Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless)

by Victoria Vale

  I search Elena’s face, confused and stunned that she’s spoken more words in thirty seconds than I’ve heard from her all month.

  “You made me weak,” she goes on, seeming unable to stop now that she’s opened her mouth. “You kept your operations a secret from me, and you didn’t teach me how to fend for myself. You left me to count on you to save me, and you almost came too late! You made me love you, but you also made me depend on you to save me … and I didn’t know how to save myself.”

  She’s crying again, dropping her head so that her wet hair hangs in her face. I take hold of her shoulders, pulling her closer until she tips her chin back to look at me.

  “Tell me what you need,” I plead, giving her a little shake. “Tell me how to help you, or how to make this right, and I’ll do it. Do you want to be free? Do you want me to let me go? If that’s you want, I’ll do it. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

  Elena grasps my shoulders and pulls me down, until we’re forehead-to-forehead, our breaths tangling together in the steam of the hot shower. That fire inside her sparks to life in the depths of her eyes like golden flames.

  “I don’t want you to let me go,” she says, fingernails digging into my skin. “I love you, Diego. I’ve loved you even when I wanted to hate you, even when you hurt me.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and absorb her declaration. This is the first time she’s admitted it out loud. Part of me has known for a while, but hearing her say it makes it real. It takes away any lingering doubt I might have had before now.

  “But,” she adds, “if we’re going to be together some things are going to have to change, starting right now.”

  I open my eyes and stare deep into hers, my hands clutching at soft, wet flesh. Her tears are gone now, washed away as a hardened expression transforms her from broken girl to vengeful woman.

  I know what Elena’s going to say before she speaks the words, prepared to lay the entire world at her feet.

  “Tell me,” I urge. “If it’s in my power, it’s yours.”

  “I don’t want to be your pretty possession anymore,” Elena replies. “I don’t want to be a protected queen, or a pawn in whatever games you play with the men of your world.”

  Her eyes harden like chips of crystallized amber, and all the hurt and trauma of the past few weeks melts away.

  I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her tight against my body. “Then what do you want, gatita?”

  Elena’s lips curve into a smile that’s downright maniacal, the smothered embers of her soul igniting into a roaring flame. “I want to be a fucking boss.”

  34

  Elena

  It’s been eight weeks since my entire life was turned upside down for the third time. Of course, Diego taking me from my father’s house that fateful night was the first. Viktor showing me that I wasn’t as strong as I previously thought was the second. For weeks, I let myself drown in self-pity and trauma, angry at myself, at Diego, at the entire world for what was done to me.

  I couldn’t see a way through it or around it; not until Diego looked me in the eyes and asked me what I wanted. It was at that moment I realized my only recourse was to become truly untouchable. For years I managed to get by on my father’s wealth and my status as a woman with the world at her fingertips. In the beginning of my marriage, I was told that being attached to a dangerous man would be enough to keep me safe. I learned the hard way that Diego’s position won’t protect me from shit. When it comes right down to it, I need to be able to take care of myself.

  Gone are the days of being ignorant to the things going on around me. I spend this morning just like I have the mornings before—in hand-to-hand combat training with my instructor. As it turns out, Jaime isn’t only good for his skills on a computer. The man is a Jiu Jitsu black belt, and has patiently taught me how to counter attacks from people bigger and stronger than me. By lunchtime I’m sore and a little scraped up from grappling with him out in the grass, but I also feel a little more confident, a little less afraid. A lot stronger.

  After lunch comes shooting lessons with Jovan, at a makeshift outdoor range set up on the edge of our property. There are no other houses close enough for us to worry about, and island security pretends not to hear the hours’ worth of gunfire coming from the Pérez house, as Jovan teaches me how to handle pistols, shotguns, and rifles. Shooting is harder than fighting man-to-man, but Jaime has drilled into me the importance of a physical fight being my very last resort. No one can get close enough to touch me if I know how to handle a gun, but if they do, I’ll be ready for them. Meanwhile, it’s to my advantage to learn what weapons are better handled in small, feminine hands—making me deadly up close, and from a distance.

  I asked Diego to train me, but he refused, saying it would be difficult for him to be as hard on me as needed. According to him, I need to be trained by someone whose feelings are platonic. Someone who isn’t paralyzed with fear at the thought of me being hurt.

  On my days off from training, I’m in Diego’s office or attending meetings in the conference room with his lieutenants and closest advisers. It takes time for them to get used to seeing me when the world of organized crime is a purely male domain. But Diego makes it clear that we’re equal partners now. I’m not his property to be flaunted and protected. I’m his queen, to be revered, respected, and even feared. The ins and outs of cartel business are more complicated than I thought, and learning the intricacies of the operation give me something to think about other than Viktor’s hands—violating and hurting me.

  Jaime calls my attention back to the present, taking me to the ground with a sweep of his foot, and pinning me down, capturing my wrists, his knees trapping my legs between them.

  “You know how to get out of this,” he reminds me, his breaths labored by over an hour of sparring. “Stay calm … think.”

  The first few times he did this move on me, I lost my shit, screaming and clawing at him as memories of Viktor assaulted me. Now, I’ve learned to stay calm and breathe, and search for my opponent’s weaknesses. Viktor has been taken care of, courtesy of my husband, and there’s nothing for me to fear. I have the skills to get myself out of this position.

  I wrestle with Jaime while keeping my cool, working a knee between us, and pressing it into his chest while twisting one arm until I have the leverage to slam an elbow into his jaw. His hold on me loosens enough that I can roll him off me. Holding onto one of his wrists, I snare him in an armbar, using my legs around his neck to keep him pinned.

  “Fuck,” he grumbles, tapping out with a heavy hand on my thigh. “Any harder and you would have snapped my shoulder from the socket.”

  With a breathless laugh, I roll away and spring to my feet. Restless energy works through me, and my skin vibrates with triumph. Every week I get a little stronger, a little faster, a little less afraid of being overtaken and subdued.

  “You’re a natural,” Jaime says, retrieving two water bottles and tossing one at me. “I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley.”

  I chug mouthfuls of water and lift my droopy ponytail off my sweaty neck. “Good. Better to know how to defend myself and not need it, than need it and be caught unaware.”

  “Exactly,” he replies. “You wanna go another round?”

  I’m about to tell him I could do this all day, when I catch sight of a dark figure walking toward us from the house. It’s Diego, his hair gleaming raven-black in the sun, his gaze intent and fixed on me from behind dark sunglasses.

  “I think we’re done for the day,” I tell Jaime, before sauntering off to meet my husband.

  My strength and state of mind aren’t the only things that have changed over the past month and a half. The anger I felt over my own helplessness has melted away, and my husband and I are closer than ever. Our routine is different than it was before I was forced to take a break from work to recover—but Diego is always nearby, always here when I need him. After my training we spend our evenings at the club or at home, secure in the
fact that no matter what happened, we’re in this for the long haul.

  It doesn’t matter how we started when we’re now on one accord. Our connection won’t end until one or both of us is dead. A tendril of desire for this beautiful man snakes through me as he gets close, reminding me how long it’s been since we’ve made love.

  I didn’t think I was ready. Every time he touched me in a sexual way, I got sick to my stomach, unable to push the ghost of Viktor out of my mind. Just now, with the adrenaline of fighting still hot in my veins, and weeks of starvation behind me, I’d give anything to have Diego bend me over and spank my ass before stuffing me full of his cock. I detect the outline of his half-hard erection through his sweatpants as he looks me over, and my mouth waters for a taste. I can’t see the intensity of his eyes, but I can feel the need radiating from him—hot and ravenous.

  “How’s training going?” he asks.

  “Good,” I answer, taking the hand he extends to me. “Jaime’s a great teacher.”

  Diego uses his grip on my hand to pull me into him. Our bodies collide, and our lips meet. His hands grip my ass, pressing me against his swelling cock, and he moans when our tongues meet and the kiss goes from sweet and searching, to heated and ravenous.

  “You look good, gatita,” he murmurs, giving my ass another squeeze and sending liquid heat through my core. “I saw you when I was walking up … your form is tight and you’re quick.”

  “That’s right,” I tease. “So you’d better think twice about fucking with me.”

  He emits a low growl from his throat, tightening his hold on my ass. “You can fight, but I think we both know you’ll submit in the end. You always do.”

  “You want submission?” I fire back. “Make me.”

  He gives me a swat, the heat of his palm against my left ass cheek making my pussy clench with longing. Fuck, he’s as irresistible as ever, making me want to fall to my knees right here and beg him to make good on his promise to make me submit. He’s been so careful with me and I love him for it. I might have needed that before, but I’m feeling more like my old self again, and my old self wants to be tied up, spanked, and pounded into oblivion.

  “Enough,” Diego says, giving me one final smack before pulling away. “That’ll have to wait until later. For now, I have a surprise for you.”

  My eyebrows draw together as he starts leading me back to the house. “What kind of surprise?”

  “You’ll see. I’ve been saving it until I thought you were ready. I think you’ve waited long enough.”

  I want to ask Diego what he’s up to, but I can’t think of a single gift I might have wanted before or after my abduction. So, I simply wrap an arm around his waist and let him guide me through the gate to the backyard. We skirt the pool and patio, heading toward one of the side doors. The house is quiet with Marcella attending class and Jovan in training with the other men. Something else I’ve learned about the cartel—the men work hard to stay in peak shape and hone their skills, always ready to go to war at the slightest provocation. For now, things are relatively quiet along the East coast. We haven’t heard another peep out of the Armir Brotherhood, but Oleg has made our alliance with the Yezhovs official, doubling our ranks and making us more capable of countering any attacks. What I’ve learned of the Armenians leads me to believe that they’re ruthless, cunning, and without honor. A war is brewing, but the Pérez Family couldn’t be more ready to head into battle.

  Before long, I realize that Diego is leading me to a part of the house I’ve spent very little time in. It’s in the southwest corner of the first floor—where our live-in soldiers call home. The air is different here—colder and thinner, sending a chill down my spine. It seems darker, too, which doesn’t make any sense because it’s the middle of the day and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Still, something inside me twists and trembles at the idea of being here, as if it knows this part of the house has seen endless violence and agony.

  “My room was in this part of the house when I was a little boy,” Diego says, his voice low and heavy with meaning. It’s like he wants me to know that this feeling coming over me is real and not imagined. “My parents thought it best for me to be immersed in the world of La Familia … to be among the soldiers who would one day bow down to me. Nowadays, only a handful of my men live over here, but we reserve the other rooms for … mafia business.”

  The way he refers to ‘mafia business’ tells me that this part of the house isn’t for parties or meetings or politics. This is where the dirty work happens, where the reality of being a mobster is manifested.

  Diego stops in front of a door, pulling a single key from around his neck. “Before we go inside, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t afraid anymore. Don’t lie to me, gatita … I’ll know it if you lie. I need you to understand that together we are untouchable. The Viktors of the world can’t touch you … because you’re a fucking tigress with teeth and claws of her own. And if anyone thinks they can hurt you, they’ll have me to contend with as well.”

  Our gazes meet and Diego waits silently for my answer. I can’t deny that revulsion floods me at the mention of Viktor’s name, but once that’s gone I’m left only with determination.

  “I’m not afraid,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”

  He nods, then twists the key in the lock before pushing the door open. “Then come and claim what’s yours.”

  The room is dark, with only the light of a few lamps casting a muted, yellow glow. I wrinkle my nose at the stench of blood, piss, and unwashed male, but manage to keep my breakfast down as I look around. The walls are lined with implements of torture, each one likely holding the story of someone’s suffering, phantom drops of their blood worked into the metal and wood.

  A surgical-style table takes up the middle of the room with rust-colored stains left in the metal, straps and buckles hanging down the sides. It’s a torture chamber, pure and simple—a place to punish traitors and enemies, and extract answers from prisoners of war.

  The old Elena would have gagged at the evidence of someone’s torture, turned away and avoided taking in the truth of what belonging to this world means. But the woman I am now—the mafia queen whose edges have been sharpened and honed to razor-like points takes it all in. This is where I want to be, where the real work happens. This is where our enemies are brought to take their final breaths.

  Diego closes the door behind us, and I turn to find that we aren’t alone. On the far side of the room is a chair with more of the buckles and straps attached to it. They’re holding a man captive, his hair turned strawberry-colored from blood, his face a mass of mottled bruising. His clothing has been stripped away, and his body is a tapestry of black, purple, and red wounds … of the violence my husband and his men have inflicted.

  “Wake up, pendejo,” Diego bellows, startling him an out of his stupor.

  He raises his head and I catch sight of his face, revulsion and hatred welling up in me so fast I almost choke on it. His face is nearly unrecognizable—his nose broken and twisted, his lips puffy, his left cheek marked with a furious burn—the image of a charred, black cross entwined with barbed wire seared into his skin. But it’s his eyes that remain the same—narrow blue slits that burn into me with derision and lust. He grunts around a dirty gag splitting his lips, and I know he would call me every foul name in the book if he could.

  “Viktor,” I hiss from between my teeth. “You told me he was dead.”

  “No,” Diego replies, his hands falling onto my shoulders from behind. “I told you he was taken care of … and he has been. My first instinct was to beat him to death with my bare hands. My men wanted to extract his teeth one by one and cut off his balls before feeding them to him. None of us was willing to let him get away with what he did to you without paying for it with his life. But then I realized … his life doesn’t belong to me, gatita. He might have betrayed me and killed some of my men, but he violated you. He took you from your home and subjected you to unspeakabl
e abuse. It’s the reason he’s still alive … because it’s only right that you be the one to make him really pay.”

  Diego’s words hypnotize me out of my anger and into a new place I’ve recently discovered. A place where my dark side comes out to play. My blood rushes and my skin tingles at the thought of having Viktor at my mercy, helpless to defend himself against my twisted impulses.

  “You marked him,” I say, indicating the cross branded into his cheek. “That’s the mark of shame … everyone who looks at him will know that he betrayed La Familia. That means you intend to leave him alive.”

  “Yes, only because men like this need to be made an example of. Executing someone who offends us is a handy way to ensure they won’t do it again … but turning them into the shame of the mafia world is the best way to make sure others think twice before crossing us.”

  I nod slowly, understanding his philosophy even if part of me rebels at the idea of leaving Viktor alive. But then, Diego never said he has to be left in one piece.

  “You’re still owed your pound of flesh,” he murmurs against my ear, sweeping one arm toward the wall of torture tools waiting to be used. “Take it, gatita. Take what’s yours by right, as my queen.”

  He kisses my neck before releasing me, melting into the shadows and giving me free reign. I move with slow steps, my gaze roaming over gleaming blades, heavy bludgeons, garrotes, saws and axes, and a collection of medieval-looking things I don’t even know how to name, let alone use. I take a hammer and a pair of sharp garden sheers from the wall and turn back to Viktor.

  For the first time, he looks nervous, his gaze darting from the hammer I hold in one hand, to the shears I clutch in the other.

  My upper lip curls into a sneer as I stand over him, drunk off the fear in his eyes. He was so frightening before, which seems ridiculous now. He smells like a sewer and has lost at least thirty pounds in his time of captivity. It almost seems unfair to attack a wounded animal who can’t put up a fight … almost. I was helpless when he knocked me unconscious and took off my clothes. I was wounded when he slapped and punched me and put his hands in places that made my skin crawl. Now, it’s time for him to pay for it.