Page 10 of Mafia Princess

Seeing her in that ridiculous t-shirt and how it showed off her intricate tattoo of Medusa on her upper thigh made my dick stand to attention and there went every last one of my resolutions. The icing on the cake was the fact I knew she’d been fucked by the Russo kid just minutes before our announcement. Worst of all I was insanely jealous and wished it were me that was balls deep in her.

It was at that moment I hated every inch of her. From her delicate up-turned nose to her slender ankles in her Louboutin’s. Ankles I pictured strapped into a spreader bar rendering her immobile.

Principessa needs a reality check, and I plan on giving it to her once we sign the dotted line. Rules be damned.

Joseph Capelli approaches me, his strides are purposeful, and the crease between his eyebrows as deep as the graves of his enemies. This man runs his faction with an iron fist, yet every last one of his subjects, from his consigliere down to his associates, all respect him. You can see their allegiance when they’re doing his dirty work. Not one soldier would hesitate to take a bullet for Joseph Capelli. My father, on the other hand, is foremost feared and only from this fear comes respect. He does not see any wrong in torturing and making the families of his enemies disappear as leverage to get what he wants.

“Evening.” I nod in greeting as the New York mobster halts a step away from me.

“Has Maya left?” He manages to hold in his disappointment.

“I called her driver. I think she was overwhelmed.” I place my hands in my pockets.

Joseph eyes me for a moment and scans the room. I spot his bodyguards and their back up lingering not too far from all the exits.

“Thank you. You’re a good man, Milan.” He holds out his hand.

I shake it in unspoken thanks. A thanks for plotting this stupid arrangement and fucking up my plans. But also, a thanks for gifting me a handful I cannot wait to sink my teeth into. “Not a problem at all.”

“I know this arrangement is not what you wanted. I can promise you that it will be well worth your patience.” He pulls out a cigar and lights it.

“Business is business. I’m well aware of the dealings of this life. I’m in this for the same reasons as you.” I stare at him, hoping he understands that I do not plan on falling in love with my bride to be. She is merely a pawn in this playground we like to call the mob world. Arranged marriages are not uncommon in our culture. Most get hitched for power and expanding their territory.

He speculates over my words, words I don’t like to throw around too carelessly but sometimes let slip.

“I do hope you and my daughter can come to some mutual agreement and be happy together in the future. I promised her I would look after her and I plan to keep my promise. Do I make myself clear?” He puffs out plumes of smoke around me.

I narrow my eyes at him. “With all due respect, Joseph, I do not plan on harming your daughter, but I do expect respect from her.” Once upon a time, I would have been shitting myself having this conversation with a mob boss. Now, the only person I am afraid of is myself and what I am capable of.

Our gazes catch, and he fires off a warning glare. “She is young and reckless. This phase will pass, Milan.”

“Oh, you can count on it,” I smirk back at him.

His glare strikes me like a little kitten would swipe at a ball. All claws out but no real connection. He doesn’t speak another word to me, and I watch him turn on his Italian leather shoes and stride out of the building with his guards trailing behind. I decide to follow his lead and get the fuck out of here.

The valet has my jet-black Ferrari Roma parked just outside the entrance. I like my cars smooth, sleek, and fast, just like I like my women. Settling down and playing married life has never been in my cards; I like to change women as I change my moods. I climb into my car and pull the door closed. I slam my head against the seat rest a few times and let out a growl of frustration. This entire evening has been nothing but a shit show. From the attendance of that little prick, Enzo, to the ill practiced announcement of my soon to be engagement.

I fire up the Roma and she purrs alive; the tone of her rumble soothes my soul. I take off into the wet New York traffic and itch to hit the open highway to let my frustrations out.

A call comes through the stereo and I press the answer button. “What’s up?”

My trusty soldier, Christopher, replies, “Boss, she is heading to Providence. Do you want us to follow her all the way there?”

“Leave it for tonight. I don’t need those pricks getting wind that we’re in their territory. Thanks anyway.”

“Got it.” He ends the line.

My skin flares in irritation. I know she’s not mine…yet. But it still pisses me off that she is doing whatever she pleases. I squeeze my hands around the steering wheel as my anger gets the better of me.

I pull up out the front of my gated and heavily armed French-inspired estate, one nestled on the Navesink River and, kitted out with everything a bachelor could ask for. The gates open immediately, and I slink through the darkness and park the Roma in my ten-car garage.

Heading into the house, I sense that I’m not alone, I can hear the faint echo of music coming from the library. I scratch the back of my neck in frustration as realization washes over me, that I’m about to greet my unwanted guest.

I stride into the room and spot Amara lounging on the three-seater, dressed in the choker and black leather corset I bought her. She looks up from her phone as I stand over her, her eyes lighting up.

“You need to leave.” I stare down at her.

She sits up in confusion. “What?”

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