Little Dove
CARLOS
The six representatives of the Italian mob families sit close to the head of the table, three on either side of me. Their silence is loaded, full to the brim with grief.
Except for one, whose silence I know is nothing but fear and unlikely guilt.
Six pairs of eyes turn to me when I stand, raising my glass of wine.
“To Francesca,” I say, and wait for them to raise theirs, too. “She was a light in our world. My sincere condolences to the Valetti family for the loss of one of their own.”
Armand Valetti lowers his head, jaw tight. Francesca was his favorite niece. I know he will not oppose what I have planned for tonight.
“The day your families joined forces with me, I made you all a promise: violence against you and your own will be a direct attack on me.”
A collective nod goes around the table.
Except for one.
“The Fuente de la Muerte cartel will feel the full impact of my fist,” I growl, causing Armand to sit straighter.
This is the moment to drop the hammer.
“Before Christopher was dealt with, he gave up the name of the traitor who lured Francesca from her apartment on false pretenses. The traitor who watched her get butchered in the streets. The traitor who has joined hands with our enemies.”
I look around the table.
Five pairs of eyes look expectantly up at me, slitted and, hopefully, as hungry for vengeance as I am.
“Who?” demands Armand, hand clenched tightly into a fist on the table. ”Tell us.”
I nod.
“First, are we all in agreement that this traitor needs to die?”
Five heads nod emphatically.
I turn to Giovanni Feretti, who is sitting to my right. His wide, open eyes meet my cold ones.
A horrified silence falls around the table.
Emilio speaks first. “Giovanni? No. It cannot be.”
“And yet it is,” I say, imbuing my voice with the kind of calm that only comes before a storm.
I expect him to yell and scream, to deny my accusation, to at least stand up and try to run out. I know he is not armed; my security made sure of that.
I want him to fight like a cornered rat.
And he does not disappoint.
Giovanni’s hand reaches for the knife on the table.
I find the gun halfway stuffed inside the back of my trousers and retrieve it quickly and smoothly. The safety is already off.
I pull the trigger without hesitation, tensing my muscles to brace for the kickback. The shot rings out like the crack of thunder announcing the beginning of a dark storm.
I am the dark storm.
My security detail scurry into the room and I dismiss them with a wave of my hand. All eyes are trained on the lifeless body of the traitor in our midst.
Silence, heavy with meaning and consequence, falls in the dining room, until a soft gasp interrupts it.
Heads turn, including my own, to find the source of the sound.
Estelle stands in the open kitchen doorway, eyes on Giovanni’s dead body. She must have spotted the gun in my hand, too.
Slowly, her head turns, and her eyes meet mine.
What will you do, my little dove?
In my gut, I know that even if she tries to fly away, I will not let her go. I wait for her to scream, run, or faint.
But my beautiful chef does something that simultaneously surprises and turns me on. I watch a mask descend over her features, rearranging her expression into one of indifference.
Whether true or false, it doesn’t matter.
“Dinner is ready, Mr. Fuentes. Let me know what your plans are and I will accommodate,” she says in a voice bereft of any emotion. “I prepared my famous mushroom and beef risotto.”
Estelle nods once, turns, and closes the door behind her.
A slow smile creeps onto my face, and a chuckle erupts from my chest—clumsy from lack of use, but still valid. To my surprise, five hardened Italian mobsters laugh, too.
----
When I find Estelle after everyone has left, she’s furiously wiping down the already spotless counter. She looks up when the door opens, and her hand stills.
We stand there simply looking at each other.
Why hurry?
Her smooth skin is glistening from her needless cleaning, her pouty lips slightly parted. They are the most alluring dark cherry color, equal in proportion.
I feel my control slipping.
“Everyone enjoyed the risotto,” I say.
How can I make her understand that these men are so accustomed to witnessing death that they can still eat a full meal after watching someone get shot?
We ate on the patio while Giovanni’s body was removed and the dining room cleaned.
Estelle nods and resumes wiping the counter.
Self-soothing.
Trying to scrub the image of the dead man from her mind.
I walk closer to her, covering her hand on the cloth with mine. A shaky breath escapes her kissable lips, and I almost give up my control and bring my mouth to hers.
“Look at me, Estelle.”
She hesitates for a moment, then turns, her gaze on my chin. My fingers find her jaw, caressing gently, like you would a dove, then I apply pressure, raising her head so our eyes meet.
“Was this your first time seeing a dead body?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“It won’t be your last either, Estelle,” I tell her gently. “You work for me. You knew who I was when you applied.”
“I know,” she rasps.
The rest of what she wants to say is left hanging between us. She will still have nightmares when she goes home and struggle to process everything.
To process what I did.
My next breath is as heavy as lead in my lungs.
To hear I am a monster and to see it are two different things.
My hand finds its way to the buttons of her trousers before I can stop myself.
“What are you doing?” she rasps, her voice more strangled than alarmed.
“Let me give you pleasure, little dove.” I watch her face. “Tonight, I want you to forget the gun in my hand and only remember the pleasure my fingers are about to give you.”
She swallows hard.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t.
Not tonight.
The buttons pop open, and I lower the zipper, still watching her face. I see the war in her eyes even as her hands grip the edge of the counter.
“We shouldn’t,” she says, low.
“Tell me to stop.”
I wait.
One heartbeat.
Then five.
Nothing.
I bring my middle and ring fingers to my mouth. Her eyebrows lift as she watches me wet them with my saliva, never looking away, not even blinking once.
My hand makes its way inside her panties, through the soft curls on her mound, lower, seeking.
She gasps when I part her and starts breathing hard when my wet finger finds the apex of her folds. The small metal ring there isn't a shock since Grayson already told me about it.
I want to lay her on the counter, spread her legs and inspect her for myself, then twirl her naughty piercing with my tongue. But I know that will be too much, too soon for her.
I step closer.
“Tell me to stop, Estelle,” I whisper.
Silence.
I begin to rub in tight circles, eliciting a low moan from her parted lips. The rhythm is slow, leisurely, but possessive.
In this moment, I own every gasp, every moan, and even the subtle movements of her hips. My fingers are soon coated in her wetness, and I venture lower through her slick folds to find her heated entrance.
“Tell me to stop,” I say again.
This time she shakes her head slowly.
Her tight walls grip my fingers like a vice as I plunge deep, roughly. Estelle’s body tenses, eyes closing tightly, mewling from the pleasure.
The sound goes straight to my dick, already rebelling against the tight confines of my trousers.
My fingers withdraw, then plunge back in, watching her, devouring every expression of pleasure on her face and the soft sounds she makes.
I curl my fingers. She comes undone with a drawn-out moan, her inner walls spasming.
I keep going, faster, deeper.
Her eyes snap open to stare at me in disbelief, mouth opening to protest, but I curl my fingers again, and her features crumble from the pleasure.
Her mouth beckons even more, but I resist again.
When I kiss her, it won’t be as a distraction from the images haunting her. For me to kiss her would be my brand of possession. There would be no going back.
She climbs again, gasping, one hand letting go of the edge of the counter to grip my arm.
“Carlos.”
She groans my name before her whole body tenses.
As her orgasm devastates her, Estelle does something dangerous.
She kisses me.
----
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