The Mafia King’s Christmas Claim

Jaxcen's POV The sky lights up overhead as I leap from the curb, lightning flashing against the hundreds of windows lining the tall buildings surrounding me. I count in my head, bracing myself for the impending clap of thunder, quickening my pace as much as my pencil skirt will allow. Water splashes up from the road, soaking my feet, but I ignore the chill. My Tony Biancos are definitely going to need some serious TLC when I get home. As much as I love these pumps, getting this over and done with is my top priority right now. It wouldn’t matter if you had gone straight home, Jaxcen. Shoosh. I silently snap at the intrusive thought as I hurry over the tram tracks, careful not to get my heel caught and fall. Thankfully, the Melbourne streets aren’t busy this late on a Tuesday night, I don’t have to worry about oncoming cars. Instead, I keep my focus on the church ahead, the large metal doors that hint at medieval times Australia never saw. St Catherine’s Church is never open this late. But I clearly saw two men slip inside from across the street, and since Father Peters is obviously working tonight, I’m sure he can spare me some time. Darting around the two blacked-out Land Rovers parked in front, I hurry through the gate and up the path. Reaching the door, it creaks as I heave it open, dashing inside just as thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the foundation beneath my feet. Damn. The sky is angry tonight. I paused in the small foyer, shaking water from my arms and legs, annoyed I didn’t grab my raincoat before leaving work. Of course I didn’t. Not when all I could think about was... No. This has to stop, Jaxcen. Shame burrows deep in my gut, reminding me why I made this detour instead of going home. Father Peters will help. I glance down at my ivory blouse, now clinging to my white lace bra. Tugging my thin black blazer tighter around me, I try to cover up as best I can before stepping into the main church. Another flash of lightning illuminates the interior in a rainbow of colours through the stained glass windows. “Wow,” I whisper, taking in the beauty, something I never see during my regular daytime visits. The towering cathedral ceiling looks haunting when plunged into darkness again, the dim wall lights revealing only hints of its grandeur. St Catherine’s is breathtaking. Ancient. Heavy with history. So many secrets. Especially the confessionals. My gaze drifts in that direction, and catches Father Peters at the far end of the aisle, speaking softly to a man seated in the front pew. From here, it looks like Father Peters is offering comfort. The sight tugs at my lips. He’s such a kind, generous man. His greying hair is styled the same as always, neat short back and sides with a subtle part. He reminds me of the grandfather I never had. Ignoring the puddle forming beneath my rain-drenched clothes, I move forward, my heels clicking loudly against the slate floor, echoing through the celestial structure and announcing my presence. My steps slow when both men turn their heads toward me. For a split second, I feel like I shouldn’t be here. But that can’t be right. This is my church. Father Peters’ frown softens into a smile, easing the strange feeling that I’ve interrupted something I shouldn’t have. I hurry forward again. I don’t get a clear look at the other man, he turns toward the altar, giving me only his back, but the awkward sensation lingers. “Miss Summers. What a lovely surprise.” Father Peters beams, stepping forward. “Is everything alright?” “Yes, Father. I apologise for coming so late. I saw you were open and I needed to…” My voice trails off as my gaze flicks to the man in the pew, who can most definitely hear me. Heat floods my cheeks. What would he think if he knew why you’re here, Jaxcen? He’d be disgusted. “You needed to?” Father Peters prompts gently. “I...ah.” My eyes dart to the stranger again before I lean closer. “I would like to use the confessional,” I whisper. Father Peters nods warmly. Understanding. “Of course. Head over. I’ll be right there.” “Thank you.” Relief washes over me. This is good. I’ll confess. Do my penance. Everything will be okay. As I pass, I finally get a better look at the man in the pew. His dark hair is damp from the storm, his white shirt soaked, especially across his broad shoulders and back. The fabric clings to his skin, revealing dark ink beneath. Intricate tattoos snake up his neck, stopping just below his ear. His jaw is dusted with dark stubble, enough to look dangerous, not enough to hide how sharply carved it is. I shouldn’t stare. Really, Jaxcen? You’re in a church. I’m walking too quickly to take in much more, which is disappointing, because something about him pulls at my curiosity. Does he always come this late? The air around him feels charged. Dangerous. A shiver slides up my spine. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea. I focus on the confessional and hurry forward. Behind me, I hear the low rumble of his voice mixing with Father Peters’ quieter tone. Opening the heavy booth door, I step inside and turn back instinctively. My breath catches. His dark gaze locks onto mine. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing more intricate ink winding down his arms and across his hands. Heat blooms in my chest. Damn. Is it hot in here? He doesn’t look like the type who comes to church deliberately. My blush gives me away, so I quickly shut the door, cutting off his view, and mine. With a slow breath, I kneel. I hear Father Peters enter the other side. The door clicks shut. The small slot between us slides open, revealing the decorative vent. “Join me,” he says. Together we recite, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” I do the sign the cross. “May the Lord be in your heart and help you acknowledge your sins, and trust in His mercy.” “Amen.” And then… I let my mind return to why I’m here. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.” “What ails you this evening?” he asks, and I clear my throat before I begin. “I went back, Father.” “When did this happen?” His calm tone isn’t scolding, yet I know if I could see his face, he’d surely look disappointed. “Tonight,” I admit. “And Sunday night.” “Two nights since last week?” Surprise threads through his voice this time. “And Friday night,” I rush out, the shame burning through my entire body. “I see. What is it that you think keeps drawing you back?” “My thoughts,” I whisper. “They are so impure, Father. They’re getting worse, and I’m afraid.” “Afraid of what?” “Indulging,” I confess. Father Peters clears his throat. Not for the first time, I wonder if he’s at a loss with me and my disturbing desires. “Temptation is acknowledged by God, because resisting it can bring strong personal growth. However, just as we discussed last week, the Lord does not wish us to face temptations beyond our ability to resist. I’m concerned that place may be beyond your control. If you keep giving in, especially with your upcoming nuptials, you may eventually succumb.” “Yes, Father. I cannot explain why I returned,” I say, though I know the truth. Curious. Intrigued. Wanting. “What feelings were evoked when you went there?” he asks. My mind drifts to the club, the darkness, the masks, the acts committed. Humiliation and desire blend together, making me tense all over. I start to speak, but a shout in the church interrupts my confession abruptly. “What on earth?” Father Peters mutters as I hear him open his door. “Get down!” Two men appear, pointing guns directly at us. The man from the front pew bolts toward me. My gasp lodges in my throat, and Father Peters holds his hands up. Then the man slams into me, driving us back into the booth. A scream escapes as gunfire rattles the church, bullets striking the confessional door. He presses me against the wall, tall and firm, his hands gripping my shoulders. “Do me a favour, love. Reach around to my back pocket and pull out my phone.” What? Right now? We’re going to die! “We’re safe,” he says, calm, his breath warm against my hair. He smirks. Why is he smiling? We’re about to die. “My pocket,” he snaps again as bullets hammer the door. Trembling, I reach around, my hand grazing the hard ripple of muscle under his shirt. “So, Miss Summers, what’s your first name?” he asks. His voice, deep, gravelly, seeps into my veins like a warm drink, calming me despite the chaos. “Jaxcen,” I manage, fear lacing my tone. My fingers brush over his backside, finding a hard object beneath the fabric. “Jaxcen Summers. What a stunning name.” I scoff at the compliment, desperate to locate the pocket. “You don’t think it’s stunning?” he teases. I shake my head. “It’s nothing special. But thanks.” “You’re copping a good feel there, Miss Summers,” he chuckles, breath grazing my ear, hips nudging me playfully. “Stop moving!” I snap, fear and urgency guiding my hands until I finally find the pocket and slide my fingers in. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. I grip the phone as he tilts his hips against mine, awareness flaming through me. My heart pounds with a mix of terror and something else, something electric. This isn’t right, Jaxcen. You’re going to die and you’re turned on? It must be adrenaline. It has to be. “Got it,” I mutter, tugging the phone free. “Atta girl,” he says, snatching it to dial. “Be a love and get the gun tucked in my waistband.” A gun? I glance up, startled. “Where the f**k are you?” His tone sharp, deadly. Dark. Menacing. Terrifying. I reach around again, fingers brushing cold metal. A quiet gasp escapes me. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m touching a gun. “Get it done.” My trembling hand produces the weapon, sliding it between him and the door. “Thanks, love.” He winks. Playful again. Flirting? “Open the booth!” a voice yells. I whimper, ducking into his chest. “Shhh,” he whispers. “You’re safe with me.” “Maybe we got him,” another voice says. “Man, look at the door. The bullets didn’t go through. He’s in there.” His voice shifts. “Time for me to go out there.” He presses his phone to my chest. “What?” I whisper-yell. “You’ll die!” “Probably,” he smirks. “Give us a kiss first.” “What!” I squeak. “If I’m dying, I want a last kiss.” His lips hover close. “You can’t be serious,” I breathe. “I’m deadly serious, Miss Summers. You’re not denying a dying man his last wish, are you?” And suddenly, all I can focus on is him, the scent, the heat, the nearness of his lips. My first real kiss, my first indulgence, and it’s nothing like anything I’ve felt before. We part, tongues entwined. Desire fires through me, and I moan into him. Fingers tangle in my hair, tugging, guiding, deepening the kiss. My body reacts without thinking, grinding against him as if it could save me, as if it could burn everything else away. A rattling at the door snaps us stiff. Someone is trying to open it. “f**k,” he breathes. “Lucky the lock works.” His grin flashes white teeth as he holds the gun, checking it like a ritual. “I don’t think you should go out there,” I whisper, dread curling in my gut. “Don’t worry, love. It’ll be over in a flash.” Before I can protest again, he flicks the latch, spins, and shoves the door open, gun raised.