Diego: A Dark Mafia Hate Story (Chicago Crime Family Book 1) Page 4

  “I have never been naked in front of a man before. I would like to change in the bathroom, please.”

  He looks me up and down, frowning in concentration.

  “Excuse me?” I say uneasily. “What are you looking at?”

  “I’ve already heated up your ass for you. Apparently you’re a slow learner. I’m just deciding if I should whip your tits, or your inner thighs, for this latest round of disobedience.”

  Trembling with fright and anger, I strip off my clothing very quickly. Before I know it, I’m naked, alone in a room with Diego Costa. The room is warm, but I’m shivering. My nipples are shamefully hard, and his gaze lingers on them too long. A little smile plays across his sensual mouth, at the evidence of my arousal.

  I cross one arm in front of my body and reach for the slutty waitress outfit on the coffee table. He shoves me back and moves to block me.

  “No, no. You disobey me, there will always be consequences.”

  I mutter a curse under my breath and cover myself with my both hands.

  “What’s that?” There’s an edge of steel to his voice.

  “Nothing,” I mumble. “May I please have the clothing?”

  “Not tonight, no.” Is he kidding? He expects me to just walk around naked? Surely, he doesn’t think I’m going to go downstairs naked? But from the sadistic gleam in his eyes, I think he actually does.

  “You’re evil,” I say furiously. “You have no right to do this to me. All I did was show a little compassion. I didn’t do anything to you.”

  “You didn’t do anything to me?” he says incredulously. “You nearly got me killed.”

  “How?”

  His eyes blaze with anger. “What did you think would happen when you let that guy go? You didn’t think it would come back on me?”

  A chill realization settles over me. He’s right. Diego could have died because of me.

  “I didn’t think at all.” I stare at the ground, my stomach roiling. “He was so young. Covered in blood. Terrified.” I look up at him with a quiet hatred. “And that’s what you do for a living. You’re a torturer, a murderer.”

  He snorts in contempt. “Yes, that is exactly what I am. And you know what he was?” He starts advancing on me, and I am back up. I keep moving, he keeps advancing, until I’m flattened against a wall. The gritty brick rubs against my naked back. The heat of his body flows over me, and sweat beads on my forehead.

  “Answer me when I ask you a question.”

  Diego is standing over me, nostrils flaring in anger, breathing hard. And I’m naked. Part of me keeps expecting my father or stepmother to run through the door and scream in shock and horror. Drag me from the room, haul me to the confessional.

  “No, I do not.”

  “He was an 18-year-old drug dealer who moved coke for your daddy. He got caught cutting our products, people died, and we brought him in to make an example of him.”

  A bolt of anger jabs me. I threw away my entire life for a drug dealer?

  “I didn’t know.” One of my classmates overdosed and died last year when she experimented with heroin. I really hate drug dealers. I hate drugs. I knew about some of the bad things that my family does – arms dealers, protection, extortion – but I didn’t know about that.

  I blink hard, trying to hold back tears. “I am very sorry that I risked getting you in trouble. I didn’t stop to think about what could have happened to you. I just couldn’t in good conscience stand by while a man was being tortured and murdered.”

  He ignores my apologies and forces my arms down to my sides.

  “You don’t get to cover yourself. You’re not royalty any more, you’re down in the gutter with the rest of us.”

  Before I can say a word, the door flies open, and I give a startled shriek and frantically cover my breasts and crotch with my hands.

  He grabs my arms and forces them to the side, holding my wrists. “I won’t warn you again. But please, disobey me.” There’s a world of cruelty in his smile. “Please.”

  I stand there, stiff with humiliation, as he releases my arms and steps back. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to cover myself. Claudio and Rocco walk into the room, and they both glance at me curiously. I shrivel with shame.

  “Hey, Rocco, grab me a pair of scissors and cut up her clothes,” Diego calls out to him, pointing at the pile of clothing that I’d stripped off, now puddled on the floor.

  Rocco goes to the kitchen to fetch the pair of scissors from a drawer, and when he returns, he stares at me with a cruel smirk as he’s slicing my clothing into ribbons. Shreds of pink silk drift to the floor. I can almost feel the sting of the blades; that’s my old life he’s cutting up.

  “Good tits.” He elbows Claudio. “Nice, aren’t they?”

  Claudio shrugs, looking monumentally bored. “Seen one set of tits, you seen ‘em all.”

  “What a sad, colorless world you live in, my friend.” Rocco smirks at me, his gaze sliding obscenely over my exposed flesh. “Figures she’d have a full bush. You gonna shave her?” he asks Diego, who’s just standing there letting this happen.

  “How dare you?” I can’t help myself. 19 years of Mafiosi upbringing doesn’t just vanish in minutes. “You disgusting pig! My father’s going to…” and then my voice trails off and my cheeks flush. Rocco bursts out laughing.

  I will not cry. I am a Rosetti.

  I cover myself with my arms again and glare at Diego. “Your friends are perverted filthy dirtbags, and I will not walk around in front of them, or anyone else, naked. You can’t make me. So do whatever you want to me.”

  His eyes light up, like he was expecting this. Like he can’t wait for another excuse to punish me. “Yeah, princess, that’s the idea.”

  Chapter Four

  Diego

  My fingers are twisted in her hair as I drag her down the hall. She fights like a wildcat as I force her into my bedroom, and Claudio and Rocco’s laughter rings through the air.

  My bedroom is large and roomy, with a steel frame four poster bed towards the back, gleaming in a giant cube shape.

  I slam the door shut behind me, and move her towards my bed before I release her, stepping back to see what she’ll do next. She doesn’t disappoint. The second I let go of her, she turns and runs for the door. I’m on her in seconds, crushing her face first up against the closed door, and I press up against her, my aching cock straining against my jeans. I wrap my arms around her, pinning her arms to her side.

  She’ll learn. In our world, the man rules and the woman submits. She can’t challenge me like this. “You want to leave the room? Fine with me. I can punish you in front of them. They’d love to watch. Or I can punish you in here. What’s it going to be?”

  “In…here.” Hatred drips from each word.

  I step away from her and point at the bed.

  “Lie down, on your back, legs spread.”

  Stiffly, she marches across the room. She flops down onto the bed, on top of the silky dove-gray coverlet, and parts her legs maybe six inches.

  I walk over to the bed and stand next to it, looming over her. I take a few moments to just admire her. Her round, heavy breasts, that she used to hide with that ridiculous granny bra. Her flat stomach, and the triangle of thick honey-colored curls below it. I inhale, breathing in the sweet scent of her arousal.

  She’s so beautiful. Her rage, her defiance, are the fuel that feeds the roaring bonfire of lust that burns in my loins - because her fury is tempered and sweetened by that attraction that she has always had for me.

  Her chest rises and falls in deep heaving breaths, and her luminous eyes shimmer with unshed tears. It’s so wrong for me to do this to her - but she’s a means to an end. A way to destroy Umberto and avenge my father.

  Does this mean my soul is damned? Perhaps. But if there’s no redemption for me, I might as well enjoy myself. Angelo ordered me to punish her and make sure everyone knew, so I’d do it even if I hated it – but I don’t. Before this month is up, I’m going to taste every inch of my captive princess’s flesh and make her cry out in pleasure despite herself.

  I wish I could tell her more about what her future really holds – but I remind myself, I have plans, and they don’t involve her. I don’t owe her a thing. She will do as she’s told, and she will serve her purpose, and then I will be done with her. That’s all she needs to know for now.

  She looks up at me, her eyes liquid blue lakes of fright. "Go ahead," she says, her voice trembling. "What are you waiting for?"

  She doesn’t get to dictate when I punish her.

  “Just admiring my new toy.”

  “I hate you.” Her voice wavers and her gaze slides downward.

  Lie.

  "Aren't you going to beg?" I ask, with interest.

  "I will never beg!” She spits the words out.

  My lip curls in contempt. "Because saying please is beneath you."

  That earns me a glare. "I say please and thank you all the time, because it’s just good manners,” she says haughtily. “Because I wasn’t brought up in a barn.”

  She moves her arms to cover her breasts and her crotch. I’m done with her bratty defiance. In one swift motion, I’m on top of her, straddling her thighs and roughly pinning her arms above her head.

  "Come on, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You have a gorgeous body,” I taunt her as she squirms.

  She glares up at me. "There is nothing wrong with being modest."

  "There is with a body like yours."

  "That's such a ridiculous statement that I'm not even going to dignify it with an answer,” she sniffs.

  "And yet you just did." I run my free hand over her left breast and cup it in my hand. "You and that smart mouth of yours. You just can't help yourself. It's going t
o be fun breaking you."

  She tries to wrench her wrists from my grasp, and as I tighten my hands, I feel something odd. There are bumps on both wrists. I move my hands so I can see what I’m looking at. Some kind of raised scar, or callous.

  “What is that?” I ask, pulling her wrists closer to me and examining them. Her beautiful cheeks flush, and her gaze slides to the left.

  “What is what?” She goes stiff, and her voice rises as she turns her face away from me. There she goes again, practically telegraphing the lie.

  “Those scars. On the back of your wrists.” Is she a cutter? That doesn’t look like the area where somebody would slash themselves. Definitely not a suicide attempt. So, what caused it?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Intriguing. “Some kind of kinky sex game?” I muse.

  “What?” she squalls. “Of course not!” Truth. I can read it in her outraged expression. Not that I really thought that the ice princess would have let someone tie her up for fun.

  Well, that’s a fascinating mystery. I can’t wait to unpack all of her surprises. I release her wrists, and slowly, uncertainly, she folds them across her stomach. “You do know I’m going to find out, don’t you? You don’t get to keep secrets from me. I am going to conquer every part of you. Your body and your mind belong to me.”

  Instead of spitting back a defiant answer, she closes her eyes and starts humming. She’s humming. Ave Maria. Seriously. Like she thinks that’s going to wilt my erection or stop me from doing whatever the hell I want to her.

  I don’t try to stop her. Instead, I just lie there on top of her, and listen, enjoying the beautiful trembling sound that quivers from her throat. Finally, after a couple of minutes, the sound fades.

  Slowly, she turns her head and looks me right in the eye, tears beading on her thick lashes. "I know that you're going to rape me. Just get it over with." Good God, even when it comes to being sexually violated, she’s still trying to cling to a semblance of control. I have to admit, she has shown a lot more spine than I expected. Given what a pampered life she’s led, I thought she’d be crawling and begging by now.

  "Rape you?" I shake my head in amusement. "Princess, I would never. I'm just here to teach you the pleasures of your body. With your own consent."

  "That will never happen."

  She should know better than to throw down that kind of gauntlet in front of me. I grab her right hand, but not too roughly, and I slide off her so that I’m lying next to her.

  "Touch yourself." I order her, moving her hand down so it’s lying on top of her damp curls.

  Her mouth flies open in shock. She splutters for a moment before she can finally form words. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me."

  There’s a look of utter horror on her face. Has she never touched yourself? Has she never explored the sweetness between her legs? That can’t be. Umberto can’t watch over her 24 hours a day. In the bath? At night, alone in her bed?

  Maybe it’s just that she doesn’t want to do it in front of me.

  "I will not.” She twists her head away and tries to wrench her wrist from my grasp. I hold it there, firmly.

  "I will make you a deal. If you touch yourself, I won’t whip you talking back in front of my men, and I will let you put your clothes back on before you go downstairs and bus tables for me. Otherwise, I’ll take my belt to you, and then you’ll be bussing tables naked for the rest of the night.”

  Tears fill her eyes and she blinks very hard. She doesn’t want to cry in front of me.

  "You are a filthy pile of garbage."

  "You damn me with faint praise."

  She flashes me a startled look. "Excuse me?”

  “Alexander Pope said that. Yes, I read books. Some of them don’t even have pictures.”

  "I never said you didn’t," she said tightly.

  A flash of impatience snaps in my voice. "When you say things like ‘I wasn't brought up in a barn’, you make it pretty clear what you think of me and everyone like me."

  "What do you mean, everyone like you?" She sounds genuinely bewildered – like she’s unaware of the vast social gap that yawns between us.

  "Come on, sweetheart, there are aristocrats, and then there's the rest of us. The ones who carry your water. The ones who clean up your crap."

  "You don't have to be crude,” she says primly.

  "I don’t have to, but it’s a lifestyle choice for me. Now, enough stalling. Do we have a deal?"

  “Why do you want to do this? Why do you care if I touch myself?” Her voice quivers in despair. She’s on the verge of giving in. I’m pulsing with arousal now. Fuck, she makes me ache.

  “Because you turn me on. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in the flesh, and watching you give yourself pleasure would be hot as fuck.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. She didn’t expect any kind of compliment from me. I knew that would shatter her defenses. I’ve broken her down, now I’m building her back up – just enough. First the stick, then the carrot.

  “All right.” Her words drift out on a sigh of surrender. “You promise I can get dressed if I do this?”

  I don’t answer her, because I don’t plan on offering her any reassurances. I prefer to keep her shaky and unsure. Instead, I guide her hand between her legs, and use her own fingers to gently stroke herself.

  Her thighs quiver, and tears leak from her eyes onto her cheeks. This has got to be excruciating for her, raised in such a sheltered environment, taught that sex equals shame. I keep moving her hand, and slowly, she starts to relax a little. She's wet, and the scent of her arousal is spicy and inviting.

  I want to know what she tastes like. I want to drink her surrender.

  I stroke her again and again, using both her finger and mine. Her breathing is slow and deep. Her eyes are have glazed over, staring up at the ceiling.

  I stare at her, entranced. I really think she never has touched yourself before. Has this adult woman never had an orgasm? I know that she is almost certainly a virgin, but is she really that inexperienced? What does she do when she’s lying in bed alone at night?

  I move my hand faster, rubbing the pad of my thumb against the swollen pink bud of her clitoris. “Mmm,” she moans, and her legs spread wider.

  I slip my finger inside her, pressing until I’m up against her barrier. She’s impossibly tight, and wet, and I find that swollen spot on her inner wall that makes her cry out in startled pleasure. Her hand has fallen into its own rhythm, moving naturally, all by itself.

  Her breathing quickens and finally it happens. She arches her back and cries out, a low throaty moan rippling up from deep inside her. Her thighs shudder and she pants out her pleasure, eyes closed tightly. “Oh, God, ohhhh…” Her breathy moans reach deep inside of me and fill me with a hot lust that can’t be denied much longer.

  Her hand drops limply to her side. “Oh,” she says in a voice of quiet amazement.

  This actually was her first orgasm. Pride swells inside me. I want to conquer every inch of that virgin flesh. I want to own all of her firsts. I can’t keep her, but I can be part of her forever, live inside her memory. Every girl remembers her first, don’t they? And if she remembers me forever, in a way, she’s still mine.

  I take her hand and bring it to my lips, and she gasps when I slip her fingers into my mouth, sucking her juices off my fingertips. “Diego, no!” she cries out, scandalized.

  She tries to jerk her hand away but I hold it firmly, lapping up her sweetness until I’m satisfied. She stops resisting, staring at me in wonder. She likes the way I suck her fingers; I can tell from the little noises she’s making.

  I drop her hand and slide off the bed. She looks to see what I’m doing and when I begin unbuckling my belt, she flinches. “We’re not going to have sex,” I say to her. “I told you, it will be your choice. But you’ve got me so worked up, I’m going to fucking explode. You’re going to use your mouth.”

  “But I…I don’t know how.” She looks at me fearfully. “I’ll do it wrong.”

  She’s vulnerable and open. Now is the time for tenderness and reassurance, but I just can’t. That part of me was burned away years ago. The natural cruelty that lives inside me now swells up and forms harsh words.

  She’s Umberto Rosetti’s daughter. Her father put both of my parents in the ground.