Made Man (Underboss Insurrection)

Chapter 1 – WYATT

I’m flat on my back, and Mira’s riding me. Somehow, she got my jeans down and my dick out, and she’s riding me on the playground suspension bridge we used to play on when we were kids.

“Mira,” I pant. “Baby, we have to stop.” We really do, and it’s going to kill me.

“No,” she whines, grinding the seam of her sweatpants against my cock.

It chafes like hell, but I don’t care about that. “Someone will see.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.” She braces her palms on my chest, closes her eyes, bites her lip, and tosses her long blonde hair. She looks like an angel. A slutty angel. “Move,” she orders, so bossy, so perfect.

I can’t. If I do, I’ll come. “I’m not giving Vinnie a show.”

She giggles and opens her big brown eyes. “His name is Tony . And he would never look.”

“Of course he would.” Mira’s shirt is pushed up to her neck, and her front clasp bra is unhooked. Her glorious tits sway every time she rocks her hips and the bridge swings. If I hadn’t given Vinnie or Tony or whoever a fifty to give us some space and whistle if anyone comes by—and angled Mira away from where he’s leaning against an oak tree across the way—he’d totally be looking.

He can still hear us. Mira, at least. She has no concept of adjusting her volume for a given situation. The thought of being overheard doesn’t faze me—or my dick—in the slightest. Years ago, I got used to the fact that being with Mira means never being alone.

Her dad is a mafia boss. At least that’s the rumor around the neighborhood. My parents joke about it with their friends down at the country club. They don’t actually believe it. They think he’s some kind of eccentric financial genius, paranoid about personal protection, who just so happens to be Italian American.

I’m not so sure. Mira has never said, and I’ve never asked, ’cause what am I going to do if he’s some big-time mobster? It’s already hard enough that I’m going to Wharton in the fall, and she’s staying home. It’s only a three-hour drive, but even thinking about it makes my chest tight. She’s been down the street my whole life. We didn’t talk for most of that time—I don’t talk much at all—but she was there. I could see her.

Even when she thought I was a gross, annoying, stupid boy, she’d wait for me to pass with my mutt Sheldon and come running with her Frenchie named Eustace, and we’d walk them together, mostly in silence. I’d take care of Eustace’s business for her, and Mira would smile at me prettily, sashay ahead, and pretend not to notice me staring at her perfect, sweetheart ass.

Mira hasn’t scooped a single poop in her life. Is she gonna ask Tony and Vinnie to do it when I’m gone?

“Hey,” she says softly, and I realize I’ve tensed, and she’s stopped rocking. The eyebrows that she spends so much time on pinch together. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere. I’m here.”

She fakes a frown and tickles my bare sides. She’s pushed my shirt up to my chin, too. I pretend to squirm. I’m not ticklish, but I’ll never discourage her from touching me any way she wants. Back when we were sophomores, and she was starting to see me the way I’ve always seen her, that’s how she showed me she wanted to be more than friends. Tickles and play punches and trying to give me flat tires, which usually ended with her failing and tripping herself instead.

“No, you’re not.” She frowns for real. “You’re thinking about college.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s only three hours away.” She’s reassuring herself. I hate that. It makes me think she’s worried, and that makes me worried.

I stroke her soft back. When she’s unhappy, my stomach hurts.

“You’ll be back for Thanksgiving, and then it’s less than a month until winter break,” she says.

“That’s right. And then we’ll have a whole six weeks together before second semester.” I wrap my arms around her and draw her to my chest.

She rests her cheek on my pec. Her hair smells like lemon blossom and lychee. At least that’s what she said the smell was when I asked. I didn’t know lemons had blossoms, and I’ve never seen a lychee. I nuzzle my nose into her silky waves, and it’s the best smell in the world.

“Think about me,” she says, snaking her arm between us so she can wrap her soft fingers around my dick. “Don’t think about college.”

“Baby,” I groan, drawing her hand away and tucking it under my arm to pin it there. “Calm down.”

“I don’t wanna.” She spreads her knees, pressing her inner thighs against my hips so she can grind her pussy on my boner. She’s soaking through her sweats.

“Please, baby,” I beg as I buck my hips, my dick trying to punch a hole through the cotton of her pants. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” she grumbles. “Everyone’s asleep.”

Not Tony. If I turn my head, I’ll be able to see his face clear as day, lit up by his phone as he scrolls. Huge turn-on. “Our first time isn’t going to be outside for anyone to see.”

“You did it with Layla in the back seat of her car.” She says Layla’s name in a teasing way, but I hear the hurt in her voice.

Layla was before the tickles and teasing smacks and flat tires, when I thought Mira and I were never going to happen. I was a sophomore. Layla was a senior. She offered. I accepted. I’d regret it a hundred percent, except it was Layla dropping me off at home after school that made Mira finally look at me as more than a friend.

“Your daddy would never let me get you into the back seat of a car,” I say.

She peers up and scrunches her nose. “Who’s gonna ask him?”

I catch her lips with mine, and immediately, her saltiness disappears in a sigh. She widens her split so that my cock rests in the notch where her panties bunch between her pussy lips, and she pulses her hips faster, chasing that orgasm. I look over at the trees and focus on Tony’s ugly face, praying to God I don’t come before she does.

We finally figured out how to get her off a few months ago, and she’s been insatiable ever since. It’s killing me, but I’m not popping her cherry on a jungle gym or the ground behind a bush or in some shed. I’ve got a room booked at the Fairmont for after prom, and I’m going to lose Vinnie or Tony or whoever, and we’re going to do it right.

I’m marrying this woman one day. I’m not brushing her off after I fuck her and sending her home.

Prom is only three weeks away. I can wait. And based on how her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts, I’ve only got a minute or two before this torture ends, and I can go bang my head on the metal fireman’s pole or something to put myself out of my misery.

“It’s so close, but it won’t come,” she whines.

“I got you,” I say and slip a hand past the elastic waistband of her pants.

“Yes,” she moans, lifting her hips to guide me where she wants me. I work my fingers under her wet panties and find her hard, swollen clit. It’s never been hard to find; it’s always hanging out of its little hood like the tip of a tongue even when she isn’t turned on. Now what to do with it? That’s the tricky part.

You can’t touch the bullseye, not until the very end. You’ve got to circle the nub, and then brush across it, and she’ll always try to rush things by humping into your hand, but she doesn’t know what she wants.

Touch it straight on too soon, and it scares her orgasm away. You have to listen for her tell. It’s an almost imperceptible hitch in her breath. When I hear that, it’s go time. I press my thumb on her like a button and rub, quickly chasing down her mouth to swallow her scream.

She seizes up, her back arching, her arms jerking and her legs quivering like she got electrocuted. After a few seconds, she turns into a noodle. Then she smiles dopily down at me, her brown eyes fuzzy and shining with love, and I soak it in like dead grass in a rainstorm.

She’s the only one who’s ever looked at me like this—like I’m not a fuck-up. Like I’m not the other Foster kid.

I was the kid my family could have done without. My oldest brother is the high achiever, valedictorian, pre-med at Cornell. Greg is the fencing phenom. Third ranked in the world. Training for his second Olympics and favored to medal. My younger sister is the one with personality. She dabbles in everything, has a hundred best friends, hundreds of thousands of followers on social media profiles that she deletes when she gets bored. She’s who my mom wishes she’d been.

I’ve always been mid in every way. Absolutely nothing special. My parents red-shirted me in kindergarten. That’s the only reason Mira and I are in the same grade. I’m a year older than her. I was junior varsity until senior year, and I fought for that C average. I only got into Wharton because I’m a legacy, and Dad’s on the board.

I’m an afterthought in my family, the surprise sour grape in the bunch to my parents, teachers, coaches, and the kids who try to make friends with me to get close to my sister. But to Mira—I have always hung the moon. I have no idea why or how I got so lucky, and there’s no way I’m asking her. I don’t want her to actually think it through and realize she’s been wrong. I just bask in that love and wish I didn’t have to go away to figure out life so I can take care of her.

“Who’s got you?” I whisper as she collapses back onto my chest.

“Wyatt Foster.”

“That’s right. Who loves you?”

“Wyatt Foster.”

I can feel her smile against my bare chest. The gritty panels of the suspension bridge scrape my back, and my blue balls hurt like hell, but I never want to move from this spot.

“Who loves you back?” she whispers in her sweet, husky post-orgasm voice.

“Mira Volpe.”

“Forever,” she says.

“F—”

A gunshot splits the night. Then another. More.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat-tat.

“Down!” Tony shouts from the trees.

I roll to cover Mira, but she’s already on her feet.

“Get down!” I shout, swiping for her, but she’s already running back across the bridge, leaping down into the mulch.

“Mira, get back here!” I stand, trip over my jeans, scramble to pull them over my ass. The gunfire just keeps going.

The shots are coming from her place, the first property as you enter our cul-de-sac. The iron gates are wide open, and two cars have their brights aimed at the door, lighting the front of the house like a stage. Rifle muzzles poke from windows, the glass busted out. Stucco explodes as bullets pockmark the wall.

“Mira, stop,” I bellow, hopping over the bridge railing, knees slamming to the ground before I scramble up and after her.

We race down the middle of the street—Mira, Tony, and me—the houses to our left and right lighting as we go. Somehow, Mira’s in the lead. She’s running into a gunfight.

I pump my arms harder, forcing my stride to lengthen, running faster than I ever have before.

Tony has a pistol drawn, trying to brace his forearm and aim as he sprints. “Range is hot, Mira,” he shouts. “Range is hot!”

She glances over her shoulder, slowing for a second. It’s all I need. I launch myself into the air and tackle her.

I try to twist her, protect her from the asphalt, but I have too much momentum and not enough skill. I slam her face down into the street. Her chin hits it with a crack. She screams in pain. The sound plunges into my heart, serrated, brutal.

“No, Mira, no. Stop. For fuck’s sake, stop!” I gasp for air, hooking my elbow around her neck, pressing my whole weight into her back to keep her trapped while she scrabbles and flails, fighting with all she has to throw me off and crawl forward. Warm blood dribbles from her chin onto my forearm.

“Don’t let her go,” Tony barks at me and stops in the middle of the street. He steadies his grip, inhales, aims, exhales, and shoots. Once, twice, three times. Yards away, men in black, crouched behind the open doors of their nondescript sedans, crumple and fall to the ground.

The silence is as sudden as a slap.

“Keep her there,” Tony orders.

Men stream from Mira’s front door and around from the back of the house. I absorb her kicks and the impact of her butting head as I watch her father’s men do a set change in her circular drive. They hoist bodies and carry them off. One struggles, still alive. I watch Ray, the guard who’s like a grandfather to Mira, put the cars in neutral and steer as other guys silently push them into Mr. Volpe’s windowless, six car garage. Another man, Vinnie by his height, hoses down the asphalt.

It all happens before the first neighbor gets the balls to poke his nose out of his house. Unsurprisingly, it’s not my father. He’s an expert at not being interested in shit that’s not going to benefit him.

Tony walks over to us. There’s no sign of his weapon, but he smells like gunpowder. “Let her up,” he says quietly, and I realize I’ve still got Mira pinned. She’s not fighting anymore. She’s crying.

My stomach clenches. I hurt her. I hop up, and she staggers to her feet.

“Fuck you, Wyatt,” she says, slapping away the hand I’d offered to help her up. She stumbles and then jogs for her house, snotty tears running down her face.

I stand in the middle of Rocking Horse Circle, my ears ringing, completely lost.

“No worries,” Tony calls out to old Mr. Benowitz, the only neighbor brave enough to come out to his porch. “Just kids setting off fireworks.”

Tony slings his arm around my shoulder and propels me toward Mira’s house. I numbly follow where he leads. Up ahead, Mrs. Volpe rushes outside, and Mira rushes into her arms. Mr. Volpe comes to stand beside them, and he glares at me with his cold fish eyes every step I take up his drive.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods my system, screaming at me that I’m walking in the wrong direction, but Mira’s there, and that’s where I need to be.

As I come to the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the house, Mrs. Volpe peels Mira away and examines her face. “You’ve got a cut on your chin.”