Dimitri (The Italian Cartel Book 1)

by Shandi Boyes

  Either determined to prove he doesn’t scare me or that I’m downright stupid, I pop open my eyes at Dimitri’s request. The visual is ten times better than the one in my head. I don’t know where to look first—at the thick rippling of muscles in his midsection or the sturdy thighs holding up the incredibly mouthwatering package. Perhaps I should start at his bulging biceps before finishing at a hardness more than a spark of attraction would be required to instigate?

  His cock is thick and hard, meaning the stretchy material of his trunks is being put through the ultimate durability test. They’re a quality brand, however they look seconds from fraying under the pressure of his pulsating rod of flesh.

  My eyes slowly float up to Dimitri’s face when he says, “All it takes is a few seconds of distraction and poof, your entire existence is over.” I’m confused as to what he means until I attempt to stop him from uncinching the belt holding my dressing gown close to my body. My hands are bound above my head, secured by a set of cuffs that have been used often enough to leave notches in the bedposts.

  “Let me go.” Just the thought of any woman being cuffed to his bed has my voice the most unhinged it’s ever been. It’s fueled more by anger than fear, peeved as fuck that even when my life is in danger, jealousy is still my most paramount emotion.

  I couldn’t understand Eddie’s anger about me climaxing over another man’s watch, yet here I am getting blistering mad over a man I hardly know playing sex games on the bed I’m resting on.

  I’m certifiably insane.

  Dimitri’s smile is as white-hot as the surge that bolts through me when he shakes his head. “Not until you say please.”

  With his eyes locked on mine, he undoes the knot in my dressing gown cord faster than I can snap my fingers. His chest rises and falls in rhythm to the throb in my throat when he pries open the material. He doesn’t part the seams far enough that my nipples become exposed, but the heat from his hooded-gaze makes it seem as if he did.

  The friction his meekest touch causes is unbelievable. It has heat blazing through me, and its fiery response grows in intensity when he glides his index finger through the galley between my breasts. He’s barely touching me, but every inch of my body tightens, anticipating more. Wanting more.

  When his hand stops near my chin, my head naturally slants so I can nuzzle my cheek into his palm. It’s as sticky as the mess between my legs, his body temperature too high to discount.

  Dimitri’s body isn’t the only thing warming up. Heat burns at my cheeks, just not all of their redness can be blamed on desire. Some of it is shame. Shame he killed my boyfriend, and I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. Shame his touch should revolt me when it doesn’t. Shame that even after he made me feel as tiny as an ant, I’m on the verge of begging him to touch me.

  “Say please, Roxanne,” Dimitri grinds out through clenched teeth. “Say please before I remember you’re the reason my wife is dead, and my daughter is missing. Say please before I remember for every hour of every day that you are responsible for everything that has happened.” He locks his eyes with mine. They’re dark and tormented, but oh so beautiful. “Say please before I remember no amount of pleading will ever see me sparing your life. Say please, Roxanne.” He lowers his hand from my cheek to my neck. “Say it now before it’s too late.”

  The last of the air in my lungs rushes out with a moan when he grips my throat with enough strength both my clit and my lungs award his aggression with their utmost devotion. They both scream with need, one is just slightly louder than the other.

  “Please.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Dimitri

  Although Roxanne’s one word is as breathless as her lungs, and the itch to kill is skittering through my veins begging me to ignore her request, I tamp down the debilitating restlessness I was born with before weakening my grip on her throat.

  Her gasps as she fights to fill her lungs with air excites me even more. It’s a genuine need that spreads through me like a wildfire as hot and heavy as the blood feeding my cock. She has so much attitude, so much spit-fire—the very thing Audrey was missing.

  My wife’s attitude didn’t live up to her brash hair coloring. She was always the quieter one in the room. She didn’t raise her voice or fight for the top position in the room. As long as it kept her out of the spotlight, she was happy to let anyone take the lead. She could see another woman’s lipstick on the collar of my shirt, smell her perfume on my skin, and she did nothing—not a single fucking thing.

  Her inability to fight for me saw me fucking around on her more. I wanted to see her cheeks inflamed with jealousy, for her to tell me she hated me before vowing to kill the woman who dared to slip between our matrimonial sheets.

  I wanted to feel needed.

  I never got that from Audrey.

  Not once.

  The same can’t be said for Roxanne. She didn’t ask me to stop because she’s sickened at the idea of me touching her. She did it because she’s angry at herself. Even the risk of dying isn’t enough to offset her desire for me. I killed her boyfriend, threatened her family, and told her I’d bury her alive just to hear her screams suffocated by the dirt clogging her lungs, yet she still wants me to fuck her, lick her, kiss her, and claim every single inch of her.

  She wants me like my wife never did, but in a way I’ll never be able to fulfill.

  I can learn from my past, however I can’t forget it. Fien deserves more than to be set aside for a woman who infuriates me as much as she intrigues me. She’s my daughter, my blood. She comes before anyone—even me.

  With that in mind, I snatch my hand away from Roxanne like her scar revolts me as much as she believes before heading for the attached bathroom. The agony between my legs worsens when I flick on the faucet in the freestanding shower. Roxanne’s scent is stronger in confined spaces. It’s why I couldn’t keep a cool head when her breast continually brushed Rocco’s arm during our drive to Hopeton. I could have blamed the bumps in the road for their constant contact, but my fucked-up head refuses to play nice when it’s spiraling out of control. One more brush and I would have popped a bullet between Rocco’s eyes like he hasn’t been my friend for the past two decades.

  While waiting for the water pumping out of the showerhead to turn blistering hot, I shred off my all-black trunks before moving to stand in front of the mirror. I briefly consider returning to my room when I take in how red and angry my cock looks. He’s throbbing with need, his thickness solely reliant on the woman handcuffed to my bed.

  My lips curve to the side when I recall how easily I distracted Roxanne. Not even the clanging of the cuffs when I removed them from my bedside table shifted her eyes off my body. She dragged them over every inch of me, heating my skin with the same frantic buzz of a tattoo gun.

  Her distraction should give my guilt some leeway. Unfortunately, that’s far from the truth. I stopped seeking excuses months ago. I fucked up, I looked away, and now I’m paying for the consequences of my actions.

  When I step into the steam-filled space, my hand stirs to drop to my engorged cock. I want to squeeze it a little to release some of the tension causing its agony, but since I refuse to let the fiery little wildcat mere feet away know the hold she has over me, I lean into the scorching hot water, praying it will scold her touch from my skin as effectively as it will drain the blood from my cock.

  Usually, my cock reacts to burning heat the same way it would if I plunged it into an ice bath. It isn’t having the same effect today. I like the passion that comes from a fiery response. Whether the death of an insolent man or the slap of a scorned woman, there’s an emotion attached to every response, a thrill you can’t get from wrapping your hand around your cock and batting one out. It requires a woman’s touch. Her heated breaths on my neck. Her silky-smooth skin under my hand. Her cunt wrapped around my cock.

  Jesus. I should have taken Alice up on her offer. Wanting Roxanne to experience the inane stupidity that pumped through me from Rocco’s
protectiveness, I overexerted my words when requesting Smith to organize a late-night appointment with Alice. He must have conveyed my request to Alice in the same manner. She came over ready to suck my dick. Her logic that penetration isn’t cheating always sees her ready to get on her knees.

  I told her no. I walked away.

  I’m regretting it more than ever right now.

  Perhaps I can be quiet? Maybe Roxanne is already asleep?

  No! I release my cock from my hand before grabbing a bar of soap from the soap dish. I scrub my skin until it’s raw, then attack it with the same amount of intensity with a towel.

  By the time I walk back into my room, my anger is as high as my dick rests against my stomach. My fury hasn’t weakened its pulse in the slightest. Its hardness is fed by the same gall firing in Roxanne’s eyes when she spots my naked stalk across the room. She doesn’t speak, she just raises her brow that exposes her red hair color is natural while silently stalking me.

  “You should be sleeping. Alice is never tardy.” She learned what happens to slackers the hard way seven years ago. “She will be here at precisely six.”

  Roxanne waits for me to pull on a pair of sleeping pants before she raises her eyes to my face. Although her hooded-gaze is brimming with lust, they reveal she’s still scared. “I can’t sleep.” She chews on the corner of her plump lips before halfheartedly shrugging. “I’m kinda hungry.”

  Air whizzes out of my nose as I fight not to roll my eyes. “Of course you are.”

  I gather up a plain white tee before marching to her side of the room. I pretend not to notice the blistering of goosebumps racing across her skin when I adjust the angle of her head so I can see if my earlier anger left a mark. Her neck is a little red where I gripped her, but for the most part, she’s relatively uninjured.

  Mistaking the annoyance in my eyes as sorrow, Roxanne frees her lip from her menacing teeth before saying, “It’s more frustrating than sore.” She jangles the cuffs circulating her wrists. “Kind of like these.” As she bounces her pretty eyes between mine, she asks, “Can you please take them off?”

  Her cutesy act gets side-swiped when I shake my head.

  She’s back to her feisty self in no time.

  “Why not?”

  Although I don’t appreciate being interrogated, this line of questioning doesn’t bother me. “Because that’s only something that will occur once you’ve gained my trust.”

  “How can I gain your trust while cuffed to a bed…” Her words trail off as her throat works hard to swallow. She noticed how thick I was when I re-entered the room, so her thoughts immediately deviate toward wicked territory.

  So do mine, but I pretend otherwise. “You can start by answering some questions for me.”

  When she hesitantly nods, unsure how she could possibly have any information I need, I gather a manila folder from my desk and the chair from underneath it. While I set up a makeshift command center on Roxanne’s half of the room, she maneuvers herself into a half-seated position. It’s no easy feat considering she’s cuffed to the headboard, but she makes it appear easy.

  “Ready?”

  Ignoring the dangerous drape of her dressing gown, she dips her chin.

  Feigning the same level of calmness, I drop my eyes to the stack of paperwork Smith delivered during our commute from Erkinsvale to here. For the most part, it’s my father’s movement sheets for the next several months, but there are also snippets of the information he shared about Roxanne’s movements the day Audrey was kidnapped.

  “Do you recognize any of these men?” I show her a photograph Smith pulled from the FBI’s database several years ago. It’s the last known group shot of the Castro crew.

  “Look longer,” I demand when Roxanne shakes her head within a few seconds of drinking in the group shot. There are over thirty men pictured. It isn’t possible for her to have scanned all of their faces in that short amount of time.

  When I say that, Roxanne scoffs. “I don’t need a longer look. They all have dark, ethnic appearances. I grew up in Erkinsvale, so you can trust me when I say we’ve never crossed paths.”

  “What about when you met with your father in New York, did you see them, then?”

  Her cheeks whiten when reality dawns. “Are these the men who took your wife?” When I nod, she scoots as close to me as her cuffs will allow. “Can you hold it a little closer? I don’t have the best vision.”

  Unappreciative of the humor in her voice, I hold it to within an inch of her face.

  After a period long enough to ensure me she scanned each face with precise detail, she inches back before once again shaking her head. “I’m sorry, none of them ring a bell.” The anger making my skin sticky eases when she adds, “But I’ve seen him before.”

  When her eyes drop to a surveillance image of my father, my breath comes out in a rush. “He killed Old Man V earlier tonight. You don’t get any credit for that.”

  My brows fetter in confusion when she replies, “Not tonight. At the bar next to the restaurant your wife was taken from. I swear he was seated at the end of the bar, although he looked a lot younger back then than he does now.” She lifts her eyes to mine, even though confusion is clouding them, I can tell she’s being honest. She has truthful, wholesome eyes. “His hair was darker, and his stomach was a little rounder, but I remember him because he was wearing a St. Jude pendant, but instead of it being on his necklace—”

  “He wore it on a leather bracelet on his left wrist?”

  When her pupils dilate in confirmation, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

  “Was it him?” I ask after gathering a photo frame from my desk and clearing away the dust coating it. It’s a photograph of me with three of my siblings—Roberto, Ophelia, and CJ. It was taken by Rocco at my twenty-first birthday, a mere month before everything went downhill for my family.

  “Yeah,” Roxanna answers with an unsure nod. “But he had put on some weight and aged by almost a decade. Who is he?”

  “He’s my brother,” I answer, too shocked to think up a lie. “My brother, who’s been missing for almost five years.”

  Roxanne raises her eyes to mine. Worry, I think she’s leading me astray, is seen all over her face. “Maybe it was your father, then? My head was all types of muddled that day. I was eighteen and in the big city alone for the first time. I could be mistaken.”

  I know she’s lying, and so does she. She either saw Roberto or his biological twin. Either way, I need to know exactly who he is because there’s no way my missing brother being at the same restaurant my wife was kidnapped from could be classed as a coincidence.

  “Smith…”

  Forever on alert, Smith’s voice comes through the speaker of my cell phone two seconds later. “Yeah?”

  Roxanne arches a brow when I ask, “Are you still friends with the composite sketch artist at Ravenshoe PD?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see her coming out at this hour.” His snickers out a laugh before continuing, “She might if you were willing to offer her some kind of incentive.”

  By incentive, he doesn’t mean money. The male counterparts of Ravenshoe PD are all about favors, money, and uncut blow. The female half are all about the D. You can have anything you want around these parts if you’re willing to toss a few orgasms at the depraved women running this place. Even the chief of police’s daughter shared trade secrets when I was balls deep inside of her.

  I’m about to tell Smith to get her here no matter the cost, but the faintest trickle of a whisper stops me. “I can draw.” When my eyes stray to Roxanne’s, hers roll at the shocked expression on my face. “If you don’t believe me, tell Smith to take a look at my Instagram page.”

  “She’s telling the truth,” Smith chimes in as image after image pops up on the screen of my phone.

  I hear Roxanne’s throat work through a hearty swallow when I move to gather my phone off my desk. Although her confidence is hot enough to blister my skin, she’s nervous about what my respo
nse will be to her drawings.

  She has no reason to fret. She has an immense amount of talent.

  “You drew these?” The drawings range from portraits of dogs and cats with their tongues hanging out to couples in various stages of erotic content. The detail is undeniable. Even with the sketches being black and white, I can see the texture of the dog’s shiny coat, and I’m not going to mention the realistic veins in one of her model’s cocks, or he’ll have a bounty on his head by the end of tonight.

  “The animals were commissioned pieces on Fiverr. People emailed me photos of their animals, and I turned them into sketches for five dollars a pop.” She drags her tongue over her plump lips. “And the people are from the images in my head.” Shame burns on her cheeks when she mutters, “If I dream about them, they end up in the pages of my sketchbook.”

  I’m torn between wanting to explore the shame in her eyes and getting back to the task at hand, so instead of picking, I do both. “Send someone out to purchase a sketchpad and pencils.” When Smith hums an agreeing noise, I send him a quick message about a request I can’t articulate in front of Roxanne before devoting all my attention to her. “Do you think you can sketch the man you saw that night?”

  A current I haven’t experienced in years trickles into my veins when she once again dips her chin.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dimitri

  His face is rounder than I remember, and his stomach is almost double in size, but there’s no denying the man Roxanne saw at the Slice of Salt is my brother, Roberto. His eyes are the same wintry blue coloring as mine, his bushy brows hang heavily over his eyes, and the faintest of scars from where I accidentally jabbed my stick-sword into his right cheek is present in Roxanne’s sketch.