Page 5

Matteo’s cackling, carving the guy’s hand, fingers dropping like garbage, blood pooling thick. It’s everywhere—my hands, my shirt, the air heavy with death. I swing the bat again, cracking his skull, and he’s slurring, eyes rolling back, fading.
“You’re done,” I snarl, smashing his face, flesh caving in. He’s twitching, barely alive, a bloody mess and I’m wired, pulse hammering.
I swing one last time, cracking his jaw, teeth flying wild, and he’s out. His head lolls to the side, blood dripping slow. I drop the bat as my chest heaves, my hands slick with red. Matteo wipes his knife, chuckling low, and steps back. The snitch is dead, fucked beyond recognition, body slumped in a pool of his own mess. The room’s quiet except for my heavy breathing. I flex my fists,knuckles raw and throbbing. That kill’s still burning me up, that high I can’t shake and it makes me restless as hell.
I turn to Matteo, his grin fading as he lights a smoke. “I need to shake this shit off,” I say, voice rough, feeling that edge clawing at me.
He hands the cigar he's lit over to me. “What do you need me to do?”
I step over the snitch’s dead body, careful not to step my foot in the pool of blood, but it still manages to smear it. “Fucking asshole is still a problem even in death.”
Matteo chuckles, lighting his own smoke. “Want me to go fuck him up once more?”
I drag long and hard on the cigarette and release a long exhale of smoke in a swirl. “No. Get Alanna arranged and ready for me. I need to fuck to take the edge off.”
Matteo grins like he's just won a jackpot. He holds his fist out in an attempt to fist bump me, and I glare at him. He drops his fist.
“Okay. No fist bumping.”
I shake my head at his attempt to lighten me up. I take a long drag on the cigar again, smoke curling thick in my lungs. “Just get her ready,” I mutter.
Matteo nods, already pulling out his phone to do the needful as we head for the car. I slide into the driver’s seat, black SUV growling awake as I fire it up. I peel out, leaving the warehouse and the gore behind. My knuckles grip the wheel tightly, tension and the high of the kill still burning me up. Nothing a good fuck can't cure.
Matteo is on the phone, his voice low. “Alanna, be ready. The boss is coming.” He hangs up, glancing over at me. “She’s all set.” I don't say anything, just nod, my eyes trained on the road ahead of me. Matteo attunes himself to my mood and falls silent as I drive on.
Dusk has fallen and the streets are a long stretch of darkness. I weave through seamlessly without a word, but my mind travels back to minutes ago with the snitch. It felt so good punching him and having his face cave under my fist. That's his punishment for crossing me. No one who crosses me lives to tell the story.
I pull into the driveway leading up to the mansion that looms ahead. My mansion. It's all stone walls and iron gates. Black marble columns guard the entrance, windows glinting like the sharp edge of a blade. It's a fortress built for blood and on blood. Effective to keep the enemy out. We've never been conquered within the gates of the mansion. We've never been conquered at all.
My father had made sure to fortify the land with the blood of our enemies. It's the reason we're greatly feared. Tales told of death whispering within the confines of the mansion filters back to me. It's an overreach, but it's not worth denying.
The gates slide open as we near them. We pull up, gravel crunching under the tires. I kill the engine and turn to Matteo.
“No interruptions,” I growl, meaning it. He nods and waves his hand as if to say ‘get it over with’. He's the only one who can get away with such disregard.
I climb out, slamming the door. The night air is cool, the sky dotted with the glow of the stars, but I’m burning. I bound up the sprawling staircase that leads to the interior of the mansion. Inside, the foyer is all dark, polished wood and crystal, chandeliers sparkling overhead, throwing shadows like knives. They add to the gloomy atmosphere I rather prefer.
I don’t stop. Instead, I head straight for the chamber where I most definitely know Alanna's waiting. It's my spot for this shit. It's tucked away, no questions asked, although no one would dare.
I push the door open, and there’s Alanna, sprawled on the bed, waiting like she'd been told. The room is dimly lit, but I see her clearly. She’s barely dressed, a black lace thong clinging to her hips. Her generous tits are out, one leg bent, posing like a fucking painting. Her blonde hair spills over the silk sheets, and her smile is lustful. She knows what I want.
I don’t feel shit for her, never have. She's my plaything. She’s here for my cock. Her job is to sate my sexual appetite. In turn, I keep her fed, clothed, safe. Same deal with all my women. They know the score: I fuck, they obey—no strings.
I don't bother with a preamble—in this case, foreplay. Foreplay is for romantic assholes. I'm not romantic. Never have been. I like to be upfront with what I want, and with my women, what they see is what they get.
Facing Alanna and never taking my eyes off her, I rip off my shirt. The blood from the dead snitch lying in the warehouse is still caked on my skin. Matteo would arrange for how to get rid of the body. I kick off my boots in one smooth move. My pants are next. As it drops to expose my already hard cock, jutting out, thick and ready, I see her smack her lips.
Blood and fighting always do this to me—get me raging, needing release. Alanna's eyes roam my broad chest, inked with a mafia crest: skulls and roses tangled in barbed wire, wrapping my pecs, screaming who I am. I’m built like a fucking tank, every muscle carved from years of breaking bones.
“Come here,” I bark, and Alanna slides off the bed with no hesitation, her eyes locked on mine. “Kneel,” I command. She drops to her knees, lips painted red inches from my cock. She stares up at me, bold as fuck, her mouth gaping open. “I'm going to fuck your mouth so hard. I hope you're ready for me.” She nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
I stroke myself, slow, watching her watch me. I can already feel the excited tingle that precedes my ultimate release. My cock is now rock-hard, the crisscrossed veins prominent. “Open,” I say, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back hard. She doesn’t flinch. I tug at her jaw and her lips part further. Good. She's ready.
I palm my cock, about to shove it in her mouth when a knock bangs on the door, loud and fucking rude.
“Cazzo!” I roar, swearing in Italian, my blood spiking. I'd told Matteo in explicit terms that I wanted no interruptions. What part of that didn't he understand? “Stronzo del cazzo!” I swear again.
I yank my pants up. My cock’s still hard and my once fitted pants now barely contain it. I storm to the door. From my periphery, I see Alanna making a move to stand. “Stay!” I snap at her, and she freezes. She instantly goes back kneeling, like a good girl. That's not to say she wouldn't pay for that one disobedient act later. I stalk to the door and rip it open to behold Matteo standing there, a frown etched into his features. Matteo only looks like that when he’s got bad news.