Page 1 of Stranded with My Mafia Boss

Damien

The model laysprawled across my bed, toned limbs askew and golden hair fanned out around her head like a halo.

I couldn't remember her name. It was something ridiculous, like Wolf or Panther or Rabbit. She had a nice figure, slender with large man-made tits, but her conversation bored me to absolute fucking tears.

On the plus side, she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. A task I might set her to again if she didn’t shut the fuck up.

Rabbit got up and put a robe on. I had insisted she be clothed outside of the bedroom. While my bodyguards might've enjoyed the show, I had my limits. Even if this woman was mine for only a few hours, she was still mine alone for that time.

"Daaamien," she whined, drawing out each syllable of my name. The sound grated at my nerves, but it was second nature to keep the irritation from my face. "I'm dying for a cup of real coffee. A proper one, not that rubbish your bodyguard made."

I waved a hand in the general direction of the door, eager to be rid of her inane blather. "There's a grinder and coffee pot in the kitchen. Help yourself."

She pouted, sticking out her collagen-enhanced bottom lip. "I only drink fresh roasted Finca El Injerto coffee. My staff picks it up from the farm in Guatemala. It's the only kind worth drinking."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. An idea began to form in my mind, a way to speed up this entire tedious process. I reached for my phone on the bedside table, scrolling through my contacts until I found my PA's number.

She picked up on the second ring. "Mr. Santini? How may I help you?" Katie’s voice was brisk and professional, as always. It was a nice picture, imagining her sitting ramrod straight behind her desk, red hair tucked in a bun, a faintly nervous gleam in her eye.

She’d been an accountant before she’d discovered illegal transactions in one of my shell companies, and instead of simply having her killed, I’d made her my personal assistant. My actions had made my cousin, the don of the Montrelli family, comment that I’d gotten soft in my old age.

The day I let his opinion dictate my actions would be a cold one in hell, indeed. Which reminded me. I needed to send a new phone to his daughter Bria. It had been long enough her old one would have had spyware installed in it while she wasn’t looking.

I preferred my conversations with my favorite niece to be unmonitored.

"Miss Jones, I have two urgent errands for you. First, send a new smartphone to Bria Montrelli, by the usual drop location. Then I need you to fly to Guatemala immediately after to pick up a few pounds of fresh roasted Finca El Injerto coffee and then bring it straight to my cabin in Aspen." I kept my tone serious, hiding my amusement at the ridiculousness of the request.

There was a beat of silence and then, "I apologize sir, but that doesn't seem feasible. It’s Friday and I’m on vacation for Christmas all next week. I can have them ship—"

"This is not a request. I expect you on a plane to Guatemala and back to my cabin by this evening. Use the private jet. Do I make myself clear?"

She hesitated for only a moment. "Yes, perfectly clear. I will make the arrangements immediately." The line went dead as she hung up. The days of slamming the receiver down were over, but I sensed the intent.

I turned back to the supermodel, scrutinizing her body. "You're in luck. My assistant is off to get your coffee. In the meantime, why don't you show some appreciation?"

The model, Foxx, oh yes, that was her name, widened her eyes as some emotion managed to work its way through her brain. Maybe fear, maybe greed, I neither knew nor cared.

She didn’t protest, and I gave her credit for how gracefully she fell to her knees. My cock in her mouth let her showcase her talents. With her tongue swirling and her fingers caressing my balls, I should have come faster, but I was oddly dissatisfied. Gazing down, I imagined her hair red.

There we were. Hands in her hair, I thrust hard, eyes closed. Yes, red hair, curves…I spurted hard and fast into Foxx’s mouth.

Foxx was coughing. She’d gagged toward the end, not that it had slowed me down, and I patted her ass when she got up. "That was great. Foxx. Not gonna lie."

Greed shone in her eyes. I’d have to give her the diamond necklace I’d picked up to pay her with early, just to help boot her out of the cabin.

I didn’t really want her, after all.

When we headed downstairs for lunch, I took Alex aside. One of my bodyguards, he was also plugged into the social scene and could deliver what I needed: Foxx gone in a plausible fashion, rather than kicking her out.

"Get Foxx an invite to Richard McCord’s Christmas party in L.A. I want her out of here by this evening."

Rich McCord, a business acquaintance of mine, had his latest divorce finalized a week ago and he was looking for hookups. Foxx was on the prowl to marry a rich man, so she’d jump for the opportunity, especially since I’d made it plain that I had no intention of becoming her meal ticket.

Alex nodded and retreated with his phone. My other bodyguard, Rico, pulled out salad greens and leftover roast chicken from the fridge.

"Just salad for me, no dressing," said Foxx.

About halfway through lunch, Foxx's phone pinged, and her blue eyes rounded when she read the text.

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