His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Citrione Crime Family)

by Penelope Bloom

  I grab him by his jacket and pin him to the wall. For a second, all I see is red. I nearly lose my cool and hit him, but I shake my head and let him down. This is not the place to lose my cool. I have to remind myself it’s not just the familia down here like usual. Something’s going on, something big. I just don’t know what it is yet, and Pops apparently didn’t think I needed to know ahead of time.

  I run a hand through my hair. I should probably apologize to Jimmy, but fuck it. They all think I’m a prick, so why should I start surprising them now. Besides, it’s easier to get shit done when people are afraid of you, even your friends.

  “Why aren’t you tailing her now?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “You sent me out dry, Vince.”

  I bite my knuckle, trying to suppress the rage I feel. He’s right, but that doesn’t make it piss me off any less. If I had told him to go wet, he would have found a way to take out her and anyone she talked to, but without the ability to do that, the only thing he could do was come talk to me.

  I force myself to calm a little bit and give his shoulder a hard squeeze. “You did the right thing, Jimmy.”

  He visibly relaxes.

  “But,” I say, jabbing a finger at him. “I want you to go back right fuckin’ now. Find out what she’s doing, who she’s with, and remember every detail. Write it down if you have to. You only come back to me when she goes to sleep. Got it?”

  He has the good sense to nod his head and quickly bolt for the door.

  I smooth my suit and sigh. If this girl can’t keep her fuckin’ mouth shut, she’s going to wind up locked in my apartment. I definitely can’t hurt her, but I can’t have her running around town blabbing to everyone she knows. Besides, the thought of having her all to myself? I don’t know if I can pass that up.

  First I’ve got to find out why the hell so many capos from other families are here. Whatever it is, I know it can’t be good.

  10

  Aubriella

  After a couple days, Vince has started to seem more like a fever dream than reality. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself to stop thinking about him. I keep remembering the way he looked at me and the way he touched me. It was like he owned me. Normally, that would have pissed me off. But the way he wanted me made it different. It was like he would have literally killed anyone who tried to touch me while he was watching, like every inch of my skin that he kissed was a claim no one could ever undo. The thought of being so valuable to him still makes my skin prickle with excitement and my core clench.

  At the same time, my cheeks burn with shame when I remember it. I let a complete stranger strip me naked, degrade me, fuck me, and cum inside me. If that’s not being a slut, I don’t know what is. I also don’t know if I care anymore. I turned him away. I ended it. So much for his persistence. I basically told him to fuck off yesterday morning and haven’t heard from him since, and it’s already evening. The realization that I might have actually made him give up hits me with more sadness than anything else, but some logical part of my mind knows it’s for the best.

  I’m about to leave for work when someone knocks hard on the door of my apartment. My heart pounds. Is it him? No, I’m being stupid. It isn’t him. Why would he be here? He’s probably completely forgotten about me by now. Even if it was him, I’d slam the door in his face. He’s the last thing I need in my life right now.

  I swing the door open and my stomach sinks. I’m greeted by two watery blue eyes. a balding man in his fifties with a four-day beard, a stained blue Mets baseball cap, and a smelly tan jacket. He’s thin, but has a round gut. Dad. I can hardly stand looking at him anymore. The way his narrow shoulders slump and that stupid old windbreaker he wears just make me want to cry. He’s a shell of what he was before Mom died.

  “I have to go to work, Dad. I don’t have time for this. You smell like piss, have you bathed?”

  He puts his hands up as if I’ve attacked him, giving the falsely pious look he loves so much. “I didn’t ask for anything, Aubriella. I just wanted to stop by and see my daughter.” He lurches forward and clumsily rights himself.

  “You’re drunk,” I say dryly.

  He has the balls to look indignant while he shoves past me, letting himself into my apartment. He talks over his shoulder to me as he heads toward the kitchen. “I raised you better than that. Talking to your father like he’s some drunk off the street. You should…” He trails off as he begins opening cabinets, moving through the drawers, the fridge, and even feeling around blindly on top of the freezer.

  I wait with my arms crossed, having been through this too many times to feel anything but numb disappointment.

  He finally straightens and faces me. “Where did you hide it?”

  “I didn’t hide anything, Dad. If I had any booze in the house, you would take it. I don’t have money for it either after I get done paying your bills every month. What happened to that job at the car rental place?”

  He waves away my question like it’s insignificant. “They were cunts. Fired me for being sick.”

  “Did you call to let them know you were sick?”

  He raises his hands like it’s the dumbest question on Earth. “I was puking my guts out. Making phone calls wasn’t the first thing on my mind.” He kneels, nearly toppling forward as he loses balance trying to look beneath the sink again. “Young fucking girl who doesn’t have a drop of liquor in the house,” he says slowly before stumbling towards my bedroom. “Right.”

  “Dad,” I say, raising my voice. “You need to leave. I have to go to work and I don’t need you rooting through my apartment. Especially not my bedroom. You have no right.”

  He turns on me, finger raised. “No right? Do you know what it was like raising you by myself after your mother passed?”

  I move behind him, trying to physically push him toward the front door. “Dad. Please.”

  He’s too heavy for me to force out. I’m not strong enough. I never have been. Not with him.

  “You treat me like I’m some stray dog. Some fucking junkie,” he says, turning to meet my eyes. The sudden soberness in his face makes my eyes sting with the threat of tears. This isn’t just the booze talking. “You think I’m a fuck up because I wasn’t there for you enough when your mom passed. Well, where the fuck were you? It’s no wonder I turned to the bottle when my own daughter didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Where was I? I was working. I was working while my friends went to homecoming and prom and while everyone was having fun at the school football games and going out for drinks after class in college. I was working because I had to support myself and you.”

  “Sure. Blame me. Because I chose to get laid off. Because I love being a fucking deadbeat with no job who has to bum cash from his daughter.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it free and notice the time before I even see the text. 5:07. Shit. I’m already late. There’s no way I’ll get to work by 5:30. Then I notice the text is from an unknown number.

  Can’t stop thinking about you. -V.

  V.? As in Vincent? How would he get my number? My head feels fuzzy and for a minute I nearly forget my dad. I look at him and feel all the fight drain out of me. We’ve had this same conversation in so many different ways and so many times that I’ve lost count. I don’t even know why I don’t just hand him a check and a bottle of Jack at the door and save myself the trouble. I could wrap it in a little bow. Enjoy the downward spiral, courtesy of your enabling daughter.

  I stomp to the counter and grab my clutch, pulling my checkbook free. I rip a check out, shaking my head when I realize the only reason I even have a checkbook anymore is for him. If I wanted a real kick in the stomach, I could go back through the check-stubs and see exactly how much money he has bled from me in the last few months.

  He watches me closely as I write $100.00 in the little box and “One hundred dollars and zero cents” on the check. Every dollar hurts. I’m mentally calculating all the corners I’ll have to
cut because of this even as I slap the check in his dirty hands.

  He looks down at the check, eyebrows drawn. “Aren’t they paying you really well at the station? I mean…you’re on fucking T.V.”

  I take a deep breath. “Dad. We have been over this. I can’t afford to keep giving you money like this. That’s all I can afford right now. Hell, it’s about a hundred dollars more than I can afford, especially after paying your bills just a few days ago. So would you please take the fucking check and leave! You’re going to lose your meal ticket if you make me any later for work.”

  He pulls the corner of his mouth up, nodding, still not looking away from the check.

  The sadness in his eyes makes me regret my words, but God, he’s so remorselessly manipulative. It doesn’t even matter that I know what he’s trying to do. It still hurts. It’s no wonder I’ve become the kind of girl that would let some criminal stranger fuck me like he owns me. I feel my body react to even nearing the memory of Vince. Powerful sensory memories blast me: the heat of his mouth over mine, his thick cock stretching my walls, the warmth as he spent himself inside me. I force myself to stop thinking about it as my core heats, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with my dad still in the apartment.

  I watch my dad finally leave and then scramble to gather everything I need before heading to work. I spend three minutes I don’t have fixing my mascara. I don’t look great, but I look good enough. I grab my clutch, my keys, and rush to the door, swinging it open and step forward without even looking at where I’m going. I bump into a solid wall.

  Except it’s not a wall. Walls don’t laugh. And they don’t wear impeccable cobalt-blue suits with a charcoal gray undershirts. Vincent. Everything about him is perfect, except the stubble coming in on his strong jaw and the faint line of a scar crossing his high cheekbone. But even those only serve to accentuate his utter flawlessness, the full, satin lips and the irresistible arch of his cocky eyebrows. The feline way his lips pull up into a smile as he looks down at me.

  Perfect or not, I don’t have time for him, so I try to push past him, ignoring the jolts of warmth that flow through my fingers and to my core as I touch him. He grabs my arm, firm, almost painfully tight. Even without pulling, I know he’ll let me go if I try to break free, but he knows I won’t. He holds me not with his strong hands, but with the power of his will.

  I look up into his eyes and the cocky bastard just winks, like he knows exactly what his touch is doing to me.

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, doll.”

  Doll? Normally the pet name would piss me off, but something about watching it spill from his perfect lips makes it pass over me like cold honey, giving me chills that I don’t want to go away, like his voice is a physical thing that can slide inside me and activate all my nerves and senses, priming them for his approach.

  “How did you get my number? How did you find where I live?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Come on. You knew I was going to do my research on you. I couldn’t just let you walk out of my life. Not after what you saw. Not after what you did to me,” he whispers the last, moving his face close to mine until his breath brushes hot against my neck.

  Against my will, I moan softly, realizing he has pulled me closer to his body until his hardness is pressed against my belly. “I-I have to go to work,” I say quietly, feeling my good sense and logic quickly giving way to desire.

  “Work? There’s no game tonight.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. Does he think the entirety of my job is just showing up to the game and looking pretty while I say a few quick lines about the score? “I’m supposed to be on the news floor, writing copy.”

  He squints like I just spoke another language, but apparently doesn’t care enough to ask more. “When do you get off?”

  I blush, mind going totally blank. I know he doesn’t mean anything sexual, but looking into those dark eyes and breathing in his irresistible scent is blinding me to anything else. All I can think of is getting off, like getting off while his length is inside me.

  His eyes narrow with laughter when he realizes my dilemma. “You really can’t stop think about fucking me, can you?”

  My cheeks feel like they’re on fire, but I manage to glare at him. “Get over yourself. You’re not that…” There are a hundred ways I could end the sentence, but I come up short when I search for the word to fit him. What isn’t he? Was I about to say not that hot? We would both know it for a lie in an instant.

  He moves closer. “Not that what?”

  “Nice,” I say stupidly.

  His smile is all flirtation and fire. “I haven’t even begun to get nasty with you.”

  I shudder. He says it like a promise. My clit throbs and it feels like every nerve ending is standing at attention, begging to be touched and caressed, ready to feel every single inch of him.

  “I need to leave. I’m going to be late,” I say, meaning to push past him, but making the mistake of putting my hands on his chest. I suck in a breath, feeling the hard, carved muscle of his broad chest beneath my fingertips and the fire of his skin rising through his dress shirt.

  Before I can even think, his mouth is over mine and his hot tongue is teasing my lips. I moan softly into him, squeezing his back tightly as I push my body against him. Then reality hits me and I pull back, breathing heavy. “I can’t do this. Not again.”

  He tilts my chin up with his index finger. “Then we’ve got a problem, because I haven’t stopped thinking about that beautiful fuckin’ pussy of yours.”

  My core clenches at the heat in his words and the way he looks at me. I know I could walk away. I could slip out from his grasp and he would only watch as I went down the stairs and headed to work. I know it…but at the same time, there’s a danger in his eyes that gives me a thrill for all the wrong reasons, like he might not let me go. Like it’s not a choice.

  I bite my lip. “I can’t take too long,” I say, not believing the words even as they come out of my mouth. I’m really going to let this happen? After all the shit I gave myself for letting him fuck me, I’m doing it again. I just want to feel his power again, to feel the way he cherishes owning me and makes me his, like I’m the most important and precious thing in the world, even if it’s only temporary.

  He takes me by the throat and pushes me to the wall, not quite painfully, but hard enough that my breath catches in my throat. I look into his eyes and see danger and darkness, but it only intensifies the sensations.

  “Yellow means ease off, red means stop.” He rasps into my ear. “Understand?”

  What? Then realization dawns on me. I’ve never done anything like this, but I’ve seen movies and read books. Am I really one of those girls? The heat between my legs and the way my heart is pounding tells me I might be. Not knowing what he’ll do next or how far he’ll go has me feeling more horny than I’ve ever felt. But a sudden rush of fear and doubt overcomes me. This is too much. It’s too scary. I shake my head, trying to move past him to get out the door.

  “I really need to go.”

  He growls, taking me by the shoulders and dragging me toward the couch. “Those aren’t the magic words.”

  Anger fills me as I kick and punch at him to let me go. The word red bounces around in my head, but for some reason I don’t say it. In some distant part of my mind, I think the more he fights to take me, the more it proves he wants me. So I give him everything I have, even biting down on his finger hard enough to make him swear at me and push me down on the couch hard.

  I try to get up, but his weight crushes me into the cushions. He struggles with the waistband of my skirt and manages to pull it down. I try to fight back against him but it’s useless. He’s too strong.

  With one motion, he rips my lacy panties off and runs a calloused hand along the smooth flesh of my ass, sliding down until his fingers find the wetness between my legs. My entire body shudders at his touch. Having my panties ripped off might be the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.

/>   “You’re so fuckin’ wet. You like this, don’t you?” he asks, the stubble on his face scraping my ear.

  I moan, half in anger and half in the most blinding ecstasy I’ve ever felt. I don’t even care that it’s fucked up to be so turned on by this, I just don’t want it to stop.

  “You want to cum?”

  I moan, nodding my head and pressing my ass down against his hand.

  “Then you have to pay first.”

  I hear the sound of him undoing his belt and cold fear grips me. Is he really going to use the belt on me? Instead of saying anything, I just squeeze the couch as hard as I can and close my eyes tight, waiting.

  “This is for snooping where you shouldn’t have fuckin’ been snooping,” he says.

  I clench, shoulders rounding and my back bending as I brace for impact. There’s a rush of air and then a loud crack. Hot pain explodes over my ass and I jump, whimpering. “This is for trying to walk away from me.” Another jolt of pain.

  I turn to look at him and see a darkness in his features that scares me. As quickly as it comes, the anger melts away. He kneels down, planting warm kisses on my body and my ass where he hit me with the belt, soothing the pain with soft touches. He groans against me and the utter happiness I see when I look back at him makes me blush. I’ve never seen him look so satisfied, so pleased. You’ve hardly seen him at all except between your legs, whispers a voice in my head.

  “You did good,” he says between gritted teeth. “So fuckin’ good.”

  I roll over so that he’s on top of me. He must have taken his jacket off at some point because he’s just in his slacks and gray shirt now, but some of the buttons are undone. I reach up and pull hard, snapping several of the buttons and opening his shirt to reveal a hard shelf of chiseled muscle. I run my fingers down his skin, not able to feel enough, wishing I had more hands. He undoes the button on his slacks and his fly, letting his pants hang open below his six-pack, revealing the thick outline of his cock straining against his briefs.