Page 15 of He Should Be Mine

Molly is reading a book. His fluffy sock covered feet are tucked up under his ass and he hasn’t moved for ages. His eyes look a little larger behind his ugly gray glasses, and they are utterly focused on the book. It doesn’t even look like he is breathing. But he regularly turns a page, and occasionally reaches for his wineglass, so presumably his lungs are still functioning.

His baggy sweatpants look soft and comfortable. I don’t know why they are yellow, of all colors. But that’s Molly for you. The boy loves bright colors, and things that sparkle.

I’m surprised his tee-shirt is plain and white. It’s too big for him and keeps slipping off his shoulder, leaving his smooth skin exposed. I’ve seen far more of Molly than one shoulder, so I don’t know why it is bothering me. Perhaps it is precisely because the rest of him is actually covered up for a change. The soft curve of his naked shoulder is stark in its solitude. Jarring against the rest of his fully clothed body.

I glance back down at my own book. Damn it, I’ve lost my place again. I keep stopping to look up at Molly because seeing him so quiet and still is such a rarity.

It’s a vast improvement from yesterday when he was throwing stuff at me. This is almost bearable.

Suddenly, the front door to the apartment beeps as it opens. We both jolt upright, our gazes lock together.

Riccardo is the only person who has a key.

Something like fear swirls through Molly’s blue eyes. My stomach twists.

Quick as a flash, Molly moves. He snatches his glasses off and shoves them down the side of the sofa, between the cushion and the armrest. He dumps his book on the coffee table and jumps to his feet.

He frantically runs his hands through his hair, and then he pulls his tee shirt down, exposing more of his shoulder.

This is precisely why I am always dressed for work. Though, having to see Molly dressed like a hooker all the time would grate on my nerves. So on this occasion, I’m glad he is unprofessional.

A big beaming smile spreads across Molly’s face, just as Riccardo walks in.

“Rick!” he exclaims as he throws his arms open wide.

He bounces up to Riccardo and practically climbs him. Riccardo catches him and grins, one hand going straight to Molly’s ass and squeezing tightly.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” Molly gushes.

“Wanted to surprise you, Baby!”

“Best surprise ever!” Molly says with a ridiculous sounding giggle.

I look away. I don’t need to see them pawing at each other. They don’t need me watching.

“I’ll just go freshen up for you, Sugar,” Molly whispers, his voice all sultry and dripping honey.

Riccardo slaps his ass as Molly skips towards his bedroom, and Molly repeats his absurd giggle. My boss watches Molly leave, then he strides to the faux bar and begins making himself a drink.

He has been to his hairdresser. His dyed blonde hair has been retouched. The spikes restyled. I have no idea why he goes for that look. Combined with his tattoos and piercings, he looks like someone playing at being a gangster. He does not look like the real thing. He certainly does not look like the Ajello heir.

“How was Italy?” I ask in Italian

Riccardo’s green eyes narrow. He hates talking in Italian. He struggles with it, as much as he tries not to let on. I shouldn’t hold it against him. It’s not his fault he was born in England, to an English teenage supermodel and raised by English nannies.

“Good, the weather was nice,” he says with painful pronunciation.

He sits on the sofa. In Molly’s spot. He sips the drink that he made himself. I’m glad he is in a good mood and didn’t order me to serve him, just to prove a point.

I pick up my wine. It’s strange to think this man is only two years younger than me. Thirty to my thirty-two. The difference seems far bigger. As if he hasn’t fully reached manhood yet.

Perhaps that’s an English upbringing. Maybe they coddle their men. Or perhaps it is simply Riccardo’s personality.

There are whispers that he is not man enough. Too English. Whispers that wonder why the Don named him heir.

Everyone understands that Riccardo is the only legitimate son. But that doesn’t make him Italian. Or suitable. Not that anyone dares to say this out loud.

We drink in silence. The faint sound of Molly’s shower drifts around us. It makes me want to squirm in my seat.