I smacked her again and again, until her bottom was hot to the touch, her skin a rosy pink.
And my cock aching with need, my balls tight as drums.
“Make no mistake, Francesca. I. Will. Own. You. And there is nothing you can do about it.”
Only when she was finally subdued did I stop, taking several deep breaths. She was my retaliation, a necessity in a world where men ruled, and women were considered nothing but playthings.
Only this woman was different. Intelligent.
Beautiful.
Ballsy.
And I would enjoy breaking her.
Three Days Earlier
I’d been initiated into the mafia at eleven.
I’d witnessed my first contract hit at twelve.
I’d broken a man’s spirit and his body at eighteen.
I’d murdered a traitorous enemy at nineteen.
I’d watched my mother murdered in cold blood at twenty-five.
That’s when time stopped.
Be careful of the devil lurking inside.
He will steal your soul.
I stood at the window, snorting at the thought. I’d been summoned to my father’s house and into his expansive office overlooking a tropical pool and cabana. The light California breeze created a rippling effect in the shallow, crystal clear waters, the entire setting serene.
But I knew better.
This wasn’t a casual request by any means. This was all about business, my father’s twisted and very brutal business. He called the operation a functional need in a dysfunctional world, lending money to those who were already ‘entitled.’ The borrowed money came at a significant price, whether paid back in cash or in body fluids. That was only a small part of the operation, the rest centering around party favors and various real estate developments. He’d coined the phrase years before, serving up whatever flavor of drug the customer wanted. And he’d become a very wealthy man in the process.
There also hadn’t been a building built in Los Angeles that didn’t have the mark of the Cappalini family. My father liked to say he owned the cops and the mayor’s office. Hell, even half the players in the entertainment world couldn’t throw a party without his approval.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway behind me and bristled, my grip on the very expensive glass of scotch tightening. I caught a single glimpse of his grim expression in the reflection of the bulletproof glass and resisted snarling. This wasn’t the time or place to get into yet another vicious argument. I could also see who he considered his second in command, Grinder’s massive form standing in the doorway. He wasn’t a man I cared for in any regard, and the feeling was obviously mutual.
“So good of you to come, Michael.” My father immediately walked toward the bar, his long strides wasting no time. “You can leave us, Grinder.”
“Yes, sir,” Grinder said after a slight hesitation, his dark eyes boring into mine. What did the asshole think, that I was going to hurt my own father?
My anger immediately flared. My father and I always sparred, no matter the discussion.
“How many times have I asked you not to use my given name, Ricardo?” Ricardo Cappalini was a staunch believer in the old ways, cultures learned long ago in the darkened Italian streets. He’d come from nothing, maneuvering through famine and violence to claw his way to America. He’s lost everything along the way, including any concept of humanity; however, family meant everything to him.
Or so he continued to tell me.
He’d never proven anything but that he remained a violent and bitter man.
Since the death of my mother during a horrific attack, I’d walked away from anything having to do with his family values and the tyranny that came with it. My father’s brand of revenge had also nearly cost him his freedom.
I was the bastard son, a joke in his circle of great mafia leaders. It didn’t matter that I made a significant amount of money from making movies, I was the heir apparent. The fact I didn’t give a shit meant I was a thorn in his side. To him, I was nothing more than a useless movie star. I brought the scotch to my lips, savoring the slight burn as the liquid slid down the back of my throat.
“If you think I’m going to use the ridiculous name of Kelan Rock for any reason, you’re wrong,” my father said in a breathless and exasperated manner. We’d had this conversation a solid ten times.
I waited as I heard the ice plopping in his glass, tinkling against the dense lead crystal. I had to admit, his urgent message had piqued my interest. “What do you want, Father? I have a premiere to get ready for.”
“If you spent more time with your family responsibilities instead of that bullshit you’re into, we might not be in this mess!” His deep baritone reverberated even with the high ceilings.
And the worry laced in his tone.
I curtailed my rage, turning to face him. “What mess are we talking about this time?” I was no fool. We always talked in some manner of code, even though the entire house and grounds was swept by one of his capos at least twice a day. The FBI were always hunting.
He took a swig of his drink before moving in my direction, keeping his voice low. “Grinder and Tony got wind of a takeover attempt.”
Two of his most loyal capos, soldiers who performed the most heinous deeds, well rewarded for their silence. They kept their ears to the streets.
“Takeover? By whom?” I knew the other four mafia families within the United States more intimately than even my father knew. None of them would dare try to encroach on my father’s organization. They knew how savage he could be when pushed. I watched as a single bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was nervous.
“A branch of the Massimo family. Did you see the morning paper?” He tossed a copy in my direction, a sneer on his face.
I hadn’t paid attention to the Los Angeles Times for years. The reporters were jaded in their viewpoints, preferring to err on the side of caution. And politics. Then again, my father hadn’t been able to purchase the rag. I eased my drink to the table, unfolding the paper. The headlines were bold, meant to sell.