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I let my hand slip down her throat, wrapping it around her while my gun remainspressed against her rib cage. Her submission pleases me, her stiff muscles relaxing slightly as I gaze into her strange eyes.
“Tell me your name,” I order, my eyes traveling to her swollen lips, as if they were stung by a bee and painted with a raw cherry.
Her eyes narrow suddenly, her perfect breasts rising as she puffs out her chest defensively.
"You have a gun to my ribs and you don't even know my name?" Her raspy voice hisses, jolting my cock awake.
“Judging by the scent of your cologne and expensive suit, I know you’re not some random off the street. You know my family and you found me, so tell me, how is it that all your digging has still left you clueless? Are you an idiot or just bad at your job?” She growls and even though her lashing should have me throwing her against the ground, I find that I can’t stop the sudden smirk from lifting the corners of my lips.
She’s smartandsassy. I’m going to have fun with this one.
I tighten the hand that’s still wrapped around her throat, squeezing it just enough to allow oxygen, but still terrify her. Her eyes widen again, the pale skin of her sweet face reddening.
“Your name,” I demand, tilting my head at her.
Her lips part, and a whimper slips past before she mutters her response.
“Lori,” she says weakly. I can’t help the snort that slips out of my nose.
“You come from a strong lineage of bloodsucking Italians and they named youLori?” I chuckle, shaking my head as my grip eases up on her throat.
Her family really is pathetic.
She stares at me for a while, her head tilted as her eyes travel from my face to my hair, narrowing as if she’s trying to see clearer.
“Lorena. They named me Lorena,” she says after a while, her eyes finally traveling to the ceiling as she breathes steadily.
“Lorena Rose Saracino,” she says, her coarse voice causing my cock to strain against the zipper of my pants.
Her eyes slide from the ceiling to mine, a blush coloring her freckled cheeks.
“I don’t know why I even told you that. I hate my name.” She admits quietly, embarrassed.
A part of me wants to tell her not to feel this way, that her name is just as beautiful as her body, but that very small part of me is overshadowed by the beast inside of me. The beast who wants to rip the head of her father off his shoulders before I kill every last one of her family members.
My nostrils flare and I move my hand away from her throat, tossing her hair behind her shoulders before yanking her head back and forcing her to look at me as I speak.
“I have a team of men waiting in my van in the front of your building. You are going to walk by my side, nicely and quietly. If you try to run or scream, all I have to do is send a simple message to my men, and all of your brothers, as well as your father, will have a bullet each planted in their headsin five minutes. Am I clear?” I growl, and in an instant her breathing becomes erratic.
A single tear falls from her eyes, and before I can stop myself, I lick it up with my tongue, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip in response. I stare at her, my gaze fixed on her mouth. When she releasesher lip, she nods slowly, fear visible in her eyes.
“Good girl. Let’s go,” I say, tucking my gun into my pants as I unlock the door and push her out into the hallway, my hand wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against me as we make our way down to the lobby.
* * *
Lori
He walks me out of my apartment building and shoves me into a dark van. Two large men grab me and position me in between them, binding my hands around my back with a rope. I want to cry, maybe even vomit, but I just squeeze my eyes shut as the vehicle moves for what feels like a millennium.
After a while, the van stops and everybody clears out, except for me and the man that stole me. I open my eyes and look at him still sitting in the passenger seat, his head craned in my direction.
“Time to go, princess,” his dark, thickly accented voice says.
He’s Italian, that much I know for sure. Which makes me wonder if he’s part of another mafia, or one of my fathers’ fired men. At this point, God only knows.
He steps out of the van and grabs me from the back seat, throws me over his shoulder as if I weigh nothing, and my breath stops in my chest as he walks me into a large house. There’s an army of men behind us, the outline of assault rifles strapped to their chests. When they start to disappear from my hazy view, the man carrying me slams a large, wooden door closed with his foot before walking me up a massive staircase. Albeit blurry, I can tell the tile that’s clicking beneath his expensive shoes is nice.
When we reach the top of the staircase, he walks down a long hallway, the walls blank and empty, the ceiling high. He opens a door and walks us inside, slamming it shut before he throws me on a large, silk covered bed.
