Seeking Vengeance: Possessive Mafia Romance (Hunting - Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Eden Summers

  “Ha.” He grins. “If you’re after information, I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone else. You’re not getting anything until I get paid.”

  “I’m sorry, but that deal isn’t going to work for me. I’ll have to convince you to try this my way.” It’s my turn to smile, the curve of my lips gentle with the slightest hint of cocky menace.

  “And what’s stopping me from yelling for help?”

  “I think the most influential answer is my ability to cut your dick off and dive out the back window before anyone finds the room key.”

  He snarls.

  “There are many more reasons,” I continue. “Like, what will Daddy think when another escort makes claims of sexual assault? I don’t think the senator will appreciate an additional scandal where you’re concerned.”

  “You fucking cunt.”

  I chuckle. If only he knew.

  “Now, as I was saying. It’s very simple.” I slide out an image hidden inside the folder and hold it up. “This guy,” I point to the man standing beside Dan in the candid photo, “I need to find out where he is.”

  He doesn’t glance at the image, doesn’t even acknowledge it. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

  I inhale slowly and smile. “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  I nod, shrug, then slam my elbow against his cheek.

  His head jolts to the side. His shouted curse fills the room.

  “How ’bout now, Dan?”

  “You’re going to die.” He bucks in the chair. “I’ll fucking kill you with my bare hands.”

  I lunge, grasping his throat in a tight grip as I glare. “Let’s get one thing straight. You might think you’re tough as nails because you hurt defenseless women, but I spend my days fucking up ruthless men. I will cut you. Flay you. I’ll slice you open and wear your intestines like a fucking necklace to your own funeral unless I get what I want.”

  I release my hold and step back.

  We’re both panting, our chests heaving. Dan glares from under his lashes, his lids heavy. “Something is wrong. I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

  “That would be the Rohypnol I gave you back at the bar. It’s only going to get worse.”

  His eyes widen.

  “It also means we’re on a tight schedule. So, tell me.” I raise the photo and wait until his attention strays to the image. “The guy standing beside you, where can I find him?”

  He squints, his fingers gripping into the chair. “Like I said, I don’t know him.”

  “Danny, Danny, Danny.” I cluck my tongue as I return to the bed. I slide my hand under the pillow and pull out a knuckle duster. He watches my return with narrowed eyes as I slide the shiny metal down my glove-covered fingers, then cock my fist.

  “Wait,” he snarls. “That photo was taken two years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. It was a rented property. Some mansion on the outskirts.”

  “The outskirts of Portland?” My words flow in an excited rush. “Here?”

  “Yeah. Here.”

  “And you spoke to this guy? What were you doing with him? Have you seen him since? And who rented the property?” I fire questions, hoping to maintain the momentum.

  He shakes his head, his brows furrowed. “It was a party. A celebration. I only went to pick up a package.”

  “What sort of package?”

  His chin lifts. “Laundry,” he grates.

  AKA drugs? What a naughty, naughty senator’s son.

  “And this guy” I tap the man standing next to him in the photo, “is that who you got the package from?”

  He jolts his wrists. “Yes. Christ. Who the fuck are you? You’re getting yourself messed up in some pretty heavy shit, sweetheart.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that.” I only need the briefest grasp of information. That’s all it will take to make another connection. Another lead. “Do you know his name?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Liar.

  “Think, Danny.” I drop the photo and lean forward to grip his junk. “Think hard.”

  He winces, but the severity of my hold isn’t evident in his features. The drugs must be providing a numbing effect.

  I squeeze tighter and twist, achieving a grunt.

  “Zander. Zeke. Zack. Fuck. I can’t remember. Last name was Vaughn.”

  “Are you sure?” I point to the photo. “You’re telling me this guy goes by the name Vaughn?”

  “Yeah,” he grates. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, bitch.”

  My heart pounds, the inspired reverberations ebbing all the way into my stomach. I can work with a name. That’s all I need to inch another step closer to Jacob.

  I release his dick. “If you’re lying to me…”

  His head lolls back. “Too fucking tired to lie.”

  “Okay. Good.” Tingling optimism makes me believe him.

  “Are you going to let me go now?” His blinks are slow. Sluggish.

  I’m running out of time. “We’re just getting started.”

  He scoffs, opens his mouth, and yells, “Help.”

  Jesus. I slam the heel of my palm into his nose, cutting off the call, then lunge for the bed. In seconds, I’ve retrieved the gag from under the pillow and have it pressed to his mouth.

  His head thrashes, and he yells through clenched lips as I increase the pressure, banging and smacking the hard ball gag until he relents and opens for me with a growl.

  “Good boy.” I tighten the strap behind his head, then come back to stand in front of him, admiring my handiwork. “Revenge is such a pretty picture.”

  He’s yelling, mumbling, whimpering behind the gag. Rage glares back at me, but it’s a wavering emotion. A sleepy anger that dissipates. He no longer tests his bonds, the mind-numbing drugs making the situation more acceptable.

  That won’t last long.

  “Now that we have the photo out of the way, I want you to know I’ve been watching you for quite some time.” I hope to reignite his fear or maybe a bit of panic. Instead, he looks straight through me. “You enjoy hurting women, don’t you?”

  He releases a half-hearted chuckle, his eyes twinkling the slightest bit.

  “Beating them. Raping them.” I grab his hair and yank. “You prey on those weaker than you.”

  His eyes brighten in bliss. In memory. He’s reliving what he’s done in that twisted mind of his. Even with his life at my mercy, he’s enjoying his accomplishments. But then his eyes close.

  Oh, no, he isn’t going to take a nap on my watch. It’s time to fast-forward the festivities.

  “Hey.” I slap him. “You’ve gotta stay awake for this.” I’m hell-bent on retribution, but I’m not going to beat the unconscious.

  He mumbles, over and over, the same cadence, the same indecipherable syllables. I’m curious enough to lower the gag and give him a chance to confess his sins.

  “What’s your name, bitch?” he slurs, his eyes still closed. “I want to know what to whisper in your ear when I’m raping you raw.”

  “Oh, honey.” I reposition the knuckle dusters, pressing them lower on my fingers. “Threats don’t work well with me.”

  “You touch me again and I kill everyone you love.”

  “I wish you the best of luck.”

  His eyes open, but he’s not there. Not really. I doubt he’ll remember any of this tomorrow. He’ll only have the physical pain to taunt his unclear memory.

  I run the cold metal on my hand along his jaw. “Maybe I should cut out your tongue to stop your sweet-talkin’ ways?”

  He spits at me, the projectile not making the distance. “You’re dead.”

  “Not yet. So, while we’re both alive and kicking, I’m going to give you a refresher on the lives you’ve ruined.” I shove the gag back in place and clench my fist. “Cassidy Trelore, twenty-six, broken ribs, broken jaw.”

  I cock my arm, my limbs heating with approaching euphoria. Then I swing, launching my fist
into his ribs. A muffled grunt is my reward.

  “Melissa Taylor, twenty-eight, swollen lip, two black eyes, and eight facial fractures.” This punch I aim at the middle of his face, cracking cartilage and distorting his nose.

  He yells.

  Everything inside me tingles in celebration while rivulets of scarlet blood seep from his nostrils toward his mouth.

  I continue, naming the women he’s assaulted, along with his long list of offences. Each time I land a blow harder than the last, until his face is a masterpiece of reds, maroons, and puffy, swollen skin.

  Bree Foster. Carla Kane. Zoey Day. Amanda Scupin.

  “Do you like feeling vulnerable, Dan?” I stand in front of him, cupping his clean-shaven cheek in my palm while I run the steel down the other. “Do you like knowing I’m hurting you, the same way you hurt those women?”

  His eyes roll, and my stomach swells with disappointment. He’s tapping out. Already. Weak fucker.

  Then again, I did give him a healthy dose of powdered goodness.

  “That’s the downside of the drugs.” I sigh. “That, and the unlikelihood you’ll remember this tomorrow. But I want you to try, Danny boy. I want you to try real hard. Can you do that for me?”

  His head slumps forward, a barely conscious affirmation.

  I lean in, place my lips near his ear, and close my eyes as I breathe victory deep into my lungs. “Good, because I never want you to forget the night karma finally caught up with you.”

  3

  Her

  I leave Dan tied to the chair, drool seeping from around the gag while he slumps forward in unconsciousness. Every inch of me that was numb and emotionless the day before is thrumming with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader at a pep rally.

  The buzz spurs me on as I slip through the bathroom window with a pack of my belongings strapped on my back, and strut my cheap fuck-me heels as far as they will take me.

  My journey home lasts longer than my magical moments with Dan. I walk a lot of miles, catch two different cabs, and slink down numerous dark alleys to dispose of every item of my costume in a different location.

  By the time I reach the bar across the street from my apartment, I’m dressed in my favorite pair of denim jeans, a tight, long-sleeve, plunging top, and my strappy stiletto heels.

  The lack of warm clothing isn’t appropriate for the January chill, but that’s what adrenaline is for. Right? That, and the promise of a stiff drink once I get inside.

  I open the door to Atomic Buzz—a drinking hole with nowhere near the edginess or allure of its name—and Brent, the owner, grins at me.

  “You’re lucky, Steph. I was thinking about closing early.”

  I glance around, my attention skating over the two elderly guys playing poker near the front window, then around the soulless room to the couple whispering sweet nothings at a table in the far corner.

  “And ruin the atomic buzz you’ve got going?” I ruffle the long blonde strands of my hair, trying to work out the stiffness left from the nasty wig. “It looks like you’ve doubled your clientele since I was here last.”

  “Almost.” He snickers. “What are you drinking tonight?”

  I throw my pack to the floor and slide onto a swiveling seat, resting my hands on the sticky wood of the bar. “Whiskey, neat. Thanks.”

  Brent raises his brows as he reaches for Johnny Walker, then slides me a filled glass.

  Yeah, I know, it’s a sick-fuck move picking Dan Roberts’ drink of choice, but I’m in a sick-fuck kind of mood.

  “I’m celebrating a job well done,” I clarify.

  “What job was it this time?” He eyes me with interest, as if he’s actually invested in my life. Nobody else looks at me like that. No one has in years. I make sure of it.

  “The professor had us researching the growing number of assault and rape cases tied to solicitation.”

  I sometimes wish I could tell him the truth—that I don’t work as a research assistant for a college professor who specializes in violent crimes. Having one person in this world to confide in could be a game changer. But trust issues are one of my many colorful traits.

  “Which means we’re on to a new project by the end of the week.” I raise my glass in a silent toast, then take a sip.

  “Well, congratulations on having finished studying that fucked up shit.” He gives me a grim smile. “You know, my sugar daddy offer still stands whenever you want to quit that horrible job and let me take care of you.”

  I laugh. “Brent, you’ve only mastered the daddy part. When you get the sugar, let me know.”

  The door to the bar opens, and we glance to the guy making his way toward us. His face is turned as he scopes the room, but the black jeans and matching leather jacket tell me he’s got enough self-respect not to be seen in a place like this.

  “Think he’s lost?” Brent asks.

  “Without a doubt.” I return to my drink, cupping it in both hands. “I’ll bet you five bucks he asks for directions out of this hellhole.”

  “You have such little faith in my fine establishment.”

  I sip casually, enjoying my salute to Danny boy as the newcomer sits two chairs away, teasing my peripheral vision.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A Corona.” His voice is low and subtle, barely a whisper of response, yet masculine enough for me to appreciate.

  “Comin’ right up.” Brent shoots me a look as he grabs a bottle from the fridge beneath the counter, his eyes wide in exaggerated surprise before he returns his focus to the new guy. “You a local?”

  “No.”

  “What brings you here?”

  There’s a huff, a pause, then a muttered, “Life.”

  Brent twists the cap on the bottle, hands it over, and returns to his leaning post against the back counter. “Steph, look at me.”

  I frown, because I’m already looking at him.

  “This guy is perfect for you. He’s quiet and unresponsive, just how you like ’em.”

  I chuckle, roll my eyes, and raise my empty glass. “You need to spend less time focused on my sex life, and more on pouring drinks.”

  I chance a glance at my anti-social neighbor and take in his profile. His lips are tight. His jaw, too. There’s a wealth of hostility vibrating from him. Even the dark stubble hugging his cheeks has a rough fuck-off vibe as wisps of hair shadow his eyes.

  “Where you stayin’?” Brent asks, ignoring the tension.

  “Do you always ask this many questions?” the guy drawls, the words smoothly gliding over his tongue to polish his annoyance.

  “Yes,” I answer. “He does.”

  Brent laughs. “This pretty little thing,” he jerks his head at me, “came in years ago with the same aversion to conversation. Took me eight months to get a name out of her.”

  A name that isn’t even mine.

  I ignore the guilt and swivel my chair to face Mr. Reluctant. “You’re better off spilling your guts. Just blurt it out. Divulge it all. It’ll save the monotony of repeating all those monosyllabic answers.”

  He glances my way, dissolving my guilt with eyes so clear and hazel I’m caught off guard.

  Whoa. Profile view was confronting. Front view? Equally so, with an added hint of panty-melting gorgeous.

  Those lips are full and dark. His stare is fierce. The tense features make me want to lick his face, or slap it, just to see how he’d react.

  “You know what?” Brent grasps the whiskey bottle and pours me another drink. “You two are perfect for each other. Silent, secretive, and socially awkward.”

  I hold in a snort and incline my head. “He’s right. He just nailed my Tinder bio.” Not that I use Tinder—I can get my kicks on my own, thank you very much—but I know at the very least Brent will get a chuckle from my sass.

  What I don’t expect is the slight tilt to the stranger’s lips. The tiniest lift revealing a dimple in his left cheek. It’s devious, devilish, and undeniably delicious on such a rough and intense face. />
  “He’s not going to give up, is he?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not if you plan on staying here.”

  His focus doesn’t waver. “Then maybe you could lead the way to another bar that doesn’t pester clientele.”

  I’m not usually caught off guard, but this man has claimed that response from me twice in less than a few minutes.

  “Hey, now.” Brent raises his voice. “I’m just being welcom—”

  “I’m fucking with you.” Hazel eyes hold mine as this stranger gifts me with the slightest hint of a grin.

  I stare for longer than I should, trying to come to terms with all the conflicting aspects of the sight before me. There’s something different about him. Something intriguing. Then again, I’m still high on adrenaline, which makes all my responses unreliable.

  “So…” Brent clears his throat, breaking my train of thought. “In answer to my question…”

  The stranger reverts to his scowl, a blatant sign he’s annoyed at being dragged back into the game of Twenty Questions. “My sister got knocked up by a lowlife with a heavy hand. He ended up leaving her as soon as my nephew was born. To help her out, I quit my job, packed my things, and drove here.”

  “That’s…” I want to say unbelievable, because it is. Men like him don’t exist. They aren’t real. Not in my world. “…admirable.”

  He shrugs and palms his beer, taking a long pull. “She doesn’t know yet. I only got into town tonight.”

  “Well, I hope you find the lowlife piece-of-shit and give him a dose of his own medicine.” I don’t realize what I’ve said until the words are out there, announcing my hunger for vengeance.

  He narrows his gaze, looking at me with such intensity I feel his questions sink inside my chest to tinker with my pulse.

  “I’m not the violent type,” he murmurs.

  My heart flutters.

  Clearly, I’m not used to men who don’t think with their fists. My world revolves around violence. My past, my present, and my future all mesh into nothing but bloodshed and suffering.

  This man is a breath of fresh, crisp air against my tarnished lungs. If I had any hopes for my life, any maternal or romantic plans, I might have been tempted to sink my hook and reel him in.