Page 15 of Mafia King: Matteo (Borrelli Mafia #1)

ALENA

I dress in my favorite Ralph Lauren outfit for my first day on the job. The skirt and jacket are black suede, and the turtleneck is forest green. I tug on black leather boots that come up to my thighs. I bet Mr. Grey would love this outfit.

I approach the mirror over my sofa and apply lipstick before dropping it in my purse. Now, where the hell did I leave my phone? Damnit. I’m not old enough to forget where I left it.

I tell myself it’s first-day jitters, not dementia, and use my watch to ping my phone. I follow the ringing sound to my bedroom, grab the phone and my coat, and leave, locking the door behind me.

When I step outside the building, Dima jumps out of a black Escalade and opens the door for me.

“Thank you, Dima.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Pasnov.”

“You know that makes me feel so old, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. But it’s your father’s directions.”

“Of course. He’s ex-KGB. This means that somewhere in the recesses of his reptilian brain, he is still fighting the Cold War. That’s why he trusts no one and treats me like I’m trying to defect. The man has no idea what my generation thinks.”

“He does know your generation, and he chooses to ignore it,” he replies as he starts the engine.

“By the way, congratulations on your new job. Am I still taking you to the Plazzo Romano Hotel?”

“Yes, thank you. Don’t say anything to Mom and Dad. I haven’t told them. I want to make sure things work out first.”

“Of course. I will take your secrets to my grave.” I look in the rearview mirror, and he gives me a Cheshire grin. I almost giggle at the thought of him burping up a feathery canary.

“You can say that until your boss threatens to use the jumper cables.”

“Ouch. That would never happen. Your dad’s a teddy bear,” he jokes. I’m glad Dima isn’t easily offended.

He says he has more fun driving me around rather than my mother. Her idea of fun is to stop at every store and look for bargains. The only other time she gets out is once a month when she meets with other Bratva wives to organize charity events.

I admire her dedication to helping the disadvantaged youth in the inner city. It’s a source of conflict for me because all the syndicates use the less fortunate communities to sell drugs and run rackets, like gambling and prostitution. It’s so hypocritical. I’d rather help kids in hospitals.

Dima is not the enforcer type. He’s a tall, muscular man, and he carries a weapon. He is trained to defend me and to keep me safe. But under it all, he’s not what I’d call intimidating.

Kidnappings were a huge ordeal when I was in elementary school. Due to that, my mother and others freaked out. I did the kidnapping drill like others my age who have similar backgrounds. Some in the class were just wealthy assholes in private schools.

I was thrown in a truck and taught what to do if I’m ever taken as a hostage. Our parents thought the training would save our lives. In reality, it only gave them a false sense of security. I was more concerned over the occasional gang hits spilling over into middle and upper-class neighborhoods.

I wouldn’t mind knowing how to use a gun. I mean, I can pull a trigger, but I have no clue as to what I’d hit with a bullet. Dad believes it’s his job to protect me, so my teen and high school years were filled with countless versions of Dima.

“Well, Russian leaders are known for torturing people and keeping the truth from citizens. In this country, it’s called selective denial,” I say to break the silence as we sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“This is what you learn in college?”

“No, it’s what I’ve observed.”

“Kirill has instructed me to follow you everywhere. We need to find out who Mr. Grey is. You said he speaks Italian?”

“I think so. His face isn’t familiar. It’s odd. It’s not like I don’t frequent enough high-end places around town. I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into him before. Maybe he’s a new arrival.”

“Just because he’s not on the cover of one of those shitty gossip magazines doesn’t mean he was living in Siberia. Have you checked Instagram and other social media?” He says to poke fun at my culture.

“I checked. He doesn’t have a social media presence.” Shit, I just proved to Dima how much social media dictates my life.

“If anyone knows how to cyberstalk, it’s you,” he laughs, “That phone never leaves your hand. No way am I letting my daughter have a smartphone. I don’t want her comparing herself to those so-called influencers with their fake breasts and butt implants.

And no fake nails, fake eyelashes, or fake hair.

When did women decide they want to look like porn stars?

My daughter needs to concentrate on getting good grades and earning her allowance. ”

“Good for you, Dima. I’m sure she’s smart and level-headed.”

“Thank you. She is, and I want to keep her that way.”

“Wow, is that the hotel?”

“Yep. I’ll drop you off and come up.”

“No, I can’t have you hovering over me on my first day,” I complain. “This isn’t the bring your bodyguard to work day.”

“You’re always so defensive of your space. Nothing has changed with age.”

“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p.’

“Very well. I will hide in plain sight. I have a book I can read to make it look like I’m waiting for someone. I might check out the indoor pool.”

“Thank you,” I graciously reply.

“But you have to keep me apprised of everything concerning the mystery man.”

“Deal,” I say as I let myself out of the vehicle.

I may have lied.

Will I tell him?

Will I let Mr. Grey suffer with a case of blue balls until he gives me his name?

I check my surroundings before I step into the elevator. I push the button for the 10 th floor. The doors move, and then— thunk . An arm is jammed between them, making the doors stop abruptly before they retract.

The familiar cologne hits my nose, and I raise my head.

It can’t be.

“Good morning, my little Angel,” Mr. Grey says. His face is smooth, and his cologne mixes with the clean scent of goat’s milk soap—a light, clean fragrance filling the elevator.

My heart stops.

“You’re quiet today,” he says, stepping in, and the doors close behind him.

“Um, this is twice in two days. Am I your new bad habit, Mr. Grey?”

His lips curl into a sexy smirk that makes my pussy tingle.

“I have an affinity for close encounters with you,” His eyes bore into mine. “Only you,” rolls off his tongue like a summer heatwave.

I meet his gaze, mesmerized. Our eyes lock. I’m powerless against him. Our eyes communicate with a language of their own.

We can’t look away from each other. Neither of us is willing to give up the other. If we were about to have a head-on collision, I wonder if we would break our gaze or die.

The universe stops spinning when he’s in my orbit. Without a word, he controls me. He has command of my mind, body, and soul. I’m completely enamored with him. His presence speaks more than words because he’s a busy man. Time is money to a businessman, and yet he’s here making time for me.

My pussy throbs. My ovaries drop eggs like an over-productive hen.

“What is on your agenda today?”

“You,” he murmurs, pushing the button for the 8 th floor. The elevator lurches upward. When we pass the 7 th floor, he hits the emergency stop button. The elevator suddenly stops, knocking me off balance and sending me into his strong arms.

His warm lips cover mine. I respond without thinking. I can’t get enough of him. His bedroom eyes and slicked-back hair beg to be tugged. In my excitement, I’ve forgotten the oath of celibacy I swore to maintain. That oath went right out the window, or should I say—the elevator door.

His kisses are as sweet as sun-ripened strawberries. All coherent thoughts leave my head. My pussy feels like an active volcano bubbling and boiling with hot lava.

My leg naturally wraps around his. I breathe, drinking him in as my eyes close and melt into his arms.

I gasp. He’s a man who likes control, and with him, I welcome it, trusting him implicitly.

I massage his hard cock through the silky feel of his suit.

He pins me against the steel elevator wall. The alarm’s blaring is distracting until he slips his fingers deeper into me. I gasp in pleasure and let out a moan as I shift my skirt to give him more access.

I want more of him.

I plant my feet on the metal floor. His fingers inch deeper. I swoon as he hits my secret spots. He needs no instruction. He knows exactly how to press my buttons.

I swoon and wrap my arms around his neck to anchor myself and pull him closer, but he holds me at bay. My eyes open, begging the question, why?

There is no answer. He’s a fortress—his eyes are as cold as a frozen lake. His walls are impenetrable and indestructible.

I know he’s seen death. He could kill me with the flick of his wrist.

His long fingers snake around my neck. Panic turns to excitement. He holds me in a death grip, one hand on my neck, the other finger-fucking me. I can’t move. I’m on my tiptoes, gasping for air and moaning with pleasure. He strokes a new G-spot, and suddenly, I’m limp with pleasure.

I’m in a tantric state, teetering on the cusp of my pleasure, not knowing which way I should fall. Do I come now? Or hold out for a more incredible rush?

“Don’t come yet,” he murmurs as his lips brush my neck. “I’m going to choke you, and you’ll love it.”

Choke?

With his hand on my throat, I can’t protest. I can’t speak. It’s as if I’ve been given an injection to paralyze me.

What the fuck?

Men have tried this move before, but it never did anything special.

His fingers ravage my pussy, pumping me faster and faster. My nub turns hard, as do my nipples inside my bra. I long for him to rip off my clothing and grab my breasts. I want to tug at them and make them hurt, but it isn’t easy to breathe.

Oh my God, will I die?

“Come now, Angel,” he says as he finishes me. I’m overcome by an intense wave of euphoria that leaves me reeling. I come again and again. These are the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had.

How did he know that would happen?