Slowly, I turned to face him. “Operations? Please tell me you come from a family of doctors.”
A small smirk touched his lips, gone as quickly as it came. “We are Bratva: the Safin faction.”
Crap.
I stumbled back, hitting the door as the room spun. The Safin territory had taken a lot of hits over the past three years; the latest was a couple of months ago, when two bombs went off in their territory, injuring twenty people and killing four, including a child. We’d heard about the bombings on campus.
I shook my head. “It can’t be my father,” my voice cracked. “You’ve got the wrong person. He does odd jobs here and there, but he wouldn’t have gotten mixed up with the mafia. He wouldn’t have stolen from them…from you.”
He pushed off the desk and took a few steps towards me, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Jasper Romonoff, age fifty-five, once married to Cindy Romonoff, is your father, correct?”
I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak. I already knew I wasn’t going to like what came next.
“He owes me one hundred grand for the medication he’s been stealing for over a year. To pay off his debt, he gave you to me.”
My mother had suffered from cancer for years before finally succumbing to the illness five years ago. My father had gone from doting to completely indifferent. He gambled, schemed, and did whatever he could to get money, either to bet or to drink, amongst other things. But there was no way I was going to admit that to Mr. Avit. So, while I was furious at my father for selling me, I wasn't about to air his dirty laundry, nor was I surprised he’d gotten himself entangled with the mafia.
“And you’re sure my father is the one behind this? This theft? You have solid proof?”
I already knew the answer.
“I do.”
Shit!
I felt a wave of nausea rush through me.
“And he wasn’t intoxicated when he made this deal with you?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best effort.
“He wasn’t.”
No. No way. I could not just be auctioned off like cattle. This wasn’t in my plan. I hadn’t worked this hard, fought this long, just for my father to ruin everything. My hands clenched at my sides, my nails biting into my palms as I straightened and fixed Mr. Avit with a glare.
“And what makes you think I should be given to you for my father’s mistakes? He’s the one who stole from you. I had nothing to do with it!” My voice rose with each sentence. “He’s probably at some bar, drinking himself stupid, while I’m stuck here with you, once again cleaning up one of his messes.”
His eyes narrowed, but I continued, barely holding back the frantic desperation I felt inside. “Does that seem fair to you? Is it theBratvaway to make others pay for crimes they haven't committed?”
With a few long strides, he stopped in front of me, glaring down, but I held his stare. Why the hell did he smell so good? And the fact that he could look down at me like that made my heart skip a beat.
As a tall girl, I was usually awkward around guys at five-nine, and he was clearly closer to six-five. That height made me realize I’d feel safe with him, that he could probably step in if another guy tried anything. Something I’ve never felt on the few dates I’d been on; I usually had to handle men on my own.
The longer I looked at him, the more I realized how handsome he was. He had a face that belonged on a magazine cover or on a runway. His height alone would’ve made me consider approaching him and giving him my number, but he wasn't some random guy. He was in the mafia. And something about that only pissed me off more.
“What makes you think your weasel of a father is off the hook? Just like I have uses for him, I’ll have uses for you.”
I laughed hysterically. “Uses? Such as…sex?”
“According to your father, you’re a virgin. Why would you think you’d be useful to me in that area?”
My eyes widened, and my heart slammed into my chest. The floor might as well have swallowed me whole. My father told him I was a virgin? Is that why he took me? To be some damn virgin trophy?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Listen, Mr. Avit,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Maybe we can make a deal. I could work for you as a housekeeper or an office assistant, until the debt’s paid off.”
“Like father, like daughter,” he drawled, stepping away from me. “Quick to cut a deal, aren’t you?”
He moved behind his desk, picked up a sheet of paper, and looked at me. “But I’m done making deals with your family. You’re mine now. And I don’t want you as a housekeeper or an office assistant, Miss Romonoff.” His gaze darkened. “You will be my wife.”
