“Because a priest thought they were ugly.”
She removed her hand, going quiet for a few heartbeats. “Are you talking about Silvio?”
“No. Stop asking questions and do the job, or I won’t pay you.”
“Okay, Mr. Grumpy Bum.” She walked over to the wall full of whips and canes, running her hand over them as though they were precious. “Which one do you want me to use, scrumptious?”
“The cat o’ nine tails.”
“You crazy motherfucker, that one’s nasty.”
“Just do it.”
“Oh, I will, don’t worry about that.” She pulled off her top, the woman braless. She had colorful tattoos all over her body as well as gold nipple rings. She pulled on them, giving him a grin. “Like what you see?”
He nodded, although it was only half true. Although the woman was sexy as hell, she wasn’t his taste. He loved exotic women—like Ivy. Dio, that woman was an instant hard-on. He just wished he’d taken the time to fuck her with more care, then maybe she wouldn’t hate him so much now. Then again, he’d never taken a woman gently, even before the Padre had damaged him. He willed the man out of his mind, focusing on Cyn’s tits.
“You wouldn’t be a man if you didn’t like these,” Cyn said, running a hand over her tits. “You want to taste them?”
“I thought you weren’t going to have sex with me.”
“You’re tempting me.” She grabbed the cat o’ nine tails and walked over to him, running the handle down his back. “Very much.”
His mind went to woman he’d had sex with earlier. It was unsatisfactory, just a bodily function, nothing more. He knew it would be the same with Cyn. He wanted Ivy, not another substitute.
“Just whip me.”
She pouted. “You sure? You got me all horny now, and as long as you don’t tell Ivy, we can have sex.”
“Are you bipolar? You constantly change your mind.”
“No, just a horny female with a huge chip on her shoulder called Ivy.” She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. “So, you sure you don’t want to fuck? I’m real good. I used to be a concubine for a Yakuza until he was murdered. I don’t look it, but I’m half Japanese.”
“I don’t want to know your life history; I just want to be whipped.”
“You really are rude.”
“Then gag me and get on with the job.”
She shook her head. “Since you’re turning me down, I want to hear you scream.”
“Then gag yourself, because you talk too much.”
She grimaced. “I’m going to take pleasure in hurting you.”
“Get to it, then.” He placed his forehead against the soft padded wall, waiting for the first strike. His heart pounded in excitement, the initial stage of trepidation tightening his muscles. He willed himself to relax, the slice of the whip not something to fear.
She ran the whip down his back again, taking it lower, between his ass cheeks.
“Cyn,” he growled. “Do what I ask or I won’t pay you.”
“Spoilsport. Now ... ready ... steady... Go!”
He heard the whirl of the whip before he felt the strike, the knotted tails of the cat-o-nine laying a path down his back. He didn’t flinch, the strike not hard enough, the woman barely tickling his ruined flesh. His nerve endings were damaged from the years of whipping. She needed to break through the barrier of scars to affect him.
“Harder,” he said. “I hardly felt that.”
She whipped him again, only a little pain getting through.
“Harder!”
“That was hard, and if I do more I’ll cause some serious damage.”
“I doubt it; you just need to look at my back to see that.”
“This isn’t BDSM; it’s torture.”
“I didn’t say it was that pretend shit, so stop talking and fucking whip me, puttana.”
“Okay! You asked for it.” The whip struck his back again, slicing into it, making him cry out, this time the woman succeeding in hurting him. And it was delicious, the pain taking over his mind.
“Shit!” she swore. “Was that too hard?”
“No, it was perfect,” he croaked out, shivering from the pleasure. “Keep going.”
“Whatever, nutjob.” She whipped him again, Brando shouting out this time. She continued, the knotted leather strips slicing his skin. She stopped after several strokes. “Is that enough?”
Brando shook his head, the pain now swamping the pleasure. Still, he wanted it to continue. He didn’t want to think or reply; he just wanted to concentrate on the slice of the whip, needing it to completely take over his mind.
She brought the whip across his back again, making him yell out, his voice now hoarse.
“I should stop,” she said, “your back’s looking bad.”
“No! Make me pass out. You can tend to my wounds afterwards.”
“I don’t think—”
“Do it!”
“Okay!”
The whip cut between his shoulder blades, his body pulling tight from the strike. More followed, his pain turning into pleasure once more, his cock now rock hard. The next strike took it further, the buildup below moving to his groin. He gasped as his cock shot cum over the wall. Cyn continued to whip him, taking him to another place, his mind now partway in Heaven and partway in Hell. She struck him yet again, but he didn’t feel it. He was floating outside of his body, looking down on the scene below.
Cyn stopped whipping him, the woman looking worried. She touched his head, asking if he was all right. He didn’t answer. His head was hanging down, while his body hung limply from the restraints, making him appear dead. Maybe he was watching the last moments of his life slipping away. Or maybe he was hallucinating again, the bullet in his head taking him a step closer to crazy. The doctor had told him he’d damaged the part of his brain that controlled reason, making him see things that weren’t there. Maybe this was one of those visions, something he shouldn’t take for being real. Though, it was hard not to when he was seeing everything in technicolor and right before his eyes.
“Hivno!” Cyn said, using a word Brando didn’t know. She dropped the whip and placed two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. She let out a sigh of relief. “God, man, I thought I’d killed you,” she said, her accent no longer sounding British, the woman either Russian or Ukrainian. For a second, Brando wondered why she was using a fake accent, then everything went blank, unconsciousness freeing his mind.
***
Brando’s tears dampened the pillow; consciousness having awoken him minutes prior and delivering him straight to Hell.
The Padre placed his lips next to Brando’s ear. “Keep this to yourself or your mother won’t live to see another mass.” He pulled out of Brando and disappeared into the bathroom.
Brando remained on his front, too stunned and sore to move. The shower went on, suggesting the Padre was cleaning himself. Not wanting to be here when the man returned, Brando pushed off the bed and dragged his pants back up his legs. Zipping himself up, he headed for the door, every step causing him pain. He flicked the lock and peeked out, praying he could leave without anyone seeing him. Thankfully, the church was empty.
He slipped out of the room, exiting the church through the back way, afraid someone would see him. He didn’t want to explain or even think about what the priest had done to him. He wished he could purge it from his mind. He could still feel the Padre’s body imprinted upon his ... and the man’s cum between his legs ... as well as hear the vile bastard’s grunts—the memory torturing him.
He stumbled across the cemetery, not knowing where he was going or how he was going to get home. He was meant to help the priest during mass—where his family would be. But he couldn’t be in that church ... he couldn’t, not after...
He yelled out, the sorrow, humiliation, and rage breaking free from his soul. He picked up a vase from a tombstone and threw it across the cemetery, smashing it against another tombstone. He was a man! He liked women! He wasn’t
gay. The priest was sick! He grabbed another vase and threw it too, yelling out again, not holding anything back.
“Brando! What are you doing?!”
Brando spun around. The priest was standing in the back doorway of the church, dressed in his black robes. He was staring across the cemetery at him as though Brando had lost his mind. And he had, the bastard having stolen it from him.
Brando turned and ran, almost falling over a grave.
“Brando! Come back!”
The priest’s voice made him run faster, his fear outweighing the pain he felt. He climbed over the fence and sprinted across the field, not looking back.
***
Brando walked along the road to his home, stopping at the gate, unable to look at the two soldiers guarding it.
“Where have you been, Brando?” Miko approached him, the man a wall of fat. The soldier had just started working for his family a month ago. “Everyone has been looking for you.”
“I need a drink,” Brando croaked out, his throat dry. The walk from the church to his home had taken almost two hours, the heat of the day having made the journey even harder.
Miko removed a flask from his jacket. “I’ve only got wine.”
Brando snatched it off him and skulled the contents within seconds.
Miko took the flask back. “Are you all right?” he asked, placing a hand on Brando’s arm.
Brando jerked back. “Don’t touch me!”
Miko jolted, his expression surprised. “Okay, calm down, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Just let me in,” Brando said, willing himself not to break down. He was a Santini, and Santini were strong. He couldn’t show any sign of weakness, not now, not ever.
“Then, get in the car,” Miko said. “I’ll drive you to the house.”
Feeling like collapsing, Brando staggered to the black sedan, the pain in his body from the rape and the walk home unbearable. He climbed into the back seat and lay down. Miko got behind the wheel and drove through the gateway, heading up the long driveway to the main house.
He stopped the car outside the entrance and got out to open Brando’s door. Wincing, Brando climbed out of the back seat and headed for the front door. Before he could touch the handle, the door flung open, his mother emerging from it.
She grabbed him, pulling Brando into her arms, crying, “I thought you’d been kidnapped!” She drew back and scanned his body. “Are you hurt?” He went to say no, but she cut him off, her expression surprised. “You’ve been drinking?”
“I—”
“Where have you been?” a deep male voice cut him off.
Brando looked past his mother. His father was standing in the doorway. He was glaring at Brando, his cold blue eyes showing no concern, only anger.
“Answer my question, boy!” his father snapped.
“I was ... out walking,” Brando said, too afraid to tell him what had happened, worried that he’d get the blame. His father had on numerous occasions called him a girl, saying he was too pretty to be a boy, the comment always filled with contempt. He’d even called Brando gay, regardless of how many girls he’d introduced to him.
“Walking?” his father said, his voice sounding incredulous.
Brando nodded.
“You were supposed to be helping Padre Michael, yet you take off, scaring your mother half to death. What the hell is wrong with you, boy?!”
“I cou-couldn’t stay.”
“Why not? All you had to do was one thing, yet you couldn’t even do that. You’re of no fucking use to this famiglia. You’re fucking useless!”
“I’m not useless!” Brando yelled, before he could stop himself, his body in pain, his mind even worse. “You don’t give a merda about me, so why should I give a merda about what you want.”
Anger shot across his father’s face. He raised his hand.
His mother spun around. “Don’t you dare touch him!”
“He insulted me!”
“You insulted him first, you bastardo!”
His father lowered his face to her, his expression vicious. “Watch what you say, puttana,” he spat.
“She’s not a whore,” Brando hollered. “You are!”
His father’s head whipped around, his expression shocked. “What did you just call me?”
“Something Mamma isn’t,” Brando answered, now too upset to care about what his father thought. “I’ve seen you enter the whorehouse. You’re a cheat.”
His father pointed a finger at him. “I’ve had enough of you, boy. Pack your bags; I don’t want you in my home one second longer.”
“No!” his mother yelled. “You can’t do that. This is his home too.”
“Only because I allowed it,” his father replied. “I should’ve tossed the both of you out after he was born.”
“You callous bastardo!”
“I’m not the bastardo here, woman.” His eyes moved to Brando, a sneer forming. “You’ve eaten my food, lived under my house for seventeen years, yet have contributed nothing.”
“He’s done no less than any of the other children.”
“But, I love them.”
Brando flinched, even more pain lancing through him, his father finally admitting to what he’d always suspected.
His mother spat at his father’s feet. “I hate you.”
“The feeling is mutual; I just wish the church would allow me to divorce you, puttana.” His father refocused on Brando, a smile forming. “Actually, I have something better than throwing you out, Brando. You can earn your keep for once in your worthless life. I don’t want Ricardo being a hitman anymore, he’s too important to risk, so you can take his place. Once you’re trained enough, I want you to take over.”
“No!” his mother yelled. “He’ll get himself killed.”
His father smiled; the expression cruel. “One can only hope.” He turned and disappeared inside the house, leaving Brando staring after him, his father’s words tearing him apart, even more than the rape.
His mother grabbed his face. “You’re not being a hitman.”
Brando pushed his mother’s hands away. “I will.” He went to move past her.
She blocked his way. “No! You’re just a child, and you shouldn’t be drinking either. Who gave you alcohol?”
“I’m not a child! I’m old enough to drink and to kill, so you’re not stopping me.” He sidestepped her and entered the house, heading for his room, his mind overwhelmed with grief. He knew he should tell his mother about the priest, but he couldn’t, the Padre’s threat stopping him. And even if Padre Michael hadn’t threatened her life, he still didn’t think he could tell anyone: the shame, the humiliation ... it would be unbearable.
He ascended the staircase, stopping halfway up it as a maid called out to him. She raced up the stairs, holding a phone out for him to take. “For you, Signor Brando,” she said.
He took it and placed it to his ear. “Pronto?”
A deep rumble came over the line. “Did you tell anyone about what I did?”
Brando froze at the Padre’s voice. His eyes went to his mother as she walked across the lounge. “No,” he said, flicking his hand at the maid to leave. He resumed climbing the staircase, quickly entering his room.
“Brando, are you still there?” Padre Michael asked.
He closed the door behind him. “I don’t want to talk to you—ever again.”
“You don’t get a choice.”
Brando walked into his bathroom and closed the door. “You got what you wanted, so leave me alone. I won’t say a word.”
“That’s because you don’t want your mother to meet her maker.”
Brando gritted his teeth, wishing he could kill the bastard.
“And she will remain safe,” the priest continued, “as long as you come here every Sunday.”
Brando’s face fell. “No!”
“Saying no will only get your mother killed, angel, so you better think long and hard before next Sunday, because if you don’t sh
ow, I will be performing your mother’s funeral.”
The line went dead.
10
Irene woke up to a warm body next to her. For a second she thought it was Vinnie, but the colorful tattoos were blue instead of red. Last night came back in a rush. She’d gone back to Dominic’s house. Vinnie’s twin had bribed two guards to sneak her inside the Santini compound, paying them not to tell the Don. Obviously, he wasn’t permitted to bring anyone home, which was probably why Vinnie had bedded that woman at the club. She gritted her teeth, fury building up at the memory of Vinnie dragging the woman into the room.
Dominic muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, capturing her attention. He was naked, his muscular body pierced in the most unusual places. Her eyes went to the silver ring in the head of his cock—something he knew how to use and very well. The man was definitely talented in bed, the best she’d had, which was saying a lot, considering she’d been with many men prior to her sisters’ deaths. She forced the painful memories down, her younger sisters’ murders forever haunting her. She’d been made to watch them get their throats slit, their murderer laughing as he did it, the man a psychopath. Christo Donatelli had then forced his brother, who was a priest, to tie them to crucifixes, using them as a means to start the mafia war. He’d told her that the only reason he hadn’t slit her throat was so she could suffer for eternity, knowing she’d led her sisters to their deaths, the party she’d taken them to a trap she’d blindly walked into.
She looked down at the tattoos on her wrists, which hid her attempt at suicide. She’d tattooed her sisters’ names over her scars, turning the lettering into a band of thorns. A tear dropped onto the black ink. Her sisters’ murderer was dead, so she couldn’t take revenge on him—but she could on Brando. Her parents’ murderer was still walking around like he owned the world, not caring that he’d shattered the last vestiges of hers. Maybe she could make him pay now—by killing someone he loved.
She returned her attention to his brother, running her finger over Dominic’s neck. He sighed in his sleep, tilting his head to the side as though he was offering up his throat to be slit. She imagined his blood dripping down his neck and pooling in between his muscled pecs. Her eyes rose to his face, the bullring in his nose not detracting from his handsome features. She frowned, knowing she couldn’t hurt him. Not only had he been nice to her, but he looked too much like Vinnie. Maybe she could kill one of Brando’s other brothers—he had enough of them to choose from.
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