LUCA_Her Ruthless Don

by Theodora Taylor

  Dad and the rest of the family welcome me home like the prodigal son. That year we’ve been apart? He doesn’t talk about it. Nobody from our organization does. Ever. Like they’re under strict instructions.

  And over the next half decade, everybody gets wise about me.

  I might not have grown up in the old neighborhood. I might have degrees and money from the start, and I might have been stupid enough to think I could actually make it work with the woman I was willing to give it up for. But anyone who thinks that any of that makes me weak soon finds out that I’m the most cold-blooded Ferraro crime boss yet. Just like the Deltano cousins, who are currently resting in concrete boots in the same river as Greggi’s sons.

  It was a very good year.

  And then it wasn’t.

  And now it’s over.

  And all that’s left is the ruthless don.

  Part III

  Mack The Knife

  19

  Glad To Be Unhappy

  Amber

  Almost Five Years Later

  A hand shakes me awake. “Hey, Mrs. Ferraro. Time to get up.”

  “Ten more minutes,” I mumble, burrowing into the pillow.

  “Ten minutes means I get to do whatever I want to you,” he warns, his Jersey accent taking on new Rocky Balboa heights.

  I almost tell him that. But Luca always complains when I try to compare them. “I’m from Jersey. Stallone’s from New York, baby…”

  So, I just agree to his terms, “Mmm-hmm,” with a sleepy smile.

  The bed dips. One knee, and then another, until he’s right behind me, turning me over.

  He drapes both my legs over his shoulders, and I can feel underneath my calves that he’s already put on his suit.

  “You should have woken me up sooner,” I complain on the suit’s behalf.

  “Sssh, you,” he answers.

  Then he really shuts me up by licking the length of me, his tongue diving in deep.

  My hands immediately go to his hair, my fingertips digging into his scalp. I love the feel of his silky locks in between the cracks of my fingers, fanning back and forth as he licks and sucks.

  This is just one of the ways he likes to wake me up. Sometimes he lays down behind me and massages my breasts, thumbs lazily circling my nipples until I’m moaning and shivering. Then one hand wanders down and does the same thing, massaging my pussy while his thumb pays particular attention to the swollen bud of flesh hidden within.

  This morning his mouth’s doing the job instead of his fingers.

  Either way, I always come, usually, before five minutes have passed. Forget the ten.

  But that morning, just as the pleasure’s beginning to swell, he says, “Fuck it, I’ll change into a new suit.” His mouth lifts from my pussy, and he pulls my legs down to his waist. The bottom of his jacket flaps above my thighs as he moves between my splayed legs. Then his hands move between us as he unbuckles his pants and unleashes himself, before pushing straight into me.

  I groan with the relief of having him back inside of me, and I call out his name. “Luca…Luca…yes, God…just like that.”

  For a moment it’s glorious, everything I’ve been missing for some reason, even though he’s right here for the asking. Every night and every morning, whenever I’m up for it.

  But then it becomes one of those times, one of the times I don’t come in an easy instant. Instead, the pleasure builds and builds. Right there, just beyond my reach, no matter how long his hips pump between my legs.

  “More!” I gasp out.

  “Don’t rush me,” he answers.

  “Harder,” I beg.

  “Don’t rush me,” he says again, and just keeps plowing into me at the same grim pace.

  This should be enough. I’m so close, so close. I can feel my pussy clenching in anticipation. But I can’t come. I can’t come.

  And things eventually go from erotic to desperate. “Luca! Luca! Please…please make me come,” I cry out in a broken voice, tears of frustration streaming down my face.

  Then I wake up.

  Confused and breathing hard with a pool of desperate heat inside my fluttering womb. My clit’s throbbing and my pussy is still clenching, contracting hard around something that’s just not there.

  Not there…

  I hate the tears that prick my eyes as the sounds of another New York morning crashes into my previous quiet. Traffic, loud voices, and a trash truck all telling me, it was just a dream, Amber. Just a dream.

  I sit up in bed, waiting for the erotic sensations to fade and cursing the two plastic flutes of Nuvo I let Diamond pour for me last night after we won our latest divorce case. We’d gotten our client everything she asked for, even after her CTO ex-husband sold their highly valued collection of original Atari video game posters on the Bitcoin black market in an extra dickish effort to not include them in his Dissipation of Assets.

  And I’d been so happy that I’d forgotten my rule about not eating or drinking alcohol after eight p.m., lest he shows up.

  I don’t ever contact him. I don’t talk to anyone about him. I don’t even think about him. Luca Jacob Ferraro has become somethin’ stupid that I did a long, long time ago. A temporary lapse of judgment. That weird chapter in the audiobook right before the character gets diagnosed with a brain tumor.

  A brain tumor. That’s exactly what my time with Luca was, so I get up and wash the dream off in the shower. A malignant growth that has since been cut out, except in my dreams.

  Because the thing is, I can’t control my dreams, and at least there, Luca remains an unapologetic invader. He started visiting me while I slept nearly as soon as the divorce papers came back signed, and he’s returned at least once a month ever since. More than that, if I eat too close to bedtime—or in this case drink alcohol less than a couple of hours before falling asleep.

  It’s a stupid issue. One I’m still grumbling about inwardly as I head down to the subway two blocks up from the apartment I moved into as soon as the second lease was up on the one I’d shared with Luca. Not to mention embarrassing.

  So bad that I don’t ever allow Pascoal to stay over, even though we’ve been dating for over two years. Pas already puts up with my general crankiness, justice zealotry, and crazy long work hours. Adding the very real possibility of calling out another man’s name while I’m asleep and begging him to fuck me, doesn’t feel like a relationship extender.

  Plus, he usually gets up early in the morning to teach the six a.m. Self-Defense class at his Jiujitsu studio—the one we met at—so it works out. Kind of.

  I’m not in contact with Luca Ferraro, who pretty much everybody knows as the young head of the Ferraro Crime Family these days. I don’t talk to anyone about him—except for the one time I kind of had to, when I took on Sylvie, Holt’s ex-girlfriend, but now wife as a client. And I still don’t allow myself to think about him, at least when I’m awake.

  But nearly five years after our official divorce papers went through he’s still there.

  In the dreams. Lurking in the unspoken shadows of my relationship with Pascoal. Having to get avoided more than usual, now that the second wife of one of his closest friends has become a favorite past client of mine. Sometimes, I wish the pain of the miscarriage lingered half as well as the ghost of Luca does. It’s a weird, mean way to feel about losing a baby, but it’s true. While the pain of what happened that dark September day has faded to a distant pang, the pain of my divorce remains. Like an open wound, angry and throbbing.

  A sudden vibration and ringing sound in my ear interrupts my pensive thoughts as I’m walking out of the subway. I double tap my Bluetooth headset and say, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Amber, this is Dr. Rodgers,” my longtime gyno answers.

  “Hey, Dr. Rogers, what’s up?” I say, a little surprised that she’s calling instead of one of her front desk staff.

  “Well, Amber, I just got your results back from the blood panel
we took for your possible egg freezing.”

  I stop on the platform, not liking the careful tone she’s using, or how the egg freezing procedure has gone from a thing I definitely decided to do a few weeks ago after my annual pap, to “possible.” Like it’s up in the air now.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Well, your ovaries and follicles are fine, as I told you during your preliminary ultrasound. And your FSH test also came back fine, but I’m afraid your AMH levels are substantially lower than we’d like to see in a woman your age. And unfortunately, of all the tests we run, the AMH is considered the most indicative of how many eggs you have in reserve.”

  I stand there, listening as she rattles off words like “disappointing” and “next steps” along with more three letter acronyms, including IVF. And for some reason, I think of Luca in the hospital room. His hand grazing the top of mine, but then pulling away as if he was afraid I’d break. That fearful graze became the last time we ever touched.

  “So, you’re saying that I might not have enough eggs left to freeze,” I say, trying to form a coherent summary of the situation in my mind. “Does that mean if I want to have kids without IVF, I’d have to do it now?”

  “No, not necessarily,” the doctor answers. “If you and your partner have ever discussed the possibility of having children, starting now rather than later would be optimal. But there are still options available to you if you want to wait, including embryo freezing, donor eggs, and we might even be able to assist you and your partner in having a child with IUI, which is a lot less expensive than IVF.”

  More three letter acronyms, and it’s hard to keep up, even with my background in legalese. But by the time I get off the phone a few minutes later, I already know what I must do.

  Pushing that prohibited memory of Luca from my mind, I depress the button on my Bluetooth earpiece and say, “Hey Google…call Pascoal.”

  “Amber, querida!” he answers a few minutes later, with his usual cheer and enthusiasm. “You are calling in the middle of the Tiny Tigers’ class. Is everything okay?”

  Of course, he’d answered in the middle of his beginner kids class. He’s a sweet guy. Such a sweet guy.

  “Sorry for interrupting, but can you come over to my place after work?” I ask, with a pang in my heart. “We need to talk.”

  20

  All Alone

  Luca

  I don’t dream much anymore.

  I wake up from a sea of black, in a dim room with oak floors, steel beams, and floor to ceiling windows, showcasing a panoramic view of Manhattan overlooking the Hudson. There’s also a gal, lying next to me, her breathing coming out on contented hums of air.

  Hnh…I must have been off my face last night if I let her sleep over. She’s pretty. Redhead, early twenties maybe, with a lithe body that makes me think of dancers who’ve gone through special programs to receive their training.

  I shake her awake with the same consideration I’d give if I’d woken up next to a sleeping rat.

  “Time to get going,” I tell her. “Sleepover’s done.”

  I don’t wait for her answer. Just grab my phone off the steel nightstand and text Joey as I head to the bathroom for my morning leak and cold rinse in my marble and glass open frame shower.

  By the time I come back out to the bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, Joey’s clearing out last night’s mistake. But the redhead’s not going easy.

  “Get your hands off me!” she yells, beating a fist against my personal guard’s heavily muscled arm. “If he wants me out, he can tell me himself!”

  Just so she’s under no illusions about last night, I do just before slipping into my walk-in closet to grab a pair of gym shorts. “Thanks for the memories, sweetheart,” I say to her, in a Holt toast kind of voice. Then with a lot more sincerity: “And thanks for handling her, Joey.”

  For a second the redhead gets pouty, but then probably suspecting rightly that I don’t give a damn how she feels, she fixes her face and chirps, “Text me!” as Joey hauls her ass the rest of the way out of my suite.

  I pull on underwear and gym shorts and head down a set of coiling oak and steel stairs to the gym with the eastern view of Upper Manhattan for my workout. My body feels like shit, achy and weak for reasons that probably can be traced right back to last night’s coke fucking with my serotonin levels and the snifters of Gran Reserva making sure I show up to my home gym pre-dehydrated as hell. I haven’t done confession since I got shipped off to boarding school. But getting in my usual cardio and weights in this state feels like some kinda penance. Hail, sorry for all the debauchery, Mary.

  When I walk into my home gym, Rock’s already there, waiting for the morning meeting. His usual right on time Boy Scout shit, but for some reason, today I note how much he’s changed in the last five years. The black tee and jeans have been swapped out for a Hugo Boss suit and open-collared shirt. He’s clean-shaven on Wednesday, for reasons that don’t have anything to do with seeing his mom at church. Plus, his nails are dude mani short, so neat and clean he could blend in with the I-bankers in the Finance district, no probs. And even though, I know for sure that he’s still going through a half pack of cigarettes every day, the Tom Ford cologne he’s wearing covers up the scent of that one residual bad habit.

  “Morning, Luc,” he says instead of “boss” as I climb onto the treadmill for our usual run and talk. Not because he doesn’t respect my title, now that Dad’s made it official, and retired with Ma down to Miami. But because I told him to knock that shit out the one time he tried to call me “boss,” like everybody else except Stone in our org. So Luc it remains, till the day one of us dies.

  “Any word from the D.A.’s office?” I ask in reply to his good morning. The tequila and coke hangover makes it impossible for my voice to come anywhere near mannerly.

  “Yeah, and it ain’t good,” Rock answers. “They’re saying Peter Peretti’s got it bad for you, and he’s planning to use that recent Bianchi racketeering bust to build a case against you. You, specifically.”

  I curse because handing Dad’s old NY/NJ protection racket off to the Bianchi family three years ago was supposed to have solved more problems than it caused.

  “Can he connect me to it?”

  “Not you, but supposedly they’ve got an informant that Peretti’s promising the D.A. will connect you to some other stuff. My guy doesn’t know who it is, but Peretti seems to think it’s enough to start building a case.”

  I grab the black and red Swell water bottle my housekeeper always makes sure to fill first thing in the morning and take a grim swig. This is what I get for leaving loose ends. I’d let the half-brothers of my ex-wife keep on living, even after the older one joined another Boston crime family and the younger one decided he’d make fighting organized crime his main mission in life. One promise kept against my better instincts, and look where we are now?

  Plus, “Coming after me, that’s a bold first move for somebody who was just appointed to assistant D.A. a couple of months ago. The shitty government nameplate just got hung on his door.”

  Rock snorts, “Well, you two got history, even if he never met you formally.”

  That we do. “What else?” I ask.

  Rock goes down the mental list. All the shit he tracks for me that can’t exactly be committed to Evernote. A meeting invitation from a big-time Chicago bookie, who wants to talk about an alliance with our Jersey operation. A loan request from a Jersey mayor overextended on his mortgage. And Jax Attila, the MC gang leader who handles drug distribution for us in a few of our more bumfuck Midwestern locations is interested in Stone for a contract killing.

  No to the meeting. Dad would have taken it, but our offline illegal gambling operations are only in the low six figures. Too minor league for me to give much of a shit about these days, even out of politeness. Yes, to the loan, since we might have some need of the mayor one day. And as for Stone, “Let your brother decide if he
wants to take the contract.”

  Rock considers it, same as he would if I’d said, “you decide.”

  “I’m going to turn the request down. Send Jax a referral for somebody else,” he says without any indication that he plans to tell Stone it was made in the first place. Twins, man. But I know from experience that it goes both ways with those two. Stone is always bossing Rock around, but he trusts Rock the same as his own gut. And if Rock says he’s not taking the contract, Stone ain’t taking it, no need to ask him the question to find out.

  Truth is, I like their dynamic. That yin-yang of theirs is the reason I made the rather unorthodox decision to assign them the role of co-underboss when I took over the Ferraro throne.

  “Plus, I don’t like the idea of taking on new business when we’ve got this new ADA watching our every move,” Rock adds.

  “Agreed,” I say on a grunt. Not for the first time, I consider breaking the promise I made to my wife, who after all, has been my ex-wife now for way longer than we were ever married.

  That business done, I’m about to dismiss Rock, but then I squint, noticing what’s going on with Rock’s right hand. The index and middle fingers tap the thumb like they’re hurting bad for a cigarette. However, I know for a fact, Rock wouldn’t walk in here without sucking his small Tobacco dick. So, this isn’t a nicotine craving, but something else. Something that’s got him nervous.

  “Anything else?” I ask, throwing my fishing line out on the hunch.

  His fingers tap a few more useless times, then he says, “Bella Peretti…you’re over that, right?”

  My stomach kicks in. And though I don’t stop running, it’s only muscle memory keeping me on the belt. If my brain were still fully in charge of the jog, I probably would have tripped and splatted out backward on the hardwood floor.

  That name. First of all, I never called her that. And second, it’s been years since I even thought it. To me, Bella’s still the girl, who against all expectations, decided to do the right thing and try to let me out of her father’s cage. Totally separate from the woman I married years later.