Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

by Shanna Handel

  He’s so close—I can smell his scent. I can feel his breath against my cheek as he slips the button through the loop. His hands lower. He buttons the second one. Then, his fingers are at my waist, slipping the final button through the loop. Butterflies tickle my tummy.

  His fingers linger. His eyes meet mine once more. His face is leaning down. His lips are so close to mine. I think he might kiss me.

  “You look beautiful.” His hands drop from the coat. He takes a step back.

  I’m left trembling.

  Disappointment washes over me, confusing me. Had I wanted him to kiss me? I was a silly girl for thinking he might. The moment’s gone; I remember I’m just a poor employee who he feels sorry for. One he’s buying a coat for.

  He would have done it for anyone.

  Right?

  I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

  My gaze catches my reflection in the long mirror.

  I look... stunning. Grown up. Elegant.

  But there is no smile on my face. I realize it has to cost a small fortune. Reality begins to sink in. As much as I want to own this beautiful piece of fashion, I can’t let him drop such a sum on me. What would I owe him, then? Years of being on my own have taught me one thing—nothing in this world is free.

  It pains me to say the words. “I... I can’t let you buy me this coat.”

  His eyes study my face. What he sees there makes him decide against arguing with me. “Consider it a loaner then.”

  “A loaner?”

  “You keep it, this winter. When it warms up, you can return it to me. I’ll store it in the office in case someone needs it next winter.” His eyes softly caress my body. “Although, I must say, no other woman will be able to do this coat justice. It looks as if it were made for you.”

  My heart flutters against my breastbone.

  Of course, the pesky salesgirl makes this her moment to show up.

  He takes his coat, the one I wore here, from the chair, putting it on.

  She hovers annoyingly by Bronson’s shoulder. “Anything I can help you with?”

  His eyes never leave mine. There is an amused smile on his face. He answers her politely. “No, thank you, just run this on my charge—she’ll be wearing it out.”

  She looks deflated. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bachman.”

  Giddy pleasure bubbles within me. The short brunette with the fat ass wins out over the pretty stick blonde for the ridiculously good-looking—and very wealthy—man’s attention. I slide my hands into the pockets of my new coat. Giving the girl a polite, yet clearly dismissive nod, I trill, “Thank you, Brauny. I love it so much!” I begin a little twirl to further show off my new coat but the viselike hand grips my upper arm.

  It’s becoming a habit of his.

  He tugs me out of her hearing range, hissing in my ear. “Brauny? Don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

  “She was falling over you. I had to. I know we aren’t... together or anything but come on.” Looking up at him through my lashes, I give a pout. “Let a poor girl have her day in the sun.”

  His features soften. “Fine.” He pulls me to the door. Where did he think I would run off to? Opening the door for me, he mumbles something incoherent about no one calling him such a ridiculous nickname before.

  I don’t care.

  I feel like a princess.

  Watch out, Meghan Markle—you aren’t the only one who can rock the winter white. The smile on my face stretches so far, my cheeks start hurting.

  I look to Bronson. He’s smiling too.

  Wiggling my arm, I disengage it from his protective grip. Instead, I slip into the crook of his arm, linking our arms as we stroll down the sidewalk. He gives me a curious look but doesn’t pull away.

  A girl can pretend.

  I sashay, shaking my ass beneath my coat. Holding my head high, I pretended not to see the envious stares of the ponytails but of course I’m logging them in my memory bank for later tonight. When I remember how broke I really am, lying in my cold bed.

  Am I mistaken, or has he pulled me closer to his side as we are walking? My shoulder is suddenly pressed against his arm. I sneak a glance up at him.

  He looks... happy. His head is held high, as if proud to have me on his arm.

  I remind myself—Bronson’s just my boss. A bossy boss who has bought me a coat because he feels sorry for me. Nothing more.

  Am I absolutely loving the feeling of being linked to him? Cared for by him?

  Of course.

  Is he enjoying my company?

  Seems so.

  But that doesn’t mean he is interested in me. Not in the way that my pussy is interested in him.

  We reach the store too soon, my moment in the limelight over, my pretty woman scene cut too short.

  I hover by the opened door. He waits for me to go inside.

  Clearing my throat, I prepare a beautiful speech that will tell him just how much his gesture means to me. “I... um... ah... thanks, Bronson.”

  His eyes shine as he looks down at me. “You’re very welcome. Come back to my office. I’ll get you settled for the day and we can begin your training.”

  The word training, coming from him, sounds kinky. Feeling immature, I will the blush to leave my cheeks as I say, “Okay.”

  I pass by him, waving hello to Alice. Her eyes pop open wide at the sight of my coat. Her mouth forms one word, Gorgeous.

  I smile back, following Bachman across the store. Good to know—Alice isn’t the jealous type. There’s something so soft and welcoming about her, that now I’m working here, I would love to become her friend.

  We enter the office.

  Always the gentleman, Bachman helps me out of the coat. Handing it to me, he says, “You can hang it right there.” He gestures to the hooks behind the closed door. There are no coats hanging there, other than his. Where’s Alice’s? Surely, she had worn one in today.

  I hang the coat on the hook. I’m sad to be parted from her. I give her one farewell pat with my hand. “Goodbye, gorgeous.”

  I turn to find Bachman chuckling at me. Throwing my hands on my hips, I demand, “What’d you expect? She’s my first Daughtry.” I realize that what I just said sounded like I was expecting him to buy me more pieces in the future. That I thought this was more than a one-off charity case. I quickly add, “And my only. So, I want to be sure she knows—”

  “Sit.” He gestures to the chair—the very one he punished me on.

  I sit, tugging at the hem of my short dress.

  He sits on the edge of the desk, right next to me. He crosses his arms over his chest. He gives me a look that I assume women who’d grown up with protective fathers would recognize. “You are to wear that coat whenever you leave the house and the temperature is below—”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need a specific temperature limit set for me to—”

  “May I finish?” His dark brow narrows. My mouth snaps shut. My hand drops into my lap. He continues, “Fine. You choose the temperature, but it’s your bottom on the line.”

  I shift in my seat.

  “If I deem it to be weather requiring a coat, and you aren’t wearing one, I will put you right over my lap—” His open palm comes down on his thigh with a loud slap. I jump in my seat. “And soundly spank your bottom. Every time you sit down, I promise you will think to yourself, I should have worn my coat. Are we clear?”

  A confusing feeling washes over me—a cross between fury and delight. I push, “It’s just that you seem to be crossing the lines of what’s acceptable as a boss. I mean, isn’t that a little, I don’t know... illegal? Spanking your employees?” I raise my brow, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He says, “You aren’t the average employee.”

  “To you, or in general?” I ask. I swallow hard, preparing for his rejection. I can hear my heart thumping in my ears.

  His gaze locks on mine. “To me.”

  “Oh.” My arms fall to my sides. My limbs feel weak.<
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  His gaze holds mine. “Is that alright with you?” he asks. The words he speaks are clear, each one enunciated individually.

  He’s asking my permission.

  For what, I have no idea.

  I have the feeling this is the only time he would ask for it. I can read it in the features of his face. If I say yes, I’m unsure what I’m committing to, exactly, but I know I’m making a commitment that I will be held to.

  His guidance? His care?

  His discipline?

  He asks me one more time. His voice is softer than before. “Is that alright with you?” His hand reaches out as if to touch me, then falls back down beside him on the desk.

  I utter the word that changes my life. “Yes.”

  Chapter Four

  Bronson

  Brauny?

  Where did that come from?

  And why did I... enjoy it so much?

  It was... cute. Adorable. Such a... Paige thing to say.

  I can’t get her out of my mind.

  When I saw her walking down that sidewalk, shivering, I had half a mind to take my belt to her. Yes, she looked like a goddess in that dress, but where was her coat?

  I remember the look on her face when she told me she didn’t have one. Pain ripped through my heart.

  I want to care for her.

  I want to taste her. Kiss her. Have her.

  Make her mine.

  I shake my head, releasing the thoughts.

  I’m being ridiculous. A man in my position, a man with my past... it’s just not an option I can entertain.

  I will give her guidance, discipline her when the need arises. Ensure her tummy and bank account are full. I bought her a coat to keep her warm.

  It’s nothing romantic.

  The look she gave me over her shoulder when she presented her round, reddened ass over my desk, waiting for my belt.

  The scent of her arousal filling my office.

  The peek of her pink, shiny pussy.

  My cock twitches.

  Who am I kidding?

  I want her.

  She wants me.

  The way her face blushes when she sees me. Her nipples tightening beneath her clothing whenever I grab her arm.

  Which I do, often.

  She’s such a flighty little thing. I fear she’ll dart off.

  I like having her by my side. Close.

  Very, very few women can handle being with a Bachman man. Sure, they think it sounds fun, sexy. But then they find out what type of commitment is required of them. And when things get real, that’s when they run.

  But Paige is different.

  She’s one of the strongest women I’ve ever met.

  When I ask her about her past, she glosses over the truth. So I ask Jane from her work. Turns out Paige’s parents were not really looking to have children. She spent seventeen years being quietly neglected by them. On her eighteenth birthday, they pulled up to the front door of a youth hostel in their beat-up Buick. Handed her a fifty-dollar bill and waved as they drove off to the coast, finally free of the burden of their ‘oops’ baby. She had a backpack on her shoulder that held all her worldly possessions.

  Anyone else might have fallen apart, and rightfully so. Not Paige. She hit a payphone, contacted her high school guidance counselor, and got the help she needed. She began taking classes, then obtained her Medical Assistance Certificate. They hired her on the spot at her interview at the home, and she’s been there ever since.

  And her capacity to love is endless. The way she cares for the elderly. Changing their clothing, bathing them, feeding them, sneaking them goodies. Listening when they speak. Laughing at their jokes.

  The thing about Paige that I most admire is the way she speaks to them.

  Gently. Kindly. Treating them like the special individuals they are.

  Somehow, she knows what each of them needs in their lives. And she gives it to them through stories.

  For the woman in room 204 who grew up on the coast, it’s happy tales from childhood. All made up, I am almost certain. Trips down the waterslide, the taste of sweet popsicles, the melting juice making her fingers sticky in the sun. Hours spent paddling in the pool, her fingertips turning to raisins.

  The man in 203 who is on a strict diet for diabetics, for him she speaks of food. All kinds: double cheeseburgers from greasy takeout dives. Tacos and empanadas from food trucks, washed down with ice-cold beers. Multiple course meals from elegant five-star restaurants. Ordering bottles of wine older than he is.

  But my favorite is the time she snuck up to Jane’s floor.

  After meeting me, she’s taken an interest in Ingrid, the woman I visit weekly.

  One day, as I was walking toward Ingrid’s door, I hear Paige’s sweet voice introducing herself. Prints of different plants hung on Ingrid’s walls—I had put them there when she first insisted on moving to the home from the pricey place I had been paying for. Paige asked about the prints and it led to the two of them sitting side by side, their heads bent over a huge, heavy gardening almanac I brought Ingrid the week prior.

  Paige told Ingrid of visits to arboretums filled with acres of exotic plants. Traveling hundreds of miles to experience fields of thousands of sunflowers, all blooming at once. Sequoia trees wider than a car. Picking a red, ripe tomato from her mother’s garden, when she was growing up.

  I happen to know for a fact, Paige has never been outside the state of New York. And her mother was certainly not the gardening type.

  But the way Ingrid’s face lit from within—it’d been a very long time since I’d seen her smile like that—it was thanks to Paige and her stories.

  That stolen moment, watching the two of them, I knew, deep within my being, that I was hooked.

  Paige had said to Ingrid, I’d like a garden of my own, one day.

  Her voice was soft, wistful. Her wish was simple. Within those gentle words rang a deep, deep longing.

  I want to give her a garden. I want to take her to arboretums, five-star restaurants, take her swimming.

  I want to give her a thousand gardens.

  I want to give her everything.

  That day, watching them in the shadows, a feeling welled inside me, strengthening to the point I stepped out from my hiding spot.

  I had to hear her say my name.

  Paige glanced up; surprise written on her face. “Hello there, Bronson. I didn’t see you.” The familiar blush rose in her cheeks—whether it was from my presence, or my discovering her secret visit to Ingrid, I wasn’t sure. I had smiled at her, and she had smiled back.

  That was weeks ago.

  And I haven’t made a single romantic move toward her.

  She comes in, on time, every Saturday, that coat wrapped around her tiny body.

  I have begun to live for Saturdays.

  And it is scaring the hell out of me.

  Paige

  I have a date. This Saturday night. With a very kind man named Peter.

  Ever since the day Bronson bought me the coat, he’s been very caring toward me. Just as stern as ever—I am very careful to not smudge the glass countertops in his presence—but caring nonetheless.

  When I arrive, he is waiting for me. When I leave, he walks me to the door.

  Every Saturday morning there is a vanilla soy latte waiting for me.

  It’s no problem. I always grab Alice a latte on Saturdays, anyways.

  At ten o’clock on the dot, he brings me what he calls a proper breakfast. Two eggs over hard, buttered sourdough toast, and a fruit cup. He eats the cantaloupe for me. I’d never had it growing up and I am suspicious of it. I’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that for me, but the truth is, I’m starving.

  I don’t mind. I owe the deli manager a favor. I try to buy a meal there at least once a week. Why not Saturday.

  Bronson takes me down to the bank and helps me open an account. He insists I put at least half of my paycheck in savings. I nod and smile, then cash my checks and take them straight t
o the bakery—no more day-olds for my family—and the rest to Hank. I thank him for going out of his way. I confess I’ve never had a bank account.

  Don’t thank me. I just want to be sure your money’s safe.

  His training is thorough. I learn quickly. The customers seem to like me. I make quite a few big sales, the commission going straight to Handyman Hank. It has only been a few months since I took the job at Bachman’s, and the heat at home is now working.

  The rest has gone to repairs. First, the HVAC. Then, the leaky toilet on the third floor. I am saving up for my next project: one of those glass-enclosed showers. The kind you can just shuffle right into. No stepping over the edge of a cold porcelain tub. You could break a hip doing that.

  The other girls in the store have gotten used to Bronson’s partial treatment of me. I couldn’t care less if they didn’t.

  They have people in their lives to take care of them.

  Sure, there are whispered words behind my back. But I have made one real friend.

  Alice.

  She gets quiet whenever Bronson comes around, but otherwise, she loves to chat. We talk about everything.

  Everything except Bronson.

  Once, when he was upset with me over my dealings with a grumpy customer, he whispered a harsh threat in my ear. Alice overheard, her eyes growing wide. I shrugged it off. When he walked away, she whispered, “Be careful.” When I asked what she meant, she made a cryptic comment: You can get in over your head, getting tied up with a Bachman man. She’d been quiet the rest of the day, a faraway look in her eyes. I gave her some space. The following weekend she was back to her bubbly self.

  He only spanked me once more since I stole the necklace.

  I had shown up twenty minutes late. Without an excuse. And in a bad temper.

  He confronted me on my tardiness. I snapped at him.

  He grabbed my upper arm, guiding me to his office.

  He sat down on his desk chair and pulled me right over his lap.

  I will spank you, first for being late. Then, again for your sassy mouth.

  I had groaned, complained, tried to fight it. But I was in such a mood, I knew I needed it.

  I laid there over his lap, pouting like a little girl.

  For the first spanking, he gave me several light spanks over my skirt.