by Jane Henry
She nods, reaching her hand out to my shoulder and kneading the muscles there.
“My God, you’re so strong.”
I smile. “Someone to make you feel safe,” I tell her. “Who won’t let anyone hurt you.”
The little voice in my head that warns me not to make these promises is long gone, my need to claim her, hold her, make her mine drowning all else out.
I can’t deny how badly we need this, both of us. But I won’t give in so quickly. I don’t want her to think I’m just another douche who wants to get in her pants.
“Dinner,” I tell her, sliding her off my lap and giving her a parting kiss.
“Dinner,” she breathes, as if in a trance. She sighs.
I take her by the hand and lead her to the kitchen.
“Hey, this is a nice place here,” she says.
“Thanks. I like it.”
“I swear you’ve got the most beautiful view of Boston in every room.”
She’s right. The wharf out the balcony, and the cobblestoned streets of the city from the kitchen.
“I like it. It’s the one city that reminds me of home,” I say.
“It does, doesn’t it?” she says softly. “The streets remind me of Italy, too.”
She looks out the window. A few kids play in the streets, tossing a ball to one another. A large delivery truck ambles slowly by, hindered by the narrowed streets and pedestrians, the side bearing the words Francesco’s Pastries.
“It’s where my heart is.”
“I get that.” I take out some butter and onions, and place a frying pan on the stove. “I feel the same.”
“Sometimes, you just know,” she says. She doesn’t look at me, but keeps her eyes trained on the busyness of the street below our window. “Where you belong. Where you’re going. Who you’re,” she pauses. “—well, things like that.”
“Yeah, cara,” I agree. “Sometimes you do.”
She turns to me and puts her hands on her hips. “Would you believe I haven’t had a proper gelato since I came here, not one.”
I shake my head as if it’s a travesty. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “Dead serious. I used to eat gelato every night in August in Calabria. My friends and I would go to this little place. They served every flavor you could imagine.”
She talks with her hands like her family, waving her pretty fingers in the air while her eyes light up. “And those hot, humid nights were filled with so much joy and happiness. I didn’t care about money or shoes or designer handbags, my grades or what my father was up to. All I cared about was eating my gelato quick enough so it didn’t melt.”
I chop up an onion, listening to her. I like that she’s opening up to me, telling me the little things that are on her mind and heart.
“You miss being home. I do, too.”
“What do you miss?” she asks.
I don’t have to think about my response.
“My brothers. My mother. Family.”
She leans her bottom gently against the edge of the table and nods at me. “It means a lot to you guys, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
She swallows. “The family.”
“Mia, it’s everything. It’s my whole damn life.”
I slide diced onion from the cutting board into the melted butter and it sizzles.
“I admire that, you know.”
“Mmm? What?”
“Your dedication to each other. How loyal you are.”
I nod. “It’s at the very heart of what we do.”
She tells me stories of her adventures as a crime lord’s daughter, the stories both funny and poignant. How she learned her ABC’s with a tutor because her father was too scared to put her in school. And how she begged and pleaded until he let her go, because all she wanted was a lunchbox and a new pencil case.
“I had more made men by my side than little girls,” she says. “And I’m sorry, Enzo. I think I had prejudices about you before I even met you. Because of them.”
“I get it.”
“Hey, will you teach me how to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make the onions all brown like that? How to cook what you’re making?”
“Of course,” I tell her. “Come here.”
She eyes the wooden spoon in my hand. “Something tells me it’s not wise coming near you when you’re wielding a wooden spoon.”
I grin at her. “As long as you’re a good little girl, you don’t have to fear my wooden spoon.”
She bites her lip. “Well, what’s the fun in that?”
I swat her little butt with the spoon and yank her over to me. She squeals as I position her in front of the stove. I stand behind her, place the spoon in her hand, and point to the stove.
“Make sure it isn’t smoking,” I tell her. Just bubbling and hot.”
She stirs the onions in the pan, smiling to herself. “I was never allowed to do anything in the kitchen.”
It doesn’t surprise me. Locked away from danger and anything that smacked of servant’s work.
I lean in, closer, my voice at her ear. “I think it’s smart for you to learn your way around the kitchen,” I tell her. “Skills that help anyone to have.”
I can tell by the way she’s swaying and her breathing’s heavier that she’s turned on. Hell, I don’t think either of us have stopped being turned on since we met.
“Stir,” I tell her, showing her how to move the spoon and prevent the onions from burning. When they’re nice and brown, we put the ravioli in for just a few minutes, then top with a fistful of fresh basil.
“This looks amazing,” she says. I fix us plates while she pours us tall glasses of lemonade, then we sit at the table and eat, talking of Calabria.
“Why’d you come to America, then?” I ask her. “If you love Calabria so much?’
She shrugs and looks out the window. “I needed to get away from it all.” She gives me a sheepish look. “No offense, but...well, men like you. Breathing down my neck all day.” She bites her lip. “Not that I mind your breath on my neck.”
And then she’s on my lap, straddling me, and I’m kissing her. Her lips are sweet with the taste of lemonade, her hot ass pressed to my cock. I run my hands over her thin top and feel the tight buds of her nipples straight through the fabric.
“Christ,” I groan, the need to fill her so intense I can hardly think past it.
My hands go to the hem of her skirt, lifting it, when I hear the door in the other room open.
Jesus.
Chapter 9
Mia
I purr as I feel sir’s strong fingers inching my skirt indecently up my thighs. This is fucking hot. I love the way he handles me. I've never felt so protected as I do right now, with his tall, strong body behind me, his hands holding me, baring me…
“Enzo…”
Enzo backs away from me like I just flared up to a thousand degrees, spins and greets the man with a choked voice that sounds guilty even to me.
“What the hell are you doing here? Who invited you?”
Emilio is dark haired and dark eyed, with features that scream Italian. He’s younger than Enzo, and stockier. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white t-shirt. He has an unlit cigarette between two fingers, and a smirk on his face which grows the longer he looks from Enzo to me, and back again.
“Hi,” Emilio says. “So. What's up?”
“Dinner,” Enzo says. “And I’m changing my fucking locks.”
“Hi,” I smile. "I'm Mia.”
“Hi, Mia,” Emilio says. “I’m Emilio.”
Somehow, this is topping the Davo interactions for sheer awkwardness.
They’re being weird. Very weird. Emilio looks at me like he knows me, says my name as if it is familiar. It doesn’t take an algebra class to put X and Y together and work out that this Emilio must be another one of my father’s men. How many are here, watching me? Is anybody in this world actually real?
“You givin’ cooki
ng lessons now, professor?” Emilio’s smile widens, but doesn't reach his eyes. The tension in the room is palpable, enough to make me nervous.
“Emilio was just leaving," Enzo says.
“I was?”
“You were,” Enzo repeats. There’s a further conversation between them, but it all happens wordlessly, in glances and quirked brows and shaken heads. It only lasts a couple of seconds, but more was said between them that way than was said out loud, that’s certain.
“Well, shit," Emilio says. “Guess I’ll see you round. Nice to, uh, meet you, Mia.”
Emilio leaves, and Enzo sits down at the table heavily, his head in his hands.
“Fucking Christ…” he groans the words.
"What's wrong?”
He lifts his head to look at me. “We can’t do this, Mia. I’m here to protect you. I'm not supposed to be interfering in your life like this. I’m not supposed to be…”
"What do you mean, you can't do this?”
“I mean this," he says, gesturing around at me, the food, the apartment. “I cannot do this. If your father found out…”
“So we're both doing things we're not supposed to. So what?" I shrug. He looks so worried. There’s lines on his face that aren’t from age, but from worrying. I’ve seen the same lines on my father's face. They get carved in deeper than wrinkles, the price men in the family pay. Never ever being able to relax. Never being able to enjoy something simple, like a good meal, or a good fuck — not that I know what that is.
“Emilio's not stupid, and he’s fiercely loyal. If he reports back to your father, I’ll have a bullet in my gut before the end of business today, and you’ll be unprotected.”
“I’m not actually in danger. If I was, there’s no way I would have been allowed to come here," I say. "So don't worry about that. As for Emilio, take care of him.”
He gives me a look like I just said something fucked up.
“I’m not saying whack the guy,” I exclaim. “But, you know, take care of him.”
“You don't know what you’re saying, Mia,” Enzo growls. “And I know you’ve heard your father speak that way over the years, but there’s consequences to taking care of people, the way you mean, so stop playing mob boss.”
Now I’m insulted. This man actually thinks I’m a silly little girl playing games. Suddenly, all of this seems like mockery.
“So that’s it? One moment you’re hot for me, the next, we're stopping because of my father? I’m getting cock blocked by my own dad?”
“Don’t speak like that, Mia. It's beneath you,” Enzo says.
He can’t help but be patronizing. It's built into his DNA. I've known men like him all my life. They stake their loyalty to the concept of family and they’ll die for it. If my father told him to cut his hand off, he would. I guess there's some nobility to that, but frankly, I’m tired of men who make themselves my father's lackey, especially when they try to drag me back into the fifteenth century with them. Everything was hot and sexy and yummy as hell before that Emilio guy walked in. Now it's like Enzo never found me attractive at all. The mood has been more than killed, it's been whacked, cut up into little pieces, and dumped in the harbor.
I'm pissed.
"So this was never about me, was it? What am I? Just some trophy fuck? You toy with me until you get scared of my father and then it's just we can't do this?" I’m trying not to sound pissed, but I’m pissed. I’ve already made a lot of concessions for Enzo. I let him seduce me into spanking me. I fucking called him sir when he told me to. And for what? So I can be put on hold like a two-dollar hooker?
I’m angry. I'm humiliated. But Enzo doesn’t see or care about that. He’s too busy worrying about my father.
“I tell you what,” I say, my voice rising in pitch. “You don't want me? Fine. Why don’t you get on a plane and suck my father's dick instead. He’s the one you give a fuck about.”
“Enough, Mia.”
Enzo says those two words with a soft intensity which makes me pause — for all of a second.
“You need to relax," I tell him. “I’ll get Davo to bring…”
“You will not!” He emphasizes the word with his clenched fist slamming against the table, making the cutlery dance. “Mia, no matter what does, or does not happen between us, I forbid you from having any contact with that junkie.”
“He's not a junkie. Junkies use drugs, not sell them. And by the way, Enzo," I say, using his name like a slur. “You don’t own me. And you don't get to tell me how to live my life. If you want to be my father's lap dog, that's your call. But I’m going to be free.”
I grab my bag and I leave, slamming the door behind me on the way. It makes the most satisfying sound as the walls resonate.
There are tears in my eyes all the way home. I'd never let him see them, but I’m hurt. I was going to give him my virginity. And then what would have happened the second one of my father’s other lackeys got suspicious? He would have dumped me.
I half expect Enzo to follow me. I want him to show me he cares, that he'll put me first, but I get to my apartment and I'm still alone. And I go to bed, crying myself to sleep, completely alone. I pull the covers up over my head, knowing he's probably watching, but doing nothing, because when it really gets down to it, none of this has ever been about me. I’m a trophy. I’m a toy. I’m something to be proud of and to be possessed, but nobody actually gives a fuck if I am happy or not.
I thought, for a minute, Enzo might be different. I thought he wanted to take care of the smaller me inside me, the parts I never get to show anyone. But he saw them, and he rejected me anyway. I’m fucking crushed.
I wake up a new woman. I remind myself that I’ve been in love — no, lust with my professor for like, one day. The campus is full of super hot guys, and there's no reason to limit myself to a man who already has a love in his life: my father.
I get up. I wash my face, and I put my makeup on like war paint. Usually I try to go light during the day, but today I need to hide behind something, and it may as well be a fierce contour and sick brows.
I have criminology today. I don't know if I’m going to go. Skipping the class is easier than sitting there being tortured for an hour.
I check my phone before I leave the apartment. Enzo hasn't tried to make contact with me. I guess he doesn't need to. He can just sit back like the creeper he is and watch everything unfold.
I decide to go to class after all. He's not going to chase me away from my classes. It's hard, walking into the room with him standing there, seeing the admiring expressions on the faces of the other girls. They remind me of that bitch I met last night. The one who wanted him for herself. There’s no shortage of women who want Enzo. He’ll have replaced me by the end of the day, I'm sure.
When I get to class, Enzo barely acknowledges my presence. Point for me, for actually staying. He acts as though everything is normal, greeting the class, going about teaching his lesson on the foundations of the criminal justice system. I've already read the chapter. A lot of these freshman classes seem to be covered if you just read the course book. I'm thinking I'm going to be skipping a lot in the future. Maybe I'll take up day drinking like some of the other freshmen.
“Any questions?”
I wasn't paying attention to anything he was talking about, but I put my hand up. He ignores me at first, picks someone else to call on, but eventually he can’t keep obviously ignoring me. It's starting to draw attention from the rest of the class, and that will not do.
He nods at me, and I strike.
“Professor, what's the legal consequence for impersonation? Like, if someone was impersonating, I don’t know, a competent professor?”
He gives me a harsh glare. “That’s not relevant to our current learning objectives, Miss Russo. If you'd like to stay after class, you can ask me any questions you might have then.”
Ha. After class, where he can seduce me and punish me for my sauce? I don’t think so.
Then why does a sliver
of hope blossom in my chest?
“Oh. Okay,” I respond, channeling my frustration into my tone. “Because I was wondering too, what the prison terms are like for organized crime. You know, I heard those organized criminals like to infiltrate legitimate operations and…"
“Yeah!” A guy in back pipes up. “Like, some people say half of Boston is run by the mafia.”
“Right,” I agree. “I heard that too. I heard that mafia are everywhere. Like, I don't know. Rats.”
“As I’ve said, that’s not on topic," Enzo says, trying to keep his expression composed. I know I've pissed him off. There’s a muscle in his jaw that usually only tics when Davo is around. Calling him out on being a mafia plant in front of the whole class apparently really pisses him off.
Good.
“I think the guy who sells pizza outside campus is mafia,” someone else says. "The pizza is terrible, but he drives a BMW M5.”
“Let’s get back on track,” Enzo says, giving me a glare that I’m sure is meant to school me, when all it really does is make my thighs clench together, Goddammit. "The foundations of justice are based on the notion that…"
I tune out again, smirking to myself. I can't make him want me, but I can make him regret toying with me. And maybe I can make him take me seriously. What stings most about last night was that he made it clear he thinks I'm just playing at being part of the family. He thinks he's the big man because he’s in some kind of debt to my father. I was born mafia. It runs in my veins. Just because I don't want anything to do with it, doesn't mean I want to be treated like a silly girl.
When class is over, I leave with the main herd. He’s tied up with half a dozen adoring coeds who will all pretend not to understand basic sentences just to be able to speak to him. They're so pathetic.
I was pathetic too, yesterday. A lot can change in a day.
“Mia!”
I look over my shoulder to see him walking down the hall toward me. He must have blown off half the class to come after me this quickly. I must have really pissed him off.
I walk quicker. He gets nothing from me. He deserves nothing from me. I get all the way out of the building and around a quiet corner before he catches up with me.