Page 4 of Bound Vows
Andrei
Blood never lies, and watching Maya Mastroni paint a restaurant floor crimson tells me everything I need to know about the woman who just became my obsession.
I lean back in my leather chair, steepling my fingers as the security footage plays across multiple monitors in the study of my penthouse. The restaurant’s cameras captured every angle of tonight’s massacre, courtesy of my IT team’s impressive hacking skills. What started as routine surveillance of Italian family movements has evolved into something far more interesting.
Lorenzo Colombo’s cooperation came easier than expected once I showed him the photographs of his grandson leaving prep school every Tuesday for violin lessons. Amazing how quickly family patriarchs discover flexibility when their bloodline faces consequences. The old man thought he could play both sides, taking my money while maintaining his alliance with the Mastronis. His greed made him the perfect puppet for tonight’s performance.
Lorenzo wasn’t supposed to die in the crossfire. His death complicates things, but dead men can’t contradict whatever story emerges from tonight’s chaos. In some ways, his accidental martyrdom serves my purposes better than his planned survival would have.
Maya Mastroni moves like death itself, fluid, economical, and absolutely lethal. The way she transitions from smiling like a lady to slicing throats demonstrates a level of training that surpasses my intelligence reports. Those idiots I sent to eliminate Vincent Russo never stood a chance against her.
“Rewind it,” I command the empty room, and my voice recognition software instantly complies.
The footage begins again, and I study every frame with rapt attention. Maya’s blade work is poetry written in steel and bone. She doesn’t waste motion or energy, and each strike lands exactly where it needs to cause maximum damage. Professional killers spend years developing that kind of skill.
My men died quickly, which almost feels merciful considering the alternative Maya could have chosen. She’s capable of making death last hours instead of seconds; I can see it in the way she controls the blade, and in the surgical knowledge behind each cut.
The woman is magnificent.
“Freeze frame,” I say when the footage reaches the moment Maya retrieves her thrown knife.
Her face fills the central monitor, and I take inventory of features that I suspect will haunt me for the rest of my days. Midnight-dark hair falls in wild curls around olive skin, and those emerald eyes hold intelligence and cruelty in equalmeasure, while her full lips curve into the kind of smile that promises both pleasure and pain.
Judging by how she measures up against my men, Maya stands nearly six feet tall in her stilettos. Her body is a perfect combination of curves and lean muscle. The black dress she’s wearing reveals just enough to tantalize—the swell of her breasts, the length of her legs, and an ass that I’d love to feast off. She’s built like a weapon disguised as a work of art.
The beauty mark below her left eye catches my attention, and I zoom in until it fills the screen. Such a small detail, but it makes her face unforgettable. I’ve seen pictures and other videos of her in my reports, but seeing her like this…
I watch her clean her blade with the care most women reserve for jewelry, and heat builds low in my stomach. The way she handles steel should disgust me—those hands just ended three lives—but instead, I find myself imagining how they might feel against my skin.
My cock twitches when she licks blood from her thumb like it’s honey. Casual. Unbothered. Lethal.
She tastes death like wine, savoring it before moving on to more practical concerns. Most people would be horrified by such casual violence, but Maya treats killing like any other skill that requires maintenance and attention to detail.
Perfect.
I minimize the restaurant footage and pull up older surveillance files—months of tracking Maya Mastroni through the city’s underworld. She frequents high-end clubs where she dances alone, rejecting any man brave enough to approach. She shops at exclusive boutiques where sales associates treat her witha deference reserved for royalty. She visits museums and art galleries, studying paintings with the same focus she brings to studying her victims.
My favorite video shows Maya leaving her family’s compound after what intelligence suggests was a heated argument with her brother Max. She storms down the front steps wearing jeans and a leather jacket with her hair loose around her shoulders and fury radiating from every line of her body. When one of Max’s soldiers tries to follow her, she spins around and delivers a warning in rapid Italian that sends the man scurrying back inside.
Even angry, she’s breathtaking. No.Especiallyangry.
I replay that footage while unbuttoning my shirt. The memory of tonight’s restaurant massacre is still fresh in my mind. Maya’s violence was beautiful in its efficiency, and the contrast between her elegant appearance and deadly skills creates a hunger I’ve never experienced.
Years of conquest have taught me that anticipation enhances pleasure, but Maya Mastroni threatens to shatter my self-control. Watching her work tonight has awakened something primal that I’ve kept buried beneath layers of strategy and patience.
My hand moves to my belt as I imagine what might have happened if I’d been in that restaurant tonight instead of my expendable men. Would Maya have tried to kill me immediately, or would she have been curious enough to hear what I had to say? If I had known Vincent was bringing her along, I might have made an appearance.
The fantasy builds as I free my cock from the confines of my pants. Maya wouldn’t submit easily—that much is obvious from everything I’ve observed. She would want to take control, and that resistance would make claiming her even sweeter.
I stroke myself slowly while imagining Maya bound in this very room, her emerald eyes blazing with defiance even as her body responds to my touch. She would never beg, but I could make her want to. I could strip away every layer of control until nothing remained except pure, animalistic need.
The monitors send streaks of light across the walls while I work my hand along my length as Maya’s image inspires increasingly detailed fantasies. I picture her kneeling in front of me with her hands bound behind her and that defiant chin tilted upward as she glares through dark lashes.
“Look at me,” I would command, and she would have no choice but to obey.
In my fantasy, Maya wears nothing but that beauty mark and a collar inscribed with my name. Her dark hair spills over bare shoulders, and every breath makes her breasts rise and fall in a rhythm that matches my stroking hand.
I imagine threading my fingers through her wild curls, guiding her mouth to where I need it most. Her lips part, and once she tastes me, something changes. The fight doesn’t leave her eyes, but it transforms into something darker and more dangerous.
