Page 18 of The Godfather’s Christmas Twins
The twins race to the kitchen. I give Gia a quick tour of where everything is from flour and other ingredients, to bowls and spoons, to pans and even a pizza cutter. I must have been good at it as Gia moves through my kitchen with surprising familiarity, gathering flour and olive oil. The sight of her there, so domestic, so natural, only adds to the yearning for something more in my life. Something more with her and the kids.
I sink onto a barstool at the kitchen island, content to observe. Gia measures ingredients while explaining each step to the kids. Flour dusts their clothes, their faces, even the counter, but their joy is infectious. I can’t remember a time when my home was filled with such laughter and light.
Gia divides the dough into four balls, handing one to each of the kids.
"Can I twirl it, Mama?" Dario's small hands press into his dough.
She glances at me, although I’m not sure why. Does she feel she needs my permission?
“You can try. Just don’t drop it.”
“Me too,” Daniella chimes in. I watch with fascination as they try to toss their pizza dough.
“You can do it too,” Dario says to me.
Gia has a smirk as she passes me a ball of dough.
“I don’t know how,” I say, beginning to knead the dough.
“Like this,” Daniella says, proceeding to give me a lesson.
Gia focusses on cutting onions and peppers for the pizza and then shredding cheese.
“I don’t suppose you have pepperoni?”
Do I? I go to the meat bin in my fridge and send a silent thank you to Maria when I find a package of already cut pepperoni. “Maria must have known you’d make pizza?”
With the dough now in a round shape, or oblong for the kids, the kids begin to load up on toppings. Daniella creates elaborate patterns with her toppings while Dario piles his high with extra cheese.
I should feel like an outsider watching this family moment. Instead, I focus on memorizing every detail—the flour smudge on Gia's cheek, the way Daniella's tongue pokes out in concentration, Dario's proud grin as he makes stacks of pepperoni.
For the first time ever, my house feels like a home.
Dinner is a delicious delight, but as soon as it’s over, Gia is doing dishes and whisking the kids off their wing of the house, leaving me feeling cold and alone.
For the best, I remind myself.
I work a few more hours and then make my rounds of the house, doing final security checks before calling it night. A flash of movement catches my eye through the back windows. Gia stands alone on the patio, bathed in moonlight. Her silk robe ripples in the desert breeze as she gazes up at the stars.
Everything inside me stops. My heart. My breath. She looks ethereal the way the moonlight catches her honey-blonde hair. The memory of her looking like that the night she came to my room offering me her virginity, wanting to know the pleasures between a man and woman before being married off into a loveless, abusive marriage, hits me.
Three steps would take me through those doors. I could stand beside her, ask what's on her mind. Offer comfort. Let her know she's not alone.
But I can’t trust myself that close to her. And it’s clear she doesn’t want it either. I move into the shadows and watch until she returns to the house and to her room.
I make my way to my own bedroom, stripping down to boxer briefs and sliding between cool sheets. Sleep comes quickly but brings no peace.
In my dreams, she's in my arms again. Soft skin under my palms, her breathless sighs in my ear. The sweet taste of her lips, the way she whispered my name. Her body arching beneath mine, those green eyes dark with desire.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her in my dreams. “We could have had this, but I was a coward.”
She doesn’t say anything, which only heightens my guilt. My body doesn’t heed it. It drowns itself in her. Her scent, her touch, it consumes me. My body rocks with hers, her hot, wet pussy pulsing around my cock until the pleasure is almost more than I can bear.
I jolt awake,sheets twisted around my legs, heart hammering. Sweat beads on my chest. I glance down wondering if I’ve come on my sheets. No. My dick is still hard as rock, tenting the blankets.
"Fuck," I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face. Having her here, under my roof, it's torture.
I roll over, punching my pillow, ordering my dick to stand down. But the dream shimmers at the edge of my mind. Dammit. I consider a cold shower, but… oh, fuck it.