Page 17 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

He laughs. “Dec’s going to be pissed.”

“Little prick.” I roll my eyes at Seamus. “There are a few bars on the Lower East Side I want to check out. Then maybe we can hit a strip joint or a sex club. You think you can control yourselves if we have Dec and Torin meet us?”

“Sure we can, we’re mature.”

I take another drag. I’ll believe that when I see it.

My brothers are definitely not the mature type. Well, Dec isn’t. I sometimes doubt Seamus, and Tor… he keeps it tight. But one thing they never do is mess up—they never choose pussy over family. If one of them falls in love, I’d bet my money on Dec, who’s in his early twenties and thinks life’s been a ball ever since he can remember. He was too young for the tough times, too young to remember when Da got shot, then when Da was double-crossed and went to prison.

Not by a fellow criminal or gang member, but by one of the faithful who decided Da could serve time when he could do better out here.

As Da always said, you can trust a criminal, but when hearts and souls are on the line… fuck no.

I took that fucking bastard out one cold night in Dublin. Da’s still serving time, but the man responsible is dead at least.

The girls are hot and fine in thestrip club we’re at, but it’s not the thing I want to sink money into. The whole system’s too tight, too legit, according to Seamus. It’s good if we want some aboveboard properties and businesses, but…

I’m looking for something else.

Dec finds what he’s looking for at the sex club, and I’m not sure how much bleach exists to wash out our eyes and brains while watching him get serviced in front of us. Seamus flirts, and Tor drinks with me. But the place has depth—it’s on my radar and it’s for sale for the right price. I watch a sex show happening behind a glass, cage-like room across from us. A girl in a coat catches my eye—long gold curls, a black coat, those fucking heels. She doesn’t look like my masked vixen, but there’s a similarity—the hair, the coat.

But as this girl sensuously shimmies out of it, my girl would have thrown it in my face. A man in black with a whip in his hand, motions her to a pommel horse-type contraption. He ties her, spread-eagle, and runs the whip over her.

Would my masked girl like that?

Is she that kinky?

I’m not sure, but there was something so fucking erotically hot, and at the same time innocent about her, like she didn’t know she was rubbing herself on me, trying to get off, almost like a?—

Fuck. No.

She let me finger her to two orgasms. I close my eyes, disinterested in the show going on in front of me. My masked girl’s golden eyes glow in my head, that mouth which refused to quit calls to me. And her cunt… fuck…

How the hell am I gonna find her?

I also know she’s probably trying to sort out what happened—fighting the need that pulsed between us, that made her silently beg for me. She knows enough about myworld to realize what the fuck I am—and she ran when I shot the dickhead who was going to kill her.

Yeah, I’m going to find her again. Somehow.

As soon as I sort out this fucking sham marriage and take what I want from my new bride.

Vincent de Rosa paces in his office at his overgrown and tacky palace in Bayside a week later. I light a cigarette and wait for him to stop.

He casts me a barely confined irritated look, which is rich, considering he clearly stinks up the room with cigar smoke on the regular from the smell of it, but I don’t say a thing.

I keep smoking, and I’m thinking of lighting up again as soon as I finish, chain-smoking my way through the meeting to really piss him off.

After all, he’s making me miss the basketball pickup game in the Cage at West Fourth. We have money on it, and without me… eh, we’ll probably get beaten, depending on who else shows up. It’s my way to regularly blow off steam, and he’s fucking up my process.

I wait for him to stop pacing.

If he was nervous at the prenup signing, he’s fucking beyond panicked right now. I could probably get a full glass from the sweat he keeps mopping up.

Even if I hadn’t been planning on the pickup game, I still wouldn’t be here the day before the engagement party. But he’s been calling me like a jilted teenage girl. I know it’s not to cancel our plans. He knows he can’t afford to lose my connections or my UK/European power.

I blow out a smoke ring and pick up some ridiculous piece of art that I use as an ashtray. “Out with it. Whatever’s gotyour panties all twisted, Vincent, spit it out. This is why I have the prenup and clauses. If there’s an enemy threatening you, you’ll have to pay for it to be taken care of this time.”

“I don’t?—”

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