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

  Why am I even explaining myself to her? Is that what husbands do? Who am I kidding – I’m not her husband, I’m her jailer.

  I show her where the remote control is in the coffee table drawer and turn on the TV for her. Then I head back to my office without a word. I have work to do, businesses to check on, underlings to check in with.

  But when I sit down at my desk, I’m distracted. The woman I’ve been jerking off to every night is sitting in my living room. She’s my property now. And what am I going to do with my new toy?

  I have to admit to myself, I don’t know yet. But I do know I want her obedience. I crave her surrender, tinged with fear and lust. I want to plunge into her lush body and take her again and again, to fill her with my seed, to mark her and make her mine.

  Making her wait for me is part of my game. She’s terrified of me, she’s on pins and needles, dreading my next move. I like that so much that I’m drawing it out. She’s the rich dessert I will gorge on bite by bite, nibbling away at her until I’ve consumed her will, her defiance, her soul, until she’s nothing but an empty vessel for my needs.

  I finally finish checking in with all of my men. Diego wants me to meet up with him tonight at one of his nightclubs. One of the bouncers has been getting handsy with the waitresses, groping them, telling them if they want to keep their jobs they need to be nice to him, which is not cool. Diego asked me to come by and have a little chat with him. Oh, and he wants me to bring a hammer.

  I find Heather in the living room, reading a book on the sofa. She sets it down when I come in, and I shake my head at her. “I have to go to a meeting. I’ll be out late. Don’t leave the house again.”

  She stares at me in shock. "You’re...going out on our wedding night?"

  "Do I stutter?’

  She looks down at the floor, biting her lip. "This isn't a real marriage, is it?"

  That makes me angry. "Don’t push me, woman. It's as real as the fucking air you’re breathing.”

  “But you’re leaving.” She’s speaking so softly that I can barely hear.

  I move closer to her. "You've hardly been acting like a bride who wants her husband to stay."

  "You can barely stand me." There's quiet accusation in her voice.

  That actually makes me laugh. "Babe, if I couldn't stand you, I promise you, you would know. This is as nice as I am to anybody. Nicer."

  "If you say so." She doesn’t sound particularly impressed. I shouldn’t care, but it makes me angry.

  "If you want me to stay here and be with you on your wedding night, convince me."

  She's a stubborn little thing. She looks up at me with resentment simmering in her cornflower blue eyes. "If it were a real marriage, I wouldn’t have to beg. If you don't want to be with me tonight, you don't have to."

  I grab her hand and place it on my swollen cock. She sucks in a startled breath. I release her hand, and she pulls it away as if she’d been burned.

  "You think I don't want to be with you? And I gave you credit for being a smart girl."

  That earns me a glare. "You don't have to be such a bastard all of the time."

  I pull her up against me, my arm looped around her slender waist. "There’s where you’re wrong. This is me. This is your husband. And this is also the reason you're alive, and your brother is alive. For now." I feel her stiffen with anger, but I don’t let go.

  "You want to know more about your husband? Here’s a little something. I have needs. And I want you so fucking bad my whole body aches. But I’ve never forced myself on a woman; that’s not my thing. So if my wife doesn’t want me in her bed, I’ll find someone else.”

  “You are such a prick!” She tries to yank away, and I tighten my hand on her arm so she’s trapped. The thought of any other woman touching me is about as appealing as French-kissing a dead skunk. But I won't tell her that, because then she might not agree to the things I want to do to her.

  "Thanks, babe.” I smirk at her. “I'm just warning you, so you know what you’re agreeing to. I like things one way. My way. I like it rough, but I promise, I make it feel good too."

  She bites her lip, and I’m ready to explode in my pants.

  “Stay with me,” she whispers, her voice low and shamed. “Please.”

  Triumph surges through me. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that, needed my wife to want me so badly that she’d beg for it. "Wait here. I have to make a phone call."

  I call Diego and tell him that something's come up.

  He sounds surprised. I have never cancelled on him, not in the entire time I've known him. I’ve reported to work after being stabbed, shot, hit by a car.

  I should tell him that I've done what I asked him to; picked a wife. I should tell him that I married Heather.

  But I don’t. For now, she’s my dirty little secret. I want to keep her all to myself, everything about her. I don’t even want anyone else to know she exists.

  “All right, enjoy your night off,” he says, sounding mildly puzzled. “Maybe it’ll do you good.”

  You have no idea. “Thanks, boss.”

  I go to the bedroom, anticipation heating my blood. She’s perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the chains dangling from the frame with a fearful look on her face.

  “There’s only one way I like it,” I tell her coldly. “And that’s with you tied up.”

  She goes tense. “I can handle pain. The loss of control, though...I just...” she bites her lip and looks down at the floor.

  “That’s the only thing that gets me off,” I say. “Your choice.”

  I can see the struggle going on in her mind. She wants me. She’s afraid. But finally she nods. “If this is what you want, I’ll try it.” Her voice is trembling, but she peels off her shirt and drops it on the floor. I point at the closet. “Your clothes go in the laundry basket.”

  “Sorry,” she murmurs, hurrying to obey.

  Not yet. But you will be in a few minutes.

  I love that she needs me so much that she fought through her fear. I’d like to say that I won’t make her regret it, but that would be a lie. This is how I am. The only thing that gets me off is having complete control over my partner, and pushing to their very limits. If I had a heart, I’d pity Heather for being married to me.

  I turn her so she’s lying face down, and cuff her hand and foot. Her eyes are wide with fear as she turns her head to the side, trying to snatch back at least a little bit of control by seeing what I’m about to do to her.

  Oh, no she doesn’t. I grab a blind-fold and a paddle from my dresser drawer.

  “I need to be able to see!” she cries, yanking at her restraints. I go still, and wait.

  “Fine.” She’s staring at the paddle, and she’s gone stiff with fright, but she’ll let me do anything I want rather than leave her her there alone.

  "Your safe word is Chicago. If you say it, I’ll stop whatever I'm doing, and untie you."

  "And go to someone else?" Her voice rises as she says it.

  "Yes.” I lie to my wife.

  “Don’t. I want you to stay with me.”

  I blind-fold her quickly, and then sit down on the bed next to me. I stroke her back gently, with a feather-light touch, and she lets out a low whimper of pleasure and wriggles a little. "I’m going to paddle that beautiful ass of yours. You can tell me to stop any time. If you let me paddle you six times, I’ll take your tight little pussy afterwards. Otherwise, if you stop me, I'll take your ass. And believe me, it'll hurt."

  I move my hand between her legs, and glide my fingers over her pussy. She’s so wet she’s soaking for me. She’s got thick curls between her legs, which are hot, but I decide that tomorrow I’ll have her waxed bare. There should be nothing between my wife and me; she doesn’t get to hide that sweet little pussy.

  “I can take it.” Her voice quavers. Her terror and bravery are the sweetest turn-on. She’s trembling and that just makes me harder.

  I move my hand back over her gorgeous butt chee
ks, lightly raking the skin with my nails and feeling her shiver, not knowing what to expect.

  With my other hand, I pick up the paddle, and run the surface of it along where I’ve left a trail of goosebumps. She stiffens slightly at the feel of the thick leather, and I hear her breaths quicken.

  I raise the paddle high, and bring it down fast with a satisfying crack against her butt cheeks. She lets out a yelp, and I rub the blossoming red slash on her skin. I normally don’t spend time in between hits, but something makes me want to prolong her fear, the anticipation between each strike.

  She’s face down, but I would bet all of my assets that her tits were diamond hard, stabbing into the bed. I’m already regretting that I told her I would only paddle her six times. I’m stretching it out for me, too.

  “That’s the first one.” I announce, and right on cue, her head lifts to give me some sass.

  “No kidd—” Wham!

  Her response ends in a shriek, as the paddle connects with her rear end. I smirk to myself. I already know her well enough that she would have bit back making a sound after that first yelp. She’s already starting to squirm, but the restraints are keeping her in place. She won't be saying anything sassy now.

  Two flaming spots are blooming now on her ass, and it’s what I aim for with my third strike, with even more force. She tries to hold back the howl, and is even more frustrated with her failure. I know, because she’s starting to cry. Hell, I gave her a safe word. And she’s choosing not to tap out.

  So I load up the next swing to make it count. I swat her left cheek, with a satisfying thwacking sound, and this time she stifles a shriek.

  Good girl. I’m proud of my wife.

  I move slowly around her butt with the last three strikes, until the skin on both cheeks is glowing red. She takes it like a champ, and her gasps of pain are mingled with pants of arousal. She’s perfect for me. Too bad I’m not perfect for her. Hell, I’m not even good for her.

  But I’m a selfish prick so I don’t care. All I can focus on right now is the way she makes me feel – like a conqueror looking at his prize in triumph.

  And I’m ready to claim my win.

  I shed my pants and my cock juts out, free of its prison. I leave my shirt on, and the fabric drapes either side of it as I roll on a condom. She’s still quivering, breathing in anticipation, helpless and blindfolded. Knowing that all her thoughts and senses are attuned to me, and what I do to her, is what’s on my mind as I drive into her tight, wet sheath.

  “So fucking good,” I groan, at the same time she gasps. Seeing myself balls deep into her, with that reddened ass welcoming me in, makes me grit my teeth as I slide out, to ram into her again. She makes a sound again, but this time it’s closer to a moan, especially as I roll my hips and plunge deep into her slick heat over and over.

  I move a hand around her to find that little clit, and now she’s moaning in earnest against the bed, as I move my fingers expertly.

  The sounds she’s making mesh well with my own grunts, and I ply her pussy faster until she screams into the pillow. Her velvet walls convulse around my hardness, milking me, setting off my own release into her in waves of sensation.

  When I’m at last emptied, I let my hands stay on her a split second too long, reluctant to let go of her. I shake that unfamiliar feeling off and pull myself out. I hear her breath hitch, and she shifts her weight against her restraints. It makes the bright crimson on her ass move, catch my attention, and I almost reach out to stroke it.

  Almost.

  Instead, I undo the leather cuffs, one at a time. First the ankles, so she can relieve any strain on her muscles, and then the wrists. When the last restraint is removed, she lies there, limp, not moving, for a full minute before she finally drags herself up to a sitting position.

  "Shower," I order her. She stands up, legs shaking. It's cruel of me to push her away right now, but I can’t give her what she needs. Tenderness. Reassurance. I know people who are genuinely into BDSM, and they say that after a “scene”, the submissive needs to be brought out of it gently.

  I wouldn’t even know how to begin to do something like that.

  I quickly head off to the shower in the guest room, so I can wash myself in privacy.

  After what I experienced when I was younger, I can’t bear filth or disorder. And I can't handle physical or emotional closeness. The moment sex is over, I want a woman to get the hell away from me. Sex is just satisfying a bodily need, like eating or eliminating waste.

  Then why do I have the desire to rush back there, and gather Heather in my arms and hold her?

  It wouldn’t be a kindness. If I do that, I’ll just be leading her on, making her believe that I’m something I’m not. Why get her hopes up, only to crush them?

  I finish my shower and put on a t shirt and boxer shorts. Being naked in front of another person means you trust them enough to be vulnerable to them. That will never be me. I’ve never been naked in front of a woman in my life, and I won’t be naked for my wife, either.

  She’s still showering when I come back to my bedroom. When she finishes, she settles into the sofa at the far end of the room. As I lie there, I hear her quiet sobs, muffled by the sofa cushion. She cries until she falls asleep.

  Some wedding night.

  Chapter Eight

  Heather

  I wake up aching all over, with a hollow, lonely feeling. I feel so stupid. Why did I ask him to stay?

  Why did I pretend, even for a few hours, that I was really his wife instead of his prisoner? He made me feel like nothing. And that’s exactly how much I mean to him – nothing. I just need to keep my head down and avoid pissing him off too much, until I can figure out a way out of this.

  I could get a few grand if I pawned the diamond ring. Enough to set me up in another city. But what about my dad, and Mary? I can’t leave until I at least talk to them.

  Claudio’s not in the bedroom, so I get dressed and go to the kitchen. He’s scrambling some eggs, and there’s a pile of bacon and a bowl of hash browns on the table already.

  I stand there in the doorway. "Well, this is awkward. I really don't know how to greet my kidnapper first thing in the morning."

  He gives me a quick glance and then returns to his eggs. "How about, thanks for not killing me?"

  “Wow, that sets a pretty low bar for our relationship.”

  “Then you’ll never be disappointed.” He carries the eggs over to the table and sets them down.

  “What are you waiting for?” he says impatiently. “Come sit on my lap.”

  I quickly move to obey, because I ache all over and I can still feel the faint imprint of his hand from yesterday’s spanking. When I sit on his lap, he’s hard again. Is he like that all the time, or is it just for me?

  He wraps his arm around my waist, and starts feeding me the scrambled eggs.

  I consider myself lucky that he lets me pour my own coffee from a carafe, and drink that on my own. But it drives me crazy being fed like this. I hate feeling helpless, and I squirm uncomfortably in his lap. As if to punish me for my restlessness, he varies the pace that he feeds me, sometimes shoving in a couple of mouthfuls at a time so fast I almost choke, other times waiting so long between bites that I think he might be done. When I start to get up, though, he tightens his arm warningly.

  “Is your memory that bad?”

  “I thought you were finished.”

  “Did I say you could get up?” His voice has a snap to it.

  “No,” I mutter sullenly, and he spoons in another mouthful of hashbrowns. I chew obediently, and hold myself perfectly still. After half a dozen more bites, my plate is empty and he sets the spoon down.

  “Good girl,” he croons into my ear. “Now you can get up.” I move to the chair next to him, and pour myself another cup of coffee.

  “I left in the middle of the day yesterday and never went back. Mary will be worried about me,” I muse.

  Claudio just looks at me blankly, tucking in to his
own breakfast. Empathy isn’t his thing.

  "I don't suppose I'm allowed to go back to work?" I say hopefully. It's not that I loved that job, but I've been working since I was twelve. I hate having time on my hands.

  "The wife of a high ranking mafiya, waiting tables at a coffee shop?” he snorts. “Yeah, that’ll happen.”

  "I'm not going to sit here all day and do nothing," I said indignantly.

  He shoots to his feet and glares at me. "What did you just say to me?"

  The air feels thick with rage and the look on his face is utterly terrifying; I almost pee myself. I am sure that's the last look that people see before he kills them. He stands there glaring down at me, and I shrink back in my seat, my heart thundering in my chest.

  "I just meant...if I don’t work, I won’t have the money to pay my father's rent on his apartment,” I say in a very small voice. “He’s supposed to go home soon. He’d be out on the street.”

  "You think I can't take care of my wife’s family?" There still danger in his voice, but the psychotic edge has lessened a little bit. “I just paid for the next three months.”

  "Oh. Thank you,” I murmur, so low that I can barely hear myself speak. I seem to have lost my voice. I’m afraid if I exceed a certain decibel level, I’ll set him off again like a noise-activated bomb. “I'd also really like to have something to keep me busy during the day. I was going to go to school before. I'm not the stay at home type."

  “You’re whatever type I want you to be. And right now, I want you to be the quiet type.”

  I suck in a sharp breath at that. His words hurt me more than his spanking did.

  And he sits back down and finishes his breakfast. Conversation over, I guess.

  “I’ll load the dishwasher,” I say very quietly, and he doesn’t respond, so I do it in silence.

  He heads off to what I assume is his office, upstairs, and I’m left to read and watch TV for the next few hours. I send Mary a text message telling her that I’m fine, but I’m going to be out sick for the rest of the week. I send my father a text message letting him know that I love him, and can’t wait to see him on Monday. I can’t think of a way to explain my situation to her. Or my dad.