Owning the Mafia Don

The Photographer

Nikoli Bouras was a disgruntled man. He had been a photographer from the time he could remember but once he became affiliated with a local newspaper, he realised that to make it big, you needed a scoop.

In Capitals.

A Scoop.

Unfortunately, at the age of fifty-three, he was forced to admit to himself that he had missed the bus.

His personal life was in a shambles; a wife who had left him after years of putting up with him because of his drinking problem, a teenage daughter who behaved as though he was the scum of the earth and a son who only bothered to acknowledge him when she needed money.

Yes, Nikoli Bouras was a disgruntled man alright.

He knew that he did not cut an impressive enough figure either, unlike the youngsters these days. He was overweight, with a beer belly and he tried to hide his balding pate by wearing a hat. It had looked good when he was younger, girls had seemed to like it; he had had quite a few would-be models who had been with him because they had supposed that he could help them become famous.

Nothing of the sort had happened.

His long-suffering wife had finally moved on, and the divorce had cost him dear. So here he was in the little town of Nafplio. He had managed to get a job working at a newspaper functioning out of Athens, which was actually little better than a gossip rag. It succeeded in breaking even because of the scandalous news articles they sometimes printed, and gossip about the celebrities who sometimes came to visit the little hidden towns of Greece.

The Editor gave him the least attractive jobs, he thought in irritation as he downed his coffee, wishing it was something stronger. But he did not have the money to pay for a drink.

He had tried to wheedle some work from the newspaper, (which was just a rag, he thought in disgust) that he had been working for. But the editor, a tall, middle-aged woman, had all but kicked him out of her office. She had glared at Bouras over the tops of her glasses and announced icily,

‘Get some photographs. And not your usual pseudo-arty stuff. We need pictures of celebrities. Something unusual. Someone doing Something that they should not be doing.’ And she had grinned at him, like a shark, thought Bouras nervously as he saw the rows of gleaming white teeth.

‘Or we might not be able to keep you on our roster anymore.’

The threat was like a Sword of Damocles, hanging over his bald head. he knew he had to get something that she might pay for or he would be dying of starvation on the streets. he had nothing on him, and the rent was long overdue.

Hastily, he had stumbled out, backwards, out of the tiny, cramped cabin.

He caught a glimpse of himself and felt worse. In a shabby suit that was crumpled and looked as though he had slept in it, he was not going to make an impression on anyone.

Now he sat gloomily, sipping a coffee at a small wayside cafe, gazing at the tourists. maybe, just maybe, he would be lucky today? he thought gloomily as he cradled his faithful old Nikon D6 10.

*

Proserpina

When I opened my suitcase and found, to my surprise, that I only had short, sexy dresses and pairs of short shorts and clingy short tops to wear, my heart sank.

I had stopped wearing shorts and Tees ever since Lucien had flared up horribly once when I had been carrying Claude, and he had brought some of his sleazier associates home. I still remembered the incident with shame.

Ria and Piers had discovered some sex toys that Danielle and Grace had gifted me, at a time when Lucien and I were going through a rough time. He had been keeping himself occupied with other women flitting in and out of his bed, while I waited at the large house, miserable and alone.

So when the twins had accidentally dropped the toys before him, in full view of his companions, he had been livid with rage. To top it all, I had been roaming around the house dressed in my old, comfortable shorts and a small t-shirt, which had incensed him further.

I would never forget the scene that followed. he’d all but torn the clothes I had been wearing, off my body.

And I had not forgotten the lecherous looks I had received from some of his companions, notably from the Spaniard, Ramos. Of course, Lucien had pounded the Spaniard publicly, later on when he made some unsavoury remark about me and I had never seen the man again.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

But I had switched to wearing comfortable clothes like flowing skirts and blouses that I knew Lucien liked and which, strangely enough, I had come to enjoy wearing.

But alas, not a single such outfit was here. Hand on hips, I shook my head ruefully.

Apart from the unimaginably sexy-looking shorts and shirt, there were a couple of slinky gowns that had deep necks and barely any back!

Danielle! I thought in despair. She must have gone all out and splurged on the sexiest clothes she could get her nicotine-stained hands on!

To say nothing of the sheerest lingerie that must have cost a bomb!

I blushed as I thought of wearing them before Lucien who would inevitably tear them off and toss them away.

I groaned.

With no other choice, I changed into a pair of skimpy blue shorts and a short top that clung to the curves of my breasts, revealing my waist. Lucien’s eyes narrowed alarmingly and I quaked. For a moment, he looked thunderous.

“I…I am sorry…” I said lamely, taking a step backwards but then he grunted and nodded.

Letting out a deep breath, Lucien spoke in a hoarse voice, slowly, as his eyes slid over me again.

‘Wear them now.’

Then he growled in a thick voice, ‘Little woman,’ rocking on his heels: his head was thrown back and eyes narrowed as he studied me critically. I shifted from foot to foot as the keen eyes seemed to be stripping me.

I had slept with this man a thousand and more times but he could make me wet just with a look, a word in his harsh voice. And I was shrinking, leaning against the wall, as I knew I wanted nothing more than to have his arms around me, now.

‘ I should have known that Danielle would do something like this, when I asked her to get you the clothes for the honeymoon, ‘he stated flatly, at last, coming closer, his breath on my cheeks as I looked into his eyes wordlessly.

With a thick finger, he pushed aside the collar of my cropped top, tracing the path of the necklace that ended in the valley of my breasts.

I shivered at the look in his eyes, breathing fast

Danielle would be in big trouble, I thought.

As I met his eyes, the look in them, hot, molten salaciousness, made me shiver.

Lucien stepped to me, his hands on the wall beside my head, pressing his hard body against mine and I placed my hands on his chest, eyes wide. He cupped my behind and I became aware of how he was already excited and aroused.

‘But my little sl*t, it is You who will pay for it tonight,’ he said in a gravelly voice, biting my neck and making me whimper as he squeezed my rounded behind roughly. I rose on tiptoe and brushed my lips against his harsh mouth.

“Yes my Master,’ I breathed, my eyes dancing with excitement at the prospect. Pretending disgust, he shook his head,

“Little …” he growled and gave me a hard slap on my as* as I flounced away saucily. But there was a glitter of amusement in his grey, flint-like eyes.

*

I felt his eyes on me all the while, though. He had donned a pair of light trousers and a collared shirt topped off with a light jacket. I felt hopelessly underdressed beside him but what bothered me was the way I felt men staring at me appreciatively, the bounce of my full breasts as I walked, and the way their eyes lingered on my hips. I shrank into Lucien’s protective arms and felt safe with him.

*

Bouras

The photographer walked about, taking random shots of tourists tiredly. Not one of them seemed to be a couple on a hideaway romantic trip, he thought as he scratched his head. Why was he not lucky enough to get a picture of the latest Hollywood couple who had just wed recently, he thought despondently as he chewed a wad of gum.

Surely someone interesting, news-wise would come his way. Or he would be living on the streets, sleeping on the park benches…

*

Proserpina

I knew Lucien’s men were occupying the rooms beside us; later I discovered that the entire hotel had been booked just for us. We were, in effect, the only guests there.

The staff stood up reverentially when we entered the deserted dining hall.

Breakfast was a rich repast. Pies, cheese and spinach, the fresh, large bread with sesame seeds called koulouri, and bougatsa filled with custard cream. But my heart swelled when Lucien growled, ‘Woman, I prefer your cooking.’ Without thinking twice, leaning across, I kissed him impulsively.

Let’s go for a walk please, I said happily, after breakfast.