Chapter 17
MARA
Sylvie yawns from the back of the car, stretching her arms over her head.
“Tired from practice?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head stubbornly. “I’m not tired at all. I could do a whole other practice again.”
I smile. “Does that mean you want to play the keep your eyes open all the way home game?”
She pouts at me, then rolls her eyes. Sometimes, she looks so much older than her age. And other times, she acts like the little girl she is. I feel a maternal ache. I’m self-conscious enough to know it isn’t all about her.
My mind winds back to Gideon’s drunken ramblings. But that’s all they are, all they can be. Drunken, incoherent nonsense.
When I pull into the estate, I chew my lip. Is this guy trying to torture me?
Ettore is out front, pulling weeds like any other Joe, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. The staff isn’t here, since it’s Sunday. The late-day sun gleams over his muscled body, his contours catching the light. My mind goes back to our dirty texting at light speed.
Sylvie is suddenly full of energy, fidgeting the moment she spots her father. She climbs out and rushes over as soon as I open the door. “Daddy, can I help?”
Ettore smiles for her, but I can see the rage in his eyes. It’s not aimed at his daughter. Something has happened. He seems off.
He sweeps her into a hug when she reaches him and kisses her on the head. “Sure, but only for a little while. But you must be tired.”
“Only a bit.”
“Then you can help… only a bit.”
“Anybody want lemonade?”
Ettore looks up at me, sweat dripping down his shirtless body. I quickly look away before my thoughts crash into places they shouldn’t. As I walk away, I hear Ettore say, “Did you have fun at ballet?”
I hope he shows up for the recital. I hope Sylvie gets that memory, bright, sparkly, wonderful with her father.
I take the lemonade out, then place the tray down, smiling when I see Sylvie sleeping in Ettore’s arms.
“Bring her into the shade,” I say softly.
He carries her onto the porch, sitting with her in his lap. Staring at her in wonder. “Sometimes, I look at her, and I wonder how I created somebody so beautiful. So innocent.”
“She has your eyes,” I tell him.
He looks at me sharply, in shock. “You think so?”
I nod. “Is… something wrong?”
He winces. He can’t talk about it in case she can hear.
I take out my phone and navigate to our text thread. My core throbs when I see one of the more recent ones.
Ettore: But if we cross that line, if I claim your perfect body, we won’t be able to stop. Once we truly taste each other.
I don’t let myself look at it for long.
Mara: Something’s wrong. That’s not a question this time.
He cradles his daughter with one hand, reaching into his pocket with another.
Ettore: It’s hell-related, Mara. Someone did something they shouldn’t have. Now, I don’t know who’s an enemy or who’s a friend. Soon, I’ll be forced to take action. The sort of action that will make my daughter hate me one day.
I read the message, chest going tight, then look over at him. He looks full of love and devastation at the same time.
Mara: She could never hate you if you did it for the right reasons.
He reads, then looks at me, shaking his head.
Ettore: Don’t you hate me, Mara? What I am? What I have to be?
Mara: I don’t hate you.
I want to say something stronger. Like, I don’t think I could ever hate you.
But I have to hold something back. It’s only been a few weeks, yet family feels far more important to me than it should.
I think of Callum, how desperate I was to belong…
and how he used it to his advantage. I need to be careful.
Sylvie stirs. “Daddy, can I have a nap?”
Ettore chuckles. “I think you are.”
“You’re all bumpy,” she murmurs, her cheek resting against his chest.
He grins at me. “I need to stop lifting weights.”
I wouldn’t go that far.
He lifts her up and carries her into the house.
I carry the lemonade inside. With all the staff gone, it feels quiet, as Sundays always do.
I sit in the family room and look at my reflection in the TV’s screen.
My hair is straightened, my dress highlighting my curvy figure.
I look… beautiful. I don’t normally think things like that.
But Ettore is helping with my confidence.
He finds me, still shirtless.
I stand, take a step forward. Stop myself.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“You’re still wearing that dress.”
My skin grows hot at his comment. I roll my eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice. “You know what I mean.”
“Bad men are circling, Mara. I might know who they are. I might not. A conflict might break out; it might not. Welcome to this life.”
He steps forward and pulls me against him, making a gruff, husky sound.
“Livia might walk in.”
“She’s out for the day, and Sylvie is upstairs.”
“What about your guards?”
“They’re on the perimeter. They can’t see in here.”
“Ettore,” I whimper, feeling too comfortable in his arms.
“Tell me why this is wrong,” he groans.
“You’ve told me many times,” I point out.
“Yeah, I have, you’re right. I’m a goddamn hypocrite,” he grunts.
He slides his hands down to my hips and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around him instinctively as he carries me to the couch. I glide my hands all over his body, digging my nails into his shoulders. Experiencing a sort of lust I never even dreamed I would.
Our lips are fused the entire time, desperately, greedily kissing each other. Our tongues are messy and loud. He groans through the kiss, moving his firm body up enough to create some space between us. He slides his hand up my leg.
He grips me firmly. Smoothing his hand up my leg, getting closer to the apex of my thighs, inch by inch, sending hot, aching need coursing through me.
My underwear grows wet, the fabric sticking to me.
He pushes down on my crotch through my underwear, harder than when he was searching me, with purpose now.
I shift my hips against him. As he moves his hand up and down, the doubt fades away. I know this could end poorly. I know I should care more that he’s a mob boss. I know we’re risking it all.
But when he pulls my button loose and moves his hand inside, I honestly can’t think about anything else. Just the feeling of his hand moving lower, over my nub, my folds. He groans and leans back so he can look me in the eyes.
“You feel fucking perfect,” he groans.
I rock my hips against him, chasing the sweet burn. “Yeah?”
“So. Perfect.”
His finger teasing at my entrance, the heel of his hand rubbing against my clit. The combination feeling electrifying.
“I want to watch you,” he groans when I try to kiss him again.
I grab his face in my hands. “Yeah? Well, I want to kiss you.”
I pull him against me, kissing him hard. I feel him smile through the tight press of our lips. His finger pushes against my entrance, spreading me. His finger fills me up, pushing deeper and deeper, his hand grinding against my clit.
I break the kiss when I open my mouth to moan.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “The way you’re riding my hand.”
He pulls at my dress with his free hand, then tugs at my bra. I watch as his face turns from lust into complete obsession. He stares at my breasts spilling free, moving his hand even faster, making wet and horny noises. He presses his face against my breasts, sucking, moaning.
His mouth greedily sucks at my nipples, his hand never letting up. My vision starts to blur with a blistering lust I’ve never experienced before. I ride his hand, rocking my hips, chasing the perfect angle.
“Yes,” he growls, kissing and sucking on my nipples, one then the other. “Oh, fuck. I can feel how close you are.”
“You—can?”
“Your pussy’s pulsing for me. Tightening around my fingers. Talking to me, Mara.”
That turns me on in a way I can’t even explain.
He starts to flutter his fingers, causing my hips to eagerly chase the movement. Nothing else matters. I chase the wetness, the heat. He groans and straightens up a little so he can watch me, a look of profound hunger on his face.
“I need to feel you,” he snarls. “That perfect pussy wrapped around me.”
“Do—it,” I croak, voice warbling.
He tears at his pants, a wild and hungry movement.
His cock springs free, his tip brushing against my folds and pushing against my clit.
I reach up and claw onto his shoulders, holding him tightly, gasping, aching as he holds himself up with one hand and uses his other to brush his shaft against me.
I’m so ready. I’ve never wanted sex this badly before.
“Oh—fuck,” he groans, lining up and pushing against my entrance. My core tightens in anticipation.
He suddenly throws himself backward and pulls at his pants.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice high, certain I’ve done something to turn him off.
“Sylvie just called out for you,” he says, putting himself back in his pants.
This man’s got super hearing. Maybe it comes with his life, his profession, always needing to be aware of his surroundings no matter what he’s doing. I quickly get dressed, chest heaving.
“What the hell are we doing?” I hiss at Ettore.
He frowns, nodding at me. He doesn’t need to say anything. He knows it too.
“Mara?” I hear her voice now, sleepy and lost.
“Go,” Ettore says. “It will be…” He looks ill. “Less suspicious.”
Still electrified, but now with an added layer of guilt and shame, I brush my dress down and step into the hallway. Sylvie rubs at her face, tears in her eyes.
“I had a bad dream,” she says, running over to me.
I kneel and sweep her into my arms, knowing this has to be the last time we risk it like that.
We’re grownups. If we want to have sex, we need to be mature about it.
Not like wild people who are discovering themselves for the first time, unable to keep our hands off each other no matter the consequences.
But that’s just it. That’s exactly how he makes me feel.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Dreams can’t hurt you.”
“You’re wrong,” she says. “Dreams can hurt way more than real life.”