Page 2 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

Mary told me that a lot of prostitutes take designer pharma to stay relaxed and mildly floaty. Maybe it would’ve been smart, but I’m not used to drugs, and I need to stay sharp to hold up my end of the deal for Bender. I’ll over-deliver, and he’ll have to come through.

Mary and I were just kids when Dad took off for parts unknown; she was twelve, and I was nine.

Our little family was already struggling, but Mom went off the deep end, swinging wildly back and forth between being deep in drink and being deep in prayer, a grim cycle that involved lots of tears and unpredictable punishments.

We quickly learned it was best to stay small and out of sight.

Mary tried to keep my spirits up. We’d do dance moves in the scrubby field out back or try things on at the H a crisp white triangle peeks elegantly from the breast pocket. His dress shirt is classic white; his tie is black, broken only by a strange gothic tie clip inset with a gleaming red stone.

Everybody’s standing now. Those trapped behind the booth are doing their best to stand or to at least straighten to give the appearance of standing, as if this Luka might smite them down if they don’t show the proper deference.

They’re also falling all over themselves to greet him.

“Didn’t expect you!” “So nice to see you!” “To what do we owe this honor?”

Luka rumbles his acknowledgment with a severe gaze that seems to assess the past, present, and future of each speaker.

His presence is intense, like weather or electricity. He changes the atmosphere in a new and dangerous way.

I stiffen, telling myself I’m not impressed.

This guy is just a criminal, no different from the criminals who preyed on my mom during her long stretches of drunken gullibility and no different from the criminals who lured my sister away from me, away from the dreams we had.

Loser, loser, loser.

Right then, Luka’s brown eyes snap to mine .

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

His gaze pins me where I stand, mesmerizing. Merciless.

A shiver licks up my spine.

His masculine beauty cuts hard as diamonds. His lips are cruel. But his deep brown eyes... are the eyes of an angel. And I have this strange sense that he can read me with those eyes, even my inner thoughts.

But then I pull my mind back together and straighten.

He can’t read thoughts, and he’s not special. And if he thinks I’m impressed now that his gaze is on me, he’s wrong. If anything, I hate him even more, though I keep my expression perfectly pleasant because I’m here for my sister. And also? Not an idiot.

As if in a dream, he comes closer. Now he’s close enough that I could slap his face. Not that I would. Or even could. The nearer he gets, the more immobilized I feel.

And those eyes.

The way he’s looking at me, I feel translucent, like one of those tiny, see-through fish where you can see its big heart pounding inside its skin.

Even Dardan’s arm on me seems less corporeal—more fog than flesh—like Luka is the only solid thing in the room, and if he wanted Dardan’s arm off, he could make it vanish with one harsh thought.

I swallow, knowing I should say something. It’s nice to see you seems odd when we don’t know each other.

“Greetings.” I force a smile.

Did that sound weird? Sarcastic? Something you’d say to an alien?

Thoughts seem to flit behind his dark, angelic eyes.

Somebody says something about a plan, and he finally turns away from me, leaving me almost gasping for breath, a fish out of water.

I fight to get my fear under control, or maybe it’s awe. Because really? Who is he to assess me and silently mesmerize me or whatever the hell he did?

I remind myself I’m helping to take him and his crew down, so that’s a plus. Not enthusiastically helping but helping.

Luka takes one of the chairs like it’s his throne, and his bald-headed right-hand man takes the one next to him, which forces everybody to squish into the booth. I end up sandwiched between Dardan and another guy.

The other man who had flanked Luka coming in, a big scary blond who looks like a villain from a military thriller set in the Arctic Circle, stands next to Luka’s chair because, apparently, Luka is the king, and he is the king’s soldier.

A waiter swoops in and sets a drink in front of Luka.

Another waiter sets down plates of food, narrating all the while.

“Fried cheese with honey and walnuts, Albanian American bruschetta topped with a spread made from roasted red peppers, feta, and olive oil, finished with a slice of prosciutto and a balsamic glaze. Crispy eggplant stuffed with gee-zuh and Italian mascarpone. Fergese stuffed mushrooms. Warm rosemary bread. Can we bring anything else, Mr. Zogaj?”

Mr. Luka Zogaj lifts a hand in a kingly wave. “That’ll be all.”

My mouth waters. It all just looks so delicious. I focus on stirring my drink with the little red straw while Dardan settles a possessive hand on my thigh.

Luka instructs people to eat, but they remain frozen until he samples an olive with imperial indifference; only then do they cautiously reach for the food. The men, anyway. The women abstain, so I follow their cue, even though I could inhale the entire basket of rosemary bread if they let me.

I manage to create mnemonic devices for each man I get a name for.

Ghost with his pale skin, Cyrus like a cyclops, Rick with slick-Rick hair who worked with Gianni.

I don’t need a memory device for the grand poo-bah, Luka Zogaj, the center of the universe, smooth as polished stone with his sooty lashes and his perfectly disheveled battlefield hair.

I grab my napkin and fold it into a tiny square, and then a triangle, and then a smaller triangle, and then I sneak another glance at him.

He swishes his drink as he talks. When he catches me looking, I quickly look away because criminals like him don’t deserve attention.

If karma were real, he’d be burning in utter agony. That is what I wish for him—to suffer tenfold for every bad thing he’s done.

My hatred for him feels like heat under my skin.

I fold my napkin into increasingly tiny shapes.