Angelo

The following week falls into a new routine, markedly different from Rosalia's previous life. Undoubtedly, the most striking change for her is her father's absence. She's adapting to living with someone who, in many ways, feels like a stranger. When I was here three years ago, I purposely avoided her to avoid encouraging her crush and to adhere to her father's wishes. Rosalia often reminisces about her previous routine—breakfasts and dinners with her father, sharing moments reading the morning paper or discussing their days. Now, she only has me, and I know that's not enough, especially since I can't fulfill the role her father envisioned for me.


I doubt she would want that—her lingering teenage crush leading her to marry a man twice her age, especially me. She probably senses I'm not fully committed to staying here, still attached to New York. I hope to find someone to marry her who I can trust to take over leadership, rather than me staying on as the new don.

A week feels too soon for me to have Rosalia sitting in my office discussing her marriage prospects. Rizzo might push for a faster pace, so it's better to have this conversation sooner rather than later. I want to give her more time to adjust and decide, not less.

"Did your father ever talk to you about marriage?" I ask as she settles into the leather chair across from my desk, looking nervous. She's dressed in leggings and a long green tank top that accentuates her dark hair and pale skin. It's not just her outfit—it's her presence. Every day here has been a challenge to keep my thoughts strictly familial. Rosalia is beautiful, sweet, and innocent, and all I should be focused on is protecting her. During the day, I can usually push away any inappropriate thoughts, or guilt flushes them out—but at night, it's different. She's been in my dreams every night since I arrived at the mansion, and I can't seem to shake her loose no matter what I try.


The sooner she's married, the sooner I can clear my head—and hopefully return to New York. But above all, I don't want to rush her. That would go against my purpose here—to ensure her safety.

"No," she replies softly. It makes sense—Vincezio was adamant that I should marry her, even after I refused. But I would have thought he discussed marriage or at least the idea of it with her.


"So he never talked to you about it at all? About what he wanted from me?" I saw her surprise when she read the will, but it's still hard to believe Vincezio never mentioned anything to her.

Rosalia shakes her head. "He always changed the subject when I asked him about it—I didn't ask often because I wasn't interested in getting married soon. He—" She takes a slow breath, clearly overwhelmed, and I give her a moment. "Did he not know you wouldn't agree? That you wouldn't marry me?"

"We argued about it," I admit. "The last time I was here. He wanted me to be his heir and marry you. I refused, and we debated back and forth without reaching a resolution. I made it clear I wouldn't change my mind, then I left for New York. I don't know why he didn't tell you."

'Maybe he didn't want to get my hopes up, if he thought you might still say no." Rosalia looks at me across the desk, her gaze, soft and steady, and my heart thuds in my chest.

Get her hopes up? 'You don't want me as your husband," I tell her firmly. 'Your father couldn't understand why I refused, no matter how much I explained, but my answer hasn't changed. I'll find you someone who you'll be happier with, and who will be a better match."

Rosalia's teeth worry at her lower lip, and I see her hands knotting together nervously in her lap. 'I don't know what's expected of me," she says softly. 'We didn't talk about—any of it. My mother died when I was so young, you know that. I didn't make friends growing up, not really. It was always just me and my father, for the most part. I don't know what a mafia wife is supposed to do."

'It's not that complicated," I tell her reassuringly. 'The wives I know are mostly focused on their families, and doing things like helping with charities or sitting on boards for various organizations that give them insight into parts of the community that will help their husbands. There are events and dinner parties, things like that. You're there to be supportive, to be—"

'A trophy?" Rosalia frowns. 'You're about to tell me that I need to look pretty on his arm and say witty things when asked and stay quiet the rest of the time, right?"

I wince. 'Some of the time, yes. But my goal is to find you a husband who will genuinely respect and care for you, Rosalia. There are plenty of mafia sons who will want to meet you—it's just a matter of finding you the right match. And if you marry someone closer to your age, there will be time before you have those kinds of responsibilities. Time for you to get to know each other and form some kind of companionship before you have to be a part of those kinds of things."

'What about—" She licks her lips nervously, and I have to look away for a moment. The sight of her tongue flicking over her full bottom lip makes me feel slightly dizzy, and I feel my cock twitch in my suit trousers. 'What about—after we're married?"

I look at her, trying to hide the confusion in my voice. 'What else do you want to know? Besides what I just explained—"

'I mean—" Rosalia's cheeks are flushing, red staining her high cheekbones. I realize with a slow glimmer of understanding what she's talking about. 'I mean, after the wedding."

Oh no. We are not having this conversation. My chest tightens at the prospect of explaining the birds and the bees to Rosalia, my mind racing, trying to parse out just how innocent she really is. 'What is it that you're asking, exactly, Rosalia?" I ask as softly as I can, and I see her flush deepen.

'I don't know—anything about pleasing my future husband, really." Her voice is almost a whisper, her eyes flicking away from me as if she's too embarrassed to look at me while she says it. 'I know—a little about what to do, I mean, but not how…"

Rosalia swallows hard, still looking away, and I'm grateful for the moment to compose myself. The conversation has gone in a direction I didn't expect, and just the sound of her soft voice whispering questions about how to please her future husband in bed has my cock thickening, a slow pulse of desire as I try to wrestle my own thoughts under control.

"I know it's not the usual way," she continues, her voice gaining strength. "But I want my husband to be loyal to me. I don't want to worry about who he's with, what he's doing with others—even if it's not love, I want him to be satisfied enough that he won't stray. I want—" She pauses again, and I take a slow breath, trying to gather my thoughts. It's challenging, especially with my arousal pressing against my pants now.

She wants to satisfy her husband. Please him. Make sure he's so satisfied that he wouldn't want to be with anyone else. I could be that husband. All it would take is a single yes to Don Rizzo, and Rosalia would be mine. I can't imagine being unfaithful, not with her in my bed, sweet and innocent and perfect. I look at her, sitting there, visibly embarrassed by the questions she's forcing herself to ask, and I struggle to keep my composure.

I want to pull her into my lap, stroke her hair, kiss her gently, and promise her that she won't have to worry, because she's mine and I'd never even look at another woman. I want to assure her that she doesn't need to know, because I'll teach her everything. I'll teach her how to please me, how to part her legs so I can lie between them and make her cry out with pleasure, how to give me everything that will satisfy both of us. I could choose any man for her, but none would be as devoted to her pleasure as I would be.

Get yourself under control, Bianchi, the voice in the back of my head hisses at me.This is the kind of man you want to be? Fantasizing about teaching her to take your cock while she sits there shaking, asking you to comfort her?The guilt runs through me, thick and hot, and I swallow hard.

'You don't need to worry," I tell her as gently as I can. 'I intend to try to find a husband for you who will respect you enough to remain faithful to you. And barring that, one who will respect you enough to be discreet." I see Rosalia's eyes widen, her instant reaction, and I hold up a hand. 'I know what it is that you want. But fidelity is something that is—difficult to find among men like the ones who occupy our world. You should go into this with clear eyes, Rosalia."

'I don't want a husband who would cheat on me." Her voice is soft, but firm. 'I know better than to expect love. I might be sheltered, but I'm not an idiot. I know enough to know that a husband whom I can respect and get along with is what I should hope for. But I don't think asking for him not to cheat is too much." She licks her lips nervously, a flush growing in her cheeks. 'I don't want to spend my entire married life knowing that everyone secretly knows my husband is with other women too—that they're all pitying me. All those other wives, wanting to commiserate with me over the shared infidelity of our spouses. It's humiliating. I want my husband to respect me more than that—I don't think that's impossible."

'I hope that's true." I look at her, wishing I could soothe her worries better than I'm able. 'You'll have a chance to meet your prospects, Rosalia. You'll talk to them and get to know them a bit, before a choice is made. You can say that's what you want and see their reaction. I'm not trying to force you into anything. But Rizzo won't wait forever. You may not find a perfect choice."

There's a flicker of disappointment in her face, but she nods. 'Is that all?" she asks, starting to get up from her seat, and I nod.

'For now. We can talk about it again later, Rosalia. Not everything has to be worked out today."

The moment she's out of the office, I reach down and adjust myself, feeling my cock throb against my palm through the light wool of my trousers. It's going to be hard to focus on much else, and I briefly consider going upstairs and dealing with it—but there's the possibility of running into Rosalia on the way. The last thing I want is for her to see the state that conversation left me in.

You're a thirty-six-year-old man, Bianchi, I growl at myself, looking back down at the papers on my desk.Surely, you can manage to ignore a wayward erection long enough for it to go away.

The problem, of course, is that my days around Rosalia are beginning to feel like one prolonged wayward erection, throughout various parts of the day. I force myself to ignore it anyway, going over a spreadsheet until my eyes start to cross and my cock starts to soften, some of the frustration draining away.

And then I look up, out of the window that overlooks the pool at one side of the house, and see Rosalia in a bikini.

And why wouldn't she be?It's one of the first beautiful days of summer outside, bright and hot and perfect for swimming. My first thought is that I'm glad she found the initiative to put on a swimsuit and do something she would enjoy, instead of staying in her room. But hard on the heels of that thought, slamming into me with a force that takes my breath away, is the feeling that I'm not sure I've ever seen a more beautiful girl in all my life—or one that I've more desperately wanted to fuck.

The hot guilt that lances through me on the heels of the thought doesn't stop my cock from hardening again as I look at her, my easing erection springing back to full, aching life. Almost every inch of her perfect body is visible in the tiny red bikini that she's wearing, from her full breasts that are only just covered by the small triangles of silky red fabric and strings to the narrow curve of her waist and slope of her hips, another small triangle covering the apex of her thighs, sliding up between the soft shape of her ass. All of her curves would fill my hands perfectly. I can imagine in a split second the weight of her breasts in my palms, the way her nipples would stiffen under my touch as I ran my fingertips over them, god, my tongue. Her legs are long and slender, her thighs perfect and soft, and I can imagine them wrapped around my shoulders as I delved my tongue between them, tasting her sweet pussy for the first time. The first man to ever touch her, taste her, the first to show her how good the heat of my tongue could feel, tracing her folds, sliding inside of her, licking over her clit. I can hear her startled gasp, realizing how good it can feel, her small whimpers of pleasure as I teach her all of those sensations for the very first time.

Fuck. My head is spinning with lust, every part of me focused on the vision yards away from me, just outside. I could go out there now. I could kiss her, lay her back on one of those lounge chairs, see what her reaction would be. I could teach her everything she needs to know about pleasure, and never let another man find out how well she could learn. I imagine eating her out there, in the sunlight, pulling aside that scrap of bikini to press my mouth between her thighs. It would be all I'd do, at first. I wouldn't even show her how it felt to have so much as a finger inside of her yet—I'd just please her, make her come with my lips and tongue, until she was so overwhelmed with pleasure that she would beg for me to show her more.

My cock is throbbing, painful with need. I flex my hands at my sides, gripping the arms of my chair, knowing I should get up, leave the room, go literally anywhere else in the house. Above all else, I should not touch my cock, because if I do, I'll jerk off to the thought of Rosalia out by the pool, in the pool, of that red bikini clinging wetly to her glistening, soft skin, and then—

Then I'll have fallen deeper into the pit of self-loathing that I've been digging for myself since I walked back into this mansion and agreed to watch over her until she could be safely married.

There's plenty of work I could do. There are spreadsheets to go over, files to look at, Vincezio's endless business arrangements and employees, and a dozen other things to familiarize myself with. Plenty of work that doesn't involve watching Rosalia sunbathe, swim, do anything at all in that tiny bikini, or imagining her without it, or—

My cock throbs again, and I feel the damp heat of pre-cum against my thigh, my cock swollen and straining, leaking against my skin. My heart is pounding in my chest, a faint sheen of sweat on the back of my neck, the breath catching in my throat. I don't know if I've ever been this aroused before, if I've ever, in all the time since the night I fucked a girl for the first time on the deck of Vincezio's yacht and hoped the security tailing me wouldn't interfere, wanted a woman as badly as I want Rosalia Santoro right now.

I don't know if I've ever felt anything like this, and if I have, I can't remember it.

If I have, I don't know how I could possibly forget it.

My hands tighten into fists again, trying desperately not to touch myself. I watch as she disappears beneath the water, a brief reprieve, although my cock is still throbbing just as insistently. And then she reappears, dark hair clinging to the back of her neck, bright sunlit water beading over her skin. When she starts to step out of the pool with that bikini sticking to her like a second skin and the water dripping off onto the deck, I lose what is quickly becoming an endless battle with myself.

I don't even bother undoing my belt. I drag my zipper down with one pull, hard enough I almost think I might have broken it, palming my cock out of my trousers feverishly and letting out a hiss of pleasure when my hand wraps around my hot, aching length. I run my fingers over my dripping cockhead, spreading the pre-cum down the shaft, ignoring every guilty, shouting thought in my head as I watch Rosalia out on the pool deck, lounging back in one of the chairs in full view of my office window.

She's not doing this on purpose. She can't be.It's a coincidence that she's lying exactly where I can glimpse between her thighs, where I can see the shadow of what might be the dark curls just beneath the red fabric—because surely a girl as innocent as she is wouldn't think to shave. She might, if her husband asked her to, but—

My cock throbs dangerously in my fist, imagining requesting that of her, asking that she shave herself bare for me, insisting that she let me see.Have you been a good girl? Did you shave your pussy for me the way I asked you to? Lift up your skirt, sweetheart, let me see. Let mefeel—

I suck in a breath at the thought of sliding a hand up her skirt, beneath her panties, stroking bare, soft flesh. Outside, her legs spread the slightest bit wider, her back arching a little as she squirms with pleasure on the chair, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. And when she rolls over, the perfect shape of her ass directly in front of my gaze, enough pre-cum spills out of the tip of my cock that I almost think I've come without realizing it.

The view is exactly what I would see if I fucked her from behind. I could slip that tiny bit of fabric to one side, nudge my cockhead against her wet entrance, push myself into her—so tight and wet and hot that no other pussy would ever feel as good, ever again. She'd never need to worry that I would stray from her bed, not if I could have her. Not if she was mine.

I close my eyes for the briefest moment, imagining gripping her ass as I thrust into her, sliding my fingers between her cheeks, teasing the tight hole there, just above where I'd fill her up. I could teach her to take me there eventually, too—to let me fuck her ass while I filled her with my fingers, rubbed her clit, and made her come for me like that, too. Every part of her is innocent, untouched, but by the time I finished—

My eyes snap open, the fantasy so far gone that I feel that hot flood of shame again, even as my hand still twists and strokes over my cock, my balls tight, so close to the edge. I almost don't want to come yet—it feels so fucking good, stroking myself like this, imagining things that IknowI'll regret as soon as the orgasm ebbs, that will make me hate myself a little more for losing control. For now, all I feel is pleasure, my fingers rubbing over my straining length, and Rosalia—

Fuck.I realize, somewhere in the lust-fogged recesses of my mind, that she's no longer out by the pool. She's not on the lounge chair any longer, at least. She could be swimming; she might have gone underwater while I had my eyes closed—but I feel as ifI'mthe one underwater, the thoughts, and their potential ramifications slow to make their way through my mind as my hand still feverishly works my cock, too far gone to stop. I can't stop now. I lean my head back against the chair, eyes closing again, hips thrusting upwards, fucking my hand the way I want to fuck her, bouncing on my lap, her head back against my shoulder, her pretty thighs splayed wide so I could stroke her clit while I fuck her. I'm lost, far beyond anything that isn't the hot, throbbing pleasure in my cock. When the orgasm comes at last, spilling over my hand in a thick, spurting mess that I forget to catch with tissues before it can ruin my suit, it's all I can do not to groan loudly enough that anyone nearby will hear and know exactly what it is that I've been doing.

I can't remember the last time I came this hard, touching myself. My cock is still stiff, throbbing against my palm, and I keep stroking, my length slick with my own cum as I imagine fucking it into Rosalia, deep and hard, driving my cum into her until there's no chance that at least some of it wouldn't take root.

I feel that first flicker of guilt, the ember flaring to life, but the pleasure is still there, and I'm not ready to let go of it yet.

All I want, in that moment, is her.