Page 2 of His to Possess

Sure, it wasn’t the greatest childhood, but I survived. And I’m damn proud of myself for making it when I had nothing and no one to support me. Everything I’ve achieved has resulted from my hard work. No one ever handed me anything or cut me abreak. It wasn’t always easy, but it made me the strong woman I am today and I wouldn’t change that for the world.

If I could change anything, though, it would be the encroaching loneliness that’s beginning to suck at my heart and soul. Some days, more often than not, it’s become suffocating. Maybe I should check out some online groups or even a dating website. But, the idea of putting myself out there is kind of terrifying. I can take down a six-foot man oozing muscles without batting a lash, but put me in a room full of strangers and expect me to socialize and I get hives.

Maybe I’m just destined to be a loner. Weird, isolated, friendless virgin, Blake Serrano. Yep, that’s me.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Blake,” I scold myself out loud. “You’re the best bounty hunter in this city.”

Sitting up, I tap the screen and accept the job, more out of boredom than anything else. Also, I don’t wait to face another long day of sitting on the couch and mindlessly binge-watching some show on a streaming platform. I need to get my ass out of the house. I need to go out and do what I do best.

Sure, the pay is a little less than I normally accept, but the job sounds ridiculously easy. A cake walk. It’s definitely not going to take me longer than a couple of hours to figure out the best way to grab the target and I plan to have this Grady character delivered by tonight. Easy peasy.

Or, so I think. What is that saying about the best laid plans? Oh, yeah—they often go awry. And I’m about to find that out tenfold.

Jumping out of bed, I figure I may as well get up despite the ungodly early hour. I’ve never been able to sleep very well, but that’s probably due to always having to sleep with one eye openwhile growing up. Whether I was in a foster home or living on the street, which I did briefly, there was always someone lurking, watching, waiting to strike when I was at my most vulnerable. And, sure, I can sleep easy in my own bed now, but remaining vigilant is a hard habit to break. Also, when I close my eyes…well, that’s when the nightmares come.

I pad over to the small bathroom, strip off the silky negligee and turn the shower on. It’s going to be another humid day, so hopping in under the cool spray feels divine. As I smother my loofah with my favorite lavender shower gel, my mind inevitably wanders to the one thing I keep thinking about more and more these days. If I decide to put myself out there and start dating, how the hell am I ever going to be able to explain what I do? That’s one of the first questions that would come up on a first date, I’d imagine. It seems like such an innocent query and, for most people, I’m sure it is. I’m fairly certain that most people have an easy answer all prepared—a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, a student, a truck driver, a waitress…

But for me? Not so much.

I can just picture myself sitting across from some good looking guy, delving into my salad, and telling him I’m a bounty hunter.

“Excuse me,” he’d say.

“You heard me. I am a renowned bounty hunter who tracks down assholes and brings them to justice with a little help from my trusty stun gun. Which I always carry.”

That would pretty much do it. His eyes would get comically large, the fork halfway to his mouth would stop, and I can guarantee there wouldn’t be a second date. I know thealternative is to lie, but starting a relationship based on lies isn’t the kind of relationship I want.

I want and need a man who can accept me for who I am, what I’ve been through, and not feel threatened. But does a guy like that even exist? I seriously doubt it.

Reaching for the shampoo bottle, I squeeze a generous amount into my hand and begin washing my long, dark locks. This leads me to ponder my second problem—being a twenty-seven year old virgin. I mean, I have a couple of toys and my hymen hasn’t been intact for a very long time. But how can a toy compare to the hard, muscled warmth of a male body? Countless times, I’ve imagined and fantasized what it would be like to have that heavy weight of a man on top of me. How much I’d like to wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and kiss him deeply. And the moment our bodies came together…it would be pure ecstacy.

With a huge sigh, I rinse off, shut the water off and grab a towel.

“You’re living in a dream world,” I grumble to myself.Forget imaginary men who don’t exist.It’s time to go to work and figure out the best course of action to catch my target.

I’m not worried, though. Not in the least. This should be an easy job and I’m not overly concerned about John Grady.

In hindsight, I realize I’d become too arrogant, too self-assured and much too comfortable.

However, the rug is about to be pulled out from beneath my feet and my stable, boring, virginal world is about to get flipped upside down in every possible way.

2

ANGELO

Wiping the sweat off my brow, I keep my eyes on the ball bouncing all over the damn place and then slam it with my racquetball. Carlotta and I have been meeting up once a week at a nearby sports club and she talked me into trying racquetball. At first I had my doubts, but I can’t resist a good challenge. Besides, I’m a quick learner, athletically-inclined and, after our first game, I was hooked.

I think I wasn’t convinced right away because I thought it was something just the old-timers played, but I quickly found out that I was wrong. My little sister informed me that playing racquetball burns six-hundred to eight-hundred calories per hour, making it an excellent workout for losing weight and building muscle. It also improves cardiovascular health and is similar to running two miles in terms of fitness benefits. Needless to say, the fitness junkie in me was intrigued. Now, I can’t get enough of it. Plus, it’s dangerous as hell, dodging that ball. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten walloped by it—on the head, on my side, on my leg. It stings like a bitch, too.

Carlotta hits the ball and it flies into the wall, bounces back and I slam it hard with a grunt. I can be super competitive and I’m always up for a challenge. While my older brothers channel their energy into work, making money and dealing with our winery and the Five Families drama, I much prefer physical activity. Although, ever since Miceli, my oldest brother, took over a power position at the table, I have been attending meetings of the local mafia families.

But, personally? I’d rather be here, sweating my ass off in some kind of workout or flying my helicopter or charming a beautiful woman. I excel at those three things. So much so that lately I’ve started questioning if I should expand my horizons a little. I mean, I love my life, but despite traveling all over the world and embracing my playboy persona, I’ve been feeling a little…I don’t know, lost lately. I guess that’s the best way to describe it. My three older brothers have fallen in love, gotten married and all have babies. Trust me, I’m in no hurry to get married and have kids, but at the same time…there’s no denying how happy they all are and it makes me wonder if I’m missing out. Or, maybe I’m just feeling a little left out and on the fringes because now we have less in common than we used to.

That has to be it. I’ve always liked feeling a part of things. It’s great being an uncle—being the cool uncle—but what about myself? Lately, I’ve started wondering if a wife and fatherhood is in the cards for me at all. Up until recently, I would’ve laughed and said no way. Now, however, after seeing how deliriously happy Miceli, Vincentius and Enzo are, how can I not be curious?

There’s no rush,I tell myself. I’m only twenty-eight and wouldn’t know what the hell to do with a baby, anyway. Although, my brothers had all been the exact same way before fatherhood.They didn’t know how to change a diaper to save their lives. And now? Hell, they could all win Dad of the Year.

We’re at the end of our third set and I can’t keep my mind on the game. Carlotta serves and I take off, but the damn ball bounces twice before I can reach it. She lets out a triumphant cry and I smirk.

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