Arranged Mafia Marriage

Karma

He left me. Yet again, he hadn’t let me come. Well, neither had he come, to be fair, and then, he’d left. I know because, after I’d gone to my room and showered, I had marched out and back to his room, which had been empty.

I had walked down the stairs, headed to the living room, found it also empty. So was the kitchen…. Apparently, he’d left… And he hasn’t returned. Guess he has no intention of coming home anytime soon.

I had come to the kitchen, after smelling the coffee and toast and hash browns searing on the griddle, and for a second, I had thought that it was Michael… But sadly, it wasn’t. I finished my breakfast on my own, and wandered around the house, before finding my way back to the library.

I had lingered there, picking out more strategy books like The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli-of course, he’d have Machiavelli in his collection- Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy written by someone called Miyamoto Musashi who had been a Samurai centuries ago. OMG, does this man only read books by dead men or what?

Well, he also has more eclectic books in his collection, like Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl, the entire collection of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach…. Apparently, there is a thinking side to the alphahole, not that I had doubted it.

Michael has a streak of cruelty a mile wide, but he also has a lot of depth. Bet if he put aside that simmering resentment for all living things, we could have an interesting conversation on anything under the sun. I move to another shelf, spot some well-thumbed volumes of poetry by Byron, Pablo Neruda, and a few other familiar names. Poems, huh? Does he actually read these books? From the well-used condition of them, I’d say yes. Plus, he quoted Byron the first time we met.

Also… I see Harry Potter. WTF? He reads Harry Potter? Does that mean he’s also a romantic and somewhat of a dreamer deep inside? Does that dark soul of his also harbor something as mundane as emotions? At least, that’s what his book collection tells me. And books, as we all know, don’t lie… Unlike people. They don’t go about trying to kill their husband to get away from him, or hold a grudge against their wife, so they end up withholding orgasms.

My pussy instantly spasms in sympathy. Stupid pussy! You’ve become such a greedy little thing. Can’t stop begging for his fat cock to be buried inside of you, huh? Great, now I am talking to my cunt. Heat flushes my skin and moisture laces my core. The emptiness inside of me writhes and moans. I squeeze my thighs together, then slide my fingers under the waistband of my jeans. I part my legs, play with my clit and a shiver of pleasure runs up my spine. I press down on the already engorged bud, and goosebumps pop on my skin. I slide my fingers down between my pussy lips, thrust one finger, then another inside my aching channel. I weave my fingers in and out of my melting channel, again and again. The vibrations shiver along my nerve-endings and my toes curl. OMG, a few more seconds of this and I am going to come…

My fingers tremble and I pull them back. I lower my hand, press my elbow into my side, and blow out a breath. My knees tremble and I lean against a book case. Raise my cum-soaked fingers. Shit, why the hell did I stop? I could have gotten myself off so easily. And I hadn’t. Just because that stupid douchebag had told me to not to come. And of course, much as my body wants the relief, something inside me insists that I can’t come. Not yet. Not until he gives me permission. Argh! I dig my fingers in my hair and tug. But I wanna come! And right now. Which means, there’s only one way out. If the alphahole won’t come to me, I’ll have to go to him, to paraphrase one of those popular sayings. I pivot, walk out of the library, and up to my bedroom. I mean, he hasn’t said that I can’t leave the house. He hasn’t told me that I have to stay here. Which means that it is up for interpretation. Which means, fuck it, I am going in search of him. But first, I have to wear something that reflects the mood I am in. Which is… I am not to be taken for granted. I am not to be pushed aside and made to feel like I am a spare wheel… Or a docile wife who will float around her husband’s house waiting for him to come to me.

Nope, no way, no siree, I am going to him and that is that. I head up the stairs, fling open the closet door, and examine my limited options. Unlike the island, alphahole hasn’t filled the wardrobe with dresses. Which is good…considering I hadn’t exactly liked his taste… But the gesture had been sweet. As much as the lack of his thinking about my needs here is…a little worrying.

Well, what do you expect, after you tried to kill him, not once but twice? Hmm. Okay, guess it’s reassuring that he did let me live and he hasn’t tried to off me since I stumbled back into his life, so there is that. Also, he had remembered to bring one of the dresses that he’d bought from the boutique in Palermo. I run my fingers down the fabric, then turn to the only other dress in the closet, the one I had been avoiding looking at. My wedding dress. It’s freshly laundered, but not in good shape.

The bodice is torn, one of the sleeves is in tatters, and the long train that I had stitched on lovingly takes up a lot of space in the closet. The skirt grazes the floor of the wardrobe, the black of the fabric so dark that it absorbs all of the light in the area. A creation that truly represents what I am… What he is… What we are together. A perfectly black object, a completely clandestine crush, an enigmatic love that is, surely, fated to be doomed before we can start anything together. A gaze, a touch, a fleeting glance, a connection that binds us together for better or for worse. I rub the ring on the finger of my left hand.

Oh, Michael, are we fated to implode? Are we but ships that pass in the night…with a bridge thrown across our decks for a short span of time? Are we lovers? Are we enemies whose chemistry turns our every meeting to kryptonite? Are we…nothing but dust, sparks that fade into the dark, fireflies with a short life that burn out before they even start living? A teardrop rolls down my cheek and I brush it away.

Hell, what’s wrong with me? From where did these thoughts tumble into my mind anyway? There can’t be anything lasting between us. So what if, I’ve fallen for that rat’s ass of a man. He is a bloody criminal…which only makes him all the more appealing. He is a sadist…who speaks to the masochist in me. He is…a Capo… I am a seamstress… And never the twain shall meet.

So, I have nothing to lose by seeking him out, and insisting that he put me out of my misery. As long as he will give me an orgasm… Or two… Or a whole bunch… Hell, I’ll be happy. The answer to all your problems is sex, and don’t let them tell you otherwise.

I grab the green dress from the hanger, and turn to find Cassandra in the doorway.

She glances at the dress, then at me, “Want help getting changed?”

Forty-five minutes later, I glance up at the facade of the four-story building…all of which is, apparently, Venom-the nightclub and offices owned by Michael’s clan. I push open the door of the car in which Cassandra had driven me here. She had not only helped me get dressed, she’d also handed over an entire bag of cosmetics which she’d, apparently, bought for me when she’d been out of the house yesterday. I’d protested and she’d insisted that I keep it. That it would help me look my best for the Capo, and honestly, I couldn’t resist taking it then.

Only, I want to look good not just for him, but for myself, know what I mean? Though, why has she been this generous with me? Maybe she feels sorry for me? Maybe it’s because of that word which Michael scrawled on me?Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

I’d almost told her that it was nothing to feel sorry about. The very fact that Michael had felt angry enough by my actions to do that to me, that he’d etched a part of himself into me, that even though it said ‘whore,’ it was as close to an endearment as any I’d gotten from him.

Shit, why had I not realized that earlier? Maybe my subconscious mind had known, which is why I hadn’t gone completely ballistic in response to what he’d done. I had been enraged but not over the top, tear your hair out, going on a killing rampage like the bride from Kill Bill furious. Nor like Dominic Toretto in Fast and the Furious upset. Ugh, clearly, Summer’s movie trivia references are rubbing off on me, if I am taking refuge in Hollywood movies to express my frustration at why I had not realized this earlier. Which means, it is doubly important that I get to him, and confront him and say… Well, I’ll think of something to say when I come face-to-face with him.

“So,” I turn to the car and Cassandra rolls down the window of the passenger seat. “His office is on the top floor, eh?” I ask.

She nods, “You sure you want to do this, Signora?”

She just used the word as a form of address in the Italian language to indicate that I am a married woman. I bite the inside of my cheek. Shit, I am married to him… He is my husband… And I could be pregnant with his child… Something which I have avoided thinking about since I went back to Michael. Not sure why it popped up in my mind now…except… If I am pregnant, it would be a hell of an incredible way to ensure that I change the tone of our relationship into something a bit more…permanent? Another reason to walk up there and confront my husband. I swallow the ball of emotion that crowds my throat.

Shit, my husband. The one person I can actually call mine. I have to find a way to, somehow, get through that cloak of hurt he’s donned since my ill-fated attempt to escape him. I need to get through the barriers he’s building between us, somehow make him see, just how much I regret what I did to him.

“Yeah,” I jerk my chin, “I am sure. Wish me luck?”