The radio was playing an old Italian canzone at the exact moment the oven timer went off. Victor wiped flour from his thick forearms, humming along as he pulled the focaccia out. The scent of rosemary and olive oil filled the kitchen.
"Door's open!" he called, not bothering to glance over his shoulder. Heavy footsteps approached — measured, but hesitant. Victor turned, dough still clinging to his fingers, and grinned at the broad-shouldered man in his mid-40s lingering in the archway. "Rocco, right? You're early."
The younger man's gaze flickered downward, then snapped back up, his throat bobbing. Victor didn't bother covering himself. The sweat from his workout had dried, leaving his chest hair damp and curling.
"Mr. Moretti," Rocco managed, gripping his duffel bag too tight. "I, uh — your assistant said to come straight to the house for the interview."
Victor chuckled, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. The motion made his thick biceps flex, pulling taut the salt-and-pepper hair dusting his forearms. "Good. Means you follow directions." He jerked his chin toward the steaming loaf. "Hungry?"
Rocco's nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent, but his eyes kept drifting lower. Victor saw the way the younger man's pulse jumped in his neck, the subtle shift of his weight between those powerful legs. He'd worn tactical pants — practical, but they did nothing to hide the outline of what was clearly an impressive package straining against the fabric.
Victor leaned back against the counter, deliberately spreading his stance wider. The tile was cool against his bare soles. "House rules," he said casually, picking a rosemary sprig from the bread. "No clothes past the foyer."
Rocco's knuckles went white around the duffel strap. His tan skin flushed darker. Victor could practically hear the debate raging behind those dark eyes — professionalism warring with something hotter. The moment stretched, the canzone swelling then fading into static between them.
Then, with a sharp exhale, Rocco dropped the bag. His fingers went to his belt buckle with military precision, not fumbling even once. Victor licked olive oil from his thumb, watching as khaki pooled around combat boots. The black tank top followed, revealing a torso mapped with old scars and new muscle.
Victor hummed approvingly when Rocco hesitated at the waistband of his briefs. "Unless you're shy," he teased, thumbing his own thickening cock absently.
That did it. Rocco shoved the briefs down with a muttered curse, his erection springing free. Victor's grin turned wolfish. The guy was hung like a damn stallion, his heavy balls already drawing up tight. "Bellissimo," Victor murmured, stepping closer. The heat radiating off Rocco's body made his own skin prickle. "Now … let's see if you can guard more than just my pride."
Rocco's breath hitched when Victor ran a flour-dusted hand down his chest. The older man's calloused fingers traced a scar along his ribs — bullet graze, maybe? — before palming the thick muscle of his thigh. Victor smelled like yeast and sun-warmed leather, his body a solid wall of heat. Rocco's cock twitched against Victor's hip, leaving a slick smear.
Victor chuckled darkly, gripping Rocco's ass with both hands and hauling him flush against him. The younger man gasped as their cocks slid together, hot and insistent. "Fuck —" Rocco rasped, his hands finally moving, sliding into Victor's silver-streaked chest hair. His fingers trembled slightly.
The oven timer beeped again, ignored. Victor nipped at Rocco's stubbled jaw. "Have you ever been with an older man, ragazzo?" His voice was rough as he ground their hips together.
Rocco shook his head, his nostrils flaring at the musk rising between them. Victor's thick fingers curled possessively around the back of his neck. "Good," he growled. "Then you'll remember who taught you."
Rocco groaned when Victor's mouth crashed against his — not gentle, all lips and tongue and dominance. The older man tasted like red wine and the dark chocolate he'd nibbled while baking. Victor walked him backward until the kitchen island dug into Rocco's ass, the marble cold against his heated skin. A rolling pin clattered to the floor.
Victor broke the kiss to lick Rocco's collarbone. "You got stamina?" he panted against damp skin, his hand sliding between them to fist their cocks together.
Rocco's hips jerked, his thighs flexing. "Christ — yes, sir —"
"Bene." Victor spat into his palm and stroked them harder, his foreskin dragging deliciously against Rocco's leaking head. The younger man's knees nearly buckled when Victor thumbed his slit. "But your first lesson?" Victor murmured against his ear, his other hand kneading Rocco's hairy pecx. "Never call me 'sir' in bed."
Rocco's laugh turned into a whimper as Victor dropped to his knees. The older man didn't hesitate — he swallowed Rocco's hard, weeping cock whole, his throat working around the thick length. Rocco's fingers tangled in Victor's silver-streaked hair, his hips stuttering forward. "Fuck, your mouth —" His voice cracked when Victor hummed, the vibration rippling through him.
Victor pulled off with a filthy pop, wiping his lips. "Still want the job?" he rasped, his own cock bobbing angrily between his legs. Rocco's chest heaved. He looked wrecked already — pupils blown, lips swollen from biting them. Victor smirked.
Rocco's answering grin was all teeth. He yanked Victor up by the hair and crushed their mouths together. The kiss was messy, desperate. When they broke apart, Rocco's hand slid between Victor's thighs, cupping his heavy balls with reverence. "I guard what's mine," he growled.
Victor's laugh was dark with promise. "Allora," he breathed, guiding Rocco's hand to his ass. "Show me."
The marble countertop bit into Rocco's palms as Victor spun him around, pressing his broad chest against the younger man's back. Rocco could feel the older man's heartbeat thundering against his spine, the wiry hair tickling his shoulder blades. Victor's breath hitched when Rocco reached back to spread his own cheeks, exposing himself shamelessly. Olive oil glistened on Victor's fingers — he hadn't even bothered wiping his hands clean before slicking himself up.
"Is that how you want it?" Rocco gasped as Victor's thick cockhead nudged against him. His thighs trembled — part anticipation, part instinctive resistance.
Victor's growl reverberated through him. "Don't fucking tease," the older man warned, sucking Rocco's trapezius as he pushed in slow. The burn made Rocco's vision whiten at the edges, his knuckles cracking against the marble. Victor didn't stop until his balls were flush against Rocco's ass, his grip bruising on the younger man's hips.
The kitchen smelled like sex and rosemary now, their sweat dripping onto the flour-dusted floor. Victor rocked back out almost completely before slamming home again, knocking the air from Rocco's lungs. "Dio, you take me so good," Victor rasped, one hand fisting in Rocco's hair to yank his head back.
The angle changed. Suddenly Victor's cock was grinding against something inside him that made Rocco's knees give out. Victor held him upright effortlessly, pistoning into him with the same rhythm he'd used to knead dough earlier.
Rocco's cock swung heavy and neglected between his legs, dripping onto the tile. He reached down to stroke himself, but Victor batted his hand away. "No," he commanded, twisting Rocco's nipple instead. "You cum when I say." Rocco's groan was half-protest, half-submission, his body clenching around Victor's thrusts. The older man swore in Italian, his pace faltering for the first time as Rocco's tight heat milked him.
A loose strand of Victor's hair tickled Rocco's shoulder blade as the older man leaned forward, his sweat-slick chest molding to Rocco's back. "Tell me," Victor panted against his ear, his thrusts turning shallow and precise, "why you really came today." His hand slid down Rocco's quivering abdomen to circle the base of his cock, denying him relief.
Rocco shuddered, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the counter's edge. "I saw your photo in the — fuck! — the security firm lobby," he ground out, arching when Victor bit his trapezius. "Couldn't stop thinking about these hands breaking me in half." The confession spilled out raw, his professionalism incinerated by Victor's relentless rhythm.
Victor rewarded him with a deep, grinding thrust that made Rocco see stars. "Cazzo," he growled, releasing Rocco's cock to grip his hips tighter. The slap of skin echoed off the copper pots overhead as Victor pounded into him now, unrestrained. Rocco felt the older man's balls draw up tight against his ass — a warning.
Victor's roar filled the kitchen when he came, his thick cock pulsing inside Rocco as he painted the younger man's insides with his hot sperm. Rocco whimpered at the sensation, his own orgasm cresting. Victor's hand finally wrapped around him, jerking him off with brutal efficiency. "Now," Victor ordered, and Rocco's vision whited out as his own potent semen shot in thick stripes across the marble, his knees buckling completely.
Victor held him upright through the aftershocks, his softening cock still buried deep. He licked the sweat from Rocco's shoulder with a satisfied hum. "So," he murmured, his voice rough with exertion, "about that salary negotiation …"
Rocco barked a laugh, his abs clenching as he turned in Victor's arms. The older man's cum leaked down his thigh, making him shiver. He caught Victor's wrist before the older man could wipe his hand on the discarded dish towel, bringing those thick fingers to his mouth instead. Victor's breath hitched when Rocco sucked them clean, tasting salt and olive oil.
The oven timer beeped insistently for the third time, charring the edges of the forgotten focaccia. Neither man moved. Victor's gaze darkened as Rocco knelt before him, nuzzling into his tangled silver-and-black pubes. The younger man inhaled deeply, his stubble scraping Victor's inner thigh, before sealing his mouth over Victor's softening cock to suck him clean with obscene reverence.
Victor threaded his fingers through Rocco's sweat-damp hair, watching his own spend glisten on the younger man's lips when he pulled off. "You'll do," he growled, hauling Rocco up into a bruising kiss. The metallic tang of blood mixed with their mingled flavors — Rocco had bitten his own lip raw during the climax.
Outside, cicadas droned in the heat. The radio had switched to a news broadcast about a recent mob hit downtown. Victor absently kicked Rocco's discarded tank top over the floury handprint on the floor — no sense wasting good linen on cleanup when they'd just dirty it again. His palm slid down to grope Rocco's ass, appreciating the way the younger man's muscles clenched instinctively around the ghost of his thickness.
Rocco nipped at Victor's earlobe, his voice gravel. "What's next, capo?"
Victor smirked, steering them toward the spiral staircase leading to the master suite. His thick cock was already stirring again against Rocco's hip. "Second interview," he purred, pinching Rocco's nipple hard enough to make him gasp. "I test endurance."
The front door clicked open downstairs.
Victor didn't miss how Rocco's body tensed, his combat instincts overriding post-coital haze. The younger man shifted into a defensive stance — impressive given his nakedness — positioning himself slightly in front of Victor. The old don's chuckle rumbled through Rocco's back as heavy footsteps ascended the stairs.
"Relax," Victor murmured, kneading Rocco's shoulder. "That's just my nephew." The tension bled from Rocco's muscles just as a wiry young man in a Napoli jersey rounded the landing. The kid — early 20s, face dotted with acne scars — skidded to a halt, his gaze ricocheting between their sweat-slicked bodies and the drying come on the kitchen tiles.
"Zio," the nephew choked out, crossing himself. "Madonna Santa —"
"Enzo," Victor interrupted, casually palming Rocco's ass as if they were discussing the weather. "This is Rocco. Your new uncle."
Rocco coughed, his ears burning, but didn't correct him. Enzo's mouth worked soundlessly before he blurted, "The Russians hit the docks!" His fingers plucked nervously at his jersey. "Torched Nonna's imported olives!"
Victor's joviality evaporated. The air thickened with the scent of burnt rosemary as the forgotten focaccia smoked in the oven. Rocco felt the exact moment Victor's body shifted from lover to predator — the way his calloused grip became vise-like on Rocco's hipbone.
"How many?" Victor's voice was glacier-cold.
Enzo swallowed hard. "Six shooters. They left … something in the warehouse office." His throat bobbed. "For you."
Victor's thumb stroked absently over Rocco's fresh hickey. Rocco recognized the gesture for what it was — a don marking territory. The younger man straightened instinctively, his own primal wiring responding to the unspoken claim.
"Get dressed," Victor ordered, smacking Rocco's ass with a crack that made Enzo jump. "Both of you."
Rocco arched a brow. "Thought you had a no-clothes rule."
Victor's smile was all fangs as he grabbed a butcher knife from the block. The overhead lights glinted off the blade as he twirled it with practiced ease. "Stasera," he purred, trailing the flat of the steel down Rocco's sternum, "we make exceptions."
Enzo squeaked when Victor suddenly flung the knife. It thunked into the wall an inch from his head, pinning a Polaroid Rocco hadn't noticed. The photo showed a severed hand wearing Victor's stolen signet ring.
Victor cracked his knuckles, rolling his thick shoulders. "Lesson two, ragazzo," he growled, already striding toward the armory hidden behind a false pantry. "Never fuck with a Sicilian's olives."
Rocco's pulse kicked violently. He'd signed up to guard a body, not realizing he'd be worshiping it between firefights. The corner of his mouth hooked up as he grabbed Enzo's discarded jersey from the floor. This was going to be one hell of a job interview.
Victor emerged from the pantry strapping a Beretta to his thigh, muscles flexing under graying chest hair. The sight of him armed and furious sent liquid heat pooling in Rocco's groin. "Focus," Victor snapped, catching his stare.
"I am." Rocco stepped into his tactical pants, still damp with their mingled fluids, the fabric clinging to his half-hard cock. "Who're we killing first?"
Enzo made a strangled noise, tossing Rocco a Kevlar vest two sizes too small. Victor's laughter was dark as he adjusted the straps, his knuckles brushing Rocco's nipples. "You like my war, Siciliano?" His fingers lingered on the scar above Rocco's heart — a knife wound from Palermo, judging by the ragged edges.
Rocco caught Victor's wrist, bringing those gun-calloused fingers to his teeth. "Love it." The bite marked skin, copper blooming on his tongue.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Too close for comfort. Victor's nostrils flared as he inhaled gunpowder and their fading sex musk. He grabbed Rocco by the back of the neck, their foreheads touching. "Anyone shoots at you," he growled, "you put them down like a rabid dog."
The front door exploded inward.
Splinters rained as Russian-accented shouts filled the foyer. Rocco moved on instinct — shoved Enzo behind the industrial fridge while twisting to cover Victor's flank. His bare back pressed against Victor's chest as the first muzzle flashes lit the kitchen. Bullets chewed through the copper pans overhead.
Victor's breath was hot on his ear. "Balle," he hissed — wait.
Rocco felt it then — the telltale click underfoot. Pressure plate. The grenade would take out half the house.
Victor's arm snaked around his waist, yanking him backward just as Rocco pivoted, using his body weight to fling them both through the pantry door. The explosion rocked the foundation, shattering what remained of the focaccia tray. Plaster dust snowed over them as they lay tangled in the dark, Victor's erection pressing insistently against Rocco's ass.
"Your timing's shit, signore," Rocco panted, rolling to straddle Victor's hips.
Victor grinned up at him, thumbing fresh blood from Rocco's split lip. "No," he corrected, handing over a sawed-off shotgun. "It's perfect."
Footsteps pounded closer through the smoke. Rocco racked the shotgun one-handed, his other pinning Victor's wrist above his head. The older man's pupils dilated despite the gunfire. "You're fucking insane," Rocco breathed, but his hips rolled instinctively, grinding their hardening cocks together through Kevlar and denim.
The pantry door burst inward. Victor shot the first intruder through the eye before the man could step over the threshold. The second attacker froze at the sight of them — Rocco riding Victor like a stolen motorcycle, the shotgun's barrel smoking between them.
"Business or pleasure, tovarisch?" Victor purred, palming Rocco's ass as he fired again. The Russian's kneecap exploded.
Rocco's back arched when Victor suddenly flipped them, pressing him into spilled flour and shattered pasta jars. Bullets whizzed overhead as Victor rose like some avenging god, his Beretta spitting fire. Every shot found its mark — groin, throat, the soft spot beneath a jaw.
"Count," Victor ordered between shots.
Rocco swallowed copper and gunpowder. "Three down."
Victor's laugh was dark as he kicked a corpse aside. "Wrong." He hauled Rocco up by his hair, forcing him to watch the last Russian twitch. "Quattro. You missed the one I garroted with rosary beads."
Blood dripped from Victor's fist where the wire had bitten deep. Rocco caught his wrist, licking the wound clean with deliberate slowness. The taste of violence and sacrilege made his cock throb.
Enzo's whimper came from behind the fridge. "Zio, the cop s —"
Victor didn't turn. His thumb rubbed possessive circles over Rocco's carotid. "Tell me," he murmured against the younger man's mouth, "how badly you want to fuck me in their squad car."
Rocco's growl was answer enough. Victor slapped the garage remote into his palm.
The remaining Russians would learn two lessons tonight: Never torch a Sicilian's olive shipment. And never interrupt Victor Moretti's second interview.
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