Conquered by the Mafia Boss

I grab another slice of pizza and carelessly tear into it with my teeth as that girl pops into my head again. It just galls me that someone might discriminate against me, of all people. All week I couldn’t get that cunt out of my mind. Can’t forget the way she let me fuck her. The screams she made when she came on my dick. All week I’ve been waiting to bump into her in that bar, like some schmuck.

Whatever. I’ll find a new piece of ass to fuck. I always do. Hell, even in this restaurant. Women turn their heads to look at me, sitting with a few of my soldiers. I could ask the waitress out. She has a nice ass.

Not as nice as hers.

I swallow painfully as that truth sinks in. How can I forget her? I spanked her ass right before I sank my dick into her. Before that, she climbed into my lap naked. I can still feel her skin gliding in my palms. Her gorgeous curves bounced in front of my face. She let me put my hands all over her-she let me do things to her that I only did with hired pussy.

I smile into my wineglass as blood rushes to my cock. Fucking hell, I cannot get hard in this place.

“François, we need to head up to Sorel-Tracy. There were problems with the last shipment.”

His face twists slightly, but he nods. He hates bikers on principle. Hell, we all do, but we don’t have to like each other. We just have to work together.

They run all the drugs, and I handle just about everything else because I never wanted to be involved in drugs. I facilitate the shipments, and the bikers sell the drugs on the streets. Getting twenty-five years for possession is not worth it to me. Anyone in my crew caught selling drugs gets his head chopped off.

I get up from the table and my bodyguards follow me outside. I slide into the passenger seat of my car as François takes the wheel, and my thoughts linger on a certain brunette as he drives. Finally we get to that concrete shit-hole of a fortress that is like a beacon should the CSIS ever decide to raid the place. The walls are thick, and guards patrol the towers with guns.

François lays on the horn and the metal gate screams as it swings aside.

“Putain de merde.”

Carlos waits just inside the community, wearing his filthy leather jacket. We roll the car into a dirt parking lot and I open my door, fixing a smile on my face.

“Carlos, good to see you.”

“John.”

He nods at me, and then we walk toward that shack he calls a clubhouse. I’ll have to wipe the dust from my shoes when I get out of here. I walk past a lot of sullen, drawn faces. Like dogs at the pound. What a depressing place to live in.

The clubhouse has a bit of charm. Inside, there are strippers wearing pasties, gyrating on poles as those bearded fucks ogle them. Loud rock music grates against my ears. A biker grabs a passing stripper and pulls her onto his lap, groping her tits for everyone to see. I sneer at them as I walk by. These people have no fucking class. I don’t want to touch any surface, because I have a suspicion that the entire place is covered with a film of cum and pussy juice.

Thankfully we enter Carlos’s office, and my bodyguards wait outside. He walks behind his desk and my eyes wander over the dusty room, passing over a couple of golden frames. A figure catches my eye.

My heart jumps in my chest and I lean in, studying the picture frame. It’s a photo of Carlos, and his wife and daughter.

So? What’s got me so excited?

The daughter. The picture is a few years old, but there’s no mistaking those pouty lips and haughty eyes. Maya. The girl I’ve been fantasizing about is also the daughter of the president of Les Diables MC.

Oh fuck.

My heart races and I swallow the urge to curse out loud. Everything makes sense now. Her hesitation to fuck me. No wonder.

And she had no idea who I was the whole time. She said her dad would be pissed. No fucking kidding. This could start a war.

Fuck me.

I lean back into my chair as Carlos gives me a sharp glance. “What’s funny?”

I look into his suspicious eyes, wishing I could tell him:

I fucked your daughter.

MAYA

“Pick up every last piece, you little bitch.”

On my hands and knees, I look up at the man who stirs a flash of rage in my chest.

You fucking pick it up.

I don’t dare say it out loud, not when his men surround him and he looks as though he might knock out my teeth if I say something wrong.

But I want to take the pile of broken mirror shards in my hand and fling it into his face.

“I don’t know what the fuck is your problem. I try to support your hobbies, and you pay me back by trashing your salon?”

The edges of the mirror shards cut into my palm as he kicks aside one of the broken pieces.

“It’s not a fucking hobby. It’s going to be my career.”

Deep laughter cuts into me, his bright eyes lit with malevolence. “A career? You want to make a living out of cutting people’s hair?”

“I should sell dope to kids instead?”

Screw him, acting as though he’s fucking better than me when everyone knows about the drugs in schools.

I stand up and toss the shards in the garbage bin, turning my back on Dad. He grips my shoulder and the air squeezes from my chest when he shoves me against the wall.

“Who the fuck makes sure you have clothes on your back? Food in your stomach? Me. I don’t want to hear you bitching about how I make a living.”

His arm crushes my throat and I dig my nails into his arm. He’s not going to kill me. I know that. He just wants to scare me.

You don’t scare me, Dad.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“Carlos, enough.”

Mom’s voice cracks across the converted garage and I hear the sound of her boots snapping the broken fragments.

He releases me, and I breathe hard through my nose, never looking away from him. “You’re done at that coffee place,” he seethes.

The bottom drops out of my stomach.

It’s my one refuge. The one place I feel normal. It’s much more than just a job. It’s a ticket to my freedom. I can’t just give it up.

“I’m not quitting.”

“Then I’ll go down there and I’ll quit for you, and my way won’t be nearly as nice as yours.”