Kept: A Dark Mafia Romance, page 1
KEPT
ELLIE DRAKE
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Afterword
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Copyright © 2024 by Stormy Night Publications and Ellie Drake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Drake, Ellie
Kept
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
CHAPTER 1
Sarah
The orchestra begins Tchaikovsky’s soft, almost melancholic notes as the curtains slowly part. The lights raise, and I feel the eyes of the audience on me even though the bright glare prevents me from truly seeing them. I know this music by heart, my body moving on instinct.
Of the ballets my company will perform, Swan Lake is my favorite. The music is stunning, evolving throughout the story from mournful to dramatic and back again. Everything about the opening scenes lets the audience know they aren’t here for a cheerful little fairytale that ends in a neat and tidy box. It really doesn’t matter if you’ve seen it before, since every company director seems to put their own spin on it. Our company’s signature is an extended introduction, where the audience meets Odette before she gets turned into a swan. Throughout the season, we also do both traditionally accepted endings, depending on which night the performance is on. More than anything else, I love that it’s real, and painful, and full of sorrow. It’s life set to music.
I feel alive on stage. The music, the heat from the overhead lights, the soft noises my pointe shoes make against the polished floor all blend into a soothing backdrop where nothing exists outside of this moment.
The first scene ends, and I hustle off for a wardrobe change.
“Oh my god!” Robert squeals, clapping his hands. “You’re amazing.”
I’m already peeling out of my first costume. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, and Robert couldn’t care less about seeing me halfway naked. First off, he’s my dance partner and my best friend. Secondly, he’s flamboyantly gay. He hands me my tutu right as I’m pulling the white leotard up my arms. I slip into the tutu and Robert works on pinning the swan-esque head piece into my hair. He’s already dressed and ready to go in his Prince Siegfried costume.
“Thank you!” I pant, reaching for a bottle of water. Quick changes are much easier with a companion.
“Anytime, love.” A particular note from the orchestra sounds, and he bounces up. “That’s me!” He sashays towards stage right and disappears from view.
“You were beautiful, Sarah,” says a soft voice.
I turn to see our newest member, Bella, standing nearby. She joined the company a few months ago, but this will be her first major production.
“Thank you. How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Mostly excited, slightly nervous. Which is probably about where I’m supposed to be on premier night with a new company. Thank you so much for all your help settling in.”
I nod. “You’re welcome.”
She smiles. “Seriously though, most principal dancers aren’t as helpful. Honestly, they are downright catty.”
I laugh. “That’s because most of them are pretentious twats that have had everything handed to them by mommy and daddy and haven’t worked a day in their entire, perfect lives.”
Her jaw drops.
“Sorry, was that my outside voice?” I wink, and we both suppress a giggle. I add a little hair spray to her bun and she scampers away. Bella, like almost everyone else, will have multiple roles, and later on she will play the black swan. In a pinch, whoever plays Odette can also play the black swan, but our company splits the roles so that there is, essentially, a backup dancer in case of illness or injury. In addition to her choreography being done to match my character’s style, we really do look alike. Bella is a couple of years younger than I am, but we are both petite, even by ballet standards, with fair skin and blonde hair. She’s a perfect fit to play my “evil twin” in the performance. She’s also a sweetheart and a talented dancer.
The rest of the show is flawless. After a brief retouch of hair and makeup, the cast relocates to the lobby, where a small meet-and-greet has been set up, complete with hors d’oeuvres and champagne passed out by ushers. Mostly, it’s a chance to rub elbows with the more wealthy patrons in hopes that they will continue to financially support the company.
The cast members spread out, strategically positioned throughout the foyer with ushers ensuring no paying hand is free of a glass and that no glass is empty.
The production director materializes at my side. In his late fifties, thin and well over six feet tall, he manages to give off the vague impression of a giraffe dressed in a tuxedo.
“Wonderful show, Sarah,” he tells me.
“Thank you, Mr. Chandler.”
An elegantly dressed woman, probably in her eighties, stops to give me a small bouquet of flowers. She gives me air kisses on each cheek before moving on.
“Tomorrow night is the other ending, yes?” he asks. As the production director, he acts more like an administrator for the company, since there are a slew of artistic directors and choreographers that handle the more intricate parts of the performances.
“Yes, the tragic ending. One of each for opening weekend, and then we switch back and forth all season, minus the Halloween special, which is always tragic. Jean hasn’t decided which ending he wants for the finale this season.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“The tragic ending.”
He turns to face me, blinking slowly behind his oversized glasses. “That’s a bit depressing, don’t you think?”
“Well, that is why they call it tragic.”
He clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Well, in regard to the fundraiser after the performance tomorrow, Mr. LeBlanc is requesting a private autograph signing.”
Sighing, I turn to face him. “Excuse me?”
Chandler looks down and suddenly becomes extremely interested in picking a nonexistent speck of lint off of his dress shirt. “You know he’s one of the biggest donors to the school.”
“I’m aware.”
“Sarah, he was discussing a sponsorship program for some of the principal dancers, and so—”
“And you’d like to use us to milk him for as much money as possible?”
“Sarah, as you know in this economy, with interest in the performing arts decreasing, funding is becoming increasingly difficult.”
I sigh. He’s not wrong, unfortunately.
Chandler stops fussing over his shirt and looks at me. “He would like to sponsor you. Not directly of course, but through the company.”
I start to open my mouth to retort, but he waves a hand to quiet me.
“It’s not uncommon for patrons to sponsor dancers, and you know that. For Christ’s sake, many companies have sections to solicit sponsorships for dancers on their websites.”
I try to resist the urge to gag, thinking about the sleazy LeBlanc and numerous sexual innuendos that he slips into every conversation. “He is aware that he’s sponsoring a dancer, right? Not purchasing one?”
Chandler huffs as if this is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
Whatever. It’s not you he accidentally cops a feel on every chance he gets.
“Ah!” He catches sight of an attractive middle-aged couple, the woman obviously quite pregnant. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown are here. I’ve been meaning to speak with them.”
He slinks away, off to secure more donations for the company. While I certainly understand the concept, LeBlanc makes my skin crawl.
Robert calls my name and waves me over for cast photos. One of his better ideas, Chandler has set up to print them on site for autographs. After another hour of socializing, I’m slipping into my sneakers and street clothes for the trek to the subway station.
CHAPTER 2
Ten years ago
Sicily
Vincent
“Come noi li rimettiamo ai nostri debitori,
E non ci indurre in tentazione,
Amen.”
The priest makes the sign of the cross, and we all follow suit. It’s rained nonstop since we landed in Italy two days ago, which all things considered is a perfect fit for the occasion. A small canopy covers the priest and the casket, while the mourners all hold various black umbrellas.
With the exception of the color scheme, the assembly isn’t terribly unlike our wedding. It rained then too. The seating is morbidly similar too, a narrow aisle separating my family from hers.
The priest continues on, this time in Latin. The prayers and the constant patter of rain against the umbrellas weave into a melancholy background while I search the faces of the crowd. My brothers are here with me. Our father is too, though aside from his irritation as to its impact on the business, he hasn’t been overwhelmed with grief over the death of his daughter-in-law and infant grandson.
Fucking bastard.
My mother stands next to him, as always. She cries softly, hidden behind the black lace veil she wears.
Across the aisle, my late wife’s family is gathered. Most of them, I don’t recognize. I do recognize her father, who stares blankly, a bored expression on his face. To my knowledge, he made no attempt to stay in contact with his daughter after the wedding. After all, it’s just business. A transaction. A family bond to solidify political alliances.
In other words, the typical arranged marriage in the mafia. With the slight twist that I actually cared for my wife. Certainly more than he ever cared about his daughter.
Her brother is another story. He catches my gaze and returns it. He is his father’s son in every sense of the phrase, with the exception of his eyes. Both he and his sister inherited their mother’s emerald green eyes.
Eyes that are currently looking at me with nothing but pure hatred burning in their depths.
CHAPTER 3
Present time
Sarah
I groan when my alarm goes off. Unlike every normal twenty-two-year-old New Yorker waking up on a Saturday, not only is it the butt crack of daybreak, but I’m working today. I count slowly in my head to ten. I can still hear the voice of my old ballet boarding school headmistress in my head, complete with a thick Russian accent she never lost, even though she’d lived in the US for years by then.
“You have ten seconds to feel bad for yourself, then get on with it.”
It didn’t really matter what “it” was. Today, “it” is getting up at 5:00 a.m. after an opening night premier and social. I learned the first time not to touch the champagne, regardless of how good the show went. Time up, I roll out of bed, use the bathroom, brush my teeth, and arrange my hair into a pair of Dutch braids. I grab black yoga pants and a neon pink tank top and slide into my very well used, and very comfortable, running shoes. In lieu of a purse, I grab my much more practical backpack and throw an empty water bottle into it along with my phone and keys.
My yoga studio is only a block away. In the early morning hours, New York might be considered peaceful by anyone who didn’t grow up in the mountains of Colorado. Even so, I have to admit the city has a very different feel at this time of day. The sidewalks are largely empty, except for the odd jogger or dog walker, and the usual cacophony of car engines and honking horns is missing.
“Good morning, Sam,” I greet the woman seated at the front desk of Zen, my favorite yoga studio. I beep my all-access membership fob on the scanner as I walk by.
“Enjoy,” the woman says absentmindedly, without having looked up from her novel once.
Zen does a little bit of everything, which is part of why I shell out for a membership. I pass the spin class session, the meditation room, a small gym, the sauna, and enter the yoga area. To my left is a breezy open space covered by neat rows of purple mats. The early morning Pilates class is just starting to gather. I duck into the hot yoga room to the right, and I’m greeted with a humid wall of patchouli scented air. The instructor is already seated on her mat at the front. The class is largely empty, even though I’m the last to arrive.
Apparently hot yoga before 6 am isn’t popular. Shocker.
An hour later, I’m sweaty, limber, and relaxed. There is a water cooler filled with a bizarre combination of fruit slices, coconut water, and electrolytes at the back of the class. I fill up my water bottle on the way out.
The streets are only slightly busier on my way home. As I walk past the Russian spa down the road, I notice the curious number of black SUVs idling out front. Someone recently tried to convince me that the business was owned by the Russian mob. Briefly, I imagine a set of burly Russian criminals in bathrobes casually discussing murder in the sauna.
Yeah, right. As if that happens.
By the time I reach my apartment, my water is gone and my body temperature feels like it’s come back to normal. I walk past the elevator. It’s been out of order since I moved in. I’m actually beginning to wonder if there is an elevator in there or if the landlord just bought the doors and slapped an Out of Order sign on it.
Five floors and three door locks later and I’m inside my apartment, all three hundred square feet of it. I cross over to the fire escape-slash-balcony and open the window. My twin bed occupies almost the entire wall opposite the door. Next to the fire escape is my miniature kitchen, consisting of one of those refrigerators that looks almost full sized until you realize that you can see the top of it and the whole appliance seems to have shrunk in the wash, a single electric burner stove, a hot plate, a blender, and a sink.
The kitchen sink is also my bathroom sink. I have a small vanity set up next to it so I can do my hair and makeup, though usually I just take my supplies with me and do it at the theater where the light is better. The bathroom is just large enough for the toilet and the shower, barely. I have a small coat closet and a plastic “dresser” at the foot of my bed. I keep slim storage bins under my bed, one of which is almost exclusively new pairs of pointe shoes. Ballerinas go through a lot of shoes, and we all have our little routines concerning how we want them to be prepared—what padding we put where, how we sew the laces on, the works.
The pair I wore last night was new, so I’ll get a few more uses out of them before needing to set up my next pair. Depending on how many performances the company is doing, I usually change my shoes every three days, which might actually be pushing it. I know some dancers that change every other day, and I’ve met more than one that changes daily.
I hang my backpack up on its hook by the door before tossing the ingredients for my normal morning smoothie together in the blender. It’s heavy on the greens, a single spoon of creamy French yogurt, collagen powder, a plant-based protein powder, and whatever citrus fruit happens to be on sale when I’m at the store just to cover the taste of kale and spinach. I give it a little squirt of ginger paste for good measure. I set it to blend, switch on my iTunes, and strip out of my yoga clothes on my way to the tiny cubicle that is my shower.
I wash and condition my hair, taking time to comb the thick purple cream through it. My hair is naturally straight, platinum blonde and falls to the middle of my back. I use a body scrub that smells like the beach after an ocean storm. I’m saved from the contortionist torture that would be required to shave in my miniature shower by having had laser hair removal. It just makes sense when you spend your life in a leotard. Satisfied that the toning conditioner has had time to work, I rinse everything off and wrap up in a pair of towels, one turbaned on my head and the other wrapped around my torso.
Half of the smoothie, my own recipe which I’ve named I dream of Greenie gets dumped into a glass and I drink it sitting on the edge of my bed. The other half gets put in a bottle for later. I probably could squeeze in a small table and chair, but the idea of making my apartment any more crowded makes my heart race. I can handle dancing in front of strangers and being tossed in the air, but I can’t stand small spaces.
Like closets, hiding behind the clothes, watching the shadows move on the other side of the wooden slats…
I shake my head. Nope. I’m not going there.
Count to ten, and then get on with it.
I finish my breakfast, take my vitamins, and get dressed. Ballet chic—tights and a plain black leotard, with a pair of joggers and a jacket over the top. I twist my hair into a neat, simple bun and grab my bags, stashing the second half of the smoothie inside one of them.
