Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  “I had business to attend to,” he told me briefly this morning when I asked. He swung by to pick me up in a town car like it was no big deal we didn’t spend our fucking wedding night together.

  Now here we are, getting on a private jet to fly down to Florida, where we’ll get on a yacht and sail the islands. I’m bouncing in the car seat because I’m finally free. One more night in that apartment with no one to talk to except a couple of bored mobsters assigned to watch me, and I’d have pulled my brain out my fucking nose with a spoon, just for something to do.

  Luca seems paler than ever as we climb up the stairs to the private jet provided, like the yacht, by Tino Morelli. I pause to wave to Pops and Maggie, to Tino Morelli and Sam Fuscone, to Brother Frank and Sister Celia, who all came to see us off. Luca drags me into the plane by the elbow.

  “Whoa,” I complain. “Don’t start slapping me around yet, baby. Wait till we get to the honeymoon suite at least.”

  “Sit down and keep quiet,” he hisses at me. Then he leans in close, his lips against my ear, and murmurs, “This plane will have bugs all through it.”

  I’m guessing he doesn’t mean the creepy-crawly kind. I sigh and settle into my seat. I guess I can wait to talk in private later. Meanwhile, there’s another issue to address. I’m in Bermudas, Crocs, and a white tee. He’s in another cheap suit. I guess at least he’s not wearing a tie.

  “You’re gonna sweat like fuck when we get off in Florida,” I say.

  “I have appearances to keep up,” he says stiffly, taking off the jacket and hanging it in the cute little wardrobe at the back of the cabin.

  I scoff: “Poly-blend isn’t an appearance, D’Amato.”

  “This is Armani,” he says, his eyes as icy as his voice.

  “Bullshit,” I cackle. “Whatever that is, it’s not my man Giorgio.”

  He doesn’t reply, just settles into one of the large leather seats. He fastens his seatbelt right away, tightening it so hard he’s in danger of cutting off blood supply between his dick and his brain.

  I get up and come down the aisle, so I can settle into the seat across from him, and kick back. All things considered, life could be a lot shittier right now than it is. For example, I could be pushing up daisies. Instead, I have a hot new husband, a private jet and then a yacht to look forward to, and a sponge bag squashed full of my favorite candies, thanks to Celia.

  The smiling hostess comes down to congratulate us on our marriage and pour us a glass of champagne. “We’ll be taking off in five minutes or so, gentlemen. Just let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”

  Luca gives her an impatient nod.

  “Thank you,” I say, checking her name tag. “Jessica? Thank you, Jessica. You’re a star.”

  “Thank you, Mr. D’Amato,” she giggles, and leaves us.

  I look across at my new husband. “Is she confused, or am I taking your name?”

  He gives a sigh like he’s getting a migraine, and closes his eyes, tries to settle back in the seat.

  “You want some sparkles?” I ask, lifting up my own glass. “Good vintage, this. I’m impressed. Tino spared no expense for this wedding.”

  Still he says nothing. I study him as he feigns sleep, the way his black hair falls forward over his white forehead, the inky black of his lashes, the aquiline run of his nose. My darling devil is still a stunner, despite the terrible suit, and now I have him for the rest of my life, thanks to Don Augustino Morelli, old enemy of my Pops and possible killer of my Mom.

  Funny the way things work out, isn’t it?

  Luca is clutching so hard at the seat that his knuckles are white and bony. “So, husband,” I say, sipping at my Cristal. “Not a fan of flying?”

  His eyes slit open and he gives me a glare, or as much as he can from half-closed eyes. “I’ve never flown before,” he admits at last.

  My eyebrows shoot up. “For realsies?”

  His face goes dark. “We didn’t all grow up with a rich daddy,” he says.

  “Where were your parents?” I ask, letting the dad-jibe go by. I wouldn’t be in this situation at all if it weren’t for my rich daddy. I still can’t make up my mind if that’s a good or bad thing. “At the wedding, I mean. Only Brother Frank was there. Where was the impressive extended family you Italians all seem to have?”

  He looks out the window. We’re starting to taxi now, and the seatbelt sign comes on. “Dead,” he says briefly. “All dead. It’s just me and Frank now.”

  “Well, shit,” I say. “Now I feel like an asshole.”

  He says nothing, but his fingers look like they’re about to bend backwards on the arms of the seat. The pilot announces that we’re about to take off, tells us the flying time and the weather in Florida, blah blah. Neither of us are listening.

  I flick open my safety belt and dive at Luca. “Hold me,” I say, curling up on him like a kid.

  “Get the fuck back in your seat!” he barks, but I just laugh.

  “Better hold onto me, baby, or your new bride might break his neck on take-off.”

  He realizes I’m serious, that I’m not moving; his arms go around me, fast and tight. “You’re crazy,” he says. “I mean, certifiable.”

  I just grin. The plane is rushing now, and I love this part, the take-off, when you leave your stomach behind and your soul soars up into the clouds. I close my eyes to feel it, nestling into my new husband’s neck, breathing in the scent of his soap and his shampoo and his—what is that, fucking Old Spice? Jesus. This guy needs an education.

  He’s holding on to me like he’s drowning, and I can feel his heart banging away in his chest under my hand. He really doesn’t like flying, or else maybe it’s me; maybe being this close to me is reminding him of the last time we were this close. Fuck, I hope it’s me.

  The plane is starting to level out now, and his arms loosen just the tiniest amount, enough so I can breathe. I nose my way up his cheek and kiss his temple. “Nothing to it,” I say. “Now it’s just us and the sky.”

  “Don’t know if I like the sound of that,” he mutters. But he doesn’t pull away.

  I wonder how time has changed him. I read once that the cells in our body gets totally replaced every seven years, so he’s still got a few that I’ve touched before. Now I’ll get to know all those new cells, too.

  “Relax, babes,” I chuckle. “Have some bubbles, make out with me. Celebrate. You totally saved my ass.” At that, he pushes me gently until I’m forced to slide onto the thick arm of the chair rather than his lap. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “There will be no making out,” he says.

  “What? Why not?” I pout. Seriously. This fucking guy.

  “This is a business arrangement, that’s all.” He leans on his right elbow, chin in hand, and stares moodily out at the clouds.

  Before I can say anything else, the hostess appears again. “How are we doing, gentlemen?” she asks brightly. “Would we like some fresh fruits, some croissants, perhaps?”

  Luca waves an irritated hand. Her smile doesn’t waver, but it does get a little tighter.

  “Nervous flyer,” I say to her quietly.

  “Ohh,” she whispers back, her eyes going wide. “Can I get him a Xanax, or—”

  “Jessica, honey, that would be fantabulous,” I tell her.

  At that, Luca’s head whips back around. “No. No drugs.”

  “It’s just a Xanny, baby,” I say. “For me,” I add. “You can stay freaked if you want to.”

  “No drugs,” he says again, and he’s looking at Jessica, not me.

  “Understood, sir,” she says immediately, unsmiling, and goes back to wherever she came from, pulling the privacy curtain across.

  “What,” I say, “the actual fuck was that?”

  Luca gives me the once-over, and I don’t like what I see in his eyes. “I don’t know how I can possibly make myself clearer. The drugs stop. Now. I don’t want an addict I have to clean up after.”

  I put a hand on my
chest like I’m mortally offended. “Baby, I always clean up after myself.”

  Luca unclips his seat belt and stands up, towering over me where I still sit on the arm of the chair. “I don’t want an addict, and I don’t want your mouth flapping constantly. So just sit down and shut up. I don’t want to hear a word out of you until we’re in Florida.”

  I stick out my lower lip. “I thought we were gonna join the mile high club.”

  He stares at me like he can’t believe I’m still talking, and then throws his hands up. “I get it, now. Tino’s hoping I’ll suicide before we even get back from Florida.”

  I stand up, too, because I’m sick of his shit, and the candies I took before we left for the airport are starting to wear off. “Listen, Georgie, don’t try to pretend like this is some fucking punishment for you. We both know we’re meant to be. We’re fucking fated, man; don’t you feel it? I saved your life and you saved mine. And now we get to live happily ever after in a fucking fairytale. That’s how this is going to go down.” He turns away, trying to compose himself, but rounds on me when I add, “And for the record—”

  He grabs the back of my neck, pulling me close and pressing his forehead against mine. “No.”

  It’s the calm way he says it that makes me almost lose control of my bladder. I think I just found out how far I can push my panther before he bites back.

  “No, angel, that’s not how this is going to go down. There will be no drugs. No mouth. And definitely no fucking. You’re a hostage, baby bird; you think I’m gonna fuck a hostage? No; you and I are going to live the long, lonely, celibate lives Fuscone intended for us when he made this deal. And don’t tell me you think Don Augustino Morelli, esteemed Boss of the Morelli Family, had the best interests of two queers at heart when he allowed us to play out this charade? You’re dreaming. You’re alive until Tino says different, and then you’re dead.”

  “Tino said he wanted this to be a real marriage,” I protest. “He practically encouraged us to get it on.”

  “Tino said we had to stay faithful, or we’re dead. He doesn’t care apart from that.”

  I think he’s wrong. I think he’s so wrong, this clever and calculating man; he sees more than most, but he didn’t see what I saw in Tino’s face the day of our wedding. Tino Morelli was goddamn joyful, I’d swear it on my mother’s grave if I could talk right now, only I can’t. I can only moan.

  And then he looks down between us, where I’m shoving up against him, rutting against his thigh like a fucking animal. The effect this guy has on me…and all that macho alpha-male bullshit he’s playing just makes me hotter.

  He pushes me away and lets me go, drops me back into his own seat before swiveling on his heel and stalking towards the back of the plane. I don’t watch him go. I’m too busy soothing my bruised ego with champagne.

  He’ll come round, I reassure myself. There’s no way my man, with his mash-up of testosterone and smarts, is going to be able to keep that gorgeous cock in his pants.

  No more drugs? Easy enough, once I get rid of Celia’s supply.

  No more talking back? Harder, but I’ll get the hang of it.

  But one thing I won’t give up is sex.

  Especially not when I have the world’s hottest husband.

  Chapter Twelve

  LUCA

  “You’re starting to burn, baby,” Finch says, looking at me over the top of his sunglasses. We’re lying on the deck of the yacht in the middle of nowhere, one day into our two-week joke of a honeymoon, and Finch is right. Where my shirt flaps open, the treacherous pale skin of my chest and belly is turning lobster red in the sun. His is only getting more golden. How is that fair? He’s Irish, for Christ’s sake.

  “I don’t care,” I say, and shift only enough to stretch out even more.

  Last night I made him stay in his own room, in his own bed. I needed peace and quiet to figure some things out, and nowhere on the list of words I would use to describe this new husband of mine are peace or quiet.

  I locked the door between our rooms just in case he was tempted, and I also locked his main cabin door, just in case he was tempted to go out in the night and throw himself overboard. I’m never quite sure what triggers that death wish of his, but from now on, my job is to keep him safe.

  From others, but also from himself.

  The first thing I did, once I had Finch safely stowed and most of the crew were asleep, was go over every inch of the master suite and bathroom with a bug-finder. I found nothing.

  After that, I went over the whole damn boat, anywhere Finch or I might go, and found…nothing.

  I would much rather have found something, just to put my mind at ease. But unless Tino has access to some futuristic bugs or wires that are advanced enough to evade my precautions, the place is clean. And if Tino does have access to that kind of hardware… Well, then I’m fucked no matter what.

  All my investigations got me were a restless sleep and an uneasy feeling in my gut. But even that seems to be fading now in the bright morning sunshine.

  Finch sits up now, and straightens the captain’s hat he’s stolen from, presumably, the captain. He’s paired it with tiny white booty stretch-shorts.

  “Come on,” he says, brooking no defiance. “Sunscreen. Or you’ll blister.”

  I’m too relaxed to argue. “Whatever,” I sigh, and the next thing I know, he’s rubbing me all over with something sticky. It feels too good to fight it, until he tries to push my shirt off my shoulders.

  “No,” I say, grabbing his wrists. Once he knows I’m serious, though, I let him get back to work slathering up my exposed skin.

  This is the first vacation I’ve ever taken. The thought occurred to me when we stepped onto the dock and I saw Tino’s yacht with my own eyes. I’d heard about the Maddalena, of course. Even seen photos of it that Tino showed me one time when I was there for dinner with Frank after we were made, and Tino’d had a lot of cognac. But it’s only when I see it for myself that I realize this is a symbol of what I’ve been fighting for my whole life: the privilege to do nothing.

  It’s not that I want to do nothing. It’s just that I’d like the choice to do nothing if I felt like it. I’m a hustler, a workaholic by nature, I know that much, but I like the idea of being able to take a day off here and there.

  If I ever felt like it, I mean.

  Finch has known nothing but that privilege his whole life. For him, this is just another getaway.

  Well. Not quite. A honeymoon has its own special meaning, after all. He’s working sunscreen down my abs towards the band of my shorts, and the wide turnup of his lips lets me know exactly what he’s thinking about.

  I grab his wrist. “I told you,” I say in a low voice. “No sex.”

  He pouts. He’s spent most of his time here so far pouting at me. “Why so protective of your manhood these days? That first night we met you couldn’t wait to get it in my mouth.”

  “Keep your voice down,” I say sharply. I can’t see anyone around, but I can’t fight the habit of years of caution.

  We’re alone on the yacht apart from the crew: the captain; Nunzio the boat manager; his wife the chef, some kitchen hands, a couple of maids, and a bunch of surly-looking deckhands. So really, we’re not alone at all. And this is Tino Morelli’s yacht. I have to believe Tino put us on it for a reason. Whether that reason is benign or malign, I have yet to figure out.

  But Finch doesn’t seem to get it, or doesn’t care. I guess he’s got nothing else to lose. He’s a prisoner, although he doesn’t act like it. In fact, he acts exactly like what I’m starting to think he is: a petulant, spoiled, hedonistic little twink. For whom I put my life on the line.

  He straddles me now, and I have oddly conflicting urges to push him off and pull him closer. There’s something about him that brings out the animal in me, makes me want to toss away all my hard-won self-control. I lost control on the plane, grabbing him by the neck and threatening him, and I’m ashamed of myself for that. But all it did
was make him horny.

  Kid knows his fashion, I’ll give him that. He’s the only one who didn’t take my word for it that my fucking suit was Armani; or at least, he’s the only one who’s ever had the guts to call me out on it. Right now those white booty shorts are showing more than they cover. I swear I could see the vein running up his cock if I looked close enough, and half his bush for that matter, the waist is cut so low.

  “I love your fur,” he purrs, raking his fingers through the hair on my chest. He rocks back and forth on top of me while he massages sunscreen over my shoulders, rubbing his taint along my dick. I reach up to grab his hips, and I mean to push him off, but instead I find myself pulling him closer, so he can grind down harder on me. “That’s right, baby,” he whispers. I can see his cock shifting under the sheer white spandex, filling out, a wet spot starting to build and spread at the tip.

  “Stop,” I say, but my hands urge his hips on.

  “Tino wanted this to be a real marriage,” he says to me, leaning close to my ear and talking low and sweet. “That means we should consummate it. Why are you so vehemently against it?” He reaches down to rub his dick, spreading his stickiness around the white shorts and then raising his fingers to his mouth to taste his own pre-cum.

  See, I can’t make up my mind about him. Half the time he’s some drugged-out airhead trying to get his rocks off, then he goes and uses a word like vehemently and reminds me he has a brain. He’s just been doing his best to kill it off with drugs for the last five years. I hate to admit it, but my new husband is one of the few people I can’t just see through at a glance. He’s…complicated. Most men are windows. This one’s a maze full of mirrors, dead ends and trapdoors.

  For one thing, he didn’t say another word to me for the rest of that plane journey, although he insisted on crawling into my lap again for landing. Even the hostess frowned about that, although she scrambled away with one glance from me. It was dumb of him to do, but I know why he was doing it.

  It was to comfort me.