31 Kisses Read online

  31 Kisses

  A Beneventi Family Series Starter

  Sonya Jesus

  Copyright © 2018 by Sonya Jesus

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests please contact the author.

  The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  1. Silver Level Killer

  2. Pimps & Hos

  3. The Real Breaker

  4. Alpha House Rain

  5. A Question of Legitimacy

  6. Foxy

  7. Who’s Your Santa?

  8. Put a Label on It

  9. Slip Up

  10. The Other Secret

  11. The Right Beneventis

  12. New Year’s Eve

  13. Bargain

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sonya Jesus

  The Beneventis are not nice people. They murder, they kill, and they are not worried about degrading people around them. Please remember, this book may contain sensitive information, adult language and violence. It may not be appropriate for younger audiences.

  The Beneventis and any other characters in this series starter are not real, or based off any one person. They are simply the conjuring of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real life people is pure coincidence.

  Dedication

  To

  The Spoiler Room.

  Thank you for always supporting me &

  believing in me…

  and my crazy psycho villains.

  Prologue

  A while ago…

  Hayden

  The front door is open all the way back. Splinters of wood are scattered on the floor, and there's blood splattered on the freshly painted white walls. I quietly drop my football gear on the last step of the porch and pluck my cell phone out of my back pocket.

  My fingers quickly unlock the screen, as I move out of sight. Using the shrub to shield my body, I peek in through the large living room windows to find a plastic lining the cream-colored carpet. And blood. Lots of blood.

  My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest. No one can survive that much blood loss.

  I can’t fight the debilitating effect of fear, but I manage to dial my father. The seconds it takes for the connection to be made between my phone and his takes an eternity. My mind fills with hope when it rings the first time, and I hear nothing from the house. Maybe he’s not dead.

  The second ring comes from the backyard.

  Then, the third ring.

  I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and beg to myself, Pick up, Dad.

  He doesn’t. I swallow the ball of fear blocking the air to my chest and manage to take a few ragged breaths. Dad always answers by the third ring. It’s something we’ve been doing since he went undercover. I glance down at my phone and wait for the screen to light up with an incoming call from him.

  Minutes tick by. My heart constricts with fear when nothing comes through. My fingers tremble with the realization that the time has finally come. I thought we were safe.

  No one’s ever safe from the Beneventi family, my father’s voice echoes in my head, pumping me full of adrenaline. If anything happens to me, there’s a black pen drive in the shed, inside the nail drawer. Hide it until the day someone asks you for it. Don’t look at it. Don’t tell anyone you have it, not even Kade.

  Even though every cell in my body is on high alert, I don't have time to panic. I step out of my hideaway and look around the premises, searching for something out of place. There’s nothing. Not a single broken branch, or a strange car, or even people peering through the windows.

  I sprint around back, and the lights turn on. Shit. The motion detectors.

  A loud noise comes from inside the house, startling me down on my stomach. It isn’t a gunshot. I listen, but can’t make out any other sound. I roll to the side and find the crawl space. I wait a few minutes until the footsteps seem distant and dial my father again.

  Immediately, I see the light beside me. I drop my phone to the ground and end the call. My father’s phone is under here with me.

  Along with a head.

  1

  Silver Level Killer

  Kelsie

  As I climb up to the second floor of this run-down, cheap motel, I tug on the hem of the tube top they call a miniskirt. The lights on the old weather-beaten sign flicker on my skin, illuminating my legs with a sickly neon-green color. My stiletto gets caught in a hole on the cement stairs, almost toppling me over. I hold onto the railing and check the small patches of broken cement. Is that a bullet hole? I dislodge my heel and head up the last two steps to the landing, where I’m faced with a taped over window and a weathered crime scene notice plastered on the door.

  Yeah, that was most definitely a bullet hole.

  I duck my head over the side of the railing, careful not to put too much weight on it. A run-down place like this probably doesn’t check the security of their railings. To test my hypothesis, I place the heel of my shoe on the bottom half and exert a little force. The whole railing shakes. I retreat back a little and wait for tonight’s client, Major Stein, near the ice machine. The overhead light here is excellent, so I check my reflection on the smooth aluminum surface. Overdone everything, I think to myself as I run my finger under the heavy eyeliner on my bottom lid, smudging it out a bit. It’s too pristine for a fifty-dollar hooker from Main Boulevard.

  I scan the motel. No cameras in sight, as I expected. Places like this, which rent by the hour and don’t ask for ID’s, aren’t usually into documenting the illegal activities of their occupants, and most of those occupants, at this time of night, are either high or working, providing me with minimal risk of exposure

  The perfect kind of conditions for my job.

  I shrug my large purse down from my shoulder to my elbow and pull the handles apart in order to check the contents. Moving the gun aside gives me a better view. I quickly find the syringe with the lubricant, condoms, bleach concealed in a spray bottle, and a fresh pair of panties. I prefer the ease of putting a bullet through someone’s brain rather than fucking him to death, but this is a sacrifice I have to make.

  Major Stein’s a politician on a downward spiral, but he’s still a politician—which according to the Beneventis—means I have to make his death look like a consequence of his vices and not like an actual murder. He couldn’t have been a gambler or a race car fanatic? No, he had to be the typical, unhappily married politician with a penchant for cheap hookers and an on/off relationship with heroin. I roll my neck and shoulders in preparation for a night I’ll be longing to forget. Just the thought of his grimy hands all over my body makes me want to toss up the bag of chips I ate while I worked the corner earlier.

  The rustling of the pink faux leather jacket makes me cringe as I rest my back against the wall. I grab a cigarette from my purse; careful not to touch the syringe I stole off a hooker, who passed out behind the trashcan in an alley way, along with her empty bottle of whiskey.

  The other syringe is clean. That one’s for me. I sigh and plop my head against the cold wall, telling myself, Today’s going to require a little acting, Kelsie.

  I’ve studied Major every single day for three and a half months. He’s been out for two weeks and barely made it through Thanksgiving without shooting up.

  I don
’t blame him though. His life is boring. Not much excitement since he turned his back on the Beneventi family five years ago.

  A loud, phlegmy cough stirs my attention. I grab the lighter and rapidly light the tip of my cigarette and guide it to my mouth. I hate smoking, but Major is a heavy smoker. Three packs a day last time I counted. He’d die soon anyway. At least, this way he’d be going out happily, not that he deserves it.

  Me, on the other hand, not so fucking happy.

  I catch a glimpse of his large, white ass as he struggles to climb the stairs. He uses the handrail to tug his body upward, a bit at a time. He’s out of breath by the time he reaches the split in the staircase. He stops and lifts his eyes up to me. They take in my defined legs and tiny skirt before riding up to my breasts. His gaze lingers there as a smile spreads across his face, flashing me almost every single one of his yellow teeth.

  I’m going to need to bathe in bleach after this. I smile back and bring the cigarette to my lips before I cringe. Twenty-seven, I remind myself as I blow out the smoke. He’s Reason #27 why my father’s dead. I’ll do what I have to in order to make sure he doesn’t wake up tomorrow, even if it means losing a little more of myself in the process.

  I use my bent leg to help me push off the wall and stand straight. I step forward and cock my head to the side, while seductively glancing at the ugly, burgundy motel doors. It’s enough to give him the energy to climb all the way up. I meet him at the top of the stairs and flick my cigarette away, sending it over the railing. Just as I’m about to blow out the air, his sweaty lips crash onto mine. He sucks the nicotine-laced smoke into his mouth and blows it out through his nose while his tongue attacks my tonsils.

  Sacrifice. I kiss him back, letting our tongues touch and glide over each other. The taste of his saliva in my mouth makes me want to gag, but luckily, he pulls back. I swallow my repulsion, hug my bag tight, and plaster my face with a smile.

  “Where to, handsome?” I ask, as I lean my body toward him and slide my hand over the lapels of his fancy black suit.

  “Tonight must be my lucky night.” He wiggles the key with a faded green keychain that reads “31X” on it in yellowed letters.

  Thirty-one must be my lucky number. I slide my hands inside his coat and lean forward so my lips are close to his again. “I can make all your nights lucky, sexy.” Ugh. That was hard to say. There’s nothing remotely sexy about this middle-aged, balding, pork-nosed man. Get it together, Kelsie.

  “I bet you can,” he says just before he taps his lips to mine. “But they almost never have the suite available. It’s always booked.”

  “Well, then we must be really lucky.” I play along as I unbutton his suit jacket. I lower my hand down to his belt. “Should we get our hour started?”

  He chuckles and checks on the position of my hand. “Horny young thing, aren’t you?”

  I yank on his belt. It’s loose enough that I can sneak my hand inside his pants. So, I do. He moans and grips the railing. I slide my hand over what I assume are tighty-whities and grab his unimpressive semi-rigid penis over the cloth. “Why don’t we go inside, so I can show you just how horny I am?”

  “I have half a mind to shove you against that wall and fuck you right here.”

  I have a mind to test out what happens when I shoot a dick at close range. I bite my tongue and will it to flirt, “Are you trying to get me wet?”

  His fat fingers, the ones not holding onto the railing or the key, wedge themselves between my thighs and he forces them apart. My skin crawls as he works his way up. If he’s going to check, he’ll find me dryer than the Sahara.

  Quick.

  Hayden.

  My brain conjures up memories of us together. The lines of his perfect body pressed against mine as he thrusts into me over and over— like he has no clue who I am or which family I belong to—swarm my head, warming my body, and melting my center. The imaginary feel of Hayden’s full lips on my skin, as he traces my curves with his mouth and the gentle touch of his skin, is enough to make me weak in the knees.

  Whenever I am with Hayden, I am just Kelsie and not the adopted daughter of Costa Beneventi. Hayden allows me to cling to a life outside of the mafia. I almost forget where I come from in his arms. It’s dangerous to forget who you are in my world, and one day I’m going to have to expel him from my life, but I need him right now, or at least the thought of him.

  Major’s fingers brush against the thin material of my G-string. One flicks under and tickles my center, coating itself with the effects of Hayden on my body. My eyes are closed, but I open them when he hisses, “Hot damn, sugar. You’re pouring. Is all that rain for me?”

  “You bet,” I lie.

  “You must be new. Most of the old crones on Main need a bottle of lube just to get going. Wear and tear,” he says with a devious smile. “That’s all included?”

  What the fuck does that mean? I pretend to contemplate on the matter until he explains.

  “I like to get rough sometimes,” he says, withdrawing his hand from between my legs.

  I smirk. Not as rough as I do. “That’s extra, but we can negotiate the terms inside.”

  He nods. “I like you.”

  “You’re going to fucking love me after tonight.” A little lie never hurt anyone, especially if it makes him more comfortable around me. I pull my hand from his pants. Feeling the need to sanitize every square inch of my skin, I force myself not to shove him down the stairs and spare myself a long night. Instead, I place my palm on his floppy biceps and say, “Shall we?”

  He slips his finger into his mouth. “My favorite kind of beverage.”

  Gross.

  He steps left, down a long corridor, in the opposite direction of the ice machine, and I follow happily by his side. He doesn’t say much on the way because he’s mulling around an idea in his mind, probably polluting his head with filth.

  Right before we reach 31X, he says, “I hope you cleared your schedule because I got this place for the whole night.”

  “You booked me for an hour,” I say, remembering the Pimp & Ho party Stone set up for my alibi.

  “How much is the whole night?”

  “How much are you willing to pay?” I ask, as I try to calculate how this extra time will play out when his body is found. He never rents this place for more than a couple of hours.

  His cheeks light up like Rudolph’s nose on Christmas. “Is anal on the table?”

  His anus will be on the table if he thinks he’s getting anywhere near my ass. I’ll split his face with a bullet and risk getting caught before I let that happen.

  Fucking, dirty politician.

  My uncle used to pay him for information on judicial and police action, until Major decided to cut ties with the family. Because of him, my life went to shit. I want to do this quietly, as my uncle suggested, but I’m not beyond gagging and cuffing him to a bed, then blowing his brains out.

  “Everything’s on the table,” I say, “if the price is right. I don’t offer nightly packages. You pay me with each service.”

  “Sugar,” he purrs, sticking the key in the keyhole and unlocking the door to the motel’s so-called best room. “Name your price and triple it. That’s how much I’m willing to pay to fuck you in every hole you have.”

  A bullet is tempting. I step through the door and immediately spot the large Jacuzzi on the opposite side of the king-size bed. The walls look freshly painted, yet it still smells like stale bread and mildew. I saunter toward the bed, purposely swaying my hips, and drop my purse near the nightstand.

  He takes a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and hacks out a ball of snot from his throat. “I need to take a leak.”

  I wait until he disappears into the bathroom before reaching into my purse and squirting some sanitizer on my hands. He disgusts me. My body shivers as I decontaminate myself. It’s not his size, because I have nothing against teddy bear men, it’s him as a whole. His mannerisms, like the way he licks his lips and adjusts his junk eve
ry time he checks my breasts, are appalling. The smell of his expensive cologne barely covers the stench of sweat and desperation. His expensive tailored suit, Italian shoes, and wristwatch are worth more than this whole hotel, but he refuses to waste money. That’s why he doesn’t splurge on escorts like most politicians. He prefers the lower-class hookers—the one’s desperate to make enough money to feed their kids and keep their pimps off their backs. He exploits them, bargains and haggles their bodies as if they’re discounted goods at a flea market.

  He’s the worst kind of human. I might be a killer, but he hurts people and takes pleasure in fucking over the people who can barely afford to live.

  Even if I were a good person, there’s no reason to feel bad. Then again, I haven’t been a good person since I was fifteen. The day my father turned up at the morgue and the medical examiner on payroll called us in to identify the headless body—that was the day I became a Beneventi.

  My uncle Costa officially adopted me on my sixteenth birthday. He’s not really my uncle, but my father and my adopted father were close, like brothers, which meant our families were always together. They had to be. Dad was Costa’s go-to man for anything the Beneventis considered important. Some people called him the Consigliere, but most knew him as the Beneventi hitman.

  And me? The mob’s been my life since my first breath, but I had no idea what the world was like. Everyone used to call me the mafia princess, even the Beneventi heirs, Stone and Breaker. Daddy shielded me from the dark parts of the life—from the truth of what it meant to work alongside the Beneventis.