The Devil’s Plaything: A Dark Mafia Romance Read online

  “This is a fucking cunt who needs to be put down,” he utters in disgust. Dark eyes meet mine. Javier’s had my back since we were in school; the asshole stole my lunch, I beat him to a pulp, and then he became my best friend.

  “I want him found. Focus all manpower on this issue and use every connection I have. Get the team out there and do it now.” Javier nods, waving his hand. He gestures to the young newbie, causing him to mumble a yes, sir before scurrying off.

  “He’ll do as I ask,” Javier informs me.

  “Oh?” Quirking a brow, I watch the slow smirk that crawls along his face. A glint of satisfaction makes him look almost manic, but I know Javier, and I know he’s clearly done something to the younger man.

  “He’s trying to impress me,” he tells me. “I’m handsome, a motherfucking god in my own right. Not my fault everyone wants to fuck me.” He seems elated with this information.

  “You let him suck your dick?” I question, waiting for a response.

  “Not yet, but he’s definitely doing as I say for now. It’s the promise of forbidden fruit, and you dangle it like a carrot until they obey. It’s a beautiful agreement between master and slave.”

  “I see.” Settling back in my chair, I lift the cigar to my lips and take a long drag, filling my lungs with smoke. As I puff out white cloudy circles, the woman I fucked last night comes strolling into my office. Casting my glance at her, I question, “Did I offer you an invite to enter?”

  She freezes mid-step. “I-I…” Her glance flits over to me, then to Javier. “Lo siento, Mr. Cordero,” she utters in fake innocence. This bitch is so far from innocent. Last night, I fucked her ass so hard, leaving it gaping from the thickness of my dick. And she licked my cock after, like it was a fucking lollipop.

  “Get out.” Waving my hand in the air, I dismiss her. The shock on her face is clear, but I don’t give a fuck about her feelings. She was a hole for the night.

  “But—”

  Pinning her with a glare, which advises her not to question me, I wait until the whore is out of my space and Javier is at the door, ordering men to escort her off the property. He normally admonishes me when I’ve had some whore in the house, mainly because he doesn’t trust them. To be fair, I don’t either, that’s why I offer them enough coke to ensure they’re too high to remember any shit that went down.

  And if they talk, they’ll lose their tongue, among other important bits. I’m ruthless. A cold-hearted asshole, and I like to keep it that way. My father spent years telling me that if I ever appeared weak, I would lose everything—the Cartel, my home, and my country. He trained me that way, and I need to make him proud because I loved him more than I knew was possible. He was my hero, someone I looked up to all my life. He was a good man, but he was never weak. Even on his deathbed, he showed strength in his sickness. So, I decided that I would never have a woman weaken me by falling in love. And even though I did break that rule once, I vowed to never do it again.

  “I want this fucker found.” My finger jabs the folder as I snub out my cigar in the ashtray, before meeting Javier’s inquisitive gaze. He’s expecting me to explain who the fuck the whore was, but that’s not happening.

  “He will be, Victor,” he tells me in his thick accent that matches mine. “How about we head out of the city to the house on the coast? It would give us time to figure out what we’re going to about Rodrigo.” His suggestion has me quirking a brow. “It’s been too long since we’ve been on the beaches of Cancun.”

  “It has, but this needs to be dealt with first.”

  “He’s not stupid enough to work for us and steal, then try to resell.” He’s right. None of my workers would have the balls to do shit like that. Not because they’re idiots, but because they know what happens to those who take what belongs to me.

  “We’ll see.”

  2

  Sofía

  The sun beats down on my shoulders, and the stifling heat steals my breath as I rush through the street to get home before my dad arrives back from work. The ocean air is fresh, with the soft scent of salt hanging overhead. The docks are noisy, offering me a reminder of who my father is and where he works.

  All my life, living with papá, I’ve learned to stay out of trouble by going to school and spending time at work. The part-time job I have at the music store down the road from our house offers me some solace, giving me time away from the worrying thoughts of what would happen if my father fulfilled his promise.

  He told me to stop working. To stay home and take care of myself, but I haven’t given strength to my illness. Instead, I’ve focused on being healthy, even though slowly, I’m deteriorating without my medication on a consistent level.

  My mother always told me as a child, sé fuerte.” Be strong. It was the mantra I grew up with, a constant reminder that I can do anything I want. Anything I need to be the woman I dreamed of being. But now that she’s gone, it’s another reminder that even life fucks you over at times.

  Shaking my head of my wayward thoughts, I head inside the house and shut the door behind me. The one thing I love about our home is that it offers a cool relief in the searing heat. An air conditioner sits against the wall, taking the sweltering humidity and giving an icy breeze to make my sticky skin chill with goose bumps.

  I glance at the large clock on the wall. It’s almost time for dinner. Six pm is when papá walks through the door, and I’m met with his happy grin. It took him a while to smile again. After my mother died, he became cold and closed off, but then I got sick.

  Perhaps that jolted him from the stupor he’d been living in for so long, or maybe it was his need to protect me, but something changed. And as much as I wanted my father back, he didn’t return the same person. He became more protective, and the sicker I got, the more he would fuss.

  “Papá,” I call into the empty house, knowing he’s not home, but it calms me to do it. My mother would step over the threshold and call for both my dad and me. Each evening, I would run into her arms. She would wrap me in warmth, and I’d watch on as she would be devoured by my father. He would kiss her like his life depended on it.

  I never knew a love like that. Not even my friends at school spoke of their parents and the affection they’d witnessed. Growing up, visiting my friends’ homes, I never saw an ounce of what lived and breathed in the home I grew up in.

  There was just something more between them. When I was older, the idea of that type of passion consumed me, making me crave it. The fire, the passion, even their fights were filled with love. Don’t get me wrong, there was anger, far too much of it, but each night, it ended with them making up noisily.

  I was embarrassed, but I was also elated that even though their fights were almost violent, my father had a way of making my mother coo. She would tell him he was the handsomest man in the world. That he owned her heart and soul.

  That was the only thing I never understood. Yes, I’d read fairy tales; yes, I got love and having sex, but having someone own you. That never sat well with me. I guess perhaps it was my immaturity, but there was something dangerous in the way she had confessed it.

  My father was a man who loved his family, but with my mother, he became more intense. She was his property. But the moment I stepped into the room, the air would change, and it wouldn’t feel as all-consuming.

  To me, ownership meant you would never be allowed to do anything of your own free will. You’re bound, locked to that person for life, and they have complete control of everything you do. For me, that sounded like a death sentence, and I knew all about that.

  Before my mother died, she learned about my disease. She knew that I wouldn’t last without medication, treatment, or some normalcy. Even though she had meager savings, she had made sure I would get treatment for a few years after she died.

  As much as papá tries, he’ll never be able to keep up with the payments on my medical bills. And that’s okay, I’ve come to terms with dying. I’ve prayed to a god I never believed in, and if I ever
came face to face with the Devil I know exists in our world, I’d beg him, not for riches or power, just for a chance at life.

  Making my way into the kitchen, I pull the meat from the freezer and pop it into the microwave to defrost. I asked my father to do it before he left for work, but clearly, he forgot about it.

  The chicken slowly spins on the glass plate. I watch the meat turn around and around. The medication I’ve taken is slowly wearing off, and I feel sick, once more, watching the rotating item.

  Holding my stomach, I race into the bathroom and spill my guts into the toilet bowl. The lunch I’d managed to finish earlier is now lying in the pool of water. Sadness washes over me when I realize I’ll never be able to afford treatment, or the transplant that would possibly save my life. Even though papá works for one of the richest men in Colombia, I know he’ll never be able to pay for me to get better.

  On my knees, in the tiny bathroom, I heave once more, and then again. The emptiness of my body offering nothing more to expel. The thought of my father’s boss makes me dry heave, one more time, before I stand on shaky legs.

  The man they’ve named, The Devil, is every bit as evil as the title ensures. He lives in a castle, a monstrosity on the beautiful coast of my small city. Santa Marta is pristine, bar for one dark noose—the Cordero Castle.

  It was built years ago by the man who ruled Colombia with an iron fist, and now, his son is as bad as he is. Papá has worked for the Cordero’s all his life. Since he was sixteen, he’s been pulled in by their dark promises of riches and wealth, only to be rewarded with a small house and meager earnings. But my father is loyal to a fault, he goes back each day with the promise that he’ll be able to pay for my medication.

  Even though I beg him not to go back, I know there’s no running from Victor Cordero. The man is ruthless, he doesn’t take kindly to anyone going against his rules, and the thought of ever coming face to face with him sends a chill racing down my spine.

  If I had a choice between death and the man my father is so loyal to, I’d choose the former. It seems an easier way of leaving this world. I’ve heard the stories, I’ve heard it from the girls who ventured into his domain—stories of his sick needs, his violent tendencies, but I’ve also heard that he’s never kept one woman in his life for longer than one night.

  Shaking my head once more, I try to focus on dinner. But I can’t, whenever I think about Victor, there’s something that niggles deep in my gut, and I know that sleeping serpent will want to play. Each time she awakens, I tamp her down. But there are moments where I crave it, the darkness, the danger.

  I wouldn’t back down if he were to summon me. And perhaps, that’s what I hunger for so deeply. The fire between two people. I want to experience the sting of pain and taste the drop of poison, just to feel alive and bask in the passion I crave. And I know not many men can offer me that. Not many men who I want can give me that.

  But Victor is a bad man.

  And bad men get killed.

  Or they kill you first.

  3

  Victor

  The moon hangs high in the dark sky tonight, surrounded by the tiny pinpricks of white. I’ve always loved the night, there are so many things you can do under the cloak of darkness. Lifting the tumbler to my lips, I take a long swallow of the dark rum that I favor.

  Most of my men prefer beer, but I’ve always enjoyed the burn of liquor. The sweet, strong alcohol warms my blood as it burns through my veins. Javier informed me they have a lead on the asshole who’s been selling coke in my territory, and I’m certain, by tomorrow, I’ll have him bound and bleeding.

  Anyone who crosses me pays. Either with their life or with their families’ lives—no exception. A sweet scent of perfume comes from behind me, and I expect her hand to slide over my shoulder any moment. I don’t turn around. I don’t acknowledge the woman who’s here for the night.

  “Señor,” she utters in a sultry tone.

  “Helena,” I turn to face her. She’s one of the prettier whores who frequents my estate. Most are older, but this young one just turned twenty-one. Her long dark hair hangs in waves down her back. Big hazel eyes shine with excitement to be called to my room. They know if they please me, they’ll be able to frequent the compound, get any drugs they want, and even get paid.

  “Thank you for the opportunity to be your comfort tonight. Aprecio estar aqui.” She smiles as she tells me how much she appreciates being under my roof. Of course, she does, the only reason her pert ass swayed in here is to get a stack of hundred-dollar bills, or she wants the high that comes with fucking the king. A whore will spread her thighs for any amount of money, but this one is particularly interested in the drug I deal in.

  I take in the pretty girl while sipping my drink. Tipping my head to the side, I offer her a smirk before ordering, “I want you naked on the bed. Open your legs, show me your pretty cunt.”

  Her cheeks darken, making the olive skin even more beautiful than before. I watch her slip the dress she’s wearing to the floor. She steps out of the pool of material, offering me a glimpse of her naked curves.

  Her long legs climb onto the mattress, and she settles on her back, her big eyes finding mine. Desire swims in her hazel orbs, their color like liquid gold. My men would have a field day with her. But if I allowed them to, she’d never be able to walk straight again.

  Entering my bedroom, I set the glass on the cabinet, slowly unbuttoning my shirt as I allow my gaze to trail over her body. Her tits are perfect handfuls of smooth caramel with dark nipples, which are hard peaks.

  “Touch your flesh, stroke yourself with your finger,” I tell her, standing at the foot of the bed. The warm breeze that billows the curtains causes her to shiver, but then again, it might just be my harsh words.

  Tentatively, she drops a hand between her thighs. Slender fingers find the already wet lips. She spreads herself for me, offering me a glimpse of the pink hole I’m about to sink my dick into.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “No, señor,” she murmurs as she pleasures herself. I’m enamored with the way she moves. A seductress if ever I’ve seen one. If she was pure, that would make this so much more sensual. I love breaking virgins, feeling their tight walls grip my thick cock as I feel their slick crimson virtue. But she looks sweet and tight enough.

  Shoving my slacks down past my knees, I step out of them and my briefs follow. Her gaze lands on the erection jutting from my hips and a soft gasp falls from her lips.

  Gripping my dick, I fist it a couple of times before sheathing myself. Never fuck these whores without a condom. Come to think of it, I’ve never stuck my cock in anyone without a rubber.

  I crawl onto the mattress, hovering over her, as she continues to toy with her clit. Big eyes gape at me when I settle between her thighs and nudge her entrance.

  “This is going to hurt,” I warn, before sliding into her in one long thrust. Her scream is music to my ears as she grips me with her free hand, nails clawing my shoulder as my hips meet hers.

  She mewls, pleading for me to slow, but I can’t. I’m lost in pleasure as I fuck her brutally into the mattress. “You know I’m not a good man, but you wanted it anyway. Didn’t you, little whore?” I smirk down at her as my hips slam her harder and faster. She’s crying out for a god who will never save her, when I reach between us, my fingers strumming her clit the way I would a musical instrument. Before she has time to think, an orgasm is torn from her body, and she cries out.

  As much as I enjoy fucking, there’s no pleasure in this anymore. I fuck her until I find my release. Once I’ve emptied into the condom, I pull out of her, moving off the bed hastily. I reach for her dress, throwing it at her and glance over my shoulder. I utter “time for you to leave,” before heading into the adjoining bathroom.

  * * *

  “Victor.”

  Glancing up, I find Javier entering my office. I’m ready to head out to a meeting, but he seems far too excited, so I allow him to stop me for a moment b
efore I leave.

  “You’re never going to believe it,” he tells me, waving his hand in the air for effect. “The cunt who’s been selling in our city is one of our men.”

  “What?” This is news to me. No man who works for me is allowed to deal. They know it, even the fucking peasants who live on the street know it. Anger sizzles through me, trickling into my blood, heating it. I’m ready to torture the asshole who’s decided his life is worth nothing. “Who the fuck is he?”

  “Hector Montero.” The name is not new to me. I’ve known Hector since I was a little boy. He worked for my father for a long time, and when my old man died, Hector stayed on. I didn’t know much about his personal life, but I knew my father trusted him.

  “That doesn’t make sense.” Shaking my head, I settle in the chair and pull out the drawer where I keep records of all the men who work for me. Flipping through the folders, I pull out the one on Hector, wanting to compare the photos we have on file of him when he joined to the ones from the footage. “Give me that folder.”

  Javier places the informant’s photos on the desk, and I slide them beside our worker images. Give or take a few years, that’s him. There’s no doubt. Even with the cap covering half his face.

  “We found the buyer,” Javier informs me, as he seats himself in the chair that’s become his throne in this office. “He’s confirmed Hector mentioned he’s getting a kilo of coke, he’s selling it for a couple thousand.”

  “I just don’t understand what would drive a man to do this.”

  Javier shrugs, pulling out a cigarette, lighting it, then glancing my way. “We’ll bring him in.” He’s confident. I have no doubt they will. “In other news, your pretty little whore from last night ran out of here crying. Did you fuck her ass without lube or something?”

  “Fuck you.”