by Kara Hart
“So we won’t be able to have our little lunches,” he said. “And, who knows? Maybe I won’t be coming back.” He let go of my hand and sat back in his chair, waiting for my reply.
I put my hands on my waist and thought about what he just told me. On one hand, who cared? He was just some pig who walked into town one day and made my life that much harder. On the other hand, it was a blow, straight to the stomach. Never coming back? Why? Was it something I did? Something I said? I needed answers.
“You’ll be back.” I found myself saying. “I’m sure of it.”
He chuckled to himself lightly. “Yeah? Why? You think you’re that special?”
I shook my head and smiled. “For one, your car is here. Two, you came here for a reason. Maybe that reason is simple. Maybe you just need some time to yourself. Or maybe there’s something else you came for? Either way, I don’t see you leaving without either. Not yet, at least.”
“You’re observant,” he said. “That can be dangerous for a girl like you.”
Dangerous? The only dangerous thing was my slow-building obsession with the thickness of his cock. “But wait, there’s a third reason why you’ll be back. And I’m willing to bet all my money on this one.”
“What is it? Enlighten me,” he said, eyes perking up.
“Your love for the café, of course!” I exclaimed.
“Cute,” he muttered back, eyeing me up and down. I felt my heart push against my chest and this time it was hard for me to keep my breathing normal. Cute.
“Yes, I think that’s it for sure,” I said, proud of my detective skills.
“Well, you got me. I’ll be back. Next time I’m thinking about trying that double-fudge Nutella swirl brownie. Is it as good as it looks?”
“It’s even better,” I whispered with a wink. But before I walked back to the counter, I said “My name’s Dahlia. There, now you know.”
He straightened his shoulders and outstretched a solitary hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dahlia.” I shook it, feeling his strong grip wrap around my fingers. When he released, goose bumps shot up on my skin.
I walked back behind the counter and Joel was looking at me intently. I resumed practicing my latte art, but every time I turned around, Joel kept staring at me. After about five full minutes of this, I finally hissed at him. “What is it?”
“Who’s the guy?” He asked me.
“Joel, you’re new here so I’ll be nice to you. Mind your own business,” I said, turning away from him as quick as I could.
“Wow, it really bugs you that I asked. Something’s going on between you two, isn’t there?” He stopped looking in my direction now, knowing that he had my attention. He went back to kneading some dough.
“Nothing is going on. He’s some creep that almost hit me the other day on the road. He’s been stalking me ever since.” I shouldn’t have used such harsh words, but I wanted to make it clear that I had no intention of being with that jerk. The fantasies were just fantasies. It was normal for a woman to have them, right? Er, I hoped so, at least.
“Stalking you? I didn’t realize smiling and laughing at your stalker will get them to stop following you,” he sarcastically replied. Was every guy this annoying?
“The customer is always right,” I said. “Besides, this is his last day here. He’s a visitor. A tourist.” A tourist? That word sounded so funny when it came out of my mouth, that I almost immediately apologized for using it. Him, a tourist? Yeah, we got a lot of hardened men coming to Monroe by themselves for the view. Give me a break, Dahlia.
“Sure. Whatever you say. All I'm saying is be careful. He doesn't really look like the type of guy who lives a normal, safe and secure lifestyle.” He began rolling the dough up into crescent-shaped formations. I knew he was just watching out for me.
After some time, he finished Lucas’s dish. “Order up.” Joel winked at me, setting down the omelette on the counter for me. “Be careful.” He mouthed at me. I rolled my eyes back and pretended like I was being strangled.
I walked over to Lucas and set his omelet on the table. “Thanks, Dahlia. Looks delicious as always.” I stood there, standing on the balls of my feet.
Finally, after mulling it over a bit, I spat out what I had to ask. “Should I be worried?” I suddenly said, feeling ashamed I had even asked the question.
“Everyone should be worried,” he said with a straight face. “But I’m assuming you need to worry less than most people.” He shrugged.
“No, I mean, should I be worried about you? Are you, like, stalking me?” I asked, feeling my voice rise up until it barely squeaked out. I hated confrontations, especially ones like this. But I thought maybe it would be wise to lay ground rules down before he came back next week.
He burst into laughter, pounding his fist down on the table. The few customers that were inside looked up at us and I embarrassingly took a step back to hide from their gazes. I knew behind me, Joel shook his head at me, but I didn't care much about what he thought.
“Worried about me? Lady, you're not on my list. I think you're nice. Feisty too. I like that in a woman,” he said, taking a big sip of his latte. “You make a good drink too.”
“Okay. But you have a list?” I asked him, looking out of my peripherals, trying to gauge whether people were still staring or not.
He suddenly stood up from his seat and gripped his palm around my waist. He brought me in close until I could practically feel his lips against mine.
“Maybe you should be worried about me. I look like a risk don't I?”
I slowly nodded my head, feeling my body tense up. He trailed his fingers from my waist down to my ass. He squeezed my right cheek lightly. I felt a sense of pressure swell up inside of me, like a balloon that was about to burst. I had the sudden urge to pull up my dress right then and there, while he wrapped his burly mouth around my soaked panties.
“I know you want me,” he said. “Don't shake your head. Don't do anything, dammit. Just look into my eyes. I know you need me,” he said, staring into my own eyes. His pupils had a fire to them, and an air of mystery that drew me to the flames.
He said “I'll make you mine. Soon enough.” He ran one finger across the lining of my panties. I was dripping wet and shaking. Oh God, what is happening? Is this a dream? I thought. But it was all too real and in the moment.
“Don't you dare nod,” he whispered. He took his lips and lightly pressed them against mine. His beard rubbed against my cheeks and he slowly bit down against my lower lip, pulling back. Then he let go. “See you soon, Dahlia.”
He didn't even stay for his omelet. He simply walked outside, pulled a cigarette out of his pack, and walked away from the café never looking back. “Fuck me,” I whispered to myself.
I turned around and of course, Joel shook his head at me.
6
LUCAS
T he whole fucking car ride to Detroit was a disaster. I left the restaurant in a hurry, not because I was a badass. Shit, I wanted that omelet more than anything. But as soon as I had her in my grasp, my cock turned solid as a fucking semi-truck. I couldn't just stand there with my dick in my hands.
It had been a long time since anyone had made me feel like that. When was the last time I got laid? I searched my memory for a time that stood out. Well, there was that woman in Brazil, that real dark skinned woman. It was right after I killed that son of a bitch for giving me some false information. But I wasn’t the type of guy to think about fucking after shattering a man’s skull with my 9mm, so I ended up spillin’ my guts to her and paying her extra for it.
No, it had been at least 6 years. Brenda, my ex, most likely. Shit, I didn't even want to think about that woman and what she did to me. Or, better yet, what I did to her heart.
Women weren't a thing to me after her. Too much effort. Too many nights listening to them whine about this and that, promising them a life you know you can't give, and raising some children you didn't give a damn about. That's what “love” was and sex always led
up to that, so why even try? But this woman, Dahlia, had to be tamed. She needed some extra time with me.
Coming home was even worse. My brother was on one of his benders again. “You kiss the bitch and then you kill her, he said!” He made a hanging noise, as if a noose had fell around his neck. This was his bit, telling jokes while cocaine residue hung on the edges of his nostril.
I waited for the punchline to his stupid joke. In fact, everyone was waiting for it. But it never came. Ricky just sat there, cackling to himself like a fucking mad man. My father, old enough to get noticeably annoyed by trivial displays like this one, wiped his lips and set his napkin down on the table.
“The punchline?” He asked, taking out a cigar and lighting it. His mansion was a gorgeous mock of old Italian wealth. It might have been the most expensive and well-kept home in Detroit. The chandelier above us flickered against the dark recesses of the room.
“What?” Ricky said wide-eyed and dumb. He had brought some hooker or call girl to dinner. I could just feel my father’s eyes burning through her. A disgrace. He might say to himself.
I tried not to make eye contact with anyone at the table. The tension was too much. I was a solitary type of man. I did my job, collected my money, and slipped back into the cracks until someone summoned my name once again. I didn't like all these family get-togethers. Ricky always made things uncomfortable and dad didn't know how to deal with it properly. There were times I was surprised he didn't take him to the basement and chop his fingers off. It's not like he was above that type of behavior.
Father, The Don as we used to joke, chewed his food angrily. “The punchline! Where's the damn punchline?”
Ricky looked down hard at the table. He was having a hard time deciding what the best way to answer was. “That was the punchline.” He stuttered. And when no one backed him up, not even his call girl, he said “Anyway, it's not your guys’ type of humor, maybe.”
I was barely even listening at this point. I couldn't stop thinking about that Dahlia woman. I looked at the table in front of me and breathed out loudly. I imagined her on the table, bent over for me like a good girl, whispering filthy things to me. Give me that fat cock. Push it inside me. Split me open. Make me yours. She would say. She spread her legs and placed the palms of her hands against her ass, spreading her soaking hole apart for me. Her wet panties lay around her ankles, against her shiny black heels.
“Can you all excuse me for a second. I have to use the bathroom.” I said, nearly sweating with desire. Shit. This isn't good. Calm yourself. You're at family dinner. Just take a deep breath, wash your hands, and come back to the pot roast.
As soon as I got into the bathroom, I realized how dangerous this woman was. She was capable of altering my emotions in a way I didn't need during this trip. My being there was supposed to be simple, but now I'd complicated things. I met this woman who was already controlling me.
I pressed my hand down against the thick bulge in my jeans. My cock had grown solid again and it was bad this time. Of course, there she was in my head again, lowering her body in front of me, pushing against my cock with her ass. Use me. She said, running her tongue against her lips.
She pressed her cheek against the cold concrete floor and I found my hand pressing against her head as I pulled my thickening cock out of my zipper. I don't even waste time taking my pants off. I fuck her like she wants me to. Harder. I know you can fuck me harder than that. Lucas.
And I'm pounding her and pounding her, sliding deep inside her folds. She’s wrapped around my massive cock and there's no way I'm letting go or pulling out.
In reality, I'm propped up against the bathroom wall, spitting on my hand. I shined my cock with my spit and I began rubbing my glistening cock until I'm stroking it. Up and down, swirling my palm against the underside of my head.
Dahlia was right. I’m an asshole. I’m a pig. And I'm staring at the toilet bowl, imagining myself riding her as hard as I fucking can. I'm pulling on her with my belt, like she's wearing a collar. She's mine. All mine.
I moved my hand faster, until I was about to burst. The pressure swelled up inside me, and I could just hear her moan “Shoot your load inside of me.” And I would.
My cock shoots like my 9mm, fast and accurate. Only, I unloaded the whole cartridge. White strings of cum pulsed out of me as I fell against the wall in front of me. The pleasure was too much. My hand scrapes against her back. I stop and squeeze the thick of her ass one more time. And I pull myself out, both of us soaking in our sex.
I cleaned up and flushed the toilet. The red from my cheeks dissipated after some time and I felt ready enough to go back to the hell that was “family dinner.” I wiped my hands clean and exited the bathroom.
“Took you long enough!” Ricky yelled out as I made my way into the room. I was hoping no one would call to attention the fact that I'd been gone for more than ten minutes, but of course I was immediately outted. “What were you doing in there? Playing a little hokey-pokey? Choking that chicken?” No one laughed. “Oh, come on! I'm just messing with you, brother. Relax. You all need to relax a little! Drink some more wine.”
He grabbed a bottle of red wine and attempted to pour me a glass. His hand shook and hit the top of my glass and the bottle came crashing down onto the table. Red wine spilled everywhere. My father got up from the table and walked to the family room. He motioned for me to follow him.
“Your brother is a buffoon,” he said, as he sat down on a leather chair in front of the fireplace. “I don't know what happened to him.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “He was always a hot head, pops. Never could take a hint. Lucy dying seemed to send him over the edge. You know what that can do to a person,” I reasoned.
“He's part of the Luciotti family, dammit. He should have some fucking respect.” He chewed on the end of cigar almost violently now.
“I know. I've tried to tell him. He won't listen,” I said, running my index finger over my gold family ring. Ricky lost his years ago.
“Have you seen our neighborhood? Have you seen how nice it is now? Our family built this district. People depended on us. All the Italian immigrants. Even those fucking micks. They all looked to us for backup. So we helped everyone out, for a small fee. Sure, it was a business. But when it came down to it, we were a respectable family. Ricky, God bless him, is a disgrace. He's putting shame on all of us. How is anybody supposed to respect a man like him? I'm asking you, Luca, how?” He always called me Luca during these meetings. It was an honorable version of my name, he would always say.
I had heard the stories a million times. When Detroit first became a booming city, it was us that created great wealth for other Italian immigrants. And soon enough, it was us that shaped this city. We were the builders of Detroit. I held my tongue, but it was us that created corruption.
The government was no better. The police were even worse. But we didn't do a damn thing to stop it. We were no heroes to the people of this once great city. Slowly but surely, the infrastructure eroded away, until finally it collapsed. We were forced into obscurity, like rats. I always said one day I would get out. But that day came and went. I had my chances. Family was too important. I stayed in the game.
“I hear you, Don,” I said, smiling. I liked giving my dad a hard time.
“Don't call me that.” He sighed, putting his cigar in the fireplace. I watched as the fire peeled away at the tobacco. His real name was Antonio, or Anthony, as he liked to be called. Anthony Luciotti.
“Alright, dad. I hear you. But why did you call me all the way back here? What's on your mind?” I asked him.
“I wanted to hear how that job is going. Has there been any leeway on that yet?” He was always careful enough to talk without mentioning too much. Truth was, he was turning into a very paranoid man. All with good reason, of course.
“It's, uh, going,” I lied. Ever since I met Dahlia, all progress had come to a standstill. I didn't think I'd be called back to the city so quick. I thought I h
ad a lot more time.
“But there's been setbacks? Explain this to me. Explain how you haven't found the man and delivered me his body. Is everyone in this family incompetent?” He slammed his fist on the arm of the chair, choosing to look away from me.
As for me, I couldn’t care less what he had to say for me. I was good at what I did and he knew it. Shit, I was the best in the business.
“My car died on me,” I said, staring right at him. I wanted to say, you want to fight me, old man? But I chose to bite my tongue and be a little more pragmatic.
“So what? You need a new car? I'll get you a new car. Just say the word.” He pulled out a wad of cash and threw it on the floor. It was a laughable display, pathetic in nature. He was grandstanding me, making sure I still knew who was boss. But deep down, I knew the tides were shifting. Soon, he would grow too old to lead. And then I would assume the “throne.” Well, it was either that or Ricky.
“It'll be fixed in two days. Besides, it's good that it happened. I've found a lead,” I said.
My father leaned forward in his chair, excited by the news. “A lead? Come on, let's hear it.”
“Carmelo. Born in Calabria. Moved to Detroit when he was just 12 years old.” I smiled and leaned back in my chair, waiting for his response.
“Hm. Carmelo? Doesn't ring a bell.” He groaned.
“That's because it's not his real name. At least, he never used to answer to that. He used to go by the name of Vinny the Butcher. Does that ring a bell for you, pops?”
A thin smile creased onto his weathered face. “So. You've found old Vincenzo, have you? Good. We’re getting closer. He’ll know some things if you can get to him in the right way. Better be careful. He was a maniac back in his heyday,” he said, pleased with me and the job I had done. That bought me at least an extra week.