Beware the Devil (Mafia Soldiers Book 3) Read online

  Beware the Devil

  Mafia Soldiers Book Three

  Samantha Cade

  ‘Beware the Devil’ Copyright Samantha Cade 2018

  All Rights Reserved

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  “The mind is its own place, and in itself

  can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven

  What matter where, if I be still the same?”

  -John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Chapter One

  Salvatore

  The room is draped in red and shadows. A fire blazes in the black, ornate fireplace just beyond the foot of the bed. The heat makes me sweat, creating a slick layer between the skin of my back and the satin sheets. My every comfort has been attended to. I hold a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Two female forms in black robes dance in front of the blazing orange light for my amusement. I don’t know their names, and only identify them by hair color, the blonde and the brunette. The blonde bats her eyelashes as the robe slides down her arm, and full, pert tit pops out. She slides coy fingers down her midsection, to between her legs, which is hidden by the folds of the robe, and sighs in mock ecstasy.

  She’s faking it. It does nothing for me, except remind me of the crushing boredom that’s plagued me, for how long, I don’t remember. This emptiness has robbed me of the highs I used to experience during my favorite past times. Beautiful naked women don’t give me that gut twisting sensation of eagerness. Violence doesn’t pump hot blood through my veins. This absence of feeling is worse than any negative emotion- rage, hatred, despair. I’d kill, literally, to experience any of those three. It’s infected every part of my life. I’m sleepwalking.

  The brunette bends to the blonde’s chest, and flicks her tongue over the exposed nipple. The blonde throws her head back and moans. Disgust creeps up my spine. There’s no way the inexperienced flicking of the brunette’s tongue could give her that much pleasure.

  “Just take the robes off,” I bark, my voice bitter. “This isn’t an amateur porn shoot.”

  If they’re offended, it doesn’t register on their faces. They both smile and say, “Yes, Sir,” in unison, and drop the robes to their feet. I scan their perfect curves, waiting to feel something, anything, but all I feel is annoyance. Even the bourbon doesn’t help, though it tastes exquisite. It’s almost too perfect. It does not feel real. Nothing does. A long column of ash descends from the end of my cigarette. I contemplate letting it fall on my bare stomach. Maybe pain would spark me back into existence.

  But I’m not a masochist. I’m quite the opposite. I jerk my head towards the medieval looking rack to the left of the fireplace.

  “Get her into the restraints,” I say.

  “Which one of us, Sir?” the blonde purrs.

  “I don’t care,” I snap.

  They both nod submissively. It’s the brunette who lies on the wooden slab, and stretches her arms and legs out so the blonde can apply the restraints. The captive woman is splayed in front of me, her back arched over the hard surface, her tits heaving with breath and her nipples hard. Her legs are spread, so I can see every pink, glistening fold. But it’s nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before. The blonde turns to me, gesturing to the instruments of torture displayed on the wall.

  “What do you prefer, Sir?” she asks, bowing slightly.

  “Clamp her nipples,” I say between my teeth.

  The blonde obeys my order. She takes two shiny metal clamps, and attaches them to the dark, pinched nipples of our captive. The brunette howls in a mixture of pleasure and pain, which is of course, horridly unbelievable. The clamps are connected by a delicate silver chain. The blonde takes the chain between her teeth and pulls. The brunette howls louder.

  I tighten my grip around the tumbler of bourbon, trying to conjure something inside of me. But my mind is still and black, refusing to be aroused.

  “The whip,” I demand.

  The blonde bows, then fetches the black leather whip from the wall. She circles around the table, slapping it against her palm, before raising it dramatically into the air, and bringing it down across the tops of the brunette’s thighs. The brunette’s face contorts in grotesque pain, though she was barely lashed.

  “Again,” I order. “Harder.”

  The blonde raises her arm again, playing the part of a lion tamer in a low rent circus. She gives a bigger flourish while swinging the whip. The brunette writhes furiously on the table, trying her best to deliver an award winning performance in pain. She’s probably an aspiring actress. They all are. This underground sex club is just a stepping stone to Meryl Streep worthy movie roles, or so their delusions would have them believe.

  “No,” I growl, and descend from the bed. I snatch the whip from the blonde’s hand, and wield it, standing over the brunette. She trembles beneath me, nervous about going off script. I dangle the leather ends over her stomach, letting it lick over her sensitive skin. Looking in her eyes, I make a promise. “This is going to hurt.”

  There’s a brief, delicious glimmer of fear in her pretty eyes. I feel the blonde’s energy shift, deliberating whether or not she should stay in character and let me flog her friend. I glare down at my captive, stretching the leather between my fists, and drawing out the anticipation. But numbness covers every inch of my me, oppressive and crushing. It occurs to me that I might have to draw this innocent woman’s blood to wake myself from this walking sleep.

  The moment is interrupted by a dainty knock at the door, and the soft voice of Madame Cherie announcing herself. I’m vaguely relieved to be interrupted from exploring the boundaries of my depravity.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mariano. There’s a man here to see you. He’s quite insistent.”

  Madame Cherie stands before me in a deep blue corset, fishnet stockings, and ridiculously tall heels. She’s blonde and curvy, and a highly effective saleswoman. Her pink lips glitter with a smile. She reaches out, stroking the panels of my robe with neatly manicured hands.

  “He calls himself Snake. Said you would know him. Shall I have Joe throw him out?”

  Snake. Now that name sparks something. The utter hatred boils my blood. I sneer, thinking of tasting his. I whip my head towards the naked women.

  “Get out,” I tell them, then instruct Madame Cherie to send in my guest.

  “At once, Sir,” she says, leaving with a bowed head. The two women slip past me, clutching their robes, in a hurry to leave. The brunette glances warily at me, worried that I’ll grab her before she can escape. But I’m done with them.

  I sit in the armchair by the fire, savoring the last finger of my bourbon. When Snake walks in, I don’t look at him. The floor creaks beneath him as he carefully approaches me.

  “Sal,” he says, his voice forceful, but constrained.

  I turn my face slowly from the fire. “Snake,” I say, his name sliding between my lips.

  My brain lights up, flooded by dopamine when I look at him. Snake, my friend, the feral orphan I took in off the streets, and my father’s killer. He holds my gaze, determined not to cower away from me.

  “I’m going to make this quick,” he says, stroking back his hair and losing the pretense.

  “Quick? I’m disappointed. It’s been such a long time. Sit. Have a drink.” An idea turns over lazily in my head. I could smash the glass tumbler against the fireplace, and plunge a shard into his jugular vein. But Snake doesn’t even consider my offer of a friendly drink.

  “You need to get out of town,” he says, then glances around impatiently
.

  I laugh. “And why is that?”

  “You’re on Franco’s radar. He’s been talking about what to do about you.”

  “That’s why you’re here? I’m hurt, Snake. I thought this was a friendly visit, but it’s just marching orders.”

  “Franco doesn’t know I’m here.” Snake glances with annoyance at the blazing fire, then loosens his tie. His forehead is glistening with sweat. “This is my only warning. If Franco gives the order, I won’t have any choice. Skip town. Now.”

  My mouth spreads into a smile. Now this is the action I’ve been craving. Snake sees the delight on my face, and takes a step back.

  “Don’t turn this into a pissing contest,” Snake warns. “You’re one man against Franco’s army. You can’t beat him.”

  I can’t beat him? I chuckle to myself. So, all this time, Snake has had no idea who he’s fucking with. I take a sip of bourbon. It suddenly tastes even more delicious.

  “If you’re not going to have a drink with me, get the fuck out,” I say.

  Snake hardens his gaze. “I warned you. Don’t forget that.”

  “I don’t forget anything,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Ever.”

  I turn back to the fire, dismissing him with my hand. Snake hesitates for a few moments before quietly leaving. I watch the dancing flames, so close, the heat tinges my cheeks. A smile tugs at the corners my lips. I can feel it.

  I’m waking up.

  Chapter Two

  Molly

  The man sitting in front of me is at least six foot five, and close to three hundred pounds. He’s a former professional basketball player, now forty-five, with bad knees that put him out of the game. The fortune he made was squandered in his youth. His daughter was born with a disability. He turned to crime to make ends meet, robbing liquor and convenience stores. He’s spent the last ten years in and out of jail. Now, he’s homeless. His daughter is under the guardianship of his ex-wife’s parents.

  There are tears in his eyes, but there’s also hope. It’s faint, but it’s there. This is our seventh session.

  “I want to be there for my daughter,” Mike says, grabbing a tissue. His broad shoulders round forward as he wipes his nose.

  I reach out and gently touch his knee. “You have to be there for yourself first.”

  “I’ve fucked up one too many times. They don’t want me around her. I don’t blame them.”

  “That’s good,” I say. It is very good. During our first session, Mike had placed one hundred percent of the blame squarely on his ex in-laws. They’re the reason he can’t see his daughter. They’re also the reason for his financial problems and drug use. “You’re taking stock,” I continue. “That’s the first step. The choices you’ve made are yours, and you have to own that.”

  Mike crumples the tissue in his hand while staring contemplatively at the floor. I can tell he’s at an important stage, where he can accept his own misgivings without emotion and projection getting in the way.

  I tap my pen against my clipboard, bringing us back to the current moment. “The past is the past. You can’t change it. The questions is, where do you go from here? How do you become the man you want to be, the father you want to be?”

  Mike sniffs. “Get a job. A place to live.”

  “Do you want those things?”

  He looks up solemnly and nods.

  “We can help,” I affirm. “Together, we’ll get there.”

  Mike presses the tissue against his eyes as he begins to cry again. I can see, in his relaxed and open posture, that he’s found the will to improve himself. It’s a shift in mindset that’s crucial to healing. Some people never get there.

  After our session, I walk Mike out, pleased by the progress we’ve made. But I’m quick to remember the email I’d gotten this morning, a thorn that’s stuck in my side all day. After wishing Mike goodbye, I survey the open floor plan of the center. There are long tables equipped with computers and other office accessories, where I work among the counselors I hired, and Greg, my second in command. This was my dream, my vision for honoring my grandfather’s legacy with the inheritance he’d left me. The idea was simple- a nonprofit that provided counseling and mental health services to anyone, of any income level, free of charge. It’s a lofty goal, I know, but I had no idea how complicated the reality would be.

  I sit at a desk beside Greg. I haven’t told him about the email yet. I haven’t told anyone. Greg is a middle aged gay man who could pass for thirty with well coifed jet black hair and a trim physique. Next to him, with my shoulder length curly auburn hair, I feel like the Grace to his Will. If only our troubles could be solved with comedic high jinks in thirty minutes like our television doppelgängers. He’s typing session notes. I side-eye him awkwardly, trying to think of a way to begin.

  “What is it?” he says, finally.

  “Bad news.”

  Greg shrugs. “Is there any other kind?”

  His flippancy is a slight comfort. I need his calm rationality when I feel like the world is burning down.

  “The state is cutting our funding by thirty percent,” I say, keeping my voice low so the other counselors don’t overhear. “That throws my plans for expansion straight out of the window.”

  Greg takes my hand, and we commiserate silently together for a few moments.

  “We’ll make it work. I’ve been in the nonprofit industry for two decades,” he says. “Get used to stuff like this. It happens all the time. Take my advice, find something to distract yourself, like a smoking hot man.”

  I cringe, rubbing my forehead. “If only hot men were that easy to find. They’re not exactly lining up at my door.”

  Greg looks at me like I’ve gone mad. “Go on the internet. There’s something there for every taste.”

  I laugh him off, but a part of me knows there’s something to what he’s saying. I opened the center three years ago, and since then, my life has revolved around it. There have been exhilarating highs and devastating lows, though more of the latter. Maybe I should focus on my personal life. I haven’t even explored the dating scene in LA. I’m not much of a bar goer, but I’ve heard of websites like Tinder that could make it easy. Even if I never meet anyone, and I probably won’t, an evening of scrolling through pictures of eligible singles beats fretting over the nonprofit emotional rollercoaster.

  I log into my email account and disappointment pangs in my stomach. UPDATE ON BUDGET CUTS. That’s the subject line that jolted me this morning. It’s still there, taunting me. It’s time for distraction. But that brings up another problem.

  “Shit,” I say, reflexively. Greg gives me a questioning look. “I don’t have my wifi set up yet,” I explain.

  He looks down his nose haughtily. “So you’re considering my suggestion?”

  I roll my eyes, despite the color rising in my face.

  “You don’t have wifi yet?” Greg says. “Where are you living, a barn?”

  “They forgot to include the password in the packet they gave me. I tried to call the leasing agent, but her voicemail says she’s in Aruba. I’ll have to ask the landlord for it.”

  “So ask him.” Greg sighs with boredom. “What’s taking you so long?”

  A chill moves up my spine. Our conversation drops off, and Greg turns back to his screen. I quickly pull on my cardigan, then open a file on my computer and act like I’m working. Greg can sense a change in my mood from a mile away, and I don’t need him questioning my thoughts. I don’t want to tell Greg about my landlord. When I applied for the apartment and signed the lease three weeks ago, I dealt with an agency. I’ve never spoken to the landlord, but I’ve seen him. He’s a handsome, always well-dressed man, with piercing dark eyes that irrationally spark fear inside of me. I have no reason to be intimidated by him. There’s just something about him, the way he carries himself with unshakable confidence, and his cool, icy stares. I imagine he’s a big city business man. Coming from a small town in Northern California, I’m not used to people like him.<
br />
  Even though I haven’t spoken a word of this to Greg, I can guess what he’d say. I’m paying rent to this man. I need the internet for work and recreation. And why am I so scared of him anyway?

  I know the answer to that question. My confidence is seriously lacking. It’s something I’ve struggled with my entire life. I’ve never felt good enough. Even as the founder of this center, I feel like an incompetent imposter who was lucky enough to stumble into a bit of money. It doesn’t take much introspection on my part to know that my desire for the center to be successful is directly tied to my self-esteem. If it’s a success, maybe I’ll consider myself a success too.

  Of course, it goes even deeper than that. I’ve lain awake many nights in the dark, pondering the deepest recesses of my mind. The question I always arrive at is who do I think I am? I think I can help other people, but I couldn’t help my brother.

  Then I tell myself, like I tell my clients, that self-doubt should be acknowledged, but not always believed.

  I leave work that evening with the intention of marching straight to Mr. Salvatore Mariano’s apartment, knocking on his door, and politely requesting the wifi password that I’m entitled to. It’s a short walk to my apartment building, just a few blocks away from the center, past a bodega, a few apartment buildings, and a group of homeless people who are always searching this block for recyclables when I’m on my way home. I shake my head at the nervous tingles in my fingertips. I’m being ridiculous. Salvatore’s just a man. A man I’m paying rent to.

  Once in the building, I walk confidently down the hall. I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers, then knock on Mr. Mariano’s door. My heart beats rapidly as I wait. But to my relief, there’s no answer.

  This doesn’t solve my problem. I’ll just have to work myself up to knocking on his door again. I resolve to wait in my apartment until I hear him coming down the hall. Then, I won’t hesitate. I just want to get this over with, and hopefully I’ll never have to talk to the big scary landlord down the hall again.