Arranged Mafia Marriage

Theresa

“Wh…what do you mean?” I stutter

“Exactly what I said.” He lowers the zipper of his jeans, pulls his cock out and begins to stroke himself. Don’t look down, don’t! My gaze lowers to where he grips his dick at the base then proceeds to swipe his fingers up to the crown, repeatedly. The wet sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the space.

Heat flushes my cheeks and my shoulders tremble. What the hell am I doing here? Why did I come to his house in the first place? And damn it, I am already thinking of this as his house and not Xander’s. That’s okay, right? Isn’t this what Xander would have wanted? For me to marry his brother? Would Xander have been jealous? Why am I thinking of Xander when I am standing almost naked in front of his brother who is pleasuring himself, for my benefit? Get out of here. Go away, leave…until the wedding. You are going to see him at your wedding. You are going to marry him, and then…you are going to watch him get off every day, you are going to allow him to get you off, to fuck you as much as he wants. My scalp tingles. All of my pores seem to pop.

I turn to leave, and that’s when he growls, “On your knees.”

I hesitate. He narrows his gaze.

“Now,” he snaps. I blink.

I sink down and ignore the pain that shoots up my thighs when my knees connect with the wooden floor boards.

“Good girl, now crawl to me.”

It doesn’t even occur to me to refuse him. I lower my hands to the floor and begin to crawl to him. My heart begins to race, my pulse pounds at my temples, and my lower belly cramps with heat as I watch his gorgeous cock lengthen and throb, the head almost purple with desire as he continues to massage himself.

I pause in front of him and his actions speed up. The planes of his chest grow solid, the veins of his forearm stand out in relief, and a groan rips from his throat.

“Rise to your knees,” he orders.

As soon as I do, he comes, shooting his cum across my breasts.

“Fuck,” he growls, “that’s bloody hot.” He reaches over and rubs the white, ropy strands into my skin.

I can’t move. Can’t take my gaze off the contrast between his dark skin and my pale flesh. He drags his fingers up my chest and locks his fingers around the nape of my neck. “Who do you belong to?” He hauls me up and places his forehead against mine, “Tell me, Sunshine, who do you belong to?”

I swallow. I want to say the words, want to tell him what he wants to hear, but I can’t.

“Tell me.” His voice lowers in frustration, “Tell me, Sunshine.”

“Xander,” I say in a whisper, “I will always belong to Xander. You are just a substitute, someone to stand in for him. I couldn’t have him, so instead, I decided I would marry you and hold onto the man who looks so much like him, I-” I cough, for he’s tightened his hold around my throat. I try to draw in a breath and my lungs burn. Shit, what the hell am I doing? Why am I provoking him? Why is it that every time I see him I want to do something to aggravate him? What I’m saying isn’t even true. It’s as if I become a different person when I am with him-a more interesting person, someone who finds her backbone, someone who wants to stand up against him, someone who is falling in love with him. Hell! I rear back, but he doesn’t let me go. His grasp is so tight now that specks of black flicker at the edges of my vision.

“What did you say?” he asks in a soft voice.

I try to speak, but end up coughing.

“Damn you.” He stares into my eyes, his own burning with pain and hurt and something else…something that seems like torment?

He releases me so suddenly that I collapse on the floor. I draw in a breath and the rush of oxygen to my starved lungs makes me almost black out again.

“Shit,” he shakes his head, “did I hurt you?”

He reaches for me. I try to skitter away, but this time, he hauls me up and into his lap. He holds me to his chest. “Sorry, Sunshine,” he murmurs, “didn’t mean to scare you like that. But the things you say… It’s like you know exactly how to get under my skin.”

I curl up against him, absorbing the comfort that he offers me. We stay like that for a few seconds, then I nod toward the painting, “Did the two of you meet? Is that how he painted you?”

“We never met,” his voice rumbles in his chest. “The first I realized that we were triplets was when Michael mentioned him to me.”

“But you knew you had brothers, right? Your mother must have told you?”

“My mother didn’t tell me anything, except to stay away from the Sovranos. So naturally, the first thing I did when I left home was to find out everything I could about them.”

“Then how?” I fix my gaze on the painting, on the images of Xander and the man who had to be Axel next to him on the canvas. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, to be honest,” Axel admits.

“Maybe he intuitively knew about your existence?” I peer through the gloom at the canvas, “Aren’t twins and triplets supposed to sense each other and stuff? Maybe he had a feeling about you. After all, he was an artist, and aren’t artists supposed to be more in tune with themselves and the world? So maybe, he kind of guessed about your existence?”

“Maybe he was just doodling or something,” Axel blows out a breath, “though that’s not exactly what I would call a doodle.” He laughs in a self-deprecating tone, “That likeness is scary; it’s like looking into a mirror. And the way he’s drawn himself and Christian, I can almost see the three of us standing together in real life. He was a talented artist.”

“You sound surprised.” I try to sit up, but he doesn’t release me.

“I am,” he admits. “I knew he was an artist, but that he was this good?” He shakes his head.

“He never bragged about his art. It was a way of life for him and he wasn’t temperamental or anything; he was always so happy, so full of life. Sometimes though, I thought I caught a glimpse of the conflict inside him.”

“Conflict?” Axel pauses, “You think he was unhappy deep inside?”

“He was confused about his sexuality. Or rather, he knew he was bisexual, but it wasn’t something he was open about. I mean, it’s not easy when you are born into an orthodox Catholic family, and a Mafia one at that, to come out and proclaim what you are without some kind of backlash.”

“You think the Sovranos wouldn’t have accepted him?”

“The brothers would have supported him, but Nonna? Not likely that she would have encouraged him to explore his sexuality.” I laugh humorlessly.

“Not like he needed their permission,” he drags his fingers through my hair. “He could have left home. He could have opted to find out more about himself and forged his own path.”

“It’s not easy when you have the pull of family behind you. And it’s not like the brothers would have let him simply disappear. Wherever he went, they would have kept tabs on him.”

“Oh?” He stills, “You think they’d have kept eyes on him, regardless of where he was.”

“One-hundred percent.” I turn to him, “Once you are a part of the Sovranos, they are not going to just let you leave, you know. They’ll make sure they know where you are at all times.”

“So they can control you?”

“So they can protect you. The famiglia has a lot of enemies and you can’t fight them alone.”

“I don’t need their help.” His jaw hardens, “I have been taking care of myself so far, and I plan to do so for the foreseeable future.”

“I know, but don’t underestimate their enemies. You are now a Sovrano, and that itself, will have drawn the attention of those who want to get even with them.”

“You’re worried about me?”

“I know you can take care of yourself,” I murmur, “but after what happened to Xander-”

“Goddammit, I am not Xander.” He pushes me off his lap so suddenly, I hit the ground.

He rises to his feet and walks past me to the painting. He stares at it for a few seconds, then grips his hair and tugs on it. “Fuck,” he says in a low voice, “fuck, fuck, fuck, why does this have to be so complicated?”

“What’s complicated?” I rise to my feet. “You are not making any sense, Axel. One second, I am sure you feel something for me. The next second, I am sure that you hate me.”NôvelDrama.Org: text © owner.

“I hate myself.” He turns on me, “I hate myself for being attracted to you.”

He glances about the space, as if searching for something.

“What is it?” I swallow. “What are you looking for?”

“I fucking hate that I’ve allowed myself to be trapped in this situation.”

“Trapped? Situation?” I frown, “What are you talking about?”

He sweeps his eyes across the room again, then his gaze lights up. He stomps over to a corner of the room where there is a pile of easels stored against the wall. Next to it is a bunch of brushes placed in a brush holder. He pushes it aside and the brushes spill onto the floor. He kicks a blank canvas aside, then throws another over his shoulder. It falls to the ground with a thud. I jump. What the hell is he doing? What the hell is he looking for?

He grabs a plastic bottle containing a transparent liquid and rises to his feet. He walks toward the giant fireplace, then pauses in the stone area in front of the fireplace before he turns to face me.

The light from the candles flows over him, highlighting the hollows under his cheekbones, the grooves on either side of his lips, the lines radiating out from his eyes. His tanned skin glows almost golden in this light. He seems like a pagan god, a deity at whose feet I must worship. An outlaw who will never follow the rules of society. A fugitive on the run from himself. A feral creature who cannot be tamed by the laws of the land. A man who’ll never bend, who’ll never concede defeat to another.

“Axel,” I whisper, “who are you really?”

He bares his teeth, then flips the lid of the bottle. He upturns it on himself so the liquid splatters across his T-shirt, over his arms, his neck, his face. Then he throws the empty bottle aside. The smell of alcohol envelops me and the hair rises on the back of my neck.

“No,” I whisper, “don’t do this.”

I rush toward him, but it’s too late. He flicks the lighter, holds the flame to his shirt and sets himself on fire.