His Queen of Clubs Read online

  “Good. I want you here by Sunday. Business has become sloppy without you.”

  “I’ll see you Sunday, Papa.”

  He ends the call without a goodbye as I continue to stare at the bathroom door. When Alessia emerges with another haughty toss of her hair, my dick lengthens down my pant leg.

  Yes.

  No better way to fuck the Tacones up the ass than to marry into their family. Claim their baby sister as my bride and demand payment in the form of a dowry.

  To keep her in the style she’s accustomed to, of course.

  Not that I don’t have plenty of money already.

  No, this is business. I’m marking my territory in the cruelest way possible. Making that link I was trying to forge before—between American mafia and Russian.

  And claiming the most spectacular trophy possible in the process.

  Alessia Tacone, my bride.

  “Come.”

  * * *

  Alessia

  The Russian beckons me over.

  I want to refuse, but I’m afraid of what will happen. The guy seems sane enough, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Especially if he has a beef with my family. I don’t doubt what he told me.

  That my brother—I don’t even know which one, but it doesn’t matter—it could’ve been any of them—killed everyone in his cell.

  That’s not something I would ever want to know my brothers did, but the truth is, I know we’re mafia. I know violence happens. Probably way more than I want to think.

  So I’d probably be wise to cooperate a little with this guy until my brothers get me out of here.

  I walk to him, not missing the way his gaze skims over my body. I’m in a dress that clings to my curves in a color that lights up my face. Taking advantage of his veiled appreciation, I thrust out my bound hands. “Alessia Tacone. And you are?”

  “Vlad,” he says easily.

  The fact that he’s unafraid to share it with me sends warning tingles up my spine. Either I’m not getting out of this alive, or he has no idea that Sicilians don’t rest until they’ve taken vengeance.

  Of course, I’m his vengeance on them.

  He wraps his tattooed fingers around my upper arm and leads me to the door. “Move, zaika.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the kitchen. For food.”

  I walk down the stairs of what is actually a beautiful townhouse. Light-filled and airy, the living room has a lofted ceiling and a state-of-the-art television on the wall.

  I’m surprised to see a boy in desperate need of a haircut perched on the back of the expensive leather couch with his feet on the cushions watching Disney Channel with his head cocked to the side. He turns to look at me, his expression guarded.

  The teacher in me is horrified to find a child in this situation. He’s witnessing a felony kidnapping, becoming acclimated to violence and crime. The worst part of it is that he doesn’t even seem frightened or disturbed by it.

  “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t his first rodeo?” I mutter, more to myself than to Vlad.

  “It’s not.”

  Vlad leads me through the living area to a small but finely appointed kitchen, where he pushes me into a chair at the table and ties my ankles to it.

  “Is he your son?”

  Okay, now that I’ve seen the boy, I’m less certain of Vlad’s sanity. Who, in their right mind, involves a kid in an abduction? Why isn’t the boy in school? What in the hell is going on? My passion for children surges, and the need to interfere rises to the surface.

  “No.”

  The boy looks over, like he’s listening, and he and Vlad meet eyes briefly, before the boy drops his.

  “Mika is an orphan, thanks to your brother.”

  I draw in a sharp breath, my ribs constricting painfully. I know I hid my head in the sand all along about family business—that was what was expected of me. But this is definitely not something I wanted to hear. Ever.

  I blink back hot tears.

  Vlad stares at me, the intensity of his gaze searing through me.

  “I’m sorry.” I meet his eyes evenly to show him I mean it. The tears brim but don’t fall.

  A muscle ticks in his tight jaw. “I believe you.” His voice is gruff. He turns on the oven and pulls a frozen pizza out of the freezer.

  I know I’m a prisoner here, but he wants me alive, so I speak up. “Vlad, I can’t eat that.”

  He looks at the pizza, then back at me. “Why not? The diabetes?”

  I nod, not wanting to mention the kidney stuff. I try not to think about it. “I love pizza and pasta and bread, but I have to stick to low carb foods like meat and vegetables.”

  He tosses the pizza onto the counter and opens a cabinet. He pulls out a can of sardines. “Low carbs. Okay.” He cracks open the can and gets a fork.

  “What do you know about your brothers’ business?” He unwraps the pizza and puts it in the oven without waiting for it to pre-heat.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” he repeats back in his thick accent. It sounds more like nothingk. “The Sicilians keep their women out of the business, no?”

  “Yes,” I admit softly.

  He opens the refrigerator and produces a bag of baby carrots. Like a lion approaching trapped prey, he saunters over to me and holds a carrot to my lips.

  I meet his ice blue gaze, surprised.

  He shrugs. “I’m not untying you. If you want to eat, it will be by my hand, so you’d better learn to be sweet.”

  My core clenches. That shouldn’t be exciting, but my body didn’t get the memo. Apparently being hand-fed by a Russian mobster is a turn-on. Or maybe it was knowing I’m at his mercy. The order to be sweet.

  Either way, a prickle of awareness runs over my skin, tightening my nipples as I take a bite of the proffered vegetable. The Russian stands over me, watching. I swear his gaze is hungry.

  The carrot is delicious, or maybe I’m just starving. I swallow the bite and lift my lips for more.

  The hardened lines of his face soften as he feeds me the other half of the carrot, then pulls out another. “You know nothingk, so I will tell you. Junior shot and killed six of my men in a restaurant called Caffe Milano in February.”

  I stop eating, my appetite suddenly gone.

  “You know it?” he asks in a fake conversational tone.

  “And who shot my brother?” I demand. February was when Gio got shot. When Junior refused to take him to a hospital and instead brought in a nurse to care for him at home.

  The nurse he just married today.

  Fresh tears sting my eyes thinking of how their wedding must’ve been ruined by my kidnapping. How worried they all must be over me.

  “If you think my brothers won’t kill you for this, you’re mad.”

  He shrugs. “Oh I’m sure they’ll want me dead. But they won’t do it.”

  I dread the answer to my next question. “Why not?”

  The feral smile plays over his lips. He feeds me another carrot. “Because, zaika. I’m not giving you back. And they won’t want you harmed, see? Plus, it will be very hard to find us in Russia.”

  Russia.

  Not giving me back.

  Full-on panic blooms in my belly, floods my body with adrenaline. I attempt to surge up from my chair, which only succeeds in rocking it forward and throwing my chest into the table.

  Apparently unimpressed, he tips me back with a nudge to my shoulder.

  “I’m not going to Russia with you,” I tell him. Like saying it firmly enough will make it so.

  “You are. You will be my bride, zaika. And you will learn to obey your husband. Be a good girl, and you may eventually earn your freedom.”

  My heart thunders in my chest. “No.”

  “Izvinyayus.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means sorry. Your fate has been sealed, printsessa. You’re mine. Your brothers will pay me to keep you.”

  My stomach twists in
a tight knot.

  “Don’t worry, I will keep you well.” He holds out another carrot, but I turn my head sharply away.

  He catches my chin and turns my face up to his. The touch is gentle but his eyes blaze with potent command. “You will eat. Do not test me.”

  I glare at him, but to my horror, his handsome, cruel face goes blurry when my eyes swim with tears.

  He strokes my cheek with his thumb, nothing changing in his expression.

  Once more, I feel that squeeze in my core. Like my body loves the idea of being this man’s prisoner, even as my mind rebels.

  A tear escapes my right eye and falls onto his fingers.

  He holds my gaze as he lifts his knuckles to his mouth and sucks it off. He cocks his head to the side. “Maybe I’ll let you go,” he says, like he’s discussing where he wants to eat, not my entire future. “After a year or two. We’ll see.”

  “Vlad, you can’t…”

  “Ah, but I can, zaika.” He taps the table where the bag of carrots sits. “Enough arguing. Show me you’ll be a good girl and eat.” He holds another up to my lips.

  I shake my head, planning to refuse. We lock gazes, his blue eyes boring into mine, and I open my mouth and eat, just like he commanded.

  Damn him.

  In silence, we maintain our staring contest—Vlad towering over me, hand feeding me the carrots, then the sardines. Me, accepting every bite, glaring up at him with all the defiance I dare give. All the while, my traitorous body responds to his nearness. His stark masculinity—the power behind the bulging muscles, the force of his presence.

  “Good girl,” he says when I finish. The oven timer goes off. He pulls out the pizza and tosses it on the cardboard box it came in. “Mika. Come.”

  The boy swings his legs around on the back of the couch and jumps down. He might be younger than I initially thought.

  When he comes into the kitchen, I ask him. “Mika, how old are you?”

  The boy shoots a look at Vlad, who shrugs. “You can answer.”

  “Twelve,” he mutters. He wears an angry glare, but it’s not directed at me, it’s toward the table.

  Vlad hands him a slice of pizza on a plate and places an orange beside it. “Here you go. Get a glass of milk to go with it.”

  The boy obeys and I’m slightly reassured. Vlad is at least taking care of his basic food needs. But still, this boy should be in school.

  “What grade are you in?”

  “None,” the boy replies defensively. Like he’s daring me to try to make him go to school.

  “You want to go back to Russia, Mika?” Vlad asks.

  Fear ripples over Mika’s expression and my heart squeezes. “Nyet,” he says quickly.

  Vlad seems to understand the boy’s apprehension. “With me,” he clarifies. “I’m taking the girl to Volgograd.”

  Mika still appears wary.

  “You’ll stay with me, unless you’d rather I deliver you to someone else’s care.”

  I sense reluctance in Vlad’s offer, like he hasn’t bought into the idea of taking care of this boy forever, but the relief on Mika’s face makes me want to throw my arms around Vlad and kiss him.

  Poor Mika. Newly orphaned, he’s probably terrified of being abandoned or pawned off with someone else. He just wants to bond to someone to get his needs met.

  I’m suddenly not as upset about Vlad taking me to Russia. Someone needs to look after this boy, to give him an education and make sure he’s cared for. If I’m along, I can make sure of his well-being. I owe it to him, considering it was Junior who left him orphaned.

  Chapter 4

  Vlad

  In the bedroom, I untie Alessia’s wrists to check on the skin beneath. It’s chafed and raw, so I wind a scrap of one of my t-shirts around the area before retying her.

  She’s quiet through it all. Withdrawn.

  I pick up the glucometer to check her blood sugar before bed.

  “You don’t need to check again. I should be stable now,” she mutters.

  I ignore her and take the drop of blood anyway. She doesn’t strike me as the suicide type, but I’d rather not rely on her for all my information. She’s right, though, her numbers are in range, according to the range she gave me.

  I make a mental note to research the hell out of her illness, so I can properly care for her.

  Already a fierce protectiveness for her consumes me, which is unusual for me. I don’t trust women. In my experience, they are the most conniving, deceitful creatures under the sun. But this one happens to be completely at my mercy, which changes the dynamic significantly.

  She’s also beautiful.

  That shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does.

  Of course, Sabina was beautiful, and look what she did. Nearly got me killed. I still don’t know what her game was—why she’d want to set me up.

  I remove Alessia’s ankle ropes and escort her to the bathroom. Find an unopened toothbrush in the drawer. “You can use this.” I drop it on the counter.

  “How do you expect me to brush with my wrists tied?”

  I shrug. “Your choice. Figure it out or don’t. And leave the door open.” I step out to the bedroom to give her a modicum of privacy.

  She emerges a few minutes later and I tie her to the bed and turn off the light.

  Then I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself. Lying next to her will make my dick so hard it will break off. But I’m not about to leave her to her own devices, either.

  I do a quick check on Mika, not that the kid ever needs anything. He’s curled up on the sofa where he’s been sleeping and watching television. I don’t tell him it’s lights out time. He’s too self-sufficient to need that kind of shit. I just walk around and turn out lights like I do every night, leaving one on low in the kitchen in case he gets up.

  “Dobri nochi, Mika.” I reach over the back of the sofa and squeeze his arm.

  “Dobri nochi,” he mumbles sleepily and hits the off button on the remote control.

  Upstairs I brush my teeth and kick off my shoes. I decide sleeping fully clothed on top of the covers is the best option. If I rub up against that soft, youthful skin of hers during the night, there’s no telling what I’ll do.

  “What happened to Mika’s parents?” Alessia croaks in the darkness.

  Christ. Was that why she was so quiet? She’s been thinking about Mika this whole time? A tight band squeezes my chest.

  Fuck. I don’t want to find this woman so damn sympathetic.

  “I already told you,” I snap, even though she doesn’t deserve it. Even though what I told her isn’t altogether true.

  “Junior killed them?” Her tremulous tone forces the truth from me.

  “Nyet. No. Boy had no father, as far as I know,” I admit. “His mother was a whore for the bratva. She and Mika came over here with Aleksi, one of the men in my cell. Then she ran away and left Mika with our cell. Aleksi looked after him. Your brother killed Aleksi.”

  “His mother...left him with the Russian mafiya?”

  “Da. Bitch ran off. Left her son as soon as they got to America. I guess she saw the trip as her ticket to freedom. She told Mika to be loyal to us so we’d take care of him.”

  The kid is loyal as hell. But I sure as hell didn’t want responsibility for him.

  “And you did?” Alarm rings in her voice.

  “Da.” It is more or less true. Training brats off the street has long been a part of Russian mafiya. “I was gone when your brother killed everyone. When I came back, I found the boy surviving on his own. He’d eaten all the food in the house and was stealing from stores in the neighborhood to survive. He hid from the police when they came to search the place.”

  “Oh God. The poor kid.” She’s silent a moment. “Has he been to school?”

  “No.” Integrating the kid into American society was not part of my plan. He is no worse off than he would have been in Russia with his prostitute mother. His chances for survival—and ev
en a decent living situation—went way up when he became my responsibility. I know, because he sticks me to like glue. He’s grateful as hell and does everything I say without question.

  “He’s still learning English. And I chose to keep him with me, keep him close. It’s a short-term situation.”

  “What’s the long-term one?”

  Return him to lower ranks of the bratva. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “You’re blackmailing my family, right? Demanding money for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of that money should go to the boy.” She says it fiercely, like she’s prepared to fight me on this. I’d like to say I’m unmoved by her compassion for the boy, but a twisting, guilty sort of feeling moves in my center.

  This woman may not be the selfish, spoiled princess I imagined her to be. She is coddled, naive and soft, though, as a sheltered daughter would be. But I appreciate her passion for the kid.

  “Da. Okay. I will set up an account for him. Off-shore, tax-free, of course.”

  She rolls over in the dark, and looks up at me. I have to fight the urge to touch her. To brush that chestnut hair back from her lovely face. To run my thumb over those pouty lips. Shove it in her mouth and make her suck.

  “Promise?”

  “My word.”

  She lays her head back down and sighs.

  I can’t resist. I burrow my fingers into her hair and gently massage her scalp.

  She makes a soft surrendering sound. I keep at it until she falls asleep.

  Then I force myself to move away from her, to the far side of the bed, facing away.

  Chapter 5

  Alessia

  “Take these off me,” I moan when I wake up, my arms aching from being held in the same position too long. I hold my wrists out to Vlad, without much hope of his compliance. I am his prisoner, after all.

  But he’s also not a tyrant. I can see that already. He rewrapped my wrists last night when he saw the rope was biting into my skin. And he massaged my head until I fell asleep last night. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything so wonderful in my life.