Chapter 4: Domenico - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

The elevator rises through the darkened building, and I roll my shoulders against the weight of the suit I’ve worn since yesterday morning—since I stood in a church and claimed what my son threw away.

Leaving Kira wasn’t part of the plan, just like marrying her wasn’t. But Gio called just as she finished showering. I heard the bathroom glass door open as he told me he was on his way to check on tonight’s shipment.

One of my men picked up a rumor a few weeks back. Apparently, some low-level crew might try their luck with one of our shipments. So, I made Gio circle back and pick me up just in case the rumor turned out to have some truth to it.

I shouldn’t have bothered. Everything went as expected, and after spending hours waiting, we got the crates of Kalashnikov rifles and ammunition just as planned.

The elevator makes a ding as it opens directly into the penthouse, and I move through darkened rooms I know by heart. I don’t stop until I reach my bedroom where I find her curled on her side in the center of my bed—our bed now.

My cock hardens the second I notice what she’s wearing. See-through and sexy as fuck lace covers her upper body. Well, most of it. One breast is completely exposed where the black fabric has slipped from her shoulder.

The dress, or whatever she’s wearing, is twisted around her torso. There’s a clasp fastened beneath her other breast, and I’m fucking tempted to undo it. But instead of giving in and taking the offering clearly presented for me, I lower my gaze to where a black thong rides high on her hip.

Her full ass is on display and slightly pushed out from how she’s thrown one leg over the duvet. Her hair spreads across the pillow in dark waves, and her mouth is slightly open, her breathing soft and even.

She’s fucking stunning.

It pisses me off that I left her like this to go protect a shipment that was perfectly safe. If I ever find out who planted that rumor, I’ll kill them just for taking me away from Kira when she so clearly wants to play.

Kicking off my shoes, I climb into bed next to her. The movement dips the mattress, causing her to stir and her hand curls into a loose fist against the sheets. I reach out and let my palm skim down her bare arm. Her skin is cold and soft in a way that makes my fingers want to linger.

Kira startles awake with a gasp, sitting up so fast the lace falls completely open, and she scrambles to catch it, to pull the straps up, to cover herself with hands that shake.

I can’t help smirking as I watch her correct herself, especially as a flush climbs up her throat.

“Domenico,” she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips goes straight to my cock. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was waiting—”

I cut her off with a look. She swallows hard and goes quiet, her hands still working at the straps like she can somehow make herself less exposed.

“Did you wear that for me?”

The question hangs between us. She pushes her hair back with both hands, fingers catching in the tangles from sleep, and nods. Her hazel eyes are wide, the flecks of green and gold catching the thin light from the window.

“Use your words, Kira,” I demand.

“Yes,” she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Tell me why.”

Her flush deepens as she drops her gaze to the sheets, to the space between us where the duvet has pooled. I’m not a man who likes repeating himself, and if she’s brazen enough to wear something like this in my bed, she can answer a simple fucking question.

“Because…” She swallows audibly. “Because we’re married.”

I tilt my head. “That’s not an answer,” I say. “That’s a fact. Try again.”

Kira peeks up at me through her long, dark lashes, and I see the moment she realizes I’m not accepting her evasion. Her fingers twist in the lace at her hip.

She catches her trembling lower lip between her teeth. “I… um…”

“You, what?” I snap.

“Give me a second,” she shoots back. “I just woke up and I’m trying to explain.”

“Did you wear this because you want me to fuck you?” The words are blunt, designed to shock her into truth. “Is that why you stood in my bathroom and put on lace that leaves nothing hidden? Why you waited for me like an offering?”

Her eyes flick to my face, then away, then back. She’s trying to read me, trying to understand what answer I want, and that’s not what I’m asking for. I want her fucking honesty and not a performance.

“I…” She stops. Then starts again. “I want you to want me.”

That’s better, but still not enough. “And why is that?” I lean forward slightly. “Are you that eager to know what happens when I stop asking questions and start taking?”

She nods. It’s small, tentative, her chin dipping once before she seems to catch herself and stills. But she’s watching my mouth now. Her own lips have parted, and I can see the flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat where the black lace cuts across her skin.

I reach out and catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to meet my eyes.

“Words,” I remind her, my voice dropping lower. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” The word breaks from her, barely audible, her lips moving against my fingers. “I-I want you.”

Heat crawls beneath my collar, and my grip on her chin tightens before I catch myself. The admission costs her something. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, in the way she holds herself so still, like she’s waiting for me to pounce. And fuck, I want to.

I release her chin and let my hand trail down her throat, over the clasp of the babydoll, down to where the lace gapes open and her breasts are barely contained. She pulls in a sharp breath that hitches at the end as my thumb brushes the underside.

The sound is so close to a moan that my cock throbs against my zipper. “Strip for me,” I command.

The flush that had been receding floods back, deeper now, spreading down her chest. She looks at me with something like panic while processing the command.

“Now,” I add, my tone harsher. “Show me what you’re so eager to give me.”

There’s a fine tremor in her hands as she pushes herself up to her knees. Then she brings her fingers to the clasp of the black lace, her skin pale against the dark fabric, her breathing shallow enough that I can see the hesitation in every rise of her chest.

I watch the exact moment she pushes that hesitation down and squares her shoulders. “Okay,” she murmurs.

She releases the clasp, and the babydoll falls open, sliding from her shoulders in a whisper of sheer fabric that pools around her knees. Her movements are careful, as if she’s performing a task she can’t afford to mess up.

Then she sits back on her heels, her spine straight, her chin lifting slightly in a gesture that looks like defiance.

She’s bare except for the thong now. “Y-you can touch me,” she stammers, still not meeting my gaze.

I reach out and cup her breast in my palm, feeling the weight of it, the softness, the way her breath stops when I squeeze. I roll her nipple between my fingers, watching it harden, watching her lips part on a sound she doesn’t release.

“What do you like?” I ask.

She bites her bottom lip, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, and shrugs one shoulder—the movement small, defensive.

I frown as I move my hand to her throat, wrapping my fingers around the delicate flesh. “Use. Your. Fucking. Words,” I grind out, squeezing harder with each word. “I won’t keep reminding you, Kira.”

She flinches, her eyes flying wide to meet mine, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.

“Are you ready to talk?” I ask harshly.

At her nod, I let go of her throat and gesture for her to talk.

“I don’t know,” she rushes out as she rubs the skin on her throat. Frowning, I look for signs she’s lying to me, but there’s something genuine in the admission, something that makes my cock throb harder. “No one’s ever… I haven’t…”

“Has Paolo ever touched you?” The question is sharp, possessive even.

Her jaw tightens.

“I want specifics,” I demand as I circle her nipple. “Did my son ever touch your cunt with his fingers, his mouth, anything?”

She shakes her head, the movement jerky, her eyes glistening now with tears she hasn’t let fall. “No, he wasn’t interested in… that,” she whispers.

She stops, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. There’s more. I can feel it in the tension of her body, in the way she’s curling in on herself even as she kneels there exposed.

“Tell me,” I demand. “Everything. What he did, what he didn’t do. What he made you do.”

The tears spill over; I watch them silently track down her cheeks, watch her wipe them away with the back of her hand like she’s angry at herself for crying.

“He never kissed me like you did,” she says, and the words come out halting. “He, um, only gave me small pecks. He said kissing was for people who actually wanted each other, and he didn’t want to pretend.”

My hand stills on her breast. I force myself to keep touching her, to maintain the contact, because stopping would acknowledge how much this is affecting me.

“There was one time,” she continues, and her voice drops lower, ashamed. “He called me to his apartment and said I needed to see what he expected of me after we got married.”

“And what did he show you?” I ask, my voice filled with gravel.

“He told me to sit on the couch, and then he brought another woman into the living room. She was only wearing a robe that he tore from her body.”

My fingers flex against her breast before I deliberately loosen them. “And then what happened?” I ask, prompting her to continue.

Her eyes become hooded as she explains how Paolo made the woman suck him off while Kira watched, refusing to let her look away. All while telling her to study the woman’s techniques so Kira could learn to please him.

“He kissed her afterward,” she whispers. “And not just a peck, it was a real kiss. The kind he’d told me was only for people who wanted each other.”

It takes me a moment, but then I realize Kira isn’t as disgusted as her tone would lead me to believe. Her breathing has turned ragged, and her pupils are fully dilated. The black almost swallowing the hazel completely.

A slow breath leaves me through my nose at the revelation. Fuck. I slowly slide my hand between her spread thighs, pressing my thumb against the heat I can feel building there.

“And what did you learn?”

She shudders delicately. “I learned he liked gripping her hair so he could control the pace.”

“Mmm, what else?”

“The woman begged him to fuck her face, which made him groan and do just that.”

I press my hand against the wet fabric of her thong. “Did that turn you on when you saw it?”

Kira shakes her head. “No.”

“But you’re turned on now.”

Even though it’s not a question, she whispers, “Yes.”

“Did he ever make you come?” I rasp curiously.

She shakes her head, a small and quick movement.

“Has any man ever given you an orgasm?”

Another head shake.

“Use your words,” I snap, reminding her I expect her to answer me with her words.

“No,” she whispers.

“And have you ever touched yourself, Kira? Found your own pleasure in the dark when no one was watching?” I croon.

Her breath saws out of her in a defeated way, and her shoulders drop. “I’ve tried,” she admits in a small voice. “But, um, I’m not sure I did it right. Because I never really felt anything.”

She looks like she wishes she could disappear. The mortification on her face is real and raw—twenty-one years old and she’s never even given herself release, never known what her own body can do.

I must admit I’m extremely surprised this Catholic girl who works, or worked, at Saint Benedict’s has tried getting herself off. The thought is so hot my cock strains painfully against my zipper.

The weight of it lands on me all at once. Not only am I more than twice her age, I’m a man who’s done things that would make her pale, who’s taken pleasure in violence and control and the exercise of power.

And now she’s kneeling on my bed, bare and flushed and completely untouched—fucking perfect.

I press the hand between her legs firmer against her heat, my thumb circling her clit. She’s trembling now, and I don’t think it’s only due to nerves. She keeps her eyes down, her hair falling forward to hide her face like a curtain.

“Look at me,” I command.

She lifts her head. Her eyes are wet, her mascara slightly smudged, her lower lip swollen from where she’s bitten it. She looks so young—too young. And simultaneously like she’s holding herself together with nothing but will and the desperate need to survive.

“Do you want me to touch you?” I ask, my tone low. “Do you want my hands or mouth on your body? My cock inside you? Do you want to find out what it feels like when someone actually wants your pleasure?”

“Y-yes,” she admits so softly I almost miss it.

I roll her clit again, keeping my eyes on her face. Her breathing changes—quick, shallow gasps that tell me she’s feeling something she’s never felt before.

It takes everything in me to let go of her and move away. I don’t go far, only to the top of the bed so I can lean against the headboard. I crook my finger and beckon her closer.

“Remove your thong and come here.” I pat the space between my spread legs. “Sit here with your back to me.”

Kira obeys me immediately, awkwardly getting rid of her thong before maneuvering closer until she’s leaning against my chest.

“Show me how you’ve touched yourself,” I demand.

“What? Why?”

“Because I want to see.”

“But I thought you were going to touch me,” she whines.

Gathering her long hair, I move it behind her so it doesn’t hide her face or body. Then I wrap my hand around her throat. I don’t squeeze, just hold it there, loving the feel of her pulse fluttering.

“You said you couldn’t make yourself come,” I rasp, speaking each word slowly. “I want to see why.”