55. Ana
55
ANA
I woke to Boris standing over me, debonair in slacks and a button-down shirt he’d rolled up to his elbows. He’d be handsome if he weren’t such an asshole.
“Stand up and bend over,” he commanded. “Hands on the mattress.”
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted from me.
Fuck, I had to pee.
“Morning,” I breathed. “Can I use the bathroom first?”
“No,” he snapped. “Feet on the floor, hands on the mattress.”
My muscles stiff and aching from the uncomfortable night, I adjusted my body, blushing as the skirt of my dress rode up the back of my thighs.
He shoved my skirt up, revealing my utilitarian cotton panties. He’d be disappointed to find my bra the same. I was prepared for humiliation, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
I adjusted my body, my legs together, feet on the floor, hands shoulder’s width apart on the mattress, grateful for my daily yoga practice that made this downward dog-like position more comfortable than it could have been.
My arms trembled the longer I held the position. “Boris, I have to pee,” I whispered.
“Why the fuck would you think I care?” He pulled my panties down, baring my ass, then rapidly spanked me, hard. I didn’t move, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of protesting as I clenched my fingers in the mattress and bit down on my bottom lip to hold in my cries of pain.
The pressure in my bladder grew as he tormented me, peppering my upper thighs with slaps.
“Please, I have to use the bathroom,” I gasped. “I’m going to?—”
“Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch,” Boris said. “Did you think that offering yourself up to me would mean I’d treat you like an equal in private? I might have to pretend respect for stupid sluts like you in public, but here? You’re nothing.”
He increased the intensity of his spanking, humiliating, like I was a tiny girl, nothing like the times that Valentin had turned me over his knee.
“Boris,” I begged. “Please.”
“Nothing but a stupid slut, giving herself to those men and then thinking her charming smile would help her,” Boris said. “You’re nothing, Ana Costa. I’ve had you for an entire day, and your men have yet to contact me. Absolutely fucking nothing.”
They wouldn’t come because they didn’t care. To them, I was nothing but a toy to be discarded when they were finished playing.
“Disgusting slut,” Boris muttered, then shoved his arm around my waist.
“I’m going to pee.”
“Hold it, bitch.”
But I couldn’t. A drop slipped out, and then a torrent, and then I was pissing on myself and my mattress and his shoes.
“That’s disgusting, Ana,” he said. “Look at you, piss dripping down your legs because you can’t even control your bladder.”
I whimpered as shame rolled over me. Memories of Valentin and Angelo’s care, even when they made similar threats, rolled through me and my heart for the millionth time that day.
“Stand up and straighten yourself out, you worthless cum bucket,” he snarled. I did, wincing as I dragged my wet panties up and over my hips.
Shaking with shame, I stood there, my shoulders hunched and my head bowed.
“Come upstairs for breakfast,” Boris said. “You can brush your teeth up there too.”
“Like this?” I asked, gesturing to myself.
“You pissed yourself,” he said. “You can wear it.”
I straightened my shoulders, understanding the game. He’d do his best to break me down, blaming me for making him do it.
But I was Ana fucking Costa. My father had been equally cruel, tormenting me and treating me in equal measures, keeping me confused and begging for his affection.
It had worked, until I’d met Valentin and Angelo, who radiated the same cruel violence, but applied it consistently in a way that built me up and made me stronger, rather than making me feel small.
Realization swept through me. I’d only had the strength to leave my three men because they’d helped me find it.
And I’d betrayed them.
I held onto that nugget as I followed Boris into the elevator, ignoring the bodyguards that surrounded us, too well trained to wrinkle their noses at the smell of the piss dripping down my legs and onto my bare feet.
Boris led me into his apartment, gesturing for me to sit on the sofa.
“I’m wet,” I said flatly. “That’s gross.”
He shrugged. “Then stand. Coffee’s on the counter.”
I made myself a cup of coffee, black when he didn’t offer cream or sugar, and swallowed it down, my soaked underwear chafing against my sore ass.
“Eggs are in the fridge, so’s bacon,” Boris said.
I laughed. “I don’t know how to cook.”
He cocked his head at me. “All the mafia women know how to cook.”
I scoffed. “My mother knew how to cook, but I sure as fuck don’t.” I remembered Valentin’s care when I admitted it.
“Fucking useless,” Boris swore. “Good for your cunt and that’s it.”
I winced, his words striking true. That’s what my men had thought, no matter how strong they’d made me. Luca had even offered to marry me to take me off the board.
Not because he loved me.
None of them wanted me because they cared about me as a person.
And that hurt more than anything else.
“Since you can’t cook, you can give me something to look at while I do,” Boris said. “Strip.”
I did, ignoring the rush of embarrassment as I pulled down my panties, careful not to further wet my dress from the piss still drying on my legs. Once I’d removed my bra, I stood there proudly as Boris’s eyes roved over me.
“Nice tats,” he sneered. “Pierced like a cheap whore, I see. Take your piercings out.”
“Once we’re married, we can talk about that. Until then, they stay.”
To my surprise, Boris laughed, his face lighting up. “Promises, promises. We’ll laser remove your tattoos as well. I want my wife sweet and biddable and able to wear whatever I tell her without shame.”
Valentin hated me. Thought I was a spoiled brat who didn’t appreciate a damn thing in my life. But he’d never made me feel like the art I’d made of my body was anything less than beautiful. Angelo didn’t care—he liked the tattoos. And Luca appreciated my body exactly for what it was.
No.
I wouldn’t mourn what I’d lost.
I couldn’t.
I’d break.
That night, Boris joined me in my cell once again. He’d provided sweatpants and a T-shirt, noting that he did not give a fuck what I wore when he wasn’t around—my only purpose was his pleasure.
“Strip,” he’d said, his voice flat and bored. Quickly, I peeled out of my clothes, wincing at the scent of my body. I’d done my best to scrub down in the half-bath I was allowed to use when he wasn’t around, but it hadn’t been enough.
“Bend over,” he commanded.
I did, trying not to flush as he stared at me, his heated gaze coating me like a layer of filth I couldn’t wipe off.
The crack of the whip behind me shocked me as much as the searing pain when the leather cut into my upper thighs. I howled in agony before I cut the noise off with a strangled yelp.
“Make some noise,” Boris encouraged me. “Show me how much you love what I’m doing to you.”
Love it? No. This was nothing like the loving pain that Valentin inflicted, designed to entrance and ensnare rather than simply hurt.
“It fucking hurts,” I snapped.
The whip cracked again, and I bit back a startled shriek as it sliced into my other thigh. I could feel a trickle of blood, and my eyes widened. What the fuck had I got myself into?
“You dumb slut,” Boris chuckled. “You had no idea what you were in for, did you?” His echo of my thoughts sent me spiraling. “Stupid mafia princess, thinks she’s smart enough to outsmart someone who’s been doing this since long before she was born? No wonder they’re giving you up without a fucking word.”
Crack! I screamed when the whip cut through my skin again.
Crack! “So fucking pretty with blood running down the backs of your thighs.”
Crack!
My mind wandered to my time with my men, curled up in their arms, a rare moment of peace as they stroked my face, bringing me down from a powerful orgasm. Valentin rubbed cream into my bruises, whispering soft praise against my skin, and Angelo nuzzled my neck, inhaling my scent like an addict.
The memory strengthened my resolve. I was Ana fucking Costa, and I’d lived through a lifetime’s worth of abuse. A week more to save the families of the men I loved?
Worth it.
Rough fingers smeared through the blood on my legs, digging into the wounds, making me whimper with the pain and bringing me back to the present. My arms shook, barely holding my weight with the shock.
Boris’s belt clinked and my knees weakened. My entire body sagged as terror overcame me. A moment later, he dragged his hands from the backs of my knees and up my ass, cupping it and rubbing his thumbs over the full cheeks, not yet scarred by the whip.
He hummed, then I heard the sound of him fisting his cock behind me, the rhythmic back and forth as he fucked his hand. I gagged.
“Don’t you puke, you bitch,” he snarled, and I froze, my entire being concentrated on not moving a hair while he masturbated behind me.
The sounds of his fist around his cock, lubricated with my blood, made me retch again, and I collapsed, my arms unused to holding this position for such a long time.
The moment my face dipped toward the mattress, he whipped my ass—not with the whip, maybe his belt?—drawing a shriek of surprise out of me.
But the sharp new pain was enough to bring me back to the present, and I held my position, limbs trembling, sweat dripping down my face, my tits hanging, until warm liquid spurted onto my ass, dribbling into the crack and down my pussy as he painted his release over me in a humiliating victory.
The moment his shuddering breath evened out, my arms collapsed, and my knees hit the floor, bruising instantly. I scrambled back up, lifting my thighs off my calves when the agony from my whipping scoured through me.
“I’ll let your sloppiness go this time,” he said. “But next time, you’ll clean me up afterward.” No longer able to contain my nausea, I vomited onto the mattress.
Boris chuckled, then slapped me on the ass and left so abruptly, I felt the breeze from his passage. The moment the door shut, I wheezed in a deep breath, then wailed my pain, uncaring that he was likely watching through cameras, uncaring that his men would hear, uncaring of anything but the deep agony at my loneliness.
Carefully, I arranged my limbs on the concrete floor, resting my arms and my face on the mattress as I tried to find a position that didn’t leave me screaming in pain.
There wasn’t one.
Time stood still as I lay there, sobbing, my heart broken, despairing, reminding myself that it was worth it.
Even if they never forgave me.
Even if I had to go through with this.
Even if this pain awaited me every day for the rest of my short life.
Saving Nonno and Valentin’s mother was worth it.
It had to be.