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A punishment for holding out on me, for making me wait for her to fall before I can follow her.
It’s the slap that does it, that has her screaming my name into my neck, clamping down on my cock, her little body shaking on mine as I fill her.
Finally.
TWENTY
-Dante-
Walking down the hall of the compound toward the wing the men spend the most time in, I’m hoping to find my dipshit nephew, hopefully without Dario.
I know he’s not at fuckin’ work, so there’s a good shot he’s here.
And when I walk toward the games room, his voice carries over all the other noise and down the hall.
And when I enter the room, I see that Paulie isn’t alone, a few men loitering with him, but Dario is not one of them.
Gotta love when shit works in your favor.
“Can I get a minute, Paulie?” I ask, trying to give a least the idea that I care about maintaining his image in front of his men.
“No,” he says, not even bothering to look at me.
Such a little shit.
“Let me rephrase: I need a minute with you. We can do it here or somewhere more private.”
“Don’t care what it is, you can say it in front of my men,” he says, and I want to shake him. I want to tell him what a fucking moron he is, that the fact that he cares so fucking little is going to be his downfall.
Instead, I toss the photo onto the green felt, leaning a hip into the table and crossing my arms on my chest.
“What the fuck, Dante?” he asks, not even looking at the photo.
But I don’t miss Tino and Gian both leaning in, taking a look, and then leaning back with wide eyes.
“Is that you?” I ask, knowing damn well it is.
I didn’t want to have to see this fuckin’ image, but when it landed in my possession, I knew it could be of use.
This morning, Marco told me he’d gotten some mail from Russo, that he didn’t look at it, but the old man told him it was important to the cause.
Of course, I was intrigued, but my expectations weren’t high. It could be something as simple as a receipt, something that was once Arturo’s, something that was given to them by Libby Turner before her death.
But still, when I went to my room and found a small yellow envelope on my pillow, I wasn’t eager to open it.
It was nondescript, the kind with a silver fastener holding the flap down, the kind that might hold important documents or photos or files.
It’s also the kind that never bodes well, in my experience.
And on it, my name was written in clean, crisp black letters.
DANTE
Not Marco’s handwriting, and also not what I would peg Russo’s handwriting to look like.
I undid the metal prongs, carefully opening it and peeking inside to see a stack of black and white photos.
Surveillance photos.
