Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

The back room of The Velvet Rope is a large communal living space. There’s a kitchen, which is mostly my domain, plus a living room with couches and a big crappy TV that only works half the time. The place is decorated with little mementos from Mexico that the girls bring back with them: some colorful pillows, hand-painted plates hung on the walls, wooden crosses and a little shrine draped in candles and flowers. It’s dumpy, but it’s also cozy and crowded, and when the girls aren’t working, it feels like a sorority with constant bickering, complaining, backbiting, and laughter.

“I think I’m okay with cooking and cleaning,” I say as I head into the kitchen. “I take a slap from Zarita, but that’s about it.”

“I hear she got you good,” Mira says, following while Ora remains in front of the TV. “And the big Russian guy got mad. Is that true? Did he really get pissed?”

I frown a little as I start getting out food for the night’s meal. It’ll be pasta again with some chicken I seasoned the day before and a sauce I made a couple nights earlier. I’m not a great cook, but I’m learning every day, and the girls help sometimes when they’re not too worn out from work.

“I don’t think so,” I say awkwardly, trying not to meet Mira’s eye. She’ll see through my crap. “He’s just another mobster. He doesn’t care if Zarita slaps me around.”

“Just another mobster,” Mira says wistfully. “He’s a big, handsome, rich mobster though. Way better looking than the ugly guys I deal with.”

“He’s okay,” I say, feeling my cheeks turning red.

“Okay? Are you crazy? Sometimes, Siena, I swear. That man is gorgeous. He’s a Russian, sure, and those eyes are a little spooky, like a Husky dog, yeah? But that man is beautiful.”

“He’s beautiful!” Ora calls out from the couch.

“Okay, yes, he’s good looking,” I admit, and try not to let the memories bubbling under the surface flash through my mind. I can still hear him in my mind and feel him between my legs. Whenever I smell alcohol, I think of that martini I drank, and the vodka back in the hotel room. Sometimes, when I’m at my lowest and I’m alone while cleaning, I close the door and pretend like Maxim’s going to come back at any moment.

But he’s not a knight in shining armor. He won’t defeat my evil grandmother or dig up a buried treasure. He won’t build me a castle.

I’m stuck here in this brothel with these girls, and that has to be enough for me.

It isn’t like I care about him. I don’t know Maxim at all, except by reputation, and what I know isn’t good. He’s like my brothers, but worse—more ruthless, more violent, harder in every way possible. That one night we had together was bliss, but I’ve had enough of mafia men. I don’t need him swooping in to save me.

I don’t need saving at all.

I get cooking while Mira chatters about her clients. Some of them are nice, she says, and some of them aren’t so much, but overall, it wasn’t a bad day. The girls at The Velvet Rope work shifts and are expected to earn, with minimal breaks between clients. They’re paid once a month, and aren’t allowed to keep tips. Each girl has a debt, and once that debt is paid, she’s free to go.

Some disappear after that. Nobody knows what happens to them. Most go back home to Mexico or Guatemala or Peru or wherever they’re from. Some stick around, like Zita—those have nowhere else.

Mira wants to move up north where it’s cold. She talks about getting into school somehow—I don’t know how and she doesn’t seem to think that’s an issue—and studying marketing. She wants to work in an office, with bright lights and suits and ties and serious meetings. I don’t know if she’ll ever make it, but I want that for her so badly it hurts.

The side door opens and a few more girls come in. There’s shy little Lan, and overbearing Karmen, and giddy Ines, and swooping in after them like an angry storm is Zarita herself, glaring around at everyone until her eyes land on mine.

Nobody speaks. Nobody dares step a toe out of line around Zarita. That slap was nothing compared to the closed-fist punches she throws. Those hurt like hell, especially when she wears a ring on every finger.

“Siena,” she snaps. “Your father wishes to speak with you.” Her lips curl. “Get changed. You smell like a toilet. Meet him in the office in two minutes.” She whirls and walks off.

Mira comes around the counter. “Uh-oh, girl,” she says. “Better move your ass. You in trouble?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I think back to Maxim and the way he reacted when Zarita hit me.