AUCTIONED TO HER DAD’S MAFIA ENEMIES: A MAFIA AGE-GAP REVERSE HAREM ROMANCE (AUCTIONED SERIES Book 4)

TAMING THE KITTEN

“Send Rafa to Signora Lambretti.” I say her name with a sneer and shake my head, the memory of her outbursts toward Carlo coming back to me. This whole business is the last thing I want to deal with, but my hand is forced.

Rafa Bianchi is the best choice. He’s a huge brute of a man, built like a tank with a face like a battered slab of meat. In his youth, he was a bare-knuckle fighter, and now he wears every impact like a badge of brutality and strength. When he walks the streets, people flinch away from him, so he’s the perfect person to make Aemelia’s mother understand what’s at stake for her daughter if she turns informant.

We have enough of the senior police in our pockets to make major problems disappear. Even if she wanted to raise hell to find her daughter, she’d be met with nothing but cool indifference from the men who live like kings off my generous donations.

“It’s done,” Antonio says, already dialing.

I look down at my bare feet, still tingling from the touch of Aemelia’s lips. She kissed me and hated every minute of it, but she understood her place and that’s what’s important. My hand still stings from the impact against her ripe ass. It’s still coated with her wetness, too.noveldrama

She’s like an angel but breaking her will take a devil’s will.

“How did it feel?” Alexis asks.

“How did what feel?”

“Taking your hand to that sweet ass.”

“I didn’t do it for enjoyment,” I say, fixing my youngest brother with a cool stare.

“But you did… enjoy it?” He grins, sly and filthy.

He thinks he knows what I feel but he has no idea. What kind of man gets turned on by the daughter of his old friend, now worst enemy? “She’s a bambina,” I say. “Half my age.”

“She’s a woman,” he says. “A beautiful, pure, strong, vibrant, sexy woman.”

“She was a sweet little girl. She loved Rosita. They were like sisters.”

“That was a long time ago.”

He’s right of course. Aemelia isn’t anything like the little girl I carried in my arms. She’s all grown up, and ripe for the picking, but still my mind rejects the idea. There are lines for a reason. And too much sweetness can become bitter when temptation is too strong.

“She’s Lambretti filth,” Alexis drawls. “Her worthless father deserted her. What does that make her?”

“A pawn in a game she never chose to play,” I remind him.

“Unfortunate.”

Yes. He’s right. All of this is unfortunate. “I’m going to bed.”

“Vito and Andre are stationed outside.”

I nod, already leaving him behind. If there’s one thing I don’t have to worry about, it’s security. This building is a shiny fortress of my design, riddled with secret passages. Anyone foolish enough to think they can break through its defenses will find themselves drowning in disappointment.

As I pass Aemelia’s room, the soft sound of her crying carries through the locked door. I pause, remembering her whimpers and tears from so many years ago, and the way it broke my heart to witness her childish pain. And now? Now, her tears are salt water in the wound her father created. But still they snag at my cold, dead heart.

Women. They wield power they don’t realize they have. Power that they don’t deserve.

I walk away.

***

Morning brings with it fresh resolve.

Before I take a shower, Antonio confirms that Carmella Lambretti is clear on the status of her daughter’s safety. She begged and pleaded with Rafa, dropping to her knees to clasp at his ankles, wailing like a banshee.

“She says she doesn’t know where Carlo is?”

“Did Rafa believe her?”

“Yes. He says she’d have done anything to get her daughter back. She’s not hiding her husband.”

I nod. It’s what I thought, but it’s good to have confirmation.

“So, we do what we need to do.”

Antonio nods, already crisply dressed in his dark uniform of expensive black sweater and dress pants. On his wrist glints the Rolex my father gave him for his eighteenth birthday, an expensive reminder of the family we’ve lost to this life.

“I’ll be ten minutes,” I say. “Make breakfast and get Aemelia up.”

“Okay.”

“Is her delivery here?”

“Andriana dropped it off in the night.”

“Good.”

He leaves me to shower and dress, and by the time I emerge, smelling of Parisian cologne, Aemelia is sitting at the dining table, her hair ratty with sleep, a piece of bread poised in her elegant hand.

Antonio has fixed an easy breakfast that reminds me of Sicily—bread, cheese, olives, fruit, cured meat, olive oil, tomatoes, cucumber, and a pot of black coffee. I sit opposite Aemelia and begin to gather my meal.

She watches me as I dip bread in olive oil and cover it with thin prosciutto.

“Eat,” I tell her.

She takes a tentative bite of the bread and chews it like it’s cardboard. In reality, it’s soft and delicious, flavored with sesame.

Alexis strolls from his room, dressed in dark jeans and a polo shirt like he’s ready for a day at the mall. His feet are bare, and his floppy, wavy hair is still dripping from the shower. If I had the energy, I’d lecture him like my father used to about discipline and people’s judgement, but not in front of Aemelia. I won’t waste my breath. He is what he is and there’s no changing him.

He sits next to her, and she braces herself, her delicate arms pressing tight to her chest. Alexis reaches out to touch her unbound hair, letting a section run through his fingers. “Breakfast and a beautiful woman. I hit the jackpot this morning.”

Aemelia’s eyes meet mine, dark brown and haunting, and I hold the stare, waiting for her to break away first. When she does, she lowers the bread to her plate.

“Eat,” I say again, this time louder. No one is fading away under my roof. She will leave this place physically strong if nothing else. If Carlo sees sense.

Antonio, who’s still standing at the counter, watches everything. He’ll be in control today. We need footage of Aemelia to pass to her father’s last known contacts—footage that will draw him out of his rats nest.

“I’m famished,” Alexis says, popping an olive into his mouth. “I slept like a dog.”

“Log,” Aemelia says.

We all stop what we’re doing to stare at her. Did she just correct Alexis?

She did.

I glance at Antonio who tips his head as if to say, I told you she was going to be trouble. Alexis laughs, his initial shock forgotten. “No, gattina. Like a big, lazy fucking dog. But I do have some nice thick wood if you’d like to see it.”

She chews on a piece of mozzarella, seemingly unphased by everything going on around her.

“And you?” I ask her. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a cuckoo,” she says softly. “In the wrong fucking nest.”

I bite the inside of my lip, surprise almost making me smile. Alexis, showing zero restraint, barks with laughter. “This fucking girl.” He slaps the table, making everything jump.

“You know who else is in the wrong fucking nest,” I hiss. “My brother. He’s been resting in the fucking ground in your father’s place.”

“Which is nothing to do with me.” She leans forward, jaw set, mouth pressed into a grim line.

I fight a smile. “Oh, gattina. You’re going to find out just how much it has become your problem after you eat your expensive prosciutto and drink your expensive coffee and dress in the expensive clothes we have ordered for you.”

She looks down at herself. The room is warm but still her nipples are dark and tight beneath the lace. “You mean, you don’t like this beautiful outfit. I thought you’d love it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it’s cheap and nasty.”

I narrow my eyes and slowly dab my mouth with a white napkin. When I’m done, I lower it to the table. “She’s done with her breakfast. Antonio, take her to her room.”

This fucking girl.

He’s across the room like a shot, his hand around her upper arm, half dragging her as she struggles to keep up with him. He gave her the warning last night. A warning she hasn’t heeded. Although her rudeness isn’t his fault directly, he’ll take responsibility for it because that’s the kind of man he is.

When the door has closed and he’s locked her inside again, Alexis whistles. “She’s going to be so much fun to break.”

Although nothing comes between me and food, the bread has become paste in my mouth.

When I first stepped up to take a place in the family business, my father had given me a man to interrogate. Filled with the confidence of youth and ignorance, I’d thought it would be easy to extract information from him, after all, I was the one with the power and he was bound and defenseless. But he wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know, no matter how much I beat and humiliated him. After two hours, he was dead, and I learned a valuable lesson, one I’ve never forgotten. Not everyone can be broken and those who can’t be broken shatter a piece of you in the process.

***

Aemelia is dressed in white to remind her father of what is at stake. The new dress is satin, expensive, and cut close to her body to hint at what’s beneath. The fabric catches the light, clinging to every curve, a vision of purity tainted by the weight of our intentions. I stare at her, my mouth dry, my dick half-hard. Aemelia Lambretti could wear a plastic bag and look like fire, but in this dress, she’s a dream I don’t deserve to have.

Andriana must have supplied her with makeup because her face is decorated with black winged eyeliner and her trademark scarlet lipstick—war paint to make her look powerful and put together. But I know better. I see the slight tremble in her hands, the way her pulse flickers at the base of her throat. For all of my denial to my brother, seeing her like this makes me want to tear the dress from her body and find all sorts of terrible, pleasurable ways to smear that lipstick from her pouty lips.

Is this the look that will bring Carlo running into the arms of death? Will he even care?

It’s one thing to leave your family to protect yourself, knowing they’re going to be safe. It’s another to abandon your daughter to your enemies, letting the world watch as she suffers in your place. The Lambretti name is already mud in my eyes, but there are different kinds of mud. Getting someone from outside your blood killed is one thing. Allowing your blood to die out of fear for your own skin? Shameful. Unforgivable.

Maybe this whole thing is foolish. Maybe all we’ll do is humiliate this girl and breed hatred into another Lambretti.

And what will we do with her if Carlo doesn’t return? Antonio would do anything I asked, even snuff out her life, but I don’t want that. She’s a butterfly, a creature of beauty and fragility, not a rodent like her father. Flanked by my brothers, she looks smaller and more vulnerable, but I have to remind myself that she has a nasty bite.

“On your knees, gattina,” I hiss.

Aemelia grits her teeth as she drops to the floor, and my dick jerks against my expensive pants.

“Tie her hands.”

Antonio reaches into his pocket and pulls out a zip tie. He secures her wrists behind her back, and she winces as he runs his finger beneath, ensuring there’s enough space for blood flow.

“Come here.”

Alexis is filming, keeping my face out of the frame. Aemelia hesitates then begins to shuffle on her knees. It’s ungraceful, jerky, humiliating. When she’s close enough, I grab her hair, the silky strands filling my rough fist, and yank her until her face is tipped to me.

“Beg,” I say. “Beg your fucking weasel of a father to come for you. Beg him to save you before we destroy everything innocent and precious about you.”

Her eyes flick from me to Alexis, the camera rolling as she turns over her decision in her pretty head. Will she comply or will she rebel. I know where her heart is. She wants to spit at me, to tell me to go fuck myself. If I put my dick in her mouth, she’d bite it clean off. But she’s deciding if her father is worth experiencing more pain for. Or maybe she’s considering whether I’m worthy of her surrender.

“Fuck you,” she spits, and I grip harder. “I won’t beg at your feet, Luca Venturi.”

I wave at Alexis to stop filming. He deletes what he has as I lean over the girl on her knees. Her skin is like porcelain, her eyes intense with fury and defiance, and as pissed as I am that she’s not playing along, I’m turned on by her fire.

Your dick doesn’t need to feel guilty.

That’s what Alexis said at the wedding, and he’s right. She’s a grown woman now, one I paid a lot of money for. There were always two ways this situation could play out, and she is picking the hard way. My dick has always enjoyed the hard way the best. Nothing good ever comes easy. I’ve spent my whole life taking what should be mine, holding onto what my father built, forcing my way into new profitable areas and between the most converted legs.

I’m used to the brutality that’s required to get what I want. I get off on wielding power.

Curving over her, still gripping her mane of hair, I run my hand down her cheek and neck, letting my fingertips play over the swell of her breast. Everything about her is young and fresh, her unblemished skin, the firmness of her ripe body. The dress isn’t especially low cut, but it’s low enough that when I let my fingers drift, the very tip brushes her nipple within the lace cup of her bra. She gasps, and I smile. “See. You might pretend to hate me, but your nipples tell a different story.” I take one between my thumb and forefinger and twist, not to hurt but to arouse. To make a point that she is mine, and I can do whatever the fuck I want to her at any time.

“Stop,” she says, but her voice is breathy.

“You don’t want me to stop. Not really. Look at your eyes.” I twist her head so Alexis can see how wide her pupils are blown. “You look like you’re strung out on molly.”

“Fuck you,” she spits again.

I pull my hand from her dress and lick my index finger while she watches me with wide eyes. I crouch in front of her, still gripping the silky strands of her hair. Her shoulders strain as she tugs at the restraints on her wrists.

“Maybe, gattina, I should fuck you.”

She gasps as I push my hand between her legs, finding the fabric of her panties damp. I smile; the knowledge that she’s turned on a confirmation of what I already knew. Those moments at the wedding where our eyes kept meeting weren’t just about recognition. There was lust in her eyes. The kind of lust that’s laced with dark fear and even darker curiosity. Yesterday, after I spanked her, she was wet enough to soak through her dress.

I don’t push inside her, but I rest my finger at the unbreeched entrance to her body, my smile widening when her pussy contracts against my touch, her sweet little hole fluttering. Her hips shift, like she’s seeking more pressure and blood floods my dick.

“Should I fuck you? Break this little pussy open. Make you a woman with my thick cock?”

“No,” she grits out through a rigid jaw. She’s fighting with herself as much as she wants to fight me. Her body is talking to me, whispering secret fantasies and sweetness of the kind I haven’t thought to taste in a long time.

I press a little harder against her, so that the pad of my index finger slips inside her a little. She moans so softly, I’m the only one close enough to hear. My dick is iron, imagining breaking through her innocence so that she cries out in pain before pleasure. “Are you sure? I know how to make it hurt so good.”

“NO.”

I hold my finger in place as her body tightens around it. An invader. An intruder. Unwelcome but desired. She was wet, but she’s getting wetter. “So, gattina, how are you going to make up for me not getting inside your sweet little dripping cunt? What are you going to do for me to spare you?”

“I’ll do it,” she says, her body trembling, fluttering around my finger. “I’ll do the video.”

“Yes?” I reluctantly pull my hand away, my wet finger cooling where my lust still blazes out of control.

I stand and she relaxes into my touch, no longer fighting the grip in her hair.

Alexis starts the recording again and Aemelia focuses on the camera.

“Please, Papa. Please. Don’t let them hurt me. Don’t let them break me. Pleeaaase, Papa. Please come back before they…”

I jerk her head again, and she gasps.

“Enough.”

Alexis stops filming, his grin wide and pleased. “An Oscar-winning performance.”

I don’t let go of our little spitfire. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The hatred in her eyes turns the warm coffee depths to midnight black. “I hate my father,” she says. “But you…”

“Ah, princess.” I press my hand over my heart. “What have I done to make you hate me?”

“Touched me.”

“You liked it.”

She grimaces. “Made me kiss your filthy feet.”

“There is nothing filthy about me, except my mind.”

“You made me kneel.”

“Why would you hate that? Is it so hard to submit to the will of another? Have I not cared for you? Fed you? Put a roof over your head? Clothes on your back? Are you not warm?”

Her eyes are murderous. “I don’t want any of it.”

“I could kill you now,” I hiss. “Snap your pretty neck like a chicken bone. Let your father come back for the pieces of your body, but I’m not a cruel man, at least not to those who don’t deserve it.”

She lowers her eyes like looking at me is too hard. I bring my index finger to my mouth and savor her flavor, the heady scent and taste filling my mind with desperate urges, then I swipe my thumb over her bottom lip, smearing the red lipstick. I bring it to my mouth and taste that too, watching her.

“Pussy and cherries?”

Her face twists. She has no idea how sweet she is.

“What do you want from me?” Her voice is a whisper. Alexis and Antonio wait, as still as the statues that once decorated the Colosseum.

“Obedience,” I say. “Understand. You do what I say when I say it. Don’t make this hard on yourself.”

I turn to my brothers. “Take her back to her room.”

They approach, eating up the distance between us with long strides. They take an arm each, lifting Aemelia to her feet and frog-marching her away.

I watch her go and ask fate to make Carlo Lambretti see sense quickly, because the longer Aemelia is in this penthouse, the less likely I am to