Virgin: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

by Shanna Handel

  A big hand stops me, pushing my arm back against my chest. Planting my back against the seat. “None for her.”

  My mouth gapes in protest, waiting for Dante to say he’s joking. I look to the attendant. She shoots me an apologetic glance. She gives Dante a curt nod, says “Yes, sir,” then continues traveling down the aisle.

  Sadly, I watch as my champagne disappears down the aisle. “What was that for?”

  His eyes are now trained on his phone screen. He murmurs, “That was for the elbow. I think you’ll find out soon enough I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

  He’s barely paying me attention. I know he’s not going to reconsider, but I can’t seem to stop myself from arguing. “Be reasonable, Dante. I do not want or need your protection or your misguided guidance. What I need is a glass of champagne. I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake.”

  His gaze turns to me. One brow raises. “Then why are you whining like a child?”

  Heat rushes to my face. Anger tightens my chest. “You are... infuriating!”

  “Am I?”

  I want to kick him beneath the seat. Dig my heel into the toe of his boot. Which would be totally useless as it’s probably steel-tipped. Instead, I cross my arms over my bag and huff, “Fine.”

  “Fine, what?”

  I lean my head against the seat, closing my eyes in defeat. “Fine. You win. You may escort me to the Village.”

  He snorts, “Like you have a say in the matter?”

  I ignore his taunt. Sit up and throw my index finger up in the air. “But once we reach New York, you are to leave me alone and mind your own business.”

  I’m surprised by the noise rising from his chest. He’s chuckling—Dante Bachman is actually laughing? I’d have thought he didn’t have the ability. I turn and stare at him. His eyes are lighter, he looks years younger, maybe even handsome when he’s laughing. But his amusement only serves to make me furious. “What? What the hell do you find so funny about me telling you to mind your own business? Once this flight is over, your jurisdiction ends.”

  “That’s good. Oh, that’s rich.” Finally, he stops laughing and gives me a long gaze. He contemplates my face for a moment and when he speaks, his tone is softer. Gentle almost. His brows raise at me, curious. “You don’t know? Do you?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “Know what?”

  “Seeing as you’ll be the only single woman in the entire Village, and don’t have a husband to look after you, Rockland’s made me your bodyguard. Permanently. He’s enacted the hierarchy.”

  I stare at him in shock. My mouth gapes open.

  Hierarchy—the word tumbles around in my mind, making my thoughts feel cloudy, my head light. Then the clouds part and anger rumbles in. I’m livid.

  I’m going to save our enemies a lot of trouble.

  Because as soon as I arrive in the Village, I’m going to kill Rockland.

  Pushing the thought from my mind, I lean my head back on the headrest and try to ignore Dante. My eyes wander to the sky outside the tiny airplane window and moments later, I’m deep in thought.

  My goodbyes will be a bit easier than they would have, had I been moving to New York any weekend other than this one. Most of the Parish family members will be in New York for six days to attend the memorial of my cousin, Brett. He was a member of the Village branch of the Bachmans and though I was very young when he left our village and I didn’t know him well, I would be in attendance as well as anyone that shared even a hint of DNA with him. After someone in the Bachman family dies, we hold a memorial service for them, every year, for three years after their death. The first two are small and private, the third being a big blowout party for extended family.

  So I’ll be in good company when I arrive. Then the Parish family will fly back and I’ll be left to sort out my new life in the Village. A couple of the single men from the Parish brotherhood will be making the move and will stay in New York, but I’ll be a new Beauty in the New York pond of Bachman women.

  Rockland, my cousin and now head of the Bachman family first introduced me into this secret society a few years ago. Drawn by the glamorous world of the billionaires, I was also touched by how they spend their wealth. Helping people. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor. Robin Hood was my favorite cartoon movie as a child and when he explained the setup to me, I was instantly hooked. Sure, they are as deadly as any mafia this world has ever seen. But they aren’t greedy and holing up their spoils for only their own enjoyment. They spread their good fortune.

  The family originally began with the Village, in New York. Bachmans began buying up the land in the late eighteen hundreds. Once the entire block had been procured, they slowly built the businesses on the streets, forming an empty square behind them. The backs of the buildings were all built with no windows on the backside, and secret doors in the back, for preparation of the Village. Once that was all in place, they were ready to build homes. The rows of homes were built in the early nineteen hundreds. Each one has a kitchen and laundry on the main floor, living room and office on the second, and master bedroom on the third. Entirely surrounded by a gray stone wall, it’s the size of a full city block. Behind the backs of the windowless buildings that surround it are dozens of black gates, secured with a black panel that can only be opened with a thumbprint.

  The businesses and shops that form the square are all owned by Bachmans. All with their own secret closet in the back of an office, a storeroom, a coat closet. They all have blocked exits, accessible only to the family. The gates are wide enough for our cars and each car is programmed with a sensor that automatically opens the gate.

  It’s the hub of the business transactions. The place where our ties to the outside world are bound. It’s adults only, long working hours, and lots of partying. Or so I’ve heard.

  Rockland left the Village eight years ago to start the Parish. He paid a generous sum to have the government continue to list the island as uninhabited. He enlisted trusted family members to begin the community with him. They started off with only a few boats purchased from priests of a tiny Catholic chapel, hence the name Parish. From there, word spread amongst the worthy. The Parish grew fast, men traveling hundreds of miles to find Rockland and pledge their lives to the Bachman brotherhood. Myriad people with an eclectic mix of talents. Carpenters, bankers, gangsters, chefs. Some because they wanted the peace and security our lifestyle brings to their wives, their marriages. Others seeking fortunes to send back to their poorer villages, enamored by the Robin Hood nature of our crimes and willing to lay down their lives to bring elderly relatives prosperity.

  Families with children either live in Greece, at the Parish, or the American suburban offshoot of the Village in Connecticut, the Hamlet. Bronson was the head of the family, residing in the Village when I first moved to the Parish. Recently his wife Paige gave birth to a son named Thomas. When Bronson found of his wife’s pregnancy, he moved to take over the Hamlet, bringing my cousin Rockland from the Parish back to run the Village.

  It would have been a difficult transition for Rockland, leaving his people, if he wasn’t so head over heels for his woman, Tess, who will never leave the Village. Her blood runs Bachman and New York City. She’s a fiery redhead whom I love, and has broken tradition by becoming the first woman to be a leader in the family. She’s currently second in charge, under Rockland.

  When women join the family, they pledge as wives their submission. The men pledge their dominance and protection, marking the woman with their dagger—a necklace with a pendant of a sword, symbolizing the man’s devotion and willingness to lay down his life for her.

  And in all three branches of the family, each woman has a willingness to be punished by her husband. Both parties swear it keeps the balance and harmony found only in our family... but it’s a tough pill for me to swallow. Of course, I’d love a man to tie me up and ravage me... I think. I might even be into playing with handcuffs or a little BDSM. But to be spanked by a man for being naughty? I’m

not sure I can wrap my head around that one.

  I inch away from the giant man beside me, blushing at the thought of what the big brute would do to a naughty girl.

  * * *

  Dante

  Charged with being the third ranking officer for the family mafia?

  Piece of cake.

  Charged with keeping the flighty baby cousin of the head of the family in line?

  Maddening.

  She’s young, smart, witty... and drop dead gorgeous. She’s five foot nine, and half of that height is her shapely legs. Glossy jet-black hair runs down her back. She’s perfected this little laugh and sassy flip of her hair over her shoulders. Drives the younger guys wild. The bone structure of her face has been likened to that of a Madonna. Dark perfectly arched brows, cheekbones to the high heavens, gliding down to draw attention to her full, glossy lips. A classic Italian beauty.

  Who has no idea how beautiful she is. Or the effect she has on men.

  All men.

  Men I am magically supposed to keep from yearning for her. Sure, I can keep them away in proximity, but I can’t control the way they lust after her.

  I seem to be the only single male immune to her charms.

  Yes, she’s got an amazing body, a sharp mind, a quick wit. But she’s constantly late. Never met a deadline. Has no idea what a hard day of work is. Been coddled and spoiled since the day she was born. A daydreamer, always floating above the clouds. Or spending lazy afternoons basking on the shore, her nose stuck in one of her silly romance novels.

  If I’m Type A, Adrianna is Type Z... the furthest from my kind possible.

  And so, I was the only logical choice in the brotherhood to guard her.

  It’s not that I don’t like her. Quite the opposite. I’ve observed her around the Parish. She’s kind, thoughtful. She loves animals, playing games with the children. She’s the only one who can lighten our leader’s stoic nature. She makes him laugh. I would find her to be as charming as everyone else does if she had a little taming. A few healthy boundaries, consequences for her whimsical, forgetful ways, a few trips over my knee, and she’d no longer infuriate me.

  Alas. It’s not to be. Not yet, at least.

  We have a hierarchy in the brotherhood. One put in place to protect our women. When a woman marries into the family, her husband is her protector. A man second to him is named, should her husband perish. But it’s only been enacted once. Recently in fact.

  The man we are flying to the memorial of, Brett Bachman, was Rockland’s blood brother. He died three years ago. Rockland, next of kin, became responsible for Brett’s widow, Tess. At first, she was fine, needing him only to get through the funeral, the first memorial. The second year after Brett’s death, she began to spiral out of control, going down a dark tunnel of drinking and depression. Bronson enacted the hierarchy. Rockland moved in with her. Cared for her. Got her back on her feet. And they fell in love with one another.

  I don’t fault Rockland for falling for Tess. She’s the kind of woman I usually find myself attracted to. Self-assured, hard worker. Devoted to the cause. Confident, knows her beauty. Dressing to accentuate her curves, bring out the highlights in her red hair. Calculated and cunning. A power player. She’s a tigress.

  And Adrianna, a butterfly. Flitting about her day, clueless of the repercussions of her actions. Which is why she needs me.

  If a woman is single, then a man is named. A placeholder, if you will, until the woman finds herself a husband. (The dominant/submissive dynamic in our family lends itself to a sexually charged environment—no one stays single for long.) And I’m Adrianna’s placeholder.

  Rockland’s made me promise him to hold off punishing his precious cousin as long as possible. I check my watch. Let’s see... I’ve made it thirty minutes so far. I think I’m doing pretty damn good.

  But now, she opens her purse. Her belongings scatter about. Lipsticks rolling down the aisle, papers fluttering to the floor. A book lands heavy in my lap. She’s too busy collecting her things to notice.

  I lift the book, turning it over in my hands. There’s a picture of a ripped, shirtless firefighter on the cover. He wears nothing but black jeans and a helmet on top of his head—perfect attire for fighting fires. His chin juts out cockily, the title stating, The Burning in her Loins. I want to laugh. I pick the book up, flipping through the pages while she’s picking up her makeup from the floor.

  I begin to read aloud, “His fire was hot. So hot. And she was burning for him. Between her legs the heat ravaged like a wildfire.” I wave the cover in front of her. “Is this really what you’re reading?”

  She sees the book and freezes. Her face is a mask of horror. “Where’d you get that?” she asks, snatching it from me and burying it in the bottom of her bag.

  “It landed on me. When you clumsily dumped your purse all over the place.”

  “Never you mind. Some people like romance.”

  “Romance? You call that romance? It’s nothing but trash. You want a real romance? Read a classic. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre—”

  Her brow creases. “You’ve read those?”

  I shrug. “A few years ago, I had some extra time on my hands. Decided to read as many classic novels as I could. I printed a list of the top one hundred and started with the first one, which was Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre was number four.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “Maybe fifty? I lost count. My free time ended and I went back to work.”

  “You don’t strike me as a reader.”

  “I don’t have time, now, but there’s one thing I hate. Time wasting. I don’t take a single second on this Earth for granted.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Surely you let loose sometime.” She’s searching between the seats for lost items.

  I ignore her questions and begin picking up the papers that fell from her purse. My eyes graze over the clutter. With every tattered document I secure, my anger rises. “Driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, travelers’ checks? You just keep all this important paperwork stuffed in the bottom of your bag? Unbelievable. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

  “Hey! Give those back.” She snatches at them and I block her, holding them in my hands.

  “I’ll give them back when you learn to properly care for them. Besides—you won’t be going anywhere without me. Now will you?”

  She shoots me a look of despair.

  “That’s right. I’m going to be your new shadow.” I make a neat stack of her papers. Pull my binder out from my bag. Find an empty file. Slide them safely inside. Take out a pen and neatly mark the tab with her name. Adrianna. I put my bag down beside me. Rest my head on the back of the seat and close my eyes. She sits beside me, fuming. I want to laugh. This is only the beginning. She has no idea how much her life is about to change.

  I tap my fingers on the arm of the seat, eager to take off already. What’s the holdup? I give her a long look. Now she’s staring out the window, ignoring me. “I’m going to go see what the delay is. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” She gives me a snort in response. Not good enough. I reach out, grab her delicate chin between my fingers and turn her to face me. A pretty blush rises in her cheeks at my touch. “How about a Yes, sir?”

  Her eyes widen, getting a glassy look to them. Breathily she whispers, “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s better.”

  I give her one last look, then make my way to the front of the plane. I talk to the men and find there’s a problem with a cargo crate. One Rockland will be expecting us to arrive with in the Village. I’ve got to keep my eye on her so they’ll have to figure it out without me. After they assure me everything’s under control, I go back to my seat. Adrianna has her head leaned against the window. Her eyes are closed as if she’s sleeping but my gaze lowers to her hands.

  They are clutched tightly around her purse.

  “Looks like we’ll be taking off, soon,” I say. She pretends she hasn’t heard me. As if in the three minutes I’ve been gone she’s fallen asleep. I slide into my seat. Whistle a casual tune as I pick up my bag. Take out my binder. Open my folder marked with her name.

  Empty.

  I look at her. I catch her peeking at me through one squinted lid. It quickly snaps shut and she moves her body further toward her window, tightening her hold on her purse and sighing as if in a restful dream.

  “Sleeping Beauty. Where are the documents?”

  She murmurs something unintelligible. I lean over, pry one of her eyelids open with my fingers. Peer into her very alert pupil. I repeat myself. “Where are the documents?”

  She sits up, tries to act startled. “Hmm? What do you mean?” To elaborate her act, she stretches her arms above her head and yawns.

  I take the opportunity to snatch her bag from her lap.

  She’s clawing at me and I shoo her away like a pesky fly. She says, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? A gentleman never goes through a lady’s purse!”

  “Good thing I’m not a gentleman.” Bingo. There they are, crumpled in the bottom of her bag. I take them out. Smooth them. Slide them into my folder. Latch the binder and replace it in my bag. I stand, tossing her purse and my bag in the overhead compartment and latch it securely.

  Her big round eyes gaze helplessly at the cargo holder above her head. “Hey! Give me back my bag. I need that for the ride.”

  “You’ve lost your privilege to carry a purse, I’m afraid.”

  She looks at me, stunned. Her mouth hangs open, void of protest. She’s in shock, but not as shocked as she’s about to be.

  I continue my lecture, saying, “And you’ve earned yourself a spanking.”

  It takes a moment for the idea to set in. Delighted, I enjoy the look of horror on her face as she realizes what’s about to happen. She’s pressing her back against the window. Trying to make as much distance between us as possible. She hisses, “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Disobedience has immediate consequences.”

  “Don’t you touch me!”

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