Mafia Binds Book 1: His Mafia Boss Lady

Vera 

 “So, you thought we wouldn’t find you hiding in New York? You piece of sh*t never learns, huh?” 

I just got into New York last night after Marco—my second-best—told me they’d tracked Simone. 

This *ssh*l* was sent by the Puglia or maybe Naples. I don’t even know which one sabotaged all my international plans with the top Mafia bosses. 

Simone is on his knees. Naked. Drenched in gasoline. His wrists, ankles, and waist tied. Marco has the rope in his grip. 

I circle him slowly, gun in hand, just to make him tremble more. The room’s hot, but he’s shaking like he’s trapped inside a freezer. 

“Who sent you?” I crouch down, locking eyes with his pathetic face. “Simone?” I growl. 

I can be gentle. But not now. 

He doesn’t speak. Just cries—silent, pathetic tears. That dark, always-neat hair is now a soaked mess. Still s*xy, though. 

I don’t usually fall for the men I f*ck—and never for anyone younger. Simone is a year older, but he’s baby-faced. Not my usual type, but d*mn… he turned my head. 

He’d been around maybe two months. Sweet. Soft. Naïve—or so I thought. He told me he grew up in an orphanage and got adopted by great parents. I bought the story. It pulled me in. Reminded me of someone. 

After a week of dates, I let him stay at my place. Let him in. Not knowing I was letting in someone who’d poison me with his venom. 

“Who’s your serpent, Simone?” I say sharply, pressing the muzzle of my gun to his chin. His black eyes meet mine. 

Simone is hot-headed—and I f*ck*ng hate that. Maybe it’s because he knows my weaknesses. Especially when he gives me those d*mn eyes. 

But this time, they won’t work. 

I smash the gun into his jaw. He whimpers but doesn’t pass out. Strong b*st*rd. Trained. Should’ve seen it coming—those abs, those muscles. I thought he was just a gym rat, always working out in my private gym. But nah. He was trained. 

I’m too impatient for his silent act. 

I hit him again. Harder. “Drag him,” I tell Marco. 

Marco yanks the rope. Simone is heavier than he looks. Veins bulge in Marco’s arms. Simone stays quiet. 

It pisses me off. 

I shoot him in the shoulder. “Now talk,” I growl as he screams. 

I need names. 

He clenches his jaw. 

I shoot the other shoulder. 

He collapses onto the floor, groaning through gritted teeth. His eyes are red. Beautiful. I grab his jaw again. 

“Now.” 

“Niccolo. Puglia.” 

I nod. Then I shove his head down with my boot and shoot him right between the eyes. 

I knew it. I knew those wry eyes of that b*st*rd Niccolo were hiding something. Eyes of a stupid wolf. But I’m sure he’s working with Davide. They’re always together—or so Marco tells me. 

The Sacra Corona Unita and Camorra have always been friendly, but I didn’t expect them to stoop this low. Sabotaging all my plans like this? 

They messed with the wrong Mafia. I’ve been too good. Too quiet. Now they’ve unleashed the side they should’ve left buried. 

Simone’s blood splattered my red wine blouse. 

“Burn him,” I order Marco, walking out of the filthy, abandoned warehouse to my car, where a few of my subs are waiting. 

One opens the door for me. Marco joins me just as smoke and flames burst from the broken windows, lighting up the night. 

He drives me to the hotel. I shower, then slip into a satin black blouse, just slightly open at the chest, with a smart formal pants after I’m done with my make-up – the sharp black winged liner, smoky deep plum eyeshadow, long lashes, and sculpted-arched brows, perfect and precise with my mulberry lips stick. 

I don’t do blushes, warmth is for the weak – just a velvety matte finish – flawless, no shine and not a single pore in sight.  

It makes my cheekbones sharp as a knife. 

 I’m lean, medium athletic slender and too tall for a woman’s height, I’ve been told, a countless time and I hate clothes that cling. Blouses must be a bit loose but still fit as well as the pants.

I step out of the room. 

“Take me to the finest, most exclusive and private club,” I tell Marco. 

People think Marco’s my age, but he’s six years younger. He’s been around since my training days—when I was being prepped to become the Romano Family heir. We’ve been best friends ever since. But he respects me as his boss. Never messes up. Never betrays. 

He’s nearly my height. I’m 180 cm. He’s 189. His skin is rough, with black beard that makes him look dangerous. 

When I walk into the club, everyone sees I’m not like them. This place reeks of money, cigars, and expensive whiskey. The men look mature and good. My kind. 

I hunt men. Not the other way round. 

My two subs enter with me, eyes scanning the place. Marco leads the way. Two more trail behind me. 

“Let’s go up,” Marco says. Downstairs is the dance floor. Women grinding and shaking. Most too skinny. Some fake. A few real. 

I shake my head slightly, taking slow steps up the stairs. 

A woman, tipsy and smiling like she’s horny, grabs my collar. “You’re my type. I love them tall, gorgeous, and dangerous.” 

Her perfume is strong. A turn-off. 

“You should go wash up, change your clothes, and stop using fake perfumes,” I mutter. Her grip weakens. Her eyes hooded, like she’s about to cry. 

Marco waits for me at the top. I reach him—and then I freeze. 

Sh*t. 

My eyes lock onto the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He ticks every one of my preferences. Hazel skin. Fit. Tall. Warm, full dark pink lips. Muscular. Lean. Broad. Seductive deep green eyes. 

Something about him pulls at a memory I can’t place. 

I must have him tonight. 

The CEO taper neat fade haircut make his chiseled face even more defined. A black expensive leather watch wrapped on his strong wrist. 

His eyes pierce mine—and they speak to me. 

“Find out who he is,” I tell Marco, who’s already caught sight of the man too. 

I walk to the couch and sit, not glancing at the man again. 

“When we go back to Italy, inform the partners Simone sabotaged. Tell them what happened, but not who sent him. Be careful how much we reveal.” 

I cross my leg and scan the exclusive lounge. 

There he is again. Standing. Walking. A woman follows him. 

I narrow my eyes. 

Thought he was reserved. Or maybe he’s heartbroken and need something to heal his heart. He glances at me before vanishing down the hall. 

Why do I feel this connection? If he were one of my past hookups, I’d know instantly. But no. That face is unforgettable. I’ve never had him. Not once in my 37 years. 

Something about him twists me up inside. I’m supposed to leave in two days, but now I want to extend my stay—just to know him. 

Marco makes his way to the guy’s best friend. 

Marco’s straight. Only into women. But he has a way of charming men into traps—for me. And judging by the look on that friend’s face, the trap is working. 

Marco hands him his phone. The guy—dark brown skin—smiles as the screen lights up his face. 

I smirk slightly and take a sip of my whiskey. I try to focus on other men, but that beautiful stranger keeps flashing in my mind. 

He’s fine. 

Marco returns, adjusting his blazer. 

“The guy says his name is Harvey Rhodes. A famous golf player. Total woman-eater. Doesn’t settle. Never.” 

The name isn’t the one I hoped for—but I still want him. 

Even if it’s not tonight, I’ll have him before I leave. 

No one has ever turned me on so fast. One second. One stare. He tied knots in my gut and made my c*nt throb for him. 

And I love that he’s not in the Mafia. I don’t f*ck people in that life. They backstab. They poison. 

Simone was the only man I ever dated in the dangerous life. 

“Find everything about him. His schedule. Matches. All of it,” I say, taking a slow sip of my whiskey. 

__________ 

This is my third time in New York. Always came to meet Mafia families. Never found the city interesting—until now. 

Now I’m thinking about buying an apartment. Maybe a mansion. 

We’ve worked with Alberto Caruso of the Baltimore crew for years—because of my father. Even after his death, the Caruso family stayed good to us. Same with Pedro of the Lucchese. All New Yorkers. 

But while I’m here, I don’t plan on seeing them. I don’t want to talk business. 

I finish dressing: a dark satin purple blouse, black shiny pumped heels - red bottom, and a black smart formal pants that cling right on my waist. I walk out of the hotel room. Marco’s waiting, sharp in a dark grey suit. 

I want to see Harvey Rhodes play. 

Marco couldn’t get VIP tickets—they were sold out. But he pulled strings. Money talks. 

Minutes pass. I watch him play. Love the way his lean, tall body moves—fit, agile. Makes my interest in him rage every time he handles that stick. He shouldn’t move like that. Some of us are single. And he’s fine. 

In the final round, he commands his caddie with a cold stare. No smile. I like that. Dominant. 

After winning, he heads to the clubhouse. Women swarm him. He’s the definition of prey. 

I hurry—but I can’t match the pace of these desperate women. 

I slide both hands into my pants pockets, chest out. Men say it’s intimidating. 

My aura is dark. Dangerous. It makes him turn. 

Our eyes lock. 

Those deep green, seductive eyes. 

The freckles on his nose button and nose bridge.

Sh*t. 

Shivers race down my spine. 

Harvey 

"I need to f*ck," I mutter, shifting uncomfortably on the velvet couch. My balls are heavy and itch like hell. I pinch them through my trousers, sinking deeper into the plush darkness of the club’s furniture. 

Adam shoots me a look—disgusted? Confused? I can’t tell. Don’t care. 

He finally says, "Didn’t you just f*ck a chick in the restroom, like, five minutes ago?" 

I huff, low and slightly annoyed. Yeah, I know I’m addicted. Not my fault women find me hot. I’ve got no power to resist. My c*ck’s always hungry. 

"I don’t get how you’re still going," he adds, lifting a beer bottle off the round glass table and taking a sip. His dark full lips curve slightly. "Seriously. I don’t get it." He shakes his head. 

"It’s not my fault," I say, grabbing my own bottle, eyes wandering—and landing. 

There she is. 

A woman. A full-breasted goddess with curves like sin, giving me that look from across the room. She’s al