Capo Dei Capi (Secrets of the Famiglia Part 1)

Chapter 20 (Aliyana)

I want to keep my attention on his chest, but my chin lifts up to face the harshness of his masculine

face.

“Dance with me, Aliyana.” He doesn’t allow me an answer as thick fingers wrap around my naked flesh

as the music plays. A familiar tune, causing my eyes to widen in recognition. My heart races in

assumption. He knows me.

“You were there, but...” My words die as his eyes boil me alive with an intensity so unravelling to my

minuscule mind I forget to inhale.

He cups my elbows and pulls me closer toward his heat. The dark gaze of a killer, never leaving mine.

He bends his head.

His nose right next to my own. Flesh to flesh, breath to breath.

Rough, thick fingers restrain me. I breathe painful gulps of oxygen. I don’t take shallow gulps, no I take

big chunks of air. My chest expanding and contracting. He must notice it, but all he does is slides me

deeper toward him. Closer but still not close enough.

“Balla con me, Mezzosangue.” Dance with me half-blood.

He doesn’t wait for me to reply as Nina-Simone sings feeling good. Marco’s hands travel, gingerly

down my arms. Sure, secure fingers touching my pulse.

Warm, rough hands engulf my dainty ones. Taking my left hand, Marco places my palm flat on his

chest. I have always felt short and invisible around people, but here, now, with this mad-man, I am so

much more.

His warming hold leaves my own as his fingers spread across the bare part of my back.

Flesh to flesh.

Breath to breath.

I move my left foot to take a step back, away from his temporary prison of seduction. I inhale a lungful

of air, hoping to leave this. Whatever ‘this’ is. He is too much.

Marco uses my escape-move to dip me down.

An intense frown mar his features as he brings me up again, and digs the tips of his fingers in the flesh

of my back.

This is sinful, and not the way it was supposed to go. He is not the one.

But like a succubus, born to lure you into its temporary will, I am only a human being held by a demon

whose wants right now is all I can think about as the music plays on.

“Dance,” He whispers, and I finally surrender to the devil who holds me under the night sky.

My feet move as the song plays on repeat, my body releasing itself, coming alive at this moment. My

eyes sealed as my body's awareness remains heightened by every touch Marco Catelli places on my

skin. I surrender to him. His breath, hot against my cheek as he draws me closer to his tall form. His leg

rubs against my own. The soft satin of my dress grazing the pebbles of my breast as his arm persists

pressing against my erratic beating chest. Every sense intensified as I close my eyes taking it all in.

His scent- rich, spicy, and earthy. The small pokes from his jaw against my soft skin, rough.

Is this belonging? A sinful promise? Or is it a stolen moment by two people who are wrong together,

meeting in a perfect setting, that the who's no longer matter, but the where, is an ideal match, lined up

into one small paragraph of your life? A sudden occurrence meant to last for just a moment, even if the Content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

people don't match up.

Because that is what it is, a magical place, surrounded by roses, but him and I, there is nothing right

about us. Why does the thought sound like a lie? As if he senses my mind's corruption, he tightens his

hold on my back, eliciting a small gasp to leave my lips.

The strength of his leg sends shivers along my spine when he slides his thigh between my own,

millimeters from the part of my body inflamed by him. This all feels like a dream. Something is at play

tonight because, in our world, I know this doesn’t happen without repercussions.

A forbidden moment, a wrong turn, always has deadly consequences.

Forgive me, father, for this sin.

As Marco Catelli dances with me, I wonder, what is the extent of his crimes. Is it coincidence when that

ring that makes him who he is, scratches my cheek as his knuckles brush my face?

He is a man that is made in blood, grown into power by the art of war, and right now, I am the woman in

his arms, looking into his soul. I, Aliyana Capello, am the one at his mercy, and what a sinner I am.

A phone rings, another phone I didn’t even know he had, and like all experiences, this moment comes

to an end. It feels like the spell is broken, the after-effects fading fast, taking away all it allowed in the

few short minutes we stood with our bodies so close, connected.

The moment now ended as he lets me go. I take a few steps backward, curious to who would be

phoning.

Who and what has interrupted this moment? Should I be glad? Or angry?

I watch the imposing man that just danced with me as his face turns ashen. His fingers tighten around

the phone attached to his ear. All this time I think, how bad could it be.

I should have known it would be critical, life-altering.

But as I said, hiding from the truth is something I am good at.

It takes a simple decision to turn your life around. For me, it's a moment of weakness.

I walk toward Marco Catelli's frozen form.

And then it comes.

My betrayal.

My biggest moment.

A kiss,

like Judas had done to Jesus when he betrayed him, I bestow upon myself as I kiss Marco Catelli.

I place my lips on his cold ones, as his haunted black depths stare at me, imprinting his obsidian gaze

in my head as a reminder of this moment. Under the moonlit sky, inside a glasshouse.

On this day, I, Aliyana Capello, change my fate in a greenhouse owned by Deno Catelli as I kiss his

brother, a made-mad-man.

He kisses me back for a second, it is so quick that his tongue touches mine for just a small moment, a

promise.

If I were wiser, I should forget about it, only I won't. I would remember it all, even when it consumes me.

Deno walks in.

I jump back as Marco faces his younger brother.

“Marco, we need to go.”

He left me on the rooftop that day without a backward glance and no clue that my best friend, his

brother, was killed.

Gunned down by the Scottish.

It was hours later when I found out.

And a few seconds after, when I tripped down the stairs of the house owned by my father, screaming.

Falling in my haste to escape my brother’s words as he told me that the boy who wiped my knees

every day for three years while I learned to rollerblade was dead.

I confess, on this day, I chose a different direction in my life. Lorenzo Catelli’s death twisted my

compass further in that direction. My mother must have thought me weak, lying on the stairs, as my

sister tried to calm me, and my brother and father just stood there, watching me.

It was on this day that the chain tying me to Marco Catelli was made in blood. The war was still

coming.