8. Informant
Chapter eight
Informant
(Kiah)
M y days pass not too dissimilar than they would’ve had the little Ricci brat not shown up on my doorstep.
My daily jogs around the island are back in full swing, the only sure remedy for calming the tempest thoughts circling in the back of my mind.
I still get my reading done, my painting, laying in jams and pickles for the festive season. With one small change—caring for Nico.
There is something almost therapeutic about washing his body, tending to the wound, watching it slowly heal. My days have purpose again. A purpose beyond the mundane.
His complexion is looking much better than it did three weeks ago when I sewed the cut shut that morning after our fucked up first encounter.
The longer he’s here, the more disheveled his beard gets, his perfectly trimmed dark hair turning to slight curls as it lengthens. It completely changes his look, making him even more handsome—in a rugged way.
But it can never be enough to erase the memory of how fucked up he treated me before I managed to turn the tables and restrain him.
I should probably feel bad about how I retaliated, but I don’t. Putting Nico in a chastity cage without consent goes against every rule in the book, but we threw out that book when he tied me up in my own house and violated my consent.
Fuck choosing the moral high ground. Why should it be on me?
My mind still flashes back to him towering over me, dick in hand, as he jerked off onto my face.
But it’s hard to marry the image of that rain-soaked brute with the delirious shadow of a man who’s been occupying my bed for weeks, still fully caged.
He should live—that’s the good and the bad news.
But now that I know who he is, there is one thing I know for certain—I can’t have him around here; he’s a liability.
With a sigh, I turn on my mobile. There’s probably been cellphone reception for a while now. But I’ve been putting off checking.
The stormy season is pretty much over, and life is slowly returning to the island. Pretty soon, guests will start arriving for the festive period.
I’ve procrastinated long enough, delaying the inevitable. But I need to know what’s happening out there in the real world.
I want to know and at the same time—I don’t; I’m scared of the answer. An answer means I have to do something.
One bar, then two…the signal triangle lights up in the right corner of my phone.
With a steady hand, I type the familiar number into the phone that doesn’t have a single contact saved. I know the digits off by heart.
It rings only once before the voice of the only person I trust in the world answers.
“Kiah,” she breathes, no discernable emotion in her voice.
“Hey J. How are things?”
“Is this a social call?” the voice on the other line asks, to the point as always. In the two decades I’ve known J., she’s never been known to beat around the bush.
“I need information.” I know my secrets are safe with her. We spent four years together in the Special Forces, and J. proved herself through and through. I’d take a bullet for that woman (and I have before).
“Anything.”
“What’s going on with the Riccis? I’ve been hearing rumors…” I try to keep my voice steady, but it’s hard to sound casual when asking such a serious question.
“It’s no secret. The Don is dead.”
My heart skips a beat, my breath catching in my throat. It’s worse than I thought.
“Oh?” I try to sound nonplussed, even though J. definitely knows me better than that. But she doesn’t challenge me.
“Fucker had it coming,” J. says simply.
“You can say that again. I assume it wasn’t natural causes?”
“It hardly ever is. Nope, he got murdered.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“No, the family is tightlipped about that part. But word on the street is that it was an inside job.”
“And now? Who’s taking over?”
“That’s the strange thing, the new Don is missing. It’s been weeks, and nobody knows where Domenico is.”
Domenico?
Fuck. The math slowly adds up in my head.
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t want to know.
Nico could’ve been anyone in the Ricci lineage, a distant relative, maybe a cousin, but why did he have to be the heir to the throne?
This is bad.
This is really fucking bad.
“How strange,” I say like it’s really strange and I don’t have the very Don-to-be in question tied to my bed right now.
“Quite. All the families are on edge. His brother has taken the reigns for now. But between you and me, Ricardo Ricci is even worse than his dad.”
“How is that even possible?” I snort. Enzo Ricci was the worst of the worst. I’ve seen the reports of the carnage he’s caused. And for every story you know about, ten more are usually hidden.
“Beats me. I don’t think anyone would be upset if the entire Ricci family tree was wiped from the earth. Scum, all of them,” J. spits.
“Can’t say I disagree,” I say, eyeing the beautiful villain in my bed.
“It will only be a matter of time before they find him though, the missing Ricci. The family has a massive bounty on his head, wanted dead or alive.”
Fucking savages. Dead or alive.
“Thanks, J. Everything else okay there?”
“Yeah. And you? Ready to stop hermitting and return to the real world yet?”
“I’m happy here,” I reply, but we both know I’m lying.
J. sighs. “Look after yourself, Kiah.”
She puts down the phone before I can say or ask anything else.
Keep the calls under 60 seconds, always, that’s the rule.
But 60 seconds was enough for me to get all the information I needed.
The remaining questions I have now aren’t ones J. can help me with.
This is worse than I thought.
I can’t be harboring a fugitive.
Especially not a mafia prince with a bounty on his head.
I throw the phone down on the kitchen counter as I pace around the room. But it does little to alleviate the tension. It’s just stressing me out more.
So, I grab another canvas and sit down behind my easel, hoping to distract myself from the chaos in my mind.
As I go through the soothing routine of setting up my paints, I can’t help but steal glances at the bed where the caged man lies groaning and squirming.
Almost absentmindedly, I start painting, finding relief in the soft strokes of the brush as it stains the acrylic onto the white surface.
I already have his torso done before I realize what (or rather, who ) I’m painting—Nico.
It’s been so oppressively hot in this weather that I’ve left him with only a sheet that he’s since discarded to lie before me fully uncovered, except for the chastity cage.
Over the past weeks, I’ve become familiar with every inch of his skin as I cared for him—washing him, wiping him down, cleaning up his shit without so much as batting an eyelash.
There is something so stunning about his slightly tanned complexion that gets lighter around the areas normally hidden from the sun. I’ve had to stop myself numerous times from crossing the line, resisting the impulse to kiss that small clover-shaped birthmark on his collarbone.
Studying Nico’s face, I let my paintbrush dance around the canvas in rushed strokes, capturing the depraved enigma spread with his ankles tied to the corners of my bed.
If I wanted to, I could kill him right now, and there’s nothing he could do.
But I don’t want to.
Even after everything he’s done.
I will never admit that I’ve gotten attached over these past few weeks, that it’s been nice to have a distraction from myself, my memories.
And I will definitely never admit that it’s the thought of Nico’s skin pressed against mine that I’ve been masturbating to—every day.
My sex drive has been virtually non-existent these past few years…since that night at the docks, since they took my baby.
Since that dark day, nothing has excited me.
Nothing but that young, chiseled demon in my bed.
Even with his cock all sad and locked up in its cage, he sparks uncontrollable lust between my thighs, drawing the wetness from my insides…without him even being awake for it.
The more I paint, the more aroused I get—a frustrating realization.
Jesus, Kiah, pull yourself together.
He’s in the fucking mafia. No good can come from this.
Reasonably, logically, I know that.
But there is no logic involved in my desires, only primal, urgent need. How fucked up is that?
As I paint the sleeping man, I can’t help but drop a hand into my shorts, seeking out my sensitive clit.
It’s already sticky down there when I roll the hard tip between my fingers, almost pressing my head into the wet paint on the easel for support as my knees grow weak with the building pleasure.
I stop painting; it’s impossible to concentrate as my orgasm quickly takes over my system’s entire CPU, like a computer overheating.
It’s broad daylight; I’m right here in the middle of the open room, but does any of that stop me from working myself into a climax? Oh no.
With my eyes glued on the sweaty body on the bed, I pinch and twist and rub until a little moan catches in my throat, threatening to turn into a roar of pleasure if I don’t bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood.
All I can think about is my recurring fantasy of unlocking that cock and burying it inside me without him waking up; of riding him, impaling myself on his hardness—again and again—as he lies motionless but warm, tied up and hard, beneath me like a flesh dildo made just for me.
For the millionth time, I wonder what those piercings would feel like inside . Would I be able to actually feel them scraping me?
The thought instantly sends me over the edge, toppling over into ecstasy as the orgasm vibrates through my body from the center out.
Relief washes over me, and I clamp my legs shut to ride out the feeling as I try in vain to turn my thoughts away from the future Don Ricci.
This is a recipe for disaster.
But I would order it from the menu again and again. Just to feel something, anything—it’s been so fucking long.
With a sigh, I regard the half-painted figure on my canvas.
What the fuck am I going to do with you, boy?