Chapter 8
Eight
AMARA
S omeone was blocking my sun. I peered over my sunglasses. It was Ciro. I couldn’t tell if he was eyeing my new bikini. His shades were dark. His face expressionless.
“Yes?” I prompted. “What’s wrong?” I stretched one leg along the other. My skin glistened in the sunlight. I hadn’t had a say in the house my father chose for us to live in, but I did like the pool. It felt as if I was in a French courtyard somewhere in the south of France on the coast.
Summers in Philly weren’t like this. The humidity clung to my skin regardless of whether I was inside or walking to the shopping district.
“We need to talk about last night.” His tone was never pleasant. “There are some things you should know.”
I sighed. “I knew you would tell my father.” I picked up the book I was reading. “I’m not surprised. ”
“Actually, I haven’t mentioned it.”
I sat forward. He had my attention. “Why not?” I asked.
I had been waiting all day for my father to berate me about leaving Katya’s engagement party and giving Ciro the slip. I felt a warmth between my thighs just thinking about those precious hours I had stolen with Luka. They had been both delicious and dangerous. I wanted to touch my fingers to my lips and trace the bruises his kisses had left, but I had an audience.
“Didn’t you notice?” he grumbled.
“Notice what?”
“Your father hasn’t left his rooms today. Not even for meals.”
I held my breath, expecting him to elaborate. “Okay. And your point?” My father’s room was designed like a mini-apartment. As long as his maid brought him what he asked for, he could stay inside as long as he wanted. I preferred it that way.
“It’s almost one o’clock. He’s not well. I don’t want to add to his stress. I’m supposed to keep the Amatos safe. I take that seriously.”
I groaned. “It’s just bronchitis. He gets it all the time.” Of all the people to fuss over my father, I didn’t expect it to be Ciro. My father had caught something in the spring, in the harsh cold we left behind in the city. He blamed the snow and drafts in his offices. I was sure it would be gone after more sun and a little time outside. The problem was my father rarely left his office. Now, it seemed his new habit in New Orleans was not leaving his mansion bedroom.
Ciro was expressionless as he continued with his lecture. “Whether he is regularly sick or not, I thought I’d give you a pass for last night. For his sake, at least. Not yours. Don’t mistake my motives.”
“A pass?” I reached for my water bottle.
I saw the sweat trickle down his neck. He was wearing a suit, equipped with body armor and weapons. I drank slowly in front of him, knowing he wouldn’t dare take a break even if he was dehydrated.
“Yes. A pass. If he knew you had skirted my detail, we’d both be in trouble.”
I laughed. “So, this is about you saving your job. It’s not really because you’re worried about his health.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m trying to do a favor for you too. He won’t be happy if he knows you spent the evening with Luka Novikov.”
“That’s crazy because he sent me to his sister Katya’s engagement party,” I argued. “He wanted me to represent him, and that means I have to socialize with everyone. Even Luka Novikov.” My argument was foolproof.
“You were there because of the Petrovs, not to sneak off with Luka Novikov.”
How did Ciro know what my father’s intentions were? “What are you talking about?”
“Trust me. Stay away from Luka Novikov. He is dangerous, Amara.”
“What do you know about him?” I tested. I suddenly had little bubbles tingling in my chest and throughout my belly. I wanted to know anything and everything I could about Luka .
“Russian mafia.” It wasn’t much of an answer. “Bratva is not something to toy with. Their training is…”
“What? What is it about him that makes you think he’s more dangerous to me than any of the Capos who work for my father?” It was a sound argument. I grew up in a dark world. What made the Russians the scary ones?
“He kills. He is trained,” he explained. “This is not a world you know.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t want to believe that. There were plenty of men who rose high in the mafia ranks who never did a bit of dirty work in their lives. Sure, they could fire a gun, but did they have to pull the trigger to get there? Not likely. They hired the grunts for that. Men like my father didn’t have literal blood on their hands. They gave orders. They made payments. They didn’t kill. Luka’s world couldn’t be that different. Ciro was trying to scare me.
“You don’t know that about him,” I argued. “For once, Ciro I would say you’re being a tad dramatic.”
“Bratva is Bratva. But you shouldn’t see him again. Do not ask him about it. The answers alone aren’t safe. Stay away.”
“Or what?” I dared. What I wanted was another morsel about Luka. I wanted Ciro to slip and tell me something useful or interesting about the man who had taught me kissing was an orgasmic experience.
“Or you may end up like most of the people who interfere with Bratva business.”
I shivered. He was only trying to scare me.
“My father wouldn’t have moved here if it was that dangerous,” I snapped .
Ciro huffed. “I won’t keep your secret next time.”
I spun, placing my feet on the hot concrete. I rose slowly. I was certain I saw Ciro’s eyes drag over my body.
“Why even tell me that?” I pressed.
“I probably shouldn’t have, but your safety is my priority. You should at least know who you are associating with.”
But he did tell me and more than he ever had about what made him do the things that kept me in lockdown. “Thanks.” I slinked past him, hauling my pool bag with me. “What’s the other guy’s name? The other one who is on my detail?”
“Joey?”
“Yeah. Him. Does he know I got past you last night?” I was curious.
Ciro didn’t answer.
I giggled. “I guess I’ll keep that to myself then.”
As I wandered through the house, I passed my father’s room. The door was closed. I leaned in slightly, but it was quiet. I hesitated. I could knock, but something stopped me. I decided I’d check on him after my shower. I didn’t need a lecture on my bikini. Or how I wasted precious time sitting by the pool.
When I turned, I spotted the oil portrait of my mother hanging across the hall from his door. He said he liked to see her every morning when he left for work and when he returned at the end of the day.
I stared at her expression. I wondered what was behind it. Was it love? Admiration? Resentment? I knew very little about her. Most of the stories I created about my mother’s life revolved around this single portrait. It was the only display of her in the house.
What would she say now? Would she support my father? Those were questions I had asked a thousand times. Did she agree with how he used me? Did she think my value was tied to what family he could position me with? I walked away from her gaze, knowing I’d never have the answers.