Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance Page 6

  Someone should give me a fucking medal for today because I’m on a roll.

  Ielena doesn’t do ‘pretty’. She doesn’t do ‘beautiful’, either. To be honest, I don’t know what the hell she is. At least she’s delivering on her promise of never being boring. Meanwhile, Maxim looks ready to give me something else, namely the clenched fist hanging down by his side.

  “Dubov wants me as a witness in his absence. Zaccaria’s requested a signed marriage certificate.”

  “Does your wife know you’re crushing on your Pakhan’s daughter?” I say idly, throwing a rock of accusation up in the air to see which truth it crushes.

  Maxim’s fist rises to waist height. “Are you questioning her purity?”

  “I couldn’t give a damn about her fucking purity. I’m not as obsessed with it as you lot are.” I want something far more precious from Ielena.

  A pale face slinks back into view, smelling a hell of a lot sweeter than she did a couple of minutes ago. Maxim reluctantly stands aside and I watch her climb back into the car and repeat the fancy rigmarole with her dress. The tears have gone. Instead, there’s something steely and determined in their place that’s pouring gasoline onto my crotch again.

  I make my decision, then and there.

  “Take the other car and meet us in Monte Carlo,” I tell him, pulling out my cell and dialing out a number I know by heart.

  Maxim frowns. At least I think it’s a frown. It’s hard to tell with that face. “The ceremony starts in two hours—”

  “Give them a hundred and tell them to wait.” I hold the device to my ear, counting out five peals of test-my-patience.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “Maxim, this over-protective shtick is really starting to cramp your ugly style.” Four more peals, and then a soft voice is heavy-petting my name.

  “Tell me!” he thunders, banging his fist down on the Escalade’s roof.

  “Hold on a minute, Camille.” I press the cell calmly to my chest to resume my new favorite pastime of Russian bear baiting. “In a couple of hours, Ielena Dubova will be under my body and over her virginity,” I tell him, ignoring the horrified gasp next to me. “Until then, it’s none of your fucking business.”

  Chapter Six

  Issa

  The heavens open as we’re driving out through the gates of the estate and onto the hilltop roads of La Californie. If I needed another omen about today’s car-crash life experience, I’m receiving it loud and clear. The summer shower is as sharp as my future husband’s tongue—pelting the windows with water bombs, flooding the panoramic views of the Bay of Cannes and the Esterel, and frosting up the inside of the glass.

  I’m sitting, stone still, in my seat, my head bowed and a million dragonfly thoughts skimming my mind. We’d planned for Luca Zaccaria. Even one of the other sons would have been okay. More complicated, but workable. At least then I’d be in Sicily, in the orbit of the devil himself, with a ring on my finger and an all-access pass. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your family so tight they’re stealing your oxygen.

  Not Aiden Knight.

  I didn’t plan for him.

  Not the man who makes me feel like the morning devastation after a force ten hurricane. I can’t seem to rebuild my defenses around him. Just when I think I have a new foundation laid, his vicious words tear it down again.

  “I owe you, Camille. We’ll see you in twenty.”

  Camille?

  He calls out an address to the driver before ringing off from ‘Camille’ with a husky French endearment that makes me want to puke. He returns his cell to his inside jacket pocket and adjusts his necktie with a practiced jerk.

  I watch it all. Missing nothing. Studying him like I would the subject of my next still-life painting. There’s something mesmeric about the way he moves. It’s smooth and deliberate. It’s like he has a grand plan too, and I’m just as much of an unwanted interlude.

  “Stupid rich, bored, empty, unemployable, unsalvageable.”

  Aiden Knight doesn’t know what’s about to hit him.

  “I take it the dress was a freebie along with the perfume?” His deep voice breaks the chokehold over our silence. “Didn’t your Bratva Papa ever tell you it was rude to stare?”

  Embarrassed, I jerk my head back to the window. “I hardly think you’re an expert on decorum,” I retort in Russian.

  “Speak English when you’re in my company.”

  “I said, ‘I hardly think you’re an expert on decorum’,” I mutter defiantly. I hate the way he swings his spotlight on me when I’m least expecting it.

  I hate the jolt of electricity I feel when he does.

  “You don’t know the first fuck about me, so stop pretending otherwise.”

  I’ll get to know as much as I have to.

  Outside, the shower has stopped. The moody grays are lighter, but they’re still spoiling for a fight.

  “I know that you like to mock what you don’t understand, Monsieur Knight… Actually, don’t answer that,” I add swiftly. “We’ve done more than enough talking for one day.”

  “That’ll make for an interesting exchange of vows.” He pulls out his cell again and taps out a message as the spotlight swings away. I remember this from the bar. The man has the concentration skills of a slug. “Are you planning on using sign language for the ‘I do’s’, or shall I expect an email with the relevant text in bold?” When I don’t reply, he blows out a breath. “Okay, princess, it’s time to establish some give and take.” Pivoting around to face me, he places the crook of his elbow next to my head giving me the whole alpha intimidation act.

  “What give and take?” I say, glaring at him.

  “I ask you a question, you answer it, and then you’re allowed to ask me one in return. We’ll call it the Wimbledon of conversations. Just keep the volleys to a minimum. I don’t want a black eye on my wedding day.”

  “Is that a joke or an apology?”

  “I have nothing to apologize for. This is me calling a temporary truce for the sake of my sanity. Let’s start again, shall we? Did you borrow the dress?”

  After a beat, I nod.

  “Good. Then you don’t mind me burning it.”

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  “Statement. Alphas don’t do rhetoric.” There’s another beat. “What about yesterday’s outfit?”

  “Is it mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I dress how I’m expected to dress,” I say, sounding defensive. “And I believe that was two questions.”

  “So now you get two in return.” His lips tilt, and I find I can’t stop staring at them now. My five a.m. fantasy is flooding back to me in all its glorious, graphic detail.

  “Tell me how you’re involved with La Famiglia and my father?”

  “Straight for the dessert?” He sounds amused. “Don’t you want an appetizer first?”

  “I have a sweet tooth, Monsieur Knight.” I’m growing bolder under his scrutiny, like a sunflower absorbing light.

  “Again, it’s Aiden. And I’ll keep that in mind.” He drops his elbow and adjusts his silver cufflinks. It’s another of those casual gestures that strums a beat between my legs. “At sixteen, I packed a bag, ran away to Sicily and joined the mafia circus. Four years ago, I diversified. I own the largest casino in Monte Carlo, plus a number of other businesses including bars and hotels along the French Riviera.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise.

  He glances at it and a cold expression wins a hostile takeover of his features. “Counting the euro signs already, are we?”

  “No, I…” I pause and frown at him. “Why do you always assume my main motivation in life is money?”

  He chuckles darkly. “Take me for a bastard, Ielena, but never take me for a fool.”

  He has a dimple on his chin. How have I not noticed this before?

  “I base my opinions about people on kindness and compassion, not assumptions.”

  “I ba
se mine on whether they’re after my life or my money,” he responds dryly.

  “Money,” I intone, pouncing on the one thing his whole orbit seems to spin around. “From the sounds of it, you’re more obsessed than you perceive me to be.”

  “That’s because I earned mine the old-fashioned way.” He shoots me a crooked smile. “Green takes on a whole different color when you mix it with crimson first.”

  “I never asked for a cent from my father.”

  “But you took it anyway.”

  “You say it like I had a choice!” I’ve never had a choice about anything. I glance down at his tie, which suddenly seems a lot closer than it did ten seconds ago. Blushing again, I shuffle back to my side of the car. “How are you a made man if you’re not Italian?”

  “What made you think I was one of those?”

  “But—”

  “There are a lot of questions being asked out of turn here, princess.” He practically spits his endearment at me, and it strikes me then that he’s not as cool as he’s making out.

  “My name is Issa—”

  “I’ll call you what I like. ‘Half-measure’, remember?”

  “By the sounds of it we’re both making sacrifices for this marriage. You have to put up with my curiosity and I have to shoulder your insults.”

  “How sacrificial are we talking here?” Out of nowhere, he hits me with a loaded look that has me squirming in my seat.

  “You can’t be serious?” I say, rolling my eyes at him.

  “We can always go back to hating one another in the morning.”

  The fight seeps out of me like a deflated balloon. I’ve tried not to think too much about this part. His bed is an inevitability that scares me for a million different reasons. His edges are razor blades. He’ll tear my innocence to shreds.

  “Is ‘consent’ to be a dirty word between us?” I say quietly.

  There’s a long pause, no doubt for him revel in my defeat like the conquering anti-hero, and then he shocks me with a sliver of humanity. “Fuck the rules. Fuck what’s expected of you. You’ll come to me when you’re good and ready.” I search his face for traces of scorn as he closes the gap between us again. “Having said that, my lenience comes with a price.”

  I knew it. “What price?”

  “I don't like others playing with my toys,” he says huskily, forcing me to inhale every brutal inch of his masculinity. “If I find out you’ve been touching yourself on the sly, all bets are off.” I open my mouth, but he presses a warm palm to it before I have a chance to respond. “If I hear you moaning through my walls as you play with your pussy, I’ll break the door down and take you any way I see fit.”

  This time when I blush, my dark hair catches fire.

  I shake his hand off angrily. This man doesn't have any humanity. He left it in a dumpster somewhere along the route of his life.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he chides, inching even closer until he’s a beautifully cruel close-up—taunting me with the promise of a heart and a soul that will never be mine. Not that I’d ever want such a polluted thing. “Your body belongs to me now. The paperwork is a formality. Your consent will be playing catch up soon enough.”

  “Stupid rich, bored, empty, unemployable, unsalvageable,” I say, spitting his own words back to him, my hand itching to do some harm to those slanted cheekbones. “You just reminded me, so ineloquently, of how much you dislike ‘my kind’.”

  “Who says I have to like you?” He gaze drops to my mouth. “It’s marriage and sex, Ielena, not a prom date and a hot fumble with your college sweetheart. Feelings get parked at the door with me.”

  “My father must have been out of his mind to agree to this!”

  “Justifications are like excuses, Ielena,” he says patronizingly. “Everyone has them. Even him.”

  “I’ll never forgive—” I stop then, slamming a mental full stop on a conversation that’s crumbling into the sea like cliff erosion.

  “Oh, quit with the emotives.” He backs off, sounding bored again. “I thought Bratva offspring were programmed to obey from birth. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two,” I grit out. “And my chip malfunctioned the minute you started disrespecting me.”

  “Don't confuse disrespect with the truth.”

  “Then stop thinking of my femininity as a flaw.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he hisses, his frustration finally bubbling over as the driver clears his throat.

  “Monsieur Knight?”

  “What?”

  “We’re here.”

  “Where’s here?” I peer out of the window, grateful for the respite. We’ve been so busy chucking verbal hand grenades at one another neither of us noticed the car had stopped. “This isn’t Monte Carlo.”

  “It’s a necessary diversion into Cannes… Stay here,” he adds to the driver.

  Exiting first, he motions impatiently to me, before reaching inside and taking my wrist when I don't move quickly enough. He’s not rough with his touch, but I smother a gasp as my hip brushes against the doorframe. My body is a sheet of flames today. The pain in my chest is only getting worse. I need to see a doctor, but I can’t bring myself to ask a fiancé who hates me for help.

  Somehow, I manage to straighten up my sore sapling next to his mighty oak. He’s a foot higher than me, even in my heels.

  “Find an outfit,” he says, dropping my hand. “Any outfit, and I’ll buy it for you.”

  “Is this a trick?” I say, eyeing him warily. People are bustling past, casting puzzled glances at a bride and a groom who are anything but happy and content. “Gentlemen like you have a way of disguising ridicule in their words.”

  He laughs and slides his hands into his pants pockets, the threads in his crimson neck tie splashing blood across his white shirt. “I’m no gentleman, Ielena. You should have figured that out by now.” He takes a step closer, burning me up under the spotlight of his gaze again as a couple of bodyguards appear from nowhere. “This is your wedding day. You should be the one choosing the dress, not your father’s latest fuck-buddy.”

  A smile threatens my lips, but I squash it immediately. “There’s a catch. I know there is.”

  “No catch. It’s simple. That outfit is offending me, and I want it gone.”

  Liar. He’s the type of man with a hidden agenda in all of his games. Still, I accept his offer with a nod because I hate the damn dress almost as much as he does.

  Spinning on my heels, I move through the crowds with Aiden and his two bodyguards falling into step behind me. He doesn't move to touch me again. He doesn’t speak. He’s like the midday sun: both warming and familiar, yet liable to leave you with a vicious burn if you hang around him too long.

  “Are you lost?” he drawls after a while.

  I’m not.

  In fact, I’m surprised at how easily the route is flooding back to me. Happy memories love company. They leave you with the simplest of clues so that you can return to them with the least amount of effort. The time I spent here nine years ago was the best three weeks of my life.

  Turning off the main road onto a narrow side street, I head for Rue Meynadier, letting out a gasp of joy when I see a familiar faded gray sign peeking out from behind the tourist boards.

  She’s still here. Even after all this time.

  “Wrong turn, Ielena,” I hear Aiden say. “The designer stores are back on La Croisette.”

  Ignoring him, I step into the cool of the narrow store, inhaling the vibrant colors like a drug. It’s not a wedding dress establishment or a designer boutique, but this kind of familiarity is far more precious to me than money. In the last month I’ve lost everything good in my life. Right now, I’m clutching at my past to being me back from the brink.

  Aiden instructs his bodyguards to block the access, and then he follows me inside. “What the hell happened in here?” he exclaims, glancing around. “Looks like someone slipped this place an LSD tab and pressed the button on a warehouse rave.”
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  “You said it was my choice.”

  “True, but I wasn’t planning on wearing my sunglasses when we’re exchanging rings.”

  “Small mercies. You might mistake me for someone you want to marry.”

  He opens his mouth to crush me with his reply when an elegant lady in her late forties emerges from the back of the store. Her face lights up like Bastille Day fireworks when she sees me standing there in my ridiculous wedding dress.

  “Ielena!” she cries, rushing forward. “Come here, ma chérie, where have you been hiding all these years?”

  “In Paris, mostly.” Her soft embrace hurts my chest like hell, but I feel the warmth of it right down to the marrow of my bones. There’s only one other person in the world who hugs like this, and I miss her more than words can say.

  “You look so beautiful.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “But why are you wearing that?”

  “I don't want to be,” I answer truthfully. “Help me, Eloise. I don’t have much time.”

  This draws her back to me with a frown. “Anything for you. You know this. What do you need?”

  Her kindness is without borders and it makes want to cry. I can’t remember when we last spoke, but people like Eloise don’t keep tabs on friendship. They see them as seeds that continue to grow, even in the darkness.

  I watch her gaze shift to the tall mountain of mockery standing behind me.

  “I need a dress, Eloise. Something bright. Something that doesn't make me look like I’m drowning in lace and bad decisions.”

  Her arms tighten around me, and it’s enough to make me love her even more. “I have just the thing.” Releasing me, she aims her dazzle at my new raincloud again. “Welcome to my shop, Monsieur—”

  “Knight,” I say, slipping back into English and politesse. “Aiden, this is Eloise Dubois.”

  To his credit, he greets her warmly enough. In turn, I watch her smile dim from a ninety watt to a ten as she brushes her palm against his. If he notices her change in countenance, he doesn't comment.

  “Interesting place you have here.” He looks around at the cluttered shelves and rails that are bursting with psychedelic prints.