Chapter Two

Celia

Four years ago

The door closes behind me with an ominous thud, telling me what I already know—my mother is pissed. I refuse to feel guilty for calling Carlo a fucker, especially when he is. As I walk away from his house a gust of wind slams into me—fuck, that’s cold. Everything I knew would happen had. This was a waste of time. I wish I was home in bed. It’s too cold to be up this early on a Saturday morning.

Almost a hundred feet up from the long driveway of the house, a large black SUV is idling. The rear windows are tinted completely black while the driver and passenger are smoky gray, so they won’t get a ticket. Whoever they are, they’re mafia. If there was any doubt the tinted windows clinched it. That and they were carefully out of shot of the cameras—that they know where the cameras are speaks volumes.

All mafia Carlo does business with comes to him—usually at his huge house. A house empty of anyone except him and sometimes my mother, when he allowed her to stay the night. Carlo got off on power plays, and showing off his home always made him feel powerful.

I check my watch, almost ten minutes to nine o’clock. They are waiting until they were right on time, well aware Carlo hated when people were late. Disappointment hits me—that means it isn’t one of the Sabatinis. The Sabatinis are pretty much the only mafia men I like.

Either Dominic or Tony would have made the day better. They were so nice, and neither one of them would allow me to walk home. It’s one of the ways I came to know them so well. If they saw me leaving Carlo’s, they always drove me wherever I needed to go, even if it made them late or pissed Carlo off. Every time I see them, I’m jealous Dominic has Tony for a father. How different would my life be if my father actually gave a shit about his kids and the woman who bore them?

I stop as I pass the SUV. The sound is barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. It’s one of those luxury SUVs so expensive the engine barely makes a sound. The only way you can tell it’s on is from the steam of the hot air coming out of the tailpipe. I hear it again. Oh no.

Frantically, I bang on the hood as I run to the driver’s door and knock on the window. “Turn the car off! There’s a kitten in the engine.”

Men are in both the driver and passenger seats. The driver is bursting out of a plain black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Tattoos run up his neck, and all over the back of his hands down to his fingers. Any other day of the week I would be running fast and far away from him. Passenger guy is the same level of scary. He’s so big his head nearly brushes across the hood of the car. His dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes don’t miss a thing—definitely security. Definitely wearing a gun, probably two, and has no problem ending a problem his boss has with a bullet to the head.

The passenger says something to the driver. The driver doesn’t even look at me—he’s going to ignore me. Fuck this. I don’t knock, I bang on the window so hard my hand hurts in the thick woolen mittens I’m wearing. “Turn off the car, you fucking—”

“Maylshka.” Gravel and smoke hit me from above. “Is there a problem?”

I turn to find a wall of black, black suit, black shirt, black tie, wrapped in an elegant, long black coat. I’m well aware at five foot six I’m not all that tall, but I have to crane my neck to find yellow eyes glowing down at me. Yellow eyes? Gold and amber eyes I’ve seen, but nowhere except the cats I love have I have ever seen yellow as bright as in this man’s eyes.

Even with his spooky eyes, he’s gorgeous. Skin the color of warm honey is taut over hard lines and angles. A heavily lined forehead adds years to him, putting him in at least his thirties but could be even older. I’m guessing his nose has been broken and set at least twice—it doesn’t detract from his appearance in the slightest. He has cheekbones so sharp I wouldn’t dare touch them for fear of being cut. His jaw and chin are the kind of square I thought only existed in the old comic books my sister collects. He has a thin beard and it takes a second before I realize it’s there among the dark bristles—scar tissue. I recognize a gunshot when I see one. He’s been shot in the face. Mafia, Russian mafia, and I’m yelling at his men.

From across the hood of the SUV another voice says something low in Russian. I focus on that guy. The passenger—him I can deal with. The man in front of me, the solid wall of black…nope, can’t do it, can’t cope.

“Turn off the fucking car. There is a kitten in the engine. You’re going to kill it, dumbass!” I yell.

The words aren’t even out of my mouth before the SUV is off and the hood is popped. Passenger guy is opening the hood. I try to look inside. “Kitty, here. Kitty,” I call out, trying to see where the kitten is hiding. Another meow is my answer.

A clamp comes around my arm, his hand is huge. I have a feeling he could break my arm easily even through my coat with just one hand. That isn’t what unnerves me, though—it’s how even through my thick wool coat I’m hit with heat as I’m pulled back.

“Nyet, you will not burn yourself,” Gravel-Voice guy says. “Go sit inside. It’s too cold for you out here.”

Once again I’m struck dumb as I look up at him. God, six foot four, maybe even six foot five. I’ve stood in front of men as tall and wide as him, yet none have overwhelmed me the way he does.

Another meow, this one is followed by an angry hiss. I swing around to find passenger guy clutching a tiny black kitten. I’m at his side, holding out my hands for the kitten. He drops it into my hands. So small. “Oh no, baby, you’re burned. Are you okay? Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up, I promise.”

The vet clinic I work at is more than three miles away. I need to get moving. But the clamp is back, holding me in place.

“Where is your car?” Gravel-Voice guy asks.

Opening my coat, I place the kitten inside and zip it back up. “I don’t have one. Which means I have to move my ass to get to the vet clinic. It’s almost a forty-five-minute walk.”

The clamp propels me toward the back door. It opens but I stop. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to keep you from freezing to death. Get in.” It’s an order.

I’m annoyed I like it when usually I loathe being told what to do by anyone. It causes me to take a step back. He mutters something in Russian that sounds bad, then I’m up in his arms. Holy shit. He’s picked me up like I weigh nothing. I barely have time to enjoy it before he drops me on the back seat.

The back of the SUV is huge but with a man inside, it doesn’t feel that way. A ghost of a smile is on his face. He has to be Gravel-Voice’s brother or some kind of relation because he looks like him, maybe a few years younger. While he isn’t quite as big as Gravel-Voice, he’s still larger than I’m used to in close quarters.

“Privet, malyshka, such a pretty little thing you are.” His voice is smoky and rich but not as gravelly as the other guy’s.

Gravel-Voice growls at him and says something in Russian that causes the man to smile wickedly, wink at me then get out.

The car door on the other side stays open while the door on my side closes. Hey, what the hell? I go to open it only to find it locked. Their deep voices are low, yet I clearly hear them speaking Russian. Gravel-Voice goes to his maybe brother’s side. With a nod, the maybe brother and the guy who retrieved the kitten walk toward Carlo’s house. I check my watch—nine on the dot.

He lowers himself into the SUV I would have had to climb up into if he hadn’t put me in. He closes the door with barely a sound. An eyebrow goes up as yellow eyes run over me. “Where is the clinic, malyshka?”

I have no idea why I’m blushing. How is it so freaking hot in here? What does malyshka mean? A meow reminds me of what I’m doing in here with him. The address spills out of me in a rush.

The driver grunts, I guess that means he heard it or knows where it is.

“Seat belt. Safety, always,” he murmurs from low in his chest.

I’m all thumbs as I stretch the belt across me. Dang it, I pull off my mittens to get a grip. I can’t find the— Oh. His hands are on mine, taking the metal part for me. My stomach drops to the floor as electricity courses through me so strong it scares the hell out of me.

The kitten meows again, yanking me out of shock. I move the belt from across him. “It’s okay, baby. You’re going to be okay.”

“Are you so ferocious for all animals, or do you prefer cats?” A dark eyebrow is up as he studies me with…curiosity, or is it intent? Why would it be intent?

He shifts ever so slightly and all at once he’s too close. It doesn’t matter there’s at least five feet between us and the back of the SUV is large, he’s larger. He reminds me of a big cat; the energy around him is tense, as though he’s waiting to strike.

“I like all animals but prefer cats. Dogs are desperate for affection—they’ll do anything to be reassured they are loved. Cats are more honest and real. If they don’t like you then you know. There’s no guessing with cats. Some people think a cat has to be all over them, but sometimes they show you they like you by simply letting you be around them. Once you’ve earned their trust they are incredibly loyal.” Stop babbling, you weirdo. “Who are you?” The words fly out without any plan.

A smile, with only half of his thick lips. I wonder if they are as soft as they look. “I am Milos Levin. And you are?”

He pronounces it Milosh, and I have no idea why I’m blushing again. When he speaks Russian it’s fluid, yet when he speaks English there is barely a trace of an accent. Was English his first language? “Celia Parker. You’re also mafia. You left that part out.”

His smile deepens. “Is it so obvious? For Russians, we are Bratva.”

“Obvious you’ve killed people, probably with your bare hands? Yes. Also Carlo loves to make mafia come to him. The people whose asses he wants to kiss, he goes to them or meets them at his restaurant.”

Yellow glows down at me. “What do you know about mafia and people who kill with their bare hands, malyshka?”

“Carlo’s my sperm donor. He’s proud of what he is and loves to brag about all the shit he’s done to me and my little sister. We only exist for his ego and benefit. He’ll parade us around if he needs to look like a family man. The whole time we don’t live in his home or have his name, and if someone he wanted to impress asked if we were his, he denied us.” Stop babbling, stop it right now. Only I can’t—his eyes on me unnerve me completely.

“With my mom half-Filipino, we weren’t good enough to have his name. Because the mafia is filled with racist assholes. Never mind that most people have no idea we’re a quarter Filipino. Carlo did his best to wipe it out of our home—my mom wasn’t allowed to cook Filipino food or speak the language around us.”

Like every time I dare to let myself speak of Carlo, the bitterness threatens to consume me. “He told me today he’s not paying for me to go to college. Which means I can’t go at all.” Fuck, I wipe the tears that spill over. “He has the money. It’s not even his money I want, it’s my money. His mother left money for me and my sister for exactly this reason—so we could go to school and live our lives without depending on him. He brags constantly about how much money he has. But he won’t pay for me to go to school to become a veterinarian because it would be a waste when I’m only good to get married and have kids. Yet he also tells me he can’t find anyone who wants to marry me, so I’m useless to him. If I’m useless then let me go to school.”

I check on the kitten. He’s just staring up at me, unblinking. Huh, his eyes are yellow like Gravel-Voice—Milos. He’s calm for a kitten. Usually they meow on repeat until they get what they want, and they are always hungry.

“You are not able to attend university without your father’s help.” Is it a question?

Shaking my head, I sigh. “Sperm donor, not father,” I correct him. “No, if it were for anything else maybe, but the veterinarian program is hard. I’m dyslexic so studying is torture. Which means I can’t also handle an actual job while going to school like so many people do. The Pell Grant and the few thousand in scholarships I got aren’t enough for me to go the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign. And loans aren’t an option. It also isn’t his help—like I said, his mother left us money. If I had access to it, I could go.”

“There is no other access to the money? Wouldn’t the money be held away independently?”

I roll my eyes. “Please, he’s now underboss of the Outfit. The second most powerful man in Chicago. Before that he loved flashing his power. He had the money under his control before my grandmother was in the ground. Apparently he used the money already on that stupid huge house. It’s pathetic when it’s really just about trying to one-up Tony Sabatini. Something he knows deep down he can never do, bigger house or not. Tony Sabatini is not just a better capo than Carlo, he’s a better man, period. He’ll use and depend on Dominic while he resents Dominic is Tony’s son.”

“You know Tony and Dominic Sabatini?” An eyebrow goes up.

I’m blushing. “I’ve met them several times. They’re the only mafia men who are nice to me and my sister. Neither of them look through us the way most men do, as if they’re afraid by giving me a second of attention, I’ll suddenly find myself in love with them or something.”

I shrug. “Then there were the times I have to listen to Carlo rant when he’s drunk. You remind me of Tony Sabatini—it’s how I could tell you’ve killed before and have no problem with it…and probably will again. Carlo gets off on using Tony to clean up—” Shit. This is why I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut.