Page 14 of Mafia King: Matteo
I drift off to sleep with the memory of her arched back and screams of ecstasy as she squirted on my cock. It still turns me on, and my cock hardens at the thought. I can’t wait to see her again.
I awake in the morning to noises from the kitchen and the strong smell of coffee. I pull on a pair of joggers and a T-shirt and walk barefoot downstairs.
Walking into the kitchen with its white walls and blue accents, I see a familiar, tall, thin Italian. “Federico!” I exclaim. He’s an incredible chef, and more importantly, I trust him. He also helps as a butler and takes care of the house. He’s indispensable to a man who works too much to maintain a house this size.
“Mr. Borrelli, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I slept like a baby on your jet.” He gives me a warm smile as he turns on the espresso machine. “Thank you for bringing me with you.”
“You know me and my routine. Besides, I don’t have time to eat at the restaurant daily. I work late most nights. I love pasta, but occasionally, I crave a thick ribeye steak cooked medium-rare, of course. I don’t have to tell you that overcooking meat ruins it.”
“That it does. Please have a seat. I made hard-boiled eggs, buttered toast, and Italian bacon,” he says, setting my breakfast on a table overlooking the massive lawn covered with snow.
In the middle of the spacious kitchen, pots and pans with copper bottoms hang from a wooden rack. He uses these to prepare five-star meals.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Otherwise, I’d starve.” I cracked the egg and slid the shell off easily. I cut the eggs in half and drizzle olive oil over them before I add a dash of salt and pepper. I take a bite, close my eyes, and savor the flavor.
“I’m glad you like it,” he replies, setting a cup of hot espresso beside my plate.
These are expensive comforts that compensate for my limited social life. I try to avoid the requisite social events where some elected official is always holding out a hand for a campaign contribution. It’s an old boys’ club if I ever saw one.
Here, I thought Italy had the lock on keeping women out of business and politics. We have rules over a hundred years old designed to keep wives at home. These same rules are often used in divorces to screw wives out of money.
I’ve learned that despite increased legislation for women’s rights, women in Italy had more power before gaining the vote. It makes no sense. Men still earn more than women for the same work, and women who know how to play the game are rewarded with pay increases that aren’t legal in government jobs meant to keep everyone equal.
Graft is everywhere. After years of experience in my father’s operation, I’ve concluded that state government and big businesses are more corrupt than the mafia. At least I come at my enemies head-on. I’m too honest and direct for my own good. I need to finesse more and talk less. Politics is politicking, whether it’s in government or big business. Everyone in these circles understands the main rule for survival is to take what you want or die slowly.
The competition today is unlike anything we’ve seen before.
Right now, I have no idea who will attempt to usurp my position. If I’m to survive, I have to be more devious than my enemy. If my enemy is one or more of my uncles, they will go behind my back to undermine me and create dissension in the ranks.
Takeovers are never done single-handedly. No, power has to be taken, and their subordinates will support them. The question is, who wants me dead?
CHAPTER 6
ALENA
I wake up, and my first thought is about Mr. Grey.
Who is that sexy man who made my toes curl?
I curse him as I’m suffering from an orgasm hangover. My libido wants more, and my pussy is damp just thinking about him and the way he played my body like a fiddle last night.
I don’t know the name of the man who gave me the greatest fuck of my life. He’s handsome with a chiseled chin and eyes as dark as melted chocolate in a lava cake. I stand and pick up the bustier off my bedroom floor. I lift it to my nose and smell a cigar. It’s not an ordinary cigar, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from a man with expensive clothes and an Italian accent. I sniff my clothing again to pinpoint the odor. A light bulb goes off.
It’s cognac.
He likes tobacco leaves dipped in cognac and rolled into a cigar. I’ve been around enough cigars to know these are special.
I didn’t recognize him, but I’m not shocked in a city with millions of people. I know most of the elite in the city who travel in our circles, but they have Russian accents or are Americans. The man has an Italian accent that occasionally surfaces when he speaks English. Italian is his first language, but his English is perfect. I love men with accents. I wonder why our paths haven’t crossed before.
I pick up the rest of my outfit and dump it in the hamper for the laundromat. I enjoy a long, hot shower. Damn it. I’m horny. As hot water pounds my shoulders, I run my hands over my breasts and grab myself. I think of his sultry eyes and deep-throated voice when he ordered me to turn over.
Fuck it was hot. He’s hot.
I grab the shower head that is affixed to the wall, lift it, and hold it to spray water over my breasts. I slide two fingers over my clit and circle them over and over until my clit hardens. Oh, fuck me. I move my hips ever so slightly. I feel the beginning of an orgasm. I shudder, and tingling sensations run up my back as I come. Placing my hand on the shower wall to maintain balance, I gasp as thoughts of him make me come again. My legs are weak.
After I rinse off and step out of the shower, I grab a rolled towel off the rack. I dry myself off and wrap the towel around my waist before I stand in front of the granite vanity. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I glow. It’s that after-sex glow. I’m sure it’s from last night. Sex toys are great, but they aren’t a substitution, especially when he has a massive dick and knows how to use it. The way he took me so completely makes me want to break the house rules.
But how will I find him?
