His mafia desire

Chapter four:the assignment

The envelope in Elena’s bag felt like a brick.

135,000 naira. Three months rent.

It was also the price of her freedom.

Damon didn’t speak as they walked out of Old Miller Street Cafe

Marcos was already by the curb with the navy sedan from yesterday. Door open. Waiting.

Mrs. Bonnie didn’t say anything. She just watched them with narrowed eyes like she could smell trouble and didn’t want it near her at all.

“Get in,” Damon said. Not a request.

Elena slid into the backseat. The leather was cold through her jeans. Damon got in beside her. Close enough that she could smell his cologne. Expensive. Clean. Nothing like the coffee and sweat she was used to normally.

Marcos pulled away from the curb without a word.

For five minutes, no one spoke.

Elena stared out the window. New Orleans blurred past. Shop. Stalls. Traffic. Her city.

But sitting next to Damon Cross, it felt like a whole different country.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“What kind of work?” she asked. Voice steady.

Damon didn’t look at her. “Tonight.”

“Whats happening tonight?”

“Dinner. 8pm. You’ll be my date.”

Elena turned to him. “Excuse me?”

Now he looked at her. Cold eyes. That same certain mouth.

“I said you’d answer my calls. Be where I need you. This is where I need you.”

He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small black card. Slid it across the seat to her.

THE VISTA. PRIVATE ROOM 7. 8PM.

“The Moretti family,” Damon said. “They’re moving product through my city. I need to remind them who owns the docks.”

Elena’s stomach twisted. “And I’m supposed to... what? Smile and hold your arm?”

“Exactly.” Damon leaned back. “You don’t talk unless spoken to. You don’t drink. You don’t ask questions. You just sit there and look like you belong to me.”

The word hit her like a slap. Belong to him.

“I’m not your property ” Elena said.

“No,” Damon agreed. “You’re insurance. Men like Moretti don’t shoot in front of women. Especially women they think I care about.”

Elena’s hands went cold. “You’re using me as a life shield.”

“I’m protecting my investment,” he corrected. “It’s the Same thing.”

The car stopped in front of her apartment gate.

“Be ready at 7:30,” Damon said. “Marcos will pick you up. Wear something decent. Black.”

Elena opened the door before she could change her mind. “And if I don’t show?”

Damon’s expression didn’t change. “Then I assume you want Marcos to stop watching you. And I stop paying your rent.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten.

He just stated the facts.

Elena got out and slammed the door hard.

*****************

7:25pm. Her apartment.

Elena stared at herself in the cracked mirror.

Black dress. Borrowed from her neighbor. Too tight. Too short. The straps kept slipping.

Her braids were pulled back. No makeup except lip gloss. She looked wrong. She looked like she was pretending to be someone else.

Because she was.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Downstairs. 2 minutes.

Marcos.

She grabbed her bag. Inside: the rent envelope, her phone, and the black card.

She left the apartment and locked it twice.

The sedan was waiting. No Damon. Just Marcos.

“Where is he?” Elena asked, sliding in.

“Already at The Vista,” Luca said. “You’ll meet him inside.”

The drive was silent. Elena counted her breaths. 1... 2... 3...

She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t.

Liar.

*********

8:03pm. The Vista.

The restaurant was on the top floor. Glass walls. City lights. Men in suits that cost more than Elena’s yearly salary.

And Damon.

He was standing by the entrance to Private Room 7. Navy suit again. Hands in his pockets. Talking to two men she didn’t know.

When he saw her, he stopped talking.

His eyes did a slow sweep. Top to bottom. Back up.

No smile. No compliment. Just assessment.

“Elena,” he said. He stepped forward and took her hand. His fingers were warm. His grip was firm. “You’re late.”

“I’m 3 minutes late,” she whispered.

“3 minutes is late.”

He led her into the room.

Three men sat at the table. Older. Heavier. Gold rings. Cigar smoke in the air even though there was a no-smoking sign.

This was the Moretti family.

“Gentlemen,” Damon said. Voice smooth, dangerous. “This is Elena. She’ll be joining us.”

Every eye turned to her.

Elena forced herself to smile. The usual customer-service smile. The one she used when customers yelled about cold coffee.

She sat in the chair Damon pulled out for her. Right next to him. His thigh brushed hers under the table.

She didn’t move away.

Dinner started.

Wine was poured. She didn’t touch hers.

Food was served. She pushed it around her plate.

The men talked business. Ships. Containers. Percentages.

Damon answered in short sentences. He didn’t look at Elena. But his hand rested on the back of her chair. Like he was claiming her.

Halfway through, one of the Morettis he was fat, with a mustache turned to her.

“So, Damon. Where’d you find this one?”

Elena froze.

Damon’s hand dropped to her shoulder. Squeezed once.

“She found me,” he said. “Walked in front of my car.”

The men laughed.

“Careful, Damon,” Mustache said. “Girls like that are usually trouble.”

Damon’s eyes flicked to Elena. Then back to him.

“Trouble is my business actually .”

The temperature in the room dropped 20 degrees.

Elena kept smiling. Kept her hands in her lap. Kept breathing.

By dessert, her head was pounding.

Then Damon’s phone buzzed. He looked at it. Frowned.

“Excuse me,” he said. Stood. “Elena. Come with me.”

She followed him out into the hallway. The moment the door closed, his mask dropped.

“We have a problem,” he said low. “The shipment. It’s been intercepted at the port.”

Elena blinked. “What does that have to do with me?”

Damon looked at her. Really looked at her. Like he was seeing her for the first time tonight.

“Because the only reason I brought you here was so they wouldn’t start a war in front of you. And now I need to go deal with it.”

He pulled out his wallet. Took out cash. Slid it into her bag.

“Taxi home. Don’t talk to anyone. Marcos will follow you.”

And then he was gone. Walking fast down the hall, phone to his ear, suit jacket flaring behind him.

Elena stood there alone in a black dress that wasn’t hers, in a restaurant she couldn’t afford on a normal day, with money in her bag that she didn’t earn.

The bathroom was down the hall. She went in and locked the door.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked like a girl playing dress-up in a man’s war.

She washed her face. The lip gloss came off. The borrowed dress suddenly felt like a costume.

When she came out, Marcos was waiting.

“Car’s outside,” he said.

The ride home was quiet.

At her gate, Elena got out.

“Thank you,” she said. For the ride. For nothing. For everything.

Marcos nodded once.

She went inside. Locked the door. Twice.

The envelope with the rent money was still on her chair.

The cash Damon gave her was in her bag.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

You did well tonight.

Elena didn’t reply.

She sat on the floor, back against the wall, and pulled her knees to her chest.

Business.

That’s what she’d called it.

But the way Damon’s hand felt on her shoulder.

The way he looked at her when he said “Trouble is my business”.

The way he left her money like she was already his...

This didn’t feel like business anymore.

This felt like the beginning of something she couldn’t control.

And the worst part?

Somewhere under the fear,mystery,under the anger...

a small part of her didn’t want him to let go.