“I’ve been showing Alessandro and Carmela how to take over for a couple months now. They’re ready for the day-to-day management.” His brother and sister took a sudden interest in the lasagna remaining on their plates, afraid of revealing their duplicity in the plan Marc had put into action two months ago when he’d enlisted.
“Unacceptable!” Her Lombardy accent became more pronounced when she perceived a loss of control. She’d grown up in the war-ravaged Apennine Mountains, where Marc and his siblings had been born, as well. The family ran a ski lodge there, but moved to Aspen when Mama had discovered the name of her father, an American soldier in World War II. Marc’s grandfather had helped the family get established in this country and all of the D’Alessios were American citizens now.
“Your place is here. You will just un-join.” She acted as though her decreeing such would make it so.
“Not an option, Mama. I fly to Chicago tomorrow to begin training at Great Lakes.”
Mama’s hand gripped her fork and he couldn’t help but think she wished it were protruding from his neck at the moment. Her eyes narrowed. “How can you do this to me, Marco?”
The tears welling in her eyes tugged at Marc’s heart, but he wouldn’t relent. “Mama, I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing this for me.”
For my country. For Gino.
Papa, Sandro, and Carmela stared at him in disbelief and something akin to awe. He’d never stood up to Mama before. Melissa just looked as if something was slipping away from her grasp.
“Marco,” Melissa began, “how can you do this to your Mama?”
Well, that was new. Concern for his mother? Rich, Melissa. Fucking rich.
Mama’s face became redder with Melissa’s encouragement. “This family already made the ultimate sacrifice for America. We need not shed any more precious D’Alessio blood in this war.”
But the wrong D’Alessio brother’s blood was shed.
If anyone had been expendable in the family, it most certainly would have been Marc. Twenty-six years old and when had he ever done something selfless? Noble? Honorable?
Marc wiped the condensation off his wine glass with his thumb, watching a bead of water trickle down the stem. He’d never admitted to his brother how much he admired him, spending all those years being jealous of Gino’s status in the family. He’d never have that chance now.
Marc looked up at her, his gaze locking with Melissa’s. She hadn’t loved Gino the way he’d deserved. She sure as hell didn’t love Marc. Was she just some damned gold digger? He dismissed her, not caring what her motives were.
Then he turned to his mother. “I need to do this, Mama.” His voice sounded raspy even to his ears. Marc maintained his gaze with Mama. You aren’t going to win this one, Mama. When she looked down at her plate. Marc felt as if the world shifted on its axis. She’d surrendered.
“Well, at least you haven’t joined the Marines,” Mama whispered. “I don’t think I could bear that.”
Gino had served with the Marines. No problem. Marc was tired of trying to compete with his brother. He’d never fill his brother’s shoes as a war hero either, unless he got himself killed, which he didn’t intend to do. So he’d chosen the Navy instead.
“Just be careful, son,” Papa said. “Come home safe.”
“I will, Papa.” Marc placed his red cloth napkin on the table. “Now, if you will all excuse me, I need to relieve the manager at the front desk for the night shift.” Marc had decided he and Sandro would work some of the holiday shifts to give more employees a chance to spend time with their families.
“Sandro, when you’re finished eating, you’re on duty at the concierge desk tonight.”
“I’m finished.” His little brother quickly wiped his mouth, probably anxious to escape the tension in the room, as well. “Mama, may I be excused?”
Mama gave him a nod, but her gaze remained fixed on Marc. Without any acknowledgement of Melissa, Marc turned to leave. He felt Mama’s and Melissa’s gazes boring into his shoulder blades as he exited the dining room.
* * *
Nearly an hour later, Marc placed the phone in the receiver and sighed. He looked across the hotel lobby at the blazing fireplace surrounded by the festive decorations Carmela had orchestrated. Several couples laughed and flirted as they sipped cocktails and beer, gearing up for an evening of sex, no doubt.
Two years ago, he’d partied with the guests after a long day on the slopes giving ski lessons. Marc had never fit into a business suit. The guests had treated him like one of their own. He preferred to teach ski lessons during the winter months, lead extreme mountain-hiking excursions the other seasons, and provide his own specialized services after hours year-round. His gut tightened. He’d given up all three, the last when Gino died.
Right now, though, he had a guest asking for him specifically for some emergency in her cabin. Marc picked up the master-key card and put the “Back in a Moment” sign on the reception desk. He told the bartender at the wet bar in the lobby she’d need to cover the desk for a while.
Marc sauntered over to the Concierge desk. “Sandro, come with me. You’re going to have to deal with these matters after I leave tomorrow.”
At least Sandro showed a knack for the business end of things—and Carmela enjoyed being activities coordinator and working on publicity. They’d do fine. Of course, Mama would continue to pull the strings. She wasn’t one to relinquish control.
“You and Carmela have done a great job these past couple months,” Marc said as they walked out the service exit. “You’re going to do fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Marc squeezed his little brother at the nape of his neck. “Hell, yeah, Sandro.”
The wind whipped at their faces as they crossed the grounds to one of the more isolated cabins. He wondered what could be wrong. He’d always made sure the resort was maintained to perfection.
Marc knocked and spoke through the door, “Marc D’Alessio!” No answer. He knocked again and heard a woman’s voice inviting him to come in. He inserted the key into the lock, turned down the handle, and pushed the door open, motioning for Sandro to precede him.
A couple of steps into the cabin, Sandro came to a dead stop. “Damn!”
Damn was right. Why did he have to have a major freaking problem on his last night? Marc nudged his brother further into the cabin so he could begin to assess the situation.
Oh, shit. On the floor, beside the overstuffed loveseat, knelt a middle-aged woman with brassy red hair and fake boobs, clenching a purple-handled riding crop between her teeth—naked as the day she was born. She also had the nip-tucks to keep everything firmly in place, despite her age.
The woman looked confused as her gaze shifted from Marc to Sandro, then settled on Marc, probably because he was the taller of the two. Her hand reached up to take the crop out of her mouth and asked, “Which one of you is Master Marco?”
Shit. His reputation had preceded him.
Sandro looked at him and grinned. “Is there something you forgot to train me to take over for you, bro?”
Brat.
Marc recalled that week nine years ago when Master Marco had been born. Seventeen, restless, and horny as hell. Then a sexy, bored cougar he’d given ski lessons to took him under her wing at night for some private lessons of her own design. By the time the week had ended, he knew more about bondage and discipline than any under-aged kid ought to know. The euphoric feeling of control and power he’d achieved in Dom space had him hooked for life.
In the beginning, the diversion kept him from going stark-raving mad from boredom. Of course, he’d never taken money from the women. They were paying enough to stay at the lodge. He was just…an added amenity.
He’d also drawn the line at having intercourse with them. He had friends with benefits for that, although most of them weren’t interested in exploring their kinky sides. Until Melissa. So, Master Marco provided a select few in-the-know resort patrons with whatever level of bondag
e, discipline, and sado-masochistic kink they chose. He preferred bondage and discipline best, though.
When he met Melissa, he thought he’d found himself the perfect submissive. He’d grown tired of catering to bored, rich older women. Most were anything but submissive. Hell, they’d called all the shots. Having them top him from the bottom was about as sexy as stale wine.
But, shit, he had loved turning their asses crimson red with his firm hand or whatever implement from his toy bag they preferred.
But that was then.
Melissa had topped from the bottom, as well. What was he doing to attract such quasi-submissive women? Maybe he needed to take Dom lessons.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, but Master Marco doesn’t work here any longer.”
Marc politely extricated himself from the indelicate situation and advised Sandro to forget what he’d seen. Master Marco had now officially been eliminated from the amenities offered at the resort.
Someday he’d like to explore the lifestyle with a woman interested in true submission. As he walked back to the lobby, Marc wondered if he’d ever find such a woman—one he could train himself. One who didn’t have a plastic face and a pair of matching plastic boobs.
Focus, man.
First, he had a four-year enlistment in the Navy to fulfill. Maybe in that time he’d become a man he could live with.
* * *
Five months later, May 2004, Camp Pendleton, California
Marc fell back on the rack, too tired to remove his boots. Every muscle in his body ached—some he’d never become acquainted with before. What the hell had he gotten himself into? If he’d known becoming a Navy Hospital Corpsman might land him in the Marines, he’d never have signed the damned papers. Everyone knew that training with the Marine Corps was more intense than any other regular military branch. He could vouch personally that his Great Lakes boot-camp experience was the bunny slope compared to this.
He heard the rack next to him squeak and looked over to see Orlando. The man had just been through the same maneuvers and exercises and looked ready to go dancing. Shit. Marc had no idea how soft he’d gotten at that cushy desk job.
Orlando looked unhappy, as usual. Never saw someone with a more depressing outlook on life. Maybe he could engage the kid in some conversation. At least Marc’s jaw muscles were still in working order.
“So, what got you into the Marines?”
Orlando looked around as if perhaps Marc had been talking to someone else, then his gaze zeroed in on him. “Lost my job.”
“What did you do?”
“Bus boy.” He said it as if Marc would look down on him or something. Damn, the kid sure had a boulder of resentment on his shoulder.
“That’s hard work.”
“It was a living. While I had it, anyway.”
Clearly, this conversation was going nowhere fast. “So, where you from?”
“Just down the coast. Eden Gardens at Solana Beach.”
Again, he looked as if Marc would make some judgment call. He had no freaking clue what Eden Gardens was like, but it sure sounded nice. When he didn’t ask where Marc was from, he just decided to volunteer the info. “I’m from Aspen, Colorado, by way of the Lombardy region of Italy.”
“Mmm.” Orlando removed his boots and began polishing the suede on one of them.
Shit. What the hell could he do to get a response out of the guy? Marc turned onto his side with a groan and propped his head in the palm of his hand. “So, have you ever tied a woman to her bed?”
Orlando’s hand came to a stop and he looked up from his boot. Got his attention, at least.
“Once or twice.”
Yeah, right. He’d remember if it were once…or twice. But there was a look in his eye that Marc couldn’t quite decipher.
“I don’t get off on that shit.”
“Then you must not be doing it right. Nothing sweeter than the surrender of a submissive woman in restraints.”
“Not if she doesn’t want to be in them.”
“Well, no shit. I’m talking safe, sane, and consensual, good old-fashioned bondage and discipline between consenting adults.”
“I had a girlfriend once who was into pain, but I left her. I could never hurt a woman.”
“Even if she needed the pain to get off?”
Orlando got a faraway look in his eyes, his hands remaining still, holding the boot and brush. “There was this girl last fall who got herself into a really bad BDSM scene. Fucking pissed me off when I found her. She sure as hell wasn’t enjoying it.” Orlando shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Why didn’t she say her safe word?”
“I’m not sure she didn’t. She was with two guys she barely knew. Not very good at keeping herself safe, I guess.” He looked as if he were a million miles away again. Then slowly he began polishing the boot.
“Some people don’t take enough time to establish trust. Can’t have a power exchange if there isn’t a firm foundation in trust.”
When Orlando silently continued working at the grime on his boot, Marc eased back onto the rack. If he could move, he’d do the same with his boots. Tomorrow morning, he’d have to get up and go through this pain all over again. If he survived reconnaissance training, it would be a miracle.
Gino had gone through Recon Marine training, too. Marc had a new respect for him after a week with this Marine unit. Funny how Marc had tried so hard to avoid going into the Marines—then had wound up in the same damned unit Gino had served in.
Gino hadn’t said much about what he was doing. He’d been sent to Kandahar in the early days of the war to help establish the base there. If Marc made it through training, he wanted to talk with Master Sergeant Montague about the firefight that had taken Gino’s life. The details they’d been given were pretty sketchy.
But there weren’t a lot of opportunities for a corpsman to chat up the Top. Not that he’d ever dare to call the master sergeant a “Top” to his face without permission. Did the man like the common nickname or not?
After months of medical training, including A-School, Marc just hoped he’d be able to save the lives of the men and women in this unit when the time came. Dio, he didn’t want to screw up. They would count on him to be there when they needed him.
Oh, shit. What had ever possessed him to enlist? He’d never carried responsibility like this before in his entire fucking life.
* * *
Two months later, July 2004, Camp Pendleton, California
Iraq. Marc knew it was coming, but knowing they’d be shipping out to a duty station in Fallujah in a week sure made him want to do a few things before he left. The no-porn, no-sex, no-alcohol rules were going to kill him. He needed to blow off some steam while he still could.
Orlando walked into the barracks and dropped Marc’s mail on the rack at Marc’s feet. Looked like he’d taken the fetish magazine Marc’s little brother, Sandro, had subscribed him to out of the wrapper for a peek.
Marc smiled. “Get into a Tee and khakis. We’re going out.”
“Where to?”
“Little place up the coast. You’re going to love it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do. You need an education.”
“More training?”
“Something like that.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on the 5 in Marc’s vintage cherry-red Porsche 911 Carrera, top down, and heading for Los Angeles. He figured that would be far enough off base for them not to run into anyone who would report them up the chain of command. At least he knew they wouldn’t find by-the-book Master Sergeant Montague there. The man had to be about the grimmest, meanest hard-ass Marc had ever met.
He’d never found an opportunity to ask his top sergeant about Gino. He knew Montague was involved in the firefight that killed his brother, though. Montague had written a letter to Marc’s parents soon after telling them of his regret about Gino’s death.
Marc had read the short letter many times after his brother’
s death, trying to glean some clue as to what had happened. But there weren’t many details there. Mostly he’d just shared how honorably Gino had served his unit. Probably just a form letter he sent to all families of the fallen. Maybe someday the two of them would talk about that fatal day in Afghanistan. But it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
As the sports car’s engine purred, his thumb stroked the underside of the steering wheel. He realized how much he was going to miss his baby. Sandro had agreed to fly out to San Diego later this week to drive her home—agreed a little too enthusiastically for Marc’s taste. He hoped he’d get back from Fallujah before the kid blew the engine.
“Nice ride!” Orlando shouted over the wind blowing around them.
“Thanks. What do you drive?”
“Harley.”
Shit! This kid has chick-magnet potential, after all.
“Had to sell it to make rent last year, though.”
“Crap. That had to suck.”
“Yeah. I’m currently a man without wheels—but I guess it won’t matter much after next week.”
Marc hoped there would be at least one woman with a military fetish at the club tonight. With their “Marines” emblazoned camo T-shirts and their high-and-tight haircuts, it was obvious. Marc wore his Navy uniform and insignia on formal occasions, but damn it, he’d earned the title of Marine, as well, during his Recon Marine training and was proud to proclaim it.
He also hoped they had Dom gear available. He’d left his toy bag in Aspen. Wouldn’t be surprised if Sandro was trying out his gear, too, the way he’d become so fascinated by the whole Master Marco fiasco. He shook his head.
“So, where we going again?”
“A little club I heard about.”
“What kind of club?”
“Fetish.”
“Man, I told you I’m not into inflicting pain on chicas.”
“No problem. I’ll take care of that part. We’re tag-teaming. You’ll be the master in charge of pleasure. You do know how to please a woman, don’t you, Orlando?” Marc grinned over at him.
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