Consequences: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 2

  One whiskey sour—mixed with rage—coming right up.

  I hold the smile on my face even though on the inside I’m a total wreck. It’s not the clients’ fault my ex was a cheating, lying sack of shit. I want the Bachmans’ experience to be the best possible. This requires a friendly and attentive chief stew, not a crying mental mess. I make my way out of the galley. The door leading out to the deck swings open, slapping my tray and sending the drink flying. “Oh, shit!” I cry as I watch the perfectly prepared whiskey drink crash to the floor.

  Charlotte stands before me, her eyes wide in horror. Her hands go to her cheeks. “Oh, Emily, I’m so sorry! I was rushing about and—” Her words are cut off by the tears glistening in her eyes. Her bottom lip begins to quiver.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” I place my hand on her trembling shoulder. I remember those early days all too well, trying to please and feeling like you have no idea what you’re doing. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, you’re going to get the hang of it. It’s only your first charter.”

  “I know but... the Bachmans took a chance on me. They never hire inexperienced stews... look at you.” Her wide eyes turn up to me, as if searching for my secrets.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You’re perfect. You keep everything so neat and tidy. You always seem to know exactly what the guests want before they even know it themselves. And no one folds a napkin like you. You’re incredible.” She gazes at me as if I’m made of gold.

  I offer her a smile. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m happy to teach you everything I know. You’ll see, just be patient and give yourself some time.”

  “Thank you.” She pulls me into a tight hug.

  I wind my arms around her, smoothing her soft hair. “Would you mind cleaning this up and I’ll go make another one?”

  She releases me, shooing me with a nervous flutter of her hands. “Of course. I’ve got this. You go. I promise I’ll try harder. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  Pressing my hands into her shoulders, I steady her with my gaze. She blinks back her tears, focusing on my words. I make my tone firm; she needs to know I believe in her, then she can believe in herself. “Charlotte, if you keep working as hard as you are, you are going to make a fan-fucking-tastic stewardess one day.”

  The tension in her face melts into a bright smile. “Emily, you’re the best boss.” She gives me another tight squeeze, then bounces off to gather rags and our trusty spray bottle. You can clean an entire boat with a little rubbing alcohol. And you can calm any new stew with a few words of encouragement.

  I head off to the galley to mix another drink. Watch out, shaker, I’m coming for you. I laugh to myself, a bit of a manic laugh—I can’t fall apart—and reach for the whiskey.

  What more could go wrong today?

  As if reading my thoughts, my watch beeps. Though the term ‘watch’ doesn’t do this little gadget justice. The small round face attaches to my wrist with a sleek black leather band. It has a location device, time settings for every zone, and with a press of your earpiece, it listens to your voice, relaying your message to all crew.

  These watches are the source of all communication. They are directly linked to a tiny silicone bud that rests in my ear canal, much like a hearing aid of sorts. It’s so comfortable, I never notice it.

  Staff are always to wear the watch and the earpiece when guests are on board. Every Bachman male wears one, whether they are on board or not.

  I answer the beep by pressing a finger to my ear, activating my mic. “Emily speaking.”

  A booming voice comes through the line. “Emily, Captain. Meet me on the bridge.” I sense an edge of displeasure in his voice. It makes me cringe. Knots form in my stomach.

  I press the button again. A small sigh slips from my mouth as I reply, “Copy for Emily.”

  “Forgetting something, dear?”

  “Copy for Emily... sir.”

  The only thing left to go wrong on this charter—me being pulled up to the bridge.

  Captains only call you up to their lair for one thing; to fuss you out. I rack my brain through the last few days, trying to figure out what I could have possibly done to be on Captain’s bad side.

  The Aphrodite is the most revered boat in the yachting world and this captain is the most well respected and sought after in the industry. It makes sense the two would be paired. Captain Luca’s a workaholic who stays tied to the sea. Ridiculous stories spread about his past, as he never shares his private life. No one even knows whether he’s a member of the Brotherhood, or just an employee of the Bachmans.

  The less information people have about a person, the more crap they make up to fill in the blanks.

  It’s been said he hasn’t had a date in ten years.

  That he was a general in the army and was dishonorably discharged for losing his temper and beating up five men at once, then took off to Greece to hide his shame.

  That he was a well-known movie star in Italy, was scorned by his lover—a costar actress—and adopted a life of solitude on the water.

  And my personal favorite—his fiancée cheated on him and he murdered her lover in a fit of jealous rage. Then took off for the Aphrodite to live under the protection of the Bachmans.

  His looks only serve to fuel the fire of the mysterious rumors that swirl around him. He’s a well-oiled machine built like a tank with a face that makes women’s knees go weak. He’s got these gray-green eyes that seem to change color, going stormy when he’s annoyed. His body is made of stone, his jawline of steel. He holds himself to the highest standards and demands perfection from his staff.

  And he scares the absolute shit out of me.

  I bring him coffee in the mornings then try to stay out of his way for the rest of the day.

  I can’t keep him waiting. There’s no time for me to make a replacement whiskey sour. I find a spare deckhand—Colin, a cute redhead from Ireland who has constant sunburn across the bridge of his freckled nose—and ask him to make and serve the drink for me. Warn him to watch out for Charlotte cleaning the floor on her hands and knees on the other side of the swinging galley door.

  As I head to the bridge, I feel as though I’m carrying a heavy weight and it’s becoming more burdensome with every step. I’ve cleaned every inch of this place spotless, served breakfast and lunch with a smile, and kept the drinks filled to the brim—with the one exception that is now being mopped up by Charlotte—all while down a staff member.

  So why is Captain beckoning me to the bridge?

  As I shuffle through all the tasks I’ve completed, anger rises in my chest. My feet hurt. My head aches from staying up past midnight preparing for breakfast service, then rising at six. I’m ready to go on my half hour break. The last thing I want right now is to be reprimanded. I tread lightly up the stairs, though every ounce of me wants to stomp up each one, showing my frustration.

  I would never do such a thing as I pride myself on my professionalism. But I want to.

  I knock on the door.

  “Enter.”

  I step inside, closing the door behind me. No need for my fellow shipmates to hear me getting chewed out. I smile brightly. “You called, Captain?”

  He’s seated in his wide leather chair. His eyes are mostly gray right now as they stare out over the turquoise seas. He lifts a hand to his chin, stroking his short, perfectly manicured beard. He’s got a bit of silver streaking his dark hair at his temples, though he’s not yet forty. “The weather’s clearing up.” He says it as if he’s talking to himself and not me.

  “That’s nice.” I shift my weight on my feet. Neatly fold my hands behind my back and wait for the real reason I’m here. As I do, I release a small sigh.

  His attention turns to me so slowly, I feel like a field mouse caught in the gaze of an eagle. It’s unnerving and it makes my already tense muscles tighten. Knots form in my stomach. His steely eyes lock on mine as he says, “Same sigh heard over the earpiece when I called you.”

  He heard that? He’s got the ears of a bird of prey to match the gaze. “Sorry. Just tired.”

  His face beams disapproval. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “No, no trouble.” I tug on the end of my ponytail.

  A shiver runs through me as he lifts one dark brow. “Then why have I received a complaint this charter?”

  The knots in my stomach turn to ice, their frosty tangles traveling up toward my chest. Receiving a complaint from the family who owns the boat is the absolute worst thing that can happen, aside from the boat sinking. The Bachmans pay generously, and they demand excellence.

  I feign confidence I do not feel. “In four seasons of yachting, I’ve never, ever had a complaint. What did they say?”

  He leans back in his chair. Plants his elbows on its wide arms. Folds his massive hands before him. “What do you,” he points at me with his pressed together fingertips, “think was said?”

  I feel as if I’m being interrogated by a general in the military. Perspiration dots my hairline. “I don’t know what it is, but I can tell you I’ve been working damn hard.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  A queer tightening twists my frozen insides. The way his dark eyes study my face gives me the sudden urge to turn and run as fast as I can. Get out of this confined space with Captain, whose jaw is now locked as tight as a treasure chest.

  “And watch your tongue.”

  Shit—did I just swear at Captain?

  Backpedal to the metal. “Sorry—it’s just that I can’t think of a thing I’ve done wrong.”

  “Not one thing?” His fingers lower, pointing to the bulge in my pocket.

  My phone. Double shit.

  Phones are to be kept in our bunks, used only on breaks, no exceptions. I’ve been caught. Confession t
ime. “I had my phone out a bit, but only once or twice and I was sure I was out of sight of the clients.” There’s no way any guest saw me. I was so careful. Who turned me in?

  Captain leers at me, ready to tear me limb from limb. “What could possibly be so important that you need to carry your phone with you?”

  I can’t tell him the humiliating truth. I come up with a quick white lie. “I had a friend back home who wasn’t feeling well. I was checking in on her.”

  His brow is now impossibly high. He’s not buying it. “Is that so?”

  I ramble, coming up with any excuse to get out of there. “Won’t happen again. You have my word... I should probably get back to work now. Dinner is being served soon and I need to change into my blacks—”

  “Let me see it.” He holds his hand out to me.

  I squeak in reply, “My phone?”

  “Yes. Your phone.”

  Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.” His hands seems to be growing bigger by the second.

  “Okay.” My fingers tremble as I reach into the pocket of my skirt. My precious phone suddenly becomes my enemy, about to disclose my darkest secrets.

  His booming voice demands, “Unlock it and open your browser history.”

  I don’t want to, but I obey. My fingers tremble as I type in my passcode and find my browsing history. Instantly, the screen is filled with line after line of social media pages.

  All of them belonging to the same person, Brendon Carter.

  Brendon Carter Instagram—Image after image of him in the library, sipping lattes, posed in front of old buildings admiring the architecture with an inquisitive look on his face.

  Brendon Carter Facebook—Post after post of political and historical facts. I read every link he shares; thought-provoking articles on the education system, images of renowned works of art, travel blogs.

  Brendon Carter Twitter feed—Witty quips he comes up with through his day, meant to inspire his students. I looked up his quotes from long-dead artists, read the retweets from professors he admires.

  Basically, I’m staring at a play by play log of hours and hours of online stalking my ex-boyfriend. If this was a courtroom, they’d have all the evidence they needed right there on that tiny screen to issue a restraining order.

  And I have to place my humiliation into the open hand of my captain.

  I think I’m going to puke.

  I reach out a trembling hand, releasing my phone into his massive palm.

  His eyes graze the screen. “Let me guess. Your sick friend back home—her name is Brendon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Checking up on a friend, or is this more of a stalker situation we have on our hands?”

  “Um... a bit more of the latter,” I confess.

  “Your history shows that you’ve been on your phone. A lot.” The twisted knots in my stomach tighten with every swipe of his finger. His storm cloud eyes rise, locking on mine and causing patches of heat to break out over my chest. “Quite a bit more than you’ve admitted to.”

  I’m on the verge of shaking. I manage to stammer out, “S-sorry, sir.”

  He clicks the phone off. Places it face down on his desk. He folds his hands back into the pyramid of intimidation. Those thick fingers point at me. “Tell me, Emily. Name two of my rules that you’ve broken?”

  Those first few days on the Aphrodite, once the entire crew was aboard the boat, Captain sat us all down for a lecture of his expectations. Now I feel like a naughty schoolgirl being reprimanded by the principal for not behaving properly. “No phones. No lying.”

  “Correct. And which of the two did I tell you was an immediately fire-able offense?”

  I stare down at my bare feet. My toenail polish is chipping. I make a mental note to fix it when I get back to the bunk. Anything to take my mind off this terrible conversation. I sigh. “Lying.”

  “Look at me when you speak to me.” His words strike fear in my heart.

  I tear my gaze from my Candy Red toes and raise it to meet his. I’m not liking what I’m seeing there—it makes my knees weak, my stomach sick—hence the avoidance of eye contact in the first place. “Lying, sir.”

  “Correct again. Which is why I’m so stumped as to why you would try and pull such a stunt.”

  “I’m sorry. But... you can’t fire me.”

  His sky-high brow lowers meeting the other. They knit together in displeasure. The glare he penetrates me with has me trembling as he growls, “Excuse me?”

  I stammer a reply. “I mean... I know you can. But please don’t. I’m begging you. I can’t go home, I can’t face...”

  “Brendon Carter?” Cue the brow lift. It’s like freaking face aerobics of intimidation.

  I can’t believe I’m confessing this but it’s not as if he hasn’t seen the evidence firsthand—it was literally in his hand, for goodness’ sake.

  I’m stalking my ex.

  I’m obsessed with my phone.

  Every single chance I get, I steal away to the back of the boat where (I thought) no one could see me and I go through every post, every picture, read every tweet, every hashtag.

  I’m addicted to the heartbreak.

  And I’m a shitty employee. I nod, biting my bottom lip and holding back tears. “Yes. It’s... Brendon.” Just saying his name causes me physical pain.

  He leans back further in his chair. “Let me guess. An ex. Broke your heart. You got back into yachting to get away and forget about him?”

  “Yes. I’m moving on.” Lying again.

  His hard tone softens but it doesn’t take away the sting of his words. “Instead of moving on, you’ve put our quality of work at jeopardy, my reputation at stake, and lied to my face.”

  “I know but I’m a damn good—” Eyebrow to the sky! Danger... tread carefully... “Sorry, I’m a darn good chief stew and I don’t want you to fire me.”

  “Tell me, Emily. If I don’t fire you, then what am I to do with you?” His elbows bury into the leather arms of his chair, and his chin rests on the top of the pyramid he’s formed with his fingers.

  I think of Charlotte’s face when she spilled the drink. How her eyes were so wide and apologetic, tugging at my heart. Maybe doe eyes will work on Captain. I widen my gaze, try to make my bottom lip quiver. “Keep me. I promise I won’t break any more rules.”

  He gives me a queer look. I drop the act. He says, “Your promise means nothing if I can’t trust you. And you’ve lied to me, breaking that trust. Do you know what happens to my staff when they can’t be trusted?”

  “No.”

  “They have to be watched until they earn that trust back. I’ll be watching you very closely.”

  Hope dances in my heart. “Does that mean you’re keeping me?”

  His gaze narrows, as if he’s deciding what I’m made of. How much I can handle. “That depends.”

  “On what?” I ask.

  His tone lowers. “On whether you choose to accept your punishment.”

  Sounds strange, but if Captain wants to walk around watching me fold towels and create centerpieces, he can have at it. “Of you watching me? Sure. I don’t mind. You’ll see how much I do in a day and it’ll be good for me to have you holding me accountable. Maybe you can even give me some tips—”

  He interrupts me, his harsh tone reprimanding me. “Having to watch you is a byproduct of you breaking my trust. It is not a punishment.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  Chapter Two

  Emily

  I’ve worked on a lot of boats—though Captain puts even the best to shame with his professionalism—but I’ve not heard of punishments being doled out. One-way plane tickets being purchased, people being told to pack their things and go home, yes.

  Punishments, no.

  My shaky words come out in a trembling tumble. “Wh-what do you have in mind?”

  He sneers. “Sneaking off and checking social media is a very childish thing to do. And I will deal with it appropriately.”

  I feel my own brow knitting together. “How so?”

  “How do you think I deal with naughty little girls who’ve broken my rules? Hmm?” His gaze burns my cheeks. But my eyes are mesmerized by his hand. His opened palm comes down, patting his thigh. Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat.