Chapter 30: Breeding His Sister Again
The tension in the house after the drop-off wasn’t a single thing. It was a composite material, layered from Mia’s trapped silence, Dominic’s simmering vigilance, and Catalina’s brittle determination to project normalcy. For two days, they orbited each other in a careful, silent ballet. The garage became a workshop dedicated to the Mustang for the Thursday job. Catalina handled supply lists, ordered specialty parts under her married alias, and played with Mina in the yard, her laughter just a pitch too bright. Mia watched, absorbed, learned the lexicon of their other life: pistons and torque, decoy routes, scanner frequencies. She felt Carmen’s phone in her pocket like a second heartbeat.
She hadn’t replied. The message was a grenade with the pin pulled. Any response—denial, confirmation, threat—was an admission. So she sat on it. She watched Catalina nurse her daughter, kissed her brother goodnight, and swallowed her dread. Carmen, for her part, didn’t text again.
On the second night, the ritual began. It usually started with a touch. Not a brush of hands. A claiming, just as Carmen had named it.
They were in the kitchen, cleaning up. Dominic was at the sink, forearms deep in suds. Catalina stood beside him, drying a plate. A normal couple scene, painted for an audience of one—Mia, who pretended to read a magazine at the table.
Dominic’s wet hand left the sink. He placed it on the small of Catalina’s back, palm flat against the thin cotton of her shirt, fingers spread. He didn’t move. He simply rested it there, a heavy anchor. He was washing a glass, looking out the window at the dark yard. A husband might do that. But this wasn’t the comforting hand of a spouse; it was possessive, proprietary. His thumb stroked once, down the line of her spine, just above the waistband of her jeans. A slow, deliberate drag of his calloused skin over the fabric, down to where her ass began. The motion was unhurried, utterly assured, a physical conversation in a single, loaded gesture.
Catalina didn’t flinch. She leaned back into the pressure, infinitesimally, her hips canting toward him. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t loud, but Mia, attuned to the wrongness, heard it. The plate in Catalina’s hand stopped its circular drying motion. She went still, a predator scenting the air. Then she resumed, her movements slightly slower.The silence stretched. The water ran. The sponge moved over the glass.
“Mina’s down,” Catalina said, her voice a little thick. “No music tonight. She conked right out.”
“Good,” Dominic replied, his own voice a low rumble. “We need the rest.”
He lifted his hand from her back. The absence of the touch seemed louder than the touch itself. He rinsed the glass. Finished. Drained the sink. Dried his hands on the towel she handed him, their fingers tangling for a half-second longer than necessary.
He looked over his shoulder at Mia. His gaze was unreadable. “Early day tomorrow. Shake down the Mustang on the Glen Oaks strip.”
“Right,” Mia managed.
“You should get some sleep, too, Mia,” Catalina said, not looking at her, hanging the towel with precise focus. “You’ve been wound tight.”
They left the kitchen together. Their footsteps on the stairs were perfectly in sync.A twin rhythm. Mia stayed at the table, listening to the house. A door, far down the upstairs hall, closed.Their door. The master. The air in the kitchen seemed to vibrate with a strange, hushed energy, as if a powerful current had passed through.
Upstairs, behind the closed door, the room was dark save for the orange sodium vapor light bleeding through the slats of the blinds, painting stripes across the king-sized bed.
Dominic leaned against the door, having just closed it. Catalina stood in the center of the room, her back to him.
“She’s holding,” Dominic said.No preamble needed.
“She is,” Catalina replied. She reached behind her head, gathered her dark hair into a fist, and twisted it into a loose knot. The nape of her neck was exposed. In the dim light, he could just make out the faint, pale crescent of their shared birthmark. “I hate that it came to that. I hate that she’s in because we fucking scared her into it.”
He didn’t defend himself. “It was necessary. And the girl. She’s holding, too?”
“She hasn’t made contact. Mia hasn’t said a word. The silence is worse.”
He pushed off the door. Two large strides closed the distance between them. The room was thick with their unspoken dialogue—the days of feigned normalcy, the constant monitoring, the coiling pressure of the outside world. Their fucked-up world.
“Talk later,” he breathed, his voice a guttural scrape at the base of his throat.
His hand wasn’t gentle this time. It snaked around her waist from behind, splayed across her belly, and hauled her backward into him. It was sudden, rough. A collision. The air left her lungs in a soft “oof.” He was hard already. She could feel the thick ridge of his erection straining against his jeans, pressed into the cleft of her ass.
She shuddered, melting against him instantly. The complications, the fear, the lies—they burned away, reduced to their essential chemistry. This was their release, their reset, their prayer. Dom’s other hand came up and fisted in the knot of hair at the nape of her neck, not pulling, just holding tight, a grip of primal possession.
“You think you can scare your own flesh?” she whispered, a challenge, arching back against his cock.
He said nothing. The hand on her stomach slid lower, down to the button of her jeans. He flicked it open with a single, hard pop of his thumb. The zipper came down with a rasp that sounded obscenely loud. His fingers dove inside, past the waistband of her cotton panties, and found her completely, soaking wet.
“Fuck,” he growled into her neck, his mouth hot against her skin.“Always. Always ready for me.”
“It’s what you built,” she gasped, pushing her hips back to meet the invasion of his fingers.
He slid two inside her easily, sinking to the knuckles, his palm grinding against her clit. She was hot, slick, tight. He scissored them, stretching her, feeling her walls flutter and clench. He pumped them, his own breath quickening. He knew her body better than his own, knew the exact angle, the pace. This was just a starter, a claiming of the territory.
He withdrew his wet fingers, wiped them on the denim peeling down her hip. “Bend over. The bed.”
She obeyed, pulling her jeans and panties down her thighs, not taking them off. She didn’t need to look. She stepped out of them, a simple movement, and bent at the waist, her hands flat on the rumpled comforter, her ass presented to him, high and open in the striped light. The air of the room, cool from the AC, kissed her exposed flesh, raising goosebumps on her skin.
She heard him unfasten his own belt, the heavy clink of the buckle. His jeans hit the floor. She craned her neck slightly to watch him, the stark silhouette of him in the dark. His cock jutted out, thick and heavy-veined, the head already dark and slick. He spat roughly into his own palm, took himself in a firm grip, and dragged the spit-slicked hand down his length twice. That was the extent of his preparation.
With his other hand, he held her hip. “Tell me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.
She knew what he wanted. The illicit truth was part of the thrill. “Fuck your sister,” she panted, pressing back against his hand. “Do it, Dom. Fuck me raw.”
He didn’t hesitate. He guided the blunt, broad head of his cock to her entrance, already glistening from his earlier invasion. He notched it there, pressed, and pushed.
It was an entry, but it was also an act of complete reclamation. He didn’t slide in slowly. He fed himself into her with a solid, relentless pressure, working past the initial tightness until he was fully sheathed, his balls flush against her, his body towering over her arched back. She took a sharp, ragged breath at the stretch, at the complete fullness. He was everywhere inside her.
“Yes,” she hissed, her knuckles white on the comforter. “Yes. That’s where you fucking belong. That’s home.”
He began to move. Hard.Deep. No patience for rhythm or finesse. This was about endurance, about punishment, about connection. He pulled back almost to the tip and drove home again, his hips pistoning against her ass. The slapping sound was wet, meaty, a distinct counterpoint to their harsh breathing.
He reached around her with one thickly-muscled arm, his hand finding her wetness again, his fingers tangling in her pubic hair before moving up to rub tight, punishing circles on her clit. It was too much sensory information. The deep, pounding invasion from behind, the sharp, insistent friction on her most sensitive spot. It overloaded her, pushing her fast and mercilessly toward the edge.
“Deeper, you asshole,” she choked out. “You feel that? You fill me so fucking deep…”
“No lies here,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort. The bed started a rhythmic thump-thump-thump against the wall. He was fucking her with a grim, singular focus, each thrust an attempt to purge the outside world. “Just this. Just you.” His grip on her clit tightened. He squeezed. “Come for me. Come on your brother’s cock. Do it.”
The command, the violation, the immense pressure from his fingers—it was like a detonator. She cried out, a strangled, high-pitched sound, her body seizing. Her inner walls clamped down on his cock in a series of fierce, rhythmic pulses that drew a harsh groan from him. He fucked her through it, his own pace breaking into frantic, jarring thrusts as his own peak loomed.
“Tell me again,” he growled, his hand leaving her clit to grip the back of her neck, pushing her face down into the mattress as his hips slammed into her, over and over.
“Fill me up, hermano,” she sobbed into the comforter, her words muffled. The orgasm hadn’t subsided; it had merely morphed into a volatile, open space for him. “Knock your sister up again, god damn you…!”
That shattered him. His body went rigid, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat, part agony, part release. He drove into her one last, punishing time, staying buried to the hilt, shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her in hot, spurting pulses.
For a long moment, they stayed locked like that. Both of them breathless, wet with sweat, trembling with the intensity of it. The room smelled of sex, of them, of released tension.
Slowly, the trembling subsided.His grip softened. He slipped out of her, a slow, wet withdrawal. She felt his heat drip from her. Neither moved to clean up. This was part of the ritual, too.
He straightened, pulling her upright with him, turning her in his arms to face him. He kissed her then, hard, his tongue pushing into her mouth, tasting their shared sweat. She kissed him back with equal hunger, a messy, desperate tangle.
Then, from down the hall, a sleepy, small voice pierced the post-coital quiet.
“Mommy?”
Frozen. Catalina broke the kiss, her head snapping toward the door.
“Mommy? I had a scary noise.” It was Mina. She was whimpering.
Dominic’s eyes met Catalina’s. A switch flipped. Instantly. The raw, dominant predator was gone, replaced by paternal instinct. His expression softened, the harsh lines dissolving.
“Get under the covers. I’ll get her.” His voice was different now. Gentle.
Catalina nodded, grabbing the shirt he’d discarded from the floor. She pulled it on. Dom yanked his jeans up and buttoned them. He swiped a hand over his face and opened the door, careful not to let the full sight into the hallway.
Mia’s door, across the hall, remained firmly shut.
Mia pressed her ear against the cold wood of her own door, her breathing shallow. She’d heard it all—the shift from mundane kitchen sounds to the wet slap of frantic sex against the bedroom wall, her sister’s choked cries, the springs groaning with a brutal, undeniable rhythm. A visceral revulsion and a deep, inconvenient understanding wrestled inside her. Then came her niece’s small, frightened voice from the hallway. Relief, incongruous and sharp, cut through the fog of voyeuristic horror. The interruption. It gave her an excuse to move away.
She sank onto the edge of her bed, hearing Dominic’s muffled rumble soothing Mina. A floorboard creaked as he likely carried her back toward her cloud-painted room. Quiet, safe sounds. The ordinary overlaid onto the profane. She stared at her phone, charging on the nightstand. The screen was black, a blank eye.
Unknown Number: You tell one soul, chica, and I'll personally make sure everyone at your school knows about your fiancé – but especially his firm.
She'd parsed Carmen's message a thousand times. The girl wasn't a naive college student; she was a shark circling a different wound. She’d run a parallel investigation on Mia, discovered Mike, his construction firm, and whatever dirt that entailed. The leverage was perfect and separate, an insurance policy Mia couldn't break. She hadn’t told Dom and Cat. Their fortress had a new, unknown gate.
Mia grabbed the phone, her thumb hovering over Mike’s contact. Her fiancé deserved to know his life was a bargaining chip. To warn him. But the mere call would be a precipice. If Dom’s scanner ever got a whiff of an out-of-pattern conversation to a civilian—especially him—his fury would be atomic. Catalina’s "family" speech would curdle into something harder.
She clicked off. She needed to see the fortress from outside its walls, to understand what Carmen had seen. Pushing off the bed, she moved to the window. The street was quiet. Two blocks down, Carmen’s dented Civic had been parked under the same streetlamp for the past three nights. Its presence was a quiet surveillance. Watching when lights went on and off, when the Charger left and returned. Building her own dossier.
Behind her, a soft knock. The door opened before Mia could answer. Catalina stood there, wearing Dominic’s paint-stained T-shirt. It fell to her thighs. Her long hair was a wild tangle around her shoulders, her face still flushed, her mouth slightly swollen. She looked thoroughly debauched, which Mia recognized as a triumph she and Dom just experienced. A paradox.
“She’s back asleep. The neighbor’s cat knocked over a trash can.” Catalina’s gaze was direct, assessing. She walked in, leaving the door open a crack. She sat on the bed next to Mia, the springs dipping under her weight. “You can hear through the walls.”
“Some,” Mia admitted, keeping her voice neutral, tamping the image of her sister bent over the comforter.
“It’s how we… recalibrate.” The explanation wasn't an apology. "This pressure. The girl. You watching. It churns in here. Sometimes the engine needs to redline before it cools."
"Don't make me a part of your engine, Cat."
"But you already are." Catalina leaned forward, elbows on knees, her stare intense in the dark room. “You heard the drop off tonight was switched to an old cannery dock.Thursday. Car’s ready. Jesse is stoked.” She was mixing messages, probing, returning to business to see if Mia would engage correctly.
"Why tell me?"
Catalina plowed on. “You’re a part of this now, for real. The lying is done. You can contribute. One of the recon drivers fell out, got picked up on a violation in Bakersfield. Brainless fuck. People are unreliable. Family isn’t.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
Catalina studied her hands. “Don’t tell Dom I came to you. He’d veto it on principle. But help me, Mia. Those docks are unlit. I need a scout. You see things differently, because you don’t do this every day. You spot details we ignore. A second pair of trusted eyes from a nearby parking lot, nothing illegal, just a visual sweep—no interaction. Watching the pre-drop approach from eight, nine blocks out on the scanner and calling in unusual traffic. Are you in… enough to do that?”
The question was bigger than the job. Catalina was asking for an oath of allegiance, a signature in blood to complete the covenant formed in the driveway. Mia knew one wrong word would cement her complicity irrevocably. She had been holding it over them, a detached sword. Now she would become its edge. This was the choice—not merely withholding information, but actively reinforcing the lie with action.
Across the street, a car engine coughed to life. Not Carmen’s Civic. A moment later, headlights swept across Mia’s ceiling. Paranoia spiked, cold and electric.
Mia nodded once, a tight, frictious motion. “Yeah. I’m in enough.”
Something relaxed in Catalina’s shoulders, a fractional release of tension so profound Mia knew how petrified her sister had been of a different answer. Her eyes gleamed wet for a second. She reached out and squeezed Mia’s hand. “We’ll go over maps tomorrow.”
The door eased shut behind Catalina. The hall was silent again.
But the vibration in Mia’s body wasn’t just from assent. It was from the preview of Thursday, from actively stepping into their orbital mechanics. It had been easier to refuse Carmen’s bargain when she was static. Now, with a future cause to protect, inertia disappeared. Choices become action.
She picked up her phone. The screen glowed.