Virgin: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

by Shanna Handel

“What time is it?”

  “Three o’clock. We have twenty-four hours left. What would you like to do?”

  He smells so good, like lemongrass and the scent of our sex lingers around him. He’s so close, his skin hot against mine. There’s an aching between my legs. I shift my thigh and feel a slick pool. I need some time to decompress—and clean myself. “I think I’d like to take a shower. Oh, and to call Sasha.”

  I promised her I’d check in when I landed. I guess I didn’t break my promise, as we never even took off, but I know she’s waiting to hear from me. I sit up, bringing the sheet with me. I wrap it around my body and stand beside the bed.

  “Your clothes are already in the guest bathroom. I put them there after I carried you up here. There’s clean towels, soap, anything you might need. I’ve got an extra phone you can use. It’s in the desk, in your room.”

  “Thank you... for everything.” I give him a long glance and he reciprocates with a small smile. I shuffle off to my room, careful to hold the sheet closed behind me.

  When I get to my room, I shut the door, and I know it’s silly, but I lock it behind me. I lean against the smooth wood, pressing my forehead to its cool surface. A smile creeps up on my lips and I giggle.

  I’m no longer a virgin. I’ve been made love to. Twice.

  I walk over to the floor-length mirror and drop the sheet. Do I look any different? My skin seems to glow within. A pretty flush colors my cheeks. My long hair is tossed and tangled, framing my face with dark wisps.

  I grin back at my reflection.

  I skip off to the shower. It’s huge and tiled and is so clean I think I must be the first to use it. I warm the water then step under the stream. The water rushes over me and it feels amazing. I lather my hair into foamy suds with the lavender shampoo. I rinse, then find soap and a razor waiting for me. I shave my legs, under my arms, my bikini line. Then I wash my body, taking care with the intimate areas that have had so much recent attention.

  I step out of the shower and dry with a clean, fluffy towel. My clothes are waiting for me, neatly folded, on a little side table. I smile to myself. “He didn’t have to do that.”

  I dress and step out to the room to find the phone. I find it in the drawer of the small dark wood desk. I turn it on and find it with no unlock code and a full battery. I press in Sasha’s number and wait for it to ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sasha. It’s Adrianna calling from a spare phone—”

  “Adrianna! Where the hell have you been? What’s going on? Why aren’t you here yet?”

  I guess the other family members weren’t filled in on the breach. I’m overwhelmed by her questions. I evade. “What time is it there?”

  “Almost eleven but the party is still going strong. You know the best cure for jetlag—copious amounts of champagne and not going to bed until after midnight. What the hell happened? Why are you still at the Parish?”

  “There was a... delay.”

  “I’ll say—you should have been here yesterday! Like, an hour before us.”

  “I know. I just was late with the packing and then when I was on my way to the landing strip, I had to stop and say goodbye to all the little kids that were down by the shore. I don’t know when I’ll be back and I’ll miss them. Then Jeremy fell and scraped his knees on the rocks and needed a bandage and we couldn’t find one and—”

  She huffs, stopping my long-winded story. “Well, all of our people showed up ahead of schedule. Dante said you still weren’t at the jet and for us to take your flight time. No wonder he was so pissed when he called Carter. Did he spank your ass for showing up late?”

  “Err... not exactly.” I don’t want to go into details. There’s something about Sasha that draws out secrets from me and I’m not yet ready to share what has transpired between me and Dante. I change subjects. “Tell me about the memorial. How was it?”

  “Sweet. Sad. I still miss Brett—everyone does. The service was touching. You know what a great speaker Bronson is. He did the speech even though Rockland is the head now. You know how Rockland hates public speaking. Always willing to do the brutal work for the family but can’t say a few words in front of a crowd.”

  “And now you’re at the party afterwards now? The reunion?”

  “Yes. Sorry it’s so loud. I tried to find a quiet space to call you but you know how it is—” She leaves our conversation and I hear muffled talk in the background. “Tess says ‘hi.’ Paige says she going to kick your ass if you don’t get here in time for her to see you before she has to get back to the Hamlet.”

  I smile. “Tell them hello, and I’m sorry.”

  “Will do.”

  “How’s the party? It sounds fun.” As I say the words, I’m surprised to find I’m not sad to be missing out. There is no tug in my chest to be there with my family. I’m here, alone with Dante, and there is nowhere I’d rather be. I find myself wishing we had more time.

  I’m getting too attached.

  The realization makes my tongue heavy in my mouth. I clear my throat, swallowing hard.

  Sasha laughs at something someone says to her as they walk by. Then she’s back. “Awesome. You know how it is—the drinking and dancing is a blast but with that many extended family members in one room, old grievances rise to the surface. About thirty seconds after introducing myself to your aunt Olivia, she had me ‘politely inform’ her sister that she was still not speaking to her after ten years, over a fight about a pair of their mother’s earrings, to which Sophia replied with—”

  The sound of my aunt Sophia’s name brings the memory of Dante’s story to my mind. I try to picture what she would look like. Did she have Dante’s emerald eyes?

  My thoughts are interrupted by Sasha’s voice tugging me back to our conversation. “Are you even listening to me, Adrianna?”

  “I am... I think we just had a bad connection there for a second. Damn shield.”

  “Shield?”

  “Yeah. After the infiltration, we had to put up the shield, the landmines, the whole big thing—”

  “Is that why you’re still at the Parish? Holy crap! The brothers have been so quiet about why your flight never made it. I’ve been pestering Carter to tell me but turns out he packed the paddle in his suitcase, so I gave up that investigation. Tell me everything.”

  If Carter doesn’t want Sasha to know what happened, should I share the information? After all, I am the only Beauty here. My stomach starts to knot, thinking I’ve already said more than I’m supposed to. “I... ah... should I? I mean if the brotherhood is keeping quiet about the... incident then—”

  “What does it matter to you? You don’t have anyone to hold you accountable.”

  “Actually, I kind of do.”

  There’s a long silence at the other end of the phone. Then Sasha’s laugh bursts through the earpiece. This time I know the laughter is directed at me. Not something happening in her surroundings in New York. “He did it? Didn’t he? Rockland enacted the hierarchy over your ass. I had a feeling he would, but you know I can’t get anything out of Carter these days. Not like in the old days when we were engaged, and I could use my womanly wiles to get the details. Oh, my God, I can barely believe it. Where are you anyway?”

  I feel my cheeks burning. “I’m at his house.”

  “Dante’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the bachelor side of the island? But Beauties aren’t allowed over there. When you said the shield, I assumed you went back to Rockland’s with the other brothers. Tell me what is going on? What happened?”

  I feel my loyalty to the Beauties tugging at me. But then Dante’s face flashes in my mind. That look of disapproval he gets, his brow knitting, his jaw setting. Just imagining it makes my knees feel weak, a rush of fluttery nerves tickles my stomach. I take a deep breath. Steel my will. “I can’t say.”

  Silence.

  I wait, bracing myself for a string of protests to come flowing from her mouth. Instead, she surprises me wi
th a “Good girl.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean it. If you don’t think you should share, if you think Dante wouldn’t want you to, then it’s probably best if you don’t.”

  “Okay?”

  “I want you to be able to sit down when you finally get here.” She laughs at her own joke. A moment later she recovers. “Just tell me. How many more days before I get to see you? Will we be back at the Parish before you get to New York?”

  “I’ll be on a plane soon. I promise.”

  “Alright, Adrianna.” I hear someone calling her name. “I’ve got to go. See you.”

  “Bye, Sasha.”

  “Bye, kiddo. Be good.”

  I turn off the phone. Her words ring in my mind.

  Be good.

  A satisfied smile creeps across my face.

  Too late for that, Sasha.

  Too. Damn. Late.

  * * *

  Adrianna

  I tiptoe around the second floor, looking for Dante to return his phone to him. In my search, I find myself wandering into his empty bedroom. The bed’s been made, covers pulled tightly around the mattress tucked into the frame. It’s void of pictures, personal effects. I walk the perimeter of the room, finding a small desk in the corner.

  There’s an acoustic guitar standing in a guitar stand on the floor. I pick it up, holding it in my hands. It’s light, made of a beautiful rose-colored wood. I hold it against my hip, my fingers plucking at the chords as I strum.

  Softly, I play the song my mother taught me, Bella Ciao. It’s an old Italian folk song, one her father taught her, a little nursery rhyme sung to children. When you listen to the words, you quickly find the meaning to be much deeper. I later looked it up and found out it was song of resistance from the time of the Italian Civil War that took place during World War II.

  I haven’t touched an instrument in years, but my fingers glide over the chords like re-meeting an old friend. My voice is high and clear and the words come to me with little effort.

  Una mattina mi sono alzato,

  O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao,

  Una mattina mi sono alzato,

  E ho trovato l’invasor.

  O partigiano portami via,

  O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao

  O partigiano portami via,

  Ché mi sento di morir.

  I make it through the first two verses, then on the third, my fingers have trouble with the chords.

  “Allow me.”

  I startle, looking up to find Dante filling the doorframe. He’s watching, arms crossed over his chest. Blush rises in my cheeks—I’ve only sung for family. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know you have a beautiful voice. That you should have been singing for the Parish every day.” He makes his way over to me. He’s behind me, his arms wrap around me. His left hand comes up from underneath the neck of the guitar, his fingers pressing into mine. He pushes the pads of my fingers against the correct chords. His right hand covers mine, his thumb gently strumming the strings. His voice is soft and warm against my ear as he sings the song in English:

  And if I die as a partisan,

  Oh bye beautiful, bye beautiful, bye beautiful, bye, bye, bye,

  And if I die as a partisan,

  You have to bury me.

  The rich timbre of his voice rises with the fourth verse. His baritone is sweet and mild and sends wonderful light chills down my back. The pressure of his fingers over mine send tingles over my arms. Each tiny hair on my skin stands on end.

  Bury me up there on the mountain,

  Oh bye beautiful, bye beautiful, bye beautiful, bye, bye, bye,

  Bury me up there on the mountain

  Under the shadow of a beautiful flower.

  He strums the last note. Releases me. My skin is flushed, left warm from his embrace. He’s standing before me. I hold the guitar out to him, hoping he will enchant me further with his beautiful voice. “I didn’t know you played.”

  To my delight, he takes the guitar from me. Perches on the edge of the bed, guitar in his lap. He strums a few notes. But he looks hesitant.

  “Sing for me.”

  His eyes graze mine. He begins to pluck the strings, slowly at first, then with more fervor. He opens his mouth and his rich, full voice fills the room.

  When we were young

  We were told

  That love would never fail

  And though I’ve failed you

  My love for you lives on

  In your absence,

  The pain it grew

  I closed off my heart—too painful to feel

  Long lonely years

  But life is strange

  And when you least expect it things, they change

  Now, she has come

  And opened my heart

  Forcing me to begin to heal

  His eyes meet mine. And I know I’m the woman in the song.

  Tears prick at the backs of my eyes. I clear my throat. “That’s beautiful. When did you write it?”

  He puts the guitar down on the bed beside him. “Last night. When I was waiting for your clothes to dry.”

  I’m not sure what to say next. I hover by the window. He holds his arms out to me and I’m grateful for the invitation. I glide over the floor and he takes me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me. I put my arm around his shoulders, clasping my hands in a ring around him. It feels nice to sit like this on his lap. I feel small, protected in his strong arms.

  Our lips meet and we kiss. It’s a sweet kiss. A gentle one. When he pulls away, his gaze is soft. Keeping one arm around my waist, his other hand lays lightly on my thigh, stroking it over my dress. “Tell me your fantasies.”

  I’m surprised by his words. They draw a flush from me and my tongue feels numb in my mouth. He gives my thigh a squeeze, prompting me to speak. I draw slow circles on his arm where the markings of his tattoo are exposed beneath his sleeve. “Like what?”

  “Now that I’ve robbed you of your virginity and will be damned to hell, why not have a little fun? You do have a lot of firsts to cover.” He kisses my cheek.

  “I know...” Shyness envelops me. I’ve never shared my body or my mind with another. At least not the dark, private parts when sensual things lie.

  “Let’s start with the classics. Have you ever wanted to have a threesome? Two men?”

  I try to picture it and there’s just too many limbs tangled in my mind. My nose wrinkles. “No. I’m a one-man woman.” Curiosity raises in my chest. “Have you ever had one?”

  “No. I’m a one-woman man.” We share a soft laugh. “What about being tied up? Maybe a black silk scarf wrapped around your wrists? You can’t move. A blindfold so you can’t see.” His fingers trail higher on my thigh, the fabric of my dress move up with them, exposing my skin. “Completely powerless as someone caresses your body?”

  My breathing accelerates. My nipples tighten. But again, I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s my... thing.”

  His fingers curve around my thigh. “How about leather? Have you ever been struck by a belt?”

  Bingo.

  My pussy throbs at the image of my bare ass being struck by a strap. But to carry it out in real life? I could never. What if it hurt? What if I didn’t like it? But, as I’m thinking it, there’s a dampening between my legs. I protest, “Nooooo. I don’t think I want to...”

  But he knows. Around his finger, he wraps a tendril of hair that hangs down from the back of my neck. Gives it a tug. “I’ll be gentle. Just give you a taste.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “I am.” He gives my hair a sudden, sharp tug that makes my breath catch.

  My pussy tightens. I say, “Um...”

  “I want you downstairs, sitting in your naughty chair in two minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Or you’ll have much more than a taste of my belt.”

  A delicious shiver runs down m
y spine. My now rock-hard nipples stand high on my aching breasts.

  “And Adrianna?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be sure to take off all of your clothes before you sit down.”

  “Ah—”

  “Go.” His green eyes flash. His jaw sets.

  I scramble down the stairs, my heart racing harder than it had at any track meet. A light sweat breaks out on my brow but it’s not from exertion. It’s from nerves. My stomach twists and knots, anticipating the new experience. The thought of being nude, whipped with his belt, and whatever else he has in mind has my knees weak.

  And my pussy absolutely throbbing with desire.

  I reach the kitchen and take a deep breath. My naughty chair is waiting for me, standing proudly in the center of the room. I quickly take off my dress, fold it and place it on the clean countertop. Then, off with my bra. My freed breasts feel heavy, my nipples tight. I step out of my panties to find the cotton damp.

  And I’m about to sit on a leather stool. Shame burns in my face at the thought of the glistening wet patch I’ll be creating—one he surely will see.

  I take another deep breath, then sit down on the chair, the leather cool against my skin. I balance my bare feet on the cold metal bar, goosebumps rising on my flesh. Fold my hands neatly on my lap. And stare at the empty staircase. Waiting.

  It’s torture. And... magnificent. My body has never been so alive. My mind never so alert. I’m living in the moment, no thought other than what’s happening to me. I wait, I wonder. Will it hurt? How hard will the belt strike me? Will I cry out? Or moan a lusty moan like I had the very first time his palm struck my bottom in the airplane bathroom?

  And... what will he do with me afterwards? Will he taste me as he did last night? God, I hope so. I think of his hot tongue lashing my pushing clit—

  There’s footsteps coming down the upstairs hallway. Dante appears at the top of the stairs. He’s wearing no shirt, just dark jeans slung low on his hips.

  Held there by a black leather belt.

  My heart lurches to my throat at the sight of him—and that leather strap around his waist. My hips twist in the seat, my fingers twining around one another. He’s coming down the stairs, every step he takes another foot closer to me. I smell my own arousal, feel the prickly heat of my perspiration.