2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Martina Rossi
A fter collapsing, I lay on my side on the floor of the cage, my body spent yet buzzing, still pulsing with pleasure while my mind swims in disbelief. I’ve never had such a full-body orgasm before. How was that possible while Vincent was spewing dirty, disgusting thoughts in my ear? My lust simply overpowered all else, I guess, including my all-consuming hatred for the man who was pounding me into the most intense orgasm. All while making me beg for the fucking.
Mio Dio. I should hate myself. I hate that I called him “daddy,” which was gross in and of itself but particularly galling when my real father is gone thanks to Vincent Xu. I hate that I came so hard for him. And I hate that my body wants to do it all over again.
It’s bad enough that I’m locked in a cage like an animal in a sketchy dog pound, naked and beaten and thirsty and hungry.
The truth is I would happily endure more thirst and hunger over being forced to orgasm at the hands—and cock—of my mortal enemy. I hate my body for betraying me. I hate being an omega. I know it’s not my fault that I was born this way, or that Vincent happens to be an Alpha. It’s a pheromone thing. Otherwise there’s no way his skilled caresses would have such a potent effect on me.
I know an omega stands little chance against an Alpha. Still, I can’t help but be disappointed in myself. Surely I could have resisted the man I hated most in the world, the man who gave the order to take out my family, the man I had vowed to kill if it was the last thing I did? But instead of assassinating him, I climaxed for him.
If I had my omega blockers, it would be a different story. The medication is a godsend and helped to suppress the qualities that omegas have been cursed with. The cruel irony is that they’re produced by the Black Dragon Triad and sold on the black market because governments refuse to recognize that the Alpha-beta-omega hierarchy exists in humans. From what I understand, Vincent Xu is the one who spearheaded the research and development of omega blockers.
Despite the darkness of the “dungeon,” a windowless basement-like level on Vincent’s superyacht, I know he’s standing before my cage. Feeling too ashamed, I avoid looking at him. His attractive features and enviable physique mask the monster inside.
I lay curled on the floor of the cage because the enclosure is not large enough for me to stretch my legs out. Luckily I don't have long legs, but I'm still a good sized woman, just shy of five and a half feet tall. I’ve kept myself fit because the physical training helped me stay on task with my life’s mission of seeing Vincent take his last breath.
I expect him to reach through the bars and grab my face—he seems to enjoy pressing his fingers into my cheeks—to force me to look into his gaze so he can drink in my humiliation and self-loathing. He has an uncanny ability to know what I don’t want and to force that very thing onto me. It’s like he can read my mind, like he knows me, even though he only just met me less than three days ago, when I unsuccessfully tried to put a bullet in his head.
Vincent doesn’t move. He just stands there, silent, staring at me. He’s not rubbing it in my face that I came for him. Hard. Even though my body has been battered—my ass still stings from the caning and paddling, my split lip seems unable to heal since I’ve been so dehydrated, and my nipples are so sensitive that I’m actually glad for my nudity because I wouldn’t want anything touching the poor buds—I still had the strongest orgasm. I did that even while he filled my head with unwanted incestuous thoughts.
Peering at him through my lashes, I see that he looks unsettled, like he’s not sure what to make of me or the situation. I’ve had the chance to observe him up close in the six days I’ve been aboard his yacht, and this is the first time I’ve seen him exhibit any doubt. He’s usually filled with cold confidence.
“Give her the bottle of water,” Vincent directs, his voice a sexy, deep baritone—if it had belonged to any other man, that is. “And have the kitchen send down some bread or something.”
Did I hear that correctly? I’m getting food? Why? But it’s the thought of water that gets me to stir and look at him.
Catching my gaze, he squats down to my line of gaze. His short-sleeved linen shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his chiseled body. I want to look away, but I also don’t want him thinking that he intimidates me, though he does. Not because he’s the ruthless head of the Black Dragon Triad, who can have anyone killed with the simple snap of his fingers. Not because he can torture me, use my body however he wants, and force himself and his goons on me. Not even because he can make me come against my will and degrade myself in front of him.
Ever since I lied and told him my name was Irene Lazzarelli Vincent seems intent on destroying my soul. I don’t know why that bothers me. I stopped going to church and cast aside any spirituality in favor of revenge after my family was gunned down by Vincent’s people. And I was prepared to die for my cause. So why does his piercing stare unnerve me?
“It’s your lucky day, pet,” he says.
I want to cringe at his moniker for me, but I suppress my reaction. I don’t want Vincent thinking he has anything on me.
“You get to live,” he finishes.
Normally, being told you get to live is a good thing. To me, it has a devastating ring.
The only reason Vincent could possibly want me alive is to torture me more. He doesn’t believe that Irene Lazzarelli is my real name, and he suspects that there’s someone working with me on the inside.
There is. His name is Brady Lee, and we have a shared desire to see Vincent Xu six feet under.
But I’m not going to give Vincent any of what he wants to know. First off, I wouldn’t betray Brady, the only friend I have. And it wouldn’t do me any good anyway. Vincent isn’t going to spare me in the end. And my greatest hope at the moment is that Brady can succeed where I failed.
I came so close. So very close. It had taken me and Brady over a year to be in a position to get Vincent. A lot of it was luck. Brady’s cousin was promoted within the Black Dragon and able to secure Brady a job on Vincent’s yacht. It was harder for me, but Brady discovered there was another new hire named Ramon Sanchez. Before Ramon could report for work, Brady and I found him and tied him up, leaving him the last thousand dollars I had for his troubles. I cut my auburn hair short and presented myself as Ramon Sanchez while Brady went by the name Ben.
We were on Vincent’s yacht in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, bound for Jamaica, when an opportunity came up. Vincent was banging a woman from a rival triad, and she had ordered champagne to be brought up to her suite on the yacht. Brady wasn’t around at the time, so I made a solo decision to go for it. Champagne bottle in hand, I made it past Vincent’s security and into the woman’s suite. As soon as I was in the bedroom, I wasted no time in pulling out my Sig Sauer. But Vincent has crazy reflexes. The bullet came within an inch of his head. His bodyguards rushed in, and a few minutes later I found myself pinned beneath Vincent, his crotch brushing up against mine. I remember how hard I struggled against his chokehold, jamming my fingernails into his flesh and ripping off skin .
When he figured out my name wasn’t Ramon Sanchez, or even Ramona Sanchez, he seemed determined to know who I really was. I don’t know where the name Irene came from. I don’t know any Irenes, but it was the name that popped out of my mouth.
I’m never giving Vincent my real name. Vincent has more than what most people could ever hope for: immense wealth, unchecked power, men and women fawning over him.
Thanks to Vincent, I have next to nothing.
After he had my parents, my beloved older sister, and my little brother killed, I went to live with my nonna. We lived in seclusion, worried that Vincent’s men would come after me if they realized I had survived. My grandmother didn’t try to access whatever money my father might have left behind. She knew her son was Mafia, and that’s probably why he was targeted.
A year later, when I was sixteen, Nonna died of a broken heart.
My real name, Martina Rossi, is a small thing, but it satisfies me to know that there’s something Vincent wants but doesn’t have. I’m somewhat surprised he hasn’t figured out who I am yet, but I guess he’s made too many enemies to keep track of.
“Or maybe I should say it’s your unlucky day,” Vincent corrects. “Because, for you, getting to live is a fate worse than death.”
Whatever seemed to unsettle Vincent earlier has dissipated, and he’s back in the comfort of his sadistic self.
“Your only gleam of hope is giving me the names I want.”
“You don’t have anything better to do than to keep me alive?” I ask through parched lips.
“I didn’t expect you to be such a fun fucktoy. The way you referred to yourself as daddy’s little cum slut, that was hot.”
I didn’t call myself that, you stronzo. You did.
“And the way your pussy milked my cock,” he continues, making me want to plug my ears or even slice them off if it meant I wouldn’t have to listen to him anymore, “it’s like your body wanted to catch, like it wanted me to breed you. How would you like that? I’ll knock you up good, let you have my baby, then knock you up some more. An endless cycle of fucking and breeding till your eggs run dry.”
He’s just messing with you, I tell myself. But what if he’s not? If he’s not…then kill me now.
There’s got to be a way I can get him to kill me. Maybe a way I can kill myself…
“You’re, what, twenty years old? You have decades of breeding years. You think you’d be up for that much fucking? If I’m in a rut, I could fuck you twenty-four seven. What would that be like for you? Coming on my cock dozens of times a day. Would you like that? Or hate it? I think you’d lean towards hating it. But there’s nothing you can do about it. I own you. I will use and abuse every inch of you. And when I’m done, I’ll own your dignity, your will to live, and what’s left of your soul.”