Chapter 8
ETTORE
Sleep has never come easily for me. Usually, there are too many devils in my mind.
This time, though, it’s a different story.
My dick is rock-hard, pressing almost painfully against my briefs. I need to treat this woman with some respect, and that means not jerking off every time these fantasies flood into my mind.
I feel younger, and a sudden, unreleaseable tension is building up inside me.
I’m a Don. I could drive into the city right now and have any number of women. But that doesn’t appeal to me.
Only she appeals to me. This afternoon won’t stop replaying in my head. Her hand felt like it was on fire. The base of my pole throbs when I think about guiding her hand to it, her fingers curling around my thickness, gliding up and down as I get hotter and somehow harder.
My hand slides under the sheets, over my stomach, toward my length.
I stop. Take a handful of the sheet instead and squeeze it tightly.
I need to think logically about where this road leads.
If I give in to these heated desires, then we’ll have some fun.
I’m sure Mara wants it too. On the porch, when I leaned in to kiss her – when I lost my damn mind – her lips parted, and she let out a tight little breath.
Like she was waiting for it. Wanting it.
When I pulled back and Livia walked out, she looked disappointed. A pout that went straight to my shaft. So, I could go into her bedroom one night, fall to my knees and feast on her. Taste her. Sink my hands indulgently into her thick, luscious thighs and savor every inch.
I could climb onto the bed and ease myself inside, the whole time watching her face, her gray-green eyes widening with lust and shock. I could give it all to her, stretch her until she’s sizzling and her toes are curling and she has to bite onto my neck to stop from screaming.
Then what?
Think, man.
What comes next?
More sex—more hunger. Learning her taste better than I know my own. Learning how sensitive she is and in what places, where and how she likes to be touched, driving her to orgasm after orgasm before finally erupting inside of her. Again, again, again…
Then we’ll want more. It’s not just her body.
It’s her spirit, her enthusiasm. I won’t be content with some fuck buddy situation.
She probably won’t either. I’ll let her close, and she’ll learn who I really am, what I really am.
She’ll recoil, rightfully so. Which will mean Sylvie will lose out on a nanny she truly connects with.
My lust will ruin everything.
I wish there was a way to get rid of the problem in my shorts without indulging in any of that. The moment I explode once thinking about her, the floodgates will open. Once I experience it, even in my mind, I’ll be lost.
I walk into the en-suite, turn the shower down cold, and blast myself with the ice.
I turn my mind to violence instead. To the rivers of red required to keep this city in check.
That’s enough to settle me down. For now.
Without the release, my hunger hovers at the surface.
I just need to be strong. I’m a man, not a goddamn animal, even if she makes me feel like one.
When I return to bed, I think about the way Mara makes Sylvie laugh, how bright she seems lately, the extra love in my daughter’s heart. That’s enough. It has to be. Or I’ll ruin everything.
The next morning, I text Mara, keeping it about my daughter.
Ettore: I forgot to ask. Did Sylvie mention the drawing? Did she ask if I’d seen it?
The fact I forgot to ask this – the main reason we even spoke in the first place – says a lot about where my head was yesterday.
Mara: She didn’t mention it. I think it was more something that’s lingering on her mind, rather than something that’s dominating it. Whenever she talks about you, it’s always positive.
Ettore: She just wishes there was more of me to go around.
Mara: It’s not my place to say that.
Ettore: Don’t get shy on me now.
I type, but then delete the message. It’s good that she’s treating me like her employer and nothing else. I let things get out of hand last time.
I go down for breakfast, breath catching when I see Mara standing with her back to me, taking something from a cupboard. She’s wearing shorts, nothing outlandish, nothing inappropriate. That doesn’t stop them from riding up her ass and showing me the voluptuous beauty of her figure.
I quickly rush past her.
“Daddy!”
I lift my daughter into my arms, then carry her over to the table.
“Mara made pancakes,” she says.
“That’s nice of her.” I smile, putting Sylvie down. “Now, you be nice and eat it all up. You need your strength for all that dancing.”
She beams, tucking in. Mara brings some strawberry sauce to the table and sits opposite me, Sylvie between us.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, glancing at me.
She’s done something different with her hair. It takes me a moment to realize she’s straightened it. And she’s wearing more makeup, not a crazy amount, but liner around her eyes, a soft pink on her cheeks. She looks gorgeous.
“I’ve got a meeting in the city,” I tell her. “I can’t stay.” Sylvie looks down at her plate and frowns. I reach over and gently squeeze her arm. “But later, I want you to tell me all about your day. Deal?”
“Even the boring bits?”
“Especially the boring bits.”
If anyone was looking at us now, they might think we’re a family, age gap be damned. They’d assume Mara is Sylvie’s stepmother.
I stand. “I love you.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Have a good day. Bye, Mara. Thank you.”
She looks shocked for a moment that I’d thank her, but how can I not when she’s bringing me closer to my daughter. I take one last look at her made-up face. I want to compliment the effort. But that would mean crossing a line. Instead, I hurry from the house.
My chauffeur takes me to an upscale bar in the city. Mark is waiting for me at the entrance. “Morning,” he says, nodding.
“You said we were meeting with a detective,” I grunt. “Some prick who might’ve helped those fellas who hit our store.” He called early this morning, before my alarm.
Mark looks at me closely. I can almost hear him thinking, Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed…
“Yeah.” He nods. “In here.”
The detective is easy to spot, a haggard man with bags under his eyes. A cliché if there ever was one.
“Mr. Bellandi,” he says, offering his hand. He withdraws it when I just glare at him.
“This is Detective Tuffin,” Mark says.
I gesture to the booth, waiting for him to sit. Mark sits. I don’t. I stand over them, waiting.
“Well?” I growl when they take their sweet time.
We use police. Every Family does. Some more than others.
But I’ve been suspicious of them ever since my ex-wife died in a car crash that was deemed an accident.
Nothing in the mob world is an accident.
It’s not like I’m mourning some great love.
Vera and I married for duty. It’s more the thought that, if they’re willing to lie about that, what else will they lie about?
“Tuffin has got informati—”
“Let him tell me,” I say, glancing at Mark.
He sits back and folds his hands.
“The Families aren’t the only ones who have friends in the police department,” the detective says. “Before this stunt at the jewelry store, I got word the Cartel was poking around.”
“How did you get word?”
“The grapevine,” he says awkwardly.
I look at Mark, shaking my head. He nods without me needing to say anything. We both know this isn’t enough information.
“What Cartel? Who was behind it? Why?”
“I gather they want to test your response.”
“Do you have any proof?” Mark goes on.
“What proof could I have?” the detective snaps.
“Give us the name of your contact.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t do that.”
This is normally the part where we’d drag him away somewhere and make him squeal. Innocent people could’ve died in that jewelry store, even by accident, even if the attackers didn’t mean it.
“You’re less than useless to us then,” I snarl, turning away.
“What a joke,” Mark grunts, then stands and follows me.
Outside, we lean against my car. Mark lights a cigarette.
“I thought you quit,” I say.
“I did,” he replies, then takes a drag. “What do you think, Ettore?”
“We have no more information than when we walked into that bar. And the police, Mark, the goddamn police… you know, I’ve never changed anything in Vera’s bedroom.”
“The grief must be tough.”
“It’s not grief. It’s proof. I think one of these days, I’ll get an idea. Something will come to me, a sign of who killed her. My daughter’s mother was taken from her, and the police lied to my face.”
Mark sighs. I can feel him looking at me.
Without facing him, I grunt, “Speak your mind.”
“It could have been an accident,” he says.
He’s right. Maybe. But also, everything in this life comes down to mob ties.
“Keep digging,” I say. “Maybe he’s telling the truth. Or perhaps the person really behind this is trying to provoke us into going head-to-head with the Cartel. I won’t make any rash moves until I have more information.”
That’s the plan I’ve got to stick to now, and not just with the mob. With Mara too.
No rash moves.