My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1 (6 page)

Frano placed a hand on my shoulder. I
jerked away and pointed at him. “Don’t touch the woman
again.”

“
Oh, I will, and I will make her
come again—
many times
.”

I clenched my hands, willing myself
not to punch him, because I could never win a battle against Frano,
not only could he punch me until my face caved in, but worse, he
could loan me back to the Donatelli, something I’d rather die than
let happen. But I still had to stand my ground; it was the only
thing that my cousin respected.

“
She is my charge,” I
gritted out.

“
And an interesting one.
Why did you choose her? Because she isn’t your type.”

“
She’s beautiful, that is
my type.”

“
I thought you hated brunettes
because of your
madre
.”

I clenched my hands tighter. “I don’t
equate all brunettes with my mother, especially not the women I am
intimate with, that is sick.”

“
I think you do relate them to
your
madre
. Do they scare you?”

“
No! It’s just a hair
color.”

“
Then why is this woman the
first brunette you have brought back? What makes her so different?
Because she
is
different, nothing like the other whimpering women you
bring me.”

“
She’s beautiful, isn’t
that enough reason?”

“
There are a lot of
beautiful brunettes out there, yet she is the only one I have seen
in your chamber. So, tell me the truth?”

I went silent.

He smiled. “No need to answer anyway,
because I think I know why you chose her. She looks like your first
lover, only her hair color differing. Dye it auburn and you will
have your teenage dream back.” His smile widened when I didn’t
answer, because he was right, the resemblance was uncanny to the
point that I almost thought it was Sophia when she first stepped
into the bar.

“
Is that why you’re so upset I
pleasured her?” Frano continued. “Does it remind you of what I did,
what I took?”

I clenched my jaw.

“
Your reaction is an answer in
itself,” he said. “But unlike Sophia, this one is more interesting,
very much so. I think I will use her many times.”

“
Don’t you touch
her!”

He placed a hand on my arm. “I will
touch her however I please and you know you can’t do a thing to
stop me.”

I shook his hand off me. “Don’t touch
me!”

“
It’s just a
touch.”

“
You know I hate it, you
figlio di
puttana.
”

“
S
ì
, I
am the son of a whore, so that’s not an insult: it’s a
fact.”

“
Sadist
bastardo
then!”

“
Says one to
another.”

“
You made me like this, you and
Alberto, and that vile Donatelli
padre
.”

“
Father Michael isn’t vile, you
just hate religious people, and you’re lucky you weren’t killed for
what
you
did to him.”

“
You believe what you will,
because obviously my word means nothing.” I turned and walked out
of the room, not allowing the past to encroach upon my soul again,
or Frano’s denial to ruin what I’d fought to get away from. Father
Michael had called me Gabriel, said I was his angel, his beautiful
boy. But I was no angel; I was a devil, a sick monster like
the
Padre
, someone who took even though it ruined lives and
destroyed souls. But I couldn’t stop, I had to keep taking, because
there was no way I would willingly give Frano and Alberto an excuse
to send me back to the Donatelli
famiglia
, where the
Padre
was waiting to avenge what I did to him. I
would allow no one to hurt me like that ever again, no woman, no
man—and no sick priest.

5

I headed for my bedroom, wanting to
clean and get myself under control. I unlocked my door and entered
the sparse room. I didn’t like adornments; I preferred simplicity,
a place that was uncomplicated. Nothing touched the white plaster
walls nor lay across the plain cabinets that Frano thought were
bland, and only bleached white sheets covered my bed, everything
simple and easy to clean, because no one was allowed to cross the
threshold of my bedroom anymore, not even the maids.

I stripped off my clothes and
headed into the bathroom, wanting to wash away the argument with
Frano. I slipped into the shower and turned it on, relaxing a
little as the warm water soothed my muscles, which had bunched up
in Frano’s presence, my anger always getting the better of me. I
knew it amused Frano, but his smirking face made it hard for me to
control my responses. I hated that he could make me feel like that
small child, the one who’d walked into his home twelve years ago at
the age of eleven, totally oblivious to what true cruelty was. I
had thought my mother was cruel, the woman slapping me if I spoke
out of turn or strapping me with my father’s belt if I’d done
something that she’d deemed sinful, punishing me into obedience.
But a belt to my legs and rear or a slap across my cheek was
nothing compared to what I received at the hands of Alberto’s and
Frano’s godfather,
Padre
Michael Donatelli.

I sat down in the shower and
laid the back of my head against the glass wall, allowing the water
to run over my face. I didn’t want to think of the
Padre
, I wanted to think of the new slave, because Frano was
right, she did look like my first lover, the resemblance uncanny.
Was she related to Sophia? But Sophia didn’t have any relatives
called Margarita, but then again, I was sure that the woman had
lied about her name, because I knew liars and this woman was one.
And there was no way I could look exactly like her husband, that
was, if she was even married. Everything about her was off, even
the contents of her bag. A ninja star? What kind of woman carried a
weapon such as that around? I’d seen pepper spray and quite a few
guns, a common thing in America, but nothing out of the ordinary
like this.

I got to my feet and turned off
the water, wondering whether she was a plant, because she
had
been watching me,
and not because I looked like her fake husband. Plus, the way she
had rebuffed me was too intense, as though she was acting a part,
or overacting it, because she wasn’t a very good actor, only her
anger heartfelt, not her indifference. She was after me for a
reason, purposely taunting me, and when she didn’t run from that
room, succumbing to Alberto far too easily, a woman who packed a
ninja star, it spoke volumes.

I grabbed a towel and dried
myself off, then wrapped it around my hips and headed for the
cabinet above my sink. I pulled out a little bag and tipped some of
the cocaine onto the sink’s bench, then stopped, not really wanting
the effect it gave. Acid. That would get me through, help me bed
Honey one last time, because that sweet woman made me feel dirty,
the sex with her no longer satisfying, just laced with guilt. I
pushed the powder back into the bag, licking my fingers to get the
remnants off, then grabbed a couple tabs of acid, swallowing both,
knowing one was enough, but preferring the stronger effect of two.
I imagined Frano’s expression if he discovered what I was doing, my
cousin so fucking controlling. He’d banned me from using, but he
was one of the reasons why I did it: his demands, his constant
orders for me to bring in more women, to train them to his
standards... I was sick of it, I just wanted one strong woman who
didn’t break under me so easily, who didn’t beg me like some
weak
puttana
.

I put everything away and
headed out of my room, my mind on the new slave, on her face as she
sobbed after Frano had taken her, then the anger that had followed.
At least I could take comfort in that she didn’t want the
bastardo
, Frano
not God’s gift to women as he thought. This one didn’t want
him, she was after
me
.

I headed down the passage, growing hard
just thinking about how she took the pain, how her cheeks went red
under my hand, and how she yelled at me, not quivering like the
other women. I had wanted to take her right then, wanted to ruin
her, but she was strong, I could see that, and it excited me—far
too much, but I couldn’t take this woman like the others. Instead,
she needed to be whittled down, made to feel small, made to beg for
my hand to touch her lovely skin, for my tongue to enter her mouth,
and for my cock to penetrate her, and I would succeed, because I
was very good at my job.

I descended the main staircase, and
cut through the formal lounge. Apart from my room and the slaves’
quarters, the house was elegantly decorated, Frano’s taste in
eighteenth century Italian furnishings making it feel like I was
walking through the past, the rich tapestries and beautifully
carved furniture along with the graceful sculptures and the grand
chandelier all lovingly handcrafted from an era long gone, only the
modern adornments of the television and stereo system spoiling the
illusion.

I indicated for the guard to unlock the
new slave’s door as I headed down the staircase that led to her
cell. I knew it was too soon to return after the slapping session,
but I wanted to start working on her before Frano had a chance to
undermine me again. The guard pulled back the bolt, not even giving
my attire a glance, the man used to me walking in with only a towel
on.

As I entered the room, the
woman instantly opened her eyes, her expression worried, the beauty
probably thinking I was going to fuck her with the way I was
dressed—or rather, undressed. Oh, I definitely wanted to, but I
wasn’t here for pleasure, no matter how much I wished I were, I was
here to do my job, the only thing keeping me from being loaned back
to the Donatelli. I frowned, angry that they had asked for me again
and even angrier that Alberto had asked Frano to let me go, which
was all the more reason why I enjoyed fucking his wife, though, it
was a charity in itself since Alberto gave her nothing, the
animale
preferring to rape
my slaves than make love to his beautiful wife, something he did
out of spite, because he never touched Mario’s women.

I stopped in front of the slave, pushing
my thoughts of Alberto aside. “I need to take you to another room,”
I said, my eyes wandering over her naked body, her arms and legs
still chained to the bed as I’d left her.

Her eyes went to my towel, my cock
growing in response to the delicious sight before me.

“
That’s not for you
today.” I glanced back at the door. “Federico, I need you in
here.”

Knowing what I wanted, the guard came
in and pointed his gun at the woman’s head.

“
He will shoot you if you
attack me,” I said, releasing her legs. I moved up the bed, leaning
over her body to free her hands. I glanced down as I undid the
cuffs, taking satisfaction that the woman was now staring at my
groin, my bulge tenting the towel. Once freed, her hands instantly
went to her wrists, the skin looking red from where she’d fought
her restraints.

“
Up,” I said.

She looked at me wearily, then pushed
to a sitting position, her cheeks still red from my slaps. I
refrained from smiling, because it made me think about her other
cheeks and how they would redden under my hand.

“
Follow me,” I said,
heading for the door. When no footsteps responded, I stopped and
turned around. She was trying to push up from the bed, her face in
pain. I walked back to her. “What’s wrong?”

“
I have cramp.”

“
Where?”

“
Both legs.”

I exhaled, then lowered myself to my
knees, taking one of her legs into my hands. She flinched, although
she didn’t fight me, probably realizing I just wanted to help. Not
my usual job description, but I didn’t feel like dragging her out
of the room, plus, if my cousin wanted to cause trouble, then I
would intersperse some light into the woman’s dark world, making me
look like the good guy, laughable as it was, considering I had
kidnapped and assaulted her, but when hope was sparse people
latched onto any kindness they could find, something I knew all too
well.

I started massaging her left leg, trying
my best not to look at her pussy, my cock growing harder at the
thought of entering her. I moved to her other leg, massaging it the
same way, her flesh against my hands so erotic, the muscles not
soft like the other women I’d taken. She was powerful. That ninja
star came back to mind. She was obviously into martial arts, which
meant she could injure me badly. It made me wonder why she was
holding back, and why she willingly allowed herself to be taken,
because she had been the one stalking me, not the other way round.
Was she an assassin? No, she hadn’t hurt anyone. Or maybe she was
biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. That didn’t
feel right either. I frowned, remembering the surname she had given
me: Petrov, which was Russian. My mind started working overtime,
the possibility of what I was thinking unsettling. Was she here to
source information for the Black Russian? That made sense, because
he had asked for a woman fitting her description, probably so she
could be returned to his fray. But what information could she
possibly get while being a slave? They were locked up, used and
abused.