Those Boys Are Trouble: Valetti Crime Family Box Set

by Winters, Willow

  I lean back a bit and tap my knuckles on the bar before facing him. Vince is a ruthless fucker, and he doesn’t take any shit. He’s also my cousin, so I feel safe with him. But this is the mob, and he’s the Don. I’m never that safe.

  “It’s about the hits we got in,” I tell him in a low enough voice that no one else present is going to hear. Not that it matters. It’s our bar, and we know everyone in here.

  “You need help? Tommy’s not enough?” he asks, cocking a brow. Tommy’s my brother, and he's also my second-in-command. Technically we’re both contractors for the familia. We only do hits, and we don’t bother with that other bullshit.

  “No,” I say with certitude. I never need help. Hits are easy for me, in addition to being good money.

  He takes a sip and licks his lips. “What’s the problem, then?” he asks.

  “There’s one that I’d rather not do,” I tell him.

  “Why’s that?” he asks, setting the glass down to face me with his shoulders squared. He’s in business mode. Right now he’s not a friend, and he's not my cousin. Right now he’s the boss.

  “I want to make them an offer instead,” I explain.

  His brow furrows as he replies. “I’m listening.”

  “One’s a woman.” His eyes flash with sympathy. None of us like taking women out. It’s something that rarely happens, but when it does, we don’t like it. We make it quick and painless for them. Maybe it’s sexist, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ve tortured a lot of men for information. Never a woman though. That’s where I draw the line.

  “They won’t let her walk.” His words are said with finality.

  “I want to ask if they’d accept a substantial monetary offer from me to buy her.” I feel my blood rushing faster and hotter. No one knows about my perversions. I’m sure they can all guess. But I’ve never said a thing about my tastes, and they’ve never asked. They keep me on the edge of the social circle for the most part. I’m fine with that. It’s better that way.

  “Buy her, and then what?” he asks with his eyes trained on the back of the bar.

  “I want to keep her.” My voice is low, but steady.

  “As a pet? As a slave?” Equal amounts of disgust and disbelief color his voice, and it almost makes me regret letting my dark desire come to light. Almost. But I want this. I want it more than anything.

  “If that’s what you want to call it.” The determination in my voice rings out clearly. I’m sure my eyes look dark and absolute. I’m not ashamed of what I want. But I’m not willing to risk my position in the familia over it. Not yet, anyway. It’s been a week since I was given the hit. Each day my obsession with her has only grown. I cleared out a room for her already. In my head, she’s already mine. This is just a formality. But to Vince, this is a twisted sickness.

  He looks me dead in the eyes as he begins, “After that shit Ava went through--”

  I stop him right there and say, “This would be nothing like that.” My voice is louder than it should be, and the dark stare he gives me in return makes that clear. I settle in my seat and continue with a respectful tone. “I would never hurt her. Not like that. Not beyond any pain she didn’t want.”

  “Ava said some days she would've rather been dead than been in that position.” My heart hurts for her. Ava’s a comare to a member of our familia. To Kane. He’s a good man. He saved her, and in a lot of ways, she saved him as well.

  She went through a lot of shit. Her captors loved hurting her and humiliating her. She’s a strong woman to have survived all that. That’s not what I want though. The idea of doing that to a woman makes me angry. I’d never do that. Never.

  “It’s not the same.” I reach for my beer and turn away from him slightly. He doesn’t understand. I didn’t expect him to anyway. “She’s already dead. She’s on their list.” I take a drink and then look back to him. “I’ll give her a choice.”

  “Death, or your slave?” he asks with a humorless grunt. I know to him she'd be seen as a slave, as a pet. That’s fine. To me, she’d be mine. Nothing else but mine.

  “Better than death with no escape,” I respond flatly.

  He takes a sip of Jack, looks at me, and says, “It may not be to her. You want to hurt her and abuse her, rather than carrying out an order that would give her a quick death.”

  “No. I don’t want that. It’s not like that.” He doesn’t fucking get it. I torture and kill people for a living. I can see how he thinks that’s what I’d do to her. But I wouldn’t. I don’t know how much I should explain. To be honest, I don’t fucking feel like explaining anything.

  My blood heats with anger, but then I have a pang of worry and think, What if she doesn’t get it either? I brush my doubt aside. I’ll show her. I’ll have to teach her how perfect it would be to be mine. I’ve looked into her. I’ve been obsessed with learning everything about her. She’s smart. She’ll learn. She’ll catch on quick that I’ll be a good master to her. And she’s familiar with the concepts. She’s read enough to have an idea of what I want from her. “Think of it as hardcore BDSM,” I say. I look at him from the corner of my eye, but it’s not convincing him.

  I want this too fucking badly to let this opportunity pass me by. And after thinking about all the ways she'd calm the beast in me, I don't know if I could actually go through with killing her.

  Vince shakes his head and asks, “What are you looking to get from me, Anthony?”

  “I want your permission to offer them a deal for her.” I need my proposal presented to the Cassano boss. He’s the one who ordered the hit. A number of other bosses come to us for hits, and we take care of their messes. For the right price, anyway. I don’t want to piss anyone off, and I want this to be a clean deal. Vince is quiet for a long time as he considers.

  “You won’t hurt her?” he finally asks.

  “I won’t. It’s about something else for me.” Control. Desire. Submission. I want it all from her, but not her pain.

  He nods his head once and I take that as an agreement. I can’t help that an asymmetric smile grows on my face. Step one is done. Now to contact the other mob head. He’ll be easy to convince, I’m sure. He didn’t give a fuck about the soldiers she gave up. He cares about the deal he lost, and the money that went with it.

  I down the rest of my beer and nod a goodbye to Vince. I don’t have anything else to say to him. I’d rather he forget this conversation ever happened.

  As I turn to leave, eager to clear out the cell I've prepared for her and put the finishing touches in her room, he turns in his seat and grabs my arm to stop me.

  “What are you going to do if she chooses death?” he asks as I turn to face him. The idea of her dying makes my heart stop in my chest.

  “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” Chills run down my body at the thought of those beautiful eyes staring into mine, begging me for death. That’s not what I want. I know she’ll want this when I show her how good it can be.

  “It might,” he says, looking at me with sympathy in his eyes. I don’t want his sympathy.

  She’s going to fucking love what I do to her. But I’ll have to break her first.

  Catherine

  3 weeks later

  I tip the edge of the porcelain cup to my lips and close my eyes as the perfect temperature of tea spills into my mouth. My eyes close and the comfort of routine washes through me. But the feeling is only temporary. That’s when I register the change. Something feels off. I remember thinking that earlier as well. It’s too quiet. Crickets and other creatures of the night always provide soothing background noise for my evening tea. But tonight the noises are muted. It's as though something’s scared them away.

  I always drink chamomile tea to help me relax and sleep. My normal routine is to sit on the porch while I finish a cup, followed by a melatonin pill. I’ve had issues falling asleep for the last year or so. Ever since my life completely changed. Staying asleep is never an issue, but falling asleep is difficult. In the year that I’ve be
en here, I’ve done the same thing every night.

  Before my life changed forever, I didn’t have a care in the world and slept like a baby every night. I did whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Then I hit my mid-twenties and decided I needed to sow my wild oats. My mother had just passed away. She was older when she had me, and she died peacefully--as peacefully as you can with cancer--but it was hard on me and I didn’t want to face the pain. To say I engaged in high-risk behavior would be putting it lightly. Then I fell in love. Or rather, what I thought was love with an asshole named Lorenzo Passanova. I called him my Cassanova because I was a fucking idiot, high on lust and loving the risk that came with being with a man like him.

  I thought being with him would be just like the books I love to read. Like I'd be living out the plot of a romance novel. I was a fucking idiot.

  Meeting that asshole was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. He sucked me out of my safe little bubble into his world, and I felt alive for the first time in my life. But it was a mistake. A horrible fucking mistake.

  When you play with fire, expect to get burned. Over and over, I’d heard my mother’s warning, but I ignored it. The first time it happened, I knew I'd seriously misjudged him. Lorenzo smacked me so hard across the face that I fell to the ground. Even worse, I eventually tried to sneak out and leave his ass behind, but ran into his familia beating the shit out of a guy. Bags of dope were scattered everywhere as they made their threats. That was it for me. I saw and heard too much. I ran like hell, but they got me. They cornered me and took me back to Lorenzo and then to their Don.

  Lorenzo beat the hell out of me in front of them. He told them he’d keep me in line for now, so they didn’t have to kill me right then. His familia were cold-blooded murderers who wanted me dead. I'll never forget the looks in their eyes. Or the disgusting joy that filled Lorenzo's dark eyes when he would repeatedly hurt me. I had one chance to slip away, and I took it. I ran like hell and blabbed to the police so they'd protect me.

  That’s what living on the edge got me. As a result, I’ve settled my ass down tremendously. And now I’m back to being the good girl my mother raised me to be. Being through that shit and getting placed in the witness protection program will do that to you.

  So now I stay in my cozy house feeling alone but safe, and surround myself with comfort and familiarity. It’s different now; I’m more alone than I’ve ever been in my entire life, but at least I’m safe. The last time the marshals checked in on me was nearly three months ago. Now I’m on my own and settled in.

  This screened-in porch is now my favorite room in this snug, raised ranch house.

  My toes sweep across the soft and high pile of the rug beneath the wicker furniture set. Across from me I have my antique curio cabinet. It contains my large collection of teapots and cups. When I run a load of laundry, I can faintly smell it from here. I inhale deeply and my lungs fill with all my favorite scents.

  But the best part is the location. I’m nearly half a mile away from anyone. My home is set back into the woods and I’m surrounded by trees. The moonlight shines down and tonight it’s full, illuminating the woods as though it’s nearly dawn. Usually my ritual helps put me at ease, but tonight it’s less familiar, less comforting.

  The night air feels a bit colder on my shoulders, sending a shiver down my back. I wrap the cashmere throw tighter around myself, all the way up to my neck. I feel my forehead crease as I realize I feel someone’s eyes on me. The sensation freezes my body for a moment as the fear I had nearly every night when I first moved here returns. I turn quickly in my seat and feel my heart racing. The sound of blood rushing through my ears is all I can hear. When I first moved here, I was terrified the Cassanos would find me. But they didn’t. It took a long time for me to feel safe, and an even longer time for the nightmares to stop, but it's all over now. I breathe in deep and concentrate on relaxing.

  I settle my back against the seat, thinking I'm just being paranoid. A thought occurs to me. Maybe this is my survival instinct warning me. The idea causes a row of goosebumps to travel down my arms. But just like all of the anxiety I’ve dealt with this week, I push it down and chalk it up to my nerves.

  I place the teacup down gently on the table and stand up, stretching slightly and covering my mouth as I yawn. The blanket slips off my shoulders, and a chill runs through my body. I’m quick to pull it back up to cover me and grip it close. Fall must be coming. It’s the change of the season that’s throwing me off. I close my eyes and listen harder. Some noises are faint, but they’re still present. I just need to relax and accept the approaching transition from summer to autumn. Some things can’t be helped.

  Still, I check the locks at the front door twice after depositing my cup in the sink. Being alone in a cabin in the country isn’t the smartest thing for a young woman on her own. My options for disappearing and starting a new life were limited though, and when you want to hide, it's best to be far away and alone.

  I move the curtain away from the large window in the front room and look down the gravel driveway, seeing nothing. The grass is tall and needs to be mowed. I sigh and again the throw slips, but it’s warmer inside the main part of the house, so I let it drape over the crook in my arm.

  My bed is made and I can’t wait to sink into it and drift to sleep, but I need to check over my email and messages one last time before I can pass out. The one good thing about my job is that I can do it from anywhere. When I first moved here, I had to stop working on anything associated with my real name. My blog, my columns and articles, anything else tied to my online presence, you name it—done. I was crushed. I had been a renowned book reviewer, beta reader, and part-time writer. The money was great, but I would have loved it all regardless of the pay.

  I had to say goodbye to my former life though because the Cassano familia could have found me that way. The mafia that saw me as a rat could have easily tracked me down if I'd continued working under my real name, and it wasn't worth it.

  So I started over under a pen name, and it’s going better than I ever imagined it could. The experience and knowledge that I gained in my former life helped me tremendously. Now I'm firmly established in the industry, and I'm doing even better than I was before.

  This is my life now--books and tea in a remote cabin in the woods. I love it, but lately it’s felt empty. I could go on like this, feeling as though I’m living a full life, but I’m so alone. I wanted nothing more than to be by myself when I was running and hiding. But now I find myself questioning if I’ll ever have anyone real in my life, and anything substantial.

  I’ve thought about getting a dog—a big one, to help make me feel secure. A dog's love is unconditional. I want that love desperately. I need it from someone, or something. But a dog would need walks and interaction, plus dogs have to be taken to the vet. Those are all opportunities for people to see me. I don't want that. I want to stay hidden. I need to stay hidden. But I do need companionship. I've been craving it more and more as I've settled into this new life.

  At least I have my business. I have my blogging, my books, and my friends, even if they're all online. I almost didn’t start over. I almost gave up and poured my heart into a book of my own. But my life is no romance. And writing it down would make it real. Once I’d gotten over the fear, I didn’t want to relive it. So I did my best to move on.

  I was hesitant to start from scratch, but I pushed myself to do it anyway. Within two months my new blog had taken off, and I’d revitalized my income. I log on and see twelve new messages in my email. The first few are easy enough to reply to, requiring nothing more than copying and pasting from a template of other answers I've already given. The next email takes some time to write out though. I'm responding to a new author who messaged me looking for advice on her series. I'll have to get back to her in the morning. I don't have the energy right now. But I take this business seriously, and it shows. And it pays. Just before I close the laptop, I h
ear a ping.

  It’s a message from a new book friend. She joined my book club a few weeks ago. Right now it’s just a small Facebook group, but it’s my baby. Although she’s not very active in the group, she’s messaged me a number of times. I get so many messages a day. Some are from other bloggers and columnists who are just starting out and looking for advice. Others are from authors wanting to send me advanced reading copies and beta reads. I can read two books a day, so I’m always happy to help where I can. But Val’s messages are different. They’re more personal.

  What did you think of the book?

  I scan the message twice as my fingers hover above the keys. I read and receive so many books that most of the time I have to sift through my emails before replying in order to make sure I'm keeping everything straight, but not this time. I know exactly which book Val's referring to.

  Smut, also known as erotic romance to some, is a genre with which I'm intimately familiar. I prefer the term smut though, because it fills me with life. Like I'm naughty for reading it. The book she picked out though is exceptionally taboo. Arousal heats my core. The idea of being taken by a strange man has certainly been a dark desire of my own. I clench my thighs and bite down on my lip. I won’t admit how I touched myself to some scenes.

  I decide to respond with a professional answer.

  I thought the author did a fabulous job of depicting the scenes with vivid imagery and capturing the heroine’s emotions and character arc. Overall a well-written book.

  She’s quick with a reply. So you enjoyed it?

  I did, I message back.

  Is it so wrong that I’d want it to come true? Her reply makes me stop and consider her words.

  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the fantasy. But I’m sure real life would be much different.

  You don’t think you’d enjoy it in real life? Her question forces a small laugh from my lips. Although it’s wonderful to get lost in them, these books aren’t real. I know I’d enjoy some things. I’ve often fantasized about them. But this conversation is veering a little more into the territory of my personal preferences and is less about the book. It's also late, and I need to go to sleep while the melatonin is still active or I'll never get to bed. So I settle for a quick reply with a little humor that she’d enjoy.