The Bossman

Riverdale Avenue Books LLC

5676 Riverdale Avenue, Suite 101

Riverdale, New York 1047
www.riverdaleavebooks.com

The Bossman

Copyright © 2014 By Renee Rose

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62601-080-2

Print ISBN: 978-1-62601-081-9

Cover by Insatiable Fantasy Designs

Formatting by
www.formatting4U.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

Chapter One

Joey La Torre, mafia big-wig and brother to the boss, lay face down on Sophie’s massage table, his powerful presence making it impossible to slow her heart rate. He’d shown up without an appointment, stepping into her tiny massage studio as if he owned the place while reminding her he’d been a friend of her father’s.

“Would you like to listen to music?” she asked, although it was hard to imagine him enjoying her meditative flute and chant fare.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you usually do.” His voice reverberated around the small room, the rich tones over-filling it the same way his presence had been too large for her waiting room. She averted her eyes from the sight of his sculpted, naked torso, turning on the music and dispensing lavender-scented jojoba oil into her hands.

He flinched when she touched his back, his muscles only growing tenser as she ran her thumbs up the taut ropes of his erector spinae. Getting him to relax might be an impossibility. He’d explained his physical therapist had recommended massage for the residual pain after a knee replacement. He didn’t like strangers touching him, he’d said, but his ma had remembered Artie Palazzo’s daughter was a “masseuse.”

“Massage therapist,” Sophie had corrected.

“Oh yeah? What’s the difference?”

“A masseuse isn’t licensed, and may be the type that offers happy endings...” she’d trailed off, wishing she hadn’t opened that door.

He’d chuckled, but fortunately refrained from making a lewd comment.

She could feel his tension now. She guessed he was the sort of man like her father, who never let his guard down. She leaned her weight into him, using her forearms and even elbows to stroke arcs over his musculature. Joey was all thoroughbred male--wide shoulders, well-defined muscles, olive skin. Though macho men normally turned her off, his physical and charismatic presence combined with the apprehension his unexpected appearance inspired made her panties dampen, even as she cursed his mother for sending him to her.

She’d followed her mother’s lead in putting distance between that side of the family and herself since her father’s death fifteen years ago. Still, you didn’t give offense to Joey La Torre by refusing him service. Besides, she needed the money--her car was on the verge of being repossessed.

She continued her work, surprised when he began to settle in, responding to her touch and softening. She moved to his lower half, tucking the sheet between his legs to expose one buttock and leg. As she began to rub his glutes, she noticed one of his hips was higher than the other. She moved her fingers to the side of his low back to investigate if the pulling came from the Quadratus lumborum and then froze, realizing the cause of his distortion.

Joey had a hard-on.

Well, shit. Usually when it happened with a client, she ignored it, but with him it felt personal. Though she believed his reason for showing up was legit, she hadn’t missed the appreciative once-over he’d given her when he came in and considering how he had laughed when she’d stammered and called him Mr. La Torre, this felt like an opportunity for payback. She smirked and slid her fingers dangerously close to his crack, massaging the inside of his exposed bun, teasing him with her fingers as she worked the insertion of the muscles on the inside of his sit bone. His breath turned ragged and the muscles in his back hardened again. She took her time, slowing torturing him, savoring the feel of his oiled skin, the heady sensation of wielding sexual power. Moving to the other side, she dished out the same intimate treatment, using most of the hour on his buttocks alone.

“It’s important to work the hips when the knee hurts,” she murmured softly in his ear. “They can get twisted and tightened from the pain.”

He gave an unintelligible grunt.

She did have some mercy on him, finishing by placing both hands around the knee, sending energy through her palms until she felt an answering pulse as the energy in the injured joint came alive. “Thank you, Joey,” she murmured, touching his shoulder to signal it was over.

He gave a half groan.

She left the treatment room to wait for him, satisfied she’d made him suffer. Just as he emerged, though, she looked out the front window and all gloating vanished. A tow truck lined up next to her car, and the operator got out with a hook.

“Shit!” She opened the door and ran out toward the street. She could not afford to have her car repossessed. “Wait!” she yelled, dashing up to the tow truck. “Please. I’m going to make my payment today.”

“Sorry, lady,” the guy said without even looking at her.

“Wait--please? Can’t you just say you couldn’t find it?”

She heard footsteps behind her and cursed, utterly humiliated that Joey La Torre witnessed this degrading scene. The footsteps did not slow, though. Before she understood what was happening, Joey gripped the tow operator by the collar of his coveralls and pointed a pistol at his head.

“No,” he snarled. “You heard the lady. You couldn’t find it.”

The tow guy held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, man, I don’t want no trouble, but she hasn’t paid her car loan, so this car belongs to the bank. I’ve got the papers right here,” he said, reaching for his pocket. Joey growled in warning, causing the operator to hold his hands up again.

“I’m just gonna get the papers, man.”

“Slowly,” Joey warned.

The guy reached into his pocket, producing several papers folded together, which he held out with a trembling hand.

She ought to stop him. If she were a better person, she would call him off, or at least attempt to. But the fact was she needed her car, so she kept her mouth shut.

Joey snatched up the papers. “All right, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to leave this car here. You’re going to tell the bank the loan will be paid off this afternoon. And
you
--” he put his face right up to the other man’s, “--you stay away from Joey La Torre’s girl. If I ever see you hassling her again, you’re a dead man, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m sorry, Mr. La Torre. I didn’t know she was your girl.”

“Don’t forget it,” Joey growled, releasing the man. “Now get your hook off the car and get the hell out of here.”

“Sure thing, Mr. La Torre,” he said, scrambling to comply.

Joey stood supervising until the tow truck pulled away, then he turned to her and lifted his chin. “Get inside.”

She spread her hands. “Your girl? What the hell?”

He slid his pistol into the holster at his low back.

With the immediate fear of having her car repossessed gone, a new one took hold. She’d be forever beholden to the La Torre mafia now. Why she ever thought she’d be free from the Family was beyond her. “Look, I appreciate your help, but--”

With a hand at her back, he guided her back to her door. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he said, “Don’t give me grief, Sophie. Go on--do as you’re told. Get inside.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding a wild rhythm in her chest. She was outraged and humbled and turned on all at the same time. Considering she couldn’t do anything with the other two, she opted for humility. “Joey, I can’t pay the bank by tomorrow. And I can’t pay you back if you meant you were going to pay off the car.”

There was no way she was getting into debt with the Mob.

He shrugged. “I’m going to pay off the car.” He opened the packet of papers from the tow truck driver and scanned the information.

She rubbed her forehead. She figured she owed over $4,500 with all the late charges and fees tacked on. Tears burned behind her eyes. She didn’t want to owe him any favors. If there was one thing she’d learned from her mother, it was once you owed the Family, you belonged to them. “No, I can’t allow you to--”

“Shut up. It’s not up to you.”

Chapter Two

Sophie put her hands on her hips, looking even hotter when she was mad. Her long legs jutted out of her short khaki skirt at impudent angle. She gave her thick, glossy brown hair a toss, sending the layers fanning out over her shoulders.

“But it is--it’s my car and it’s my life. What favor are you going to demand in return?”

He hadn’t planned on asking anything in return and her question offended, but then he smiled as an idea occurred to him. “One date.”

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“I pay off your car, you go out on one date with me.” He gave her a challenging look. He knew, from his frosty reception when he’d showed up and from her long absence from family events, Sophie had a beef with the Family, which was no surprise, because her mother, who was not Sicilian, had always hated the mafia. Sophie had been afraid when he showed up, and like any good Sicilian (or half Sicilian in her case), she covered fear with piss and vinegar. But he loved a spitfire, especially one with a little complexity. The challenge of winning her held a lot of appeal.

Her mouth opened and shut once without sound. “I don’t date clients.”

“Make an exception.”