Angelo

Never before have I faced such a challenge as living under the same roof as Rosalia.


The next day, I wake up with renewed determination to see her solely as my ward, my legal stepsister, my responsibility to safeguard and mentor. I push aside any notion that her peculiar behavior at dinner could have stemmed from catching me in the office yesterday—if she had, I tell myself firmly, she would have been repulsed and appalled, not flirtatious.

If indeed her awkward dinner conversation was an attempt at flirting.

Either way, it doesn't matter. I remind myself of that through breakfast as Rosalia makes small talk about the literature classes that she could take at the college, wandering off afterward and saying that she has plans to go up to the library upstairs and look through the texts she might be asked to read if she goes that route.


Which is fine with me. There's no chance of having to fight my rebellious libido if she's safely ensconced upstairs with a dusty book and a cup of tea. I can focus on spreadsheets and ledgers, scheduling meetings with Vincezio's associates, and deciding how what he built will move into this new phase. All of it tedious, with plenty to occupy my time and mind that has nothing to do with Rosalia's—charms.

Until I emerge from the office to track down a quick lunch and nearly run directly into her.


'Rosalia!" I gasp her name as I nearly collide with her, grabbing her waist out of sheer reflex to keep her from falling before I even really see her—and feel as if I've been jolted with electricity at the moment when my hands touch bare skin.

I look down at her, eyes refocusing, and it takes a moment for my suddenly dizzy mind to comprehend what it is that I'm seeing.

She's wearing a bikini again. A different one this time—royal blue—but just as perfect a contrast against her smooth skin, the thin ties appearing to barely hold the scraps of silky fabric together, covering only the most necessary bits. I can't fathom how she got away with buying such skimpy swimwear—but then again, when living at a mansion where no one else will see her, I suppose it doesn't really matter…orshouldn't.

ButIcan see her, and despite the fact that I shouldn't be aroused in the slightest, every bit of blood has already left my brain.

My cock is throbbing. I can feel it straining against my fly, harder than I think I've ever been in my life, already leaking pre-cum. We're a foot away from the staircase, and I have a sudden, vivid vision of spinning Rosalia around, putting her down on her hands and knees on the stairs, and thrusting my cock into her from behind as I yank those minuscule bikini bottoms to one side. I can almost feel the tight, wet heat clenching around me,hearher mewl and then cry of pleasure as I sink down to my balls in her wet pussy, and fill her up—

My cock throbs again, a warning, letting me know just how unreasonably aroused I've gotten from nothing more than the sight of her in her swimsuit and the feeling of her skin under my hands. I also realize, rooted to the spot as I am, that I'm still holding her there—when I shouldn't be touching her at all.

I drop my hands as if she burned me, stepping back quickly before realizing that all I've likely accomplished is giving her a front-row view of my entirely inappropriate arousal. If she looks down, there's no way she won't see my cock, hard and straining in my trousers, a thick and visible ridge.

Thankfully, she doesn't look down. But her lips curl up in a small, teasing smile that almost, almost makes me think she's done this on purpose.

But why? Why would she do that? Why would she come out here barely dressed, trying to seduce a man twice her age—and her stepbrother at that. Why, when soon she'll have her pick of any of the mafia sons her own age that she wants?

It makes no sense.

'I'm sorry!" Her gasping apology only barely registers with me as she looks up at me, blue eyes wide. 'I was just heading out to the pool—"

Rosalia breaks off, her eyes fixed on mine—thankfully, because my erection isn't flagging in the slightest. 'Where were you going?" she asks innocently enough. Still, there's the smallest tinge of teasing curiosity in her voice that confuses me. 'Upstairs?"

She couldn't have seen me yesterday. She can't be wondering if I'm about to go upstairs and jerk off in the middle of the day. She can't be teasing me about that. She's too innocent, too sheltered for such a thing. I can't think that she would be anything other than disgusted if she'd seen me, if she realized how aroused I am right now. If I let myself believe that—

"I was just about to grab some lunch," I manage, striving to sound composed, despite feeling consumed by desire. "Just a quick break."

"You should come out and swim with me," she suggests casually, as though the idea had just occurred to her. "We can have lunch brought to the pool. It's such a beautiful day, and you haven't enjoyed any of it yet."

Oh god. The thought is unbearable—unmanageable. "I have a lot of work to catch up on," I reply, attempting to sound regretful rather than desperate to retreat to my office, where—

Where what? Where you can watch her from the window again? Because that's what's going to happen—another ten minutes with your hand on your cock and another ruined suit, not spreadsheets.

"What's the point of being a don if you can't take a break in the afternoon?" Rosalia teases. "Surely you're not going to work yourself to death like—"

She cuts herself off abruptly, her face paling as she realizes what she's said in jest, and all the tension between us dissipates. I can almost sense the sudden chill in the air; guilt and heaviness wash over me like a suffocating blanket as I observe her suddenly serious expression, her teeth worrying her lower lip.

She wants company. A distraction. And you're turning her down because you're afraid you can't keep yourself in check.

"I can take the afternoon off," I assure her, suddenly desperate to see her smile again. "Lunch by the pool sounds lovely, actually."

I've never felt so torn in opposite directions in my life. I should refuse her, resist the temptation, maintain the growing distance between us that feels increasingly necessary. But the sight of her brightening expression when I agree to join her outside is impossible to resist. I find myself promising to meet her in fifteen minutes, after I've changed.

I already know this is a terrible idea, that it's going to be practically impossible to hide my arousal, which I can't imagine how I'm going to keep tamped down. It's hard enough to keep her out of my head when she's not in front of me, barely dressed, but this—

Rosalia is already out by the pool when I go out to join her, lunch set up on a low table and a carafe of some sort of drink in the center of it. She's wearing a thin dress over her bathing suit, which gives me a moment's relief from trying not to look at every inch of exposed skin—but it's filmy enough that the light filters through it and highlights every bare curve. It's somehow even more arousing than just the bikini—or I'm already so far gone that anything she wore would turn me on.

'I thought you might go back to work instead," Rosalia teases, nudging a plate towards me. There are lettuce cups with what looks like chicken salad in them, and she reaches for the carafe, pouring me a drink. It looks like lemonade at first, but when I reach for it and take a sip, I realize it's alcoholic.

'Now you're convincing me to drink in the middle of the day?" I wince as I hear myself—I didn't mean for it to sound so flirtatious, but I feel as if Rosalia has me more and more off-balance with every day that passes. 'A glass of wine with dinner was one thing, but I don't know if you should be drinking this. Not at—"

She fixes me with a narrow look. 'Are you going to saynot at my age?" she asks, uncrossing her legs under the table, and I feel my mouth go dry despite the drink. 'I'm in my own home, and it's just a glass. It'sfine. Or are you always planning on telling me what to do?"

My cock lurches, hardening in my swim trunks, even as I tell myself that I'm imagining the seductive note in her voice at the end. I'm imagining it, because,god, there's nothing more right now that I want than to tell her what to do. To instruct her, bit by bit, in every step of what I want her to do to me—and how to receive what I want to do to her in return.

Rosalia picks at her food, something I've noticed her doing with each meal over the past few days. She's barely eaten at any meal, and I file that away as something to mention to her.That would definitely fall under ‘telling her what to do,'I think as I reach for my own food, and my cock twitches restlessly against my thigh, a steady throb of frustrated arousal. I don't want to rush her engagement and marriage—especially not out of my own lack of self-control—but the sooner she's safely married off, the sooner this constant, low-grade feeling of frustration can fade away.

'You need to eat more," I chide her gently as she finishes the glass of spiked lemonade, looking at her almost untouched salad. 'Especially if you do want to drink."

Rosalia looks up at me sharply, and I expect a retort from her, but her teeth just sink into her lower lip as she looks at me from under long lashes. It almost looks as if she shivers, and then I see her slow exhale as she nods. 'I'll try to eat more," she says softly. 'If that's what you want."

Fuck. There's something happening here, something that I don't want to examine too closely, because of how easily it could spin out of control for both of us—how smoothly it would feed into my desires…and possibly, it seems, hers as well.

Desires that, if I'm right, I don't even think she knows she has.

She gets up after a moment, walking towards one of the lounge chairs as she reaches for the hem of the filmy dress she has on over her swimsuit, and I can't tear my eyes away from her. Her back is to me, and so I give myself one moment of watching her, my body throbbing with need as I watch the thin material slide up over her perfect ass, the royal blue fabric of her suit caught between the full, curved cheeks, over the small of her back and the curve of her narrow waist, higher until I have a torturous, mouth-watering view of her from behind.

Once again, I can so easily imagine telling her to lay down on that chair on her stomach, spreading her legs and nudging that thin scrap of fabric aside to nuzzle between her thighs from behind, licking her until she panted and begged to come, drenching my face with her orgasm and then sliding my cock into her hot, tight—

'Are you coming?" Rosalia asks, and I blink at her, my mouth almost dropping open in shock before my brain clears just enough to realize that she's asking me if I'm getting in the pool with her.

'In a minute." I reach for the glass of lemonade and drain it, knowing full well that if I stood up right now, Rosalia would have a clear view of exactly how turned on I am. Thankfully, she walks to the pool without a backward glance, walking down the stairs and into the water, her every step only making it harder and harder for me to focus—both literally and figuratively.

She sinks below the water, the glimmer of sunlight over her as she swims to the other end. I take that opportunity to get up and walk to the edge, pushing down on my aching cock with the heel of my hand while she can't see. At least underneath the water, she won't be able to see the state I'm in.

Rosalia surfaces after a moment, just in time for me to get waist-deep. The water is refreshing—everything else aside, her idea to spend the afternoon out here has merit. The sun is bright and warm, and we have the place all to ourselves. The solitude of it is a relaxing luxury, something that I didn't have back in New York—my apartment building had a rooftop pool with every comfort and convenience a wealthy resident could ask for, but I certainly didn't have it all to myself.

She dips under the water again before I can say anything, and a moment later, resurfaces in front of me, so close that I can't move for a second. She's nearly touching me, her skin slick with water beading over it, her dark hair clinging to her shoulders wetly, and I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone more beautiful.

'You finally decided to join me." She looks up at me teasingly, her hands coming up to touch my chest, and I suck in a breath, hoping that she can't see my reaction. It's that brief moment in the church all over again, when she touched my hand and made me feel more than the simple touch should ever have been able to manage, except now we're alone, and in a place where, if I wanted to touch her, there would be no one to tell me otherwise.

Except for her, when she inevitably comes to her senses.

'Rosalia." I reach for her wrists, gently encircling them with my fingers and moving her hands away from where they're brushing against my skin. I know I should say something else, something to make her understand how inappropriate this is, but I don't know what to say.

'What?" She tilts her head, and I think I feel a slight shiver go through her, but she doesn't pull away. 'Don't you want to have a little fun?"

Everything she says is just this side of inappropriate, just enough to make me wonder if she really means what she's saying, or if I'm only interpreting it through a fog of lust, if responding to her innuendos would only result in her backing away, horrified that I heard her incorrectly.

My grip on her wrists loosens enough that she slips out of it, backing away and splashing me with a sudden movement of her hand that catches me entirely off guard and leaves me drenched. 'Lighten up," she teases, and I grimace.

See? This is what she means by ‘fun.' Not what you were thinking.

But god, she makes it so hard not to get every signal mixed up. Rosalia darts towards me, brushing against me as she splashes me again, clearly trying to get me into a playful fight that will only end with us far too close to each other. Her pouting is almost irresistible, those full, rosy lips pursed in my direction when I don't respond, and when I finally give in and splash her in return, her delighted giggle makes my cock harden in a way that I know it shouldn't.

This is wrong. It's all wrong. But the wrongness of it all is part of what's turning me on, part of what's making me throb with equal parts lust and guilt as I move towards her through the sparkling water, aiming another splash at her without realizing that I've almost backed her against the wall.

I freeze again for one split second, just before I box her in, and as Rosalia wipes the water away from her face, I see the look in her blue eyes one moment before she launches herself at me.

There's no time to react or pull away. Her hands lock around the back of my neck, pulling me in against her, and her mouth crushes against mine. It's an inexpert kiss, hard and clumsy, but I don't think about that. I don't think about the way her teeth catch on my lip or the way her mouth slightly misses mine before she manages to find my lips. All I can feel is her hands on me, her mouth, the desperate, reckless passion in the kiss, and the soft heat of her body against me as she tugs me closer, the water rippling around us as she wraps her legs around mine and pulls me in.

It's almost impossible to stop. I'm aching, throbbing, and I know she can feel how hard I am. It would be impossible to miss in that moment when she pulls me close, my hips meeting hers for one glorious second before I arch away, knowing that if I grind against her the way I want to, we'll be lost. I'll have my trunks open, and her bikini pushed aside, and Rosalia will lose her virginity in her backyard pool before either one of us can stop.

Or, worse still, I'll come before that can happen and embarrass us both.

It takes every bit of effort in me to pull away. I disentangle myself from her, unlatching her hands from around the back of my neck and backing away, feeling the insistent ache within me only worsen as I do. It's a novel experience for me to have to turn down a woman who has just shown so plainly that she wants me, and it's not one that I'm enjoying in the slightest.

'Angelo—" Rosalia bites her lip, looking at me with eyes gone glassy with desire, and I shake my head, putting more space between us.

'We can't do this," I tell her gently. 'Whatever it is that made you want to do that—you need to put it out of your head. This isn't right, Rosalia. It can't happen."

'You want it." Her words are almost accusatory, flung at me. 'I felt—"

'What you felt was what would happen to any man with a woman pressed up against him like that." It's not strictly true, and I feel a little guilty using her innocence to convince her of it. I've never felt arousal likethat, not with anyone.

'So you don't wantme?" There's a hint of hurt in her voice, and I rub a hand across my mouth, feeling frustrated.

'You shouldn't want me. Rosalia—this is wrong. If I do desire you, in any way, it's something I should grapple with and do my best to overcome, not give in to. And this—attraction I suppose you have, it—"

'Why?" Her lips are pressed into a stubbornly thin line as she looks at me. 'I've had a crush on you since I was fifteen, Angelo. You know that. It was in my father's will that he wanted you to marry me! So if I want you and you want me—" Her forehead creases, her eyes narrowing as she watches me from across the thin strip of water separating us. 'Why did you leave?" she asks accusingly.

'The first time or the second?" I know what she's asking, but I'm stalling as much as I can. This isn't a conversation that I want to have with her, especially not with everything in so much upheaval for her, her father's death so newly fresh. Hell, I don't want to reminisce on the last argument I had with Vincezio that left us estranged; that meant that I never saw him again—the only father I ever had—until I saw him in a coffin.

'Either." She still has that stubborn set to her jaw, and I know that I'm not getting out of this conversation easily.

'Fine." I let out a slow breath. 'The first time was because he had you. Not out of jealousy," I add quickly before she can get that idea in her head. 'But I was eighteen when your mother died. Almost nineteen. I wanted your father to be able to focus on raising you—put all of the love he had into that, not comfort a grieving son. And besides, I'd been thinking about it since you were born. I felt that he no longer needed me to be his heir—that he would find a husband for you willing to keep the Santoro empire intact. I didn't want to keep working alongside him, establishing that expectation in everyone else's eyes that I would eventually be his heir. I didn't want to step in front of you or take what could be yours. I didn't want to be the reason you were married off to some other family while I took over the Santoro name. So I took my old name back up—Bianchi—and I went to work for other families in Chicago, and then New York. That first time, Vincezio and I stayed in touch. He was disappointed, but he supported me, and I think he was grateful to have the space to grieve on his own. You were too young to need comfort. I thought he agreed with my choices. But of course, he had other ideas that I wasn't privy to."

'But that's what's happening anyway." Rosalia frowns at me. 'You're taking the role of don, and I'm going to be married off to some other man, into another family. What you say you didn't want. So—"

'My hope," I interrupt her quickly, 'is that we will find you a husband who finds taking your name and your father's empire to be a suitable replacement for his own, lesser name. If that is the case, then I'll simply step down, and go back to New York."

'Like before." Rosalia's expression is mutinous. 'What about the second time? Why did you leave then?"

'Your father told me what he wanted," I say quietly. 'I had come back a handful of times after I started working for Luciano Falcone. His family and yours worked closely together, and Vincezio wanted to establish stronger ties. But that last visit—he sat me down and explained what it was that he hoped I would agree to…what he had put in his will. That he wanted me to take up the Santoro name again, marry you when you were twenty-one, and be his heir." I feel the ache in my chest all over again, remembering that last conversation. It had been more acrimonious than I care to recall, and I hate that it was the last time we spoke—out of my own stubbornness, rather than his efforts.

'I have a great deal to atone for," I tell Rosalia softly. 'And I can begin by keeping my promise to protect you, rather than taking advantage of you."

'How is it advantage if I want it?" It's clear from her tone of voice that she doesn't understand in the slightest. 'If that's what my father wanted—why not, Angelo?"

'You shouldn't want me," I repeat. 'I don't know what's gotten into you, Rosalia, why you've—latched onto this idea, but this isn't right. You're my stepsister. By law, yes—but law is what would make us man and wife, too. And beyond that, I'm twice your age. Any of the sons that I will find to court you will be a better choice."

'And if I don't want them?" Rosalia tilts her chin up, a measure of defiance in her face, but I can see the hurt behind it. I've made her feel rejected, and that knowledge makes my chest ache all over again—but better the rejection now, I tell myself, than her continuing to nurture this foolish crush.

'We all have to do things that we don't want to in this life," I tell her, wincing at the lecturing tone in my own voice. She needs to hear it, I remind myself. She has to understand. 'I want to make this a slow transition for you, Rosalia, and I will, as much as I'm able. But the only reason your father didn't prepare you for marriage to some other man is that he was so firmly steadfast in his idea that I should be the one to marry you. That's not going to happen. And so, it's up to me to figure out how to handle what should have already been set in motion."

Her lips are still set in that stubborn line, but I can see her eyes watering as she looks away. The desire has evaporated, replaced by a heavy cloud, and if I came out here to try and cheer her up, it's clear that this has gone in the exact opposite direction.

The day is as sunny and bright as it was when I joined her out here, but it feels as if the temperature has dropped. It feels foolish standing there in the pool across from her, having this conversation. I turn to go up the stairs, forcing myself to ignore the way she wraps her arms around herself in my periphery, her expression turning so deeply unhappy that I want to go to her and gather her in mine.

Instead, I force myself to walk away, telling myself that comforting her will only make this harder on us both. That pushing her away is the only way to ensure her happiness in the end—or as much of it as I can manage for her, anyway.

I'm not sure who I'm lying to more—myself, or her.