Page 112 of Cartel Devil

“Beg.”

“Please, Daddy. I want to come.”

“Want, not need. I guess that means you can wait.”

“No!”

I tug at his shirt with both hands as I shake my head. It’s only been a couple minutes, and he already has me worked into a frenzy. When he feels me shudder, and not the kind that’s from eager arousal, he takes mercy on me.

“Shh, chica. Daddy’ll make you come. Rock against my fingers, baby girl.”

He slides his thigh between my legs, giving me additional friction. The tears of frustration that threatened to fall abate. I breathe through the intensifying sensations until I throw my head back as I come. He nips and kisses the side of my throat.

“Fuck, Joaco. I needed that.”

“Needed, not just wanted.”

He says it with a smirk as he withdraws his hand, licking his fingers like the cat that got into the cream. I adjust my clothes again, and we head downstairs to meet my parents. We have four full SUVs with us. Two with Diaz men and two with Vizzini men. It’s been this way any time my mom and I go out. We avoid surface streets when we can that way we can’t get separated at lights, and no one can easily box us in. On the highway, the vehicles encircle us. The protocol puts me at ease.

Joaquin, however, is not at ease when we pull up to the restaurant. While none of the Mancinellis own this Italian place, the owner is friends with Salvatore. Mikey heard my parents were in town and invited us. Joaquin admits the food is amazing, so he’ll grin and bear it.

When I asked how he knows, he said that he stole Matteo’s, Marco’s, Lorenzo’s, Luca’s, Carmine’s, and Gabriele’s lunches enough times in high school to appreciate it. The first time was to fuck with them. After that, it was because he and his brothers and cousin enjoyed it. Apparently, they’d even save some for Pablo and Juan since they grew up and went to school in Jersey.

“It smells so good in here. I might have the entire left side of the menu.”

“That works for me, little one. I’ll order the right side, and we can share.”

People watch as the four of us walk through the dining room to a table where my mom and I can have our backs to a wall, and Dad and Joaquin are partially obscured. I know we make an impressive sight, especially Mom since she’s sophisticated and gorgeous. She walks through a room with the confidence of a woman with ties to the ruling families of two syndicates in two cities. Maybe one day I’ll gain that level of self-assuredness.

“Chica, they’re not just admiring your mom.”

I glance over my shoulder, and I know Joaquin’s as aware of me as he is everyone else in the room. I don’t think he was watching only me. I think he senses my emotions in a way no one else ever has.

“You admire your mom, but there’s a wistfulness to your expression. You are your mother’s daughter. You’re just as stunning as she is.”

Okay, maybe he was watching me. He sees things others don’t. He makes me feel special in a way no one else ever has.

“Thank you, cuore mio.” My heart.

We use the term in both languages. I do it when I can’t use Daddy because we’re in public. He does it when he wants me to know he’s being extra serious. As though the man isn’t always serious.

The owner comes to our table and chats with my parents while I shift in my seat. Joaquin just turned up the ass torturer. I was unprepared, but it feels surprisingly good. I didn’t see him reach into his pocket.

Sneaky bastard.

I will find a way to get him back for this.

Mikey takes our order personally, and we chat comfortably until the food comes. It’s a surprise and a relief that Joaquin and my parents get along. I know it’s because they see him with me and how he’s a normal and doting boyfriend. They’ve only known him as a narcotrafficker in the past. Now, he’s a regular guy just like my dad isn’t a Mafioso when he’s out to dinner with his family.

The antipasti come out quickly, and I dive into my arancini. The Sicilian deep-fried rice balls stuffed with ham, peas, or mozzarella are among my most favorite foods. If it didn’t sound too gluttonous, I would’ve asked them to fill mine with all three items rather than settling for only the mozzarella.

My stomach hurts after the first one, but I know I let myself get hungry. I shouldn’t have because that’s when I wind up feeling ill. After the third one, I definitely feel really off.

“Tre?”

“I got too hungry, then I think I ate too fast. I gave myself a stomachache. I’m fine.”

Sweat dampens the back of my neck, so I sip my ice water. I feel much better once I finish the glass. I don’t feel a hundred percent, but well enough to enjoy the next course.