Page 29 of The Deadly Candies

Emilio reached across the table, his hand enveloping hers. She didn’t pull away. He closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. Clara’s gaze dropped to the medallion again, her mind drifting to the past—to stolen moments and whispered promises from Michaelo. Emilio was as close as she would ever get to that kind of love again, she told herself.

When he opened his eyes, she swore she saw Michaelo staring back at her. “Hungry?” he asked, his accent soft like Michaelos.

She smiled, breaking through her defenses. “I am always hungry.”

They ate in silence, the clink of silverware and the hum of the gas lamps the only sounds. Neither spoke, and neither needed to.

* * *

Emiliogently swung open the door to the charming room upstairs, a space evidently filled with memories and warmth from the Stewarts. The family had transformed the upper floor of the restaurant into four cozy bedrooms, and now, this delightful room was hers. As she stepped inside, her eyes danced around, taking in the nice furnishings; this must be the parents’ room, undoubtedly the largest and most inviting of them all.

Now she had a home for her boys. If they decided to come back to her. And they could have a place clean of cockroaches and rats—a real home.

With a soft click, the door closed and locked behind her. Don Emilio Cantanno stood there. He was certain she could hear the rhythm of his excitement in his fast-beating heart. For months, he had obsessed over her. He’d close his eyes, and she’d visit his dreams. His Black Madonna was Maria. Not only did they have the same physical body shape, but the fiery independence and self-confidence he missed in the woman from his family. She had died of TB. And the devastation was too much for him. He swore never to be in love with another woman again.

Then he opened his eyes, as death hovered above him, and there she was. The shock and relief in her care changed everything he knew about the new world. The moment he left the clinic, he had to find ways to return. But the unfinished business of killing Don Massera took precedence. Now he could give her the world, in secret, of course. He had meticulously planned the demise of her establishment and stripped away her independence. In his world, there could be only one boss. It was his wise advisor, Consigliere Giorgio, who had shared the secrets to making such a hot-tempered woman his. Gifts, the soft life, what else could compare?

Giorgio’s words rang true. He could see it in her gaze now; she was beginning to warm up to the irrevocable deal he presented.

“Take off your clothes,” he managed to say, his voice a mix of hope and anticipation.

Clara cast a gaze over her shoulder, her large, doe-like eyes blinking slowly, framed by dark lashes that needed no artifice. Her face was cherubic, soft, and radiant, and her skin was smooth as melted caramel poured over green apples in Coney Island under the sunlight. Her figure was a masterpiece of contrasts—her breasts full and proud, her hips wide and curved like the arches of a cathedral, and her waist slender, cinched as if sculpted by the hands of a divine artist. She was the embodiment of true femininity, a vision that stirred something deep and primal in him. Make no mistake, she was his Maria. The way she moved, the way her voice carried like a song—it was all there, as if Maria had been reborn in her. If not for the rich hue of her skin, he might have believed in reincarnation as Maria did.She had told him on her deathbed that she would find him in the New World, and he would know it was her.When Clara didn’t obey his command, he swallowed nervously. Just as Maria could not be told what to do, his Clara had the same spirit of defiance.

“Per favore,” he said, his voice traced with a vulnerability he rarely showed. “Take off your clothes, please.”

She turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she reached up to the back of her head, releasing the pins that held her hair in place. It tumbled down in a cascade of thick, crinkly, stiff curls, framing her face like a halo.

“Madonna Nera,” he mumbled, the word slipping out like a prayer.

The dress she wore fit loosely around the hips. It fastened at the side. Her fingers, the hands of a healer, unsnapped each with deliberate care, each pop echoed in the silence between them as she loosened the fabric. Emilio promised himself he'd have dresses made just for her, the best silks in New York.

Beneath, Clara wore a full slip that embraced her curves provocatively, highlighting every contour. Emilio's eyes devoured the sight of the unveiling, having undressed her many times in his mind, or during his frequent visits to her now closed restaurant. The dress peeled away layers like a gift. Clara revealed her thick thighs, the garters barely constrained. The panty seemed stretched and overwhelmed by her wide hips it had been reduced to a slender vee, barely concealing her shape and the supple enticement of her pussy. She slowly removed her bra, and when her breasts were finally liberated, Emilio was lost to a storm of passion. He lunged toward her, capturing her mouth with a ferocity that spoke of his unquenchable hunger.

"Slow down, Emilio. I need to taste you too," she murmured, trying to turn her face away, her hands pressed back against his chest. But his desire was relentless. He refused to yield. She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, urgency in her movements, before they tumbled onto the bed, the frame protested with loud squeaks.

“We break the bed, we fuck on the floor, no?” he laughed.

Clara pushed him off her, but he just came back. “I’ve waited too long to have you, Clara. I need you now.”

“You waited? This is waiting?” she asked, smiling at him as he groped her breast and flicked his tongue at her already sharpened nipples.

“You have no idea,” he grunted and paused for a breath. Then he ran down his zipper with one hand, yanking on her panties with the other. She put her hand between them and cupped her sex, her panties now stretched and halfway down her thick thighs. He pulled the panties off her and tossed them aside. Clara parted her legs so wide for him that her inner thigh muscles strained. Still, her hand barred the entrance. He panted like the big bad wolf. She had to giggle at his anxiousness.

“I’m yours, but you must make it good for me. Take your time,” she teased. “Like I did for you. Don’t fuck me to death.”

He looked down at her body and groaned. He was definitely one of those men who got his pleasure first and thought about the woman last. If he was to be the one to replace her “Sweet Ed” he would have to practice a little more on the sweet. She would teach him how.

Don Emilo, though reluctant, eased back, and Clara sat up on her elbows, legs spread for him. Emilio stared at her body, red-faced, panting with an erection she didn’t expect once freed from his zipper. He was younger than her, closer to her brother’s age than her own, but he was all man. Michaelo was in his late thirties when she was seventeen and in love with him.

The young Don stood and began to lower his suspenders. He was bottomless, he removed his unbuttoned shirt as well. The man was beautiful, body perfectly carved by Michelangelo, except for the cuts and the healed scar on his chest from her handiwork. He touched his chest, noticing how she started it.

“Where I was touched by an angel,” he said.

The comment stilled her. Before, when he called her Black Angel and Black Madonna, she thought it was just a pet name for her. But the look of worship in his eyes alarmed her. He truly saw her as some Goddess or deity. Why? How could he believe so hard in her when she struggled to believe in herself for so long?

She’d only had two lovers in her life. Michaelo and Sweet Ed. Both had penises she admired, but nothing compared to what was before her. Emilo’s penis was angrily aimed at her, Emilio’s penis was so long and thick it curved. There was no way her body could accommodate all of him.

“You were made for me,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “My dick is long because you are wide, your pussy is deep, I know. I have done it before with?—”

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