There’s something so damned intoxicating about seeing Anya on her knees for me. Her stunning face looking up at me with her eyes bright and wide. Perfect submission is the best gift that I think that I’ve ever gotten in my life. She’s terrified. Not because of me but because of what might happen tomorrow or the day after if we can’t figure something out.
Tomorrow morning the first order of business is going to be to meet with Daniel so that we can make a plan to merc Nikolai in any way that we can. I don’t care what it takes, the idea of Nikolai’s hands on Anya in any capacity ever again makes me blind with rage.
She’s looking up at me like this might be our last time together.
The look in her eyes is resolute, like there won’t be another opportunity to be with one another or that she will go off and play the martyr. Henry will be safe. Of course he will. But tonight, we both need the break. We have to let some steam off, remind ourselves that we are still alive and kicking. At least for now. We’ve both come so far in the short amount of time that we’ve known each other. I won’t allow us to backslide now.
“Hands behind your back princess.” I command. There’s no room for argument in my voice. She slides her arms behind her back slowly and I see that shift in her eyes. The comfortable look that comes each time that she’s been present and settled inside of her body, and ready to be commanded. Ready for me to use as I see fit.
Her knees part, her back arches her chest forward as she holds her opposite elbow behind her back. She’s so damned perfect. I can hardly believe it. Her eyes flutter closed, and her breathing starts to even out.
“If you say stop, we stop princess. Nod that you understand me.”
My breath is locked inside of my chest until she answers me. She nods. I exhale. It’s a comfortable sort of calm that settles over me as the tension slowly starts to ease out of my shoulders. Little by little the plan of action unfolds in my mind. Her skin is so soft, it’s a hard choice where to start. I don’t think that I’m ever going to be over wanting her. I don’t think that it will ever be possible to get my fill of her. I think that I could easily spend the rest of my life trying to sate my hunger for her, and also be totally fine with never accomplishing that goal. I restrain her easily, tethering her to the footboard of the bed so that she can’t fall forward or move too much.
“Pain or pleasure?” I ask. One is going to be significantly harder than the other right now, as I can already feel my heart reaching for her. It’s my job to be here for anything that she needs. No matter which option she chooses.
At the same time, she needs to know that I am still in control here, no matter what choice she makes. As such, not answering my direct question will never be an option that I’m going to tolerate. My knuckles graze down the curve of her arm and shift over to cup her full breast into my hand. My thumb brushes over her nipple through her shirt, rubbing until the skin is hard and peaked before pinching it sharply to force her to answer me. I haven’t had any reason to punish her yet, but I will if I have to.
“I asked you a question, princess.” I hope my voice sounds controlled, because I feel like if she keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to lose control entirely.
“…pleasure.” She whispers without breaking eye contact.
That was what I was hoping that she would choose. “Good girl, princess,” I hum softly and she watches with hunger as I pull my shirt over my head slowly. I slide my pants down, hard and straining for her as I reach forward and cup the back of her head softly. “Earn your pleasure, princess.” I command softly.
It’s a test for both of us. Both for her, to work for what she’s wanting, and for me to give her just that tiny bit of control that I’ve never let another woman have over me before. I’ve never even let another woman come close. I stand just out of reach of her perfect, sensual mouth on purpose. With the way that she’s tethered she’s going to have to strain to the point of just past discomfort to reach me.
But by god, does she try.
I’m not going to last long with her tongue lapping at my head like that. Her perfect tongue, divine as it swirls around me, struggling to pull me further into her mouth with every pass that she makes. I want nothing more than to grab onto her head and fuck that perfect little mouth, but I can’t. She makes me want to lose control every single time that I get to have her all to myself like this.
Knowing that she wants me, wants more of my cock, that she’s hungry for it, is intoxicating. “You can do better than that. Don’t you want your reward, princess?” I goad her.
It works.
She moves forward, pulling me in closer and I have no choice but to buck my hips toward her, disappearing further into her mouth. It feels so damned divine that my head falls back as my hand slips down to hold the soft hair on the back of her head as a groan of pleasure leaves me.
The normal feelings of hesitation aren’t there. Normally, a move like that has my lungs locking up and bile rising in the back of my throat. Touch is hard for me, I wasn’t lying about that. Perhaps it’s different because it’s with her. Because Anya is the one, and she’s already more than proven herself to me. She would not do the things that still fill my nightmares.
“Deeper,” I growl, my voice husky with need as I struggle to keep my hands off her. My skin doesn’t crawl. I don’t feel the need to run away from her as fast as I can. Perhaps if I can do this, we can do more. Perhaps with Anya it could be different than it has been with the other girls in the past. I have to know.
I reach down to cup her chin, my fingers curling possessively over the bone and urging her forward again. I watch with rapt attention as every bit of my cock that could fit disappears between those perfect lips. She gags again, the sound more erotic than it has any right to be. Even still, she tries to take me again, wanting all of me. I can tell. Saliva strings out in ropes as I ease myself from her lips. I bend at the waist and kiss her, wiping away the spit as I remove my hand from under her chin.
The feeling of pride that fills me is surreal. “Good job, princess.”
I love the way her eyes seem to sparkle each and every time I call her princess.
I scoop her up by the elbows and bending her over the footboard. I slide her shorts down my legs, admiring the shape of them, the delicate muscle and the way her skin feels against my hands before kissing the curve of her hip, the back of her thigh and calf, before bending one leg at the knee to hook over the end of the bed. She teeters for a moment, and catches her balance the next.
Before she can guess my next move, I sink to a knee behind her, my tongue returning the favor that she has given me moments ago. Her moans of pleasure are swallowed by the soft begging as she bucks and writhes against my face. My tongue delves inside of her, curling to a place that makes her cry out in pleasure before moving back to her clit and lavishing my attention there. I wait until her breaths start to catch – until her gasps and moans are wild and unchecked as she tries to frantically turn herself against my face. I know that she’s close, I can feel it.
We can’t have her finishing too soon now, can we?
I pull tongue away from the apex of her thighs. The noise of loss that she makes is desperate enough that I almost take pity on her. I certainly haven’t yet had my fill of her sweetness. She tastes unlike anything that I’ve ever had before and I’m addicted to it.
My hands find her hips a moment later. I have to have her now, neither one of us can take the anticipation any longer and when she cums, she’s going to do so on my dick. I bury myself inside of her in one quick thrust. She tries to push back into me, her hips finding a rhythm with mine, but each time that I feel her walls gripping me anew, every time that she gets closer, I change pace to make sure that she doesn’t orgasm. When she does, I know that it’s going to be explosive.
It doesn’t take long at all until her moans and softly pleaded words turn into something else entirely. Desperate and frantic as she seeks sensation, harder, more, something that she doesn’t even know. I love watching her come undone. I don’t even truly mind that she’s fucking herself back onto my dick despite the restraints. I keep going until she’s screaming. Until she’s lost all sense of herself, until I am positive that I am the absolute only thing that she can think of and that nothing exists outside of this room, and only our bodies matter.
It’s physically painful for me to pull out from inside of her. I need her, my body is shaking with need for her. I pick her up by the hips, flipping her onto her back and pushing the pair of us up onto the bed, pushing back inside of her as quickly as I can. Her scream drowns out my own guttural groan of pleasure. Just the feeling of her is intense. I almost lose it right then and there. I think that chunks of my sanity are slipping away from me with every thrust, closer and closer to the finish line until then it’s there, no more denial, no more waiting as I empty myself into her with force and a torrent that feels never ending as Anya grips me tighter and tighter. Her perfect body twitching and writing underneath me as she barrels through wave after wave of pleasure.
I think she passes out for a moment as I ease from her when I’m capable of moving again. When my sanity is enough to free her arms and pull her body into my chest. Her hands press into my chest, and it feels… right.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and… Follow me on BookBub
Of course not. The man standing in front of me knows that I will never surrender. I won’t break. No matter what he does to me. No matter how many days of torture he forces me to endure before my heart finally gives out and I die, I will not break.
I think that’s what Nikolai Volkovich gets off on the most.
Even though it’s a futile endeavor that he’s undertaking, the bastard has always been a sadist. He likes hurting people just to see them scream. Something about him craves blood. Whether he’s inflicting bruises on his opponents in the boxing ring or with full out torture, he loves it.
I swear the bastard is circling me with a predatory half chub in his black slacks.
Not that I can see much of a bulge there. Guess that he’s not packing much inside of his pants. It would make sense that all his bravado and violence are a result of needing to compensate for a shrimpy, small dick.
I smirk. I can’t help it.
The very action makes my eyes water with pain – the one that isn’t swollen shut anymore.
Nikolai stops his circling appraisal of the carnage that he’s inflicted on my suspended body. My hands chained up above my head have been numb for at least the last hour, maybe two. Every breath that I suck in feels like I’m inhaling shards of glass. But if thinking about the likelihood of him being lacking in the manhood department keeps me sane? Who cares?
“Something funny?” Nikolai asks as he grasps my chin in his beefy hand so hard I wince.
“No, of course not.” I wheeze.
Nikolai snarls and releases me with so much force that I spin in a half circle where I dangle.
He’s got to have at least seventy-five pounds of muscle on me and he’s a good three inches taller than my six foot one. I have always been fast on my feet, but he’s a brick shithouse. It really wouldn’t even be match a fair match between us if I wasn’t chained to the ceiling of his rank ass basement. Those stains on the floor? Not just my blood. It’s rude, really, to bring me of all people into a room that he’s already tortured somebody in before.
At least bleach the floors or something.
I, Alek Ivankov, deserve a little more flourish at the very least. A private torture room isn’t too much to ask for. It’s not like the rich bastard can’t afford one with all his blood money.
Now my mind’s eye switches to a delusional scenario where I’m being led down into Nikolai’s basement and being shown various torture rooms like they are the finest hotel suites for me to take my pick before being shoved into one.
That thought makes me laugh out loud. The action might cause my bruised ribs to puncture my lungs. Only one of which is working right anyway. It’s been what – two weeks that he’s had me down here? With the lack of natural light everything blends together.
Nikolai hates when I laugh at him.
Sometimes, I think that my own defiance of him is going to break him first. What’s that saying again? Topping from the bottom? Does that apply here? Torture from victim or something? It’s just so funny that I can’t seem to stop.
At least until Nikolai’s brick fist collides with my kidneys and my laughter shifts to a spurt of blood from my mouth. That’s not so funny anymore. I gasp and strain to breathe. My feet don’t reach the floor so the very tips of my toes try to steady myself just enough to lift up to relieve pressure on my lungs as I swing in place. It doesn’t help.
“Much better.” Nikolai gloats before the chain holding me up is suddenly dropped and I collapse into the puddle of my own sweat, blood and drool on the ground. The chain from my wrist shackles is instantly shifted to the thick iron band around my neck that makes it almost impossible to hold my head at a normal angle – and I’m chained to the wall all over again.
Everything hurts.
No, this is something more than hurt. This is something that doesn’t stop. There’s no abating it. Nothing I do seems to make it better. I want to say something snarky to piss him off again, but I’m seeing double as it is. Vision swimming, consciousness only hanging on by a thread here. It’s not looking great in my world.
“Have it your way.” Nikolai speaks in a voice like razors. He swaggers toward me, full of false bravado and overwhelming ego. He squats down to talk to me, to relish in his little victory with a wry smile on his annoyingly chiseled face. “Tomorrow, you will tell me where that bitch is, or I’m going to start taking limbs.”
I believe him.
It still won’t be enough to make me tell him what he wants to know. I would rather endure his torture than tell him where my sister Helena is. My loyalty runs deep. If this is the very last thing that I can do for her, I’m happy to pay whatever price is asked of me.
My only acknowledgement that I’ve even heard a word that he said is a deep groan of pain as I struggle to roll onto my side so as not to choke to death on my own blood.
The sheer force of blood rushing back to my abused wrists and hands is painful enough that I almost don’t register the kick in my ribs that Nikolai finishes today’s session off with before he spits at the ground by my face. I don’t even have the impulse to flinch before he turns his heels, muttering under his breath in heated Russian, and slams the door to my prison.
Leaving me in darkness once again.
I’m not delusional enough to think that I’m ever going to see sunlight again. I know that I’m going to die in here.
I think maybe it would have been a mercy for Daniel Colombo to have killed me. His visit last week was unexpected to say the least. Was it only a week ago? Perhaps it was longer. Time has been blurring together. Maybe this is all just a nightmare. Still, his mug was yet another face that I never thought that I would see again. He has more of a reason to want me dead than Nikolai does. After all, Daniel thinks that I killed his sister, Lilian. I forgot how much they look alike. Looked. Nikolai had offered me up to Daniel in exchange for making some sort of deal with him. I couldn’t hear the terms of whatever it was that Nikolai wanted from him. But I do know that Daniel refused him and went on his way without taking my life. Talk about character growth. The Daniel I knew before, he swore he would kill me with his bare hands the last time we spoke.
The image of Lilian’s face swims to the forefront of my mind’s eye. And, for a moment, all the pain in my body disappears. Her lovely visage floats there, her smiling, laughing at something dumb that I said. And then it shifts to the portrait of rage that she was wearing the last time I saw her and the pain returns fast.
I’m almost thankful when oblivion pulls me under.
The black inky unconscious nothingness might be kinder still than the thought that maybe… just maybe… I deserve everything that I’m getting.
Time loses meaning so quickly.
There’s no way to know how long I’m passed out for. Even with my eyes open it’s dark enough in this little room that it’s hard to tell where the floor meets the wall apart from when the occasional sliver of light appears under the door. It’s not constant. They don’t feed me on a schedule, so unless I want to start obsessively counting the seconds, I have to let the concept of time fade entirely.
It could be hours, or maybe it has been days before the door opens again.
At no point does my body stop hurting. The gnawing in my stomach is just as bad. Never mind the rest of the bodily functions that I’m pointedly ignoring.
I don’t expect Nikolai to come back too soon – but when the door opens again I am ready with a sarcastic quip that doesn’t leave my lips because the body standing in the doorway is far, far too small to be Nikolai.
Something dark and anxious flops in my stomach.
For all the death jokes that I’ve been making to myself during my lovely stay here, I certainly didn’t think that I was actually going to die.
The silhouette of a woman that can only be described as heavenly comes quickly into the room. The little sashay of her hips is all I can make out of her features until she comes closer to me – the light behind her is so brilliantly bright that I can hardly even look at her for more than a second before my eyes burn.
The woman stops in front of me, and I can make out stunning olive skin and exotic features with a metal box in her hands.
She speaks, but in my delirious state I can’t really understand what she’s saying.
What game is this? Some new fresh hell, or have I died and this is it. An angel has come to patch up all the hurt.
“Am I dead?” I don’t even really recognize my voice as I speak because it sounds so much rougher than I expected it to. “Finally kicked the bucket?”
The angel smiles. A light all of its own.
Water – cool and crisp runs over my lips and I flap my mouth like a fish on land trying to guzzle every bit of it down. Moments later her cool, soothing touch is on my forehead before she replaces it with a damp cloth as she fishes around in her metal box of healing for something to help patch me up. I try my best to remain still. I don’t want to scare her away. It doesn’t matter to me if she’s real or not – or if she’s only helping patch me up with the express intention of hurting me all over again. If this face is the last one that I ever get to see, it will have been worth it.
“Stay with me.” She says in a sweet voice as she blots up blood and gingerly dabs salve on my bruises. Normally I detest physical touch but I’m far too weak to do anything but appreciate the soothing contact as she tends to me.
The angel asks me to stay with her, and I want to. I want to do anything she says. And anything is better than the state that I’ve been in until now. Except eternal sleep, which would certainly be the easier. But there is still a lot of work left for me to do on this mortal coil.
“I’m sorry if this hurts…” She mutters in a voice full of compassion as she tries to dip that same ointment from her kit between the ruined skin of my wrists and the thick metal of my cuffs. I watch as she eyes the thick band around my neck with what I can only assume is pity. She lifts her hand to touch it, and I flinch away. “…I’m sorry.” she mutters again.
I catch her hand, something my body protests violently, but I am shocked by how real she feels. I stare at the place where I’m holding her wrist in disbelief. My thumb passes over the inside of her wrist, seeking her pulse because I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like. I need to know if she’s real or if she’s an angel to carry me into the afterlife. I don’t think I would fight her. It would be better passing than I could have imagined myself worthy of.
“You have to let me go if you want me to help you.” She teases with a hint of a smile on her voice.
My blue eyes finally lift to her and study the fine details of her lovely face. “Help me?” I ask in disbelief. “Angel, I’m beyond helping.”
Chapter Two
Anya
I’ve been hearing screams coming from the basement for weeks. Weeks of forcing myself to endure the fact that, despite this brand-new house in a brand-new state, Nikolai’s already put in a torture dungeon.
Not the sexy kind that was in our last place in Vegas either.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised.
Nikolai has always been the sort of man to get off on violence. He is the very best at what he does and most of the time he’s a scary bastard. But he’s my scary bastard. My protector.
But even still – there’s only so much that a girl can take.
I’m not the kind of person that can just sit around and allow somebody to hurt when I have the power to do something about it. I don’t have the stomach for it. Even if I had never taken the Hippocratic oath – I still couldn’t have done it. I’ve been helping his personal doctor since we arrived here in Houston. It’s not exactly going to get me my legal nurses’ license but at least it allows me to practice. All the work that we do is strictly off the books and primarily pertains to the men that Nikolai brings in from this war that he’s in with Daniel Colombo.
The same war that’s been keeping him out of the house for several hours of the day – every day.
Nikolai will be furious with me when he finds out that I’ve stolen his key. I hope that he won’t notice until I’ve had a chance to help as much as I can. He’s expressly forbidden me from coming down here. Says that it’s where he’s working. Since we’ve moved here to Houston, he’s made it expressly clear that I’m to be kept wholly separate from his work now.
More than just at arm’s length.
I don’t love that he’s been pushing me away. We haven’t been married for nearly long enough for him to use that as an excuse either. I tried asking Nikolai why he was keeping the man in the basement and he just said that he deserves it. I can’t imagine what this man might have done to deserve enough pain to fill my nightmares for weeks. I can’t sleep. More than that, I have to be able to live with myself.
I just have to hope that my meager training in first aid will be enough to help in some capacity. Even if I can’t do much to help, I have to try. If I can just give it my best shot and know the extent of his injuries, then maybe I can finally get some sort of sleep tonight.
At least that’s what I’m going to tell Nikolai if he happens to catch me.
The very walls of this giant house feel like they are conspiring against me as I sneak down the large winding halls and stairs. I still have a hard time coming to grips with the fact that this is something I have to do inside of my own home. But it doesn’t really feel like that these days, does it? Whatever magical thing that makes a house into a home? This one doesn’t have it.
I sneak down into the basement with the help of Nikolai’s key and instantly wish that I had grabbed a sweater or something to fight off the intense cold lurking in the concrete halls. I hug my metal first aid kit to my chest as I wrap my arms around my body and slink down the long, winding hall. There’s nothing and nobody down here. Which is for the best. I don’t want to run into one of Nikolai’s men when I’m already breaking so many rules.
Most of the doors are unlocked and slightly ajar. But there’s one that’s locked and so I unlock it and brace myself for what I’m going to see inside of it. It’s so dark that it takes a moment to spot the lump of a man in the back corner of the room. The smell coming from inside of the room isn’t something I want to put into words.
“I’m a professional.” I mutter to myself and summon what is left of my courage before heading inside. I’ve attended to gun shots and stab wounds aplenty in the clinic. Broken bones and contusions. I can do this. Nothing that I can see in here can look any worse than what I’ve seen at the clinic – and then I see him. It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I’ve seen Nikolai’s men in just about every state and all manner of injuries from the war that he’s in with the mafia – but this is something else.
For a moment I’m frozen in the doorway.
My husband did this. This brutality. My husband, my Nikolai, is the one that inflicted these wounds and put this body in this state. I know he’s capable of violence. Some of it I like even, but this is on a whole other level. This man looks like he has one foot in the grave. There’s a wheezing rattle coming from his chest each every time he inhales and exhales. I don’t even know where to start. This is way beyond what I know how to handle – but I have to try.
It takes everything I have to keep my hands from shaking as I go closer.
This man is a stranger. Clearly, he’s done something truly horrible to Nikolai for him to have done this. He’s far too injured right now to be of much danger to me though, so it’s a risk that I’m willing to take.
Only one of his eyes seems to be able to open and he looks up at me with a crystal-clear blue eye. Like ice in the dead of winter when the sunlight hits it just right. He doesn’t move or flinch from me as I start to blot at some of the worse wounds. Everything looks like it’s clotting at the very least. I offer him water – and that’s the first real response that I get from him. The bottle is gone in seconds. Who knows the last time that he was given anything. I don’t even know if they have been feeding him. Not much. That’s obvious. There are hints of the man that he once was when he looks up at me again. A little less crazed, a little less distant. I don’t even know if he’s capable of really seeing me or feeling what I’m doing for him but I hope it helps. Even if it’s just a little.
Then he speaks. A rumble of words from somewhere deep in his chest. His voice sounds like he’s close to death, knocking on the gates of hell. Maybe that’s why he keeps calling me angel.
When he grabs my wrist, his touch impossibly soft and cold. He keeps a cage of fingers around my wrist without actually holding too tight, like somehow I’m the fragile one, while he claims that there’s no saving him.
“That’s impossible.” I force a tight-lipped smile. “There’s no such thing as being beyond helping.”
“Why else would an angel be here to take me to the afterlife?” He asks. I can tell that he means it. I wipe a bit more of the grime off him and try again. I can’t imagine the sort of pain he’s suffering this very second if he’s asking me questions like this. My stomach ties into knots and I bite back tears. No point in crying, I have to help him.
“I promise you I’m no angel.” I force another smile. Maybe if we both relax a little, it won’t feel so hard.
“Look like one.” he grouses and slips back down to where he’s lying on his side. The purple bruising on his torso bothers me the most. The pants that he has slung low on his hips are filthy. It can’t be helping. He’s seconds away from raging infections if he doesn’t have any already.
“How can you tell? Having only one working eye and all.” I tease, hoping to bring some levity to the situation.
The corner of his lip quirks upward and it transforms his whole face. Even as battered and swollen as it is, I can see more of the man underneath it all. I can’t imagine how strong he must be to not have broken.
“Careful, he doesn’t like it when I laugh. Walls probably have eyes.”
A single fingers of his moves, attempting to gesture to the walls around us. His brow knits and he stares at his hand for a moment like he doesn’t understand why only one finger moved when he meant to move the whole limb.
I don’t want to think about what that might imply.
“Do you have a name to go with your sense of humor?” I ask, hoping to bring him back into himself.
“Maybe.”
“Very unique name. I’m sure you got a lot of crap for it in school, didn’t you? Teacher calls attendance and you’re just like, maybe.” I laugh at my own lame joke. More of a nervous gust of air than anything else.
“Stop, smiling hurts.” He wheezes and lets his good eye close. “It’s Alek.”
“Got a last name?”
“Ivankov.” he runs his tongue over dry lips. I move for the water bottle as the weight of his surname crashes around me. One that’s not uncommon but only one person with that name would have meant anything to Nikolai. The woman that he almost married. The one who caused enough damage that I had to repair him.
“Helena’s brother?!” I blurt with more affliction than I mean.
He rolls his good eye toward me. “Maybe.”
He is probably wary of me now, but I can’t stop. I can’t help myself. “I’m sorry…”
He doesn’t answer me at first.
“For your loss… I mean…” I mumble pathetically. How can I feel guilty or jealous over a deceased woman? What does that say about me?
“She’s not dead,” is his only answer.
My eyes widen in shock. Of course she’s dead. Nikolai told me how he did it. He told me what happened that night. There’s no way that somebody could survive a fall like that. I never thought to ask what he had done with the body, if anything at all.
“Don’t put that on me, either. My sister is very much alive. And Nikolai is keeping me here until I tell him everything about her, but I won’t. I have ruined a woman’s life, that’s true, but I will not ruin hers. I’m guilty enough without adding more to it.”
“What are you talking about? Whose life did you–”
Whatever else I might learn from the conversation with this man is cut short by the door banging open wider behind us. Nikolai’s hulking frame fills most of the open space and the rectangle of light that I was sitting in just moments ago is now in the shape of his large body.
I whip around to look my husband in the eye. I know he’s going to be mad at me for doing this. I know that I’m going against his orders but until this very second the only punishment that I thought that I was going to get from it was a sound spanking. Which, I’ve never minded from him before. But the look on his face is something that I’ve never seen before.
Nikolai and I have been through a lot. He’s done some not awesome things to me before the nature of our relationship changed. He wasn’t always the man that I love – but I’ve never been afraid of him before right this very second.
“What the fuck do you think that you’re doing?!” Nikolai snarls.
I scramble to close my first aid kit, but my hands are shaking. Why? I try to stuff everything back into the compartments as sloppily as I can, but it doesn’t help – Nikolai closes the distance between us in the span of a heartbeat and then his hand is a vice grip around my bicep. He yanks me off the floor and drags me toward the door so fast that I can’t get my feet up under me.
My hand goes to where he’s holding me, attempting to pry his grip loose on instinct alone. “Stop! Nikolai, stop, you’re hurting me!”
“Let her go!”
There’s a clanging of chains and a rustle of metal against the concrete before the resounding clang of the man that I had just been helping clearly reached the end of his allowance. He must have hit that chain hard to make it make that sort of noise. I claw desperately at Nikolai’s grip but chance a glance back at the man holding the chain attached to his collar in both hands – his swollen, battered face a mask of pure rage that twists something primal low in my belly.
“Got something to say, finally?” Nikolai snarls at the man.
“Let her go! It’s me you have an issue with!” The man yells at Nikolai. There’s such authority in his tone that I can feel it.
Nikolai drops me. Hard.
I fall to the ground, my first aid kit wholly forgotten.
Nikolai punches the man so hard in the stomach to shut him up that I recoil from the force of it. The man spits blood straight onto the concrete floor and Nikolai scoops me up before I can fully process what’s even happening. He throws me over his shoulder and the last thing that I see before Nikolai slams the door to the man’s cell shut is that striking blue eye trained directly on me. His mouth moves – and I focus on his lips to make sure I hear whatever is so important for him to say even if Nikolai has my blood ringing in my ears. There’s a wild sort of desperation in his eyes. “Ask him… about… Lilian…”
The door slams shut and the lock automatically clicks into place.
“Put me down!” I demand.
Nikolai ignores me until we’re upstairs. He deposits me heavily on one of our plush couches and holds his hand out expectantly. “Key.”
I don’t care for his tone.
I scowl at him and fish the key out of my bra where I had hidden it and slap it into his hand with as much indignation as I can muster. I refuse to cower. I don’t break eye contact as he glares at me.
“What the hell were you thinking?!” He demands as he shoves the key back into his pocket. “I told you not to go down there. I forbade you from going down there!”
I sit up on the couch – but he’s clearly not done yelling at me. “And that gives you an excuse to manhandle me like that?!” I scream right back.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened?! Do you have any idea what he could have done to you?! You were right up next to that bastard, Anya! He could have hurt you. For fuck’s sake he could have killed you with his bare hands, Anya!”
I start to reply. I start to get indignant, but then I see the look on his face. The worry that knits his brow. The actual fear that something could have happened to me. Whatever I was going to say dies on my tongue as he sinks down onto his knees in front of me so that we’re eye to eye.
“Whatever he said to you Anya, that man is one of the most ruthless, merciless, blood thirsty criminals that I have ever encountered in my life,” Nikolai says as he cups my face in his hands. His thumbs sweep out over my cheeks as he tilts me face up to his. Softly, I place my hands over the top of his.
“I’m all right. Nikolai, I can handle myself. He was chained to the wall. He couldn’t–”
“He could. He would have. I promise you, he was just biding his time with you before acting. He doesn’t deserve your pity or kindness and he sure as fuck doesn’t deserve your cures.” Nikolai insists.
“I didn’t mean to make you worry… I’m sorry…” I answer automatically.
“He didn’t touch you?!” Nikolai asks with a far softer tone to his voice. “Are you sure that you are unharmed?”
I nod and smile softly. He loves me so much. “I promise. Nikolai, I’m fine.”
Nikolai kisses my forehead sweetly, his lips lingering for a long moment before he pulls me into his arms tightly in an embrace. “I’m sorry for reacting that way… I just… seeing you near him… I couldn’t…”
I wrap my arms tightly around him, holding him so that he knows I’m here. I’m solid. I’m okay.
“I’ll make it up to you. Dinner. Wherever you like. Anywhere at all – dress up nice and make a whole spectacle of it.” Nikolai offers as I pull back from him.
My heart soars. It’s been so long since we’ve been able to be alone with each other. It’s been even longer since we’ve been able to go out in public. My eyes lift to him, hope fluttering in my chest.
“As soon as this war is over, we will go out.” Nikolai continues.
That hope plummets like a rock in a lake. Of course he doesn’t want to go until business is over. Now that I know Helena is alive… that’s got to be why he uprooted everything. He was only moving on because he was coming to grips with killing the woman he loved… who betrayed him. He had moved on. To me.
At least I thought that he had.
How long has Nikolai known that Helena is alive? Is that why he moved us here? How do Daniel and his father’s mafia fit into all of this? There has to be more to this story. I’m supposed to be his person, the one he tells everything to and I have clearly been excluded from a lot more than he’s let on.
Is Nikolai lying to me?
I look up at him and his dangerously, painfully handsome face. The same eyes that I fell in love with. The man who I took vows for and tied my life to. I never had any reason to doubt him before right now, but the man in the basement had no reason to lie to me. I can’t help him, I can’t set him free. There’s nothing to gain from being anything other than honest. If Helena is his sister… there’s just too much that I don’t know.
“Yes, I’m driving into the estate now,” Eva giggles on the phone.
“Eva, don’t give us away. It has to be a secret until we are sure,” I suck my teeth and I know she just rolled her eyes even though I cannot see her.
“Yeah, yeah… blah blah blah.”
“Eva,” I try for a firmer tone, but who am I kidding? She does whatever she wants half the time. “We are best friends, have my back here.” There goes the never-failing emotional blackmail.
“Fine,” she sucks her teeth, “you will see me soon.”
I start to say something, but she ends the call. That’s classic Eva. I take a deep breath and try to distract myself. My legs move before my brain clicks that I’m pacing in her bedroom.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four… I halt, spin in a different direction, and continue my pacing.
I’m counting the portraits on Eva’s wall while waiting impatiently for her to show up with the test strips.
I’m not sure what it is I’m feeling, but I have been nauseous for two days and I cannot stand the smell of my favorite perfume. I get dizzy, too. Not to add the embarrassing moment I fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with Emanuele yesterday. He was talking about business in the study, and I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the middle of the night on the mattress in our bedroom.
It might not be what I’m thinking, but what if? I halt. What if I’m pregnant? My stomach ruffles, and I gulp, trying to tamper my giddiness so I don’t go overboard and get disappointed if that isn’t the case.
I inhale sharply and then continue to count the portraits on Eva’s wall.
It feels more like a gallery here than a bedroom. But it’s only pictures of people she cares about on the walls. Emanuele, me, and Fabio. More of her father than anyone. There are three of mine, and Fabio has only one. It’s not a clear take, a little blurry, and it’s not because of the editing. It’s more like she was moving when she took the picture of him because he seems to be standing in place. It looks different, too, in an unprofessional way. The rest are pictures of her and Emanuele. No Salvatore in sight. When Emanuele told us the day after my accident what had happened it was a terrible shock, especially for Eva, but I honestly wasn’t all that surprised. The traitor should run because while Emanuele may not be able to kill his son, I will stop at nothing to protect what is mine. He should ask around.
I sit on her queen-size mattress that is covered in cherry pink bed sheets with a duvet of a lighter shade of the same color. I begin to bounce my army green suede boot-covered feet and pick at the chipped black polish on my nails. I have been indoctrinated into denim and oversized T-shirts.
“I’m here,” Eva bursts into her bedroom in gray sweatpants and a white gym bra, and I stand, dropping my phone on the mattress. “Here you go,” she opens a camera bag and pulls out a grocery bag, then tosses it at me. “Go on,” she rubs her hands eagerly against each other.
I nod, gulp, and inhale loudly.
“It will be fine,” she smiles and shushes me away towards the bathroom with her hand.
I grunt, letting her push me till I am at the door of her bathroom. She opens the door and continues to push me until I’m inside. Then she closes it.
I glare at myself in the mirror. It might be what I think it is. My lips look fuller, or maybe I’m exaggerating because I want to see physical signs.
I pull out the test strips. There are seven in here, Eva got four extra—a best friend indeed, matching my craziness.
I take the first test, and my heart drops to my stomach and shoots straight up to hit my chest hard. I’m pregnant. My eyes prick, and my throat goes dry.
It is with shaky hands I take the rest of the tests, and all seven of them come out with the same result. I can hear Eva grunting and pacing by the door, but I take a moment for myself. I try to take deep breaths to calm my nerves.
I open the door slowly, one hand resting protectively on my stomach, my eyes clouded with tears.
“Are you…?” Eva is already tearing up.
I nod, “Yes, I’m pregnant.”
“Yes!” She squeaks and lifts me off the floor, then spins me around. “Can I be the baby’s aunt instead of sister?” she chews her lips eagerly. “You know, because of the age difference,” she swipes a tear off her cheeks, and mine run free down my cheek.
“No.”
We both turn in the direction of the door of her bedroom to see Emanuele standing there in black jeans and a black t-shirt.
“You didn’t lock the door?” I click my teeth at Eva.
She gives a Cheshire smile, “Oops.”
I thought a romantic dinner would be a good way to tell him about it. Or even cuddling at night after sex. But, Eva… I pout, but Emanuele prances to us. I don’t let him get close; instead, I run up to him and hurl myself at him. He captures me and kisses me fervently.
“I’m pregnant,” I tilt my head to meet his eyes.
He smiles. “We are pregnant,” he kisses me softly on the lips.
I nod into the kiss, “We are pregnant.”
“Having a baby sister at this point is a little…” Eva blows raspberries.
“Or baby brother,” Emanuele says firmly, “And there is nothing wrong with that. Besides, you will have your own family to care for.”
Oh, no. I bury my face in Emanuele’s chest to avoid looking at her because I can feel what is coming next.
“I don’t even have a boyfriend, how am I starting a family already?” Eva scoffs.
“You have Fabio,” Emanuele retorts, and I grit my teeth for her sake.
“I have who?” Eva snorts, “That’s a joke, right?”
“You are marrying him,” Emanuele makes it firmer.
“Why?”
“Why not?” he clips.
“Dad, we are talking about Fabio here, and me,” her voice is breaking, and it’s the last thing I want for her.
I pull away from Emanuele and go to her, then wrap my arms around her.
“I don’t want to be married to him,” Eva sniffs.
“Come on, baby,” Emanuele opens his arms, and she goes to him, dropping her head on his chest, “I want what is best for you.”
Eva may not want to admit it now, but I can swear there is something there. I might be wrong, too, but… I join the embrace, and Emanuele wraps one hand around me while I do the same to Eva.
She is not alone. I will be with her every step of the way and make sure it is truly in her best interest, more than anyone else. We have something in common, and that is infuriating men in our lives. But my heart is going out to Eva because Fabio is a different breed of dominant.
“I don’t like him,” she mumbles.
“Maybe that’s a good start,” I stroke her back.
Not liking him is a good start. All the best love stories start with that lie… line.
I’m ready to spill them all in order to protect la Famiglia. To protect what has been given to me to look after. And every bloody tortured soul that I have sent to hell knows I will go above and beyond for what is mine.
Especially before.
I flick open my customized gold electronic lighter and close it. The clicking sound has a way of bringing my mind back to the present and keeping it grounded on things that are important.
There was a time when this problem would have been met with the same severity the Bratva is conjuring. A time when I could afford to follow them to hell and have our demons dance the dance of death.
Back when it was easier to fight a war, knowing I had nothing but my life to lose. It was easier to be the first one to lift a sword and slash when it was just my life on the line. It was a time when I was that man who swung into action and let mayhem rain. But that was until I found out how much I had to lose ten years ago.
I flick my lighter again, and this time, I take it to the cigar between my lips and light it up. Then, I flip it closed, savoring the smoky leather taste and the smell of the cigar.
This time, I choose the pen, and by the Saints, I pray the screwball, Boris, doesn’t reach for the sword as is expected of him.
I adjust the French sleeve of my black dress shirt and clip the diamond cufflinks in the buttonhole.
I drag and puff, using the corner of my lips to blow out flurrying leather-scented smoke.
An Apocalypse.
That is what I’m fighting against.
No matter the amount of heat from my long enemy, Boris, I won’t shrink away. I detest the fucking fact that he is still standing. Boris is the kind of enemy that has woken me up every day with cuss words on my lips. He has been tossing problems my way constantly. He is like a cancer to my soul. He keeps reoccurring when I least expect it.
Now it’s a fight for dominance and the bloody fact that the screwball is ruining business for me in Los Angeles. That thing of the sky being wide enough for every star isn’t something the bastard has heard of.
I stare blankly at my reflection in the mirror, with a scowl forming on the corner of my lips as I clip in my other diamond cufflinks.
The problems won’t stop coming. And the solutions are radioactive. Bloody questionable by reasonable standards.
I snort and pick up my black suit hanging on the armrest of the black leather sofa beside me.
I don’t have a problem with what we are about to do, but I hate that Boris is influencing it. I don’t like to be pushed into making decisions. I don’t like the bloody idea of feeling cornered and having my options narrowed down to one.
I slip my hand into the sleeve of the suit.
Or maybe it’s the fucking fact that I now have to depend on some girl, who reeks of trouble from the little I know about her, to bring salvation to the whirlpool of madness Boris seems to keep sending my way.
I slip my second hand into the sleeve of the suit and adjust it to sit properly on me, then button it.
I do deserve him.
I can’t deny that.
A man like me does not have the luxury of saying I did something in a previous life to deserve being fucked over continuously in this one because, I have already done too bloody much in this one, and if I’m being honest, I can admit the punishment is still too small.
A measly punishment for the havoc I rained when I was much younger and power-hungry. The benefit of which the Teso clan still enjoys to date. I planted the seed with my ruthlessness, and we are enjoying the shade from its branches.
I pick up my black diamond-encrusted wristwatch on the armrest.
He is goading me. Every time he strikes, he is closing the walls around me. He wants the same thing I want, which is war, but he doesn’t have the same thing I have to lose, which is a family I care about. Maybe I can allow my son Salvatore to find his way in this world of shadows, but what about my little girl, Eva?
I clip the wristwatch in. Glower at my reflection. I’m draped in black. A perfect contrast to the clinical white walls of the hotel room I’m standing in. The color has been mine for ten years now, and I’m not done with it. I don’t think I will be any time soon.
“Ready?” Salvatore, the son I have been sourly displeased with, pokes his head into my room in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants. An undone tie hangs loosely from his neck. Strands of his unruly black curls bounce forward to cover his bushy eyebrows.
I have tried in every way to make a proper man out of him. And I am not even asking too much. I can’t ask him to be perfect because who am I deceiving? I know he has his demons. I can see the darkness in him through his eyes as clearly as mine. But he can start by dressing up to look less like a delinquent.
“Come here,” I twirl the ring’s band on my index finger to position the bezel so that the sign is visible.
He grumbles, as expected, and strides toward me.
“If you don’t know what to do with a tie, it’s not a must.” I don’t have time to help him, a fucking twenty-eight-year-old man knot his tie. I will not do that. Not on a day like today, when he is supposed to step up and make an attempt to show he is man enough for the type of deal we are going to discuss.
“Thank God.” He throws the tie on the bed.
“Thank God?” I knit my brows together. “If you can’t knot a damn tie, how are you going to hold your home?” My cold tone is nothing like the fire in my stomach because of how much he has consistently disappointed me.
“We measure that with fashion know-how now?” He has the nerve to snort, “Dad, anyone can learn it, but it doesn’t make them a proper man.”
“It’s a start,” because hell, the journey of a thousand miles starts with one fucking baby step, and this son of mine won’t even crawl for me to begin the journey. By the bloody Saints.
“I’m here at least, I’m doing this.”
“You think you have a choice?”
“Isn’t it a good thing that I know I don’t, and I’m acting accordingly?”
As much as every father wants to have a child who is compliant, it wouldn’t hurt to sometimes see their child speak up and fight back. The only bloody time he fights back is when his sister has something he wants. What leader will he be if he can’t ever speak up against a decision I’m making for the clan? They have not all been good, and sometimes I deliberately suggest some bad ones to see if he will rebel. But he never does.
I arch an eyebrow, “Button up, we can’t be late,” I strut past him and out of the room. I can’t stand him any more than I can stand his choice of cologne. He smells like dust and spice.
He takes his time but does as told. I’m almost at the elevator when I hear the sound of the room door closing and Salvatore hurrying behind me.
“Listen,” I turn to him, and he halts, close enough to me to show me that the only thing he takes after me is his height. “Stay calm, stay collected.”
“I can do that,” he shrugs.
He can. He is good at that— perhaps another thing he got from me.
I don’t have unrealistic expectations for him, I just need him to show me he can be the leader that I have invested time and resources trying to groom him into. He is unfailing with his disappointment, and I have it up to my neck with him.
I have lived through every bloody hell imaginable for a human, and I can’t say I’m grateful that I’m still alive because it only means getting tortured over and over again in every way possible.
Salvatore is one of the many torture weapons inflicted upon me, and every shortcoming of his digs into my skin no matter how thick I’ve coated it with layers.
I nod curtly and turn to press the elevator button. It opens, and we both walk into the steel box. Father and son. But today, I’m going as his consigliere.
I push for the seventh floor which is the exclusive restaurant of the hotel where we will be meeting with Massimo to discuss the offer he is making, which we need more than anything at this point to help with the Bratva situation. It is for this reason we came from the city of angels to the city that never sleeps. I still feel jet lagged from the late-night flight from LA to New York. But I’ve had worse days. And I will have more if we don’t fix this problem soon.
The elevator opens, and we walk out to find Massimo already seated on a leather sofa with a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
His piercing light blue eyes make and hold eye contact with us as we walk to him, his one hand resting on the armrest of the sofa, and one leg stretched under the table authoritatively. The air around him is charged in a way I’m hoping Salvatore will manage someday.
The restaurant is dusky, with only a warm light from the chandelier hanging over Massimo’s head. And empty, cleared out for this meeting. There’s a waiter behind the bar in a mushroom shirt who doesn’t look much like a waiter, more like a bodyguard doubling as a waiter for the meeting, now arranging two more whiskey glasses on a tray.
“Salvatore,” Massimo looks at the gold wristwatch he has on, “right on time,” he lifts his chin, showing something akin to a smile. “Emanuele,” he nods slightly in acknowledgment of my presence.
“Massimo,” Salvatore reaches for a handshake and sits opposite him.
“Massimo,” I nod curtly and take my seat beside Salvatore.
The waiter walks out of the bar to us with the whiskey glasses and sets them on the table.
“I’m hoping we have the same preference, but if not,” Massimo uses his head as a pointer to gesture we can make our orders.
“We do,” Salvatore smiles, and the waiter pours him a drink. Too agreeable. He hates whiskey, and I only know because I heard him grumbling to a friend about it on the phone when he was twenty-one. Every single time he comes to my study, I offer him whiskey, waiting to see the day when he says no and has the balls to demand the drink he wants. So here we are, with him being handed a glass of whiskey. I might as well kiss the wish of his competence bloody goodbye.
“I have a family to get back to,” Massimo picks up his glass of whiskey, “we are going for a vacation,” he slides to the edge of his seat and leans forward, “so I will make this quick,” he sips his whiskey.
“Only someone like you would end a merger like the one Giuseppe proposed,” Salvatore leans back in his seat and crosses a leg over the other.
“What can I say, the heart wants what it wants,” Massimo does his chin-lift smile again, “You should try that sometimes, Salvatore.”
Brutal.
Bloody brutal.
But where is the fucking lie?
“Vittoria tried to sell my wife to the Camorra, and as much as I would think death was an appropriate retribution for such an act, starting a war with Giuseppe after rejecting his daughter and having a family with the woman I rejected his daughter for, won’t mix,” Massimo drops his glass of whiskey, “I know there’s something you need that Giuseppe can give you with ease, and my connection can strengthen your hand here in New York.”
“The Bratva is a pain in the ass,” Salvatore chimes in, “business is hard with them around.”
“You won’t have to worry about them to do your business, not when you have a man like Giuseppe by your side,” Massimo continues. “This way, everyone gets what they want,” Massimo twists the signet ring on his left index finger. “He is looking to marry her off for a good deal, so with this arrangement he gets his daughter married into a reputable family that he can get a better deal from than mine, and you have your problem fixed because he has a connection with La eMe. You can continue business better with the alliance, and I…” he chuckles, “I get what I want, too.”
“To have her married to me?” Salvatore blows, “I must be a horrible person if you think marrying me is enough punishment for what she did to you.”
“Is it not?” Massimo drops his head to the side to look at Salvatore with narrowed eyes. “You are the kind of horrible, using your choice of word, that she needs.” He leans back in his seat, resting his elbow on the armrest, “to put it plainly, Salvatore, tame her, break her wings, and choke her with her bitter herb if you are up to the challenge, because Vittoria Mancuso is no easy one.”
“At least I get something worth the while,” Salvatore sips his whiskey, “I will have fun with this one.”
Problem solved.
Salvatore seems like he is doing this more for himself than for the reason we set out to do this, and I can’t say it doesn’t make me relax a bit. I’m still his father, after all, and if this Vittoria can assist with bringing out this side of him, then I’m all for it. If he can show me he has balls and he can tame a wild one like her, then he will pass the test of leadership, and I won’t hold the past failures against him.
“Good luck with her,” Massimo smiles now.
“I need it, don’t I?” Salvatore chuckles dryly.
There are no normal men in this business. Everyone has their demon. It’s the perfect balance. The Ying to whatever little bloody Yang we have left. It is where you channel the bloody thing that makes any difference.
“We can say we have an understanding,” Massimo lifts his glass of whiskey.
“I assure you we do,” Salvatore lifts his glass of whiskey, too.
They make a silent toast, and both sip.
One down. One more to go.
We have a meeting with the Mancusos next.
This new deal looks easy on the eye. Having an alliance with a family like the Mancusos is one way to solve the problems of our business constantly being interrupted by Boris and his beavers. But the problem with things that look too easy is that they’re often the tricky ones.
Vittoria feels like a rose with thorns sharp enough to cut through steel. She can save my clan or she can bring us down. My gut tells me she will unquestionably opt for the latter.
She is stubborn and, as much as the game of taming her thrills me and makes blood surge to my groin, I am mostly careful not to overstep.
Sometimes, I feel her resolve might make her not say anything until it is too late, so I have to watch out for her and me.
I let my eyes rake her naked pale-flushed body lying on the sea of black sheets, with her hands and legs cuffed to the bed posts. Her endearing kohl eyes won’t stop glaring at me, and she is chewing her lips like she wants to bite me instead.
“Have you learned your lesson?” I want her to admit to it so I can take care of her as I intended. I want to. I have put her through something tough, and I ache to balance my actions.
“Go to hell,” she exclaims and tilts her head so she is staring at my reflection through the mirror beside her.
“Suit yourself.” Damn, I hate her willfulness, but I have to live up to it.
“See you by morning,” she smirks.
I gulp, hating that I have to do this but knowing I must. I just handfed her and even that came with cussing and tantrums. I turn away from her and strut out of the bedroom, leaving the air thick with all the things I want to do to her. I slam the door behind me, but I stay planted beside it.
I know she is obstinate. But I cannot shake the fact that she does need me. That she might call for me and the last thing I want is for her to feel abandoned when she does.
I dip my hands in my pockets and lean gently on the door. Waiting. She has to call me. I want her to choose to be in my arms rather than cuffed all night to a bed. But a part of me wonders if she would prefer that.
I exhale sharply, and my stomach ties into knots, knowing I will stand here for the entire night without Vittoria calling for me. Or does she think I left her alone? Is she scared?
I go closer to the door, and my hand hovers on the doorknob. I retrieve it and shove it back into my pocket. I stop myself from pacing and try to get my mind to think of anything aside from the fact that her perseverance is both a trait I find attractive and, in cases like this, overbearing.
“Emanuele!” She calls out at last. It’s a little muffled, but I know she wants me to hear her.
I swing into action, twisting the doorknob and diving into the bedroom a little too fast.
Her eyes soften as she takes me in, and her lips twitch as if she is fighting to keep words from pouring out of her mouth. I want to ask her if she called me, but instead, I take cautious steps toward her and sit on the bed, never breaking the flow of our eyes.
“Let me go,” it’s more of a plea than anything snarky, “Please,” she adds and gulps.
“Have you learned your lesson?” I reach for a few strands of inky hair plastered on her face and brush them behind her ear. She drops her face to the side of my touch, closing her eyes as she melts, and I start to stroke her cheekbone.
“Yes,” she whispers, “Yes, I have learned my lesson,” my forefinger is lining her cheeks now and going for her lips, “I took my punishment well.”
“I want to take care of you, Vittoria,” I press the back of my forefinger on her lips, and she parts them to take my finger between her teeth. “Will you let me?” I am waiting for her to bite or do something to make all of this difficult, but instead, she sucks, screwing her eyes tighter and inhaling.
“Y…yes,” she gulps, “Yes, please do.”
I draw back, needing to do what is important first. I go from one post to the other, uncuffing her; all the while, her eyes stay shut, and her chest keeps rising and crashing as she breathes heavily and shakily. I trace my fingers along the bruise from her fighting when I uncuff her wrists.
“Done,” I announce. I turn to return to my initial position, and as I sit, she is up and crawling to me. She is so quick I almost get knocked off the bed. She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her face in my neck.
“I learned my lesson,” she pushes herself into me, “hold me.” She circles her arms in a way that allows her to hook her hand on my shoulder blade.
“Of course, baby girl,” I sheathe her, lifting her off the bed until she is sitting on my lap.
She is so small yet so full of will. So breakable in appearance but steel all the same.
One hand cups the back of her head while the other starts to draw lines down her spine, tracing ridges that I am beginning to memorize. She keeps pushing into me and breathing heavily into my neck. Warm breaths slipping into my pores and gathering in my loins. My perfect girl. But I want it to be her night. I want to give her what she needs.
She probably senses that as she lifts her face to look me in the eyes. Up close like this, her eyes are the same, if not darker, than her hair. They are innocent and pleading as they drop to my lips, and she drags in another long breath, hollowing her neck dip. Before she lifts them back up to plead again for a kiss, I plaster my lips to hers.
She exhales into my mouth and pinches down on my shoulder blades, pressing her body in a way that suggests she wants to crawl into my skin. Like the arms I now have around her are not enough.
My tongue searches her mouth, and she suckles, pouring her moan into me. I reach for the base, wanting to feel the vibration of every syllable that my tongue won’t allow her to utter.
Her mouth is warm, soft, and wet. It reminds me of her pussy but without the salty taste. And now it is what I want. What I crave.
I slow the kiss but don’t stop as I lower her on the bed. As she lays flat on the mattress, I break the kiss. Eyes glossy and face heated. My eyes drop to her swollen lips, and she inhales like they burn. I am wondering how swollen her pussy is right now. I’m picturing pink tenderness oiled for me. It makes my cock tick, but I ignore it. This is for her.
“Open up,” I order, and she opens her legs, blessing my sight with her pink, wet, creamy pussy. I growl, biting down on my teeth to wrap an invisible leash of restraint around my neck, “I want to eat you up. I want to have you for dessert.” She responds with a sharp intake of air. “Tonight, I want to feel your thighs squeeze my head as you orgasm into my face,” my forefinger begins to drag from her knee to her inner thigh. Her legs start to shake visibly, and she swallows nervously, her entire body trembling under me .
I trace my finger until it reaches the lips of her pussy, and I swirl it on her clit.
“Oh, God,” she breathes.
“It’s me, not God,” I swirl my finger again.
“Emanuele,” she scrapes her nails on the sheets, wanting to grab something.
“You have one duty tonight, baby girl,” I slip my forefinger in and pull it out, “I will do the work, you just come on my tongue,” and without wasting time, I signal for her to go further up on the mattress.
As soon as she is in the position I want her, I lower myself and bury my face between her legs.
“Oh,” she is breathless, and I feel her pussy contract against my lips. I kiss her there. Then I start to brush her clit with my beard in teasing circular strokes. “Oh,” her legs quaver, mirroring her voice.
With both hands gripping her thighs to keep them apart, I let my tongue out. Swiping and circling. Sucking and tenderly grating. It’s satisfying and gratifying. To render this service to her and just have her take it the way she is taking it now. It’s taking me everything not to come in my pants. Which is definitely going to happen if we keep going like this.
I slide my tongue into her pussy, digging deeper. She tastes good. She smells good. She feels good.
She moans loudly, and her hand comes to grip my hair, while the other keeps scratching the bed sheet.
“Yes,” she groans, “Daddy, yes,” she twists her hips, fucking my tongue.
I pull it out and continue to swipe and circle from her slit to her clit, narrowing my mouth to suck, then rinse and repeat. This time firmer, and it’s partly because of the way she is pulling my hair and how she is now twisting and grinding against my tongue.
With one hand, I let go of her leg and go palm her pussy. I use my fingers to open her fold, and because I know the pain is as necessary as the pleasure for her, I nib, then suck hard on her clit.
It’s her undoing.
She screams, rocking into me faster, and then I feel her quivering with each swinging move. Her body is thrumming, and she is screaming now. Her grip on my hair turns feral. I keep sucking as she rocks herself to climax. Convulsing and sputtering.
Her hips lift from the mattress, locking my head between her legs with her thighs, and then she crashes back into it. I savor her cum, cleaning her deliciousness up. My sweet baby girl.
She lets go of my hair, and I rip my face from her pussy to stare at her. She smiles faintly, then covers her face with both her palms. It’s the first time I’ve seen her shy, and it is… adorable.
“Thank you,” she mumbles into her hands, and I can’t keep my smile in.
“Come here.” She turns to the side instead and then presses her face into the mattress, “Am I the first guy to ever eat your pussy, baby girl?” Some animalistic and possessive part of me wants me to be.
“Yes,” she exhales, then crawls to me, but not to sit on my lap. She drops her head on my lap instead and circles her arms around my waist, “Don’t flatter yourself, although you were not so bad.”
I chuckle.
Her sassiness is so damn attractive.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and… Follow me on BookBub
“Eva, take those things out of my study,” my gaze shifts to the sea-blue eyes and the tresses of coal black. That used to be the color of my hair before the gray showed through, now even more visible under the ring lights and reflector she has arranged in front of my desk.
Thanks to her, I know the names of this equipment, and while that might score me a best dad of the year title by actively participating in his daughter’s career, I would like to draw a line at how much harassment I can take. I’m having a cup of coffee, she is taking shots. I’m trying to read through the newspaper, she is taking shots. I am trying to bloody work right now, and she invading my space with equipment to take shots.
“Dad, just this time,” she drops her camera on the desk and hurries to connect the extension to a socket, “It will be quick and painless.”
“Eva, I’m not in the mood to have my pictures taken,” I look at the antique clock on the desk and see I might still have some time before Vittoria and her father arrive. “Go take a picture of nature or something else,” I pick up my cigar from the ashtray and puff, then tap the butt to let the ash fall.
“Dad, they love you,” she flips the switch, “my page does not have the same buzz as when I post your pictures,” she takes hoppy steps to me and hugs me from behind, then plants a kiss on my cheek, “It turns out they love you more than they love nature.”
“Who is they?” I know who. She fills me in on everything, whether I care or not. And I care.
“My fans, who are sort of like your fans now because they are pining for more pictures of my hot dad,” she smiles sheepishly, saying the hot dad part through joined teeth.
“Are these the kind of people you surround yourself with?”
I know it’s not the point, and I’m not a saint myself, but I don’t joke with her. She is still my little Princess, no matter how grown she is. It will always be my duty to watch and protect her.
“Dad, they are online, so it’s not a physical thing,” she says, dragging her oversized denim pants up to her stomach, then hopping back to the ring lights to set them.
“But they’re in your circle, aren’t they?”
“Let’s look at the good side here,” she ties her oversized neon t-shirt into a knot around her waist. I’m a fan of her style. She dresses in oversized denim pants and t-shirts, and she sometimes wears glasses. When she isn’t being a prickly daughter, she spends most of her time editing on her laptop or taking pictures.
“What’s the good side?” I fold my hands across each other and rest them on the desk, making sure the cigar is visible between my fingers as I pose.
She knows how to get me. My little bubbly offspring of trouble. I always knew she would be this way, from the night I held her in the hospital room when she was born. With those eyes like her mother’s, there’s not much I can refuse her. There’s not much I have denied her. And Eva has never asked for anything I couldn’t do. I built a bubble around her, and I love how she has stayed in it, never wanting anything more.
“Be quick,” I snap my fingers at her, and she blows me a kiss.
“You are the best, Dad,” she flips the first ring light on and then hops over to turn the second one on. She picks up her camera.
“I like how you’re sitting, now look at the camera, please,” she angles the camera to snap.
I do as the professional has asked. She is talented. Every year, she sells her pictures for charity, and it’s good for the family name, and people get their money’s worth.
The shutter clicks, and she smiles brightly.
I take it she is satisfied.
“To put it out there, you have female and male fans,” she takes another shot.
“You don’t have to put it out there,” I lift my eyes to look at her, and she takes another shot. I’m about to scold her when the noises from outside pique my interest.
She hears it, too.
“That’s quite some shouting,” she snorts, “Salvatore is finally losing it.”
None of my domestic staff would dare to ramble so loudly that I could hear it from my study. And not even Salvatore, or the women he changes more than his underwear, would violate the estate’s solemnity in such a way. I wouldn’t put it past him, except this time he is not around.
“Stay here,” I stand and walk to the door of my study. It’s a stringy lady’s voice and a harsh baritone belonging to a man, “Don’t come out.”
Eva nods, “I will start editing the pictures,” she is on her laptop as soon as she sits on the navy-blue sofa.
I open the door meticulously and step out. My study is on the second floor, and from here, I can see what is happening on the ground floor.
I drag my cigar and puff, seeing them through the fogginess of the smoke.
Looks like my guests are having a moment.
Vittoria and her father, Giuseppe Mancuso.
She has her back to me and intersects his line of sight because she is on six-inch heels. Her legs are covered in black stockings that disappear under the red coat she has on.
But I can see the top of his bald head and the lines on his forehead deepening from aggravation. Giuseppe is leaning on his walking stick and I have no doubt he has a pipe between his lips. He wears his darkness like a second skin.
“Give me a break,” Vittoria grits and balls her fists, as if she could punch him if he wasn’t her father. And I bet she can. I have heard enough about her to know she is as ferocious as they come.
“You will do as told and not cause me any more trouble than you already have,” he grunts, “This time, I won’t go easy on you if you make a mess and bring me shame,” he points at her with shaky fingers, “Once is a mistake, but twice,” he spits his last words out, not completing the sentence.
“Whose fault was it that Massimo said no to your proposal for a slave?” She throws one hand in the air in a poised way.
Her audacity. That thing about the offspring of a beast not seeing what everyone else sees when they look at their parents.
She is standing her ground, making her look like a strong, firm woman, but all I see is a brat that needs to be tamed. She has been given too much freedom, and it’s hard for her to know where the lines are drawn.
Giuseppe makes a guttural sound, “I’m happy I’m getting you out of my home.”
“That makes the both of us…”
Her words have no landing as the back of his callous hand swings into action and smacks her hard on the cheeks.
No, not that.
Not under my roof. I get that she is a spoiled brat but hitting her is going too far. There are many ways to clip her wings, and I will take pleasure in… Salvatore would take pleasure in taming her. I correct myself and clear my throat loud enough to get their attention.
I start climbing down the stairs to welcome them when she turns in my direction, and I almost stumble on myself.
Bloody Saints.
I grind my teeth.
To say she is easy on the eye is an understatement.
I am dazzled.
She exudes a pure magnetic charge and bloody hell, I feel like I’m being pulled in with each step I take down the stairs to them. To her.
I hold her gaze, her eyes like coal, only they smolder, and she has the defiance to hold my gaze as I walk down; standing straighter and lifting her chin like I didn’t just see her being hit and humiliated. Like ink on her pale skin, her hair is wrapped up in a polished bun.
The closer I get, the straighter she stands. As if daring me. And that glare in her eyes, like she has already dragged me beneath her and placed herself above as the one with the power.
Oh, she is a fiery one. A wild cat that I want to curb. So many ways to tame her. So many ways to train her. So many bloody ways to put her and her smart mouth to good use.
I clear my throat again to sweep the contaminating thought out before it infects my mind any further. She is Salvatore’s soon-to-be wife, and whatever needs to be done to her, for her or with her, is his sole responsibility. Not mine.
I close the distance, and if not for the fact that Giuseppe is in the room with his hovering sourness, which I need to remind myself about, I wouldn’t have been able to tear my eyes away from her to look at his face, as unpleasant as that might be.
But his face is where my eyes should stay. They have no business sampling her any more than I have already. The legacy of my clan is hanging on her and Salvatore’s marriage. I should never forget that this deal is one way to strengthen my clan and give me a partnership with La eMe.
Her engagement with Salvatore must go as planned. She holds the key to too much, despite Giuseppe showing he has no regard for her.
By the way she carries herself, she knows her place and what she can make me lose.
For some bloody reason, I find myself longing for hell.
And that fire in her eyes tells me she is not afraid to play.
Chapter 2
Vittoria
The fall of Vittoria Mancuso.
A play proudly sponsored by Giuseppe Mancuso, my father. Even though he keeps showing how undeserving of that title he is with every single passing day. There’s nothing that can be done to alter the script, not when the show has been set, and especially not when he is the one directing it.
Oh, to be a normal girl born in New York, allowed to choose her own career, have normal friends, go out on dates, fall in love, live her life with the people she loves and who love her. To be able to have a favorite TV show to watch, extended family holidays and to argue about which snacks are the best, the salty or sweet ones. To talk about fashion trends with your girlfriends or gossip about the neighbors with your mom.
Oh, what I would give to not have to exist in this world as a daughter to the man beside me.
But the show must go on.
The shit I will have to act through… I know as fucking hell I will have to give a grand performance to the very end. Till the curtains close, the hall is emptied, and I’m finally hollow.
For a moment there, I felt untouchable. Now, I wouldn’t dare to think I’m valued any more than exchangeable stock.
I know a handful of people who are having a field day at the outcome of my life. The ones who think I probably deserve this much and the ones who wish I would get more than I’m getting now.
Then there’s the club of men like the one whose sad semen brought me to life, who are clinking their glasses in celebration of the benefits they will reap from the miserable outcome of my life.
My father doesn’t care for anything other than expanding his wealth and affluence. Sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t even care about his own life.
That makes the both of us.
I sneer, the vexation burning and running through my veins, rushing straight to my brain. It’s scorching every cell and licking up any functional nerves.
Forlorn. I should slap it on my forehead and ride through a cloud of thunder with that miserable word.
If I could sum up my shit life using one word, it would be pitiful. I deluded myself into believing that at the end of a rough life like the one I’ve had, I could find reprieve. I tricked myself into believing that somehow, something that feels like a miracle of some fucking sort could happen to me and get me as far away as possible from the only life I’ve known.
But delusion time is over.
Reality slaps harder than papà can ever hit me.
There’s nothing I can do to change that or reverse the course of my life. It has set sail, and I am nowhere close to the helm of that ship. And it is pathetic to wish for a storm to steer it in another direction.
This is what my life has been reduced to.
Hate it as I may; I have no fucking choice but to live it.
Giuseppe takes his pipe from his mouth, daring me to say another word. I know he is capable of burning me with the thing. He has done it before. I have a body that feels like a display of his artwork from the ridges left by healed wounds. It’s why I always cover myself up.
Someone harrumphs behind me, and I take my time as I circle from shooting fireballs at Giuseppe for his assault, although I’m used to it and I probably saw that one coming, to looking at who I’m expecting to be Salvatore. Another degenerate I’m here to see.
I don’t mean to judge, but I never knew Giuseppe to do business with men of unlike minds. The closest he was to doing things differently was with Massimo, but my father’s reputation preceded him, playing a huge part in ruining that for everyone.
The grimace on my face loses its hold and begs to deflate as my eyes drop on him. The cold from his stapling sooty eyes, almost like the dark strands mixed in the gray of his hair, sends shivers from where our eyes meet down my spine. Any funny move, and I will disintegrate.
He is entrancing, to say the fucking least. Old, no doubt. But age has only given him his attributes an acuteness that should be considered illegal, the same as his choice of business.
I swallow what feels like pricking pins, my throat tight. It both hurts and tingles.
I have a new theory for how the devil looks. Up until now, I could use papà’s face as a pictorial reference, but seeing the darkness in the eyes of this man, sensing the air that surrounds him as he takes valiant steps down the white-marbled stairs with gold rails, I agree with everyone who has ever suggested that the devil looks nothing like we know.
My heart beats faster, in rhythm with my breathing, with each step closer he gets to us. To me.
Giuseppe had to choose his kind. He didn’t even think of picking someone at least age-appropriate for me. I must have lost my market value to be given to this man. Or he offered something way above what Giuseppe would have expected in exchange for me.
Not that he is anything like Giuseppe in appearance. The irony is that his choice of color is black, and Giuseppe’s is white. Black dress shirt for a buff body and muscles that radiate authority. Black dress pants for firm legs with powerful strides as they close the distance. A hole in one of his coal-black bristled eyebrows to show he had a wild youth.
Most of his long, firm, thick fingers are covered in black ink and rings.
I lift my eyes back to hold his slithering gaze. It’s like he can tear through my fort and see that I am cowering inside. Like he can see deep inside how much I’m shrinking and hurting from this arrangement.
My jaw ticks now, and my teeth grate against each other. The fire in my brain is shooting across like fireworks, and my sinuses are prickling with tears that will never make it to my eyes. It’s been twenty years since I last cried. And no matter how vexed I am at this moment, it’s not fucking enough to break the dam.
He is staring intently as he stands before me. Like I summoned him. Like he is some dark lord ready to fulfill some prophecy with me at its core.
His hooded eyes are dispatching encrypted messages to me, and my vexation-swaddled brain is trying to decrypt them. Whatever they are conveying seems important, and I want to know. But, as piercing as his eyes are, there’s a shadow that does not allow looking past what he wants a person to see.
The hair at the nape of my neck spikes up.
It’s a staring contest, I guess.
He is trying to gauge me. To weigh up his new toy. He can get in line. Giuseppe has tried even to break me my whole life and he yet has to get the desired gratification from his hard work. Whatever he thinks he can bend me with, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the hell my father put me through for years.
I take him up on his silent dare. Staring contest it is, then. A little annoying, but thrilling nonetheless. It’s the most thrilling thing that has happened to me in a while, and I can make due with a little excitement in my progressively tedious life.
Papà is observing us, but he just insignificant right now. The man in front of me knows how to guzzle attention when he walks into a place.
We are both determined to see this one to the end.
Then, he drops his eyes to the side of my face. The same side that was hit by Giuseppe minutes ago. Meaning, he saw me get hit. He saw my humiliation, how I wouldn’t want the man I have been handed to as a trophy wife to see me in. And he is letting me know he saw it, to remind me of how little I mean even tomy father and to let me know that he also knows how to keep me in place when I falter.
But I will not falter.
It’s a promise.
A fucking oath, if I need to draw my blood and swear on it.
I won’t let anyone make me feel so little. I am Vittoria Mancuso, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about my predicament; I will keep my head high, my eyes ocean-still, my spine vertical, and my will to fight for myself and retain whatever self-worth is left in my life unshaken.
So, I boss up my chest. In my mind, I seize him up with a leash and strip him till he shrinks. I keep him where I keep them all—underneath me. I don’t care about the power this one emanates. I don’t care if he threatens to turn the wheel and use my leash against me.
I don’t fucking care if Giuseppedived into hell and brought the devil out with him to give his daughter to.
He is beneath me.
And beneath me is where he will be for the rest of this shitshow.
A glint of amusement flickers in his icy eyes, and I sup up. It’s the first opening he is giving me. The first anything I get from him other than the dark threat in his eyes.
“Giuseppe,” his voice bellows with the thick, dry texture of a tree bark. “Welcome. How was the flight?” He turns his head in the direction of Giuseppe. No smile. Not even a subtle welcoming hint. It appears Giuseppe has found his twin.
“I beat death again,” Giuseppe grunts, moving closer with the aid of his walking stick. He once again makes it clear that I mean nothing by standing in front of me, giving me nothing but the back of his glossy bald head.
I know he can manage on his own, but he chooses to use the walking stick as a guise, so people think he is vulnerable, and they let their guard down around him.
“This must be her,” that stormy voice again, making me want to zero out every other voice in my head and narrow it down to only his.
“This is my daughter,” Giuseppe offers, stepping aside slightly.On the bright side, if there’s any to this arrangement, at least I won’t have to listen to his screeching voice any longer.
“I would say I that see, but…” he snorts quietly.
“She took after her mother,” Giuseppe chortles abrasively, “She is lucky. What good would she be if she had this face?”
I would carve the face out myself if that were the case. If life had dared to not only give me him as a father but also make me even a sliver of an image of him. It would feel like a punch in the gut every time I looked in the mirror.
“She has your tenaciousness.”
He doesn’t know me. I’m nothing like my father.
If anything, I’m worse.
“It has cost me,” Giuseppe replies, looking around, “I don’t see Salvatore.”
“He is around somewhere.”
“You are not Salvatore?” I don’t want to show the nip of disappointment in my maniacally twisting stomach.
“Would you want me to be?” He turns to me now, then shoves his firm hands into the pocket of his dress pants. His starehas the same effect as a thunderbolt. It strikes.
It’s my turn to harrumph, “I thought you were my fiancé.”
“Is that so?” He lifts both brows, eyes almost shimmering from the effect of the bright white light overhead.
Cheeky laughter breaks through the intensity in the air before the person laughing pokes her head from behind him. Everything in this estate appears to be on a different plane of beauty.
She practically bounces over to us with coal-black curls, vibrant blue eyes, pink flushed smiling cheeks, wearing an oversized neon shirt tied to the back, baggy denim pants, and holding a camera.
“That would be awkward now, wouldn’t it?” She sneaks her free hand under his arm and plasters herself to his side.
She looks too bright to be around someone with such a sullen aura. I flick my eyes between them, observing the stark contrast. Tight-pressed lips and lips curved in a smile. Darkness and light. Maybe a storm and rainbow.
“Salvatore is my brother,” she wraps her hand around his waist now. “Wouldn’t it be awkward if my father was your fiancé?” She cranes her neck to stare at him. “I know he is easy on the eyes,” she smiles, the kind of smile that says how much she cherishes him, “But nah…” She shakes her head, scrunching her nose.
Her father. That’s the piece to complete the puzzle. As a pair they are like a work of art I can’t figure out, no matter how much I stare at it or try to delve into the artist’s mind.
And as if it’s not enough, he smiles at her and wraps his strong, protective arms around her.
His daughter has so much life pulsing through her that it is impossible not to have some of it spill on you. A daughter who looks like she has been allowed a freedom I can never dare dream of. I observe how bold she is to not only approach her father but to fling herself on him, even with a guest like Giuseppe groaning disapprovingly alongside me.
