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He reaches for some pillows. Every movement catches the flex of his muscles in the last of the evening light, and I can only stare, so much so, I’m caught off guard when he tucks two pillows under my butt and presses my legs open and up. I’ve never felt this exposed before, but the way he looks at me, as if he’s about to worship a goddess, swells my heart.
“I want to fuck this sweet little pussy so bad,” he grunts as he drives his fingers into me again, hard and with purpose this time as he jerks his cock. “But she saidno sex.”
But she’s regretting it now.
“You’re a control freak,” I hiss back, my orgasm rounding up again from all corners of my body at the visual of him pleasuring himself.
“Fuck, yes, angel, that I am, and if nothing else, I’ll stick to the terms and conditions of this arrangement.”
I want to stall my peak, keep myself from crashing into bliss, but he dips his head and licks and sucks on my clit, and it’s all too much. I shatter.
And shatter more with a gasp as he curls his fingers, pressing that secret spot inside me. He drags out my orgasm as he hits every swollen nerve deep within me. My legs are shaking and my body trembles with release as he straightens and spills his own, right over every scratch Franco’s made on my skin, as if he could erase it with his cum.
We still, the moment passing in slow motion as we catch our breaths. Stephano lets go of my legs, but I’m too weak to close them up. Instead, I watch as he zips his pants and buckles his belt. That was it. The only bit of Stephano I’m going to see out of control tonight.
“Come,” he says as he eases the pillows away and scoops me into his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
31
STEPHANO
I let her stand at the twin basin and reach for a face cloth. “Do you want to shower?” I ask as I open the faucet, getting ready to wipe her clean.
She still smells of perfumed bride with a touch of freshly fucked. If we’d had proper sex, she would’ve smelled only of freshly fucked, and I bet that’s going to be my favorite scent if I ever get to smell it.
“I’m so tired, I’ll just deal with my makeup,” she says as she eyes me wringing out the face cloth.
I lower to my haunches and wipe away the evidence of usnothaving sex. Finally, I’m getting a closer inspection of those cuts that have been haunting me since I saw them the first time. They’re healing, and not in the way they should if someone had it done for body art. The lines are scabbed and will leave a scar, but Franco Fiore will be displeased at the result. She’ll have to get a tattoo or more scarification to disguise it, but she might not be into that. Her skin is beautiful with no other markings.
“What does your tattoo say?” she asks as I straighten again.
Her eyes are on my forearm as I toss the cloth to the laundry basket. “It’s in your blood.”
“What is?”
She meets my gaze, and I work my jaw as I take her in. In this moment, she isn’t on guard. She’s naked and as vulnerable as a woman can be.Trusting. But I could wrap her neck with one hand and choke her to death in minutes. I could work her body to a pulp, break her ribs and splinter them into her lungs, and nobody would be any the wiser when she wore clothes.Just like Mom.Physically, she’s no match for me. A stick to snap. A bug to crush.
These thoughts revolt me, and I swallow the bile pushing up my throat. Something about talking about Mom and her paintings is pushing me to open up to this woman. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll probably regret it later. “Don Guiliano Scalera is in my blood.”
“Your dad?”
I nod.
“What did he do to you that you inked those words on your skin? As an oath or a reminder of sorts?”
Nobody has ever asked that question as directly as she just did, and it throws me. I battle for a long moment with telling her about that night decades ago, wanting to flay myself open and keep my secrets at the same time. I bet she has a similar story somewhere. Mafia princesses often witness and are subjected to things no human should be subjected to. Mafia princesses don’t run like Gigi has without reason or having lived through some shit.
“I woke up one night. There were noises coming from their bedroom.” I flex and fist my hands at the familiar itch that hits me whenever I revisit this memory. “Once Don Scalera realized I was in their room, too petrified to move, he locked the door. He made me watch and then he dragged me closer and forced me to take punches at her too. According to him, this was what heexpected of me, because it was in my blood, just like it was in his. Like father, like son.”
I’m trembling now, the horror of that night creeping under my skin and rippling in waves through me. He would have done so much worse if Mom hadn’t stopped him. To this day, I know the Don would have forced me to touch her with my dirty fucking hands in places no son should ever touch his mother. But she’d gone at him, probably for the first time in her life, retaliating. It was the only time we’d ever seen Don Scalera walk around with a bruised eye.
In the end, she’d paid for it, though, with her life. And I never walked around at night again when I heard noises coming from their side of the house. Instead, I quivered in my bed, haunted by what I’d done. I’d failed to protect the first woman I’ve ever loved. I was weak. I bowed to his tone and command and did as he asked, too fucking scared to defend her. Instead, I participated, and the shame of it made me ink my skin. I’m reminded every fucking day of what I did.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her eyes wide and worried. “How old where you?”
“Seven.”
An age which holds a lot of blurry memories for most people. Mine don’t fade; they’re crystal clear. I never felt so helpless and out of control of my own body in my life. Then she died eight months later. To think she was pregnant at the time he’d gone at her.
