Sweet Prison: Epilogue

Two months later

“Well… I guess this sums up the investment plans for the next year,” Massimo announces and adjusts my position, shifting my hips for another angle that allows him a deeper plunge. “Any questions?”

There aren’t any, as usual. Aside from my mewls of pleasure, the only sounds in the grand room are the rustling of papers and hurried steps as the capos scramble to leave as fast as they possibly can. Avoiding all eye contact at the same time. Seems they are still uncomfortable with me attending their meetings.

I’m not quite sure if it’s me taking the chair to Massimo’s left, which I do every so often, or my preference for sharing his seat that bothers them the most. Of course, the latter involves me straddling my husband and riding his cock in front of everyone while he tries to carry on with the meeting agenda. It’s really a toss-up which of us enjoys seeing the barely disguised mortification in their eyes_him or me.

The only person who doesn’t pay us any mind is Peppe. He’s used to catching us fucking all over the house. As the newly promoted underboss—a position he accepted after being released from the hospital last month—he frequently jumps in to lead the discussion whenever Massimo’s train of thought wanders off. It’s doubly funny when he acts as if he’s not seeing what we’re doing, often leaving the capos rubbing their eyes.

“Have a good day, Don Spada.” The nervous words come from the direction of the door. “And, uh, my wife wanted me to check if she could book an appointment for this weekend, Mrs. Spada. Would that be okay?”

“Sure.” Slowly, I lift higher, feeling Massimo’s cock slide almost completely out of me. “Enjoy your day, Tiziano.”

The door clicks shut.

“I forgot to tell you,” Massimo says, then grips my hips and slams me back down onto his hard length. “We’ve been invited to a wedding in New York next month.”

“Oh? Who’s the happy couple?”

“Arturo DeVille. And Drago Popov’s sister, Tara.”

“Mm-hmm. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The wedding might be delayed. I think someone close to the bride may have died.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Tara Popov isn’t exactly a common name, and a woman calling herself such emailed me last week, asking for an appointment. She needed a long black gown, complete with a black veil, suitable for a prominent funeral.”

“Strange. Arturo called me just this morning, but he didn’t mention anyone passing away.”

“Maybe he forgot? Or maybe his future wife is simply into black.”

“Arturo DeVille allowing his bride to wed in anything other than pure white? Please. That man is the epitome of tradition. Although, the last time I saw him, he was hardly enamored with Popov’s sister, calling her a hellion and alleging that she was trying to kill him, if memory serves me right. They must have resolved their differences, or the soon-to-be newlyweds might find marriage a bit hazardous to their health. Mark my words though—if that smug asshole has anything to say about it, his bride will be wearing white.”

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