Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  He stilled when I started talking, but now he moves again, fucking himself on my fingers, little movements like he’s asking permission. “I never thought you of all people would miss the possibilities. This doesn’t—fuck—” I’m stroking that spot again. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know. Life gave you me, baby. Why not make lemonade outta me?”

  I’m not sure what he means, but I’m intrigued.

  He pulls himself back up, hands around my neck, his body glistening under the cascade of water, and then he runs his hand over the old scar on my arm, the jagged edges where he sewed me up himself, over the bird tattoo. “I could be so good for you, baby. Won’t you give me a chance to show you?” he asks.

  Only he doesn’t ask me. He begs me. Oh, he has my number, alright.

  “What exactly can you do for me?”

  “Well,” he says, pulling away from me. “First of all, I can make sure you don’t regret marrying me and giving up all other men, like Tino commanded.” And with that, he stands up in the tub, water sluicing down his body. He wades away from me, turns, and bends from the waist to balance on the black marble side of the tub. He looks back at me over his shoulder. “You like?”

  His ass is a masterpiece, and he knows it. But I don’t plan on feeding his ego, at least not yet. “I mean, I’ve seen it before…” I shrug.

  “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet, baby,” he says, winking at me, and then he slides a hand over one cheek, and spanks it.

  I can’t deny my cock is interested. And then as Finch slides his other hand down and pulls apart his cheeks for my viewing pleasure, my cock begins throbbing, demanding. My mind is fogging up with desire for him. Finch’s cheeks are wide open now, his asshole clearly visible. It’s the same pretty pink color as his lips, as his nipples, as the tip of his cock. It’s slightly puffy from my ministrations, and so, so inviting.

  I sigh and relax back against the tub. If he wants to give me a show, I won’t dissuade him. He’s keeping his cheeks spread with one hand now, and with the other hand, he’s playing with his hole. His chest is pressed against the marble as he probes at his ring with two fingers, just like I had inside him a few minutes ago. His balls are delicate, elegant. No big swinging sack for Howard Fincher Donovan the Third; no, his junk is as refined as the rest of him, even if he tries his best to act like trash. I watch him fucking himself on his fingers, hear his moaning—even if it’s put on, it’s still hot—and I stroke myself while I watch.

  He works his way up to three fingers, then four, and I think he’d go further, dislocate his own wrist if he had to, but I say: “Stop. Pull your cheeks apart again.”

  He does, and I get to see the pretty pouting of his hole, clenching itself on nothing.

  “Put your cock in me,” he begs. “I’ll milk it so good.”

  It takes all my self-control not to launch myself dick-first into his ass. “Turn around,” I say instead. He obeys, leaning against the marble tub, his legs spread wide. “Jack it,” I say. I want to see how pink that lovely cock gets. “So this is what you can do for me?” I ask after a while, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Show me your ass, and then jerk off?”

  “Can’t show you my talents if you won’t put your cock in me,” he says, pouting.

  I stand up. I have a few inches on him, but he seems to shrink in on himself as I wade the few steps over to him. “What did I tell you this morning?”

  He casts his eyes down: submissive, or playing it. “I take what I’m given and I say, ‘Thank you, Luca.’” He looks up, lashes spiky little stars from the water clinging to them. “I just thought you might like to watch me play with my ass,” he murmurs. “I can suck you if you prefer.”

  I want in his butt so bad I think my knees are going to start shaking. Imagine that, the big bad mobster reduced to a quivering wreck at the idea of getting my dick in someone.

  I can’t do it right now, though. Not after the day we’ve had. So I decide to teach him a different lesson. “Get on your knees,” I say.

  He looks me dead in the eye then, to judge my tone, and I can see the calculations running in his brain. Then slowly, as the force of my will rolls over him like gravity, he sinks down in the water to his knees, and pays his respects to my cock.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FINCH

  My man just needs someone to show him what’s possible, sometimes. Like five years back, when I showed him New York City laid out like a buffet for the eating. Here and now I knew he wanted my ass, so I showed it to him—also for the eating, if he was so inclined.

  But I think I like what he has planned even more. His cock is butting into my chin, and I open my mouth to take it in. This is how he used me the very first time, five years back, so maybe I’m wrong, maybe he could take or leave my ass, and this is his favorite thing.

  I don’t think so, though.

  I think this is about teaching me my place in this strange little hierarchy. So I open my mouth, and he dips in, shallow, just pressing his silky cockhead against my tongue, and then pulling out. He’s holding his cock at the base. It’s long; he’s got impressive girth, too, curving up towards his belly. It’s exactly the kind of cock the rest of those mobsters wish they had and don’t, and which they suspect, morosely but correctly, that he has.

  And now it’s mine. Mine until death. I mouth towards it, wanting its reassuring weight on my tongue, wanting the proof of his desire for me. But he grabs me by the hair, pulling my face up. It stings, just a little. I can tell he’s not doing it to hurt me, just to show me that he can. And then, with his other hand, he lifts his dick and softly slaps my face with it.

  I start in surprise; it’s not that it’s painful, it’s just unexpected. And my face is admittedly still tender from Tommy the Thug giving me that huge slap before. I stare up at Luca, wondering what his point is. Wondering what he’s trying to show me, because it’s definitely something, and I want to learn this man.

  He stares down at me, his blue eyes electric but unreadable, and then slowly, deliberately, slaps his cock against my other cheek as well.

  “That’s the only slap you need to remember from today,” he says, and then I get it. What I’m going to remember from this motherfucking shit of a day is not getting slapped around by Tommy, or the multiple bangs to my head, and it certainly won’t be Tommy getting his fucking face shot off with ten rounds.

  No. My husband’s cock will be the only thing I remember from today.

  “Stand up, angel.”

  I do, my legs barely functioning now. He pulls me close, one arm around my waist, keeping me steady, and with his other hand he gathers our cocks together, so I can feel his warm, wet flesh against mine. And then his mouth descends onto mine.

  He kisses like no one I’ve kissed before. I’ve never known anyone like him, and at the same time, he’s the only other person in this world I’ve ever truly known.

  He kisses with abandon, with passion, with a warmth that never seems to be echoed in his eyes, and I crack mine open just to check on that. But his are closed, shut tight, like he can keep out the rest of the world, and his hand is tugging me, taking me right up close to the edge almost straight away.

  “I’m gonna—” I choke out. “Baby, I’m gonna—”

  “Come on,” he says, and jacks me right over the edge. I go off like a bomb in his hand, and grab at him, clutch like I’m drowning, panicking, and maybe I am. He keeps working me until it’s almost-almost-painful, but then he explodes too, painting my belly and chest with his cum.

  As he washes me down and jokingly makes me kiss his soft-but-still-impressive cock and say thank you to him, I can’t help but wonder where all this is going. He towels me off like a precious object, and wraps me in the softest, fluffiest robe I’ve ever felt, and then he leads me back to bed. “Can we fuck some more?” I ask hopefully, but he shakes his head. He smiles when he does it, at least.

  “You need a nap before dinner,” he says. “And so do I. I function best on seven hou
rs of sleep a night, and I haven’t been sleeping great the last few weeks.”

  “Why?”

  He gives me a look like he doesn’t know how to answer that. “I guess I was nervous about the wedding,” he says at last, and he says it with a dead straight face, so I can’t tell if he’s serious or being ironic. “But I slept better than I ever have last night, with you in my arms.”

  He can’t be serious, surely.

  He pulls me into the bed with him, wraps me up securely in his long limbs, and I breathe against him. I can feel his heart beating against my back, strong and consistent. I could get used to this, I think, before I can’t hold on to thinking anymore.

  I don’t know what time I wake, but I wake tumbling out of his arms. I think something woke us—yes, there it is again, a tentative knock on the door. Luca is sitting bolt upright, his gun pointed dead at the door, not wavering.

  “Who is it?” he shouts.

  “It’s Nunzio, signor’,” someone calls back. “You asked me to alert you when your dinner was thirty minutes out. My wife tells me it will be thirty minutes from now.”

  Luca stares at the door, face blank, and then clicks the safety back on the gun. “We’ll be there.”

  “Scusi, signor’, mi scusi, but ehhh…” Nunzio wavers again, and he sounds nervous.

  “What is it?” Luca barks.

  “I cannot find one of our deckhands, Tommy?”

  “He disembarked at port.”

  There’s a pause, and then Nunzio says, “Grazie. He was not a good deckhand.” We hear his feet retreat from the door.

  “I think you actually scored points there,” I tell Luca. But he doesn’t stop watching the door handle, and now neither can I. Is it going to turn? Is the friendly Nunzio really another assassin?

  After a minute, I get bored of watching the non-moving door handle, so I roll out of bed and head towards the connecting door, which has also been jammed with a chair. Luca flashes out of bed, and grabs me back. “No,” he says.

  “I need clothes if we’re going to dinner,” I say, shrugging. “They’re next door.” Because of you, you motherfucker, I don’t add. He’s the one who insisted on separate rooms.

  Luca gives me a long up and down look, as though reminding himself of my nudity, and then nods once. “I’ll go first,” he says.

  “I thought you said Brother Frank cleared the crew?”

  “He did. But I haven’t.”

  “Soooo…are we gonna hole up in here behind locked doors or are we going to dinner? Because you just said—”

  “Shut up,” he says, but it’s weirdly polite, the way he says it. “I’ll get your clothes for you.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You can barely dress yourself, baby. You can scope out my room, make sure no one’s hiding in there with a stiletto, and then I’ll get my fucking clothes.”

  I’m half expecting a slapped face for that level of mouth, and his eyes are gleaming dangerously. But he just shrugs, and pushes me behind him as he approaches the connecting door.

  There’s no one in my room, but I could have told him that. I pull out my distressed jeans that I bet cost more than Luca’s whole wardrobe, and tug them on, ignoring underwear. His eyes linger on my ass as I head to the closet for a shirt—I can see him watching in the mirror.

  Yeah, he wants it.

  I pull on my shirt and run my fingers through my hair. It’s longer than I usually wear, and my roots are coming through. But I think Luca likes it this length. I think he likes that he can grab me by it, move me where he wants me.

  Control me.

  He thinks he can control me, anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  LUCA

  Like all honeymoons, I assume, ours seems to pass too quickly. I keep Finch with me twenty-four hours a day, allowing him only bathroom breaks, meals and sleep. But we spend most of our time in bed, which I suppose is pretty standard for a honeymoon. Once I’ve admitted to myself how much I crave him, I want to spend as much time inside him as I can while we have the time here together.

  Because when we get back to New York, I’ll have to be much more restrained, at least for a little while. I’ve told him this, touched on it so he doesn’t start thinking this is what our life will be like: endless orgasms and luxurious yachts.

  Yeah, the sex is great. But that in itself is a problem. I find it harder and harder to hold back feelings, useless as they are. My brain only seems to work these days when I think about Finch, about what his face looked like when I twisted my fingers like that, about the noise he made when I put my tongue there, about how he laughed at something I said, about how his eyes look different colors depending on the light…

  While Finch sleeps I’ve been trying to plan, trying to think ahead and figure out what Fuscone’s next move will be, but I’ve become lazy. Lazy and drunk on my new husband. It’s a recipe for disaster, and I know it, but I still can’t bring myself to care about anything that might happen when Finch is with me now.

  But by the last day, I’ve tried to put some distance between us. Finch is snappy, too, short-tempered about little things, and I know it’s because he’s worried about New York. I’ve told him a few times that things will be different there, and I don’t think he really believed me until he saw me start to change, start to pull my old persona back on with practiced ease. On the Maddalena I was gentle, but by the time we boarded the jet, I was Luca D’Amato again. It was a relief to find I could still be that way, that the old me hadn’t drowned under a rising tide of emotion.

  To Luca D’Amato, the only thing that matters is business.

  Our arrival back in New York is met with minimal attention; Frank is the only one to pick us up, and that’s the way I wanted it. There’s been another surge of infighting among the Families, and even Fuscone’s focus has been diverted by it—for now.

  Frank found a new apartment for me and Finch, like I asked him to before the wedding. It’s nothing fancy, but it is easy to defend and has minimal entries and exits to the building. Best of all, Fuscone doesn’t know where it is, and by the time he does, I’ll have my defenses in place. Finch’s face when we walk in—up seven flights of stairs, since the elevator’s broken—is somewhere between stunned and mutinous.

  “Jesus wept! I’m not living here,” he says, dumping his suitcases in the doorway. We came straight from the airport, and he’s still grumpy because I wouldn’t let him drink more than one bottle of Cristal on the plane. “What the fuck?” Finch asks, turning to me.

  It’s a railroad apartment, which is how I wanted it. Fewer places to hide, and we can hole up in the bathroom if we have to and defend our position. But it’s old and it’s dirty; the furniture is from the seventies and the kitchen is hazardous.

  “Now you’re starting to understand the real situation you’re in,” I say to Finch casually. I wander through the place, schooling my face. “It’s not all yachts and champagne, angel.”

  Mother Mary, this place is bad.

  I mean, it’s what I wanted, but Frank doesn’t exactly have a woman’s touch when it comes to picking a home. I almost regret not telling him to take Celia with him when he went hunting for it, but then I remind myself: it doesn’t matter what it looks like, it only matters if it’s useful.

  “Yeah, I’ma go back to that Central Park West place,” Finch snorts, and picks up his bag.

  “Frank, get out.”

  Frank touches a finger to his forehead in farewell, and makes a face at me that Finch doesn’t see. I lock the door behind my brother, and turn back to my still-pissed-off husband.

  “You try to keep me here and I’ll just fucking jump off the roof one night when you’re sleeping,” Finch snorts.

  I walk right up to him, crowding him against the door Frank just walked out of, and put a hand around the back of his neck, stroking my thumb along his hairline. “You still don’t get it, baby bird? You’re a prisoner in this marriage, and this is your cage. But I’ll be in it with you. Perhaps you ca
n take some cold comfort from that.”

  He pulls away from me, but I put my arm up against the door so he can’t wriggle past. The problem with Finch is, I believe he would throw himself off the building just to spite me.

  “Where do you propose we live?” I ask him.

  He quits squirming at that. “Well, shit, that Central Park West place was okay,” he says. “Or NoHo is cool.”

  “The Central Park West place is Tino Morelli’s property,” I tell him. “And I can’t afford NoHo. Not yet, anyway.” One day.

  “Sure, but I can afford it,” he says belligerently.

  I chuckle at that, but it’s out of pity. He really doesn’t get it yet. “No, angel, you can’t. Not anymore. Anything your daddy used to give you will go straight to Fuscone now, and it’s that cash that’s keeping you alive and Fuscone off our backs. For now. Not forever, but for now. So no more fancy living, angel. I’ll have to move up in the world first.”

  “I won’t fucking live here,” he says darkly. “I’d rather die. Shit, Luca. I gave up the drugs, my friends, my whole fucking life, and now I have to live in a rat-infested shithole as well? Nuh-uh.”

  Here’s the thing.

  Tino offered to arrange a townhouse by the Park for the two of us as a wedding gift, but there’s no way in hell I’m living in a place financed by him. I respect my Boss, but I don’t trust him fully. Maybe the yacht was clear, but there’d be wires and cameras all over the townhouse. I gave Tino my thanks and I kissed his hand when he made the offer, that morning we left for the honeymoon, but I told him I’d have to think about it.

  Besides, if I give in to Finch now, he’ll know he can wind me round his little finger whenever he wants.

  “You can put up some chintz curtains,” I tell him, standing aside to wave down the hallway. “Make it homey.”