Taken as Collateral, page 1
part #2 of Mafia Masters Series
Taken as Collateral
By
Piper Stone
Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Piper Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Stone, Piper
Taken as Collateral
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Image by Shutterstock/LightField Studios
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
More Stormy Night Books by Piper Stone
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Chapter One
Kelan
Abduction.
Taking her minutes before her wedding had been easy.
Keeping her might be something else.
But I was the kind of man who didn’t take no for an answer.
“So, I think we should discuss a few very important rules.” I moved to sit on the edge of the bed, giving the beautiful woman a stern look. “You are indeed my prisoner. You will do nothing without my approval. You will be supplied with clothing, food, even the wine you seem to adore, but they will be doled out as you learn to obey. When you’re disobedient, the punishment will be swift and harsh. I am a reasonable man, Francesca, but I will not be crossed in any manner.”
“How dare you treat me this way!” she exclaimed, hissing as her lovely mouth twisted.
“How dare I?” I laughed and shook my head. “You should know I’m your only means of survival. I suggest you learn to submit.”
“Over my dead body.”
She was a mafia princess, a woman unused to being disciplined in any manner. She’d been pampered from the moment she was born, treated as if she would one day be a queen. To me, she was just something to barter with.
“Fuck you!” she snapped, jerking her arm as she attempted to claw my face.
“And that punishment will begin today. Make no mistake, I am a dangerous man.” Fisting her hair, I rolled her over, ripping down the shorts I’d provided. Now I owned every inch of her.
My possession.
I brought my hand down in a swift manner, even as she struggled to get out of my hold.
“No. No!” she squealed, whipping her arm back for protection.
I spanked her long and hard, moving from one side to the other, enjoying the building heat in my palm.
“Let me go!” She continued to struggle, her actions only fueling my desire. She had no idea what I could do to her.
What I would do to her.
I tangled my fingers in her long strands, yanking as I lowered my head. “I suggest you stop fighting or I will pull out my belt. You will learn your place.” I could see the fire in her eyes, the kind that kept my cock at full attention, burning desire raging through every cell and muscle.
“Like I said. Fuck. You,” she spat, remaining defiant.
I smacked her again and again, until her bottom was hot to the touch, her skin a rosy pink.
And my cock aching with need, my balls tight as drums.
“Make no mistake, Francesca. I. Will. Own. You. And there is nothing you can do about it.”
Only when she was finally subdued did I stop, taking several deep breaths. She was my retaliation, a necessity in a world where men ruled, and women were considered nothing but playthings.
Only this woman was different. Intelligent.
Beautiful.
Ballsy.
And I would enjoy breaking her.
* * *
Three Days Earlier
I’d been initiated into the mafia at eleven.
I’d witnessed my first contract hit at twelve.
I’d broken a man’s spirit and his body at eighteen.
I’d murdered a traitorous enemy at nineteen.
I’d watched my mother murdered in cold blood at twenty-five.
That’s when time stopped.
Be careful of the devil lurking inside.
He will steal your soul.
I stood at the window, snorting at the thought. I’d been summoned to my father’s house and into his expansive office overlooking a tropical pool and cabana. The light California breeze created a rippling effect in the shallow, crystal clear waters, the entire setting serene.
But I knew better.
This wasn’t a casual request by any means. This was all about business, my father’s twisted and very brutal business. He called the operation a functional need in a dysfunctional world, lending money to those who were already ‘entitled.’ The borrowed money came at a significant price, whether paid back in cash or in body fluids. That was only a small part of the operation, the rest centering around party favors and various real estate developments. He’d coined the phrase years before, serving up whatever flavor of drug the customer wanted. And he’d become a very wealthy man in the process.
There also hadn’t been a building built in Los Angeles that didn’t have the mark of the Cappalini family. My father liked to say he owned the cops and the mayor’s office. Hell, even half the players in the entertainment world couldn’t throw a party without his approval.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway behind me and bristled, my grip on the very expensive glass of scotch tightening. I caught a single glimpse of his grim expression in the reflection of the bulletproof glass and resisted snarling. This wasn’t the time or place to get into yet another vicious argument. I could also see who he considered his second in command, Grinder’s massive form standing in the doorway. He wasn’t a man I cared for in any regard, and the feeling was obviously mutual.
“So good of you to come, Michael.” My father immediately walked toward the bar, his long strides wasting no time. “You can leave us, Grinder.”
“Yes, sir,” Grinder said after a slight hesitation, his dark eyes boring into mine. What did the asshole think, that I was going to hurt my own father?
My anger immediately flared. My father and I always sparred, no matter the discussion.
“How many times have I asked you not to use my given name, Ricardo?” Ricardo Cappalini was a staunch believer in the old ways, cultures learned long ago in the darkened Italian streets. He’d come from nothing, maneuvering through famine and violence to claw his way to America. He’s lost everything along the way, including any concept of humanity; however, family meant everything to him.
Or so he continued to tell me.
He’d never proven anything but that he remained a violent and bitter man.
Since the death of my mother during a horrific attack, I’d walked away from anything having to do with his family values and the tyranny that came with it. My father’s brand of revenge had also nearly cost him his freedom.
I was the bastard son, a joke in his circle of great mafia leaders. It didn’t matter that I made a significant amount of money from making movies, I was the heir apparent. The fact I didn’t give a shit meant I was a thorn in his side. To him, I was nothing more than a useless movie star. I brought the scotch to my lips, savoring the slight burn as the liquid slid down the back of my throat.
“If you think I’m going to use the ridiculous name of Kelan Rock for any reason, you’re wrong,” my father said in a breathless and exasperated manner. We’d had this conversation a solid ten times.
I waited as I heard the ice plopping in his glass, tinkling against the dense lead crystal. I had to admit, his urgent message had piqued my interest. “What do you want, Father? I have a premiere to get ready for.”
“If you spent more time with your family responsibilities instead of that bullshit you’re into, we might not be in this mess!” His deep baritone reverberated even with the high ceilings.
And the worry laced in his tone.
I curtailed my rage, turning to face him. “What mess are we talking about this time?” I was no fool. We always talked in some manner of code, even though the entire house and grounds was swept by one of his capos at least twice a day. The FBI were always hunting.
He took a swig of his drink before moving in my direction, keeping his voice low. “Grinder and Tony got wind of a takeover attempt.”
Two of his most loyal capos, soldiers who performed the most heinous deeds, well rewarded for their silence. They kept their ears to the streets.
“Takeover? By whom?” I knew the other four mafia families within the United States more intimately than even my father knew. None of them would dare try to encroach on my father’s organization. They knew how savage he could be when pushed. I watched as a single bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was nervous.
“A branch of the Massimo family. Did you see the morning paper?” He tossed a c
I hadn’t paid attention to the Los Angeles Times for years. The reporters were jaded in their viewpoints, preferring to err on the side of caution. And politics. Then again, my father hadn’t been able to purchase the rag. I eased my drink to the table, unfolding the paper. The headlines were bold, meant to sell.
Murder: Is Los Angeles Prepared for Another Turf War?
Sighing, I shook my head as I read the scandalous piece, the story meant to heighten fears, headlining organized crime in the usual pompous fashion. Two men had been killed outside a famous nightclub, the very one my father frequented. I had no doubt they were my father’s soldiers. The scene caught by some unknown photographer would no doubt make him famous. Bloody and horrific. The picture was graphic enough, actually highlighting the bodies of two individuals lying in the middle of the street. “Two of your men?”
My father nodded, his hand shaking as he attempted to take another gulp. “Marcos and Sam. Two of my best men.”
“And they were protecting you?”
He eyed me warily. “As they always do.”
“Who’s responsible?”
Ricardo took his time refilling his drink before answering. The attack had unnerved him. “Massimo’s men. At least from what I’ve heard.”
I was forced to reflect on everything I’d been taught over the years, things I’d prefer to forget. This news could be devastating. “You’re talking about the Massimos out of Italy? You must be joking.”
The Massimo family were as powerful in Italy as the Bratvas were in Russia and while they were considered extremists, preferring the old methods of handling issues, they also stood by their honor. Coming into America and usurping already existing authority wasn’t their style. Killing two of my father’s men was either an act of vengeance or a prelude to war. Either way, the danger had just escalated. I was pissed at the thought, let alone the interference that the two murders might cause in my life. I tossed the paper, grabbing my drink. I didn’t need to read the rest of the details.
Ricardo simply gave me a harsh glare.
The taste of the three-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch was suddenly bitter. It was my turn to be civil. For my father, this could mean an all-out war, something the city of Los Angeles didn’t need. “What are your plans for retaliation and what does this have to do with me?”
“The Saltoris are also involved.”
“Louis Saltori?” My father had kept various aspects of business from his only son. My thoughts drifted to Saltori’s son, a man who’d been in and out of my life since entering show business. I was beginning to feel a trap had been set. The Saltoris had been small players, although their connection to the Italian Borgata was well known. In order to keep the peace, my father had allowed them a piece of the organization, businesses that Louis ran with an iron fist. The mere two percent provided to my father represented a substantial amount of cash through the years.
My father had always known the Massimos would eventually come to America, but the timing was interesting.
I could smell a betrayal.
“If what we are hearing is correct, Louis will try and make his move within the next thirty days. He has built a substantial army. Cash reserves. The old fuck. I never knew he had it in him. The rumors on the street are already costing me money and that’s not going to continue. The fuckers will die.” The vile expression on his face was one that left the majority of those who worked for him cowering in fear.
“Why are the Saltoris challenging the peace?” After the last turf war, parameters had been agreed to in an effort to keep violence off the streets, including giving Saltori some amount of power. He was heavily involved in the drug scene, using real estate as a cover. Unfortunately, Saltori approved shipments coming into the country.
He inched closer, narrowing his eyes. “Saltori is hungry. I’ll guess he’s been made a promise or two. You know I never trusted the man.” A sneer crossed his face the moment he offered the answer, as if I should be incensed for a different reason. He glanced up and down, obviously displeased with my selection of attire. “If you haven’t made the connection yet, his son is someone that you’ve worked with before. Motherfucking asshole.”
My thoughts drifted to Saltori’s son. The infamous movie director had never given any indication of his desire to be a player in his father’s business, much the same as my thoughts. Was he conniving? Fuck, yes. “Vincenzo Saltori. I am well aware of who and what he is.”
“Maybe something I taught you actually did sink in.”
“Cut the crap, Father. I never forget anything you teach me. What do you want me to do about it?” Vincenzo wasn’t on my list of friends, but he held a powerful influence in Hollywood. He was also the director on my latest project. An arrogant bastard with far too many connections. I didn’t believe in karma or coincidences. I’d been sought after for the role, even though the last time Vincenzo and I had worked together there’d been significant property damage.
I’d never been concerned about the Massimo connection, or maybe I simply hadn’t cared. If what my father was saying was true, things were going to get dicey and difficult decisions would need to be made.
“What I want is for you to take your place by my side where you’d always belonged. I need your help and your muscle. This could get... messy.” Ricardo’s eyes twinkled in a vindictive manner. He was planning on a mass execution. That much I knew about my father. He struck without bothering to ask questions. If Saltori had a part in having his capos murdered, nothing would stop him from attacking.
He was actually asking me to take part in his murderous plan. Hell, no. He wasn’t going to shame me into leaving a life I’d struggled to achieve. Not for any reason. “I refuse to be a part of blood running in the street. This isn’t my world, Father. Remember?” I glared at him before polishing off my drink, slamming the tumbler on the expensive marble bar top.
“What I remember is that you made your mother a promise. What I remember is that you’ve pushed away your family for years, pretending your birthright doesn’t exist. What I remember is that my son is a pussy.”
I was used to his goading as well as his nasty words, but I’d reached my limit. “My birthright?” I stormed toward him, trying to rein in the kind of anger that brought back violent memories. I was shaking as I approached. “My birthright to a murderous organization? To a monster?” I waited for a few seconds, hungering for a nasty retort.
He just stared at me with his cold black eyes, his usual expression.
“The promise I made to my mother was to get the hell out of this life and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I’d been a brutal man, violent by nature, following directly in my father’s footsteps. I had blood on my hands, the stain that would never go away, a stench that would never leave my nostrils. I’d made the promise mere weeks before her death.
That had been after witnessing another tragedy, an immoral act ordained by my father. I’d seen a snapshot of the real man, the true monster. I was catching the same glimpse today.
When he remained quiet, I threw back my shoulders, heading for the door. I knew what his soldiers thought of me. There was no respect. Maybe I was selfish, but my mother had spent years making certain I was groomed for another purpose.
“You only think you can run, Michael, but there is no place to hide that the truth won’t be discovered. You are the blood of my blood, skin of my skin. You are my son and required to take the helm one day.”
I stopped only long enough to throw him a glance riddled with hatred. He’d nearly destroyed my life once. I’d be damned if he was going to get the chance to do it again. “Have a good life, Father.”
As I walked away, all I could think about was paying for the sins of the father—my father to be exact.
Over my dead body.
* * *
“Kelan! Look this way!”
“Can I get a picture with you?”
“Carnal King. Carnal King.”
The screams were always the same, the fans lining the red carpet, hands clinging to the velvet rope. They all wanted a piece of me. The nickname had stuck after one particularly heated love scene in my first movie. I stood with my hands in my pockets, a grin on my face. At least my angry eyes were hidden by dark shades. My latest film was premiering, the action adventure ready to top the charts.
