Mafia Prize

Chapter 3

3

H e tugs me out the door and down a dark corridor. I follow mutely, my palms damp with sweat. Antonio’s warning rings in my ear. Your father is playing a dangerous game. Stop him before it’s too late. “You know your way around Casanova.”

“Are you asking me if I come here often?” He rolls his eyes. “The manager of the club, Liam, is an old friend.” He pulls me into a small, sparsely furnished room. The walls are painted a lush purple, and gilded sconces emit golden light. It would be a nice space if you could ignore the whips and chains that hang from hooks on the walls and the fact that the only place to sit is on a bench that is clearly designed for bondage.

A shiver of pure lust runs through me.

I’ve fantasized about Andrei from afar for a long time now. When I was twenty-two, I thought we’d be married. I would lie in bed, scrolling through pictures of him on social media, and wonder what he was like in person, this Russian bratva prince with a hard face and harder eyes. Then, the negotiations between our families fell apart, and with it, my fantasies.

Three years ago, when Antonio Moretti invited me to his poker game, I wasn’t expecting to see Andrei Sidorov among the guests. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to react. The Caruso family was at war with the Sidorov, but the poker game was neutral ground, a hallowed space carved away from time and reality. I settled for a chilly politeness, and Andrei reciprocated with impeccable courtesy.

And now we’re in a very small room together, and I’m very, very aware that this is the first time I’ve been alone with Andrei.

I wrap my arms around my chest. “What was Antonio talking about?” I ask. “Ciro, too. They both know something that concerns me. Something my father did or is doing. What is it?”

There’s no reason Andrei should answer my question. In our world, information is power, greedily acquired and carefully hoarded. And I have nothing to trade for the knowledge I seek.

“Four years ago, the Saturnia went down off the coast of Bari.”

“I remember. You sank it.”

“No. Your father loudly and publicly proclaimed that the Sidorov Bratva was responsible, but we had nothing to do with it.” His expression turns serious. “Your father did it, Mira. He hired a team to steal the cocaine, kill the crew of the Saturnia , and sink the ship.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “No.”

“Yes,” he replies. “I’m afraid there’s proof of his involvement. Your father tried to take out the team he hired so word couldn’t get out, but he wasn’t entirely successful. Giovanni Castella lost a son on the Saturnia. He’s intent on discovering what really happened, and it’s not about money for him; it’s personal. When he succeeds, and he will succeed, your father will be killed for his betrayal.”

I sink onto the bench in shock. I wish I could protest that my father would never do something as dishonorable as steal from an ally, but I can’t. Aldo Caruso would break whatever code necessary if he thought he could get away with it.

And by his actions, he’s signed his own death warrant.

“Thank you for telling me.” I need to take steps to protect myself and my sister from the fallout. A difficult task, but not an impossible one. Thanks to Andrei’s warning, I have time to do what’s necessary. “I owe you a debt.”

“No, Mirabella,” he says, and once again, there’s a caress in his voice. “I offered you the information freely. You owe me nothing.” His voice turns strained. “You should get up from that bench.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t, I might be tempted to tie you down.”

For a moment, I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly. Then his words register, and a thrill shoots through me. Andrei Sidorov wants me.

Our families hate each other, and no matter what happens with my father, that won’t change. Even if the proof of his betrayal comes to light, my uncles will insist that Vadik Sidorov planted the evidence to hide his own culpability.

But that’s the outside world. Inside Casanova, inside this room, none of that matters. Because Andrei Sidorov is staring at me with hot lust in his eyes, and I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want this forbidden bratva prince.

“If you do,” I whisper, “I might like it.”

He crosses the room in two long strides, and then he’s right next to me, his presence overpowering my senses. My body trembles in painful anticipation as he places a finger on my chin and tilts my face upward. Our gazes collide. “Be sure,” he says, low and dangerous. “Be very, very sure.”

I’ve been intimately acquainted with danger all my life. But it’s never felt like this, this sharp, restless, violent urge. I want to break out of my gilded cage. I want to shout and scream and rage. I want him to tie me up and fuck my mouth and my pussy and my ass.

“I’m sure.”

He presses his thumb on my lower lip, and my mouth falls open. He shoves two fingers inside. “Will you wrap your pretty little lips around my cock, Mira?” he asks, pushing them deeper down my throat until I start to gag. “Will you smear your red lipstick all over my length? Will your mascara run as I fuck your throat? Will you cry pretty tears and beg me to stop hurting you?”

My pulse starts to race. I should be alarmed. I’m not. A rush of heat floods my body, a shot of pure arousal that goes straight to my core. “I know a bluff when I hear it.”

“Do you?” He pulls a tissue from a conveniently placed box and wipes his fingers clean. “But you’re right. I am bluffing. This is a bad idea. You’re a virgin. Your first time should be on a soft bed somewhere, with candles, rose petals, and romantic music.”

“I’m not a virgin,” I retort. “You thought I’d follow my father’s edict? For what? So that Aldo Caruso could auction off his pure, chaste daughter to the highest bidder? My first time was in the back of a car with an American tourist who was leaving town the next day. It was hurried, rushed, and if I’m being honest, not very good, but it was mine. Freely chosen, and for my own happiness, not for the good of my family.” And a shameful part of me was picturing Andrei when it happened. Pretending it was him in that car. I kick off my heels. “This would be the same.”

There’s an expression in his eyes I don’t know how to interpret. It looks like admiration, but that can’t be it. That’s just wishful thinking. “Hurried, rushed, and not very good?” he says, with a wry twist of his lips. “You flatter me.”

“Freely chosen,” I counter. “And for my own happiness. Just one night, but for me alone.”

“Not for you alone, lisichka.” He pulls me to him, my back pressed against his chest as he kisses my neck. “Tell me what you want.”

I could count on one hand the number of people who ask me what I want. A sad truth of my life. “You go first.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want to tie you to that bench and feast on your sweet little cunt.”

A shiver of pure lust runs through me. “I want that too.” I swallow back my nerves. This isn’t some young and eager tourist; this isn’t a hasty fuck in the back seat of the car. I’m in a sex club with Andrei Sidorov. A man who, by all rights, should be my enemy. A man that I know everything and nothing about.

A man who sets my body on fire with one touch.

“I want to suck your cock.” It’s good that I can’t see his face, otherwise I might never get the courage to continue. “I don’t want you to be gentle. I want you to ravage me.”

He growls deep in his throat. “It’s not a good idea to say these words to a man like me, lisichka. It’s not a good idea to offer me everything because I might take it. ”

I pull away from him, and he lets me go. I turn around, facing him, and slowly unzip my dress, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of fabric. Underneath, I’m wearing a red lace bra that leaves very little to the imagination and a skimpy red lace G-string.

He inhales sharply. His eyes sweep over me, and I feel his gaze like a touch. “Here are your safewords,” he says. “Red if you want me to stop. Yellow, if you want me to slow down and check-in. Got it?”

I nod.

“I need your words, Mira.”

“Red to stop.” His gaze is on me, predatory and possessive, and I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe. The very air around me seems electrified. “Yellow to slow down. I’m not an idiot. I’ve got it.”

He moves. In an instant, he’s onto me, pushing me against the wall. He cages me in with his body, pinning my wrists over my head with one hand and wrapping the other around my throat. “Is this how you dress for a poker game?” he demands, pushing a knee between my legs. “Who was this for? Moretti? Del Barba? Guerra?”

My heart jolts, and my pulse pounds. “You forgot Dante, Gabriel, and Lola,” I taunt. “Maybe it was for one of them.” It’s probably unwise to push Andrei, but I can’t make myself stop. There’s a predatory gleam in his eyes, and I love it. “Or maybe I dress to please myself, not some man.”

He takes in my pebbled nipples and the goosebumps on my skin. “Or maybe,” he suggests silkily, “you dressed this way for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He gives me a maddening half-smile. “Let’s find out.” He lets go of my throat and slides his hand down my body as if it belongs there. He pushes my panties aside and thrusts his fingers into my pussy. Then he laughs, soft and knowing. “You’re drenched, Mira. Your words might be telling me one thing, but your body is sending me a very different message.” He licks my juices off his fingers, slowly and deliberately, and then he lifts me up as if I weigh nothing and sets me down on the bench. “Delicious.”

He unhooks my bra, yanks my panties down my hips, and proceeds to tie me down as promised, swiftly and efficiently. Cuffs lock around my wrists and ankles and attach to the legs of the bench. Thick leather straps go around my waist and hips, holding me in place. When Andrei’s done, I’m spread-eagled on the bench, unable to move.

“And now,” he says, rich, male satisfaction saturating his voice. “I feast.”

He squeezes my aching breasts and rolls my nipples between his fingers. I inhale sharply. “Harder,” I beg. “Please.”

“Did I give you permission to talk?” he demands.

“I wasn’t aware I needed it,” I respond snarkily.

That’s a mistake. Andrei’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Open your mouth,” he orders. He wads up my panties into a makeshift gag and shoves them into my mouth. “Perhaps that’ll remind you to speak only when spoken to, Mirabella.”

A gush of wetness greets his words. Oh God. I’ve always known that kink got me off, and I’ve fantasized about Andrei dominating me from the day my father called me into his study and told me he was arranging my marriage to the heir of the Sidorov Bratva.

But this is better than my fantasies. Outside this room, Andrei is polite, courteous, and impeccably well-mannered. Here? Here, he’s demanding and cruel and a little scary. Call me insane, but it’s the biggest turn-on in the world.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yes,” I mumble around the fabric. The advantage of my barely-there panties is that the gag doesn’t stop me from speaking; it’s just a reminder I’m not supposed to. If I need to, I can still safeword.

“Good.” He strokes my neck and surveys me with hot eyes. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes.” He squeezes my nipples between his fingers and slaps my breasts, and I moan in response. I asked to be ravaged, and that’s what I’m getting, and it’s so good. So shockingly good. “I was about to do this.”

He kneels in front of me, his fingers parting my folds. He stares at my naked pussy long enough that I squirm with embarrassment, something that earns me a hard slap on my thigh. Then he dips his head and licks me. “So fucking wet,” he growls. “So wet, and we’ve only just started.” He looks up at me. “You’re allowed to scream.”

That’s awfully cocky of you, I want to respond. And then he bends his head to my pussy again, and I realize that he might be cocky, but he’s got reason to be. His tongue circles my swollen clit before sucking it between his teeth. He thrusts one finger inside my slick wetness and quickly adds another. Hot arousal knifes through me as he fucks me with his fingers, hard enough to make me gasp.

A haze of lust envelops me. Andrei’s mouth plunders my pussy, his tongue dancing over my clit, his fingers slamming deep inside of me. My muscles tremble and quiver as my orgasm hurtles toward me, an impossible storm that threatens to tear me apart. “Andrei, please,” I moan through the gag, my words garbled. It’s too much, and I can’t bear it. I try to clamp my legs together, but the cuffs hold me open for him. “I can’t.” I shiver and shake, every nerve ending in my body on fire.

“Yes, you can.” He adds a third finger, and the painful stretch is the push that sends me over the edge. Shock waves hurtle up my spine, and I explode with a scream.

He doesn’t let up. He keeps fucking me with his fingers, hard, bruising thrusts that unlock something raw and primal in me. My muscles clamp down on him as I shudder and shiver to another climax.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He keeps licking me until I can’t bear it. Until his touch feels more painful than pleasurable. “Yellow,” I cry out.

He pulls his mouth and fingers off me at once and removes my panties from my mouth. “Too much?”

“I can’t come anymore.” I take a deep breath to calm myself. “I’m too sensitive.”

“You want to stop?” He strokes my arm, his touch light. “Should I untie you?”

I shake my head. “No.” I can see the outline of his erection straining against his trousers, and it sends a burst of fresh heat through me. “I want to suck your cock.”

A dangerous light glitters in his eyes. “If you want something, lisichka,” he says warningly, “you should ask nicely.” He grips my breasts roughly and bites down on my nipples, hard enough to make me gasp. I have to grit my teeth to keep from begging for more.

“Please, may I suck your cock, Andrei?”

“Better.” He unbuckles his belt and unzips his trousers. His cock jumps out, long, thick, and hard, and I swallow in consternation. Andrei’s exceedingly well-endowed. There’s no way he’s going to fit.

And I have no time to freak out about it because he’s pressing his head against my lips. I open my mouth and take him in, and he throws his head back with a groan. “Oh, fuck yes,” he grits out. “Take it all the way; that’s my good girl.”

The ragged edge in his voice sends a thrill through me. I open wider, and he slides in, hitting the back of my throat. He pulls out and pushes in again, going a little deeper this time, and tied down as I am, there’s not a thing I can do to stop it.

Not that I want to. I asked Andrei to ravage me. I told him not to take it easy on me. This is exactly what I want, who I want.

“Ah, lisichka,” he groans. His hand cups my cheek possessively, and he holds my gaze in his. His eyes are hot, his breathing uneven. “You make me come undone.”

He thrusts into my mouth again. His hands play with my nipples and my clit, and I sob my pleasure around his thick shaft. He’s fucking my face now, his strokes deep and urgent. Tears leak from my eyes, and drool falls from my mouth. It’s dirty and hot, raw and perfect.

“If you don’t want to swallow,” he says, sounding like he’s hanging onto control by the thinnest thread, “Now’s the time to say something.” He pulls out my mouth so I can speak, but I keep defiantly silent. His eyes flare with heat, and his lips curve into a twisted smile. “Such a good girl, Mirabella,” he says. “So deliciously proper on the outside, but inside, so wonderfully kinky.”

He thrusts again and erupts in my mouth. I swallow his cum, feeling oddly wistful as I do so. That was. . . that was everything I thought sex could be and more.

And it was with a man I can never be with.

“Untie me?”

He does. I don’t meet his eyes as I get to my feet and stretch the slight stiffness away. “Mirabella,” he says, that damn caress in his voice again. “Talk to me, lisichka. If you regret this?—”

“I don’t.” If I’m to keep the fallout from my father’s betrayal from taking down my entire family, my attention cannot be on sex. It must be on more weighty matters.

This hour with Andrei Sidorov has been the best hour of my life, but the bratva prince is dangerous to my peace of mind. I reach for my bra and put it on. I look around for my panties, but they are nowhere to be seen, so I give up and slip the dress over my shoulders. “This was a one-time thing, Andrei. We both know there’s no future here. The Caruso and Sidorov families are at war, and as you said yourself, you enjoy playing the field too much for anything else.”

He doesn’t respond for a long moment, and then he shrugs, an elegant movement of his shoulders. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I’m Russian. Sex makes me sentimental.” He gets dressed, too, which, in his case, just involves zipping up his pants and buckling his belt. He kisses my cheek. “Until next year, Mira.”