Hope

Hope
Michael takes me to the shooting range in the complex. He says I need to learn how to shoot now that I’m going back to school, and I decide to pretend I don’t know how to handle a gun. The thought of surprising him makes me euphoric. We enter the empty range, he goes to one of the booths and picks up a standard 9mm, showing me how to assemble and disassemble the weapon, loads the magazine, cocks it, and aims, hitting the target.

“The key is controlling your breathing,” he says, holding me by the waist, his arms around mine, guiding the gun in my hands. “Let’s try now, slowly, no need to get upset if you miss the first time.”

“Is this how you hold it?” I ask, acting silly, biting my smile; he’s behind me and won’t notice that I’m having fun.

“Yes, now just pull the trigger.”

On purpose, I miss the target. I fall backward, pretending to have lost my balance from the ricochet. Michael holds me firmly in his arms and smiles against my neck. The playful moment continues for a little while longer; I like how attentive he is, teaching me how to handle a gun.

“I think now you’ve got it,” he says, stepping back and letting me shoot on my own.

“I’m nervous,” I tease, and he laughs.

“Just stay calm, you’ll get the hang of it little by little.”

Wanting to surprise him with my performance, I stand properly, aim, and shoot, hitting the center of the target four times in a row. Without letting the gun recoil or changing my stance. The loud sound of the bullets stops, and silence falls behind me. I place the gun on the table and turn around, finding my husband with his mouth open. I bite my lips, thrilled to have surprised him.

“Wow,” he says. “Now I need to fuck you against this table.” He reaches for his belt and removes it. I laugh loudly, proud of my result. “My wife is one sexy shooter. On all fours, Hope.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I learned?” I tease mischievously. He traps my waist against the table, spinning me in his arms before pressing my face to the surface.

“We’ll talk about the details later.” I hear the rustle of his pants. “Goddamn attractive woman,” he growls before biting my neck. “What else are you hiding from me?” he murmurs, lifting my dress.

“I’m good at self-defense.” I sigh, the excitement running through my veins.

“We’re going to have a private session.” He enters me.

The burn makes the penetration even more intense. One hand holds my neck while the other slaps my raised ass. Luckily, we’re alone, and I enjoy the wild sex we have surrounded by guns. Michael moans like an animal; knowing I’ve left him like this just for being a strong woman who can defend herself boosts my self-esteem, reaching a new level of empowerment.

I have the most feared mobster in the world at my fingertips, and that feels fucking amazing. I moan like a bitch, letting him know the effect he has on me. Our sex is always intense, happening at random moments throughout the day, while at night we lie down and make love, expressing with our bodies what our mouths aren’t ready to say. Michael dominates me and fills every second of my day, making my life thrilling, happy, and fulfilled.

“Fuck!” he growls before climaxing. “I want to see you shoot again, with a bigger gun.” He withdraws from me.

“I’m great with your sword.” I laugh at my crude joke. Michael laughs mischievously before giving me a slap and grabbing an automatic rifle.

We spend the rest of his day off at the range; between guns, I need his help. I learn to handle the smaller ones and also tell him about my bras with small blades in the cups that need replacement. He likes the idea of taking off my bra more than putting it on, but in the end, he asks me to make a few for his sister too.

We return home and resume our routine. Next week, I’ll go back to school; my security is stricter than ever, but it’s a small price to pay to do what I want. For the first time, I feel completely free, even surrounded by bodyguards. The days fly by, and before I know it, I’m entering NYU as the youngest medical student. The classes are intense, and when the day ends, all I want is to go home and enjoy my husband.

In the car, I call him. Michael says he’ll stay in the office late. I can’t bear the anxiety to tell him about my first day of class, so I have Zayn take me to the company building where I know he is. I avoid going to his offices in the prostitution clubs; I don’t like being near those places and limit myself to coming to my husband’s official company.

I go up to his floor and greet his secretary, who informs me that Michael is in a meeting with the mayor. I sit in the reception area, fiddling with my phone. Time drags, and my husband still hasn’t appeared. I’m almost ready to go home when the door opens, and the mayor exits, followed by the man who dominates my thoughts.

“Mrs. Bianchi, what a pleasure to see you here,” the mayor greets me with a handshake.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Mayor.”

“Your wife is still beautiful,” he says to Michael, who raises an eyebrow. “See you at the next meeting.”

“See you,” my husband replies before pulling me by the waist into his office.

“I thought we’d meet at home,” he says.

“Ask the question I always ask you,” I say excitedly, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“How was your day, darling?” he asks with a calm smile.

“Wonderful!”

Like a machine gun, I start narrating every second of my classes and the people in my cohort to Michael. Despite having around ten bodyguards, I still managed to talk to the girls who don’t know some of the male students are there to protect me. He has to drag me out of the office so we can go to a restaurant for dinner.

I love how he listens to every word I say and asks relevant questions, genuinely interested. One of my biggest fears when getting married was being prevented from studying and trapped at home, but today I experienced one of the best moments at a fantastic university, and at the end of the day, I got to see my husband’s relaxed smile as he listened intently.

Michael took every fear I had and transformed them into hope and better days. All my reservations and fears are gone; I’m ready to be truly his.

“Let’s go for a motorcycle ride,” he says when we get home.

“Is it safe?” I frown, though I see him ride his bike a lot; I’ve never gone with him.

“Completely, I want to show you something.” He plants a playful kiss on my lips before taking me to the garage.

Michael has about three huge racing bikes parked next to his cars. I’ve never been big on riding; I prefer someone else driving, and riding a bike makes me feel like I’ll fall on the first turn. Zayn brings two jackets, one for Michael and one for me.

“Tell Trent we’re leaving; I want two in front and two behind. He knows where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, putting on the jacket.

“Surprise,” he says, putting the helmet on my head. “It’s bulletproof, just like the jacket; make sure it’s zipped up tight.”

Michael gets on, and I do the same, holding onto his waist tightly. The garage door opens, and he starts the bike. The engine hums softly as he speeds through the streets of New York. Seeing the city from a motorcycle is different from being in a car. I feel part of the road, the wind slapping against my arms and tossing my hair like blades ricocheting off my jacket.

Slowly, the city lights fade behind us, and we hit the busy interstate. I see the cars providing our security ahead and behind, some to the side, keeping other vehicles away. We’re slicing through traffic like lightning, untouchable. The stars shine brightly as we ascend a mountain road; I don’t know our destination, but I love the feeling this ride brings.

We’re alone on the road, the bike gradually losing speed. My chest fills with freedom, and I want to scream, arms wide, as if I could soar through the night sky. Shaking hands clutch Michael’s waist. He turns to look at me, and I laugh, unable to see his eyes through the dark helmet visor.

“I want to fly!” I shout over the wind.

“Then open your arms,” he instructs.

The bike finds a steady, safe rhythm. I let go of Michael, trembling slightly against his back. I inhale deeply, trusting that he won’t let me fall, that I can open my arms and fly freely like a bird. Hesitant, balancing carefully, I spread my arms, euphoric as the wind hits my hands and shoulders. I lean back from Michael, admiring the starry sky above me.

I scream with joy like a madwoman, releasing the happiness that has exploded in my chest over the past months of discovering myself and love. How trust can be powerful and free a trapped soul. I scream, tears streaming, delighted as the stars blur. I feel part of the universe, untouchable as long as I have him by my side.

I laugh hysterically, screaming until my throat aches. When my joy overflows, I hug Michael’s torso, resting my helmeted head on his shoulder, sharing with him my laughter, my happiness, the breaking of the chains that bound my spirit. Today, more than ever, I feel like his, and it has brought me to life and a burning desire for a future where we can have everything we dream of.

The bike stops silently. The cars keeping our security remain distant while the soldiers check the perimeter. My beloved turns off the bike, resting it on the stand, and removes his helmet, placing it on the rearview mirror. He secures mine, removing it as well. I smile at him until I feel my cheeks burn, my happiness touching his skin.

I’ve never seen Michael smile like this, teeth wide, cheeks pressing the lower part of his eyes, his blue irises darkened by the night, glowing with happiness. I hold his neck, and he grabs my waist, spinning me on the bike so my ass presses against the tank, my torso against his. I inhale his warm scent and kiss his lips, conveying to him the powerful feelings that have taken over me.

“Let’s go home,” I tell him, the need to say I love him consuming my thoughts, but I’ll only be honest after revealing the truth about myself.

“We haven’t reached our destination yet,” he says playfully, unaware of all that I’m holding back.

“No, Michael,” I rest our foreheads together. “I want to go home and tell you my secret.”

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t hide his relief knowing I’m ready.

“Absolutely.” I nod repeatedly, my voice trembling. “I want to share every piece of my soul with you.”

“Alright,” he responds eagerly. “It will take an hour to get home and half an hour to the chalet I have at the top of the mountain. Are you sure you want to go back to the mansion?”

“Home first, then you spoil me at the chalet.” I inhale the cold night air. “I need the comfort of our home,” I say, gazing into his understanding blue eyes.

“Hold tight.” He kisses my lips before spinning me like a doll, making me sit behind him. Michael adjusts his communication device. “We’re heading back to the mansion,” he tells the bodyguards in the cars.

Without wasting time, we retrace our route. I know I might be missing a fantastic night of love at the chalet atop the mountain we were climbing, but right now, all I need is Michael and our home. The place where we return and feel safe. I’ve made a decision that will affect my whole family, and although there’s no longer fear of Michael hurting me or someone I love, I need the comfort embedded in every wall over almost a year together.

We return in less than forty minutes. I get off the bike, legs shaky, spine stiff. The anxiety of what I’m about to do makes my fingers tremble as I remove the safety lock from the helmet. Michael stops in front of me, holds my hand, and brings it to his lips. He has already removed his helmet and jacket.

“Calm down, breathe slowly,” he says, removing the lock and freeing me from it. “We’re home, alright?”

“Yes.” I nod, hypnotized by his blue eyes.

“Lean on me.” His arms wrap around my knees and waist; he lifts me.

I keep my gaze on him as we take the elevator up to our floor. In the safety of our bedroom walls, Michael sits me on the bed and removes my jacket, his warm lips brushing my temple. I hold his waist, pressing against his lips, the sadness of reliving painful moments choking my throat.

“I’m a bastard,” I whisper, my voice trembling, unsure if he can hear me.

His hands squeeze my shoulders, pulling me closer.

“I found out when I was four. I woke up on my birthday morning with my mother choking me and screaming that I was a bastard born from a rape.” I sob, the pain I’ve never forgotten ripping through my chest. I dig my nails into Michael’s shirt. “In the following years, every birthday, she would attack me, repeating how much she hated my real father and what he did to her, that she hated me for being born.”

“Hope.” His voice shakes. His hand pulls my face, trying to make me look at him, but I don’t; I hide on his chest, crying the pain of sixteen years.

“If you say anything, I won’t be able to finish telling it.” I sob, trembling. “Let me tell everything, okay?”

“Hold me until the pain passes,” he says, taking me into his lap, kissing the top of my head as I cry against his shirt.

“At the first attack, it took me a while to understand what bastard and rape meant. I was afraid of my mother, but in the following days, she would cry, asking for forgiveness and saying she loved me, and I would forgive her, every time. Until I grew up, the fear of dying and celebrating my birthday became unbearable. Only when I turned twelve did my father explain who I really was and outline my destiny as untouchable.”