Page 113 of Fratelli: Eternal Bloodlines

When he finally pulled back, and severed the intimacy swirling within the kiss, he stayed close, his breath warm against her lips. His eyes—dark, it smoldered with an emotion that ran deeper than lust—locked onto hers.

“Now? Does this feel like a lie? Like a curse? Some magic trick?” he asked.

Charmaine gasped beneath him. His pelvis pressed into hers with a slow grind that sent waves of pleasure radiated through her pussy. Her inner muscles quivered; her body buckled under the unbearable heat. Tristan straightened, pushed himself up on his arms. He pulled away from her tight embrace. Still deeply connected to her, he shifted to his knees, slid his arms beneath the crooks of her knees to lift her hips. With a firm grip, he controlled her movements, pulling her against him in a rhythm that built an intense, irresistible tension between them. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, and he watched as his bulging length slid between her swollen, glistening folds, each powerful thrust of his hips drew a shudder from them both. She was lost to him, to the pulse of desire that ravaged her from the inside out, but she needed the truth as much as he did.

“It’s real,” she whimpered, her voice reduced to a purr. “It’s real.”

Tristan’s gaze darkened with possessive satisfaction, and as if her surrender spurred him deeper, his hips began to move with a more relentless power drill. Her hips rocked back and forth with upward thrusts, her thighs trembled as his strokes became long and punishing, driving her closer to the edge.

“Say it again,” Tristan demanded, his voice thick with hunger. His cock pulsed inside her, his thrusts deep, stretching her wide. “Say it, Charmaine.”

“It’s real,” she gasped, her voice breathless, lost in the torrent of sensations overwhelming her. “It’s so real.”

With one last thrust, her body shattered, and the orgasm tore through her with violent intensity. She cried out his name, her voice raw, her entire body consumed by the fire that raged between them.

Tristan drank deeply from her. His cock pulsated inside her, both of them lost in the endless abyss of each other.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, filled with something deeper than desire. “Now and forever.”

Papa Legba steppedout of the bathroom; his cane tapped lightly against the floor with each calculated step. The deal was sealed. Darlene had made her choice, and now she was bound to her destiny. He had always known she would choose the road he laid out before her—mortals, even those with the blood of gods, couldn’t resist the promises of power, love, and revenge.

Now it was time to collect.

He moved through the room unnoticed. Dolly, sat on the sofa and indulged in room service and idly scrolled through her phone, with no awareness of the god in her midst. Even creatures of the supernatural realm could miss the presence of a new god, not birthed from the realm but from the single plane of the current universe. Forged in pain and suffering of those left behind, Papa Legba smirked; his eyes gleamed with amusement as he raised his cane.

With a single, deliberate motion, he cast his will over her, a power he took from Darlene.

Dolly inhaled the dark energy sharply, her nostrils flared as the invisible force she initially thought was her sister entered her lungs. Her phone slipped from her fingers. It clattered when it hit the floor. Her body went rigid, and then, as if lulled into a deep, irresistible slumber, she collapsed onto the sofa, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut like a doomed Sleeping Beauty.

Papa Legba could feel the fading pulse of her unconsciousness, the threads of fate winding tighter around her psychic power as she sank into the dreamless void of his making.

He moved toward the door, then through it. His cane tapped again and again. A subtle rhythm that echoed his name in the hall as he stepped into through the corridor. But then, something caught his attention—like the scent of storm-charged air before a downpour.

His brow lifted in amusement as he felt it: raw, sexual energy vibrated through the walls, emanating from two doors in the hall. One to the left, the other to the right. Vampires, guardians, fucking in his realm. Papa Legba let go a deep throaty laugh that filled the Sicilian walls of the palatial hotel. Sonya. Charmaine. The two women intertwined with their immortal lovers; their bodies locked in the primal, consuming rhythm of passion. The surrounding air shimmered with the power of it—supernatural, electric. It spilled from their private ecstasies.

Papa Legba loved the irony. Lust, love, and fate—they were all part of the same thread. He could use that against them. With a flick of his cane, he heightened the tension, the pleasure. Forcing the supernatural’s into a death mate, that would have their passion drain the life from each other. What did this world need with guardians when they had him?

Papa Legba strolled on into the darkness.

In one room, Tristan, lost in the deep pleasure of his lover, felt the tug first. His body slowed, his movements becoming sluggish as if he were caught in a web of sleep. His mind, already clouded by passion, slipped easily into the spell. His head fell against Charmaine’s shoulder, his breath heavy, his body collapsed on top of her, their intimacy unfinished. She barely had time to react before death brushed her lips and claimed her as well, her limbs went slack, her eyes closed in a dreamless surrender.

In the next room, Sonya was on the edge of climax, her body strained against Shakespeare, her breath ragged. His hands gripped her waist, his mouth at her neck, ready to drink from her again and again. But just as she felt herself tip into that final, glorious wave of release; she too felt the weight of Papa Legba’s will. Her body seized, a breathless gasp escaping her lips before she collapsed against Shakespeare’s chest.

Shakespeare, still caught in his own haze of pleasure, felt the pull a heartbeat later. His hands slipped from her skin; his eyes grew heavy as if dragged down by an invisible force. He cradled her limp body against his as he too succumbed to the god’s spell, falling into an impenetrable sleep.

All was as it should be. The lovers, entangled in each other’s arms, were now frozen in death, the inescapable void, suspended in the threads of time and fate.

Papa Legba smiled, a deep, satisfied smile. His laughter echoed again in the hall as his form began to shimmer, his edges dissolved into the shadows of the corridor. He twirled his cane once more, whistling a low, haunting tune as he strode out of his physical to his metaphysical existence. The sound of his steps faded until there was nothing left but the echo of his amusement.

His presence dissolved entirely, vanished into the ether, but the consequences of his bargain lingered—woven into the very fabric of their destiny.

Chapter 47

The Last Day Before Night

Vatican City - Syracuse

April 20, 2018

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