Mafia Captor

Mafia Captor A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE SHANNA HANDEL Contents Welcome Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Epilogue Also in this Series Vow to the King Psst! Do you like Dark Daddy Romance? Bonus Content More Mafia Bonus Content Spicy Billionaires Also by Shanna Handel About the Author Welcome Sign up for my Newsletter and NEVER miss a NEW release! Mafia Captor: A Dark Mafia Romance Shanna Handel Copyright © 2022 Shanna Handel All rights reserved. Ashely Boston, The Boss, Bachman. Tall, dark-hearted, and melt your panties gorgeous. New England royalty. Billionaire stud. Mafia man. I’m terrified of him. He’s covered in ink. The man has a tattoo. On his face. I feel naughty when I wear black nail polish. He’s my total opposite. Someone I would never, ever go for in the real world. But this is his world, isn’t it? And he wants me. So much so, he’s captured me. He teases me, tortures me. His punishments leave my skin burning and my core throbbing. I thought I was a good girl, but he’s made me do very naughty things. But there’s pleasure in the shame. It’s almost as if I don’t want to escape. I know this madness needs to end. There’s no way I’m the girl for him. I have to get away or this man is going to destroy me. Boss She’s the good girl, the one who cooks you dinner, the one you take home to Ma. But I know inside that girl there’s a freak flag. And I’m gonna be the one to let it fly. She’s nothing like the other women I’ve been with. I’m obsessed. Jealous. Possessive. I want to own her. I want to make her beg. And then I need to turn her loose. Her hold on me is too strong, I’m addicted to her sweet innocence. Now… I’m picturing her carrying my babies. Chapter One Boss All women are precious and beautiful in their own way. There’s one uniquely special type of woman that turns my world on end. And ever since the moment I laid eyes on Ashe, I’ve suspected she was one of these. A strong, independent woman who turns into a soft, needy kitten when you take charge. Take things a step further and—with one little spank—the kitten turns into a leopard ready to pounce, scratching you with her claws, demanding every ounce of pleasure you’ll offer her. I know Ashe is one of these women. Let’s test my theory. I dip my tongue against hers, tangling her deeper in our kiss. I leave my left hand imprisoning her thick curves. I move my kiss to her neck, nibbling and biting. She offers a soft exhale of contentment. I pull my right hand away, lifting it, leaving it hovering over her soft curves just long enough for her to take pause, to wonder where my hand has gone. I bring it back down, timing the stinging spank with a sharp nip of her earlobe. She’s either going to slap me or sleep with me. Coming from her, I’d enjoy either one. A few days earlier… I see her standing alone at the wedding reception. Wearing a simple black dress, an outfit more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. Or for a woman twice her age. Still, the frumpy dress can’t hide her insane figure. She has the hourglass shape of a black widow spider. There’s a frown on her pretty face. I’ve heard Nikolaos talk about her before. He never mentioned how beautiful she is. She’s uptight. I can see that by the way she stands, one arm around her waist hugging herself, the other bringing her fingers to her lips, like she’s trying not to bite her perfectly manicured deep plum fingernails. I get the sense she’s one of those women who’s wound like a spring… Coiled so damn tight she might break. But if you’re the right man, the one who can loosen the tension… You’re in for the ride of your life. Fuck. I take a deep sip of whiskey. Why am I crushing on this girl? The last thing I need is to get involved with a woman. Especially one that looks as high maintenance as this one does. Right now she’s literally straightening a stack of already perfectly arranged cocktail napkins, her pearly white teeth sinking into her full pink bottom lip as she focuses. She’s the polar opposite of the women I go for. I go for tall and exotic—this girl is five foot and change, in heels—and as girl-next-door as a slice of apple pie. I like dark and mysterious, the ones you never know what they’re thinking. Ashely wears her heart on her sleeve. I barely know the girl and I can see she’s tormented by something tonight. I go for gaunt faces, tattoos wrapping around pinched biceps, spandex crop tops and leather leggings. This girl looks like she’s headed to church, though there’s nothing pure about those soft curves of hers. I crave women who are distant, detached, up for a fling and nothing more. This curvy blonde gives me the kind of vibes that usually make me want to run. A serious perfectionist who probably went to college in search of her M.R.S. degree, dreaming of minivans and soccer matches. She’s the kind of woman you want making your dinner and raising your babies. The one you bring home to your mother. So why the hell is my whiskey gone in my attempt to hide my stare behind sips from my heavy glass? As if reading my thoughts, my phone rings. It’s Ma. Again. She thinks she’s the Queen of Boston, my family being one of the oldest names in Massachusetts. She assumes