Conquered by the Mafia Boss

“Come home with me,” I say in a deep voice. “Daddy doesn’t have to know.”

The effect of my words slides down her throat like a hot drop. Her lips tremble as she stares at me.

“Can’t. Sorry.”

Then she gives me a quick peck on my cheek.

“Thanks for the drink.”

Thanks for the drink.

Like I’m some fucking chump. This has to be a joke.Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

She gives me a scathing look. “I never promised I’d go home with you.”

Her hair feels like silk in my hands. I let her strands glide through my fingers as I watch her inhale deeply, trying to hide how much she wants me. “I don’t like being teased.”

A blush rises in her cheeks. “I didn’t-”

I back her against the wall. “No, you just wanted to fuck with me. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Some harmless flirting, and then you give him blue balls and go home to Daddy without finishing what you started.”

She doesn’t back down. A light blazes from her eyes as she clenches her jaw shut, clearly bursting to tell me off. I step back from her, and she throws me an ugly look before walking away.

“If I see you in this bar again, I’ll throw your ass out. Don’t come back here.”

I say it to her back, but she hears me. She slows her step and then walks out of the hallway, disappearing into the bar.

My cock’s still rock hard and I want to hit something.

I walk into the bar, ready to smash my fist through the drywall, to beat in the first person’s face who looks at me wrong. What’s wrong with being Italian? It’s not like she was Irish.

Tabarnak de câlisse, it pisses me off.

I look around the bar, tempted to find another broad to bang and forget about the hot one still burning in my mind, but none are half as beautiful.

François, my captain, gives me a curious look as I return to the bar counter. “Did you get her number?”

My arms cross over my chest. “She doesn’t fuck Italians.”

He chokes with laughter. “Well, she picked the right place.”

It’s a connected bar. Everyone knows that. It’s my bar-and I’m the boss of the Cravotta Crime Family.

He beckons to me, leaning in to talk close in a hushed whisper. “Listen, me and the guys have an idea for getting a copy for the guards’ keys for the heist.”

I don’t feel like talking business. My desire for the party evaporated the moment that girl walked out on me.

“We’ll talk about it later. I’m going to head out.”

And jack off furiously when I get home.

That girl simmers in my head the whole weekend. The rage boils over, mingling with burgeoning lust. The fact is, I get around. I score a lot of easy pussy, but none of them ever fucked with my head like this. Rejection is not something I deal with as a boss of the family. Period. Women are eager to please me just like everyone else.

“Chris, let me out here.”

My driver stops the car in front of my mother’s house and I step out of the sleek Audi, shutting the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

God, I need to get it together.

The last thing I want is to visit my ma, but I’m supposed to be a family man. It’s important to respect your family in this business, even if I don’t care for mine. At the end of the day, I do whatever the fuck I want, but it’s hard to shake off that feeling of duty to your family.

I knock on the door, my fist banging against the dense wood. Seconds later, Ma wrenches it open. She’s well kept, my mother, and that’s always something I admired about her.

“Johnny!”

She wears an apron over her yellow dress and looks at my suit, her eyes widening. “Look at you, looking so handsome. Do you have a date?”

Jesus Christ. This again.

I step inside her house. “No, Ma. This is how I always look.”

Her eyes wrinkle. “I wish you would get a girlfriend and settle down.”

“I did, remember? Twice?”

Married twice. Divorced twice. I married Stacey when I was too young, and all we did was resent each other. Karen, my second wife, left me. That part of my life is over. I guess you could say that I gave up on having the perfect family life. Fuck it. I like being able to go out whenever the fuck I want. I like fucking a new piece of ass every night.

Which inevitably reminds me of the piece of ass who teased me a couple nights ago. Who I can’t get out of my goddamn head.

“When am I going to get grandchildren?”

“Did you just invite me over to give me shit about this again?” My angry voice echoes in the small apartment as she guides me to the kitchen.

“Johnny, I don’t like hearing you curse.”

Mange d’la marde.

“Sorry.”

“Come, you need to eat. You’re too skinny.”

I’m always “too skinny” for her. She expects me to bloat like a beached whale, like my old man. He was a fat fuck.

She flaps her hands, motioning me toward the bowl of spaghetti alla Bolognese. Ma serves me at least a pound of pasta. The steam rises from it in spirals, the spices from the meat failing to distract me from my two ex-wives.

It’s really the only thing I’ve ever failed at in life. I have all the money and pussy I could possibly fucking want. The only thing I don’t have-a family-I failed at. Twice.