THE CRYSTAL SNIFTER in my hand is heavy with scotch. My father would have mocked me for it, preferring traditional Italian drinks—campari with white wine before dinner, grappa or strega for a digestif.
If he had been alive, I probably would have swallowed down the bitter grappa to keep comments on my manhood at bay, though I've always detested the stuff. And then I would have gone to my room, to drink my scotch away from those eyes that were always judging me.
It's a small thing, being able to drink what I want, eat what I want, do what I want without commentary from Carmine. But as today's reading of the will has shown, it seems likely that I will never be out from under the thumb of Carmine Benenati.
"Enough, Matteo. That's enough for tonight." Arching my neck from side to side to remove the accumulated tension, I tug open a couple more buttons on my shirt. Unbidden, I imagine Riley moving my hands aside, to do it herself. Riley, those bright eyes full of heat as she removes her own clothing and presses her wet, naked heat against me.
I'm already hard from being in the same room with her, from smelling that sweet, feminine musk, and from watching those sheets slither over her naked thighs.
I should scroll through my phone, find the number of one of the literally hundreds of socialites, aspiring actresses, models and singers... I even have the personal number of a very sexy young princess.
These women, they would all understand if I took them to a high end hotel, fucked them long and hard, then sent them something sparkly the next day. They might be disappointed not to have me for a longer time, but they know the rules of the kind of lives we lead.
Riley would not. And it is precisely because of that that I don't want the European princess, or the American singer, or the Italian actress who is rumored to have a mouth like a vacuum.
Which means that any relief I seek tonight will come at the touch of my own hand.
As I pass the front door I hear the doorknob turn, then a muffled thump as someone turns a key in the lock, only to find that it doesn't work. I turn sharply toward the sound, startled only for a moment before I realize that Emilia is the only one besides Carmine who would be able to get past security at the front gate, and who would think that she could gain entry.
I haven't told her that I changed the locks, and smile grimly when I hear her push on the heavy mahogany door, though the wood is too thick for me to make out what I know is a stream of curses.
The doorbell chimes, a somber sound that has rarely been heard here. No one entered this house without Carmine Benenati's approval—no one even knew about it.
I wait a moment, sip my scotch, knowing that to wait will infuriate Emilia. Finally I stride to the door and wrench it open. I'm in no mood to deal with my step sister, but I would enjoy handling her resultant tantrum if I ignored her even less.
Emilia poses in the doorway as I open it, making a visible effort to smooth away her irritation. This puts me on edge, as does the fact that she doesn't immediately tear into me for making her wait.
"You've changed the locks." She eyes me narrowly, fingering a strand of her glossy dark hair. I don't reply; it isn't a question.
We wait, eyes locked upon one another, neither willing to do so much as be the first to ask what it is she wants—to break would be to show weakness, after all.
"Let's cut the nonsense, shall we?"
I watch, puzzled, as her fingers slide briskly to the loose knot in the belt of her coat. I watch her undo it, watch the coat fall open, but my mind struggles to catch up to what I'm seeing.
Within seconds the long black overcoat is on the floor. Emilia stands in the doorway, and she has my attention.
As teenagers, we explored more than was healthy, given our relationship. And the attraction never faded, no matter how superficial is was.
But never did I think I would see her in front of me like this. A scrap of black lace covers her mound, a trio of elastics emphasizing her coltish hips on each side. It hides nothing. Her legs, impossibly long and slender, are displayed in spike heeled leather boots that extend all the way to mid-thigh.
But my attention is caught by her breasts. I've felt them before, in secret, in the dark. But she is wearing a black lace... I don't even know what to call it. It looks like a bra, a bit—it is black and lacy and fits the way a bra would. But rather than covering her breasts, holding them close, the garment offers them up like they are sitting on a shelf.
It leaves nothing to the imagination, and I've imagined those small brown nipples, those creamy globes plenty.
I'm already aroused by the woman in one of my spare bedrooms.
Emilia's tits make my already hard cock press painfully against the front of my slacks, begging for relief.
"No more skirting around it, Matteo." She drops to her knees in front of me, her eyes fixed on mine. Warning bells clang in my head—Emilia Guerra does not kneel—but then she takes my belt in hand, and my attention is drawn elsewhere.
"What are you doing?" My voice is rough, harsh, and she seems to like it, looking up at me and licking her lips.
"I'm offering you what we've both wanted since your father starting fucking my mother." She smiles up at me, that seductive half smile that I've seen her use on so very many people, both men and women.
"You can have me, Matteo. Any way you want to." Eyes on me, she starts to pull my belt through the loop. My pulse accelerates. And my cock hardens to the point of pain
She's right—we've being dancing around this since we were young teenagers. Part of me feels like it's inevitable. And today has me so confused, so fucked in the head—and the whisper of her fingers over the front of my pants feels so damn good—that I seriously consider it.
What man wouldn't? And no matter the steely resolve forged in me by the sadistic man that I called father, no matter that I know well that I can't trust this woman for an instant...
I feel myself caving. I want to grab her by the back of the head and thrust past her lips. Want to press her against the wall and take what I need.
Maybe if I do, I'll have a clear head when I ask Riley for her answer.
I feel my fingers fisting in Emilia's silky hair, smell her perfume wafting up to my nose. It's expensive, I'm sure, and overly sweet... cloying.
It makes it hard for me to inhale. And that might not have been so noticeable, if I hadn't just met Riley, whose presence seems to make it easier for me to breathe.
"No." My fingers clench, pulling Emilia's hair, and she hisses. Disentangling myself, I step back, putting space between us.
Her eyes spark dangerously.
"What do you mean, no?"Sliding forward on her knees, she reaches for me, and this time it is easier not to succumb to temptation.
"What's going on, Emilia?' It's still hard to think, with those tits offered up on a black lace platter. But as I look down at my stepsister, I can see the rage distort her otherwise beautiful features, and the realization pumps clarity into my blood.
Emilia offers nothing without expecting something in return.
She meets my challenge with a slight nod of acknowledgement and stands. This makes those breasts sway enticingly, which makes my cock get even harder, but I haven't let my second head do all of the thinking for quite a few years.
"Well?" Lifting my snifter, I again sip. The burn of the scotch sears my throat, helps pull me from the cloud of raw animal lust.
Emilia closes the space between us, her fingers reaching again for my belt buckle. This time I don't pull away, but cover her hand with mine, stopping her movement.
I'm close enough that I can see the irritation again distort her face, but it's gone within seconds as she teasingly brushes her lips over my own, then moves in for the kill.
She kisses me, hot and hard, her tongue pressing against the seam of my lips. I'm not easily shocked, but for the second time in as many minutes she manages it.
Heaven help me, it takes everything I have to pull away. She's a warm, willing female, and I'm not used to denying myself. But this just isn't right.
"Emilia. Stop." For the first time in memory, I use a gentle, if still firm, tone, grabbing her upper arms in my hands and pushing her away. "Just tell me. What is going on?"
I can see the calculation, displayed over her features. But she deliberately tries to hide it behind that seductive curve of her lips.
"Fine then. Business first." Before I can stop her, her fingers brush over my cock, and I groan before jerking back.
"I think we should get married." Her lips are on the curve of my neck as her words hit me, and I'm not sure I've heard her correctly.
"What?" Everywhere I move, she moves with me, rubbing that long, sleek body against me. Offering herself to me in ways that I've only dreamt of.
Even as I want to turn her to face the wall, to push between those spread thighs, I find that I'm growing irritated, and disgusted. And then when she repeats herself, shocked.
I shove at her shoulders, and this time I'm not so gentle.
"You are out of your fucking mind." Nothing this woman does should ever surprise me, but...
What?
"It makes perfect sense. Think about it, Matteo." She rubs against me again, and now I just want to shove her out the door and tell her to stop acting like a cheap whore. If she was seducing me because she genuinely wanted to, that would be different.
But she is not.
And am I asking Riley to have sex with me for something in return?
I suppose I am, and an emotion that I can only barely recognize as shame works its way through me at the realization... it's not something I'm used to feeling.
I push it away. Double standard? Perhaps. But I never claimed to be a good man.
"It makes no sense." And yet... it does.
"Matteo." She fists her fingers in the collar of my shirt. "We've always cared for one another. Always wanted each other. If we married, neither of us would lose the company. We could both have it all."
Her words are logical, absolutely. And it would be a giant fuck you to my dear dead dad.
But...
"But then we would be sharing it." I narrow my eyes, study the woman in front of me. She's absolutely stunning, while the woman in the other room is fresh faced and possibly even a little bit plain.
But beyond the fact that she has tits and an ass, something has changed today, and I don't want her.
I suspect that that something is named Riley Tremaine.
And more...
"You're worried that you'll lose." I say slowly, and feel a deep satisfaction start flooding through my body when she startles, just the tiniest bit. "You wouldn't be worried that I'd find a wife, because that's easy enough. But you're worried I'll manage to stay faithful, because so much is at stake. And you can't stand the idea that you'll be left with nothing."
I watch the red of fury slowly stain Emilia's cheeks. Well, this is interesting. I've managed to touch a nerve in the ice queen.
"Why I'm doing this doesn't matter, Matteo." Stepping back so that I can see her full length, she cups her breasts, and damn it, my traitorous cock can't help but swell. But by this point I would rather cut my own hands off than touch her with them.
"What matters is that I'm right. Think how powerful we could be, you and I. No one would ever tell us what to do again."
I close my eyes, both against the image, and against what her words conjure.
The idea of freedom is a heady thing, but I know that I will never truly be free of Carmine.
"Get out of here, Emilia." Knowing that she won't respond to anything else, I make my voice deliberately cruel. "You've embarrassed yourself enough."
"You're the one who will be embarrassed, when I take everything I'm due and leave you with nothing!" Emilia's remaining control snaps, and she releases her breasts, her hands curling into fists at her side. Her face flushes darker still, and I knew that if looks could kill, in that moment I would be six feet under.
I'm not too pleased with her myself. "Everything you are due?"
That bitch.
She was always the favorite, the one treated well and shown favors. The one my father preferred, ever since she first joined our family.
I, however...
No, Matteo. It does no good to dredge up the memories that I have worked so hard to suppress.
Carmine is gone now, and I won't let him take up space in my head.
"Leave." When Emilia starts toward me again, I push her hands away as though I'm swatting a fly. If she doesn't leave, I'll have to haul her bodily out the door, but she's now made me so angry with her flippant statement, that my cock no longer wants anything to do with her. "Leave, and I'll never mention this delusional episode of yours again."
"You fucking bastard." Emilia's hand swings out, and just as I did with Riley not an hour ago, I catch it, stop the blow. She laughs, low in her throat, and I realize with a churning in my gut that she's getting off on this.
I want to fuck!" She shrieks, and I wince, hoping that Riley—that the servants—can't hear.
What is going on? The Emilia I know would scheme like this, certainly, but she would be the picture of control.
"I don't." Releasing her with disgust, I point to the door, and she hisses.
"I'll ruin you, Matteo." Seeing that I'm not about to change my mind, she turns on the spike heel of her boot, stalks to her fallen coat. When she bends to pick it up, she does so slowly, making sure to give me a full view, even though her body is vibrating with rage. This tells me that she wants, more than anything, to entice me into her ridiculous offer.
It's not happening.
"You can try," I reply calmly. "But I wonder who the press would sympathize with more, a pampered Italian princess like you, or a man who went through what Carmine put me through."
Emilia laughs, the sound high and slightly hysterical. It's not what I expected, and it makes me uneasy.
"You have no idea what I did to earn this company," she says finally, shaking her head. Her lips are curled into a smile, but there's no hint of mirth. "No idea. But I've paid my dues. And so it will be mine. I won't offer this again."
"Go!" Finally losing patience, I throw my snifter against the wall, as hard as I can. The glass explodes like fireworks, and my voice is a roar. But how dare, how dare she compare her pampered existence to my own? "Get the fuck out!"
"You'll regret this." Her words drip with venom as she strides out the front door. She doesn't bother putting her coat back over top of her non-outfit, and I wonder for a moment if Carmine's death has somehow sent her over the edge—paparazzi follow us everywhere, and once one of my more... intimate... moments with a women were captured with a long range camera and splashed across the Italian tabloids.
Nearly naked pictures of Emilia Guerra, stepdaughter of the late, great Carmine Benenati, would fetch a pretty penny, and reflect horribly on the company.
In that moment, I don't give a fuck. I just want her gone.
"Bye, Matteo. Hope you're ready to lose everything." Finally outside, Emilia turns to look at me over her shoulders, smirking and wiggling her fingers in a wave. Her veneer of control is back, firmly in place as I slam the heavy wooden door shut behind her.
My own control is sadly lacking. I slump back against the barrier, cold sweat spearing on my forehead.
I've never seen that side of Emilia before, and it has thoroughly unnerved me. More than that...
She has declared war. I won this battle, but she'll strike again.
I have to make sure I'm ready.