A Beautiful Mistake: A Mafia Romance

CHAPTER TWO

RAFAEL

My footsteps echo down the dimly lit hall as I ascend the stairs back into the main house. My blood boils, hands itching to strangle the incompetent fools who made the grievous error of kidnapping the wrong sister. I'm torn between fury at their failure to eliminate Thomas and the sheer idiocy of returning with the incorrect target. Chingar!

With trembling fingers, I extract another cigarette from my suit's breast pocket and light it, inhaling deeply. It's the third one I've lit in less than an hour, a testament to my frayed nerves. I take a long, calming drag and run my hand through my dark, disheveled locks as I emerge from the dungeon into the opulent main house.

"These fuckers brought the wrong sister. Where are they?" I growl at my second in command, Julio. He turns to face me, his dark hair still impeccably styled despite the palpable tension. At 35, he's got a few years on me, but his tailored suit barely contains his muscular frame - a reminder of his boxing days. His mere presence is enough to make most men reconsider crossing us.

"In your office," he replies tersely. Without hesitation, I stride towards it, Julio falling into step behind me. The sprawling Sicilian villa, with its terracotta roof tiles and sun-baked walls, is a far cry from my compound in Mexico. I march through the grand entryway, my footsteps resonating off the cool marble floors. The open layout offers tantalizing glimpses of the Mediterranean landscape through arched windows - rolling hills dotted with ancient olive groves, a circular driveway centered around an antique fountain, and the sea shimmering like a mirage in the distance.

As I make my way to the office, I pass rooms that blend old-world charm with new-world security. It's a temporary paradise, but one that serves our purposes well - beautiful, isolated, and easily defended. The fading sunlight paints everything in rich hues of gold and amber, a stark reminder of how far I am from home.

My borrowed office, with its imposing wooden doors intricately carved with Sicilian motifs, looms at the end of a long hallway. The tranquil luxury of this retreat does nothing to quell the rage building inside me. If anything, the unfamiliar surroundings only sharpen my focus on why I'm here - for revenge and to remind everyone that the reach of my cartel extends far beyond Mexico's borders.

I fling the door open, watching with grim satisfaction as it slams against the wall. The heavy oak door reverberates, its ornate brass handle clanging against the antique Sicilian tiles. Two sicarios jump at the sudden intrusion, their eyes wide with fear as they take in my thunderous expression.

The office, a testament to old-world opulence, stretches out before me. Rich mahogany paneling lines the walls, interspersed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes. A massive, hand-carved desk dominates the center of the room, its surface gleaming under the warm light of a crystal chandelier. Behind it, tall arched windows frame the breathtaking view of the Mediterranean, the sea a glittering expanse of blue against the fading daylight.

Plush Persian rugs in deep reds and golds cover sections of the polished marble floor, muffling footsteps and adding to the room's air of hushed power. To one side, a seating area with leather armchairs and a low table stands ready for more informal meetings. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood, leather, and a hint of cigar smoke – the unmistakable aroma of wealth and influence.

In stark contrast to the room's refined elegance, the two sicarios stand rigid with fear, their rough appearance and nervous energy out of place in these luxurious surroundings. Their eyes dart between me and the antique Venetian clock on the mantelpiece, its steady ticking now seeming to count down their remaining moments.

"Sixty seconds," I snarl, leaning against the doorframe and glancing at my wristwatch. I take another drag from my cigarette, my gaze boring into the two men I foolishly thought could handle the simple task of eliminating Thomas in his sleep. Their eyes widen in shock as realization dawns – they've royally f****d up, and this sumptuous office may well become the site of their execution.

"Ten," I announce coldly as they begin to tremble, sweat beading on their foreheads. The acrid scent of their fear permeates the room.

"That's what I thought," I mutter as their time runs out. In one fluid motion, I pull my gun from my waistband and fire two precise shots. The sound reverberates through the room as both men crumple to the floor, blood spattering onto my neck and shirt collar. The metallic scent mingles with the lingering smoke from my cigarette, a grim reminder of the price of failure in my world.

"Capo, I just got this place f*****g cleaned," Julio groans, stepping in after me as I stride toward my desk. I turn to look at him; one eyebrow arched in challenge. He merely rolls his eyes in response, the familiarity of our relationship evident in his exasperation.

"Please, no more f*****g killings in the office. The maid complains about how it's hard to get the stains off the carpet," he says, sinking into one of the plush leather chairs opposite my desk. The rich scent of polished wood and leather permeates the air, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood still lingering.

"Then f*****g hire another one," I retort, my voice rough with frustration.

"It's not that easy to find someone who would clean f*****g blood and say nothing," Julio counters, his dark eyes meeting mine steadily.

"That's not even any of my f*****g concern right now," I snarl, moving towards the window. The Sicilian landscape stretches out before me, beautiful and indifferent to my turmoil. Before I can stop myself, my fist connects with the wall, leaving a dent in the pristine plaster. "Thomas still f*****g lives. The bastard still breathes the same air and even gets to f**k his perra tonight. Chingar!"

"Calm down, Capo," Julio says, his voice a soothing counterpoint to my rage. He passes me his handkerchief to wrap around my bruised knuckles. "We have the sister, and she means something to his perra, which means she means something to the motherfucker too."

I snatch the handkerchief, barely registering the pain in my hand. My heart clenches tightly, the familiar ache of failure toward her settling in my chest. "Do you know she offered me a deal?" I say, striding to the mini bar and pouring myself a generous glass of whiskey.

"What could she possibly offer?" Julio asks, chuckling at the idea.

I take a deep sip, the malt Scotch burning a path down my throat. "Her f*****g body to get me to not include her sister in my vendetta against Thomas."

"Wow! She must think she has one hell of a body to be bold enough to offer you that," he says, walking over and pouring himself a drink.

"That's because she does," I reply, as memory floods back—how blood rushed to my d**k the moment her dress dropped. She wasn't just carrying the body of a goddess; she had the face of one too. I've seen beautiful women in my life, but none compare to her. That's saying a lot coming from me.

"Is that so?" Julio says, sipping his bourbon. "Are you going to accept?"

"Is that even supposed to be a question?" I ask, lifting my brow at him.

"Of course, I'm not asking you to do as she said, but you just told me a beautiful woman offered herself to you. You would be a fool not to accept," he reasons.

"The woman looks like the type who only does missionary. Which is exactly not my type," I remind him, though the image of her bound and submissive flashes unbidden through my mind.

"Then teach her how you like it. She won't be the first you have," he says, and I stare at him, wondering about his eagerness.

"Spill," I command, and he laughs, taking another sip of his drink.

"You're a walking bomb these past weeks since Thomas got his perra back," he explains. "I just thought it would be a good way to let off some steam, especially since you'd be using Thomas's sister-in-law for that. Imagine his face when he finds out."

His words paint a vivid picture in my mind - the blonde tied to my bed, her body marked with welts, Thomas's rage palpable even through a phone screen. A slow, cruel smile spreads across my face.

"You made a valid point," I say, rubbing my chin thoughtfully.

"I do, so take it. Make her your new pet," Julio urges a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

I nod, feeling a surge of dark excitement course through me. "I guess I have a new pet to train." The prospect of breaking Thomas's sister-in-law, of molding her to my desires, sends a thrill of anticipation through my body. It's not just about the physical pleasure - it's about power, about striking at Thomas where it hurts most. And as I drain the last of my whiskey, I can almost taste the sweet flavor of revenge.