Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  OWNED

  CHAPTER 1 - PREFACE

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21 - EPILOGUE

  TAKEN (Bonus books)

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  TRUSTED

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  BROKEN

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  BELOVED

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7 : EPILOGUE

  JACKS (Preview) CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  BOXER VS. BILLIONAIRE (Preview) CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  ABOUT MEG WATSON

  Copyright: Meg Watson

  Published: March, 2016

  Publisher: Meg Watson

  The right of Meg Watson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Please note that this is a work of adult fiction and contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity and graphic language. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 and over only.

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  OWNED

  A Mafia Menage Romance

  MEG WATSON

  CHAPTER 1 - PREFACE

  ALEK

  My mission for the night is to keep Roman from doing anything stupid. He's on pins and needles, bouncing from foot to foot as he stands behind me in the lobby of this hotel, the Violet or something like that. It's nice enough, but the whole situation makes me edgy.

  The foyer is too open. There are three ways to see into this big space from different, obvious angles and absolutely no cover. Anybody walking by outside is going to make us as bratva immediately. And anybody who's paying attention is going to see that Roman is too jumpy, too nervous. I can see the outline of his piece sticking out of the back of his trousers, and the raging hard-on at the front. Nice one, Roman. Real subtle.

  I'm glad the job went well, but I wish my brother would just get a grip sometimes. He's used to being a blunt instrument. He doesn’t necessarily see the benefit in subtlety, let alone diplomacy. Sometimes a blunt instrument is what you want though, I guess.

  The blonde behind the counter looks like she might be game to help us blow off a little steam, but Roman makes a sour face when he sees the wedding band on her finger. He's got a point. You never know who she could belong to... and there are Italians and Russians everywhere. Everybody belongs to somebody, don't they?

  I can hear the sound of a piano bar so that's where we’re going. Hopefully we'll find somebody in there, some way for us to get the hell out of this brightly lit foyer. It's like a shooting gallery in here, and yet I don't plan on dying tonight.

  But, Jesus, this bar is a whole different kind of trap. There's a couple of plainclothes detectives sitting at the corner there, trying to act drunk while they guzzle club soda and laugh too loud. Then there's a couple older broads, but to be honest I think we have been to that well a few too many times. Yeah, mature ladies are much more likely to accept our unusual tastes with less attitude, but there’s something missing there. Or maybe I'm just bored. It's hard to tell.

  And there goes Roman, carelessly pushing toward the narcs. What would he do without me? Ten to life is my guess.

  A sweep around the room and I see nothing good. I'm ready to go. If I get a bottle of Jack delivered to our room then I can maybe get Roman upstairs for some shut eye. I know that after a hit he really likes to find some pussy, but that's not going to happen here.

  I'm ready to start pitching the bottle of Jack idea when I turn around and see her there. There are three pink lights over her head, dropping this candy colored glow across the bridge of her nose as she stares deep into the pit of a drink that looks like a Manhattan or something. First glance, I would have pegged her for more of a grasshopper or pina colada type. It's unusual, but I do like a girl that can throw them back.

  She's got a nervous thing with her fingers, tearing up some napkin into tiny bits. Ex-smoker? Panic attack? Either way, she's not going to see us coming.

  “That one,” I say.

  Roman looks around, his eyes glancing over the tops of the bottle blondes and Mrs. Robinson over there. I nudge him on the arm and point so he can't miss her.

  He sucks his teeth. “Jesus, no.”

  Her hair falls around her face in pretty little ringlets, shiny spirals I can almost feel between my fingers. No, she's not the kind of girl that Roman usually likes. She’ll be tough. He's going to have to actually talk. He's going to hate that.

  “Yes. Her. Definitely her.”

  He’s saying no, but I'm already on my way. I shove him hard between his shoulder blades toward the empty seat in front of her and then come up behind so I can swipe past her. Knock her a little off-balance. I don't know why, it just works. Startle them a little bit, and it’s like starting off with a bang.

  After Roman slides in, I come right up after to make sure he's not to be able to wiggle his way out of the booth. She looks up like she's seeing double, her face blank and confused. Is she drunk? No, not drunk. But not necessarily thrilled to see us either.

  Her eyes keep wandering over Roman’s face in that way I’ve seen a million times. Girls have a funny way of forgetting that he can see them, he sees the way they react to him. It makes me angry all over again. Rude little bitch. Doesn’t she know it’s not nice to stare?

  In a few seconds I’ve got champagne for all of us and we’re just making a nice bit of conversation. No big deal. Her name is Marie. She's nervous and answering every question like it's a lie. She said she's not from here, but who knows? Maybe her name isn’t even Marie. Not like I really care.

  There’s some kind commotion in the foyer and I look through the bar doors to the wide open area beyond. It’s just a noisy group of
women but something makes me hesitate, and I watch just a few seconds longer. Two Italians come in right after, looking around suspiciously.

  I elbow Roman in the ribs. He shakes his head because of course he doesn't think anybody followed him. Of course he thinks he got out like a fucking superhero. He always does.

  Those guys aren’t leaving yet. Marie looks over her shoulder, following my gaze. I guess I was being a little obvious there. I ask her if her room is nice, just testing the waters to see if she's interested in maybe getting the hell out of this bar before somebody comes in with a .38 caliber and an attitude problem.

  She said she's not staying here. Fine. We are.

  “What did you say?” I ask her, trying to get her to lean toward me. I want to see what she does.

  “It’s so loud in here,” she says, just softly enough that I have to read her lips. But she's doing it. She's leaning back over the table toward me, toward Roman. She's not scared. Even though she keeps looking at him, tracing every scar with her eyes, it's not enough to actually scare her off.

  That's excellent, and when I glance at Roman I notice that he's confused by this too. He's just sitting there, letting her look him over like she's trying to memorize him, and he is not doing anything to stop her. I think he likes it.

  “Will you come with us?”

  She flinches back. I know it's a little bit rushed, but those Italian grease balls are walking across the lobby now. I want to get us out of here, and fast.

  Even as she first starts to nod, I get up and stand behind her. She's just so tiny, and I immediately get a picture in my head of her writhing on my cock, impaled like a marionette. Tits bouncing, her bones coming unhinged, that beautiful hair flying all over the place. I'm not sure she can handle it, but I really want to try. What’s life without adventure?

  And just like that, she's off. Roman and I hurry along behind her as she makes a beeline for the elevators at the back of the bar. For somebody who claims she's not actually staying in this hotel, she sure seems to know her way in and out of the back hallway.

  I catch Roman's eyes and raise my eyebrows. He shakes his head. I know what he's thinking, that this little doll is too fragile for him. He's going to break her. She's going to run away screaming, making a big enough racket that he’ll have to shut her up one way or another.

  But something tells me that's not going to happen. Something about the way she bites her upper lip, the way that she's hovering close to him as we wait for the elevator tells me she can see him. Really see him, like I do. See past the scars and the monosyllabic conversation. Or in any case, at least she's not screaming. She's not running away. In my book, I'm calling that a win.

  The elevator door slides open and she darts inside with us right after. I punch the number ten and the door slides closed with no Italian guys anywhere near us. We’re safe, maybe.

  But when I turn around, I don't even know what's happening. She's got her hands around his neck and for a second I think she's trying to strangle him, so why isn't he defending himself?

  But no. She’s trying to climb him. She laces her fingers together behind his neck and pulls, and he kisses her. Just kisses her right there, his big hands connecting across the small of her back and lifting her up slightly to draw her closer.

  Fuck, this is amazing. I slide in behind her and wedge my hips underneath that juicy, round ass. She just hovers in between us like an angel, like a thought, like a fairy.

  Still, I can feel her bones under her skin. She's not totally ready for this. It's going to take a lot to train this little doll to handle my brother. And even more to teach her to handle me.

  But as she wriggles up close to him and he just lets her, as my hands slide up her warm thighs to feel the way that she's so hot, so ready, so willing… I know right then that this is the one. This is the girl that brings us back together. This is the one who’s going to love us both.

  Or die trying.

  CHAPTER 2

  MARIE

  Gianna gives me that look when she came back to the front of our club, the one where she rolls her eyes and purses her lips so hard that they almost disappear. Her spiky heels clack on the terrazzo floor as she makes her way to me, carefully not looking behind her in case one of the guys decided to follow her out. I keep an eye on the closed door of the private smoking room until she gets closer.

  “That bad?” I ask her in a low voice, already knowing the answer.

  She nods stiffly. “You would think those guys had hollow legs with how much vodka they can put away. Did they just give it to them in their baby bottles over there in Mother Russia, or what?”

  Shrugging casually, I joke, “I don't think any of them are actually even from Russia. It’s probably all an act. Probably learned their accents off of Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.”

  Gianna sighs to herself as she puts the humidor back in the case and then slides the door on the climate-controlled room closed. Rows upon rows of rare cigars in gleaming wooden boxes sit on the shelves in that room. It’s almost like a church.

  “They're probably all from Idaho or something,” she says as she comes back toward me. “How am I supposed to tell the difference between some big, dumb farmboy and some big, dumb Russian gangster anyway? Anybody can get a tattoo, you know.”

  “Absolutely true,” I say and turn away so we don’t have to look at each other and see what we really think. No matter what she says, I can tell she's shaken by being in the small private room with them. We may talk shit about them, but those Russian guys are actually scary as hell.

  Every time they come for a meeting with Daddy in our club I practically spend the whole time holding my breath and looking over my shoulder. They’re unpredictable. That’s how they’ve managed to shave off so much of the neighborhood, by being willing to do things we would never do. Things that take people by surprise.

  Not like my family. The Cosa Nostra has rules. A code. We’re brought up with a list of expectations that you just don’t ever question. It’s in our blood.

  But ever since those Russians started pushing further and further into the neighborhood, things have been changing. Folks didn’t want to stand against them because they didn’t know what would happen, or how bad it could get.

  People say the worst things could happen. In the old days, you knew a guy could fall on the wrong side of some deal, and he might end up getting disappeared. But nowadays you don't just find one guy dead, you find his entire family dead. Kids too. Grandma, pets, everybody.

  They’re absolute savages.

  But we can't talk about that. Especially not me and Gianna. It's not our place, and if anybody caught us there would be hell to pay. Our cigar club has been neutral territory for generations and that means we don’t talk trash about the clientele, no matter who they are. Daddy has been working on this supposed peace thing for so long and so hard that if I did anything to mess it up I don't even know what he would do to me.

  Not that I really think he would do anything really bad. For all his gruffness, I know he loves me deep down. Of course he does. We’re all about family. Not like those Russian monsters. They don't give a shit about anybody.

  But with Italians, our blood is thicker than concrete. It's the thing that holds the universe together. And we’re practically steeped in from the moment that we’re born. It's everywhere. Rivers of it.

  It didn't used to be this way. I mean there were always other families, and then there were the Puerto Ricans and the Blacks too. There has always been a presence like this in Chicago, or so they tell me. It’s just a way of life.

  We do a service, working underneath the conscious awareness of your average person. We keep things moving. We keep the money flowing in and out. People say that it was Prohibition that really let the families come into power in the 1920s, but if it hadn't been that it would've been something else. There's always somebody trying to keep people from the things they want, so there's always going to be room for somebody else to deliver that service.
That's all we do.

  But the Russians and Albanians showed up in the 80s or 90s or something like that. And they're a totally different animal. Impossible to negotiate with. They say that they have codes of honor but nobody seems to be able to figure them out. Every time we get a peace, the peace gets broken. Over and over again.

  When Daddy was a young guy, he brokered the first peace with the Russians who started moving in on our territory. Not like we were going to compete for our own business in our own neighborhood. Some of the protection arrangements went back three generations. It was a tradition.

  But somehow little pieces of what we had got chipped away here and there. Every agreement left us with a smaller presence. It's like standing on an island but the water is rising. Pretty soon there's going to be no island left.

  And the ocean is made of blood. It's like that.

  But because Daddy is the boss, he gets to keep the peace. He always figures something out and the floodwaters recede for a little while. Still, they always come back. And he has to go figure something else out again. That’s what he’s doing right now, back there in the smoking room with the Russians.

  Gianna twirls a long strand of sable hair around her finger, probably the last sign she'll show that she really is anxious about those guys. Her eyes dart between the closed door and my iPad. As I am tallying my tips and cashing myself out from the drawer, I hear her breath snort out through her nose.

  I ignore her and count out my take in twenties, then grab my bag from below the counter. One small stack goes in the front inside pocket of my purse, and the other bigger stack goes in the envelope at the bottom.

  “He’s gonna catch you one of these days,” she mumbles just loud enough for me to hear.

  Nestling the envelope at the very bottom of my bag, I think about that for a second. “Catch me doing what? What’s weird about having money in my purse?”

  She rolls her eyes and raises her brows right in the spaciously waxed empty space between them. Gianna has the best eyebrows on the planet.

  “You know what, just because you’re studying to be a CPA doesn’t mean you get financial oversight over me, Gianna.”