Homecoming: A Secret Baby Romance

by Landish, Lauren

  “Really? I was worried he’d have his eyes on you too much to focus on anyone else,” Mom said. “But Carlo did vouch for him . . .”

  “When it’s about business, he’s as serious as it gets. He's a good man, like Uncle Carlo said.”

  “I'll mention it to him when he gets back into town. But still, like all good men, they are often nothing more than beasts under their skin. Be careful.”

  I nodded, if only to get her off the subject. We finished our dinner and I went upstairs to my old room. It was exactly as it had been the last time I stayed overnight. I found an old t-shirt and shorts and pulled them on, a little bit of nostalgia sweeping over me. Angela had gotten me the t-shirt, and I had to wipe away a tear as I thought about her. She'd been a good friend.

  I went down to the house gym, which was somewhat of an anomaly and a carryover from my father's days. Uncle Carlo wasn't the athletic type, having decided early on that he didn't need to focus on what were, in his opinion, shallow pursuits. My father, on the other hand, had been the athlete of the two brothers and felt that physical fitness was important for both him and his men. So, the house had a complete fitness center, even if it was a bit dated. None of the main equipment was newer than twenty-five years old, two years before I'd been born. Still, Mom and Uncle Carlo kept it in pristine shape, and everything was in as good a condition as it had been twenty-five years ago.

  Going in, I was shocked to find that I wasn't the only person to have the same idea, as Daniel was in the room already, wearing a pair of compression shorts and his undershirt. “Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt.”

  “It's your house more than mine,” Daniel said with a shrug, turning his back to me and going over to the squat rack. “I just wanted to get a workout in while it was still a decent hour today. Forgive the outfit. I forgot to pack a bag and only had this in the trunk of my car.”

  “When have you been working out this past week?” I asked, knowing that as dedicated as Daniel was, he wasn't skipping his fitness just because he was babysitting me. “You look even more ripped than you were a week ago.”

  Daniel un-racked his bar, holding it in front of him before lowering himself down until his butt was nearly on his heels before exploding up, pushing the bar over his head at the end and locking it out before slowly lowering it and repeating the process. He didn't say anything during his work, but turned around when he was finished. “I have a membership to a twenty-four-hour gym,” he explained. “It's my first stop after I leave your apartment. I go usually about five times a week and have a short routine that I can get done in forty minutes.”

  Impressed, I went over to the stretch mats on the side of the room and began my limbering up routine. I felt my eyes constantly pulled back toward Daniel, whose muscles rippled and flexed underneath his clothing. His tight compression shorts were enticing, as whether he knew it or not, he sported a bubble butt that would leave most women envious. It was all muscle, and I knew if I saw him nude I could probably see each individual muscle fiber at work each time he exploded up from his squatting position. The artist in me was amazed and intrigued and wondered if I had the skill to recreate such physical perfection in paint.

  But the woman in me had much baser interests. I felt the heat first in the pit of my belly, a feeling that I hadn't felt in a long time, before spreading up and down my body until my eyes were nearly locked on Daniel's body. When he finished his work with the bar and went to take off the plates, I couldn't help but gasp when he turned sideways and the bulge in the front of his shorts became more noticeable. He was hung like a horse!

  He must’ve noticed me staring, because he turned his eyes back to me, concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  I quickly wrenched my eyes from his crotch to his face, feeling the hot rush of blood to my face and certain that my nipples were imprinted on the thin cotton of my t-shirt. “I’m fine,” I said, playing it off. “Just a little twinge. Guess I need to stretch out more often.”

  He dismissed it and finished his work. He went on to his next exercise, and I climbed off the stretch mat to get on the VersaClimber. At least that was what the sticker on the center post of the machine called it, but in my private moments, I called it the Stairway to Hell. Working both your arms and your legs at the same time like some sort of unending ladder, the machine is one of the hardest cardiovascular machines I've ever seen, and in fewer than five minutes, I was already sucking air. At fifteen minutes, I was gasping to the point that I could feel the blood pulse in my temples.

  But the intensity of the machine wasn't why I chose it, I realized as I stepped down and wiped my sweating face. I'd chosen it because it allowed me to watch Daniel. I'd used the same bench—someone had once told me it was called a glute ham raise—to work my lower back and butt, but Daniel took it to the next level. Putting the pad closer to his knees than I did, he started with his head hanging down nearly all the way to the floor before he lifted himself in an arc, curling his knees at the top so that he ended up nearly vertical, then lowered himself at an agonizing slowness before repeating it again.

  “You're working your butt and hamstrings today, aren't you?”

  Daniel grunted his assent as he reached the top of his movement and nodded his head. “And quads. Leg strength is vital to running and fighting.”

  Of course. If it wasn't enough that he was built like a god, he was interested only in his ability to use his body in his duties, and maybe secondarily in his ability to seduce women. He wasn't trying to look the way he did. He just wanted to be more lethal in his work. That he was making me hotter than I'd been in years was beside the point.

  I messed around with some of the equipment while he focused on his work, not really working all that hard but just getting a decent little workout while my eyes got to take in the display of human physical perfection in front of me. By the end of his last set, his shirt was soaked and his blond hair was a shade darker from sweat that ran down his skin in diamond rivulets, and I could feel that my panties were soaked, but not from sweat.

  “I'm going to get changed,” I said, getting up shakily from the leg extension machine I'd been on and wiping my forehead. “Do you think you can pick me up tomorrow at about eleven to go to Angela's grave?”

  “That's fine,” Daniel replied, wiping his own forehead. “I asked your mother, and she told me I could stay in a guest room tonight anyway. If you need me for anything, I’ll be close by.”

  “Okay. Thanks. See you later, Daniel.”

  “Buona sera, Adriana.”

  I laughed and turned at the door, giving him a grin. “Twenty-five years in this house, and your Italian still absolutely sucks. You sound like you're hacking at the syllables with a machete.”

  He grinned back and ran his hand through his hair. “It's what you get when your tutors are a bunch of third-generation guidos. Besides, I'm much, much better with my French technique, if you ever want to find out.”

  I laughed and left the gym, forcing myself down the hallway because there was nothing more my body wanted to do than to turn around and find out exactly how good he was. I hoped that my desire would ease with distance, but instead, I was still overheated when I got back to my old room and fell into the soft mattress, groaning in frustration. “Fuck it. Time for a cold shower.”

  * * *

  The next morning, precisely at eleven, I found Daniel waiting for me in the foyer, dressed not in the casual clothes he'd worn the last week for me, but instead in a black, somber suit, looking for all the world like a Secret Service agent. I’d also dressed for the trip, wearing a black dress that I'd always kept ready, knowing the sort of lifestyle my family had. Mob daughters have to go to funerals too often, in my opinion.

  “Ready?” Daniel asked, standing up and buttoning his coat. I looked and was touched that next to him were a dozen roses in a basket, mixed white and red, ready for me. “I asked the gardening staff to pick out the best.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my throat tight with emotion. H
e might have most of the time alternated in his personality between that of the Terminator or a cocky Lothario, but I too often forgot that he actually did have a tender, observant side to him. “They're beautiful, and I know Angela would have liked them. Come on. I'd like to save my tears for the graveside, if you don't mind.”

  Daniel drove me in his BMW, back in his silent mode but slightly more comforting than he'd been earlier in the week. When we got out, the bright sunlight dazzled me, and he silently offered me a pair of Ray-Bans from his inner coat pocket. I put them on and walked with him to the grave site.

  It wasn't that hard to find. The dirt was still freshly turned and the Astroturf that had been laid on top screamed out against the dark, rich green of the surrounding grass. I had to resist the urge to reach down and tear the plastic off, at least tearing away the lie that under the turf wasn't just a pile of dirt but the body of my best friend.

  “I hate the turf,” Daniel said quietly, his hands crossed in front of him. “I remember that from Bucky Francetti's funeral last year. They'd lined the edges of the hole with it, and it looked to me like they were making a mockery of him with it.”

  “Some people are comforted by it, I guess,” I said, kneeling and laying the flowers on top of the small mound. “Twenty-three years. She was too young and too good to end up like this.”

  “I didn't know her, but I saw her once when you brought her by the Don’s house,” Dan said softly. “She did seem like a good person. I'm sure you’re right.”

  “I've spent the past week wishing that I'd gone to Uncle Carlo before that day, saying I needed help and protection. I was scared out of my mind, but putting on a front for everyone. If I had and you were there . . .”

  “You can't beat yourself up about it, Ade. Besides, even if the Don had assigned me a week earlier or two weeks earlier, or whatever, it wouldn’t have stopped what happened to her. My duty would be to keep you safe and protected, and I would’ve been with you, not back at the apartment with her.”

  I turned and stepped closer to Daniel, reaching up and putting my hand on his shoulder. “You have kept me safe, and I thank you. For the past week, I've felt more secure and safer than I have in months. Maybe in my entire life.”

  His hand came to rest on my hip, and we came closer until my body pressed against him. His lips lowered toward mine, and I tilted my head, wanting at that moment for nothing more than to feel his kiss. I could tell in his eyes that he wanted it too, when suddenly, he pushed me away, taking a step back. I nearly fell on my ass as I stepped back, the heel of my shoe catching on the edge of the Astroturf blanket on top of Angela's grave. “What the fuck?”

  “We can't,” Daniel said, stepping back again. He turned and scanned the area, his head moving like a radar dish. “For both of our sakes—we can't.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Don't tell me that you don't want me,” I hissed, stepping around to look him in the eye. “I saw it in your eyes just now, and I've seen it in your eyes before. Tell me you don't want me!”

  “Of course I do,” Daniel said, his eyes flickering with desperation and anger and something else. “But I can't, Adriana. Like I said, for both our sakes.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked softly, my anger fading as I saw the emotion in his icy blue eyes.

  “It can never be just the two of us, Ade,” Dan said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “First—and I'm not bragging—I'd ruin you for other men. I've made that mistake in the past, and while I'm more than willing to fuck some skank and leave her wanting me for years afterward, you're better than that. I won't ruin your life, because no other man is going to compare to me.”

  “So why does there ever have to be anyone else?” I asked, putting my hand on his chest. “You and I, we've been eyeing each other for a long time. I think I can make my own decision about whether you're the type of man I want.”

  “You know nothing!” Daniel hissed, pushing my hand down. Seeing the hurt in my eyes, his face softened, filled now with more hurt, and for the first time in his life, fear. “If I ever touch you, if I ever do what I want to do, I'm a dead man. Don Bertoli has promised me that much. And I'm also worried about something more.”

  “What?”

  “I'm worried that you're a dead woman as well,” Daniel said softly. “I can face my own death, Ade. I've never had a life of my own, except what Carlo Bertoli has gifted me with. But I won’t see you dead. I . . . I care about you too much for that.”

  Daniel blinked and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out another set of sunglasses, this time mirrored aviators. He slipped them on, obliterating my view of his blue eyes, and his face seemed to lose all traces of emotion, once again the perfect Terminator. “I'll wait a few rows away until you're done saying your farewells to Angela.”

  Chapter 6

  Daniel

  The next day, Monday night, after dropping off Adriana, I was back at the Starlight Club, wearing one of my suits. I was desperate and needed to do something to get my mind right.

  Never, in the close to ten years that I'd been doing work for Don Bertoli, had I drifted so close to disobeying an order from him. And the rule I'd nearly broken wasn't some minor little thing like wearing the wrong type of tie or being a little short on a pickup from one of the businesses under his protection. Screw up like that, and you'd get a few words, and maybe be punished with making it up out of your own pocket. For someone with my rank within the Don's organization, I'd get a frown at most and be tasked with going back out to make sure things were rectified as soon as possible.

  But what I almost did would be like breaking one of the Ten Commandments, a sin that could never be atoned for. Every man in Don Bertoli's organization, from the lowest lackey to even Pietro Columbu, his second in command, had been taken aside by the Don and told in no uncertain terms from the time she was eleven years old and started puberty—Adriana was not to be touched.

  And the day before, I'd nearly lost it. Her lips had been so close, her green eyes so filled with soft desire, her generous curves so perfect pressed against me. I'd nearly damned us both. It had taken every ounce of my willpower to push her away and step back, and I'd tried the night before to get rid of my weakness by myself, jacking off until my cock ached and I felt like a guilty teenager again. It hadn't helped, and the next day, my desire had returned in full strength, fueled even more by the outfit she'd worn, her legs amazing in those tiny little shorts. I couldn't trust myself, being constantly distracted, and I knew I acted like a total asshole, barely talking at all through most of the day until we were both relieved when Julius showed up again, right on time to do his night shift.

  So I found myself at the Starlight Club, one of my suits on like a suit of armor more than a layer of blended wool. If I couldn't be the man who could resist Adriana, then come hell or high water, I could remember that I was a Bertoli man, one of the best fucking Bertoli men there was. And Bertoli men were allowed—in fact, sometimes even encouraged—to do what I was about to do. I looked up at the sign and figured it was worth a try.

  The Starlight Club was pretty quiet, but it was a Monday night, and there were only perhaps a dozen patrons inside, their sweaty faces looking slack and simian under the dim lights.

  “Welcome, sir,” the manager said, coming out from behind the bar to shake my hand. We'd known each other for a while, since I was the man most often tasked with the pickups at the club. The manager always had his payment on time and ready to go in a simple white envelope, and we'd enjoyed a couple of conversations in the spare time I had. “Business or pleasure?”

  “Both,” I said, distracted. When he gave me a concerned look, I waved it off. His cash was secure for tonight. “Not that type of business. Tell me, is there a girl named Carmen working tonight?”

  “Yeah, she's scheduled for a dance in five,” the manager said, relaxing. This sort of business he had no problems discussing. “She said you looked interested last time you were here.”

  “I am,” I
said, reaching into my coat and taking out two hundred-dollar bills folded together. I held them out, raising an eyebrow. “Think you might be able to reschedule the dance, let me have some private time with her?”

  “What type of private time?” he asked while still making the money disappear. While ninety-nine percent of the customers probably suspected it, only the select few like me were permitted access to the other services the Starlight Club offered. “Carmen's one of my best. She's pretty pricey. She’s selective as to who she gives private time to.”

  “I bet,” I said, reaching back inside and showing the wad of cash I had with me. Bertoli rewarded his men handsomely, and I lived a frugal lifestyle. “Tell her if she's worth it, she's not going to need to dance for a month afterward if she wants.”

  “And what do I get? Sorry, business and all.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him, and he quavered a bit. He knew what I could do, and he'd be lucky that I didn't just destroy the entire club. I unbuttoned my coat, showing him the Beretta in a holster under my left arm, then reached into the pocket next to it and pulled out another hundred-dollar bill. “That's three, plus a bonus for you personally if Carmen's worth my time and money. Good enough?”

  “Yes, sir,” the manager stammered, stepping back. He reacquired his smile quickly though, and swept his arm to his left. “If you'll just follow me, I'll make sure you're comfortable before getting Carmen.”