Matteo: A Dark Mafia Hate Story

by Talbot, Ginger

  Matteo

  A Dark Mafia Hate Story

  Ginger Talbot

  Matteo: A Dark Mafia Hate Story

  Copyright 2018 by Ginger Talbot

  This book is intended for readers 18 and older only, due to adult content. It is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this book are products of the imagination of the author.

  License statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also by Ginger Talbot:

  Prologue

  Matteo

  The screams and pleas from the man strapped to the chair scratch at my consciousness, irritating me.

  He betrayed me. Traitors are peeled open then drown in their own blood. Is that so hard for him to understand? The expectations of Rossi foot soldiers are made quite clear to them when we brand our family crest onto their shoulder blades.

  Before I get started on separating him from his fingers, toes and genitals, I open my laptop so I can check in on my future bride. She thinks her name is Bailey Millhouse. That will change soon. One of my men is watching her from across the street, his surveillance cam tracking her every move. She’s standing in front of a coffee shop, waiting for her friends to show up.

  The sight of her sets my heart pounding. Those bee-stung pink lips, so quick to curl up in a beautiful smile that beams like the sun. Her thick, glossy hair, the color of wheat, hanging past her shoulders. Her apple-shaped breasts and bottom shaped like two halves of a peach. I always seem to think of fruit when I look at her, ripe and luscious, waiting for me to sink my teeth in and drink her juices.

  She’s modest, my girl, wearing a scoop-necked blouse and demure skirt. That’s good. I don’t like it when other men look at her, and they look at her all the time, even when she’s dressed like that. In fact, last week I killed a man who wolf-whistled and screamed obscenities as she walked to her mother’s office. Bailey doesn’t know that, of course.

  As my eyes caress her through the screen, she shivers despite the warm midday sun, and hugs herself. She can feel my hungry, possessive gaze, and it frightens her.

  It should.

  Funny thing – we’ll be married soon, but we haven’t even met.

  She glances around uneasily, searching for the source of her discomfort. That’s my girl, so sensitive to my presence, able to sense me watching her from hundreds of miles away. That’s because we’re attuned to each other, meant for each other. She won’t understand that right away, of course, but I’m a patient man. After all, I’ve been waiting for her, just for her, my entire life.

  I’ll do whatever it takes her make her into what I need her to be. My methods will hurt her at first, frighten her. Frustrate her. But she will grow used to them. She will come to love me, to need me, as much as I do her. I will accept no other outcome.

  I imagine her sinking to her knees when I walk into the room, eagerly unbuttoning my pants. I picture the glazed look of satisfaction in her eyes after I’ve tasted her sweet honey, suckled between her legs until she cries out my name. Her face lighting up when I bring home a beautiful trinket. The sumptuous spread of my favorite meals waiting for me on the dinner table every night, and the gratitude in her eyes when I tuck in with gusto. The way she’ll endure pain when the mood strikes me, because she’ll know how much it pleases me.

  She will love only me. She will live for me.

  This is her destiny. I will help her fulfil her destiny.

  With a sigh, I reluctantly shut down the laptop and turn my cold gaze on the man sitting in the chair. He’s begging, babbling, crying, and he keeps insisting that he’s not the one who snitched to the authorities about the truckload of guns heading into Mexico.

  He’s the only one who knew the exact route we were taking, though. I was very careful about that – because this was the second shipment this month that was compromised. When the first shipment was seized, several of our men were arrested and are now facing lengthy prison sentences. They didn’t squeal on us, of course – because unlike this fool, they understand the life-saving value of loyalty.

  The traitor, who will be dead soon, sobs hysterically as I approach him.

  “Pietro, my boy.” I pat his quivering cheek, which is wet with tears. “Don’t you think you should tell me the truth and earn yourself a quicker death – while you still have a tongue?”

  Chapter 1

  Bailey

  “Wake up.”

  I’m dreaming, of course. I know I must be dreaming because it’s a man’s voice nudging through thick, cottony layers of sleep, and an unfamiliar voice at that. The voice is deep, warm, sexy, with a hint of an accent I can’t place.

  I don’t know what time it is, but the dream feels incredibly real. I’m lying on my side, caressed by silky sheets that aren’t mine. My sheets are starchy cotton.

  The faint scent of lavender tickles my nose. How can I smell lavender? Can you smell things in dreams? I never have before.

  “Bailey. Wake up.”

  A big strong hand gently squeezes my shoulder.

  Definitely dreaming.

  Warmth rushes through me and pulses between my legs. I arch my back and burrow deeper under the covers, imagining a handsome Italian prince sliding into bed with me. Why Italian? I don’t know.

  He’s swept me away to his palace and we’re in our bedroom. It’s our honeymoon. He’s going to kiss me all over, touch me in places no man has…

  The sheets vanish, and I feel a warm breeze and hear the thwack-thwack of an overhead fan. There’s no fan in my bedroom. Definitely dreaming. I hug my pillow’s cloudy softness

  “Bailey. I said wake up.” There’s a snap of impatience to his voice now, which stings me. This doesn’t make sense. Why would my dream prince be angry at me?

  I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, not wanting to wake up, but the fog starts to clear from my brain.

  I was drinking earlier. I went to spend the night at my friend Samantha’s house, and her parents were away, so we hit up their bar. I hardly ever drink, so I’m a total lightweight. I only had two rum and Cokes, and it made the room spin.

  I probably should have told my parents that the Van Der Hoffens weren’t home, but I didn’t think they’d care that much. Reg, their son, was there, home for the summer, and they’re always trying to fix me up with him. My father’s a corporate-friendly senator, Reg and Samantha’s father is a construction mogul. It would be the ultimate power pairing.

  “Bailey.” Someone’s sitting on the bed next to me, and I hear bedsprings creak.

  My eyes fly open.

&nbs
p; I look up. It’s not a dream. The room smells like lavender because that’s the scent of the Van Der Hoffens’ laundry detergent. Their ceiling fan is swirling overhead, the blades sending rivers of cool air washing over me.

  And there’s a man looming over me. I didn’t imagine that rich, sexy voice. He’s brutally handsome, with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a strong jaw. His lips are sensual. There’s a savage gleam in his beautiful eyes, the light brown color of whiskey. A dark, harsh energy pulses from him. I’ve never met a man like him before; he’s like something from a different plane of existence. An angry place full of warriors who lay waste to everything in their path.

  A scream tears from my throat, and he slaps his hand down over my mouth…and presses a knife against my throat. The bite of the blade against my skin makes me weak with terror. Instantly, I fall silent.

  Did Samantha or Reg hear me? They’re sleeping in their rooms on the first floor, and I’m on the second floor in the guest bedroom. Oh God, I hope they didn’t hear me. He’d kill them – I can see it in his eyes.

  “Be quiet.” His warm breath fans my face, smelling faintly of mint.

  I lie still, rigid with fear. Am I going to die tonight?

  “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. If you scream, I’ll cut up your pretty face.”

  Fear floods through my body, but impossibly, it’s mingled with arousal. A pulse of desire throbs between my legs, and my breasts feel swollen and heavy. I wish I could still pretend this was a dream and he was my handsome prince, but it can’t be a dream, because the sharp edge of the knife stings my flesh and his hand is crushing my lips. I stare at him wide-eyed in terror, and he slowly slides his hand away from my mouth.

  “What do you want?” I whisper.

  His voice is haughty, with a sharp edge to it. “I ask the questions here.”

  Seriously? He broke into the bedroom where I was sleeping and woke me up with a snarl and a knife. I think I have the right to wonder what the hell he wants.

  I glare up at him, trying to scorch him with my burning gaze. It doesn’t so much as singe him. He’s untouchable, he’s bulletproof – I can feel it in my core.

  “All right. Ask away. What do you want to know?”

  A grin curls his lips. “Bossy little girl. Still trying to be in charge,” he mocks. Indignant, I try to push the arm holding the knife away, but he just presses it harder, the flat side of it against my throat. “But you’re not in charge, Bailey. You are under my command. Do you like that?”

  Holy hell. He knows my name. Yes, of course he does. A minute ago he was saying my name to get me to wake up. How? I’ve never seen him before. I’d remember. Nobody who saw this man would ever forget it.

  I want to ask him how he knows me, but he just said I wasn’t allowed to ask him any questions, and his eyes have gone cold and hard.

  Is he stalking me because my father is a senator? Is he going to kidnap me and hold me for ransom?

  He nudges me with the knife blade.

  “No, I don’t like it,” I snap at him. “I hate it.”

  He runs his hand over my breast. I stiffen and let out a faint squeak of protest, but I don’t dare cry out. “You’re lying to me, Bailey. Your nipples are hard. For me,” he taunts me.

  “I’m cold,” I lie.

  “No. You’re sweating.” He touches my damp forehead, then moves his hand down. He slides his hand over my pajama top, fingers moving under the waistband of my pajama pants. When his hand moves between my legs, I utter a strangled cry. I want to squirm away from him, but the flat of the knife presses against my windpipe. His fingers glide between my dewy lips and probe my tender entrance.

  I jerk in protest as one finger slides up inside me. It stops when it reaches the barrier of my hymen. His eyes gleam in triumph and the pad of his thumb strokes the pink button of my clitoris. I twist my head away so I’m not looking into his eyes, as a strange heat floods my body.

  Oh God, that feels so good. How can I like it? What’s wrong with me?

  He pulls his hand away, and I whimper. “I’m not going to rape you,” he says calmly. “But I can feel that you’re wet. You do like being under my command. And under me. You’re lying to me, Bailey. I don’t like that.”

  His gaze, so warm a moment ago, frosts over, and I can feel his anger crackling in the air, snapping against me like static electricity. This man is lethal. I’m looking up into the eyes of a killer. He’s ended lives – I know just by looking at him.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I beg.

  “But I must. I have to punish you. I can’t tolerate being lied to.”

  I am rigid with terror. I suck frightened breaths into my lungs. “Please.”

  “You’re going to roll face down on the bed,” he says. “And pull your pants down for me.”

  “You said you weren’t going to rape me!” I say it in a low, terrified whisper

  His beautiful mouth curls up in a cruel smile. “I’m not. I’m going to spank you.”

  Spank me? Like I’m a naughty child? But one look into his eyes tells me he’s not kidding, and I have no choice at all here. He is in complete control, and he can do anything he wants to me. Fighting him will only make it worse. Without a word, I roll over.

  He moves the knife away. “Pants down, Bailey. Don’t make me say it again.”

  There’s ownership in the way he says my name, intimacy, like we’ve known each other our entire lives. But his voice is laced with menace, too, so I quickly obey him, sliding my pajama pants down and exposing myself to him. I feel horribly vulnerable and bare, as if I’m being forced to parade naked in a room full of strangers.

  He runs his hand gently over my cheeks, and I jerk at his touch, but I don’t dare try to push him off me.

  “What a lovely ass. So smooth and soft.” He squeezes my right cheek, kneading it like a piece of ripe fruit.

  Then he grabs the back of my head and forces my face into my pillow, shoving me down hard. His other hand comes down on my right butt cheek in vicious slap, and for a split second I feel nothing, then there’s a tremendous explosion of red-hot pain. I scream involuntarily into the pillow.

  “You earned that, Bailey. Don’t lie to me again.”

  He presses my face down even harder, so hard I can’t breathe, and I flail with panic while he spanks me again on the same cheek, right next to the spot where he spanked me before. I can’t suppress my shriek of pain, but it’s muffled by the pillow.

  He rains down a flurry of blows on the soft flesh of my buttocks, painting them red with fiery agony. My legs kick involuntarily, and I claw at the mattress, desperately trying to suck in breath. Finally he stops.

  “Roll over on your back,” he barks at me.

  Sobbing, I obey him. “You hurt me,” I weep.

  “That was a love-pat. When I hurt you, you’ll understand the real meaning of pain,” he scoffs, and I can see that he means to scare me. And it’s working. The look in his eyes makes me feel watery with fear, as if my bones have melted. “Now let’s try again. Do you like being under my command? And if you say no, I’ll show you what I’m really capable of.”

  “My body responds to you.” I choke down a sob. “That doesn’t mean I like you holding a knife to my throat and telling me what to do.”

  “How about this?”

  He leans down and presses his surprisingly soft lips against mine. I am shocked, but my lips part as he claims me with a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting into my mouth and probing. He tastes as sweet and minty as his breath, and his kiss is strong and commanding. I moan into his mouth.

  When he pulls away, I’m breathing hard and sweat’s beading on my forehead.

  “You…you’re a good kisser,” I admit, my face flushed.

  “I know.” He strokes my cheek gently. “How many boys have you kissed?”

  I stare up at him in confusion. “I don’t know. You mean…with tongue?” For some reason, that makes him laugh. “Two,” I mumble, embarrassed.

&n
bsp; He narrows his eyes at me. “But you’re still a virgin.” It’s a statement, not a question. He knows because he slipped his fingers inside me. I suddenly realize that he did that on purpose – to check. That’s why he looked so satisfied when his finger poked against my hymen.

  He looks at me coolly. “Stay that way.”

  “What?” My jaw drops open.

  “Why, were you planning on screwing that Reg boy?”

  The look of hate that slides over his face freezes my blood. If I said yes, he’d find him and kill him, I have no doubt of that.

  “No!” I splutter. And it’s true. I like Reg as a friend, and we hang out just to shut our parents up. Reg is gay. I have no problem being his beard. It means my parents aren’t setting me up on dates with their country club friends’ obnoxious frat-bro sons.

  He moves away from me, sitting up and sliding back. “Good. Keep yourself pure. Your life depends on it.”

  Pure? Who says that?

  Fear makes me hysterical – and stupid. “Who in the hell do you think you are?” I spit the words at him. “Breaking into my friends’ house, putting your hands on me, telling me how to live my life—”

  He grabs me by the throat and throws me back down on the bed. He swings his leg over me and straddles me, and I gasp because I feel his enormous cock pressing against my stomach

  “Do not speak to me like that. Ever.” I hear a hint of an accent now. Definitely Italian.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, eyes wide with fear.

  “That’s better.” He releases his grip on me a little bit. “You will stay pure. Whenever you see me, you will obey me and address me with respect. And you will say nothing about my visit tonight, to anybody, because I know where you live, Bailey Millhouse. I know everything about you.”