Mob Daddies: A Contemporary Romance Box Sex

by Alexa Hart

  I nodded again. “I understand, Mr. Rossi.” My voice shook.

  “Stefano, Abigail. Stefano.” Now he smiled what seemed almost an actual smile again, and squeezed the hand on my shoulder. “I look forward to what I know will be a grand relationship with you, Abigail. Perhaps I will gain another daughter. God knows I'd love more grandchildren.” And just like that he did seem completely like a normal grandfather wistfully wishing for sweet things aloud.

  “Perhaps,” I returned with all of the good spirit I could muster.

  “Until we meet again, my girl,” he nearly sang as he let himself out the door.

  This time I closed the door and fell to my knees, letting the tears flow freely into the otherwise silent night. Marcello’s tattoo flashed through my mind, and I hastily grabbed my phone, typing it into the translator as best as I could remember.

  Sangue, fuoco e morte prima del tradimento.

  I waited the split second it took to get my translation and read in a shaking whisper, “Blood, fire and death before betrayal.” A fresh tear meandered down my cheek.

  Things are different now, Abby.

  Marcello finally called slightly after eleven. I had been lying in bed, awake but lost in a fog.

  “Abby, I’m so sorry. I would have called earlier if I could – I swear to you. Abby? You’re okay, aren’t you?” I hadn’t ever heard Marcello, the king of cool, quite so flustered before. I was tired, and felt very removed from my current reality. His voice seemed dreamlike. Distant.

  “I’m fine. Sleepy, but fine,” I answered, feeling a hysterical giggle on the verge of escaping. Of course, I’m fine. Your father came to visit me, and basically laid out the rules of being a part of HIS family. I’m pretty sure he killed Charlie, by the way. Or had him killed. He probably doesn’t have to do that stuff himself, does he? Unless he wants to. Maybe sometimes he wants to. He’s a scary son of a bitch, Marcello. How do you love that man?

  “Abby, something’s come up. I have to leave for awhile – a week, maybe two. Business. Out of the country. I have to leave tonight, Abby,” Marcello spoke with speed and regret.

  “Rossi is sending you away?” I asked calmly, not really needing an answer.

  I heard a sigh. “Yes, Abby. I’m sorry. It’s urgent – “

  I bet it is.

  “It’s your job, Marcello. It’s fine,” I interrupted him, feeling blank and cold.

  “It isn’t fine, Abby. I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can, I promise you,” he was increasingly troubled, I could tell. He wanted me to say something – to let him know it really was okay, that I would still be here, that I still needed him.

  “I’m sure you will. Gia’s Christmas play is in two weeks. You should try to make it. It’s gonna be cute as hell.” I heard my words and felt no connection to them. Marcello didn’t speak. I felt numb. Lifeless.

  I disconnected the call and went to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Marcello

  I didn’t know if I would make it. Seven o’clock loomed over my mind like a psychotic death cloud, and I had already barked at Harrison far more than he deserved to “pick up the pace”. It wasn’t his fault that airports and traffic and cities were hell. But aside from Gia, I had one other piece of heaven left for myself in this world, and I refused to lose her.

  Just the sight of Winston’s ancient brick façade was enough to make me nearly jump from the car and run the rest of the way. There had been this godforsaken pit in my gut for two weeks straight, and I felt I was borderline close to going completely mad.

  Abby.

  Harrison dropped me at the outer auditorium door, and I felt all eyes turn on me. Parents. Parents who had probably been speaking (inaccurately) of my private life freely with their uptight, asshole friends for the last two years. They were some of the city’s wealthiest individuals. I hated them all.

  I grabbed a pamphlet from the small table at the door, as the heavily Botox-pumped face of the woman who was supposed to be handing them out had frozen at the sight of me. Or maybe that was just how her face always looked now. “Thank you,” I said, nodding and wasting no time making my way into the seating area. Most of the floor chairs were taken at this point (6:57), and it didn’t matter anyway. The side bleachers,which looked to have been precariously thrown together for crowd-overflow last minute by blind carnies, had what I wanted – a much better view.

  Only a few other parents seemed to have opted for these less comfortable seats, but that also suited me just fine. Stay the fuck away from me.

  There weren’t any children on the stage yet, but a lot of work must have gone into the backdrop and set. It was glittering like a Disney On Ice performance, and looked grand enough for the magnificent Mannheim Steamroller Orchestra’s accompaniment. I wondered briefly if Abby’s tiny hands had hung those decorations or arranged the props.

  Her tiny little hands...

  I realized I was smiling and tried to immediately wipe it from my face. It would do no good to start looking approachable and then have to actually talk to one of these jerks. I just had to sit here, wait, and hold my shit together when I finally did see her. I couldn’t exactly just go down there and grab her and carry her out of the auditorium.

  I also needed to see my daughter – and needed her to see me – completely present and here for her grand performance. Gia had a small understanding of why her dad wasn’t usually in the crowd, but it still broke my heart knowing there had to be a part of her fragile little mind that was hurt by it.

  6:59.

  I saw Abby appear from backstage and walk with her usual, adorable timidity to the center. There was nothing adorable about her dress, however. It was sexy as fuck. Apparently, the Winston dress code did not apply to holiday plays, because Abby was shimmering in a simple (but mind-numbingly tight) red slip dress. The smooth skin of her bare arms and the inviting hint of soft thighs peeking out from her skirt was enough to stop my breath. Her breasts, tastefully covered, still rose ever so slightly with their plump flesh above the low neckline of her dress. Mine.

  A simple gold chain with what appeared to be a tiny diamond was delicately gracing her neck, and I had a momentary surge of insane jealousy wondering who had given it to her. She had curled her hair, which was something new for me. It always hung in smooth, swaying blonde locks that were begging to be grabbed. Tonight, it had playful, inviting little coils that bounced and swung as she walked, almost daring the world to try and catch them.

  I heard a low whistle from some asshole a few bleachers up from me. I turned to him and caught his eye, wanting nothing more than to strangle him with my bare hands right here, right now. He nervously straightened his tie and looked away. Motherfucker, I will end you. I took deep breaths, reminding myself that a physical altercation on the very first visit to my daughter’s school would probably not go far to help my reputation.

  Abby was speaking now, nervously holding a microphone and blushing slightly at the moment of complete and total attention.

  All eyes on you, Beautiful.

  “...and the kids have worked really hard to give you this presentation tonight. Now without further ado, I – “

  Her voice cut completely off when she saw me. I worried for a moment she might faint, or at least drop the microphone. She looked on the verge of tears for a split second, then I saw the slow beginning of that smile – that smile that drove me absolutely insane – but she replaced it, purposefully, with a hard, cold stare.

  Then she looked away.

  “And without further ado! I give you Winston Elementary’s first grade presentation of ‘A Christmas Star’.” She gracefully exited the stage amongst polite applause and did not look up at me as she did so.

  My mind was an instant train wreck. Hurt. She was hurt. I had hurt her – after promising I never would. She had those walls back up. Hell, she might have even built some new ones. More than ever I fought the urge to spring from my seat and run to her – find her – explain – show her she was everyth
ing to me –

  I know she still wants me too. She’s still mine.

  The room had gone hazy. I wasn’t quite understanding the plot of the play. Children running, dancing around the stage in sparkly star costumes – sometimes singing, then speaking. Something about a new star joining them on Christmas Day. It seemed a bit complicated for the first grade. But this was Winston. Frosty the Snowman was not an option.

  My Gia finally appeared, glittering and grinning from ear to ear. She was the new star, and she sang a sweet little song about joining her star family on Christmas Day. Her little head bopped around and her arms threw theatrical motions while she performed. I felt a sudden lump in my throat that nearly overtook me.

  Had I done her an extreme disservice in avoiding Winston? If it meant missing moments like this... I might have been protecting her in one way, but I was permanently scarring her in another. These exact moments – they were meant for adoring parents’ eyes. No one could look at my little girl and feel what I felt. She deserved to have someone looking at her that way tonight.

  By the end of the play I was a mess of inner turmoil. These goddamn haphazard little star creatures jumping around and singing had me questioning my entire life. I felt ridiculous and emotional and very much hated Winston’s brick walls for boxing me into this foggy, heart-wrenching turbulence.

  Abby appeared at last, to congratulate the children (all of whom stared at her with genuine adoration and gleeful smiles) and to thank the parents for coming. It probably was apparent to no one else, but I sensed the tension that accompanied her voice and movements this time, as opposed to her introductory speech a mere half hour ago. I had troubled her greatly.

  I only want to make you happy, Abby.

  And then children were bursting out of every possible entry and exit to the auditorium. The noise level was instantly deafening, and I waited for little Gia to appear, searching for Marta as always, before I made my way down to surprise her.

  “DADDY!” Her scream brought nearly every set of eyes within a five-mile radius straight to us. But it didn’t matter. She ran to me and leapt up. I held her hard and close, feeling that urge to cry return, and refusing to give in to it.

  If the parents had learned anything about me tonight, it was that at the very least, my daughter loved me. Perhaps I wasn’t the complete piece of shit they had eagerly assumed I was.

  Marta gave me her most approving grin and hugged me fiercely, as she had since I was a small child. I walked them both out to where Harrison was waiting calmly at the curb, door open, ready to get us the hell out of there.

  Gia climbed into the backseat, dutifully buckling her belt and spreading glitter like rain across the leather seats. Harrison was going to have a lot of fun cleaning this one up. She looked at me expectantly. “You’re not coming with us, daddy?”

  I cupped her little chin and smiled. “I’ll be coming right after you, okay? Let Marta get you into bed and I’ll be there for story-time. Deal?” She nodded, visibly relieved and giddy from the night’s excitement.

  The car pulled off into a long line of impatient parents and luxury vehicles, and I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths of the frigid night air.

  Abby.

  I knew Winston as well as I knew my own home. I walked down the sidewalk that wrapped around the back of the school, not giving another look to any straggling parents who still stood speculating the details of my very existence. It was colder when I rounded the corner. Nothing was breaking the wind and it felt like a sharp slap to the face.

  You might get one of those anyway, Marcello.

  The door that led down a long ancient hall to the backstage of the auditorium was locked, but it didn’t matter. I slipped the master key in swiftly and closed the ancient steel beast behind me as quietly as possible, relocking it for good measure. A few faint voices still carried from the auditorium, but it was quite clear that the crowd was gone and the show was most definitely over.

  I hadn’t been sure that she’d be back here, and even less sure that she’d be alone; but there she was, bent over, holding a stack of giant cellophane stars bigger than her own body and attempting to slide them on top of a low-lying shelf with a bit of struggle. Precious, luscious inches of her thighs presented themselves proudly from beneath her now disheveled dress. She bent further, letting out a small grunt like a tiny animal and giving the stack a final shove. I caught a very brief glimpse of black lace panties and suddenly it didn’t seem to matter if she smacked me or punched me. I needed her. She was mine.

  “Abby.”

  She whirled around, extremely startled and sweating a bit from her efforts. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the instant attempt to wall themselves against me. It wasn’t going to work. I started walking towards her.

  “Marcello. You can’t just – you can’t – ”

  I put my hands in her hair and pulled her to me, my mouth instantly on hers, commanding her lips and tongue with my own in a near violent kiss. She might as well have tried to resist breathing air. I felt her body loosen and automatically begin to respond heatedly to my ambush with more than consent. Passion. She needed me too. Her fingers were twisting into my hair, tightening and pulling. She was angry, which only made me want her more.

  She pulled back abruptly, escaping my arms with her surprise retreat. Her blue eyes blazed at me hatefully. “You left. You just left. You can’t just leave and come back and fuck me whenever you want to! You can’t just do that, Marcello!” Her voice echoed off the high ceilings and cement walls, and her disgust drilled straight into my body, burning and writhing around like broken glass.

  But she was tearing up. I could see one emotion overtaking the other like a tidal wave and I pulled her back to me forcefully, staring directly into her glassy – still angry – she's so angry – eyes. “I’m sorry, Abby. I need you.” Again I pressed my mouth to hers, knowing instantly she had fully given in this time, and trying to show her just how I felt with my lips, my hands, my body. I pulled her dress straps down, greedily finding her breasts and pulling, squeezing, twisting with commanding hands.

  And just like that, animalistic need had taken over all else. She was ripping off my overcoat, yanking apart my shirt while buttons flew and scattered on the cement floor angrily. Her nails were dragging down my back with hatred and desire, tearing into my skin viciously and awakening a far more sadistic beast.

  I flipped her away from me, bending her over the stack of stars she had been working so dutifully on only minutes before. I had shoved her dress up, yanked the lace panties to the side, and rammed my aching cock deep inside of her before either of us could really process the shift in mood. She let out a tiny scream as I reached further into her dripping slit than I ever had before. The scream turned to a low, pleasured moan as I attacked again, and again, and again, driving myself into her small little body with a crazed possessiveness. Her breasts hit ruthlessly against the stars with every thrust, and the raw, wild combination of it all only increased my feral rage. I pulled her defiant curls into a solid mane and tightly held her head under my command while surging with increasing speed and growing insanity. She was meeting each assault with her own angry hunger, pressing her body against mine with lustful rage.

  I felt her body begin to quiver and shake uncontrollably and a sweet “Ooooh,” as she came, convulsing with pleasure and gripping the stars now. I didn’t let her relax at all as I began to come myself, thrusting violently into her throbbing body with relentless force. Knowing there might still be an audience in the building, I had intended to explode as quietly as a man could explode; but this may have been the loudest roar Abby had managed to rip from me yet. It echoed off the walls and made a convincing case for rabid animals being present in the building.

  The relief, the sheer fucking relief from reuniting with Abby and owning her once again – knowing she wanted to be owned as savagely as I needed to possess her – had a drunken effect on my mind. I pulled out slowly, trying to be gentle, in direct contrast to the
apparent fucking that had just taken place.

  Hate fucking. I think that was hate fucking.

  But I loved her, and I knew it. I pulled her up slowly from where she had collapsed on the stack, still bent over, my come making sweet tendrils down her thighs. I turned her around delicately and our eyes met. We were both still shaking, panting, recovering from the fucking war our bodies had just made.

  Abby straightened her dress and collapsed in a nearby folding chair. I had zipped up and likewise fell onto the seat beside her.

  “Come over for Christmas. Please?” I searched her face, though she didn’t look at me.

  She was staring at the floor, dazed and messy and beautiful. “Okay,” she said blankly, still not looking at me.

  It was getting to me, her unwillingness to meet my gaze. I put a hand to her cheek and turned her face to mine. “You have to forgive me, Abby. You just have to.”

  “I know,” she murmured, staring dreamily back at me. I cupped her face, pulling it to mine; and kissed her tenderly, softly smoothing her hair against her back.

  I paused, pulling back a little and peeking down at her. “I think you broke my shirt.” I gestured at the unbuttoned cotton hanging lifelessly open against my chest. She giggled, in spite of herself, and retained a soft smile. I knew then that it was going to be okay.

  We sat in silence for a moment before I spoke, calmly, but with a dark sincerity that even I found alarming. “You’re still mine. You’re mine.”

  She looked at me then, no longer smiling, but with an open, earnest wide-eyed serenity. “I know.”

  Chapter 11

  “You’re going to Marcello’s. On Christmas Day,” Felicity repeated the information I had just given her, raising her eyebrows in that disapproving way that I was starting to expect from her.

  “Yes,” I replied levelly, sipping my coffee and refusing to feel guilty. I felt I was getting better at this – sharing only what seemed acceptable, keeping things like the hate fucking behind the auditorium (which had left me walking funny for at least two days) deliciously to myself.