by Mj Fields
“She assured me I was good at many things, none of which were true. I pushed her away and, over the next few days, wouldn’t answer my phone or messages. I slept and cried. Dominic came and forced me to go back to Italy.”
“You were in Italy?”
“We go every holiday,” she tells me.
I feel sick to my stomach, considering all the men who want my head on a platter and grateful they have left her alone.
“While shopping and walking through the vineyards, I took pictures and posted them as I always did. Thousands of people liked, commented, and sent messages telling me they were glad I was back.
“Aunt Joe flew to Italy a few days later and sat down with me. She showed me that, although I may not see what I’m good at, she did, and so did thousands of my fans.” She looks back and laughs. “Fans of what? I asked her. She told me, my lifestyle.”
“People are always gonna want what you have, Valentina.”
“Well, I guess, but it’s become a business, and it keeps me busy.”
She rubs her hands up and down my thighs, and my cock stiffens more. It never went completely soft, even after filling her mouth with my cum.
“You get paid to post pictures?”
She laughs. “Something like that.” She leans back against me and lets out a breath. “I’ve been busy trying to be a good mom, a business woman, and keeping busy because, when I’m not, I miss you terribly.”
“Do you have friends, Valentina?”
“Yes, I have Laney, Nikki, Mel, and Paige. We talk and send messages, things I suppose I missed as a teenager. Once a month, we do a night out without kids.”
“I’m proud of you.”
She looks up at me, showing every damn emotion she says she tries to hide. Secretly, I hope that, as strong as she has become, she allows others to see what it is she fought so hard to hide.
She turns her body and grabs my cock, stroking it slowly up and down.
I close my eyes, and she stops.
“You must be tired.”
I nod.
She stands and steps to the side. “Move forward.”
Capitolo Sei
Valentina
When I had asked him if he wanted to talk about his scars he told me no, so I rambled. Oh God, how I rambled.
Sitting behind him as he rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, I start to wash his back, trying so hard to hide all the emotions I have hidden since seeing him in the bathroom lighting. It pains me not to ask, but I can’t push too hard.
When I finish, I press a kiss to his back, which startles him.
“Were you asleep?” I ask as he stands quickly.
“Haven’t slept in nine years,” he answers, stepping out of the tub and grabbing a towel. He turns and hands it to me, and I notice his eyes are red and unfocused, as if he were in fact asleep. I also notice he is no longer hard.
I wrap the towel around my body as he grabs another and wipes his off, walking into the bedroom.
I follow him out and watch as he bends down to grab his pants.
I take his hand. “Sleep here.”
“I can’t,” he says, pulling his hand back. “Your children will see me, and I have a flight to catch in the morning.”
The warmth of our time becomes a chill when he says the words your children. Regardless, I won’t back down, and I won’t do it in a way he will view me as weak and emotionally driven.
I am not weak.
“Franco, you look exhausted. Sleep. I’ll wake the girls. Our girls go to school in the morning. After they leave, we can work on a way to keep you here.” When he says nothing, I get into bed. “Come, Franco.”
He looks at me, the bed, and me again.
“Valentina …” he begins.
“Please.”
He lies down beside me on his back, and I swallow back the feeling of being tossed aside.
I get up and walk to the door, locking it so the girls can’t bust in and jump on the bed like monkeys if I oversleep. Then I shut and lock the balcony door before arming the security system.
Climbing on the bed, I look at the app on my phone that shows me every room in our home. The last room is theirs. I see them lying in bed, sleeping peacefully, before putting the phone on the charging pad beside my bed. I lie down and up against him.
“Can you sleep like this?”
“I can try,” he says, still stiff and unmoving.
I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat and allowing it to lull me to sleep.
When I awaken, he is gone.
I take my phone and call Vincent immediately.
“Where is he?”
“Good morning, Miss Segretti.”
“Vincent, don’t toy with me. Answer the question.”
“Miss Segretti …” he sighs out.
“Do you enjoy your employment?” I snarl.
“Do you enjoy feeling safe, Valentina?” It’s Franco.
“Why did you leave without a word?” I ask in an eerie calm that even I don’t recognize.
“I made a choice years ago—”
“You made a choice to come here last night, as well,” I cut him off.
“And unfortunately, I allowed myself to be weak.”
“You—”
“I am going to board a plan to Italy, because that is where I was born. I am to meet with the Italian polizia to be interviewed, because that is a condition of returning to Italy. There are no guarantees that I will not be hunted down and punished for taking his life.”
“Which is why we need to talk to a lawyer, Franco. Why we—”
“There is no we, Valentina. As I said, years ago—”
“Your children,” I say, on the verge of tears.
“You and your daughters are much safer without me. Again, as I said years ago—”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare do this to me, or to them, or to yourself, Franco.”
“I’ve lived in purgatory for years. It’s time to come face to face with—”
“Vincent!” I yell.
“Do not look for me,” Franco cuts me off.
“Do you care nothing for—”
“For all those years, I had one regret, Valentina. I will not make that mistake again. This conversation will not be tangled in lies. I died nine years ago. Move on with your life. Continue—”
Something snaps inside me.
“I will look for you, I will find you, and I will make your life a living hell.”
When the phone disconnects, I wait for tears to fall, but they don’t. Not one.
I get out of bed and pull the duvet and the sheets off it to be laundered. Then I walk to the door and unlock it in case my beauties come in while I am showering.
After I am showered, I dress in comfortable attire and stand for a moment, looking at the outfit inside my closet that was chosen for this day—Franco’s homecoming.
The knee-length, sleeveless, lead gray, silk dress now taunts me.
I then look down at the black Armani stilettos made of goatskin. I fell in love with the braided laces that added a sexy, feminine look.
I take the dress off the hanger and drape it over my arm. I contemplate grabbing the heels, as well, but I decide against it.
Disarming the alarm, I walk out onto the balcony where I throw the Armani over the edge and watch it float in the breeze and land in the ocean before walking back inside.
I look back to my walk-in closet, trying to convince myself to get rid of the heels, as well. I quickly decide against it. No man is worth never walking a day in those heels.
The girls are happy that I make pancakes without prompt this morning. I go through our normal routine without skewed emotions.
After dropping them off at school, I head to the yoga studio, as I always do, needing to keep the routine for me now.
When I walk inside, Mel, Nikki, and Paige are there. All their smiles fall as they look at me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
&nb
sp; “You tell us,” Paige says as she walks toward me and hugs me.
I find comfort in her hug, true comfort from a true friend, each and every one of them.
When I tell them what happened, Nikki is the first to say she is sorry, yet she thinks what he is doing is admirable.
She’s entitled to her opinion, so I don’t argue, regardless of how much I want to.
When Mel hugs me again, she whispers in my ear, “I’m here for you.”
I knew she would be.
Paige is a different story. Having just gone through her fourth heartbreak in a year’s time, she tells me, “I’ll help cut his nuts off.”
I am not allowed to go home. They juggle their schedules so that one of them is always with me until it’s time to pick up my girls.
When Mel and I are alone, I ask her to please let Sabato know I may need his help.
Outside from the obvious hurt, I am sick with fear that I may never see him again.
What they do not know is that I’m terrified for the safety of amio amante.
Capitolo Sette
Franco
It should not have felt good to deny Vincent his request to join me, but it does.
Vincent is in love with her. Not only is he in love with her, he’s in love with her—yes, her—children. So, yes, I hope she gives him the hell she gave me during all those years. Without feeling her wrath, he doesn’t deserve her warmth.
It should not feel freeing to be heading toward my inevitable death, but it does.
The closer I come to my death, the sooner the pain of hurting her and the pain of losing her to another will end.
When I asked Vincent if he loved her, he did not lie to me. He asked me how it was that I could leave her again. He told me she had waited for me. He told me I was a fool.
When he left me at the hotel, I had no intention of going back, no intention of making sure her and those girls were in a safe home, surrounded by people who wished her no harm. When I spotted him on his night off doing the same, I couldn’t stay away from her. It was selfish.
It should not feel good to have left her again, but I did it without lies.
When I saw the hope in her eyes, I forced myself to enjoy giving her the pleasure she deserved. And yes, I enjoyed what she gave me, but I didn’t fuck her. Lying in bed with her, not fucking her, she knew, or at the very least, suspected I was leaving. No lie was told.
It should break my heart to know that I still love her, more so now, but it doesn’t.
The pain in my chest after leaving behind those two beautiful children was more painful yesterday than it is today.
I close my eyes as the plane takes off. I refuse to let fear or concern for anything keep me from one last decent slumber. After all, I am certain there is no time to rest in hell than there was in New Jersey State Prison.
Walking off the flight bridge at Pisa International Airport and through the security doors, I hold my head high. I carry with me hope that, if I make it out of here and to my parents’ home, I will be given the chance to say goodbye to them properly. When I then spot a man in a black suit watching me, I worry for a moment that I will not be able to do so.
Pushing fear away, I walk toward him, prepared to face the very thing I prepared myself to face all those years ago.
“Franco Protettore, come with me.”
I follow him through the airport and outside, where he turns toward me and reaches into my pocket.
“If you’re here to end me, I would suggest doing so away from a crowd.”
Amusement strikes his eyes. “Franco, I apologize for not introducing myself. I am Detective Archangello. I am simply here to ask that, for the next six months, you keep in contact with me or someone in my office twice a month.”
I nod. “Probation.”
“No, you’ve done your time.”
“In the United States,” I remind him. “I killed an Italian.”
“I’m well-aware of who you killed. Benito DeLuca.”
I wait for something more. Half the Italian polizia was in DeLuca’s pockets for most of my life.
“I’m not Mafiosi. As a matter of fact, there are very few known these days.” He leans against a car, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, takes one out, and lights it. Then he inhales and holds out the pack to me. “Would you like one?”
“I don’t smoke,” I inform him.
“Right.” He nods. “It could kill you.”
I nod, still waiting for him to give me a sign that he is full of shit.
He shoves the pack back into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “There’s money inside. Your assets are frozen. When we release them, we’ll deduct what’s in here. My card is inside.”
“Thank you.” I take the envelope. “Will that be all?”
“Where are you heading?”
I don’t answer him. I still don’t trust the man.
“You’re under no obligation to answer. I was just curious if you’d be heading to Anghiari to visit your parents, or Livorno to see about getting your employment back with the Segretti family.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I shove the envelope in my pocket.
“You may have a hard time getting a car, but the train will take you to Livorno.” He throws down his cigarette, steps forward, and stomps it out. “Talk to you soon.” With that, he starts to turn, but then stops. “And Franco, for what it’s worth, I’m glad the fucker’s dead.” He gets in his car and peels away from the curb.
Walking toward the closest cafe, I allow myself to survive at least long enough to get a real cup of caffè. Americans haven’t a clue that the shit they drink is just the watered-down version of what coffee should taste like. Americans call it espresso.
I look at my watch, feeling a bit jet-legged, and realize un caffè doppio, or as Americans call it, a double espresso it is.
Cappuccino is only for morning consumption. It’s actually disgusting to think of all that hot milk product on a full stomach. The difference between a real cafe and the American version, Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts, and ours is like night and day. We give our order before paying for it, and we don’t sit and sip caffè. We stand and drink it.
“Un caffè doppio,” I tell the barista, then wait for my drink, then pay.
Outside, I head toward the train station when I hear someone from behind me yelling. I look back to see a frantic woman pointing toward a man, who is carrying what I assume is her purse. I try to ignore it, but when she takes off after him down an alley, it’s unavoidable.
As I run toward them, I slow to look around, right before I feel a sharp pain at the back of my head.
I wake up moaning, my head pounding, and a scent that is unmistakable.
My hands are tied behind my back, I am blindfolded and gagged, sitting on what feels like a wooden plank. The room is cold, and aside from pussy, I smell dampness.
“He’s awake,” I hear a female say in a husky voice, and then I hear heels clicking toward me. “He’s a beautiful specimen.” The voice is closer now. Then I feel strands of leather across my bare chest before it trails down my abdomen.
“We were told not to touch him,” another female whispers.
“We were told not to fuck him,” the first replies, and then I feel a burst of air and inhale the scent of cigarette smoke, cloves. “I’m not sure he would mind.” I feel the leather strands against my nipples now. “Would you like your cock sucked?”
Death by fucking, I think to myself.
I hear the crack of a whip before I feel its sting against my abdomen.
“I asked you a question,” she speaks harshly now.
“He’s gagged, Signora Gia,” the other one whispers.
“Then remove the damn thing.”
“We were told not to—”
I hear the crack of the whip again. This time, I don’t feel it, but I hear the meeker voice whimper.
“Remove his gag and blindfold,” she demands.
“Yes, Signora G
ia.”
When the gag and blindfold are removed, my eyes adjust to the lighting as I look at my surroundings.
Un-fucking-real.
“Where the hell am I?” I yell at the two women in the concrete room.
“Shh … you’ll disturbed the others,” the smaller one in lace, covered in tattoos, and not the one in leather, the one she calls Signora Gia, tells me.
“Untie my fucking hands,” I demand.
“Shut your mouth.” Gia smacks my nipples with the leather flogger.
“You bitch,” I sneer at her.
Lace gasps and warns, “Don’t make Signora Gia unhappy.”
I laugh manically. “I’m not in the least bit afraid of her.”
“You should be, foolish man,” lace and tattoos tell me.
“Enough!” Leather cracks the whip over the other’s ass, and I yank hard at my restraints, trying to free myself to help her. It’s of no use.
I look quickly at the one I call Lace. She appears far from upset by being whipped. In fact, she looks turned on by the act, which is confirmed by what she says next.
“Thank you, Signora. May I have another?”
Signora Gia tells her, “You can wait.”
“But I want it now,” she tells her with a nod.
“Bend over his knee.”
Lace looks at me apologetically then shakes her head.
The whip is cracked in the air. “Now!”
When the small woman in lace lies across my body, I rest my head against the wood I am bound to and close my eyes.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
“You disobeyed me,” Gia says with eerie calm.
The first crack of the whip sounds, and then the snap to the ass.
The sounds coming from Lace pains me.
The next crack of the whip, the sound is more of a moan
The next is the same.
Then, when I feel like I can’t take anymore, her feet are kicked apart, and Gia uses the flogger in her other hand, snapping her wrist and landing a sharp slap between them.
