Page 4 of Marrying the Mobster
A muscle in his cheek twitches, but his expression remains hard and unreadable. “Five million plus interest.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head. “Five million!”
It’s more than Dad could afford to borrow, and he had to have known that at the time.
My father looks up at me, his face reddened and streaked with tears. “The South Beach condo project going under ruined me. I thought if I could put the money into something else—”
“When are you going to learn that your schemes never work out like you planned?” I can’t believe we’re both about to die over his stupidity. He’s always been a shitty businessman, and it’s a wonder his real-estate development firm hasn’t gone under by now.
“I’m sorry, Elena. I’m sosorry!”
“Shut up!” the man in black snaps. “Miss … Elena? I suggest you turn your back unless you want to watchPapi’sbrains splatter the rug.”
Everything within me screams that I should run, fight—anything other than what I’m about to do.
“Wait!”
The man in black stops just short of putting his finger on the trigger. He looks at me like I’m crazy, lips slightly parted.
I step closer while working up my nerve. Some of my courage has withered under the man’s dark glare. “Let me work off the debt. I own a boutique in the Design District, and our profits are good. I have about twenty-thousand in savings I can sign over to you right now. I’ll pay it all back, with interest, if you let him live.”
Part of me knows my father’s life isn’t the only one that hangs in the balance. These men won’t leave any loose ends. I’ve seen their faces and will witness their crime. I’m next on the chopping block.
The man in black scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Your pitiful boutique earnings won’t be nearly enough. You couldn’t pay it all back in your lifetime.”
“I’ll work it off some other way,” I blurt without thinking, desperation pushing the words out of my mouth. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The cocky partner raises an eyebrow. “She’s hot,jefe… nice tits. She could dance atCalentar.”
Bile stings my throat at the mention of one of Miami’s hottest nightclubs. I’ve never been, but everyone knows about the three-story hotspot with a DJ spinning different genres of music on each level. Stripper poles encircle each of the dance floors, and the strippers are one ofCalentar’smain attractions.
It isn’t the idea of gyrating on a pole in a G-string that makes me feel physically sick. The rumors about the owner of the club and his hidden activities are as legendary asCalentaritself. Blinking a stunned look at the man in black, I realize I’m standing in the presence of Diego Pérez himself—rumored mafia thug. The other man did refer to him as‘jefe.’
A deranged giggle bubbles up my throat as I realize how screwed I am. If the stories can be believed, Diego Pérez is one of the most feared men in the seedy underworld operating in plain sight throughout Miami and other big cities around the United States. The Pérez cartel is old and established, with roots in Colombia.
“Calentardoesn’t need another dancer,” Pérez says with a sneer. “And her tits are nothing special.”
I can’t decide if I’m insulted or devastated that a suggested avenue of indentured servitude has been snatched from under me.
“Please,” I beg, eyes widening as I hold his gaze.
He looks positively soulless—his eyes dark and hard, gleaming with ruthlessness. His index finger twitches but still hasn’t curled around the trigger, leaving me with a small glimmer of hope. I don’t want to die. I’m pushing twenty-seven and only just hitting my stride in a fashion career I’ve been dreaming of since I was a girl playing with my mama’s sewing machine. I put off settling down with a husband and kids until I had achieved the goals I’d set for myself, and I’m nearly ready to begin the rest of my life.
Pérez purses his lips, looking from me to my father. His expression doesn’t change, but I can feel his wheels turning. Is he considering my offer?
“Jefe?” the other man prompts, his forehead wrinkled.
Pérez holds up one hand and looks back to me. A shiver runs down my spine at the resolve I see in his eyes, and I realize it probably would have been better to accept death. Whatever he has in store is definitely worse than a bullet to the head.
“Very well,” he says with a chilling smile. “I’ll allow your father an extension of thirty days to come up with half of what he owes.”
My shoulders sag with relief, even as I realize there’s no way we can come up with $2.5 million in so short a time. But then, a month will give me a chance to plot my way out of this. There has to be some country I can escape to where the Pérez cartel can’t reach.
“In the meantime,” Pérez continues, “I’ll need collateral. You understand … there’s a flight risk to consider.”
Damn it, he’s on to me.
“What collateral?” I ask. “The only thing of enough value my father owns is this house. You can take my boutique, too, if it will help.”
