It sounds like the Conti conditions are part of the rift in the family. Who can attest for what her life was like and what her brothers’ dispositions are? It’s safer to not make assumptions without knowing Francesca’s side of the story.
She’s the outlier, like Dante said. She’s someone who can’t be measured against the norm, and we’d best remember this, as she’s in our clan now.
I don’t know if it’s that or the fact that she’s sexy as fuck sitting there in her crushed dress and not quivering with fear like anyone else would.
Considering her psychotic father, there's no telling what she went through growing up. Maybe I can find out if I spend time with her, but first, she has to open up. It sounds like she was raised by wolves, maybe something worse than wolves. And we knew her father so there’s that piece of reality. Anger is a different animal, and those issues are clearly visible.
We arrive at my house where Matteo greets us and helps Francesca out of the car. Better him than me. Not that I don’t find her attractive, just the opposite.
Her hair may look like I just fucked her brains out but it’s kinda cute, and she looks good even if her lipstick is gone and her eyeshadow is smudged. Just sitting close to her in the car makes my dick hard and I long to explore every inch of her body. But she won’t be easy to tame.
It’s hard to concentrate on what I need to do when she’s near me, because all I want to know is how she'll taste when I kiss her, how soft her skin will be when I run my hand down her back, and . . . I have to stop these thoughts right now, as delectable as they are. She’s dangerous, in and out of the bedroom.
I have to give her credit for the outfit she wore to the gala. It fit in all the right places and must have cost her a week’s allowance. The stretchy fabric also allowed her the flexibility she needed to get the jump on me. That makes her a wild cat with impeccable fashion sense.
Carla by comparison dresses up to walk to the mailbox. And she’d never go into town without spending an hour on her hair and makeup. I recall her spending more time with her hairdresser than me.
Maybe that’s why it never worked out, not that I was looking to settle down. It’s all for the best. She was fun for a while but not what I need long-term. If I ever decide to have a long-term relationship that is.
For someone so proficient in martial arts and the art of war, Francesca flinches when I help her into the house.
I take her arm as she is stiff from being slammed and tied up. The uptick in her breathing leads me to think she’s anxious and has been abused in some way. Matteo follows armed and watchful.
I’m not one to force myself on any woman. That’s one rule I’ve never broken. I’ll give her time and she will want me, I’m sure of it. I can detect her breathing change whenever I’m near. If it’s not from fear, then she’s keyed into the chemistry between us. I doubt she has health problems.
I can have any woman at the snap of my fingers and I’m a patient person in matters of the heart, or rather lust. Lust is quick and easy, but love, that’s complicated. I don’t do complicated.
My father was a poor role model when it came to being a good husband. He kept up the Italian tradition of having a mistress most of his married life. It’s a double standard that has gone on for generations.
After Baboo, our dad, died, we found out about his other women. It was easy for him as he had his mistresses living in the condo in the city, the one that now belongs to Dante. We gave the last mistress the boot and never said anything to our mother.
It bothered me at the time, but I got over it. Dad was gone and knowing it after the fact isn’t such a big deal. I have a gift when it comes to moving past the dark things I must do at times.
I deal with life by taking few things seriously. I find a sense of humor goes a long way in cutting tension in situations that are morbid, like death and dismemberment.
You won’t find me kicking a severed head around like a football, but I can laugh about it. It’s my reality as we see pretty gruesome shit.
Once inside the house, I hand Francesca off to Matteo and instruct him, “The kitchen, I’ll cook something.”
It’s noon so I’m thinking about making paninis for an early lunch.
I’m confident Francesca can’t hurt me as Matteo straps her to the chair.
“Nice place,” she speaks at last, looking around and testing Matteo’s knots.
“Thanks, I’ve worked on renovating it for years. I prefer to be on the outskirts of the city.”
“I can see, between this and the farmhouse, I’d say you are reclusive in nature, like the spider,” she adds, digging in with the cut down.
Me, a poisonous spider?
Ouch. I hope she’s not like the typical Italian mother figure who complains about everything and borrows trouble.
I shrug it off. As long as she’s behind enemy lines and not sure about what to expect, she’s going to be defensive. On the other hand, maybe she always has to get the last word.
Matteo leaves to check the perimeter and Francesca’s shoulders sink into a comfortable state of resolve. Either she’s had a change of heart or she’s looking forward to lunch.
“I’d like for you to train me, y’know, in the stuff you do . . . that kung fu shit. I also have a little problem at the club. You might be able to help.”