The Power of a Woman: A Mafia Erotic Romance

by Gina Whitney

  For some reason, the constant buzzing in my back pocket all night hadn’t registered as I pondered why my notification light was lit up. I unlocked the phone and found my text screen full of messages from Stefan. Sitting on the toilet, long after I’d finished doing my business, I read through them all, closing one eye in a desperate attempt to focus on the words that blurred.

  Dammit Jordana! Get your ass home! NOW!

  Where are you?

  Don’t you dare ignore me.

  Your defiance is really pissing me off.

  You do know I’ll find you, right?

  I’m coming for you.

  And just as I finished reading them all, another one came through… Get your ass out of the bathroom right this minute or I’ll come in for you. I’m not fucking around.

  I wiped and stood up, feeling dizzier than I had when I sat down. I blamed it on Stefan and his demanding texts. However, I still found it in me to chuckle under my breath.

  “Um…Jordana?” Laura called from the other side of the door. She’d used my full name, which could only mean one thing—something serious was happening.

  I flushed the toilet and then spun around—too quickly—to open the door. In front of me stood a very worried and confused Laura. “I need a drink.”

  “No, you don’t.” Laura clearly hadn’t had as much as I did. She made the decision to switch to water hours ago considering she drove. “You need to explain why Stefan Giannotti is out there”—she pointed to the door—”and demanding I bring you to him.”

  “He probably wants me to deep-throat his braciole.” The giggles continued as I found myself quite clever. “He just wants to pack his sausage into my casing. Nibble my crumpet. Knight me with his magic stick. Batter-dip the corndog. Cave dive—”

  “Seriously,” Laura scorned, turning off the running faucet. “I get it. He wants to fuck you. But why? He’s a Giannotti. You’re an Albanese. His meat has no business in your fucking casing.”

  “Romeo! Romeo!” I yelled toward the closed door. “Where far out that Romeo!”

  “First of all, Dana, never quote Shakespeare when you’re drunk. I’d dig him out of his grave and let him murder you with his skeletor hands for butchering that. But listen to me… Do you not remember how that tale ends?”

  “Totally. Romeo ties Juliet up in his dungeon and marks her with his flogger. Then she takes it up the ass with a ball-gag in her mouth. Shakespeare was a sick fuck. Yeah…dig him out of his grave. I wanna see what kink was like back in his day.”

  “I don’t even know what to say right now. Romeo and Juliet both died, Jordana. And that’s exactly what will happen to you if you don’t get your head on straight. Seriously, I’ve never seen you this fucked up.” She flicked water from her fingers onto my face. “We’re totally revisiting this whole kink thing when you’ve sobered up some. But for right now, you can’t go out there.”

  “You’re just jealous because he doesn’t want to fuck you.”

  She rolled her eyes and pointed to the door. Pure deflection. However, I’d revisit this at a later date. Stefan was waiting for me. Oh, who was I kidding? He was pissed. A storm was brewing. And the catastrophe wouldn’t be stopped with me hiding out in the bathroom. I stumbled around Laura and flung the door open.

  My breath seized as I caught the sight of Stefan frantically pacing in the dark hallway. The moment I strode out of the bathroom, his steps froze. His face turned to me. And then his shoulders squared, his nostrils flared, and I could practically hear the grinding of his back teeth as the muscles in his jaw ticked heavily.

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Jordana.” Just my name. That was all he gave me before grabbing my arm and pulling me roughly through into the crowd at the mouth of the hall.

  “Wait! I love this song!” I twisted out of his grasp and spun to grind my ass against him.

  He didn’t move, only stood stoically in place, his hands harshly gripping my shoulders in a silent order to stop moving. His breath hit my neck first before the deep timbre of his voice struck my ear. “Get your ass off this dance floor. I’m taking you home.”

  I froze. Even drunk, I knew what that tone meant. I knew the looming repercussions of my defiance—I’d tested, provoked him enough to know the extent of his anger. But before I could do anything, Laura rushed over to us, shoving Stefan away from me.

  “Don’t fucking touch my cousin. Code, asshole. Or are you too big for that? Are you too high and mighty to follow familia ethics?” she spat as she placed herself between our bodies. Her shoulders heaved up and down with her dramatic breaths, but his eyes burned with a blazing fury that would have anyone on their knees, begging for forgiveness. Anyone but Laura. “Touch her again and see what happens.” She grabbed for her purse, as if she’d pull a gun out.

  I placed a shaky hand over her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  She spun around, her eyes wild with dismay. “You’re going to leave with him?”

  “I’d go anywhere with him,” I said, hoping to gain some points with Stefan.

  With wide eyes, she watched as I took his hand—his grip tightened with nearly unbearable strength—and then I followed him through the crowd, leaving her behind without another word.

  With my throbbing ankle—which only ached more with Stefan’s sobering presence—and the effects the alcohol had on my ability to walk, I more or less had to lean against him as we made our way to the exit. Jude, an underling in Stefan’s crew who clearly had too much to drink, stopped us on our way out. Only an idiot would do something like that. He stood directly in front of me and laughed sadistically.

  “You got scoliosis?” he slurred.

  I pushed off Stefan’s arm and stood up straight—or, at least, I thought I was straight. The New Yorker in me came out full-force. “Scoliosis? Really, Judy? With a face like that, you have the nerve to kiss your mother?” I raised my hand, touching his cheek, and he inhaled sharply. “Looks like you’ve got scoliosis of the face. Fucking shame.” I tsked. “Go fuck your mother, asshole. Best chance at getting laid tonight.” I slapped his face and had more to say to the motherfucker, but before I could get anything else out, Stefan picked me up, slinging me over his shoulder, and walked out. All I could see was the backs of his shoes as his feet pounded the pavement to his car out front. His grip on the backs of my thighs tightened, causing a bruising pain to spread throughout my legs, leaving my pussy soaked with the anticipation of his awaiting punishment.

  The formidable locks of his Bentley opened. I wasn’t surprised he drove this car. It suited him. However, it was far from a typical guido car. Most men drove Cadillac’s. But Stefan wasn’t most men. He’s what I’d call…a yuppie. New age, new millennium Mafia. He was the new face to an old-world organization, and from what filtered down the vine, la familia was opining over him. A sense of pride amongst other sensations ran through me. He opened my door, placed me in, and buckled my seat-belt.

  The door slammed and he rounded the car.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Do I have a choice, Jordana?” He pushed the ignition button and the engine roared to life.

  “Do you ever feel like you’re drowning in all that power of yours? All those feelings you never share?” I asked as his phone started to ring.

  He answered, sounding more irritated than he had with me. “What?” His brow furrowed as he listened to whomever was on the other line. “I’m on my way. Keep him there.” Stefan slammed the steering wheel hard and screamed. “Fuckin’ IRA motherfuckers.” Then he turned to me, a scowl on his face. “You’re selfish, you know that? I have business, and I’m late because of your little escapade.” His tone was harsh, but his voice steady. This man knew how to stay in complete control over everything, even when a fire burned inside him.

  My voice was lost and my throat dry. “Do you have any water?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Water?” He glared at me and hit the gas, sending us into a fishtail. “You see this hand?” He removed it from
the wheel and held it mid-air.

  I nodded, unsure what he’d meant.

  “I always have a steady hand. Never, and I mean never will you see me flinch. You make me crazy, Jordana. Crazy—in this life, feelings, and affairs of the heart—will get you killed. You know that better than anyone. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. Weakness. I can’t afford to have one.”

  “You’re not weak. Furthest fucking thing from weak.” My voice rose to make my point. I knew where he was going with this. I fucked up his head, and possibly a business deal. Not good. The alcohol numbed my brain, but not my heart.

  Someone put their high beams on behind us, the glare reflecting in the side mirror, nearly blinding me and causing a frustrated hiss next to me.

  “Motherfucker!” he yelled, pounding on the steering wheel again. “What more tonight?” He pulled the steering wheel and made a hard right, forcing my body into the console. I knew that’d leave a bruise in the morning.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, finding myself suddenly nervous. I knew about the family business, but Daddy oftentimes kept me as far from it as possible, so I’d never truly been in the middle of it before. Not only being in the middle of it, but in the middle of another family’s business sent shivers down my spine and caused my heart to race.

  His hand reached over, finding my head and pushing it down harshly. “Get down, Jordana, and don’t come up until I tell you.”

  I wedged my head between my knees, the dashboard less than an inch away from my forehead. He’d contorted my body into many different positions over the months since we’d started fucking, and this was clearly the most uncomfortable. But I didn’t question him. I knew some shit was about to go down, and he didn’t need my sass or backtalk.

  “Not a fucking word comes out of that mouth, Jordana, or so help me God…”

  It was a “heavy lies the crown” kind of moment, and the car slowed as we hit a few bumps, enough to know we weren’t on the main road anymore, but possibly under the train trestle. It was dark—eerily dark. My heart nearly beat out of my chest, bruising itself on my ribcage. Stefan threw the car in park angrily when another vehicle drove quickly over the gravel before coming to an abrupt stop. The only sounds I could register above my own heartbeat in my ears were the crunching of gravel flying around the open space outside the car. Stefan flew open his door and stepped out, slamming it behind him.

  “What’s so urgent you had to track me down, Flora?” Stefan demanded in a hard, deep tone that showed he’d meant business. I’d heard that voice a time or two, and it wasn’t something to laugh at or question.

  I didn’t need to peek up to know the man was Johnny Flora—Mick Giannotti’s sergeant of arms. They called him Flora because he always brought home flowers for his wife. He was the least flowery person I knew, and that’s where the joke was. They busted his balls over it. But in this life…everyone had a nickname.

  “Call me crazy, but I’m concerned when we’re meeting with these potato boiling IRA pricks, and you’re at a club acting like some Don Juan pussy-obsessed school kid.” His tone was clear, and so was the message. Business always came first. Always. You could be in the middle of Christmas dinner and if a call came in, you took it. You left. You didn’t apologize or make excuses. Number one priority: Business.

  I peeked up, my curiosity getting the best of me. I could hear everything they’d said, but for some reason, I needed to see it with my own eyes. You could tell a lot just by how someone stood, what they did with their hands, their facial expressions and body language telling more than the words they said or the tone they used. I just needed to see it all for myself.

  Stefan leaned back and released a sardonic chuckle. “Is that jealousy I hear from you, Flora? You spending too much time picking all those delicate flowers for your wife and not enough of getting your dick wet? Or maybe you like picking daisies. Is that it?”

  “Go fuck yourself.” His eyes narrowed on Stefan.

  “If I could, you know I would.”

  Flora stuck his finger in Stefan’s chest, shoving him back a step. “Worry more about business than getting your ‘dick wet,’ boy. Keep this shit up and I’ll have to pick flowers for your casket the way I had to for your brother. Eyes open. Ears tuned in. Mouth fucking closed, motherfucker. Don’t make your father regret bringing you back.”

  I could practically see the fumes coming from Stefan as he heaved a heavy breath and stepped into the wall of a man. “Know your role, motherfucker.”

  Flora lifted his hands up, palms out to show respect. “You may be his blood. But I’ve been here since you were in diapers, son. I was there when Mick had to bury your brother. All I’m trying to do is keep his other son alive and safe.”

  Stefan nodded, backing off his stance. “Is Shane O’Shay there?” Stefan asked, obviously changing the subject back to business—business I had no clue about.

  With a sobering mind, it became clear just how badly I’d fucked up his night. Stefan had been in a family meeting at dinner, now Flora, and it sounded as if he had yet another meeting to go to after this. But he’d gone after me, hidden me in his car. The thought both warmed and frightened me.

  “No, but he’s on his way. You know how your father gets with these Mc-fucks in town. His bowels are in an uproar. He’s not convinced they’re not cheese-eatin-rats. So do me a favor and get your ass to the docks, shithead. By the way, smartass, you might want to try bringing a girl flowers sometime instead of whatever unnatural thing you’re into. You’ve always been a little off, kid,” Flora said with a smile in his voice instead of on his face.

  He jumped back into his SUV. Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” blared as he hit the gas, kicking up gravel as he sped off. Stefan watched the taillights for a moment before climbing back in his car next to me. One look. That’s all I got out of him—just one glare—before speeding away in silence.

  The first thing to register was my thick, dry tongue filling my mouth. I tried and tried to work up enough saliva to moisten it, but nothing worked. I was too thirsty, too dehydrated to even garner enough fluid in my mouth to swallow down the cotton that’d taken over. I opened my eyes, only to shut them quickly, squeezing them tight. The light pouring into my room only served to intensify the pounding in my head. Then I rolled over, attempting to turn away from the large window beside my bed, but even that small movement made me wince and groan. What the fuck?

  My body felt like I’d gone to war, and not in a good way. Definitely not in the way Stefan made me feel. This was due to overindulgence in alcohol, and I hadn’t felt this way in a long time. It made me immobilize myself and think back to the night before, starting with dinner. That part was clear, only getting fuzzy toward the end before leaving with Laura.

  Laura…she always had a way of leaving me sick the next morning. I hated it. It left me feeling out of control. And the only time I enjoyed being out of control was with Stefan.

  Stefan…did he show up, or was that my mind playing tricks on me? I would’ve bet that had he really been there, I’d be deliciously sore between my legs. I blindly ran my hand along my inner thighs, feeling nothing new. But if it’d been nothing more than a drunken dream, why did it feel so real? His voice. Those dark, piercing eyes. He had to have been there. But why couldn’t I remember anything?

  I felt around for my phone, finding it twisted in the sheets. Sitting up, I groaned and grunted against the pain, realizing for the first time that I was still in the clothes from the night before. How the hell did I get home? Ignoring that thought, I rifled through the call log and texts, finding the ones from Stefan. That’s when the fog began to lift—barely.

  I remembered him showing up to the club, dragging me out. But aside from his lecture after grinding on him and the smack I’d given some faceless loser, I couldn’t remember shit. Bits and pieces were there, but not full scenes that I could piece together. Even thinking about it caused my head to throb even harder.

  Throwing the blanket off me, I lowered m
y bare feet to the ground and stepped out of bed, only to fall flat on my face in agony. A sharp pain shot up my leg from my ankle, crippling me into a ball of sobs on the floor next to my bed. I wrapped my hands around the swollen joint and breathed through the discomfort before glancing down at it, noticing the dark colors imbedded in my skin. Great. That’s exactly what I needed—a bum ankle. But at least it brought back a new memory, one of me dancing and nearly falling on my face after my six-inch heel went one way and my body went another. However, that memory didn’t do shit to help me figure out what happened with Stefan and how I’d gotten home.

  A hard, desperate knock sounded on my closed bedroom door. Before I could tell the unwanted visitor to go away, it opened and my father rushed in, breathing frantically with wide, terrified eyes. That was enough to gain my attention and make me forget about the agony that reverberated from my foot to my head.

  “What is it, Daddy?” I bravely pulled myself to the edge of my bed and sat on it.

  He came to me, sitting next to me. “What happened to you? Your ankle? Did something happen at dinner last night?” he asked, panic consuming his voice and eyes.

  “No, Daddy. I went out dancing with Laura after dinner and twisted my ankle. It’s no big deal. I’ll be all right. I just need some ice and a few pills. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Matteo…” he breathed out, his head and shoulders dropping with defeat.

  Much like every time something happened to Matty, my father came to me. It insulted me that he thought of me as too stupid to figure out his motive. Coming to me, mentioning a problem, telling me how he didn’t know what to do…yet never, not once, asking me for help. I knew the game. I was just tired of playing it with him.

  “What did he do now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then what is it?” The anger began to drift into concern, taking over until the physical soreness of my body became numb to the mental pain of the unknown.