Conquered by the Mafia Boss

Calm the fuck down.

I get into my car and we drive out of there in complete silence. I’m afraid of the mood I’m in. Lately I’ve been in towering rages only tempered by drugs and booze. Johnny made me quit the drugs, but I couldn’t stop drinking. It’s the only thing that helps.

I roll up to the curb in front of my house, but I don’t cut the engine.

“I’m going out. I’ll be back later.”

Blue eyes cut at me as she turns her head and presses her lips together. Beatrice knows that I have a week off work. There’s a splinter of pain in her eyes that almost immediately glosses over into what she tries to pass off as indifference.

“Whatever.”

Yeah, whatever.

* * *

The drinks keep coming, and I slam them down like I’m dying of thirst. It’ll take a few hours before I’m okay to drive home, but I’m fine with that. Anything to avoid being in the same room with my wife. The wife I keep fantasizing about: her naked curves in my hands, the way her pussy wraps around my dick, her lips, her tits-everything. I’m not supposed to want her; I’m supposed to hate her.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

A hand slaps down on my shoulder. “How’s the marriage?”

Johnny slides on the stool next to me, and I choke down my bitterness.

He’s the boss. He’s the boss.

“Pretty shitty so far.”

His hand casually grips the back of my neck, and he gives me that fake smile that always precludes pain.

“Come with me. I want to talk to you.”

I slide off the stool and follow John’s strong grip into the back rooms of Tommy’s bar. He drops the smile the moment we’re alone.

“What the fuck are you doing in this bar?”

“I can’t have a drink without your permission?”

He grits his teeth. “You’re supposed to be spending this time with your new wife. That’s why I gave you a week off.”

Why don’t you fucking lay off me, you prick?

“Ignoring her like this the day after your wedding is an insult to the MC-and an insult to me.”

Violent images stream through my brain, interrupting the voices screaming at me. Do not piss off John. He’ll get rid of you, just like he got rid of your brother.

“I need this marriage to work. You will not screw this up and cost me this alliance.”

“You spit on the memory of my brother, and I’m supposed to be grateful?”

Fuck you.

Johnny’s irate face swims closer. “You better be really fucking careful how you talk to me, or you’re going to wind up just like him.”

“Jack!”

A familiar voice barks at me. Recognizing Sal is the only thing that stops me from lunging at Johnny’s throat. Thankfully the asshole turns around and walks out of the back room.

“Come here, damn it.”

Sal is a beefy guy with a round, honest face. His dark-blue blazer hangs over his belly, and he pats the table where he’s sitting, gesturing at me to sit down. He’s a friendly guy, but he’s still the underboss. Just one rank removed from boss.

“Sit down, Jack.”

I’m still pissed off, but he gives me a look that’s enough to shut down my smart mouth. Heaving a sigh, I pull back the chair and sit my ass down.

He reaches across the table, concern knitting his face as he grabs my hand. Usually I don’t like being touched. When my brother died, every pat on the back felt fake. I look at these people-these men who are supposed to be my brothers-and I wonder which one of them did it, if the family was responsible. Which one killed him?

“I’m worried about you.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Is that right?”

“The way you talk to the boss is going to get you clipped.”

I know that. I’m probably one more fucking sentence from getting a bullet to the back of my head.

“I can’t fucking do it anymore. I can’t pretend like my brother isn’t dead.”

“No one’s forgotten.”

“He has. That son of a bitch. You know damn well he had something to do with it.”

Sal gives me a warning look. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I don’t. He was worried your brother would flip, but he would never do anything like that without proof.”

Lead settles into my guts and I ball my fist under Sal’s hand.

Oh Jesus Christ.

He did it, didn’t he? It’s confirmation for me. He did it. He was afraid my brother would talk. What about what the nurse said? A man in a suit. Thin face. Someone from the mob commissioned this hit, but I can’t find a shred of fucking proof. The man at the top makes all the decisions. It’s him.

That sick, helpless feeling consumes me again. How the fuck am I supposed to kill a boss? I’ll be honest. Things like this happen to people’s families. Guys fuck up. They get killed. It happens all the time and we’re just supposed to swallow down our pride and accept it.

I can’t accept it.

“Jack, I know that look on your face.”

I pull my hand away from his, my brother’s loss hitting me hard like a knife to my gut.