Mafia Bride: The DiLustro Arrangement #1

by CD Reiss

  “Am I doing this right?”

  “Yes.” His voice strains and he moans, guiding my hand with his own so I can feel how he likes it. Every sign of passion out of him only fuels my desire all the more.

  I can make a man like Santino feel like this. Call me the fucking queen. I am a goddess.

  “Do you want it inside you?”

  I nod, but he stays silent. He wants words.

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Say it.”

  “I want this inside me.” And I don’t even care if it fits. I am so wet I feel slippery in my own skin.

  He lays his hand on my throat and whispers in my ear. “Open your legs for it.”

  I can do nothing but obey.

  “When it hurts, you keep your legs open.” He increases the pressure on my throat as if he’s trying to pin me to the space. “Or it’s going to hurt more.”

  He presses himself above me and it creates a beautifully intimate space, just the two of us. He pauses at my opening and I take a deep breath, anxious for him and worried about the pain all at once.

  Santino kisses me, deep and hard, as if he wants to distract me while he slowly pushes himself forward, then in the next instant, I’m ripped open. The blade of pain pushes against my ballooning pleasure, but does not pop it.

  Then it’s gone, and I feel a drop of blood trickling down. That’s it. I’ve given him what I’ll never have again, and he knows it.

  “You’re all right?” he asks.

  His voice is melted butter across my body. I can only nod. It was all he was waiting for, because as soon as I nod, he pushes himself all the way in, deeper than anything has ever been inside of me. I can’t stop the moans and groans as he repeats the motion for three agonizingly long strokes.

  He slides his thumb across my clit and the world feels warm and bubbly again.

  “Does that feel good?”

  “Oh yes,” I moan.

  “You can come again when I allow it.”

  “Oh, God, Santino.” I almost come from his words alone. Filthy mouth. Filthy lover.

  He thrusts faster and harder all while rubbing my clit. I pull my legs as far back as they allow so he can go in deeper. Each thrust ignites my very core and it doesn’t take more than a few strokes of my clit to bring everything dangerously close to exploding.

  “Please Santino.” I gasp. “Please. I have to come.”

  “Oh, my blood violet.” He groans and murmurs in my hair. As if possessed, his body slams into mine until he pants in my ear. “Come for me, Forzetta. Come for me.”

  Again, I can do nothing but obey. My body crests and falls against his. I open my eyes to see this beautiful man come, and while it’s only the tail end of his orgasm, I’m moved by how—when he is most vulnerable, he’s still regal.

  He even comes like a king.

  30

  SANTINO

  Evening disappears into the horizon and a beautiful woman slumbers beside me.

  Not just a woman.

  The beautiful woman. The one I wanted but never thought I’d have. The one a fingertip’s distance from my reach, until she wasn’t. She’s on her side with her leg kicked over, and I can see the streak of blood between her legs. The sheet’s stained with it. She bled like a woman I had to rip apart to own, and she’ll bleed again, because I am her first and last in all things.

  I kiss her shoulder and roll off the bed.

  My mother’s cameo’s on the dresser. Three Graces. Three Fates. Three Furies. Pick your poison. Violetta was always meant to have this piece. Another woman would ignore the Fates and Furies, settling on Grace alone, and in a time when I was resigned to my own fate, another woman did.

  Leaving the cameo where I found it, I go out to the patio to watch the outline of Vesuvius become visible as the sky shifts from black to blue.

  She was remarkable. She was a perfect mix of timid and aggressive. Curious and naïve. I will bed her every single day, every single hour, if I can.

  My Violetta takes up the universe between submission and combat. Her tongue is a viper, ready to poison on a moment’s notice, but the rest of her body is a kitten who only wants to purr.

  With both hands, she surrendered her body and offered me her pleasure. She eagerly obeyed my every command as if she could not perform it soon enough. I don’t have to threaten or even encourage her to obey. She may bite back, but her teeth are new and her jaw knows better than to break the skin of my patience, and I realize that little bit of resistance makes the compliance that much sweeter.

  “Come stai?” I ask when she comes out into the dull morning sun. I take her hand and kiss it, then pull her down into my lap.

  “Fine.” She rests her head on my shoulder.

  “No, you say bene.”

  “I’m too tired to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Conjugate verbs in my head.” She brings her knees up so her whole body is tucked into my arms. “Can’t we speak English?”

  “No.” I slide my hand along the warm swell of her ass.

  “Just for the morning?”

  “You want to make deals?”

  “Yes. English until noon.”

  “What do you offer in exchange?”

  She purrs, curling into me, and through the thin nightgown, I can feel the damp warmth of her fica and I get so hard, so fast it hurts.

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Be careful these deals you make, Forzetta.”

  Her expression is careless, trusting, and a little challenging. She’s daring me to take what I want, but I won’t.

  Instead, I throw her off me, over the table. She squeals in surprise when I bend her over it, facedown, ass up, the front of her nightgown bunched at her waist, and the bottom edge landing over the back of her thighs.

  I put one hand between her shoulder blades and push her down. Her cheek is pressed against the table, and I push back the desire to take her now to study her face instead.

  Lips parted. Eyes fluttering. Still. I need to know one thing.

  “You can speak, yes?” I can’t help but grab her ass as if I can remove it from her body and own it.

  “What should I say?”

  “You want me to stop, you say it…in Italian.”

  “No Italian all morning,” she replies. “That’s the deal.”

  I’ll stop if she says it in English, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I spank her ass, one cheek, then another, pushing her down as she squirms.

  “You like that?” I ask in Italian, pulling up her nightgown until her bare ass glows in the new sun.

  “I can’t feel a thing,” she replies in English to spite me, and I spank her again with the loud slap of skin on skin. I take a moment to appreciate how the flesh is hot where I hit her, and slide my fingertips into her crack and down where her fica is soaking wet.

  “You feel this?” I bury two fingers inside her and she makes a sound that needs no translation. “You like it.”

  With her face still pressed against the table, she looks back at me, and her answer is there. Taking my hand off her back, I get my dick out, then kick her legs open.

  “You like it,” I say, sliding my fingers all over her wet pussy. When she tries to get on her elbows I push her back down. “Spread your arms out. Grab the edge of the table.”

  I say it in English so she understands right away, and so she knows I’m keeping my side of the deal. Her arms stretch out, reaching for the edges. She’s flat, completely supine, immobile under me with her legs spread, and though my cock wants to get inside her immediately, my cock’s going to have to wait.

  Laying my hands on her sore cheeks, I spread her open so I can see the glistening bulb of her sex and the tight little pucker above.

  “Relax,” I say. She doesn’t. She can’t. I can feel her anxiety, and it turns me on. I roll my mouth into an intention and let a drop of spit fall on her asshole. Her eyes crunch shut. She’s not ready.

  I like that. I like the way my cock l
ooks like a threat next to it, like an army waiting to pillage a town.

  I take her pussy with my hand, entering it, using the wetness to flick her hard little nub.

  “Be gentle,” she groans, wetter now. “I’m sore.”

  “So?” I take the fresh juice and run it up to her asshole, mixing it with my spit as I circle the resistant muscle. “This is fresh.”

  She looks at me over her shoulder. Not scared. Not even worried. She knows I can take what I want, and she knows I’ll wait. She knows I’ll take care of her—protect her from everything. Even me.

  And she’s right, but protection isn’t the same as indulgence.

  “You’re going to relax when I fuck your ass or it’s going to hurt.” Slowly, I slide my wet thumb in her asshole. She cringes. First time always hurts, and it always descends into pleasure.

  Pulling out, I push it back in and the cringe is gone.

  “You’re going to learn to take it.” I twist my thumb so she feels it, and with my other hand, I line my dick up with her sore pussy. It’s still so tight I have to work at getting inside her. I use the thumb stretching her asshole to keep her still. “You’re going to learn to love it.” I push hard, and she grunts like an animal. Fuck. I have to pause for a moment or I’ll come, but then I bury myself deep in her cunt. “You’re going to learn…” I thrust out and in again. “…to beg for it.”

  I swap my thumb for two fingers, stretching her asshole more, working it as I fuck her pussy. I want to get in that tight little hole. There’s no ownership that can compare to fucking a woman’s ass, marking it with my pleasure, painting it the color of my cum.

  But for now, her cunt is enough. She grips the table so hard her knuckles are white. She’s immobile. Prostrate. I fuck her cunt with my dick and her ass with my fingers. I can feel my dick’s violation through the thin membrane between, and when she’s ready, I reach around and flick her clit. She cries out.

  “You want to come?”

  “Yes!”

  “Che?”

  Tears and spit roll onto the tabletop.

  “Sì! Sì, already!”

  I work her clit until her whole body convulses in pleasure. I feel it around my fingers and cock, and though I’ll never admit it, her completion gives me permission to release.

  My wife makes the breakfast I ask for and eats it with me. She takes her coffee the way I make it. She gets dressed in the clothes I choose for her, bought with the money I earned for her.

  My life, my house, my world is in order, and for the first time in a long time, I’m at peace.

  Of course it doesn’t last. I’ve committed too many sins to ever be at peace.

  I leave Violetta downstairs for a moment to call Gennaro. I look out the window, over the back, where my wife lounges on the patio, her skin drinking the Italian sun. Her tanned legs are crossed, and the thought of pulling them apart calls my dick to attention.

  Gennaro’s concerned about Damiano, the free agent. We used to work under the same capo, for the same family and the same purpose. Even when he and I fought, I trusted my best friend. Now I can’t.

  “He came to the Mille Luci looking for you,” Gennaro says. “I said you were out, but then he asked me when you were coming in…like he knew you were outta the country.”

  “What’s that mean?” I don’t want Damiano to know where I am, or especially who I’m with. Violetta and I aren’t protected in Naples the way we are at home.

  Home. I don’t take a moment to understand the way I use it in my head.

  “Means he didn’t say something like, ‘I’ll call him,’ or ‘Will he be back in the morning?’ It was more like, let me think. His exact words. ‘How long they gone for?’”

  They.

  He knows I’m not in Secondo Vasto and he knows I’m with Violetta. I don’t know who told him, but I’ll find out when I get back, which is going to be today. My wife’s legs will remain closed for the next few hours.

  “What did you tell him?” I turn away from the window.

  Men distracted by their wives turn them into widows.

  “I said, ‘Re Santi’s not here until he wants to be here.’” Gennaro pauses. “That okay?”

  “Perfetto.”

  The answer is perfect, the situation is not. We have to go back to the US immediately. I give Gennaro instructions to meet us at the airport, and then the front doorbell rings. I hang up the phone and rush out of the room, down the hall, and to the stained glass window at the end that looks over the front of the house from the side.

  Peering through a clear section, my view is still distorted, but I know the two women waiting at the closed door.

  Zia Paola. Skinny and stony in jeans and a red cardigan. Chin raised. Hair thrown up in a mess of a twist.

  The other woman’s hair is brassy blonde, brown at the root, blown smooth and straight. Even through the distortion of the leaded glass, I recognize a woman I haven’t seen in years. It’s Siena Orolio.

  Damiano’s youngest sister, and Cosimo Orolio’s daughter.

  Shit.

  We don’t have enough staff here.

  Violetta will recognize Paola and open the door.

  Siena’s a time bomb. She’ll try to tell Violetta things she’s not ready to hear, and I won’t be able to defend against.

  Just as I’m about to turn away, the front door opens, and I run.

  31

  VIOLETTA

  I can’t figure out how to wear the brooch with the Three Graces without looking like I’m practicing to become an old lady, but while Santino does his business upstairs, I try. I want to make him as happy as he’s made me, and even though I thought I was happy before I met him, I’m gloriously, stupidly, giddily happy now. The dancing women on this brooch are just a way to show him how he makes me feel. Wanted, loved, high as a kite—fucked to the gills as if I’m the only woman on Earth, then fucked again as if he’s the only man.

  Do I love him?

  I don’t know yet, but I could love him.

  I could.

  Given the time and circumstance, I could love him like no other.

  My resistance is gone. Skeet shot out of the sky into a spray of hot shrapnel. And though I could berate myself for postponing the joy of surrender, I couldn’t have done it any other way. The battle has made this all worthwhile, but from now on I’m one hundred percent Mrs. Santino DiLustro with the sore pussy and the pink ass.

  I giggle to myself and tie the brooch around my neck with a summer scarf, when the doorbell rings. As ridiculous as the scarf looks, I leave it in place to see who’s at the door.

  When I see Paola out the little window grate, I’m glad I have on the brooch. She can help me figure out how to wear it, or maybe the woman she’s with, who’s a little older than I am and far more stylish.

  I clack the locks open and swing open the door.

  “Ciao, Zia Paola!” I cry and give her a double kiss.

  “Violetta,” she says. “I’m sorry to bother you. This is Siena—”

  “I had to meet you, right away!” She takes my hands in hers and looks me up and down as if she hadn’t seen me since I was a baby, and wanted to assess my prodigious growth. “When I heard you were here, I just ran to Paola, and—”

  “—insisted,” Paola interrupts dryly.

  “That’s great,” I say, wrangling my Italian into a usable shape. “Come in.”

  I step out of the way and let them in just as Santino saunters down the stairs, fixing his cuff, as if surprise guests are just part of our culture, which they more or less are.

  He obviously doesn’t think anything of it, and neither do I.

  “Santi,” Siena says, one hand out. “Marriage is good for you. I can see how happy she’s keeping you.”

  “Siena,” he says at the foot of the stairs. They exchange a double kiss, then he does the same with his aunt.

  For a moment, I’m a little stumped about my next move. Then I remember I’m the lady of the house. I ask our guests if t
hey’d prefer the patio or the living room, and they choose the patio. Once they’re seated on the shady side, I have to remind myself of my next move.

  “Caffé?” I ask. I’m going to grab some cookies and lemon soda anyway, but coffee needs to be requested. Paola and Santi decline, but Siena’s into an espresso. I pop off to the kitchen with a bounce in my step.

  Starting the espresso before arranging the cookies on a platter, I think this is kind of great. I could really learn to like having people over, running a kitchen, being in charge of my own little fiefdom.

  Outside, they’re chatting amicably. Santino’s phone rings and he dodges away to answer, leaving Paola and Siena alone. As he passes me, I hear the word Dami and wonder if it’s the same Damiano who threw oranges at his window, but I can’t ask because he’s gone in a blink.

  Damn him and his business. I can hurry the cookies and cold drinks but I can’t rush the coffee. I load the tray with biscotti and glasses for the pitcher of lemon soda and start out, when I hear an urgent psst. Santino’s leaning in the entrance from the living room with his hand over the phone.

  “Wait for me,” he says before shaking his head and walking away in frustration over whatever’s happening on the call.

  Is he serious?

  I’m supposed to stare at the espresso pot for another seven minutes while we have guests waiting alone? No self-respecting Italian matriarch would let that go on, whether her husband told her to or not. He can reign over his territory, but I reign over the house. He knows that. Besides, what could be the problem? If Siena’s allergic to almonds or doesn’t like anise she can just pick another biscotti.

  So, with Santino striding urgently to the other side of the house, I take the tray outside.

  “Ah, here she is,” Siena says. “I was telling Paola I love how you’re wearing this.” She touches her throat, and I remember my attempts with the carved brooch.

  “Oh,” I laugh and pour out the lemon soda, making light of the aesthetic difficulties. “It’s so beautiful I can’t let it sit in a drawer.”