Every man around me keeps his eyes averted and sits up straight as she makes her way toward me. They might be heartless criminals who treat women like disposable toys, but one thing we’ve all had ingrained in us is respect for the wives and daughters of our world. Marcella’s mafia-princess status ensures she’s treated like the Queen of Sheba everywhere she goes.
“Diego,” she says with a teasing smile, which falls when she glances to Jovan.
He’s sitting on a black leather couch across the balcony, with two half-naked dancers sprawled on either side of him. There’s a third dancer working the pole in the middle of the space, and she has Jovan’s attention, too. He’s watching her with a drunken half-smile while one of his hands cradles a breast, and the other a toned ass-cheek. The women are pawing him—and each other—while Jovan watches the dancer come out of her top.
“Hey, pig,” Marcella grumbles.
“Hey, Marcie-farcie,” Jovan calls out without sparing her a glance. “That dress is too fucking short.”
“I told you to stop calling me that,” my sister snaps, narrowing her eyes at him. “And there’s nothing wrong with my dress.”
“Yes, there is,” I argue. “Sit down.”
Her friends linger near the stairs, giggling and ogling Jovan as one of the strippers starts loosening his tie and shirt buttons. I recognize them as the daughters of associates of mine—both college age like Marcella and dressed for a night of clubbing.
Marcella looks like she wants to argue, but she sits. A selection of liquor bottles is arranged on the table between us, along with clean glasses and an ice bucket. My sister chooses tequila and pours a little over ice, holding my gaze while taking her first sip. She isn’t twenty-one yet, but a guy who traffics guns and drugs, and kicks the teeth out of people who owe him money doesn’t have much moral authority.
“I heard you were looking for me,” she says, giving me a smirk over the rim of her glass.
“Don’t play games with me, I’m not in the mood,” I snap, slouching in my chair. “You know what you did. You know how dangerous it was.”
“You’re the one who’s always telling me to keep my nose out of mafia business. Who am I to stop her from running? Especially if she’s smart enough to outwit you and your goons. You should have seen her coming down from that window … it was like some Parkour shit or something. She’s a bad-ass.”
“She was desperate,” I correct. “Desperate enough to hurt you to get away. You should have called for help.”
“I can take care of myself. Anyway, you caught her and brought her back. What’s the big deal?”
My indignation turns inward as I realize she’s right. While I do have a reason to be irritated with Marcella, the person I’m really pissed at is myself. It was stupid of me to underestimate Elena. I’m too used to dealing with the timid daughters of the men I do business with. Santiago Aguilar might not be a gangster, but he’s a shady fuck who likes to get his hands dirty while keeping his women squeaky clean. I don’t know what happened to his wife, but a little digging into his background told the story of a father who pissed his money away on coke and hookers, while sending his daughters to all-girl’s prep school and dragging them to mass every Sunday.
But Elena is nothing like I expected. She never cowered from me, not even when I pointed a gun at her. She tried to negotiate for her father’s life without fear, and she’s gotten away with talking to me in a way no one else would dare. Of course Elena would fight like hell to get away from me. It’s my fault I didn’t think her capable of climbing out of a three-story window, or trying to clean my clock once I stopped her—mistake I won’t make again.
“You didn’t just watch her escape,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at Marcella. “I saw you talking to her on the security video.”
She shrugs and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “What was I supposed to do? Tackle her?”
“Don’t be a brat.”
“Then stop being a dick. Jesus, Diego, you kidnapped her! What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“I’ve done far worse, and you know it!” I bellow, losing what’s left of my supply of patience for the day.
“This is different. Is it true you threatened to kill her if her father doesn’t pay up? Are you really going to go through with it?”
Instead of replying, I cut my gaze at Jovan, who has his head buried in a stripper’s neck. “When are you going to stop running your goddamn mouth? For fuck’s sake, Jovan!”
I knew the day would come when I could no longer hide the realities of what I do and have done from Marcella. I just didn’t expect my best friend—who’s just as protective of her as I am—to help speed the process along.
“Snitch much?” Jovan grumbles at Marcella before looking back to me. “You know she’s too nosy for her own good. She would have found out eventually.”
At this point, I’m ready to strangle them both. “Go,” I say to Marcella. “Have fun with your friends. Jovan has the night off, so call Carlos if you need a ride home.”
“Love you too, Diego,” she says, both annoyance and affection in her words.
“You know I love you, Marcie.”
She finishes off her tequila and then stands up. Shooting Jovan a look that could kill, Marcella grabs the hem of her dress and hikes it up at least two more inches before sauntering away with her friends.
Jovan sits up straighter, a look of disbelief wiping the smile off his face. “Are you just gonna let her walk around like that? I think I saw an ass cheek.”
I roll my eyes. “No, you didn’t. And if you did, you’d look away before I pluck your eyes out.”
He doesn’t flinch at my threat, because we both know it would never happen. Jovan likes his women experienced and respects me too much to even think about Marcella like that.
“She’s going to get someone killed tonight. You know these motherfuckers have no respect for women.”
I raise an eyebrow at the irony of his words and incline my head at the women who have started making out on the couch while he’s worried about Marcella.
Glancing over at them, he grins. “Holy shit, girls, wait for me.” He turns back to me and scowls. “No one’s being disrespected here. I intend to give both these lovely ladies my full attention tonight. Orgasms for all, and the gentleman finishes last. Anyway, we’re not talking about me. Marcella getting felt up by those guys in VIP for the bachelor party, or those stupid frat boys upstairs is what I’m talking about.”
“Relax,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “Security is wall to wall on every floor and everyone knows whose sister she is. They aren’t stupid enough to get out of hand. Besides … she could walk through here bare-assed and no one would have the right to touch her.”
“That’s very enlightened of you,” he says. “Meanwhile, you’ve been a fucking pill all day. What’s your problem?”
“Elena,” I reply.
Jovan chuckles and pulls one of the girls onto his lap. The other one slips a hand into the opening of his shirt and starts nibbling his ear. “Forget about it, jefe. We caught her and the window’s all boarded up now.”
I pour my third Scotch of the night and pluck a twist of lime from the bowl in front of me. “She’s smart. Athletic, too. She might be more of a problem than I thought.”
Jovan waves a dismissive hand. “Increase security at the house. Install a camera in her room. Shit, I don’t know what else to tell you. You’re the one who chose to take her. If you ask me, you should have popped her and Santiago both.”
“Well, no one asked you,” I snap.
“Well fuck you, too,” Jovan quips. “Relax, jefe. Have another drink. Hell, get laid. You wanna get in on this? These two might be a lot for me to handle on my own.”
The dancer in Jovan’s lap gives me a sultry look, tossing her wavy blonde hair over one shoulder. “Hell, I’ll have him for the main course and you for dessert.”
“Now, now,” Jovan says, playfully slapping her ass. “Haven’t y
ou heard it’s better to eat your dessert first?”
“Not interested,” I reply, staring down into my Scotch. “Not tonight.”
Jovan stands and sets the blonde on her feet. The other girl—dark-skinned with braids hanging down her back—follows suit.
“Your loss,” Jovan says. “More for me.”
The three of them leave the balcony from a door leading into a suite of back rooms I reserve for my own private use. Jovan has fucked more of Calentar’s dancers back there than I can keep track of. It’s resulted in the loss of a few girls, but no matter how much I get on his case, he won’t stop. Apparently, a revolving door of strippers is good for business. The sea of people downstairs drinking, dancing, and ogling the dancers tells me business is better than ever, so I can’t complain.
Taking a slow sip of my drink, I turn my attention to the dancer performing for only me and the two bodyguards stationed at opposite corners of the balcony. She’s gorgeous, with hair dyed a flaming red and a body made of sin. There are girls of all body types working here, even some enhanced by the surgeon’s knife, but this one is just the way I prefer my women—natural and soft in all the right places. I slouch in my chair and watch her, wondering if getting laid might not be the cure for my bad mood after all.
My dick is certainly interested, swelling against the fly of my pants. With a frustrated huff, I remember that I had the chance to get balls-deep into Ariel, the woman who sent me her sexy selfie in the red lingerie. She always answers when I call and has very few limits. With the way I’ve been feeling lately, and the stress of this merger with the Yezhovs, I should be eager at the chance to get her naked and on her knees for me. Tie her up. Spank her ass until it’s cherry red. Fuck her hard and fast, while my hand is wrapped around her throat.
Fuck.
Why didn’t I go to her? Ariel served herself up on a silver platter, but I wasn’t tempted enough to follow through.
The dancer gyrating against the pole six feet in front of me isn’t doing much for me, either, and I know exactly why.
It’s Elena. Fucking Elena with her long legs and perky tits. Elena thrashing beneath me, her curves pressing against parts of my body that sent all the blood straight to my cock.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, fantasizing about lying on top of her like I did this afternoon. Only this time, I’m grinding against the soft mound of her pussy through sexy-as-hell yoga pants, letting her feel just how hard she makes me. I wonder if she felt me getting aroused when I pinned her down, turned on by the fear in her eyes. If so, she was probably disgusted, thinking me a sick fuck.
I am a sick fuck, but in my head Elena doesn’t care. She responds when I bite her neck hard enough to leave a mark, moaning and arching her back until a nipple slips free of a shirt that’s at least two sizes too small. I lick that nipple, then bite it, making her moan even louder. She doesn’t fight me when I release her hands; she uses them to hold me closer as I run my tongue over every inch of bare skin I can find while yanking at her pants. They slip down and I find the treasure between her legs … waxed bare … no, covered in wisps of silky curls … no, decorated with a landing strip like an arrow straight down to where I want to bury my dick.
I open my eyes, breathing so hard you’d think I just ran a marathon. My erection is prominent now, protruding against the fabric at my crotch.
Goddamn it, I can’t do this. I can’t even think about fucking Elena. This agreement with her father is already complicated enough. Fucking her would make it even messier, especially if I end up having to kill her. Aside from that, I don’t want her to think she can use sex to manipulate her way into my warm, gooey places.
If she tried, she would learn a very painful lesson.
I don’t have any warm and gooey places left.
9
Elena
An unexpected knock on my door after breakfast brings me face-to-face with the woman from the pool. I’m shocked to find her standing there with a bottle of champagne and a carafe of orange juice, wearing a wide smile.
“Hi!” she chirps before bouncing into the room. “You’re Elena, right? Sorry there wasn’t time for us to properly introduce ourselves the other day. I’m Marcella, but you can call me Marcie.”
Standing near the door—which is still hanging open—I stare at her with a dropped jaw. Marcella sets her bottles down and then reveals that she carried two champagne flutes in the back pockets of her jeans.
Lifting them up, she gives me a sympathetic look. “I figured you might need a drink right about now.”
I push the door closed and tentatively approach, getting my first good, up-close look at her. Today she has her short hair pushed back from her forehead with a headband, and her face is enhanced with minimal makeup. Not that she needs it. She’s as striking as Diego is, with a heart-shaped face, full lips, and an adorable bump of a nose.
Some strange feeling rises in me at the sight of her. She’s the only woman I’ve seen in this house beside the maids, and I can’t help but think she belongs to Diego in some way. He’s made it clear that he owns everything and everyone beneath this roof, including me. So, who is Marcella to him—a wife, a girlfriend?
Marcella ignores my silent staring and starts pouring champagne and orange juice into the glasses. “Do you like mimosas? If not, I can send for something else.”
I want to refuse, but the offer of a drink is too tempting to resist. “I love mimosas.”
“A girl after my own heart.” She thrusts one of the glasses into my hands, then takes half of hers in one swallow.
I take it slow with mine, savoring the taste of an undoubtedly expensive champagne.
Marcella plops onto the edge of my bed like this is a slumber party. “I wanted to check on you sooner, but Diego’s been up my ass since I let you escape.”
I’m not sure I want to talk to this woman—whoever she is—but then I think it could help. Gaining any insight into Diego and his operation might give me an edge.
I sit on the other side of the bed. “I hope he didn’t blame you.”
Marcella shrugs and rolls her eyes. “He didn’t, but I still got an earful. Diego doesn’t like to be outsmarted or made to look stupid.”
She starts laughing and the sound is infectious; I can’t help but join in. “I guess I did kind of make him look bad in front of his guys, huh?”
Marcella hunches over, shoulders shaking. “They’ve been giving him shit about it for days! It’s wildly entertaining.”
“Then I guess it wasn’t for nothing.”
Marcella grows serious. “I want you to know I was rooting for you. What Diego did wasn’t fair. His business is with your father. You’re innocent.”
“Thanks. It makes me feel better to know someone in this house is on my side.”
Marcella sighs, and stares down into her glass. “It doesn’t matter if anyone thinks he’s wrong. He’s the boss … has been since he was old enough to know what being the head of La Familia means. No one would dare to go against him.”
“Except you.”
She smirks. “I’m a special case.”
How? I want to ask. What makes you so special?
Probably that rockin’ body in red lingerie.
The thought, along with the memory of that picture showing up on his phone, annoys the shit out of me.
“Are you the only one?” I blurt without thinking. “I mean … you live here so you must be special to him, but … I imagine women throw themselves at him all the time.”
Marcella gives me a puzzled look, then erupts into giggles again. “You think I’m Diego’s girlfriend? Oh my God, that’s hilarious! I can’t wait to tell Jovan!”
Now I’m even more irritated, thinking of that prick Jovan having a laugh at my expense. “That was you who sent him that lingerie pic the other night, wasn’t it?”
She shakes her head, still laughing. “God, no. No telling which of his … lady friends sent him that. And he’s never had a girlfriend, not really, an
d definitely never moved anyone into this house. He’s my brother.”
My face flushes with embarrassment. “Oh. I’m sorry, I … I shouldn’t have assumed. Your picture was the lockscreen on his phone, and I thought …”
Marcella gets up for a refill. “Don’t worry about it. I can see where you might have gotten the idea.”
“Well, there are no other women in this house.”
“That’s the way it’s been since our mother died,” she says, a note of sadness creeping into her voice. “You’re the first woman to step foot in this house since then.”
I frown, staring into my empty glass. “You mean he doesn’t do this kidnapping thing regularly?”
“Not with women, and never here at home.” She turns to face me, looking thoughtful. “You’re not from this world, are you? Mafia-world?”
“No,” I reply shaking my head. “My father is a real-estate developer. Before my mother passed away a few years ago, she was a curator for the Lowe Art Museum.”
Marcella offers me the champagne and I fill my glass, foregoing the orange juice.
“In this world,” she says, “the men handle their business away from their women. That applies to all the gangs, not just ours. We’re thought of as fragile and in need of protection. I might know most of what goes on here, but that’s only because the guys gossip like a bunch of high school chicks. I don’t have any say or control.”
“It sounds … stifling.”
Marcella shrugs. “It’s not so bad. Diego’s a good brother.” At my snort of disbelief, she laughs. “Seriously. I know he’s been a dick to you, but he’s taken care of me since I was born. One thing I can say about these men … they provide well and fiercely protect their children and women.”
Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Page 6