7. Konstantin
7
KONSTANTIN
I’m fucking pissed.
Ever since Emily grabbed my luggage by accident at the airport, I couldn’t stop thinking about her long shapely legs, her sapphire eyes that seemed to be hiding some great secret, her lips that should be wrapped around me, and her dark chestnut hair that shone like silk under the fierce Italian sun.
After I found her so easily at the Amalfi Central Hotel, in her shirt soaked with sweat and leaving nothing to my imagination, I knew that I wanted her—no, needed her—in my bed.
When I saw her after I’d walked out of the backroom at the Zebra Club, where that fucker Augusto Ferrata looked me in the eyes and told me himself that we would be redrawing the lines of our territories here in southern Italy, I knew that it was a sign that she’d be mine tonight.
She’d been unafraid of me. And from the way she had looked at me at the bar of the Zebra Club, I could tell that there was an undeniable wildness inside of her. When I pulled her close to me, inhaling her scent of honeysuckle and brown sugar at that nondescript little dance bar, I could feel that wildness come to life.
I knew that she would have been one unforgettable fuck the moment my lips touched hers. If that bar hadn’t been so packed, I would’ve fucked her right then and there.
I knew she wanted the same thing from me by the way she was grinding her hips against me, by how soaked her pussy became against my thigh on the dance floor, and by how readily she agreed to come back with me.
She was supposed to be the perfect ending to a perfect trip. I had planned on fucking her as the sun rose, and then again after breakfast, and then I planned to keep fucking her until the sun rises again and my cum is leaking out of every one of her holes.
I wanted her to scream, to break, to shatter into a million pieces.
And then I would slowly piece her back together, one kiss and stroke at a time, and do it all over again.
I wanted to ruin her for every other man out there.
But instead, I’m forced to leave her behind while my mood darkens with every passing second. My balls grow heavy and painful with the need for release—release that has to wait now.
Because I’ve just found out my little sister Alisa had been fucking kidnapped in New York.
Kidnapped … the word echoes in my head like a curse.
“What the fuck happened?” I bellow into the speakerphone as I step harder on the accelerator. The Lamborghini’s engine roars in response, and gravity shifts as I take a turn harder than I should.
“I don’t know, Kostya,” Sima, my avtoritet and best friend, answers. “The only thing I know is that it happened about two weeks ago.”
Two weeks ago? Fuck!
I knew it was suspicious when the last time I spoke with my sister Alisa was roughly around that time. I assumed it was just because she didn’t want her overprotective big brother checking in on her at every hour of the day and ruining her eighteenth birthday.
At the time, I reasoned that as long as her Instagram kept updating with photos and videos of her time in New York, it meant that she was alright.
How could I be so fucking stupid!
“Who did you hear this from?”
“Matteo Zampa,” he answers.
I pound my fist against the steering wheel.
Out of all of the people that we’ve managed to turn to our side within the Ferrata Mafia, Matteo Zampa is the only one of them that I trust. He’d come to our side about ten years ago. And over those ten years, he’s provided us with sufficient information for us to wrest control of the ports in Taranto and Bari from under Augusto’s nose.
If Zampa says it happened, then there’s no way in hell that it’s false
“What else did he say?” I ask.
“He knows about as much as we do,” Sima replies. “But he can only say that the order came from the fucking top. Which means it’s part of some big plan they got going on.”
“What the fuck?”
None of this made any sense. Why would Augusto torpedo the peace deal like this?
No, I think viciously.
Not Augusto.
His piece of shit son Domenico.
The young heir of the Ferrata Mafia has never believed that their side could ever lose this war, even after I’d broken both his legs when we were sixteen.
“I want you to call Augusto right fucking now,” I order. “And if he’s not at the Zebra Club to explain to me how the fuck this could’ve happened by the time the sun is up, I’m going to burn this whole fucking town to the ground.”
“Got it, my pakhan. You want me there too?”
“I do.” I nod. “Come armed and bring one for me as well. One way or another, someone is going to fucking die .”
I can practically see the smile breaking out on Sima’s face as he answers. “With pleasure.”