Salvatore Dalla

The drive home was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Amapola, I believed, was happy to have seen her father and to have assured herself that he was well, just as I had said.
In my mind, a million thoughts—all related to her—overlapped with the problems I had to solve concerning the mafia and the family’s other businesses. It was astonishing how the ragazza had the power to surprise me. When Amapola invited me to join them for coffee, I truly hadn’t expected it. I thought she wanted to spend time with her father to talk or do whatever they wanted, but she wanted me by her side and didn’t give me an alternative but to join them.
I was even more surprised by how different I felt in her father's presence. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know him; the man had been my prisoner and knew the worst of me. Yet, at that moment, I realized I didn’t want him to see me as his executioner.
When I called him to my office days ago, I assured him that his daughter would be okay, but I omitted the fact that she was in my home. I told him that in exchange for his services, I would guarantee that nothing would be lacking for either of them. I left out that I hadn’t sent him to serve the mafia but rather to carry out a simple task related to the family’s legitimate businesses. For Amapola, I decided not to put him in danger.
All this sudden benevolence surprised me; it wasn’t my essence. I couldn’t yet grasp what Amapola was capable of doing to me, but I was sure I didn’t want any of my actions to reflect negatively on her.
“Amapola,” she calls to me, and I realize we’re home.
“Let’s go to the office, Amapola. We need to talk.” She agrees, following me.
Angela approaches us as we enter, asking about dinner. I inform her that I have a meeting now but that she can serve dinner in about ten minutes.
“Yes, Salvatore,” she replies after we step into the room where one of our arguments took place the day before.
“Have a seat, Amapola.” I gesture to the chair in front of my desk. “Tomorrow, you’ll start working as my assistant.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, Amapola. I’m in a hurry; I can’t be without someone to assist me.”
“Alright, I think I can manage that.”
“I’m sure you can, mia bella. I wouldn’t have made this offer if I didn’t believe you could.” She lowers her eyes to her hands crossed in her lap, but I notice a smile spreading across her face. “This will be the amount you’ll receive for your services.” I slide a small piece of paper with the amount written on it across the desk. “And it will last while my secretary is away. After that, I’ll think of another role for you; you won’t be left unsupported, I promise.”
“Salvatore, I can’t accept this.” She brings a hand to her mouth after glancing at the amount I noted. “This amount is far beyond what someone makes in this position.”
“Then let’s go over a few initial points as your boss. First: at work, I’m not Salvatore, I’m Mr. Salvatore. Second: don’t question my orders. If I say this is the amount you’ll receive, you accept it. Third: understand that this amount is truly proportional to my employees. Working as my personal assistant isn’t the same as working for anyone else. Keep in mind everything that comes with being by my side.”
“Yes, sir.” She agrees, swallowing hard, likely considering the fact that I’m a mafia boss and the amount regarding her monthly payment. Of course, this isn’t the rate I usually offer; I increased it by at least five hundred percent. But she doesn’t need to know, and I do what I want. I don’t have to explain my decisions to anyone.
“As for your schedule, it will be adjusted with mine,” I say, and she nods. “Any questions?”
“Will there be someone to explain how the company works?”
“No, and it’s not necessary. You’ll work directly with me; any information you need, I’ll clarify myself.”
“Alright then.” We sit in silence for a moment, and I notice she wants to say something.
“Speak, Amapola. What do you want to ask?”
“Salvatore, I mean, Mr. Salvatore, what about us?” she asks, insecure.
“We? What do you specifically want to know, Amapola?” I want to hear what she expects me to answer.
“I need to know if I’ll go back to living with my papà.”
“No.”
“And how will it be then? Will I live here with you?”
“Yes.”
“Salvatore, please be clear. I need to know what the limits will be. I don’t want and can’t confuse things.” Fear washes over her face, and I wonder if it’s because she fears being close to me or that I’ll push her away.
“The limits are: in the office, you’re my secretary, so behave accordingly.” I stand and walk over to her chair. “At home, you’re mine.” I kiss her fervently, quenching the insane desire she had left in me all day.
When I pull away, she breathes heavily, just as I do. Amapola longed for this moment, but I had desired her since yesterday, and I wouldn’t resist the urge to tear off her clothes and take her for myself any longer.
I reveled in her scent, once more analyzing her clothes. She was perfectly dressed to kill, the neckline of her top beckoning me all afternoon to kiss the valley between her breasts, and her small yet rounded butt in the tight black pants she wore. I made a tremendous effort not to attack her in the office, knowing I had to be patient, and with her, it couldn’t be any different. I was already crossing many boundaries for Amapola, and my concentration and patience shouldn’t be among them.
The clothes separating our bodies while our tongues dueled in a hungry kiss couldn’t mask the heat radiating from our bodies. I didn’t just desire Amapola; what I felt for her went beyond carnal desire and sexual need. It was much deeper than that, and for the first time, I was allowing and admitting what I felt.
I could have set limits regarding our professional relationship, but for our personal involvement, I would let it flow. Maybe she was my chance to experience a real relationship, not just the feigned interest that the mafia often demanded.
My hands traveled and grasped her body, stopping at the button of her pants and quickly releasing it. I lifted Amapola and led her to the sofa in my office, laying my body over hers.
As I did what I had longed for all afternoon—trailing my tongue down her exposed skin from her neck to her belly button—I could see her skin ripple in response. The damn outfit was so revealing that I just needed to press my tongue into the fabric to touch her hardened nipples; she was as surrendered as I was.
Even though she was sexually inexperienced, Amapola was incredibly responsive, awakening a desire in me like I had never felt before.
“I want you, Amapola,” I rasped in her ear, and her hands began to unbutton my shirt, her delicate fingers caressing my skin. Desire and adoration filled her face.
“Salvatore?” she called as her eyes roamed over my body.
“Yes, Amapola.”