✅ Mafia's Devil: Complete Story

As a mafia boss, Luciano Gevona thought he had seen it all, and then he met Karine Kuznetsov–a five-foot-nothing, fiery woman who challenges his sanity and somehow lives to tell the tale.

PART 1

KARINE

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re causing a scene.”

“No!” he blubbers, the red of his face matching his tie. He’s middle-aged with a comb over and a thick beard to make up for the missing hair on his head. His belly is Santa-Claus-round, probably from chewing up unsuspecting waitresses all over the city.

When he walked in here, an hour past his reservation and demanding to be seated, he probably thought I would be easy to chew, too.

“Unfortunately, you won’t get a table here tonight.”

“The hell I won’t, midget bitch! Where’s the manager?”

Oh, no. He said it: the offensive, magic word that sets a fire under my ass and summons my inner chihuahua.

Stepping on my tippy toes, I growl, “Leave."

I'm about to lose my foot so far up his ass he'll be tasting my pedicure for years.

“Is there a problem here?”

That voice is so deep that the lights seem to dim.

My heels slam on the floorboards of my restaurant, and I turn around. A thick chest is in front of me, smelling so good I nearly roll on my back, belly up, and ask him to pet me.

I look up, and my chihuahua glare meets the dead gaze of one of the big dogs of the mafia world. I recognized him instantly.

Luciano Gevona.

Well, this is an interesting development.

No, seriously. Luciano’s puberty must have been in overdrive, because it pumped him so full of testosterone that the man is nearly seven feet tall.

The lucky bastard. I’m tempted to rub against him to try to steal some of his genes. And maybe take his jeans while I’m at it, too.

No, Karine. There will be no genes or jeans stealing of any kind! Focus! 

“Are you the owner?” the customer asks Luciano.

I blink. Now wait a slick second.

“You may return to your seat, sir. I have this under control,” I tell Luciano. Well, more like his neck. I can’t tip my head further to meet his eyes, or else I’ll crack the damn thing.

The testosterone-hoarding bastard ignores me. “Yes, I’m the owner,” he replies.

"No, you’re not,” I interject. “Please remove yourself from this situation.”

I’m the boss. I sweat throughout high school to get here. My father’s money was no help. It’s been endless part-time jobs, planning and loans. Now at twenty-one, I finally opened it.

“You’ve ought to keep this little girl in place.”

Let’s forget the whole I-don’t-need-daddy’s-help speech. I’m about to get arrested for attempted murder, and my dad will have to bail me out. I’m sure he’ll understand if I ask it to be my birthday gift.

“Walk,” Luciano declares one word. Casually, he slides a hand on his hip, pushing his jacket aside to reveal his 9mm glock that glistens under the light as if tearing in despair to shoot a bullet.

Santa Claus practically teleports back to the North Pole. Luciano and I are alone in seconds.

“Gevona,” I grit.

I’ve never had many encounters with this man, knowing him by reputation only. Needless to say, I’m not impressed. Not only are firearms prohibited in my premises, but he had no right stepping into my business.

Analytical eyes that have eaten everything in this restaurant— from the customers, to the exits, to the hazards—now try eat my soul.

It’s not my food that he came in here for.

“Watch the attitude,” he scolds, his eyes flickering behind me to scan movement before jumping back to mine. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

“You shouldn’t be here. My father will see it as a threat.”

Our families aren’t in the best standing. My father is an arms dealer. He supplies up and down the East coast. Luciano’s family is the head of the Italian mafia and dabbles in much more. My father made the mistake of dishonoring a deal by selling to an enemy, and the Italians weren’t too happy about the slight. Blood is expected to flow any day.

His grey eyes are calm as he replies, “I don’t hurt kids.”

The chihuahua in me wants to bite his ankles.

I know I look like a mousy little thing. Soft European features, long brown hair, four-eleven, and flatter than any cutting board in the kitchen. Give me a break, though. I can’t look that young.

“Get out of my fucking restaurant.”

His stone-hard-front crumbles and his hand latches onto my bicep. The rings he wears are cold, but my arm feels like it’s on fire.

I retaliate by grabbing his own arm. I can’t circle it with my fingers. Figures.

“How old are you?”

I rip myself away and stomp into the kitchens.

Manny, my lead chef, fans her face. “Man, that lad is HOT.”

“I thought you were gay?”

“I’ve been saved by him. Forget the fire extinguisher, I’ll put him out with my tongue.”

“I don’t recommend it,” I grumble. “The bastard is as prickly as a cactus.”

“I don’t care if he’s hairy. I’ll gobble up that eggplant and explain to my dermatologist why I have a rash with a smile on my face.”

I pick up an eggplant from the vegetable basket and press it against her chest. “How about you take care of this eggplant first? Get back to work!”

Manny listens and nearly chops off two fingers as she drools over Luciano. It looks like our special soup of the day will be extra special today.

I dabble in managerial work and help out where I can. Tonight is busy, but even I can’t keep my slutty irises from scanning the meal that seems to have walked out of my kitchen. Luciano is at a VIP table, dining with a woman that’s prettier, taller, and with far more assets than me.

Oddly enough, I’ve caught her throwing glances my way all night.

I force myself to focus on the right type of eggplant for the rest of the night. When Luciano leaves, I swear all the women sigh a little.

“Why are you sighing?”

I choke on air. “I was not sighing. Now, let’s lock up.”

“The only thing you look like you want to lock up is your legs around that hunk.”

“Or my hands around your neck.”

“Kinky, but I’m straight now, remember? That beast of a man transformed me,” she swoons.

“Move it, ladies, daylight is burning,” Jose bids in.

“It’s already night-time, smartass.”

“Yeah. Night time because the man the world revolves around has walked out of here.” Manny shakes her head.

Thirty more comments and two more orgasms over Luciano later, I lock up the restaurant and head home. The driver that my father assigns to take me around the city opens the door, and I slide in.

Minutes later, I notice something that my driver doesn’t. We’re being followed by a Maserati. If there’s one thing the Italians love, it’s their Maseratis.

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