28. Simon

Ifeel sick on the walk home from my father's house. Davide's waiting for me outside, but I can't talk to him. When he pushes for details about what happened, I tell him to talk to Dad if he wants to know and try to ignore the hurt in his expression.

It's not my brother's fault. If things were up to him, I know he'd never make a deal with Santoro like this, not even with a gun to his head. I don't know what my dad's thinking, trying to make peace with the man who has consistently tried to tear our family to pieces, but it makes absolutely no sense.

There are a lot of unknowns in the Santoro situation. Nobody knows exactly why Luciano Santoro decided to betray my father after acting as his underboss and top lieutenant for years. There are rumors about power and money, but nothing's certain. They were best friends, and we all grew up thinking of Santoro as an uncle. But then he turned his back on our father, kidnapped Davide, and blew the entire city to pieces. Things have been so damn bizarre since then, and I've always wondered what Santoro has on my father to keep them from ending things the way they should've a long time ago, with guns and blood.

It's like Dad wants to be punished by Santoro. But whatever sin Dad might've committed, none of that should be more important than his own damn family, and at this point it's clear that Luciano Santoro is the most dangerous person in the city.

And yet he wants me to marry that sick bastard's daughter.

I shove my way back into my house and lean against the banister of the stairway, feeling lightheaded.

I'm so close. I could reach out and become Don. All I have to do is leave Emily and marry some strange girl, the daughter of my enemy. I should want to do this—I should be willing to sacrifice anything for my Famiglia—but the prospect makes me feel sick.

The smell of cooking wafts in from the kitchen and I hear Emily humming to herself. There's frying bacon, coffee, and something else in the air, as I drift over to it, my legs moving automatically. I keep seeing my father sitting behind his desk commanding me to leave my wife so I can marry into a family I despise more than anything in the world, and it breaks my fucking heart.

I see her standing at the stove. She's got a spatula in one hand, the other gripping the handle on the pan, and she's flipping something. I smell egg and cinnamon. There's sliced bread on the counter. Emily's wearing a pair of black silky shorts and a cut-off gray shirt, her hair down around her shoulders, the sunlight from the back windows slanting in across her tan skin.

She looks incredible. So fucking delicate and beautiful. Her entire attention is on whatever she's cooking, and her tongue's pressed between her lips as she concentrates on flipping what I realize is French toast. When it lands perfectly, she gives a delightful little laugh and shakes her butt, and I'm so fucking smitten it's like a part of me dies right there on the kitchen floor.

I can't leave this girl. There's no fucking way I can do it. I never really considered it, but seeing her here in my house, looking like that, the thought of giving her up is an agony. That's a hell I won't ever choose for myself, not for anything.

I need her hands on my chest. I need her lips at my neck. I love her long legs, the way she laughs when I bury my face in her hair, her moans as I slide my fingers deep inside her, the sweat on her skin as I fuck her deep and rough and make her come again and again. I want her company in the shower, her voice on the back porch. I need her in my life, and I won't let her go.

I don't care if it destroys our family.

This isn't about the organization anymore.

Emily turns and notices me standing there. She grins huge, and I swear, my heart stutters and grows fifty sizes bigger. "French toast!" she declares, holding up the pan. "I've never made it before. Wait, hold on." She grabs a plate and gets everything set up, and when she's done, she wipes her hands on a towel.

"Looks amazing," I say, not able to move. I'm stuck in the doorway like I'm somehow not welcome in her presence anymore.

"Simon?" Emily drifts toward me, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

I stare at her and don't know what to say. My father wants me to leave this girl, when she's the first woman to make me feel something good in my entire life. I don't know how I could possibly do it—and yet staying with her means giving up on my dream of becoming the Don.

Hell, it means damning the Famiglia to my father's tepid, inept leadership, and might lead to the end of everything.

But when she touches my chest gently, I pull her into my arms and breathe in the smell of her shampoo, and I tell her how good that fucking French toast looks, but I'm a little hungry for something else first. And my girl, my wife, she kisses me and purrs as my hands lift up her cut-off top and find her bare breasts, her nipples already stiff for me. And how am I supposed to leave her, even for a dream? How am I supposed to give her up for a lifetime of misery?

I drag her into the living room because I can't wait long enough to reach the bedroom. I shove the top up over her breasts and feast on her, kissing her and sucking her nipples like I'll never taste her again.

"Here I was thinking I cooked breakfast, not that I was breakfast," she says, laughing, and fuck, it only makes me want her more. I bury her mouth with mine and strip her shorts off, shoving her panties aside so I can lick her from top to bottom.

"I feel like I'm starving," I say as I tongue her clit and slide my fingers inside of her. "I feel like if I don't make you come right now, I'm going to pass out and die."

"I have good news for you," she says, arching her back. "I think you're going to survive a little bit longer if you keep doing that."

"Good girl," I growl and lick her faster, sucking her, drinking her down as my fingers glide in and out until her body tenses and her back arches and she comes for me.

I can't help myself. I kiss her, make her taste her own pussy on my tongue, before dragging her into my lap. She grinds down, grinning and happy as I yank down my pants and take out my cock. She teases me, gliding up and down my shaft, not letting me inside her pussy even though I'm aching for her.

"What got into you?" she whispers, biting my lower lip. "Everything with your dad okay?"

"I don't want to talk about my dad when your tits are in my face and my cock's an inch from your pussy."

"That's fair," she says, laughing as I grab her ass and spank it. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. You just seem off."

"I'm fine." I kiss her and try to make myself believe it. "I just want you. That's not bad, right?"

"No, it's not bad at all." She hesitates and bites her lip like she's wondering something. "I want you too," she admits. "I know it's weird, the way this happened. I'm still mourning for Rachel, but I also… things have been really good with you lately. It feels good, and that means it's not wrong, right? I mean, we're married, so it's okay if I like this, right?"

"It's okay," I say, sliding my thumb down to tease her clit. "I like this too. I like this a lot."

"And that doesn't freak you out?" She wiggles her hips and that look comes over her face, the blissed-out pleasure smile. "I'm not saying, like, you have to be my husband forever?—"

My other hand snakes into her hair and I grab on tight, staring into her eyes. "But while I am your husband, I'm all yours, and you're all mine."

She chews her lip and nods slowly. "Yeah. I like that."

"I like that too, baby."

She arches her back and moves her hips, and I slip inside of her as I bury her mouth with my own, kissing her deep and hard, a nagging worry bothering the back of my head, but nothing else matters to me right now. There's only Emily in my lap, Emily riding my cock, Emily's nipples in my mouth and her moans in my ears, the breakfast she was cooking back in the kitchen waiting to be devoured when I'm finished devouring her.

I fuck her until she comes a second time, her body shaking. I pin her down on the couch and take her, grinding into her pussy, kissing her and telling her how good she feels and how badly I want to fill her to the brim, how she's a dirty girl for me, and how she's all fucking mine. And when I finish, it's like my brain's a lightning storm as I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight against my chest.

"I can get used to this," she breathes, peppering my mouth with little kisses. "God, sorry. I'm not trying to freak you out."

"I'm not freaked out at all." I squeeze her ass and pull her tighter.

We stay like that for a while. I keep thinking about Valentina Santoro, some strange girl, the daughter of the man I hate most in this world, and the woman my father wants me to marry. My father and my Don both. And yet here I am, with a nobody girl, not important to the Famiglias, not politically connected, not rich or famous, just a girl who makes me feel so fucking good. I shouldn't let myself have this. I've never done a damn thing to deserve it.

And yet I already know that I've come way too far to turn my back on her.