Being a part of the Priesthood, a group formed by the five heads of the respective mafias that rule the world, we help each other out.
Years ago, we formed an alliance. I wouldn’t call any of the men friends, but having fought alongside them has tightened the bond between us.
I make sure Luca’s shipments reach Nikolas, and in return, Luca transports weapons to Turkey for me. Once they reach Eymen, my cousin on my mother’s side, he sells them on the black market.
Over the years, we’ve streamlined the entire operation, rarely getting any trouble from rival criminal organizations. They’ve actually become regular customers.
“Everything in order?” I ask Emre as I glance over a beer barrel. The weapons are all in airtight sealed bags with actual beer filling the barrels to cover them. Whenever there’s an inspection, which doesn’t happen often, the guards at the border only find beer.
“Evet. It’s all here,” Emre answers. “We’re loading the truck. As soon as it’s on the road, I’ll call Nikolas with the estimated time of arrival.”
“Good.”
For the most part, we speak English, having practically grown up in Seattle, but some Turkish words have stuck with us, always slipping through in conversation.
I watch as my men load the barrels into our eighteen-wheeler. To make transport across the borders easier, Nikolas opened a club as well. That way, it doesn’t look suspicious that a shipment of alcohol is en route for him.
As soon as the truck leaves the docking yard, Emre and I head back inside and walk to the gambling section. We check that the cleaning staff did a good job and the tables are ready for tonight.
Finding Justin, the manager in charge of the floor, in his office that overlooks the tables, I say, “Give me an update.”
“Everything is running smoothly. I’ve hired a new dealer. He used to work in Las Vegas and has a good eye to catch any card counters.”
“Good,” I murmur.
“Profits are up by five percent,” Emre adds. “Business has been great.”
I smile at my cousin. “I’ll see you at home.”
“Don’t eat all the food,” he calls after me.
Leaving the office, I go upstairs to check with the other floor managers before heading back home.
Just in time for dinner, I take a seat and offer a smile to my grandmother. “Selam, babaanne.”
“Selam,” She returns my greeting. Her eyes, the same light brown as mine, rest warmly on me.
The table is already loaded with food, and we don’t wait long for Emre to arrive and Nisa to join us.
After Emre greets our grandmother, I pick up a spoon and enjoy the Turkish soup. It’s only because of our grandmother and Nisa that we’ve continued our Turkish traditions in America.
For a couple of minutes, we eat in silence, then my grandmother says, “Nisa tells me there’s a woman in the cottage.”
I wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin, then explain. “She’s one of Mazur’s employees who got hurt in the attack. Once I’ve questioned her, she’ll leave.”
Changing the subject, my grandmother asks, “Are you busy at work?”
Emre nods, then gives me a playful grin. “I’m overworked and underpaid.”
“Like hell, you are,” I mutter while I help myself to some vegetables and shredded beef. Before I take a bite, I glance at my grandmother and ask, “How are the plans for your birthday coming along?”
She scrunches her nose. “I regret it every year. Why do I still have parties at my age?”
“Cancel it if you don’t want a party,” Emre mentions.
“Then Gabriel will never see his family on his mother’s side,” she mutters. Letting out a sigh, she adds, “I’ve never gotten along with Ayesenur and Eslem.”
“Allah Allah,” Nisa mutters. “I can’t stand them.”
I can’t say I get along with my aunt and cousin, but because we’re family, I can’t just turn my back on them.
Also, working so closely with Eymen, who’s the opposite of his sister and mother, makes it impossible to cut ties with them.
“It’s only for a week,” I say, giving the women an encouraging smile. “Thank you for putting up with them for my sake.”
My grandmother reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. “Gözümün nuru,” she calls me the light of her eye, one of her favorite terms of endearments.
Chapter 6
Lara
Waking up, I blink against the bright light streaming into the room.
Weird.
It takes a moment before I realize nothing is familiar.
No dimly lit basement.
No sounds of snoring from the other staff.
It’s quiet.
Once my vision focuses, I glance around the room, taking in the cream bedding with an embroidered flower pattern. Cream curtains. A high-back chair in the corner.
Everything looks soft, warm, and luxurious.
Again I glance at the bed as I try to pull myself into a sitting position, then, all at once, everything floods back.
The pain from the whipping.
The attack on the mansion.
Panic rockets through me, my skin turning ice cold. My breathing speeds up, my eyes wildly darting around me.
My body protests when I try to sit up again, a deep ache in my stomach stopping me. Noticing the IV inserted into the back of my hand, my eyes widen even more.
God. Where am I?
Just as I remember I was shot, a man appears in the doorway. His black cargo pants and shirt are the same as the ones Tymon’s guards wear. With no expression on his face, he mutters, “You’re up.”
Nervously, my tongue darts out to wet my dry lips. “Where am I?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He disappears again.
Oh, God.
This time I clench my teeth against the pain, and I manage to sit up. Sliding my legs from the bed, I sag against the side of the mattress when I try to stand. I’m wearing only a white nightgown that reaches to my feet.
Come on, Lara. You have to move faster.
With my heart pounding in my chest and zero strength in my legs, I don’t even make it halfway to the door before dropping to the carpet, the IV stand toppling beside me.
No. Get up!
The pain becomes so intense it feels like something is trying to claw its way out of my stomach.
You’re okay.
You can do this.
You’re okay.
You’ve survived worse.
My head snaps up when I hear murmuring voices, then another man appears in the doorway. Unlike the guard, who’s dressed all in black, this man is wearing an expensive charcoal-colored, three-piece suit.
It takes a couple of seconds before I recognize him.
The rude man from the restaurant.
I can’t remember his name.
“Finally,” he mutters, already looking annoyed with me. “Unless you plan on crawling out of here, I suggest you get back in the bed.”
Apprehension tightens my muscles, increasing the pain. “Will you even let me crawl out of here?”
His eyes narrow on me, then slowly, he tilts his head. “No.”
Dear God.
“Why?” I wet my lips again, frustration swirling in my chest because I’m not even strong enough to crawl out of here. “Why am I here?” I shake my head as my fear darkens into a powerless feeling. “How did I get here?”