Ne m’Oblige Pas E-Book

Rose Renee

• Herausgeber: Renee Rose
• Sprache: Französisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Il a l’interdiction de me toucher.
Je suis la fille du Don. Une princesse de la mafia. Lui, c’est le bras droit de mon père.

Quand Carlo me surprend en train de m’effeuiller dans un club de strip-tease,
il veut me traîner dans le bureau de mon père.
Je lui suggère une alternative : une solution plus agréable pour nous deux.
C’est lui qui se chargera de me punir. Il me dominera comme il a toujours rêvé de le faire.
Il prendra soin de moi, et surtout, il gardera mon secret.

Mais nous jouons avec le feu.
Chaque jour, je tombe un peu plus amoureuse du sous-chef.
Et si mon père le découvre...
Ce n’est pas seulement mon avenir qui sera détruit.
La vie de Carlo sera en jeu.

Leseprobe

Don’t Make Me

A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

Made Men

Renee Rose

Copyright © December 2022 Don’t Make Me by Renee Rose and Renee Rose Romance

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the authors. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors' rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published in the United States of America

Wilrose Dream Ventures LLC

Cover by: Pop Kitty Designs

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

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Prologue

Sicily

Carlo

Blood soaks my clothes—too much to show up at my great-uncle Junior’s front entrance. I slip around to the back and tap the heavy wooden door. I hope Zia Maria doesn’t answer, not that the old woman can’t handle the shock. Sicilian women—at least those in La Famiglia—are as tough as the men.

The door cracks, and the muzzle of a Glock points through followed by my uncle’s bushy white eyebrows.

“Carlo.” The door swings wide, and my uncle grabs me by the shirt and hauls me inside.

“Only some of it is mine.” I can’t get my damn ear to stop bleeding from the bullet that went through. The bullet that missed my skull by an inch.

“Get cleaned up before your aunt sees you.” The old man propels me to the bathroom. “I’ll bring you some clothes.”

I strip, the metallic smell of blood filling my nostrils. Ferdi’s blood. Fucking Ferdi. I left him alive after I beat the truth out of him.

Who tries to kill their own cousin? Ferdi, apparently.

I won’t. I didn’t. Ferdi’s soldier, though, is another story. I left a bullet in the middle of his forehead. Closing my eyes, I try to erase the sight.

I wash in the shower and dry off, barely managing to keep the continuous drip of blood from my ear from staining Zia Maria’s towel.

My uncle comes in without knocking and drops some clothes on the counter. He gives me an up-and-down sweep of the eyes, probably checking for bullet holes. “Just the ear?”

“Yeah.” I yank on the clothes.

“Who?” Junior hands me a washcloth and lifts his chin toward my still-bleeding ear.

“Ferdi.”

My uncle’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Your cousin Ferdi? What happened?”

“Mario put a hit on me.” I somehow keep the waver from my voice, unprepared for the sense of betrayal rocketing through my chest. My own fucking brother. My fucking brother ordered me killed.

Junior’s face turns to stone, his eyes black and dangerous. It’s an expression I’ve seen on my father’s face countless times. The Sicilian war face. Calculating, deadly. “What happened? Wait, come out of the fucking bathroom. I’ll get you a drink.”

At the kitchen table, Junior pours both of us a glass of grappa, and we sit down.

“My dad named me Consiglieri. I think Mario thinks he might pick me to lead when he dies.” My chest tightens at the thought of my father, so diminished from the cancer now.

“I see.” My mom’s uncle isn’t part of the Romano business in Palermo, but his family has ties to them and runs their own network of semi-legal or illegal operations. He understands the dynamics. “What’s your plan?”

That is the fucking problem. I don’t have one.

Junior reads into the silence. “Are you going to tell your dad?”

I give my head a decisive shake. “Hell no. He’s on his deathbed. It would kill him, and he would die brokenhearted.”

“Let me ask you this, Carlo. Do you want to lead the family? I mean, how old are you? Twenty-three?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I know you’re smart, and I’m sure you’re tough, but do you think the older guys are going to fall in line under you?”

I shrug. “I wasn’t trying to steal the power from Mario… or any of them.” Hell, I’m the fifth son, I never expected to be more than a capo. But as the youngest child, I have the special ability of reading people. Born from all that time observing from corners as a kid, I suppose. I see through bullshit, see into people. My father used that talent in the last few years, coming to me much more often than he did Mario or any of our other brothers.

We always were tight, me and my dad. I’m the baby of the family, after all. My dad wasn’t as much of a hard-ass with me as he was with my brothers; and more than that, my parents revered me as a special gift because I almost died during birth.

“Look, I don’t even know if my father would have shaken up the structure. But obviously, Mario was worried. So now I’m in a bad place.”

The soft pad of Zia Maria’s slippers scuffing the floor signal her approach from down the hall.

“It’s Carlo,” Junior calls to her.

“Carlo?” The joy in my aunt’s voice almost makes me tear up. Cristo. I’m going soft. Well, when your own brother wants you dead, it’s nice to know someone in the family still cares.

I stand and embrace the tiny woman, accept her clucking over my ear. I don’t try to stop her from pulling out all the food in the fridge and heating it up for a full meal. You can’t keep an Italian woman from that generation from feeding her family.

When I finish eating and successfully ward off Maria’s pressure for seconds, she sits down with us.

“Mamma.” Junior covers his wife’s gnarled hand. “Carlo’s in a pinch. His brother wants him dead because he’s worried about his stealing power when their father dies.”

I didn’t expect Junior to tell Maria. Usually, the women are left out of business discussions—no one wants to incriminate the innocent. But this is a family issue, and right now I need help from my family.

Zia Maria covers her mouth with her hand, but when she removes it, she already has a sharp look in her eye. She taps the table with her bony fingers. “Send him to my nephew Alberto, in New Jersey. Just until this all blows over. He could use a smart young man like our Carlo. He’ll take good care of our boy.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I’d be away when my dad dies. Miss saying goodbye. And he wouldn’t know where I’ve gone. But there is no way around it.

I draw a breath. New Jersey. Well, it sounds better than any plan I’ve come up with. “Okay.” I nod. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

ChapterOne

New Jersey

Four Years Later

Summer

I grip the pole and extend one leg up into a perfect split. A lifetime of ballet lessons is finally paying off. Heh. Well, it’s not like I can perform for real anymore, not since my injury.

I consider stripping at The Candy Store to be a form of sex therapy. That’s how I framed it to my best friend, Maggie, anyway.

I don’t strip for the money, and it sure as hell isn’t to meet nice guys. But I like the sense of power it gives me. Or is it the objectification? Either way, each time I take the stage and twirl around the pole, it repairs a small piece of my shattered sexual confidence.

I have my asswipe ex-boyfriend John to thank for my new career. Every night I work, I feed off the lust in the men’s eyes and send a psychic f-you to the guy who found me so unappealing. He barely managed to have sex with me once a month. When I found out he was cheating on me with multiple women—sometimes three different women in a week—I was ready to give up men altogether. But this is better.

So long as my father never finds out. Because Alberto LaTorre, don of the LaTorre Crime Family, would never recover from learning his spoiled principessa is taking her clothes off for money. He has some very old school Catholic ideas about women—they’re either whores or the blessed Virgin herself, and nothing in between exists. And, obviously, he wants me firmly in the blessed virgin category.

I pull off my short plaid Catholic school girl skirt to the applause of the crowd. The white blouse is already off, leaving me in nothing but a bikini top and lacey white G-string. I crawl forward on the stage and accept a five-dollar bill between my tits, giving the man who offered it a nibble on his earlobe as I murmur “Thanks.”

Standing to twirl around the pole again, I grip it and flip myself upside down with my legs in a forward split. Rotating my legs, I open them to a center split, then wrap both ankles around the pole and slide down to land on my back with my knees bent up and spread wide.

In my periphery, I see a couple guys enter through the door. Maybe it’s the well-tailored suit that makes me look twice. Maybe it’s just my instincts kicking into gear, but when I glance through the low-lit club at the faces of the men, I go cold.

Carlo.

My father’s right-hand man. My drool-worthy, sexy Sicilian foster-brother of sorts, walking in like he owns the place. I recognize the face of the guy with him but don’t know his name. One of Carlo’s soldiers.

I spin to hide my face, praying he didn’t see me. He’ll probably head straight up to the VIP section for private dances. He certainly has the money and seems like the type who prefers that. Hopefully he won’t even give the stage the time of day. Thank heavens no one around here will object to the sight of my ass instead of my face. I put my two hands on the upstage wall and roll my hips and head in concentric circles, letting my thick brown hair fall down my back. I wonder if I could just stay back there, pin to the wall until my set is over. Two more numbers, and I’ll be off the stage, and then I’ll tell my boss I’m not feeling well and split.

But already some young frat boys are hollering to me, waving their five-dollar bills in the air for me to come over. I pretend not to see them.

“Hey, over here,” one of them calls. “What? Our money’s not good enough for you?”

“Milan.” My boss, Sam, grunts my stage name, jerking his head toward the guy. I toss my head around as I strut toward him, letting my hair fall over my face. Crouching down, I pull out the waistband of my G-string for his offering.

With my back to the audience, I go back to the pole and wrap one leg around it, humping the stainless steel. Going for another high kick, I slip and stumble back. It turns out sweaty palms present a serious impediment to pole dancers. To recover, I strut around the perimeter of the stage, trying to keep my hair over my face.

I don’t look at Carlo. He climbed the stairs into the VIP section, but he’s sitting at the balcony, looking down. It’s probably just my imagination that he’s staring straight at me. When I round the corner, I dart a glance in his direction.

Shit.

We lock gazes, and my stomach twists.

Carlo’s lips flatten. Surging to his feet, he jogs down the stairs and stalks toward the stage. Jimmy, The Candy Store’s ex-marine bouncer, flexes his muscles and steps forward.

I dart toward the stairs to intercept. As the daughter of Jersey’s largest crime family don, I probably know even less than your average American about the workings of the mob, but there is one thing I understand: Family men don’t take shit from anyone. Like any apex predator, they’re dangerous when provoked.

“It’s okay, Jimmy,” I say breathlessly as I navigate the stage steps in my heels.

“Milan, what the hell are you doing?” Sam calls from the other side of the stage.

I send an apologetic glance at him and try to push past Jimmy, who put his body between mine and Carlo’s. He extends an arm to hold me back.

“What do you want?” he demands of Carlo.

Carlo ignores him and lifts his chin at me. He doesn’t need to speak. I know he can only have one agenda--to haul me out of there as fast as possible, before anyone else sees my scantily-clad body.

“It’s okay, Jimmy.” I grip the bouncer’s bulging bicep.

Carlo looks at the place where my hand connects with Jimmy’s arm, and his lip curls into a snarl.

I snatch it away. “I’m going to leave with Carlo. I have to go.”

“Is this guy giving you problems? You don’t have to go anywhere with him.”

The stupid bouncer’s going to get himself killed. Why can’t he leave it the hell alone? “No, no. You have it all wrong. He’s family.”

With a capital F.

“He’s my ride, and I have to go now.”

By this time, Sam’s shoved another girl on stage. He makes it over to us, looking irate. “What in the hell is going on here?”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I have to quit. You can keep my last paycheck. I’ll just get my stuff from the locker room.” I say the last bit to Carlo who acknowledges it with an almost imperceptible nod.

Jimmy catches my arm. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asks in a low voice.

“No! I’m not. I’m really not. But I do have to go. I’m really sorry.” I pull away and rush off toward the locker room, carrying my clothes from the stage. I throw on my plaid skirt and white blouse and grab my purse from the locker.

Carlo and his soldier wait in the hall. Carlo stands out from the rest of the men who frequent The Candy Store. Tall, expensively-dressed and darkly handsome, he caught the attention of all the women working the place, but right now he’s looking only at me, and he appears lethal. Something about seeing Carlo as such a badass makes my entire body vibrate—and not just from nerves. I scoot past them, not wanting a scene in The Candy Store, and head out the back door with my two bodyguards—or in this case, prison guards—behind me.

“You drive my car back.” Carlo hands his keys to his soldier. The guy disappears, afraid enough of my father to avoid looking my way. Carlo follows me to my car.

“Are you going to tell me what in the fuck is going on?” His sexy Italian accent sounds thicker when he’s mad. His green eyes flash.

I shiver and shake my head.

“No?” He cups my chin. Despite the hard lines and the anger on his face, his touch is gentle. “What were you doing in there? You can’t possibly need the money.” He gives me a questioning look.

“No, it’s not that. I like dancing, okay?”

“Dancing?” He snorts. “I’ve seen you dance. You have more talent than every stripper in Jersey combined. That’s not dancing. Give me the damn keys.”

I search in my purse and produce them. “Are you going to tell my dad?”

He snatches the keyring from my hand. “Of course, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to drive you to his house right now, so he can straighten you out.”

The thought of my father’s reaction brings on a wave of panic. It’s not that I’m afraid of him. It’s what this would do to him. I’m his little princess. His perfect girl—the ballerina, the straight-A dance major whose parents hoped would someday marry a doctor or lawyer and be as straight-laced and square as they are marginal. I don’t want to ruin my parents’ little fantasy.

I block Carlo when he reaches to open the car door, getting a whiff of his cologne and, underneath it, his decidedly masculine scent. He towers over me, his hard-muscled body so close heat registers along my skin. “Don’t tell him.”

* * *

Carlo

Gesù, if it wasn’t so wrong, seeing Summer LaTorre on that stage would’ve been a wet dream come true. Her legs look impossibly long under the miniscule skirt, her breasts lush and ripe, pushed up by the tiny bikini top under her white blouse. This can’t be the same princess I sit across from on Sunday meals at her father’s house.

She grips my shirt, her beautiful copper-flecked eyes bright with tears. “You can’t tell him. Please don’t tell him.”

If she had any idea how much her tearful begging turns me on, she’d run back for the protection of that jackass bouncer in a heartbeat. Or she should, anyway.

I force myself to ignore my growing hard-on. Her skimpy outfit doesn’t help matters. But then, I’ve always had a difficult time keeping my thoughts pure when it comes to Summer LaTorre. Gesù, when I saw her thrashing her hips around up on that stage…

But turned on or not, the fact that the don’s daughter is taking her clothes off for money concerns me. I suspect the reason behind it is even more unsettling than catching her in the act.

I cover her fists with my hands, resisting the urge to bring one to my lips to kiss. “Summer, you know where my loyalty lies. I can’t keep this from him.”

“Please, Carlo, you have to.”

Damn, she’s cute when she turns those puppy dog eyes on me. But no, I can’t let this go. “Listen, doll, what you were doing in there” —I jerk my thumb toward the strip club— “isn’t right. You need someone to straighten you the fuck out.”

Summer blinks rapidly.

“You’ve been a hot mess ever since you broke up with your douchebag boyfriend.”

Her eyes widen as if shocked that I noticed she hasn’t been herself for the past few months. Tears spill from her eyes and streak down her face, and I want to kill that douchebag a hundred times over for hurting her.

The damn bouncer stands in the doorway, watching us.

“I don’t want my dad to know. Please don’t tell him.” The puppy-dog eyes plead. “I quit, okay? You heard me quit, right? I won’t go back, I promise.”

I shake my head, steeling myself against the urge to give her anything and everything she asks for. Don Alberto would kill me for keeping something important like this from him. Hell, Don Alberto would kill me just for having seen his daughter practically nude.

Besides, Summer probably needs help. I have no judgement of strippers, but I know Summer well enough to suspect she’s looking for attention from the customers at a strip club to fill some void. Allowing her to keep going down this path of self-destruction won’t do her any favors. She needs someone to sort her out.

“I’m sorry, doll. You need guidance. If you ask me, someone needs to spank your ass to teach you a lesson in self-respect.” Okay, I don’t even know where that came from. It must be the Catholic school-girl outfit tweaking my inner dom.

Unbelievably, she gazes up at me with her big doe eyes and says, “Okay.”

I cock a brow. “Okay?”

She swallows. “You can do it.”

Why does she actually look hopeful about the prospect?

My cock surges against my pants, and my suit jacket suddenly feels too hot.

No. I can’t be considering it.

I stare at her, trying to deny the appeal of bending her over and lifting that minuscule plaid skirt of hers to deliver a spanking. “You want me to punish you?”

She nods.

I push her back against the car, pinning her supple body between the BMW and my larger frame. She releases my shirt, and I grasp her wrists, pulling them together, tucked against my chest.

She stops breathing. Her nipples protrude through her blouse, and her lush lips part.

Christ. I want to take that mouth, possess her glossy lips. Own her. Show her what attention from a real man feels like.

I force some self-control. Her father is the don. The man I owe everything to. I can’t degrade his daughter that way.

“No, cara mia. I can’t.”

Her face falls. “Why not?”

I picture her ass bared for me, my little princess to punish and protect. My gaze slides away, down the row of cars, and one corner of my mouth kicks up as I consider the truth.

“I’m afraid I would like it.” I look back down at her, and she flushes, eyes dilating. Her chest rises and falls, drawing my gaze down to her apple-sized breasts.

“You would like punishing me?” Her voice cracks.

I look her square in the face, let her see the sadistic bastard I am. What she’d get if she unleashed my desire. “Yeah.”

Damn, if she doesn’t look excited. Fuck, if she doesn’t push her abdomen back at my bulging cock, rocking her pelvis up. A low growl rises in my throat.

“I guess I’d prefer it that way.”

Oh, this was too. Fucking. Tempting.

She blinks those big doe eyes. “Look, you know this would kill my dad. He thinks of me as his perfect little princess. His good girl. The one who’s going to marry a lawyer or be a congressman’s wife. Not only would it destroy him to know about this, but he’d be sick about the fact that you and… um…”

“Sonny.” I supply the name of my soldier.

“Yeah, that you and Sonny saw me. That would really piss him off.”

She’s absolutely right about that. I put a finger under her chin. “Summer, I’m not kidding around about punishing you. It wouldn’t be a game.”

It’s the only way I can justify it. That I’m actually trying to straighten her out, not perv on the don’s daughter by enacting every kinky fantasy I’ve ever had about her.

She sucks on her lower lip. “Okay.”

Gesù Cristo. I stroke her cheek with my thumb. I’ve never touched her this way before, even though I’ve always considered Summer to be mine—someday. As underboss to the LaTorre family business at the tender age of twenty-seven, I stand to inherit the kingdom—and that means I get the princess. At least in my mind. I’m pretty sure Don Alberto sees it differently, though.

“Please, Carlo?” Her voice sounds hoarse.

My breath stalls. When it starts again, my heart’s taken off at a gallop. “You’re giving yourself to me? For my correction?”

Does she have any idea what she’s getting herself into?

She sucks on her lip again and nods. “Yes.”

I look skyward. I should tell her no. This won’t work. A) Don Alberto will kill me. B) Don Alberto will kill me again, and C) If I go home with her, I’ll never want to leave.

But I’m already touching her. Her scent fills my nostrils, the warmth of her soft flesh ignites every cell in my body. I don’t want to tell her no. I don’t want to take her to Don Al and Carmen and tell them what I saw tonight, to bring hurt and disappointment to the couple who’ve become my new family. And now that I can practically taste Summer, I sure as hell don’t want to give up this window of opportunity.

Cogliere l'attimo. Seize the moment.

I blow out my breath. Releasing her wrists, I step back and open her car door. When she turns to get in, I gave her delicious ass a smack.

I climb in the driver’s side and adjust the seat back as far as it goes to make room for my long legs. “You’re going to get me killed.”

She unbuckles her high heels and toes them off. “Guess I’ll have to make it worth it.”

ChapterTwo

Summer

Carlo doesn’t speak on the ride to the apartment he and my father helped me move into. I steal glances at him as he drives, noting the firm set of his square jaw, the furrow between his brows. Is he actually mad at me? Or just acting stern on behalf of my father?

I was surprised to hear his opinion that I need help. I thought I’ve been putting on a decent front since I broke up with John. I didn’t know Carlo paid any attention to my mental state. Knowing he does sends a shot of longing through me so deep and drastic that part of me wants to tell him to pull the car over, so I can run away. Because he’s right—I am fragile right now. And it wouldn’t take any coaxing at all for me to fall hopelessly for the guy I’ve been secretly lusting after for the past four years.

He pulls up in front of my apartment and parallel parks in a tight space without having to maneuver the car back and forth. But Carlo pretty much does everything well. At least from what I’ve seen. He probably wouldn’t treat me with scorn because I’m horrid at parallel parking, either. Carlo is never derisive like John. No, I’ll bet he’s secure enough in his manhood that he wouldn’t need to pick apart his girlfriend to make sure she measures up. Or to cheat.

I open the door and climb out in my bare feet. My injured foot throbs from wearing the high heels.

I tug my short skirt down. Funny how what felt empowering and sexy in the club now seems shameful. At least it does until I catch the appreciative once over from Carlo when he meets me on the sidewalk.

Ok. He’s not going to shame me. He likes what he sees.

Which means… this punishment might be more pleasure than pain.

Then again, it might not. I suspect one of the reasons Carlo has risen to power so quickly in my father’s organization is his ruthlessness. I’ve even heard it mentioned he has a sadistic streak.

So pleasure for him. Pain for me.

I can work with that. I’m a dancer–we’re natural masochists.

Carlo escorts me up the stairs with a hand at my lower back. I like the way it feels—gentlemanly and courteous like we’re a couple. Like he’s not leading me upstairs to do terribly kinky things with me.

The door to my place is thick and solid. My dad had it replaced for security measures, complete with a heavy-duty lock. Carlo still has my set of keys and doesn’t bother to ask which one opens the door, just picks one and tries it. He chooses correctly. The door swings open, and he gestures for me to enter first.

I set my purse and heels down. Carlo slides off his tailored Italian suit jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. When he slowly rolls up his sleeves, the butterflies dancing in my stomach take flight.

This is really happening. He plans to punish me. And enjoy it.

I wonder why that idea turns me on.

He walks over to me, a glint in his eye that I don’t recognize. Dark and serious. Dangerous. He reaches for the top button on my blouse and unfastens it.

Oh God. The flesh between my legs clenches and lifts.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“I’m going to punish you in the state of undress you were in at the club.” His voice is dark and velvety. He stands so close, I can see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow in contrast to the soft pillows of his sensual lips.

I gulp air to clear my head. Hot. This is super hot.

Carlo’s deft fingers move down my buttons then pull my blouse down over my shoulders. I shake my arms out from it.

He twirls his finger in the air, indicating I should turn around.

My heart thuds against my chest. I turn then look over my shoulder at my father’s soldier. The young man who came in and instantly made a place for himself. Carlo’s the relation of a relation, sent to America when things got too hot in Sicily if I understand correctly. Not that anyone has ever said as much to me, but that’s what I’ve gleaned from overheard conversations.