Page 41 of Forbidden

Fuck. We’re insatiable but that’s what makes this exciting. I’ve been to his house everyday since the cemetery tryst. And it’s been an unhinged sex marathon ever since.

He doesn’t pull out right away, just stays there, heavy against my back, catching his breath. I feel him soften, and when he finally slides out, I wince at the emptiness. He smacks my assplayfully before crouching down to lick my virgin hole like some depraved psycho. I’m only able to let him get in a few swipes before and I spin around, shoving him off me.

“You’re a pig,” I say, but my voice is hoarse, wrecked, and he grins like he knows I’m full of shit.

“Yeah, but you love it,” he says, wiping his hands and mouth on a dish towel, casually, as if he didn’t just fuck me senseless.

The kitchen stinks of sex and the garlic we burned earlier, and I grab a spatula, smacking him with it. He snatches it, tossing it into the sink, and pulls me close, hands sliding down my spine. It’s softer now, and I hate how my body caves into him, craving the quiet after the storm.

“Let’s actually try to cook something this time,” I mutter, pulling away to grab a pot.

He nods, handing me a spoon, his fingers brushing mine slowly, intentionally. We move around each other, and it’s weirdly normal—him chopping onions, me stirring sauce—like we’re not a mafia enforcer and his fucked up obsession.

He’s quiet for a minute, then says, “My ma used to make this. Meatballs, sauce, the works. She’d sing these old Italian songs, with her nasally voice cracking like a busted radio. I’d hide under the table just to shut it out. Now I’d kill to hear it again.”

I glance at him, seeing the kid he used to be. “She sounds like she was fun. What happened?”

“Cancer. I was twelve. Pop was already running hits by then, so I got raised by guys who taught me how to break kneecaps instead of bedtime stories.” He chops harder, onion bits flying.

I stir the pot, the steam hitting my face, thick with tomatoes and a rancid edge that churns my stomach.

“And Sophia’s mom? I never met her. Sophia wouldn’t talk about her, just said she’s better off without her.”

Adriano stops chopping, the knife shaking over the onion, his fist clutching so hard the veins bulge. He drops it slowly, likeit’s loaded, and slumps against the counter, arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the cracked tile floor.

“Carla was my stepmom. After Ma died, Pop married her a year later. She was thirty-two, all fake tears and tight dresses, and moved in, always beaming and with a glass of wine. I was sixteen when it started, already a pissed off kid running errands for the family. She fucked me up worse than any bullet ever could.”

I stop stirring, sauce dripping onto the stove, splattering red like blood, and face him. “What’d she do?”

He nods, jaw grinding, eyes moving up to mine. “Yeah. Carla groomed me. It started small, brushing my arm, calling me ‘her little king,’ saying I’d be a made man soon. I’d be patching up Pop’s bullet holes or counting his cash, and she’d linger, staring, licking her lips. Then she’d corner me anywhere she could. The kitchen, hallway, rubbing against me, whispering how I’d learn to please her. One night, she came into my room drunk while Pop was out of town, tore my shirt off, climbed on top while I laid there, stiff, choking on my own breath. She laughed, said I’d grow into it. Eventually, Sophia showed up.”

A sick twist knots inside me and I clutch the counter, nails scraping the edge. “She raped you. And Sophia…”

“Was the result,” he finishes, voice scraped raw. “Carla didn’t even care. She told Pop the baby was his. But I knew. I fucking knew but I couldn’t quite tell my father without sounding like some kid acting up on his hormonal problems. I was already a messed up kid from missing Ma. I was going to tell him, but I just didn’t know how. When she gave birth, Pop was thrilled. It became even more impossible because it was getting worse for Sophia. When Pop wasn’t home, she’d leave Sophia screaming in a bassinet while she fucked his dealers for kicks. I was nineteen, changing diapers, heating bottles, while Carla told me I’d owe her for ‘giving me a kid.’ I started locking my room, sleeping witha bat, but she’d still slink in and put her hands on me, grinning. I told Pop when Sophia was six months old, and I was shocked he believed me. Maybe he had some doubts of his own too and I felt even stupider for not telling him soon. That day, he confronted her, and he smashed her face in, then dumped her ass on the street. She didn’t even glance at Sophia on her way out.”

I step closer, heat rolling off him, the stove hissing behind me, and push. “Did she ever come back? Try to find Sophia?”

His laugh is cold, jagged, and he grabs the knife again, slicing the onion like he’s gutting a memory. “Once. Sophia was two, toddling around, when Carla showed up at Pop’s door, strung out, begging cash. Said she’d take ‘her baby’ if I didn’t pay. I grabbed a gun, shoved it in her mouth, told her I’d blow her brains out before she touched my daughter. She pissed herself, ran off sobbing. I made damn sure she never got close again, restraining orders, paid off cops, and had boys tail her until she vanished. Don’t know where she is now. Don’t care.”

I frown, leaning in. “You never looked? Not once?”

He stops, wipes the blade on his jeans. “Could’ve. I had the muscle, the contacts, over the years. I could’ve hunted her down, snapped her neck. But I didn’t. At first for Sophia, I didn’t want her knowing what a lunatic her mother was. Then later for me. Not because I was scared or couldn’t face her again. I just didn’t give a fuck. She was dead to me, Pen. Let her rot wherever she crawled to. Sophia’s mine—always was, always will be. Even in death.”

I nod, the weight sinking in, and pry deeper, softer now. “So what about other women? Love? After her?”

He snorts. “Oh, for a long time I believed love to be a con. Carla taught me that I should just fuck women, that’s it. I had rules too: no names, no repeats, no bullshit. For me, they were just holes who were wet, willing, and gone by dawn. It helpedfor the longest. Kept my head straight to focus on what was important.”

My throat tightens, a dull ache spreading, and I force it out, voice shaky. “So I’m one of them? Another notch you’ll forget?”

He turns and grabs my face with rough hands, fingers digging into my cheeks, eyes blazing like black fire. “Fuck no. You’re not them, Pen. This was all before I got involved with you. You’re… shit, you’re my goddamn soul. I’d die before I’d let you be some random lay. You’re in me. My blood, my fucking marrow. I’d kill for you, fuck you until the earth cracks, and keep you until I’m dust. Every rule and principle I had about women, I torch ‘em for you. You’re my everything.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I blink hard, caught in his hold, his words tearing through me. “That’s deranged. You’re deranged.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice softening, thumbs stroking my skin, sweet in its madness. “But it’s you and me. You’re my sickness, Pen. I’m not screwing around with you. I’m chained to you.”

I press my forehead to his, hands fisting his shirt, and mutter, “You’re a psycho. But I’m locked in too.”

He kisses me, slow and fierce, tasting like salt and old wounds, and I feel everything he just said deep inside my heart. The sauce spits, and we pull back, a shaky laugh breaking the air, brittle but real.

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