Consequences: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

  Consequences

  By

  Shanna Handel

  Copyright © 2020 by Stormy Night Publications and Shanna Handel

  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, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Handel, Shanna

  Consequences

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Image by DepositPhotos/VitalikRadko

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Similar Books by Shanna Handel

  More Stormy Night Books by Shanna Handel

  Shanna Handel Links

  Prologue

  Captain Luca

  The day she arrived, I’d been watching from the bridge when a woman in a fluttering blue dress caught my eye.

  Emily Evans, my new chief stew.

  She’s a bit taller than average, slight of build with the gait of a dancer. Her light brown hair whips in the wind. She smiles, waving to the other yachties as she makes her way toward the Aphrodite. She shields her eyes from the sun, searching for the letters on the side of the boat to confirm she’s in the right place.

  The wind hits the hem of her dress just right, blowing the material up and over her thighs, giving me the briefest glimpse of her virginal white panties. She laughs, unashamed, pushing the fabric down in place.

  And I’m lost in that smile.

  Something about the way she holds herself, or the shape of her face, the golden glint in her hazel eyes. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but the moment I see her, there’s a queer welling in my chest. One I’ve not felt in a very long time.

  I’d been on the lookout for her arrival, having read the recommendation of her previous employer several times. I found his description of her to be intriguing:

  Emily is one of the hardest working employees I’ve ever had. Her sunny nature pleases the guests. She manages her crew well, creating camaraderie amongst all she works with. Has a streak of fire in her that I found quite charming.

  Streak of fire? This girl? She looks sweet as sugar. I couldn’t even imagine a curse word forming on her lovely lips.

  I watch her cross the sidewalk, thinking of what I’d like to do to this beautiful girl with the streak of fire in her. Maybe her employer meant she had a sassy mouth?

  I’d love to experience it firsthand.

  Have her give me a reason to say, “Don’t make me put you over my knee.” Pull that lithe body over my lap. Raise her fluttering blue dress. Spank her bottom till the fire moves from her soul to her ass. Run my hand up those long, smooth legs. Slip my fingers beneath those pure white panties. Finger her pussy while she grinds into my thigh.

  See just how wet a spanking makes her.

  I swallow hard, my throat feeling as tight as my trousers as I watch her cross the ramp from the dock to the boat, then disappear beneath me. I clear my mind of my lecherous thoughts.

  Remind myself of my one rule.

  Never fall in love.

  Chapter One

  Emily

  The five words every person on the receiving end of a breakup dreads: it’s not you, it’s me.

  I’m sitting across from my boyfriend, and he’s saying those exact words... to me.

  It’s not you... it’s me.

  My mind reels. What does that even mean? That I’m just fine the way I am but he wasn’t born patient enough to deal with me? Maybe he means I’m a catch for another guy but he’s just too vain to be with such a plain Jane?

  It’s not you... it’s me.

  The phrase is senseless—if there was nothing wrong with me then you wouldn’t have brought me to a public meeting place to toss me away like a day-old half eaten sandwich. If the problem in our relationship is truly you and not me, then I’d be the one breaking it off with you—wouldn’t I?

  As I stare into his eyes, reading the look of feigned empathy, all these tumbling thoughts lead me to my one final conclusion.

  It is, most certainly, one hundred and ten percent... me.

  I am the cause of our breakup. Maybe I’m not pretty enough to be with such a classically handsome man. Or maybe his breaking point was one of those nights when he was trying to have an intellectual debate and instead of seeing my face light up with all the possibilities of life’s conclusions, he found me yawning.

  Or was it something simpler?

  Maybe he’d grown tired of my anal ways, lining up every dish in his cupboards when I visited. Fussing at him for not squeezing the toothpaste tube from the bottom. Perhaps he didn’t like the fact that I cuss like a sailor.

  He clearly doesn’t have the guts to tell me why he’s leaving me. Or, more likely, he’s trying to spare my feelings. But instead of just knowing what was so wrong with me, I’m left in turmoil trying to figure it out myself.

  My whole world comes crashing down around my shoulders as he says those words. He’s says other things too—things that my mind can’t even begin to process in this hell on Earth that I am trying to survive.

  Up until this dreadful moment, the ringing of wedding bells had been chiming in my twenty-four-year-old imagination. In my blind stupidity, I thought we were something special. I thought we were building toward a proposal, then a life together.

  We dated in high school. Got back together years later when he contacted me out of the blue. I even gave up cussing for him. What a great love story.

  He’s a nice man. Well groomed. Budgets carefully. Uses his time responsibly. He would make a great husband. He would graduate with a doctorate in art history and move up from teacher assistant to professor. We would buy a house. Host dinner parties. Have babies.

  Swirls of his last name attached to mine crisscross over my waitressing notebook. Wedding planning magazines litter my apartment.

  I’m such a fool.

  Heat rises in my chest. Both the notebook and the magazines will now be burned.

  He gazes upon me, a look akin to pity swirling in those sea blue eyes. I cannot stomach him looking at me this way. My face bursts into flames. Tears burn the backs of my eyes and my throat swells as if filled with smoke. I rise from my seat.

  He goes to grab at my arm. “Baby. Sit down. Don’t leave when you’re this upset.”

  To which I reply, “Fuck you.” My only solace in this whole terrible situation is that fleeting look of pain that zings across his face.

  I make it out onto the sidewalk before the tears start falling and for that, I’m grateful.

  The next few weeks are a blur.

  To say the breakup shattered me would be an understatement. Commercials make me cry. Every song on the radio seems to be about him. Food no longer has a taste; sleep is a thing of the past.

  I stop washing my hair. No longer vacuum my apartment carpet in neat, orderly lines. I drop plates at work. Make simple mistakes on almost every order. I can’t stop thinking about him and it’s ruining me.

  Even though he’s ripped my beating heart out of my chest, al
l I can think about is what we had. I’m going mad. I have to get out of Glendale, our tiny Ohio college town, as fast as possible.

  I turn to my one escape: yachting.

  I’ve had heartbreak in my past. As a result, six years ago the day after high school graduation, I ran off and joined a boat as a third stew. I found that I loved the organized chaos. I loved the types of people who were drawn to the sea. I found the ocean to be healing.

  With four years’ experience already under my belt, jumping aboard a boat now and heading as far away from my ex as possible makes complete sense. I call my former employer—more of a father figure than a boss—and he hooks me up with a glowing reference as well as a lead for a chief stew position on the Aphrodite—the mega yacht of an elusive, incredibly wealthy family.

  I do what any other woman in my position would do—take the job on the mega yacht owned by mafia billionaires.

  The Bachman family. The men are called the Brothers. The women, the Beauties.

  Basically, they are the equivalent of America’s mafia royalty.

  And the Aphrodite is their mega yacht and my new home for the next few months.

  The Aphrodite is the envy of the yachting industry. The massive one-hundred-and-fifty-foot navy and white vessel has all the trimmings of luxury living. Military grade tech, three different decks, and roomy staff quarters round it out, making it the best in the business. Nicknamed ‘the queen of the sea,’ she’s like a floating luxury beach home.

  The upper deck hosts a hot tub that can comfortably hold twelve. A lounge area with optional shade coverings. A roomy, cushy pad stretches across the bow, a great place for warming your skin under the sun while watching the world go by. The main deck has a carved oak dining table, seating for twenty. The guest cabins are enormous and lavishly decorated, the bathrooms housing tubs that could comfortably seat four adults.

  Everyone dreams of working on the Aphrodite.

  The backdrop of the lush Greek islands is so breathtaking, it almost seems unreal. The charming towns carved into the rock cliffs, the turquoise blue seas, it’s heavenly. And a view you can only afford as a billionaire.

  Bachman Enterprises is a raging success of legit businesses the family uses to cover up their secret mafia dealings. But this family is far from the greasy mobsters you picture when you hear the word mafia. Lovers of luxury, the men and women of this family are well dressed, well groomed, and perfectly mannered.

  The whispers and the rumors about the Bachmans are woven all through the tapestry of the yachting world. I’ve heard all kinds of crazy things. That they have more money than the country as a whole. That they kill for sport. That they raise their young to be bloodthirsty monsters. They’re into kinky sex. And the most curious of all the rumors—the men spank their women.

  I have no qualms working for ‘criminals.’ This group has their own strong sense of morals, their own code they live by. Likening their organization to Robin Hood, they use their underground businesses as an opportunity to take from the richest of the rich, sprinkling the cash back into the hands of the poor. And what they do behind the closed doors of their bedrooms?

  I couldn’t care less. It’s not like I’m going to get involved with one of them.

  I quite admire their luxurious lifestyle, the traveling, the elegant clothing, the five-star meals, but I’m just here to serve them on their time off. I sleep just fine at night working for the mafia.

  It doesn’t hurt that the pay is un-fucking-believable.

  After a long flight across the world, I spend one night and day at a hotel, recuperating from jetlag.

  This morning, I wake, washing the tears from my face. I figure it’s a new day, signaling a new life for me and should be treated as such. I smooth my long light brown hair, dress in a cheerful, light blue fluttery sundress that’s much brighter than I feel. I take a deep breath. Say goodbye to the completely wasted past year of my life. Grab my suitcase and wheel it down to the water.

  I now stand by the docks, the breeze blowing through my hair. The sun shines on my face, warming my skin. I feel a glimmer of hope, but it’s strong enough to stretch a smile across my face. I wave to the other yachties as I make my way to the line of enormous boats.

  I shield my eyes from the sun, looking right and left, and finally, I spot her. Her name blazes across her sparkling side: Aphrodite. I feel the eyes of other boats’ crewmembers on me as I turn in her direction. Excited butterflies flutter in my stomach as I walk toward the dock. Wind blows my skirt up and I laugh as I push it back into place, carefree and ready for a new start.

  I board the boat with an air of reverence one might have when entering a church. She’s just as beautiful as I’d imagined. It’s quiet and I know I’m the first one on. I always am. I like the silent time before the hustle to get acquainted with the interior of the boat. Check out my serving dishes, the linen closets. I have twenty-four hours until the rest of the crew arrive, seventy-two hours till guests come.

  I’d best get busy.

  I’m not a ‘Type A’ personality. I’m a ‘Type A’ plus, plus.

  I have to have my cupboards perfect—glasses lined up rim to rim, towels folded perfectly, napkins ironed crisply—to deliver the level of service that I demand from myself. The task of organizing the boat is a welcomed distraction from my breakup. I’m a firm believer that tidiness soothes the soul.

  I tie my hair up, change into sweats and a tee, and get to work. I stop only to make myself a cup of coffee and half a sandwich. It’s strange that there’s already some food in the fridge, since I haven’t seen anyone else, but I’m too hungry to question it. After my meal, I get right back to work.

  Around midnight, I’m covered in dust and sweat, and my muscles are sore, but I look around the boat and I’m satisfied with my work.

  I go down to my cabin, take a long hot shower, and collapse into bed. I’m grateful that the long day leaves me with dreamless sleep.

  In the morning, the rest of the crew begin to trickle in. Third stew Charlotte from a small town in New York, blonde and perky and sweet. Second stew, Jules from London, jet-black hair and tattoos. We three get along right from the get-go.

  The male deckhands are skilled, professional, and easy on the eyes. The captain comes down from the bridge to introduce himself and give us a lengthy lecture on all of his rules. He’s quite handsome with his broad shoulders and movie star jawline, but I find him to be distant, almost cold. He’s cordial but has a booming voice and an authoritative air that makes me divert my gaze in his presence. He carries himself as the others in the Brotherhood, making me wonder if he’s joined their ranks.

  All the more reason to keep my distance.

  The next forty-eight hours are a whirlwind. The deckhands scrub the decks, wash the sides of the boat till the paint gleams, squeegee the windows till they are spotless. I spend the time training my girls. They are sweet and eager to please, and I feel hopeful this will be a great season. We go to bed, knowing that we’ve done our best and tomorrow we will be ready to greet the Bachmans.

  In the morning, we line the dock in preparation of our guests’ arrival. Dressed in crisp whites that I’ve starched and pressed myself, our crew stands ramrod straight, hands neatly folded behind our backs. Nine a.m. sharp, right on time, the Bachmans’ black Mercedes van pulls up to the dock. They step out one by one. Each gorgeous, dressed to the nines in designer clothing. They make their way to us, power and wealth oozing from them.

  I’m intimidated especially by the steely jaws and sharp eyes of the men. But they reach out their hands in greeting. Warm smiles, handshakes. As I offer them glasses of mimosa, I know this will be a great charter.

  And it is... for about twenty-four hours. Because things never turn out the way you expect them to. (My current position of being single and living on a yacht—in lieu of accepting a marriage proposal from my boyfriend—being a prime example.)

  A few hours into the second day of the charter, the unpredictable Mediterranean wea
ther takes a turn for the worse, putting off the guests’ plans of water toys and jet skis, which means they will be stuck on the boat all day.

  Which means I will be working twice as hard to cater to them.

  If that wasn’t enough to keep me running, Jules, my second stew is suddenly seasick. Charlotte, my third stew, is proving to be as green as the face of my second stew—Charlotte told me she’s a friend of the family and this is her first yachting job, but with Jules down, her inexperience is taking a toll.

  Our eccentric chef is mixing up plates, his mind elsewhere, having just got word from home that his pet tarantula died. I was making a Bloody Mary and got a spot on my white shirt that I can’t get out. My gray skirt’s been riding up all day because Charlotte washed it on the hottest water cycle.

  But we make it through the morning without the guests noticing our bumps and blunders. Now I’m making afternoon drinks for the guests. First up, a whiskey sour. I pour the mixer into the shaker, add whiskey and ice, and shake it.

  Tears instantly sting at the back of my eyes, making me feel like a fool.

  Whiskey sours were his favorite drink, one I would make for him often. He would take the first sip, give me a wink, and tell me what a great bartender I was. Making one now is hitting too close to heartbreak. I put the shaker down on my spotless countertop. Press at my eyelids with the backs of my hands. Take a deep breath. “Get it together, Emily.” I open my eyes, paste a smile on my face, and go back to work. I put all my frustrations into the damn shaker. This will be the best mixed whiskey sour in the Med. I pour it into the sugar-rimmed glass. Add a curly peel of blood orange and place the glass on the tray.

  I wonder if she’s making them for him now.

  I can’t bear the thought. So devastated by the breakup, I’ve suppressed the words that followed it’s not you, it’s me. My mind flashes back to that horrible moment... his eyes locked on mine. His hands holding mine on the top of the table.

  I’ve met someone.

  My stomach feels sick. Those pesky tears resurface but I will them away. I swallow hard, digesting all my rising emotions as I do. I cannot, will not think about this right now.