Claudio: A Dark Mafia Hate Story (Chicago Crime Family Book 2) Read online

  Claudio guides me up marble steps leading to a duplex that’s worth an easy couple million.

  We pause at the doorway as he digs his keys from his pocket.

  “Welcome to hell?” I say faintly, struggling for humor so I don’t cry.

  Claudio shrugs. “That’s up to you.”

  Chapter Six

  Heather

  We enter a large foyer, with a marble floor, a coat rack, and a bench for shoes.

  “Put your coat there,” Claudio directs me. I obey, hanging my jacket up. He points at the bench and takes his shoes off and puts them there, so I do the same. I nervously clutch at my purse, which has my cell phone in it. He points at a hook, and I silently hang it up. At least he hasn’t taken it from me.

  My knees are quivering as I follow him into the living room.

  It’s modern, all angles and white furniture. The windows are covered with blackout curtains. There are moody abstract black and white photographs on the walls. An enormous TV on the wall is framed in black.

  The bookshelf against the far wall has hardcovers neatly arranged by size, and a few abstract sculptures precisely spaced out on the shelves. You could do surgery on that floor without having to sterilize it first. A skylight throws a perfect white square of sunlight on the floor; it’s the warmest thing in the room.

  “You look surprised,” he says.

  “I expected a devil’s lair with blood and body parts splashed everywhere.”

  He laughs, that brittle joy-less sound he makes, a laugh that sends a shiver icing through my body.

  “What’s so funny?” I say coldly, hugging myself and rubbing my arms.

  “You. Mouthing off to me. Nobody else does that. So, what would a devil’s lair look like?”

  I flash him an angry look. “A devil’s lair would have instruments of torture instead of furniture. And a fridge full of body parts.”

  “I keep that kind of stuff off-site,” my new husband says, and he looks dead serious, but who knows with him? Apparently, the devil is capable of making jokes sometimes.

  Mostly at my expense.

  He leads me over to the white leather sofa.

  “Sit down.”

  I glare at him. “So, that’s how it’s going to be with us? You’re going to bark orders at me like a dog?”

  “Keep it up.” There’s a cold glow of anger in his eyes now. I swear that the temperature drops a few degrees. I really think it has. This man is in command of everything around him, so why not the very air molecules that swirl around us?

  For some reason, an image of the wallet flashes in front of me. That horrible tattoo, the sickening feel of the skin-leather. My knees give out and I sink down onto the couch, wondering if I’ll ever have the strength to stand again.

  Claudio sits down next to me, and the leather couch creaks and shifts under his weight. I smell the spice of his cologne mingled with the faint scent of soap and an undertone of his unique masculine musk.

  “These are the rules,” he says. He holds up his fist, all of his fingers folded. Those big hands have dealt so much pain and suffering – but I also remember his thick finger sliding down my cheek, so softly, dragging a fiery line of pleasure behind it.

  He unfolds his index finger. “Number one. This is a traditional marriage. I am the man, I am the leader of this household. Do what I tell you, without question. Do not disobey me, ever.” His low, rumbling voice is a vague threat.

  He unfolds his thumb. “Number two. You never talk about family business with anyone but me.”

  Middle finger. “Number three. You never embarrass the family.”

  Ring finger. “You don’t try to run away.”

  Pinky. “Number five. You take good care of yourself, because you belong to me.”

  I struggle for words, and find none. He means it. I am his captive bride. This is really happening. To me.

  “We clear?” he says impatiently.

  I can’t keep the bite of anger from my voice. “Crystal. Am I allowed to ask questions?”

  “As long as you’re not doing it just to piss me off.” Then, his mouth quirks in a grin. “And when we’re alone, you can talk back to me as much as you dare. I like it. Just keep in mind, when you run that sweet little mouth of yours, it makes me hard as hell. I might not be able to control my actions.”

  “How romantic,” I say before I can stop myself. His eyes gleam and he leans in and strokes a lock of hair from my face.

  “Careful. It’s our wedding day. One more smart remark and you’ll be in our bedroom finding out just how rough I like it.”

  Our bedroom.

  I press my lips together and don’t say another word.

  His smile is triumphant. “Smart girl.” He set it up so I couldn’t win – mouth off, and I’m going to be hauled off to the bedroom for whatever cruel torments he’s got in mind for me. Or stay quiet, and that means I’ve submitted to him.

  Bastard.

  “I’m going to go put some food in the oven. Sit here and wait for me.” He doesn’t offer to turn o

  Caveman.

  He leaves the room, and I sit there on the couch, pressing my hands against my lap. My mind is racing. I’m not going back to the apartment tonight. I never went back to work. I’ll be fired...well, that’s the least of my worries right now. I have a little over twenty bucks in my wallet...how can I possibly afford to hide out anywhere? I could pawn the diamond ring...what would I tell my father, if I ran? Does this mean that I’d never see him again? Because if I left, Claudio would definitely be staking out the hospital. Is the front door locked?

  Questions are streaming through my head and panic is squeezing my lungs so it’s hard to breathe. My stomach rumbles; I don’t know how I can think of food at a time like this. Then again, I haven’t eaten since last night and that was a slice of pizza.

  “Come here.” Claudio’s voice slices through the fog of my thoughts. He’s looming in a doorway on the other side of the room. My legs are shaky as I walk towards him, and I meekly let myself be led into the kitchen.

  It’s a long rectangular room that opens into a courtyard. At the far end of the rectangle is a glass dining room table. The chairs are steel with white cushions. The table is set with two precisely arranged place settings, plain white plates and red napkins that add a desperately needed splash of color. The pots on the rack by the oven are so clean it’s hard to believe they’ve ever been used. Something smells delicious, though. Warm and buttery and garlicky; the homey scents are out of place in this hospital clean setting.

  I glance at the sliding glass door with longing. Claudio catches it, of course. “Planning your escape?” he says, with that undertone of cruel mockery that seems ever-present when he talks to me.

  “Those walls would be too high to climb.” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “That would be the least of your problems.”

  His words make me shiver. What will he do to me if I try to run – and he catches me? I hope I never find out. I walk over to the table and sit down, clenching and unclenching my hands.

  He walks over to the oven and pulls out a metal pan of some kind of pasta, and my stomach rumbles embarrassingly. He doesn’t seem to notice, just carries the pan over to the table and sets it on a tray there.

  Then he sits down next to me and pats his lap. “Sit, so I can feed you.”

  Is he kidding? He’s cost me my job and forced me to marry him. Exactly how much of my life is he planning on taking over? “I can feed myself,” I say indignantly.

  His lips curve up in that cruel smile of his. “I would hope so. Now sit on my lap, unless you want to find out what happens to people who piss me off.”

  I hesitate, but I am starving, and this will probably be the only way that I get to eat.

  His amber eyes are burning into me like hot coals. I glare at him and stand up very slowly, like a sulky toddler.

  He explodes out of his seat and I shriek in fear. The next thing I know, I’ve been flipped over his lap
, face down, and he spanks my butt hard. His hand is enormous, and an explosion of pain radiates out from where he struck me. I flail on his lap, and he grabs my arm and holds me still.

  “Stop!” I scream. He brings his hand down twice more on my left cheek, and then twice more on my right cheek.

  Then he stands up, and dumps me on the floor, like a pile of trash. My spanked skin stings as if it was swarmed by bees. I can feel the outline of every hand print.

  “What are you doing?” I cry. “Are you crazy? That hurt!” I frantically rub my butt.

  He sits back down. “You’ve got an excellent knack for stating the obvious. It was a punishment; it was meant to hurt. I told you to stand up. You were slow, on purpose. I hope you get better at this whole wife business pretty soon, because you’re really trying my patience. Now sit your ass on my lap and let me feed you. I like my woman with a little meat on her bones, and you’re too fucking skinny.”

  Insulted, and fuming, I scramble to my feet. I feel each blow pulsing up from where he spanked me, and oddly, I don’t hate the sensation.

  Awkwardly, I settle on his lap – and gasp when I feel the thickness of his erection. For a moment there, I actually thought I was sitting on a flashlight.

  He throws back his head and laughs at my reaction. One arm wraps around my waist, pinning me. He shifts in his seat and his thickness is pressed between my butt cheeks, and I’m suddenly so damp that I press my legs together for fear he’ll notice.

  Then he digs his fork into the pile of garlicy, buttery pasta and twirls it, and inserts it into my mouth.

  It tastes heavenly, I have to admit. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten food that wasn’t stale. There are plump, juicy mussels with their ocean tang, and little chunks of cooked garlic.

  He sets the fork down in between each bite, giving me time to chew and swallow. I’m itching to grab the fork and eat at my own pace, but I don’t dare set him off again.

  “May I please have a drink?” I ask. He reaches for a cut-crystal glass of water and holds it up to my lips. I take a long sip and then when I pull my head away, some of it spills on me. He grabs a napkin and blots my mouth and my chin. My shirt has a big water stain on it, and it’s uncomfortable.

  “Please. This is really weird. Please can I at least hold my own water glass?” I beg.

  He grabs my chin and forces me to turn my head and look at him.

  “What did you just say to me?” he growls. There’s murder in his eyes. I’m pinned down on the lap of a madman, being force-fed my lunch, and if I try to protest, he’ll hurt me. Very badly. I’m scared, my butt throbs with pain, and I hate everything about this. So why am I so wet between the legs?

  “Nothing,” I say, blinking away tears.

  He resumes feeding me, and alternates with sips of water between every few bites. He spills more water, as I try, and fail, to anticipate when he’ll pull the glass away. He blots me with the napkin, very thoroughly and carefully. My shirt gets soggier.

  Frustration swells inside me. I’ve fed myself since I was a toddler. I fed my little brother, too. And after my mom left, I’d nag my father to eat. I’ve depended only on myself for so long that the thought of depending on anyone else fills me with panic and rage, but here I am, being force-fed, at the exact pace that he wants me to eat.

  The hot arousal pulsing between my legs makes me even angrier. I can’t help but be turned on when Claudio’s enormous cock is pressed up against my private parts, and it’s just not fair, because it doesn’t reflect the way I feel about him at all. I want to leap to my feet and run from this room, run from this house, hide from him forever...

  He shoves another forkful of food into my mouth, and I choke a little, but force myself to swallow.

  Tears spill out onto my cheeks and run down my face. He blots them away with his napkin without saying a word and keeps feeding me.

  “I’m getting full,” I say. “Thank you,” I add stiffly.

  He holds up another bite.

  “Please,” I say. “I don’t want to be sick. I’m just not used to eating that much at one time.”

  He moves the fork to my mouth and I swallow it. He does it again, and now I’m starting to panic. Will he ever let me stop eating? What will he do to me if I vomit?

  One more bite and he sets the fork down. I think he made me take those last bites just to make a point. My stomach is uncomfortably full, but I don’t dare complain.

  He slides his arm off my waist and gives me a little shove, and I stand up. He stands up too. “Stay there while I clear the table.”

  He moves briskly and efficiently, loading the dish-washer. I don’t move until he comes back.

  “Now you’re going to shower.”

  “Are you going to direct everything I do?” I ask quietly.

  “Your hair’s greasy, and you smell like cheap soap,” he says harshly, and I flinch at his cruel words. He’s right. I’ve been taking cold showers for weeks ever since the heat was turned off for our apartment, and I ran out of shampoo days ago and I’ve been washing my hair with the slivers of soap from the soap dish.

  Am I going to be allowed to ever go back to my apartment? Can I see my father? Can I visit Mary?

  The panic is swelling up in me again. I want to ask a million questions, but I’m so afraid of the answers that the words die in my throat.

  I let him walk me through the apartment and into an enormous bedroom. There’s a black iron four-poster bedframe, with a white quilt, and I see handcuffs on long chains affixed to the frame at the headboard and footboard, and also, hanging from the end of the frame.

  This room is as cold and surgically neat as the rest of the apartment. Even the handcuffs are arranged symmetrically.

  “Have you brought other women here?” I blurt.

  “Who do you think the handcuffs are for?” he says, looking amused.

  He’s right. Stupid question. My stomach curdles, and suddenly I hate the bed. I had the faint hope that I was special somehow, that I was the first woman he’d brought here. I’m still trying to find just the smallest glimmer of romance on my wedding day. And I’m a fool.

  He takes me to a big walk in closet. The left half is filled with racks of women’s clothing – with the price tags dangling off them. Very pricey items. I lean in and take a closer look; they’re all my size. There’s a shoe rack with a couple of dozen pairs of shoes. I’m sure they’re my size too.

  As if he, or one of his street soldiers, went on a shopping trip very recently, anticipating that I’d be here. Should I be flattered? I’m just chilled.

  “Take off what you’re wearing so I can burn it. Pick something clean to change into and go wash off.”

  I obey him quickly, stripping down and handing him my clothing, which he takes with an expression of distaste.

  When I’m in the shower, I see that he’s stocked it with a very high end honeysuckle shampoo. He actually knows what scent I like.

  That’s about as romantic as it’s going to get today, I guess. I lather quickly, embarrassed by his earlier comment on my greasy hair. I wait for him to come join me, and I find myself running my hands over my body and thinking of him.

  Will he bathe me, the same way he fed me? I guess not, because he never joins me. I carefully soap the curls between my legs, washing away all evidence of my arousal, and finally I emerge, stomach still bloated from too much food, feeling achy and unsatisfied between my legs.

  I glance at my butt in the full-length mirror. There are huge handprints on there where he spanked me. I trace them lightly with my fingers; the pain has faded and now there’s a dull, odd pleasure to it.

  He’s not in the bedroom. I pull on a pair of designer jeans which are easily worth a month of my salary, and a silky blouse, and I step into a low pair of heels.

  When I wander out of the room, and go to the living room, he’s not there either.

  My new husband doesn’t even want to spend time with me on the evening of our wedding.

 
But he’s not my husband. He’s a cold, cruel man who kills people, and who’s treating me like some kind of inconvenience that’s been foisted off on him. I’m just some annoying girl to be ordered around and insulted.

  My eyes are full of tears again. Impulsively, I go into the foyer and grab my purse from the hook, and turn the door handle.

  The door swings open.

  Just like that.

  I step outside into the cool dark evening. The streetlamps are on. Unlike in my neighborhood, they all work, they don’t flicker, and there’s not a single cracked globe.

  There’s a man across the street, leaning against a car and talking on his phone. He turns to look at me, and he doesn’t stop staring.

  I walk to the bottom of the steps. He’s still watching me.

  I look at the other end of the street, and there’s another man there.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up. This whole street has a feeling to it...an odd buzz of danger. Of being watched. I’d bet just about anything that this is mostly or entirely a mob street, and there are always a few men casually standing around or strolling outside, just to make that point. And a lot more who aren’t so visible.

  There would be cameras, and someone watching them all the time. Nothing would happen on this street without the Family’s knowledge.

  I turn around and stalk back up the steps.

  Claudio is standing in the doorway waiting for me, and menace crackles from him like static electricity, stinging my skin.

  “Going somewhere?” he snarls.

  Chapter Seven

  Claudio

  My wife looks at me with fear in her eyes as I shut the door behind her.

  “Am I not allowed to go out for a stroll?” she asks, a little defensively. She wasn’t thinking of strolling. She was thinking of running. Can’t say I blame her; I’d run from me too.

  Too bad for her, I’m never letting her go.

  I slam my hand down on her shoulder and guide her back into the living room. “Not without asking my permission,” I say. “And not alone. I’m a man who has enemies. I need to know where you are at all times, because people will try to use you against me.”