Captive for Christmas

by Annabelle Winters

  CAPTIVE FOR CHRISTMAS

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  Copyright © 2019 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

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  Cover Design by S. Lee

  CAPTIVE FOR CHRISTMAS

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  BRUSCO BARZINI

  I stroke my jaw, the rough stubble reminding me I haven’t shaved in days. That’s not like me. I keep my face clean, my clothes crisp, my shoes shiny. As for my business . . . well, that’s fucking dirty as hell, messy as sin, scuffed and scarred like my fists used to get when I was a younger man, before I got sent off to Italy to be groomed to take over the family business in America.

  The Family business.

  Family with a capital F.

  And it’s a chaotic, unpredictable, messy business, I think as I enter the room and immediately pick up her feminine scent mixed with the sharpness of fresh pine, the spiciness of the Yule logs burning in the fireplace, the warmth of chocolate and sugar from the kitchens in the East Wing of my mansion. Maybe the chaos of my work is why I’m obsessed with neatness and order in every other part of my life. And maybe that’s why the events of the past few days have shaken me out of my routine, affected me in a way that even my own parents’ deaths a few months ago didn’t.

  “A bit early for a Christmas gift, isn’t it?” I say with a coldness that I hope hides the heat that’s coursing through my hard, lean frame. The one part of my routine I didn’t skip this past week was my workout, taking care of my body.

  But right now Bari Bellano’s body is the only thing I want to care of, and I take a slow breath when I see her sitting on my polished leather couch, a dark red dress hugging her tremendous curves, her lustrous brown hair perfectly coiffed, long black eyelashes like a dragonfly’s wings. The Yule fire rages in its red-brick enclosure behind her, framing her in a flickering glow that takes my damned breath away, makes me wonder if I’m being played, makes me fucking sure I’m being played.

  “In my family the gifts are under the tree well before Christmas,” she says softly, blinking and glancing down at the carpet, her hands posed on her knees, legs tight together even though I’m already imagining pulling them apart to see what secrets lie hidden between those divinely thick thighs.

  “Well, the Bellano Family just gave you to me, Ms. Bari. Which means you’re in my family now, yes?” I whisper, feeling my cock move when she looks up at me with those big brown eyes that can’t hide the hatred, can’t hide the rage, can’t hide the simple fact that she’d kill me in an instant if she got the chance.

  And you know what?

  I don’t fucking blame her.

  I’d want to kill me too.

  After all, that’s how justice works in our world, doesn’t it? Death is repaid with death. Blood with blood. The law of the jungle reigns supreme. We’re no better than animals, even though we’re living in jeweled mansions in America, with running water and clean sheets.

  I rub my stubble again as I think of taking her to my bed, seeing her naked on my clean sheets, getting her dirty and wet as I take what’s been given to me as a peace offering, just like in the old days of Kings and Queens. Back then the most lasting truces were made when two great families were joined in marriage. That’s how wars were prevented. That’s how empires were built.

  Of course, there’s been no promise of marriage or even that I’ll let her live to see Christmas morning, I think as my mind swirls with the game that’s being played between our two families. A game that started afresh when I got back from Italy and was crowned King, Godfather, Head of the Barzini Family. The next day Bari Bellano’s parents—the patriarch and matriarch of the Bellano Family—were gunned down in their own home like it was a fucking Scorsese movie.

  Gunned down on your orders, comes the whisper from Bari’s tortured soul, those brown eyes looking into my green orbs in a way that makes me stiffen to the point where I can barely fucking breathe. Am I hearing things now? Are those eyes speaking to me?

  For a moment I almost break, almost tell her the damned truth: That I didn’t order the hit! That I had nothing to do with it! That I’m a mobster, a murderer, and maybe even a monster. But I’m not a fucking idiot. Make no mistake—I most certainly want to wipe out the Bellanos, take over their territory, own every inch of this city. But I’m not about to ride into town, guns blazing, and start a goddamn mafia war the moment I take over the family empire! Yes, the Barzini Family would win a war—we can outgun and outspend the Bellanos with our eyes closed. But a war costs more than bullets and dollars. It costs lives. It costs time.

  It costs trust.

  And trust is priceless.

  A ripple passes through my body as I take a step towards Bari, wondering if I can trust those eyes. The hatred looks real. The anger looks real. The pain looks real. But even if it isn’t an act, it could still be a setup. A play for power by the generals of the Bellano Family. Kill the Bellano king and queen and send the curvy little princess off to the enemy, leaving the empire up for grabs. The oldest fucking play in the book, isn’t it?

  No, I think as she looks up at me, her smooth cheeks glowing in the firelight, her eyes blazing like embers, her curves sending flames through my fucking soul as my cock reminds me that the oldest game in the book isn’t the game of power and dominance . . .

  It’s the game of man and woman.

  The game of love.

  And I almost choke as the realization hits me like lightning, reverberates through me like thunder, shakes me like an earthquake. Because I know this game just got very fucking complicated.

  It got complicated the moment I stepped into this room and looked upon her pretty face.

  It got complicated the moment my body responded to her feminine presence the way it did.

  It got complicated because of the simplest fucking thought that’s screaming through my head, my heart, my damned soul:

  She’s mine.

  She’s fucking mine!

  Not mine because she’s been given to me as a peace offering, sent over as a transaction, served up as a sacrifice.

  She’s mine in a way that I feel deep in my core, the way an animal feels the presence of his mate, the way a river feels the pull of the ocean.

  She’s mine, and that’s the only game I give a fuck about now.

  The only game I care about winning.

  You’re mine, Bari Bellano, I think as I stand above her and gently reach down and stroke her cheek, raise her head so I can look into those hate-filled eyes. You’re mine, and I’m going to make you see it.

  2

  BARI BELLANO

  I see something in those dark green eyes of his that makes me doubt everything I thought I knew about what was happening here. About what I’m doing here.

  And it’s not just what I see in him.

  It’s what I feel in me.

  No, I tell myself as Brusco strokes my cheek and sends a wave of heat surging through me in a way that makes me sick, makes me think I’ve lost my mind, makes me wonder how in God’s name I can look into the eyes of the man who murdered my parents and think what I’m thinking:

  That
I’m his.

  Not his because I’ve been packaged up and delivered as a peace-offering. Not his because I’m a prisoner, a captive, a concubine, slave, whore—whatever he chooses to do with me. But his because of what I see in those eyes. His because of what I feel in that touch. His because of what I sense in the air, see in the flames, hear in the shadows.

  “If you’re going to kill me I’d prefer you did it sooner rather than later,” I say with a soft firmness as I hold his gaze and try to ignore the way he’s looking at me. “It’ll save me the misery of thinking about what you did to my mother and father.”

  Brusco takes a slow breath, his grip on my chin tightening. Slowly he runs his fingers down my neck, sending a shiver through me as I see what I saw earlier in his eyes: A flash of emotion; a flicker of doubt; a hint of . . . of vulnerability?!

  “If I wanted you dead, Ms. Bellano,” he whispers down to me after a long silence, like he’s considering his words carefully, “you’d be dead.”

  I smile stiffly at him. Then I shrug. “We don’t always get what we want. After all, I want you dead. But here you are.”

  Brusco laughs once, his eyes opening wide as he pulls his hand away from my face and folds his thick, muscular arms over his broad chest. He cuts an imposing figure: Tall, heavyset, and tanned, his dark skin shining like an Italian sunset, tattoos peeking out from beneath his brilliant white shirtsleeves, serpentine veins throbbing on his thick neck and forearms. His jawline is strong and proud, those green eyes fierce and focused. Everything about Brusco Barzini says he’s a man who’s never had to yield, never had to bow down, never had to compromise.

  But yet . . .

  I blink away the image of what I saw in his eyes a moment ago—or what I thought I saw. I try to remember that this man is a cold-hearted monster, a ruthless beast who’s most likely going to put me through the pain of a private, secret hell because of the move I’ve made by showing up here, packaged like a gift, head bowed like I’m submitting even though it’s the opposite. It wasn’t easy convincing Uncle Joe and the Family that this was the best option. But they finally understood. They knew we were outnumbered, outgunned, outfinanced. They knew this was the best option to prevent a war, to preserve at least some of their territory before Brusco Barzini stormed in and took whatever he wanted.

  You’re what I want, comes the whisper from his eyes, and I blink as my heart skips maybe three beats, making me wonder if I’m either hearing things or perhaps just about to have a damned heart attack. After all, it’s been an insane week, hasn’t it? I just buried Mama and Papa, doing my best not to sob like a little girl as I stood in the funeral home in my black heels and greeted all the well-wishers, shook hands with every distant family member, looked into the eyes of every general and foot-soldier, every gun-toting Mafioso, most of whom were sworn to protect my parents with their own fucking lives.

  “How could this happen?” I’d whispered to Papa’s right-hand man, a man I’d simply called “Uncle Joe” my entire life because that’s what he was like to me.

  Uncle Joe was so distraught he could barely respond in full sentences. He knew my question really meant, “How could you let this happen?”, and he knew that he’d failed, that there was a distinct chance he’d wake up at the bottom of the river wearing cement blocks for shoes the morning after the funeral.

  But I wasn’t going to execute Uncle Joe, and once he understood that, he was able to blubber out some form of an explanation:

  “The security system in the mansion was turned off,” Uncle Joe said, his gray eyes red from tears. “Your Mama could never remember the code.”

  You were supposed to be the damned security system, I wanted to remind Uncle Joe. But I held my tongue, held my composure, held my tears. Even in my grief I understood that a deadly game had been set into motion, and that I was very much in the center of it now. I’d been out of town when Mama and Papa had been murdered in our mansion. It wasn’t a secret that I was out of town. Certainly Brusco Barzini’s men would have known I was out of town.

  Assuming Brusco Barzini really is behind this, I wonder now as I once again remember that strange vulnerability I saw in his hard eyes.

  Of course he’s behind this, I tell myself as I close my eyes and think back to how Uncle Joe had rattled off a list of things he was gonna do to every member of the Barzini family, how he was gonna make them suffer, make them scream, make them fucking beg for death.

  “We’re not going to war,” I’d told Uncle Joe, firming my jaw as best as I could, standing as tall as my short stature allowed, speaking with as much authority as I could muster. I’m an only child, and although my childhood was idyllic and sheltered, full of love and kindness, Mama and Papa never hid the truth from me, never made excuses for what they were . . .

  What we were.

  What I am.

  What you are is his, comes the whisper from that place inside that’s making me shift uncomfortably on the cool leather couch, my red dress and black stockings feeling awfully tight, my brassiere almost suffocating me like my breasts want to pop out and break free.

  I gasp as an image of Brusco’s big hands on my breasts forces itself into my mind, and it’s all I can do to remind myself that this man just murdered my parents, that he’s my enemy, that I’m sitting here in submission because it’s the best move in this chess game that’s being played out between our two families.

  “It’s not just the best move,” I’d said at the end of a nine-hour meeting with the top tier of the Bellano Family, all the generals and Made Men in one room to discuss what to do next. “It’s the only move. We cannot afford a war. We cannot win a war. We cannot have a war.”

  The protests were loud, the counter-arguments were solid, the shock and emotion around the table was real. But I didn’t budge. Although the answer looked obvious, at some level I knew it was by no means clear who killed my parents. I also knew that for some reason I’d been spared, that the hit was planned when I was out of town, that it was engineered to put me in power, force the next move to be my decision.

  And what would be the obvious decision of an only child whose parents were gunned down in their bedroom?

  Revenge, of course. Blood for blood. An eye for an eye.

  War.

  Which meant I had to do the opposite. I had to make a decision that the puppet-master wouldn’t expect. If whoever did this was expecting me to go to war, my best move would be to do the exact opposite.

  Never fight your enemy the way he wants you to fight him, Sun Tzu wrote in the Art of War. And with that thought I snap back to reality, focus back on this moment in time, this man facing me, standing above me like he’s in control even though he’s not. I’d told the Bellano Family that if Brusco Barzini wanted me dead, I’d be dead. I’d told them that the only way to fight this war was to make it seem like we were surrendering, the only way to conquer was to yield, the only way to dominate was to submit.

  “So what will you offer Brusco Barzini?” Uncle Joe had finally said after the room quieted down. “Money? Manpower? Territory?”

  “Me,” I’d said in a monotone whisper, sending shockwaves through the room even as my own body shuddered from the wildness of my plan, the sheer insanity of my scheme, the madness of what I decided I needed to do. Do on my own.

  I’d met the gaze of every man in the room, looked into the eyes of stone-cold killers, men who’d broken kneecaps and cut off fingers, men whose kill-counts rivaled their age. “Put me in a room with Brusco Barzini,” I’d whispered to my generals and soldiers, “and I’ll finish this war before it even starts.”

  The silence that fell across the polished table was so thick I could have cut it with a cheese knife. I don’t know what I was thinking, why I suggested what I did. Maybe it was a burning need for revenge, to kill Brusco Barzini with my own hands for what he did to Mama and Papa. Or maybe I wanted to prove something—to my family, to m
yself perhaps. After all, I was now the Head of the Bellano Family, wasn’t I? Everyone was looking to me to lead them. But they were expecting me to lead them into war. Instead I chose to send myself onto the battlefield alone.

  Alone.

  A captive wrapped in red.

  A Trojan horse, waiting for her moment to strike.

  3

  BRUSCO

  “Will you strike me down if I turn my back on you?” I say softly as I look down at her from my towering height. Her strong, ferocious curves are doing something to my body that no woman from Milan’s supermodels to Manhattan’s superwhores have done to me, and I have to force myself to concentrate just to stop my fucking head from spinning like a top. I see those long black eyelashes flutter as she glances up at me like she knows I’ve seen through her veneer already, that the surface-story of the Bellano Family offering her up like a sacrifice is bullshit. This was her idea. She wanted to put herself in a room with me. Finish this herself. End this war with a knife in my back. Or maybe a Christmas candle in my neck. End this herself, like a Queen riding out in front of her army.

  Except this isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning, I think with a smile as I turn my back on her, a chill going through me as I wonder if she’ll pull a long needle out of her thick brown hair and plunge it into my heart from behind.

  That sense of danger only gets my cock harder, and I stroll to the heavy table against the dark walls of the room. I reach for the shining silver decanter of wine from my family’s estate in Italy, pouring out two glasses and turning back to my adversary, my opponent, my captive, my . . . forever?

  “Your men searched me before they let me get within a mile of you,” she says, glancing at the wine and shaking her head.

  “Did they find anything interesting?” I say, frowning as I stand there with two glasses of wine like a fool. Then I shrug and put both glasses down on the mantel above the crackling fire. If she’s not drinking, neither am I. I need my wits around me. Besides, I feel drunk just from being around Bari’s goddamn curves.