Mafioso Dickheads
Evelyn
The cabin was silent. No noise filtered in from outside, other than the crunch of boots against gravel as one of the guards crossed in front of the window.
The other one, Kyle, had been dispatched to the nearest grocery store to buy fresh produce. I had no idea where that might be, but these were resourceful guys. I was sure he’d find something.
I had been scrutinizing the gallery’s transactions for the better part of two hours and had a list of six suspicious sales. All within the last twenty-four months.
Anger simmered inside me as I thought about how I’d been used. I was so fucking gullible. Here I was thinking I’d made a great sale, when in fact some mafioso dickhead was using me to clean his drug money, or gun money, or whatever else mobsters got up to.
Actually, it was more than one mafioso dickhead. The Marcellis, that was a given. But of these six purchases, only two were from buyers in Moscow, three were from South or Central America, and one was from Eastern Europe.
I stared at them for some time, wishing I had more information. When Dante got back with my laptop, I could check out the buyers in more detail. Chloe took meticulous notes on every purchase.
It was more for PR purposes than anything else, but it meant we had their phone numbers, email addresses, and any other background information we could gather. Chloe then sent out newsletters every month, detailing our latest acquisitions.
This digitalized customer file was not part of my accounts, so Alberto, and indeed Vincent, weren’t aware of it.
Oh God. What was I going to do about Chloe?
Luckily, we were closed on Mondays, just because we were open all day Saturday. A lot of galleries operated on the same schedule.
But she’d be worried. It was bad enough that I hadn’t returned her texts, let alone telling her I was taking a few personal days.
I didn’t doubt she could handle things until I got back though. Her and Vincent.
I gritted my teeth. How was I ever going to look that man in the eye again? I wanted to punch him in the face for what he’d done to me.
I flushed as I thought of all the lies he’d told me over the years. The lack of information. When all the while, he’d been the one to set up the fraudulent purchases.
What made it a hundred times worse was I actually liked him. I’d thought of him as a friend, when all this time he’d been working for the Marcellis.
The whole mess made me sick to my stomach.
I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Well, screw Vincent. Screw Dante. Screw them all. I had a business to run, one that I’d built from scratch, and I wasn’t going to sabotage that for anybody. I didn’t give a shit what Dante had told his mother.
I frowned as I thought about the man who’d brought me here. I could see Dante was dangerous, and had I sold information to his rivals, or to Sergei Malakov, I’d be very, very scared right now. Actually, I’d probably be very, very dead, but I didn’t want to think about that.
Instead, I remembered how his hand had felt around my throat. Strong, unflinching, dominating, but not lethal. At no point had I felt in danger.
Instead of being scared, my body had reacted to his touch. His show of dominance had warmed me in a deliciously sinful way. Like a dark desire inside of me had been coaxed into the light. Not that I’d ever admit it to him.
A knock at the window made me glance up. Kyle held up a brown paper bag overflowing with groceries. I was happy to see something green poking out of the top.
I heard a key turn and the cabin door opened.
The burly guard stood awkwardly in the doorframe, rifle slung over his shoulder, holding the carrier bag in his hands. “Mr. Marcelli said to drop this off.”
Behind him, I noticed the second guard watching cautiously, in case I made any sudden moves.
“Thank you.” I took the grocery bag from him. “I hope you didn’t have to go too far.”
“Ma’am.” He was careful not to give me any details.
Very well trained.
He reached in to close the door.
“Hey, Kyle?”
He glanced up, eyebrows arched in surprise at my use of his first name.
“You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” I asked.
He shook his head but didn’t ask how I knew it. “No, ma’am.”
“Would you mind if I gathered some rosemary from outside? I see there’s a bush of it over there.” I nodded to the edge of the clearing.
He hesitated.
“It’s for supper. I’m making a stew.” When he didn’t immediately reply, I continued, “I promise I won’t run. You can shoot me if I do.”
He masked a grin but placed both his hands on his weapon. “I guess it won’t hurt.”
“Thanks.”
I ventured outside for the first time in two and a half days. It felt so good. The weather was cool, but the sun still held a little warmth. I turned my face up to it for a brief moment, aware Kyle was watching me, his expression unreadable.
“That feels good,” I murmured, shooting him a smile, before stepping over to the wild rosemary bush.
I took a surreptitious look around me as I picked, but there were no other dwellings in sight. Just miles and miles of forest.
With a sinking heart, I realized they’d picked this location for a reason. It was completely isolated. I plucked a substantial bunch, thanked Kyle, and retraced my steps back to the cabin.
Even if I did try to run, there was nowhere to go.
I wasn’t a bad cook. I even enjoyed it when I had the time, which wasn’t often these days. I’d taught myself over the years, even doing a short culinary course in Tuscany when I’d spent some time there after college.
Those were good years. I’d been young, fearless, and obsessed with art, beauty, history, culture, and food.
I’d traveled to all the major galleries in Europe.
Spent hours at the Louvre staring at the Mona Lisa’s smile, at the Rijksmuseum admiring the quiet radiance of Vermeer’s light.
And in Madrid, marveling at Goya’s The Third of May 1808.
And now I was here, trapped in a tiny cabin in the middle of freaking nowhere, waiting for the devil himself to come back and not kill me.
Just great.
The stew had been simmering for some time, and I was back on the sofa reading The Count of Monte Cristo, when the door swung open and in walked Dante carrying a suitcase—my suitcase.
Kicking the door closed behind him, he glanced toward the stove, then wordlessly walked over and deposited the suitcase at my feet.
“Did you get my laptop?” I asked, setting down my book.
“What are you doing?” I was surprised at his harsh tone.
“What does it look like? I’m reading.”
“Not that.” He turned and nodded toward the kitchen. “That.”
“I’m making supper.”
He scowled at me. “Why?”
“Because I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat processed crap anymore. What about you?”
He gave a sullen shrug. “Hadn’t thought about it.”
Something had obviously rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe he was hangry.
“Well, I have,” I said as I got up to check the stew. “Thanks to Kyle, we have all the ingredients for a decent meal.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then said, “I’ll put this in your room.”
My room.
Like this was a bed and breakfast I was staying in. What a joke.
When Dante came back, he perched against the small table between the living area and the kitchen. It only fit two chairs, but it was big enough to eat on.
“Someone’s been in your apartment,” he said, after a beat.
I swung around to stare at him. “What? Who?”
“I don’t know, but the door’s been kicked in and the lock is broken.”
The spoon I was holding clattered to the floor. “You mean I’ve been burglarized?”
He ignored it. “Doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen. Can’t say for sure, obviously, but nothing appears to be out of place.”
I gasped. “My laptop!”
“In the SUV.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Oh, thank God.” My life was on that machine. Sure, I backed up to the cloud, but not everything. Not my personal stuff.
I pulled out a chair and sank onto it, dropping my head into my hands. “Why is this happening?” As if things weren’t bad enough, now someone had raided my home.
Dante didn’t answer, just studied me wordlessly.
I shook my head. I swear, if someone had told me, even two days ago, that this was how my month was going to pan out, I would have jumped off the George Washington Bridge right then and there.
“Who would do this?” I whispered, raising my head to look at him.
“That’s what I was about to ask you.” Dante looked at me with an expression I didn’t recognize. Was that…? No, it couldn’t be. Concern?
I knew he wasn’t capable of that.
“How should I know?” Hot tears stung my eyes. I blinked furiously, determined not cry in front of him.
“Does anybody have a reason to break into your apartment?” he asked.
“Like what?” I was beginning to feel like I was stuck in some crazy nightmare where nothing made any sense. Alice in Wonderland, except this version featured the mafia, money laundering, and drug smuggling.
He shot me an exasperated look. “Like valuables? Artwork? Pure unadulterated hatred?”
I crossed my arms, hugging myself. “Of course not. Any art I have is kept at the gallery under lock and key, and I don’t really own any other valuables. A couple of pieces of jewelry, maybe, but nothing worth stealing.”
“What about enemies?” He slanted an eyebrow at me.
“Other than you, no,” I responded, with a scathing look.
He smirked. “What about Malakov?”
“Why would Sergei break into my apartment?”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “He could be worried you figured out he was using your gallery to launder his money, so decided to silence you.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” I croaked, feeling nauseous.
His tone was icy. “If you think that, you don’t know Malakov.”
“Oh God.” I was seriously going to throw up. I couldn’t imagine Sergei wanting to kill me too. What the hell had I gotten myself into here?
I felt Dante’s gaze on me.
“You all right?” he asked.
I gave a brittle laugh. “No, actually. Thanks for asking. I feel like I’m having a nervous breakdown.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. When I looked up, he was staring at me with that unreadable expression on his face.
“Well, now we have your laptop, we can figure out who that payment was from.”
Was that all he cared about? I bit back a sob. Obviously.
I took several deep breaths to calm myself. Maybe it would help if I shifted away from that problem and focused on another one. “I found more.”
He paused. “More payments?”
“More questionable payments,” I clarified.
“While you were out, I went through all the transactions over the last two years and highlighted the ones where I know the sales prices were inflated. I thought they were just good deals at the time, but now…” I petered off.
I’d definitely learned a thing or two in the last few days.
“Show me,” he barked.
He could have said please, but too shattered to argue, I got up to fetch the documents and brought them back to the table.
“I’m assuming none of these are transactions by your… er, family?”
He glanced down at the list. “No.”
I wondered how he could be so sure, since he wasn’t the one buying the art.
“I hate to say it, but there might be others doing the same thing as you and Malakov.” My chest tightened at the admittance, but I pointed to two transactions where the funds originated from Russia.
“These are Sergei, I’m pretty sure of that. That’s a company Mikhail uses. It’s called Hermitage Holdings.”
“How can you be sure it’s Malakov?”
“Because the Hermitage Museum is in Saint Petersburg, Russia, and I remember during one of our conversations, Sergei told me he used to visit there as a child. His mother took him.”
Dante gave me a thoughtful look. “I guess that makes sense. What about these others?”
A warm, fragrant aroma from the kitchen wafted over. The stew was ready, but I’d lost my appetite. Eating was the last thing on my mind right now. I got up to turn off the stove.
I shrugged. “Those appear to be from a buyer in Central America. I’ll have to look up the details on my laptop.”
He turned to the door, taking out his key. “Let’s do that now.”
“You don’t want anything to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
I sighed and sat back to wait as he fetched my laptop from his SUV.