a dark touch

FRANCESCA

A HAND GRABS my arm roughly, causing the plates I’m holding to drop. Luckily, they don’t shatter. I don’t want to have to explain that to my husband. But why did he grab me?

He’s got a firm grip on my arm as he spins me around in the dim dining room. His suit is still immaculate.

I, on the other hand, am exhausted and my dress is a bit wrinkled from hours of cleaning up after an unwanted party.

The Don’s eyes are narrowed in a warning, as if he’s telling me not to test his patience right now. He pulls me closer, close enough to see the minor flaws in his face.

“You’re going upstairs and you’re not coming down. Mya will handle all this.”

His grip on my arm tightens. I quickly nod my head. “Yes, Don.”

His other hand swiftly holds my chin between his two fingers and thumb. “What did I tell you, Francesca?”

My eyes widen as his grip tightens painfully. His eyes darken. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to addressing you without respect.”

I haven’t forgotten about calling him by his name. It’s just uncomfortable and it came out instinctively. He looks at me as if I’m a burden he has to bear.

And it hurts. A lot. More than I care to admit.

“You will always respect me, but saying my name is a privilege only a few have.” His voice is like velvet. “The women are not to come down tonight. Whatever you need, call Mya.”

I really want to ask why but I know it’s not my place. The Don—Antonio is already doing me a huge favor by telling me. I’m not going to push my luck.

I nod before verbally replying. “Yes, Antonio.” Saying his name is much more difficult than I had imagined. It’s like calling Father by his name.

I quickly scurry past him once he lets go. On my way upstairs I catch sight of some women in skimpy clothes with the men. Strippers.

No wonder he wants the wives away. The wives are always more respected than these women. It’s complicated.

If the husband doesn’t mind his wife being treated like those women, then she can be treated like that. But if he does mind then they are to be kept away from such women at all costs.

They don’t need the bad influence.

No wonder the Godfather went to bed early. They’re all staying the night and partying, and the Godfather has a hatred for such women.

I don’t expect the two female figures guarding my door when I walk to it. Gianna and Amalia give me a smile, though Gianna’s smile looks forced.

I smile back out of courtesy, though I’m dying to know why they aren’t in their guest rooms. “What are you guys doing here?” I ask.

For some reason, I don’t want them inside my and Antonio’s room. It feels too private.

“You can’t trust anyone in the Mafia,” Mother had told me, and I always take her advice. She’s a smart woman.

“Well,” Gianna starts. “The men are going to be down there till morning. It’s best if we all get to know you at this time.”

I just want to sleep. “Yes, of course. Let’s go to the living room here. It has an amazing view of the city.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.” Amalia grins. I instantly figure that she’s sincere in wanting to get to know me, not just my position.

She has that kind of aura around her. The one where she wants everyone to like her and vice-versa.

I lead them to one of my favorite places. The outside walls are glass and show a view of the forest. Four white couches with a glass table sit in the middle.

The rugs are black, contrasting with the color of the sofas. A TV is also present, as well as a few paintings. A photo of Antonio and his brothers is on the table.

I sit on the couch, gesturing for the others to do the same. Elegance is something women are taught since birth.

Every gesture, every word, every single thing has to be done elegantly, especially by the women of greater rank.

“So,” Amalia starts, twirling a piece of her blonde hair between her fingers. “How was your first day as a married woman?”

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s different.”

“Trust me, I know. Our husbands are always out. I get the house to myself. I can do whatever.”

“Easy for you to say, Amalia,” Gianna counters with a roll of her eyes. “Your husband doesn’t bring his mistresses every other day. She practically lives with us.”

I swallow. My heart aches for her. It’s not her fault her husband is such an ass. I can only hope that the same won’t happen to me.

“Well, if you had only listened to me then maybe he wouldn’t.” Amalia huffs.

I raise my eyebrows in suspicion. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t listen to her, Franci,” Gianna tells me. I flinch because of the nickname. Only my sister called me that. I hope she’s okay.

“Trust me, men aren’t so stupid. They’ll know wh—”

“No, they won’t!” Amalia narrows her eyes and her hands turn into fists.

“All you need to do is try something new. You need to let them think that they have the advantage when you actually do. You get what I mean?”

I kind of do. “Somewhat. It’s actually not a bad idea if it wasn’t so risky.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I don’t know about you, but these men are vicious. Francesca, you’re new to this. The Don is no fool. He’ll beat you up till you are begging for mercy and even more after.

“Men in the Family find pleasure by inflicting pain, especially sexually,” Gianna grinds out with a wince.

Amalia lets out a sigh. “That’s why you need to play it smart. The men here think we’re dumb, but we’re actually smarter than they are.

“They try to hide their business from us, but we know more than they think. We’re better liars than they are.”

A moment of silence hangs in the air before a question nags at me. “Is this a regular thing? Like, the strippers after family dinners with the Godfather?”

Gianna smirks. “They’re not strippers. They’re prostitutes. They’re always brought in after these kinds of gatherings. You’re new to this. Just give it a few months.”

My eyes widen, even though I’m not surprised. Sex trafficking is common, and with Antonio as the boss, I shouldn’t have expected anything different. But then again, I barely know him.

“Are these women from trafficking, like the Giordano Mafia trafficking?” I ask quietly.

Amalia looks at me sympathetically, as if this is all new to me.

“Yeah. They’re a gift from the Don’s father, I think. He’s always been interested in trafficking. It’s clearly disrespectful to us, but since the former Don, the men don’t really care anymore.”

Gianna tries to shush her, but Amalia just rolls her eyes.

“Oh.” I don’t want to know if Antonio is involved in such activities. He probably is. I feel bad for the young girls. They don’t deserve this.

“Why is your face so bruised?” Gianna gasps. My hand instinctively goes to my jaw where Antonio had grabbed me earlier.

I’m speechless. I can’t even come up with a lie. But they understand, because Gianna quickly changes the subject. Am I so sensitive that a simple touch can bruise me?

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never paid much attention to them, as Father never hit me anywhere visible.

We talk for hours. They seem fun, but I’m still cautious. By the time I return to my room, it’s already four in the morning.

I’m a fool for staying up so late, but I’m desperate to make some allies of my own. Gianna and Amalia become good friends of mine.

Despite Gianna’s silent warning to stay away from Pietro, she’s a cool girl and I don’t take offense. She’s just paranoid and doesn’t deserve this. No one does.

My steps falter as I approach the door to my room. The halls are dark, but the lights are on in the room. I’m scared of who might be in there.

Has he brought another woman into our bed? Will I have to walk in on them? But there’s no sound coming from the room. Or, the walls could just be soundproof.

I turn the doorknob with trembling fingers. I blink as the dim light casts shadows across the room. A sigh of relief escapes my lips when I see the bed is untouched.

He hasn’t brought anyone into our bed…yet.

I’m so caught up in my relief that I don’t notice his figure looming in the chair at the side until it’s too late.

I turn to go into the closet and change out of the uncomfortable dress when I jump back. A shadow obscures his face, making it hard for me to see his expression.

I gasp. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

Why did I stay out so long? I had assumed that, like the other men, he would also bring a girl to the guest room downstairs. He did say not to come down.

He leans silently against the black armchair, his arms resting on the armrests and one leg crossed over the other. His left index finger traces patterns on the armrest.

It’s as if I’m testing his patience and he’s trying to calm down.

“I expected you to be in the room waiting for me, Francesca,” he says, his voice hard yet indifferent; a strange combination.

My head bows down. I can’t help but notice the bold gold signet on his right hand. Next to it is another ring that’s a watch. It’s big and unusual, but it suits him. A watch ring.

“I’m sorry.” ~Why am I always apologizing?~

He stands up. He towers over my average frame, and now that I’ve taken off my heels, I feel shorter than ever. Am I really that short?

As silent as a ghost, he moves toward me. I can see his pristine black shoes in my line of sight, but I don’t back up, not wanting to anger him.

His long fingers tilt my chin up, and I can’t help but flinch. Those are the same fingers that grabbed me earlier, and it still hurts. “I also expect you to look at me when I’m talking to you.”

His hair is messy. His bangs have fallen over his forehead, giving him a younger look. His black eyes are too intriguing, and his lips are plump and inviting.

He doesn’t have a beard, and he’s still in his snug suit. My mouth waters in an unholy way.

~Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong by checking him out. He is mine.~

I’ve forgotten what he said other than the fact that he wants me to agree. “Yes,” I say.

His head dips down as his breath fans my lips. I’m not surprised when they touch me because I know what’s coming. It’s not until then that the panic starts to set in again.

Checking him out from afar is different than being touched by him.

I’m not ready for the pain, but I want to get it over with. I don’t want to spend every night thinking it’ll be my first. I don’t want to live in fear.

Maybe after this he’ll forget about me, and I can go on with my life, giving him a few heirs along the way. That’s what he wants anyway. Someone to carry on his legacy.

The wives are for the heirs, and the mistresses are for pleasure. It’s so strange. The wives get their name and honor. The mistresses get their love and affection.

And so I give in. His soft lips mold perfectly to mine. His hand is tangled in my hair as he pulls me closer, his teeth nipping at my lips now and then.

His other hand reaches between my thighs and parts them. He pushes me onto the soft bed, and I don’t protest.

Why does this feel so wrong when it feels so good?