by Tara Oakes
As soon as I’ve secured the little tab so that the harsh sunlight is no longer pouring through the pane, I smugly nod to my bad-mannered companion and abandon him to reclaim my own seat on the other side of the small plane.
I can hear the sliding mechanism lift and see the sudden appearance of daylight on the nearby surfaces before I’ve even reached my destination.
That little-
I turn on my heel and stalk back over to remedy the situation once and for all as he watches, cruelly amused. The floor begins to shake under my feet and the telltale rattling of mechanical parts gives way.
“Fuck!” I exhale frantically.
His eyes squint. “What’s wrong?”
That’s the first thing he’s said to me since we left Dom’s office. Well, the first thing that wasn’t an order of some type to stay behind and not come along.
“N-nothing,” I manage, and close my eyes tight using my hands to search for the chair with the only protection I have at this point- my seatbelt.
“Come here,” he offers, in a much friendlier tone.
I shake him off. “No- I don’t need you.”
The plane hits a rougher patch, skipping over uneven terrain harshly. I fall into the high back of a seat and hold on dearly. The metal clicking of Carmine’s seatbelt can somehow be heard above the noise and I feel his hands around my waist a mere second later, pulling me to him.
With the help of the next speed bump, we both tumble back to the pair of seats he occupied, with me landing on his lap.
“Shh…” he coddles me. “It’ll be over in a minute. And I know you don’t need me, Tre. You make it painfully clear every chance you get.”
The violent bouncing doesn’t let up, and I find myself clinging to him for dear life.
“There, see…” he points out the very first break in turbulence.
I release my breath and open my eyes searching around. My sight fixes on the still-opened window and find that we are in fact not falling helplessly towards the bottom of the ocean floor as I had pictured in my mind.
“See?” he asks again.
I turn to him, his perfect hair slightly disheveled, his eyes full of concern. I nod and begin to peel myself from him.
“I’m- I’ll be fine. Thank you,” my words have an edge to them.
He rolls his eyes and pulls back his arms harshly. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?” I bark back.
He shakes his head in frustration, as the skin around his collar begins to flush in anger.
“Act so… difficult! You never listen me, especially when what I’ve got to say is for your own good. You make sure I know at all times you’d be fine without me. Hell, maybe even better off!”
I feel an invisible little nerve near my eye twitch.
“First of all… I don’t have to listen to you. I’ve spent my whole life listening to people. My dad, V’s Dad, Dom, John… and now you?” I shake my head. “I can think for myself. I can take care of myself. I did it last time.”
His eyes slant, his chin bows. “What do mean you did it last time?”
“The last time you left. Gone. Without so much as an explanation. You broke my heart and left me! Let’s just say the next time it happens I won’t be so unprepared.”
“Oh God, Theresa! We were kids! And, I was doing you a favor. You had no business getting mixed up with a guy like me. You deserved so much more.”
I shake my head in refute. “And you just suddenly came to that realization? Like that?” I snap my fingers for effect. “After a whole summer of making me fall for you, you turned on me.”
He breathes hard. “I never thought I had a shot in hell to be accepted by one of the families… to become… what I’ve become. I thought I’d get lucky and go to some two-year night school and somehow fall into managing the restaurant. Something safe, something average… something that maybe you could find some way to accept.”
He drops his shoulders, relaxing as if he’s got nothing left to hide. “And then… then I got an offer I couldn’t refuse. And I was young. And I was stupid. And I knew… I didn’t want you anywhere near this kind of life.”
Carmine watches me as I take in his words.
“So I did the only thing I could think to do. I left. Because I knew that if I had to face you again, I wouldn’t be able to leave. I’d be there washing dishes, paying my way through school. And you… you’d finally realize you could do so much better than me. You’d leave eventually. You’d have every right to. I wouldn’t be a real man.
“This,” he hits his own chest hard. “This is who I’m meant to be. This is all I know.”
“Then why?” I ask, inching closer, wanting to know. “Why’d you come back? Why’d you let this happen between us again?”
He bites his lower lip, blanching the skin. “I don’t know… because- because I’m a damn fool. I saw you that afternoon getting all pissy with V in the restaurant when you realized I was here. I saw that fire in you… the same fire I saw back then. The one I knew could be reckless and fearless, and God help me, I wanted another taste.”
“No.” I put my foot down. “You don’t get to say these things. You don’t get to change things.”
“No?” he asks. “Then what do I get to do? You say you don’t want people telling you what to do anymore? Then you tell me. Because I’m tired of playing this game. You want me? Well, this is me. This is who I am. Am I an asshole sometimes? Yep. Am I a stupid sonnuva bitch who hurt you years ago?” He moves his head away, pained. “Yup. I’m that guy, too. But, I’m also the guy who realizes that he let the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him go. And he’s here now, asking you to forgive him, asking you to somehow give him another chance. I was wrong back then. I thought I had to choose… maybe I don’t. I may not be the most successful or the richest man, and I know for sure that I will never deserve you.”
I tilt my head, shielding my welling eyes from him. He grips my chin and forces me to witness the rest of his confession.
“But I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. And I will die to protect you. That’s all I have to offer. So… you want people to stop making choices for you? Then you make your own choice. Right here. Right now.”
My breathing’s become erratic. This is what I’ve wanted, right? To think for myself, to choose for myself. Then why am I having such a hard time answering him?
“I-I…”
Can it possibly be as easy as he’s said? All I have to do is tell him what I want? Tell him what I need? No one’s ever asked me that. I don’t even know how to comprehend it.
“Tell me. I need to hear it.” He prods me.
Ah, fuck it.
I slam my lips down as hard as I can onto his, pushing past his mild resistance until I’m deep into the kiss I want, the kiss I need. I feel his hands roam wildly through my hair, and I move blindly to edge closer, straddling him.
The leather seating cracks and creaks under our moving bodies as we both squirm to fit in the single, oversized chair.
The pressure from his hands in my hair intensifies and he pulls back, taking my lips with him.
“No. You have to say it. I want the words, Tre.” He’s back to being the cold-hard, dominating tough guy.
I moan, wantonly, and try to escape his hold. I know if I kiss him again, he’ll be sure of my answer. He doesn’t budge, though.
Fine.
“You want me to be your woman?” I ask, turning the tables. “Then you’ve got to accept me, too. Just like you want me to accept you. Every part of me. The part that doesn’t take orders. The part that doesn’t like to be told what to do. The part that thinks for herself, and can be bitchy, and the part that sometimes doesn’t believe she’s enough for you… that you’ll want more.”
“I’m never going to want more… because there is nothing more.” He follows my eyes as I try to look away. “Say it.”
I swallow hard and know that I’m at a turning point. Once I cross this line, th
ere’s no going back.
“I want it. I want all of it.”
No sooner than the words are out of my mouth does he make good on his promise. I said I wanted all of it… well, he’s about to give me all of it. He pulls at me, closing the small gap between us as he takes hold under my thighs and lifts. I hear him grunt as he carries us to the small sleeping area in the rear of the cabin. The flimsy little door handle jiggles but eventually opens to his command and we spill inside.
The bed isn’t large by any means, but it’s a small amount of privacy to do what’s needed in this moment.
His movements are quick, not at all like the controlled man I’ve grown used to these last few months, frantically clawing at my jeans until they relent and slide down my body where I’m able to kick them away.
Our lips are merciless, attacking the other’s without relent, no doubt bruising the tender flesh. I hear the soft thudding of fabric piling up by his own feet and know that he’s worked himself free.
One quick motion sees me hoisted from the mattress, brought to him, and high enough to settle on his piercing flesh as he kneels on the provisional bed. I seat myself down, gasping along as I feel the tightness spread its way until I’ve reached bottom.
He’s finally able to relax, all traces of his frenzy having been satisfied. I feel his chest expand, his breathing becoming deep and composed. His lips slow, softening themselves against mine. The urgency in his tongue is replaced by a sultry kneading.
Ever so slowly, I raise myself and lift from the thickness he’s embedded in me. His strong arms help ease the burden and move me higher until just a small bit of him remains where we’ve joined.
Without risking further separation, he lowers me, not willing to loose the connection we claim on each other. Again and again we move as one… slowly, deliberately.
The deep vibrations of the engines around us add an electrified hum to the panting and moaning we both use to speak to each other with.
“Mine,” he frees his lips long enough to stake verbal ownership over what I’ve so willingly given to him.
I smile, knowingly.
“Mine,” I return the tribute.
He laughs into my neck as I slide against him, hastening our pace.
“Yours,” he concedes.
And then, thousands of miles above the Atlantic Ocean, high in the clouds… he shows me what heaven must feel like.
~*~
“This can’t be it?” I move my stare from the GPS screen in the dash, to the tourist map in my hands and then to the hand-carved wooden sign we’re parked beside.
Carmine removes his sunglasses to get a better look.
“Uva Malvagio…” he reads the scripted print from the posted sign. “This is the place. Wicked grape, huh?”
His eyebrow twitches in amusement at the translation. We must have passed a dozen or so small wineries and vineyards on this road alone. This one is by far the smallest and most creatively named.
The small rental car is thrown into reverse and I cringe as I hear the gears screech and grind. Seeing me wince my eyes is pain, Carmine lays his excuse.
“European cars… the tranny’s are different,” he attempts to cover up his lack of manual transmission driving skills.
I laugh as we slowly enter the dirt and stone drive of the small establishment.
“Maybe I should drive from now on? I know how to work a stick,” I suggest playfully.
He growls.
“Yes you do. It’s one thing for you to tell me what you want. It’s a whole other thing for me to let you drive. Don’t push,” he chides.
I roll my eyes sarcastically and exhale my exaggerated disappointment loud enough for him to hear. You can take the man out of the cave, but you can’t take the cave out of the man.
The bumpy road is not kind to the tiny little Fiat… or my behind for that matter as we feel every single rock and pebble on our route. With only one other beaten-up car parked in the makeshift dirt lot, we end our drive and park in our pick of empty spots.
I wait until the dust kicked up from our small wheels settles before attempting to disembark from the aluminum death trap we’ve rented. I’m not spoiled compared to most and I understand the need to appear inconspicuous, but I’m going to need a long stretch after being cooped-up in this little thing for so long. Maybe it’s true what they say about American’s being bigger people… because these cars are not exactly friendly to the average-sized New Yorker.
But, then I take one look at the Italian stallion next to me and rethink my position. He’s as authentic as they come, having been born and raised here until he was in his teens, although you’d never guess it by his adopted accent. Even he, with his large muscular frame and bulging muscles, looks ridiculous behind the wheel of such a microscopic little ride.
“Do you remember what I said?” he breaks my random train of thought.
I nod. “Yup. Young couple in love on vacation. From Connecticut. We heard about his wine from a friend and promised we’d bring them home a bottle.”
He’s pleased I was actually listening enough to recite our cover story.
“And…?” he prods.
I exhale deep. “And…,” I make sure I sound as sarcastic as I can, “I don’t wander off. I don’t ask too many questions. I don’t drink anything I don’t see poured from a brand new bottle, and I don’t, I repeat, don’t call you Carmine. Did I forget anything, Dan?”
He grimaces. “I hate that name.”
I laugh. “If you are going to call me a bimbo name like Jasmine,” I spit out the hideous name, “then I am going to call you Dan, Dan.”
“I happen to know quite a few Jasmine’s that would take offense to that,” he chides.
I squint my eyes. “Strippers don’t count, Dan.”
He chuckles as he reaches past me for the glovebox, withdrawing the gun he’d tucked away earlier.
“Well, I never said I met them in church.”
My breath hitches as I watch him work the weapon, inspecting it and setting it to the ready so comfortably that his smart-ass comment didn’t even miss a beat.
“Is that really necessary?” I ask him in all seriousness.
He tucks the sleek handgun into the back of his waistband. “Just a precaution, Jazzy.”
“I swear to God, Carmine--”
“Dan,” he corrects me quickly.
I grind my teeth. “I dare you to call me Jazzy again and see what happens.”
He laughs and opens the door, letting in some of the warm Tuscan heat, in the process. It’s not long before he’s reached my side and helps me out onto the packed soil that marks our pathway.
His sizeable hand takes mine in a tight grip as he leads me under the charming little archway that marks the entrance to the establishment. The old wooden floor creaks under foot, and an assortment of colored bottles are displayed throughout the charming but aged interior. Other than being in need of a good dusting, the storefront is as inconspicuous as any other around here, I guess.
A tiny bell affixed to the doorframe chimes our entry, alerting the yet unseen proprietor to his guests. There is a small shuffling from behind a display case and I can feel Carmine, er Dan, tense. He casually moves his hand to his side as if scratching an itch but I know better.
He’s positioning himself to grab his gun quickly if need be.
“Buongiorno. Posso aiutarla?” the small, elderly man asks in thick accented Italian.
We both freeze, eyes fixed on each other.
I know that voice.
He seems to recognize me, too.
Carmine senses my reaction, and springs into action. The gun is no longer a concealed measure of precaution, but is now a very deadly weapon aimed at the gentleman who studies me.
“No! Carmine, don’t!” I move to intervene, blocking any potential bullet’s path.
I can see the frustration in Carmine’s eyes as I’ve done exactly what he’s asked me not to do, and at the first opportunity, too.
> I’ve blown our cover, and interfered directly.
Once I’m satisfied that his finger isn’t pressing on the trigger, I turn my attention to the man behind me. He’s older than I remember him. He’s grown a thick mustache and his skin is many shades darker and much more wrinkled than I recall.
But the eyes are the same.
“Uncle Joe?” I ask, astonished.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CARMINE
“Uncle Joe?” Theresa asks the target.
The frail man looks like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes sink and his color drains. His gaze darts around the room nervously, assessing the entrance, the windows, all points of escape.
I grab for Theresa’s hand and pull hard and fast to secure her behind me in case the man gets desperate. My sudden movement seems to have triggered his survival instincts and I see him begin to move for the nearby sales counter.
“Don’t!” I command.
My voice has stopped him, and I use my gun to direct where I want him to stand. He moves obligingly, with his hands in clear sight. I keep my eyes on him and step close enough to the same sales counter he sought refuge behind. Slipping my hand blindly under the top surface, I feel around until I’ve found what I knew would be there.
Pulling hard, I release the old revolver from its hiding place and bring it out into sight.
The man looks disappointed that I’ve taken his only means of protection.
“You found me,” he speaks in English.
Theresa lifts her hands instinctively to her mouth, covering her gasp.
“B-bu-but… you’re dead?” she asks herself as much as she asks him.
He closes his eyes, breathes deep. “We should talk.”
He begins to move, but I keep the gun on him. He’s slow, cautiously stepping over to the front door. I readjust myself so Tre is always at my back as I follow him. His thin, liver-spotted hands turn the sign over to indicate that the business is no longer open, and he continues on to turn the lock on the ancient doorknob.