Risqué: Mafia Romance (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 5)

by Elena M. Reyes

  I follow at a leisurely pace.

  For each step forward, I bring down the whip with precise strikes across his slim build: back, legs, and even the pads of his feet, all while ignoring his sad attempts at swaying my emotions. His tears and pleas mean jack shit to me; it’s his blood I am after.

  “No more. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Each slash slowly releases his life’s essence. Each pays one drop at a time for each pound he stole.

  “You held a gun to the head of a Jameson employee.” Another direct hit, this one down over the center of his spine, and he arches, a silent scream catching in his throat a second before losing control of his bodily function, once more. Jonathan throws up, the bile liquid escaping from both his mouth and the tear on each cheek. Disgusting. “You threatened his mum and twelve-year-old sister. You told him you’d put a bullet between the eyes of a minor if he didn’t transfer half a million pounds into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Am I lying?”

  “No.” Jonathan’s trembling, arms giving up as he falls forward. He’s face down and mumbling, fingernails digging into the concrete, and that only serves to break each to the flesh. The meaty stumps leave tracks across the floor as he fails to escape.

  His words—the low mutterings—reach my ears, and I know what they are. What they represent.

  I let him pray.

  Honor the one thing he grew up with; what his mum wouldn’t forgive me for if I interrupted. They are devout Catholics, and I’m granting him mercy by letting him speak to his maker one final time.

  After a few minutes, a shuddering breath escapes him. “Will you forgive me?”

  “Already did.”

  “Will you end me, then?”

  “Almost.” Bending my knees, I lower my body beside his and place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, something I’ve done over a million times. “But before I do, I need you to answer one thing.” His barely perceptible nod is agreement enough. “Why?”

  Jonathan swallows hard, fat tears rolling down the corner of his untouched eye. “The truth?”

  “Anything but, and I’ll make your last breath excruciating.”

  His response is quick and just as bloody idiotic as I thought it’d be.

  “Because I never thought you’d kill someone who’s been like a brother to you.”

  “And that was your biggest mistake.” My hand grips the back of his neck and I pull him up, forcing him into a painful kneeling position at my feet. Then I take a step back and the whip falls over Jonathan’s left shoulder. Just lies there as I walk around him and say my own silent goodbye. I’ll see you again someday. Stopping behind him, I bend and put my mouth near his ear while gripping the leather end hanging against his body. One end in each hand. “Your cockiness landed you here; I’d kill my own father if he betrayed the family.”

  His mouth opens, lips beginning to move but then snapping shut as I press the button on the handle. At once, two-inch blades—surgically sharp pieces of steel—pop out, and I pull them tight to his neck.

  “No!” Bryce thrashes and tries to pull the whip away, but my grip is unmoving. Instead, I embed them deeper—each blade piercing his skin and cutting through as if it were butter. “Have mercy. Don’t kill me like this!”

  “All debt will be erased and your family protected.” Those are my last words before I give one hard pull across his flesh and the blades slides through, sawing down to the bone without pause. His head falls back, and horrified vacant eyes stare back at me.

  One second, you’re here.

  The next you’re not.

  A reality for those who let greed overtake their common sense.

  A Jameson always collects.

  2

  The blood on my hands is beginning to dry—cracking between my fingers with each flex of my hand on the steering wheel. The flakes, these minuscule fragments of what used to be Jonathan, are almost undetectable to the eye, but I see them fall onto my trousers and then the carpet of my Mercedes AMG G63 as I rush through nighttime traffic on my way to the family’s pub.

  Casper’s waiting on me while the two men disposing of Jonathan’s head and body take a more scenic route. That was his final penance. No funeral. No recognition. What remains of him is being disposed of in two pieces and in separate locations.

  Stepping on the gas, I hit ninety miles an hour while my body thrums with endorphins. Killing is my high. The moment a person takes their last breath is unforgettable—feels almost as good as a warm cunt choking my cock.

  It’s a beautiful sensation that both calms and winds you up. My muscles are tense, yet my reactions are languid and fluid—almost serene as everything around me blurs into colorful lights and sounds. Picking up the lit cigarette laced with cannabis from my ashtray, I bring it to my lips and take in a deep inhale. I hold the smoke in my lungs and for a moment, I close my eyes and exhale slowly while the car maintains its course, opening only when the car gives a small beep alerting me to an object being too close to my right.

  The vehicle is an older model BMW from the early nineties and has two arseholes revving up beside me unlike the rest of the calm traffic around us. Not these two, though. They’re shouting while nearly hanging out the vehicle, waving hands to draw my attention, and I take in another deep drag instead. The wrapping paper burns quickly, the reddish glow almost touching my lips before I lower my window and toss it in their direction.

  “You fucking wanker!” the driver shouts while his mate’s mouth is open, yet no words come out. Especially after I flick on the lights so he can see me. His reaction is instantaneous: fear. The heady reaction brings a grin to my lips.

  My mug is known. My reputation is all true.

  However, the arsehole behind the wheel is slower, and it takes the backseat passenger forcing his face to stop moving for it to click. Then he pales while I simply stare, unmoving, not giving a flying fuck about ramming my car into anything or anyone.

  They wanted my attention, and now they have it.

  His eyes widen and the car swerves; a harsh yank to the right, away from me, causes two other cars to slam on the brakes. There’s a lot of honking as I pass them while the idiots car stops in the middle of the road. Pussies.

  From there, it takes me another ten minutes to reach the semi-empty parking lot, and I pull into my private spot. At this time of night, the place is closed to the public, but not those in our business. At night is when the dark souls roam and degenerate deals are made while someone does a line or two and a pretty girl entertains their boss.

  The latter is always part of the visiting party’s group. A mistress.

  Never one of ours. We don’t traffic or whore out.

  We also don’t touch.

  It’s the two rules my aunt demanded from her husband while he was the head of our family, and we’ve followed the same path out of respect.

  When I walk in, though, the place is quiet except for the low riffs of a guitar playing—an old rock song—filling the space. Two tables are occupied with men that work for the family, and at the very back, a transporter from Ukraine is nursing an amber-colored drink. Just him. No associates and I raise a brow in question at our head guard, Jeffrey, while tossing him the keys to my car.

  They know to clean and erase every trace of Bryce.

  The shrug of his shoulders is barely perceptible, but I’ve known him long enough to read every subtle change or twitch. I flick my eyes to the visitor once more and then meet his eyes, and he nods at the silent command. Watch him.

  I don’t bother to acknowledge anyone else and walk through the clean, empty kitchen. The private door to Casper’s office is open, and filtering through is the sound of music and chatter that sounds American. And I’m right as I stop at the entrance and my eyes focus on the screen.

  We don’t acknowledge each other. His eyes and mine are watching—struck by the same scene.

  Two women, but it’s one that stands out. Motherfuck, I can’t look away.

  My heart ra
te spikes up and a lick of heat flows through my veins, igniting every molecule in my over six-foot frame. I’m hard—furiously throbbing. Who the fuck is she?

  The brunette is sitting with another woman, one I recognize as Casper’s newest obsession and what’s keeping him focused after the death of his mum. It was a senseless assassination that burns, and had he not found her—his end goal—London would be bathed in blood.

  My own hands twitch to end her murderer’s life.

  The women are similar in height and hair color, but that’s where the similarities die. No. Aurora Conte would never measure up to the reincarnation of Venus sitting at what looks like an American sports bar and sipping a pink drink with a sexy smile on her lips.

  “Who?” This leaves me on a low growl, a rumbling that builds deep in my chest, and my cousin’s eyes flick to mine for a brief second. In them, I find mirth and a bit of cockiness, a better demeanor than the pain-filled eyes of the last month. Moreover, whatever he sees in my face is enough to pull a low chuckle from him, and had he not been family, I would’ve given him a bunch of fives. Arse. “Answer me.”

  “Aren’t you hostile tonight?”

  “It’s been a testy evening,” I hear myself answer, but my attention is on the beauty on his screen. She’s laughing now, head thrown back, while her tits shake in a low-cut top meant to tease—to destroy a man’s self-control. “Name, and who’s following?”

  “Her name is Aliana Rubens—” If he said anything after, it doesn’t matter. Not when said beauty stands from her chair and raises both hands, shaking her hips to the Latin beat playing in the background. Moreover, everything in my world stops. Nothing moves but her. Nothing exists but her gyrating form with arms up high, fingering her soft, long waves before dipping low.

  Then back up again.

  And I enjoy it, eyes traversing her short stature while taking in the flair of her hips in a pair of distressed jeans that seem to have been tailored for each sinuous curve. They sit low. Almost dangerously so, and I take account of every face in the background glancing her way. Some women, some men, and it doesn’t matter if it’s out of lust or envy; my hand itches to put a bullet between each pair of eyes.

  Is this what jealousy feels like? Not that it makes much sense.

  I don’t know her. I’m a danger to her.

  The sound of wood splintering registers a second later. I feel a few pieces of the now broken door trim embedded into my skin and then the few drops of blood that follow, and yet, I’m struck by her.

  Watching her dance is foreplay.

  Decadent. Sinful.

  Another harsh jerk of my cock, and I feel the beads of pre-come at the tip roll down my engorged head. It’s been a while for me since I’ve wanted a woman, and this one has my attention with a ferocity I’ve never experienced before. Never like this.

  Another drop rolls down my length and it feels like a caress, like the tip of a soft tongue laving my heated flesh, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep in the hiss fighting to slip through. Not that my cousin is paying attention to me—his eyes are on the woman he’s claimed as his.

  “Sit.” His voice catches me off guard a minute later, a bottle of whiskey now on the table with two tumblers sitting atop his desk. When he got them, I have no idea, nor do I give a bloody fuck. I take the offered seat and drink, pouring him one as well before refocusing on the screen. Both women are standing and shimmying, laughing over God knows what, while my mind runs through different scenarios.

  Because I will meet her.

  Tomorrow. A few days from now.

  She doesn’t know I’m watching, but I’m taking in every sensual inch while placing a target on her head.

  We have a meeting with Malcolm soon. I could...Aliana Rubens?

  “Rubens?”

  “Yeah.” Casper nods, scratching his jaw covered with two days’ worth of stubble. “Oldest out of three and the only girl.”

  “Who is she related to? The name is familiar.”

  “Why?”

  My eyes snap to his, and my glare only makes the arse smirk. “That doesn’t concern you, mate. Don’t cross that line.”

  “Oi. Just giving you the same shit you give me.”

  “And yet you tell me to piss off just the same.” Bringing the glass to my lips, I knock back its contents and pour another three fingers’ worth. “Am I lying?”

  “Negative.”

  “Then answer my questions. Who is she related to? Who’s watching them?”

  He clicks something on his mobile and the screen freezes, both girls’ glasses mid-clink. Eyes on mine, Casper levels me with a serious look, and I meet his stare. We know each other, and the only time I back off is on business matters, but only if I agree. If he’s wrong, he’s wrong, and I don’t hold back.

  “She’s not an easy lay.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Governor Rubens.”

  “Huh.” I don’t say anything more. That piece of shit isn’t what he tells the American public, and I find it amusing. Always have. He’s dirtier than some of the men he swears to prosecute and fails to each term. “Aren’t we a few weeks from election season in the States?”

  “They might be.”

  “Interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “Because there’s nothing a monster fears more than the devil pulling his strings.” If he wants to ask, he doesn’t. He has his secrets and I have mine; things that don’t involve our business, and this is one of those instances.

  He’s crooked. Very dirty.

  “And Alexander is there. He’s my eyes.”

  “Good. He’s loyal.” Standing, I pull out my mobile and send a message to a good acquaintance of mine overseas. He’ll have what I need. “Keep him there.”

  “I am.” Pressing the play button, Casper’s eyes turn back to Aurora. “Did you finish what you needed to tonight? Everything cleaned?”

  “Yes.” Aliana decides at that moment to press a quick kiss to Aurora’s lips, and my groan isn’t quiet. Neither is Casper’s and I choose to leave, but not before drinking up the gorgeous doll on the screen a final time. I want to bite her. Fucking mark her skin. “Do we have anything pending stateside? I’ll volunteer to attend.”

  I should be asking about the compromised wire. How Malcolm plans to make amends.

  If we’ve had news on the cockroach hiding from us after killing my aunt—his mum.

  Once again, I’m too struck by her to do anything but watch. My cock is hard for her—throbbing—while the coquettish little thing is ignorant of the dangerous web she’s been caught in.

  “Unless things change, two weeks. Malcolm’s dealing with his family now.”

  Motherfuck, the tits on this goddess. “I’ll be taking a few days off right after.”

  “Is that a request?”

  “No.” At my chuckle, he raises a brow, but I’m not deterred. He may be my boss, but I’m not afraid. I’m just as much of an arsehole. A Jameson. “That’s a notice of intent without guilt.”

  “Aye. Are you staying or coming back for that time off?”

  “Undecided.” A lie, yet it’s the answer I give before stepping out of the office and heading toward Jeffrey to collect my car. I don’t care if they’ve had enough time to clean or not, there’s something more important than a few drops of blood on a rug.

  Our paths will cross and she’ll fight, but I’m a man of my convictions.

  My vow is unbreakable.

  I’ll be back for you, my Venus.

  “Your allure is a mystery I will taste.”

  3

  Leaving my best friend with her father shouldn’t be something to worry about, and yet it nags at me because they aren’t the norm when it comes to paternal figures. With them, there were never any kissed scraped knees or congratulations for winning a spelling bee. Nada. Nothing but an icy indifference and a demand you give even if it breaks a piece of you each time.

  Because we are commodities. Useful once at a certain
age.

  Mr. Cancio wants her to take over for him as the head of their dynasty, while mine wants total control of my life, my future, and the set of skills I acquired to survive in his world.

  My best friend might not understand to what degree I sympathize with her dilemma, but I do. Better than she even knows herself, because being the child of a powerful man is a nightmare even if you don’t carry his last name. That’s her blessing, and one I wish were mine as well.

  I am her in a lot of ways while privately worse off, because what I’ve done makes me everything she’s not:

  Dirty. A criminal.

  Shaking off the negative thoughts, I walk past a man who looks at me from head to toe with a gleam in his eyes I’m all too familiar with. There’s a seediness to his persona. The greed-fueled aura of a man ruled by darkness, and this isn’t the first time I bump into him.

  He works for Aurora’s father. No one important, just a guard, and he’s doing a poor job of watching this door while her father’s right hand talks on the phone farther down the sidewalk.

  “Evening, Miss Rubens,” the guard says while giving me a half bow, eyes on my body the entire time. Not my face, but chest and then lower, causing me to shudder in disgust. I don’t address him, and this causes the jerk to chuckle. “Did your parents teach you not to speak to strangers? Or did a cat catch your tongue?”

  “You work for Cancio.” My response is cold and flat. That of a woman who finds him beneath her standing, and one I’ve perfected over the years. The governor’s daughter always conducts herself differently:

  I can never entertain a man like him or anyone that isn’t approved of by my parents.

  The authoritative head of the house and his silent, submissive wife.

  She does what he says, and I’m forced to do the same.

  My sole reprieve from under his thumb is working at the Conte House, and it’s because to the public, I’m the perfect daughter. Charitable. Humble. Hardworking. Between running the public relations part of the women’s home and then teaching the computer literacy program three days a week, it doesn’t leave much time to get into trouble. Add to that my college classes and breathing, some days are hard.