I know the exact day I stopped believing in God. It wasn’t when my mother died but the day I learned that the church turned its back on her. She who spent more time on her knees in prayer than anyone should.
I was a toddler when she died. Too young to experience that much loss, that much sadness. At least that’s what people thought. But I saw everything and heard everything and remembered it all.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized why everyone was so angry at her. I didn’t understand why my father suddenly turned his back on the church. I was seven when I finally did, and that was when I turned my back too. Finally understanding my father’s curse against our priest for not burying her. For refusing to even hold mass for her soul.
But Catholics are strange when it comes to suicide.
“I’ll wait outside,” I say, my voice hoarse.
Helena is surprised, but I turn and go, and I don’t explain myself.
I don’t want to be in there. I want to scrub the stink of incense from my clothes, my hair.
My mother used to say it’s the smell Jesus loves, that’s why it’s always burning. This made perfect sense to me when I was little. Now, it turns my stomach, excavating memories better left buried.
Fifteen minutes later, I watch her push open the heavy door and step outside. She smiles when she spots me, which I don’t expect. But maybe she doesn’t either because she schools her features into a frown a few moments later.
I take her arm. “You’re prettier when you smile.”
“I’m not really going for pretty.”
I shrug a shoulder.
“I’ve always wanted to visit Venice, but not like this. Not for this,” she says.
“It won’t take long. My attorney’s offices are just a few blocks away, and then, if you’re good, I’ll take you to lunch afterward.”
“Wow, really?” she asks, hopping in front of me, mimicking an excited child. “Will you buy me a Popsicle too if I’m a good little girl? Huh? Will you?” She gives a shake of her head and falls back in line beside me. “Prick,” she mutters under her breath.
I take her arm, tug her close. “No, no Popsicle for you. I was planning on giving you something else to suck on, but if you’re not careful, you’ll get it up your ass instead.”
She glances up at me from the corner of her eye, and I can almost see the names she’s calling me on the inside. Which is fine, as long as I don’t have to hear them.
“That time on the post didn’t do much for your attitude, did it?” I ask as we turn a corner and are, thankfully, out of the sun. It’s warmer here than on the island. Must be all the bricks. Just sucks up the heat.
“My attitude is just fine. I haven’t called you an inbred since you so kindly educated me on the specifics, have I?”
“You’re a quick study when you’re getting your pussy eaten out.”
“Jesus. Why are you so crude?”
I glance at her. “Some women find dirty talk hot.”
“I don’t know. I think it depends how good the dirty talker is.”
“Touché.” I stop. “Hand me the switchblade you took from my room. That’s a notch for you.”
From the look on her face, she didn’t think I’d notice.
That, or she thinks I’m stupid.
“You stole it from me first. I just took back what was mine to begin with.”
“Just take care with it. I don’t want you hurting yourself, Willow Girl.”
“You prefer to do all the hurting, is that it?”
“Careful there.” I wrap my hand around the back of her slender neck and give a little squeeze. “Part of the deal is I return you in one piece.”
It’s her who stops now just as we get to the entrance of the building. “Physically, at least, right? Doesn’t matter about the scars inside. Just all fingers and toes accounted for.”
I feel one eye narrow. “Something like that.”
She always takes it just a hair too far, but I get the feeling part of that is her fighting herself because as far as sex goes, she comes at least twice a day since the night I caught her in my room. And she’s always game, no matter how much she tries to tell herself and me she’s not.
“Let’s go up. Get this done.”
We walk into the ancient building that houses our attorneys. The building itself is part of Scafoni family holdings. It’s been beautifully restored. Upon entering, I think about how much I pay our attorneys to keep our secrets.
Helena is awed. I can see it on her face. She’s taking everything in, from the pattern of the marble on the floor to the paintings and tapestries hanging on the walls. I understand. It looks more like a palace than an office.
The receptionist stands to greet us, coming around the desk, almost bowing to me. I guess she knows who pays for her designer suit and shoes.
When I introduce her to Helena in English, she apologizes for speaking Italian and continues in English, telling us that Mr. Gallo will be with us shortly and asking if we’d like something to drink.
“Cappuccino please,” Helena says.
“An espresso for me.” She nods and walks through the door that leads to the small kitchen to work on our coffees.
“This building is amazing.” Helena turns a circle, eyes up, down, every which direction.
“Thank you. We had it reconstructed to look like it did in its early days, and it was a much bigger job than I realized. There was quite some water damage—it renders the first floor almost completely unusable—but the rest of the building is in perfect condition.”
“You own the building?”
I put my finger to her chin to close her mouth.
She clears her throat. “I just don’t even understand how much money that is.”
“It’s important to preserve the architecture of the city. This isn’t only my family’s inheritance. And by that, I mean culturally. The Scafoni family has an obligation to the people of Venice. I take that very seriously.”
“Do you own more buildings here? Is that where Scafoni money comes from?”
“A few and some.” I lead her around.
“Some?”
“Some of our wealth is through real estate. Some…outside of real estate.”
She looks at me suspiciously. “Legal?”
I give her a wide grin.
“Are you like a local mafia family or something?” I think she means it as a joke.
“This way,” I say, not answering.
She seems to understand I won’t be explaining further.
“This building dates back to the fourteenth century, and it was home to the Michiel family for a time.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Venetian nobility.”
“Oh. Are you Venetian nobility too? That’s a stupid question.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I don’t know anything about this. We don’t have this in America.”
He smiles. “No, we’re not nobility. We’re just smart businessmen.”
She studies me, and I wonder what she’s thinking, what she wants to say. She’s clever enough to know that you have to be better than smart to have collected our sort of wealth and power, and that doesn’t always come without darker dealings.
“Why don’t you have an accent when you speak English?” she asks.
“Because I was educated in boarding school in Massachusetts. I only spent summers in Italy.”
“Your brothers too?”
“Yes.”
Before she can ask another question, we’re interrupted. “Sebastian, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
I turn to find Joseph Gallo coming down the stairs. He’s dressed impeccably, as usual. I’ve been working with him since I took over the family after my father died and have known him for most of my life.
I shake his hand, patting his shoulder. “Twice in one week.”
Joseph Gallo handles the Willow transactions. He’s the one I came to see to discuss payments a
few days ago.
“A fortunate week,” he says elegantly.
He turns to Helena and takes her in, then holds out his hand. “Miss Willow, I presume.” He doesn’t quite shake her hand but holds one of hers inside both of his and turns to me. “Each generation is more beautiful than the last.”
I catch Helena’s glance. Joseph Gallo handled the details with Libby Willow too.
“Let’s go upstairs. Everything is ready. Should only take a few minutes.”
Her mood soured, Helena walks up the stairs only because of the pressure of my hand at her back. She isn’t even looking around anymore but is instead lost in her own thoughts as we enter Joseph’s office.
“Sit down, please,” he says, gesturing to two large, comfortable chairs before his antique desk.
The receptionist approaches with a tray of coffee for each of us and places a small plate of cookies on the table between our chairs.
Helena leaves hers untouched. I notice how her hands curl around the arms of the chair as she watches Joseph, who casually sips his espresso as he opens the large leather-bound tome before him.
Joseph sets his cup down and looks up at us, smiling as if any of this is normal.
“I don’t know how much Sebastian has explained to you, but I’ll just go through the legalities before you sign.”
“What legalities? There aren’t any. Don’t pretend like this is just a normal, everyday transaction.”
He isn’t ruffled. “We like to keep a recording for the sake of history.”
She raises her head to peek at the book on the desk, and Joseph turns to me.
I nod my head, and he turns the heavy book and sets it at the edge of the desk. She leans forward and looks at the still empty pages where her name is typewritten beneath one of the two lines there. Mine is beneath the other. The paper is specially made for us with our family crest embossed on it. Each page contains a rectangular frame sized for an 8x10 photo.
She touches it, traces one part of it, then turns the heavy sheet backward and stops.
Her Aunt Libby is staring back at her. Two photographs. One when she arrived on property, and one on the day before her release.
Beneath each image is a date and a signature, one belonging to her, the other to my father. The oldest son is the one responsible for the girl over the three years.
Helena stands to get a better look. She touches the photograph, then turns the page backward again, to the ones containing the two photographs her great-aunt.
“There aren’t many of you born with dark hair,” Joseph says. “Or at least not the chosen girls.”
She looks up at him with hate in her eyes.
“I guess the Scafoni men have a preference for blondes, but I don’t think chosen is the right word. This isn’t a privilege. It’s a condemnation.”
“Helena,” I warn.
She ignores me and returns her attention to her aunt’s image.
I don’t need to look to see what she sees. I’ve memorized this tome. And I know that as she scrolls through the pages of the Willow Girls who came before her, her namesake will be the only photograph where in the second image, the girl still has life in her eyes. Is still wearing a smile.
In the case of her aunt, the smile appears almost demented. Maybe she’d gone insane by the end.
Joseph begins explaining what will happen today. She’s still looking through the book though, back to when photographs were black-and-white, back when instead of photographs, hand-drawn sketches fill the pages. She then turns through the rest of it, flipping through all the empty pages, the destinies of the future Willow Girls, until she has enough and slams the book closed.
“Let’s get this done, then. Where do you want me?” Her hands are fisted.
I rise to my feet.
She’s looking around the room like she’s searching for a spot.
“This is your second warning,” I say, squeezing her elbow.
She turns to me, fire burning in her eyes. “I don’t care.”
Joseph rises, clears his throat. “This way,” he says, not an ounce of formal elegance lost as he opens a door to a smaller room off his office.
Helena doesn’t move at first, doesn’t move until I nudge her. When we pass Joseph into the room, he gives me a knowing smile.
“There’s always a bit of this at the first photograph,” he says, emphasis on the word first.
She turns to him, and I wrap my hand around her arm because she’s going to leap at him.
Joseph holds up a hand. “She’s new, Sebastian. Hasn’t yet learned. I promise it will be very different very soon. As soon as you get a handle on her.”
“A handle on me?” Helena snorts. “Like a leash? How do you know, anyway, that it’ll be different?” she asks. “Do you visit the island? See what they do? Join in?” She tries to pull free, but I squeeze. “You’re all sadists, you know that?”
He only smiles.
“Give us a few minutes, please, Joseph.”
“Of course.” He leaves the room, closes the door behind him.
I release her as soon as he’s gone and unbuckle my belt. “Against the wall. Lift your skirt.” I pull my belt loose of the loops and watch her jump at the whooshing sound of it.
“Go to hell!”
I stalk over to her, covering the space in just three steps. Frantically looking around, she picks up the only thing in the room besides the camera set on its tripod, which is a wooden stool.
“I’m warning you, Sebastian!”
I almost chuckle, grab a leg of the stool and tug, pulling her off balance, relieving her of it. She stumbles as the stool goes clattering to the ground, laying on its side. She takes a step backward, presses her back against the wall. I double the belt in my hand, squeeze the buckle of it in my palm, feel the metal dig into my skin, breaking it.
“Turn around and lift your skirt.”
“Like I said, go to hell.”
“Oh, Helena. You are fun. Turn.”
“You’ll have to make me.”
“With pleasure.”
I spin her around and wrap one hand around the back of her neck and, without a second thought, I raise my right arm and bring the belt down on the backs of her calves.
She cries out, tries to cover herself.
I raise the belt again and this time, bring it down on the crease of her knees, the sound of leather on flesh making my dick hard.
Her cry is louder this time, and I quickly follow it up with a third stroke.
“Ready to lift your skirt?”
“I hate you. I hate you so much!”
I lean in close, my mouth to her ear. “I don’t care.” I strap behind her knees once more, and they buckle.
“Your ass, Helena. Now. Or you won’t be walking for the next few days.”
She’s crying, and she moves slowly, but finally her trembling hands raise her skirt up to her waist.
“Bare.”
With one hand, she pushes her panties off her hips, and they drop to her ankles. Keeping one arm at her back to keep her skirt lifted, she sets the other into the wall and presses her face into it. Both hands are fisted.
“Now stand still,” I tell her, an edge to my voice. “This is going to hurt.”
I release her neck and step back to rain ten strokes on her sweet little ass, watching each thick stripe rise and redden, covering the whole of her ass and the tops of her thighs before I stop.
The room is quiet but for her ragged breath.
“Do you need more?”
She shakes her head no.
“You sure?”
She nods.
“Good.” I drop the belt to the floor, then right the stool and go to her, turn her to face me.
Her breathing is ragged, her eyes puffy and wet with tears.
“You fight me, Willow Girl, and you’ll lose. Every single time.”
“I will never stop fighting you, Sebastian. Not ever. Whatever you do to me, I will never stop. I swear it.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say.
Our eyes locked, she opens her mouth against mine and rises on tiptoe. I can feel her breath on me, shallow and hot. I undo my pants, shove them and my briefs just far enough to free my dick, and lift her up only to impale her on my cock, watching the expression on her pretty, tearstained face change, pulling out to thrust in again, then again.
I kiss her mouth, feel her little teeth biting down on my lip as I cup her ass and knead it.
“I hate you,” she whispers, clinging to me as her pussy tightens around my cock.
“But your body doesn’t.” I bite her back, liking the taste of the iron of her blood. “Your cunt loves my cock, Willow Girl. It’s dripping for me.”
She digs her nails into my shoulders and buries her face in my neck to muffle her cry when she comes, when her cunt pulses around me, wet and hot and tight, milking my cock, taking my seed inside her as she cleaves onto me, sagging into me, breathless, empty.
I pull out and set her on her feet.
Her knees wobble, and she has to hold on to me so as not to fall down.
I pick up her panties, help her step into them, and pull them up.
“I need to use a bathroom,” she says. “Clean up.”
I shake my head. “After. I want you to feel my cum inside you. Feel me dripping out of you.”
I wipe the last of the tears off her face, comb her hair with my fingers. I cup the back of her head and make her look at me when she pushes against me, taking in her sad eyes, the defeat inside them.
“Why do you do this?” she asks.
“It doesn’t have to be hard.” I barely whisper it. I know we’re not unobserved. “You make it hard.”
A perfect teardrop falls from her eye. I capture it under my thumb, smear it across her cheek.
When she’s like this, soft and a little beaten, I feel like I can get lost inside the endless night sky of her eyes, and I don’t want to look away.
She’s a Willow Girl. I’m a Scafoni son. Firstborn, almost. We’re both condemned. But if I’m not careful, it can be worse, so much worse for the both of us.
Mafia Romance Page 68
