His Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HIS: DOMINIC

  First edition. January 1, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 Fiona Murphy.

  ISBN: 978-1393521396

  Written by Fiona Murphy.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  His: Dominic (Sabatini Family, #1)

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Epilogue

  Special Thanks

  To amazing people who have supported me over the last few months

  Cynthia W.; Samantha P.; Valerie R.

  Sophia P.; Christina B.; Chinyere O.

  Marcella P.; Corinne M.; Tina F.

  Maria M.; Carrie I.; Stephanie S.

  Nancy W.; Gail M.; Daphne C.

  Connie C.; Tasha N.; Vanessa T.

  Lesa C.; Karen G.; Joan S.

  Janice A.; Dawn E.; Kathy T.

  Sandy L.; Frances J.; Marie R.

  Pamela G.; Angela B.; Sissy H.

  Pandora S.; Elizabeth D.; Vanessa S.

  Kristina E.; Carla H.; Kritika P.

  Dinah M.; Joseph B.; Mylonnie C.

  Bart V.; Dana I.; Delilah M.;

  Kimberly E.; Joan S.

  Any minute I’m going to wake up from this nightmare. Being tied up and thrown in the trunk of a car doesn’t happen in real life. Except the silk tie around my wrists feels very real. And my father, Johnny Conti, the head of the Outfit, is telling me to be a good girl—that I’m to be the wife of the man who tied me up and has me over his wide shoulder.

  Some women might swoon over gorgeous Dominic Sabatini with his blue eyes, dimples, and muscled body in a silk suit. Not me. Those are just distractions from who, what he really is: a ruthless killer with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.

  There is no way Dominic could actually want to marry me. A virgin, curvy, buried in an all-girls Catholic boarding school for most of my life and seventeen years younger than him. He’s marrying so far beneath him it’s absurd.

  No to all of it. Tomorrow I’m going to marry the man of my dreams, a nice, kind accountant. I’m going to have the safe, boring life I’ve always longed for. I have to escape this nightmare. But Dominic growls I belong to him and he keeps what is his.

  This a mafia romance with dark elements.

  While this is the first book in a series it is a standalone and does not end in a cliffhanger.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HIS: DOMINIC

  First edition. January 1, 2021.

  Copyright © July 202 Fiona Murphy.

  1

  Dominic

  It takes a long minute for me to push away from the wall of the shower as my orgasm rolls through me. Serena smiles triumphantly as she gets off her knees. Yes, she does this well. She is one of few women who can take my nine-inch, very thick cock down her throat with not only ease but pleasure. Her smile, however, hints there is something more to her arrival at the end of my shower when she woke me with sex less than an hour ago. One of these things would be a normal morning; both means she wants something from me.

  “Dominic, can I please come with you? Please, can I meet your father?”

  There it is. Not bothering to answer her, I wrap a towel around my waist as I walk out of the bathroom.

  She moves fast to catch up to me in my walk-in closet. “Please?”

  I continue to ignore her, my mind already on where to find her replacement. It’s too bad, I thought she was going to last longer—up until today she was the perfect mistress. She didn’t make any demands, and she was quick to swallow my cock. Most importantly, she was sexually uninhibited and always down to fuck when I needed it. Then again maybe her perfection had her thinking she could push this issue. She was wrong.

  Dropping my towel, before it hits the floor, Serena is pressing her naked body against me. Normally, I’m all for one last fuck. However, with Serena, I have no doubt she will take it to mean I’ll change my mind. I won’t. She was good, not that good.

  Now that it’s over, the restraint I usually maintained while handling her is gone. My hand around her neck is tight as I pull her away from me. Her pupils dilate, thinking she is in for a rough fuck. No. Pushing her away, I send her several feet from me. “Get your stuff together. I’ll have Vincent get you home. This is over.”

  Serena forgotten, I pick out a light blue shirt to go with one of my usual black suits. I have over three dozen three-piece suits, all of them custom made, as are my shirts and shoes. The winter ones are wool and cashmere; summer and the two weeks of spring are silk. Almost all of the suits are black, the ones that aren’t are dark gray. All of them are bulletproof. I believe in keeping things simple and safe.

  A press of my thumb opens the small safe set into an accessories drawer in the center island. I take out my Sig P226 with its ankle holster and secure it to my right ankle. Next is my Adamas knife. It’s a wicked, effective weapon. I secure the knife around my left forearm. Everyone expects the piece on my ankle; no one expects the knife. I go with white-gold and sapphire cuff links to match the shirt and sapphire tie.

  Serena touches my shoulder. “Dominic, please, I’m sorry—”

  Annoyed now, I shake her off as I call Vincent. “I need you to get here now. It’s time for you to take out my trash.”

  Her eyes go wide with hurt before she finally walks away. Why do they always make a big deal out of the end?

  Vincent sighs. “You can be such a dick sometimes. Let me guess, she’s looking right at you?”

  I don’t bother answering. He knows me well.

  Another sigh. “Give me fifteen.”

  When I go into the bedroom she’s still naked. She’s trying to work up tears, they aren’t coming. “Please, Dominic, don’t do this to me, to us.”

  The money clip in my right pocket has three thousand in fifties and hundred-dollar bills. The clip in my left pocket has fifteen hundred in twenties and fifties. Palming the clip in my right pocket, I remember her credit card bill that came three days ago, almost twelve thousand dollars. I pull out the clip from my left pocket and toss it toward her. She catches it without blinking an eye.

  “That’s it? All these months together, I ask for a second time if I can meet your father and you’re throwing me out?”

  I don’t bother repeating what I told her the first night we met, before she eagerly climbed on my cock. She doesn’t ask me questions, not about my life, not about what I do. “Vincent will be here in ten minutes. He’ll check to make sure all you’re taking is what belongs to you.”

  “Fuck you!” She throws the crystal lamp from the bedside table. It doesn’t make it three feet before shattering as it hits the hardwood floor.

  Oh hell no. As I make my way toward her, she’s smart enough to be afraid. My grip on her arm is tight as I drag her down the hall. It’s a long hallway. The building is four stories total, with the club I run taking up the basement and first floor. The third floor has another apartment but is mainly storage for the club. I picked the fourth floor as my living quarters so I had more light from the large windows and a few skylights I put in. It’s a little more than eight thousand square feet. There are two bedrooms that are mirrors of each other, a workout room, office, library, and formal dining room as well as a l
arge eat-in kitchen. I’m proud of my place—I spent a lot of time and money making it mine. Serena doesn’t get to throw any of my shit around.

  “I’m sorry. Please, Dominic.”

  There is an elevator entrance at the back of the building I added when I took over. The original entrance, up a flight of stairs, is closer. I open the door, shove her outside and lock it, ignoring her banging and crying for me to at least let her have some clothes.

  In my office I flip on the cameras to record my bedroom. When Vincent gets here I want to know she doesn’t pull any shit as he packs her up.

  I call down to Richie who runs my club to warn him about Serena. He laughs, letting me know he can hear her from downstairs. He’s already on his way up to get her. Next I call Mary, my housekeeper, to warn her about the mess waiting for her. She assures me she’ll handle it.

  A quick check of my email has me reaching for my phone again. I hit a button on a device that will make the call crap if someone is trying to record it.

  I don’t wait to exchange pleasantries. “I’m over this shit. They shot up a club last night over a single fucking kilo of coke. Four civilians are dead and three more are in the hospital. I’m done. They are done. I’m wiping them completely the fuck out of Illinois, not just Chicago.”

  Carlo Toro is silent. He’s my underboss—I’m only a capo. I have no desire to have his title. I should not be telling him shit. Usually, I prefer Carlo’s conservative actions, or rather lack of action. I’m of the same mind that violence and blood is a last resort, something to be done only after careful consideration. I’ve considered it and it’s time. These MC bastards keep trying to push into Chicago. I’ve personally taken out three of them in the last few years, other members of the family have taken out almost a dozen. The pieces of shit keep coming back. It’s time to end this.

  “That much blood will cost us.”

  “It’s been costing us. You’ve lost two good men, and other family have lost several more. We made our choices. It’s the civilians they keep killing that needs to end. The four in the club make twenty-two this year. No more. I’ll be going to them at their headquarters in Springfield. No blood will spill on our streets.”

  “I’ll confirm it with Johnny. Will you need more men?”

  “No, my men and a small measure of outside help will give me what I need.”

  “Outside help?” He doesn’t like the sound of that.

  “Information only.” The lie falls easily from my lips.

  A sigh. “If you need anything let me know.”

  Ending the call with Carlo, I hit send on another number.

  I never hear the line ring. “Mr. Sabatini, how may I help you today?”

  “I’m ready to press play on the ending of the MC.”

  “My man in place is deep, likely unable to make contact until this time next week. I’ll have everything ready for when he does. Do you still want to be there?”

  “I do. I have told you, I prefer to be hands-on in all things.”

  A dark chuckle. “After having so many cowards for clients, it’s always refreshing to deal with you, Dominic. Your presence will necessitate a further level of protection for you. There is no use in making this look like an unfortunate accident if someone sees you in the vicinity.”

  “You prefer I not be involved.” I might only be a capo, but I rule my territory with ruthless control. Other capos come to me for things they feel they cannot go to Carlo for, be it advice or how to best resolve an issue. I don’t like being told what to do. In anything.

  “Since we last spoke, your name has been mentioned among the MC. You are already being singled out by them. Your safety is my utmost concern.”

  I consider his warning. “Mentioned?”

  “In a general sense of bitching about their lack of traction in the city. If I believed there was a cause for concern, you would know it already. Remember, if you are dead, my income goes down.”

  The man’s services can only be afforded by very deep pockets, and he’s worth every fucking penny. “I trust you know what is best.” There are not many men I trust with my life, over the last few years, Diego Valdez has proven himself to be one of those few men. “I will leave you to it.”

  “I will confirm with you when it is done.”

  Ending the call, I consider the mention of my name among the MC, then shrug. This is the life. Rarely does talk lead to action.

  I take the elevator down. Vincent is waiting as the doors open. Only four people have a card to scan that gets the elevator to move. He’s one of them, which means he was waiting for me. “Six months, you’re going through them quicker lately. The blondes aren’t worth it.”

  “Warning, she threw a lamp. Watch your step up there. Richie has her in the office of the club and is keeping an eye on her.”

  He sighs. “They always get all tortured when you throw them away. Losing you destroys them.”

  I shake my head. “They get destroyed about the money they are losing. They get over me within a day.”

  Everett is waiting in my Mercedes Maybach SUV in front of the building. I inherited Everett from my cousin, Enzo, last year. My driver at the time wanted to retire. I asked Everett if he was interested in driving for me. He hesitated for a moment when I told him the vehicle was made bulletproof before he accepted the offer. So far so good.

  “Afternoon, sir, everything all right?” Everett asks as I close the door.

  A glance at my watch tells me I am running behind by almost an hour. I would like to think I’m not rigid; however, I’m rarely off schedule by more than ten minutes. I’m up at one and at my father’s home for my breakfast and his lunch at one thirty. I leave his home after about an hour then go into one of my offices, either my realty business or my retail business selling high-end home finishes. After a few hours I go to the other office. I’m at the club a little after seven to eat dinner, where I stay until the club closes at four in the morning. Shutdown usually takes around an hour, then it’s into my personal gym for a workout before I’m in bed around seven.

  “Ms. Patterson will no longer be driven. Once you drop me off, return to help Vincent get her and her things back to her place.”

  A heavy sigh. “I warned her not to press you.”

  “If only she’d listened.”

  It isn’t far to my father’s home, a little less than two miles. I would prefer to walk or at the very least drive myself but safety first, always. The worst thing to get is complacent.

  I unlock the door to Pop’s house. I had to sell the house I grew up in when Pop went to prison. The cash was needed to pay off lawyers and have something in the bank. Neither one of us were all that sad about it, it wasn’t the happiest of homes. Now Pop lives in the home he grew up in. This place, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to sell, as the memories were far better here. To me this was home, where I preferred to be when I was growing up. Closing the door, I make sure to lock it and reset the alarm before following the blues music into the kitchen.

  Pop is casual already. His vest, tie, and jacket are off, which means he’s done with work for the day. He goes into his bookie business at eight to go over the previous night and coming day’s take. By ten he heads upstairs to his bookstore and opens it up for the day. By one he leaves his long-time assistant in charge while he comes home and we eat together. Usually Pop cooks for us, sometimes he orders in.

  After we eat, sometimes he goes back to work. In the last five years two days out of the week he went and spent time with Alicia, my cousin Cesare’s wife in the suburbs. My cousins, Cesare, Enzo, and Dante, and their wives have taken on Pop as Nonno, grandfather, to their kids, filling the role their own father couldn’t on account of he killed their mother, then himself. I still remember the day Pop told me about Cesare teaching Matteo how to say Nonno when talking to Pop. He was on cloud nine for weeks.

  “Too bad about Serena, I hear she was beautiful.” Pop greets me with a nod.

  “I got people calling you now? She
’s still packing up her shit.”

  He laughs as he hands me a steaming hot espresso shot. He has to press it in my hand, I’m eyeing him warily. “You’re late. You’re never late unless it’s business or a woman. You would have called if it was business, and she’s running up on her expiration date.” Pop chuckles. “I made a frittata today, goat cheese, spinach, and pancetta.”

  “Sounds good, I’m starving.” Sitting down at the table in the large eat-in kitchen, I study his notes on outstanding issues to discuss that could be a problem. We only discuss business here or in my office at home. Both mine and Pop’s place are swept every day to make sure there are no listening devices, and there’s a lovely little box from Diego Valdez that emits a high-pitched noise we don’t hear that renders any listening device crap.

  There is only one thing on the list for today: Johnny Conti. Fuck. Johnny Conti heads our family here in Chicago, even though he’s been living in New York for the last two years due to going through lung cancer treatment and his mother living in Staten Island with his sister. Conti isn’t bad, there have been worse Dons, although he can be a pain in the ass.

  A plate is set in front of me, a triangle of frittata, fresh sliced tomatoes and home-baked bread softer than the warm butter on the table. “Looks good, thanks. Johnny?”

  Shaking his head, “Let’s eat first, enjoy your meal before the acid starts rolling in.”

  Fuck, I don’t like the sound of that. I let it go, though—he won’t discuss it until he’s ready. “What are you doing today? Heading over to hang out with Alicia and the kids?”

  “No, I’m going over to Enzo’s. Going to make some pasta for him so he can do the cooking for Allegra’s birthday tomorrow. You get the baby a gift like I told you?”

  I give him a look. He knows me better. I don’t shop. I pull out some cash and hand it over.

  “You’re getting her a baby doll for her to practice on before she gets a new little brother or sister. Enzo told me Chloe said no gifts because Allegra already has plenty. But I checked, she doesn’t have any baby dolls. Enzo said Chloe doesn’t want to shove dolls and girly stuff on Allegra. What the fuck with all this PC shit? You can’t give a kid a doll? What are they supposed to play with?”