Mafia Crown Pieces (Mafia Crown #1)

CHAPTER ONE

A Deadly Interview

“Holy shit!” The gun slipped from Jenna’s hand, clattering to the floor, its metallic warmth lingering on her skin. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she blinked, trying to clear the shock from her vision.

This couldn’t be real.

This couldn’t be happening.

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head as if to wake from a nightmare. Her eyes dropped to her hands, smeared with the man’s blood. “No, no, no,” she repeated, tears hot and unstoppable coursing down her cheeks. “Please, don’t be dead,” she begged, more a desperate prayer than a plea.

Through the veil of her blood-stained fingers, she saw him sprawled awkwardly on the polished marble, a crimson pool spreading around him. Horror rooted her to

the spot as the deep red liquid seeped into the tile grooves, staining the pristine white grout. It snaked its way toward the office door—a slow, dreadful journey.

“Shit.”

She jolted into action, her body moving on instinct. Her skirt clung awkwardly to her waist, a remnant of the assault she had endured moments before. Grabbing the patterned pillows from the couch, her mind raced, frantically searching for a solution. She had to stop the blood from reaching the door. The guards outside wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they saw it. Panic fueled her movements as she shoved the pillows against the bottom of the door, her heart pounding with fear.

She straightened, her gaze fixed on the blood-smeared pillows, her fingerprints glaring back at her in accusatory streaks. The man’s body lay still, a grotesque centerpiece in this macabre tableau. What had started as an ordinary day had spiraled into an unending nightmare.

If she had known this interview would plunge her into such darkness, she would never have said yes.

Just that morning, at five, she had been browsing through the newly updated job listings in New York—a morning habit of late—searching for something in her field of expertise.

Since graduating from Yale five years ago, Jenna had been jumping from one bookkeeping job to the next. But she was a qualified accountant with a bachelor’s degree to her name, and despite her lack of experience, she

knew her worth—top of her class and a speed queen at problem-solving.

Her phone lit up with a notification for a job match that had just been uploaded. She jumped on it, sitting upright in bed and reading the job description over and over.

It was an accountant position in central New York with requirements that matched her résumé to a T.

The salary was ridiculously high, and the perks left her mouth hanging open in shock. Without thinking beyond her nose, she applied, filling out the silly survey and answering odd questions about her body type, relationship status, and so on. Jenna uploaded a requested photo of herself and sent it in.

She guessed it was because they were a visual company. Having been a no-time-for-life-or-food student at Yale, her figure was visually pleasing enough—or so she hoped.

Two hours later, while sitting in rush-hour traffic, her phone rang. It was a job offer from Crown Banks, asking if she was available for an interview. She had said yes before asking any questions and quickly messaged her current crappy job to let them know she would be late.

However, looking at the dead man before her now, she wished with all her soul that she had said no.

Jenna wasn’t sure how long she had stood there in denial, watching the dark pool of blood spreading around

the man, holding her breath and waiting to see if his chest moved—something, anything to show he was alive.

Nothing happened.

There was too much blood; she knew it. The handsome creep was dead.

Very dead.

And she was the reason.

Jenna turned to grab the door handle to flee, her high heels hooking on the pillows stuffed around it.

“Shit,” she heaved, stepping back. She had almost opened the damn door again! “Think, dammit,” Jenna whispered to herself, panicking.

Right outside the solid oak door stood six bodyguards belonging to Mr. Crown. If she opened that door, she would be as dead as he was. Jenna turned again, looking around the large, modern office, trying to stop herself from hyperventilating.

How the hell was she going to get out?

They were on the tenth floor, and two of the walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling, non-opening windows. Her back was against the only door, and to her left lay death and the red couch she so badly wanted to set on fire.

Jenna had been walked through a scanner upon entering Crown Bank—one of the safest and largest bank chains in the world. Once cleared of anything remotely resembling a weapon, she was led to an elevator at the back that took her to the tenth floor, where Mr. Crown was conducting the interviews himself for the position.

In the elevator, she adjusted her skin-tight black skirt, which touched just above her knees, and looked in the wall mirror to ensure her black lace, v-neckline blouse sat right, pulling it down a smidgen more to show off her God-gifted cleavage. Jenna ran both hands through her long, straight brown hair and smacked her lips, checking that her makeup was on point.

Exiting the elevator, she was greeted by Mr. Crown’s rude assistant, who told her to wait.

She waited for what felt like the longest five minutes of her life among six buff-suited men, four of whom swept her up and down with their eyes as if she were a snack for the taking. Each one stared at her cleavage more than her face. Why the hell had she even fluffed herself up? The looks were making her feel dirty, and she wanted to pull the blouse back up.

Flustered and feeling vulnerable in the awkward silence, she let out a small breath of relief when the large oak door finally opened. The assistant beckoned her in before stepping out of the CEO’s office, giving her another once-over.

Ignoring it all, she stepped in, closed the door, and met Mr. Crown—a gorgeous, tall, and well-muscled man in a deep blue suit that certainly cost more than her combined monthly bills.

He looked to be in his early fifties, with black, perfectly groomed hair streaked with bits of gray, rich whiskey-colored eyes, and a perfectly chiseled face framed by a strong jaw and a light shadow of a beard.

She gulped silently as he smiled, stepping out from behind his desk and leading them to a red Chesterfield couch against the wall. They sat there, and conversation came easily. Relaxing a bit, she answered his questions while he scrolled through her résumé on a handheld tablet. Jenna couldn’t believe that such a powerful, rich, and sexy-as-fuck example of how all men should look could be so nice to her.

His voice, deep and velvety, wrapped around her like a warm blanket, but she couldn’t ignore the unease prickling at the edges of her mind. Most rich, beautiful people were true fucking assholes who thought they owned the world.

She risked a glance at his ring finger—bare, not even a tan line.

Too good to be true, her instincts warned.

In the blink of an eye, his hand was on her leg, fingers confidently sliding up her thigh. Jenna jerked, slapping his hand away.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not that kind of woman,” she stammered, shock and anger mingling in her voice as she shifted away from him on the couch.

“My deepest apologies,” Mr. Crown said, his expression contrite. “I got the wrong reading from you. Shall we start afresh? Forget what just happened?” He set the tablet down, his smile almost convincing in its sincerity.

Her ears burned with embarrassment, and doubt gnawed at her. Had she sent the wrong signal by showing a bit more cleavage?

Jenna wanted this job desperately. It was the culmination of years of hard work and dedication. She took a deep breath, nodded, and forced a smile, determined to move past the moment and focus on what truly mattered.

“Yes, please.” Jenna cleared her throat, placing her trembling hands on her lap. “So, you were asking about my family?” She forced a smile, willing the heat in her cheeks to subside.

“Yes, are you married? Kids? This job is demanding and requires irregular hours.” Mr. Crown’s smile was almost predatory.

“No kids and no men in my life. I’m not ready to settle yet, so flexible hours are no challenge,” Jenna replied, trying to inject confidence into her voice.

“Flexible, huh?” His eyebrow arched in a way that might have been sexy under different circumstances. His hand moved, catching a stray hair that had fallen over her shoulder.

Jenna leaned back, trying to escape his touch, but his hand slid down, grazing her breast through her blouse. He paused deliberately before trailing a finger down her exposed cleavage.

Her breath hitched. She raised her hand to smack him away, words of protest forming on her lips. But Mr. Crown was faster. He caught her wrist, his grip like iron, pinning her hand above her head against the wall.

Rising to his feet, he slipped one leg between her knees and leaned over her.

Jenna tried to sink deeper into the couch.

“What are you doing?” Jenna squealed, panic flooding her as the situation spun out of control. She used her free hand to try to pry her left hand loose, but his strength was overwhelming. His other hand slid under her skirt, creeping up her inner thigh.

“No, stop!” she shouted, squirming and trying to close her legs and pull away. But he was immovable, his body a wall. She grabbed his arm, desperate to pull it away, but his muscles were like steel, her efforts futile.

“Stop!” Jenna’s voice rang out, desperation lacing every syllable. She wiggled and fought, but his grip was unyielding.

“Why should I stop?” His smile was a mockery, a cruel twist of his lips as he leaned in, aiming to capture her mouth. Jenna turned her head, avoiding his kiss, but his hand pressed firmly between her legs, sending a jolt of horror—and unwanted desire—through her.

“This could be the best interview you ever had,” he whispered against her neck, his lips grazing her skin.

Jenna shoved at him with her free hand, but it was like pushing against a brick wall. His palm rubbed her through the thin lace of her thong, and to her terror, his fingers slipped the fabric aside, tracing the intimate contours of her body.

“Help!” she screamed, pulling at his arm, managing to shift it slightly. But when she tried to push his face away, his strength overwhelmed her, and his fingers found their way inside her.

“Scream as much as you like; no one will come,” he chuckled, pulling his hand out to lick his fingers, his gaze dark and triumphant. “Except maybe you.” His wink was a dagger to her soul, his devilish smile burning itself into her mind.

“No, no, no, stop, please. I’ll do anything,” she pleaded, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

His hand returned, forcing her legs apart. He chuckled as he slid two fingers into her, “You sure about that?” His fingers, slick and invasive, thrust into her again, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Help!” she cried once more, her voice breaking.

“Carry on screaming; it does nothing but excite me,” he smiled wickedly. “My men wouldn’t help the Pope if he were the one calling for help. Only I control them.” His teeth caught his lower lip as he leaned in, his palm pressing down on her clit while his fingers delved deeper.

Tears streamed down Jenna’s face as a traitorous moan slipped from her lips. The sensation was intoxicating, maddening. He was too damn sexy, his scent like forbidden desire, but he didn’t understand the word “no.”

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be violated. But her body’s response was a betrayal, each touch igniting a fire she couldn’t extinguish, it felt so fucking good.

“Don’t do this,” she gritted out, a mix of pleasure and anguish in her voice as he curled his fingers up inside her, hitting the perfect spot while applying pressure from the top.

She felt herself growing wetter, her body’s arousal a cruel contradiction to her mind’s desperate plea to escape.

“Your body is saying otherwise,” he murmured, his voice dripping with lust, while pumping his fingers in and out faster, harder, flexing deep inside her. “Fuck, but you feel so damn good.”

Jenna’s legs gripped around his knee as she felt an instant orgasmic build-up, her nails sinking deep into his arm.

“Stop, please, please,” she begged through panted moans, but before she could utter another word, her whole body tensed, exploding with heat as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. Mr. Crown seized the moment, capturing her mouth with his—demanding, consuming.

He didn’t relent, his fingers curling inside her, pushing her further into unwanted ecstasy. Her protests were muffled against his mouth, useless against the relentless rhythm he set. He added a third finger into her slit, his thumb circling her clit with expert precision.

“Holy shit!” Jenna moaned aloud, arching into a pleasurable second orgasm.

He kissed her again, his dominance absolute.

Before she could recover, he maneuvered her legs around him, twisting her until she lay back on the couch, her skirt bunched up around her waist. She watched in horror as he unzipped his pants.

“No,” Jenna gasped, the reality of what was about to happen sinking in. She tried to rise, to fight back, but her legs were weak, uncooperative.

“You say that a lot,” he smirked, leaning over her, his weight pinning her down. His hand moved again to her soaked nub, rubbing it with cruel expertise. She felt him position himself, the cold dread mixing with the lingering heat of her forced pleasure.

Desperation consumed her, overtaking all her senses. She kicked, screamed, thrashed with all the strength she had left, her fists beating against his chest and sides.

Her hand brushed against something hard in his suit jacket. She reached for it, praying it would be enough to stop him.

Mr. Crown’s eyes widened as he felt her grasp the object. He froze, grabbing her hand to pull it away, the brief moment of surprise giving her a sliver of hope.

They wrestled in silence, a desperate dance of shoves and pulls. Jenna’s strength waned, her body weakening by the powerful, unwanted orgasm he had forced upon her.

Every movement felt like wading through quicksand, fatigue gripping her muscles with relentless force. But as her fingers fumbled, they found a loop.

A sudden, silent pop shattered the tension.

A gun. His gun.

Jenna blinked, forcing herself back to reality. She stumbled to his desk, each step heavy with shock and disbelief. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the phone, dialing nine-one-one with a sense of surreal detachment.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice was crisp and professional.

Her legs felt like they might give out as she stared at Mr. Crown’s lifeless body. “Hello? Anyone there?”

“I—I killed him,” she whispered, the admission tearing through her. The hot sting of tears welled up, spilling over. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t, I… I just wanted him to stop.” Her voice broke, the words barely audible.