Captured by the Mafia (Completed)

Chapter 2

Vegas

I pull the knife from my boot and slash the rope holding his wrists and his ankles together. Thank fucking god he is passed out, and I don't have to deal with his struggling. It'd be worse for him if he was awake. My patience is far too thin to be dealing with my father's whores. My gaze sweeps over his nearly naked body. My mind is already filled with all the wonderful things I'm going to do to him. Father dressed him in nothing more than scraps, yet another trait of his whores. He definitely belongs to him. Too bad. I would have enjoyed fucking him, but I won't knowing he has been with him. I can't deny his beauty though. Black hair frames his heart-shaped face, and his pink full lips are kissable. He's got big doe eyes that I imagine looking up at me while I force my cock between his lips. He's everything a man could want when fucking, but again, I won't touch him knowing my father has. Pushing the thoughts aside since that's not what I am taking her for, I slide my arms under his body and lift him to my chest. He doesn't weigh hardly anything, and I can carry him with ease. For some reason, I don't fucking like the thought. He should eat some fucking food, put some meat on his bones or something. I walk out the door past Macau, who is shaking his head at me. He's disappointed, angry with my choice to bring him instead of just let him go. Good thing I don't need his approval... or anyone else's for that matter. There's a reason I'm the leader of the Theerapanyakul empire, and he is not. I get the fucking hard shit done, the shit no one else wants to do because it crosses lines no one wants to talk about. I've killed people. I've beaten them. Am I proud of it? Of course not. But I do what I have to fucking do. My family and my ability as a leader are defined by the choices I make. If I can't do something, then I cannot expect my men to do it either. 

"I don't like this, Vegas. You don't know if he's telling the truth or not. He looked pretty fucking scared to just be one of his random whores," Macau rambles, as he douses the house in gasoline. "I don't really care what you think, Macau. I'm taking him. You burn the house down, and that'll be the end of it. Maybe next time, we'll actually catch him," I snap, too annoyed to deal with his moral code of bullshit. I pick up my pace, walking down the hall and away from Macau. If I wanted my brother's input, I would ask for it. My eyes move over the contents of this place. It's just a fucking mansion, full of valuables. That only angers me more. He didn't leave any fucking clues, no papers, not a trace of anything. The only reason we knew he was here was because of a now-dead guard we had tortured the info out of. He'd been along-time friend of the family and was responsible for disposing of my father's body, which he clearly didn't do, since the bastard is still alive. With my anger threatening to boil to the surface, I tighten my hold on the small body in my arms, drawing a faint whimper from his lips. I lookdown at his beautiful face, so peaceful looking, now that he is passed out. There's a slight bruising below his right eye, the skin black and blue as if he'd been slapped. Something about that angers me as well, and I don't know why. I've laid my hands on countless people, and in much worse ways than that, and yet, a slight bruising of this man's face has me feeling some strange emotions. I walk out the front door, down the steps, and into the driveway. 

The unnamed man bounces in my arms every step I take, and I hold him tighter. His head presses against my shoulder like he is leaning into me for comfort, for protection. It awakens an odd feeling inside of me. A feeling that surprisingly tamps my anger down... I don't like it, but then again, it's not an unsettling feeling either. I walk up to the SUV where two of my men are already waiting. They look at the boy in my arms and then back up to me. They know better than to ask questions. I motion for them to open the back door and when they do, I slide into the back seat, still holding him in my arms. I could probably let him go now, place him down on the leather seats, but I like the feeling of him in my arms. Startled by the thought, I curl my fingers into his skin, feeling the heat. I imagine him whimper in pain as I do, and that thought makes my cock hard. "Where to?" the driver asks from the front seat, interrupting my thoughts. "Home." He doesn't hesitate when I answer, and we drive off the property as if we just came for a short visit, instead of a killing spree. I spend the majority of the ride to the mansion looking at him. Studying his features...wondering what he looks like when he smiles. What a ridiculous thought. Smiling. No one does that in my presence. I try to imagine myself torturing him, breaking his bones, slicing his skin. For the first time ever, the thought revolts me, but I know I don't have a choice. I need to protect my family, my son, above all. The things he may know, the secrets, they're all that matters. Finding my father and killing him, that's the important thing here, and if torturing him gives me those answers then that's what I'll do. The car comes to a halt, and I am about to ask the driver why the hell we are stopped when I look up and realize we are already home. What the fuck! 

I must have gotten lost just staring at him like an idiot. I shake my head at my own stupidity. I need to stop this nonsense, and I need to stop it now. There is no room for feelings in my life. My son. My family, they're all that matters. Not some man my father probably dipped his dick into half a dozen times. He's nothing, no one, and the sooner I see him as that, the easier this will all be. I get out of the car, with his body still in my arms, and walk up to the front door. One of guards is already holding the door open for me, so I walk in. I head for the staircase leading up to the bedrooms when I stop myself. My feet stop dead in their tracks. What the fuck am I doing? I can't bring him up here. I can't have him around my son. I can't treat him like a guest in my house. I can't do any of these fucking things because he is the fucking enemy. Curling my fingers into his tender flesh, I clench my jaw and turn on my heels, walking down the stairs and into the basement. I carry him into one of the holding cells that hasn't been used since my son was born. It's cold and damp, and it doesn't seem right to leave him down here. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I feel that this is wrong. But that's merely my infatuation with him, or at least that's what I tell myself. I lay his small body down on the cot. When I do this, I realize one of his small hands is fisting into my shirt, as if he is trying to hold onto me. I peel his fingers away and watch his sleeping features turn into a frown. It's strange how he was so fearful while awake, but now he clings to me as if I'm his savior. I almost laugh at the thought. 

He has no idea the things I can and will do to get what I want. I stand up straight and watch his barely dressed body curl up into herself like he is cold. There are no blankets down here. Comfort has never been on my mind when it comes to holding a prisoner, and I know it shouldn't be any other way with her either, but it is. I briefly think about tying him up in my bedroom, but his wrists and ankles are already so bloody it will only cause more damage. I have to leave him here; it's the right thing to do. He is the enemy... a foe, my father's whore. Repeating the verse over and over again inside my head, I force my feet to move, taking me out of the room. I close the door and lock it behind me. I have to do what's obligated of me. I need to think about my son, and his future, about his safety, not some man who's only useful for the hole between his legs. I don't have room for a man in my life. After all, the last one ended up dead because of his own stupidity. He proved to me that you can't trust anyone, no one but yourself. Still, I look at this fucking man and feel a thud in my chest. My heart is beating hard and fast because of him, and I don't fucking understand why. I wrap my hand around one of the iron bars, envisioning myself wrapping that same hand around his delicate throat. Would I squeeze hard enough to kill him? Or would I test the limits, showing him what would happen if he disobeyed me? It doesn't matter even if he is an innocent in all of this. If he doesn't tell me what I want to know, he'll pay just like everyone else...with his blood.