Home > Ruthless Sinner (Made for the Mafia #2)

Ruthless Sinner (Made for the Mafia #2)
Author: Erika Wilde








* * *


If you asked me, my brother was getting soft.

Not that I’d ever say that to Vincent’s face. But come on. He was the oldest, the capo, and he’d willingly gotten engaged to some low-level girl like Marla Preston?

Dad was having a conniption over Vincent’s choice, one that I was happy to stay far away from. I was just glad that the rant wasn’t directed at me, for once.

Being born into the mafia, I knew it was kind of an insult that I was just a soldier. But after a few… disappointments in my youth, Dad had decided that was the most responsibility he could expect from me and we’d left it at that. Frankly, I thought that my personal indiscretions were a lot less concerning than my other brother, Dante, announcing he wanted to leave the family mafia business entirely, but hey, what did I know?

I should probably go easier on Dad. I knew why he was so hard on me. It was his way of saying he worried. Dante, for all his damn opinions, wasn’t the one who went on benders or crashed expensive cars. He and Dad went at most topics vehemently, and usually on opposing sides, but Dante was responsible, in his own way.

I was well aware that I wasn’t.

But why would I be responsible when I had money to burn and a high life to live? What was the point of our power and wealth if I didn’t have fun with it? I was a rebel, a devil-may-care rogue, and I preferred things that way.

Vincent said he enjoyed our wealth, but for him that meant expensive tailored suits, going out to fancy restaurants, and buying ridiculously lavish jewelry for his girl. Vincent’s idea of fun, and mine, were polar opposite. Although my kind of fun did involve women. I’m pretty sure that my fondness for females was the reason Vincent not-so-affectionately called me a manwhore.

Like now. Currently, I sat in the VIP area of the strip club I liked to call my home away from home. I liked it here for three reasons. The first was business. I wasn’t exactly holding court—that was Vincent’s job—but I was around for… friendly chats, and meetings. A strip club was a great place to put your opponent off their game and make it difficult for people to overhear your conversations.

Second, it pissed off Dad to no end. Bonus.

Third… well, that reason should be obvious. Women.

The Cozy Bunny was a club that catered to pretty much exclusively mafia. There were some non-mafia guys that occasionally visited the joint, but they all knew us and knew what we were. They tended to be our more legitimate ‘associates’ who occasionally did business with us and overall were friendly because taking our money was more important than turning us into the cops.

The place was classy, with both a main stage and several one-pole-only stages surrounded by comfy, expensive leather couches and chairs for groups. There were a few private rooms, each one tastefully decorated in a different color scheme and given a name like The Kitten Room or The Swan Room.

That last one was my favorite, done up in white with tasteful gold accents. All the white made the room brighter, reflecting the light so it was easier to see each delicious curve of the woman I was with.

Of course, technically clients weren’t supposed to touch. But if you knew the right person to talk to, and had enough cash, you could do just about anything you wanted.

So long as the woman was willing, of course.

Places like these knew how to take care of their girls. And I sure as hell wouldn’t think twice about taking care of any man who put his hand where it wasn’t wanted. The kind of man who forced himself on a woman was no man at all, and I’d been in a few brawls over the years defending strippers against obnoxious drunks. Planting my fist into the face of some entitled asshole was another adrenaline rush I whole-heartedly embraced.

But usually I just came here to relax and enjoy the atmosphere and women. Toss back a few drinks, shoot the breeze, maybe handle some business. Being a soldier for the family meant I was on call twenty-four-seven, whether that was cleaning up a mess or handling a late-night shipment, so I figured I might as well pass the time in a fun way.

Tonight, I was on more of a personal mission.

I liked women. And women liked me—females were definitely one of my vices. And we all had our little addictions in the mafia. Vincent’s was control, and the finer things in life. Dante’s was… being a crusading white knight do-gooder, I guess I would say. Mine was the thrill of the chase. It was why I made a good soldier because I loved the adrenaline rush of danger and the excitement of a risky challenge.

But few things really got my blood pumping like seducing a woman, and making her beg to be fucked.

Okay, so yeah, maybe I was a little bit of a manwhore, because the problem was… once I had whatever woman I was pursuing, the thrill and challenge was gone. So, we’d have a lot of fun, filthy sex—my favorite kind—then I’d move on to the next conquest. The last thing I wanted was attachments of any sort, and I always made that clear right up front.

My lack of commitment to any one woman wasn’t entirely my own fault. Part of it was the precarious life I led. The few women who’d seemed like they could really keep my interest had backed out the moment they realized my job entailed getting up in the middle of the night, or leaving without any prior warning or notice, to handle business for Vincent that I couldn’t ever talk to them about.

It was like living a double life, and keeping those kinds of treacherous secrets, which a lot of times included killing someone, wasn’t conducive to a long term relationship. So, yeah, nobody really stuck around after the third interruption and my lack of apologies as I walked out the door.

It was a way of life I’d grown used to, and who needed a wife anyway? Well, maybe Vincent did, partially because he was the oldest, the family needed an heir, and partially because he’d go off the deep end if he didn’t have someone to spoil. As for me . . . I was perfectly fine and happy on my own, enjoying my flavor of the month.

Enter Jewel.

It was her stripper stage name, obviously. I figured she got it for the pasties she wore. The bright, saturated tones played off beautifully against her smooth, shimmering skin, especially in the colored lighting of the club. She was tall, even without the heels, but I loved a woman with legs for days, and I was the tallest out of my family so I was far from bothered. I knew without a doubt I could still pick her up and pin her down, and that was all I cared about.

And that sweet, toned ass… you could bounce a quarter off it.

Jewel was the new girl. She’d started dancing at the club about a month ago, and I’d been lusting over her ever since. She was the only woman in the place that I wanted, despite the hard core flirtations of the other strippers, but she was playing hard to get. Which, of course, made me desire her even more.

Tonight though—tonight was the night . . . I could feel it.

I watched her as she swayed on stage in her eye-catching pasties and deep purple thong, entranced by the sensual movement of her hips, the flow of her long, wavy brown hair as she tossed her head back, and the bounce of her full, firm tits. I’d fantasized numerous times about burying my face between them as I fucked her.

Jewel watched me, too, coquettishly. I’d played the long game, letting her gradually figure out I was watching her, moving closer to the stage until I was always sitting right in front of wherever she was performing.

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