Cinderella said, ‘Be kind, have courage, and always believe in a little magic.’
I suppress the bitter chuckle while walking down the corridor.
Cinderella’s wrong.
A gunshot rings through the air, the sound rippling over my skin. I startle but catch myself in time so I don’t drop the tray of black tea. With my heart lurching in my chest, I pause outside the door, and closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath of air.
She’s very wrong. To survive in my world, you have to be dead inside, on guard at all times, and never dream of the impossible.
Never dream of anything.
I open my eyes, raise my chin, and step into the sitting room. For a split second, I glance at the dead body. Blood stains the carpet. Again.
The guy didn’t even work here for two weeks. Pity he didn’t last longer. At this rate, Tymon will run out of people to kill.
Which means it’s only a matter of time before I meet the bullet with my name carved into it.
I’ve seen it plenty of times whenever Tymon felt the need to threaten me. He keeps a wooden box full of bullets with all the staff’s names engraved on them next to his favorite armchair.
Lord only knows how I’ve survived this long.
Tymon brought my mother over from Poland after I was born. She died when I was twelve, and ever since, I’ve been working for Tymon as a maid. Mom used to quote Cinderella to me, but after she passed away, I quickly realized life wasn’t a fairytale.
Tymon Mazur is the head of the Polish mafia. He believes you can beat and threaten your staff into obedience. He’s right. No one in this mansion will dare go against him.
You don’t just wake up one day and decide you’re no longer going to work for him. The only way out is death, and no matter how bad things get, I’m not ready to die.
“Get rid of the piece of shit,” Tymon barks at the remaining three men.
They pick up the body and carry it out of the room as I set the tray down on a glass coffee table.
Tymon’s black gaze rests on me, empty and cruel. “I want prawns and oysters for dinner.”
I nod dutifully. “Yes, Sir.” Not wanting to spend a second longer than I need to in his presence, I hurry out of the room.
“Did I say you can leave!” he shouts after me.
My feet come to a faltering stop, my shoulders slump, and even though every muscle in my body screams at me to not turn back, I obey.
I always obey.
It’s either that or death.
Stepping back into the sitting room, I keep my eyes cast down, staring at the black fabric of the skirt that ends just under my knees.
When I hear the armchair creak beneath his weight, I peek up. Tymon’s gaze is narrowed on me. He sets his gun down on the glass table, then closes the distance between us.
Power radiates from his bulky frame, the loss of half his hair doing nothing to lessen how dangerous and cruel he looks. He has round cheeks and a mustache that curls up at the ends.
Apprehension creeps through me, and I clench my teeth, fisting my hands at my sides.
His meaty palm connects with my left ear, the familiar pain exploding over my jaw and neck. The force has me falling to the right, my hip slamming into the golden corner of the coffee table, my hand crashing into the tray. The hot tea stings my skin before instantly cooling.
Staring at the carpet, I breathe through the sharp pain in my right hip.
That’s going to leave another bruise.
I take a breath, my chest empty of emotions.
“You only leave when I give you permission,” Tymon orders, his tone not leaving any room for arguments. Not that I’d dare argue with him. I’m not that stupid.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, still not moving from my spot on the carpet.
“The food better be here at six,” he demands.
Shit. That only gives me two hours.
“Yes, sir.”
“Leave!” he barks. It’s followed by him grumbling, “Piece of ugly fucking shit.”
Hearing the words is nothing new to me. I know I’m plain looking, and it doesn’t bother me. Beauty will only get you raped in my world.
Wincing from the jarring ache in my hip, I quickly climb to my feet. I gather the overturned cup, and tugging a cloth from my apron, I wipe up the spilled tea before scurrying out of the sitting room.
I try not to limp, doing my best to ignore the pain in my hip. Stopping in the kitchen, I set the tray down, then glance at Agnes, one of the other maids. “Have tea taken to the sitting room. I’m going to get dinner for Mr. Mazur. He wants seafood.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, her tone the same as mine – void of emotion.
Everyone who works under this roof has been conditioned to just exist for one sole purpose – to serve Tymon Mazur, head of the Polish mafia.
We’re his to do with as he pleases.
Leaving the kitchen that’s fit for a five-star chef but hardly gets used to prepare meals for Tymon, I take the set of stairs at the back of the mansion down to the maid’s quarters.
The basement holds two rows of beds and a single bathroom where the four maids, three gardeners, and two butlers sleep.
This has been my home since I can remember.
The dimly lit space is where Mom used to whisper fairytales to me and where I did my homework by flashlight after fulfilling my duties. That was only until I turned sixteen. I never got to finish school.
Crouching next to my bed, I pull the box from beneath it and take out a pair of worn sneakers. I slip the polished black pumps off, and after stepping into the sneakers, I tie the laces. Tucking the pumps into the box that holds my social security card, a photo of Mom, the worn Cinderella storybook, two sets of uniforms, two sweatpants, two shirts, and a sweater, I slide it back beneath the bed.
At twenty-two, it’s all I have. A single box.
I hurry out of the maid’s quarters and quickly make my way to the grand foyer where Mr. Kowalski, the head butler, is standing by the front door to receive any guests Tymon might have.
All the staff came over from Poland, and at first, I learned the language, but after Mom passed, I couldn’t be bothered.
Mr. Kowalski is in his early seventies and dressed in a black suit, he looks like he’s lived a hundred years too many.
“I have to go to Aqua,” I murmur.
Mr. Kowalski lets out a heavy sigh as he pulls the credit card out of his jacket’s inner pocket. We only use the card for Tymon’s meals and anything needed for the mansion.
Handing the card to me, he grumbles, “Hurry.”
“Yes, sir.” I tuck the card safely into the breast pocket of my shirt, then remember to remove my apron. I quickly take it off and fold it into a bundle.
Mr. Kowalski rolls his eyes and holds out his hand to take it from me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my tone soft and respectful as always.
Opening the heavy wooden door, I step out of the mansion. Guards litter the property as I walk toward the SUV we’re allowed to use whenever we have to run an errand for Tymon. Filip kills the cigarette he was smoking and slips behind the steering wheel while I climb into the passenger seat.
“Where to?” he mumbles as he starts the engine.
“Aqua.”
I glance at the manicured lawn, and once we leave the property, it feels like boulders roll off my shoulders. Even though I have to hurry, I always cherish the time whenever I get to escape the mansion.
An automatic smile brushes over my lips as I take the bag from the server. I glance at the time on my wristwatch, and my heart kicks in my chest when I notice I only have twenty-six minutes to get back to the mansion.
Shit. I hope the traffic won’t be too bad.
Hurrying out of the restaurant, I turn left and slam into a wall of muscle. Startled, a shriek escapes me, then I go down hard and fast. Unable to stop the motion, I fall onto my right side and the bag skids across the sidewalk.
In absolute horror, I watch as the containers open, and seafood scatters over the ground and a pair of brown leather shoes.
God. No.
Pins and needles erupt over my skin, and wincing from the ache in my hip, I move into a kneeling position, adjusting my skirt to cover my legs.
The food is ruined.
Tymon’s going to kill me.
“Just what I fucking needed.” The growl is dark, harboring a world of danger.
There’s a whooshing in my ears, and as if in slow motion, I look up at the man standing among the scattered prawns and oysters.
Wearing a pristine, dark blue three-piece suit, testosterone and wealth exude from him, along with an ungodly dangerous vibe that makes the atmosphere around him seem darker than night.
He has styled black hair, and his light brown eyes are almost gold, reminding me of a lion. A strong jaw covered by a neat dusting of scruff rounds off his breathtaking features.
God, he’s attractive.
I swallow hard as I keep staring at his ruggedly handsome face.
“Do you plan on sitting at my feet all night?” His voice is deep and velvety, sending a rush of goosebumps scattering over my skin.
When I notice he’s looking at me as if I’m nothing more than a piece of dirt he stepped on, anger trickles into my chest.
Because of him, I’ll be punished, and I’ll have to pay for prawns and oysters with the money I don’t have.
Blood. I’ll pay with my blood.
Climbing to my feet, I scowl at him then glance at the ruined food. I’ll have no choice but to use the credit card again.
God.
The impact of what just happened shudders through my body like a tsunami of horror.
Impatiently, the man snaps at me, “Jesus, get out of my way, woman.”
Something cracks deep inside me, and totally out of character, I jab a finger at the rude man, letting him have a piece of my mind. “If you hadn’t plowed into me, I wouldn’t have dropped the bag. Now I’m late, and I have to order the meal again, and I don’t have money and you being rude is not–”
“Does it look like I fucking care?” His annoyed expression clearly shows he doesn’t give two shits about my problem, and my little tantrum is only irritating him more.
It’s only then I notice the other two men. One is watching me as if I’m a bomb that can detonate at any moment, and the other actually looks like he pities me.
Taking in all three of the men, apprehension slithers down my spine.
They’re cut from the same cloth as Tymon. I can feel the danger vibrating in the air around them.
Crap.
I take a step backward and anxiously glance into the restaurant.
The one looking at me with pity mutters, “Come, Gabriel. We have a lot to do.”
The attractive one, who I assume is Gabriel, reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a wad of cash, shoves it against my chest, and pushes past me, his shoulder bumping me out of his way.
Grabbing hold of the much-needed money, my eyebrow pops up, then I’m left to stare at his back as he stalks to one of the reserved tables with the other men.
Jerk.
Shaking my head, I enter the restaurant and make a beeline for the server who just helped me.
After placing another order, I have to wait outside the restaurant because all the tables are reserved. I wrap my arms around my waist and stare at the sidewalk, now clear of the ruined meal.
At least I didn’t have to pay for food.
But I’m still late.
I glance at the time and close my eyes when I see it’s already six o’clock.
I’m dead.
