Devil's Advocate: A Dark Mafia Romance (Devil's Playground Book 1) Vivi Paige (howl and other poems txt) 📖

if I were to be honest. Right then and there, the only thing my lust-addled brain could process was how amazing Sophie’s tight body felt.

“Harder,” she whispered against my lips, kissing me almost too viciously. Her pussy gripped my cock tight, her whole body tensing up, and I could tell she was already diving straight into oblivion. That didn’t surprise me—after all, I was right behind her.

Resting my forehead against hers, I pushed my body to the absolute limit. I put all my strength behind my hips and thrust as hard as I could, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the entire apartment.

“Fuck,” I groaned, bright lights exploding behind my shut eyelids. A column of fire rose up the length of my cock and, before I could do anything about it, ecstasy washed all over me. I didn’t move a fucking muscle as I came, spilling all of my seed inside her, and I only noticed Sophie was moaning like a banshee moments later.

We remained locked in that embrace for a long time, struggling to process all of the pleasure. When we finally rolled to the side, we breathed in deeply at the same time, our bodies coming down from the edge.

“I think that was a good warm-up,” Sophie said, lazily turning on the couch so that she was facing me. I arched one eyebrow, not sure if I had heard it right.

“A warm-up?”

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” she said with an amused chuckle. “If you want to be my husband, I need you to be at your best, Indro.” Before I could say anything else, her smile turned into a grin. “Or, if you prefer, you can just become Mr. Vercetti.”

“Fuck that.”

“No,” she laughed, pushing her naked body against mine. “Fuck me.”

And so I did.

Love—what an interesting thing.

Chapter Fifty

Lorenzo

Gang war? More like gang snore.

When the Loggias stuck a knife in the Maloiks’ collective backs and tried to send made man Indro Lastra away to the big house, I figured my time had finally come. No more acting like a glorified chauffeur. No more bringing the capos coffee. Instead, I was going to get a chance to prove myself worthy of being a made man myself.

Only a gang war mostly takes place in short, quick bursts. It’s an associate getting gunned down on his way out of a restaurant. Or a cathouse getting raided out of nowhere—after the proper bribes to the PD have been made. It’s not a war, per se. More like a series of very brief skirmishes.

So, there I was, standing around in the cold outside of Polanksi’s Fine Dining, waiting for Capo Farino to finish up his business with the proprietor. The Ithaca pump-action shotty stuffed inside my trench sucked the warmth from my body. I had a Beretta pistol jammed in my belt, too. In the highly unlikely event the Loggias tried something, I wanted to be prepared.

Besides, carrying around so much heat made me feel like more than a glorified chauffeur. I was FBI—full-blooded Italian—but I hadn’t earned made man status yet. It had nothing to do with any fault of my own. I just had a reputation for being unlucky.

Sure, I never won a damn hand of poker, and my ponies never placed, but that didn’t mean I was unlucky. The mob is superstitious. Hell, it thrives on superstition. Both their own, and that of the people it did business with.

I stuffed my hand into my pocket and felt the weighted dice I kept there. I don’t use them to cheat my family, I want to point out. I just like the idea of having an unfair edge.

The door cracked open, sending a golden rectangle of light out across the snowy sidewalk. Capo Farino inched his way down the steps. He’s five feet, two hundred pounds of friggin’ dynamite. Nobody messes with the guy, and they say even Don Maloik is a little bit intimidated by him.

He bitched the whole way down the icy steps, white puffs of air escaping his mouth along with the curse words.

“Fucking God damn snow pissing me right the fuck off! Fucking weatherman said it was gonna fucking stop, I swear to fucking God I’m going to off that son of a bitch—”

Yeah, you get the idea. I moved to open the door for him.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you look fucking awful. Why didn’t you wait in the car?”

Shit. Why didn’t I wait in the car?

I just kind of shrugged. Capo Farino waved me off, his pudgy cheeks twisted into a sneer.

“Yeah, this is why you’re not made man material. Not enough sense to get out of the cold.”

I knew better than to argue with Capo Farino. I just closed the door on his bitching and hurried around to the driver’s side.

I flung the door open and gratefully got out of the cold wind. The engine turned over and I glanced into the backseat.

“Where to, Mr. Farino?”

“Take me the fuck home. Where you think I want to head in the middle of the God damn night? Jesus Christ, you got shit for brains.”

“Right away, Mr. Farino.”

I pulled out into the street, leaving twin trails of black through the thin layer of snow. It really was supposed to have been just some flurries that night.

I pulled up to a stop light. A pair of headlights lit up from a side street. Years of misfortune had primed my senses to detect when the shit was about to hit the fan. And let me tell you, the feces was flying.

“Get out, Mr. Farino!”

Don Farino had his own instincts. He saw the headlights and moved with a speed which belied his bulk. Farino scrambled out the side door as the car barreled right at us. I accelerated, charging through the red light, but it still clipped me on the back end. Thanks to the snow, the Lincoln spun around in a one-eighty, leaving spiral patterns in the white powder.

I leaped out, yanking the Ithaca free. I started blasting before the other