Chapter Thirty-Seven Tiernan #2
It was a shame Achilles wasn’t born in another century. He’d make such a prolific tyrant.
“They have a good amount of weapons, too,” Sam warned.
“But we have the element of surprise. Alex is under the impression his enemies think he’s still in Russia.
He flew in an intricate route, first to Germany, then to Peru, before landing in Vegas.
He’ll only deal with you after he sorts out the failed shipment and find out which one of his men messed it up. ”
Running a hand over my jawline, I asked, “How much does he know about Lila?”
“He knows you have a new wife, that she is pregnant, and that you spend all your nights in your apartment, meaning you aren’t visiting your whores anymore. I’m sure he deduced you’re fond of her,” Sam said flatly. “He’s evil, not dumb.”
Achilles shot me a dirty look. “Are you fucking my sister, Callaghan?”
“She’s my wife, you moron.”
“That’s not a good enough excuse,” he volleyed back. “I’m paying you not to touch her.”
“Been wiring you the sum back for two whole months now.”
His sister’s pussy was priceless. He couldn’t pry me out of it using an entire Navy SEALs unit.
“Now I have no choice but to do the same to you.” He cast an evil eye my way.
“Your only way of fucking me is if I’m a corpse,” Tierney deadpanned, swaggering past us in perfect timing, hips swinging, holding a glass of pink champagne. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you screw me while I still have breath in me.”
“I never said you needed to be alive for the occasion, Cumcake,” Achilles said mildly. “You’d probably be tighter dead, with the number of assholes who went through you.”
Tierney laughed, knowing she had the upper hand when Achilles’s ears turned red.
Then a crew of servants appeared at the door and announced dinner was ready.
_______
Chiara Ferrante sat to the right of her husband, wearing a necklace that cost over two million dollars and a dissatisfied frown.
The frown was directed at her daughter.
Said daughter happened to take a seat in my lap, ignoring the chair next to me, digging her sweet little ass into my already painful erection to make a point. The point she was making? Never leave her dissatisfied and start something I had no intention of finishing.
The chitchat had ceased as soon as Lila assumed her position in my lap. All heads turned to us. All but President Keaton’s.
“The caprese is divine,” he announced, spearing a tomato with his fork. “Who made it?”
“We hire chef Ambrose Casablancas for special events,” Vello boasted. The diminished man resembled an ugly baby bird. Pink and plucked, with plumes of white hair sticking randomly from his bald head.
Keaton raised an eyebrow. “I tried hiring him for an event at the White House. He said he doesn’t associate himself with politicians. I see he doesn’t extend the same disdain to criminals.”
“He says criminals at least have the decency to own up to their sins,” Vello explained. “I don’t disagree.”
“He’s a cook, not the fucking pope,” President Keaton grumbled.
“Call him a cook to his face.” Enzo grinned into his drink. “See how that works out for you.”
Meanwhile, Lila pretended to readjust herself directly on my cock, leaning forward to reach for her glass of water and spreading her thighs just enough to nestle the length of me between them, then squeezed hard.
I suppressed a groan, my jaw tightening.
A second round of appetizers was ushered to the table.
Tierney and Achilles were locked in some kind of who-blinks-first game.
The air was thick with violent tension. I thrust my hips forward, teasing Lila’s opening through our clothes as I reached for a piece of calamari and popped it into my mouth.
“It’s unbecoming for a woman to sit in a man’s lap at the dinner table,” Chiara finally signed to her daughter.
Lila flashed her a slow provocative smile. “He’s not just any man, Mama. He is my husband. I’m sure everyone at the table already knows he fucks me senseless every night.”
“What a terrible day to have eyes.” Enzo gagged on a piece of bread, coughing it into his fist. “Why did I go straight to the naughty parts when I started learning ASL?”
“Because you’re a pervert?” Luca offered indifferently.
“Because you’re mentally eleven,” Achilles guessed in unison.
“Wait, what did she sign?” Luca frowned.
Enzo rolled his eyes. “Put more time and effort into your ASL studies and find out, stronzi.”
Vello looked like he was about to expire on his lasagna.
“How dare you speak to me that way, and under my own roof?” Chiara’s dark eyes singed like two burning coals.
“Did I do you a disservice?” Lila cocked her head, blinking innocently. “Doesn’t feel very nice, does it? Imagine what the last eighteen years have been like for me.”
“Burn.” Enzo coughed into his fist.
“Sign slower. I’m trying to translate all of this into English.” Luca scrolled on his phone, glowering.
“Maybe it’s best if we switch to another topic,” Francesca Keaton suggested cordially.
“Agreed.” Enzo shoveled food down his throat, turning to the president. “Dude, isn’t your wife, like, fifteen years your junior?”
Jesus. The Ferrantes were a right mess. And here I thought my family was fucked up.
Keaton pinned Enzo with a look that could decimate armies. “Didn’t your big brother fuck your ex-girlfriend?” he retorted.
Achilles grinned behind his glass of wine. “She called him mid-act to dump him, I dicked her so good.”
“You did have an unfair advantage, Achilles.” Tierney raised her champagne in a toast. “Dick is your entire personality.”
At this point, Vello decided the best course of action was to start a new conversation. One in a language everybody spoke, and not about his children’s sex lives.
“President Keaton. It appears we have an…insect problem in this house.” The don cleared his throat emphatically. His way of informing him that the place was bugged.
“That’s quite unfortunate.” Keaton sat back, one arm flung over the back of his wife’s chair.
Francesca Rossi was a mother of three. Charitable, beautiful, and the most popular First Lady in the last twenty years.
She was also the subject of many hit pieces in the media.
Partly because she married her husband when she was a teen and he was in his thirties.
But mostly because she was a Mafia princess.
The Keatons never denied their affiliation with the Chicago Outfit.
Oftentimes, Keaton would strike deals with less-than-reputable fellas to get his way.
We had one together, in which I cleaned Hunts Point’s streets of sex workers, instead opening off-the-grid brothels where employees were tested for drugs and STIs and got steady, fair pay under the table.
Overall, the American people were happy. The economy was strong, crime rate was relatively low, and the world wasn’t on fucking fire.
“What can be done about that?” Vello asked, while Lila artfully dropped her own fork. She bent to get it, grinding her pussy along my dick through our clothes.
My pulse drummed across the side of my neck.
I was very close to losing our little game.
Too bad I never lost, and an eighteen-year-old girl—no matter how pretty, how enticing, how good with a needle, a pistol, a cock—couldn’t change that.
“Not much.” Wolfe sat back, not an ounce of apology in his voice. He was playing with a lock of his wife’s brunette hair, and it sickened me, how other men pretended other women were attractive when my wife was in the room. “Have you tried pest control?”
He meant, of course, people like Brennan. Former fixers, sometimes dirty feds, whose sole job now was working for the likes of Vello and myself to ensure our places weren’t bugged.
“I did. They’re all useless.” Vello picked up his wine glass, staring into the crimson liquid. “I rather hoped you could…”
Wolfe tilted an eyebrow.
“Exterminate the type of insect plaguing my house.”
Wolfe’s mouth pinched in barely contained amusement.
“While history rewards high-risk presidents, I’m not dumb enough to test that theory by telling the head of the FBI how to conduct his business,” Keaton said outright.
Luca gave the president a flat stare. “Throw us a bone here.”
“You’re asking for an entire damn skeleton,” Wolfe’s lilt sharpened like a knife’s edge.
His wife put her hand on his. His expression softened immediately.
“I will, however, suggest you look into a different couch in the drawing room,” Wolfe’s voice dropped an octave. “The current one doesn’t complement the curtains. And maybe freshen up all those chess pieces in your office.”
A satisfied smile pulled at the don’s lips. “What excellent suggestions. Our place could use a little facelift.”
“You’d need to burn the entire motherfucking house, and it’d still be distasteful,” I muttered into my drink.
Brennan choked on a bite of his rare steak. Wolfe caught my eye, smirking.
“And you, Tiernan?” The president splayed his fingers over the pristine white tablecloth. “How’s married life treating you?”
“I’ve had worse ventures.”
“What a glowing endorsement.” Keaton grinned. “You know, it’s not all bad once one yields to their emotions.”
Lila had her back to me when I smiled, moving a hand over her magnificent hair. “Oh, I’m not one for pesky feelings. My wife is, at the best of times, a harmless hobby.”
Chiara’s fork clanked across her plate noisily.
Her chair scraped across the floor.
Vello reached for her shoulder, signaling her to stay put. She sat back, sending him a death glare.
I wondered when she’d pull the trigger and finally poison him.
I hoped it was tonight. The birthday dinner could use some entertainment.
More food rushed to the dining table. Everyone was in a festive mood.
Not me, though. I was laser-focused on Lila, who was still dry-humping me to oblivion.
Determined not to let her have the last laugh, I pretended not to care, eating, drinking, and carrying on a dull conversation with Sam, Achilles, and Keaton.