Omertà Anthology - A Very Merry Mafioso Christmas

by V. Domino

  “Sorry, bud.” I tell him, patting his back with the palm of my hand. “Where’s Elly?” I ask Ma.

  Elly, my younger sister had Anthony before she graduated high school, much to my mother's disappointment. She’s not a bad mother, just young and inexperienced. Being poor and having the kid’s father run out just didn’t help much either.

  “Work,” Ma grumbles, bringing a spoonful of sauce to her lips. “She works too much.”

  I sigh, my eyes flickering to the envelope of cash on the table. “She doesn’t need to work. I’m taking care of it.” I steady my nerves as I head for my old room at the back, hoping I have something in there I can wear to the club.

  No matter how much cash I leave on that table, and how many times they use it, they still act too good for it. I’m a disappointment in my mother's eyes no matter how much money I provide for them, how much better off they are. Anthony has food on the table, video games to play, a nice home—yet still my line of work is shameful.

  I can’t blame them. I won’t say I’m a saint, but I’m a provider, and that can’t be denied.

  There’s a black button down shirt in the closet that I pull over my white t-shirt pairing it with the black jeans I’m already wearing. Checking my appearance in the mirror, I slick back my hair and run my fingertips over the St. Jude pendant. I look good enough.

  I head back out to the kitchen, pressing a quick kiss to the back of my mother's head.

  “Use the money, Ma.”

  Royal is in the heart of the French Quarter, a two-story club blasting music so loudly it flows out onto the street.

  There’s a bouncer ushering the patrons into the correct areas. Downstairs is the general admission, filled with tourists hoping to get their fill of the Big Easy. Upstairs in the private part, NOLA lifers get their rocks off and take home the tourists to spend the night in their beds.

  Private parties, clubs, tourists—they all bring me good money. Each one craving drugs and willing to put bills in my pocket in exchange for their vice of choice.

  Plant, powder, or pills.

  The satchel around my shoulder is filled with the goods. The bouncer waves me through, expecting me probably after receiving a call from Marcus. The Costellos run the Quarter, and Marcus has his hands in every nook and cranny of the business, even the parts where he’s unwanted.

  The place is decorated for Christmas, filled with cheerfulness. Christmas trees with shatterproof ornaments sit on each floor. Garland is wrapped around the balcony, puffy white cotton with glitter giving off the look of snow sits atop every surface.

  I’m waved over by a girl, Lynn, I think that’s what her name is. Someone Marcus fucks, I’m pretty sure. She smiles eagerly at me and rattles off her poison before I’m even over to her. I pull the white tablet she wants from my bag and hand it over in exchange for the cash she slips into my palm.

  Lynn is the first of many, each asking for some type of escape that I’m more than willing to supply them. I sip a whiskey on the rocks while I watch the scene of young adults lounging on velvet sofas unfold in front of me.

  Rich kids are good business. They shell out handfuls of money for drugs that help them escape their imaginary problems. Sometimes I think they take the drugs just so they have a problem, something to be worried or concerned about. Fabricated issues just to make themselves feel something.

  I felt enough for a lifetime, the only drug I dabble with is pot. I need the downers to help me sleep, to ease the anxiety that claws at me all day. I don’t smoke while I’m working though, I reserve it for my nights off in the comfort of my bed.

  I’m about to head out when I see a familiar dark head of hair enter the club. Copper highlights shine against the lights and slim legs lead her up the stairs. She stops when she reaches the top, pursing her lips. She looks out of place, not dressed up enough for the rest of the people here. She wears a dark colored t-shirt dress, her hair piled in a bun on top of her head, and instead of high heels she wears a pair of black Converse. Beside her, a girl in a ugly Christmas sweater drags her to the bar, pulling up alongside me.

  While her friend spouts off an order to the bartender, Lana’s eyes finally find me. They start at my shoes, the pair of black ankle boots and scan up my jeans and shirt before settling on my face. “Naz,” she says softly, a smile beginning to rise on her lips.

  “Lana.”

  Her smile only grows when I say her name. “What are you doing here?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.

  The question makes me uneasy, unsure what to tell her. The truth is work, but she knows exactly what that means and for some reason pointing out to this girl that I’m a drug dealer just doesn’t seem smart.

  The friend in the ugly sweater turns suddenly, handing a glass filled with ice and liquor to Lana. “Molly.” She extends her hand for me, almost instinctively I reach into my bag to find her a dose before quickly realizing she’s telling me her name.

  I wait for her to walk away, called over by another girl who screeches her name loudly. Lana’s eyes are still trained on me. “So,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear her over the music. Her eyes move to the bag on my shoulder than back to my face. “Working?” she asks, and I’m glad she brings it up first.

  “Yep.”

  The glass comes to her mouth again, wrapping her full lips around the straw. There’s a beast inside of me that comes to life at the action, watching her suck the liquid from the cup imagining those lips wrapped around my cock. I try to shake the dirty image from my mind.

  Her fingers poke at a clump of the white glittery cotton. “Have you ever seen real snow?” she asks with the curiosity of a small child.

  “No.” I tell her. “But I hear its annoying as fuck.”

  Hazel eyes shoot up to mine and a laugh bursts from her lips. “I’d like to see it.” She tells me. “It sounds magical.” She says the word with a sense of idealism I envy. As if she can see all of the beauty in the world, while I’m left here seeing everything as only white or black, good or bad.

  She takes another gulp of her liquid courage, grimacing as it slides down her throat.

  “Bad day?” I ask, my eyes flashing to her half-empty glass.

  Those hazel eyes fly up to meet mine, the flecks of gold shining in the flashing lights. “Terrible.” She says, and for some reason I love the way that word sounds on her lips. I want to ease her of her demons, make her day better.

  “Can I remedy it?” I ask her, leaning in closer, enough to smell the honey and lavender scent of her hair.

  Her breath comes out in a heavy pant and for a minute I think she’ll tell me to fuck off, but she doesn’t. “Yeah, can we get out of here?”

  Naz doesn’t waste a moment once the words leave my lips. He ushers me outside the club, to a shiny black Jeep parked on the street. With a click on the fob, the lights come to life and the car unlocks. He lifts me into the passenger seat with such ease before rounding the car and hopping into the driver’s side.

  “Where to?” he asks, the engine roaring to life.

  “Far.” I say, and I’m met with a chuckle.

  “What are you trying to escape, bella?” He doesn’t put the car in drive, instead he removes his hand from the gear shift and turns his attention on me. His warm eyes penetrate me, seeing through my brittle exterior, past the façade that my family has created.

  What am I trying to escape?

  I play with the idea of telling him about my arranged marriage. About the ring that I have stuffed in my underwear drawer back home. About my parents who showed no sympathy when I came back to the kitchen with an angry red mark blooming on my arm.

  Today, for the first time since her death, I felt angry with Lily. She met this man and took the easy way out, she jumped to escape him and with her escape she put me directly in the path of the lion.

  I want to tell Naz all of this. All of the thoughts spiraling through my head that led me to calling Molly and leaving my house tonight.

  I d
on’t though, out of fear that he’ll call me naïve.

  A stupid silly girl.

  I was raised in this town, in this family. I know how the game works, I know the power plays, and yet I thought that behaving and looking pretty would somehow exempt me from them.

  Those deep eyes are steadying me as the thoughts roll through my head, threatening to take over and send me back into a panic. His tattooed hand reaches up to his throat, his thumb and forefinger slipping over the St. Jude pendant. I don’t think he even notices that he does it, it’s just an instinct.

  Naz is handsome in a bad boy way. He’s not the type of man my parents would ever approve of. The black ink that peeks out of his button down shirt, working its way toward his throat would give my mother a heart attack. Even his fingers are covered, the ink extending toward his nail beds. For some reason that I can’t place, it sends a rush of heat to my core.

  His hair is slicked back, dark as black ink and buzzed on either side. He looks well groomed but there's a few days worth of stubble that covers his chin and my mind wanders to thoughts of how it would feel between my thighs.

  “Everything.” I finally answer his question. “I’m trying to escape everything.”

  He moves a hand to his face, rubbing over his chin thoughtfully. I don’t want him to overthink this, I realize. I want him to take me home, I want to feel him between my legs, his mouth on my skin. I want to erase Davis’ hand from my body, I want to experience a man that I choose.

  And I definitely did not choose Davis Lafontaine.

  “Take me to your house.” I breathe, “Please.”

  Wordlessly, he does. Bringing me to a newly built apartment building, an old five-story parking garage turned into rentals. The building has an edge to it and once we get to his unit I’m met with a large open-living space with an industrial feel. The ceilings are tall and the windows are huge, letting the silver light of the moon cast its glow on the hardwoods.

  I’m barely inside the space before he has me pressed against the wall, one hand roaming the side of my body while the other comes to palm my cheek. The warmth of his skin permeates my soul, igniting parts of myself I hadn’t realized were cold and dying until his fire was licking at my flesh.

  Warm, full lips come to mine, pressing against me softly at first, and then harder. Taking everything I have to give, and I meet him there, tongue for tongue, war for war. I give myself over to him willingly, longing to feel everything I’ve been missing.

  Longing for that spark, that fire, knowing that this might be the only time in my life I experience it.

  The hand on my side snakes lower and then tugs at the hem of my dress before going underneath the fabric. I suck in a harsh breath as he comes closer to my core, every nerve in my body is on edge, waiting for that friction it desperately wants.

  Fingers graze my center over my panties, making me whine with anticipation.

  Tattoos stretch across his body, black ink that whirls and moves fluidly over his tanned skin. I want to trace every inch of the ink, decode every design that marks his body. I writhe beneath him, against the wall, a small whine leaving my lips as I buck my hips searching for any amount of friction I can get.

  “Patience,” his raspy voice tells me, a smirk rising on his lips.

  I have none of that, I want him there now. I want all of him, everything he has to give. I need to feel.

  Him.

  Everything.

  I need it all.

  The uncertainty of my future is hovering over me, making everything feel like a last opportunity. Like this might be the last time I get to be with someone I choose, with someone who doesn’t see me as a bargaining chip.

  “Please,” I beg, bringing my own hand on top of his, trying furtively to bring his fingers where I desperately want them.

  “Lana,” he admonishes me, but the sound of my name on his lips sounds perfect. “Are you sure, piccola?”

  Little one.

  The Italian pet name has some truth to it. I do feel little, small and insignificant around all of the men in my life, like a child constantly having decisions made for me.

  But right now, I’m choosing this. Deciding to be in this moment, here with him.

  “Yeah,” I breathe out. “I’m sure.”

  He doesn’t ask again, instead letting his fingers drift under the band of my thong. A boot-clad foot comes between my black Converse and with a tap he instructs me to widen my stance. I oblige.

  Power doesn’t always come from being the loudest, the strongest, the one with the most control. Sometimes, it comes from letting go.

  And with Naz, I let go.

  I let him take control of the moment. He uses my widened stance to get better access to my pussy, spreading my lips and dragging his finger through my wetness.

  “Pretty girl,” he purrs, bringing the digit to my swollen clit. “You’re all turned on for me?”

  I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks from his words, feeling dirty beneath his grasp, but only for a minute. He draws lazy circles around the bundle of nerves with his finger while his other hand rakes through my hair. He brings his lips to my ear, the stubble scratching across my cheek. “Can you be a good girl for me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I nod enthusiastically, ready for him to take me. His fingers pinch my clit, making me gasp loudly, before he pulls them away. “Words, piccola. I want to hear you.”

  “Yes,” I say frantically, begging for the stimulation to return. “Yes, I can be a good girl.”

  He tugs at the hem of my dress, lifting it over my head and casting it aside. Brown eyes peer down at me, beaming with pride. “On your knees.” He demands, and I drop, letting my knees hit the hardwood floor of his apartment, eagerly awaiting what comes next.

  Naz unbuttons his shirt, making a show of tossing it to the floor before he unzips his black jeans, letting them fall and kicking them off along with his shoes. His boxers follow quickly after, until he stands bare before me.

  He strokes his considerable length with one hand while the other grasps my hair. I waste no time, leaning forward I lick down his shaft. When I hear moans escaping from above me I continue, licking the length of his cock before taking the tip in my mouth.

  I suck and tease for as long as possible, until his hand tugs on my hair and pulls me off him. I’m grinning, claiming victory with his panting. I can tell he’s stopping himself from coming down my throat as he leads me to the bed, pushing me so I’m on all fours on the mattress.

  He slides his cock through my wetness, coating himself. “You ready, baby?” he asks, and I peek over my shoulder to see the cocky grin rising on his cheeks.

  With slow movements, he eases inside me, stretching me to accommodate his width. Once he’s in, he’s ruthless in his pounding. His name leaves my lips with a curse followed by a moan. Tattooed fingers reach around, finding my sensitive nub and drawing quick circles making me scream out.

  “That’s right, baby.” He groans above me. “Scream my name. Yell it as loud as possible so everyone knows who's fucking you right now.”

  His words send me over the edge, his name leaving my lips like a prayer with every thrust. When he’s close, he pulls out of me ripping the condom off and spilling his cum onto my back.

  We lay there like that, panting and sticky with cum and sweat. Our hearts light and our minds free from all expectations and obligations.

  Hours later we do it again, and again until we’re drunk on orgasms, exhausted and fully sated.

  Within the four walls of his apartment we shed our identities, no longer the princess and the dealer.

  Just Lana and Naz.

  There’s a warm body curled into my chest when I stir awake. It’s 8:00 AM, late for me as I normally rise before seven. Lana is still asleep, her small frame tucked neatly into my side, her breathing even.

  I trace my fingers over her smooth pale skin. Her skin is soft and clear, not a tattoo or flaw in sight save for the freckles that cover her c
heekbones, but those are far from imperfect.

  I’m beginning to think that she’s flawless until I shift the sheet covering her, lowering it slightly so I can get a better view of her when my eyes are met with a dark bruise on her arm. I trace the outline of it, wrapping around her upper arm as if someone had gripped her arm there. I think back to the night before, wondering if it was me who had bruised her.

  I was rough, sure, not that she seemed to complain, but I can’t imagine I marked her flesh like this.

  As if sensing my concern, she stirs awake, deep hazel eyes looking up at me. “It wasn’t you.” She mumbles through her sleepy gaze. She closes her eyes, as if the memory of whoever bruised her is painful.

  “Lana,” I whisper, willing myself to muffle the anger that’s rising in my chest. “Who did this?”

  She turns away from me quickly, covering the offending arm. “No one.” She mutters.

  It’s a knife to my heart.

  There’s a code of silence that goes hand and hand with this thing of ours. Even those not directly in the mafia know not to speak of it, nor speak ill of its members. As she turns from me, lifting off the bed and attempting to find her dress, dread builds in my heart.

  Because I know that whoever hurt her is protected. No one would lay a hand on a principessa unless they knew that no harm would come to them. Like her father, or worse.

  “Lana,” I repeat her name, this time louder, more stern. “Just tell me. Maybe I can help you?” I’m pleading, and from the look on her face when she spins around, she knows as well as I do that neither of us can help her.

  “Yeah?” she says and there's an edge to her voice I’ve never heard. Disdain, I think. “You want to help me, Naz?” She tosses her hands up in the air. “How? What are you going to do?”

  “I can talk to them.” I say, but even I know how stupid that sounds.