Chapter 28 #2
“I’ve never felt anything so amazing,” I hiss out, my sweat falling onto her shoulders, mixing with hers.
I kiss her.
It’s passionate—so damn passionate.
It’s one that makes two people come together.
I fuck Genesis like a man would with a woman he wants to keep forever.
“I’m …” she moans, breaking our kiss to move her head from side to side, struggling to fight her orgasm so this will last longer.
“Yes, take this cock raw and come all over it,” I groan, sucking on her neck and licking her sweat. “Give me all your cum like I’m about to give you all mine.”
Not even a second later, she falls apart beneath me.
I grip the flare of her hips, throw her legs back over my shoulders, and pound into her hard.
I lose any rhythm I had, getting lost in her pussy.
In everything she is.
Her entire waist is off the bed as I hold it up and fuck her ruthlessly.
No more giving it to her slow.
My cock grows harder, pulsing inside her soft pussy. I can feel my pulse in my spine as I give her three final strokes, and pleasure shoots through my entire body.
I tightly grip her hips, holding her in place, and come inside her so hard, hoping this is the night I put a baby inside her.
I collapse on my back, and Genesis and I lie there, catching our breaths.
Draping my arm over my face, I try to calm myself, to come down from the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
It was so fucking vanilla too.
Missionary, on a bed, with—dare I say it—an emotional connection?
Oh, fuck me .
Our breathing creates the perfect melody, and neither of us says a word.
Minutes pass until she turns on her side, holding herself up on her elbow, and she smiles down at me. Her face is red and sweaty, and her red lipstick is smeared across her face. Black remnants of mascara are on her cheeks.
I like knowing I messed up her makeup.
That I was the only one able to do something like that.
Her eyes are tired and dreamy, and I can tell I fucked nearly all the energy out of her.
Even with all that, she’s so damn beautiful.
This might sound bad, but deep down, I’m almost happy her parents fucked her over. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t be in my bed right now.
I needed that push that told me if I didn’t act then, I’d lose her forever.
My gaze shifts from her face to where she’s holding herself up. I blink, zeroing in on the butterfly tattoos, trying to get the best view of them I can.
When that isn’t enough, I snatch her wrist and pull it closer. She topples forward, resting her other hand on my chest so she doesn’t fall. I can’t stop myself from planting a kiss on the butterflies.
Each one is different.
“There’s writing in them,” I say, staring at them like I’m looking at a sacred piece of art.
She nods, resting her chin on my chest and gazing up at me. “The initials of people I’ve loved and lost.”
I trace my finger along the initials of a purple butterfly.
SW.
“Sonya Whitton,” she explains. “My nanny.”
I move my fingers, doing the same with the other two, which have MB .
There’s no question who they’re for.
Melissa Bellini.
Marta Bellini.
I run my thumb over one MB and then the other. “When did you get these?”
“The day after the funeral,” she whispers. “Twelve hours after you threw me out of your car and onto my parents’ driveway.” She pokes her nail into my chest. “I actually considered having your initials tattooed on my ass with devil horns above them.”
I smack her ass, holding myself back from laughing at her comment.
“At least I took you home,” I say, faking offense. “That should have earned me a butterfly.”
She runs her nails across my chest. “You most definitely didn’t deserve a butterfly.”
“Fair. I’m not exactly butterfly material.”
“I could put you as a moth.”
I run my finger down her spine, and her body shakes.
“You can tattoo my initials anywhere and anyhow you want. I’d love to show my ownership on this perfect body. Though”—I give her ass a light squeeze—“I’d prefer no devil horns or moths.”
She lays her head on my chest, as if running out of all her energy. “Your turn to tell me about your tattoos.”
“I’ll tell you about one ,” I say, faking to be more annoyed than I am.
“Can I choose it?”
I perform a have at it gesture.
She taps her lip. “Technically, I gave you two since I told you about the butterflies and initials.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Take your pick.”
“The praying hands on your neck.” She runs her fingers along my neck, over my Adam’s apple.
“They’re praying hands.” Praying hands with light emitting from them.
“Yessss,” she drawls out, shooting me an annoyed look. “But when and why did you get them?”
“All the men in my family were raised not to fear death. When I was ten, my grandmother told me she was never afraid to die. When I asked her why, she gave me a necklace with prayer hands similar to this.” I place my hand over hers on my throat.
“She said she didn’t fear death because she knew when it happened, she’d go somewhere beautiful.
While I’m not sure what awaits me in death, I like to give myself a little hope. ”
My grandmother was the only person who knows this story.
She went with me to get the tattoo when I was fifteen. It was my first tat, and my mother nearly lost her shit when she saw it. I got grounded for a week, and when I refused to tell her why I chose the praying hands, she grounded me for another.
Genesis strokes my skin, tracing the lines of the tattoo. “That’s beautiful.” She rises up to press her lips against the edge of mine. “And, Julian, you’re going somewhere beautiful when you die … when you’re old as fuck and you need a cane.”
I offer her a soft smile, not believing a word she said.
Men in the Mafia don’t live long. Most don’t make it past their forties.
I’ve never expected to live a long life.
“You’re literally tatted everywhere,” she comments, looking over my skin as if reading a script. “Your arms, your hands, your fingers, everywhere . When I got the butterflies, they hurt like hell.”
“I’ve been through far worse pain than getting some ink, baby.”
“Why the Cupid?” she asks, moving her attention to the tattoo on the side of my neck. “For someone so anti-love, that sure says the opposite.”
“That’s for my parents. Cupid was the son of the love goddess, Venus, and the god of war, Mars. It’s how I saw them. My mother as love and my father as war.”
Lowering her head, she presses a kiss to Cupid and then runs her finger along my jawline. “I have one last request.”
I stare up into her eager eyes. “You’re sure asking for a lot of those tonight.”
She grabs my hand again and lowers it to my chest, right over my heart—one small section of my skin that isn’t inked. For some reason, I’ve always felt like I needed to save that space.
“Here’s where I want you to have a tattoo for me,” she says, her voice so light and tender. “Then, next to it, I want one for our child.”
I wait until Genesis has been asleep for an hour before slipping out of bed and driving to the casino.
During the drive, I realize something.
My entire time with Genesis, I didn’t once think about the Russians, or Lucky Kings, or the chaotic shit happening in my life.
My mind was present and there with her.
She picked a movie for us to watch, which I hardly paid attention to because she chattered the entire time, foreshadowing what’d happen in the movie. Not that she made it to the end. She’d yawned nearly a hundred times before dozing off.
While she slept, I checked my phone, seeing the text from Franko, telling me where he’d taken the Russian who came to the casino.
I arrive at the warehouse we lease, located thirty minutes from the New York casino, shortly after two in the morning. When I walk in, I’m disappointed it’s not Dima.
Though I didn’t get my hopes up.
I know Franko would’ve told me if it was.
Since I’ve been doing my research on the Russians, I know the man tied to the chair is Marlen. Franko shoved a rag, which I know has drain cleaner on it, into his mouth, which means he probably wouldn’t shut the fuck up and Franko grew tired of it.
Franko is in the corner, sitting on a stool, eating Taco Bell and reading a Maxim magazine. He tips his chin toward me, dropping the magazine on the table, and sits back to enjoy the show.
Marlen jerks his head up when he hears me click the door shut. Drool falls from his mouth, landing onto his scuffed sneaker and the floor.
Both of his eyes are bruised, and they widen when he sees me.
Did the dumb fuck not know this would happen?
Marlen is a soldier with the Russians. He holds hardly any rank, but I know he answers mainly to Dima. I also know Dima fucks his girlfriend while Marlen is out, killing for his family.
What great loyalty they have there.
Walking straight to him, I backhand him across the face. “What the fuck were you doing in my casino, Marlen?”
Marlen flinches not only from the slap but I think from my knowledge of his name as well. He whips his head from side to side, attempting to speak, and I drag leather gloves from my pocket before tugging the rag from his mouth.
I punch him in the face. “Answer me, or I’ll knock every damn tooth out of your mouth and shove them up your girlfriend’s asshole. The asshole Dima fucks while you’re jerking his other men off.”
Marlen snarls at me, showing off his gold front tooth. “I was gambling.” His Russian accent isn’t as thick as Yaroslav’s other men.
I can’t wait to knock that tooth out.
Maybe I’ll mail it to Dima.
Let him know I’m not fucking playing.
“Bullshit.” I punch him again, hoping it loosens his teeth.
No teeth fly, so this time, I put more force into my punch.
Marlen takes it like a man, not cowering once.
I stand tall in front of him, drawing my switchblade from the jeans I changed into before leaving, and hold it up. “I don’t have much patience for men who don’t talk.” I open the switchblade.
“Fuck you,” he screams.
I stand behind him and stick the blade against his throat.
He’s playing cool, but I can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Can feel his jugular tighten.
“You kill me, you’re asking for a war,” he bites out.
“Nah, you’re a soldier.” I dig the blade into his skin until I see blood. “No one cares about you. They’ll pick another stupid motherfucker to take your place in seconds.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says with a snarl. “I’m being promoted to capo.”
Franko busts out in laughter, lighting a cigarette and taking a long hit of it. “You’re not capo material, you dumb motherfucker. Whoever told you that was lying out of their Russian asshole.”
“Yaroslav is dying,” he blurts out.
I lower the blade to his chest, waiting for him to continue.
“Colon cancer,” he says as I walk around his chair to face him, slipping the switchblade back into my pocket. “He won’t be boss for much longer. Soon, Dima will be in charge, and he’s already promised me a promotion.”
I reach my hand into my other pocket. Marlen pulls his shoulder back, gaining more confidence, as if I give two fucks about his rank.
He grins and spits at my feet. “Here soon, that pretty girl of yours will be his. Ours because I’ll convince him to share. I’ll fuck her from behind first?—”
I draw out my gun and shoot him in the head.
Consequences be damned.
His dead eyes stare straight into my soul as blood gushes from his head.
Seeing him dead is fucking beautiful.
So damn gratifying and only adds to the enjoyment of my night. I’d been waiting too damn long to kill one of Dima’s men.
Marlen’s body slumps to the side, the blood pouring out of his head, and his body then falls forward.
I spit on his body, kick it, and then tell Franko to put his head in a bowling ball bag and deliver it to Dima’s front porch. The fucker owns a bowling alley, and I want him to know, next time, I’ll replace every bowling ball with a Russian head.
As I walk to the Escalade, I call the local florist and order pink peonies.
Benny Marchetti calls me before the sun meets the earth.
“Marchetti,” I say as I answer.
“I’m going to kill your ass, Bellini.” That’s how he starts the call.
Those aren’t the words I like to hear from the next in line in the country’s most dangerous Mafia family, but I don’t let it affect me.
“Why’s that?” I reply, my voice calm.
“My wife has suddenly decided she wants to volunteer at a shelter now since your girl mentioned it to her and her sisters.”
I can’t help but smirk as I sit behind the steering wheel of the Escalade.
That’s exactly what I wanted when I suggested girls’ night. I knew if Neomi, Gigi, or Natalia volunteered with Genesis, she’d be protected. Those men give their wives the best security. If she’s with them, she’s also offered that prime security, and I don’t have to be there.
“Why’s that my problem?” I ask.
“One of my men will have to accompany them.”
“Good.”
“Joke’s on you because that man is Luca.”
I clench my hand around the phone, not expecting that bullshit.
Plan backfired in my fucking face.
“Consider it my day to watch them at the shelter,” I say, gritting out each word.
No fucking way am I having Luca around Genesis.
I’m not jealous of him, but I don’t like him. If he does one thing to piss me off, I’ll happily put a bullet in his head. And then I’ll be unleashing the worst Marchetti beast if I kill Cristian’s nephew.
I hate that another man has touched what’s mine.
I’ll make sure it never happens again.