by Renee Rose
“I ask the questions, little hacker. Why my casino?”
Goosebumps rise on my arms. I give a one shouldered shrug, because I’m lying on the other one. “I’d heard of it.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re a smart girl, Caitlin—obviously. You’ve been stealing from us for years and you only just now got caught. It was a clever setup, too. Took skill and a lot of thought to complete. There’s no way I believe you’d pick the one casino in Vegas run by Sicilians for your scam unless you had a good reason. If you wanted any casino to skim from, there are at least a hundred better choices.”
I try to look away from his gaze, but find it impossible. Instead, my stupid face heats.
He looms over me and grips my jaw, lowering his face to mine. He really is handsome. Dark, curling lashes, chocolate brown eyes. No smile lines. This guy takes shit seriously. “So don’t fucking lie to me. I wanna know what was going through that beautiful head of yours when you picked the Bellissimo.”
I’m not going to tell him.
At least I don’t plan to.
But he’s gained such control of my body that my mind seems to follow. Or maybe I just want him to know they deserved it. If I’m going to die for this, I can at least make my point before I do.
“You killed my father,” I whisper.
Paolo
I release my hold on her face and draw back, surprised. “Oh yeah?”
It’s possible. I’ve killed a lot of men. None who didn’t deserve everything they got. I think back to what I read in her file about her father’s death. It certainly hadn’t been enough information to ring a bell with me, if there is a bell to ring.
“Me, personally, or someone in the organization?”
She looks away. She’s been trying to look away for a while now, but I had her locked into an uncomfortable stare-down. “I’m not sure who actually pulled the trigger.”
“But he was shot?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You don’t know for sure.”
Now she lifts her eyes again. She wants answers. That’s why she let me find her. It makes perfect sense. Smart girl like her wouldn’t leave me any path to her door, but she did. Course she is a bit of a trainwreck. And she has that penchant for punishment.
But no, some part of her wanted me to show up here and give her answers about her father’s death. I’ve seen this kind of obsession before. It’s damn hard when there’s no body. You never fully put the person to rest.
“He disappeared and you think we had something to do with it.”
Again, she lifts her gaze. Damn beautiful gaze, too. Those blue eyes are striking as hell. She nods.
Damn. This girl is getting under my skin. I’m already regretting shoving my cock in her mouth.
But no. She offered—I didn’t force.
And I gave her pleasure afterward. Still have the taste of her on my tongue.
I don’t show any of the sympathy she inspires in me. I just blink down at her with an authoritative, disapproving gaze.
But I almost wish I had something to tell her. Give her that closure she desires. But that’s stupid. Even if I knew what happened to her dad, I wouldn’t admit it. It’s not like I can drive her out and show her a burial site so she can leave flowers. We’d be talking about a capital offense. Murder One. Doesn’t matter how much I want to help her, it’s not something I would admit to. Not unless I planned on killing her afterward.
“What makes you think we were involved in his disappearance?”
She purses her lips and shifts her gaze to a point on the wall. “He was working for you. The police asked all about his dealings with the Tacones when he disappeared. They pretty much inferred you did it but they couldn’t prove it.”
I seriously don’t remember any guy named West working for us. We keep things tight. Sicilians only. No outsiders. I make a doubtful sound. “Cops think we committed hundreds of crimes we had no part in.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Name was West?”
“Lake West.”
“Lake.” That name does jog something. It’s a memorable name—strange I didn’t notice it when I was reading her file. But I hadn’t been looking for a connection. I seem to recall a lowlife thief by that name. Douchey type. Skinny white guy with ripped faded blue jeans and facial hair that wasn’t all the way filled in.
Well, shit. Maybe we did kill him.
“Thief like you?” I almost regret the question, because her face flushes a deep shade of pink and her jaw sets tight. But I already started this line of questioning, might as well make my point. “Yeah? Stealing from the Tacones never ends well, doll.”
I see that flash of vulnerability on her face. Grief and fear mingled with defiance. And then, just like that, her eyes go dull.
Like she checked out and no one’s home.
I push back the sympathy I feel for her. It’s because of what she already showed me. Her freaky side. The fact that she sucked my cock. Rolled around on that bed while I whipped her ass.
And fuck if I didn’t enjoy hurting her that way.
I always knew I had a sadistic streak, I just never let myself indulge. Our dad might have taught us to rule this city with brutal violence and intimidation, but he also taught us to respect women. He never took a mistress or cheated on our mother. Always treated her like she was a goddess.
And me? I’m not the dates and dancing type. I’m the fuck ‘em hard and kick them out before morning type, so relationships have never been my thing.
Looking down at this wildfire of a woman beneath me—and she is all woman, despite her college student status—I wonder if maybe I just hadn’t found the right kind of woman before. I didn’t know women like Caitlin existed.
Women who like it as hard and rough as I like to give. Who don’t get offended or cry because I’m an inconsiderate stronzo who will never say he cares. She enjoyed being hurt by me.
Cristo, it gets my dick hard again thinking about whipping that girl’s ass. How she moaned and rubbed herself while I did it. Told me she could’ve taken more.
I walk away from her now, because that bright flame of hers burned out the moment I called her on her shit.
The moment I pointed out there are no innocent victims here. Her daddy probably stole from us and got what he deserved. And the same is going to happen to her, minus the killing part.
She’s going to pay every red cent back before I let her walk away from this with the threat that’ll keep her scared of me for the rest of her life.
Funny how I don’t feel much satisfaction in that at the moment.
Crazy girls fuck with your head.
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for how I’m feeling right now.
Chapter 3
Caitlin
Sometimes it’s hard for me to distinguish fear from excitement. I have an intelligent, rational mind, but as soon as it lands on something that scares me, I leave my body. And the way I come back is through sex and pain.
So getting bound, whipped and face-fucked by the mafia kingpin who showed up to kill me? Didn’t scare me.
Talking about my dad’s death shut me down, though.
And when my hitman packs up my electronic equipment, throws me over his shoulder and carries me out of the apartment, real fear sets in.
“Mr. Tacone?” I mumble, swinging over his wide shoulder. I have a close-up view of his ass, and it’s quite impressive, I have to say. He’s definitely an Italian Stallion, this one.
Who knew?
I might have played my cards differently if I’d known skimming over a hundred thousand dollars would trigger a hitman in such a handsome, dominant package.
He slaps my ass. “Not a sound, little hacker. Do you want me to gag you?”
Ugh. Why does that turn me on? He scrambles my brain when he says things like that. I need to figure out how to escape instead of getting wet every time he says something bossy.
“No, sir,” I mutter.
; “Good girl.”
There’s no elevator in my building, but he’s not even winded after carrying me down four flights of stairs and out into the parking lot. I look around, but there’s no one to hear me scream. He waited until the middle of the night to kidnap me.
I should’ve screamed back in the building. One of my neighbors might have come out or called the cops. Why didn’t I?
I swear sometimes I don’t have any sense. For a girl who got a 1410 on her SATs, I’m pretty stupid.
Or I have a deathwish.
That has a ring of truth in it. Which is why I targeted the Tacones in the first place. That, and for revenge.
They deserve to pay for what they did.
The Tacone guy—still don’t know which one he is—pops the trunk of his Porsche and cold washes through me.
Now I’m going to die. I’m definitely going to die.
I try to swing off his shoulder, even though with my ankles zip tied together I wouldn’t make it one step away. He slaps my ass but he’s careful putting me in the trunk.
Like he’s laying down a sleeping baby or something.
He stares down at me for a moment, his expression inscrutable.
I’m shaking all over. “Please,” I beg. “I don’t want to die.”
He shrugs off his jacket and lays it over me, carefully tucking the edges around my body to keep it on.
Huh.
Maybe I’m not going to die. Yet. What kind of hitman tucks his jacket around his victim to make sure she doesn’t get too cold?
“Please, Mr. Tacone.”
The trunk slams closed and I choke back a sob.
Shit! Fuck a duck. This is bad. Very bad.
My breath comes in little pants as the car roars to life and pulls away from the curb.
I’m so dead I’m so dead I’m so dead.
I don’t want to die.
That realization strikes me a little too late.
Too bad I continuously engage in risky behavior.
“I don’t want to die!” I scream, as if that might somehow convince the hitman to let me live. “Mr. Tacone!” I shriek. “Let me out of here.” I shriek until I’m hoarse, but of course it does no good. I can’t reach the emergency latch to open the trunk, and can’t get enough power with my ankles bound to kick out the lights.
Eventually the car rolls to a stop and the engine shuts off.
Now is when I should scream, but my throat is sore and dry and I’ve exhausted myself.
The trunk opens and the Tacone brother stares down at me. “Not a fan of the screaming,” he says, pinning me with a look.
That’s all he says.
Strangely, that’s all he needs to say. It’s like we both know I won’t do it again. He threatened a gag earlier, and I don’t want to make him follow through on that threat.
Also because he’s that dominant and something in me likes to submit.
Keeping his jacket wrapped around my shoulders, he hauls me up over his shoulder again and carries me into what seems to be a single-family dwelling in the suburbs.
Well, okay. He’s probably not planning to kill me here.
Or it seems unlikely. Too much blood.
And noise.
If he’d pulled me out of the trunk in some remote wooded location I would’ve been sure it was time to dig my grave. But this looks like it could be his house.
Huh.
He carries me inside. I lift my head and attempt to look around. It’s a beautiful modern home with luxurious furnishings. It smells like him— earthy male and leather. He carries me into what must be his bedroom and drops me on the king-sized bed. The comforter is an iridescent gun-metal grey. “Don’t move,” he says and walks out of the room.
Yeah, right. I’m not that stupid. I quickly scan the room and my eyes land on a pair of nail clippers on the bedside table.
Bingo!
I lunge for them, army crawling with my elbows across the bed and snatching them up. One snip and the ankle ties are free. I don’t waste time with the wrist ties, I just launch off the bed, palming the clippers as I run for the front door.
I’m almost there when something thin and soft wraps around my throat and jerks me back.
I drag in a desperate gasp, my fingers flying to the material at my throat.
His tie.
He’s choking me with his tie.
Except he’s not. He alternates cutting off my air flow and letting me breathe.
The man knows exactly what he’s doing.
He’s probably killed dozens of people this way while he forces their final confessions out of them. Did my father die this way?
“I thought I told you not to move.” His voice is even. Deep. Seductive, but I don’t think that’s what he’s aiming for.
I’ve never been into breathplay—it seems too risky to me—but I pretend this is sex, a scene. Something that could be ended with a simple utterance of my safeword. And just by flipping the scenario into sex-land—same as I did at my place earlier—my fear ebbs away. The blank panic fades. My body comes alive.
I let my head fall back on his shoulder and rub my bound hands between my legs.
His chuckle is soft. His lips are right at my ear.
“You like to get choked out while you’re getting it hard, Caitlin?”
Oh gawd. The man picks up what I’m putting down without even missing a beat.
“Maybe,” I admit. But there’s no maybe about it. I’m already wet. “Have you practiced breathplay?”
And the tactic totally works, because he forgets about pulling the tie taut around my neck, instead sliding one hand down my belly and into my pants. When he slowly swipes one finger over my slit, I’m shockingly slick and wet.
“I’ve choked a few people, yeah. You wanna try?”
I don’t miss noticing that he’s asking. It seems incongruent with everything else he’s done, and I take it as a good sign. Maybe he’s one of those guys who’s fine with killing a woman but not with raping her.
It sort of fits the mafia profile—at least the one portrayed in movies and television. They may be dangerous and operate outside the law but there’s still a code they live by. They just honor their own rules.
Maybe his rule is not to force himself on a woman. Or maybe it’s just his pride. I sort of doubt he would ever have to force. Not with those looks and the money and power behind them. Women probably throw their panties at him on a daily basis.
Which is precisely what I’m going to do.
“Yes, big man.”
He sinks one of his fingers into my channel. “Big man, huh? Babygirl, this is the strangest direction a shakedown has ever gone for me, you know that?”
I go still. “This is a shakedown?”
Not a murder. He would’ve said hit if it was supposed to be a hit, right?
With his hand still down my pants, he uses the tie around my neck to swivel me around and march me back toward the bedroom. “It’s whatever I want it to be. Right now, it’s me bending you over that bed and fucking you hard from behind with this tie wrapped tight around your throat. Capiche?”
I moan. I don’t even know if he means this as dirty talk, but to me it works like magic. “I capiche,” I say.
He snorts because I’m sure that’s not how you say it. Whatever. When we reach the bed, he pushes my torso down over the side of it and screws a second finger into me. I tuck my forearms under my chest and rock my hips to get him deeper. He bites my shoulder as he removes his fingers and I gasp. With quick, deft movements, he rids me of my yoga pants. I hear the tear of foil and I’m instantly grateful he’s responsible, because I hadn’t even thought about protection. At least I’m on the pill.
And the fact that he’s using a condom… does that mean he’s not killing me? Or is it just to protect him from anything I might be carrying?
Probably the latter. That thought tanks my initial elation.
The tie around my neck had gone loose but he cinches it again, sliding it up right b
eneath my chin so when he pulls on it, he lifts my head and bows my back.
“Aw, that’s pretty, doll. Really fucking pretty.”
I suddenly feel it. I picture how I must look to him; tied up, choked and ready to be fucked and it’s definitely hot.
He shoves into me from behind. It’s rough and forceful and just how I like it. My body was ready for him, even though he’s big. He thrusts in deep, easing out and bumping my ass when he slams back in.
I clench my pussy around his large cock and he jerks, shoving in harder. “Damn, you feel good, bella. You practice keeping that pussy so tight?”
“Yes,” I admit. Aren’t we all supposed to be doing our kegels?
He mutters something that sounds like, “Cazzo.” Must be an Italian curse.
I love the way he fucks me hard, like it’s punishment, like I’m meant to feel where he’s been for days. My ass is still sore from the whipping and each time he slams in, his loins slap against it, renewing the sensation, winding my crank tighter and tighter.
He tightens the silk tie around my neck, cutting off my air flow. The lack of oxygen, or maybe the fear and desperation that come with being choked bring me right to the precipice of orgasm, but he releases it before I get there.
I let out a frustrated moan.
When he pulls out, I flip my hair over my shoulder to turn and glare at him.
He smirks. “You don’t deserve to have me come in your pussy. You’ve been a bad girl.” He slaps my butt. “You’re going to take it in the ass.”
I shiver. I may be into pain, but anal’s not my thing. It’s too personal. Too intimate. “Lube!” I cry out defensively. “You can use anything—olive oil, coconut oil. Whatever you have. Please.”
He snorts again. “I ought to shred your ass with no lube,” he says, but he gets up and opens a dresser drawer, producing a bottle of lubricant.
Thank God.
“Climb up on the bed,” he orders, as if I have full use of my hands. I pull my knees up onto the bed and he helps situate me in the middle of it. “Ass in the air, troublemaker.” He slaps my butt to punctuate the command.