Page 26 of Cruel Tyrant

Except I keep thinking about dinner, and the way Stefania wanted to do something nice for me. She’s not the kind of girl who cooks for her husband, which makes me appreciate the effort even more. But she’s also not the spoiled mafia princess I thought she might be at first—she doesn’t spend much money and has barely asked for anything. Most days she spends in her library reading, exploring the neighborhood while always tailed by my guards, and going out with my mother and Elena. Laura still hasn’t warmed up to her but that will come in time.

We park and head inside. Father goes in first and there are already half a dozen Bianco men milling around the place. They all try to look busy now that the Don’s present.

“Worse than I thought,” Dad says and we survey the wreckage in silence. The main warehouse floor is covered in broken boxes and smashed crates, the entire place ransacked and destroyed, though it isn’t unsalvageable. They could’ve burned it all or blown the entire warehouse to splinters. Instead it looks like someone came through and made a mess, but stopped short of actually destroying everything.

“Who would do something this stupid?” Simon asks.

Dad looks back at me. “How many men have you killed lately?”

“Four, all of them connected to the ships, and all of them employed by Uncle Luciano.”

“Stop calling him that,” Dad murmurs, his eyes narrowed. “Four men dead, and this is his response? He breaks into our warehouse and makes a mess?”

“He stole a small shipment of rifles,” Simon says but he looks as mystified as I feel. Dad’s got a point—four dead men deserve a bigger reaction, but it’s like Santoro wants to avoid a war as much as we do while simultaneously trying to provoke us into a fight. If he wants blood, he’s getting blood.

“There’s something more to this,” Dad says as he begins to roll up his sleeves. “We’re going to clean up the place, and while we’re at it, we’d better figure out what the fuck Santoro wants.”

I exchange a look with Simon, but he just shrugs. That’s the sort of shit my father’s all about. The Don shouldn’t sit behind his desk getting fat and soft while his men do all the fighting and all the work. He believes in leading from the front—meaning when there’s a mess, he dives in and starts helping out.

And his sons are all expected to do their part.

* * *

I get home late. The house is dark and I make my way upstairs by feel. I don’t want to turn on lights and wake Stefania—that’s the problem with an open floorplan. You can’t sneak a damn thing.

But I don’t need to be worried. When I reach the bed and sit down to start undressing, I feel her stir behind me. I shrug off my jacket and unbutton my shirt, and I hear her coming closer, until I feel her fingers on my shoulders.

“Everything okay?” she asks as she slowly kneads my tired muscles.

Fuck, she has no clue how much I need this right now. I spent the last three hours shifting heavy crates and sweeping up glass; every inch of me is sore and beyond exhausted.

“Just a mess we had to clean up.” I roll my neck and close my eyes. “That feels good.”

“You’re tense.” She pauses and I feel something warm on my neck. It’s her lips. “I was worried.”

“Since when did you worry about me, dolcezza?” It’s a strange feeling, knowing that someone gives a shit about me. I know my family would care if I got hurt, but that’s different than having a wife back home wondering what I’m up to when I’m out working in the middle of the night.

“Since I got stuck with you.” She continues rubbing my shoulders, but now she’s moving down my arms. “And since you left me all alone, I was thinking about you, too. I couldn’t sleep.”

“What were you thinking, baby?” Blood hums through my core. I should be too bone-tired for this but I’m very awake now. The image of her lying in my bed, her legs spread, touching herself while mewling my name like a lost little kitten drives my heart into a frenzy.

“About your fingers in my mouth. And something else.” She whispers like she’s afraid of what she’s saying. I can almost feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. She’s so easily embarrassed for a woman who grew up in the mafia, and I love that about her. There’s a strange innocence left in her, and I think about how she was setting up her own life before I came in and dragged her away from it. She doesn’t belong with a man like me. A man with hungers.

But she drapes her arms around my neck, her hands against my chest, and she kisses the corner of my jaw.

“Tell me more,” I command as I lift up my hips and tug my jeans off. I’m stone hard and I grip myself through my boxer briefs. I know she can see what I’m doing as I slowly release my cock and grip the base.

“I thought about the way you fucked me,” she whispers in my ear, peppering my neck with kisses. “I liked it when you bent me over and took me from behind like you couldn’t wait another second. You were so hard and you felt so good inside of me. I felt like you were going to rip me in half.”

I stroke myself nice and slow. “Did you like that, baby? Did you want me to break you?”

“Yes,” she says, and it comes out as a strangled moan.

“Why?”

“Because it felt good.”

I stroke myself faster. “You like it when I take what I want, don’t you? You like it when I glide my cock between your lips and make you thank me for it.”

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