Piers sat back, his head aching. His father could still throw a fantastic punch, even at this age, that was something he could vouch for, he thought grimly. Hila strolled into the room, puffing away on a cigarette. It was a habit she indulged in whenever she was stressed and seeing her husband face off with the Don had made her furious.
She was like a coiled spring, he thought drily as he leaned his ahead back against the head board and watched her, his eyes glinting as she came forward.
Hila crushed out her cigarette , knowing how Piers hated her smoking and climbed into the bed with him, stripping off her thin shirt and straddling him as she leaned down to kiss him. He grunted as he gripped her waist and hoisted her, posing her over his hard, thick erection. The woman only had to flick an eyebrow at him and he was lost, he thought wretchedly, as he kissed her, their mouths fusing passionately.
She shrugged out of her bra, all the while her tongue tangling with his and pushed his shirt away, playing with his flat nipples. Piers grunted, and she raised her head, her eyes sharp.
Gently stroking his face, her fingers lingering over the bandage covering his nose, she growled in her throaty voice,
“Hurts, Pretty boy?’
He chuckled. Piers would never tire of hearing her call him by the name she had given him the first time they had met.
He shrugged, his hands roving over her waist and back, stroking.
“Your father, he is very rough,” she went on, a frown of annoyance creasing her forehead.
She shook her head in irritation as she went on, kissing his neck and licking his earlobe, making him groan in anticipation, as her hands moved to stroke his heavy balls, the way he liked it.
Hila gently slid down his lean musculature, leaving a trail of kisses as she went.
“How your sweet and gentle Mumma puts up with him is something beyond me…”
Now her hands were stroking his erection, massaging his heavy balls expertly, teasing the tip of his c*ck, which was leaking precum.
Delicately, her eyes on him, she took his erection in her mouth and sucked fiercely. He grunted, raising his hips at once, fisting her short black hair cruelly. She moaned around his hard member and he grunted.
The woman would drive him insane if she kept this up, he thought darkly.
She raised her head, putting her fingers in her mouth, her eyes fixed on his as she sucked leisurely. He was getting too horny, thought Piers, and he growled, his voice hoarse with exasperation and want,
“Get onto my c*ck, you tease.”
She threw her head back and laughed, exposing her long column of throat and he grasped her, pulling her up. Then he was kissing her, biting her small pert breasts. Piers shifted, impaling her on his member but Hila’s eyes sparkled as she began to ride him, hard, her breasts bouncing as he looked at her.
Hila wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him passionately as Piers’ slender fingers dug into her waist.
The room was filled with sounds of love making as the young Don made fierce, unrelenting love to the woman he worshipped.
Later, as they lay, bodies damp and glistening, the phone rang. Piers swore as Hila stretched an arm across his chest.
“It’s Louis,” she said and he answered,
“Lou?”
His brother’s voice came over the line.
“Piers…Pappa wanted to see you.” Piers scowled. He was in no mood to meet his father. He was still smarting from their encounter and his hand went up to his jaw.
Louis continued after a pause,
“It’s what Mumma wants, bro.”
He knew that the words would have Piers listen for he never failed to respect his mother’s wishes.
“Mumma is fine. She left a message with Ria. For you.”
Piers’s face softened.
His Mumma loved him above all her other children, he knew that and it only made him fiercely protective of her. Hila was beside him, her hand playing with his wiry chest hairs as Louis went on, hesitantly,
“Uhh…could you come down to the basement, the gym?”
Piers frowned in disbelief.
It was a little before 5 am.
“Why the f*ck…?” he began but Louis added,
“Pappa is here, watching Claude and O’Grady in the ring.”
And after a moment’s beat, he went on,
“Pappa has asked for you, Piers.”
*
Bianca came awake slowly. She looked around. Where was St Just?
She sat up again and saw him, standing near the window, staring outside, he looked upset, sad and troubled; like something was eating away at him.
Sensing that she was awake, he turned sharply and smiled. But Bianca had a feeling that he was covering up something. What was the matter?
She looked about bemused as she noticed that O’Grady was still not back.
“What’s wrong, Saint?” she asked and held out her arms to the handsome, blonde man with the tawny eyes who was studying her silently.
Finn St Just smiled and shut away the thoughts that were troubling him.
Later, he told himself fatalistically. He would first tell O’Grady …
Faking a smile, he approached her.
“O’Grady’s getting thrashed by Claude Delano, as we speak,” he winked and Bianca pushed her tousled hair out of her eyes.
He laughed as she punched his chest, realising that he was teasing her and then, they were in bed, as she tumbled on him, giggling and kissing him.
She did not see the sharp wince on his handsome face as he shifted her weight from the part of his body that hurt.
Later, he promised himself, later, he would tell his brother and his love about how ill he really was…
*
Piers entered the basement gym of the sprawling house, his wife behind him. At first, he had been reluctant to meet his father but the manners instilled in him by his gentle Mumma made him drag his body out of bed. Hila had sensed his reluctance and had silently joined him after both of them had taken a quick shower.
“No need to meet the Great Don smelling of sex,” she growled as she soaped his broad back.
The basement gym was also enormous and Piers saw the lights on the Ring even before he heard the thump of fists on flesh. Hila was supremely unconcerned by the sights but Karina shied away from watching her husband fight.
Now, as they approached, Piers saw his father, dressed and as immaculate as ever, standing by the ringside, watching the fight intensely. At times, he barked instructions. A bleary-eyed Tom Jenks, the trainer, and his crew stood about too, with James Schwartz, who was sitting on a char, his cane beside him. Handsome James turned to smile at them.
Claude was in his element, pounding and darting, nimble and light on his feet as he danced around, landing blows on his opponent. But the dark-haired Irishman, was equally good as he punched and prodded, landing blows unexpectedly on Claude.
Lucien Delano turned and acknowledged the presence of Piers and Hila with a nod. Then, he raised a large, meaty hand and commanded,
“Right, you can break it up. ”
The two exhausted-looking sweaty fighters turned to look at him, dazed and bruised.
The Mafia Don conferred with the trainer who gave some recommendations. Both Claude and O’Grady approached the edge of the ring to listen to the Mafia Don as he crisply issued some pointers. Then the white-haired Lucien Delano strode towards Piers and his wife. He still looked commanding, an animal magnetism that was a part of his stature.
He came to Piers and studied his son’s hard face.
“Sir,” said Piers, dipping his head lightly.
The older man studied the handsome planes of his son; he looked so much like Proserpina, although the colouring was a trait inherited from his father.
Then he thought of his Woman’s soft brown eyes, wet with tears as he had said,
“Don’t hurt my sons, Lucien.”
The Mafia Don shut his eyes, rocking on his heels.
His ego could take a flying f*ck for all he cared; addressing his Woman’s distress was more important.
And he owed his son, this fine, thoughtful and capable young man who was handling the mob with a firm hand yet involving all his brothers as well. Not an easy task at any level, but young Piers Delano was carrying out his responsibilities with aplomb.
Piers and Hila exchanged looks. Why was the Don standing there, staring at them quizzically?
Lucien Delano’s next action took them by surprise: stepping forward, he wrapped his big, muscular arms around his son.
Pulling the astonished Piers into an embrace, he growled in a low voice,
‘I’m sorry, son.”