The door falls closed, and I’m left in the warm stream, with my bruises, my now useless cast, aching, and with invisible chains tightening around my chest. I gulp down a sob, but the next one tears loose from my throat and I can’t keep the panic at bay any longer. I fall to my knees and wail, gasping for air in between the barely human sounds that erupt from the depths of my soul, mourning my lost life.
I never heard the door open and flinch hard when I suddenly look at a pair of legs. Glancing up at the man before me, my eyes meet with the impassive gaze of Ivan, the giant door guard.
“Come,” he says.
Chapter 8
Luciano
They are in the shower forever, but I let them. I’m ridiculously satisfied, both mind and body, in a way I rarely experience. Burying my cock in the whore’s throat as I watched the broken and naked young Chloe’s eyes gloss over, her lips part, her breathing quicken, was beautifully wicked. She’s in pain and scared for her life, and still her body betrayed her and longed for my hand in her cunt.
The intercom cracks to life. “Mr. Salvatore.”
“Yes,” I mutter, ripped out of my fantasies.
“Mr. Jones is by the gates,” says Mike, one of my guards at the front gate. “Devon Jones.”
I look at the clock. Five fucking hours late. “What does he have to say for himself?”
It’s quiet for a few moments, then Mike’s voice comes back through the loudspeaker, “He says he’s got the money.”
I listen to the clattering of the shower. It’s seven in the evening and my stomach growls. The cooks are preparing dinner and I want to personally throw my new toy in chains before I eat.
“All right, let him in. Put him in my second office down in the north wing. And lock him in. I’ll have a word with him when I have the time.”
“Yes, sir.”
I spin my chair around as the door to the bathroom slams open and the whore comes rushing out, her chest heaving, her long blonde hair soaked, laying plastered over her head, dripping on my floor. She half-runs toward me and bends to pick up her dress. I put a foot on it, holding it down.
“Wipe off the fucking floor first.”
A brief sneer across her face is immediately replaced by delicious fear that makes my cock stir.
“Yes, sir.”
“Actually, leave it. On your knees.” I pull down my zipper and grab my cock. She immediately sinks to her knees, looking up at me pleadingly, her mascara smeared under her eyes. I smirk and wipe her cheek with the pad of my thumb, then I grab her hair and put my cock to her lips. “Suck it like your life depends on it.”
Her eyes are wide and sad as she obeys, like they always do. It disgusts me. Everyone crawls, hurries to please me, no one resists. She cries as I stab the back of her throat, barely turned on anymore. “Make me come,” I growl and pull her hair harder. With shaking hands, she cups my balls and swallows around me, sucking, fingering my ass. It’s a lame fucking release, and I hate her for it. My come dribbles down on her chest and her breaths hitch. I lean in, nose to nose. “I’ll have your ass later. Get the fuck out of my sight.”
Sobbing, she scrambles to get her dress. “Now,” I roar, watching her flee my office, naked, clutching the red fabric in her arms, her butt disappointingly pale and unwhipped. My thoughts turn to the one who won’t leave. Guess I’ll have a go at her ass instead.
I open the laptop and intend to do some more work. I wonder how the planning for the Crimson Corp is coming along. I’m just about to type an email to Christian when I slam the lid closed again. There’s wailing from the shower, and no matter how enticing, I’m hungry. I grab my suit jacket and pull it on as I call for Ivan to take care of her. We meet in the doorway.
“What do you want me to do with her, Boss?”
I think a little. What do I want? “Put a collar on her and chain her to the wall in the room under my personal bedroom.”
“Do you want me to turn the heat up? It’s a bit chilly down there.”
“No.”
“Clothes?”
“No.”
Ivan doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t betray anything he’s thinking. “Yes, sir.”
I take a step out into the hallway, already smelling delicious cooking, then I come to a halt. “And Ivan. No one sees her.”
“Define no one, sir.”
“Only you and me.”
“That will be hard. The house is full of people.”
“Solve it.”
I stride off to the dining room. I’m not eating alone. I rarely eat alone. There are quite a few of my men who come and go in the common parts of this house as if they live here. Most of the time the company is a nice distraction. They’re with me because they’re clever people, ruthless like me, loyal. Tonight it annoys me, though. I would have rather spent some time alone to think. I’m about to venture into uncharted territory, and I wonder if I should make plans, or just play it by ear.
Greeting the people mingling in the common area next to the dining room, I decide to do the latter. I’m good at improvising. Young Chloe will learn this very soon.
Chloe
“Please,” I whisper, my voice barely heard over the clattering of water on the tiles.
Ivan gets his shirt sleeve wet as he reaches in and turns off the stream. “Get up.”
“I don’t want to do this,” I sob. “I can’t!”
“Get up, miss.”
“Please!”
I scream as he grabs my good arm and pulls me to my feet, then I try to dig my heels into the cold, slippery tiles as he pulls me with him. “Ivan, no! Please, let me leave. I’m Chloe, I shouldn’t be here, I can’t be here, please don’t do this to me!”
Ivan grabs the remaining towel and throws it to me. “This is the only kindness you will see in a very long time, Miss Becker. Savor it.”
I scream then. A wordless wailing as he drags me into the office. His grip around my upper arm is vice-like, and impossible to fight, but when he pulls out a drawer that contains tools that look like something you’d use for torture, I renew my struggling. He picks up a black leather collar and tries to fasten it around my neck. I throw myself from side to side, whipping my head and shaking it. Ivan quickly changes his grip and grabs my broken arm instead, his fingers making deep indents in the soggy cast. I scream and go absolutely still to not worsen the sharp, paralyzing pain that sears through my limb.
“I have no intention of hurting you, Miss Becker. I don’t get off on violence, but I will do what’s necessary to follow Mr. Salvatore’s orders,” he says as he fastens the collar and pulls out metal cuffs and a chain. Looking over my shuddering, still dripping wet, body, he frowns. “Not sure what to do with your arm.” He holds up the cuffs.
“I can’t use it,” I say quickly, already planning to try no matter how much it hurts.
“I can’t risk it,” he mutters and clicks a cuff closed around one wrist and then the other. “Guess I’ll have to leave your arms in front.” He looks me over, then hooks a cold, heavy chain around my waist, tightening it, fastening it to the cuffs like I’ve seen them do with prisoners. My heart sinks. That’s what I am. I’m their prisoner.
“Please, you can let me go. I’ll disappear. I won’t talk to anyone, I promise.”
Ivan meets my eyes, grabs a black fabric out of the drawer of horrors and throws it over my head. It’s a hood and it falls to my shoulders.
“No!”
“Shut up, or I’ll stuff your mouth too.” He tugs at the chain, making me stumble forward a step. “Come.”
“Please!”
I hear rattling, then he lifts the hood, holding a rag in his hand. I widen my eyes. “I’ll be quiet,” I gasp. “I promise!”
He narrows his eyes as silence builds between us. “There will be repercussions, Miss Becker, if you make even one sound.”
I nod. I can barely breathe, every intake of air hitching on the thick lump of fear in my chest.
He drops the hood again and my world t
urns near-black.
“Now, mind your step.”
I sniffle, trying to choke it down, but I can’t help the tears that stream down my cheeks as he leads me through the house. We’re passing through too many rooms to count. There is talking and laughter that goes silent as we walk past them. The temperature and the scents shift. Finally everything is silent except for the sound of our steps. Ivan stops and tugs at the chain, making me come to an abrupt halt, almost falling.
“I’ll carry you,” he grumbles in his deep baritone.
His arms snake behind my thighs and my back and my mind spins from the sudden change of position as I’m lifted. It somehow goes even more silent, and his steps are muffled. It also gets colder, and I’m covered in goosebumps, my teeth chattering.
“Where are you taking me?” I whisper, hoping I am allowed to speak now that we seem to be very much alone.
He doesn’t answer, puts me down and pulls off the hood. I take a deep breath and squint against the light from a single lamp in the ceiling. Ivan stands in the doorway, the only way out. My heart almost stops and a wave of renewed panic surges through me.
“No!” I run toward him, trying to push him out of my way, but it’s like trying to move a boulder.
“Don’t make me hurt you again, girl,” he growls, tossing the towel to the floor a few feet into the room. “You better learn to obey, and fast, or you’ll be in for a world of pain.” He shoves me back. I stumble to remain standing and charge toward him again, but he slams the door closed. Our eyes meet through a little hatch in the door.
“Never!” I scream.
“Then I pity you,” he says and closes the hatch, leaving me in deafening silence.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I stare in disbelief at the closed door, then I throw myself at it and slam my fist on the cold metal surface. “Don’t leave me here!” I scream to no one, my voice weirdly muffled, as if the noise is somehow swallowed as soon as it leaves my mouth. Glancing around me, I take in the padded ceiling and walls and my blood runs cold at the implications. No one will hear me scream. This part of the house already seemed silent and abandoned, and to top it off the room is soundproofed. Kneeling, I pick the towel off the floor and try to wrap it around me. Twisting and jerking, I finally manage to get it up over my chest, clenching it under my arms, still cuffed. The chain hangs heavy across my ass and I can’t stop shaking.
The room has no windows, no light switch, nothing to sit or lie on. The floor is somewhat soft, though, like a gym carpet. A shudder runs through me. I doubt it’s to make the room comfortable. It’s probably also meant to muffle any sound. In the floor in the center of the room sits a sunken down small metal square with tiny holes. I squint, looking at it, then I widen my eyes as I realize it’s a drain. What… would they need that for? I make a slow lap along the walls, nausea rising in me as I stare at the rings that sit high up on three of the walls, and the hooks in the ceiling. I think of the drawer of horrors in Salvatore’s office. This must be the room to go with it. A sob rips through my chest and bursts out as new tears fall. I feel sick and the little stomach content I have threatens to make its way back up.
When nothing happens, no one comes for me, I finally sink down along the far wall, in the corner, somewhat grateful for the padding. It’s not soft, but it’s not concrete either and the difference is huge.
My mouth is dry, my stomach is a gnawing hole. I can’t remember when I last drank or ate anything.
In the silence, my heart finally calms a little and the tears dry on my cheeks. Waves of panic crash through me, but my mind can only take so much and finally I curl up on my side, holding my broken arm in its deformed cast the best I can. The cuffs have chafed the skin on my wrists, but it doesn’t hurt badly. My arm pounds, a dull pain that comes and goes. My ribs feel as if the broken ends gnaw at my insides, an ever-present company. But that’s not the worst pain.
The worst pain is the agony of not knowing what lies ahead, of fearing I’ll never get out of here, that I’ll be raped, beaten, and killed, and no one will ever know what became of me.
I don’t care to try to wipe my dripping nose, or the tears that fall again.
Chapter 9
Luciano
I’m distracted through dinner. My mind is pulled in two different directions. The girl in my little play chamber, and the fucking weasel who’s locked up a few rooms away. I listen with half an ear to the conversations around me, answer when appropriate, but my cock is semi-hard the whole dinner at the thought of first having a go at Mr. Jones, and then taking a look at my captive. She’s pretty fucking damaged, and I can’t really play with her yet, but I can push her, condition her, drag her down to the edge of sanity and keep her balancing there until she’s clay in my hands.
Ivan’s gaze seeks mine during dessert and I give him an almost invisible nod. Jones has been locked up for four hours. It’s time.
“Gentlemen,” I say as I stand. “My bar is open, as always. Help yourselves to a good time. I’m off for another kind of good time.”
Several leery grins tell me they have an idea what I’m talking about. Ivan stands too, wipes his mouth, drops the napkin on the plate and moves around the table. One of the men glances warily at him and I narrow my eyes. Joachim. What reason does he have to worry about Ivan moving behind his back? We’ll look into that. I curl my lips as I stride out of the dining room. There’s always something.
“Boss,” says Ivan, “what are we doing with him? He said he’s got the money.”
“Cash?”
“I don’t know this.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “He’ll learn not to be late for meetings.”
“Are we offing him?”
I shake my head. “Not if he has the money.” Nodding to the door, I motion for Ivan to unlock it.
“Devon,” I exclaim and slam my palms together. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Devon Jones looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon spiced up with capsaicin. His face is flushed, the corners of his mouth pulled down to his knees, and he paces back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he sees us, he explodes.
“What the fuck, man? I’ve been fucking locked up for hours! I need to pee. You have no fucking right to treat me like this.”
I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Brave words, Devon.”
Devon flinches and looks behind me as Ivan locks the door and walks up to stand a step behind my left shoulder. The weasel’s eyes dart between us and he looks less furious and more twitchy.
“I hear you have the money.”
“Yeah, man.”
“Cash?”
“Fifty-five thou? I don’t think so.”
“Fair enough. Transfer it.”
Devon glances around him at the almost empty room. In the center stands a desk and a chair. I motion for Ivan to go ahead and watch as he unlocks a drawer and pulls out a laptop.
“Sit,” he growls.
I cross my arms over my chest as Devon, with a glance at me, hesitantly sits down in front of the laptop as it chimes to life. Ivan taps at it, then Devon for a long while, then Ivan. I’m present in body and mind, but annoyingly unfocused. Another kind of game calls for me. A new game. A naked and bruised girl in the basement.
Needing this to be over with, I clench my hands into fists and crack my knuckles. Devon flinches and his eyes dart up to meet mine. I keep my face neutral, impassive. Beads of sweat pearl at his hairline and the sadist in me flares to life. He’s weak, showing his fear. This is the fucking reason I get up in the morning. This is what I live for. Power. Ivan gives me a glance and a barely-there nod, then he closes the laptop. We’re done. Devon leans back and dares a smile, sighing with obvious relief.
“Well, that concludes our business,” I say and step aside, as if to let him pass. Devon looks between Ivan and me and rises slowly. It’s as if he can’t believe his luck. He’s right to doubt it.
Ivan hauls up the key to the door out of his pocket and Devon p
uts his hand on the doorknob. He freezes as I speak.
“How come you were late?”
He widens his eyes. “I, eh…” He rubs his nose and licks his lips. “I had some last-minute arrangements.”
“You broke our deal, Devon.”
“No, I—I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I obviously can’t let that slip. You understand this. Yes?”
I don’t even have to look at Ivan. We’ve played this game for twenty years. Ivan grabs Devon’s arms and pulls them up on his back. Devon screams, a scream that is abruptly silenced as I slam my fist into his midsection. He gasps for air, his face turning beet red as he folds forward.
“Boss!” he wheezes.
“I’m not your boss, Devon.” I uppercut him, splitting his lip, then I punch him in the stomach again. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare. You do not break a deal with Luciano Salvatore.”
“I didn’t!” he squeals as his knees fold and he sags. I hit his face again, and probably crush his balls as I knee him in the groin. Ivan lets him go and Devon falls into a heap on the floor, tears streaming down his swollen bloodied face. He holds out a shaking hand, as if trying to pacify me, then he bends over and vomits. I grab his hair and force him to look at me. The puddle before his knees reeks but I’m pretty used to the foul odors a human can produce. They pee themselves, shit themselves, bleed, and throw up. It’s worse for them than it is for me.
Devon’s face doesn’t look like it did a few minutes ago. It’s swollen, with fresh blood glistening in his eyebrow, dribbling from his nose, over his lips and down his chin.
“Don’t kill me,” he cries.
I laugh. “I can’t kill everyone I do business with. There’d be no one left. Now, will you ever be late to a meeting again?”
“No, sir!” he whimpers.
“Good,” I say and push his face into the vomit, grinding his cheek in the sticky substance. Devon retches and flails while I laugh. I’m not particularly amused, but it’s part of the show. He’ll forever remember Salvatore, the psychopath you should never cross. He’ll tell others and they’ll all cower before me. I straighten and nod for Ivan to let me out. I’m done with business for tonight. It’s time to play.
Russo Saga Collection Page 118
