AllFreeNovel
Share Us
You know they say there are silences you can cut with a knife. For this moment, the knife would need to be red hot. The don’s eyes narrow as his face curls into a snarl.
After a moment, he scowls and asks the men, “Is this the scrap that Don Benedetti threw us?”
Alessio says, “Dad, this is Lucia Benedetti. Lucia, my father, Don Fortuna.” He accompanies his formal introduction with an elegant bow.
The don makes no move and no sound. He continues to eye me like a suspect steak. I try to keep my face relaxed, but my teeth clamp together. The heavy pause seems to go on forever as the don looks at me like an unwanted stray animal.
Eventually, I can’t stand it any longer. My nails are jammed into my palms.
“Thank you, Alessio,” I say. “I appreciate you throwing a cloak of chivalry over the muddy patch of the don’s introduction.”
“Well,” the don’s eyes light up as he growls. “You can speak up for yourself. I’ll give you that.” His eye glints as he leans toward. I’m proud of myself for not flinching or backing away. He juts his chin at me.
“You’ve got balls. That’s something.”
The library was imposing. The long, dark paneled dining room is even more so. A white linen tablecloth is laid out with heavy silverware, silver candlesticks and ornately folded napkins. The don seats himself at the head of the long, white linen-covered table. The rest of us sit where he tells us.
The stylish table setting is not matched by the food. First there is a soup course, which is thin and almost tasteless. Then a green salad. Fresh, crisp leaves, but not properly dressed. And after that, Mrs. Jago serves us plates of spaghetti with a tomato sauce. The pasta is fresh, but that’s all I can say for it. I would say the sauce could have come out of a jar, but it would probably have been better if it did. No basil, no seasoning.
The sons and I are on either side of a long table. I’m opposite Carlo, with Bruno next to me. The door is behind me, so when Mrs. Jago brings trays and plates, or she bustles briskly in to clear dishes away, the rustle of her skirts and her white apron are the only signs of her arrival. The windows are left and right of where I’m sitting, and I expect the views are great. I’m facing a wall.
I was brought up to clean my plate when I’m a guest, and I’ll do it. It’s not going to be easy, though. My appetite was faint to start with. Now, it’s on life support. I’m doing what I must, but there’s no pleasure to be had out of it.
Having Don Fortuna smack his lips every time his eyes slip onto me doesn’t help.
As a low rumble of chat passes among the men, strong fingers drop onto my thigh. They’re Bruno’s. I can tell by the position. And the strength. But nothing shows in his face and he doesn’t look in my direction.
His hand moves up my thigh. His fingertips push and drag against my pussy. Scratching on the denim. Like he’s testing.
Sooner or later, somebody is bound to ask me how I’m enjoying the meal, and I’m dreading that. But for now, all the conversation is about the Crespis.
The don booms that it’s, “a disgrace. It’s an outrage. Who would dare?”
Bruno’s hand squeezes my thigh and his fingers tease my pussy. Trying to keep my face from registering the shocks, I drop my hand onto his.
I tell myself that I’m going to push him away, but I feel a hint of his strength, and I want him. All the way where he’s clearly threatening to go. Threatening or promising.
All three boys chime in with echoes of how ‘unbelievable’ and ‘unacceptable’ the news is, of Gianni Crespi getting murdered in his own home. And his son and heir.
I know enough to make enough eye contact occasionally around the table so nobody notices me trying to stay low. Still, I keep my eyes and my head down most of the time so I don’t give anything away. Especially not when a foot in a silk sock appears between my legs. I hold my breath and keep my lips together. Carlo’s expression doesn’t change as he shoves his toes into my crotch, right where his brother’s hand has just been.
I close my thighs. He takes that as encouragement, and rubs the ball of his foot more into my cleft. Bruno and Carlo are going to try and drive me mad, and I should make them stop. Only, I don’t want to. Anyway, they’re taking my mind off the food.
Above the table, they kick the subject of Gianni’s death back and forth between them. It all feels like masculine posturing, but I can’t deny the heat of power. The air hums and buzzes. As they each give their views, they act so arrogant, so certain.
Almost as soon as Carlo’s foot withdraws, Bruno’s fingers drop back to trace up the inside of my thigh. I don’t have the strength or willpower to make him stop.
I’m trying to keep a straight face over the dinner table, while liquid electricity flashes through me, making me clench and quiver inside. He moves even higher.
The harder I try to keep still, the more my insides thrash and threaten to burst.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The tips of Bruno’s fingers are making me judder and squirm. I grip his hand tighter and put a firm look on my face. I know he understands me. He’s got my rhythm and he knows it. Damn him. I can tell from the trace of a smirk that lights up in his eye.
These men all know what they want, and nothing will stop them taking it. Each of them has a rhythmic hammer of a laugh, a similar rolling drumbeat of arrogant certainty.
The don has it, too. I can’t pick up any physical resemblances at all between the men and the don, except with Alessio, but they do all share a few mannerisms. All of them rap the joints of their knuckles down the same way to emphasize a point.
