You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) (21 page)

SNOW

W
hen I wake up, the sun is filtering in through the gap I left in the curtains. I sit up and hug my knees. What shall I do today? Last month, for the first time since Lenny installed me in this apartment, I woke up and thought, I have nothing to do. I need a job. I need to meet new people.

But Lenny doesn’t like me to meet people. He says I am a bad judge of character. ‘Look what happened to you the last time you made a friend,’ he points out.

But, more and more, I feel I am fading away within these walls.

After I have brushed my teeth and dressed, I sit in the kitchen and have a bowl of cereal. The apartment is so still I can hear the sound of my teeth crunching the flakes of corn.

The letter flap clatters and I leave my bowl and run to the front door. I pick up three envelopes from the floor. A bill, a menu/leaflet from a local Chinese takeaway, and a letter from one of the boutiques where Lenny has opened an account for me.

The letter I am waiting for did not arrive.

With a heavy heart I put the bill aside for Lenny to give to his secretary, and I open the letter from the boutique. There is a sale this weekend and they are writing to invite me to arrive an hour earlier and join the champagne pre-sale party. I throw the invitation away with the leaflet.

Then I sit down to finish the rest of my solitary breakfast.

When I have washed the bowl and spoon and put away the breakfast things, I walk over to the drawer that I swept the money into last night. I take out the wad and count it. Two hundred pounds. Wow! My tears must have moved him.

He is not usually so generous with cash. He prefers to open accounts for me in different shops that he pays for at the end of the month. I don’t know what limits I have in those stores but I haven’t yet come across one, even though once, in a state of deep depression, I unthinkingly picked up a dress worth three thousand. However, my credit card has only a two hundred and fifty pound limit.

I keep aside forty pounds. The rest I neatly arrange so that all the heads face upwards. Then I get down to the side of the mattress and gently unpick the slash I have sewn up. I add the new notes to the growing brick of money. It makes me happy to see it. I have more than half of what I need. Quickly, I sew it back up so it is almost impossible to tell that my mattress is my piggy bank.

Afterwards, I do what I do every day.

I set about thoroughly cleaning the apartment. I vacuum, I brush, I wipe, I wash, I shine and finally I walk around plumping and smoothing the cushions on the sofas so that there is not a single wrinkle in any of them.

The doorbell rings and I look out of the peephole and see the girl from the local florist holding a large bunch of long-stemmed red roses. I open the door and thank her for the flowers. I close the door and I put my nose to them. There is no scent. I take them into the kitchen and remove the wrapping.

There is no card. Cards are not necessary.

I get a bouquet every time Lenny fucks me.

I put them in water and carry the vase to the coffee table in the living room. They are not what I would have chosen, but they brighten up the place. Later I will pop by the florist on my way back from lunch and get myself a fragrant mix of gardenia, honeysuckle and sweet pea.

I glance at the clock. It is lunchtime. So I get into my jeans and a gray sweatshirt with a hood and go out into the bright sunshine. Usually I buy myself a sandwich and go down to the park and eat it on one of the benches. But today I feel more lost and homesick than I normally do, so I walk down the road, and turn into a little side road.

At the end of it is a small Indian restaurant. I open the nondescript door and enter it. It is a small place with grand ideas borrowed from India before colonial times. Checkerboard black and inky blue floor tiles, fans hanging from a dark-lacquered oak ceiling, an aged brass bar in one corner, cut-glass wall lamps, hunting trophies from the days of the Majarajahs and bitter chocolate, leather love booths and banquettes.

Muted classical Indian music is playing in the background. The smell of cardamom, spices and curry fill the air and I breathe in the familiar scent. The restaurant is deserted. It almost always is at lunchtime. I used to worry that the business was going to go bust, but Raja, the solitary waiter they have working during the lunch shift, assured me that they get very busy at night.

Raja pops his head up from whatever he was doing below the bar, and smiles broadly at me. ‘Hello,’ he calls cheerfully.

I smile back and take a seat in my usual corner.

‘How are you today?’ Raja asks when he brings my bottle of mineral water, a basket of poppadoms, and a silver container with condiments and pickles.

‘I’m fine, thank you. How are things?’ I say.

He nods. ‘Very good. Busy tonight. We have a big birthday party.’

‘Oh! That’s good.’

‘Yes, the boss is very happy.’

I smile.

He holds on to the menu in his hand. ‘Same as usual?’ he asks.

‘I think so.’

‘OK. Two minutes and I will bring your food,’ he says as he walks away.

I go into the women’s toilet and wash my hands. When I return to my table, I break a piece of poppadom and, after spooning a tiny amount of sweet mango chutney on it, place it on my tongue. And as it does every time that I do this, the scent and taste take me back in time.

I think of our cook, her wrinkled, cinnamon hand holding out a freshly fried poppadom. But back home we called them appalam. They were hot and, because they were fried in new oil, they did not have any aftertaste. I chew the poppadom slowly. But something is different today. I can’t ignore the aftertaste. 

It is the beautiful man from last night.

I can’t stop thinking about him, and he has infected me with a sense of restlessness and dissatisfaction. I suppose it is to be expected. I lead such an uneventful and dull life, meeting him was like touching a live wire. He invigorated my entire system. And that voice—deep, sexy, cheeky.

I start thinking about him.

He was different from everybody else at the club. Tall with broad shoulders, he alone wore a scruffy T-shirt, worn jeans, and the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen. A man like him did not need any adornment. He stood alone at the bar. How strange that no dancers tried to accost him. Perhaps it was because he is poor. But he owns a chateau in France so that can’t be it. Perhaps he exaggerated. Maybe it’s just a run-down farmhouse. Even so I would have liked to have seen the fireflies.

I take a sip of mineral water.

I should stop thinking of him. He is gone. I have no way of contacting him, and he has no way of contacting me. I lean back with that feeling I cannot shake no matter how many times I have tried since last night: I have lost something irreplaceable. Which is madness, really. Of course I haven’t lost anything important. That was lost a year ago.

At that moment the door opens and I look up at the intrusion. I have begun to think of this deserted restaurant at lunchtime almost as my own personal space. The door pushes farther in and I freeze with shock.

Impossible! How can it be? What the hell is he doing here?

Inside my body, my hearts starts dancing like a wild thing.

In the daylight Shane’s eyes are so bright they are sparkling blue jewels in his face. His mouth is full and sensual, his jaw classically chiseled, and his hair thick and glossy. My eyes pour down his body. He is carrying a motorbike helmet and wearing a blue T-shirt and faded black jeans low on his lean hips. I guess he is what they mean when they say someone is rocking muscles.

I have two seconds before he sees me.

SHANE

I
spot her straightaway. She is tucked up in one of the dark brown booths and staring at me with saucer eyes. Her hair is up in a ponytail and her face is devoid of any make-up. She looks even more vulnerable and childlike than she did last night. There is something in her eyes, something that hides and feeds on her.

I know I shouldn’t be here.

She’s broken. I can see that a mile off. Injured people cling. They are needy. I’m not the kind of guy she needs. Someone like me, I take what I want and I walk. I’ve never looked back. Never promised anyone anything. My way or no way. But she poses a challenge. A threat. And a promise. And I cannot walk away from her. This is just something I have to do.

I go up to her table and sit opposite her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she gasps.

I grin. ‘Having lunch with you?’

‘How did you know I’d be here?’ Her voice is breathy. It gets under my skin. Everything about this woman gets under my skin.

‘I paid someone to follow you last night, Snow.’

She inhales sharply. ‘Why?’

‘Because I promised you a trip to Saumur and I didn’t know how else to contact you.’

It’s amazing the effect my words have on her. Saumur and the fireflies shimmer like a magical promise on her lovely face.

‘If you had me followed then you must know that I’m with some—’

I place my finger on her lips to silence the rest of her words. She could have moved back, but she didn’t. Her lips are so warm and soft, it sends my dick rigid against the zipper of my jeans. Jesus. I have it bad for her. Her eyes close, but they hold closed for a second longer than it takes to blink. Why, she’s savoring my touch. I stare at her. Her eyes open. The green is a few shades darker.

She blushes.

And suddenly I know: she is a sexual innocent.

She must be the most sexually unaware woman I’ve ever met. She’s with Lenny, and it is clear that in exchange for the use of her body he is giving her some kind of protection, or perhaps it is some kind of a financial arrangement, but it is clear that she has never been touched by a real man. I think about her screaming my name while my cock is deep inside her and immediately my cock, already straining uncomfortably, starts throbbing painfully.

I clear my throat. ‘Do you still want to see the fireflies?’

She takes a deep and shuddering breath.

SNOW

I shouldn’t involve him in my mess. I know how cold and wicked Lenny can be, but my head nods and he removes his finger.

‘Would you like to go on Friday night? I’ll bring you back by Sunday.’

‘I … I can’t do it at the weekends.’ In spite of myself, my voice becomes sad. ‘Actually, I can’t leave the country at any time. He … er … expects me to be around all the time.’

There is a slight tightening of his jaw, but his eyes are expressionless. ‘Lenny is busy this weekend.’

My jaw sags. ‘You know Lenny?’ I breathe, taken by surprise.

‘It’s a small world, Snow.’

‘Then you must know what he is.’

‘Yeah, I know what he is,’ he says, but he appears unimpressed.

I lean forward. ‘He’s a gangster. He’s killed men before,’ I say fiercely.

There is no change in his voice. ‘I know.’

I drop back to the chocolate chair back. ‘Are you not afraid of him?’

He shakes his head slowly, never taking his dirty, cocky, arrogant gaze off me.

I stare deep into his eyes. The flecks inside them are almost violet. I feel transfixed by them. as if he has a strange power over me. ‘Who are you?’ I whisper.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Can I get you anything?’ Raja asks.

His voice startles me and I jump.

Shane doesn’t look at Raja. ‘What’s good to eat here?’ he asks me.

‘The Neer dosa with chicken curry, I think,’ I say awkwardly.

‘Is that what you’re having?’

I nod.

He glances up briefly at Raja. ‘I’ll have two portions of that and a bottle of beer.’

Raja shuffles away, his eyes brimming with curiosity. From now on, Raja will never look at me in the same way again.

‘I’m not a gangster, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Shane says.

‘So, what are you?’

He shrugs carelessly. ‘I’m just a regular guy. I own some businesses.’

‘And how do you know Lenny?’

‘My brother used to do business with him.’

‘Is your brother a gangster?’

‘He used to be.’

‘And you? Were you one too?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘What are you doing here?’

He grins irresistibly. ‘I’m doing what the fireflies do when they flash. I’m sweet-talking you.’

Raja comes with the beer and a glass, and Shane ignores the glass and takes a mouthful straight from the bottle. ‘So: are you on for Friday?’

‘I don’t think you understand. Lenny will kill you if he finds out.’

‘I don’t think you understand. Lenny is sorted.’

‘How?’ I demand.

‘Let’s just say he’s had an offer he just can’t refuse.’

‘What kind of an offer? I thought you said you weren’t a gangster.’

‘I’m not. But I know people Lenny wants to trade with. As to what kind of an offer, you’re better off not knowing Lenny’s business.’

I frown. ‘You’re not going to get him into trouble, are you?’

His jaw tightens. ‘Lenny’s old enough and ugly enough to dig himself into trouble without any help from me.’

‘But it’s not some kind of trap you’re luring him into?’ I insist.

His face softens. ‘It’s not a trap. It’s just business.’

And immediately I know. He is telling the truth. I hardly know Shane but I trust him. ‘OK, I believe you.’

‘Good.’

‘What time Friday?’ I ask.

He throws his head back and laughs, a triumphant, satisfied laugh, and my gaze travels helplessly down his strong, brown throat. He’s special. I know then that we are not going to be just friends, even though this is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me to avoid at all cost.
Men who are too beautiful have too much choice. And a man with too much temptation is like a pig in shit. It will roll around in it all day long.

Our food arrives, and Shane watches me ignore the fork and knife as I tear the crêpe-thin Neer dosa with the fingers of my right hand, then dip it into the creamy chicken curry, bringing it to my mouth.

‘Does it taste better like that?’ he asks with a crooked smile.

‘Actually, yes,’ I admit. ‘You can wash your hands in the men’s toilet.’

‘No need,’ he says, spreading his fingers out in front of him. He has beautiful hands. They are large and masculine, the nails square. ‘I’ve eaten things off the floor and survived.’

I watch him rip the delicate white dosa, dunk it in the curry and put it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully then raises one impressed eyebrow. ‘It’s good,’ he pronounces.

I smile. ‘I think so. It’s a dish from Mangalore.’

‘Do you come here often?’

‘Yes, as often as I can.’

He looks around at the deserted restaurant. ‘Is it always this dead?’

‘Yes, every time I have been here. Most of their business is at night. But, to be honest, I like it like this. It’s got vellichor.’

He takes a pull of his beer. ‘Vellichor?’

‘A place that is usually busy but is now deserted. You know, like that strange wistfulness you get in used bookshops. The dusty cries of all those forsaken books waiting for new owners.’

His lips twist. ‘And you
like
that?’

I shrug. ‘It suits me—my frame of mind.’

‘You’re a very strange girl, Snow Dilshaw. But I like you.’

God knows why, but I flush all over.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he invites, finishing the first plate and pulling the second plate toward him.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything. Start with where you are from.’

‘I grew up in India. My mother is English and my father is Eurasian.’

He makes a rolling gesture with his left hand. ‘Must have been an amazing childhood.’

I shrug. ‘It was different.’

‘Tell me what it was like,’ he asks.

‘My father was an industrialist, a very successful one. He traveled a lot, and since my mother insisted on accompanying him everywhere, my two older siblings and I were left in the care of our many servants. Until I was almost five years old I actually thought my nanny, Chitra, was my mother. She did everything for me. I even crept into her room and slept in her bed when my parents were away.’

He raises his eyebrows in shocked disbelief. ‘Wow, you thought your nanny was your mother?’

‘Yes, I did. I loved her deeply.’

Shane stares at me with such shock and curiosity it is obvious that he must come from a very close-knit family where there is no doubt who the mother is.

‘That’s sad,’ he says.

‘Yes, finding out that the beautiful, perfumed, blonde woman with the chilly eyes and milky pearls that whispered against her silk blouses was my real mother was very confusing. Of course, I was in awe of her. Everybody was. In a land where everyone was dark-haired and mostly dark-skinned, she seemed to be very special. No matter where we went everybody stared at her.

‘I remember once the two of us were waiting to be picked up by our driver outside a shop and there was a street procession passing in front of us. Basically all manner of society was being presented, schoolchildren, teachers, soldiers ... One of the groups was singing, blind beggars holding onto each other for support. But as they passed us one of them broke years of professional disguise to swivel his supposedly blind eyes and stare at my mother.’

Shane frowns.

‘So even though I could see clearly that she was very special, I never took pride in being her daughter. I guess even as a small child I already perceived a lack of love in her. Sometimes it even seemed she could hardly bear to be in the same room as me.’

‘I’m sorry. That must have been terrible,’ Shane says softly. 

‘I don’t know that it was. I think growing up in a fatalistic society just makes you accept the unacceptable more easily. Once I asked Chitra why my mother loved me so little. She looked at me with her great, big, sad eyes and said, ‘She might be an enemy from a past birth.’

Shane’s eyes fly open. ‘Wow! That’s some heavy shit.’

‘Not really. Chitra is a Hindu and she believes in reincarnation. According to her even though you have no recollection of your past lives, your spirit recognizes your enemies and your lovers from other lifetimes, and reacts accordingly.’

‘What about your siblings though? Was it the same for them?’

‘If I was my mother’s enemy from a past life then my brother, Josh, was a great love. When I was six I heard her tell him, “I dreamt of you every night when you were inside me.” There was just nothing he could do wrong. Once he stood on the dining table and holding his little penis sprayed the whole room with his pee. It even hit our cook and she had to run to her quarters and bathe. But when my mother was told about it, she only pretended to scold him. He ran off to his bedroom to sulk. I still remember how my mother had gone upstairs and sat in his room for ages to cajole him into coming downstairs for dinner.’

‘Let me guess, he turned into a nasty little boy who pulled your hair and made you cry.’

I smiled. ‘Pulled my hair? He took it a few steps further. He set it on fire. It was the only time I saw my father lose control. He put the fire out with his bare hands and afterwards he tore a branch from a tree and whipped my brother with it until my mother came running out of the house screaming hysterically and threw herself over my brother’s body. I can still picture my father standing over them panting and wild-eyed. But enough about me, what about you? Tell me about you,’ I urge.

‘We are gypsies. My mother is from a Romany gypsy family and my father is an Irish traveler.’ 

‘Oh wow! That’s really interesting. You must have had some childhood too.’

‘I did. I had a wonderful childhood. At least, until my father died. Then it all kind of fell apart for a while.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he says, and quickly changes the subject back to me. ‘So, when and how did you end up in England?’

‘I ran away from home when I was nineteen,’ I say shortly.

His eyes fill with curiosity. ‘How old are you now?’

‘Twenty.’

He frowns. ‘You’ve only been in this country for one year.’

I nod.

‘How did you get mixed up with Lenny?’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t talk about it.’

He stares at me, his eyes unreadable ice chips, and I drop my gaze

‘But you are with him willingly.’