Conquered by the Mafia Boss

Everything about him felt intoxicating, and I had to work really hard to appear in control. Johnny seems like just the type to take advantage of any weakness. His hands on my waist made me so wet that I was afraid it would soak through my panties. Then his hot lips touched mine and he actually shoved his tongue into my mouth, right in front of anyone.

It’s all I’ll ever think about again.

It’s stupid, I know. Beatrice and I heard rumors the bar was connected with the Mafia. It might be true, but I convinced her to go anyway. I didn’t expect anything to come out of it. Maybe I was desperate for a bit of harmless flirting, but every dirty word that flew out of Johnny’s mouth turned me on.

The side of my face still burns as I sit on my bed, forced to a sitting position as my dad takes a step closer, flinging the dress at my face.

God, I hate him.

I’ll take classes at the beauty school I picked out and upgrade from my job at the café. I’ll become a hair stylist and finally get enough money for my own place.

Then I can get the hell out of here.

“Are you done? Can you get out of my room?”

Don’t fucking push it.

Dad’s bushy eyebrows narrow even farther. I can’t suppress a shiver when he turns his face, that horribly pitted scar like a crater in his skin. I’ve never been afraid of my father. All my life it’s been push and pull. Seeing how much I can get away with. He smacked around my mom enough to make me hate him. Sometimes I hate myself for being too much of a coward to try to stop him from laying one more hand on my mom’s face. He stopped doing it years ago, when he became president and wanted to clean up his image. It was enough to stop him from hitting his wife, but not enough to stop his bikers from peddling crack to kids at school.

“Tony wants a haircut tomorrow.”

“Tony can cut his own goddamn hair.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“I’m not cutting anyone’s hair for free anymore. My time is not a fucking charity-”

“You’ll do what I say, or you’ll get another hand across your face.”Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

I stand up from the bed, knowing that he won’t do it. He’s already regretting his words. Doubt flickers in his eyes.

“I want in-and-out privileges. I don’t want to ask you permission to go to the store or to my work.”

Someone crashes through the hallway, stomping noisily. I catch a flash of a half-naked stripper clinging to a patched member, and my blood boils.

His smiling face turns back toward me. “No.”

No.

It’s a word I’ve heard my whole goddamn life: no.

No, I’m not going to buy that for you. No, I’m not taking you to practice. No, I’m not paying for fucking school. No, no, no.

I fucking hate that word.

Even worse is that smug look on my father’s face when he denies something that I really want. Something I’ve been saving up for a long time, like the beauty school classes.

I used to cry my fucking eyes out. Scream with rage and pound my fists on the walls so that everyone in the club could hear how much of a spoiled brat I was, but I didn’t care. Mom would argue with him, would try to take pity on me-to allow me this one, small thing. No.

Then I swallowed it down over the years. Did whatever Dad said, because it was easier. Pretending not to care and building up walls around myself was easier than letting myself feel how powerless I am.

But I just can’t take it this time.

I pace inside the small room Dad cleared up for me in the garage. It’s a quartered-off space with a couple sinks for washing hair, a chair, and a giant, old mirror. I yank open the drawers, looking at the scissors arranged neatly side by side. They rattle as I slam it shut.

All of it is fucking useless if I can’t go to beauty school and get the hell out of here. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point?

What’s the point of practicing on these douchebags?

Blood pounds through my limbs as I seize a heavy hair dryer. I look at myself in the mirror. A girl with widened eyes and shaking lips stares back at me.

She looks weak.

I hurl the dryer at the mirror. It shatters and swings from the nails on the wall, crashing to the concrete. That’s not enough. I stomp on the shards, grinding them to dust under my boots. Fuck him and this place.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Mom’s shrill voice stabs my ears before I feel her hand seizing my shoulder roughly.

“He’s trying to keep me here like some fucking pet!”

Mom crosses her arms over her low-cut black t-shirt, tossing her head to shake the dark hair from her eyes. “Everybody has a place in this club.”

I grit my teeth. “I never wanted this. Since I was a kid, I wanted to be normal.”

She reaches up and cuffs the side of my head like a bear swatting one of her cubs. “That’s enough.”

It’s not nearly enough.

“He’s a piece of shit-he thinks he can just lock me inside-”

“Go, then. If you want to live out there so badly, just leave. Leave and see what happens.”

The hollow feeling in my chest gapes open. Everything falls inside. Every hope I have for myself drowns in that emptiness.

“You know you can’t leave, baby. I know it’s hard, but everything he does is for your protection. He loves you.”

Mom touches my face and pushes back my thick hair, looking at me under dark lashes. That’s how she always is: a rising tide or a gentle lull. Crashing down on you one moment and then kissing you on the cheek the other.

“He doesn’t love me. He just wants to control me.”

I brush past my mom, the broken pieces snapping under my boots. The satisfying sound doesn’t quite take the edge off my anger, but it helps.

I’m going back to that bar, and I’m going to fuck the shit out of that guy.

I decide it the moment I step into the sunshine. If Dad’s determined to keep me imprisoned, I’m going to make his life hell, starting with giving myself to the hottest Italian guy I’ve ever seen.

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