Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

Angelo

The air is crisp on top of the hill. The oxygen seems thinner. It's just my imagination though. The graveyard is the reason why every breath punishes my lungs. Situated on the highest point of the property, the graves face the sea in the east and the mountains in the west. The view is beautiful. The landscape is stark and unpretentious. A few bushes grow between the rocks, lending splashes of green to the brown landscape. There's honesty in the simplicity. Peace. That's why I buried them here and not in the overpopulated cemetery in Bastia.

The three headstones are new. They're the first ones to mark the family burial ground. My mother and father lie side by side. Adeline is next to my mother. The empty plot left of her is reserved for me. A distance away is a marking for my wife's grave. She won't rest close to me. If she'll rest at all. Maybe her spirit will haunt me in the afterlife just as she haunts me in the flesh in this life.

I remember the roses in my hand when the thorns dig into my palm. I haven't realized how tightly I was squeezing my fist. The sharp pricks of pain ground me in the moment, pulling me from my dark thoughts to the present.

Stepping up, I place the perfect white hothouse blooms on Adeline's grave. I take a moment to trace my thumb over her name that's engraved in the marble. A cascade of sorrow crashes down on me, leaving me hollow and destitute. I miss my sister's bubbly nature and impulsive hugs so much I feel it like a punch in the gut. Regret is a monster that breathes fire into my chest. I regret not spending more time with her when I had the chance. I regret not showing more interest in her friends. I was always too rushed, too busy to take over the business, too caught up in work to make the time.

I pick up the two remaining bouquets and leave them on my parents' graves. More regret torments me when I kiss my fingertips and press them on my mother's name. I always did too little for her. Always too late. I'll never forgive myself for failing her, for never giving her the gift of rehousing her family while she was alive. I'll never forgive myself for her death. And my father… He never witnessed the wedding he was so set on bringing to fruition. Neither did he enjoy the vengeance of Sabella's death. He died having given that order, knowing I hadn't executed it. He died before I had a chance to let him come to terms with my decision. Because of my actions, he couldn't pass on peacefully.

And me?

I'm the despicable traitor who thinks about love when I fuck my wife. I'm the weak man who too damn quickly ignores that she's my enemy. I should let her rot in her banishment. I should hate and torment her. Instead, I held her in my arms as I slept in her bed. I let the unthinkable happen, letting her get to me. Letting her crawl even deeper under my skin. Because something happened this morning when I came inside her, something intimate that gave me pause.

Hate is intimate. But these feelings of fulfillment and content were different. They scared me. They reminded me how dangerous she is. They reminded me how fickle human nature can be, how fast I am to forget the people who lost their lives for the life I'm living. My family paid with their blood for Sabella to become my wife. For that alone, I should hate her forever.

I can fuck her and love it. I can torment her and savor it. I can plant my seed in her belly and take the biggest gift a woman can give a man without owing her as much as a thank you. Her say doesn't have to matter. It won't. Her obedience can please me, but it should never make me forget. I can find my peace in her suffering, but I can never find my salvation in her arms. She's my destiny, but she can never be my love. Not if I'm to honor my family.

What happened this morning can never happen again. I can't let my guard down when I'm with her. I'm a fucking idiot. Sabella is clever. Her compliance is nothing but a trap, a ploy to steal her freedom. She's a pretty Delilah, trying to coax my secrets out of me with her luscious body and seductive submission. I have no doubt she'll sell me out to Lavigne in a second if it means she'll walk free.

She's a beautiful con-artist, a deceitful betrayer, luring me in with her sweet talking and na?ve advice and winning me over with her coy smiles and home-cooked chicken. She can try, but I'll give her nothing. No incriminating information. The only thing she'll get is my cum. I'll fill her up until she can't take anymore, until our souls are grafted and I'm spilling from every crevice of her body. I'll make her pregnant if it's the last thing I do, and she won't even see it coming. No, she'll be falsely secure, thinking her birth control pills will save her. She's bound to me by law and name, but I'll also bind us in blood.

When she's the mother of my child, she'll no longer want to run. She'll have a very good reason to stay. No child of mine is going anywhere. My offspring will remain here where they belong, and so will she. She'll blow out her last breath on this property. Her body will fertilize the very soil I'm standing on. Even in death she'll be punished, banished to her corner like a traitor deserves. Nonetheless, she'll be here, her soul at peace or not—I couldn't care less—for all eternity.

My turbulent thoughts don't abate when I walk to the car. What I did last night and this morning shook me. What passed between Sabella and me was a blessing in a way. The disturbing feelings served to put me back on the path from which I steered with alarming speed.

Heidi intercepts me in the hallway when I arrive home.

"Mr. Russo." She crosses her arms and widens her stance. "We have to talk."

The use of my surname rekindles a memory. Then it clicks in place. Suddenly, I understand the reason for that pesky thorn in the back of my mind that won't let me find peace. It's what Sabella called me when she came. Not Angelo. Mr. Russo.

"Your wife," Heidi says. "You're not treating her fairly."

My irritation escalates. "She's getting more than she deserves."

"Leaving her alone in that place isn't right."

I push her out of my way and continue to my study. "My wife and how I treat her is none of your business."

"Not letting me go there," she calls after me. "What good can that do?"

I turn on my heel. "You will go there to deliver groceries and nothing more." My tone is cold. Harsh. "I thought I was clear."

Worry and disapproval shimmer in her eyes. "What if something happens to her?"

"I've been there all night. She's happy. A little too happy, to be honest. Satisfied?"

"Mr. Russo?—"

I get into her face. "I don't want to hear another fucking word about it. One more chirp out of your mouth about Sabella and a delivery service from Bastia will make a monthly food drop at the new house. Is that clear enough for you?"

She reels and swallows, watching me with disappointment that shouldn't bother me.

I don't wait for her answer. I spin around and stalk to my study, slamming the door behind me.

Fuck.

Spearing my hands through my hair, I take a moment to find calm. How did I go from wanting to kill Sabella as little as a week ago to craving her affection? There was a time when that need wouldn't have terrified me, a time when everyone was alive, and the biggest stumbling block was getting her father's blessing to tie the knot. That was only three years ago, but it feels like twenty. I feel like an old man. The weight of the past keeps dragging me down. Coming up for air is a constant battle, a never-ending, exhausting fight.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out. It's Hugo, the informant I met in Marseille. My gut tightens. I'm not in the right mindset for more bad news today, but my hand has a will of its own. My thumb is already swiping over the screen before my mind can make the more intelligent decision of taking the call when I've calmed the fuck down.

I answer with, "Do you have something for me?"

"Is the line secure?"

"Yes." I sit down behind my desk. "You can talk."

"I had an interesting chat with Lieutenant Lavigne. His tongue loosened after a few beers."

"Save me the details," I bite out. "Get to the point."

"Mrs. Russo cut a deal."

My vision unravels. It's what I expected. It's what I knew. Yet hearing it does things to me, things that make violence explode in my veins. I shouldn't take it personally. It shouldn't cloud my reasoning. But it fucking does. Because like the idiot I am, I care.

I care.

The realization only makes me more volatile. I'm angrier with myself than with anyone else. A voice deep down says Sabella isn't to blame. Anyone in her shoes would've done the same. But the monster in me doesn't want to listen to reason. The monster is only interested in vengeance.

"Did you hear what I said?" Hugo asks.

My voice is flat, not giving away my dangerous emotions. "Carry on."

"If she provides evidence that'll guarantee you get locked up for good, Lavigne will arrange indemnity for her family and move her to a safe house."

The words ring in my head. She wants to run away. From me. She wants to escape me. Save her family. Put me behind bars. Does she believe locking me up in a cell will keep me away from her? Does she think I'll let any fucking thing stand between us?

At my silence, Hugo sounds uncertain. "I thought you'd like to know."

"When is the exchange due to happen?"

"Whenever she has information. She's supposed to make contact when she's ready."

"Anything else?"

"That's it. Do you want me to keep tabs on Lavigne?"

"Don't let him smell a rat, but stay close to him. If anything comes up, let me know."

"Done."

"Thanks," I say, ending the call and dumping my phone on the desk.

I stare at the wall for a long time, the control I'm trying to scavenge not coming. Grabbing a paperweight from a stack of papers on my desk, I hurl it at the wall. It hits the bricks with a thud, cracking the plaster. Pieces flitter to the floor. Dust sifts down.

Yanking open the drawer, I dig through the contents and take out the silver cigar box my father gifted me for my sixteenth birthday. The lid is engraved with our family emblem. I never took to cigarettes or cigarillos and neither to cigars. The occasional joint was more my style.

The box still holds my stash from three years ago. I stopped for Sabella because she didn't like the habit. Back then, she was still a beautiful ideal, a woman I wanted to woo and please. To seduce. To win over. She was always the woman I intended on making mine.

I'll admit I don't miss it, the smoking. I was going to stop anyway. I only took a few drags from time to time to take the edge off when the business got messy. Lighting one now seems fitting. If I don't dull my senses, I may truly kill her. And I don't want to take it that far. No matter what she's done or what she'll do, she's still the woman I marked with my seal, my ring, my name, and my cum.

Fishing the Zippo lighter from the drawer, I slip it with the box in my pocket. I'm wearing the formal pants, shirt, and jacket from this morning. I didn't bother to change into more suitable clothes or shoes before visiting the graveyard. I don't take the time to do so now. On the way to the door, I grab my coat.

I don't say a word to Heidi. She's used to my spur-of-the-moment comings and goings. She's used to cooking meals for a man who doesn't pitch for lunch or supper. She'll do what she always does. She'll keep my dinner warm without posing questions. Against my better judgement, I get into my car and drive at breakneck speed to the new house.

Lights are on in all the windows. Fabien's car is parked outside. What the fuck is he doing here? Sabella has no business receiving visitors. I let myself in with my key and stop in the entrance. The ground floor is deserted. A blanket is tossed aside on the sofa. A bowl of popcorn stands on the floor. The television is off, the remote lying discarded on a cushion.

Well, well. Isn't this fucking cozy?

An image of Sabella and Fabien on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching a movie, rushes into my head. I can't think about the blanket over their knees because what happens under blankets makes me see bright fucking poisonous green. The laughter that drifts from upstairs only acts as fuel on the fire.

I mount the steps two by two and charge like a raging bull through the open door of the bedroom. The scene that greets me makes me wish I took my gun. The urge to plant a bullet in Fabien's head is so great he must see the intention in my expression.

His eyes flare where he sits on the bed, clutching a glass of wine in his hand and swinging one leg that's crossed over the other. Another glass with a lip gloss stain on the rim stands on the dresser.

My attention shifts to my wife who exits the bathroom, still giggling about what the fuck ever. She stops dead when she sees me.

Fabien jumps to his feet. "Angelo." His laugh is uncomfortable. "How good to see you."

I narrow my eyes. "Is it?"

He blanches. "I was just dropping off Sabella's dress."

I fix my gaze on the glass in his hand. "Is that what you call it?"

Sabella rushes forward, placing herself between me and Fabien. "I invited him to stay for a drink."

"Did you now?" I take in her T-shirt, yoga pants, and bare feet. "In the bedroom?"

"She had to try on the dress," Fabien says before adding hastily, "In the bathroom."

"Good," I drawl, pinning him with a stare over Sabella's head that makes him cower. "Because if you got a glimpse of my wife in any state of undress, I'll have to kill you."

Sabella lays a palm on my chest. "Would you like a glass? The bottle is in the kitchen. I can get you one."

I tear my gaze from Fabien to look at her, noticing the beauty spot at the corner of her mouth. Her lips. "How was the movie?"

She blinks. "What?"

My smile is cold. "You watched television."

She pulls her hand away as if my coat has caught fire. "Not with Fabien."

Fabien sidesteps to the door, leaving his glass on the coffee table on his way. "I'll, um, just give the two of you privacy. Call me if you'd like jewelry to go with the dress, Angelo. I can get a few valuable pieces on loan from a good jeweler."

He all but runs, escaping as fast as he can.

"I'll see you out, Fabien," Sabella says, giving me a defiant look as she steps around me and follows him into the hallway.

Clenching my hands into balls, I count to ten.

Fabien is gay.

They're both wearing their clothes.

I did instruct him to deliver a dress.

It makes sense that Sabella would have to try on the gown.

I tell myself all these things, all these reasons why I shouldn't go after Fabien and bash his skull in. Why I shouldn't punish Sabella for yet another betrayal. But the monster in me stays green.

Their voices reach me from downstairs. Soft whispering. Too fucking intimate for my liking. I go out on the landing. Fabien is standing in the open front door, buttoning up his coat.

"I'm sorry about that," Sabella says, sounding embarrassed. "My husband can be a little possessive."

"Don't worry. I know how Angelo is." Gripping her shoulder and dipping his head, he asks in a lowered voice, "Will you be all right?"

"Yes." She takes a scarf from the coat stand and hands it to him. "Thanks for bringing the dress. Drive home safely in the dark."

He drops his arm and walks out onto the veranda. "Take care of yourself."

She shuts the door and locks it, pausing for a second on the spot before turning her face toward the stairs. Our gazes lock. Apprehension sparks in her brown eyes. Instead of walking to me, she cuts across the lounge and enters the kitchen.

She can run until she doesn't have a single breath left in her lungs, but she can never hide from me.

Taking my coat off in the walk, I descend the stairs and drape it over the rail. When I enter the kitchen, she's filling the kettle with water.

"Tea?" she asks with a strained smile from over her shoulder. "I'm afraid I didn't have time to start dinner yet."

"Dinner?" I chuckle, advancing on her. "Is that why you think I'm here?"

Her back goes rigid. She puts the kettle aside. When she turns, she finds herself trapped between the sink and my body. Leaning back to put distance between us, she asks, "Why are you here?"

"To fuck you, Sabella."

Her throat bobs as she swallows. "Nothing happened. You must know that Fabien is gay. Why are you so angry?"

Nothing happened.

That was what she told me yesterday too.

Pretty little liar.

When I lean in, she plants her palms on the counter behind her and catches her weight on her arms. I'm bending her backward, invading her space and breathing her air.

My tone is taunting. "Who says I'm angry?"

I give her a little leeway, just enough not to have to crane her neck. She watches me warily as I remove the silver box and Zippo lighter from my pocket. I take out a joint and tap the tip on the flat side of the box to compact the weed.

"You're smoking again?" she asks.

I bring the joint to my lips. "Do you care?"

My question is layered. She must get the nuance, because she doesn't reply.

She turns her face away from the flame when I light the joint.

I take a drag, filling my lungs with the smoke. The head rush is immediate. Lethargy settles over my senses, but it doesn't dull the anger.

Blowing out a circle of smoke, I watch it fade like a halo over her head. My voice is deceptively soft. "Do you care, Sabella?"

She turns her face the other way, trying to avoid the smoke. "You know I don't like it."

"How about this?" I ask, cupping her sex. "How much do you like this?"

She goes on tiptoes, pushing with her palms on my chest. "What's gotten into you?"

"I don't know," I taunt. "Perhaps you?" I'm being too honest. It's the weed. It's always loosened my tongue. But I can't stop. "Maybe I'm getting addicted to your pussy. It's a lot like smoking. Once you start, it's difficult to stop. Maybe I should break the habit and fuck your ass tonight." I rub my thumb in a circle over her clit through the thin layers of her clothes. "Will you like that?"

She clenches her jaw.

I pull my hand from between her legs and place my palms on either side of her body on the counter. A ribbon of smoke coils from the joint I'm clutching between my fingers, tainting the air with the smell of weed.

"Have you ever smoked, Sabella?"

She glances at me briefly before looking away again. "You know I haven't."

I bring the joint to my lips, take another drag, and blow out a thin line of smoke. "Perhaps you should. It'll relax you, help you to spread for me and take my cock."

More defiance sparks in her eyes when she finally faces me squarely. "I don't need drugs to have sex."

"Oh, but it can be so very different." Using the hand in which I'm clasping the joint, I brush my knuckles over her nipple. "It heightens the senses. Makes you feel everything with more intensity."

She cocks an eyebrow. "It sounds as if you're talking from experience."

"Don't worry." I caress the soft curve of her breast. "I only had hand jobs when I was high."

She scoffs. "I'm not worried."

"Because you don't care," I say, giving us both the answer she refused to tell me in words.

But she will care when I fuck her. She will care when she's desperate to come.

Gripping her face in one hand, I hold her gaze as I take a long pull on the joint. I'm giving her defiance by disrespecting her wish, a request she uttered a long time ago, letting her taste some of her own medicine.

I don't drag the smoke into my lungs. I apply pressure on her jaw, parting her lips as I lower my head and plaster our mouths together. She realizes my intention too late, gasping as I slowly blow the smoke into her mouth. She chokes on the lungful she swallowed with her gasp. I let her breathe, using the seconds to fill my mouth with more smoke before feeding her again.

I kiss her with a languid pace, molding my lips around hers and tangling our tongues. The objective is to fill her lungs with my second-hand smoke, but that objective quickly changes as heat builds between us. The burnt-out joint drops in the sink. I let go of her face to thread my fingers through the long, silky strands of her hair. She moans when I tug. Cupping her breast in my free hand, I knead the curve. Her nipple hardens against my palm.

Deepening the kiss, I push my knee between her thighs and kick her feet apart. I abandon her breast to explore the heat between her legs. She's wet. I can feel it through her clothes. My onslaught on her mouth triples as I slip a hand into the elastic of her pants and thong. Her flesh is hot. Her pussy lips are plump and slick.

I groan into the kiss, rubbing my hard-on against her hip. Her moan reverberates in her chest. Too eager to think, I tighten my grip in her hair and work her pants with one hand down her hips to her thighs. My actions are staccato as I lift her T-shirt, exposing her bra.

She pushes my jacket over my shoulders, her urgency matching mine. I release her to pull my arms free, but my hands are back on her in a second, yanking on the cups of her bra. Her breasts spill over the lace. I close my lips around a nipple and suck the hard tip deep into my mouth. She fumbles with the buttons of my shirt as I lick her curve like candy. We're groping and gasping, our need uninhibited and messy.

Abandoning her unsuccessful effort with the buttons, she reaches for my belt. I tear my mouth from her breast, watching the desire in her eyes as I grip her wrists, move them away, and finish the task of freeing my cock.

I'm about to bend my knees and sink balls-deep inside her when she cries out, "Wait."

My body protests. It's only pure reflex that makes me pause.

"The blinds," she says, breathing hard. "Close them."

I dive for her mouth again. "There's no one out there."

"No." She leans back and stops me with a hand on my heart. "I want you to close them."

I frown. She doesn't feel exposed, does she? Could it be that she senses she's being watched? One of my cousins is on babysitting duty, but neither of them will dream of looking through her windows. They know what'll happen if they do. I'll cut off their limbs and stab out their eyes.

Drunk on the moment, I reach over her and jerk the string that brings down the blinds. The only light comes from the backlit cupboards with the glass doors. Once we're shut into our own world of darkness and sin, I wrap my hands around her waist, spin her around, and walk her to the table. It's difficult for her to move with her thong and pants trapping her legs. Hooking an arm around her waist, I lift her off her feet and carry her across the floor. At the edge of the table, I let her stand and push her upper body down. Her breasts are visible on the sides from under the T-shirt that's scrunched up to her shoulders, the curves pressed flat on the wood. Her ass is pushed out, presented like a gift for my taking.

I'm too far gone to bother with freeing her legs from her pants. I leave them around her thighs. I don't even bother with the rest of my clothes. I only shove my briefs down as far as necessary before pressing my cock against the tight hole of her ass.

She stretches her arms above her head and grips the edge of the table, bracing herself for what's to come. Burying my fingers in the flesh of her globes, I spread her open. She's swollen and willing, glistening like a ripe fruit between her legs. Unable to resist a taste, I lick her from her clit to the hole I'm about to claim, working that tight ring of muscles with my thumb. She wiggles beneath me, moaning as I stretch her.

I can't wait. I'm close already. I caress the curve of her spine as I straighten. She turns her head to the side, watching me. I home in on her eyes, on how dilated her pupils are, and I know it's going to feel good for her. I want to make this good for her. My hold on her back turns different. More dominant. I recognize the signs of the animal inside me as my lower body tightens and my cock pulses with need. Keeping her down with one hand between her shoulder blades, I spit in my free hand and lubricate my cock. When I position the head against her back hole, she tries to lift her upper body.

I anchor her with my grip on my table. "Relax, bella. Take me."

She's barely settled again before I part her with the crest, splitting her open and sinking a tight inch into the heat of her ass.

Not yet.

I can't come.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I keep still to slide a hand around her waist and between her legs. I sink a middle and forefinger inside her and press my thumb on her clit, working her with my hand until she starts moving, taking me deeper in both holes.

Clenching my teeth, I hold back. I control myself like never before while slowly sinking my cock deeper. When I'm buried up to my balls, I can't hold back any longer. I pump. I fuck her pussy with my fingers and thrust my cock deep into her ass. It's hot and dirty, depraved, and so fucking satisfying. I'm pivoting my hips like a crazed man, taking her hard, but her moans turn louder and needier until a single word slips from her lips.

"Please."

"Say it," I demand through teeth clenched in pleasure, slamming my groin against her ass.

"Mr. Russo," she cries out.

I come hard enough to see sparks. Fireworks fizzle in my vision as I empty my cock and fill her up with my cum. It takes me a moment to find my breath. Everything is amplified—the heat, the tightness, the pleasure…and the fact that she didn't say my name.

"Please," she says again, her voice strangled.

Her ass grips my cock so hard it's almost painful.

I pull out. Fingers and cock.

She gasps as the wide crest of my cock pops free.

I plant one palm on her lower back and spread her with the other, digging my fingers into her ass cheek as I watch my cum dribble from her dark hole. It's so fucking dirty. So beautiful. I watch until her pussy and thighs are covered. My softening cock that hangs heavy between my legs twitch at the sight. I pin her down as I smear my fingers through my release and pump my cum with two fingers into her pussy. She spasms around the intrusion, her panting increasing as I fuck her harder and faster. I know what she needs. I know this isn't enough. Pulling my drenched fingers free from the hotness of her pussy, I roll her clit between a thumb and a forefinger until her body bows and her moans turn hoarse.

She orgasms.

But I don't stop.

I punish her with more pleasure, rolling and pinching her clit until she collapses flat on the table in a boneless heap. I'm insatiable. I can't get enough, not of her. My cock is rock-hard again. I slide the length through the cum in the seam of her ass. The lubrication aids my movements when I pump between her ass cheeks, taking care not to penetrate her again. I'm so high on her and on the sight that it doesn't take long before I come for a second time, painting her back with ribbons of release.

It's done.

I won't come a third time.

I should be sated. I should be ecstatic, but it feels unfinished.

I'mnot done.

I want to do so much more to her. Fucking her didn't quench my lust. The need to claim her is only fiercer. And I know why. I understand now. I understand why I want to slay her with sex until we're both exhausted and choking on the perversity of the passion eating me alive. Because even as she gave me the most intimate parts of her body, she didn't give herself to me.

Like this morning, she didn't call me Angelo.

She called me Mr. Russo again.

She's putting distance between us and keeping that distance. I'd lie if I say I don't miss the sound of my name on her lips and the way in which she said it when I fucked her after our wedding.

For that reason alone, I put my own distance between us. Mine is physical. Mine is the two steps I take away from her. She's bent over the table, her ass and cunt exposed, both fucked raw. Spent. A beautiful erotic sight. It softens me, igniting something in my chest. Escaping the onslaught, I stumble to the sink and clean myself before adjusting my clothes.

I hear her move, but I force myself not to look at her. Instead, I clench my jaw as I zip up, hating myself and hating her. I shove my shirt back into my pants and pick my jacket up from the floor.

I'm pulling it on with jerky movements on my way to the door when she says, "Wait."

Before I can stop myself, I look. It's impulsive. She's facing me, leaning with her ass against the edge of the table. Her naked tits peek out from between her T-shirt and her bra. Her lower body is exposed. She's gripping the elastic of her pants, battling to pull them up and cover herself.

Fuck.

I spin around and continue on my way.

"Wait, please," she calls after me. "I have to talk to you. It's important."

I don't wait. I don't listen. I don't look at her.

If I do, I may stay again. There's nothing my foolish heart wants more than another night in her bed. So, I train my gaze on the door, and I keep on walking.