All Chapters of Beauty and the Mafia Beast: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

[ZEKE]I don’t know what leads me here, to this door. To the gnawing urge to get her alone.It isn’t reason. It isn’t even desire—at least not the kind I can weaponize. It’s an itch under my skin, a fever I can’t fucking scratch. A compulsion, I guess, that makes my legs move before I’ve decided where I’m going. I’m at the door before I realize it.I don’t knock. I never knock. I don’t need to. But for a split second, my hand hovers anyway. Stupid. Weak. What the fuck am I doing?Have I lost my mind?That night with Naomi—my mind wasn’t mine. I’d thought about it, thought about her, thought about something else entirely when I shouldn’t have. Like some stranger had taken over, like I wasn’t the one pulling the strings anymore.I look down at my hands now. I can still see the blood. Her friend’s blood. No. Not her friend. Vance’s man. I remind myself of that fact the way a drunk reminds himself not to drink. Over and over, until it almost feels true.But it doesn’t stick.Because I saw

[CAMI]When I walk back into the room, Claire’s waiting for me.The door doesn’t lock behind me when I close it. And that is what finally breaks me. My chest caves, the tears come hard and fast, ugly sobs I can’t stop.Claire bolts up from the bed the second she sees me. “Oh my god, Cami—what happened? Why are you crying?” Her arms wrap around me before I can answer, pulling me tight against her. For a second, I almost sink into it, almost let her carry all of it for me.But she leans back, scanning my face, and panic flares in her eyes. “You’re scaring me. What happened? Did he hurt you? I’ll kill that bastard, I swear I’ll—did he do anything—”Her voice cuts off. She stares at me, horrified.And shame floods me. Horror, too. Because I know what I’ve done. I have no idea what came over me, what made me say it, what twisted thing inside me led me to open my mouth. But I can’t take it back.“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and the sobs steal my breath. “I’m so sorry.”Claire’s hands tighten on

[CAMI]Marco walks ahead of me, his hands tucked into his pockets. He’s too tall, and I stare at the back of his head, trying to glare a hole into it, because how does he manage to appear so relaxed most of the time?He stops in front of a door I haven’t seen before. Not surprising—the villa is so massive it feels endless, like a labyrinth built to swallow me whole. He knocks once.“Come in,” Zeke’s voice carries through.Marco opens the door but doesn’t step inside. He gestures for me to go. For a second, I consider refusing, but I’ve already asked for this. So I step forward.Zeke isn’t alone. Dante’s here, hunched over a laptop, files scattered across the table between them. The glow from the screen paints his face in hard lines. Important mafia business, obviously, and I’m the interruption.Dante gruffs when he sees me. Zeke only glances up, his fist curling, his elbow digging into the table. His gaze pins me in place—a prisoner all over again. I suddenly feel very small. I swall

[CAMI]“You’ll come again, on my cock this time. And again after that. Until you can’t stand.”I whimper when he lets go of my hair, my cheek falling to the desk, breathing shakily. Only now I realise it's damp with tears. I actually fucking cried. That’s how good he felt—his tongue. This has never happened before. Zeke gives me a minute to breathe, to steady myself. But I feel like I’m floating in a pool of pleasure, thighs still shaking. Then I hear him say, “Tell me to stop, doll,” as his hands return to my hips, spreading my thighs wider again. I don’t, because I don’t want him to stop. Instead, I almost thank him. He never should have paused either. He pushes into me slowly, almost tenderly, stretching me around him until I’m clenching the edge of the wet desk, biting down on a cry.“Fuck, Zeke—”“That’s it, Camilla,” he groans against my ear. “Say my name like a prayer.”Every time he pushes in, he pushes deeper, and it’s never enough. “Look at you,” he breathes, pinning my

[CAMI]I wait until Zeke’s footsteps fade before I drag myself upright. My limbs don’t belong to me anymore—boneless, trembling, liquid from the inside out. The tub that had been a rescue now feels suffocating, like I’m drowning in everything he left behind on me. I need the sting of hot water. I need the shower.Hauling myself over the porcelain edge is a circus act. My thighs wobble, knees nearly buckle, but I get there, palms smacking against the glass wall of the shower as I stumble in. The second the water pelts my skin, hot and clean, it hits me—I’m not drunk, I’m sex-drunk. And this? This sobers me fast.My breathing comes hard, fogging the glass where my forehead presses. My hands stay splayed, braced, because I know I’ll fall without them. And then my fingers trail lower, like my body can’t help itself. I close my eyes, remembering how Zeke’s hands had been everywhere. How he had been everywhere.The desk. My knees burning on that rug. The chair, his body a throne, and me stra