He caught me, and when he did, I turned my head to meet his eyes, discovering that the mask had been discarded somewhere on the floor. Blue-gray eyes shone back at me, the pupils big and dark. With one hand, he kept me pinned to the bed while with the other, he undid his jeans and pushed them and his briefs down. He took himself into his hand, and our gazes locked. He began to pump. I watched his face, his angel’s face, his burning eyes, swollen lips parted and glistening with my juices.
“I like how you taste,” he said, his body jerking a little.
I turned my gaze to the hand that held his cock, watching him pump hard and fast.
“I told you not to turn around, didn’t I?” he asked.
I licked my lips, unable to tear my eyes away and was ready when he fisted my hair and drew me to my knees before him.
“Suck my cock, Gia.” He shook me once. “If you bite, I’ll fucking kill you.”
I nodded. I had no intention of biting. I opened to take him into my mouth, his taste salty, the skin soft around his thick, hard cock. He pressed back too far too fast, making me choke, but when I tried to push him away, he only held me still and did it again, his eyes on mine, his gaze telling me he was punishing me.
“I told you not to turn around.”
He fucked my face now, thrusting deeper and deeper down my throat, cutting off all breath until I thought I’d pass out andreleasing me for an instant to draw desperate gulps of air before repeating.
“You’ll learn to do as you’re told.”
His cock thickened impossibly larger inside my mouth, his hand in my hair so tight it drew tears from my eyes.
“Fuck, Gia.”
He pushed me backward so my head leaned uncomfortably on the bed, and he stilled. I felt the first stream of cum hit the back of my throat. I choked, not ready, but he held me still, closing his eyes until I couldn’t take any more. Then finally he pulled out, his grip on his cock tight as streams of cum covered my chest and my breasts, marking me as his, claiming me, owning me.
Only when he’d emptied did he release me. He pulled up his briefs and jeans and looked at me, his eyes strange, searching. He then reached into one of his pockets and drew out two little pills. I looked at them, at him, and shook my head no, feeling again the buildup of tears, those never-fucking-ending tears.
He only had to raise his eyebrows in warning, and I reached out my hands. He dropped them into my palms and watched me put them into my mouth and swallow. Made me open again so he could make sure I wasn’t hiding them, and when he was satisfied, he picked up his belt and the discarded mask and walked back out the door, locking me in my room once again.
7
DOMINIC
Iwent into my bedroom while I waited for the drug to work. There, from inside the same drawer I kept Effie’s photograph, I pulled out a small box and opened it. Inside was my ring, the one I’d worn when I was a Benedetti. The one all the Benedetti men wore. I sat on the bed and studied it, ignoring the desire to slip it on my finger. Shoved away the thought of how much I’d lost. How different my life was meant to be.
Isabella had called me late last night. I’d only spoken to her once after I’d left, when she’d called to tell me Salvatore had handed everything over to our uncle, Roman. She hadn’t called when Effie had broken her arm. I’d only found out about that when I saw Effie wearing a hot-pink cast in one of the photos. She also hadn’t called to tell me about her engagement to Luke. That too I’d seen when I’d spied the rock on her finger in another photo of my daughter. Not that I cared about her marrying Luke. They deserved each other. Where Isabella was concerned, I had no affection. She was the mother of my child. That was all. We’d always be connected no matter what, but that didn’t mean anything more.
No, she’d called to tell me about a body turning up. The body of Mateo Castellano. I’d known Mateo. He’d done some work for my fa—for Franco Benedetti—a few years ago. He’d actually tipped me off about a deal being a trap, which had probably saved my ass, even though I hadn’t acknowledged that fact then. Too fucking arrogant. We’d gotten along well. He’d become a friend even. But then he’d disappeared, moved on, I guessed. He, like I was now, was a nobody. He went where the money took him.
I didn’t get the reason for her call at first. People in our line of work died all the time. A side effect of mafia life. Hearing about Mateo’s death, though, had been a little like when I’d heard my brother Sergio had been killed. It made me pause.
There was more. Isabella said the killer had intended for the body to be found. It had been meant to send a message. Castellano had been worked over, which didn’t surprise me, then shot execution-style: bullet to the back of the head. But there was one more thing. Two more things, actually.
His tongue had been cut out. He was a snitch.
I had told her callously that I wasn’t totally surprised, considering he’d snitched before when he’d saved my ass. But she’d told me to shut up and listen. There’d been a mark on him. A brand. It was in the middle of his chest. She’d seen a picture of it. How she’d gotten her hands on a photo like that, I had no idea, although she was incredibly resourceful. Never underestimate Isabella DeMarco. Hadn’t I learned that yet?
She thought the mark would be of interest to me. It was to Salvatore, apparently. The brand was a larger version of the Benedetti family crest, a generations-old symbol of power in our world, at least in southern Italy and the northeastern United States. It was an exact copy of the one I held in my hand. Mateo Castellano had been branded before his death, and someone wanted to get two messages out: one, that he was a snitch, andsnitches were dealt with mercilessly. Two, that it was a Benedetti who’d done the dealing.
But this wasn’t how Roman operated. It wasn’t his MO. I wouldn’t put it past Franco, but he had a different sort of cruelty. He was just as brutal but not medieval in his torture. I didn’t suspect Salvatore for a second.
That’s why I’d given Gia the pills.
Mateo was my age, or close to it. He had a kid sister. I’d met her once, a long time ago. I think I’d been seventeen or eighteen. It was at a party, which my father had attended, where a secret meeting had been held. He’d brought me along. When they’d gone to talk, I’d wandered around the property, bored, annoyed at not being invited into the meeting. A little ways from the house, I’d come across a little girl backed against a tree by two boys about twelve, I’d say. They were apparently trying to take something from her, and she’d been putting up a hell of a fight, but she couldn’t have been more than seven. I’d told the boys to piss off and leave the kid alone. She’d given me a look. It wasn’t a “thanks for saving me” or anything like that. It’d been a glare. She’d been just as pissed at me as she’d been at those boys. I remembered I’d laughed when Mateo had found us there and told her to get back to the house and help their mother with something. She’d spoken to him in Italian and thrown a sideways glance my way before running back house, the flash of her angry green eyes from beneath those thick dark bangs now unsettlingly familiar.
I didn’t know Mateo’s sister’s name. I’d never asked.
And I had a suspicion I wanted gone.
