Page 27 of Scar

I watch as my mother walks to the window and watches him converse with his brothers. Someone says something and he throws his head back and laughs. He laughs with all his energy, expending a happiness I’ve probably never seen in him before.

“There’s something different about you,” she whispers, without turning around. I remain silent as I look down at my father in his bed.

“He hasn’t made any movements?” I ask her. I need the reassurance that my father is going to be okay. Instead, she ignores my question and asks one of her own.

“Does he treat you right?” she asks.

“He does,” I tell her.

“He’s a very handsome devil,” she muses, and I smile to myself.

“That, he is.”

She finally turns around and fixes inquisitive eyes on me.

“Scar Gatti isn’t a man known for his friendliness. The fact that he’s able to stand on his enemy’s lawn and laugh over a joke…that’s priceless.”

CHAPTER 25 – SCAR

In our world, alliances are forged, not born from love. Relationships aren’t built on feelings but on necessity and strategy. They’re created, designed to strengthen power, secure territory, or maintain peace between rival families. Men in our world don’t fall in love; they make calculated decisions about whom to marry.

This is the harsh reality of our lives. The harsh reality of my life, of the life my brothers will lead. They will all follow the same trajectory. No-one marries for love. The marriages we enter are unions of convenience, established to benefit both parties, to fortify our positions within the hierarchy of the mafia. Love is a luxury we can’t afford, a vulnerability that can be exploited.

My jaw tightens, gaze steely. I know that the closest a man in our world will come to love is often through his mistress. She’s the one who got away, the one he could never fully claim because she wasn’t deemed suitable by the rigid disciplines of our world. She’s the woman who stirs something deep within him, a yearning for what he can’t have. Or she’s the one who lingers on the fringes of his life, never quite fitting the image of a mafia wife. The thought of me taking a mistress churns my stomach. Especially now.

Men like me, we find fleeting solace in the arms of these women, but it’s never enough. The mistress represents theforbidden, the unattainable. She’s a ghost haunting our dreams, a reminder of the passion we’ve sacrificed for power and duty.

But even the mistress is bound by the same rules. She’s a shadow, never allowed to step into the light of legitimacy. And so, love remains a distant, elusive fantasy, a whisper in the dark, never fully recognized.

In our world, we play by these rules because we have to. We marry for alliances, for convenience, for the survival of our families.

I’m bound by duty but conflicted by desire, and suddenly I feel like I want something different with Allegra. I don’t want to be shackled with the predictions of what my life should look like, of what it will be. In the past, mafia men have married for convenience not only to strengthen their ties, but also to stay strong in the face of adversity. If you married for love, your wife became just as much a target as you did. And if you lost a wife you loved, game over. The risk was just too great. To the game. To the structure of the organization. And to your sanity.

I’m finding it hard to stay away from her. And whenever she’s not next to me, I find myself stealing moments just to be with her.

I climb the stairs to her room and find her sitting by the bay window, reading. She sets down her book and looks at me expectantly. She hasn’t lost any of her fire, but now she’ll only show me the defiant side of her when she has a point to make.

“When are you going to move into my room, Allegra?” I ask her.

She swings her legs over the side of the bench seat and comes towards me, winding her arms around my neck.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she coos, before sealing her lips to mine. She can be just as demanding as I am. She can also be just as savage. She pushes me toward the bed and climbs on top of me, winding my tie around her hand as she lifts my head to meet my lips.

She’s a temptress when she wants to be. She’s soft and smooth at other times. But when she wants something, she’s downright brutal.

“Do we have time to fuck?” she asks. I smirk in response. We don’t have time, but I’ll make time, even if it’s only for a quickie. I have a meeting in ten minutes, but there’s no way I’d pass up the chance to bury my cock deep inside her warmth.

I push her off me and rise, then pull her legs to the edge of the bed and flip her skirt up. I unbutton my pants and let them drop to my feet. I pull her thong to the side and without warning, push a finger into her.

“Always ready and waiting for me.”

I’m hard as a rock as I look down at her exposed pussy. I remove my finger and replace it with my cock, a drop of precum beading at the tip. I push inside her with one heavy thrust, then start to move even before she’s ready. I lean forward, lowering my head to her breasts, and suck on one, then the other. I bite a nipple and wait for her yelp, before I lap at it with my tongue until she emits a groan and arches her back.

I pump harder, hitting her walls savagely as she meets every thrust with a tilt of her sexy hips. Her moans have me groaning out my release as I pump once, twice, then the third time, a final home run until I spill my seed inside her. I’m in her only seconds before I remove my cock and bend down between her legs, lapping hungrily at our combined juices. She pants, her head thrashing crazily from side to side as she bites down on her hand to stop from screaming. I want her screams. Even knowing there’s a house full of help. Even though my brothersare waiting downstairs. I don’t care. I want her pain, and I want her pleasure. I wants to hear what I do to her; how crazy I make her feel.

I grab her hands and lock them together at her stomach as I continue to lick at her pussy until she ignites, her golden liquid coating my face, and she moans and screams my name, over and over and over again. There’s no doubting who she belongs to now.

Her voice carries on the air through the room, its intensity sending a surge of electricity down my back. Ownership. Now everyone knows I own her. And I understand the one person who should know this most of all is me. I now understand that in taking her, in staking my claim on her, she will be mine forever. Exactly the way I want her to be. She’s my wife, and even though our marriage started out so wrong with me taking her against her will, this is where I want to be, right here with her, between her shaky legs. I want to try to find love and meaning with her, even in a world that denies it. I want all these things, and I want them only with her.

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