DeLuca (Mafia Romance)

Present

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Fuck me.

She came out in the tiniest shorts I’d ever seen and an old baseball T-shirt with some kind of comic book character on it. The shirt was so worn it was practically see through. How the hell was I going to keep my dick in my pants when she pranced around the apartment looking like a nerdy lingerie model? Jesus, and those glasses, talk about librarian fantasy.

I turned off the TV and settled into the couch. It was a leather sectional, so it fit my tall frame. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but I’d slept on worse. Frankie’s couch was like heaven compared to the cots they gave us to sleep on when I was overseas.

Staring into the darkness, I thought about the promise I’d made Eddie all those years ago, before Frankie and I were even married. He’d made me promise not to take her; it was an impossible request. Anyone who spent any amount of time could see how hard it would be to stay away from her. She was magnetic.

There was a sweetness in her that she didn’t show many people, an innocence that I’d worried had been lost along the way, but I’d seen it in her eyes tonight. She was scared. Even though her words were to the contrary, her eyes were begging for me to protect her, and I always would. Especially when she didn’t think it was necessary, because that was when she needed it the most.

I had a secret though; I was terrified. Not only did we not have any idea who was stalking her, but I knew the more time I spent with Frankie, the more my willpower was bound to crumble until there was nothing left but dust. We’d taken the road of avoidance; we hadn’t breathed a word about being married to each other for six years. Instead, we pretended it never happened. I’d thought about filing for divorce after she graduated from college, but she’d never mentioned it so I held out hope that someday the forces that kept us apart would disappear and somehow we’d find our way to each other.

I’d married the woman I loved eight years ago, but I’d never allowed myself to be the husband she deserved-if she even wanted that anymore

I was awake before Frankie’s alarm went off the next morning. I checked the doors and windows again; everything was still secure. What I couldn’t figure out was how the hell someone could get into her house without her knowing it. It just didn’t make sense. There was no sign of forced entry on any of the windows or doors, and according to Frankie, she was the only one that had a key to her place. Since she owned the apartment, there wasn’t even a landlord that had access.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

After folding the blanket I’d used, I headed into the kitchen. I was rummaging around in the cupboards looking for coffee when she came in. She was wearing the same thing she’d had on last night with the addition of knee-high Batman socks. Her epic nerdiness shouldn’t get me hard, but it did.

“What are you doing?” she yawned, wiping sleep from her eyes. In her sleepy state, she’d apparently forgotten she was mad at me.

“Looking for coffee,” I said, looking everywhere but at her smooth bare thighs. “Actually, where’s your coffeepot?” I asked.

“Don’t have one,” she grumbled and shuffled toward the fridge.

“Why not?” I questioned as my eyes tracked her ass across the room. She opened the fridge and bent down, reaching to the back of the bottom shelf. I was mesmerized, everything around me fell away as I stared at her tight little ass, all perfect and round, held high in the air, the perfect angle for…

“Because I have this,” she said with her head in the fridge. She interrupted my ogling by standing up with a can of Red Bull held high. Of course, her insane caffeine addiction couldn’t possibly be satisfied by coffee.

“Right, breakfast of champions.”

She popped the tab and took a drink before turning to face me. She blinked a few times and coughed. “Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” she demanded.

I looked down at myself then back up at her. “I’m wearing pants.”

She huffed out a breath and glared at me. “New rule. Shirts are required at all times.”

“But not pants?” I asked with a smirk. A blush was starting to rise on her neck, and I took great joy in the fact that my body was the reason for her discomfort.

“All clothes, all the time,” she gritted out.

“What about in the shower? That could be kind of difficult.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Don’t be a dick,” she said and stormed off to her room.

I just shook my head and laughed to myself. At least I knew she wasn’t completely unaffected by me. This was going to interesting.

After I dropped Frankie off at work, I headed to my apartment to grab a few changes of clothes. I had no idea how long I’d be living with Frankie, but I figured it would be safer to limit my belongings to one bag. There was no telling how she’d react if my things started taking over her house. I was likely to lose a nut.

We fell into a somewhat easy routine throughout the rest of the week. I’d drop her off at work, go to work myself, and be back to pick her up at the end of each day. We’d order takeout and Frankie would retreat to her bedroom to do whatever it was she did, leaving me with free reign of the TV-which was fine by me.

Friday evening, Frankie went to dinner with Mia to discuss wedding plans, and I was more than happy to let Angelo take over security detail for the night. Instead, I spent my evening sweeping her apartment for bugs and cleaning my guns.

“You guys didn’t need to walk me up. I’m fine!” Frankie said as she pushed the front door open.

“Don’t give me that shit. There’s a fucking psycho peeping Tom out there stalking you. Of course we’re going to make sure you get upstairs and into your apartment safely,” Mia said from the doorway.

“Okay, fine! Good night, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Frankie said waving them off and closing the door. “Jesus, you’d think I was a fucking inmate with the way they’re fucking on me,” she said turning around.

“They’re just worried-we all are-so cut them some slack. Especially Mia, she’s been through enough; the last thing she needs is something happening to someone else she cares about. She might burn down the entire west coast,” I said, returning my attention to the task at hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I raised an eyebrow and lifted the gun in my hand. “Cleaning my guns,” I said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it kind of was. There were pieces of at least seven different guns laid out on the coffee table.

“Why are you doing it in my living room? You’re just going to leave these things laying around? Why do you have so many?” she demanded angrily.

“Where else am I supposed to do it? Besides, I’m not leaving anything laying around, and it’s not like you’ve got kids running around. I’m sure you know better than to play with a gun,” I said, ignoring her question about the number of guns. I was a man; there was no such thing as too many guns.

Apparently I’d said something wrong because her face kind of crumpled for a second, then she set her jaw and spit out, “Fuck you,” before stomping to her room, which she’d just about perfected the past week and leaving me sitting on the couch, gun in hand, confused as all hell.