Page 2 of Caught By the Kingpin
Marco Brent.
I go still. Even I have heard of the kingpin of the Brent mafia. Dangerous. Secretive. Powerful. Obscenely wealthy. Marco Brent is a bogeyman, head of the most discreet, subtle mafia of London. Brent is whispered in fear and respect by my father’s henchmen.
“Milk, no sugar. Thank you…?”
“Felicity,” I squeak as I pour the milk with shaking hands.
A grunt of disapproval comes from the other side of the table as my gaze meets Marco’s and there’s a ghost of a smile around his mouth as he takes the tea I offer, murmuring, “Thank you, Felicity.”
I know it means happiness, but I’ve never felt any joy at people saying my name. It generally means there’s washing up to do or someone needs a three-course meal made in forty minutes’ time.
But Marco saying my name… that does feel like happiness. Fizzing, popping, laughter and spinning around, bright-coloured exhilaration. I should be scared, but being regarded by Marco is how I imagine it feels to be wrapped in a sun-warmed towel after a cool, invigorating swim in a clear green-blue ocean. A shiver of heat and comfort, the scent of salt.
“As I was saying,” my father continues with his pitch.
Marco takes me in as I stand, pale blue gaze dragging slowly up from my sensible black shoes, bare calves, shapeless knee-length black dress in a scratchy material I’ve never quite identified, to my face. I fight the urge not to fidget as he regards my hair, pulled back into a neat French braid. I can feel that a dark strand has come loose, as my soft flyaway hair often does, and is lying untidily across my cheek.
He follows the movement of my hand as I sweep the tendril behind my ear with something hungry in his expression.
That focus on me is… I can’t remember anyone making me feel so special. There’s a connection between us. It is as instant and undeniable as water into icing sugar. However rich he is, I don’t want Marco to end up in the twenty-minutes-too-long-in-the-oven cake that my father is preparing.
“Would you like a cupcake?” I blurt out just as my father says, “The gross capital gain will have compound interest and make crypto look like peanuts.”
My father goes red in the face. “That won’t—”
Marco cuts him off. “I’d love one of your cupcakes.”
I snatch up the tray and rush out.
“There’s no need to humour her,” my father says in a carrying voice. “Thinks she’s something special because her mother was my whore—”
I shut the door and take the labyrinthine route to the kitchen. I don’t allow myself to think as I place yesterday’s baking onto a tray. I rifle through the cupboards until I find my father’s favourite decorations—gold powder—and sprinkle it over a few of the cakes with delicately piped buttercream and icing butterflies.
Is that clear? I hope so. I add a bit more.
My father is still speaking as I enter. The massive silver tray is tricky to juggle with the doors, but I chose it because it’s too big to hold for long and might draw Marco away from my father so I can warn him.
Marco looks over as I place the tray onto a table on the other side of the room, well away from where they’re sitting.
“Will you come and choose?” Please let my father be typically lazy.
“Just bring two over here,” my father grunts. “We have urgent business to discuss.”
Ahhggg. That’ll spoil everything.
“Yes, sir.” He likes it when I call him sir. Makes him feel superior or something.
“I’ll choose myself.” Marco’s lip curls and he stands with deliberate slowness. His eyes flash cold and he strolls over to the tray of cakes, and lounges, one hand in his pocket. No hurry.
I pick up one of the gold cakes with plenty of icing, and scuttle over to my father, placing it on a plate for him. He scowls and gives me a look I know means,You’re pushing your luck.
One day I’ll leave here and open a bakery. I’ll make my talent for making cakes into a legitimate company so successful it’ll make my father’s mafia enterprise look like the failing forgot-the-eggs cake it is. As incompetent as it is illegal.
After all, he hasn’t realised in over six months that I’ve been slowly skimming off money from the grocery budget via the special offers that provide cash back rather than a discount. Despite calling me into his office and examining each item on the receipt every week, he doesn’t look at what really matters. He growls over things like cheap pyjamas, despite my actually needing new sleepwear. But he doesn’t notice the pricey branded tinned tomatoes or sugar.
And every week I pocket the extra, saving for the day I will escape.
In the meantime, I’m going to help this terrifying, scarred kingpin who has shown me the kindness of looking at me rather than through me.
