Cruel Existence (Novikov Bratva World #1)

Chapter 1

One

AMARA

I didn’t like new places. I pressed the tortoise glasses against my nose to block the light. It was invasive and unwanted. I scooted lower in the bistro chair, slouching under a palm frond. The shade was hit or miss on the outdoor patio, but it was too crowded inside. I wanted space. Quiet. I wanted to wallow in the feeling of isolation.

“Thank you,” I acknowledged the waitress softly when she delivered my espresso.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“No.” I winced. My head hurt as I lifted it to take a sip. I was paying the price for the party I attended.

I didn’t make good decisions in new places.

I dug through my designer bag for ibuprofen and swallowed a few tablets with the coffee. My blond hair was knotted in a high bun. It didn’t help with the headache, but I couldn’t bear the extra heat it would cause falling around my shoulders. My phone chirped, but I didn’t look at the screen. I couldn’t. There were probably pictures. In fact, if I closed my eyes long enough and remembered exactly what I had done, I could see the cell phones freely snapping shots of me.

I didn’t care then. I only somewhat cared now.

The fake name I had given didn’t work. They knew who I was and tagged me in every picture.

My phone chirped again. My eyes moved to the two men posted nearby. I couldn’t go to a damn coffee shop without my father’s detail. Their heads leaned closer together, and one of them whispered.

Shit.

The taller one walked toward me. “It’s time to go,” he announced. His hands clasped in front of him. I saw the blunt edge of his weapon when his jacket was pulled to the side.

“I haven’t finished my coffee,” I argued.

“It’s your father,” he replied. “You can bring the coffee with you.”

“I’d rather drink it here.” I didn’t want to acknowledge my hangover to him, even though he had noticed it. It was his job to notice everything about me.

“That’s not an option.” His voice was flat without emotion.

The second suit had already walked inside the bistro for a to-go cup. He returned, dumped my espresso in it, and handed it to me.

I glanced to my right. The couple next to me stared. They must have been tourists. Surely, the locals were used to mob boss’s daughters being dragged through the city against their wills. I didn’t know New Orleans well. I didn’t know how to read people here yet. No one in Philadelphia would have flinched.

I glared at the suits. “What is the emergency?”

“We can’t discuss it. It’s time to go.” His answer was as vague and sterile as the first time he told me.

“So, it is an emergency?” I pressed. Only for a second, I let the possibility rattle around that my father might not be feeling well. He had more and more episodes lately. He wouldn’t tell me what the brown bottle of pills was that he kept in his breast pocket. I had stopped asking.

“I didn’t say that. Let’s go.”

I had options. I could kick, scream, and make a scene in front of the tourists. Or I could leave with the suits, follow orders, obey, and fulfill my duty. I hated myself for choosing the easier path.

The cardboard cup was warm. I clutched it and marched past the tall men, pretending I left because I was bored with the coffee shop. I was tall, nearly 5’9” but they still towered over me. That was how all the security was built on my father’s payroll. I wasn’t a threat to them.

“This way.” He extended his palm to shift me toward the sidewalk.

“I remember where we parked,” I hissed.

If he had been a family member, he would have spat back at me, but being on the payroll prevented him from stepping out of bounds. Instead, he held the door open to the backseat while the other suit started the ignition. I climbed in reluctantly, and he slammed the door. He tested the handle from the inside to make sure it was locked. Both men were new. I didn’t even know their names.

The leather seat stuck to the back of my legs. I reached overhead to adjust the vent. I needed cool air. Lots of it. I caught glimpses of ferns drooping in the stagnant heat. The driver took one turn after another. He wasn’t careful with the wheel. Maybe it was his way to teach me a subtle lesson. I was as lost as I had been when we left the house an hour ago. I didn’t have a great sense of direction. It was another reason not to like new places. It was easy to feel confused. Lost. Ungrounded.

My compass was off. The axis I relied on had been splintered and shredded. I stumbled through a new house, a new city, and a new life.

The black Escalade pulled up under the portico. I heard the water splash in the outdoor fountain as soon as the handle was unlocked, and I stepped onto the paver stones.

One of the new maids nodded as I strolled through the foyer. I thought I saw her curtsy. I’d say something about that another time. The house was built in the early 1900s. There were high ceilings and opulent hand-carved molding on the walls. It still contained the original pulley-system elevator and box of bells in the kitchen that was used to summon servants.

It was incredible that in less than a week my father and I occupied the house without a trace of a box or piece of brown wrapping paper. He liked these things. The lead-glass windows. The history of the house. The thick columns out front and the gardens on the grounds. The elevator was a talking point over cigars and brandy. The history of the house was a way to establish prominence. A foothold into New Orleans social circles .

I walked into my father’s study, flanked by my bodyguards. He was on the phone. I wasn’t sure he noticed I had entered until he held a finger up to warn me against speaking. I fiddled with my phone until he was finished.

His eyes landed on me. I refused to squirm in the seat. My father wasn’t a large man, but he had the kind of gaze that was imposing. Threatening. Dark. His light brown eyes were as menacing as any set of black coal irises. He had a thin frame that he dressed in expensive Italian suits. I’d never seen my father’s hair out of place or a stain on his shirt.

It wasn’t until the bodyguards exited that he broke the silence.

I slurped from the coffee cup.

“Amara.” His finger tapped on the oversized desk.

“Yes?” My eyebrows rose. I realized my mistake when the headache pinched together at my temple. “You needed me for something? Are you okay? Are you feeling all right?”

“You know exactly why you’re here.”

I shrugged. “I don’t want to guess.”

His scowl had cut down men three times my size. Yet, I still pushed boundaries. I tested him. I looked for ways to press his buttons. I created these situations, and I hated them. Sometimes I thought I hated him. I hated my own father.

“We’ve been in New Orleans exactly one week, and you’ve already become cheap gossip.”

I blinked. “I don’t like those words. Cheap gossip? What does that even mean?”

His cheeks began to redden. “It means you have embarrassed me. You have no regard for who I am. Our family name.” His palms flattened into the mahogany desktop. “There are pictures of you dancing on a pool table. Do you even play pool?”

I swallowed hard. “No.”

“Then why were you on top of one?” he asked.

I couldn’t stand the glare. I flinched for a second. But it was long enough that I lost the edge I had. I felt my stomach flip and my lungs strain for air. My palms became sweaty.

“You told me to socialize. I socialized.” My defiance was cracking.

“You were drunk, weren’t you?”

I used the manicured point of my thumbnail to carve my initials into the coffee cup.

“Answer me,” he growled.

“Yes. I had too many glasses of champagne,” I lied. I’d had shots of Fireball and some other hideous mix of liquor in a shot glass. “Okay? Is that all?” I began to rise to my feet. “I didn’t even know anyone there. They didn’t even ask my name.” That was a lie. I had given everyone a fake name last night when they asked normal getting-to-know-the-new-girl questions. I didn’t want to be tied to my father in any way.

Last night I had felt normal, surrounded by college students, doing what twenty-somethings do—getting drunk and dancing.

“Sit,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “They know who you are now. The most embarrassing, worst version of you.”

“Papa, I’m not sixteen. This seems dramatic, even for you. It was a harmless party. ”

“No, you’re not a teenager any longer. You’re acting like a spoiled princess at the age of twenty-one,” he seethed. “Amara, we have uprooted the entire business. I am establishing myself in New Orleans. You are part of this venture. A crucial part. You can’t get drunk and dance on pool tables. There are pictures of your night out. I have clients who could see you. What in the hell were you thinking?”

“Okay. So, this is about you.”

“It’s always about me.” Our eyes met, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold the posturing. My eyes stung, and my mouth went dry. “I hold the keys to your future. I am the one to pass on your fortune. I keep you safe. I am the head of this family. Damn it. You have no respect. None. And there is a consequence for this utter lack of respect.”

I jerked my head to the side. I didn’t want to see when his fist pounded the table, knocking a teacup to the floor. My eyes closed and I held my breath. The china met the hardwood and I heard the crack of fine porcelain.

“Ciro and Joey will be assigned to you twenty-four seven.”

“Who?”

His eyes narrowed. “Your new detail.”

“Oh, right.” I didn’t want to know their names. It made it easier when I defied their orders.

My father continued with the outline of my punishment. “The only social engagements you are allowed to attend are the ones I decide you attend.”

I bit my lip.

“Your social media accounts will be stripped tonight. I’ve already called in IT to handle it. ”

“You can’t do that,” I protested. “I didn’t post any of them on my pages.”

“But you were in the photos the other families’ kids posted. You need to learn how to walk through this city like a ghost. The Capos of Philly aren’t here to protect you.”

“A ghost or a prisoner?” I whispered.

My father rounded his desk and leaned over me. He had never struck me, but I always wondered how close he had been to slapping me across the face. Just one comment. One rude question. I was always within a breath of being on the receiving end of his open palm.

“You are the daughter of Lorenzo Amato. You will learn what that means. If I have to lock you in your room like a prisoner, I will do it. You are not a prisoner, yet .”

The words made my skin break out with cool perspiration. I could feel it on the back of my neck and on my stomach. I didn’t want him to know.

“Is that all?” I dared to ask a question.

“No,” he growled.

My stomach churned uneasily. I knew whatever he said next would not be pleasant.

“There’s one more thing. I made a decision when you snuck out of the house last night. I decision that will benefit the family and you.”

I shook my head. “No. No. No. Don’t say it.”

He tilted his head sideways as if a viper was the one controlling his neck. “The only way to get you under control is to find your husband. The prominent families here might think twice after your tawdry stunt, but after some time I believe I can convince them our family name is more benefit than detriment. No thanks to you and your pool table dancing.”

“I’m not getting married,” I seethed.

“We’ll see about that.” He waved his hand toward the door, dismissing me. “Tell Ciro you’re going to your room for the rest of the day. You look tired.”

I nodded as I squeezed between my father and the chair, but not before his fingers dug into the upper part of my arm.

“This is your only warning, Amara.”

“I understand.”

His fingers unwound, and I knew there would be indentations in my skin.

I tugged on the heavy door into the hallway. The maid was polishing a set of silver candlesticks.

“Mr. Martin dropped a cup,” I informed her. “There’s broken glass on the floor.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll get it.” She tucked the polishing cloth in the front of her apron and walked briskly to the supply closet.

I absently turned to see one of the two suits only inches from me. “Which one are you? Ciro or Joey?” I asked.

“Ciro,” he answered.

“I’m going to my room to rest,” I repeated the orders my father had given me.

He took a step on the massive winding staircase. “Are you going to watch me sleep? You’re not really my type, Ciro. It could get awkward. ”

“I’ll be outside your door.” He pursed his lips together.

“And what about your sidekick?”

“He’ll be here as well.”

I huffed and continued up the staircase. “Seems like a lot of security for one person.”

“You’re not just anyone.” We stopped outside my bedroom door. My father’s personal attendant passed us in the hallway. Ciro’s hand moved to the latch. “You’re Lucien Martin’s daughter.”

I was reminded often of who my father was. I groaned, slipped into my room, and locked Ciro out.