Page 1 of Caught By the Kingpin
1
FELICITY
I dread my phone ringing. Not just because messages are much more civilised, though that’s definitely the case. It’s so intrusive to make someone’s phone yell at them until they talk to you. A message ping doesn’t necessitate panicked handwashing when you’re in the middle of a messy baking moment and have eggy fingers, butter smeared on your forehead, and flour on your boobs.
What? I had an itch.
No, I dread my phone ringing because invariably it is my father making a demand from the next room, when he could just get up.
“Whisky,” he barks. “And tea for my guest.”
Not sure if his orders would be better via message, actually. Maybe semaphore?
As I put the kettle on, clean myself up, and pull out the fancy cut-glass decanter with the whisky, I feel kinship with the guest. One sniff of my father’s clear beige nail varnish remover—sorry, whisky—makes me want to barf. It’s not even as though my father really likes it. When I swap out the expensive bottles for the stuff on special offer, he doesn’t notice the difference. A lack of taste that will ultimately lose him his little slave: me.
There was a short time when I looked forward to messages on my phone. I did beta reading of romance novels to make money towards one of my first escape attempts, and the buzz as a new smutty story arrived, or an author thanking me for my comments, made my heart fill with helium.
Finding all my earnings stolen was how I discovered my father taps my phone. My father called it “rent” when I asked him, and had one of his goons punch me in the stomach when I complained.
I try not to complain anymore.
They’re in the grandest of the reception rooms, all gaudy old uncomfortable furniture and paintings of sludgy landscapes in gilded frames. The man my father is talking at has his back to me. His curly cropped hair is so black it has a sheen of blue as well as flecks of silver and his broad shoulders are encased in a fine grey wool suit that I know without touching would be warm.
My father’s shoulders are by his ears, uncharacteristically tense for a mafia boss. He ignores me as I start to unload the tray onto the low table between him and the unknown man.
“This is an excellent investment opportunity. I would prefer to keep it for myself, but some of my capital is tied up at the moment.”
I manage not to snort with derision as I place the cups and saucers. Tied up? Yeah. His money is very tied up with the Westminster mafia he owes money to. This man will be fleeced if he invests. Probably deserves it though, he’ll be a mean old mafioso like the rest of—
I glance across to the man my father is attempting to con, and I’m caught.
His eyes. They’re light blue and staring into me. Not over my head, or examining my chest with idle speculation. He’s looking at me as though he can strip away my outward appearance and these shapeless dark clothes and see the swirls of pink and green and blue I imagine make up my soul. As though he can see stars in my drab, colourless eyes and a rainbow in my brown hair. This man looks at my plain appearance and freckled cheeks like I’m an oasis after weeks in the desert. Like I’m beautiful.
Which I’ve been told repeatedly, I’m not.
Buthim, he’s utterly compelling.
Not handsome, exactly. Nothing like the slick and preening young men who work for the Kensington mafia, with their designer clothes and smooth jaws. Nope. This man looks exactly like what he is: a powerful and ruthless mafia boss. Broad shoulders, muscled thighs, a light smattering of hair at the wrists exposed by crisp white cuffs. Strong and dangerous and gruff and… Kind? I’m probably making that last bit up, but his eyes are more summer morning sky than winter glacier. Although his hair is salt and pepper, the stubble on his jaw is black, and a thin curved scar runs across his cheek.
He knows about pain, this man.
“Interesting.” The man’s voice is rough and low, lightly accented. Italian maybe? He flicks his gaze dismissively to my father, then returns to me. “Tell me about the potential profits.”
My neck creaks like I’m stone as I drag my eyes to my role. Anonymous maid serving drinks.
My father begins a long and deliberately confusing explanation of his con. He’s sweating and nervous, trying to sound authoritative but this man has him rattled.
The man is dominant. There’s no other word. The strongest of a pack of wolves, with his light eyes. It’s not his house, but he’s utterly at ease. He leans back, and for a second I’m self-centred enough that I think it’s so he can see me from the corner of his eye as I finish transferring the contents of the tray to the table.
I pour out exactly two fingers of whisky for my father and while he gulps half of it down, I ask, “Would you like milk and sugar, sir?”
“Marco.”
I blink and almost say we don’t have any of that. But hisname. Oh gosh that sinks into me all the way to the bone. Marco is exactly the right name for him. Straightforward and blunt, but also rich and lyrical.
“Marco.” I bite my lip and nod to prevent myself from repeating his name to myself again and again. It replays in my head anyway.Marco.
Then the significance hits me. A mafia boss. Called Marco.
