Promised to the Greek: A Mafia arranged marriage romance (Greek Heat), page 1
jailaa west
Promised to the Greek
Copyright © 2024 by jailaa west
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Contents
Prologue
Jeniah
Gio
Jeniah
Gio
Jeniah
Gio
Jeniah
Gio
Jeniah
Epilogue
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About the Author
Prologue
The blast of heat sears my skin as I lay on the sun’s surface. So freaking hot, but it’s not the heat that will kill me. I can’t fucking breathe. My pounding heart nearly shoots me from the bed. “It’s just a dream. A dream. Not real.” I repeat, as if the part of my mind that’s awake can control this. Stop this—if only I can get his attention. But it’s too busy watching the scene we’ve seen a dozen times. Light-Blast-Heat-Lucas screams.
The same pattern—every dream, every time.
My mind will never let me forget, as if I could. Adding the little scream detail for torture. Lucas didn’t scream the night I failed him. He died instantly. At least, that’s what they told me. I guess my mind never accepted it because I hear his screams loud and clear. Maybe they lied. I get it. I do. What else would you tell an eleven-year-old who is spending months in a burn ward? A child who didn’t even wake up, let alone sit up, until months later. Months when his little brother was buried, grief was silenced, and the docks were well on their way to being repaired—what would be the point in giving him more agony? Wasn’t struggling for every breath agony enough?
A hand squeezes my shoulder, and I grab it. The swift motion shakes me awake. I hear the grunt before I see the face. I drop his wrist and wince when he does. He’ll have bruises tonight from waking me. I swipe at the water dripping from my brow. Shit, the sheets are soaked. “Sorry, man,” I offer.
“What the fuck ever. I hate waking your ass up. Every damn time, I end up with a taped hand. Next time I’m giving you a kick in the ass.” Julian continues fussing, and I blink at the clock—two-twenty-five am.
The numbers shoot me arrow-straight. “What happened? Who’s hurt?” I ask questions while I stride to the dresser. I’m already wearing a t-shirt, never sleep without one, I just need some pants.
“No one’s hurt. At least not as far as I can tell. Your uncle is expecting a call from America and thought you guys should be there. It’s someone who needs a favor.”
My foot stops in the middle of my pants leg. “A favor? From Uncle Cosmos? Who doesn’t know that Leo is running things now? Uncle Cosmos retired a year ago.”
“Exactly. That’s why you’re all supposed to be there. He didn’t want to promise anything without Leo’s agreement.”
“So, why does he need me?”
“Don’t know.” Julian shrugs. “I was told to wake you up, and I did. My part is done.” He turns his back and heads for the door. “Now, I need to find an ice pack for my fucking wrist. Thank you very much.”
“Sorry,” I call after him, but he flips his middle finger up and walks away. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I am getting better. My nightmares have slowed down to about once every three months. Way better than the nightly terrors I used to have. So that’s progress. The clock blinks at me, reminding me that I have other things I need to focus on. I scramble into my sneakers and head out.
* * *
My uncle Cosmos sits at the head of the table. The king is back on his throne—even if it’s temporarily. Something big must have occurred to pull him from retirement. It couldn’t be too big because I note a few absences. My father sits to his right, and Uncle Petros to his left. Adonis and Atlas sit near him, and I join my father and Nicos across from my cousins. At the opposite end, Leo and Xander face their father.
“Thank you all for coming,” Uncle Cosmos begins. Even if Leo is in charge, he is still the head of the family. No one would refuse his call. Making the absences all the more troubling. “I’ll get right to the point. As you know, our father,” he looks at Uncle Basil and Pops, “immigrated to Chicago as a young man. Chicago had a thriving Greek community.” I furrow my brow. We all know the story of Chicago’s Greek town. How Greeks devastated by poverty and from fighting the damn Turks were even more impoverished after fighting the Germans. My grandfather came in the second wave of Greeks, who left their home for America, hoping for a better way of life.
“After he left the war—a veteran, mind you. He could find no housing. No jobs, he told me. There were few opportunities available. Signs everywhere said no Greeks—no Blacks. There had already been race riots and lynchings targeting Greeks before World War II, and after, there was little improvement. So, he lived in the Black community. He was sheltered there and well-treated. He made friends with a numbers runner and loan shark. A man by the name of Shelby Reynolds. Shelby would eventually loan Demetrious five thousand dollars. Nothing to shrug at today, but then it was enough to buy his first warehouse, and eventually, he used the money to get a ship, and Lionsbridge Shipping was started.”
I did not know that. I knew about the loan but never any other details. It was the dream of nearly every older Greek to return home. And when my grandfather retired, he did just that, buying our old family lands and building homes for his sons and their children. But what did all of that old history have to do with a middle-of-the-night meeting? As if he heard my question, my uncle continued.
“My father paid the loan as soon as he was able. Not because of threats or violence, like we need to use today. But because when he shook a man’s hand and gave his word—he meant it. Shelby Reynolds saw the potential in what my father was building. He refused the interest, much to my father’s surprise. He said, “We’re friends. There’s no interest between friends.” He was as wily as a fox. Because he added—But one day, I might come to you and need a favor. Big or small, I expect you to honor the request. Demetrious Gataki shook on it, and today, we are being asked to honor that promise.”
Wait? What? “Is Shelby still alive?”
“No,” Uncle Cosmos shakes his head. “Sadly, he passed away in his early fifties. He did not live long, but his son inherited the favor. He has never asked me for a thing.”
“Until today?” Leo asks.
“Until today,” his father confirms. “And I will keep my father’s word, and so will you.”
Leo’s brows lowered. “What is he asking?”
“Protection. He needs his daughter protected.”
“Do you want us to put the Ismailovs on it? Sanyet—”
“Okhi.” Cosmos slams his hands on the table. “Not him. Us. We will protect her. Gataki’s keep their word.”
“Of course, but what are we protecting her from? Is she in danger? Does she have a stalker like Charmaine?”
“Okhi, no. Let me start at the beginning.” He started the story in nineteen-forty-five. That wasn’t the beginning? “John Reynolds is in prison. He is, or was, an accountant. An inventive accountant—he worked for Al Silvio.”
We take a collective deep breath, and Leo says before he can continue, “Al Silvio is fucking nuts. What kind of a fool would fuck over his money, and why would we help a thief? He deserves what he got, and he’s lucky he lived long enough to land in jail.”
Leo shifts forward, staring at his father from the opposite end of the table, interlacing his fingers and twirling his thumbs. He nods at his father before the call connects on the video screen. “I will listen to what he has to say. But it goes against everything we stand for. Gatakis don’t support liars and thieves. If we do this, we risk our reputation. A reputation that is still smeared from the DeLuca screw-up. He will have to convince me why we should stand between a rat and the Silvio family.”
Uncle Cosmos nods and says, “Hear him out before you decide.”
John Reynolds sits in an office. He wears a standard prison-issue jumpsuit, but that’s the only way I can tell he’s even in jail. His pecan-colored skin is flawed by a few lines, and his short, tight curls have only a few silver coils. He looks composed and confident—the opposite of a man pleading for help. His voice is the rich baritone of a blues singer when he greets us.
“Hello, Mr. Gataki. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I understand your time is valuable, and I appreciate the opportunity to explain my situation.”
“Please, call me Cosmos. And yes, I am eager to hear what you have to say.”
“I’ll cut right to the chase. I am in prison for embezzling money from Al Silvio. It was a lot of money, and I’m not proud of what I did. I wish I could say I did it for a good reason, but there’s no excuse. I messed up. Don Silvio discovered what I’d done when I was arrested. Needless to say, he was beyond angry. I’m not asking for mercy from him or you. I accept his punishment like I’ll do my time. I come to you, calling in my father’s favor becaus
We all shift in our seats. No one speaks. No one relays our discomfit. But my uncles all have daughters, and we all have sisters or cousins. Women we love—protect. Women we’d die for before we’d let them be dishonored.
“You have to understand. I’m begging you to understand. My daughter had nothing to do with this. She didn’t use the money on designer bags or spa vacations. She had no idea I even had that much money. My wife had sarcoidosis, which scarred her lungs. My daughter is a good girl. She devoted her life to taking care of her mother. No boyfriends, no college parties—just caring for her ill mother. She’s an angel. Too good and far better than all of us. She doesn’t deserve the shit coming for her. I’m begging you. I will get down on my knees and beg if I have to. Please help her.”
“What do you expect us to do,” Leo asks.
“Marry her. It’s the only way to keep her safe for the rest of her life.”
Jeniah
The phone is cold against my ear, its weight pressing my heart down like a heavy stone. It takes more courage to place this call than to go outside and check myself. I tap in the numbers and wait. It doesn’t take long.
“911, what is your emergency?”
I swallow hard. “I think someone tried to get into my house. The motion lights came on outside, and I thought I heard someone rattling the knob.”
There’s a pause. A harsh intake of breath before the operator’s skepticism creeps through the line. “Ma’am, it’s your third call this week regarding suspicious activity. Are you sure it’s not just the wind or maybe… neighborhood kids? Sometimes, those sensors are too low and react to small animals. I’ve even heard of a field mouse…”
“Unless a mouse can rattle my doorknob, then I need an officer to do his job and check out my neighborhood.” She hisses at my reproach. But I don’t have time for her attitude. She can’t dismiss me like some paranoid girl running from shadows. I pull the curtain back a sliver and peek out the window. The light is off now, and I can’t see a thing. I wipe my hand across my forehead and press it against the back door. My eyes burn, either from tears or weariness. I don’t know or care. I’m so tired. I haven’t slept in days. Maybe I am paranoid. But who wouldn’t be—I’m the girl whose father stole everyone’s savings and ended up in prison—leaving me alone in a house too big for one.
“Alright, we’ll send someone to check it out. Do you have a safe place to stay until they arrive?”
My breath hitches. Safe? Who could feel safe when eyes follow you everywhere you go? Thank God the media isn’t still camping outside. The last reporter, hoping for an interview, finally stopped stalking me and drove away. Coincidentally, around the same time, the motion lights turned wacky.
“No. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll stay here.”
“Okay, I’ll dispatch a unit. Someone will be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and pad over the side of the couch. The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet. I wait. “Meow.” Milo jumps up to my side, rubbing against my leg. Purring until I kneel to scratch behind his ears.
“Who would want to scare us, huh?” I murmur to him, losing myself in the soft fur gliding under my fingers. “Kids? I’m not crazy, I swear.”
He stares at me with wide, innocent eyes. Does he understand? How could he? He’s just a cat, the only creature in this house that doesn’t judge. I lean into his warmth and let his purr calm me.
I wait in the living room. I hardly ever come in here. In the last days of Mama’s illness, it served as her bedroom. I look at the corner her hospital bed had occupied because she was too weak to go up the stairs. Father wanted to put her in a nursing home. But she said if she went, she would go in the house she’d grown up in—with her things around her. I almost smile, remembering Father’s reaction. He’d said it wasn’t dignified. But death wasn’t dignified—mama answered.
Is his cell dignified?
Sadness creeps in and thickens the air. I left high school to care for Mama. My mother had struggled to breathe with that cruel disease—sarcoidosis. I spent those years half a parent—replacing laughter with errands, chatting about the latest gossip with hospital visits and medication schedules. Even with the changes in decor, this room is now a painful reminder of everything I lost. She passed away just under a year ago. The dispatchers on the other end of these calls don’t know what it’s like to lose a whole world in a slow drip of an I.V.
My father’s absence is worse. It was the brutal rip of a band-aid ripping off skin. Gone with a vicious Yank when he was arrested three months ago. A single rip, and just like that, he was gone. He cut a deal, took a plea bargain, and in a blink, my childhood—our family—became just me.
I wrap my arms around myself when my eyes burn and my head throbs. I can’t cry. Not now. Not ever.
Milo hops up into my lap, his weight grounding me. He gazes up at me with those knowing eyes, and I can’t help but chuckle softly. I know he’s saying, “You still have me.”
The motion lights outside flicker, and my stomach knots. When everything crashed down, the neighborhood turned against us. No one likes a thief. He didn’t just steal money—he stole trust and friendships. Now, they look at our house with scorn and suspicion. He hurt so many people—ruined corporations and non-profits. He had no mercy. I think he lost his humanity watching my mother die. I get it. Because I wanted to fight the world, too.
None of that matters now. I have this house, the only thing the feds left me. “Milo, what can I do?” I ask him as I stroke his back. He kneads my thigh, massaging the tension roiling under my skin. It’s his way of telling me not to worry. He’s right. I have a decent job working online as a book editor. If I squint just right, my life almost sounds… normal. Just isolated as hell. Maybe one day, I’ll write some of the stories I made up to occupy my mother. I did love writing. Maybe one day, this house can be my refuge and my escape.
But right now, it feels more like a prison.
I rub under his chin when Milo settles into my lap, pleased with himself. I need to ignore my nosy neighbors; their raised brows and scornful looks start getting out of the house. Get a friend besides my cat. I could join the library’s book club. The librarian always invites me from behind the desk. Encouraging me to step into the world of stories once again.
What’s stopping me? A squeak comes from the front door before the bell rings, and my heart races again. Milo jumps down, tail twitching, his wide eyes locked on the door. “Not helping, buddy,” I mutter.
Milo paces at my feet. Correctly reading the room. “Stay here.” I approach it like I would a ticking bomb. “Hello?” I call out waiting to see if anyone responds.
Silence blankets the house.
My mind races, picturing the worst. What if a gang of kids is ready to egg the place or throw stones through the windows? Seconds feel like minutes. Maybe I should call 911 again. They’ll think I’m crazy, but I don’t care.
“Hello,” a voice booms from outside as I inch closer. “Miss Reynolds.” I freeze. It’s a man’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Officer Holmes, ma’am. I’m with the police. We got a report of a possible break-in.”
I open the door, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. The officer standing there looks tall, broad, and stern. Stoic, yet kindness shines in his dark eyes. I recognize the look.
Pity.
“Are you alright?” he asks in a soft voice.
“No,” I say, too exhausted to hold my tongue. It’s been a long time since I felt alright.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I take in a deep, labored breath. “I thought I heard someone trying to get in. The motion lights went off.”
“Well, we checked the yard and both sides of the house—all clear. My partner is circling the block now.” He holds my gaze. “This is the third call of the week, you know.” He says it slowly, as if he’s handling the same time bomb.
