Italian King by Zoe Beth Geller
Dante
As much as it goes against my code, I can’t help but wonder if I will want an heir at some point in my life. Targeting wives and children used to be considered off-limits but that has changed and it’s not something to be taken lightly, to put someone in that kind of danger. For my generation, having kids outside of marriage is growing in popularity, but I still think any kind of family is a responsibility and a liability. I vowed to never have a wife or child and seeing as how I’m the leader of our familigia, it’s been quietly accepted.
Much has changed over the years, and at times, I think maybe it is a blessing that Babbo didn’t survive the massive heart attack that killed him two years ago. I love him, but I know he couldn’t leave the past behind and keep up with changing times. Change is hard for anyone, but mostly men of his stature and background who like to do business with a handshake or over a glass of scotch and a cigar.
I could sense his frustration with the younger generation. They tried their best to work for him, but the young kids were the bane of his existence. There was a dangerous disconnect that was frustrating for all parties concerned. Ultimately, I viewed this as a liability to the organization and leadership saw it as a managerial weakness. For most of us, our underlings are mediocre at best. Like every business, good help is hard to find.
Babbo didn’t grow up with privilege and wealth. Grandpa had plenty of money but lived conservatively. Always prepared for turf wars, strikes at ports, and whatever other nonsense came under the loose term of ‘doing business’, he kept the organization going as the landscape around him changed.
Lean times hit during the war with the Contis, but the worst part was that it spilled onto the streets and resulted in hits on the sons of both families. After both the Contis and the Michelis lost a son to hits, both families agreed that things needed to deescalate.
But it was too late. Soon, our faces were forever on the news, making our names synonymous with violence, drugs, and other despicable things like human trafficking that I, to this day, refuse to be a part of.
Babbo took over years later, and when he died, no foul play was suspected in his heart attack, but I beefed up security anyway. Once an enemy, always an enemy.
Growing up, I remember he adamantly refused to take aspirin for a headache. He never went to the doctor, preferring Grandma’s homemade chicken soup over any pill.
No one knew he had heart issues, and no one could have guessed how sick he was until he dropped to the ground. But I knew Babbo and knew he would have preferred it to be quick rather than being a burden or lingering on, knowing that the end was coming.
Quick deaths in our world are the norm because that’s how it goes. A deal goes sideways, someone gets cocky, attitudes are out of control, and shit happens.
I finish my beer, leaving the empty bottle under the lounger, and make my way inside carrying my leather dress shoes. Alessia rang at the security gate and is now driving up in her Italian made Spider, red of course.
I open the door to see her walking up and looking stunning in an evening dress. She’s dressed to go out dancing more so than staying home to fuck, but I’m not complaining. It’s close to seven and I’m hungry and horny.
“Hey.” I kiss her on one cheek then the other as her jasmine perfume floats in, announcing her presence before she steps into the Carrara marble foyer.
Alessia is a beautiful woman with high cheekbones, fair complexion, blue eyes, and honey-colored hair. I’m sure my mother would be thrilled if we married as she comes from an old Florentine family.
In my world, status is based on money first followed second by the fact that we are all Florentine, born and raised in families that have lived in Florence for generations. We have our own dialect and traditions here that set us apart from other Italian families.
“How are you?” Sliding her thin arms around my neck, the pressure makes its way through my shirt. I can’t say I mind the feel of her smooth skin on my neck. My lips descend on hers in a passionate kiss. It’s instinctive in nature, part of the crude and ruthless code of being a single, dangerous man.
“Fine.” I break away and murmur against her, “Hungry?”
“Hmm, only for you,” she purrs, surrendering her lips to me again. I play with her pale pink luscious lips, and if I liked catnip, I’d be enthralled. Alas, I’m not, but I can play the game, tugging and releasing to create a pace for our sexual desires as I feel her melt under me.
With one arm wrapped around her back, I pull her hips into mine so hard her fake boobs jiggle as if they’re real, and I feel naughty as I press my hard cock against her stomach. She has no idea what I’m capable of and I will keep it that way. Someday, she’ll be someone’s wife. A nice man who comes home on a schedule and she’ll have one child and never work.
“Dante,” she murmurs against my ear, and her soft breath passes like a light breeze, light enough to excite me even more.
My cock is like a racehorse, anxious to get us out of the starting gate and wanting to take a long, hard ride. I wrap my other arm around her so she can feel my hardness pulsating against her pussy. She knows I’m ready for her, and that I’m not very patient with things I know are mine.
“Upstairs,” I command, releasing her and pointing in the general direction. She dutifully turns and her Gucci heels make a soft tat sound on the marble steps as she makes her way to the second floor.
I follow her at a distance, so I can take in the sway of her hips as she walks saucily up the winding staircase and dances her fingers along the wrought iron handrail as she makes her way up the steps she knows well, probably too well. I really need to cut her loose, but I keep her around as she’s my only link to a normal world, affection, and sex.
I pull off my shirt and loosen my belt, taking two steps at a time as she peers over her left shoulder to see where I am. Seeing me behind her, she takes the steps faster, giggling and trying to stay ahead of me. I capture her at the top of the stairs, and she squeals as I swing her through the air and set her on the landing. We race to my room, and when we reach the doorway, I scoop her up and toss her on the bed. “Lose the panties.”
Alessia flashes me a saucy grin and pulls up her dress to show me she’s not wearing any panties at all, then flicks off her heels. They sail through the air before making a thunk on the floor.
The house was modernized years ago, and we have air conditioning units that cool individual rooms, but tonight, the summer air is cool enough for my shutters to be open and sweet-smelling wisteria fills the room, invited in on the silent breeze. Yet one more reason to live at the top of the mountain.
I drop my pants and boxers and crawl towards her. My cock is hard, enough of these childish games, enough foreplay, my needs are basic, and I need immediate stress relief. And she knows it.
She places one hand on my chest as her other hand grabs my pulsating cock and tugs as I let out a quiet moan. She slides her hands across the ripples of muscles in my shoulders and biceps like she’s never felt them before.
I insert two fingers into her and roughly move them back and forth, making sure she’s ready before I pull them out and enter her, taking her hard and fast.
She gasps, and the look of surprise on her face is priceless as she moves with me, clinging to my torso as I’m on the edge of ripping her apart, I’m so intent on rubbing one out in her. I’m not concerned if she comes or not—I have to remain in control of myself and detached.
She moans and arches her back as I explode inside her, and after a brief pause, I roll off. I lie there with my eyes closed, enjoying the moment, when my phone rings. It’s as if someone waited until I climaxed.
“Pronto,” I answer and listen. I respond and tell them to do what is necessary, then hang up.
My stomach growls at me.
“You want some dinner? I have some of Mama’s Bolognese Sauce.”
“Sure.” She sits up, using the bed sheet to wipe away the proof of our fuck. I pull on my pants, going commando, and head downstairs.
I haven’t eaten and I’m fucking starving as I pull a bowl of sauce from the refrigerator and a saucepan from a rack on the wall. I use the gas stove to warm the sauce and make use of a double boiler to rewarm the pasta.
She enters the kitchen. “You seem preoccupied.”
“Yeah, always. What’s new?”
“More than usual,” she presses. “Anything I can do to help?”
I lean towards her as she retrieves silverware out of a drawer near me and give her a light kiss on the lips. “No, but thanks.”
She shrugs her shoulders, accustomed to my cold nature, and sets the table, examining the label on the wine on the table before opening it to let it breathe.
“Good year for Chianti,” she remarks.
“Hmm, yes it was,” I mutter absently, as I recall retrieving it from the wine cellar yesterday and remember that this particular bottle should air for three hours.
Shit.
This is one of those instances where a tiny bit of planning would have been nice. Now, I will be drinking an expensive wine when it’s not at its peak.
I fill our plates with food and apologize for the lack of appetizers as we sit across from each other at the kitchen table. The dining room is too formal for anything less than six or more people.
I think I like eating in the kitchen because it reminds me of visiting Grandpa growing up and how Grandma would spend the day over the stove, and making pasta from scratch using a pasta machine with a crank handle. She did all the dishes by hand too, even though they had a dishwasher.
We eat in relative silence, making light conversation when it’s warranted. When we finish, I whisk the plates away, soaking them in a sink full of dishwater.
“Let me help,” she offers.
“No, you’re my guest, but I really need to get back to work.”
Her face falls in disappointment, which lets me know that she anticipated more. Of course, she wants more.
It’s just for a few seconds, then she recovers her look of indifference that she knows must retain in order to keep seeing me. But it was a few seconds too many.
I know she will be hurt when I no longer call.