Page 5 of Vengeful King

The woman on my bed moans, her head tilted back. The headboard creaks almost imperceptibly. All around me, the house is silent and still.

My house.

We’re on the second floor. I don’t use my bedroom when I bring these women home; they’re sex workers, not girlfriends. They don’t give a shit about flowers and candles—and neither do I.

I don’t believe in mixing sex and feelings. It doesn’t end well, and there’s no point. Not for me, at least.

I don’t have the time. I don’t have the luxury. Not many heads of mafia families do.

It’s not that I don’t like sex. I do. If I didn’t bring home a girl every now and then, I’d probably go insane. But I can’t just date any woman in my position, and I’m not about to spend the time and money on dates that will never go anywhere. No, I don’t like sinking my effort and money into things that don’t matter. It’s not me.

Instead, I do this. I fuck women, no messy strings attached, and that’s all. Easy.

The woman gasps when I drive into her. I’m not being slow or polite about it; I know she can handle it, and I’m not in the mood to pretend I’mmaking love.There is no love here. Just need.

She’s trying to sell it, making noises, her hands twisting in the sheets. I can’t help the annoyance I feel. I’m not into it. I don’t need her to act like she’s into it; I just need a warm, tight body.

The woman moans louder. I reach out instinctively, clapping my hand over her mouth to shut her up.

And I fuck her harder.

It’s mindless. I don’t think about anything; I just move. I find out how to finish, fast, and I don’t bother worrying about whether she does. This is work for her, not pleasure. And it’s almost the same for me. I’m just taking care of one more thing, like eating or securing a deal with another family. That’s all. So I fuck her until I come and she does, too.

Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she’s just pretending, although I doubt it. Either way, I don’t really give a fuck.

I pull out and toss the condom away. I’m not stupid about things like this. I don’t need any strings, and a pregnancy is the biggest fucking string I could ever get choked by. When I hear the condom hit the trash can, I yank open the bedside table’s drawer and grab the stack of cash there.

I hold the money out. “Here. Get out.”

I’m not usually so brusque, but I have business today. I don’t have time. Thankfully, the woman doesn’t complain, just like I like. She takes the cash, adjusts her clothes, and leaves.

I don’t want to be beholden to a woman’s feelings after sex. So this is the best option. And it will be, until I have to do the one thing I’m expected to.

But that’s a matter for later.

I tug my pants on, then button them as I walk downstairs. I always give myself enough time to clean up after. I know I need it today.

My bedroom has an in-suite bathroom, spacious and spotless. I stand in front of the sink and start running the tap. There’s nothing in this place that isn’t mine—no extra set of anything, no second toothbrush. It’s just me. Just how I need it.

I look up at the mirror, at myself. I can see traces of my mother and father in myself. That used to kill me; now, it’s just a dull pain.

Dark brown hair, nearly black, and green eyes. Objectively, I know I’m a handsome man. At least on the surface. Whatever is below, it feels like I’ve been twisted up more than usual lately. And I don’t know why.

I don’t have the time to find out, so I tell myself what I always do: it doesn’t matter. I have a job to do.

I hear the front door, the code beeping. I can tell by the sound who it is. Connor, blond and built like a wall. I see him when I leave the bathroom and walk past the front door to the kitchen. He’s more cleaned up than usual, probably because of his new wife. Willow’s done about as much for him as he did for her.

That was a best-case scenario. For a while, I thought I’d have to kill her. It’s better this way.

He smirks when he sees me. “Busy?”

“Not really.” I pour myself a glass of water. I don’t drink before a meeting if I can help it.

“I’m the first, huh?”

“No, they’re hiding under the couches.”

Connor snorts and moves around to one of the couches in question. He sits in it normally, not like he used to drop onto the cushions. It’s interesting seeing how he’s changed.

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