Chapter 4: Dangerous Surprises
The dawn light through the boathouse windows was the color of weak tea, staining everything in a watery, pale gold. Julienne’s head throbbed in time with the gentle slap of water against the pilings beneath the floorboards. The memory of the dock, of his teeth on her skin, was a bruise on her mind, tender and deep.
“He never comes down here before ten,” Isabella whispered, her own hangover seemingly vanished in a flutter of conspiratorial excitement. She struggled with the latch on a large, dusty wooden crate. “We’ve got at least an hour to drag out the lanterns and the bunting. He’ll be so surprised!”
Julienne forced a smile, her tongue sticky. The boathouse smelled of damp wood, motor oil, and something else—a faint, coppery scent she couldn’t place. It was a cavernous space, cluttered with the ghosts of summers past: canoes suspended from the ceiling like wooden skeletons, coils of rope, a workbench littered with rusted tools. The ‘Happy Birthday’ banner from last year’s party for a cousin was draped over a barrel, faded and forlorn.
“Maybe we should just leave it outside,” Julienne suggested, her voice echoing softly. Every sound felt too loud.
“Nonsense! It’s perfect in here. Moody. He likes moody.” Isabella grunted, finally prying the crate open with a shriek of protesting nails. “Ah-ha! Lanterns!” She began pulling out paper globes in garish colors.
Julienne moved to a separate, longer crate near the back wall, away from the windows. Maybe hiding something would help her shaking hands. This crate was newer, the wood unweathered. It was heavy. She tugged at the lid, but it was fastened shut with metal clasps, not nails.
“Need a hand?”
The voice didn’t come from Isabella.
It came from the doorway, a deep vibration that seemed to still the very dust motes dancing in the sunlight.
Vito stood there, silhouetted against the brightening morning. He wore dark trousers and a simple grey sweater, the casual elegance making him seem even more formidable. He wasn’t smiling.
Isabella gasped, a hand flying to her chest. “Papa! You ruined the surprise!”
“You are notoriously bad at secrets, mia cara,” he said, stepping inside. His eyes found Julienne, still crouched by the long crate. “This one, however,” he continued, walking toward her, his shoes clicking on the old planks, “has a better poker face.”
He stopped right in front of her. Julienne had to tilt her head back to look at him. The coppery smell was stronger here.
“This one isn’t for decorations,” he said, his voice dropping so only she could hear. He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and released the metal clasps with two efficient flicks of his wrist. He lifted the lid.
Inside, nested in grey foam, were three long, sleek rifles, their metal barrels gleaming with a cold, blue-black light. Next to them, boxes of ammunition lay like bricks of deadly candy.
Julienne’s breath caught. This was the other smell. Gun oil. Cleaned metal. Power, stripped bare.
“Whoa,” Isabella breathed, coming up behind them. “Are those… new?”
“A necessary acquisition,” Vito said, his tone neutral. He picked up one of the rifles, checking the sight with a practiced ease that was more terrifying than any brandished threat. “The world is full of unpredictable currents. One must be prepared to navigate them.”
His gaze slid back to Julienne. “Don’t you think?”
She couldn’t speak. She was trapped, pinned between the solid edge of the weapon crate and the immovable wall of his body. Isabella, fascinated by the guns, leaned in to look closer, her shoulder brushing Julienne’s.
Vito set the rifle back in the foam with a soft thud. Then, as Isabella reached out a tentative finger to touch the polished stock, his left hand—hidden from his daughter’s view by his own body and the angle of the crate—came to rest on Julienne’s knee.
She jolted as if shocked.
His palm was warm, heavy. It slid upward, over the bare skin of her thigh, pushing the hem of her summer dress higher. She wore only tiny cotton shorts beneath. His fingers traced the edge of the fabric, a slow, deliberate exploration that stole the air from her lungs. Isabella was inches away, chattering about the weight of the gun.
Julienne stared straight ahead, her vision blurring. The rough wood of the crate bit into her back. His fingers dipped under the leg of her shorts, stroking the soft, inner skin of her thigh. A bolt of pure, illicit heat shot through her, pooling low in her stomach. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound.
His touch was not gentle. It was proprietary, a claim staked. His middle finger pressed firmly against the thin cotton covering her core, applying a steady, insistent pressure through the fabric. She could feel herself growing damp, a traitorous response that flooded her with shame. Her hands gripped the edge of the crate behind her, knuckles white.
Isabella straightened up. “They’re so cold. And serious.”
“They are tools,” Vito said, his voice perfectly even. His finger moved in a slow, circular rhythm. Julienne’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Like anything else. Their purpose depends on the hand that holds them.”
His finger hooked into the elastic of her shorts and underwear, pulling them aside. The cool morning air touched her exposed flesh, followed an instant later by the blunt, hot pressure of his fingertip against her bare slit. She gasped, a tiny, choked sound.
“You okay, Jules?” Isabella asked, turning her head.
Vito’s finger pressed deeper, parting her. He found her wetness easily, slicking his finger through her folds.
“Fine,” Julienne managed to squeak out. “Just… a splinter.”
Vito’s finger slid inside her, just the tip, a slow, invasive penetration. It was a shocking, brutal intimacy. Her body clenched around him, a tight, hot ripple of sensation that was equal parts violation and white-hot pleasure. He held it there, a constant, stretching presence, while his thumb found her clit and began to rub slow, maddening circles.
Her head fell back against the crate. She was on fire, her blood pounding in her ears louder than the lake outside. Every nerve ending was focused on that hidden, commanding hand, on the rough pad of his thumb grinding against her sensitive nub, on the intrusion of his finger—now pushing deeper, then retreating, in a shallow, taunting rhythm.
Isabella hummed, turning back to the crate of decorations. “Well, the surprise is blown. We’ll just have to do the party here anyway. It’ll be atmospheric.”
Vito added a second finger, stretching her wider. The stretch burned, a delicious, punishing fullness. His palm pressed hard against her, muffling any wet sounds. He worked her with a ruthless efficiency, his fingers curling inside her, finding a spot that made her legs tremble. His thumb never ceased its relentless, circular torture on her clit.
“Atmospheric,” Vito repeated, his voice a low hum. “Yes. It will be.” He was talking to Isabella, but his words, his cadence, were for Julienne. A commentary on her helplessness, on the secret he was uncovering in this dark, dusty corner.
Pleasure built in her, a tight, screaming coil. It was horrifying. It was undeniable. She was going to come. Here, with her best friend three feet away, with guns in a box beside her, with this man’s fingers buried inside her. Her breaths came in shallow, desperate hitches. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
His fingers sped up, the thrusts harder, deeper. His thumb pressed harder on her clit. The coil snapped.
Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, silent convulsion. She shook against the crate, her vision whiting out, every muscle seizing. He kept his hand pressed firmly against her, his fingers still moving inside her, drawing the spasms out until they became a trembling over-sensitivity that bordered on pain.
When she finally sagged, drained and hollowed out, he slowly withdrew his fingers. She heard the soft, wet sound as he pulled them from her soaked shorts. He brought his hand up, casually wiping his fingers on the inside of her thigh, a final, degrading mark.
Isabella turned around, holding a gaudy paper lantern. “What do you think of the red ones?”
Vito stepped back, putting a foot of clean, neutral space between them. He looked calm, composed, as if he’d just been examining ledger books. “Red is good. A strong color.”
Julienne’s legs felt like water. She could feel his come on her inner thigh, cooling in the boathouse air. The taste of blood was sharp in her mouth.
“Julienne?” Isabella’s voice held a note of concern. “You look really pale.”
“Splinter,” Julienne repeated, the word a dry croak. She didn’t dare look at Vito.
He did. He looked right at her, his dark eyes holding hers. There was no triumph there. No lust. Only a flat, satisfied acknowledgment, like a man who has just confirmed a hypothesis.
“The wood in here is old,” he said, his tone conversational. “Full of hidden sharp edges. You have to be very careful where you put your weight.” He reached past her again, not touching her, and closed the lid of the weapons crate with a definitive snap. The sound echoed in the quiet.
“Clean yourself up, cara,” he said to Isabella, his voice shifting to fatherly affection. “I have business. We’ll celebrate tonight.”
He walked out of the boathouse, leaving Julienne leaning against the crate, staring at the ghost of his silhouette in the empty doorway, the echo of his touch burning deeper than any splinter ever could.