The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,32

I feared them.

I slid my fingers into his, and he gripped them immediately.

“Have you ever prayed, Alessandro?”

Alessandro pressed his hand beneath my chin, lifting my eyes up to his. His expression swallowed me; half-fierce, half-adoring. “Only once.”

That was not the answer I had expected. I’d expected him to scoff at my superstitious nature, my belief in a higher power.

“Once? When?”

He moved his fingers from my chin, cupping my cheek. Warmth fluttered through me, reminding me of how cold the rest of my body was. “When I heard a gunshot go off in my wife’s hospital room.”

My heart skipped a beat. All I could think to say was, “That is not the proper way of praying.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a correct way.”

“We’re Catholic.” I smiled slightly. “There is a correct way to do everything.”

Alessandro’s gaze dropped down to my lips. “Oh? Will you teach me?”

With shaky legs, I rose. Alessandro came with me, dropping his palm from my cheek and instead taking my cold hand. I led him up to the alter, to the marble statue of the Virgin Mary. Reds and blues and greens fanned over us, a result of the moonlight shining through the stained-glass windows.

Alessandro’s dark eyes roamed over the arches and spires, a nostalgic look on his face. Was he remembering our wedding? Our son’s baptism? Or perhaps the induction of Anthony Scaletta? Maybe he was remembering one of the many funerals that we had endured in this cold holy place.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

My husband smiled, possessive and half-feral. “When we got married.”

“A joyous day,” I mused.

A small part of me wished I could go back and comfort past-Sophia. I would wrap her up in my arms, keep her warm and tell her, it’s going to be okay. He’s going to see all of you and it will be terrifying but it will be okay.

“Indeed.” He cast his eyes up to Mary Madonna’s face. “You were going to teach me how to pray?”

“You have to get on your knees.”

Alessandro eyes gleamed. In one smooth movement, he dropped to the ground.

He peered up at me, eyes too dark, too knowing.

My breath caught in my throat. “You have to press your hands together.”

“Really?” He caught my thighs, pressing on them until I leaned against the statue, the stone digging into my back.

“Yes,” I breathed. The heat from his palms was shooting straight up, overwhelming my senses—

“Did I ever tell you I am terrible at learning new things?” Alessandro asked. He may have been on his knees, bowing to me, but it was very clear who was in charge of this situation.

I stuttered out, trying to make my voice sound level, “Oh?”

His grin only widened, the whites of his teeth flashing. “All my teachers said, all my reports. The capo I served under in my youth. Even my grandfather.” I felt his hot breath tickle my thigh.

“Why?”

“Apparently, I’m too easily distracted.”

I gasped as his hands cupped the back of my thighs, spreading them. “I can’t imagine why,” was my breathy reply.

Alessandro’s fingers moved up my legs, slipping beneath my skirt. I felt their electric touch as he got closer to the building ache. He twisted his fingers around the side of my panties, his grin only widening as my lips parted.

The fabric easily came down as he pulled. “Step out, darling,” he murmured.

I stepped out of my panties, barely able to think about anything past his hands, his lips, his tongue—

Alessandro pushed me back gently, encouraging me to sit on the statue’s pedestal. The stony legs of Mary Madonna pressed into my spine, but I hardly registered it.

His rough hands pushed up my skirt, the fabric bunching up at my hips. The cold press of the marble statue on my exposed skin made me start. The noise echoed through the church.

“Is it too cold?” Alessandro asked.

I nodded.

“I guess I will just have to warm you up.” His head went down. I could feel his lips on my knee, my thigh, higher and higher…

I felt his hot breath first, then his lips pressing against my sensitive spot.

Alessandro’s tongue reached out in sweeping movement, his stubble brushing against my thigh, his fingers digging into my knees. The pressure between my legs began to grow stronger, wetter. Air was leaving my lungs; my nipples were tightening.

I grabbed his head, fingers digging into his hair. “Please—oh God.”

“Not God. Who?” he murmured against me.

I would’ve told him anything in that moment. “You—Alessandro—my husband!”

He laughed deep in his throat. “My love,” he