For Blood and Beast: Tomas, For Blood (Garko Book 1)

by Gia P. Leonne

  Tomas

  For Blood

  Gia P. Leonne

  Freedmans Lab

  Copyright © 2020 Gia P. Leonne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Space and time have been rearranged to suit the convenience of the book, and with the exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Freedmans Lab

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About This Book

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  Epilogue

  Also by Gia P.

  About This Book

  A sexy Mafia tale of violence, jealously, and family.

  When Tomas Garko is resurrected from the dead, or from his mother’s family Villa in Bolivia— whichever you want to believe, the Mafia tries to set things right and this time make sure he is dead to stay.

  Tomas has other ideas, if they’ll just get out of his way, he can bring honor back to their defunct Garko name and take back the streets of New York City, from a foreign imposter. All while trapping the innocent virgin, Evee, into his bed for a night or two.

  The problem is Tomas forgot his number one rule about the human species—

  There are no innocents.

  PROLOGUE

  DISINFECTANT PERMEATES THE STALE AIR

  BARELY MASKING SWEAT ODORS RISING

  FROM BODIES OVERHEATING. HE REACTS,

  HIS NOSE REJECTS THE STING OF THE INDUSTRIAL GERMICIDE.

  THIS DON'T BOTHER ME.

  SUPPRESSED MALE AGGRESSION HANGS THICK IN

  THE ATMOSPHERE AND OUR SKIN SUDDENLY FEELS DAMP. TO HIDE HIS NAUSEA, HE SWINGS HIS HEAD FROM LEFT TO RIGHT STRETCHING OUT TENSION FROM HIS NECK.

  I THINK HE IS TURNING BITCH.

  TOO MANY DAYS LAYING ON A FUCKING BEACH PLAYING

  WITH BABIES. OURS lil one IS TOLERABLE, SMART BUT THE OTHERS, THE PLAYMATES, TOO FUCKING NEEDY. BETTER DROWNED IF I HAD MY WAY. ITS WHY I LAYED LOW.

  LATELY. I'M STARTING TO STIR,

  EXCITED ABOUT MY FIRST TASTE OF VIOLENCE, IN TOO LONG. IT LEAKS EVERYWHERE HERE.

  BLEEDING FROM THE GUARDS, OOZING FROM UNDER THE CLOSED METAL DOORS WAITING FOR US. HE FUCKING NEEDS ME. MY CAGE KEPT LOCKED LOOSENS WHEN I RAM MYSELF

  FORWARD, HE NEEDS ME. BUT I'M FORCED TO WAIT AT THE GATE OF HIS SUBCONSCIOUS. TOMAS HOLDS ME INSIDE. WE BEGIN TO SWEAT.

  I SAY FUCK THIS, JUST LET ME GO AT THESE BITCHES. WHEN TOMAS HESITATES, I ADVANCE. I PROTECT.

  I AM BEAST, THE BOTTOM FEEDER, THE MUDDY SCUM,

  AN ADDICT,

  TWITCHING, ALWAYS WAITING FOR…

  JUST. ONE.

  MORE. HIT

  —BEAST

  CHAPTER 1

  Starting From The Bottom

  Tomas

  "Bend ova', spread ya' ass cheeks, na' squat."

  If I had a dollar for every time, I'd said those words, nix the southern vernacular, but to my grave disappointment, it is not me, but MSP Officer "Not So Feel Good" giving out the commands, today.

  As the last pieces of my identity— and chunks of my dignity— are dismantled to become official property of the state inmate #2330, I force myself to detach further, because with the chains removed temporarily, beating this prison guard unconscious for putting his finger in my ass, is a viable option.

  I stop to think, this is the second time today someone placed…. the recollection, uncomfortable, still I drift off towards the events of my morning.

  "Suck," as told she shuffled around on the bed to get her face in position.

  "Fuck, Comilita, you're a crafty, girl." Smiling even with me in her mouth, she moaned, "Seja bem-vido,"

  You are welcome.

  Lost in the satisfying moment, ball sac tight and cock ready to explode, I missed her traveling index finger, until it rimmed then poked inside my ass. Hence the fore mentioned ass fingering in too short of time.

  This time however came with consequences for the perpetrator, startled, I stiffened and jerked forward poking my cock into the back of her throat. Which I am sure was its intended destination, however, the unexpected throat punch caused her to violently gasp and choke, spitting my meat from her mouth.

  I am not a virgin to a little ass play; a good tongue rimming sets me off on a good day. Still, possibly... subconsciously... anxiety over my approaching imprisonment prematurely signaled my brain of a potential illicit violation.

  Plain speak, she had taken me too close too soon. Too close to the real shit I'd be surrounded by for six months. Man on man sex didn't bother me. I don’t have the typical homophobic mob boss hang-ups, nor would my machismo allow me to believe, "I would ever be the victim of a prison shower gangbang," anytime soon, but fucking hell, it was a thing, right... in prisons, where I was fucking going in a matter of hours.

  Detailed plans and my overall talent for violence gave me some assurance I would avoid this nightmare, yet the ass play had set me off.

  While Comilita left to make herself a warm drink, I received a phone call.

  "Who is this?"

  "I have been watching and waiting, island boy. You, Tomas, are the prodigal son, returned." He elongates the ending of my name like an islander although I'm fairly sure he's of European descent. It is the enigmatic S. Cotton. A signature he coined himself.

  How does he have my burner number? I'm not surprised, but always wary. Seems he always knows more than I, for instance, just recently, any mention of returning to the States angered me beyond rational thought. Yet he has been watching and waiting?

  "I remember when you first came into your own, set yourself apart from La Familia. The Boss of thirty to forty criminals.

  Humph!" his disdain is off-putting but accurate. "Had you wanted, you could have been… Mayor of the city," his laugh is rare and condescending. This fucking guy. Only him and Nonno do I allow to chastise me in this way—a two-person list.

  I laugh, too, it sounds awkward, so I deflect.

  "You viewed my
suit and mistakenly thought pen pusher. I am and have always been… dirty— a criminal. It's true, your world is alluring, it sparkles and blasts fireworks, but underneath, it is bereft of honor and respect."

  Soulless.

  My vocabulary expanded the more I talked with him. See, "vocabulary expanded" what tha' fuck?

  If he'd take the bait,

  Reveal himself. Then, I’d knock him off that two-person list.

  "My world you say? My world is a vast place, my boy and New York, is but, one corner. I know all about your dirty, believe this, nothing occurs on my block I do not know is happening. Men in suits pave the road to legitimacy. You gave all of those away."

  "I did in fact, but, it's a new day for billionaires. Tech geniuses like Zuckerberg and Spiegel or celebrity brats like, Kylie Jenner, don't wear suits at all."

  "Tomas they are undoubtedly bright, each in their way, but are mere children compared to yourself."

  He paused, and breathed deeply, "Are you ready for the fight of your life? New York is under siege. It is the Illyrian's Kanun infiltrating the local scene at present. Dominating shipment turfs with muscle, guns, and pussy, to make a way for their drugs in route."

  I know this, but his confirmation declares it's greater than I've been led to believe.

  "Civilians don't know whether to watch as all hell breaks loose or hide inside. What is a New York filled with empty streets? The government has plans to send a special task force, filling the most dangerous parts of the city with uniformed officers, since the CBP is ineffective at policing all port business, legal or otherwise. Wall Street is panicking over profit margins falling, as instability stills investing …."

  Cotton loves the sound of his voice. As he goes on and on incessantly, I note he did not take the bait ... he never does. When will he slip a detail, I can use to reveal who he is?

  I return my focus on our current conversation, his assessment of Armageddon in the City.

  "You could write fiction, Cotton. The trauma you describe did not occur on my watch, but I was there when it began. Which I am positive no one will ever let me forget."

  La Familia decided long ago, the only future I deserved was one far away from their City or seven feet under it— the extra foot for good measure. Naturally, they pen every grievance the City, La Familia, and rats in the gutter, suffer as a personal failure in leadership. Which is why, I gave them what they wanted, a corpse, and disappeared.

  "Why haven't you intervened, Cotton? If your City's cry is as tumultuous as you say?"

  "I have. It is important to me, New York does not become the mecca for raping foreigners who sex traffic children, Tomas."

  I could mention he is advocating the help of foreign-born, gun dealing, loan sharking Italians, I guess we make the cut.

  "My best work is done maneuvering behind the scenes. I can set the stage, but the actors need to learn the lines and follow the script. This time too much happened at once, but I have an ace in the hole. Do not count me out yet; I may still be of some help. Are you confident in your plans for La Familia New York, you will need them on board, what is left of them, anyway? Do not be stunned at their sorry state, by the time Ernesto arrived the chaos was untamable. He waited too long. You are only one man, even if you are El Forza."

  "No one has called me by that name in a very long time."

  "Well get used to it, because without conjuring your alter ego, when you disappear this time, maybe you don't come back. Let him have his way, again, surely he has been stirring. Where you're headed, no matter how short the stay, has broken the strongest man. Are you ready for the day, son?"

  "We are ready." Confidently, I said but indecision had its hold on me.

  My eyes shifted at the plump ass which had returned to my bed. It jiggled like I like, from the nice hard whack I gave it, while its owner flirtatiously giggled.

  "Well, have at it, my boy. You don't want to miss your ride."

  I'd held off long enough. I called my driver to take her home and return for me directly. I was ready for departure. That is, she and I showered, and I let her finish, with both naughty hands tied behind her back. In an apology, I offered her a vacation to the United States to help set up my new place of residence.

  An expansive five thousand square foot home, the website photos resemble a small castle, with two guest homes equaling another three thousand square feet, and far enough apart for privacy. My castle dominates three hundred plus acres of green pastures, forest, and panoramic views of Bear Cliff and Cragsmoor, so says the realtor's page. Fucking mountains as its backyard, yeah, it's perfect. The Italian infrastructure drew me second to its remote location and formidable fortress qualities.

  Unable to find or contact Donatello's wayward ass, in the States, meant my new ten bedrooms, seven-point-five, bath home would sit cold, dusty, and empty during my six-month incarceration. Comilita, agreeing to my offer, solved that issue. Now, she wanted to bring her sister along, including a contractual promise of gaining legal papers and real jobs. She knew my intentions— a short vacay, and house pussy upon my release. Quick talented girls I liked. I set her up as my estate manager, slash cock-fluffer, her sister, she said could cook. Yeah, okay.

  "Welcome home, boss." Guard Two sneers interrupting my mind rant.

  I could snap his fucking neck.

  Ironclad chains returned, stop that action.

  The Mississippi State Penitentiary, home for the guilty, the twisted and the forgotten bastards, but never the innocent. Live a little and life will teach you, there are no innocents only innocence. Even the newborn babe starts its life, selfish and demanding, screaming for its mother's tit.

  Guilty or not, you want to stay clear of a shithole like Prison. Well, accept your sin. Sooner the better. Because then you have the chance to accept your quest and navigate in the waters where you belong. Do you realize people need you out there and not in this cesspool of mayhem? You may stumble, go right ahead, yet persevere people. Learn the tenacity of a champion without being whiny bitches. When success finally knocks on your door be mindful of God's favor… More importantly, His grace.

  Yeah, I know, all we need is another prison preacher, interpreting the Book.

  But this I know for sure, no fucking around with you,

  Life's bounty is sweet if you can grab a hold to it,

  the alternative— waiting for your reward?

  Personally, I don't know shit about waiting. Guess I'm about to learn, yeah.

  Still, I'm always climbing for mine —the sweetest fruit, the manna— and it always hangs highest. Are you thinking, "If you know so fucking much Tomas, why are you at this very moment, being processed into a shithole prison?"

  You’re right locked up is arguably the lowest existence on earth. You're wrong too, in my case, but if I explained why, I'd have to kill ya. Now, I'm fuckin' wit you. Well, not really. I will kill ya. What I can say is this,

  my next quest— it begins at the shitty bottom to reach the top.

  Still, is it possible, I've dug too deep, made myself vulnerable unnecessarily.

  Could I have thought of another way to reach my goals?

  "Man, the fuck up, and navigate the plan," Beast says. "It's too late for back peddling."

  The sound of bars jerking closed, speak over his growling,

  Not even Beast can bend bars.

  And he,

  Beast that is,

  Stirring,

  after years of peaceful nights,

  he wants the fuck, out.

  Am I crazy? Fuck yeah, I always was.

  CHAPTER 2

  Let’s Take A Ride

  Evee

  I took one look at his sharp features and slight stinkbug stance and knew this bad boy could take care of me.

  Boss, I call him, not original but he is in charge and stunning. "I'm gonna ride em' and I mean ride em' hard.

  Vehicle details might not mean much to the average driver. However, a badass who just graduated from law school with a Justi
ce Department Internship completion, don't do average. Whoop, whoop!

  And all before the tender age of eighteen. Busted my ass the last two years in high school earning College credits, two years at Wesley and MIT, and two years at Harvard Law. Yes, the math is still funky, unless you know I began at thirteen.

  Who deserves a badass car? I deserve a badass car.

  Therefore, the details that follow are not for everyone, but car enthusiasts like myself; all others bear with me for a second.

  Boss was originally black from the factory, but the buyer made him a General Lee. He did not drive it much and it sat in his barn most of the time. Years later when the most recent owner bought him, he did a full restoration on Boss. The cam card, and receipts and installation manuals from the restoration were included in my sale. Now, returned to his original glory, Boss is a beautiful, triple black, true R/T Charger, two-door Sportsman hardtop, three-speed automatic with a 440 cubic inch big block MOPAR V8 engine. Bitches!

  A Dukes of Hazard badass model for those of you who do not recognize the car lingo. Minus the confederate flag, that is, which would be, extremely uncool for a self-proclaimed Yankee like me.

  Pushing 100 mph, North on I-75, I rock it out to Beyoncé's, Girls run the world, the first track on my World Domination mixtape. I'm singing, or yelling while twerking in my seat,

  GIRLS, WE RUN THIS MOTHERFUCKA, YEAH.

  WHO RUNs this Motherfucka? GIRLS!

  Boy, don't even try to touch …this

  Boy this beat is craz'ae

  This is how they made me' ae

  Italian, born bab'ae

  I know, those are not exactly Lady B's words, but my reality for you.

  My persuasion can build a nation

  Endless power, the love we can devour

  You'll do anything for meeeeeee!