9. Salvatore
9
Salvatore
Dinner is almost over and I haven’t even had to draw a pistol yet. It’s going better than expected. If one spilled plate of food and an angry old fossil with her Depends in a twist is all I have to manage tonight, that’s a good tradeoff for getting my message across to the family: Contessa is mine, and she’s here to stay.
Cecilia knew from our meeting that this is the way it would be. She was warned . If she thought my wife would be out of sight, out of mind, then she really is senile.
While I could keep Contessa locked in a room for the rest of eternity, waiting for me to come make her cunt wet, that doesn’t serve either of us. She’ll only put up with it for now, while coming from just my fingers still makes her feet go numb. That won’t last forever. I have to keep moving my pieces around the board. And, occasionally, knock one over to get it out of the way.
Cecilia is lucky Contessa spoke up on her behalf. We have more than enough means to manage and care for her here at the house, but it’s not about what we’re capable of, it’s about what she deserves. She chose her hatred for the Loveras over her love for me, and this is not a room where I can afford to look soft. Not with these men, not on the eve of war.
My hand tingles like an electric shock from where Contessa grabbed it. Begging me without words. I lean back, watching the girl—studying her profile, the subtle pout of her lips and the white-knuckle grip on her fork. She thinks I can read her so well. That I know everything going on behind those big eyes.
She’s wrong.
There are parts of Contessa even I don’t understand, buried deep. Parts I can’t get to by just spreading her out on my bedsheets every night.
Tonight showed the first glimpse of this side of Contessa, the mafia daughter hidden under all those layers of virgin uncertainty. She flipped over one of her facedown cards and revealed the most important truth of the evening—with the right stakes at hand, she’s willing to play the game.
That is the only thing that matters.
I don’t need Contessa to fall in love with me.
That’s too much to ask of any woman, even ones who were with me by choice. Love was never in the equation. I’ve learned better than to chase that route.
A don is only what he can provide and what he can take. A practical exchange.
I need Contessa to obey. In return, I have to reward her obedience and make it worthwhile. Money, security, power, pleasure. Whatever it is that motivates Contessa, that is what I have to give, until she bends to her role here. So far, I am forging her, one orgasm at a time, into what I need.
But these soft-hearted motivations are harder to make useful.
The woman she jumped to defend would rather see Contessa dead than seated at this table. Mercy isn’t an asset in my line of work. My pretty little wife is going to have to get thicker skin. If she’s at my side, she’ll have to sit through far, far worse than this. I’ve been damn near charitable tonight, if only because threatening old women doesn’t give me any joy, either.
By the time Marcel returns alone, the crowd has gotten loud again, versions of what happened spreading from one end of the room to the other. Nate feeds pieces of pork loin to the dogs who snatch them out of the air.
Vera, as usual, is numb to it all—the smartest woman in the room, drinking herself stupid.
My sister is one of the few things in the world that can make even a man like me feel helpless. There’s nothing I can do for her. Vera is broken glass. If I try to fix her, I just shatter her more.
When the wine starts running dry and the plates empty, Marcel invites the men into the parlor. Contessa stands as if to join the women, but I take her by the arm.
“Not you. You’re with me.”
“What are we doing?” Contessa asks under her breath, clearly hoping the evening will be over for her. The family shuffles away, our words lost in the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of excited talking.
“Socializing. Cigars and cards. I know who works for me, and my men know who they work for. Gatherings like this, they hold the loyalty.”
“That doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with me,” she presses.
I bury my hands in my pockets or else they’re going to go on her body to convince her the way I usually do.
“All that whining about being locked away in your room with nothing to do, and now you’re begging to get back in. Like a cat always on the wrong side of the door, aren’t you?”
Her little glower doesn’t have any effect. I nod toward the parlor, and she reluctantly falls into step with me.
“Behave,” I add, lowly, as we cross into the room.
Contessa briefly freezes at the sight—at first glance, she is the only woman in a room full of men. The ranks are still loosely visible, defined by cliques and who takes the chairs and who stands. With family, even the informal is formal. We can never really shake it completely.
I bring her to join Marcel and Noctus in the middle of the room. Glances pass over us as Contessa enters, but no one is brave enough to stare. Not with me here, looming against her, taking a careful read of the room. It was a good dinner, and no one wants to be gutted and have it wind up on the carpet.
I take a seat and put Contessa on my knee.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Marcel sighs, dragging over a table for us to play cards on. “You know what they say about the elderly being set in their ways. Cecilia passed from elderly to ancient some time ago, but it’s still no excuse. Do you play poker, Miss Lovera?”
“I know how,” she says carefully, surprised to be included.
“She’ll play my cards,” I say.
My hand slides where the others can’t see, under the girl’s ass until my fingers settle at her cunt. Tension ripples up her spine as she feels it, my fingers ghosting against her sex in this room full of men. “Hopefully she has a good poker face.”
She glances over her shoulder, stunned.
“You’ll do fine,” I say, betraying nothing as I skirt my fingers between her legs.
“Do we play for real money? I don’t have any.”
The men laugh at the words, turning her pink.
“Miss Lovera, you’re sitting on your very real money,” Marcel tells her.
“If you lose so badly that Sal can’t afford it, you might be the worst poker player in the world,” Noctus adds.
Contessa doesn’t share in the humor, her cheeks pink, though maybe the soothing stroke of my fingers has something to do with that. A couple more lieutenants join us, pulling up chairs and passing around drinks, distracting the others as we settle in for the game.
“Gio’s not gonna go down easy,” Noctus says conversationally as he shuffles the deck.
“You see the warehouse? Or what was left of it.”
Contessa sits up straighter at the mention of her family, attentive.
“Don’t talk shop,” Marcel says, before I have to, as the first round of cards hits the table.
“Or at least spare us current events. We’ve had plenty of enemies, some of them even more hated than the Loveras. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the Russians.”
“Don’t talk about them until I’m halfway through this glass,” Noctus growls. “God, sometimes I swear I can still smell the stink…”
In the ambient lull, Contessa’s soft voice suddenly speaks up in the interim, “What happened with the Russians?”
There’s a beat of surprised silence.
“Old war stories are worse than fishing tales,” I warn her, “every year, the fish gets a little bigger.”
“I want to hear it,” she insists and turns back to the men. Glances are exchanged, but my message has been clear—Contessa is an extension of my own authority. If she wants to hear it, they’re obliged to tell the tale. In its own insignificant way, this is Contessa’s first order at my side. I allow it, rewarding her pussy with a swirl of my fingers. She scoots on my lap as if trying to get comfortable.
“Old Andreev,” Noctus says, “He was a Russian mobster with strong connections in the Motherland, but not enough boots out here on American soil. He was big in the gambling scene once, casinos, but in-house is a dead game these days. His back was up against the wall, and he needed to branch out somewhere. Diversify.” He throws down his cards in a fold. “He came to us in peace, negotiated some deals together. I don’t know the details.”
I fill in for him, “A cut of their business operations, and a deal with a Russian arms supplier. Nothing complicated. In exchange, as long as they kept their fentanyl-riddled trash out of our territory, we gave them access to a couple safe ports.”
“I remember that deal,” Marcel laughs to himself, “profitable for everyone, so naturally, someone had to go and ruin it. C’est la vie. Check.”
“Andreev had two hot shot sons serving as lieutenants,” I continue, watching as Contessa plays her hand. She taps the table. “When I became don, they decided to test me. See what they could get away with. They used our ports to move things we’d banned in the original agreement, shit some paid off government official and police commissioner won’t turn a blind eye to. They drew too much heat on all of us. I met with Andreev, who apologized for the situation and promised restitution. I didn’t trust it, so I had Noctus take care of them.”
Noctus shrugs, reaching for the cards as Marcel’s hand takes the first round.
“We hunted down both sons, took both men on the same night. Barely had any teeth out of their mouth before they confessed it was Andreev’s idea all along. That they were just following orders. I relayed that to Salvatore.”
“Did you let them go?” Contessa asks, bracing herself for the answer she already knows.
“I didn’t make them suffer.”
She gazes at me, her pupils blowing wide as I drag two fingers against her clit. I feel the pucker of her cunt, the way she longs to buck on my fingers even as we openly talk murder. Her cute sensibilities wither up in the wake of the heat burning between those long legs. She turns back to her cards, and then, doubting her next move, glances at me.
I tap against her clit and look to her chips.
She leans forward to raise, taking care to grind into my hand as much as those tiny motions can.
“No point in wasting time on dead men,” Noctus agrees, tossing a couple more chips onto the table. “Andreev, though, that was a different story. Inconsolable. He kept saying he just wanted his boys back. He knew they were dead, of course. I guess he wanted to bury them. The problem was—”
Noctus’ voice breaks on his laughter. Marcel loses his composure, too, snickering into his glass until he has to set it down. He rubs his hands over his face, skewing his glasses, as if bracing himself for the rest of the tale.
“We’d already taken the bodies up to Albany for processing, and the pigs had got through both of them. We found—what, a shoe?”
Marcel shakes his head. “Two. Pigs ate the Jordans—left the Adidas.”
Noctus almost chokes on his drink.
“I still think about that sometimes,” Marcel admits, “One of those questions that just keeps me up at night. Why the Jordans?”
Contessa has gone very still against my fingers, her head bowed over her cards. I can feel it, her urge to resist my touch while my men laugh openly about ugly business. The tale has attracted others to the group, more men gathered around to watch the game and listen.
I watch the table closely, subtly massaging her pussy when her hand is favorable. She wins the next round, to the cheers of some onlookers. Unable to see her face, I have to trust that she’s not giving either game away.
“Those shoes were all we had left. When we told Sal, he said to send the boys back to Andreev anyway. I thought he was losing it, or maybe he didn’t understand me. No. Middle of the night, he has Marcel and I in the front seat of an F-150, driving down I-87 with seven steel drums of Russian-laced pig shit in the truck bed, heading straight toward Andreev’s house.”
Contessa turns an affronted stare to me. I match it with calm, indifferent eyes and curl my fingers up inside her. She nearly breaks. I see it spread through those pretty features, shocking her as much as it arouses her. She covers with a cough and turns away from me, her face pink, eyes watering. She looks devastated by the tale of some poor dead Russian mobsters, but I know the truth as her cunt twitches against my fingers.
“We covered that man’s yard, the front of his house—everything in sight—in that shit. Literal shit. You can’t fucking imagine the smell.”
“Pigs and Russians,” someone comments, whistling lowly.
“Broke the old bastard,” Marcel sighs.
“Wasn’t that,” Noctus says, “Well, wasn’t just that. He stuck around for a couple years after, but every year, that yard would break out in that nasty orchard grass from all the pig shit.
Like a weed. Couldn’t fucking get rid of it, the ground was so fertilized with it. It just kept coming back. An eyesore and a reminder. I think that finally sent him over the edge. Burned his whole yard up with gasoline one day and tucked tail back to Russia.”
“That’s legend by this point,” I dismiss, “Nobody knows if it’s true. It’s just one of those things people say.”
“Saw the grass myself, that shit was real enough,” Noctus insists.
The men have swallowed the conversation up. Contessa has gone quiet. I can’t read her well like this, with her back to me, but her hips are still, all the tension hardened like iron in her thighs.
Her mood has changed somehow, no longer playing our little game.
I coax her into a solid gamble with a full house, prompting some excitement from the others. Marcel throws down pocket Queens as if they’ve personally offended him. Contessa says nothing, not moving, even when I feather my index finger around her clit just how I know she likes it. When they start shuffling for another round, I ease the girl up out of my lap.
Something’s amiss.
“We’ll give up our seat before Contessa starts gunning for Marcel’s credit card number.
Have someone else come and make him go broke for the rest of the night,” I say.
I give a few regards around the room.
Contessa waits for me, stony-faced, her hand tense at her sides as we walk together upstairs.
“You—”
“Not here,” I interrupt. I never trust the house to be as vacant as it seems, especially not with this many people under its roof. She bites back her words, high heels clicking as she stomps up to her room.
In private, she turns on me the moment the door is closed.
“You bastard,” she gasps.
Her legs tremble, her eyes dark and wild.
She closes the distance between us, grabs onto the front of my jacket, and pulls me to her.
Suddenly, we are both right back where we were hours ago, here in this room, when my hands were on her body, itching to tear this dress off her and have my way with the princess. But now, the roles are switched. Contessa’s hands are on me, her breathing hitched, hands pulling impatiently at her clothes.
The door rattles as I pin her against it. She rips down her soaked panties, leaving them trapped around her thighs.
Fuck.
There’s a wildness in her even I didn’t expect. Contessa’s innocence is like a chain holding her back, and with our every encounter, another part of herself breaks free. The girl bucks against my touch, hips rolling like a whore earning rent when I finally get my hands on her properly.
“That was awful. That fucking story…” she gasps, anger and desperation twisting her voice.
“I’ve never had a woman be this angry with me and this wet at once,” I growl.
“Shut up!” she gasps, but even that sounds like she’s hitting a peak.
“And you asked to hear that story,” I add, the fabric now gone, my fingers up against her wet cunt. Her face breaks with relief as I finally have my bare hands on her, no layers of fabric between me and her pleasure.
“I didn’t know what you were going to do while they explained it! And in front of all those people! What if I’d…”
“What if you’d come in front of them?” I ask into her ear, “What if you’d moaned for me because you just couldn’t help yourself? What if your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your wet little cunt squirted on my shoes right there in front of everyone?”
She moans immediately, as if I’ve given her permission, as if the words have set her imagination aflame. I wonder if I could make her come from nothing but dirty talking her into a frenzy. “I bet you wanted it, didn’t you? You wanted me to take you by the hair and bend you over that table, where everyone could see me have my way with you.”
“I thought I was going to break,” she sobs, as if she still might.
“But you didn’t,” I whisper. “You did so good hiding it.” She quakes against my hand.
“Come get your reward, gorgeous.”
She lurches into me, bucking as I pump my fingers up against her clit. Her legs thrash, caught in the trap of her panties and unable to spread. I work a finger inside her, feeling the way she’s clenched and tensed against her own pleasure. “Deep breath,” I command her. Contessa buries her cry against my jacket, trembling head to toe as I push the second in deep. She spasms, as if trying to twitch away.
God, just two thick fingers and she’s so tight, she can hardly take them.
Her hand is a vice on my shoulder, red lips stretching open as I gently stroke my fingers up inside her. She whines and growls sweetly, as if fighting her own pain for her pleasure.
I’ve never felt a woman so tight, so sensitive, whose body reacts to the slightest feathering of my fingers. She tries to push down her panties, but I catch her wrist and pin her hand above her hand.
“That won’t help,” I whisper. “Open up for me inside, gorgeous. Let me feel you.”
She cries out as I take charge of her, dripping around my fingers as I spear them inside her pussy, the wet sound of her own arousal filling the silence. Her face is red, eyes glazed. I know she loves it like this, when I’m firm with her, telling her what and how she should feel.
She bucks up, the door shuddering again.
“Fuck me,” she begs. The girl doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, but her pleading for it turns my vision dark and narrow. God, I don’t know how I’ve resisted her this long, my cock stiff and bulging against the inseam of my pants. I’m sure she can feel it, both a threat and a promise in one.
“No,” I say, and she cries out like I’ve hurt her with the word.
“ Please —”
I twitch my fingers up inside her, curling them deep.
Her knees give out and she lurches into my arms. I steady her against the overwhelming wave of her own orgasm as she comes hard and suddenly, ripping a cry from her trembling throat.
I hold her against me and wait for the strength to come back to her knees. She clings to me, small and breakable. I could throw her onto the bed like this, push her past the edge—
My pulse is an angry red flicker in my vision.
I fight the urge, mask those wild thoughts beneath a cold, indifferent composure.
“You did well tonight,” I murmur against the top of her head. She shudders sweetly, as if those words set off another aftershock of pleasure, eyelashes fluttering.
She stumbles out of my arms, making her way to the bed. She sits on the edge of it and stares at the floor, her legs still open, hair wild. Her breathing shudders through her whole body.
She only looks up when I move for the exit.
“Wait,” she rasps when I am framed in the doorway. I turn back to her. “I’m not—I’m not done.”
“Your cunt says otherwise,” I say, fixing my sleeves.
“What’s wrong with me?” she demands. The question catches me off guard. “You have to tell me. I know you know.”
…I have no idea what she’s talking about. My silence presses her, forces her to elaborate as she’s still regaining her breath and her senses.
“I sat on your lap like a fucking dog. Looked out at all those other men, and wondered if any one of them could make me feel the way you do. But I know they can’t. Tell me why. What’s wrong with me? Why can I sit there listening to you talk about murder , and still want—” her voice breaks around the words “—still want you like this ?”
Her words claw inside, through some part of me that is static and numb, like the girl is digging through old scar tissue.
“I’m not your fucking therapist.”
Her expression doesn’t flinch, inky strands of dark hair falling into her face.
“How many people have you killed?” she asks.
Her breath shakes in the silence that stretches between us. I’m not reluctant to confess but the truth is, I don’t know the answer. It was never about keeping a tally. An individual death has its own purpose, its own necessity. A number is just a number. Meaningless.
“More than one,” I say. “One kill makes you a murderer. How many you kill after that, what does it matter? The label doesn’t change. You knew I was a murderer the second you realized who I was.”
“It’s not about you,” she says. “Of course I knew, I just…”
“You can’t take on my sin like it’s some kind of disease. You’re not forgiving me with your cunt every time you come for me. So don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to. It doesn’t matter what number I say. You’ll come anyway.”
She flinches away from the sharp analysis. I reach for the door again.
“You aren’t actually going to send Cecilia away, are you?” She calls out, one last desperate question before the door is almost shut between us.
God, her heart really is soft.
“I told you I wouldn’t. I don’t go back on my deals.”
The door shuts between us, the lock clicking. In that last glimpse of her, the only motion I see her make is slipping the ring off her finger and throwing it aside.
I stand against the shut door for a long minute, my thoughts a storm, my pulse a frenzy. I don’t regret bringing Contessa here—I don’t think regret is something I can feel anymore—but it is a damn shame that I’m going to have to ruin her.