Epilogue - Jino
Epilogue
On Saturday mornings, Emmaleen Rourke shows up to my carriage house on the new Providence estate grounds as herself.
She doesn't have any rules to follow, doesn't need permission to speak, and is allowed to make as many mistakes as she wants.
Because on Saturday mornings, we're… well, I'm really sure what we are.
I'd say friends. But I'm teaching her how to deep throat a cock so one day Giovanni will let her blow him so…
More than friends?
I stand shirtless at my front window looking out onto the snow-covered grounds, tracking her as she runs down the sidewalk towards me. She's wearing a long yellow coat that trails out behind her—defiant and bright against the gloomy morning sky, like a daffodil, daring winter to put out her light.
I'm wincing, watching the placement of her feet, mentally telling her to slow down. She slips on the ice, does a comical windmill motion with her arms, mouth open wide, then recovers a stride later, never changing her speed.
Why is she so fucking cute?
When she's a few feet away from my door, I open it up. "Jesus, slow down! It's a fucking skating rink out there."
She doesn't slow down. Of course she doesn't. Instead, she crashes into me with full momentum, letting me absorb the impact. Her body is cold against mine, but her face glows with color from the winter air.
"Did you know snowflakes really do have perfect hexagonal symmetry because of the molecular structure of water?
And that no two are exactly alike because of microscopic variations in temperature and humidity as they form?
And if you talk to water and tell it nice things, it makes a prettier structure when it freezes? True story."
"Nice," I say, untying the belt of her coat and helping her take it off. She's naked underneath. It's not a rule that she comes naked, it's her choice. Because for four hours on Saturday mornings she gets to do whatever she wants with our time.
Lately, it's been blow-job lessons. Specifically, deep throat fucking. AKA—Giovanni's preferred way to kill a woman.
Unfair. Maybe.
Not really, he did the deed. He should have to live with it.
Said lessons totally had to be cleared with Giovanni. Who looked at me like he was picturing how the bullet would look between my eyes when I asked him this, but then gave in once he learned the complete nature of the request.
Of course, he gave in.
Whatever Emmaleen wants, Emmaleen gets.
It's a new side to him. Slightly disturbing, if I'm being honest. Because while I do not work for Luca LaRiccia—Emmaleen is my full-time job now—I know a little of what Giovanni does for the man.
Providence is a complete fucking mess, a territorial disaster zone of incompetence and failed leadership, and Giovanni is the surgical instrument Luca uses to excise problems that negotiations can't solve.
Honestly, I'm glad I'm out of the life. Completely out. The Pittsburgh docks, the constant tension, the weight of every word needing to be calibrated for who might be listening—all of it behind me now.
And while my family—our family—was pretty fuckin' pissed about the whole switching sides bullshit ("You traitorous motherfuckers, if either of you ever steps foot in Pennsylvania again, we're gonna blow your fuckin' brains out, scatter what's left in the river...
"), I can't say that I hate my current situation.
Far from it, actually.
No more dock life with its territorial pissing matches and union corruption.
No more Mafia bullshit—the endless posturing, the blood feuds that go back generations, the suffocating hierarchy where breathing wrong in front of the wrong capo could get you disappeared.
No more Sunday dinners at Mama Bavga's where I was constantly compared to my richer, better established, fuck-head cousins.
Giovanni thought he had it bad?
Try being a Moretti in Bavga Land.
Now, I literally edge a woman into manic episodes that alternate between crying and coming five days a week.
It's a strange kind of paradise, when you think about it.
"OK," Emmaleen says, her voice cutting through the quiet as she enters the living room.
She doesn't hesitate—just drops straight to her knees with that same casual efficiency she's been developing over these past weeks, like submission has become muscle memory.
"Can we just pick up where we left off last week instead of going through a whole Previously-On recap?
You know, skip the 'Last Episode of Emmaleen Learns to Deep-Throat' montage and get straight to the actual lesson? "
The smile that spreads across my face is so goddamn wide I actually feel a flash of embarrassment about it.
Because here's what my testosterone brain heard: Can you just shove your cock into my mouth and fuck it already?
I maneuver myself in front of her, reaching for the long hair on either side of her face. I grab it—forcefully, because she likes that—but also tenderly. Then use my thumbs to tip her chin up. Her eyes find mine immediately. Locked in.
But it's Saturday, so she's allowed to be bratty. And Emmaleen Rourke lives for the brat opportunities. "Come on, Jino. If you fuck my mouth today, I'll make you eggs for breakfast."
I smile, but don't answer.
"And toast. Hell, I'll throw in some hash browns. Maybe even pancakes if you're really good."
She's cooked for me exactly once.
Never again.
I'm not one of those dudes who gets off on the foodie shit. I can make a marginally good grilled cheese and that's about it. My carriage house kitchen stays mostly untouched except for coffee and protein shakes.
But Emmaleen is a whole other category of bad cook. The smoke alarm still has PTSD from her singular attempt at scrambled eggs.
So I tease her, my thumb tracing the fullness of her bottom lip. "Threatening me will get you nowhere, young lady. I'd rather starve than face your idea of home-cooked again."
"Well..." She angles her head just enough to catch my gaze from the corner of her eye. Her lips curving into a grin that's all trouble and no apology. "I'll take you out for breakfast then. My treat. How about that?"
We go out for breakfast every fucking Saturday morning without fail.
It's our date. The one ritual I guard more fiercely than any doctrine Giovanni ever wrote. The one morning of the week I won't bend for anyone—not business, not family emergencies, not the whole fucking world burning down around us. Saturday breakfast belongs to us. Period.
Then we hit up the thrift stores. Sometimes she finds a book and her whole face lights up like she's discovered lost scripture.
But the real treasure hunt is vintage clothes. She'll spend an hour sifting through racks of moth-eaten cardigans and polyester disasters, emerging triumphant with some flowered blouse from the seventies or a velvet jacket with questionable stains.
I'm not sure what she does with these clothes.
Inside Giovanni's house she's always naked, and the few pieces she keeps in my carriage house are practical—sweats, t-shirts, nothing with pearl buttons or lace collars.
Maybe she just likes the hunt itself, the possibility of transformation hidden in other people's discarded lives.
Maybe it's the only shopping she can do on her own terms, choosing things for herself instead of having her wardrobe color-coded by someone else's control.
But it brings her joy to buy them, so I don't mind standing in dusty aisles smelling of mothballs and old perfume.
"I tell you what," I say, circling back to her original question. "You show me what you actually know—technique, breathing, awareness of your own limitations—and then I'll decide if we can move forward or not."
I hold up one finger, cutting off whatever protest is already forming on her lips. "And if I determine you're not ready, then that's the end of this discussion. We do things my way. Slow and steady. No shortcuts."
"Jino, there's more of a chance that you'll actually kill me with some slow, controlled throat fuck than a good old-fashioned full-on face-humping session. It's just physics." She crosses her arms, looking entirely too pleased with this declaration.
I tap her on the nose with a fingertip. "I disagree. And you need my dick to learn this, so I make the rules. And if you keep arguing, I'll put clothes on you, throw you in my car, take you out for breakfast, and you will not learn anything new today. "
She makes a face at me. "Fine. But no recap. Let me just… show you." And with that, she reaches up, pulls my sweats down, and my cock springs out—fully erect, ready for action.
Her hands wrap around the base, not waiting for instructions, or permission, or thinking about rules that don't apply here—and the next thing I know, the tip of my cock is inside her mouth.
Fuck.
Her tongue swirls around the head, and I feel my knees actually weaken slightly. She takes me deeper, her eyes locked on mine the entire time, watching my reaction. There's no hesitation, no performance anxiety. Just pure confidence as she demonstrates what she's learned.
She takes me halfway down, then pulls back slowly, her cheeks hollowing as she creates suction. Then deeper. Then back again. Her breathing is controlled through her nose, exactly like I taught her. No gagging, no panic, just steady rhythm.
I watch her work, cataloging every technique. She's good. Better than last week. Her jaw is more relaxed, her throat more open. She's remembering to breathe, to pace herself, to use her tongue.
But Giovanni doesn't want good.
He wants unreasonable.
"Stop," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She pulls off immediately, a string of saliva connecting her lips to my cock. "What? Was that not—"
"That was perfect," I interrupt. "Which is exactly the problem."
Her eyebrows furrow in confusion.