My eyes pop open wide, and my thighs clench. Thoughts of the bookie rutting into me like he fucking owned me make my heart race, and my blood heat. My senses are flooded with the image of his corded muscles pinning me to the wall, the masculine smell in the hot air, and the sounds of him fucking me. I shift my weight and try to cool down, feeling much hotter than I did a moment ago. I'm extremely aware of the fact that I'm no longer wearing any panties. I was in such a fucking rush to get out of there, I left them wherever they fell. My forehead pinches as I try to recollect what happened to them.
A shudder runs through my body as I remember. He ripped them off of me. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done. But with him? With a stranger? A criminal? I don’t even fucking know his name. Shame washes over me, and that damn lump in my throat returns. I never lusted after a man before. Never. School and work were all that mattered. I married a nice man when I finally had life all worked out. Had a baby at twenty-seven. I did everything the exact way my parents would have wanted. My blood turns to ice and I look down at my feet, wondering if they’d be ashamed of me now. Now that my marriage failed, and I’ve fallen to a new level of filth I’d never thought I’d reach.
For fuck’s sake, I let him cum in me. I cringe, but my treacherous pussy clenches. I have to repress a moan, remembering how good it felt. My lips purse as I pull out my phone and text Sarah. She’s out getting dinner for Jax and me so I can be here to watch his game.
Plan B ASAP please.
I never thought I’d be texting my PA to pick up the morning-after pill. But hell, in the last few months we’ve grown close. I imagine we’re as close as sisters would be, but I wouldn’t know. I'm an only child, and I haven’t had any family since my parents passed a few years ago. Just after I found out I was pregnant. Tears well up in my eyes as I remember. I was picking out a cute little mug for my mom to tell her. It was going to have the ultrasound on it. I wipe at my burning eyes and try to return my focus to my little man on the field, but all I can see in my head is a picture of that damn mug. Grandmom in April. She would’ve been so happy. I told everyone we were trying. The moment we got married, I wanted to be pregnant. In hindsight, I shouldn't have done that. 'Cause then everyone asks you constantly, “Are you pregnant yet?” It took a little longer than I’d hoped, but stress will do that to you. And when you work the hours I used to work, well, it’s fucking stressful. That’s why I got Sarah. That’s why I cut back and hired more help. It was the best thing for me, and then for my little man, too.
It was supposed to be the best thing for my marriage. But I don’t think anything would’ve helped us survive. Once a cheater, always a cheater. I’m too fucking forgiving. I never should’ve believed him. Never should’ve married that sweet-talking liar. But I wanted a baby. I wanted the whole package, the perfect life.
I didn’t want a cheating ass husband who blew his business in a shit deal, wanted control of my business, and then gambled away nearly everything I had. Thank fuck I grabbed a hold of my self-respect and started putting my foot down. It was even better when I started feeling he was messing around on me that I confronted it head on. There are givers and takers in this world. I’m a giver, always have been. I know the givers have to set the limits, because the takers have none. Unfortunately, I’ve learned from experience. From my shit husband. I loosen my clenched fists as the reality of his death hits me again.
I feel like such a bitch for being angry at him. He’s dead. He put me through hell and back, but he’s not here for me to be mad at anymore. I’m so confused by my emotions. Six months ago, he let his business be torn to shreds and sold off, then he blew that money on a shit deal. Two months ago, I caught him in bed with another woman. Literally. She had her legs wrapped around his hips and her heels digging into his ass as he was fucking her. On our bed. Since then he’d been trying to get every penny of mine and hired the best lawyers he could to try to get full custody, with my fucking money. But a week ago he dropped dead of a heart attack, out of nowhere. Left me with a shit ton of debt, and a giant mess to clean up. I feel like a bitch for hating him in the end, for being relieved this divorce and custody battle are no longer an issue, but most of all I hate myself for not being more upset with him dying. I literally wished he would die. I was hoping that fucker would drop dead. And then he did. How fucking horrible am I that I’m not more upset? That I don’t have more regrets?
Some days I absolutely despise myself.
And then I miss him. I see something, like a commercial for a restaurant we used to go to, and it hits me hard. The tears come on before I can hold them back, and I miss the old Rick. And then I hate myself for missing him. Maybe I’ve just turned into a hateful person.
Everything in the last year has gone to shit, but not Jax; he’s perfect. I keep going just for him. He’s my everything. As I watch him stumble on the grass and fall, I swear I see a movement to my left. A dark figure behind the trees. A cold shiver runs through my body as I jolt and stare into the trees. But I don’t see anything. My body tingles with anxiety as my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest. I swallow thickly and turn back to the field.
There’s no one there. I close my eyes and open them when I hear the women to my right clapping and cheering. One of the boys somehow managed to actually score a goal. I clap and yell and smile at my son, who’s furiously waving at me. But somewhere deep inside me, fear settles.
I’m certain I saw something. Or someone.
I force another wide smile for my son and keep my feet planted where they are, but I can’t wait to get out of here. I need to shake this feeling.
Dom
“You’re late, Dom!” My mom’s high-pitched voice hits me with a touch of humor as she flicks a kitchen hand towel at me. “You’re lucky I’m running behind.” Ma's always running behind. Maybe it’s in our genes. The kitchen smells like her signature Sunday dinner dish of sauce and meatballs.
“Sorry, Ma,” I say and give her a kiss on the cheek as I pull the flowers in my hand around to the front. “Got you a gift though.”
She pats my cheek with her hand and smiles as she says, “Aw, you spoil me!”
“Dante! Why do you never get me any flowers! You should take notes from your son!” she screams past me to the dining hall, and I all-out grin. I love it when she does this shit. Calling my dad out in front of everyone. I chuckle as I walk to the dining room and see the family gathered around the table.
My dad made sure to build this house with a large enough dining hall for everyone. There’s at least twenty people in here. And it feels comfortable, it feels like home. I may not like everything about being a Valetti, but I fucking love Sunday night dinner.
“Pops,” I greet as I slap my hand on father’s shoulder, “looking good tonight.” Pops is getting old, but he still looks good. He’s got dark eyes, with dark hair that’s grey at the temples. I have his high cheekbones and sharp jawline. He looks exactly like a mafia boss. And that’s good, 'cause that’s exactly who he is. I take a seat on his right, across from my brother.
“What up, Dom?” Vince is two years younger, making him twenty-seven. My chest pains realizing the dead fuck in my office was four years younger than my brother. Marco whatever-the-fuck his last name was. My jaw clenches tight, knowing I gotta tell them what happened. Not here though, not at dinner. Ma doesn’t approve of that shit.