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DIEGO
Iwas up until three in the morning working on the added facial recognition expansions Alessia suggested we make. It was a smart idea, and I’m annoyed at myself for not thinking of it before her. I’m confident I’ve programmed the systems right, but I will triple-check them later today after a few more hours of sleep and at least three cups of coffee.
Lorenzo is certain the Irish have something planned. At first, I thought it was paranoia. Now that he’s loved up, he’s not as detached as he once was. He has something to lose, something irreplaceable, and that has to fuck with your head. I put it down to an overwhelming need to protect his wife. But my nonchalant attitude has wavered over the past twelve months. The Irish are acting strange. Shit, they’re not acting at all. It’s not normal for a family to go dead silent. There are no whispers, no underhanded business arrangements or bodies showing up with their signature. The underworld speaks of the Irish in the past tense, believing they’ve just up and left.
It’s not true.
A conglomerate like Oisin’s doesn’t fade into oblivion. The man has fought for power over too many territories—and won—to give up like this. He’s plotting, and with how fucking quietly they’re doing it, we should all be worried. The only comfort I’m taking for now is that my intel hasn’t picked them up in our cities. Expanding to the border states will ease my anxiety on the matter further.
Rolling over in my bed, I pick up my phone, ensuring I haven’t missed any crucial calls or messages from the boss. There are a few messages from my dad checking in and Dante asking for help with something. I ignore them both and fall onto my back.
The blackout blinds in my bedroom keep me rested in complete darkness, and I adjust the brightness of my screen, saving my eyes from the blinding light. Using my free hand, I pick up the dark cross that hangs around my neck, dragging it against the chain a few times before resting it between my lips.
Flicking between apps, I enter my password for my hidden photo albums and pull up Alessia’s pictures. I’m a psychopath. A man hellbent on losing his mind to an obsession I now no longer have control over. Not one of the photos of the woman in question has been taken by me. That should tell me enough to stop. They’re all screenshots of images I found while googling her. She’s in the media enough. She’s a ranking member of a prominent family and was married to a billionaire. She’s also beautiful, and the world zones in on beauty like Alessia Bianchi’s. They want to knowhow—what products she uses and what regimes she follows to make her look the way she does. Deep down, everyone knows Alessia’s allure is unattainable. Yet the world continues to feed off the snippets of her life the media allow them to have in hopes of more. Kind of like I’m doing. The tabloids want her to fill their socialite pages, but they settle for catching a glimpse of her wherever they can, considering she’s not outwardly fond of social engagements for publicity’s sake.
She’s a class fucking act. She never leaves her house looking anything but impeccable. Her hair is always styled, her face always made up, and every item of clothing that covers her skin looks tailored to her frame. She has two markedly different styles.
She wears fitted jeans and oversized sweaters that likely cost more than my monthly mortgage payments to the drawing class she frequents. She attends three days a week and always leaves with charcoal-stained hands and a smile.
Every other day, she’s dressed to kill. Pantsuits with lace bodysuits clinging to her curvy frame underneath. Skirts that look painted onto her shapely ass and blouses that cuff at her wrists and button to her neck. She always wears heels. Stilettos at least six inches high. She seems as comfortable in them as I feel in my trademark boots. I’d love to test the theory and chase her through her home while she wears them and only them.
Everything about the consigliera of Chicago screams power. The photos plastered across gossip websites have her face set like stone. The fierceness in her eyes portrays her as a ruthless Mafia leader. Even the smiles they catch are sly and underhanded. It’s not an act, not entirely anyway. I’ve seen that woman. I’ve sat across from her after she insulted me in front of my boss and hers.
Be a good boy.
My blood boils at the mere thought.
But there is more to the woman who holds herself as a queen in a city that would be as giddy to see her fall as they are to see her succeed. They preach their love of a woman destined to rule, but in the same breath, feel it necessary to remind her that while she may be some form of superhero boss bitch, she’s alone and will likely remain that way because “she can’t have it all.” Her marriage was a farce. Everyone with eyeballs and a heartbeat knew that. Nothing is available in the media about her extracurricular activities like the hunt, so I have to wonder if the loneliness brush they seem intent on painting her with is as misguided as their research.
Be a good boy.
I close my eyes in frustration, hating how my cock pulsates at the sultry way she taunted me the other night. She knew I wouldn’t beg, but she thought she could push me into snapping. Fuck, I wanted to. I was seconds away from pushing her up against the side of her house and fucking her so good she’d be the only one begging.
My dick is hard, and I throw my phone to my mattress to wrap my hand around it. I bite down on the cross between my lips, muting the soft growl that crawls up my throat the moment my palm meets the granite touch of my erection.
I’ve been forced to jerk off daily. It wasn’t always this way. Not before Alessia steamrolled into my life. Shit, even when I watched her in the woods, I clung to a semblance of self-control. I could go days, weeks even, without needing to fuck or masturbate. Sex felt good, but it never consumed me. Now, I can’t focus on a single task without jacking off before I pull myself out of bed. The woman has bewitched me, and I grow more frustrated each day I fail to break her fucking curse.
I fantasize about watching her come all over my cock, then begging—on her hands and knees—to lick me clean. I dream of eating her pussy and letting her orgasm cling to my lips as I kiss her, forcing her to taste how hard I can make her come. I crave the feeling of her tight cunt and rigid asshole strangling my cock. I daydream about my hand at her throat and my handprints on her ass. I want to mark her, claim her, and destroy the illusion of love the men before me have offered her.
My hand is flying up and down, my grip hard. I’m panting and grunting and hating myself for wanting the infuriatingly sexy woman the way I do. I’m so fucking close. My balls are heavy, and my spine is tight, and I wish she were here so I could show her the way she’s fucked me up.
I want to hurt her and punish her for making me want the things I do.
It’s not right. My obsession is dangerous, and I’m out of my depth with trying to figure out how to fucking tame it.
I close my eyes, readying myself to blow when my doorbell sounds.
I pause, and my cock protests by throbbing in my palm.
My necklace drops from between my teeth, and I frown. No one turns up at my house unannounced.
No one.
Not even my fucking mother.
Cock still standing at attention, I use my other hand to retrieve my phone and open the security app to check my front door camera.
My hand starts moving again before I can register the thought. My nostrils flare, and my grip tightens enough that I growl aloud. Within seconds, warm spurts shoot from my dick as I come, ribbons of cum landing against my hand and stomach as the object of my very desire stands at my front door, adjusting her hair and reapplying lipstick while she waits for me to answer.
