Page 21 of Cruel Existence

“He kills. He is trained,” he explained. “This is not a world you know.”

I bit my lip. I didn’t want to believe that. There were plenty of men who rose high in the mafia ranks who never did a bit of dirty work in their lives. Sure, they could fire a gun, but did they have to pull the trigger to get there? Not likely. They hired the grunts for that. Men like my father didn’t have literal blood on their hands. They gave orders. They made payments. They didn’t kill. Luka’s world couldn’t be that different. Ciro was trying to scare me.

“You don’t know that about him,” I argued. “For once, Ciro I would say you’re being a tad dramatic.”

“Bratva is Bratva. But you shouldn’t see him again. Do not ask him about it. The answers alone aren’t safe. Stay away.”

“Or what?” I dared. What I wanted was another morsel about Luka. I wanted Ciro to slip and tell me something useful or interesting about the man who had taught me kissing was an orgasmic experience.

“Or you may end up like most of the people who interfere with Bratva business.”

I shivered. He was only trying to scare me.

“My father wouldn’t have moved here if it was that dangerous,” I snapped.

Ciro huffed. “I won’t keep your secret next time.”

I spun, placing my feet on the hot concrete. I rose slowly. I was certain I saw Ciro’s eyes drag over my body.

“Why even tell me that?” I pressed.

“I probably shouldn’t have, but your safety is my priority. You should at least know who you are associating with.”

But he did tell me and more than he ever had about what made him do the things that kept me in lockdown. “Thanks.” I slinked past him, hauling my pool bag with me. “What’s the other guy’s name? The other one who is on my detail?”

“Joey?”

“Yeah. Him. Does he know I got past you last night?” I was curious.

Ciro didn’t answer.

I giggled. “I guess I’ll keep that to myself then.”

As I wandered through the house, I passed my father’s room. The door was closed. I leaned in slightly, but it was quiet. I hesitated. I could knock, but something stopped me. I decided I’d check on him after my shower. I didn’t need a lecture on my bikini. Or how I wasted precious time sitting by the pool.

When I turned, I spotted the oil portrait of my mother hanging across the hall from his door. He said he liked to see her every morning when he left for work and when he returned at the end of the day.

I stared at her expression. I wondered what was behind it. Was it love? Admiration? Resentment? I knew very little about her. Most of the stories I created about my mother’s life revolvedaround this single portrait. It was the only display of her in the house.

What would she say now? Would she support my father? Those were questions I had asked a thousand times. Did she agree with how he used me? Did she think my value was tied to what family he could position me with? I walked away from her gaze, knowing I’d never have the answers.

Nine

AMARA

It was another two days after my encounter with Ciro before I saw my father in person. He had turned me away every time I knocked on the door of his bedroom. I had tried to bring a tray in myself, but the doors were locked. Ciro’s warning about my father had gotten to me. The words wiggled their way to an uncomfortable place beneath my ribs. There was a part of me I hated to admit that was glad he hadn’t left his bed. Every day he stayed in there was another day I had my freedom. It was another day he wasn’t searching for my husband. Another day I didn’t have to fear who I was contracted to marry.

But last night I stood outside his door, listening to him cough and cough. My hand pressed to the wood panel, debating what I should do. He finally stopped and I padded off to my bed nearly sick with guilt for putting my freedom aheadof his life.

This morning when I knocked and rapped on his door with no response, I could no longer stand outside silent. This time, I took reinforcements.

I raced downstairs to the security room and begged Ciro to follow me. He knew what my urgency meant. Ciro used the key he had been given for emergencies and let me into my father’s bedroom.

“Papa?” I tiptoed, then hurried next to him. He was hunched over, coughing.

He pushed my arm away. “How did you get in?”

Ciro was standing in the doorway. His hulking figure loomed behind us.

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