Beware the Devil

by Samantha Cade

  How much does something like this cost? I wonder. More than a month’s rent?

  I hang the dress in my closet, where it sparkles like a diamond next to my drab, everyday clothes. While putting away the box, I notice there’s something else inside. After unwrapping the paper further, I gasp when I see what it is.

  Sal has bought me underwear, and not just any underwear. The fabric is silk, like the dress, but the bra and pantie set are a deep crimson red, fringed with delicate black lace.

  Red. The color of the devil. And I’ve made a deal with him.

  *

  Salvatore

  I’m pressed against the door, peering out of the reverse peephole, waiting for her. Molly emerges, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. I’ve purposely avoided her for the past two days, letting her get back to a sense of normalcy, so that the delivery of my package would have an optimal effect.

  It works. Molly shivers, and glances down the hallway, looking for me. I breathe hotly against the door. Her cheeks quickly turn red. She pushes an invisible curl behind her ear, one of her tells, and the one that sets me most on edge.

  My Molly, my puppet, I think, my dick growing hard. My balls swell, stretching the skin, and throbbing with need. But I refuse to touch myself, or have anyone else pleasure me, until I can get my hands on Molly. After years of chasing pleasure, and my experience with edging, I’ve learned that anticipation makes everything exponentially sweeter. Molly will be worth the wait.

  She snatches the package, then slams the door closed. I pull away from the peephole, my skin tingling with the rush she just gave me. I picture her opening the package. Does it give her a shock? Does it blur her line between attraction and fear? Does she try them on?

  I enjoyed picking out those panties for her. I hope she likes them.

  *

  Molly

  Friday afternoon. I can barely concentrate on the tedious, administrative task that’s glaring from my computer screen. I have butterflies in my stomach, and can barely sit still. Tomorrow night is my “date” with Sal. Date, with quotation marks.

  Greg is on the computer to my right, steadily typing, while munching trail mix, and tapping his foot to whatever song he’s listening to in his earbuds. I’m lucky he’s been distracted for the past couple of hours, and hasn’t noticed my tense behavior. He x’s out of a document, announcing “done,” as he pulls out his earbuds.

  I hunch over my keyboard, pretending that I’m suddenly very busy. He and Grant have a trip to Yosemite planned for this weekend, and I know he’s been anxious to go.

  “Have a good weekend,” I say, hoping he’ll just pack up and leave.

  “Thank you.” He’s planted in his seat, carefully wrapping up his earbuds. When he’s done with that, he takes a can of condensed air and laboriously blows dust particles off of his keyboard. “Got any plans this weekend?”

  My face heats up. I silently curse that fact that I have no control over the blood vessels in my face. They give me away every time.

  “Propolis,” Greg says, saying the word low against my ear.

  I laugh, nervously. “What are talking about it?”

  “It soothes the skin. Reduces redness. Could help with your blushing. Think about adding it to your skincare routine.”

  I roll my eyes, though I make a mental note to do more research on propolis. Greg’s skincare advice is usually spot on.

  Greg is all packed up, but he’s not leaving. “So, what are these plans?”

  “I never said anything about any plans.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the tall drink of water that was in here the other day?”

  I grit my teeth, but I can feel my face burning.

  “Are you seeing him?” Greg presses.

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s just dinner,” I blurt out, hoping, foolishly, that will be enough for him.

  Greg falls silent. I turn from my computer screen and look at him. His mouth is hanging open, the rest of his face, frozen. He grabs my arm, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

  “It’s just dinner,” I say, shoving him off.

  “He’s so hot,” Greg muses, with a dreamy look in his eye. “And the vibe he gives off-” He shudders with exaggeration.

  “He’s a very intense man,” I concede.

  Greg settles back in his chair with his bag in his lap, showing no intention of leaving any time soon.

  “I have to finish this,” I say, gesturing to the monitor.

  He doesn’t seem to have heard this. “I always pictured you with someone different. Like, a cowboy, or a preacher’s son.”

  Ouch. That comment hurts my sensitive pride. Even Greg’s admitting that Sal is way out of my league.

  “You’re right,” I say. “It’s absurd.”

  “No, no, Molly. That’s not what I mean.” He leans forward appealing to me with his eyes. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve to have a rich personal life. Take it from me, don’t get too wrapped up in the fucked up world of nonprofits where there’s never enough money.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You want to help. That’s brilliant. But you have to help yourself first.”

  Greg’s pep talk would’ve worked if this “date” wasn’t a sham, so I pretend it does.

  “Have you had sex yet?” he asks.

  “No!” I shout, reflexively, making a few other counselors stare at us.

  Greg purses his lips. “Kissed?”

  “No,” I say, more quietly this time.

  “What are you waiting for? This isn’t the 1950’s.” He stands, gathers his bag, then kisses me on the top of the head. “Have fun,” he says, then merrily walks out of the center.

  Greg couldn’t possibly understand what I’m going through. He’s off to a fabulous trip with his real boyfriend. I was too ashamed to tell him the truth about the arrangement with my landlord. It’s degrading. And since Greg mentioned it, I can’t stop thinking about Sal kissing me.

  As the clock ticks closer to five, one by one, the other counselors turn off their computers, and leave, wishing everyone a happy weekend. I take my time on my work, because when it’s finished, all I’ll have to think about is my “date” with Sal.

  Chapter Nine

  Salvatore

  Before knocking on Molly’s door, I pause for a moment, listening to her movements inside. I hear her rustling around, and can picture her nervous mannerisms. I knock, lightly at first, and the noise stops abruptly. Her high heels click against the floor as she walks to the door. Slowly, she opens it.

  I don’t say anything, I just take her in with my eyes. She fills that dress out perfectly. The silky fabric drapes every curve. The soft color brings out the pink undertone in her cheeks. I scan her body, knowing what she wears underneath.

  “You look lovely,” I say.

  Molly blushes, pushing her hair behind her ear. “I’ll return the dress after tonight.”

  “No need. You keep it. You’re doing a huge favor for me.”

  Molly grabs her purse from the hook beside the door. “It’s not a favor. We have a deal,” she says, then pushes past me into the hallway.

  I watch her from behind. She clutches the purse on her shoulder, her apple shaped ass swaying as she walks on high heels. I like this side of her, proud and indignant. It tells me that she knows I hold all the cards.

  When we walk into the lobby of Firenze, I watch Molly carefully. She can’t hide the awe on her face as her eyes travel over the impressive murals depicting a rustic Italian village, set against the sleek, modern design of the bar and dining room. I know from her internet history that she enjoys cooking television shows and blogs. She spent most of this morning researching our own Chef Vega.

  And here he is now. The crowd in the lobby parts to make way for him. After his stint on that cooking show, he’s a minor celebrity around here. Foodies travel from all over the country to get a glimpse of him and taste his famous, handmade pasta. Vega may have made his own
pasta on the show, but in the restaurant, the task is performed by about a dozen line cooks. With his round belly, white chef’s hat, and friendly face, he looks like the stereotypical Italian chef. People in the crowd snap pictures and fawn over him. I remember Vega when he was a teenager, smuggling illegal firearms over the US/Mexican border for the Mariano’s. He always said he’d use the money to put himself through culinary school, and he did.

  “Salvatore,” Chef Vega says, opening his arms. “It’s so good to see you.” He speaks with a slight, and very fake, Italian accent. I take his hand and shake it heartily. “It’s been a long time,” the chef says.

  Vega acts like he’s out of the loop of Mariano business, but he isn’t. He knows I’ve been self-exiled from the family. If only his adoring fans knew that this restaurant is mostly propped up with mob money. Franco was an early investor in this venture, and still supports it.

  “Vega,” I say, giving him a look to remind him that I’m in on his bullshit. “Good to be here.”

  Vega’s always been a womanizer, and Molly doesn’t escape his gaze. Her turns to her with his beady dark eyes, gathers her dainty hand in his ham shaped fist, and kisses it.

  “Bella donna,” the chef proclaims with his characteristic showmanship. “Welcome to Firenze.”

  Molly is starstruck. Her cheeks burn pink while she gazes at the famous chef. “Thank you. I’m a big fan.”

  Vega’s stare deepens. “A fan,” he says, pleased with himself. I know what he’s thinking, that he has a chance with Molly. A twinge of jealously makes me tighten my fists.

  You don’t have a chance in hell as long as I’m around.

  I remove Molly’s hand from his, claiming ownership. Vega gives me a bitter look.

  “We have reservations,” I say. “We better get to our table.”

  “Allow me to show you there,” Vega offers, his eyes flitting to Molly’s chest.

  “The hostess can do that,” I say. “You must be busy. Don’t you have pasta to make?”

  Vega glares at me as we make our way to the hostess table. I’d worry about him spitting in my dinner, but I know all of his schmoozing doesn’t leave him much time for cooking. While we wait behind the hostess table, I point out Uncle Franco to Molly. His table is the best in the house, and no one else sits there. It’s nestled in a dimly lit alcove that’s private, though not far from the action and energy of the restaurant. It’s like Franco’s throne, where commoners can approach him and pay their respects.

  “That’s my uncle,” I say to Molly.

  I don’t know what she was expecting, and but it probably wasn’t Franco in his fine suit, surveying the crowd like royalty, with a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket in front of him. Molly squints in confusion.

  “He doesn’t look sick,” she says.

  “He wears it bravely,” I say.

  I wrap my fingers around her delicate wrist. Molly winces at my touch, but allows me to slip her arm through my elbow. I lean down and whisper into her ear.

  “Remember, you love me.”

  Molly’s lashes flutter nervously. She calms herself down, nodding to herself resolutely. I’m sure she’s telling herself that she’s in this for the rent, and nothing more. A counselor should know better than to lie to herself. Molly’s attracted to me. I have a sixth sense for that kind of thing. I’ve nurtured her crush, helped it grow and become strong. And very soon, I’ll be reaping my rewards.

  The hostess leads us to the table. I hold Molly’s arm tightly while I stare at Franco. The very sight of him makes me seethe. I haven’t seen him since he gave Snake the orders to kill my father. Inside, I’m roiling with anger, but I present a calm, cool front.

  “Salvatore,” Franco says, standing from his seat. He pats both of my cheeks with his palms. “You look good.”

  “Good to see you, Uncle Franco,” I say, biting back bile.

  Franco turns to Molly with a paternal like kindness. “And you are the sprite that captured my nephew’s heart. No woman has been able to do that until now. You must be very special.”

  Molly giggles, blushing under the compliment. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m not very special.”

  “Don’t listen to her.” I look at her with adoring eyes, then kiss the top of her hand. “She’s very, very special.”

  Franco clasps his hands together. “It’s wonderful to see you two together. You’ve made an old man very happy.” He gestures to the table. “Sit. Sit. Molly, may I pour you some champagne?”

  “Yes, please,” Molly says, taking her seat.

  Franco doles out the champagne, then sits, focused entirely on Molly. He barely looks at me. He asks her questions about her life, what she does, where she’s from. Molly answers each question with nervous humility. Her cheeks are constantly red, and she keeps pushing her hair behind her ears. I watch her, looking forward to when I can take her home, unzip that dress, and see her ass in the panties I carefully chose for her.

  Franco talks about the restaurant, and goes on and on about the talented Chef Vega, who is his personal friend. My uncle doesn’t mention the fact that we’ve been estranged. I knew he wouldn’t. Franco is old-school, meaning sexist. He doesn’t believe women should be involved in the business.

  During the light-hearted conversation, I squeeze Molly’s hand from time to time. She cooperates, knowing we have to put on a good show, by looking at me lovingly and batting her lashes. But I want to intimate to her that this isn’t entirely fake. While Franco describes the gnocchi pesto, I reach under the table and casually squeeze her knee.

  Molly’s lips part, and she turns to me with a wild stare. Franco couldn’t see that. It wasn't for his benefit. I give her a knowing smile while sipping my champagne.

  After we order our meals, I decide it’s time to get down to business. I discreetly send Molly a text, telling her to excuse herself to the restroom. After she checks her phone, my little puppet does just that.

  With Molly gone, Franco drops the kind, old man act. He calls the waiter over and orders two fingers of whiskey, then turns his darkened stare on me.

  “A fine young woman you’ve got there,” Franco says in a suspicious tone. “She doesn’t seem like your type. I can’t see her with a ball gag in her mouth.”

  Franco’s whiskey arrives. He downs it in one sip. The waiter is there in a seconds to whisk the empty glass away.

  “I’ve matured,” I say. “And so have my tastes.”

  “Hmm,” Franco mutters, not convinced. He narrows his eyes, regarding me closely. “I decided to meet with you because of the blood we share. But don’t think for a second that I’ll let you double cross me.”

  I hold my hands up, showing him my palms in surrender. “I come in peace,” I say, with a laugh. “But seriously, Uncle Franco, I understand why you killed my father. He was a rat. So that’s that.” My throat tightens when I say those words. It feels like betrayal.

  “You got straight to the point,” Franco says, refilling his champagne glass. “I’m glad to hear you speaking rationally. But why did you disappear for so long? You had me worried.”

  “It was a shock at the time. I admit. Monty was a rat, but he was still my father. I had to grieve for him. But I’m out of those woods now. Thanks to Molly.” I pause, making an effort to appear humble. “I want back into the family.”

  Franco’s face is callous as he sips his drink. “You think you can come back, just like that? What about the bad blood between you and Snake?”

  “There’s no bad blood on my end,” I say, lying through my teeth. “I’ve forgiven Snake. He was doing his job, following orders. And I may have disappeared, but I was never gone. When Anthony was kidnapped, I stepped up to help. Why? Because he’s family, and so are you.”

  “I see,” Franco says, coldly. “You mentioned you had something else to discuss that I’d be interested in. What would that be?”

  Franco, old man, you’re so predictable. You don’t give a shit about blood or loyalty or family. You
just want to know what’s in it for you.

  I straighten my tie. “I’m glad you asked. As Molly explained, she’s the founder of a nonprofit. They’re struggling with funding.”

  Franco bristles. “You’re trying to hit me up for money? I don’t run a philanthropic organization.”

  I shrug, relaxing my posture. Franco’s not receptive to a hard sell, so I soften my approach.

  “There are a lot of benefits,” I say. “Nonprofits aren’t required to be transparent about their donors, or where the funds go. I’d say, if you were donating a large portion of money, you could have a say in how the funds are allocated. And don’t forget, there’s the tax exemption.”

  Franco withdraws into himself, staring at the ceiling. I know I’ve captured his interest. He’s probably thinking of all the ways a nonprofit could benefit his business. The man really is a genius when it comes to organized crime.

  “Now I see,” Franco says with a laugh. “You’re using this poor girl.”

  “I assure you, I’m not.”

  A few moments later, Molly returns to the table. I stand up to greet her, but I don’t stop there. I hook my arm around her waist, pull her close to me, and press my lips against hers. She tastes sweet. I want more, but I stop myself.

  “There you are, baby,” I growl against her ear.

  Molly is rigid against me, but she lets out a little gasp against my ear. That gasp makes my dick surge with excitement. I’m ready to get the bill and take her home.

  After dinner, the three of us linger in the lobby saying our goodbyes. Chef Vega tries to approach us. I warn him off with my eyes, patting the side of my leg where my gun is concealed. The chef scurries back to the kitchen. Franco kisses Molly’s hand, then takes me to the side.

  “I want to hear more about this charity angle,” Franco says. “It sounds very promising.”

  “It is,” I assure him.

  “But I have to make sure that you and Snake have put your petty nonsense aside. I’m going to set up a meeting. We can all have a talk.”

  My best friend murdering my father is ‘petty business?’

  “Sounds great.” I turn to go back to Molly, but Franco grabs my arm.