2. Declan #2
I tell myself it's just stress. Just the humiliation of tonight, finding an outlet. I finish my shower and dry off, my body still thrumming with unspent energy. It's past midnight now, but I'm not tired. I'm wired and restless, my mind refusing to settle.
I could work—go through the reports my men sent me, review the numbers from this week's operations. But I can't focus on spreadsheets and territory maps right now.
I pour myself one more whiskey and sit on the edge of my bed, the glass cold in my hand. The city is quieter now, the traffic sounds muted by the expensive windows. In the silence, all I can hear is my own breathing and the echo of Elena's voice.
You don't belong here.
Maybe I don't. But I'm here anyway. And I'm not going anywhere.
I drain the whiskey, set the glass on the nightstand, and lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. I need to sleep. But the fantasy comes back, stronger this time.
I imagine Elena in this bed. In my space, surrounded by my things, by me. No longer in control, no longer the perfect mafia princess, just mine.
I could take my time with her, strip her slowly, savoring every inch of skin revealed.
Kiss her until she was breathless, until she forgot why she ever thought she was better than me.
Then I'd lay her out on these sheets and show her exactly what a man from my world can do.
How good rough and animalistic can be when it's all focused on her pleasure.
My hand moves to my cock, and this time I can't stop myself.
I stayed as hard as I've been since the moment I let myself start thinking about her, all through my shower, and now the ache is too much.
I wrap my fingers around my shaft, squeezing, and the sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
Fuck.
I stroke myself slowly, letting the fantasy unfold in my mind. Elena beneath me, her legs spread, her body arching as I tease her, making her beg for it. I'd make her admit that she wants me, that all her disdain was just a mask for desire.
I'd kiss down her body, taking the time to taste every inch of her skin, to find out what the richest mafia princess in Chicago does when I trace her all over with my tongue.
I'd find all the places that make her gasp and moan.
And when I finally put my mouth on her pussy, when I finally gave her what she was begging for, I'd make her come so hard she forgot her own name.
My hand moves faster now, my breathing harsh in the quiet room.
I imagine the sounds she'd make. The way she'd taste.
The way her thighs would tremble as I worked her with my tongue.
How she'd go limp against the sheets, moaning my name, and how I'd flip her over after and put her on her hands and knees.
Show her what it means to submit to a man like me.
I'd grip her hips hard enough to leave marks. Bruises she'd see tomorrow and remember who made her feel this way. Remember that the biker she looked down on was the one who made her scream.
I'd slide into her slowly, savoring the tight heat of her body. Watch her back arch, her hands fisting in the sheets. And I'd fuck her hard, claiming her, marking her, making her mine.
Mine.
The thought sends me over the edge. My hand moves faster, rougher, chasing the release building at the base of my spine.
I imagine Elena's face, her eyes wide and dark with pleasure, her mouth open as she moans my name.
Just Declan, raw and desperate on her lips.
I imagine how she'd squeeze me, fisting my cock like it's her pussy as I imagine thrusting deep and coming inside of her bare.
The orgasm steals my breath away, pleasure slamming through me in waves.
I stroke myself through it, my hips jerking, my breath coming in harsh gasps.
Cum spills over my hand, hot and thick, and I work myself until the sensation becomes too much.
I'm oversensitive and shaking, still stroking before I finally force myself to pull my cum-slick hand away from my throbbing length.
Fuck.
I lie there for a moment, my heart pounding. The fantasy is already fading, reality creeping back in. I'm alone in my bed, my hand covered in my own cum, having just jerked off to thoughts of a woman who despises me.
Pathetic. I could have gone out and gotten laid, instead of jerking off like a teenage boy to a woman who would laugh at me if she knew.
I reach for the tissues on my nightstand, cleaning myself up.
The post-orgasm clarity is setting in now, and with it comes self-loathing.
What the fuck am I doing? Elena Capetti is never going to be on her knees for me.
She's never going to be in my bed, never going to moan my name or see me as anything other than the upstart who doesn't belong.
And I don't want Enzo Capetti as a father-in-law, which is the only way a woman like that would ever end up in my bed. I'd have to put a ring on her finger and say vows, and the last fucking thing in the world I want is to tie myself to a mafia family like that.
It's bad enough I inherited an organization. I'm not going to fucking marry one.
I toss the tissues in the trash and lie back down, staring at the ceiling again. My body is finally relaxed, the tension forced out of me, but my mind is still racing.
I need to forget about her and focus on the business and proving myself to my men, to the other families, and to myself. I don't have time for distractions, especially not ones that come wrapped in silk and disdain.
My phone rings, jolting me out of my self-flagellation. The sound is jarring in the quiet room, and I reach for it automatically, squinting at the screen. It's Cormac, one of my lieutenants. Calling at—I check the time—one-thirty in the morning.
Nothing good happens at one-thirty in the morning.
I answer. "What is it?"
"Boss." Cormac's voice is urgent. "We've got a problem. Big problem. You need to get to one of the warehouses now." He rattles off an address.
My stomach drops. "What happened?"
"Explosion. The whole fucking place went up. We've got casualties, and—" His voice breaks slightly. "It's bad, Declan. It's really bad."
I'm already up and grabbing clothes from my closet, my mind shifting gears from fantasy to crisis in an instant. "How many casualties?"
"At least five dead. Maybe more. We're still pulling bodies out."
Bodies. My men, who trusted me to lead them, to keep them safe. And now some of them are dead.
"I'm on my way." I end the call and finish dressing—jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket. The clothes I'm comfortable in, the clothes that fit who I really am. Not the expensive suits I wear to play pretend with the mafia elite.
The streets are mostly empty at this hour, and I take my bike to get there faster, my mind racing through possibilities. An accident? Unlikely. We're careful with our operations, especially the ones involving anything flammable or explosive.
Which means this was likely deliberate.
An attack.
The warehouse comes into view, and my worst fears are confirmed.
Fire trucks are already there, their lights painting the night red and blue.
The building is a smoking ruin, one wall completely collapsed, flames still licking at the debris.
The smell hits me as soon as I get off my bike: burning wood, melted plastic, and underneath it all the sickly sweet smell of burned flesh.
I've smelled it before, in my old life, before Lachlan handed me this one. But it never gets easier.
Cormac meets me at the perimeter, his face streaked with soot and blood. "Boss."
"What happened?" My voice is flat. I can't afford emotion right now, or to think about the men who are dead, the families I'll have to visit, the funerals I'll have to attend.
"The explosion was in the northeast corner, where we store the—" He glances at the firefighters nearby and lowers his voice. "Where we store the product. Looks like it was rigged. Professional job."
"How many dead?"
"Two confirmed. Three more in critical condition at the hospital." His jaw tightens. "Tommy didn't make it. He was closest to the blast."
Tommy. I grit my teeth. He was engaged to be married next month. I was supposed to go to his bachelor party next week.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them. "Who was on duty tonight?"
"Tommy, Bryce, Sean, Liam, and Patrick. Bryce is dead, too. The others were outside when it went up."
"Security footage?"
"Destroyed in the blast. But—" Cormac hesitates. "We found something. Or rather, someone found something for us."
He leads me away from the firefighters, toward a cluster of my men standing near the remains of the loading dock. They part as I approach, revealing a man on his knees, his hands zip-tied behind his back and his face bloody and swollen.
"Who's this?" I ask, though I already have a suspicion.
"Caught him trying to leave the scene," one of my men says. "He was watching from across the street, looked too interested. When we approached, he ran."