Mafia King's Contract Breeder
Chapter 27 You Are Just A Client

Chapter 27: 27 You Are Just A Client

Lara POV

For days after that disastrous conversation, I existed in a strange, suffocating limbo.

Even though my luxurious bedroom was only one floor below Emmanuel’s penthouse, it felt like he had vanished from the face of the earth.

No calls. No summons. No sign of him at all.

Yet he was everywhere—lurking in the shadows of my mind, impossible to escape.

At night, the king-sized bed felt too big, too soft, too empty. I tossed and turned against silk sheets that whispered with every restless movement, the city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows casting a cold, silvery glow across the room.

Every time I reached under my pillow and pulled out the worn family photo—the one where we were all smiling, frozen in a happier time—Emmanuel’s low, mocking voice slithered back into my head.

Did I force you?

You are so desperate for validation.

Do you always lie to yourself this much?

"Ahhhh—"

I shoved the photo back under the pillow and buried my face in the mattress, muffling a frustrated scream into the expensive bedding.

My throat burned. My eyes stung with unshed tears I refused to let fall.

I hated this.

I hated how easily he had crawled inside my mind and made me doubt everything I had ever believed—about my family, about right and wrong, about the world.

His logic was twisted, cruel, and self-serving... but his facts? Those I couldn’t dismiss.

Mr. Ricci had said it himself: Emmanuel takes care of those who are loyal to him.

He really had paid blood money for my father to take the fall.

He really had compensated my mother with more than he was paying me now.

That didn’t make it better.

It didn’t make it right.

But it did tear apart that righteous anger inside me when I thought of the last three years of my life that I had burned up for my family.

All that time, my mother had been gambling away a small fortune while I worked at The Red Door and pretended it didn’t break me.

It made me feel so...tired.

He called himself the Devil, and by lord did he live up to it, because every word from his tongue dripped poison that stole the peace from my mind.

All while nothing I said seemed to shake him at all.

Well — all but two things.

When I said he didn’t understand a real family.

And when I said I would rather be a whore than be with him.

I replayed them over and over during those long, sleepless hours, turning them like precious gems in the dark. Because it hurt too much to think about how my Mom had let me down (again, again, and again), it cheered me up to think instead of the hits that I scored.

A crack in the facade of the unbreakable mafia king.

He clearly didn’t understand family. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have decided I could "breed" him an heir like it was just another business arrangement. But I hadn’t expected him to be so touchy about it.

And the second thing... his ego about his sexual prowess was obviously massive. Which—admittedly—wasn’t entirely unjustified. The man knew what he was doing. But no amount of skill could make up for who he was.

After several days, I was starting to wonder if he had forgotten about me.

Then, late one afternoon, a sharp knock sounded at my door.

Mr Ricci appeared at my door and announced, "The Boss wants to take you out tonight. Get ready for 8pm."

My stomach dropped.

The limbo was over.

——

I stepped into the sleek black limousine waiting in the underground car park, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete.

Emmanuel Sagres was already inside.

The moment I slid onto the cool leather seat across from him, the door shut with a heavy, final thud, and the car began gliding forward.

He didn’t speak, and I didn’t either.

The silence stretched between us like a live wire—tight, dangerous, and humming with everything we weren’t saying.

I turned my face towards the tinted window.

Central Island at night unfolded before me like another world. Elegant pedestrians strolled under soft golden streetlights—beautifully dressed, laughing, carefree.

A woman in a tailored peacoat walked alone, eyes glued to her phone without a hint of fear.

A man with a large Dalmatian disappeared into a quiet, manicured park.

It was civilized. Safe. Worlds away from the gritty chaos of East Windlem.

I felt Emmanuel’s eyes on me the entire time—dark, unblinking, assessing. The intensity of it made my skin prickle with heat despite the cool air conditioning.

My tight black dress suddenly felt too thin, too revealing. I could almost hear his voice from that night echoing in my head: You don’t want the pleasure I can give you... right?

I finally turned to face him, lifting my chin. "Where are we going?"

"To a business of mine." His voice was low, smooth, and dangerously calm. "I thought about what you said to me... and I decided to take you up on your offer."

"What offer?" I said cautiously.

"You’ll see," he said mysteriously.

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. The limo ride felt endless. Every shift of his body, every quiet breath, every flicker of city lights across his sharp cheekbones ratcheted up the tension.

Every other time we had been together, he had his hands all over me like he had the right to me. This time, I sat far away, and he made no effort to close the distance.

Even so, I was hyper-aware of him. The faint scent of his cologne, the way his long fingers rested casually on his thigh, the cold blue of his eyes that seemed to see straight through every defense I tried to maintain.

I bit my lip and wondered what he had up his sleeve this time.

"I have a question for you," Emmanuel said, breaking the silence. "And don’t lie to me."

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

"If you hate me so much..." he said silkily, "Why is it that you melt every time I touch you?"

My mouth fell open.

"No, I don’t!" I denied instantly.

Emmanuel let out a disbelieving sound.

In one sharp movement, he tugged me across the car seat. His powerful body loomed over me. A hand stroked deliberately down my side, mapping the curve of my waist in the tight black dress.

The touch stopped at the hem of the dress, over my thigh, fondling the edge of the fabric.

His gaze traveled slowly up my body to meet my eyes.

I pressed my thighs together, cheeks burning, trying to ignore the sudden rush of moisture between my legs.

"I faked it," I lied. "I am a professional. You are just a client."

"You faked it?" he repeated slowly, his eyebrows lifting. "All of it?"