Page 41 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)

THIRTY-FOUR

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

A week later, under the cover of early morning shadows, Alfonso and I helped smuggle his Nonna out of his aunt’s tightly monitored villa like we were executing a covert mission.

She whispered a rapid-fire string of Italian as we slipped through the side gate, her eyes gleaming with delight, not fear.

Alfonso chuckled, replying with something that made her cackle like a mischievous teenager.

“She just called Mavis a bulldog in lipstick,” he whispered to me as we reached the car.

The drive to the airport was smooth and quiet, a shared secret wrapped in the hum of the engine and the anticipation of escape. The private flight to Atrani took barely an hour, but it felt like crossing into another world.

Atrani was breathtaking—like something plucked straight from a dream or an old Italian film.

A picturesque cliffside village where time had decided to slow down, letting everything breathe.

Pastel buildings stacked on narrow winding streets, the scent of lemon trees on the breeze, and the endless shimmer of the Tyrrhenian Sea below.

Alfonso had arranged everything. A cozy terracotta-roofed cottage perched just above the waterline waited for his Nonna, tucked between flowering bougainvillea and the sound of distant church bells. She walked in like she’d lived there all her life.

That afternoon, she cooked for us with flour-dusted hands and a gleam in her eyes, telling me stories so vivid I could see the past flickering in the kitchen light. She made pasta from scratch, humming as she worked, her rhythm unhurried, like happiness had its own tempo here.

“Don’t believe everything she tells you,” Alfonso murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath skimmed my ear.

She barked something sharp and commanding in Italian before smacking him lightly with a dish towel. He laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and left the house, obedient and amused.

I turned back to her, heart full. I could listen to her forever.

“I know my Alfonso is hard around the edges,” Nonna said, her eyes on the simmering pot, hands moving with grace carved from years of living. “But he was a good boy once.”

“Was?” I asked gently.

She sighed, the kind that carried more weight than words. “His father—my son—was never strong enough in my Henrici’s eyes. So, when Alfonso turned fifteen, Henrici took him. Molded him. Broke him, really. Taught him the Pontisello way, his way. And just like that, my sweet, soft-eyed boy vanished.”

Her voice caught slightly, but her spine remained straight. “But now and then, I see him again. Today, maybe that’s because of you.”

I smiled at her, and warmth bloomed in my chest. I wanted to believe that, needed to. So, it was the old man who’d carved the edges of Alfonso into something sharp and unyielding.

“You know you’re his favorite?” I said, glancing sideways at her.

“Of all his family?” She asked.

“Of everyone,” I replied.

Her laughter was like honey and sunlight—pure joy, unfiltered. “He told me once that I was his first real love.”

“He told me that, too,” I whispered.

Her eyes softened. “He’s good to you?”

“Yes,” I said honestly. “Though we both know he carries a fire that’s not easily tamed.”

She nodded, solemn now. “In everything, love, anger, even sorrow. But he doesn't allow the sadness. That’s the trouble with Pontisello men, they don’t cry. They believe it makes them weak. But we women, we know better. Tears clean the soul.”

I remembered that night on the yacht. The way he shook when he cried. “I can see where he gets his passion from.”

She chuckled, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “I’ll take that compliment.”

Just then, Alfonso returned with a bag of bright red tomatoes. His Nonna fired off something in rapid Italian that made him roll his eyes affectionately and head straight for the sink.

“Can I help?” I asked.

He glanced at me, a rare softness playing at the corner of his mouth. “Always.”

He beckoned me to join him by the sink. I slipped off the chair and rushed over to him.

My husband always smelled wonderful as he pushed me in front of him and then guided my hands under the cold water, showing me how to rinse the tomatoes gently.

Then we chopped them, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and fed them into the pot like a team that had always belonged in the same kitchen.

Within thirty minutes, the air bloomed with warm, rich aromas, tomatoes, basil, garlic, and something deeper I couldn’t name. It sure was home. Or smelled like it.

Dinner was served an hour later, fresh, divine pasta paired with red wine that kissed our lips and flushed our cheeks.

Later that night, we left her little cottage with full bellies and hearts stretched wide.

We checked into a nearby hotel under the quiet hush of stars and sea breeze.

I was still removing my jacket when Alfonso pulled me into him from behind, his mouth at my neck, his voice a low growl against my skin.

The pasta was good, but the hunger in his hands? That was something else entirely.

He pulled me closer to him. His hand rubbed my leg as he breathed hard into the column of my neck. He nibbled on my ear lobe as his erection pressed against my back.

The room was modest by his usual standards, just a simple double bed, a small bathroom, and rustic charm.

But it overlooked the ocean, and the view through the open window was breathtaking, waves catching the moonlight like scattered silver.

Still, none of that mattered. Not when his hands were on me, his mouth trailing fire along my skin.

Whatever spell he was casting with his touch, it made everything else blur. I felt like I was unraveling—melting into him, into this moment, like nothing else had ever existed.

He pulled my panties down and I shimmied my hips to let them fall to the floor. I didn’t even hear the sound of him unzipping his pants, so when he pushed himself inside of me, it was quite a surprise.

The position was undeniably awkward; he stood at six feet two, all muscle and dominance, while I barely reached five feet two on my best day. There was no way this could be comfortable.

But somehow, the way he held me, the way our bodies aligned despite it all, made it feel like we were made to fit, flawed and perfect all at once.

I absolutely loved how he grabbed my breasts and slammed inside of me again and again and again.

Strong arms lifted me from the ground, and he seated himself more easily inside of me.

He climbed onto the bed with his knees and pulled me to sit on his lap.

The tight position pulled moans out of me and I bounced with his assistance, the friction of his cock inside of me building my orgasm in no time.

“Fuck, little runaway, don’t stop,” he spoke against my neck as his fingers dented deep against my legs.

It burned, but it egged me on to fuck him harder. My hips moved faster as I rode his cock.

He growled like a beast. My arousal turned the movement into pure bliss.

The build came and I didn’t want to tell him I was close, scared he would order me not to come, and I wanted to come hard. I needed to come hard.

A scream tore from me as I tumbled over that edge.

Alfonso slapped his palm over my mouth as he took over the movements. Fucking me harder. The strain on my back I was experiencing with the extended orgasm made me feel as if I was going to pass out.

My husband finally released and slammed hard into me, a few more times and then came to a standstill.

I burst out laughing first. Everything still pulsed and trembled. I wanted his cock out of me, but he refused to let me go, just yet.

“I love it when everything inside you trembles,” he spoke in my ear.

“Must show you just how fucking perfect you are.”

He huffed and sucked the soft flesh just below my ear.

We cleaned up in the tiny bathroom after and then lay in bed.

A soft, blissful silence hung between us, the kind that settles only when two people are completely at ease with each other. The ocean murmured in the distance, the only sound besides our breathing.

“Can I ask you something?” I murmured.

“Always,” Alfonso replied without hesitation.

“I need to know something,” I said, the words heavier than they seemed.

“Uh-oh,” he teased, his voice low and rough, and a quiet giggle slipped past my lips. He always had that effect on me.

“It’s not like that,” I said quickly. “We both know the passion between us isn’t always good.”

He grunted in mock offense. “Take that back. The passion is everything .”

I reached up and gently grabbed his chin, turning his face to mine. “I’m not talking about this passion, what we have right now. I mean the fire inside us. The intensity. It comes with hard heads and sharp tongues. I’m scared I’ll mess up, Alfonso.”

“You won’t,” he said, brushing the thought away.

“But if I do? How do I make it right?”

His brow pulled together. “I don’t follow.”

I pushed myself up on my arms to face him better. “Remember, at the start, how we always clashed? I would call you out in front of people without thinking, and you told me later how much it embarrassed you.”

He gave a single nod, eyes fixed on mine.

“What if that happens again? What if I get so angry I forget? What if I humiliate you beyond repair?” I paused. “Is there a way to fix that?”

His brows tightened, then relaxed. “You don’t want to mess up,” he said softly.

“No. But I could. I’m not perfect.”

He reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You are. But even if you weren’t, you won’t ruin us.”

“But if I do?” I pressed, needing something solid.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “It’s easily rectified.”

“How?”

“By submitting, Camilla.”

My forehead creased. “What do you mean?”

“If you ever embarrass me in a way that cuts too deep, the only way to fix it is to surrender. Fully.”

I blinked. “What kind of surrender?”