The Carrero Contract 1: Selling Your Soul
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L. T. Marshall
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38
Chapter 1
I turn in the uncomfortable, hard bed, pull the sheets over the itchy hospital gown, and try not to wince with every pain that runs through my body. Even with the number of drugs they have pumped into me, it’s no picnic having broken ribs and a body that looks like it lost a fight with a train. I’m in agony and can barely breathe without the aching, burning, shuddering waves of a good old-fashioned beating.
Tyler and his men are animals, and I hate to think where I would be if Sophie had left me to them; what was inevitably my last night on Earth if they had their way. The girl didn’t owe me a damn thing, but she saved my bacon, and now I will be eternally grateful to her even if we never see one another again.
I’m woozy, waking with the throbbing of pain after a fitful few hours of dozing in and out of sleep. I feel like I have been here days already, even though I know the reality is it’s only been half a day.
Sophie is probably long gone with her boyfriend, and my name is banished for all eternity for getting her caught up in my mess. Owing to drug dealers, a lot of money and not having the means to pay for it is not something girls want to deal with every day. Getting kidnapped off the street by thugs and threatened with imminent death will be a second to that.
I am lucky she had a rich boyfriend related to New York’s biggest gangster, Alexi Carrero, and now, I guess I owe him my debt.
A shadow in the corner of my room startles me out of the last
ounces of sleep as I jump in fright, my heart racing and plummeting into instant trembles to see what looks like a man standing by my window near the door. It’s hard to make out properly, with one eye swollen shut and the other barely able to focus in the darkness. The moonlit sky outside is illuminating him from behind so that, to me, I only get a sinister silhouette of a huge male who is more than a little intimidating.
Standing tall and broad, taking up the small space with an aura of authority, he is so eerily still staring at me silently; it’s almost like a statue.
‘‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Walters.’’ The smooth tone of a man in complete control, husky with a hint of an accent that isn’t quite New York. Foreign maybe, and so slight it’s only there in the odd little word, almost smothered out by a more upper-class City dialect. It’s as though he’s spent years here but maybe wasn’t born here.
Accents are kind of my thing, seeing as my upper-crust London one stands out a mile when surrounded by tough New Yorkers. I ensured that it never faded over the years, and I avoided using American slang to prevent it.
My heart immediately shudders at where I’ve heard that specific accent before, at who this must be, and I blink as I try to make out his form a little more. I clear my throat nervously, heart hammering away in my chest, and struggle to try and sit, making a complete mess of doing so while wriggling about most excruciatingly. It’s painful, and my poor bones feel like I am putting them through a rigorous ordeal. Reaching for the lamp beside my bed and struggling to find where the nurse pushed the damn button control when she settled me for the night.
‘‘Please … don’t move on my account. I only came to see that you were being cared for. We can talk another time when you are recovered.’’ He moves away from the window, and I catch more of him in the light, confirming precisely who this is. I would recognize that physique and profile anywhere after seeing him out there walking through his minions and Tyler’s men like the Kingpin of New York.
He isn’t someone you would ever forget in a hurry.
Alexi Carrero towers by the end of my bed and turns to me for a moment, stealth-like a panther, so fluid and graceful in his movements. My breath halts in my lungs as my body shivers apprehensively; he oozes danger and command so effortlessly that I can almost feel it in the room around me. This is a man I know I should be terrified of, and I am.
Physically recoiling back into my sheets involuntarily as he moves a tad closer, my heart elevates, and my breath hitches in nervousness. My whole body turns clammy.
‘‘I … I … Wasn’t expecting anyone in here so late.’’ I struggle to get the words out, sounding raspy and hoarse, my throat burning with the effort after spending my first hour here throwing up blood and phlegm while they tried to assess the damage to my body. It’s not exactly my crowning moment, and you do not want to be in this sort of state while meeting an Adonis who saved your life.
‘‘I was passing by, checking in to see that all is being taken care of. Your bills will be coming to me, and upon your release, we shall talk. We have some arrangements to discuss concerning our new relationship.’’ He is smooth and calm, almost like he’s amused, but not being able to see his face is making this whole thing utterly terrifying. He has the air of sinister alright, that vibe of someone who will put a bullet in your head as fast as look at you, and I am not sure I want to be left alone with him. He’s unnerving in a very intense way for someone not doing anything.
Not much makes me this nervous in life; I came from the streets, lived through hell, and met my fair share of cruel and evil men, but this one is like meeting the devil himself. He is doing nothing purposely or outwardly to make me afraid of him, but the atmosphere is sizzling with something that tells me this Carrero has a darkness inside of him that could block out the sun.
Men of real power never need to state it or make it clear in any obvious way; it’s there, like an aura, and anyone who meets them does not have to question its legitimacy.
Alexi is one of those men—who wear command like a shroud about their person.
‘’My debt … came to you, I presume? ’’ The words cut like glass in my aching throat, even though I should be grateful I am not at the bottom of the river right now and for having him swoop in and save me from certain death at Tyler’s hands. I owe him fifty grand because of that stupid whore taking off with everything I had, trusting the wrong mousy little bitch, and letting myself get distracted. Still, Alexi Carrero has a reputation that precedes him in the underworld.
He’s the stuff nightmares are made of, and I just became something he owns. It’s a hard pill to swallow. He is head of his mafia family, operating under the guise of a businessman, but anyone worth their weight in cocaine in this world knows that he’s the New York go-to man if you want to conduct any business in this city at all. Without his blessing and greasing of palms, you may as well get out of Dodge.
He swooped in and saved my bacon from mere street runners, and now I owe the leading man himself my life on a fucking platter. He is not someone who needs to beat women half to death to chase up a drug debt; he will drop you in the ocean, wearing metal boots, for not paying up in time and not even breaking a sweat over it. It couldn't get any worse than that.
I am a family favour, Alexi’s new problem.
Well done, Camilla … did yourself a right good turn with this stupid fuck up. What the hell is he going to do with an ex-hooker who pushes drugs and sex for a living and currently has nothing but the dirty clothes they took from me to her name? I have no value to a millionaire crook with a whole city at his fingertips. Fifty grand is not easy to earn when your skills mean nothing to a man like him.
‘’My cousin offered to clear it on your behalf … fifty G. I refused, on account of the fact you won’t learn anything if people sweep in and fix all your mistakes so easily, and I am a huge believer in personal growth. Sophie is someone I care about, and I will honour that affection by taking you on. Don’t get me wrong, Miss Walters, you will pay off the debt, and I aim to make you work for it. I have plans for someone with your entrepreneurial skill set.’’ He sounds almost smug and self-assured, and I wish I could at least see his face.
This is complete torture, and my heart is pounding through my chest to escape my rib cage. I'm almost faint, not just from my physical discomfort, and I do not think I will like this guy or this deal. Gut instinct is inkling at it.
‘‘What skill set exactly do you think I have?’’ I almost whisper it, showing my nervousness plainly, realising I am breaking all my rules in dealing with men and their intimidation acts. The thing is, this one is no act, and I have no desire to push any power angle right now. I am literally at his mercy for my survival.
‘‘You are known for your ability to connect girls, parties, and product. You have a reputation as the go-to girl for anyone who has tastes and money to burn on fun, a name that had even reached my ears. I have a club in need of that kind of input, and now I have you; it appears I was played a profitable hand.’’
I’m not sure I like how he keeps referring to me as his property, even if he owns my soul for debt. I also hate that it’s completely controlled and steady when he talks, as though he is discussing the weather and not a sordid plan for my future. It’s completely unnerving to me.
‘‘You want your club to operate the same way my little outfit did?’’ I would laugh if it weren’t so damn ridiculous, but I can tell he isn’t joking. He’s clever in a wolf-like way, and I can see the angle he hopes to play and what advantage he has in this, but I have never run a club or know anything about bars or booze sales. He’s insane if he thinks he can make me work off that much money in some sleazy strip bar. My blood runs cold at the thought of what precisely this offer will entail.
I don’t do sex for money anymore, and I won’t return to that means of survival at any cost. I would rather take my chances with the fish and concrete boots than be made to fuck for hire again.
‘‘I think your talents and allure will give my club the edge and class I have been looking for while still operating to my clientele’s tastes. It’s an upscale bar, a closed-door policy with memberships, and you’ll have accommodation above … I have an apartment on the top floor I rarely use, and it seems you need a home.’’ He’s annoyingly polite in his dialect, well-spoken and precise.
How the hell does he know so much about me? A few hours ago, I was not even on his radar, and yet now he seems to know I have nowhere to live, on top of how I have been supporting myself for the last two years. I know better than to ask questions in this business, and I can only assume he did his homework on me the second I became his baggage.
Men with money and means! It’s scary to know what a man with cash can dig up in no time at all.
‘’I need to try and collect my belongings from the place I skipped out on a few weeks back. I owe them money.’’
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I have never needed to be honest with anyone, but I get the vibe that lying to him about anything would probably be the dumbest thing I ever did. Possibly the last, too, as he seems like someone who can sniff out a lie at a ten-mile distance.
‘‘I’ll take care of it. Call this number in the morning and give my man the details.’’ He extends something to me in the darkness, and I glimpse a card in his hand as he leans in to hand it to me. I take it carefully, my hands shaking so badly and fearful of touching him—in case the devil can suck your soul out by contact alone. That’s the sort of chill I am getting.
‘‘It’s two grand in rent.’’ I blanch at his offer and push the card into the sheet beside me, tucking it under my thigh. You don’t lose someone like Alexi Carrero’s number or leave it lying around for hospital staff to find.
‘‘I’ll add it to your tab ... Do you have a cell?’’ He shifts and moves closer, and I get incredibly claustrophobic with the proximity of someone his size, strength emanating like a heavy dark cloak and that aura of an aggressive, dominant male. He’s formidable for a man; I remember that much from seeing him in daylight. I wish I could better recall his appearance, but my memory is hazy with the finer details.
‘‘I tossed it when I ran. I don’t have one anymore.’’ I sink back into my cushions when he steps the last small distance, suddenly right beside me. Trying so hard to make him out, when I am blinded by the dazzling light of him switching on the lamp over my bed, I screw my eyes shut. Flinching at the assault, head aching intensely, before blinking myself back to the room and acclimatising slowly as I flutter them open to try and see.
‘‘I’ll have one dropped off in the morning, and you can give the details of where to collect your belongings then. When you’re ready for release, you will be taken to my club, and we will talk again. Until then, Miss Walters, try to make the most of your recovery time. I happen to like a full effort from anyone I associate with.’’ He’s so calm and faultless.
I am glued to that face and almost speechless, nodding at whatever he’s saying because I am completely thrown. I clearly never got a good eyeful of him when I was shacked up in the back of that car with Sophie, bleeding myself into oblivion as I would remember someone who looked like this.
Alexi is gorgeous in an entirely devastating yet almost forbidden way, and I have to check my tongue is not hanging out; I never knew gangsters could be so 'Phwoar'. He reminds me of a wild husky or a predatory animal. Black ruffled, expensively styled hair, showing hints of a curl if it was left to grow, over tanned skin, and ice grey eyes that almost appear colourless—like a soulless animal searching over his prey for the last scraps to pick.
He is all squared, chiselled perfection, with a clean-shaven face and hints of dark stubble below the surface. A black ink tattoo of a dragon curling up one side of his neck, under a white button-down, with a leather jacket moulded and sculpted to a very fit and toned body. Hints of more dark ink peeking over one hand under his sleeve, and I wonder how far his markings go, tempted to see that body with less covering.
Alexi is a little too handsome to be real. He wears expensive clothes, a heady aftershave, and a face that would not look amiss in a Hollywood mob movie. The accent is slightly Italian; I caught the odd twinge in some words, but it’s so minor it’s barely there. He has spent much time in Italy if he wasn’t born there to leave its mark. He is not the package I was expecting, and I would put him in his early thirties if I had to guess; young for a mobster King.
He has that look of mature and filled out, though, that only comes when men move out of their twenties and yet, there is still a boyish charm in the depth of that face. I’m not going to lie; I would sleep with him in a second and enjoy every minute of it. I would notch a headboard space for him, even if I have been playing the celibate game for a couple of years. I think he found the direct line to my libido.
‘‘Until you’re ready to work, I guess. It will be nice to see what you look like under the swelling.’’ He throws me a sarcastic smile, and I swallow with great effort, still a little dazed at how sexy another human can be with so little effort when you have good DNA, expensive taste and a great hairdresser. I have never had a full-blown ‘‘take me now’’ moment over any man before, and I hate that my face must resemble a smashed, bloated pumpkin, and I can only see out of one eye.
I am experiencing my first ever ‘fuck me senseless' moment in my life.
‘‘Right, thank you, I guess.’’ I have no idea why that’s what comes out of my mouth. I think the drugs are messing with my ability to flirt through any situation with the opposite sex, or maybe it’s just him, and I feel completely out of my depth.
My body is warming to searing levels, and I'm squirming to calm the tingles between my thighs. I have never been faced with a human I instantly needed to have naked and inside of me before. It’s messing with my brain.
Get your shit together, Camilla! You are well-versed in the arts of seduction and playing it cool.
‘‘Try and stay out of trouble. I don’t happen to have any patience for women who cause me any — bear that in mind.’’ The statement is made with a charming expression, but the intent is clear and not too veiled to extract the meaning. He’s polite, well-mannered, and precise. It’s in his neat attire and groomed appearance and the careful, slow way he talks while boring your eyes with his unflinchingly; everything is deliberate, calm and relaxed in a well-played way. This man knows how to get what he wants in life and knows what poker faces to play with which people.
That means he’s smart, and behind that face, which could either be your ultimate fantasy or your worst terrifying nightmare, is a fast brain and keen eye that adds another layer to an already formidable player. I can see why he’s known as New York’s crime boss of the century—he is a born manipulator who reads people in the blink of an eye. He has summarised what he thinks I am in a heartbeat.
Alexi Carrero is a predator in expensive tailoring and smiles, yet he has the black soul of someone who has killed without remorse. His family's body count must be immense by now, being four or five generations of underhand dealings and back-alley negotiations. They are infamous for who they are, even if some have become legitimate and steer clear of the crime world publicly.
‘‘I don’t intend to make any.’’ I falter, lacking conviction, even though I genuinely do not want to end up on this one’s wrong side. He wipes away all my wiles and confidence while I am laid up black and blue and swollen beyond recognition. Wait until I have my heels, face, and killer wardrobe ... an even keel to deal with Sexy Alexi! Tyler was a playground bully compared to this one, and I know I have my work cut out without a shadow of a doubt.
This one might as well be Lucifer himself, but he just met a lady well-versed in taming beasts and unafraid of the challenge. A match made in heaven or hell, I guess. We will have to find out, and I may have use for this one if I can train him to heel.
It will be interesting to peel off his layers to reveal what weaknesses I can. And I fully intend to exploit every single little one of them.
