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Ruined Secrets: Part 1 – Chapter 5


I throw my jacket onto one of the recliners in my room and sit down on the edge of the bed, listening to Donato’s mumbling coming from the phone. There have been some problems with one of the properties we bought and I spent last night and the whole of today in my office downtown, trying to get that shit sorted out. I really don’t need another fuckup today.
“Oh, for the love of God, Donato. Can’t you deal with at least some of the shit by yourself?” I say into the phone, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “How many crates?”
“The truck just came in. We opened the first few, but it’s likely several more are the same, Luca.”
“Fuck.” I close my eyes in frustration. What the hell am I going to do with a whole fucking shipment of the wrong caliber ammunition?
A low, moaning sound reaches me from the direction of Isabella’s room and I look up, staring at the door connecting our rooms. I haven’t seen her after yesterday evening when I found her in Rosa’s room. She brought my daughter dinner. I’m not sure what to think about that. Or about the fact that I’ve been thinking about her the whole day. Fuck. I need to tell Viola to move her things back to the room across from Rosa’s.
“What should I tell the Romanians?” Donato asks, pulling me away from thinking about my young wife.
“Call Bogdan. Tell him I’m expecting him at the warehouse at eight tomorrow morning.”
“What if he says he can’t come?”
“Then, I will come to him and personally put each and every fucking bullet up his ass. Tell him that.” I throw the phone onto the bed. Damn Romanians.
I cross my bedroom, heading toward the bathroom, but stop in front of the connecting door to the room where Isabella is sleeping. There it is again, another quiet moan like the one I thought I heard a few moments ago. I inch closer to the door, wondering if something’s wrong, but there’s only silence from the other side. The door handle feels cool when I grasp it and open the door as quietly as possible, taking a peek inside.
At first, I think Isabella must be unwell, because the only thing I can see through the darkness is her body on the bed, twisted slightly to the side. I open the door a bit more and some of the light from my room spills inside, allowing me to see her more clearly. The moment I do, my hand tightens on the handle.
Isabella lifts her head off the pillow and looks directly at me while her hand keeps moving inside her silky pajama pants, right between her legs. I watch, mesmerized, as she lifts her ass up and a moan escapes her lips. My breaths quicken and I feel myself getting hard as she opens her legs wider and slides her other hand under the waistband. I should turn around and shut the door in my wake, but I can’t make myself leave. I’m glued to the sight of my teenage wife as she pleasures herself, her eyes fixed on me the whole time. She lifts her pelvis again and starts panting, her lips partially open. I grip the doorjamb with my other hand when she arches her body and throws back her head as tremors shake her frame. It lasts a few seconds before she sags down onto the bed. She exhales slowly, removes her hands from inside of her pants, and flashes her eyes at me one more time as she slides under the blanket.
I stare at her for some time, then turn around and bang the door closed.


“Good morning,” I smile at Rosa and Damian as I sit down at the dining table where coffee has already been served.
“You seem to be cheerful today. Any particular reason?” Damian asks and reaches for his coffee.
Of course I am, and there’s a very specific reason. Every time I think about the shocked look on my husband’s face when he opened the door and saw me playing with my pussy, a smile pulls at my lips. Yes, he went back to his room and banged the door after him, but based on the way he gripped the doorway while he watched, we’re off to a good start.
“No reason.” I nod toward the empty chair on my left. “Where’s Luca?”
“There were some problems he had to deal with, so he left early. He was in a really strange mood, though,” Damian says, looking at me over the rim of his cup.
“Oh? How so?”
“Cranky. Snapping at the staff. He rarely does that. I wonder what could have riled him up.”
“He’s in a stressful line of work.” I shrug, a picture of innocence.
“Yeah, it must be that,” he says casually, but I see the way he’s looking at me with a tiny smile on his lips.
“I’ll need a driver,” I say. “My grandfather’s not feeling well. I want to drop by and check on him.”
“Sure. But we’ll have to wait for Luca to come back to see who he’ll assign as your security detail.”
“I won’t need a bodyguard today. I’ll be going straight to the don’s house and back, I don’t plan on stopping anywhere else or leaving the car along the way.”
“Luca won’t like it if you leave the grounds without one, Isabella.”
“Dad always has to have the last word, Isa,” Rosa throws in, laughing.
Good to know.
A maid brings in a huge basket of freshly baked pastries and places it in the middle of the table. Rosa jumps up, grabbing two croissants, but before placing them on her plate throws a sideways look at me.
“Is something wrong, Rosa?” I ask and reach to take some pastries for myself.
“I’m really hungry,” she mumbles.
“Then you should eat those before they get cold.” I nod at the croissants she’s still holding.
“You said you’re hungry.”
“But I’ll get fat.”
My head snaps up. “Oh, sweetie, you won’t get fat. Where did you get that idea from?”
Rosa bends her head and shrugs. “Simona told me I need to watch how much I eat because of my meta . . . hm, metalism.”
Jesus Christ. Something is seriously wrong with that woman. I place my palms on the table and lean toward Rosa. Damian keeps observing the situation without commenting, as if he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
“You mean metabolism, sweetie. You’re a child. Kids need to eat a good breakfast because they’re still growing.” I reach out and, taking the croissants from her hands, lower them onto her plate. “You don’t have to worry about your metabolism for at least a decade. Okay?”
A small smile pulls at Rosa’s lips, and the next second she digs into her breakfast. When I lean back in my chair, I notice Luca’s brother watching me and I raise an eyebrow at him. Damian smirks and gets back to his coffee.


I walk inside the warehouse where my men are unloading the rest of the crates that came last night. Donato is following a few paces behind me. Bogdan and two more of his guys are standing next to the truck, arguing.
“What happened with my shipment?” I nod toward the crates left on the truck.
“Gavril swapped the model numbers on some containers,” Bogdan says and turns to face the tall guy on his right. “I told you to check everything twice!”
“How many crates?” I ask.
“Twelve. I’ll have the correct ammunition in two weeks. Three, in the worst-case scenario.”
I look back at Donato. “When did we promise to deliver those?”
“On Monday.”
I turn back to Bogdan. “I need the correct ammo on Sunday.”
“I can’t get anything within the next ten days, Luca. All my trucks are already loaded and have routes planned out. How about the weekend after next?”
How unfortunate. I walk to the open crates lined along the truck, take out a Beretta, then reach for a magazine in the adjacent container. “I have a feeling you are not taking our arrangement seriously, Bogdan.” I load the magazine inside the gun. “Let’s change the narrative.”
“Oh, come on. You know how it is. Mistakes happen.”
“Indeed.” I cock the gun. “The thing is, Bogdan, I’ve been in an extremely bad mood recently. I didn’t need this today.”
I lift the gun and shoot the asshole who apparently caused this clusterfuck, hitting his forehead dead-center.
“What the fuck!” Bogdan yells, staring at the dead guy now at his feet.
“You see, I’ve just mistaken Gavril for you. Mistakes happen,” I say and shoot Bogdan’s other guy. His body drops next to the first one. “Should I continue? It’s only you left. I’m pretty sure I won’t make a mistake a third time.”
Bogdan’s eyes bulge, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“I want my ammunition here on Sunday. Can you do that for me?”
He nods.
“Good. I’m glad we’ve found a language that makes it easier for you to understand.” I throw the gun back in the crate. “Ask around and see if you can get me a tank.”
My arms supplier just stares at me.
“Can you?” I ask again.
“A tank . . . as in . . . an actual tank?”
“Do you sell imaginary ones as well?” I shake my head. “Belov sounded interested when we met. Says he’s asking for a friend.”
“They’re all insane, those Russians,” he mumbles.
“Let me know what you find out.”
My phone rings as I’m getting behind the wheel, showing Isabella’s name. She probably asked Damian for my number, since I never offered it to her. But I certainly made sure I have hers. It’s a shitty move, I know, but I’ve already been thinking about my wife way more than I should. I don’t need her calling me, especially now when all I can think about are the sounds she was making last evening.
I let the phone ring and throw it onto the passenger’s seat. Maybe if I avoid her, I might be able to forget how edible she looked last night. The moment I come home I’m ordering her to move out of that damn room.


It’s already five in the afternoon, and Luca still hasn’t returned. I tried calling him several times, but each call went unanswered. Finally, I decide I’m done waiting for him, so I head down to the ground floor and approach the security guy standing at the front door.
“Can you please get me a car and a driver?”
“Of course, Mrs. Rossi. Did Mr. Rossi approve it?”
“I don’t need my husband to approve anything for me. Please get me a car.”
He fidgets, visibly unsure of what to do, and it looks like I’ll have to help him decide.
“Are you disobeying my direct request, Emilio?”
“No, of course not, Mrs. Rossi. I’ll get you a car immediately.” He quickly takes out his phone.
I don’t like pulling rank with the staff, but sometimes it’s necessary. Being a woman in mafia circles is not easy. I watched my mother be ignored too many times when she tried to join the “men’s conversations” at Family dinners. Even though she has a degree in economics, no one except my grandfather has ever asked for her opinion. The mafia world is ruled by men, and women are often perceived as less important and weak. It is imperative I make my position clear from the beginning if I want to be treated as equal. I’ve never had a problem with authority in my grandfather’s house. Here, on the other hand, even though I’m a capo’s wife, they still see a nineteen-year-old girl, and that’s not something either Luca or I can afford. He might not have wanted me, but he got me, and I will not end up as a burden or a trophy wife.
I resigned myself to becoming a capo’s wife a long time ago. I’ve been groomed for it since I was ten. While other girls my age were having playdates and obsessing over their latest celebrity crushes, I was learning how to feign interest even when a conversation bored me to death. I learned how to smile and what to say to make people open up and spill information they wouldn’t normally share. As well as how to make myself seem a little stupid, if the situation required it. There were key lessons on how to pretend to be having a great time even when the only thing I wanted was to go to my room and be alone. But the most important training I ever received was to never show weakness. Never cry when someone can see, and never show if their words hurt you. In a tank full of sharks, I can’t allow myself to bleed, or they would eat me alive.
While my friends stalked cute boys on Facebook and Instagram, I spent hours sitting with my mother at social events, listening to her and learning as she explained who was who in our world and about their roles in the Family. But most of all, I discovered everyone’s dirty laundry, and there were lots of it. I smile inwardly at the recollection. How I would love to see the faces of all those men who believed my mother to be just another pretty, harmless face. They had no idea how dangerous she was.
I haven’t officially met more than half of the people in the Family, but thanks to my mother, I knew who had affairs with whom, who enjoyed gambling a bit too much, and whose tongue would loosen when they had a few shots. Those may sound like trivial things, but in Cosa Nostra, information means power. And power is the main currency of all the games in the mafia world.
A silver sedan with tinted windows pulls up to the front of the stone steps. The driver gets out, opens the back door and nods at me. “Mrs. Rossi.”
“Thank you, Emilio.” I smile at the security guard and descend the stairs, heading toward the car. “To the don’s house, Renato.”
The driver looks at me with surprise, but he tucks his chin and closes the door after me. I quite enjoy the shock on people’s faces when I address them by their name. The first lesson my mother taught me was to remember every name of every person I ever meet.


I knock at the door of Isabella’s room, not getting an answer.
She called me several more times today. However, I was still too pissed with myself about last night, so I kept ignoring her. As if not talking to her would somehow erase the image of her arching her back as she masturbated in front of me, or the fact that I had to take a long, cold shower immediately after leaving her room.
I knock again. Nothing.
“Isabella?” I open the door and find her room empty.
I already checked the living room and the library on the ground floor, but she wasn’t there. Maybe she’s with Rosa. I walk down the hallway and open Rosa’s door. My daughter is sprawled on the bed on her back, watching some crap on her phone again.
“Dad?” She looks up at me. “Can I pierce my eyebrow?”
“What? No, you cannot pierce your anything. Are you watching that TikTik again?” I’m going to uninstall that shit from her phone. It’s a bad influence.
“It’s TikTok, Dad.” She giggles. “What about tattoos?”
“You’re seven. Forget about tattoos or piercings for the next fifteen years, Rosa.”
“When did you get your tats?”
Twenty years ago. But there’s no way I’m telling her that. “When I was thirty. You can get yours when you’re thirty, as well.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, “Yes. Have you seen Isabella?”
“She was downstairs for lunch. But I haven’t seen her after that.” She shrugs and looks back at her phone.
Perfect. Where is that woman? I head down to the second floor where Damian has his rooms. His bedroom is empty, so I go to his office next.
“Where’s Isabella?” I ask from the doorway.
“I have no idea,” Damian mumbles without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. “The real estate prices went up again. We should sell some of the properties we don’t use.”
“She’s not in her room or anywhere else in the house.”
“Then she’s probably still at the don’s house. I’m selling those apartments we have downtown. They only eat away at the money since you won’t allow me to rent them out, and if we—”
He looks up at me. “You don’t want to sell them?”
“What the fuck is she doing at the don’s? Who went with her?” Surely, she wouldn’t be so reckless as to leave without a security detail.
“I don’t know. I gave her your number and assumed you assigned a bodyguard?”
I close my eyes and curse. She went there without any protection and it’s my fault. “I didn’t take her calls.”
Damian’s eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“I’ve been avoiding her. Who took her to the Agostini mansion?”
“You don’t avoid people. Did something happen?”
“Will you answer my fucking question?”
He leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head, smiling. “Why are you so concerned all of a sudden? You never cared when Simona went somewhere without informing you.”
Because I didn’t give a fuck if something happened to Simona. However, the idea of Isabella leaving the house without a bodyguard ignites a surge of panic in my chest.
I take a step inside and pin him with my stare. “Damian.”
“Jesus fuck. It was Renato’s shift.”
I grind my teeth. “Find out who let her leave the grounds without a bodyguard and let them know that if that happens again, there will be consequences. Then, call Renato, and if they’re still at the don’s, tell him to stay put until I get there.”
“Why not send one of the security guys?”
“Do it,” I snap and leave the room, hearing Damian laugh the moment I shut the door behind me.
It takes me thirty minutes to get to the Agostini mansion, more than enough time to analyze my erratic behavior and come up with zero conclusions. The chances that something could happen to Isabella between the don’s house and mine are almost non-existent, and still, I keep hitting the gas like a maniac. I could’ve sent Marco to drive over and bring her back. I planned on assigning him as Isabella’s bodyguard anyway, but I had this strange compulsion to make sure she was all right.
And the idea of her spending time alone with another man doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe I’m feeling overprotective since she’s so young. Yeah, that must be it. There’s no other explanation.
The guards at the gate let me pass without stopping. When I reach the house, I park next to a silver sedan. I recognize it instantly as one of mine. And that’s before I spot the dipshit leaning on the hood.
“Head back home,” I bark at Renato the moment I’m out of my car. “And if you ever take my wife off the grounds without a security detail again, you’re dead.”
“Yes, Mr. Rossi.” He straightens, nods, and rushes to get inside the vehicle.
I walk around the mansion to the garden on the far side where I’ve always seen Isabella while visiting the don and head toward the gazebo. Isabella is sitting in a white iron chair with her back turned to me, and her sister sits opposite her. Andrea sees me first and says something to Isabella, probably warning her about my presence. I expect my young wife to tense or turn around in surprise. Maybe even be a little scared since she knows very well that she shouldn’t have left without a bodyguard. Instead, when she turns her head, she looks completely unperturbed.
I grab the arm of the chair and turn it around with Isabella in it, ignoring the screeching sounds the chair legs make against the stone.
“Luca.” She blinks at me innocently. “I wasn’t expecting you here. Do you want something to drink?”
I grab the other chair arm and bend until we’re face to face, staring at her enormous eyes. “Why did you leave the house without letting me know?”
“Oh? Am I obliged to share my daily schedule with you?”
My grip on the chair tightens. Yes, I want her to share her daily schedule with me. I want to know what she does and where she goes. And that’s absolutely idiotic.
“No,” I make myself say. “But you can’t leave the house without a bodyguard.”
“Well, if you returned any of my calls, I would have discussed it with you.” She shrugs. “But if it distresses you, I won’t do it again.”
“Does that mean you’ll answer when I call from now on?”
Oh, she really likes to push my buttons. It’s pissing me off. And it also turns me the hell on. I wonder if she would be just as feisty lying under me, with my cock buried inside her. Just thinking about it makes me instantly hard.
“Maybe,” I bite out.
Isabella tilts her head up slightly, and there’s a barely noticeable curve to her lips. “Works for me.”
“Are you done with your visit?”
“Yup,” she says, and the corners of her lips curve a little bit more. “Are we taking the chair with us?”
I let go of the chair and move aside. Isabella gives me a smirk as she walks over to give her sister, who gawked at us in silence through this whole ordeal, a goodbye kiss on a cheek.
“See you on Saturday,” Andrea says and cuts a quick glance in my direction.
I follow two steps behind Isabella as she heads across the lawn toward the driveway, trying my best to keep my eyes off her ass. She’s wearing white jeans today, paired with a silky navy-blue shirt and high-heeled sandals in the same color. As I leer at my wife, the heel of her left shoe catches on something in the grass, and she stumbles slightly. Instantaneously, I spring forward and grab her around the waist, steadying her. Isabella’s body tenses under my hand, but it lasts only for a second or so.
“Thank you,” she says, regains her balance and keeps walking, as my hand falls away from her.
I look down at the uneven ground and then at her heels, which are at least four inches high. She’ll break her leg in those things. I take two quick steps and wrap one arm around her middle. Placing the other behind her knees, I lift her up. There’s a barely audible gasp of surprise, but other than that, she doesn’t say a word as her arm settles around my neck. I avoid eye contact and keep my teeth clenched as I carry her, heading to the front of the house.
“Where’s Renato?” she asks after I put her down next to my car.
I open the passenger door. “I sent him back.”
Isabella arches an eyebrow, then gets inside the vehicle and looks straight ahead through the windshield.
As I reverse, I ask, “What’s on Saturday?”
“Our friend is having a birthday party.”
“You’re going?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No,” I say and squeeze the steering wheel. “You will take two bodyguards.”
“Of course.”
We drive for some time in silence, but I keep thinking about that party. It will probably be at her friend’s house. They’ll eat junk food and watch movies. And gossip.
“Where is it?” I ask.
“Where is what?”
“The party. At your friend’s house?”
Isabella looks at me and laughs. “We’re not twelve. The girls and I are going to a club.”
My knuckles turn white from my death grip on the wheel. “Which one?”
“That’s the Bratva’s club.”
“Correct.” She smirks.
“You’re not going.”
“Of course, I am. My grandfather signed the treaty with them, so we’re friends with the Russians now. It’s perfectly safe,” she says. “Milene Scardoni is coming too, and since she’s bringing her sister, there’s no reason for concern. No one will dare approach us while Bianca’s husband is there. You can come as well if you want.”
“I’m not going to a teenage birthday party.”
“Well, I can’t say that I expected you to. You wouldn’t fit in anyway.”
“How so?”
“You’re too old, Luca.”
I grind my teeth and focus on the road in front of me, pressing the gas pedal to the floor.


I open the top drawer of the dresser and regard my collection of sexy underwear and lacy nightgowns.
Most of them I purchased the same day Nonno told me I was going to marry Luca. I was so damn excited that I dragged Andrea to the mall to shop for all the lingerie I could find. As I tried on set after set, I imagined Luca tearing each one off my body. When we returned home, I had two huge bags filled to the brim with silk and lace.
Lifting one of the white babydoll nighties, I consider it but change my mind and put it back into the drawer. White won’t do. Too innocent. Let’s go with the black today. I put on a short black nightgown and matching panties, turn off the lamp and climb into bed. It’s showtime.
Just like the previous night, not even a minute after I start, the door connecting my room to Luca’s opens, revealing his large form framed in the soft light behind him. He stands at the threshold, his hands gripping the doorframe on either side of him. I can’t see his face, only the illuminated shape of his body, but I know he’s looking at me.
I let my hand travel even lower and slide one finger inside my pussy, panting. Luca leans forward slightly, but then grips the doorframe even harder as if he’s at war with himself about whether to come inside. Is he hard? I widen my legs a bit more and tease my clit with my other hand, imagining his cock inside me instead of my finger. The breath leaving my mouth hitches as my movements become faster, and soon, tremors start rocking my body.
I bite my lower lip and, without taking my eyes off Luca, slide another finger inside. A gasp leaves me as I orgasm, riding the wave for almost a full minute. When I come down from the high, I slowly slide my hand out from my panties, and bring it to my mouth, licking the tips of my fingers. A strange growling sound comes from the direction of the door. I tilt my head to the side, watching Luca’s looming figure in the doorway, and spread my legs even more in a silent invitation. He doesn’t move from his spot, just stands there stone-still, clutching the frame. Watching me. There’s a muffled Italian curse, and then he turns away and goes back inside his room, slamming the door shut after him.


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