Brutal Revenge

The Adami estate is too pristine to profit from the filth I’m here to confront. Marble floors that have never encountered dirt, and air that carries a faint aroma of expensive cigars, greet us as we are shown through the regal grounds. Every man we pass smirks with the confidence of someone who believes a noble bloodline justifies everything. 

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I’m here to teach them otherwise.

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My younger brothers, Nico and Elio, walk beside me with the same stiff posture keeping my spine rigid. It’s the stance of a man trying real fucking hard not to break something.

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Don Adami greets us with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his arms spread wide as if he’s welcoming honored guests instead of the family whose soon-to-be sister-in-law was nearly gang-raped at an event this chapter of the Cosa Nostra hosted.

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I’ve seen a lot of bad shit in my thirty-three years, but nothing compared to the terror on Dante’s face when he walked into a room to find Lucia held down by ten thugs. Her barely there bra and panties clung to her battered body by a thread, and blood trickled from her nose.

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Giovanni, the don of our chapter and the eldest of the five Caruso brothers, took out the main culprit with a direct headshot. She was lucky. Death by a bullet wasn’t a sufferable enough punishment for Dante. He wanted the men holding his woman to the ground to feel the pain he felt when her screams for them to stop ripped through his ears. 

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A blade from one ear to the other barely scratched the surface of the adrenaline surging through his veins, but the men shackling Lucia’s ankles and wrists to the seedy, pre-cum-stained floor gurgled on their last breaths for at least a minute. Then every male member of their families endured the remainder of the brunt only hours later.

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Now we’re about to take out the rest of the trash.

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“Matteo, Nico, Elio.” Don Adami’s lungs saw in and out as he names us in order of our place in the family. If Giovanni and Dante were here, he would have greeted them first. It’s meant to be a sign of respect, but all I see is a cowardly man on the verge of dropping to his knees and begging to suck my dick. “Please sit. Make yourselves comfortable.”

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He gestures toward an arrangement of leather chairs that look so uncomfortable I’m convinced they’re solely for show. They’re like overfilled silicone tits. Pleasing to look at, but uncomfortable as fuck when you attempt to use them for their intended purpose.

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A servant appears instantly, as if summoned by the Don’s breath alone, carrying a tray of crystal glasses and a decanter of amber liquor that no doubt costs more than most people’s first car.

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“Drink?” The don lifts the decanter with a flourish that betrays his age. He’s getting on in years, and it shows in the fragility with which he serves his whiskey and rules his empire. “Aged twenty-one years. A favorite of mine.” No, he isn’t solely referring to the whiskey. His mistresses are barely legal. It’s the “barely” part of my statement that has kept him breathing.

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I don’t sit, I don’t drink, and I definitely don’t fucking pretend.

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“We’re not here to share bedtime stories.” My deep timbre cuts through the fake hospitality like a blade. “It’s never about niceties when I’m sent to clean up the mess of others.”

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I’m the enforcer of my family. The muscle. If I show up at your door, you should be quivering in your boots.

Don Adami’s smile falters, but he sets the decanter down with exaggerated care, as if the gesture alone will smooth over the insinuation that I’m here for carnage. 

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I close the distance between us. My steps aren’t threatening. They just clarify that I’m not here to be placated.

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“Your sons—”

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Lifting a hand, he immediately cuts the apron strings. “Acted without my knowledge.” His reply is smooth and practiced, the kind he’s convinced will free him from being slaughtered by the wolves about to maul his offspring. “But now that I am aware, their behavior will be handled in-house. You have my word that they’ll face appropriate repercussions for their actions.”

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His promise is worthless.

 

“A slap on the wrist isn’t harsh enough.” Each of my words carries the weight of the fury I’ve been holding back since Lucia’s almost gang rape. “Your sons crossed a line I cannot ignore, and you don’t get to sweep that under a rug because it’s convenient.” I air-quote my last word like a man with a corn kernel for a dick. 

 

The silence stretches as I watch him squirm. I’ve always had a fascination with the scent of fear, and today it’s especially strong. 

 

The chandelier above us casts broken light across Don Adami’s wrinkled face, highlighting the sheen of sweat forming at his temples. 

 

A fat bead rolls down his cheek when I finally speak. “A Cosa Nostra bloodline doesn’t excuse your sons’ actions.”

 

He blinks, startled, as though the concept is foreign. “Matteo, surely you understand—”

 

“I understand perfectly.” My tone is calm but unyielding. “Your children think being born into a powerful family means they can decide which rules apply to them. That isn’t how this works. Not anymore.”

 

Nico shifts beside me, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. Elio’s jaw tics, but he stays silent, letting me speak for us all. I might be the muscle of our operation, but I’m also smart. I know the footwork Giovanni and Dante have been putting down the past six months will benefit our chapter more than it will harm it.

 

I simply refuse to tell them that since I have a sick fucking kink for pissing off my brothers. 

 

I’m not saying I get hard when they retaliate to my teases with violence. 

 

But I’m not denying it either.

 

The don tries to recover. He smooths his expression into something diplomatic. “Our families have handled matters internally for centuries. It’s tradition.”

 

“Tradition?” I slowly and deliberately roll the word off my tongue. “Tradition doesn’t protect rapists. And it sure as fuck didn’t protect Lucia from what your sons almost did.”

 

“They were not participants at the event—” 

 

“But they organized it!” I roar, my voice bellowing. “Against the ruling of the Caruso clan and the changes we’ve implemented over the last six months. They set up the entire fucking thing. They may as well have spat in our faces.” 

 

I never understood Dante’s concerns about raising a daughter in the Cosa Nostra until I learned how serious the Adamis’s crimes were. The gig Lucia booked last week wasn’t a one-off event. They’d held these types of parties twice a week for the past eight months.

 

The math is atrocious, and the statistics didn’t even come from the women they harmed. Since ninety percent of the victims couldn’t live with what happened to them, the details came from their surviving family members.

 

“If you want to get your rocks off with a gang-rape stimulation, hire a prostitute and state your terms in black and white for all to see. Do not disguise the gig as requiring a stripper for a bachelor party.”

 

Don Adami searches for a way to regain control of the conversation.

 

I don’t give him an inch of leeway.

 

“Your placement in the Cosa Nostra protects you from losing your life for this mistake, but it doesn’t make your family untouchable. Your sons will not get a free pass because of who their father is.”

 

The don swallows hard, his eyes flicking to Nico, then Elio, then back to me. “We will handle it.” His confidence has vanished now, replaced with something fragile. “I give you my assurance.”

 

“That isn’t good enough,” I say again, stilling the room.

 

The don’s men exchange nervous glances as my brothers stand like pillars on each side of me, silent but determined. We’re outnumbered, but every man in this room knows that means nothing. We took down a hundred men in under ten minutes when we walked into a room filled with more filth than a seedy back-alley abortion clinic.

 

For the first time since we walked in, Don Adami’s cheek twitches, a telltale sign he’s genuinely unsure.

 

Exhaling, his shoulders drop. 

 

“Then tell me what will be enough.”

 

I hold his gaze, unblinking. “I want that.” I eyeball the family crest ring on his pinkie finger. “While it’s still on your finger.”

 

He laughs as if I’m joking. 

 

I’m not.

 

“Then order your sons to the basement.”

 

The lump in his throat is too thick to swallow. “Matteo—”

 

“Did I sound like I was asking permission? These are my terms. Either you abide by them willingly, or I’ll remove entire fucking limbs for every minute you waste delaying the inevitable.” My smirk is the smuggest to date. “Starting with your withering, no doubt wrinkled dick.”

 

His voice is a sob. “I didn’t know. I swear.”

 

“Power doesn’t erase responsibilities, Anton. It increases them.”

 

My words land hard in his stomach. I can see it in the way he looks away before extending his hand. I bruised his pride, and taking his ancestors’ ring in front of his soldiers while it’s still on his finger is the ultimate insult. It’ll take him months to recover—if he ever does.

 

Good.

I’m done playing nice.

 

A flicker of pain passes over Don Adami’s face when I remove my knife from my bag of tricks before slicing it across his pinkie finger just above the base knuckle. He’s lucky his fingers are too fat for his ring to fit on his ring finger. Although his grip will be fucked until his death just from losing a pinkie finger, all psychopaths know that the ring finger has the most associated tendons. 

 

A spray of fresh blood follows the pop of a dislocated knuckle, and a collective hiss bounces through Don Adami’s office.

 

With his pinkie finger and ring in my hand, Don Adami snags a handkerchief out of his pocket and wraps it around the now nubby digit.

 

I’ll give credit where credit is due. He is a true connoisseur of pain. I’ve seen the hardest of criminals piss their pants at the first slice of my blade. They’d never survive an amputation without shedding a tear.

 

It earns Don Adami my respect. Not a lot, but enough to stop my knife from lowering his smirk two inches.

 

“Once you’ve cleaned up, bring your sons…” My words trail off when something behind the don’s whitening face catches my eye. A flicker of light, soft and bright against the dark woodgrain of the hallway paneling, enters the office from the other end.

 

I turn my head as the drumming of revenge in my ears dims to a hum. A woman dressed in a flowing white chiffon gown glides across the room like mist over a frozen pond. Her dark hair flows over her shoulders in waves too perfect to be real, and an intricate headpiece weaves through the loose side braids keeping her thick hair off her face. 

 

Her age can’t be much more than early twenties, and she carries herself in a way that shows she’s learned to survive in places that don’t deserve her.

 

I don’t get distracted, nor do I lose focus. I’m a man who notices everything but reacts to nothing, yet she steals my attention without even giving me a sideways glance.

 

Her outfit and the precious gems in her headpiece echo the chandelier’s sparkle, making her appear ethereal. 

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If she’s fallen from a higher place, why the fuck is she wasting her light shining it on the ruins of the Adami compound? It isn’t worthy of her. It falsely portrays wealth and prestigiousness, but beneath the sparkle is a core so rotten it’s weeks from imploding.

 

The tightness in my jaw worsens when I realize who is accompanying the unnamed beauty. Giovanni has met this woman on multiple occasions over the past month. She’s the wedding planner for the who’s who of Sicily. 

 

The bride-to-be’s expression is composed, almost serene, until the don snaps an order in her direction. “Leave. NOW!”

 

I expect her to flinch. Most people wilt under the fury of Don Adami’s wrath. But she steps forward with quiet grace, shifting the tension in the room from filled with anguish to sparked with interest. 

 

The air feels different when she moves with a delicacy no man in this room deserves to witness. She stops beside Don Adami before lowering her head to the angle Adami etiquette demands. 

 

Don Adami won’t let his subordinates enter or leave his presence without first paying respect to his family’s most treasured heirloom. 

 

Kissing the jewel-encrusted ring on his pinkie finger will be difficult for the brunette to do with his finger and ring in my pocket.

 

I’ve seen dozens of women do this submissive gesture, but this woman’s resigned mechanicalism is something else entirely. Even while obeying, she can’t conceal her pride. It has me conjuring ways to squeeze my rapidly thickening dick into the minute circumference of a pinkie ring.

 

I’m not seeking anything permanent, but even a monk would consider breaking celibacy for this unnamed beauty. Her features are too perfect for this hellhole. The gentle slope of her nose, the fine line of her jaw, and the way her lashes cast faint shadows across her hued cheeks announce she belongs between the pages of glossy magazines, not in a compound built on arrogance and decay.

 

She’s an angel amid ruins, and the contrast makes my body react in a way I dislike. 

 

My cock hasn’t hardened this fast in years. Usually, it takes minutes of salacious persuasion to get him fully engrossed in the occasion, but all this brunette did was breathe and he stood to attention. 

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I hate that no amount of self-implied reputation slandering immediately forces him back down, but I’m also fascinated.

 

When the raven-haired woman takes in Don Adami’s bloodstained nub, fire erupts in her eyes. She doesn’t balk or stammer back in disgust at the horrors of the underworld. She stares at Don Adami’s mangled hand as a ghostlike grin hikes one side of her plump lips high. 

 

The fuck?

 

Her smirk only flatlines when Don Adami retaliates with violence that guarantees I’ll remove his entire fucking hand next time. He backhands the unnamed beauty hard enough for her gorgeous face to ricochet out of view, and for Nico to pluck my gun from its holster before I can.

 

Our orders are simple. Avenge Lucia’s almost gang rape, then leave. But I’d be lying if I said it isn’t taking everything I have not to pop a bullet between Don Adami’s bushy brows here and now. 

 

I know why he hit her. He lost a ton of respect this afternoon, and he isn’t willing to lose any more, but real men go against the force bringing them to heel. They don’t take it out on an innocent woman. 

 

He’s a fucking coward, and it instantly loses him the respect his earlier stance earned.

 

The fierce glare the brunette directs at Don Adami’s back as she wipes at the droplet of blood under her delicate nose shifts my thoughts from murderous to intrigued. She’s got a lot of gall rarely seen around these parts. It doubles my interest to learn why she’s here and how I can use her visit as leverage against the Adamis.

 

Her steely glare vanishes when Don Adami’s eyes meet hers, replaced with an innocent gleam so convincing it could fool Satan into thinking he’s a saint.

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After a brief dip of her head and a quick flick of gratitude directed my way, she leaves the room. I follow her stalk until she slips into the hallway, the chiffon of her gown trailing behind her in silent promise of the best lay of my life for the meager privilege of defending her. 

 

Desperate to regain control of the room, Don Adami clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “My sons are good boys, Matteo, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to show good faith to the Carusos. Anything you want, you may have.” The desperation in his eyes reveals he’s close to falling to his knees and begging. “But please, signor, do not order me to send my sons to their deaths.” He gestures vaguely toward the outer rooms of his office. “My youngest daughter is almost of age and already has great breeding hips.” His chest puffs out with pride as though he’s offering us a prized horse and not his flesh and blood. “She’ll make an honorable Cosa Nostra bride.”

 

The disgust that rolls through me is immediate and visceral. Nico calls him a pedophile under his breath, and Elio grabs the edge of the table between us, seconds away from flipping it. 

 

Before either Nico or Elio can start a war I’m not ready to participate in just yet, I speak on behalf of my cock before I can tell it to sit the fuck down.

 

“I’ll take her.”

 

The don balks, thrown off by my unusual show of leniency. 

 

“Which one?” He gestures for a man at the side to gather someone. “I have many daughters.”

 

I stray my eyes toward where the woman in white disappeared, smirking when I realize the aftershow is starting earlier than expected. 

 

Antonio, the eldest of the Adami children, stands in the doorway of his father’s office. His face pales when our eyes collide, and his tattooed fingers dig into the woman in question’s arm. 

 

“Her,” I say, unconcerned that I’m bartering for a man’s fiancée while standing across from her weaponed-up future father-in-law. 

 

Her meeting with a wedding planner on this property announces she’s the wife-to-be of one of Don Adami’s sons. The Adamis’s are cheap. They wouldn’t even give you the shirt off their back if yours was blown off protecting them, so there’s no way they’d fund a wedding for someone else.

 

Their stinginess also announces that the brunette isn’t one of Don Adami’s daughters. He has his female offspring in a Rolodex, ready to be sold after only the slightest whiff of interest. He’d never let one age higher than the interest of seventy percent of the men he sells to.

 

This unnamed brunette is so striking that she would have fetched top dollar years ago.

 

Furthermore, the possessiveness that sparks in Antonio’s eyes the exact moment my hooded gaze lands on the brunette places his name at the top of the list.

 

Don Adami’s brows shoot up high, proving my intuition is on point. “Azra? She’s promised to my eldest. Antonio would be devastated.”

 

“Even more reason for me to take her.” I wink at Antonio, who’s now clutching Azra like she’s a possession more than a person, before I shift on my feet to face Don Adami. “Unless you’d prefer I teach your sons a lesson with my fists… and my knife?”

 

I tell myself that I’m doing this to spite Don Adami, who opens and closes his mouth, fighting not to choke on his tongue, that it’s a strategy to make the Adami family experience a fraction of the humiliation they deserve, but the truth is far more dangerous. 

 

The fire the brunette tried to hide as she endeavored to burn Don Adami at the stake with nothing but her eyes has sparked my interest. Enough to grant her future in-laws a plethora of leniencies? Not even close, but I sure as fuck would like to learn what little hellion comes out when she’s no longer forced to pretend.

 

Just the daggers she shoots at me when she realizes what I’m negotiating hardens my dick to a painful extent. 

 

I can’t give up the opportunity to see what other tricks she has up her sleeve.

 

Negotiations drag on. They’re filled with thinly veiled threats they’ll pay for dearly the instant Antonio’s fingers are no longer marking Azra’s arm. 

 

Antonio protests loudly. He insists Azra is his and claims their arrangement, approved by the boss of all bosses, has been set in stone for months. 

 

When no amount of political fear-mongering works, he fans out invisible peacock feathers. “I’m Azra’s chosen groom.” 

 

She sheepishly nods, agreeing with him, and my anger becomes hot and unstoppable. The don tries to smooth things over by offering anything to sweeten the deal if I accept the hand of one of his daughters—even the regular use of his beloved mistress.

 

I pluck a cigar from his desk and run it under my nose. “I’m not interested in your sloppy seconds.” Nico gags when I mutter under my breath, “Or your mistress.” I give Don Adami time to deny my nonfactual claim that he fiddles with his daughters. Seconds of silence feel like minutes. “It’s Azra or no one.” 

 

Nico and Elio exchange a look that conveys they have no clue who the fuck I am.

 

Their shock is understandable. 

 

I’m also lost.

 

This isn’t me. I don’t barter for a woman’s time, and I sure as fuck don’t act like I have to pay for pussy. That shit is on tap for free anytime I want it. I’ll never shell out funds, no matter how smoking the woman.  

Yet here I am, negotiating with words instead of weapons.

 

My father would be so proud.

 

Eventually, after enough stalling to make me want to put my fist through a wall, the don relents. “Very well. I will transfer Azra’s marriage contract to you.”

 

Marriage? Fuck that.

 

I’m desperate for a taste, not a lifetime of the same palate.

 

Azra’s top lip curls, desperate to object, but it’s Antonio’s expression I pay the most attention to. He wants Azra alone, but I’m too much of a possessive cunt to let that happen.

 

Don’t judge. Just because I’m anti-matrimony doesn’t mean I’d let a dog like Antonio Adami think he can pull a fast one on me.

 

“I’ll help you pack,” I say to Azra, reaching her before Antonio can react. I twist to face my brothers, who stare at me like I have a second head. “I’ll be back in around twenty. Feel free to start the party without me.” 

 

“But you said…” Don Adami starts. 

 

I don’t hear another word he speaks since the zap inflating my cock is near deafening. 

 

I’m barely touching Azra. My dick, however, acts as if her pouty lips are hovering an inch above my pre-cum-stained tip, ready to swallow every drop of my cum.

​

Azra’s polite mask remains perfectly in place until we reach a room at the end of a long hallway. Once the door closes behind us, she spins, grabs a letter opener from her desk, and presses it to my throat with a steadiness that surprises even me.

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