Page 5 of Claimed By the Mobster
I’m brutal with my poor aching dick, which doesn’t know what it’s done wrong and can’t help but respond to her more than any other woman. It’s bordering on pain, sharp and rough, when I spurt the evidence of my desire over the tiles.
Each week I wash it away and say I shouldn’t do this again. That I should send her to a hotel, or at least not make myself come with her name on my lips.
It’s a lie. Just one more bad action I’ve taken. Desperately lusting after this slip of a girl, too perfect, young, and innocent for me.
My son’s ex-girlfriend.
Fuck.
And the absolute worst thing?
There was a time, not so long ago, that I looked at her with utter indifference. I barely noticed her and I don’t think Tom saw her as a woman either. When I gave Tom “the talk”, he blushed furiously and confessed they’d never even kissed. Obviously I didn’t point out to my closeted son that wasn’t normal. I just told him I loved him and he could tell me anything.
I had forgotten all about Anwyn until she turned up that night.
A good man would wish that had never changed and I’d never opened my eyes six months ago and seen Anwyn. So sweet and ripe, I wanted her the same moment her eyes met mine. I was putty in her hands.
I am a bad man. Because I don’t want to go back.
Sunday is typically awful, and I throw myself into work. As the sun sets, red and purple through the window, I stretch out my fingers and sigh. Six long days until I see her again.
I work late, then collapse into bed, mercifully too exhausted to do anything but drag covers over me and fall asleep in the coal-black darkness.
The shrill ring of my phone wakes me. Dread wipes away sleep instantly. My people don’t call me in the middle of the night about nothing.
The screen shows my most-trusted lieutenant, my second-in-command. He accompanied Anwyn home this morning, always does.
“She’s in danger.”
Adrenaline floods me.
“Why?” I snap. I don’t ask who. We both know who. There is only oneshewho justifies waking me.
“We can’t be sure. I just got a tip-off. A message came through the website for the shell company that sells garden furniture saying there was a hit out from the Bratva on Anne. Tonight. No more details than that.”
“You think it’s her? And real?” Anwyn isn’t Anne. But neither do we have anyone called Anne associated with the company.
George hesitates. “It could be totally coincidental. It could be a spurious report, or common nonsense. But…”
“I can’t take the chance.”
Anger takes over. The arsehole Bratva mafia have been a thorn in my side for years now. The mafia boss is a nasty piece of work, barely restrained by his younger brother Artem and has been causing problems for my people that we’ve been constantly having to fire-fight. I accept that. Comes with the role of being the mafia everyone knows the name of in London. Westminster is the authority, making the laws and ensuring trouble is dissolved in a vat of acid. We set the example of appearing faultless, while using power to make more money than almost any other mafia in London.
The Bratva are the opposite. Uncouth, rich but brash, and with no interest in protecting those within his territory. I hated but tolerated them before.
But if they’ve touched my girl?
They’ll wish for death when I’m done.
“Get a car ready. No need to wake anyone else, I’ll deal with this.”
I hang up and throw on clothes. I don’t allow myself to acknowledge the fear that I might be too late. I can’t be. I will be there for Anwyn.I must. I’ll murder any and every person who gets in the way.
I’m a bad, ruthless man, but the head of the Bratva is an evil bastard. If there is even a two per cent chance they’re after my girl, I’m going over there in person. And I will rip the limbs off anyone who threatens her with my bare hands.
Despite my order, my second-in-command gives me a sharp look when I arrive in the armoury. George is plucking ammunition from a box and loading it into a pistol that he shoves at me without looking.
“Sure this is a good idea boss?” he asks without inflection.
