Possessive Devil: A Dark Mafia Romance Page 3

  I shadow him into the hallway. He seems unsteady, but he walks back through the beaded curtain and into the main section of the club, and I wait only a few moments before I turn and start toward the back door. I pass a group of chattering drink girls on the way—they’re always standing around in packs gossiping and talking shit on the customers—and I catch the eye of Juniper, a brunette with big eyes and a terrible attitude. I’m not sure why I haven’t fired her ass yet.

  “Tell Martin he’s got the club,” I say as I walk past. “And if Diego comes back, have him close without me.”

  “Whatever you want, Calvino,” Juniper says giving me this ridiculous fuck-me smile.

  I don’t break stride. My head’s spinning and I keep seeing Grace down on her knees in front of my unconscious brother using his thumb to unlock his phone with a look of pure determination in her face, and the fear that flickered into her expression when I pinned her against the wall, and the way her body seemed to stiffen as I touched her exposed flesh, that fucking top designed to show off her large beautiful breasts, that skirt sewn to tantalize and tease her luscious little ass, and the way my own pulse raced when my fingertips grazed along her soft legs and brushed along her hips at her hip bones. I’ve noticed Gracie before, quiet little Gracie, pretty little Gracie with her deep auburn hair curly and shoulder-length, pink lips, wide hips, and luscious breasts, but I never gave her more than a passing thought—I’ve never had time to consider her.

  Until tonight, when she drugged my brother and tried to break into his phone.

  What would drive a girl to do something so blatantly suicidal?

  My blood buzzes with desire as a smile breaks across my face. I’ve been living in a fog of boredom and rage for nearly eight months and this is the most interesting thing that’s happened in a long time. I need to unravel her—I have to find out what the hell she was thinking, who she works for, what she wants, everything about her.

  I need to crack her open and break her.

  I step out into the parking lot, get behind the wheel of my black Range Rover, and drive fast toward my penthouse apartment.

  The apartment’s quiet as I step inside and toss my keys on the small entry table. Above it, an oil painting of a rolling countryside with a tiny farmhouse in the distance, barely more than a blob of red and white paint, hovers like a window into another world where there isn’t pain and suffering and blood around every corner. I run my gaze down the brushstrokes for a moment and try to clear my mind before I force myself to head back toward my bedroom, my heart pounding a slow but rough rhythm. I know what’s waiting for me, and I suddenly feel like I can’t approach it, like if I go into that room, I’ll have to shoot the girl in the head and the idea of blowing her pretty little skull to pieces twists my stomach, something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  Pity, or desire? Or a combination of both? I can’t tell, and I’m not sure I want to know either way. I had to steel myself against these feelings a long, long time ago, but they’re still inside, buried down deep below the madness and lust and hatred, but lurking there like an ancient sea creature waiting to wake up.

  There’s a part of me that yearns for my humanity and another louder part that knows I’ll never have it again, and don’t deserve to walk in the light even if I could.

  I open my bedroom door and find her lying on her side with her knees brought up to her chest, her ass almost entirely exposed, the mound of her delicious pussy covered only by a pair of black lacy panties, the tiny skirt a worthless bunch of fabric up around her waist, and her hands are tied behind her back, bound tightly.

  I can’t take my fucking eyes off her and almost miss the note tacked onto the top drawer of my dresser with a piece of tape: Enjoy her. Diego.

  His idea of a fucking joke.

  I rip it down and crumple it and Gracie sits up, frowning, the tie still bound tightly across her eyes. “Is someone there?”

  The fear in her voice makes my blood pulse quicker but I don’t answer. She struggles to sit up and one strap of her top falls down over her elbow, revealing even more of her breasts, nearly a hint of her hard nipple, and I wonder if she’s excited to be lying in my bed on my soft sheets with her hands tied behind her back—but no, she’s likely wondering if I’m going to murder her tonight.

  Which is a fair question, and I haven’t decided the answer yet.

  She’s alluring, like a tiny red-headed fairy, no more than five-foot-three at most and curvy in the best possible ways with creamy thighs and full lips and big innocent eyes that always stare around Crystal Lake like she’s never seen a strip club before in her life. Which, based on her resume, it’s extremely likely she hasn’t. I wonder for the millionth time why I ever hired a girl like her, with no experience waiting tables anywhere, let alone at a club like mine, with good grades and a nice smile and a wholesome look.

  Maybe I wanted to ruin her. Maybe I wanted to get her dirty.

  I walk toward the bed. She shuffles back and her skirt shifts down, covering her again as she reaches the headboard and leans against it. Her mouth opens, lips parted, tongue pressed against her little white teeth and I’m losing my fucking mind, staring at this girl tied up in my bed—and why do I give a shit about her? Why do I care that she’s defenseless and mine for the taking if I were into that sort of thing? Gracie is beautiful, but I’ve seen beautiful before, I’ve had beautiful, conquered it and owned it—beauty holds nothing for me now, it’s only empty looks, it’s skin-deep nothing.

  No, she has something else. I’m not sure what yet, and maybe her intense draw is the key to why she drugged my brother and why she was breaking into his phone.

  “Please, if you’re here, just say so.” She’s breathing hard. Her breasts rise and fall in rhythm as I stand at the end of the bed. I could reach out, grab an ankle, and pull her over.

  Instead, I only say, “Hello, Gracie.”

  She starts, looking around. “Calvino? Is that you?”

  “I’m home.” My words are like a velvet purr in the back of my throat and I watch a shiver run down her body, either the chill of impending death or the toe-curling thrill of potential pleasure—the two things aren’t so different.

  “Diego said if I waited and didn’t make a mess then you might not hurt me.”

  “Diego says a lot of things. Did he tie your hands behind your back?” It’s a stupid question. I know he did. He set her up and presented her like a present for me, like the rope keeping her tied up is the bow, and all I need to do is unwrap her to make her mine.

  “Yes, he did, and he said I should be quiet and wait, so I that’s what I’m doing.” She’s desperate to make sure I know she’s cooperating.

  I walk around to the side of the bed. “Don’t move.” She stiffens as I reach out and push her to the side slightly so I can release the length of black cord Diego used to bind her tight. The knots are good, but easily removed from the outside, and soon she’s rubbing her wrists and pulling off the blindfold, blinking at the sudden dim light from the overhead bulbs.

  I walk slowly back to the end of the bed and she tracks my every move. I love those eyes, so wide and green and lovely, and I wonder how many men she’s destroyed just by looking at them with that too-cute gaze. I wonder if I’m about to be one of them, and the idea makes me smile.

  “It isn’t what you think,” she says quietly, staring at me with fear. “What happened earlier.”

  “What do I think?”

  “I wasn’t trying to rob him. I wasn’t going to keep his phone or anything else.”

  “That’s good, although the alternatives might be worse.”

  She grimaces like I’ve slapped her. I stand still, staring, waiting for her to explain, and I don’t think she’s far from breaking. I’ve done this before—sometimes silence is worse than talking, and people rush to fill the quiet like their words might make all their misdeeds somehow better.

  But they never do.

  Words are shovels, and people are their own best gravediggers.

  “I need to find someone,” Gracie says finally, sounding desperate, and I can’t blame her—this situation is about as dire as it gets. “I think your brother might have something to do with her disappearance, and if I can just figure out how she’s connected to him and what he knows then maybe I can bring her home. That’s all I want, okay? I just want to bring her home. I don’t care about anything else.”

  Tears fill her eyes. I watch as one rolls down her cheek, fat and glistening, and I’m not sure if she’s the best actress I’ve ever seen or if she really is this insanely naive and stupid.

  “Riley,” I say quietly and she perks up.

  “My cousin. That’s right.”

  “That’s what you said back at the club. Your cousin, Riley. She’s the one that’s missing?”

  She nods eagerly. “That’s all I want to know, where she is and what happened to her. I don’t care about his business or your business or anything and I never meant to hurt him, I’m just desperate, that’s all.”

  “Let me understand something.” I come around the side of the bed again, moving slow and languid, my every step sending a flinching fear through her body. “You drugged the Don of the Los Angeles mafia—”

  “It was just sleeping pills, I swear.”

  Nice of her to admit it.

  “—and you stole his phone, unlocked it with his unconscious hand, all to find your missing cousin?”

  “Please, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth.”

  “Did you pursue a job at my club just so you’d get this chance one day?” My eyes widen a bit at the idea. She’s been my employee for something like nine or ten months now, which means her foresight and planning and dedication is shockingly impressive—very few people in this world are capable of such a task. I can only imagine the suffering she’s been through coming to work every day knowing her boss is the brother of the man she suspects stole away her cousin, or whatever it is she thinks happened.

  “Yes,” she admits quietly, almost meekly, staring down at the covers in that fucking outfit, and the contrast between her submissive frown and that sexpot body is nearly too much to bear, but god, there’s nothing meek about this girl, there can’t be. Even if she has a wholesome streak despite all that skin showing, no normal person can put themselves through what she’s done and come out the other side still whole.

  I should kill her.

  The thought strikes me like a high-speed train. It nearly obliterates me—nearly shatters me to bits. Because I don’t want to end her life, not at all, I’m too fascinated by her right now to want that, but this girl is dangerous.

  She drugged my brother and stole his phone. She embedded herself in my club for months waiting for the chance to slip sleeping pills into his drink.

  That takes cunning and strength, and I learned a long time that the best way to survive in a world filled with snakes is to kill any vipers lurking in your house. And my god, this girl is a viper, poison-fanged and sparkling and hungry for blood.

  “I’m not a threat to you,” she says, almost as if she can read my mind, and she turns to stare into my eyes, still crying, those long tears rolling down her cheeks. Why the fuck do they make me feel bad for her? I don’t feel bad—I don’t even feel pity—I can’t afford to feel a damn thing right now. “I only wanted to find some information, that’s all, I swear. I’m just some girl from West Virginia, I don’t know anything and I didn’t mean your brother any harm, I just wanted—”

  “Stop talking,” I say and she snaps her mouth shut. I should let her go on but I can’t stand to hear another word. I take a deep breath and rub my face, and my mind’s fractured in half, one part of me screaming that I need to kill her and do it fast before I lose my nerve, and the other half pleading for her life if only so I can keep listening to her honeyed words and gaze on that gorgeous, tight little body.

  A sick thrill runs down my spine and I walk away from her.

  “You’ll stay here tonight,” I say as I reach the door. “If you try to leave, I will personally hunt you down and put a bullet in your head. If I can’t find you, then my brother will, and I promise he’ll make it hurt much more than me. I’ll decide what to do with you in the morning.”

  She’s quiet as I turn the knob and open the door, but she doesn’t let me walk away and I wish she would.

  “Why are leaving me untied?” Her voice is tear-flecked and meek.

  I shake my head. “You have nowhere to go. You’d be stupid to try to get away, and I have a feeling you’re not stupid, Gracie. You’ll stay the night, and you’ll hope I’ve decided not to slit your throat over breakfast.”

  “Why are you doing this?” She’s whispering and I can barely hear her, but I don’t turn around and I don’t move closer, because I don’t trust myself right now. I’m not sure if I’m going to hurt her or kiss her and I don’t want to find out which.

  “Because I’m the kind of man that indulges his curiosity. Good night, Grace.”

  I step into the hallway and close the door behind me.

  This is a mistake. I know it as soon as I’m alone. I should go back in there and strangle her until there’s no light left in those green eyes of hers but I know I’m not going to do it, not now that I’ve stepped out of the room and left the moment behind. There’s no turning back.

  I hate her for drugging my brother. I despise her for joining my club and using me to get close to him. I loathe a liar and can’t stand anyone that would try to use me for their own personal gain, especially to do something that hurts my family.

  But I want her just as much and I can’t quite rectify these feelings.

  I’ll push them aside and wait to see if the morning brings clarity, even though I know it won’t, and I’ll only tangle myself deeper and deeper in the mystery of who Grace is and what the hell she really wants.

  Chapter 3

  Grace

  The first time I ever left West Virginia was three years ago to visit Riley’s apartment in LA. She lived on the edge of Hollywood in a rundown complex in this tiny studio that was barely more than a closet with a sink. I woke up snuggled in bed with her and remember clearly how she stretched and yawned and grinned at me and said, Get up, Gracie girl, we gotta go on an adventure. You haven’t seen a goddamn thing in this world but I’m gonna show you.

  That was the best week of my life, and in retrospect I should’ve known it—Riley took me all over LA, to dinners she probably couldn’t afford, to hiking in the foothills, to sitting on the beach, to drinking at a real bar with more beer options than just Miller or Coors.

  It was a world of grit and glamour, a world I never dreamed of, and Riley was the embodiment of it all, even if she was barely more than a struggling actress waitressing at a coffee shop to pay her bills between going out on auditions, and it didn’t matter that she barely had food on the table or a roof over her head, to me she was perfect.

  Get up, Gracie girl. I can still hear her voice in my head, the voice that constantly whispers in the dark whenever I close my eyes as I stare at the strange ceiling and curl my toes into the unfamiliar silky-soft sheets. Can’t stay in bed forever. Gotta live your life, right?

  “If you were still here, what would you do?” I whisper the words like Riley’s going to appear and answer, but that won’t ever happen and I know it, so I sit up and take stock.

  I roll out of bed, stretch, and wonder why the hell I’m still breathing. The room’s simply furnished with a bed, two nightstands, a bureau, a bathroom, and a small closet filled with spare linens. There aren’t any clothes in the drawers, unfortunately, so I’m stuck in my outfit from last night which feels extremely risky and leaves me basically naked, but it’s better that than nothing.

  Better get to it, girlie. I take a deep breath, walk to the door, open it up, and step into the hallway, and instantly the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits me like a drill bit to the forehead and I’m drawn to it like a zombie hungering for brains. I think of what Calvino said the night before: there’s nowhere for me to run, even if I wanted to try to escape, there’s nowhere to go and no amount of praying will keep me safe from a devil like him.

  I shuffle down the hall, and only in the light of day do I realize how nice the place is—all hardwood floors with paintings hanging on the walls, tasteful decorations, modern and clean, lots of earth tones. I knew he was rich—he owns a string of nightclubs, strip joints, and restaurants all over the East Coast, though I have a theory that half of them are fronts for his brother’s mafia, but I have no real proof of that—but I didn’t realize his money was quite so lavish.

  The main room is split between an upscale living area with a fireplace, a TV hung over the mantel, enormous floor-to-ceiling windows with a gorgeous view of downtown LA, and a gourmet kitchen, currently occupied by the man himself, wearing a pair of tapered black joggers that hug his finely toned lower body like dew on a leaf and a short-sleeved white shirt that shows off his muscles and the tattoos etched into his skin. I stare as he finishes cooking a stack of pancakes, pours himself a cup of coffee, and turns.

  He spots me standing there—and smiles.

  It’s the grin of a predator.

  I freeze and don’t know what to do. I feel so exposed like I’m standing outside in the middle of traffic completely naked, and even though my body’s covered, or at least the important bits are tucked away behind thin layers of fabric—I know nothing stands between him and me, and if he wants to take me, he can.

  I shiver at the idea as my nipples stiffen. I can’t tell if that’s fear or desire, or a combination of both.

  He puts his plate and mug down on the counter and gestures. “Coffee? Something to eat?”

  “Uh,” I say, because how the hell am I supposed to respond in a situation like this? I drugged his brother with sleeping pills and now he’s offering me pancakes like we just went on a really steamy Tinder date or something and this is nothing more than the walk of shame the morning after some hot sex.