I took me a minute of digesting what he had said to fully understand what it was that he meant.
I kept my response simple and to the point. “You’re right. I had no idea.”
“And now? Now you know, and...” He reached for the bottle. Upon realizing it was all but empty, his face went solemn.
I stood. The five hundred push-ups I’d done since the sun came up—when combined with my only nourishment being scotch—were taking their toll. I shook it off and motioned toward my bookcase. “Let me grab another bottle.”
He offered a nod of approval.
I returned with an eighteen-year-old bottle of Macallan. When I reached the desk, I poured a shot into each of the glasses. “You were saying?”
He took a sip, nodded and then took another. “It’s good.”
“It is.” I tilted my glass toward him. “You were saying?”
“Now you know. You know the woman you’ve been seeing, that she’s my daughter.” He set his glass down on the desk and shrugged. “And when you know, you leave her.”
Seeing firsthand that he accepted our relationship—and me—was slowly making the truth taste better. “I was shocked.”
“Shock? Imagine mine when she told me.” He chuckled and reached for the glass. “The shock. It fades away. Then we’re left to make decisions.”
He was right. I finished my drink. A few seconds of contemplation later, and I realized I was half-drunk, hungry and not near as angry as I had been the night before. “You’re willing to accept Terra and me? That we’re in a relationship?”
He lowered his chin slightly, and then locked eyes with me. “When you’re a father you’ll understand. All I want for my daughter is for her to be happy—as long as what brings her the happiness is healthy. You’re a good man. A man of honor. You’ll protect her, will you not?”
“I will.”
“You’ll treat her with respect?”
“I will.”
“You’ll not raise your hand to her.”
“No, I won’t.”
“And you’ll shelter her from the...from the business. It saves the women from worry.”
I felt immediately uncomfortable at the thought of concealing anything from Terra. I fully realized the mob, however, perceived things much differently. If I was going to be part of Anthony’s organization, I knew I must remain tight-lipped. I wouldn’t lie to Terra, I simply wouldn’t speak of my day-to-day activities. “Loose lips sink ships.”
“You’re a man who has lived a life with no family. No mother, no father. Your family is your work. I can’t imagine. But now? You don’t marry my daughter.” He stood and then brushed the wrinkles from his suit. After satisfying himself that he was presentable, he looked up. “You marry the family.”
A family.
I fought to swallow the dry lump that had risen in my throat. A family, even one as unconventional as the mafia, was something I had always yearned for.
He opened his arms. “Come.”
I stood and walked around the corner of the desk. I accepted his invitation, and wrapped my arms around him. As we embraced in a hug, the man who I had one day viewed as being beneath me kissed me on the cheek.
At that moment, all my ill feelings vanished.
And they were replaced with something I could not explain.
Chapter Ten
Terra
Michael’s suit jacket was open, revealing a sweat-stained undershirt. His face was unshaven, and despite the expensive suit he was wearing, he looked like a homeless man who had been dragged out from underneath one of the city’s many bridges.
My father guided him into my parents’ living room. He struggled to stay on his feet, and teetered from side to side with each step. Thoughts of him and my father reaching a resolution and then sharing a few celebratory drinks came to mind.
I shot him a look. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I think I had too much to drink.”
“He hasn’t slept or eaten since yesterday,” my father said. “I took him to Rudolph’s, but he wouldn’t eat. He wanted to come here first. To see you.”
“You didn’t drive, did you?”
“No.”
It felt odd going from wondering if Michael would ever want to see me again to having him come home with my father. I hated to give him an opportunity to start another argument, but I needed to know where we stood. He was acting as if nothing was wrong.
“Is everything okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
I needed more. “Are we okay?”
He looked around the room, stumbled toward the couch and then collapsed onto the cushions. “Yes, we are.”
“Make him some pasta,” my father said. “He needs to eat.”
I looked at my father and gestured toward the kitchen with my eyes. I glanced at Michael. “I’ll be right back.”
He laid his head over the back of the couch and offered me a cheesy grin. “Okay.”
His dismissal of our previous night’s fight by coming home with my father and flashing a drunken smirk wasn’t what I expected—or what I wanted. I wanted him to accept what I had done as being wrong, selfish and immature; and then forgive me.
My father followed me to the kitchen. I opened the pantry, looked at the various pastas and let out a sigh. “By the time I make pasta, he’ll be passed out. How much did he drink?”
“Get some gabagool and slice some mutzadel.” He shrugged. “Make a sandwich.”
“Capicola? Papa, he won’t like—”
“Everyone likes the gabagool.” He chuckled. “If he doesn’t, he has no place here.”
I rolled my eyes and opened the refrigerator. I knew better than to ask my father where they had been and what they had discussed. Doing so would only earn me an uninformative response.
“Fine. I’ll make a sandwich.”
“I’ll be in my office. You two can talk.”
I set the meat and cheese on the island. “Papa?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
He lowered his chin slightly. “He’s a good man.”
My father was right; he was a good man. However, I still felt I needed to proceed with caution—Michael’s sixteen-hour hiatus was nothing compared to how I expected him to react. His prompt return and drunken smile made it seem all too easy.
While my father escaped to his place of refuge, I made a capicola-and-mozzarella sandwich—gabagool and mutzadel, as he often called it—and hoped Michael wasn’t passed out before I was finished.
I carried the food into the living room. Michael, much to my surprise, was wandering around admiring the furnishings.
“I made you a sandwich.”
He spun around, obviously surprised by my presence. “I haven’t eaten since last night.”
“That’s what I heard. Do you want to eat it in here, or in the kitchen?”
“I don’t know.” He eyes searched the room. “Does anyone eat in here?”
“My father does.” I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“How about in the kitchen?”
I grinned and turned around. “Follow me.”
I placed the plate on the island and pulled out the bar stool. “What happened to your shirt?”
He opened his jacket by the lapels, peered inside and seemed shocked at his finding. As he looked up, one side of his mouth curled slightly. “I’m not sure.”
I poured a glass of water and handed it to him. He took a drink, then another look inside his jacket. He chuckled and shrugged as if his dress shirt’s disappearance was a true mystery.
“You don’t know what happened to it?”
“Nope.”
He was drunk to the point of being cute, if a
person liked that kind of thing. Personally, I preferred Michael when he could protect me and defend himself, and he was far from that. I studied him for a moment. My Italian heritage quickly surfaced. “Interesting,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm. I waved my hand toward his food. “Eat your lunch.”
He lowered his head and picked up the sandwich. After taking a bite, his eyes went wide.
“This is good.” He finished chewing, lifted the top slice of bread and looked inside. “What is it?”
“Gabagool, mutzadel and tomatoes.”
He pinched the bread together and took another bite. “I don’t know what that means, but it’s good.”
“It’s ham, mozzarella cheese and tomatoes,” I said snidely. I leaned over the edge of the island and locked eyes with him. “Now eat. Maybe it’ll sober you up.”
He kept eye contact with me, finished chewing and set the uneaten part of the sandwich on his plate. After wiping his mouth, he reached over the table with lightning-fast speed. His hand shot behind my neck, and he promptly pulled me halfway over the island. He may have intended for it to be playful, but he was making his point, nonetheless.
He pressed his mouth to my ear. “Listen carefully,” he whispered. “In case you were wondering, and I’m sure you were, we’re not done discussing your little lie.”
My mouth went dry, and I could feel my heart beating between my ears.
A dry and almost inaudible response escaped my lips. “Okay.”
“As with all fuck-ups in life, there’s going to be repercussion. Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I’m going to let you talk to me like I’m some punk out in the street. You fucked up, Terra, not me. You dug a hole, and now you’ve got to find a way out. My suggestion is this—”
He released my neck, cocked an eyebrow and grinned a sinful grin. “Tread lightly,” he said flatly. “You’re walking on thin ice.”
I fought against my tightening throat, but managed to humbly respond. “I will.”
He picked up the sandwich and took another bite. I realized as I watched him finish eating that Michael was simply Michael. Drunk or sober made no difference. His pride wouldn’t allow him to be manipulated or talked down to.
Being on his bad side frightened me and turned me on at the same time.
“So, are you mad at me?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Disappointed?”
“A little.”
“Am I...” I paused, realizing I wasn’t sure how to continue. “Um—”
“In trouble?” he asked.
I fought to swallow, and upon doing so, nodded. “Yeah.”
“Yes, you are.”
When I was young, and I made stupid decisions, I was punished. My father explained that the punishment came because he and my mother truly loved me. Parents that didn’t punish their children, he explained, simply didn’t care enough about them to do so. The unpunished, according to my father, grew up to be liars, cheats and thieves. His children would learn from their mistakes, and in doing so, would not only understand the difference between right and wrong, they would do so knowing that they were surrounded by love.
If Michael cared enough to punish me, it meant he truly cared. It made sense in my head, anyway.
“Are you going to punish me?”
“Eventually,” he said with a nod. “But not now. When we get home.”
As far as I was concerned, the sooner, the better. “Are you ready to go?”
“I am,” he said. “Are you ready for your punishment?”
I can’t wait.
His admittance that he was going to punish me reassured me that he still loved me. It may seem ridiculous to some, but to me, it made perfect sense. Using the same logic, making sure he really loved me would be easy.
“If you think your drunken ass is up to it.” I turned and grabbed my purse. “Let’s go.”
He jumped from the stool.
I took off running as fast as I could, knowing that when he caught me, he’d prove to me just how much he loved me.
Based on the choice words that came from his mouth as I ran toward the garage, he loved me with all his heart.
Chapter Eleven
Michael
With her wrists secured to the posts of the headboard, she turned her head to the side and met my half-drunken gaze.
“You’re not going to tie my ankles?”
I didn’t even know if I was capable of tying two more knots. “Not if I don’t have to.”
“I like this,” she said. “This isn’t punishment.”
I pulled off my shirt and tossed it onto the floor. “It will be in a minute.”
“Promise?”
I got undressed and studied her. Secured to the bed facedown and wearing her pants, a silk top and stockings, she looked like a businesswoman.
A businesswoman who’d been tied to a bed for my sexual satisfaction.
Despite my semidrunken state, my cock was rock-hard. It was all the proof I needed to know that I still loved Terra with all my heart. I climbed onto the bed, straddled her and unfastened her pants.
“Are you going to fuck me?” she asked in a sultry tone.
“I’m going to do whatever I want to.” I tugged against the legs of her pants. “And you can’t do a thing about it.”
I tossed her pants on the floor, squatted over her calves and gazed down at her. With her back arched, her face down and her ass high in the air, it looked like she was inviting me to take the next step.
Her black panties with a red lace border accentuated the shape of her round butt. After admiring them for a moment, I hooked my finger around the hip of the delicate fabric.
“Be careful with those,” she said. “I just bought them.”
I yanked against the material, snapping it in two.
“Michael,” she hissed. “I just—”
My left hand came down against the side of her ass with a whack!
“Ouch!” she wailed.
I pulled her panties off and tossed them aside.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” I said.
I pressed my hands against the inside of her thighs and pressed them outward. After her legs were spread wide enough for me to get into position, I slid my hands to her hips and lifted her from the bed slightly.
With eager eyes, I studied her. Her cleanly shaven mound looked back at me. Glistening and free for the taking, I doubted it was ready for the thrashing I was prepared to give it.
There was one way to find out.
I buried my face between her thighs and slid my finger inside of her to the end of the joint. After sliding it in and out a few times, I added a second finger.
She moaned with pleasure.
“Not a word,” I said.
I began tongue-fucking her while I simultaneously slid my fingers in and out. Her moans of pleasure filled the room. Sucking and licking her clit with great precision, I drove her to the edge of climax instantly.
As her breathing became labored, I pulled away and rolled off the side of the bed.
She turned her head to the side and pulled against the restraints.
“Not a word,” I whispered.
After a few moments, she let out a sigh and relaxed onto the bed.
I waited a few minutes more, then got back into position.
I buried my face between her thighs and began to lick her pussy from the clit upward. In a matter of seconds, she began to buck her hips wildly, forcing herself against my face.
I pressed my chin against her clit and buried my tongue deep inside of her.
The muffled moan she returned was my reward.
I pulled my face away, then gave her one parting lick as a reminder of what she was g
oing to be missing.
I checked my watch.
I walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Standing there with a throbbing hard cock, I got out a beer, drank half of it and then ate a piece of cold chicken. After finishing the beer, I washed my hands, checked my watch and walked to the doorway of the room.
It had been ten minutes. To her, it probably seemed like a lifetime.
“Not a word,” I whispered.
She turned her head to the side and glared at me.
I grinned, and began walking toward her.
I hopped onto the bed, got positioned between her thighs, and began stroking myself. As I rubbed her clit with my thumb, I guided the tip of my cock into her dripping-wet pussy.
The air escaped from her lungs as I buried myself inside of her in one quick thrust.
I held myself there for some time.
After her muscles finally relaxed, I pulled my hips back and peered between her legs. Upon seeing the tip clear her pussy lips, I immediately shoved myself into her completely.
She grunted out a breath.
And I waited.
I repeated the process half a dozen times, and then pulled out completely.
She turned and glared at me over her shoulder.
“Not a word,” I warned.
She yanked against the restraints.
I grinned.
She continued to glare at me for some time, and eventually gave up. With her head buried against the comforter, and her ass still high in the air, she appeared to be sleeping, but I was well aware that she wasn’t.
I rolled to the side of the bed, stepped off it and walked to the dresser.
I returned to my position between her thighs and guided myself into her.
Her pussy had tightened considerably. Apparently, enough time had passed since I’d stopped that she had either lost interest or she was dehydrating.
Slowly, I continued to fuck her with long, slow thrusts. Rhythmically, I continued until she began to moan in pleasure.
As her groaning became predictable, I listened intently. Her breathing patterns changed. Her pussy began to constrict.
And I pulled myself from inside of her.
She thrashed against the restraints.