A Mafia Romance

Melissa

MELISSA

I wake up to soft breathing beside me and I don't know where I am. The persistent smell of cigars and perfume that permeates my father's house is missing. The pillowcase against my cheek isn't satin but flannel.

We’re in the back of Chase's ‘escape vehicle.’ And the breathing beside me is him.

The unfamiliarity isn't the room or his presence. It's this tentative feeling of safety—of not having to be on guard the moment I wake up—that washes over me like warm water as I look around. It's okay.

I’m down to my silk turtleneck undershirt and fleece-lined leggings I wore under my leathers. I fell asleep before realizing Chase was climbing in behind me.

He didn’t even touch me. I hate the idea of him lying awake with a boner all night.

My head is full of damp cotton, and my mouth is dry, but the d**g hangover is gone. I roll over and reach for the sports drink on the fold-out nightstand beside me. A few swallows, and the discomfort subsides enough that I can sit up.

I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and set them on the padded floor.

The truck interior is cramped, but livable. The LEDs on the battery powering it blink away on the wall across from me. Beside it is a tiny shower-toilet booth, a floor-to-ceiling cylinder with a funky hatch door.

On the other side is a small counter with a mini-fridge and sink and a single burner stove with a teakettle on it. It's totally uncluttered, so things won't roll around while the vehicle is in motion; the kettle is the only exception right now.

I duck into the bathroom and shut the door to use my phone without the light waking up Chase. The guy's earned his sleep. Not to mention all the cash I promised.

I can't figure out for a few moments why I can't get a signal until I remember: the Faraday cage. The same thing that is keeping me from being traced right now. It's blocking the phone signal.

"Damn." I start scrolling through old messages and calls instead, not playing the voicemails. Most are from Father. He must be furious.

I just don't care anymore. How can I? He's made himself into a scary fiend. There’s no room in there for love. Or respect. Or loyalty.

There's always just been fear—and the longing to run away. But I only got the nerve to do so when my father was handing me off to someone even worse. I’ll probably have Enzo’s family after me, too. Maybe I should petition the Don of Montreal for residence?

Don’t really want to stay in Montreal, though. Not even if Dad is petrified of the Sixth Family. He’s fearful of certain Russian cartels, too. I check the messages reflexively, get nothing new, of course, and then examine the stored ones. I do have friends in Montreal who care about me. I have the proof right here.

Amelie: Did he hurt u?

Me: Just some bruises. But I need to leave now. I can't wait anymore.

Amelie: He doesn't know about us. Come here! We can put u up for a while until u figure things out.

Me: Are u sure?

Amelie: Yes! It’s no trouble at all.

I needed that reassurance. Just a few moments of reading over the old conversation and reminding myself that, yes, people I can rely on await me in Montreal.

I clean myself up in that cramped cylinder, which has a pull-out sink and a steel mirror. Then I open it up as quietly as I can.

Chase is sitting up and blinking at me groggily. "Did you get any rest?"

"Yes," I mutter, trying not to let look at the muscles across his lean belly. How did I manage to sleep next to this amazing hunk and not touch him?

"Okay, good." He slides out of bed and moves past me; the smell of his sweat is mixed with spicy aftershave, and my fingers curl at my sides with the urge to touch him. "Lemme get cleaned up, and I'll make some coffee."

"Great."

I make up the Murphy bed while he's cleaning up. I don't know why I'm doing it exactly: maybe to burn off nervous energy, maybe as a thank you.

There are straps that buckle over the pillows and the top of the bedclothes to secure them when the bed folds into the wall. I tug them into place when he comes out with his hair wet and his skin gleaming faintly from steam. "Don't worry about that, I'll get it," he tells me cheerfully.

He gets the coffee perking and then sets my suitcase on the bed, pulling out his flashlight, knife, and a screwdriver. "He could have put a tracker in this thing before he brought it to you. Wish I had a signal scanner."

He takes off the luggage tags first, splits them open with the knife and scrutinizes them. Next, we take out all my clothes and underwear, and I check inside my shoes, socks, and coat for anything thick enough to hide a tiny, hard lump. Lastly, we search the suitcase itself.

"Where did you get the idea to put in these secret compartments?" he asks as he pulls the false backing off its Velcro to expose all the money and jewels tucked in there. I sewed rows of hair ties into the backing, so it could hold stuff without sliding around.

"Stories of smugglers, dinners with mobsters, and I listened really well." I pull my stolen fortune out, putting the straps of cash on one side and the jewels on the other.

"So you sewed these in ahead of time, planned to steal your dad’s stuff on the way out, and then worked on how you would get the chance to get out?" He starts going through the straps of cash, fanning through them and then examining the paper loops holding them together.

“Um, yeah, pretty much. I just kept working at it. I didn’t have a plan exactly, because I never knew when the opportunity would come.” I used sewing skills from a class to make those secret compartments and learned to c***k safes listening to drunken gangsters brag—and talking them into showing off. I got a bodyguard with a crush on me to take me to the g*n range ‘in case something happens.’

It took a lot of flattery and flirting to get him to cave in—but he did.

I check every inch of the suitcase, and then I start putting back all my clothes while he checks and counts the cash. “I just...laid the groundwork, and then ran when I had a prospect.”

Actually, it was a lucky coincidence. I would have run anyway, even if I would have ended up on the bottom of the harbor.

“I can’t blame you.” He runs his fingers over one of the straps of cash and frowns, turning it over in his hands.

“He didn’t have to threaten. Everyone who crosses or fails him dies.” My voice is full of sad inevitability. “Mom, too.”

“Holy crap, I’m sorry.” He looks up distractedly. “My family was a mess, but never like that.”

“Yeah?” I watch him turn that same strap of cash in his hands as if something is different about it. “What did your dad do?”

He gives me a gloomy smirk. “Stepped in front of a bullet that would have hit me. Some crackhead. Totally random.”

I stare at him in sympathy and nod, drawn partway out of my own fear and trauma that I’m not alone in carrying grief. “I’m sorry.”

Time stretches between us; my cheeks are warm and my stomach is getting fluttery. Is it ordinary to connect with someone this fast?

Do I even know what typical is?

Finally, he drops his gaze back to the strap of cash in his hand. “This one’s been reglued,” he comments, and then runs his finger under the paper loop to break the seal.

And there it is: on the underside of the printed strap, a single black plastic square with circuitry embedded in it, barely the size of a thumbnail.

“This has to be what they were tracking.” And he snaps the chip into pieces before tossing it in the trash. “They can’t track you now.”

“...Oh.” I’m suddenly numb inside. Except he wasn’t tracking me! He was tracking his money.

“...Thank you.”

That thought sticks in my head as I hand Chase his share of cash and tuck the rest and the jewels back in the suitcase. I’m close to crying as I finish putting everything away. Then I have trouble closing the latch over my folded clothes, and after the suitcase pops open twice I’m suddenly sobbing like a baby—over nothing.

“Oh s**t,” he mutters, and then he’s shutting the suitcase and setting it aside on the floor, and pulling me into his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I cry into his shoulder, clinging to him, glad that someone is here to hold me. All my life, I’ve held it in. The pain, the fear, the grief, the rage: all of it, hidden, for survival’s sake.

But now, away from my father, and with someone safe and kind, and he’s holding me against his lean, powerful chest, firmly enough that my heartbeat slows, and I melt against him.

And I cry because I can.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs and grabs a box of tissues before wrapping both arms around me again. He doesn’t complain or get impatient or grope me; he’s tender. That makes me sob like some deadly poison is leaking out of my tear ducts.

He wipes my tears and brings me water, and rubs my back, and speaks soft reassurances until I pull myself together. I’ve never met anyone this kind. Maybe it’s the whole crazy situation, but what happens next is as unavoidable as the tide.

We kiss.

It’s not my first, but the first that didn’t leave my lips hurting. His mouth is smooth against mine, his slight stubble scratchy but not unpleasant. He tastes like peppermint gum, and the tip of his tongue teases mine, and I forget how to breathe for a moment.

The kiss ebbs in and out, his lips caressing mine tenderly and then firmly, his arms tightening around me as I slide my hands through his hair. Heat washes over me, a melting sensation that makes me relax and let him do whatever he wants.

His hands start moving over my body, decisively and leisurely, like he’s molding my flesh out of clay. They glide up and down my sides, over my arms, my a*s, up my back; I start exploring his back and sides with my fingertips, feeling his muscles flex under my touch.

When he breaks the kiss, he looks at me, his eyes smoky behind his eyelashes as they search my face. I’m breathless, bereft, lips still tingling from the kiss and not sure what to say. Then he kisses me again, even more fiercely, and his soft, hungry moan makes my whole body light up with unfamiliar need.

Before, my crush on him was abstract, almost timid. Now, my desire is primal and concrete: I want his body on mine and that big c**k deep in my aching p***y. I want to hear him moan and pant and shout my name and to feel his hands all over me just like this—but more.

He starts stroking my breasts through the silk; I gasp and whimper against his mouth as my n*****s tighten and electric jolts of sensation run through them. He catches them between thumb and finger and tweaks them, then slides the fabric back and forth over them until my hips start to rock with each stroke.

It’s so smooth and comfortable that when he settles me back on the bed, I don’t feel nervous at all. I just want more. More kisses, more caresses, more of this lovely tingling that’s growing stronger inside of me with every passing moment.

His silk-smoothed hands knead and stroke my breasts almost reverently; he’s kissing my neck now, just a little roughly, his breath already ragged. He moves down my body slowly, leaving small, tingling suck marks at my pulse before nuzzling down my neck. When his mouth comes level with my breasts, he buries his nose between them playfully before looking up at me.

I nod, and he slides the silk up to expose me and covers one of my breasts with soft kisses. The teasing soothes and frustrates me at once; his unhurried movements, this tenderness, are what I need—and I moan with relief when his mouth closes over my n****e.

His tongue swirls over my sensitive flesh and then beats against it as he suckles me; I gasp and dig my fingers into his shoulders as he switches to long, luxuriant pulls. I writhe under him, subconsciously grinding my hips, quickly soaking the crotch of my leggings with my juices.

“Ah...Chase...don’t stop,” I beg, and he suckles harder, making me tremble and roll my hips more roughly. The craving to be filled, to be stimulated in ways I barely know about, gets stronger with each stroke. Now his hand’s sliding between my legs...and when I mill against it on reflex, he starts rubbing and kneading my hungry kitty beneath the cloth.

“Oh!” I gasp, completely astonished. The sensation is almost perfect...almost exactly what I crave. He finds the top of my labia beneath the wet silk and pinches them closed gently, rubbing them up and down in time with his insistent suckling.

He switches to my other breast; my back arches, and he slips his hand in under my leggings to caress me straightforwardly. He props his smooth thumb against my c**t hood and moves it smoothly in time with his mouth; my toes curl and my p***y tightens more with every stroke.

I’m screaming with pleasure now, incandescent with it, burning with it, my voice musical and full of desperation. I can’t form words anymore; it feels too good.

And then—

Waves of bliss crash through me, exploding from my contracting cunt and making me gasp and thrash in Chase’s grip. It’s so good that I want it to last forever...but then the contractions slow and lessen, and finally stop. Satisfied and stunned, I pant for air as I slowly come to my senses.

Chase lifts his head and smiles. “There we go. Did you like that?”

Tears of incredulity fill my eyes. “I came,” I gasp, and he nods.

“Yes, you did. And it was stunning.” He reaches for the belt of his jeans as I lie there, his impatient c**k pushing out the denim. “And now I’d really like to—”

And it’s at that exact moment that someone pounds on the back door.

I let out a startled scream and sit up, yanking down my shirt.

“Bathroom,” Chase instructs as he straightens, cursing under his breath. “I’ll deal with whoever it is.”

I slip into the bathroom on wobbly legs, heart beating fast despite my muscles being delightfully relaxed. My skin is covered in sweat, and the scent of my arousal makes me blush as I close the door behind me. I feel like I’m a teenager in a sitcom, hiding in her boyfriend’s bathroom while some officious parent bangs on the door.

That reminded me of my father, and I freeze, realizing it could be Benny and the others. When I hear the door unlatch and roll up, the first thing through my head is my purse with the g*n is outside and a jolt of adrenaline kills my post-orgasmic buzz.

I hear voices. Chase is trying to reason with an unfamiliar man. The conversation is short. Then I hear Chase sigh, and the door rattles closed again. I lighten up—and then he taps on the door.

“Hey, it’s a ranger. We can’t park here. And no, he won’t leave us alone and come back later.” His voice is brimming with s****l frustration...and I feel terrible for him.

How many times is it now, twice? And he just showed me what an o****m feels like.

It was wonderful. And I want more. Damn rangers.

“Um, okay, I’ll get dressed,” I reply, resenting the interfering ranger. “You’d think he’d have something better to do.”

He kisses me, and I feel his still-firm erection press into my belly. “We’ll take this back up later,” he promises.

I’m suddenly breathless and tingly again. “I can’t wait.”