Bad Princess: A Mafia Romance

by N. E. Henderson

  “Brooklyn is no angel.”

  “But I’m the Devil?”

  “Aren’t you the product of the Devil?” My eyes flash with fire, his words hitting a mark I don’t like. My father may have questionable morals to some—not me—but he’ll never belong in the pits of Hell.

  “Careful, De Salvo. You wouldn’t like for your little girl to see me take your ass down again, would you?”

  “Did I hit a nerve, bad princess?” He smirks, and it makes me want to wipe it right off his too-sexy-for-his-own-good face.

  I lift my butt off the edge of the couch, standing, but as I take a step forward, his daughter runs in the living room—buck naked—stopping me in my tracks.

  “Brooklyn!” Matteo scolds. “Go put your clothes on.”

  “I was making sure she was still here.” She places her hands on her hips, but I turn my head, trying not to stare at little girl parts. “I’m ready to play now,” she says in a much sweeter tone, and I know she’s addressing me even though I’m not looking at her.

  “Not until you put something on,” Matteo fusses.

  “I gotta change too, kid,” I say, holding up my bag to show her. “You throw something on while I use your daddy’s room to change. Okay?” I ask, bypassing her and heading down the hall. I don’t ask Matteo which way. It’s not a huge house. I’m sure I can find his room or the bathroom on my own.

  Anything to get away from wanting to wrestle her dad to the ground while straddling him at the same time. Why I find that man hot, I have absolutely no idea; none whatsoever.

  Chapter 9

  MATTEO

  She came out of my bedroom half an hour ago dressed in skintight jeans that had rips in the knees and up the front of her thighs, a pink racerback tank top and I swear to God she isn’t wearing a bra, but I didn’t see her nipples, so I’m guessing she has on those adhesive nipple covers that go over them. As slinky as her shirt is, there are no lines on her back indicating a bra—and yes, I looked.

  She is so fucking hot. All I want to do is shove her curvy body back through the door of my bedroom and peel every layer off in an agonizing, slow manner, before sheathing my dick with her pussy.

  Sienna didn’t spare me a glance before she turned down the hallway and entered Brooklyn’s room. I never heard Sienna’s voice, but Brooklyn being Brooklyn, has been giggling the whole time. As much as it pains me, my daughter can go from fine one minute to low in the next breath. She’s the same way with her highs. Like most parents, I want my kid happy, and it hurts my heart when she’s having an episode. I’ll take her highs over her breakdowns or distraught behavior any day of the week.

  The lows are rare, but they still happen more often than I’d like. I can blame Kennedy all I want, because she didn’t breastfeed our daughter, and I doubt she took any of the vitamins that women are supposed to take while pregnant. She smoked and she drank from time to time too, but then again, maybe Brooklyn is just Brooklyn and her behavior or emotions aren’t caused by any of her mother’s actions while she was pregnant. Maybe the way she is, is the way she was meant to be.

  I try not to think too much about it. I love my daughter and I’d do anything in the world for her—except be with her mother, though I know she wishes we were together. She hates it when I drop her off. She begs me to stay every time. I’ve thought about it, but I can’t stand the sight of Kennedy, and I’d kill her if I had to spend any more time around her than I already do.

  “Matteo, are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Tristen asks from the other end of the phone. My promoter called me five minutes ago and has been going on and on about my next fight.

  “Yeah, of course I am.”

  Nothing has been announced, but the rumors have already started. It’s just the way the boxing world works, any fighting sport really, including the fake wrestling shit.

  “I just told you to eat my nuts and you said, yeah I’m on that. You aren’t listening. Also, you aren’t a liar, so let’s not become one tonight,” he adds. “What has you so distracted? Got a hot piece of ass tonight?”

  “Yeah, but she isn’t on my dick like she should be. She’s in my kid’s room playing Barbies or some shit.”

  “You’re not in the market for a stepmom for Brooklyn, are you?” His tone has turned serious.

  “Hell no,” I affirm, setting him straight. Where the hell did that question come from? “Do you ever see me settling down? Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, man.”

  “No, and I want to keep it that way. You being unattached is good for your image. I don’t need some bitch sinking her claws in my paycheck.”

  “Thanks, brother. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I do. I’m your promoter, not your manager. I don’t kiss your ass like that fat fuck does. You make money, I make money. It’s that simple. That lard ass just cares about the shit he shovels down his throat or the fat pussy he somehow pulls from being connected to you.”

  “Yeah.” I chuckle. “And just how much pussy do I bring you?”

  The sound of someone knocking on the door pulls my attention from the phone in my hand. I’m not expecting anyone, but Sienna did say she had a ride picking her up, so this must be it.

  “Hey, Tristen,” I call out, interrupting whatever it is he’s rambling on about. “I gotta let you go. Someone’s at the door. Can we finish this Monday?”

  “Yeah, man. I should be at my office, so just stop by or text me and I’ll meet you for lunch.”

  Pressing end on the call, I toss the phone to the middle of the couch I’m sitting on and stand. Once I get to the landing that leads to my front door, I jog down the stairs. After unlocking the deadbolt, I pull open the door wide.

  “Yeah?” I greet him. He’s a young guy, probably my age with extra meat on his husky form. He’s wearing a rumpled blue T-shirt and baggy jeans with his hands shoved down into the front of his pockets.

  “I’m the Uber driver. Been waiting on some chick for like ten minutes.”

  “Oh, okay.” I laugh under my breath. Good fucking luck handling her, goes through my head. “Hold on. I’ll grab her for you.” I shut the door, leaving him standing outside on the concrete step, and take the stairs two at a time back up to the main level of my townhouse.

  “Hey,” I call out as I walk down the hall toward Brooklyn’s bedroom. “Bad Princess,” I singsong. “Your ride is he—”

  I stop in my tracks, my feet still outside the threshold of my daughter’s room. Sienna is lying on her back, but asleep. Brooklyn is half draped over her side with one hand wrapped around Sienna’s loose curls and her other hand tucked underneath her body with her thumb in her mouth. It’s a bad habit she has yet to kick. Sienna must have been reading a story, because there is a book facedown on her leg.

  I can’t begin to describe what I’m feeling as I watch the two of them. It’s foreign, yet I don’t dislike it. Kennedy never did this with our daughter that I know of. Brooklyn is sassy and can come off tough, but she’s extremely affectionate. Oftentimes, when she’s with me, this is exactly how I get her to crash out. Other than my parents, I’ve never witnessed anyone else cuddle with her.

  Backing up a step, then another, my eyes don’t leave their resting form. After a beat too long, I turn, leaving them be before I can do something like join them on Brooklyn’s full-size bed. I’m a big guy, but I could still squeeze my tall, broad form in that bed with them.

  The question is why do I suddenly want to?

  Quickening my pace, I take the steps back down and open the door again. “Look, man, I’m sorry.” I pull out my wallet from my back pocket as I continue. “She fell asleep and I’m not going to wake her. Will this cover your time?” I pull out two twenty-dollar bills and flick my wrist toward him.

  “Yeah, sure.” He reaches up, taking the money. “It’s cool. Thanks.” I go to step back inside when he gives me the look I’m all too familiar with. “Aren’t you that boxer? Matteo De Salvo, right?”

  “In the flesh,” I tell h
im. When I won the Heavyweight Championship title eight months ago, my face became recognizable on the streets. Sometimes it’s still weird, like now. I don’t know what to say to people. I’m just a guy; the same as this guy standing in front of me, but I try not to come off like a douchebag. He could be a fan for all I know.

  “That’s cool. Nice to meet you, man.”

  “You too.” He nods, but doesn’t say anything else before he pivots on his feet, heading back to a small car parked in my driveway behind my Lexus SUV.

  Closing the door, I turn, but I don’t head up the stairs. Instead, I stand here looking up and not knowing what to do.

  Do I leave her be?

  Do I move her to my bed and sleep on the couch?

  Do I move her to my bed with me in hopes she wakes up handsy? Nah. My mom would beat my ass if I pulled that shit on a woman, even if that woman is connected to the very people she despises—the mob.

  If there is one person in my world that I actively try not to piss off, it’s my mother, Martina De Salvo. She may not be a part of Sienna’s world—whatever world that really is—but she is an Italian woman through and through and you don’t fuck with her or get on her bad side. Nothing good ever comes from that shit.

  And if she knew a Caputo was in my house, let alone in her granddaughter’s bed, she’d have my balls. I like my junk intact and unharmed, so, there is no telling my mother about this little change of events tonight.

  I do, however, go back up and grab an extra blanket from the hallway closet, one big enough to cover them both.

  I guess the princess is here for the night.

  And with that thought, I head to my bathroom for a long hot shower. Of course, at this rate, it may not take long to get off from the image I saw walking out of my bedroom earlier.

  I want to fuck her six ways from Sunday—and I plan to. Even if it’s just to get her out of my system.

  Until then, bad princess. Until then . . .

  At some point, I fell asleep on the oversized couch in my living room. I didn’t want to be down the hall, closer to where Sienna is lying asleep in Brooklyn’s room. I wanted to be closer to the door in case she decided to sneak out.

  I don’t even know why I care if she did.

  Don’t I want her to be gone? Hell, I didn’t even want her here in the first place, but I can’t seem to tell my daughter no when she’s excited over something.

  Noise jars my body upright and my eyes fly open. There is sunlight shining in from the sheer curtains hanging in front of the bay window that overlooks the small front yard. It’s morning, and it seems to be early. My head swings around when another round of banging sounds from down the stairway. Whoever is beating on my door is about to get his ass kicked. The fucking neighbors can probably hear the person hammering down on my front door.

  Jogging down the stairs, I flip the lock and then swing the door open. My face is a fury of heat and my body itches to lay this fucker out when my forehead is met with cold, hard steel as my eyes connect with Tony Caputo, the Boss himself.

  “Where’s my daughter?” he demands, not a lick of friendliness in his tone to be found.

  “You mind removing that gun from my head,” I spit out.

  “I do mind. Don’t make me repeat myself.” His voice is calm, but it’s laced with more venom than a cobra.

  I sigh out a breath, knowing that if I don’t tell him something, he’s liable to pull the trigger.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say she’s still asleep,” I answer. I don’t like guns or knives, or any weapon for that matter. My fists have always carried enough punch to do the job.

  He doesn’t retract the weapon; instead, he presses it harder against my skull, no doubt leaving an indent. “De Salvo, I wouldn’t give you permission to date my daughter, much less bring her home with you to bed.”

  I stay silent. It’s on the tip of my tongue to inform him she didn’t sleep in my bed or with me, but my mouth suddenly won’t open. In fact, it’s sealed fucking shut. Permission, my ass. That woman doesn’t give two shits about asking permission for anything.

  Shuffling from behind me makes my body aware that someone—Sienna being the only likely one—is coming down the stairs. Brooklyn can’t make that much noise.

  “Daddy, stop pointing a weapon at Matteo.” There’s no heat behind her words. She isn’t worried for me, so does that mean I shouldn’t be either or does she simply not care if her dad fills me with lead?

  “Get in the car, Sienna. Do as you’re told for once,” he demands, his eyes never veering from mine. I have to hand it to Tony, he’s more intimidating than any fighter I’ve been in the ring or on a mat with.

  “I’m twenty-three,” she points out on a huff like it’s something he doesn’t realize.

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re thirty-three, forty-three, or fifty-fucking-three. Go get in the goddamn car, Sienna.” Tony finally flicks his dark eyes to his daughter. Sienna stopped next to me on my left side just inside the doorway.

  She turns her body and tips her head back. “You’re on your own, big guy,” she mutters, as she pats my bare stomach with the back of her hand before stepping around her father. Her touch makes my abdomen flutter with something I can’t quite decipher, and right now isn’t the time to do so.

  “The next time I tell you to escort my daughter home, take her the fuck home. And De Salvo, don’t let me catch her here again. It won’t end well for you.” With those final words, the barrel of the gun is removed from my head. He pivots, walking away from me, then inserts the gun inside his designer suit jacket, looking every bit of the mobster he’s known to be.

  As much as I want to coat my dick in the juices from every orifice on her body, even the Caputo princess isn’t worth all this trouble. Pussy is pussy where I’m concerned. It certainly is not worth receiving a gunshot wound—or death.

  That ship just sailed, folks.

  Chapter 10

  SIENNA

  Dad was pissed when he picked me up from Matteo’s Sunday morning; so mad that he hasn’t spoken a word to me in two days. This is the longest he’s ever gone without speaking to me, and it’s fucking with my head. I don’t often have tiffs with him, but when I do, it’s usually over in a matter of minutes.

  In our family, we talk problems out. When talking doesn’t settle it, we use our fists and knees and elbows to get our message across. The one that taps out first loses the argument. That’s just the way it is—as it should be. We don’t bitch or whine. We make each other bleed.

  And we do whatever it takes to win.

  Like right now, I’m barefoot in the boxing ring of the gym I work out and train at for my upcoming match, pacing back and forth. I have too much pent-up aggression and frustration running through me. If I didn’t let it all out, I swear my head would blow up from everything that’s constantly turning over and over in it.

  This gym was the first business my father purchased when my brothers and I were still in diapers. Dad doesn’t workout here since he has a home gym and a personal trainer that comes to him five days a week, but he used to train hard at this very gym when he was younger.

  Tony Caputo isn’t your typical forty-nine-year-old man with a Dad bod. When he’s dressed in his designer suits, one may not necessarily notice he’s athletic. Sure, he’s trim and tall and that’s easily seen with the naked eye. It’s what’s hiding underneath all his layers that people should fear. He’s a viper full of venom. If he strikes, you might as well hang it up. You’re done for. It’s over.

  “This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, Sienna.” I ignore Lorenzo from where he’s seated with his legs crisscrossed off the side of the ring with his back against the painted black wall. My personal trainer is out today. His wife, Jennifer, is out of town on a business trip and their son is sick, so Kevin is at home.

  He’d be spouting off at the mouth, same as Ren, if he were here. I know this is dumb. Totally idiotic actually, and I’m acting like a punk kid.

 
So what?

  It’s Dad’s fault. He is the one that’s giving me the cold shoulder, not the other way around. It’s not like I slept with Matteo, and he knows it. I told him. Besides, I’m certain if he actually thought something had happened between us, Matteo would probably be swimming with the fishes. At a minimum, he would have obtained a non-career-ending gunshot wound somewhere on his sexy frame of a body. The latter is more likely. I don’t think my father would end Matteo’s life for fooling around with his daughter. He respects him as a fighter too much, and betting on his fights is one of my father’s simple joys in life.

  One of his only joys in life without Mom around.

  I don’t think of my mother as often as I should. If I’m being honest with myself, I make more of an effort not to think about her, or the day she was killed. A shiver runs up my spine at the thought, reminding me why I avoid letting my mind go there.

  “Nah,” Domenico chimes in. “This is the most entertaining idea she’s had in a long time.”

  I flick my eyes to my older brother, giving him a go fuck yourself look. He smirks as he leans his left shoulder against the wide opening of the room that houses two boxing rings and four heavy bags that hang from the ceiling.

  Our father steps from behind Dom, entering the space. It’s not often you see Tony Caputo dressed down. This is probably his everyday workout attire, but I’ve never seen my father workout with his trainer, or even when it’s just him alone in his personal gym. His frame adorns a plain black T-shirt and black fight shorts with red trim that reach his knees. The material is loose, the same as mine, but I needed a lighter color today that didn’t match my sour mood. My shorts are white trimmed in red with a matching racerback tank top over my sports bra.

  Walking toward me, he stops outside the ring to climb up. Once he ducks his head and slides his body inside the ring, he stands to his full height—all six feet, two inches.