He raised his head. “What is it?”
“I didn’t take my birth control this morning.”
There was a long moment of silence. His mouth parted and his eyes met mine, drawing me into their endless depths. There was something on his face, a glimmer of something that I’d never seen there before. It looked almost like excitement.
“Well,” he said. “Would you like to fuck then?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Lucien
Five Years Later
I entered the door of the new Esposito mansion—formerly the home of the late Carlo Romano—and removed my coat and hat. The housekeeper, a pleasant middle-aged woman who ruled the house with a firm, but gentle touch, appeared at my elbow. I thanked her as she took my things and went to hang them up.
“Where’s Olivia?” I called, as she turned the corner into the kitchen.
“Oh,” the housekeeper said, putting her head back out into the hall. “She’s upstairs with your son.”
My son. The words were still unfamiliar, even after almost three years. Every time I heard them, they filled me with a sense of pride, a sense of security. My son, my future and my legacy, secured as the next capo through bloodshed by my hand. It was a fitting beginning to the Esposito dynasty.
I climbed the great staircase leading to the second floor. I’d had the house cleaned from top to bottom, every trace of Romano scrubbed from every inch before I moved my wife in. Duran and Iris had taken over the original Esposito mansion and were renovating it, much to Olivia’s dismay. She enjoyed the excess of it all, but Iris’s tastes were a little more tame.
Stepping as quietly as I could, I made my way to the nursery. I pushed the door open and there was my wife, nestled up in the rocking chair by the window. She was sleeping, her face relaxed and her body curled. I leaned over the toddler bed and brushed my fingers over my son’s back. Marco slept, blissfully oblivious to the world, his chubby face turned to the side. His little shock of dark hair hung over his forehead and his lids were tightly shut over a pair of hazel eyes.
I bent and turned on the nightlight and unplugged the Christmas tree in the corner. Olivia stirred, a quiet sound escaping her lips, and looked up at me. Gathering her in my arms, I carried her limp, warm body out into the hall and shut the door.
“You’re home early,” she murmured.
“It’s six. Exactly when I said I’d be back,” I said. “Iris and Duran should be here any moment and then we can get on the road.”
It was our wedding anniversary and, with Iris’s help, I had planned a night at one of the most expensive hotels in the city. We would have dinner, which, thanks to four years of having a therapist come to the house every week, Olivia actually enjoyed now. Then we would have drinks sent up to our suite and as the night wore on, I would get enjoy my wife uninterrupted. Without a toddler knocking on our door while we were in the middle of sex to ask for a glass of milk and a midnight snack.
My wife descended the stairs thirty minutes later dressed in a sleek, black dress. My pulse thudded in my ears and my cock hardened at the sight. It was the same dress she’d worn that night at the opera in Russia. She was beautiful, her hips wider beneath her trim waist and her breasts fuller after having Marco. I pulled her against me and kissed the side of her neck.
“I thought I tore that dress,” I murmured.
“I bought another one,” she said, stepping back to spin so I could look at her from all angles.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to tear this one off you later as well,” I said.
As we ate in our private room at the restaurant, surrounded by candlelight and the soft smell of freshly cut flowers, it struck me how things had changed. Just a few years ago, I was still under Romano’s thumb, about to be married to a woman I scarcely knew, much less loved. And she had been a scared, abused girl, too afraid to even eat the food on her plate.
Now I commanded hundreds of men, and although every day was a new fight, I was glad to be capo. Olivia had settled into her role as my wife and she no longer shrank back in fear when we went out in public. No, now she commanded the room with those burning, dark eyes that could consume a person whole. And together we had a legacy, a son who would one day grow up to be as ruthless and powerful as his father.
That night, surrounded by huge glass windows that offered a prime view of the city, I lay with my wife on the enormous bed in the center of the room. She was on her back, her skin crisscrossed with the straps of her black lingerie, gazing up at the crystal chandelier overhead. The light caught her eyes, glittering in the darkness.
“What are you thinking?” she whispered as I kissed up her bare stomach.
“I’m thinking I’m going to keep you up most of the night,” I said.
I slipped between her silky thighs and pulled her panties to the side, dipping my head for a taste of her. She moaned softly and her lashes fluttered.
“God, you do that so well,” she breathed.
I raised my head and she made a sound of disappointment. “I know I said that all I wanted was one son, but I’ve been thinking lately that maybe we should try for another baby.”
Her brows rose and she took her time before she answered. “I haven’t taken my birth control yet.”
We looked at one another for a long time and then her face broke into a smile and I climbed over her body. Her legs fell open, exposing the strip of black lace over her pussy. My cock throbbed against my underwear and I reached down, wrapping my fingers around her panties, and tore them open. She gasped, her back arching, and dug her fingers into my sides.
I buried myself in my wife, losing track of time as the night wore on. Things wouldn’t always be this perfect—there would be days ahead filled with blood and violence. That was my burden as the capo. But at the end of each day, I would shed those ugly things from me and return to my wife and children. And for a warm, glittering night, the world would be good.