Monster Inside Me: Volume I (A Dark Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Faye Byrd

  With the dishwasher loaded, I start wiping down the countertops. It isn’t until I’m done with everything else that I finally move back to the island, where Ivan is patiently watching my every goddamn move through the wide rims of his glasses.

  “What?” I ask as I retake my seat a couple stools away from him.

  He smirks, which is an unusual look on Ivan, and tilts his head to the bag he left sitting on the sofa when he arrived. “Why don’t you just check out what I got for ya? And then we’ll talk.”

  I shrug all casual and shit, but really, I’m fucking dying to lay eyes on Piper again, even if it’s just to watch her sit on a park bench. “Sure.”

  A chuckle escapes Ivan as he gets up and trails over, grabbing his bag and taking a seat on the sofa before looking at me like I’m a goddamn idiot. Which, I guess I might be, still sitting on the barstool like I don’t have a fucking clue.

  I stand and straighten my cashmere robe, readjusting the front and tightening the belt so the holy grail is kept neatly tucked inside, and go over to take a seat beside him. “It’s only been two days since the last report,” I say, tilting my head toward the laptop he’s pulled from the bag. “Anything new?”

  His fingers fly over the keys, cueing up an audio recording. “This is from her phone. It was yesterday before work.”

  “Her phone?” I ask, my brows hiked so fucking high I can feel the collection of wrinkles running into my hairline. “How the fuck?” I could give a shit less as soon as her voice sounds from the speakers, though.

  “I don’t know, Cin. It’s obviously not worth it. I mean, he’s hot as fuck, but you should’ve seen our fathers, all disapproving. Who knew that my dad, who’s supposedly spent his whole life chasing criminals, was in cahoots with the Simones?” She sighs. “You hear that? The fucking Simones!” She growls into the line, and my cock fucking twitches to life beneath my flimsy robe.

  “So, like, what? They just want you to stay away from each other?” her friend Cin, I assume, asks.

  “More like threatened my life,” she snarks, obviously not happy with the show our fathers put on.

  “And your dad didn’t say anything when Mr. Simone pulled a gun on you?”

  “Not a fucking word,” she says snidely. “He just sat there being a good little puppy while Mr. Simone did all the talking.” She pauses, and it sounds like she’s taking a sip of a drink. “You know, I don’t even know why I care anyway. It’s not like I was dating the guy, or even would. Dante Simone was just an itch I was hoping to scratch one more time.”

  The next time her friend speaks, her voice is low and flirty. “Was it that good?”

  My ears perk up and tune in so closely to the laptop speakers that I don’t even realize I’ve leaned forward, almost doubling the fuck over.

  “Hmm,” Piper hums and takes a deep breath, ready to spill the whole story, but a goddamn dinging in the background makes her pause.

  My hands tighten into fists in both frustration and fucking anticipation.

  After a too-goddamn-long pause, she finally speaks. “Sorry, Cinthia. Brady’s here. I gotta go.”

  The sound goes silent, and I’m left staring at the little machine, ready to sling it across the fucking room. I forget about the information she just shared with not only her friend but also Ivan. Instead, I focus on the fact that some fucker named Brady interrupted her in the goddamn middle of something hugely fucking important to me.

  “I want to know who the fuck Brady is,” I growl, standing to pace because I’m too fucking incensed to do anything else.

  But Ivan’s always one step ahead. His fingers fly over the keys before turning the screen where there’s a profile already awaiting my perusal. I huff and sit, pulling the laptop over to rest on my knees.

  “Thanks, bro.” Sometimes I don’t give Ivan enough credit. He knows me so fucking well and goes above and beyond what he should be doing to make sure I have whatever I need. I can’t fucking imagine not having him by my side.

  “Eh, I knew you’d want it,” he says with a shrug. “But you know you owe me an explanation, right?”

  I sigh as I read over the material, ignoring Ivan’s last statement, because yeah, I do fucking owe him an explanation. I just have to make it good enough that he’ll keep quiet about my Piper-stalking tendencies.

  Brady Winters is a twenty-three-year-old student at The Art Institute of Chicago who lives three floors below Piper. As far as I can tell, he’s a strait-laced kid with no criminal record and a well-off family. The fucker isn’t half bad looking either.

  I shove the stupid fucking laptop back in Ivan’s direction. “That’s all you got on this punk?”

  Ivan tilts his head down and looks at me over his glasses. “He’s squeaky clean, Dante. But you should know better than to even ask.”

  “Sorry, bro. Fuck!” I run my hands through my hair in agitation. “Is there anything else?”

  Ivan smiles his wide, boyish smile. “There is, but first you need to tell me what happened with Pop. And am I interpreting right when I suggest it involved Agent Tate, too?”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” I say with a heavy sigh. I tell him the whole sordid fucking tale, leaving no detail unspoken. If I’m going to ask that he keep my secrets, the least I can fucking do is make sure he knows everything.

  “Holy shit,” he says when I’m done. “So Agent Tate threatened your life, and Pop just sat there and watched?”

  I snort. “Pretty fucking much.”

  “What are you doing, Dante?” he asks quietly as he flicks more keys on the laptop. “Sure, Piper’s hot, but is she really that important?”

  As I cross my legs, my knee peeks out between the split in my robe. “No, she’s not, but I’m not quite sure I’m ready to be done either. Look, there’s just unfinished business there, and I might want to fucking finish it.”

  Ivan shrugs. “Okay, then. This gig is for you anyway, not Pop. Your secret is safe with me, but you’d better not end up dead.” He points his thin finger at me in admonishment before picking up the remote and switching on the TV.

  I scoff. “Like that fuckwit has the balls to come after me.”

  Ivan tosses the remote on the coffee table. “Just be careful, brother.”

  I don’t make an attempt to respond as a video fills the screen. It’s Piper—and I mean holy fuck, it’s Piper in all her goddamn seductive glory onstage at Dark Star. In the three days since I’ve seen her there, I’ve almost—almost—forgotten just how fucking good she is.

  Her sinuous body flexes and sways, slithering around the prop with the ease of a snake, boneless and hypnotizing—and probably just as goddamn deadly to the poor patrons who’re trapped in her spell.

  Me included.

  My cock takes notice, twitching at first before becoming a full-grown problem of its own. I uncross my legs and angle away from Ivan in an attempt to hide my reaction, but it’s fucking impossible at this point. The traitor down below is already lifting my cashmere robe to take its own peek.

  Ivan stands swiftly, shoving his glasses up his nose and looking at the arm of the sofa instead of me. “I think I’ll leave you two alone.” His hands wave in the general area of my arousal.

  Before I can respond … Who am I kidding? I have no goddamn response. I just thank fucking God when I hear the elevator doors slide closed and reach for the remote. Rewinding back to the beginning, I sink into the soft leather and part my robe to the tie at my waist.

  My aching cock is rock hard and begging for attention, so I zero my focus on the body that’s moving on the large TV screen and skim my palm over my shaft, sending a chill racing up my spine. Slow and seductive, she moves as I grip at the base and push down, lifting my hips to create a delicious pressure. The head bulges, and I squeeze, slowly sliding my fist upward until the excess skin has enveloped me.

  With every erotic twist her lithe body makes, my hand works in tandem. Loosening my grip as I go down only to tighten and twist when I come back up. Her eye
s find the camera and they lock on. Dark and fathomless, they burn through me. It’s like she’s staring into my soul.

  I lose my sense of self as I imagine the pole is my cock, and it’s her hand that’s stroking me. It feels like silk as it tightens around me, causing a sharp sensation low in my stomach. Her pace quickens, and my muscles tense as the tingle races downward, causing my balls to tighten and my cock to erupt, sending spurts shooting all over my bare legs and sofa.

  Every muscle in me relaxes, but my eyes are still glued to the TV as I watch her work that goddamn podium like a vixen from hell. It’s a weird feeling to be both blissed the fuck out and agitated at the same time, but I am because without even meaning to, I’ve crossed a line.

  When the screen goes dark, I lift my head and take fucking stock of my situation.

  It’s even more fucking pathetic than I imagined.

  My jaw clenches, and I stand, my semi bobbing as a reminder that he’s still as ready as ever. “Ora, puoi andare via,” I say to my traitorous cock, willing it to go away.

  Sure, I pleasure myself. I’m a fucking man, but I’ll be goddamned if some woman has me so desperate that I’m willing to defile my crocodile leather sofa over her dancing on a fucking screen. Too disgusted with myself to clean up the mess, I head for the master bedroom, allowing the robe to slip from my shoulders as I step into my custom glass-enclosed shower. Setting the ten body jets to the highest pressure, I allow the forceful streams to beat both my body and mind into submission. By the time I’m dressed in my Dolce and Gabbana suit, the whole scene has been forgotten.

  Yeah, not fucking likely, but at least it’s been compartmentalized.

  When I head back to the living room to retrieve my iPhone, I can’t help but glance at my cum-stained sofa. Shame moves through me, which pisses me the fuck off. I snatch a dishrag from the drawer and soak it in warm water before marching to the living room and wiping away all hints of my earlier activities. Standing to my full height, I strut back to the kitchen and deposit the rag in the trash bin, fully fucking satisfied that all physical signs are erased.

  Grabbing my phone, I hit Angelo’s number. As always, he answers on the first ring. “Yo, Boss. What’s shaking?”

  I roll my goddamn eyes. “Meeting at noon. Inform your brothers, and make sure Manuel accompanies you.”

  “Now, Boss,” he starts with that easy-going attitude. “I made sure to ream his ass good. He won’t fuck up again.”

  My laughter is dark. “Oh, I know he fucking won’t. Make sure he’s there.” I end the call and go to the living room, gripping the lid on Ivan’s laptop.

  My intention is to close it and store it in my vault for safekeeping, but with an hour and twenty minutes left before I have somewhere to be, the temptation is almost too goddamn much to ignore. But then I remember that feeling from earlier and the lid slams closed, harder than I intend.

  Fucking oops.

  I snatch up the offensive piece of equipment and move with decisive steps toward the master bedroom—my personal sanctuary. On the left are floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows framing the city of Chicago. They have the ability to allow in as much light as I choose—or none at all. The wall behind me is covered from end to end with massive cherry bookshelves, holding everything from original copies of the classics to my favorite cookbooks. Centered on the wall facing the windows is my custom made, oversized wrought iron bed with two nightstands, iron and wood—also in cherry.

  On the far wall are the double doors that lead to my spa-like bathroom and large walk-in closet. Also on this wall, there’s a series of large, abstract paintings with a mix of texture and technique that brings all the style elements together to create a cohesive look throughout my room.

  I pick up the TV remote and press a complicated combination of buttons. One of the paintings shifts upward, and the wall slides open to reveal a thumbprint-locked, walk-in sized, titanium-reinforced room. Were some fucking idiot to actually remove the picture, all they would see is a blank wall.

  I smirk at my thoughts and press my thumb to the scanner, watching as the door disappears into the wall and my most precious possessions are revealed. They’re mostly sentimental and not at all illegal but important to me just the same. Such as my first gun, a North American Arms Mini Revolver 22 Magnum with a black pearl handle, or my Barley Corn Silver Classic Swiss Army knife. Each thing in this small room represents a part of me. I sigh and place Ivan’s laptop on an open shelf and back from the room, pressing another combination of buttons to put everything seamlessly back into place.

  My Rolex tells me I’ve wasted twenty minutes, so I exit the master bedroom and hurry down the hall to my office. In there, I do the same, picking up the TV remote and pressing a combination of buttons. This time, a bookshelf pops open to reveal a secret elevator that also requires my thumbprint for operation. When it stops, a combination on the number pad opens another reinforced door, and I inhale the scent of iron.

  I carefully select two different handguns, one for my chest holster and one for my hip, and then slip a knife into my sock for good measure. Pleased with my armed additions, I exit the armory, stepping back into the elevator and returning to my office.

  Tired of pussyfooting around, I march straight to the main elevator, refusing to even glance toward the living room. I head down to the twelfth floor, which is informally known as Simone Center by the Outfit. Though these rooms and residences show up as being owned by various people and corporations, it’s all a front. This floor is reserved for family business, and not necessarily the illegal acts. Those are usually kept far the fuck away from here.

  Even though I’m almost thirty minutes early, it’s no surprise that Matteo is already seated. “What’s up, Boss?”

  I lift a brow. “Punctual as ever, I see.”

  “You know me.” He shrugs. “I like to get the lay of the land.”

  “How’s the deal with the Pearl Street Gang working? You were able to smooth those ruffled feathers?”

  This is Matteo’s specialty—working well with others. Were it not for his ability to keep the peace, there’d be some bloody streets in Chicago—not that there aren’t already, but it’d be way worse if we had to flex our muscle more often.

  “Yep. We made a deal that I think is fair to everyone involved,” he says as he nods. “They’re appreciative that you’re allowing them a piece of the action.”

  I smirk at this motherfucker because only he could make them think the Outfit’s being generous when we’re really not. We’re profiting hugely off this deal. “Keep yourself a two percent bonus off the next haul.”

  “Will do, Boss. Appreciate it.” He smiles and kicks up his feet in the chair beside him.

  I knock them down. “Go on and get outta here. I’ll deal with the other bozos.”

  It takes them fuckers twenty more minutes to show up, but when they do, a thrill runs through me, because none other than fucking Manuel Eramo is walking in behind his leader.

  I level him with a glare. “Sit.” I point to the far end of the table. “Let the big boys do business, and then we’ll chat, eh?”

  He nervously stutters, “Yes, sir.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, I spend my time overlooking the business reports while Carlos and Angelo patiently await my word. As usual, Angelo is kicking both Matteo and Carlos’ ass by a good margin. Matteo has had it a little fucking rough, dealing with the street gangs and doing a fine job of it, but Carlos really has no excuse.

  I stand and tap my pointer finger on the table. “I expect a twenty percent increase next month,” I say, my glare on Carlos in full force. “Cool that fucking hot head down some, and you might see results.”

  He stares at me, and I can tell he’s dying to say something, but he fucking won’t because he knows I’ll end him right goddamn now. Finally, he looks away and mumbles, “Yes, Boss.”

  “Now, get the fuck outta here.” I shove my thumb toward the door. “Both of ya.”

  After they exit,
I walk down the table and prop my hip on the corner next to Manuel. “Where the fuck were you?” I don’t need to expand; he knows what the fuck he did.

  “I-I-I—” His rambling is cut off by my hand gripping his throat.

  Exerting pressure, I pull him up in my face. “You fucked up,” I grit as the red begins to seep into his cheeks. “When I give an order, I expect it to be followed, no matter how mundane it may seem. Got it?” I shake him once and toss him back into his seat, allowing him to catch his breath.

  “Yes, sir,” he stutters as he stands, thinking I’m done with him, but he’s sorely fucking mistaken.

  “Did I dismiss you?” I step closer, towering above him.

  “S-sorry, sir.”

  “Not yet.” I smirk, tilting my head to the table. “Lay your weaker hand on the table.”

  He physically withdraws but then seems to realize what he’s doing and sits, slowly moving to spread his left hand on the mahogany wood. The trimmed cuticles and buffed nails are familiar to me.

  “Nice manicure,” I say, reaching inside my jacket to retrieve my Desert Eagle. “Too bad you couldn’t follow orders.” The butt of the gun slams into his pinky and ring fingers, creating an enjoyable crunching sound.

  Over and over, I repeat the movements until I’m fucking bored of it; then I aim the gun at his screaming head. “Shut the fuck up or die.”

  He quiets immediately, and he snatches his hand, cradling it to his chest. “Y-yes, B-Boss,” he almost cries, disgusting the fuck out of me.

  Where did we find this wimpy motherfucker?

  “Stand the fuck up.” As he wearily complies, I step closer and catch his eye. “If something happens to this woman, there’s nowhere you can hide from my fucking wrath. Got me?”

  With a pitiful nod from him, I almost knock him on his pathetic ass with my shoulder as I brush past, exiting the room and headed to Dark Star.