Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

  This will just have to do, though. There’s no easier disguise than a mail carrier, and fumbling with a lock for a few seconds under the shade of night isn’t going to ring anyone’s alarm bells. I’ll be fine, but my little Shaye will not. She’s going to have a pretty rough night if it’s up to me.

  And it is up to me. I’m the one with two feet in the game and a head full of ideas that will break Shaye to my will. She’s woefully unprepared for what’s coming, and she doesn’t stand a chance against me with all that I know about her.

  I grip the steering wheel in one hand, cruising down the streets as the sun begins to set again. It’s only been a few days since I arrived in Paris, but it feels like much longer. A quick series of events contrasts the boredom of prison in such a stark way. Back then, I was lucky to get to do a few interesting things a year. Now, I’m doing them in a week.

  I’ll be early to the King-Smith Gallery, but then again, I don’t know when Shaye gets off work. She was last to leave yesterday at ten, but most of the others left before six. For all I know, I could miss her if I don’t hurry up.

  If she’s anything like her father, then she’s a workaholic and a night owl, so I won’t have to worry about her skipping out on work so early. If she weren’t my target for manipulation, she’d be of romantic interest, but only because I know that her ties to the street life are deeper than they appear. Maybe she’s up to something, and I just haven’t caught on yet.

  But even knowing her past, there’s an innocence about her that’s hard to shake. I get the feeling that after her parents died, she moved on from all that and is trying to be normal again.

  That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway. If so, I’ll be using that to my advantage. The past has a way of coming back when you least expect it, and you can never really run from the mafia. It always finds you, even if you flee the country and start working in an unassuming art museum in Paris.

  The mafia will always find you.

  I’m so deep into thought that I barely notice the light flashing behind me. It’s only when the obnoxious blare of a police siren hits me do I realize that I’m in trouble.

  What the fuck do they want now?

  I rip the shirt from my chest as I pull over, putting two wheels on the curb and shoving the mail carrier uniform in the compartment between the seats. I still have a gun in the car, and I’ll smoke this motherfucker if he tries to search me.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. I’m still surprised I never caught charges for that, but today could be my unlucky day. I suppose the past really does catch up to you eventually. That applies to me just as much as it does to Shaye.

  I grip the steering wheel hard in both hands, staring forward as I wait for the police officer to walk up to me and start giving commands. Glancing into the side mirror, he doesn’t look to be stressed out, which is a good sign. Maybe I have a taillight out.

  I roll down the window just enough to speak out of it, waiting for the police officer to come to a stop and peer into the car before I turn to look at him.

  “License, please,” he says.

  “Why’d you pull me over?” I ask, cutting to the point.

  “You’re going five over,” he replies, lazily chewing on a piece of gum as he speaks. The smell of menthol on his breath is strong, but not enough to hide the acrid smell of cigarettes. Gum never helps. Someone ought to tell him that.

  I sigh, reaching into my back pocket and pulling out my wallet. “I thought it was ten over that would get you pulled,” I say. Maybe things have changed since I was last a free man.

  “One over, and you’re speeding, sir,” the officer replies.

  I want to roll my eyes, but I hold back. I have too many things that I shouldn’t in this car to start pissing off the law. I slip my fresh ID out of my wallet and push it out through the crack in the window. I just had it issued a few days ago.

  “DeRose,” the officer says, rolling my last name off his tongue slowly. “When did they let you out?”

  Of course, he knows who I am. Everyone in law enforcement knows about the DeRose Mafia. We ducked their attempts to bring us down for years before they were able to catch us, and even when they did, I got let off easy.

  I grin at the officer. “A couple of days ago.”

  He nods, his tone changing from casual to cautious. “I hope you stay out of trouble this time around,” he says, handing my ID back to me.”

  “Clean as a laundromat,” I reply, unable to resist a joke about the money laundering charges I ducked during my trial.

  The officer squints his eyes at me. “I’m giving you a verbal warning for the speeding. Don’t let it happen again.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say playfully.

  He spins around, walking back to his car quicker than he came. I’m sure he’s just relieved that he didn’t get blasted through the car door. I’m also pretty sure that the only reason he gave me a warning was that he feared retaliation if he dropped a fine on my head. The police don’t like me, but they do fear me, even after all these years.

  I’m sure he’ll go home and brag to his wife about how he pulled me over, and I’m sure she’ll have no fucking clue what he’s talking about. But she’ll nod along, and she’ll be proud that he’s out there cleaning up the streets while she simultaneously dreams of being ravished by men like me.

  Well, maybe it’s me who is doing the dreaming. I haven’t had a woman in so long that my balls ache at the thought of touching one, especially when that one is as curvy and beautiful as Shaye.

  I wait for the cop to disappear from view before I pull off the curb and continue on my way to Paris, going fifteen over the entire way. If I can get pulled for five, then I don’t give a fuck about following the speed limit at all.

  Chapter 13

  Pierre

  Shaye leaves work earlier today, hurrying out at eight to avoid creeps like me. It’s too bad that she won’t be able to, because I’m already watching her from my car, rolling down the street, and looping around to keep an eye on her the entire way to her apartment building.

  She walks with a brisk stride, her head up with confidence that wasn’t there yesterday. She’s getting comfortable already, a good sign for me because I’ll need her to adapt well to new situations. I’m about to put her in one that will shake up her world considerably.

  Shaye has been through worse, but it’s been a while. I just wonder what drove her to France. Was it just the King-Smith Gallery? They can’t be paying her that much.

  But women romanticize Paris, and I wouldn’t put it past Shaye to be any different. Even I do it, and I’m French. Truthfully, it’s a romantic place, but I’ve never found romance here. It’s elusive in the mafia.

  Shaye turns out to live further than I thought, but that might be a good thing. I don’t want to be stirring up trouble right beside the gallery. I’m still trying to keep my image clean around these parts so I can pull this thing off without ending up behind bars.

  I part the car across the street from a crumbly brick building, watching Shaye disappear under the archway into the common area. I hope that her flat faces the street because then I’ll be able to tell which one is hers by the light coming on in the window in a minute or two.

  I smoke a cigarette while I wait, retrieving the mail uniform shirt and laying it out on the passenger’s seat to keep it from wrinkling. I’ll probably stretch out any wrinkles once I put it on, but I’m not taking risks tonight. I need to look legitimate.

  The seconds go slowly, but it isn’t long before a yellow light catches my attention. I tilt my head up, gazing toward the top of the building. I can just barely see the edge of the window up there, but that’s even better than I thought. Nobody will be able to see what’s happening in her flat from the street.

  No witnesses.

  I wait for half an hour, slowly getting myself prepared for the break-in. It’s better that I do it before she’s sleeping, but I want to make sure she doesn’t intend to leave to get groceries tonight. I
only get one shot to do this correctly.

  The light stays on upstairs, telling me that this is the best chance I’m going to get. I pull the gun out from the crack in the seat, tucking it into my waistband. It’s more for show than anything since I’m not planning on blowing Shaye’s brains out, even if she starts making noise. She’s not useful to me anymore if she’s dead.

  I slip out into the street, looking around for pedestrians before slinking toward the building that houses my prey. I look like a mailman who moonlights as a bouncer, but nobody is out to bother me about it.

  With a lockpick in my hand and a grim expression on my face, I confidently duck under the archway and stride up to the entrance of the building.

  Locks aren’t hard to pick. If anyone wanted to get into someone’s house, it wouldn’t be difficult. Locks are only there to dissuade opportunistic thieves. The ones who make a career out of it aren’t bothered by basic locks. They’d rather pick them than smash a window and set off alarms.

  I lean over the door, glancing back over my shoulder before shoving my pick into the hole. I follow it up with a tool to put tension on the rotating cylinder and begin scraping teeth inside until I’ve pushed them all into place. With a click, the lock comes open smoother than if I had used a real key.

  I return my little toolkit to my front pocket and step into the apartment. An automatic light comes on in the lobby, and an elevator hums away to my right, waiting diligently to bring me up to the top floor.

  Perfect.

  With these old-style elevators, it’s possible to prevent anyone else from stopping you and getting in on your way up. There’s another keyhole, this one intended for emergency or maintenance services to use, but it’s not difficult for me to pick it too. In fact, it’s even easier than the front door since it’s not designed to provide security.

  I mash down the button for the top floor while activating the lift switch, causing me to be pulled up to the top floor without any interruption. The elevator chirps a pleasant ding when I reach the top to signal my arrival.

  I peak out into the hallway. Nobody’s there.

  I step out onto the carpeted floor, treading lightly as I look for the door to Shaye’s flat. My sense of direction is impeccable, and I’m easily able to locate the front of the building.

  The last door down the hallway is number ninety-nine. There is no hundredth. That’s where the window is, and that’s where Shaye must also be.

  But I’m not going to rush in without knocking. That wouldn’t be very polite of me at all, and I consider myself to be a gentleman, even if nobody else does.

  I remove my backup plan from my pocket, a slip of paper addressed to Shaye. If I get the wrong room, then I’ll be able to ask directions to where Shaye resides. Sometimes, all you have to do is ask. Force is only needed when making the final pounce on your prey.

  The hallway is quiet, and even when I arrive at flat ninety-nine, I don’t hear a thing. But I know that this is where Shaye lives. I can smell the sweetness of her perfume in the air, a floral scent with a mixture of spice. I quite like it.

  I pull out my gun, hiding it behind my back and leaning in toward the door. This is my moment. This is when I put Shaye on her strings and make her dance to my wicked tunes.

  Chapter 14

  Shaye

  A knock on the door jolts me out of my meditative state. I open my eyes, frowning as I get up from my bed. I’m not wearing anything but a pair of small grey cotton panties, and I haven’t invested in a robe yet. I didn’t think I’d be getting so many visitors, but the postman seems to like delivering late at night.

  I swipe an oversized sweater from my dresser, throwing it over my head and shrugging off the fact that it hides very little of my thighs. In fact, when I lift my arms, my panties are on full display, but it’s not like I’ll be inviting anyone in. I’ll just poke my head out and accept my mail if that’s what this is all about.

  I pull the door open, not bothering to look through the peephole at who has arrived. I’m relaxed, careless, even, but I didn’t think I’d need to be on my toes in the safety of my apartment.

  It turns out that I was wrong. I was so horribly wrong.

  The moment I see his face, I know something dreadful is going on. He doesn’t let me consider what to do next but instead hijacks the situation and storms the room, grabbing me by the waist and jabbing a gun into my ribs as he walks me backward until my ass slams against the opposite wall.

  “Don’t make a fucking noise,” he growls into my ear, his mouth so close that I can feel the dampness of the words on my skin.

  My body tenses up, completely reversing my meditation efforts. I don’t know why he’s here, but judging by the gun stuck against my ribcage, he’s not delivering mail.

  Why is he dressed like a postman then?

  And didn’t I see this guy on the street last night?

  “Keep your mouth shut, and do what I say, and I won’t pump you full of led. Do you got that?” he asks into my ear with his deep French accent.

  I shudder before nodding.

  “Good. Now, let’s close this door and have some privacy, shall we?” He walks backward with me a few steps, using his foot to kick the door closed. Loosening his grip on me and stepping back, he keeps the gun still aimed at my midsection.

  I know better than to risk calling for help or making a grab for his gun. The way his eyes expand when he’s looking at me tells me that he’s well aware of anything I might choose to do from this point onward. He’s no amateur, and that’s what scares me the most.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper, trying to stop shaking as he glares at me.

  “I’m just here to talk, really,” he says, but he doesn’t lower his gun, and I doubt the legitimacy of his claim.

  “You don’t need a gun to talk,” I reply.

  He smirks. “It’s the only way to get the attention of a woman as beautiful as you,” he grumbles.

  His words send another shudder through me. His eyes are staring at me, meeting mine with such ferocious intensity that I’m terrified he’ll pounce on me.

  Did he follow me home from work so that he could have his way with me? I should’ve never stopped for him in the street.

  But it’s too late for regrets. He has me under his control, and I have no other choice but to go along with him, at least for the time being. I’m not sure yet what he actually wants from me, but it can’t be anything good.

  The man’s eyes sweep over me, traveling up my thighs as his smirk grows bigger. His eyes land between my legs for a moment before returning to my face. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he says slowly.

  “I’m wondering a lot of things right now,” I reply.

  He chuckles. “Well, I’ll answer those in due time. First, let’s start with introductions. My name is Pierre DeRose.”

  I press my lips together, unsure if I should entertain his games with a response.

  “This is the part where you tell me that your name is Shaye Dawn,” Pierre says.

  My jaw drops as hard as my stomach does. How the hell does he know who I am?

  Pierre is amused. His expression is cocky now that he’s called me out. The ball is in his hands, but I still don’t know what this is all about. I have a dreadful feeling that it has something to do with my past.

  Pierre loosens his posture, taking on a more conversational tone. “I knew your father.”

  Oh god, this is something from my past, but I thought I had managed to escape all of that. I moved far away from the house my family used to live in. I escaped the prison system, and I started a new life. I’ve even moved to another country, and yet someone still knows who I am.

  How? And perhaps more importantly, why?

  “What are you doing in Paris, by the way?” Pierre asks, looking toward my kitchen. He looks back at me before I can reply. “I’d like a cup of tea if you don’t mind.”

  I’m thrown off by his attitude. “You can have tea,” I reply, no
t knowing anything else to do but to go along with him.

  “I’d like you to make it for me,” he replies. “I’m somewhat old-fashioned.”

  Once in the kitchen area, there’s nowhere for me to run. I’ll be boxed in and completely under his rule, but it’s not like I’m not already trapped. He’s standing in front of the door, and there’s no other way out.

  Pierre waves toward the stove with his gun. “Go on. I had to wait out in the cold for you, and I’m still a bit chilly.”

  I’m surprised I’m not stuck to the floor in fear. My feet drag as I walk toward the kitchen, but they permit me to move them. When it comes to fight or flight, I just freeze right up. I suppose that’s what kept me from taking up arms and ending up dead like my parents did during the raid.

  “What kind of tea do you have?” Pierre asks, locking the door and walking calmly toward the kitchen. If he wasn’t holding a gun, he’d look like any regular guest.

  “I only have lemon balm,” I reply.

  “Good for the stomach,” he says, patting his trim midsection.

  “I suppose so,” I reply. “It’s also good for anxiety.”

  “Do you suffer from a lot of that?” he asks, tilting his head to the side as I fill the kettle with water from the sink.

  “I do when I have a gun pointed at me.”

  He looks down at his gun and then back up at me. “Once we arrive on a good enough deal, I’ll put it away.”

  A deal.

  I don’t think I want to do any type of business with this terrible man. If he knew my father, then it must mean that he’s involved with the mafia somehow. Those are the worst type of men. They’re the kind who have no respect for anything but their own selfishness and twisted desires.

  I open the drawer, pulling out a box of matches and striking it. I consider my options, but the only ones I have are the ones that Pierre gives me unless I want to risk throwing a kettle at him and making a run for the door.