Page 34 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

I could hear Raimondo, hear him laughing. That hurt the most, knowing that what he’d done rendered our past a lie. If I’d left him alone with her for a moment, he would have done the unforgivable.

I could hear my mother, pleading with me, “Giacomo, don’t do this. Giacomo, you don’t have to be like him. Giacomo, come home.”

I was home. My mother was nowhere to be found, hiding halfway across the world, desperate to escape the life my father had forced us into and the life that I’d chosen to remain in.

When I awoke, Dahlia was downstairs cooking breakfast. The house hadn’t been stocked with much. She stood there, her thin brown legs jutting beneath a plain white t-shirt. I could tell she wasn’t wearing anything beneath that shirt.

Her breasts pointed out from the center of it, and she caught me staring at them.

“Oh, hey. I made coffee.”

“American or Italian style?”

She looked afraid for a moment before she muttered, “American.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m not going to hit you for making weak coffee.”

She smiled gently.

“Yeah, well, I’m used to living a certain way.”

“We don’t have time for much breakfast anyway. We need to go to the bank.”

“Right.”

We ate quickly. She slipped into a pair of jeans that made her ass look phenomenal and kept on that plain white t-shirt with no bra. She held on tight on the back of my bike, pressing her breasts into my back to ensure she didn’t go flying. Those warm, soft tits pressing up against my back made me hard as a rock the entire ride.

My body’s reaction to her couldn’t be helped. After our near-miss the other night and after watching her for so long, I couldn’t help but fantasize. Hell, she was the only woman around for miles and she wasn’t bad on the eyes either.

We twisted down the country roads, into the older part of Sicily that had been repaired and added onto but never quite changed from its ancient Italian style of architecture. The bank stood old, proud and classic. When we approached, I greeted them in Italian.

“So how’s this gonna work?”

“My name is on the safety deposit box.”

“Franco screwed up, didn’t he?” I chuckled.

She smirked.

“He never thought I’d leave him.”

“Technically you didn’t.”

“It’s a bit too soon for joking like that.”

I didn’t fight her down. We entered the bank and approached the teller. Dahlia appeared to know enough Italian to get by. She pulled her ID out of her back pocket and the woman squinted.

“Eh, a woman by that name has already cleared out the safety deposit box,” she said, in English.

Dahlia’s eyes widened.

“No, that’s impossible. I just got to Sicily yesterday.”

The teller’s face quickly turned into a surly scowl. I rested my hand on Dahlia’s shoulder.

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not alright!” She huffed, “I want to know who accessed that vault!”

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