Mafia King's Contract Breeder
Chapter 17 Can’t Let Him Win

Chapter 17: 17 Can’t Let Him Win

Lara POV

I screamed into my pillow.

"Fuck. You. Fuck you!"

I lifted my face and punched it instead, wishing it was Emmanuel Sagres’s face. The pillow was high quality, which made it infinitely worse. You couldn’t properly vent your feelings into eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. The smooth fabric absorbed the impact without even a wrinkle.

God, what a bastard!

Thinking back to the sex made my stomach do strange flips.

He made me come so hard I totally lost my head.

’Thank you for breeding me, sir...’

My own voice echoed around the inside of my head. Breathy, desperate, and — not entirely a performance.

My pussy was still sore and throbbing from taking the thick length of him. As I screamed into the pillow, another hot, thick pulse trickled out of me into the damp, ruined lingerie panties.

Maybe the most terrifying thing about Emmanuel Sagres was not the reach of his mafia network, but what he could do with that stupid voice and unfairly ripped body.

When he gave orders, I wanted to obey him.

And of course, the cherry on top of the icing—

Of course he was the kind of asshole who would toss me aside without a second thought the moment that he got his rocks off.

I don’t know what else I could have expected.

Only that it made me run hot and cold and hot again until I wanted to crawl out of my own skin.

What was this?!

Why did he make me feel like this?

I had fucked so many men in so many ways without giving a care afterwards. It was just work. Just a client.

I screamed again.

—

A knock came on the door. A cautious sound.

"Are you alright?"

Not the male butler, Mr Ricci — he was a burly man with a limp who had shown me to this bedroom.

It was a woman with a thick foreign accent.

"I’m fine," I called back. My voice was slightly raspy, but the tone, I was proud to say, was even.

I took a deep breath.

I reminded myself: you did what you had to, just like you always do. No shame in it.

"You want food?" She asked, muffled by the door. "I make chicken noodle."

I almost turned her down. But my stomach rumbled, reminding me that the last thing I had eaten was a cold sandwich after the medical exam and a few biscuits at the salon in the afternoon.

I got up and opened the door a crack.

A very short Asian woman in an apron with a serious expression stared back at me.

I cracked a weak smile.

"That. That would be nice, thanks."

She nodded briskly.

"Fifteen minutes, I bring," she promised, and walked away again.

I closed the door again, looking around at the room.

My room.

It was larger than my room at home. A double bed and en suite bathroom in modern, neutral tones. My faded little overnight bag had made it through the security guards — it was already placed on the top of the dresser when I came in, looking sad and out of place.

After a shower with devastatingly good water pressure, I put on my own threadbare pajamas that still smelled like home.

I padded over to the window on bare feet and spread my fingers over the glass.

Not a dazzling penthouse view with the floor to ceiling glass. This was a narrower strip of window, the width of a doorway.

Central Island, I realized grimly.

That’s where I was. There were no skyscrapers of this height in any of the four districts.

I fiddled with the locking mechanism until it yielded, and it swung outward about eight centimeters before it wouldn’t budge any more.

I shoved it harder.

No luck.

"Oh, for —"

I sighed heavily.

Then I stood there, looking down, in the wisp of breeze from outside.

The city spread out below in its nighttime grid — the Central Island skyline, towers of glass and steel with their upper floors lit and their lower floors dark, the arteries of light that were the main roads, the dark patches that were the parks and the river.

Definitely not where I imagined the infamous mafia king of East Windlem would live.

He only profited off the crime in the slums and enjoyed the high end living on Central Island on his own time, huh?

On the bright side, Central Island was the most wealthy and orderly area in the entire Capital. Not some dungeon deep underground.

On the other hand, though, I didn’t know it here at all. South Hartlow was the furthest that I had been away from home. Even if I somehow got out of this tower, I would be as lost as a fish up a tree.

I wondered where mom and Chloe had gotten to. Were they in South Hartlow by now? Were they safe?

I was kicking myself now for how I had panicked before I sent them away. Chloe must be so freaked out, suddenly left with all the responsibility in the house with no explanation of where I had gone. I wish that I had thought of a better cover story rather than running my mouth.

I wish I said a proper goodbye.

I tried to pick at my cuticles, only to find that my cuticles were perfectly exfoliated and moisturized. I glared at my hand in annoyance.

I needed to find some way to check that they were safe.

I crossed the room again, pulling open my overnight bag. I pulled the zip open and turned it upside down, shaking out the contents onto the bed.

Clothes.

Hairbrush.

Little pink vibrator.

Where was my phone?

I rummaged through the bag twice, checked all the pockets, even the ripped seam at the bottom of the bag.

They had taken it.

I was truly cut off from the rest of the world in this glass cage in the sky.

I pulled my tattered family photo out of the ripped seam of the bag, my fingers trembling slightly.

In the photo, I was eight years old, smiling at the camera with a gap toothed smile, skinny arms wrapped around tiny, five-year-old Chloe.

Back then, Dad still worked at the factory, with a thin salary that barely made ends meet. Dad looked pissed off as he always did. Mom was getting wider around the waist with bags under her eyes.

There was a ridiculously pink cupcake on the table. Chloe and I were struggling to coordinate how many fingers to hold up to show that I was eight.

It wasn’t exactly the best of times, hey. But it sure got shittier and shittier since then.

I couldn’t let the man who had destroyed all that win over me.

I couldn’t let him get to me.

Knock knock.

I jumped at the sound and shoved the photo under my pillow.

When I opened the door again, the same short Asian woman passed me a tray with a steaming bowl of chicken broth that made my mouth water.

"Thank you," I said. "I’m sorry, I haven’t asked your name. I’m Lara."

"I know," she said seriously. "I am Srisuk. I am Chef."

"Nice to meet you, Srisuk. Uh, listen." I put the tray of food down. "Is there any chance I can borrow your phone?"

Chef Srisuk’s dark, solemn eyes widened comically.

"Phone? No. I don’t have."

"You don’t have?"

"Phone not allowed on top floors. You need, you ask Master."

"Right," I said.

Ask Master.

Ugh.

What were the odds that Emmanuel Sagres would let me call my family?

I closed the door again, sat down, and picked up a forkful of noodles, chewing on my situation as I ate.

Next time, I told myself, I was going to be strictly professional.

Put on a show. Not going to let him get to me.

And maybe, get him to loosen up on these crazy security measures while he’s all blissed out and softened up.