Page 87 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
“You seem to be as clueless as my family, Matteo. I won’t give Nevaeh up, because she’s mine. I bought her out of that fucking contract, and I’ve married her. She’s the woman I’ve wanted. Why would I give her up?”
“Right. Right, C. That’s real true. How about I go reach out to our inside guy at Vecoli and tell him to do some more digging? He might be able to find something else out from one of Nero’s security at the restaurant.”
“That sounds like something productive for you to take on.”
Matteo gets the hint and flees the room in a few rushed steps.
Nobody has to understand why I’m so committed to keeping Nevaeh.
Nevaeh herself doesn’t seem to understand why. But it’s for no one else to agree with or comprehend.
Simply put, Nevaeh’s mine, and she’ll remain mine ’til the last beat of my pained heart. My right hand comes up my chest to feel its weak twitches. I’ve been making an effort to follow Tulio’s directions. All medications have been taken, and I’ve refrained from things like alcoholic beverages and cigars.
Partly due to Nevaeh’s influence—her large, sad brown eyes when she witnesses me puffing on a cigar or cutting up a bloody slab of red meat have been enough to guilt me.
Only she holds that power. A privilege she doesn’t realize she has.
I leave the command center behind and emerge on the ground floor to findmia bella ballerinatwirling away in her dance studio.
As I so often do whenever I come across her mid practice, I stand to the side and play spectator. Right away it’s apparent that she’s not dancing to a particular routine. She’s uninhibited and free, prancing across the room in fast footwork. Tendrils of hair begin falling loose from her normally tight bun, but she pays them no mind and keeps dancing.
I watch in amazement as a euphoric expression blossoms on my ballerina’s face. It’s similar to the one she makes when she comes. The sheer and pure adrenaline rush of pleasure.
She soars through the air in an impressive far-reaching leap and then lands with the grace of a swan. She flows into more quick footwork, her bright pink ballet shoes a blur. A series of rapid spins follows, where I question how she possibly controls herself to such a perfected degree.
No wonder Ignazio chose her as the star of his show. She’s incredible.
She comes out of her last spin breathless and dewy from so much movement. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, and she gives a startled little, “Oh.”
The sound’s almost enough to make me hard on the spot.
“C’mere, Nevi,” I say, opening my arms to embrace her.
She walks straight into them. I hoist her up off her feet with my usual ease—she’s so light and easy to toss around—and plant a deep kiss on her mouth.
I draw it out, licking her lips and teasing her tongue. She tastes sweeter than fucking sugar. More addictive than it. It only makes me greedier in how I devour her. My arms have locked underneath her ass, allowing her to sit up perched against my chest.
But I’m not the only one that’s losing control. Nevaeh doesn’t hold back in returning my affection. She’s like a wild feline rubbing her tongue to mine and moaning in my arms. Her body subtly rocks against me, her legs banding around my torso, and her fingers scratching my beard. My ballerina’s turned on.
I bet her little pussy’s already gone slick.
A growl thunders from my chest. I turn us around so that I can position her against the wall.
“C! You might want to come address this!”
Ms. Poitier’s call echoes from down the hall, piercing the aroused fog that has begun to spread through my brain.
Nevaeh and I break apart with our breath heavier than usual and the pupils dilated in our eyes. My hold on her loosens and I set her down on her feet.
“Stay put.”
I follow the sound of Ms. Poitier’s voice. In a manor this size, it’s no easy feat. She’s calling from the west wing where the front entrance is located. I’m coming down the hall when I piece together what’s going on.
She’s in the den waiting for me among the elaborate Christmas decorations she and Nevaeh put up, but she isn’t alone—Carmelo’s seated in one of the wide-backed, tufted armchairs. He’s already helped himself to a drink, left leg crossed so that the ankle rests on his right knee.
I stop short a few steps into the room. “Who invited you in?”
“You did. Remember? A while back. You gave me your gate code weeks ago. In case of emergency.”