16. Davide

I'm thinking about dinner on the drive out to the warehouse. Father's sitting up front and I'm in the back with Simon while Bruno's behind the wheel. Nobody's talking—it's late and everyone's lost in their own thoughts and worries—and I should probably be focused on the problem at hand.

Except I keep thinking about dinner, and the way Stefania wanted to do something nice for me. She's not the kind of girl who cooks for her husband, which makes me appreciate the effort even more. But she's also not the spoiled mafia princess I thought she might be at first—she doesn't spend much money and has barely asked for anything. Most days she spends in her library reading, exploring the neighborhood while always tailed by my guards, and going out with my mother and Elena. Laura still hasn't warmed up to her but that will come in time.

We park and head inside. Father goes in first and there are already half a dozen Bianco men milling around the place. They all try to look busy now that the Don's present.

"Worse than I thought," Dad says and we survey the wreckage in silence. The main warehouse floor is covered in broken boxes and smashed crates, the entire place ransacked and destroyed, though it isn't unsalvageable. They could've burned it all or blown the entire warehouse to splinters. Instead it looks like someone came through and made a mess, but stopped short of actually destroying everything.

"Who would do something this stupid?" Simon asks.

Dad looks back at me. "How many men have you killed lately?"

"Four, all of them connected to the ships, and all of them employed by Uncle Luciano."

"Stop calling him that," Dad murmurs, his eyes narrowed. "Four men dead, and this is his response? He breaks into our warehouse and makes a mess?"

"He stole a small shipment of rifles," Simon says but he looks as mystified as I feel. Dad's got a point—four dead men deserve a bigger reaction, but it's like Santoro wants to avoid a war as much as we do while simultaneously trying to provoke us into a fight. If he wants blood, he's getting blood.

"There's something more to this," Dad says as he begins to roll up his sleeves. "We're going to clean up the place, and while we're at it, we'd better figure out what the fuck Santoro wants."

I exchange a look with Simon, but he just shrugs. That's the sort of shit my father's all about. The Don shouldn't sit behind his desk getting fat and soft while his men do all the fighting and all the work. He believes in leading from the front—meaning when there's a mess, he dives in and starts helping out.

And his sons are all expected to do their part.

* * *

I get home late.The house is dark and I make my way upstairs by feel. I don't want to turn on lights and wake Stefania—that's the problem with an open floorplan. You can't sneak a damn thing.

But I don't need to be worried. When I reach the bed and sit down to start undressing, I feel her stir behind me. I shrug off my jacket and unbutton my shirt, and I hear her coming closer, until I feel her fingers on my shoulders.

"Everything okay?" she asks as she slowly kneads my tired muscles.

Fuck, she has no clue how much I need this right now. I spent the last three hours shifting heavy crates and sweeping up glass; every inch of me is sore and beyond exhausted.

"Just a mess we had to clean up." I roll my neck and close my eyes. "That feels good."

"You're tense." She pauses and I feel something warm on my neck. It's her lips. "I was worried."

"Since when did you worry about me, dolcezza?" It's a strange feeling, knowing that someone gives a shit about me. I know my family would care if I got hurt, but that's different than having a wife back home wondering what I'm up to when I'm out working in the middle of the night.

"Since I got stuck with you." She continues rubbing my shoulders, but now she's moving down my arms. "And since you left me all alone, I was thinking about you, too. I couldn't sleep."

"What were you thinking, baby?" Blood hums through my core. I should be too bone-tired for this but I'm very awake now. The image of her lying in my bed, her legs spread, touching herself while mewling my name like a lost little kitten drives my heart into a frenzy.

"About your fingers in my mouth. And something else." She whispers like she's afraid of what she's saying. I can almost feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. She's so easily embarrassed for a woman who grew up in the mafia, and I love that about her. There's a strange innocence left in her, and I think about how she was setting up her own life before I came in and dragged her away from it. She doesn't belong with a man like me. A man with hungers.

But she drapes her arms around my neck, her hands against my chest, and she kisses the corner of my jaw.

"Tell me more," I command as I lift up my hips and tug my jeans off. I'm stone hard and I grip myself through my boxer briefs. I know she can see what I'm doing as I slowly release my cock and grip the base.

"I thought about the way you fucked me," she whispers in my ear, peppering my neck with kisses. "I liked it when you bent me over and took me from behind like you couldn't wait another second. You were so hard and you felt so good inside of me. I felt like you were going to rip me in half."

I stroke myself nice and slow. "Did you like that, baby? Did you want me to break you?"

"Yes," she says, and it comes out as a strangled moan.

"Why?"

"Because it felt good."

I stroke myself faster. "You like it when I take what I want, don't you? You like it when I glide my cock between your lips and make you thank me for it."

"I like it when you lick my pussy," she says and that word, pussy, it sounds so delicious and filthy coming from her. I stroke faster now, groaning. "I like when you make me taste myself."

I reach back with my other hand. I grab the back of her head, digging my fingers into her hair as I stroke my cock. "You're going to get up, you're going to get on your knees, and you're going to put your hands behind your back. I want you to open your mouth and look at me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she says.

"Move. Now."

I release her. She obeys and comes to kneel in front of me. She's wearing a thin tank top, her nipples stiff, and a pair of dark panties, and she puts her hands behind her back as instructed, her pretty mouth wide open.

I stand and press the tip of my cock against her tongue. She doesn't move, only looks at me, the image of perfect obedience.

"Beautiful girl," I whisper and press myself deeper into her mouth. She responds by hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard, and I groan in absolute ecstasy. The image of her down on her knees letting me slowly fuck her lovely mouth is enough to make me want to come on her tongue right this instant, but instead I growl and drag her to her feet.

"Let me see you," I command as I pull off her clothes. I kiss her neck and tongue her stiff nipples as I grip her ass, suddenly starving for all of her. I want to bury myself in this girl and feel every line and every curve of her gorgeous skin. "I need to feel you, Stefania."

She whimpers at her name and kisses my chest. "I'm not hiding."

And she's right. She's on display for me, her curvy hips and smooth thighs and that gorgeous little pucker between her legs. I guide her to the bed and she wraps her knees around my neck as I devour her pussy, tongue gliding up and down, tasting every inch of her, starving for this in a way I've never imagined.

It's so fucking easy, licking her and sliding my fingers inside her, and it doesn't even occur to me that I've been with Stefania now more often than I've ever been with another woman in my life. I've never let this happen before, because once I commit, I commit for life, and I thought I'd be able to hold a piece of myself away from this girl.

Instead, as she comes on my mouth, I realize how fucked I am. How deeply and truly fucked I've become.

I hold her hands down as I take her. She grinds her hips against me, whispering how much she loves when I fuck her, how badly she wants me deep inside, and I tell her how incredible she feels and how good she looks and how badly I want to fill her to the brim. I make her moan and beg, and I make her come a second time before I finally give in to release.

We end up panting and exhausted. One of her legs is draped across me, and if this had happened with any other woman, I would've shoved her away to make sure I didn't fall apart into a simpering, pathetic, panic-stricken mess.

Instead, I relish in her closeness.

And that's a problem, because I don't know how to let someone in like this.