Omertà Anthology - A Very Merry Mafioso Christmas

by V. Domino

  Even now, as I wrench my fingers between the lips of a man who’s done my employer wrong, reveling in the way his jaw pops as it yields to me and shoving the green silicone dildo from his bedside table down his throat, I can feel a piece of my mind trying to reel me in.

  But the evil is stronger, its hold deeper.

  Magnetic.

  Still, as the man writhes on his mattress, naked and bound at the hands and feet, bleeding from where I’ve removed all twenty nails, I realize this isn’t the sickest part of me. Sure, there’s a deep sensation of satisfaction that washes over me as I slap a strip of packing tape down over the attorney general’s mouth. A brutal punishment, but the mafia hates thieves, and as their fixer-and-occasional-hitman, I get to dole out justice as I see fit.

  A guttural gurgling begins in the back of the attorney general’s throat, and he brings his bound hands to his mouth in an attempt to free himself, but it’s no use. Hopping up on the bed beside him, I pull out my phone and open up my security footage app in one hand, pushing down on the sex toy with the other, trapping his fists between my palm and his mouth.

  He put up more of a struggle than I’d anticipated, the smug bastard. Most people who steal from or borrow and don’t return payments to the mafia are at least somewhat remorseful. They typically have the decency to apologize and plead for their lives, even if it never works.

  I don’t give a fuck about being merciful to men as vile as me.

  As the man at my side goes limp, eyes wide open but unstaring at the popcorn ceiling of the motel room, I watch the girl on my screen as she peels off her bloody, ragged clothes, secure in the comfort of her expansive bathroom, reminding myself that this was the last task I had before I go and see her for myself.

  It’s my holiday ritual, climbing through her balcony doors like Romeo trying to get to Rapunzel, or however that fucking fairy tale goes.

  But my infatuation with the girl isn’t the stuff you find in happily-ever-afters; it’s nightmare fuel, horror with a vengeance. The kind of filth you find on the dark web where people go to satiate their most shameful, depraved desires.

  My girl puts on a show, shimmying her hips out of the tight jeans she has on, and my cock stiffens at the sight of her creamy thighs. I can’t stop myself from imagining how it’d feel to bury my head between them, or from wondering if the little whimpers she makes when she tosses around in her sleep sound anything like the moans she’d make soaking my chin with her pleasure.

  She’s as untouched and pure as fallen snow—at least, that’s what she needs people to believe. But I see the black and blue splotches coloring her skin, see the gash at her ribs that drips with her fresh blood. I know her, and as she pulls the sports bra over her head, baring the heavy swell of her breasts and that tiny pomegranate tattoo beneath the left one that no one else knows she has, I can almost feel the arousal course through her veins.

  The second she steps into the shower, I see it; hot water scalds her skin, washing over sore muscles and cuts I can’t see. A normal person might wince against the pain, maybe grit their teeth, but not her.

  Not my little Persephone.

  Her jaw slackens a fraction as she turns toward the plexiglass door, smoothing her hands down over her curves, and then falls open on a sharp gasp. There’s no audio with my footage, but I know what she sounds like.

  I know everything about her.

  When her hand drifts over her stomach, nimble fingers traveling lower to mix the pressure of pain and euphoria, I click out of the app, unwilling to allow my voyeuristic tendencies to cross that line.

  The first time I watch her come undone, I want to be there, not watching from behind some fucking screen. I want to be the reason she comes, want my name to be the one she purrs as her pussy spasms and her nerve-endings explode.

  Pocketing my phone, I move off the bed and begin clean-up; my boss, the don of Boston’s most notorious crime family, might like evidence, but I’ve never been one to give it to him.

  Since he hired me just out of my residency, Rafael Ricci’s had to come to terms with trusting my judgment.

  Once I’ve cleared the body from the room and bagged his remains to toss in my basement wood-burning stove later, I get to work cleaning the aftermath. The routine starts by exchanging the stiff motel linens for clean ones I picked up on my way in, removing the plastic mattress cover—which I slip on before I’ve begun my interrogation—and getting to work removing any gore that’s splattered elsewhere.

  After I’ve scrubbed the brown shag carpet of its biological traces, I deodorize and disinfect, the weight of my medical background refusing to let me leave until things are up to hospital code. Using a bioluminescence device, I scan the area for any remnants of the dead man, heave my bags over my shoulder, and slip out the back exit.

  Tossing the bags into my trunk, I slide behind the wheel of the black Buick I rented when I got into town and reach into the glove compartment for the book of poetry I keep there.

  I know she memorized the pages torn from it at an early age. I know she pours over every book of poems she can find from the public library, trying to recreate the same feeling my copied words elicited in her as a child.

  I also know she won’t find that feeling elsewhere, because it’s not in the words, it’s in the gesture. Poetry gifted, not poetry borrowed. Words that made someone think about her, even if only because her father despised her love of literature.

  That was long before her father asked me to keep an eye on her when she turned eighteen.

  Long before my thoughts turned depraved and hungry.

  “You dropped this.”

  My heart kick-starts, shifting into overdrive as I lift my gaze from the worn wooden pew in front of me. Familiar, rich brown eyes stare back at me, heavy and menacing in their unwavering perusal, as if trying to peer into my very soul.

  The sharp, angular curve of his jaw gives me pause; I’ve never seen him without at least a hint of stubble, and that he’s likely shaved specifically for this occasion causes the cracks in my heart to double in size. Frissons of unease ripple inside the organ, partly at having this dangerous man’s undivided attention, and partly because being inside St. Leonard’s so soon after my return home feels like a conflict of interest.

  A tendril of jet-black hair swoops down over his smooth forehead, and my fingers twitch where they’re pinned beneath my thighs, itching to push it away. Always looking, never able to touch.

  He holds out a slip of paper, crumpled between two long, muscular fingers. Everything about this man screams fit, and I can’t stop my eyes from raking over his dark form hungrily, despite the context of the situation.

  Impossibly tall, probably six-foot-four, maybe even six-foot-five, my father’s hitman towers over the congregation, looking more out of place than if the Devil himself had stepped inside the aged building. His all-black, custom-tailored suit clings to his muscles, shoulders straining against the expensive fabric, and something quick and punishing tears through my gut, resonating between my thighs.

  A feeling I’ve never felt before and can’t quite place.

  One that makes my bones ache.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see my family making their way from the pulpit, giving their last stoic regards to the golden casket parked there. My nonnino, the barely retired Don Ricci, murdered in cold blood before he had much of a chance to enjoy civilian life.

  That’s the problem with La Cosa Nostra, though. Once you’re in, there’s no getting out. The reach of Ricci famiglia business stretches and refuses release, tightening its grip on its members until they eat, sleep, and breathe omertà.

  Papà stops and shakes the hands of every passerby, doing his political duty to remain professional and reserved, even in times of duress. When we were kids, he’d tell my sisters and me not to let emotional attachments surface in our everyday lives, because once something you love can be located, it can be used against you.

  Which is likely how my grandfather ended up h
anging from the rafters in his old barn earlier this week, while his favorite horse ran loose through downtown Grafton.

  Reaching out, I tentatively take the piece of paper from the man at my side; a chill runs up my arm as our fingers brush. His skin is as icy as the December Boston air, and a soft gasp falls from my mouth before I’m able to stifle it.

  I don’t miss the way one corner of his dark pink lips tugs up, though the rest of his expression remains unchanged. The impossible, unflappable Doctor Kal Anderson, regarding me in the flesh for the first time in years.

  Of course, I’ve been finishing up my English teaching degree with clinic hours at my alma mater, the Fontbonne Academy, and he’s been… distant.

  Stuffing the scrap of paper into my coat pocket, I force my gaze ahead and try to calm my racing heart. I don’t need to unwrap the paper to know it’s got his chicken scratch handwriting on it, or to remember one of the dozens of lines of poetry that have been etched into my heart over the years.

  Poems he left as birthday gifts during his rare visits.

  Mateo de Luca seems to appear out of thin air, dragging crooked fingers through his light brown, cropped hair as he searches the church for me. My betrothed since birth, Papà’s attempt at securing an impenetrable alliance between Ricci Inc. and Bollente Media. And though I go along with it for Papà’s sake, I’d kill to be out from beneath the scope of that man’s dirty little thumb.

  There’s an evil presence inside Mateo unlike what I usually see in my father’s men. It’s cruel, wicked, and seeking a vessel to mold and possess and pour himself into. The kind of monster that develops out of boredom and a false sense of superiority, not because he truly enjoys the darkness.

  “Elena, my darling,” he exclaims, his voice bouncing off the columns and murals inside as if we’re not at a wake. Bending once he reaches me, he scoops me roughly into his arms, nearly pulling me into his lap in front of the entire church. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Your mother said you got in last night. I was surprised that I didn’t hear from you.”

  Kal averts his eyes, but I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches, nor do I miss the way my body heats at his reaction.

  But I try not to read into it, because that’s what he wants.

  Gripping the hem of my black, cashmere dress to keep from flashing my father’s oldest friend, I clear my throat and try to wrench away from Mateo. “Holiday traffic was kind of a drag, so I went to bed as soon as I got home.”

  Mateo pinches one of my cheeks, and I wince as the pressure hits a sore inside my mouth. I’m still healing from a fight yesterday afternoon—at a diner a few miles from the Academy while I waited for Enzo, our family driver, to pick me up for winter break.

  The bruises on my knees and ribs and the cut on the inside of my left thigh are why I’m wearing a sweater dress and thigh-high leather boots, despite the fact that St. Leonard’s is notoriously warm inside.

  “Want me to give you a ride to the reception?” Mateo asks, finally releasing me. “We could stop for some of that pomegranate frozen yogurt you like.”

  I do like the frozen yogurt, but the idea of being stuck alone in a car with this man for any length of time makes me nauseous. “Sorry, but I think Papà wants me home to help set up for tomorrow.”

  He pouts, his dark skin shimmering in the bright, fluorescent lighting. “Come on, E. I haven’t seen you in months; spend some fucking time with me.”

  Beside us, a throat clears, and then a large hand is wrapping around my bicep and yanking me from my seat into a standing position. “I’ve been asked to make sure she gets home in one piece.” Kal drags me into his side, my body on fire everywhere we connect.

  “Oh, come on,” Mateo scoffs, pushing to his feet. “Like they trust you with her more than me. You’re liable to murder her and dump her body in the Charles.”

  “Sure that’s the hill you want to die on, Mateo? You may be too stupid to be afraid of me, but that doesn’t change what I’m capable of.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Speak to her like that again and I’ll make it a fucking promise.” Kal squeezes my arm, and I whimper, shuffling closer to try and get him to let up. The scent of whiskey and cinnamon assaults me, and I feel a little light-headed as I inhale deeply, my nose brushing against the fabric of his suit.

  Mateo’s eyes narrow, then he smirks and pulls me from Kal’s grasp, wrapping his arms around me in a tight, suffocating embrace. “Be good, my darling,” he says, glaring over my head as he presses a chaste, pointed kiss to my hair, although I’m not really sure why. He’s not affectionate, unless it’s trying to cop a feel, and he’s definitely misdirecting annoyance to the one person in this room that could make it seem like he never existed in the first place.

  Not that my reluctant savior’s interference means anything. Kal’s just protective because he’s my father’s friend and employee. Not because he cares about me.

  He’s made that abundantly clear.

  Frankly, I’m not convinced the man has a caring bone in his entire body.

  And yet, the book of poems he left me as a child, the words that inspired me and got me through the stilted, lackluster life of a Ricci daughter, suggests otherwise.

  My golden goddess doesn’t say a word as I peel out of the St. Leonard’s parking lot, fingers flexing over the leather steering wheel as I attempt to control my rage. The visceral reaction I had to Mateo grabbing her, claiming her, was wholly inappropriate, but like all storm surges, I was powerless against it.

  What I really wanted to do was put a bullet through de Luca’s brain, bend his fiancée over the church pew, and shatter her innocence as he bled out beneath us. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Even if not for the audience, taking that step with Elena isn’t something I can afford.

  No matter how badly I want to.

  There’s just too much at stake.

  “You had no right to drag me out of there,” she says after we drive about a mile in silence, staring out the window as downtown whips past, Christmas wreaths and trees and the Santas on every corner blurring as I weave through traffic. “That was my nonnino’s wake, and you just plucked me from it like his death didn’t matter.”

  Gritting my teeth, I steal a glance at her. She wraps a strand of chocolate-colored hair around her index finger, holding it there until the tip turns purple, before finally releasing it. It’s how she distracts herself from me, the onslaught of pain from loss of circulation pulling her mind from thoughts she shouldn’t have.

  My sweet little masochist.

  “Would you have rather I left you to fight off your beloved in the confines of his car?” Imagining his hands on her soft skin, smoothing along her curves, or wrapped in her dark tresses makes me see red. My skin prickles, blood boiling just beneath the surface, and I shift in my seat to try to tamp down the fire spreading through me.

  “He’s not my beloved,” she mutters, crossing her arms. The gaudy emerald ring on her left hand catches in the overcast sunlight, sending a hot spark of fury uncurling in my chest. “He’s nothing but a thorn in my side.”

  Pulling up in front of the Ricci’s luxurious Louisburg Square home, I park at the curb and switch off the engine. “And yet, you’re marrying him?”

  Lifting her chin, she meets my eyes, and I feel lost in the caramel swirl of her gaze; it’s warm and inviting, soft like wintertime and the edges she hides from the rest of the world.

  “Is that a question, Kallum?” She breathes my name, her ruby red lips curving around each syllable the way I wish they’d curve around my dick, and I swallow over the knot that forms in my throat. “I’m afraid you already know the answer.”

  Irritation bubbles up inside me, at her compliance to this world she has no business being a part of, and at how much I want her and cannot have her. Fuck, who I wouldn’t murder just to sink inside that virgin pussy for one goddamn night. What cities I wouldn’t burn to be able to pretend, for a brief moment in time, that she could be mine.


  “Why are you marrying him?” The question slips out before I have a chance to stop it, deafening in the space of the vehicle.

  “What else would you have me do? Defy my father and risk excommunication, or… worse? Jesus, even I have to draw the line of rebellion somewhere.”

  Pursing my lips, I lean back in my seat and tap my index finger on the wheel. Unlatching the child safety locks, I unlock the doors and stare out the windshield as snow begins to float from the sky. “Maybe you’re not who I thought you were.”

  Her face falls, her heart-shaped jaw clenching as if to keep from bursting into tears. She moves, unbuckling her seat belt, and her rosy pomegranate perfume wafts my way, causing something in my chest to quake with longing.

  “Maybe I just know how to pick my battles.”

  I see the moment Kal’s patience with me wanes; sitting here in his car, I’m stunned too stupid to move as I watch the calm, collected soul I’ve always known exhale from his body. His eyes darken to a black I’ve never seen, homing in on me with a determination I don’t quite understand.

  Pressing my back into the car door, I try to put as much space between us as I can, not wanting to be in the direct line of fire of this feral man. Sweat breaks out along my hairline, my dress suddenly too hot and too tight for my body, my tongue swelling three sizes too large inside my mouth.

  “Get out.” His voice is a sharp growl, cutting me to the bone. But fuck if I don’t like the way it slices against my skin.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You fucking heard me, Elena. I won’t ask again.”

  “What the hell? You forced me to leave the church before I was ready and now you’re kicking me out of the car?”

  He reaches across me, pulling on the door handle and forcing it open. My breath catches as his arm grazes my chest, but then he’s resituating himself in his seat and turning the car back on. One hand scrubs at his clean-shaven jaw, so rough against his skin that it bleeds red beneath his touch. Violence practically clings to him, itching to be set free from where he tries to bury it in his soul.