#dominic pascal

Companion piece to:

Cigars - Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.

You’re welcomed home by scent of lilies.

Flowers that have no place in your house because you certainly did not buy them. They rest on the sideboard in your open plan kitchen/dining space, a rich burgundy that reminds you of blood.

You lean against the doorframe, surveying the man standing at your kitchen island in a seven thousand dollar with the shirt sleeves rolled up and a navy-blue apron you certainly don’t own. He kneads dough on the counter, the veins in his muscular arms popping as he exudes a power that gets you more than a little wet between your legs.

“Pour yourself a glass of wine.” Dom says, jerking his head towards the uncorked bottle of red residing on the set kitchen table. There’s a crystal bowl of floating candles in the centre, each one hand carved into the shape of a lily. “I thought maybe we could talk about your proposal while we wait for the dough to rise.”

“So, you broke into my house to make dinner for me.” You say pushing off the doorframe and reaching for the wine. It’s a Pinot Noir that costs over $25k at retail because it’s from tiny 4-acre vineyard in Burgandy. You raise your eyebrows, your thumb running over the red wax seal before you begin to fill both glasses.

“You broke into my home first.” He reminds you, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he drives his knuckles into the dough. “I thought it was kind of our thing.”

Our thing…

The way he says it sends a rush of heat through your body as you carry the wine towards the kitchen island.

“The flowers…” You begin, and he looks up for the first time capturing your gaze. His eyes are warm and dark, like honey being dripped across your skin. Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the thought of that, his strong hands guiding your legs apart as he licks it off your inner thigh. His gaze fastens on the action, his pupils dilating.

“I’m an excellent house guest.” He informs you, the scar on his upper lip deepening as he gives you that salacious smile. “I always bring a gift for the host.”

Oh, you like him, really fucking like him. Those old-fashioned manners wrapped up in nontraditional values. You didn’t expect that from a man who runs the biggest crime syndicate in this state.

“So, what are you making me?” You say, using two fingers to push his wine glass towards him.

“Pizza.” He tells you as he folds the dough again, driving his palms into it. “My nonna used to make the best pie this side of Chicago, she passed it down me as a little boy.” His nonna also used launder cash and smuggle heroin through the dozens of pizzerias she owned throughout the city. She’d managed to walk away untouched when the indictment came down in the 70s, starting up her business once again when the heat died down. “I had to buy in some groceries though, I gather you’re not a stay at home and cook kinda gal.”

“I’m not.” You say, slipping into one of the stools at the kitchen island. “So, if you’re looking for a trad wife to fill that big empty house of yours…”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Trust me if that was what I wanted I have plenty of pretty young things lining up to take up the mantle.”

“I noticed.” You say, your fingertips playing along the stem of your wineglass. “I also noticed you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of them.”

“They don’t want me.” He says frankly as he rolls the dough into a ball between his hands. He reaches for the mixing bowl he’s lightly oiled before placing it inside and covering it with a damp towel. “They want the prestige that comes with fucking the Head of the Pascal Family.”

“It looks like you learned your lesson from Monica.” You remark, sipping from your wineglass. His head jerks up, that honey turning molten as he fixes you with stare makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out. “Maybe not.”

“You know.” He states, his floured palms grasping the kitchen island, the skin across his knuckles tightening as he grips it. “That’s why you came to me about Vale?”

“Yes, I know she was his mole. That she was feeding him information on your operations to him over pillow talk while screwing him behind your back.” The words strike him like bullets, searing through his skin as he tries not to flinch. “You pretend to be the grieving widow but… we both know that her car accident wasn’t such an accident.”

“Who the fuck are you?” He snarls the words into the space between you, and in that moment you see the man from all those stories, the one that tore snitches apart by tying their wrists and ankles to two separate cars, who beat a cop to death for trying to extort him, leaving the body on the steps of his precinct. A betrayal like Monica’s, the punishment couldn’t be public like that. It was too intimate, too painful, it would have to look like an accident because anything else would mean that he was weak, that he’d let the snake into his bed and allowed himself to get bitten.

“You know who I am.” You say, swirling the wine around your glass. “And you know how I know what I know.”

He pauses, the cogs turning in his brain. You wait patiently, raising your glass to your lips as he clicks his fingers. “The sister.” His voice filled with disbelief. “The one that disappeared, the one that everyone thought the Flaconnis had burned alive in an oil drum out on the wastelands.”

“A good reason to go to war, no?” You say, your fingers hooking in the neckline of your dress, pulling the fabric away from your skin. His lips purse into a furious line as he takes in the bullet wound above your left breast, just shy of where your heart should be. “Since I didn’t want to marry, Stephen decided I was worth more to him dead. He put a bullet in me, dumped me on their land with the intention of gaining support from the other families so he could take over their territory. The only problem is he didn’t finish the job so when he went to get fuel for his little bonfire…”

“You escaped.” He summarises, his palm rubbing across his mouth as he stares at you. The edges of his lips curl up, an unexpected bark of laughter erupting from deep his chest. “The look on his fucking face when he came back to find you gone… I wish I could have seen it…”

A ghost of a smile crosses your lips as you release the fabric of your dress, covering the scar once more. “Honestly, I do too. I had enough of my own finances squirrelled away to vanish for a while, recover but now…”

“Now you want revenge.” He says, nodding his head with understanding.

“Yes. I know you do too for him turning Monica.” You say meeting his gaze. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of the organisation, you can have that, absorb it into your own. I just want to look him in the eyes as I pull the trigger, I want him to know it was me that terrorized him, that dismantled his life piece by piece.”

“What you’re asking for…” He leans over the counter, his elbows resting on it as it brings him into your proximity. You can smell the aftershave that clings to his skin. Agarwood, Turkish rose and amber. It’s a delectable scent, rich, smoky, woodsy with just the slightest floral hint to take the edge off. It tells of unspoken nights, of calloused hands roaming over bare skin, a gruff whisper in your ear as fingers squeeze your throat, raw heat driven deep into you. “…it’s going to require us working together… very closely. Things like this, they take time, planning.”

“I know.” You say conspiratory, tilting your face so the tip of your nose brushes light over his. “It’ll mean lots more wine, dinners, cigars, who knows what else we’ll get into.”

“I’ve been burned before…”

“I know.” You say earnestly, tapping the space above your heart. “So, have I. I can tell you I won’t betray you, but I know… it doesn’t make a difference, that actions speak louder than words so I… I actually have a gift for you.”

You break away, rising to your feet, returning to the purse you’ve left by the door. You dig around in it for a second, removing a black velvet box that usually used for bracelets. His eyebrows raise as you place it on the counter, sliding it towards him. He picks it up, his mouth flattening into a line as he open it, reviewing the item inside.

It’s a man’s finger, wrinkled and tanned with a huge gold signet ring attached to the base. In the centre is a polished red garnet, one that he recognises almost immediately as belonging his head of security.

“Monica wasn’t the only rat in your organization.” You inform him as he sets it down between the two of you. “Don’t worry, I took care of this one for you.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Slim Jim - Dom meets the love of his life in an unusual circumstance.

Small Talk - Dom’s assumptions about being ghosted after the night you spent together prove incorrect.

The Shit Show - Dom’s plans to propose go array when he’s called out to an industrial fire.

Miami - Dom reflects on what brought the two of you back to Chicago.

Slutty - You remind Dom that he has a wife to come home to.

Masochist - Dom proves himself to be a masochist when it comes to work.

Handcuffs (NSFW) - Dom earns your forgiveness the only way he knows how.

Resting Bitch Face - You discover Dom’s been keeping secrets about Bishop.

Shady - Dom goes to great lengths to protect you.

Feral Bitches - Dom knows you’ve always been a feral bitch.

Harri (NSFW) - Dom knows exactly how to take care of you.

The Work Shirt (NSFW) - You decide to torture Dom when he works late.

Zombie - You return home to find Dom playing the cello for the first time in over a year.

A Shitty Husband - Dom makes a realisation after yet another long shift.

Another day, another week without seeing his wife.

Dom’s getting tired of this shit.

The exhaustion settles in his bones as he sags back into his chair, his fingertips rubbing the tender spot between his eyes where another headaches is brewing. He’s been getting more of them the days, it’s the caffeine he thinks. He guzzling the stuff trying to keep himself awake, trying to force himself to keep going.

His phone chimes, your name popping up on the screen.

Another nightshift, he guesses.

Your new gig, his new gig… they’re not compatible.

Dom doesn’t know what to do about it. He does know it’s coming to a breaking point, that one of you will have to give. Him with his thirty year career or you with your twenty five years of service.

It’s an impossible decision.

He sighs as he picks up his phone, his thumb swiping up to read the message.

Remember this? you’ve written.

The attachment is a picture of the two of you in Antigua. You’re clad in a lime green bikini he took off you with his teeth and he’s in a set of beach shorts he wouldn’t be caught dead in back the US. He remembers the scent of coconut sun cream clinging to your skin as he made love to you in a cabana, the sun setting in the distance as you came so hard on his cock you’d made him see stars.

Can we go back there? The next line reads.

His eyes, they fucking sting because he understands what you’re really asking.

Can we go back to being us?

All this pain, all this sacrifice… what’s it all for in end? A pat on the back, another couple of firehouses shoved onto this rotation. More sleepless nights. More time spent away from the woman he loves more than anything else in this world.

What is the fucking point?

There isn’t one, he realises. It’s just an endless loop that keeps going until he ends up in a world of resentment or divorce papers in his lap.

Dom, he can’t do this anymore, he can’t keep putting you in second place. Not after Miami, not after he came so close to losing you the first time.

We should book a vacation, he texts back before he writes his letter of resignation. Somewhere warm with sun, sea and just the two of us.

Love Dom? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Slim Jim - Dom meets the love of his life in an unusual circumstance.

Small Talk - Dom’s assumptions about being ghosted after the night you spent together prove incorrect.

The Shit Show - Dom’s plans to propose go array when he’s called out to an industrial fire.

Miami - Dom reflects on what brought the two of you back to Chicago.

Slutty - You remind Dom that he has a wife to come home to.

Masochist - Dom proves himself to be a masochist when it comes to work.

Handcuffs (NSFW) - Dom earns your forgiveness the only way he knows how.

Resting Bitch Face - You discover Dom's been keeping secrets about Bishop.

Shady - Dom goes to great lengths to protect you.

Feral Bitches - Dom knows you've always been a feral bitch.

Harri (NSFW) - Dom knows exactly how to take care of you.

The Work Shirt (NSFW) - You decide to torture Dom when he works late.

Zombie - You return home to find Dom playing the cello for the first time in over a year.

It’s late when Dom gets home, far later than he intended.

Being the Battalion Chief for four firehouses has him run ragged. Everytime, he puts out one fire, another seems to pop up, taking up his time, his attention. Things he should be giving to his long-suffering wife, the one who’s been telling him to slow down over the past couple of weeks because she’s terrified of him having a heart attack.

“I’m not retiring.” He’d snapped at you when you’d brought it up over breakfast. “This is just temporary…”

You’d scoffed at that and you’d had a right to because you’ve both seen shit like this before, you’re damned if you do a good job because it means the budget cut was worth it and damned if you don’t because the blame is cast on you.

“I’m not asking you to retire, I’m just saying don’t put up and shut up.” You’d responded carrying your bowl to the sink. “Tell them it’s unfeasible, make a big deal out of it, otherwise next year you’ll end up with six firehouses and then we really won’t be seeing each other.”

Yeah… because that, that is becoming a problem.

He finds you asleep on the couch when he steps into the living room. One hand is placed under your cheek, the other tucked into your chest. His cello concerto is playing in the background, the one that got him into Julliard.

You were waiting up for him, he realises, his heart sinking as he sets his kit bag down alongside the couch. You must be missing him.

The back of his hand graces your cheek, his fingers chasing along the over your soft skin, stroking tenderly. You don’t respond to his touch, you must be too exhausted. He’s not the only one with new responsibilities, you’ve taken over Vehicle Crimes from Vito Trussoni after he was successfully ousted, and to say it’s a mess is an understatement.

He hasn’t even got to hear about the worst of it because you’re already asleep by the time he gets in after shift. The morning conversations are dominated by him and his issues, not by what’s going on with you.

Christ… he scrubs his palm over his features. I’m a shitty fucking husband.

Truly he doesn’t know how you put with him.

“I’m sorry Harri.” He whispers, leaning over and pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ll try to do better, I promise.”

Love Dom? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Slim Jim - Dom meets the love of his life in an unusual circumstance.

Small Talk - Dom’s assumptions about being ghosted after the night you spent together prove incorrect.

The Shit Show - Dom’s plans to propose go array when he’s called out to an industrial fire.

Miami - Dom reflects on what brought the two of you back to Chicago.

Slutty - You remind Dom that he has a wife to come home to.

Masochist - Dom proves himself to be a masochist when it comes to work.

Handcuffs (NSFW) - Dom earns your forgiveness the only way he knows how.

Resting Bitch Face - You discover Dom's been keeping secrets about Bishop.

Shady - Dom goes to great lengths to protect you.

Feral Bitches - Dom knows you've always been a feral bitch.

Harri (NSFW) - Dom knows exactly how to take care of you.

The Work Shirt (NSFW) - You decide to torture Dom when he works late.

Zombie - You return home to find Dom playing the cello for the first time in over a year.

The Wedding Ring - Dom struggles after the loss of his wedding band.

A Shitty Husband - Dom makes a realisation after yet another long shift.

Just The Two Of Us - As things worsen with your marriage, Dom decides it’s time to make a choice.

Dirty Little Slot.

That’s what the black tank top you’re wearing says.

The word SLOT is bedazzled with shiny studs, each one catching the light as you stand before Dom in the living room, peeling his old leather jacket from your shoulders. You’re wearing those matching pants, the ones he hasn’t seen since those days in Miami when you were doing undercover work with speedfreaks.

God you in leather… it gets him all kinds of riled up.  

“I gotta ask…” He says, reviewing you over the frames of his glasses as he sets his sudoku puzzle down in the side table “… is it the front slot or the back?”

“It’s whichever one you need it to be handsome.” You sling your leg over his hips, sliding into his lap. His calloused hands come to rest on your waist, his thumbs tracing over the underside of your breasts. “Whichever one will help you relieve a little of that stress you’ve been carrying.

Oh, he’s missed this, not just being in your proximity, or sassy mouth of yours but you, his wife, the woman he should have been putting first all along.

His nose trails up the curve of your throat, his lips leaving a heated trail as your palms smooth over his chest, playing over the firm muscle underneath the fabric of his heather grey t-shirt.

“I have to tell you something.” He murmurs, against the hinge of your jaw as his clever hands guide your shirt up over your head, revealing pretty bare skin. “But you are going to be super pissed when I do.”

“Can it wait?” Your voice is a needy whine as you thread your fingers through his hair, directing his mouth to where it needs to be. “I just really need to get fucked by my husband right now.”

“Oh honey.” He growls into your cleavage as he raises to his feet, lifting you with him so he can carry you into the bedroom. “It can definitely wait.”

Love Dom? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Cigars.

The smell hits Dom as soon as he opens the door to the study inside his historical mansion overlooking Lake Michigan. Rich, deep, sophisticated. Each one goes for $136 million per single.

He stares at the woman sitting at his desk, his mouth turning dry at the sight of you. Little black dress that reads classy but dangerous, patent leather fuck me heels that almost make him bite his lip. His fingers flex, coiling into a fist at his side. He hasn’t felt much desire since Monica died, but he feels the heat searing through him as he drinks you in.

“You here to kill me?” He asks closing the door quietly behind him. Some days he thinks death would be a welcome change. He’s the most feared man in this city but his life has become a gilded cage. Stilted, dull. He craves the excitement of the early days, his wild bloody era.

You take a drag of the cigar, your sultry lips wrapping around it in a way that makes his dick twitch in his trousers. You let out a long stream of smoke, your eyes flickering to him as if he’s finally worthy of your attention.

He can’t explain why that does a little something for him, why it makes him want to get on his knees and…

“No.” Your voice light, sultry, like the opening notes to Beethoven’s Für Elise. “I’m not here to kill you. I actually have a proposition.”

“Hm.” Dom strides towards you with purpose. You don’t flinch when he arrives in your proximity, you stay exactly where you are as his palms come to rest on the ebony desk, his thumbs lightly brushing along the hem of your dress. His hips settle between your knees, pushing them even further apart. The dress rides just a little bit higher, revealing lace stocking tops that make his dick throb. “And why should I trust the person who broke into my home, and is currently sitting on my desk, smoking my cigars?”

“You have a dozen of these fucking things.” You remind him, blowing a puff of smoke into his face. He inhales it like a narcotic, wondering what it would feel like to taste it off your lips. “And we both want the same thing.”

“And that is…” He lets the words hang between you, his gaze locking on yours. Your eyes, they sparkle like stars high up in the nighttime sky, drawing him in, ensnaring him.

You set down the cigar in the crystal ashtray, your fingertips playing along the lapels of his $45,000 dollar suit, adjusting them as you lean in closer, your lips almost brushing over his,

“Well Dom.” You say his name with a familiarity that sends a wildfire coursing through his nervous system. “We both want Stephen Vale dead.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee