Page 122 of Runaway in the Mafia
“I’ve got to go, Mamma.” I hung up as she pushed off the tree with a sad smile and strolled up to me. She was wearing a green saree. It made me want to fuck her. Ahh… who am I kidding? What she wore or didn’t wear never affected my desire to bury my dick balls-deep inside her.
I spread my legs, and she walked in between them. I trapped her gorgeous frame within my thighs. My free hand grabbed hers. Our fingers entangled.
“Come on, lunch is ready.”
My thumb traced her skin, up and down her hand. How was she so soft? So perfect. “How about I fuck you instead?”
She shook her head. “Behave.” But she bit her lip to hide her smile.
“I am,” I growled. “Your mother’s still alive, isn’t she?”
She shook her head indulgently and tried to pull me up. I yanked her down on my lap instead. “Vitale!”
“Promise me one thing?”
“What?”
I cupped her chin and gazed into her eyes. “Don’t let her get to you?”
She pulled away and rolled her gaze to the driveway. “I’ll try.”
Fuck.She never could lie to me.
I was a saint.I lasted an entire fucking meal. Well, almost all of it. With the final round of biryani on her plate, Ahanacommented on how delicious it was. That she could never make it like the masterpiece it was.
“Well, what can you do then?”
The aggravation I’d been holding inside me burst into an instant rage. Outside, my hand gripped the table leg. My muscles shifted and strained from the effort it took not to lift it off the tiled floor and smash it into her sour face. Under the table, Ahana’s hand found my thigh and squeezed. Imploringly.I’ll try.For her. A part of me thought I could do it.
My brother-in-law, Ayaan, cleared his throat with unease.Nice. But not fucking enough.
“Bas kaaphee hai,”her father said tightly, his voice strained. Tired.
That’s enough indeed. My Hindi wasn’t as great as my wife’s Italian, but I understood that.
“But you can do something,” her mother sneered, poison shielded behind her sharp teeth, eager to release.
The grip I had on the table tightened. My vision blurred. My heart ached for the gun I’d left behind. My gaze cut to my wife, and I counted the amount of little glitter shit on her saree.
“Being the scandal of Delhi is one thing.”
Jesus Christ.I’d only got to five. Was this woman even serious?
One balled fist smashed on the table. Mine.Fuck.Cutlery clattered and someone’s glass spilt and rolled on the table. “Do you run your own company?” I asked, my voice practically vibrating with rage.
Sharp nails cut into my skin on my thigh. Did she really think that was going to stop me?
Confusion replaced her mother’s tight face.
“It’s a simple enough question. I’ll take a yes or no.”
“I don’t know wh—”
“Yes. Or. A. Fucking. No.”
She stared at me across the table. Confusion fell apart to embarrassment. She looked at her husband. Vad had his open gaze on us. “No,” she said tightly, bringing her sour gaze back to mine.
I leaned away from the table. Visually putting a few feet between her on the other side of it. “That’s what I thought. You know who does? My wife. Your daughter. She runs a company. Not only that,” I couldn’t stop the pride I felt flowing out, “She has women from India and Italy working for her. Women who’ve run away from their abusive husbands. Like she’d done once. From the manyouforced her to marry. Do you even understand the amount of guts it takes to walk out of that?”
