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He thrust upward through the orgasm, milking it for all it was worth before holding my hips tight and thrusting up into me until he found his own release with my name on his lips.
I don’t know how long we stayed that way, with him inside me and my face buried in his neck, breathing in his scent, trying to commit it to memory to hold me through a few hours of not being able to be close to him.
“Ugh,” I grumbled when I heard his phone vibrating on the coffee table at our side, interrupting our little perfect moment.
“I know,” he agreed, giving me another heart squeeze because he was annoyed by the interruption as well, but the damn phone kept vibrating, demanding his attention.
He folded up with me still in his lap, his one arm going around me to hold me close as he reached for the phone.
“Yeah?” he answered as his face nuzzled into my neck, his scruff creating another little surge of desire through my system, making my sex tighten around him again.
A pained groan escaped him as his forehead hit my shoulder.
I couldn’t make out what was being said on the other side of the phone, but whatever it was had Salvatore both sighing and tensing at the same time.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he agreed. Then, “Okay. Yeah. But Anthony… okay. Right. Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He’d be there.
Which meant that he wouldn’t be at the diner.
It was absurd how strong the surge of disappointment was in me right then.
It was one work shift. And, normally, people didn’t see each other when they were working.
I’d become unexpectedly needy with Salvatore. And while the strong, independent part of me was tensed and worried, the slightly romantic side of me was loving being so into someone finally.
“You have somewhere to be?” I asked when he hung up, scooting back enough to look at him.
“Yeah. Remember that guy who shot you?”
“Wait… what?” I asked, brows scrunching. “What are you talking about?”
“What’d I fuck the memory right out of that pretty head?” he asked, tapping my temple as he gave me a lopsided grin.
“While I think you’re perfectly capable of that, no. I mean… what do you mean? You’re the one who shot me.”
“I sure as fuck didn’t,” he said, looking taken aback by the declaration. “You’ve been spending all this time thinking I was the one to put those bullets in you?” he asked, almost sounding hurt. “You let me inside of you when you thought I’d been the one to hurt you?” he added, voice lower.
“I… why would you pay me if you didn’t shoot me?” I asked, feeling like my head was spinning a bit as I slowly climbed off of his lap.
“Because of what you’d seen,” he said, walking over to the kitchen to toss the condom. He washed his hands before turning, shaking his head at me. “I don’t shoot innocent women, Whitney.”
“I mean, I didn’t think you’d done it intentionally. I figured I was, you know, in the way of the actual target.”
“You were. In the way of Cesare and me. We were the targets. You got in the way of the other guy’s bullets.”
“Oh,” I said, the word coming out like an exhale. “Well,” I added, letting out a strange laugh as I started to button the front of my dress. “I guess I don’t need to worry about what it said about me on a psychological level that I was okay having sex with a guy who shot me anymore.” To that, Salvatore let out a low chuckle. “But what about him?”
“We found him,” Salvatore said. And, well, I knew what that meant, didn’t I? Guys who shot at made members of the mafia didn’t get to keep breathing.
I knew that this was the moment where I was supposed to sober up from the high of the love hormones I was flying on. Most normal, sane people drew the line at murder. At execution.
I was shocked to find when searching for shock and disgust, only understanding and acceptance.
Maybe it was because I’d been spending a lot of time with Salvatore, and even several other members of his family, including the wives and children. And they were all just so… normal. And kind. Welcoming.
To an extent, everyone simply understood that being a part of the Family came with certain rules, with codes, and that anyone who broke those, well, they had consequences. Sometimes of the fatal variety.
