Conquered by the Mafia Boss

“I think I have a pretty good idea, but why?”

She slowly licks her lips.

“I left him and he’s coming for me. He won’t stop until I’m dead. It’s him or me.”

I breathe in her tantalizing scent, my eyes all over her generous cleavage, and my balls seize when her thighs bump against mine. I reach up, brushing back her dark-brown hair, and I touch one of the bruises on her neck. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Sure you want to do this? I’ve handled guys like this before.”

Her voice hardens and her big eyes narrow at me. “I want him dead. I have ten thousand American dollars in cash.”

Well, this isn’t quite how I imagined my night ending up. Fuck. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. This angelic, little Italian girl who looks as though she would shrink from the sight of blood is asking me to kill a man. Her boyfriend.

“What’s his name?”

The intensity from her eyes finally drops as she glances away and murmurs the name. It’s so soft that I can barely hear it. “R-Rafael Costa.”

My insides blaze when I hear the name. I only know one Rafael Costa, and he’s in New York. He’s one of us-La Cosa Nostra. The new boss, Vincent, would chop my head off if I touched one of his made guys.

Disappointment settles in my guts like lead as I lift myself from the couch and grab a couple glasses along with a huge bottle of vodka.

I can’t help her. Fuck.

“Will you do it?”

I sit back down next to her, my eyes on her beautiful body. I imagine it sprawled on a floor somewhere, a hairline crack in her skull, a red pool of blood behind her head.

My jaw aches. Turning back to the table, I pour a couple glasses and press one into her questioning hands.

“Drink, sweetheart. You look like you could use it.”

Elena lets out a sigh and brings the drink to her lips. “You’re not wrong.”

Heat burns down my chest as I swallow the alcohol, the warmth glowing in my cock as her body jostles next to me. She drains the glass and reaches the bottle before I can pour her another. The crazy broad just takes it as if she owns it.

I like her already.

“Will you do it?”

I hate saying the next few words.

“He’s a made guy. I can’t.”

Elena’s face falls horribly for a moment right as she brings the second drink to her mouth. For a moment I’m horrified that she might cry, but the look disappears. She shrugs, indifferent.

“Whatever.”

Whatever. Yeah fucking right.© NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

Fuck. I don’t want to know anything about this woman. I don’t want to feel sorry for her, and I shouldn’t want anything to do with her. She’s another guy’s girl, but he doesn’t respect her, so why should I respect his claim?

I catch a strand of her dark hair dangling in front of her face and twirl it in my finger before gently tucking it behind her ear. Her nostrils flare as I stroke the side of her cheek.

“I’m going to go.”

I catch her hand as she stands up. “No, come on. Stay.”

Elena tugs it out of my grasp, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

I don’t have the heart to lay more filthy lines on her, not when pity tightens my chest. I watch her leave the VIP lounge, her head still held high. It’s as though she’s not a victim.

Then I’m left uncomfortably alone with my thoughts. Instead of picking up another chick, I go home. I wander to my bedroom and lay flat on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

It’s the most empty moment of my day. I feel my heart beating, but nothing much else.

My boots slide through gray slush on the streets as my breath puffs out in white clouds. I reach for the door handle of Le Zinc, Johnny’s restaurant and headquarters. It’s a swanky, upscale French bistro with an antique zinc bar. I step inside the warmth gratefully, the sudden heat prickling my frozen fingers and toes. Pierre, a young guy who watches the door, nods at me as I enter.

It’s noon and the place is packed. A mixture of Johnny’s crew and oblivious civilians fill the restaurant. Pierre takes the wool coat from my shoulders and I smooth the suit over my chest. Johnny sits at his usual table in the back. He stands up, smiling, his arms outstretched.

“Tony, how are you?”

Tommy, the new soldier, sits nearby, along with one of Johnny’s captains-Fred. At first sight, Johnny doesn’t look like much. He’s slender and slight of build, and usually wears a small smile, but he’s the thirty-five-year-old boss of the Cravotta family. At the age of twenty, he bought out all the payment companies and had all the construction companies in his pocket. At twenty-five, he bought out a dairy company up north and began extorting all restaurants and grocery stores that didn’t use Verdino cheese. Now every grocery store only stocks his cheese, and restaurants that fail to make protection payments go up in flames. When he was thirty, he backed Les Diables, a biker gang in the city, during the biker wars. They work for him now. He gets a taste from every construction company, restaurant, casino, and racetrack in Montreal. He’s invincible.

It’s for those reasons that I always seem to forget to breathe in his presence. I’m not the kind of guy who gets nervous, but Johnny’s a fucking legend.

He smiles at me as though I’m his best friend and pulls me into a fierce hug, and I kiss him on both cheeks. It means nothing. I’ve seen him smile like that to a man he pulled into an embrace, right before he dug his pistol into the man’s chest and killed him.

“Hey, John.”

“Have a seat. Do you want something to eat?” Always courteous, Johnny waves over someone even after I shake my head.

He gives me a menu, but I know the thing by heart at this point. The waiter bustles to our table, his pen poised over a small notepad.

“No, really, John. I’m good.”

“At least have a drink with me.”

The waiter grabs the bottle of wine, a vintage from Tuscany, and pours a glass for me. “All right.”

He swirls his glass over the white tablecloth and lifts it to his lips. “Tabarnak, c’est bon.” Fuck, it’s good.

My hand curls over the stem of the wineglass, and I take a small mouthful. It’s pretty fucking good-dry and full of flavor. I set the glass down, avoiding his painful stare.

“I’ve bad news about Turner Construction,” I say finally, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “They won’t do business with us.”

Johnny doesn’t say anything for a moment, but a sudden, caustic, burning heat flares from his eyeballs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I swallow hard. “They’re an American company-they don’t do business like us. They can’t accept bribes.”