Chapter 39 Carlo
Carlo
I’d looped the broken silver hair tie around my finger when the music began, but she doesn’t need a good luck charm.
She is my siren on stage, the embodiment of temptation, and I desire nothing more than to worship at her altar when I hear her voice raised in song.
Such a strange intoxication for a man who once thought himself immune.
But more than her talent shackles me now. I enjoy every moment I spend with my wife, whether we’re fighting or fucking or simply having a quiet moment together. I know it’s not a vulnerability a Don should allow. It doesn't stop it from being true.
Faro had texted what she’d be doing this afternoon.
A possessive beast had stirred the moment he mentioned a duet with a male partner, and I’d cancelled an important meeting to be here.
I didn’t like the look of that guy the second I set eyes on him.
I absolutely despised the way she smiled at him.
I hate the moony expression he wears now as he serenades my wife.
But he’s nothing. Just a singing college boy and an outsider.
Rising to my feet, I clap for her when the song is done… and her singing partner chooses to die today.
He touches her face.
He kisses her.
Forcefully.
He tastes those sweet lips, the sweet lips of my wife.
Static roars between my ears, but my pulse stays eerily steady. I should cut off his lips and tear out his tongue.
Frankie shoves him hard and storms off stage after sending me a worried glance. She needn’t worry. She didn't want that kiss, and she knows she is mine. But it will not save him.
A girl with dark hair races after my wife while one of the professors is admonishing the young man, warning him he’s crossed a line and could face expulsion for such an act. Oh, he crossed a line, alright.
Glancing back at Faro, he shakes his head when he sees my face. He knows. With a flick of my hand, he hurries to find Francesca backstage and take her home while I take care of another matter.
The dead man strides out of the auditorium as I’m calling a loyal soldier.
Another young man follows him, giving the dead man a high five.
I stalk them both. One more makes no difference to me.
They snicker together like children over a stolen playground kiss before the friend heads off in another direction. He gets to live for now.
The dead man grabs a satchel and takes a side exit into an alley.
Foolish on his part but very convenient for me.
He doesn’t even notice he's being followed until it’s too late.
“What's your name?” I ask, catching up easily as I scan the surroundings.
We are alone, and there are no security cameras out here.
He turns, looking startled and confused. “Who are you?”
“I asked your name first,” I say, coolly.
“Look, is this because I kissed her? I know it wasn’t part of the rehearsal, but girls that hot always play hard to get even when they want it.”
“Your name,” I ground out, feeling my control starting to slip. I'd kill him slowly if I could.
“Are you an instructor? You don’t look old enough.”
I stare back at him with pitiless eyes. His brow furrows. Instinct is telling him something his pampered life has allowed him to ignore for too long – he is weak and I am dangerous. “I. Want. To. Know. Your. Name.”
“It’s Chris,” he finally says, sounding sullen.
“Chris,” I repeat, satisfied as I unsheathe my knife.
His eyes grow huge, but his feet have become roots.
He doesn’t even give me the thrill of a chase.
“I’ve never killed a man for kissing a woman before, but you dared to kiss my woman and, what’s worse, you forced that kiss on her.
I figured I should learn your name before you die. ”
“Wait! If that girl-”
“That girl? My wife’s name is Francesca Angelina Vicini, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman and the last name you’ll ever learn.”
One slash and I open his throat, stepping back to avoid as much of the spray as possible. Chris gurgles on his blood and crumples at my feet. Not a drop visible on my dark suit or shoes. Such good luck. I smile at Francesca’s little charm still wrapped around my finger.
Checking my phone once I’ve wiped off my knife, I see the clean-up crew is nearly here. They’ll deal with this. I’m going home to her.
***
“Leave,” I tell Faro when I lay eyes on my wife. He's on the elevator before I’ve shrugged my jacket off.
“It was just a stage kiss. It meant nothing. You have no right to be angry with me.” I expected concern for the dead man. She sounds furious.
“That was no stage kiss. He forced it on you. But let me make this clear right now - stage kisses aren’t allowed either,” I reply, stepping over to her.
“What if I want that though?”
“Then there will be more blood on my hands,” I mutter, knowing she’s baiting me. When I reach up to loosen my tie, she flinches, her body coiled tightly in anticipation of something else that’s not allowed. “No, mia moglie,” I murmur. “I would never strike you. I’d cut off my own hand first.”
But my pulse that stayed steady the entire time I stalked and slayed the singer is suddenly racing. The primitive need to claim her after another man touched her is all-consuming.
“Leave the idiot alone, okay?”
Too late, I think but decide not to burden her with the truth. She’d only feel guilt for something she shouldn’t.
“If I perform in plays, kisses may be required or-”
“Never. I won’t share you, Francesca,” I growl in her ear as I tug her toward me.
Fuck, that lavender scent and the softness of her curls are my only addiction.
She is mine, but I am hers, too. “No other man may have any little piece of you while I draw breath and certainly none of your precious kisses, staged or otherwise.”
She shivers in my arms until she seems to give herself a shake. “At least he didn’t drug me first.”
Oh. “I shouldn’t have left the bottle in our bathroom.”
“You aren’t even going to deny it?!”
I shrug, and she is seething. No other woman ever looked half so glorious in her wrath. “Would you prefer I insult your intelligence?”
“So, you drugged me and fucked me and-”
“I fucked you. Then I drugged you. An important difference if you ask me.”
“Oh, sure. Thanks for not drugging me before you fucked me, Carlo. You’re a real gentleman.”
My lips twitch at the absurdity of that comment. A gentleman is the very last thing I am. “I tricked you, I admit. You came to me with your pitiful bargain trying to escape our marriage. I took advantage. You knew the sort of man you were dealing with.”
“You made a fool of me. You forced me into a miserable marriage.”
“What makes you think I give a shit if you’re miserable?” I reply, harshly. The second the words are out of my mouth, I know they’re a lie. The flash of hurt in her eyes mixed with her anger makes me want to take them back, but I’m too prideful to do so.
“You’re not a bit sorry for it, are you?”
“Not remotely. And to be fair, I have a feeling the sex and alcohol would've knocked you out anyway.”
Unlike the stupid singing boy, Francesca doesn’t have roots for feet.
She springs forward like a tigress, storming toward me with a war cry and preparing to scratch my eyes out.
Her nails rake down one cheek before my hands have her wrists in an iron grip.
“Hurt me then and let me hate you the way I should,” she hisses, furiously.
“I already told you I won’t, and I know you don’t,” I reply before my mouth crashes into hers. She tastes so fucking sweet. Even when she bites down hard on my lip, I don’t care because, a second later, she’s answering my demanding kiss with her own need.
“I hate how much I want you,” she pants, tearing at my shirt. The buttons scatter as I unzip her jeans, steering us closer to the back of the sofa.
“You may hate it, but you still want it.” Shoving her jeans down, I sink to my knees, gazing up at her with this hunger I can’t control. “Let me make amends because I will never feel regret over the night I made you mine or the morning we said our vows.”
Her nails scrape my scalp, roughly. “One day, you may live to regret it, Carlo.”
“Hmm, maybe so,” I murmur, nuzzling the apex of her thighs, inhaling her luscious scent. “But not today.” I slip her panties to one side and kiss her mound.
Her nails are still digging into my scalp. Something warm and wet seeps down my forehead - blood. “Oh,” she gasps, realizing what she’s done. “I’m sor-”
“Don’t apologize to me. I don’t deserve it but let me eat you.
I’m dying for a taste.” With hooded eyes and her chest heaving, she wets her lips and nods.
I tug on one leg, widening her stance and then pepper the inside of her thigh with soft kisses.
She shifts impatiently, wanting more. “You are mine, Francesca. No kissing other men. Say it.”
She gives me a mutinous glare until the caress of my tongue draws a moan from her lips. I want to roar with triumph, tasting her arousal. She tries pressing her pussy against my mouth to silence me, but I resist. “Say it.”
“I am yours. No kissing other men. And you are mine. No kissing other women.”
“I will never kiss another woman for as long as I live,” I assure her before giving her what we both want.
I circle my tongue around her puffy little pink button and then flick it quickly until she’s gasping and rocking her hips, shuddering from her first orgasm of the night.
“From the moment I saw you singing at that wedding, I was yours. I had to make you mine. Hold onto the back of the sofa.”
She does and I drag one slender leg over my shoulder before giving her slit another long, firm lick. I could eat her all night. I will for a thousand nights if it buys her forgiveness. “Carlo…” she murmurs, her voice drenched with lust.
“Yes, mia moglie?”
“Don’t stop making me yours.”
***
I’m tired the next day. Not that I regret it. I’m not sure Frankie’s anger is entirely extinguished, but she let me pleasure her with my mouth and fingers until the wee hours of morning when I was finally allowed to claim her with my cock.
“Are you sure it’s safe to sleep beside me without slipping me a sedative?” she’d asked tartly when we climbed into bed.
“It’s a risk I’m willing to run.” I’d kissed her softly next, murmuring the closest thing to an apology I could manage.
“I’ve never wanted anything the way I wanted you to be my wife, but I swear to never do that to you again.
” I’d touched the tattoo at my throat to seal the oath, and she’d given me an inscrutable look before closing her eyes.
I’m a fucking bastard who doesn’t deserve her, but I will never let her go.
My father clears his throat, and I realize the men surrounding us are looking my way. Several underbosses traveled to be here for this meeting, the one I’d postponed yesterday on a whim to watch her sing.
“Any word on the hunt, Mancini?” I ask the Underboss of Pittsburg. It’s at the outskirts of our territory before entering Morelli’s territory. Nico might be willing to work with us, but I don't want his help with this.
“Nothing yet but your brother is on Donnelly’s trail with my son. Soon, we hope to have him.”
I nod, feeling confident we'll find where the Feds have stashed him at last.
One of our captains from New Jersey speaks up. “Speaking of the rat, I’ve got new information about his son.”
Ronan Donnelly was spotted in North Jersey yesterday. She begged me not to touch her brother. That would be much simpler if he’d stayed two hundred miles away in Boston instead of across the Hudson.
“Keep us updated,” my father orders. “If we can capture him, we’ll make an example of what happens to rats in front of all the men we can gather, the bloodiest example ever.”
Francesca’s words about her brother not deserving to pay for her father’s sins echo in my mind, but my expression remains neutral while our men discuss the matter with avid interest. They want Donnelly more, but his son will do for the sake of their vengeance, and they’ve had over three years to come up with cruel ways to dole it out.
As the meeting ends, I receive a text from Faro that makes my blood run colder than any torture the men around me have suggested –
Your wife is acting suspicious.