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 THUG
Something Real #3
Leslie Georgeson

Copyright © 2021 Leslie Georgeson

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not
intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are
solely the opinions of the author.
***
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own
copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Other Titles by Leslie Georgeson
About Leslie Georgeson
Connect with Leslie Georgeson
 CHAPTER ONE
Lev
Thug: a violent, lawless, or vicious person, especially one who commits a crime such as assault,
robbery, or murder.
Yep. That about summed me up. Violent. Lawless. Potentially vicious. I committed crimes like
assault, robbery, and the occasional murder.
Cough, cough.
Okay, truthfully, I only stole from those who could afford to lose it. I only assaulted those who
attacked me first. I only killed in self-defense, or those who genuinely deserved to die (yes, there are
people out there who deserve to die). I didn’t prey on the innocent or weak. I didn’t harm women or
children. Ever.
See, I do have some standards.
Anyway, back to thuggery…
What’s one of my favorite activities?
Car theft.
“A red Ferrari just parked down the block,” Dominik’s voice crackled through the communication
device at my ear. “Looks like an SF90 Stradale.” Excitement laced his words.
Sweet. The Stradale was easily worth half a million or more. A great find.
“Roger that.” I moved in quickly, keeping to the shadows. Though it was close to eleven p.m., this
section of Hollywood contained the popular nightclubs, so it was still alive with activity. A prime
spot to snag expensive cars since plenty of rich people frequented the clubs here. Spying the car in
question, I waited as the driver’s side door swung open, and a tall guy emerged.
Young. Handsome. Preppy. Probably a trust fund brat.
He could afford to lose the car.
Stealing expensive cars in today’s world wasn’t like in the movies. No jimmying the lock. No
forced entry. No yanking open the dash and pressing wires together to start the engine.
It simply required a proper “kit”. An electronic device detected the specific signal from the car’s
key fob and transmitted the signal to a repeater device that—when held next to the vehicle—could
open and start the car, allowing the thief to drive away without the owner’s knowledge. The “kit”
worked well. But only if the car’s key fob was close enough to the vehicle to emit a signal. So,
stealing expensive cars took patience, and quick action.
And fleeing like the devil was on our ass if the owner spotted his car driving off without him.
I would like to say we stole cars because we were poor and needed the money. Or—even better
—that we were modern-day Robin Hoods who took from the rich and gave to the poor.
But none of that was true.
We stole because we liked fancy cars, and stealing them was fun—and because we were Bratva.
Stealing cars was what we did. We also stole cars because it gave us a rush.
Tonight, Dom took on the role of “spotter,” though he was usually the “thief.” One of the best car
thieves I’d ever known, my twin had successfully stolen more cars by himself than the rest of us had
all together. When we went out on a car hunt, we generally worked in teams: a spotter, who staked out
vehicles, and a thief, who used the repeater device to get inside the cars.
Together, Dom and I were unstoppable car thieves.
The Ferrari’s owner strode down the sidewalk, the car’s lights flashing and the horn bleeping as
he locked the vehicle behind him.
I rushed up to the red sports car, keeping low as the preppy guy paused at a crosswalk where a
few other pedestrians had gathered, glancing at his phone while he waited for the signal to cross the
street. Too bad; when he came back, his car would be gone.
I needed to hurry before I lost the signal to his key fob, and our opportunity to steal his Ferrari
slipped away.
Dom stepped out of the shadows, intercepting the guy at the crosswalk, striking up a conversation
with him to keep him close. While the guy was distracted by my brother, I unlocked the vehicle with
the repeater device and slid behind the wheel.
Oooh, yeah, what a beauty!
Seeing me in the car, Dom waved at the guy and moved toward me. The signal to cross flashed,
and the pedestrians moved out onto the crosswalk, hurrying across the road.
Before the man got too far away, I pushed the start button.
The engine roared to life.
Yes!
The passenger’s side door flew open, and Dominik dropped into the seat, shouting, “Go, go, go!
He spotted us!”
I glanced over, seeing the dude racing back toward us, his face red as he shouted and waved his
arms.
Slamming the shifter into “drive,” I stomped on the gas pedal, the tires screeching as we peeled
out on the asphalt. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the owner on his cellphone, probably
calling the cops.
For nearly two hours, we’d been waiting and watching for the perfect car to steal as people
entered and left the nearby nightclubs. Like I said, stealing cars takes patience, and some fast
maneuvering. Some nights we went home empty-handed. But tonight, we’d gotten lucky.
We wove our way through traffic, which was thinning out this late at night, and made it as far as
the second stoplight before flashing red and blue lights appeared behind us.
Shit. That was fast. Especially in L.A. The cop must have been nearby.
The light turned green, and I floored it, sending us screeching away.
Dominik held onto his passenger’s side grab bar as I slammed on the brakes and made a quick left
turn, squeezing into a gap between a white Honda and a gray Subaru, trying to elude the police car
tailing us. The guy in the Subaru blared his horn, and I caught sight of him in my rearview mirror
flipping us off through the windshield.
The tires skidded on the asphalt before gaining traction, and we careened around another corner,
rubber screeching, the engine roaring as we picked up speed again. Faster. Faster.
Another turn.
A quick acceleration.
Another squeal of tires.
A slam on the brakes.
A sharp right turn…
This time, the cop wasn’t able to make the turn behind us, and, instead, sailed right past us,
screeching to a halt, narrowly missing a street sign.
“Woo hoo!” I slapped the steering wheel and turned to my brother with a grin. “We lost him.”
Dom snickered, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call the shop and tell them we’ve got a
new one.”
I whooped. I fucking loved this life. I craved danger. I lived to walk that fine line between life and
death. I guess that made me an adrenaline junkie. I was totally in my element in moments like this.
Nothing else compared to the heart-pounding, testosterone-induced rush of adrenaline that flowed
through my veins right now.
Auto theft was a lucrative part of the Popov Bratva. After stealing automobiles, we tore them
apart, filed off VIN numbers, replaced computers, reset mileages, then pieced them back together,
reshaped and repainted them, assigned a new VIN number, and resold them. Sometimes we got
requests for certain makes and models of cars with custom remodeling orders. Those were big bucks
for us. Anywhere from a hundred grand to several hundred thousand a piece—sometimes more.
Tonight’s steal was a rare and profitable find.
We circled around a few times, keeping our eyes open for the cops, then made our way to the
shop.
Fifteen minutes later, we drove inside the garage, the overhead door closing behind us.
 Dom and I slid out of the car, grinning and high-fiving each other.
Our shop foreman, Mishka, a skinny blond guy in his mid-forties, walked around the Ferrari,
inspecting it with a grin. “Niiiice. We should get a pretty penny for this beauty.”
Dom clapped my shoulder. “Well done, Thug.”
I sniggered. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Thief.”
When we were eight years old, Dom and I had nicknamed each other “Thief” and “Thug,” and
we’d done everything we could to live up to those nicknames ever since.
That thing they say about twins sharing a special closeness? It’s real. Dom and I had been
inseparable since birth. We knew what the other was going to think even before he thought it. We
knew what the other was about to say even before the words spilled from his mouth. We knew what
the other was going to do even before he acted on it. Our twin connection was uncanny, something that
was hard for other people to truly understand. I knew him as well as, or better than, I knew myself,
and he could say the same about me.
Fraternal twins, Dominik and I looked nothing alike. I boasted the typical Popov blond hair and
blue eyes, while my brother took after our mother with his dark hair and hazel eyes. The only facial
feature similar in both of us was Mom’s smile. All the Popov men were tall, standing over six feet,
but I was the only stocky one in the bunch. Dom was an inch taller than me at six-three, but I weighed
two-forty, a good thirty pounds more than he did. Most people were intimidated by my size, and I
liked it that way. They were less likely to give me any trouble if my bulk scared them off. Hey, I was
proud of this body. These muscles hadn’t come for free. I had to work out regularly to keep them.
“Let’s head to Bliss for a few drinks, and a hook-up if we’re lucky,” Dom suggested.
My thoughts exactly.
We deserved a reward for pulling off a successful car theft. What better way to celebrate than
having a few drinks at our popular Bratva-owned nightclub, Bliss, and engaging in a little sexual
tango with a warm and willing woman?
Timofey and Adrik, two of our most-trusted Boyeviks—or soldiers—were waiting out back with
the Escalade. Timofey was dark, bulky, and mean-looking—an intimidating guy even bigger than me.
Adrik was tall and lean with dark brown hair and…an interesting appearance. When my cousin Sacha
had left the Bratva last year, Adrik came under my command, and I’d made him my right-hand man.
Adrik was also our interrogator. He possessed a certain skill that enabled him to extract information
from people without using any type of physical pain. How? Adrik’s face had been practically ripped
off by a Pit Bull when he was a kid. The dog had belonged to his drug-addict father, who’d never
taken Adrik in for proper medical care after the injury, fearing his dog would be confiscated.
Miraculously, Adrik’s face had healed on its own, just not in a pretty way. The guy’s appearance
alone was enough to scare the toughest of people into blurting out whatever he wanted to know. Some
of the other Boyeviks had dubbed him “Beast,” but he didn’t seem to mind. Despite the tragedy he’d
suffered, Adrik was a good-natured guy. He wasn’t embittered by what had happened to him. He just
accepted it and moved on.
I hadn’t cringed when I’d first taken in Adrik’s face, though most people did. The ugly, jagged
scars, his misshapen nose, uneven eyes, the huge fissure in his upper lip that looked like an
improperly treated cleft palate but was actually a nasty scar from the dog bite, and his partially bald
scalp with tufts of dark hair sprouting out in uneven places…
A genuinely good guy, Adrik had proven his loyalty time and again. I trusted him with my life.
Adrik glanced at me in the rearview mirror from his position behind the wheel, his slightly
uneven gaze holding mine.
“Where to, boss?”
A sudden screech of tires had us all tensing and reaching for our weapons.
Before we could flee, three vehicles rocked to a halt around us, blocking us in.
Not cops.
Several armed men emerged, pointing their weapons at us.
Mafia thugs.
The back door of a black Tahoe swung open. A tall, lean guy emerged, dressed in a navy-blue
suit. Late twenties. Dark hair slicked back with too much gel. Flinty black eyes. A scowl distorted his
clean-shaven features as his gaze swept over the Escalade and he tried to see through the tinted
glass…
My lip twitched into a sneer.
Salvatore Romano.
I jerked my gaze to Dom’s. “What the fuck does he want?”
Dom shrugged, his expression impassive, though he had to be at least slightly concerned by Sal’s
presence. “I’m guessing it has something to do with the car we just stole.”
I groaned, tilting my head back to stare up at the top of the car. “We stole a Romano vehicle?
Jesus, Dom! You’re supposed to screen the cars better.”
Dominik’s brow shot up. “I’m only human, dude. How the fuck was I supposed to know it might
be one of theirs? I didn’t recognize the guy driving it. I just saw the opportunity and we took it. It’s a
sweet ride.”
Yeah, it was. But if the car was associated with the Romanos in any way, then we had to give it
back. Even though I didn’t want to. Even though I wanted to snigger, spit in Sal’s face, and tell him to
kiss the Ferrari goodbye.
 The Romano Mafia was among the worst in the area. The reigning Don, Enzo Romano, was a
soulless monster and his son, Salvatore, was no better. Every kind of horror story you could come up
with about them was probably true. They were cold. Lethal. Mindless killers. Rapists. Abusers of
women and children. They had no limits. No mercy. Other crime families were terrified of them. If
you pissed off Enzo, he took out a hit on you, and you were lucky to live beyond a week.
I rubbed a hand over my face, heaving out a sigh. “Let’s just find out what the fucker wants.”
I reached for my door handle.
Dom snagged my arm before I could open the door. “Whatever happens, keep your cool, bro. If
we break the truce between the families, Papa will come unglued.”
Right. The truce that my grandfather had negotiated with Enzo Romano to keep me from killing
Salvatore, and to keep the Romanos from putting out a hit on me or harming anyone in my family.
The truce between two Mafia families—Russians and Italians—that had lasted nearly ten years.
After what he’d done, Sal was damn lucky I hadn’t offed him yet. The only thing protecting Sal from
me was the stupid fucking truce. If it weren’t for that truce, one or both of us would probably already
be dead.
Now here Sal was in our territory. Blatant as fuck. Just the sight of his pretty-boy face had me
itching to relocate all his facial features with my fists.
“I can’t promise anything,” I warned, popping my knuckles and cracking my neck in preparation of
a possible brawl. “If he sets me off, Dom, then you’d better just stand clear back out of the way.”
 CHAPTER TWO
Lev
Dom sent me a hard stare. “Don’t be stupid, Lev. Your actions affect all of us. Keep your cool.”
What if I don’t want to?
I won’t deny my violent streak popped out every once in a while. I couldn’t help it if I was a
reactive kind of guy. Blame it on my hot-bloodedness. It’s genetic. I got it from my papa. So what if I
overreacted sometimes? Sue me. Or, better yet, just stay out of my way. I make no apologies. I am
who I am.
Dom and I balanced each other out in a (mostly) positive way. While I took everything to heart
(don’t say it if you don’t mean it; don’t do it unless you’re prepared for the consequences), he
remained (outwardly, at least) unfazed by everything. I was passionate and impulsive, a hot fuse
ready to ignite, while Dominik was a cool, impenetrable iceberg, impossible to rile up, often showing
little or no emotion. I don’t know how he kept his cool so easily, but he’d saved me from unnecessary
brawls plenty of times in the past, while I’d persuaded him to engage in physical violence a time or
two when “talking” didn’t solve the problem. I guess that made me a bad influence on him, while he
was a good influence on me. So, yeah, we balanced each other out.
Even though Dom pissed me off sometimes, I was thankful for his cool-headedness. If I became
irrational or out of control, he was probably the only one who could calm me down. He had my back
no matter what.
I blew out a breath, dropping my stare. Dom was right. This wasn’t just about the unresolved
dispute between me and Sal. Anything I did could affect everyone around me. I didn’t want any harm
to come to my mother or little sister. Or anyone else in my family.
Clenching my jaw, I jerked my head in a nod. I would behave myself—or, at least, try to—not
because I wanted to, but because it was expected of me.
Dom and I cautiously exited the car with Adrik and Timofey as backup. There was no telling how
this might go down.
Sal’s contempt-filled gaze raked over me, then Dom. He sized up our soldiers, then his gaze came
back to rest on me.
“I hear you Popovs stole a red Ferrari about a half hour ago.”
I shrugged. “So?”
Sal’s gaze hardened. “I want it.”
I huffed. “You want it? Is it yours?”
Sal glowered at me. “It would have been mine if you two hadn’t fucked everything up. My guys
have been following that car all week, waiting for the right moment to snatch it up. You took it from
me. I want that car, so hand it over.”
Was he fucking serious? Sal was delusional if he thought I was just going to hand over a three-
quarters-of-a-million-dollar car to him. The car wasn’t his, and he had no claims on it. We’d stolen it,
so it was now ours. Finders keepers and all that…
Dom and I exchanged a glance.
“Since when do the Romanos engage in auto theft?” I demanded. “Don’t you have enough drugs to
sell or prostitutes to pimp out?”
We weren’t in any direct competition with the Romanos, since they made most of their fortune
from narcotics and prostitution, while we made our money from other ventures such as fuel fraud,
auto theft, extortion, and our legal businesses like the restaurants and nightclubs that we laundered
money through.
Unless the Romanos had recently delved into auto theft, Sal just wanted the Ferrari for himself.
Not gonna happen.
Dom’s hand wrapped around my wrist, a warning to stay calm. “We’d be willing to work out a
deal with you for the car,” he told Sal. “For a fair price.”
Dom negotiated car deals all the time. He was not only the best car thief I knew, but also a great
negotiator. If it were me, I would just tell Sal to fuck off. I didn’t have the patience for negotiation
like Dom did.
Sal’s scowl deepened. If he wanted the car bad enough, he’d either throw out an offer, or he’d
break the truce and try to kill us, and then attempt to take the vehicle. Or he’d give up and leave.
Technically, he was already in violation of the truce by showing up in our territory.
This could get interesting….
“I’m not paying you for a car you stole from me!” Sal bit out, spit flying from his lips.
Jesus, the guy was acting like a spoiled brat. Then again, he was one. The only child of Enzo
Romano, Sal had never lacked for anything in his life. His poor mother had perished shortly after his
birth, and he’d been raised by a nanny in his early years and later by his monster of a father. Sal was
used to getting his way. If he wanted something, he just took it.
My jaw clenched at the reminder of what he’d taken from me.
Do not go there. Now is not the time.
I refocused on Sal. “We didn’t steal it from you. We just got to it before you did. It’s not our fault
your guys were too slow to act. You snooze, you lose…”
Sal sent me a seething glare. “Fuck you! I will not negotiate with a Popov. I’ll just find another
car.” He spun away in his fancy suit and marched back toward his vehicle.
I abhorred suits. We Popovs were pretty casual dudes. None of us wore suits. My standard attire
was jeans and Polos. A nice sort of casual. Suits stood out too much. Drew too much attention. We
preferred to look like regular guys rather than announce to the world that we were Bratva. Sal liked to
think he was important, so he always wore a suit. He liked the attention. In his head, it made him look
powerful.
Truthfully, he was powerful. But only because of his father. The Romano name sparked fear in
most people.
Not me. I wasn’t afraid of anyone. Especially not Sal.
I shook my head at his sudden retreat. Seriously? He was just going to give up? Why didn’t he
want to stay and battle this out?
“I’m sure you will,” I called, unable to resist goading him. “But you really should leave it to us
professionals. If your guys are too slow again, we’ll just snatch that one out from underneath you, as
well.”
Sal whirled around, his nostrils flaring.
Our gazes locked.
Some people might be frightened by the promise of retribution brewing in his black eyes.
Not me. I welcomed it. I wanted him furious. I wanted him coming at me so I would have an
excuse to kill him.
Then he did a complete one-eighty, reminding me of his chameleon-like abilities. His expression
morphed into a smirk, his eyes gleamed, and he tossed out casually, “I might not be a professional car
thief, but at least I know how to hold onto my women, unlike you.”
My blood boiled. That motherfucker.
He did not just say that.
I clenched my fists and ground my jaw so hard I swear my bottom molar cracked.
My rational side advised me to keep my cool, that he was just trying to egg me on. But my fuse
had already been lit, and I was about to explode.
Don’t let him get to you.
Too late.
He was talking about the one thing he wasn’t supposed to talk about. By bringing up the past, by
rubbing it in, he’d effectively set me off and I couldn’t let it slide.
I lunged toward him, eager to choke the life out of him, eager to end him here and now.
Dom anticipated my move (that damn twin connection) and intercepted me, launching himself in
between us before I could attack. At the same time, Sal’s men moved to surround him, raising their
weapons threateningly, while Adrik and Timofey leapt forward, grabbing my arms. I snarled and
raged, pulling at their grip, and it took all three of them—Dom, Adrik, and the bulky Timofey—to
hold me back.
Sal slid into the back of the SUV and one of his men closed the door behind him. He rolled his
window down, smirking at me.
“There’re always more cars. I’ll just find another one. But sadly, there was only one Cara.”
He rolled his window up, letting his parting shot linger in the air as the car drove off.
Hissing out a breath, I bowed my head, his last sentence completely deflating me.
Adrik and Timofey released me, stepping back.
Dom sent me a concerned look. “Why do you let him get to you like that?”
I let out a soft groan. “I don’t know. I just…can’t help it.”
Dom wrapped an arm around my shoulders and steered me back toward the Escalade. “Come on,
bro. Forget Romano. Let’s go hook-up with some hot chicks.”
I went along, not wanting to fight with my brother, though my heart wasn’t in it anymore. Sal’s
presence never failed to put me in a bad mood.
It wasn’t booze and women that I needed right now.
It was something else entirely.
 CHAPTER THREE
Siena
“I still can’t believe that asshole actually let you go out,” Laura exclaimed the moment I stepped
out of the Uber and joined her on the sidewalk in front of the popular nightclub Bliss.
I couldn’t believe it either, but my temporary freedom had come at a price. Nothing in my life ever
came free. I was still trying to fight back the memory of three hours ago, but it lingered in my mind,
taunting me even now…

“You’re going out dressed like that? You look like a fucking hooker.”
I flinched, slowly turning away from the mirror to find Sal standing in the bedroom doorway,
his black gaze sweeping over me in a slow perusal.
My heart hiccupped, slamming into my ribs and bouncing like a frightened rabbit in my chest.
This dress wasn’t sleazy in the least. It was actually quite modest with very little cleavage and
ending just above my knees. But Sal didn’t see it that way. If I had an ounce of skin showing
anywhere, then he thought I was dressed like a hooker.
“You s-said I could go out tonight, remember? It’s my birthday. I haven’t been out of this house
since Nico was born. Laura’s taking me to dinner, then some drinks at a club. You s-said I could
stay out until midnight. Please, Sal, let me have one night with my friend. I haven’t seen her since
before Nico was born. You wouldn’t even let her come see the baby.”
Sal strode forward, pausing directly behind me. He grabbed my hips, squeezing tightly. “That’s
because that girl is nothing but trouble. She puts rebellious ideas in your head.”
He forcefully spun me around and marched me toward the bed. With a rough hand on my back,
he bent me forward and yanked my dress up.
“Let me give you a little reminder who you belong to, Siena.”
Shoving my face into the mattress, he undid his pants. I squeezed my eyes shut and let my mind
wander as Sal “reminded me who I belonged to.” Biting my bottom lip to keep from crying out
from his cruel domination, I remained stoic, clenching my fists and keeping my eyes closed,
blocking out the discomfort as I was forced to endure his unwanted violation.
Thoughts of my sweet baby boy filled my mind, his cherubic little face and adorable baby
giggles…
With a final grunt, Sal moved away, fixing his pants. I remained bent over the bed, afraid to
move until he said so.
He headed toward the door, pausing when he reached it. “I’m feeling charitable tonight since
it’s your birthday, so you can stay out until one o’clock. But not a minute later…”

Shoving the memory aside, I focused on my bestie, Laura, vowing to enjoy the rest of my night out.
I would never tell her the entire truth about what I suffered at the hands of my husband. She didn’t
need to know that. I was positive Sal’s men were following us, watching my every move. But at least
Sal himself wasn’t slinking around behind me. That would have been too much.
Laura and I had gone to dinner at a fancy steakhouse and were now completing the evening with
some drinks and live entertainment, and hopefully some flirting and dancing—at least for my friend.
Our bellies full and our mood celebratory, we joined the line in front of the club.
“Thanks for tonight, Laura. Dinner was awesome and I can’t wait to see what bands are playing
here.”
“You betcha, babe.” Laura winked at me. “You deserve it.”
Tonight was “live band” night, a once-a-week occurrence at Bliss where local bands were
allowed to perform in the hopes of gaining exposure. It always drew a large crowd. As a huge music
buff, I was a sucker for live bands and looking forward to this immensely. I had been a talent scout for
a large record label before Sal had forced me to quit my job. But that was a sore subject I didn’t want
to get into right now. I was here to have fun, after all. I would not let thoughts of Sal ruin my night.
Laura eyed me up and down. “Did I mention how hot you look, Siena? I hope I look that good
after having a baby.” She let out a soft whistle.
Heat spread into my face. “Thanks.” I’d had six months to get my figure back, and it hadn’t been
easy. At five-eleven, I was taller than most women and even some men. I’d inherited my mother’s
curvy, large-boned figure. We Russos were big women, and I couldn’t change my genetics even if I
wanted to. While my voluptuousness had made me insecure as a teenager, it didn’t anymore. My
mother had taught me to be proud of who I was. God rest her soul. I might stand out here in L.A., but I
wasn’t ashamed of my body.
Laura was my complete opposite in appearance: blonde and petite, standing at only five-two.
Then there was me: a dark-haired, olive-skinned Italian version of Brienne from GOT.
She squeezed my arm, sending me a warm smile. “You’re gorgeous, and you know it.”
My face grew hotter. Laura always knew how to make me feel good.
Uh, yeah, whatever.
The line moved forward—the bouncers checked IDs, collected cover charges, and rushed the
crowd into the building with rapid speed. Ten minutes later, we were inside the club.
Music blared. Lights flashed. People huddled in groups, congregated at the various tables around
the room, or lined up at the bar, waiting for drinks. I had never been to Bliss before, but Laura had
raved about it, so here I finally was.
“When do the live bands go on?” I asked.
“They started at nine.” Laura pulled out her phone and glanced at the time. “It’s almost ten now.
They’re probably just in intermission. We should have time to try to find a table and get drinks.”
She perked up all of a sudden, her eyes lighting. “Right there.” Laura pointed to the only empty
table near the front of the stage, making a beeline for it before anyone else took it. Laughing as my
dainty friend plowed past anyone in her path and successfully claimed the table, I followed. No
drinks or purses sat on the table, which would indicate it was taken. Satisfied we hadn’t stolen it from
someone else, I claimed a seat.
“Good eye, Laura. This is perfect.” Excitement buzzed through me.
Making me quit my job had been part of Sal’s attempt to control me. Though I’d busied myself
with raising my son after his birth, not being allowed to work in the music industry had taken its toll
on me. I needed this night more than I’d realized. I needed to get away from Sal and his suffocating,
domineering control.
Laura snagged a nearby waitress, and we rattled off our drink orders. While we waited for the
drinks to arrive, I glanced around, taking everything in. Lots of people, mostly early to mid-twenties. I
also glimpsed a few celebrities, but that wasn’t unusual here in L.A.
Just then, a band moved onto the stage, taking their places. I settled back, smiling, and for the next
couple of hours, thoroughly enjoyed myself as several local bands rocked the place with a variety of
different music. Laura and I drank, laughed, bounced in our seats, swayed with the music, and sang
along with the crowd. For one night, I was able to let go and just be myself.
Then the final band finished their set and left the stage. The crowd began to disburse, some people
moving toward the restrooms, others heading to the bar to order more drinks, while still others set off
for the door, heading home for the night. I needed to pee, but I didn’t want to wait in line, so I would
just sit tight until the line wound down.
“Well, I must say that was entertaining. What’s your take on it, Siena?” Laura leaned across the
table and waited for my opinion.
I contemplated my response. “Well, in my humble opinion, the first band didn’t really have what it
takes to stand out in this competitive industry. The second band has potential, but they could use a
better lead singer. The third band…was really good.”
“I agree.” Laura lifted her drink and clinked her glass to mine. We each took a sip.
I fished my phone out of my purse and checked the time. The last thing I wanted was to be late
getting home. I didn’t need another one of Sal’s “punishments.”
 Eleven-thirty.
I still had an hour and a half, and I planned to enjoy every minute of it.
Laura nudged me under the table, slipping something into my lap. My fingers closed around a
cellphone.
“It’s a burner,” she whispered in my ear. “It can’t be traced.”
I jerked my gaze to hers, a wave of gratitude crashing over me. If Sal couldn’t trace it, then I
could have private conversations he would never know about. My friend was giving me my first real
chance at freedom. My eyes welling with tears, I squeezed Laura’s hand. “Thank you.” I stuffed the
phone into the bottom of my small purse, praying Sal wouldn’t search it later.
She nodded. “We’re going to get you away from that asshole somehow. Now you can contact me
without him knowing. Anytime, day or night, call me, and I’ll be there for you.”
My throat clogging with emotion, I swallowed hard. “Thanks. I love you. It means a lot to me that
I have such a wonderful friend.”
“Love you, too,” Laura murmured.
We smiled at each other.
“To friendship.” I clicked my glass to hers.
“To friendship,” she chirped.
I was so thankful I had a bestie like Laura. Someday, I vowed I would escape the monster I’d
been forced to marry. Someday, Nico and I would be free.
“Oh, it looks like the show isn’t over yet. Hubba hubba…”
I followed Laura’s gaze as a large, gorgeous man leapt onto the stage with a hybrid guitar. He
snagged the microphone, letting his gaze sweep around the remaining audience.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice was deep, sexy, alluring, and sent an
unexpected tingle of attraction snaking down my spine. “Did you enjoy the bands that played tonight?”
Claps, whistles, and cheers erupted from around the room. Laura screamed and whooped, and I
laughed.
The man flashed a smile at the crowd that I was certain made most of the women—and some of
the men—swoon. Holy hotness! Dark blond hair. Wide, muscular build. Strong, masculine features.
Late twenties or so. My heart slammed into my ribs in a near-violent reaction. For a moment, I
couldn’t breathe.
He cleared his throat. “Now, I hope you will indulge me for a few minutes, as I’d like to share
one of my original songs with you. This one’s called Trapped.”
“Who is that?” Laura asked, her eyes wide. “He’s hot.”
Um, yeah. I’ll say. I hope he sings as good as he looks.
 Everyone settled down as the man fiddled with the guitar for a moment. Then he strummed the
instrument, filling the room with a burst of rolling riffs, followed by a mixture of low bass lines and
gentle chords. Though it was apparent this guy was an amateur with the guitar, the tune wasn’t half
bad, an attempt at a gentle melody that intrigued me.
Then he closed his eyes and leaned toward the microphone, singing softly,

I’m surrounded by others

Yet still on my own
Trapped in these walls
A prisoner so alone

It’s so dark in here

I can’t see the light
Your memory ensnares me
All day and all night

I’m trapped in your cage

A slave to your whims
I’m trapped in your cage
Everything so grim

A tingle went down my spine, my skin prickling with goosebumps. While his guitar skills could
use some improvement, his voice was soulful, hypnotic. Beautiful.
He strummed several more chords on the guitar, then sang,

My heart it beats for you

My breath it stills for you
My soul it longs for you
My arms they open for you, you, you

Then he belted out,

But I’m still trapped, trapped

These walls they hold me
 I’m still trapped, trapped
Everything so cold to me

I want to fight, fight

With all of my might
I want to fight, fight
Fight for what’s right

He strummed the guitar again, this time almost violently. My chest tightened. Something about the
man and his music called to me on a deep, emotional level and made me feel like he was singing my
song. I felt trapped in my own life. Enslaved in a marriage I didn’t want. I was a prisoner, too.
I glanced around, noting the entire crowd leaning forward, every person enraptured, waiting for
more.
Then he lifted his head and sang softly,

Ideas may encourage me

Visions may fool me
Weapons may arm me
But thoughts of you lure me

I dream of sunshine
But it turns to rain
I dream of laughter
But it turns to pain

I dream of you…and me
Just you…and me

But I’m still trapped, trapped

These walls they hold me
I’m still trapped, trapped
My need for you enfolds me

Because I’m trapped, trapped

 Our love now gone
I’m trapped, trapped
Everything so fucking wrong

I can’t see
Through all the trees
So please
Come free me

I’m still trapped, trapped

These walls they hold me
I’m still trapped, trapped
My need for you enfolds me

All I waaant
Is to be free
All I waaant
Is you…and me

He bowed his head and strummed out the final chords, ending the song.
A stunned silence fell.
Tears pricked my eyes. A lump swelled in my throat. My God, that had been powerful. Incredible.
I doubted a single person in this room had been left unaffected. Whoever he was, he was incredibly
talented, his voice, his words calling to me, and probably everyone else in this room. I found it odd
that he hadn’t even told the audience his name. Why? Didn’t he want anyone to know who he was?
Didn’t he know how amazing his voice was?
The crowd erupted in cheers, whistles, and loud shouts of approval.
The hunky singer lifted his head with a sexy smile, glancing around at the audience.
His gaze passed over me.
Halted.
Came back.
Oh, my God! He was staring at me.
My breath hitched.
Did he recognize me? Did he know I used to be a talent scout? Did he think I still was one? I wish
I were. I would sign him in a heartbeat.
He didn’t look away, his gaze sharp. Intense.
And very, very blue.
I swear everyone else disappeared in that moment and it was only him and me. Alone. Our gazes
locked in a silent stare.
My heart fluttered.
My skin prickled.
No man had ever looked at me like that before.
“More!” Someone shouted.
“Sing another one!” Someone else called.
He pulled his gaze away from mine, grinning at the audience.
“You want another one?”
The crowd screamed in response, causing him to chuckle.
“Okay, I wrote this one a while back…”
He launched into another song, this time singing a fast beat, highly addicting rock tune about
enemies and revenge. It too spoke to me, making me feel like he’d written it just for me. To say I was
blown away by this guy was an understatement. His voice alone sent goosebumps hopping to attention
along my skin. Who was he?
About halfway through the song, he ripped off his shirt and flung it into the crowd, setting off a
frantic scramble as several women—my friend Laura included—dove for it. Laughing hysterically, I
watched as Laura snagged a corner of his shirt and yanked while two other women pulled back from
the other end. Laura lost the battle and slinked back to her chair in defeat. But then her gaze went back
to the hunk on stage, and she screamed with the rest of the women, drooling over his sexy display of
bulging muscles as he bounced around the stage, singing in that deep, hypnotic voice as he raked his
fingers over the guitar strings.
Laura panted, waving her hand in front of her face. “Jesus Lord have mercy! He’s fucking hot!”
I nodded, unable to deny it. He was extremely attractive, and by far the best entertainment of the
evening.
At last, he finished the second song, his gaze once again coming back to mine. A tingle of
awareness jolted through me. What was it about this sexy, talented stranger that snared me so easily
and so quickly? I didn’t even know his name.
Once the crowd quieted down, he said, “Thank you for indulging me. Goodnight, everyone.” He
bounded off the stage, disappearing into the crowd.
Holy hell.
 “And what is your professional opinion about that guy?” Laura asked with a smirk, then added,
“Besides him being hotter than Chris Hemsworth?”
I laughed. “He’s very talented, but anyone can see that. I would definitely sign him on.”
Now that the show was over, I really had to use the restroom. Badly. I’d waited too long for the
crowd earlier and now my bladder was about to burst.
I bolted to my feet. “I need to pee. Be right back.”
“I’ll order you another,” Laura called after me.
Weaving my way through the throng, I hurried toward the restroom, managing to be among the first
few into the room.
I took care of business, then washed my hands and checked my appearance in the mirror. A spark
of excitement lit my eyes, a spark that had been lacking for the past two years. I missed working in the
music industry. I missed being free to do what I wanted. Right now, I wanted to be the one to sign that
talented man up with a record label. Because he was a truly amazing discovery. He would make
millions for any label who signed him.
I sighed, turning away from the sink. That would never happen. Sal had forbidden me to ever
work outside of the home again.
I lifted my chin in defiance.
Fuck Sal and his prison.
He wasn’t here right now. He couldn’t control what I did tonight. I still had over an hour left. So, I
was living it up to the fullest. It was my birthday, dammit. I was going to enjoy the rest of tonight
while I still could.
I stepped out of the restroom and headed down the hallway, eager to rejoin my bestie. Making a
sharp turn to the right when I reached the end, I rammed straight into a brick wall.
I gasped, my hands darting out to land on the wall’s hard chest.
Murmuring an apology, I jerked my head up, my gaze connecting with intense, striking blue eyes
that sent a jolt of awareness snaking through me.
I sucked in a breath.
It was him. The sexy guy from the stage.
Not many people were taller than me, and rarely did I have to tilt my head back to meet another
person’s gaze. This guy was at least six-two or three. Imposing. Impressive. Intimidating. He emitted
an air of danger that should make me run fast in the opposite direction, yet, strangely, I wasn’t afraid
of him.
Up close like this, I could see him more clearly. I cautiously let my gaze roam over him, taking
him in.
 He’d donned a black Bliss nightclub T-shirt that stretched snugly across his powerful chest, doing
little to hide the hard muscles underneath. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. Huge
biceps, powerful forearms. A six or eight—or maybe even a twelve—pack abdomen. He was so
muscular, I doubted he had a single ounce of fat on that beautiful, sculpted body. I had never been so
close to such a perfect specimen of masculinity before.
My gaze crawled back up, taking in his handsome face.
Strong jaw. Chiseled features. Straight nose. A full, sexy mouth with a mischievous tilt that
suggested he laughed a lot. I had the sudden urge to muss up that short-cropped, dirty blond hair with
my fingers. And those eyes? Up close like this, I could see how clear, solid, and deep blue they were.
Stunning. Eyes that skewered me in place and made my heart pound and my skin heat from his rapt
attention. He was absolutely breathtaking, his presence overwhelming me, but in a marvelously good
way, completely ensnaring me.
No man, ever, had made me feel like this. It was scary, thrilling, wrong. But yet, it felt so right.
Something powerful jolted between us as we continued to stare at each other. A flare of attraction
that made me tingle from the top of my scalp clear down to the tips of my toes. Why was I so drawn to
this sexy, dangerous stranger?
Snap out of it, Siena. Sal’s men are probably watching you. Don’t be a fool.
I jolted, jerking my gaze away from the hunk’s, and stumbled back. If Sal caught me flirting—or
even talking—with another man, he would probably kill that man. I didn’t want to put this gorgeous
man in danger. Though, truthfully, this guy looked perfectly capable of defending himself against
anyone or anything.
I should turn and run away as fast as I could. For both his and my own safety.
So why didn’t I? Why couldn’t I force myself to walk away from this man’s irresistible pull?
Swallowing hard, I slowly lifted my gaze back to his. I wasn’t shy by any means, but in his
impressive presence, I was suddenly tongue-tied. We simply stared at each other, an inexplicable, yet
undeniable connection forming between us, tethering us together…until I finally found my voice.
“That, uh, was some show you put on out there. You’re very talented.” I smiled. “What’s your name?”
A hint of color spread into his face. “Thank you. I’m Lev. And you are?”
He reached for my hand and lifted it to his lips, gently kissing the back of my hand.
Heat tingled up my arm from his touch, awareness snaking throughout my entire body. My heart
fluttered in my chest.
Lev’s smoldering gaze never left mine as he awaited my response, the striking intensity of his eyes
making my breath catch once again. He was staring at me like no man ever had before. Like he was
starving and I was a juicy steak, and he wanted to take a bite out of me. Instead of scaring me, it only
ignited a flame deep inside me.
Dear God. Resisting the urge to fan myself, I tried to brush aside his overpowering effect on me
by forcing out a laugh. “Aren’t you a charmer?”
He flashed a beautiful smile that made something go soft and squishy in my chest and sent my
heart racing almost violently.
Be careful, Siena, a tiny voice warned in my head. Sal’s thugs could be watching.
Defiance reared up from out of nowhere with the force of a hurricane.
Fuck Sal. This was my night, and I was doing what I wanted until my curfew.
In that moment, as I gazed into Lev’s gorgeous eyes, I knew I was about to make a decision that
would change my life forever.
 CHAPTER FOUR
Lev
I had three simple rules that I abided by.
One: Put family and the Bratva first.
Two: Show no weakness.
Three: Never bend.
As long as I adhered to those rules, everything always worked out for me.
Most people assumed that because I was an active member of the Popov Bratva I was a violent
criminal. But that wasn’t true. I was actually a pretty decent guy. Just ask my friends or family. I was
loyal. I loved my family and the brotherhood. I held doors open for women. I helped the elderly walk
across the street. I always grabbed the bill when I went out to eat with people. I loved animals, and I
had a soft spot for strays. It wasn’t uncommon for me to toss food to alley cats or mangy-looking
dogs.
But there was one thing I didn’t do.
Date.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a commitment phobe or anything. In fact, I love women. They
fascinate me.
But attachments make a man weak. And weakness makes a man vulnerable. Caring for someone
only puts that person in danger.
Been there. Done that. It was an experience I didn’t care to repeat.
So…no dating. At all.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t hook-up on occasion.
I preferred large, busty women. The more curves a girl rocked, the better. Give me a nice, juicy
ass to grab onto, large breasts to bury my face in, and I was a happy man.
Unfortunately, here in L.A., women like that were hard to find. Most of the chicks here looked like
Barbie dolls with their half-starved bodies, fake tans, bleached hair, Botox-injected lips, and
surgically enhanced tits. I didn’t care for all that fakeness. It was a major turn off for me.
No, I preferred real women. Sturdy women who could handle a rough tumble with a large guy
like me. No dainty girls, please. I liked a tall girl with some meat on her bones. Some spunk in her
personality. Some sass with her luscious ass.
My gaze roamed around the club for the zillionth time, seeking such an elusive creature…
Only to come up empty.
Nothing but fake, skinny chicks as far as the eye could see. If I wanted a celebratory hook-up after
tonight’s car theft, I’d have to settle for less than what I craved.
 Not that I was in the mood for a quick hook-up right now, anyway. My unpleasant encounter with
Salvatore Romano had left a bitter rage broiling inside me. I needed it gone before I got anywhere
near a woman. Right now, I was too volatile to touch a female. So, my search for a hook-up partner
was only half-hearted, at best. More a pretense to please my twin.
Dom and I had been here for twenty minutes, seated at a table near the back of our nightclub,
Bliss. Crammed packed, as usual, Bliss was a popular hangout.
Dominik sat to my right, scoping out the room for a potential hook-up. Not as finicky as me, he
pretty much fucked anything in a skirt. A total man-whore all the way.
We’d checked in with management right after our arrival, ensuring everything was running
smoothly. Now we were relaxing with a few drinks and scoping out the women. While Dom moved
right on to the banging part, I had something else I wanted to do first. Something that I hoped would
tamp down the anger that currently simmered inside me.
I picked up my whiskey, taking another sip as the last band of the night launched into their final
song.
I glanced at Dom and announced, “I’m taking the stage next.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “No shit? It’s about fucking time, bro.” He raised his glass for
a toast. “To my talented brother. I can’t wait for you to show the world how badass your voice is.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he mocking me? Dom was the only one who knew my secret. I
dabbled in songwriting, and I sang on occasion. A form of self-expression that had initially helped me
cope with a painful loss, it had then grown into a hidden passion of mine. Our papa wouldn’t approve
of my dream of becoming a rock star, so I’d never gone after what I truly wanted.
“What?” Dom quirked a brow, setting his drink back on the table.
“You mocking me?”
He huffed. “Really, Lev? You know I don’t bullshit. You’re fucking good, and I support you no
matter what. You should just tell Papa you want out of the brotherhood and go after your dream.”
I hesitated, then dropped my gaze. Dom was the only person in the world I could talk freely to like
this, the only one I ever let my guard down completely around. “I don’t want out, exactly. I just…
don’t want to disappoint him. He would never approve. You know that.”
My brother sighed. “You worry too much about what Papa thinks. You’re an adult. You can do
whatever the fuck you want. I don’t think he’ll be disappointed. Shocked, maybe. He’ll come around
eventually. But not if you don’t ever tell him what you really want and take the plunge to go after your
dream.” He clapped my shoulder. “But who cares about Papa right now? We’re here to celebrate. You
want to sing? Go ahead. Show this crowd what you’ve got.”
I’d spent my whole life trying to impress Papa and make him proud, and rarely, it seemed,
succeeded. A perfectionist, our father expected his children to excel in all things. Leaving the Bratva
to follow my dream would not make him proud at all. It would only disappoint him.
That was why I’d never told Papa—or anyone else besides Dom—about my dream. Even in
adulthood, everyone wants to impress their parents. I was no exception. I loved my papa. I wanted to
make him proud. I would do just about anything to keep from disappointing him.
And if that meant never pursuing my dream, then so be it.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t get up on the stage tonight and bellow out my misery to a crowd of
strangers.
“So, you see anything you like?” Dom asked.
I snorted. “Nope. Not a damn thing.”
He shook his head. “You’re too picky. I see plenty. I think I’m going to approach that brunette over
there in the tight blue dress.” He tilted his head at his intended target several feet away.
I checked her out because my brother wanted my opinion. “Sure, she’s pretty. Lots of leg. Go for
it, man.” Too skinny for my taste, but definitely Dom’s type.
He smirked, rising to his feet. “Wish me luck.”
I snickered. “Good luck, lover boy.”
I took another sip of my whiskey as Dom approached the brunette. She turned to him with a
playful smile, and he chatted her up for several moments, his intentions plain to anyone who was
watching. I thrummed my fingers on the table with the music as the band wound down their set, a little
jealous of my twin as the girl turned her backside to him and rubbed her ass in his groin teasingly,
gyrating to the music. His arms went around her waist and he moved with her seductively, pressing
his lips to her neck, both of them acting like they were alone in the room. Jesus, rent a room, you
guys.
Looked like Dom was going to get lucky tonight.
The band finally left the stage, and the crowd began to disburse. I waited a few minutes before I
headed toward the back to snag a guitar from one of the band members.
Then I hopped on stage. I inhaled sharply, then pushed the air out of my lungs, trying to rid myself
of Sal’s foulness. Bracing myself for my first live performance, I approached the microphone.
I greeted the crowd, then closed my eyes and sang my first song, surprised by the response I got
from the audience. They screamed and whistled, clapped and cheered.
Fucking A! These guys loved me. Stunned, I gaped at the crowd. No wonder my cousin Zeke (a
famous pop musician) loved it. He’d said it gave him a rush, a high to perform in front of a screaming
throng of fans, and now I could relate. After having a taste of what his life was like, I wanted more.
Did I dare go after my dream like Dom had suggested?
 Papa will never approve. He needs you here, helping to run the Bratva.
If my father saw me right now singing on a stage, how would he react? Would he be shocked?
Pissed? Yes. Possibly even proud? Not likely.
Thank God he was out of town right now.
I let my gaze sweep through the people as the cheering gradually died down, a flash of red at a
table in the front catching my eye.
My breath stalled. My eyes bugged out.
Holy fucking shit.
There she was. My dream girl in the flesh. How had I missed her?
Dressed in a sleeveless red dress that hugged her voluptuous body and made me want to slowly
peel it off to see what she was hiding underneath, her long, wavy dark hair fell over her shoulder as
she tilted her head to listen to something her female companion said. She laughed, throwing her head
back and tossing that silky-looking hair that I suddenly wanted to grab hold of.
My mouth went dry. Gorgeous.
She had the face of an angel, a face that made my heart palpitate. Wide, sultry, dark eyes. High
cheekbones. Pouty lips painted a bright red. A smooth olive complexion. Her nose was a little large,
but it fit well with the rest of her features. All in all, she painted a striking picture of beauty and
lushness. Pure, unadulterated woman.
She faced the stage, sitting to the right of her table, her long, toned legs crossed, and her gaze on
me. Tall—though I could only speculate as to how tall since she was sitting down—she had plenty of
luscious curves that made my hands itch to touch. My dream girl had a body I longed to travel with all
its hills and valleys and soft, rolling plains. I wanted to explore every inch of that body. Get lost in
her. And never be found. I wanted a glimpse of the booty that was sure to be as gorgeous as the rest of
her.
She was exactly what a woman should look like, in my opinion: gorgeous, curvy and feminine,
and sexy as fuck.
Our eyes locked, and something sparked between us—or maybe it was just my imagination—but a
tingle jolted through me as I held her stare, my skin heating, my heart thudding. Completely
captivated, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t make out the exact color of her eyes from here, but they
were definitely dark and alluring. Brown. Maybe black. There couldn’t be more than ten or twelve
feet separating us, but it felt like miles. She was too far away. I wanted her closer.
“More!” Someone shouted, jolting me out of my trance.
“Sing another one!” Another person called.
The spell broken, I pulled my gaze away from the beauty and grinned at the crowd.
 “You want another one?”
The audience screamed in response, making me chuckle.
“Okay, I wrote this one a while back…”
I rocked the crowd with the next song, dancing around the stage and entertaining the audience like
a true rock star should, even ripping my shirt off like a male stripper and tossing it into the crowd
(yeah, that part probably wasn’t necessary, but I did it anyway), flexing my muscles and loving how it
drove the women wild. I laughed and shook my head as three women fought over my shirt, but the
dark beauty in front stayed in her chair, maintaining her composure, a smile on her lips as her gaze
followed my every move. I instinctively knew my dream girl wasn’t the type who engaged in quick,
raunchy hook-ups. She was too poised and elegant, too refined for such behavior. A proper lady. How
did I know that? I didn’t. I was just assuming. Now that I’d found her, my ultimate goal was to find a
way to get her alone before the night was over, though I had a feeling she wouldn’t make it easy. That
I would have to work for it. But I was up for the challenge.
Hoping my dream girl didn’t disappear before I could approach her, I finished the song and left
the stage, heading in back to find another shirt. I emerged a few minutes later, wearing one of the
club’s black T-shirts, just in time to see the beauty step around the corner from the women’s restroom.
She didn’t see me as she came forward, her head turned to the side. I should have done the
gentlemanly thing and stepped out of her way. But I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to touch her when
it was presented to me. I wanted those luscious curves plastered against me in a bad way. So, I stayed
where I was.
Wait for it…
She plowed right into me.
Gasping, my dream girl stumbled to a halt, her hands flying out to land against my chest, a soft
apology tumbling from her lips.
Heat radiated from her palms and through my shirt, sinking into my skin, then settling deeper, right
into my heart.
Thud-thud.
My breath spilled out in a rush, my entire body tingling, burning.
Her gaze darted to mine. She stepped back, dropping her hands.
Wariness flickered in her eyes. Did I frighten her?
Wanting her to see I was harmless, at least to her, I smiled.
Up close, I could see her eyes were a rich swirl of ebony. She visibly relaxed then, attraction
flashing in those gorgeous, fathomless eyes as she took in my bulk. Did she want a piece of me? She
could have all of me if she wanted. I was a generous guy. I gave as much as I took. And I definitely
wanted all of her.
“That was some show you put on out there. You’re very talented. What’s your name?”
Fuck, even her voice was sexy. Seductive. How hard would it be to convince her to go someplace
private with me?
Down boy.
I wasn’t the blushing type, but I swear her praise made heat flush into my face.
“Thank you. I’m Lev. And you are?” I reached for her hand and lifted it to my lips, gently kissing
the back of her hand, discreetly checking for rings, and finding none.
Perfect. She wasn’t married.
She laughed, a soft, throaty chuckle, and damn, if it wasn’t the most beautiful sound I’d ever
heard. “Aren’t you a charmer? And so courteous, too. Chivalry is almost unheard of these days. Are
you sure you’re from this century?”
I smiled. “We Russians are taught chivalry at a young age. If I ever disrespected a lady, my mother
would kick my ass.”
Her lips twitched, her eyes sparkling with delight. “I think I like your mother already.”
Yeah. Mom would like you, too, baby.
Our gazes held as I waited impatiently for her to reveal her name.
Long moments passed.
Slapping a hand dramatically over my heart, I teased, “Come on, baby. You’re going to give me a
complex, making me think you don’t want me to know your name. I’m dying of suspense here.”
A flicker of hesitation flashed in her gorgeous eyes before she finally gave in with a soft laugh.
“Oh, all right. I’m Siena.”
Siena. Sounded feisty. I liked it. A pretty name to match a pretty girl.
I grinned at her goofily, like a Dodgers’ fan who’d miraculously caught a fly ball and didn’t know
what to do with it.
We stood there—me still holding her hand and she not pulling it back—and simply gazed at each
other, everyone and everything else disappearing around us. It was just her, and me. And the
undeniable flare of attraction that sizzled between us. Was God rewarding me for a job well done
tonight, and my gift was this gorgeous woman?
I’ll take her. Yes, sir, thank you, God.
Just then, the club DJ put on Thunder by Imagine Dragons, the loud music snapping me out of my
stupor. Several people moved onto the dancefloor to bump and grind, bounce and sway.
My stupid grin didn’t waver at all. We stared at each other some more, our gazes literally
devouring each other, until I finally came to my senses. “You look a little thirsty, Siena. Can I buy you
a drink?”
She let out another soft laugh and tugged on her hand, reminding me I was still holding it.
Reluctantly, I let her go.
She hesitated, glancing across the room to where her friend still sat at the table near the stage. I
followed her gaze, but her friend didn’t notice us standing here.
“If you’re not thirsty, then how about a dance?” I motioned toward the dancefloor where couples
were now pumping their hips from side to side, swaying this way and that, gyrating to the music. I
spied Dom dancing with the brunette, their bodies plastered together in a near-lewd display, both of
them grinding together, their hands roaming up and down.
I glanced back at Siena. I wanted my hands on her like that. But not in public. I wanted to take her
somewhere private, away from everyone else.
She turned back to me, her expression conflicted. Did she not find me attractive, after all? Or did
she not want to be away from her friend?
Maybe she’s just being polite, and she doesn’t like your looks.
“I really…shouldn’t.” A hint of nervousness flickered in her eyes. She glanced at her friend again,
and the petite blonde gave her a wide smile and a nod of encouragement.
“See?” I motioned at her friend. “Your friend says it’s okay.”
Another laugh burst out of her. “You’re persistent. Oh, okay. Dance first. Then a drink. But just
one. I don’t want to abandon my friend for too long.”
Yes! I fought the urge to do a happy dance. Snagging her hand again, I led her onto the now
crowded dancefloor. Dom caught my eye, waggling his brows. The music switched to At My Worst by
Pink Sweat$, a much slower R&B ballad. Perfect timing. I settled my hands lightly on Siena’s
generous hips, and she tensed before hesitantly placing her hands on my shoulders. Heat flared to life
between us, a gently smoldering flame that quickly burned hotter as our bodies settled into each other,
and we began to sway with the music.
I moved my hands lower, over her luscious ass, gently squeezing her against me. Lust swelled
inside me, my pants growing tight. Could she feel how much I wanted her? Talk about instant hard on.
The tension in her body coiled tighter, revealing her unease.
I instantly backed off, lifting my hands and placing them back on her hips in the safe zone. Easy,
buddy. Don’t be so eager or you’ll scare her off.
The breath slowly whooshed out of her, and after several long moments, she relaxed against me,
her arms moving around my neck.
I slowly lowered my head, burying my face in her hair, breathing in her fresh, intoxicating, purely
feminine scent. Fuck, she smelled good. Like flowers. Like woman. Like heaven. She shivered, then
rested her head on my shoulder, letting out a soft sigh and relaxing deeper into me, her soft curves a
perfect contrast to my hard lines. I had never met a woman who fit against me so perfectly before.
Who felt so right in my arms.
A contentedness and a feeling of utter belonging settled over me in that moment. How could I feel
so close to someone I’d just met? And I wasn’t referring to the physical closeness of our bodies. I
didn’t even know this girl. Yet, it was as if my soul had found its missing half. This is destiny. The
oddly comforting connection I felt to her was inexplicable. This girl was made for me. She was meant
to be mine. My assuredness in that belief was absolute. I wanted to suggest we run away together
right this moment and never come back.
Did Siena feel the pull between us too? Was I delusional? Was this nothing more than lust?
The song ended much too quickly, and then she drew back, sending me a hesitant smile.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks for the dance, Gorgeous. Ready for that drink now?”
She nodded, flushing slightly, making me suspect I affected her as much as she affected me.
Yes! Something this amazing, this special, this powerful, couldn’t be one-sided.
She feels it too!
Christ, I hadn’t felt this giddy since I was a teenager. She was a drug, and I was already addicted
to her. What was it about this woman that made me forget all my rules?
Feeling like I was walking on air, I guided her toward my table near the back and pulled out a
chair for her. Smiling hesitantly, she thanked me and settled into the seat, tucking her legs to the side.
Damn, Siena had some killer legs on her. It took all my willpower to not ogle her tanned, shapely
calves and smooth, toned thighs.
Down boy.
Catching the eye of one of our waitresses, Lindsey, I waved her over, then slid into the chair
across from Siena.
Lindsey smiled and rushed to our table. “What can I get you?” Blonde, skinny, fake tits, she was
the norm around here, whereas Siena with her dark, voluptuous beauty was unique.
I glanced at Siena. “What would like you, darlin?”
She turned to Lindsey. “A Malibu Sunset, please.”
Lindsey nodded, her gaze darting to my half-empty whiskey, then back to my face. “You need
another, boss?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
Siena jolted, her gaze scrutinizing me as Lindsey left.
“You’re the boss?”
I nodded. “One of them.”
 Something flickered in her eyes. “Oh, my God. Russian…you’re a Popov.” There was wariness in
her tone now.
“I am. Is that a problem?” Yes, I’d been born into a Mafia family, but I wasn’t ashamed of who I
was.
Her gaze searched mine, the earlier cautiousness returning to her eyes. I kept my gaze open and
non-threatening, not wanting her to bolt at this piece of information about me. After a long moment,
she puffed out a breath and relaxed once again, apparently deciding it was a non-issue.
“Not to me.”
Some women were drawn to the Popov name and the power (and for some, the danger) that came
along with it. Others shied away from it, for obvious reasons. Siena didn’t strike me as a gold digger,
a danger seeker, or a fearful kind of woman. She exhibited strength and genuine character. She wasn’t
afraid of the Popov name, but she might be wary about getting involved with a member of the Bratva.
That was understandable. My life was dangerous, but I would never let anything happen to her. I
intended to ease her mind and sway her with my charm.
“So, is this your first time at Bliss? I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”
She nodded. “My friend raved about it. So, I decided to check it out.”
“And…do you like?”
She let out another soft laugh that sent tingles of desire snaking through me. “Yes. I like.” Her gaze
trailed over me, the look in her eyes saying she really did like what she saw.
And now we weren’t talking about the club.
She wants me.
Heat shot through me, traveling south faster than a rocket, and rendering me hard as a rock in two
seconds’ flat.
I cleared my throat, thankful the table hid the massive bulge in my pants. “Any special occasion
that brought you here tonight?”
Her eyes flickered. “Yes, actually. It’s my birthday, so we’re celebrating.”
“Really? Well, then, happy birthday, pretty lady. I’m guessing you’re, what…” I let my gaze
sweep down her gorgeous body and back up. “…Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
She laughed, a faint blush staining her cheeks again. “Yes. Twenty-five.”
We high-fived, both of us chuckling. I waggled my brows, trying to be comical and flirty without
laying it on too thick. “Just in case you’re wondering, I like what I see, too. Very much.”
This was the point where I usually asked a girl if she wanted to go someplace more private, but
something held me back this time, telling me to hold off a bit and get to know Siena better first.
Maybe it was the hint of wariness that still lingered in her eyes, or the way she kept glancing
discreetly at her phone, then cautiously darting her gaze around the room, as if she expected someone
to jump out of the shadows and drag her away.
Did I make her nervous? Or was there something else going on here? I really wanted her to relax
and enjoy herself with me.
She flushed deeper, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. “You’re forward, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t deny that. I called it like I saw it. But I didn’t want to scare her away. So, I gentled my
tone. “I am. But I promise you have nothing to fear from me. No pressure. Just some friendly convo.”
Her gaze locked on mine, searching my eyes again. Then her breath whooshed out, her body
relaxing once again. Somehow those last words and my sincerity had earned me her trust. I swear
something magical sparked between us then. A gentle tug that gradually grew stronger the longer we
stared into each other’s eyes. A connection that flirted back and forth, a push, a pull, a tease and
release. I didn’t know what this girl was doing to me, but I’d never been so drawn to a woman like
this before. Ever. I’d never experienced anything like this, and honestly, it left me a little shaken. In a
vulnerable, yet marvelous way. Was I ready to open myself up to a woman again after so many years?
For Siena…yeah. I wanted more than a hook-up with this girl. She made me want to let down my
walls again. She made me crave things I’d given up on long ago.
And yet, I had no idea who this woman really was.
Or that she was about to turn my life completely upside down.
 CHAPTER FIVE
Siena
Warmth spread in my chest as I stared into Lev’s hypnotic blue eyes. We were sharing some kind
of deep connection that I couldn’t deny. It wasn’t just a physical attraction. It went deeper than that.
Like a connection of souls or something. An affinity. My initial wariness had vanished, and now my
guard was completely down with him. I felt comfortable with him in a way I’d never experienced
before. I sensed a genuineness in him that was rare. Lev wasn’t a bullshitter. He spoke his mind. And
I liked that about him.
I only had a short amount of time left to enjoy myself before Sal reeled me back in and locked me
up. The clock was ticking. So, I was going to live this night to the fullest. I was going to enjoy every
moment with this sexy hunk, because all too soon it would come crashing to a halt and I would have
to return to my prison.
I had a feeling that whatever happened with Lev tonight, I would cherish it for all time.
I would face the consequences later.
“I’d like to get to know you better, too.” My heart thumped and my skin prickled as we stared into
each other’s eyes. We’d been doing that a lot—just staring at each other like giddy teenagers. It was
much too easy to get lost in the man’s gorgeous, expressive eyes.
The waitress returned with my drink, breaking the spell as she set the cocktail on the table in front
of me. I thanked her, pulling my gaze from Lev’s to take a sip of the beverage. He leaned back in his
chair, his gaze never leaving me. Lev had piercing eyes. When he focused on you, he focused entirely
on you. It was a little disconcerting to be the center of his attention. But also, thrilling. A tingle of
awareness shot through me. I had no doubt that he was attracted to me. He made me feel beautiful.
Sexy.
Setting the drink aside, I lifted my gaze, and found myself caught in his stare once again. Snared
by his beautiful eyes.
Something hot and maybe a bit dangerous flashed in his eyes, causing an answering awareness to
sizzle through me. Dear God. How could any man make me tingle all over with just a look?
Lev cleared his throat. “Is it just me, or is there something going on here?” He waved between us,
his stare bold, inquiring. “Something rare and undeniable,” he added softly. “Something that I’d really
like to explore, not just between the sheets.”
Longing spiraled through me. I’d never felt anything like what I was feeling right now with him.
Was it fair to Lev to lead him on like this? How could I tell him I wasn’t truly free and that we could
never have anything more than this, right here, tonight?
I didn’t want to hurt this beautiful man. I should end this before it went any further. Before Sal
found out and killed us both.
Except, I couldn’t let him go just yet. Call me selfish, call me a fool, but I was enjoying his
company too much to stop our interactions. I was already getting lost in the feelings he brought about
in me, and I didn’t want this night to end.
“I feel it, too.”
His eyes heated at my soft admission, smoldering into deep blue pools of desire. “I’m trying
really hard to be a gentleman here, darlin, when what I really want is to snatch you up and carry you
to a dark room so I can have my way with you.”
I swallowed hard, my gaze never leaving his. Why did I want to say yes to that? I had no doubt I
would enjoy everything Lev did to me in that dark room.
“But I sense you’re not that kind of girl.” He paused, his gaze searching mine. “No, I think you’re
a proper lady who deserves to be courted and treated with respect. So, I’m going to restrain myself.
I’m going to wait until we get to know each other better first, so that when I finally do get my hands on
you—hoping here, not assuming—it’ll be that much more special for both of us, don’t you think?”
I gulped. Holy shit. Was he for real? Desire pooled low in my belly. I had never gotten turned on
by a man’s sexy voice and softly spoken words before. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, trying to
ignore the wetness between my thighs.
I should bolt to my feet and flee right now. I should tell him I was married and that I couldn’t do
this.
But I did neither of those things.
I hadn’t felt sexy or truly wanted in a long time. Lev tempted me like no other man ever had
before. Everything about him called to me in a deep and undeniable way.
Heat crept into my cheeks. Flustered, I lowered my gaze, unsure how to respond to his words. But
instead of fleeing like I should, I remained in my chair, deciding to stay and get to know more about
Lev Popov. I liked what he said to me. I liked that he found me attractive and wanted to get to know
me better.
This was dangerous. I could be walking the fine line between life and death right now. But I was
feeling reckless tonight. I wasn’t wasting a single moment on indecisions that could turn into regrets
later. Was it wrong of me to want to feel special for one night? To want to be treated with tenderness
and respect from an attractive man?
Lev continued to study me with those striking eyes, making me want to squirm. “Sorry, I’ll back
off now. I can see I’ve made you uncomfortable.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll admit I’m eager to get
you naked, baby, but not until you’re ready. Sooo, let’s tone this down a bit and get to know each other
better.” He winked, picking up his drink and taking a sip.
 Oh, dear God. I puffed out a breath, trying to get my desire under control. He wasn’t the only one
who was anxious to get naked. And here I’d thought I would never feel desire for a man after Sal’s
abuse. There was just something special about Lev that I couldn’t ignore.
It took a moment for his last words to register.
Get to know each other better…
He’d just given me the opening I’d been hoping for.
I leaned forward. “Okay. Me first. How long have you been singing?” I watched him over the rim
of my glass.
His smile faltered. “That’s a sore subject, but since you asked…ever since I was seventeen,
though tonight’s the first time I sang in front of a crowd. The only other person who’s heard me sing is
my brother.” He blew out a breath. “My turn now. Where have you been all my life? Can I convince
you to run away with me forever?”
I laughed softly. “You’re funny.”
He smirked. “I was only half-teasing.” Then his gaze turned serious. “Do you believe in destiny?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He slapped his chest in mock offense. “Ouch, baby. That hurts. Don’t you know that
we’re destiny, you and me? Now that I’ve found you, I’m never letting you go.”
He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. I swallowed hard, my heart fluttering,
but I didn’t pull away. I liked his touch. The strength in his hand. I liked him. This man made me feel
special.
If only I could run away with him…
We leaned closer, our gazes locking, and simply smiled at each other. And for the next several
minutes, we just…talked. I learned that he liked sports cars, waterskiing, and baseball. His favorite
food was pasta, but he also liked pizza and beer. He liked to watch war movies and action flicks. He
didn’t have the patience for reading, but he liked music and songwriting.
“So, why has only your brother ever heard you sing? You’re so talented, I’m surprised a record
label hasn’t snatched you up yet.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Annoyance flaring across his face at the interruption, he released my hand and fished the phone
out, unlocking the screen.
He sighed. “Excuse me for a moment, all right?”
At my nod, he turned away from me, barking into the phone, “This better be good.”
 CHAPTER SIX
Lev
Things were just starting to get interesting with Siena when Adrik called.
I expelled a breath. I couldn’t ignore the call, even if I wanted to.
“This better be good.”
Adrik cleared his throat. “Uh, you’re not going to like this, boss. But we’ve spotted two of
Romano’s guys in the building. They’ve been here for a while and we’ve been watching them, but so
far, they’re not causing any trouble.”
What were Sal’s guys doing here?
Before I could respond, Adrik let out a soft curse. “Uh, boss, Salvatore himself just walked in the
door, and he’s brought more thugs with him. Should we escort him back out?”
I stilled, my blood turning to ice. “Romano’s here?” Jerking my head toward the entrance, I tried
to spot Sal through the crowd. That bastard had the gall to show up at our establishment? Did he have
a death wish? What was that prick up to?
Siena stiffened across from me, alarm flaring in her eyes, her fingers tightening as she clenched
them around her cocktail glass on the table. Did she know Sal?
Just then I spied the cocky bastard standing at the edge of the dancefloor, his leering gaze scanning
the women, obviously searching for a hook-up.
Not in our place of business. He was really pushing it tonight. First daring to confront me and
demand I hand over a car that he wanted and now showing up at our club? He was getting a little out
of control. I would not tolerate him harassing our patrons. If it weren’t for that damn truce, I would
have already killed him long ago.
Hold on. Hadn’t that bastard gotten married a year or so ago? Must be trouble in paradise if he
was out scouting for a hook-up. I’d kept my end of the truce and stayed away from him over the years
and did my best to know as little about him these days as possible, mostly to keep myself from
attempting to throttle him. So, I’d never met his wife, though I pitied the poor, unfortunate woman
who’d married him.
Sal knew walking in the door of our establishment without an invitation put him in violation of the
truce. Was he taunting me?
Keep your cool. There were too many innocent people in the building to allow this to get violent.
I needed to handle this situation with care.
“Just keep an eye on him,” I told Adrik. “I’ll let you know if I need you to remove him.” We didn’t
need a war with the Italians in a public place. I knew what Sal was capable of. If he really wanted to
have it out with me, we could take it somewhere else.
 “Yes, boss.”
We disconnected, and I stuffed my phone back in my pocket. Sal’s true intentions would be
revealed soon. I just needed to watch and wait.
Siena shoved back her chair and bolted to her feet. “I have to go.”
What? No, don’t leave!
I leapt to my own feet. “Hang on, darlin. What’s the rush? Things were just getting interesting
between us.”
“I’m really sorry. It was nice to meet you, Lev. But this was a mistake.” She spun on her heel and
started to walk away.
Just then, Sal’s gaze zeroed in on Siena, and he made a beeline straight toward her.
Oh, hell, no. Think again, asshole.
Catching Adrik’s eye across the room, I jerked my head, motioning him over. I might need backup
for this confrontation.
Fuck the truce. I wasn’t letting Sal anywhere near Siena.
Lunging forward, I moved to intercept Sal before he sullied Siena with his disgusting presence.
A couple of women stumbled into my path, one of them slamming into me and spilling her drink,
shouting, “Hey, asshole, watch where you’re going!”
Muttering apologies to the ladies, I hurried to save Siena.
But Sal reached her before I did.
I clenched my jaw. That sleazebag wasn’t touching her. Not if I could prevent it.
As I came up behind him, his voice reached me.
“Siena.” He wrapped his slimy hand around her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I halted, my eyes going wide. He knew her?
She tensed, fear flickering in her eyes before she lifted her chin and bravely faced him. “You said
one o’clock. It’s only twelve-thirty. Can’t I have one night without you butting in? This was supposed
to be a girls’ night.” She yanked her arm free.
Something in my chest shriveled. Oh fuck, please tell me she doesn’t belong to Romano.
Sal scowled, grabbing her arm again.
And that’s when I decided to intervene. I didn’t care how he knew the gorgeous Siena. I wasn’t
going to let him harass her at my place of business.
“Romano. You’re in violation of the truce. You’ve got exactly three seconds to leave, or I won’t
be responsible for what happens.”
He whirled to face me, his eyes narrowing. “I just came to collect my bitch, then I’ll be gone.”
I clenched my fists. Did he just insult her? Call her his bitch? That was disrespectful. No one
insulted a woman in my presence and got away with it.
I stepped into his personal space, our gazes locking. “Apologize to the lady.”
He snorted, a look of disbelief crossing his face. Though Sal was probably an inch or two taller
than me, his body was exceptionally thin, his muscle tone having deteriorated over the years, whereas
I was still in excellent physical shape. Too many years of indulging in his family’s “product” was
taking its toll on him. Continuous drug use did nasty things to a body. Which was why I stayed away
from the shit.
Sal and I had graduated high school the same year, yet he looked closer to forty than our real age
of twenty-seven. In a physical fight, I could take him in a heartbeat. But he hadn’t come alone, and
two of his thugs were currently watching our exchange a few feet away. I shouldn’t be starting a war
with him in our nightclub where innocent bystanders might be hurt, but I couldn’t allow him to insult
Siena.
Adrik and Timofey moved up behind me, ready to offer their assistance.
“Apologize to the lady,” I repeated. “And then take your ass out of here, or I’ll have you removed.
One way or another.”
Siena’s ebony gaze darted to mine in surprise, and perhaps a hint of awe—or was that respect?—
that made me want to puff out my chest.
Yeah, baby, I’ll protect you from this creep.
Sal snarled. “Fuck you, Popov.”
His thugs stepped closer.
So much for not starting a war with the Italians. This was about to get ugly.
Suddenly Dominik appeared at my side, his gaze skewering Sal. “Got a problem, Romano?”
Sal let out a snort and shook his head, glancing from Dom to me. “You Popovs never could mind
your own business. Stay out of this. The bitch is my wife.”
I flinched.
His wife?
What the ever-living fuck!
Siena cringed and sent me a quick, apologetic glance.
She was married? To my archenemy?
The breath whooshed out of me.
Damn her, she wasn’t wearing a ring. Had she played me?
Not possible. I’d approached her.
But she’d danced with me. Intimately. She’d flirted with me. Married women didn’t do that.
Unless they were cheating whores.
 Or they were miserable in their marriage.
I inhaled sharply and ended up choking on my own spit.
We’d connected, dammit. We’d bonded.
I wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably Salvatore Romano. No way could this
beautiful, sexy woman be his wife. No fucking way.
Sal smirked. “Yeah, my wife. She got off her leash tonight, but now it’s time for her to come home.
Stay away from her, Popov. She’s mine.”
I glanced at Siena, needing to hear it from her. “Is that true, Siena? You’re married to this
disgusting prick?”
Sal bristled, but I ignored him, keeping my gaze on Siena.
She swallowed hard and nodded.
Motherfucker. I clenched my fists, betrayal slicing through me.
Suddenly, her nervous twitches and wary glances around the room made sense. Had she been
watching for Sal?
With a final sneer, Sal snagged Siena’s arm and pulled her away, his thugs taking up the rear. This
time, she didn’t fight, just allowed him to tug her along, casting a final glance my way. Regret
flickered in her eyes. Followed by apology.
Something splintered in my chest, filling me with a deep sense of loss. I wanted to rush after her,
drag her away from Sal. Protect her from the bastard.
But I could do nothing but stare after them, sickness swirling in my gut. It took every ounce of my
willpower not to rush after them and strangle Salvatore Romano.
It wasn’t my place to come in between a man and his wife.
That was a line I would not cross.
No matter how badly I wanted to.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
Siena
Why did I have to meet the man of my dreams at the wrong time?
If only I’d met Lev Popov a few years ago, my life wouldn’t be the nightmare that it was now.
If only, if only…
Everything about this entire situation was messed up.
I’d known interacting with him was dangerous, and that I would have to face the consequences
later. But I’d been unable to resist his magnetic pull, and I cherished every single moment I’d spent
with him.
Considering who I was married to, I should have already known who Lev Popov was. But Sal
never talked Mafia stuff around me. He liked to keep me ignorant of all his illegal activities, and
frankly, I didn’t want to know what he did as long as he did it away from me. As a result, I didn’t
know any of his friends or “business acquaintances”. Not that he and Lev appeared to be friends in
any way. Even a blind man could see the animosity swirling around them. They were like two alpha
wolves squaring off. Raised hackles. Bared teeth. Flaring nostrils. Hard eyes. A bitter rivalry
obviously existed between them.
But I did want to escape Sal eventually (which had been my main goal since the beginning of this
nightmare), so I eavesdropped on his conversations whenever possible. This enabled me to be aware
of when he would be home, and when he might be away, so I could be prepared and plan accordingly.
He’d never mentioned Lev Popov before, at least not when I’d been listening in.
I had heard of the Popovs, of course. Everyone had. They were supposedly Mafia.
Just like Sal.
Except, even after my brief interaction with Lev, I sensed he was nothing like Sal.
To say Lev was impressive was a gross understatement. He’d completely blown me away, snaring
me from the get-go. The moment our gazes had first locked, an instant spark had zapped me, a jolt of
awareness and attraction arcing between us. Was I flattered that a gorgeous hunk like him was
interested in me? Oh, my God, yes! Lev made me feel special. Sexy. I’d felt safe with him, something
I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I reluctantly followed Sal out of the building, his thugs in tow, casting one last glance at the man
who’d tried to rescue me—until he’d learned I was Sal’s wife.
Lev Popov.
Our gazes connected again in that moment, but I couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes.
Frustration? Disgust? Disappointment? Hurt?
All the above?
 Lev had wiggled his way into my head at the first glance and refused to budge. I didn’t think
anyone had ever looked at me the way Lev did. With such…reverence. Was it any wonder I found
myself so affected by him? So attracted to him? Honestly, what woman wouldn’t find him attractive?
He left me breathless. And feeling bereft without him.
Lev’s striking eyes captured mine in that final glance, his gaze locking on me like a heat-seeking
missile, making my skin prickle and my pulse race.
Then a deep sense of loss washed over me.
A desperate, painful longing stirred.
If only things could be different…
Sal’s thugs shoved me forward out of the building, breaking the spell. A scowl took over Lev’s
handsome face as he watched me leave. He didn’t like them manhandling me, but there was nothing he
could do about it. His eyes flared with betrayal—a hurt that I’d caused.
Guilt tugged at me. I shouldn’t have led him on. I shouldn’t have danced or flirted with him. But
I’d been so flattered that he was interested in me that I couldn’t say no. I’d wanted to explore the
spark between us, revel in it for a short time. I’d been selfish. Foolish.
Then Sal had shown up and ruined everything.
If I were a free woman, I would want to get to know Lev better. But I wasn’t free. And I never
would be.
Salvatore Romano got whatever he wanted. Always. Two years ago, he’d decided he wanted me.
He’d pursued me relentlessly, and despite my repeated refusals to go out with him, he’d kept at me,
unwilling to take no for an answer. I’d had to learn the hard way that a girl didn’t say no to a Romano.
When Sal grew tired of my rejections, he’d “taken matters into his own hands”. He found my
weakness and used it to make me give in to him. So, here I was. Bound to a monster for eternity. The
unwilling wife of a cruel Mafia prince.
I used to have little or no sympathy for women who found themselves in abusive relationships.
Why didn’t they just leave the asshole? I used to believe I’d never be stupid enough to let something
like that happen to me. I’d foolishly believed that if a man ever became abusive or tried to control
me, I would simply leave. But that was before Sal had shackled me to him against my will.
Now, I sympathized with women in abusive relationships. Now, I was one of them. I no longer
thought, Why don’t you just leave that asshole? Because I was married to that asshole, and a woman
didn’t just flee from a Mafia husband. If I somehow managed to escape Sal, he would hunt me down.
And when he caught me, the punishment would be severe. He might even kill me.
But I didn’t regret anything I’d done tonight. Meeting Lev had been unexpected, but I would never
forget the brief time I’d spent with him.
 Either Sal had changed his mind, or one of his thugs had seen me dancing with Lev, because Sal
had shown up not long after we’d left the dancefloor. That seemed suspicious.
And right now, Sal vibrated with fury.
We reached the Tahoe, and Monte rushed to open the back door for us, while Rocco slid behind
the wheel. Monte and Rocco were Sal’s right-hand men, the two thugs who accompanied him
everywhere. Monte was an annoying little weasel who constantly spewed out scornful, sarcastic
remarks about my “fat ass” and my “thunder thighs”. He always eyed me with contempt, and what I
suspected was jealousy. Personally, I believed he was gay and had a crush on my husband—not that I
minded. Monte could have Sal for all I cared. I’d rather Sal fuck Monte than me.
Rocco, in sharp contrast to the puny Monte, was a large, muscle-bound, dumb-as-a-turd bully with
a mean streak. While Monte was conniving and manipulative, Rocco was just big and stupid. Alone,
they were obnoxious, but together, they were detestable.
Sal’s hand went around the back of my neck, squeezing painfully, before he shoved me into the
car.
I tripped forward, landing on the floorboard. My face scraped along the edge of the seat, leaving a
smear of makeup and what felt like half of my face on the leather. Scrambling to the far side of the car,
I climbed onto the seat, pressing a hand against my stinging face, and smoothed down my dress with
my other hand.
Sal entered the vehicle behind me, his hard stare boring into me.
Monte closed the door, then settled into the passenger’s seat up front.
Some women were envious of me for being married to such a powerful man. But they couldn’t
know that behind Sal’s handsome face lurked an evil so sinister it would make most of them retch. My
husband was a monster. Pure and simple. Cold. Cruel. Vindictive. I likened him to a venomous snake.
Always dangerous. Deadly if you crossed him. Sal didn’t forgive and forget. He hunted you down and
“dealt” with you. And now he was about to “deal” with me.
Rocco started the car, and we surged away from the curb.
“What were you doing with Lev Popov?” Sal’s voice cracked out like a whip. “Monte said you
were dancing with him.”
I tensed, knowing I would be punished for my “crime”, and kept my gaze lowered. “It was just a
dance, Sal. That’s all.”
Monte huffed from up front. “You were rubbing all over him like a bitch in heat, Siena, and you
know it. I saw you.”
My face flamed. “I was not, you lying little pile of dog shit! You’re just jealous because you’re in
love with Sal and you want him all for yourself.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
York, und die Dame in Schwarz, mit den Brillanten, ist die Tochter
eines Weizenexporteurs en gros und Enkelin eines Auswanderers ...
Zwischendeckpassagiers — tjawoll! Wenn die Herrschaften unter
sich bleiben wollen, dann müssen sie wirklich die rote Schnur
ziehen!“
Ungeduldig, mit brennenden, trockenen Augen und zerbissenen
Lippen stand Karla König auf. Sie war wie im Fieber. Um keinen
Preis durfte jemand aus der Gesellschaft sie noch sehen. Noch
einmal ertrug sie die spöttischen oder kalten Blicke dieser Menschen
nicht.
„Nun ... wie war’s?“
Altmann verstummte, als er ihr blasses, gleichsam zerknittertes
Gesicht erblickte. Das kostbare Kleid schleifte über den Boden, der
Umhang glitt von den wie eingeschrumpften Schultern.
„Was ist denn geschehen, Karla? ... So rede doch!“
„Blamiert habe ich mich — weiter ist nichts geschehen.“
„Du siehst, Karla, ich wollte dich selbst begleiten.“
Aber sie zuckte die Achseln:
„Ach, du ...!“
Es gab ihm einen Stich. So wenig bedeutete er ihr? So völlig
gleichmütig ging sie über ihn hinweg?
„Ja ... warum hast du dich nicht zusammengenommen?“
Seine Stimme klang härter, als er wollte.
Aber dann sah er ihren Umhang auf dem Boden liegen, die
Schleppe war am Ende eingerissen, als wäre sie beim hastigen
Aussteigen am Wagentritt hängen geblieben.
„Die guten Sachen! ... So paß doch auf! ...“
Karla warf sich in den nächsten Sessel.
„Die guten Sachen? ... Meinetwegen sollen sie in Fetzen gehn.
Es sind ja doch nur Lumpen. Jawohl! Lumpen! Ach, du glaubst
vielleicht, weil das Kleid fünfhundert Mark kostet, bin ich gut
angezogen? Gott bewahre! ... Ich hatte ja Goldschuhe an und weiße,
lange Handschuhe! Denke doch — mein Verbrechen! Ausgelacht
haben sie mich! Erst ausgestellt, wie in einem Panoptikum, und dann
ausgelacht!“
Sie schlug die Hände vors Gesicht und blieb regungslos sitzen.
Sie wartete. Jetzt mußte ihr Mann kommen, mußte den Arm um sie
legen, sie trösten und sagen, daß sie heimfahren wollten. Lange saß
sie ganz still, begriff nicht, daß es so lange währte, bis das geschah,
worauf sie wartete.
Altmanns Schritte schlugen an ihr Ohr, langsam, gewichtig. Er
räusperte sich, blieb stehen.
„Ja ... na und dann?“
„Dann? ... Dann bin ich stecken geblieben und habe getan, als ob
ich ohnmächtig wurde ... d a s w a r d a n n !“
Sie riß ihr kleines Taschentuch aus dem Ausschnitt, ballte es
zusammen und warf es zornig auf den Tisch.
„Stecken geblieben ...? Wenn ich dich begleitet hätte, wäre das
nicht geschehen, sage ich ...“
„So? Warum wäre das nicht geschehen?“
„Weil du dich nicht so verlassen gefühlt hättest, weil ...“
„So, glaubst du wirklich? ... Und ich sage dir, es wäre noch
schlimmer geworden. Sie hätten dich mit mir zusammengesperrt und
hätten über deinen Frack gelacht! Ja ... das hätten sie ... denn du
siehst wie ein Schulmeister aus, meint Russel, in deinem
Hochzeitsfrack!“
„So? Meint er das? ... Nun, da ich nicht mit war, konnte mein
Frack nicht an deinem Durchfall schuld sein.“
Karla fühlte, daß sich etwas Häßliches zwischen ihnen erhob. Ein
unsichtbares schwarzes Ungetüm, das mit Tatzen nach ihnen
schlug, sie aufeinanderhetzte. Sie brach aus, ohne Zusammenhang,
leidenschaftlich:
 „Ich bleibe hier nicht — um keinen Preis bleibe ich! Geh zu
Russel ... er soll den Vertrag lösen. Es kann ihm ja auch nichts an
mir liegen ... er wird froh sein ...“
„So? ... Und die Vorschüsse ...?“
Altmann stand mit hinter dem Rücken verschränkten Armen vor
ihr. Sein Gesicht drückte leise Genugtuung und Überlegenheit aus.
„Also du willst mir nicht helfen ... willst nicht ...“
Ihre Augen sprühten, ihre Lippen bebten.
„D u hast mich nach Amerika geschleppt ... D u ! ... Ich wollte nicht
... Ich wollte bei meinem Kinde bleiben. Aber das war dir ganz egal,
was mit dem Kinde geschah! Du hattest ja deine Schwestern ...
Deine Schwestern sind dazu da, sich um das Kind zu kümmern ...
Ich muß Geld ...“
Sie brach plötzlich ab, denn Altmann hatte sich über sie gebeugt,
sehr bleich im Gesicht, und hatte mit heftigem Druck ihre Hand
ergriffen.
„Sprich nur zu Ende ... bitte ... lege dir keinen Zwang auf. Wer da
alles aus dir herausredet, das weiß ich nicht. Aber zu so etwas
kommt es wohl, wenn der Mann seine Frau über sich
hinauswachsen läßt. Das heißt — du bist noch nicht
hinausgewachsen ... lange nicht. Denn das ‚viele Geld‘, das du
verdienst — ist weniger wert als meine kleinen Gagen in den letzten
Jahren. Von denen sparte ich mir noch etwas — ja, das tat ich —
sonst hätte ich dich ja gar nicht heiraten können. Was besitzen wir,
seitdem du verdienst? — — Schulden. So ist es. Glaubst du, Russel
läßt dich gehen, solange du ihm noch einen Dollar abzusingen hast?
Eher läßt er dich zehnmal durchfallen, als daß er dich gehen läßt!
Ein Durchfall ist unter Umständen auch eine Sensation, wenn man
ihn geschickt ausnutzt. Denn was du in der Kehle hast, weiß er so
gut wie ich! Aber du bist unbeherrscht — und darauf rechnet er. Ich
bin ihm unbequem, und er möchte mich los sein! Darum sucht er
mich klein zu machen in deinen Augen! Tu ihm nur den Gefallen und
falle ihm drauf rein — bitte. Mir brauchst du ein einziges Wort
zusagen — mit dem nächsten Schiff bin ich wieder in Europa. Dann
balge du dich mit ihm herum! Versuche es, von ihm loszukommen.
Er wird dich schon zu halten verstehn. Ich weiß jetzt Bescheid über
ihn! Du bist nicht die einzige. Wenn du nicht den Stoff in dir hast,
eine allererste zu werden, wertvoll genug bist du, daß er dich bis
aufs Letzte auspumpt! Geh morgen zu ihm hin und verlange
dreitausend Dollar Vorschuß. Er wird sie dir geben. Auch
fünftausend. Je mehr, desto besser! Desto sicherer bist du ihm. Oder
willst du durchbrennen — willst du steckbrieflich verfolgt werden? ...
Mein liebes Kind ... zieh dir einen Leinwandrock an, braune Stiefel
und grüne Handschuhe — und diese selbe Gesellschaft, die dich
heute ausgelacht hat, brüllt dir zu — wenn du einen Namen hast!
Den Namen aber geben dir nicht deine Kleider, sondern den gibt dir
deine Selbständigkeit Russel gegenüber. Zeige ihm, daß du ihn nicht
brauchst, dann wird er Angst haben, dich zu verlieren. So. Und nun
wirtschafte weiter nach eigenem Ermessen. Meine Sachen sind
rasch gepackt ...“
„Ernst!“
Sie hielt ihn am Arm zurück. Sie küßte den alten graukarierten
Stoff, sie streichelte ihm das Gesicht mit ihrer tränenfeuchten Hand.
Sie murmelte:
„Nicht böse sein ... ich bin so dumm ... so schrecklich nervös bin
ich ... Pass’ auf, wenn ich ruhiger werde ... es ist wahr, du mußt
immer mit mir gehen ... immer ... dann kann ich dir gleich alles sagen
... Du bist immer so gut zu mir gewesen ... Du wirst mir raten ...
Gewiß wäre das heute nicht passiert, wenn du dagewesen wärst ...
gewiß nicht ... Und nie nehme ich mehr einen Vorschuß ... nie! ...
Überhaupt will ich das Geld gar nicht mehr sehn ... Du gibst mir ein
Taschengeld wie früher ... ich brauche ja nichts ... nicht wahr? Ein
paar Handschuhe vielleicht ... Schleier trage ich ja nicht ... und mal
was Süßes ... oder eine Kleinigkeit für Schmerzchen ... so wonnige
Babysachen haben sie hier ...“
Altmann drückte ihren hübschen, dunklen Kopf an sich. Wie ein
ungebärdiges Kind war sie. Wild und zügellos, und im
Handumdrehen wieder gut und lenksam. Er wollte ja auch wirklich
nur ihr Bestes — in ihrem gemeinsamen Interesse! Sie dachte an ein
Röckchen für das Kind, er dachte an des Kindes Zukunft.
Es war zwei Uhr nachts, als Karla wie gerädert ihr Bett aufsuchte.
Ihr Mann hatte ihr versprochen, über den gestrigen Abend mit
Russel zu sprechen.
„Lieber, guter Ernst“, flüsterte sie und schlief, seine Hand gegen
die Brust gedrückt, ein — sorglos wie ein Kind, dem man seine Unart
verziehen hat.

* *
*

John Russel machte nicht viele Worte.

„Ich weiß ... ich weiß ... Sie hat keine Routine für Amerika ...
macht nichts! Die will ich ihr schon geben. Wenn sie in drei Jahren
wieder bei Astrongs singt, wird das anders gehen. Schade, so frisch
wird die Stimme dann nicht mehr sein. Well, es gibt Leute, die das
Obst erst dann essen, wenn es überreif ist.“
„Na, erlauben Sie ... in drei Jahren wird meine Frau nicht ...“
John Russel kniff seine glänzenden Raubvogelaugen zusammen:
„Wissen Sie, was eine Tournee heißt von San Franzisko nach
Montevideo?“
Es erging Altmann wie vor wenigen Wochen Karla: der Boden
des hellen Zimmers schien unter ihm zu wanken. Aber er verstand
es, sich zu beherrschen. Schließlich hatte er diesem Manne Gewalt
über Karla gegeben. Daran, eine Tournee einzuteilen, hatte er nicht
gedacht.
„Es wird eine ganz interessante Reise für Sie werden, Mister ...
Herr ... Altmann. Übrigens hier sind die fünfzig Dollars von gestern
abend ... wie ... ich soll sie auf Ihr Konto buchen? ... Es eilt mir nicht
... Sie wünschen es ausdrücklich? ... Well ...“
 ie Zofe der Nordeni war Pariserin. Ihre Vergangenheit war
einfach. Als kleine „Grisette“ hatte sie tagsüber die großen
Hutschachteln von Reboux ausgetragen und am Abend die
lärmenden Vergnügungen der Künstlerkolonie von Montmartre
geteilt. Ihre Sprache hatte sich an den feingespitzten Dialogen der
Kunstjünger geformt. Sie schrieb Kärtchen, die stilistisch einer Gräfin
Beausac zur Ehre gereicht hätten, wenn auch in der
Rechtschreibung einer Wäscherin.
Munter lächelnd packte sie mit ihren zugespitzten feinen Händen
die kostbaren Roben ihrer Gebieterin ein und aus, hütete den mit
Similisteinen untermischten Schmuck, badete, salbte, strählte die
überreifen Reize der Nordeni und wußte bestimmt, daß sie selbst
einst noch weit kostbarere Kleider, noch weit strahlenderen Schmuck
ihr eigen nennen würde.
Diese Gewißheit aber behielt sie für sich. War bescheiden,
aufmerksam und lieh ihrer Herrin außer dem Geschick ihrer Hände
auch die belustigenden Wendungen ihres Geistes und einen
sicheren, nie versagenden Geschmack.
Eines Tages fragte Karla, ob Mariette ihr während der langen
Fahrten im Pullmann-Car französischen Unterricht geben wollte?
Madame Nordeni gestattete es gnädigst. Sie war überhaupt so
liebenswürdig, wie es ihr Bewußtsein, der „Star“ der Gesellschaft zu
sein, nur immer zuließ. Ihre anfängliche Bängnis, Karla könnte ihr als
ernste Konkurrentin an die Seite gesetzt werden, verlor sich nach
dem Konzert bei Astrongs völlig. So beschloß sie, in Karla nicht
mehr zu sehen als eine junge „Aushilfe“, die dann zu singen hatte,
wenn sie selbst müde war, nicht disponiert oder aber John Russel
ärgern wollte. Zu Altmann war sie freundlich.
Altmann, an die unverwickelte Psychologie seiner deutschen
Provinzkolleginnen gewöhnt, war der überlegenen Art der Nordeni
nicht gewachsen.
Bald zeigte er sich beflissen höflich, ja zuvorkommend, bald
schroff und abweisend. Sie schien das erstere nicht zu bemerken,
das zweite mit sanftem Lächeln zu übergehen. Sie sagte gern: „Was
macht unsere Kleine?“ und erteilte Karla öfters gute Ratschläge —
durch ihren Mann.
Es kam vor, daß Altmann sagte: „Du, Kind, die Nordeni
behauptet ...“
Karla hielt sich die Ohren zu.
„Ach du, mit deiner Nordeni ...“
Sie meinte nichts damit. Aber ihm war etwas unangenehm dabei.
Nach der sechsten Stunde drückte Altmann der kleinen Pariserin
einen Dollar in die Hand. Er war dabei ein bißchen verlegen, denn —
ein Honorar war es nicht, und der Lehrerin seiner Frau ein Trinkgeld
geben ...
Noch verlegener wurde er, als sie es nicht annahm. Sie schüttelte
lächelnd den Kopf mit dem hochtoupierten, rötlichen Haar und sagte
etwas von „grand plaisir“. Aber weil er in seinem Ungeschick nicht
nachgeben wollte, fuhr sie mit ihrem hübschen Zeigefinger
streichelnd über seine Hand und lächelte ihn bittend an.
Ihm stieg das Blut in die Schläfen. Immer noch hielt er den Dollar
vor sich hin, und obwohl gerade der Kellner durchkam und es ein
leichtes gewesen wäre, ihm den Dollar zuzuwerfen, so konnte er
sich doch nicht dazu entschließen, drehte das Geldstück hin und her
und versenkte es schließlich doch in die Westentasche.
Die Gesellschaft reiste lange, lange Tage zusammen. Aber
trotzdem sie scheinbar ganz aufeinander angewiesen war, kam es
zu keinem rechten Zusammenschluß. Die Nordeni legte gern große
Entfernungen zwischen sich und die anderen, weil es die einzige
Möglichkeit für sie war, ihre erste Stellung zu betonen. Der erste
Tenor war ein fetter Amerikaner, dem eine Partien-Presse einige
Rollen eingepaukt hatte, die er in deutscher Sprache singen mußte.
Er kannte keine Indisposition, keine Angst und keine Stimmung.
Wenn er den Mund auftat, rollten die Töne aus seiner Kehle,
seelenlos und vollendet. Er hatte keinen Ehrgeiz und war nie müde.
John Russel schätzte ihn sehr. Seine einzige Leidenschaft war —
essen. Er verfraß sein ganzes, nicht unbedeutendes Gehalt. Es
hieß, daß er seinen Magen einem medizinischen Institut in Boston
vermacht hatte. Er bildete sich viel mehr auf seinen Magen als auf
seine Stimme ein. John Russel dachte daran, ihn für eine
Varietébühne zu verwenden, wenn er einmal die Stimme verlor ...
John Russel war immer weitblickend.
Der genialste der Gesellschaft war zweifellos der erste
Kapellmeister, ein Mann, der irgendeiner dunklen Geschichte wegen
ausgewandert war. John Russel hatte ihn zufällig in einer
Hafenkneipe entdeckt. Er besaß die grenzenlose Überhebung derer,
die nichts zu verlieren haben, und behandelte die „Stars“ der
Operngesellschaft nicht anders als ehedem seine Kneipenmusiker.
Das Orchester vergötterte, der Chor fürchtete, die Solisten haßten
ihn. Er war unverwundbar und unbestechlich, auch dann, wenn er
sich den Bestechungsversuch selbst gefallen ließ.
Was und wen er in Europa zurückgelassen, erfuhr nie jemand,
und sein Besitztum bestand auch nach zweijähriger Tätigkeit bei
John Russel nur in einem gefüllten Handkoffer. So gänzlich er in
seinem Beruf auch aufging — körperlich schien er immer auf dem
Sprunge zu sein. Nicht einmal einen schriftlichen Vertrag hatte er
machen wollen. Handschlag — und „so lange es ihm paßte!“ Das
gab ihm seine Machtstellung auch John Russel gegenüber. Auf
äußerliche Distanz hielt er nichts. Während der Reisen setzte er sich
am liebsten unter die Choristinnen und riß boshafte, derbe Witze. An
spielfreien Abenden saß er bis tief in die Nacht vor stets erneuten
Strohhalmen, durch die er die stärksten und gewagtesten eiskalten
Mischungen einsog. Seinen wirklichen Namen kannte niemand, und
den angenommenen hatte sich kaum jemand gemerkt.
Nicht mal John Russel. Er war einfach der Kapellmeister, und als
die Nordeni ihn einmal halb anulkend „Kapelle“ nannte, blieb ihm der
Spitzname. Der ihm unterstellte zweite Dirigent war der „Herr
Kapellmeister“ — er war: „Kapelle“. Für das Orchester, die Solisten
und den Chor. Ein neu engagierter Sänger sagte, als er das erstemal
von ihm sprach: „Herr Kapellmeister Kapelle ...“ Auch auf dem
Theaterzettel blieb seine Anonymität gewahrt: „Am Pult: der erste
Dirigent“. John Russel hatte was übrig für eine gewisse Romantik.
Sie ließ sich meist mehr oder minder umsetzen ...
 Kapelle haßte übrigens die Nordeni, weil sie ihm immer ihre
hochnäsigsten Blicke herunterwarf, wenn sie zu spät einsetzte.
Immerhin mußte er sie ihrer auf solchen Reisen schätzenswerten
Routine wegen schonen. Er begnügte sich damit, ein paar
Taktstöcke beim Schlagen gegen das Pult zu zerbrechen. Im
Zwischenakt aber stürzte er in die Garderobe: „Ich erwürge dich ...“
Er schimpfte unflätig, während sie noch Puder auflegte oder
Lippenrot.
Um ihn zu versöhnen, schickte sie ihm am nächsten Morgen ein
paar Flaschen Wein. Er kam dann torkelnd, mit verglasten Augen,
zur Probe, und sie höhnte lachend: „Einen feinen Kapellmeister
haben wir!“ Saß er aber erst auf seinem Hocker und hob er den
Taktstock — dann verging ihr das Lachen. Nicht die leiseste
Schwankung! Wie aus Eisen war sein Arm! Er machte keinen
Unterschied zwischen Vorstellung und Probe. Er gab sich immer
ganz. Restlos.
„Wenn er das Saufen lassen wollte, würde ich ihn zum ersten
Dirigenten der Welt machen“, sagte John Russel.
Aber diese Worte machten auf Kapelle wenig Eindruck. Vielleicht
sogar einen entgegengesetzten, als sie sollten.
Kapelle fand Besseres auf dem Grunde seines Glases, als ihm
ein Weltruhm geben konnte — er fand Vergessen. Denn selbst um
den Preis eines Weltruhmes hätte er europäischen Boden nicht
mehr betreten. Aber das brauchte er den Leuten nicht auf die Nase
zu binden ... Das ging sie nichts an ... gar nichts ging sie das an ...!
Karla zitterte vor dem Augenblick, da sie auf der ersten Probe
seinem Taktstock gegenüberstehen würde. Mariette hatte ihr
pantomimisch die erschreckendsten Dinge mitgeteilt.
Monsieur Kapelle war un homme terrible! Er hatte gewiß einen
Mord auf dem Gewissen ... hatte sicher une pauvre femme erwürgt!
Und hatte fliehen müssen vor dem Gesetz ... „Oh le méchant homme
...!“
Das war immer der Schluß. Karla hatte ihren Mann gebeten, er
möchte sich mit ihm ein bißchen anbiedern. Aber Altmann hatte
gesagt:
„Da müßte ich stundenlang mit ihm trinken, liebes Kind ... Du
weißt, das vertrage ich nicht. Im Übrigen halte ich ihn für sachlich.
Sachliche Menschen brauchst Du nicht zu fürchten ...“
Niemals war es Karla so aufgefallen wie jetzt, daß Altmann
nüchtern war ... so schrecklich nüchtern.
„Hast du dir denn niemals einen Spitz angetrunken, Ernst?“
Alle Schelmerei lag in ihrem Blick, alle Teufelchen einer jungen
Frauenseele, die in ihrem Manne einen Gespielen wecken will.
„Nein, Karla — nie!“
„Ja, aber ... warum denn? ... Es ist doch so nett einmal ...“
„Es ist vieles nett, was man nachher abzubüßen hat. Und nichts
ist gefährlicher, als wenn man die Herrschaft über sich verliert ...“
„Und du hast nie die Herrschaft über dich verloren, Ernst ... nie?“
Es klang beinahe etwas wie Bedauern aus ihrer Stimme. — — —
In San Franzisko hatte sie ihre erste Probe mit Orchester, als
Agathe. Nach ihrer Arie klopfte Kapelle ab.
„Hören Sie mal ... wollen Sie das ... ich meine, für mich ... wollen
Sie das nochmal singen ... m i r vorsingen ...?“
Die knorrige, heisere Stimme klang fast scheu und bittend.
Sie nickte. Das Herz klopfte ihr bis zum Halse. Nie hatte ihr
jemand so zugehört. Nie ... Alwin Maurer vielleicht ... aber was
verstand der? Sie sang schöner, weihevoller noch als das erste Mal,
in flutendem, gleitendem Wohllaut. Als sie geendet hatte, klopfte er
ein zweites Mal ab und legte den Taktstock hin.
„So, Herrschaften, das andere übernimmt dann wohl für heute
Kollege Schädlowski.“
„Aber ja, gewiß ... selbstverständlich ... bitt’ schön.“
Herr Kapellmeister Schädlowski — ein hocheleganter
Österreicher, mit schrägem Scheitel und engen Offiziersärmeln,
schwang sich über die Rampe ins Orchester hinunter. Er war
außerordentlich gewandt, dirigierte mit kokettem Heben des kleinen
Fingers und betrachtete die Soubrette jedes Theaters als sein ihm
nicht zu bestreitendes Eigentum. Er brachte künstlerisch nie
ernstzunehmende Vorstellungen heraus — alles war nur halb
studiert und das meiste geschludert. Doch hatte er Schwung und
verstand es, einen Walzer zu bringen. Seine Lieblingsoper war der
Gounod’sche Faust.
Karla stand mitten auf der Riesenbühne und schlang die Hände
ineinander. Es fiel ihr ein, wie Alwin gesagt hatte: „Mach’ Schluß,
Junge ... was Besseres kommt nicht nach ...“
Ob der Mann da unten, mit den verkniffenen Zügen und dem
struppigen, grauen Haar um den Riesenschädel, es auch so gemeint
hatte? ... Sie lächelte verträumt, hätte dem Gefürchteten gern ein
gutes Wort hinuntergerufen, denn gar zu eilig, gar zu ungeschickt
balgte er sich mit seinem Mantel herum, der ihm nicht auf den
Schultern halten wollte ... Seine großen Füße in den klobigen
Stiefeln blieben an den Pultbeinen hängen.
Er schimpfte was vor sich hin, stolperte die erste Stufe hinunter.
In dem kurzen Gang, der das Orchester mit dem Stimmzimmer
verband, stieß er auf Altmann.
Kapelle blieb stehen und rückte an seinem Hut.
„Sie ... ist das Ihre Frau, die da oben die Agathe singt, ja? ... Na,
dann packen Sie sie ein und fahren Sie dahin zurück, wo Sie
hergekommen sind. Was soll die Frau hier? Die Ochsen verstehen ja
doch nichts ... Passen Sie auf ... das Klima dort unten ... passen Sie
auf, sage ich Ihnen!“
Wieder rückte er an seinem Hut und stolperte weiter.
Abends saß er, verkniffener denn je, an seinem Dirigentenpult.
Die „Agathe“ bot den Amerikanern keine Gelegenheit zu lärmenden
Huldigungen, aber die große Arie verlangten sie zweimal. Es war
noch nie vorgekommen, daß Kapelle sich zu einer Wiederholung
verstanden hatte. Diesmal gab er selbst das Zeichen dazu. Aber er
dirigierte kaum noch. Nur seine linke Hand gab dem Orchester
leisen Halt.
So wundervoll war Karla noch nie begleitet, nie so liebevoll
gestützt worden. Ein heißes Dankgefühl quoll in ihrem Herzen für
den Mann auf, der ihr so viel Freude gab an ihrem Singen, der ihrer
Stimme Flügel lieh.
Als der Beifall auf sie herabtoste und sie aus dem ersten Rausch
erwachte, zeigte sie wieder und immer wieder hinunter ins
Orchester. Das Publikum legte es als eine in Amerika ungewohnte
Bescheidenheit aus und verstärkte seinen Beifall.
Karla gefiel ungemein. Sie war so ganz anders als all die Divas,
die sich im Laufe der letzten Jahrzehnte vorgestellt hatten. Ihre
herbe Frische, ihre Einfachheit, der warme, natürliche Fluß ihrer
schönen Stimme übten einen nicht wiederzugebenden Zauber auf
diese Virtuosenmätzchen gewöhnten Arbeitsmenschen aus. Es
geschah das Unerhörte, nie Dagewesene, daß das Publikum nach
Schluß der Vorstellung auf seinen Sitzen blieb und abermals die
Agathenarie verlangte.
Diese deutscheste Musik, die je auf einer Opernbühne gesungen
wurde, hatte in diesem Publikum, das zumeist aus Deutschen oder
deutschen Abkömmlingen bestand, ein machtvolles Erinnern an die
erste, halb vergessene Heimat geweckt.
Vor dem herabgelassenen Vorhang, in weißem Gewand, sang
Karla die süße, schlichte Weise, und das Publikum hörte stehend zu,
wie es in der alten Heimat der Volkshymne zu lauschen pflegte.
Altmann lehnte an einer Logenwand, nahe am Ausgang. Auch er
war ergriffen.
Eine ihm neue, tiefe Sehnsucht erfüllte ihn, Karla in seine Arme
zu schließen, sie vor den Blicken der Menge zu verbergen, die
Herrenrecht hatte über sie von dem Augenblick an, da sie sich ihr
gegenüberstellte. Etwas unsagbar Rührendes ging von ihr aus.
Wenn er jetzt könnte — wie diese so neue erregte Stimmung es
von ihm verlangte und wie der verkniffene, häßliche Kapellmeister es
ihm zugerufen — wenn er sie aufpacken und mit ihr zurückreisen
könnte in die Heimat ...! Ein ganz kurzer, stummer Applaus riß ihn
zur Wirklichkeit zurück. Karla stand regungslos vor dem roten
Samtvorhang. Irgendeine Hand zog sie zurück in das Dunkel der
halb abgeräumten Bühne. Die Nordeni, gelblich blaß unter dem
aufdringlichen Glanz ihres prahlerischen Schmuckes, schlug mit
dem Fächer gegen seinen Arm:
„Nett ... unsere Kleine, nicht wahr? Gar nicht zu glauben, wie
sentimental die Yankees manchmal sind. Na ... allerdings im Süden
verlangen sie andere Kost. Grüßen Sie die Kleine ... geben Sie ihr
einen Kuß von mir ...“
Karla stand noch immer auf der Bühne, als Kapelle in Mantel und
Hut heraufkam. Sie ging auf ihn zu, hob die gefalteten Hände, ihre
Augen strahlten wie große Sterne aus ihrem bewegten, blassen
Gesicht.
„Lieber ... lieber ...“
Sie wollte ihm danken, aber vor seinem unwirschen
Gesichtsausdruck versagten ihr die Worte.
„Ja ... schon gut ... ich weiß ... wir werden uns einarbeiten ... Aber
lassen Sie das, dieses ... Herunterzeigen auf mich. Kann ich nicht
ausstehn. Widerlich. An den Dirigenten darf man nicht erinnern ...
Das Werk ... nicht wahr ... immer nur das Werk! Wenn man Sie
beklatscht ... dann müssen Sie ja leider auf der Bühne danken ... das
ist nicht anders ... schlimm genug. In Bayreuth ...“
Er brach unvermittelt ab. Seine Augen blickten starr. Er rückte an
seinem Hut und stolperte mit Füßen, die einander zu überschlagen
schienen, hastig an ihr vorbei.
 n Los Angeles kam Altmann dazu, wie John Russel in
Hemdärmeln im Maschinenraum die Schrauben der
Versenkungsmaschinerien nachprüfte und ölte.
Ohne Altmann zu beachten, fuhr er in seiner Beschäftigung fort,
ergriff dann eine Axt und zimmerte aus einem kurzen Holzstamme
eine Stufe zurecht, die er mit großer Sachkenntnis dem letzten allzu
hohen Treppenabsatz angliederte.
„Well, Mister Altmann ... Sie wünschen?“ ...
Doch ließ er sich nicht stören, und obwohl ihm der Schweiß in
den Kragen lief und sein feines Batisthemd von Öl- und Rußflecken
strotzte, zwängte er ruhig mit der umgekehrten Axt das Brett
zwischen die Seitenteile der Treppe.
„Ich wollte nur melden, daß meine Frau heute unpäßlich ist und
nicht singen kann.“
John Russel schlug gleichmütig einen Nagel ein.
„Soll ich einen Doktor schicken?“
„Nein ... sie braucht nur Ruhe ... Einen, zwei Tage Ruhe.“
John Russel verzog den Mund.
„Ich brauche auch Ruhe ... habe noch nichts im Magen. Sitze seit
sechs Uhr früh in dem Kasten ...“
„Wo sind denn Ihre Leute?“
„Meine Leute? Ich hab’ keine. Meine Leute sind meine zehn
Finger, die streiken wenigstens nicht. Vor zwei Jahren habe ich hier
einem verdammten Nigger meine Faust in den Magen gejagt, weil er
angesoffen auf die Bühne kam zur letzten Vorstellung. Heute wollen
sich die Kerls rächen! Verlangen den doppelten Lohn. Da kennen sie
John Russel und seine zehn Finger aber schlecht!“
Altmann sah auf seinen Rock, auf seine gepflegten,
arbeitsentwöhnten Finger.
„Wenn ich Ihnen helfen kann“, brabbelte er lau.
 „Well ... lassen Sie mal die Dekorationen vom Schnürboden
herunter. Wir wollen sie nachher feucht abreiben ...“
„Ja ...“
Noch einen Augenblick zögerte Altmann. Dann warf er
entschlossen seinen Rock ab.
„Ja, aber nun, Herr Russel ... wie ist es denn mit meiner Frau?“
„Kann sie wirklich nicht singen?“
„Nein.“
„Well. Dann wird die Wegler sie vertreten. Sie hat die Partie
studiert.“
„Die Wegler? Das ist doch nicht Ihr Ernst?“
„Doch ... doch ...“
Die Wegler war eine bessere Choristin, eine hübsche,
braunhaarige junge Frau, die von weitem sogar eine gewisse
Ähnlichkeit mit Karla hatte.
„Aber ... das geht doch nicht ...“
John Russel zuckte die Achseln und rührte eine graue Farbe an.
„Alles geht ... Das sehen Sie doch an mir.“
„Wer wird denn die Anzeige machen? Am besten, ich fahre zu
den Zeitungen ...“
John Russel holte aus der Westentasche ein Stück Kaugummi
und schob es unter die Kinnlade.
„Well, Mister Altmann, wenn die Zeitungen ein Wort darüber
bringen, ziehe ich Ihnen die gesamte Einnahme des bereits
ausverkauften Hauses von der Gage ab.“
Kein Muskel in seinem Gesicht bewegte sich; langsam und sehr
aufmerksam führte er den Pinsel mit der grauen Farbe über das
helle Holz der Stufe.
„Sie können doch nicht die Stimme meiner Frau diskredieren
wollen?“
 „God bless me, Herr Altmann ... Das glauben Sie doch selbst
nicht! Die Wegler ist sehr brav, und die Leute hier verstehen nichts.
Wenn ich ein Känguruh abrichte und es ihnen vorsetze ... glauben
sie, das Känguruh ist die Karla König. Alles Suggestion, mein Lieber
... Das einzige, was keine Suggestion ist — sind die Dollars!“
Altmann kam erst spät am Nachmittag ins Hotel, mit notdürftig
gewaschenen Händen, verstaubt, verschwitzt, einen Riß in der
Bügelfalte seines Beinkleides.
Karla lag mit wütendem Kopfschmerz auf dem Bett.
„Wo warst du denn so lange?“
Altmann gab ihr in kurzen Worten seine Unterredung mit Russel
wieder.
Karla sprang auf die Beine.
„Das geht nicht, Ernst ... ich werde singen.“
„Du wirst nicht singen ... Soll der Kerl nur seinen Blödsinn
durchsetzen. Du wirst nicht singen. Ich erlaube es nicht. Unter
keinen Umständen.“
Karla ging aufgeregt im Zimmer hin und her.
„Aber mir ist doch schon viel besser ... viel, viel besser ...“
Sie konnte und wollte es nicht glauben, daß sie so leicht zu
ersetzen war, hatte anfänglich ihr körperliches Unbehagen
aufgebauscht — Altmann sollte sehen, eine wie große „Nummer“ sie
jetzt war, und was Russel angeben würde, wenn es hieß, daß sie
nicht auftreten könnte ... Aber mittlerweile waren die Kopfschmerzen
wirklich ärger — aus dem halben Spiel war Ernst geworden.
Er wußte sich keinen Rat. Lief auf den breiten Hotelgang hinaus,
klopfte bei der Nordeni an.
Sie lag in einer rosa Wolke auf dem Ruhebett und polierte ihre
Nägel, während Mariette mit geschickten Fingern eine der
wundervollen Theaterperrücken der Nordeni auf einem Stock
auffrischte.
 „Wie nett, lieber Altmann ... daß Sie mich besuchen! Wollen Sie
eine Tasse Tee mit mir trinken?“
Altmann dankte kurz. Er nahm die Hände der Nordeni in die
seinen. Er sprach erregt und dringlich.
„Liebste, Beste — meine Frau ist sehr elend heute ... wollen Sie
nicht an ihrer Stelle singen ...?“
Er hätte diese Zumutung in New York oder Chicago gewiß nicht
an sie gerichtet. Aber in Los Angeles ...!
„Denken Sie, Russel will die Wegler singen lassen ... das geht
doch nicht ... das müssen Sie als Künstlerin zugeben ... das geht
nicht!“
Madame Nordeni lächelte liebenswürdig.
„Aber wieso denn, lieber Freund? ... Die Wegler ist sehr nett ...
ich meine, natürlich nicht für Chicago oder New York ... aber für hier?
Sie übernahm einmal von heute auf morgen die Gräfin im Figaro ...
reizend ... reizend, sage ich Ihnen! Seien Sie nur ganz ruhig .. sie
wird das schon ganz nett machen! Ich freue mich nur auf das
Gesicht von Kapelle, wenn statt Ihrer Frau die Wegler da oben
steht!“
„Verzeihen Sie, meine Frau ist krank ...“
Altmann fühlte, wie der Ärger ihn übermannte. Aber sie sah ihm
nach, mit kokettem Augenaufschlag.
Eigentlich gefiel er ihr. Sie hatte etwas übrig für „tragische
Masken“. Und es war nett, daß er sich so für seine Frau einsetzte.
Die König war doch gut dran. Brauchte nur zu singen, überließ alles
andere ihrem Mann! Führte eigentlich immer so „ein Stückchen zu
Hause“ mit sich herum, hatte immer eine Veste, an der sie sich
ausweinen und auslachen konnte.
Die Nordeni verschränkte die Arme unter dem Kopf und starrte
durch das Fenster in den grauen Himmel.
Manchmal versuchte sie an ihre Kindheit zurückzudenken, an
ihre Jugend ... aber es war alles so lange her ... und ihr Leben war
so wild bewegt gewesen. Männer hatten es gelenkt nach dem
Ermessen ihrer flüchtigen Laune. Schlug es gut für sie aus, waren
sie nicht mehr da, um sich daran zu erfreuen, — nicht gut, so
kehrten sie ihr den Rücken, noch ehe sie verantwortlich gemacht
werden konnten.
Bezahlte Dienerinnen waren ihre Vertrauten. Die Vertrauten ihrer
absterbenden Jugend, ihrer kurzen Abenteuer. Wenn die Tür sich
hinter ihnen schloß, verrieten sie sie an die besser Zahlende oder
nahmen ihr den Mann weg, der ihr gehörte. Auch das hatte sie
erlebt. Und hatte immer nur neue Länder zwischen ihre
Leidensstationen zu setzen gewußt, hatte sich immer nur durch
ihren prahlerischen Schmuck und das hochnasige Lächeln, durch
ein paar spitze, helle Töne und eine dreiste Routine auf ihrer Höhe
zu halten verstanden. Wie lange noch ...? Und was dann ...?
„Mariette,“ rief sie, wie ein Kind, das sich plötzlich im Dunkel
fürchtet, „Mariette.“ ...
Aber sie war allein in dem großen, kahlen, weiß angestrichenen
Hotelzimmer. Sie überhörte das Klopfen an der Tür und schrie auf,
als sie plötzlich einen Neger vor sich sah. Der Neger zeigte lachend
seine gelbe Zahntastatur und stellte ein hübsches Lackbrett mit dem
Nachmittagstee auf den kleinen Bambustisch neben dem Ruhebett.
— — — Altmann fand Mariette um Karla beschäftigt. Zierlich,
unhörbar huschte sie durchs Zimmer, rang das Wasser aus den
Tüchern, senkte kleine Eisstücke in die bereitete Limonade. Altmann
suchte sein bißchen Schul- und Bühnenfranzösisch zusammen, um
ihr zu danken. Sie wurde rot und lächelte. Karla lag im Bett mit
geschlossenen Augen und roten Wangen.
Altmann streichelte Karlas Hand. Er merkte es kaum, daß
Mariette klingelte, Tee bestellte und ein Tischchen deckte. Aber als
sie ihn mit einem stillen Zeichen rief, da sah er, daß Eier und ein
kaltes Huhn mit angerichtet waren, und so merkte er es auch erst,
daß er seit dem ersten Frühstück nichts zu sich genommen hatte.
„Das wußte ich doch“, sagte Mariette.
 Sie bediente ihn mit feiner, lautloser Grazie. Er war ja doch der
einzige „Herr“ von der ganzen Gesellschaft, und er hatte so viel
„charme“, wenn er lächelte. Sie war es gewöhnt, den Männern
dienstbar zu sein, die sich ihres Gefallens erfreuten. Es war nichts
Besonderes dabei für sie. Aber er wurde fast verlegen, und wenn
ihre Händchen wie kleine weiße Vögel über die Gegenstände
huschten, dann blickte er geflissentlich zum Fenster hinaus, als
wollte er das bunte Treiben der Straße heraufziehen in den stillen
Dämmer des Zimmers und es zwischen sich und die so aufdringlich
emsigen kleinen Hände schieben ...
Um sechs kam der Theaterdiener. Ob denn Frau König wirklich
nicht singen würde? Karla war gerade eingeschlafen; Altmann
kämpfte mit sich, ob er sie wecken sollte. Aber es war ihm etwas
Peinliches daran. Wenn er nichts anderes tun konnte in dieser Zeit,
so mußte er wenigstens auf ihre Gesundheit bedacht sein.
„Sagen Sie, meine Frau ist nicht imstande.“
Mochte die Wegler singen ... es würden sich schon Mittel und
Wege finden lassen, das Publikum zu verständigen, wenn sie die
falsche Karla König auspfiffen.
Aber sie pfiffen sie gar nicht aus. Nur sehr lau war der Abend.
Nach den Aktschlüssen gab es immerhin zwei, drei Hervorrufe, die
der Gesamtleistung galten. Als aber Karla König am übernächsten
Tage auftrat, da empfing sie ohrenbetäubendes Johlen und Pfeifen.
Schlüssel, Papierknäuel flogen um ihren Kopf ... Sie stand da —
zitternd, bleich, mit großen erschreckten Augen. Das Orchester
brach ab. Kapelle schrie zu ihr hinauf:
„Nicht abgehen ... nicht abgehen!“ ...
John Russel hielt die Vorhangschnur.
„Vorhang herunter“, rief Altmann, der bis in die Lippen weiß war.
„So lassen Sie doch den Vorhang herunter ...“
„Jawohl, damit mir die Kerls die Bühne in Klump schlagen?!“ ...
Die Mitglieder waren zusammengelaufen und scharten sich
bleich und erregt um John Russel.