Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance Read online

  Mafia Puppet

  A French Mafia Romance

  Bella King

  Copyright © 2020 by Bella King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Shaye

  Chapter 2

  Pierre

  Chapter 3

  Shaye

  Chapter 4

  Pierre

  Chapter 5

  Shaye

  Chapter 6

  Pierre

  Chapter 7

  Shaye

  Chapter 8

  Pierre

  Chapter 9

  Shaye

  Chapter 10

  Pierre

  Chapter 11

  Shaye

  Chapter 12

  Pierre

  Chapter 13

  Pierre

  Chapter 14

  Shaye

  Chapter 15

  Pierre

  Chapter 16

  Shaye

  Chapter 17

  Shaye

  Chapter 18

  Pierre

  Chapter 19

  Shaye

  Chapter 20

  Shaye

  Chapter 21

  Pierre

  Chapter 22

  Shaye

  Chapter 23

  Pierre

  Chapter 24

  Shaye

  Chapter 25

  Pierre

  Chapter 26

  Shaye

  Chapter 27

  Pierre

  Chapter 28

  Shaye

  Chapter 29

  Pierre

  Chapter 30

  Shaye

  Chapter 31

  Shaye

  Chapter 32

  Pierre

  Chapter 33

  Shaye

  Chapter 34

  Pierre

  Chapter 35

  Shaye

  Chapter 36

  Shaye

  Chapter 37

  Pierre

  Chapter 38

  Shaye

  Epilogue

  Preview of Devil’s Kingdom

  Zella

  More Mafia Books by Bella King

  Introduction

  My soul burns with a passion that can only be quelled by one thing.

  Her complete obedience to my every command.

  I’ve waited ten years for this, and obtaining her won’t be easy, but she’s a prize worthy of pursuing.

  In fact, she’s worth over a billion dollars to me.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  She’ll be the puppet on my strings.

  Dancing toward a fate that only I know.

  She’s not getting away until I get what I want.

  And my cruelty knows no bounds.

  She’ll dance to my tune, or she’ll perish by my hand.

  The choice is hers, but the reward for her obedience is good enough to die for.

  Chapter 1

  Shaye

  I hate it when the rain gets in your eyes, and even if you’re wearing glasses, it seems to jump around the glass and land right in your pupil, temporarily blinding you while you’re trying to walk down the street. Normally, I would like the rain, but this isn’t anything like the summer storms we have down south in the United States.

  No, this one is much harsher. Each droplet of rain is like a needle made of ice, and it covers the brick sidewalk like a fresh coat of wax on a clean linoleum floor. I have to watch my step or risk cracking my head open like a raw egg.

  But despite the cold weather and the slippery sidewalk, I’m in a good mood. I have every reason to be.

  I quicken my pace, pulling the lapel of my coat toward my neck to hide as much of the side of my face as I can from the sideways rain. I’m not far from the apartment building, but it won’t take long for me to be soaked to the bone with how heavy the rain is. My coat isn’t waterproof.

  The wheels of my suitcase click against the ground as I drag it over the bricks. I had the sense to buy a hard shell suitcase to protect it from the elements, but I didn’t do the same for my clothing. I’ll have to invest in a good rain jacket after this. Perhaps a blush-colored one. Pink was always my favorite color, and even moving into my late-twenties, that hasn’t changed.

  I round a corner of a narrow brick building, sweeping past a laughing couple as they rush toward the crosswalk. A car flies past, going way faster than is safe on these slippery roads, but the couple doesn’t seem phased in the least. They continue onward across the intersection.

  The drivers in France are so aggressive compared to the ones lazily drifting down the roads of my hometown. I have to wonder where they’re going in such a hurry.

  My mind can only meander for a few moments before I’m yanked back into reality by the sight of a crumbling brick archway. I turn into it, breathing a sigh of relief as I find shelter from the rain. I pull out my phone to check my location, rubbing a droplet of water from the screen with my damp sleeve.

  The little blue icon puts me on top of the apartment I’m staying at. I look up from my phone, peering into the common area beyond the archway where rain falls through into a small garden with little wooden benches around it. I bet the entrance is somewhere here. If not, I’ll have to duck back out into the rain and find the other side of the building.

  I shake the rain that clings to my coat and pull my blonde hair back into a tighter ponytail. People always say that blondes have more fun, but I realize now that they were talking about the extroverts. As an introvert, the world generally passes me by.

  After everything I went through in my youth, I’m thankful for that. I’ll take being safe over having fun any day of the week. In fact, moving to another country is the most adventurous thing I’ve done in the past ten years. I almost didn’t even do it, but the money was too good to pass up, and I’ve always wanted to go visit France.

  Instead of a nice vacation, however, I’ll be living here for as long as I’m working. It’s a leap, but I have nothing to lose and everything to gain from it. I’m long overdue for a fresh start.

  I brush as much water as I can off of my coat, getting a solid grip on my rolling suitcase before trudging back out into the rain in the uncovered common area. A large wooden door to my left tells me that I’ve arrived at my intended destination.

  I stride up to it quickly, finding shelter again under the small overhang. I stare at the bronze plaque beside the door for a few seconds before realizing that it’s in French. I must be in the right place, but I double-check my phone just to be sure. I’d hate to have someone storm to the door once I ring the bell, speaking nothing but French to me.

  My phone’s map puts me inside the apartment building, which is a good enough confirmation for me. I tuck it back in my coat pocket and press my finger into the loose white button below the plaque.

  A loud electric buzzer goes off from inside the building, and a lock clicks open on the door almost immediately. I pull open the heavy wooden door by the brass handle and step inside the lobby.

  “Miss Dawn, I presume?”

  I look up to see a thin woman standing with a smile on her lips, her hands clasped together above her navel with polite anticipation.

  “That’s me,” I reply, painfully aware of how American I sound as I approach her. It was only when I arrived here that I realized how blunt and straightforward American speakers can sound.


  The woman maintains her polite smile as I come to a stop in front of her, reaching out a hand for a shake. “My name is Ella,” she says, “And I will be showing you to your flat, number ninety-nine.”

  I shake her hand, taking care with how firm I am. She seems as though I could blow her over with too hard of a breath. I ate a dozen macarons at the airport, and I certainly don’t feel the same.

  “Ninety-nine,” I repeat back as Ella turns to the elevator.

  “Yes,” she replies, laying her finger across the button. “It’s the last room in the building, at the very top. You have a view of the city.”

  “That sounds lovely,” I reply, thankful that there’s an elevator to bring me up. I don’t know if I’d make it up that many floors after all that I’ve eaten. It’s not my fault the food is so damn good here.

  The elevator is about as thin as Ella, but I manage to squeeze in beside her with my suitcase. The whole compartment rocks as the door slides shut, and I’m starting to wonder if we should’ve taken the stairs after all. This elevator feels like it’s being pulled up by a rope from the 50’s.

  “Your key,” Ella says, pulling a small set of silver keys from her pocket. “The larger one is for the front door, and the smaller one is for your flat.” She drops it into my hand. “I will leave you the number to the building manager if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, rubbing the old-fashioned keys between my fingers. This apartment might be small and old, but it has a distinct charm that’s probably overlooked by lifelong residents. I can’t help but to feel a sense of romance here, something I’ve gotten very little of since graduating from art school. The real world is a lot less poetic when you’re struggling to pay the bills.

  I follow Ella out of the elevator and down the equally cramped hallway, marveling at the strange carpet and foreign wallpaper coating the walls. I feel as though I’ve walked into an old film, where mob bosses snatch up dames, and the world still seems so vast and unexplored.

  Ella turns to me when we arrive at the door with the number 99 branded into the wood. She pulls a card from her breast pocket and scribbles down a phone number in red ink. “Call this number if you need anything. I’ll be downstairs for the next half-hour should you have any immediate issues.”

  I take the card from her hand, and she quickly sweeps past me down the hallway, leaving me alone in front of my new flat. I tuck the card into my pocket and turn to the door, slipping my key inside and turning it.

  I take a deep breath before opening the door.

  This is it.

  This is my new beginning.

  Chapter 2

  Pierre

  “Have you ever had an itch that you just… couldn’t scratch?” I ask.

  James’ eyes are as large as golf balls, sunken deep into his sweaty head. He’s terrified, but that’s normal. Most people are terrified of me. I give them a good reason to be.

  I cock my head to the side, awaiting an answer from James, but he seems to have lost the ability to speak. I guess I’ll have to give him a little encouragement.

  “Hey,” I say, stepping closer. “I asked you a fucking question.”

  James is shaking so violently that for a moment, I think he might vibrate right out of the ropes securing him to his office chair. He still doesn’t reply, but I doubt he even remembers what I asked him. His brain is frozen from fear.

  I sigh. “James, the people are depending on you. If you don’t pull through on this, I doubt you’ll be spending a whole lot of time serving the people of this fine city. Is that what you want?”

  He manages to shake his head.

  I chuckle. “Oh, so you’ve decided that you don’t want to die. Well, that’s good.”

  James sputters and coughs before he’s able to blurt, “Where’s Marie?”

  I frown, pulling my head back as I come even closer. “Your wife?”

  He nods.

  “The one you cheated on with a dozen or so mistresses? Oh, she’s not going to miss you, James. She’s getting piss drunk with a couple of my boys as they tell her all about what you’ve done over the years. She’s not coming home to you tonight.”

  “Don’t you fucking touch her,” James snarls.

  I roll my eyes. “She’s out on her own accord, drinking away the misery you caused her.” I look at my watch. “By the time she gets home, the only thing she’s going to find is your dead body. Suicide sounds pretty convincing, considering the circumstances.”

  James’ eyes go wide with fear again. He’s not concerned about his wife like he pretends to be. He’s more concerned about covering his own ass and making sure that nobody pulls the curtain away to expose his vile lifestyle.

  Unfortunately for him, it’s a little late for that.

  “Coming back to my original question,” I say, leaning in and staring into James’ quivering eyes. “Have you ever had an itch that you couldn’t quite scratch?”

  “I-I-I don’t know,” he stammers.

  I straighten up, maintaining eye contact with him. “Well, I do, and it’s been bugging the shit out of me for the past ten years.”

  “Please don’t kill me,” James blurts. “I’ll do anything. You can take what you want. My wife, you can take her too –”

  I slap my hand onto his bound wrist, leaning in so close that I can smell his putrid breath. “You’re a filthy rat, James. Men like you belong in the prison that I had to spend ten fucking years in. I’m not the criminal here. You are.”

  He falls silent, frozen in fear again.

  “I will kill you, and your lovely wife will celebrate your death unless you tell me where I can find the Red Door.”

  “W-what?”

  I clamp my fingers down on James’ wrist, digging my fingers into his bone. “You know the painting I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t know what you’re…” He trails off, realization flooding into his eyes.

  I nod, a smile spreading on my face. “That’s right. Ten years ago, James. Ten years ago, you came into possession of quite a few paintings. Don’t you remember?”

  The fear on his face contorts to horror. Before, he didn’t recognize the man who broke into his house and tied him to his chair in his fancy home office. Now, he realizes who he’s up against, and I can see the adrenaline flooding into his face.

  I remove my hand from his wrist and reach into my back pocket, removing a pair of black latex gloves. I snap them onto my hands slowly, taking my time as he watches me prepare to coax the information that I want out of him.

  James wiggles uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t have any of the paintings anymore,” he says. “I sold them right when I got them.”

  I reach into my other back pocket and pull out a small revolver, something a wannabe politician with more money than sense would own to look cool in front of his colleagues. I doubt that James has any kind of experience with guns, but the police will buy the suicide story because it’s easy. They always look for the easiest explanations and run with them.

  “You don’t need to use that,” James says as I wipe the gun clean with a microfiber cloth.

  I shrug. “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “I sold the paintings to a museum. The one you’re looking for, the Red Door, it’s probably still at the museum I sold it to,” James says, jumbling his words in his hurry to expel them from his mouth.

  “Which museum?” I ask, tucking the microfiber cloth into the breast pocket of my suit and pulling out a small plastic bag with a tablespoon of white powder inside.

  “What’s that for?” James asks, staring at the bag.

  “You’re probably familiar with this stuff already,” I reply, shaking the bag in front of him.

  “Is that coke or something?”

  “Bingo.”

  “I’m telling you what I know,” James says, his voice grating against his clenched throat. “So, you don’t need to do anything to me.”

  “Which museum?” I ask, pinching the bag open.

/>   “The King-Smith Gallery in Paris.”

  “King-Smith,” I repeat back to him.

  “Yes,” he says, nodding his head so vigorously that his teeth chatter.

  I pause for a moment to read his expression, making damn well sure that he’s telling the truth. I don’t want to be thrown off course when I’m so close to reclaiming what’s rightfully mine.