Brutal & Raw: Mafia Romance & Psychological Thriller (Beneventi Family Book 1)

by Sonya Jesus

  “Where am I?” She bends her arms at the elbow and nudges the blindfold over her eyes a bit without Scar noticing.

  “With me!” he sneers, as he removes his shirt, revealing the healed gashes on his torso, and drops it on the floor before moving behind her. He lifts her shirt up and places his palm on her stomach while whispering in her ear.

  Stunned or unmoved by his words, she remains perfectly still as he rubs himself between her butt cheeks. His hips do all the moving, allowing his hands to glide over her body and cup her breasts. Both hands latch on to each mound, circling as he bends his knees and gets—

  Pause.

  Pause on everything! I watched this before, but I skipped to the part where I joined her.

  This… This part... I grab the leather pillow from the couch and squeeze it between my hands, imagining it was Scar’s head. This part really pisses me off.

  The flame of anger roars in my stomach, igniting the acid. Blazes erupt to every extremity, and before I know it, the torn pillow is on the floor, my hand is on my cell phone, and I’m calling Franco. If guys like Franco didn’t need an outlet, I wouldn’t need The Farm. My cheeks are on fire, and my jaw hurts from the pressure. A quick glance at the screen solidifies my next move.

  First, I want to know what he said to her, and then I’m going to have both his hands cut off, followed by his dick. Every part that touched my 327 is going to come off, and Franco might not even have to do it.

  After the third ring, I end the call and hurl the phone against the wall. I’m getting tired of not being answered. With Costa, anyone who didn’t answer by the third ring was in jeopardy of not living to call back, but with the lack of reception at the new place, I give my men some leeway.

  Plus, Franco isn’t going to clean up this mess. I’m going to butcher Scar myself.

  Granted, part of being a boss is delegating tasks efficiently, and I put Scar there because of his deviant and callous ways, but I ordered no one to touch 327. No one. She was off-limits.

  At least until I had her first.

  I swipe my hands over my face as I remember who I employ. Mostly idiots, but dangerous ones. Farm staff, or the wranglers, as they prefer to be called, require a particular kind of personality trait. No one in their right mind would want to be cut off from civilization and do what they do, not even me. And technically, I didn’t officially claim her as my girl. Not like Magdalena, who I would be completely okay sharing.

  I press play again and try to forget about everything else, including Magdalena.

  327 drops her hands to protect herself, which makes Scar smirk and stop gyrating. He takes a knife from his pocket and cuts the plastic tie around her wrists. She rubs at her wrists for only a second before he ties them behind her.

  “Haven’t you learned yet, 327?” He removes the blindfold, and she squints at the flood of light. “You don’t get a say in what happens to you.” He runs the blade over her shoulder and down to her side, running it over the material covering her hips. “I can jam this knife right into your side and end your life right here.”

  “Then do it,” she says defiantly, blankly looking around the room. “I don’t think your boss will be very happy.”

  “Breaker isn’t even here today…but he asked to bring you here.” She got under his skin, there’s notable doubt in his voice.

  She smirks at his overshare and glances right at the screen.

  “But he’s not here, is he?”

  I pause the movie there and stare into her penetrating eyes. It breaks through the double screens of the camera and this TV and traverses time. It’s like she’s standing right before me, judging me for watching her and not intervening. Had I been watching then, I would have.

  “Smart girl,” I say in the silence of the office and lean forward, watching her get under Scar’s skin.

  Even now, she’s intriguing, and her survival instinct is like nothing else I’ve ever seen. Normally, the recruits become complacent, thinking if they do everything the way we ask, somehow, they’ll be spared. Not 327. She treads between complacent and defiant as if she had been walking that tight line her whole life.

  Normally, we herd all the cattle together into the old animal washroom and rinse them off with the ceiling showers. When the wranglers are busy, the girls have this time alone, but on this day, I had her sent to my office. Some of the guys had been planning on joining them and forcing them to carry out fantasies while they either penetrated them or made the heifers penetrate each other with sex toys.

  I hadn’t even touched her, and even then, I couldn’t stand having other people look at 327’s naked body. Scar and Franco, especially. Franco has difficulties getting it up unless the girl fights back, so he teams up with Scar, and both utilize Franco’s tools. Lots of screams later, and the victim is either sent to the medic or the harvest, and they’re happy and washing the blood off their hands.

  I violently shake the image of the bodies from my head and think, Scar is twisted. Franco is demented. Keeping them both in check is a full-time job and requires keeping them apart. They like to kill. They get off on the power they have over their victims, and they both liked 327, which was probably why I offered her the choice.

  I was most certainly the lesser of the three evils, at least within the walls of The Farm, and she either picked up on that or went with the one she was more attracted to.

  Sexy devils turn sin to pleasure. I remember one of Costa’s whores saying that to him. Costa liked to be called the devil, and he liked to play with fire. He’d screw women in his office, knowing my mother could walk right in on them—or me.

  Nope! I order the niggling thoughts in the back of my head to cease and desist, pressing down hard on the vein at the crease between the bridge of my nose and the start of my eyebrow. The shit I went through as a kid has no place in the present. The past is unchangeable and therefore requires no more thoughts, so I focus on the present.

  Which is me watching the past, looking for clues. The irony is not lost on me, but I don’t dwell on it. Thoughts from my youth are dangerous, and I’ve managed to keep them locked within a tight box until I put a bullet through Costa’s chest. Who knew killing the fucker would unlock all the memories?

  Maybe it’s the constant need to return to the past to trace down 327, or the fact he’s still everywhere. In this office, in The Farm, in the restaurant, in Stone’s face, in my head ... in this couch beneath my ass.

  Immediately, I’m up on my feet and rummaging through his liquor cabinet. Fake-father-dearest had a preference for homemade Portuguese moonshine, so I find the bottle of clear liquid, pop the cap, and take a whiff. The potency makes my eyes water, and the long swig deteriorates my throat as I swallow.

  The good stuff is rare and hard to smuggle into the country, but I take both bottles and pour the highly flammable contents over the leather couch. It pools in the grooves, creating a perfect combustion sight.

  I just need a match.

  Costa kept some in the humidor with his not-so-illegal habanos. They added to his intimidation tactic; they were expensive and hard to come by, and even though they were purchased legally, they had to be smuggled in batches. I throw them all on top of the couch—every last one—and drop the lit match in the dip of the seat.

  It takes a few seconds before the liquid lights. Blue and yellow flames flicker in a circular pattern, then spread across the cushions with speed.

  Whoosh. The flames engulf the whole couch, and I stand back watching as it burns up some of my memories.

  This was a bad idea. The smoke alarm sounds, and I swing the door open, bringing the air into the room and causing the fire to burn harder. Shit.

  “Romolo!” I shout, still enjoying the idea of burning Costa’s things to a crisp. “Bring the fire extinguisher,” I say with no rush. The heat of the fire, still contained to where I poured the alcohol, hits my skin as I head for the desk and take a seat on it.

  The roar of the flames, the intoxication of the smoke, and
the beeping noise don’t faze me. Nor does the fact that the fire climbs higher, almost reaching the ceiling.

  Romolo swarms inside with the hand-held extinguisher and pulls the pin as soon as he feels the heat. From the door, he aims at the base of the fire, squeezes and sweeps the cloud of powder over the flames. I don’t lift a finger. If the fire took this office with it, I wouldn’t be so heartbroken over it.

  When he’s done, he places the extinguisher on the floor and inspects the damage. There’s not enough of it and the room stinks of burned hide, polish, and everything else.

  “Boss, you all right?” he asks as he swivels his upper body toward me. “What happened?”

  I stare at the ceiling. The flames stretched upward.

  “Boss?”

  I stand up and point to the concealed sprinkler head just above the couch. “How do those work?”

  Romolo follows the direction of my finger. “The sprinklers? I didn’t even know there was one in here.”

  Right… they aren’t everywhere. “There are some in the kitchen. Do you know when was the last time they’ve been checked out?”

  What if someone was listening? Panicked, I grab the chair in front of the desk and place it underneath the sprinkler, bringing my finger to my lips, telling Rom to be quiet.

  He picks up on my clue and fills the air with lies. “Yes, Stone had them checked a few weeks ago, after he insisted they had to be connected to the smoke detector.”

  My brother definitely did not do that. I glance quickly at him and find him on his phone.

  “It says here, there’s a bead inside them, which expands when it gets really hot, and sets them off.”

  I nod for him to keep going and point to the letter opener on the desk. He rushes for it, and I use it to dislodge the cap. He uses the flashlight on his cell phone to shine some light upward.

  There’s nothing there.

  Romolo disappears for a second and comes back with a small detector the men carry with them on rounds to make sure there’s no bug or GPS trackers when they go to The Farm.

  I hold it up to the detector. Immediately, it beeps loudly and flashes red.

  Rom points to the phone in my hand, and I give it to him. Sometimes phones transmit a signal when applications are open. The beeps steady, and the light returns to green. Once the phone is powered off, I drag the detector over the ceiling and no red light flashes.

  No bug.

  No tracker.

  No sprinkler.

  Just a small space. I hand the detector back to Romolo, then put my fingers inside and feel around. Nothing.

  “Pull it out, Boss.” Romolo mimics the action. I use the letter opener to dislodge the outer casing, then hold the small plastic in my hand. Taped to the outside, on the top circular surface, are two keys.

  Rom comes closer to inspect. “Why would Costa hide those up there?”

  I shrug and descend. “Because he was always hiding something.” The edge of bitterness in my voice almost teeters on anger. Massaging my jaw helps release the tightness in it, while I add another reason to hate Costa.

  Manipulative piece of shit. These probably go to where he hid the money.

  I rip the keys out and hold them up in the air. “Right now, all that matters is finding 327. I thought we were being listened in on.”

  “For a second, I did too.” Romolo smiles and moves toward the couch. “Want me to get someone to help me take this outside?” He doesn’t ask what happened.

  Wise choice. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “No,” I say and head over to my desk. “We can deal with it in the morning. Get some rest. You can take the bedroom down the hall. I’m going to need you tomorrow.”

  “For what?”

  “Porky’s wife.” Despite the cloud of smoke and fire remnants in the air, I sit down and turn the computer. “Get me a new cell phone.”

  Romolo’s brows arch as he looks around the room. “Was it in the couch?”

  “Nope,” I quip quickly. As the words come out, my eyes veer toward the wall, but I redirect them to the couch. Too much emotion for one day. Setting the couch on fire is one thing, destroying my own property is a different one altogether.

  If Romolo noticed the eye action, he didn’t react to it. Instead, he asks about Porky’s wife, “You couldn’t find her today?” He takes out his phone and holds it up between us, wiggling it.

  “No,” I complain a little. “We found her, but my brother wants to do it the nice way.” I use the air quotes around nice. “Which means, I need you to clean up his mess when he’s done.”

  Kelsie would be the better choice, but ever since Hayden, she’s found a new sense of righteousness. The Moral Assassin.

  He turns the phone back on and leaves it on my desk. “In case you need anything. You can just yell for me.” He means outside the soundproof office.

  I nod. “Don’t go too far.”

  “No problem, Boss. Just let me know when and where.” I tilt my head toward the windows. “Before you go, open all of them.”

  Rom never hesitates when I give orders. He’s the only one out of all of them who does exactly what I ask him to do, without thinking my orders are debatable. Magdalena has an excuse, but she better plan on getting off the pedestal her daddy put her on, because these are my men and this is my family.

  My way is the only way.

  Instead of heading upstairs, I pocket the keys and drag my chair over to the front of the screen, which is still paused on 327’s face. The sun is starting to come up, so I shut the windows and the blinds, and let myself inhale the putrid smell. I have a long day ahead of me, but the anger inside my bones isn’t going to let me sleep. Not only do I not have her, but I also have no idea where the safes are or how to find them.

  I slam the screen with an open palm, and it wobbles. It makes 327 look like she’s moving. Almost real.

  Between the bursts of rage and self-loathing, another familiar emotion trickles down my spine toward my tingling member. While watching 327, I unbuckle my pants and free myself. The urge to grab on propels my hands into place, but I resist sliding my dry hands up and down my shaft.

  Until I think of how I poured my heart out to 327 on New Year’s Day. I told her everything from shooting my fake father to having killed my real one. Why? Because she asked me to kill her, and at that moment, she became someone I could talk to—the only person I could talk to. I cried in front of her. Once. And she held me until the tears ran dry.

  A piece of me believed she was different, but she lied to me. None of what she had told me was true.

  I failed in both ways. I couldn’t get her to reciprocate honesty, and I couldn’t fucking kill her.

  Pumping myself, like pumping her out of my system, distracts my heart from feeling the betrayal and the unrequited love. I’m looking at the girl who, like Costa, fooled me. The thought of getting my own revenge hardens me to the point of precum, and I glide my thumb over the beads of milk, using it to ease the friction between my palm and the tender skin.

  She’ll be in my grasp soon, I think, as I press play with my free hand.

  Scar notices the camera and leaves. She sits on the toilet seat, naked, and waiting. When he doesn’t come back, she moves toward the running water and puts her foot in. She winces, then gets under the showerhead. It runs almost as much as the tears, which she cleverly tries to hide.

  My knees weaken at her sadness, and I hold myself up as I watch her. Cowering. Cleansing herself of his touch. With every stroke, I block out the failure and the weakness and I reaffirm my power.

  “I’m the Boss,” I say to the woman on the screen and fast-forward to the point in the recording where I enter.

  When she turns to face me in all her glorious nudity, I order her on her knees. She doesn’t hesitate. Neither of us speaks as I aim for her, only stopping to shed off my clothes. We eye each other hungrily. Gone two days and my body ached for her. My erection springs out of my pants, giving away
my desire, not that I wanted to conceal it from her.

  “You do this to me,” I confess. There’s something debilitating about being in her presence.

  Silence comes from her as I step inside the shower. The drops of warm water cascade over my erection as her lips, without being told to do so, wrap around my shaft.

  I hiss, throwing my head back, and prop my hands up on the tiles.

  Her warm mouth envelops the head, surrounding it in softness. She slowly takes me in a millimeter at a time and looks up at me through those thick lashes.

  I glance down, wanting to fist her wild hair in my hands and jam myself all the way inside, but I hold back and enjoy the pleasure.

  I bust in the present, my cum squirting out, hitting the screen and splashing the floor. For a few moments of pure, untainted pleasure, I rest my head on the TV and pretend like she is right next to me.

  I watch myself come on screen. She swallows as I stare at the ceiling.

  At the sprinkler above the ceiling.

  I tuck myself back into my pants and play the video forward. This had been the first time we were together, and it had been the best day…up until right this minute. I play the part where she’s bent over, her hand on the wall near the corner, while I thrust into her. I’m not watching her writhe in pleasure, or how slippery she felt, I’m studying the room.

  Something seems off.

  A thought surfaces, Costa didn’t do anything nice for anyone, especially not me.

  He wouldn’t have built a shower for me because he wanted me to feel comfortable. My eyes scour over the shower, picking out details and looking for something.

  The pattern of the tiles is different.

  One of the safes must be there.

  I have to go back to the old place.

  9

  Ontario

  Breaker