Omertà Anthology - A Very Merry Mafioso Christmas

by V. Domino

  Blinking myself from my runaway train of thought, I offer her a soft smile and close the tube of foundation, inspecting my shoulder to make sure the mark’s hidden well enough. “Yes, and I’m fine. Just… a little distracted, with everything going on.”

  She tilts her head, watching me with doe eyes. “You don’t seem like yourself. You haven’t mentioned the fact that it’s your birthday even once.”

  “Honestly, the novelty starts to wear off once you’ve had two decades of birthdays.”

  Her face screws up, and she smacks her pink, glossy lips. “Uh, if you say so. I’m gonna bask in them ‘til Papà stops buying me Cartier handbags.”

  I laugh softly, shoving her with my shoulder. She pulls away from the white marble countertop in my bathroom, adjusting her cleavage in the light blue crushed velvet dress she has on. “You know everyone coming tonight is either related to us or off-limits, right?”

  “What’s your point?”

  Cocking an eyebrow, I wave my hand in her direction. “Isn’t all this overkill?”

  “I’m not gonna dress homely just to make our family comfortable. You know what Nonnina always says.”

  “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” I roll my eyes at the snippet of stolen—and, frankly, coming from a woman who’s never worked a day in her life, tone-deaf—wisdom, and point at her stiletto heels. “So, when did you decide you wanted to be a hooker?”

  “What, you think I won’t pull out all the stops to get Kal Anderson’s attention?”

  My stomach drops, my heart lurching into my throat as she smooths her hands over her stomach, checking out her ass in the mirror. Gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white, I try to steady my voice. “Kal won’t be here. He never comes to these parties.”

  She shrugs, unaware of my sudden change in breathing. “A girl can hope, can’t she?”

  She shouldn’t, my heart screams, wanting to lash out and hurt her. Hurt someone, rid myself of the fingerprints the bad doctor left on my soul. Not wanting me is one thing, humiliation is another, and when he left me tied up outside our house just yesterday, I’d resigned myself to a fate of not knowing Dr. Anderson beyond the persona he wields in public like a weapon.

  A dull ache flares in my temple, but I ignore it as I give my sister a phony smile. “Well, good luck with that endeavor. You couldn’t pay me to try to impress that vile man.”

  Ari smirks, flitting to the doorway, leaving a trail of floral perfume and sunshine I can’t begin to understand in her wake. “Luckily, you’re not the hooker.”

  The door swings shut as she pushes past it, and I buckle, my elbows landing on the counter with a harsh thud as another wave rolls through me. But this time, there’s no pain accompanying it; instead, the nausea ripples from the cracks in my bleeding heart and the knowledge that mafia women don’t ever get what they want.

  Pinching my eyes shut, I suck in several deep breaths, trying to steel myself against the emotions warring on my insides. The air around me seems to shift, dropping significantly enough to cause goose bumps to crop up along my skin, and a dark, inky presence settles in, gluing to my body like a second skin.

  I swallow over the dryness in my throat, slowly lifting my head and peeling my eyelids back, meeting the harsh, hungry gaze of the Angel of Death.

  “Good thing my admiration of you comes free of charge, little one.”

  Elena’s warm body tries to escape mine, but I move in closer, trapping her against the bathroom sink. Her heat calls out to me, flames I want to burn my skin, and I can’t force myself away, even as logic screams at me to stop and take stock of our situation.

  But reason has given way to obsession; this girl bleeds into even the recesses of my brain, blotting out everything I know to be fact. Years of medicine, murder, the quest to regain a family that never wanted me in the first place and leave the one I chose long ago—Elena Ricci blots all of it out, a black hole absorbing my entire universe until all that’s left to see and feel is her.

  “What are you doing here?” she snaps, caramel eyes glaring at me through her reflection, making my cock twitch against the curve of her ass.

  Pushing her dark hair over her shoulder, I glide my palms over the crisscrossed back of her dress, reveling in the way the fabric paints a checkerboard on her tanned skin. I freeze, fisting the material where her back ends and using it to pull her more fully into me. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

  “If you think I’m letting you anywhere near me after yesterday—”

  Gripping her throat in one hand and her shoulder in the other, I step back just enough to spin her around, shoving her into the counter once again, this time forcing a harsh breath of air from deep in her lungs. It rips through her chest, our bodies vibrating where they connect, and something inside of me shifts. A tectonic plate loosening, gearing up for an earth-shattering quake.

  “It’s your birthday. I owe you a gift, don’t I?”

  Her pulse jumps beneath my hand, and a bead of sweat pops up along my hairline as I rake my gaze over her form, practically fucking drooling at the perfection; her tits press obscenely against my chest, threatening to spill out of the tight dress she’s in, and the bite mark I left on her almost preens in the soft lighting, glistening beneath the makeup she tried to hide it with.

  Bending down, I run the flat of my tongue over the mangled flesh, ignoring the powdery taste and reveling in the shiver that skates along her spine. “Do you suddenly not want me, little one? Is that where that sentence was going?” Sucking the spot between my lips, I feast on her until she bows into me, a low whimper escaping her perfect mouth.

  She trembles as I release her with a loud pop, shifting to my full height and running my thumb along the slick, dark oval marring her. Scowling, she tries to push me away, but I grab on to the bowl of the sink and force her to spread her legs so I can wedge myself even closer. The dress she has on doesn’t allow much room, so I reach down and haul her up onto the counter, then rip the skirt right up the middle.

  “Jesus!” Elena squeals, moving to hold the fabric together as I fit myself between her legs. “What the hell is wrong with you? You rejected me yesterday.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “You changed your mind,” she deadpans. “Are you seriously that fickle?”

  “Not fickle.” My fingers find her bodice, and the thin fabric rips with the slightest tug, revealing a lacy, nude bra and matching panties. The taut lines of her flat stomach rescind and reappear with each breath she takes, and I push the straps off her shoulders, letting the dress pool underneath her. “Completely and utterly deranged, my little Persephone.”

  Instead of wilting like a dead flower under the heat of my gaze, Elena straightens her shoulders, pushing her tits into my chest. My dick leaks behind my slacks, desperate to strip her now and ask questions later. But something catches in the light; her left eye shines, the hint of a shadow decorating the lid, highlighting broken blood vessels.

  Fury swims in my veins, diving deep and refusing to let go, reigniting my main purpose for showing up here. “Elena,” I say on an exhale, barely able to see past the red blurring my vision. “Where’s your fiancé tonight?”

  She swallows, eyes widening slightly. She knows I know. Knows I can see what others can’t.

  Licking her lips, she releases her hold on her dress, baring her glorious body to me as she slips off the counter. “Why are we talking about him? I thought you came here to give me something.” She tilts her head, sliding a hand up my chest, wrapping it around my neck. “I was hoping it’d be a bit more personable this year.”

  “Are you saying what I’ve brought you over the years wasn’t good enough?”

  “Poetry of others is fine, but I want something crafted by you, Kallum.”

  Unsure of why she’s protecting that son of a bitch, but momentarily placated by the feel of her hands on me, I narrow my eyes. “I don’t write poetry.”

  Scoffing, she takes
a step back, resuming her place on the sink. She spreads her legs and uses an index finger to pull the scrap of lace between them aside, revealing her pretty, pink pussy.

  Liquid fire spills down my spine, coating every single nerve ending and thought in third-degree burns.

  “No one writes poetry. You live it. Breathe it. Embody it.” She grins devilishly, licking one finger and bringing it down to circle her clit. Sitting there, stroking her dripping cunt, Elena looks like the predator here. Like a wild cat who’s finally ensnared her prey and intends to torture it before she brings it the swift release of death.

  “They tell you that at that liberal arts school you teach at?”

  “You taught me that. All those poems you left me over the years showed me that art, especially the written kind, exists inside us. Either you are poetry, or you aren’t. You can’t fake it. Can’t fake the things you feel in the very thread of your soul.”

  The thread of your soul.

  Her breaths grow fast and shallow, her strokes longer and languid as her hips move in soft thrusts on the counter. My cock is rock hard and angry as hell, ready to sink into her, but my mind is having trouble keeping up.

  I want to punish everyone in her life, and the best way I know how is to take what she’s always been willing to give me. To shatter the last shred of innocence she has, take the sacrificial lamb like she begged me to two years ago.

  Fuck her mother, her father, the limp-dicked fucker I’m finding as soon as I leave here. Fuck the rules, my past, and this messed up world we live in. Fuck the fact that she’s young and has the entire world at her fingertips.

  Undoing my belt with frantic, shaking fingers, I unzip my slacks and let them fall to my knees, moving closer. Her eyes lock on to mine as I grab her wrist, pulling her hand up and sucking her finger into my mouth.

  Dizzying, tangy flavors explode on my tongue, and I have to stop myself from moaning out loud. Fuck, this is wrong. She’s engaged, I’m a murderer, and my intentions here are nowhere near as pure as I’m making them out to be.

  I’m going to ruin her, and the consequences will never even faze me.

  But I don’t stop.

  Can’t stop.

  None of my other sins ever tasted so sweet.

  She pulls my dick out with her free hand, and I release her with a moan when she grips me, pumping slowly. “I thought you wanted a poem.”

  Shaking her head, she guides me to her pussy, gliding the tip through her juices, and I close my eyes for a moment as I try to maintain my grip on reality. Everything is shifting so quickly, the object of my obsession fast becoming the vixen of my absolute greatest pleasure, and I’m having a hard time separating arousal from restraint and reason.

  “I want you to recite poetry on my pussy. Make me feel it with your cock.”

  I curse under my breath, once again gripping her throat, bending to the other side of her neck and biting until the skin breaks there, too. I lap at the blood that beads in the cut, knowing in the back of my brain that this is unsafe and still unable to stop. She groans, pushing the head of my dick between her lips, and I suck harder. Furiously. As if draining her of her blood might cure me of the obsession.

  When I pull back, she smiles, delirious. “You’re gonna have to try a lot harder if you want to hurt me, Kallum.”

  “Do you want me to hurt you?”

  “I’ve come a million times to the idea of you marking me, spanking me, making me bruise and bleed.” Heat flares in her gaze as I tighten my hold on her neck. “I want you to scar me.”

  With my free hand, I fist my cock, slapping her clit with it until she writhes on the counter. “This won’t be pleasant.”

  “Stop talking and fucking show me.”

  Growling at her insolence, I shift, sliding my hand up to grip her chin and force her head back against the mirror. Downstairs, a Christmas party full of drunk Italians and made men rages on, and I know her fiancé is around here somewhere. But none of that registers as she raises her hips, a challenge on the tip of her tongue; not giving her a chance to spew regrets or irritate me further, I snap my hips forward, shoving my cock so deep that the thin barrier of her innocence gives without resistance.

  He calls my name from the opposite end of the field, his warm voice carrying through the February air, caressing my skin like the lightest of kisses.

  Since that fateful night all those weeks ago, something’s changed in him. Softened him toward me, made him a different person when it comes to my safety and wellbeing. He speaks to me as if I’m fragile and at risk of shattering at any given moment, always tiptoeing around and holding his tongue.

  It’s given rage a home in my bones, makes me want to lash out and hurt him for changing. For amplifying my guilt and shame.

  No one knows what happened on Christmas. They don’t know that I was given the greatest gift on my twentieth birthday—a choice. Or, at least, the illusion of one. For once in my life, my father’s rigid rules and the burden of being a mafia principessa had no hold on my being.

  I was free, for that one night. And when Kal Anderson buried himself inside my pussy and soul, I knew there was nothing more I ever could have asked for. Nothing as perfect as how it felt for our bodies to mold to one another, how it felt for him to just take the only thing that’s ever really belonged to me.

  He’d fucked me raw on my bathroom sink, the pain wrenching a mind-bending orgasm from my body, then pulled out and made me clean my blood and arousal off him. When I’d finished, he walked me back to the glass shower stall and fucked me against the wall, making me see stars from the tight fit of his thick cock inside me.

  Later, he flung me belly-down on my mattress, ripped the lights from the Christmas tree in my room, and tied me to my bedposts with the strings. He’d eaten me out from behind, leaving bite marks on my ass cheeks, and then pounded me until he screamed his release.

  I’ve been unable to think about anything else since.

  It wasn’t just poetry that night; it was goddamn magic.

  But he was gone when the sun came up, leaving me a hollow husk of a brand-new woman, a black rose, and a scrap of paper that read:

  Touch has a memory.

  O say, love, say,

  What can I do to kill it and be free?

  —John Keats

  And I hated him for leaving me, again, with nothing but the words of another.

  I hate him, still, as I sit in this field of dead grass and flowers readying for the spring bloom, wondering how it is they find it in themselves to grow in spite of opposition. How they can continue on, even after they’ve died for the season.

  What makes them want to press forward?

  What’s so great about the earth that they return?

  Smoothing my fingers over the piece of paper, I tuck it safely in the pocket of my jeans as his footsteps approach, his now-familiar scent of cocoa and cedar catching on the breeze. The newly formed scar above his right eyebrow shimmers in the moonlight; I don’t know where he got it, but the gash appeared at Christmas and is only just now healing. Whatever the case, he’s unwilling to discuss it with me.

  Which is just fine, all things considered. I don’t want to talk about the scars on my neck, or the one on the inside of my thigh that looks like a K if you angle your head just right.

  “Everything okay?” Mateo asks, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets.

  I nod. “Yeah, I’ve just been writing.”

  I’m always writing. Since Kal left, the words just bleed from me.

  Mateo rocks on his feet, bobbing his head. “Right. Find any inspiration tonight?”

  Sighing, I close my notebook and shrug. “No, I’m still stuck. Something just isn’t clicking.”

  “Well,” he says. “Don’t stay out here too long. Your dinner will get cold.”

  As he walks away, I let out a soft sigh of relief. Who’d have thought the unpredictable heir to Bollente Media would be such a concerned husband.

  Getting to my feet, I dust of
f the front of my dress, ignoring the pang that tears through my stomach at the movement. It always flares when I sit there for too long. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and pull the black rose from my pocket, sending my greatest wish to the universe on a silent prayer.

  I don’t hear anyone else approach. Don’t feel the hand cloth wrap around my mouth and nose until it’s too late, and everything fades to black.

  This is most definitely not the end. But it is, for now.

  Sav R. Miller writes dark, contemporary romance with morally gray characters and steam that'll make you blush.

  She prefers the villains in most stories and thinks everyone deserves happily-ever-after.

  Currently, Sav lives in central Kentucky with her fiancé and a Labrador/Great Pyrenees mix named Lord Byron. She loves sitcoms, silence, and sardonic humor.

  King’s Trace Antiheroes Series

  Sweet Surrender (Caroline & Elia) – Available Now

  Sweet Solitude (Kieran & Juliet) – Available Now

  Sweet Sacrifice (Boyd & Fiona) – Releasing 2021

  Book Four (Title TBA) – Releasing 2021

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  “We Belong” is a short novella based on Hope and Perses’s life after their marriage. If you want to know the beginning of their love story then make sure to read “Dark Love Duet Series”. No major spoilers are given from the orginal story. Link of the series is given at the end of the novella.

  Enjoy and happy reading!

  The snow outside made the surroundings cold but my body still felt warm and in comfort. I heard the bed sheets rustling, but tiredness didn’t allow me to open my eyes as I stayed in the bed. But when I felt the familiar fingertips caressing my naked thigh, skating up to my bare back, I felt the butterflies fluttering in my gut. I smiled against the pillow, as the fingers travelled every inch of my body like it couldn’t get enough.