The Legacy: A Mafia Bad Boy Romance

by Xander Hades

  I waved him off and stomped back into the shop and stared at the figure I had been working on back before my whole world blew up.

  “You’re just lucky I didn’t bring that ax back in with me,” I told it.

  I was sweating, sore, aching and my shoulders burned from the swings I’d put on that pole. I didn’t feel a lot better though. I was still angry as hell, I was just too exhausted to do anything with the anger.

  And then she showed up.

  Chapter 7

  Deanna

  I suppose it was too soon to tip my hand, but I really thought he’d go for it. He’s been carving on those damn logs since he stole a pocket knife when he was eight. I’d heard it from Tony, I’d heard it from others…hell, I heard from him that all he wanted to do was carve his wood pieces. I had thought he and I could… you know…strike a deal.

  I really hadn’t expected him to fire back at me like that.

  In retrospect, I don’t think it had anything to do with what was going on today. This whole mess was about the past, the history. I’d made a huge mistake. I should have cleared that up first, made peace then hit him with it. But I’d figured he wasn’t about to forgive me no matter what.

  So it was a day of the unexpected. Hudson was packing heat, there was a surprise. It was as useful as a playing card pinned to the spokes of a jet engine, but somebody had armed him. You kind of had to wonder at the conversation that had led to that because I sure as hell know Hudson wouldn’t be carrying anything without Daddy’s blessing.

  Speaking of which.

  So next thing you know my father showed up with one of his men, one of mine by default I suppose. This guy was new here, came four years ago while I was at school. I looked at him, tall, kind of thick Italian straight out of the old county. I never found out his name. I wondered if I should. Except Daddy was busy looking at the door that was in splinters and hanging resentfully from one hinge.

  “Find someone to replace my daughter’s door,” Daddy said.

  The man nodded.

  “Make sure it’s solid core, though. God knows I have no interest to know what goes in this room.”

  I cringed.

  He knew.

  Daddy walked off whistling and I was left standing there pulling my jaw off the floor.

  When he was safely out of sight, I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I had given away too much too soon. But Michael was angry, I’d never seen him that angry.

  And he was off balance. I just needed him to stay that way until this all blew over. Well, at least until Daddy was satisfied that his little girl was safely wed. By the time I was done with him, Michael would have everything he ever wanted; freedom and endless wood to carve. Maybe I’d even get him some of that California Redwood to play with. I saw how he’d been eyeing my father’s desk.

  I just needed time. Time to build.

  Time to blow off some steam.

  I wanted to go out to the stables, to go for a ride. That was one of the advantages of not living in the city. When we’ve moved out to the suburbs I’d argued long and hard for a place where I could have my own horse. I’d even done that whole horse show thing at one point. Now mostly I rattled around on the bridle paths to blow off steam. So I got up and even changed – jeans, old shirt, boots. But instead of the stable, I found myself in the garage opening the door to the Jaguar and looking around for some clue as to where I was going.

  I knew, I just didn’t want to admit it.

  I pulled up in front of Michael’s place and didn’t bother knocking. I walked right in like I owned the joint. Kind of the way he’d stormed into my bedroom but with fewer splinters and property damage.

  His men eyed me but kept their distance as I marched through the front door. They’d been my father’s men before his father’s, they had no reason to stop me. As I cut through the house, I heard some of the men call out a greeting, but I was a little focused. I didn’t need to ask where he was, there was only one place he would be.

  His workshop was in the back of the house, some converted conservatory with plenty of natural lighting. I’d wanted to sneak in and thankfully no one had ratted me out. I made it to the doorway unchallenged and eased it open carefully.

  He was working on something, a box of some sort, and lost as ever in his manipulations of the wood. I slipped inside, my eyes on his hands wondering how his fingers could create something that beautiful and recognizable from a chunk of firewood.

  He set some metal tool against the block, and I watched a long spiral of ribbon fall to the floor. I’d watched him work before, but it had been years and my breath caught in my throat. How much strength did it take to shave with such precision, to work with something that hard and create something that had so much form, so much grace?

  So much art.

  I must have made a noise because his hand stilled. His head came up sharply, eyes dark. Not angry…not anything. Maybe he was still a little lost in the vision of what he was creating. In fact, that had to be it, because there could be no other possible explanation for the way his face shifted, became almost hungry as his gaze took me in.

  No other possible explanation at all.

  I opened my mouth to explain why I was there, to let him know my plan, to get him on my side, but no words formed in my brain, nothing came to me. He stared at me with those deep smoldering eyes and flexed his fingers into fists. I didn’t know if he was stretching them after working them so hard on his carving or if he wanted to pummel me.

  I couldn’t breathe. He had been working with his shirt off and the boy I’d known had become a chiseled man. Broad chest, thick arms, rolling abs… every girl’s wet dream right down to the sawdust in his hair and on the stubble on his jaw.

  He crossed the distance between us in a single long step, so fast I barely had time to register his approach and then his hand was in my hair, pulling it hard, forcing my head to tilt up. I gasped as he pressed his mouth against mine, and long slender fingers, muscled with years of intimate labor forming beautiful creations, tore at my shirt.

  My hands went to his back. He smelled of fresh-cut wood and soap and sweat and I threaded my fingers through that thick mane of his and forced him to kiss me harder, deeper. He grabbed me hard, around the waist and picked me up like a child. I was set down on a bench, wood pieces, chisels, flying everywhere as he slid me over to displace them. A glass jar full of small tools and brushes rolled past me, and I made a half-hearted grab at it but my attention was elsewhere. Tools clattered to the floor, the glass shattered like a little bomb as his hands tore at my shirt, ignoring buttons and convention both as he tore it from me, the fabric parting with a long rip.

  I was fighting his belt. I hated men’s belts, I always will, but he reached down and slipped it free and then tore into my jeans. I had his pants down around his ankles by the time he had mine open. He couldn’t slide them off with me sitting on them, so he pulled me roughly off the bench, tore the jeans and panties down in a single move and spun me around.

  I squealed as I fell forward, my body draped over the work table. He swept away curling thin strips of pulp and little daggers of splinters with one large gesture of his arm. I lay on my belly, grabbing at the table, breathing hard as he held me down with one arm and pulled my legs in the air to yank the boots off and free me from all my clothing that had gotten tangled around my feet.

  I was laughing by then, the whole thing ridiculous…delightful. Later I’d probably have regrets but here in the now this was crazy, this was fun this was…something I had no words for.

  As he pressed me against the table, I could feel his hard flesh at the entrance to my sex and his hands moved to my sides. With one mighty heave, he was inside of me. I was wet enough, but I wasn’t ready and I cried in an animal cry of lust and surprise. It hurt—it had been awhile— but that passed. I welcomed the hurt, I welcomed his aggression. It sounds wrong, but at the time it felt right. Very right.

  I lay on my belly as he slammed into
me. My whole body jolted, and I scrambled to find something to hold onto. His grunts mingled with my sharp cries. I wanted more of him, hated the angle. The table was hard against my stomach and breasts, yet the violence of our passion had already brought me to the point of climax. I bit back a scream as he pulled out and I found myself begging with the single word, “Please.” over and over as cold air hit my ass and he didn’t come back. Then his hands found me, pulling me up and turning me so that I was facing him. I attacked him with kisses, grasping his shoulders and pulling him in close, practically climbing up him, raising one leg to snake around his waist, one hand dropping between us to arrange him where I wanted. He batted my searching fingers away and pulled me up so that I was wrapped around him, his hands on my ass as he brought us together and he filled me again.

  This time he entered me slow and I screamed with the exquisite torture of it. My eyes met his, dazed, seeing the absolute carnal lust co-mingled with something else before his head came down and he covered my lips with his. My lips were bruised…or maybe that was his…in the passionate devouring that ensued, one kiss followed by another until we were breathless and somehow I’d ended sprawled on my back on that table as he bent over me, and thrust again, this time with a hand positively mauling my breast.

  Not that I was a passive player here. I could clearly see the teeth marks I’d left on his shoulder, and could only imagine at the gouges my manicured nails were leaving down his back.

  Damn, but It had been a long, long time. He was so hard, so furious and even then I was surprised at how I responded in kind. I wrapped my legs around him, wanting him deeper, needing him to take me, consume me. To use me that I might use him.

  I couldn’t feel the table anymore, I couldn’t feel anything except him. His hands, his glorious cock, his breath as we danced on the table’s surface. I cried out again, not with pain or surprise, I cried with need for release and when he came I exploded around him. I bucked and spasmed and thrashed and bit down on his shoulder a second time, crying into his flesh.

  I held him as wave after wave of release ran through me.

  It was so intense that the room felt hazy and strange. Nothing was real anymore but the way his eyes smoldered and lusted as he looked down on me while my body jolted with the after-effects of the most glorious orgasm I’d ever had in my life.

  Then little by little I became aware of the table under me. How I must have looked to him just then. Naked. Accepting him as my sculptor, his newest creation come to life.

  For a moment, the world was right and good and made sense.

  Then we started talking.

  Chapter 8

  Deanna

  There is something strangely erotic about being laid out naked on a table. Michael stood next to me, his fingertips wandering along my rib cage making me shiver deliciously. God, he looked good, sweaty and smelling of sex, eyes positively smoldering as he hovered over me. I caught my breath as he caught a high stool with his foot and pulled it over. He sat heavily and draped an arm around my hips, let his head fall to my chest.

  I ran my fingers through his hair and tenderly touched the raw flesh where my fingernails had bit in. It looked painful. I fought the urge to say I was sorry. Truthfully, I wasn’t sorry in the least. I touched a place where the fingernail had removed a few layers of skin. He jumped.

  Our eyes met.

  I’m not sure who looked away first. We’d hit that awkward stage where reality intrudes and the world starts to become real. I sat up a little. The pose no longer felt erotic. The table was hard and uncomfortable. The room was cold. Small things that fought against the arousal of watching the play of muscles under his skin, the way he moved as he shifted, his hand moving to trace a path to my navel.

  Yet oddly, I don’t even think he knew I was there.

  Even in the meeting of our eyes there had been a…distance. He’d jumped when I touched him, then retreated again. Michael the rock, the moody artistic one. Nothing like his father. Or thankfully, his brother.

  But it’s not exactly flattering to be ignored, and he’d definitely disappeared into his head.

  What are you thinking, Michael? Is there room for me in there?

  He sat up a bit, propping his head on his arm, and his arm on my waist. For a moment, it was like the way it was exactly the way it had been before, back when we were kids. I saw that tangle-haired high schooler in the man that faced me and my broken heart realigned just the littlest bit.

  Like coming home.

  And it scared the shit out of me.

  “I needed that,” I said, aiming for a tone that was casual and would give nothing away. It must have worked because he nodded silently and straightened. I could see the walls come up again, the separation between us. I’d wanted that, right? Hearts don’t break when there are walls between them.

  Right?

  He gripped my leg, hand firm and strong. Fingers stroking my calf almost idly. I shifted a little wanting to meet his eyes, but he kept his face turned away.

  Distancing himself further. Disappearing before my eyes.

  “There hasn’t been anyone since you,” he said so softly I could barely hear him.

  I drew in my breath sharply. This was a shock to me. I had pictured him in the arms of a thousand women. Certainly, he had had the opportunity.

  Did I dare admit the same thing?

  I blushed, not quite ready to admit to my own deception just yet. It was my turn to look away.

  He stood and fought the mess that I’d made of his pants, untwisting them from around his ankles and pulling them up again. I slid off the table in silence, and followed suit with my jeans, kicking myself for whatever it was I’d done wrong that had ruined the moment. Maybe there simply was too much history between us. Maybe being together was as impossible as we’d both initially thought.

  Except for a moment there I’d thought…well…maybe we could have worked something out.

  I slipped into my jeans, pulled my socks and boots back on and ended up staring at the shredded rag that was once my shirt.

  Michael took it from my hands and shook it out. There was a most decided tear down all one side. He raised an eyebrow.

  “No. I am not going home topless. Besides, today, of all days, I didn’t wear a bra.”

  “I think I noticed that. And appreciated it greatly at the time.” He smiled at me. An honest-to-God smile and walked over a chair on the other side of the room and came back with a button-down dress shirt – the same one he’d worn when he was at the house. Wordless, he handed it to me.

  “Don’t you think they’ll catch on if I’m wearing your shirt?” The joke felt desperate, but I didn’t want him to retreat again. I didn’t want to retreat again. There was this part of me that thought maybe, just maybe we could find some kind of common ground. That we could both get what we wanted…and maybe something more besides.

  He turned around, presenting me with his back, turning his head to speak over his shoulder. “If this looks anything like it feels, they’ll know for sure.”

  “Yeah.” I stared at the long rows of welts that I’d left him. It looked like he’d tangled with an escaped tiger from the zoo. I thought I’d been blushing before. My cheeks found a special shade of red just for this occasion that would have lit up all of Navy Pier. “Um…They will.”

  Michael moved to the table, his foot kicking at the broken glass on the floor. Bending to pick up a tool, a bit of paper. I found myself kneeling to help him, but he waved me away. I watched as he got a broom and dustpan and started to clean up the mess.

  “So…Why?” Michael asked as he swept. I didn’t need to have him spell it out. The ‘why’ was about the thing that had been between us, over us and through us for years. ‘Why’ meant that whole part of our lives, the pain we’d both endured. Why had I created that mess…then thought I could fix it by creating another.

  I watched broken glass rattle into the pan and knew that the simple question, ‘Why’ also meant, maybe, that he was
finally ready to listen.

  I hoped so.

  I slipped on his shirt that I’d been twisting into a wrinkled mess in my hands.

  “I hated my father,” I said in a flat tone. Without emotion. It had taken thousands of Daddy’s dollars in therapy bills to be able to do that. To realize that I hated him for how he got enough money to pay for my therapy. And for what the whole damn lifestyle had done to my mother. “I hated him. I knew that I was being… saved. That someday one of his boys would take me and I’d get no say in the matter. Not that I understood why back then. I knew I was a bargaining chip. Just like my mother was when she was told she was marrying Dinky D’Angelo.”

  I let the shirt hang loose, I felt like a kid playing dress up. “I was scared.” I took a shaky breath. “It killed her.”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to you that I was the one you were going to be ‘given’ to?”

  “Yeah,” It was hard to say it. To put it into words though back then I maybe could have. Everything had been so black and white then. So…uncomplicated. “It did. And I resented you for that too. Maybe I resented you more than him. You were my friend, I trusted you. And then to be…”

  “Did it ever occur to you that it wasn’t my idea?” Michael threw the broom down. It clattered on the floor, landing in a pile of sawdust.