Page 54 of Crowned in Sin
“Lydia,” he strains above me. “If you don’t stop… I’m going to come.”
I release him and pump his shaft with both hands, whispering in a husky voice. “Then come for me, my Don. Come down your wife’s throat. I don’t want to miss a drop.”
Those are the last words I say to him before I bury his cock down my throat again. This time, I let him take my hair into his hands, let his eyes drill into mine, and don’t stop until I feel him come apart against my lips, tongue, and throat.
19
LYDIA
Goingto Elena's was my idea.
I didn’t want to just send flowers and an envelope. I wanted to look Elena in the eye and tell her myself how sorry I am for her loss. To my surprise, Nico agreed. I had half expected him to tell me that it’s not for a Don’s wife to pay her personal respects like this.
But I think he also remembers that of all the women in that cold church yesterday, it was Elena who offered me a shred of warmth.
I owe her this at a minimum.
Elena’s house is at the end of a street where the trees grow close enough to touch overhead. The porch light is already on even though it's barely past noon. There are other cars lining the curb, a dozen of them.
Nico parks the car himself. Anastasio offered to drive us but Nico told him no.
You drive your own car to a dead man's door when paying respects. You don't make a soldier do it for you.
I smooth the dark fabric of my dress over my knees and look up at the house. Through the front window I can see the shapes of people moving behind lace curtains. I look back at Nico one more time, and then step out, waiting for him to join me. Hand in hand, we walk towards the door together.
The front room is full and quiet at the same time. Men in dark suits line the walls with their hands folded, and women sit in the chairs and on the arms of the couch, holding cups of coffee they aren't drinking. The air smells like flowers and baked bread that nobody will eat.
Every head turns when we walk in.
The conversations sink down to a murmur and then fade to nothing. The weight of all those eyes presses on me from all directions.
A heavyset man peels off the wall and comes to Nico with his head bowed. "Don Nico. Thank you for coming."
"Your nephew was a good man, Tommaso." Nico clasps his hand. "His loss is a tragedy for us all. But I promise you, he will be remembered."
"Yes," the man agrees, and his eyes are wet. "He will."
It goes like that, one after another. They come to Nico and they bow and they speak low, and I stand at his side with my hand light on his arm, and I learn what it means to be a Don’s wife without anybody teaching it to me. A nod here. A word of thanks accepted there. A hand laid for a moment over another grieving hand.
The women watch me, and the hardness that I saw at church slowly begins to leave their faces. Grief requires its own language, and respect as well. And I find that in this moment, I can speak both well enough to make them see me as more than an outsider playing pretend.
But it’s not their faces that I care about. It’s the one staring blankly near the kitchen doorway.
Elena looks smaller than I remember. At the church she stood straight and gave me her scarf and told me to be brave. But now she sits in a hard chair by the kitchen window, with a cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders even in the summer heat.
Her daughter is asleep against her side, little face slack and damp. One small fist is curled in the wool of her mother's sweater.
I cross the room to her.
"Mrs. D'Ambrosio." Elena starts to rise, and I put a hand on her shoulder before she can.
"Please sit." I lower myself into the chair beside her instead. "You shouldn't be standing for anyone today. Least of all me."
She settles back down, eyes going over my face. "I wasn’t expecting your presence.”
"Why wouldn’t I come?"
Her daughter stirs, and Elena's hand moves to her back, soothing the child in slow circles until the child goes still again. I watch her do it and feel the old ache open up under my ribs.
