Possessive Devil: A Dark Mafia Romance Read online

  Possessive Devil

  A Dark Mafia Romance

  BB Hamel

  Copyright © 2022 by B. B. Hamel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Coverluv Book Designs

  Contents

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  Trigger Warning

  1. Grace

  2. Calvino

  3. Grace

  4. Calvino

  5. Grace

  6. Grace

  7. Grace

  8. Calvino

  9. Gracie

  10. Grace

  11. Calvino

  12. Grace

  13. Grace

  14. Grace

  15. Calvino

  16. Grace

  17. Grace

  18. Calvino

  19. Grace

  20. Grace

  21. Calvino

  22. Grace

  23. Grace

  24. Grace

  25. Calvino

  26. Grace

  27. Grace

  28. Grace

  29. Calvino

  30. Grace

  31. Grace

  32. Calvino

  33. Grace

  Preview: Perfect Monster

  Also by BB Hamel

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  Trigger Warning

  This book contains graphic descriptions of sexual content, explicit violence, some mild drug use, and past trauma. These scenes were written to create a more vivid, in-depth experience, but may be triggering for some readers.

  Read at your own risk.

  Chapter 1

  Grace

  He’s there, just in the other room: the guy from my nightmares. I’m about to get myself killed, but I’ll take the bastard down with me.

  I pull out a small plastic baggie filled with white powder, shake it a couple times, open the zip top with shaking hands, and pour the stuff into a cut-crystal glass of obscenely expensive whiskey. I stir until it dissolves before I shove the baggie back into the waistband of my skirt—there’s nowhere else to hide it, not when I’m wearing barely more than a plunging crop top that’s essentially lacy underwear and a skirt that only just grazes the bottom of my ass—and for weeks I’ve been coming to work with it hidden in my tiny little uniform, which has been like torture for my already-frayed nerves. I thought about keeping it shoved down my top, but I realized quickly that too many men stare at my chest and get a little handsy, even if I’m supposed to be off-limits, and the chance of someone noticing it were way too high.

  I’m trembling as I heft the heavy lacquered wood tray with its pristine green felt center and the drink glistening in the middle and look around the quiet janitor’s closet. Mops, buckets, racks of supplies, a utility sink, and not much more. My little haven when work gets too bad and the only place I know I can be alone for a few minutes, away from the leering guys eye-fucking me to death and the catty dancers annoyed whenever a drink girl steals some attention away and the bartenders with their quiet, judging boredom.

  Life isn’t always roses, but I’ve suffered indignity and disgrace in peace like a good quiet girl is supposed to, and now I’ll get my chance to make some noise and fuck shit up and let everyone know just how I feel about getting walked on and slapped around and strangled my whole life.

  Bass thumps through my bones from the front of the club. If anyone catches me in here with a drink tray bound for the back room, I’m totally screwed, no matter how often I sneak in here. That’s beyond against the rules and there would be way too many questions, so I take a couple deep breaths, whisper a little prayer, and step out into the dark back hall.

  Nobody’s around. I straighten my clothes and put on my game face—it’s the look of a girl that knows what she’s doing and isn’t afraid of anything, even though my brain’s currently screaming oh my god Grace oh my god don’t do it Grace don’t do it you absolute psycho which isn’t exactly easy to ignore, but my game face hardens me and makes me think I’m someone else, someone stronger and sharper and better, someone that’s not from the back woods of West Virginia with pine sap in her veins and scars etched into her skin, and it gives me the false courage I need to keep moving forward.

  I march past the bathrooms where a small gaggle of other drink girls stand gossiping with each other. I wave to Ginnie and Kia and they wave back, though Juniper throws me a dirty scowl—she’s hated me ever since one of her favorite clients started preferring me over her, which wasn’t my fault, I even told the guy I wasn’t interested in stealing him away, but he’s a persistent asshole that tips really well. He keeps saying I’ll break down one day and give him a special dance, but I definitely won’t, although I haven’t expressly said that yet—better to let him have some hope and keep bringing me those hundred-dollar bills.

  And anyway, I’m not here to make friends—I’m here to lose them.

  “You on the back rooms, Gracie?” Ginnie asks, a pretty white girl with big red hair and a perky attitude.

  I nod and pat the tray. “Got a drink for three right now.”

  Kia chews her lip and glances over her shoulder before leaning closer. She’s extremely pretty, with dark hair, long lashes, smooth brown skin and an easy smile. “Lucky girl, I knew I shouldn’t have switched. You know who’s in there, right?”

  I know exactly who’s in there.

  I know every detail about him, everything I’ve been able to find at least—I know his face, his weight, his height, his wife’s name and how many children he has, I know what he’s been accused of doing and how many men he’s allegedly killed, I know he’s allergic to strawberries—not bad enough to make him choke to death unfortunately—and that he hates the Rolling Stones but loves the Beatles and thinks Type O Negative is the greatest band on the planet.

  I know the bastard better than I’ve known anyone in my life, except for maybe Riley, and she’s lodged so deep in my bones that my inner voice is her voice, whispering to me all the time, keeping me up at night, keeping me grounded and out of an early grave.

  “Just some rich guy,” I say instead like I haven’t got a clue, smiling in a way I hope suggests I’m very confident but also kind of dumb.

  Juniper rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I really wonder how you manage to make it through a day without getting hit by a car, you’re so damn stupid.”

  “Don’t be a bitch, Junie,” Ginnie says and leans toward me. “Just be careful with this one, sweetie, okay? And don’t be surprised by what you see in there.” Her face falters slightly and she chews her lip. She was one of the first girls that was kind to me when I got hired all those months ago and when I was adjusting to life in this place, where morals are flexible and sins are a prerequisite to having fun. “You’ll be fine though. Just give him whatever he wants.”

  My eyes widen. “He’s not gonna try to pressure me into—”

  Ginnie shakes her head and forces herself to smile. “You’ll be fine. Better get going though if that’s for him.”

  I frown at her and pretend to look nervous—which isn’t hard, since I’m a bundle of anxiety at the moment—before I turn and march off down the cheap red carpeting beneath the dim orange overhead lights. I hear Juniper say something nasty back there and Ginnie snaps back something sharp, an
d I smile to myself—I don’t know what I did to win that girl’s loyalty, but I love her to death for it.

  Sweat glistens on my skin and drips down my back. I hear voices from the front of the club—patrons talking to whatever girls are currently dancing for them, and the smell of lavender and body glitter, sweet and silky, drifts through the air. A girl laughs, slightly shrill, definitely fake, and a deep rumble of a man’s voice answers her. I’m so attuned to the sounds of Crystal Lake that I catch almost everything, it flows over me and through me, and I can picture what’s happening—Monique grinding her hips in some frat guy’s crotch while his friends laugh and toss singles, or Sarah bending backwards while she rolls her pelvis in the face of a drunk businessman while he shoves tens into the waistband of her thong, letting his finger graze the soft skin inches away from her freshly smoothed pussy.

  All this happens around me, but I’m focused on room three and what’s beyond its closed door.

  I hear nothing inside—it’s one of the truly soundproofed rooms in the place which is why he’s in there—and I’m shaking as I stand outside of it. As soon as he came in through the front door, I knew he’d end up inside that room, and I practically begged Kia to switch with me—she’ll work the floor and I’ll work the privates—and that might be a problem. But that’s an issue for future-Grace to worry about.

  I tuck a strand of my shoulder-length, curly auburn hair behind an ear, straighten my skirt, make sure my tits are in position, and take a deep breath before I open the door a crack and step inside.

  The lighting’s all reds and purples and gives everything an otherworldly vibe like I stepped from our universe into something dripping with velvet. A pole stands at the far end and a pretty blonde named Rainwater slides down it upside-down, completely naked, her tanned skin taut and glistening with oil, her little perky breasts shaking slightly with the tension of her muscles as she spins around in an incredible, graceful arc. I know strippers are seen as low-rent and classless or whatever, but I’m always impressed at just how athletic some of these girls are and what they can do with their bodies. Rainwater is one of the best, she’s like an acrobat as she glides and spins and twirls, contorting herself, making her trim, lean legs seem to shift and sway and dance in the air.

  To the right, a large black leather couch is set up facing the pole. Another girl dances in front of it, with cloud-pale skin, long black hair, and an incredible ass, her top still on and her bottoms basically nonexistent as she twerks her hips with her hands above her head. I catch her eye and Raven grins and winks at me, and my stomach twists as I look at the man sitting on the couch, and the girl kneeling before him.

  He’s bigger than I expected. I mean, I knew he was tall—easily over six feet—but he’s brimming with muscles and a dark, dangerous aura oozes from him like smoke. I catch glimpses of tattoos that disappear into an expensive suit. His dark hair’s cut short and slicked back, and he’s staring down at the girl before him as she takes his cock and sucks him deep into her throat.

  I stand frozen for a beat. Sunshine’s got dark blonde hair and amazing boobs—one time I asked her if they were fake and she proudly puffed out her chest, shook her head, and said, “Sweetie, these puppies are corn fed and all natural,” and I liked her ever since—and she strokes the man’s cock with a loving smile as she looks into his eyes with an amazing feigned reverence, an act good enough to win a freaking Oscar.

  I know the girls do this stuff. I’ve walked in on it four or five times over the last few months since I started working at Crystal Lake, and I don’t know why seeing Sunshine sucking the guy’s cock makes me pause with shock. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes—almost bored, like he can’t wait for it to be over—or maybe it’s that Raven’s taking off her top and getting down on her knees and joining in, sloppily licking his shaft as she takes him into her mouth, her big lips wrapped around his tip. His dick’s big and it stretches out her mouth as Sunshine starts to lick his balls, and the guy grunts once—before looking up and meeting my eye.

  Time stops. I can’t move my legs. Raven’s working his tip, sucking hard and fast, and Sunshine’s happily licking at his balls and shaft, and the guy’s looking at me with a curious frown, and some voice in the back of my head’s telling me to run away, run away, he’s going to hurt me if I don’t get the fuck out, but I can’t move my legs. He’s a predator, a beast, a monster from the darkest forests, the kind of creature that only exists in stories and fairytales, except this one has been reborn into the gigantic body of a deadly man that apparently needs two gorgeous strippers to pleasure his massive cock.

  He gestures at me. “Drink.”

  That breaks me from my stupor. I hurry over and lower the tray as Sunshine glances up. She grins and strokes the guy’s shaft while Raven sucks him faster, bobbing up and down with a surprising grace, and I wonder where the hell she learned to do that—I feel a momentary spark of jealousy at her technique. They don’t even hesitate when I get close since this is just part of their job, after all, and I’ve seen both of them doing stuff like this before though never at the same time.

  The guy takes the drink. He tosses a folded-up fifty-dollar bill onto the tray and my heart races wildly as I straighten, about to leave, but I can’t stop staring as he brings the glass to his lips and takes a long drink.

  Time stops. The earth ceases its rotation. I can’t pick up my legs because they don’t work anymore. I stare at his full lips as he licks them and swallows, and he frown’s ever so slightly, looking at the glass with a curious expression, and I’m positive he knows what I did and I’m about to be caught and killed in the most brutally horrible way imaginable, he’s going to rip off my skin and make me eat it all and only when I’m suffering peak levels of agony will he finally put a bullet in my head—except Sunshine seizes the moment and takes the guy’s cock all the way into her throat which elicits a surprised grunt from his masculine mouth, and it’s like the drink’s totally forgotten. He takes another long sip and I turn, hurrying out of there like my life depends on it.

  Because it does.

  I shove the fifty into my waistband with the empty plastic baggie and stand outside of the door with the tray against my chest, breathing hard, freaking out. More sweat stipples my skin despite the fact that I’m basically naked and the air conditioning is pumping hard.

  Never in a million years did I picture myself in an outfit like this working at a strip club like Crystal Lake, but here I am, doing things I would’ve said were impossible a year ago, all because my life came to an end ten months back and I’m still dead, barely more than a walking shell of the girl I used to be, and she’s never, ever coming back.

  Which is why I can take these risks: even if I fake it and end up murdered, just another dead girl for some podcast to investigate, it won’t really matter because the girl I once was, the girl with some semblance of naivete still intact, with some innocence and purity and all that good-girl bullshit, that girl’s long gone.

  Normally right about now, I’d go check on my other rooms, and I can’t risk looking too suspicious, so I force myself to go through the motions. I take orders, fetch drinks, and time slips past: five minutes, ten, fifteen. Finally, twenty minutes after first poking my head into room three and handing over that drink, I’m in the hallway with anxiety coursing through my body like teeny tiny little sledgehammers in my veins when Raven comes stumbling out with a wild and terrified look on her face.

  She runs over to me, her top clutched against her breasts, and she grabs my arm with her free hand. “Gracie, Jesus fuck, you gotta come quick. I think he’s dead.”

  I nearly scream.

  “Dead?” I manage the word like I’m giving birth to it. I force it from my throat, and all my plans swirl around in my skull, mixed up and half-formed, but I force myself to focus on the plans I’ve thought about endlessly ever since I came to this club ten months ago and devoted my life to this moment.

  If he’s dead then everything I’ve worked for, all my sac
rifices, all those leering, pervy dickheads and their grabby hands, all those nights spent watching girls strip and guys throw money and the endlessly empty debauchery of it all, all those hours spent sitting around my sad, lonely apartment dreaming of this night, this exact situation, all of that would be for nothing.

  “I don’t fucking know, can you just come on?” She drags me along behind her and I stumble after.

  Sunshine and Rainwater are hovering over him. His cock’s put away though it looks like it was hastily done—his shirt’s poking out of his unzipped fly—and Sunshine’s checking his neck for a pulse.

  “Let me see.” I push into the group and force myself to concentrate. I need to take control of this or else it’s going to spiral out of hand and I won’t get what I desperately need. I press two fingers against the guy’s neck—it’s surprisingly warm and covered in stubble—and there it is, his pulse, slow but steady. His chest is rising and when I lean close to his mouth, all my instincts telling me to stop, to run, to get away, the monster’s going to bite my throat out, I feel his breath on the soft skin of my cheek.

  “He’s not dead,” I say and bite my nails. “I think he’s asleep.”

  “His fucking dick was in my mouth,” Raven says, pacing back and forth. “We were sucking him off and he was saying all this fucking shit to us about how we’re worthless cunts and all that shit, and his voice got all slurred and whatever and his dick started getting soft and I just figured he was drunk or on something, you know, but then he just sort of passed out. What the fuck’s wrong with him?”