Page 64 of Married to the Mafia

Then, I take a shower. I leave the water running when I’m done. I come back out wrapped in a towel and find her still in position, still covered in my cum. I hold out a hand and lift her to her feet. “Now you can get clean,” I say, leading her through to the bathroom.

“Don’t I get to come?” she asks.

“When I say.”

I help her into the shower and take a cloth, wiping the last markings of me from her body. When I’m done, I shampoo her hair, taking my time watching the suds run down her tits to drip onto the floor at her feet.

I can’t wait any longer. I kneel in the shower and burymy face between her legs. I slide a finger into her and glide back and forth inside her soft interior. My tongue flicks over her clit in the same moment and I keep going like that until her moans get to the pitch I know so well by now.

I thrust a second finger into her, moving my other hand to her ass, rolling the plug around in there. Just as her orgasm is about to hit, I grip the plug by the base and thrust my fingers faster.

She comes a second later. I ease the plug from her and slide my fingers out, leaving her shaking on thin air, her hands on my shoulders to stop from falling over. “Oh, fuck,” she mutters, her body still quivering.

I stand up and kiss her, letting her taste herself on my lips. Then, when I’m done embracing her, which is not for a while, I take her out of the shower and get her dry. “Time for bed,” I say. “Long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

We’re in bed together in the dark not long after that. I think she’s asleep, but out of nowhere she asks, “How did you end up in the mafia?”

The dark makes the story easier to tell. “I never knew I was, not at first. My father was high up, but I didn’t know anything about it. Then we came on vacation to Rome when I was about eight and everyone was being so nice to us. I thought it was because they were just nice in Italy, but this is something else. We never had to pay for a thing. People shook our hands in the street.”

“Didn’t that feel weird?”

“I just thought it was what they did over here. Then we were in a restaurant by the Colosseum and we walked out when this guy pulled out a gun and shoved it in my father’s face, demanded his wallet. Dad never moved a muscle. Just looked up and said, “I’m Vinnie Gianni.”

“The guy turned white as a sheet. He might not haveknown my father’s face, but he knew his name all right. Started blabbing an apology, got down on his knees. Dad took the gun off him and gave it to me. Told me to shoot him.”

“Jesus, seriously?”

“Yep.”

“What did you do?”

“I shot him.” I don’t tell her about me crying, begging dad not to make me do it. Him whacking me over the head with the butt of the pistol, leaving a dent that’s still there today. The guy still sobbing on the floor and pleading for his life. I close my eyes and I still hear the shot. The thud of his body hitting the floor.

“He called me his good boy and when we got back to the hotel, he told me who he really was. Told me what being in the Gianni family meant. Up until then I had no idea, but I learned fast after that.

“There was this kid back in the States who’d been robbing protected stores. So I had to send out a message to let anyone else who wanted to try it know what would happen. Had to cut him up and leave the parts where they could be seen.”

“Oh, Dino.”

“That’s not the worst of it. I found out later he was robbing the stores because his mom was disabled and they had no money. With him cut up no one found her until after she’d starved to death. That was my fault.”

“It was your father’s fault.”

“He didn’t shoot the guy.”

“He told you to do it, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So how old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“So you were a child. He should have been taking care of you, not turning you into a hitman. What would have happened if you hadn’t shot him?”

“My father couldn’t let him live. He had to send out a message. He’d have kicked the shit out of me and then had one of his capos shoot him and cut him up.”

“So the kid would have died, anyway.”

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