Chapter 36 Damiano #2
There’s an amber flash as he glances up at me through his lashes, and that little bit of eye contact reassures me. He leans forward, mouth open, and takes me in again. His hands grip my thighs, not pushing me away, but bracing himself.
“Harder,” the Russian insists. “Make him take it all.”
“I don’t need a fucking director,” I growl at him.
He raises an eyebrow, a clear message. He’ll walk if I don’t.
I’m about to tell him where he can shove his demands when Caligula moves first. He pulls back just enough to adjust his angle, then pushes forward—hard—taking me deeper, just as Andropov ordered. He gags, chokes, moans in fear.
But his hands on my thighs are steady. Relaxed, even.
He’s faking.
He’s putting on a show, giving this bastard exactly what he wants to see. My hand is still on the back of his head, so it looks like I made him do it. Tears leak from his eyes as he chokes again—and fuck, are those real, or—
No. He squeezes his eyes hard, leaks out a few more. The tears are part of the performance.
“You know,” Andropov says, pouring himself another vodka, “I had a son once. Louis Clemenza had him killed over a shipment dispute. Forty thousand dollars’ worth of goods.
That was the price of my son’s life.” He drains the glass.
“So you see, Orsini, we are not so different, you and I. Seeking justice against these snakes, the Clemenzas.”
I want to bark out Bullshit, but there’s nothing untrue in what he said.
I just don’t like hearing it.
As for Caligula, he gives another theatrical choke, pulling up to gasp raggedly before diving back down, making it look like I’m forcing him once more. But he’s barely taken half my length, though his hand, wrapped around my shaft, hides the true depth from the Russian.
“That’s it,” Andropov hisses, leaning forward. “Break him. Make him regret the day he was born a Clemenza.”
I spread out my fingers through that soft hair, not guiding, just…anchoring. Letting him set the pace while I play the brutal master for our audience of one. My grip looks punishing, but my fingers are gentle against his scalp, practically a fucking massage.
Caligula Clemenza is completely in control. I just have to let him work.
“Surely you can be rougher than that,” the Russian complains, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck. He’s buying it.
Caligula pulls off with a wet, wrecked sound, gasping for air, spit trailing from his swollen lips to my cock. He looks utterly destroyed.
Then his eyes flick up to mine for just a second—sharp, alert, amused—before he drops back into character.
Christ.
He’s magnificent.
And this Russian bastard doesn’t deserve to witness a single second of it.
“That’s enough.” I pull Caligula up and off me, hear him gasp—genuinely this time, I think.
“Don’t stop now,” the Russian complains. “I want to watch him drown in your—”
“No,” I snap. I’m already tucking myself away.
Caligula pinches me on the thigh, hard enough that I squirm. I avoid his eyes, but I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s fucking furious; he thinks we’re not going to get what we came for.
But I will be goddamned if I let some sadistic Bratva motherfucker watch me spill my first load in Caligula’s mouth.
“I don’t wanna pop yet,” I tell Andropov. “This was just a taste. I’ve had so much fun with him since I bought him, I figured I’d give the whole place a show later. What do you think?” I shove Caligula back down to the floor without even looking at him.
I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I’m going to fucking lose it.
“A public display?” Andropov taps his lips. He looks at Caligula. I want to tell him to keep looking at me. I want to grab his face and force him to see only me. But it would be too late.
He’s already seen too much.
In my peripheral vision, Caligula coughs pathetically and wipes at his wet chin, still playing his part perfectly.
“Ah, a pity,” Andropov sighs at last. “But you are right; it would be selfish to keep such a delicious humiliation to my eyes alone. There are many people here who will take delight in his debasement.”
“Is one of them this guy who’s been knocking them off?” I ask desperately. “Because if I could meet him—”
Andropov laughs heartily. “I’m sorry, my friend. I have told a little white lie. I have no idea who killed all those Clemenzas. I, too, would like to shake their hand.”
“You lied to me?”
He shrugs, standing to straighten his jacket. “You, too, lied to me. Sent King’s pet after me with all those wild promises you never intended to keep. Now we are even. Yes?”
After a long moment, I smile broadly and stand as well. “Sure. I guess that’s fair play.”
“I have enjoyed my evening very much so far. There’s more to come, I hope?”
“Oh, yes. Much more.” I grin even wider, putting out my hand. “Here’s to new friends.”
He takes my hand.
I yank him hard toward me, putting him off balance so that he stumbles, and I sidestep to avoid breaking his fall.
I catch his head between my hands before he hits the floor and give a quick, forceful twist. The crack of his neck sounds, and I let him drop to the floor.
There’s a last, slow hiss of air, and then nothing.
I look over at Caligula, who’s crouched down behind the chair as though wanting to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
He stands slowly, coming around next to me, and looks down at the corpse on the floor. “Oh, Dami,” he breathes. “Why in the hell did you do that?”
It’s a fucking good question.