“Great investment. You have a knack for…profitable deals.” Art’s compliment has a hint of challenge to it. My feisty brat enjoys engaging in ambiguous word duels with Seb every time they meet.
“And you as well. Your clubs seem…prosperous,” Il capo counters.
“I feel like I’m missing something,” Fly states.
“The fuck cares?” Marco moves his arm around his fiancé’s shoulder as he waves us off.
Rude asshole. Art flips him off before I can—too conspicuously. That’s my imp, I pat his hip encouragingly.
“I invited you here today to welcome Arturo into the family,” Seb says, ignoring our antics and pouring red wine into five stemmed glasses.
“Oh, thank you.” He wiggles his peachy ass over my lap, looking taken aback by Seb’s words.
“I also have something for you,” Seb adds.
Art interrupts him. “Your gift can’t beat the humongous one Luca’ gave me this morning.” He points down at my dick. His smile is slow and teasing. “Twice.”
“I wasn’t referring to that,” Seb deadpans, not at all affected by his joke. He places the wine glasses in front of us.
Marco, on the other hand, sounds annoyed. “Do you ever talk about something else?”
“Food,” Art quickly replies, hooking his hands behind my head.
“His stomach is a black hole,” Fly states, grabbing two glasses and handing one to Marco.
“Do you chew on people at Thanksgiving?” Marco taunts him, swirling the wine in his glass—something about waking it up to help oxygen mix. He’s such a stuck-up bitch when it comes to wine.
“You should come for Christmas, can be part of my massacre.” Art narrows his eyes at him.
I take a pack of Cheetos out of my suit and dangle it in front of his face to end the nonsense. He grabs it with both hands and tears it open like a starved little demon. He does remember to kiss my cheek before starting—the massacre.
My eyes are caught by a black box that Seb is placing in front of us. He signals for Art to open it. This must be thesomethinghe was talking about before. Art puts the chips between his legs to follow Seb’s instructions. He stops halfway.
“Is whatever’s inside going to jump at me?” he asks the Mafia boss with a wary tone.
“Not today.” It’s rare to hear a joke out of him or to see the small smirk on his face; it unsettles me a little.
“What’s that?” I hear Marco ask. I lean to get a better look.
“If I have to explain it to you, it means you’re doing something wrong with yours,” I tell him suggestively.
“It’s tiny,” Fly declares.
“Yeah. Size matters,” I counter, slightly stroking my soft dick against Art’s ass.
“No, it’s how you use it,” Marco comments.
“Size definitely matters,” his fiancé insists.
Marco pulls on Fly’s blond ponytail, earning a little glare from him. “Whose side are you on?”
“The big side,” Art utters, making his friend crack up laughing. “It’s the only one that drives me crazy in and out of bed,” he adds, shaking his plushy ass cheeks against my dick.
“I reckon you know how to use it—the gun.” Seb puts an end to the innuendos, as Art takes the small pistol out of the box.
“I do, although I prefer ashtrays more.” He looks up at me with a smirk. Our eyes exchange the dark joke.
“You could go into public relations and murder people’s reputations instead,” Fly suggests.
