Page 3 of The Tempted

Chapter One

Eight Weeks Ago

“Thatta girl just like that…,” I said running my fingers through the mess of blonde hair that was sprawled across my thighs. I patted her head encouragingly desperately trying to remember her name. I shrugged my shoulders, giving up. I didn’t really care what her name was I decided as I reached over to my nightstand to grab a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I welcomed the burn of the amber liquid as it slid down my throat. Fuck, I craved it and took another swig as her tongue slid between my balls and up my shaft her lips closing around the head of my cock. The bottle slipped from my hands, shattering into pieces decorating the wooden floor of my bedroom. I thought that if I got drunk enough and found an eager piece of ass I’d be able to forget my mother was now brain dead after a fatal car accident. The plan was to make myself numb, so I didn’t have to feel a goddamn thing when they turned off the machines that were keeping her alive. I swallowed the lump in my throat as the reality hit me. No matter how hard I tried to block out the pain it wouldn’t work. The only person I had left in this world was about to die and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to change that. No perfect blonde with fake tits and a willing mouth wrapped tightly around my dick would change the fact that I’d have to bury another parent this week.

The blonde’s head lifted from my lap, breaking me from my morbid thoughts. I fisted her hair in my hands, peering at her through blurred vision. The whiskey was finally hitting the spot gifting me with the sweet oblivion I craved. I fisted her hair in my hands, lifting my hips to thrust my cock down her throat when I heard ringing in my ears. I paused mid thrust, sure, that my head was completely fucked and then I heard the ringing again.

“What the fuck!” I slurred, realizing that my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me and that the doorbell was ringing I sat up untangling my fingers from the blonde’s hair, the blood rushed to my head and I struggled to focus as the room spun.

“Can’t you ignore it?” she purred beside me suddenly making my head throb in agony at the sound of her voice. A loud crash sounded from somewhere in the house, forcing me to pull my shit together.

I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and reached for my jeans. I pulled them up my legs stumbling a bit as I drew the zipper up. I heard muffled voices beyond my bedroom door and reached for the baseball bat that was under my bed.

“Val get your ass out here!” I heard a deep voice bellow from the other side of the door. It was a familiar voice I just couldn’t place it in my current state.

“Who’s Val?” whined the broad now sprawled out across my bed. I lifted the bat over my head ready to swing as the intruder kicked in my bedroom door. The woman shrieked in fear as two men dressed in black from head to toe stormed into my bedroom. Then it hit me, I knew these guys had known them my whole life, yet I had no fucking idea why they were here in my bedroom or how the fuck they got in the house I shared with my mother.

I peered at the two guys with one eye open. The first one was middle-aged. I think his name was Jimmy, yeah that sounded right. Jimmy Gold it was all coming back now. The guys called him Jimmy Gold because of the obsessive amount of gold chains he wore around his neck. He made Mr. T look like a pauper. It seemed only fitting that when his front tooth was knocked out in a bar fight years ago he replaced it with a gold tooth.

“Looks like our boy is doing okay…” Jimmy said with a grin eyeing the naked woman in my bed. He wiggled his fingers at her flashing her a golden smile.

“Michael!” the blonde shrieked bringing up the sheet to cover her naked form. A little delayed if you ask me, but I had to hand it to her at least she remembered my name since I couldn’t place hers for the life of me. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you,” Jimmy crooned.

“Sweetheart the party’s over.” said the younger man who stood beside Jimmy as he bent down to retrieve my blonde’s discarded dress that sat in a ball on the floor. He rose to his full height, throwing the dress onto the bed before turning towards me. I stared at the man standing before me who was once the closest thing I had to a brother, Anthony Bianci was five years older than I was and at one point I looked up to him wanted to be just like him not so much anymore. He crossed his arms against his chest not saying a word, the look in his eyes too familiar, remembering the last time I saw that look. After my father died, he looked at me with the same pitiful stare just as he was now. Well, fuck him too. I didn’t need anyone’s pity. My jaw ticked, and I broke our stare off, turning around to glance at my naked conquest.

“You better get dressed and head out. I’ll call you a cab,” I said, patting my pockets in search of my phone. I lifted my head when I heard another set of feet padding across the threshold. I caught a glimpse of the Italian leather shoes first, letting my eyes slowly travel the length of the man standing in the entryway of my bedroom. Unlike the other two men who were dressed casually, this man wore an expensive charcoal suit. I leaned against the wall using it as an anchor as I came face to face with the man who had been like a second father to me the man who my father died for Victor Pastore. He has aged in the ten years since I had seen him last. His dark brown hair that he wore slicked back was streaked with gray now especially along the sides. There were lines along his eyes and more across his forehead. His eyes looked older, tired even as if they had seen more than they bargained for.

“Val…,” he whispered hoarsely. I couldn’t formulate a single syllable. I didn’t know if it was because I was too drunk or if I was too shocked to see the man, I’d written off years ago stand before me. Maybe it was because I was choking on the anger seeing him again evoked in me. “It’s good to see you son.” He said. I ran my tongue along my bottom lip, trying to decide on what to say to him if I could say anything at all, it wasn’t going to consist of pleasantries and shit that’s for sure.

“Is this really happening right now?” the blonde shrieked. “If you assholes haven’t noticed I am naked.”

“Oh darling, we noticed,” Jimmy said with an amused grin. I peeled my eyes away from Victor to look at Jimmy as his eyes traveled the length of her.

Victor turned around as well, acknowledging my bedmate. “Sweetheart, we are sorry for the interruption. Why don’t you go on and get dressed and Jimmy here will give you a ride home.”

She looked horrified at the suggestion gaping at Victor as if he was out of his mind. I watched her rip the sheet from my bed, wrapping it tightly around her exposed body she climbed off the bed. It only took her seconds to storm into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind her. That hot willing mouth that was wrapped around my cock just minutes ago let out a stream of curses from behind the wooden door. I sighed, running my hand through my messy hair. My bloodshot eyes glared at Victor.

The silence in the room was deafening as he opened the button on his suit jacket sliding one hand into his pants pocket as he stared down at his Italian loafers. A million questions raced through my head despite being inebriated. I wanted to know why he was here. Why now? My mother and I hadn’t heard from Victor Pastore in years since right after my father was brutally murdered and we moved from New York to Pennsylvania. Not one single phone call, nothing. Holidays and occasions came and went and Victor had never reached out to us. My father died for this man and he never even had the decency to check on the family he left behind. So why now?

“Son, I’m sorry about Maryann,” he said hoarsely lifting his head his eyes meeting mine. He shook his head. “I wish you would’ve called me after the car accident. I would’ve been here sooner.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“You would’ve been here sooner?” I repeated his words back to him.

“Why the fuck would I call you?” my voice sounded broken even to my own ears. It didn’t matter how angry I was a part of me still wished this man would’ve lived up to the promises he made the day we buried my father.

I was sixteen when my father was murdered. The newspapers called it a“Mobbed Up Massacre”. My father was shot twelve times total they said. He lay dead in the street in front of Rosalie’s Bakery for hours before they finally brought his body to the morgue. They roped off the scene of the crime with yellow tape that stood there for days. I recall seeing the tape the day of his burial when the limousines drove passed the bakery on the way to the cemetery.

The media loved the rivalry between crime families and they ate that shit up printing whatever it was to sell their paper, not caring if my mother or I saw the gruesome photos of my father. His death made the newspaper every day for a week after, labeling him the second in command, the Underboss to the Pastore crime family. Each day another photo was printed. The one image embedded in my brain is the one of his body lying in a pool of his own blood. I remember thinking to myself how he looked like someone’s prey lying there covered with a sheet as a police officer outlined his body with chalk.

I cut the articles out of the paper and for years, I’d look at them memorizing the tiniest of details. The officer held the chalk in his left hand. He wore a watch on his right wrist. I could tell you so many details about the detective in that picture, but could only tell you one thing about my father. He was wearing his favorite black loafers because they were all that was visible as they peeked out from beneath the sheet.

Aside, from the photos I had also memorized the articles. They said my father made the ultimate sacrifice to protect Victor. He shielded Victor with his own body, allowing the rival family to riddle his body with bullets. In the days that followed his death, I often found myself wondering if my father thought of my mother or me before he stepped in front of the gunfire. Did we cross his mind at all? Or was he too wrapped up in being Victor’s right-hand man he completely forgot about his only son and the woman who would love him until she drew her last breath?

The police didn’t arrest Victor this I know because I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast when he showed up to our house. His face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot the man who was always so put together looked disheveled as he broke the news to my mother and me that my father was dead. When I close my eyes and allow myself to think of that day, I can still see my mother falling to her knees. Her anguished cries haunt me from time to time. Her fists pummeled against Victor’s chest, as she screamed“NO!”

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