CHAPTER WARNINGS: Strongly T for non-graphic descriptions of torture, mild sexual references, language, and dark themes.
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"And I know this
Is a just a beautiful illusion,
A case of the confusion,
Between love and desire…"
—If I Didn't Know Any Better by Alison Krauss
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"I must say, Florentino, I am impressed."
Macaluso's teeth flashed in a smile, gleaming like a beacon in the sparsely lit room. Leaning forward with a faint huff of exertion, he topped off Tony's glass.
Tony waited until the last drop fell—the rich red hue reminding him disconcertingly of blood—before reaching to grab it, accepting both wine and praise with a twisted smile.
Macaluso eased into his chair, and took a hearty swallow from his own glass. As always, here in his own quarters, the mafia boss displayed a casualness that was as disturbing in its familiarity as it was comforting in its implications. That Macaluso was so relaxed around him was encouraging, especially now. But as for the idea of being considered a friend…
Bile rose in Tony's throat, turning the priceless Barolo rancid on his tongue.
God help him from ever being worthy of the title.
Oblivious to his companion's dark thoughts, Macaluso tilted his goblet. A faint smile hovered on his lips as he studied the drink. "I have a personal weakness for Chianti. It has a delightfully refined flavor. But Barolo…Barolo is unmatched. 'The king of wines'," Macaluso quoted, gaze locked on the gently spinning liquid. "Expensive, but worth every penny. I had been planning to wait until my birthday to open it, but…" He shrugged, the movement elegant. "Your accomplishments are worthy of celebration. It was well done. And the prices were excellent. You must be quite the business man."
Tony inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. Taking a cautious sip from his glass, he grimaced as the wine trickled past his split lip, sinking into the cut.
Macaluso caught the expression. Instantly, his demeanor shifted. "I apologize for that, Tony. Giordano, Bianchi…they are good men, but they sometimes get carried away with their loyalty to me. I never intended for the…damage to be so…extensive."
A bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. For a second rage made Tony's hand shake. He was tired of being manipulated, of being petted one minute and slapped the next. Tony forced a smile, disregarding the twinges of pain in his swollen face. Two days after his "meet" with Gibbs, his bruises were now flamboyantly purple, and still painful to the touch.
Let Macaluso toy with those vulnerable enough to believe him. He was going to take down the sick bastard if it was the last thing he ever did.
"I just hope I'll have the opportunity to demonstrate my own loyalty to you," Tony countered smoothly. A lie for a lie, a half-truth for a half-truth. It was a delicate business. Macaluso might excuse a hint of resentment, if it was directed purely towards his cohorts, but anything more risked telegraphing that Tony hadn't gotten the message. Complete nonchalance, on the other hand, was as ludicrous for Antonio Florentino as it was for Tony DiNozzo, and Macaluso would know it.
Better to dodge the question entirely—and hope the mafia boss would let him get away with it.
"Is that so." The words fell from Macaluso's lips slowly, almost cloyingly. "Is that so."
Uneasiness at the strange tone rippled through the younger man. Tony matched Macaluso's oily smile with an empty one of his own, and ignored the emotion. There was never anything comfortable about being around the other man. Today had no reason to be different. "Yes, sir."
"Well, my friend, you're in luck." Suddenly brisk, Macaluso rose, placing his half-empty glass on the coffee table. It wobbled, threatening to fall, but held. Tony placed his own still-full drink next to it, fighting a frown.
Why open up a bottle of priceless wine, then leave it barely touched?
Twisting in place, Tony darted a glance at the doorway. A dark-haired man, vaguely familiar, stared back at him expressionlessly. Provenza? Gervio? Tony couldn't recall, but he hadn't been there at the start of the conversation. A messenger?
"I've just received some very important news." Macaluso said, and he was smiling again, as if in confirmation. "An old friend of mine has just decided to pay us a visit. I think you should come along."
The statement was an order, but the investigator in Tony couldn't help probing further. "A friend?"
Macaluso's sharp-edged grin was his only answer.
It was answer enough.
Not a friend at all. What that meant, however…
"So where are we going?" Tony probed as he stood up, stretching casually and fighting a wince as pummeled skin stretched.
Macaluso's breath huffed in a laugh. "So curious, Tony. But I am afraid I must ask something of you."
Tony's eyebrow rose. That'd didn't sound good. "What's that?"
A wad of cloth thumped into his lap.
"I'm afraid I must ask you to wear that blindfold, just on the journey over. I would have let you see, but," Macaluso shrugged lightly, "With recent indiscretions…"
So the rift was not yet healed.
Tony stiffened, but smiled through his anger. Damn you, Keyes. I might have made a break today. "Gotcha."
He'd have to keep his ears open. That was all.
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The car jerked to a stop.
Tony stared against his closed lids and waited, hopefully, for one of Macaluso's men to remove his blindfold.
The door flung upon instead. Someone grabbed his arm—the messenger Ghervio, or the hatchet-faced, silent Arcuni—pulling him from the car.
"Thanks, buddy," Tony said cheerfully, patting his helper's arm overenthusiastically. Gravel crunched as they walked. "Don't let me fall. If I damage another suit, Maria's going to kill me."
"She does your mending?" Macaluso sounded surprised, and amused. "She must like you. I remember bickering with her every time I ripped my clothes when we were small. I did not want to my mother to scold me, of course. But Maria would always refuse to mend them until I bribed her."
It was impossible to imagine Macaluso as a child. "What'd you give her?"
A laugh. "When she was younger…what are they called? Piggy-back rides. When she was older, I would let her hang out with her brother and I. We pretended to hate it, but every cops and robbers game is better with a damsel in need of protection."
So all kids, even criminals in training, played cops and robbers.
Tony wondered if they'd ever grown out of it.
The earsplitting creak of an door left closed too long interrupted his musings.
Tony stumbled over the threshold. The rough hand on his elbow steadied him, then let go. The door pulled closed behind him with the heavy thud of metal.
"Here we are." Macaluso's voice sounded out, unexpectedly close. A moment's tightness, and the blindfold slipped off Tony's face, the rough fabric brushing against his tender jaw.
All he saw was darkness. Tony closed his eyes against a sudden irrational fear of blindness, and waited. A soft click echoed through the room. Light flashed, dimly illuminating concrete walls and a rickety wooden staircase, winding its way down into blackness.
Tony grimaced as his eyes watered, and pasted on a cheeky smile. "Nice place you've got here. Not exactly homey, but it's definitely got the whole dark-dungeon vibe going on."
There was a startled snort, rough and hurriedly stifled. Not Macaluso. Tony twisted around, eyebrow raised, but the two men avoided his gaze. Reluctant to appreciate his humor, or something worse? Trepidation spiked in his gut, settling slowly into a churning uneasiness that Macaluso's easy laugh did nothing to disperse.
"Come, Florentino. Our guest is waiting."
Reluctantly, Tony fell into step behind the Mafia boss, wincing as the wooden step shuddered beneath his feet. At least if it collapsed, he thought privately, he'd take Macaluso down too; but the thought was small comfort. A hidden basement might be better than a gutter, but a death by shoddy staircases was too lame even to contemplate.
Macaluso halted abruptly at the base of the steps, in front of second door. Heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief, Tony stepped off the final stair, and shivered. Cold air rose off the concrete walls in waves, cutting through Tony's suit jacket as easily as a knife through smoke. A scent was detectable down here, distinct but too faint to pin down—something metallic, like rusting pipes.
Keys jingled. The door swung open, dragging slowly across the pitted floor. Suddenly the smell was rank and overpowering, and Tony wanted nothing better than to retch, and retch without stopping—because he knew this scent, because the stench of blood and vomit, fear and waste was one even cops never grew truly used to—because he should have (didn't want to, hadn't) anticipated this—
God.
The door slammed shut. Stumbling slightly, Tony moved towards the figure leaning against the wall. A man, that much was clear; brown-haired and motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of his bare, darkly bruised torso. Chains, the shiny silver of iron dulled by blood, linked limp wrists to the wall.
Breathing. Not dead.
Relief, as potent as any drug and equally fleeting, flooded through the detective. Somehow Tony forced all expression from his face, even as his heart beat out of control.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
"Who's your friend?" By some miracle, the words came out…calm. Indifferent.
"You don't recognize him?" Macaluso came to stand next to him, resting a warm hand on the younger man's shoulder. The words were soft, almost affectionate. Comforting.
Tony had never wanted to hit him more.
"You and I were waiting for him at the café," the Mafia boss continued, voice lilting. Tony stared at the crumpled figure, memory rising like a wave.
We are waiting for a friend.
"I nearly had him then." The long fingers tightened. "He stole from me, Tony. I trusted him, and he stole from me. He betrayed me." Something dark crept into the smooth voice. "No one betrays me."
The hairs on the back of Tony's neck lifted. Cloth rustled behind them—an uneasy movement, quickly stifled. At the sound, Macaluso's hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice.
"Don't ever betray me, Florentino."
The whisper carried a promise. If you do…
Against the wall, the captive's legs were twisted underneath him at an impossible angle. Broken. Tony looked up into hard eyes, and smiled.
"Never."
Always, you sick bastard.
Macaluso's fingers slid upward, brushing against the side of his throat in what was almost a caress. "Good." The hand lowered, leaving a lingering sense of sickness in Tony's stomach. "Wake him up!"
The last was a command. Arcuni stepped forward, homely face without expression. Tony looked away as he raised his hand.
Smack.
The dull sound of flesh striking flesh was drowned about the rattling of chains. A low groan sounded, followed by a volley of wet coughs. Wincing, Tony glanced up against his will, and stopped breathing. Blue eyes set in a youthful face, dark with terror, locked onto his in a silent plea.
Macaluso crouched down, elegant as always in his well-fitting suit. Instantly the man cowered backward, his trembling visible even feet away.
"Nothing to say?" The Mafia boss's voice was velvet soft. "That's disappointing, Charlie."
"I didn't—" The hoarse whisper was almost inaudible, but Macaluso's face tightened. Arcuni's foot lashed out, striking Charlie in the leg. The captive screamed, an animalistic sound, rocking back and forth.
"Don't lie to me, Charlie!"
The man's breath came in choking sobs. Desperately, Tony looked back and forth at the three men. He'd never be able to take them all, and if he'd tried he'd break his cover.
There was nothing he could do.
"Answer me!" Another scream, louder this time.
Sickened, Tony felt reflexively for his gun, but encountered only empty space. Struggling with the need to act, the detective clenched his fists. Julia's lifeless face floated into his mind, eyes vacant, lips cherry red from internal bleeding. He'd never avenge her—never avenge any of them—if he gave himself away now. Macaluso would keep on killing, bloodshed without end, and even Watson wouldn't be willing to risk another cop in Operation Hawkeye.
"Do you think you can manipulate me? Fesso!"
Crack. The unmistakable snap of a finger pressed too far, and Charlie's agonized wail tore through the room.
Tony stood stock still, frozen. If he acted now—if he got caught—it would destroy everything they'd worked so hard for. He would fail them all.
It made no difference.
He could not stand by for this.
Shaking with tension, Tony slid his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around cold metal—a pocketknife. A laughably inadequate weapon against three men with guns, but it might just be enough to take out one person, if he was lucky.
As if he was ever that lucky.
"Tony, come here, please."
Suddenly, the detective became aware that the screams had stopped. In the background, Charlie wept, mouth open in a grimace of agony. Slowly, Tony moved toward Macaluso, crouching down beside him. Cautiously, he removed his hand from his pocket. Wait.
He'd need the element of surprise.
Macaluso's elegant hands were flecked with red, but his words held as much honey as ever. "Do you value la Famiglia?"
A terrible desire to laugh built in Tony's throat. Family, of any sort, had always existed to stab him in the back. "More than anything," Tony whispered, sounding painfully sincere even to his own ears.
Whatever its other failings, family had taught him how to lie.
"This man threatened the Famiglia. He cares nothing for loyalty, for the bonds of trust. He tears us apart. I cannot let that happen, do you understand? I have men to look out for, men and their wives and their children. He threatens their wellbeing. They are innocents, Florentino. You and me, we are not innocents. Neither is Arcuni. Neither is Ghervio. Nor Giordano, nor Bianchi, nor your uncle. But we act to protect the innocents, Tony. Men like Charlie act only for themselves."
Liar. "Yeah." Tony swallowed, hard, as bile rose in his throat. "Yeah, I understand."
"You don't have to like doing it, Tony. No one likes it. I loathe it with everything in me. But I will do it, because we are protecting something that matters. You are still young—you cannot fathom how young you seem to me, for all that you are too clever by half—and so I will do, for now, it so you need not. But someday, it will be your responsibility. Do you think you can do it?"
Macaluso would expect excitement as well as revulsion. "Yes." It came out as barely more than a breath, and Macaluso's face hardened.
"Show me."
Surreptitiously, Tony inched closer to the Mafia boss, trying to ignore Charlie's pitiful sobs. At this angle, he could just see the handle of Macaluso's gun. If he reached…
He raised his head to meet the other man's gaze straight on. "What do you want me to do?"
Macaluso twisted sideways, jacket shifting to cover the gun.
Shit.
"Nothing more than he deserves," Macaluso promised, smile melancholy. In the soft light, his eyes glimmered strangely. "Nothing more than he asked for."
Somewhere, water dripped. With a chilling scrape of metal on metal, Macaluso unsheathed his knife. The blade shone like liquid silver as he placed it in the detective's hand.
"Slit his throat."
Tony's fingers clamped around the hilt, knuckles turning white with the fierceness of his grip. Body wire taut, Tony leaned toward Charlie, knife extended. Macaluso must never see it coming…but in a moment, in a moment…
The Mafia boss stepped backward.
Shit, shit, shit!
Panicking, Tony stalled by kneeling, taking care not to let his pants absorb the drops of blood spattering the floor. At this distance, he'd be peppered with slugs the moment he touched Macaluso, and the victim would still die. He had to get the Mafia boss closer—but how?
Realization hit like a flash. Death wouldn't be enough.
Macaluso would want to see.
Tony slid sideways deliberately, blocking the older man's view.
Macaluso took a half step forward. "Do it," he ordered.
He still wasn't close enough. Charlie whimpered in the back of his throat, jerking backward. Tony leaned forward, resting the blade at the base of the captive's neck.
Just…one…more…step…
"Do it!" Macaluso snapped, the harsh tone a warning. Tony's nerves screamed to obey, but the order was unthinkable.
Yet he'd never save the man if he attacked now.
He stared into the stranger's wide blue eyes, letting them damn him to hell and back for what he was about to do.
I'm sorry.
It was the only way he could think of to save them both.
Heaving a deep breath, Tony dragged the blade across the base of Charlie's neck.
A shallow cut, only; deep enough to draw blood but do no real damage. Still the captive yelled, and Tony lifted the pressure just slightly, readying himself to attack, because Macaluso would never be more distracted than he was now—
"Stop!"
Startled, Tony let the blade clatter to the floor.
"Good, Florentino." The mobster's voice was suffused with pleasure. "I think our friend's had enough for now."
Tony stumbled to his feet, scrabbling for the blade with fingers that no longer seemed to work. Today. That gave him time. Hope, dizzyingly strong, rose within him. If he went home—if Macaluso let him leave without a blindfold—he could contact Watson, and tell him where to go.
They could save this man, and take Macaluso down.
Long fingers lifted up his jaw; the knife was tugged gently from his grip. "Look at me, Tony," the Mafia boss ordered kindly. Tiny lines, framing his eyes, crinkled in a smile. "I'm proud of you. Go to your apartment, eat Maria's cooking, and get some rest. Tomorrow we'll be going on a trip, and it is going to be a long drive."
Macaluso released him. Swallowing nausea, Tony stepped away, and tried for a smile. It felt disjointed, mismatched with his face. "Yes, sir."
"Ghervio, take Florentino home. Oh, and one more thing. Tony?"
Tony turned.
"Cover your ears."
Macaluso whipped out his gun. Realization dawned too late. The shot rang out, loud as thunder, and Tony ducked automatically.
Then it was over.
The world was ringing. Tony straightened, horrified.
Even in death, Charlie's wide blue eyes still pled for mercy.
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Tony stumbled over the doorstep of the apartment lobby, garnering a suspicious stare from the pretty blond receptionist. Any other day, he would have flirted to smooth things over—she probably thought his clumsiness was born of alcohol, which wasn't an impression he wanted to encourage with young, single females.
Today he didn't give a damn. Tony matched her, look for look, jaw tight and eyes hard, until she dropped her gaze. Flustered. Tony kept his eyes locked on her while her cheeks flared red, relishing the sense of punishing her for her misconceptions. She, who dared to assume that she knew one goddamned thing about anything, closed up in a cushy job in the nice part of town, with eyes that had never seen a dead man gushing arterial blood from a gunshot hole in what was left of his neck.
Disturbed by his own vindictiveness, Tony put his head down and jammed his thumb onto the elevator button. Pain flared; he shook it out, swearing loudly. Doubtless the receptionist was still disapproving, but he didn't dare look at her again to see.
She was just a girl. Hopelessly innocent, but he was glad of that, he knew—or he would be, when he remembered how to feel glad about anything. Tony leaned his head against the wall, screwing his eyes shut.
He'd failed on so many levels.
The elevator dinged, the strident chime barely audible above the low-level buzzing in his ears. To Tony's relief, the room was empty. If someone made him engage in small talk, he didn't even want to imagine what he'd say.
The metal doors slid closed. Tony pressed the button for level three, and for a moment held perfectly still, exhaling slowly.
Damn them all.
Tony slammed his palm into the wall. The shock traveled up his arm; cursing, the detective gripped his shoulder. Breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating, Tony kicked the wall.
The resulting bang was almost as satisfying as the flair of pain in his foot.
The elevator steadied, doors flying open to reveal a serene-faced old lady, clinging to her walker. Hugging his shoulder, Tony sidled past, trying to ignore her concerned, wondering expression.
He needed somewhere private. Safe. The apartment was the obvious choice—they'd swept it for bugs just this morning—and yet…
Maria. Maria, with the sweet smile and the gentle hands and the too-sympathetic words. She'd be there, a moment's refuge from the darkness, offering comfort and kindness.
He knew too damned well that he deserved neither.
The third floor boasted a tiny balcony, all but useless in Philly's cold November winds. Bracing himself, Tony stepped out into the night.
The blast took his breath away. Coldness ripped through him, tearing away even the illusion of warmth. Tony sank into a chair. The metal seared through his jacket, but he didn't flinch. Gingerly, he reached into his pocket, extracting a slim cell.
A secure line, never before used. The only thing he had to thank Keyes for—other than bruises. He'd had one before, of course; but calling the same number frequently left a call history too suspicious to risk.
But now…
Dialing, Tony stared across the sparkling city lights.
"DiNozzo!"
He'd never been so glad to hear Watson's voice in his life.
"Hey, Sergeant," Tony said evenly.
"Is everything alright?" The words were sharp—sharper, even, than usual. With concern, probably.
"My cover's intact. Maria's fine."
A sigh. "Why'd you call?
Tony gripped the chair with one hand, ignoring the way it burned his fingers. "Tonight didn't go exactly as I hoped it would."
"How not?" Sharpness, again.
"Well. Well, let's put it this way. Murphy was a wise man."
"I heard he was an optimist."
A joke. A spectacularly inappropriate joke, from Watson, of all people. Tony laughed. The sound was raw and wild—uncontrollable, bordering on unhinged. The line went silent.
"DiNozzo?"
The phone slid from him fingers, dropping onto the tiles below. Tony buried his face in his hands, breath hitching.
"Detective!"
Pinpricks stung his eyes. Tony sucked in air until his lungs hurt, and scrabbled one-handed for his cell.
"Detective, are you there?"
Slowly Tony's numb fingers found the phone. The words came in a rush.
"A man's dead, Watson. Macaluso shot him. I couldn't stop it. I don't know where you're going to find the body, but his name's Charlie. He stole from Macaluso. That's all I know."
"Shit."
Again, abruptly, the insane urge to laugh. "Yeah, that's about what I thought."
"Goddamn it, DiNozzo." Watson's exhale was audible. "Can you at least give us a crime scene?"
"I can't."
"Why the hell not?" Exasperation filled his voice.
"I was blindfolded," Tony snarled, struggling not to chuck the phone off the balcony. "On the way there, on the way back. Why can't I tell you? I don't frickin' know where I was, Sergeant!"
Watson swore. "Nothing? No sounds?"
"It's within a twenty-five minute drive from Macaluso's house," Tony said shortly. "Could be less if they drove around for a while. The outside door's metal, the walls are concrete. There's wooden steps and another door underground, inside. Something industrial. Secluded. We parked in a gravel parking lot. That's all I know."
"We'll start searching." Suddenly Watson's voice was exhausted, and somewhere within Tony felt a stirring of sympathy.
"If you find it, Macaluso will suspect me."
Watson heaved another sigh, but he couldn't deny it. They both knew it was true. "What do you want us to do, DiNozzo?"
"He's taking me on a trip tomorrow," Tony said, the words coming out of him slowly. "Maybe I'm wrong, I think it's to Baltimore. You'll have more freedom. If you find the place, call me. Pretend it's a wrong number. I'll find a way to disappear."
The pause was long. Tony waited, half expecting a comment about how the risk was too high to take.
It never came.
"It's your call," Watson replied instead. "Alright, Detective. I'll get to work. Good luck."
"Good luck," Tony echoed, just as the line went dead. Frowning for reasons he couldn't explain, he tucked the phone into his pocket and gazed up at the night sky.
Even the stars looked cold.
Tony shivered violently as the wind rose.
It felt almost like a purging.
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The apartment was shrouded in darkness. Tony paused as the light from the hallway illuminated a swathe of tile.
Maria always left the lights on for him.
Tony's heart quickened; reaching out his hand, he flicked on the lights. The kitchen was untended, full of unwashed dishes piled up in miniature mountains. A small salad lay at Maria's place, untouched.
Something was wrong.
"Maria?"
His voice rang through the room.
There was no answer.
"Maria!" A little louder this time.
Silence.
Tony reached into the kitchen draw for the gun Macaluso never let him carry, and flipped off the safety with a click. "Maria!" Fear made his voice desperate. Gun raised, he slipped into the dining room.
Clear. "Maria!"
Quick as a flash, he moved into bedroom, throwing on the lights. The bed was still made, untouched since this morning.
But the bathroom door was closed.
Creeping forward, Tony flung the door open.
And lowered his gun.
Maria perched on the edge of the tub, back towards the door. A soft white towel draped loosely around her slender body. Long dark hair, sleek even when wet, stretched across her delicate shoulders. A can of shaving cream and a razor lay abandoned by her feet.
Anger, born of relief but hot enough to boil. Tony flicked on the safety, and dropped the gun on the counter. "Why didn't you—"
"I thought you weren't coming back."
Maria's voice, husky with misery, stopped him mid-sentence.
Fury faded, replaced by exhaustion. Tony rested a hand on the sink, and bowed his head.
"I didn't know if Mike would accept the guns. It's impossible to tell with him. He's always been unpredictable, even as a child. The only thing I knew was that he would kill you in a instant if he wanted to." Still facing away, Maria wrapped golden arms around her chest. The towel slipped downwards, baring a slender waist and the smooth expanse of her back. "He often wants to. He killed my brother without a second thought."
"I'm sorry," Tony whispered. The words fell into silence.
"Every time you meet with him, I know that maybe you'll never walk back through that door. And so do you."
Tony said nothing.
"I know how it tears you apart. Don't think I don't see it. I'm no detective, but we women know pain when we see it." She trailed a hand through the water, still not turning around.
"All I've ever wanted was to help you." Yearning, too sharp for mere friendship, laced every word, piercing him. "But you won't let me. So strong. So sure of what's right." For the first time, her voice turned bitter. "So afraid you'll break my heart. But I'm not a child, Anthony. I'm not an innocent. I never asked you to love me. If we survive this, I'd never expect you to stay. I only wanted to make something beautiful out of all this. But you would never let me."
Tony stood there silently, letting her grief and her disappointment sink deep within him, like a stone into a pool, until it was the only thing he could feel.
As the silence stretched, Maria twisted around. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara, but her full lips were set. Then her gaze met his.
The bitterness vanished. "Tony," she gasped, rising immediately. "What's the matter?"
Her sympathy cut his defenses to ribbons. Tony closed his eyes.
Soft footsteps halted front of him. Maria's warm hand rested against his neck, the touch feather light, for a moment. Her arms wrapped around him in a gentle embrace, banishing the cold of the balcony.
"It's alright, Tony," she whispered, face against his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
He could feel her breasts pressed against his waist through the towel. Tony breathed in, inhaling the flowery scent of her shampoo. Heat flooded through his veins. He opened his eyes.
Maria's brown eyes darted up to meet his. Reading his expression, she stilled, inhaling sharply. Slowly, Tony lowered his head, pressing lingering lips against her forehead, and then to the tip of her nose.
Maria's hands ran up and down his arms, inciting sparks. Tilting his head, Tony brushed her lips with his, then pressed them together. Gently, he traced the contours of her back. She shivered, teasing the inner edge of his lip with her tongue as his fingers slid upward.
When his hand found the soft swell of her breast, he found he no longer had the strength to resist.
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Chapter Notes: Hi, everyone! My longest chapter yet; almost 5,000 words. I hope you enjoyed—though maybe enjoyed isn't the right word, considering the darkness of this chapter. I hope you found it suspenseful and tastefully handled, at any rate. :) I tried to avoid making it too graphic. I hope the harsher language was okay…the scenes seemed to call for it, but I don't prefer to have it in there. Let me know what you think!
Thank you all so much for your support and your patience with my hiatus! :D Sorry about that. However, last night I stayed up to 4:30 (0_0 !) so I wouldn't interrupt the flow of the last few scenes, so, you see, I'm really quite devoted. ;) Your reviews, hits, favorites, alerts, etc, make me so happy. Also, thanks to those people (whomever you are) who added A Question of Honor to different communities. It's in 5 now! Eek!
Fesso, by the way, is an (offensive) Italian word for idiot.
