Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Why is she so fucking cute?
When she's a few feet away from my door, I open it up. "Jesus, slow down! It's a fucking skating rink out there."
She doesn't slow down. Of course she doesn't. Instead, she crashes into me with full momentum, letting me absorb the impact. Her body is cold against mine, but her face glows with color from the winter air.
"Did you know snowflakes really do have perfect hexagonal symmetry because of the molecular structure of water? And that no two are exactly alike because of microscopic variations in temperature and humidity as they form? And if you talk to water and tell it nice things, it makes a prettier structure when it freezes? True story."
"Nice," I say, untying the belt of her coat and helping her take it off. She's naked underneath. It's not a rule that she comes naked, it's her choice. Because for four hours on Saturday mornings she gets to do whatever she wants with our time.
Lately, it's been blow-job lessons. Specifically, deep throat fucking. AKA—Giovanni's preferred way to kill a woman.
Unfair. Maybe.
Not really, he did the deed. He should have to live with it.
Said lessons totally had to be cleared with Giovanni. Who looked at me like he was picturing how the bullet would look between my eyes when I asked him this, but then gave in once he learned the complete nature of the request.
Of course, he gave in.
Whatever Emmaleen wants, Emmaleen gets.
It's a new side to him. Slightly disturbing, if I'm being honest. Because while I do not work for Luca LaRiccia—Emmaleen is my full-time job now—I know a little of what Giovanni does for the man. Providence is a complete fucking mess, a territorial disaster zone of incompetence and failed leadership, and Giovanni is the surgical instrument Luca uses to excise problems that negotiations can't solve.
Honestly, I'm glad I'm out of the life. Completely out. The Pittsburgh docks, the constant tension, the weight of every word needing to be calibrated for who might be listening—all of it behind me now.
And while my family—our family—was pretty fuckin' pissed about the whole switching sides bullshit ("You traitorous motherfuckers, if either of you ever steps foot in Pennsylvania again, we're gonna blow your fuckin' brains out, scatter what's left in the river..."), I can't say that I hate my current situation.
Far from it, actually.
No more dock life with its territorial pissing matches and union corruption. No more Mafia bullshit—the endless posturing, the blood feuds that go back generations, the suffocating hierarchy where breathing wrong in front of the wrong capo could get you disappeared. No more Sunday dinners at Mama Bavga's where I was constantly compared to my richer, better established, fuck-head cousins.
Giovanni thought he had it bad?
Try being a Moretti in Bavga Land.
Now, I literally edge a woman into manic episodes that alternate between crying and coming five days a week.
It's a strange kind of paradise, when you think about it.
"OK," Emmaleen says, her voice cutting through the quiet as she enters the living room. She doesn't hesitate—just drops straight to her knees with that same casual efficiency she's been developing over these past weeks, like submission has become muscle memory. "Can we just pick up where we left off last week instead of going through a whole Previously-On recap? You know, skip the 'Last Episode of Emmaleen Learns to Deep-Throat' montage and get straight to the actual lesson?"
The smile that spreads across my face is so goddamn wide I actually feel a flash of embarrassment about it.
Because here's what my testosterone brain heard: Can you just shove your cock into my mouth and fuck it already?
I maneuver myself in front of her, reaching for the long hair on either side of her face. I grab it—forcefully, because she likes that—but also tenderly. Then use my thumbs to tip her chin up. Her eyes find mine immediately. Locked in.
But it's Saturday, so she's allowed to be bratty. And Emmaleen Rourke lives for the brat opportunities. "Come on, Jino. If you fuck my mouth today, I'll make you eggs for breakfast."
I smile, but don't answer.
"And toast. Hell, I'll throw in some hash browns. Maybe even pancakes if you're really good."
She's cooked for me exactly once.
Never again.
I'm not one of those dudes who gets off on the foodie shit. I can make a marginally good grilled cheese and that's about it. My carriage house kitchen stays mostly untouched except for coffee and protein shakes.
But Emmaleen is a whole other category of bad cook. The smoke alarm still has PTSD from her singular attempt at scrambled eggs.
So I tease her, my thumb tracing the fullness of her bottom lip. "Threatening me will get you nowhere, young lady. I'd rather starve than face your idea of home-cooked again."
"Well..." She angles her head just enough to catch my gaze from the corner of her eye. Her lips curving into a grin that's all trouble and no apology. "I'll take you out for breakfast then. My treat. How about that?"