Chapter 6 – Serena
The next morning, a loud banging woke me from the sleep I only just had fallen into.
It had been a night of tossing and turning.
Every time I closed my eyes, a steady roar filled the night air.
Even once I’d closed the windows, the rhythmic pattern continued.
And then the air grew thick and stifling, so I woke again in a sweat, being chased by cackling fiends who were determined to shove me in another truck, while the ones drunk and stinking of sour wine guffawed from the edge of the piazza.
I lay there, breathing and listening, while my mind scrambled to force the nightmares back into their stone coffin.
But it was growing full in there. The trauma of being kidnapped at fifteen should have been something I opened up and told someone about.
Instead, I kept it locked tight, too scared of what my brothers would do if they found out.
And now, I had to force the newest kidnapping into the sepulchre.
The odds of this incident going unnoticed by Sandro and Leo was non-existent.
They’ll never let me leave again.
Screw them, I would get myself out of this mess, and then they’d have no legitimate reason to forbid me continuing my adventures.
Groaning, I pushed from the bed and padded to the kitchen.
While my half-awake brain expected to find my nocturnal host, the person making a ruckus was a pleasant surprise.
It was a matronly woman in a long peasant skirt, with hair hidden under a kerchief.
She puttered around, putting away fruits, breads, and a small crockery of something in the fridge.
“You’re up! Good,” she observed, her tone raspy like a smoker’s. She shot a quick glance, taking me in from head to toe.
Still in my shimmery clubbing halter and faux leather pants, I no doubt looked as bad as I felt. I didn’t need a mirror to know my face was a mess.
“Hungry?” She didn’t wait for an answer but began to slice a loaf of bread from the box, smeared it with a creamy yellow butter, and dumped a red preserve over the top.
I didn’t want to offend her by telling her that I didn’t eat breakfast, usually sticking with celery juice infused with olive oil and spices.
“Thank you,” I murmured, accepting the food.
“Don’t mention it. Can’t have you working on an empty stomach.” She brushed crumbs into the sink.
Working.... I frowned. That sounded ominous.
When my host told me that I was staying as a guest for the time being, I immediately decided to escape.
However, exhaustion coupled with the lack of knowledge as to my whereabouts helped me delay another attempt.
I failed to get the much-needed sleep, but at least today I would be able to explore.
As soon as I figured out where I was, I would have a better idea how to leave this place.
The fact that I had a delirious little rush of excitement when I thought about my mysterious host made me want to see him one more time.
But I told myself not to get any air-headed ideas.
Boys were trouble, and men were worse. My only summer romance ended in a shattered daydream, while my crush on my brother’s enforcer would make anyone, including Dante himself, think I was ridiculous.
No, I would not fall head-over-heels and create a hero complex around my host.
For now, I’d play their game and then leave quickly, before my head—or inner sex goddess—got any wild ideas. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Scuttling over, she pinched my arms. “Strong muscles, but from one of those fancy workout classes, no doubt. Plus, Boss said you weren’t to be put on the fishing rotation until we had a chance to test your sea legs. So it’s land work for you.”
I blinked. My mysterious host hadn’t been joking. These people weren’t allowing me to leave, but they were putting me to work? No way. No freaking way! I hadn’t worked a day in my short life, and now I didn’t have a choice.
Within twenty minutes, I realized just how exotic the situation actually was!
The matron was Dorothea, and she owned a huge garden and orchard, but her pride and joy was the olive grove.
Her house was right next door to the one I spent the night in, but behind it was acres of land dedicated to agriculture.
If it felt like a fairytale before, today I wandered deeper into the heart of a mythical experience.
“How do I know which are weeds and which sprouts?” I deadpanned, pointing at the garden, my first task for the day.
The old woman gaped at me. Her dove-grey eyes nearly popped out of her weather-worn face. “Evangelia!”
I cringed at the shrill shout.
A woman about my own age with an equally rustic ensemble, although the skirt was to her knees instead of ankles, tripped through the whitewashed gate.
She looked me over, curiosity flashing through her eyes.
But I didn’t miss the note of pity there as she tried not to stare at my face.
At least the bandages hid the worst of it.
Dorothea rattled something in a foreign language before throwing her hands in the air and waddling away.
“I’m to make sure you don’t pull up Mama’s pea harvest.” She laughed and stuck out her hand. “I’m Evangelia, by the way.”
“Serena.”
In the span of a few minutes, I gathered that we were in an area of Florida heavily populated with Greek immigrants and people of Greek heritage. This was a secluded community north of the Tampa Bay and Clearwater area, but away from the more touristy hub of Tarpon Springs.
While Evangelia chatted, we worked the garden. Sweat beaded across my spine, under my boobs, and pooled at my lower back. My clothes were damp, sticking to my skin. The cool breeze that occasionally swept through the garden was no help.
“So if you’re just part of a quaint little Old World fishing community, why won’t Markos let me leave?” I hedged, tugging a particularly long rooted weed from the soil.
Evangelia stilled.
Oh, no! “Did I pull the wrong thing?” I turned sheepishly, holding up the plant. The earthy scent of freshly turned soil and sun-warmed grass filled the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of flowers. Which was completely at odds with the look of surprise and confusion on the woman’s face.
“I’m not supposed to know this, but Markos brought you here to marry you,” Evangelia breathed quietly. “Didn’t he tell you?”
It was my turn to wear the shocked expression. “No, he said nothing.”
“You’re the Bratva princess, right? Daughter of Ivan the Red Sock and sister to the current pakhan?” she insisted, grey eyes blazing with intent.
Pakhan. That was Russian mob. And if the owner of the cottage wanted a bratva bride, that meant....
“I’m just a rich girl from suburbia who was kidnapped after a New Orlean’s parade,” I rushed to say.
“Oh, good saints in heaven! They got the wrong girl,” Evangelia gasped, clasping her hands and placing them dramatically on her chest. “That’s what Iosif was in a huff about yesterday. No one tells me anything, that’s why I should keep my mouth shut—”
“Why would Markos want a mob wife?” I whispered, cutting her off.
Evangelia blanched. “If they find out I told you—oh, heaven! Oh, heaven! I’m dead! The boys won’t stand a betrayal of the syndicate.”
I squeezed her fingers. “Who are Markos and Iosif?”
The woman swallowed hard.
“Are they Greek Mafia?” I asked, using the colloquial term.
She nodded helplessly.
Oh, boy. What a plot twist.
I didn’t know much about other organizations.
Alessandro kept me out of the loop, preferring to protect me with a web of ignorance.
But growing up with a don as a brother, I heard things.
It was safe to say that organized crime groups ran various parts of the world, having some kind of presence in every major city.
The breeze teased the whisps of hair falling around my brow. I swiped at them with the back of my hand. “Markos is the boss?”
“No, not the boss—one of them.”
One? How many were there? I frowned. That wasn’t typical...was it?
“Oh, shit, they’ll kill me,” Evangelia whimpered. “I broke the code.”
I shook my head hard. “I’ll play ignorant. This won’t fall on you, I promise.”
She blinked up at me, tears glistening and making her grey eyes seem silver. “But...you don’t know me. Why would you stick up for me?”
Because if she was this scared of the men who’d taken me, there was undoubtedly a reason. “I can’t stand a bully.”
“He’s not though,” she sniffed. “He’s protecting us—they all are.”
I highly doubted that. It was exactly the kind of savior complex a tyrannical leader would want his followers to buy into. Arguing with the woman, however, was probably not the best course of action.
“They?” I narrowed my gaze. “They who?”
“The Twelve. Our syndicate has twelve bosses, most of them related by blood, but some aren’t.” She blinked, resembling an owl with those wide, grey eyes.
That was interesting. I’d never heard of such a structure.
Were they that powerful that they needed twelve heads to run it—like the Five Families of the old East Coast?
Or were eleven just elevated, but in reality acted like my brother’s captains?
Still, eleven capos would be impressive. Alessandro didn’t have that many.
“Let’s finish, yeah?” I said with a smile. I was never good at this gal-pal chit-chat, but the last few months with my sister-in-law had my cooler disposition thawing.
So I tried and made a poor attempt to engage her in light conversation. It took weeding most of the raised beds on the southern portion of the garden to shake the gloom that fell over the otherwise sunny Greek girl.
The weeds piled up beside me, their brittle leaves whispering as the breeze teased them.
I straightened for a moment to stretch my back, feeling the ache from being hunched over but enjoying it—it was the kind of ache that came from effort, from doing something with my hands.
My eyes scanned the garden bed, now looking much cleaner and more open.
The space seemed to breathe easier already, and that realization sent a small thrill of pride through me.
My fingers were streaked with dirt, my nails caked with it, and my knees had smudges of earth from crouching so long. I should’ve felt gross, but instead, I felt accomplished, like every smear was proof of progress.
“I’ve never worked with my hands,” I admitted. My hobby didn’t count. A pianist had to keep their fingers nice and clean.
“Why?” Evangelia asked, head cocked to the side.
“We lived in an urban area,” I explained, brushing off the question.
“Must be nice,” she hummed dreamily.
The truth was too hard to admit. Manual labor and manicures didn’t go together.
I’d spent the last two-plus decades of my life locked away from the world, with nothing meaningful to fill my days.
And yet, as a prisoner of this mob, walking a dangerous path in their world, I’d never felt better.
Gardening was...peaceful, in a way I hadn’t expected.
Each weed I pulled felt like I was clearing space, not just for the veggies but for myself.
It was strange how satisfying it was—dirty hands, sweaty back, and tired limbs.
I found myself smiling as I rubbed my hands together. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.