OWN HER: A Dark Mafia Romance (Mancini Family Mafia) Read online

  Lousy goddamn hypocrite, Gio thought. He doesn't care that I'm doing a lot of fucking in my free time. He's just skeeved out by how I choose to do it because it's not his thing and he can't understand it. But instead of copping to that, he sits here wagging his finger at me, pretending he never got his dick wet when he was my age and acting so fucking superior.

  Well, he's a lying prick. And I can prove it.

  Ever since Gio was a little kid, he'd known that his father kept diaries filled with meticulous notes about his meetings and dealings each day. Mario proudly insisted that his notes were written in an unbreakable code, and that the diaries themselves were locked in a hidden compartment in his study that the Feds would never be able to find if they ever raided the place.

  Gio had found the hidden compartment beneath the liquor cabinet by his tenth birthday. By the time he turned thirteen, he'd already managed to decipher the code Mario used. But he soon grew bored reading about endless meetings, payoffs, trysts, and money laundering activities he didn't understand. The actual crimes Mario was directly involved in were infrequent—a handful of robberies a year, maybe a murder every two or three years—and after a while, the thrill of a secret window into his father wore off and Gio stopped coming to the study to read the diaries.

  But this time, he had a specific goal: To find evidence that Mario had been seeing other women during his first two years as boss.

  Gio drained the rest of the scotch in his glass, set it down, and went to the cabinet. He knelt down in front of it, feeling around at the base for the panel that slid away and revealed the secret compartment beneath it. He reached in and pulled out several stacks of Mario's journals, searching for the one from when he was four years old and his father had taken over the Mancinis as the capo de tutti capi.

  He found the right diary and flipped through the pages. There were entries in blue ink to signify legit business meetings, and ones in green that were tied to his illegal pursuits. Purple entries were personal errands like family weddings, nights with Gio's mother, or Gio's birthdays. The red entries were code for women Mario met for sex. Gio bristled as he saw that there were multiple red-inked appointments in the diary during the dates in question.

  Son of a bitch, Gio thought bitterly. So it's fine for you to get your rocks off any way you feel like it, but when I do it, then suddenly it's...

  His thought process abruptly derailed when he saw a name reappear several times in purple ink throughout the journal, especially toward the end. The name was “Salvatore,” and even though Gio didn't remember any extended family members who'd had that name, it still brought up strange memories for him.

  His mother and father had fought about someone named Salvatore when he was a child, and even though Gio couldn't remember anything specific that was said during these altercations, he recalled at least one time when Mario had retreated to his study and Gio had heard him sobbing to himself quietly when he thought no one was listening.

  Gio flipped through the pages. Another meeting with Salvatore, and another, and another.

  And finally, in one of the diary's last pages, an entry with Salvatore's name in black—which was Mario's code for a murder he'd carried out personally.

  Gio frowned, looking over the entries again. If this Salvatore was someone his father had known personally instead of professionally, why had he been killed? And why had Mario carried out the hit himself?

  He closed the diary and put it back with the others under the liquor cabinet, shutting the hidden panel again. Finding these mysterious entries had given him an uneasy feeling, but he didn't know why.

  Still, he'd proved what he set out to: That Mario was holding him to a stupid and unreasonable double-standard. One that deserved to be ignored, if not downright flouted.

  So the old man wants to bitch at me for my “costumes?” Gio thought. Okay. I'll show him a fucking costume, all right.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Carla's number, smiling.

  Chapter 19

  Carla

  “...and don't forget to wear a mask.”

  Those were the last words Gio had said to Carla before ending the call. Her phone had rung a couple of hours ago, and when she picked up, Gio commanded her to meet him at a specific address at eight o'clock on the West Side, just a couple blocks off Belmont Avenue.

  For a moment, these words had given Carla an icy wave of panic as she imagined being summoned to some remote abandoned building so Gio could shoot her through the head. Maybe he'd decided he was done with her, and he was going to silence her before anyone else found out about their arrangement. Maybe he'd told her to wear a mask just in case there were any witnesses, so no one would be able to identify who they'd seen killed before the body was carried off and disposed of.

  So Carla did a brief online search, using her FBI credentials to access secured law enforcement databases. She wanted to see if any murders or other illegal activities had been reported at the address in question over the years, and whether the location was owned—either directly or indirectly—by any mob figures.

  When her search was over, she breathed a shaky sigh of relief. The address was a nameless countercultural gallery that was often rented for gothic art shows, “cult classic” movie viewings, and fetish parties. There was no official webpage for tonight's event, but based on the comment threads of several local websites for people in the kink scene, Carla could see that it was their monthly S&M masquerade ball.

  So the good news is that I'm not on my way to be executed, Carla thought ruefully. The bad news is that I'm about to walk into another of Gio's unpredictable “play” sessions, and this time it's in public.

  Now she was wearing the cocktail dress she'd had on when Gio took her to Skizm and browsing a costume shop in Lincoln Park, a short drive from the gallery. Many of the masks on display were scary or absurd, and she stifled a giggle as she briefly considered showing up in a rubber mask depicting a blood-drooling zombie or a snarling werewolf.

  “What?” she'd ask innocuously when confronted by Gio's expression of disgust and disappointment. “You didn't say what kind of mask to get!”

  And then he'd pistol-whip me because he's a mobster psycho and the joke would be a lot less funny, she thought.

  Finally, she found a mask that would cover the top half of her face. It was porcelain, and decorated with glittering sequins and wispy peacock feathers. Perfect.

  As she walked up to the counter and fished in her small purse for her wallet, the cashier—a girl in her early twenties with a shaved head and at least a dozen facial piercings—gave her a knowing smile and a nod. “Last-minute shopping for the Belmont party tonight, huh?”

  Carla's eyebrows raised. “Huh?”

  “The masquerade,” the cashier continued, carefully putting the mask in a bag. “It's tonight, right? We get a lot of first-timers who show up here to get their masks before the big event. No shame in it. Hell, I've been there a handful of times myself. It's a lot of fun.”

  “Oh. That's, um...good to know.” Carla paid for the mask, then waited as the cashier made change at a glacial pace, all while looking Carla up and down appreciatively.

  “Here you go,” the cashier said, handing over the bag and the money. “Hey, my shift's over in about an hour. Maybe I'll grab something off the shelves and see you there.”

  “Maybe,” Carla said quickly, tucking the mask under her arm. “Thanks. Bye.”

  “Be sure to save a dance for me!” the cashier called after Carla as the door jangled shut behind her.

  Great, Carla thought. Now there'll be at least one person at this thing who knows what I look like under the mask.

  She tried to comfort herself with the thought that the cashier still wouldn't have any way of knowing that she was a Fed, or that her escort was a gangster—that it would be utterly impossible for her to make that connection—but it didn't ease her dread at all.

  After what she'd been through so far this week, it was hard for her to ho
nestly dismiss anything as “impossible” anymore.

  Chapter 20

  Gio

  After making the call to Carla, Gio dressed himself in an expensive black suit, went up to his Special Room, and slid a wall panel aside to reveal a large collection of mounted masks. They leered down at him with dark, empty eye holes as he examined them, trying to find the right one.

  Gio had collected masks since he was a child, years before he'd had to pick up a baseball bat and prove himself to Mario in the basement. When he was six years old, his parents had taken him on vacation to New Orleans and he'd been mesmerized by the painted masks that peered out from almost every shop window. On the final day of their trip, his mother had taken him for a walk down Bourbon Street and told him he could choose any mask he wanted.

  After that, Gio had often hoarded his allowance to buy new masks for his bedroom wall, and when he got his first job, he spent most of his money of them too. After quietly tolerating the first few, Mario started to grumble with each new purchase that “only freaks an' sissies are into masks,” but Gio remained undeterred in his hobby.

  Now in his twenties, Gio had dozens of masks from all over the world—porcelain ones from Japan, clay ones from Central and South America, even wooden ones from Africa. And since he'd started regularly attending the monthly masquerade on Belmont, he'd gotten a thrill from selecting a new one to wear each time so he wouldn't be identified.

  Tonight he decided on a colorful hand-carved Chinese mask depicting a bug-eyed, snarling dragon. He took it down from its pegs carefully and put it over his own face, tying the ribbons behind his head to secure it. He relished the echo of his own breath in his ears and the light mist of condensation it left around his nose and mouth.

  He always loved the feeling of wearing a different face over his real one.

  Satisfied, he grabbed a leather satchel and placed a couple of items inside. Then he went back downstairs and peered out through the blinds in the living room. Now that he knew Rizzo was outside watching his place, it was hard to miss him—the pencil-necked little nimrod might have thought he was playing it cool by parking outside Gio's house and slouching down in the front seat, but the stupid sky-blue '78 Gremlin hatchback he was so proud of stuck out like a neon sign. Gio couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

  I must have been distracted, Gio thought. This reminded him of his father's most recent lecture, and he shuddered.

  Gio slipped his phone, keys, and wallet into his pockets, and tucked a small pistol into a holster at his ankle. Then he went through the house, switching on several lights so it would look like he was still there after he'd left. He knew most observers might notice that the lights never moved or changed, but he also knew that Rizzo was a lot dumber than most observers, so he was fairly confident the ruse would work.

  He took off the mask again, wishing he could keep it on but knowing the next part of his plan wouldn't work if he did. Carrying it carefully, he slipped out the back door of his house, locking it behind him. He hated having to sneak out of his own home like some grounded teenager, and silently cursed his father for the hundredth time that day.

  Gio snuck around behind the house, crossing several of his neighbors' yards until he was a block away, far from Rizzo's line of sight. Then he pressed the button on his ride-sharing app and waited on the corner until the car came to pick him up.

  “Nice mask,” the driver commented, peering at Gio in the rearview mirror.

  “Thanks,” Gio answered, cradling the fanged dragon face in his lap.

  They rode in silence for the rest of the trip.

  Chapter 21

  Carla

  As Carla stood outside the gallery's entrance wearing her mask, she saw Gio approach with his own mask in one hand and a leather bag in the other. He noticed her outfit and smiled wolfishly.

  “Hey, that dress looks mighty familiar,” he chuckled. “Except we're gonna have a much nicer time tonight, ain't we? You ain't gonna be yelling at me and running for the door. Not if you know what's good for you, at least.”

  Carla nodded. She was so nervous at the prospect of more “play” with Gio—especially in public—that it felt like ants were crawling around in her veins. She took several deep breaths, trying to tell herself that she should be less frightened this time around.

  Unlike their first session, they'd be surrounded by witnesses, ensuring that Gio wouldn't decide he was finished with her and kill her. Still, not knowing what he had planned for her made her lungs tighten in her chest.

  More whipping this time? Hot candle wax?

  Or something that would leave more permanent marks on her?

  She could tell Gio was savoring her trepidation based on the gleam in his eyes as he put his mask on. “While we're in here,” Gio said, “you can think of this place as an extension of the one I've got at home. Which means the same rules are going to apply. Understand?”

  Going to, she thought. Not “gonna” this time. Now that the mask's on, he's discarded his bored gangster persona in favor of something that might be closer to his authentic self. Interesting.

  “Yes, Master,” she answered, lowering her eyes immediately so they wouldn't make contact with his.

  Gio laughed. “Perfect. You learn fast. Your yellow word tonight will be water. Your red word will be air.” He opened the door, gesturing for Carla to enter first.

  As she stepped in, the first thing she noticed was the smells—heavy sweat, sex, leather, and a strange plastic scent which she identified as lube after a few moments. The air was filled with fake mist and colorful strobing laser-lights, bouncing off the walls and people in hypnotic patterns. The walls and floor thrummed as the sound system pumped out a song by Nine Inch Nails. The bass was so loud that the lyrics were drowned out and every note felt like sharp fingernails scraping against Carla's eardrums.

  False faces appeared and disappeared in the mist all around her—animals, skulls, angels, demons, all with human eyes peering out of them. Many of them looked her up and down appreciatively as they passed.

  Gio leaned in close, talking directly into her ear. “Now strip,” he commanded.

  She felt an icy stab of panic. She'd never been naked in front of a room full of people before.

  “But what will I do with my clothes and purse...Master?” she finished quickly, almost forgetting how she was supposed to address him. She hadn't brought her badge, gun, or phone, obviously, but she still didn't love the idea of leaving her things in some leather-freak version of a coat check room.

  Gio's eyes glinted at her above the roaring dragon's mouth. “I'll carry them,” he said, “and that had better be the last time you hesitate or talk back when I give you a fucking order. Take it all off. Now. And stop looking into my eyes or I'll hurt you even worse than I'd planned.”

  Carla handed her purse to Gio and stepped out of her shoes. Then she inched out of the cocktail dress, exposing her breasts, and slid out of her panties. She bundled the clothing and shoes up and handed it all to Gio, standing completely naked.

  Gio nodded and took the bundle, tucking it into his satchel along with her purse. Then he withdrew the collar and chain leash, handing it to her.

  “Put this on,” he said.

  She slipped the collar around her neck, buckled it, and clipped the end of the chain to it, handing the other end to Gio.

  “Now get down on all fours and walk ahead of me,” said Gio.

  Carla got down on her hands and knees obediently with her ass in the air.

  “Those welts from last time seem to be healing nicely,” Gio commented mildly. He let these words hang in the air until they were tinged with menace. Was he simply making an observation, Carla wondered, or was he planning to add to them?

  As he walked with her crawling ahead of her, they were approached by a morbidly-obese mountain of a man with a shaved head, pierced nipples, and leather shorts. He wore a cheap plastic baby mask that barely fit on his face.

  “She's pretty,” Baby Mask
said. His voice was strangely soft and high-pitched, and he had a slight lisp. “Can I play with her?”

  Carla's entire body clenched in revulsion as she imagined the huge man's hairy hands on her body. Even though she'd agreed to cater to Gio's whims under duress, she still admired his dark eyes and handsome features and the muscled, broad-shouldered physique that seemed barely contained beneath his tailored suits. It had made sex with him bearable, perhaps even more than she felt comfortable admitting to herself. But the thought of being petted and penetrated by Baby Mask's rough, sweaty fingers was nauseating.