Page 1 of Mafia Captor

ChapterOne

Boss

All women areprecious and beautiful in their own way. There’s one uniquely special type of woman that turns my world on end. And ever since the moment I laid eyes on Ashe, I’ve suspected she was one of these. A strong, independent woman who turns into a soft, needy kitten when you take charge. Take things a step further and—with one little spank—the kitten turns into a leopard ready to pounce, scratching you with her claws, demanding every ounce of pleasure you’ll offer her.

I know Ashe is one of these women. Let’s test my theory.

I dip my tongue against hers, tangling her deeper in our kiss. I leave my left hand imprisoning her thick curves. I move my kiss to her neck, nibbling and biting. She offers a soft exhale of contentment. I pull my right hand away, lifting it, leaving it hovering over her soft curves just long enough for her to take pause, to wonder where my hand has gone. I bring it back down, timing the stinging spank with a sharp nip of her earlobe.

She’s either going to slap me or sleep with me.

Coming from her, I’d enjoy either one.

A few days earlier…

I see her standing alone at the wedding reception. Wearing a simple black dress, an outfit more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. Or for a woman twice her age. Still, the frumpy dress can’t hide her insane figure. She has the hourglass shape of a black widow spider.

There’s a frown on her pretty face.

I’ve heard Nikolaos talk about her before.

He never mentioned how beautiful she is.

She’s uptight. I can see that by the way she stands, one arm around her waist hugging herself, the other bringing her fingers to her lips, like she’s trying not to bite her perfectly manicured deep plum fingernails. I get the sense she’s one of those women who’s wound like a spring…

Coiled so damn tight she might break.

But if you’re the right man, the one who can loosen the tension…

You’re in for the ride of your life.

Fuck.

I take a deep sip of whiskey. Why am I crushing on this girl? The last thing I need is to get involved with a woman. Especially one that looks as high maintenance as this one does. Right now she’s literally straightening a stack of already perfectly arranged cocktail napkins, her pearly white teeth sinking into her full pink bottom lip as she focuses.

She’s the polar opposite of the women I go for. I go for tall and exotic—this girl is five foot and change, in heels—and as girl-next-door as a slice of apple pie. I like dark and mysterious, the ones you never know what they’re thinking. Ashely wears her heart on her sleeve. I barely know the girl and I can see she’s tormented by something tonight. I go for gaunt faces, tattoos wrapping around pinched biceps, spandex crop tops and leather leggings. This girl looks like she’s headed to church, though there’s nothing pure about those soft curves of hers. I crave women who are distant, detached, up for a fling and nothing more.

This curvy blonde gives me the kind of vibes that usually make me want to run. A serious perfectionist who probably went to college in search of her M.R.S. degree, dreaming of minivans and soccer matches. She’s the kind of woman you want making your dinner and raising your babies. The one you bring home to your mother.

So why the hell is my whiskey gone in my attempt to hide my stare behind sips from my heavy glass?

As if reading my thoughts, my phone rings. It’s Ma. Again. She thinks she’s the Queen of Boston, my family being one of the oldest names in Massachusetts. She assumes she’s royalty to me as well, and I should drop everything to answer her call.

Even when she knows I’m at a wedding. Maybe especially because she knows I’m at a wedding. She’s going to want to know every detail of the event, including how many single girls are in attendance. Ma wants to be the most important thing in my life. And since my father died last year, she’s got no one to distract her. Thinking of how sad she is without my dad induces enough guilt to flow to make me pick up the phone.

I already know the conversation we’re going to have before I even say hello. I hold back a frustrated sigh. “Ma. What’s up?”

I can hear her ring click against her wineglass. “Boston? Is that you?”

My mom still doesn’t understand cell phones. “You dialed my number, Ma. It’s me. It’s always going to be me when you call my number.”

“Oh, true. How are you doing? What are you up to?” I can see her sitting on her red velvet settee in the corner of the formal living room, feet curled underneath her, wineglass in her hand, Hardy, her butler, lingering behind her, waiting to refill her glass.

“I told you. I’m at a wedding. And I can’t talk. You okay?”

“The wedding. Right. It must have slipped my mind.” She pauses to sip at her wine. “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I just wanted to remind you about that little family thing we have this weekend.”

By little, my mom’s referring to the biggest event in our family’s life: the Annual Sullivan Valentine’s Throw Down. A massive party my mother hosts at our family mansion in Massachusetts. She invites everyone who’s made a name for themselves in the city of Boston. The city she named me after.

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