2. Matteo
Matteo
There’s a special kind of torture in watching what you own be touched by someone else. And make no mistake—Contessa Gallo is mine. Has been since the moment she walked into my house in that fucking pencil skirt, asking for my money with those big brown eyes.
I sip my whiskey, hidden in the shadowed VIP section of Solstice, watching her move on the dance floor below. I had her followed as soon as she left her apartment.
She’s wearing a slip of a dress that clings to every curve like it was painted on. The silvery fabric catches the light when she moves. Her purple hair is loose tonight, falling down her back in waves I want to wrap around my fist while I pound into her from behind.
The bass throbs through the club, and she throws her head back, laughing at something her friend, Natalia, says. I’ve never seen her this relaxed. This free. My little control freak, always wound so tight, finally letting go.
It makes me want to fuck her even more.
“Another drink, sir?” The waitress appears at my elbow, her tits practically spilling out of her top. I don’t even glance at her.
“No,” I don’t take my eyes off Tessa. “Tell the bartenders not to serve the woman in the black slip dress with purple hair anymore. She’s cut off.”
The waitress hesitates. “Sir, I don’t think—”
“I don’t pay you to think.” I slide a handful of hundred-dollar bills into her palm. “Do it.”
Contessa twists away from him, saying something with a shake of her head. Smart girl. She just saved that asshole’s fingers from being broken one by one.
“You look like you’re plotting a murder,” Alvarez says, sliding into the booth beside me. My head of security scans the crowd, following my line of sight.
“Keep your fucking voice down,” I growl, not bothering to deny it.
He shrugs, sipping his water. “Just saying, boss. She’s a complication you don’t need.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“No, but I’m giving it anyway. She’s young enough to be your daughter.”
I turn to look at him, letting the coldness seep into my eyes. “Careful.”
Alvarez raises his hands in surrender. “Your funeral. Or maybe just your kneecaps when Gallo finds out.”
I turn back to watching Contessa. She’s at the bar now, leaning forward to order.
The position makes her ass look even more fucking peachy, the short dress riding up just enough to make my mouth water.
I imagine walking up behind her, pressing my cock against that ass, letting her feel how hard she makes me.
“Conrad won’t get anywhere near my knees,” I say, more to myself than Alvarez.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
On the floor, Tessa’s brow furrows as the bartender shakes his head at her. She argues, her fiery temper flaring, but he stands firm. Good boy. Smart boy. He gets to keep his job tonight.
She stomps off, water in hand, flipping the bartender her middle finger as she rejoins Natalia on the dance floor. The fury in her movements makes my cock strain against my zipper. I’ve never wanted to taste someone’s anger like I want to lick it off her skin right now.
I watch her begin to move again, her body finding the rhythm of the music even as irritation radiates from her.
The water bottle dangles from her fingers as she lets herself go, hips swaying, arms raised above her head.
The position makes her breasts push together, the silver fabric catching the pulsing lights.
Every man in a twenty-foot radius is staring at her, and I want to gouge out their fucking eyes one by one.
“I need to go down there,” I mutter, already sliding to the edge of the booth.
Alvarez puts a hand on my arm. “Boss, that’s not a good idea. You’re too recognizable. People talk.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” I shake him off, but he’s right. I can’t be seen publicly obsessing over her. Not yet at least.
I lean back, gripping my whiskey glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
Contessa deserves a private audience. She should only dance like this for me, in my bedroom, wearing nothing but the jewelry I’d drape on her body.
No one else deserves to witness this—her joy, the sensual way she moves, as if she’s being fucked by the music itself.
These men surrounding her are fucking vermin, unworthy to breathe the same air as her, let alone feast their eyes on what’s mine. I’m unworthy too, but the difference is, I take what I want, regardless. And I want her. All of her. Every fucking inch.
She belongs to me, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I know I don’t deserve her either. She’s young, vibrant, untainted by the shit I’ve done. But I’ve never let not deserving something stop me from taking it. I get what I want. Always. And I want her writhing underneath me, screaming my name. Calling me fucking Daddy.
My control snaps when I see someone touch her.
Some drunk fuck with a Rolex too big for his wrist slides up behind Contessa, pressing his crotch against her ass while she dances.
His meaty hands grab her hips, fingers digging into the silver fabric of her dress.
She tries to twist away, but he pulls her back against him, mouth at her ear saying something that makes her face contort with disgust.
I’m on my feet before I realize what I’m doing. The glass I was holding slams down on the table, small fissures no doubt appearing.
“Boss—” Alvarez starts, but I’m already moving.
I stop at the railing overlooking the dance floor. The VIP section gives me a perfect view of this fucker violating what’s mine. I catch the eye of my security detail stationed around the club and snap my fingers, pointing directly at the asshole grinding against Contessa.
Not even a minute later, two of my guys have the motherfucker by the arms, dragging him toward a side exit.
He struggles, but they’re professionals.
No one on the dance floor even notices in the chaos of bodies and music.
Contessa doesn’t see it either, already moving back toward Natalia, shuddering at the phantom touch of that piece of shit.
I stand up, buttoning my suit jacket with steady hands. I adjust my cuffs, making sure everything’s in place. The rage is still there, but controlled and channeled now.
“Alvarez,” I say, “stay and watch her until she decides to go home. Make sure she gets there safely.”
Alvarez frowns, standing up beside me. “But, boss, shouldn’t I come with you for this?”
I give him a look that would make most men piss themselves. Alvarez has been with me long enough to know what it means.
He raises his hands in surrender. “You got it, boss, but be careful. I don’t trust anyone but me with your safety.”
“I will, old friend,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “This won’t take long.”
I take the private exit, the one reserved for those who pay enough to avoid being seen. My driver has the car waiting, engine running. As I slide into the back seat, I pull out my phone and dial.
“Bring him to the warehouse on Pier 33,” I instruct when my man answers. “And make sure he’s conscious when I get there.”
I end the call, leaning back against the leather seat.
My cock is still hard, throbbing with the need to claim what belongs to me.
I’ll deal with the piece of shit who touched her first, then I’ll go home and jerk off to the image of her in that silver dress, imagining it ripped to shreds on my bedroom floor.
Twenty minutes later, I’m walking into the warehouse I use for freight shipping that gets lost at sea.
The piece of shit is already tied to a metal chair in the center of the empty shipping container when I walk in. Blood drips from his nose, one eye already swelling shut. My boys did a decent job softening him up, but they know to leave the main event for me.
“Leave us,” I tell them. “Just Rico stays.”
Rico nods, taking position by the door. The others file out, and the heavy metal door slams shut with a sound that makes the drunk fuck flinch.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, removing my suit jacket and handing it to Rico. I roll up my sleeves methodically, one at a time, exposing the forearms that have broken men stronger than this pathetic excuse.
“P-please,” he stutters, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his face. “I have money. Whatever you want—”
“I asked if you know who I am.” I loosen my tie but don’t remove it. Sometimes I need it for other purposes.
“N-no, I don’t—”
I backhand him hard enough that the chair nearly tips over. “My name is Matteo Marino.”
His eyes widen, recognition and terror flooding his face. Good. My reputation precedes me.
“Oh, fuck, oh Jesus, I’m sorry, Mr. Marino. Whatever I did—”
“You put your filthy fucking hands on something that belongs to me.” I pull brass knuckles from my pocket, sliding them onto my right hand. “The woman in the silver dress.”
“I didn’t know she was yours! I swear to god—”
“She is mine.” I flex my fingers; the metal catching the dim light. “And now I’m going to make sure you never touch what’s mine—or any woman—ever again.”
I grab his left hand where it’s tied to the chair arm. His fingers are pudgy and soft, with an expensive manicure. The nails of a man who’s never worked a day in his life.
“Please,” he begs, “I’ll do anything—”
I bring the brass knuckles down on his pinky finger. The crack of bone is almost as satisfying as his scream.
“One,” I count softly.
His ring finger is next. I take my time with this one, applying pressure gradually until the bone gives way with a wet snap.
“Two.”
Tears and snot stream down his face as he howls. “Please stop! I’m sorry!”
“You’re not sorry yet,” I tell him, my voice calm as I break his middle finger. “But you will be.”
“Three.”
His index finger takes two strikes to break properly. I want to make sure it’s unusable. No more grabbing women. No more touching what’s mine.
“Four.”
When I reach for his thumb, he pisses himself, the acrid smell filling the container. Pathetic.
“Please,” he sobs, “no more.”
I move to the other side of the chair while he sobs, snot and tears running down his face.