Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

I push my legs together, clamping down on the surge of excitement that tingles in my lower half. This isn’t the time nor the place for me to become infatuated with a man. I had all the time in the world when I was in school, and I never took the chance. Now, when everything is on the line, I’m getting swept up in something as superficial as a nice set of abs and –

  Holy shit, his arms are bigger than I thought they were!

  A thick vein runs through the supple bulge of his bicep, leading into many more on his forearms. Dark strands of hair do little to hide the size and definition of his muscles. I bet he could crush a human skull in his hand with ease. His grip would be inescapable.

  I shudder, but not out of fear. It’s more of a morbid excitement, thinking back to the life I used to live. How easy would it be to dip back in and taste the pleasure that comes from giving in to your sinful desires?

  Pierre looks toward me, and I quickly act like I’m doing something important in the kitchen, taking a wooden spoon out of the drawer to stir the pasta.

  As soon as he sits down on the bed, I look at him again. He’s gazing out of the window at the city, like I always do before going to bed. It’s a beautiful sight, and I wouldn’t want to disturb his moment, so I don’t say anything. I simply enjoy the view of his broad back as he leans toward the glass.

  I chop garlic, prepare the sauce, and strain the noodles all while Pierre sits stoically on the bed, still gazing out of the window. Part of me wants to know what he’s thinking about, but the other part of me is afraid. He’s either seething with hatred for me, or he’s not.

  The second possibility is more concerning.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I announce, holding up two bowls of pasta and smiling.

  He turns around on the bed, a lazy look in his striking grey eyes. “Bring it here, and let’s talk business.”

  Chapter 20

  Shaye

  “I’m not really much of a salesperson,” I say, taking a final bite of my dinner as I sit cross-legged on the bed in front of Pierre.

  He shrugs. “I’m sure that you can handle it.”

  “What if I can’t?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

  “Then I will punish you,” he says with a wink.

  I shiver harder than I ever have before. “What do you mean by that?” I ask, my voice flooding with nervousness despite my best attempts to quell the uncomfortable feeling in my belly. It’s not from the food, that’s for damn sure.

  “A punishment is a way of encouraging good behavior and discouraging bad behavior,” he explains.

  I roll my eyes. “Pierre, I know what the definition of the word is.”

  “And that’s all you need to know,” he replies.

  “How about we do the opposite, though,” I say. “Like, you give me a reward if I manage to sell the painting to someone, and if I don’t, well, you just leave me alone.”

  He chuckles, lifting a fork to his lips. “That’s cute. I wouldn’t mind giving you a reward either, to be honest.”

  I shiver again, but it isn’t from the cold. I’ve managed to make my flat quite warm, but it’s Pierre who keeps doing this to me. I shouldn’t have goosebumps on my arms and legs every time he opens his evil mouth.

  “So,” he says, standing up abruptly. “You know the deal.”

  I stand up with him, eager to follow him and let him out of the door if he’s decided to leave. It’s late, and bad things happen after ten. I know that already.

  “I know the deal,” I say as he grabs his shirt off the chair.

  “Repeat it back to me. I want to be sure,” he orders.

  “I’m supposed to sell the Red Door to someone who looks like they wouldn’t have good house security, although I don’t know how I would know something like that,” I begin to say.

  “You would know because the customer wouldn’t be buying it for a gallery. They’d just really like the painting.”

  “And why would they like the painting so much to spend a half million euros on it?” I ask.

  “I told you,” he says, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his shirt with aggressive force. “Give them a discount or something and use your feminine charm.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Feminine charm?”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “Your tits and ass.”

  My mouth drops, shocked by his language. I shouldn’t be because that’s how a lot of mafia men talk, but he hasn’t suggested such crude things to me yet. This is totally out of the blue.

  He nods, his eyes wide and dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, Shaye. You have tits and a nice plump ass, so use them to sell the fucking painting, and we can be done with this.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to him. My cheeks are already glowing with heat, and the tingling in my lower half has spread throughout my whole body. I’m jittery with what is either nervousness… or excitement.

  “You have a pretty face too, so you could probably use your lips if it came down to it,” Pierre says, giving me a wink as he buttons his shirt over his thick chest.

  “My lips?” I ask, too dumbfounded to make sense of what he’s saying.

  He pushes his tongue into the side of his cheek several times, his eyes staring me down as he mimes a blowjob.

  I recoil, letting out a high-pitched sound that more closely resembles a yelp than a scoff.

  “You do what you have to do,” Pierre says, grinning at my reaction.

  “I’m not sucking someone’s cock to sell a painting,” I say, immediately picturing myself dropping to my knees on the hard floor of the museum and wrapping my lips around a throbbing, veiny penis. Except when I look up, it’s not some creepy old guy. It’s be Pierre.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and shake the thought from my head. I’d rather throw myself out of my window than give a blowjob to Pierre. Why the hell would I even think of such a thing?

  Pierre slips into his leather shoes, looking up at me with that arrogant smile still plastered to his stupid face. “Mouth, pussy, ass… I guess you can choose then. Just get the job done.”

  “I don’t need to whore myself out to sell a fucking painting,” I retort. “And I wouldn’t do that, anyway.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t,” he says, “But I know your kind. Your kind will do anything to maintain their power.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I snap. “And I don’t have any idea what you mean by my kind.”

  Except that I do. He means mafia girls, the ones who are willing to kill, steal, and yes, fuck just to move up in the world.

  But I’m done with that. That’s not who I am. He’s just messing with my head, trying to confuse me and gain the upper hand.

  Pierre steps toward me, his coat draped over his arm. The energy in the room shifts, thickening like a cloud of smoke from a pile of burning leaves. “You’re telling me that you wouldn’t give up your body for power?” he asks.

  “I already said I wouldn’t,” I reply, folding my arms over my chest, if not just to hide the hard bumps of my nipples under my blouse.

  “So, you wouldn’t drop to your knees if it meant that I’d just… disappear?”

  “You wouldn’t disappear,” I reply.

  “But what if I did? Would you do it?” he asks, coming so close that I can smell the faint smokey scent on his coat and feel his hot breath on my forehead as he looks down at me.

  “Is that an offer or a hypothetical question?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat for even thinking about considering it.

  “That’s all I needed to know about you,” he says, shaking his head and turning away from me.

  “Wait!” I grab his shirt, only realizing how pitiful I sound when he turns around and gives me an annoyed look.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You put words in my mouth. I’m not like that,” I say, trying desperately to save face after the damage has already been done.

  He chuckles. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he says, then he turns around and walks out the door.

  What a fucking asshole.


  I angrily turn the lock on the door, making damn well sure that he won’t come prancing back in here when he decides to test whether I would actually suck him off or not. The answer would be no a million times over. I was stupid to even ask him anything about it.

  I trudge back to my bed, dropping my pants as I go. I won’t be able to fall asleep just yet, but I’m drawn to the spot where Pierre was sitting. Warmth still clings to the sheets from his heavy body.

  My hands run over the spot, feeling the close memory of Pierre before I dive into the bed, twisting my body around against the cotton blankets and inhaling his treacherous scent. This is going to get me in trouble, but I’m in such a distressed state that I don’t even care.

  I shove my hand into my panties, feeling the wetness there as I sprawl out in Pierre’s indent in the mattress.

  Bad!

  I’m such a horrible woman for wanting this. It sickens me to the core that I would get so wet over a man who’s done nothing but use and manipulate me for his own gain.

  I could tell myself that this is the way that I reclaim my power, by sexualizing him and making him my fantasy instead of the other way around, but that’s delusional thinking. I’m the victim here, not the other way around, and I shouldn’t be touching myself to the thought of Pierre’s rumbling French accent.

  Oh, but I am, and that’s how good girls get into trouble. That’s how they slip back into their wicked ways and give in to the darkness that’s been lurking beneath the surface ever since they escaped a prison sentence.

  I rub my hand over my clit, my stomach tightening at the thought of Pierre still being in the building. He’s probably not even on the ground floor yet, and I’m about to cum to the smell of him on my sheets.

  I close my eyes, letting go as the pleasure floods through my body. My hips rise as though to accept a cock that isn’t there, and I allow myself to let out a moan.

  Pierre will never know, but he’ll always wonder what it’s like to have me, just as I wonder what it’s like to have him.

  Chapter 21

  Pierre

  The sting of whiskey in the back of my throat reminds me that I’m here to have a good time, not a long time. There are plenty of women in the world other than Shaye. I shouldn’t even think twice about sticking my cock in another pussy. I need to get off, and it might as well be tonight.

  But the women wrapped in lace, spinning around poles and tempting hard-earned euros out of cheating husbands do nothing for me. With enough cash spent, I could bring one home, but it wouldn’t satisfy me in the same way as feeling the warmth of Shaye’s pink insides.

  She considered it, but she knew I wouldn’t leave. She’d be right about that, too, since I doubt I’d be able to let her go that easily if I came inside of her mouth. I’d have to have her pussy after that, and probably her ass too.

  I get greedy sometimes, and when I do, I get sloppy. That’s not the way this should go. I should take a woman home with me tonight and delete the thought of claiming Shaye from my head once and for all.

  “Hey, honey,” a throaty voice purrs beside me.

  I don’t even need to glance over to know that a dancer has slipped into the seat beside me at the bar. I light a cigarette to match the smell coming off of her body, taking a drag before blowing smoke toward her.

  “Fuck off,” I grumble.

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady,” she teases.

  They never let up. It’s their job to work through your flaws and squeeze every penny out of you. I should’ve dressed like a junkie. Then, I wouldn’t have been bothered at all. My suit attracts half-naked dancers like flies.

  I sigh, dragging my glass of whiskey toward me and taking another sip. “What’s up with you?” I finally ask, giving in to having a chat with the woman. I shouldn’t be so rude. She’s just doing her job.

  “That’s more like it,” she says, scooting closer. “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new in town?”

  Same old questions. Nothing has changed.

  “I just got out of prison, so I guess you can say I’m new. This place didn’t even exist ten years ago when they locked me up,” I say.

  “Wow, I always liked bad boys,” she replies.

  I chuckle. “I doubt it.”

  “What’s the appeal of a straight shooter, then, if you know so much about me already?” she asks, trying to eat away at my resistance.

  Normally, I’d play along, dancing to the tune of seduction until I threw enough money down to take her home. The seedier the nightclub, the more likely it is to happen, and this place is just about as grimy as a sewer.

  But tonight, I’m really not in the mood for it. Shaye has me twisted around her finger without knowing it, and I’m not interested in other women. I know what I want, and I’ll be satisfied with nothing else. That’s always how it goes.

  I take a drag of my cigarette, tapping off the ash into a glass tray between the hopeful dancer and me. “Listen,” I say, “The good guys win in the end. That’s the truth of the matter.”

  “Ah,” she says, lifting a finger. “But the bad have much more fun.”

  “Depends on your definition of fun.”

  “My definition of fun would be a night in the sheets with a hand on my throat and a cock up my ass,” she hisses, crinkling her nose in utter delight.

  If it’s acting, she’s damn good at it. I suspect this one is actually into me, which is concerning. These clubs just keep getting worse, and I’m sure she has an absolutely tragic past.

  All I can do is feel sorry for her, but I’m definitely not sticking my dick in that.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” I say, ashing my cigarette again. “I told you to fuck off, and you haven’t, so I’m going to tell you one more time, and then things get bad for you, okay?”

  She frowns, grabbing her drink from the bar and slinking off to find some other man to milk for his cash. It’s her job, and I don’t have anything against that, but I’m not in the mood. Maybe I should just leave.

  Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll finish my drink and leave. I might even find another bar if it’s not too much trouble. The only place I have to sleep is my car, and it’s still parked across from the King-Smith Gallery.

  I take a sip of my whiskey, rolling the amber taste off my tongue before swallowing. Shaye pops into my head, and she’s wearing those grey cotton panties again. If I made her wet while she was in them, it would show up so clearly in the fabric, dark and delicious.

  I feel a heavy tap on my shoulder, and I turn around. A disgruntled bald man with a roided-up physique stands behind me with his eyes lowered in an aggressive frown at me.

  Great, I probably pissed off the dancer, and now the bouncer is going to kick me out.

  “Were you threatening Crystal?” the bouncer asks, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

  I shrug. “I told her to fuck off so that I could finish my drink in peace.”

  “Well. You ain’t going to finish it, man. I need you out of here, now,” he barks.

  “Sure,” I say, taking another sip of whiskey. “After I finish my drink.”

  “Are you deaf?”

  “No, but I am thirsty,” I reply, not budging an inch from my seat. I don’t like meatheads telling me what to do. In fact, I don’t like anyone telling me what to do. I’m the one who makes the rules around here.

  “You got another thing coming if you think I’m going to let you finish that drink, buddy.”

  “I’m not your buddy,” I reply, standing up.

  “Get out,” the bouncer growls.

  The urge to deck him is no longer filtered out by the need to lay low. A spike in testosterone at Shaye’s apartment, followed by a generous portion of whiskey, has drowned out any opposition to violence, and I’ve been itching to take out my frustration on someone.

  And yet, I won’t make the first move. I still have some sense in me, after all.

  Still, I doubt this guy is going to try to fight someone his
own size unless prompted, so I do what any guy looking for a fight would do. “Make me,” I say.

  The fist comes, but it’s in slow motion. I’ve been in plenty of fights, often with my life on the line, so I know a right hook when I see one. Plus, this guy is beefy, and there’s no way he does proper cardio. There can’t be much more to his routine than injecting himself with absurd amounts of growth hormones and doing the same three vanity workouts twice a week.

  I duck his fist, moving in to lay one of my own squarely on his already crooked nose. I aim for the left side. Maybe I’ll do him a favor by setting it straight, but I doubt he’ll be thanking me for it.

  The second my knuckles hit his nose, I know he’s going down. I don’t know my own strength sometimes, and historically, I’ve been all about taking them down in the first shot.

  I don’t fight for fun. I fight to kill.

  Of course, trying to kill a bouncer would get me into a world of trouble, especially since it’d be caught on camera, so I back away after the first punch.

  “Anyone else?” I ask, looking around the room as the bouncer topples over onto the floor, out cold.

  I’m met with a dozen or so frightened gazes, but nobody else dares to challenge me.

  Good. I’m not looking to start a huge brawl. One punch is enough to satisfy my bloodlust for now.

  I take a final swig of my drink, emptying the glass and slamming it down on the bar. The dancer who ratted me out to the bouncer is hiding behind a white sofa, peeking over it with wide eyes.

  I wink at her before I leave the club.

  The night is cold, but I can barely feel it as I walk to my car to fall asleep. I hope some asshole doesn’t try to wake me up and move me in the morning, but I doubt it. Nobody’s bothered me since I found a free spot, and I sleep in the back where I’m not easily visible with my dark window tint.

  I’d prefer spending the night at Shaye’s, and now I’m starting to wonder why I didn’t just stay there before. It would be a lot more comfortable than being crammed in the back of my car.

  But beggars can’t be choosers, so once I arrive at my car, I make myself as comfortable as I can be and close my eyes to sleep.