by Coco Miller
Dammit, my stomach growls just thinking about sipping on that creamy deliciousness. I am so freaking hungry I could eat a dead rhino. Baha! What is wrong with me? Must be the lack of carbs. I’m literally going insane. No carbs plus stressful mafia man encounter does not equal a healthy brain.
Umberto looks over at me as we ride the elevator up to his floor. The car has clear walls and gives us a view of the skyline as we are pulled up to the heavens. I feel like little Charlie from Willy Wonka in that scene where Wonka gives the boy the chocolate factory. This is just magical. Until my stomach growls again.
Just the thought of chocolate makes my mouth water. If I close my eyes, I can actually taste a Hershey bar. I’ve gotta stop this madness. My stomach growls again, and he turns to me, lifting his thick brows.
My God Umberto is a beautiful man. Everything about him is thick—and in all the right places. Shit. Now I’m feeling hungry in a much different sort of way.
“Are you hungry, Victoria?”
With a roll of my eyes, I tell him, “I’ve been hungry for weeks. Practically dreaming about food. I’d kill to be little Charlie from the Willy Wonka movie, right now.”
He laughs, looking a bit surprised. “Why are you not allowing yourself to eat? You work at a cafe.”
“Oh, I’m eating, but it’s just that this diet I’m on says I have to eat healthy foods, and I’m not very good at that. I grew up on room service.”
“Tell me more.”
“Like every morning, I’d start my day before school with a stack of blueberry pancakes covered in maple syrup, cheddar cheese omelets, and a big glass of chocolate milk. Either that or crepes with whipped cream and strawberries, or croissants with peaches and cream cheese, or french toast banana foster, with real vanilla bean ice cream melting on the side. Can’t you tell? These hips and thighs don’t lie.”
The side of his mouth pulls tight. “You are so damn cute and sexy; you know that, right? Those delicious hips and thighs of yours could kill a man.”
“I’m hungry. That’s what I am,” I huff and blush at the same time.
He smiles, looking at the door when it dings and spreads wide open. But there is another door, and he has to use a key to enter. That door slides into the wall, revealing the inside of his luxury condo. And daaaaaamn. It is posh. I don’t even want to step inside.
Everything is gleaming and pearly white and smells incredible. The intoxicating scent of leather and flowers swirls inside the large space. Most New Yorkers don’t even get an eighth of what he has in square footage. Umberto owns basically twenty apartments. That’s how many you could easily fit into this place. Not to mention the outdoor patio that has a glass ceiling and gives the most amazing view of the city, like you’re just flying above everyone else, and they could never reach your level, figuratively or literally.
“I’ll get a reservation at a nice place. You’ll eat.”
I laugh at him. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out to dinner.” I changed from my cotton candy pink sweats into my all black sweats. It’s called compromise. Plus, it’s laundry day; there wasn’t much else to choose from. “One doesn’t know what to wear for a kidnapping.”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“Isn’t it?”
“How you’re dressed is no problem. I’ll make arrangements for that as well. I need to get to work. You can play while I’m out.” He sounds so damn sure of himself.
“This isn’t a game to me, Umberto. I have a life. I have school and work and friends. I have a job I need to show up at, so I can pay rent and bills and feed myself. I live in the real world where people expect to be paid with money that gets taxed, not this scheming lifestyle you live by.”
“I make money that is taxed, too.” He says it with a grin, and honestly, I don’t want to know how or why. I doubt he’d tell me anyhow. “Come.”
He shows me a few of the rooms and the common areas like bathrooms and kitchen and stuff. He even shows me how to work the huge TV, but the thing has so many buttons, I don’t think I’ll even try. Plus, he has quite the collection of books, and honestly that’s more my speed unless there’s a crappy reality TV show because that’s the one vice I can’t shake and do allow myself to enjoy fully.
“This is your room,” he says, pushing open a door at the end of a long hallway. The space is of course, just as beautiful as the rest of the condo and about ten times bigger than my dorm room. I could fit ten dorms plus the coffee shop in this place. Not too many people can say that about a bedroom in the city.
“Who usually sleeps here?” I ask suspiciously.
“No one. I’m rich. I just have the extra rooms because I can.”
“You’re so arrogant. Money doesn’t last forever.”
“Mine will.”
I walk slowly around the perimeter of the room. Everything is pristine and decorated in sleek black and white colors with pops of silver and gold. The bed is dressed in a fluffy white downy blanket that mimics a cloud. It looks so damn comfy. As I look at it, I realize I’m beyond tired, but my stomach is still groaning in hunger.
“I’ll make that reservation.” Umberto takes a step back, pulling out his cellphone. “In the meantime, I’ll have the maid bring you some snacks.”
Before he can walk away, I turn to him. “This is really nice and all, but I think you have misunderstood what a one night stand is. It literally means we fuck each other one night. Not move in together.”
He chuckles sinisterly. “We fucked twice and you’re a brat.”
“Can this brat leave?”
“Why would you want to? You can’t even sleep in your own dorm room when you want. Here you’ve got carte blanc access to the entire house”
“Can. I. Go.”
Umberto rolls his eyes, ignoring me, and starts to scroll through some sort of list on his phone.
“Seriously though. Why exactly do you want me here with you, Umberto? You can have any woman you want. I’m just a broke college kid. This makes no sense at all.”
Umberto’s brows pull tight for a moment. He clears his throat, punches something on his phone, and then speaks in beautiful Italian so smoothly to someone on the other end. All Umberto offers me is a whispered, “I’ll see you at dinner.” Before he disappears from my sight.
In a matter of hours, I am groomed and treated to all kinds of wonderfulness as woman after woman comes up to my room offering me hairstyling, a manicure, a pedicure, the most amazing makeup, clothes, and even a freaking massage. This is beyond anything that I expected. Even my parents never treated themselves to these kinds of perks.
I shouldn’t accept any of this though. It’s clear this man is not a good man. He confessed to basically being a criminal, and for all I know, getting mixed up with him like this could make me just as guilty as him. It’s not what I planned on when I hooked up with him, that’s for sure. And it definitely is not what I think of when someone is kidnapping you. I guess it could be worse. I could be tied up in a dungeon or some crap. I don’t even know why he’d want me though. I keep replaying the last 24 hours over in my head, and none of it makes any sense.
After my pampering crew leaves and I am smelling, looking and feeling damn good, I dig through my purse for my cell, but it’s gone. I look around for another phone to use in the condo, but there isn’t anything here either. I head to the elevator and press the button, but it won’t unlock without Umberto’s key. I scream and curse at him. I am literally trapped here. What if a damn fire broke out?
Motherfucker.
I am so mad. I might be pretty and free of knots in my shoulders and back, but still, so damn mad at Umberto Bova. Who does he think he is?
I go back to my room and plop down on the bed, not giving a damn anymore about keeping my makeover intact because I don’t care. If I’m a mess, then that serves him right for forcing me to be here.
A person at their worst doesn't deserve to have me at my best.
Chapter Nine
Umberto
Am I on drugs? I’ve locked up Victoria Holt inside of my fucking fortress as if it was a good idea. I am straight up losing my mind these days. What is this girl doing to me? It’s like her smile, that laugh, her quick wit, and let’s be real– that pussy has some magical epic force over my brain cells. I need to send an SOS or some shit to be rescued from whatever the hell this is.
I am not this kind of guy, and I’m not talking about the guy who kidnaps motherfuckers. I am totally that fucking guy. I’m talking about the guy who mixes business with pleasure. The guy who is willing to put all his shit on the line for a hot piece of perfect ass and pussy. I’m not that guy.
The real problem though, is that it’s more than that. She fucking does something to my chest that makes it hurt. Like the thought of her walking out of my life and me not having her fucking hurts. And to make matters worse, I have actual fucking problems that need to be dealt with like yesterday. One of them being that Dema is still breathing.
He needed a bullet in his fucking brain a week ago. I’m about to become a joke and lose serious clout in the family because I am spiraling out of control thanks to a girl named Victoria Holt.
Speaking of her... I looked into her background. I know who she is. This girl is on some other level of a gangster in my opinion because she is actually trying to play it off like she’s some normal chick who attends college and makes lattes for a living and that’s it. When in actuality, she is the motherfucking Bonnie to my Clyde, even if she is broke. Her fucking parents never bothered to set up a trust fund for her, so when they went broke, so did she.
She’s big time, deserves the best, and I’m about to make her remember it. But first, I have to deal with the issue of her deadbeat daddy as well as keeping her around and making her see that I can actually help her.
So yeah, I fucking brought her to my actual home, where I sleep and eat and do normal fucking things. Mostly. So why do it? Well, for starters, my home has every comfort she could desire. Egyptian cotton sheets dress every bed along with a bounty of goose-down filled pillows and blankets so thick and fucking heaven-like you’d never want to wake up. There are flat screen tv’s in every room and a gourmet kitchen made for a professional chef. I can afford all of this and more because I run my own family under the umbrella of the Andolini Syndicate. I own this fucking city and I make the rules.
I leave Victoria to all that comfort so I can deal with the bullshit of Dema at the titty bar I handle all my affairs from. I never do fucking work at home. That is a rule I will never break. It could be bugged, or the FEDS could raid it at any moment, and I don’t like surprises.
At home you get comfy. You forget things. You leave things open you don’t think about. Work is just that. A fucking place to run shit. I am on my game here. I don't take chances with my money, name, or freedom. Every day I park my car behind the building and hand the keys over to a goon I call TipToe. He’s built like a linebacker, and no one would dare try to touch me with him out there.
This joint is one of the best in the city, but I’m not the sole owner. I am just a silent partner that funnels my shit through this club in order to stay clean and free of trouble from my friends in the government. I do, however, take the competition seriously, and there is some major fucking competition for tits and ass in my town. I refuse to be last in anything, just on principle. They can suck my dick and try to take my spot as boss of this city, but they’ll never beat me.
Most of the families in mafia organizations own titty bars. It’s not a new idea. But my girls are the best you’ll find. Best tit jobs. Best faces. Best pussy. But that’s not really the hub of this place—I’ve got bigger dreams than that. No, I use this place as a hub for my deals. Titty bars are a cash business, and that’s very important when ninety-nine percent of your income doesn’t come from legal gains. This is my one percent. And there’s no way for the FEDS to track the other ninety-nine. That’s the way I like it. And it’s a much better cover-up.
As soon as I enter the club I am hit by the aroma of perfume and hairspray and whatever else the girls use to look like supermodels and earn almost as much as the real thing in a night’s work for toying with helpless fools that can’t get pussy this good at home, or fucking at all.
“Hello, Mr. Bova.”
“Evening, Mr. Bova.”
They all stare and greet me as I slice my way through the darkened room. The truth is, the people in this city all want to be me as I make my way toward the back where the real business is conducted. The men that is. The women just want to be with me. Fuck me. Have me spend my money and power on them. Spill it across their big bouncy fake tits like a bottle of champagne. But I don’t drink the cheap bottles. And I don’t stick around for cuddling after a good fuck.
Love sure as hell isn’t on my radar, let alone the girlfriend thing. So why the fuck do I keep thinking about Victoria Holt as I walk by all of these beautiful women? She’s just a college kid. The daughter of a deadbeat. She should be out of my system by now.
Yet, she isn’t.
“Capo,” Karlita, greets me as she enters my office and closes the door.
I waste no time getting down to business. “Everything in order for tonight?”
“Si, sir. We are scheduled to go as planned.”
“Did Victoria get pampered at the house?”
“Si.”
“And she didn’t refuse anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. You have my car ready?”
“Si, Mr. Bova.”
“And the care-package?”
“It’s on your desk.”
I glance at a yellow envelope and nod. That is the newest info on where that fuck Dema has been hiding out. I have spies all over the city. He has nowhere to fucking run. Honestly, it’s beneath me that I even have to do this but my hitman fucked up which means now I have to handle it myself. It’s the only way I know things will get done.
“Do me a favor. Make sure I’m not disturbed. I want to get out of here early tonight.”
“Will do.”
Karlita nods her pretty little head of curly red hair. Such a stark contrast to Victoria. Victoria Holt is a fine twist of curves and hills with a little extra meat in all the right places. Her curls are dark. Her tits are full and round. And she always smells like a hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Her pussy tastes like it too.
I can’t wait to wrap my lips around her buttery soft tits again. I want to taste her so badly I can hardly keep myself from growling at the thought of tracing my tongue across her warm skin.
After my meeting with Karlita, I dig deeper into Victoria’s past before I decide to make my way back to the condo. I just have to make a quick stop along the way and handle some business.
Chapter Ten
Victoria
“Yes. Grow, baby, grow. Get bigger, you sexy little things. Rise high and big. I can’t wait to stuff your sweetness into my mouth and swallow you whole.”
My mouth waters as I think about swallowing these damn blueberry muffins whole.
I’ve been whipping up food ever since I got over pouting about being locked in here.
I figured I was locked away in a glamorous ass house stocked full of all kinds of organic foods and bomb ass baking tools and plenty of kitchen counter space, so I might as well take advantage.
Plus, I wonder if this was a secret lesson from God, hidden in plain sight, to not ever ignore my stomach when it’s growling out in need of some damn yummy tasting scrumptiousness.
Screw fasting.
I am living to eat this food tonight. It looks like someone with the damn munchies broke in Umberto’s house, not gonna lie. I’m not a smoker, but I love me some snacks. I basically live for them. I don’t know why I have been denying myself all these weeks, and once I started baking, I made everything I’ve been craving for weeks.
In addition to the muffins, I make dutch apple pie, cupcakes with homemade cream cheese frosting, pancakes with chocolate chips, spaghetti and mea
tballs made from scratch, some grilled cheese sandwiches with some fancy-ass cheese he had in his fridge, and lastly, I make homemade mac-n-cheese with an even fancier type of cheese, plus regular cheddar (because come on now; you don’t go messing with mac-n-cheese like that. It’s a classic).
I take a look around the gourmet kitchen and kind of laugh to myself because the place looks like a restaurant, not someone’s personal home kitchen. I do love cooking. I loved it as a kid too. I was always sneaking into the hotel kitchens of whatever place we were at and watching as the kitchen crew created all kinds of dishes and gourmet cuisine. Depending on where we were, it was a new experience most of the time. And the best part was that I could try whatever I wanted, on the house. And of course, however much I wanted.
So, there were mornings I woke up to stacks of crepes or eggs Benedict and then nights where I tucked into warm chocolate chip cookies or Bavarian cream-filled donuts.
For my birthdays, I celebrated with towering cakes that had sparklers dazzling on top of the highest tier, or with cakes that were huge stacks of donuts drizzled in icing and rainbow sprinkles. That, of course, was when the kitchen staff was in charge of my food. When my parents were in charge, you know when they actually remembered they had a daughter, it was more like the fancy stuff. Lobster and filet mignon. Duck confit with beet soup and cauliflower puree and other weird stuff I turned my nose up at, but their adult guests revered.
I glance back at my muffins; they are sky high and cracked down the middle just like they should be, signaling they are done to perfection. I pull my tray out of the oven and settle it down on the cooling rack. The smell is to die for. I imagine this is what Heaven smells like—vanilla, berries, and Italian food cooking in the background. That’s my kind of Heaven, anyhow.