Devil You Hate: A Dark Mafia Enemies to Lovers Romance (The Diavolo Crime Family Book 1)

by J. L. Beck

  I keep my eyes on my prey as I stalk back down the hallway toward her. She finally tracks her gaze up my body, lets out a whimper, and scurries back into the room. I follow and watch as tears pool in her big brown eyes.

  “Those men kidnapped and touched you. They’re dead now.” I don’t owe her an explanation, but I offer it anyway.

  She hikes her chin up, a small cleft at the center. “Then you saved me. So please take me home.” Her eyes plead with me, and I can tell she knows she’s not going home. Not tonight. Not ever.

  “Oh, stellina, you’re not going anywhere.” I stalk forward and shove her back so she stumbles onto the mattress.

  She stares up at me, the tears now pouring down her cheeks. She tugs the slip over her bare thighs to hide herself from me. For now, I’ll allow it because I have other business to attend to. But she won’t be able to hide from me for long.

  I study her carefully, looking for any signs of a concussion from her blundering kidnappers. Her pupils aren’t blown, and she seems alert enough despite her terror.

  “What do you want with me?” she whispers so softly I barely hear it.

  Her voice is gentle, like a soft melody that invites a man to bed, promising carnal delight. She has no idea the damage her family has done, the things that can’t be undone, and the people that can no longer be brought back. If she knew what I really wanted from her, she’d be screaming and begging for me to let her go.

  I tower over her, letting her take in my tattooed forearms below rolled-up sleeves. Blood coats my face, my slicked-back hair, my shirt—every inch above my navel.

  A bloom of blood breaks up the creamy white expanse of her cleavage from where I pushed her back onto the mattress. Something in me uncoils at seeing a mark I made so boldly on her pretty skin. I wonder what she would look like painted in the blood of my enemies? I push the thought away before it can take root.

  “Right now, stellina, I want you to shut the fuck up, and do what you’re told. If you do that, it’ll put me in a better mood, and I’ll be less inclined to kill you.”

  She swallows heavily and tracks the blood dripping off me as if it punctuates my threat better than my words ever could.

  “That’s not my name,” she grits out.

  She remains huddled up, though, belying the heat in her tone.

  I duck down in a crouch again so I can meet her eyes straight on. “I believe I said shut the fuck up, and do what you’re told. If I want to call you my little whore, I will call you that. And if I want you to call me Daddy while I fuck that sweet little cunt, you’ll do so with abject delight. Am I clear?”

  She stares at me wide-eyed, her breaths heavy out of her nose. When she nods, I stand again and leave before I do something drastic, like drag her over my lap, fuck her into oblivion, and ruin my investment.

  Because men are going to line up for a taste of her body.

  Until someone pays for the privilege, she’s mine alone.

  3

  Celia

  The man’s gun is bigger than my face. I don’t know why it’s the only thought that stuck in my head while he towered over me, covered in someone’s blood. No, I do know. It’s my brain trying to disassociate, to give itself a hold in reality, so I don’t fucking lose it.

  Lose it like I am right now.

  My hands are shaking as I stare down at them. Shock is setting in, and while my years of home-study psychology should help me, a trauma response isn’t necessarily controllable.

  I let the images wash through me. The tattoos under the thick layer of blood up his arms. The rich material of his blood-splattered dress shirt. The flint blue of his eyes, again broken only by the blood splattered across his face.

  He shot that man while he stared into my eyes, as if killing someone was as easy as brushing his teeth—his straight white teeth, which also sported a few blood droplets.

  He’d been smiling when he killed those two men. Heartless and cruel. That’s all I could think of him. Who smiles as they end another human’s life? I don’t want to think that deeply into it, but every time I close my eyes, his face is all I see.

  Stellina. He keeps calling me that, and I can’t place where I heard it last. It’s like the memory is in my mind, but it’s lodged deep in the back.

  I wrap my arms around myself to abate the cold. A girl can use a knight in shining armor right about now. Just then, I picture Marco strolling through these street thugs, taking them out, and saving me.

  It’s irrational, considering how short our relationship has been, but he depends on me being alive. If we don’t get married, he loses the position in my family, the money, the power, everything. Maybe it would be enough to prompt him to come to my rescue.

  One can only hope, right?

  I know his guys run more in money laundering than guns, but no doubt they needed them to secure said money. Yes, Marco would come to save me from this nightmare, and once that happens, I can forget I ever saw that hulking brute covered in blood. Some of my panic abates, allowing me to think a little clearer. My head is pounding, a lump at the back of my neck aches, and I can’t remember anything since I walked Marco to the door after dinner.

  How did they even get into my house to kidnap me?

  God, this is a fucking nightmare.

  I cup my face in my hands and catch sight of the blood splattered on my clavicle. Staring down at it like a spider waiting to strike, I try not to panic. Quickly, I cup the edge of my slip and wipe at the red mark. Most of it comes off, but a stain remains along with the pink of my abraded skin.

  The door opens with a creek, and I scurry to the far edge of the mattress, placing my back in the corner of the room. My eyes land on a water bottle that’s tossed into the cell. It rolls across the floor and stops at the edge of the mattress. I look just in time to find the door closing again.

  “Wait!” I leap up and rush to the door, intent on talking to whoever kindly gave me the water. “Please, let me out of here.”

  The door stops a few inches from closing. “Sit down and shut your mouth, or we’ll find some better use for it,” a gruff voice booms through the small room. Followed by the door slamming shut.

  Frustration mounts, and all I can do is lash out. I bang on the door, pounding until my fists ache, but no one comes back, no one opens it again.

  The water, wrapped in a blue label, looks sealed up. I scoop it off the gray concrete and inspect the cap as much as I can in the very dim light. Did they drug it? The man’s words filter back to me.

  If I want you to call me Daddy while I fuck that sweet little cunt, you’ll do so with abject delight.

  Is that why I’m here? So they, whoever they are, can rape me? It seems highly unlikely, given the work it took to kidnap me. I don’t know this world like my father, like Marco, like any of the men in the five families. Women in our world are ornamental, not functional. Hell, I couldn’t even talk my dad into letting me go to college. It had been one reason I agreed to marry Marco. Hoping, once we married, he’d let me take some classes and get my degree. If I can’t get the hell out of here, none of that will ever happen.

  I study the water bottle again, crack the cap, and take a tentative sip. It tastes like water, so I swish back a large mouthful and pray I haven’t just ended my life.

  My hands have finally stopped shaking, and I’m a little calmer, so I look around the room. The hulking beast doesn’t seem like the type to make mistakes, but a girl can hope.

  The mattress on the floor looks new. It’s not stained or scuffed from repeated use, so it makes me wonder, do they replace the mattress for every new captive, or am I the only one?

  The entire room is about as big as a small closet. The full mattress in the corner, bare. It’s only a few paces to the one window, high on the ceiling. Between the window and the chill in the air, I don’t doubt they tucked me away in a basement somewhere.

  I try not to think about the dead men as I remember the long white hallway with the same gray concrete floors. No
windows or exits that I could see. None of this information helps me escape. Not with a locked door and no clothes or weapons.

  Surely, it’s still dark outside, which means no one is even going to realize I’m gone for a few more hours, not until the maid wakes me up or I don’t show up for my last fitting at the bridal boutique.

  Will they think I ran like my sister, Kat, did? Probably, and my father isn’t the forgiving type. So, putting positivity in my thoughts, when I make it out of here, I need to ensure I clear my name with my father first. Ensure he knows I was kidnapped and didn’t make a run for the border to avoid marrying Marco.

  I sit down on the mattress and tuck my legs underneath me to cover as much as possible with my short slip. At some point, I undressed before they kidnapped me, or did they undress me when they kidnapped me? Shit. The answers are becoming as bad as the questions.

  I rake my brain for the memories. We ate dinner, I walked Marco out… I think. Then I went to my room. Didn’t I?

  Why can’t I remember?

  The lock on the door ticks, and I scurry back to the corner, shoving my slip around my ass as I move. The same man from before with the steel-edged eyes and a blood-coated body saunters into my room, rubbing his hands together.

  I glimpse briefly an Asian man closing the door behind him. And then it’s just me alone with the man who will probably end my life.

  He walks around the room casually, inspecting the walls and floor, before landing those intense eyes on me.

  I meet his gaze head on, even if every inch of my body is recoiling with fear, preparing to shoot a fight-or-flight response to my system and send my adrenaline into overdrive. Fuck. How’s all that psychology reading helping now, Celia?

  He stalks toward me and then crouches down in front of the mattress and studies me. Despite my fear, I do the same to him. His hair is wet, slicked away from his face. Inky black tattoos cover his arms and swirl up his neck at the fringes of his shirt. He’s showered, and the scent of woodsy soap wafts off him in waves.

  He cocks his head to the side and flicks up the corner of his full pink lips. “You don’t have to huddle away from me, stellina. I’m not going to hurt you—yet.”

  I swallow heavily and maintain my position, scooting as far away from him as I can. He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him and folds his hulking frame on the edge of the mattress.

  Shit. He draws his knees up and rests his elbows on top of them. His shiny shoes gleam in the low light. Which seems absurd, considering the amount of blood he had splattered on him only a short time ago.

  “You must have one hell of a dry cleaning bill,” I say.

  Obviously, my shocked brain has a death wish engaging this creature.

  The slight smile he sports grows the tiniest fragment. “Why dry clean when I can just buy a new shirt?”

  “I’m sure your tailor appreciates it then.” There is no doubt in my mind he has one with shirts that fit him like that.

  He continues studying me and then abruptly stands. I jerk back into my corner as he extends his hand. “Stand up, stellina.”

  Can I refuse him? It seems unwise for such a small request. I ignore his hand and ease upright, the mattress buckling under my weight at the corner.

  He crooks his finger and points to the floor right in front of him. “Come to me.”

  Another easy enough task. Why anger him unnecessarily? I position myself exactly where he points. Now only inches from him, the scent of his soap is stronger, as is the heat rolling off his muscular body.

  “Good girl,” he purrs. I feel the deep, husky scratch of it in my belly.

  He circles me like a shark, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  I hold my chin up, staring off across the room, ignoring him in the hope he might not.

  No such luck.

  “Take your clothes off,” he whispers in that same husky, deep grate.

  This time, the flutter in my stomach is nothing but fear. I swallow and look back at where he stands behind me. Slowly, I reach up and grip the strap on my shoulder. But for him, my movements aren’t quick enough. He shoves his hands into the back of my slip and rips the silk clean down the middle.

  His rough knuckles graze the length of my spine as the material parts, and I bite back a gasp. I shiver and hold the silk to my naked chest. When he comes around to the front, he wags his finger at me to drop the material. So, I do. What else can I do at this point if he’s going to rip my only clothing to shreds?

  “Do you want to take your panties off too, or should I give them the same treatment? I promise you’ll be in here naked until I feel like giving you something to wear. I’m not a patient man, so don’t make me wait again.”

  Before he even finishes speaking, I shuck my panties down my legs and gently kick them to the side of the mattress.

  “Good girl,” he repeats. “You’re a fast learner. Keep it up, and we’ll get along just fine.”

  I don’t want to get along with him. I want to bash his skull open and make a run for it. That’s a fantasy since I can barely reach the top of his head. But hey, a girl can dream, right?

  He makes another circle around me, and I can feel his eyes on my skin. His fingers brush across my hip, and I jerk.

  His eyes narrow at me, and I fortify myself to remain still.

  The next touch is across the back of my shoulder blades. Then the back of my right thigh. It tickles, but I don’t dare move for fear of him doing much worse.

  “You’re beautiful, stellina. But I’m sure in your pampered existence you hear that all the time.”

  He touched a nerve. Jerking my chin up, I glare at him, then purposefully tip my hair out of the way so my scar is visible. “Actually, I don’t.” It’s quite the opposite, but I keep that part to myself.

  His gaze traces the long line down my cheek and continues further south, down to my breasts, flat belly, and finally to the apex of my thighs. He doesn’t comment on my admission, and that silence is deafening.

  “What do you want from me?” My voice comes out low.

  It takes so long for him to answer that I figure he’ll simply ignore me, but then he clears his throat, and words tumble out his smug mouth.

  “Everything. I want everything from you. And when I take it all, every single bit of you, I’ll get my revenge on every member of your weaselly family.”

  Revenge? On my family?

  It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that this man wants revenge. My father is not known for kindness or charm. If only the bastard in front of me knew how little my family gave a shit about me. They’ve only ever cared for the connection I can make when I leverage my vagina into marriage. I wonder if my father ever cared about me at all.

  Maybe when I was a child. I have a few lovely memories of my father bouncing me on his knees, or maybe that’s just my mind making up stuff that never happened? All my vivid memories are of my parents acting like strangers toward each other.

  I don’t offer this information up to him since I doubt he cares.

  A chill settles over me, and I clutch my arms under my breasts without thinking.

  He pounces, shoving my arms to my sides, holding me tight so I can’t move while he presses every unyielding inch of his body against mine.

  A tear springs free, and I wish I could take it back. Die with a little fucking dignity.

  My ruthless captor glares at me and then shoves me back. I stumble, but keep my hands down. When he crowds me again, he tips my chin up, so I’m forced to look into his eyes. A bully, a fucking monster. That’s what he is.

  “You don’t cover yourself until I say you can. Nod if you understand.” I nod frantically, and his eyes soften. “Now, tell me, are you still a virgin?”

  His question douses my entire body with ice cold water. I want to defy him, lie, be proud and tell him to go fuck himself. I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I squeeze my lips together and stare into his eyes.

  After a moment, his gaze drops to my lips,
and then, like a cobra strike, one hand goes to the back of my neck, and the other between my legs, to cup my vagina. All bravado sizzles out of me as I stare into his eyes.

  “Answer me,” he grits the words through his teeth, “or I’ll part your pretty thighs and find out for myself if you’ve been touched.”

  I shiver in his hold, locked against his rock-hard body and his unfailing grasp. The words are in my head, but I can’t bring myself to say them.

  Yes, I scream in my mind, but all that comes out is a whimper.

  He frowns, almost as if he is sorry, and then gently, I feel his fingers probing between my legs. “Is this why you don’t answer? You want my fingers inside you, testing you, feeling how tight you’ll fit around my cock?”

  I shake my head, the lump in my throat still not letting a single word pass. With my fists balled tightly, I shove at his chest and squeeze my thighs together, but he simply kicks them apart and wedges his legs in between mine.

  His fingers delve deeper until the blunt end of his index finger slowly slides inside me. I whimper and try to jerk away from him, but he’s strong, so much stronger than me, and holds me tight in his grasp.

  The soft tissue burns from his intrusion of my body, and I glare my hatred into his face. He can touch me, but he can’t make me want it. He can enter my body, but never my mind.

  After a few seconds, he pulls his fingers from my channel, brings them to his mouth, and licks the wetness I see coated there.

  Once he finishes, he smiles, showing me straight white teeth. A predator’s move, if I ever saw one. “You’re so sweet and tight. I know men who will pay top dollar for your pretty little pussy.”

  I swallow and move away from him. This time he lets me go with a chuckle while walking toward the door.

  “Don’t worry, stellina, I don’t plan to kill you. But by the time I sell you to the highest bidder, you might wish I did.”

  4