Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3)

by Theodora Taylor

  So, I go. Instead of bothering her with my need to be forgiven, I force my body to turn around and walk out of that room. I leave my dry-eyed wife behind, moving fast to keep myself from doing something other than what’s right.

  And when the piece of bacon outside her room calls, “Ferraro! Ferraro! Need to ask you a few questions!” I keep on walking without saying a word.

  Or looking back.

  18

  Drinking Again

  In my dream, I’m still walking. Walking and walking away along a hospital corridor without end.

  But then I’m jolted awake by low-pitched voices shouting in Arabic, and much higher voices screaming back in harried Spanish.

  That’s all the warning I get before the door crashes open and a bunch of dudes in black jumpsuits flood into the room. The bed I’m lying in suddenly comes alive with the squirm of soft bodies jumping out of bed. Even more high-pitched Spanish screaming comes next.

  It’s a lot to process, first thing in the…whatever time it was.

  Daylight’s shining through the small room’s dingy windows, but it’s so loud and bright, I get the feeling morning time might have already gone and passed.

  My head’s pounding on top of a bone-dry throat, and it feels like I’ve got an empty Tequila bottle in my gut, rolling around and just a few seconds away from barfing itself up.

  “Fuck, what are you doing?” I choke out to the uninvited guests. Hungover as I feel, I must still be a little drunk. My words come out stupid and slurred, and just sitting up on my forearms feels like climbing fuckin’ Everest.

  I look around the tiny stucco room, with zero ideas of where I am. Or what day it is. Or who the fuck any of these naked girls screaming Spanish at the four jumpsuits now standing in an arc around the bed are. Probably whores, since one of the last things I remember is deciding to fuck every woman on the planet after I put the divorce papers back in the mail to Amber. Fuck and fuck until I stopped aching to be inside her. The plan must’ve worked a little bit if I managed to obliterate every memory after that decision. But still, it would be nice if the girls would stop screaming for a second and introduce themselves or something.

  The jumpsuits shout back at the women in heavily accented English. “Get out, Get out now!”

  They’re not brandishing guns or anything, but their voices sound enough like bullets to turn the women from a frenzied flock of chickens into efficient clothes gathering and scramming machines. Less than a minute later, the room is clear of both pros and jumpsuits. And that’s when Zahir walks in.

  He looks even graver than usual, which is saying a lot since his usual setting is the villain in one of the darker James Bond movies.

  But I must also be on something along with being drunk because I just grin up at him like I was expecting him to stop by. “Hey, Z, what’s what?” I say, holding up my fist for a bump. “Guess what? I’m single now.”

  Then I start laughing. Uncontrollably. Even though getting those divorce papers is all I can fucking remember. Not getting here. Not fucking, what I’ll be told later when I wake up again in Holt’s guest cottage in Connecticut, was a whole Mexican brothel worth of women. Just the words No-fault divorce. Like the year we spent together was nobody’s bad. An understandable screw-up that could have happened to anybody. Sorry, dude…

  And now Zahir’s shown up at my post-divorce bacchanal. I can’t stop laughing about it. “I’m free! I’m free!” I cackle.

  Then I start to sob like the goddamn baby Amber, and I never got the chance to have.

  The next few weeks, like the two that came before it, are a blur.

  Zahir, being Zahir, takes care of everything, from getting me out of Mexico to dropping me off to Holt in Connecticut, like two divorced parents passing off a naughty kid.

  Holt, being Holt, stuffs me in his guest cottage and pretty much decides to forget I’m there, just like he represses every other fucking unpleasant thing in his life.

  I spend a couple of weeks moping around. I binge Netflix. Listen to that nightmare kid of his, scream at his nanny like she owes him an apology just for breathing the same air. Watch his wife sunbathe at the pool that sits between the two houses. The housekeeper brings her a steady string of drinks like she’s on vacation.

  Frankly, I’m jealous. There’s no alcohol in the guest house, and the housekeeper seems to be under instructions not to bring me so much as a glass of wine with dinner. Every time I ask about getting a drink, she tells me in a heavy Polish accent that I’ll have to talk to Mr. Holt about that.

  The few times I venture out of the house to walk the grounds, I can feel Holt’s bored wife eye-fucking me. Just like she did before and at Holt’s wedding. A couple of times, I think about fucking her, just to get to one of her martinis.

  But you know, Holt’s one of the only two friends left standing right now…blah, blah, blah. Not that I think Holt would particularly care. From what I can see, both the kid and the wife are just a couple of accessories he was told to acquire as part of his “next CEO of CalMart” brand.

  He’s not crazy over the beautiful blonde the way he got over that Jamaican girl before she fucked him over. He punched me once, just for flirting with the Jamaican girl. If I fucked his wife and he found out about it, he’d probably just consider it bad manners. Same as me never showing up for work at the CalMart offices again after what happened to Amber.

  Holt’s still a lifelong friend. But he’s cold now. An automaton made up of “what I’m supposed to do” and “notes from the PR department.”

  And as the days pass, I start to overstand why. I can feel my heart hardening into stone where all the soft stuff used to be. Getting ready for the next chapter, even though when I married Amber, I really did think it would be forever.

  Three weeks in Connecticut is all it takes to give in and decide to go back to my original plan. Return to the clear path I was on before I got sidetracked by Amber. Hell, now that I have a stone in my chest where my heart used to be, living the life I was groomed for will probably be even easier.

  Dad and the rest of the family welcome me home like the prodigal son. That year we’ve been apart? He doesn’t talk about it. Nobody from our organization does. Ever. Like they’re under strict instructions.

  And over the next half decade, everybody gets wise about me.

  I might not have grown up in the old neighborhood. I might have degrees and money from the start, and I might have been stupid enough to think I could actually make it work with the woman I was willing to give it up for. But anyone who thinks that any of that makes me weak soon finds out that I’m the most cold-blooded Ferraro crime boss yet. Just like the Deltano cousins, who are currently resting in concrete boots in the same river as Greggi’s sons.

  It was a very good year.

  And then it wasn’t.

  And now it’s over.

  And all that’s left is the ruthless don.

  III

  Mack The Knife

  19

  Glad To Be Unhappy

  Amber

  Almost Five Years Later

  A hand shakes me awake. “Hey, Mrs. Ferraro. Time to get up.”

  “Ten more minutes,” I mumble, burrowing into the pillow.

  “Ten minutes means I get to do whatever I want to you,” he warns, his Jersey accent taking on new Rocky Balboa heights.

  I almost tell him that. But Luca always complains when I try to compare them. “I’m from Jersey. Stallone’s from New York, baby…”

  So, I just agree to his terms, “Mmm-hmm,” with a sleepy smile.

  The bed dips. One knee, and then another, until he’s right behind me, turning me over.

  He drapes both my legs over his shoulders, and I can feel underneath my calves that he’s already put on his suit.

  “You should have woken me up sooner,” I complain on the suit’s behalf.

  “Sssh, you,” he answers.

  Then he really shuts me up by licking the length of me, his tongue diving i
n deep.

  My hands immediately go to his hair, my fingertips digging into his scalp. I love the feel of his silky locks in between the cracks of my fingers, fanning back and forth as he licks and sucks.

  This is just one of the ways he likes to wake me up. Sometimes he lays down behind me and massages my breasts, thumbs lazily circling my nipples until I’m moaning and shivering. Then one hand wanders down and does the same thing, massaging my pussy while his thumb pays particular attention to the swollen bud of flesh hidden within.

  This morning his mouth’s doing the job instead of his fingers.

  Either way, I always come, usually, before five minutes have passed. Forget the ten.

  But that morning, just as the pleasure’s beginning to swell, he says, “Fuck it, I’ll change into a new suit.” His mouth lifts from my pussy, and he pulls my legs down to his waist. The bottom of his jacket flaps above my thighs as he moves between my splayed legs. Then his hands move between us as he unbuckles his pants and unleashes himself, before pushing straight into me.

  I groan with the relief of having him back inside of me, and I call out his name. “Luca…Luca…yes, God…just like that.”

  For a moment it’s glorious, everything I’ve been missing for some reason, even though he’s right here for the asking. Every night and every morning, whenever I’m up for it.

  But then it becomes one of those times, one of the times I don’t come in an easy instant. Instead, the pleasure builds and builds. Right there, just beyond my reach, no matter how long his hips pump between my legs.

  “More!” I gasp out.

  “Don’t rush me,” he answers.

  “Harder,” I beg.

  “Don’t rush me,” he says again, and just keeps plowing into me at the same grim pace.

  This should be enough. I’m so close, so close. I can feel my pussy clenching in anticipation. But I can’t come. I can’t come.

  And things eventually go from erotic to desperate. “Luca! Luca! Please…please make me come,” I cry out in a broken voice, tears of frustration streaming down my face.

  Then I wake up.

  Confused and breathing hard with a pool of desperate heat inside my fluttering womb. My clit’s throbbing and my pussy is still clenching, contracting hard around something that’s just not there.

  Not there…

  I hate the tears that prick my eyes as the sounds of another New York morning crashes into my previous quiet. Traffic, loud voices, and a trash truck all telling me, it was just a dream, Amber. Just a dream.

  I sit up in bed, waiting for the erotic sensations to fade and cursing the two plastic flutes of Nuvo I let Diamond pour for me last night after we won our latest divorce case. We’d gotten our client everything she asked for, even after her CTO ex-husband sold their highly valued collection of original Atari video game posters on the Bitcoin black market in an extra dickish effort to not include them in his Dissipation of Assets.

  And I’d been so happy that I’d forgotten my rule about not eating or drinking alcohol after eight p.m., lest he shows up.

  I don’t ever contact him. I don’t talk to anyone about him. I don’t even think about him. Luca Jacob Ferraro has become somethin’ stupid that I did a long, long time ago. A temporary lapse of judgment. That weird chapter in the audiobook right before the character gets diagnosed with a brain tumor.

  A brain tumor. That’s exactly what my time with Luca was, so I get up and wash the dream off in the shower. A malignant growth that has since been cut out, except in my dreams.

  Because the thing is, I can’t control my dreams, and at least there, Luca remains an unapologetic invader. He started visiting me while I slept nearly as soon as the divorce papers came back signed, and he’s returned at least once a month ever since. More than that, if I eat too close to bedtime—or in this case drink alcohol less than a couple of hours before falling asleep.

  It’s a stupid issue. One I’m still grumbling about inwardly as I head down to the subway two blocks up from the apartment I moved into as soon as the second lease was up on the one I’d shared with Luca. Not to mention embarrassing.

  So bad that I don’t ever allow Pascoal to stay over, even though we’ve been dating for over two years. Pas already puts up with my general crankiness, justice zealotry, and crazy long work hours. Adding the very real possibility of calling out another man’s name while I’m asleep and begging him to fuck me, doesn’t feel like a relationship extender.

  Plus, he usually gets up early in the morning to teach the six a.m. Self-Defense class at his Jiujitsu studio—the one we met at—so it works out. Kind of.

  I’m not in contact with Luca Ferraro, who pretty much everybody knows as the young head of the Ferraro Crime Family these days. I don’t talk to anyone about him—except for the one time I kind of had to, when I took on Sylvie, Holt’s ex-girlfriend, but now wife as a client. And I still don’t allow myself to think about him, at least when I’m awake.

  But nearly five years after our official divorce papers went through he’s still there.

  In the dreams. Lurking in the unspoken shadows of my relationship with Pascoal. Having to get avoided more than usual, now that the second wife of one of his closest friends has become a favorite past client of mine. Sometimes, I wish the pain of the miscarriage lingered half as well as the ghost of Luca does. It’s a weird, mean way to feel about losing a baby, but it’s true. While the pain of what happened that dark September day has faded to a distant pang, the pain of my divorce remains. Like an open wound, angry and throbbing.

  A sudden vibration and ringing sound in my ear interrupts my pensive thoughts as I’m walking out of the subway. I double tap my Bluetooth headset and say, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Amber, this is Dr. Rodgers,” my longtime gyno answers.

  “Hey, Dr. Rogers, what’s up?” I say, a little surprised that she’s calling instead of one of her front desk staff.

  “Well, Amber, I just got your results back from the blood panel we took for your possible egg freezing.”

  I stop on the platform, not liking the careful tone she’s using, or how the egg freezing procedure has gone from a thing I definitely decided to do a few weeks ago after my annual pap, to “possible.” Like it’s up in the air now.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Well, your ovaries and follicles are fine, as I told you during your preliminary ultrasound. And your FSH test also came back fine, but I’m afraid your AMH levels are substantially lower than we’d like to see in a woman your age. And unfortunately, of all the tests we run, the AMH is considered the most indicative of how many eggs you have in reserve.”

  I stand there, listening as she rattles off words like “disappointing” and “next steps” along with more three letter acronyms, including IVF. And for some reason, I think of Luca in the hospital room. His hand grazing the top of mine, but then pulling away as if he was afraid I’d break. That fearful graze became the last time we ever touched.

  “So, you’re saying that I might not have enough eggs left to freeze,” I say, trying to form a coherent summary of the situation in my mind. “Does that mean if I want to have kids without IVF, I’d have to do it now?”

  “No, not necessarily,” the doctor answers. “If you and your partner have ever discussed the possibility of having children, starting now rather than later would be optimal. But there are still options available to you if you want to wait, including embryo freezing, donor eggs, and we might even be able to assist you and your partner in having a child with IUI, which is a lot less expensive than IVF.”

  More three letter acronyms, and it’s hard to keep up, even with my background in legalese. But by the time I get off the phone a few minutes later, I already know what I must do.

  Pushing that prohibited memory of Luca from my mind, I depress the button on my Bluetooth earpiece and say, “Hey Google…call Pascoal.”

  “Amber, querida!” he answers a few minutes later, with his usual cheer and enthusiasm.
“You are calling in the middle of the Tiny Tigers’ class. Is everything okay?”

  Of course, he’d answered in the middle of his beginner kids class. He’s a sweet guy. Such a sweet guy.

  “Sorry for interrupting, but can you come over to my place after work?” I ask, with a pang in my heart. “We need to talk.”

  20

  All Alone

  Luca

  I don’t dream much anymore.

  I wake up from a sea of black, in a dim room with oak floors, steel beams, and floor to ceiling windows, showcasing a panoramic view of Manhattan overlooking the Hudson. There’s also a gal, lying next to me, her breathing coming out on contented hums of air.

  Hnh…I must have been off my face last night if I let her sleep over. She’s pretty. Redhead, early twenties maybe, with a lithe body that makes me think of dancers who’ve gone through special programs to receive their training.

  I shake her awake with the same consideration I’d give if I’d woken up next to a sleeping rat.

  “Time to get going,” I tell her. “Sleepover’s done.”

  I don’t wait for her answer. Just grab my phone off the steel nightstand and text Joey as I head to the bathroom for my morning leak and cold rinse in my marble and glass open frame shower.

  By the time I come back out to the bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, Joey’s clearing out last night’s mistake. But the redhead’s not going easy.

  “Get your hands off me!” she yells, beating a fist against my personal guard’s heavily muscled arm. “If he wants me out, he can tell me himself!”

  Just so she’s under no illusions about last night, I do just before slipping into my walk-in closet to grab a pair of gym shorts. “Thanks for the memories, sweetheart,” I say to her, in a Holt toast kind of voice. Then with a lot more sincerity: “And thanks for handling her, Joey.”