Mafia's Devil part 22

I enter the store like I own it because, technically, I fucking do. There are racks and racks of crystal containers lined with glittering jewelry.

There are plenty of people here — couples, families, and lone customers.

“Get the fuck out. Clear the store!” I yell, raking a hand through my hair that brushes my forehead. It’s gotten too long because I’ve gotten distracted. Meanwhile, my temper has only shortened.

Me being short on anything is a terrible combination.

Customers rush out in waves, nearly trampling over each other to get out. It doesn’t bring me joy to see them listen to my order, because it reminds me of how one little slip of a woman never does the same. Karine never fucking listens to me.

How can I influence crowds of people, call myself king of the Italian mafia, when I can’t pin Karine under my thumb? She’s a five-foot-zero, twenty-one year old!

I hear walkie talkies spurt as a manager calls security. The device is quickly snatched out of their hands by Declair— the owner of the store, when he steps out.

“Don’t call security. I will handle this.”

Declair is my height, bald, and tattooed from the neck down. There’s a hard look in his eyes; one I recognize because I see it every time I look in the mirror.

I know he served in the military and got dishonorably discharged while I got my experience in the streets.

This guy is tough, but I’m pure concrete. That’s why I’m the boss, and he’s an underdog.

“Luciano,” he recognizes me. “My office is this way.” He gestures behind him, and I B-Line in with my men following. They guard the door, and I circle the desk and plop down on Declair’s chair.

“To what do I owe this visit, Luciano?”

I sit back in his chair and lie my feet on his desk.

“Don’t get fucking smart with me. I want my goddamn money, plus interest. You’re late by a month.”

“I know. Look, I…”

“I don’t want to hear words. I want to see money.” I pull out my glock and check the magazine. The first time I put a man down, my hand trembled. Now, it feels like the gun is a part of my body. An extension of my calloused fingers.

I won’t kill Declair. At least I’ll try not to. He’s lucky I have good aim and the bullet will lodge in his shoulder instead of his neck.

“Give me just one more week, Luciano. I’ll pay you in full and clear the tab.” Even as he stands before me, there’s a drop of confidence.

He looks at the gun, then at me. He knows I’m not another grunt that occasionally comes in here to beat him up and remind him he owes me. I’m the actual nightmare.

“One more week?” I scoff and aim higher.

“Wait! I recently got my hands on some new jewels. Big rocks worth a couple thousand. The biggest is worth eighty-grand. Take it.”

“You owe me one hundred. Forget eighty.”

“Take two rings.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Rings? What the fuck am I going to do with a ring? Do you think I'm interested in prettying myself up for you?”

“You can resell or detach the stones.”

“That’s too much work. I prefer cash.” I aim again, but I can’t pull the trigger.

Karine is in my head again. Her pouty lips, harmless glare, and the wrinkles at her brow.

I walk out of the fucking store with a full magazine, a cold gun, and two damn engagement rings that I’ll have to resell.

Fucking hell.

I throw the box at my men. “Sell them. Just get them out of my sight.”

My mood reaches an all-time-low. A grey cloud seems to follow me around even when I return home.

“Do you want to hand me your gun?”

“What?” I scowl at my right-hand man.

“You look like you want to empty that gun in all of us. Well, you always do, but today more than ever.”

“I should start with you.” I glower at him and tug off my tie. There’s a mountain of things I have to do today, but first, I need to bathe with freezing cold water to cool my jets. There won’t be an Italian mafia if I decimate my own men.

In the shower, I grip my cock and beat it angrily. I focus on the tiles, on the water flowing down my back, on the light flowing through the window, but I still end up coming with Karine on my mind.

The shower didn’t help me relax.

I wash the mess off and change into joggers, not bothering with underwear or a shirt. Something tells me I’ll be beating my dick many more times today.

I run a hand through my damp hair, remembering it’s still in need of a haircut.

My hunger leads me to the kitchen, where a prepared meal awaits. It’s Italian— what my chef always cooks, but I have no appetite for it.

I look at the many knives on the counter. I can’t remember the last time I held a knife for a purpose other than to maim someone. I don’t cook my meals.

The memory of Karine’s soup lights my tongue on fire. I want to taste it again, but I don’t need her for it.

How hard can it be to make? I don’t need to call my chef for this.

I pull one apron from the utility closet and tie it around my waist. Then, I rip through my refrigerator in search of vegetables and shit. Are tomatoes still considered fruits, or did they change that jurisdiction?

I shrug and throw some on the counter, along with potatoes and any other round, leafy crap I can find.

I toss the biggest pot I can find on the stove, fill it to the top with water, and flip the flame on. Watching the destructive flame alight is my favorite part.

One hour later, I’m a very unhappy man.

The pot boiled over, the food burnt, the stove is ruined, and two of my horrified men walked on me wearing the pink “Kiss the Chef” apron.

I scowled at them. They took one look at my knife, another at the apron, and they ran away.

I rip the apron off and stab it to the counter. I’m hungry, and insulted that I couldn’t handle my own kitchen. The little girl at the mall could have done a better job at cooking this nonsense.

I go upstairs, only to run down five minutes later when the fire alarm goes out. I forgot that I left the stove on.

The mansion goes on lockdown as security suspects we’re under attack. I run to get the fire extinguisher right as my windows slam shut with metal drapes.

“It’s a false alarm, idiots! Shut down the system!”

I spray the kitchen down to kill the flames. It’s a mess down here. There’s no food, no Karine. Only confusion and upset.