Married to the Mobster

should’ve called my brother as soon as I saw that Clemenza asshole in the club, but I had to take the chance that they were just testing me out. I’ve been hanging around that crew for a while, begging for a shot to run with them. All I got for my trouble tonight was beat up.
Stupido, I tell myself, but there’s no point in berating myself. I know where I want to be, and I need to take chances along the way. This was just one bad business decision. That’s how I’ll look at it, anyway, to keep my mind off my ribs. One seems to be cracked, and there’s a throbbing in my shoulder from where this pink-haired angel sewed me up.
I’d be dead if not for him. I was lying there in the trash, almost blacking out, when I heard a voice, half-surfer and half-silver-spoon, that just wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t keep quiet so I could knit my bones back together enough to get out of there before they came back. Because they were coming back, there was no doubt about that. They only ran because they heard the sirens, and those sirens definitely hadn’t come for me.
A face. That’s the next thing I saw.
That chatty voice coming out of the face of an angel, like I’d prayed hard enough for intercession that Mother Mary sent an emissary to watch over me. Protect me.
Help me out of the trash and take me to a fancy hotel room.
A wave comes over me, and for a second I think I might pass out, but I don’t let on. I don’t want to show weakness. I concentrate on the man in front of me, and the white around the edge of my vision recedes enough so I can really take in this pink-haired angel who saved my life.
He’s beautiful.
He’s naked.
I stand up from the side of the tub and lead him back out into the hotel suite, through the lounge and into the bedroom, and I try not to look intimidated by how lavish everything is. In the bedroom doorway I pull him close and kiss him, working my way down his neck so I can take in the room over his shoulder.
It’s luxe as hell, all gold and walnut woods. The bed has four posts and the sheets are silk. On one wall is a TV set in a brass picture frame, and I have to really look at it for a while before I confirm, yeah, that’s a TV, not a black-toned portrait of a beat-up street rat and his twink making out.
And if not for this pink-haired little twink, I’d actually be dead.
“Come on, then,” I tell him now. “I’ll give you the fuck of your life, so you can have one fond memory for the rest of your privileged days.”
His grin just gets wider. “Aw, you’re so gangsta,” he says. “Okay. Show me what you got.”
I slam my mouth down on his again to shut him up. Talkers. I hate them usually, but this guy is different. There’s more behind his talk than just bragging. There’s a great big empty soulless hole inside him that he uses words to try and fill up—and drugs, judging by the size of his pupils. God knows what he’s on tonight. But I know that hole is there because I have the same thing inside me, only I don’t use talk or drugs or booze or fucking to fill it.
I use ambition.
Under my lips and teeth he’s kissing back, biting at me gently, teasing, like he’s trying to provoke me. I get my teeth around his bottom lip and tug it, just a reminder that I’m the one in charge. I let his lip pop out from between my teeth and move back, just to see what he’ll do. Like I thought, he moves with me, leaning forward like we’re dancing.
“Kiss me,” he demands, laughter in his eyes.
“I don’t like bossy bottoms,” I growl at him.
“Oh, baby, then you’re gonna hate me.” He reaches out to embrace me again, but I grab his wrists.
“No. You’ll take what I give you,” I tell him. If this kid thinks his will can overcome mine, he’s gonna be sorely disappointed.
He gives an experimental tug against my grip, just to see how tight I’m holding him. “Mm, I’ll take it and like it,” he promises, fluttering those lashes and letting his lips part in invitation. “Come on, then, baby. Teach me a lesson.”
He pulls me over to the bed and sits down on the edge, looking up at me.
Look, under normal circumstances, I totally would teach this guy a lesson. I like my fucks rough, fast and with enough discomfort that they remember my name, sometimes enough to make them curse it. But I’ve got a cracked rib, maybe two, and a slice in my arm with a shitty stitch job. There’s no way I can fuck this kid like I want to fuck him; like he needs me to fuck him. So I settle on another strategy.
“Move,” I tell him, and he moves, lets me arrange him lying in the middle of the three hundred pillows this place has piled onto the bed. I pause to take him in.
He really is an angel, with his messy pink hair spreading over the creamy pillow case, the color of the sheets setting off his bronze tan. He has a face that’s impossible to forget, and I can’t resist reaching out to touch him, this beautiful kid, just to reassure myself that he’s real.
I’m the one who got bashed and left for dead, but there’s something so vulnerable about him; I’ve never felt like this before. He might have been my guardian angel tonight, but there’s a new feeling stirring inside me.
I’ve never wanted to protect anyone.
I’ve only ever thought about how I can use them.
I reach out and smooth one lock of hair off his forehead. “You’re a goddamn fairytale princess, aren’t you? Lying there all