Owned by the mafia boss

MICHAEL

Happiness was a fickle thing.

In my twenties, I chased it with a series of ridiculous goalposts. I’ll be happy when I make two million dollars a year. I’ll be satisfied when I bang three girls at the same time. I’ll be content when I’m not trapped in a dead marriage with a woman I hate.

You get the picture.

It set me up for disappointment because the goalposts never stopped moving further away. It wasn’t until I destroyed them that I found joy in everyday things-a cup of coffee, rain washing the pavement, fucking Carmela.

It had been a perfect morning.

Perfect, like Carmela’s lingering kiss when I tried to say goodbye. Sweet and hot. She didn’t want to let go of me, and leaving her felt wrong. She’d given me everything I’d wanted, and it’d made me optimistic.

Maybe this could work.

Maybe we’d be like those obnoxiously cheerful couples I usually hated.

I was riding high after she’d ridden me all night, and I’d never been so exhausted. My face cracked with a ridiculous grin as I strolled into Sanctum, my underground sex club.

The club was all black accented with gold, and everywhere was jammed with beautiful women and guys thirsty for high-class ass. Girls wearing animal silk masks and designer lingerie hung like ornaments beside their male companions. A naked woman sat on all fours, balancing a tray of drinks on her back as two men chatted. Others did a striptease. People fucked on chaises and sofas, in rooms with doors opened.

Pure hedonism. Madness.

I’d been known to indulge, but those days were over. Familiar faces smiled at me, but I ignored them. I’d never been so indifferent to naked women. I made a beeline for the round entrance. The doors yawned into a room flickering with orange light from a glass wall fireplace. Obsidian furniture packed the space, the barely visible silhouettes shimmering. Silver grout around brick shimmered. This area was invitation-only. It was where we kept our A-listers, Saudi princes, British royalty, anybody who needed more privacy.

I spotted a stoic man standing outside a booth along with Julian’s flash of blond hair. His expression said he was bored out of his mind. He tapped on his smartphone, his pale gaze meeting mine when I approached.

“Hey, Michael.”

I grunted. “How long has he been here?”

“All night.”

I glanced inside the booth. Anthony’s hair spilled over the leather, his eyes closed and his lips curled in lazy contentment. “Is he high?”

“Probably.”

Fucking Anthony.

The dad in me wanted to fix him, to guide him by the hand and teach him things. Mostly, I wished I could strangle him. He was a pain in the ass, like my four-year-old could sometimes be, except I didn’t love Anthony unconditionally.

The booth was a mess. Empty bottles, glassware, mounds of powder littered the marble table. The idiot thought he was Scarface. The girls helped themselves to lines of coke as I stomped inside.

“There are no drugs allowed in this club.”

Leticia straightened, rubbing her nose. “Wha-Michael? Oh shit.” She elbowed the other woman, a new hire. “Michael, we’re so sorry. We didn’t-he offered.”

“Get out.”

They scampered.

“Michael. What a surprise.” Anthony pushed himself upright. “Have a seat-join me. Want a hit?”

He knew damned well I was off cocaine.

“I have two kids at home.”

“You’re just as boring as Alessio.” Anthony patted his jacket, recovering a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one between his lips and searched for a lighter. “Never mind. How’ve you been?”

“Pissed off.”

“Why?”

“For starters? I’m here instead of knocking up my wife.”

Anthony grimaced. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“I have enough on my plate without you. I spent the day talking to our partners. Trying to convince them you’ll stay out of trouble. You’re killing me, Anthony. You really are. What are you doing?”

“Having a cigarette.”

“There’s no smoking in here.” I plucked it out of his mouth and crushed it. “And I don’t allow drugs at Sanctum. Not now-not ever.”

Anthony grinned as he gave me a heavy-lidded stare. “You’re the boss.”

I cuffed him across the face, and the gleam in Anthony’s eyes burned brighter. “Don’t talk back to me.”

“Who the hell do you think you are-my dad? We’re the same age.”

“Act like a child, and I’ll treat you like one.”

Anthony raked his hair, behaving as though he was on the verge of a meltdown. “Fuck you, Michael. I have an addiction.”

“How many trips to rehab do you need?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Why do you keep doing this? Is it a cry for help? A drawn-out suicide attempt? Do you want to die?”

His voice darkened. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No,” he sulked. “I don’t want to die.”

“Then prove it. Stop doing this shit to yourself.” I grabbed his arm, marveling at how much weight he’d lost. “Go home and lay low.”

“Give me something to do, and I swear I’ll dump the coke and-and the clubs.”

I was all for giving the dipshit some responsibility, but Nico was adamant about keeping his son out of the mafia.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m the next in line! I should be acting boss, not Vinn.”

“One, you’re a train wreck. Nobody will follow your orders. Two, this isn’t England. You don’t just inherit the throne. Three, you get killed if you hang out in public. Every gangster in Boston is gunning for you.”

Anthony seized the bottle of vodka and brought the neck to his lips. I yanked it from his grip and resisted the urge to crack him over the head. I pulled him out of the booth and shoved him into a bodyguard’s arms.

“I promised your father I’d keep you alive, but you seem hell-bent on killing yourself, so I’m cutting you off. No more visits to Sanctum.”

“Fine. I’ll freeload somewhere else.”

Talking to him was a waste of time.

I faced his bodyguard, who had bags hanging under his eyes. “I’m hiring more guys to help you. I want him surrounded day and night. No drugs. No alcohol. No fucking clubs.”

“You got it.”

I waved my hand, indicating they should go.

Anthony shot me a look filled with poison as they dragged him to the exit, and then I turned to Julian. He watched Anthony leave, laughing when he tried to grab a hooker on his way out.

“Useless junkie.”

That bothered me, coming from him. “When you see Anthony with drugs, you call me immediately. Not after he’s snorted a felony’s worth of cocaine.”

“Michael, you’re fighting a losing battle. This kid’s going to die.”

“If that idiot dies, Nico will murder all of us.” I beckoned at Julian, who followed me into a private room. “I need you to do something.”

“Sure. What is it?”

Julian’s deadpan grated at me. He was probably annoyed that I delegated my shitty tasks to him, like babysitting Anthony. He’d lost his job a year ago. I took pity on him and offered him work because Serena had begged me. Somehow, he was still in my fucking life.

“I want you to manage this club’s black-tie events.”

Julian leaned back, sighing. “What do I know about event planning?”

“Throw a party every other Friday to induct more suckers into Sanctum. The less I’m here, the better.”

“I get it. Happy wife, happy life.” Julian sank his head onto his palm. “I’ll do it, but only if we have regular play dates. I want a relationship with my sister’s children.”

And I’d rather he disappeared. “All right.”

“How’s everything at home?”

“We’re fine.”

“Okay,” he said bracingly. “Carmela seemed upset at your wedding. I thought that was odd. Then I asked around, and nobody knows when you started dating.”

“Do you have a question?”

Julian hesitated. “Why did you propose?”

“I told you. I’ve known her for a while. We reconnected at my daughter’s birthday, and by the end, I wanted to marry her.”

“So you proposed, and she agreed. Just like that.”

“Yeah, asshole.”

“Relax, I’m not picking a fight. You and Serena weren’t a great match. I’d hate for history to repeat itself.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I stood and yanked the door, gesturing outside.

That was the thing about Julian. He was a sarcastic bastard underneath all that fake concern. I loathed the whole family. Now the fucker had gotten into my head.

Carmela did seem too good to be true.

She was amazing with the kids and drama-free. She’d respected everything I’d asked-no fighting-which never happened with Serena. I thought I’d have to throw credit cards at her and tolerate weekend retreats at Nantucket, but all she wanted to do was garden. Carmela ripped up the grass and built planter boxes while I was at work. Tomato plants now lined the east wall. The other day, I caught her clipping a flyer.

Who the fuck did I marry?

She was a rich girl who used coupons. A beauty who shoved her hands in dirt. She was a walking contradiction, and I couldn’t figure her out.

It bothered me.

I stared at my laptop as Julian left, the door closing softly. When the latch clicked, I opened the lid. I pulled a web browser and typed the credentials into her email. I’d hacked it weeks ago, but I’d held off from violating her privacy.

I shouldn’t.

But I had to.

A festering boil bubbled in my stomach as I searched her inbox, finding nothing but promotional messages. Then I dove into her Sent folder, determined to leave no stone unturned, and what I saw gutted me.

Fuck me.

My lips curled as I read every message, including the one claiming I’d hired Carmela. Within seconds, I’d stripped the camera information from Alessio’s pictures and discovered his location. Vacationing in the Amazon, my ass. He was in Boca Raton, Florida.

Sloppy.

She’d whitewashed the content of these emails to keep her sister hidden, but that didn’t bother me.

She’d lied to my face.

She swore she had no idea where they were.

Did I not explain how important it was to bring him back?

I stared at the text until the black lines bled into white, and a sickening rage engulfed my body. My impulse to make Carmela’s life easier vanished.

Carmela had no idea who she married.

I replied to the email:

Michael forced me to marry him. Help me.NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.