The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance)

Chapter 115

I have worked my arse off for five days getting this club ready, and now, as opening night looms upon me, I stand out in the car park giving Feral his daily food portion. Sun blazing down on us in this gorgeous weather, warming my head and shoulders in my loose shirt dress, completely out of the norm for the time of year and I feel a little less tense than I did indoors. My nerves for re-opening night have been getting to me for days, and I’m strung up to high heaven with a constant lead weight in my stomach.

I may have grown a little attached to this snarling little ginger beast and have been feeding him twice a day when I pop out here for air. It’s become ritualistic for me. Escaping my confines for breathing space to expel my anxiety and seeing to this hopeless creature. He’s starting to look a lot more appealing these days, now that skin and bone has a slight padding and thicker healthier fur.

He’s staring at me from under the bonnet of the nearest car, his usual hiding spot, as I scrape out the cat meat into the steel bowl I keep out here for him and top up the water from the bottle I brought down. He knows the drill but yet he always acts like I am invading his space and doing some awful act.

Feral hisses at me when I straighten up.

‘Oh shush, you crazy beast. I know you are nicer than you pretend to be. Just remember who comes out here and feeds you every day. Show a little gratitude.’ I tell him off with a friendly tone and watch with stupid pride as he settles down his aggressive verbal’s instantly; glares watchfully.

The cat slowly edges out, not yet ready to trust, and I move back to give him the space he requires to make a dash for the bowl like a starved animal, even though he’s started gaining weight. I wouldn’t go as far as saying he is thriving yet, but he’s noticeably better. His coat is less lacklustre and the flea tablet Jackson crushed into his food on Monday seems to have taken care of the little infestation he had going on. He isn’t scratching and the bald patches and bloody scratches look like they are starting to heal already.

We still can’t get near him, but he tolerates us within three feet now, instead of six, which is huge. Watching us whenever we come out, and he has the sense to at least avoid the cars now. Which is a complete relief to my nerves; I swear I got so antsy anytime cars came and went I thought about banning all of them from parking here and telling them to go find space in the street. I am a little protective of my hostile kitty cat.

I pick up the can and bottle to clear my rubbish away and turn to head back in as he growls at my departure—A long, low deep noise this time.

‘I’m taking that as a thank you and goodbye you ungrateful little scab. I do enjoy our chats though … See you tomorrow, Feral. Sleep tight and watch out for the traffic.’ I throw back with a smile at him, getting a big yellow glare from his one and only good eye and head back into the building. Shaking my head at how I could find something as visually unattractive as Feral, adorably cute. There is obviously something warped inside of me.

I don’t know what made me start buying real cat food for the bloody thing in the first place. I think it was seeing it out here the morning I came home from Miami looking skinny and unwanted and eating scraps from the edge of the bins to survive.

That ginger little street rat that nobody cares about—kind of struck a chord in me. I have been taking care of him ever since. Even roped Jackson into it to make sure the cat had eyes watching for him around the clock when I wasn’t out here.

I head indoors, eyes adjusting from bright light to gloomy dimness that always seems worse after being out there. I head upstairs and catch sight of that tramp ‘Hoe-anne’ in Lucie’s old office when I get up to the door of mine and throw her a distasteful look.

I still hate her ever-lingering presence, but it’s an advantage having a skivvy to order about and do the mundane shit I cannot be bothered with. My plans for her stand-in are to train someone to such a

competent level of skill that I can relax on my presence downstairs every night and do more of what a club owner does. Direct and supervise, rather than always be centre front. It won’t be her though. I would rather eat my own spleen than keep her on.

‘You sorted out tonight’s guest list like I told you to?’ I throw her attitude … Just because I can.

‘Yes. A couple of them are bringing guests.’ She has that catty air to her tone although she tries to veil it—unsuccessfully. Feeling between us is mutual.

‘Put the list on my desk when you’re done so I can vet the guests. We check everyone who comes here, every time we book a night. Double check and dot every ‘i’, no mistakes.’ I learned the hard way that all guests should be accounted for.

‘Yes, I know.’ She answers with a snotty tone and gets a frosty look from me. I have been putting her in her place all week and she is trying not to go down without a fight and failing.

I haven’t heard from Alexi either. Not since the night we went to Miami, and I am still simmering over that. He’s a thug, a jealous irrational arsehole who was completely out of order, yet he’s still part owner, and he owed me some sort of fucking contact before now. An apology, or just to check in and see how I was doing. He’s annoyed me immensely for not even one measly little god damn text.

It’s not that I gave a shit about some random man getting beaten; it was that he attacked someone merely for touching me, in front of me, and put the fear of God in me in the worst kind of way. He violently pulverised someone because of me and yet, has ignored me for almost a week.

Anytime I forget who or what he is it’s like he has to remind me that he’s a soulless demon and put it back in my face that he’s capable of so much; That raw brutal aggression, like a machine. He annihilated that guy effortlessly.

Alexi shows a tiny bit of human and then destroys it by showing you a tidal wave of the complete psycho that dwells inside him. I wonder if it’s because of the simple fact he let his guard down and fear hits him hard that you might see a little deeper. Think he might harbour a softer side.

I’m really starting to see that he has major issues on a serious level. Getting to know him more than I did first time around has me second guessing all that clever and smooth aura of evil, and wondering just how broken he is under the layers he displays. He’s not as clear-cut as he once appeared to be. I think Alexi is a lot more screwed up than he likes to let on.

I know he trains with the cousin who boxes, I’ve heard him talk about him, and a lot of his cousins are all into martial arts and some form of fight training. He can probably do a lot of damage effortlessly, but that man was no match and completely unprepared. If Mico and Gino hadn’t intervened I have no doubt that he would have killed him, without any remorse, right there in front of me. He is clearly not against me witnessing that again.

It’s also a stark reminder of how ingrained it is in his head that taking a life is nothing. He’s emotionally disconnected from the act in every way and I have often tried to dissect why or how he got to this point.

Jackson told me that the Miami ‘incident’ has all been taken care of; the club owner is a friend and wiped the security feed from the hall we were in. The ‘victim’ neither died from his injuries nor did he get a good look at Alexi as it happened so fast, and he was drunk enough to not remember much after. Not even me. It’s all been cleaned up and fizzling away as though it never happened at all. Jackson told me his injuries seemed a lot worse than they were, and that the man is on the mend in a Miami hospital.

Not that any of that makes me feel any better or able to forgive Alexi for it.

Never underestimate the proficiency of his clean-up crew, following in his wake to make sure Master Carrero is never touched. It’s pathetic.

His reach goes beyond New York, so I don’t doubt there is plenty of Miami law enforcement on his payroll if it’s a destination where he frequents to kick back. Alexi’s touch goes much further than our city, even I know that. I knew who he was when I was in Chicago, and beyond. I heard rumours, knew who they were as a collective family. They are known in the realms of the rich and powerful, and Alexi has a framed picture on his wall of his father with one of the previous presidents. I do not underestimate the level of corruption he is involved in.

Untouchable.

Beating some man in a club is nothing to him.

I head into my office and sit down with a heavy sigh and weird mood, spying the bag of cat treats that Jackson has left for me here. I smile involuntarily, a little warm pick me up to my internal sombre heaviness. He brought them from home because his wife’s kittens don’t like them and I swipe them up to put in my desk for later. It gives me a reason to go visit the little fleabag before bed and check in on him. It’s sad to admit but Feral’s visits have become the highlight of my day. Nurturing some poor little beast back to health and seeing him improve daily, gives me some sense of self-worth.

Jackson has taken a shine to Feral too and made him a little shelter in the far corner of the lot to sleep in when it’s raining. He utilised some old plastic tubs and cut a doorway in the side of one he upturned. It’s all cosy and watertight with the lid as a removable base we can clean. Filled with old rags and a pillow, Feral at least has somewhere weather resistant and comfy to sleep at night, and we have seen him use it. All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

I’m supposed to make Jackson shadow me where ever I go but what Alexi doesn’t see, he doesn’t know about, and I’m too pissed at him to obey his ‘Jackson will shadow your every move’ bullshit this week.

I take him when I leave the club, or when I am downstairs he tends to follow me at a distance, but never ventures up here unless I ask him to, and when I feed Feral he usually just hangs around in the hall in case I need him. Watches me on the internal door camera so I can have a little me time; Which I have needed a lot of lately while working daily in this building that’s constantly full of people.

I like Jackson, he reminds me of Mico, only quieter and softer. He’s a huge man, much bigger than his cousins in build and weight. Broad, a little tubby around the midriff, but he has a nice face, definitely that Carrero bone structure, and he smiles often. He’s a soft touch with his cats and he mentions Susan, his wife, frequently. It’s a wonder he works in this lifestyle at all as I wouldn’t peg him for a Mafia henchman.

Carrero men are complex and despite this whole Gangster world and bad things they do, some of them are definitely more human than Alexi is. I don’t mind my escort, he’s security when I need it and gives me a feeling of safety when I go anywhere. Jackson gives me a sense of confidence that I won’t ever be attacked in this place again—My own personal guardian angel … even if it is compliments of Dickhead Alexi.

I throw aside all the papers that arsehole needs to sign and approve and sulk a little, listless and staring aimlessly at the room spreading out in front of me. It’s been eerily quiet and empty for days; the whole building has felt that way, and I am trying to ignore the fact it’s been for as long as Satan has been absent. I hate that even though I get to run this club, he still has to co-sign everything of importance. I should have that kind of responsibility as I am the one doing everything here, and it just infuriates me that he still has to have some level of control, even from afar.

Wanker!

The painters are done, the electrics done, although I have a lift engineer scheduled next week as the one nearest Lucie’s office keeps making a weird clunking noise every so often and I want it checked

out. The bar is ready; the marble was replaced with a faux granite worktop while our expensive surface is being restored in a shop in Seattle. It annoys me that it has a cheap temporary fix but in the dim lighting you don’t notice it. Club is clean, tweaked, refinished in my style and restocked with a fresh guest list for tonight with new entertainment.

I have a strip show planned on the centre stage down there, aside from the escorts, and I’ve paid two pole dancers to do acrobatic performances throughout the night. Jackson oversaw the carpenters fitting our new floor to ceiling poles on the stage, and I have a week of varied sexy related acts booked for our opening weekend. My aim is to entertain them as much as satisfying their pleasures.

Champagne and food are all ready to be served tonight as a sort of celebratory boom. I have servers in black and white uniforms to classily stand out, and they are under orders to make this a glam party evening, rather than the mundane sex and drugs they had for the last four months. Alexi’s club was at its peak when the nights were fun and lively, and they felt like they were paying to come to a high class after party, not just some dim smelly club to get laid. Joanne had no clue how this place worked and she focused on turning it into a brothel.

She has no concept of the layers to what this place does. A lot of the men never even venture to the sex rooms at all and deals and connections are made by hobnobbing shoulder to shoulder, getting drunk with influential people in a safe space, and snorting their brain cells away on coke. Nothing they do here goes beyond these walls and our armed, very obvious security make them feel like they can relax and kick back. They are taken care of on every level and it is part of what they pay for—Trusting the Carrero name to look after them.

The girls are a perk, not the focus. The drugs and booze are lubricators for deals and underhand agreements. Alexi’s contacts list quadrupled after his first month of having this place open, and she really had no vision at all. Take away the glamour, the gold star treatment of your guests and the attention to all the little luxurious details and you are left with a whore house that makes you pay

through the nose for stale services. That’s not what we built—it’s classy even if its foundations are sordid.

I don’t get why Alexi just walked away from it for months. I don’t believe for a minute he was really looking for me and it’s his sarcastic way of just being a prick. Highlighting the fact, he did the exact opposite of look for me. I know how his mind works and if he wanted to find me he would have. I was close enough and still in his domain.

I don’t buy that bullshit for even a second.

I push it all out of my head, restless and nervy because tonight is a huge deal for me, and I feel like I have to prove my worth all over again. Regain my crown more so, now that he and I are not exactly getting on anymore.

I hate to admit that it’s getting to me more than it should and a brewing storm of anger circles every time I think of how easily he has just dismissed me once again. Cut me off while he sulks and it bites like a son of a bitch. I have more worth than that. I am not one of his stupid toys or vague employees. I own half this god damn business now. I signed the papers he had sent to the apartment weeks ago.

He needs to stop treating me like a disposable object!

Getting up, completely frustrated and unable to sit at peace, I decide to head back downstairs to expel my excess energy. Even though I just got up here. I just need to check on last-minute details to be sure it’s all in order, that staff is coming in as scheduled and the bar is sparkling and ready. I’m antsy with swirling nerves, fidgeting like crazy and having to blow out long heavy breaths every few minutes to regulate my building anxiety. I know tonight will go to plan; I have to have a little faith in my abilities. Alexi did … he brought me back for this purpose.