BWWM Dark Mafia Romance | Long Island Butcher (Long Island Mafia Romance #2)
Hello readers… 🖤 Welcome to the darker side of interracial romance. I have another juicy, forbidden and downright dirty story coming to your eReaders soon…
The second book in the series has so far been a complete mystery.
Today, I pull back the curtain and share the most delicious slice of John Vicari’s story. THE BOSS.
I have to warn you that this age gap romance is dark, extremely smutty and above all, focused on the pleasure of the black female lead. Some of the content in this story may be triggering and includes graphic and violent content which some readers may wish to avoid.
John’s story starts with a bang… and from the perspective of our female lead, Alexis Carter.
Indulge in the gripping first chapter here for FREE, and don’t forget to preorder the book before the release date so you can get the story delivered directly to your Kindle at midnight.
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Chapter One
ALEXIS CARTER
I hate walking to parties alone at night. It sucks, but at least it’s better than hanging around all night while my best friend sucks the face off some annoying frat boy at a pregame. Chloe loves parties, and she loves the attention she gets for being a petite, outgoing Asian girl even more. I’m always the awkward third wheel. I have a boyfriend, but he’s normally too busy proving himself as the school’s reigning beer pong champion.
Chloe thinks I just need to have a few “sneaky make outs” with other guys when Cameron ignores me, but I just… I don’t want to hook up with anyone. I just want a boyfriend who gives a crap. Maybe if I had a boyfriend who gave a crap, I wouldn’t have to walk down these city streets in uncomfortable high heels alone.
I’ll never get our generation’s obsession with hooking up. I’ll never understand how everyone is so fucking satisfied with these shallow relationships where you barely know each other’s last names, much less each other’s interests, likes or dislikes before you shove your tongues into each other’s mouths. Is it too much to want a guy to ask me my middle name before he puts his hands in my pants? I just find the obsession with getting numbers up and treating people like consumable products so shallow and stupid.
Chloe sends me a nervous text message. She’s probably already drunk, but at least she’s checking in to make sure someone hasn’t mugged me. Columbia students are notoriously naïve. We get mugged all the time around here.
My phone buzzes as I close in on the door to the party. I glance down at several texts from Chloe, most of which are blurry images, followed by a brief text.
Chloe: Alexis… Where r u??????????
Chloe always writes an excess of punctuation. One question mark is more than enough.
Me: I’m outside.
I’m nervous, but since there are parties all over the five-block radius around this brownstone, it’s unlikely I’ll stumble upon anything more criminal than fraternity brothers peeing against the wall to someone’s house
Chloe: Thank GOD!!!!!!!!! Thought you were DEAD!!!!!!
She is the most dramatic texter ever. How the hell could I text her back (and keep her updated with the occasional photo) if I were dead? When she drinks, her anxiety climbs by one thousand percent. She bursts out of the brownstone with a drink in her hand and a bright red flush that tells me she’s already wasted.
“Oh my God, ALEXIS!” she shrieks. “Get in here. Gabe is about to beat Cameron in pong and the house is going fucking nuts. Their shirts are off, you have to see this.”
Ugh. I hate when my boyfriend drinks enough to take his shirt off. Random girls always come up to me and congratulate me on sleeping with him as if Cameron were some kind of achievement and not a flawed person, just like anyone else. Chloe thinks I’m way too cynical about him, but I don’t know. I just hate house parties and when you date a student athlete at Columbia like Cameron, parties come with the territory.
Cameron never portrayed himself as the type of guy who got drunk every weekend when he first slid into my DMs, but every weekend, his idea of a date is inviting me to watch him get shitfaced with his buddies and then we have sex in his room.
The sex is bad. He finishes after three to four minutes and then watches porn with his headphones on. At least he doesn’t mind if I finish myself off afterwards in the bed next to him. There are good parts to our relationship, or I would have dumped him by now, but it’s easy to forget those good parts when I desperately want to feel… loved.
Cameron loves reminding me I’m a strong college feminist—I don’t need a man to orgasm. If I try to argue with that, things normally spiral out of control, so I stopped bringing it up. Arguing with Cameron is about as effective as arguing with a lacrosse ball.
Before I can ask Chloe any follow-up questions about Cameron’s drunken state so I can assess how much trouble I have to deal with, she drags me into the house. Her hands are conspicuously sticky, which means she’s drunk enough to have spilled liquor on her hands and not even noticed. The Fanta smell wafts to my nose and my shoes stick to the floor because of all the beer.
How much time have they even had to get this drunk?
Once I enter, Cameron comes up to me with his arms outstretched, holding two red solo cups sloshing with the foamy, cheap beer college guys use to get girls absolutely shit-faced. Cameron knows there’s no way in hell I’m drinking two solo cups of beer. I take one from him and offer a polite sip.
“Mmm… yellow.” I can’t think of any other positive words to describe the flavor.
“I know, right,” Cameron nods with an oblivious and self-satisfied smile. Boyfriend. He’s your boyfriend, Alexis, and he’s adequate.
I stare with confusion at Cameron’s splatter of bad tattoos and wonder if perhaps he is significantly less than adequate.
“You can chill in my room if it gets too rowdy for you, babe,” Cameron says, leaning forward and giving me a kiss that’s far too wet. I grimace and he mistakes it for an approving smile. He’s so dumb. Chloe whoops loudly and starts shaking her ass to I Kissed A Girl, the overplayed Katy Perry song booming in the background. Three of the black guys on Cameron’s team dance behind her, sandwiching Chloe as she does some drunken approximation of twerking. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in enthusiasm.
“I’m fine,” I tell Cameron, wanting to be cool for once. “I’ll kick it for a bit. Don’t you need to kick Gabe’s ass at beer pong or whatever?”
“Yeah.”
Cameron smiles and returns to the pong table, giving me a goofy smile like he really wants to impress me. He’s good-looking, but aside from that, Cameron’s not impressive. He’s a decent boyfriend compared to my ex but he’s lazy, constantly farts because of his gross strawberry flavored protein shakes, doesn’t understand anything with the slightest hint of complexity and he drinks too much. He’s sweet though and we’ve dated since freshman year, which is basically marriage by Columbia standards.
Cameron tosses the tiny ping-pong ball across the table and lands it smoothly in Gabe’s remaining cup. It’s up to his roommate to tie the game. Gabe squints and aims for Cameron’s cup with his ball. Chloe shakes her hips in the corner of the room as everyone ignores her in favor of the pong game she’s drunkenly oblivious to.
Gabe tosses the ball and misses. Badly. The crowd groans, and Gabe looks visibly pissed.
“Fuck this, man. Fuck this…”
Gabe’s drunk too and he’s the only guy in this house who can out-drink Cameron, which is saying a lot. Cameron pumps his fist and then beats his chest like an ape. He makes me cringe, but… having a boyfriend is better than not having one — at least according to Chloe and every other female friend I have.
“Suck it,” Cameron taunts him.
“Fuck you, man,” Gabe shoots back half-heartedly. He stumbles off into another room. Cameron wraps his arm around me and plants a wet kiss on my cheek. He stinks like liquor and I hate when he gets all slobbery and gross like this. He bites my lower lip and a few people in the room cheer after our kiss. So embarrassing. Cameron grins at me.
“Wait in my room, babe. I’ll come see you soon.”
Cameron knows I hate parties like this, so I’m grateful he’s giving me a way out. Chloe’s having too much fun dancing with a few other girls in our year and two of Cameron’s other roommates. I tell Chloe I’m heading upstairs and she begs me to have more shots with her.
I know Cameron would probably appreciate it if I at least tried to have fun, so I grab him by the hand and drag him over to Chloe. We do shots together and then I dance with Cameron and Chloe for a few more minutes before Cameron has to return to his beer pong tournament.
By the time I slink upstairs, I’m drunk. It doesn’t take much to get me wasted, which is why I try to avoid nights like this one. I hope I can nap and sober up before Cameron gets upstairs so we can hang out and talk. We need to talk about our relationship. Drinking always makes me want to talk about our relationship, which goes about as well as you might think.
But seriously… Cameron can’t keep relying on cheap tricks at the pong table to impress me. He can’t just call me “babe” and assume I’ll be his forever. He knows what I want out of life. I’ll be in New York city until medical school and I need to work my ass off to get to my dream school, Harvard medical. Cameron just failed Introduction To Sexuality Studies because he claims it wasn’t what he expected. He’ll have to stay an extra semester and he doesn’t have any plans.
Columbia relationships are weird and I’m not the type of girl who likes relationships without labels, which makes me totally incompatible with most guys. Cameron at least likes labels like “babe” and “girlfriend”. That’s the best you can hope for, right? An average guy, living his average life… with an average dick… with average grades. Average is good.
I slip my shoes off and crawl into Cameron’s bed. It’s comforting that it smells like him, but I don’t love the fact that his pillow is damp. He sweats a lot and doesn’t stick to the wash schedule I made for him at all.
I pull the covers over my head, and the room seems to swirl around me. Woah. Maybe I had more to drink than I realized. My stomach lurches. I can’t hate Cameron. His smell is everywhere and his inability to stick to a wash schedule is not the biggest deal in the world.
I text Cameron out of habit.
Me: Babe. I’m drunk. Upstairs. Miss you.
I don’t know if I’ve ever missed Cameron, but it’s what you say when you have a boyfriend and I don’t just have a boyfriend — Cameron is hot. Other women on our campus want to date him and most wonder openly what a white bread prep like Cameron wants with a black woman like me…
Asking him something so blunt is out of the question. He cares about me, and that counts for something. Cameron doesn’t respond to my text message before I fall asleep, but I don’t mind. He’s probably the undefeated beer pong champion somewhere.
The bed moves, and there’s a thud. Boots hit the floor. I’m up and there’s warmth in my bed. The invasive smell isn’t Cameron’s, and then I feel a large weight pressing into me. Holy fuck.
My head spins and I feel even more drunk than before, if that’s even possible. I try to mutter the word “no” but nothing comes out. An elbow presses into my stomach with no regard for presence and the oxygen evacuates my lungs. I assume the body on top of mine is Cameron’s, but as the elbow jabs into my stomach, a strong, unfamiliar male smell invades my nostrils. I don’t know who the fuck it is, but I know it’s not Cameron.
Not Cameron.
I panic. My heart races and I hate that I freeze as I feel a hand slide under my shirt. I cry out loudly as roving fingers touch my breasts. No. I try to push him off, but I’m too drunk and the man on top of me is way too strong. Uncomfortably wet lips press against my earlobes. My stomach tightens with nausea. He’s going to rape me.
“I always wanted to fuck you,” Gabe whispers. “Now I’ll get the chance. If you scream, I’ll cut your fucking throat.”
He runs his tongue over my neck, and I don’t scream. He pinches my breasts again and I try to knee him in the balls. He slaps me across the face with his free hand and I cry out. Who the hell could hear me anyway over the music? Panic surges through me. I have to get the fuck out of here.
I feel something soft and warm poking against my thigh and my frozen response transforms as the threat looms. I collect myself enough to knee him hard in the gut, forcing him off me with all the strength my adrenaline can provide. Gabe groans and I attempt to push him off. I don’t do enough to get him off me, but I hit him hard enough to really piss him off.
“You little bitch,” he grunts, pushing my face to the side and holding me down as he attempts to take my pants off. I know if he gets my pants off, I’m finished and he’ll have me right where he wants me. I have to fight harder. I knee him in the balls this time and remember something I watched online once. I squeeze my fingers together and when Gabe looks at me, I jab him in the eyes.
The surprise forces him to jump off of me and I leap out of bed. He got most of my pants off and my shirt up. Gabe lunges at me as I run for the door. He grabs my forearm and pushes me hard.
“Stupid fucking slut,” He snarls, his beer-breath threatening to knock me unconscious.
He grabs my throat and slams me against the door. I knee him in the balls again and this time, I throw the door open and hit Gabe in the head as he doubles over. That’s it — I have time to escape. I run down the stairs and run past the rest of the party. I don’t see Chloe or Cameron and I don’t look for them.
He tried to rape me. Cameron’s roommate tried to rape me. I’m in shock and my clothes are hanging off my body, and I don’t have any shoes. Oh my God. I’m outside in Manhattan with no shoes on. Tears stream down my face as I heave and gasp for breath.
This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m not the type of girl who goes to house parties and ends up beneath some strange guy. Tears stream from my eyes as I heave for breath, the realization hitting me that there was never any “type” of girl that this happens to. Some of us just tell ourselves that so we can go through life feeling safe, never worrying that some guy will viciously steal our dignity.
I pick a direction and run as fast as I can. Then I take a turn, thinking I’m heading back to campus, but I’m facing down an alley and I’m not alone. The best course of action would be keeping my head down and sprinting in the opposite direction. That’s not what happens. The two men are speaking to each other, arguing about something, and they’re both holding guns. There’s a lump on the ground that I try to discern the identity of.
I’ve never seen a gun in real life before. I’m too fucked up and traumatized to think things through before reacting. I shriek—loudly. The men snap their attention to me and I freeze as the taller one raises his gun to me. The other one glances to the ground and my eyes follow the direction of his.
My screaming gets louder. Fuck. They have a dead body and I’ve never seen a dead body either, but that’s definitely what’s lying on the ground beneath them. The pool of red blood looks black in the darkness, but there’s a tangy metallic smell that finally reaches my nostrils.
The taller man turns the gun away from me and shoots the guy on the ground right in front of me. If he wasn’t dead before (perhaps just dying) he’s dead now. I scream again and turn around, readying myself to run but knowing that I’ll die right here, two blocks away from Cameron’s house with my clothes ripped by bullets in my back. I have to do something and there’s no fighting two killers with guns.
I run as fast as I can, filled with the knowledge that it’s entirely hopeless.
This is how my story ends.
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