His Captive_A Mafia Romance

by Nikki Chase

  Technically, she’s my hostage, so I could. But I’m no rapist. What fun would it be to fuck a girl, knowing she doesn’t want it?

  Yes, I like exerting power over a woman and watching her obey me. I even like inflicting pain on her. But in a way, rape is the opposite of what I want.

  I want a woman who submits to me out of her own free will. A woman who will do anything to please me, even if it hurts her.

  And Elena was giving me everything I crave . . . Even after she overheard the phone call, when I touched her outside my bedroom, I could still feel her desire for me.

  I glance at Elena. She’s still staring through the wall, her body slightly slumped.

  I wonder how she’d react if I scooted closer and slide my hand up her thighs. Would she moan for me? Would she part her legs like she did earlier tonight?

  But I can wait to find out. For now, I’ll give her some time. At least until she starts eating again.

  “It’s time for bed.” I point the remote control at the TV and turn it off.

  Elena turns to me. “I’ll stay here.”

  That makes me laugh. “No way. You’re coming with me.”

  I’ve been nice enough to leave her alone with her thoughts, but I’m not letting her stay this close to the front door without supervision.

  I get up and grab Elena’s wrist, then pull her down the hallway. To her credit, she doesn’t try to resist. She knows it would be useless anyway.

  Once we’re inside my bedroom, I lock the door and put the key in the front pocket of my pants. If she wants it, she can dig around for it. At least I’ll get to enjoy the feeling of her hand on my dick before I deal with her escape attempt.

  In the darkness, we lie down on my queen-sized bed. Again, she’s so close to the edge, she’d fall over if I so much as nudge her in my sleep.

  I thought I’d be fucking her now. Hell, I thought I’d have already fucked her by now.

  The thought of Elena pinned under me, her legs spread wide apart, makes the blood rush to my cock in the dark. I can’t help but remember the way her face contorted in pleasure when I had my fingers in her soaked pussy.

  If it weren’t for that fucking phone call . . .

  A growl interrupts my thoughts, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Hungry?” I ask Elena.

  She doesn’t respond even though her eyes are open. The covers rise and fall with her regular breathing.

  Then, her stomach makes another loud growl as if to answer my question.

  I shake my head. “Come on.” I grab her hand and pull her out of bed, unlocking the door and leading her back to the couch. The pizza boxes are still on the coffee table.

  Quietly, Elena takes a seat and starts eating, avoiding my gaze the whole time.

  She’s probably been hungry all night, poor thing. And she was too proud to admit it until her body gave her secret away.

  Funny. That seems to be a recurring pattern with Elena. She’s not good at admitting her true feelings.

  She finishes three slices of pizza then walks toward the kitchen to fill a glass with tap water and drink it. Then, she walks silently into the hallway, saying nothing.

  I hear her enter the bathroom and flush the toilet after a few seconds of silence.

  She’s being a pain in the ass, interrupting my sleep. But as far as hostages go, I guess she’s okay. She’s being kind of cute, actually.

  I wait in the hallway, leaning my arm against the wall for balance, until she emerges from the bathroom. Still saying nothing and avoiding my eyes, she enters the bedroom.

  I follow behind her and lock the bedroom door again, then lie down next to her.

  It’s an excruciatingly painful night. I’m way too aware that Elena is in the same bed with me. I can almost feel the heat of her body, the gentle dip in the mattress from her weight.

  Here’s what happens over and over again: I toss and turn until at some point I face Elena; I watch Elena’s pretty face as she sleeps soundly; the mental image of her writhing and moaning in my arms flashes in my mind; I toss and turn again because I can’t sleep with my cock fucking throbbing in my pants, and I can’t jerk myself off with Elena right next to me.

  Before I know it, birds sing just outside my window. The first rays of morning sun invade my bedroom, the light sliced into pieces by my slats of the cheap, plastic blinds.

  Fuck sleeping.

  I get out of bed and walk out into the living room, where a heavy, black punching bag hangs from the ceiling in one corner, waiting for me.

  I throw one punch at it. Fuck, that feels good. I hit it again and again, harder than I normally do. Turns out my desire for Elena can make me just as angry as my hatred of her father.

  I don’t know how Elena manages to sleep with all the noise I’m making, but she doesn’t get up until the delivery guy comes with more pizza and I fetch her from the bedroom.

  “Time to eat,” I tell her.

  Elena gets up and has her meal, but she continues to say nothing for the rest of the day. That’s not a bad thing, I guess.

  The things she has done, the words she has spoken, the tears she has cried—they go round and round in my brain, refusing to leave me alone. So the less interaction we have, the less material my mind has to torture me.

  Now that she knows the truth, I can at least get some work done.

  Elena glances curiously as I pull out the briefcase from inside the kitchen cabinet, but she remains silent, even when I rest a big bag of cocaine on the coffee table in front of her and divide it into multiple smaller bags.

  I even duck into the bedroom to make another phone call to Giovanni—he says nothing happened last night, and I tell him to lay low for now—and when I come back, Elena is still sitting in the same spot. She hasn’t touched the coke either—not that she strikes me as a user. But she hasn’t even said one word, and if I’m being completely honest, it’s starting to drive me crazy.

  Night comes, and we wolf down another order of pizza for dinner—I know it’s not the healthiest thing ever, but I’m under a lot of stress now that a plan I worked on for months is finally in motion. On top of that, I didn’t count on my hostage turning me into a madman.

  She hasn’t put up a fight or complained once. Hell, she hasn’t even asked me to release her after that one time when she first found out.

  In all the scenarios I played in my head before actually carrying out my plan, those were the problems I thought a hostage would cause. But Elena isn’t behaving the way I expected her to.

  I’m feeling more antsy than ever. Is it because she’s making me doubt all my other presumptions about the plan? Am I just having cabin fever from being locked in my apartment all the time, babysitting her? Or is it because I keep having to hold myself back from grabbing her and having my way with her?

  I walk around this enclosed space, almost rubbing shoulders with this amazingly alluring woman, and I can’t touch her even though my balls are getting heavy as fuck. The lack of sleep isn’t helping either.

  Elena may be my hostage, but I’m the one being tortured by her presence. Sure, it’s self-inflicted, but I’m not sure that makes it better.

  When the time comes to go to sleep again, I don’t know if I’m more relieved because I get a chance to shut my eyes, or dismayed because I have to fucking sleep in the same bed as Elena while still not touching her. At the same time, I don’t want to sleep outside on the couch either because I’d still rather be next to her.

  In the morning, I give up on sleep again and walk out to punch the sandbag. I turn on the stereo and play something loud to make myself forget Elena’s here. I don’t want to her hear her opening and closing doors, flushing the toilet, or walking around.

  If she’s not going to speak to me, I don’t want to hear a sound she makes.

  When I get hungry, I order pizza and let Elena know when it arrives.

  We have another meal in silence and watch TV.

  By the time it gets dark outside, she still ha
sn’t uttered a word. Her silence feels like judgment.

  I know I’m doing the right thing. Even if it’s not legal, this is my own brand of justice.

  Still, the difference between the Elena who’s giving me the cold shoulder right now and the Elena who beamed when I picked her up at the airport is stark. I can’t help but feel guilt creeping inside my chest.

  So, with Elena sitting on the couch next to me, I turn off the TV, turn on the stereo, and start hitting the sandbag again.

  I don’t care if she was watching that re-run of Seinfeld. Maybe that will piss her off enough to start talking again.

  But as I practice my jabs and crosses, the smell of something delicious hits my nose. I stop punching the sandbag and turn around to see Elena in the kitchen.

  Is she cooking?

  She’s got her back to me. Her red dress skims over her curves and moves every time she shifts her feet, giving me glimpses of her shape.

  I swear there’s nothing I want more than to walk over there, grab her hips, and bend her over so I can spank her for torturing me with her silence.

  But again, I restrain myself. I can keep my cool if she can keep her cool.

  I turn off the stereo. Elena doesn’t even look back to see what I’m doing. It makes me want to yank her against me and force her to give me all her attention.

  But instead, I simply walk into the kitchen and see what she’s cooking. Just some eggs she probably found in the fridge.

  It dawns on me that she could use the hot frying pan, which contains oil that’s probably even hotter, as a weapon. Yet something tells me she won’t do that.

  “Make enough for two,” I say.

  Elena quietly opens the fridge to grab more eggs, but she doesn’t even acknowledge me aside from that.

  If she keeps this up, I swear I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Elena

  If I have to eat another slice of pizza, I’d stab someone.

  Seeing as Damon has done nothing to hurt me, I don’t want to do that to him.

  Oh, and also . . . he’s quite a lot bigger and stronger than me, so even if I manage to stab him once, he’ll overpower me anyway, and I’ll probably just end up having less freedom. It’s not like I’ve had much practice bringing a man down with just one stab of the knife.

  Damon is practically inhaling the scrambled eggs I just made. It’s really not that good. I didn’t have much to work with. No fresh ingredients like onions or bell peppers, for example. Maybe he’s as sick of pizza as I am?

  “That was delicious,” he says as he sets the plate down on the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” I answer without thinking twice.

  “You’re talking to me now?” Damon raises a questioning eyebrow.

  Oh, that’s right. I hadn’t spoken for a while.

  I’ve been too lost in my own thoughts to make small talk.

  Besides, he’s already told me he doesn’t plan to let me go no matter what I say. He also said he doesn’t plan on hurting me, so that’s pretty much all I need to know.

  I’ve used my time carefully evaluating my circumstances and considering my options.

  After staring at every door and window in this one-bedroom apartment, I still can’t find an escape route. We’re also on the third floor, and I’m not desperate enough to risk breaking my bones.

  I know that Damon literally won’t touch me if I don’t want him to, so that’s a big relief. I’ve seen the hunger in his eyes when he looks at me, and I expected him to simply take what he wants just because I won’t be able to stop him.

  But he’s more honorable than I thought. A criminal’s honor, sure—but it’s still honor nonetheless.

  I also know what items to use as a weapon in every room of this apartment.

  There are knives in the kitchen, of course. If I’m in the living room, the best thing to do would be to run as fast as I can to the kitchen.

  In the bathroom, I’ve started to loosen the screws on the towel rack so I can pull out the metal stick and clock someone with it. I can also use the toilet tank lid, although that’s heavier and harder to swing around.

  In the bedroom, there’s a mirror I can break with one of Damon’s wooden coat hangers. The shards will come in handy if I ever have to stab someone.

  I’ve found some cleaning fluid in the hallway closet that I can throw onto someone’s face, too.

  “Would you prefer I keep my mouth shut?” I ask Damon.

  “No,” he answers quickly. “God, no.”

  I carry our dirty plates and utensils to the kitchen and wash them in the stainless steel sink.

  “Do you like cooking?” Damon grabs a wet, clean plate off my hands and places it on the dish rack.

  Does he even know how kidnapping works? He didn’t even steal me away, and now he’s helping me with the dishes? I’m having doubts in my dad’s recruiting methods.

  “I don’t mind it,” I say, passing another clean plate to Damon.

  “Do you want to cook again tomorrow? Would it help take your mind off things?” he asks.

  I scrub the frying pan with a brush, covering it with white bubbles. “Have you ever taken a hostage before, Damon?”

  He frowns. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Do you treat all your hostages like this?”

  After a second of silence, Damon bursts into laughter. “No, princess. You’re special.”

  “Good to know.”

  Damon takes the rest of the wet dishes off my hands and deals with them as I step away from the kitchen. “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “I’m taking a shower,” I announce as I walk down the hallway. After cooking, I always feel like I’m covered in oil.

  Besides, I need to loosen the screws on that towel rack a little bit more. A warm shower will also help me sleep—and I need my rest so I can take the opportunity to escape when it presents itself.

  Sure, Damon isn’t a bad man. But I sneaked out from under my dad’s supervision to gain my freedom—not to have another man take it away from me.

  After my shower, I walk into the bedroom to find Damon already lying in bed.

  I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before, so I don’t know how it usually works. But I find it funny how after the first night, I can’t bring myself to sleep on “his side of the bed.” It just feels wrong.

  I have no idea if Damon normally sleeps on the right-hand side, but he’s there again tonight, just like he was the previous nights.

  I smile to myself as I turn off the lights.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  Would he find it insulting if I told him he seems like a harmless giant who’s sweet and kind despite his appearance?

  “Nothing.” I join him in bed.

  “I’m glad you’re talking again.”

  “Did the silence bother you?” I turn on my side to face Damon and study his handsome face. It seems strange that something as simple as the lack of words from a girl like me could affect someone like Damon.

  Damon hesitates. “I was just worried about you. Won’t look very good to Enzo if he picks up his daughter, and she’s become a mute.”

  A smile plays on my lips. He’s making a joke now. Is that because he’s lying and deep down he was intensely bothered by my silence?

  Damon has become more reserved now that he’s all grown up. He’s twenty-eight—almost thirty now. Perhaps that milestone comes with certain demands on a man like him.

  But I remember he used to be a lot more chatty when we were younger. Before Matteo left the city to go to college, Damon used to tell stories—stories about his family, about his school teachers, about his friends.

  His stories always sounded foreign to me. Once, he told us a story about how his dad’s car had broken down. I remember asking him why his dad bought a lemon when any one of the cars at the showroom where my dad had bought his car would be a better choice.

  I was young, of course. But I still cringe about that one when I lie in bed
at night sometimes.

  “Talk to me, Elena,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”

  “For some reason . . . your dad’s car. You used to tell us funny stories about it.”

  “That’s . . . I didn’t expect that.” Damon smiles, his eyes twinkling in the dark. “Yeah, that truck was a piece of junk. Even the latch of the hood didn’t work properly, and we had to drive like old people.

  “One time, I hit sixty-five on the highway and the hood flipped up. The whole heavy piece of metal, just slamming into the windshield and shattering the glass.” Damon grins, reminding me of the boy I used to know as his hands gesture excitedly in the dark. “Pieces of glass poured into the car. Even the hood bowed inside.”

  I smile as I listen to his story. Somehow, it makes me happy and sad at the same time—happy that I get to hear another one of his stories again and sad that this conversation is happening under these strange circumstances.

  Damon shakes his head. “I can still hear the scream of the girl sitting beside me. The date was over at the point, even though I did the best a sixteen-year-old kid could do in the moment and calmly pulled the car to the side of the road.”

  At the mention of a girl and a date, I feel a sting in my chest. Damon used to tell us about his girls, and I never liked it.

  Realistically, if he was sixteen then I would’ve been eleven—way too young to date. But it still fills me with jealousy to hear about it, even if Damon doesn’t mention her name and probably doesn’t remember it too.

  He’s lying in bed with me now—not that girl—and that should be all that counts, I tell myself. Even if I’m only here because of who my father is.

  Damon reaches out his hand and places it on my cheek—heavy, warm, soothing. “Why were you thinking about my dad’s old truck? Don’t you have more important questions to ask me, princess?”

  “Like what?”

  Like if you still talk to that girl? If you lost your virginity to her? If you went on any more dates with her after that?

  “Don’t you want to know why you’re here?” he asks.

  Of course I’m curious about why he’d go to these lengths in the first place. Keeping me hostage would no doubt make my dad a very angry man. But knowing the answer isn’t going to help me get my freedom back.