Mafia Darling

23 | The Game (Ella)

The flight is uneventful. We sit in first class, of course. Marco sits with Luca and another one of the boys, and I sit, alone, behind them. The flight attendants spoil me as much as they spoil them. I'm offered exquisite food, bubbling champagne, and even a chance to shower, but I decline almost everything, always with the same answer.

"I'm only the assistant."

Every time, Marco's face twitches. It makes my heart swell with joy.

We land in Italy, and within an hour, only Marco and I are whisked away to a yacht. Marco sits with his clientele in the lavish seating area in the back, and I'm meant to join in a few minutes and wait attentively behind him.

I have a few minutes.

I take my bra off. My blouse is a thin white silk, and my nipples turn into sharp little points in the cool Mediterranean air and poke into the silk. I unbutton until the beginning of the swell of my breasts is visible, and I change from my knee-length skirt into a slightly shorter one. I let my hair down from its professional ponytail and let it fall in waves over my shoulders, and then I carefully gloss my lips.

I can't get his tattoos out of my mind. I want to touch him, to run my finger along the swirls, and I hate myself for it. I want him to hate himself for this.

I go into the meeting and stand behind him. His clientele -- all men -- glance at me but continue their conversation. The ones that aren't speaking, their eyes linger on me for a bit, but not long enough to be completely distasteful.

Marco glances over his shoulder at me. His eyes drop to my chest, and anger flashes across his face, but he's back to his cool façade almost immediately and continues his dealings. 

The men's assistant is also male, which surprises me. He stands attentively behind them, and he also glances down at my chest, and then he meets my eyes. I give him a sleazy smile and jerk my head aside.  The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn't move otherwise.

Later, when we're dismissed to plan out the next day for our respective bosses, I drag the assistant into a closet and mash my mouth into his. He tastes like red wine, like cherries, too, and he pushes me against the wall, driving his tongue deep into my mouth. It's mindless fun, and we both know it.

It takes every bit of effort to keep myself in the reality of who this is and to not imagine that this is Marco pressed up against me.

We don't go any further. I can feel his dick stiffen and strain against his pants, but he doesn't make anymore moves, and neither do I. I guess we've got that intelligence in common.

He leaves the closet first, and then I leave, gently touching my slightly swollen lips.

And I run right into Marco.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growls.

The possessiveness in his tone sends shudders through me. The heat pooling in my core that started to dissipate after the assistant stopped kissing me comes back, but I force myself to frown.

"I'm sorry, sir," I say with the professional tone. "It was a moment of weakness."

He seems surprised by my excuse, but not placated. He suddenly reaches for me and starts re-buttoning the ones I undid.

"You're mine," he says. "No one gets to see you like this. No one gets to touch you."

I raise an eyebrow. "That assistant sure got to."

I'm treading carefully. I know based on what I've heard that these dealings are important. Marco won't harm the assistant and jeopardize this relationship, not when he screwed up twice recently with my kidnapping and...and Jack.

Marco hands me a business card. "Say that Corleone would like a meeting tonight."

The card is devoid except for a phone number. "Sure thing, sir," I say.

He stiffens again at the sir, and he leaves me. I call the number, say Corleone wants a meeting to the woman who picks up, and then do my business in preparation for the following day. I do the lame tasks: check the weather, the winds, the tides. Look for a café in Venice. Look for a custom jewelry shop.

I go to the yacht's kitchen to grab myself lemon water, and as I walk back to my room, I pass by Marco's door. A beautiful woman walks out. She wears a sparkly, dark purple dress that plunges deep down her sternum. There are light bruises and bite marks all over her chest. Her legs are covered in fishnets, but they're torn in places. I'd assumed the woman I called was a receptionist for some hotshot mafia man, but it's clear from her look that this is a very high-class, very rich woman.

Marco called an associate and slept with her.

No, wait...he made me call her for him.

Jealousy surges through me. 

This motherfucker.