by Gina Whitney
He finally looked up, locking his confused gaze on me. “Do what?”
“As soon as we’re done fucking, you’re emotionally gone. You just disappear…why?” I asked, tilting my chin defiantly—challengingly. I honestly didn’t know how he’d react. Part of me was pissed at myself for sounding so fucking girly, so fucking lame. The other half felt proud for standing up and voicing what I wanted. And I wanted him, not only behind the bedroom doors, but all of him.
I didn’t have time to blink before he hooked one arm around me while hitting the stop button. The elevator came to a screeching halt, causing my stomach to bottom out. The feel of his lips against mine and the unmistakable possessiveness of his actions were exactly what I wanted—craved.
He broke the kiss but left his lips a hairsbreadth away. “I fucking love you,” he said before owning my lips again.
My breath stilled in my lungs. This was the first time he’d ever said that to me.
“Did I not ask you to stay?” His eyebrows creased in question. Then he continued, “Do you want to hear how my cock hardens with the very sight of you—the very thought of you? That with every sway of your hips, I envision being buried deep inside you? Do you want to know how I ache for you when I’m not with you?” He grabbed my hand, putting it over his jeans to let me feel his steely length beneath. “This is what you do to me.”
His hand moved to my face, placing a sweet kiss to the cleft of my chin. I nearly melted, rooted in my spot, speechless and tongue-tied. “Your provocative nature intoxicates me, Tesoro. Never doubt how helplessly and undeniably addicted I am to you.” His tongue flicked just below my ear and traced a path to my collarbone. “Nothing and no one can stop me from making you mine in every humanly way possible,” he whispered, continuing his assault, drawing me closer to him. “You challenge me on the deepest level, while claiming my heart and soul.”
He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. I couldn’t see past my unshed tears, so I blinked them away, unwilling to miss the etched ache on his face.
“Your existence stirs me in ways I can’t commit to words. I’m completely in love with you. With every aspect of you. Is that enough, my love? Are my truths enough for you to hold onto until we figure this out?”
His stormy eyes gutted me, dug into my soul and ripped me apart. All I wanted to do was take the pain off his face and bury it deep in my wrenching heart. He always had a way of turning me upside down with one look. But this—his declarations—broke me in the best possible ways. Hearing any doubt would have shattered me. Hearing his honesty left me with no option but to surrender to my own emotions…and so I did.
I grabbed his chiseled face with both hands, bringing it closer so there was no mistaking my next words. My self-preservation was thrown out the window. “I am so in love with you, Stefan. Promise we’ll keep reminding each other no matter what life throws at us. Not even our families. Can you promise me that?”
He reached and released the stop/hold button, but not before responding. “Our relationship is complex; there’s no denying that. Before you, I’d never allowed myself to feel this way. Only you. Do you know why?” he asked and I shook my head no. “I’ve been waiting for you, Tesoro. All this time…it’s always been you.”
He reached inside his bomber jacket and pulled out a single silver key just as the elevator door opened to the underground garage. It was dark but for a few overhead lights. Our fingers tightly intermingled…firm and resolute. We stepped out, and then his footsteps halted. My heartbeat quickened as the black limo with dark tint slowed to a stop, herding us between it and the closed elevator door. Stefan’s arm instantly reached over, pulling me directly behind him.
I didn’t know what this was…but I knew enough to understand the magnitude of the situation.
When the heavily tinted rear passenger-side window fully lowered, Stefan reached into his inner jacket pocket for his gun. My body shook uncontrollably and my thoughts spun in all directions. I leaned into him, seeking comfort and reassurance. His worn leather jacket gave way, and my body greedily absorbed his heat. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, thinking just how bad this was. And it was very bad. I felt it deep in the marrow of my bones.
“Good evening, my boy,” a man said in an Italian accent with broken English. No gun shots, only a greeting.
I slowly peeked around, my hands still clinging to Stefan. I couldn’t see a face, only a shadow hidden inside the dark car.
“Who the fuck are you?” Stefan spat as he gripped his gun tightly in his hand, keeping his other arm around me protectively.
The shadowy figure chuckled deviously, seeming almost delighted at Stefan’s defensive stance. Not good. Who laughs when a gun is pointed at their face? Crazy people fucking laugh, that’s who.
The figure rested his hand just outside the window. I heard Stefan’s sharp inhale, and all I could do was stare at the intensity of the scene. There wasn’t much shine left on the gold patina pinky ring, but the significance of the situation barreled at us at warped speed.
The man’s face came into view as he leaned forward while stretching his fingers ominously. ll Padrino—The Godfather.
My own breath caught as the door opened slowly and Carlo Genovese stepped out. I pulled Stefan back with me, trying to save him from whatever stupidity he thought of doing. My gut twisted painfully, and suddenly, I wished I was back in the comforts of Stefan’s apartment.
Carlo Genovese wore the name “Mafia Don” like a uniform. The two were synonymous, and his every word was feared by all. Hell, the mere mention of his name could bring the strongest man to his knees, pissing in his pants on the way down. He stood in front of us, in person, dressed in a dark navy suit, deep blue matching tie, and a white tailored shirt. His olive skin was intensely sun-kissed and deep brown eyes seemed almost black in the dim lighting. His salt and pepper hair—still wet—clung to his mature, creepy neck. However, his thin skin reminded me of tracing paper. There was no hiding the deep blue veins that ran across his hands. I shivered as my eyes took in every visible part of him.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
His eyes met mine, and I immediately glanced away, not wanting to garner any attention. Too late. Yes, I was staring, because I was fascinated that he really existed. I’ve heard the name, of course. We all have. He was the father of all fathers. The pope of the Mafia dynasties. A puppet-master who pulled the strings that tied us all together. But to me, he’d always been an urban legend, a story passed down through generations to keep the families in line. It was unheard of that he’d make a visit stateside. Whenever his presence was needed, the consiglieri—his advisor—represented him both within the boss’ crime family and the other families that branched out. He is one of few capable of arguing with or challenging Carlo without disappearing overnight. He was Carlo’s number three.
If Carlo was here, where was his number two?
The slam of the passenger door answered that question. Charlie Luciano’s portly body rounded the limo in an all-black suit, black shirt, and matching leather shoes. He looked like an undertaker, which is exactly what he was. With darkish hair accented by some grey near his temple, green menacing eyes, and a short stocky muscular build, Charlie was the epitome of death.
“Put the fucking gun down before someone gets shot,” Charlie barked as he came to stand between Carlo and Stefan. “Arms up and out.” His demanding tone left no room for arguments or hesitation.
Stefan did as he was told, and I stepped back, out of the way. There was nowhere to hide; I felt so exposed. I took another timid step back, hoping the shadow of a nearby pillar would absorb me. Stefan didn’t have much choice as Charlie had already begun to pat him down—manhandling was more like it. Jesus. He started at Stefan’s legs and worked his way up roughly until he appeared satisfied.
Charlie stepped back, nodding approval to Carlo. Stefan didn’t turn my way, but extended an offered hand to me. I stepped forward, grabbing it frantically, and holding onto it for dear
life. I’d never felt so petrified before. I didn’t even care how weak or feminine that made me…it was the truth. He locked on and firmly threaded his fingers with mine, pulling me to stand beside him. I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, despite my trembling, clammy palms.
Carlo’s eyes dropped to our joined hands. The genuine smile that reached his eyes sent a worried panic through me. The calm temperament that surrounded him was his trademark. However, so was his death toll. “Jordana Albanese, what a nice surprise. My how you’ve grown into a beautiful young lady,” he said in his best broken English, his words thick with his authentic Italian accent. “Ti ho tenuto un bambino, e tu eri bello. Una vera benedizione.” Why he felt the need to speak in Italian was beyond me. All he’d said was, “I held you as a baby, and you were beautiful. A true blessing.” He stepped forward with hesitation, as if stalking a baby kitty.
Stefan squeezed my hand, reminding me I had a tongue.
“Thank you,” I said in a hoarse voice, swallowing the knot in my throat. This wasn’t good. Not at all. I needed to show respect to the Godfather, yet I didn’t want him thinking me weak. He needed to see me as strong, vigilant…worthy of holding my own in this family. But I feared he’d find it insolent.
Carlo lifted his right hand, giving me a better view of the ring that meant everything within the families. He offered his hand to Stefan, who took it, bending to kiss the top of his ring. The move was about respect and dominance. An admittance of who Carlo was, and this showed clear understanding. He didn’t offer his hand to me. I was a woman. This was a man thing—a made man thing.
In the Mafia, a made man is a fully initiated member of the organization. It is a great honor to earn a “button.” To become “made,” you need to be sponsored by another made man. In Stefan’s case, it was his father. You have to know the sponsor ten to fifteen years, and they vouch for your reliability and abilities. You get a call and only told to get dressed. Getting “the call” is a big fucking deal. It’s called “opening the books” to the newest member. There’s a ceremony in a room were said member is required to take the oath of Omertà—the Mafia code of silence. After pleading, your trigger finger gets pricked. The dripping blood drops onto a picture of a Saint—typically St. Francis of Assisi or the Virgin Mary, depending on the family. The picture is then set on fire in your hand and burns until the member has sworn his loyalty to his family. “As this card burns, may my soul burn in hell if I betray the oath of Omertà,” or “As the saint burns, so will my soul. I enter alive and I will have to get out dead.” It’s all very dramatic, but fully part of this family we all belong to. The men consider this a blessing. I think of it as a curse. They are made to pay for the sins of their father’s…one way or another, it all catches up to you.
Most parents explain the birds and the bees to their sons…our families explain getting the call.
Charlie cleared his throat, and my thoughts returned. He opened the limo door, motioning for us to get in. It hadn’t been a question, of course. There were no choices here. It was: get in, or else. It was the “or else” part that made the bile rise from my stomach. Stefan didn’t ask, or even speak, but nodded and walked us confidently toward the open door. I was first to get in and scooted along the L-shaped bench until I reached the end. Stefan was next, sharing the bench with me, followed by Carlo, and then Charlie on the end. The door slammed shut, sealing our tomb.
There are moments in your life that set the course of who you’re going to be. Sometimes they’re small, subtle moments. Other times, not so much. And much like this one, you never see them coming. No one asks for their life to change…but it does. And I had a sick, nauseated feeling that this was one of those big moments that would affect the rest of our lives.
I worried my hands in my lap, praying death wasn’t in my near future. There were no guarantees, of course. Not in this family life. We were all expendable. Charlie reached above, dimming the bright interior lights. An ominous feeling came over me, and my natural instinct was to grab my throat. I blew out slowly, trying to calm myself, and Stefan placed a supportive hand on my thigh. I needed a Valium and a paper bag, but Stefan’s reassurance was just enough for now. His touch had a way of settling me. Centering me. I focused on his hand, drawing his heat deep into my chest…using it to balm the anxiety that squeezed my heart.
“No harm will come to you, Jordana. And no harm will come to you, Stefan,” Carlo said, crossing one leg over the other. His mannerism was of someone who didn’t have a care in the world. But I did. Suddenly, I had a ton of things I cared about. Staying alive was one of them. He pulled a thick cigar out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Smooth. “You don’t mind the smoke, do you?” he asked, toking and directing his question at me. His eyebrow rose, awaiting my answer.
I shook my head quickly, almost maniacally. Reel it in, I scolded myself. Of course, he wasn’t really asking. This was more of a test to see if I had the balls to say yes. He’d smoke the cigar regardless. He toked until the cherry was fiery red, and then he blew out a disgusting plume of smoke across the limo. I nearly choked, but it was more than the smoke. My internal red flag was waving, bullying me for attention. Cigars equaled Scarface, and Scarface equaled agonizing memories. Memories and demons I’d battled every day since.
Indifferent, Carlo relaxed into the cool leather seat, as Charlie’s eyes trained on my every move. The car pulled out of the underground parking garage, and we were on the move. Where? I hadn’t a fucking clue. I balanced myself on the balls of my hands to keep from leaning into Stefan. My body naturally craved to yield to him, but this wasn’t the time. Even with him here, I was threadbare on security. The limo made a left turn out and on to the main road. I was keeping a mental note of the direction we were heading.
I was startled by the sudden introduction of music into the cabin of the limo. Well, more like freaked out. It was Giacomo Puccini’s, “Madame Butterfly.” Two things entered my mind: my mother and Sunday gravy, and Fatal Attraction—the movie with the freakish Glenn Close. To say I was disturbed was putting it mildly. The green-eyed monster smiled across from me, and I was positive the exaggerated roll of my stomach was to his delight. Memories of my mother were ones of romance and natural beauty. They were warm and life was good. This wasn’t what the green-eyed monster was going for. The undertaker looked for the Glenn Close—unstable, aggressive, kiss your ass goodbye and life as you know it.
Carlo smiled, almost to himself, before speaking. “Who cannot live with honor must die without honor.”
I gulped, digging my fingernails into the curve of the seat.
“I have plenty of honor,” Stefan answered, crossing his own leg. I was the only one left sitting spine-straight. Who could fucking relax? What the fuck was going on? I wanted to scream. I didn’t, of course. I stared out the window, taking in whatever signs I could through the dark window tint, trying to get a fix on the direction we were heading. We seemed to be heading back toward my side of town. However, I couldn’t be sure. Fucking grease-balls and window tint, I stewed to myself.
From the corner of my eye, I watched as Carlo ashed his stogie into the ashtray on the door. “I agree. Honor, above all else.”
Stefan nodded once. He was a proud man and weighed every decision heavily.
“Which brings us to why we’re here.” Charlie dropped his phone in his lap, and the limo came to a stop. I sat back, trying to blend into the seat as best I could. This is it. I was sure of it. We were going to be chopped into pieces and used as chum for sharks off Montauk Point.
The interior divider parted slowly. “Ms. Albanese’s residence,” the driver called out.
Wait. What? “You brought us to my house?” My implausible voice shook with disbelief.
Carlo didn’t acknowledge my statement, but continued to enjoy the taste of his cigar. However, Charlie’s words cut me like a knife. “You.” He pointed with his fore and middle finger. Then he proceeded to open the limo door. Me, what about Stefan?
; “I’m not leaving without Stefan,” I announced, unyielding to any movement.
This time, it was Stefan who answered. “Yes you are, Tesoro.” He leaned in to kiss my shaking palm, and then pulled me up and out of my seat before I could respond. “Go.” He nodded.
I looked into his eyes and then to Carlo. His nod was the final nail in my coffin. What could I do? I wanted to scream and fall to my knees in despair, but my dramatics wouldn’t be appreciated or tolerated. Besides, I still had to get past my father. How could I possibly explain away all this? I couldn’t. So I did what any good catholic Italian girl would do. I nodded and made the sign of the cross, blessing Stefan and myself at the same time.
When I exited the limo, I didn’t meet the undertaker’s eyes. Instead, I looked to the heavens, grabbing the cross I got for my first holy communion. Gesù Cristo onnipotente tenerio al sicuro. Tenerlo al sicuro. Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio, e dell Spirito Santo, I prayed, walking up to my house. Jesus Christ Almighty, keep him safe. Keep him safe. In the name of the father, son and Holy Spirit.
There have been times in my life when I scoffed at prayer. Would God still hear me? And then I thought of what my mother used to tell me, “God looks at you and reads the language of your longing. At that moment, you are the prayer. So be content just to be a desperate prayer and let faith sustain you.”
I wasn’t praying for healing or for a new pair of shoes. This was my life…it was Stefan.
Our life.
The gate creaked as I slowly opened it, trying to remain as quiet as possible. I knew our security goons would be around, and I didn’t want to alert any of them that I had been out. That was the last thing I needed—my father asking me where I was. I felt quite certain that I couldn’t say Carlo Genovese had dropped me off at the house. It wasn’t believable. Hell, I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen the man with my own two eyes.
