Page 23 of Mafia King: Matteo
I glance around the room briefly when the woman next to me puts herself into a headstand from the pose we’re in. Shit, that’s impressive. She makes it look effortless. If I tried that, I’m sure I’d break my neck. After forty-five minutes, I’m sweating, and class comes to an end. I wipe the sweat off my brow with my small towel, wrap up my mat, and hit the water cooler with paper cups on my way out, grabbing my coat off the peg.
When I get home, I have nothing better to do, so I cook. I fry up ground sausage and add herbs and old wine to the red sauce in a pot. I sprinkle herbs from the cabinet before pulling out mozzarella cheese, ricotta, and no-boil noodles. The sauce simmers for hours, and I breathe in the aroma of spices that fills the air.
I curl up to watch an older movie that Izzy and I love, and then it’s time to put the lasagna together before I slide it into the oven. I’m never sure how long to cook this dish, but I assume when the noodles are soft, it’s edible.
I checked my emails out of curiosity and to my surprise, Indigo Designs replied. They request an interview and want to know if I’m available tomorrow. I replied yes, and they sent me a location with a room number.
I’m not getting my hopes up. I’m sure there will be fifty people, and it will take a month or more for them to decide who the lucky winner will be. Huge companies are fat cats, and they play with job applicants like they are catnip.
It’s eleven at night by the time I take a cab to the club where Kirill is meeting me. The club is owned by the Bratva, and since it’s relatively new, it’s always busy. Tonight will be no exception. I hear the heavy bass before I even reach the VIP door. I enter the code and open the door to a blast of dance music. My eardrums hate me. The DJ is on the microphone, yelling for the crowd to get on the dance floor.
I spot Kirill immediately. He’s dressed in a dark suit.
“Kirill,” I call, throwing my arms around his neck. “You’re too official.”
“Tell me about it.” He hugs me, and when he pulls back, his hands are still on my arms. He looks me over, and he smiles. “You’re looking very official.”
“Tell me about it.” He hugs me, and his hands are still on my arms when he pulls back. He looks me over, smiling. “You clean up well.”
I shouldn’t have worn such a skimpy dress, but I would have looked out of place otherwise.
“Well, thank you,” I reply, as he places my hand in the crook of his elbow and escorts me to a VIP table away from all the noise from the dance floor.
“How is the job search going?”
“I have an interview tomorrow. It’s not far from the condo. Most of the jobs out there are shit, like, low-level sales positions. I’m no salesperson,” I complain.
“No, you are not. You should be a model. Look around you. The men are staring at you as if you’re the only woman in the room,” he says.
I glance around the room and blush. “Men are staring, but not because they want me. They probably see me sitting in VIP and wonder who I am. Or they do know who my father is.”
The bouncers, servers, and bartenders all work for the families. Knowing who butters their bread keeps them from reporting drug activity in the club. Once the DJ starts, the cover charge to enter is collected in cash only.
“Don’t be so sure about that. There are plenty of men here who have no clue who you are. So, what’s so important that we had to meet? Not that I’m complaining,” he teases.
Kirill has always been direct. I’m sure my father loves this about him. There is no beating around the bush with him. Russians are usually all business and don’t bother sugar-coating their answers. Their manner of speaking is very primal.
“No, and you’re not to tell him. Don’t be angry, but I don’t know his name.”
Kirill slams his fist down on the table and curses in Russian.
Shit. I quickly stand, grab the waitress, and order a bottle of Vodka.
“Relax, the bouncers will be here if you continue to act like this,” I say, tugging at his arm.
He quietly seethes as the waitress returns with vodka and sets two glasses on the table. I twist off the cap and pour for us, sliding one to him.
“Drink,” I demand.
He tosses it back, and he pours another.
“Your father will have my hide. You are supposed to be behaving now that we’ve removed your guards. What the fuck are you doing? Where did you meet him?”
“At Madame M’s sex club, the penthouse.”
“That really exists?” He all but chokes on his third shot of vodka.
“Yes,” I sheepishly answer, embarrassed to have my casual sex life exposed. I feel naked and, even worse, vulnerable. I despise vulnerability. “I’m not proud of my behavior, but let me explain. I don’t know his name because the club requires us to use fake names. But I like this man, and I wanna find out who he is.”
