Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Earlier That Day
" W e are looking at trading a few arms with the Marchetti men in San Diego. Julian Marchetti set us up with a meeting a month from today," my father said, crossing his arms over his body.
"I’ll be there," I responded with a curt nod, looking over at the other two men present in his office. Carlo, my father’s right-hand man, was standing behind my father’s desk, resting with his back against the window.
The office was decorated in ornate red and gold décor, likely by Carlo’s wife, who often came over to my dad's, claiming he needed a feminine touch around there. With my grandfather’s passing a year ago, my dad took over as capo to the Solis Family Dynasty, and I was now his second-in-command. I’d worked my way up here, knowing damn well I wanted, no, needed to be the capo of this family soon.
"All good, then, we’ll have to reconvene in a week to see any developments with the feds’ investigation of the laundromat we just purchased off Winchester." Romeo was our third-in- charge. He was good with the books and often oversaw the legit businesses we held. He was in his thirties and had been working for the family for some time. I think we were distant cousins, but honestly, who knew.
I crossed my legs, unbuttoning my suit as I leaned back in the seat, dazing off toward my father’s bookshelf. As a kid, I’d go in there and read his old poetry books to get a glimpse of the life he left behind.
It always baffled me. Why on earth would anyone reject the opportunity to lead a powerful family and reign over the entire underworld? How could you not revel in the adrenaline rush of knowing that everyone bowed to your command at the snap of your fingers? Those humans were weaker than me. They would falter and flee in the face of adversity, but me? I was different. I begged for the darkness to come and ran toward it.
Oh, but my old man decided to chuck his dreams for love. He fell head over heels for my mother, ditched the poet aspirations, and figured marrying her was the best thing ever. After tying the knot, they dreamed of ditching the Mafia and running off into the sunset so my dad could be a poet—a plan so absurd and downright strange.
Why give up the chance to lead? Born for greatness, at least on my mother’s side, why throw it all away for love? Not that I bought into the whole lovey-dovey fairy tale, mind you. In my father's grand life plan, my mother ended up in bed with our family's former mortal enemy, the Cartel, sparking a decade-long feud. It took Ember to find a way for our families to coexist peacefully.
I wasn’t heartless most of the time, and I loved certain people. My sister, for instance—I adored her, even though keeping her lover's secret caused a colossal rift between us. I respected my father for the opportunities he'd provided and the way he urged me to be a better person.
I’ve never had a girlfriend I loved or came close to loving. Since college, I'd preferred casual encounters—letting women have their moment, then leaving them at their hotels. My sister claimed it was because I was mourning my ex, scared of committing and losing someone again. I didn't love Cagen.
One person consumed my thoughts with an unrelenting obsession. She etched herself into the fabric of my mind, a persistent presence even in the throes of carnal pursuits. Her image haunted my every waking moment, an insatiable fixation that transcended mere infatuation. Yet it wasn't love. For three years, I had monitored her, making sure she was being a good girl in Isles.
I couldn't simply let her go, but kept my stalking to a minimum, not making it anyone else’s business but my own. In the clandestine underbelly of secrecy, I orchestrated a web of surveillance so tight, even the shadows had to strain to keep up. My family was blissfully ignorant of the intricate obsession that consumed my every waking moment. Enzo, my covert puppet master, was tracking my muse in Isles, keeping a vigilant watch on her every step, unbeknownst to anyone else.
Daily dispatches flowed in like a symphony of control, detailing the nuances of her life in Isles. The places she dared to tread, the faces that graced her presence—Enzo documented it all. It wasn't about maintaining an iron grip; it was an insatiable hunger to unravel every layer of her being. My obsession demanded nothing short of absolute knowledge.
He’d installed surveillance in her guesthouse which allowed me to keep an eye on her while never interrupting. I loved seeing my little muse with other men. While stroking my needy cock, I stared at her red hair flowing down her back. She screamed a little, but there was a shake in her voice. I knew when she was faking it, as the mask she wore cracked when she did. This would bring me over the edge, knowing after all these years she was still waiting for me.
She was still mine.
I was hers.
In the end, it would always be me and her. She was the queen to the kingdom I was building. She would never fall in love with me. No, she’d hate me when she found out my plan for her. When I dragged her back to Dansport to keep her as mine forever, she’d cry.
But I needed to have her. She was the only person I’d ever met who was as cold as I was and the only one I’d ever make mine again. Yet she danced through the chaotic rhythm of her boring life, oblivious to the unseen maestro orchestrating her fate. I reveled in the omnipotent thrill of wielding such control. The anticipation coursed through my veins, a heady cocktail of possession and arrogant curiosity that fueled me.
"Stay here." My father’s voice pulled me back into reality.
"Me?" I asked, pointing to myself and straightening in my seat. Donning a blacked-out suit, I crossed my leg over my thigh, letting my ankles show a little. I was only twenty-five, so I needed to have some semblance of youth in my appearance.
"Yes, son." I nodded as Romeo stood, giving me a firm handshake and my father a wave before he exited, locking the door behind him.
"What’s up?" I asked, sensing something with my dad was off. He was shifting too much in his seat and his eyes kept darting around the room.
Ever since my grandfather's passing, word that our family was fractured and being run by a non-blood relative had been passing through the families. It was making for some anxious times. Rumor had it, our enemies, the Irish mob, were strengthening their forces to get back at us.
"It’s time," my father stated. I racked my brain trying to think of what he could be talking about, but I was coming up with a blank.
"Time for what?"
"I need to get you married, son." Uncrossing my legs, I leaned forward so my elbows were resting on my thighs, contemplating reaching across the small wooden desk and slapping my father for joking like that. Instead, I cocked my head and narrowed my gaze on him.
"Why?" Inside, I was fuming. I knew the answer. Every marriage in the Mafia was a business transaction.
"Because I was talking to Carlo and Romeo before our meeting?—"
"Without me?" A bitter lilt to my tone shone through my otherwise cool exterior.
"It was amongst the elders." He glared at me.
"Well, go on. Get at it, Father."
"You need to get married to help repair the family. I know I ask you to sacrifice a lot, but I need you to do this for us."
Not that I was opposed to marrying someone for business, it was common in our world to use marriage to ease political tension between families, but I wasn’t expecting it right now.
"Who am I to marry?" I asked, leaning back in the chair and taking a deep breath in.
"She’s part of the Irish O'Malley family. She is a nice girl, a little younger than you."
I nodded, taking this all in. "And if I refuse?"
I would not marry this person. I couldn’t. Not when…
"You can't, Son."
"What happens if I do, though? Entertain me." There was always another plan, Father. It was what he’d taught me.
"If you get married to her, I’ll step down. You can have the entire empire at your hands."
I huffed out a chuckle. He was fucking good. Over the years, my meek father had hardened, and he knew the carrot he was dangling in front of me. It was something I’d never resist. It was the one thing I wanted more than anything on this earth.
I wanted power. I wanted to stand upon a throne and call it mine. I wanted everyone to bow down to me, knowing I was all mighty. Stronger and more powerful now, anyone who dared to walk in the path I craved for myself would face my wrath.
"You motherfucker," I said as I stood, my father joining me with a smile lifting his lips.
"I gotta think about it. Forward me her information and the deal they are offering us." My father nodded, and I gave him a hug before reaching back to shake Carlo’s hand.
"You’re a motherfucker, too, for keeping this a secret." He let out a laugh.
"My wife will be pissed if you don't take the pasta al forno in the fridge. It’s fresh from the oven."
"You know I will." I’d always wanted to sit at the cool kids table. Ever since I was a kid, it was a dream to feel wanted and desired.
Growing up, there were such expectations put on me to become the greatest, especially from my grandfather, that I made sure everything I did was calculated. I never played too many video games, in fear that would somehow make people think I was less cool. I never did more than one sport because I also didn’t want to come off as a jock.
Like taking Carlo’s wife’s pasta was done to ensure that the second-in-command appreciated me. She was a shit cook whose pasta was far too al dente and walked the line of uncooked half the time, but I took it with a genuine smile and appreciation for him.
I walked out of the door, down the hallway to the kitchen, and grabbed the aluminum foil pan before heading out in the car. My dad’s house was modest for the capo of an Italian mob. It was in the center of town where we’d taken control of most of the area. It reminded me of a lot of movies when they’d talk about suburbia. The houses were all brick, far too close to each other, and there was practically no privacy between neighbors.
Although Dansport was a populated city, second to Seattle, the little area that our family had carved out still had an old-world charm to it. There were a lot of delis on street corners, Italian grocery stores, and most of the time at night, the women were spotted in their driveways with a small bonfire, mingling between homes.
My dad’s house was the largest on the block because of his status, but it still maintained that charm without being too ostentatious.
Inside, it was modern but warm, which was exactly what he told his interior designer he hated. He wanted this masculine frat pad, but we all vetoed him because it looked tacky. The only place he got to keep his red and ornate gold was his office, and it looked like a king belonged inside of it.
"Hey!" my father shouted when the door to the office swung open as I was heading out the front door.
"You gotta live in the neighborhood, too, you know?"
"Who?" I gave off a slight laugh, shaking my head before saying goodbye and walking to my black Ferrari parked in the driveway.
"And get rid of that obnoxious car. It’s like a target on our back."
What could I say? I liked flashy things.
I peeled out of the driveway and headed toward the edge of town. I hated living in the neighborhood. It felt too congested, and while I understood living there provided others with instant access to weapons, protection, and trivial gossip which oftentimes led us to leads, I preferred to live outside of town. My sister had a cabin in this area, so I bought the house next door. Although she lived in the countryside most days, it worked for both of us, giving me the ability to look after her house.
As I made my way out of town, I realized I’d have to move into the neighborhood if I were to marry this Irish girl. She would need the added layer of protection the community could provide, especially when I was gone for long periods.
The ringing of my phone through my car’s speaker snapped me out of my curiosity.
"Boss." Enzo’s voice filled the sports car, and I immediately knew something was off. There was a sense of urgency in his tone.
"What’s wrong?" I asked, gripping the steering wheel.
I weaved my way in and out of traffic as much as I could, but because it was Friday, it was more crowded than usual.
"Everything seems to be okay."
That meant nothing was okay.
"She got herself into a situation when being dropped off from class by a classmate, but before I could intervene, she managed to get away from it."
My heart pounded against my ribcage.
Remain calm, motherfucker. A classmate drove her home and put his hands on her. She pushed him away, but he cornered her in the car.
"...She managed to use her pepper spray you planted in her backpack while pushing him away."
That’s my girl. She was always thinking ahead like I was.
"And she’s safe?"
He gulped as I pulled onto my street.
"You should check the cameras."
"I’ve been in a meeting with my father," I said, driving up the gravel road before parking my car and bringing out my phone.
"Have you been going to her yoga classes?" I asked as the camera app loaded.
"Yes, Boss."
"Acting like a random participant?"
"And getting my ass kicked. I swear I can do the splits now."
I laughed, then looked down at my phone. She was in her room, curled up in a ball, sobbing.
"This isn't uncommon." I tried to remain as cool as I could, but seeing her falling apart in that room like she had many nights over the last few years, tore me apart on the inside. It was the only time I felt like the persona I’d created faltered. Though I’d never admit this to anyone, including Madison.
"Listen."
I paused the call to bring up the cameras I had in her room again, realizing she’d fallen asleep. She was crying in her sleep.
Her little hiccups escaped her mouth, and she looked so small on the cream comforter. I wished I put a blanket?—
"No," she screamed, thrashing around. "Please no."
Scanning through all the camera angles, I searched the entire house for an intruder.
"Please don’t hurt me." Something in my chest cracked, like I was somehow feeling something for her.
"Walsh, please don’t hurt me," she whimpered through sniffles.
Oh, fuck. Whatever was rumbling inside of me felt like it was going to explode. My stomach knotted, and all these physical reactions were so unfamiliar. The last time I felt this nauseous was when I saw my mother dead in my living room as a child.
"Enzo?" I asked once I’d collected myself enough to unmute.
"Boss."
"You know the only reason we are watching her is because one day we will avenge the horrific ordeal she put my sister through."
There was a long pause. I’m not sure why I said what I did. Somehow, saying it aloud helped me almost believe it to be true.
"Yes, Boss," Enzo finally replied. "I know."
"Okay, then it shouldn’t matter what she is whining about, regardless if my name is coming from her mouth."
"You got it." He wouldn't dare try to make any excuses. I said goodbye and hung up while typing in the code to the large wrought iron gate that led to my house. From the street, my house was hidden, with only the gate and the overgrown trees indicating it was an actual residence.
Rain gave this to Ember when she lost her boyfriend Ash because it was so similar to Isles, yet had the benefits of the big city.
As the gate opened, I drove down the gravel road, waving at the two guards on duty.
My house was like a fusion of modern sophistication and rustic charm, effortlessly blending into the surrounding pine-laden landscape. The architecture, a masterstroke that seemed as if nature itself had etched its design, stood proudly amid the tall trees that guarded it with silent grace. The clean lines of contemporary design mingled seamlessly with the earthy allure of brick, creating a dwelling that felt both grounded in tradition like the houses in the neighborhood, yet elevated in elegance. There was simply no way houses in the neighborhood could ever be this big or have this much land.
As I maneuvered my vehicle into the round driveway, the gravel under the tires provided a comforting crunch.
My dad always had a thing about leaders living among their people. " A true leader should have many houses, but reside among his people ," he'd often say. However, I cherished the solitude of my home on the outskirts despite his disapproval. This modern cabin, surrounded by trees, felt like a retreat, an escape from the hustle and bustle of the neighborhood. It also reminded me of Isles—the place where my muse existed.
The brick structure stood as a symbol of my defiance. The round driveway served as a subtle rebellion against my father's expectations. Every time I drove through that gate, I could almost hear his voice telling me that when I got married, my wife should live in the neighborhood, not in this secluded haven.
Walking through the house, I reveled in its starkness. It wasn't minimalism for fashion; I despised clutter and the feeling of being attached to material possessions. The oversized windows provided a view of the thick pine needles outside, a constant reminder of the peace and tranquility I found in this space.
My father's words haunted me, especially when my gaze fell upon the empty bedroom above the red barn.
The property had a history of being a small farm, once hosting horses, pigs, and sheep. The lingering presence of a big, red barn at the back hinted at its past life. Now standing untouched, a potential haven for future needs, as I knew it would come in handy if I needed to ever store something…or someone…inside. The round driveway and minimalist interior were all manifestations of my need for space to breathe and think.
Opening the fridge, I pulled out a beer before popping the top open and sitting on the oversized wooden dining room table.
I opened the folder my father gave me. In front of me, written like a damn resume, were all the qualifications to why this woman would make a good wife for me. At the bottom were reasons as to why this union would be beneficial for both the Irish and the Italians.
I flipped the page, truly not caring about what she liked to do for fun or what her hobbies may include, because my wife would be my pet. I’d mold her, shape her, and have her on her knees begging to suck my cock the moment I walked in that door every night. Because my wife would not be running off ice skating in the winter and cooking me shepherd's pie every day. She’d need to keep up with other extracurricular activities, which were most definitely not included on this resume.
The next few pages were photos of her. I stared at them, looking for any signs of life. She looked oddly similar to Cagen. They sported the same long blonde hair, identical blue eyes, and small delicate features, but they had different last names. It had to have been a coincidence, but either way, I sent out a quick text to our IT guy to figure out if there was some connection. Her name was Cairn Murphy.
She was fucking beautiful, don’t get me wrong. Looks-wise, she would be the most perfect wife and we’d produce the precise balance of Irish and Italian offspring that would keep our families tied together for decades. But she wasn’t mine.
There were dozens of photos of her clubbing with her friends, happily drinking beers, and lazily hanging out at the pool during the summer, and I knew she’d never be able to keep up with me. She was a golden girl, ready for her big debut performance marrying this big, scary man in the Mafia, but she wouldn’t ever be able to keep up with my needs, wants, and desires. There was only one who ever would.
I sighed, throwing the papers across the table and opening up my phone. My hands hovered over the app before I said fuck it and opened it.
She lay in the same position, curled up on her bed. She looked lifeless and exhausted but was groaning in her sleep.
I turned on the volume to hear her.
"Please, Walsh," she cried, and when I zoomed in, tears were falling down her face. My little muse was crying, and that minuscule part of my frozen heart tugged at me, trying to warm me to life.
I propped up the phone and leaned back in my chair, watching her cry out. Then I realized, although tears were flooding her face, her hips were gyrating on the mattress. She was thrusting back and forth and lifted her shirt to expose her perky pink nipples.
"Please. Don’t hurt me, Walsh," she cried again as she rolled her nipples in her finger.
Tsk, tsk, Madison. Did I just find your little secret?
I pinched the screen of the phone, zooming in to confirm that she was asleep.
"Are you dreaming of me yelling at you, my little muse?" I whispered.
Then her hands rolled from her breasts, down toward her navel, and she pushed her unbuttoned jeans down, exposing the fact that my dirty girl wasn’t wearing panties.
"Touch yourself," I murmured to the phone, knowing all too well she couldn’t hear me. "Tease your little clit, Muse. Imagine me yelling at you that night of graduation. Imagine how I ignored you for three years. Because I’m who you’ve been imagining for the last three goddamned years every time you get off."
I unzipped my pants, freeing my greedy little cock. As I gripped myself, my eyes flicked back toward the screen.
"Fuck…Walsh…" Madison cried, slipping one finger into her cunt and circling her clit.
"Good girl. Think about how mad I’ll be when I catch you fingering your tight cunt," I murmured, stroking myself languidly.
Come home to Daddy.
"Please," she begged as she inserted another finger, thrusting in and out. Her thumb circled her sensitive mound.
She panted, her breaths ragged as she writhed against her hand. She knew this place well, as I’d watched her touch herself many times throughout the years, saving it for my own personal use later at night. No one—I mean no one—was allowed access to this footage aside from me. It was times like this when I gave Enzo his needed break.
I loved the way her hair cascaded over the overstuffed comforter as she moaned.
"I hate you." Her voice was rigid with a hot need, and she was so close to coming all over her hands like my good girl.
Using my precum to lubricate, I pumped my cock up and down, picturing her mouth sucking me off. I could practically taste the salt from her tears as she cried, my hand wrapped around her ponytail, pushing her mouth deeper, wrapping all of me in her warmth.
"Come on, Muse. Wait for me." My right hand drove my cock right into the memories of what could be if only my muse was mine.
Her breaths went ragged. Her chest heaved up and down, accentuating her perky nipples.
"Walsh," she screamed. Her pussy pulsated from her orgasm, soaking her hands in her cum. It was my name on her lips. It would always be my name.
My orgasm followed, cum shooting onto my hand, wetting me as I imagined the way my muse would take care of it, swallowing it like she would be demanded to do.
"Fuck," I groaned, and just as I was about to stand and clean myself up, she woke up and wiped her tears. She looked…sad.
"Help me," she whimpered. Her tone was barely above a whisper. "I don't want to live like this anymore."
She looked down at her discarded jeans around her ankles, the comforter in disarray, and scanned the room for any signs of foul play.
"I don't want to be here." She shook her head before putting her pants back on.
The corners of my mouth lifted into a smirk, knowing the cum still soaked her sweet little pussy that came from my name on her lips.
"I gotta get outta here." She went over to the vanity and dabbed on some mascara, red lipstick, and blush.
As I walked into the kitchen to grab a rag, her words kept repeating over and over in my head.
Ember’s boyfriend committed suicide a few years ago, and I was the one person who witnessed it.
I was a coldhearted human being, but watching someone jump from a cliff and knowing they wouldn’t be there for me to pull them back up was one of the worst feelings in my life. It was the same helpless feeling I had when little Walsh saw his mother dead in a chair in the living room.
And the words Madison spoke, of wanting to depart from here, made those butterflies spark to life in my chest. The ones that made me powerless when those around me needed me most. Even with all the influence in the world, I hated that there were things that slipped through my fingers.
I paused, leaning over the sink and watched the sky darken.
"Fuck it."