by Sienna Mynx
Was she ready?
In the mix, she lost sight of Giovanni. Mira knew the main course would be served in less than an hour, after sunset. Giovanni didn’t eat unless his meal was plated by Mira’s hand. When that tradition became routine for them she wasn’t sure. Things between them happened organically, as did her acceptance of the rules and discipline of their life.
After finding her daughter in the middle of kids dancing in the sunroom to Rocco’s harmonica, she decided to seek a quiet place of her own. A place where the stares and constant fake smiles didn’t drain on her confidence so much.
It meant she’d have to go upstairs. So Mira climbed the elegant grey marble stairway and didn’t look back. The high ceiling hall that led to the sitting rooms and away from the bedrooms was empty, except for two men posted on either side. She entered the first one she could find and welcomed the silence. Mira approached the folding French doors and pushed them outward. They gave way to a wrought iron balcony overlooking a charming gazebo with wild blue roses growing along twisting vines. She leaned on the balcony, and the evening breeze washed over her, blowing her loose curls back over her shoulder.
She closed her eyes and inhaled. The rich smell of stewed tomatoes and garlic sauces from the kitchens, and baking bread along with the hint of wildflowers in the air filled her lungs. It was such a lovely sample of what her new home became for her. For a quiet, long moment, she relaxed and inhaled.
At some point he joined her. She didn’t hear him. In fact, his presence was only known when his hand touched her thigh. He pressed his maleness against her backside. Stored in her body were the lonely nights she spent without him while he was in Bologna; or when she was working late on her wedding dress, was such a need to submit, that a touch from him caused her breathing to go deep. She flung away her last shred of resistance and pushed her backside into his groin, while continuing to lean over the balcony.
“If you’re not my fiancé, you should remove your hand from my thigh. He’s insanely jealous.”
The warmth of his palm slowly rubbed upward, drawing the material of her dress to her hip, and then eased under her dress to cup her sex.
“Mmm, Giovanni.” She stood upright. “You are such a bad boy.” She grabbed his hand to stop him.
He kissed her neck. And with the push of his hand, he forced her to part her thighs a fraction so he could properly cup her between her thighs. “Someone could come to the garden and see us,” she sighed, her lips parted, her head tilted back against his chest.
“Il tuo piacere è il mio.” He answered, stirring arousal at her core by the slow concentrated rub through her panties. A dizzying uprush of emotions surged through her, and she found herself moving her ass in rhythm with his caress. Seduced into releasing his wrist, she bit her bottom lip to withstand. Swiftly, he penetrated her channel with his two middle fingers. Mira gasped. She gripped the edge of the balcony and rose on her toes. The fingers thrust in and out of her, teasing her pussy with what could come. Before she climaxed in such an open revealing space, she forced him to stop and turned to face him. Giovanni reluctantly released her so she could accomplish the task. She put her hands to his face and caressed his clean shaven jaw.
“I know you want me, but we have a party and guests.” She smoothed down his tie, capturing her breath; though she was drinking down deep gulps of air and trying to stop the quiver between her thighs. “I-ah don’t need you distracted so soon into the festivities.”
“Why did you come up here alone?” he asked in a voice deep and sensual.
She brushed her lips across his chin. “You saw me come up the stairs?” She said in a soft whisper.
“I followed you,” he answered, his tone matching hers. She drew back and stared up into his eyes. Beneath the beauty and admiration, shining like violet irises, she could read the double meaning by his statement. He followed her because he needed her, and also because it was expected for her to not leave his side this evening.
Mira lowered her hands from his face. She stepped back and bumped the iron railing. Giovanni pinched her chin. He tilted her face upward so they could maintain their connection. And then he ran his thumb deliciously back and forth over her chin. “To me it looked like you were trying to get away from everyone. Come sta?”
“Molto bene,” she replied. “I needed some air.” She inhaled deeply closing her eyes, as if to emphasize her point. Giovanni studied her face. He touched the side of her throat tenderly, and his long thick fingers circled the back of her nape. His thumb rubbed the center of her throat. Mira opened her eyes. “You worry too much about me, sweetheart. Look at me. I’m as happy as I ever was. Sono tutto tuo.” She told him she was all his.
“I can send them home, Bella. I’m no fool. I see your discomfort. I know it will take time to get used to all of this. Say the word, I’ll clear the fucking place and it will be me and—”
She put a finger to his mouth and silenced him. “I’m a stranger here. A black American woman who rose from the dead and reappeared with a little brown, blue-eyed baby, will marry the most eligible bachelor in the Campania. Of course they will stare at me.”
“They will respect you.” His tone was soft as velvet, but edged with steel.
“Yes. They will. But it’s okay if I earn their respect.” She kissed his lips. “I can handle them, Giovanni. Trust me.”
“I do trust you, Bella. With my life and the life of my children. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“We all have regrets sweetheart. It’s our nature. Mine don’t compare to all the rewards I share with you.” She brought his hand down to her stomach and placed it there. “Our child is going to be remarkable, just like Eve. We’re going to have it all. Aren’t we?”
Giovanni’s gaze lowered to her stomach and she could see sadness in his eyes. She embraced him to keep him from verbalizing whatever fear he had. He held her close to him. “I’m ready, Giovanni. Ti amo.”
“Perfetto. Then let’s go downstairs and celebrate.”
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Five
Amore / Sesso – Love / Sex
She was a sexy one, with high breasts and a small waist. Her ass moved so fucking sweetly underneath the snug fit of her dress, he had to rub his jaw to keep from fixing himself below. His damn dick felt like a boulder between his legs. She kept walking ahead of him with bouncy thick black curly hair. He wasn’t able to unglue his eyes from the sway of her hips. She glanced back at him when they entered the elevator. He saw her confidence slip as he stepped in and crowded her to the corner. Lorenzo dropped his hand on the side- mirrored wall and locked her in his gaze.
Her lips were tempting him. She wore them slicked with shimmering red gloss. He licked his own, bringing his face closer to hers.
“Ah, I need to press the button—uh, four.” She turned her face away to avoid the pending kiss.
Lorenzo glanced back at the light panel. He hit four and the elevator began to climb. His attention returned to her. He hadn’t touched her yet. But he intended to. And those damn lips. Blow job lips, he thought to himself. She made things worse by smelling so damn good. Fuck. He bet her pussy smelled like roses too.
“You have to give a girl a little space to breathe,” she said with a nervous chuckle.
He stepped back and dropped his hands behind his back. The elevator doors opened and she hurried around him into the hall. The fire burning in him for a taste of her was now an inferno. He followed her, close.
Caught in her own tangled impulses, inviting this dangerous man into her web may prove to be a sticky situation. Marietta turned the key, and the lock disengaged with a soft click. She tossed a casual look back over her shoulder. Lorenzo stood almost as tall as the hall ceiling. He leaned against a powder blue and beige wallpapered wall. His vibe was ‘don’t invite me in as a tease, because if I enter I’m fucking you’ and danger rolled off him in such strong waves she believed it. The raw vulnerability she felt when she looked into his eyes made he
r hesitate. Think. Think. Think. Do you want to play this game with this man?
Lorenzo lifted from the wall and stepped toward her. It was too late. She had gone this far, there was no turning back. He didn’t take his eyes off her as he walked in through the door she held for him. He reached for her hand and she gracefully delayed him by side-stepping his touch.
The hotel suite was comprised of a series of levels and bi-levels. The living area sunk down into the floor. The kitchen area rose above it and was situated to the left. The entire space was open and airy with very few walls or doors except for the bath, bedroom, and a coat closet. Large glass doors led to a quaint balcony that gave a spectacular view of Milano at night. Pretty soon, the savings she was living off of would run out and she’d have to find something less posh. Marietta hoped to have resolved her issues with the Capriccios before then.
Lorenzo remained at the door until she turned on the lamps, shrugged off her coat, and set her purse down. Marietta heard the double bolt engage by his hand. Her heart beat erratically against her chest when she glanced his way once more.
“I think there will be fireworks tonight,” he said with a mischievous smile. Her brows rose in surprise. “Outside.” He nodded toward the window.
“Oh? Yes. The front desk manager told me the celebration starts right at midnight. Maybe we should have drinks on the balcony? We still got about three hours left to the year.”
Their eyes locked. His lips curled into a smile. The man truly had an uncomplicated charm about him. What you saw with Lorenzo Battaglia was what you got. His cool yet aloof manner disarmed her.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said.
“No, Cara. I’d rather keep you inside.” He measured her with an appraising look that moved over her body slowly. Those looks were a constant since she joined him at the bar and each one aroused her vanity, instead of caution. Now she understood how easily little red riding hood was fooled the first time she met the wolf.
“Possessive already are we? I’m flattered,” she said as she stepped up into the suite’s kitchenette, her stilettos clicked daintily over the hardwood floors. She put a bit of a sway to her hips knowing he paid extra attention to her backside. A little flirting would do no harm.
Underneath the cabinet, she found the complimentary bottle of wine. She bent at the waist, her dress moving up to reveal more of her thighs as she located two glasses. She was certain he noticed. When Marietta turned, she saw he had shed his coat.
“Incredibile. What they’ve done to the place.” Lorenzo commented, bringing her out of her thoughts. “I haven’t stayed here in a few years,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking a seat on the leather sofa.
Marietta uncorked the wine and joined him. “I’ve been here for a little over a month. I think I need to look for somewhere more permanent. Any recommendations?”
“I own a few places. I’d like to help. Planning on making Italy your residence?” He asked, accepting the wine glass. His accented voice was deep with a quiet charm that had a hint of roughneck around the edges. An unusual mix that made her yearn for him to talk more.
“That’s sweet. Grazie. It depends on how things work out for me.” She smiled. The heart that had been banging hard and fast against her chest had somehow lodged in her throat. She swallowed hard to continue to speak with less of a hoarse, nervous quiver to her words. “I know you may think it strange that I’m the daughter of Caruso Capriccio.”
“I don’t.” he corrected her.
“Oh? Okay.”
“Many men I know have whores, and some of those whores have babies.” Lorenzo shrugged.
Marietta tensed. “Are you calling my mother a whore?”
He sat upright. “Of course she was a whore. She wasn’t his wife. Far as I know, Capriccio always had a wife.”
“If you and I are going to be friends, Signor Battaglia, we need to get something clear.” Marietta set the wine bottle on the coffee table. “My mother is not to be disrespected. Period. If anything, Caruso Capriccio is the whore for stepping out on his marriage and fathering a child with another woman.”
Confusion dented Lorenzo’s brow. He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Va bene. Mi scusi, Marietta. I didn’t mean to offend you. I sometimes forget my manners. Besides, you were the one who referred to her as a whore first, if I recall.”
The apology felt sincere, and he was right. She was the first to introduce that word into the conversation earlier about her mother. Marietta regained her composure. Lorenzo poured their wine like a gentleman. A comfortable silence settled between them. She sucked in a breath and exhaled slow. His large presence overwhelmed her, even when he was sitting. Damn, he was all man. “Well I’ve told you about me, why don’t you tell me about you?”
“Nothing to tell.” Lorenzo said.
“Are you married?” She asked.
“No.”
“Kids?”
“No.”
“What do you do for a living?”
His gaze slid from her face to her cleavage, then back to her eyes again. Marietta chewed on the inside of her jaw. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” She asked.
“Like what?” He dropped a hand on her thigh. She looked down to his touch, then back up into his eyes. Having lost her train of thought, she stammered a bit before she answered him.
“Like I’m a steak dinner, and you haven’t eaten in weeks.”
He began to choke and cough on his wine. Marietta smiled. Lorenzo put the wine down and smiled. “I am hungry,” he said with a smile.
“I didn’t invite you here for sex.” She tried to shift her legs by crossing them, and his response was to slide his hand down further along her thigh.
“I’m disappointed.”
“You should be.” Marietta quipped. She lifted his hand from her thigh and shot him a challenging glare. “I’m good.”
Humor and keen interest flashed underneath his smile. One deep look into the lovely blue shade of his eyes and she warmed intimately.
“You are beautiful.” He leaned forward to speak against her ear. The husky sound of lust in his voice made her squeeze her thighs tightly shut. “If not for dessert, then why do you tease me, Marietta?”
“I told you. I wanted to talk. I need answers.” She downed the wine and set the empty glass on the table. She slapped her hands down on her lap. “Did you know of my mother?”
“I thought we covered this?” Lorenzo’s arm stretched out across the back of the sofa once more. He moved her hair behind her ear with the reach of his long fingers. The brief touch across her cheek sent a thrill through her that he had to see in her eyes.
“I think you’re a man that knows things. Maybe you didn’t know her personally, but Capriccio fathering a black American daughter, had to have made news in your world.”
Lorenzo chuckled. “How old do you think I am? What the old fool did with his dick over twenty years ago is not news to men like me.”
The letter from Isabella said Lorenzo Battaglia was the key to the truth of her parents. Maybe her clues were in that strange conversation she listened to on that cassette tape. “Fine. Let’s talk about someone you do know. Giuseppe Calderone.”
The humor in Lorenzo’s eyes faded, replaced by something dark and unreadable. It was as if a switch was thrown and everything about him stilled. After an uncomfortable pause, Lorenzo leaned forward with his elbows resting on the top of his legs and his hand clasped before him. “Now you have my attention, Marietta.”
“Giuseppe said you knew about Caruso and my mother.”
“Did he?”
“Yes,” she began. “We were, ah, friends. I knew him before he died. All he could talk about was you, how close you two were. So when I saw you today in Silvio Negali’s office and learned who you were, I was shocked. I had to speak with you.”
“I thought you only arrived to Milano four weeks ago?”
Marietta froze over the detail. Shit. When did Giuseppe die? A month,
three months ago, maybe a year? Gemma had told her that the man was dead, and Lorenzo Battaglia’s family waged war on the Calderones. Wait, did I just say they were friends? What if they were enemies? Damn it. Yes, I think Gemma said they were enemies. Oh fuck! What do I say now? Marietta cleared her throat.
Lorenzo stared at her. Goose pimples began to spread over her skin and the wine felt as if it soured in her stomach. He hadn’t said a word, but she felt the need to put distance between them. “Excuse me a minute. It must be the wine.” She half-smiled.
She disappeared into the bathroom. Lorenzo slowly stood. He took another long look at his surroundings and his focus soon centered on her purse. Lorenzo snatched it up. He dumped the contents. The most interesting item was a bulging envelope. He removed photos, the same photos that were sent to him.
And then his world came apart.
A piece of paper and a cassette player dropped out.
Lorenzo stared at the cassette player for several minutes before he could even bring himself to touch it. He silently prayed that the Nigerian was wrong. He has said the same prayer for the past two years. When he pressed the play button, the words of that fateful night poured out of the little speaker box.
“I think I had too much wine and you should go—” Marietta said, as she opened the bathroom door. She paused, choking down the rest of her words. It felt as if time froze momentarily before she slammed the door to the bathroom shut. He tossed the cassette player and charged across the room. Lorenzo tried the doorknob and found it locked. He threw his shoulder against it and the wood splintered but did not give. Furious, he kicked the door several times before it crashed inward and charged inside. She rushed him, spraying cold sticky acid into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. The pain was instant. He staggered back in agony, stumbling over his own feet.
Marietta got around him. He sensed her deft move rather than saw it. She bolted out of the bathroom. He grabbed for her, but she was damn fast. His eyes felt as if they were bleeding tears. However, his rage was the fuel he needed. He went after her. Caught her before she reached the door. Lorenzo wasn’t expecting the way she fought back. Marietta was a pale blur of swinging arms, scratching nails and wild hair, thanks to his impaired vision. Just like Silvio Negali warned, she fought him viciously. Her nails were like talons, and the slap across his face felt like several knife points slicing into his skin. He struggled to get a hold of her. But thanks to his mounting injuries under her attack, he grew short of breath with the awful tussle. And eerily as they fought, she didn’t scream, beg, or explain the damning evidence. She just fought back hard and fierce.
