Chapter 17 - 2
“Now, the Uzi.” Massimo gestures to the weapon lying on the kitchen island.
Timoteo picks up the semiautomatic and turns toward the backyard. The French double doors are open, revealing the freshly mowed lawn, and at the far end, a makeshift stand with several beer cans lined up along it.
I sigh. “In case you forgot, Timoteo is here to fill the butler position.”
The older fellow worked in my father’s home for almost a decade. After Dad was killed and my sister and I moved to the Leone Villa, Nera had several of our old staff transferred to our new home, including Timoteo and Iris. Following Massimo’s disastrous interviews when he attempted to hire house staff, I invited both of them, as well as a few others who have always been reliable, to work at the Spada Estate.
“Exactly,” Massimo affirms. “Which means the safety of the house should be one of his top priorities.”
“I thought maintaining safety was the job of your soldiers.”
“It’s always good to have additional marksmen on hand. Come on, Timoteo. Fire at will.”
The butler lifts the Uzi and aims at the targets. A moment later, five earsplitting bangs explode inside the kitchen. With my jaw nearly on the floor, I watch Timoteo casually return the weapon to the countertop and clasp his hands behind his back. Then, he turns to face Massimo as if waiting for his next gentlemanly command.
I’ve always known Timoteo to be extremely capable, yet I had no idea he knew how to shoot.
“Very good.” Massimo gives him an approving nod. “You’re settling into this situation with an unexpected ease.”
“I worked at the house when Miss Nera’s husband, Mr. Mazur, was in charge of keeping the property and occupants safe,” Timoteo declares as if that explanation is enough. “After just three weeks under his oversight, I consider myself well-versed in… handling the challenging requirements of a similar work environment.”
“Perfect.” Massimo turns toward Iris. “And the new cook?”
“Iris is similarly adept and used to complexities,” I interject. “She had to deal with cleaning up the office after Kai ‘fired’ the previous Head of Security.”
“I have to say, I wholeheartedly approve of your choices for my new staff.” Massimo meets my gaze. It’s the first time since this morning he’s done that. “Thank you for managing them and everything else these past few days. I’d like to meet with everyone as a group and go over some house rules.”
Timoteo, with Iris close on his heels, rushes past us, probably to gather the rest of the staff, leaving me and Massimo alone in the kitchen.
“Please try not to traumatize them too much.”
A small smile pulls at his lips. It’s not one of his wicked smirks, but a handsome, flirtatious grin that does funny things to my insides.
“I’ll do my best. Although, I’m not making any promises.”
His elbow brushes my arm as he passes by me, and I almost jump out of my skin. It’s the same effect each of his letters had on me when they arrived. The difference now, however, is he is here. In front of me. He’s real. It’s still difficult to wrap my mind around that fact.
I tiptoe out of the kitchen and hang back by the kentia palm in its massive planter where it’s set up by the archway that separates the entry hall from the dining room. Twelve members of the house staff are gathered at the foot of the stairs, all facing Massimo. Timoteo and Iris are at the head of the line, followed by five maids, the gardener, and three undercooks. Tinia is standing at the very end, visibly nervous to be in Massimo’s presence. They all have their hands clasped in front of them and are listening intently to what the lord of the manor expects of them. I handpicked each of them, selecting from those who had worked for my family that I knew could be trusted. They didn’t need to be told how intricate and demanding working in the don’s household could be, however, I still filled every single one in as soon as they arrived. I also hinted that if they experienced difficulties handling Massimo’s temper, they should come to me.
It feels strange to be in charge of anything. I’ve always avoided people in the past, staff included. Now, I’m directing the renovation workers, hiring staff, and even dealing with sales reps while picking out furniture for Massimo’s home. So weird, but it’s not bad weird. Actually, I’m enjoying myself.
“What do you mean, you’ve never held a gun?” Massimo’s growl breaks me out of my thoughts.
I look up, finding him looming over the gardener—hands braced on his hips, looking agitated as hell.
“I… I didn’t have a chance to do so, Mr. Spada.”
“That’s unacceptable. What about you?” Massimo turns toward the maids, who all appear as if they are seconds away from fleeing.
All five women vehemently shake their heads.
“Timoteo will teach you all how to shoot a firearm by the end of the week,” Massimo barks. “One of the guys will get you weapons first thing in the morning. Glocks for the men, Baby Desert Eagles for the women.”
Timoteo leans to the side and meets my gaze. The look in his eyes asks me: Is he serious?
I nod.
He blinks, returns my gesture, and faces Massimo again. “Of course, Mr. Spada.”
“Good. Also, your one and only warning: I do not tolerate traitors. Or give second chances. You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.”
I sigh. Well… He did say he wasn’t making promises.
Massimo continues barking orders while I watch him from behind the leaves of the palm. Everything about him is fascinating. Like, the dragon designs inked on his massive forearms. Identical in shape and size, the only difference between them is the color—red on his left and black on the right—and the fact that the two seem to be staring each other down. And how the muscles on his back ripple every time he moves. His biceps, stretching the fabric of his T-shirt, bulge beneath short sleeves that look like they’ve been painted on. And then, there are his sweatpants—riding a bit low, enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Boxers or briefs?
My hands itch to explore that magnificent body. How would it feel? He’s got a warrior’s physique. I want to touch, to taste every single inch of it. With my fingers, my lips, and my tongue. Is he a passionate lover? He must be. He can’t be anything else with that personality of his. Could he throw me on the bed and fuck me into the mattress? I’d love for him to do just that.
Heat floods my system. The tingling, achy feeling hits my core again. It’s been a constant in his presence, running like a current through my veins. But now, as I’m imagining Massimo taking me over and over, it surges, driving me insane.
Shaking my head to regain my composure, my gaze shifts from his waistband to his hand. It’s huge—like everything else about him—fingers gripping the back of a chair while he speaks in his deep, booming voice. Would his touch be rough or gentle? Would he pin me down? Would he make me beg for more? I bite my lower lip as I picture those inked fingers wrapped around my throat while he ravages my mouth with his. Whispers… between kisses. Him telling me filthy things. Telling me… Telling me something that I’ve only ever dreamed of.
I want you.
I need you.
I love you.
I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling.
The alarm is set, the video surveillance is on. Armed to the teeth, my guys are patrolling the grounds. I just finished my third sweep of the house, confirming everything is as it should be. There are no threats. No intruders in sight. No reason for me to feel so anxious simply because I’ve decided to stop sleeping in front of Zahara’s door.
She’s safe and sound. You’re just looking for another excuse to head back down, to be close to her. Go to sleep.
I can’t.
It’s bad enough she found out you’ve been spending your nights at her door. Not only is it ludicrous, it probably freaked her the hell out.
But what if she needs me? The unknown threat is still out there.
We still haven’t figured out who planted that damn bug on my car, the one that led the shooter at the mall straight to me. Salvo thinks it might have been the feds. I don’t agree, since McBride picked the vehicle up directly from the dealership and drove it straight to the prison.
Whoever has been plotting against you, wants you dead. If, somehow, they manage to get inside, they’ll come for you. Not Zahara. You need to stay put.
As I roll over to my side, my eyes zero in on the door.
Still… What if someone does get into the house? What if Zahara comes face-to-face with a killer and the asshole decides to take her out? She might be struggling for her life while I’m lounging here, a full floor away!
Fuck.
Leaping out of bed, I rush out of the room and down the stairs, cursing myself the entire way. Only once I reach the second floor and plant my butt in front of Zahara’s door, can I finally draw a full breath. If anyone dares to go near her, they’ll have to come through me. And I might actually get some shut-eye tonight after all.
What happened to the promise you made to yourself to never sleep outside her door again?
I tried, okay?
I swore I wouldn’t do it. Even knowing that staying away from her meant sleep wouldn’t come. It’s not as if I’m not used to going without.
Even before she found me sleeping by her door, the temptation had been seeping into my bones, getting harder and harder to fight. Knowing she was right there, with only a wooden surface separating us, had been driving me insane. I kept imagining myself walking into her room, simply to watch her sleep. Just so I could be near her. Just so I could feel the peace that only she brings to me. When she’s by my side, I don’t feel like the stark raving mad asshole two decades in prison made me.
That hasn’t changed. Being the crazy asshole.
At least I’ve managed to keep my dirty thoughts in check. Mostly. I’ve given myself a mental slap whenever reality wanted to slip away. If Zahara had even an inkling of what I’d been thinking, she’d be disgusted. How could she not be?
My thoughts… Lustful, mouthwatering thoughts. Where my hands are on her goddess-like body, tracing every soft curve with my aching palms. Holding her in my arms, her face tucked into the crook of my neck. It’s the only place where she’d be completely safe. With my lips, grazing hers, just as I’d fantasized doing since the first moment I saw her.
The moment when she was a bright ray of light, surrounded by so many dark shadows. An angel among a crowd of devils huddled at her father’s grave. The only person in this world who didn’t feel like a stranger to me.
The only woman who has ever captured my interest. Because of how she saw the real me. The one I tried to hide, yet she wouldn’t let me, burrowing her way under my skin. I should have known then…
I shouldn’t have even…
But like the asshole I am, I still did.
Remembered, what I once told her in a letter. The one where she asked what I would do when I was set free. I’d fuck my way through a whorehouse , is what I told her. After almost twenty years without getting laid, a fucking frenzy should’ve been a piece of cake. Should’ve easily wiped the daydreams of making love to Zahara from my mind. Something I desperately needed. So, that’s exactly where I headed. Had McBride drive me directly from the prison’s gate to a Cosa Nostra strip club, where they serve pussy dessert on the side. A goddamned sugar buffet.
And I couldn’t get my dick up.
Blonde. Dark-haired. Tall and short. Scantily dressed. Naked. The manager kept bringing girl after girl into the VIP room, and my damn cock didn’t even twitch. Not once.
I figured the prison messed me up more than I ever thought, so I left, my broken cock the least of my worries.
That’s one problem I no longer need to solve, though. My cock is stone-hard whenever I picture Zahara in my arms. It works just fine every time I imagine her with me. Her delicate skin. Her jasmine scent. Her… honeyed taste.
Jesus fucking Christ. What am I doing? The combative voice in my head is right. I’m turning forty in two months—she’s half my miserable age. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s my stepsister ! I should feel nothing more than a brotherly affection toward her. Yet there’s nothing remotely brotherly about my feelings.
I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, but sleep doesn’t come. Tonight, the twenty feet separating us is nineteen too many. Feeling like the sickest creep on earth, I rise from my spot on the floor and slowly turn the doorknob to Zahara’s room.
The goddamned door opens.
I fucking told her to keep it locked!
As carefully as I can, without making the slightest noise, I step inside the darkened bedroom.
The carpet covering the floor is thick, muffling my steps as I approach. Moonlight slips through the gap in the drapes, falling onto the bed where Zahara is sleeping. She’s curled in the fetal position atop a sea of white bedding. Despite the long-sleeved nightgown, she must be chilly. Especially with her blanket tossed off and bunched at her feet.
For a moment, I let myself stare at her lovely face. It’s partially obscured by the sleep-tangled strands of her light-brown hair. Her black nightie has ridden up almost to her waist, allowing me a view of the perfect curve of her luscious ass and shapely legs. My dick is instantly a steel rod.
I don’t want to wake her, so I practically hold my breath as I draw closer to her bed. Permitting myself one final, quick look, I lift the edge of the crumpled blanket and carefully pull it over Zahara, high enough to cover her up to her chin. She looks so small. So peaceful. I don’t want to leave her.
Looking around, I spot an armchair nestled beside her desk where it’s set up beneath a window. It’s only steps from her bed and has a direct line of sight. I back away and lower myself onto the seat, all the while fighting to ignore the objections of my painfully hard cock.
For days, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on in my head, why I have this obsessive pull toward her. My stepsister . I’ve even gone as far as googling the reasons for my feelings and behavior. This can’t be healthy or normal. Hours and hours I’ve spent combing across various sites, looking at blogs and psychiatric forums covering the issues ex-cons experience as they try to fit back into society.
Who knows if the shit I’ve read is real, especially since multiple disorders seem relevant to me. Several symptoms hit the nail square on the head. Like the constant hypervigilance. The persistent sense that I’m trapped in a rival gang’s territory, just waiting for a shiv in my back. The overwhelming and damn near irresistible impulse to go on the attack, inflicting fear and pain, because for so long it was the only way to keep the cuntfucks in check and myself safe.
The violent urges that I can’t seem to control continue to flow through me. They’re all I know, all I’m used to. Behind bars, the only way to stay alive is to make sure you’re riding at the top. The world around me, I don’t recognize and can’t fucking relate to. Everyone is a potential threat, a potential enemy. Even Salvo. Despite his loyalty to me all these years.
I just…. don’t care anymore. About anything. The fucking Family included. It used to sustain me, like a mental crutch, gave me something to focus on so I wouldn’t go nuts in prison. Like a dog with a bone, not letting go of a bite, for if I did, I’d lose the only thing I had.
That drive is still within me. I will see my plan to the end. But at the same time… I don’t particularly give a shit about it. I want to, though. I want to care, as I did before. Just can’t seem to make myself do it. As if something important, something fundamental that makes me… me , simply died. I feel so lost. And so fucking angry.
One of the articles I came across during my cyber introspection mentioned depression as a possible reason I’m such an irascible bastard. Depression, really? I don’t feel apathy or avolition, which is what I thought defined the condition—a general lack of interest in life. Instead, I want to destroy. Annihilate. Burn the fucking world to the ground, the one that dared to move on without me. Spit on the fate that stole half of my life, leaving me to rot in that hellhole. Kill the cocksuckers responsible for that, those still hiding in the shadows. I want to demolish them, rain death on their miserable heads. Slay everyone.
And amid the chaos, the violence, my wrath, there’s her . My Zahara. My peaceful haven. An angel, offering a hand of salvation to a man burning in his own inferno. She’s grace, kindness, and my last hope. The only thing that keeps me tied to this mortal coil.
I can’t taint the only pure thing lighting up my existence. No matter how crazy it makes me, I won’t put my hands on Zahara, subjecting her to that stigma for the rest of her life.
Deciding that, though, doesn’t make my dick any less hard.
I slide my hand inside my sweatpants and take ahold of my aching cock. Squeezing it to the point of pain that nearly makes me roar into the night.
Yet not a sound leaves my lips. I don’t let it. Won’t risk waking her up to see me losing my sanity. If this was nothing but a physical urge, I’d have an easier time dealing with the madness. Yet, it isn’t. I know it’s not. Because, even with Zahara’s body completely covered, hidden from my eyes, my mind still conjures up her image. It’s not just her sinful curves and ethereal beauty that turn me the fuck on. It’s more.
It’s the idea of having her tucked into my side, my arms keeping her safe. Of having the right to touch her. Whenever and wherever I want. Of being able to bury my nose in her skin, inhale deeply, having the freedom to breathe her in without reproach. This dark abyss I’m facing, I want us to find a way across—together. I want to tell her all the fears that plague me, things I would never voice aloud to anyone else.
Zahara is the only person who I can see standing next to me for the rest of my life. As a friend. And my lover. My wife. God, I’ve even imagined her pregnant with my babies. A son. A daughter. Mine, all mine. I want to claim her, join in the most intimate and carnal way until we are one. I need her like I need the fucking air.
I squeeze my dick again, this time even harder. A punishment for my dirty thoughts. I need the treacherous fucker to go down.
It doesn’t work.
It doesn’t fucking work.
Letting go of my choke hold, since it’s apparent I can’t force it to behave, I start to stroke. Imagining what it would feel like to be inside her.
You fucking creep. The voice in my head is brimming with disgust. Even my inner self is appalled by my actions. Tugging on your cock in the dark while you watch the woman sleep. One seriously sick bastard, that’s what you are.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, barely above a whisper.
Closing my eyes, I pick up my pace. My cock is long past the normal point of no return, and every stroke sends a jolt of agony through my starving body. Every cell vibrates with electricity. But the damn thing is still an unbending rod. Swollen and angry. As if my hand alone is no longer enough to bring the release I’m chasing.
Nearly roaring aloud in pain, I squeeze again and open my eyes.
Only to find Zahara sitting up in bed. Staring at me with wide, astonished eyes.
Jesus fuck.
I should get off my ass and walk away. I don’t. Instead, I hold her gaze and let her watch me. Maybe this will clue her in on what a twisted son of a bitch I am. Maybe she’ll run, never to return to me. I hope she does. Because God knows, I can’t walk away from her.
Even though I should.
“Shut the fuck up.”
My eyelids crack open. I’m a fairly light sleeper and positive that I heard something close by. The room is dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the unlit space. Once I do, the figure sitting near my desk comes into focus.
Massimo.
The silver beam streaming through the opening in the curtains creates an interplay of light and shadow over his impeccably sculpted, shirtless torso. Is this a dream?
His face is tilted up toward the ceiling, however, his eyes appear to be closed and a grimace is marring his flawless features. I don’t dare move an inch, pretending that I’m still asleep, while my eyes rove up and down his rapidly rising chest. He’s gripping the armrest of the chair with his left hand so hard, I can see the outline of the corded muscles of his forearm. His right hand is somewhat lost in the shadows on his lap, but I can see it moving. There’s a telling sway of the bare skin as it glistens in the dim light.
I feel the color flood my cheeks when I realize what he’s doing. Transfixed, I watch as he pleasures himself. Right here, in my darkened room. The strange tightness between my legs grips me again, as it does each time he is near. I can’t look away. My heart rate blasts into the stratosphere. With every stroke of his hand, the flexing in my core gets stronger.
“Appalled, angel?” he rasps. His voice sounds deeper than usual, his words echo throughout the room.
I swallow, only now realizing I’m sitting nearly fully upright, my eyes locked squarely on him. Yes, I probably should be appalled to find Massimo in my bedroom, jerking his cock mere steps from my bed. But I’m not. I’m so not.
I suck in a breath and meet his gaze. “Don’t stop.”
Devilish eyes burn through me as he keeps stroking himself inside his sweatpants. Based on the sizable bulge, his dick is huge and fully erect.
He lied. He lied to me after all.
All those things he said… That he sees me as only his stepsister. His assurance that he simply needs to protect a member of his family.
He lied.
As soon as that thought slams into my mind, my heart makes a valiant attempt to break out of my ribcage. It thunders loudly in my ears, and suddenly, all air leaves the room. That devastation I felt for believing his indifference toward me? The despair that gripped me because I thought that there was no chance of him ever returning my feelings? All of that misery was unfounded. A man doesn’t come to a woman’s room to jerk off if he feels nothing toward her.
He fucking lied!