My Father Traded Me for the Don's Sister, So I Married the Don novel · Chapter 3 of 32

Chapter 3: The Desk

She lays her father's text on Luca's desk and he trusts her; his mouth on her at the oak desk; then eleven postcards in his sister's hand.

I went downstairs at half past two in a nightgown Rosalba had left on the bed.

The study door stood open a hand's width.

Luca sat behind the black oak desk with a lamp on and his jacket off.

A glass of whiskey stood beside his elbow, untouched.

He looked up.

I crossed the room and laid my phone on his blotter, face up.

He read the text without picking it up.

"Did he ask about the piers," Luca said slowly. "Tell me everything he says."

"I've never answered him that fast in my life," I said. "I haven't answered at all."

"Why show me?"

"Because you think I'm a plant."

He leaned back.

The lamp turned his eyes almost black.

"I thought it," he said. "At the gate, when you got out of the car."

He turned his glass a quarter turn.

"A daughter in her best dress, delivered the night of a truce. It's what I would have done."

I held his gaze.

"I came from work. I was in my mother's dress because it was the only clean one I had."

"I know that now."

"I've been Aurelio Costanzo's daughter for twenty-six years," I said.

"He has never asked me one question about what I thought. Tonight he wants everything I hear."

My voice shook, and I was furious that it did.

"I am not going to be his ears. I would rather be your wife."

Luca stood up.

He came around the desk slowly, and stopped an arm's length away.

"You said you'd decide whether you hate me."

I did not look away.

"I decided."

"And?"

"I don't," I said. "I'm not sure I like how much I don't."

The corner of his mouth softened.

"That's a start."

"You asked me a question at dinner. I'd like to answer it properly."

He went still.

"I ask once, Raffaela."

It was the first time he had said my name, and I felt it in my stomach.

"Then ask."

"Where do you want my mouth?"

I sat on the edge of the black oak desk and spread my knees.

The nightgown rode up over my thighs.

"Here," I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, and his breathing changed.

Then he went down on his knees on the Persian rug, slowly, in his good trousers, and took hold of my ankles.

"Say yes."

"Yes."

He waited, his hands warm around my ankles.

"Say it so I hear every word."

"Yes. Put your mouth on me, Luca. Please."

He slid his hands up my legs and pushed the nightgown to my waist.

I wasn't wearing anything under it.

He made a low sound and pressed his face between my thighs, and the first long stroke of his tongue made me gasp.

I grabbed the edge of the desk.

"Look at me," he said against me.

I looked down.

His dark eyes were fixed on my face, and his mouth was wet, and he was licking me slowly from the bottom to the top, taking his time over every inch.

"Oh, God."

"Not God," he said. "Luca."

He closed his lips around my clit and sucked, gently, then not gently, and my hips jerked off the wood.

His hands slid under my thighs and pulled me to the very edge of the desk so I couldn't get away.

I didn't want to get away.

"Please," I said. "Please, please."

"Please what?"

"Don't stop."

"I won't." He went back down. "I'm going to stay here until you can't say my name."

He worked me with his tongue in slow, patient circles, then fast, then slow again.

Every time I got close, he eased off and let me hover.

I swore at him.

He laughed, low and warm, against my skin, and I felt it in my spine.

Nobody had ever stayed down there long enough for it to do anything.

He stayed.

He slid one finger into me, then two.

He curved them up inside me, where I was swollen and aching, and set his mouth back on my clit.

The pleasure came up from my toes.

"Luca," I said. "Luca, I'm going to."

"Do it."

"I can't."

"You can." His voice was rough with wanting. "Come on my mouth, Mrs. Vannelli. Give it to me. I earned it."

I broke.

It went through my whole body, and I heard myself cry out, loud, in a room where a hundred men had made their deals.

He didn't stop.

He licked me through every wave of it, his fingers moving.

I was shaking and sobbing his name and begging him to let me go.

When he finally lifted his head, his chin was wet and his eyes were bright.

"There she is," he said.

I put my hand on his hair and couldn't think of a single clever thing to say.

He rose.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

I saw how hard he was under his trousers, and he saw me see it.

"Not tonight," he said.

"Why?"

"Because it's three in the morning and you've just found out your father sold you."

I laughed, short and cracked.

"He didn't sell me. He traded me."

"Is there a difference?"

I thought about it.

"I'll let you know."

He laughed.

It was the first real laugh I had heard from him, short and surprised, and it made him look ten years younger.

He lifted me off the desk and set me on my feet, and held my elbows until my legs worked.

Then he unlocked the bottom drawer.

He took out a stack of postcards held with a rubber band.

He laid them on the blotter one at a time, in a row.

Eleven.

They were all the same.

Every card showed the Staten Island ferry, orange against a blue sky.

Each had a Staten Island stamp and a single line in blue ink.

I am well. Do not come. G.

"One a month," Luca said. "On the fifth. For eleven months."

I picked one up.

The handwriting was round and quick, and the G had a flourish on the tail.

"It's her?"

"It's her hand."

I turned the card over in my fingers.

"She sounds fine."

"Your father dictates them," Luca said, and he put the cards back in the drawer one by one, very carefully.

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