by Raven Dark
Ensnared
The Mafia’s Prisoner Book One
Raven Dark
Ensnared (The Mafia’s Prisoner Book 1)
Copyright © 2019 Raven Dark, all rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Please purchase only authorized editions of this book, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials.
Cover by Raven Dark
Edited by Misty Stoneheart
Images courtesy of Depositphotos
Created with Vellum
Contents
Note To Readers
Prologue: Poison
1. Betrayal
2. The Gift of Justice
3. Rules
4. Tasting Innocence
5. Twisted
6. Jealous
7. The Shower
8. Silent Treatment
9. Distraction
10. Innocuous
11. Liar
12. The Last Straw
13. Defying Sir
14. Traitor
15. Letting Go
16. An Incentive to Stay Put
17. One Day
18. Imposter
19. True Darkness
20. Desperate
Epilogue: Alone
Connect with Raven Dark
Dedication
For Mandi, Susy, and Marsha, who love the dark side, and whose gifts of friendship are without equal.
And for Ilyena, my Russian sounding board. He is for you.
Enjoy the depravity that is Michael.
Note To Readers
This book contains dark elements and scenes that may be objectionable for some readers. Michael (pronounced me-KHYE-el with a back-throated ‘K’) is a twisted antihero who courts death and embraces killing as if they were his lovers, and who takes what he wants without mercy. His moral compass isn’t just off center—it’s well and truly broken. If you have triggers, please do not read this book.
Prologue: Poison
A predator.
Some days, I know that’s exactly what I am. I watch, I wait, and then I take what I want without a care for how others feel on the matter. But other days, days when I wake up in the dark and dreams scatter from memory like dust from a grave, I know I am something so much worse.
I am darkness. I am death. I am evil.
Was I born this way? Or was I made? Well, today, it doesn’t matter. Today, all that matters is that I carry out the next phase in my plan. The plan that will eventually allow me to take what’s mine before the urges that have haunted me for weeks cause someone to suffer.
As soon as I step out of the doors of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, I see her.
Aurora. Aurora Romano, the daughter of one of the richest and most feared men in New York, and a girl who’s been under my skin since before I was old enough to be thinking about girls.
She stands at the bus stop, looking down the busy, darkened sidewalk. Busses pull in and out of the terminal headed this way and that, but there’s no sign of the bus she’s waiting for. She rubs her gloved hands together, trying to ward off the frigid winter cold. She puts them to her mouth, attempting to heat them with the warmth of her breath.
Breath I would have given anything to feel on my skin, brushing across the length of my cock before I shove it past those perfect, plump lips of hers and into her perfect mouth.
After all these years, it’s still a strange thing, this disdain that burns in my veins, warring with a desire that fills me like poison. She is poison. Her whole family is a black hole of destruction, and the lust that rages in my blood carries the oh, so sweet tang of revenge.
Aurora’s eyes momentarily flick to me as I pat the pockets of my leather jacket, as if looking for a ticket. Her eyes settle on me just long enough to catch a glimpse of their electric blue depths before focusing on the bus lane once more.
Before this month, she hadn’t seen me in nine years, so it’s no surprise that, with the hood of my sweater pulled up, she doesn’t recognize me. To her, I am just a man. She doesn’t see the monster that’s been watching her for weeks. It won’t be long before she will see what I truly am.
Aurora is beyond beautiful. With her pale, porcelain features and dainty frame, she looks incredibly innocent, though the little minx is far from it. She looks so out of place in this overcrowded city permeated with the smell of old grease and thick exhaust. A printsessa among paupers, she belongs in a Russian palace. She belongs with me, locked in a prison of my making, where I can taint her perfection the way I should have years ago. Where I can snuff out the light that shines inside her like the fragile flame that she is.
A tourist stops and asks me for directions to The Plaza Hotel, giving me the perfect excuse to watch her a moment longer without looking suspicious. Keeping my gaze on my prize, I give the directions, barely noticing the stranger grunting something and walking away.
Bouncing on her feet and shivering, Aurora peers through the swirling snow for the bus again, desperate for warmth that refuses to save her.
Desperation is something I understand. It’s something I’ve hardened myself against, but it’s also a dangerous emotion I know how to use against those who let it consume them.
The wind dies down, leaving a dusting of snow to settle on the mass of dark curls that frame Aurora’s face like a cloud. I imagine those endless curls wrapped around my fist while I take her mercilessly from behind.
The indulgence is a mistake. My dick hardens until it’s as solid as fucking rebar. I force myself not to jeopardize everything and shove her into the back of my car, trussed up and gagged. I didn’t become one of the youngest crime bosses in Russian history by being impatient or acting like a brainless caveman.
Aurora fishes inside her knee-length black coat and pulls out her wallet. She takes out her ticket, but drops it. The paper flutters to the sidewalk. Cursing, she bends over to retrieve it. A smile toys with my mouth. She’s presented me with a perfect view of her sexy as hell, heart-shaped ass.
A breeze catches the ticket and blows it into a nearby storm drain. “Oh, shit,” she groans. She drops to her knees and slips her fingers into the drain, trying to reach the ticket. Another curse as she comes up empty-handed.
I have the absurd urge to walk right over there and blister her ass until she howls for making a trip like this alone, potentially endangering what’s mine. The urge momentarily douses my disdain for her, threatening to extinguish it.
Fuck. The woman is my prey, not my girlfriend. I’m supposed to be studying her, looking for the opportunity to procure her without upsetting the fragile truce between her family and mine, not protecting her from her own carelessness. If I plan this right, within the week, she’ll be locked in a cell, allowed out only when she’s in my bed. Or when she’s on her knees, sucking me off.
Again, she tries to reach through the grate but can’t grab the ticket. She makes a small, desperate sound in her throat. It’s an achingly beautiful sound, like a tiny creature caught in a trap.
This is exactly the opportunity I need. It also might be my only chance to get close to her for who knows how long. I move in for the kill.
Crossing the icy walk to her, I dig a couple of bills out of my pocket, squat down, and hand one of them to her.
“Here, buy yourself a new one.” I’m careful to ditch my Russian accent when I speak. Here, a thick accent like mine sticks out like a sore thumb; she’d know my voice as soon as she heard it.
With her focus on the drain and the now soggy ticket dow
n there, she jumps at the sound of my voice. Jerking to a stand, she clutches her heart. A smile appears on those kitten pink lips of hers when she looks at me. A thrill races through me.
Her happiness is another thing I know how to use, how to twist it into such agonizing pain that she will do anything to return to the safety that joy brings.
“Sorry I scared you.” I put on my best charming smile and wait for her to take the money.
I’m not sorry. I love the wide-eyed, pale-faced expression I caught before she saw my smile and relaxed. Her heart is probably hammering.
“No worries.” Her eyes widen at the hundred dollar bill in my hand. “Oh, my God.” She flashes me a teasing look. “You think it’s enough?” The way her eyes sparkle with conversational humor is a far cry from her father’s icy stare. So is the hint of nervousness in her laugh.
I have a feeling the hundred isn’t what makes her nervous. At a little over five feet, she barely comes up to my chest. At six and a half feet, I’m a mountain to her, and every inch layered with muscle. Except she has no idea there is a lot more to fear from me than my size or strength.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s pocket change for me.”
She blinks at me. Her gaze takes in the hundred, then fixates on the distinctive tattoo of a black raven on the back of my hand. Intrigue flashes in her eyes before they return to my half-hidden face. The woman tries to see beyond the shadows of my hood, but she won’t see more than a hint of masculine features with the hood pulled forward. My little bird is not a fool. I can see her trying to figure me out. Trying to work out if I’m a creepy guy looking to get into her pants. The assessment is amusing, because it’s absolutely right. Except that I don’t need to try, and I don’t need to bribe her to get what I want from her.
Apparently, she saw enough, because her pupils dilate as attraction turns her cheeks a rosy pink. Then her face clears and her expression becomes guarded.
“No thanks. I’m not taking a small fortune from you.” She smirks as if I’ve given something away. I probably have, but I don’t care. “Besides, the fare to Atlantic City is only thirty dollars.”
“When are you coming back to New York?”
She puts her pretty head back, looking half irritated, half amused. “Friday morning, but—”
“Wait right there.” I stride over to a kiosk and quickly buy a round trip ticket. Then I go back and hold it out to her.
“Oh, no, I can’t.” She shakes her head, her eyes filled with warm gratitude. “You don’t have to do—”
I ignore her words and reach out, pushing the ticket into her coat pocket. Her eyes go wide again, her pupils growing larger. She tenses, snatching in a breath—at my closeness, I hope. I step back before she can think to put precious space between us.
“Take it. I’d rather you got there safe.” I offer her another smile, delighting in the confusion on her face.
Her father has a saying he’s fond of. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Every time he says it, I want to break his nose, but the words are true, and I wonder if she’s thinking of those same words now.
Her mouth opens twice, only to close each time.
I could have grabbed her right then. The station is busy, but there are ways I could have forced her to go along leaving no one the wiser. I also could have offered her a ride. But such an impulsive move would have been beyond stupid. The truce between the Volkov and Romano families has been as fragile as a spider’s web for years. If I took her now, I’d lose a vital ally to my family’s empire. And if I had her in my car all the way to AC, I couldn’t have resisted taking her for myself for that long. I hate Vincent Romano, but I have no desire to start an international Mafia war.
It takes all my effort to turn away from her and head toward my car. Especially when the wind carries the subtle scent of her vanilla shampoo to my nose.
I inhale the scent deeply as I walk away, savoring the all too brief whiff of her fragrance. A short way from the bus stop, I turn, allowing myself one last look at her. At the daughter of the man who destroyed my life.
At the prize I will soon collect for his insolence.
The bus to Atlantic City pulls up to her stop. My heart exults with an unwelcome pang of joy when she looks back at me with an upturn of her pretty mouth and a nod. She steps onto the bus, gives the driver her ticket, and then takes her seat. I see her slip a pair of ear buds into her ears and settle in for the three-hour trip.
Getting in my car a few minutes later, I start the vehicle and turn up the heat. The bus pulls out of the terminal, heading down the street, and I watch it until the last second, until it vanishes from view.
Normally, I’d have had a driver, but I wasn’t about to bring anyone with me on such a sensitive excursion as this. Life has taught me that trust is something few people in this world can earn, especially from a man like me. There is only one person in this world I do wholly trust, and it isn’t a member of my staff.
Letting the car warm up a bit, I open the glove compartment and take out a souvenir hidden there—a cobalt blue silk scarf. I bring the soft fabric to my nose and inhale the familiar vanilla scent that lingers there. Vanilla mixed with the scent that is uniquely hers.
Aurora’s.
It’s the scent of rapture, of poison and, if I’m not careful, my undoing.
I inhale the scent again and my dick rages in response. I’m tempted to do what I’ve done so many times with that scarf right there in the car, undoing my pants and jacking off with the cloth wrapped around my cock while imagining it’s her warm, perfect pussy milking me.
I shove the temptation down. It won’t be long until I’ll no longer have to settle for getting off to the mere fantasy of her. Eventually, Aurora or her asshole of a father will make a mistake, and when they do, she will be mine. All I have to do is ensnare her.
I rub the soft silk between my fingers. “Soon, kravitsa,” I mutter into the darkness. “Soon.”
Chapter 1
Betrayal
I’m standing at a street corner waiting for the light to change when my day officially goes down the shitter.
Not much has gone right today even before it happens. It’s thirty-five degrees, and in this cold, with the sidewalks so icy, I’ve already fallen twice. Then I ended up in the world’s longest line at the coffee shop, where I’d promptly spilled half the java on my coat. I’ve walked from the bus stop toward my father’s upscale apartment on the Upper East Side. Unless I want to be late for work, I’ll have to say what I came to say quickly and leave, hoping he’ll listen this time.
When Vincent Romano gets a notion in his head, he never lets it go.
I lick my chapped lips for what must be the tenth time. In twenty-five years, conversations with my dad have never stopped putting me on edge. Conversations with my father put anyone who knows him on edge. It comes with the territory.
I can just imagine him now. First, he’ll mother me, insisting that he hire me a driver, especially if he realizes I’ve fallen. Then he’ll shake his head at the coffee stain on my coat and tsk at me for looking like a slob. For not looking like the perfect Mafia Don’s daughter, and why can’t I be more like Isabella?
At which point, while throwing me one of his cashmere coats that smells like sandalwood and cigars, he’ll get to the heart of the matter. I need to let a man take care of me, someone who can fulfill my every need. Someone like Antonio Patrelli, his best friend, and a man I wouldn’t walk down the aisle with if he was the last man on Earth.
The light still hasn’t changed. Wishing I hadn’t forgotten my gloves this morning, I shove my hands into my pockets. This must be the longest red light in New York history.
A piece of paper scrapes my fingers and I pull it out of the pocket, glancing at it. It’s the ticket to Atlantic City that guy at the bus top bought me two days ago. I smile at the memory of his unexpected kindness. Who says chivalry is dead? I knew nothing about him, hadn’t even seen more than a hint of his face, but what I had see
n left me with the impression he was beyond hot.
I shove the ticket stub back in my pocket. It’s silly, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.
The light finally changes.
And that’s when it happens. A moment unfolds, right there down the street, the kind that, once you see it, leaves an indelible imprint on your mind and burns into your soul.
The van comes out of nowhere. It’s one of those big white ones with tinted black windows, with no logo. It tears around the corner three blocks from my dad’s apartment building, then skids up alongside a pretty blond girl making her way down the street. In a split second, before she can do more than turn around, two men on the street grab her and throw her into the van. There’s no sound from the girl; if I’d blinked, I’d have missed the whole thing.
“Shit…”
My heart is in my throat as the men hop in, shout at the driver to floor it, and slam the door. As the tires squeal away, I whip my head around to glance at the retreating back end of the vehicle. Fuck, there’s no plates.
Letting the girl’s image burn itself into my brain, I take out my phone, my hands trembling. I’ve always had a good memory for details, something that has served me well in the line of work I’m going in to. She had pretty blond hair in a ponytail that bobbed when she walked, a vivid red sweatshirt, and one of those trendy Star Wars backpacks every kid wears these days. She can’t have been more than fifteen.
