Even now. Even after everything I said and did.
He shifts slightly, gets to his feet, then walks a few steps to collapse on the bed. He touches himself slowly, wrapping those long fingers around his sweetly curved cock, and starts to slide up and down. He looks right into the fucking camera while he does it.
And I watch.
I shouldn’t. There’s nothing useful here. No tactical advantage. And worst of all, it makes Sebastiano’s accusation correct: I’m no better than the Bratva who wanted to buy the Clemenza. I’m devoid of honor, of anything good.
But that’s not news.
So I watch, because the Clemenza belongs to me. Why shouldn’t I use my own property? His body belongs to me. Those sounds he’s making? Mine. The pleasure coursing through him is mine to give or to take away. It doesn’t belong to him, and he knows it. He’s doing this on purpose. I told him not to touch himself, and here he is, doing it when he knows it’s forbidden.
I should go back down there and punish him. But if I go back down there, he’ll know he’s won. Besides, my hand is already on my dick. I’m still rock hard, still slick from his spit, and I stroke myself in time with him, watching him twist and strain and press his face against the mattress like he’s ashamed of what he’s doing.
Heshouldbe fucking ashamed.
Just like I should be ashamed for wanting to go back down there, shove his hand away, and taste him.
He comes first. I see it in the way his body locks up. The small sound he makes. The tremble.
And then I follow, muffling my gasp against my wrist, biting into myself so that the pain is my punishment.
The post-release spiral hits hard. Shame. Fury. Disgust. What am Idoing? He’s a tool for my vengeance, that’s all. An enemy I want to grind into dust, not jack off over him like some hornyteenager. This doesn’t serve the plan. Using his mouth? That’s control. That’s different.
Watching him get off while I do the same?
That’s weakness.
I wipe myself off. Trash the tissue with more force than necessary, but the rage isn’t clearing my head the way it should. Instead, I’m thinking about the way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he tried to hide his face like he had any right to privacy from me.
And then the intercom sounds. I stab the button and snarl, “What?”
“The Big Man is here,” Rosa says, and she says it in Italian, so I know exactly who she means.
Well, this is all I fucking need.
Big Gee. In the flesh. At my house.
I guess his brother waited about as long as he could. Seb’s never been much good at letting things fester. He’s more of a “bring it to a head” man, which I used to like about him.
Not so much today.
Big Gee is sitting in my armchair in my great room, tie loose and eyes blazing, and points at the seat opposite when I walk in as though I need to be told where to sit in my own damn house. Rosa’s already poured him a coffee, and she’s waiting by the door with a mutinous face.
“Would you like anything—” she begins, and Big Gee cuts her off with a wave of his hand.
“Get outta here,” he snaps at her. Yeah, he’s pissed. Royally pissed. As soon as the door closes behind Rosa, he turns on me. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking kill you right now. I heard about the auction at the Obelisk, you sick fuck.”
“I was going to come to you?—”
“Shut the fuck up, Orsini. You’re a fucking perv for buying that kid, but even worse, you’re a disloyal shit as well. Did I or did I not tell you to stay the hell away from the Clemenzas?”
“You told me not tokillthem.” I lean back, forcing myself to look relaxed even as fury burns through me. “The Clemenza is alive. Unharmed. And he offered himself willingly at that auction. I’m not some degenerate kidnapping virgins for personal entertainment.”
Except that maybe I am.
Big Gee is already thundering on. “You expect me to believe you ain’t already put that kid six feet under?”
“You want me to get him in here so you can see him yourself?”
