Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

  “No, and I’m assuming by your avoidance of the topic again that you have failed me.”

  I shrug, stepping into the kitchen. “And I’m assuming you’re staying for dinner so we can talk about this civilly.”

  “This again?”

  I place the kettle back on the stove and look over my shoulder at Pierre. He looks ready to fight or fuck, but I’m just trying to keep him calm, so nothing bad happens to me. I don’t like his expression. I thought that after I had agreed to do what he said that he would lay off a bit, but that clearly isn’t the case.

  I suppose you can’t change a mafia man.

  “I just want to work through this smoothly,” I say, lighting the stove.

  Pierre steps into the kitchen behind me, his energy raw and unfiltered. “We tried that, and it hasn’t worked.”

  I eye the knife beside the sink. I don’t want to have to defend myself with deadly force, but if he comes at me, I’m going to slice him from his stomach to his throat without hesitation. My old ways are coming back to me, and I only have him to blame for it.

  Luckily for him, he stops a foot away from me, still glaring at me like I did something terrible. He’s the terrible one in this situation, but he’d never admit it. Like a spoiled brat, he wants his way, or he’s going to throw a tantrum.

  “I’ll have a cup of tea,” he says after nearly an entire minute of shooting daggers through his eyes.

  “I’m way ahead of you,” I say, lifting the kettle off the stove. “Do you want lemon balm or something else?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” he replies, seeming to soften under my calmness. I’m sure that he came looking for a fight, but he’s not going to get one from me. I’m not in the mood for it.

  “That’s a nice robe,” Pierre says as I place a bag of tea into a small white cup and pour the boiling water over it.

  “It’s super soft,” I say. “Want to touch it?”

  Shit. Why did I say that?

  Before I can take back my words, Pierre reaches a large hand to my robe, stroking his fingers down my arm. “Mmm,” he moans, a smile creeping onto his serious face. “Very silky.”

  My nipples crinkle up in hard peaks beneath the thin fabric, poking out with such obviousness that Pierre would have to be blind not to see them. Even if he was, they’re sticking up like braille lettering. He could just as easily run his fingers over them and –

  Pierre presses his fingers into the side of my breast, snapping me out of my daze.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, pulling away.

  “Feeling your robe,” he replies.

  I finally put the kettle down on the counter. “You weren’t just feeling my robe.”

  He smirks. “You’re right, Shaye. I was feeling your tits. I like them.”

  I scoff. “I thought you were pissed off at me about the painting. As it turns out, you just came here because you were horny.”

  He chuckles, shifting his weight forward. “It could be both.”

  “It could also be neither, and I would be okay with that,” I say, backing away.

  He shakes his head. “Actually, it’s both, but I have a plan C, and it still involves you.”

  I squint my eyes at him, noticing how large the bulge in his pants has gotten. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t aroused by his erection, but I’m trying to keep it together. I’m trying so damn hard not to listen to him, but it’s barely working. I’m a single touch away from snapping and letting him use me like a ragdoll.

  “What’s your plan C?” I ask.

  “Assuming that you didn’t sell the painting,” he says.

  “I didn’t,” I reply softly.

  “Then to plan C, we go,” he says with a smirk.

  “Can we eat dinner first?” I ask, looking up at him with large eyes.

  “Sure, we can talk about the – ”

  Pierre’s head snaps toward the window at the sight of movement. His hand goes for the gun tucked in his waistband, but he softens his posture when he realizes what’s out there.

  The cat has finally returned.

  “Aww,” I say, rushing past Pierre to the window. “Do you want to come inside? Are you cold out there?”

  “Now really isn’t the time for this,” Pierre complains, but I ignore him. I have a soft spot for animals, not people.

  I hurry to the window and open it enough for the cat to slip through. With a loud meow and a quick hop, the cat is inside, and I’m already rushing back to the kitchen in search of something to feed the poor dear. It’s been out in the cold, and I’m sure it’s hungry.

  The cat rushes toward Pierre, twisting itself around his legs and purring loudly.

  “Oh, it likes you,” I say with a smile.

  “She,” Pierre says, bending over to pick up the cat.

  “How do you know?” I ask, opening cabinets and pulling out cans in search of the tuna. If I knew I’d be having another guest, I would’ve picked up cat food on the way home.

  Pierre runs his fingers through the thick brown fur of the cat. “Just a guess, based on the size of her head, but…” He lifts the tail for a second. “Yeah, that’s a female.”

  “Are you always this invasive of women’s privacy?” I ask, finally finding the small can of tuna and taking it down from the cabinet.

  He chuckles. “Pretty much.”

  The cat jumps from his arms at the sight of food, purring her way over to me as I open the can and dump the contents onto a small saucer for her to enjoy.

  “Can you close the window for me?” I ask Pierre as I lay the saucer down on the floor.

  I sense no movement yet, but I’m certain that’s because my robe is hanging open, showing most of my breasts to Pierre. I take my time standing up, and only once I’ve adjusted my robe back in place does he go to the window to close it.

  I don’t say anything about his gaze, but I did nothing to stop it, and that’s more telling than anything.

  “Dammit,” Pierre exclaims, fidgeting with the window.

  “Need help?” I ask with a laugh.

  “No, I don’t need help,” he grumbles.

  “Well, if you did…”

  “I don’t.”

  “You look like you’re struggling. You can just push it down, and it should close normally,” I explain.

  Pierre turns around, his face flushed and the window not a single hair lower than it was before I asked him to shut it. “It’s broken.”

  “Really?” I ask, finding it hard to believe that just by opening it, I could’ve broken it. This building is old, but it’s worked like a charm so far.

  Maybe Pierre broke it. He does have a habit of being forceful at times.

  “I’m telling you, this thing isn’t going to close,” he says, shaking his head.

  “I’ll see about that,” I reply, coming toward the window to help him. For a man his size, it’s comical that he can’t shut a simple window.

  Chapter 25

  Pierre

  Shaye tries and fails to close the window. By the time she gives up and admits that it’s broken, her cheeks are cherry red, her hair in complete disarray, and her robe so far down her torso that I can clearly see one of her pale pink nipples.

  She straightens her back, yanking her robe aggressively over her breasts and cursing at the window. “What the fuck is up with that thing?”

  “I don’t know, but you’re probably going to need someone to fix it for you,” I reply. “I could try, but I’d need some tools, and that’s not happening at this hour.”

  “If you fix it tomorrow, I’ll make more of an effort to sell your painting,” she says. “This couple came in on the first day, but they were only looking for nude angels.”

  I laugh. “Shaye, I think we’re long past selling it. That’s what plan C is for.”

  “What’s plan C?”

  I grin. “We’ll talk about that over dinner.”

  “Well, dinner is going to be pasta again, since I haven’t had the chance to go to t
he store. In the meantime, you’ll just have to sit on the bed and freeze to death, I guess,” she says, sauntering away to the kitchen.

  “I’m confident that you can cook,” I say.

  She makes a surprised face, her pretty mouth forming an O shape as she steps into the kitchen. “I think that’s the first resemblance of a compliment you’ve given me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Oh, I think it is.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve complimented your tits before.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Nice tits.”

  “Charming,” she says dryly, but I can tell she enjoys the banter.

  She would’ve changed out of that dramatically thin robe if she wanted to keep things professional, but at this point, I’m on plan C with both my plan to acquire the Red Door and for getting my cock wet. All bets are off on this frigid evening, and I have no plans of leaving after I break out my master plan over dinner.

  I just pray that she agrees to it, so I don’t have to do anything terrible.

  I need her.

  I use the two pillows on Shaye’s bed to stuff the window, blocking out most of the air leaking in, but not all of it. It’s going to be a cold night, even with the heater turned all the way up, but it’s still better than my car, so I intend to stay.

  “I hope you haven’t been out drinking again,” Shaye says, glancing up at me over the divider in the kitchen.

  “So what if I have been?” I ask.

  “I’d prefer you not get into trouble. We’ve been over this,” she says, her voice tinged with the beginnings of irritation.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I reply. “I haven’t been going out. It’s far too cold for that.”

  “Good.”

  I don’t want to admit that the real reason I haven’t gone out is that I find no joy or satisfaction from talking to other women. In fact, the only woman I’ve been interested in since I arrived in Paris has been Shaye.

  It’s an unhealthy fixation, but not one that I can help.

  “Do you want tomato sauce?” Shaye asks.

  “What are my options?”

  “Tomato,” she says.

  I laugh. “Okay, then tomato it is.”

  “Perfect.”

  “The love apple,” I say, remembering her words from the grocery store.

  “Ah, yes,” she says with a grin. “They thought that tomatoes might increase sexual desire, like chocolate. That, or they’d be poisonous since they come from the nightshade family.”

  “A bit like you,” I say.

  She bites her lip but avoids my statement. “Anyway, I like tomatoes.”

  My eyes are glued to Shaye as she moves around the kitchen, gliding like the ground was ice beneath her dainty feet. She glows under the dim lights in the kitchen, and she makes me feel something odd in my stomach.

  Butterflies?

  I stand up quickly, blood rushing to my head. “You have a bathroom, right?” I ask, my heart thudding in my chest fast enough to be of medical concern.

  She frowns at me like I’m speaking in French. “Yeah, of course, I do. You think I pee in the sink?”

  “Where is it?” I ask, not at all amused by her sarcasm. This is serious.

  She points to the only other door in the flat. “Right there. Are you okay?”

  I swallow hard, a bead of sweat slipping down my spine from my neck. “Yes, just fine,” I manage to choke out. “Dinner looks good.”

  Her frown deepens. “You can’t even see it from over there.”

  I dash toward the bathroom door. “I can smell it, though. Very good.” I give her a thumbs-up before sliding into the bathroom and locking the door behind me.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Jesus, there’s something going on here. Why does my stomach feel like this? It’s highly unusual.

  I look up at myself in the mirror. My face is pale, and there are large drops of sweat covering my skin. I look like I’m having an emergency, and perhaps I am. Maybe this has nothing to do with Shaye. Maybe I’m dying.

  Okay, calm the fuck down, Pierre. You’ve killed people before. It’s just a goddamn woman.

  Yeah, a woman who holds my future in her delicate, soft, warm hands. I need to have and maintain control over her, but it seems like that’s slipping away with her barely doing anything at all. It’s not like she has a gun pointed at my head.

  I’m the one with the gun, for god’s sake!

  Cold water shoots out of the tap as I yank the handle to the sink up harder than I should. If I break this too, then I’ll be stuck in Shaye’s flat all day tomorrow fixing things instead of laying out my plans like I’m supposed to be doing. I have the ideas, but the details haven’t been fleshed out enough for me to execute them.

  I splash ice-cold water on my face until my skin is nearly numb. It soaks into the collar of my shirt, drenching the front of it. When I look up at myself, I look even worse than I did before I came in here. I’m as pale as a sheet of printer paper.

  I rip my shirt off, popping seams and buttons as I struggle with the too-tight fabric. I’m left in my undershirt, which is also soaked all the way down the front. It looks like I’ve been out running in the rain. Shaye’s going to think I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

  Maybe I have.

  My shirt comes off over my head, revealing my heavily tattooed torso. I didn’t have much to do while I was in prison, so I spent a considerable amount of time paying to have intricate pieces put into my skin by a talented artist who just so happened to be a pro on the outside before he got locked up for murdering his own father.

  But I didn’t ask questions. The tattoos speak for themselves.

  I snatch a fluffy pink towel off the side of the shower. It’s still damp from previous use, but I press it against my face to dry my skin.

  My nose is met immediately with the soft smell of flowers and sweet spices, a scent so pure and relaxing that I want to suffocate in the towel instead of leaving the bathroom to face Shaye’s line of questioning. I know she’s not going to stay silent when I walk out without a shirt.

  I inhale deeply, letting the incredible scent of a beautiful woman calm me down. It manages to roll my shoulders back and soften my posture, but my cock grows stiff in my pants from it, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to quell this erection without taking drastic measures.

  I need to fuck Shaye. The urge is tearing at my soul, torturing every fiber of my being until I give in and take her roughly on the small bed in her flat. I want to own her, claim her, and pump every last drop of my cum inside of her hot cunt.

  When I bring the towel away from my face, my heart rate has decreased, and I feel like I can form coherent thoughts again. Shaye has muddied my brain to the point that I’m getting sloppy with my work, and that’s a problem.

  There’s only one way to clear it.

  Chapter 26

  Shaye

  Pierre barges out of the bathroom, shirtless and looking even more distressed than he was before, just as I’m laying the bowls down on the bed for us to eat. It’s cold in here, and my robe isn’t going to get me through dinner, but I figure I’ll just wrap myself up in the sheets for now. I’m more concerned about what’s gotten into Pierre.

  The cat meows, and Pierre’s posture softens. “Must’ve been all that coffee I drank,” he says with a weak chuckle.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Totally fine,” he replies, walking toward me with an exaggerated swagger. He’s trying to appear calm, but he looks like he just wrestled with the sink.

  “You didn’t break anything else, did you?” I ask, looking at the water clinging to his hairline.

  “I was just a little hot,” he says. “Everything is fine.”

  It’s freezing in here, but I’m not going to question Pierre’s insanity. If he’s teetering on the edge, then I’m not going to be the one to push him. It wouldn’t end well for me.

  Pierre sits d
own on the bed, and the cat jumps up to join him, sniffing at his bowl before he lifts it up. “This looks good,” he says, as though he’s a robot trying to make human conversation.

  “It’s just pasta,” I reply, looking down at the mess of sauce and noodles in my bowl.

  “I’m sure it’s delicious,” he says, lifting a fork full of noodles to his mouth.

  I smile. I don’t know why Pierre is acting so strange, but at least he’s being nice. I thought he might come over to kill me, and in all honesty, I’m still not sure he won’t, but for the time being, he’s calm again.

  I pull the blanket to my chest, hiding my firm nipples and taking a bite of my food. I’m hungry, and we both eat quickly in silence. The only sounds available are that of the cat purring in Pierre’s lap and the sloppy sound of noodles, which I try and fail to suppress.

  Once finished, I look up at Pierre. He’s leaning back, a satisfied smile on his lips. I take the time to examine his tattoos while he’s tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

  There are so many of them across his chest, and I’m impressed by the detail. I’d like to take a closer look, but that would require a level of intimacy that I’m not prepared for. It would mean a lot more than just being close to him.

  Pierre pulls his head back down, opening his eyes and catching me staring at him. “You like what you see?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I never said you were ugly.”

  “I’m far from ugly,” he says. “I’m gorgeous.”

  I laugh, waving a finger at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, mister.”

  “I’m not,” he says, slipping a thin white paper tube from his front pocket. “I’m just stating the truth.”

  “What’s that?” I ask as he brings the tube to his lips.

  “Dessert,” he replies, bringing a silver lighter up from his pocket.

  “You can’t smoke that here,” I say, but he lights it up just the same.

  “Says who?” he asks, expelling pungent smoke from his mouth as he speaks.

  “Is that weed?” I ask, taken aback by the unexpected scent. I thought he was just smoking a cigarette.