4. Contessa
4
Contessa
When I was a little girl, my father would take out dusty photo albums and spread their pictures across our long dining table. To my generation, a picture you can hold in your hands is a novelty, and at seven, I was obsessed with the images as if they were a puzzle I could rearrange and piece together. It was our family history, laid out in polaroids and laminated newspaper clippings. With them, my father told me the story of our legacy, the way the Loveras moved up through the world. In those faded images, the trajectory of our wealth was clear—grainy photos taken in the back of butcher shops one decade, smiling in front of an apartment complex the next. A faded wedding photo at a lodge. Mugshots. Children playing on the sprawling lawns of mansion houses. And funerals. So many black dresses and umbrellas.
Today, my father lives in a penthouse, the top level of a skyscraper apartment building, where he can finally look down on the world that built him up.
To my relief, I’m not ferried to the top of another high-rise like a princess in a tall tower.
The Mori family still resides across the Verrazzano, in a community that isn’t just gated, but completely walled off from the rest of the world. Guard towers stand sentinel over the perimeter, and as we are waved through the gate, I’m reminded of a prison. For me, the description fits. But this prison has luxurious, multi-million-dollar New York real estate nestled inside of it, with immaculate lawns and fountains.
The heart of the Mori family estate.
Another security checkpoint is required to reach the end of the street, and an ugly automatic rifle is slung over the shoulder of the man who waves us through the final gate.
My chances of escape are getting narrower by the minute.
“Taking notes?” Salvatore asks, watching my face as I peer out the window.
I lower my eyes. I have a better chance of getting out of Rikers, and he knows it.
The car stops along a circular, cobbled driveway, where I step into the looming shadow of Salvatore’s mansion home. I expect one of those ugly modern mansions, all the square architecture and top-heavy anatomy that’s considered fashionable these days. The ‘by men, for men’ of the luxury real estate world. I’m completely wrong.
The house boasts a classic, generational beauty, with tall pillars and high gabled roofs that make up a stunning facade. I can’t make out the dimensions in the dark. The house seems to sprawl into infinity in each direction.
I hazard a guess as to the value or the number of bedrooms. No matter what number I choose, it feels either too little or too comical.
Salvatore spreads his hand across my lower back.
“You need me to sling you over my shoulder like a hunted deer again?”
There’s a questioning pause—we silently negotiate if I am going to play nice, or if we’ll have a bunch of guards scrambling to chase me down in the middle of the night. I prefer my chances with Salvatore than I do his armed goons.
“I’ll walk,” I mumble and pull away from his hand.
I step through the entryway of the home and into the light of a spacious foyer dominated by a chandelier. A handful of men come down the staircase, their steps quick and voices animated, set to pass us on their way out the door.
At our entry, the group falls silent. Nods of respect are offered to Salvatore as they make way for him, eyes averted, steps quick. My captor guides me up the stairs. No one offers to look at me twice, not daring to overstep into their boss’s business. I play the awkward role of the elephant in the room until the front door closes behind them.
The sudden silence permeates through the long, empty corridors, echoing the house’s own vastness. Its shadows feel strange and steep as I’m moved along. We pass beneath paintings of nude women, the colors muted and dimmed with antiquity. I can’t place the date or artist, but as we walk beneath them, I can’t help but try to read their expressions. I can’t decide if they feel pain or pleasure.
My feet stop at the threshold of a dark bedroom. I feel Salvatore behind me, a constant pressure even when he isn’t physically steering me.
“Go,” he orders.
The deep command alone nudges me forward. I cross into the bedroom, hands clenched at my sides, breathing carefully, trying to stamp down my anxiety. The light reveals a dark bedroom with a California King bed and heavy curtains draped over what would be impressive windows. It would look like a magazine spread were it not for the shelving stretched fully across one wall. The glass case displays old weaponry: antique guns, knives with stained blades. From here, I can’t tell if they’re colored by age or blood, but my gut tells me I already know the answer.
Presiding over the bed is the only piece of artwork in the room: the Mori family insignia.
Salvatore interrupts my wandering eyes with his own wandering hands. My heart rockets into my throat again. I don’t know what he wants of me now that we’re in a bedroom, but I can take a couple of guesses. His touch runs up and down my waist, feeling out every inch of me.
“Where’s your phone?” he asks.
Oh .
He’s not even feeling me up, just frisking me, but my body isn’t particular about the difference. Get it together, Tessa.
The outfit is skin-tight, already ripped. He’s touched me, felt every inch of me with those calloused hands. He knows I don’t have a phone on me. I lost track of it when my friends ambushed me, and if I had to guess, it’s still sitting in my bag in the car they used to drag me to the club. I really hadn’t missed it until now.
“I don’t even know where I would hide a phone in this dress.”
“Take it off and we’ll see,” he says regardless.
Heat creeps into my face.
“Turn around, and I will.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. His gaze bores into me, his patience ticking. I can feel it, an invisible timer counting down the seconds until he takes things into his own hands, but I hold my ground.
Tick, tick.
Salvatore reaches for the front of my dress, as if he’s going to tear it off of me like I’m the present beneath the wrapping paper.
“Don’t!” I yelp, folding immediately under threat. I grab at it, even when I’m no match for his strength. I try to hold the pieces together. We careen against the wall, stitches on the verge of ripping. “It was a gift! Please! It’s already ruined, just…I’ll do it! Okay? I’ll take it off!”
To my surprise and relief, he lets go.
I know it’s a stupid hill to die on, but I can’t lose this, too.
I avoid his gaze as I feel for the minuscule zipper. I open up the back. A vulnerability comes with it, like I am sliding open a zipper to my own soul, laying bare everything I am.
The dress loses its hold on my curves. Cold air sweeps in against my blush-tinted skin. I clutch the dress to the front of my body, the last desperate scrap of cloth between me and Salvatore; my final shred of dignity unravels in my hands.
Salvatore’s eyes bore into mine. He commands me without a single word.
I ease open my fingers.
Kay’s dress becomes a fabric pool around my feet, ripped but still in one piece. I carefully step out of it to stand before him. My nakedness feels doubled under his cryptic stare. I push down every frantic instinct, ignoring the anxious pulse rushing through me head to toe. I hold my chin high and meet his gaze.
Appreciation burns in his eyes. His throat works, Adam’s apple lurching.
“On your knees,” he says with a rasp.
My blood runs cold, thickening. Reality rears its ugly head as I realize he’s going to have his way with me like this.
I wonder if he’s na?ve enough to let me get my teeth around his cock.
A numbness spreads through me as I drop to my knees.
I ready myself to fight, to run. I have no plan, no real hope of getting out of this place—just the stubborn, suicidal refusal to let this happen to me. I bow my head and wait, but the silence stretches too long.
“Contessa,” he says.
I glance up, surprised to find Salvatore isn’t unzipping his pants or unbuckling his belt. I stare into the multi-lens camera of his cell phone instead.
“What are you doing?” I ask, bewildered.
“Declaring war.”
I’m not impressed with Salvatore’s mafioso dramatics until the meaning clicks:
He’s sending a picture to my father.
“Wait!”
I practically crawl up his leg as I make a lunge for the phone, but Salvatore turns away, brushing me off. I scramble to my feet, trying my best to get around him. I have all the impact of a fly buzzing around a lion. “You can’t send that to him! Listen to me!”
I pounce again, but he nudges me back effortlessly with his free hand and sends me tripping over my feet. I stumble to the floor and crawl back to him, undeterred.
“Salvatore, please! Please, don’t!”
I openly beg him, my hand clenched in the fabric of his pant leg.
He looks down at me like that, on my knees for him, desperation radiating. I have his attention finally, and I don’t know what to do with it. I have nothing to bargain with, nothing to trade. But the sight of me on my knees—his attention is fixed, hungry. Distracted .
I inch my fingers from his pant leg to his belt buckle. Distrust flickers in his dark eyes. I lunge for the phone again. My fingers only skirt against the case before he rips it from my reach and throws it onto the bed.
He grabs my wrist, spins me around on my own momentum before I can chase after it. He pins my arm behind my back and hauls me to my feet.
“ Enough ,” he snaps. “You’ve fought me more for your fucking nudes than you have for your life.”
He takes me by the hair, pulling me back until I am held captive against his chest. He walks us to the full-length mirror propped against one wall. My body stretches out under his rough hold; the position thrusts my breasts forward, making the slope of my belly taut and arched.
“Which part of this are you ashamed of?” he asks, as we stare into our own reflections.
He makes me look at myself like that, utterly naked and raw, a porcelain contrast against his midnight suit. Even our statures are opposite—his tall, powerful build making me look dainty in his grip. The fight bleeds out of me. Salvatore’s free hand slides along my flat belly, following the V-shape of my hips. I suck on my lower lip, trying to bite down on the whimper rising in my throat as I watch him touch me. I can see my own hunger in my treacherous eyes.
All my rage and wanting play out across my face.
I close them so I don’t have to see it, but I still feel it all as he leans into my neck and refreshes the angry mark he left beneath my ear. I shudder against him, convincing myself that it’s the same thing as fighting.
I did gymnastics through high school. I’ve had access to personal trainers from the time I was young. I’ve spent long afternoons on beaches in nothing but a bikini, and I’ve skinny dipped at private hot springs. I’m not uncomfortable with my body.
But my sexuality—my sensuality —that chokes me with shame. I don’t want anyone to see that, much less my own father. I also have zero desire to admit this to someone as equally gorgeous and menacing as Salvatore.
“Pretty sure it’s still normal to not want your nudes leaked to your dad,” I say tersely. The grip on my hair tightens. My scalp aches, and my breaths grow short and dire as he pulls my head back. He clicks his tongue against his teeth as he rejects my totally logical explanation.
He won’t let me go until he gets a real answer, until I give him something that’s painful to admit. It’s like he’s not satisfied with just having me physically. He wants everything—inside and out.
My will crumbles.
“I don’t do this! I’ve never been with anyone. I’ve never taken nudes. I…”
The truth wavers on my lips, refusing to fall, but Salvatore’s gaze has already darkened with realization.
“You’re a virgin.”
“…Yes,” I gasp.
I expect him to let me go, but his grip tightens instead. I yelp as I’m pulled to my tiptoes, dancing in his powerful grip.
“So, you were going to spread your legs, throw your virginity at some stranger in the back of a nightclub tonight? You’re that desperate to get rid of it?”
“No! I…”
In hindsight, I realize how it seems.
“My father kept tabs on my virginity like he could auction it off for sale. So what if I don’t care about it anymore? So what if I want to get rid of it? It’s my choice.”
“Is it?”
Salvatore drags me to the bed, throwing me back against it where I am sprawled beneath him. He pins my hands above my head, the weight of his hips putting delicious pressure on mine.
My naked pussy clenches around nothing, hips aching to roll up into his powerful presence.
Oh, fuck.
“Does it feel like your choice?”
My legs wrap around his waist as if they were made for it.
“You’ve been giving me that look all fucking night, like you’re begging me, so don’t give me your bullshit. You act like you want to call the shots, but deep down—you wanted a man who’d come along and take charge. Look at you.”
My fingers curl so tightly, my nails bite into my palms.
“It’s a nice loophole for all that Catholic school girl guilt you can’t shake off, isn’t it? It’s not your fault if the big bad man makes you feel it. Bet you never thought someone would call that pretty little bluff, did you?”
The words land as though Salvatore is a marksman, each one striking me right in the belly, where my lust pulses like a new heartbeat—a new beast that he’s woken up and set free inside me.
“Your body, your mind, your tight little virgin cunt—they’re mine. You are mine. I decide what you feel, how you feel it. I don’t even want your own fingers between your legs without my permission. I’ll show you how you should be taken care of.”
The fantasy is overwhelming as it plays out behind my eyelids.
I feel myself nodding, drinking in his words.
“Good girl.” I feel stupid and weak for the slightest scrap of his praise, hungering to please him. He releases my hands, but I stay sprawled beneath him, weak and numb.
Salvatore pulls out his phone again. He hushes me before I can start begging and pleading again. He turns the screen so I can see. My naked picture is there, half-hidden behind a text prompt: Delete? Yes / No . He lets me watch as his thumb taps the confirmation, and the picture vanishes.
I breathe a sigh.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He smirks—that dangerous, scarred smile. “I’m not beyond reasoning with,” he says, but there’s a low teasing in the undercurrent of his words, like he knows something that I don’t.
He sets the phone next to my head, where it rings faintly, already connected to a call.
Salvatore’s expression gives me nothing. I pick up the phone—and see the name Gio Lovera. My father.
My stunned eyes flick to his. His smile doesn’t waver.
I haven’t talked to my father in months, and this is going to be our reunion.
Before I can react, the line connects. My father’s angry, sleep-addled voice fills the line.
“ What ?” he asks, biting out the word. “You have some goddamn nerve, Sal—”
“Papa, it’s me,” I interrupt.
A beat of quiet confusion passes.
“Tess?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, trying to figure out how to explain myself.
“Tessa, where are you?” He’s completely awake now, putting the pieces together. Outrage wavers in his voice, but I hear concern too. I wonder if he really means it, if he’s actually scared for me or just for his own pride.
Salvatore locks eyes with me, his stare dark and devious. He lowers himself to my body, buries his face between my breasts. My breath catches in my throat, eyes roaming around Salvatore’s dark bedroom as if not seeing him will make it easier to pretend this isn’t happening.
“Tessa?” my father asks again, more urgently.
“I’m here,” I say, around a swallow. “I’m at the Mori estate.”
Salvatore trails his lips over the flat valley of my stomach, making his way over the arch of my hipbones. Lower and lower, the destination inevitable.
“He brought me here,” I say, working to keep my voice level. “I’m sorry, I—”
Salvatore’s head buries between my thighs. He wraps his mouth around my clit and sucks against the soft mound nestled between my legs. With my father on the phone, asking desperate questions against my ear, Salvatore Mori eats my pussy out. I bite hard against my gasp, teeth clenched.
“I didn’t mean to,” I whine.
“That fucking maniac—” my father snarls. He sounds more like an animal than a man.
Something in the background of the call shatters as Salvatore feathers his tongue against my sensitive nub, his hand sprawled on my low belly to keep me down.
“Has he hurt you?” My father demands.
“No,” I gasp. I reach down, wrapping my fingers in Salvatore’s dark hair, riding the stunning pleasure of his tongue. “No, he hasn’t—hasn’t hurt me.”
He drags his teeth roughly against my over-sensitive clit, as if asking— do you want me to? I’ve never felt anything like this before. I see stars, toes curling, mouth open in a silent cry I absolutely can’t utter.
“Where is he? Let me talk to him. We can settle this, negotiate like men.”
I glance down between my legs. Salvatore meets my gaze for a moment, his eyes burning, his lips wet. He bends down and licks straight up my clit with his broad, flat tongue. If his hand wasn’t holding down my hips, I think I would fly right off the bed.
“He’s—busy.”
I can’t do this. I’m going to break.
“Has he said what he wants?”
He’s already got it.
My breath hitches. My legs open further for him, and he peppers kisses against my inner thigh, encouraging me to open myself up beneath him. My knees fall apart, my hips rolling up slowly into his tongue.
“Papa, I have to go...”
“Tessa, wait—”
I can’t wait.
I end the call.
A sob of pleasure finally breaks from my lips. I can’t fight it anymore. The phone buzzes angrily against the mattress, vibrating again and again as my father tries and fails to reach me.
Salvatore takes the phone and presses it low against my pelvis, sending the vibration rocketing through my pussy.
I buck like an animal against the buzz, begging for more.
“Aah!” I bite into the back of my hand to muffle the sounds spilling freely from my lips, but Salvatore doesn’t allow it.
“Let me hear you,” he demands, his growl dark and deep with wanting. He pulls my hand away and roughly circles his fingers on my clit again. My hands pull at his bed sheets, one leg twitching into the air.
I cry out for him, rocking against those blunt fingers.
“Please,” I hear myself say, the desperate a word senseless, meaningless cry.
“Please what ?” he demands. “Say it, princess.”
“Please—”
I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m begging for, only that I want it. Want him . I sob and tremble on the edge of something wild and nameless—something you don’t come back from.
“ Salvatore —”
“That’s my girl.”
Salvatore lifts my legs over his shoulders, buries his mouth against my pussy, using his tongue and fingers in tandem until the pleasure hammers straight up into my belly.
The pleasure breaks like the cresting of a tidal wave—it tears through me, bringing me to a trembling brink.
Within two hours of knowing him, with my legs spread and my mascara running, Salvatore shatters me with my first orgasm.