Page 134 of Mob Princess

“You’re welcome. What do you need?”

She smiles at the question. She knows the punishment is over.

“Well, start by fucking me then?—”

She presses her lips together before her teeth appear and sink into the right corner of her bottom lip.

“Yes. I’ll give you what you need.”

I’m certain of what she was going to say. I wrap my leg around her bound leg, leaning forward to cup her breast that’s against the mattress. I draw my hips back before slamming into her. I pound my cock into her cunt over and over; her moans filling the room, only slightly muted by my periodic growls.

“Come, Lina.”

“Thank God.”

“Or just me.”

She giggles before she tenses.

“Sean!”

“Good God, you’re tight.”

I have to pull back before I come and can’t give her the other half she needs. I’m quick to get her leg untied while I rock my hips.

“Take your blindfold off.”

I shift her onto her back before I pick her up. She wraps herself around me like a koala as I climb onto the bed. I remain sitting as I hold her hips. I guide her to ride me, so she shifts to bend her legs to kneel. Our bodies press together as we kiss. It’s erotic and so intimate. We’re making love. I can tell the difference. The difference between this and fucking. It’s obvious, but we’ve done both before. I can also tell the difference between all my sexual encounters before Lina and what I share with her. I give her all my heart and probably most of my soul.

“Cailín, I love you.”

“I love you, too, nounours.”

“Will you always be mine?”

“Yes.”

I pray the next time I ask a question like that, I get the same answer.

It’s been a month since my kidnapping and Lina’s near double homicide. There really is no other way to describe it. She would have killed Justin if I hadn’t found her first. She’s had withdrawn moments, and I know she thinks about what happened with Lucy. We’ve talked about it, and she feels the same way as she did when she killed the men who attacked during her girls' weekend. She doesn’t regret or feel guilty about killing. She questions why she doesn’t. She worries about the ease with which she’s done it in two separate and different situations. I’ve told her what I can about my early days and how I feel when it happens now. It makes me examine myself and the monster I’ve become.

I said that once, and she lost her ever-loving mind. We were in the living room, and she jumped off the sofa, sprinted to the bedroom, and came out with a paddle with holes in it. Those hurt even more than a solid one. If she’d been strong enough to pull me onto my stomach like she tried—and she put all her weight into it—she would have spanked me long and hard. She threatened that if I ever said that about myself again, she’d wait until I was asleep, then take the paddle to my arse.

Letting her have that moment of control gave her a chance to show her protectiveness—even if she’s protecting me from myself—and it gave me a chance to submit and feel even more loved than I usually do. We understand each other.

But beyond our home, it’s been an ongoing source of frustration. Only two things have been satisfying as we deal with our enemies. I used my CI in Baltimore to get photos of Ewan going in and out of Ellie’s house. He got photos of them fucking all over the place in there. I sent them to her husband. I feel not a miniscule speck of remorse for her husband kicking her out.

She made her bed and laid in it—with Ewan all the fucking time—so she got what she deserved. Ellie’s husband was there the next time Ewan arrived because he planned to help Ellie move to Boston. The guy beat the shite out of Ewan, giving him a broken jaw and two cracked ribs.

That was nothing compared to what I did to Colt. I told Lina I needed to go to Boston, and she deduced what I was going to do. She didn’t explicitly ask, and I didn’t give her any clues. She knows how I feel about the way Colt treated her. Now he knows too to the tune of four broken ribs, a punctured lung, a busted kneecap, an elbow that will never let him hold a rifle again, and needing his own splenectomy.

I jumped him in the dark and worked him over on my own. There is no proof it was specifically me, but I branded a four-leaf clover right over his arsehole. He can keep taking it up the arse for the Irish—and by that, I mean my family. We are the Irish.

“Look, Donatelli’s would be a blow Salvatore would never recover from.” I’m at Dillan’s with the others. “That would send a message the universe would hear, but Mikey doesn’t deserve it.”

Mikey Donatelli has been Salvatore’s best friend since they were kids. He’s not Cosa Nostra, but he grew up surrounded by it. He owns a restaurant that’s like Salvatore’s second home. Mikey expanded it and even made a special family dining room just for the Mancinellis.

Everyone knows he’s sacrosanct but not just because he’s Salvatore’s friend. He’s an all-around great guy. He runs a food pantry on the weekends, even when he’s the busiest. He’ll hire homeless people to do odd jobs around the restaurant, and he gives high-school kids their first job, offering benefits to those who need them.

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