Claimed by the ruthless Mafia king

Ruthless Zack (2)

[Zack]

She swallowed hard, eyes darting like a trapped animal. My gaze narrowed with annoyance flickering hot behind my ribs. But she was quick to switch to a frantic nod instead. Fear has a way of rewriting decisions in seconds, and I relished watching it happen.

Another knock came at the door. Subtle, but sharper this time. Urgent.

I glanced at the Graff on my wrist. The diamonds caught the low light and threw it back mockingly. Past time. Way past, but it didn't really matter.

The poker game downstairs wouldn't start without me.

But how the f**k did I run out of time without noticing? Time slips when you're buried balls-deep in something that bleeds and cries so prettily.

I let my eyes slide down her body again. Not to her face. To the raw, freshly ruined place between her legs. Still open. Still dripping. Traces of her virgin blood smeared across pale thighs and the ruined leather sofa. The dildo dangled forgotten in my hand—thick, ridged, promising more damage than my c**k ever could on its own.

I chuckled low in my throat. Not a virgin anymore.

I dipped two fingers back inside her—easy now, no resistance left. She flinched, but only a little. Smart enough to know a big flinch would earn her another slap, or worse.

I added a third finger. Then a fourth. Then my thumb. All five, stretching her wide enough that her breath hitched into something close to a sob. Her inner walls fluttered weakly around my knuckles, trying and failing to push me out.

I twisted once, just to feel her clench then pulled free with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet room. Her body shuddered in relief and a sigh escaped her lips.

I teased the blunt head of the dildo against her swollen entrance instead. Slow circles. Just enough pressure to remind her what was coming next.

The knocking resumed. Insistent.

I sighed, tucked my still-hard c**k back into my boxers with one hand, zipped up with the other then mumbled,

“Come in.”

The door clicked. Mac stepped inside and stopped just past the threshold. His eyes carefully averted from the half-naked girl sprawled on the sofa.

“Boss,” he said. A faint thread of excitement laced his voice. I knew exactly why. He’d caught the scent of s*x and fear when he opened the door.

“The house is seated. Everyone but you.”

“The house isn’t seated if I’m not at the table,” I corrected flatly. I withdrew the dildo from where I’d started easing it in. Only a few inches before her body locked up again, and tossed it onto the cushion beside her. Time was the enemy now, not her tightness.

I crossed to the bathroom door without another word. Inside, I ran cold water over my hands, scrubbed the blood and slick away with deliberate slowness, and splashed my face with cold water.

I Looked at my reflection in the mirror, eyes glassy from whiskey, mouth curved in the ghost of a smile. They could wait downstairs. They would wait. And if any of them so much as frowned about it, well they wouldn't dare.

The whiskey glass sat empty. My gaze drifted to the ashtray on the desk instead. One unlit cigar waited there like an old promise. I picked it up, rolled it between my fingers, before I placed it between my lips.

Mac cleared his throat. “Boss…”

I set the cigar down. Grabbed my jacket instead. The ache in my c**k had dulled to a low throb which was manageable. For now.

I paused halfway to the door, turned back to the gun safe built into the bookshelf. Two matte-black Glocks. I slipped them into the inner pockets of my jacket, the weight familiar and grounding.

Mac spoke again as I reached the door. “What about her?”

I’d almost forgotten about her. She was still there, curled on her side now, with her skirt bunched, and her thighs sticky with drying blood.

“She’s all yours,” I said without turning. Then, just before stepping out, I added,

“Burn the couch. Get me a new one. Black leather. Same as before.”

The hallway outside was di. Red neon strips bleeding along the walls like open veins. My personal floor. Every other door sealed tight, following my standing orders to the hotel management. Fridays belonged to me.

The men stationed along the corridor snapped to attention when they saw me. Half fell in ahead, half trailed behind in silent, professional escort.

The ride in the elevator was quiet so that when the doors opened on the ground floor, the noise hit like a slap: laughter, clinking glasses, drunk couples staggering toward private rooms, groups of men herding giggling, swaying women upstairs. All of which were normal Friday night filth.

We cut through it all to the private game room.

True to Mac’s word, the table was full. Nine chairs. Eight men. All of them rising the second I appeared. Just like always.

Brian. Jack. Antonio. William. Thorne. Smith. Conor. Micah.

They sat only after I did.

I scanned their faces slowly. Smith’s hands shook like he’d caught fever. Conor’s eyes bounced around the room like he expected a sniper. William looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. The rest of them wore the same grim, resigned masks they always did whenever I walked in.

I tapped the table once, lightly, almost playful to kickstart the game.

But William coughed. A wet, nervous sound. He was seeking permission to speak.

I raised one eyebrow. Go ahead.

He fidgeted, eyes on the table. “I’m… in a bad debt, boss. Can’t cover even one round tonight.”

His trembling voice was immediately followed by a dead silence. The others looked away, but couldn't hide the fact that they agreed with him.

My eyebrows arched as realization slowly crept in. Audacity. Guts. They were growing bold, and I couldn't allow it. I thought for a while, a few seconds actually, and took a decision.

Without breaking eye contact with William’s bowed head, I reached inside my jacket. Fingers closed around cool metal. I drew the Glock, leveled it across the table and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening in the enclosed space.

William’s head snapped back. A red hole appeared between his eyes. He jerked once, slow, almost graceful, then slumped sideways off the chair. Blood pooled fast under him, making a mess on the floor.

Shock rippled across every face. No one moved. No one looked at the body. No one looked at me. I broke the silence before it could stretch too long.

“Guess who’s no longer in a bad debt.” I said with a mischievous smile.

A few mumbled, others nodded, and nothing more. The silence resumed, comfortable for me, but not for the others.

“Anyone else short on cash tonight?” I asked mildly, breaking the silence. But there was dead silence.

Good.

I snapped my fingers.

The dealer with his hands already tremblingstepped forward. He shuffled, and dealt while he kept his eyes glued to the cards like they were the only safe thing in the room.

I pushed my entire stack forward. “All in.”

Reluctant chips followed. One by one until every last man had all of his chips in. Everyone except William of course.

We played.

It was the same script every Friday: them sweating, me collecting. Easy. Predictable. Delicious.

I watched them fumble with their hole cards, second-guess every raise, pray silently for a fold that would never come. Same expressions. Same fear. Same slow bleed of money and dignity into my accounts.

Despite the odds which was clearly not in their favour, they always came back. They assembled here because the alternative was a bullet or worse. They knew it.

Then it was time for the showdown. Antonio showed first. Disappointment carved deep in his face and movement. Conor showed next, then Smith. Then the rest of them in miserable order.

I laid mine down last. Full house. Effortless.

No gasps. No curses. Just the quiet acceptance of men who’d seen this ending too many times.

“I want it all,” I said, voice flat. “Now.” I added with my voice raised, making the others flinch. I tugged at my nose when the stench of fresh blood oozed into it.

“Micah.”

He jerked like I’d shot him already. His gaze stopped at my chest. He wouldn't dare look in my eyes.

“My money.” i called, ignoring his trembling lips.

I leaned back, smiling slow, enjoying the look on his face.

“You don’t have to pay in cash.” The others looked away jealously, but didn't say a word, or produced a sound.

A cigarette appeared at my elbow. I took it, let it dangle unlit between my fingers. Mac wasn’t here to nag about the smoke. Good.

The room was so quiet I could hear every shallow breath.

“How about this,” I said, almost gentle. “Send your daughter over. Tomorrow before midnight.”

Micah’s face collapsed and the colour drained from his face while his mouth worked soundlessly.

The jealousy that had flickered on the others’ faces vanished the next instant.

I stood.

“Tomorrow night,” I repeated. “Or I come collect her myself.” I said, and walked out before he could answer.

He didn't have to answer. No one crosses Zack. No one.