6. Cian
Cian
H ousekeeping has come and gone. I returned to the bungalow to find all of Elena’s things neatly put away in the closet, the bed made, and the bedside lamp’s remains cleaned up. They must have thought we had a wild night. Now all of that evidence is gone.
I sit at the table, overlooking the ocean, and try to get my head on straight.
Even with this place cleaned, I swear I smell Elena’s amber scent.
My palms tingle with the memory of touching her silky skin.
My cock grows hard thinking about the way she felt beneath me, and how much I want to bury myself in her sweet cunt again.
Fuck . Fuck, fuck!
She’s a siren, my wife, and I want to spend our entire honeymoon wringing every last drop of pleasure from her body. To drink in her moans, revel in her shudders, and fill her with my cum until it leaks from her pussy and drips down her thighs.
The last time I found myself this obsessed over a woman, it was my undoing.
I won’t let that happen again—I can’t. The next time might actually kill me, as my ex intended but failed to do.
I swore then that I’d never be blinded by a woman’s wiles again.
The more I want her, the more she’s guaranteed to be nothing but trouble.
Now I’m married to my worst nightmare—a woman I find desirable. That I can’t stop thinking about.
My fist slams down on the table top. Frustration and pent up energy zing through my muscles, demanding release. With a curse, and a sense of defeat, I unzip my jeans, taking my throbbing cock in hand. I don’t bother with lube. Instead, I enjoy the friction that brings both pain and pleasure.
I stare out at the beach, unseeing as my mind’s eye conjures Elena’s image from this morning when she tossed back the sheets and bared herself to me. Her come-fuck-me hair, flushed cheeks, and the way she swayed her hips.
I bite down on my lip, stroking myself faster. Imagining her bent over, that perfect ass in the air, and taking her from behind is all I need to finish.
Cum spurts in the air, spattering my shirt and coating my fist. I don’t stop until I’ve expelled every drop.
What a mess. I clean myself up, tugging off my shirt and tossing it in the laundry hamper. Accidentally, I catch sight of my bare chest in the full length mirror.
I cringe.
Walking toward it, I force myself to look at the damage and the tattoos that attempt to cover the worst of it. But I know what’s beneath them.
The stab wounds left short, white marks across my abdomen. They’re crisscrossed with shallower, longer scars from the sweeping cuts of the lashings. My left side is a mass of melted flesh intermixed with skin grafts from when I was doused in gasoline and set on fire.
That pain was the worst. I remember the acrid scent of my flesh burning with a vividness I wish I could forget.
But six years isn’t long enough for those memories to fade.
In fact, I doubt they ever will. One night of terror changed my life forever.
Now, I have to spend the rest of my life living in its aftermath.
Resolve hardens my heart. I’ll never be at the mercy of a woman again.
Never .
Not that Elena could ever want a beast like me. Who could ever find this wreck attractive or desirable?
My gaze flicks up to meet my eyes in the mirror. But they don’t only belong to me, they are the same pale blue as my brother’s were. Those eyes, and the matching birthmark on my elbow–that’s obscured by a spider web tattoo–are constant reminders of his betrayal.
My ex’s treachery was horrible, but my brother’s part in all of it was even worse. I lost a part of my soul that day.
Turning away, I change into a new T-shirt, and I zip up my jeans.
Where the fuck is my wife? Then I remind myself that I don’t care. She’s on this island, not going anywhere. She’ll be back when she wants, and I don’t give a fuck that she’s not by my side.
I groan, raking my fingers through my hair. Hell on earth. That’s what this week is shaping up to be and we’re not even twenty-four hours into it yet.
My phone rings, and I immediately answer. “Tell me it’s urgent and I need to come back to New York immediately.”
Wolfe, my right hand man, chuckles. “Honeymoon going that well, huh? Or did you already kill the Italian bitch and you just need help burying the body?”
I bristle at him calling my wife a bitch. Then remember that’s the phrase we’ve always used when referring to the woman I’d marry. I shake off my unreasonable anger. “No. Unfortunately the Italian bitch is still alive and well.”
“That’s too bad.”
I murmur my agreement. “You and I both know I can’t kill her without the Italians getting all bent out of shape about it. But I don’t think they know what they’ve saddled me with. This one is not a meek little thing. She’s a walking, talking bull-headed disaster. With a temper like a honey badger.”
“A honey badger?”
“Yeah. B roc meala . They’re aggressive little buggers. Better to avoid them at all costs.”
Wolfe laughs—a rarity. “Sounds to me like you’ve met your match.”
“Don’t even start.” I rub the back of my neck. “Why did you call?”
“I know how you get, so I just wanted to tell you that everything is fine here. Quiet. Business as usual with minimal bloodshed.”
I grunt. “Good. Keep everyone in line until my return, especially Finn and Kody. You know how they can get without direct supervision.”
“You got it, boss. We’re all anxiously waiting for you to get back so we can start working with the Italians. This is going to mean big business for us.”
“No shit. Why else would I agree to marry one of them?”
“I don’t judge, but I know you like punishing yourself?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” my tone doesn’t hold any heat.
Wolfe snorts a laugh before sobering. “Just be careful, Cian. It seems to me like we’re getting a lot more out of this deal than they are, and I don’t like that imbalance. Plus they gave you the pretty one. Heard she has a sister that’s so ugly they don’t let her leave the house.”
“Maybe it is too good to be true. Be careful and keep a watchful eye out. Check in with me tomorrow.”
“Sure will, boss.”
I end the call, pondering what I know about the Pontrelli family.
Lorenzo had a son—until I killed him—which left him with two daughters.
Neither has any social media presence. When I asked around about the girls, people said they couldn’t be any more different.
One is the perfect mafia princess and the other is a shrew.
No wonder they didn’t invite the unfavored sister to the wedding. She no doubt would have caused trouble.
In the extended family, Lorenzo has a brother, Davide, who has three girls. If anything happens to Lorenzo, Davide will step in as don of the Pontrelli mafia family.
A few years ago the city was ruled by five Italian families, until someone took one of them out.
The Marino family, the most powerful of them all, disappeared overnight.
No one knows who did it or why, but it shook the organized crime world to its core, and suddenly there was something worse to fear than the FBI.
A nameless, faceless threat hiding in the shadows.
Some rumors point to Blake Baron being the mastermind behind their disappearance, but he’s just a mysterious billionaire, not a criminal mastermind.
At least that’s what we’ve all been led to believe.
Whoever did it, I think that incident helped spur the Italians into peace negotiations with us Irish.
They know they’re not invincible anymore and the stronger their ties with people like us the better.
Instead of fighting each other, they’re using us to fortify their position within the city.
It’s a move that makes total sense. Too bad we had to have years of bloodshed to finally get us here.
But in the end, they get an ally, and we get to expand. It’s a win-win.
I don’t think our arrangement is as out of balance as Wolfe worries about.
Opening up the notes app on my phone, I spend the rest of the day outlining how we’re going to expand into potential new business ventures and my vision for my people going forward.
I won’t be surprised if the Italians unite with the Russians soon as well.
Another marriage, perhaps? It would be in their best interests.
Elena finally appears close to dinner time. She’s wearing the new clothes I bought her, her deep auburn hair pulled away from her fresh, glowing face.
“Where the fuck have you been all day?” I growl. Apparently her absence put me in a foul mood after all.
She purses her lips and rolls her eyes. If she’s the nice sister, I can only imagine what the other one must be like. She’s most definitely a stuck up mafia princess.
“Well?” I sit back, knees spread wide, and cross my arms, expecting an answer.
She huffs. “At the spa. Isn’t that obvious? My skin is glowing, my shoulders were relaxed until you opened your mouth, and I smell like tropical oils.”
I narrow my eyes at her, still unused to her snarky comments. Does she have no filter on that mouth? No one talks back to me. Ever.
Unsure of exactly how to handle this creature, I stand, taking charge. “Change. We have dinner reservations in half an hour.”
“As you wish, your majesty.” She bows, a little wobbly, and I peer closely at her.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Why yes, I have. Did you know they serve bottomless pina coladas at the spa?” She contentedly moans, then hiccups. “They are so good. Sweet. Fruity. Boozy. Absolutely delicious.”
I scoff. I can’t believe my wife has been day drinking. That’s completely unacceptable behavior. “Get dressed. Now.”
On second thought… She’s drunk, who knows what she’ll choose to wear to dinner. I stomp over to the closet and paw through the silk and satin dresses, finding an appropriate deep green one for the occasion, and lay it on the bed.
“Wear that.”
Returning to the closet, I grab a button down and a tie, then go into the bathroom to change. By the time I come out, she’s in the dress, heels on her feet, ready to go.
My chest swells with triumph. Good girl.
I stride to the door and open it. “Let’s go.”
She scowls at me, seemingly unwilling to budge. Now what’s the problem?
With a sigh, I approach where she’s sitting on the edge of the bed and offer her my arm. The gentlemanly gesture smooths her ruffled feathers. She loops her arm around mine and we leave for the dining hall.
Spoiled princess… I fucking knew it.