Ottavio’s P.O.V

Sitting on the couch in Brown’s house, waiting for him to get ready, I had to endure Rico’s mean stares and rude murmurs. This is how it usually gets. I was used to it now, but today my patience was wearing thin.

I was frustrated physically, mentally, and most especially sexually. The events of last night kept replaying in my head. My fingers buried deep inside Aliyah’s cunt as she ground against my cock, her breath hot, her moans barely restrained. How I’d shown her who was in control by leaving her high and dry, begging for release that never came.

I’d made sure I trailed her home, ensuring she didn't let another man finish what I started. Satisfied, I head home and stroke my own dick for the first time in two years. The desire was so bad I did it again. And again. Yet I still woke up grumpy as fuck.

“Fucking opportunist,” Rico cursed under his breath.

I turned slowly, my jaw tightening. Enough.

“Rich of you to call me an opportunist,” I said with a sneer.

His head snapped up, fury flashing in his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t repeat myself, opportunist,” I bit back. “Learn to own up to your words and stop murmuring like a bitch.”

He shot to his feet, stalking toward me, fists clenched, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull. Perfect. I wanted a reason to bleed out my frustration.

“You’re a fool for speaking to me that way,” he growled. “I could pass as your boss.”

I chuckled lowly, rising to meet him halfway. “You wish, cousin bodyguard.”

His face went crimson as he grabbed my collar, but before I could plant my fist into his throat, footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Brown.

He descended like a storm in a tailored suit, glaring daggers at the both of us. “Get the fucking door, losers!” he barked. Rico instantly dropped his grip on me and stepped back.

“Always bickering like dickheads,” Brown muttered, running a hand through his slicked hair.

True to his words, the bell rang again. I moved to open the door and came face to face with Othello Marino. His expression was thunderous as always. Without a word, he brushed past me, the faint scent of tobacco clinging to his coat as he entered the sitting room.

Brown was now sprawled on the couch, legs crossed, glass of whisky in hand. The tension in the room thickened instantly.

Othello didn’t waste time. “You’re losing your touch, Brown,” he barked, voice booming through the space. “You’re barely active in the Mafia anymore. All you do is spend the money from the Mafia and sniff coke till your nose bleeds.”

Brown’s head tilted slightly, a dangerous smile tugging at his lips. “At least I’m not raising a brat like your daughter,” he shot back coolly. “Sabri’s been on every man’s bed from Milan to Sicily. If that’s your definition of family discipline, you’re failing.”

Rico and I exchanged a quick glance. Othello’s face turned scarlet, his jaw twitching.

He rose from the armchair slowly, every inch of his posture radiating fury. “I gave you one job, Brown, one simple job. Get married. Form an alliance. Strengthen our empire. But no… you’ve been too busy wasting away on drugs and women.”

Brown’s smirk vanished, his eyes hardening like steel.

Othello leaned forward, voice sharp as a whip. “We need alliances. We need power. But you…” he jabbed a finger toward Brown’s chest “you’d rather drown in your vices. Just like him.”

The room went dead silent.

Rico stiffened. My own breath stilled.

Because him could only mean one person their father.

Othello’s words sliced through the air like broken glass. “You’re exactly like our old man. A weak, lazy bastard who let the Mafia control him instead of ruling it. Pathetic.”

Brown’s jaw ticked the muscle pulsing hard under his skin. That was the moment Othello crossed a line.

Everyone knew the rumor. Their father’s death hadn’t been clean. No one said it out loud, but we all knew Brown’s hands weren’t innocent. He’d never been close to the man. Affection wasn’t in their bloodline.

Brown’s voice came low, like a coiled snake. “Watch your mouth, brother.”

But Othello only scoffed, brushing imaginary dust off his coat. “Prove me wrong then, little brother. Be the man our father never was.”

And with that, he turned sharply and strode toward the door, the heavy slam echoing through the hall as he left.

Brown sat still for a long moment, glass untouched in his hand. Then, with a sharp exhale, he downed the whisky in one gulp.

He turned to me and before he even said the word I knew what was coming. “Get the lashing crew and meet me in the red room.”

He shot up and stalked off, anger radiating off him. The lashing crew comprises of three females, they fit into Brown's psychotic way of getting off stress or suspectingly trauma.

He always goes into the red room anytime his father is mentioned or he gets a remark that he looks like his father, acts like him or even takes after him.

To a normal man that could be a compliment, but to Brown it was like a part of him gets shredded every single time it happens.

“Oh Boy.” Rico said.

As I stalked off to the outer underground prison, the only place I'm allowed to venture in to retrieve the women.

Redroom. Pleasure. Whip. Scarpel. Three Women. One Dick.