6. Santino
SANTINO
“Fuck.”
The word echoes in the expansive shower stall I’m in. Steam rises around me from the hot water, but it might as well be because of the desire coursing through my veins. Ever since I dropped by Jovie’s shop the other day, my lust for her has grown tenfold.
I stroke my cock to the thought of her thick thighs on either side of my face while I bury my tongue inside her. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her in my bed, her body against mine, and the moans she might make while I suck her clit into my mouth.
“Jovie,” I whisper through the warm spray of water, wishing she were here.
I haven’t felt this kind of want in so many years; I forgot what it felt like.
I thought my sex drive was something that was over for me.
I’ve masturbated plenty of times over the years and it has done the job, but being intimate with someone wasn’t in the cards for me.
I was content with how my life was. I’m busy doing what I do and the last thing I need is to fuck a bunch of random women that like to come around.
We’re dangerous. Some women love being around dangerous men.
The issue is, I’m the man in control. I’m the boss.
I’m the one they all hope they can get to and the pessimist in me doesn’t trust their intentions.
Most of the time, they probably do want only sex, but in the back of my mind, they want to take me down somehow.
Drug me. Kill me. For all I know, they were hired to take me out by another crime lord.
Granted, that’s the most typical way to get to most men, but I’m not most men.
When it comes to Jovie, though, I’m afraid I’m not better than any other man.
I want her. I want her so fucking much that the ache to have her for myself is getting harder and harder to deny with every passing day.
“Jovie,” I moan, increasing my pace when the image in my mind changes.
My hands grip her hips, helping her rock them across my face, wanting her to ride me, to use me, to take what she needs so I can taste her pleasure.
“That’s it. What a good girl. Fucking come for me.”
I close my eyes, wanting to envision more. The dreams aren’t enough. I need her and I need to see her again and soon.
“Santino. Yes. God!” She cries out, her thighs shaking from the pleasure overcoming her body.
“Mmmm,” I hum to myself, pretending the water on my lips is her come and I lick it free, wishing I could taste her.
Does my son know what she tastes like?
I hate that. I hate that he knows. He must. Anger wells up inside me, wanting to stake my claim. She’s mine. She was never meant to be his.
“Don’t think about that,” I tell myself, not wanting to lose focus on Jovie, on how beautiful she is in my dream.
Her long copper hair flows down her back. My hands are needy, grabbing every part of her I can. Her breasts spill out of my hand, and her nipples are hard, taunt, begging to be teased and plucked.
I press my forehead against the wall, my lips parting, and my brows pinching when it starts to feel too good. I don’t want it to end yet. I want it to last forever.
“Jovie, fucking ride me,” I beg to my imagination, knowing that whatever I envision couldn’t possibly be as good as feeling her in real time.
My fingers ache to have the privilege of touching her.
I stroke myself faster, opening my eyes to see how red and angry the tip of my cock is. My thumb rubs across the head, precome dripping from the slit. Reaching down with my other hand, I tug and roll my sack, groaning from the pressure.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to come.
I want to save every drop for Jovie, if or when I have the ability to lie her down on my bed and spread her legs.
The thought of seeing my seed spill from between the valley of her thighs has me rolling my head around my shoulders.
It’s too much to think about. My orgasm hits me hard and fast, my cock jerks and tenses, come jetting down the drain.
The bliss of my orgasm doesn’t even last. The pleasure is fleeting. This isn’t good enough.
I want more.
Curling my fist against the wall, I grit my teeth, every muscle in my body flexing from rage.
I shouldn’t be torn. My loyalty should be to Luca.
I shouldn’t be giving Jovie the time of day, yet all the seconds and minutes and hours are dedicated to her because she has consumed every fucking thought.
I slam my fist against the wall, “Fuck!” I curse louder than I meant to, and it echoes in the expensive bathroom that should be used by Jovie.
Jovie. Jovie. Jovie.
Everything is her. She’s infiltrated my entire life. She deserves to soak in my large tub to the right that can comfortably sit two. There are lavish expensive oils, bath bombs, sea salts, scrubs, which can be hers if she lived here—if she accepted the life that I’m willing to give her.
It would mean having to be okay with Luca around though.
And Luca being okay with her around.
Sighing, I run my hand down my face. Exhausted, knowing I’m a bad father.
Bending my head, the hot water blasts my tense shoulders and neck, easing the knots and tension. The sensation reminds me to schedule an appointment with the massage therapist I always have on call.
“Mr. Salvati?” Kate, my wonderful maid’s voice cuts through the steam.
Still, I’m clearly in the shower and this is not the time or place. “Not now, Kate. This is inappropriate. I’ll be out shortly.”
“Apologies. I have fresh warm towels that you like. You told me to let you know when?—”
I perk up at the thought of freshly dried towels that are hot. “Oh, thank you. That’s fine. Please, set them on the warmer. I’ll be out in a minute.”
The tap of her shoes come closer and then they fade until the door closes, leaving me alone again. I turn off the shower, not wanting to miss the warmth of the towels. I don’t care what anyone says, towels and blankets right out of the dryer mean supreme comfort.
Swinging open the glass door, I step out on the mat, grabbing an oversized black towel. I feel like a kid again, remembering when my mom would toss all the warm laundry on me.
Smiling from the memory, I dry myself off, then grab a fresh towel to wrap around me.
Only Kate knows my love for warm, fresh laundry. Not even Luca or Omar. I would never hear the end of it, but they both would relate. I know they feel the same because their mother did the exact same thing with their towels and blankets.
It’s the little things in life that keep the soul going and in my line of work, having a soul at all is rare. Mine has been hardened and calloused through the years of hard decisions, death, and inflicting pain.
When my father trained me to be the next in line, he told me death was part of the job, an action I had to get used to doing. He compared us to grim reapers, only we reap the souls of those who have done us wrong.
He was right.
I walk into my bedroom and flip on the light, turning down the brightness to give me enough glow to read. However, I’m frozen when I notice how empty this room is. I’ve never thought about it before. Emptiness never bothered me. It matched how I felt.
But just barely knowing Jovie has tilted my world. She’s opening my eyes, forcing me to see just how much I don’t have.
The walls are painted gray, no color, no life.
When I picked the color, at the time, my wife had just died, and I moved the boys and I out of the old estate.
It was too painful to be there when she wasn’t, to be surrounded by memories that were now owned by walls.
I knew my sons would be damaged beyond repair if we stayed there.
They would expect their mother to walk through the door every single day.
So when we moved here, I gated the entire property. I isolated us from the world because the world is cruel—I should know, I add to the cruelty every day—but I didn’t want the cruelest emotion of them all to come to cripple my family again.
Grief.
And now that I’m standing here, looking at my room, I’ve surrounded myself with grief, with how I felt at the time when we moved here.
My king-sized bed has a black comforter with black pillows. There’s no art. Everything is simple and dull because that can’t be taken away, can it? Not like light and love.
There are no pictures anywhere. Not of my children. Not of my wife.
And that’s not fair. She doesn’t deserve to be erased, but how do I move on while respecting the memory of her?
My head begins to pound and with dragging feet, I plop on the bed and bury my face in my hands, then run my fingers through my damp hair.
I’ve been living my life in monotone, drowning in the sea of a colorless life because enjoying the pleasures this world has to give seems wrong. So many years have gone by. My boys were only children when their mother was killed.
It’s hard to admit but… I’m finally ready to move on.
I fall back onto the bed, the soft memory foam mattress hugging my body as I stare up at the ceiling, watching the fan blades swirl. I toss my arm over my head, wondering how to have what I want without hurting anyone. I’ve never cared before. This time is different.
It’s my family.
And I will die for my family. Any day of the week at a moment’s notice.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand and I exhale with annoyance. I want to shut off from the world. I don’t want to deal with people anymore today. I want to be left alone.
And it buzzes again. Then again.
The noise alone infuriates me. I sit up and reach for the damn thing, wondering what the fuck anyone could possibly need. It’s ten at night. Bodies have been fed to the sharks, money has been handled, drugs have been pushed, people have been fed, what the fuck else do people really need from me.
Ms. Smith: “I need to admit something.”
Ms. Smith: “And it’s a little embarrassing.”
Ms. Smith: “But I need to say it.”
Ms. Smith: “I can’t stop thinking about you.”