Page 51 of Murder & Mayhem

I drown in everything that’s Cain. In his leather and whiskey scent. In the way his large, calloused hands cup my face. In the way he steps into me, all dominance and casual possessiveness.

It’s only the sound of a throat being cleared that crash lands me back into reality, as I pull away from Cain to look at Oliver, who is standing by the door, smirking. “Clean-up crew is here.”

Right. We are in the middle of a brothel, surrounded by dead bodies that we’ve tortured and killed. It should probably be inappropriate, but it seems fitting that Cain and I would finally drop the last of our barriers and open ourselves up to one another while standing on a blood-soaked carpet after torturing a bunch of rapists.

Chapter 17

Red. She’s all I can think about. From her odd stage name to the honey-brown of her eyes to the fact that she never does or says what I expect. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still suspicious of her, but I’m also curious. Intrigued. Entranced. Enough to have me finding one excuse or another to stop by Belle Donne every night. She seems to be as aware of my presence as I am of her close proximity. Her eyes are constantly on mine when she’s on the stage, as though she can’t tear them away, and I don’t miss the way she deliberately passes by my table when she’s working the floor. Even if she doesn’t acknowledge me, she still feels that magnetic energy drawing her to me. There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on. I feel like I know her, like we’ve crossed paths before, but I would remember encountering someone who affects me the way she does. It’s not that she makes me feel something per se, but the uptick of my heart, the way she occupies my thoughts… something about her has gotten under my skin, and now I can’t get rid of her.

She reminds me of the street rat I met in that alley. The one I let escape with her life. The one whose brilliant blue eyes still haunt me. Although, I’m pretty sure it’s the guilt of letting her live, more thanherthat gets to me. It’s the only time I’ve ever not acted in the best interests of the Famiglia, so it would make sense that that inappropriately inexplicable,emotionaldecision would still bother me to this day. And yet I don’t exactly regret letting her walk away. It would have been a different matter if she’d blabbed to someone about what she witnessed, but she kept her mouth shut, and any time I picture the scene unfolding any other way—in such a way that left her lying dead at my feet, there’s an unfamiliar twinge in my chest.

However, as I watch Red shake her ass and spin around the pole on the stage, she’s nothing like the dirty, skinny street rat. For starters, she’s got actual curves. Large tits and hips you want to dig your fingers into. A bubble ass that would hold you hypnotized while you fuck her from behind. Not to mention the brown hair and matching eyes. She’s the opposite of that kid… yet the way she behaves strikes a similar chord with me. It’s not outwardly bold or defiant, but it speaks to someone who knows how to hold their own. Someone who can speak up for themselves and won’t let anyone steamroll over them. Of course, that only has me wondering how far she could be pushed before she’d bow down to me, submit and let me own her body and soul.

It’s the reason I decide to mix things up the next time I unsurprisingly find myself walking into Belle Donne rather than heading home. “Have Red meet me in the back office,” I bark at the doorman when I arrive, barely slowing down as I stride through the club, careful to avoid the room she’s working in as I make my way to the back office. After her confrontation with Sam last week and our moment in the alley, I’m craving more time alone with her. Fuck, I was tempted to snatch her away there and then that night. Throw her in my car and tie her up in my house. Keep her as mine forever and always. It’s an urge like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and it’s been riding me hard ever since. But not yet. I need to be sure she’s up to the challenge first.

I keep the lights off in the office, cloaking the room in shadow as I settle into the chair behind the desk and wait. I’m not left waiting for long before a shadow—the outline of a woman—forms in the frosted glass of the office door. I smirk as she hesitates on the other side before the door handle turns, and I carefully wipe my face free of any emotion.

Her high heels click against the wooden floor as she steps into the room and closes the door behind her. There’s a moment of silence as she glances around the dark room, until she must notice me sitting behind the desk. “You, uh, wanted to see me?” she questions. Her voice is steady, and despite being alone in a dark room with ultimately the deadliest person in the Famiglia, she doesn’t seem afraid. Nor did she seem afraid of me that night either. No one was around. There were no witnesses. I could have done anything I wanted to her.

I don’t respond. There’s power in silence. It unnerves most people, especially when you don’t obey typical social cues, like responding to questions. The seconds tick by, and the only sound is her steady rhythmic breathing. I purse my lips, irritation grating at me that I’m not getting the response I expected.

“Come here,” I bark out, harsher than intended. She doesn’t immediately jump to obey my order like she did the other week when I told her to sit with me. I liked that. The way her body reacted on instinct, obeying me. Like it knew who its master was and wanted to please me. It’s her mind that rebels against the authority, but her body is begging her to obey. I wonder if relinquishing herself like that makes her as wet as watching her submit makes me hard.

A growl works its way up the back of my throat, and as it reverberates through the air, she takes a slow, unsure step toward me, followed by another, until she’s standing in front of me. Leaning back in my chair, I look up at her, spreading my legs. “Closer.” A final step has her standing between my thighs. My eyes lower, just about able to make out whatever slutty outfit she’s dressed in tonight. If I leaned forward, I could press my nose against the thin fabric covering her pussy and find out if she’s as excited as I am. Instead of giving in to that urge, though, I hold myself still—a Herculean task that has my fingers digging into the arm of the chair. This is about seeing how far I can pushher; how far that defiance goes. It’snotabout giving in to my own desires. I have Lor for that. “On your knees.”

Her body stiffens, her knees locking in place. It’s a reaction that only has my dick straining harder against the cold metal of my zipper. Not that I get off on forcing a girl. Nah, my dad has many men that love that shit, but it doesn’t do it for me. Whatdoesget me going is pushing people to their limits, pressing against their barriers, and seeing if they’ll reinforce them or crumble under the pressure. Not that I ever get the chance to actually push those boundaries. The second I so much as look in someone’s direction, they are bending over backwards to do whatever the fuck I want. It’s boring and predictable. Lor is the only one who has ever treated me as an equal, and not like I’m going to shoot him in the face for saying no. But I have a feeling Red’s going to give me the challenge I’ve been craving.

“You want me to suck your dick?” Her voice is thick with disdain, whichalmosthides the breathy quality. It’s the perfect blend of defiance, disgust, and lust that has my erection reaching the point of pain. It’s exactly what I wanted. What I expected from her. “Is this supposed to be my payment for last week? Because I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Ignoring her, I instead ask, “Don’t you like working here?” I wish I could see the look on her face, but it’s too dark. All I can make out is her outline from the faint hall light that shines through the frosted upper half of the door. That’s fine, though. The tense way she holds herself, not moving to do as commanded but not backing away either, is telling enough. “Don’t you want to keep your job?”

I swear I can hear her teeth grating against one another. “Not if it means throwing away my dignity.” Her answer surprises me. Many people would consider getting up on stage and shaking your ass while wearing next to nothing as the definition of discarding your dignity, but seemingly not her.

I bark out a cold, caustic laugh that has her tensing even more, and I lift my hand to her leg, just above her knee. I slowly trail my fingers up her inner thigh. “You haven’t been able to stop watching me all week,” I muse. “I bet that pole is slick with your arousal every time you spin around it.” My fingers approach her apex. “I bet you’re wet right now.”

In a shocking move that leaves me momentarily stunned, she slaps my hand away before I can find out for myself just how fucking drenched she is. She gasps, and we both freeze. I think she’s as taken aback by her reaction as I am. In the next second, I’m pushing myself out of the chair as she quickly backs up. No apologies spill from her lips. In fact, I’m certain she lifts her chin in defiance. Fuck if that doesn’t have me wanting to bend her over the desk and fuck her into submission.

I slowly stalk around the desk, closing the distance she just put between us. She again doesn’t react how I expect, holding her ground as I advance. The only sound in the office is the slap of my shoes as they strike the floor with every step. I move until I’m standing directly in front of her. Even in her heels, the top of her head barely reaches my chin, and I tower over her. Yet, she doesn’t back away. She doesn’t duck her head or step back. Hell, her breathing doesn’t even falter. She’s completely unflappable. “Why are you not afraid of me?”

“Is that what you want?” she questions. “For me to fear you?”

Is that what I want? I’m not even sure. It’s just something I’m used to, but I don’t get a sick sense of joy from inflicting fear in people the way my father does.

I lift my hand and brush my fingers along her chest until I reach the base of her neck. Gripping it more firmly but ensuring I’m not cutting off her oxygen, I slowly slide my hand along her throat. Her pulse beats steadily beneath my touch, only confirming what I already knew. “Who are you?” The question is barely more than a whisper, and she doesn’t answer it, letting it hang in the air between us.

“I think the better question is, who are you?” she eventually responds, once again taking me by surprise and throwing me for a loop. As I said, she never responds the way I think she’s going to.

“You know who I am,” I growl out. “I’m the Famiglia’s head assassin. Son of Giovanni Antonelli. The next head of the Family.”

She shakes her head, and the light from the hall catches in her eyes as she lifts her head to look up at me. “That’s not what I asked. Who areyou?”

I frown, confused. “I just told you who I am—”

“No,” she argues, cutting me off. “You told me who you are to the Family, but that doesn’t tell me anything aboutyou.”

“Me and my family are one and the same. I am them, and they are me.”

“You are your own person, too,” she continues to insist. “You have your own likes and dislikes, your own preferences that will be completely separate from your obligation to your family.”

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