7. Leo
7
LEO
I hang my last tee shirt next to all the new clothes Rocco bought for me in my showcase-style closet. It has automatic lights, recessed shelving, and a tufted chair in the corner. It’s the size of Lucy’s room in our old apartment, and I’m having trouble wrapping my head around this strange, new reality.
We live in an apartment where each bedroom has an en-suite bathroom. The girls won’t have to fight over who gets a shower first because they don’t have to share.
We have cable and multiple streaming services. I can finally watch Penny Dreadful and see what Sammy is carrying on about.
The kitchen has every appliance I’ve ever dreamed of, and I can use a French press in the morning—I won’t have to use instant coffee and taste those muddy granules at the bottom.
There’s even a library with a reading nook next to my bedroom, a detail I’m not sure was purposefully done, but appreciated all the same.
Yeah, and all you had to do to earn it was become some deranged, knife-wielding, psychotic mafioso’s fucktoy, my intrusive thought blares in the forefront of my mind.
Ugh.
I flop down on my bed and take stock of the poor life choices that led me here. The unavoidable truth is, I did exactly what I promised myself I would never do—I got involved with a mafia man who’s the very definition of trouble. Someone with a sadistic mean streak who more than enjoyed inflicting pain on me to get off.
But you enjoyed it too…
Taking a deep breath, I run my hand over the bite mark on my neck that’s still healing and ignore the pooling heat in my stomach as I remember what happened between us a couple of days ago.
“Kiss your whole life goodbye, lionheart. I own you now.”
My face heats because he does own me. He has the power to take all of this away and throw us out on the street. My ass is on tap for him in exchange for a luxury apartment in his building, a highly rated private school for the girls, and not having to worry about how the fuck I’m going to make everything work.
He forced me into this position when he got me fired and took away our apartment. Or did he? I could have fought harder. We could have walked away from everything and left the city, praying he’d never find us. Rebuilding our lives in another place would have been hard, but we’d manage.
It’s useless to think about it now. The decision has been made, and the girls are already in love with their new home.
My bedroom door flies open, and Lucy races in, jumping onto my bed in a flurry of giggles. Her unicorn-rainbow pajamas are so pink they make my head hurt.
“Leo, can I have a cookie and milk before bed?” she asks. I pause for a minute, and she holds her breath in anticipation.
It’s cute she thinks I’d ever say no to her. I’m probably spoiling her, but I want her to have a better childhood than I did. One with a caregiver who isn’t zombified by antidepressants and drunk most of the time. Someone present.
“Of course, let’s go!” I exclaim. She jumps off the bed, right into my arms, and I piggy-back her to the kitchen.
I knock on Julia’s door and shout, “We’re getting cookies and milk before bed if you want to join!” over her emo music, but she dismisses us by raising the volume to an ungodly level. This emo shit can cry a garbage infested ocean and sail away for all I care.
In true Lucy fashion, the container of cookies I baked today and two glasses are already on the kitchen island, ready to go. All we need is milk.
“Someone was feeling confident.”
“Because I know you’re the best brother ever who knows how important nighttime cookies and milk is,” she laughs.
I pour her a glass of milk, and we eat together while discussing her first day in her new school tomorrow. To her credit, she isn’t nervous. She can’t wait to check out the school’s library and meet her classmates.
My phone’s beeping interrupts our conversation. I pull it out to a surprise text from Rocco. He hasn’t contacted me since our tryst in his office, and I was hopeful he’d forget about me.
No such luck.
Mafia Monster: Be at my apartment at 8:30 sharp tomorrow morning. Your sisters have a ride arranged to and from school. Wear one of the outfits I bought you.
Me: I’m riding with them for at least their first day. I’ll try my hardest to be on time.
I may have given into this whole arrangement, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be a pushover for him.
Mafia Monster: That’s fine, but if you’re late, you pay the consequences.
My mouth waters at the thought of what he considers consequences.
Oh, like when he shot that guy and left him to bleed out in an alley?
I’m not sure what’s more pathetic—the fact that my inner thoughts sound like a conscience I love to ignore, my equal parts anticipation and shame over his consequences , or my forgetting about how he murdered someone.
“Oh you’re a sick little fuck, aren’t you?”
The memory of the amusement in his deep voice sends shivers through my spine.
“Who is it?” Lucy asks.
“My new boss, Rocco. That’s enough cookies. Bedtime, Lulu.”
“What exactly is your new job?”
I hate lying to my sister, but I will never admit the sordid, embarrassing truth. Sometimes, being an adult is grinning and bearing the worst so the people you love can thrive. And I’ll endure anything to make sure they have the best of everything.
“I’m his personal chef and assistant. Now off to brush our teeth and hit the hay. You have a big day tomorrow.”
On our way back to her room, I knock on Julia’s door again. “Turn it off. Time for everyone to go to bed for school tomorrow. First warning.”
“Leave me alone!” she screams before turning off her torture music.
As I tuck Lulu under her brand new, hole and fray-free lilac duvet, she smiles at me.
“Thank you for taking this new job, Leo. I know you loved Squisito , but this new room is so cool.”
“You’re welcome. Love you.”
I note all the flowers, unicorns, and girly shit right before I turn off her light, only imagining how Rocco knew she loved all of these things. It reminds me of the two reasons I did this in the first place.
To give them better, and to keep them safe.
He may have provided all of this, but he did it at a price. A man Like Rocco Vettore has no qualms hurting people who don’t step in line. And as fast as he can give us this new, beautiful reality, he can take it away.
I sprint back into the building, three minutes after I was supposed to meet Rocco. Traffic was complete shit, and I swear his driver purposely took the long way from the girls’ school to make me late. I sigh in relief as the doors to his private elevator close behind me. Fishing the passcard out of my wallet, I type in the keycode for the penthouse apartment and sigh when it starts to ascend.
Surely he won’t notice that I’m a few minutes late? I’m sure even mafiosos get stuck in New York City gridlocks from time to time.
That’s fine, but if you’re late, you pay the consequences.
Rocco’s text flashes through my mind, and I already know he won’t let this go. The way his eyes lit up as he bit me—the grin that spread across his face while he was choking me—are proof that there’s something malicious lurking inside him. Something he barely keeps restrained.
A dark, evil thing that will consume me whole if I don’t tread lightly around it.
Why does that evilness make my heart palpitate?
The elevator dings, the doors revealing a familiar apartment. The elegant cream, gold, and blue hues stand out in the natural light from the entire wall lined with floor to ceiling windows. I walk toward it, marveling at the city skyline and the cars and people below. The last time I was here, I didn’t notice the beautiful view.
Hmmm, maybe because the shades were pulled down…or you were too busy choking on his dick…or you were mentally spiraling over him murdering someone for touching you.
The thought blares through my mind before the sound of someone clearing their throat startles me.
A short, stocky man dressed in a plain black suit stands on the other side of the room. He must be one of Rocco’s guards.
“Mr. Vettore is waiting for you in his office, if you’ll follow me.”
I follow him down the same hallway from the last time I was here. There are a few framed photos and pieces of art on the walls I hadn’t noticed. I can hear the murmur of masculine voices coming from the open door of his study.
When I see Rocco sitting at his desk, my heart races. His wavy hair is slicked back, with an unruly piece covering his eyebrow. The blue suit he’s wearing pops against his olive skin, highlighting the light shades in his green eyes. As usual, he doesn’t wear a tie, and the first couple of buttons of his shirt are open, showing off part of a tattoo and chest hair.
The neutral expression on his face falters when we lock eyes. There’s a hint of anger in the firm set to his jaw. His eyebrows slant above a piercing glare, and I notice we’re all standing here in silence. A foreboding vibe settles across the room, like the calm before a storm.
Rocco has always been handsome, the kind of man that turns heads and commands attention. But when he’s holding back whatever demon lives inside him… He’s a living, breathing wet nightmare right out of my darkest fantasies—the kind I’d never admit having to another living soul.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll be around the docks later to check on your progress,” he says in a clipped tone, dismissing the men I barely even noticed from the room.
The only person left is the man from before who walked me here. He stands like a London guard in the hallway, next to the open door facing away from us, like a fly on the wall.
I stand in front of Rocco’s desk, waiting for him to say something. Somehow, I know better than to say anything first. He scrolls through his phone, typing briefly and not sparing me a glance. Shifting awkwardly on my feet, I try to admire the golden-framed landscape of a forest on the far wall, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Prey knows better than to lose track of the predator who wants to eat it alive…
After a few moments of silence, he leans back in his chair. He looks me up and down, as if inspecting me for damages.
“You arrived four minutes late.”
“There was traffic on the way home from school,” I explain.
“You know there are consequences for being late.” He rises from his desk, his eyes quickly glancing to the leather armchair near the landscape.
The chair he sat in while I knelt for him Friday.
Is he thinking about what we did there? How he held my throat as I choked on him? The way he bit my lip…
The very thought makes me bite my own lip, but I quickly remind myself that I’m not here of my own accord. He forced me into this job. He’s holding me and my sisters’ fates over our heads like an ax that can fall at any moment.
The hard, calculating look in his eyes should scare me. It should make the few remnants of common sense I have left come together and scream at me to leave.
But I don’t… I can’t . His gaze turns my own body against me, pinning me in place.
“Yes, I know,” I agree. It’s in plain writing on my phone.
“Come with me,” he orders as he walks toward the kitchen, leaving me to trail behind him.
I must have missed the kitchen the first time I was here—it’s every chef’s heaven on earth. Professional, stainless steel appliances are encased by black and white marble countertops with a golden swirl detail. The kitchen island seats eight people, and has a sink, built in power outlets, and storage. There’s an eight burner range atop a double oven. He even has a double door that I assume leads to a pantry of some sort.
“You’re to arrive every day by 8:30, and start my breakfast. The binder on the counter details my food preferences and some favorite meals to get you started. Don’t be lazy and rely on them, though. I hired you for your creativity. There’s also directions for ordering groceries, if you choose that method over shopping in person, and other duties I expect you to do as my personal chef.”
He sits at the island and crosses one leg over the other at the knee. “I want my lunch served at 1:00 and my dinner ready before you leave for the day. If I’m not here, make it for me anyway. I’ll eat it when I’m home.”
“When am I done for the day?” I ask, trying to mentally plan my day so I can be home to make dinner for the girls.
“I understand you have your sisters to tend to. You can leave at 5:00.”
Okay, the girls get home from their after school activities around that time, which means I can have dinner on the table by 6:00. If I do a slow cooker meal, maybe 5:30. That gives me plenty of time to help with homework and spend time with them.
Rocco breaks me from my thoughts. “What time do they go to bed?”
“I try to have Lucy in bed by 8:30. Julia is in her room by 9.”
“After they’re in bed, you’re at my beck and call again. If I text you, you come to me immediately. No argument, no excuses. I don’t care what you’re doing, you have three minutes to get your tight ass on that elevator. When the guards let you in, you’ll sit in the living room and wait for me.” His firm tone brokers no argument, and I nod.
He beckons me over with a wave, and despite the rudeness of his gesture, I move close enough to him that I can smell his rich, peppery cologne. The smell infiltrates my senses, intoxicating me to the point where I can’t sense the danger looming over me. He tips my chin up, so I’m forced to look at his stone-hard expression.
“When I ask you a question, Leo, I expect a verbal answer, not a nod. I told you this already, and I don’t make it a habit to repeat myself.”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to tremble as his thumb rhythmically rubs my cheek.
“I’ll have three eggs scrambled, toasted bread, half an avocado with everything but the bagel seasoning, and some fruit.”
I expect him to head back to his office but he stays at the island, watching me gather everything I need to make his breakfast. The eggs, butter, and a large container of mixed fruit are on the top shelf of the fridge, but everything else is a mystery to me. As I open each cabinet, I make a mental note of what’s inside and how I can better arrange everything for synergy’s sake.
Seriously, even a four year old can tell this kitchen wasn’t organized by a professional.
“The pots and pans are in the bottom cabinet next to the pantry,” he comments, as if he can read my mind. “You’ll find the bowls in the top cabinet in front of you.”
I grab a medium pan, setting it on the stove over medium-low heat to warm up. Then start opening drawers in search of a spatula and a whisk while I mentally plan the meal. Before I can sense his presence, Rocco is behind me, crowding me into the counter with a spatula in hand.
“You’ll need one of these,” he rasps in a gravelly voice. He weaves his arm around me to hand me the spatula. I can feel the hard muscles of his body pressing into me, even through our clothes.
I swallow the insane amount of saliva in my mouth before I squeak out, “Thank you.” I’m lucky I can say anything at all with how tongue tied I feel.
He stays in my space while I crack each egg into the bowl. His empty hand now holds onto my waist, each finger digging into my side to hold me in place. I’m too nervous to move…and I don’t think he’d let me if I asked, so I use a fork to scramble them instead. He runs his nose up the column of my neck, setting my skin ablaze. His simple gesture gets me so hot and bothered, I can barely keep my concentration on what I’m cooking. He nibbles on my ear, his warm breath melting me from the inside.
I almost don’t notice when his other arm tips the bowl, spilling eggs down my shirt and pants.
“Oh, that sucks. Oops ,” he deadpans, as if he didn’t do it on purpose. “What’s the saying? You have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet?”
I furiously whip around, but there’s so little space between us, I couldn’t smack him, even if I wanted to. He’s pressed so close to me that I can feel his breaths on my forehead and see the flecks of brown and rampant mischief in his eyes. I can also feel his hard length pressing into my stomach.
He thinks I’m the sick fuck, but he’s the one who gets off on taunting his victims, like a big cat who plays with his food before he eats it.
Biting my tongue is difficult, but I can’t afford to lose this job. And he knows it.
“Take your clothes off. Now. You’re a mess,” he orders me.
I try to move around him to go to one of the restrooms but he blocks my way, forcing me to change in front of him.
I burn under his gaze as I undo each button of my shirt, shucking it onto the floor along with my pants, socks, and shoes. The white briefs I have underneath are the only item of clothing I have left because they aren’t ruined.
“These too,” he orders, snapping the waistband. “I never said to keep them on.”
After I take them off, I realize I’m naked in this man’s kitchen, where anyone can walk in and see me…see him watching me. The thought rightfully terrorizes me—but part of me is turned on by the idea of one of his guards seeing us.
What is wrong with me?
Rocco hands me a wet dish towel, and I use it to wipe down the few specks of egg that got on my forearms. Of course, he’s somehow pristine, not a single stain on his elegant suit.
“Well go on, make my breakfast. I haven’t got all day.” He gestures toward the stove with a huge smirk on his face.
I go to the sink to wash my hands and wipe the counter down before continuing. He doesn’t crowd my space anymore, yet he stands close enough to watch me move around the kitchen as I work. The whole ordeal has me so red in the face. I try not to chub up as I carefully scramble three new eggs together in a clean bowl. It’s a miracle I can fan slice the avocado without cutting a finger off.
I’ve embarrassed myself many times in my twenty three years on this earth. It comes with the territories of being an awkward human being and a pseudo father. But I’ve never felt as unsettled as I do right now, cooking naked in front of Rocco Vettore. His laser-gaze feels like hands roaming over my body, touching and probing me to the point where I almost burn the eggs.
When I hand him the plate, he sits and eats his breakfast like a king, quietly without fuss while scrolling through his phone. He acts like I’m not even there. It’s a complete one eighty from before and gives me whiplash.
“Get me a cup of iced coffee with caramel creamer and two sugars,” he demands.
I wait until I’m turned away from him with my head in the fridge before I roll my eyes. “Of course this stab-happy maniac drinks iced coffee in the middle of the winter,” I mumble to myself.
This time, I hear his footsteps as he stalks toward me. He stops behind me and slowly taps his foot as I take the coffee and the creamer out of the fridge. After I fix his drink, he takes a small wooden cutting board with a handle out of a drawer, and places it on the island.
The unbidden adrenaline rush I feel when I see the cutting board makes my mouth water. My heart races when I think of what he’s planning to do with it. Could this be the consequence he promised me?
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
“You don’t stay above ground and out of an urn for thirty four years in the life without a keen sense of hearing, toy. Repeat what you said. ”
This fucking man, I swear to God.
The urge to push him to his breaking point rages inside me. I want to fight, to see him reach his boiling point and bubble over. “I said, of course this stab-happy maniac drinks iced coffee in the middle of the winter .”
“Stab-happy maniac…” he repeats.
“Did you forget about that man you shot in the alley outside the club? Or that fact that you’re fucking unhinged?” I snap. As soon as I see the tightness to his jaw and the pointed expression on his face, I know I fucked up–but I can’t stop myself. “Did you not stalk me, get me fired from my job, and evicted from my apartment so you could corner me into being your personal little fucktoy?”
He corners me into the kitchen island, cutting board in hand. I can feel the danger rolling off him, filling me with a foreign, twisted anticipation I’ve never felt before. We’re standing in an open concept kitchen where any of his guards can walk in on us, but I don’t care—my cock is so hard, it’s painful.
I just want to feel that cutting board crack against my skin.
“The red flush on your chest and cheeks are nothing compared to how red your ass is going to be after I spank that fucking sass out of your mouth,” he promises me as he picks up the handle of the board. “I was just going to spank you a few times, then make you choke on my cock for being late. Now I’m going to edge you until your brain’s more scrambled than the eggs you cooked for me.”
“My brain cells died the day I took this job. I’d like to see you try,” I goad him.
He grabs the back of my neck, turns me around, and pushes me into the countertop. My hips dig into the edge, but instead of struggling to get away, I revel in the pain. The way his fingers dig into the sides of my neck only turn me on more, and I moan.
“Oh that’s nothing compared to what’s coming next. Do you know why you’re being punished?” he asks me.
“Because you’re a monster who enjoys inflicting emotional and physical pain?” I quip, still riding my anger from earlier.
“You don’t even know what pain is, toy. Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll try not to get too carried away.”
“I was late, and I told some truths you didn’t want to hear,” I answer honestly. He’s obviously bothered by the fact that I’m calling him out on how deranged he is.
“ Almost there. I told you what time to be here and that lateness would result in consequences. You agreed to be mine—practically handed yourself over on a silver platter to me—and you’re not acting like it.” He arranges me so my ass is sticking out.
The first blow to my right cheek is quick and hard. I hear the thwack of the wood against my skin, but my reaction is delayed. Seconds later, the sting seeps.
“What the fuck?!” I shout.
“Your sass isn’t the issue. I enjoy taming a brat and breaking them down piece by piece,” he lectures me as he lands another hit on my opposite cheek. “Your denial of your place is why you’re bent over a countertop, naked. You need to know your place.”
He spanks me a few more times, each harder than the last. Every time the grain of the wood connects with my skin, the fire left in its wake burns me. Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to cry in front of him.
This monster probably drinks tears, and I refuse to sustain him.
“You are mine, Leo, and I expect you to act as such.” Spank. “That means you show up at the time I tell you to.” Spank. “You follow the rules I set for you.” Spank. “You don’t offer what’s mine to random, disgusting scumbags at a nightclub because the moment you threw yourself in the way of a bullet for me, you sealed your fate.” Spank, spank, spank.
Each spank sends equal measures of pain and pleasure through my body, overloading my nervous system until I fade away to a place I’ve never been to before. Where every touch feels like that moment right before I lose control— but better . My shouts melt into moans and groans, the feral noises serving as pleas for more.
“It means showing gratitude that I gave you a shiny new apartment over four times the size of your old one with unlimited funding to live a charmed life.” He reaches around, giving my length a hard pump and laughing to himself. “You’re a little pain slut, moaning for more like the little whore I knew you were deep down. A true glutton for punishment.”
I look over my shoulder, and see him flip the cutting board over in his hand. I can’t see the engraving on the other side in detail, but I feel its wrath on my skin. The final two blows knock the wind out of me, to the point where I’m gasping for air, desperately trying not to come. My body knows not to cross that line without his permission.
And I don’t even hate myself for it.
He cups my face in his hand, swiping the tear from my eye with his thumb and popping it in his mouth. He licks his lips, then gives me an electric smile that highlights the angles of his perfect face. My stomach swoops at how powerful he looks as he stands above me.
“I didn’t get to taste your tears the last time you cried for me, toy. They’re delicious. Addictive .” His hands knead my ass, and I gasp as a throbbing sensation radiates through me. “Now I want to taste more of you.”
He grips my ass cheeks and bends over, sinking his teeth into the flesh of my abused skin. Right over where the last spank landed. His beard scrapes over the smarting skin as his teeth sink into the opposite cheek in the same spot, and he litters my skin with teeth marks, each one more blissfully painful than the last.
“Oh fuck,” I moan, barely caring about appearances anymore. “More.”
His hands grip over my cheeks and he spreads them apart, finally licking my hole. Each pass has me bracing myself against the counter, holding on for dear life.
“Has anyone ever eaten this ass before me?” he rasps.
“No, I’ve never trusted anyone enough to do it…”
“For fuck’s sake, I could eat this ass at every meal and never get enough.”
I never enjoyed getting rimmed and always felt awkward, like the most private part of myself was on display. Now I know my past hookups never bothered to do it right. Rocco eats me as if his literal life depends on making my knees shake and my throat hoarse from screaming.
My hole is sloppy and wet, his warm saliva trickling down my inner thigh. His tongue spears inside me, fucking me in deep, fast thrusts until I short circuit.
I’m so fucking close to busting all over his counter top. So fucking close. He sucks on my puckered skin, and I lose myself.
Right before I come, he stops. His deep, raspy laughter is the sound of my pleasure being stripped away from me and reality crashing down around me.
How could he stop? I want to come so badly.
“Please,” I beg, throwing every shred of dignity I have out the fucking window.
“Please what? Use your words when you’re being a desperate cockslut.”
“Please don’t stop,” I cry, thrusting my ass back at him, not caring how delusional I sound or who’s in the apartment with us to hear me.
“That sounds like something a toy should say. Your manners will get you everywhere, you know,” he says around a laugh before spitting on his finger and slipping it inside me.
He gently works it in and out of me, going deeper on every drive and picking up speed. My climax builds, reaching a fever point as he brushes against my prostate over and over again. I clench down on him, so close to finishing.
But he pulls out.
“I can play with your ass all day but unfortunately, my little toy, I have a meeting in ten minutes,” he informs me. “Stand up, turn around.”
If looks could kill, my glare would send this fucker six feet underground. When I’m facing him again, he pushes me to my knees, and I hiss when my tender ass hits my heels. He weaves his fingers through my hair, pulling the strands enough to ensure my attention is on him and only him.
“Ask nicely, and I’ll let you swallow my cum.”
I’m not sure if I feel disappointed in myself for how badly I want his cock in my mouth, or for how shamelessly I utter, “Please, let me choke on your cock again.”
The unzipping of his pants is loud in the quiet kitchen. He shoves his hardness inside my mouth, fucking my face hard and fast. His cock hits the back of my throat, and I gag. Our eyes connect, and I see it again—that darkness that should scare me off and make me run fast and far away. But all it does is suck me in and make me open my throat for him to abuse as he pleases.
Within a few minutes, he pulls out, until only his tip is in my mouth, and he comes. I swallow every drop without even thinking about it, as if it’s the only natural response I could have.
“I trust you’ll think about the consequences of your actions. If you touch yourself, I’ll know. You won’t come for at least a week. I expect lunch to be served in my office promptly at one.”
I’m so shocked at my own behavior, all I manage is a murmured yes in response. I dropped to my knees for a monster who hijacked my life, just like the greedy cockslut he accused me of being. He tips my jaw up, closing my mouth for me. Then he kisses my swollen lips with a dominating passion that melts my anger into a puddle at my feet.
“Get dressed before my guards see you like this,” he orders me before he strides from the room, leaving me hard and wanting, kneeling on his kitchen floor.
I jump up, catching my reflection in the stainless steel fridge. My ass is red, with finger indents where he spread me open for his personal consumption. My lips look as puffy as they feel.
The one thing glaringly missing from my reflection is my self worth, which I threw in the garbage the moment I dropped to my knees and pleaded for his cock.
After I put my clothes on, I clean up the kitchen and load the dishwasher. I hold the cutting board in my hand, running my fingers over the grain of the wood. I flip it over to read the engraving.
La felicità si fa in cucina.
Happiness is made in the kitchen.
Ironic. Because the warring feelings of shame and lust eating me alive feel nothing like happiness.