My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 3

  MY MASTERS’ NIGHTMARE

  SEASON 1

  EPISODE 3

  “BETRAYED”

  Marita A. Hansen

  Like a television series, My Masters’ Nightmare is broken up into seasons and episodes. A new episode will be published approximately every 3 weeks until a season has ended. There will be fifteen episodes per season.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  1 Frano

  2 Rita

  3 Frano

  4 Rita

  About the Author and Links

  Other Books By Marita A. Hansen

  Copyright

  My Masters’ Nightmare

  Season 1, Episode 3

  “Betrayed”

  Copyright 2013 © Marita A. Hansen

  Edited by John Hudspith

  Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  Cover Photography by Konrad Bąk

  and sourced from http://depositphotos.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means whatsoever without the written permission of the author, nor circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. For subsidiary rights inquiries email: marita.a.hansen@hotmail.com

  All characters, names, places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  1

  Frano

  Betrayal. It stuck at the back of my throat and burned. Burned so bad I wanted to ... no, I needed to kill someone, to hurt them as much as I wanted to hurt Alberto, to take my rage out on them, because no matter what, I couldn’t do it to my brother, even though everything in my body screamed to crush him. My brother! My own fucking brother had betrayed me to the Donatelli. I didn’t see that coming, couldn’t understand how he could do that to me. I’d done everything for Alberto, put up with his shit for so long, his raging temper, his sick desire to hurt women, and had turned a blind eye because my duty was to him, not to those slaves, yet he’d still betrayed me.

  “Alberto’s doing this so he can have Jagger,” Federico said.

  Those words pulled my attention back to the guard, who was standing a few feet away from me. He was talking nonstop, his hands waving about, his craggy face angry. Normally he was controlled, a quiet, reserved man, but after barely cheating death his agitation was more than understandable. He’d told me about what had happened outside of the cell we were being held in: how all the Russian guards, minus Sasha, had been shot in the back of the head by the Donatelli. And he’d also told me that Alberto was actively working with the Donatelli, Sasha, the blond guard who was sitting by the wall confirming it all.

  Federico’s jaw clenched, his anger making him look much harsher than he was. “Alberto is doing all of this so he can have Jagger,” he repeated.

  I sat down on the bed and put my hands to my head, massaging my sore temples. Federico’s words were easy to believe, because Alberto had hated Jagger ever since our cousin had come to live with our family at the age of eleven. I figured it was because Alberto was jealous of how everyone cooed over Jagger’s beauty, especially since Alberto was an ugly brute like our father, someone who looked more ape than man.

  But maybe it would be more merciful if Alberto did kill Jagger, because the screams emanating from the neighboring cell were chilling, and even more so since it was my cousin making those inhuman sounds. I covered my ears, wishing I could escape them. They had stopped for a short while, but now they’d started up again. Jagger was screaming for Alberto to stop the priest, pleading with him, his voice breaking my soul. The Donatelli were expert torturers, sick bastards who only saw attractive people as commodities. Sì, I sold slaves, but I still thought of them as flesh and blood, not fori—holes to be filled with cock. And to think I gave them Rita’s husband. I should’ve killed him instead of listening to Alberto, who thought it would appease the Donatelli, but nothing ever satisfied that house of bastards.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Federico said loudly.

  I uncovered my ears, relieved that Jagger’s cries for help had stopped. “I already know Alberto wants to hurt Jagger.”

  “No, you misunderstood me. Alberto is doing this so he can fuck Jagger.”

  “Fucking him over means the same thing.”

  “No. He wants to fuck Jagger—literally. Alberto lusts after him.”

  I snorted, the man obviously having lost his mind. “Leave me be; I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”

  “It’s the truth; I’d stake my life on it.” Federico pulled a face, looking uncomfortable. “Alberto raped Jagger earlier today when he was unconscious from the drugs.”

  I pushed to my feet, now getting pissed off that the idiot was persisting with his theories. My brother was a rapist of women, not of men.

  Federico took a step back. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Shut the hell up before I fuck you up!” I yelled, thrusting a finger at him. Because he saw nothing, and for him to persist at a time like this was beyond my tolerance.

  He took another step back, although he didn’t look afraid, instead his face hardened. “I have a recording of it.”

  I put my face right up to his. “You’re lying; otherwise you would’ve come to me with it.”

  “I didn’t because...” he took another step back, “I thought you had put the camera in there.”

  “It wasn’t me,” I snapped, wanting to rip into him, because if there was a camera, I knew the FBI cunt would’ve installed it. I had found out Federico was an undercover agent from Matteo, but decided to keep it a secret so I could use him as a means to pass on false information to the FBI, which was why they thought Rita’s husband was dead. Federico hadn’t seen shit; instead he’d been told that Matteo had been fed to the sharks, which was true in a way, because the Donatelli were sharks.

  “You must believe me,” Federico said. “Alberto’s hate is a pretense. He was talking to the unconscious Jagger, apologizing for what he did, saying it was a cover. He mentioned only getting hard for the slaves and his wife because Jagger put his cock in them. And you have to admit that Alberto’s cock was hard after he attacked Jagger—”

  “Enough!” I yelled, because I couldn’t deny that. My brother had been hard after he’d assaulted Jagger, and the way he’d rubbed himself against Jagger’s rear as he’d held him down, saying that our cousin was made to be fucked by men... I had assumed it was a means to mock Jagger, to humiliate him, but with Federico’s words it told a different story.

  But my brother couldn’t be gay...

  ...although my head was now screaming at me that he was.

  My father had treated Alberto differently from me—a thousand times harsher, even though my brother had fallen over backwards for the bastardo. Alberto had done everything our father wanted from a son, even taking up boxing to please him, but all he got in return was disdain, even disgust at times, my father’s emotions never hidden unless he was planning to kill someone—like my mother. God, I’d told our father I hated him for what he’d done so many times, yet he still favored me over Alberto, and had passed the mantle of being the don onto me. He’d put everything under my name, not the son who kissed his feet, which now made perfect sense, since our father was a bigot.

  The sound of people outside my cell captured my attention. I rushed to the door as it opened, ready to attack whoever came through it, but took a step back as Alberto entered carrying a nak
ed Rita, her body hanging lifeless in his arms, her hair dripping water onto the floor.

  “What did you do to her?!” I shouted, rushing him, wanting to take her out of his arms.

  One of the Donatelli guards stepped out from behind him and pointed a gun at me. “Back off, Frano.”

  I ignored him. “Give her to me!” I yelled at my brother.

  Alberto thrust her wet body at me. I carried her to the bed, relieved to see the slight rise and fall of her chest. I didn’t understand the relief; she was just a fuck-toy in training, like all the other slaves who lived under my roof. I didn’t care if they lived or died, only that they made me money, like they had for my father. I’d seen them raped and slaughtered before my eyes, my father teaching me from a young age that it was just their lot in life.

  I laid Rita down and touched her neck, double-checking that she was indeed breathing, and that I wasn’t seeing something I wanted to see. Her heart played a drumbeat across my fingers, making me exhale with relief.

  I straightened and turned to Alberto, my relief morphing into revulsion, anger, rage... “You disgust me!” I spat, not comprehending how my own brother could betray me over a fuck, and not just any fuck, but one with famiglia, something forbidden, and something that would damn him to Hell.

  Alberto lifted his chin. “I did it for the famiglia.”

  “You did it to fuck Jagger, you lying cazzo!”

  He flinched, confirming everything that Federico had said.

  I walked up to him, giving the scum Donatelli guard a glare as he raised his gun. “This has got nothing to do with you, so don’t interfere.”

  “I’m your brother’s guard; I’m here to protect him from you.”

  “And who is here to protect me from your scum masters?!” I yelled. “This is my house. MINE!”

  “Calm down, Frano,” Alberto said. “This is only temporary.”

  My attention snapped back to my brother. “I’m in a fucking slave cell, temporary is not good enough!”

  “I understand you’re angry—”

  “You understand nothing!” I jabbed a finger at his face, making him take a step back. “Our father was right about you. He knew you wanted Jagger, whereas I was just a fool who thought he was being too harsh on you. But he wasn’t, because you’re a sick fuck who deserves to go to Hell!”

  Alberto’s face hardened, no, not just hardened, it turned vicious. He looked like he wanted to smash me into nothing but blood and guts, which right now I wanted to do to him, my whole body practically vibrating, telling me to attack, attack, attack...

  “I am not sick!” Alberto hollered. “Our father is sick! He buried our mother alive! Yet you look at me like I’m the repulsive one because I love Jagger?”

  “You love Jagger?” I said, totally dumbfounded, his words so ludicrous I couldn’t believe he’d uttered them. Alberto had been nothing but cruel to Jagger, pushing him around, bullying him like an overgrown school kid.

  “I do! But because of our father I couldn’t do anything about it! For years I’ve had to hide my feelings for Jagger. Well, I’m not tolerating it anymore, I’m taking what I want and to hell with you if you think that’s wrong!”

  “It is wrong! You raped him!”

  “I didn’t rape him, I made love to him.”

  “You’re fucking delusional if you think that.”

  “I am not!” Alberto screamed, his face now purple with fury, his eyes blazing.

  I shook my head, not understanding how he could be so stupid. “What you’re saying and doing is not only despicable; it’s pathetic, stupid, beyond comprehension. You say you love Jagger, yet you hand him over to the men who want him dead, the same cruel sadists who are butchering him.” I pointed in the direction of Jagger’s cell. “How can you allow that to happen if you love him?”

  “He is not being butchered, the Padre has given me his word, all he’s doing is making Jagger pay, and rightly so for dismembering him.”

  As if to disagree with Alberto, a yell came from the next room, Jagger pleading for the Padre to stop. I looked over at the wall, imagining the priest cutting Jagger one small slice at a time, taking revenge for my cousin cutting his cock off. My heart fell as Jagger’s voice changed in tone. It was eerily similar to how the women sounded when they were being raped, the horror inherent in their voices, the pleading that was always ignored.

  I looked back at Alberto. “Jagger was telling the truth about the Padre all along,” I said, praying that Alberto would say no, even though I knew it was true, Jagger’s pleas telling me I had been an even bigger fool for believing the priest over my cousin.

  “Sì,” Alberto answered. “That’s why our father refused to hand him over to the Donatelli. But they threatened to storm our house, so he sent me in like a lamb to the slaughter to negotiate a deal to save Jagger’s life.” Alberto’s expression darkened. “He didn’t say it in so many words, but I know he was hoping I didn’t come back. But I made a deal with them...” He stopped talking, guilt now playing across his face.

  “What deal?” I asked.

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “I do! So tell me!”

  Alberto ran a hand over his face, then let out a huge sigh as though his next words pained him. “I said once our father stepped down as don, they could take Jagger as long as I could have access to him whenever I wanted.”

  “You what?”

  “They knew Father wouldn’t last much longer, which was why they agreed. But when you took over as don I asked them to negotiate with you first before they took action, but you stubbornly refused to hand Jagger over, which is why all of this happened.”

  “So, this is my fault?” I ground out, even more furious that this had been seven years in the making. At the time of Jagger’s attack on the Padre, I had been in America, fucking my way through college, and only discovered what had happened after I returned home during a semester break. And it was Alberto who had led to me to believe that Jagger was lying, which I’d fallen for, all because I stupidly trusted my brother, and since my father never spoke of the incident there was no need to question my brother’s word over our flighty cousin’s, someone who had the habit of manipulating people to get what he wanted.

  Alberto’s lip twitched. “None of this is your fault, it’s our father’s for treating me like scum. He discovered I was gay when he found me fucking a servant boy in my room.” His face twisted in anger and pain. “He murdered the servant to keep my secret. So, when the Padre was found in Jagger’s bed with his severed cock in his mouth, Father automatically assumed I knew something about it, so he questioned me.” His eyes blazed. “I told him what I saw the day I walked in on the priest raping Jagger. In return he beat me for not protecting Jagger.” Alberto touched his nose. “He broke my nose, wouldn’t stop hitting me, screaming I was disgusting, repulsive, and a failure to the famiglia.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him about the Padre sooner?”

  “Because I liked seeing Jagger getting fucked.” Alberto laughed, the sound a little manic. “No, I loved it, I fucking loved seeing Jagger used like that, and I imagined doing it myself, claiming him like the Padre had done.”

  I went silent, absolutely horrified. I imagined what the young Jagger would have felt, the horror and terror. But it was Alberto’s next words that hit me the hardest.

  “The Padre first took him a few months after Jagger came to live with us. He told me about it, told me everything.”

  “But Jagger would’ve only been twelve.”

  “Eleven.”

  I bent over and clutched my stomach, feeling like throwing up. Now I knew why Jagger’s eyes were often glossy, and why he always looked so sad when I visited during my semester breaks. I’d been in America during those years, getting a business degree, while Alberto stayed at home working for our father.

  My brother’s feet appeared before me. Alberto laid a hand on my back, an attempt to comfort me from his horrifying words, but it just made me want to smash
him over like our father had done for not protecting Jagger, and for not killing that sick fucking priest!

  I shot up and punched him in the face, making my brother stagger backwards. The Donatelli guard yelled at me to stop, but I punched Alberto again, hitting him square in the nose. Alberto didn’t even lift his hands, just took each hit, because he knew he deserved it—and more.

  A gun was thrust in front of my face, the Donatelli guard yelling: “Stop. NOW!”

  I lowered my bloodied fist. “Shoot me, I dare you,” I said, then moved my mouth over the gun’s barrel, knowing the worthless piece of shit wouldn’t, the guard just a puppet, his masters’ strings wrapped around his tiny balls, pulling tight.

  The guard’s thumb twitched, as though he wanted to pull the trigger, but he removed the gun from my mouth.

  I sneered at him. “Don’t make threats if you can’t carry through with them,” I said, knowing damn well his masters had far more in store for me, something much nastier than getting my head blown off.

  The guard glared at me. He was a heavy-set bastard, his baldness and dark eyes telling me he wasn’t a Donatelli, just a hired thug. Whether it was pale blue, a gray cerulean or a dark azure, the Donatelli were a bunch of blue-eyed devils.

  “If you take things too far,” the guard said, “you may not give me a choice but to shoot you, don.”

  “If I was still a don you would gun me down rather than hold me in here like a slave.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Another empty threat, you cazzo di merda,” I spat out, calling him a dick-faced piece of shit.

  He raised his gun, looking like he was going to hit me over the head with it, but Alberto moved faster, ramming him from the side. The guard fell, dropping his gun as he hit the floor, which Alberto instantly scooped up before I could grab it.

  The Russian, who was sitting by the wall, mourning his dead brother, stopped praying and grabbed the Donatelli guard, breaking the man’s neck before we could blink. Sasha then pushed the dead guard off him and resumed praying.