The Arrangement (2 page)

“Your father might not be the boss now, but he was for a long time, and his daddy before him, too. Roman made a bad choice, so his men turned and did what they had to. Regardless, they’d show you more respect than an execution and a watery grave. You know that.”

“A bad choice,” Viviana repeated dully. That bad choice was her and a dozen other things that happened over two decades ago that she didn’t want to think about. It was better if she didn’t. There was less pain that way. “What the hell do you know about my father’s
choices
? Just because those men spit what they call gospel doesn’t mean they’re not choking back on lies, Sam.”

“Those
men
are
la
famiglia
.” Sam’s warning rang loud and clear, causing Viviana to bite the inside of her cheek and look away. “As of today, they still consider you a part of that family. Gratitude and respect, Vine. Learn it.”

“So says the man who fucked the
Don
of New York’s daughter.”

Sam grinned wickedly, pulling a V-neck T-shirt over his head. “Not the Don anymore. I was at the funeral, too. Besides, we can’t do this again, right? I mean, you’re a great lay, obviously, but I want my button and you’re just a stepping stone to it.”

“You can go to—”

“I’ll make the call, Vine; get you another watcher. I’d rather be closer to New York, anyway. Sitting around in this place really isn’t my thing. I know you’re grieving, or whatever you want to call it, but it’s been three years since your family was buried. Time to move on. It’s not like some former mafia boss’s daughter with no real connections can get her revenge, huh?”

Emotions betrayed Viviana by way of tears that welled up and threatened to fall.

“Fuck you, Sam.”

“Already did, babe.”

Standing to turn without another word, she slipped on the sneakers she managed to find under the corner chair before checking her face in the mirror. Red splotches had appeared on Viviana’s cheeks from forcing back tears, lips still swollen from Sam’s teeth biting and kissing the night before, and a small spot of red lipstick had smeared across the side of her mouth. Rubbing the stain with a makeup remover wipe from her dresser, she ran fingers through tangled waves of raven black hair as she tried to avoid the man’s gaze behind her in the mirror.

“You know you’re kind of beautiful, right?” Sam murmured behind her. His voice, thick with an Italian accent he could lay on heavy in a moment if he wanted, was rough and husky again. “They all say you look like your father, but you’re a prettier version of your momma.”

Brown eyes caught her own reflection in the mirror. What he said had some merit. With soft features, full lips, and wide eyes, Viviana certainly didn’t go unnoticed by men. Regardless, she could pick out a dozen other parts of herself that she wasn’t happy with. She hated the fact that her eyelashes weren’t as long as her mother’s once were, and that she mostly seemed to take after her in height, only standing a too-short five foot five inches.

Truthfully, Viviana didn’t think she looked like her mother at all.

“We’re not getting back into bed again, so you can stop it with your comments,” she replied bitterly. Tilting her head to the side, the red mark he’d left on the spot between her shoulder and neck was on clear display. “I don’t want your compliments.”

Sam shrugged and dug through the mess on the floor to find his boots. “Just thought you should know, considering I didn’t spend much time telling you last night. You’re gonna make a man happy someday. The perfect little mob wife.”

Leaning against the wall, he nodded at the calendar set up beside a small desk. “Your twenty-fifth birthday is coming up in three months, so when do you plan on settling down? God knows your uncle Sonny would love to see you married with a couple kids underfoot.”

Shuddering at his words was the only indication she gave that she’d heard his statement. The uncle he spoke about was the same man who reportedly put a gun to her father’s head and pulled the trigger.
Reportedly
because she knew it was truer than anyone else knew. He was also the man who took the throne of the Cosa Nostra within their family when her father was dead and gone. She had wondered later if Roman had seen Sonny coming, what with her uncle knowing of the deal her father had made with the Russians when she was only a toddler.

A snake, that’s what her uncle was. A turncoat, untrue, traitor to her father and the family. His own brother marked the bullet and stained his hands a bloody red.

Blood didn’t matter, though. Not in the family … or so Viviana had been told. Being a girl, it wasn’t like she had been given the advantage of understanding the Cosa Nostra, its rules and values. In fact, just saying the word
mafia
or
mob
under her father’s roof would get you one of his infamous looks, and then you knew you were in hot water.

The mafia doesn’t exist
.

Yeah, right.

Viviana’s father had his own Wikipedia page, and her name was listed as his only surviving child right underneath.

“Don’t talk about—”

The words were cut off by a loud bang. Once more, Viviana found herself on the floor, pushed there by Sam’s hand.

Sam didn’t join her on the floor; instead, she watched him reach for the glock twenty-two he’d tossed to the bedspread. That same gun he scared her with earlier, but forgot about in their argument. He never should have dropped his piece. The gun was his third hand, but she had made him forget about that important rule for a split second.

A split second too long.

The near silent pop, pop, pops—one right after the other—made her squeeze-shut her eyes and cover her ears. That only served to muffle the shouts from the attackers and her scream. Raw, achingly loud, and terrified, that’s how her fear sounded. Something warm soaked into the side of Viviana’s shirt. The heavy scent of gunpowder stung inside her lungs and she screamed again.

“Shut her up!”

The voice was bottomless, scratchy with age, and thick with an accent that made a cold shiver of dread roll through Viviana’s body. She hadn’t heard a Russian drawl in years. It was the last thing she expected to encounter again, given they hadn’t come for her after her family’s murder.

“No!”

Viviana kicked out, turning to the side and stumbling over a mess on the floor. Reaching for the cell phone right beside the bed, she felt hands grabbing at her legs, pulling roughly and dragging her away from potential salvation.

If she could have reached the phone … maybe … maybe she … Viviana was alone.

No one’s daughter anymore.

The mafia princess without a crown.

“Don’t touch me!
Sam
!”

The first man inside the doorway spoke, his words switching from English to Russian. Whatever he said, the man still pulling Viviana towards him as she kicked out and punched at him only grunted back in response. When her small fist landed a solid smack to his nose, his blue eyes narrowed before he shouted something she couldn’t understand. He raised his large hand and hit her sharply on the cheek. It bloomed with instant pain. Air sucked into her frozen lungs; she was shocked and speechless that a man had hit her.

The man shouted again, and even in Russian, his warning was clear. Viviana watched stunned as the butt of a gun snapped down with a loud smack to his comrade’s head.

“Fool, you’re not to hurt her! He will have your life for that. Move, Viktor.”

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. Deciding fighting wasn’t going to help her when he bared his teeth and spit more words she couldn’t understand, Viviana exposed her own teeth in a last ditch effort to rebel. “Keep your filthy fucking hands off of me, scum.”

“I said move. We need to leave.” In a flash, the man named Viktor was pushed off Viviana, and someone else clouded her blurring vision. Hot tears fell as Viviana stared up with her lips trembling, hair stuck to a damp face, and the taste of blood saturating her mouth. “I am Boris, girl. Up with you, before some other drunk college student wakes and calls the police.”

Both men wore flat black from head to toe, their hair slicked back making them look odd and startling. She guessed their ages to be late thirties to early forties, and by the job they had been sent to do, it wouldn’t have surprised Viviana if they were only bulls for the Russian mafia. Bulls being a term the Bratva used to describe their bodyguards, as the men were often large, frightening, and known for their violent tendencies.

“S-Sam … he—”

“Dead,” Boris replied in a cold and distant tone, eyes flickering up to look behind Viviana’s prone body. It wasn’t a second later before he was bending down and grabbing at her wrists to pull her up to unsteady feet. “Do not act so shocked, Miss Carducci. You’ve witnessed death in one form or another. He is but a snail in comparison to the rest of the world you live in.”

“I don’t live in that world anymore.”

Viviana glanced pointedly around her messy dorm room. There were scattered papers on the desk and mismatched photos and mementos attached to the wall to hide the cracking paint. The room was as messy as a pigsty. Did she look like she was living her spoiled lifestyle as a mafia child? Wasn’t it obvious she’d already cut her ties, or tried to?

“I’m a student, not a Don’s daughter.”

The words seemed to go unheard, as Boris pushed her at Viktor, who openly glared. Blood dripped down his nose to cover his scowling lips. A strange sense of satisfaction filled Viviana at the sight.

“Why are you here?”

Boris sighed as he opened the drawers to the dresser and pulled out a hoodie and other articles of clothing. The items were tossed into a pile on the floor.

“Your purse, where is it?”

“Why are you here?” Viviana repeated.

Viktor’s hand stuck out again, fingers painfully gripping her jaw as he shook her face and snarled, “I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense, you little bitch. Now, answer his question!”

Her heart thudded louder, pushing out an achingly hard and fast beat. “On the hook behind the door.” Suddenly, Viviana didn’t feel so courageous. She attempted to hold back tears. “I don’t have money; Uncle Sonny doesn’t give—”

“I want to ensure you have a passport,” Boris interrupted, turning to half close the door they’d kicked open to find her purse. The contents scattered across the cheap, worn carpet. “Canada was not a safe place for you, and now we’re taking you back. You have a deal to uphold. That is why we are here.”

“My father is dead; that deal is void.”

Viktor’s narrowed eyes turned on Viviana in anger and she instantly flinched away. The last thing she wanted was him hitting her again. Viktor smiled, the sight causing her stomach to roll; blood covered his teeth, turning them garish and disgusting.

“Deals with the dead are still upheld in the Bratva, girl. Their family upholds it personally. We make sure of that.”

“By twenty-five, it was agreed,” Boris said. “You were to be married, like it or not.” With a jerk of his head, Viktor released her face. Exhaling shakily, she forced herself not to rub her aching jaw. “You’re three months off from that date, so my Pakhan is requesting your presence.”

“
Pah … kan
.” Given the answering frown from Boris, Viviana knew her attempt at the Russian word was poor at best. “What is that?”

“Who,” he corrected with a small smile. “The boss. You call them the Don or Boss, but we Russians call them Pakhan. Or Boss, depending on his mood. Nicoli—”

“Is dead, just like my father. So their deals should be, too.”

“Stop arguing, it’s done!” Boris snapped.

What she knew of the Russian mafia was very little, and the information she had gained over the years were from discussions she hadn’t been meant to hear. Any interest Viviana outwardly showed for the Bratva—a family so similar to her own—after her father’s death was brushed off with a warning about loyalty and blood. She just wanted to understand why they’d done what they did by arranging the marriage between her and the grandson of a Bratva boss.

“Who requested me?”

The question came out strained, sounding almost foreign. Weak and scared, that’s what they made her. She was a boss’s daughter—a mafia child. Never should she be feeble and pathetic. Still, Viviana was confused. Knowing they had several upper bosses, and given the structure in their business, well, it wasn’t something she considered organized, so she had to know for sure who was requesting her.

“Who wants me, now?”

“You know who.”

“No, I don’t.”

Boris checked his watch. “We don’t have time for this. The border is a—”

“Who?” Viviana forced out.

“Anton.”

Her shoulders slumped, confusion and fear rising in a mere breath of air. Anton Avdonin was the other half of the deal made between men who no longer lived. Anton, a man two years and two months older than she was, a full-blooded Russian who she only met twice in her life. He was also the grandson of a formally notorious mob boss in the Russian mafia, also known as the Bratva. Situated largely in Brighton Beach, New York, the Bratva was known to meddle in guns and narcotics trafficking, as well as money laundering and prostitution.

Viviana had a lot in common with Anton in some aspects. She was, after all, the daughter of one of the world’s most dangerous Cosa Nostra Dons. Italian in bloodline, the Cosa Nostra started as a Sicilian-based mafia who considered their unit a family structure. They, too, handled running guns and drugs, as well as partaking in other illegal operations to make money.

Why
, she wondered. Why now, when he could move on, forget about it, and take whoever else he wanted for a wife? Surely after nine years, whatever connection she thought they had was all but gone, right?

“But, he
can’t
.”

Boris eyed her like Viviana had grown a second head. Despite the situation, her nerves were making an appearance by way of the inappropriate laughter that bubbled its way out from her chest into dead air.

“He can. Anton is preserving the wishes of his dead grandfather and your father. It was important to him.”

“But I’m useless!” she cried, feeling tears well and fall again. “Nothing to him—not Russian, not connected, and just … a
fucking
liability
.”