You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) (9 page)

Dahlia Fury

I
listen to the doors click shut before I sit up on my elbows and look at the steam rising from the pool. It beckons to me. I have never been in such a pool. His milk flows out of me and stains my thighs as I get off the divan and walk to the water.

I lower myself into its silkiness, lie back where I had found him, and let my limbs sway in the water.

Ah …

He has declared war.

I duck underwater. Even the bottom of the pool is gorgeous. A naked Adonis type hero wearing laurel leaves is fighting mythical snake-like monsters. It is made of thousands of tiny pieces of mosaic.

I emerge a few seconds later and slick my hair back away from my face. I swim back to the side and notice what I had been too strung up to see before; a bucket of ice with an unopened bottle of champagne inside it, two flute glasses, a shallow dish full of ice, and two silver bowls, one smaller and covered, and the other much bigger and uncovered There are large strawberries inside the uncovered bowl. I lift the lid of the smaller bowl and find a mound of shiny black caviar.

I grasp the neck of the bottle, fish it out of the bucket and look at the label. My eyebrows rise. Well, well, Dom Perignon. Never had that before. I pop its cork and pour myself a glass. I raise the glass of fizzing liquid in a silent toast to me.
Here’s to me.
I take a sip.

‘Mmmm. Lovely.’

I eye the caviar, but reach for a strawberry and bite into it. It is so ripe and ready sweet juice runs down my fingers. For some strange reason it reminds me of the time I was four maybe five years old and I found a half-eaten bright pink lollipop in our garden. I remember watching my mom yelling at me from the window not to eat it, and me defiantly licking the dirt encrusted sweet anyway, finding it rough and delicious on my tongue. By the time my mom ran out I had not only chewed it up, but swallowed it all, so there was no chance she would put her finger in my mouth and hook it out. She smacked the backs of my legs, but I refused to cry. I didn’t think I had done anything wrong.

I take another delicious sip of champagne, lie back and close my eyes.

How the fuck am I going to survive one month of this? Will I really go to him again in an hour and be treated as a complete sex object? I should be disgusted, but the contrary is true. Even the thought of going to him merely to slake his lust makes me feel all hot and tingly. It seems totally crazy that I could feel addicted to his body when he deliberately treats me like a prostitute, but I am.

I take another strawberry and wash it down with champagne. I wish Stella was here with me. What a laugh it would be. She’d be reaching for the caviar for sure. I down the glass and pour myself another. No point wasting good champagne. Besides, I
love
champagne.

Four, oh all right, maybe five glasses of champagne later I gingerly climb out and get dressed. My movements are quite sloppy. The zip won’t go all the way up on my dress. I have to conclude that I am slightly tipsy. I sit on the floor to put on my shoes and my head swims. Jesus, I am more pissed than I thought. A giggle escapes. It was fun though.

He said one hour, but it can’t have been more than half an hour. I could get myself some coffee. Sober up before I go to him. I’ll lose the next battle too if I go like this. Besides it’s bad form. I push myself upright and, swaying on my feet, head towards the door.

‘Whoa, this floor is a proper tragedy,’ I say. My voice is worryingly slurred and very loud in the empty space.

I push open the doors and contemplate the curving stairs. They seem to go on forever. I grasp the cool banister and, holding on to it, take the first step. I lift my other foot and put it on the next step.
Derived from patience
. I shall triumph.

‘The prisoner shall be free,’ I mutter to myself as I ascend to the surface of the earth.

As my feet touch the ground floor a woman dressed in a white skirt and black blouse crosses my path.

‘Hello,’ I greet brightly. She may be another captive sexual slave. I giggle to myself.

She nods and runs off like a frightened rabbit. I watch her disappear down the corridor and I wonder how many people are held in the house. I sway towards the kitchen. As I get closer I can hear people talking. I push open the door.  Noah is sitting at the kitchen counter drinking a cup of coffee, and the matronly woman I had seen earlier is preparing food.

‘Hey,’ I say very carefully. I don’t want them to know I am a bit high.

‘Come in and meet Olga. She is the chef,’ Noah says.

‘Hello, Olga,’ I enunciate clearly.

Olga smiles, but doesn’t offer any greeting.

Noah looks at his watch. ‘Boss wants you in the study in twenty minutes.’

‘I’d rather die than submit,’ I declare grandly.

Noah’s eyes narrow and Olga’s widen with surprise. I might have crossed a line back there, but damn, I hate the idea that every person in this house knows I am here just to service Zane’s sexual needs. ‘Can I please have a cup of coffee?’ I ask gloomily.

Noah stands up and goes to the machine. ‘Cappuccino, espresso, latte, American?’ His tone is an interesting paradox. At once respectful and disapproving.

‘Give me an American.’ A little slur happens on American, but fortunately no one notices … I don’t think.

He brings me a cup. ‘After you have been to the study I will show you around the house and take you to your room. You will then be free until dinner is served at seven. Boss has a dinner engagement so you will eat alone tonight.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say slowly. I feel even more wasted now than I did while I was walking up the stairs.

I reach for the teaspoon sticking out of the sugar bowl and miss. I watch it fly out of the bowl into the air and sugar grains scatter on the immaculate surface.

‘Ooops,’ I say apologetically.

‘Are you drunk?’ Noah asks suspiciously.

I grin at him and both he and the cook exchange glances.

‘You’ve fifteen minutes to sober up,’ Noah says worriedly.

‘Why? What’s he going to do to me if he finds me hammered, hmmm? Kill me?’ I find the thought very funny. Laughing, I lean forward. ‘I mean, he does kill people, doesn’t he?’

Noah says something in a foreign language, Russian presumably, and the cook moves towards a covered tray. She puts it in front of me and uncovers it.

‘Eat,’ Noah instructs.

‘Ooo … little buns?’ I exclaim looking at the golden mounds covered in caraway seeds.

‘Piroshki,’ Olga corrects automatically.

‘Not that it makes a blind bit of difference but, OK,’ I say loudly.  ‘Piroshki.’ My pronunciation is not bad and I feel pleased with myself. I repeat the word. ‘Piroshki.’

‘Eat it. It’s bread stuffed with Swiss cheese and roasted onions,’ Noah says.

‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’ My stomach doesn’t feel so good.

‘You must sober up,’ Noah says sternly.

Both of them stand over me watching me expectantly.

I shake my head and the sudden movement makes me feel quite sick. ‘No. I’m full. I’ve just eaten a bowl full of strawberries.’

Noah frowns. ‘Look Dahlia. This is your first day. You don’t want to make the boss angry. It’s not a good idea.’

‘Shame on you, Noah. A big guy like you afraid of Zane.’ I look at him sideways, slyly. ‘I bet you could take him.’

Olga gasps.

Noah looks again at his watch worriedly. ‘You have ten minutes left.’

‘You worry too much, Noah. Of course I’ll make it. I’m not afraid of him, you know. He …’ I trail off as I feel my elbow start sliding on the marble surface. Oh Jesus. I’m trashed as shit. I lean my face against my forearm and with a long sigh I go off to sleep.

I am vaguely aware that Noah and Olga try very hard to wake me up, but I have not slept properly for days, and after the long flight back I am also jet-lagged so they have no success. I just snuggle up against Noah’s strong warm body and go off to sleep. ‘You’re like a bear, Noah,’ I mumble. At least I think it is Noah. Unless it’s Olga and in that case she has a surprisingly muscular body ...

ZANE

She didn’t present herself in my study as she had been instructed to do. Instead she got drunk on three-quarters of a bottle of champagne and passed out in the kitchen. I should be annoyed, but I am not. I’m excited by that streak of rebellion in her.

I walk into the cool darkness of her bedroom, switch on the bedside lamp, and watch her. In the pool of golden light her skin glows softly. Her lashes lie like sooty fans against her downy cheeks. Her mouth is reddened and slightly open. Her dark-chocolate hair fans out across the pillow. Her dress has not been properly zipped and one side of it has slipped off her shoulders exposing the soft swell of one luscious breast. Her right hand is softly curled and lying beside her cheek, the nails are painted creamy blue. They exactly match her dress. The whole effect somehow seems staged. Too beautiful. Like a carefully planned fashion shoot. For a moment I wonder if Noah did it.

Nah! Noah doesn’t have a dramatic bone in his body.

I stare transfixed at the smooth curve of her neck. How delicate and vulnerable it is. So easy to snap. Something inside me moves. I’ve had other women as equally beautiful as her, yet only she calls to me like a fucking siren. Even now I’m as horny as fuck. My cock is so hard and painful I’ll have to relieve myself.

Sure she’s fucking hot, but I won’t let any woman get to me like this.

I have exactly one month to use her and exorcise this obsession completely from my system. I know the immutable rule of supply and demand. The more you have of something the less you want it. Even the most delicious will become stale when you have overindulged, so I will over indulge.

I will have her at every turn.

Until I want her no more.

Then I will discard her. As I have done with every other woman I have ever been with. Things were good before her. They will be good again when she is gone.

I don’t need one woman. I never have and I never will. Not for me: weakness and dependence. I reach out a hand and touch her face. Her skin is like silk. Like a fucking dream. One day her face will blend into the endless line of faces and bodies I have fucked and dropped. She is just a sickness. Her poison will eventually lose its potency and be expelled out of my bloodstream. She will become a distant memory and I will be free.

I won’t feel this emptiness every time I look at her.

Dahlia Fury

I
wake up in a strange bed and for a bewildering moment I don’t know where I am. Sunlight is filtering in through the gaps in the curtains. My mouth feels sour and there is a dull throbbing in my head. 

Then it comes back to me. I am in Zane’s house. I got very drunk yesterday evening. I remember drinking coffee in the kitchen. Noah must have brought me up here. I look down and thank God, I am still wearing my clothes. My watch tells me it is nearly seven o’clock.

I look around curiously.

The room is feminine, and yet impersonal the way an expensive hotel room is. It is large with cream walls and three lots of tall dusty pink curtains on one side, which means there are three windows. Beside the middle curtain there is a round table covered with a soft pink tablecloth. A vase of fresh flowers sits on it. Two white armchairs face it. It is obviously a place to have breakfast, but I am immediately happy about the table as it means I can work in this room. The headboard is an elaborate padded thing with pink velour upholstery and gilded wood.

Stretching and yawning noisily, I notice a plastic tab with two pills in it and a bottle of water. Excellent idea, Noah. I take the pills and drink half the bottle of water. I must be really dehydrated. I flip the duvet and swing my legs out of the bed. There is a pair of pink bedroom slippers waiting below. They obviously have a pink theme going on.

I pad over to the first window and draw open the curtains. With the curtains open the room seems light and bright. A perfect place for me to work in. I look outside the window and realize that the room is on the third floor. It faces a formal garden with mature trees and topiary that looks pretty spectacular in the morning sun.

Still yawning I pad over to the bathroom. The bathroom makes me smile. If I had not believed Zane was a Mafia boss, the bathroom would have convinced me. It is entirely done up in pink marble and is, I suppose, very impressive. The taps and fittings are all gleaming gold. Brand new toothbrushes, combs, hairbrushes, soaps, and moisturizing lotions have been put out next to the basin. I use what I need in the shower and wrap myself in a fluffy white bathrobe hanging behind the door.

Back into the room and feeling more human, I notice that Yuri or somebody else has neatly tucked away my battered suitcase with its Michigan Girl sticker, my rucksack, and my cheap shoes next to the wardrobe.  They look out of place in these opulent surroundings. I open my suitcase, get dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, and put the rest of my stuff away in the wardrobe.

My headache is nearly gone.  I open the door and step into a circular landing.  There are two other doors around the curving central staircase, but they are both closed, and since I have zero desire to explore, I go down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. There is no one about in the hallway so I veer into the corridor that leads to the kitchen. Olga is in it. She is sitting at the counter, her hands curled around a mug. She stands and smiles politely when she sees me.

‘Good morning,’ I greet.

She nods. She mimes the act of carrying her right hand up to her mouth.

‘Breakfast. OK.’ I bite my lip. ‘No English?’ I ask shaking my head.

She shakes her head.

‘Not even a word?’ I ask hopefully.

She looks at me blankly.

I sigh. Great.

She indicates that I should follow her, which I do, into a sunny breakfast room. The sun is streaming in and the table is already set and loaded with food.

‘Wow,’ I say. I look at her and point at my chest. ‘All for me?’

She nods and makes a motion for me to sit.

I sit and look at the selection of food. Pancakes. She points to the jars of jam and honey and a pitcher of some thick and whitish liquid. It doesn’t look like cream.

‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing to it.

She indicates I should wait, goes out of the room, and comes back with a can that she puts into my hand.

‘Ah, condensed milk.’ Ugh. ‘I eat this with the pancake?’ I ask politely.

She nods, smiles and gives me the thumbs up signal.

Over my dead body. ‘OK. Thanks.’

She lifts a little dish and exposes a slimy, whitish pudding that shivers like jelly and looks like it has been set in a gelatin mould. She picks up a jar of runny raspberry jam and pours a generous amount on top of the little mound.

She looks at me encouragingly. I take a spoon and try a little. It is semolina. I hate semolina. She looks at me expectantly. I smile, swallow, rub my belly, and make an ‘mmmm,’ sound.

She smiles happily and points to some open sandwiches. Buttered bread slices topped with pink sausage meat or slices of cheese.

‘Kolbasa,’ she says pointing at the meat, and gives me another thumbs up signal.

‘Right, Russian sausage.’

She points to a cold omelet sprinkled with dill, and I make a mental note to stock up on cereal.

I make a sign of drinking and say. ‘Coffee?’

She nods and leaves the room. I push the semolina away and reach for a pancake. I’ve seen these in the supermarket, but never bought them. Blinis. I butter it and add some honey. It is good. Olga comes in with a mug of black tea. I shake my head. ‘Coffee,’ I say slowly, as if saying it slower will help her understand.

‘Oh,’ she says, and rushes out of the room.

I take another bite of my blinis and stare out of the window. It is so beautiful and peaceful. As I watch, a thickset man in a black leather jacket crosses the garden and disappears behind some bushes. I glance at my watch. Stella is probably still asleep. My other life seems a world away.  It feels as if I am not even in the same country. Olga comes in with my coffee. I hold my finger up to her and, taking my phone, Google thank you in Russian.

‘Spasibo,’ I say haltingly.

‘Pazhalooysta,’ she replies.

‘She’s telling you “That’s all right”,’ Noah says from the doorway.

‘Good morning,’ I greet.

Olga says something to him in Russian and leaves.

‘Are you going to join me?’ I ask.

He looks at me strangely. ‘No.’

‘There’s so much food here,’ I say.

‘I eat in the kitchen,’ he says briefly.

‘OK.’ I put two teaspoons of sugar into my coffee.

‘After you eat I will show you around the house,’ he says.

I stir my coffee. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Enjoy your breakfast,’ he says and leaves.

After I have finished my meal I wander back into the kitchen where Noah and Olga are laughing about something. They stop when they notice me.

‘I’m finished,’ I say to Noah.

He pushes off the counter and passes me. ‘You’ve already been to the study, the breakfast room, and the bathhouse. So we’ll leave those out.’

The tour of the house is accomplished quite quickly. Underground there is a gym, a temperature controlled cellar, a sauna, a steam room, a cinema room, a swimming pool, a large room on the floor Noah calls minus 2 for throwing parties. Above ground there are the usual rooms that any London mansion would have, dining room, multiple living rooms, eight bedrooms which we don’t explore, and surprisingly a music room with a glossy grand piano.

‘Who plays the piano?’ I ask.

‘Nobody,’ he says stiffly.

‘Just for show, huh?’

Noah shrugs and refuses to be drawn into conversation. So far he has been polite but distant, which makes me feel he doesn’t like me. Especially since I saw him affectionately rub Stella’s head in the kitchen. I suddenly remember how very rude I was to him on my first visit. I stop in the middle of the corridor.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I was rude the first time I was here. I didn’t want to come so I was in a bad mood, and you kind of pissed me off too.’

‘No worries,’ he dismisses casually.

‘So we’re cool?’ I insist, because I really am grateful to him.

A ghost of a smile flits across his face. ‘We’re … cool.’

I grin at him. ‘Oh and thanks for hauling me all the way to the top floor.’

‘There’s a lift in this house,’ he reminds.

‘Otherwise you would have left me on the kitchen floor.’

‘Maybe.’

I smile. ‘So what’s the plan for today?’

‘Boss wants to see you in the study at 10.00am. He hates to be kept waiting. Please don’t be late.’ Then he strides off in the direction of the front door.

I glance at my watch. It is only nine o’clock. Maybe I can get an hour’s work in before I face the tiger. I head back to the kitchen. There is no one there so I make myself a mug of coffee and go back up to my room.

I pull out my rucksack crammed full with a fraction of the submissions from the slush pile. I take it out, place it on the table, and pull out a white armchair. Well, it certainly is a peaceful place to read.

The first submission is terrible. If I had a cent for every submission that begins with the female protagonist checking out her face in the mirror, I’d be rich. Fifty Shades has a lot to answer for. I put the neatly stapled three chapters down, dip my finger in the coffee, smear it on the rim of my mug and place the mug on the manuscript. Then I thumb the edges to give the impression that someone has read it while drinking coffee.

It is a charade, but unfortunately it is necessary. In the past when I used to return bad manuscripts to their owners, they would write back accusing the agency of not having read their work. With this technique I don’t get such letters anymore. 

I pick up the next envelope. The first thing I see is a professionally taken photo of a pretty woman. Her letter says she would like to use that photo on the back jacket of the book. Not a good sign. Usually the worst bits of writing come with glamorous photos attached. I start reading it and sigh. I can barely get past the second page.

I put on the coffee stain, dog ear the manuscript and slip it with our agency’s polite rejection slip into its self-addressed envelope, and stare out of the window. I will do no more this morning. I am not myself. I look at the time.

Ten minutes to ten. Time to go down.