Satin Sinner - A Mafia Romance

JESSA

It's my wedding day, and my fiancé is nowhere to be found.

"Jessa, sit down. We're gonna find him, okay?"

My mom is trying to guide me towards a chair in the corner of the room. I can't move, though. My muscles are stiff and unresponsive. My brain is a whirling hurricane of thoughts that don't make sense.

"I can't sit down," I whisper.

"We'll find him, honey," my mom says. "He's probably just... I bet he's getting some air. We'll find him. Sit down."

I shove her hands away and gesture at the white wedding dress I'm wearing. "I can't sit down, Mom. This dress is already about to bust at the seams if I take too big an inhale. It needs to be intact for the pictures."

The pictures that my fiancé, Dane, is over twenty minutes late for.

"Where is he?" I snap. "He was here earlier."

I turn and find myself staring at the photographer. She's looking at me with the kind of expression that people reserve for sick puppies.

"He'll be here soon," I tell her. "He's never been good with time. I'll just... I'll just go find him now."

I brush past everyone and stride out of my dressing room. My mother doesn't stop me. In fact, I can feel her relief as I walk away, even as she starts assigning various caterers and family friends to go check different corners of the venue.

But I know no one else will find Dane.

I know this because I'm going to find Dane.

And then I'm going to kill him.

My fiancé has never been the most serious man, but I always told myself that that is part of his charm. He is easygoing. He doesn't sweat the small stuff. Sometimes, he doesn't even sweat the big stuff.

But I never doubted that he would show up for me when it counted.

On our wedding day, for God's sake.

The yacht club is large enough and the dress restrictive enough that it takes me a full ten minutes to get to the second floor. From every window, the vastness of the ocean stares back at me.

Dane and I are supposed to be sailing out on that very ocean less than two hours from now, officially man and wife.

It's still going to happen, snaps a haughty voice in my head. Everything will go the way you've always dreamed it will.

Maybe it will, another, grimmer voice answers. Or maybe not.

I try door after door. Most of the rooms are empty. In one, I come across a cluster of older club members sipping whiskey and smoking cigars. They all give the panicked bride at their door a strange look.

I avoid their eyes and keep searching.

I reach the third and final floor of the pretentious club that Dane insisted we get married in. That's when I hear a laugh that makes me stop in my tracks.

Because I know that laugh.

All too well.

It's the laugh that accompanied me through college and my first job. A laugh that I have always associated with trust.

A trust that is now splintering away with each and every step I take.

I turn the corner and catch sight of the two of them through the narrow slit in the doorway. My fiancé and my maid of honor entangled together.

Dane is trying to pull his jacket back on, but she's pawing at him, pushing her breasts against his chest and pulling his attention from the open door.

"Salma, I'm late," he mutters. He sounds more amused than annoyed.

"I can't help it. You know I can't resist you in a suit," she says, her voice high-pitched and breathy. I've heard her sound like that hundreds of times before.

In bars and restaurants.

At the beginning of new relationships.

In the thick of burgeoning sexual chemistry.

I should crash through the door and break up whatever the hell is going on between them, but all I can think is, How many times has Salma seen Dane in a suit?

A dozen times? Maybe more? We've attended weddings together as a group. Salma invited us to her company's Christmas gala. My grandma's funeral.

Did they have sex each time? And if so, how the hell did I miss it?

Because standing here in my perfectly fitted white dress, I feel stupid. And I'm not a stupid person. I worked my whole life to avoid being associated with that word.

But somehow, it snuck up on me. While I was making plans for the future, picking out flowers, and choosing between the salmon or the veal.

"Kiss me again," Salma says in a loud whisper. A whisper that's begging to be heard, like she knows I'm marooned in this hallway, helpless and watching. "Better yet, fuck me again."

"I can't, Sal. She'll be waiting."

She. I flinch at the way he throws the word out, so casual and unconcerned. No regard for the woman behind the pronoun.

But I lose focus on him as I wait for Salma's response. Surely, this is all a sick joke. After all, it's Salma we're talking about, right?

The girl who held my hair back during the worst hangovers of my early twenties. The girl who encouraged me to be confident and fearless. The girl who sat up with me late at night and told me to pursue my dream of becoming a chef.

Is this that same girl? Or had I imagined her?

God, it's amazing how quickly a life can fall apart.

"Will you think of me tonight?" Salma asks, her voice going low and raspy. "When you're fucking her?"

"I always think of you."

He laughs carelessly, but then he turns towards the door. The laughter dies on his tongue when he sees me.

Salma follows his gaze. Then, in perfect unison like some silly cartoon, their jaws drop.

She's the first to speak. "Fuck," she gasps.

I stare at both of them for a few moments. No one says a thing. A million different responses whirl sharply through my head, but I choose none of them. Silence says more than I ever could.

Instead, I turn and retrace my footsteps, storming back to the first floor. I hike up my ridiculous skirts as I practically sprint across the lobby and rush right out the massive doors of this awful, pretentious, nightmarish yacht club.

My right hand keeps tingling and shaking, but I dismiss it as I abandon my heels on the boardwalk and step out onto the soft sand of the beach.

I keep running and running until my breath comes in short, painful gasps. Then I stop and flop my ass down. As soon as I do, I know that it will take a miracle to get me back on my feet again. Bury me here for all I care.

The sun is setting in the distance. In another life, I would have been on an obnoxiously large yacht, toasting to my new life with my new husband.

I finally look down at my shaking hand and realize that it's not shaking at all. I've been squeezing the bejeezus out of my phone this whole time and it's vibrating.

I turn it over. My mother's name is emblazoned on the screen for two seconds before the call cuts out. I check my notifications.

Seventeen missed calls.

Eleven from Dane. Three from my mother. One from my father.

I ignore all their names and pull up a number I haven't called in over five months. I know he knows what day it is. I also know that he'll pick up.

"Jessa."

"Chris," I whisper, hating the sob in my throat.

"Jessa," he says again. Softly. It's as though he knows exactly what's happened. But then, how could he?

"You were right about him," I admit. My voice wavers, but it doesn't crack. I won't let it.

He doesn't laud it over me. He doesn't berate me. He doesn't even seem to take pleasure in the fact that he was right. Most touching of all, he doesn't ask me any questions.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't want to be right."

"I know." And the truth is, I really do. "Come see me," he says.

"I will. I just... need some time first."

"Take all the time you need," he says, the words soaked through with sincerity. "I'll be here."

I hang up and stare at the bright orb of fire in the distance. A thin stretch of storm clouds hangs over its face like a veil.

I should probably be crying, but I can't find the energy. I don't want to waste tears on either of them, anyway. They've stolen enough of my energy for one lifetime.

I don't see the stranger until his shadow looms over me, blocking the rest of the sun. A sin I'm willing to forgive because, for one insane moment, it feels like he's replaced it altogether.

It's not just his impossibly imposing size or his square jaw. It's not even his effortlessly tousled hair or his impossibly gray eyes.

It's the way he's looking at me.

There's no sympathy or pity there. Just mild curiosity, and even that doesn't quite capture it. There's arrogance in his face, the way you'd call a prince arrogant. A kind of certainty and calm that says nothing in this life can touch him.

"Should I keep walking?" he asks. "If you'd prefer to cry in peace, that is." His voice is deep. Chocolatey, velvety, but with an unmistakable rasp at the edges.

I frown. "Probably."

He smirks and pulls out a flask from the inside of his coat. "Here," he says, offering it to me. "This should help."

I don't think twice before accepting the flask and taking a big swig. I probably should have, though. The burning bite of whiskey scorches my throat on the way down.

"Jesus Christ," I gasp.

"It goes down easier the second time."

I meet his eyes for a moment and then raise the flask to my lips again. "Hm," I say, still cringing against the burn. I take a second sip. "You're right."

I hand back the flask. He accepts it without a word.

"You're not dressed for the beach," I point out. He's wearing a crisp button-down shirt with black pants and leather dress shoes. All of it looks ridiculously expensive. But he doesn't seem to mind the fact that his feet are sinking into the sand.

He seems amused by that. "Neither are you."

I laugh. Somehow, I forgot about the wedding dress.

"It's a long story," I say. "Actually, it's not long at all. It's just sad."

"I'm the maker of sad stories."

That catches my attention, but I don't ask what he means. I just push myself clumsily to my feet. Mostly because my neck is hurting from craning to look up at him.

He's even more beautiful up close. The intense way he watches me is more than a little bit unnerving, which is probably why I start babbling.

"I've catered at least a dozen dinners at this stupid fucking club," I say. "Not sure I can stand to come back now."

"Admitting defeat is never the answer."

I raise my eyebrows. "You'd keep catering?"

"I'm the one who hires caterers, not the one who works for them."

"Are you offering me a job?" I joke bitterly.

He cocks his head to the side. "If you want it."

I frown when he blinks. He's not joking. "Excuse me?"

"You see that yacht over there by the far right dock?" he asks. I follow his pointing finger to see the biggest boat by far. It's a glistening hull of purest white, catching the setting sun and the faceted sapphire reflection of the water below.

"The Medusa?"

He nods. "She's mine. And I'm in need of a caterer."

I stare at him in shock. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

His gray eyes are hypnotic. A shiver passes through me, but I'm not sure if I'm hot or cold.

"When?" I manage to croak out. "When are you leaving?"

He smirks. "Right now."

2

ANTON

"I don't even know your name," she says, looking at me sideways.

Her eyes are an unusual hazel, the light green and caramel brown mixing into a kind of beautiful golden honey.

Sobbing in the sand in a wedding dress is what caught my attention. But her eyes are what held it.

"Tell me yours and I might return the favor."

"Jessa," she tells me. "Jessa Gilmore."

"Jessa," I murmur. She tastes good on my lips. "I am Anton."

If she notices that I've left out my last name, she ignores it and looks out toward The Medusa. My yacht is sitting pretty at the edge of the dock, ready to set sail.

"That's a nice boat," she remarks.

"Some men would take umbrage at that word."

"Boat?" she asks.

I shake my head. "'Nice.'"

She smiles. Her eyes flash golden, the same shade as her hair.

"Not that you asked," I continue, "but I pay my head chefs seven thousand dollars a night."

Her jaw drops. "I must've misheard you."

"Depends on what you heard."

"Seven thousand dollars for one night?" she bleats. "Is that true or is this just pity?"

"I'm not the pitying kind, Jessa. I pay well, but I expect you to earn it."

"I can cook," she says, her tone growing proud and defensive.

"Excellent. The staff will already be on board," I tell her. "The menu is more or less complete, but according to the ingredients at your disposal, you could change what you like."

She takes that in. "If you have all of that ready, why don't you already have a chef?"

"He canceled at the last moment," I lie seamlessly. "Family emergency, apparently. The sous chef was going to take over, but the girl is not as experienced as I prefer."

"You don't know what kind of experience I have," she points out.

"I have an instinct about these things."

I can tell she wants to question my logic, or lack thereof. But she also doesn't want to talk herself out of the possibility of escape.

She keeps looking back over her shoulder every few minutes like she's expecting to see someone running after her.

"Clock's ticking, Jessa," I say softly. "You need to make up your mind. Coming or going?"

She chews at her bottom lip as she thinks. I take the opportunity to survey her without shame.

The neckline of her gown scoops down, revealing the tops of her generous breasts. The tight bodice tapers at her waist before flaring over her hips. She's sin in white, with ocean foam and soft pearls of sand clinging to the hem. A fucking vision.

Over her shoulder, I notice my brother, Yulian, striding down the dock toward where we're standing on the shore. He raises his eyebrows the moment he sees the woman at my side.

"You're not going to ask me?" Jessa says abruptly.

"Ask you what?"

"About what happened," she says, gesturing to her dress as though she's asking for my opinion.

"Do you want me to?"

"I... I don't know yet."

"Then no, I'm not." I start walking to the boat. After a moment, she follows. Yulian meets us halfway.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he asks in a cheesy cartoon villain voice.

Jessa looks between us in confusion before it clicks. We look too much alike to escape the obvious conclusion that we are, in fact, brothers.

"This is Yulian," I tell her. "My right-hand man."

"And brother," Yulian adds.

"The only job he can't be fired from."

Yulian smirks but keeps his eyes on Jessa. "Don't let the grumpy bastard fool you. He loves me."

She smiles nervously, still glancing back and forth between the two of us. I understand her hesitancy -we're not the most approachable duo.

I'm six-four and lean with muscle earned the hard way. Yulian is only two inches shorter, but he still spends hours in the gym to make up for the difference.

"Jessa is the new head chef for tonight," I explain to him.

Yulian gives me an intrigued smile. "New head chef? Well, that's something."

"Is it a problem?" Jessa asks immediately. "Because if it is, I don't need to be here."

"No, no," Yulian says in a hurry. "It's not a problem at all. I'll go and inform the staff now."

Yulian retreats back up the dock and disappears into the yacht. I turn to Jessa and offer her a hand to help her transition from boardwalk to boat. Her fingers tremble when they make contact with mine.

The moment we're onboard, she wrenches her hand back like I've burned her. I ignore it-for now.

"Come with me," I say, taking her below deck. "I'll find you something comfortable to wear for the night."

Her golden eyes scan the yacht, taking stock of everything as we walk. She looks impressed, but there's an air of caution about her, too. She's clearly never accepted an offer like this before.

Hell, I've never made an offer like this before.

I walk her to one of the bedrooms. Inside is a wardrobe filled with spare clothes.

"Jesus, it's even bigger than I thought," she mumbles.

"Even the smallest spaces can be manipulated to look big," I say.

"I'm a little sick of being manipulated today, actually," she replies bitterly.

I let her words hang in the air for a moment as I peruse the options hanging in the wardrobe. "I'm assuming you're talking about the man you were supposed to marry," I say casually, pulling out a simple white dress.

It activates a sense memory the moment I touch it. The cotton between my fingers as I shove her away from me. The feeling of her pulse, warm and frantic, underneath my-

No. I ruthlessly yank myself back to the present.

"Dane," Jessa fills in, distracting me. "That's my fiancé's name. Ex-fiancé, rather."

I push the white dress aside and opt for another, less practical option. One that doesn't trigger an unwanted rush of things I've spent a long time suppressing.

The blue slip dress in my hand will do just fine for this little kotyonok.

"I walked in on him with my maid of honor."

I shake my head in disgust. "Could he get any more cliché?"

"Right? It would be laughable if it wasn't so devastating."

"Is it devastating, though?"

She seems confused by the question. "What do you mean? Of course it is. I was supposed to marry the man."

"And now, you don't have to spend the rest of your life tied to a cheater," I point out. "Or with a shitty friend."

"Yeah, but there's an alternative scenario I thought I had locked up," she says, her piercing eyes fixed on me now. "One where my fiancé isn't a cheating bastard and my best friend isn't a backstabbing bitch."

"That's not the reality you're living, though. No matter how much you try to fight it."

She sighs. "No, I suppose not."

I hand her the blue dress. She accepts it mutely, but the moment she actually studies it, her eyebrows knit together.

"This is beautiful."

Yeah. That was probably her one redeeming quality. The woman who bought this had good taste.

"It should fit. It's just something to wear underneath your chef's whites," I tell her.

She eyes the dress skeptically. "Is it really okay if I wear this?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Doesn't it belong to someone?"

I turn towards the door so that she won't see the black expression that flickers across my face. "Not anymore."

Then, without bothering to wait for an answer, I stride out of the room, leaving Jessa stranded behind me.

* * *

The moment I get above deck, Yulian is in my face, a shit-eating grin on his face. "She's pretty."

"Did you take care of Anatoly?" I ask.

Yulian smiles. "He just disembarked. He wasn't too thrilled, but when I handed him the paycheck he didn't earn, he got over it."

"Money usually has that effect."

"I've informed the kitchen staff of the change in command, too," Yulian adds.

"Good."

I walk towards the cockpit. Yulian trails behind me. "Can she even cook?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Jesus, bro," he says with a laugh. "This is a lot of effort to go to for a quick lay."

"Who said anything about sex?" I ask.

He arches an eyebrow. "Why else would you offer that hot mess a job? Especially tonight when there's business to be conducted. Anatoly may not be the prettiest to look at, but the man knows how to be discreet."

"She's here to cook," I point out. "She doesn't need to know anything more about what happens onboard."

"She doesn't look stupid, sobrat."

No, she does not. I've noticed that, too.

"She'll be below deck the whole time," I say dismissively. "And at the end of the night-"

"Oh, you don't need to tell me what's going to happen at the end of the night." Yulian interrupts me with a suggestive smile. "Just for the record, I don't disapprove. It's about time you quit moping around like a kicked dog and did something for yourself."

I roll my eyes and push him aside. Laughing, he heads below deck to take care of the last minute chores before we push off. When the captain comes down to ask me if we're ready, I give him the goahead.

The engines fire up. Water churns, white and relentless at the tail of the boat. I take a seat on the bow and gaze out at the horizon.

Darkness paints the sky as the sun disappears. In a little while, a smaller vessel will bring the Meninsky clan out to meet The Medusa in international waters. But until then, I've got two hours of sky and sea.

And an erection that I can't seem to get rid of.

3

JESSA

"He's a looker, ain't he?"

I give a start of surprise and turn to the petite brunette in the kitchen with me. I've already forgotten her name, but she's looking at me with a little bit of amusement and a lot of understanding.

"I don't know what you mean," I answer lamely. It takes more willpower than I'd like to admit to keep from looking back towards the kitchen's long rectangular windows. We're below deck, but the windows open out across the floor of the yacht's upper deck, enough for me to see glimpses of what -or rather, who-I'm trying not to gawk at.

"It's okay," she laughs, not buying my lies for a second. "I've been there myself. I don't blame you for looking."

"I'm just intrigued, is all," I say as I blush hot. "He's... strange."

"That's not the word I would use to describe him," she says. She picks up a knife and starts dicing onions for the soup I'm preparing.

"What word would you use?"

"Dreamy," she says with a giggle that betrays her age.

She can't be more than twenty or twenty-one. Young enough that she can lust after Anton without stopping to consider whether that kind of thing is a good idea.

I smile. "I'm just here to cook."

"And I'm here to chop vegetables and carry dishes," she retorts. "But a little eye candy never hurt anyone."

"Which one are you talking about?" another girl chimes in. "The hot younger brother or the even hotter older brother?"

She's maybe a decade my senior. A chatty blonde with a mischievous smile and sharp eyes. I've forgotten her name, too. My brain is a little flustered right now, for more than one reason.

"You know Anton is more my type," the brunette says. "He's taller and he's lean but still muscly, you know? Also, he's got those gray eyes. To die for."

The blonde snorts. "You're a sucker for the whole 'dark and broody' thing."

"And? What's wrong with that?"

"It's the quiet ones you've got to watch out for."

I should probably remove myself from the chatter. Just find a quiet corner to put my head down and work. But the truth is that, deep down, another part of me wants to be here, soaking up every little tidbit I can about the broody older brother who seems to have every woman on land and sea alike eating out of the palm of his hand.

"Not necessarily," I hear myself saying. "My fiancé wasn't quiet at all. In fact, he was the life of the party. And he turned out to be a complete dirtbag."

Their eyes fall on me and I wonder why I spoke at all.

"Well, it's not, like, an absolute rule," the blonde mumbles awkwardly.

The brunette is more direct. "What did he do?"

"He cheated," I answer, mostly because I feel the need to say it out loud. "With my best friend. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's been cheating consistently for as long as we've been together."

"Jesus... when did you find out?"