The Stories We Whisper at Night Read online

  “Yes and no.” He nods slowly. “I think you're really going to like this girl. That's why I'm giving her to you and not one of your brothers.”

  “Well, if I can do anything I want to to her, then what's not to like.”

  “Not anything you want to her.” He points at me. “I need her kept whole, in case her father manages to cough up the money he owes me.”

  “What kind of a monster do you take me for?” I hold my hands out to my sides.

  He lets out a short laugh. “I know what kind of a monster you are. Because I made you.”

  “Cut from the same cloth.” I snort.

  His expression goes serious. “I really wish you would have taken more interest in the business, Ryder. You'd be a good fit. Got what it takes. Got the balls for it. The stomach for all the dirty, unpleasant shit.”

  “Aye. I've got the balls for it. Doesn't mean I want it, though. I've seen everything you've had to go through.” I remember all the bad—the people we've lost. The close calls. My father has been shot twice. Once, we didn't think he'd pull through. Spending every day watching over your shoulder, that's not the type of life I want.

  “Well,” he taps his fist on top of the car door, “I've got an appointment to make. Better not be late. Bring it in here. Give your old man a hug.” He opens his arms to me, and I step into them. He wraps me in a bear hug, shaking me heartily. “Happy birthday, son. You're really going to love her. I promise.”

  “Thanks, Pop.” I pull away and watch him climb into the car and drive off. As soon as he's out of sight, I scowl.

  I wonder what the fuck I'm going to do all the way back up to my loft. My place is a home, not a prison. Should I be running to the local hardware store to buy locks and zip ties?

  A wicked idea plays through my mind of making her strip bare and leaving her locked in the guest bedroom only to be used for my sexual enjoyment. That might not be so bad. Anytime I get the craving, I could go into the room and plunge my cock into her warm waiting pussy. She might not like it, but she'd tolerate it. My little sex prisoner, to be used at my whim. Used and then locked away and forgotten about.

  That's fucking inhumane, though. And while it would be the easiest route to take, I don't think I'm that much of a prick. Still, she's damn sure going to have to earn her keep. My father said nothing about an allowance for her needs.

  Fuck all, what kind of a mess did he get me into? Why couldn't he just leave me out of it and send her to one of my brothers? They love shit like this. Hell, Antonio would probably carry out my sex prisoner fantasy without a second thought. He's a bigger asshole than I am. But maybe that's why Pop decided not to leave her with him. He knows how we are. Knows all of our quirks. Knows the darkness within each of us because he's seen it first-hand. He's pushed us into places where we've been forced to lash out with every bit of nastiness inside of us.

  He was right. He knows exactly what kind of monster I am. Now to see how much of that monster gets unleashed on this poor unfortunate girl.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AMORY

  I have no idea where I am. All I see is darkness.

  The second that I was handed over to Giovanni Bianchi, a blindfold was put over my eyes so that I couldn't see where they were taking me. Hope dripped away from me with every step that I took out of my parents' grocery store, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd never see them again. Their solemn faces are burned into my mind. My father held my mother while she sobbed against his shoulder. I tried to tell them that everything would be alright, but Giovanni shushed me. Maybe because everything won't be alright. I don't know anymore.

  I had half-expected them to load me up in the trunk like baggage, but I had been allowed to sit in the car like a normal human being. And by normal human being, I mean a hostage who isn't being treated like an inanimate object.

  Mister Bianchi was much kinder to me once we were out of earshot of my parents. While he didn't take the blindfold off, he did assure me that I wouldn't be harmed. He told me that he was taking me somewhere for safe keeping until my parents' could pay their debt and that I would be in good hands with his son.

  To be honest, I was surprised they didn't drive me off to a warehouse somewhere to gang rape me. And I was grateful. Oh so grateful.

  Of course, that was always still a possibility. I had no idea what kind of man Mister Bianchi's son was. If he was in the mafia, then he was probably an asshole like his father. I would find out soon enough.

  The commute was rather short, though I had no real way to judge time. The car lurched to a stop, and then Mister Bianchi bid me adieu and handed me off to one of his thugs, a man by the name of Big Jeff. Judging by the feel of his thick hand on my bicep, he lived up to that name, though he was fairly gentle as he guided me around...wherever we were.

  I heard the ding of an elevator and then felt us ascend several floors before walking out. We stopped, and he knocked on a door. There was the sound of a doorknob turning and then a brief exchange of words before I was passed off to who I could only assume was Mister Bianchi's son.

  With my vision impaired, my other senses are heightened. I smell the faintest hint of cinnamon, though it keeps being overtaken by notes of men's cologne. There's the soft sound of Italian music playing, though it's muffled which means it must be coming from another room. It reminds me of something you'd hear at a restaurant.

  I stand like a sentinel, listening to the sounds of my own breathing and the footsteps that are slowly circling me. It's like there's a shark in the room, and he has feet. I can only assume that this man is looking at me—assessing me. That's the only reason someone would walk so slowly. Or maybe he's trying to intimidate me. If that's the case, then it's working. While I'm not terrified, the nervousness inside of me has found a home in the form of a ball lodged at the back of my throat. I can't swallow it down no matter how hard I try.

  “I thought you'd be a blonde,” a man's voice says, referring to my long brown hair. My mother has the soft blonde hair typically associated with Russian beauties. My dad's locks are so dark they're almost black. Mine falls somewhere in between. When I was growing up, my dad used to tease me that he thought I might be the milkman's baby. It was all in jest, though. My parents love each other unconditionally. I can't even remember a time when they've fought over anything other than the business. And not once has my father's gaze ever wandered or my mother dreamed of being with someone more successful. It's like they were made for each other. I can only hope that one day I'll be so lucky as to find my perfect match. That might never happen, though, given my current predicament. And that was something that I could accept. Something that I had accepted the moment that I agreed to give myself up for the sake of saving my parents.

  I'm not sure if The Shark expects me to say anything or not, so I remain silent. If there's one thing I learned from being around Giovanni Bianchi, it's that speaking when you haven't been given permission is the wrong move. He punched my father for it earlier today. His shushing me was enough to make me shut my mouth. The Shark is his seed. I can only imagine that they share a similar disposition.

  “I bet you don't even have blue eyes.” He sounds disappointed. “I suppose there's only one way to find out.”

  He stops behind me, and I feel the blindfold being roughly untied. A few strands of my hair snag in it, and he pulls them carelessly. It burns slightly where they rip from my scalp, but I don't whimper.

  The blindfold comes down, and light streams in to greet me. I'm facing a wall of windows that overlook Manhattan. I know the buildings well enough. Relief floods through me as I'm able to almost instantly pinpoint my location on the upper east side. Not that it matters. It's not like I can try to escape.

  My heart skips two beats as a man steps in front of me. His hair is almost raven-black. His eyes are just as dark. I can see traces of his father, though hardly enough to be able to make the distinction if I didn't already know they were related. Giovanni Bianchi is a barrel of a man. This guy is lean
and toned. He's wearing a charcoal blazer with a white shirt beneath. The top two buttons of the shirt are unfastened, showing a glimpse of his hairless, smooth chest. There's a tribal tattoo over his heart, but I can't really make it out because it's covered by his shirt. By comparison, his father is a bear. Even with his shirt buttoned all the way to the collar, there were tufts of white hair peeking out the top. Giovanni Bianchi looks the part of a fat, old Don. This guy...I hate to even admit it, but he's really attractive.

  A smirk plays over his lips as his eyelashes flutter open and his eyes meet my baby blues. This is a department in which I won't disappoint. My mom's genes took over and gave me the soft shade of my irises that are infused with dashes of green and a small sunburst of brown around my pupils. All of my life, I've had men tell me that I have beautiful eyes.

  The Shark nods approvingly. His gaze scours down my body before coming back to my face, then he takes a step back and pulls up a chair, sitting in front of me with his ankle crossed over his knee. “Now let's see the rest of the package.”

  I blink a few times, trying to tell if I'm reading him right. “Sir?” I ask.

  “Sir,” he laughs, pointing at me. “Oh, I like that.”

  I'm not sure what he finds so funny. “Is that not how I'm supposed to address you?”

  “Sir is just fine.” He couldn't look smugger if he tried.

  I shift my weight nervously, hooking my fingers together in front of me and dropping my gaze to the floor.

  “Oh, don't you play a good game of looking demure,” his tone is pure mockery. My jaw clenches as I look up at him. It's not completely an act. While I do dress provocatively a lot of the time when I go out, I do have morals.

  I don't humor him with a response. He can read it all in my expression, my sheer loathing of the situation. He stands, looking nothing but amused. He pinches the collar of my blouse, and I turn my head away, trying to pretend to be disgusted by him as he peeks down the front of my shirt like a creeper.

  He lets my blouse go, his eyes reaching my face. “So, how old are you, princess?”

  “Eighteen,” I reply without hesitation.

  “Are you really Russian, because you don't have an accent?” He sounds suspicious.

  “I was born in the US. My parents are from Russian,” I explain.

  “Both of them?”

  “Both of them,” I parrot.

  “So you're purebred Russian?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” My eyes meet his.

  He smiles, two rows of perfectly white teeth gleaming at me. “You're a little feisty, aren't you?”

  Again, I remain silent. Being feisty could get me into trouble. I have a feeling that it might have already.

  The Shark returns to his chair, this time placing both of his arms on the armrests and leaning back like he's waiting for a show to begin. “So what do I call you?”

  “Are you asking my name?”

  “Oh, watch that tone, girl. I've been told that I can do whatever I want to you.” The inflection in his voice tells me that he enjoys that fact.

  “Amory. My name is Amory. And your name, sir?”

  “I'm Ryder Bianchi,” he says with pride.

  “Well, Ryder Bianchi, what happens now?”

  “Now, feisty Amory,” his eyes widen in amusement, “you take off your clothes.”

  I take a deep breath to still the tension winding around my intestines. I feel brittle and nervous. For some reason, though, I don't feel frightened. And I oddly don't mind this man seeing me naked. Maybe because I'm not particularly ashamed of my body. Maybe because I find him attractive. I'm not quite sure. But I almost want him to see me. I want to see what seeing me naked will do to him.

  This is the first time I've ever done anything like this before—have ever disrobed for a man—and it feels strangely exciting, especially because I don't have a choice.

  My hands slowly reach for the bottom hem of my shirt, and I pull it over my head. Figuring that I was going to end up getting molested today, I wore one of my old white cotton bras and a pair of panties that have an unraveling waistband. I wanted to drive the point home that I'm poor and what they've done is a horrible thing, not that they would probably care. Bad men do bad things all the time. They feed off of dehumanizing those less fortunate than them.

  I hesitate before revealing my bra, a shred of modesty dancing through me before I discard it and the shirt onto the floor. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to shield my chest from Ryder the best I can, though I know it will only provide me with a few moments of comfort.

  “Now the rest.” He makes a circular motion with his hand.

  My fingers tremble slightly as I reach behind me to unzip the skirt. It pools around my feet, exposing my stockings, which now feel like an extra layer of armor.

  Ryder sucks in air between his lips, making a strange hissing sound. I can't tell if he likes what he sees or not. “Come here.” He motions to me.

  I step out of the skirt before slowly approaching him. As soon as I'm within reach, he grabs me by the hips and pulls me down. I gasp as he maneuvers me until I'm bent over his lap. There's something unexpectedly erotic about the position.

  “When I ask you to do something, you need to be on your toes.” He smooths his hand down the small of my back and over the globes of my ass. I clutch onto the arm of the chair, staring forward. My heartbeat speeds up from uncertainty.

  “There will be consequences when you hesitate.” One of his hands stops on my ass, his fingers kneading into the flesh there. I close my eyes, embarrassed by my own arousal.

  “I think I need to teach you a lesson on who is in charge of you from now on.” His hand lifts from my ass, and I squeeze my eyes together, anticipating the blow before it even happens. He gives my butt three good swats. Each one stings, though it's not unbearable.

  “Are you going to be a good girl for me now?” he asks.

  “Yes, Sir,” I reply softly.

  “That doesn't sound very convincing.” He rubs the sting out of my backside. “I think these thick-ass stockings you're wearing were softening the blows. What do you think?” When I don't respond, he continues. “I don't really like them. They hide your beautiful legs. At least, I assume they're beautiful. My father sure praised them.”

  The mention of his father makes my stomach turn—the thought that Giovanni Bianchi had taken notice of my legs before. The man is every bit as old as my father. There's no way in hell I would ever want his hands on me. The thought that it could have been his hands on me instead of Ryder's makes me grateful for the situation I'm in. In hindsight, things could have been so much worse.

  “How about we take these stockings off of you?” Ryder doesn't even wait for my response before I feel him shifting his weight beneath me. When I look over my shoulder, I see that he has a blade in his hand. Panic flashes through me as he grabs the waistband of my stockings and starts cutting. My heart continues to race while he slices and pulls at the material until it falls away from my ass and thighs. He then makes me lift my feet so he can slip my shredded stockings off the rest of the way. The cool air rushes in to kiss my skin, causing my legs to break out in goosebumps. Ryder puts the pocketknife away and smooths them out with his hand. “That's better.”

  I lie there and listen to the sound of my own breathing as he pets over my ass a few times. He sticks his finger into the hole at the waistband of my underwear and pulls up on it, causing the material to rip even more. “Well, isn't this pathetic? Can't your parents afford to buy you proper undergarments?”

  I glare at him. “No, they can't, because your father takes every extra dime that they have.”

  Whack! His hand comes down on my ass with so much force that I yelp.

  “What did I say about that tone?” he raises his voice, and I cower slightly.

  Within seconds, his hands are twisted into my underwear, ripping the thin material to shreds. I gasp as he pulls what's left from beneath me and tosses it aside, leaving my ass
and pussy naked and exposed. He then draws me closer, his fingers making passes over the globe of my ass.

  I refuse to apologize, partially because I'm being defiant and partially because I want him to spank me. There's something about having his hands on me that makes me feel...wanton. I'm not usually a horny girl. I don't masturbate or touch myself very often. But right now, I'm on overdrive. It's taking everything in me to keep from writhing on his lap. I don't want him to know that he has such an effect on me, though. As far as I'm concerned, it's far better if he thinks I loathe him and everything that he's doing to me.

  “Spread your legs for me. I want to see everything that my father's present has to offer,” he demands.

  A blush covers my cheeks. This, I do not want to do. It feels so dirty and wrong.

  He slaps my ass again, though, and that gets me moving. I bow my legs ever so slightly, cringing at my own embarrassment as his fingers move across my ass again. He rubs in slow torturous circles. Each time his hand reaches my crack, it dips further between my legs. I chew my bottom lip as he gets closer to my pussy. Finally, his finger arrives, and I hear him suck in a breath. “Holy shit, princess, you're so fucking wet for me.”

  I think I turn about ten shades redder because I know it's true. I can feel my heartbeat in my clit. I've never been more turned on in my entire life. Just knowing that his finger is at my entryway, that it could plunge inside at any time and fill me, makes me unbelievably randy. If he could only see the look on my face, it would be all over for me.

  “Jesus Christ,” he curses, lightly running his fingertip around my opening. It's the most sensual thing I've ever experienced, and it's driving me absolutely crazy.

  Please, finger me. I silently beg. Keep touching me. Just don't stop touching me.

  As if reading my mind and trying to punish me for my perverted thoughts, he withdraws, grabbing me by the shoulder to pull me up. He sits me on his lap facing away from him. When I try to close my legs, he makes me hook my knees over his, spreading his legs wide so that my legs are spread even wider. He gazes over my shoulder, and I wonder if my whole body can blush, because I feel like I'm on fire.