Gambled To The Mafia Bosses

By Julie Piper

My father gambled me away to the mafia. Now I'm forced to work as a maid for them. How did this become my life?

 

I'm confined to a mansion, serving drinks and cleaning house for the notorious Morozov brothers. It's an upgrade from the projects of Chicago where I grew up, but it's still a cage. I despise the thought of working for two men with so much blood on their hands.

 

My wishes don't matter though. Escape is impossible and I have no choice but to accept my new life and the men who now control it.

 

Boris, ruthless, but devilishly charming. Lucas, dark and dangerous, with layers of armor that, despite my fear of him, I ache to peel back.

 

I know that I should want to run and part of me does, but the longer I remain in their company, the more I become enmeshed in their dark world, the more I want them to devour me whole. Both of them.

 

But who knows if they see me in the same way? I am, after all, just a maid.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Piper
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215081068

Book preview

CHAPTER 2:

Valerie

As far as first jobs go, I could do a lot worse than the local movie theater. The pay is pretty low, but I have enough time to take classes in the mornings and get plenty of homework done during the lull between movie showings, while most of the customers are hunkered down in their seats and munching on snacks.

There are downsides, of course, like the insane amount of time I spend scrubbing soda off sticky floors, and the number of high school kids who try to sneak in through the fire exits. But there are also several bonuses, namely, all the popcorn I can eat and free movies.

It’s nearly two in the morning. Most nights, I’d be home by now, but half the screens in the building have been dedicated to a midnight showing of the newest superhero flick. It won’t end for another half an hour and given the size of the crowd, I’ll be cleaning up for ages.

The only thing making the night more tolerable is the presence of Gabriel Guzman, my co-worker and long-time friend. He’d helped me score this job, and even though I complain about the workload, I’m impossibly grateful to have the position at all. Given how complicated my father makes my life, it’s been difficult for me to hold a job down in the past.

Please help me eat this, Gabe says, staring down at the mountain of nachos he’s made himself for dinner.

You made your bed, I say, shrugging carelessly. Now you have to lie in it.

Since when are you so heartless? he asks. Gabe doesn’t glance my way; he’s too busy staring sadly, looking a bit green around the edges, at the food that remains on his paper plate.

Since I’ve gained five pounds since I got this job, I explain. When you begged me to apply so that we could be coworkers, you never told me about the junk food-related occupational hazards.

Gabriel miserably crunches another tortilla chip. I may have withheld some information on purpose, he says. "Also, you look good no matter how many pounds you gain, so have at it. Please, have at it."

As he speaks, he pushes the overflowing plate across the counter toward me. I studiously ignore him and continue tallying up the day’s profits.

It’s been such a long night that I’m having trouble keeping them straight; with a sigh, I start over for the second time, trying to keep my focus from wavering. I’m down to just the pile of coins when a throat clears, breaking my concentration.

Can we help you? Gabriel asks.

I look up to find a teenager glaring at us with his arms crossed.

Yeah, he says. The movie stopped in the middle of the final battle!

He’s still speaking when I see the door to theater six open, as a woman sticks her head out, frantically trying to wave me over while wrangling her two children, who look entirely too young to be seeing an R-rated film. Through the open door, I can hear the audience growing restless.

Gabriel sighs. These kids take their superheroes seriously, huh?

We hurry to the theater to do damage control. I’ve never been good at being assertive and I’m happy to let Gabriel take the lead when it comes to crowd control.

Calm down, folks! We’ll have it fixed in ten, he says. If not, you can leave all the bad reviews you want.

A few people snicker at the explanation, but there’s more grumbling than amusement.

If we worked for a well-known, well-funded theater chain, such a speech wouldn’t fly. As it is, this place is owned by an old man, who doesn’t care too much about public perception. Lonnie is somewhere between 70 and 80 years old, though no one knows for sure. He owns several businesses in our neighborhood in Chicago’s south side, namely a convenience store and a car wash, both within a few blocks of the theater.

Gonna have to check upstairs, Gabriel says.

I stifle a groan. Come with me? I ask.

The projectors, which are certainly the source of the problem, are housed in a tiny hallway that I’m sure is haunted. Each time I venture up alone, I come back with a ghost story of some sort. Last time, I’d sworn on my mother’s grave I heard footsteps.

"It’s your turn. Unless you’d rather stay here and entertain the masses…" Gabriel adds, giving the crowd a nod.

Fine, I sigh. But if I get attacked by vengeful spirits, I’m calling in sick tomorrow.

Deal, Gabe says.

We shake on it for good measure before I leave the theater and head to the end of the hallway, bypassing the soft glow of the outdated, backlit movie posters along the way. They cast a silvery light on the blue carpet and the water-stained grey walls. I take a deep breath before I pull open the door and start up the stairwell, trying to settle my nerves. The old steps creak louder with each step that I take.

A light at the top lets me know that Lonnie is still around, likely pretending to work on the books to avoid heading home to his empty house. I feel a bit less creeped out as I walk toward the projector room just knowing that he’s nearby.

The room is cramped and narrow, with a line of projectors that span the building’s length. The problem with theater six is a quick fix, just a bulb that needs replacing. It’s a cinch to replace the old one and restart the film from what I estimate to be the correct scene. When it starts up again, I can hear clapping from the theater below. With a satisfied smile, I head back into the hallway.

Feeling silly for being creeped out earlier, I swing by Lonnie’s office before I go downstairs. I peek through the small window built into the door and immediately realize that he’s fast asleep at his desk, his forehead on the keyboard of his desktop computer, typing an endless stream of gibberish. With a fond sigh, I open the door and tiptoe inside. Frowning in focus, I try to brainstorm the best way to reposition his head without waking him. Before I can decide, he wakes on his own, blinking up at me with a faintly embarrassed expression.

Did I sleep all night again? he asks.

Not quite, I say. But you’re getting there. I give his shoulder a small squeeze. Are you gonna head home?

Soon, he says, which I know by now means no.

Alright, I say, instead of arguing the point. I’ll bring you some nachos before my shift ends.

The second I back out of his office, I hear a creak on the staircase and stop in my tracks. It’s followed by another, heavier creak. My lip finds its way between my teeth and I glance fearfully back at Lonnie’s office door.

Pull it together, Val. You don’t need an old man to protect you from your imagination.

Telling myself that I can take the ghost in a fight if need be, I walk toward the stairs with as much courage as I can scrounge up. By the time I reach the bottom, the noises have stopped and I’ve begun to relax. I push open the door and walk into the hallway, surprised that Gabriel isn’t leaning against the wall, waiting for me. I move forward, letting the door close behind me. I’ve barely taken two steps when I hear the sound of my name.

Valerie!

I whirl around, a scream already rising in my throat at the sudden growl of my name. I find myself face to face with what, in the darkened hallway, appears to be a monster, and my startled yelp turns into a full-fledged yell. I flail wildly with both hands, smacking first the cardboard cut-out that Gabriel holds and then, once I’ve recovered slightly, Gabriel himself.

He just laughs harder, using the life-sized cut out of an alien as a shield. You should have seen the look on your face, he wheezes. It was fucking priceless!

You’re a sociopath! I counter. "You need professional help."

Well, Gabe laughs. I can’t afford it on this salary.

I don’t want to laugh, but I’ve known Gabe for long enough to understand that teasing is his love language. Aside from that, the sound of his unrestrained laughter is uniquely contagious. An undignified snort escapes first, and then, the floodgates are open and I can’t stop myself from joining in.

***

The rest of the night is tame. I make Lonnie his nachos, hoping that the extra jalapenos will liven up his night. The first two theaters finish up their midnight premiere on schedule, but due to the projector malfunction, theater six is lagging behind. While Gabe takes care of locking up the register and doing the final count, I start cleaning. The theater seats are so old that most of them lack cupholders and have stuffing spilling out through holes in the fabric. I push a trash can down the center, plucking up popcorn containers and half-finished sodas that have been left behind, carelessly tossed onto the perpetually sticky floor.

I manage to seize a bit of revenge on Gabriel when I hear him coming, crouching down behind the closest row of seats, ignoring him when he calls my name, and grasping his ankle with one hand as he walks by. The sound he makes would best be described as a squeal.

But the second he looks down and sees me, the sound cuts off sharply, turning into peals of laughter and swearing.

I fucking hate you, he says, even as he extends a hand to help me up. You’re lucky I didn’t kick you in the face.

It would’ve been worth it, I say.

Really? Gabe counters. Ambulances aren’t cheap.

I settle for rolling my eyes as I push a broom into his waiting hands.

Most of the cleaning is uneventful, but in the back corner of theater five, we discover a couple of high schoolers going way past any of the bases I’d made it to at their age. Gabriel chases them off with an amused reprimand, telling them to finish it up in the parking lot.

Lonnie doesn’t pay us enough for this shit, he says, but I know that it’s more of a dig at minimum wage work in general than the old man himself.

By the time we clean up the insane amount of popcorn from the floor, the crowd has begun to trickle out of theater six and it’s past time for Gabriel to catch his train.

The last one’s in fifteen, I remind him, giving his shoulder an insistent nudge. Get out of here.

He bites his lip. I hate to leave you to fend for yourself at this dump.

I’m not by myself, I remind him, pointing at the ceiling. The old man’s here to defend my honor.

I could take the bus, Gabriel tries, but I can tell that he’s starting to give up.

You have soccer at nine. It’ll take you another hour to make it home on the bus, and that’s if it shows up on time.

Fine, he says, giving me a quick hug from the side. Don’t get murdered and remember to lock the door.

With that, he’s gone, and I’m left fondly mulling over how much of a protective older brother he is, although we don’t share a single drop of blood.

I start cleaning before the last customers have left the theater, waiting on pins and needles for the opportunity to view the fifteen-second after-credits scene. A few of them roll their eyes my way as I try my best to clean around them, but I couldn’t care less. The faster I get this done, the faster I can head home myself. The customers have finally disappeared when I flip the open sign to closed and begin cleaning in earnest. I’ve just started in the women’s bathroom when my phone rings. I frown deeply when I see ‘Dad’ on the screen.

Normally, when my father calls me this late at night, it’s to ramble drunkenly about something, usually a bar tab that he wants me to pay off. Even so, I answer it with a sigh, knowing that he’ll be blowing my phone up all night if I try to ignore him.

Hey Dad, I say, trying to keep the biting sarcasm from creeping into my tone. Everything okay?

When he doesn’t answer immediately, I feel a thread of unease working its way through me. My father, under almost any circumstances, is the talkative type.

Dad, I press. Are you okay?

The sound he makes is almost a laugh, but there’s something disturbing about it, something broken.

Fine, he says. But I…I did something. I know we’re not exactly peas n’ a pod, but you should know that you’re in trouble. They’re gonna be coming for you—the Russians—and if you’re smart, you won’t be there when they arrive.

He’s drunk. I can tell from the loose way he speaks and the slur to his words, blurring all the syllables into a mess that’s difficult to