Epilogue
DANTE
I take a long pull from my cigar, the smoke curling slow and decadent toward the ceiling.
My thighs spread wider, my hand fisting tight in the blonde’s ponytail.
I give a sharp yank, forcing her down until her lips are crushed to my base.
Her throat works around me as she gags slightly, eyes watering, mascara bleeding into thick black streaks.
She looks like hundreds of women I’ve had. Hungry, depraved, ruined. She’ll come back for more. They always do.
Dark hair, darker eyes, and a face that gets me into as much trouble as it gets me out of, I possess that Italian charm women eat up.
I like expensive things; they like to be spoiled.
I like to look good in tailored suits fitted to my muscular frame; they undress me with their eyes.
My cars purr, and so do they, in my bed and around my dick.
My reputation is well-earned, and I live by one motto: Work hard, play hard, get hard.
It works for me.
As does California.
My new house sits in the Monterey hills where I can watch the Pacific roll in or descend the steps to my own private cove.
Glass walls face the ocean and drench the rooms in sunlight.
I grilled a time or two from the deck off the living room, the taste of the salty air as invigorating as the steaks I enjoy.
Inside my home, everything’s black walls, oak wood, and white accents. Very male. Very me.
In the bedroom, a king bed faces the sea, but retractable blackout blinds block out the light when I need rest, particularly after nights spent in the best Los Angeles clubs money can buy. It’s a waterbed with a thermostat that guarantees the perfect fit for my mood.
My Monterey home is my castle.
A place I never eat and fuck in.
Where I’m at right now, at my apartment in Los Angeles, is my fuckpad.
I have them in other cities too, New York, Rome, Tokyo.
Sebastiano busts my balls about it constantly.
He doesn’t get that I like my own space.
My own sheets that smell like sunshine. A mattress that hasn’t been fucked on by God knows how many strangers.
I like entertaining on my terms, with everything I want at arm’s reach.
I tighten my grip on the blonde’s hair and roll my hips deeper. Her moan vibrates around me. Blow jobs are my morning coffee. Fuels me for the day by taking the edge off. I don’t skip them, ever.
At least, not by choice.
The only time I went without was when I was Massimo Grassi’s “guest.”
That is until Luna Cecilia Gallo inserted herself into my business once again.
I’d been locked in a suite on the Grassi estate, well fed and bored to tears, staring at the horizon and waiting for Sebastiano Beneventi to resolve the bullshit with Massimo. That’s when I spotted two of his men cresting the hill, dragging a girl between them.
She fought like hell, heels digging into the ground, hair wild in the wind.
I stood in the motherfucking window, feeling helpless as fuck.
What was Massimo thinking? Kidnapping me was one thing. Throwing her into my suite and locking the door behind us was beyond cruel.
“What the hell happened?” I demanded the second we were alone. I’m not easily shaken, and my veins run cold. But now she was in fucking danger? I wasn’t wearing a crystal ball—Massimo might actually have killed me, and in turn, her.
She straightened her dress and shot me a glare. “I heard Massimo kidnapped you. I came to help.”
There were a few moments in life where I came close to strangling someone. That was one of them.
Un-fucking-believable.
She was a smokeshow, all fire and bad ideas. Barely eighteen to my thirty-seven.
Didn’t stop her from stealing onto my property and invading my privacy while I swam naked in my pool.
Didn’t stop me from noticing her curves every time she walked past my terrace.
I bought an estate next door to Don Gallo’s as an investment property where I grow pistachios, unaware I’d be getting more than nuts in the deal.
And she makes me nuts. Insanely so.
The pull of the blonde’s mouth drags me back to the present. My dick throbs, but it’s not her face I see.
Fuck.
With a grunt, I shove her off me.
My erection softens instantly, angrily. “Go.”
“Will I … see you again?”
“Maybe.”
She gathers her clothes from the floor and leaves me to my thoughts.
I almost call her back because this is becoming a problem.
I’m a man who loves variety. Always up for a good chase, always down for a naughty thrill.
Still, I should never have touched Don Gallo’s daughter.
Allowed myself to be seduced by her, ignoring her lies.
Fuck her until my balls exploded.
Made her bleed on my dick, her virginity mine for the taking.
And the worst part about it aside from getting off on every second?
Now I’m shackled to her teenage ass.
The last thing I expected walking out of the Grassi estate was to be chained for life to Don Gallo’s precious little princess.
THE END
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DIRTY MAFIA SINNER
EXCERPT
RILEY
He’s not coming.
My one-night stand, who turned into consecutive Friday nights and then into every night over the course of a few weeks.
It was hardly the beginning of a meaningful relationship.
People talk in healthy relationships. He said hello and goodbye, and between, fucked me six ways to Sunday.
His touch was addictive. He was addictive.
His late-night visits became less frequent until they stopped entirely.
Three weeks now.
It’s over.
I curl a tea bag around a spoon. It’s two in the morning, a bad time for a caffeine fix. Except, I can’t sleep, so what does it matter?
He left that night after our wild fling, and I thought that was the end of it.
Then, a few days later, a man in an expensive suit showed up at my apartment to install a new lock.
Ciro—when I approached him later about it—was dumbfounded, and I realized he was the wrong man to thank.
Not fully comprehending I’d soon be doing so in person.
My buzzer rang, waking me. It was well past midnight, but I scrambled from bed to answer the door, believing guilt had driven Emily to come over to apologize for a fight we’d had over dinner. That, or because she’d left Ciro. Because who else would show up at this hour?
Except it wasn’t Emily standing there, eyes smoldering and daring me, just daring me, to comment on his return. As if his presence didn’t make my throat go dry and words impossible. He came every Friday night, then practically every night until his visits stopped altogether.
Now, it’s over.
I squeeze the amber liquid from the tea bag. The tea’s too hot, but I drink it anyway, welcoming the burn and the reminder that even something outwardly innocent like tea can still hurt you.
The things we did, the boundaries he pushed …
He was everything I didn’t know I was searching for.
Liquid sloshes across my T-shirt and kitchen floor.
“Great,” I mutter, setting everything on the counter before tearing off the shirt to rinse it in the sink.
Once finished, I grab a towel, get onto my knees, and wipe up the mess, blindly making wide swooping arcs to reach liquid I can’t see while I work.
Why is it so dark in here?
Big windows bookend my apartment’s railroad-style layout, with plenty of natural light filtering in.
The kitchen and small functional bathroom sit on one end, the living area square in the middle, and my bedroom on the other side.
With renovations ongoing and the other apartments vacant, it’s quiet at night.
“You live in a newly renovated NYC apartment rent-free,” Emily informed me after I finally commented on how she’d bailed on being my roommate.
One minute, she was crying over catching Ciro snorting coke like a character straight out of the movie Scarface, and in the next—after I suggested she move in with me “as planned”—she was defending him and attacking me.
“Everything always has to be about poor, poor Riley, doesn’t it? ”
This from a friend who’d picked me up from the airport, dropped me off at the curb, informed me there’d been a change in plans and she’d moved in with Ciro, then, blurting out the entry code, drove off without the slightest remorse.
I’d stood on the sidewalk, in an unfamiliar city, in front of an unfamiliar building, two suitcases at my side and my one connection to home abandoning me. Left behind with an emptiness eating away at me.
“He could charge thousands.”
“Is that why you’re dating him?” I snapped, unleashing an anger that had been brewing for months. “For his money?”
Her claws came out to sink into my jugular. “I liked you better when you barely talked.”
I stood up from the table, wavering somewhere between being the wrecking ball and the wrecked. “We’ll talk when you’re ready to hear the truth,” I said in a flat voice before walking off.
But maybe I have changed. Still broken, yet not entirely defenseless.
I submitted to him yet discovered an inner strength long absent from my life.
With a sigh, I sit back on my haunches and toss the towel at the sink. “Why did he have to end it so soon?”
A grunt disrupts the quiet. A muffled sound, which has me falling backward. I search for the source, and find it at my kitchen table, a shadowy figure seated in the dark.
My eyes shift toward the door.
“Don’t.” His voice.
Fear quickly changes to indignation. “How long have you been sitting there?” The kitchen curtains are pulled closed, shrouding the table in darkness. I can barely make out his features.
I stand, arms folded, very aware how naked I am, wearing nothing but a skimpy red thong.
He doesn’t respond. Typical. What else should I expect from a man who so reluctantly offered me his name. Al—that’s all I got. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know.”
Three weeks, and he knows?
“Come here.”