His Cinderella: A Possessive Dark Romance (Mayhem Ever After Book 3) Read online

  “Make sure people can see those hazard signs from every entrance,” Harold snapped.

  “I know, I know,” I murmured.

  “Don’t get smart with me, missy,” Harold glowered. “I’ll can your ass. Waltzing in here late and then telling me she knows when she damn sure don’t know, I swear…”

  I tried my best to ignore Harold’s prattle and went back to work. If he had paid to fix the ice machine, it wouldn’t leak all the time. But of course, that would require Harold not be a massive cheapskate.

  Jenny got off her break just as the lunch rush started. Between the two of us, we were hard pressed to keep up with the influx of customers. Harold flitted between kitchen, floor, and register, berating all of us when we failed to move fast enough to please him.

  “Where’s your sense of urgency, Ella?” Harry snapped. “Come on, come on, those tater skins are gonna be cold by the time you get them to the guest.”

  “Sorry, Harry.” I sidled past him and tried to smile as he glowered. Jenny smirked at me, glad for some reason I was getting yelled at by our boss. Oh, that’s right. She was a total bitch.

  “You’re slower than molasses today, Ella,” Harold complained when I ducked back into the kitchen for a long sip of sweet iced tea. The cool liquid soothed my throat, even if it did little for my nerves. “Why is that?”

  “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m a little tired is all. I worked at the hospital this morning—”

  “It’s not my fault you don’t do a better job managing your money and have to work two jobs,” Harry said. “I only care about this one.”

  “Three jobs,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. You need to act like this job is your priority when you’re here. You feel me?”

  “Yes, Harry.” I shook the ice in my cup to settle it so I might garner another swallow or two. Then I returned to the floor and worked the remainder of the lunch rush.

  My feet aching, I gratefully cleared the last table of our lunch crowd, glancing over at a man who had entered some time ago and only ordered a coffee. He was well-dressed, not our usual clientele at all. Middle aged, maybe even elderly, but in very good shape. The diamond pendant necklace he wore spoke to his wealth, as well as the Brunos on his feet.

  I thought in jest, What, is this guy a spy or something? But I didn’t give him too much thought. After all, he was a low-maintenance restaurant guest, and that’s as rare as rain in the desert.

  When I had a spare moment, I passed by to freshen up his coffee. He held the cup out for me and offered a warm smile.

  “Busy day?” he inquired politely.

  “Yeah, it gets that way sometimes. But what can you do?”

  “You’re a hard worker, miss. What drives you so hard?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to give you a sob story.” I pasted on a smile. “I’m sure, dressed like you are, you’ve heard plenty of those.”

  “Maybe I like sob stories?” he offered, shaking his head when I offered cream. “Please, indulge me.”

  “Okay, it’s your cup of joe.” I sighed, and looked out the window at the traffic slowly crawling past. “My dad is in bad shape, he uh… he’s in a persistent vegetative state.”

  I wiped tears away from my eyes, not even realizing they’d appeared, and he patted my forearm. “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, what’s really awful are the assisted living expenses. So, I guess that’s what drives me. Crippling medical debt.”

  “I understand your financial burdens are considerable.” The man laid down a business card with a bill folded neatly below it. “If you ever get tired of working three jobs and seek a more elegant solution to your financial burdens, please give me a call.”

  “Uh, sure,” I automatically agreed, just wanting the tip. He got up to leave, and I waited until he sauntered off before unfolding the bill.

  One hundred dollars. Benjamin Franklin’s kisser staring up at me. I swiftly stuffed it into my pocket and went back to work with a lighter step.

  I didn’t give the business card or the man who’d left it a second thought for some time, busying myself with dinner prep work. As the first supper guests began to filter in, I got a phone call on the work line, which earned me another tongue lashing from Harold.

  “Is this Ella Ashmore?” The stiffly formal woman on the line didn’t offer a greeting.

  “This is she,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “This is the Shady Pines Assisted Living Center. I’m afraid your bill is in arrears and needs to be settled or we’ll be forced to evict Martin Ashmore from our premises.”

  “What?” My heart skipped a beat and then settled into a rapid tattoo. Sweat broke out on my body, and it took me several seconds to speak. “Impossible. I make sure that bill gets paid every month.”

  “According to our records, the account is three months in arrears.”

  “Three months? Hold on, I’ll have to get back to you. How long do I have to pay?”

  “Forty-eight hours, as mandated by law.”

  “Two days?” I sputtered. “Okay, fine. Just, don’t kick my dad out, please.”

  “Thank you for your attention to this matter, sir or madam,” the woman said with stiff formality. “Have a nice day.”

  I hung up the phone and doffed my apron.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Harold blurted.

  “I’m sorry, Harry, but I have to leave. There’s a family emergency.”

  “No dice. Get back to work. Hey.” Harold followed me out onto the sidewalk, and continued to shout when I got aboard my Vespa. “You start that engine, you’re fired. And I’m not taking you back this time.”

  I didn’t have any choice. I started the scooter and rode away, blinking away bitter tears. When I returned home, my stepsisters were passed out on the sofa, ugly faces slack with alcohol-induced slumber.

  My stepmother wasn’t home and I called her cell phone several times before she finally answered with an annoyed arrogance. “What is so all-fired important that you must interrupt my weekly threading?”

  “This is a little more important than your eyebrows, Agatha. Why haven’t you paid the nursing home bill in three months?”

  “What?” she scoffed. “Ridiculous. That’s been paid. I’m sure of it.”

  “It hasn’t. They called me at work and said that you haven’t paid it in three months.”

  “Oh, well, I told Regan to pay that,” she passed off as if it were no big affair. “Gave her the money and the account information. She was supposed to be taking care of it.”

  I stared at my taller stepsister, and noted her diamond bracelet. And new dye job. And wasn’t that a new iPhone…

  “Thanks for nothing,” I snapped, ending the call and storming out onto the porch. I had no idea what I was going to do. I didn’t have the roughly twenty thousand dollars it would take to settle the bill.

  There were no options. Two days were not enough time to beg, borrow, or steal such funds. I’d burned all my rich-friend bridges years ago when I broke up with Deryk Mayne. He was popular, so my friends shunned me after graduation. I had no network, and no relatives I could trust other than my father… who was in a coma.

  I thrust my hand in my pocket for my last cigarette and found the card. The conversation came flooding back to me, and I stared at the tiny rectangle of paper for some time as the sun set.

  At last, I fished my phone out of my pocket and punched in the number. What harm could there be in finding out what the man had to offer?

  It’s not like I had any other options. I would have done anything to save my father.

  Anything.

  Chapter Three

  The sun squatted fat, red and blurry over the New York skyline as I rode from my father’s office back to my condo. I stared out the side window the entire trip, seeing the people going about their lives on the sidewalks, in the shops and boutiques, and in other vehicles.

  Funny how many of them smiled. You’d think I’d have more reason than mos
t to smile, but their happiness only seemed to underscore my own despondency. I remember thinking that, perhaps, my thoughts dwelled on Ella so often because she represented one of the few times in my life I’d been rejected.

  The word “no” wasn’t uttered to me very often, which was to be expected considering my father’s identity. But what people didn’t understand was that having a powerful and influential family opened some doors while it closed others.

  I got the urge to hit the Swamp Gas again. Growling in frustration, I tamped the desire down and tried to focus on my task at hand. Lucian wanted me to pick up our cut from an underground high-stakes auction. I wasn’t going to disappoint him by getting high instead. Sure, Peter and Belle ran my stash down the garbage disposal, but I could always pick up more from my contact.

  The car let me off in front of my building. I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice until the driver spoke. I tipped him well and ventured inside, absent-mindedly waving my key fob at the control panel to open the way.

  As I moved toward the elevator, a man fell into step beside me. I turned toward him, arching an eyebrow as I beheld Jimmy “The Bull” Castiglione—all five feet, two inches of him. His pencil-thin mustache, pudgy build, and tailored pinstripe navy suit belied the fact that he was one of the most violent men on the firm’s payroll.

  But the Bull wasn’t obvious. He was subtle and skilled at blending into the background or making someone take him less seriously than they should have because he was such a talkative and charming guy. But when the shit hit the fan, he’d bust heads and slit throats with the best of them.

  “Deryk,” he greeted me politely as we entered the elevator together.

  “Bull, how you been?” I asked. “Uh, is there a reason for this visit? I just left the office—”

  “Sure, there’s a reason, kid. I’m here to help you out, keep you on the straight and narrow. You feel what I’m saying?”

  I frowned, striking the top floor button with more force than necessary. “You mean, Lucian thinks I need a babysitter?”

  “Aw, come on, kid.” Bull shrugged. “Don’t think of it like that. I’m here to protect you from all threats, those of the outside persuasion, and the other kind. Capisce? You’re an important guy. People might want to make things hard for you, but they gotta go through the Bull first.”

  I knew better than to argue. Bull was Lucian’s creature through and through. If Lucian told him to go staple his tongue to a telephone pole, Bull would ask what size fastening he should use.

  “Fine. You know anything about this auction I’m supposed to attend tonight?”

  Bull shrugged. I got the feeling he told the truth, which quite frankly made sense. Low-level muscle like Jimmy didn’t get kept in the loop of things above their paygrade. “I know there’s a car coming for us in a couple hours, but that’s it.”

  The elevator reached the top floor, and we stepped out onto the thickly padded, carpeted hallway. Bull whistled at the opulence, gaping at a Tiffany chandelier with pink glass catching and refracting the light in an almost magical way.

  “Nice place,” he said. “Guess your pappy wouldn’t put you up in a Motel 6, though. Right, kid?”

  “I guess.” I opened the door to my condo, and Bull took a moment to be impressed before the smell hit his wide nostrils.

  “Gross, kid. First thing tomorrow I’m calling a maid service up here.” He headed over to my bong and sniffed the bowl. “Tell me you weren’t on that Kremlin Swamp Gas crud.”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Peter and his new squeeze put the kibosh on my habit.”

  “Well, good for them. Just smoke pot like everyone else… or if you must, real opium and not this crap that the Crocodile is trying to foist off on an unsuspecting urban populace.”

  “You’re well-spoken for a thug, Bull.” I moved to the bar and picked up a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Drink?”

  “Hell yeah.” Bull settled into a chair. “What can I say? I like to read. Mostly on the toilet.”

  “Too much information, Bull.” I poured him two fingers before handing over the glass.

  We clinked our glasses together. “To a nice, boring and uneventful evening.”

  “That’s a weird toast, kid,” Bull murmured.

  “Yes, but we’re going to pick up protection money from an underground auction. Boring is good. Boring is them handing over our cut without a peep, no muss, no fuss. Interesting means there’s trouble.”

  Bull arched his eyebrows. “Well, in that case, I can drink to that.”

  We drained our glasses. I offered him another, but he turned me down. I drank alone for the second round and then went to prepare for my visit at the auction house.

  One could roll into such a situation in several ways. One, which Lucian tended to frown on, was showing up in force with a couple of well-known thugs or hitmen, maybe a button man or two, in a show of strength.

  That could backfire, though, and people tended to take offense at having an entire entourage shuffle into their living room or wherever. The advantage was, if something did in fact go down, we had plenty of backup.

  The second method, which Lucian liked to the point of overusing it, was to show up with an entirely different type of entourage. Showing up ready to party, dressed to the nines and hanging with supermodels is a sort of display of strength without having to display strength. You’re sending a message of self-assured security to the entire room, saying you can afford to goof off a little and not have to worry about someone taking a shot.

  The third method was the one I decided to use—the understated entrance. Instead of rolling up like big business, I’d hang back and observe coolly. This could make your client—the person paying for the protection—sweat a lot more than the show of strength. You let them wonder, and their imagination did the dirty work for you.

  Method number four was called “hit the mattresses,” which had nothing to do with sex, despite the name. Or perhaps it did. You went in guns blazing and fucked shit up. I had only used method four but once, and believe me, it was justified.

  Since we were going for subtlety, I dressed in a conservative charcoal gray blazer over a pair of ivory silk trousers with no pleats, of course. Straight legs looked better unless you were a high school teacher. The one bit of ostentatiousness I allowed myself that night was my ostrich hide loafers. If you’ve never worn ostrich, you wouldn’t understand.

  “Aren’t you going to change?” I questioned Bull as I entered the living area.

  He looked down at himself and frowned. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed now?”

  “Nothing, if you don’t mind being mistaken for an aging swinger who invests in Chuck E. Cheese.”

  “Ouch. I’m supposed to blend in, like a great white, until I’m needed and then bam, I strike.”

  “Yes, you’re going to blend, all right,” I drawled. “Because you’re staying in the car.”

  “But Lucian said—”

  “I’m not going to huff on Swamp Gas on the clock. All right?” I sighed. “Besides, if things go south, you can either come get me out or go for backup.”

  “All right, fine, but if you fall off the wagon, just kiss your Uncle Jimmy good-bye.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We’re not related, and I’m not falling off the wagon.”

  The car wound up being one of those gigantic luxury SUVs, all gunmetal gray with black trim. I chuckled at the way Jimmy struggled to climb in.

  Our driver was a guy named Vic. Good guy but not much of a talker, which is fortuitous indeed considering his chronic halitosis. He did answer me when I asked where we were going, blasting me with a mix of garlic and tuna. “The Jolly Roger.”

  “The Roger? Really?” I shook my head. “Didn’t old man Hook used to run that joint?”

  “Yeah. Used to,” Bull said cryptically. “Relax, kid, I don’t think they’re going to play hardball.”

  We rolled along in silence. I spent the ride pondering what I would say upon picking up
the take. Sometimes there was a coded message, but Lucian hadn’t given me one. I settled upon, “Hello, I’m Deryk Mayne from the firm. I understand you have something for me?”

  I rehearsed it in my head several times because I was still foggy from my recent bender and didn’t want to screw things up. Like I said, impressing Lucian was always a secondary objective to any task I received.

  The Jolly Roger was right on the water, a former sailor’s dive, which kept its old-school name when it transitioned to a modern night club. Last time I was there, the crowd had been a bit older. You know, jazz, Frank Sinatra, that sort of deal. But tonight, the clientele was significantly younger.

  We were met at the front door by Starkey, a button man who used to work for Hook. Apparently he came along with the club, reporting to the new management.

  “Gentlemen,” he said easily in his lilting voice. “Come with me, please. No need for our honored guests to wait in line.”

  “Actually, Jimmy will wait with the car,” I informed him. “But please, lead on.”

  I followed Starkey into the club. The ground floor was all pulsing lights and pounding music. But as we ascended a narrow staircase, the noise subsided into a dull roar. The second floor was a VIP lounge, but we passed that up as well.

  Finally, we reached the top floor, where the auction was to be held. Apparently I was a little late. I heard someone speaking as I parted the curtain and entered the darkened gallery of seats forming a half-circle around the stage.

  A familiar voice, as it turned out. Belle, Peter’s squeeze, stood up there playing auction master and apparently doing a damn fine job.

  I settled into a seat for a long wait. These auctions were boring as all get-out. Usually the stuff people bid on was taboo or illegal. Like the faded ass, broken piece of pottery that sells for one and a half million. Protected artifact that could never be purchased on the legal market? More like a worthless piece of junk.

  I chuckled when they auctioned off The Scream. It’d been bouncing around the underworld for a few years, ever since it was stolen from a museum in broad daylight. I think Lucian owned it at one point. It went for seven million, a lot of money for a status symbol that you could only display to a certain subset of humanity.