by D J Parker
I could hear the Honeymooners still playing and even though there was a television in here, I decided to keep it off. I wanted to hear his movements. But there were none, just Jackie Gleason delivering his famous line, “One of these days…”
I had already decided I’d book another room at this hotel if he started talking about being an honorable man who protected women. I wrapped my hand around the knob and took a few deep breaths before I twisted the handle and swung the door back.
I stepped out of the bedroom, knowing there was no turning back. I was determined to march right out the front door until all the air escaped my lungs. Stopping short in the living room, I tried to pull my eyes away from the bare chest, toned arms, and rippled abs. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a body like his. Hell, Keith was ripped. But what caused me to pause was the number of scars all over his chest and abdomen. There were big ones and small ones. Judging by the colors, some were recent while others were old.
I fought the urge to run my fingers over his bruised skin. I fought the need to find justice for each scar—find justice for him. I needed to leave. Yet, I stood there watching this beautiful disaster.
An animalistic groan escaped him followed by words in Italian that I couldn’t understand. He continued, speaking sinisterly, chanting now a name that sounded most haunting against his lips. “Vincenzo.”
Is he the reason why you have all of these scars?
Just leave, I kept telling myself. Yet, I found myself walking toward the deranged voice. I knew all too well how it felt to be trapped in a dream, searching for freedom. I placed my hand over where the scar on the lower part of my belly was. Instead of the keloid scar reminding me of what I had lost two years ago, I felt the sequins from my dress. It was a wound with no victory.
More chants of “traitor” followed by vicious twisting and turning on the couch drove me closer to him. I stood over him with two options. I could save myself by leaving or I could save him by staying.
“Traitor…”
I dropped my heels on the floor and placed my clutch on the coffee table. I kneeled in front of him. Though my fingers itched to reach out to him, to stir him awake, I hesitated. The minutes went by and his dream seemed to grow darker as more words escaped him. There was no way I could leave him trapped in his nightmare. I reached out to him and placed my hand on the center of his chest.
“Wake up.”
Nicolai
“The Catholics called it Judas.” My father, Salvatore Balducci, rested his elbows against the wrought iron table near the olive grove. “We call it traitor. Rule number one, always be a man of honor.”
I followed the length of Papa’s arms. A million white hairs, usually wiry, now lay slick against his olive skin. Pockets of sweat seeped through his polyester shirt, causing it to stick to his armpits. I glanced down at my white t-shirt melted into my skin. Like Papa, I paid it no mind.
There was something about the sun in Palermo.
Hot.
Not just hot but maddeningly hot.
The type of heat that made me wonder what was hotter than hot.
As I thought about the answer, I eyed the heap of flaky, black iron chips pooled around my tattered, black Chucks. I scratched yet another piece off the rim of the table, exposing more of the yellowish-brown rust underneath. I glanced over at Vincenzo sitting in a matching iron chair, his feet barely touching the cracked cobblestone. Whenever he got a chance, he’d sit between Papa and me; perhaps not to be missed. And even though he’d ask random questions and tried to take over conversations, our father almost always ignored him. Yet, I noticed him now more than ever. Perhaps Papa did too. Vincenzo was quiet.
I followed Vincenzo’s blue eyes, stopping at Papa’s craggy face. Like my father, we inherited those distinct blue eyes. Papa looked between us before shifting his gaze to the field of olive trees that stretched back to a stone wall that nearly touched the sky. Mama said the wall, made of roe deer horns and stone blocks, kept Scylla and Charybdis, monsters who lived together in the sea, from luring people into the water at night.
“What happens to a traitor?” I asked, gliding my fingernails against the rusty rim of the table.
Papa rose from his seat, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked slowly around the terrace. He stopped in front of a leaning tree, plucking a green olive from the bunch. He rolled the olive between his fingers before turning around to face us.
“Death.”
That summer, I learned to hate traitors even more than I hated liars. The truth could be found in a lie. But a traitor was hard to detect because on top of being calculated and cunning, a traitor, at one point, had been loyal. True to my oath, I lived my life as a man of honor.
I trusted few people and there were fewer people on that list I’d take a bullet for. One just so happened to be tied down to the chair.
I leaned into Vincenzo, dropping twin kisses on his cheeks. Il bacio della morte, the kiss of death.
I stared into my little brother’s eyes and repeated what Salvatore had said a long time ago. “The Catholics called it Judas. We call it traitor.”
Deeply embittered, I reached behind my waist, sliding my Glock out. I lifted the steel and pressed the nozzle into Vincenzo’s chest. The pudgy boy, who couldn’t stop following me that summer in Palermo, appeared. I nearly lowered my gun until I blinked a few times. The spirit of that little boy who used to follow me around like a shadow was dead, murdered by an oath that was greater than myself. His treachery was his shrine.
“Traitor,” I whispered in Italian, pressing my index finger down on the trigger.
BAM!
I’ve lived this moment too many times to not know that this dream was my last memory with Vincenzo. Truth be told, it was the last memory I had where all four of us were in the same room. With Vincenzo in front of me and my cousins, Andriano and Battista, behind me, I was caught in the middle of duty and family. It always came down to choosing the lesser of two evils. And though I knew there’d be a day when I would have to choose, I thought the decision would be simple. But it wasn’t.
What scared me most about that day was how easy it had been to pull the trigger. I didn’t hesitate or second-guess. And in this lucid dream, I still didn’t hesitate. If there was one regret I had, it was that I didn’t do enough to keep Vincenzo away from this life.
Too many sons were brought into this life and too many sons had been slain in this life. Yet, I didn’t fear death because I accepted it as part of my life as a soldier of La Cosa Nostra. I never thought I’d kill my own flesh and blood, but Salvatore prepared me to kill anyone who betrayed the family. Vincenzo was a traitor and death, this way, was better than his fate being decided by the families. And despite the pain it brought on my mother, the truth never left that room. If it did, Salvatore would never allow her to mourn over a traitor.
Each time I dreamed about Vincenzo, I always asked his lifeless body one question: “Can you forgive me?”
And just as I was about to ask him, I heard, “Wake up.”
No one ever talked in this dream but me. I turned around to face my cousins, Andriano and Battista, but their grim gazes remained on the slain body.
“Wake up.”
I turned around to where the voice was coming from, but blackness was all around me. My heart thumped wildly in my chest. For the first time, in a long time, I felt scared. As if compelled, I began walking. I walked to nowhere, following the direction of where I thought the voice was coming from. The further I walked, the more I felt like I was approaching the end of a road that I could not see.
“Wake up!”
I jerked forward, twisting my body as I drew in shallow breaths. I glanced down at my hands. One hand was balled into a fist while the other was wrapped around something soft and warm. I blinked my bleary eyes a few times before realizing where I was and whom I had beneath me. Beautiful brown eyes, as dark as soil, stared up at me. She was defenseless beneath my body with my hand wrapped around her neck.<
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Most mornings when I wasn’t stuck in purgatory, reliving my final moment with Vincenzo, my ears were sharp enough to hear a cotton ball drop on a carpeted floor. That was the way Salvatore had trained me to be—alert and ready to respond.
I shifted my attention back to the woman beneath me. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her. It was as if I was under her spell. Beautiful brown lambent eyes stared at my soul, rescuing me from that dark place I’d been. All I wanted to do at that very moment was invade her, blow out the light in her eyes and in her touch. I loosened my fingers from around her neck, but I kept my hand there, gliding the pads of my fingers along her soft skin. I could smell her fear. But there was also another scent that was just as strong.
I forced myself to look away from her eyes, traveling down the bridge of her nose, past her sexy pout, stopping at her heavy breast that had slipped between the V-line of her dress. With the darkest nipple I’d ever seen, my mouth begged to taste her. And I would have, if all five of my senses weren’t pulled in another direction. I shoved my gaze past her bare flesh, setting my sight on her parted thighs. The split in her dress fell loosely away from her thighs.
She tried to close her thighs, but with my torso between her legs, they remained parted, emitting a scent that was driving my senses wild. I reluctantly dragged my eyes away, traveling along the planes and valleys that made her body undeniably sexy.
But when my gaze fell upon her nipple, I couldn’t resist. I lowered my mouth to her exposed flesh. Grazing my lips over her areole, my mouth began to water even more when her nipple came alive. The dark pebble pressed against my tongue. I pulled more of her breast between my lips, gliding my tongue over the morsel.
“Oh God.”
“God” never sounded so sexy until it came from her lips. She sunk her fingers into my hair, pulling my face closer into her.
I needed more.
With one hand still wrapped around her neck, my other hand traveled down the length of her body. There were too many fucking layers of clothes between us. I tore my mouth away from her breast. Grabbing the v-line of her dress, I tore the dress down the middle, freeing her breasts. I needed to see more. I needed to see the rest of her body. I tore the rest of her dress, splitting it down completely. She shivered under my gaze.
A primal need blazed through me. How could I want to kiss, touch, and taste all at the same time?
I ran a finger down her parted lips, tracing the valley between her breasts. She was panting, breathing deeply as my fingers became familiar with her skin. I followed the imaginary line my finger drew into her skin. My finger ran along the ridges below her navel.
She froze.
I looked down at the marred skin and ran my fingers over it again. I lowered my face to her belly, kissing the skin around her navel, lowering my lips to the scar.
“My scars have stories too,” I whispered against her skin.
I kissed the line. But that wasn’t enough. She needed to know that she was beautiful no matter what. I traced the scar with my tongue, somehow connecting with that piece of her that made her self-conscious. She was trembling. I glanced up at her. Traces of silent tears ran down the sides of her face.
This scar carried pain that still hurt her today. I understood. There were many nights when I dreamed about each scar I had. I needed to take the hurt away, make her forget. I kissed along her pubic bone, basking in her feral scent. I went lower, stopping at the black lace covering her pussy. I pushed my nose into her, inhaling that sweet heat. It was overpowering, consuming all of my senses. God, I wanted to paint my face with her pussy, but I had to savor this moment. She lifted her hips up, thrusting her soaking pussy into my mouth as her hands held my head in place. I nearly came at that very moment.
I pressed my lips into the lacy mound, kissing her damp lips. My tongue welled with the need to taste her. I pushed the crotch of her thong to the side. She was bare, save for the landing strip of hair that ran down the middle of her mound. Her lips were puffy and glazed with her essence. Usually, I touched—I’d slide one or two fingers in and play with a woman’s clit. But tonight, touching would not do. My tongue needed to explore the treasure beyond her dark lips. Was she pink in there or did her dark skin spread in between her lips? Would she grip my tongue as my mouth fucked her? Would she come in my mouth if I asked her?
I fisted the lacy thong in one hand and tore it off, exposing her naked sex. I inched closer to her pussy with my mouth open and ready for answers. My tongue glided down her dewy slit, breaking the seal that hid her bloom. I pushed her thighs back, spreading her pussy lips further apart. I closed my eyes, savoring every moment. Her taste was unreal. I could taste hints of pineapple along with an aromatic spice like cinnamon. There was an overpowering flavor that wasn’t as sweet or as savory, but addictive. My tongue went deeper, searching for the source. My shoulder blades pressed into her thighs, pushing them back as I continued to dive head first into her pussy.
I ate her pussy using no utensils, just straight tongue. I slid my tongue up and latched onto her throbbing clit.
She bucked.
I pulled back. I wasn’t ready for her to come yet.
“Stop teasing me.” She tugged on my hair that had escaped from my ponytail. “I want to come so damn bad. Please let me come.”
Fuck.
This woman was the author of my insanity. As much as I wanted to quit teasing and pound that wet pussy into the marble tile, I pulled back completely. Removing her fingers from my hair had been the hardest part, but she released with a whimper that convinced me she’d reached her breaking point.
I kneeled above her, watching her watch me. She had already replaced my face with her hand, rubbing on her pussy and moaning, “Come fuck this pussy.”
I turned away from her with a raging hard cock that was strained against my pants. I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I grabbed the three condoms I kept inside and tossed my wallet onto the coffee table.
“Tell me how much you want this dick,” I demanded as I turned back to her. She was rubbing her pussy faster and harder as she stared up at me.
I pushed her hand away from her pussy. I’d become completely possessive over her orgasm. If anyone was going to make her come, it was going to be me. “You don’t touch your pussy unless I tell you.”
“Don’t make me wait.” She spread her legs further apart, showing more of her glistening flesh. “I want your dick now.”
I needed to know how much she wanted my dick. The way she had demanded I not make her wait almost made me bust in my pants. I tugged on my belt buckle, followed by the button on my slacks, and shoved my slacks down.
“Tell me how much you want my dick,” I said, shoving my boxers over my erection. I palmed my cock, smearing my precum along my shaft as I stroked.
“I want your dick so bad.”
“How bad?”
“Real bad. I’ll let you fuck me any kind of way just as long as I get your dick.”
I was losing control of my sanity. My eyes dropped down to her pink flesh, blooming against her glistening dark lips.
“Rub your clit,” I commanded.
She ran her fingers over her pussy, rubbing her clit. She lifted her pelvis, rubbing her pussy hard and slow.
“You’re unreal,” I groaned in Italian. “Keep rubbing that pussy.”
“Please...” she begged as I looped her thigh over my forearm. “Come fuck me.”
“Rub that clit, baby,” I demanded, leading the tip of my dick to her entrance.
A primal, guttural sound escaped her lips as I slid inch after inch into her until her pussy swallowed most of me. She moved her hand from her clit to grip my shoulders as I thrust in and out of her. I leaned forward, pressing her knee to her shoulder so she could feel all of me.
“Oh fuck!” She clawed at my shoulder and chest.
“You can take it, baby,” I whispered against her ear as I sunk my dick a little deeper into her. “Just a little bit more.”
I bent my head forward, taking one of her nipples into my mouth. My tongue lapped against her hardened nipple. I was convinced that there wasn’t a part of her body that didn’t taste delicious. I released her nipple and went back to her panting pout. I muffled Italian words against her lips.
“Come get this pussy,” she moaned into my lips. “Get this pussy, baby.”
I gripped her hips as I eased my dick out of her and plunged it back in.
She sank her teeth into my shoulder blade, burying her moans into my skin.
“Mine,” I repeated in Italian, slamming into her. “Mine.”
Within a blink of an eye, she managed to flip me onto my back, straddling me.
“No, baby, this is my dick tonight,” she moaned, tilting her head back as she matched each thrust while gripping her pussy rhythmically.
My dick devoured her as she clenched tightly. Her walls throbbed around my shaft. She smirked, perhaps taking pleasure in watching my struggle to keep my eyes from rolling to the back of my head as she worked her hips into each stroke. I bit my bottom lip, trying to keep from busting right then and there. Never had any woman taken control of my dick the way she had. I was so close to nutting, but I wanted this feeling to last a little longer. I grabbed her hips and turned her onto her side before flipping her onto her stomach. I tore the rest of her dress off her body and flung it across the room. I ran my fingers down the tattoo in the middle of her back that looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics. What part of this woman’s body wasn’t sexy?
I slapped her ass and commanded that she raise up on her knees. I wrapped my hand around my dick, squeezing it slightly to keep from busting the moment she got on all fours and spread her legs. Her swollen sex glistened. Her inner thighs bathed in her flow. She whipped her head to the side, seductively looking at me.
