The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance) novel Chapter 115

I have worked my arse off for five days getting this club ready, and now, as opening night looms upon me, I stand out in the car park giving Feral his daily food portion. Sun blazing down on us in this gorgeous weather, warming my head and shoulders in my loose shirt dress, completely out of the norm for the time of year and I feel a little less tense than I did indoors. My nerves for re-opening night have been getting to me for days, and I’m strung up to high heaven with a constant lead weight in my stomach.

I may have grown a little attached to this snarling little ginger beast and have been feeding him twice a day when I pop out here for air. It’s become ritualistic for me. Escaping my confines for breathing space to expel my anxiety and seeing to this hopeless creature. He’s starting to look a lot more appealing these days, now that skin and bone has a slight padding and thicker healthier fur.

He’s staring at me from under the bonnet of the nearest car, his usual hiding spot, as I scrape out the cat meat into the steel bowl I keep out here for him and top up the water from the bottle I brought down. He knows the drill but yet he always acts like I am invading his space and doing some awful act.

Feral hisses at me when I straighten up.

‘Oh shush, you crazy beast. I know you are nicer than you pretend to be. Just remember who comes out here and feeds you every day. Show a little gratitude.’ I tell him off with a friendly tone and watch with stupid pride as he settles down his aggressive verbal’s instantly; glares watchfully.

The cat slowly edges out, not yet ready to trust, and I move back to give him the space he requires to make a dash for the bowl like a starved animal, even though he’s started gaining weight. I wouldn’t go as far as saying he is thriving yet, but he’s noticeably better. His coat is less lacklustre and the flea tablet Jackson crushed into his food on Monday seems to have taken care of the little infestation he had going on. He isn’t scratching and the bald patches and bloody scratches look like they are starting to heal already.

We still can’t get near him, but he tolerates us within three feet now, instead of six, which is huge. Watching us whenever we come out, and he has the sense to at least avoid the cars now. Which is a complete relief to my nerves; I swear I got so antsy anytime cars came and went I thought about banning all of them from parking here and telling them to go find space in the street. I am a little protective of my hostile kitty cat.

I pick up the can and bottle to clear my rubbish away and turn to head back in as he growls at my departure—A long, low deep noise this time.

‘I’m taking that as a thank you and goodbye you ungrateful little scab. I do enjoy our chats though … See you tomorrow, Feral. Sleep tight and watch out for the traffic.’ I throw back with a smile at him, getting a big yellow glare from his one and only good eye and head back into the building. Shaking my head at how I could find something as visually unattractive as Feral, adorably cute. There is obviously something warped inside of me.

I don’t know what made me start buying real cat food for the bloody thing in the first place. I think it was seeing it out here the morning I came home from Miami looking skinny and unwanted and eating scraps from the edge of the bins to survive.

That ginger little street rat that nobody cares about—kind of struck a chord in me. I have been taking care of him ever since. Even roped Jackson into it to make sure the cat had eyes watching for him around the clock when I wasn’t out here.

I head indoors, eyes adjusting from bright light to gloomy dimness that always seems worse after being out there. I head upstairs and catch sight of that tramp ‘Hoe-anne’ in Lucie’s old office when I get up to the door of mine and throw her a distasteful look.

I still hate her ever-lingering presence, but it’s an advantage having a skivvy to order about and do the mundane shit I cannot be bothered with. My plans for her stand-in are to train someone to such a competent level of skill that I can relax on my presence downstairs every night and do more of what a club owner does. Direct and supervise, rather than always be centre front. It won’t be her though. I would rather eat my own spleen than keep her on.

‘You sorted out tonight’s guest list like I told you to?’ I throw her attitude … Just because I can.

‘Yes. A couple of them are bringing guests.’ She has that catty air to her tone although she tries to veil it—unsuccessfully. Feeling between us is mutual.

‘Put the list on my desk when you’re done so I can vet the guests. We check everyone who comes here, every time we book a night. Double check and dot every ‘i’, no mistakes.’ I learned the hard way that all guests should be accounted for.

‘Yes, I know.’ She answers with a snotty tone and gets a frosty look from me. I have been putting her in her place all week and she is trying not to go down without a fight and failing.

I haven’t heard from Alexi either. Not since the night we went to Miami, and I am still simmering over that. He’s a thug, a jealous irrational arsehole who was completely out of order, yet he’s still part owner, and he owed me some sort of fucking contact before now. An apology, or just to check in and see how I was doing. He’s annoyed me immensely for not even one measly little god damn text.

It’s not that I gave a shit about some random man getting beaten; it was that he attacked someone merely for touching me, in front of me, and put the fear of God in me in the worst kind of way. He violently pulverised someone because of me and yet, has ignored me for almost a week.

Anytime I forget who or what he is it’s like he has to remind me that he’s a soulless demon and put it back in my face that he’s capable of so much; That raw brutal aggression, like a machine. He annihilated that guy effortlessly.

Alexi shows a tiny bit of human and then destroys it by showing you a tidal wave of the complete psycho that dwells inside him. I wonder if it’s because of the simple fact he let his guard down and fear hits him hard that you might see a little deeper. Think he might harbour a softer side.

I’m really starting to see that he has major issues on a serious level. Getting to know him more than I did first time around has me second guessing all that clever and smooth aura of evil, and wondering just how broken he is under the layers he displays. He’s not as clear-cut as he once appeared to be. I think Alexi is a lot more screwed up than he likes to let on.

I know he trains with the cousin who boxes, I’ve heard him talk about him, and a lot of his cousins are all into martial arts and some form of fight training. He can probably do a lot of damage effortlessly, but that man was no match and completely unprepared. If Mico and Gino hadn’t intervened I have no doubt that he would have killed him, without any remorse, right there in front of me. He is clearly not against me witnessing that again.

It’s also a stark reminder of how ingrained it is in his head that taking a life is nothing. He’s emotionally disconnected from the act in every way and I have often tried to dissect why or how he got to this point.

Jackson told me that the Miami ‘incident’ has all been taken care of; the club owner is a friend and wiped the security feed from the hall we were in. The ‘victim’ neither died from his injuries nor did he get a good look at Alexi as it happened so fast, and he was drunk enough to not remember much after. Not even me. It’s all been cleaned up and fizzling away as though it never happened at all. Jackson told me his injuries seemed a lot worse than they were, and that the man is on the mend in a Miami hospital.