morning.

  “My son cares for you,” he tells me, resting his hand on the table as I pick up the mess around it. “A great deal.”

  Nodding, I force myself to slip back into the role I’m here to play. Faina made me promise to watch over Vee, swearing he wouldn’t be a bother. Being woken up at two thirty in the morning by the crashing sound of a falling tumbler is a bother, yet it’s one I’m somehow thankful for. Getting a glimpse of the quiet heart of the beast I’ve always assumed he was has equally fed my curiosity.

  With my hands full, I take a step left in order to discard the trash. I wince as the glass I’d forgotten I’d stepped on digs deeper into the arch of my foot. My wrist is caught. I turn in place, where I find Vee looking up with a unnamed expression.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m not,” I cover.

  Vee releases my wrist, but my waist is clenched within his grasp as he stands. Using the force of just his hands, Vee guides my body back to the chair. As he sits, he runs his palm along my upper thigh, stopping to rest behind my knee. Lifting my leg, his injured hand gently reaches for the heel of my foot.

  “This will hurt,” he tells me after inspection. “But it needs to come out.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Vee’s eyes hit mine as he pulls out the sliver of glass. He keeps his gaze attentive as the shard hits the table with a soft clink.

  Under his warm touch and study of my reaction, I start to fidget.

  “Sit still,” he demands. “I’m not finished.”

  He uses a cloth from the table, as well as bandages from the box. His grip on my ankle is deliberate but still somehow tender. His thumb caresses the top of my foot, soothing the pain to pleasure as he sweeps it back and forth.

  Once he’s satisfied I’m no longer in pain, he watches his large calloused hand as it glides along the back of my lower leg, up toward my knee, before resting to stop mid-thigh.

  “Do you remember how you got this scar?” he questions, running the pad of his thumb against the faint white line.

  “Yes,” I reply, the memory there but nearly as faded as the scar itself.

  “You fell outside on the front stairs. You must have been seven at the time,” he recollects, his voice calm and steady.

  “I was eight,” I remember. “You were there with Abram.”

  Looking up at me, Vee’s smile is genuine. “We were cleaning up the yard after it had stormed.”

  “I remember.”

  “I told you I didn’t want you outside until we could make sure it was safe. I didn’t want you or Veni to fall and get hurt.”

  Surprised by his vivid account, I remind, “But I did get hurt.”

  “You did. Because you didn’t listen.”

  Moving his gaze to my leg, his hand circles around my entire thigh where he holds it firmly in his grasp.

  “You also called me a name,” he recalls, and I blush. “What was the name you gave me again?”

  Physically, I wasn’t hurt from the rusty nail that pierced my leg. My feelings were hurt because of Vee’s reaction. I had started to cry and he didn’t make a move to help me. I was embarrassed and angry. I lashed out without thinking.

  After it happened, it was Abram who took me inside, cleaned me up, and got me ready for Maag to take me to the emergency room once she got home.

  My voice breaks with my admission. “I called you a monster.”

  “Yes, that’s right. You believed I was a monster.”

  “I didn’t, really. I was a kid.”

  “So you don’t believe this now?”

  Shaking my head, I look down to where his hand continues holding me to him.

  “No.”

  “Under my roof,” he starts in a whisper, continuing to watch his fingers caress my skin, “you’ve never been touched.”

  “No, not by anyone,” I confirm again.

  Abruptly enlisting his iron resolve, Vee positions my foot to the floor, sits back in his chair, and grabs a new glass.

  With his eyes simmering in heat, he casts a downward glance at my body. I sit still on display in front of him. The cords of his neck and shoulders are tight, visibly tense.

  His nostrils flare, and his jaw squares when he brings his gaze back to mine and dismisses me with, “Then you should go back to your room before I decide to change that.”

  My heart stammers, losing its rhythm and pushing out against my chest. My breath quickens. My hands hold a desperate grasp to each side of my chair where I sit frozen, unable to move. My lips ache in wonder of how his might taste. My breasts tighten, cresting to the point of pain.

  “Vee,” I whisper. “Please….”
<
br />   A demonstrative growl breaks from his throat, interrupting my erotic thoughts. His eyes narrow with obvious limitation.

  “Don’t fucking beg me,” he clips. “You have no idea what you’re begging me for.”

  “I just—”

  “Good night, Klara.”

  Another voice intrudes the quiet interaction between us. Katrina stands near him, wearing only a pale gray silk robe. A catlike smile dons her lips.

  “I’ve been looking for you, sweetheart,” she coos in his direction while ignoring me completely.

  Katrina Marx is a staple in Vlad’s life and one I’ve always hated. During the few years I’ve known her, she’s been gawked at by Vlad’s men, hated by most of the women, and never showed any care toward either.

  “Katrina,” Vlad bids, looking her up and down with the same hunger that had been directed at me.

  A slight pang of jealousy hits my chest, imagining the thrill of excitement she must get in touching him the way I know she’s allowed.

  Curling her arm around his neck, she stands as close to his side as she can get and looks to me.

  “It’s late,” she quietly notes. “And the kids should be in bed.”

  The same jealousy that previously stirred is being replaced with uncontested resentment when I watch Vlad’s eyes graze her chest and then trail lower. He studies her bare thighs before wrapping his arm around her waist, bringing the witch closer to his side.

  “To your room,” he directs, his voice low and menacing, keeping his eyes cast to her not me.

  Doing as I’m told, but with a heavy heart filled with humiliation, I turn in place. Before making my way out, I stop. Vee inhales deeply but doesn’t look up. He appears as a caged animal, waiting for his freedom and willing to strike if it’s granted.

  The picture of them together, her so experienced, him so ravenous with need, hitches my breath. I walk away at the same time wondering how he could ever look at her the same as he’d been looking at me.

  “Has there been any word on when Faina is due back?” Abram queries with Gleb standing attentively at his side.

  “Yes. When I talked to her this morning she told me she’d be home Friday.”

  I don’t express my concern over my sister’s true whereabouts. She sounded flustered on the phone when I asked to speak to our uncle. She told me he was ‘out’ and said she didn’t have time to further explain. My uncle would never be ‘out’ with family visiting from across the country—business or otherwise.

  All of this says my sister is lying.

  Looking down at the scattered stack of glossy pictures Gleb had taken in to get processed yesterday, I find exactly as I presumed I would.

  The trespasser holding the camera was no ordinary or innocent man. He wasn’t standing outside the gate only to admire my home, where he was then so inspired he felt compelled to photograph it.

  From all we have laid out in front of us, not only had he snapped a few the evening he was caught, but what looks to be several days before it. Reels and reels of photographs had been taken on different days, the hour varying, but the target of each photo all the same.

  Klara.

  Gleb moves in closer, picking up one off the top of the stack, and asks, “Do you want me to look into Palleshi for this?”

  “It doesn’t make sense that Palleshi would have any interest in Klara,” Abram returns, picking another up for himself and admiring it attentively as he does.

  Suffice to say, I admire the one I’m holding, as well.

  This one is of Klara sitting on the porch of my mansion with her bare legs stretched out in front of her. Her neck is tilted, setting her face toward the sun. Her eyes are closed as the palms of her hands hold her up and in position to relax in its afternoon rays. The ends of her long blonde hair cascade down her back, brushing against the cement of our front porch. Her white shorts stand out in comparison to her long, sun-kissed legs.

  In this picture, she photographs as the captivating grown woman she is now, not the rough-and-tumble child I once thought her to be.

  With this image in mind, all thoughts move to what happened hours ago….

  As Klara rounded the corner to the kitchen, I found her unexplained presence arresting. The dim kitchen light softened her already delicate features, painting them with familiarity and forcing my focus steady.

  I ached to touch her soft skin.

  I wanted to taste her innocent lips.

  I thought how easy it would be to fracture the innocence she assured me was still there.

  She was receptive.

  Her face colored and her breathing labored as I spoke to her in a way she’s most likely never heard before. The tension between us was exhilarating and new.

  With the aid of my drunken haze, my thoughts were provoked toward the feral need to fill a clean woman. To lie against such soft and fresh skin, thrusting myself into the warmth and purity only a woman of such little experience could grant.

  It’s been a long time since I felt the heated demand of my own intellectual desires pushing toward the surface. And it was Klara who bribed them, with her intelligence, her allure, her innocence. Taking her wouldn’t compare to any others. Those thoughts alone incited feelings I wanted to keep buried but couldn’t.

  “No doubt about it. The girl is beautiful,” Abram declares quietly, breaking my stare from the top of my desk. With his eyes on me, he cocks a brow and prods, “Isn’t she, Vlad?”

  The admiration he gives to the photo in his hand pricks at my skin with irrational annoyance as I continue to study the photo in mine.

  Nodding toward the others, Abram suggests, “She could have an admirer. She walks your grounds every day. Except, most times, Veni is with her.”

  “I’ve gone through most of these pictures at least once,” Gleb states. “There were no snapshots of Veni,” he adds, sorting through the pile. “Only of Klara. If whoever took these had any interest in Veniamin, or even Katrina, they’d be in here somewhere.”

  “Katrina,” Abram uncharacteristically snarls.

  “Abram,” I sternly address. “Katrina means nothing to anyone. Leave it be.”

  My closest friend’s distaste for Katrina nearly matches Faina’s. Abram tolerates the woman because she does her job, does it well, and typically doesn’t cause a stir while doing it.

  “Who is she?” Abram abruptly questions with odd curiosity, taking a seat in Faina’s favorite chair across from my desk.

  I ask, “What do you mean?” then explain the obvious, “She’s a girl who’s lived in my home for years.”

  “Not what I’m asking,” he guides. “Enzen Koslief had enemies,” he puts in, tossing his picture on my desk. Once it lands, I grab it and add it to those I already have.

  “We all have enemies, Abram. Especially you. Expand your point.”

  He does without delay. “Before you had him killed, Klara’s father made a deal with Palleshi and was preparing to help him take over one of our stables.”

  “That was over fifteen years ago.”

  “No amount of time would heal that deep a wound,” Gleb sagely chimes, taking the seat next to Abram.

  “Again, I don’t follow.”

  “Who is Klara Koslief? I mean, other than being one of your possessions, per se.” Abram smiles, then finishes. “Or a daughter of a long-since dead man. Who is she?”

  A good question and it’s one I don’t have an answer for. Once Enzen was killed, I wanted to forget any blood relation of his still existed. Klara became—as Abram fairly stated—a possession, a member of this house who, even though I didn’t always care to acknowledge, was a member just the same. Because she lived under my roof, I protected her for the sake of Faina, then Veni. And because as she aged and my curiosity of her grew, I came to protect her from me, as well.

  Unfortunately, I’ve realized the latter possibly for the first time just last night.

  Gleb answers as he gathers all the photos and prepares them to be put back in the manila env
elope. “Maybe Abram has a point, Vlad. Maybe Klara’s more than just a dead man’s daughter.”

  “Find out,” I clip, directing my response at them both.

  Images of Klara being hunted by another man incites rage. The memory of last night, the things I said to her, what I felt in being so close to her, enrages me more. Until then, I had never acted on the acknowledgement that Klara was a woman. More to the point, she was never a woman I thought to ever have.

  After she left Katrina and me alone in the kitchen, the visceral restraint I was barely grasping hold of snapped. Katrina, once again, served her purpose in taking my mind off my work—but last night something changed. It wasn’t Katrina’s body I touched, nor was it her face I saw or her voice I heard.

  When I closed my eyes, I was filling Klara. Her voice whispered in my ear, begging for more and only stopping to moan with the satisfaction that only I was able to give her.

  “Vlad,” Abram addresses, his tone heavy.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “There are a few other alternatives, riskier alternatives, to finding out who may be linked to this.”

  “And what would those be?”

  “Killian Dawson,” Abram replies with coolness. “The Irishman may know something.”

  The man Abram is asking about is a man much older than me. He runs a family close to the same size as mine, and he’s been doing so for just as long.

  The Dawsons’ operation is centered directly between the Palleshis’ operation and my own. It’s told that even though the Irish display themselves as quiet, observant, and unchallenging to those who don’t do business with them, Killian Dawson holds his enemies closer than I’d ever be comfortable in doing myself.

  As far as I’m aware, neither he nor any member of his family has ever been so bold as to set a single step into my territory. They’ve never even asked permission to do this for any reason. They’ve always kept to themselves.

  Gleb looks up, his eyes wide as if utterly appalled. “You’re suggesting Vlad go to Killian Dawson? For what, Abram? Advice?”

  “It was only a suggestion, Gleb.” Abram gives a dramatic eye roll before his gaze falls to mine. “So far, Killian or any member of the Dawson name has never been a threat to us. And as history tells us, the Irish aren’t exactly allies to Ciro. It’s possible he knows what Ciro’s been up to these last few years. And more importantly, he may be willing to share.”