Chapter Four
LUCA
“Highway to hell. I’m on a highway to hell.
” The brat is butchering the AC/DC song, stepping into the living room with one hand over his head, toweling his hair dry while swinging his hips right and left.
I swear to god he has made it his mission to find a new way to piss me off nearly every day—for seven fucking days. It feels like fucking eternity.
He is wearing my t-shirt—with a knot over his hip that pulls the fabric over his pierced nipples—and a scrap of lace, barely covering his dick.
Fly sent a bag for him last night. I let him have it, thinking it would contain some clothes for him, since I don’t want him to use mine anymore.
But it only had lingerie sets, body chains, and chocolate.
When I tried to call Fly, Marco answered instead, just to tell me Carlo—one of his men—was coming to help with the brat before hanging up.
The brat gives me his back and shakes his ass, making the flesh jiggle.
Jesus Christ! Is this guy for real? Dancing in the middle of the room in front of his kidnapper?
I keep my expression blank as I contemplate the delicate curve of his neck.
I can still see faint yellow bruises, my fingerprints look stark on his pale skin, and I fucking like it.
Should I turn them darker? His throat feels so fragile in my hand when I grab it.
His pulse pounding against my palm, his uneven breath.
But his eyes, they hold no fear. How can a defenseless brat like him not be afraid?
He knows I won’t kill him, but pain can be worse than death.
He stops near the kitchen window. He finally turns quiet when he looks outside. Then he does it again, tilting his face up with his eyes closed—the sun shining through his wet locks. If he hopes God will help him, he can pray all he wants. Nobody will come to his rescue.
I turn back to what I was doing until I feel watched.
“Stop squinting!” I snap at him. His eyes are focused on the coffee table where I’m sharpening my knives.
“I’m not.” He takes a step back, still staring at the table.
“Yes, you are.” Why am I even arguing with him about this?
“I need my glasses,” he suddenly clips.
“You don’t wear glasses.” He’d be a professional liar if he weren’t so busy doing…nothing.
“I need my things!”
This again? Fuck. I’m sure Seb will understand if I stab him in the leg.
“Please, Luca.” He tries playing the desperate card now.
“Your mood has so many fucking swings it could be mistaken for a park.”
It shifts a thousand times a day, like he has multiple personalities. He goes from arrogant and insufferable to fragile and on the verge of shattering to playful and flirty. It’s all an act, but I could swear that sometimes…no. No buts. He’s a fucking Enzino.
“Better than your Hulk! Smash!” he counters, using a raspy voice.
He’s wary of me, yet he has no sense of caution.
Does he like to be hurt? He reminds me of a cat who used to come to the group home when I was a kid.
He had red tiger stripes and was feisty and insane—coming each day to check the dumpster, knowing full well the cook would hit him every time with a paddle.
Until it got whacked in the head and died.
The brat barely reaches my pecs, all slender and dainty. Soft, blond hair frames high cheekbones and light blue eyes. I’ve never seen such plump lips on a man before.
I move toward him, long, commanding strides. His eyes slide up and down my body. I notice the appreciation in them, and I’m not happy about it because he’s been heavily flirting.
“You seem to keep forgetting who I am,” I growl, feeling my hands itch.
What I wouldn’t give to just have some fun with my knives.
But for now, I have to restrain myself, especially since the information he offered is genuine.
Seb was able to verify the wedding date and Jack Enzino’s murderous intentions toward Coretti.
He also answered all of Seb’s questions about the Enzino family when he called a couple of days ago, which satisfied my boss quite a lot, reinforcing even more how valuable the brat is alive.
“I remember who you are: huge, boorish, and bloodthirsty. A little pent-up perhaps?” He gives me the most fake worried look.
A splinter in my finger, that’s what he is, irritating and stuck under my skin. Then why does my dick twitch at the sight of his pale peach ass? Maybe I am pent-up. Talk about contrasting feelings.
“I need to go out!” he states.
“You can’t.” I get my phone out of my jeans and send a message to Shirley. If I fuck her a few times tonight, I’ll be fine around Enzino again.
“Can’t do this, can’t do that. I’m no vampire. Need sun to survive.” He looks at his reflection in the fridge.
“You still think I care if you survive?” I pocket my phone and grab a pack of sour cream and onion chips that the brat somehow convinced Jeff to buy, and toss it at him. At least when he eats, he doesn’t talk.
“Let me go out for a while.”
On the other hand, a punch will knock him out, and silence will reign again.
“Want to run to your daddy already?”
“Fuck no!” he barks around a mouthful of chips. “To a club, to get fucked since you won’t do me. Any daddy will do! I don’t care. I just want a big cock inside me.”
I need to leave before I put his head through a wall.
“You can have your fun with some floozy while I get a rough fuck, gumdrop.” He takes a hasty step my way and slips, dropping the chips on the ground. Then slips again. There’s water on the floor. It probably got there when he was drying his hair, turning the vinyl surface dangerously slick.
“Stop moving and look down.”
“You are the one looking, pumpkin,” the brat taunts, shaking his ass to prove his stupid point, and of course, I do look. Those juicy ass cheeks are begging to be released.
The sudden movement makes him lose his balance, and he almost falls face down.
He grabs the kitchen counter at the last minute and bends over it, jutting his bottom out while giving me the best possible view of his backside.
I can see the dimples on the high curve of that ass, perfectly wrapped in lace.
When I look at his face, his smug smirk makes my constant anger boil to the point of no return.
“Do you have a natural stern face or are you always mad?” he taunts me again.
Is the little shit talking about my scars?
“And I’m not talking about the scars marring your face.” He seems to read my mind, and I don’t like it.
“Stop with the sulky, dog noises, princess,” he has the nerve to say to me. “Those animalistic grunts and grr you let out.”
Fucking hell on earth and back!
Avoiding the water on the floor, I reach him, and after grabbing his wrist painfully hard, I drag him to the sofa.
Possessed by ire, I sit and shove his body belly down over my lap.
His apple and sunshine scent invades my lungs.
He’s using the same soap and shampoo I am; how can he still smell this… sweet?
“God’s sake! Let me go, you troglodyte!” He’s trying to wiggle his way free, but my tightening fingers around his nape stop his ridiculous attempt.
“You want to act like a brat?” I pull the t-shirt a little higher to have a better view of his ass. “Then I’ll treat you like one,” I growl darkly before lifting my hand in the air and letting it fall down hard on his right cheek.
Spank, spank, spank.
“What…? Ahhhh!”
I push his face into the sofa as I watch his ass bounce. Even after eating for three people, he doesn’t seem to put any weight on his small body. It must all go to his rear. It’s round, high, and meaty. Fucking hell.
Slap. Slap.
Whatever he says is muffled by the cushion.
Finally, I found a way to stop the constant yapping—food is also useful.
But when he eats, he reminds me of a type of scampering rodent, how rapidly he chews, and the way he fills his cheeks full.
Even when he sleeps, he dreams about eating.
I could hear him from the bedroom yesterday talking about some cookies in a jar, with strawberry jam and Mascarpone.
Slap.
I can definitely hear a moan when I hit his left cheek—leaving a red print that makes me smile with satisfaction.
This is meant to be a punishment for him, I remind myself.
But the brat seems to be enjoying it. I hit the same place harder.
A whimper comes out this time, while his nails sink into my thigh. Good.
Spank.
The lace has slipped between the ass cheeks, giving me a cock-hardening view.
His long, high-pitched moan makes me realize my hand has stopped slapping and is now squeezing the softest flesh I’ve ever touched.
Fuuuck. It fits perfectly into my hand. Feels like grabbing a nice, heavy tit—I’ve always been a breast man.
Motherfucker! What the hell am I doing?
I give both ass cheeks one last round before pulling him up into a sitting position. His face is red, lips wet, eyes watery and filled with fake indignation.
“Is this your idea of foreplay?”
“You’re the one getting a hard-on when punished.” I felt it against my thigh when I was spanking him.
“Who wouldn’t?” He looks down at my groin, pouting when he realizes he didn’t have the same effect on me. Did he?
“Fuck this!” I think I hear him muttering before he climbs my lap and sits there, back to my front, hands on my knees.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss in his ear, every muscle rigid. Every single muscle.