18. Alina
18
Alina
When Damian said a boat, I expected a boat.
This isn’t a boat.
The thing is huge and sleek and like something out of a magazine or a fever dream. No sails, just clean lines, white and chrome and oozing piles upon piles of money. The kind of yacht I imagine Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk might own, parked alongside their rocket ships.
My steps falter as we approach it and I realize that this is where I’ll be spending the weekend. But it isn’t just the boat that’s making me anxious.
It’s the dynamic Damian and I have established.
I’ve come to crave his body. That doesn’t mean I like it. I mean, I like Damian’s body. A lot. A whole fucking lot. But how can I want someone like Damian Russo so much that I can barely sit still? He’s like an addiction just lying under the surface of my skin. A want...a need...an addiction I can’t control.
But it’s only for a little while. This—whatever this is—isn’t forever.
I keep telling myself that’s a relief. But I’m having a hard time believing it.
I sigh. It’s one thing to want his body. Quite another to want…something more.
“Problem?” Damian asks. He stands beside me wearing a white linen shirt, black pants and a pair of mirrored shades that hide his eyes. Beside him is Luca, holding true to his promise to accompany me on all field trips outside of the condo. He’s been mostly silent, a stony statue in jeans and a polo, wearing his most professional persona. Or was the guy who ate ice cream with me on the balcony the persona, one designed to ferret out all the secrets Damian thinks I’m hiding?
Despite having spent time with each of them separately, I haven’t really had a chance until now to see the two men together. He and Damian are clearly comfortable with each other, managing to have entire conversations with only a couple of words spoken between them.
“No problem,” I mutter. “I just didn’t realize that your family has more money than God.”
This doesn’t get a reaction from him—not a snort, not an acknowledgement of my delightful wit. Not that I expected such an acknowledgment. Whatever.
“We’re late,” is all he says in reply.
As if that’s my fault.
The helicopter ride took longer than expected. The pilot said something about the wind.
When I’d seen the helicopter waiting for us on the roof of Harrah’s, I’d been torn between demanding if it was safe and jumping up and down in excitement. I’d never been in a helicopter before. I’d glanced down at the strappy sandals I’d chosen to go along with my flowing hot pink maxi dress and wondered if I’d have to bend and run under the blades like they do in the movies. Turns out I did.
In moments, we were flying high above Vegas. The city gave way to sand. The sand gave way to red sandstone that, under the glare of the sun, looked like it was on fire. It felt like minutes, but was probably closer to a couple of hours before we reached the California coastline. We flew along the coast, with the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean next to us.
There was a car waiting when we landed, and it brought us here: The Marina at Dana Point. There are what look like thousands of boats in front of us—sailboats, motor boats, big boats, small boats—and behind us, cliffs rise toward the sky.
“The Luciana,” Damian says.
“Pretty name,” I say, as I stare at the ship with wide eyes.
“It was my mother’s name.”
I glance at Damian, struck by the whisper of soft emotion in his voice, but he’s already walking away.
I know very little about Luciana Russo, other than the fact that she died.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Luca says.
“Yes,” I say, with a wary glance at Damian. He’s been off, tense ever since we left the condo this morning and it’s making me nervous. “Did you know her? Luciana Russo?”
“I did,” Luca says, his expression hard to read. Wistful? Pensive? “She was kind to me when she had no reason to be.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
We board the floating hotel—Luca tells me the gangplank is actually called a passerelle—and I try my best to look like this is something I do all the time. That my eyes aren’t drawn to every line, every detail, as I try to memorize it all since I know this will never happen again.
Which is a good thing, of course.
The helicopter, the yacht, they remind me that these possessions were purchased by criminals. That every foot of this ship is soaked in blood, in drugs, in unspeakable horrors I can’t even imagine and don’t want to.
Blood money.
These are not good people. They are villains.
Damian is a villain. He is the bad guy. He is the nightmare—the monster hiding under the bed.
And Luca, as amiable as he’s been, helps that monster in ways I don’t want to think about.
And my brother… I think my brother is part of this, too. Not at the level of Damian and Luca, but he’s involved somehow. Markus didn’t just play a few games of poker with Damian. He works for him. I know it in my gut. It would explain the texts that go back for years. It would explain why Damian trusted Markus to walk out of a room owing him a million dollars. They know each other. And that isn’t a comforting thought.
At the end of the passerelle is a large basket. Damian and Luca slide off their shoes and put them in the basket. I watch, bemused.
“You need to take those off,” Damian says, gesturing at my sandals.
“Off? Why?”
“High heels can damage the teak decks. We go barefoot or wear boat shoes. Non-marking soles. Wear these,” he says and hands me a pair of beige crocheted mules with a triangle logo that reads: Prada Milano. I have a feeling these aren’t knock-offs.
I slip off my sandals and slide on the mules. They fit perfectly.
I cut Damian a sidelong glance. “You…bought these for me?”
He smiles at me, his real smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Like them?”
I nod.
He leans close and whispers, “You’re welcome.”
“For an asshole, you’re incredibly considerate,” I say.
He laughs, the sound washing over me, making me smile.
Luca crosses to the far side of the open outdoor area at the back of the yacht where another man stands. They greet each other and quickly become engrossed in a conversation. I notice that the man has a gun tucked into his waistband.
I follow Damian across the wide deck that has a built-in, u-shaped outdoor seating area surrounding a hot tub. He holds the doors and gestures for me to precede him into a room that looks like something out of a fancy hotel. Long ivory sofas accented with pale, seafoam blue throw pillows face each other, separated by a narrow glass and chrome coffee table. There’s a bar along one side of the room, manned by an actual bartender. Huge windows look out at the ocean.
In this room are three people, all of whom look in our direction as we enter. A man and two women.
The man rises from the sofa and approaches. He looks a little like Damian, but there’s a harshness to his features. His jaw is more square, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced, his lower lip fuller than his upper. He wears his dark hair shorter than Damian does, and he’s perfectly clean-shaven.
Leonardo Russo, Damian’s older brother.
The head of the Russo family.
The boss. The current king.
“You must be Alina,” Leo says to me, his words perfectly friendly, his tone less so. His gaze flicks over me like I’m something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
My chest tightens and a cold sweat breaks out on my skin.
“I must be,” I agree.
“Leo, this is Alina Madsen,” Damian says. “Alina, this is my brother Leo.”
“Welcome,” Leo says, the word as warm and welcoming as freezer burn. His eyes are dark, cold.
“Thank you.”
It all feels incredibly awkward. Leo doesn’t smile. Maybe he never smiles.
Damian isn’t smiling either.
The brothers make a dynamic duo of intimidation.
Leo glances at the woman next to him. “One last thing, Nicole,” he says. “I need you to coordinate a meeting this week regarding the cybersecurity initiatives.” His tone is different with her. Polite. Professional.
“Of course, Mr. Russo,” she says, rising as she closes the tablet she holds.
She has dark hair, scraped back into a tight bun. No makeup. Glasses with thick black frames, the lenses magnifying her eyes so she looks like a frightened owl. No jewellery. She’s tall, but it’s hard to determine what her figure looks like. Her shoulders are hunched, her neck jutting forward. She’s wearing a beige drop-waist dress with ashy grey horizontal stripes. I could not imagine a less flattering combo of color and style if I tried.
“This is Nicole Milano,” Damian says. “Leo’s assistant.”
She reaches her hand out to me without meeting my eyes, instead looking somewhere over my left shoulder. Her nails are short and unpolished, the cuticles ragged. Her handshake has the strength of a stalk of celery that’s been sitting at the back of the fridge for a month.
“Hello,” she says, her fingers squeezing mine for a second, as if she’s offering reassurance.
An ally, one who isn’t related to the Russos.
“Hi, Nicole.” I wonder what her story is. How she got this job. She just doesn’t strike me as the person Leo Russo would hire as his EA. Then again, I don’t know Leo Russo, so I ought to have no expectations about him. Maybe she has superhuman organizational skills.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she says softly and turns to leave.
“Nicole,” Leo says. She freezes. “You’ll be joining us for dinner. My date was unexpectedly detained. I’ll need you to round out the numbers.”
“Of course, Mr. Russo.”
There’s another woman in the room, standing a few feet away. Her head is cocked as she studies me, her arms crossed over her chest.
I already know who she is. I’ve seen her in the news. Sabina Russo. She’s twenty-three, same age as me. But there’s an air of sophistication about her that I definitely don’t possess. The news talked about her donating to worthy causes and hosting charity events—as if that somehow might absolve her of her family’s business activities.
“This is my sister,” Damian says, gesturing toward her. “Sabina.”
Sabina is drop dead gorgeous. A cool kind of perfection. Her dark brown hair falls in a sleek curtain to her shoulders. Her chin is delicate and a little pointed. She has full lips, glossy red, and, unlike her brothers’ dark irises, hers are a pale blue. A cool blue, like chips of ice. She’s wearing an emerald green dress that I would bet all the pennies in my meager bank account costs more than I make in two months at the club. Her wedge heels are precariously high, but even with that help, her height only matches mine. I’m five-six, so that would make her....petite. Five feet one at the absolute most. Clearly, her brothers got the height in the family when it was being doled out.
Despite her slight stature, Sabina strikes me as every bit as intimidating as her older siblings.
“Alina,” she says in a cool tone as she holds out her hand to me.
I hesitate only slightly before taking it. Her skin is smooth but as cool as her voice. She has long nails, painted gold. The length and perfect manicure could only be maintained by someone who doesn’t do a lot of manual labor.
“Sabina,” I say as calmly as I can. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yes,” she agrees, her icy eyes narrowing. “So you’re Damian’s latest, are you?”
“Latest?”
“Girlfriend.”
I laugh at this out loud before I can stop myself. “I’m not sure I’d use that word.”
“Oh? What word would you use?”
I feel Damian’s gaze on me, searing. I ignore it.
“I’m his prisoner,” I say easily. “For the next few weeks, anyway.”
Damian grunts, but I don’t look his way. Nicole makes a choked sound.
“His prisoner,” Sabina repeats coolly, “that he’s brought on a family weekend.”
“I can leave,” I offer. “I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Alina has a way with words,” Damian says stonily.
“I see that.” Sabina’s gaze grows even narrower, and she gives me a sweep from head to toe. “You’re a bit of a smart-ass.”
“I…can be,” I admit uneasily.
She stares at me for what feels like a full minute, with absolute, deadly silence in the room. Even the bartender had stopped clinking glasses and bottles.
Finally, a smile spreads slowly across her face, transforming it from gorgeous to transcendently beautiful.
“I like you,” she says. Then flicks a look at Damian. “I like her.”
“Great,” he replies. “Then all is well with the world.”
She hooks her arm through mine. “We’re going to be good friends.”
“Are we?”
“We are. And you know how I know this?”
“How?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Because I always get what I want.”
“Always?”
“Yes. Always.”
For some reason, I can’t seem to summon any distaste for her. Her change of mood has actually transformed the entire ambiance of the room. She emanates good cheer. Sunshine and roses. I could use a fuckton of sunshine and roses in my life.
I like her, and that’s…well, that’s incredibly inconvenient.
“You two are late as fuck,” she says with a mock stern glance at me. “Keeping my brother busy, are you?”
Her meaning isn’t hard to decipher.
“As a bee,” I quip.
She taps her perfectly manicured index finger against her lips. “Don’t male bees die right after sex? Something about their tiny dicks and abdominal tissues being ripped out during intercourse…”
Any doubt I might have had about Sabina fitting right in with her ruthless brothers evaporates right there. “At least they die happy.”
Nicole makes another choked sound. Either she’s smothering a laugh, or I’ve horrified her twice in the span of a minute.
Luca chooses that moment to join us. He greets Sabina with a chuck under her chin, which she tolerates, Leo with a bro hug that Leo returns, and Nicole with a nod that she mirrors.
The exchange tells me a lot about Luca’s position in the hierarchy. I thought he was Damian’s minion, guarding me as ordered. But I remember now what he said the first time we met, that he works with Damian, not for him. And his interaction with Leo and Sabina makes him seem almost like family.
“We’ve held dinner until you got here,” Sabina says. “But I’m starving so let’s eat.”
Her arm still hooked through mine, she draws me into an adjoining room. A round glass table is set with gold cutlery and plates that look like they were stolen from a five-star restaurant. An arrangement of colorful flowers adorns the center, low enough that diners can still see each other over top. Damian pulls out a seat, and stares at me. I take the hint and sit. Leo sits to my right, Nicole across from him. Luca sits to my left, next to Nicole, Damian beside her, Sabina across from me on Leo’s right.
I feel uncomfortable, out of place, and I wish Damian were beside me to make sure I don’t use the wrong fork. There are three fucking forks. And three fucking knives. Four, if you count the butter knife.
I drain the glass of wine a steward pours for me within seconds. He refills it without hesitation.
Huh. I’ll need to keep an eye on that. The last thing I want is to be falling down drunk while I eat dinner with the piranhas.
The appetizer is served, a Caprese salad with tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil, and a balsamic drizzle. I wait until Sabina chooses her utensils, then follow her lead.
Nicole leans over and whispers, “Pace yourself. There are seven courses.”
We make our way through shrimp cocktail, lobster bisque, and a green salad before the main course is served. Filet mignon accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus. Luca and Sabina carry most of the conversation. Nicole keeps her eyes on her plate. Leo glowers, mostly at me.
Every time I glance at Damian, he’s watching me, his expression intent.
I hadn’t thought I was hungry, given my uneasy position in this den of criminals, but this meal is literally the most mouth-watering food I’ve ever been served in my life. It beats a bagful of grease from McD’s, any day.
“So what do you do, Alina? When you aren’t my brother’s prisoner,” Sabina asks with a lighthearted grin. Either she doesn’t believe me or she doesn’t care.
I don’t really want to mention my time at the Emerald. I’m about to say I’m between jobs when Damian says, “She’s a writer.”
I swear there’s a hint of pride in his voice.
“A writer?” Sabina claps her hands. “What have you written? Have you published anything?”
“An online magazine published one of my short stories,” I say.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Luca says. “How did I not know this? What’s the story about?”
Before I can answer, Damian says, “It’s about a young woman who finds her mother’s diary after her death. After reading it, she comes to view her mother as a person rather than a parent. Inspired by her new insights into her mother’s resilience, she finds the courage to pursue her own dreams.”
I feel like time freezes. He read my story. Damian read my story. And he got it. Got what I wanted to say. And he liked it. I can hear it in his voice.
“Wow,” Sabina says softly.
“Wow,” Luca repeats, eyebrows lifting. “I’m impressed.”
A moment of silence follows before Leo asks Luca, “How’s the restaurant coming along?”
“A few hiccups with licensing. Nothing Cassio and I can’t handle.” Innocuous words, but I can’t help but suspect some form of bribery or coercion being involved in handling it.
“I had lunch with Dante yesterday,” Sabina says.
“Liquid or otherwise?” Damian asks.
“A bit of both,” Sabina says, her expression worried. “I think he’s getting better…”
“Except on the days when he isn’t,” Leo says. “I’ll speak with him.”
He exchanges a look with Damian, one I can’t read. But I don’t need to ask what they’re thinking or feeling. I know all about having a brother whose use of substances puts him in a very bad place.
Luca lightens the mood, launching into a story about his latest foray into online dating that makes everyone laugh, even pulling a short huff out of Leo and making Nicole smile into her plate.
For dessert, we have tiramisu. I’ve never had it before, but now I want to have it every day going forward. Forever and ever.
When the dishes are cleared away, and coffee is served, Sabina clinks her spoon against the side of her cup.
“I have a very important announcement to make,” she says.
All attention in the room goes to her.