His To Claim

He strolls into the bedroom, ducking his head to avoid the mobile, and then swoops down to me with a smile.

He kisses me briefly, because I’m holding Artie, but I can feel the savage hunger beneath his lips.

Every chance he gets, he has his hands on me.

He doesn’t care if I’ve shaved or showered or anything. My man just wants me.

And I always give him what he wants, letting him greedily drink my breast milk, growling as he suckles, and then bending me over and taking me like the beast he still is.

But in front of Artie, he always holds back, like he can’t hug or kiss me too much because he might lose control and want to take me right there.

Sometimes I have to drag him from a party or a restaurant and give him a quick blowjob, looking up at him with my eyes wide how he likes it, sucking his throbbing hot length and working the base just how he likes it, and then swallowing every last drop.

He always stares at me as though he’s powerless in those moments, everything inside of him lost to the pleasure I’m giving him.

Now he rocks back, hands in his pockets.

“How did it go?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“Politics are politics,” he says.

“You’ve got the support,” I tell him. “Hasn’t Daddy got the support, Artie? Hmm? Isn’t Daddy going to do amazing?”

I rock Artie up and down, making her smile and baby-talk at me, breaking and fusing my heart in the same instant.

“What about you?” he asks. “Still working on that chorus?”

“If you can call it working.”

My husband smiles. “You always say that, and then you stress and worry for a month, and then, somewhere along the way, you write lyrics that get stuck in that head so deep you hear them in your dreams. You’re talented, wife. Now stop your complaining and get your husband a drink.”

I pout at him. “Bossy.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he chuckles.

I place my hand on his chest, feeling the heat of him, his hard muscles. “I love you so much. You know that, don’t you?”

He wraps me in his big arms, holding me and Artie close to him. His kisses are warm petals landing on my forehead, moving down my cheek, finding my lips.

I meet his lips, kissing him back.

“Why so emotional?” he asks huskily.

“I’m just so happy—happy and I miss being pregnant, as crazy as that sounds.

He slides his hand over my belly, gripping my flesh, never letting me feel self-conscious about pregnancy weight or any kind of weight, for that matter. My husband smooths his hand over my belly.

“Soon,” he whispers. “Very soon. We’ll give you a brother, Artie.”

“Or a sister,” I say

“As long as they’re happy and healthy—”

“That’s all that matters.”

“I love you,” he whispers, squeezing me.

I cuddle closer. “I love you, too.”

Extended Epilogue

Ten Years Later

Arturo

My office wall shows it all, this life we’ve built together, Aida and I.

It shows photographs of me shaking hands with important people in the city, charity leaders, unionists, any damn group big enough to meet with me …

And then I bring peace to whatever mayhem they’re causing.

I won’t let corruption rule this town anymore.

I won’t let them sell drugs to kids or traffic in evil anymore.

At first, I thought I wanted to become a politician.

But that road led me down dead ends.

It’s better to be the man in the shadows, directing the charities, the investigators, the man with the legend of the Pits and his expansive empire. Now I use the Family as a weapon for good while maintaining ties with enough important people to keep our business legitimate.

We’re evolving into something else, law abiding, but doing what’s necessary when it comes to the bite of the bullet.

My eyes move down to photographs of Aida on stage in packed arenas, the lights dancing down her glittery red coat. We’ve agreed that she’s never to dress provocatively on stage, and she’s always agreed.

She’s mine, even if the world gets to have a little slice of her from time to time.

Our family photo shows me in the middle, seated, with Aida standing behind me, her hand on my shoulder. Then there’s Artie with her black hair swept across her face, and Ethan and Chase, the gap-toothed twins, grinning on one side. Henrietta I hold in my arms, our newest bundle of life and joy. And on the other side, Jackal sits next to Artie, taller than the twins with his proud eyes glinting in the light. He’s a good friend, and he protects our family. He’s taken to all our children like they’re his own.

“Daddy,” Ethan says from the door.

Everyone says that the twins sound the same, but I can always tell the difference, subtle changes in their pitch and speech.

It’s just … they’re my sons. I know them like my own heartbeat.