Chapter 3
Matt
Aron might have stopped Josh without breaking a sweat, but not without popping a few stitches.
Back at my penthouse apartment—second only to Dad’s in state-of-the-art security—I grab a first aid kit and start patching my guard back up.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am. Having Aron lying on my suede couch, shirtless, his tan skin rippling with every movement of those toned muscles … He’s hurt again because of me, though he never complains. Just sips his beer while I carefully restitch the torn skin.
For a spoiled mafia brat who never paid much attention in school, I make a decent medic.
Every time Aron gets injured, I watch the doctors and nurses with keen interest. They’re putting my best friend back together, after all, and nothing’s more important than that.
As the years go by, I’ve acquired enough medical knowledge to keep Aron alive if we’re ever stranded without access to Dad’s team.
With all that in my head, fixing a few stitches is a breeze.
“We could have gone to Tito’s men,” Aron says as I slide the needle into his skin. “You don’t have to do this, Matt.”
“Hush. Lie still.”
Aron chuckles and takes another sip. “You missed your calling, dude. You’ve got a great touch.”
“Can you imagine the look on Dad’s face if I’d gone to med school instead of following in his footsteps?” I shake my head and tie off the first stitch. “He would have blown a gasket, then blown up the university, then blown me up for even considering it.”
“He wouldn’t have blown you up.”
“Why do you say that?”
Aron’s expression darkens. “Because I would have jumped on the bomb before he had the chance.”
I freeze mid-stitch as my blood runs cold. “Don’t say that.”
“Your dad pays me well to keep you safe. He never said who from.” His eyes meet mine, and he grins. “But enough of that. Tie me off, so I can go home to Emily before she freaks out.”
Nothing kills a moment like Aron mentioning his wife. “Oh. Yeah. Emily.”
He rolls his shoulder, testing it, before putting his shirt back on. “Yeah. Emily. You remember her, right? The only other person besides you and Tito who can tell me what to do, and I’ll actually listen.”
I bite my tongue to fight the urge to argue with him. Me? Tell Aron what to do? If that was the case, I’d tell him to stay.
Aron stands up and stretches slowly. “Well, time for me to go. Much as I enjoy our time together, I’ve got the next two nights off. I’m taking Emily to her next OB appointment tomorrow. You’re stuck with Beto until then.”
Beto. Ugh. He’s a decent enough guard, but no personality. Just stands around. Doesn’t engage. “Cool. Have fun.”
I watch Aron stride out the door with a heavy heart. For all my supposed bravado, I can’t bring myself to tell the one person who matters most what he means to me. I just watch him leave, over and over again, frozen and mute as the door shuts behind him.
Flopping on the couch with a sigh, I turn on the massive TV to see if there’s anything interesting on.
While Aron keeps me company inside the apartment when he’s on duty, the other guards all stay just outside the door.
It’s not like anyone’s going to get to me twenty floors up, but it’s the principle of it.
Why not interact with your boss? Does Dad have everyone else on such tight leashes that they’re afraid to even say “hello”?
Boredom settles in as I flip the channels, aimlessly searching for a good show.
Not that I couldn’t watch anything I wanted regardless of what the dozens of streaming channels have available.
Dad’s tech guys can hijack the studios’ mainframes, get me the latest before it’s even in the theaters.
Since theaters are notoriously difficult to secure, that’s what I usually do if I want to see a film.
Problem is the major studios don’t produce the kind of film I’m in the mood for.
That’s okay, though. I have a healthy stash of quality movies on a hard drive. Just plug and play.
I flip through my files in search of the right vibe. Sports? No. Prison? Eh, a little too close to home some days. Stepbrothers? Not really what I’m in the mood for.
Ah, there we are. Best friends.
I shouldn’t torture myself by watching a movie with this theme, but it’s what my heart—and my dick—currently crave. Since I can’t have what I want in reality, I’ll watch some fantasy and take care of business on my own.
Once I’m settled, with a beer in one hand and my dick in the other, I start the show.
The movie I chose is an old favorite. It features a Latino man and his Italian best friend, two buddies who can’t resist each other. The plot is thinner than the briefs these two wear onscreen, but I don’t care about plot. I want raw, unbridled passion.
Sure, they’re actors. They might not even be gay offscreen. That doesn’t matter. I’m in it for the thrill of watching them. Pretending I’m one of them.
Pretending he’s the other one.
As the actors lock lips in the basement while their friends host a party upstairs, I start slowly stroking my cock. In my mind, it’s not my hand though; it’s Aron’s. Aron’s hand gliding up and down my shaft, Aron’s tongue teasing my tip, Aron’s firm body kneeling at my feet.
I shouldn’t do this. It’s dangerous. If Dad ever found out … If our enemies ever found out … And all it would take is one slip on my part. One little glance, one mistake.
But dear God, I can’t help myself.
While I stroke faster and faster, the movie plays out my darkest fantasies.
The Latino actor, “Hector,” bends over the back of an old couch, and the Italian, “Guido,” lubes up his cock.
He takes his lube-slick fingers and slides them into Hector’s ass.
Hector moans and fists his own throbbing cock, begging Guido to hurry.
Having seen this movie dozens of times, I mouth the lines along with the actors.
“Please, mi amor! Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing you, Hector. I’m prepping you for my monster cock. You can’t take it without some foreplay. If I just ram it into you, I’ll hurt you.”
“Then hurt me. Destroy me. I want you inside me more than I can stand.”
The dialogue is terrible and corny, but when Guido eases his dick into Hector’s tight ass, the sight is enough to set me off. Hot cum shoots out of me, spilling over my hand and dripping down onto the suede.
Damn. I’ll have to have it cleaned. Again.
Before I can get up for a towel, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I snatch it up and check the screen. Dad. Fuck.
“Hey, pops. What’s up?” I wasn’t expecting a call from Dad until it was time for the next meeting. Did the timetable get changed?
“Good evening, Matteo.” That’s Dad—always formal. “I have a proposition for you, son.”
Great. That usually precedes an offer to find me a date. I’m not in the mood for this. “What’s the proposition, Dad? I hope you’re not trying to set me up again.”
Dad’s tone deepens, and irritation seeps into his voice. “I won’t live forever, Matteo. You should settle down while there’s still time. It’ll be harder to build a family if you’re in charge. Trust me. I’ve been there.”
“I’m barely in my thirties, Dad. I have plenty of time. Besides, men can father children well into old age. What’s the rush?”
“Don’t sass me, Matteo. This is serious.
Family is important. You should start while you’re young, so you can be a father to your children.
Raise them right, teach them the family business.
You can’t do that if you’re an old geezer.
What if we both get taken out in the next few years? Someone will have to take over.”
“My hypothetical kids would have to be more than a few years old to take over, Dad.” Finally finding a towel, I switch the phone to my other hand so I can wipe up the mess I left on the couch.
“Didn’t Grandpa try that with you? What did they call you?
Kid Mangione? Not exactly a fear-inducing moniker. ”
“All the more reason to start a family now. The sooner you start, the older they’ll be when the time comes.”
“What’s this ‘they’? How many kids do you expect me to sire?”
“As many as your wife can push out. Maybe more. I’d accept bastards as well, but ideally they’d be legitimate.”
Jesus! Dad’s not playing. “You can’t expect me to populate the entire next generation of the Syndicate, Dad! And what’s this ‘wife’ business? Who’s to say I want to settle down now, or ever?”
Dad’s voice rises to a volume that would terrify his most jaded of associates. “I am tired of these games, Matteo! I’ve tolerated your antics for long enough. Either you find a wife on your own, or I find one for you.”
I’m not deterred. It’s going to take a lot more than yelling to scare me.
“How about a compromise? If you find me a wife—in name only—I’ll fill as many specimen cups as you want.
Line up the women and break out the turkey baster.
You’ll have a whole army of Mangiones to run the Syndicate after we’re both gone.
We can fill a whole fucking stadium, for Christ’s sake. ”
“You will not use our Lord and Savior’s name like that!”
Ear-splitting scream or no, I won’t back down. “We can argue all day, Dad, but nothing’s going to change. Take my offer or leave it. I don’t care right now.”
“If your dear, sainted mother could hear this—”
“If Mom was still alive, I’m sure she’d side with me.
You can order me to follow in your footsteps as far as the Syndicate goes, but my personal life is mine.
You either accept that I won’t be more than a sperm donor for you, or you find some other way to continue the Mangione legacy after we’re both dead. I’m tired of this fucking argument.”
To avoid further headache, I shut my phone completely off. Not recommended when my dad’s in a mood—or ever—but I don’t care. My evening’s ruined, and if Dad really wants to lay into me, he can come down here and do it in person.