Home > The Don : The Oath Duet (The Valentini Family #1)(4)

The Don : The Oath Duet (The Valentini Family #1)(4)
Author: Serena Akeroyd

"Oh, God," she whimpered, "what are you doing?"

"Making you clean again." I moved to her sit spot before I grabbed her hips and tilted her forward even more, encouraging her to press up against the mirrored glass. I carefully nudged one leg wider, then sank my face between her thighs.

The taste of her pussy was like a junkie’s first hit of heroin.

It sank into my fucking bones as I flicked my tongue over and along to her clit. Just as she moaned, the hungry sound was punctuated by the sounds of more gunfire from the back of the warehouse.

The way tension invaded her was interesting. I knew from my investigation into her that she was a New Yorker born and bred. Not only was this not the first time she’d have heard it, but I knew she’d been exposed to it on a personal level.

With the moment broken, her terror now filtering the air around me, an emotion that I ordinarily lived to trigger in someone, I recognized that I didn’t crave her fear.

I needed her to want me.

Standing, I went to hug her, to comfort her, but she twisted away until I grabbed her and hauled her into my chest once more.

Her cheeks, once flushed with need and warmth, were blanched, but in her eyes, there were the signs of the lady she was. A regalness overset her, like a warrior queen of old as she faced her fear, choked it down, and headbutted it rather than let it overwhelm her.

Her nails dug into my suit once more, crushing the silk as she snapped, "Don’t you have to go and be a big ol’ boss? Make some people regret crossing you?"

"You have an attitude problem," I told her softly, uncaring that my mouth and chin were slick with her pussy juices.

"You ain’t the first person to tell me that," she snapped. "You won’t be the last."

I pressed us closer together, so close that her tits smushed up against my chest. "You do know that your attitude is the reason why you lost out on that promotion, don’t you?"

She tensed. "I beg your pardon?"

I smiled at her. "I have a very thorough capo."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Jennifer scowled up at me. "A capo… what is that?"

"Essentially my right-hand man." I dipped my chin. "They saw how... interested we are in each other and decided to take notes."

"Past tense, buddy. Past fucking tense."

Tutting, I told her, "Hardly, seeing as this is the present—"

"And a big, fat fucking mistake."

At her snarled correction, I retorted, "You shouldn’t tell lies, cara mia. Not when I’ll enjoy making you tell the truth."

Fear lit her eyes up. "This was stupid of me," she breathed, tension freezing her in place at the sound of more gunshots, her attention splitting for a fraction of time until she whimpered, "So fucking stupid of me."

"You are safe here," I crooned.

"I’m the exact opposite of safe," she snapped, but it was less venomous than before, and her hands stopped crushing my jacket and, instead, clung to it.

Yes, there was a difference.

Both ruined my suit, but what was damaged silk when you had an angel in your arms?

"I-I need to go."

"You need to stay," I countered, dipping my head so I could press a kiss to her lips. The second I was a half-inch away from that kiss, she whipped her face to the side to avoid the caress. It had nothing to do with the slickness still coating my mouth.

"No!" She shoved at my chest. "Get away from me. I shouldn’t have done this."

I smirked at her. "We’ll do this again and again, cara mia—"

"Don’t call me that," she snapped, ignoring me aside from the endearment.

"—tonight was just the start."

Fire replaced the fear, setting the deep brown alight as she growled, "Your wife might have something to say about that!"

 

 

Part Two

 

 

December 22nd

 

 

Three

 

 

Luciu

 

 

"Aidan O’Donnelly, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you," I murmured as I stepped up to the VIP table at The 68.

A socialite’s hotspot located in The Sharpe, one of the exclusive skyscrapers that Acuig Corp. had constructed over the past two decades as they transformed the Manhattan skyline, The 68 was the epitome of class, elegance, and raw power.

Within these walls, deals were made that shaped the United States itself, and none of the politicians were aware of who owned it.

Or, if they did know, then they turned a blind eye.

I found Americans were very capable of doing that when it was worth their while.

The heir to the Five Points’ Mob stared up at me, his head tilting as he coolly took me in.

The man’s rep almost went as deep as his father’s, no small feat considering Aidan O’Donnelly Sr. had imprinted his level of insanity on the city for decades.

In a corner banquette, one arm resting upon the backrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey from a bottle that I knew cost nearly fifteen grand, he studied me as much as I studied him.

I took in the Prada suit, sharp, black, and slick with it, the lack of a tie, the handkerchief in his top pocket, and the fifty grand Patek Philippe on his wrist.

He took in a hand-tailored suit from Savile Row, shoes that were hand-tooled in Rome, a maroon tie made from raw silk, and my Rolex—a gift to me from my father. One of the last gifts he’d given to me before we’d stopped speaking to each other before his death.

"And you are?" O’Donnelly drawled.

I wasn’t offended that he didn’t know my identity. I’d gone out of my way to hide that from most of the factions, hell, from the majority of the city—the Irish Mob included. My surname had spread like Chlamydia in a whorehouse, but my identity? Tighter than a virgin’s pussy.

I smiled at the Irishman and murmured, "My name’s Valentini." Surprise appeared in his eyes. Not fear. Interesting. "You’ve heard of me." It wasn’t a question.

"Only by reputation." His eyes narrowed. "There are sixteen guards sitting in this restaurant," he informed me. "Each one armed with more firepower than a SWAT team. If you even think about pulling out a weapon—"

My smile turned into a smirk. "I can tell you where each is sitting in the bar if you’d like? I’m well aware that you’re protecting Savannah Daniels, O’Donnelly. But you mistake my reason for being here. It has nothing to do with the New World Sparrows or the exposés Ms. Daniels is releasing—"

O’Donnelly raised a hand to stop me. "Then why are you here?"

"To speak with you, of course."

"The last time an Italian walked into a restaurant I was frequenting, I got a call from my father and had to watch him hack some of your fellow countrymen into pieces after your play went sideways, Valentini. I have plans for tonight. Plans that don’t include that."

"They weren’t my countrymen."

He arched a brow. "They very much were."

"The Fieris purged the Famiglia," —the Italian mafia— "of all Sicilians when they slaughtered my grandfather, O’Donnelly. I’m Sicilian. Not Italian."

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