Of volume lineage

VIII

Isabella

Butterfly kisses began at my ankle and slowly worked their way up my leg.

I spread my knees, sighing deeply. Each press of lips, each scratch of beard, warmed up parts of me that had been cold for too long. Hands pi

My pleasure was a candle that was quickly becoming a forest fire.

Silk sheets caressed my skin and a faraway thought told me this wasn’t my bed, but I paid it no mind.

His attention grew closer and closer to the part of me that ached, his tongue lightly stroking my folds. Fingers joined his tongue, their touch talented and inept. Ecstasy shot through me, hard and fast, and a groan escaped my mouth.

He lightly traced around my bud, laughter reverting deep inside him. Circular, taunting, motions that had me quivering.

“Please,” I think I said, the word swallowed by something larger than myself.

The teasing was growing too great, the anticipation was a razor’s edge, and I was ready to be cut. If he just–

His tongue pressed against my clit, hot and wet and oh so good. I let out a silent cry, hips bucking under his ironclad grip.

I felt rather than heard his command. He wanted me to succumb, to surrender beneath his grip. In that moment, with his mouth against the part of me that ached, his fingers and lips and tongue moving in a rhythm that made my head swim, I would have agreed to anything.

My pleasure was rising higher and higher, my knees bending as it shuddered up my body. I could feel the climax–

Water began welling up all around me. My nightgown stuck to my skin as the water rose, higher and higher. I tried to get up, but his grip held me tightly. I was going to drown; the water was rising.

I struggled, screaming and fighting. My head was plunged beneath the surface and blues suddenly surrounded me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t get up–

A head appeared above me, ocean-blue eyes empty as they took me in. His hair wafted with the current, looking like a squid’s ink.

Please, I was begging, I can’t breathe, please I’m drowning, please.

Calmly, Giova

I was dying, I was dying–

“Fragolina!”

Consciousness tore through me and I bolted upright. My bedroom door let out a bang as my uncle strode in, followed by Adriano Lo Duca and a Vigliano soldato I didn’t recognize. They didn’t look at me, beelining straight for my paintings.

I pulled the blanket up to my chest, still dizzy from my dream. “What’s going on?” My voice was drowsy but the hysteria to my tone was clear. “Uncle Angelo! What are you–!”

My uncle grabbed a canvas I had been working on, the rivets of blues all mixing together like the sea. He threw it down to the ground where the Vigliano soldato picked it up and shoved it into a trash bag.

I suddenly saw red.

“What are you doing?” I howled, leaping from the bed. The blanket twisted around my ankles, sending me sprawling, but my rage helped me pull myself up. I lunged at my uncle who grabbed me, eyes dark.

“The Don has ordered all paintings of him to be destroyed,” he said, voice tight. “Just show us which ones–”

“Do not touch my art!” I half-shrieked. Even my parents, my mother and father who had never given me much regard, had never touched my paintings. Even my big brother, who used to tease me in his teens endlessly, never went near my creations.

Adriano and the soldato sorted through the other canvases, their eyes searching for any sign of their boss–or in Adriano’s case, newest boss. I looked at him in betrayal. The Viglianos had killed his father, why was he doing Giova

The Vigliano soldato found my sketch book, flicking through the pages and ripping out images of Marzia, Giova

“No, stop!”

Uncle Angelo grabbed me, pi

“I know you like to unravel the world with your art, fragolina,” he tried to soothe, “but Giova

“They’re not all of him!” I reached forward when Adriano carefully grabbed a painting of the ocean, a pair of blue eyes weaved into the waves. I was afraid of water and Giova

Adriano gently placed it in a bag, looking somewhat sympathetic. I didn’t care. In that moment, I wanted to snap the paintbrush to my left and use the sharp ends to gouge his eyes out.

Uncle Angelo did not loosen his grip on me, brushing a hand down my hair. “It’s okay, Domi–fragolina. It’s going to be okay.”

Giova

My cries echoed around the room, but no one reacted to them. My uncle continued his attempts to soothe me, but it was no use. In that moment, nothing in the world could’ve comforted me.

Adriano and the soldato left, two trash bags filled to the brim.

Hot tears slid down my cheeks as I took in my disrupted workspace, took in the torn sketchbook and tipped canvases. Vulnerability and fury raged a war inside of me.

“How about you get dressed and I’ll make you some breakfast?” Uncle Angelo asked.

I had forgotten I was only in my nightgown, the red silk not covering much. Not only was I emotionally exposed but I was also physically.

I turned my head to the vase of roses on my bedside table. When I had gotten back from di

Before I could even think about it, I was grabbing the roses and storming over the balcony. My uncle called out my name but I ignored him, and I also ignored the guards who watched me with wide eyes as I tossed the bouquet over the balcony, sending it to its flowery death.

I heard someone yelp “Ow! What the fuck?” from below. I paid them no mind.

Instead, I turned to the guard closest to me, teeth bared. “Tell Giova

The rain had finally stopped, allowing us all to congregate in front of the bridal shop as we waited for Marzia. Lombardi and Vigliano women blended, their smiles faked and words forcibly sweet. If I had a dollar for every passive aggressive comment that had been made in the past four minutes, I would have enough money to buy a private jet and fly as far away from here as possible.

The age difference wasn’t the only source of contention. Most of the Vigliano women were younger, whereas majority of the Lombardi women were older. But it seemed old wounds hadn’t been forgotten, particularly the bloody way in how Giova

Lombardis are known for their loyalty, Father always used to say.