Mafia King Read Online By L. Steele - Read Mafia King(37) Online free

Karma

"What do you think?" I turn toward him. "I am leaving you."

"Not having much success, are you?" He prowls over to me, pauses on the ramp near the motorboat which has begun to drift away from the ramp. "Come back to me," he orders. "Now."

"No." I shake my head, "No, I will not."

"And you?" He glares at Luca. "I trusted you," his jaw hardens, "my brother, my second in command... The man I believed in all these years."

"Excuse me while I play the violin for your woes." Luca laughs.

"Who got to you, Luca?" Michael tilts his head, "This is not you. This bitter, cynical man, who is betraying me... This is not the brother I know."

"You don't know me very well then, do you?" Luca's lips turn down in a sad smile, "You only ever saw what you wanted; you always believed that you knew what was best for all of us."

"What are you talking about?" Michael frowns, "My entire life, to date, has been devoted to protecting all of you."

"If only that were true," Luca says in a low voice, "and you accuse Nonna of turning a blind eye when he beat up mother."

Michael stiffens, "What are you talking about?" He leans forward on the balls of his feet, "What did he do to you, Luca? Tell me what happened."

"Don’t worry about it, fratellone," Luca's lips twist. "You just worry about how you're going to explain how you let your wife run away from you."

Michael's shoulders stiffen. The skin around his eyes tightens. He glares at Luca a second longer, seems about to say something, then changes his mind.

"Why are you doing this?" He widens his stance, "Turn back, and I'll forget any of this happened."

"I think not." Luca's lips curve, "Not when I am enjoying the sight of the powerful Capo, reduced to begging his woman to stay. If you're not able to keep her, how are you going to take charge as the Don? Clearly, you are not fit to succeed him."

"So that's what this is about? Power?" Michael folds his fingers into fists at his side.

"When is it not about power?" Luca chuckles, then glances toward me. "Oh, I forgot, you think yourself in love, don't you? You think she is the woman who came to redeem you? Too bad, she doesn't feel the same way."

I stiffen, wanting to tell him to shut the hell up, but I don't. He's wrong, though. Michael isn't in love with me. All he wants is to possess me, own me, use me, then discard me. But I'm not going to correct him. Not when he's doing a damn good job of keeping Michael occupied while we wait to re-start the goddamn engine again.

"I would have done anything for you, my brother." Michael lowers his chin, "I would have given up anything for you."

"So, if I had asked you to hand over the title of Capo to me, would you have done so?"

Michael stiffens. A nerve pops at his temple, but he stays silent.

"Thought not," Luca murmurs. "Don't kid yourself, fratellone. All these years, you've kept me close just to keep track of my movements." Luca, shakes his head, "No brother, if I had told you how I truly felt, if I'd even breathed a word of the fact that I wanted to be Capo, you'd have killed me—"

"Or not," Michael folds his arms across his chest, "and now we'll never know. Either way," he nods toward me, "let her go. She isn't part of whatever power games you want to indulge in."

"I beg to differ," Luca smirks. He wraps his arm around me and I shoot him a confused glance. What the hell is he up to? And after he told me that he’s not interested in me in that way.

On the ramp, I sense Michael tense. "Get the fuck away from her," he says in a voice so hard, so cold, that a shudder runs down my spine. My thighs clench and my belly flutters. Shit, I should not find his anger such a turn on. I should not find the possessiveness that laces his voice so damn sexy. I should not allow myself to turn to him, fix my gaze on his as I lean into Luca and murmur, "I don’t want you, Michael. I want him."

Michael's nostrils flare.

Next to me, Luca's muscles bunch. But he must understand that I am playing along with him, for he hauls me closer. "You heard her." I can hear the smirk in his voice as he addresses Michael over my head, "She’s not with you anymore."

"She’s. My. Wife." Michael’s voice whips through the space. The pores on my skin pop. My toes curl. Oh, my god. Michael Byron Domenico Sovrano in a rage…is, surely, one of the most erotic spectacles I have ever seen. It’s definitely one of the scariest.

Why the hell does everything about this man turn me on…even as I am trying my best to leave him? I squeeze my thighs together, lift up my chin, "Your wife?" I snarl. "Is that what you call kidnapping me and forcing me to marry you?"

"It’s what I call what happened over the last 24 hours between you and me," he snaps and my heart stutters. It bloody stutters. I draw in a breath and Luca’s grasp about my shoulder tightens.

I try to pull away from him and he whispers, "Don’t let him get to you. Remember, you’re doing this because you want to escape him."

I stiffen, then firm my lips. "What happened between us was a mistake." I look Michael up and down, "If you think, for one second, you fooled me by what you did, you’re wrong. I hate you." I swallow, "I loathe what you did to me, and if I had the chance, I’d turn back the clock and ensure I was never in the park where you first encountered me."

He pales, then sets his jaw. "We’ll talk about that later," he says in a tone that is so soft that there is no mistaking the menace that laces it. Jesus H Christ, I’ve done it. He’s so bloody pissed at me, that the moment we are alone next he is going to… Shag me? Spank me? Both of the above, and maybe not in that order.

I gulp, even as wetness laces my core. Oh, my god, what’s wrong with me that, even now, I can’t get rid of the images that crowd my mind? Of him cramming his dick inside me, his touch on my skin, his scent in my nostrils, the heat of his gaze as he takes in my features, as he glares at Luca’s arm about my shoulders.

"Take your hands off of her or—"

"Or what?" Luca smirks, "From where I am, there’s not much you can do."

Michael’s jaw tics. He squeezes his massive hands into fists at his sides, then takes a step forward. Luca tries the ignition again. The engine fires up, the boat leaps forward, then the engine dies down.

"Fuck," he swears, takes his arm off of me, then begins to play with the buttons on the dashboard.

"Couldn’t you have thought of this before?" I hiss.

"It’s a last-ditch resort." He bends, pulls out a panel, then yanks at some wires.

There’s a flash of movement to the side. I turn, then scream when Michael dives into the water. He swims toward us and panic squeezes my chest. Shit, shit, shit. I need to do something about this, but what?

If he reaches the boat, if he gets on, no way, can we escape. Worse, if he gets his hands on me again… If he takes me captive again… He’ll never forgive me. He’ll make me regret trying to escape him. And you’ll love every minute of it. No. I shake my head…

It’s this addiction to him that got me into this situation, in the first place. It’s because I couldn’t stay away from him, that I let my guard down enough to, perhaps, even trust him, that I may now be pregnant with his child and… No… If that’s the case, I definitely need to get away from him. He reaches the boat, grabs the edge and the craft rocks. I scream again, grab the back of the seat to steady myself. I need to do something, anything, but what?

"The oars," Luca jerks his chin to a corner of the boat. "Grab an oar and fight him off."

"No," I cry, "I don’t want to hurt him."

"If you don’t, he’ll hurt you," he retorts. "You don’t want that, do you?"

Do I? How can I tell him that I like it when Michael puts his hands on me? How it turns me on when he treats me like his plaything. How… I lose sight of everything when he’s near me.

Oh, my god, I have no choice. I am going to have to do this. If I let him near me again… I am never escaping him… And my child… If I am pregnant, he or she will never know a normal life.

I scramble around the seat, totter toward the end of the boat, where one end of the oar pops out from under the cover of the tarpaulin.

Michael grabs the edge of the boat, begins to haul himself over the side. That’s when I spring forward. I grab the oar and raise it. My muscles scream in protest. The oar is heavy enough that my knees almost give way under me. I manage to find my balance, and the oar slips from my hands. The edge slams into the side of his head. I tighten my hold on it, pull back as his gaze widens. Those blue irises flare with... Surprise… No, something else… Hate? No… Love? Not possible. It’s lust. It has to be lust. And maybe possession. And anger that I’ve beat him at his own game.

Blood blooms at his temple and I fight the urge to run to his side and help him. He bares his teeth, swings one leg over the side and I scream. I bring the oar down on him again, just as the boat’s engine roars to life. Michael’s gaze holds mine. A beat, another. Then his grip loosens, and he falls back into the water. The oar falls from my fingers and hits the bottom of the boat.

I lean over the side, scan the surface of the water, then scream when he surfaces. He thrusts out an arm, and I reach for his hand, only the boat leaps forward as Luca shifts into gear. My fingers brush his, then he’s gone, under the water. The wake of the boat fills the space where he’d been.

"No," I scream, "No, no, no."

To find out what happens next read Mafia Queen here

Read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE

Read an excerpt from Summer & Sinner’s story

Summer

"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."

"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.

"Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.

"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"

"It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head, "You have to admit that when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"

"Why?" I wave my hand in the air, "Because they hate each other?"

"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I—"

"Proposed to?" I huff.

His face lights up. "You get it now?"

Yeah. No.A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.

I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.

"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"

"Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."

"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."

A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.

One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.

A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?

The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.

"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.

My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."

"You sure?"

"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.

"No. She’s had enough."

"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.

Indigo eyes bore into me.

Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with. I gulp.

"Like what you see?"

I flush, peer up into his face.

Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Oh! My toes curl. My thighs clench.

The corner of his mouth kicks up. Asshole.

Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.

I scowl, "Gimme that."

He shakes his head.

"That’s my drink."

"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."

I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips, in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.

What the actual hell?

I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!

The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scrabble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.

"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.

"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"

"Hmph."

I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.

Look away, look away.I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?

He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn't do that, no way.

A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.

His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thigh, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! God. Goosebumps rise on my skin.

No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.

"Arrogant wanker."

"I’ll take that under advisement."

"You’re a jerk, you know that?"

He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Jesus, clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.

He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.

The hell!I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.

"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.

Heat curls low in my belly.

Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.

He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.

While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.

"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers, from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"

"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?

He wears a cheap-ass watch?

That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.

I reach up and he straightens.

I lurch back.

"Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.

A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.

I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.

Sinclair

My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.

What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked above her.

A huffing sound fills my ear.

I turn to find my whippet, Max, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he flattens his ears.

All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the caring sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.

Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me. Huh? He hates women, but not her, apparently.

I straighten and my nose grazes hers.

My arms are on either side of her head. Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle; my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink... and are those shoulder pads she has on?

I glance up, and a squeak escapes her lips.

Pink hair surrounds her face. Pink? Who dyes their hair that color past the age of eighteen?

I stare at her face. How old is she? Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth—luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters. What the hell?

She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold sparkling in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You're demonstrating the plank position?"

"Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."

She gulps and her pupils dilate. Ah, so she feels it, too?

I drop my head toward her, closer, closer.

Color floods the creamy expanse of her neck. Her eyelids flutter down. She tilts her chin up.

I push up and off of her.

"That… Sweetheart, is an emphatic ‘no thank you’ to whatever you are offering."

Her eyelids spring open and pink stains her cheeks. Adorable. Such a range of emotions across those gorgeous features in a few seconds? What else is hidden under that exquisite exterior of hers?

She scrambles up, eyes blazing.

Ah!The little bird is trying to spread her wings? My dick twitches. My groin hardens, Why does her anger turn me on so, huh?

She steps forward, thrusts a finger in my chest.

My heart begins to thud.

She peers up from under those hooded eyelashes. "Wake up and taste the wasabi, asshole."

"What does that even mean?"

She makes a sound deep in her throat. My dick twitches. My pulse speeds up.

She pivots, grabs a half-full beer mug sitting on the bar counter.

I growl, "Oh, no, you don’t."

She turns, swings it at me. The smell of hops envelops the space.

I stare down at the beer-splattered shirt, the lapels of my camel colored jacket deepening to a dull brown. Anger squeezes my guts.

I fist my fingers at my side, broaden my stance.

She snickers.

I tip my chin up. "You're going to regret that."

The smile fades from her face. "Umm." She places the now empty mug on the bar.

I take a step forward and she skitters back. "It’s only clothes." She gulps, "They'll wash."

I glare at her and she swallows, wiggles her fingers in the air, "I should have known that you wouldn’t have a sense of humor."

I thrust out my jaw, "That’s a ten-thousand-pound suit you destroyed."

She blanches, then straightens her shoulders, "Must have been some hot date you were trying to impress, huh?"

"Actually," I flick some of the offending liquid from my lapels, "it’s you I was after."

"Me?" She frowns.

"We need to speak."

She glances toward the bartender who's on the other side of the bar. "I don’t know you." She chews on her lower lip, biting off some of the hot pink. How would she look, with that pouty mouth fastened on my cock?

The blood rushes to my groin so quickly that my head spins. My pulse rate ratchets up. Focus, focus on the task you came here for.

"This will take only a few seconds." I take a step forward.

She moves aside.

I frown, "You want to hear this, I promise."

"Go to hell." She pivots and darts forward.

I let her go, a step, another, because... I can? Besides it's fun to create the illusion of freedom first; makes the hunt so much more entertaining, huh?

I swoop forward, loop an arm around her waist, and yank her toward me.

She yelps. "Release me."

Good thing the bar is not yet full. It's too early for the usual officegoers to stop by. And the staff...? Well they are well aware of who cuts their paychecks.

I spin her around and against the bar, then release her. "You will listen to me."

She swallows; she glances left to right.

Not letting you go yet, little Bird.I move into her space, crowd her.

She tips her chin up. "Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested."

I allow my lips to curl, "You don't fool me."

A flush steals up her throat, sears her cheeks. So tiny, so innocent. Such a good little liar. I narrow my gaze, "Every action has its consequences."

"Are you daft?" She blinks.

"This pretense of yours?" I thrust my face into hers, "It’s not working."

She blinks, then color suffuses her cheeks, "You’re certifiably mad—"

"Getting tired of your insults."

"It's true, everything I said." She scrapes back the hair from her face.

Her fingernails are painted... You guessed it, pink.

"And here’s something else. You are a selfish, egotistical jackass."

I smirk. "You're beginning to repeat your insults and I haven't even kissed you yet."

"Don't you dare." She gulps.

I tilt my head, "Is that a challenge?"

"It's a..." she scans the crowded space, then turns to me. Her lips firm, "...a warning. You're delusional, you jackass." She inhales a deep breath, "Your ego is bigger than the size of a black hole." She snickers, "Bet it's to compensate for your lack of balls."

A-n-d, that’s it. I’ve had enough of her mouth that threatens to never stop spewing words. How many insults can one tiny woman hurl my way? Answer: too many to count.

"You—"

I lower my chin, touch my lips to hers.

Heat, sweetness, the honey of her essence explodes on my palate. My dick twitches. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, reaching for that something more… more… of whatever scent she’s wearing on her skin, infused with that breath of hers that crowds my senses, rushes down my spine. My groin hardens; my cock lengthens. I thrust my tongue between those infuriating lips.

She makes a sound deep in her throat and my heart begins to pound.

So innocent, yet so crafty. Beautiful and feisty. The kind of complication I don’t need in my life.

I prefer the straight and narrow. Gray and black, that’s how I choose to define my world. She, with her flashes of color—pink hair and lips that threaten to drive me to the edge of distraction—is exactly what I hate.

Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That’s what I prefer.

Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.

Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.

I tear my mouth away and she protests.

She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.

I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.

Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens. Fuck.

Time to put distance between myself and the situation.

It’s how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.

The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That’s what’s worked for me so far.

"How much?"

Her forehead furrows.

"Whatever it is, I can afford it."

Her jaw slackens. "You think… you—"

"A million?"

"What?"

"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."

Her jaw slackens, "You're offering me money?"

"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."

She reddens, "You think I am for sale?"

"Everyone is."

"Not me."

Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"

Color fades from her face, "Get away from me."

"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer," I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.

She glowers at him, "Did you buy him too?"

"What do you think?"

She glances around, "I think everyone here is ignoring us."

"It’s what I’d expect."

"Why is that?"

I wave the tissue in front of her face, "Why do you think?"

"You own the place?"

"As I am going to own you."

She sets her jaw, "Let me leave and you won't regret this."

A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that’s all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.

"No one threatens me."

"You’re right."

"Huh?"

"I’d rather act on my instinct."

Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning.

No, she wouldn’t, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.

To find out what happens next read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE

Mafia King by L. Steele

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