Matteo: A Dark Mafia Hate Story

by Talbot, Ginger

  Then he looks at me expectantly.

  What am I supposed to say? Thank you?

  “M-me too,” I stammer. He smiles approvingly, gives me a brief kiss on the lips, and leaves me alone.

  Chapter 9

  Matteo

  My darling Natasha didn’t sleep at all last night, according to my chief of security, Nico. My security guards watched her on the camera in her room, and they debriefed him in the morning.

  I pushed her to rebel yesterday, and she reacted exactly as I knew she would. It was important to make her misbehave so I could establish my authority right away. She needs to experience the consequences of disobedience – before I’m forced to punish her even more harshly. We don’t have much time, and a strong-willed girl like her won’t be easy to break.

  But with luck, we won’t have another discipline session like last night’s. Of course, that all depends on her. Can she be a good girl for me? Can she accept the role she was born to play? I know my way around the human body better than a surgeon, and I can use that knowledge to deliver intense sensation. It’s up to her whether that sensation is agony or pleasure.

  I just wish I didn’t have to deal with business emergencies right now. I want to concentrate on nothing but Natasha and my upcoming wedding.

  But instead, I’m sitting in my office with Nico, drinking dark, bitter espresso and wishing I knew who to kill.

  Normally the Rossi family business runs like a well-oiled machine, and the few problems that present themselves are dealt with swiftly and with a heavy hand. But we have at least one mole in our organization, ratting us out to the feds, and we have not been able to figure out who. Yesterday, on the plane ride, I received news that my decoy truck had been pulled over by the ATF. Fortunately the truck was loaded with exactly what was described on the bill of lading – crates of artisanal tomato sauce, headed for a restaurant owned by my family. Normally, guns without serial numbers would have been hidden in compartments all throughout the truck, but I’ve been sending decoy trucks along our normal routes in case someone tips off law enforcement again. So when the ATF ripped the truck apart, they found nothing. And of course our family’s lawyers raised holy hell.

  As we look at the computer screen, Nico does something that nobody but me would notice. He taps his finger on the desk top four times. Then one time, then a lighter tap. Finger-tapping is something he does often – to an outsider, it would look like a nervous habit, but it’s something we came up with as a way for him to speak to me in code. That way, no matter where we are, no matter who might be listening or watching, he can talk to me without anybody knowing.

  Four taps means that Mischa, the Russians’ avtoritet, or boss, is coming. The one additional tap plus a light tap means about an hour and a half until he’s here. He’s called Mischa the Knife – and nobody knows how many men have been laid open by his blade. I doubt even he remembers. He has the same level of authority as the Rossi family capos. He’s currently the head of the Dubrova family, with his sullen, hulking son Arkady being groomed to carry on the family tradition of blood and gore someday.

  More bad timing. The fact that we learned of Natasha’s existence during a year when Mischa is in charge is not helpful.

  After the forced truce back in the 1960s, the families tried to make it work with two local bosses working side by side, but there’s too much bad blood between us. So the Council of Five decreed that there would be one family in charge of the territory – for a year. We alternate every year. This year, Mischa Dubrova is in charge. If any conflicts arise between the families, we have to defer to him. It’s only the fact that we will be in charge next year that keeps the Dubrovas from abusing their position, of course. But Mischa is an asshole and he will take whatever advantage he can.

  It would have been better for me if this had been our year, but I’ll have to play the hand I’ve been dealt.

  I drum my fingers on my desk to acknowledge that I got Nico’s message.

  Then I lean back in my chair and scowl at the computer screen in front of me, with our trucking companies’ schedule of deliveries. It’s all in code, of course, to the point where I’d be happy to let the federal government comb through it.

  The thing is, someone’s been hitting up the Russians too. My family is mostly in transportation of illegal goods and moving things across borders. The Dubrova family is more involved in warehousing. Two of their warehouses have been raided. Luckily for them, the ownership of the warehouses is hidden so well that it can’t be traced, but like us, they suffered a big financial loss, and several of their employees who were at the warehouse were unable to escape before the police arrived – just like our drivers. They are facing a lengthy prison sentence.

  Of course, we will take care of their families and pay them an enormous bonus for their loyalty when they’re finally released.

  But we can’t keep suffering these losses. It makes us look weak and vulnerable.

  “Who hates both us and the Russians?” I ask with an exasperated scowl. “Whoever did this knows the locations of their warehouses and the movement of our trucks. And yet they didn’t try to raid us and steal millions of dollars’ worth of merchandise. They ratted us out, and we only escaped worse trouble by the skin of our teeth. And we still haven’t found any rivals looking to move into our territory.”

  “No, we haven’t.” Nico’s forehead creases with frustration. “Believe me, I’ve got feelers out everywhere. We’ve talked to the Albanians, the Jamaicans, the Triad, the Cartel. And we’ve been monitoring the chatter, online and offline. They’re as confused as we are.”

  I nod grimly. Some of our best customers in Mexico are getting antsy – we’ve promised them a delivery and it’s been delayed. I have a shipment headed there in a couple of days, and I’ve taken every precaution.

  First, I’ve arranged for more decoy runs over the next couple of days. I’ve spread the word among our own people that there are shipments of weapons on those trucks, so the drivers and the people we’ve bribed at checkpoints believe it’s the real thing. I’m hoping this helps us flush out the rat. And if I can get the ATF to make a few more botched property seizures, then have my lawyers threaten them with lawsuits, they’ll be less likely to harass us – or at least their resources will be stretched pretty thin.

  We’re fortunate that when the ATF seized that first truck, ownership couldn’t be traced back to our family – not for lack of trying, though. Someone told them that the truck was owned by Rossi Industries, and now they’re going to be breathing down our necks for a long, long time.

  To ensure that the real shipment of weapons makes it through, I’m waiting until we’ve sent half a dozen decoy runs, and I’ll be changing the route constantly throughout the entire drive.

  Alonza bustles in with a tray of fresh biscotti and a scowl on her face. Always scowling, that one.

  “Thank you, Zia. You didn’t have to do that. We’re eating breakfast in half an hour,” I say in Italian. Alonza came to America as a teenager, and she’s older than Methuselah, but she’s an utter snob about any language other than her native tongue.

  Nico’s already grabbed a biscotti and dunked it in his coffee.

  “You don’t like my biscotti?” She looks mortally offended. I quickly take two of them.

  “They’re delicious! I just don’t want you to work too hard. You look tired.”

  Her carefully penciled brows draw together. “Oh, and now I look bad.” She’s been putting a lot more effort into her appearance lately, wearing fancier wigs and a full face of makeup. She’s also been going into town more often. Could my eighty-year-old widowed great-aunt have a gentleman friend? That thought calls up mental images that scorch themselves horribly into my imagination.

  Nico flashes me a smirk and dunks his biscotti again. “These are delicious, Alonza. Thank you so much.”

  “At least someone appreciates me.” She puts the tray down and flounces out of the room.

  I shake my head at Nico, ret
urning to English. “Why does she like you better than me? Or at least why does she dislike you less?”

  “Because I’m a handsome, charming devil?”

  I pretend to consider that. “No, that can’t be it.” I stand up with a sigh. “Keep on it,” I tell him, and head off to check on my fiancée.

  Concetta meets me at the top of the stairs. She’s wearing a silky, clingy low-cut top that flatters her huge, magnificent breasts, and tight jeans. That sight used to set me on fire; ever since I heard that they’d found Natasha, the fire has turned to ashes.

  “Hey, handsome. I’ve missed you,” she purrs, and tries to rub against me.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to see my fiancée,” I say with annoyance, stepping to the side so I can get around her.

  Hurt flares in her eyes. “Matteo. Babe. You said things would stay the same between us,” she says.

  “I never said any such thing.” My tone goes sharp.

  “Forgive me.” Her gaze drops and her tone goes conciliatory. “You said that your new wife would accept that you have a mistress. I assumed that meant nothing would change.” Concetta’s really pushing her luck here.

  “Be very careful about trying to put words in my mouth. I said that she would accept that I will always have mistresses, but that she will also know that she comes first in my life.” She winces when I say “mistresses”, reminding her that there will be others too, that she’s nothing special. “That’s the difference between a wife and a mistress, Concetta. You knew that the first time you flopped on your back and spread your legs for me.” Now tears are shimmering in her beautiful eyes. “I buy you pretty things, I give you wads of cash, and when I have time to spare, we fuck. That’s all it will ever be.”

  I know for a fact that she’s always hoped for more, she’s always dreamed of being the wife of a Made Man, but I’ve never once misled her. Not because I’m a nice guy; because I don’t have the patience for scenes like this, with all the drama.

  Tears spill onto her cheeks. “I’ve made you mad. I’m so sorry.” She lays her slender fingers on my arm, but I shake them off.

  She’s doing it right, though, I think as I head down the hall. She blamed herself, not me, and she apologized, and she didn’t try to follow or argue with me.

  She knows how we expect our women to behave.

  Will Natasha learn in time?

  Of course she will. I have twenty-nine more days. And Rossi men do not accept failure. We do not even acknowledge it as a concept.

  I head into my sweetheart’s room, my cock hardening in anticipation.

  When I stride through the door, she jerks upright, looking at me fearfully. That’s not how she should look at me. By the time our wedding comes, she will be delighted to see me.

  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  She sits up, wincing. I know her ass must ache, which is a good thing. When she just stares up at me in silence, I tap my foot impatiently.

  “Well? Don’t you have anything to say to your future husband?”

  “Good morning,” she says dutifully, but I see the lines of tension in her forehead. She reaches over and takes a big gulp of water from the glass on her night table.

  “Get out of bed and get on your knees.”

  Her eyes widen in alarm, and she obeys me just quickly enough to avoid another punishment. I make allowances for her being a little slow, since she’s exhausted, bruised and in pain.

  Her obedience, her pain, her fear…it lights a roaring bonfire inside me. I unzip my pants and free my engorged cock. Her head tips up, her blue eyes enormous.

  “It’s important for a wife to know how to please her husband. Have you ever given a blow job before?”

  She gasps, looking offended. “Of course not.”

  Good answer. She gets to live another day.

  “I want you to start out by running your tongue around the tip. See that little pearl there? That’s called pre-cum. Lick it off.”

  She goes stiff, and I almost expect her to protest, but she doesn’t. She leans forward and gingerly runs her velvety tongue over the head of my cock, sucking up the pre-cum, then swirls her tongue around the head as if she’s licking an ice-cream cone. She’s a little tentative, fearful, which just makes it sexier.

  “L-like that?” She flicks a frightened look up at me. I tangle my fingers in her hair, but gently. She’s being such a good girl.

  “Yes. Don’t stop. Grip the base of my cock with your hand and move it up and down while you’re licking me.”

  She obeys me quickly, and the sweet caress of her tongue has me so aroused that I know I’m not going to last long. I press my thumb against her chin to force her jaw open, and I slide right into her mouth. She gags a little and jerks her head in panic, and I hold her head in place, forcing my cock down even deeper.

  “Suck it now. Suck it hard, as if your life depended on it.” My voice cracks like a whip as I force her to swallow me. I’m rewarded by the way her eyes close in surrender, and the little moan that vibrates in her throat. She’s a natural submissive. And she’ll come to love the pain I inflict on her, because I can make it hurt so good.

  She bobs her head up and down, her cheeks hollowing as I fuck her mouth. She’s sucking in air through her nose, nostrils flaring, scared because she can hardly breathe, but she never stops sucking. All her attention is focused on pleasing me. That’s such a turn-on that I have to fight to hold myself back; I don’t want to come too fast. I want to make her work for it.

  I pull out, and she gasps for air, her chest heaving. “I can’t…I can’t breathe when you do that…” Her voice trembles.

  “Of course you can. Keep breathing through your nose.” I slide back into her mouth, and she immediately begins sucking again, dragging in air through her nostrils and moving her hand up and down in a firm grip.

  “Good girl. Good girl,” I croon as my balls tighten, and finally the dam breaks and hot pleasure rushes through me and I explode in her mouth.

  She keeps sucking and sucking, drinking every drop, until I finally release her and pull out of her mouth with a wet pop. She gasps for breath, her head tilted back.

  I stroke her hair. “You’re so good,” I praise her. “Now I’m going to pick out a dress for you.”

  I lead her to her closet and pick out a pink cotton dirndl dress that’s loose and comfortable. I watch as she dresses. She’s got enormous bruises on her sexy round ass. After she’s stepped into her panties and pulled on the dress, I grab her left ass cheek and squeeze, wrenching a startled scream from her. She instinctively grabs my arm, as if to try to pull it off, but then she drops her hands. Good girl – she’s learning.

  Tears of pain fill her eyes. “I’m trying to be good for you! Please don’t hurt me any more!

  I just look at her until she drops her gaze, trembling in pain but not daring to try to wrench from my grasp. Then I release her butt cheek. “That’s just a reminder, princess. Bad behavior has long-term consequences. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she chokes out, staring at the floor.

  “We have a special guest this morning. I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

  She looks at me uncertainly. “All right.”

  I grab her chin and squeeze hard. “That’s a little…tepid, shall we say? How about ‘of course’?”

  “Of course.” Her gaze slides away when she says it. She doesn’t want to look me in the eye, because she doesn’t mean it yet.

  We head down to the dining room table. Valentina is there, with her nanny Giuseppa. I wish Valentina didn’t have to be in the middle of this bullshit, but all Rossi children have to learn how the family works sooner or later.

  Concetta, flawlessly made up, sits a few seats down from the head of the table. She is sipping coffee, waiting for my arrival before she will serve herself breakfast. She beams at me as if I didn’t just thoroughly humiliate her earlier today.

  I sit down at the head of the table, gesturing at Natasha to take a seat n
ext to me. Alonza is carrying trays from the buffet table.

  Natasha, who hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, reaches for a plate of pastries. I slap her hand – hard – and she gasps.

  “You will not be eating today,” I say to her, and she stares at me in shock. “You may drink water. It is important for you to learn how to behave in your new role, and every minute you spend feeling hungry today will remind you of that. You may thank me now for teaching you such an important lesson.”

  “Thank you.” She chokes the words out and stares down at her empty plate, clenching her fists. Everyone else starts serving themselves from the bowls in the center of the table.

  Concetta smirks and takes an enormous bite of her cornetto pastry, chewing and smacking her lips with gusto. She’s staring at Natasha with pure malice glowing from her eyes.

  “Concetta!” I say in a deceptively kind voice.

  “Yes, my beloved?” Natasha visibly flinches. Concetta looks at Natasha as she shoves another huge mouthful of pastry into her mouth and chomps on it.

  “I never noticed before how loudly you chew. I’d suggest you eat in the other room, but I’m sure we’d still be able to hear you.” I coat every word in so much disgust it’s practically dripping onto the table.

  Valentina laughs out loud. Bright red floods Concetta’s face.

  She gulps down her food in one giant swallow and sets her fork down on the table. “I am so sorry. I enjoy dear Alonza’s cooking so much that I was eating too quickly.” She says it in Italian, in an attempt to butter up my great-aunt, who hates her and is furious that Concetta is staying with us.

  Alonza scorches Concetta with a look of hatred. “Don’t put my name in your whore mouth,” she says, and Concetta bites her lip and looks away, shoulders hunched in helpless anger. My great-aunt has been widowed a long time – her husband died of a heart attack when she was in her forties – but she is still a wife, and Concetta will always be a mistress. A vile tramp in her eyes, and the eyes of any other married woman in our family.

  It is most unusual that she is here in the house with us at all, much less during the time when I am preparing for my wedding.