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And I wring her orgasms from her, shudder by shudder, as her gasps become my name. "Sir. Sir."
Her choppy pants and writhing motion befall my own catalyst. Her perfect pussy chokes at my cock as her orgasm tears through her body, sending warmth pulsing through me. Heat like wildfire rushes up my thighs and brews inside my balls. My own release crests.
Tightening and growing, I fist her fingers and the sheet within her palms to fuck my cum into her. Grunt with each pulse. My vision floods with a haze of ecstasy. Then suddenly, my own death slams through that blackened moment of desire, pushing through the image of a baby boy with her dual-coloured eyes, of her alone in our bed with him, of her a single parent like her own was—
Fuck!
Of all my broken promises. I roar my orgasm out into her, biting back the petulant fear. I'm fucking poisoned with it. Fear of failing her.
One final thrust, and I still on top of her, my panting gushing from me in warm waves, hitting her spine.
I slide my hand between her abdomen and the mattress, cupping between her hipbones, and say, "I will come back for what is mine, little deer. You can do this. Be my strong girl. Let me finish this for my brothers. For you. For our son. And be my brave girl while I'm gone. Be the blood of theCosa Nostra.My queen. Their queen. I know who you are. Do you?"
Her strained breath vibrates on sobs, before she declares, "Yours," ripping my stone heart in two.
"Yes, sweet girl. Andsomuch more."
* * *
I leaveher in her slumber—now late—and go straight to the airstrip. Finding the jet ready, idling, yet empty of passengers, I board alone. My brothers seemingly have their own goodbyes delaying them.
Taking a seat, I recline and pull a cigar from my jacket pocket, in need of the mild flavours that have always relaxed me. Lighting it, I draw the smoke in just as I catch sight of Max and Bronson heading across the tarmac towards the jet above the low light of the runway.
The sky is still consumed in night-time blackness. Early morning lines of silver are barely visible along the horizon. Looking out the window as the ember flares in the dark reflective glass, I imagine my sweet girl in the penthouse. A small, foetal-positioned body on a king-sized bed.
It's only twenty-four hours.
I'll be back for what's mine.
I'm inclined to pull up the footage on my phone and check on her; such a habit is always twitching my hands. I resist the urge, drawing the port-scented vapour into my lungs and loosen my tie. Settling in.
When Bronson climbs into the cabin, vivid tattoos exposed at his forearms and neck, I nod to acknowledge him, earning me a wide smile that is anything but wholesome.
There is a swiftness to his predatorial gait as he moves around, his eyes glowing green. I don't know what goes on behind those unhinged irises, but there has always been a demonic side to Bronson. One that is often so powerful it can't be restrained. Not alone. His woman and his son, Stone, keep him sane. So now more than ever, while a physical divide separates him from them, I'm sure the darkness is surfacing in the imminence of their bleak absence.
I sigh hard, disappointment rolling down my port-laced breath. I failed him most of all. With my absence. With my cold shoulder. Where I thought the separation was for the best. For them. ForCosa Nostra.For me. I'm not entirely sure that was the right way. The only way… For while I was being trained to lead, at some point during my brothers' childhoods, Bronson lost his mind and Max lost his hope.
Max follows Bronson into the cabin. Together they approach me, sitting on the opposite seats, both in expectant silence. Waiting.
I lean back, eyeing them, then smother the ember of my cigar in the ashtray. "Are you confident in explaining the landscape of the compound to the soldiers?" I ask Max, getting straight to business, and receive a curt nod in response.
Which is enough. My brother isn't a conversationalist, but he's the best damn architect in the city and his comprehension of building plans is second to none. Where I see flat, linear lines, he sees entire three-dimensional spaces. I need him on this. I trust him. "Did you use the building records to sketch a direct path in and out of the compound?"
He nods again.
"Good. Remember, if we can avoid it, no gunshots. Get us in undetected while most of the fuckers are asleep. We find Dustin and slice throats in beds until we do. I don't need gun residue or evidence scattered in the dark. We want it to look like a rival gang. Make it sloppy. Messy. Gruesome."
Bronson smiles.
It's his kind of raid.
Max looks down at a tattoo running the length of his finger, cursive writing that reads,Ardente One, then to his tattooed wedding band, his dark brows tightening as he says, "Dustin is mine."
"Yes, brother," I agree, and his stormy grey eyes rise, locking on my face. For a moment, I'm reminded of a time when I was eighteen, when Max wanted to stand by me, comfort me, in the way a broken boy comforts another broken boy, but I threw his concerns in his face. He never looked at me the same way again.
I ram the unbidden memory and the sentiment attached down. It will only drag me down, haze my course. "You will get your revenge tonight for what happened to Cassidy," I assure him. "But for now, get some sleep."
Dustin's death is for all of us, but to Max, it's a promise he never kept.
