Dirty, Bruised Martini: A Dark Mafia Romance Read online

  I think about you when he fucks me.

  I think about you when he beats me.

  I think about you when he whips me and tortures me and makes me bleed.

  I think about you when he rapes me and then offers me to his friends - to the men who hate you almost as much as he does.

  All I can hope, to keep myself going, is that sometimes you think about me too.

  Dirty, Bruised Martini is a dark romance with multiple triggers. PLEASE do not read if this type of story is not for you.

  Dirty, Bruised Martini

  Copyright © 2018 Nikki Belaire

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  September 9

  September 10

  September 13

  September 15

  September 16

  September 17

  September 21

  September 22

  September 24

  September 25

  September 25 11:43 pm

  September 26

  September 27

  September 30—I think it’s September 30

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday I think

  I don’t know

  I have no idea

  I can’t tell

  Part II

  October 10

  October 10

  still October 10 11:15 am

  October 11

  October 11

  October 12

  October 12

  October 13

  October 13

  October 14

  October 14

  October 15

  October 15

  October 16

  October 16

  still October 16 1:30

  still October 16 1:35

  Saturday night!!! I don’t even fucking know what the stupid god damn fucking time is!!!

  October 16

  October 18

  October 18

  October 19

  October 19

  October 20

  October 20

  October 21

  October 21

  October 22

  October 22

  October 23

  October 23

  October 24

  October 24

  October 25

  October 25

  October 26

  October 26

  October 27

  October 27

  October 28

  October 28

  October 31

  October 31

  November 1

  November 2

  November 3

  November 4

  November 5

  November 6

  November 7

  November 8

  November 8

  November 9

  November 9

  November 10

  November 11

  November 12

  November 12

  November 13

  November 14

  November 16

  November 17

  November 20

  November 22

  November 23

  November 25

  November 26

  November 28

  November 30

  December 3

  December 3

  December 5

  December 6

  December 8

  December 9

  December 14

  December 17

  December 19

  December 21

  December 23

  December 26

  December 30

  December 31

  January 1

  Epilogue

  Bonus Epilogue

  Other Books

  About Nikki

  1. Love Lies—Khalid, Normani

  2. Mine—Bazzi

  3. Tell Me You Love me—Demi Lovato

  4. Can I Be Him—James Arthur

  5. Let Me—Zayn

  6. Find Me—Sigma, Birdy

  7. Only Time—Enya

  8. All I Want—Kodaline

  9. Come Home—One Republic, Sara Bareilles

  10. It Must Have Been Love—Roxette

  11. Angel—Sarah McLachlin

  12. Places—Martin Solveig

  I think about you when he fucks me.

  I think about all the times you told me you’d be the only man who would ever fuck me.

  You swore you meant what you said. You promised me, and I believed you.

  Now—it’s no longer true.

  He’s fucked me even though I didn’t want him to. I don’t want him to. I don’t ever want him to again. Yet, he does. All. The. Damn. Time. He fucks me again and again. My mouth. My pussy. My ass. Because he can. He fucks me because you aren’t here to stop him.

  And I’m scared to death you won’t ever be here to stop him. That you’ll never find me, and he’ll fuck me until he kills me. But I can’t think about that, or I won’t be able to keep going. Right now thinking about you is the ONLY thing keeping me going.

  I think about my mom a lot too. She would be so furious at me for using the “f word” as she would whisper the profanity while pressing her hand to her chest in shame. Unwilling to actually utter the expletive or speak in a normal tone while cursing. Writing the obscenity in this notebook I found on the housekeeper’s desk is almost as bad as swearing out loud. Almost as terrible as stealing the binder from the busy woman while she was occupied with vacuuming the living room. But I couldn’t help myself. I need something to keep from going any crazier than I already have.

  With either offense, if my mother knew, I’d for sure get a teaspoon of vinegar squirted in my mouth and a hard smack on the bottom. Just like when I was a little girl. I’m never too old for her to remind me that, “I’m still her child and need to act like I’ve got some sense.”

  You always laughed when she said that.

  I miss your laugh.

  I miss you.

  I swear I’m trying hard to be brave. I really am. But it gets harder every day forcing myself not to give up. Not to just give in and accept being here with him is my fate.

  Forever.

  Without you.

  Or my mom.

  Good thing she’s not here to know what I do. Or, I guess more accurately, what I’ve been forced to do. Good thing she’s safe. I know you’re still protecting her. I know you won’t let anything happen to her. Because you know how much I love her. I hope you know how much I love her.

  I hope you know how much I love you.

  I hope you know that I don’t blame you. Even though I know you blame yourself.

  Anyway, I don’t have any choice. I have to write “fuck” because I can’t call what he does to me making love. No, it’s not making love at all. Not like you. Not like when I was with you. You were always so gent
le. Which surprised me the first time we were together, as big and strong and powerful as you are. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. You always treated me like I was made of glass. Or a fragile flower that you thought you would crush the delicate petals if you were too rough. Your huge hands were always soft when you touched me. Always making sure I was ready for you. You were careful and cautious so I wouldn’t be frightened.

  I never was.

  Not once. Not ever when we were together. You made me feel safe. You made me feel loved.

  Not like him.

  He just throws me down, rips off what little clothes he allows me to wear, and does whatever he wants. He doesn’t care that I’m scared. He doesn’t care that I don’t want him. He doesn’t care that I’m sore and raw and spent. He doesn’t care about anything but himself.

  And hurting me to punish you.

  The worst part is him grunting and panting in my ear. I hate that sound. I hate his hot breath blowing on my neck more than any other noise I hear in this prison he keeps me in. Actually, that’s a lie. The worst part is his hand wrapped tight around my throat. Squeezing me breathless and holding me immobile. Almost suffocating me with his heavy body while he pounds into me over and over until he finally finishes and rolls off.

  Maybe it’s twisted, but sometimes I try to pretend I’m with you. I close my eyes and go as deep into my mind as I can. Far away from him and what he’s doing to me. I imagine I smell your sexy cologne, rich with leather and spices, in the crook of your shoulder and the faint scent of cigars lingering on your skin—the naughty habit I know you try to hide from me but I still catch you anyway. I taste your favorite vermouth on your tongue. Feel your long fingers clutching my leg to keep me close. As if I would want to be anywhere but under you.

  Of course, my fantasizing never works.

  My imagination isn’t that good I guess.

  At least now I’m allowed to take a shower as soon as he’s done. He trusts me—or has “trained” me as he likes to call it—not to try and run away anymore. Which I do realize, after all my futile attempts to escape his captivity, is pointless. He won’t ever let me get away. He told me he’d kill me first and I believe him. God, after what he’s done to me, do I believe him.

  When I get the opportunity, I bathe for as long as possible. Scrubbing him and his disgusting hands and his groaning breath and his musky scent and his sticky cum off me the best I can. The bathroom is the only place I get to be alone. The only time I don’t have to see his hideous face. Without him or his terrifying men or the prying cameras watching me. He knows what I’m doing and why I take so long but I don’t care. I deserve to have some privacy. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. Even if he slaps the hell out of me for defying him. Sometimes he punishes me. Sometimes he doesn’t. Today he didn’t. So it’s a good day.

  As much as it can be good when you’re trapped with a monster.

  I think about you when he beats me.

  Not the playful swats you would give me when we were in bed, and I pretended to be naughty. I remember the first time you spanked me. Not on my butt cheeks but in the front, you know. And yes, my face is burning as I write this. I know you can imagine how red I am. Earning your nickname for me once again. I’m still your rosy girl.

  When you smacked me there, I thought it would hurt. And it kind of did. But it felt good too. Really amazingly good. I couldn’t believe it. I never thought hitting me in such an intimate place would feel so wonderful. I wanted more. I moaned, and you growled. I could tell you were pleased. I liked that. Pleasing you. I like making you happy. Because you make me happy.

  Maybe that’s weird. Maybe that’s degrading to have my goal in life be to make you happy after everything I accomplished on my own before we met. Maybe that’s too submissive, and I should want more than to just be your good girl. But it’s true. We both know it’s true. No need to lie for a truth we can’t do anything about but accept.

  But he’s NOTHING like you. He’s so cruel. So damn mean. When he hits me, it hurts. Not the good hurt either. But painful. More pain than I ever thought possible. Worse than I believed I could tolerate and not pass out. Over and over. On my butt and thighs and back. With belts and sticks and paddles. He said it’s supposed to feel good. That it will make my pussy wet for him. But he lies. That’s a lie. A total and complete lie. It feels terrible. He’s terrible. My pussy’s never wet for him. Never! Not now! Not ever!!!

  My mom would really punish me if she knew I wrote that word! God, what would she think?!? I know she must be so scared. Probably even more than I am.

  You’d be proud of me though. I finally figured out that the more I cry, the harder and longer he hits me. I’ve also finally figured how to cry without any noise. That seems to help some. But nothing seems to help with these bruises. I haven’t been able to sit down for three days. My feet ache from standing so much. I’m exhausted, but if I lay down, he’ll fuck me more than he already does. Even though he knows I’m in pain. Very well aware that he hurts me when he touches me. He doesn’t care. I actually think he likes it. He likes seeing me suffer. He actually enjoys seeing me suffer. I always wonder why. A sadist, I think it’s called. He’s definitely that. He definitely is the most ecstatic when I’m the most broken.

  I think about you when he makes me bleed.

  You would be so angry to see me like this. I remember how furious you were when I slipped on the icy driveway and slammed the back of my head on the travertine. You berated the terrified groundskeeper for being careless. I thought you were going to kill him you were that livid. You spared him because of me. Although I wished you didn’t even want to kill him at all because it’s wrong and over the top and crazy. But I know how your world works. No one, including your own staff, can ever see you as weak. Which is why I realize this isn’t your fault. He only took me to prove your weakness.

  But, I understood the risk, the danger of loving you, when I accepted you into my life and my heart. Not like I really had any choice. I love you and couldn’t give you up if I tried. I know you feel the same way. You hate loving me too because of the jeopardy of us being together puts me in. Puts both of us in. But you can’t change your feelings any more than I can.

  I know how much you worry about me. You carried me everywhere when I was too dizzy to walk and changed the bandage yourself instead of allowing the nurse to attend to me. And of course you said you enjoyed taking care of me. You said you didn’t care if I thought you were bossy or stubborn or chauvinistic, that’s what a man does for the woman he loves.

  I can’t lie. I loved you taking care of me. I love taking care of you too.

  Now I’m injured again. With my wrists wrapped in tight white bandages. I was stupid. It was stupid. I admit it. I should have known better than to try and hide anything from him. Even if there aren’t cameras in the room where he sleeps and he forces me to lay beside him, (I REFUSE to call it “our” bedroom!) he catches everything. Almost like a sixth sense or something. His cruel guards tattle on me too. They’re as vindictive as he is.

  Writing in this improvised diary is dangerous. Stuffing the notebook under the mattress when I heard his voice from the hallway wasn’t my smartest move either. But I didn’t want him to know what I write to you. It’s pathetic I know but I just want to feel like I’m talking to you. I miss you. I have no one else. People are everywhere here, but I’m still all alone.

  I’m not sure how long it will take for the cuts to heal from the chains. The scars from last time he strung me up ripped open again from me straining against the metal cuffs. It’s dumb to fight him. I should just give into what he wants. But sometimes I just can’t take it. I can’t take him anymore. So I fight like an idiot, and I always lose like a fool.

  At least he let me keep my journal. After he flipped through the pages and laughed at what I wrote. But I don’t care if he thinks I’m dumb. Or, that keeping a journal’s dumb. I’m glad I still have it. I just wish I didn’t have to do what he demanded to earn it back.
It’s been a really bad day. A really, really bad week actually.

  I think about you when he hurts me.

  I knew something was up. Something really, really bad was going to happen. He was too happy, too excited. Giddy with anticipation for some torture he was eager to dole out to me.

  I tried to pretend I was unafraid like you would have wanted me to. I stood tall with my chin up, emulating you when you address your men. Spoke to him as if I was the one issuing the orders. With all the force and conviction I could muster. I swear to goodness I really did.

  Of course I failed. I was too scared. My body shaking and my voice squeaky. Giving away my fear in a heartbeat. He only laughed and dragged me downstairs to a room I’d never been to before. It looked like a dungeon. Some kind of torture chamber. I knew then that’s why he was so eager. He loves tormenting me. I screamed and fought but I can’t ever win against him. No matter how hard I try. I can NEVER win against him!

  The stainless steel was freezing. At first, I didn’t know why he strapped me to the table completely naked. I could have at least kept on my shirt and panties. But of course he never thinks about what I want. What I need. Just stripped me down to nothing in front of everyone.

  Even the poor artist was frightened. The gun pointed at his head kept him in line too. His hand trembled as much as my body. Which only made it worse when he was trying to draw on my frigid skin. Ordered to make damn sure the design was exactly what that monster wanted or he would kill the terrified guy.

  I guess the drawing finally pleased him. The needle didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. But tied down in one position for four hours kills your neck with your head twisted to the side. My cheek hurt smashed against the cold, hard metal, and my arms and legs fell asleep which made me twitch and jerk uncontrollably. It was excruciating and I begged him to let me up. But they kept going until he was satisfied. When all I wanted was some relief.

  What’s that saying—be careful what you wish for? That was exactly me in that moment. After too damn long, he pulled out the key to the cuffs and released me. Well, my ankles anyway and I was so grateful.

  I shouldn’t have been.

  Not when he looked at me like a conquest. Not when the bulge in his pants grew bigger as he stroked me. Not when he loosened the straps enough to lift me to my knees so he could fuck me from behind and look at my hideous new tramp stamp while he did it. With his men and the artist watching. I should have been ashamed. I should have been embarrassed. But as terrible as it is, I’m too tired to be humiliated by anything anymore.