Don

4

PIETRO AND DIANGELO sank down into their brown leather sofa in sync, both with the same wide-eyed look adorning their handsome faces.

Pietro wasn't a complete jerk, contrary to the cliche guidelines; he just wasn't as nice as his brother. He generally tried to keep his assholery to a minimum.

Pietro was intelligent; both brothers were. He tried relationships; they didn't work.

Pietro didn't waste time with things nor people that didn't work. He either abandoned them or shot them.

DiAngelo, though he did enter long-term relationships, found it rather tedious as well. He was also considerably less trigger happy than his brother.

Pietro didn't imagine he'd ever really think about a woman for more than the night he spent with her.

He was slowly realizing though, she was all he thought about the last two months

That made him really want to shoot her.

⚪⚫⚪

The back of his eyes pushed a picture through his brain.

Melanie.

She looked like a Melanie, he supposed.

She had curly black hair that was long and bouncy and everywhere and beautiful.

Ugh, the word beautiful is just...ugh.

He'd never thought so in depth about a woman's hair; in fact, he rarely noticed it.

Yet another reason why he failed at relationships.

But Melanie's hair so luscious and looked so soft, he fought himself not to touch it.

Her brown eyes were strange; they were dark and light all at the same time; they were hazel and black.

Her skin was a honey caramel; she looked editable if he were being honest. He yearned to taste her skin; see if she tasted as good as she looked.

Melanie was strange.

She was just...strange.

She didn't try hard, that's what attracted him in the first place. She never gave a f**k about what he thought. That's why he took her home.

⚪⚫⚪

Two months earlier...

Pietro stirred his drink dispassionately.

The bartender flashed her cleavage for the fifth time tonight as she refilled a shot glass he hadn't taken a sip from.

He was severely tempted to shoot her a hole through her silicon implants just to watch it deflate.

She flitted off with a wink. Pietro snorted. More like she has uncontrolled Tourettes.

Pietro sighed.

Tonight had been a horrible night. He'd just gotten off the phone with his parents; he missed them.

As much as he hated to say it, he missed them. Feeling homesick among other things, he nursed the sixth full shot glass of whiskey.

Italia was his home; it always would be. He could just see his Mamma now, hitting Padre over the head with a dishtowel when he ate something she cooked before dinner.

"Leave it alone, Angelo!" Papa would shoot her a rakish grin and wink at his mother, who'd blush like a teenager.

DiAngelo and he would make exaggerate gagging sounds to offset the awkwardness of Parental PDA.

Pietro gave a low, fond chuckle at the memory, a smile on his face for the first time tonight.

Then he remembered the call he'd just gotten, and all traces of that small smile vanished.

That call wiped every smile he had had when he thought about it.

It was the same call he'd been getting for weeks. Friends, cousins, uncles, aunties-dropping like flies in old Italia.

Mafia wars were running rampant, filling the streets with senseless violence and a costly struggle for power amongst factions.

His cousin—his favorite cousin was murdered that night.

His parents called. They thought he should know, they said.

"No need to come home, figlio," his Madre whispered tearfully, "Closed Casket."

Lead filled his veins as those two words rang so clear and heavy across continents.

He knew; rarely was casket open these days in his famiglia, but Rafe hit him hard.

They tortured him; probably wasn't much of him left—just enough to ID.

Just enough to take credit for his brutal murder. Hard to open a casket when the body's in pieces, he thought bitterly.

Pietro clasped his eyes shut painfully.

He should've never left home.

"You look like you need one or two things," a woman's voice quipped behind him.

"What's that?" He asked flatly, not really caring to hear the answer.

"God or Alcohol," she said matter-of-factly. "Though in some cases those two are analogous," she added in thoughtfully.

That made him turn around.

She was a small thing. Gorgeous, he'd have to admit, but she looked immature. Or perhaps he just felt old.

"How could you know that, little girl?"

Instead of being offended like he thought she'd be, she grinned, intriguing him more.

"I'm not as little as I seem. And I assure you, I'm not nearly as dumb as I look."

She slithered over to him with a sultry smirk and nipped at his ear. He reached for her, but she pulled back, offering a friendly grin.

Much different than the seductive smirk she'd had only a few seconds earlier. She turned her attention to the bar.

"Get the man some scotch, tit free and put it on my tab."

Pietro's eyebrows rose at several parts of that sentence, but still, against his will his lips tugged into a begrudging lopsided grin.

"I can pay for myself."

The woman shrugged.

"I'm sure you can. However, I don't think I need to consult your W-2's before buying you a drink, do I?"

He just smirked, having nothing to say to this bomb of a woman. She wasn't a bombshell; no, she was the bomb, no pun intended.

She leaned closer, feigning seriousness. "If I do, I'm gonna go. I detest numbers."

Knocking back a shot, he smoothly tugged her between his legs. His hands gripped her hips and he buried his face into her neck; it was an intimate position that wasn't s****l, really.

He hadn't done it before, hadn't wanted to.

"You're different."

With a devious gleam in her bewitching eyes, she pulled his head back by his hair, leaning into his ear.

His c**k twitched.

"I think," she whispered, playing with a lock of his hair, "you'll find that different doesn't even begin to cover it, Italy."

He held back a groan as she played with hairs on the nape of his neck idly.

Still he said nothing; still; he had nothing to say.

"In fact, if I had to, I'd say I'm downright curious."

"Curiosity kills the cat," he shot back, his hands tightening in her hips as she leaned past him to grab a shot and knock it back.

"Then you sir," She raised her drink to him with a wink, "Are the mouse."

Pietro grinned back her.

Being her mouse didn't seem so bad.

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