Becoming a Mafia Princess

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Sorry,” I say, looking up from my notebook. “You need a refill?”

He finishes his drink. “I do now.”

I pour two fingers of top-shelf scotch into his glass.

“So, what are you doing?” he repeats.

“Outlining my news article for tomorrow,” I say. “I'm trying to land a job at the newspaper.”

“An article about me?” he asks.

I scoff. “Why would I write about you? If I were going to write about someone in this bar, it would be Jimmy.” I point to the back corner. “He's here every night to get away from his terrible wife. That's a story.”

“You don't know who I am?” he asks.

“No… Should I?”

He smirks. “No, that's refreshing.” He looks at his drink. “Soon, I'm going to own this place.”

“So… You're my future boss.”

“Does that scare you?” he asks.

“Why would it?”

“You're hanging at the bar and writing in a notebook. Not exactly Employee of the Month material.”

“Psh, the place is dead,” I say. “If that changes, I'll serve customers. My livelihood depends on it. Besides, I'm enjoying talking to you.”

“Why is that?” he asks.

“You're handsome, wearing an Armani suit, and drinking alone. I'm hoping for a good tip.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you?”

“Why are you drinking alone?” I ask, moving closer, my notebook and server tray abandoned.

“I'm getting married one week from today,” he says. “I'm trying to enjoy my final moments of freedom.”

“She's pregnant with an Armani baby, and you got trapped?” I quip.

“It's an arranged marriage between our families,” he says. “I'm just a pawn.”

“That does suck,” I say, pouring a little more scotch into his glass.

“Your attitude and frankness don't match your look,” he says. “The curly hair and glasses, the natural look and large eyes, and the soft features… I expected you to be more reserved.”

“I can play that role if I think it'll get me higher tips,” I say, “but it's not who I am.”

“You're showing me who you really are?” he asks.

“Why not?”

He smirks, drawing me in. Those full lips and dark eyes have secrets that I'm sure I should never know.

My phone vibrates, and I glance at the screen. “Fuck off,” I mumble. I flip the phone over and ignore the follow-up vibration.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Just my asshole father being his usual shitty self. Don't worry about it.”

He watches me carefully, then asks, “When are you off work?”

“As soon as the bartender comes back from finishing inventory.”

He nods, then shakes his head. “Thanks for the drink,” he says, putting down more bills than I've seen all night. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” I say, creating a receipt and paying it before putting the rest into the tip jar.

His eyes scan me, and he walks out the door.

I return to my notebook.

Gina returns from the back a few minutes later, and I tell her good night, but when I walk outside, he's watching me from his car.

I cock my head, and something makes me walk to him. He lowers the passenger window, and I crouch a little.

“I hope you're not wanting your generous tip back,” I say. “It's already earmarked for my overdue rent.”

“Keep it,” he says. “Would you like to go home with me?”

I chuckle. “I'm going to be straight up with you–”

“Like that's any different than the rest of the night.”

“I got out of a serious relationship a few months ago with a guy who was mediocre in bed. I'm not looking to repeat that.”

“The serious relationship?”

“The mediocre sex.”

With a twisted smile, he holds my gaze. “Do I look like I'm mediocre in bed?”

I shrug. “I don't know. The hot ones don't try as hard.”

His dark eyes shine. “If that's your only concern, get in the damn car.”

I scan him, looking for a reason to walk away.

Handsome. Rich. Well-dressed. Powerful.

He might be exactly what I need.

I get in the car, and he speeds through the streets.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Why would that matter?”

“I need something to call you,” he says.

“How about… Damn Gurl? Like'Damn Gurl, you're so hot.' or'Damn Gurl, you're looking hella fine tonight.'”

“Damn. Girl, you're crazy.”

“It's not quite the right emphasis,” I say, “but you'll get it eventually.”

When we get to his house, armed guards open an iron gate for us.

“What? Are you royalty?”

“Depends on your definition,” he says, parking by a black sedan. “C'mon.”

My entire apartment could fit in the downstairs living room of this house.

He gestures for me to follow him upstairs, and he opens the second door on the left.

I step into a spacious bedroom filled with purples, blacks, satin, and silk.

He hangs his jacket in the closet and surveys me in my waitress uniform: white, button-up blouse; black pencil skirt; and uncomfortable, black heels that I always take off when I'm behind the bar.

“Sometimes I wear a tie,” I say.

“It's too bad you didn't wear it tonight,” he says, removing his own tie.

He doesn't ask me to undress, so I stand in the middle of the room and watch him.

He unbuttons his shirt first. I'd expected to find manly hair, but his chest is completely smooth. I can work with that.

He leaves the shirt on while he removes his shoes, socks, and pants.

When he pulls the belt through the loops in his waistband, I flinch, and he smiles.

The “open shirt and boxer briefs” look makes me so excited that I can barely contain myself.

I step out of my heels, but when I start unbuttoning my blouse, he puts up his hand. “Stop.”

He crosses the room, stands less than six inches from me and begins unbuttoning my blouse for me. Then he reaches behind me and unzips my skirt, leaving me in my black, lacy bra and matching thong.

“This is what you wear to work?” he asks.

“Sometimes.”

He scans my body, then kisses my lips softly, hesitantly.

I place my hand against his chest and part my lips, but when he deepens the kiss, he's just as hesitant.

I pull away. “You're holding back.”

He sighs, annoyed.

“I went home with you because I saw the power in your eyes. Why are you restraining yourself?”

“Because I see the innocence in yours,” he says.

“Innocent or not, I don't need to be treated like a porcelain doll.” I pick up my blouse and put it back on, but leave it unbuttoned. “Show me what you're capable of, or I'm leaving.”

He gruffly pulls off my shirt and tosses me onto his bed. When he kisses me, it's passionate, needy, urgent.

He quickly kisses and bites my neck, shoulder, collarbone, and cleavage.

As soon as he realizes my bra clasps in the front, he unhooks it and immediately begins sucking and biting my left nipple while pinching and twisting the right.

“So this is who you are when you let go?” I ask, almost breathless.

He pulls on my right nipple with his teeth, and when I yelp, he smiles wickedly.

He moves down to kiss my stomach; when he kisses my ribs, the electricity is so strong that I involuntarily roll away.

He grips my side, holding me still, and sucks my tender skin as I moan so loudly that I worry someone else in this giant house will hear me.

He seems unconcerned.

He spreads my legs, and his teeth graze my sensitive inner thighs.

He places his finger inside my thong. “Damn Gurl, you're ready for me.”

I arch my back. “Your power turns me the fuck on.”

“Lift your hips.”

When I do, he removes my thong, spreads me again, and places his teeth against my clit.

When he nibbles, I take a sharp breath.

“How's that attitude now?” he asks, repeating the move.

I groan. “You haven't tamed me yet.” I lean up just enough to look him in the eye while I grin. “You don't have it in you.”

He sits up and in one fluid motion, he flips me onto my stomach.

I was right about him.

He grabs my hips to pull me up onto my knees. “No one speaks to me like that,” he growls.

“Well, I do,” I say. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He moves behind me, I assume undressing the rest of the way, and then one hand grips my hip while the other holds himself against me. “I'll show you.”

He thrusts into me, and as soon as he's inside, his hand comes down hard on my ass.

I yelp, then moan.

He spanks me twice more, and the energy gets to be too much for me.

I scream and squeeze around him as I climax.

And that reaction kills all of his inhibitions.

“You don't get to do that again unless you beg,” he tells me.

He fucks me without holding back, alternating his spanks the entire time.

I'll be sore tomorrow, but it's worth it tonight.

Less than ten minutes later, I'm playing the game–desperately pleading.

“Damn Gurl,” he says, “you know how to beg… Fine, go ahead.”

As soon as I do, he slams my sore ass against his hips, and releases an animalistic groan.

He pulls away, rolls me back over and kisses me once.

Finally, he lies down next to me, spent and breathing hard.

“Damn have I missed good sex,” I say, staring at his ceiling. “I thought you might have it in you, and I was not disappointed.”

“When I invited you home, that wasn't what I had in mind, but Damn Gurl, I wasn't disappointed either.”

“I could tell,” I say.

He smiles at me and rolls his eyes.

His phone vibrates.

“Shit, it's work. I gotta go. You can stay if you want.”

“Nah, I gotta be up in a few hours,” I say, finding my thong. “It would be better if I slept in my own bed.”

We redress, and I follow him downstairs. When we step outside, he points to the black sedan. “Lucas can take you wherever you need to go.”

“Thanks.”

He grabs my wrist. “When can I see you again?”

I laugh and pull away. “You think I would have let you fuck me like that if I thought we'd see each other again? That sounds embarrassing as hell.”

“You'll have to quit your job then.”

“Oh, right, the whole 'you being my eventual boss' thing.” I shrug. “We'll see.”

“Yes, we will.”

I move closer and place my hand against his chest. “Seriously though. That was one of the best nights I've had in a long time.” I kiss him, and he returns it. “Good luck with the whole shitty marriage thing.”

As I get into the sedan, his withering stare pierces me.

I was looking for an escape from my shitty life, but...

Did I just do something I'll come to regret?

Last night (or rather, this morning) was some of the best sex I've ever had.

I can't get Damn Gurl out of my head.

The things she let me do to her…

I can visit her work whenever I want… But if she really doesn't want to see me again, maybe…

I shake my head. It doesn't matter anyway because I need to concentrate.

Today, my father is having a press conference to mark the demolition of the Crux Building to make way for luxury apartments with every amenity most people can imagine.

And I'll be standing right behind him.

Because when he dies, those apartments, like everything else, will go to me.

And Ingrid will be standing beside me like the dutiful fiance that she seems to be.

The protest is bigger than I expected. A lot of people are pissed that we're tearing down this historic building, which I don't understand. It's a fucking eyesore, and it would cost twice as much to renovate it as it costs to tear it down and build something new.

But the large protest also means a bigger press pool. Every reporter in the tri-county area will come to ask loaded questions.

The press conference is just for demonstration anyway.

The demolition crew will arrive later today.

My father claps me on the shoulder, his way of telling me he's proud that I'm here. Then I follow him onto the makeshift stage in front of the building.

He begins his speech about making the city a place everyone wants to be, and I scan the crowd.

There she is.

The server-turned-masochist: Damn Gurl.

Wearing a navy pantsuit, she's standing in the middle of the press pool with her tiny notebook. Her auburn curls are in a professional ponytail, and she looks so put together that it's hard to believe this is the woman I met last night.

When my father goes to take questions. her hand shoots up with everyone else's.

And he calls on her first!

“Yes, you, the young lady in the navy.”

“Jasmine Wilson for the Times,” she says. “How do you respond to critics who say that building luxury apartments in this neighborhood will raise the cost of living to the point that it will become impossible for the current residents to keep their homes?”

Her voice is unwavering; the confidence from last night is still certainly there.

Jasmine Wilson. The name sounds as innocent as she looks.

“Well, Jasmine, I was a working-class man for a long time,” my father says, “and it took a lot of hard work to become who I am today, so I still resonate with working-class individuals, and I care about these people. You have my word that I will personally do anything I can to help these residents not only stay in their homes but thrive in their beloved neighborhood.”

My father can spin literally anything.

The part about him once being working class is completely true.

The part about him caring what happens to the rest of these people is only true in that he hopes to buy their properties when they leave.

Jasmine quickly scribbles on her pad before waiting for the next journalist to ask a question.

When she looks up, her eyes catch mine, and we stare at each other for a split second before she turns away.

Zero reaction.

Does she not recognize me, or does she just not care?

Ingrid tries to take my hand, but I place my hands in front of me.

The press conference lasts a few more minutes, my father swings the pickaxe, pictures are taken, and then the crowd begins to separate.

I bound off the stage like there are springs in my shoes and quickly walk toward Damn Gurl.

“Jasmine,” I call.

She walks on, looking at her notes.

“Jasmine!” I call louder.

Nothing.

“Miss Wilson!” I call more sternly.

She stops and turns around. “Mr. Rojo, would you care to make a comment?”

“Off the record, obviously,” I say.

She closes her notebook. “What?” she snaps.

“I–” For the first time, I'm at a loss for words. “This was your article that you were working on last night at the bar.”

“Yes.”

“Well, good luck.”

She rolls her eyes and begins to walk away.

I don't remember the last time someone did that with me.

“Hey,” I say, walking after her. “Hang on.”

“What?” she snaps again.

“I can't stop thinking about last night.”

“Nothing happened last night,” she says flatly.

“I beg to differ. Last night was… memorable.”

“Nothing happened last night,” she hisses, “because there is no way that I would be stupid enough to sleep with a member of your… family.”

“In your defense, you didn't sleep,” I say with a smirk.

She shakes her head and walks toward her car. “It's bad enough that I have to see you again but to find out that you're part of the Rojo… family… The universe must really hate me.”

“Why do you say it like that?” I ask. “We are a family.”

“You're mispronouncing'crime syndicate',” she says.

I can't help but chuckle.

“And you're engaged to Ingrid Mendelez of all people. That must be hell.”

I furrow my brow. “How do you know Ingrid?”

“I just do,” she says. “No wonder you don't want to get married. If you didn't kill people, I'd feel bad for you.”

“I don't kill people, Jasmine.”

“Right, you have guys for that.” She shakes her head. “I let a mafia boss–”

“Look, you can't be this surprised,” I snap. “You were attracted to my power. You knew I had a dark streak. That's why you went home with me in the first damn place.”

She sighs. “You're right. I only have myself to blame.”

“That's not what I meant.”

When we get to her car, she opens the door but turns around. “Am I in danger?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“No soldier or consigliere is going to come snooping around, asking me questions about what you did or didn't tell me or any weird shit like that?”

“No. I promise.”

She steps into her car and winces when she sits.

I can't suppress my smile.

Surprisingly, she lowers the window before closing her door.

“Listen, don't mention my name to Ingrid. She's already going to be hella pissed that I asked your dad a question. You don't need all the shrieking drama that would come from her knowing that you and I have talked.”

“So I shouldn't invite you to the wedding?” I quip.

She looks so sad that I'm taken aback by the emotion. Then she reaches out and touches my arm. “I really am sorry about you marrying Ingrid. Good luck.”

I touch her hand, and energy passes between us; she must feel what I feel, but I've never felt it before.

“I'll see you around, Jas.”

“See you around, Charlie.”

I stiffen. “My name is Charles. Nobody calls me Charlie.”

“Well, I do,” she says with a wink. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Then she speeds out of the parking lot.

I watch the fantasy leave before trudging back to my reality.

“I thought that went well,” Dad says. “Honestly, it was better than I expected.”

I nod.

My thoughts aren't in the conversation.

“Darling,” Ingrid says, “Mr. Gerrard just called to say he'll be unable to attend the wedding. We have to rework the entire seating chart!”

“I don't understand why the wedding has to be this massive in the first place!” I snap.

She purses her lips. “It is an opportunity for our fathers to conduct business with some people who would otherwise be unlikely to be in a room with them,” she says. “You know that.”

“Then let's just invite those people and be done with it.”

“And just have the FBI swarm in to arrest all the criminals?” she asks.

“Did our enormous bribes suddenly lose their effectiveness?”

“You know we have to be very careful about all of this.” She shakes her head. “What's gotten into you?”

“I'm tired. It was a long night.”

She nods. “I heard about the guy at the warehouse.”

“Right. That.”

I'd completely forgotten about the violent hell that ensued after I left Jasmine.

For some inexplicable reason, all I can think about is her.