Broken Rules: (Broken Duet #1)

Isla’s a remarkable woman. Positive, warm, and cheerful. She never stops smiling. Everything brings her joy. Since I woke up, she must’ve hugged me a dozen times. It’d take Jess ten years to top that, which makes spending time with Dante’s mother rather difficult. She appreciates me for who I am, making me painfully aware of how much I crave the same from my parents.

Expecting them to hug me daily is out of the question—miracles don’t happen—but if they’d take an interest in my life, I’d be the happiest person alive.

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?” Isla’s melodic voice erases my troubles as if she wiped a whiteboard clean.

“It’s nothing… could you play something for me?”

“I’m mainly a composer, but I’ll take out my violin for you, sweetie.” She squeezes my hand with a fond smile. “I want you to know I’m thrilled that my son fell in love with you, Layla. He’s different around you. Happy, relaxed. And the way he looks at you? I’ve never seen him care so much.”

I force a smile while my heart breaks bit by bit. I love him more than I ever thought possible and hate myself for it. I hate myself for trusting Frank and following his orders.

“I care about him too. More than he’ll ever know.”

I lose my boots, getting comfortable on the cream couch decorated with green pillows as I wait for Isla to come back with her violin. The maid brings over a stool, leaving it in the doorway leading to the dining room. Isla climbs onto it, readjusts the elegant dress, and places the violin between her chin and left shoulder, holding the bow in her right hand.

“My father used to listen to your music all the time. I loved one piece the most. It was a slow melody. Like a lullaby.”

Isla’s eyes stop glowing with the contagious positivity, her smile slips, and tears dance in the corners of her eyes.

I pluck the courage to ask about something I’ve suspected since Dante told me who his mother is. “There was something between you, wasn’t there?”

“Dante’s right. You’re very clever.”

“I can add two and two together.”

“It was a short affair. A misunderstanding,” she says, repentant. “A stupid mistake.”

“You don’t have to explain.” I sit up, tugging on the sleeves of my sweater. “I don’t blame you. My parents’ marriage is a farce. They’re together only because of Frank’s image. I assume Dante doesn’t know about this?”

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t. I’d appreciate it if it stayed that way.” She puts the violin on her knees, her shoulders tense. “Dante’s father passed away when he was fifteen. I didn’t handle it well. Dante ran to his uncle in Chicago soon after that, and a few months later, I found out what career my son chose.” She wrinkles her nose, visibly burdened by the past. “I flew over there to change his mind and met your father. It was the wrong time. I was mourning my husband, and—” She blushes, shaking her head.

“And you need a distraction,” I finish for her. “He loved you, didn’t he?”

“Very much. We were only seeing each other for two months, but your father was ready to divorce your mother. I broke him when I left, but he took it like a man. He mentored Dante for years. He always had his best interests at heart. I think that deep down, he hoped I’d change my mind.”

I can’t help but wonder how different my life would’ve turned out if Isla had stayed with Frank. She couldn’t have known, but their short affair had indescribable repercussions. Frank’s broken heart changed him forever, and Dante’s betrayal was the last nail in the coffin.

“I think he stopped hoping a long time ago,” I say, offering Isla a small, sympathetic smile.

Isla picks the violin up, inhaling deeply as she touches the bow to the violin’s strings. The soft, familiar melody brings back memories of all the evenings I sat in the living room with Frank, surrounded by darkness and this masterpiece. Instead of watching cartoons, I listened to classical music because it meant spending time with my Dad. He was happy back then, peaceful. I miss him. I miss the person he was before he killed Dino, and Chicago was split in half.

Frank was never a great father, but back then, he was present. Six years ago, he became uncatchable like smoke.

Isla finishes playing, but I remain curled in a ball, buried under an avalanche of memories. It’s not until she pulls me into a tight hug that I snap out of it.

The characteristic sound of the elevator doors sliding open resonates throughout the penthouse. Dante walks in, eyes on me, his muscles instantly tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Your mom played the violin for me.”

“You’re just in time,” she points toward the dining room. “Lunch will be ready in ten.”

“Give us a minute, Mom.” He helps me up when she leaves. “I’ll ask again, Star. This time I expect you not to lie.” He curls his finger under my chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Your mom’s amazing.” I rest my forehead on his chest. “She’s been lovely all morning, kept calling me sweetie, and hugged me every few minutes as if I’m her daughter. She even played the violin when I asked, and I realized how awful my parents really are.”

He kisses the top of my head, but I turn toward the dining room, not letting him speak. There’s nothing he can say to change reality.

The flight back home and the thirty minutes we spent in the cab were unnaturally silent. On our way to the airport in New York, Dante picked up a call, and after twenty seconds, during which he said three words, his good mood evaporated.

Three hours of silence is long enough.

“What do you feel like doing?” I ask, watching him drop our bags by the staircase. “Should I pick a movie?”

He doesn’t answer, rounding the bar as if he hadn’t heard me to pour himself a drink, staring at the glass.

I hug his back when he sits at the bar. “You’re not here, baby. Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

He presses his lips to my wrist, mindlessly spinning the glass. “It’s nothing, Star. Pick a movie. I’ll grab a shower.”

I collapse on the couch, taking the remote control with me. Dante’s distraught. I want to distract him, but I don’t know how… I turn the TV on, then switch it off when a thought flashes in my mind. I follow him upstairs, stripping off my clothes in the bedroom, and tiptoe to the bathroom wearing nothing but white lingerie. Clouds of steam, thick like cigar smoke, hang in the air.

Dante stands motionless with his back to me, his head under the stream of hot water, hands resting on the wall. My heart slams against my ribs, and my hands feel damp. He hasn’t touched me yet, but it doesn’t stop my breath from slowing or my lungs not filling to capacity.

He turns around as if he can sense my presence, his eyes roving my body before meeting my gaze.

The muscles in my abdomen contract when he parts his lips. Water trickles down his tattooed arms and broad chest. Worry disappears from his face when I slide my thumbs under the fabric of my panties, pulling them down until they fall to the ground.

Dante’s eyes turn darker with intense desire. Hot, misty air fans my face, sending chills down my spine when he slides the shower door open.

He doesn’t wait longer. He grabs my waist and breathes out, sinking into my lips like a starving man, but this is not what I had in mind. We’ve been in bed two, sometimes three times a day during the last two weeks. He taught me many different things, but there’s one thing we haven’t got to yet. One thing that I’m eager to try.

I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand around his stiff, long cock, and close my lips on the swollen head.

“Fuck,” he growls, fisting my hair. “Layla…”

I take him deeper, cutting his incoming protest short, and glance up at his aroused face. The fire dancing in his eyes eradicates my unease, the irrational worry that I won’t do a good job. I twirl my tongue, licking off the first salty drop, exhilarated by his taste.

The control I have while my hand pumps in sync with my mouth makes me press my hips together in desperate need of friction. Every one of his hastened breaths, every growl, and tug on my hair fuel my desire.

“That’s it, good girl,” he mutters. “Faster, baby.”

Muscles in my abdomen spasm when he grips my head, adjusting my moves to his preference. I let him because, in bed, he makes the rules. He’s in control.

He holds me still, moving his hips, filling my mouth with more inches, and the head of his cock hits the back of my throat. “Ready for me, Star?” he rasps. “In or out?”

I claw at his thighs, holding him in place. The low, satisfied growl rumbling deep within his chest sends a jolt of electricity zapping through my body. Two more moves, and he comes, spilling in my mouth, his body rigid for a few intense seconds before he slides out with a soft pop.

He’s breathing faster as he looks down at me, wiping a trickle of his cum from the corner of my lips. “You’ve no idea how beautiful you are when you’re on your knees for me.” He hauls me up, pinning me against the tiles. “My turn.”