Page 6 of Born into Blood

“Mommy and Daddy love you, Lara,” I whisper against her skin.

I smile when she wraps her small hand around my finger, giving me a strong squeeze and surprising me with her strength, and I know it’s a sign. I may not be able to get the revenge Osip deserves, but our daughter will find a way.

She has to.

Chapter 1

Lara

It took me a long time to realize my mother was insane. Maybe insane isn’t the right word. It might be better to say she’s a bit unhinged or slightly off her rocker—a woman who constantly thinks we’re being watched, and when she’s in one of her downward spirals, insists on covering our windows in foil so no one can peek in, despite the fact that we live on the fourth floor and our building faces a busy street that no one gives a shit about, and beyond that is nothing but a solid brick wall. However you dress it up, it boils down to my mom being a bit of a nut.

This isn’t something I just woke up and knew. It was a slow process that took years, but in my defense, I was just a kid, so what the hell did I know? I knew my mom constantly talked about my dad as if he were alive and about to walk through the door at any moment, but then the next second she’d go into a rage about the Melnikov family and how they’d killed her only love and left me without a dad. I also knew that when I mentioned it to my teacher, who then brought it up to my mom, it was the one and only time she'd ever smacked me. I could see the regret written all over her face and the horror in her eyes as she took a step back and looked at the hand that had struck me like she didn’t recognize it, like it must’ve been someone else’s hand that had hit me, and then she’d dropped to her knees and hugged me like I was the only thing keeping her head above water as she drowned in memories that I’ve never been allowed to know about.

That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut, and I never brought anything up at school again. I kept my distance, stuck to myself, and learned to disappear. It’s really not so hard to be invisible. Most people want to stand out, so when someone willingly takes a step back, others are always more than happy to step in and take the spotlight. The habits I learned in school are the same ones that control my life now. I’ll be twenty soon, and I still immediately find the darkest corner in a room, still duck my head when walking down the sidewalk, and rarely say a word to anyone unless I have to.

Keeping my head low, I pick up my pace so I can scoot around a group of tourists before ducking down a side alley that looks like a good way to get murdered but is really just a shortcut to my job. I’d been stunned when I’d gotten the job as a waitress at La Dolce Vita a couple of months ago. Since I turned fifteen, my life has been one bad waitressing job after another, but thanks to a really impressive fake ID that’s been worth every penny of the steep price tag, I’ve slowly been working my way up and out of the shitty diners and smaller clubs that bring in equally shit tips. My mom still thinks I’m working at Ria’s, a popular nightclub that’s closer to where we live, but the tips weren’t good enough there, and they kept cutting my shifts. I’d applied at La Dolce Vita on a whim, never expecting to get the job at the most popular club in the city, but when I’d gotten the job offer, I’d accepted immediately.

Slipping in the back, I nod to the bouncer on duty. I’m not sure why a bouncer needs to be assigned to the back door, but I do know I’m never going to ask about it. This job pays really well, but there’s a reason I won’t ever tell my mom I work here. She would lose her shit if she knew I was waitressing in this part of the city, the part that’s rumored to be run by the Alessi Mafia and the very club that’s owned by the supposed don himself—Dominic Alessi, who just happens to be married to Natalya Melnikov. For as long as I can remember, my mom’s warned me about the Bratva, insisting that they killed my father and that they’d like nothing more than to kill me too, but I’ve never seen any proof of this, and if someone is gunning for my life, they’ve clearly hired the world’s most incompetent hitman because they’re doing a shit-poor job of it. I’m an easy target if there ever was one, but no one’s ever come after me.

My mom is delusional, and my dad was probably some asshole she had a one-night stand with, some dick who didn’t want to take responsibility. I really doubt he was anyone who would be on the Melnikovs’ radar.

I’m about to slip into the bathroom to check my hair before my shift starts when a man I recognize as one of the higher-ups blocks my path. I look up at him, forcing myself to not take a step back at the sheer size of the man. He towers over my five-five height, and the dark look in his eyes has me hoping like hell I’m not about to get fired.

“We’re short a girl tonight.” The thick Italian accent is beautiful, but the tone is hard and not at all friendly. “I need you to fill in upstairs.”

I glance over at the staircase that’s forbidden to everyone except a select few. I’ve been curious about what’s up there, but this place doesn’t invite questions.

Before I lose my nerve, I meet his eyes and say, “I’m not a stripper.”

“This isn’t a strip club,” he says, and the tone makes it clear that he thinks I’m a dumbass. “You’ll be serving drinks, same as down here.” His eyes run over the long-sleeve, black, henley shirt I’m wearing. “Why are you wearing that?”

I curl my fingers up, gripping the sleeves of the shirt in a comforting move that I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember, reassuring myself that my skin is covered. No one sees my bare arms.

“Breanna said I could wear it when she hired me. She said as long as it was black and form-fitting and I still wear the skirt that it would be fine.”

He thinks about it and then points to the buttons at the top of my shirt that are done all the way up. “If you unbutton those, you’ll get more tips.”

He doesn’t say it in a pervy way. It’s more like he’s giving me a bit of advice, but when I don’t immediately reach up to start showing more skin, he just shrugs his broad shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

When he turns and starts to walk over to the staircase, I assume I’m supposed to follow, so I do. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops and points at me while saying something in Italian to the bouncer who’s always standing guard, making sure no one sneaks upstairs who isn’t allowed. The man’s in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs him like a second skin, and I don’t need to know him to know that there’s no way in hell I’d ever want to be on the receiving end of his anger. You’d have to be an absolute moron to try and sneak by this guy.

The man who’d stopped me in the hall looks over his shoulder at me. “You’re Lara, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, and then feeling at a disadvantage, I ask, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Dario.” He nods to the bouncer. “This is Marco.”

The only reaction Marco gives is a slight rise of his pierced brow, and then he turns his attention back to Dario while they have a short conversation in Italian. I look around while I wait. The club is always packed, and tonight is no exception. Bodies fill the dance floor, and every table is full. I catch sight of blonde curls as Janet speed walks through the section that would have been mine tonight, tray full of drinks and wearing the recommended uniform—a black, low-cut tank top and a black skirt. As far as uniforms go, it’s not all that bad. Honestly, I was expecting something way more pervy.

“Follow me,” Dario says, pulling my attention back to him.

I take the stairs right behind him, and when he opens the door at the top, I’m too curious to be nervous. The only people I’ve ever seen come up here are men in suits that probably cost more than I make in a year and the waitresses that I’ve never interacted with. I seriously thought they had a private strip club area up here, and I never wanted anything to do with it. I need tips, but I’m not willing to strip to get them. God, just the thought of dancing naked while strange men look at me has my cheeks heating up. I like my skin covered as much as possible. You can’t blend in if you’re half-naked and dancing around a pole.

I’m a little surprised when I step into a dark and deserted hall. This isn’t at all the nefarious place I’d been picturing.

“Told you it wasn’t a stripping job,” Dario says, noticing my confusion. He points to a door at the end of the hall. “That’s where we’re going, but first we need to have a talk.”

“Uh-oh,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “That doesn’t sound good.”

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