Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6183133.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Unrelated_Winchesters, Step-Brothers, Bottom_Dean_Winchester/Top_Sam
      Winchester, different_last_names, Neither_of_them_are_"Winchesters",
      Mafia_AU, Dean's_Real_Name_is_Dimitri, Russian_Dean, Russian_Mafia,
      Italian_Mafia, Italian_Sammy, russian_language, Italian_Language, Bottom
      Dean, Top_Sam
  Series:
      Part 1 of Hozyain
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-07 Words: 23811
****** Hozyian ******
by guestwho
Summary
     Sammy Vincetti's world is spun on its axis when his father, don of
     the local Italian mafia, decides to adopt an orphaned boy belonging
     to the rival Russian mafia in order to make peace between the two
     families. Dimitri "Dean" Ivanov, a quiet, curious boy with broken
     English, doesn't understand why Sammy hates him so much - nor why he
     enjoys the attention so much either.
Notes
     This was originally just a non-fanfic smut story, but I decided that
     since I had based the characters off of Jared and Jensen that I'd
     make it into a fanfic AU and put it up here for the fandom. Sam and
     Dean aren't related in this, nor is the name Winchester mentioned
     anywhere, and any elements of Supernatural the show are not applied
     in this story. This is just a plain old fashioned boy-on-boy story
     using the names of Sam and Dean.
     Also, there is a heavy amount of racist slurs used in this story, and
     I want to note beforehand that I do not mean to cause any offense to
     Russians or Italians AT ALL. These slurs are only used to help
     characterize Sammy's complete lack of respect towards anyone,
     especially Russians. Again, nothing written here is meant to
     genuinely cause hurt or disrespect.
     Any questions or complaints let me know and I will do my best to fix
     things.
     Lastly, I only used google translate and advice from people in my
     daily life to write the Russian/Italian dialogue, I apologize if it's
     totally botched!
     *Also I just made a Twitter in case anyone wants to follow for story
     updates! it's new, but I plan on using it often soon: https://
     twitter.com/ guestwho
See the end of the work for more notes
“You won’t get a piece of my family’s money. Y’hear me?” Sammy snarls, breath
hot against the seventeen year old’s face. “You think they’re smitten by your
little play-dumb act, like you’re not actually after the Vincetti bank. Guess
what? They’re not, Drago. They only took in your stray ass so they could buy
out the K shipment that’s being moved through Little Russia. If anything, your
Marksimov buddies practically sold you to us for our money. Probably wasn’t
even that much.”
Dimitri’s eyes remain nailed to the floor, an audible swallow to his throat.
Sammy sneers at the possum act, astounded by the kid’s cowardice. He wonders
how far he can push him.
“Gimme the keys.”
Dimitri glances up at him worriedly then. The keys his father gave him to that
new Benz outside are clutched tenderly, almost too-tightly in his hand. He’s
probably never even had a real car before. Probably doesn't even know how to
drive it. All the more reason for Sammy to take it. His eyes harden at the
Russian, blackly.
“Give it to me, Dee.”
His hand moves slowly then, offering up the silvery keys. Sam snatches them
away in his fist, snarl twitching.
“From now on you don’t get a thing in this house, unless it goes through me
first. I don’t care who it’s from, or what it is; a present, clothes,
groceries, letters, a fucking phone call – I don’t care. You think you have
freedom here? You don’t. Now on you belong to me, Pinko.” He leans in close,
and the look on Dimitri’s face is one of growing distaste. “You answer to me.
Everything I tell you, you do. No questions asked. Capische?”
Dimitri looks up at him with furious wet eyes. “You can’t just –”
“You’d be surprised at what I ken and ken’t do, Mudak.”
The boy glares, hard. “You are not your father.”
“Not yet.” The heir smiles, sharply. Dimitri says nothing to that, mouth caught
in a thin, hateful line. Sammy’s mission feels complete then, especially when
the Russian’s gaze returns to the floor. He gets his mouth right up against
Dimitri’s ear, and hisses.
“Imparare a piacermi, puttana.”
He jingles the Benz keys musically, and walks away with a deep sense of
contentment.
Later that week.
“You said you wanted to be a part of this family, ah? So do it.” His father’s
voice comes, lyrical tilt of his Sicilian accent sounding like nothing but
mockery to Sammy’s ears.
“Inventory is for grunts, I’m your son.” He seethes. “I should be learning real
tools of the trade, not how to count!”
“First of all, we never talk about the boys that way. They never respect you
that way. Secondo, you need to brush up on your counting skills anyways. You
hardly passed algebra in school; I had to pay off your teacher in junior year.”
“That was because she knew you’d pay her if she threatened to fail me!”
“Zitto. I’ll hear none of it. You want in this business? You take inventory.
Capische?”
Sammy didn’t get back from the warehouse until hours later. By the time his
Maserati was peeling into the driveway of the Vincetti estate, the moon was
hanging bright in the sky, and his mother had Pavarotti playing softly while
she danced around the kitchen in her apron, cleaning up after dinner. She
wasn’t Italian – she was a full-blooded Pennsylvanian, but Sammy thought she
embraced the Vincetti heritage much more than any actual Vincetti, to an
irritatingly fervid point. He’d only walked in when he saw her tucking away the
last of tonight’s carbonara into the fridge, and although he’d gotten drive-
thru on the way home, his heart still churned with indignation at the thought
of his family sharing his favorite dish with that mutt.
“Hey there, handsome.” She grins, hip-checking the fridge shut. “How was work?”
“Don’t even.” He snorts, storming past her – until his eyes fall on a
decorative plaque on the table, shining as if it were brand new. He immediately
stops. “What’s that?” She peers over from behind the kitchen island. “Oh, that?
Your brother Dean got that today from school. Apparently he’s been really
impressing the Mathletes. Isn’t it great?”
Fury unfurls itself tight in Sammy’s chest, red hot like a young volcano. The
bastard’s name is etched across the marble in golden filigree, as if he was
some sort of royalty for being able to divide shit up by its square root.
Meanwhile, Sammy was stuck counting baggies in a warehouse for five hours. He
was livid.
“His name’s Dimitri. And he’s not my brother.” He snarls before zooming up the
steps to the mutt’s bedroom, vision made entirely of red. His mother simply
sighs, turning up her Pavarotti.
Sammy kicks open Dimitri’s door and the Russian’s body lurches upwards into the
sitting position on his bed, the tablet in his lap becoming smushed against his
chest when his back hits the wall in the attempt to scoot away from a boiling
Sammy. The hot-head locks the door behind him, and turns to Dimitri with flared
nostrils.
“What are you doing?” The boy eyes him warily, though it sounds more like
‘vat’.
“Shut the fuck up, Sputnik. What the fuck did I say about you getting presents,
huh?” He stalks over to his bed in slow, angry steps. “When the fuck did I say
it was okay for you to get a trophy?”
Shame dawns on Dimitri’s face, and his gaze hits the floor. “I-I did not – they
gave it to me; is gift. I could not refuse.”
“You think that’s cute?” He settles a knee on the bed in front of the uneasy
boy, leaning over him and birthing a shadow from the reading lamp on the desk.
“You think that makes you smart, bringing home a little paper-weight like that
from your stupid math club? Yeah? How come you can add two plus two just fine
but when a fucking waiter asks for your order you gotta write it down first and
then say it? It’s really simple, all you gotta do is look up and say ‘Gnocchi’.
It’s not rocket science, cretino.”
Dimitri flushes, and speaks very slowly – as if that would make him any more
coherent.
“Is different in Rossiya.”
“Oh what, you don’t got restaurants in Mother Russia? Wait I forgot – you
probably don’t.” Sammy bites with a mirthless chuckle. “What you guys do, boil
a potato and call it gourmet?”
He looks away, hugging his IPod tablet quietly. Sammy swallows, anger heaping
even more so at the hurt face in front of him. How dare he.
“The fuck are you doing awake anyways, it’s almost eleven. Don’t you have a
curfew?”
“Homework.” The boy blurts. Sammy’s eyes narrow at the way his gaze bobs up at
him, nervously.
“Homework. At eleven.” Sammy parrots in disbelief. The boy always finished his
homework right after school. Nerd. “What are you looking at on there? Math
porn? Rehearsing your multiples?” He grabs at the tablet. Dimitri dodges his
lunge, eyes widening in terror. Sammy’s voice turns cold. “Let me see.”
He yanks the tablet away from Dimitri’s death grip then, and stills at what he
finds on it. The Russian wraps his arms around his knees, pressed to his chest
tightly. His face is burning.
Sammy lets out a hollow laugh, a huff of air. “That’s fucking disgusting.”
“I-I –”
“My father bought this for you. He spent over a hundred dollars on it, and
you’re using it for this?”
He holds up the paused frame of some busty blonde’s fake-ass tits, frozen in
the motion coming from some faceless dude’s meat-rod drilling her a new
asshole. It’s like he was trying to plow a tunnel to China. Through her ass.
Dimitri can’t even look at it. His chest heaves in quickening breaths, as if he
was about to have an attack. “I am sorry.”
“That’s fucking disgusting, Dimitri.” Sammy knees his way closer to the boy so
he can shove the tablet up in his face, his voice pitched low and snarling.
“You watch this every night, huh? This how you get your kicks?”
“Please,” He turns his head, miserably.
“You like American girls, Dimitri? You like watching them take it like sluts,
like it when they have big tits? Yeah?” He grabs the boy’s jaw, forcing it
frontwards. “Answer me.”
Dimitri swallows, thickly. “I-I do not know.”
Sammy huffs. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? You either like ‘em or you
don’t, it’s not an equation, dicksmack.”
“I don’t know, I –” He keeps his grip firm on Dimitri’s jaw when he tries to
wriggle away. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” The elder laughs, delighted at the other’s reluctance. “You’re so full
of shit, you know that?”
He shoves Dimitri’s face away. The Russian’s eyes are wet now, and he keeps
them pinned to his desk lamp, muscle visibly tensing in his jaw when he
swallows again. Sammy looks back at the tablet, gaze impenetrable for a moment,
before turning back to the boy.
He presses play.
Dimitri’s body jolts at the noise of porn cutting through the silence; nothing
but dirty, loud moans and filthy male grunts. He looks up at Sammy with eyes
begging him to stop.
“Touch yourself.” Sammy says instead. Dimitri’s gaze explodes.
“What?”
“What I just said, Red.” He says, voice void of any mirth. When Dimitri doesn’t
make any move to do so, he adds “Or I could take this downstairs. Put it right
next to that new math trophy of yours. Yeah?”
He still doesn’t move, but his chest heaves quicker. “I will not.”
Sammy leans an arm on the headboard and presses the tablet in closer,
impossible for Dimitri to ignore. When the Russian looks up and finds no chance
of reprieve in the heir’s hard, resolute face, he begs “Please.”
He’s silent for a moment. “C’mon, Dee. You like tits, right?”
Dimitri shakes his head at the covers, fist balled up in the fabric hotly. The
porn star’s voice is suffocating the two of them, making the air seem so tense
around them that he almost finds it hard to breathe. Sammy can’t believe the
shitty quality of the video – there’s a corny 80’s soundtrack backing it. How
could anyone get off with Bon Jovi in the background? Vaguely, he wonders if
Dimitri even understands the words.
Then, the Russian’s knees slip apart; a hesitant parting. His chest is puffing
deeply, a slow rhythm while his eyes remain on the covers – as if Sammy weren’t
there at all. He’s red all over – and when his hand inches down his stomach to
his zipper, his throat bobs. Sammy is silent as the grave, watching it crawl
helplessly lower, until he’s fully palming the front of his pants. The air
suddenly clings, static-fizzy all at once.
“Look at it.” Sammy orders, lowly. “Watch the video.”
Dimitri turns his gaze to the tablet, eyes glistening. It’s a horribly amateur
shot of just genitals, the guy going balls deep into the blonde’s ass like it
he was having some sort of muscle spasm, and at first Dimitri flinches at it –
before all heat rushes to his groin, body picking up right where he left off
before Sammy burst in. He shifts, uncomfortable under another male gaze, but
keeps his palm flat against his pants.
“Keep going.”
His head tilts back against the headboard, swallowing. He wants to close his
eyes, pretend he’s surrounded by nothing, but he knows that wouldn’t last a
second under the Sammy’s gaze. He keeps watching, sensations creeping into his
nerves. The phantom pleasure of what a real woman feels like touches his body –
he’s never been with one. As he listens to her keen, he imagines what it’s
like; pressing into another, feeling her drip.
His grip tightens, hardness suddenly there in his hand. Warm and firm, he rubs
at it over his jeans, heart feeling like an alarm. His knees slide further
apart, and Sammy can see the thick length of his cock against his thigh. Not
bad, he thinks distantly.
Dimitri’s back arches just slightly, pumping his hips faintly into his hand
with a shaky breath, lashes fluttering. He rubs and squeezes at his cock,
exhaling like a shudder.
“Go under your pants.”
“You said just touch.” Dimitri doesn’t stop.
“Go under.” He repeats, like a shrug, weight hidden in his voice. It doesn’t
seem like he’s going to at first, but then his unoccupied hand is pulling apart
his pants button, undoing the zipper. Sammy can smell something heady there,
but doesn’t move from his spot.
“Under your boxers too.”
Dimitri looks frightened now. He stares past the tablet at Sammy unsurely, and
then his hand slips under both layers. Sammy’s skin lights up at the situation,
feeling like he’s taken one step too far into hot water.
“Keep going.”
Dimitri swallows again, and Sammy can practically see the moment his hand
touches his bare cock – the way his whole face shutters like a camera,
hesitantly. His wrist starts moving, slow up and down motions under his
clothes. Dimitri blinks in a flutter and then his gaze is on his own hand,
flush high on his cheeks. Letting out a harsh pant, wet sounding.
“Look at the video.” Sammy orders.
“I don’t like that one.” Dimitri’s gaze returns to him, hand steady.
Sammy’s authority feels challenged. “I wasn’t asking.”
He doesn’t reply. His movements quicken, and Sammy can definitely smell
something now – the fat smell of sex. Dimitri looks at the video as if it
suddenly meant nothing, jacking himself like he didn’t even need it. There’s a
soft slapping sound that hits Sammy’s ears like tongue up his spine, and
Dimitri starts panting, head lolling back against the headboard. His hips start
to squirm, and when his back arches out even further they pump up into his
fist, air gushing past his lips in uneven bursts. His eyes dance up at Sammy
again, face heating up with red.
“Take it out.” His voice comes.
Dimitri’s brow creases in desperation, eyes flaring in disbelief at the heir.
Sammy thinks he’s going to argue, or even stop, but instead his pants are being
tugged down from his waist, boxers in quick tow – and his cock is springing
free, one hand still wrapped around it as if it wasn’t allowed to leave. His
skin is all smooth, only a thatch of blond hair below his naval. His face is
red hot, chest pumping, gaze trapped in a cage of terror and indignation. He
doesn’t wait for Sammy to tell him what to do – he just keeps fisting himself,
slower than before. Sammy feels stuck in time, watching a loop of some guy’s
bony fingers tug at his hard flushed cock with slick, skin sounds.
They get faster the longer Dimitri keeps his eyes averted, knees gradually
splaying open in front of Sammy. The tablet is slowly drifting to the covers –
he’s pretty sure the video’s almost over by now.
His hips pump up again, the movement more obvious now that Sammy’s got a full
view, and he observes soundlessly as they make a circle in the air, thrusting
into his fist. Sammy never did that with himself – with girls maybe. Come to
think of it, Sammy really didn’t do this to himself that often. He wasn’t bad
looking; he had plenty of volunteers in the sex department. In fact he’d
gathered quite a reputation for hitting it and quitting it, naturally. Sammy
wasn’t sad at all to admit that most of his relationships were the kinds that
started with a one-liner and ended with a taxi cab in the morning. He’d still
rub one out as much as the next guy, but – never quite like this.
“Open your eyes.”
Dimitri looks up again, eyelids having dropped at one point. He’s tugging at
himself in blurry motions now, slapping quick and frantic. His mouth hangs
open, lips blown hot pink.
“Are you close?”
“Da,” His breaths are tight, constricted.
“Say it in English.”
“Pochemu ty tak so mnoy?” He spills, and his hips pump up again. A sound is
caught in his throat – a swallowed down whimper.
“English.” Sammy commands.
“Yes.” He pants. “Blizkiy.”
Sammy stares at his hands, how one travels down to rub at his smooth balls,
fingertips disappearing under the darkness of his strained boxer briefs. He
pants out of his wide open mouth, eyes snapping shut once more under the stress
of his eyebrows, pleadingly furrowed. The tablet is forgotten on the bed spread
now, Sammy’s forearm resting on the thick headboard so he looks down at Dimitri
idly. His belt isn’t too far from the Russian’s face – a few inches further and
he could feel the hot breath there, rushing.
“Look at me.”
Dimitri’s eyes snap open, and he looks overwhelmed. Sammy swallows.
“Say my name.”
“Blizkiy.” He shakes his head. Sammy reaches down and grabs his jaw again,
firmly – “Sammy.” He hiccups. “Sammy – Semmi!"
His voice lurches up on a broken mispronunciation of his name and his whole
body stiffens. White hits his knuckles, splashes against his stomach, and his
jaw jerks free of Sammy’s grip, head tossing to the side with a released groan.
He jacks himself through it, eyes tightly shut.
Sammy stares down and realizes he’s incredibly hard.
*
For every day that Sammy would slam the door behind him on his way to work,
Dimitri would be gasping out his name that same night.
“I – I can’t, I need – Sammy.”
It became a routine fueled on anger, hate, and secrets.
“Not yet.” Sammy says above him, settled on his knees between the Russian’s
naked legs as he laid back on the fat leather sofa downstairs, the entire house
quiet around them aside for the heavy, beaten breaths spilling from Dimitri’s
mouth, sounding as if he was trying to push a boulder uphill.
This has been his fourth try at coming, and Sammy’s fourth denial.
His fist pulls at his pretty flushed dick with merciless slapping, hot sweat
running down from his forehead to his neck skin, face doused exhausted pink
while his boxers were tangled around his right ankle, his socked feet half-
hanging off the couch.
“Push your shirt up. All the way up.” Sammy orders. “Just don’t take it off.”
“Please, ya ne mogu tak bol'she. Let me – please.” The blond begs brokenly.
“Shirt.” He repeats, slowly. “Up.”
Dimitri’s eyes flare blue at him, and Sammy feels it all the way down his spine
and straight up his cock. Dimitri had become his quickest new power trip in a
matter of days. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for the blond to obey
him, bunching his shirt up around his collar bones dutifully to expose his
tight rose nipples and chest; girly smooth but boyish tan. He lets his one hand
rest on the rumpled fabric above his heart while the other keeps working his
cock, standing tall and straight and wet with the precome his fingers slipped
around.
He stared down at it, brow crumpled and lip clamped tight between his teeth
where soft, desperate whimpers broke through.
“Touch your nipple, play with it.” Sammy’s got one hand grappling the couch’s
spine and another on its arm; grip tight under the burn of his spurred spirit,
growing bolder each second. Dimitri doesn’t talk back this time, just moves the
fingers by his collar down to his left nipple and pinches it, rubs it between
the length of his digits and swallows, hips pumping slowly.
“Pochemu vy tak so mnoy?” He susurrates, staring up into the hard Italian’s
face with fire in his cheeks, lashes wet. “Chto ya tebe sdelal?”
Sammy leans down and grips a handful of blond hair, moist and soft from sweat.
He tugs it back so Dimitri’s face is wholly exposed to him, his lips parting in
a shocked gasp.
“We’re gonna train that backtalk out of you, aren’t we?” He says. “You’re gonna
learn how to say every single ounce of shit-talk you have for me in English.
You got that?”
“Not shit talk,” He hisses, feeling the rough knees of Sammy’s jeans sidling up
against his inner thighs, keeping him wide open. “Vy prosto ne ponyali by.”
“English, Red. English.” Sammy lets go of his hair roughly. Dimitri huffs a hot
blow of air when his head falls back against the soft arm rest, and after a
glaring moment he pauses his hand movements to lean up on his elbow and seethe
into the darker boy’s face.
“I want to come.”
Sammy holds his glare for a moment. His eyes slide down the Russian’s body,
lingering on his nipples and flushed cock head. Then he settles on the shadowy
trail below his tightened sac, a new plan dominating his mind.
“Finger yourself.” He returns to Dimitri’s fierce gaze, disaffectedly. “And
then you can come.”
The blond’s face pops with emotion. “What?”
“Finger yourself.” Sammy leans in, careful and clear. “Finger your ass.”
The Russian looks confused, still clutching his cock as if he was now
protecting it.
“I...I can’t, do that. That’s – not for boys.”
The older boy’s eyes glint and Dimitri’s spine laughs with ice, realizing the
error of his words.
“Not for boys, huh?” He murmurs to him. “You think fingering’s not for boys, or
asses aren’t for boys?”
Dimitri’s hands leave his body to scoot himself further up on the couch, away
from Sammy as the Italian leans forward. “That is not what I say. I just –”
“Keep touching yourself. I didn’t say stop.” He snipes. Dimitri stills, and
with a hesitant lick to his lips, his hand returns to its previous motions.
“Now answer the question. What isn’t for boys, Dee? Fingering, or ass?”
It was hard to answer anything like this. “The – the act.” He breathes, slowly.
“It is not what boys do.”
“Yeah? You scared of not being a boy, Dee? You think fingering your ass will
make you a girl – a little, slutty girl? Fingering herself for daddy?”
Dimitri flinches at that, turning to look worriedly at the Persian living room
rug. Sammy moves to lean both his forearms on the arm rest then, boxing in the
Russian’s head.
“Is that what you’re into, Red? You like it when a girl has to come in front of
her daddy, before he fucks her ass hard? You like it when they get ass-fucked,
right?”
He reaches down and pinches a nipple when Dimitri ignores him resolutely, and
the Russian’s back snaps in an arch, yelping.
“Answer me, Cossak. You like watching them get ass-fucked, don’t you?”
“Da, da. Yes.” He remembers to say it in English, and heats soars high in his
face.
“Makes you come don’t it?” His nipple remains locked in his fingers, twisting
just slightly. “You want to come, don’t you Dee?”
Dimitri nods frantically.
“Then do it. Do it like a girl.” Sammy’s lips curl up one side. “Finger
yourself.”
He looks up at the Italian uneasily, mouth parted and chest heaving under
Sammy’s clenching fingers. Their hands almost touch from where his own rests
above his heart, but it isn’t until the elder is reaching up and grasping
Dimitri’s unoccupied palm firmly that they do. With an unhurried drag, Sammy
brings the boy’s hand down; down his chest, past the light hairs of his navel,
and finally past the throbbing heat of his cock until it was pressed flat along
the crease of his ass, his fingertips pulsing against the tight, untouched
entrance there. Dimitri swallows.
“Do it.” He removes his hand from atop Dimitri’s, leaving it alone below his
sac. “And keep moving.”
The blond’s fist returns to a steady pace while he chews on his bottom lip,
eyes locked on his hesitant right hand. The pads of his fingers feel around the
furled flesh, as though it were a puzzle. He glances up at Sammy nervously. The
elder just stares back at him, unmoving.
Dimitri starts rubbing at it, feeling the pressure. Sammy inhales through his
nose as he watches the blond’s movements, slow and cautious. When he tries to
push in, he winces. The elder then reaches into the back pockets of his jeans
and pulls out something Dimitri can’t see immediately; a bottle-shaped shadow.
“Don’t stop.” He warns as he pops open the cap and leans back over the
teenager.
“What is that?” Dimitri eyes it worriedly but Sammy doesn’t answer before
squeezing out a cool liquid onto his moving hands. It quickly is spread around,
making his finger pads slide around in the wetness, as well as coating his
thick length. A shaky exhale leaves him then at the easy momentum, and he
starts jacking himself faster. Sammy caps the bottle and lays it aside. Then he
scoots up his knee under Dimitri’s thigh, spreading him so that the winking
pink of his hole was shamelessly on display.
“Put one finger in. One.”
Dimitri swallows, staring up at Sammy – and the look is a cross between a
scared child and dependency, as if the older Italian was his safety net and his
Stockholm Syndrome. The long-haired boy keeps his black gaze on the blond like
a young, hungry wolf, and when Dimitri’s eyebrows hug together desperately and
he makes a small, smothered sound, he breaks the glare to glance down at the
show. Dimitri’s got his index finger sliding in and out of his hole with
careful, well rounded motions. It hypnotizes Sammy. Breath stutters out of the
Russian’s mouth, the hand on his cock slowing at the new sensation.
“Yeah, like that. Faster.”
He obeys, rocking his knuckles against his ass with closed eyes. The sounds
that escape him are bitten-off and mumble-some, tiny bits of Russian that don’t
quite make it into words.
“Now another.” Sammy’s whole body feels hot, tight and wound up, but he keeps
himself perfectly still over Dimitri. When the blond pushes another finger into
himself, without a word of backtalk, he lets out a struggling moan, head
knocking against the arm rest. He bites down on his lip, muffling the wobbly
chain of song. His eyes are still closed, determinedly, even when he starts
driving both his fingers deep into him with hard, undulating rhythm. Sammy can
see his hips pumping, heels fighting for traction on where one lies on the
floor and another on the couch spine. The slapping at his cock returns now,
less than full speed but loud still.
“Fuck,” The Italian breathes, and Dimitri moans. “Another, put in another.”
“Too much,” The blond’s voice is a nervous tenor – and then he hits something
inside him that makes his mouth spill open beautifully, whole body seizing for
a moment. Sammy’s worried he’s about to come, but all he does is keen, jacking
himself short, quick strokes. His fingers are a hard, steady force, making his
hips roll at the sharp thrust of his hand, and all Sammy can think is: this is
how Dimitri likes to be fucked. With rough, heavy pumps that shove deep into
his ass, moving his whole body up sparse inches on the couch, making him moan
like a housewife in heat. He reaches down and palms the tent in his jeans then,
squeezing it without thought or awareness.
“I – ahn, I –”
“You’re not going to come. Not yet.” Sammy doesn’t look up from his ass.
“I can’t wait anymore, is too much.” He pleads, and his body stutters again,
the same way as before. He moans in the shape of a question, unused to his
bodily reaction, but quickly answers himself with a staccato whimper.
“Blizkiy.”
Sammy doesn’t have to speak Russian to remember what that word means. He
reaches into his backpocket then and pulls out another secret item – one he’d
bought along with the lube at the skeazy Playtime store on Dewberry Street on
his way home. Not a place or a street where his friends or anyone he knew
really would ever catch him in, dead or alive. He keeps the small toy hidden in
his fist before leaning over Dimitri again, who pants with a heaving chest.
Sammy’s legs scoot up so his lips can hover above the blond’s own,
inadvertently stretching up the Russian’s knees even further in the process.
His body was like a two page spread in Playgirl. Sammy tangles a hand in his
rucked up locks and the boy whimpers, keeping his eyes sealed.
“Come for me.” He breathes into his ear. “Come for me, now.”
He pushes the hot, rigid bulge of his pants up against Dimitri’s hasty hand and
when the Russian feels it against his knuckles, his eyes shoot open and he
moans loud, the sound curving high and breathy at the end. He comes then, nose
tucked up against Sammy’s pulse and lips sliding open against his neck, and
spills thick and sweet all over his stomach, chest, and finally just below his
chin, on his bobbing throat.
“Fuck,” Sammy groans, but doesn’t waste any time in pushing away the blond’s
fingers from his ass with his hand, the one that holds a small, clean plug.
Dimitri lifts up his thighs for him, lost in the haze of the orgasm still
rippling through him, but doesn’t expect it when he feels a foreign object
being delicately pushed into his ass with a slow, efficient hand.
“Huh – wha, what?” The blond shudders at the intrusion, his whole body feeling
sensitive. He looks down at his ass, and his eyes widen in alarm. “Chto eto za
shtuka?”
“A lesson. In discipline.” Sammy leans back, looking down at his handiwork with
pride. “You’ll wear it all day tomorrow, and tonight. Maybe longer, if I feel
like it.”
“But I do everything you say, why I need discipline?” Dimitri sits up, face
pinched red and eyes stricken.
“For one thing? That phony skill you call English. And another thing?”
Sammy leans forward and shows him three fingers. “Not two.”
Dimitri breathes heavily, looking slightly panicked after he glances down at
the plug in his red, debauched hole. “I can’t – I cannot wear this to school,
not all day. What if someone finds out? What I say?”
“I don’t know. How many people do you plan on showing your ass to at school,
Mudak?”
He flushes, and slowly looks down. Sammy watches his eyes travel around at the
scene they’ve made; the pillows on the floor, his boxers around his ankle, his
half-on sock, his bunched shirt he can’t pull down without making a mess of the
come on his chest. He sees something akin to embarrassment sweep the blond’s
features. He licks his lips.
“Chin up, kid.” He smiles like a devil. “You might learn to like it.”
Dimitri does not, in fact, learn to like it. In less than twenty-four hours, he
learns to loathe it.
“Well, I’d say you’re settling in pretty well with your new job, Sammy.” Mrs.
Vincetti says at dinner the following night, when everyone’s sat around the
lavish mahogany dining table. “I thought working long hours might not be your
forte, but I definitely underestimated your responsibility level. You’ve become
very mature since you started.”
Sammy stares sinisterly at Dimitri’s squirming form at the opposite side of the
round table, a tiny smirk clawing at his lips. “Glad you noticed.”
“No your mother’s right, Sammy boy. You’ve ah really manned up in the
warehouse, picked up ah lot a spunk. I like that.” His father chimes, jovially
chewing on a green bean. “You keep it up and soon you’ll be outta there, ah?
Going oop the ladder.”
Dimitri can’t stop fidgeting, and it’s mesmerizing. Despite Sammy’s endless
hours counting figures at the warehouse and barking orders at truck drivers and
dumb henchmen, he can’t take his tired eyes off of the poor creature. They
glaze something dark when Dimitri leans forward on his elbows on the table,
swallowing thickly, and meets his eyes with a burn.
“Hopefully sooner than never, right pops?” Sammy grins and turns to his
parents, ignoring the blond. They both laugh, whole-heartedly. Dimitri seethes
at this. As the moment dies down, his mother takes notice of the boy’s
uncomfortable face.
“Dean, are you feeling alright? You look a little…tight.”
Dimitri startles like a deer in the headlights. Sammy almost snorts.
“Da,” He nods quickly, though his voice shakes. “Prostite, I may clear plate
now?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Here, Sammy will help you clean up. Right Sammy?”
“Sam the man, ah?” His father claps a hand to his son’s shoulder, roughly.
Sammy winces.
“Sure thing.”
“Lovely.” His mother’s smile is glowing.
When Dimitri corners him against the marble kitchen counters, it’s after both
his parents have adjourned upstairs for the night. The sink water is rushing
hot over crusty plates and the dishwasher door is agape, and Sammy can’t bring
a single weary bone in his body to care when the hot-blooded Russian pushes him
against the counter edge, like a crazy snake.
“Take it out.” He hisses, glaring redly.
“Take what out?” Sammy tries not to laugh, wiping the dish in his towel-hand
casually.
“Don’t play-dumb with me, ty zadnista.” He echoes the words from the first time
Sammy intimidated him, when he took away his Benz keys. “I put up with your
games this whole day, and I’m done. I cannot sit through another Trig study
with this thing, inside of me.”
A wave of heat soars through Sammy at the desperation struggling below the
surface of his words, but he doesn’t know whether to laugh or stare at the
Russian. Could the blond have really kept the plug in there for the whole day,
ever since Sammy first put it there? The mere fact that he was asking the
Italian to remove it instead of just doing it himself was astounding enough.
This kid really did not dare disobey him. He wonders briefly if Dimitri was
still scared that he was going to show his porn to his parents – in all
honesty, he’d practically forgotten all about it. What’s the worse his parents
could do to a teenager for looking at porn anyways? It’s not like they’d throw
him out or something.
Unless, that's what Dimitri thought.
The look of desperation on the orphan’s face makes him wonder how real that
possibility might be to Dimitri.
“I don’t think that tone looks good on you.” He sets the plate down and tosses
the towel over his shoulder, leaning back comfortably. “Why don’t you try
asking nicely?”
Dimitri glares. “I won’t beg you.”
“Nobody said anything about begging.” Sammy wrestles down a grin. “Just a
little ‘please’, yeah?”
“You deserve no please.” He whispers right in his face, upper lip twitching.
Another heat wave floods Sammy. He keeps his gaze dark, staring down the
defiant blond.
“Well I don’t think I can be touching you anywhere with that attitude.” He
murmurs thoughtfully. Dimitri doesn’t back down, eyes electric. “Let’s say –
one more day?”
The Russian looks as if someone lit his spine on fire. “No. No.”
“Keep it up and that thing can stay there all weekend, huh? Doesn’t sound very
sanitary to me.” Sammy makes an awkward face. Dimitri flushes hot. Sammy has to
turn around and pick up the plate to hide his grin, giving it noncommittal
wipes.
“Goodnight, Dee.” He dismisses.
“Wait – Sammy.” The Russian panics, and hearing his name in that unsure, thick
accent makes Sammy’s insides boil. He turns to give him a sidelong glance.
“I can’t – not one more day.” Dimitri swallows, pleadingly.
Sammy smirks. “Just one word. And you’re free.”
A stampede of emotions flit across his face, but they all end the same: red hot
anger.
“Poshel ty.”
When the Russian’s bedroom door slams upstairs, Sammy bursts out laughing.
His bones feel like pudding the next day.
“No no no – we’re missing twelve bags, y’got that? Twelve, Einstein. That’s one
whole fucking case.”
Not just because he had to translate every single word he barked at the
Vincetti hounds to Italian – including the slurs – but because half the day was
spent carrying around heavy cargo and shoving it up on high shelves. After ten
hours of the combo, it was needless to say that he thought his father was
Satan, and by the time he was on the road home he barely had the energy to
speed. His Granturismo would be frowning at him if it could.
When he shuts his bedroom door behind him, everyone in the house is already
asleep. It’s quiet. He clicks on the night lamp and lets it wash the room in
candle-yellow light, before peeling off his grimy shirt and sinking into the
swivel chair of his rosewood desk, a deep sigh leaving his body as the comfort
of its plush cushions hug him all around.
Then his door bursts open and closed in a flash, and Dimitri’s yanking on both
the locks until they clack like he had three squad cars behind him. He’s
wearing those loose flannel pajamas his mother gave to him his first night in
the mansion; slightly too big from her overestimation of the orphan. He spins
around and presses his back against the door, gaze cocked like a gun on Sammy.
His face looks absolutely shot.
“I cannot take this anymore.” He walks over to him, steps dangerously
controlled. “I cannot last one more second like this, Sammy. Take it out.”
Sammy almost forgot about the entire situation he’d left with the Russian, but
remembers fully now as he stares up at Dimitri. The blond grows desperate at
Sammy’s silence.
“Please, Sammy please,” He slips to his knees, gripping the Italian’s thighs
with a claw-like vice and looking up at him with wide, glistening eyes. “I do
anything once you do, anything you want. Please.”
Sammy leans back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with weariness and arousal. He
likes how Dimitri looks from this position, he thinks. His hand comes down and
slides his fingers through the thick blond hair, soft and heavy. Dimitri moves
into the touch, throat bobbing when he swallows again, and his eyes flutter,
grip tightening on Sammy’s pants. When he trails his hand down the Russian’s
face, thumb brushing his cheek and lower lip, Dimitri kisses it with a pillowy
red mouth, eyes appearing glazed all of the sudden. He lets the blond take
initiative, watching him with honey-eyes as he kisses down the side of it and
sends heat curling up Sammy’s spine when he licks the underside, then takes the
pad of it into his mouth, suckling with slow urgency. Sammy feels the slippery
wetness of his tongue, the shiny slide of his rosy lips.
He knows he would not be doing this at any other time than now, when he’s
boneless and exhausted in his chair. Dimitri is the one who performs during
these things, never the other way around. But now he cards his hand through his
blond hair and gently drags his head up his muscled thigh, slow and thoughtful.
Dimitri goes willingly, exhaling in a whoosh when his nose grazes the thick
hardness jutting against the fabric. Sammy’s hand eases on his scalp, massaging
the base of his head without a word. The blond’s lips drag against his bulge
while his hands move up his body, one touching his bare side while the other
follows his lips, stopping at his bulge. His mouth breathes against Sammy’s
abs.
“Please,” He looks at him, and Sammy can see sweat beading on his forehead. “Ty
nuzhen mne, Sammy. Hozyain.”
Something sparks low in Sammy’s gullet, burning into a sizzle. Something in the
way Dimitri's lips talk into his skin, the way his eyelashes look when his eyes
are downturned. The silent tremble of a perhaps too-loyal pet. Not like the
henchmen back in the warehouse at all, whose skulls were thick as lead pipes.
No, Dimitri was perfect. One word was all he needed.
He stands Dimitri to his feet and brings his waist forward, fingers splayed
around the blond’s flannel pajama waistband and the bare skin above it, shirt
messed up by his knuckles. Dimitri’s chest heaves, holding to Sammy’s broad,
tan forearms gingerly, and Sammy sees now that he’s tenting his pajamas. It’s
the first time he’s seen Dimitri hard of his own volition, not having told him
to make it so beforehand. He can sense the Russian is unsure, nervous at
Sammy’s silent, gentle nature.
“Sammy?” His voice comes unsteady, watching as the Italian stares at his hard-
on.
Sammy just leans his nose forward, letting it smooth across his bare side just
above his hip bone, and breathes down his naval where his hair thins into a
golden sheen. Dimitri’s hand flies to the back of the chair, grip tight, and
lifts up a knee when Sammy has him tuck it beside his own strong thigh. His hip
drifts up to Sammy’s lips, and the Italian lets them rub together lazily.
“Sammy, what are you doing?” Dimitri shakes above him.
The elder just looks up at him with dark, whiskey brown eyes that keep every
thought to themselves. Arousal sneaks up on Dimitri at that. He swallows,
whispering. “Sammy.”
The Italian pulls up the front of his shirt with one hand, and the other is
tugging the waistband of both his pants and his boxers down without warning.
When his cock is freed he shudders, grip tightening. Sammy leans in to nuzzle
its base, breathing against it moistly. Dimitri stiffens. Then Sammy licks up
it, right along the underside with a slow, flat tongue in a grown-up parody of
what Dimitri was doing only seconds before to his thumb. The breath Dimitri
lets out is a half-gasp, half-pant.
“Oh – bozhe,” His brow knits together in desperation. Sammy presses a wet kiss
to the flushed, pink head before swirling his tongue around it, and then
suckling it sweetly. A slew of half-formed Russian struggles to leave Dimitri’s
mouth, his knuckles white at chair’s leather. His hips give a little pump, but
Sammy’s iron hands keep him still, mouth leaving him for a moment in reprimand.
Dimitri whines, looking down at him. His face is wrecked.
“Please Sammy, please, please.”
His mouth returns to him then, sucking wetly to the tip until he’s taken his
cock halfway, head rocking without urgency or rush. Dimitri moans, each one
ending in an ‘ah’ sound no matter how tightly he pressed his lips together when
they started. His back arches and his head tilts back, hips small between
Sammy’s big brown hands. He sucks deeply, fingers inching to the back of
Dimitri’s pants as he moved the blond’s hips in tiny undulations.
“Ah – ahn, da, da,” He keens when he feels them rub at his clothed ass,
grasping it with warm handfuls. His cock sways in and out of Sammy’s mouth at
the rhythm of his hips, the tight press of his lips making his eyes squeeze
shut. “Uhn, Sammy, Sammy . . .”
His fingers press between his cheeks, the thin fabric giving way under his
fingertips so he can feel against the plug that’s faithfully situated inside.
Dimitri yelps, and then presses back, legs spreading as much as they can on the
chair. Sammy moves his hips back and forth, guiding him into his mouth and then
into his hand, easily. He makes short ‘huh’ sounds, smoothing out into steady
hums whenever Sammy rubs at his ass.
“I, ah, Sammy – da. Ya khochu tebya tam, trogay menya tam.” He pants needily,
and when Sammy dips his hands into his boxers to dig his fingers into the soft
flesh of his ass his eyelids flutter. Sammy kneads his cheeks, pulling them
apart under his fingers to inch dangerously close to the plug. Dimitri bends
forward to spread his ass, all nervousness gone in place of desperation. He
moans, begging, and Sammy pulls off his cock to pant against his stomach.
Dimitri bunches the slacking shirt fabric of his in one hand, so it doesn’t
fall in his face, and looks down at the Italian. His eyes are glowing.
“Sammy,” He swallows, tightly. “Ya khochu tebya.”
Sammy starts kissing his skin again, trailing all the way down Dimitri’s shaft
to lick at the joint of its base to his sac. Dimitri exhales hotly.
“Ya khochu tebya seyches. Ya khochu tebya vnutri menya.” Sammy’s fingers land
on the plug and push at it, hard. “Oh, god. Hozyian.”
“English.” Sammy’s voice sounds rough and wet. “Say it in English.”
Dimitri shakes his head, closing his eyes. Sammy pushes at the plug again,
mouth pulling away from his cock. Dimitri groans, attempting to spread his legs
out again.
“Say it or it’s gonna stay there. I’ll never touch it.”
“Want, I want –” Dimitri’s flushed red, looking trapped. “I want you.”
Sammy’s nostrils flare, looking up at the Russian as if spurred.
“I want you to touch me,” He says, quietly. “I – I like it. Hozyian. Master.”
Sammy gives him a long, quiet look. Then, he starts pressing kisses to the
boy’s side, thoughtfully. His hand comes up and starts jacking him at a languid
pace, and when Dimitri feels Sammy’s hand on him for the first time he lets out
a high moan.
“You like it when I touch you?” He murmurs into Dimitri’s skin.
“Uhn, uh-huh,” The Russian warbles. Sammy starts pulling down the clothes
covering his ass with his unoccupied hand, letting them bunch around his
thighs.
“Where do you like it when I touch you? Here?” He squeezes Dimitri’s cock, and
he blond makes a pathetic sound. “Or here?”
His lips dance wetly across the top of his right cheek, pressing warmly there.
Dimitri trembles, looking dizzy for a moment. Sammy brings up his spare hand
and lets it slither up to the blond’s plug, stroking along it all the way to
the crease of his ass.
“You want me to touch you here?” Sammy asks, and he nods, feverish. “Me,
hozyian?”
“Da,” Dimitri looks down at him. “Hozyian.”
Sammy jacks him quicker, grip tightening. His other hand pushes at the plug for
a moment, before pulling it out with a slow burn. Dimitri grabs Sammy’s
shoulder and releases a pained cry. Sammy tosses the plug to the floor, and
then reaches up to feel how tight the blond is, fingers rubbing at his hole
curiously. Dimitri inhales sharply, body tense.
“That it?” Sammy rumbles. “That what you want?”
“Pozhaluysta,” He whimpers.
“You want me to be inside you, yeah?” His middle finger presses in, but doesn’t
enter. “You want me to fuck you?”
Dimitri cries out and comes, spilling all over Sammy’s broad chest and neck.
The Italian milks him through it, feeling how loose and easy his body becomes.
He imagines fucking him just like this; the blond lax underneath him, shaky
moans descending into dreamy hums and half-murmurs of Russian. Dimitri slides
down onto Sammy’s lap then, bonelessly, and when he feels the hard bulge
against his bare ass he whimpers, another pulse leaving him weakly. The blond’s
head rests on his shoulder, breath coming in pants against Sammy’s neck. He
stays there, rocking his hips back and forth gently as the orgasm leaves him.
Soon he’s just sitting there, panting.
The Italian waits until he’s sure Dimitri’s about to fall asleep before jolting
him upright with a good smack to his ass, loud in the quiet room.
“Go to bed.” Is all he says, leaning back in his chair. Dimitri looks at him
with glazed eyes, soft and worried at the mess on Sammy’s chest. The Italian
gives him a hard look.
“Go.”
The blond nervously slips his clothes up to his waist again and peels away from
Sammy, legs wobbly as he stands. Before he closes the bedroom door, he fixes
the other with a mesmerized glance, as if Sammy were a limited edition Rubik’s
cube. Sammy jacks off to it before even toweling his chest off.
Days go by without as much as a glance from Sammy after that night. Unease,
naturally, festers in Dimitri’s stomach like an infection. Every night that the
Italian came home, exhausted from his long hours at work, and shut himself into
his room for the night felt like a whip across Dimitri’s back. What had he done
to deserve this?
He spends most of his nights wrapping up the various school work, advance
placement classes and extracurricular essays he occupied himself with, but when
four days had rolled on by he could hardly concentrate on any of it – not a
single letter, or number. His pencil hits the desk one night with a tiny
clatter, a hard sigh leaving him. He rests his head in his hands, fingers
knotting in his hair. His body felt burnt, striped with ugly without Sammy
around it.
You like it when I touch you?
The bedroom door shuts softly behind him when he pads barefoot into the
hallway, glancing around at the empty house nervously. It’s dark, all the
lights off, and quiet. Not a sound in the blackness. He moves slowly, pajama-
clad and chilly in the spacious home, and heads toward Sammy’s room.
The Italian’s door isn’t locked, much to Dimitri’s fear and fortune. He nudges
it open and peers into it, eyes landing on the king bed by the window. Sammy’s
sleeping form rests under the covers, torso heaving in deep breaths. Dimitri
closes the door and edges toward him, staring at the sneak of bare shoulder
peeking out from the blankets with buzzing apprehension.
The bed dips under his weight, the mattress quiet as he crawls forward. He
slides himself under the covers, movements as slow as a tortoise. Sammy doesn’t
stir, doesn’t make a sound. Dimitri swallows, lowering his body down beside the
older boy shakily. He feels like he could just fall apart, the fear filling him
like a drug. His head sinks onto a pillow, the warmth of Sammy’s body touching
him like a phantom hand.
“Ty takaya krasivaya.” He breathes, barely a whisper.
Sammy doesn’t move, his torso rising and falling just the same as before.
Dimitri leans forward just a few inches, boldly. His nose hovers above the
Italian’s pulse, lips parting soft.
“Ya khochu byt vashim.”
He’s taken in a heartbeat. One moment he’s gazing at Sammy’s dark brown hair,
and the next his peripheral vision is thrown to the ceiling. The Italian has
his wrists pinned above his pillow, his eyes boings down on Dimitri with
whiskey-brown, sleep-drunk intent.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Dimitri swallows, heart pounding.
“You think I can’t hear you, whispering like that?” He murmurs, watching
Dimitri squirm with half-lidded eyes. “The hell are you doing in here, Red?”
The blond’s chest heaves. “I. I wanted to –”
“You wanted to what, watch me sleep?”
“I wanted to see you.” Dimitri stares up at him with eyes like orbs, magnetized
by Sammy’s sudden attention after four days of nothing.
“Yeah?” Sammy’s body settles from atop Dimitri’s, sinking heavy between his
legs. “You miss me, Red?”
It’s quiet for a moment. “Da,” Comes his soft voice, finally. “I miss you.”
Sammy stares down at him, feeling how relaxed his wrists are in his strong
paws, how there’s no struggle in any part of his body. He leans forward to nose
into Dimitri’s hair, inhaling his shampoo scent. The Russian’s chest surges up
against Sammy’s own, sucking in a breath.
“What did you miss, huh?” His voice vibrates against the blond’s scalp. “My
voice, or my mouth?”
His hips roll, light and lazy against Dimitri’s own. The boy exhales shakily
and parts his legs, with shy, ginger movements.
“Yeah? Is that it?” Sammy’s mouth trails down behind his ear, lips grazing the
shell of it. “You miss fingering your ass for me? Touching yourself?”
Dimitri’s eyelids flutter at the feel of Sammy undulating against him.
“Touching?”
“Touching yourself here?” His hand leaves the blond’s wrist to drag down his
body and under his pants, sealing itself over Dimitri’s clothed, half-hard
length. The Russian whimpers as Sammy squeezes him, stroking along the fabric
for a moment, before descending lower to rub at the path beneath his balls.
“Or letting me touch you here?” His lifts away from Dimitri’s neck to look at
his face, his lips flushed red. The blond’s eyes are tightly shut, mouth parted
in rapid, shallow breaths.
“Look at me.”
He opens them, facing Sammy with a look that’s two parts lust and one part
shame. Sammy stares, and then slides his hand into Dimitri’s boxers, grasping
his cock warmly. His whole body comes to life against Sammy’s, a moan held in
for four days licking up the Italian’s body. The other hand that’s holding his
wrist is brought down to cradle the blond’s head, so he can lean his forehead
against Dimitri’s own.
“Why’d you come in here, huh?” He says into the Russian’s parted lips. “What do
you want?”
Dimitri’s hips pump into his hand, legs spreading further. “Want you.”
“Where?” Sammy jacks him, slow. “How?”
His eyes trail down Sammy’s face, and he gets quiet. The Italian pumps him
harder, thrusting his hips into the motion.
“Talk to me.”
Dimitri swallows down a sound, trembling. “I want – I want to kiss you.”
Sammy slackens. Dimitri goes on, nerves eating him alive.
“I – I want to kiss you, I want to kiss you everywhere – ty takaya krasivaya.”
He nuzzles Sammy’s nose with his own. “I want to be yours.”
The Italian goes still, watching Dimitri mutely. The Russian keeps nuzzling
him, lips gliding down to his pulse.
“You let me?” He hums into his skin. “You touch me?”
It’s silent for a dangerous moment. Sammy’s hand soon leaves Dimitri’s pants,
and instead tugs the blond’s head up by his hair. Then, he – kisses him. Hard.
His mouth pushes Dimitri’s head against the pillow, swallowing a desperate
whimper caught in his throat. Dimitri kisses back with a wobbly sigh through
his nose, hips pumping up once more. His ankles lock around Sammy’s waist this
time, thighs tight at his sides. Sammy thrusts into him, letting him feel the
hardness there.
“Take off your clothes, all of them.” He says between kisses, firm and
smacking. Dimitri moans when they move down his neck, and suckle hot to his
pulse.
“You going to fuck me?” He asks, and shivers when Sammy gives him a shallow
bite.
“I’m going to own you.” The Italian kisses the spot under his ear. “You belong
to me, don’t you?”
Dimitri’s breath stutters. Belong?
Sammy sits up, sliding his palms down and pressing them against Dimitri’s flat
chest.
“Take off your clothes.”
The Russian’s hands fall over his, nervous at first, but when Sammy untangles
himself from the bed covers he promptly moves to his knees, chasing after the
warmth. The elder gives him a reprimanding glare. He swallows, and then
carefully removes his shirt.
Sammy watches him, a pleased smirk pulling at the corner of his lip but not
winning. Dimitri lets the shirt fall to the bedside, and begins untying his
pants drawstrings. The Italian moves to his dresser and roots around until he
pulls out a small plastic bottle. When he turns around with it, Dimitri’s pants
are around his knees, as he pulls them away in tender inches. Sammy takes
control of the situation and slides them off and away, his boxers not short to
follow. Dimitri watches him as he sits between his naked legs, his disheveled
hair and face and moon-eyes making it seem like he’d already been fucked, and
heat curls in Sammy’s gut.
He stands up then, and when he shoves off his bottoms for the first time in
front of Dimitri the blond feels as if he’s been dipped in hot wax, eyes pinned
to the thick, hard cock that bobs there, dark in the shadows of the window
light. He’s never seen any other one besides his own before – in all actuality,
Dimitri had never thought his first time would be with a man, at all. He’d
never even considered men attractive before. But now his whole body steams,
drifting back against the covers in a shudder. Sammy’s eyes glint, well aware
of the effect he had.
“Spread yourself for me, let me see.” He says, kneeing his way back in between
the blond’s legs. Dimitri gathers his knees in his hands and makes a V, chest
pumping fast when Sammy stares down at his hole. The Italian drags his fingers
along the pink flesh, pressing his thumb pad against it flatly. Dimitri licks
his lips, a sweat already breaking out on hairline.
“Sammy.” He swallows. “Sammy, I – oh, bozhe.”
“You gonna be tight for me?” Sammy rubs inwards, softly. “You gonna be able to
take my cock?”
Dimitri rolls his hips up into his touch. Sammy was big, not monstrously so,
but enough to make his whole body flinch when the elder pushes his thumb into
him, skin tight and dry there. He keeps on going until its fitted down to the
knuckle, Dimitri whimpering the whole way.
“Fuck,” He squeezes liquid out of the bottle and it falls lukewarm on the
blond’s skin, dripping down his balls to where Sammy rubs it in with his thumb.
The slide is easier then, and he starts rocking a finger into Dimitri, who
clutches at his knees with tight, tight fingers.
“I can’t – Sammy, please,” He pants, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Yeah that’s good,” Sammy leans over him, palm resting beside his blond hair.
“You gonna be a good boy for me, Dee? Huh?”
His knuckles push into the Russian’s hips, making his body drag against the bed
every time Sammy thrusted. “I – I, ah.”
“Talk to me, Red.” His nose circles Dimitri’s cheek, the blond’s head tossed to
the side. All he gets is ragged pants in reply. He plunges another finger
inside, letting them curl and stroke within until Dimitri cries out breathily,
vice grip on his knees.
“Ahn, uh – uhn, Sammy,” His moans end in gasps, toes curling.
“Gonna be good for me, Dee?”
“Uh huh, uh . . .” The blond closes his eyes. “Be good. Belong.”
“That’s right.” Sammy’s third finger prods at him, inching in. “Belong.”
Dimitri’s pants speed up shallowly as the third one enters, the elder’s hand
moving in slow, powerful bursts against him. There’s a constant wobbly sound
that thrums in the Russian’s throat now, the kind of vocal distraction a hiker
might make as they cross a rickety bridge across a bottomless canyon, their
eyes tightly closed just like Dimitri’s are. Sammy fingers him with intent, and
turns to suck kisses down the blond’s neck, nipping at his collarbones and
suckling a nipple into his mouth. Dimitri’s shudders, back arching with a sigh.
Sammy lets slide between his teeth, sending shivers all down the blond’s spine,
and fingers him faster. Dimitri whimpers.
“Can’t do this, am new. Won’t last – Sammy.” His voice flies up a note when
Sammy’s fingers catch on a secret spot inside him. He gives it tight, insistent
rubs that make Dimitri’s whole body shake, toes curling. The Russian keens
higher and higher, until Sammy slows to a halt and pulls his hand away, giving
Dimitri’s thigh a decisive smack afterwards.
Then, grabbing the lube bottle once more, he starts slicking up his thick cock
at a casual, unconcerned pace.
“You’re gonna last, Red.” He says meanwhile. Dimitri watches his gleaming
digits work his heavy, slippery dick with half-awake eyes. “You’re gonna
learn.”
Then Dimitri’s being flipped over onto his knees, arms scrambling for purchase
on the soft sheets. Sammy’s hands grip his waist, and when he pulls his ass
flush against his heavy sac Dimitri moans out insecurely.
“Am new,” He repeats, twisting to look back at the Italian with glazed eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam stares down at where his cock slides between Dimitri’s cheeks,
hypnotized. “You gonna be mine, Red? Give it up for me?” He sidles his chest up
against Dimitri’s back, murmuring into the hairs on his nape.
The blond swallows, thickly, and then nods. His voice is soft, adoring. “Da,
hozyian.”
Sammy watches him spread his legs more, moving to lay flat on his arms like a
sprawled cat. Then he nudges forward, cock head pressing into Dimitri’s flushed
pink hole with an electric zing up the blond’s spine. “Ah – bozhe, bozhe.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Ahn, ah! Sammy,” Dimitri cries out when Sammy’s fully lodged inside him, hips
flush against the blond’s ass. The Italian quickly mutes the loud sounds with a
hand on the boy’s mouth, shushing him in a whisper. It’d be a miracle if his
parents heard any of this in their museum of a home, but he wasn’t taking any
chances. Dimitri was loud. He could hear his nasally whimpers, feels them
butterfly gentle against his knuckles, along with the unsteady vibrato moan
caught in his throat. When the blond leans forward on his elbows, fists
clenching at the sheets beneath his collar, Sammy lets his unoccupied arm come
down and swoop his wrists up in his hand, locking them against Dimitri’s chest
safely.
“You gotta be good for me, Dee,” He murmurs into the moist blond hair, hips
nuzzling at him. Dimitri nods in a rush, body shifting within his grip only
slightly. Sammy gives a small rock forward again, feeling the clench and
release of the Russian’s body beneath him. His breath hitches against Sammy’s
fingers, lashes fluttering.
When he starts up a steady, hard rhythm against Dimitri, the blond gets louder.
The pulse-release of moans buzz against the bob of his throat and his biceps
flex, forearms tightening in Sammy’s grip. There’s a desperation there in his
voice, a struggle. Sammy drives into him with force to hear it grow; giving him
hard, firm fucks that increase in power but not speed. Dimitri whimpers Sammy’s
censored name, legs spreading impossibly further.
“You like that, Red?” His voice appears at Dimitri’s ear, breath hot and wet.
“You like getting fucked by your big brother?”
Something akin to a hiccup leaps in the blond’s mouth, and he squirms. Sammy
latches onto the reaction with predatory quickness.
“Yeah? That it?” He circles his hips; once, twice. “You like taking it for the
family?”
Dimitri wriggles at that, twisting in Sammy’s arms until the Italian takes his
hand from his mouth and tangles it in his hair instead, tugging it hard to pull
the boy’s face up. His mouth pops open in a hot flushed ring of pink, gasp torn
from him with more voice than breath.
“For you,” Is what he says, with both eyes screwed shut. “Dlya vas, Sammy.”
Heat burns all along the Italian’s back. He quickens his pace, and Dimitri lets
out a low, endless trill, his boyish sounds harmonizing with the insistent
slapping of skin, the headboard that would occasionally graze the wall in muted
thumps.
“Just me?” He starts again, and Dimitri replies with a needy moan. “You touch
yourself thinking about me, when I’m not around?”
The blond stammers when he circles his hips again, and then he turns to burn
holes into the sheets with his eyes.
“Please, Sammy – is too much, ochen bolshoy. Can feel you everywhere.”
“Answer me,” He tightens his hold on him. “You touch yourself to me?”
“Da – ah,” The high rise flush on Dimitri’s cheeks darkens impossibly. “E-Every
night, without you.”
His hips snap back into him, pounding hard and fast. Dimitri yelps out tiny
‘ah’ sounds that climb upwards, and when Sammy frees his wrists so he can sit
up and grip the
Russian’s hips they turn into long, heavy groans.
“Da Sammy, oh – uhn.” He tries to slide back into Sammy’s thrusts, fisting the
sheets beneath him. The Italian stares down at where his cock disappears into
Dimitri’s ass, eyes dark and twinkling with wetness, heavy pants leaving his
hanging mouth. When he catches the blond’s hand slither down towards his
untouched cock he snatches it up in his fist, planting it back on the mattress
firmly.
“Didn’t say you could,” He reaches down and gives his hard, wet cock a long
pull, sliding the precome dripping there all along the underside. “Remember the
rules.”
Dimitri cries out. “Da, da. Ya sobirayus' priyti – uhn, Sammy.”
His whole body flexes when he comes, a gorgeous whine spilling out of him,
disrupted by the sudden shakes of his body. Sammy rides him through it,
groaning when his body tightens and softens out. He curses, driving into his
ass quicker. Dimitri’s blue eyes watch him as if staring through a dream-
screen, and when his lips part against the sheets in an unspoken ‘hozyian’
Sammy loses it. He comes hard into Dimitri’s ass, long spurts pushing the
blond’s hips into the mattress. A groan leaves his lips, Sammy can feel it
reverberate in the Russian’s body as he rocks into him, and soon finally falls
onto the space beside him.
Their bodies heave thick gusts of breath, loud in the silent room. Sammy turns
to find Dimitri’s head facing the wall, his unblemished shoulder rising and
falling in soft pants. Leaning over and pulling a towel from the nightstand, he
cleans off the two of them, the blond’s body as active as jelly beneath him. He
draws it up against his chest before tossing the rag and covering them with the
heavy blankets. Dimitri shivers when he feels another man’s body pressed
against him like this – specifically, Sammy’s. The Italian never let him stay
afterwards. He shifts backwards, making himself comfortable in the too-hot
press of Sammy’s muscles, his arms firm and unmoving around Dimitri’s waist and
warm where his palm splays on his smooth chest.
*
Sunlight streams through the arched glass windows the next morning, and the
smell of tobacco rouses Dimitri from sleep. His eyes peel open blearily and he
slowly looks behind him to see Sammy lying flat on his back with a long
cigarette in his mouth, hands pillowed under his head lazily. There’s no filter
to it, only an oaky brown shaft, like a baby cigar. He glances from the
shirtless glow of Sammy’s body in daylight to its forbidden curl of smoke
dancing in the air, his gaze glazed and lips still puffy.
“They let you have cigarette, inside?”
Sammy looks at him with a distantly pleased face.
“These aren’t cigarettes. They’re Havana ovals.” He takes another drag, the tip
burning orange for one long, sensual second. “Nobody comes into my room
anyways.”
Dimitri looks down, red stinging his cheeks. “I . . . did not know you smoke.”
“I don’t.” He exhales a thick grey stream, languidly. “Just, sometimes.”
It gets quiet. Dimitri, not wanting another rectification, sidles back into his
pillow and stares at the wall across from him, the rich scent of tobacco
hugging him. It reminds him of the cigars his father used to smoke at the
Marksimov House, back when he would spend his mornings helping his mother in
the kitchen. He’d set out every plate and pour every coffee cup perfectly
before interrupting the men playing pool downstairs to tell them in his little
eleven year old voice: Zavtrak gotov, otets.
His father was never really proud of his helper skills, in all honesty.
He feels the bed dip and a heat wash all up along his bare backside a moment
later, and the cigarette soon appears in front of his face from between Sammy’s
lean tan fingers.
“Try it,” His voice rumbles in blond hair. “S’good.”
Dimitri looks hesitant at first. He tentatively wraps his lips around the thin
filter, sucking in the earthy, coffee-streaked flavor. It clouds his throat for
a second, and he coughs once before expelling a foggy veil of smoke that lips
up into Sammy’s nose. He breathes it in between the locks of Dimitri’s hair,
unoccupied arm sliding under his body to pull the blond flat against him with
one splayed on his chest, fingertips napping on his warm collar bone to feel
his heartbeat.
“Not bad, yeah?” He pulls the cigarette away to take a drag from it. Dimitri
breathes through his mouth, as if trying to cleanse his lungs of the intrusion.
“Strong. Very strong.”
“Another first time of yours, I take it?”
The Russian flushes, remembering how naked he is under the covers. Sammy eyes
his face, curiously.
“Mother did not want me smoking,” He says, softly. “I stay inside, most days.
Helping around house, Marksimov house.”
The elder thinks about this, imagining Dimitri in a frilly apron and feather
duster. It wasn’t that bad of a look, actually. He blows out smoke with a smile
playing at his lips.
“Mrs. Vincetti does not have me help, here.” The boy murmurs, as an
afterthought.
Sammy’s quiet. After a moment, he dips forward and sips a quick draw, then
exhales the smoke into the dip under Dimitri’s ear. The blond shifts against
him indolently.
“Your mom wouldn’t like it if she knew you were smoking in here with me?”
Dimitri shakes his head. “Be mad. Upset with me.”
“Think all the Marksimov’s would be upset with you about that, really.” He
takes another drag.
“Yes,” He feels Dimitri’s throat bob. “Very upset. They – they would not like
it, if they knew about you.”
You. Sammy inches forward, legs tangling with Dimitri’s own.
“If they knew that you smoked with me?” He asks into Dimitri’s hair. “Or that
you were fucked by me?”
The Russian sucks in a breath, body shifting again. “B-Both.”
“Yeah?” Sammy trails his lips to Dimitri’s neck. “What would they be more mad
about, Dee? The fact that you got fucked by a boy? Or the fact that you got
fucked by me?”
“You.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. “They’d hate you more than they
hate your father if they knew.”
The reply sends a deep groan of satisfaction through the Italian. He gives
Dimitri’s pulse a soft kiss, before taking a happy drag from his cigarette. He
holds in the breath, and tipping the blond’s chin up to nudge his lips apart
with his thumb, he releases the smoke into Dimitri’s mouth, letting their
morning-sticky breath mingle without care. The Russian takes the blow with
half-moon eyelids, letting the mouthful fill his body. There was a pleasant
thrum in his veins, making him feel like a sunset. When he opened his eyes
again, Sammy was looking down at him, his long brown sleep-mussed hair
curtaining his cheekbones and gaze speckled with flecks of green and honey. He
takes his last drag from the cigarette before pressing it into the glass
ashtray on the nightstand, and then takes Dimitri’s lips in his own.
Smoke seeps out from both of their nostrils in creeping escapes. Dimitri wants
to wrap his arms around Sammy’s neck, but he’s still lying on his side, the
Italian’s cigarette-free hand tracing circles on his stomach while the other
keeps his chin tilted upwards. They kiss deep and slow, Sammy’s mouth smacking
of tobacco breakfast. It makes the thrum in Dimitri’s body hum all the merrier,
content. Then Sammy’s palm is sliding down the blond’s side to stroke his
thigh, smoothing up to his hip bone and then back down to just above his knee,
feeling the soft hairs there. The way his fingers stop to squeeze at the flesh
of his inner thigh makes Dimitri shudder into Sammy’s mouth, body feeling raw
from last night. Sammy pulls him closer, tighter against his chest. His hips
come flush against Dimitri’s ass then, and when the Russian feels his half-hard
cock pressed there he lets out a shaky breath. Sammy laughs, softly.
“You think the Marksimov’s would hate me a lot more if we did it again, right
now?” He murmurs into Dimitri’s ear, and then lets his fingers drift down to
the blond’s tender hole, padding against it casually. “You think you’d open up
easy for me? Nice and tight?”
Dimitri shudders and nods, remembering how Sammy’s cock felt within him last
night; how quickly the burn tuned from uncomfortable to delicious, his own cock
filling out in seconds. The intensity of Sammy’s eyes watching his every move
might’ve helped, too.
“Very, very upset.” He pushes his ass back into him. “Please, Sammy.”
The Italian licks his lips, rubbing his fingerpads in urgent circles. Dimitri
can feel his cock hardening against his skin. After a moment he stops and sucks
his fingers into his mouth, impatiently, and the sight of it sends a fire
licking up the blond’s spine. He surges up and kisses Sammy’s neck, scattering
them around his pulse and adam’s apple needily.
“Pozhaluysta hozyian,” He grinds his hips back once more, undulating. “Like
this.”
Sammy’s wet fingers return to his hole, pushing a finger into him with burning
eyes.
“Ah,” Dimitri’s brow knits together, lifting his thigh slightly to accommodate
it. It feels stiff, not quite where he wants it. Sammy, a dark look to his
face, decisively pulls out and reaches for the lube, slicking himself up with
hasty movements.
“Uhn, Sammy,” He lifts his leg up when he feels Sammy’s cock push into him,
mirroring last night. The Italian lends a helping hand to his thigh, tucking it
under his knee so he can hold up the leg. Dimitri feels cold at the sudden
exposure, but it only lasts as long as Sammy takes to start fucking him, with
slow and deep rolls.
“Lublu, kogda ty menya trakhnut.” He moans, pressing back into Sammy’s cock.
The elder nips at his earlobe, kissing behind it wetly.
“Say it in English for me this time.”
Dimitri shakes his head, flushing vehemently.
“C’mon,” Sammy sucks the skin between his teeth. “Wanna hear you.”
The Russian swallows. “Love it, when you fuck me –” His breath stutters, the
Italian finding a sensitive spot. “F-Feels good.”
“Yeah? You like taking it in the ass for me?” Dimitri moans, unsteadily. Sammy
grins into Dimitri’s skin. “Keep going.” He speeds up, nipping at the blond’s
pulse. “What else?”
Dimitri looks uncomfortably stuck between arousal and embarrassment.
“I like it, w-when you – when you touch me, when you. Kiss me.” He gasps when
Sammy bites down. “When you come in me. I love it when you come.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Sammy fucks him in earnest now, balls slapping against Dimitri’s
skin. His hand drops from the Russian’s collar to pinch at a nipple, giving it
a teasing twist.
Dimitri’s moan cuts through the room, loud enough for someone to hear
downstairs. He knows his parents are awake by now, they always start their day
at ass o’clock in the morning. He doesn’t care. He fucks into the tight heat of
Dimitri’s ass and just wants to see the blond come, wants to see him shoot his
hot load all over his chest and neck, wants to do the same to him with his own
cock.
He doesn’t know for how long they’ve been fucking before there’s someone
pounding on his bedroom door. He clamps a hand over Dimitri’s boyish groaning
and lets go of his leg, letting Dimitri roll onto his stomach with his body
sticking quick to his backside, on top of him. They’re sweating like crazy now,
the sheets damp beneath their sticky-shiny skin.
“Sammy? You in there?” His mother’s voice appears, nasally and always too loud.
“I made coffee and prushoota, and your father bought donuts. They’re downstairs
waiting. Have you seen Dean around? He’s not in his room. Is he in there with
you?”
“Why, why would he be in here with me?” Sammy replies, rougher than he
intended, and Dimitri’s voice rowls at his palm as his body shifts forward,
cock sliding over that sensitive spot inside him. He can hear his mother sigh
in exasperation.
“I know he’s not your bestest buddy Sammy, but I can’t find him anywhere. He
didn’t have a study meet today, did he? It’s Sunday.”
Sammy keeps rocking into Dimitri. When his cock rubs across the sweet spot
again the Russian’s hips jerk, lifting to push back into him. His voice is a
whimpering mess, body trembling, and Sammy knows he wants to be touched when he
humps down into the mattress.
“Check the bathrooms or something.” Sammy tells her, and reaches for Dimitri’s
cock.
“I already did.” Dimitri lets out a muffled shout. “Is someone in there with
you Sammy? I hear voices.”
“You should probably talk to a doctor about that.” He jacks the blond off in
time with his thrusts, the mattress thumping beneath them. The doorknob
rattles, thankfully locked.
“What’s going on there? Are you fighting or something? Who’s in there?”
“No one,” He pants. Dimitri mewls, pleadingly. “I’m – watching a movie.”
“What kind of –”
“Try checking the garden, he reads out there some – sometimes.” He bites down a
groan when Dimitri clenches. The blond does it again, twisting to look up at
his sex-filled face with an amorous growl. Sammy glares at his sudden
confidence and speeds up his movements, feeling challenged. When Dimitri moans
again he smirks.
“Alright, but if he doesn’t show in ten minutes I’m gonna call Omar’s house.
That kid’s always trying to study on weekends. Who does that? I mean, nobody
wants to be a doctor that badly, right?”
“Great talk mom, bye.” He can feel the blond tightening up, body arching taut
like a bow.
She sighs again. “Hurry down to breakfast, your food’s getting cold. And if you
see your brother, send him down won’t you?”
“Yeah – yeah,” Sammy grinds down into him. Dimitri’s voice pitches up, the
slapping of skin much firmer now, and Sammy prays to god for his mother to just
leave. He doesn’t hear her footsteps at first, until his father’s voice rings
from downstairs and she yells something back at him about the newspaper
headlines. She stomps away then, feet marching down the stairs.
Dimitri’s mouth is uncovered with a burst of sound, like a diver breaking the
surface. It quickly morphs into a keen, body tensing at Sammy’s unyielding hips
and hand.
“You little shit,” He grins, and Dimitri whimpers something incoherent in
response. He jacks him fast and tight. “Come for me, come for me now.”
He cries out a sharp, broken ‘uhn’ sound and comes in spurts against the
sheets, the wetness splashing against Sammy’s knuckles. His body sags under him
as soon as he does, boneless and exhausted. The Italian groans into his nape
hairs, grinding into his lax body. Soon he’s pulling out and sitting up on his
knees, giving Dimitri’s ass a slap. He jolts at the touch, orgasm still
twitching through him.
Sammy reaches down and rolls the limp blond onto his back, and then knees his
way onto his exposed stomach, standing on his knees. He leans one hand on the
headboard and uses the other to jerk his cock in ready pulls, wet.
“Sammy,” Dimitri’s hands slide up the elder’s solid thighs, his dreamy post-
coital gaze crawling all over his body. He licks his lips. His fingers inch up
to Sammy’s cock, and when three of them graze the dark head the Italian stifles
a groan into his bicep and shoots ropes of come all over Dimitri’s chest and
nipples, watching some of it blot his neck and cheekbone. The blond’s eyelashes
flutter for a moment, before reopening to stare in awe at Sammy’s cock. The
Italian grins, a shit-eating pearly that sweeps up half his mouth.
“Good morning.”
Dimitri’s eyes slide up to his, dazed.
“How do you know I read in garden?”
Sammy’s smile falters. He drops his arm from the headboard and pulls out his
cloth from the nightstand, proceeding to clean them both up with lazy, casual
motions. Dimitriwatches as the glow of orgasm leaves him, replaced with
mounting curiosity for the Italian.
“Breakfast?” Is how the elder replies when he’s done wiping.
Dimitri’s appetite is the last thing on his mind.
He thinks about it a lot the following week at school. He’d stare at the vines
crawling around the outside of the long windows in his English class, while his
teacher prattled on about grammar rules, and his turned over the mental stones
of Sammy’s words.
He didn’t go into the garden often. When he finished the usual mountain of
homework he brought home from school every week day, it was almost always
supper time, and after supper time it was much too late to go outside. It was
the rare fair-weather day that the Russian got to enjoy the Vincetti’s
beautiful estate over Tolstoy (untranslated of course – it was much easier to
read in Russian than in English for him, not to mention quicker). Even so, most
days like that Sammy was working. How did he ever have the time to notice
Dimitri reading?
His locker door gives a noisy slam after his last class has ended. He turns to
head out the grand double doors of the prep school and almost knocks face-first
into the pretty green eyes of Janice Littleton – president of the French Poetry
club and also main flutist in band class. Dimitri had seen her around before –
in fact, they sometimes paired up duringbmath class. She was a smart cookie,
and he’d always fly through assignments with her. They were usually the first
ones to be finished, much to the delight of the teacher and the discomfort of
them both, since afterwards they’d just sit there awkwardly and avoid eye
contact. At least, Dimitri would.
He freezes at the sight of her, standing in front of him with her shiny-
straight maple brown hair and endless freckles.
“Bonjour Dimitri,” Her smile sparkles at him like sugar crystals on a cinnamon
twist, shy and lovely. The French accent lingering behind every vowel feels
like a secret.
“B-Bonjour, Janice.”
“You forgot your notebook in English class,” Her voice is meek as she hands it
to him, and then she looks down at the floor. “I picked it up for you before
Mrs. Chastine found it.”
“Thanks,” He takes it from her, still staring. She nods cheerily.
“Can I walk you out?”
He thinks it’s an odd question, but allows her to step beside him on the way
out the door. Her pleated skirt swishes gently over her bare legs, quiet at
Dimitri’s side.
“So I heard you live with the Vincetti’s.” She starts. “Sammy Vincetti?”
The name rumbles in his gut like a hungry lion. “Y-Yes, we – he’s my
stepbrother.”
“I didn’t know you two were related. When he was attending here, he never
mentioned it.”
“Uhm – adopted, I am adopted.” He flushes. “You knew him, here?”
Both he and Janice were juniors. He assumed, that if Janice started freshmen
year at fourteen, she might’ve bumped into a junior Sammy, since the Italian
was only two year older than both of them.
“Oh, no. Not at all.” She ducks her head, smiling with an almost-giggle. “He
was – he was just really popular, that’s all. Everybody loved him.”
Dimitri doesn’t find that hard to believe at all. He pushes open the double
doors and they walk out into the court yard together, the sun bearing down on
them in brilliant yellow beams.
“So I was thinking,” Janice starts again, sounding rushed. A paper is pressed
into his hand without warning, and when he looks down it’s a colorful flier.
“There is a Poetry Slam being held at the Metronome, down on First Street.” She
explains, pausing in front of him. “I – I was wondering if, maybe you’d like to
come with me?”
He looks up from the flier, advertising exactly that, and is caught under the
freckle-faced hope twinkling in her apple green eyes, looking illuminated under
the late afternoon sun. He’s never been to a poetry slam before – certainly not
with a pretty girl like Janice. He’d never been on a date with a girl at all
before, actually. His Russia-born mother had homeschooled him his whole life,
from the moment he was born to the moment she died. Nervousness sets in when he
remembers this. He’s pretty sure his mother wouldn’t like this, if she knew
about it.
“You will be in it?”
Her cheeks flame up and she laughs, uneasily. “No, no. I just like to listen.
Do you like poetry?”
Dimitri’s pretty sure he doesn’t like poetry.
“If you – you don’t have to come, if it isn’t your thing.”
“No, I. I have not been to one of these things.” He tries to smile, but it’s
awkward. “When is it?”
“This Saturday, at five.” A car horn honks in the distance, and she stops to
look back at it. Some girls wave at her from the window of a CRV, yelling
nonsense. She turns back to him hopefully. “Let me know if you can come, okay?”
Dimitri nods, folding up the flier. “Okay.”
She smiles, bright and pearly. “Au revoir, Dimitri.”
He holds the paper in his hand like it was a time bomb as her skirt swishes
away across the sunny court yard, and wonders briefly about the poetry
selection at the library as he walks into the parking lot. He’s five steps
toward the bus stop before a familiar Maserati growls into the bus lane,
cutting past a soccer mom’s minivan that honks righteously.
Sammy buzzes the window down to reveal his indifferent Armani sunglasses.
“Get in.”
Dimitri glances up at the angry minivan and the startled highschoolers sitting
on the bus stop bench nervously before slipping into the cool passenger seat
hurriedly. Sammy’s zooming out of the lane and through the red light before the
blond’s even got his seatbelt on.
“I thought you had work?” He clutches at the hand bar, timidly.
“Got off early today. Figured I’d swing by and give you a ride, spare you a
trip on the town puke-bucket.”
He hangs a sharp left and Dimitri’s shoulder hits the door with an ‘oof’.
“Thank you,” He says, even though he’s sure neither riding the bus or the
Italian’s ridiculous four-wheeled rocket-missile would be necessary if Sammy
would just give him back his Benz keys from Mr. Vincetti. As it was, he still
lacked the spine to ask for them.
“Don’t mention it. Here – you want?”
He pulls out a pack of gum from his jacket pocket, miraculously not disrupting
the dicey veering of the wheel as he weaves his Granturismo in and out of
traffic. Dimitri eyes them.
“No – thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He pops one tab into his mouth and slips the pack back into
his jacket. The smell of spearmint tickles the tiny space between them. Sammy
flips on the satellite radio and ambient electric music appears from the
speakers, the lack of vocals making it feel impersonal and distant; as if
someone was talking to him in sign language. He looks at the Italian and finds
it more fitting than not.
“What’s that in your hand?”
The blond glances down at the flier he still clutches. “Oh – I –”
“Let me see.” He whips it away, flattening it against the steering wheel as he
drives down a long empty lane. Dimitri can’t see his expression from behind his
wide sunglasses, but his steady gum chewing doesn’t cease, seemingly
unperturbed.
“Poetry Slam?” He reads. “What is that, some kind of emo open mic thing?”
“I-I don’t know, I have never gone. Janice invited me.”
“Janice?” He tosses the flier back in his lap. “Who’s Janice?”
“A girl.” It sounds strange for Dimitri to say, new. “She wants me to come with
her.”
“A girl?” Sammy chuckles, dryly. “A girl asked you out? To a Poetry Slam?”
“Da.” Dimitri nods, although he realizes Sammy’s eyes are nailed to the road.
“Like a date?”
The blond shifts uneasily. “I do not know about that. She said nothing about
date.”
“You know that’s what she wants though, right?” Sammy wears a sleazy grin.
Dimitri doesn’t know how to reply that really, and he doesn’t know how to read
Sammy’s face. There’s something about it that makes him unsure, like the
Maserati was actually a minefield. And perhaps the flier was the detonator.
“I. I do not know what she wants.” He flushes and looks away. Sammy catches the
look out of the corner of his tinted gaze.
“Yeah?” He decides to keep going, rather than letting the topic rest. “What’s
she like? She cute?”
Dimitri shrugs. “She’s . . . French?”
“French.” Sammy huffs a soft laugh. “S’hot, I guess.”
The Russian doesn’t know what to do about how casual he sounds, so passive. He
takes a last look at the flier before stuffing it into his backpack,
uncomfortably.
When they pull up to the estate and he steps to get out of the car, he finds
the engine still humming loudly.
“You are not coming?” He looks at Sammy in the shape of a question.
“Got a meeting at five. I’ll see you after supper.” The Italian hardly looks at
him before switching the gear back into drive, the sharp jutting sound not-so-
subtle code for get out. Dimitri hesitates – shouldn’t he say goodbye? – and
then closes the door behind him.
The Maserati whips out of the driveway, and Dimitri doesn’t see Sammy again
that night.
Two days later.
“No no no che cazzo, cosa stai facendo? Rimetterlo, ora. Ora!”
The worker makes an uncoordinated turn with his forklift and moves the load
back onto the high shelf he took it down from. Sammy watches him with an
exasperated brow from the open gate of the warehouse where men filter in and
out of like an anthill.
“Idiots.” He hisses, looking back at his clip board. He doesn’t know how
they’re going to get the warehouse filled on time at this rate. If there’s any
shipments left out on the street his dad will be pissed, and he’ll never be
boosted out of this gig. He wipes at the sweat at his hairline and starts
moving towards the office again to recalculate.
“I see those Italian lessons actually paid off, ah?”
Sammy hits the brakes when he sees his father, smiling sunnily by his parked
coupe.
“Dad.” He swallows. “I thought you were meeting with Romero today.”
“Eh,” The don swaggers forward. “Figured I’d give the South side a rain check.
It’s not like they can say no anyways, am I right?”
He laughs and claps a hand to his son’s shoulder. “How’s my warehouse going?”
Sammy holds the clip board behind his back. “It’s – going.”
“Yeah? Let’s take a look, ah?” He starts walking back into it, arm draped over
his son’s shoulder. “Lots ah busy bees in here, ah? You know when I first
started this biz with your grandfather, I was stuck on street duty – none ah
this counting and measuring stuff you boys do, all clean and easy. I had to be
ah muscle, capische? Me and my boys ruled the North side; a group ah babbos
turned borgata, yeah? That’s how your Uncle Milo became your Uncle Milo. He was
ah my right hand back in the day.”
“Yeah dad. I know.” Sammy bites down a groan, having heard the story his whole
life.
“One day, mio figlio? When you are preparing to take ah the throne?” He gives
his son’s shoulder a squeeze. “You will do a bit ah your own muscle, yeah?”
The nineteen year old looks into his father’s brown eyes and frowns, sharply.
“Preparing?” He echoes. “I thought I was already preparing.”
The don laughs. “What, oh this?” He gestures wide to the bustling warehouse.
“No no no, my son. This is ah, what we say. Prerequisite, to di course. You
know what I’m saying?”
Sammy just stares. His dad sighs, and leans in as if Sammy were a confused
child.
“Ascoltare, mio figlio. You are, an apprentice. Yes? And apprentices take years
to learn, do they not? They must listen to teacher, for ah very long time
before they can step up. Capisce? You must learn from the master.”
Sammy does not capisce. He’s about to tell his father this before the don
starts frowning himself, thoughtfully.
“No, that’s not quite right is it? You have not begun to learn from the master
yet, you are still, ah. Being shaped, yes? You are a young cugine, yet to be
made into La Cosa Nostra. Right now, the work you do is just to get your feet
warm, dip your ah toes a little. You understand?”
“What – no, I don’t understand.” Sammy pulls away from the don’s arm. “La Cosa
Nostra? What are you trying to say, that I’m not part of our family yet? That I
haven’t gotten my badge yet or something?”
His father’s brow knits in consideration. “Is, ah . . . trial phase, yes?”
And just like that, Sammy is boiling.
“A trial phase?” A muscle in his neck tenses, angrily. “Who the hell is
supposed to take over this operation when you’re done if not me, huh? Bambini?
That guy can barely start his car most days.”
“Bambini’s not my capo, Milo is.” His father replies smoothly.
“Whatever, Al Pacino.” He barks, fuming. “How long do you expect me to slave
away in this stink-house without any credit, huh? I’m not here to do your
chores, dad, I’m here to work.”
The don’s quiet for a long moment.
“I think,” He starts, eventually. “You just need a little more time to learn.
That’s all.”
Sammy gapes a him, speechless. His father’s hand meets his shoulder again with
another tight squeeze, meant to be soothing but only burning Sammy up further.
“Make sure to come home for dinner tonight. All this staying out late upsets
your mother, you know that.” The don slips on his shades. “Keep up the hard
work, ah?”
After his father’s coupe disappears from the warehouse lot, Sammy breaks his
clipboard against the wall.
He’s not fuming when he walks into the house that night, but the anger is still
burning there quietly like a sleeping dragon. He was hoping it would wither as
the night went on and he had some of his mother’s happy-making food, but when
he steps into the dining room he finds himself face first in the most offensive
family portrait imaginable.
His father, mother, and Dimitri are all sitting down with platefuls of
tortellini, and right beside the Russian is a coy, freckle-faced girl looking
like she’s just stepped out of Madeline; her delicate posture and timid
sensibilities reeking of virginity. She’s definitely not his type.
“Who’s this?”
His mother twists to look at him, a smile breaking out on her face when she
does.
“Oh hi honey, where have you been? You almost missed it. Your brother brought
home a friend from school today, she’s joining us for dinner. Sammy, this is
Janice. Do you remember Sammy from prep school, Janice? He used to go to that
same school of yours, when he was your age.”
The girl brings her hand up from under the table to wave at him, shyly.
“Hi, Sammy.” Her voice is quiet, eyes twinkling green. Dimitri doesn’t say
anything, instead opting to stare up at the older boy with unsurely. Sammy
doesn’t reply.
“You wanna pull up a chair honey? There’s some leftovers in the pot.” His mom
says.
He stares at Janice, hard. “Not hungry.”
With that, he takes off up the stairs.
An hour later and he can hear the front door closing downstairs, his mother’s
obnoxious farewells coming to a halt as she adjourns to her bedroom with Mr.
Vincetti for the night. Peering down from his bedroom window, he sees Dimitri
walking Janice out to her car, looking awkward with his hands in his pockets.
She has her own clasped together like a nun, too shy to make a move and too
hesitant to leave without doing so. In the end she settles for wrapping her
arms around Dimitri’s neck in a hug, stepping on her tippy toes in the process.
The Russian’s hands fall on her shoulders conservatively in the meantime. It
doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to make Sammy see red.
He’s in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of water when Dimitri steps back
inside. When he sees Sammy’s quiet frame against the counter, he stops and eyes
him.
“You’re still awake.” He says from the doorway. Sammy doesn’t look up.
“Thirsty.” The Italian replies. He’s sure Janice would empathize.
“Oh,” Dimitri fidgets awkwardly. “I see.”
Sammy turns off the faucet and leans back, taking long cool swallows from the
cup. Dimitri feels as if it were an hour glass, counting down the seconds until
the elder disappeared again. He hadn’t seen Sammy in days, ever since he picked
the Russian up in his Maserati.
“How was work?” He tries.
Sammy shrugs. “It was work.” He finally looks over at the blond. “How’s your
friend?”
Dimitri swallows. “Good. Good, she – she liked the house, was very impressed.”
“They usually are.” He breathes out laugh. He didn’t usually bring girls over
to the estate – it was much easier to just crash at their place, that way he
didn’t have to call anyone a cab in the morning – but Sammy had a handful of
girlfriends during his highschool years that got the grand tour of the place.
And really, if that didn’t impress the pants right off of them, Sammy’s own
charm managed it just fine.
Dimitri shifts quietly. “It is impressive.”
Sammy gives him a stare. The blond must have more in common with that French
girl than he thought, to be impressed by his house for longer than two seconds.
It’s not that Sammy wasn’t – he was well aware he had a bomb house. But even as
a kid he knew that something stood out between him and the people who stared at
his home as if it were a palace. Call him classist, but those kinds of people,
like pretty-girl Janice and anyone else outside the family, would never see the
world like he did. It was would always feel much, much smaller to them.
Yet here Dimitri stood in his kitchen, feeling rather too large in his big
world.
“So what, did she run out of baguettes and cheese or something tonight?”
The blond looks confused, and then realizes Sammy’s asking about dinner.
“She wanted to spend time with me before the Slam, I suppose. I invite her to
dinner, thought is okay.” He shrugs, and then adds clumsily: “She liked your –
our, parents.”
Sammy watches him with an eye-twinkle, lips half-curving in a wry, dead smile.
Dimitri’s spine tingles icily.
“They’re supposed to meet the parents after the first date, not before.” He
sets his glass down on the counter, a solid thud on the marble. “I guess you
guys are just skipping that whole stage, huh? Forget the engagement, just skip
to the honeymoon. Am I right?”
The Russian swallows and gazes at the floor. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Cut the bullshit, you know she likes you. She’s on you like a tick on a dog.
It’s pathetic.”
He looks visibly threatened by the fact, as if he’d just been told he had an
ulcer.
“That’s why she wants to ‘spend time’ with you, genius.” Sammy sneers,
sauntering towards him. “She wants to hold hands with you and cuddle over
Hemingway and Byron and whoever the fuck else that’s had their diary published.
She thinks you’re cute. She’d probably even say hot, if it didn’t make the
promise ring on her hand melt off.”
The blond flushes viciously. Sammy’s arm comes up to rest on the wall beside
him, slowly cornering his uneasy frame.
“What did you expect, her to compare French notes with you?”
“I thought is not problem.” Dimitri refuses to look at him.
“Oh it’s not a problem.” He shrugs, and after a moment adds. “Is it, Dee?”
Sammy swoops down to look into his eyes, dark and intent. Dimitri keeps his
gaze on the floor.
“You like her, Dee?” His voice is a breath caught in blond hair. “You think
she’s pretty, with her schoolgirl looks and big, innocent eyes? Too scared to
even hug you?”
“Sammy,” The blond pleads, quietly.
“You want her, Dee?” He ignores him, his lip twitching like the words were
poisonous. “You wanna fuck her?”
Dimitri lurches away from the Italian, feet moving promptly for the staircase.
Sammy stops him with a hand on the flat of his chest, pressing him back against
the wall with a hot, spiteful laugh.
“Yeah you do, don’t you Sputnik? You wanna fuck that tight little virgin pussy,
huh? Fuck it like a man, ah?” He holds Dimitri there easily, smile dirty. “It’d
be your first time being the man in bed, wouldn’t it?”
The Russian steps for the stairs again – only to be shoved back against the
wall instead.
“Is that why you want her so bad, so you can feel like a man Dee?”
“Let me go.” Dimitri’s eyes shoot up at him in wet glare. He looks just as
vicious as a hurt animal, trapped by hunters. Sammy’s hand doesn’t move.
“You aren’t a man in bed, are you Red?” He laughs, leaning in close. “Nah.
You’re kinda girly, aren’t you? You like taking it like a good girl, like being
a needy little slut. I mean – it must be pretty hard to keep up all that
Marksimov manliness when you’re getting fucked in the ass like a needy
housewife. Right, Dee?”
“Khvatit!”
A shock of strength shoves Sammy back on his heels, reeling. He stares at the
blond with surprise and anger, flaring through him like a lightning bolt, but
cools when he catches sight of Dimitri’s wet face, tears streaking it. The
Russian’s chest heaves, before turning to glare at the floor once more.
“You hide from me, for days. Over girl – one girl.” He sniffs, disgustedly. “I
did not think it would be problem to have someone to talk to while you were
gone.”
Sammy snarls. “You have friends to talk to, not a jailbait chick with a crush
on you. What the fuck else did you ‘not think would be problem’ to do while I’m
gone, huh?”
“What does it matter to you? You don’t care about what I do before.” Dimitri’s
malignant eyes meet his without warning. The Italian feels another red hot wave
roll through him, spurring him closer to the blond. Dimitri doesn’t back down.
He lets their noses hover inches apart, while Sammy’s gaze bores down on him
like a thunderstorm.
“You don’t know a thing, about what I care about, Cossak.” He says, dangerously
quiet. “You haven’t even lived here longer than two months. You think that
gives you membership to do whatever the fuck you want? Bring girls around for
the grand Vincetti tour? You don’t know jack shit.”
“I know you are scared. Of a girl.” Dimitri returns, and another tear falls.
Sammy laughs.
“Where do you get off thinking the girl is the problem, Mudak? She’s not the
one inviting herself to dinner. She’s not forcing you to go to that Poetry Slam
either, but you’re still thinking about going, aren’t you?”
“I am going.” The blond challenges, hotly. “Not thinking. Not anymore.”
Sammy’s laugh curls into a nasty twist of his lips. He slams a hand against the
wall space next to Dimitri’s head, boxing him in with his arms.
“I fucked you, Red. Twice.” His nostrils flare, livid. “And this is how you
repay me? Slutting off with a church girl, like it was nothing?”
“You act like it was nothing already until girl come.” Dimitri snarls.
Act? Was he not there when Sammy picked him up from school – willingly? The
Italian was furious.
“You belong to me Red, whether you know it yet or not.” He seethes. “You go out
with that girl tomorrow, and you’ll regret it.”
Dimitri stares up at him without a trace of fear; just cold malice.
“Goodnight, Sammy.”
The Russian then leaves to his room for the night. When he hears Sammy’s
Maserati tearing out of the driveway moments later, he doesn’t bother to look
out the window. He instead thinks about what he’ll wear to the Poetry Slam –
he’d forgotten if it was casual or formal.
When Sammy staggers through the front door the next afternoon, bleary-eyed and
hung over, the first thing he hears are his parents’ voices bickering from the
living room. When he walks in he finds his father there with three suitcases
around him, yelling up the stairs at his wife.
“For God’s sake Lyn, it’s ah weekend, not ah vacation. How many bags do you
need?”
“It’s Atlantic City, Piero, you know what happens to people’s luggage there. I
just don’t wanna wake up on Sunday and realize I have to wear my Saturday
clothes on the trip back.”
There’s a third footstep accompanying her own as she turtles down, and when she
finally finishes dragging her last suitcase into the living room she looks up
and spots Sammy there with a bright gleam to her eyes.
“Sammy baby! There you are. I was scared we’d leave before getting to say
goodbye.”
“Another weekend hitting the slots, I take it?” He asks. His voice is gruff,
dry-mouthed. The don turns around as if just noticing his son in the doorway,
and instantly grimaces.
“Oh, Madonna. Sammy what happened to you?”
Sammy rubs a hand through his tangled hair, able to practically his parents’
judgmental eyes crawling all over his rumpled shirt and stained pants. It was
easy enough to say that he did remember all the drinks he’d had last night with
Vinnie and Lorenzo, but the throbbing of his head made him want to forget.
“You look like road kill, hon.” His mother sympathizes. “Did you just wake up
before you got here? It’s almost one, sweetheart.”
“At least he woke up at all, right?” His father sniffs. Sammy heaves a breath.
“Really Sammy, you can’t make a routine out of this. Your liver’s gonna be shot
by the time you hit twenty-five. You’ll end up just like your Uncle Nickie. He
can’t even take Tylenol now.” She scoots her bag beside the others with a red,
fatigued face as she talks, endlessly. “Anyways, your father and I are gonna be
in the city for the weekend, so you and your brother are gonna be in charge of
the house while we’re gone, alright? Now you know the rules: no drinks, no
crazy house parties, no smoking indoors – oh Dee! I didn’t see you there.”
Sammy turns to where his mother stares at the kitchen archway and finds Dimitri
hiding soundlessly within it, watching the Vincetti’s with a cup of orange
juice in his thin fingers.
“You ready for your big date tonight, kiddo?” His mother beams proudly at moves
over to ruffle the blond’s hair. “What time’s your friend picking you up?”
“Seven.” Dimitri replies, glancing over at Sammy. “It starts at seven.”
“Ah, your first date. A boy becomes a man, eh? What a lucky girl.” The don
winks. The fire from last night returns all along Sammy’s spine like an oil
spill. Janice.
“Scusi.” He grunts, and disappears up the stairs to his bedroom. Dimitri
watches him go with a conflicted look on his face, while his mother and father
exchange looks.
A moment later, while Sammy’s sat at his desk cracking open a bottle of
aspirin, his bedroom door creaks open. He doesn’t look to see who it is,
instead focusing on shoving two tablets down his throat with or without water.
Footsteps approach his desk slowly, and he can smell his father’s cologne
before they even reach him.
“You want to prove yourself in this biz, mio figlio,” A paper slides across the
wood, appearing right under Sammy’s nose. “Then you start now.”
There are three establishment names scrawled on the paper: Paolo’s Salon, Penny
Mart, and Twin Pines Resort.
“What’s this?” He frowns at it.
“That, is what’s left over from Fifth Street. You get you and your boys to do
this job right, give these folks a little persuasion, and the Vincetti turf
will have expanded just a little bit further West come Monday. Capisce?”
Sammy stills. Persuasion. Excitement dances in his chest, fingers gripping the
paper perhaps too tight. This was his chance to move up the ladder, to get out
of that smelly warehouse and do some real work for once. This was his first
step closer to being don.
“Done.” A grin tugs at his lips, and he looks up at his dad. The don just
smiles, clasping a hand to his son’s shoulder warmly.
Sammy knew exactly who he was going to persuade tonight, and one of them wasn’t
on the list.
“Please please, I’ll give you the cash – just leave the Monet. It’s priceless!”
Sammy holds a hand up, promptly stopping Vinnie’s Louisville Slugger at a mid-
air six inches from the portrait of Three Trees in Grey Weather that Lorenzo
had raised high in his two gloved hands. He smiles at the frazzled hotel owner,
who cowers behind the lobby desk in utmost fright.
“I don’t know Chief. Personally, I don’t think it’s his best work.” The tip of
his blade twirls between his leathered fingers, contemplatively. “Let’s say we
bump it up a zero, yeah?”
The owner – a Mr. Francis Germ, who also played concierge to the legendary
hotel establishment – widened his eyes in a tear of shock and hate.
“Your father said five hundred a week, no more.”
“Do I look like my father, Franny?” Sammy leaned in, threateningly. “I know our
incredibly good looks can be confusing for the faint of heart – such as
yourself – but let’s be real here for a minute. Your hotel is probably the
biggest money maker on the west side; five G’s is no skin off your nose. In
fact, you probably pay that much every other week anyways with your frequent
trips to the Bunny Bin, isn’t that right Mr. Germ?”
Mr. Francis goes beet red in his sour-nosed face, beady eyes frozen.
“Expensive hobby, isn’t it?” Sammy makes an icky face. “Especially when you’re
hiding it from Mrs. Germ – and Mrs. Germ Jr. What was her name again, Lisa?”
“Lina.” He scowls.
“Of course.” The Italian smiles. “Look, Francis. We’re giving you a good deal
here. The Berducci’s, the Marksimov’s, the Higgin’s? They’d be pressing you for
fifty a month, at least. Us here?” He gestures at his five-man muscle crew with
his knife. “We can protect you from all that. That fee is nothing in comparison
to the safety of this establishment. Am I right?” Germ looks unconvinced. Sammy
leans in close and whispers the rest.
“Not to mention the safety of your marriage, aye papi? Or else, little Lina
might be growing up in a broken home.”
“You have no proof. They wouldn’t believe a ginzo thug even if you paid them.”
Germ snarls.
“Ah, yeah I guess so.” The young man looks defeated as he slides out a lean
white envelope and sends it across the desk. “Except no, not at all actually.”
He looks skeptical at first, before tearing into the paper with jerky,
indignant movements. His eyes widen. It’s his latest receipt from the Bunny
Bin, complete with a plush kiss-shaped lipstick stain beside the fat number
amount at the bottom.
“How did you get this?” His voice shakes.
“Genie. She’s your favorite, right? She was glad to make us a few copies.
Vinnie even got her number, too. They’re going out for spaghetti on Sunday.”
One of his henchmen – Vinnie – grins happily. Germ looks up and shoots Sammy a
bone-chilling glare. The Italian takes it in stride.
“So, you guys are still on Marjorie Road right?”
Lorenzo lets out a soaring ‘whoop’ when they roll out of the Twin Pines parking
lot seconds later, leaving a defeated Germ to stew in his vandalized lobby
miserably.
“Your dad’s gonna flip when he finds out the score you racked up today!” He
hoots from the passenger seat of Sammy’s Maserati. “We’ll get taken care of
baby, for sure. Let’s go take this payday to Underground, yah?”
“Not yet Lenny.” Sammy glances at the clock, reading 7:25 on it. “We’ve got one
more stop.”
Dimitri sat quietly next to Janice at the River Lane Open Mic Café, which had
an awfully (un)surprising turn out for the Poetry Slam than he’d imagined. He
looks over at the sparse four or five couples spread thinly in the seats of the
small coffee house, and then at the loud, overwhelming speaker taking the mic
at the current moment.
“Her eyes were sheaths, onto which a gaze so blue pierced my soul,” The acne-
faced helmet-head hipster belted with passion, all while staring down into the
little black notebook in his hand carefully. “And every day, as my blood
puttered forth, I watched it change into you. From red, to blue.”
He’s startled when a soft hand fell over his, and looks down to find that it’s
Janice’s.
“You okay?” She whispers, smile dancing on her lips. He nods quickly.
“Da – yes, I’m just.” He pauses, staring down at their hands. “I’m just
wondering what my brother is up to, is all.”
Her brow quirks at that, in curiosity, but she says nothing of it. Instead, she
slips her fingers between his and links them. Heat floods his cheeks. She just
smiles.
Then the coffee house door kicks open with a clack!
The couple’s hands fly apart in an instant and the hipster at the mic shuts up
mid-unto to stop and stare as Sammy and his crew saunters through the doorway.
Sammy has Vinnie’s slugger in his hand this time as he heads the group,
appearing as nonchalant as a morning coffee-goer.
“I beg your pardon, fellow poetry enthusiasts,” He starts. “But on behalf of
the Vincetti Family, River Lane is, unfortunately, closing early tonight.”
Dimitri visibly blanches at the sight in front of him, while the skinny
audience in the back – as well as some employees – promptly begin moving for
the exit at the first sound of the Vincetti name. Janice looks over at the
Russian nervously.
“What is happening?” She whispers, while the café empties.
“Beat it, Garfunkel.” Sammy dismisses the hipster-poet as he walks up to the
coffee counter and the teenager tails it out of there, nearly tripping on the
way out. The barista’s trembling hands fly into the air as Sammy draws close.
“Jenny, call the police.” She blurts to the one server left behind the bar. He
grins.
“You must be new around here. Let me introduce myself: I’m Sammy Vincetti, son
of Don Piero Vincetti, and my daddy owns the police.”
The server picks up the phone anyways. Sammy holds up a hand when one of his
men goes to stop her, letting her dial away. The barista stares at him in
trepidation.
“What do you want?”
“You. We want you, Miss” – he stops to squint at her name tag – “Virginia
Woolf?”
“It’s Poetry Night; we had to pick poet aliases.” She explains shakily.
“Yeah but she’s not much of a poet, is she? I mean, she wrote mostly novels,
right?”
“I don’t know I’m new here!” The barista babbles.
“Yes – 911? This is River Lake, I think – I think we’re being robbed?” Her
friend’s voice comes from the kitchen.
“Watch her.” Sammy grunts to one of his men, and the henchman dutifully hounds
after the girl on the phone. She yelps when she spots him staring at her from
the bar.
“I think we should go, Dimitri.” Janice tells him.
“Yes, I think you should.” The Russian nods, hypnotized by the scene in front
of him. Janice’s gaze jerks over to him in a hybrid of confusion and hurt at
the suggestion.
“As I was saying, Virginia,” Sammy continues at the counter. “We want you, to
become part of our club. The Vincetti club, of course. Y’see my boys and I have
gotten quite a few members tonight – a hotel, a fancy salon, a classist grocery
selling ridiculously expensive produce – but what we really need here is
culture. You know what I mean?”
“No no no, it’s Vincetti. His name is Vincetti.” Jenny explains in the back.
“Some place with fire, with passion. The kind that only a boring, commercial
coffee shop chain catering to the ultra-liberal youth of boho-chic eggheads and
hipster-yuppies can bring; with your poetry slams and your . . .” He looks
around at the bulletin board menu. “Edgar Allan Polka Night? Am I reading that
right?”
“I’m new here, I’m new here, I’m new here.” The barista chants, eyes closing
pitifully. Her hands remain high in the air, shaking.
“They hung up on me!” Jenny comes out from the kitchen with a panicked face,
phone dangling in her hand with a dial tone. The barista doesn’t stop chanting.
Janice, moving like a church mouse, starts creeping for the door.
“Ah ah ah now, missy.” Sammy catches her, and Vinnie looms in front of the exit
feet away from her. “You got a curfew or something? You’ve only been here what,
twenty minutes?”
“I-I want to go home.” Janice wobbles. Sammy looks hurt.
“But – I thought you wanted to spend time with Dimitri. Don’t you?”
Janice looks over at the Russian pleadingly. He looks conflicted, torn between
the two.
Sammy’s grin returns, fighting its way onto his face. “Have a seat, Janice.”
Vinnie gives her a cold stare when she hesitates, and her butt hits the seat
quick as lightning.
“Now I’m gonna give you a discount membership, since you guys were more of a
spontaneous decision than we planned.” The Italian looks back at the barista
once more. “My comfort zone is usually around five, but let’s be real here for
a minute. You guys probably don’t make that much in a month, and if you did
half of that would go right back into business expenses –”
“Five hundred?” Virginia Woolf asks.
“Thousand, sweetheart. Does this suit not look like it’s made of Benjamin’s to
you? Cuz, it probably is.”
“I don’t have five thousand dollars. I don’t – I don’t even own this place, I’m
just the assistant manager. I transferred here.” She rolls right over his
words, a nervous wreck.
“Those aren’t negotiating words, Virginia.” Sammy shakes his head. “You see if
I’m not mistaken, there should be a safe in your boss’s office back there. Am I
mistaken?”
Virginia’s face falls. “No, but – there are only paychecks in there.”
“Trust me, kid. We’re not here to steal your rent money.” He slides another
envelope out of his jacket. It was one of the leftover Declaration of Extortion
letters he had from today. He’d printed out a few of them before leaving home;
formal letters explaining the terms and conditions of being properly extorted
by a Vincetti – and he’d intended on using them with each of the new Vincetti
“club members”. But by the time he’d closed the deal with Mr. Germ, he’d
realized that words were much more efficient than print in this vocation, and
despite how elegant it at first seemed, Sammy had decided to his own oral
skills instead of his reading ones.
“We just want you,” He slides the letter over to her. “to put that in your
boss’s safe. You know the pass code, yeah?”
Assistant managers should, he knows. But she gives him a shaky, resistant look.
“I can’t – I can’t do that. You can’t do that, you can’t just – just bully us
like this!”
Dimitri’s eyes widen, and he watches Sammy’s next move intently. The Italian
gives her an amiable smile, before turning and smashing his bat into the pastry
glass without warning. Both the employees jump, one shrieking in fright.
“Put the letter in the safe, Virginia.” He instructs again with dark, razor-
sharp eyes. “And don’t ever tell me what I can and can’t do.”
She nods furiously, breaths heaving. Sammy smiles.
“I can’t believe you,” Dimitri hisses at him when the Italian is dragging him
to his Maserati, elbow fisted in his bronze paw. “You terrify Janice! She will
have therapy for this!”
“She’d probably need therapy without it. All that repressed sexuality can’t be
good for a girl’s mind.” Sammy replies, clicking the doors unlocked as they
approached.
The blond stomps a foot to the asphalt, stopping himself to glare at the elder.
Sammy’s eyes are cloudy black at him, grip on his elbow unyielding.
“Get in the car.”
Dimitri pauses, and then with a snarl twitching onto his lips, dips himself
into the passenger seat.
The drive back home is over quicker than they know, despite how tight the
tension is between them the whole way. The air around them feels so volatile
that if a match were held up to it, it’d probably light on fire. When Dimitri
steps out of the Maserati once it’s parked in the driveway, Sammy is right
there to grasp at his elbow. He ignores the blond’s struggles as he tows him up
to the front door, stopping to fish out his keys. His eyes are dark with focus.
“Let me go.” Dimitri bites.
“What’re you gonna do, find another schoolgirl to play with?” The door slips
open with a clack, and then Sammy’s dragging him through it, the foyer, and
then into the living room. Dimitri finally yanks his arm free there, and whirls
around to seethe at the Italian in hate.
“You’re crazy.” He spits. “You and your family. You’re insane.”
“Yeah that’s great, coming from an Marksimov.” Sammy scoffs.
“Marksimov’s don’t break pastry windows over girl, ebanashka.”
The Italian’s nostrils flare at that. Dimitri watches as he whips off his suit
jacket, the top two buttons of his dress shirt showing a glint of sweat across
his chest.
“You think this is about the girl still?”
Dimitri crosses his arms. “Girl was not problem till you say so.”
“And yet there you were, holding her hand at River Lane.”
“You don’t own me, zadnitsa.” Dimitri snaps. “You and your family can own half
of state, but you can’t own me. I am not object.”
“What part of ‘belong’ don’t you understand, Cossak?” Sammy steps closer to
him, threateningly. “Is it the core concept? Because last I checked, it seemed
like you just walked into my room the night we fucked without reading the
rulebook.”
“I don’t have to live by anyone else’s rulebook.” The blond hisses up at him.
“You did not care about that before, what makes it so different now?”
Sammy’s voice drops dangerously low. “We fucked, Red. That’s what’s different.”
“Because you fuck me?” Dimitri steps toward him. Their chests are inches apart.
“Because you claim me, now? What were we doing before – just playing?”
“I’m taking care of you, now.” He says, and the words are of a don, not his
son. “There’s a difference.”
“By smashing pastry windows? Robbing café shops?” Dimitri stares. “You are
mad.”
A hot breath leaves the Italian’s nostrils, slow and furious.
“What does it take for you to learn?” He grits. “What does it take for you to
understand that you’re mine, and nobody else’s?”
“I am not your toy. I can belong to whoever I want.”
“No you’re just needy, aren’t you?” Sammy smiles, dryly. “You just need
attention. You can’t stand it when someone isn’t making a scene over you,
noticing you. Mama and Papa just didn’t give you the time of day when they were
alive, huh? It shows.”
Hurt flickers across the orphan’s features. His eyelashes flutter, and suddenly
they’re wet.
“I am not the spoiled, silver-spoon brat, with manhood so small that he is
threatened by harmless little girl.”
That makes Sammy see red. In an instant, he’s got the Russian’s wrist clenched
in his fist and he’s pulling him up the stairs. Dimitri tries to yank it away
in vain.
“What you do now, lock me in cage? Put on collar?”
“Not quite.” Sammy drags him into his bedroom and tosses him onto the bed. His
body falls on the soft sheets with a plop, and Dimitri almost laughs when the
Italian slides off his belt.
“This how you prove your manliness?” The Russian tilts his head. “You going to
punish me with that, Sammy?”
“Just like daddy never did to you, Dee?” Sammy moves around the bed with the
leather clasped in his hands. “I bet he just walked right on by whenever you
acted up. Nothing could get his attention, could it?”
Dimitri hisses at him when he swipes up both of the blond’s wrists, pinning
them to the knob on the bed post above his head with the casual strength of one
hand.
“What are you doing?” He struggles as Sammy’ loops his belt around his wrists,
the back of his hands pressing tight against the post when the Italian tightens
the leather, buckling it securely.
“Teaching you. Call it a hands-off lesson.” Sammy stands up straight, looking
down at the Russian coldly. “And since mom and dad are outta town for the
weekend, it might be a longer class period than you think.”
Dimitri yanks on his bonds, the headboard juttering against the wall at his
sheer force. The belt holds in place, only sparse wiggle room for his hands.
Sammy won’t lie – this isn’t the first time he’s belt-looped someone to his
bed. But he will admit it was the first that the someone was male, and his
adopted brother.
“You can’t keep me here. I am a human being, not your – your pet, you selfish
prince!”
“One apology, Red. One apology for making an idiot out of me with that girl,
and you can go free.” Sammy crosses his arms, relaxed now that he had the
situation under his control.
“Vy nevynosimy!” Dimitri spits. “It was one girl! I was not even going with her
tonight, till you gave me cold shoulder. Take one look at flier and boom! Drop
me, like rag in bucket.”
“Oh yeah? And what about ‘belong’, huh?” Sammy says in a mocking imitation of
Dimitri’s boyish voice. “What about ‘oh, I want you Sammy’? ‘Moy hozyian,
Sammy’? What happened to all that once Miss Pretty Eyes appeared, huh?”
Dimitri flushes a deep red and glowers.
“Poshel ty. Swine.”
Liquid fire growls in Sammy. After a moment, the Italian turns and starts
walking toward the doorway, without a sound. Dimitri glares at him the whole
way, and the look doesn’t drop until his shoes meet the hallway.
“Sammy, wait. Don’t.”
The elder pauses. He licks his lips.
“You can’t leave me here – please,” He amends, after remembering how well
things go whenever the Italian is told what or what not to do. “How will I
sleep?”
Sammy starts moving again. Dimitri panics. “Sammy please – hozyian!”
He stops again, and his hand slides up the doorway, lingering. The elder’s eyes
meet Dimitri’s own, and the blond feels a rush of relief.
“She wasn’t –” He pauses, looking at the sheets. “She was just a friend,
Sammy.”
The Italian really doesn’t see why he couldn’t have just said that in the
beginning, but finds himself walking back to the bed just the same. Slow,
patient steps.
“I wanted you to see me.” He shifts in his restraints, sheets rustling beneath
him. “I wanted you to know I could leave.”
“But you can’t really, can you?” A smile tugs at Sammy’s lips at the Russian’s
belted wrists. Dimitri flushes, and shifts again uncomfortably.
“Please, Sammy. Razvyazhite menya?” He tilts his wrists up, an offering.
“Just like that?” Sammy’s knee slides over Dimitri’s waist, his zipper hovering
in front of the blond’s face. “Maybe I should give you an Oscar, too.”
Dimitri murmurs the Italian’s name again, and brushes his nose along his
inseam. He lets out a moist breath across the crotch, parting his lips over the
fabric.
“M’sorry, hozyian,” He mouths at Sammy’s half-hard cock. “Please – let me.”
“Yeah?” Sammy tangles a hand into the Russian’s hair. “Kind of think you look
good like this, don’t you think?”
Dimitri mumbles something as he kisses the growing bulge in his pants, lips
spreading plush and pink. When his tongue darts out to wet the fabric, Sammy’s
hand clenches in his hair. His fingers twist the blond’s locks upwards and with
a wince Dimitri’s eyes meet his, a shock of blue. He stares down at his parted
lips, glinting wet inches away from his tented pants.
Sammy’s other hand drifts down and snaps open the top button of Dimitri’s shirt
– and then the next, and the next, until he’s seated on the Russian’s lap with
both hands yanking open the shirt, exposing the lean chest and dusky nipples
there blatantly. Dimitri’s legs shift under Sammy’s body, thighs tensing. He
hears his name asked, like a question, before he ducks down and takes a nipple
into his mouth.
Dimitri gasps, chest leaping under the Italian. Sammy steadies him with a hand
on his ribs, swirling his tongue around the nub. He can feel the Russian’s legs
squirming, unable to spread. He lets his teeth graze the sensitive flesh and a
breath hitches in Dimitri’s throat, loud.
“Sammy?” His nose falls into the Italian’s hair, trying to touch him in any way
he can. “Sammy please – untie.”
The elder’s mouth just switches nipples, getting the other just as spit-shined
as the last, and his teeth return to treat it with soft almost-bites. The
blond’s chest heaves against his chin, the smell of his deodorant faint and
warm. Dimitri’s head falls back against the headboard, nose riding along his
inner-elbow.
“Please, please, hozyian,” His legs shift insistently. Sammy can feel how hard
he is underneath, trapped. “Untie, please untie. Pozhaluysta.”
He pulls away with a wet smack and straightens up on his knees again, letting
his full bulge drift inches from the Russian’s face. Dimitri latches onto it
instantly, kissing at it with heavy pants. His nipples harden at the coldness
that comes with the absence of Sammy’s mouth.
“Fuck me Sammy, please,” He begs. The word please spills over and over again
between open-mouthed kisses, and he stops to bite at Sammy’s zipper. The
Italian lays a hand on his blond head, knotting his fingers tightly. When
Dimitri manages to pull the zipper down more than halfway between his teeth, he
tugs – hard. The Russian lets out a frustrated yelp. His eyes close tightly,
cheek resting against Sammy’s pant leg.
“Please, Sammy,” He sounds wrecked. “Let me touch you. Let me feel.”
Sammy doesn’t do anything at first. But soon, he’s letting go of Dimitri’s hair
and unbuttoning his pants instead. When his cock is finally freed, the Russian
moves to latch onto it instantly. Sammy stops him by the hair.
“You ready for that Dee?” Sammy rubs his scalp, contemplatively. “You ready to
belong, for real?”
Dimitri nods, panting against the Italian’s undone zipper. “Da. Belong, yours.”
Sammy is quiet for a moment. “No.” His voice comes. “I don’t think you are.”
He lets the Russian’s hair go.
“Prove it to me.”
Dimitri swallows. The Italian’s eyes are glazed and murky, but when he feels
the blond’s lips gingerly envelope him they flutter for a moment. His mouth is
warm and wet as they seal around him, tongue running up the underside in a slow
drag.
Sammy curses under his breath as Dimitri starts up a rhythm, his brow knit with
concentration and eyes tightly shut. The moist pull of his lips tugging him
forward makes his hips sway. He lets his hand fall on Dimitri’s head again and
the blond’s eyes beam up at him, wet and blue.
“Fuck, Dee,” He rocks his hips forward. The Russian squirms, moan humming
against Sammy’s skin. He moves his mouth in slow bobs, suckling with quiet
urgency. The way his wrists still pull at the belt and his biceps flex around
his ears makes the fire in Sammy’s gut burn even more, the wanton draw of his
eyebrows; earnest, desperate. He swirls his tongue along the tip and sucks
there, breath coming harsh from his nostrils.
“Please, Sammy.” He kisses his way down the side. “Trakhni menya, I belong. Am
yours.”
“You think so?” He runs his fingers through blond hair, tilting Dimitri’s head
up.
“Know so,” The Russian licks his lips. “Need you, hozyian.”
Sammy unfreezes then. He swoops and kisses the blond in hard, swallowing
surges, feeling the buzz of Dimitri's moan vibrating in his throat. Dimitri
kisses back eagerly, tugging at his restraints. By the time Sammy's mouth has
made it back to his tight nipples, the Italian's hands have already got the
blond's pants undone and pulled down his thighs. His hard on is jutting up
against his grey boxer briefs, a wet spot at its tip. Sammy rolls the pants off
from his lower body and kisses his way down to Dimitri's waist band. The
Russian's legs spread instantly, knee slipping over the Italian's shoulder so
his heel rests on the center of his back, and when Sammy's mouth closes over
his clothed cock he lets out a long, breathy moan.
Sammy sucks at it and lets his tongue press against it, the warm scent clouding
his senses. His eyes meet Dimitri's as he mouths, and when the blond sees his
hot, predatory face there with something akin to desperation behind it, an oven
closes over him. His hips pump up, and surprisingly the Italian doesn't hold
them down; just moves with them, mouth pressing hard against the bulge. Then he
moves back up to Dimitri's neck.
"Tell me who you want," He asks, his hand squeezing the blond's hard on tighter
than needed. Dimitri whimpers.
"You Sammy, please. I - I," He swallows and doesn't finish, muttering something
else in Russian. He thrusts into Sammy's hand and moans his name again.
"You what? You want me?" Sammy looks into the blond's eyes. "Is that all you
want Dee?"
"Sammy," Dimitri groans when the Italian's hand dips under his boxers to pull
at his cock in slow, tense jacks. "Da, that's - no. Is not all I want."
Sammy waits, but doesn't stop moving his hand. If Dimitri wasn't so far gone,
he'd say the Italian was worried. As if one harmless little French girl could
put the haughty Italian's entire self-confidence at stake.
"I want you, no one else." The blond swallows. "I want you inside me, want you
to fuck me, please Sammy. Please."
Sammy slides his boxers off with ease, looking sated with this answer.
"Oh - Sammy," His head tips back when the Italian finally fucks into him
moments later, his first slow thrust quickly followed by a hard surge of his
hips that pushes Dimitri's body up a few inches. Dimitri wraps his legs around
Sammy's waist, ankles hooking together tightly. He lets out tight sounds, airy
as he struggled to take in the elder's deep pumps.
Sammy buried his nose in Dimitri's neck and listened to the rabbit-heart beat
of his brother's pulse, feeling his boyish voice tremble out in overwhelmed
warbles that never seemed to end. He loves being Dimitri's first, knowing that
he was the one to open the seventeen-year old up for the first time to things
like this - things he may have never even thought about before. Who knows how
repressed he was in that Marksimov house he was raised in, what kind of Russian
sensibilities kept him boxed up inside. Sammy sucks Dimitri's smooth skin
between his teeth and bites a mark there, feeling the blond buck up against him
and yelp.
He pounds into him harder, letting a hand drop down and curl under Dimitri's
knee so he can hold it up without stopping. The Russian whimpers into Sammy's
jaw, surprising him when he presses a kiss there breathlessly.
"Good, Sammy." He says between kisses, and no matter how many times he says it,
the Italian's name still crawls out of his mouth thickly accented. "So good -
please, let me touch. Let me touch you."
"Not this time, Red." Sammy thrusts, harder. "Gotta learn how to keep your
hands to yourself."
Dimitri whines but it's short-lived. Sammy's hand leaves the blond's knee to
wrap around his cock instead. A moan soars out of his mouth, thighs tensing
around the Italian's midway. He muffles his cries against Sammy's neck, voice
vibrating against the skin.
"Hozyian - Sammy," He sobs when he comes, spilling hot and wet all over both of
their stomachs. Sammy's thrust don't pause, keeping up their unforgiving pace
with hard-lined determination.It's so easy to make the blond come, it's a
wonder he lasts this long.
Dimitri's body relaxes all around him and he spreads his legs further, head
falling back against the headboard. His eyes are hooded, eyebrows knotted so
desperately for the elder to come in him. Sammy swallows and moves his hands to
Dimitri's hips, pulling them back onto his cock.
"Pozhaluysta," He murmurs, soft. "Come in me, Sammy."
It all hits him in a rush, and he pushes himself so hard against the Russian
his hips come flush against the other's, eyes screwing shut and mouth open in a
groan. All of Dimitri's facial features smooth out contently when he feels
Sammy come, letting his hips roll back into him even when the Italian's body
has gone stiff, pulsing hot inside. Seconds later Sammy is falling beside him,
chest heaving and sweat gleaming all along his spine.
Dimitri tugs at his restraints insistently. "Sammy - Sammy."
One honey-hazel eye peeks open. Dimitri makes a pleading face. Sammy then
reaches up and lazily undoes the belt with one hand, and although the Russian
is obediently still, as soon as the clasp pops open he's tearing his wrists
away and rolling himself on top of Sammy. He swallows the Italian's mouth in a
kiss, a wanton noise muffled there. Sammy's lips move languidly against his, no
sense of urgency to be found, but he does help slip off Dimitri's remaining
button-down and toss it into the darkness of the room. Dimitri's hands fly into
Sammy's hair, touching his jaw with an affectionate thumb, and something warm
and light unfurls in the Italian's chest at the blond's eargerness, his
adoration.
Dimitri murmurs sleepy Russian into Sammy's chin, trailing his kisses down the
elder's neck. They end at Sammy's chest, right in the center where Dimitri's
head is soon to be.
*
Things don't change around the Vincetti estate for a while after that. Dimitri,
unsurprisingly, never hears from Janice ever again. The story of what went down
at the Poetry Jam gives the Russian a reputation at his school, as well - and
needless to say, it's not a very happy one. He roams his school halls without a
single student daring to talk to him, or sometimes even look at him. Not that
he cares. Dimitri's grades skyrocket after Sammy's stunt at the cafe, and his
teachers constantly shower him with praise - something the blond realizes he
loves, if not strives for daily.
Meanwhile, after Sammy's first success on the job his father gave him he gets
packed with more. Soon enough he's barely spending any time at all in that
hellish warehouse anymore.
"You're a hell of a kid, you know that Sammy? Mio figlio!" His father laughs
one week. He's looking over the city map in the Vincetti Family headquarters,
the sky high windows illuminating the growing pins of blue that scatter across
the West side of New York, and his shoulders are bouncing rhythmically with the
ease of his guffaws.
"My boy, taking over da west side with ah panache, yea? Mwa!" He kisses his
fingertips as if he were tasting Mario Batalli's marinara sauce. He turns
around and faces his son, who leans against the doorway complacently. "Is
beautiful! You are ah like ah fish in water, no?"
Sammy ducks his head, smiling calm. "Learn from the best."
"Bahhh," His father waltzes around his desk and up to Sammy. "You were born the
best, mio figlio. You are a Vincetti. Me and you?"
He clasps his hands firm around Sammy's leather-jacket shoulders, and looks
into his eyes with destiny.
"We are going to add this state to our collection, no problem." A smile grows
on his face. "The Vincetti family is going to own every piece ah the east coast
like cattle, and one day soon, my son? Every Marksimov, Berducci, MacMurphy,
Higgin and hood rat walking these streets is going to answer to you, bambino."
Sammy's mouth twitches. "Don't you mean us?"
His father leans back and gives him a long, satisfactory look.
"No, mio figlio. I mean you."
Sammy bursts into the house later that evening when work is finished with a hot
grin plastered to his face. He kicks the door shut with a slam and saunters
long-leggedly into the bar in the kitchen for the most tempting bottle of
Campari he can find in there. He's just finished wedging an orange twist onto
his negroni when he swings around and finds Dimitri stepping into the kitchen,
sunlight bathing his features as it escapes through the window. He freezes, and
Dimitri mirrors his movements when he spots the Italian. His mother isn't
around, having gone out for groceries ten minutes ago. A puzzled smile curls
onto the Russian's face.
"So soon? Is barely five yet." He looks at Sammy's drink with a cocked brow.
Sammy's face is still at first. Then, he takes a long sip of his drink, and
sets it down onto the marble less than delicately. A predatory grin washes his
face, flushed from racing up into the house seconds before, and he stalks
toward Dimitri.
"Sammy?" The blond backs away nervously, but soon Sammy is swooping him up in a
deep, joyful kiss that has Dimitri letting out a surprised muffled sound
against his lips. Sammy doesn't say a word. He just lifts the Russian up onto
the counter and continues kissing him, tongue tasting like gin and sweet
vermouth as it laps into Dimitri's mouth, making him feel heady. The blond
tangles his hands into Sammy's long hair, hooking his ankles behind the
Italian's back.
"Is there occasion?" He laughs when Sammy's lips dance down his neck, smacking
wetly against his pulse. "Or just happy to see me?"
The Italian's hand reaches up to palm his cheek. His honey eyes fall hooded on
Dimitri's happy blues, and he breathes his words against the blond's lips.
"Drink with me tonight." Is how he answers. Dimitri's eyes flare with
curiosity.
"I have never drank before."
"I know." Sammy smiles, devious. "Just a little. From my cup. Just to taste."
Dimitri stares at him, eyes narrowed.
"You trying to have way with me, Vincetti boy?"
"Not boy. Not for long." Sammy kisses his cheek, then his forehead. "Don
Vincetti, Dee. Don Sammy Vincetti."
End Notes
     Thanks for reading :) there's a sequel on my hard drive containing
     Dean/Cas, but I haven't posted it yet. Let me know if you'd be
     interested in reading that. Again, thank you!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
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