Twisted Cravings by Cora Reilly
The first trailers and tents came into view in the distance, and I couldn’t help but smile. Living the nomad life wasn’t very comfortable, especially the sanitary options sometimes left a lot to be desired. But we preferred to be among ourselves instead of staying in motels. Of course, some racers opted for the comfort of nearby hotels and only joined us the night before a race, especially those who were sponsored by their rich parents and didn’t do this for the money. Luckily there weren’t many of them. With the upcoming seven races in only one week, everyone would have to camp or sleep in their car.
I parked my car at the edge of camp and got out. Crank’s rustic trailer was in the center with everyone else’s makeshift homes set up around it. He was the go-to guy when I wasn’t there and his trailer was often our business home-base.
It was late in the afternoon and tomorrow was the last day to get everything in order before our seven-day-race, especially drill the rules into the participants. I already knew a few people I’d have additional chats with to make sure they really got the message.
A fire burned in the center in preparation for nightfall and the scent of meat smokers and barbecues filled the air. I set up my tent, a small two-person thing that I attached to my car. I preferred to keep a close eye on my BMW. Sometimes strange accidents occurred.
“How was Vegas?” Dinara asked close behind me, just when I’d zipped the tent up. I turned around to find her standing very close with her arms crossed over a cut-off AC/DC T-shirt, revealing that tantalizing piercing again. It was a tiny red and golden egg. For once Dinara wasn’t in boots but flip-flops, revealing dark-red painted nails.“And what happened to your face?”
My lip was slightly swollen from Remo’s punch. “A friendly grapple with my brother. And Vegas is the same it always is. Loud, flashy and dirty,” I said, tearing my eyes away from her body and meeting her knowing gaze. Dinara seemed perceptive, but even if she weren’t, she would have noticed me checking her out by now. It was really difficult not to do so. Her confidence alone drew me in.
Dinara’s brows rose as she leaned against my car and took a sip from a Styrofoam cup. “Someone’s holding a grudge against his hometown.”
I glared off into the distance. She held out the cup to me. “You look like you need it more than I do. Why did you fight with your brother?”
I took it without asking what it was and swallowed a big gulp. The bitter burn of Vodka bloomed in my mouth and traveled down my throat. I hated the stuff. I’d never understood the reason for drinking it pure. Dinara’s lips twitched as if she knew what I was thinking. “Dima brewed it himself.”
I handed the cup back to her, ignoring her previous question. “You sure it’s safe to consume?” My eyes scanned the circuit for her buzz-headed shadow, and of course, I found him beside his car, watching us.
“You don’t seem like someone who shies back from taking risks.”
“I’m not. I’d just rather not die from consuming homemade Vodka. There are far more interesting ways to leave this planet.”
She took a sip before her lips pulled into a teasing smile. “Like dying in a car race or being killed by an enemy bullet?”
“Something like that, yes.”
I reached into the open passenger window and pulled out a clean T-shirt. I’d been wearing this one on the drive from Vegas and while setting up a tent in the burning afternoon sun. I dragged my sweaty shirt over my head and tossed it on the hood beside Dinara. She eyed it briefly but then her gaze moved on to me, definitely checking me out. Her eyes lingered on my abs before she scanned the scars on my body, ending at my marred Camorra tattoo.
“Seems like you aren’t a stranger to dancing with death.”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to talk about the time when most of these scars came to be. I put on a clean white shirt and leaned beside Dinara. Some of the pit girls who shared tents with their respective racer boyfriends or affairs gave us curious looks. A few of them had tried to get it on with me but I hadn’t taken them up on their advances. Dinara followed my gaze. “Got your eye on one of them?”
I chuckled. “No. I don’t mix business and pleasure.”
Dinara tilted her head. “What an un-Falcone-like thing to do. Why limit yourself when you make the rules? You are kings in your territory.”
“Remo is king. The rest of us are his vassals.” I could have kicked myself at the note of bitterness in my voice, making me sound like a fucking sulking teenager, but I was royally pissed at Remo for keeping Dinara’s past a secret from me.
“You are many things but not a vassal. Sounds like you have ambitions to become a regicide to grab the crown for yourself.”
Fury raced through my veins at the accusation. Even when Remo sometimes drove me up the wall, he was my Capo and my brother. I loved him and would rather chop myself to pieces before betraying him like that. I masked my first reaction, realizing it gave me the chance to figure out Dinara’s true intentions. If I left the door open to me betraying Remo, she might see me as an alley to confide in her possible revenge plans. I stared off toward the horizon, leaving the question hanging between us. Dinara regarded me closely but her expression was impossible to read.
“Did you give your brothers a report about the Bratva princess while you were in Vegas?” she asked after almost a minute of silence. More and more people were gathering around the firepit, sitting down on logs arranged around it, and the aroma of smoked ribs now drifted unmistakably into my nose. Music was turned up, a colorful mix of hits from the last few years because tastes varied greatly in the group.
“There isn’t much to report, is there?”
She shrugged and fixed me with a look as if she didn’t believe me.
“I don’t know why you’re here. You’re a mystery and so are your reasons for seeking my closeness.”
“Someone’s overconfident. Maybe I just want to enjoy the thrill of racing.”
“Big coincidence that you’re joining the racing camp that’s in the territory of the Camorra. You have history with us and so does your father.”
“What do you know about my history with the Camorra?” she whispered harshly. For the first time a crack in her beautiful mask showed. She hadn’t been overly emotional so far.
I was taken aback by her outburst but I kept my cool. I shrugged. “I know that your mother works as a whore in one of our brothels.”
Dinara froze, slowly lowering the cup from her lips. Blatant disbelief played across her face. “My mother’s dead.” Her voice sounded…terrified and elated at once.
“No, she’s not. She is alive and in Las Vegas, working for us.”
Dinara tore her gaze away, frowning.She emptied the cup and set it down on the hood. I wished she would allow me to see her eyes but she kept them carefully turned away, not willing to let me see her emotions, but the rest of her body gave me an inkling of her turmoil. Her hands shook when she reached into her pocket and took out a joint. She lit it and took a deep, shaky breath. “You sure?”
The familiar sweet aroma of marihuana filtered into my nose and a deep craving settled in my body. I’d given up on harder drugs during my time in New York after Luca broke a few of my ribs when he found me drugged, but giving up joints was harder, especially because many people smoked them at the after-race parties and barbecues.
Maybe I should have backtracked, but Remo wanted me to tell her for whatever insane reason. Was I risking his life or Dinara’s by telling her? But it was too late to back down now.
“Yes. I’ve met her several times over the years.” That was an exaggeration. I’d never actually talked to her, only seen her in passing. I didn’t remember much about her, not even if she’d been as beautiful as her daughter. She was a hazy shadow I couldn’t focus on.
“Fucked her too if she’s one of your whores?”
I grimaced. “No.”
Dinara rolled her eyes. “Don’t play indignant. I know how things work. Mobsters often seek the services of whores and many of them even lose their V-card to one. I’m familiar with the business. The Bratva and the Italian mob aren’t that different when you break it down.” The way she said Bratva, I almost developed an appreciation for the word.
“I didn’t fuck your mother, Dinara. I’m not in the habit of sleeping with every available pussy.”
I couldn’t speak for my brothers though. Remo had definitely fucked her in the past. I wasn’t sure about Nino and Savio, but the latter had dipped his cock into anything before Gemma tied him down.
Dinara nodded but didn’t say anything. She looked upset. Dima had pushed away from his car and was slowly coming closer. A true protector. I wanted to kick his stupid Bratva ass. His expression wasn’t that of a bodyguard, and not a brotherly friend either.
She jerked to her feet and dropped the joint before stomping on it. I felt a pang I tried to ignore.
“I need to leave the camp and return to Chicago.”
I shook my head and stood as well. “Tomorrow evening the first race of the seven-day circuit starts. You need to be present in the afternoon to set up everything. If you miss the first race in the circuit, you can’t join the race at a later point. Every race builds up on the previous. And if you miss seven races, your chances of staying in camp are close to nil.” I didn’t want Dinara to disappear so soon. I wanted to keep her close, to find out more about her history, and her.
“I’ll be back in time,” she clipped and started to move away.
I touched her arm. “We’re almost 1400 miles away from Chicago.”
She gave me a sardonic smile over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t miss tomorrow’s race. We aren’t done yet, Adamo.”
With that, she walked away and I was left to stare at her back, wondering if her last words were warning or promise.
Dima hurried toward me. “What’s—”
“I need a private jet from Salt Lake City in thirty minutes. Set everything up.”
Dima stared at me. He opened his mouth but I wasn’t in the mood to talk.
“I don’t have time for questions. Get a jet. We need to leave now. We’re taking my car.”
Dima didn’t try to extract more information from me. Instead he picked up his mobile and pulled a few strings with contacts before he gave a terse nod. “Done.”
We settled in my car, and I hit the gas. We’d have to hurry if we wanted to reach the small private airport in time. It sat right outside of Salt Lake City.
It was half-past five, so if everything went to plan, we’d board the jet around six.
“What’s going on Dinara? Are you in danger? Did anything Falcone say upset you?”
Upset didn’t even begin to cover my feelings about the news Adamo had given me. My mother was alive. For years, I’d thought she was dead. Everyone had led me to believe she was.
My fingers around the steering wheel tightened even more until it hurt. I wasn’t in the mood to talk now. My head was a mess full of whirring thoughts, a thunderstorm slowly building up and about to unleash its destructive power. Deep inside of me, my dark craving began its enticing chant, a siren’s call I’d resisted for ten months now.
Dima gave up on talking to me for the rest of the drive and when we pulled up at the airport with only five minutes to spare before the scheduled departure, I breathed a sigh of relief. After Dima and I had boarded the private jet and settled down on seats facing each other, the stewardess served us drinks and snacks. “This could be a bumpy ride. A thunderstorm is brewing over Chicago.”
I gave her a quick smile. “That’s perfect.” Obviously set aback by my reply, she excused herself. I took the glass, and sipped at my Gin & Tonic while the plane began moving and soon we were air-bound.
Dima never took his eyes off me. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Did you know about my mother?”
If Dima knew what I meant, he hid it well. His blond brows pulled together. “What about her?”
The problem was Dima was my father’s man, would always be. He’d sometimes bent the rules for me but ultimately, he’d never betray my father outright.
“That she’s still alive, not dead like my father said.”
Dima shook his head. “How do you know? Did Adamo put that idea into your head?”
I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. Something in his voice was off. Our close bond made keeping secrets from each other a difficult endeavor. “Did you know? Why would Adamo lie about something like that?”
“Because he and his brothers are masters of manipulation. They are the enemy, even if you get cozy with Adamo.”
“I’m not getting cozy with anyone,”I gritted out, but I couldn’t deny the mutual attraction between Adamo and me. I’d noticed the way he checked me out, and I’d ogled him more than once too.“What could they gain from making me believe my mother’s alive, hmm?”
Dima leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving to the window. Was he buying time? A subtle tension had entered his body, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he knew more about my mother or because he was jealous of Adamo. “Maybe they hope you’ll come to Vegas to find her. It could be a trap to get you in their hands. It wouldn’t be the first time that Remo Falcone kidnapped a high-ranking woman.”
“If he wanted to kidnap me, he could ask Adamo to do it. And I doubt Adamo’s the only racer with close ties to the Camorra. He wouldn’t have to lure me to Vegas to get his hands on me.”
Dima’s mouth tightened and he avoided looking my way. I rose from my chair and sank down beside him. His gaze met mine. “Dima,” I said softly, imploringly, and put my hand over his that was resting on the armrest. “If you know, you have to tell me. I need to know. You know I do.”
Dima’s face, which was usually all hard lines, like a piece of cubism art, softened. “Dinara.” The way he said my name reminded me of our past. He turned his hand and closed his fingers around my hand. I swallowed. I didn’t want to use Dima’s feelings, or whatever feelings he tried to convince himself of having, to get what I want, but this truth could change everything. I needed to know.
“Tell me,”I implored.
He leaned a bit closer as if to kiss me. I tensed. I didn’t want to have to push him away. I didn’t have to. Dima scanned my body and retracted a few inches. His fingers around mine loosened and his smile turned pained. “What are you going to do with the truth?”
“The same I’ve always wanted, get closure.”
“And revenge,” Dima said quietly. “I’m not sure you’ll find closure on the path you’re on.”
Revenge was daily business in our circles. Every man lived and breathed for revenge if they’d been wronged, but women were supposed to let others handle their problems like helpless damsels in distress.
“Dima.”
My path was my business. I’d walk it alone if I had to. Dima let his head fall back. “She’s alive. Falcone told you the truth.”
“Why did you lie to me?”I asked, hurt. Dima was my closest confidante. We’d shared everything, or at least I’d thought so.
Dima tilted his head. “Because your father ordered me to lie to you and because I wanted to protect you.”
I snatched my hand away. “I don’t need protection from the truth!” I got up, unable to sit still. I began pacing the aisle, my pulse pounding. A tiny part of me had remained doubtful after Adamo’s words, but now the truth glared brightly at me. It was my turn to accept it and decide how to proceed. “It’s my right to decide what to do with the truth. My fucking right.”
Dima nodded. “Your father might not agree. He’ll be furious if he finds out I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me. Adamo did.”
Dima let out a bitter laugh. “Your new hero.”
I glared and sank down on the seat. “Adamo’s not the hero in this story. Nor are you or my father. I’ll be the hero in my story.”
I turned my gaze to the window, admiring the grim sky that matched my emotions tragically. Soon the clouds thickened and rain pestered the plane. I ran my palms up and down my thighs, lingering on familiar ridges high up. The siren’s call now rang in my blood. My dark craving was a strong opponent, my greatest foe, but also balm and friend in my hardest hours. He made the unbearable bearable, if only for a few hours.
“You are stronger than it,”Dima said into the silence.
He knew my body language too well. I gave a terse nod. “I’m stronger than you and my father think.”
Thirty minutes before the estimated landing time, I grabbed the bag with my Chicago clothes and went to the bathroom to change. This had become habit, letting go of my style and freedom when I returned home, and becoming the girl my father wanted and needed me to be.
A black limousine was waiting for us when we landed on a Bratva-affiliated airport outside of Chicago. I got in without a word and let the ride pass in silence as well. I’d sent Dad a message shortly after we’d boarded the plane, announcing my arrival. Judging by his lack of surprise, Dima had informed him before I could.
We didn’t enter Chicago. Dad had bought four acres of land about twenty miles outside of Chicago because the home he had in mind needed space. The gilded gates slid open as we approached them. A long driveaway with grounds reminiscent of Versailles led up to a splendid white and blue mansion. It had taken almost two years to build this smaller version of Catherine The Great’s Palace, which Dad and I had visited in Saint Petersburg many times.
I wondered if it gave Dad a sense of home living in a mansion like this or if it only reminded him of what he was missing. Sometimes it was harder to live with a lesser version of what we missed than to lose it altogether.
The limousine parked at the base of the majestic staircase leading up to the front door where Dad was already waiting for me in his usual dark suit. A member of the staff opened the door for me and I slid out of the car. It always took a few seconds to find my balance on my champagne-colored pumps after days or weeks of living in boots. I smoothed down the silk and cashmere dress that matched my heels and headed toward Dad. Dima stayed back, but the hard look Dad sent him concerned me.
Dad smiled but it was strained, as if his smile was forced onto his face by invisible strings. Dima must have warned him about what I knew. I wanted to resent Dima for being my father’s spy as much as my confidante. I dreaded the day he’d have to choose between us and I’d lose him for good. Maybe that was another reason why I’d ended things between us.
The moment I arrived before him, Dad pulled me into a hug. I sank against his tall, strong form, smelling his familiar aftershave. He pulled back with my cheeks cupped between his big hands and pressed a gentle kiss to each of my cheeks. “You look good, Katinka.”
I didn’t smile, only stared up into Dad’s pale blue eyes. He was only in his late forties, one of the younger Pakhans, and his blond hair still hid the gray streaks well.
“Dinara,”I corrected, even though I knew he wouldn’t use my second name. When I’d stopped using my first name, Ekaterina, named after Ekaterina the Great, another reason why Dad had chosen to build her palace, he had been heart-broken, and continued to call me by the nickname Katinka. I rarely corrected him anymore, nor did I wear the clothes I preferred when I was around him.
I always chose dresses or skirts in light colors, because he loved seeing me like that. Ekaterina meant pure after all and he wanted to see me in the light, not stumbling into the darkness that lingered deep inside of me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and led me inside the splendid mirror-walled foyers with its white and gold décor.
“Where are Jurij and Artur?”
“They are already asleep, and so is Galina.”
Dad always tried to keep his young wife and my half-brothers out of sight, as if he worried his new family would upset me. I gave him an exasperated look. He needed to stop thinking I needed to be put on a pedestal. I’d been happy when he’d married, and Galina had given him heirs. That meant he wouldn’t hover as much anymore and I’d have more freedoms.
“Are you hungry?”he asked.
I nodded. Except for vodka and gin, I hadn’t consumed anything yet, and it was starting to show in the fuzziness in my brain. Dad snapped his fingers and at once a member of the staff who’d been lurking in the background rushed off toward the kitchen. “Let’s go to my office.”
Calling the vast room where he worked an office was a mockery. Its sheer size awed most people, and some families of four or five lived in apartments that were much smaller. The gold and white décor carried on, but the furniture was darker. A reddish wood dominated everything, and Dad’s desk was the size of a small queen-size bed. We settled on the plush gold and blue sofa that he’d bought from a collector and which originated from the 18th century: Catherine the Great’s time. Dad was a man with one foot firmly set in the past and one in the future, maybe that made him so well respected among his men.
A knock sounded and our cook entered with a tray of fresh khachapuri, baked bread in the shape of an almond with cheese and egg filling. She carried it over to us and carefully set it down on the table in front of us before she disappeared again. I reached for a khachapuri, wincing as it burned my fingertips but too greedy for the delicacy of Dad’s childhood. The runny egg yolk spread on my tongue, mingling with the saltiness of the cheese and comforting denseness of the dough. Dad had spent the first few years of his life in the Caucasus. I swallowed the first bite then put the bread back down on the plate.
I was done postponing the inevitable, so I met Dad’s gaze.
“Why did you lie?”
A muscle in Dad’s cheek twitched, a sign of his displeasure. Many people would have had reason to cower at this sign of danger, but I wasn’t one of them. “Dima wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“He didn’t. Adamo Falcone did, and then I didn’t leave Dima a choice but to admit he knew the truth. You know I can be convincing if I put my mind to it.”
Dad chuckled. “Oh, I know. You have the stubbornness and cunning of a great empress.”
I sighed. “Why did you lie? You made me believe she was dead. All these years.”
“It was for the best. I wanted to protect you.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Dad’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Not that tone around me.” He hated when I cursed, and maybe even more when I spoke in English.
I took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“The truth doesn’t matter, because what I said is as good as true. She’s dead to us, erased from our lives, and out of our reach in Camorra territory.”
“Nothing is out of your reach, Dad, if you really want it.”He’d dragged his wife Galina out of the furthest corner of the Caucasus, a small village where her parents had hidden her away from my father, despite it being under the control of the enemy.
He shook his head with a rough laugh. “I’m a businessman and I’ve survived many attacks to my life, only because I’m cautious. Going to war with Remo Falcone isn’t wise. Breaching his territory for a dead woman is insanity.”
“She’s not dead,”I whispered harshly.
He cupped my hands. “She is to me, and she should be to you too. Forget she exists. She’s the past and we’ve left it behind us, haven’t we, Katinka?”
Maybe he had, maybe he could. But I saw her in my dreams almost every night, a ghost from the past. I had to see her again, face to face, even if it meant offending Remo Falcone and risking war with the Camorra.
