by Loki Renard
Taken Boy
Loki Renard
Taken Boy
Copyright Loki Renard 2018
All Rights Reserved
Cover images by Yacobchuck, Selenka
Design by Loki Renard
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
THANK YOU FOR READING!
1
BOBBY
“Didn’t think you’d have the balls to show up, Aids.”
Aiden Taylor-Chapman looked like hell. The thirty year old twink was wearing pants that were about three sizes too big for him and a sweater that ballooned around his lean frame. The knees of the trousers were dirty with some kind of organic crap that smelled worse than his unwashed ass, and threads on the sweater were coming loose. The outfit was a far cry from the expensive fashions he usually wore, that was for sure. Looked like times had gotten tough for the poor little rich boy who also had a purple bruise blooming on his left cheek, right near his eye.
Bobby had nothing but contempt for Aiden Taylor-Chapman. To have been born into more money than most people could dream of and to be able to piss it away until the end of time was privilege like Bobby had never experienced. He’d worked for every damn dollar he’d ever gotten. Aiden had never earned anything in his life. Except what he had coming to him right now.
“You came for my sister,” Aiden said shakily. “So I’ve come…”
“To kill me?” Bobby smirked. That would be classic.
“No, Bobby,” Aiden said, looking defeated. “I came to give you what you want. You want to kill me, right? So kill me. I'm making it easy for you. Let’s just get this over with.”
Pathetic. This chase had been going for a while now. Bobby had been hunting and Aiden had been hiding. Bobby had been impressed at the rich boy’s hide and seek abilities, but true to form, Aiden couldn’t even take credit for it. He’d been protected by paid bodyguards. Of course.
“You're a miserable piece of shit, Aiden. You know how much money Mason Malone has wasted trying to keep you safe?”
“Well I'm going to save him some now.”
Bobby laughed, a cold, mechanical sound. “It's a real fucking pity you decided to fuck me over, Aiden. I liked you. You were a classy pimp.”
“I got tired of being classy.”
“Yeah. Turned into a piece of shit junkie,” Bobby laughed again. “You know what, Aiden? I ain't gonna waste a fucking bullet on you. I don't need to. I know two things about junkies. They're stupid, and they'll kill themselves if you let them.”
He reached into his pocket, then tossed several plastic baggies at Aiden, each of them filled with enough H to get high several times over.
“Don't take it all at once,” Bobby smirked. “Or do. Whatever. They're gonna find your bloated corpse in the river one of these days real soon either way. This way, you get to go out painlessly. The other way... well... it's gonna hurt baby boy.”
Bobby could barely stop laughing as Aiden left. Perfect. That problem was going to take care of itself. He couldn’t wait until the news broke that the Taylor-Chapman heir had passed on under tragic circumstances. His hands would be clean, and this irritating chapter in his life would be closed.
This wasn’t just about getting rid of a problematic junkie though. This was about respect. Everyone knew the vendetta he had against Aiden. It had become a talking point, and it could easily turn him into a laughing stock if he wasn’t careful.
Bobby looked out the window of his office at the city gleaming on the other side of the Hudson. He wasn’t there yet, but one day he would be. One day one of those buildings would be his. By his reckoning, he’d just gotten that little bit closer.
He heard footsteps as someone walked in the door behind him. He turned around, a laugh still on his lips as he prepared to mock Aiden all over again. Was the little junkie boy coming back to beg him for forgiveness?
Bobby frowned. It wasn’t a junkie. It was a very tall man wearing a balaclava.
“Who the fuck are…”
A bag went over his head. A needle hit his neck. The world went black.
2
BOBBY
“Let's see what we have here.”
The bag was yanked off his head and Bobby found himself looking into the blackest eyes he'd ever seen. They belonged to a handsome man who must have been twice Bobby's age, jet black hair greying around the temples. He was older, but he wasn't old. Not at fucking all. He was maybe forty five. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes. Not laugh lines. He didn't look like he laughed much.
His face seemed like it had been carved by DaVinci. Hard slabs of cheeks, a patrician nose. It was plain to see that the blood of Roman conquerors ran through this man's veins. There was no doubting his heritage whatsoever.
“Hello, Bobby.” He spoke with a faint Sicilian purr. “My name is Angelo Vitali.”
Bobby wasn't the kind to scare easy. He'd had all sorts pulled on him. Guns, knives, whatever. They barely made his pulse rise. The second Angelo Vitali said his name, Bobby felt the fear of God. It was as if he had been stabbed straight through to his core with a shaft of pure ice. He stopped breathing for a second as every part of him froze.
Angelo Vitali was legend. Manhattan based. Legit on the surface, but had tendrils running into every game in town. Most guys with Angelo's kind of money got out of the game and enjoyed a legal life. Word was, Vitali liked it too much to ever give it up. Word was, he had tastes. The kind of tastes that turned men into sashimi.
“I'm uhm, Bobby Cornoli.” Bobby's voice broke and rasped as he tried to put on his usual front and failed. It was hard to sound tough while tied to a shitty old wood chair.
“No, you're not,” Angelo said, wiping his hands on a rag. “You're Robert Wachowski. Son of two Polish immigrants. Born in Bed-Stuy before it got hip. Dropped out of high school at fifteen to start running a little gang of your own. Been doing that the last seven years. Think you're a tough guy.”
Angelo leaned back against the workbench, each of his massive hands fisting the edge. He was wearing an expensive as hell Italian suit, perfectly tailored to his every hard line. The watch on his wrist was probably worth more than most people's houses. But he looked comfortable here, in this dark warehouse, with a bunch of tools that had never seen construction work of any kind.
“You're a little boy, Bobby. And you're way out of your depth. Have been for a while. Your problem is, now you're in my way. Are you going to get out of my way, Bobby? Or am I going to have to move you?”
Bobby swallowed. He was afraid, but he wasn't going to let the fear rule him. This was a test to see if he could be intimidated. He'd done this to guys himself. This trick wasn't going to work on him though. If Angelo wanted him dead, he'd already be dead. That meant Angelo wanted something.
“Depends what you want.”
“Depends,” Angelo repeated, smirking. “Oh. Not much, Bobby. I want you to shut down.”
“Shut down what?”
“Everything.”
Bobby frowned. He almost forgot he was tied to the chair. The fear was turning into something else. Anger.
“No. Fucking. Way,” he enunciated clearly.
“N
ow why are you swearing, Bobby?” Angelo cocked his head to the side. “I've treated you with respect, haven't I?”
“I'm just letting you know,” Bobby said. “I worked hard for my business. I'm not going away just because I get tied up.”
“Ah,” Angelo said, his lips spreading in a dark, handsome smile. “You need more encouragement. I’m sure I can find something to persuade you.”
“Gonna kneecap me? Pull my teeth out? I don't give a fuck.” Bobby was starting to find his nerve again now. Angelo had rattled him, but Bobby never stayed rattled for long.
A snort emanated from the refined man. “You've been watching too many movies, Bobby. Staying up past your bed time. Getting involved in things that don't concern you.” He turned, his handsome head in profile as his long fingers danced over the items Bobby couldn't quite see. A moment or two later, he picked up a long thin piece of what looked like plastic rod.
Bobby shrugged in his bonds. “Okay, you wanna measure something?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Angelo smiled. “You don't know what this is, do you, boy?” He played the rod between his fingers. “This is a Lexan cane. Much tougher than bamboo. Suitable for longer sessions.”
A cane. Angelo Vitali was standing over him with a fucking cane in his hand. Bobby swallowed. The twitching in his pants told him there was going to be more than one hard rod in the room. He just hoped like hell Angelo didn't notice it.
“You don't look worried,” Angelo purred. “Which means you've either never felt one of these, or you like it.”
Angelo was living up to his reputation for being dangerously perceptive. Bobby was going to have to throw him off.
“I just don't care,” he lied. “You can threaten me with whatever the fuck you want. I'm going to keep hustling.”
Vitali smiled almost pityingly. “You know, you're young enough to be my son,” he said, tapping the end of the rod against his open palm. “I think Daddy needs to teach his boy a lesson.”
Bobby had heard the stories. Angelo Vitali had ways of making grown men beg and cry. If Bobby had done either one of those things it would have been an embarrassment to his name, but as Angelo purred that silken threat down at him, Bobby did the one thing a wanna be mob boss should absolutely never do in a tense stand off with a predatory mafia don.
He blushed.
3
ANGELO
The kid was a prodigy. No doubt about it. Without anything resembling a real underworld connection, Bobby had made a name for himself. It was a fake name that he had no right to, but still. He was basically just a baby and had some of the bigger players running for cover.
Angelo didn't run. And he wasn't afraid of a twenty two year old boy either, though he recognized talent when he saw it. Bobby could be useful, but he was going to have to learn some manners first.
Before having Bobby taken, Angelo had learned as much about him as possible. Seeing him in person changed Angelo's opinion a little. In the pictures, Bobby looked hard as nails. A real cool character. In person he wasn't such a two dimensional poster of a man.
Whatever had first earned him his street cred, it wasn't his size. Bobby was about 5'9. Not short, but not a behemoth either. He had dark eyes and dark hair which had fooled enough people into believing the Cornoli lie, but the rest of his structure didn't back that up at all. He had a sharp but square chin, an intelligent forehead, the sort of low rounded cheekbones that would usually be associated with a trustworthy face, but there was nothing trustworthy about this little shit. He was handsome though. Not a scar on that pretty face. Angelo hoped that wouldn't have to change.
“Let's get started,” he said, putting down the cane for a second. He picked up a knife and walked around behind Bobby, severing just the ropes that needed to be cut to let him out of the chair. The ones keeping his hands behind his back, and the ones keeping his ankles together stayed in place. Grabbing Bobby by the back of his mid-tier suit, he yanked him forward and over the work bench.
Bobby grunted as his chest met the wood. Angelo kept him in place, the sharp edge of the knife working from just below the belt loops, all around the perimeter of his ass. There were little curses and grunts from Bobby, nothing amounting to a real challenge, but enough noise to let Angelo know he was still resisting. Cute.
He cut the backside off Bobby's pants, taking the boxers too with one rough tug at the fabric. The result was a bare ass. A nice ass. Full cheeks. Bobby was a muscular little thing. Not built, but naturally stacked. Angelo felt his desire rising. Usually he went for bigger, tougher guys. Guys who it was an achievement to dominate. Bobby might not technically be an achievement, but he presented an interesting challenge.
“You want to say sorry now?”
“Fuck off.”
“Good,” Angelo smiled. The boy didn't even know how perfectly he was playing into his hands. Every time he was given an opportunity to act out, he took it, providing an equal opportunity for Angelo to make an even more intense point. “Stay there.”
He pushed Bobby down and stood back, picking up the cane.
“Now, stay down, little boy, or daddy will have to punish you more...”
“Oh fuck...” Bobby pushed up from the bench predictably.
Angelo brought the cane down across his ass.
Hard.
A perfect red line appeared across the center of Bobby's perfect cheeks and he let out a shriek of shock and surprise. So he definitely wasn't used to this kind of treatment. Not at all. In the wake of the stroke, Bobby bounced up like a jack in the box, howling to high heaven.
Angelo stepped forward before Bobby could get too far away and slammed him back down on the workbench.
“Stay,” he growled.
There was no cursing now. Only ragged breathing. Angelo took the opportunity to lay three more hard cuts of the cane across Bobby's ass, marking up and down his sweet cheeks. Every cut was met with an anguished gasp and muffled scream, as Bobby did his best not to cry out and failed.
Angelo smirked. This was fun.
4
BOBBY
He'd been in pain before. Lots of it. He'd even experienced things that hurt a lot more than this. But he had never experienced anything that hurt quite the way this did.
The cane bit deep against his ass, making the muscle ache and setting the skin ablaze. Every subsequent whack made things multiple times worse. Being held down and beaten was so much worse than getting his ass kicked in a fight. At least in a fight, if he lost, he did so with some kind of honor. Even if he was bleeding and missing teeth and crawling around with a broken bone. This... fuck. There was no honor in this at all. He was being dominated, plain and simple. He was being utterly and totally taken down every single peg he'd managed to climb up. Systematically and purposefully. Angelo wasn't just trying to hurt him. He was trying to break him down.
The larger man's hand was pressed hard against Bobby's back, keeping him in place. There was no escaping this pain. There was only enduring it. He didn't know how much he could take. A half dozen strokes had already pushed him to the edge.
Angelo stopped. It was a brief respite, and Bobby didn't trust it at all. He felt Angelo lean over him, speaking in a soft voice.
“You know who put me on to you, Bobby? You know how I found you?”
“No idea.
“A friend of mine.” Angelo leaned over the boy's back and purred in his ear. “Mason Malone sends his regards.”
Bobby stiffened. Mason fucking Malone. He couldn't believe it. Of all the people he’d met in the underworld it was Mason he regretted the most. The moment that bastard had made contact, things had started to get messy for Bobby. For starters, the junkie he’d been hunting went missing. Then his side hustles started to get hit. Could have been a coincidence, but he didn’t think so. Now he didn't have to guess. That asshole had been toying with him, denying him his prey.
Angelo stood back. Bobby felt that cane pressing against his ass again. So that's why he was being beaten. Mason
Malone. He let out a bitter laugh.
“You know, if you'd have stuck with going after Aiden Taylor-Chapman, you would have been fine. Going for the girl was a mistake. Don't go after family, Bobby. I know it's tempting, but it's never worth it.”
Angelo’s casual words, delivered before another three blazing strokes of the cane, only served to irritate him.
Gritting his teeth, Bobby resolved to survive this. Angelo could hurt him, but he could make it through anyway. Angelo wasn't trying to kill him. Angelo was trying to make a point. Bobby could make a point too. No matter how much this hurt he was going to tolerate it. Angelo could beat him bloody if he wanted. He wasn’t going to beg for mercy. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of showing how much it hurt.
Once he settled into the pain, he started to calm himself. It was a matter of controlling his breathing. Every time the cane landed, he took a deep breath and held it. Then, he exhaled slowly as possible.
“It's not going to work," Angelo said. "I can hurt you more than you can take.”
So the old man knew what he was doing. So what.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to listen to me,” Angelo purred. “I want you to learn some manners, little boy.”
"I'm listening.”
"So I have your attention now?”
“Yes,” Bobby growled. “You’ve got my damn attention.”
