Page 39 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

And he really would kill me if I was a false kyre and not a true blood. For nearly two decades, we’ve been risking our lives for each other, but it’s some supposed strand of DNA deep in my cells that keeps him loyal to me.

That goes for half the men I’m leading now.

The rest follow me from fear.

“I took the throne, and I’m keeping it, DNA or not. Tell me about tomorrow,” I say.

Orton tells me how he’ll be terrorizing a few of the people who might give us the details we need. Then we’ll find the men we’re hunting, and it will be done.

I’d just assumed I was a true Zogaj until that day out on the boat last month.

In those last bloody moments, my brother, Alteo, said I was a bastard and that my father paid a crone to deliver the prophecy that I’d kill him so that nobody would question why he sent his son away. He said my father didn’t want people to know his wife had strayed.

Alteo’s words could be true. Deep down, it makes sense.

But it’s not like anybody’s digging up bodies and runningDNA tests. Orton gets to believe I’m a true blood, and I get to believe I might not be my hated father’s son.

“It’s a fucking death wish,” Orton says because he really can’t leave it. “Whoever it is, they want to die because you’ll come for them for saying that.”

I look over the Hudson, following a tugboat making its way down the murky waters, waiting for Orton to say what I know he’ll say. He doesn’t disappoint.

“With every prick, the spider’s web tightens, thorn for thorn, blood for blood.”

I nod. This is an Albanian vengeance saying that Orton repeats every chance he gets.

He wants to believe—he really, really wants to.

Sometimes, the things a man wants are no good, but still, he wants them.

Chapter Fifteen

EDIE

I’m curled up in my favorite chair in the study commons on the seventh floor of our residence hall that night, trying to focus.

Not easy when a mafia kingpin might summon me for sex at any given moment.

Sex. That one word seems too small and limited for what happened between us.

My mind spins with the image of him naked, strong and proud, prowling over me like a lion. The feel of lying on that bed, masturbating at his command.

How quickly he made me into a depraved person who likes wrong and twisted things.

I tell myself that woman wasn’t me once and for all, and I focus on pulling together resources for the paper that I stupidly declared I’d write. The paper is titled “The Evolution of Byzantine Iconography in the 11th and 12th Centuries:New Themes, Styles, and Influences,” but Odetta and I call it “Iconic Regret” because it’s been such a bear to research.

I find myself in a dead end with too narrow of a search term, so I tweak it and try again.

The commons area is an enforced quiet space with lots ofoverstuffed couches, tables, and homey lamps on side tables. Ruffles of colorful flyers adorn the row of bulletin boards along one wall, advertising jobs, clubs, services, and room shares.

What if Luka figures out where I am without geolocation? While a hooker college student isn’t impossible, his guys would only have to interview a few of my friends to know that this isn’t something I’d ever do. How long would it take him to figure out that I was planted by the police?

I remind myself he could have no idea I’m a college student. And that he hasn’t texted yet. I organize my highlighted material, like that will help the chaos of my life right now, and, of course, that’s when he texts.

I don’t notice it at first; my Luka phone is on vibrate only. But then I get a call on my normal phone, which I do notice.

It’s “Brenda,” a.k.a. Bender.

My heart starts pounding. What does he want? Is something going on with my sister? I pull out my earbuds and answer. “Yeah?”

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