Owned by the mafia boss

MICHAEL

Family was everything.

I loved nothing like I did my babies, but it was an obsessive love. It brought out the worst in me. Like when I beat up a shopkeeper for slapping my daughter’s hand. I left him on the sidewalk with mangled limbs and shattered pride, wailing at witnesses for help. Nobody had assisted him because, in my neighborhood, everybody knew me and what I represented.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

I had one rule.

Don’t fuck with my kids.

Those who threatened my son and daughter died painful deaths. They were my legacy, body, soul. Anybody who risked their safety bought a ticket to the morgue, or more likely, a grave around the Quabbin Reservoir.

Which prompted me to the front gates of my mansion to stare down the world’s biggest moron. The security guard I’d hired stood at an impressive height of six-foot-four and came well-recommended by his peers. He’d served in Afghanistan and graduated from a top-tier executive protection school, and he’d allowed a stranger to enter my home.

Bryan was built like an ox, but the steroids must’ve deteriorated his brain. His square jaw ticked as I approached him with a photo of Carmela on my phone.

“Recognize this woman?”

He gaped at the picture I took after locking her up. “Yeah…I think. She walked in about thirty minutes ago.”

“Did she give you a blowjob?”

His brows furrowed. “No.”

“Were you distracted by her tits?”

His nostrils flared, and a ripple of rage went through me. He had no right to be angry, the dumbass. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Why the fuck did you let in someone who wasn’t on the guest list?”

A spasm of panic twitched his face. “She was carrying a gift.”

“Anything could’ve been inside.”

“Mr. Costa, I’d never put your family at risk. She had nothing on her.”

“You have one fucking job-check their names.”

I wouldn’t use that agency again. If he was that guileless, I had zero faith in the rest of their employees.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Costa. It’ll never happen again.”

“Damn straight. You’re fired.” I shoved him onto the sidewalk, glowering. “Get out of here before I do something I regret.”

I snagged a money clip and tossed his hourly rate into the air. I watched him scramble after the cash as it scattered with the wind. He was lucky Carmela was the honey I’d lusted after for months.

I could’ve killed her for bulldozing my boundaries and touching my kid. The fact that she’d strolled through my security without a hitch strangled me, but I knew Carmela. I’d seen her at Christmas parties, and she’d babysat my children with her sister, Mia. She’d never hurt a child.

She was tall and fuck-hot, with long espresso-brown hair streaked with caramel highlights. Carmela was Gal Gadot with curves, a stunning woman who’d been the discussion of many drunken card games at Sunset Tavern. Her hourglass figure was a magnet for male attention, which she usually ignored. Half of Boston’s underworld had a crush on the leggy Italian goddess with a mouth. Alessio, her former fiancé, had called her difficult. She shot down guys with the delicacy of a flying brick. She was a tough girl.

God, I loved them.

Specifically, I loved bringing them to their knees.

Thinking of her trapped in my bedroom worked me into a frenzy. Once inside, I grabbed a cocktail from the open bar, pressing the chilled glass to my throbbing pulse. I cooled down, and then I rejoined the room awash in wrapping paper. My daughter lay on the rug. The coffee table was pushed aside to make way for the mountain of gifts. Matteo hovered near his sister, bawling.

I knelt beside my son and kissed Matteo’s temple. “Are you okay?”

Matteo pouted. “No.”

“What’s the matter?”

The four-year-old looked at the packages waiting to be opened and burst into fresh tears. “What about me?”

I squeezed his chin. “Buddy, you’re killing me. It’s your sister’s birthday.”

He pointed at the boxes. “But I want one, too!”

Mariette tackled a present wrapped in gold. “Ooh!”

I dragged him over my lap. “You cry every time someone else has a party.”

He turned into my chest and sobbed. I rubbed his back, shaking with barely audible laughter. Then I heaved a sigh, fished a small package from my pocket, and pressed it into Matteo’s hands.

“Here you go, honey.”

Matteo’s sobbing quieted. He disengaged and wrestled the truck from the packaging. Two years ago, I held a party for my daughter with nothing for Matteo-what a disaster. He’d been inconsolable. Since then, I never threw a birthday without a gift for the other kid.

I tugged on Mariette’s pigtails. “What did you get?”

“Easy-Bake Oven!” Mariette scratched through paper, revealing a giant, pink plastic toy. “It makes cakes! Wow.”

“That’s awesome. Who’s it from?”

She peeled an envelope from the box and took out the card, frowning. “Dear Mariette, As you grow, make sure you dream big. Smile, live, laugh, and have fun! Happy seventh birthday. Love, Carmela. Who is Carmela?”

I took the card. “She’s… Daddy’s girlfriend.”

Mariette made a face. “Yuck.”

The note was a nice touch.

I smiled, picturing the brunette upstairs, wearing that sheer dress. She’d obviously hoped to seduce me and wrangle an arrangement. She got what she wanted. I’d forced her into an engagement.

What was wrong with me?

I could’ve lied and banged her, but the image of her holding my son had stopped me. I’d always seen myself with a girl like Carmela.

Life hadn’t been kind. I knocked up a stripper. Married said girl, whose instincts for motherhood were nonexistent. When she wasn’t threatening to take my children, she cheated, scored drugs, and drove me insane. I tried to fix her-rehab, psychiatrists, therapy-nothing worked. I’d been held hostage for six years. So when she died, aching relief had washed over my bones.

Finally free.

The last thing I needed was another shitty marriage.

I had a feeling about Carmela.

A stupid feeling, maybe, but it warmed my body. I ignored such an impulse once, and it almost destroyed me. Fortunately, my head and heart screamed the same advice-Don’t let Carmela go.

So I wouldn’t.