Page 102 of Mafia Queen
“That crown can be in the box or on your head.” He plants his lips on mine, then rolls us over until he’s on top of me and my legs are wrapped around him. “When I tell you to suck my cock, you’ll get on your knees and open your mouth just the same.”
In our bed, late in the morning, kissing him with more feeling than I thought existed in the entire universe, I realize how happy I am.
“Are you all right?” He kisses a tear off my cheek.
“I didn’t think I’d ever let myself love you this much.”
“Love rules without rules, my violet.” With a kiss to my jaw, he moves to my throat and then my collarbone. “Even when you rule.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” His lips brush between my breasts and down my belly.
I groan at his attention, turning to the dresser where the crown sits without glory or protection. It’s not harmless. I may never know if its power comes from shared belief or Heaven above, but it’s still a mindlessly evil thing that I do not need to rule.
“I want something,” I say.
“The world?”
“It’s bigger than that.”
If the community defers to a piece of metal, nothing will change. It’s a hollow victory. My partnership with Santino was earned in blood, but it won’t be recognized by our subjects with a simple statement.
“What is it?” He kisses between my thighs.
“I’ll tell you after you make me come.”
He pauses to look up at me from between my legs.
“Maybe.”
“I shouldn’t have called youForzetta,” he says.
“No?” Is he going to imply I’m not as strong or powerful as he thought?
But he smiles and lowers his head to lick where I’m soft and wet.
“You are ail Ducetta? ” He gives my clit a quick suck. “No. That makes no sense. But you are a little Mussolini—without the moustache.”
I laugh, then he makes me squeal with delight.
31
SANTINO
In the next three days, Violetta starts turning Torre Cavallo into a home. Our people are here. Our family. She prefers to have meals cooked in the upstairs kitchen. She tells everyone she prefers the food stay far from the smell of the coal furnace, but her presence above is a strategy. It is where she can be seen, and where she can overhear things she cannot when she’s sitting beside me.
As merchants and priests come up the road to swear loyalty, she hears whispers about the crown. They don’t believe. They think I’mschiavo della fica.
“Pussy-whipped,” she translates with her feet on the short edge of my desk. Her chair faces in the same direction as mine. It’s late, and I’m pacing.
I wave it off. Doesn’t matter.
“Maybe I should give you English lessons now,” she says.
“You take this too lightly. They only fear you because they fear me.”
“Let them think what they want.”
