Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  And as I think that, it fires.

  It’s fucking loud, loud enough to make me think I’m going deaf, and it cracks again and again, I lose count, my arms over my head, but I don’t scream. I have no breath left. All I can think about is Mom.

  The silence afterwards is eerie. My hearing starts to come back, muffled, and my head is still spinning from whatever shit was in that dope, but someone is pulling me, dragging me up, and making me move from my safe little corner.

  “Please don’t,” I whimper.

  “Don’t look,” a voice says. His voice.

  And he pulls me close, throwing one arm around my waist so he can half-carry me, and the other around my face, keeping it smushed into his chest.

  “You need to stop wearing Old Spice,” I hiccup, and try to look up, but I’m losing him, I’m losing the whole world, it’s slipping away from me…

  I feel my head throbbing first, the back of it. Then my mouth starts to ache, and my nose. I cough, and then I cough and cough again, my throat dry and sore.

  “Lie down, angel.”

  I didn’t even realize I was trying to get up, but I must have been, because calm, warm hands push my shoulders back down to the bed.

  I’m on a bed.

  I crack my eyes, very slightly, and sigh in relief when the light in the room is dim, warm, minimal.

  “Here.” Something trails over my lips and I open them hopefully. “Suck.”

  That’s something I can definitely do. But, aw, it’s just a straw. Still, I suck up the tepid water gratefully. It helps my throat. I clear it twice, three times, and then open my eyes a little more.

  It’s my husband. Only, it can’t be, because whoever this guy is, he’s smiling, and he has a gentle, relieved look in his eyes.

  I’ve never seen Luca looking at me like this, not even when I saved his life that one time.

  “What—” I croak, before I have to cough again.

  “You don’t have to worry about anything, angel.”

  And then my husband, or at least whoever it is who skinned him and is wearing him as a very lifelike Luca-suit, leans down to kiss my forehead, my nose, and then gently, so gently, my split lip.

  “What happened?” I ask, my voice getting stronger.

  “You really don’t have to worry about anything right now. Trust me on that.”

  I glare at him this time, although it makes my face hurt to squint my eyes as necessary for the glare. “What. Happened?”

  He lets out a little sigh. “Well, let’s see. You smoked up, and then—”

  “Tommy!” I remember, and try to sit up again. But it only makes me dizzy, and Luca shushes me, pulling me into his arms and supporting me like a baby, but at least I’m a little more vertical than I was. “Ugh. What happened to that fucker?”

  “He’s gone,” Luca says briefly.

  “Gone where?”

  And then I remember. The noise, the stink of fresh blood. “What did you do with the…”

  Luca’s voice sounds more like his usual tone when he says: “Here’s one instance where ‘sleeping with the fishes’ could apply.”

  I shudder. Luca’s casualness makes me feel a tad queasy, like my stomach’s about to flip-flop. To distract myself from the nausea, I look around the room. It’s the master suite again, and there’s a chair pushed up under the door handle of the entrance. “We’re safe in here,” Luca assures me, when he sees where I’m looking. “I’m just waiting for Frankie to get back to me with some information, but I’m pretty sure that guy was the only Fuscone plant on board.”

  I stare up at my husband. “How do you know it was Fuscone?”

  “Who else?”

  Fair point. “Why aren’t I tied up in a bathroom? I didn’t exactly behave myself, did I?”

  He flinches. I’ve never seen the man flinch before, either. A day of firsts. Flinching implies some kind of vulnerability.

  He puts me back down on the bed and only then opens his mouth to say something, but he’s saved by the phone. “Go back to sleep,” he tells me.

  I close my eyes and pretend, but I’m listening, not sleeping.

  “Frank,” he says, answering it. There’s a long pause, and I can hear Brother Frank squawking through the phone. He sounds panicked. Luca is calm, though, when he replies. “I see,” is all he says when the monologue is done. He’s thoughtful. Unhurried. Frank asks a question; I can hear it in the inflection. “What it means, Frank, is that Tino’s grip is loosening, and Fuscone thinks he’s the chosen one. So keep an eye on it and stay safe until I get back.” Another question. “Me? Why, Frankie, I’m going to enjoy my honeymoon. What else would I do?”

  He hangs up and I can feel him looking at me. My man’s eyes are like lasers; they sting when they hit. “You can stop pretending now,” he says, so I do.

  I struggle to sit up in the bed again and he comes to help me. “I never thought I’d see you playing nurse,” I tell him. There are so many things I want to say to him, mostly of the Fuck you variety, but there’s a bandage over my head and all my struggles are making it shift over my eyes, my face. I pull at it, tugging it off.

  “Don’t do that—great, now you’re bleeding again,” he sighs.

  I’ve wrestled my way to the side of the bed and I sit there, legs hanging over the side, panting. There’s a towel padded up on the pillow where my head was, stained crimson, and when I put a hand to the back of my head, it comes away sticky. Sticky and red.

  I’m still in my shorts, and there’s red on them too, and on my legs. Only that blood is dry. I remember the explosions, the gun going off right next to me. This isn’t my blood.

  And I remember Luca’s face when he burst through that door, enraged and alive with hatred. Hatred for poor old fake-deckhand Tommy, though. Not me.

  Poor old fake-deckhand Tommy who was about to kill me, and I realized in that split-second that I didn’t want to leave this world. Not anymore.

  “Are we—are we going to die on this honeymoon?” I ask.

  And for one of the very few times in my life, I actually give a shit about the answer.

  Chapter Twenty

  LUCA

  “No.”

  Finch looks relieved by my response, but then, strangely, puzzled. He looks down at his legs again, covered in spatter, and nods slowly. He clears his throat and says, “I’d like to clean up.”

  I’ve got my adrenaline under control by now. I had the shakes for a while after…well, I won’t think about that again, not yet, because I feel my temper rising once more. I’m not used to that hot anger. I’m usually much more restrained, and I’m kicking myself for shooting someone right next to Finch, considering the way his mother went out.

  He doesn’t look like he’s freaking out, but how would I even know?

  Frank has assured me that the asshole was Fuscone’s only man on the yacht; the rest are Tino’s. And if any of them have been turned, or if it’s actually Tino who’s ordered our deaths…well, we’ll know soon enough.

  Tino. I hate to think of Sam Fuscone moving against him, but it was only a matter of time. I bet Tino knew it, too; he’ll have something in place.

  At least I know we’re safe for the moment. The chair under the door handle won’t stop anyone really determined to get through it, but I have my gun.

  So, let’s see.

  I don’t really believe this was Tino’s doing. I also don’t believe there are any other enemies aboard, and I’ve taken care of the body. The blood can stay there as a warning in case I’m wrong, and there are others here who would do us harm.

  Finch is safe. That’s all I care about.

  But when I think of what a close thing it was—if I hadn’t been coming back down the dock right then—if I hadn’t caught sight of Finch’s bright bleached hair dancing around in the window and the cloud of smoke filling up that the room—if I hadn’t marched straight there, intending to catch him red handed with his drugs—

  If I hadn’t heard the noise inside the roo
m and Finch’s panicky voice…

  Maybe it’s true, and the saints are watching over us.

  It still surprises me the way my cool exploded, made me burst into that room, literally guns blazing, without thinking about how incredibly dumb it was to let off a shot in an enclosed space like that, and especially on a fucking yacht.

  Finch has his weakness for drugs, but I seem to have mine, too: Finch. That protective, possessive madness rose up in me, an unstoppable force. I’ve never felt that way about anyone, even Frank.

  But now, apparently, Howard Fincher Donovan the Third has found a way to trigger something uncontrolled and dangerous inside me.

  Once I eliminated the deckhand, I shut the door on the mess and half-helped, half-dragged Finch back up to the master suite, where I put him to bed to sleep off whatever shit he’d taken. All those drugs and all that drinking seems to be kept in check with his gym regime, but damn those muscles make him hefty these days. At least I didn’t have to stitch anything up, although I was worried about his head wound. But I’ve learned enough over the years in tending to Frank—and myself—that I’m pretty sure his loss of consciousness was due to the drugs. God knows what the deckhand put in there.

  I left Finch sleeping, locked him in, and went back to collect the body. The rest of the crew—the legitimate crew, as I’m thinking of them—were smart enough to make themselves scarce. So I don’t think any of them saw me rolling a large weighted bundle off the back of the yacht once we got out to sea again. Or if they did, they’re not saying anything.

  I feel as safe as I’m going to in a place I don’t control, and I don’t intend to leave Finch alone for another second. So now all I have to do for the rest of my honeymoon is keep him right next to me, which…is what he actually wants.

  My life just got easier, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.

  I help him slowly into the bathroom, but I’m relieved to find he’s regaining his strength rapidly. “This is Tommy’s blood?” he asks when we reach the bathroom. It’s all black Italian marble and gold trimmings. I can see my reflection in the darkness everywhere I look.

  Finch is still looking at his splattered legs.

  “Don’t think about that,” I tell him.

  “Are you kidding? I want to fucking Instagram this shit. That asshole was gonna knife me. He got what he deserved.” He looks up at me, licking his split lip. “Besides, this wasn’t just an attack on me, was it? It was supposed to be a sign to you, too.”

  It’s such an incongruous statement that I let out a huff of laughter. But Finch isn’t wrong. This was supposed to be a sign to me, and maybe I need to think about the long game and stop worrying so much about Finch, who is fine, and safe, and mouthy as ever. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, and I try not to think about that red veil that came over my eyes when I heard Finch’s voice, high with fear. But I can’t help it replaying in my head, just for a moment, and my grip tightens around Finch’s arm.

  He winces. “Ease up there, honey,” he complains.

  “Sorry.” I can’t think clearly, and I don’t know why. I need to get away from him, think things through, understand the connections and the possibilities that this move from Fuscone has opened up. “I’ll leave you to your shower.”

  “Nuh-uh,” he says, belligerence in his voice. “I’m having a bath with bubbles that fill this whole fucking room, and you’re gonna get into it with me.”

  I look at the enormous sunken tub; shiny black like the rest of the room. “It’ll take an hour to fill,” I say, but I turn on the taps. There’s no bubble bath, but apart from that, Finch seems satisfied. He insists on me getting in with him and it seems like a reasonable enough request.

  I don’t kill with my own hands very often these days, but when I do, I like to clean off after.

  I set my Sig Sauer and an extra mag in easy reach on the side of the tub just in case we’re rudely interrupted. Finch looks at the gun, but he says nothing. It might be my imagination, but I think his dick gave a twitch at the sight of it. I can’t blame him; it’s a beautiful weapon.

  I help him in and then slide in at the other side, but he swims over to sit on top of me before I realize what he’s doing, nestling his ass into my crotch and arching his back to relax on my chest. He stretches out in the massive tub, toes poking through the water where they float. I slide an arm around his waist and pull him down firmer into my lap, his butt brushing against my bush and my half-thick cock.

  He slings a hand behind his head, around my neck, arching his back so that those bubblegum pink nipples float temptingly just above the waterline. “I guess I could’ve behaved better today,” he murmurs. “But this time I think you deserve a reward.”

  I say nothing, unsure what he means, until he starts brushing that ass back and forth in my lap. The buoyancy only helps; it’s a gentle tease, and I find myself responding despite myself.

  “Stop,” I say at last, and I try to use my serious voice, the one I use when I’m ordering Fuscone’s nephew around, the one even that little shit can’t help responding to. Only Finch, crazy death-wish Finch, doesn’t listen. He keeps grinding on me, the water splashing and rocking in the tub.

  “You’re gonna have to make me stop,” he says, and twists to press a kiss to my cheek, another to the side of my mouth. I grab his waist and push him, turn him, mount him on my lap so he’s facing me. It takes him by surprise but he likes it, and lets out that laugh of his. “That’s not making me stop,” he says, splaying his thighs so he can rub his cock against mine.

  I’m so hard for him. And he wants it. He’s desperate for it.

  I reach down between us and curl my fingers around his cock, just lightly, and he stops breathing. I jack him slowly; moving in the water makes it slower than I’d like—than he’d like, judging by his frustrated moan.

  I’m coming to understand him, I think. It’s not so much that he’s an addict—to drugs, booze, sex, attention. It’s more that Finch is a hedonist in the purest sense of the word, and he seeks pleasure wherever he can find it. He needs it to fill that hole inside of him.

  Only right now there’s another hole I think needs some attention. I let go of his dick and slide my hands around his firm asscheeks, spreading them even wider.

  “You’re so hot,” he whispers, when my fingertip traces over his ring, probing delicately, seeing how fast he’ll open up for me. His head drops forward to my shoulder.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say. For so many reasons. His disobedience about the drugs; his potential concussion; his lingering high…and he’s a hostage.

  But I still want to do it.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says, speaking the words against my throat. That gentleness, his vulnerability, makes me harder.

  There’s something strange happening to me. I want to hurt him—see his eyes go wide with a brief shot of pain—but only because I want to comfort him afterwards. I want to be the one who gives him relief. I want to tease orgasm after orgasm out of him along with the pain, to watch him fall apart a million times, to make him open up his heart and soul.

  It sounds very close to what all the songs on the radio say love is like, but I know it can’t be. Not now. Not until it’s safe.

  I wriggle the very tip of my finger into his tight bud, and feel the hitch of his breathing as I do. He pushes down, tries to swallow up my finger, but I’m ready for it, and move my hand away. “No,” I tell him. “You take as much as I’m willing to give you at any one time.”

  He nuzzles into me again. “Whatever you say, husband.” And then he waits patiently, trustingly. It makes me want to tear him apart, but it also makes me gentle.

  I stroke his hole again, again, again, until I feel it quiver, and then I push my fingertip back inside. I wish it was my cock driving into him; but at the same time, I love seeing how he reacts to this, just this, just one finger. It’s heady. It’s sexy.

  I press in further, up to the knuckle. He’s tight and hot around
my finger, and his breathing picks up. It’s not an act. My other arm is curled around him, keeping him close, and I can feel his heart beating under my hand. I start finger-fucking him, little movements, just to tease all those lovely nerve endings, and he moans into my neck.

  “You like that?” I ask. I want to hear him say it.

  “You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. “I need your cock.”

  I’ve heard that before, from any number of men, but it’s different with him. For one thing, I believe him. He really does need my cock. When I look into his eyes, they’re desperate. And it’s intoxicating, his complete desire for me.

  When we’re like this, he trusts me.

  His ass is clenching on my finger, showing me exactly what he could do to my dick if it were in there. I pull out and press two fingers back in. He can take it, lube or no lube. He’s begging for it. I lean forward so he drops back, his nipples coming up towards my mouth, and his ass sliding all the way down on my fingers. He gasps when I close my teeth around one of those tempting nipples, and I tease it with my tongue, with my teeth, with my lips. I don’t know that I’ve ever been with such a responsive guy before.

  His pink-tipped cock, the same color as his nipples, is straining upward in the water. I wriggle my fingers inside him, feeling around, trying to find the right spot, and I know I’ve found it when he cries out.

  “You like that?” I ask again, abandoning his nipple for the moment.

  “I like you,” he says, giving me that familiar Finch smirk, but I wipe it off his face with another pass of my fingers over his most sensitive spot.

  “That’s good,” I say, “since you’re tied to me for life.”

  “Is that what’s bugging you?” he asks, and I see now that he’s not quite as sunk into his hedonistic spiral as I thought. Interesting.

  “Nothing’s bugging me.”

  “Then why did you act like such as asshole this morning after we had such a nice night?”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” I ask, twisting my fingers. “Our marriage is a tool for Tino to keep control, and all it’s done for us is make us targets. You saw that yourself today.”