Page 33 of A Pawn in the Game
“Don’t fucking talk about the family business.Otac. Otac je zaslužan za sve što imamo. Without him, there would be no Croatians in the mafia business. Don’t act like you had anything to do with that.”
Leon now sighs, but my head is reeling.Croatians.Makes sense. They’re Slavic, hence the language that is similar to Russian.
I pick my brain for every info I know about Croatia.A small country next to Italy. They rely mostly on tourism, given they’re rich in beautiful landscapes and history. Surprisingly good at sports, not that I follow them. I’ve never heard of the Croatian mafia. I’ve heard of the Serbs, who are, if I’m correct, Croatia’s close neighbors. But it would make sense, considering what Luka said. They’re the first Croatian mafia family. And they’ve worked with my dad. Who obviously betrayed them.
For Russians?
By the time my brainstorming session is done, I’ve skipped a sizeable chunk of their conversation.
“Do as you please, but I sure as hell won’t be just sitting on the sidelines,” Toma says in a snippy tone.
Fuck.I shouldn’t have tuned out. I chew on my bottom lip, punishing it for not pulling me into reality. Being imprisoned here, information is the only power I have. Only chance I have at escaping.
“Just stay away from my business and we’ll be fine.” Luka bares his teeth.
Uncle heads to the door. “I’ll be bringing some girls here next week. For a trial period.”
With that, he’s gone, followed by his guards. Leon starts after him, but Luka doesn’t, staring at the door they’ve just exited out of, as if he’s trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes.
The energy emanating from him is so strong, so unpleasant that discomfort builds inside of me, fighting to get out. Finally, it does, making me blurt out, “Lovely guy, isn’t he?”
Luka’s dark eyes flick to mine, and breath whooshes out of me as I await his reaction.
A beat. Two.
On the third beat of my traumatized heart, he bursts out laughing. Full on belly laughing. My eyes widen, my arms unmoving. I’m not fully sure what made me blurt this out to the mafia prince who kidnapped me. Maybe my brain is atrophying from being in this room for so long. Maybe the last threads of my mental health have snapped at last.
But somehow, instead of making him even angrier, I made him laugh.
His face transforms, the rough angles softening, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his mouth. The cold, black eyes are warm and younger than I ever saw them. Suddenly, he’s not a figure I would run from in the dark, but a guy I would sneak peeks at to catch more of his beauty.
I push these thoughts away. This is obviously a psychotic episode I’m having. A consequence of my mind and body being caged here with no fresh air or sun.
“You have no idea.” He shakes his head, but I do. Unfortunately, I know a thing or two about guys like him and how far they’ll go to show their power. Because that’s all they care about. Power. Status. Ego.
Luka sits in the chair Andre sat in previously and starts moving the chess pieces into starting position. “Come. Let’s play.”
He doesn’t look up, but I slip from the bed and join him at the table. He turns the board to me, so that I’m playing white.
I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me. “Play,” he says, and I do, starting with the London opening.
Playing white, I could checkmate him in ten moves or less. But my head’s not fully in it. I’m still distracted by the nasty uncle, and Luka’s soothing smile. It felt like the closest thing to normal since I was taken. Is this what the start of Stockholm syndrome feels like?
Two bad moves make my mate impossible in ten and improbable in fifteen. It also allows him to threaten my king.
His black button down doesn’t help, and neither does the sight of his forearms once he rolls up his sleeves.
“Check,” he says, eyeing me with suspicion.
I protect the king, trying to get my head in the game.
Three moves later, he’s leading by five points. I’m forced to play defensively, which is not my typical forte. I lose a bishop to his knight, and he carefully removes the piece from the board, setting it aside.
“What’s going on?” The low timbre of his voice breaks the silence.
For the first time since we started playing, I glance at his face, noticing the furrow of his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve asked you to play so you could give me a run for my money, not so you could lose on purpose.”
