Wicked Proposal A Mafia Romance

MIA Brooklyn in July is a war crime on my nostrils. Hot asphalt, rotting garbage, and the tang of daysold sweat radiating all the way from the dude currently eyefucking me from across the street.

I keep my gaze locked straight ahead, fingers tightening around the strap of my duffel bag. My scrubs stick to my back like a second skin.

They're damp from twelve hours of running codes, stitching gashes, and swallowing every catcall of "Hey, sweet thing" that various drunk assholes keep hurling my way as I try to hurry home for Eli's bedtime. Sweet thing.

The words slither down my spine, oily and familiar. Brad used to call me that. Brad, with his whiskey breath and knuckles like sandpaper. Brad, who'd whisper, "C'mere, sweet thing" right before⁠ Nope. Not today, Satan.

I blink hard, shove that unwanted memory back into its coffin, and pick up my pace. My sneakers slap against cracked concrete, dodging potholes and piles of dog shit. The dollar store on the corner blares reggaeton.

Overhead, a dying neon sign whines like a wasp. A group of teens loitering outside the bodega whistle as I pass. One of them yells, "Damn, ma, you workin' out or you workin'?" I do manage to keep my middle finger holstered, but it's a very close call.

One of these days, I really might let it fly. Tonight, though, I don't have time to pick fights with teenagers juiced up on vape pens and testosterone. I'm almost there. Almost home. It's four blocks to my apartment, which means four blocks to Eli.

Four blocks to the brief seconds of peace I'll get burying my face in his sweet, perfect curls.

Then I have to change out of these stained scrubs, bolt back out, and hustle my way to my second job at a bougie med spa in Tribeca, where rich ladies pay eight hundred bucks a pop to get their labia steamed. No judgment from me, though.

I'm glad for the rich ladies. Mama's got bills to pay. I round the corner onto my streetand grit my teeth. Because there's a car parked behind mine, blocking me in. Not just any car.

A black Maybach, polished to a liquid shine, prowling in front of my building like a panther in a junkyard. My beattoshit sedanRhonda the Hondasits trapped behind it. "You've gotta be kidding me," I mutter. I scan the block in search of suspects.

At first, I come up empty. But thenthere. Across the street. A man in a gleaming black suit that looks utterly out of place in this decrepit armpit of the city is pacing the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear.

His shoes gleam like obsidian under the streetlight. The rest of him is just as easy on the eyes. Stormy gray gaze. GQ stubble. Abs that look like you could grate a whole Parmesan cheese wheel on 'em.

I'm lactose intolerant, but I'd still take a bite out of him. Or at least, I wouldif I had time for that kind of thing. Which I don't. My son needs his bedtime story, dammit. I march over, duffel bag bouncing against my hip. "Hey!

You the genius who parked in my spot?" The man doesn't look up. Just holds up a finger. Wait, it says. I'm doing important things. That's strike one. "Excuse me? Sir?" I step into his path. He sidesteps me, still talking. "said to fucking find her.

What part of that was unclear?" There's strike two. I plant myself in front of him, arms crossed. "Listen, Prince Charming. You're blocking my car, and I've got twenty minutes to kiss my kid goodnight before I'm late for work. Move. Your.

Shit." For the first time, he actually deigns to glance at me. Those light eyes rake over my scrubs, my frizzpopping ponytail, the sweat stain blooming on my collar. His mouth twitches. Not a smilea dismissal. He turns away. Oh, hell no.

Strike three. "Cool. Cool, cool, cool." I yank my phone out, dial the number on the tow yard sticker plastered to the nearest hydrant, and unleash my sweetest customer service voice. "Hi!

There's a massive, illegally parked car blocking my driveway on Sutter and Rockaway. A Maybach. Uhhuh. You can't miss it. You'll be here in five minutes? Perfect. You just made my day." I hang up and stride into my building.

I don't bother looking back.

Eli's laughter hits me the second I open the doorhigh, bright, the sound of ice cream trucks and sidewalk chalk.

He launches off the couch in a blur of SpiderMan pajamas and hugs me around the middle. "Mommy!" Just like that, my day gets better. "Whoa, bud!" I catch him midleap, staggering back. "Since when do you weigh a thousand pounds?" "I do not!" "Could've fooled me." I nuzzle his neck, breathing in baby shampoo and CheezIt dust.

No perfume has ever smelled so good. "You're turning into a dinosaur.

A Tyrannosaurus flex." "Rex," Eli corrects, pulling back to frown at me. "And I'm not a dinosaurI'm a boy." "Could've fooled me," my best friend Kallie chimes in from the kitchenette, where she's microwaving popcorn. "I found scales in your bed this morning." "They were Goldfish!" Eli yelps in horror.

But he still starts checking his forearms for signs of scaliness. I set him down. But as I do, something snags my attention: dirty scuff marks on his shoes. And, now that I'm looking, there's a rip on the side that wasn't there this morning.

My smile curdles. These were new Jordanswell, relatively new. Thrifted last month in something close to mintish condition. Now, though, the left toe is split open, foam peeking through like guts.

I see his socked pinky toe wiggling in the gap. "Eli, honey..." I kneel, thumbing the tear. "What happened?" He shrinks down and mumbles, "Nothing." I drop to my knees and clutch him close. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" He keeps squirming, refusing to look at me.

That lower lip starts to pout out and tremble, and my heart picks up some trembling of its own. "Some kids at recess...

They said I run like a robot." "And?" "And they thought it'd be funny to tie my laces together." His chin quivers, but he drags his eyes up to mine. "I didn't cry, though! Not even when Mrs. Alvarez had to cut them apart." My chest tightens.

I feel all the single mom feelings, same as I always do in situations like this. Rage at the unfairness of it all. Fury toward the world that lets such cruelty go unchecked.

Sadness and crippling guilt because I can't be there to keep my baby safe every minute of the day.

But when I see him watching me, waiting to see how I respond, I do the same as I always do in situations like this: force myself to grin, so he knows that he's loved. The rage, fury, sadness, and guilt are for me. My son gets only my love.

I wink at him. "Guess we'll have to get you rocket boots next time then. Blast those haters to the moon." Eli's eyes light up. "With lasers?!" "Obviously!

Now, go help Auntie Kallie with the popcorn before she burns it again." As he scrambles off, tears forgotten, Kallie sidles over and hipchecks me with a sympathetic smile. "Long day?" "Aren't they all?" I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and sigh. "Shoes will be the death of me, I swear." "Don't stress it, Mama," she reassures me. "I'll hit up the Buy Nothing group tomorrow.

Someone's gotta have a size eleven." "He's a twelve now." "Shit. Boy is growin' up fast." "Language, Kal." I point my chin at Eli, who is now enthusiastically shaking the microwave bag. "Right.

Uh, shizz." Kallie lowers her voice. "You okay, though, for real?" "Peachy. Just need to pick up three extra shifts, sell a kidney, maybe start an OnlyFans⁠" "Ooh, that's a good idea.

Men love a girl in scrubs." I snort as I look down at the murky stain on my thigh. "They sure do. My last patient tonight loved 'em so much he peed on me." "Hm.

On second thought, how much do kidneys fetch?" "Mommy!" Eli shrieks with laughter as he holds up the bag, kernels exploding like gunfire. "It's alive!"

Half an episode of Bluey later, I'm perched on Eli's bed, tracing constellations on his palm.

His eyelids keep drooping and struggling open as he fights sleep for as long as his stubborn little heart will let him. "Promise you'll kiss me goodnight again later?" he mumbles. "When you get home?" "Promise." I press my lips to his forehead. "Even if you're snoring like a walrus." "Walruses don't snore.

They... blub." He mimics a flipper. "Then I'll blub you back. Now, sleep, E. Dream about happy things, okay? Rocket boots. Unicorns. Oceans filled with popcorn." He smiles. "Okay. I love you, Mommy." "I love you, too, superstar."

2 MIA Suit Guy looms under the streetlight, all sharp angles and simmering rage. His tie is undone, jacket discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos snaking down his forearms.

Up close, he's younger than I thoughtlate twenties? early thirties at mostwith the kind of face that belongs on either a billboard or a wanted poster.

And right now, he looks like he wants to put my face on a Missing poster. "Did you get my fucking car towed?" he snarls at me in a rasping, feral baritone.

I tilt my head. "I did try to tell you." "You had no right." His jaw tics. "Actually, if you had bothered to listen to me for even one second, I could've told you that was my driveway, and I actually have every right." I unlock my door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got vaginas to steam." He blocks my path. "Do you think this is a joke?" "I think you're in my way." "You made this much harder than it had to be." I laugh right in his face.

Buddy here doesn't know the first thing about how hard things can get. "Life has a funny way of doing that, doesn't it?" I remark. I try to sidestep him again, but he grabs my wrist. Big mistake. My body moves before my brain catches up.

A twist, a shift, pressureand suddenly, he's against the hood, my elbow jammed under his throat. "Do not touch me," I snarl right back in the same growl he used on me. He goes still. Not scared, though. Intrigued.

His gaze flicks to my fresh set of scrubs, my shaking hands, the faded scar on my throat that Brad left there. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he murmurs. The streetlight catches his eyes. Gray, with flecks of gold. Dangerous.

I release him and step back. "And you're full of shit. Now, for the love of all that is holy, can you please move so I can get on with my life?" He doesn't do anything of the kind.

Just watches me, lips curving in a crooked halfsmirk. "What's your name?" "To you, it's Tow Truck Tina. For God's sake⁠" "Tough act." He straightens his cuffs. "But that grip? You've had training. Nursing school doesn't teach you that.

That's more." I freeze. How the hell did he know⁠? He smirks and rakes his eyes up and down my body. "Scrub pants, sneakers, adrenaline shakes. You know how to handle yourself. But you learned it the hard way, didn't you?" "Wow.

You're a detective and a dickhead.

Multitalented." I reach for my car door, but his hand shoots out, pinning it shut. "Wait." His voice drops, barely audible above the street noise. "I have a proposition for you." I bark out a laugh, right in his smug face. "I'm not interested in any proposition from a guy who can't read a 'No Parking' sign." "What about one that could solve your financial problems?" His eyes flick to my wornthin scrubs, to the fraying strap of my bag, then back to my face, which is wornthin and fraying in its own kind of way. "All of them." Something in his tone makes me pause.

The streetlight casts shadows across his face, but his eyes are clear. Calculating. He means it. "Three minutes," he presses. "That's all I'm asking.

I'll tell you what I need and why you're perfect for it, and when you tell me yes⁠" "if I tell you yes⁠" "when you tell me yes," he overrides, "then I'm going to put a large amount of cash in your hand, and you're going to thank me for the easiest money you've ever made in your life." I should tell him to fuck off, then knee him in the groin and run.

As a matter of fact, I'm about to do exactly that⁠ But then I think of Eli's shoes. Of the pile of bills on my counter.

Of the three jobs that still aren't enough, have never been enough, have only ever felt like holeriddled pails I desperately use to bail out a sinking ship that keeps taking on more water, and more water, and more, more, more, dragging me and Eli alike down to the bottom of a black ocean that never gave a damn whether we lived or died. "Two minutes," I hear myself say. "Not a second more." The man's smile stretches wider.

3 YULIAN THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER "Blyat'!" I barely restrain myself from hurling my phone across the street. Maksim's update has been nothing but shitty news: Nikita still hasn't been found.

Not at her apartment, not at her usual haunts, not even at HQ. Maks is my best friend and secondincommand, but he's still getting my full wrath right now.

Mostly because I have nowhere else to vent. "Boss" "Did I fucking stutter?" I interrupt. "Find her." "I've got all our men on it," Maksim sighs. "Did you find out why her GPS signal died in Brownsville?" "Hey!" someone pipes up down the sidewalk.

I ignore that voice behind me. "No," I mutter to Maksim. The truth is, I don't have a goddamn clue why Nikita's GPS would lead here at all. She lives in Manhattan, for fuck's sake.

There's nothing in this armpit of New York that could have lured her here⁠ Unless... Unless she found a lead. "Excuse me? Sir?" The voice behind me is closer now. More insistent. "Your car is⁠" "Shh." I hold up a finger to silence the nagging woman.

Whatever she wants with my car, she can wait until I'm done. "Maks, you got anything else?" "Not really," he answers. "I just Wait, hold up.

I just got word that the man we captured is awake." My hackles rise. "Put him on the line." "You're already running late to the gala, Yul. Let me handle this. I can⁠" "Now, Maks." My second gives a frustrated sigh. "Alright, fine.

But I'm not driving your ungrateful ass halfway across the city during rush hour." "You will if I need it." He bites out a curse in Russian. He knows I'm right.

He knows he'll never say no to me, even if I'm the one making myself late for tonight's event. Maksim is a lot of things, but disloyal isn't one of them. Not when it comes to me. Which is why I don't doubt for a second that he'll do as I say.

There's a little scuffling at the other end of the line. I walk into an alley and lean against the graffitied wall.

It isn't exactly a private setting to carry out an interrogation by phone, but it's as private as it'll get right now. "No!" a new voice cries out. "I don't know anything!

I don't⁠" "According to his ID, his name is Boyan," Maksim informs me. "Just so you two can be on a nice, friendly, firstname basis." "Hello, Boyan." My tone goes as cold as the fucking grave. "I'm going to ask you a few questions now.

If you answer them, I'll ensure that you don't suffer. If you don't... Well. There's only so much I can do." "I don't know anything!" Boyan repeats, panicked. "I never met her!

I just⁠" "Maksim," I cut in, "break one of his fingers." He doesn't hesitate. A second later, a sickening crunch echoes across the line, followed by a scream. "Let's try this again," I growl. "I will ask. You will answer.

Say you understand." Boyan's wails turn to silent sobs. "Yyes. I understand." "Good. Then tell me how you knew Nikita." "I ddidn't," the man sniffles. "I swear, I⁠" "Maksim. Break another." A second crunch.

A second scream. "Tthat wasn't the deal!" Boyan cries. "I answered your question!" "And I didn't fucking like it," I snarl. "So do better." "I was hired! II swear, I⁠"