“Blackie,” she whispers, turning around and locking her eyes with mine.
“You wanted me on my knees, girl,” I growl, dropping on one knee. I press my palms against her thighs, forcing them apart before dropping my other knee down on the floor. “Got me right where you want, right where I belong.”
I brush my hair away from my face before palming her pussy over the lace and inching my index finger beneath the material.
“What if she comes back?”
“Then she’ll know she did her job properly,” I tell her, shoving the lace away from her pussy and reaching behind her with my free hand. Squeezing her ass, I bring her sweet cunt to my mouth and run my tongue down her center.
“My Lace, so fucking good, so fucking pretty,” I mutter in-between slow laps of my tongue. She grabs onto my shoulders, fisting the leather in her hands as I peel back her lace and take my fix.
Leather and Lace.
A temptation so sweet—a man drops to his knees just to survive.
Chapter Seven
Juggling the groceries in one hand, I open the door and disarm the alarm, turning around to face the quiet house.
“Gina? Bert? Ma?” I call out into the silence.
I drop my keys on the console table in the hallway and make my way into the kitchen, setting the brown paper bag, full of groceries, on the counter. Robotically I unpack the bag, waiting for the boisterous voices of my in-laws.
After I returned from my visit with Vic, I found Michael and Nikki on my doorstep with my in-laws in tow. Vic’s sister, her ‘companion’ Bert, and my ninety-four-year-old mother-in-law were staying with me for the time being. They drove up from Florida after finding out Michael had proposed to Nikki. I think they’re disappointed we’re not throwing the happy couple an engagement party. Nikki is having a hard enough time planning a wedding without her father to even think about planning an engagement party.
I grab the colander and toss the fresh string beans into it before running the water over the vegetables. I break the ends of the string beans, discarding the tips into a bowl as I go.
“Whatcha got there Gracie?”
Victor’s arms circled my waist as I leaned over the sink and cleaned vegetables—fresh from the garden I planted in our yard.
“String beans,” I said as he leaned over me and turned off the faucet, spinning me around in his arms. “What are you up to Mr. Pastore?”
“Does a man have to have an agenda to want a moment with his wife?”
“Victor…” I admonished.
“Fine,” he relented, smiling sheepishly at me. “I have a surprise for you,” he admitted, leaning down to press his lips to mine. “C’mon, we’re going for a ride, Gracie.”
I stop cleaning the string beans as the memories work their way to the surface. Since my visit with Vic I haven’t had a moment alone. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ve been begging God for a moment of quiet, just a sliver of silence, which is ironic, since my husband turned himself in all I have left is silence. It drives me mad, sitting here, day after day, alone in this big house with nothing but the memories of the life we shared, the life we made that was cut short.
I felt the car stop rolling and Victor’s hands on my shoulders.
“Can I take the blindfold off now?”
“Not yet,” he replied and even with my eyes shielded I knew my husband was smiling at me. I felt it in my bones, I heard it in his voice. Vic’s smile, his happiness, it was just as contagious as everything else about him. I grinned as he opened my door and helped me out of the car.
“Just a few more steps, Gracie,” he crooned, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Right there. Stop. Are you ready, sweetheart?”
“I’m ready, Victor,” I whispered nervously. I never knew what to expect with Victor and usually I rolled with the punches. After all, I was the wife of the most notorious mobster in New York. What other choice did I have?
He lifted the blindfold and slowly I opened my eyes blinking against the sunlight as I stared at the brick mansion that took up more than half of a block. It was a corner property, a house we had passed a bunch of times, one I always stopped to look at.
“Welcome home, love,” Victor whispered against my ear.
Victor thought I used to stare at this house with envy but the truth was I’d look at it and wonder what kind of people lived in a house like this. I assumed the previous owners had a big family to need a house of this size to call home. And then the monstrosity became ours and I had the answer to my question.
The little, semi-detached, two family we were living in since we first got married wasn’t big enough, no, it wasn’t grand enough for Victor Pastore and his family. Victor had risen to the top, and every king needed a castle. Our house wasn’t a home but a statement to the rest of the world.
I want to scream; I want to cry. I want to wake up from the nightmare. I swipe my hand across the counter, sending the fancy canisters lining the granite counter top shattering against the floor. Flour and sugar splatter everywhere, and I don’t give a damn.
It feels good.
Next to go flying across the kitchen is a ceramic bowl full of fruit and after that I pull the pots and pans off the rack hanging above the island. Tears stream down my cheeks as I wreck my kitchen and grieve for the man I loved and lost, the life we made and the future we no longer have.
Grabbing things out of the drawers, I fling them over my shoulder with no regard until I hear my name.
“Grace!”
I freeze, dropping the wooden spoons to the floor as I slowly turn around and stare back at my sister-in-law. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as my body quivers. I open my mouth to speak but can’t find the words.
“What the hell are you doing?” She asks calmly, stepping over the debris as she walks further into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, shaking my head as I take in the destruction. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Shamefully, I peel my eyes from her and bend down to pick up the pieces of the shattered canisters and ceramic bowl. Gina closes her hand over my wrist and cups my chin with her other hand, forcing my eyes back to hers.
“Grace,” she soothes.
“Where is your mother?”
“Bert took her upstairs when we heard the commotion,” she replies.
“Good, I don’t want her to see this,” I mutter, taking a deep breath as I lean back on my haunches.
“We went to see Victor,” she reveals.
“Oh,” I say, turning away from her.
“He told me, Grace,” she whispers.
I drag my eyes back to hers, seeing they’re full of unshed tears. I had thirty years of training under my belt and before I volunteered any information, I knew to ask first.
“He told you what?”
“I’m not a fed or some lawyer looking for you to give up Victor’s secrets, I’m your sister-in-law, and I’m telling you I know the truth, but if you want me to say it, fine.”
It was force of habit, not admitting the truth about anything, never being the one to start a conversation for fear of giving up too much information. But it wasn’t the habit that stopped me from speaking my truth, it was fear. Since my last visit with Vic I haven’t uttered the one word that would truly end us.
I used to think it was prison.
Then he said the word.
“Cancer,” the same word Gina just uttered.
One word was all it took to destroy a lifetime. One word that opened the flood gates to my tears.
It was one thing to accept that he was in jail, that for the rest of our lives he would be behind bars and I would be behind the brick walls of our home. I accepted we’d never share a bed again, or wake up to the dawn of a new day together. I accepted that every milestone we should have experienced together in our golden years, I’d experience by myself. I’d walk our daughter down the aisle and when the priest asked who gave th
is woman’s hand in marriage, I will dutifully reply—her father and I do. I would sign all our cards love Victor and Grace, and tell our grandchildren, ‘grandpa sends his love’ or ‘grandpa picked out your present’ ensuring Vic remained part of our lives.
However, now God was testing me again and my husband was dying.
I can’t accept that.
I can’t accept that he refuses treatment.
I can’t accept I won’t be by his side as he draws his final breath.
I can’t accept that I’ll get a phone call from the warden telling me my husband died surrounded by bars instead of the family we created.
I can’t.
“Grace,” Gina coaxes. “He’s worried about you, and quite frankly so am I.”
“He’s worried about me?” Shaking my head, I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands. “Always worried about me when he should be worried about himself. I’m fine. I’m not the one who is rotting away in a jail cell.”
“You might not be in jail, sweetie, but you’re wasting away just like your husband.”
“I’m fine! I’m not the one who is sick. I’m not the one who is dying,” I cry.
“Don’t kid yourself, Grace. Vic is dying but so are you. You’re dying inside and you can smile and try to pretend like it's okay but he sees it. Every time you visit him he looks into your eyes and sees that the light has gone out. Even if the man didn’t have cancer, he’d wish for it because watching your spirit die is too much for him to take.”
“What am I supposed to do, Gina? How am I supposed to act? Tell me! Tell me how I’m supposed to feel?”
“Stop hiding how you feel. Stop fucking smiling when you want to cry. Stop pretending,” she orders. “Let it out, Grace, because keeping it bottled up is killing you too.”
“My girls…” I whisper.
“Need their mother,” she replies.
“Don’t you think I know that?” I seethe. “Don’t you think I know this will break their hearts? Why do you think I haven’t told them yet? I don’t even know where to begin, I’m so angry. I’m so mad at him. I feel guilty for being angry because he didn’t ask to be sick but like everything else, I’m the one left here to deal with it. I’m the one who has to tell our daughters their father has a few months to live. I’m the one who has to tell them he’s being transferred to a prison down south so he can follow through with some sick vendetta. I’m so angry that he’s being transferred, robbing us of the visits we can have before he dies.”
“He’s doing it on purpose, Grace. It’s not only about the promise he made that biker and his club but it’s because he doesn’t want you and his girls to see him deteriorate. He wants you to remember him the way he’s always been.”
“What about what I want? What about what the girls want? We never had a say in much but we’re the ones who will suffer when he leaves this world. —We should have a say! I vowed to love him through sickness and health and I thought when the time came that one of us became sick we would be there for one another. I’ve been robbed of my vows. I should be there taking care of him. I should be holding his hand when he takes his final breath! I should be able to say goodbye…”
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself as I stand, bracing my hands on the counter and bow my head.
“How am I going to live without him?” I sob.
“You already are,” Gina replies.
“It’s not the same,” I argue. “How am I going to live the rest of my life, never being able to hear him call me Gracie, never being able to look him in the eye and see our whole life reflected in those eyes?” I shake my head before glancing over my shoulder and staring at Gina.
“How am I going to tell our girls their father is dying? How am I going to be strong enough for them?”
“I’ll help you, Bert will help too and so will Ma. You’re not alone, Grace. We’re crazy and maybe a little eccentric but we’re family and we all love Adrianna and Nikki…” she pauses, “We love you too, Grace.”
I spin around, dropping my hands to my sides and lean my back against the counter.
“I have to tell the girls,” I say finally.
As a parent we try our best to shelter our children, even when they become adults, we can’t help ourselves and still we try to protect them. I can’t protect, I can’t shield my daughters from losing their father but I will be their rock, their strength when they’re too weak with grief.
And when their hearts start to mend, then and only then will I grieve.
Alone I will mourn my love, my life. My Victor.
Chapter Eight
Dragging the comb through my gray hair, I make sure not a strand is out of place. Smoothing down the front of my jumpsuit, I flash back to a time in my life when I used to fit the most expensive cufflinks to my silk shirt. Some might call me vain, even eccentric, but in my world, appearances are everything. It's that first moment when you meet someone, when they size you up with their eyes and decide your importance to them. You are either someone they want to know or someone they’ll forget.
I was nineteen years old when I sat at a table with the five most lethal men in the mafia. Each of them ruled one of the five most prominent crime families in New York City. I was just a kid, another street thug looking for the easy way out. I wasn’t the first young guy looking to take the oath they were selling and I wouldn’t be the last. But I walked into that warehouse with confidence and a demeanor like they only saw when they stared in the mirror. I was the youth who had an old soul and enough swagger to demand they notice me.
I wasn’t someone you forgot.
I was Victor fucking Pastore, and I would be the man ruling their streets long after they took their final breath.
Me.
I would be the boss.
The man in a designer suit that men feared and civilians gravitated to.
Victor Pastore the mobster—the fucking legend.
And for most of my life that is who I was. I was the man you wanted to know, the guy you wanted in your corner and it didn’t matter that I was a criminal. I lied, robbed, and killed to get to the top, but to the public I could do no wrong—I was a fucking god.
Even here, locked up, I’m somebody. I’m the guy with juice, the man you come to in the yard when someone is trying to shake you down for your commissary.
I went from running New York to ruling a federal prison. Everyone is in my pocket, from the COs to the warden, they all answer to me. The feds want to think they took me off the streets, cleaned up the city and freed it from the mob, but that isn’t so.
There was no elaborate case against me that took years to build. I was a man on a mission to save what I had destroyed—my family. Not the one I ruled but the one I created with my wife, Grace. I was too busy building an empire to realize I was losing the people that mattered most to me. The flashy lifestyle they were accustomed to became more of a burden than something glorified, and as everything spiraled out of control, my daughters both threatened to fall victims to the mob, each of their lives compromised.
I had a choice to make.
My empire or their lives.
I confessed to every crime I committed, every hit I ordered, and gave my family one final gift—sparing them the life I brought them all into as a judge sentenced me to spend the rest of my existence in a cell.
They are free of my sins, my crimes and my organization.
Free from me.
My eyes wander to the photograph of my daughters taped to the wall of my cell. Their smiling faces stare back at me—those faces are the legacy of Victor Pastore—the husband and father.
“Vic, you have a visitor,” the guard calls, forcing me to tear my eyes from the photograph and glance over my shoulder at him. I watch as he unlocks my cell, sliding it open and stepping aside.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping out of my confinements and pat him on the shoulder. The inmates stare at me as he escorts me down the cell block. T
hey call out to me, “You the man, Vic. You the man.”
Those words used to make me feel something but they’re lackluster now, just words. A man is nothing without his woman or his family. Without them a man becomes lost in the bitterness.
They buzz me into the visitor’s room, my eyes immediately dart around, searching for one of the men I summoned here. The clock is ticking for me and it’s time to put all the final touches on the plans I’ve worked hard to create. In a few short weeks I’ll be transferred down south where the ultimate enemy is, the G-Man, the man I vowed to bring to his death.
One last hit.
And it can go either way.
My life or his.
There are ends I need to tie and people to say goodbye to.
The end is near, the curtain will close and all that will be left is the name that made headlines and the legacy he left behind.
I spot the suit, threads of silk, colored in a deep charcoal and tailored to fit the man.
I taught him well.
He lifts his head, leans back in the metal chair as he takes in his surroundings. His green eyes finally pausing when they met mine. He pushes back his chair and rises to his full height to greet me. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a tie and the top button of his dress shirt was unbuttoned, his collar was popped, we’d have to talk about that.
“Uncle Vic,” he greets, stepping around the table to extend his hand to me. The guard stares at my nephew’s hand before turning his back and allowing the gesture. I slide my hand into his and pat his cheek with my free hand.
“Rocco,” I say, shaking his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
I tip my chin toward the chair as I drop my hand from his.
“Sit,” I order, watching him do as he was told.
Rocco was Grace’s sister, Anna’s son, her eldest child and the one who struggled most of his youth between right and wrong. His father, Rocco Spinelli Sr., was a drug trafficker and when his kids were young, he was deported back to Italy. Anna took Rocco and Gina, her daughter, to Italy afterwards to live, wound up returning five years later after her husband was murdered in a drug deal gone south.
Eternal Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 6) Page 6
