lust-filled nights

FRANCESCA

I DON’T GET the chance to chat with his sister, or should I say, my sister-in-law. When we arrive home, Antonio immediately pulls me upstairs. His grip on my arm isn’t tight, but it isn’t gentle either.

As we enter, I see his sister looking around in awe. I can’t help but smile at her innocence. But I know it won’t last.

My husband will likely promise her to some mafioso, just like my family did to me. It’s the fate of every woman in the Family.

The girl watches Antonio and me as we storm upstairs without a word. I want to reassure her that she’ll be okay, even though that would be a lie.

Her doe-like eyes remind me of Arianna’s soft eyes—determined and fierce. They’re both free-spirited, a trait that could get them killed in our world.

Arianna is lucky she’s still alive. My sister is smart. She knows when to play nice and when not to. In fact, I believe that Arianna should’ve been the Donna of the mob. She has the brains for it.

My husband slams the door shut behind him as he walks inside. I watch him as he takes off his blazer. The white shirt underneath fits his muscles perfectly.

I know it’s wrong, but my heart flutters and it feels like everything is moving in slow motion. I watch silently as he starts to unbutton his shirt before I snap into action.

I quickly head inside the walk-in closet and grab his night clothes—a pair of gray sweatpants and a loose black T-shirt.

From the few nights I’ve spent with him, I know that he likes sleeping with his clothes on.

When I come out, he’s in just his boxers and is placing his gun on the bedside table. I can’t help but flinch when I see it.

I’m not a novice when it comes to guns and knives or other killing instruments, yet they never fail to scare me.

The Don briefly glances at me before grabbing the clothes from my hands and putting them on. I quickly pick up his old clothes and go to throw them in the hamper with our other clothes.

His now-stain-free shirt suddenly reminds me of my encounter with him the other day. The blood on his hands had vividly told me that he came from murdering someone.

When I come back, he’s sitting on the bed and leaning against the coal-colored headboard. His gaze doesn’t stray from my face as I approach.

Looking into his eyes, I can tell that he wants me to come closer. I do. My petite feet pad toward him.

With one hand behind his head and the other grasping mine, he pulls me on top of him so that I straddle him. The position is very intimate and it makes my cheeks burn as I blush.

His hand cups my cheek as he makes me look at him.

I want to kiss him and that makes me feel utterly pathetic, especially knowing that it won’t be long before he has his mistress, or should I say “goomar.”

I know it’s bound to happen. A man with both a mistress and wife is considered to be manly. It means that he can support both women without a problem.

And whenever he stops coming home on Friday nights, it means that he’s with his other woman. Saturday is for the wife—me.

As his lips touch mine, I try to live the moment. I am his, but he isn’t mine. If I did try to cheat on him, I wouldn’t be considered an honorable woman and would be killed.

It’s unfair but it’s the sad reality.

He removes his hand from behind his head and places it on my back, making me arch toward him. He then pushes me down on the bed and gets on top of me without breaking the kiss.

His lips mold to mine perfectly and leave me breathless as always. A moan leaves my lips when his teeth pull on my lower lip.

Is this him being gentle? I have a feeling he’s holding back.

His lips trail down to my throat and he groans when my hands make their way into his hair. I’m hesitant at first but then I realize that his groans encourage me.

I, for once, am glad that I’m wearing a dress because when his hand reaches under it, I’m ready. His hand parts my thighs and he makes his way in between.

I can feel his bulge against my warmth but he doesn’t do anything to soothe the want inside me.

I moan as he keeps grazing it, not allowing me the privilege of losing myself to the intensity only he can provide and soothe.

His hand curls around my neck as he rips my panties off. Thankfully, those aren’t my favorite. A finger penetrates inside me and I groan at the intrusion.

My toes curl and my eyes fall shut. I can hear his ragged breathing against my ear as his hand moves behind my neck, tilting it up as he pumps his finger in and out, occasionally using two.

I moan as I feel myself build up.

“Shush, ~la mia bambola~,” he says, making me squirm under him. Just before I’m about to reach my climax, he pulls out.

I pant as he sits up and lifts my dress above my head, leaving me completely bare in front of him. I pull my hand up to cover my chest.

I hadn’t worn a bra because the dress was padded. I didn’t need to.

When I look up at Antonio, his eyes are narrowed into slits and his eyes are dark, whether from lust or anger I don’t know anymore.

I quickly get my answer when his hand pulls my hair and brings me close, so close that if I tilt my lips up I’d kiss him.

Is it wrong to say that he looks prettier when angry? But I still don’t want to face his wrath.

“You went out in front of our men and my brothers without a bra.” It’s not a question but a statement.

~Our.~

He might not have noticed it, but I did and it brings great joy inside me. Even though I know it’s only his choice of words, and I know I have no power at all, I feel happy.

It makes me want to take all of his punishments happily.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but my voice sounds anything but that. In fact, I don’t even sound worried and I know my husband doesn’t like that.

He pulls my hair more harshly. “You don’t sound like it, Doll.”

I’m not naive. I avoid his gaze. “I am,” I manage to stutter out. “S-sorry, I mean.”

Fear and acceptance mingle in my heart, a strange cocktail that doesn’t make sense. I’m always scared he might hit me, but part of me has come to terms with it.

I know this golden treatment won’t last. Once he finds his mistresses, he’ll stop caring. It’s the unspoken rule here.

In theory, a mafioso’s wife and children should be respected more than his mistresses. But that’s not the reality in the Giordano Family.

He just looks at me before pushing me back onto the bed. For a fleeting moment, I think I see a spark of mischief and humor in his eyes, but it quickly morphs into lust.

I’m usually good at reading people, but Antonio is a mystery. He’s always the one in control. He grabs my hands, which are lying limply at my sides, and pulls them above my head.

His mouth travels from the base of my throat down to my breasts, where he takes a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before gently biting.

A moan escapes my lips at the unfamiliar sensation. Now that the fear of losing my virginity is gone, I can focus on the pleasure he’s giving me. But I can’t help but wonder if he could make this all bloody or worse.

I decide not to dwell on it. I don’t trust him, but I don’t have a choice either.

“I want you pregnant,” he suddenly declares. I’m not surprised. Getting his wife pregnant is like securing his position as the leader. And I know he wants a son—someone to carry on his legacy.

But any child of ours would be better off dead.

“Okay,” I respond. I do want children, but I know I’m dooming them by bringing them into this world. Yet, being infertile isn’t an option either.

I keep my eyes open as he removes his shirt and then his pants. When he climbs back on top of me, I find myself giving him a small smile.

For a moment, I imagine a normal family with a loving husband and caring parents. I pretend he’s the love of my life.

When he thrusts into me, he’s not as gentle as the first time. He’s rough. His hands wrap around my wrists, pinning them beside my head as he kisses down my throat, undoubtedly leaving a trail of bruises.

For once, I don’t mind, even though I know it might haunt me in the future. I decide to live in the moment because there’s nothing else I can do.