Mob Daddies: A Contemporary Romance Box Sex

by Alexa Hart

  “Fel, I don’t know how it even came out of my mouth. I just – you don’t understand how infuriating he was! He made me feel so stupid – “

  “You were there to insinuate that he’s a criminal, Abs. Even you couldn’t make that conversation go sweetly.” Felicity popped a piece of gum into her mouth and appeared to be recovering from her initial incredulous state.

  “But he didn’t have to be so – so – demeaning. Talking to me like I was a child and explaining how fucking soap operas work. Soap operas, Fel!” I threw a couch pillow across my living room, barely missing my one and only living houseplant.

  Felicity raised her eyebrows and looked at me hard. “Did you think demanding information about his dead wife would make things better?”

  I shot her my most murderous look and she giggled. I wondered how long it would be before I could do the same.

  Three weeks passed and I realized that the world didn’t give two shits about my conversation with Marcello Morano. Gia had bounced into class on the following Monday morning full of hugs and tales of her trick-or-treating panther adventures. The relief I felt at knowing nothing had changed between her and I was almost enough to alleviate my mind entirely.

  Almost.

  There were many reasons why I couldn’t seem to fully let go of the encounter. One of them was obvious and strolled into my classroom five days a week with a smile as bright as the sun. I still worried about Gia, and even though I knew I’d made an ass of myself when I confronted Mr. Morano, it ceaselessly bothered me that I hadn’t really answered any of my own questions in that visit. They lingered and twisted around in my brain with unnatural adamancy.

  Who was Marcello? Who was he, really? Maybe Gia’s drawing had in no way been related to his “career”, but did I really believe that all of those rumors – countless and relentless as they were – were based on nothing? And what normal parent never came to their child’s school – ever? Parent teacher conferences had been the previous week, and though I did not expect him to show, I was truly surprised that not even Marta came in his stead.

  I had attempted to look up his office of law, and it appeared to simply not exist. Not on Google and not even in the old school yellow pages book that was still inexplicably dropped outside of my apartment every year. If Mr. Marcello Morano practiced law, he sure did it stealthily. That’s if I believed he was a lawyer to begin with.

  I didn’t.

  Possibly worse than the ongoing mystery was the relentless craving that had been born inside of me that night. I wanted him. I didn’t just want to see him or talk to him or be on good terms with him... I wanted him. I wanted charcoal eyes looking down at me every night, scourging me and savagely demanding everything I had to give. I wanted that smile and those godly-endowed lips on every inch of my skin. I wanted to run my fingers over his tattoo, memorizing it like holy braille, worshiping it like my own personal cross. I wanted that glowering brow pressed against my own, seizing all that I was in bloodthirsty passion, and returning it mercilessly with his own essence over, and over, and over...

  He had instantaneously become my “pleasure idol”. Felicity had made up that ridiculous term when we were young; and once, after college, I had begged her to stop using it. She had raised one wicked eyebrow and then asked me if I was turning into a masturbator-hater. Not wanting that phrase to catch on, I had never complained about it again. And really, Felicity wasn’t the one who even needed a pleasure idol. She more often than not had a flesh and bone source of pleasure lying next to her at night, and therefore our conversations about masturbator-haters and pleasure idols were few and far between.

  Just being alone with my thoughts and the image of Marcello had served me in a much hotter – and much more frequent – way than any of the live, human prospects in my direct reality. I’d lost interest in dating. No one held a candle to Marcello and his flaming intensity. It was as though in one encounter he’d made the entire male species useless to me. Which should have made me hate him more.

  It hadn’t.

  I busied myself with making plans for the holidays. I purchased a roundtrip ticket to fly home on Thanksgiving Day – a much needed escape. At school there were endless construction paper turkeys to be made, fall leaf collections to gather; and the general mood amongst students and teachers alike seemed to be growing merrier. The holidays were coming to save us all.

  Felicity had ventured only once during coffee time to make me admit how badly I had “the hots” for Mr. Morano. I had denied it so vehemently and with such disgust that she didn’t ask again. She no longer needed to ask, because my response had spelled it out for her in bold caps. I had protested too much, too well. She knew. And I knew she knew.

  It was irrelevant. Autumn was giving way to winter, and I hoped my need for Marcello would die like everything else in nature had the good sense to do.

  One day. I only had to make it one more day, and the first break of the season would be real. I was desperately hoping that by the time I returned from my parents’ home – complete with festivities and familiar faces and all of the comforts that only “home” could provide – I would be much more myself again. Marcello was still heavily laced through my thoughts, but he was becoming hazier. The entire thing was starting to feel like a dream, and I welcomed the fogginess.

  Out the door went my students (Gia’s hug only caused a slight ache as opposed to the rather painful stab it had generally created since my meeting with her father), and I looked purposefully at the oversized calendar above my desk.

  Just. One. More. Day.

  I was packed up and ready to leave when Felicity came bursting through my door with a sort of mischievous wildness on her face. “Abby!”

  “Felicity?” I returned – tired, clueless, and a bit out of sorts for any type of playfulness with Miss Howard.

  “There’s a secret file. There’s a secret file on him, Abs.” Felicity’s eyes were glowing and she seemed about two seconds away from jumping up and down.

  “A file... On Mr. Morano...? What do you mean? Why is it secret?” I couldn’t put all of the information together properly – or maybe I just didn’t want to.

  Felicity snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Quit with the bullshit, Abs. Yes. Marcello Morano. The hot mobster you’ve been obsessing over ever since you barged into his home last month like some kind of half-crazed crusader. Him. Sanders has a file on him that is apparently top secret, locked away, kept separate from the regular student files. Charlotte told me Bonaparte is the only one with keys to that drawer, and it’s protocol for her to leave the keys in Sanders’ office over holidays. Meaning, tomorrow, when the Hag leaves, the keys aren’t going with her.”

  I turned the information over slowly in my brain. Obsessing? Had I been obsessing? I hadn’t said two words about Marcello in weeks. How did Felicity know... Who are you trying to kid? I hadn’t been myself. I knew this. It was quite probable that my best friend had also noticed. And now there might be a way to answer some of those burning questions. Maybe the answers would make them go away. Maybe the answers would make him go away.

  “But Principal Sanders’ office will be locked too,” I queried, realizing I very much wanted that goddamn file.

  Felicity grinned. “Let’s just say that Sanders’ and Charlotte have a bit of a “special” relationship going on. She’s been given access to more than one door that she’s not supposed to open.” Fel winked.

  My eyes widened. Charlotte was the school nurse, and she was very much married – as was Principal Sanders. And they certainly weren’t married to each other. “Whoa,” I breathed. You really do learn something new every day.

  “Tomorrow. After early release. She’s dropping her keys by my classroom before she leaves, and then all we have to do is wait for that old battle-axe Bonaparte to close up the office. Then we’re in. You’ll get your answers. And maybe I’ll get Abby back.” Felicity lowered her eyes at the last part.

  “Fel – " Had I really been so diffe
rent?

  She raised a hand and waved me off. “It’s normal, Abs. You meet someone, you lose your mind – that's the way it’s supposed to be. Those are the ones that are worth it.” She paused. “My best friend has questions, and we are going to get the answers.”

  I smiled at her, appreciative and more than mildly emotional. “Thanks, Felicity. Really.”

  “Tomorrow. Wear your best spy gear.”

  She was out the door and I was alone.

  Tomorrow.

  Sleep was completely out of the question that night. As if Marcello hadn’t interfered enough with my nightly routine. Now I didn’t even begin to lie and assure myself that I would fall asleep soon. Not tonight. It wasn’t going to happen.

  There are worse things than lying here and thinking about Marcello Morano. This made me smile and relax a little until an entirely different thought presented itself.

  What if Marcello doesn’t think about me at all?

  I hadn’t felt this much like a schoolgirl in a very long time. Memories of sneaking out my bedroom window to meet friends after curfew, trying that first cigarette that had made me cough until I nearly vomited, and the general devious youthful mischief (that had long been replaced by a sensible adult version of myself), came flooding over me with a pleasant nostalgia.

  Felicity had easily unlocked the main office (we all had that key) and was now struggling to find the proper key on Charlotte’s overloaded ring to grant us entrance into Principal Sanders’ office. Whatever the full range of access Charlotte had been given was, it was considerable. “Boom!” Felicity whispered, with a triumphant click and turn of the doorknob. There should have been no reason to be so quiet and careful – not a soul was left in the giant brick building. Regardless, we were in a ridiculous state of stealth that I found amusing, if not impressive.

  Felicity knew exactly where she was going and what she was looking for. Within seconds, the proper filing cabinet drawer was open and she was holding a simple manila folder out to me with dancing, bright eyes. “It’s all yours.”

  I took it with shaking hands and wasted no time perusing it with trembling fingers. There were the regular documents – Gia's vaccine record and filled out registration forms. A pink allergy-alert page was present with boldened letters stating: Gia Marie Morano – extreme peanut allergy. I noted this, passing it to the next page, which immediately startled me.

  A very official document, detailing an agreement between Mr. Marcello Andrea Morano and the establishment of one Winston Elementary Private School. I speed scanned, not realizing I had stopped breathing. “...requests all rights to legal privacy with utmost propriety concerning stationed, armed protection at all times, regardless of established school policy, and the absolute freedom from interference of school authorities, in the best interest of Miss Gia Marie Morano, in the entirety of Miss Morano’s continued presence for educational purposes at Winston Elementary Private School. Any breach of proposed agreement will result in the immediate and lawful return of funds granted to Winston Elementary Private School by Mr. Morano and prosecution in a court of law, with due consequence, for contractual violation.”

  The paper was signed at the bottom by Marcello Morano, Father, Private Attorney-at-Law and Jacob Sanders, Principal and Acting Official for Winston Elementary Private School.

  I silently handed the paper to Felicity as I scanned the next page. It was a copy of a receipt on top followed on the bottom by a corresponding copy of a check made out to Winston for five million dollars, signed by Marcello Morano.

  Five. Million. Dollars.

  A drink had seemed very much necessary after our discovery. Felicity and I sat across from each other at the upscale pub we frequented on weekends (and the occasional weeknight after an especially grueling day). She sipped calmly at her rum and coke as I stirred my vodka tonic. We were both unusually silent.

  “Guess you can’t say he doesn’t care about Gia’s safety anymore,” Fel stated the obvious, and I looked up, cringing inwardly and outwardly alike.

  “But what is he protecting her from?” I asked numbly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so completely foolish. Perhaps this was a new personal record. Marcello may very well be or have been involved in something dangerous, but he was in no way taking any chance of Gia’s safety being affected by it. And he was, apparently, speaking the truth when he told me he was a lawyer. That document certainly hadn’t been drawn up by any random individual.

  Feeling sick already, I pulled out my phone and went straight for Google. I carefully, slowly typed Celia Morano into the search bar and purposefully entered the query. The very first result was an article from the city paper, dated four years back: “Four Injured, One Dead in Three Car Collision”.

  I didn’t want to read it, but I had to. Within seconds I was granted the black and white information that Celia Morano had died in a tragic, yet very unremarkable, car crash. Not shot in the street, not taken down by mafia warlords; not anything except for a young mother who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Nausea bubbled up in my throat as Felicity scanned the article herself. He’d lost his wife to a car accident. He’d lost Celia in one of those common, horrific incidents that happened every day, everywhere – leaving countless mourners to grieve and young fathers to raise their motherless children alone.

  Self-disgust flooded me, and I downed my drink despising myself deeply.

  Chapter 4

  Standing at the Morano’s front door for the second time, it occurred to me that I had, perhaps, completely lost my mind. I had suffered through the night and most of this day in rampant, self-imposed perdition and had finally come to the frantic decision that I must seek penance from Marcello or I would never be at peace again.

  It would have to happen quickly though. Tomorrow was the holiday, and my flight was scheduled for 7 a.m. I didn’t particularly feel like showing up – again – as an uninvited evening guest from hell at the Morano household; but I knew I would obsess over this the entire time I was home. I wouldn’t be myself, and my parents would notice immediately. Then would come the questions, and the thought of attempting to answer (or avoid answering) them was overwhelming in and of itself. This had to be done, and it had to be done tonight.

  Marta will open the door soon. You can sit in the exact same seat. Just say your piece – apologize – and then it’s over. You can leave. You can –

  The door opened, but Marta was not the one waiting to greet me.

  Marcello himself answered the door. Any alarm he had felt at my coming had been carefully replaced with his usual cool demeanor. I wondered for a brief moment what his face might have looked like had the intercom and gate not thoroughly prepared him to see me on those steps. His composure was flawless, as was his fitted black turtleneck sweater and stylish gray pants. His eyes twinkled just the way I remembered, and staring into them, I momentarily forgot to speak.

  “Miss Greene,” he said after an abnormally long pause had settled between us. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

  I listened intently for any hint of sarcasm or sneer in those words, but he seemed to actually mean what he had said. He motioned me inside, and I stepped meekly past him, getting an incredibly intoxicating waif of his cologne as I went. I felt slightly light-headed and was more than ready to collapse into the safety of that chair that was just around the corner.

  However, Marcello did not invite me in further, nor lead me to the sitting room. I heard voices, laughter, glasses clinking, and smelled fine food emanating from somewhere deep in the recesses of the house. Oh my god.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Morano. I feel I am intruding on your evening. I did not think – I just thought tomorrow was the holiday and tonight would be... I am so sorry.” I met his gaze with humiliated eyes and was sure that this was how I died.

  Abigail Greene, victim to one count of lethal embarrassment.

  Marcello was smiling with quiet amusement, the same as he had that first night, and he he
ld up a hand. “It’s quite fine, Miss Greene. And I do wish you would call me Marcello.” He was standing so close to me that I felt surely one of us must move back a few steps to restore the balance of normal personal space, but neither of us moved. “My friends and family tend to overdo the holiday celebrations. The festivities always begin early and end late.” He gestured back to wherever the voices were coming from.

  “Oh,” I replied, feeling dumb and lost and silly, once again.

  “Come, Miss Greene. I can surely spare some time for whatever has brought you here on this beautiful evening. It must be of grave importance,” he added with a friendly grin. His good humor was throwing me a bit off and I attempted a small smile back, still somewhat dazed. His eyes were their regular skylights of intensity, but seemed to now be mixed with something else. Excitement?

  Hunger?

  “It will only take a few minutes, I promise, Mr. Morano.” I ventured to regain my calm and purpose, and if not those, at least my dignity. I was a grown woman, Gia’s teacher, and the same individual who had dared to question his love for his daughter just a month ago. While I might have a fiery secret obsession for him hiding in the blissful recesses of my mind, that in no way had any bearing on the reason I was here tonight.

  “Marcello,” he chided gently, and placed a hand softly to my back. “Right this way.”

  I was guided like a porcelain doll down the hall and to a room which resembled a public library. I thought my back might actually be on fire by the time we got there (something else certainly was) and glided toward a leather couch embossed with gold accents and claw feet. He motioned for me to sit, and I obeyed like a well-trained pet.