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As she gains better control of herself, a relaxed smile is on her face.
The anxiety over her sisters being in harm’s way has dissolved … at least for now. I’m sure I’ll get asked the same question again relatively soon.
“The answer is still no,” I remind her.
Her eyes are sleepy as she squints at me. “But—”
I sit back down, roll my chair forward, and kick my feet onto the desk. “I told you to leave the room if that’s all you wanted. You stayed and came on my face.”
She straightens her stance. “You’re a dick, Benny.”
“No, I’m your husband”—I hold my finger up and lick it—“who finally knows what his wife’s sweet pussy tastes like.”
* * *
After givingmyself a moment to calm down, telling my dick it won’t be inside Neomi, I call my father and tell him about Riccardo’s death.
“Who the fuck is Riccardo?” he asks.
“Tommaso’s right-hand man.” I lick my finger that was inside Neomi. “You met him at our wedding. Tall. Chipped tooth. Talked like he was Robert De Niro.”
“I couldn’t give two fucks about Tommaso’s men,” he says, his tone bored. “Nor do I appreciate being interrupted with calls about him. Find someone who cares.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t care either,” I say. “But unfortunately, I’m affected by his actions because I’m married to his sister, who just asked me to marry each of her sisters off to a Marchetti so they don’t die.”
“She’s that worried?”
“It seems so.”
“Please inform her we’re not a fucking drive-through line for marrying women to protect them from her brother’s idiotic actions.”
“I think it’s time Severino is informed of his son’s troubles.”
“I’ll call him tomorrow, set up a meeting.”
I’m no snitch, but someone needs to handle Tommaso at this point … or pay his debt since he seems incapable of doing so himself.
We end the call, and I head upstairs to the master bedroom, only to find it empty. When I return to the hallway, I notice a light shining under the crack of a guest bedroom door.
It’s the room I’d stay in when I slept over with my grandparents.
The same bed too.
I throw my head back while heading in that direction. I’ve been married two days, but it feels like two fucking centuries. I wiggle the door handle, finding it unlocked, and walk in without knocking.
Neomi is lying in bed, her knees brought up to her chest, with her phone in her hand. The nightie is gone and replaced with an oversize tee. The wordsI Love New Yorkare scrawled across it.
She drops her phone and glares at me when I enter the room. For someone who just orgasmed, she’s in a sour mood. All because I won’t pimp out my family members.
I stop at the edge of the bed, slipping my hands into my pockets, and feel too much like a father scolding his daughter. “What are you doing in here?”
She picks at the worn plaid comforter. I hope it still smells like me so she’s wrapped up in my scent—no matter where she tries to hide in this house.
“This is my new bedroom,” she answers as if it were obvious.
“Wrong.” I remove a hand from my pocket and gesture for her to get her ass up.
She slaps her hand onto the bed in frustration. “This is where I’m sleeping, Benny. End of discussion.”
