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Chapter 8: (Dontrell’s POV) The Meeting, Part 2
Last Updated:
2024-12-25 22:49:11
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The Mafia’s Angel Ordeal. Chapter 9. Steam and Fire: Dontrell sucks Me Wild.
The lavender scent clung to the air as warm water cascaded over me, washing away exhaustion. The shower was my refuge—a brief escape from everything. Dontrell was still asleep in the bedroom, the house eerily quiet.My thoughts drifted to my father and Nadeem—it had been too long since I’d heard from them. My new phone, constantly under Dontrell’s surveillance, was only available to me on days he allowed it, and even then, I couldn’t text anyone without his permission. My father’s betrayal of my mother’s memory still haunted me; the news of the amount of trafficked women he had slept with was a dark reminder of the broken man he’d become. A faint sound outside the bathroom door broke the silence. I paused the shower and called, “Dontrell, is that you?”No answer. I peeked out from behind the tub’s curtain, a massive shower with frosted glass. My breath caught; the ensuite bathroom was luxurious—polished marble, gold fixtures—but it was empty.I shook off the unease and turned back t
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My chest heaved, exhaustion pulling me under. I stopped struggling, resigning myself to his touch.He gripped my waist and pressed closer, lifting me slightly and positioning himself to penetrate, sending a gasp from my lips. A shiver ran through me as he teased me, just barely intruding. I felt the barest intrusion of his tip in my love hole. A sensation that set every nerve alight. My body braced instinctively, expecting him to take more.But then, he stopped. Just as quickly as he advanced, he pulled out. Relief, confusion, and something darker churned in my chest, leaving me breathless. The tension was unbearable until Dontrell’s voice shattered it.“Not tonight,” he muttered, his voice rough as if wrestling with his restraint. He pulled back, his touch lingering only briefly before retreating entirely. My chest heaved as I turned to face him, confusion and relief swirling through me. He ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his muscles evident. “I didn’t save you to hurt y
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The smoke from My Father's Bon-Cadeau pipe filled the bathroom, casting shadows over his sharp features, amplifying the menacing air around him. His immaculate dark suit hugged his powerful frame. A man radiating authority, the kind that commanded both respect and fear. I tensed, my pistol still in my hand, the safety clicked off from when I’d thought I’d need it moments earlier. The audacity of him barging in burnt through me.He stood in the doorway, a figure carved out of shadows and smoke. His gaze slid past me like I wasn’t even there. His smirk deepened when he saw Allison clutching the towel tighter around herself, his eyes lingering on her a moment too long. “Next time, don’t bother hiding behind the curtain. It won’t help you.” His voice cut through the tension, sharp and biting. I didn’t respond right away; I just felt the anger bubble up.Allison’s soft voice broke the silence. “Good morning, sir,” she said, barely above a whisper.His eyes flicked over to me, colder tha
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The door clicked shut behind me as I stepped into the room. My father sat in the centre of the room, expression unreadable, framed by the chandelier light. The room carried an air of suffocation—a mix of cigar smoke and silence so heavy it seemed to choke any sense of comfort. Clayton leaned against the far wall, coiled, ready to strike. Andrew stood near the window, his arms crossed and his posture relaxed but calculated. Two additional bodyguards loomed by the door, their eyes fixed on me. I held up a hand, stopping any attempts at conversation. "Give me a moment." I walked past them into my closet, shutting the door. The hangers clicked as I pulled on black slacks and a shirt. No shoes, no jacket—this was still my house, even if it felt like enemy territory presently. When I returned, I found Clayton pacing, his anger almost palpable. My father hadn’t moved from his position, his demeanour as though he owned not just the room but everyone in it. When I returned to the room, Clay
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I froze in the bathroom doorway, my pulse racing. The air around me was thick with tension, the echoes of the women’s cries still haunting my ears. But it was his eyes—dark and piercing—that held me captive. “Come here, Dove,” he said, his voice like velvet and steel.My feet felt glued to the floor, and my body refused to move. “I won’t ask again,” Dontrell warned, his tone colder now.My feet began already betraying me as I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, each step feeling like a death sentence. When I stopped in front of him, Dontrell reached out, grabbing my neck. His touch was gentle but heavy, like a shackle, locking me in place.“Were you listening?” he asked, his eyes searching my face.I swallowed, panic rising in my chest. I couldn’t lie to him. He’d see through it instantly.“I heard... some things,” I said, my voice shaking.He studied me for a moment, lips pressed into a tight line. “You shouldn’t have.”“I didn’t mean to,” I rushed to explain. “I hea
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The snap of the bracelet echoed through the room, and the tiny beads scattered like shattered stars across the cold marble floor. “No! No!” I screamed, dropping to my knees, hands trembling as I frantically tried to gather them. Each bead that slipped felt like my heart breaking again."“Why would you do this?” I choked, my voice raw.“Because you need to let go of him,” Dontrell said, his voice sharp but laced with something deeper. “You can’t keep living in the past.”I looked up, tears falling. “You don’t get it! This wasn’t just a bracelet—it was all I had left of her!”He rubbed his eyes. “I understand more than you think. I’ve lost more than you know. But that bracelet—it's a chain from your father. It's keeping you trapped.”You don’t get to decide that for me!” I shouted, clutching the broken strands. Memories flooded back—my mother weakly smiling in her hospital bed, slipping the bracelet onto my wrist. “Each charm represents us,” she whispered: the heart for you, the crown
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Clayton’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and merciless. “Dorothy said you’ve decided not to eat.” His tone was heavy, laced with lethal authority.I flinched. Each time I saw him, I remembered the sting of his slap, the humiliation of our first meeting. I was terrified of him. Every time I saw him, I remembered his hand striking my face the first time we met, the force of it, the humiliation. He knew I feared him. That’s why he was here—to force me to eat. “I—I’m not feeling fine,” I stammered, my words trembling as I met his hard gaze, though the way his eyebrow arched told me he didn’t care.His lips curled into a humourless smirk. “I don’t care what’s wrong with you. In this house, when you’re told to do something, you do it, eating included. That free will, Dontrell has spoilt you with, ends now.” “I’m sorry,” I whispered, lowering my gaze. “I’ll eat now.” “Not like you have a choice,” he retorted, annoyance lacing his tone. Clayton closed the distance, the tray still
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The darkness of the abandoned lot wrapped around me like a predator stalking its prey, the warehouse looming ahead with its metal frame groaning under decay. I gripped the crumpled paper tighter in my fist, the name "Simeon and his address" scrawled in my father’s messy handwriting fuelling the fire raging in my chest.He was out. Out of the Circle's Pit, the place where men like him—snakes, liars, and traitors—were sent to rot. I didn’t care how he clawed his way out; I cared about one thing: answers.The photograph of Allison burnt in my pocket like a brand, the memory of its haunting details as sharp as a blade. Her face, so delicate and pure, didn’t belong in the pocket of a dead man—a thief who thought he could cross the Blade family. And that "11-11," marked on the back with an ominous X? That wasn’t just a coincidence. That was a threat.And threats against Allison? Those were punishable by death.I kicked open the warehouse door, the rusty hinges shrieking in protest. Dust and
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She didn’t understand it and maybe she didn’t need to.Because she still saw the world in soft, redeemable tones. Even after what my father did. What Dontrell did. What I did.And maybe that’s why I fought so hard to deserve her. Because someone like her doesn’t end up in a life like mine by accident. She was chosen by fate—or cursed by it. Either way, I knew I’d burn down every version of this world before I let it take her from me again.I looked at my phone. The hospital report came in.Same condition. No progress. The nurses said Dontrell hadn’t spoken since; instead, he started having seizures often and often, and yet… I still sent money. Still made sure his room had sunlight. That his sheets were clean. That the men standing outside his door reported only to me.Because he was my brother.And that still meant something.I heard her voice behind me. “Again?”God, that voice. The way she could make one word feel like a thousand. She’d seen the worst of me—every bloodstain, every b
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I watched Clayton from across the rooftop garden as the breeze rustled the edges of his open shirt. The golden sunset flared behind him, but he didn’t look up. His gaze hovered on his phone, thumb paused over the screen, like whatever he was reading had pulled him somewhere far from me.“Again?” I asked, pitching my voice to be loud enough.He looked up slowly, locking eyes with me. That same determined gaze he wore when things got hard. When his emotions ran too deep to show.“Yes,” he said, voice low, firm. “I have to do it.”I crossed the space between us, barefoot, heart steady. “But you know you don’t owe him anything.”Clayton’s lips curved, soft and sad. “He’s my brother.”My heart ached for the way he said it. Not because it was a lie, but because it was true.Five years since the trial, since the feds shattered Dontrell’s empire. Clayton hadn’t run from the damage—he stood in it. Quietly, fiercely, with no cameras watching.He bought back every property the feds didn’t bury.
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I peeled off his suit jacket slowly, my fingers trailing over the dark silk. The tag glinted on the inside of his chest—*Godfather.* A title barely a few hours old, still hot from the Circle’s overnight meeting where he had been crowned.We were supposed to be at the Victory Gala right now—celebrating his hotel expansion in partnership with my new dance company. But we couldn’t wait—his mouth claimed mine the second the car door shut and his men stepped down. Instead of champagne and niceties, we were tangled up in the back seat of his car—completely unable to keep our hands off each other.His men stood like statues—guns, suits, dead stares. No one came close.Our mouths were locked. The windows fogged as we kissed like starved souls. His lips, greedy and sweet, erased the ruthless man crowned by the ‘CIRCLE’ just hours ago.“Congratulations, Godfather Clayton,” I whispered against his lips.He chuckled, dark and low, then kissed me harder. “Thank you, my queen.”I dragged my hand
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"What are you doing here?" Clayton's voice cut through the silence. He stepped inside, his figure shadowing the doorway. "Why couldn't you stay in the living room downstairs, or at least stay in the fucking room? Why come here?"I didn’t flinch. I’d heard that bark before. Clayton Blade had always been a man of biting words. I stood there, tears wet on my face, paper clenched in my hand.I ignored his harsh words and the sting and asked, my voice trembling, "Did you mean this?" I held out the paper. "Did you mean everything you wrote here?”His jaw clenched, a muscle working beneath the skin. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me, walk away, or tell me I was being foolish. But instead, he scoffed and muttered, "You shouldn't be here.”That was all. He didn’t give me an answer. Just that damn, dismissive line—like none of it mattered. He wasn’t even looking at the paper. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking somewhere past me, somewhere I couldn’t follow.I couldn’t stand there
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I expected unease walking into this house again.The Blade mansion was eerily quiet, but it no longer frightened me. It had once been a fortress of fear, soaked in pain. With Mr. Blade gone, rotting in prison for even just a few months, breathing here felt a little easier.The heaviness that once clung to the estate had loosened.Clayton’s men stood like statues by his bedroom door, nodding as I walked past and went In. They didn’t question me. They didn’t need to. I belonged here once—even if only at night, in stolen moments, wearing guilt like perfume.The moment I entered, his scent hit me —musk, spice, leather. Familiar, maddening—uniquely him. My eyes scanned the room—the chair by the fireplace, the silk sheets, the broken lamp, the window chair. The whiskey decanter, heavy curtains, the bed—all the same.My chest tightened. I remembered the fortnight—when he hurt, took, and claimed me with blood.But I blinked it away.He wasn’t that man anymore—not in the end. Not lately. Clay
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The moment the car door shut, the fake smile I wore at that goddamn charity dinner melted off like wax. My jaw clenched. I sighed, the night’s weight pressing down on me.I didn’t bother acknowledging my driver. He knew better than to speak when I was like this.I exhaled sharply and rolled my neck. The suit jacket was the first thing to go, then the cufflinks—ripped off and tossed beside me. Yanked my collar open just to breathe. The air felt thick—or maybe it was just me, choking on memories.Allison.God, her name still felt like a bruise on my chest.Told myself the damn event would distract me. But it never works. Not with her.I leaned back and closed my eyes. How did I get here? From hating her with every fibre in my body… to falling so deep I couldn’t see my way out?She used to sneak out of her ex-husband’s mansion—my brother’s house. She’d arrive in designer clothes and leave wearing my scent. Every visit started with a plan—some draft to catch Dontrell, some excuse to meet—
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“Fuck, that’s tight,” Reed groaned, thrusting in, his veiny hands spreading my thighs wide.The hotel room smelt like expensive cologne, clean sheets, and sex. Our brunch date was long forgotten.“Yeah, just like that,” my moans echoed off the suite’s walls. I clawed at his back, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust deep and smooth.Classic missionary. All on display. He kissed my jaw, strokes slow but hard, bouncing me into the bed.He slapped my breasts and drove in deep, pausing as I clenched before resuming with a wild rhythm. I moaned in response, throwing my head back like I meant it, nails raking down his back. He was giving it to me well—deep strokes, rough rhythm, the kind of pounding that made the bed slam against the wall. Reed had the stamina and the moves. His sinful voice matched the kisses trailing my breasts, sucking hard as his hips slammed into me.“You feel me, baby? You feel all this dick?” He whispered, lips brushing my titties.“Uh-huh,” I lied, grinding u
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Three months ago, my name blazed across headlines like blood on silk.“Allison Blade Finalises Divorce from Mafia Kingpin Dontrell Blade.”“Mafia Wife Walks Away: Allison Blade Now Legally Single.”“From Blackmail to Freedom—Inside the Fall of a Criminal Empire’s Queen.”“Single and Free: Allison Blade Cuts Ties with Comatose Crime Lord”I didn’t need to read the articles — didn’t need to. I’d lived it.The court declared Dontrell unfit for trial—permanently incapacitated, doctors said—vegetative. Alive, but unreachable. A man who once ruled with an iron grip now lay breathless under a sterile hospital light, surrounded by machines that did his living for him.Filing for divorce should’ve felt like a betrayal. Instead, it felt sweet.The day I filed, I didn’t cry. I walked into the courthouse, signed the petition, and told the clerk I was ready to leave hell behind. Two weeks later, a judge reviewed my case. They assigned Dontrell a guardian ad litem—some lawyer who never looked me
The Mafia’s Angel Ordeal. Chapter 178: Dontrell’s POV: They’ll All Burn.
I left my father’s house ten years ago and never looked back—even now, confined to a wheelchair, voiceless, motionless. I lived fully.My name would echo through generations— how I played my father and almost won if Celine's jealousy over my cover marriage to Allison hadn't ruined it.I left the house with nothing but a hunger for power—and I swore to claim it, whatever the cost. Father’s ways were too constricting. His empire was built on loyalty, fear, and respect, and I wanted it differently. I wanted more. I wanted total control. It wasn’t just the mansion, the power, or the empire I’d grown up with—it was the respect I was owed. I was the firstborn son, the one who was supposed to carry on his name. But instead, I was just another puppet in a game where he pulled the strings. I do all the work, and he gets all the glory. He leashed me and fed me scraps while he ruled as godfather. But I wasn’t some obedient little dog—that was Clayton. I envisioned power without him—without an
