Page 24 of Bought By the Mafia

“Now I’m curious. I already think the worst of you. I doubt any new information would make my opinion of you sink any lower.”

“Great. Just as I suspected.”

“Well, spit it out. The curiosity is eating at me.”

She took a deep breath and shook her head, as if deciding to throw caution to the wind. Finally, she said, “He was my pimp.”

11

Five years ago

It was like being in a dreamland. When he came to my room and told me we would have dinner somewhere close to the hotel, I thought it would be a restaurant. Turns out it was a yacht. His freaking yacht. It was a beautiful boat, tastefully furnished and not at as tacky as some boats I’ve been on, not that I’ve been on many. Dinner was being served on the deck of the ship under the warm, starlit night sky. It could not be more romantic. Gio, as he liked to be called, was the best date to be with, yacht withstanding. He was attentive. Never presuming what I wanted, always making sure I was comfortable or enjoying my meal. When a light wind came through, Gio suggested we go inside and by then we had finished eating and were now drinking an old, no doubt expensive wine. I followed him into a cabin with white sofas and a view of the ocean and sky. We both sat on the same couch. I had wanted to be closer to him all night and now we were mere inches away from each other.

“You never told me what you do,” I asked after we had run out of conversation. He had told me a lot about his family, his brothers, and his travels. He sounded like he traveled a lot. “You seem to be constantly moving from place to place and never sitting down from what you say.”

“That’s only because our business is in flux at the moment.”

I gazed around. “I would not have guessed.”

He chuckled. “Not everything you see is real.”

“So you’re telling me this is not yours?”

“Appearances can be deceptive. I’m trying to keep my family’s money. In fact, that’s why I’m traveling so much.” He shifted to face me. His gaze was so intense, it was like being under a microscope. “And what about you? You talked about working. I thought you were still in college. What kind of work do you do?”

I couldn’t tell him the truth. I had made a mistake by talking about working. There’s no way I would tell him what I really did, but I could tell him what I wanted to do. It’s not as if I was ever going to meet this man again. We were from different worlds and somehow collided. From the surroundings, his manner of speech, and his general demeanor, he was clearly an old money type. While I was from the criminal underworld. “I’m a fashion designer. Well, aspiring fashion designer. I’m currently working for a small fashion house.” The lie slid out so smoothly I didn’t even have to think about it. But then again, it wasn’t the first time I had used it. I just never used it with someone I liked.

Now

I never thought I could shake Giovanni’s foundation until then. When I told him that Terry, or Slimy Terry as I liked to call him, was my pimp, his jaw dropped, he froze and when he finally gathered himself, he darted his gaze around us as if he was shocked by his own reaction.

“You certainly hold a lot of secrets. A pimp. You’re right, I wasn’t expecting that.” He shook his head. “But why?”

“What? Not sophisticated a line of work enough for you.”

“No. One would think a mafia princess would have enough money to not have to resort to sex work in order to get by. Unless you liked it, of course.”

“It wasn’t like that.” I wanted our relationship to be as superficial as possible and telling him about Terry would let him in. If I let him, he would destroy me. I could not let that happen. “I know you like to call me princess, but my life was far from grand.”

He took a sip of his champagne. “What was it like then?”

“Very different from yours, let’s just say.”

“If you had to whore yourself out for that guy—”

“It wasn’t like that. I know I called him my pimp, but I did not have to sleep with men. Don’t worry, you did not buy ‘damaged goods’.”

“Come on. I wasn’t thinking like that at all. It’s just that he was a little creepy and you were a lot stiffer than usual.” He was leaning in closer and caressing my back as he spoke in what anyone who didn’t know our relationship was like would interpret as caring. Even I was in danger of forgetting that as well. His hand was too soft, too caring.

“So you were concerned? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“This may surprise you, but yes.”

“Sure.” I desisted from rolling my eyes. There was no way he was concerned. He probably thought I deserved it. But his soft tone when he asked, “Was he horrible to you?” had me doubting my convictions. If he truly was sincere, telling him the truth might be a good thing. But he could look for something to use against me later and, frankly, that was the most likely scenario. “He was bad,” I said, “But not in the way you think and before you give me your fake pity, I was no victim.”

Concern immediately turned to disgust. My heart plunged. I wanted any other emotion from him that wasn’t his usual hate and seeing him switch back to normal hurt. But if I was honest with myself, that was the better emotion to deal with. A caring Giovanni was unsettling, and I prayed he never made a return.

“Of course,” he said, “A woman like you is no one’s victim. You are a predator. I don’t know why I thought otherwise.”

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