Forbidden

by R. R. Banks

  His Property (Sample)

  By R.R. Banks

  An Amazon Top 100 Bestseller

  *239 Customer Reviews – 4.8/5 Stars

  Brutal Billionaire. Vengeful Kingpin. Fierce Protector.

  The mafia made me what I am.

  I take. I destroy. But it's time to go legit.

  I'm the one in charge now.

  Men bow down to me.

  Women submit to me.

  Harper was supposed to be collateral.

  Now she's my property.

  A strawberry blonde virgin with curves that could kill.

  If my enemies aren't careful, I'll do just that.

  They want to sell her, but I already own her.

  They said they're coming for me.

  Well, let them come.

  I can lose my life.

  But I won't lose her.

  When I'm through with them, they'll wish they were dead.

  Who will still be standing when the bullets fall?

  Chapter One

  Rob

  Los Angeles

  The car pulls to a stop and Miguel Nunez, my driver and one of the two bodyguards I'd brought along with me, lets me out of the back of the SUV. I step onto the curb and look around at the dirty, dingy neighborhood. Large apartment buildings looked more derelict than inhabitable, with all the broken windows, broken security bars, graffiti, and holes in the walls.

  In my well-tailored designer suit, I stand out in this place like a sore thumb. I see people on their porches staring at me – some curiously, some with open hostility. I do my best to ignore them and shut them out. They don't interest me and aren't why I'm here.

  There are small houses mixed in with the apartment buildings – but they look just as shabby. Lawns, if they have them at all, are overgrown with what's now, dry, dead grass. There are rusted out cars on blocks in every other driveway it seems, and large appliances, like refrigerators, sit on the sidewalks.

  The area bills itself as a working-class neighborhood but given the amount of poverty I see around me, I doubt there's a lot of work being done in the area. At least, legal work. I have no doubt that if I want drugs of any flavor, I can find them in this neighborhood.

  The darkness of night might be able to mask some of the warts and scars of this neighborhood, but standing here in broad daylight seems to amplify them.

  “You okay, boss?” Miguel asks.

  I nod. “Yeah, fine,” I reply. “I was just thinking that this neighborhood could use a remodel.”

  “That's a nice way to put it,” Miguel says. “I grew up around here and can tell you the whole area needs to be burned to the ground. The trash and the thugs need to be driven out and this place needs a complete do-over.”

  “I didn't know you were a local boy,” I say.

  He nods. “Not somethin' I'm proud of.”

  I step up and look Miguel in the eye. He's one of the first people I hired when I came to LA, and at twenty-eight years old, he's seen and done a lot. Grew up rough and then did a stint in the military that included combat overseas. He's my right hand. My most trusted lieutenant. He's tough and rugged, knows how to handle himself in a fight, speaks plainly, and never fails to give it to me straight. It's something I appreciate about him.

  Miguel is a good man and I rely on him for a lot. He never lets me down.

  “Nothing you need to be ashamed of either,” I say.

  He looks at me and even though he tries to hide it, I can see that look in his eye. Yeah, that's easy for me to say, he's undoubtedly thinking. I grew up filthy rich. A child of privilege who wanted for nothing. I didn't grow up in a neighborhood that literally stinks of poverty, filth, and desperation.

  No, I can't relate. But I can at least try to empathize with him. I see something in his face though and can tell that being in the area bothers him. It's like me seeing where he came from is a source of embarrassment for him or something.

  Maybe it's best to do what we came here to do and get out of here. I clap him on the shoulder and give him a nod.

  “Let's get this done,” I say.

  My other guard, Don, holds the door of the building open and I follow Miguel through it. Don's close behind as we walk down a hallway that's got cracks in the walls, light fixtures that are busted, graffiti and trash everywhere. Not that I expected any less, but it's as run down and trashy on the inside as it is on the outside.

  Which brings a very relevant question to my mind.

  “How in the hell did this clown get fifty grand in debt to me?” I ask.

  “Likes to gamble,” Miguel says. “Unfortunately for him, he's not very good at it.”

  This is one of the aspects of the job I hate the most – debt collection. It's a holdover from when my father ran the family business and unfortunately, a necessary evil at the moment. Once I have my casinos built, this will cease to be a problem. Until then though, I have to rely on my army of bookies and my betting websites to generate revenue.

  Though I'd prefer going online only and utilize just the betting websites, not everybody is that tech savvy. There are a lot of folks out there with those old-school sensibilities and bookies bring in a lot of money. And if I want to build the Rossi family empire that I envision, I'm going to need to keep the fountains of cash flowing.

  “This is it,” Miguel says, stopping at a door.

  I sigh and nod. Miguel knocks loudly on the door and we wait. The music inside is loud and I can definitely smell pot in the air. When Miguel knocks again – a little harder this time – I hear a glass break and a woman giggle inside.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say.

  Reaching down, I turn the doorknob and find that it's unlocked. Miguel quickly draws his gun and steps between the door and me, pushing his way into the apartment first. Don is right beside me, his gun drawn, and his face pinched with tension as we step inside. He closes the door, holding his gun down at his side.

  I look around the place and almost gag at the condition. Old pizza boxes are everywhere – some of them still containing moldy, half-eaten slices. Dirty dishes cover every conceivable surface and there is trash everywhere. Something crunches beneath my feet and I see that I'm standing on an open box of cereal – and watch several large cockroaches scurry out and away, further into the mess.

  A man and a woman, in nothing but their underwear, are sitting on a couch so dirty and stained, I can't tell you what the original color was. He's got a large, protruding belly, dark, greasy hair, pale skin, and an oddly shaped nose that gives him a porcine look. The woman is skeletal with dry, dirty hair, and judging by the sores around her mouth, a pretty bad meth habit.

  When we walk in, she has her hand in his boxers, giving him a furious handjob. And when she sees us, she smiles a nearly toothless smile. Definitely meth. Miguel walks over and viciously yanks the cord for the stereo out of the wall, letting a blissful silence descend over the room.

  The fat man on the couch squirms away from the woman, yanking her hand out of his shorts and pushing her away. She looks at him as if she's offended, but then spots the joint on the coffee table, looking at it like it's some lost treasure before she snaps it up and happily goes back to puffing away.

  The man's eyes are wide, and he starts to breathe heavily – and not from the handjob. It's because I see the light of recognition in his eyes. He knows exactly who I am and what I'm there for.

  “Be with you boys in a second,” she says, clearly not noticing the two large men with guns drawn standing in the trash heap she calls a living room. “Twenty bucks a tug. Have your cash ready.”

  “Charming,” I say. “But I'm going to have to take a pass. Don? Miguel? We've got a few minutes if you care to spend a little cash?”

  “No, sir,” Don says.

  “Not without a tetanus shot, boss,” Miguel chimes in.

  I shrug. “Sorry,” I say. “Perhaps, next time.”

  I turn and look at the man on the couch, giving him a slow, predatory smile. He opens his
mouth to speak and I hold up a finger and shake my head, silencing him before he can start babbling. I have to remind myself that I'm playing a part. That this really isn't me. This is my job, and this is simply a role I'm playing.

  I have to remind myself because sometimes, that line blurs and it seems like a little bit more than just a part I'm playing. Like maybe, I'm more like my father than I care to admit.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

  The man nods. “Rossi,” he says. “R - Roberto Rossi.”

  “Correct,” I say. “And do you know why my associates and I are here?”

  The man clears his throat, sweat freely running down his greasy face. He stammers and sputters, obviously nervous – obviously looking for an angle he can exploit to try and talk his way out of his predicament.

  “Sit?” he asks. “W – would you like to have a seat?”

  I look around the filthy apartment, feeling nothing but disgust. “No,” I say. “I can't think of anything I'd like less, actually. What I do want though, is the fifty grand you owe me.”

  “Yeah, I – I know,” the guy stammers. “But there was a pro –”

  “The problem is, that you have a nasty habit of picking the teams that lose,” I say, my voice cold. “And because you suck so very much at picking winners, you're now into me for fifty grand. Fifty thousand dollars I very much want back.”

  “I – I don't have it,” he says, his eyes growing so wide I think they might actually pop out of his head.

  “Well, that's a problem then,” I say. “A very big problem, in fact.”

  The man looks from me to the woman on the end of the couch. She's sitting back, eyes closed, completely oblivious to everything but the joint she's merrily puffing away on. I see the wheels turning in his head and he smiles like he's just thought of the greatest idea ever.

  “Tell you what,” the man says. “W – we can work out some sort of alternative arrangement. Yeah. We can do that. How about Annie here blows you or your guys whenever you want? Yeah. You can also screw her if you want. Say, fifty bucks a pop? We can work down the debt that way? What do you think?”

  I glance over at Miguel who has an expression on his face that looks as disgusted as I feel.

  “Yeah, that's not going to work,” I say. “I'd be more likely to ask you to make me dinner here than accept that offer.”

  “C'mon, fellas,” he says. “You ain't even tried her out yet. She gives the best blowjobs around, I'm tellin' ya. She'll get your rocks off for ya in thirty seconds flat. Take her for a test spin. First one's on me.”

  “I ain't gonna blow him,” Annie says, coming out of her stupor – sort of. “He ain't my type.”

  “You're gonna do what I tell you to do, bitch,” the man snaps. “Now, shut up.”

  “You shouldn't be so disrespectful,” I say. “Trust me, you really, really shouldn't be so disrespectful. She's a lady. Treat her like one.”

  The man's eyes narrow as he looks at me and a dark expression crosses his face. “And maybe, you shouldn't be tellin' me how to talk to my girlfriend.”

  “Harry,” the woman says, sitting up on the couch. “I ain't a whore. I ain't gonna blow somebody just because you tell me to.”

  I hold up my hands. “Let's just – forget that,” I say. “That's not even a consideration. That is off the table, so there is no use discussing it.”

  “You're a whore,” the man says, not even paying attention to me. “And you're gonna do what I fuckin' tell you to do.”

  The woman gets to her feet and the crack of her slapping him across the face reaches my ears a split second before I realize what she's done. Harry's face grows red. The expression of rage on his face is making him look absolutely pig-like, and I have to stifle the chuckle in my throat.

  But the tension in the room increases dramatically and the air around us is saturated with the promise of violence. I know I need to do something to defuse the situation and get us back on track. But that thought comes a moment too late.

  “You fuckin' bitch,” Harry howls.

  He reaches back and punches the woman in the face. Given his weight – and her lack of it – when his fist connects with her nose, it sends her flying backward. She crashes into a table and falls down, landing on her butt. Her face is a bloody mess and she holds her hands up to her obviously broken nose, her eyes wide, and tears streaming down her cheeks. Harry with his fist still raised, the woman's blood on his knuckles, takes a few menacing steps toward her.

  “You do what I –”

  Harry never finishes that statement because I'm on him in an instant. My first blow is a shot to the gut that doubles him over, leaving him gasping for air. My second shot clocks him in the ear and drops him to his knees. Reaching down, I grab him by what remains of his hair and pull his head back, a dark rage surging through me.

  “Boss.”

  I hear Miguel's voice, but it sounds like it's a thousand miles away. As if he's speaking to me from the other end of a long tunnel. I drive my fist into Harry's face and hear his nose snap. And the sight of the blood spilling down his face seems to inflame the rage burning in me.

  I drive my fist into his fat, greasy face again. And again. And again. I feel hands on me, see Miguel's face as he struggles to pull me away. I fight to break free. To get back at the man again. But both Don and Miguel put themselves between me and him. Miguel puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.

  “Easy, Rob,” he says – which strikes me as unusual, because he never calls me by my name. “Take it easy, man. It's all good. Just settle down.”

  I take a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly, and try to regain my composure. I close my eyes and let my mind go to the place I send it when I need to calm down – that one perfect day I spent with my family so long ago.

  Slowly, I come back to myself and feeling a little more in control, I open my eyes. Miguel, his hands still on my shoulders, is staring back at me.

  “You okay, boss?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

  I hesitate a moment and the nod. “Yeah, all good,” I say.

  Miguel looks at me a moment longer and then nods, patting me on the shoulders. “All good.”

  He steps aside, and I see Harry sprawled out on the ground, blood pouring from his face. Annie is sobbing, cradling his head in her lap. She looks up at me with eyes blazing with hatred.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” she growls. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I take a step forward and feel Miguel tense up beside me – probably expecting me to go after Harry again. I hold up my hands to show him I'm cool and that I'm not going to go off the deep end.

  “When he wakes up,” I say, straining to keep my voice calm. “You tell your boyfriend that I want my money. The money he owes me. All of it. I don't care how he does it, but he's got a week to get it. If he doesn't get it, we'll be back. Now, nod if you understand.”

  Annie hesitates a moment and then nods. She wipes away the tears on her face and looks up at me, genuine fear in her eyes.

  “W – what if he can't get it?” she asks, her voice soft.

  “Let's not think about that,” I say. “Tell him to do whatever it takes to get me my money.”

  Annie nods again and looks back down at her unconscious boyfriend, stroking his hair. I stand up and turn to leave, but at the doorway, I stop and turn back.

  “And honestly, you really should get away from him,” I say. “He's nothing but bad news. Find some self-respect and get yourself cleaned up. You'll be doing yourself a huge favor.”

  She sniffs and looks at me through red, puffy, tearful eyes. I can see that she's a woman lost. A woman with no direction, no hope – and no real chance to make any substantive changes to her life. Even if she wanted to. I pull a business card out of my jacket and set it on a table that sits next to the door.

  “If you ever want to get yourself cleaned up and on the right track,” I say, “call me. But only call me if you're serious about i
t.”

  I turn and leave the apartment, using my handkerchief to wipe Harry's blood off my knuckles, wanting nothing more than a shower and a drink.

  Chapter Two

  Landon

  Manhattan

  Her music really isn't my thing, but I can see that she's got talent. More importantly, the crowd around me is enjoying what they're hearing. Which is a good thing. A lively crowd means more money in tips, more gigs around the city – and that all translates into dollars. And that's what this hustle called life is all about – the dollars.

  I feel like I stumbled into a gold mine when I met her. I mean, there she was, sitting on a subway platform, just playin' her guitar and singin' away. I stopped to watch for a minute – though, I was more focused on the crowd and how they reacted to her. They stood there, completely transfixed, and when she ended her song, the burst of applause and cheers was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the train going by. And then, of course, came the rain of coins and bills into her guitar case.

  And when I saw that, I knew this girl was going to be a very solid investment. And it doesn't hurt that she's a fuckin' knockout to boot. Strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes that shine, a tight little body that has plenty of curves in all the right places, smarts, charm to spare, and a sweet little Georgia peach accent, to go along with that talent – she's the whole fuckin' package.

  And I know that she's gonna punch my ticket and make me a goddamn fortune.

  “Landon,” Pete says as he sits down at the table next to me. “I don't know where you found this one, but this one's a keeper. Look at this. Look at this crowd she brings in.”

  Pete is the owner of The Grind. It's a popular coffee house here in Chelsea – a regular hipster haven. Pete's a middle-aged guy, a Greek immigrant, who's been in New York a long time. He's a good guy, but a little old school in his thinking. He's a man set in his ways, to say the least.

  It took me a long time to get him with the times. Even longer to convince him to start up an open mic night. Not that I have any real interest in Pete's business, but open mic nights are a good way to score some fast cash. Not to mention that if Pete hires one of my acts on as a regular, it gives me another source of revenue.