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My insides boil with all of my mixed feelings about him. I’m weary from the firecracker shocks. Physical, chemical, and, deepest of all, emotional. I’m trying so hard not to believe the worst of him, not to assume that he’s betrayed me, but I’m banging up against all the evidence to the contrary.
The shocks still reverberate from his revelations about his uncle from Chicago — and now another doubt creeps into my mind. Where did they go together, Alessio and Jerry? Did Alessio bring his Uncle Jerry here, to the Sun-a-do?
Rather than quiz him on the spot, I make a mental note to call Tai. I can just ask him for the visitor logs from the lest few days. That will tell me if Alessio was here and if he brought a guest, and I won’t have to ask specifically.
That’s far better than risking a confrontation with Alessio about it. At the same time, I know it’s a bad sign that I don’t want to deal with the situation straight out in the open. We have always been able to talk.
Whatever it is that’s getting in the way, and I’m working hard not to jump to the obvious conclusions, I hate that we can’t just discuss it and resolve it openly, even if it was only the two of us. This is bad.
Holding his helmet ready to put on, he hesitates. His lips press together.
He says, “We shouldn’t be apart so much.”
“You blocked me.” That was so not what I wanted to say. And I didn’t want it to come out sounding whiny, which is how it does sound to me. It’s like my nerves are jangling out loud.
It takes him a beat before he even knows it’s the gunfight I’m talking about.
He lifts an eyebrow as a sarcastic pull lifts one side of his lip. “I saved your beautiful ass.”
His voice drops down to that low purr, the tone that always gets me. In that voice, he could ask me to do anything and I would come. Running.
“Lucia,” His head tilts and he holds out his big hand. I could climb onto him right now. Nestle into the big palm of his hand. Grind my pussy into the palm of his hand. Let the world slip away while his fingers do their sinful, musical magic on me. In me. All over me.
I hold back against the impulse to push and rub myself all over him, shove myself against him and feel all of his muscles come to life as I press my flesh into his.
All the while, I’m getting wetter, hotter, and wilder.
When he looks at me like that, I want to wrap him up and work him, squeeze and tease him, suckle and pump him. Take him in my hands, between my breasts, deep in my throat. Make him cum. Feel that force.
Let go of everything but him while he drills and hemmers me, pounds me till I’m gasping and howling, senseless. Lay with him, wrapped and wound together, in pools of my juice and his cum and our sweat, while we tumble, drowsy and lost into each other’s oblivion.
He holds out the spare crash helmet. My hands jump to take it.
His lips curl and he twinkles as he says, “Come with me.” I almost gasp as I take the helmet between my hands. He says, “Come back to the house.”
The helmet drops out of my hands and cracks on the stone ground. His eyes blaze.
I can’t think about that house. Not without remembering what happened there. And I don’t want to remember.
“Our house is not good enough for you. Not any more. Not now that you’ve got all that you need from it. Now you’ve taken the family, you want to erase the past. Why is that?” His lips tighten and I’m breathing too hard to speak. The history of the family is who we are.”
Alessio is sensitive about the family history because he has so little of his own. He’s got a fire about the traditions and stories that’s like the fanatical patriotism of a first or second generation migrant.
Words are starting out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“I don}t know what makes you so sentimental about the family history, Alessio.” His eyes narrow. “Do you spend hours turning the pages of the old family albums? Your pictures aren’t in very many of them, are they?” His shoulder slopes. “Pictures of you only go back, what nine, ten years? You and your father weren’t there, were you? Your stories all come from somewhere else, don’t they. But you never talk about those days..”
I should stop. I should have stopped a while back. I went too far. But that’s me. My voice is louder as I go on, “You talk about ‘the family,’ but never your own childhood. Why is that, Alessio?”
Somehow, his name whipped out from my lips like it’s a slap. That’s not how I mean it to sound.
I start to say something, to try and turn this around somehow, but he’s rising from the saddle, standing tall and magnificent with his eyes on fire.
“All of my family’s power and influence is fine for you, though, right? And the money is okay with you. You don’t have too much of a problem with any of that.”
His voice rasps, hard and low. “All the clubs, the bars, the income and influence that comes with all of the businesses, you’re fine with all of that. But you won’t come back to the house with me. It’s what? It’s too old-fashioned? Not modern and stylish enough for our twenty-first century mob queen?”
He slip the helmet on and fires up the bike engine. Shouting over the bike’s evil crackle, he fixes my eye as he grips the handlebars.
