Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

He’s not a knight in shining armor. He’s a monster. I can’t forget that. No man would be stupid enough to risk himself for a worthless person like me.

I’m a traitor and a fool. I’m not even good enough to whore out.

I peck Mira’s check and hurry into the back room. We sleep in bunk beds stacked up along the walls like a college dorm. It’s split into two sections, and I have the top bunk above Mira in the very back of the left section. I step over clothes thrown on the floor, heels and sneakers, dresses and belts, and frown at how messy the girls are until I reach my corner. It’s the neatest out of everyone—even Mira’s kind of a slob—and I open my small chest of drawers. I strip out of my dirty work clothes and pull on new tights and a shirt, and before I can slip out the back door, Lan slips into the room, her arms hugging herself. She looks nervous, and she comes close and speaks quiet.

“It’s Camilla,” she says softly, tugging on me arm. “She got another choker.”

“Shit,” I say, chewing on my lip. “Is she okay?”

“I think so. Shaken is all. But he said some real dark things, and I think it missed her up.”

“All right, get her some ice for the bruises. I have to speak with my father, but I’ll talk to her when I’m done, okay? Tell her I’ll be there soon.”

Lan nods and hurries off. I sigh and tug nervously at my hair. Working in this place is bad in all the ways my papa hoped it would be—it’s dirty, degrading, physically demanding, and emotionally draining. But there are some bright spots. Helping the girls, for one. They give me a sense of purpose that I’ve never had before. Talking to them and dealing with their problems, doing whatever they need to keep them going and healthy and some measure of happy, all that makes my days feel like I’m not just a waste of space and air.

In some ways, it’s better than living in my father’s house. Outside of this brothel, I’m worthless. At least I have a place here. I chew my lip nervously before I hurry past the bathroom, out the side door, and around the building to the front office.

I can see them through the big window. My papa paces in front of the counter while Enzo leans back chewing at a toothpick. I hesitate, glancing at the parking lot, half hoping I’d see Maxim’s car parked somewhere close, but he’s not there. Lamplight reflects off the pavement, and my footsteps slosh through puddles. The girls need me and I have to get back quickly, so I stomp through the water and soak my sneakers. They’ll dry out later. I look over my shoulder one last time, but there’s only a client parking his Jeep.

A strange disappointment spreads like a bloom in my gut.

Maxim was only one night. I need to keep telling myself that. So we ran into each other by accident and he stopped Zarita from hitting me—so what?

He pities me and nothing more.

I push into the office and Papa stops pacing. Enzo glowers at me and sneers like he smells something bad.

I sniff the air discreetly. It’s not me, whatever it is.

I stand with my back straight and my hands clasped in my lap.

“We need to speak about what happened earlier,” Papa says, staring at me.

“Yes, Papa.” I lower my chin. I’ll pretend to be a good, obedient daughter, and hopefully he’ll let me off without asking too many questions. I’ll lie to him, even if I don’t want to. Lying doesn’t seem so bad these days, although I know he’ll hurt me very badly if he catches me.

“That man you saw earlier. The Russian with the blue eyes. Do you know him?”

I shake my head. “No, Papa. He’s a stranger.”

Papa grunts softly. Enzo tosses the toothpick onto the floor.

“He looked at you like he knew you,” Enzo says angrily. “He stopped Zarita from punishing you properly. I find it hard to believe Maxim Novalov would care about some random jizz cleaner.”

I grimace at his description. It’s not wrong, just crude. “I don’t know why he did what he did,” I say, which is the truth. I have no clue why Maxim stepped up and made Zarita stop, or why he stormed out afterwards. I don’t know Maxim at all.

We only shared one single night of pleasure, and that’s it.

So why is he stuck in my brain like a song playing on repeat? The smell of him, musky and sweet, and the taste of him, like grass and fresh dew licked from a honeysuckle? I don’t want these things, but they’re mine and they won’t leave me alone.

Papa steps closer. He looms over me and I look up at him shyly, hoping he won’t strike me. He keeps his hands behind his back and his lips pulled down into an uncertain frown, and I know what he’s thinking. How could his daughter know Maxim Novalov? What did I do to draw his attention? How will I ruin his plans?