Staring at myself in the mirror is like staring at a stranger. My hand lifts, toying with the long, dyed golden-blonde strands of hair curtaining my face. Months of forced cosmetic surgery have altered the structure of my face, though it’s subtle. My nose is thinner, my cheekbones higher, my lips fuller. The only thing that is unchanged is my wide blue eyes.
The reflection is stunning, but I don’t feel like me.
I’m not me.
I’m trapped in a body crafted to ensnare a powerful man.
I have no control. I’m a puppet, and the cartel is the one pulling the strings.
Looking down at the monstrosities perched on my chest, I pine for my small breasts. That sick fuck Pablo Fuentes—leader of the Sinaloa Cartel—made me undergo months of transformation so there is minimal risk of anyone discovering my real identity.
“We need to leave shortly,” Diego says, barging into my bedroom without knocking. You’d think after seven months of enduring a living hell with no privacy that I wouldn’t care, but it’s the small things I took for granted before that matter so much now. “El Rey wants to speak to you first.” He thrusts a cell at me.
Bile coats my tongue as I hold the phone out in front of me. Video, of course. It’s not enough I have to listen to Pablo’s slimy voice; I’m also forced to look at his ugly face.
“I want to see all of you,” the leering asshole says, and I grind my teeth to the molars as I drag the cell up and down my body.
“What the fuck is this?” Fuentes snarls. “I told you to dress sexy!”
“I’m interviewing to be a nanny. If I turn up in a sexy dress, he’ll dismiss me before I’ve even opened my mouth.” I gesture at my conservative black pencil skirt and white silk blouse. I’ve paired them with plain black stilettos and a string of fake pearls.
“I told you the interview is only a formality. My inside contact will ensure you get the placement,” he snaps. “Do I need to remind you of what’s at stake?”
“I don’t need a reminder,” I say in a clipped tone.
“Maybe you need additional incentive.”
Pain spears through me when he grabs Mom, hauling her onto her knees in front of him. “Take it out and suck it, whore.”
“That’s enough.” I rub a hand across my queasy tummy. “I don’t need additional incentive. I understand the stakes.” My mother’s life is literally in my hands. If I don’t deliver for the cartel, they will kill her. The fear of fucking up has kept me awake for hours every night since I returned to New York. Thank God for concealer.
“You ignored a direct order.” Fuentes smirks as Mom unzips him and pulls his disgusting cock out.
She has a dazed expression on her face that’s familiar. Hurt flays the flesh from my bones as effectively as if my skin were physically being carved up. The thoughts of everything Mom has endured lay siege to my tortured brain, like always. I live with constant guilt and regret. It’s quite possible she’s addicted to the shit he keeps pumping into her neglected body, but how can I criticize or tell her to resist it when the drugged haze she slips into numbs some of her pain?
“Mommy will continue to pay the price for your disobedience, Sloane. The fact you’re there and she’s here doesn’t change shit.”
“I’ll wear a sexy dress,” I blurt, panicking as Mom lowers her head.
“No, what you’re wearing is better.”
I open my mouth to protest the “punishment” but clamp it shut again. The look on his face dares me to challenge him. I’ve learned from experience that I never win; he’ll only see it as further grounds to hurt my mother. Shame rattles my insides as I think of all the ways I have failed her. But I won’t fail her now, even if I detest what I’m being made to do. I don’t like that I’ll be responsible for this man losing his life, but it’s his life or my mother’s, and there’s no contest.
“Good girl,” Pablo says, looking at me as he pats Mom’s head while she bobs up and down.
Knots twist in my gut. I’ve been forced to blow that prick daily for months. Yes, I wasn’t violated regularly like Mom, but that didn’t mean my body wasn’t misused in ways that didn’t physically mark me.
Fuentes’ men nicknamed me “The Blowjob Queen.” They joked that their cum in my belly sustained me. Fuentes’ favorite hobby was blowing his load over my enhanced chest after the surgery, and I couldn’t hate my fake boobs any more if I tried.
“Have you memorized the file?” he asks, spreading his thighs and leaning back in his chair as he knots Mom’s longer hair around his fist.
Someday, I am going to gut that prick and make him choke on his vile cock. “Yes,” I grit out, clenching my jaw.
“I expect the performance of a lifetime, my little American Barbie.” He grins at his own pathetic excuse of a joke.
“I’ll deliver.” I often wonder if he targeted me because I was studying drama at Yale or if it was because I’m from New York. My gut tells me Thiago set the whole thing up, but it could just be we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess I won’t ever know because the prick refuses to answer any time I ask him.
“See that you do.” Grabbing the back of Mom’s neck, he forces her mouth lower. Garbled sounds rip from her throat as she struggles against his firm grip, trying to breathe over a mouthful of cartel cock. “If you blow this, you won’t ever see your mother again. I’ll video her final minutes and send it to you, ensuring you never know a minute’s peace. Her death will always be on you.”
“I won’t blow it.”
“Don’t even think of confiding in Don DiPietro or begging him for help. My contact will know, and that will be the end for dear mom.”
“I know what I need to do and what’s at stake. I won’t fail my mother.”
Loosening his grip on Mom’s neck, he leans into the screen. “See that you don’t fail me.”
The screen goes black, and my hand shakes as I give the cell back to Diego. In some ways, I’ve become desensitized to all the horrors that are my new existence. I’ve had to numb myself to a lot of it to survive. Mom needed me to be brave and smart, and I’ve tried, but it’s not easy. I will never stop fearing that man and the things he can do and has done to my mother and to me.
Mom is counting on me. The only way she’s getting out of this alive is if I get Don DiPietro to hire me, bed me, and confide in me. Failure isn’t an option. Otherwise, we’re both dead.
I read through the file on my lap one more time as Diego rides in the taxi with me to the DiPietro Freight Management & Logistics building, where my interview is scheduled to take place. I don’t know how he pulled it off, but Fuentes says this fake background will be corroborated when the Italian mafia conducts their regular checks. The fact that I already have an interview confirms I passed. Fuentes has crafted a false identity that is as close to my real one as possible, so there is less margin for error, but not enough similarities to lead anyone to my true persona.
I’m dying to check online to see what was reported when Mom and I went missing, but I have no access to the internet. Diego and Alvaro have been all up in my business since we arrived in The Big Apple two weeks ago. I am only allowed out of the tiny apartment to shop for clothes and cosmetics or to exercise on the roof. My meals are carefully calorie-controlled. God forbid I put on weight. I’ve been slender all my life, but I was always a healthy weight. I’ve got to be at least ten pounds lighter by now, if not more.
I hate my thinner frame. Fuentes seems to think all American men want blondes with big tits and skinny frames. Or perhaps that’s Don DiPietro’s type. I wouldn’t know. I’ve been told the bare minimum about the man. I know he’s powerful within the Italian mafia in New York, he is a single father to his nephew, and he is the CEO of his family business. The cartel wants me to spy on him to discover the transportation routes for their drug distribution network within the US and, when the time is right, to deliver Cristian DiPietro to the cartel so they can kill him. I don’t know why they have beef with him personally, because that information wasn’t forthcoming.
How has my life come to this? Getting mixed up between a cartel and the mafia with my mother’s life hanging in the balance and everything resting on my ability to seduce a dangerous man. I can’t even enjoy the fact I’m back on US soil because I’m not free. My every move is watched and controlled, and I can’t contemplate stepping out of line because Fuentes will make Mom suffer for my mistakes.
Resting my head against the window, I close my eyes and allow myself one brief moment to be human. To throw a pity party. To wish I had never agreed to meet Thiago outside the resort. To lament the life I’ve been forced to leave behind. To mourn the future that no longer awaits.
“We’re here,” Diego says a few beats later, and my reprieve ends. He pays the driver in cash, and we get out onto the heaving sidewalk in the Financial District. “The building is around the corner. You’re on your own from here because they have cameras outside, but don’t try anything.” His eyes drill into my skull as his fingers dig into my arm. “I’ll be watching. One false step and it’s lights out for your mama.”
I yank my hand out of his grip. “I’m well aware.”
He stares at me for a few minutes. “Go, you don’t want to be late.”
I’m cursing him in my head and visualizing gruesome ways to kill him as I walk off in the direction of the DiPietro building. Although it’s futile, I run over scenarios in my head again, ways in which I can reach out for help. If I could get my hands on a cell, I could call Rory or give my bodyguards the slip and go to the police or the FBI, but those options only save me. They’d be a death sentence for Mom, and I can’t pull my best friend into this mess in case they target her too. So, I need to let thoughts of escape go and stick with the program. I have no choice but to do as Fuentes says, and hope he’ll let us go like he’s promised after I’ve played my part.
The impressive building rises majestically ahead of me when I round the corner. Tipping my head back, I stare at the looming building with multiple floors stretching farther than I can see. Nerves fire at me from all angles, and I wipe my clammy palms down the side of my skirt as I walk toward the entrance doors. There is so much resting on this first meeting, and I cannot fuck it up.
Shoving my shoulders back, I lift my chin and adopt my new persona. Sloane Barton isn’t here to be interviewed. Sloane Clark is, and she’s about to give the performance of her life. Nothing less will do.
I sit confidently in the small waiting room as I prepare to be called. Heels clicking on the polished floor claim my attention, and I turn my head, watching a tall brunette approach, wearing a tight smile. “Ms. Clark. Mr. DiPietro will see you now,” she says, pursing her lips as she rakes her gaze up and down me with clear derision.
Wow. Judgmental much? I get that I don’t look like the stereotypical nanny, but it’s rude to judge me for my looks when she hasn’t even heard a word I have to say. Forcing a fake smile on my face, I rise gracefully, pleased I have the height advantage by an inch or two. Normally, I avoid heels because it means I tower over the average guy, but on this occasion, I’m glad to be taller. “Thank you.” I cast a quick look over her, but I’m not as obvious or bitchy as she was. Her small chest is at odds with her tall frame, curvy hips, and rounded butt, but I envy her all the same.
She stalks ahead of me, her spine rigid and an air of haughtiness surrounding her. I wonder who pissed in her cornflakes this morning or if this is her usual personality.
I smooth a hand down the front of my skirt when we stop in front of a door. She enters the large office first, pausing by the door to usher me inside before closing it after me. She gestures toward the desk at the far side of the room. A man is standing in front of the window, looking out at the waterfront in the near distance. I’d say the view is spectacular in the summer from this vantage point. I study Don DiPietro as I walk across the room. Broad shoulders taper to a slim waist, narrow hips, and a shapely butt behind his black dress pants. My steps falter when he turns around and I get a look at his face.
My god, he’s stunning.
Dark hair is slicked back from his face in a classic American style. Vibrant green eyes study me as I approach, flaring slightly as he examines my face. He gets brownie points for not looking below my chin. His olive complexion complements the layer of stubble on his chin and cheeks. Cristian has a strong nose and full lips, an ode to his Italian American heritage. Ink peeks out from under the wristbands of his pale blue dress shirt and above his collar. A small diamond earring loops around one ear.
He’s older than me, but I anticipated that. I didn’t know what to expect, really. It’s not like I’ve ever crossed paths with the Italian mafia. But I wasn’t expecting a man in his thirties, and I certainly didn’t imagine he’d be so hot. I can’t decide if it’s better he’s attractive or if it makes my planned seduction worse.
A throat clearing snaps me out of it, and a natural blush stains my cheeks when I reach his desk.
“Ms. Clark. I’m Cristian DiPietro,” he says, rounding the desk and smiling pleasantly. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for coming in.”
I smile shyly, remembering my role. “The pleasure is all mine, sir. Thank you for letting me interview for the position.”
His arm extends, and I shake his hand. His palm is callused but warm, and heat travels up my arm from his touch, alongside a trail of fiery tingles. “Call me Cristian. We don’t stand on ceremony around here.”
“Is this your son?” I ask, spying the framed photo on his desk. It’s a fabulous picture. Cristian’s pride in his son is obvious in the adoring expression on his face.
“That’s Elio.” The same pride radiates in his tone.
“He’s adorable. The resemblance is strong.”
“Have a seat.” He motions toward the empty chair in front of the desk as the woman sinks into one of the chairs on the opposite side. “This is Isotta. She is Elio’s current nanny, and she’s helping me with the interview process.”
Well, that’s just swell. I can tell the woman dislikes me, and if she holds any sway, I might have already blown this. I nod and smile in her direction. “It’s good to meet you.”
“We should get down to it,” she says in a clipped tone, opening a file in front of her.
Cristian leans back a little in his chair and smiles in my direction. “Before we begin, you should know Elio is my adopted son. He’s my biological nephew. His father was my only brother. Both his parents died before he was one.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s lucky he has you.”
“Adopting Elio has given me the greatest joy. My world revolves around my little boy.” His face softens as he glances briefly at the framed photo. “Isotta is Elio’s aunt, on his mother’s side, and she has selflessly given of her time to care for him while I work. But she’s getting married shortly, and that’s why we are interviewing for her replacement.”
“How exciting,” I say, smiling pleasantly at the dour-faced woman. “Congratulations.”
Silence greets my statement until Cristian pointedly clears his throat.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’m very attached to Elio, and I’ll still be around a lot, so whoever we hire will have access to ask me questions. Elio is a delightful child, but he can be a handful.”
“What Isa means,” Cristian says, drilling her with a look, “is Elio is a very active child. He has lots of interests, and he’s well-rounded. He’s into sports, art, reading, science, and he loves learning about the world. He isn’t the kind of child to sit for hours in front of the TV, not that I’d permit it. He will need to be entertained and enlightened. He starts pre-K in September, but until then, his nanny will need to plan his days in advance to keep him busy and active.”
“That won’t be an issue. As you’re aware, I have a degree in early childhood education, and I have CPR and first aid certification.” The former is a lie, but the latter isn’t. “I’m pretty good at arts and crafts. I babysat regularly for different parents during high school, and I was on the school’s basketball team and cross-country team. I led an active lifestyle growing up in Lake Placid, and I love the outdoors.” All of that is true except where I come from. I was raised in Ithaca, New York, but the Lake Placid experience would’ve been similar.
“And yet your previous employer dismissed you after eight months. That’s hardly a ringing endorsement, and your actual nanny experience is limited.” Isotta arches a brow, and while she might think she’s concealing her smugness, I read it all over her face.
I don’t like this woman, and I’m not going to let her rattle me. She clearly doesn’t want to relinquish the role, and I’m betting no one will be as good as her in her eyes. Folding my hands in my lap, I smile pleasantly as I calmly reply. “My employer relocated to Europe. Mr. Smithson’s company transferred him to Switzerland, and though his wife wanted me to travel with them, the company was providing a nanny, and it was already arranged.”
I purposely swing my gaze to Don DiPietro. “I understand I might not have as much experience as other candidates, but I make up for it in other ways. I adore children, and I seem to bond naturally with them. There is nothing quite like seeing the world through the eyes of a child. Nurturing their inquisitiveness and supporting their individuality is important to me, while setting boundaries and maintaining discipline is critical so they feel safe and grow up with a healthy respect for adults and the rules. I think I strike the right balance.” My eyes flit to the sullen woman sitting beside my would-be employer. “At least that’s what my former employer has said in their reference. If you have doubts, you can always reach out to them.”
“That won’t be necessary. Your references have already been verified,” Cristian says, glancing sideways at his current nanny. He shoots me an apologetic look before smiling. “Tell me about the kids you were taking care of and what their day-to-day routine was.”
The interview progresses naturally from there, but it’s an odd experience. Isa’s obvious aversion to me comes through in the questions she asks and her aggressive probing style. Cristian is more laid-back, and his questions are more intelligent. He doesn’t give as much away, his manner affable and warm. I can tell he’s growing increasingly irritated by Isa’s behavior, but he doesn’t call her out on it.
When the interview wraps up forty minutes later, I pray I’ve done enough to secure the job and that Fuentes is right and his contact will make sure the position is mine.
