His hand is on my back then, pushing me down against the cold countertop. I brace myself, gripping the edge, as he pushes into me from behind. It's tight, since I can barely spread my legs apart, but he doesn't seem to mind a bit. I was ready the second he touched me, my body always reacting instantly to him.
The first thrust is gentle, careful, but after that all bets are off. He pulls out and shifts his hips forward so hard that I bang against the counter, almost knocking the damn coffee machine apart.
"Shit," I curse, but that's the last word I manage to speak, because he's driving into me so ferociously that I'm fucking lucky I can still breathe. I arch my back as one of his arms snakes around me, once again finding my clit, as his other hand still presses hard against my back, pinning me in position. He fucks me like he's sprinting toward a finish line, the bang-bang-bang of my body hitting the counter amplified in the otherwise silent house.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I'm gasping and moaning and groaning, grunting like a goddamn cavewoman who doesn't know how to speak.
Uh. Uh. Uh.
I'm barely holding on and my legs are shaky, but he's keeping me in place, like I'm not much more than a rag doll. I can feel the tightening in my stomach, can feel the tension taking over my muscles, gripping hold inside of me. It builds like I'm going up on a roller coaster before I hit the drop.
Whoosh.
A noise bursts from my chest, a growling scream. Fuck. My knees almost buckle from the intensity of the orgasm, but his strong grip keeps me up. He doesn't let up his movements at all, rubbing and thrusting, giving me all he's got, until my orgasm starts to taper off. My cries turn to whimpers, but he doesn't stop, grunting behind me as his body tenses.
I can feel it as he lets loose inside of me.
But in a blink, he's gone.
In a blink, he's out of me.
In a blink, he lets go.
His hands are no longer touching my body.
I instantly miss the warmth.
It's so quick I don't have a chance to adapt to the change. My legs give out on me, and I slip away from the counter, plopping my ass right down on the floor. There's a throbbing between my legs and a tightening in my chest, and I don't know how he did it, but I feel like I've gone twelve rounds in a ring and lost.
I stare up at him as he backs away.
"I've still got a few minutes," he says, his voice calm, composed, "if you want to go again."
I hold my hands up, waving him off. "I'm good."
His expression cracks with a smile as he tucks himself back away, zipping his pants up, straightening his belt. It takes him all of thirty seconds to pull himself together.
It's going to take me all night.
Stepping back toward me, he crouches down so we're eye-level. His hand gently rests on my knee as he slowly rubs circles on my skin with his thumb. He's quiet as he stares at me for a moment. I'm still trying to catch my breath… my panties are like shackles around my calves and my jeans are just fucking gone.
"Are you going to be alright?" he asks, looking me over, his smile growing as he does.
Smug son of a bitch.
"Fine," I say, nodding. "I'll be just fine."
Not if he doesn't stop stroking my knee, though.
Tingles are starting to course through the lower half of my body.
Is it possible to get off just from someone's touch?
Leaning over, he presses a brief, chaste kiss to my forehead, before he stands up.
"I don't know when I'll be home," he says. "You probably shouldn't wait up."
I want to ask him where he's going. I want to know what he's going to do.
I want to know exactly what he's up to.
I want to, but I don't ask, sitting in silence as he walks out.
He's right, you know… I'm not dense.
I could riddle out his plans if I really wanted to.
It takes a lot to get a meeting with the five families in New York.
Once upon a time, they used to have this thing called the Commission, the organization above all organizations. Membership was limited to the heads of the New York families, as well as the leaders out of Chicago and Buffalo. The seven most powerful men in the country met in secret, making decisions, like delinquency was a democracy. Wanted someone murdered? Ask the Commission. Wanted to invite someone into the fold? The Commission was the only way to go.
Acting without permission would get you killed.
The Commission went the way of all flesh years ago. You're lucky to find two bosses willing to meet now, much less all of them. There are still rules, though… rules they insist we all follow.
Rules I broke when I killed the head of one of those families.
Raymond Angelo.
I stand on the front porch of an old brick mansion in Long Island. It's still light out, but dusk is creeping up. There's a hint of orange in the cloudless blue skyline. It looks almost like fire burns off in the distance somewhere.
The whole neighborhood can see me standing here, but I'm not ready to move yet, even if I am about to be late for the biggest meeting of my life. Because I know there's a chance, when I walk through that door, that it might be the last time I walk anywhere.
They might carry me back out, wrapped in a tarp.
Drop my body in the East River.
I'd never resurface.
The fact that they called me here during daylight doesn't mean a thing. I'm no fool. I never have been. Someone shot up my father's business while the sun was brightly shining.
These men don't let the earth's rotation dictate their schedules.
The white wooden door cracks open as I stand there. I turn toward it right away, slipping the peppermint in my mouth over against my cheek, still sucking on it, trying to calm my nerves. A young burly guy stands in front of me, his face rippled with craters. One of Genova's enforcers, I imagine. The guy has a type. Beasts. I'm not as versed in the inner-workings of the other families, although I've done business with all of them a few times in the past.
They had a job and I handled it, no questions asked.
That was how they knew how to get ahold of me this afternoon, how they knew how to call me in for this meeting. Apparently my number was still on speed dial.
I probably ought to do something about that.
"They're waiting for you," the guy says, his voice high-pitched, almost comically so, like his balls haven't dropped yet. Or maybe they shoved them back inside whenever they fucked up his face. "Follow me."
Should've known they were watching.
No need to knock.
I don't like taking orders from people. I never even liked taking orders from Ray. I'm inclined to resist, but I push back my instinct, following the guy instead.
Now's probably not the time to try to assert my dominance.
Someone shuts the door behind us. Glancing back, I see a guy standing guard right inside the foyer, trying to stay out of sight. Huh. I turn back around, following the burly guy through the house, turning down a long hallway. The second I round the corner, I see we're heading straight for a set of doors, two more guys standing guard outside of them.
The AK-47s over their shoulders tell me these ones are purposely trying to make themselves seen.
Guess they're trying to intimidate me.
They open the set of doors as we approach, and my footsteps almost falter. I don't let them see my hesitation, though.
The guy guiding me stops on the outskirts, but I keep walking. There's no backing out now. It's a dining room of sorts, or more like a meeting space. A long mahogany table runs through it, chairs surrounding it.
Only four of them are filled.
One of the men, boss Frank Genova, waves toward the doors behind me. "Leave us."
Right away, the man obeys. Not surprising that Genova's taking the lead. It's his house this meeting is in. I just stand here, awaiting something. I'm not entirely sure how this is going to go.
/>
Like I said, these meetings are rare.
Once the man vacates the room, Genova motions toward the table between us. "Gun."
I hold up my hands. "I don't have one."
His brow furrows. "You came unarmed?"
"I never carry a gun," I say, "but that doesn't mean I'm unarmed."
Everything's a weapon if you look at it the right way.
"Knives, then."
"None of those, either."
"Then what do you got?"
"Not much." I consider it for a moment. "Some spare change, a peppermint, my wallet... oh, and I've got a pen in my pocket."
He looks at me with disbelief. "A pen."
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a simple black ballpoint ink pen.
Probably cost a dollar.
"You gonna kill somebody with that?" he asks.
I shrug, setting it on the table. "You never know."
That seems to confuse him for a moment, as he stares at the pen, before he shakes it off. "It's just a formality anyway. Doesn't really matter. Go ahead, take a seat. Join us."
I sit down right across from them and regard Genova, the chairman of this defunct board, prepared to speak for everyone. I don't like the way he worded that.
Join us.
"I'm sure you know why you were called here this afternoon," he says, diving right into it. "We need to discuss the murder of Raymond Angelo."
Ray's hypothetical seat at the table is glaringly vacant. I half expected the new guy in town to already be filling his shoes, so to speak, but no… the chair's empty. Guess the fabled Scar has yet to be invited in.
Pity. I would've liked to meet him.
"I wouldn't call it a murder," I say. "It was more of an untimely death."
"That's an interesting way to look at it, Vitale, but it doesn't change the fact that a boss was killed. We can't have those kinds of things happening, you know. It's bad for business. Bad for order. People start forgetting where their place is and we're all in trouble. You get me?"
I nod.
"So you see how this is a problem for us," he continues. "You see how you killing a boss is bad news. See how we can't really tolerate it happening on our watch. It's nothing personal, you know, but..."
He trails off with a casual shrug of the shoulder, as if to say 'no hard feelings when we kill you for it'.
"With all due respect," I say. If I'm going to die today, I'm going to die. Nothing I do in this room will change their minds. "You call me here to talk about these rules, but where are you when rules are being broken every other day?"
One of the other bosses chimes in then. Michael Grillo. "What are you talking about?"
"Forgive me if I'm wrong, as I've never personally taken the vows, but don't you gentlemen lecture your men when they're brought in that women and children are never to be harmed? So where was the meeting when Raymond Angelo was out there hunting someone's wife and daughter?"
Grillo scowls. "And forgive me if I'm wrong, Vitale, but wasn't it you actually doing that hunting?"
He's got me there.
"I wasn't the one who gave the order," I say. "Ray was the one who planted that seed. If you put a man in charge that turns out to be a monster, you shouldn't be surprised when someone makes the monster go away. I killed Ray, and I don't regret it. I won't. He shot the woman I love right in front of my face."
Genova chimes in now. "Wasn't it Johnny Rita who did that?"
Anger surges through me, and maybe it's irrational, but I want to ring the man's neck for saying that name. "Karissa. Ray shot Karissa."
I don't know if he's truly dumb or he's just feigning ignorance, but a look of surprise passes over his face. "That's the woman you love, is it?"
"Are we here to discuss my relationship, Genova, or can we get back to business?"
My voice is sharp, but he laughs it off. "Yeah, you're right. I can't keep up with you kids. Hate 'em one day, love 'em the next. But I digress... I'll agree that Angelo, too, took some questionable action, so I can't say I blame you for what you did. Still... we can't tolerate those kinds of things, Vitale, so I'm warning you now: if you forget your place again, you'll have to be dealt with."
I don't like being threatened.
Talk is cheap.
I'd rather a man try to kill me than threaten my life.
At least in that case I can defend myself. Here, I just have to sit down and take it, nod my head like the submissive little soldier I don't have it in me to be.
The submissive little soldier they want me to be.
The one I've never been.
"And what about Ray's replacement?" I ask. "I can't help but notice he's absent from the meeting."
"Angelo hasn't been replaced yet."
I almost laugh at that.
The full metal jacket ammo from the AR-15 that lit up my father's deli just days ago tells me otherwise. Family in New York is dropping like flies. So what he means to say is they haven't voted, but Ray's most definitely been replaced.
And whoever he is, he's probably worse than the rest of them.
He doesn't ask permission.
He doesn't care about these rules.
Voting doesn't mean shit to him.
"Who is he, the new guy?" I ask. "Nobody seems to know much about him."
They look like they don't want to talk about this. The other three remain stone cold silent, while Genova at least pretends to humor me. "Scar, they call him. Young guy. Ruthless."
"How young?"
"About your age," he says. "Came from the south."
"Philadelphia?"
"Nah, much further south."
There isn't much of a family presence past the Mason-Dixon Line, so I'm not sure how southern he can be. I don't press it, though. I can tell I've already pried too much.
We don't ask questions in this business.
It's probably the biggest rule.
"Is that all?" I ask. "Am I free to leave?"
"Not yet," Genova says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "Before you go, I want to talk to you about some business. Got a couple of jobs I need you to do for me."
Jobs.
Things I told Karissa I wasn't doing anymore.
"What kind of jobs?"
"Oh, you know... the usual."
The usual. "I'm not doing that anymore."
The men mutter amongst themselves. You see, when a man with a penchant for killing anyone who denies him asks you for a favor, well, it's kind of ballsy to say no to that… especially when that man just gave you a pass.
"And why's that?" Genova asks. "Decided to go straight? Get a life? Get a real job?"
They laugh at that, laughing at my expense.
"Or maybe you're retiring," Genova continues. "Next thing you know, you're wearing penny loafers and got a house down in Boca Raton. Is that what you're going for?"
I say nothing.
I take the ridicule.
He thinks he can break me with it, bend me to his will, get me to do what he wants me to do.
I won't do it.
By the time the meeting finally concludes, it's pitch black outside, darkness long ago setting in. Genova waves me away from the table, sneering. "Get out of my face, Vitale. Think about it. Come back when you finally come to your senses."
The same guy from earlier shows me to the door, the armed soldiers trailing behind us, not a single man at ease.
I guess my reputation precedes me.
It isn't until I'm in my car and driving down the street, away from that house, somehow still breathing, that I allow myself to sigh with relief.
It always pays to be worth more than you take.
I may have denied him tonight, but Genova isn't done.
He won't give up.
When I get home much later, the house is still lit, even though it's nearing midnight. I head straight for the den, finding Karissa fast asleep on the couch. Schoolwork is scattered all around her. I told her not to wait up for me, but she was nev
er very good at listening.
It would've been a long night for her had I not made it out of that house alive.
Kicking off my shoes, I grab her legs, picking them up so I can slip beneath them, sitting down on the end of the couch. She stirs from the movement, eyes opening. Blinking rapidly, she looks my way, a sleepy smile overcoming her face. She shifts onto her back as I place her legs back down, her feet right in my lap.
"You're home," she says, her voice gritty from sleep.
"I am," I say, running my hands along the tops of her feet before my thumbs graze the soles. She squirms, like she's about to yank her feet away, when I start massaging one of them. That stalls her, her toes curling as she lets out a sigh.
She likes it when I do this.
I learned that back in Italy.
It's quiet, except for the sound of the television she'd left on when she passed out. Food Network, as usual. She still spends her free time studying that nonsense.
"Really?" she says after a while, an incredulous note to her voice. "Of all things? Hotline Bling?"
"We're going to talk about this again?"
"Of course. I mean, I just expected if you ever got down with any music, it would be something else… something like, I don't know… Frank Sinatra?"
"How stereotypical." I shoot her a look. "Maybe I should've chosen the Godfather theme."
"Yes!"
I shake my head, continuing to rub her feet. "I just wanted something different."
Something that didn't make me think about that time of my life.
Something that didn't remind me of working for Ray, of being that man, every time my phone rang. Karissa loves music. The way she describes it, it's almost like it owns a piece of her soul.
Part of me wanted to know what that felt like.
Wanted to know if I had it in me to by that kind of person.
To feel that kind of thing.
"So you went with Drake?"