Brando

by Marita A. Hansen

  Cyn jumped to her feet and held out her hands, her blue eyes scared. “Honestly, I didn’t cross any boundaries. You know I want the priest, not Brando.”

  “You hurt him!” Ivy yelled.

  “Ivy!” Concetta barked.

  Her head whipped around, her glare going to Brando’s mother.

  “Brando will be fine,” Concetta said, although her sad eyes said differently.

  Ivy thrust out a hand, pointing at Cyn. “How can you condone her whipping your own son?”

  “She’s not to blame, Brando is. He has needs that have to be satiated. I don’t approve of what he does, but I can’t stop him. Believe me, I’ve tried, but Brando’s a law unto himself.” Her attention moved to Cyn. “Did you tend to his wounds?”

  Cyn nodded, the woman still appearing scared. “I cleaned and bandaged his back. Also, if I didn’t whip him, he would’ve gotten someone else to do it.”

  “I know; he hires women to come to the house specifically for it.” Concetta’s attention moved back to Ivy. “So calm down, he’ll be fine.”

  Ivy grimaced. “I want to see proof.”

  “Have Cyn take you to him.”

  “Hell, no!” Cyn yelled. “She’ll beat the crap out of me; she’s already broken my pelvis once for touching one of her boyfriends.”

  Ivy’s head whipped around. “You did more than touch him! And don’t remind me or I’ll finish the fucking job!”

  “Look, I didn’t do anything inappropriate with Brando. I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake.”

  “I don’t believe you. I told all of you to stay away from him, but of course, it would have to be you who went against my order. You can’t keep your hands to yourself when it comes to my men!”

  “Brando’s not yours and again, I didn’t touch him like that.”

  “Sasha was mine, yet you fucked him the first opportunity you got.”

  “The Black Russian ordered me to.”

  “I saw your face, you wanted Sasha; you always wanted him.”

  “I was ordered to!”

  Ivy took a step closer. “And I ordered you not to go near Brando, yet you didn’t listen to me.”

  “He was going to pay me a grand.”

  “Which you can use for your funeral!”

  Menna yanked Ivy back, before she could attack Cyn again. “Ivy. Control yourself!” she snapped. “You’re making a scene.”

  Ivy pulled free from her sister and turned to Concetta. “Then take me to Brando before I do something I regret.”

  Concetta nodded, her gaze moving to Jagger. “We’ll have to postpone the talk until Brando is well enough to attend. Have a chat with the Vipers, I’ll be back soon.” She placed a hand on Ivy’s back, directing her to the archway.

  As Ivy passed Cyn, her hand whipped out, punching Cyn in the face. The blue-haired woman yelled out, falling backwards from the blow. Menna ran for the bitch. Ivy continued onwards, allowing Brando’s mother to direct her down the west wing passage and through the gym door, where Alessandro and two Vipers were working out. Though, the woman looked more interested in fawning over the man than doing exercise. Concetta stopped to look at them, disapproval clouding her expression. Alessandro smacked one of the Vipers hands off him, appearing embarrassed his mother had seen what the woman had been touching. Concetta shook her head at him, making Alessandro drop his gaze.

  Concetta turned back to Ivy, directing her to another door. She keyed in the code and opened the door. She ushered Ivy inside and switched on the light. On a large bed, Brando was lying on his front, with a sheet over his lower half. Bandages covered his back, blood already seeping through them.

  Ivy ran for him, dropping to her knees by his side, what she saw horrifying her. She may have had thoughts about hurting him, but nothing like this.

  “Are you all right, Brando?” she asked, brushing his hair back.

  He didn’t answer, doubling her concern. She placed two fingers to his neck.

  “Don’t worry, he’s alive,” Concetta said. “Though, he won’t wake up for a while. He’s usually out for a day after a whipping.”

  Ivy looked up at her. “How can I not worry?” She waved her hand at his back. “No one does this to themselves without a damn good reason. What happened to him?”

  “That’s not something Brando would want you to know.”

  “Was it abuse?” Ivy asked, the answer obvious.

  A deep sadness colored Concetta’s violet eyes, confirming Ivy’s thoughts.

  “Who hurt him?”

  “A priest.” Concetta screwed up her face, her features pained. “The monster hurt both my boys beyond anything I can describe.” She raised a shaky hand to her face.

  Ivy frowned. “Both your boys?”

  “Brando and Jagger.”

  “But, isn’t Jagger your nephew?”

  “No, he’s my son too. He’s Brando’s only full brother.”

  Ivy’s eyes widened. “Oh. I just thought they were half.”

  “Everyone does, so please keep it to yourself until I’ve told my sons.”

  Ivy nodded. “Of course.”

  “Grazie.” Concetta smiled sadly at her. “I like you, Ivy. You care about Brando like no other woman ever has. I’ve seen you brush him off, but it’s plain to see you’re besotted with him.”

  “I—”

  “No use denying it, especially with what you said in the lounge.” Concetta walked over and placed a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “You’re the first woman Brando has chased—”

  Ivy rose to her feet. “Probably because I’m the only one who has turned him down.”

  “No, it’s more than that; I think you’re his match. You’re a hard woman like he’s a hard man. You’re also the type who will stand up to him, especially when he acts aggressively. A weak woman would crumble in his presence, whereas you’d thrive.”

  Ivy held up a hand. “Wait a minute; I didn’t say I wanted him.”

  “Why are you denying something that’s so obvious? Because, Ivy, you wouldn’t be in this room if you didn’t want my son. And put it this way, I don’t approve of many of my children’s choices in partners, but you, you’re different. I’m hoping you’re the one who will help Brando heal.” Concetta looked at her son. “Because I can’t, no matter how hard I try. He pretends he’s not hurting, but he is. I want someone to help ease his pain, and to move him past this whipping obsession, because it’s keeping him tied to that vile priest.”

  Ivy looked down at Brando. His expression was at rest, no hard lines, just a beautiful man. A tormented one she wasn’t sure she could—or wanted to fix.

  “I will leave you two alone,” Concetta said.

  “You want me to stay with him?”

  “Only if you wish to. Do you?”

  Ivy nodded.

  Concetta smiled at her softly. “You’re a godsend, Ivy. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for my famiglia.” She squeezed Ivy’s shoulder, then turned to leave.

  Ivy watched her go, shocked that the woman appreciated her, something she wasn’t used to. People either disliked her or, in her sister’s case, put up with her. She wasn’t respected, she was tolerated or feared.

  As the door clicked shut, Ivy turned back to Brando, also wondering why the bastard liked her.

  And why she liked him back even more.

  12

  Brando knew he was dreaming. The fact he was happy was enough proof. He hadn’t been happy in a long time. Still, he went with the dream, needing the smiles that came with it. His mother was talking to him, saying he was a good boy. He was a teenager again, dressed in his best suit for church, feeling cool, like one of the hitmen who worked for his father.

  His mother cupped his face, looking at him lovingly, only her eyes ever holding that emotion for him. Pain filtered into his mind, knowing it was because he was different from his siblings. She gave him extra attention because his father didn’t love him. At the back of his mind, a voice was telling him why, but he
refused to listen, not wanting to know the truth.

  “Make me proud, bambino,” his mother said. “Do whatever the Padre asks.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

  Brando jolted as she pulled back, her face now that of Padre Michael’s. “You are such a beautiful boy, Brando.” He leaned forward, but instead of kissing his forehead, he kissed his lips.

  Brando tried to jerk away from him, but the Padre’s grip was too strong, making him yell out, desperate to get away from the man.

  The Padre pulled back, his pale blue eyes piercing. “Do you want your mother to die? One word will be all it takes.”

  Brando didn’t reply, fear silencing him.

  “Do you?” the Padre snapped.

  Brando shook his head.

  The priest smiled at him, running a hand down his face. “Such a good boy.” He leaned forward to kiss Brando again. Screwing his eyes shut, Brando screamed in his head as the Padre started removing his clothes.

  All of a sudden, pain struck his back, the slice of a whip cutting across his flesh, clearing his mind of the priest, only the sweet burn filling his head. But it didn’t stop, each strike getting worse. His back started to burn up, too much pain washing away the pleasure. He screamed for it to stop...

  ...and it did, as suddenly as it had started.

  A hand brushed his hair back. A woman started talking to him softly, telling him he was safe, that she would look after him. The voice sounded Middle Eastern, the tone familiar. He opened his eyes and turned his head towards the speaker, looking up at...

  Ivy was staring down at him, her dark eyes filled with sadness. He looked past her, shock breaking through his half-asleep daze. She was in his whipping room, something he didn’t want her to see. This part of him was private and far too painful to allow anyone outside of his family to witness. It was a place that held all his fears and self-loathing, not something he willingly showed anyone, and especially not someone he desired.

  He shot off the bed, making Ivy move backwards fast, the woman startled. He staggered past her, heading for the wine cabinet. He didn’t care that he was naked—only that she was seeing the real him. People said that the eyes were the windows to the soul, but every slice in his back revealed more than his eyes ever could—people just chose to ignore it, his mother the most. He’d always wondered whether she knew the reason why he needed to be whipped, something she’d answered recently. For some reason, she’d barged into his room the week prior, tearfully asking if he’d been abused by Padre Michael. She’d taken him by surprise, waking him from his sleep. He hadn’t understood half of what she’d been babbling about, or even why she’d asked, since she never had before. Too stunned, he’d lied, telling her nothing had happened. She’d stared at him, looking like she wasn’t sure if she believed him, then had left the room, not asking again.

  Ivy followed him. “Brando—”

  “Get out!” he snapped, furious that she was in here. He opened the wine cabinet and removed a bottle of vodka and some pills, needing something to take the edge off the burning pain in his back. The aftermath of the whipping wasn’t something he enjoyed—it was just the price he paid to reach nirvana.

  But pills and alcohol helped. He popped some pills into his mouth, then opened the bottle, placing it to his lips. The strong smell wafted up to his nose, promising to free his mind.

  Ivy snatched the bottle out of his hand, sloshing vodka onto him and the floor. “You can’t drink that with medicine,” she said.

  He grabbed the bottle off her, splashing more vodka over the side. “Vaffanculo!” he snapped.

  “I will not fuck off!” She snatched the bottle out of his hand again. “So, get back to bed now.”

  Ignoring her, he got another bottle from the cabinet, twisting the cap off. Ivy grabbed that one too. He spun around. “Stop doing that!” he yelled, the pills spraying out of his mouth.

  She glared at him. “Not until you stop being an idiot.”

  He leaned his face towards her. “Why the fuck do you care what I do? You don’t give a merda about me.”

  “Because I don’t want you to die, you thickheaded moron.”

  He sneered at her. “And we both know why. So I can help your weak bunch of puttane to bring down the Black Russian.”

  She dropped one of the bottles and slapped his face, the vodka spilling over the vinyl flooring. “The Vipers are not weak,” she spat. “And you should be grateful to us. We saved your family. I saved your family.”

  He clenched his hands. “I thought you’d learned that it isn’t wise to slap me, woman.”

  “You deserved it. You’re such a rude and ungrateful bastard.”

  “I would be more grateful if you’d saved my brother’s wife.”

  She frowned. “That wasn’t my fault, and there could’ve been more deaths if it wasn’t for me.”

  “You. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it, Ivy? You want people to stroke your enormous ego with praise and glory. Well, baby, I will only stroke your cunt,” he grabbed his cock, “with my cazzo.”

  Her face turned beet-red. “I was helping you, yet you insult me? Well, fuck you, you asshole!” She threw the other bottle at his feet, making him jump back, the glass smashing into pieces.

  He yelled, “Are you crazy?!”

  “No, you are, you warped bastard. So, get your arrogant ass back into bed before I kick it there.”

  “You can’t make me do merda.”

  She stepped over the broken glass, her face hard. “You wanna bet?”

  “Are you threatening me?” he said, taken aback. He was a fucking hitman, yet the female was threatening him?

  “You bet I am. So, last warning: get your ass back in that bed now.”

  “Piss off.” He went to move past her.

  She rushed him, grabbing hold of his right arm. She wrenched it behind him and went to grab the other one, sending pain shooting up his back, the woman obviously not thinking.

  He yelled out and pulled free. Spinning around, he grabbed her by the neck and shoved her into the cabinet. He jammed his knee between her legs, locking her in place. She lashed out with a fist, striking him in the head, making him let go of her neck. Before she could hit him again, he grabbed her arms, locking them to her sides.

  “Let me go!” she yelled. “You’re hurting me.”

  “You’re the one who attacked me.”

  Without warning, her head shot forward. Brando jerked back, narrowly avoiding the headbutt. He tightened his grip on her, making her struggle more, the woman not getting anywhere.

  “Let me go!” she yelled again.

  “No,” he said, feeling satisfaction. “You shouldn’t attack unless you know you’ve already won, and seriously, you didn’t think a little sprite like you could take me out?”

  She spluttered in response, unsuccessfully trying to form words.

  “You may be a good fighter, Ivy,” he said, “but you made a huge mistake: I’m better.”

  “You arrogant bastard!”

  “It’s not arrogance, it’s a fact. So, the next time you attack me, make sure you put your full force behind it and don’t telegraph your moves.”

  “I don’t telegraph my moves! I didn’t want to hurt you before, now I want to kick your fucking ass. So, let me go!”

  “No, I like you like this.” He lowered his voice. “All. Helpless.”

  “I was trying to help you, and you do this to me?”

  “That wasn’t helping. You tried to force me into doing something I didn’t want to. In return, I’m doing something you don’t want.” Giving her a smile, he raked her body with his gaze, knowing she would think he was referring to sex.

  She started thrashing about in his grip, again demanding to be let go.

  His eyes moved to her tits, which were heaving, her fear thrilling him. “Why struggle, Ivy? We both know your pussy is wet for my cazzo.”

  “You think I’m arrogant, you’re a hundredfold more!”

  He raised
his gaze to hers. “For just cause. I’m fucking beautiful and although you hate my personality, you want me nonetheless. So, stop fighting me and let me give you what you desire.”

  “No! I don’t want you!”

  “Oh, you do, liar, and I want you—very much.” He brushed his lips over her ear, pulling out a shudder from the woman. “I bet you touch yourself at night just thinking about me.”

  She inhaled sharply as his tongue flicked over her ear.

  “I also bet if I ran my finger across your pussy it would be wet like last night.” He moved his lips to her other ear and blew into it, making her shiver. “Mmmm, I’d love to lick your sweet figa dry. Or maybe you’re bitter, like your personality, a mix of sweet and sour. I’d lay you out on a table and feast on your pussy, getting my fill while you scream my name. Dio, that’s making me hard just thinking about it.”

  Her body shuddered again.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He sucked in her earlobe, nibbling on it. She gasped, pushing her pussy into his knee, the woman so fucking hot for him. But to be fair, he wanted her even more.

  He pulled his head back, drinking in her face. Her eyelids had dropped to half-mast, while her mouth was hanging open. She was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed with desire. His eyes lowered to her tits again, their rise and fall even more rapid. She was wearing a tight T-shirt, the type he liked seeing wet. Her nipples were poking out, looking hard and pebbled, ready for his mouth. He let go of one of her wrists and brushed his hand over her right nipple. His other hand followed suit. He cupped her breasts, his cock now painfully hard. He knew he was leaving himself open to be hit, but he had to touch them.

  No strike came, only a moan so deep he knew there was no going back. He was going to fuck her regardless of the pain it would cause him, his back already burning badly.

  He bent his head and latched onto one of her tits through her T-shirt, sucking on it. Gasping, she placed a hand on his head, threading her fingers through his hair. He rolled the nipple around in his mouth, its hardness and the material a tantalizing combination.