Phantom
: Chapter 32

March 9, 1945

“I’m going to miss you,” John whispers in my ear from behind me, startling me damn near half to death.

I screech and whip around only to be pinned to the counter by John’s arms gripping the edge on either side of me.

My heart is racing, and I stare at him with residual terror as I lean away from him, despite his being my husband. A hint of beer lingers on his breath, though it’s admittedly better than the sour stench of whiskey that usually greets me.

After all this time, I hoped I would grow used to the awful smell, yet it doesn’t get any easier. His drinking, his loosening temper . . . none of it has gotten any easier.

“You nearly killed me,” I whisper, hand over my chest.

“I could never kill you,” John says, chuckling. “That would mean I would have to live without you, and that simply will not do.”

I force a smile and lightly push at his chest. He resists, and my discomfort grows.

“Well, of course not. You couldn’t cut a tomato without slicing open your finger, let alone cook anything,” I tease, though my voice is tightening. He still won’t release me, and it feels as if a wet blanket is constricting around me, preventing me from moving or breathing.

The man is many things, but he certainly is not a quitter. I’ve evaded further romantic touches between us, and since his stolen kiss back in January, I’ve told him I wasn’t ready to go back to the way things used to be.

It led to another fight, of course. I told him that unless he ventures to take advantage of me again, then he does not have access to my body. And if he does disrespect me as he did before, then there will be no hope of my ever forgiving or loving him again.

So while he doesn’t dare kiss me or try to engage in any intimacy at night, he persists in winning back my affection.

“Your culinary skills aren’t the only reason I need you, Gigi,” he berates lightly. “I don’t know how I would survive if anything were to happen to you.”

I roll my eyes and push him away again, this time firmly enough for him to comply. Subtly, I inhale a deep breath, grab Sera’s breakfast plate, and set it on the kitchen island despite her not being down here yet. Still the gesture offers me a bit of space from him.

“I’m going away for one weekend, John. I think I’ll be fine,” I assure. “I don’t believe there is much to kill me on the Oregon coast.”

Sera barrels into the kitchen before he can respond, with her hair unbrushed and crust still clinging to her lashes. She’s been an absolute nightmare getting up this morning for school. Her bottom lip is protruding into a pout, and her brow is furrowed.

“Mama, do you have to go away?” she whines, sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island and slapping her Schools at War journal onto the surface along with her rucksack. Then she slumps and rests her chin on her hand, her frown deepening.

Ever since I construed my little lie about going on a girls’ trip with Daisy this weekend, she’s been in a mood. Sera undeniably favors me over John and tends to get moody if I’m away for too long. I have gone on trips in the past, and I’m always met with the same attitude beforehand.

“Yes, my dear,” I sigh, leaning on the counter before her. I hate that she’s so upset. “You know I go on one every year with Daisy.”

She bangs the tip of her shoe against the island, pouting further. “It’s stupid,” she mutters, picking up her fork and flapping it through her scrambled eggs aimlessly, clinking the metal against the plate.

“You’re hurting my feelings over here, princess,” John teases, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. She flicks an annoyed glance his way, radiating teenage angst. “What if I sneak you ice cream later?” he bargains. The sullen look on her face doesn’t disappear, but he has her attention.

“How much ice cream?” she asks, glancing at him. Sera rarely takes advantage of situations, but with her father, she will bleed him dry any chance she gets. Only because she knows he’s the only one who will let her get away with it.

I give John a look, but he ignores me. “Until your tummy hurts.”

“How many flavors?”

I narrow my eyes at the two of them as they still ignore me.

He taps his finger against his chin, pretending to contemplate it. “How about three?”

“Fine,” she mumbles, though one corner of her lips sneaks upward. “Don’t forget that I have to get my war stamps after school. But then I expect to be drowned in ice cream.”

John does a mock salute, earning an eye roll from our daughter, though it lacks heat.

“It’ll only be two days. I promise I’ll come home first thing Sunday morning,” I tell her.

“Will you bring me back something?” she asks, staring up at me with puppy dog eyes.

“I always do,” I sing. “Now quit playing with your food and eat it. You leave for school in ten minutes.”

“Fine, but I expect a really cool present. Expensive, too. None of those touristy gifts.”

I grin. “Brat.”

March 9, 1945

This is the first time I’ve been in Ronaldo’s car, and something about the way he uses his palm to control the steering wheel is tantalizing. I squirm, clenching my thighs as he drives us down 101.

Once John and Sera left, Ronaldo picked me up. Usually, Daisy drives us on our trips, so it wasn’t unusual for me to need to wait for my ride to arrive.

There’s an undeniable thrill that I’m sneaking away from my friends and family to spend a weekend with Ronaldo. For the first time, there will be no time constraints, and we will be able to enjoy one another freely and fully for these couple days.

Since the moment he picked me up this morning, I haven’t been able to stop bouncing in my seat with excitement.

“What do you think you’d do for work if you weren’t a mobster?” I ask, breaking a tension-filled silence. It’s not that I’m not comfortable with him; it’s that I’m tempted to mount him at every turn, and that’s not very ladylike.

He twists his lips, contemplating. “I don’t know, to be truthful. You may find it odd, but I would have loved to research snakes.”

I blink, entirely taken aback by his response.

“Snakes? Why on earth would you research snakes?”

He grins, casting a mirthful glance my way.

“They’re quite fascinating. I used to pick them up as a little boy and carry them around everywhere. It was one of the few times I got a reaction out of my mother. I always thought I’d work with them some day.”

I scoff. “Well, then you should know, I will have a fit if you bring one of those to me,” I warn playfully. “But I suppose I can see why you would find them to be fascinating creatures. If I set aside my fear of them, I can admit they’re quite magnificent.”

It’s rare that I see Ronaldo take on a boyish expression, but at this moment, that’s exactly how he looks.

“I could tell you all about them, but I won’t bore you with the details. However, don’t be surprised if I confess to bringing one or two home one day,” he tells me.

“Fine, but I will not be holding them.”

He hums, his tone changing from joyful to something more seductive. “I will just have to dream about you naked in my bed then.” He groans, and my core pulses. “A python wrapped around your throat and holding you still for me while I feast on you and fuck you. It would be a dream of mine.”

My mouth dries, and I stare at him almost blankly since I hadn’t expected him to say something so dark. So . . . alluring.

I try to swallow, to speak, to do anything but flap my lips soundlessly, but he’s moving before I can, silencing me further. His left hand grabs the steering wheel, and his right slides to my thigh. I bite my lip as he hooks his fingertips beneath my brown wool coat and red dress, gliding his hand over my thick stockings. Midway, my stockings end, and his palm connects with bare flesh, sending a tremor throughout my body.

“So where does Daisy think you are?” Ronaldo asks, changing the subject and deliberately acting as if he didn’t confess a profane fantasy to me. There’s a satisfied glimmer in his eye, and I’m tempted to dare him to make good on it, as terrifying as it would be.

“I wrote her a letter a couple weeks ago telling her that John and I ran into some troubles and that I’d be staying home this year,” I respond, deciding to let it go. My voice is cracking with desire, but I refuse to be embarrassed about it.

I like how he teases me. And it’ll only be so much sweeter if I make that dream come true for him.

“What if she and John run into each other?”

“She lives far enough away that I needn’t worry about that happening. She never did care for John, anyway.”

We’ve been taking these girls’ weekends for over a decade. During summer, we’re always so busy with the kids, and the dead of winter is an awful time to travel, so every March, Daisy organizes a girls’ weekend for the two of us and a few other gals from her town, all of us desperate to get away from the snow. We drive down to the Oregon coast, where we rent a little cabin in the mountains and enjoy the misty rain while we gossip and relax by a fire, just enjoying one another’s company.

I’m saddened I won’t see her this year, but it was the perfect opportunity to get away with Ronaldo, allowing us uninterrupted time to explore each other thoroughly, without fear of being caught.

“Why’s that?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral.

Since our first argument back in January, he’s kept a cool head when it comes to John. We’re still hopeful for our future, but we agreed that while our situations may be temporarily binding, our love doesn’t have to be.

“My mother was very strict and wanted me out of the house the day I turned eighteen. She expected me to be married and on my own and pushed me to marry the first man I came across. I resisted at first and would flirt with all the boys, but then John came along, and he showed an interest in me that didn’t begin and end with my body. He was stable and consistent, and his family was wealthy. I hated going home to my mother, so I gave in and married him within the year. Back then, Daisy was my best friend, and I think she could tell that I settled, even if I convinced myself I was in love. And as we grew older, our marriage became very monotonous. Daisy said the day I married him, the sparkle in my eyes dimmed. I never knew what she meant, but I think I understand now.”

Ronaldo squeezes my thigh, his touch now more comforting than provocative.

“Were you ever happy with him?” he asks.

I shrug. “I thought I was. We got along perfectly well, and I think I was just so happy to be out of my mother’s house that I would’ve been ecstatic to live in a cardboard box. Then we had Sera, and my time was so full of her, I thought little about our marriage. We were always comfortable, and he was happy to accommodate my odd taste in decor when we built Parsons Manor. Then again, John never had an opinion on much. He was always the go-with-the-flow type, and I ended up making all the decisions over the years.” I shrug again. “We had a routine, we never fought, and I didn’t know any different. Until I met you, that is.”

“Do you think Daisy would like me?” There’s a smug little smirk on his face because he already knows the answer.

I roll my eyes. “She’d probably love you.”

“Even though I have ties to the Mob?”

I raise a brow. “Daisy was wilder than I was. That’d probably make her even more intrigued. She had a thing for danger and thrills back then, and even though she’s married with kids, she still loves an adventure.”

He grins, clearly pleased with my answer.

“She’d think you’re more handsome, too,” I tell him. He squeezes my thigh again, his approval detected in the way his fingers slide deeper between my legs.

“Is that what you think, mia rosa?”

Truthfully, there isn’t even any competition. John isn’t a bad-looking man by any means. But he is not Ronaldo.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He hums, the tip of his middle finger sliding over my clit.

“Then maybe you should spread these legs so you can show me how pretty you look when you come for me.”

March 9, 1945

I almost got Ronaldo and I killed, and the only thing I can do is giggle about it like a schoolgirl.

On the drive to Oregon, he insisted on playing with me, and something about being so alone with him in the car yet knowing that at any moment someone could look over and see the ecstasy on my face . . . It did something to me. It made me feral, if I’m being honest.

He made me orgasm, but it did nothing to abate the burning need in my lungs. So I leaned over, unfastened his trousers, and took him down my throat.

The car swerved and curses fell out of his mouth, yet there wasn’t a single second I thought to stop. To even fear for my life. I was ravenous, and I swallowed him down like he was my only source of oxygen.

And when he erupted, I drank from him like I had gone weeks without a drop of water. He took one look at my face afterward, swerved the car across two lanes to take the nearest exit, and found a rest stop.

I have never even considered having sex in a public building before, but at that moment, there was no question in my mind. I was drowning in lust. So we found a restroom, and he fucked me against the wall, his hand over my mouth to keep me silent.

I shouldn’t have come as hard as I did, and I should be ashamed.

But I did, and I’m not.