Latest Posts by small-fortunes - Page 6

John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

Act One || Scene Three || In This House

Bobby could not have been happier than the moment in which her plane touched down upon the runway of the John F. Kennedy International Airport. Her eight and a half hour direct flight from London in business class had been exceptionally uneventful save for the enormous amount of reading and rock music listening to that she had divert her attention whilst the other passengers either slept, watched films or worked quietly, keeping very much to themselves. She may have drifted off to sleep once or twice only to jolt awake and re-read the same passage of her history book for the eighth time in a row. Finally, when she grew tired of this, she set down her book and resorted to people watching. Glancing upon them for a moment or so then taking hold her note book and writing a line or two of random nonsense that popped into her head and was based entirely on the impression she received from simply looking over their faces.

 Ah, but when the pilot finally announced that they had entered American airspace, she was at once vividly awake and full of anxious energy. New York always had a way of feeling like a home away from home. Naturally, it was because Uncle Winston was there, in his grand and busy hotel. And Mr. Charon whom she thought was just spectacular in his refinement and elegance. And she had friends in New York too. Friends she’d met online, through correspondence and via her studies. Members of her expedition crew that lived across Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens. She was excited to meet with her closest friends and research companions that had stayed by her sidelong after her misadventure with the Purvrian cartel of criminals, Constance and Nathanial. Traditionally English born but American settled. Both of these friends were as well-travelled, loyal to a cause, dedicated to each other and as heartfelt as she could ever have hoped to have in colleagues. Especially colleagues that agreed, her research for the resurgence of the Raven King was not a bout of absolute madness to be relegated to the confines of mythological studies along with classical Roman and Grecian Gods and Irish or Welsh fables and legends. Like Bobby, they believed she was on to something. That she was perhaps a little obsessive, but there was definite web, just beneath the surface. And they were so close in uncovering it. They hoped it would occur together. But they didn't fully understand the depth of Bobby's inadvertent involvement in the darkness of society. And Bobby's tender heart and good nature meant she would not reveal it to them in so long as she could help it. It was Constance however that started to put the pieces of the mystery together not long after Bobby had awoken from her coma. She had confessed her private investigations to Nathanial whom helped her dig a little deeper. And in the months of therapy and rehabilitation that followed, Connie and Nate became Bobby's sole support network outside of Winston or Charon. She had begged them both.

"Please, guys, please... If you don't know anything, you can't be held accountable. So stop asking. Stop investigating. Everything you've been doing. You may be right. You may be wrong. It doesn't matter anymore. What's been done is done. Nothing is going to change. And I want to leave it all behind. So I'm begging you, let it die." Heartbroken for their friend and her suffering, they reluctantly acquiesced the request. If capture and torture was an indicator of what Bobby was worth, they could only imagine the depth of filth in which they would have to traverse to come to a reasonable conclusion. Amongst themselves, Connie and Nate came to the understanding that there was a strong possibility that the Sicilian Mafia was likely involved. If they had to hazard a guess they had began to point their fingers at a Camorra family. But Bobby had asked them to let it go. And they did. For now.  

Alas, Bobby could not make her way off the plane and through customs and security fast enough. She travelled light, with a single flight case, a backpack, a hatbox and a smaller overnight carry-on bag in a range of battered complimenting leathers that she had taken an affinity for as they belonged to her late father. She only ever carried the bare minimum in clothing, footwear and cosmetics, dedicating the majority of her bag space to books, ledgers, photographic cameras, laptops, external hard drives, power supplies and drawing pencils. Whatever else she needed or wanted she would buy in whatever part of the world she was in at the time. If it was large or bulky she'd have it shipped home by post. And on occasion, her travels had seen her to booking a freight container to carry some incredible artworks or furniture pieces that she had discovered across Europe and Asia to be transported back to her countryside home in Essex. The results were a bohemian, antique concoction of colour and texture, style and shape that added an endless warmth to the otherwise dated and plain English timber that her mother and father had thought was perfectly charming at the time.

The moment it was prudent, Bobby pulled out her mobile phone, swapped out her SIM card from the UK carrier to her American carrier and called her Uncle with the exuberance of a schoolgirl.

"Uncle Winston? I'm here! I've just arrived!"

"Very good my girl, welcome back to New York City. I trust your flight was pleasant?"

"Restful if nothing else, Uncle. I'm dying to see you. Were you able to arrange for a car or should I board a shuttle bus into town? I'm sorry about this all being so short notice by the way. I can make alternative boarding arrangements if you like?"

This made Winston click his tongue as he smiled down into his phone.

"Tsk! Perish the thought, darling! You know very well that's not how we play cricket in this neck of the woods. If you attend the visitors arrival ranks you'll see Charon standing by. He'll help you with your luggage and return you to me safely. We've a cosy room prepared for you and once you're checked in, you can meet me in the dining room for a little something to eat that isn't aeroplane cuisine, yes?"

"Oh Uncle, you're too good to me sometimes! I'm looking forward to it. I'll be with you in a bit then, traffic permitting."

"Yes, I am rather, aren't I? I'll be here when you arrive. Bye for now."

Phone away and bags in hand, Bobby ran a final check to ensure her passport and papers were in proper order and when she was satisfied, she didn't look a terrible mess, she organized her bags and joined the ranks of other arrivals that looked equally overburdened but generally happy to have touched down.

And how could she miss him standing there? Charon was always a magnificent sight to behold. Other private chauffeurs held up place signs with surnames for guests that they were to collect, but Charon merely stood at relaxed attention in his dark grey pinstripe suit looking the very picture of statuesque regal elegance. His dark-toned skin the richest colour of pure coffee and his thinly rimmed glasses caught the light in a sparkle. His hairless head and sharp features gave an imposing allure. Ladies turned their heads, even discreetly to stop and stare and the other uniformed drivers, whilst very smartly dressed, didn't quite shine with the same radiance or power that Charon had inherently mastered. He smiled at her as he recognized her amidst the crowd and finally broke free of the chauffeur's line on powerful strides that made him seem very much a dancer or a great black cat.

With a delighted cry, Bobby dropped her bags and rushed him, reaching up on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders. She was instantly taken by the familiar warmth of his cologne and the reassuring pressure of his strong embrace as his hands caressed her upper back.

A passing woman with a Puerto Rican complexion was obviously heartened by their tender reunion, for when they parted she paused to say,

"Damn girl! You is lucky, huh?" in her heavy accent, before winking suggestively and striding off, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

Both Bobby and Charon saw the humour in this assumption. They laughed and greeted each other warmly. The Concierge welcomed his employer's niece back to American shores expressing his contentment to see her doing so well. Bobby had spent a great deal of time in a wheelchair post coma and had worked very hard and very long with her physiotherapists to restore her mobility. The ordeal had taken years and was excruciatingly painful. Bobby had given over to the fact that cortisone injections, anti-inflammatory pills and an array of painkillers would be par for the course now as she negotiated her spinal injury. What she hated more than anything was the stigma that she suffered when she moved from wheelchair, to walking frame to finally, walking cane. She wanted to be free of the damn thing. More than ever. For she felt as long as she was reduced to using her cane, she would forevermore conform to the ideal that her history had bested her. And that was a notion that would simply not do. She could not take the past into her future. The idea was abhorrent. So she took her cane and burnt the thing in her fireplace, back home in Essex. She called her physiotherapist the following morning and explained the whole thing demanding that the man make her case the most serious work he'd ever do in his entire bloody life. By the end of the phone call her physiotherapist was in absolute tears. He'd pledged his purpose to her rehabilitation and they worked together, day in and day out for nine months straight. Bobby had triumphed! Bobby would walk, unassisted at last.

Considerations would need to be made, of course. She was not able to stand for long hours anymore. And rough terrain was a bad idea for it jarred her knees and hips too greatly. She would have to be a great deal more gentle with her body in the gym and resolved to take a lot of low to no-impact exercises which eventuated in strength and resistance building by taking on Yoga and Pilates. She ensured the majority of her diet was generally clean and free of processed foods or preservatives and was quite rigid about drinking as much pure water and tea as possible. Perhaps what she missed most of all was the ability to wear heels higher than three inches for parties and events. But then again, Bobby rarely attended any of those that were not of some academic foundation and didn't entirely need that level of glamour anyway.

Thus, when she next visited New York after having successfully mastered walking without a noticeable limp; it was to Charon and Winston's absolute amazement. They had been witness to her worst level of suffering. To see her spin a complete one-eighty was nothing short of miraculous as far as they were concerned.

Now, Charon insisted he take the majority of Bobby's classic, worn leather luggage and stood back to admire her walk appreciatively. Again, unknowing on-lookers may have thought he was admiring the sway of her hips as any hot-blooded man might admire a young woman. A not unheard of concept, surely. Except for the fact that Charon was some twenty-three years Bobby's senior and any affections he had toward Miss. Kent as his employer's niece were purely plutonic and deeply family orientated.

"Oh Charon, it does my heart so good to see you! You're still as striking and handsome as ever!" Bobby had no issue in affirming as they walked together, shoulder to shoulder toward the car parked amongst the ranks of others on the airport passenger collection rank. This admission brought a glitter to Charon's eyes and a smile to his lips. He always thoughts Bobby was nothing if not entirely charming herself and was mortified by the horrors that had befallen her.

"The feeling is mutual Miss. Kent. I am elated to see you walking so well without your chair or cane. You seem to have regained your balance even more so since your last visitation. It is almost as though your injuries never took place to such a dramatic extent. Has your endurance for standing and walking distances improved as well?" He asked, loading her bags into the boot of the car tidily.

He earned a gentle nudge to his ribs as Bobby begged him to drop the formality and honorifics. She insisted they were family and being called 'Miss. Kent' simply made her feel estranged rather than interconnected. And interconnected right now was where she sorely needed to be, both in his presence and in Winston's.

She answered truthfully though, relating the information and summaries given by her medical professionals that assured her that whilst a great deal many things were wrong with her, including a metal plate in her skull and the loss of a kidney; that she was otherwise healing and walking longer and stronger than ever before.

She slid into the passenger's seat beside Charon and spoke on as he paid his phone's text messages a cursory glance. Hotel staff updating him on shift changes and suppliers logging his produce deliveries. They were of no consequence right now. He set the phone to silent and rejoined in the conversation, entering the stream of New York traffic that would travel over Brooklyn Bridge and eventually join New York proper.

They arrived at the curb of The Continental's famous multi-story high-rise corner block some forty minutes later having narrowly avoided the brunt of Friday afternoon peak hour traffic. The uniformed doorman greeted their arrival and a bellhop was summoned on Charon's order to take Bobby's luggage up to room Five-Twelve. Bobby thanked all the staff profusely as she pushed a tip of five dollars US into the bell hop's hands; apologizing because she'd not yet attended a money exchange office and this token gesture was all she had left in her wallet since her last trip to the US. The charming young man took the note into his pocket, smiling and bemused before tipping his hat and strolling away with his gleaming brass luggage trolley that carried Bobby's few bags.

"What was that all about, Charon?" Bobby inquired, "I thought American hospitality staff appreciated gratuities for service. That young man looked at me as though I was asking for directions to the beach in Norwegian." Her eyes followed his departure as the lift doors in the lobby closed and began their ascent.

"From civilian guests perhaps," Charon replied patiently. "You, however, now fall into an affiliated professional category." He punctuated this sentence with a wink so rapid and smooth, you would have missed it if you blinked. Bobby, however, never missed much of anything when she entered her Uncle's hotel. Even less now that she had a more complete understanding of what The Continental New York City actually stood for. She had not expected her status to be elevated to anything other than casual civilian, especially as she had no claims or designs to work in any kind of arrangement, cartel or syndicate that Winston had explained many of the guests took to his doors to find reprieve from. 

Alas, it had taken an extraordinarily long time for Bobby and her Uncle to come to a respectable understanding that The Continental served as an external and entirely independent enterprise that functioned as a complete cease-fire neutrality twenty-four hours of the day and night. Winston had parsed over the function of The High Table, The Department of the Adjudicator and the invisible lines of gang territories that controlled New York's underworld for everything including narcotics, prostitution, weapons caching, law enforcement manipulating, money laundering and hitmen for hire. Amongst a great deal more that he withheld on principle. Because he maintained that his niece simply didn't need to know. It was for the best. It was for her protection. But this new line of her obsessive study. This relentless pursuit that she had taken upon herself to uncover the other side was a massive concern in and of its self. He'd taken so much care to dissuade her from these fancies. To suppress and reengage her into entirely different stratagems for coming to terms with her mortality that didn't devolve into the streams of the preternatural that he himself had only in his history caught soul-shocking glances of.

And now Bobby was on it. Like a dog with a bone. She was on it with ravenous attention. A woman in a wheelchair with an academic mind and little else to distract her was prone to obsessive lines of study.  Her letter had been a forewarning. She had the intention to pry knowledge from him that he wasn't certain he was prepared to impart because he himself was not sure he fully understood the depth of the other side. Who did in this day and age anyway? Life, as it stood in the modern 21st Century, was a great, glittering neon distraction from the core of the unseen that walked amongst them day and night. Hiding. In the shadows. In the peripheral of human vision. Always just out of reach. But there... So there. So extremely there that you could close your eyes and deep down, if you focused, you could hear it. Like the echos of waves in a seashell. You wanted to believe that you were listening to thousands of years of history contained in the natural and ordinary. That you were not falling subject to the tricks of the mind. That magic was something that was done in studios and meant to entertain and hoodwink the uneducated.

It wasn't true.

It just wasn't true.

And Bobby was now closer to a malicious entity than perhaps she had ever bargained for. And would ever know.

His only hope was that their paths never crossed.

At last Charon offered to take Bobby up to her room personally so as she might take a little while to unwind and refresh herself before coming to join the dinner service downstairs in the dining room. Her Uncle would be waiting but would see her only once she was properly settled. Bobby agreed reluctantly. She had a great deal many things she wanted to share and ask of her Uncle. But she too had just come halfway across the world on more than a whim. She'd need time to recuperate and organize herself.

So she hugged Charon one final time, feeling very much like a protected species under the eyes of the hotel's staff. She gasped at the sheer radiant elegance of her rooms. But knew better than to protest about their grandeur. Rather, she thanked Charon a thousand times with heart-felt sincerity and took a moment to gather her thoughts when he proclaimed as always that he was at her complete disposal. He would be downstairs where she always expected to find him. He shut the door behind her and left her in peace. Overwhelmed a little. Displaced a little. Confused a little. Aching a little.

Alone in her solitude, Bobby buried her face in her hands for a private moment and cried.

And so concludes Act One of John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

You can Read John Wick || Blood of the Raven King // Act One Scene one & Scene Two Here!

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He didn't let her finish.

He didn't want her to.

In that moment,  something inside him snapped free entirely. He had no means with which to rationalize his behavior and no desire to sympathize with anything other than the young woman's alluring invitation. He watched her for a moment, then another, then another after that. That look in her eyes. He remembered it. It was a look that he thought she'd likely never bestow upon him again. His mind was a whirlpool of hungers and unrequited desires that he could no longer internalize. Why was she doing this to him? Tormenting him like this? His heart hammered within the confines of his chest, cutting off his ability to breathe. He ached. Every inch of skin she'd touched against her lips or hands burned. His body responded on sheer instinct.

He attacked her.

Mindless, mad in the heat of pure, unbridled lust, he tore at her body, taking hold her hips and forcing her slender form to mount him anew as he sat upon his black leather office chair. When their lips met it was with sheer, carnal instinct. An explosion of force and fury set off sparks behind his eyes. He pulled at her lips, demanded her tongue in a way he ensured she was powerless to refuse. He needed her. He needed this. Her excuses and rebukes, her boundaries and her ignorance of his needs physical or otherwise were entirely inconsequential at that moment. Nothing overpowered him so much as the near galvanic urge to make her his.

He tore at her clothes, uncaring for the damage the garments suffered. He was a whir of motion, aggravated grunts and heavy Italian curses for every moment that her flesh was not revealed to him. He froze... she wore deep violet lace. That... That was something special.

"Hai pianificato questo." (You planned this.) It wasn't a question, it was a statement.  And the scent of her arousal drove him over.  He lifted her bodily atop his desk, a smattering of papers and notebooks coming heavily onto the floor. His slender fingers tore the underwear from her hips and thighs. She did not struggle, nor resist. He had consent. Consent he'd not seen in months since London. Weeks since touching down in Rome.

Mechanical muscle memory overtook his judgment. Before he grasped reason, he'd separated her thighs and plunged his length within the tender confines of her pulsing, heated womanhood, taking her in deep, almost aggressive strokes to the very hilt. The world faded away.  She encapsulated him entirely, commanded him with a depth and passion he could not resurface from. Her breathy cries at every pounding thrust came over him like music. In this moment, he needed her deeper than he'd ever needed a woman before. In that moment, Santino was lost to the primordial need that came from chasing sheer physical pleasure with a willing lover. And his willing lover, was obsessively, Lalienna.

|||

For two, painstaking weeks prior he'd done nothing more than fall victim to the isolating techniques his High Guard forced upon him. He raged, in fury. He'd argued with them bitterly for they forced him away, denied him access to her bedroom, guarded her relentlessly. Until it was all finally too much. He knew, deep in his heart that something was unequivocally, irreversibly wrong with his lover.  He'd heard her screams, her wailing, the piteous lies that she told or refused to tell for the sake of protecting herself. Except he began to reason she was protecting the truth from him. He'd no basis for making this accusation, but the way in which Ares cast him away, the way in which Christov and Hector backed him down, coiled a viper of doubt in his belly.

He'd demanded doctors attend her day and night, for those screams he heard were unnatural.  Hector overpowered him, shouted reasons and placations advising the young woman was likely having yet another of her episodes, similar to that which she had experienced those months prior after her first meeting with Airoldi. That he needed to remain patient with her. That they would personally ensure a doctor attended her but he was to wait outside and let Ares attend her alone. That between her and the maids, the women were best suited to this kind of trauma. Couldn't he see? None of the other males had access to her rooms. They were as shut out as he was. But to not worry for her. It was simply an extremely bad turn of illness, coupled with an exceptionally poor menstrual cycle. That if he was to leave her be but a few days, she would recover her wits about her fully and be more accepting of his company.

What choice did he have but to comply? He'd tried threatening them. They simply glared at him and his insults, entirely unmoved. He'd considered brawling with them, bare-fisted knuckles pounded directly into their faces, for they seemed to be less arrogant when he had them bleeding at his feet. But what would this achieve? Further distress and lack of harmony. Hector was right. None of the men were permitted entrance to her quarters, and that included him until whatever agony overtook her passed. When she returned willingly to his bed and he'd made to ask her sincere questions, she'd shut him down and shut him out.

That little puppy was her constant companion but the baby animal did not have the strength he'd prayed for in terms of pulling the Spaniard free of her depression. His concerns grew deeper. She would not come down to the dining room to eat. Most of her meals were brought up to her by maids and returned to the kitchen practically untouched. He'd demanded Panchelli maintain her plates exactly as they were returned to the kitchen so as he could personally inspect how much she had consumed. His heart dropped as the days passed. She was barely eating anything at all. So he requested Chef make blended fruit juices with protein powders mixed into them. He was heartened when the glasses came back empty. That was a start. If she would not consume solid foods then at least tempting her with pureed fruits was a good start.

He'd cornered Ares on the fifth day and demanded information. The mute young woman who was being remarkably responsible in Cerberus' toilet training, used her fast hands to explain at great length that Lalienna was recovering. That she was in fact suffering from a bout of homesickness and displaced depression. No, she didn't think the dancer would need hospitalization. No, the young woman was weak and tired and spent most of the days sleeping with her puppy and the reason for her sending back her plates untouched was due to what appeared to be a rather nasty stomach infection. No, another doctor would not need to attend, for whilst he was out, she was already seen by an in-house practitioner that prescribed her antibiotics and fluids. That he should make sure Chef kept the fruit juices coming, they were doing her well. She'd return to solid foods in time.

On the eleventh day he was met by Hector whilst he was smoking on the balcony.  The Guard Commander lit up his own cigarette and started with what he thought was amicable conversation.

"She's starting back on solid foods again, boss."

"Quanto sangue perde una donna durante un aborto?" (How much blood does a woman lose during a miscarriage?) Was Santino's pensive enquiry. The question was so profound it struck Hector like a blow to the chest.  What in God's name?! Impossible... Santino couldn't possibly have guessed?!

"Woah... uh... random, boss... Uh... I dunno. I've never known any ladies that have lost kids before. I-uh... Never really thought about it to be honest." He put his head down and sucked at his smoke, taking in the rich Turkish tobacco and praying he had a few shots of strong vodka to chase it with.  

"Why you ask?" He dared. Dreading the response. He turned to meet Santino's eyes and grew relieved when he saw the Prince of Rome was miles away. He didn't answer for a long time and when he did, it was with vacant eyes.

"Me lo diceva, no? Se avesse mai portato la mia bambina?" (She'd tell me, wouldn't she? If she was ever carrying my baby?)  

"Jesus Christ, Santino!" Hector exclaimed, a tremor in his hands. The clutch of nerves sending tendrils of ice water in his veins. He wasn't expecting this. But he wasn't about to let Lalienna down. So he hated himself and played the game.

"You were careful with her, weren't you? You're both young, healthy. Accidents can happen in a fraction of a second. That's what condoms are for, Signore, fuck... You'd be crazy to do this to her now. She's so young. "

"I agree." Santino replied. His eyes narrowed as he took in the stars. The nights were growing colder. He got up, crushing his cigarette butt into the mother of pearl ashtray on the patio table before blowing out the last plume of smoke and returning indoors, leaving his shell-shocked commander behind.

|||

The blinding walls of release struck him from all sides at once. He'd barely had time to process his lover's powerful contractions of silken heat before he came undone in a guttural cry of animalistic pleasure against her throat. He was vaguely aware of her whimpering pleas. A string of nearly unintelligible curses as she fell apart beneath him, clutching at his clothes and hating them for denying her his skin.  When they both had a moment to recover from their dizzying high, they merely took in one another's eyes. His breaths coming laboured and erratic. A bead of sweat gathering at his brow. The room was entirely too hot. And she felt glorious as she stroked him intimately. He laughed. A chuckle first. She reciprocated. And then it built, more and more as both lovers were in a peel of merriment. Panting, laughing. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes. He loved her entirely. He told her so. He kissed her plumped lips, murmuring against them.

" Nulla che io possa mai fare sarebbe nemmeno una frazione importante quanto amarti, tesoro." (Nothing I could ever do would be even a fraction as important as loving you, darling.)

"Papi... we'll draw atten-" Two sharp knocks at the office door cut her off.  Knocks that was characteristic code:  It's not important, but can I come in?

"Fuck, Ares." He cursed, smirking to himself before calling out. " Stiamo bene. Qualunque cosa pensassi di aver sentito, avevi ragione. Ora dacci un po 'di privacy o sei licenziato!" (We're fine. Whatever you thought you heard, you were right. Now give us some privacy or you're fired!)

He listened, the bark of the puppy and the sound of receding footfalls as the pair made to retreat until at last the lovers were alone again.

"Come on, amore. All your appointments have just been cancelled for today." With an unwilling groan, Santino separated himself from his Mistress and took a moment to tuck himself away to appear at least semi-decent.

"Pick those up, bring them here." He whispered hoarsely, gesturing to her discarded, lust-soaked violet lace. The young woman slid her bare-bottomed self from the desk on shaking legs, seeking to comply with the request almost wordlessly. Whatever protest she meant to make as she handed over her slightly moist underwear was promptly silenced by the heat in her lover's eyes.

"Papi?"

"Open your mouth."

"Wha?"

"Open. Your mouth. Right now." The dancer seemed to hesitate for a full heartbeat. However, the curve of his brow and the edge in his tone lead her compliance. Her lips fell apart and her eyes grew wide as she watched. Santino twisted her underwear tightly in his hands then pressed the lace into her mouth.

"Bite down." Was his command. Hot, clipped words. Perverse and filthy, perhaps. But he didn't care. And when her teeth finally took purchase of the lace, he purred in shimmering satisfaction. She was perfect. He wanted her to taste the evidence of her arousal. To acknowledge that she had willingly complied to baiting the dragon as she had.  Her eyes clouded over. Her breasts rose and fell heavily, but she did not let go of the underwear in her mouth.

So he lifted her, bodily into his arms and carried her as she was, nude from the waist down, from his office, up the stairs and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. A mercy. They did not meet with any domestic staff or other Camorra guards on their journey. Although he had no doubt in his mind that Ares would now go gossiping to anyone that would even remotely acknowledge her frantic sign language gestures.  This knowledge in and of its self sparked a glow of satisfaction within him. It was progress. Progress he thought he deserved to be rewarded for. He'd won her back. And he had every intention of giving the young woman in his arms reason to want a full course meal by the time he considered himself done with her.

Alone as they were, in the confines of his luxurious bedroom, he stripped his lover naked. Her clothes hit the floor and were followed by her eyes. He corrected her sharply, tsking her with his tongue. She meant to spit out the lace in her mouth but again she was met with his correction. For Santino shook his head silently no.

"When I say, bella mia. And not a moment before." The order seemed to have the effect he desired, for she quickly forgot about her top and bra, biting into the fabric harder, her thighs caressing each other as though she meant to suppress the building heat that had not yet been entirely quenched at her core.

She whimpered as he kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her shoulder. His fingers attending to buttons and zips as he stepped out of his boots and socks, shrugged out of his shirt and let it hit the plush Oriental rug underfoot. A deviant twinkle in his eyes. He took hold her hands and placed them against his belt with a quirk of his brow.

"Sai cosa fare." (You know what to do.) He teased, licking at his upper lip suggestively. Minx! Even in her arousal, she was unabashedly playful.  She freed him of his belt, buttons and fly but not before taking a moment to palm his heated arousal, stroking his length against the fabric and drawing a hungry purr.

His previous exhaustion and professional frustrations with his sister, entirely forgotten. He was alive once more. Pulsing, hot, wanton in his need to not just make love to the woman before him. But to fuck her. Properly. To somehow make up for months of deprivation that self-satisfaction did little to ease.

As he stood finally nude before her, he put out his upturned right palm.

"Rilascialo." (Drop it.) He demanded.  His lover complied, spitting the violet lace into his palm with a grimace that she smothered with a whimpering giggle.

"You'll play gently with me, won't you, Papi?" The question was phrased innocently enough, but the heat in his glare and the sharpness of his commands was enough to make her second guess. She'd tasted his passionate aggression in London and feared its resurgence. She'd confessed her fears to Hector a fortnight prior. While her primal hungers urged her to submit to his darkest carnal needs, a foray into a mistimed Scene was well above what she considered herself capable of.  Though he didn't appear to glower threateningly, her fears were banished when he murmured,

"Of course, amore mio. What am I to do with broken toys?"

She watched through heavy lashes as he laid her underwear like an offering upon the ottoman at the foot of the bed.  And when at last he returned his attention to her, it was with the heat of his lips. His hands, his skin.

He walked her back to the bed.  Guiding each footstep with one of his own until at last she sank against his black linen.

"Let's see if we can't do something about your appetite, amore."

The hours rolled by to the sound of Rome's many belfries chiming out in the distance. The warm Roman morning gave way to a glorious, pink and violet-hued afternoon. And twilight set in thereafter, with the glitter of the first star in the evening sky. The day cascaded into the deep velvet of night.

And all through those long hours, Santino loved her.

Deeply.

Repeatedly.

Over and over and over again.

From one dizzying high to another, he forced her body from extreme to extreme. At his fingers, his tongue, the power of his length. In her mouth, her maidenhood, her feet... he even dared to massage and oil her heated flesh and let her taste the first lash of deeply intimate anal pleasures. Fleeting at first, so as to not frighten nor intimidate her. But enough that in the heat of the moment, he assured her,

"If you want it... you'll beg for it."

Minute after minute, hour after hour he shackled her to the smouldering heat of his passion. Three, four, five times in a row he had her hit the sheer wall of screaming climax. When his own body could no longer meet her demands, he took her overheated flesh with hot oils and passionate embraces until at last she grew exhausted, over-sensitized, aching. She begged release of a different kind. He had conquered her completely. She could take no more. And at last... she begged.

"Papi...please.... Please Papi... I'm actually starving now."

He laughed in absolute triumph and collapsed beside her. His body drenched in perspiration expended by hours of heated passion. They both coiled together, awaiting the slowing of their heartbeats until at last, Santino rose from the bed and crossed the room to serve his lover a glass of water from the pitcher at his sideboard. Himself another.

"Two weeks you deny yourself solid foods, evade my company, suffer alone with a stomach virus, struggle with your cycle. Two weeks you drive your poor Santino almost to the brink of insanity so that I brawl with my men and women in your name as they fight like dogs to protect you and now... after a single afternoon... and evening, in my bed, you tell me you're actually hungry?" He shook his head at her knowingly.

"You mean to tell me all of this could have been averted if only you'd let me give you a good, hard, fuck...hmm? Amore?"

Laughter shook his chest.  She looked so innocent as she averted her eyes, pouting and making pretty excuses.

"Come on, bella... Let's get showered off. Get some clean clothes on and then we can go downstairs and see if Panchelli has kept a few plates warm for us in the oven. Can you bear to sit with us as a family like you did at breakfast? I'd recommend it. If you let me have you alone, I can't promise you I won't consider force-feeding you dessert, eh, tesoro?"  

He blew a kiss to the air, paired it with his most disarming wink. His emerald eyes shimmering. His russet curls a dishevelled mess. He made a show of swallowing down the last of his water before setting the glass aside and padding off to the ensuite bathroom.

John Wick || Blood of The Raven King

This work of fiction is dedicated under inspiration and by request of @rubydian and the founding concept as published on Twitter by English Sci-Fi/Fantasy author, Matt Dovey

Act One || Scene One || Irreversible

And thus it started, the way it usually does in tales such as these.

With a letter.

On this particular wet August afternoon in New York City, the mailman had been discourteous enough to not wipe off his boots upon the runner carpet that had been rolled out specifically to capture the wet footsteps of guests and visitors going to and from The Continental lobby. Instead, he shook out his high visibility fluro-yellow raincoat with a shower of water that hit the marble floor and the hotel reception counter in a splatter. Some of those wayward, wind chilled droplets struck Charon’s computer monitor. The elegant African American man, in his dark Italian wool suit, offered the wet plastic covered parcel of letters that was unceremoniously slapped atop his counter, a cursory glance before sliding them off the counter top and shaking them into the waste paper basket at his feet. His displeasure did not reflect in his profound features. Rather, he offered the mailman his thanks and fixed him with a poignant glare that seemed to work wonders, for the middle aged mailman gestured vaguely to the general wet mess he made and apologized sheepishly. 

“Sorry, Mr. Charon. I didn’t mean to bring the storm in with me.” Charon, the hotel Concierge, softened his features somewhat and replied in his rich accented baritone,

“It is unavoidable. Perhaps, you might shake yourself and the mail out under the awning next time?” 

An obvious consideration. The mailman nodded his assent apologetically once more before tapping the brim of his sodden baseball cap in respect, replacing the hood of his raincoat and turning on his heel to march back out into raging storm. Charon watched his receding footfalls for a moment or more before finally seeking to pull out a clean dusting cloth from beneath the counter’s tidy shelves and wipe away the errant droplets from the marble surface and the back of his thin computer screen. Once he was satisfied that all was as it should be, the cloth was replaced and the plastic covered mail satchel was again addressed with his customary care. A silver letter opener that was taken from the hands of a small kneeling iron Roman warrior statue upon the desk made quick work of prying the plastic sheathing apart. Within, dry and protected from the rain, rested an organized and fairly typical arrangement of letters. These included utility bills, insurance reports, tax department assessments, sundry receipts and reconciliation invoices for repairs, maintenance, linen and fresh food and beverage supplies. All of these letters would be addressed in due time, for there was a management and administration process that Charon followed religiously in his years of employed service. And it ensured every article would be considered carefully and addressed appropriately. What was of highest import at this moment was what Charon picked out to be internationally addressed personal mail. These letters arrived with a reliable systematic frequency and were almost always addressed to his employer, the hotel owner/proprietor, Winston. Occasionally he would receive a personally addressed letter as well, but these were few and far between. 

There was a very particular letter that he was expecting on this day. It arrived fourth to last in the pile and featured the neat, calligraphic penmanship that was characteristic of a female hand that valued the aesthetic pleasure of ink on paper, compared to type and print labels that were so readily available in this day and age. The stationary the letter was mailed in was of quality off-white paper stock. It featured an Air Mail stamp and beneath it another that presented the face of Queen Elizabeth II for her Sapphire Jubilee. Sixty-five years a reigning British Monarch was an exceptionally long time to reign, even as a figurehead for an entire empire. Charon turned the letter over and noted the sender’s name, ‘Miss Bobby Kent’. Naturally. Roberta, whom had endearingly and playfully always been known to the world as ‘Bobby’ was Winston’s niece. 

A charming young woman of thirty-three years of age with sharp blue eyes, a sun kissed complexion and a shock of forcefully tamed frosted mahogany coloured hair. She had grown into a striking young lady post the bloom of her girlhood for as much as Charon remembered. Bobby lived in Essex, England in a peaceful cottage by the countryside that she had inherited from her deceased parents some nine years earlier. After completing her high school education she sought to attend Oxford University, boarding in their slightly cramped and out-dated sorority dormitory for five years as a means of escaping the country life. In truth she wished to live somewhere exciting, like London. But considering her financial garnetour, Winston, was the manager of her family’s estate after his sister’s passing; he was forthcoming in advising that her monthly allowances could not support the exorbitant additional cost of Central London rent without depleting her inheritance substantially. He wished to preserve those funds for as long as was prudently possible, at least, until the day of which Bobby announced her intent for marriage. 

Sadly, such proposals with eligible suitors were regular and regularly discouraged. Bobby was a woman of big ambitions, plans and social pursuits in the world of discovery and education. An independent cartographer that specialized in alternative tour guide manuals that celebrated and relegated geographic explorational pursuits in breathtaking exotic landscapes and oceans across at least six of the seven continents. An impressive feat of achievement for a such an academic lady and her fellow organized crew. Winston had suggested archaeology and ruins preservation was another ample field of study that he hoped Bobby would consider for employment. Unfortunately, a Peruvian cartel of ex-mining gangsters with designs upon North American narcotics trade saw her exciting life of travel and adventure cut short. Bobby was captured, as a bargaining chip, imprisoned, tortured for eight, painstaking days and put to ransom in a gory array of eight millimeter video footage that arrived on Winston’s desk in the midst of a frantic police investigation for missing persons. The investigation was heavily handled, media suppressed and eventually filed as a cold case. The gang cartel in question, with their methamphetamine inundation was infiltrated; and quietly picked off. Neutralized. By a gentleman that was said to be a ghost of myth and legend. His origins confused. Russian? Belarusian? Ukraian perhaps? Some even ventured, Italian; for he had noted affiliations across a council known as The High Table. And there were twelve councilors there that were international Crime Lords, owners of cartels, arrangements and syndicates that dated back some many hundreds of years. Holders of honour and tradition. Corrupt and wayward as much of it may have been considered, there was purpose and method to their madness. War was something that happened. It was corrected. Acknowledged. Crushed where possible in hopes of peace. Continual fire prevents germination of the new growing forest. If all the soldiers are dead, there is no army. And without an army, of what are you a leader, a general, a king?

Bobby never saw the face of the man that had saved her. She never even learned his name. But when she recovered from her coma and years of intensive therapy, she sought out her Uncle and began to ask him some very direct questions. Questions that related to his historical origin. Questions that related to his business enterprise. Questions that related to his religious, moral and ethical fibers. Questions that parsed his psychological profile into theoretical components, that precipitated into a murky conclusion that she was finally relieved to comprehend, even in an unclarified and subsumed level. The revelation did not leave her suffering as deeply as she thought she would. 

“You’re a mob boss, aren’t you, Uncle? One of those impossible underground criminals that runs this hotel as a front for terrorists and black market trade. Am I right?”

“….Well…. Roberta,”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby…” He corrected, on knee-jerk reaction, “It’s not quite that cut and dry nor that sinister to be honest, darling.”

“Don’t you darling me, old man! You’re full of horse shit! They knew about you! About what you were capable of! Of the class of people… creatures… beasts you surround yourself with. And they found me, and bled me to get a reaction out of you! What did they ransom me for, hm?”

“Bobby, please, I need you to calm down-”

“You fucking calm down! You bastard! Before mother died she promised me you would look after me. That you’d care for me, make sure I wouldn’t be led astray. I thought she meant just boys and drugs and wild parties! I had no idea she would entrust me into the hands of a lunatic black-market hoon! You disgust me! I wish I was never born into this wretched family! I had plans once! Dreams… now look at me!”

“Bobby…” Winston breathed. His eyes glazing over dangerously from behind his reading glasses that he finally removed so as he could bury his head into his hands.

“Oh and now you weep! Collapsed lung, crushed skull, they took a kidney and I’ll never walk properly again with this spine injury. Every day of my life for two years has been an endless agony of horror and torment. Because of you! Because of your twisted, depraved fucking empire of criminals and darkness.”

“YOU’RE WRONG ROBERTA! IT’S BECAUSE OF ME THAT YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!” The elder gentleman snapped at last, losing his temper within the confines of his guilt ridden sadness. 

“…I don’t call this alive. Not even remotely.” She whispered in her compounded sorrow. She’d long since promised herself she’d never cry in front of another human being again. 

“I want you to tell me what you know. No ifs… no buts… no lies.. No bullshit. I want everything. I want the truth. Because you owe me this.”

“Roberta-”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby… If I do this…thing… you ask of me… If I drag you into this world… As you are right now… You need to understand, that there’s no going back. Ever.”

“Just as well. My scars are irreversible, Uncle Winston. You gave me this life, be it by divine providence or bad fucking luck. But I’m in it now. The least you can do; is show me how to live.” 

Winston considered his options for a very long time that day. He considered everything that he thought would be just and ethical and compared it to everything he knew would be considered immoral, unjust and socially perverse. He looked deeply into his niece’s eyes. He read her, the pieces of her he wished he’d never have to see. He found himself, for the first time in his life, praying. Wishing that his sister would not have burdened him with this young woman. So that he might have saved her from the trauma of the world around her. This was why he’d never married. Nor had children. So as he could rule an empire that would not fall to complication when the genuinely innocent are caught in the crossfire of havoc and fury that does not concern them.

Winston considered his options for a very long time that day. And after that long time; he made his decision.

And he told Roberta Kent, aka 'Bobby’, everything.

Act One || Scene Two || Letters of Warning

Charon concluded his administration processing with his customary efficiency, until his relief management staff took the front desk and permitted him complete the day’s hand over seamlessly. A final glance around the foyer with its range of ambling guests waiting out the rain or waiting on friends and colleagues, revealed that at least on the surface, this oasis of calm and civility was very much still in working order and could do without his vigilance for at least an hour or more.  With a smile at the uniformed ladies that had taken his place at reception, he sought to attend the lounge that was relatively quiet at this hour of the day.  Sure enough, he discovered his friend, colleague and employer, Winston, seated at the lounge by the fireplace, sipping at a steaming tea cup and decoding possibilities for the crossword puzzle that '12 Down’ was occupying him with.

"Good afternoon, Sir.” Began Charon by way of greeting. Winston looked up over his reading glasses and put down his pen,  fixing his Concierge, friend and colleague with a smile. He’d already noted the letter in Charon’s slender fingers and was expecting its arrival hourly.

“Ahh! Charon, welcome, pull up some leather. Have a sit down won’t you?” He indicated the tobacco coloured chesterfield lounge before him on the opposite end of the fireplace separated by a provincial coffee table. Charon complied with a smile, grateful to be off his feet for a moment. The morning had been busy and the afternoon had finally worked into a lull that said sitting down was a very good idea.

“That letter you have there, Bobby, I take it?” Winston asked with a quirk of his brow.

“Bobby.” Charon replied with a curt nod. He leaned over the coffee table and placed the letter beside Winston’s teacup. The elder gentleman folded down his newspaper and set it aside. He took another sip of his tea and waved for the bar hand to bring another cup. The uniformed woman in her pink blouse and black pencil skirt took stock of Winston’s guest and arrived immediately on rapid footsteps to set down a fresh teacup before Charon. She served him then. That fragrant bergamot Earl Gray with notes of lemon and rose petal that was just delightful. Both gentlemen thanked the young lady and waited for her retreat to the bar before continuing their conversation.  Winston picked up the letter and used his pen to break apart the top of the sealed envelope.

“Second one this fortnight.” Winston commented as he freed the thick, quality paper from its confines.

“I do hope the young lady is keeping well.” Charon commented. He meant it too. He thought Bobby’s adventures prior to her misfortunes were magnificent. He had many of her travel guides in his personal collection and found her photographs to be spectacular.

“We’ll soon find out.” Winston replied as he unfolded the letter and took a moment to appreciate the blue ink and cursive hand that was so characteristic of his niece.

He read:

 Dear Uncle Winston,

 I do hope you’re keeping well, all things considered. The weather in London is not as terrible as everyone would have you believe. If anything the heat is every reason to keep indoors and just as well, I’ve been in mostly air-conditioned luxury more or less. Spending a great deal of time in and out of the houses of University scholars and other learned ladies and gentlemen that have been spending the better part of two hundred years compiling research in the form of accounts comprised as to the reason for true magic having disappeared from the streets of England. As per my previous letters to you, I am determined to follow them as deeply down this rabbit hole as I dare. There are less honorable pursuits by which a woman might entertain her time. I might add that I’m recently returned from Harlech Castle in Wales where my research has opened out some spectacular and purely mind-blowing avenues.

As always, I’m still very much following an elusive lead for the legend of a man known as 'Brân the Blessed’ from as far back as the 14th century. They say he was the first incarnation of the legend for the anthromophic personification known as 'The Raven King’, objectively, disappeared from the human/mortal plane in 1389 but made reappearances in unusual circumstances at many points that are heavily contested, both for and against, throughout history. The latest resurgence appears to be in 1847 and then again as late as early 1975.

There are pieces of this puzzle that are missing, Uncle Winston. Pieces that I’m determined to gather and engage.

My latest research has revealed that this legend has had appearances all over the world. For what could be considered charitable and extortive reasons. Some of the learned underground call him 'John Uskglass’, The Black King, The King of the North. I’m not convinced that his origins or disappearance from the mortal plane are as extravagant as I’ve been told. There is more going on beneath the surface. More that I have learned, that I have uncovered or been told.

Uncle, I need you to know that this legend has tendrils as far into the gypsy clans of Russia and beyond. Across Belarus, Poland and the Slovak nations. There is a story that I’ve been following, and you may think it mad, but I’m telling you, the world which we perceive around us and the plane of existence that we may traverse in dreams holds the key to secrets that are beyond mortal comprehension. That does not mean they do not exist. I know you’ve been discouraging my line of work, but I have been told, by our mutual friend that you alone in your hotel may possess the key that I’ve been looking for. This 'Raven King’… this fairy… fae… however you wish to spell it, is real. This legend of a man, or creature that moves in and out of shadows and takes with him the souls of the living, is more than just a myth. Our mutual friend tells me that you know him personally. That were it not for him, on that night so many years ago, I may not have lived to write this letter I do you today.

Uncle, I plan on visiting you shortly. In fact, I have booked the next plane to New York arriving Friday, 16th at 4'o clock. If perhaps you might arrange for a car to come collect me from the airport, I should be very grateful. I will call you before I board my service and again when I touch down. I don’t mean to intrude on your personal space, but if I could request your hospitality for the duration of my stay, I should be very grateful and will naturally pay my own way. I am due to meet my old crew mates Connie Barker and Nate Serville who are traveling from Los Angeles and mean to rendezvous in New York to take in the sights and sounds. They will act as my guides and have shared in much of my research, as you already know.

I look forward to seeing you, Uncle Winston. I have missed you terribly. We parted on inamicable terms last time I visited, and I have told you I am very sorry. Unfortunately, my history and unintentional involvement in affairs that should not have concerned me have left me bitter. I do want to make amends. And you’ve never let me down. But for now, Uncle, I beg your honesty one last time. I’m coming to you again for answers.

Answers I know you have.

My love and good tidings,

Your adoring niece,

      Bobby

The elder gentlemen set down the letter with a heavy sigh. Charon, whom was nursing his teacup and enjoying the flickering flames of the gas fire looked up in question.

“Sir?” He inquired quietly. Reading his old friend’s disquiet expression.

“When it doesn’t rain,” Winston began, handing Charon the letter. The younger, dark skinned gentleman took the paper and absorbed the ink letters with a practiced eye.

“It pours.” He rejoined, some few minutes later, folding the letter down and handing it back to Winston who replaced it in its envelope. It would join the thick pile in his locked writing desk drawer where every other correspondence from his niece lived.  

“Shall I prepare a suite of rooms for the young lady?” Was his first question. Although it didn’t need to be asked.  Every other visitation for years had seen Bobby cloistered safely within the finest apartments The Continental had to offer. Winston and Charon had taken professional pride in ensuring the young woman had been accommodated in a luxury that her otherwise provincial countryside English manor or the myriad of rustic campsites had not afforded. Never a “tall poppy”, Bobby maintained a genuinely likeable, down-to-earth personality that saw her often saying things like:

“You needn’t go through so much trouble for me, Uncle, honestly. A blanket by the kitchen hearth on the floor is good enough.” or

“A single room with three other girls will do, Uncle. I lived in university dorms for the better part of my young adult life. I’m not adverse to sharing.”  

These sentiments were all very sweet and well-natured, but that just wasn’t how business was done as far as Winston or Charon were concerned. They had standards. Their hotel was the bespoke Gold Class in international and local accommodation. Their rooms were almost always fully booked, all year round with underground professionals as well as local and touring civilians. Even so, there were always reserved room suites that were maintained on various levels and marked as “Private Residence”. These were withheld from the public and were always set to accommodate family and friends, friends of friends, staff and their relations or on exceptional and frequent occasion, the absolute royalty of the criminal underbelly.  Gold coins exchanged hands. Room keys were given. No business was allowed. Winston had already lived through a recent excommunication mandated by his order. The price of its completion had been high. He still regretted pulling the trigger on that pistol.  When the body of his friend was not recovered from the streets below, he had glowered in a semblance of hope. The Adjudicator and her department of vipers retreated to the bowels of whatever circle of hell they came from. But not without warning.

As far as he was concerned, they could shove their warning some place largely uncomfortable. He wasn’t about to fold to the ideals or criticisms of a faceless organization for which he had little to impart upon. He was New York. Had been for almost forty years. And he wasn’t about to give it up now.

So when the ghost, known as “The Boogeyman” resurfaced upon his doorstep some three months later, with a fire in his eyes and a woman at his side, he ensured the premium penthouse suite was at their disposal. Through correspondence in England, from The White Tower of London, he learned a great power shift had recently come into play. And that woman, that “The Boogeyman” was escorting was in fact now the owner of England’s council seat of The High Table. Royalty.

Yes.

He was accustomed to accommodating royalty.  Charon had informed him that Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton had taken an extended residence and requested their penthouse be serviced only under express request. Otherwise, they were to be left perpetually undisturbed. Mr. Wick had his beloved dog, that charming charcoal blue coloured Pit Bull Terrier that simply answered to 'Boy’ and 'Dog’ follow at his side along with the Lady that dressed in black and was held at his arm. Charon had noted that Mr. Wick now wore a ring that was not of the same origin as his wedding band, but to those learned underworld on-lookers had the same weight if not more. It was a black onyx stone framed in sterling silver and emblazoned on its surface was the ancient caduceus symbol. That ring, was a symbol of amnesty and regal entitlement.  It meant he had been selected as the royal consort to the new grey queen of the English underworld. Lady Clayton, ethereal, removed and strikingly otherworldly, with deep green eyes and a piercing demeanor, had superseded her predecessor in a blood feud that had ended the lives of hundreds so as she might have ascended the throne. The grapevine called her “The Reluctant Queen”, for she had requested abdication of the council seat at The High Table, citing emotional and physiological instability to be her primary point of contention. The Department of the Adjudicator did not care for her confessions. They cared about establishing stability until her use was fulfilled and a suitable replacement to absorb her criminal enterprise across London could be secured. She may well have been a holder of a seat upon The High Table, but she did not treat the honour with the respect which others felt the council so readily deserved. It was said she had help, in her blood feud. That Mr. Wick had absconded from American soil on her commission soon after Winston’s betrayal. That war was once more brewing on the streets of New York. Simmering beneath the surface. Coming, like the gathering storm. Across the water. Torrential, like the rain that very afternoon. The ground was due to give way again. And so many would be sucked down into the abyss for which they would never return.

He had no choice but serve his duty. For Lady Clayton, entered the hotel with her retainer, Mr. Wick, and paid an exorbitant price for the privilege of their isolation from the world around them. And he was wearing her ring. The ring of the Royal Consort. The caduceus symbol that meant he was now a “kept man” under the protection of England’s latest grey queen. Protected. Revered. Coveted. Retired.

It suited him, Winston had said, when he met his old friend in the lounge some many days later. But Mr. Wick was hesitant to respond with anything that looked like even forced cordial civility. His eyes had seemingly changed colour as well. Winston was positive, in the years of which he had known Johnathan, that the middle-aged assassin both before and after his marriage to Helen, had eyes of a deep and compassionate chocolate brown. They seemed to capture you, entrap you. Bring you into the moment of focus that was otherwise so readily able to slip away.

He actually wondered if he was very much mistaken. For that night when he attended Mr. Wick’s table, as he was seated alone and nursing a glass of top shelf whiskey, his eyes appeared a great deal lighter. In actual fact, they were a startling, almost inhumane shade of green. Green, and the iris ringed in a perfect circle of black.  Almost a horror to behold. As if… as if his eyes were a mirror of the demons and vampires found in literature and film. Were they coloured contacts? He meant to ask. And his ring finger on his left hand… was missing.  Cut away entirely from the second knuckle joint. His wedding band gone. Though the discoloured mark that was left behind after five years of marriage meant the memory of his wedding vows would never fade.

The questions he meant to ask died in his throat. Along with his better judgment. Mr. Wick was never one for many words. As he was now, whiskey glass in hand. Missing his ring finger, his wedding band.. wearing a new ring of the Royal Consort and those eyes… those eyes that were positively burning, inhuman. Like, something had torn free and blazed in the fire of irresistible resurrection. He thanked his old friend for his patronage. He withdrew from the table and attended his rooms, locking the doors and bolting them heavily behind him. The shutters in his windows were down. And the lights were reduced to a single reading lamp. He’d slept fitfully that night. And with one eye opened.

It was Mr. Wick’s shadow that had disconcerted him more than anything. For he could have sworn that the man’s shadow as he sat reflected by the firelight of the lounge, set across the floor to appear as though he had the wings of a massive, impossible moth… or perhaps a butterfly. And he’d stood for a moment, rooted to the floor. Horrified. Watching that shadow. Those wings. They moved. Beating the air silently. Pulsing. Once… Twice… Three times… Could it be so? That this man was the harbinger of doom? Had The Raven King returned to possess and destroy those whom would have wronged him? Stolen from him? Killed from him?

“Goodnight, Winston.” Mr. Wick had said. His voice, rich and deep snapped him from his tormented reverie, he looked up and almost stammered,

“Yes… Enjoy your stay, at The Continental.” He looked back down. The shadow of those wings were gone.

It was just his old friend Johnathan Wick, sitting at his table, nursing his whiskey glass. His eyes were still the colour of rich coffee that they had always been. But his ring finger was still missing. As was his wedding band. He nodded his goodnight. And walked away.

Now Winston sighed again, nodding to Charon and wishing very much that Bobby’s timing could have been a great deal better. Sooner than Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton’s arrival, or in fact later, once the couple had left his hotel entirely to disperse into the underground. Back into the cold city streets or away back to England where Mr. Wick had been commissioned to rule, off field, as an overseer at the side of the Lady Judeth Clayton. There was something wrong with them. The pair were both strikingly unnatural. The air grew colder around them when they were together. And the guests hesitated to sit so close. The couple spoke in hushed tones to each other. In different languages. French. Italian. Sometimes Russian. It was something about their eyes. They appeared like mirrors. Reflecting the sins of the world. In blood and torment. You could almost hear the screams of the dying and smell the acrid iron of spilled blood. Darkness… dark magic. John Wick, Excommunicato Survivor and Judeth Clayton, The Reluctant Queen. What a pair they made. And they were here. Now. Upstairs in their penthouse overlooking the fountains and gardens. Away from the street. The entire top floor was vacated for the honour of their accommodation and would remain so as long as they stayed on in his hotel.

His maids had complained that 'Dog’ growled at them when they attempted to take on their cleaning duties of the rooms. And that Lady Clayton was often seen at her dressing table, with a great ball python coiled about her arms and lap, whispering, speaking words of unintelligible origin as she looks on into the depths of her mirror. That the maid had noted the room was cold… freezing cold, although the thermostat was turned up to its highest heat setting. And that Lady Clayton’s reflection did not meet her in the mirror. That something horrible was there instead. A blackness… a murky forest or swamp. The Lady did not respond when called to or prayed to, or upon. The maid ran from the room screaming. Insisting they needed an exorcist or at least, a priest. That penthouse suite was unholy.

Winston had no choice but to retire these maids under stress leave.  There was too much pressure building around his returned guests.

And now Bobby was coming to New York. Merely three days away. Another problem to compound his already growing list of extremely provoking concerns.  “Perhaps, Charon, you might put Bobby and her friends in the vacant Queen Suite on level five, near Mrs. Rainthrope and her charming granddaughter. Room Five-Twelve, I think.”

Charon nodded to this sentiment but returned with his own admission,

“Don’t you think, Sir, it might be more prudent to put her on level eleven? Rooms One Hundred and One and One Hundred and Two are vacant and closer to Mr. Cesknoc and Ms. Halloway, being as she is, now consumed of our line of work….” He let the thought hang in the air. And Winston absorbed it with his thoughtful eyes. But did not agree.

“No, my old friend, I don’t think so. If anything, I’m certain Bobby would better appreciate the normality of being surrounded by harmless civilians. Just because she’s now privy to the arrangements under which we operate, does not mean we now have license to embroil her or her friends any deeper into this cesspit of darkness than is absolutely necessary. Not that I don’t appreciate your foresight. Her protection is paramount. Especially now more-so as she refuses to desist with her investigation of the other side as it were.” He paused here, to drink the remainder of his Earl Gray tea before setting down his teacup and pushing it on its porcelain saucer aside.

“No, I think, Room Five-Twelve beside Mrs. Rainthrope and her granddaughter, Shirley, will be just fine. If we’re lucky, the two ladies might become friends and they might seek to move on their American tour together. And Bobby might be so good as to leave this notion of the other side behind.”  

Charon also finished his tea as he listened to his employer’s logic. He dared to pro-offer the crux of Winston’s concerns as he said,

“You’re worried about Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton, aren’t you, Sir?”

There was silence between the old friends for a long series of heartbeats. Winston collected his pen and his paper and reading glasses and straightened himself, getting to his feet and taking Bobby’s letter into his coat pocket.

“Worried? That’s a mild way of putting it, Charon. The cleaning staff are calling for exorcists before even considering the option of entering their rooms. I’d say, unequivocally terrified, is a more accurate summation of it. Alas, Que Sera, sera.”  He finished finally.

The two old friends exchanged a knowing glance that spoke more than the words they each held in their hearts.

They were both, deep down, very sorry that Bobby had been caught in the crossfire of a world that never concerned her. It had almost killed her, that day, so many years ago. And Winston was given the choice, whilst she was in a coma, advised that her quality of life was greatly deteriorating. As her last and only next of kin, would he consider turning off her life support? He deliberated deeply for days and nights at her bedside. And finally whispered into his niece’s ear.

“There are some things, in this world, that are worth fighting for, Roberta. Some things that are worth dying for. But this, darling girl… this lapse in judgment is not it. Come back, sweetheart. Your time’s not up yet. If you can hear me, Bobby… And I’m sure you can… Come back.”

And so, Roberta 'Bobby’ Kent, was coming back to New York City. She had plans to visit her Uncle Winston in The Continental. She had survived her ordeal. And she had become obsessed with the myths and legends of a man that was said to have left the human world in anything but a blaze of glory. It was said this man was reincarnated from time to time. To come from the depths of the underworld, to appear, to live, to change and influence events and then to disappear into the ether, as though he had never been. And never was.

They said, in the recent folklore, that this man, moved in shadows and served a power unlike anything the underworld had ever seen. That he had “got out” once. That he retired… and took on a married life, with a beautiful woman named Helen. That his life had changed when she had passed away. That in actual fact, the day she died, he’d gone with her. To the land of the other side. But he was caught. Trapped upon a bridge that would never end. No shore in sight. He walked on and on and on and called her name. Helen… Helen… He was driven… By the sound of beating wings. But this bridge… The was no ground beneath it… No opposite bank he could discern. And no way to turn back the way he had come. Was this purgatory? To carry on… forever? Chasing the memory of a loved one? Chasing the sound of beating wings?

A good man had died on that night. And left behind a ghost. A shade. A dark angel… Black blood. Risen from the banks of the earth and disconnecting life one bullet at a time. He was bound back into service. A blood oath marker that he fulfilled. Unwillingly. He came back for love. But it was not him that returned to the mortal plain to fight on. To keep living the life of which he had been pardoned, so as he could remember what he had forgotten. The life he had once lived. The love he had once shed.

They said, John Wick was no longer a man. That he had gone to the other side and stayed there. That the woman… Judeth Clayton… she was not even human anymore. The blood she had shed to bind his soul to the earthly plain had been enough to topple a whole empire.

The old legends… The folklore. It had said to watch for the change in their eyes. For there are those amongst us whose eyes are green. But there are shades of green of Dutch and French origin. Those are neither here nor there.

It’s the others that you watch for. The ones whose eyes are green like  the deepest, darkest forest with no end. Like the eyes of demons, mirrors into a non-reflective soul… And you can feel the air grow colder around them. And you can smell the scent of iron and blood. And animals would go out of their way to protect them. And mirrors do not show their reflections. And that you must watch their shadows. For the shadows are honest and true. And they show the beating of wings. Like a butterfly… or a great, massive moth.

It rained that day in New York City.

It rained.. but you could hear the cries of ravens in the air. In the distance.

It shouldn’t have been like this.

Ever.

But it was.

JW. || Blood of the Raven King Uncut

This work is dedicated to all my fellow John Wick fans all over the world, no matter where you are. This is an unusual supernatural/alternative universe cross over request. Constructed solely on a prompt and some beautiful artwork as supplied by our friend @rubydart; who, along with a Tweet by author Matt Dovey in May of 2019 suggested that if John Wick was a Fae of Folklore, he would:

Only works for favours, tallied through gold coins

Can be bound by blood promises against his will

Lives in the world unseen by passers-by

Values sacred ground and rituals

Has a special bond with animals

Does not tire or feel pain as a human would

The other fairies speak in awed tones of him as the only one to “get out” through sheer strength of will he crossed over into our world for the love of a human

Can only be harmed by weapons containing iron

Each of these are elements I hope to bring into the story in time. As an organic free-form writer, I work on a concept and let it build into something beautiful. The following Two Scenes for Act One are a precursor for the future. There is a whole host of inspirations and concepts that I’ve every intention to give credit to in a proper bibliography in time. For now, I ask you, the readers, to write in with your thoughts and feelings on the work. Would you like to see more? Has this story excited you? Do you enjoy the characters? Feel free to like and share this work with your friends and fellow John Wick fans, making sure you link me back with a credit. If you wish to leave a review, I’m always reading what is left behind. Would you like me to tag you for latest updates? Please send me a direct message via Tumblr messenger or an Ask request. I’ll make sure you’re added to my list.

With Love and Peace,

L.G. Spider

{[ Reader’s List: @jardanijovonovichs @rubydart @rubydian @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat @lalienna-dementriento ]}

John Wick by Carolina Lta  aka @littlemorrison / @mycrystalhorse

Dropped in blood like Cain dropped Abel.

And they said to him, you need never leave this place to see mortality like ours. Like theirs. Like us. Like you.

But he heard her calling through the glass plane of the mirror to the lands of the Raven King. Where magic is dead. Where memories go to die.

They didn't want him there. But she paid her gold coins in advance and bound them in blood.

Blood dropped, like Cain dropped Abel.

{[ @rubydart @rubydian || It's coming. See you on the other side, Mr. Wick ]}

Oh god yes, hello. You're wonderful! If this is appropriate for a prompt request: There's a violent world of unseen fae all around us, and in the center of it is John Wick. There was no reason for him to fly away from there, until he found one.

This is an interesting concept. I will develop the idea and commit it's organic evolution to digital paper, Ruby. I request you satisfy my visual neurons by providing me with compelling high resolution art work straight to my private inbox, please and thank you in advance. Now, I warn you Wick fans, this concept is a little alternative universe on crack, but I will try to really encapsulate folklore, ancient history, art and violence on page. If the audience approves, I will continue world building. If not, it will be relegated to a one shot shot story. No matter what, I'm inspired! Let's do this everyone!

Be seeing you on the other side, Mr. Wick. ❣️

John Wick || Beatitudinem

There was beauty in the air today.

This late summer afternoon as the breeze rolled fresh off the heat-hazed horizon with the scent of the sea entwined in its crest. The tang of salt in the air. It caressed her skin and lifted her hair. She loved to work in the soil. Especially here, in this house on a high hill overlooking the ocean. The summer's heat dissipated, but the dirt was warm in her hands. Under her nails, between her fingers, under her wedding ring.

She smiled to herself, happily. Still very much in love. These past two beautiful years. And she thought the name was still magical. She could barely believe it. In these quiet moments where she was an earth mother, her hands in the soil as she sought to plant these succulent flowers in the landscape of their garden, she caught her name revolving around her head.

'I am Helen Wick. Helen Wick now. God... How did I get this lucky?'

She'd planted the last of her seedlings and meant to water them gently except her tin water canister was empty now. She'd been working the soil for at least four hours whilst her husband slept upstairs on this glorious Sunday afternoon. She'd water them a little later.

Helen rose to her feet and clapped the dirt off her hands, looking out over the horizon. So beautiful this day. She could see on forever, out over the hill and into the valley where the beach brought its eternal tidings along with the first star of the celestial heavens above.

She loved to work the earth on days like this. It helped her feel grounded. It reminded her that we all returned to the earth eventually. For now, she was thirsty. It was easy to lose track of time when working in your own garden. Especially when it was a labour of love.

She made her way up the patio steps, across the landing, and through the garden door into the kitchen. Attending the sink that overlooked a grand arched window into the garden where her beautiful plants were growing. She'd planned on building a gazebo where she and her husband could rise on early mornings and have breakfast together. Or make love under its arching roof.

That was a romantic fantasy. She wanted very much to make it come true as she took a glass tumbler and filled it with chilled filtered water from the tap.

The embodiment of her marital bliss had padded on silent footfalls down the stairs and was now dressed and leaning against the kitchen doorframe, smiling at her. Warm, chocolate-coloured eyes and radiating passionate humility. She caught his reflection in the kitchen windowpane and turned to admire him as she leaned back against the kitchen sink. God. He was beautiful. Her husband. She could do nothing but smile at him. Smile and love him with every piece of her blossoming soul. Her Johnathan.

"Are you...smiling, Mister Wick?" She teased him playfully. A glitter in her eyes as she looked him up and down. Dark blue jeans, a white low cut t-shirt and a calf brown leather jacket that they had bought together in their first year of marriage. He wore it everywhere. It was his absolute favourite. But she wished he'd opt for something lighter in the summer.

"Maybe... yeah." He replied, that smile unwavering.

"Well, I wish you wouldn't. It's indecent." She teased. Not far from the truth. He had a way about smiling that always felt a little too intense around her. Borderline romantic. He pushed his shoulder away from the door frame and came forward into the kitchen proper to caress her hips with his tender hands and whisper,

"Just as well."

"What's that?" She whispered back coyly, setting the water glass down upon the sink and turning her attention to again look up into those tender, heartbreaking eyes.

"That I'm not shy about being indecent." He replied warmly. Their lips met. And it was heaven suspended in magic. Infinity forever. She wrapped her arms around him, forgetting her hands still carried the soil of the afternoon summer land that she was mothering into life. He didn't seem to mind anything that she had. Whether it was dirt or blood, so long as it was hers he'd accept everything with passive gratitude. His warm fingers caressed her jaw as he pulled away and she smiled in the wake of his kiss. Coming gently back down to earth. He had a way about him. Her Johnthan. Of making her feel as though she never wanted to come back down from this cloud he had her perpetually suspended on.

Her husband. She loved him. But he occasionally needed correcting. Gently, lovingly. But definitely correcting. Her heart swelled with hopeful pride as she said to him,

"Hmm, well.. That said, it's Sunday... and I was wondering if I might convince you to stop tinkering with the car and head out to the hardware store for me?"

Now that sultry smile he wore dissolved into something a little smoother. She pushed a lock of his ebon hair out of his eyes.

"What for?" He asked gently. Gravel in his voice. Deep and reverberating so that even at a distance she could feel it in her chest.

"What for he says? John! It's been two months, that gazebo isn't going to finish building its self. I'd like to have it ready before New Year, if at all possible."

That glitter in his eyes as he leaned forward to grace her with another kiss. She tilted her jaw away, playful in her need to refuse him. But his lips met her chin all the same and made her sigh as he whispered, "Anything is possible." against her skin.

That made her laugh. Gentle, like wind chimes in the distance. She stepped away from him and arched her brow suggestively,

"Well, are you going or...?" He hesitated. Watching her. The scent of the sea and soil against her skin. The lines of her neck, the curves of her breasts and hips.

"I'm thinking...." He murmured.

"John..." It sounded like exasperation, but it was honestly veiled lust. He seemed to breathe this nuance between them in.

"I'll go. But I'll need you to do things for me in return."

That was very much her husband. Johnathan Wick, every bit the negotiator. Willing to compromise but for a price. She paid him willingly but not without gentle rebuke as she corrected him again now.

"Do things? Don't I do enough for you? I clean your house, I cook your meals, I press your clothes."

"These are all things I could do for myself, baby. You know you don't have to do any of it."

"That's not the point, Johnathan, I've seen you with an iron."

"Well, you shouldn't have distracted me."

"Distracted you?! John, you can't iron suede!"

"And you shouldn't bend down in a short skirt, but I'm not holding it against you, am I?"

Johnathan Wick, her husband. Negotiator and master debater when the mood suited him. And it suited him like a second skin. Always. Forever. She loved him. She loved him with every ounce of her heart and soul. But he could stand to be corrected every now and then. She really wanted to finish that gazebo before their anniversary. She wanted to lay in his arms so they could take in the evening sea breeze on their hilltop home and talk about their dreams of forever.

"Will you just go please, baby? I've left a list of timber beams and bolt specs pinned to the board by the door. And can you make sure they're Imperial, please? And get a tube of Liquid Nails while you're there, we're out. Now, get outta here, will you? I need a little alone time. You don't need to hover about my shoulder every two minutes like a stalking butler. I can take care of myself, surprising as that may seem."

He committed her words to memory. His eyes never leaving her face, he watched her lips move and felt the swell of her hips against his palms, sighing in contentment as her hands came up to his chest. Oops! She forgot about that. She brushed the dirt off the cotton with her forearm whilst he smiled at her.

"I never doubted it, baby girl. I just like checking up on you." His left hand strayed, lower than was prudent. She purred the words,

"With your hand on my ass?"

He squeezed the flesh he had purchase on. A reminder that his hands could bring about the coils of pleasure she'd only ever dreamed about.

"At least one of us needs to keep it covered. They're shrinking lace like it's going out of fashion." He replied. There was heat in his voice now. He looked hungry. Protective and hungry. And for a moment she thought about it. About taking off his jacket and t-shirt and rubbing her soil-covered hands against his chest. He did this to her. Conjured visions and dreams and desires she'd never experienced before. Except when she stood alone in his presence. In the heat of his eyes. Mmm. She loved him. The way he made her feel. But she'd make him wait. On principle if nothing more. Because she enjoyed feeding him when he was hungry. Nourishing him took on many forms. And she delighted in being instrumental in overseeing all of them.

"You fool! Get outta here. Give your wife thirty minutes alone, won't you? And stop at the drug store on the way back. I need a refill of my pill prescription." She pecked his cheek, dancing out of his tender embrace and turned back to the sink, to take the olive oil soap and lather her hands under running water.

"You're gonna need more than the pill to keep you protected from me."

There was humour in his voice but it was thin and veiled in the heat of a man that had long since decided he wanted to spill his seed as a willing father. They'd discussed their options quietly in bed together. Not yet. She just wasn't ready. She wanted more time to love her husband alone before giving a piece of herself to rear his children. He understood. But he made the offer all the same. A vow to her. For when she changed her mind. He was ready.

"That's a funny way to file for divorce, Mister Wick." She called over her shoulder. Teasing him again. She caught his reflection in the kitchen windowpane as he stalked down the hall waving her comment away. She could imagine the smile across his lips vividly.

They knew each other. First as friends, then as lovers, then as husband and wife. Their history secured their bonds with each other. There was nothing that either of them could say that would ever be grounds for devoicing. Except for when he left the garage door open. Or came back inebriated from a good night with his work friends and stumbled about the following morning hungover with a ringing headache.

Who was she kidding? She'd never detach herself from him. He was a good man. And they were rare to find in this day and age.

Even so, he could stand with a little correcting. She heard him mutter to himself in the hallway and then call to her.

"Keys, baby?"

"Bowl on the hall table." She called back, listening. That's right. He had them now. She counted the heartbeats. He asked another question,

"Phone?"

"Coat pocket...on the hat stand by the door."

That's right. He had it now. She counted the heartbeats and sure enough, her beloved husband asked yet another question that made her smile and laugh inwardly.

"Wallet?"

"Next to the vase, John. On your left... your other left." She heard him mutter to himself. Something about how grateful he was to have a woman as organized as she to depend upon. So she padded out of the kitchen, drying her hands on the dishtowel and met her husband at the foot of the hallway. He turned and looked up at her with a self-satisfied corona of radiance. In marital bliss.

"I love you, baby." He said to her. To his wife.

"Mhm. I love you too. Drive safe." Said Helen Wick.

Watching as her husband made his way out of their marital home door.

Beatitudinem Uncut

The word ‘beatitudinem’ is Latin for ‘happiness’.

The John Wick film franchise features little content for the wonder that is the beautiful Mrs. Helen Wick. Performed by American actress: Kathryn Bridget Moynahan. Helen Wick appears in mobile phone film footage and a range of tender and romantic flashbacks in the original John Wick film released in 2014.

Helen, along with Daisy and John’s beloved antique 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 which is referred to in the film as a Boss 429, are three central motifs that surround John’s life with meaningful importance both before and after his retirement from the criminal underworld where he is renowned and feared as a spectacular master assassin.

Fans feel, that were it not for Helen’s passing, John Wick may have moved into the ether of his retirement happily ever after. Beatitudinem, seeks to explore a moment in time where Helen is alive and well, two years into their blissful marriage. Naturally, the narrative takes on the creative license to assume the thoughts, feelings and attitudes of the woman who is otherwise a foreshadowing figure to her husband and his grieving process after her passing.

Little is known about Mrs. Wick, but the fans agree, she was a magnificent woman to have been able to bring this man so much warmth and salvation in their five years of happy marriage.

Beatitudinem, is written as a tender one-short short story that celebrates the simplicity and domesticity of every-day married life. We sincerely hope you enjoy it! If you do, please share, like and reblog the story with your friends and fellow John Wick fans. Spread the love. You’re welcome to add the work to a Master List, just don’t forget to send a message or comment our way to let us know how far the tale has travelled.

This work is dedicated to my special friends:

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat  &  @lalienna-dementriento

We Love You!

White Knight, Dark Heart

The Devil bent my ear today.

He said you needed a protector in this darkened world.

I came out of the shadows, with blood on my hands and the truth on my face.

I said: "What do you want?"

He said: "It's about a girl."

And I saw her.

Broken wings with a child's shadow at her back in a mirror of infinity.

I couldn't look away.

It was magical.

The Devil bent my ear today.

I won't forget I ever met you.

I'll hold your hand in the last hour.

Because I swore I would.

Christov stood rooted to the doorway as the young woman, he realized, his romantic rival past him. Taking the tender pup with her in her protective embrace. At a minimum he was delighted to see for himself that she had taken so intimately to the little dog in the few hours that they had been together. That was a relief. He'd worried that perhaps, in her delicate condition she might have thought to reject this responsibility, forcing them to return the baby dog  to its original owners. They would not have been pleased. Over the phone Hector had talked a good game to secure the pup from the breeders. Christov had stayed behind to shop for puppy goods with Ares whilst Tino and Hector had dressed in casual clothes and their most disarming smiles. Looking every bit the gushing puppy fanboys. The breeders weren't comfortable with Hector's tattoos until he got down on his knees and began to effortlessly love the bitch and sire whilst Tino almost wept at the beauty of each baby dog, also on his knees, allowing the pups to nip and tug at his clothes and hair. The breeders finally relented, formally signing baby Cerberus' birth and registration papers over to the young men with a strict list of care requirements and veterinary contacts. They were paid in cash and sent the boys away with the new baby dog after a tearful goodbye to the other dogs. They swore on their lives and mother's that the puppy would forever be a king in their home.

It wasn't until the owners looked to their transaction receipts that they saw the name whom the dog had been signed to and paled. 

'D'Antonio.'

Their concerns were obliterated. They were not about to refuse the sale of a dog to the Camorra. They crossed themselves and shut the door.

Even so, Christov stung under the burn of rejection. Handsome, well mannered and educated as he was, he had come from a relatively privileged upper middle class French/Italian family and was not accustomed to being stood down by women. As the eldest of three sons, he had been taught to love, cherish and respect women, for they were the bringers of life and completion. A man's ultimate pleasure. He'd not fully comprehended the depth of that statement until at last he had struck his 13th year and suddenly girls had become very interesting indeed. He'd always regretted that his first kiss had been stolen by a cheeky boy. His playground rival and neighborhood enemy that he would later go on to fight with over the affections of a pretty girl that lived down the lane. 

This memory was somewhat implanted deeply into his psyche and seemed to govern much of his ideologies on the affections of young ladies whom he kept as casual mistresses and returning companions to fulfill his carnal urges and then politely call the next cab home for. A mechanism he engineered to stop the pain of rejection that seemed to constantly plague him when it came to matters of love. This morning had been no different and affirmed that his reasoning was sound. Forming deep romantic ties with a lover in this line of work was a painful mistake. He preferred the tattoo needle to his most sensitive nerves than the slap and sting of agony that he was forced to negotiate through right now. 

"Lali, please... Wait up! Let me come with you at least?" He jogged after the dancer whom had made her way on rapid footfalls across the mosaic tile landing and was beginning her decent of the stairs. He realized in the peripheral of his heart that chasing the girl and whimpering like a kicked dog at her rejection was making him appear oppressive, needy and clingy. Qualities that no lady found particularly charming or fashionable anywhere in the world. And his profession with the Camorra had certainly seen him to be well traveled. 

Regardless he persisted, hating himself a little. His dignity compromised and his heart aching. It only occurred to him then, that for his failure to comply with rules he had been dumped by two potential lovers each within hours of each other. What's more, he was powerless to put them behind his wheels because they were domestic and professional family. He realized then, as Lalienna refused to look at him, just how fucked he really was after all. A whip of anxiety began to strangle-hold the lungs in his very chest. The tension built, flooding his veins. He needed to do something that would stop him feeling so dejected and neglect the press of tears he was determined to deny. He had his pride after all and he would not allow the dancer to see him come apart over what he reasoned was a casual affair. She was not equal to the task of his self indulgent whining and he refused to give it to her. After all, the young woman had just made a shattering revelation when she agreed to abort her unborn child. He would push past his pain and jealousy and attend his number one duty first even if it irritated her. He would follow at her heel and protect. That was his natural born calling and he fell to it with pure muscle memory. 

"Hey, look I get it, okay? You've got every right to be pissed the off at me right now. I admit it. I fucked up. I didn't even think about what I was doing. I was just angry at him. Retaliating you know. He's not into me that way, he never fucking was and I asked him for sure. He told me, point blank. No. There's no compromise between us Lali, serious. Jesus, could you just stop for a sec? C'mon!" The dancer wasn't interested in listening. And the more he talked the more he realized he was starting to sound less like a daddy and more like a pathetic boy. She crossed the flights of stairs on decidedly rapid footfalls with the little pup in arms. At her approach to the garden doors, one of the maids, with her basket of fresh laundry, stood to the side and let the new house mistress pass, bowing her head in quiet reverence to the couple whom she heard the tattooed master speak briskly. Unfortunately the maid did not comprehend English so what was being said escaped her. She did catch a glance of the new puppy however and her young heart leapt in joy! Alas, the mistress did not appear happy so she thought it best to refrain from fraternizing and instead return to the laundry with her clean washing to begin her ironing.

Outside the Roman Autumn was magnificent. The air was crisp, clean and fresh. The sunlight shone a radiant warmth across the gardens that caught its fingers along the colour changing trees. The scent of Jasmine and Magnolia hung in the air an alluring perfume and the massive stone fountain with its tiered classical bowls was playing bird bath to a dozen doves that splashed happily in its waters, refreshing their feathers after their morning flights. Their cooing and flapping seemed to have caught Cerberus' attention, for he wiggled happily in his lady human's arms, waggling his little cropped tail offering the doves a tender series of gentle barks in greeting, hoping his mami would put him down to play with them. They were fun to chase!

Even so, Lalienna refused to make even a token gesture at acknowledging Christov who was feeling himself very displaced and rejected. He tried again at conversation, amazed that he was managing to keep the cracks out of his voice.

"You're right, I am an asshole. I didn't touch any of the shit they were snorting last night and I wasn't even drunk and I still picked a fight with the boss over you. He doesn't fuck around either, Lienna... Sure, he argues with us plenty but he's no push over. He's been as military trained as we are. I've seen him lay the smack down on Hector's ass more than once. He's given me a few good blows to the jaw just because I got mouthy at him. And trust me, if you think he's gonna treat you with kid gloves just because you're his lady, you got another thing comin'. Sure, he doesn't get so rough with the ladies but that doesn't mean what he'll do to you if you piss him off won't be worse. I can only protect you while you're in front of me, babe. When he has you alone, you're gonna need to handle yourself. So good luck. 'Cos I've watched his ass evolve over the past six years and I'm telling you, the boss is into some dark shit in bed. You're new the scene babe, but I know he gets filthy with girls. If he gave you a safeword, you'd better know how to use it. We've pulled bleeding flowers out of his hands before. He's not afraid to get into that shit if you'll let him."

What was he doing here? Saying these things? Was he trying to make a point? Make himself appear a dark knight by feeding the young woman information that he was already certain she knew at least a fraction of? Every time the breeze caught her hair, that scar on her neck was visible. He'd ask his boss if there was a way to organize for her to have that shit removed. Marking a woman with your initial was barbaric. Over an indiscretion? Really? What would Tino do to her if he found out she had visited his bed more than once. What would Tino do to him?

He didn't want to think about it.

So he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes noting he was on his third last one and would need to pick up another pack or bum a few from Tony later. He lit up and took to the nearest timber bench to watch over the pretty blonde girl and her puppy as the sunlight shone through her hair. He couldn't believe it. She was so angelic. Just standing there in the sun with the beauty of the garden surrounding her. The fountain at her back the puppy in her arms.  He put his head down and focused on his boots. The rips in his dark denim jeans. The burn of the smoke as it caressed his mouth and soothed his throat before he exhaled. He wasn't going to cry over this. He wasn't. He wasn't going to cry. Fuck. He was gonna cry. Wasn't he?

Nope. Not today amigo. Not in front of a girl. Rule number one. Never let a woman see you cry. It made you look weak. Girls didn't respect weakness. They only kissed the boys in the playground that could protect them against bullies. So he worked out, tripled his protein intake, bulked muscle, covered himself in imposing tattoos, dressed sharp, talked a hot game and pretended he was a classy motherfucker. When in truth he was just a kid pretending to be a German Shepherd. He liked being treated like an attack dog. He liked pretending he was hers. But now he was unwanted. His boss didn't want him and his lady didn't want him either.

This juice wasn't worth the squeeze.

So he got pissed off instead and changed gears.

"Hey... Lienna, you listening to me?" She flipped him off. Bitch. He sucked down a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose, like a dragon.

"Hey!" He snapped. Showing his teeth. "Show me a little respect, eh? I'm willing to get smacked around because of you. The least you can do is show me some fuckin' courtesy and look at my face when I'm talkin' to you, lady. Damn! Didn't those White Women teach you any manners?" Oooh dear, he shouldn't have gone that far. He was pissed off, he didn't care.

"'Cos I met your mom babe, Judeth. Yeah, she's a real lady. And I don't think she'd be too impressed if she saw her daughter acting this way to her employer's colleagues. And another thing," He got up and crossed the garden to stand beside her.

"Apologies and forgiveness ain't worth shit if you spit it out just because you think that's what the other person wants to hear. They don't. I don't. I want you real. Always real. As real as you get when you're praying to God while I'm eating your pussy. That's the kind of real I expect from you. Even when you're in the right and I'm in the wrong and I'm asking for forgiveness because I had the balls to front and tell you I fucked up. So we're done here. 'Kay? Done. I'm gonna cut you slack because what you're going through right now, I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy but don't think for a minute than I'm not hurting for you, because I am. And I'm sorry for kissing your boyfriend last night. He told me, you thought he came to fuck me. Ha! No way man! Not in my wildest dreams and I had a few. Pfft, whatever. I'm done being your dog for today. You're a big girl, you can handle yourself. You sure as fuck pussy whipped the boss. I'm out. You need me, baby girl, you know where the find me. I'm the third bedroom on the left of the forth floor. Follow the music. And take care of that baby dog too. He's into you almost as much as I am."

Pissed off, he turned on his heel, spat at the ground and stalked away, crushing his cigarette against the stone goddess as he passed and taking the butt with him. He wasn't into littering in his own house.

He knew what he wanted now. If she came back to their wager, and he'd show her that video. He'd tie her down to a chair first. Let her feel the taste of velvet rope about her wrists. He'd fix a spreader bar to her ankles and watch her drip as he'd pull off her lace with his teeth and deny her the touch to her throbbing womanhood that he'd know she'd need. Complete sensory denial. That would fuck her over. Nothing torments a woman more than denied orgasm compounded by furious sexual stimulation. He'd snap that book out of her grasp too and read to her the most intensely erotic passages. He'd make her watch while he stroked himself and tasted his own cum leaving her crying in denial. When she finally broke down and admitted he'd won and begged for release both from her bonds and her need for climax, he'd charge her for it. Four hundred gold coins. That was top class money for a male escort in the underworld. Just to sell your soul with him for one night.

God he was a cunt. Why was he so possessed of this idea? Jesus, she'd just lost a baby and he hadn't even asked her about it yet. She wasn't in the mood. It didn't matter. He made his way across the garden path leaving the beauty of the Roman afternoon behind. Maids rushed out of his way. He pinched one on the ass. Cheeky. The girl yelped and blushed furiously dropping her eyes to his predatory smirk. Marcus met him on his way down to the garage, pulling on a dark blue t-shirt over his head and brushing out his hair with his fingers.

"Hey bro, wanna take the Ducati for a ride?"

"Yeah buddy, let's go hit up the Lombardi's, see if they got any work for us." Christov murmured, dropping his cigarette butt into the ashtray upon the work table before stalking over to the sleek and ruinously expensive Italian sports bike in candy-apple red. He mounted it with a purr. Mmh, it felt good to have this much power between his legs. Marcus took one look at his friend and colleague, mounted on that motorbike and looking stung. He knew instantly that something was wrong. And he guessed at what it was.

"Rough morning bro?"

"Dumped. Twice." Was all Christov offered as he thumbed the keyfob in his pocket that rolled out the mechanical garage doors, opening to the steep drive way and the Roman streets below.

Beside him Marcus put on his leather jacket and handed his friend his cycle helmet without a word before also mounting his own monstrous black bike. The roar of Italian engines exploded to life. Both men revved their engines, getting high off the purr of precision sports engineering. Like great mechanical beasts. Steel horses. Guns, bullets and steel knives honed to dangerous edges rested in their travel cases fixed to the bike's rears. These boys were headed to the Lombardi's precinct. Even though they were on a week's vacation and business didn't have to be considered. They wanted to blow off a little steam. And if fucking up the Lombardi's ring was the way they were gonna get it, then so be it.

The garage doors closed behind them. Marcus and Christov took off down the winding Roman road.

|||

Back within the estate, Hector had was just drying off as he came out of the pool. He'd pulled on some sleek cotton pants in white and was wiping the last of the water from his hair as he followed the path around the manicured gardens past the stone angels toward the sound of a very excited puppy making its best attempts to sound imposing as it shouted at a flock of doves in the fountain bowls that were not going to give the little creature any attention. The sunlight sparkled off the young woman's hair. And her eyes through troubled were as beautiful as jewels. She was radiant to behold!  

"Lali! Ciao bella! How you doin' baby girl? Oh God! Look at him! He's gorgeous! Do you love him babe? You given him a name yet?" Hector called as he padded over on confident strides. His shoulder was still mending after the attack the young woman had bestowed upon him. But now, rather than feel the sting of irritation, he was proud for every time it ached. It mean that their latest guard, his Lalienna (for that is what he thought of her in private, as his little sister) had a very large set of balls that complimented Ares' skills extremely well. He made to kiss the young woman's forehead but earned a protective series of yelps from the puppy until he melted and gave the little dog his fingers to smell. The pup nipped him excitedly. Tiny little razor sharp teeth that made Hector cry out.

"Ow! Ow! Geez! Settle down, baby boy! It's okay! It's me! Uncle Hector! Remember? We picked your little butt up this morning, ha ha ha! Oh, there we go. You like me now, eh?" The puppy reverted to arfing at Hector with a wag of his tiny cropped tail, approving of the scent of the man that he now remembered was the first human outside of his family to lift him from his pack. That was alright then. He didn't mind this boy human. He was the one that smelled warm. A protector. Big and strong. That's what Cerberus wanted to grow up as. But for now, he'd chomp anything that came near his mami! He arfed happily. He wanted to play with the doves.

"Put him down a little babe, let him run around. The garden's are fully gated in solid steel. No gaps anywhere. There's nowhere for him to run out of. He'll be fine."

The sunlight caught Hector's wheat blonde hair and the muscle across his chest, playing off the tattoos on his skin as the droplets of water gathered down his chest. He was handsome in the way of a solider with a gentle heart was handsome. But he'd seen the trouble in the young woman's eyes. And he knew she was suffering. So he asked quietly flicking his eyes over his shoulders to make sure they were out of earshot of anyone that was important.

"Hey baby... Talk to me. How've you been keeping? Are you okay?"  

“Cerberus!” He loved it! The name rolled off his tongue with his Italian accent. He tried the name a few more times.

“Cerberus, Cerberus… Baby Cerbs… A baby… Oh Lali, congratulations Mami, amore mio, you’re the proud mother of a darling baby boy! I’m so happy for you amore! God… look at me, I’m crying!”

He couldn’t help himself. His eyes flooded as he looked at his prospective wife and their furry child. His heart was singing, and breaking… Fuck… Fuck… He wanted to get her a ring. He wanted to make it official.

Cool it.

Cool off.

It hasn’t even been three months yet. It had taken him four years before he finally proposed to Marissa. He wasn’t ready to rush something so important with Lalienna. But he was Italian, hot-blooded, impulsive, and she was holding a furry son. Loving him. He was praising himself. This had been his idea had’t it? Oh… yeah… No it wasn’t. It was Hector’s.  But it didn’t matter. He wanted to make her happy.

Keep reading

Judeth Clayton: Queen, Disrupted

Don’t Tear Away From Me

I Need You to Hold On To

How Can This Mean Anything To Me?

When All You Do Is Keep Bleeding Through

|||

My history is written in Blood & Gold

I am Judeth Clayton; Queen, Interrupted

I am Judeth Clayton; Queen, Disrupted

{{[[ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat   ||  @lalienna-dementriento ]]}}

Are you watching, love?

I Will Love You, Because You’re My Lady Human

I’m little, Lady Human. Tiny right now. Very small. And a little nervous and a little scared. There’s much happening around me. I was told by Mummy and Daddy that I would one day be selected by a Human family to be part of their Forever Home.  That I would have to grow up big and strong to care for them. To do them the big Protect! Because that is my purpose. So give me time, and love and cuddles. Let me play and eat and sleep. Please don’t be cross at me, if I make a mistake or make a mess. I’m learning Lady Human. Learning to walk on my big boy paws. And I’m listening to what you tell me. Even if all the words don’t make complete sense yet. I’m still listening. And I love you! Because you’re my Lady Human.

Don’t be the sad, Lady Human. I’m here for you now. You gave me my name! I’m Cerberus. That is a good name for me. A strong name! I will come when you call me.

Remember, you have your family, your friends, your amusements and your entertainment. But me....All I have is you. And I will always love you.... because you’re my Lady Human. 

Three words, ladies and gentlemen of the Internet.

Hit. Me. Up.

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Always yours, always welcoming to your questions, comments and requests.

Even though I’m not a Fan Fic author, as such, I am a writer and a professional. I encourage conversation and exchange of ideas. I am currently invested in content-creating for the John Wick fandom and will accept commissions and inquiries about what on earth all that writing I’m doing is related to.

There are incredible authors out there that can make your heart pound, melt and sizzle all at once.

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Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. 

Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

"Cerberus!" He loved it! The name rolled off his tongue with his Italian accent. He tried the name a few more times.

"Cerberus, Cerberus... Baby Cerbs... A baby... Oh Lali, congratulations Mami, amore mio, you're the proud mother of a darling baby boy! I'm so happy for you amore! God... look at me, I'm crying!"

He couldn't help himself. His eyes flooded as he looked at his prospective wife and their furry child. His heart was singing, and breaking... Fuck... Fuck... He wanted to get her a ring. He wanted to make it official.

Cool it.

Cool off.

It hasn't even been three months yet. It had taken him four years before he finally proposed to Marissa. He wasn't ready to rush something so important with Lalienna. But he was Italian, hot-blooded, impulsive, and she was holding a furry son. Loving him. He was praising himself. This had been his idea had't it? Oh... yeah... No it wasn't. It was Hector's.  But it didn't matter. He wanted to make her happy.

No matter the cost. Anything. Nothing would stop him from bringing a smile to this young woman's face. She was only twenty-one but she'd suffered so much. An addict and abuser for a mother, dead now. A father that wouldn't acknowledge her in the slightest. Selfish, too caught up in his own life to take responsibility for the fact that he'd be instrumental to birthing a bastard.

The Ruska Roma... The Director. That was no life, the Russian clans. They were monsters. Hard, brutal, born on blood and torture and torment. John Wick.... Fucking John Wick was revered in the Underworld. He'd come from the Ruska Roma as well. A dog of The Director. A powerful family clan. A Prince of the Underworld.

No, no don't think about John. John was... dangerous territory. He didn't want to remember that man's face right now. Somewhere deep inside his heart, he was aching at the fact that Lalienna had confessed to Wick being her first true lover. And it had been recent. Too recent. That... and the Powell Family. Gianna had been sending him missives and updates from her time in London. She would not be pleased to learn that her brother had taken flight back to Italy and removed the entire High Guard when House Powell had just declared open war against the White Women. Fuck... He was gonna get caned for this when Gianna found out. She probably already knew. He was surprised she wasn't blowing up her phone.

Perhaps... if she did... He could contract someone else to take over on his behalf.

John's face flashed in his mind's eye again. Prince of the Underworld. Lord of Darkness. They called him Baba Yaga now. The killer of the boogeyman. He'd make the call if he had to. But there was no guarantee John would accept the work. Not if he knew the depth of the back-story that proceeded the job. Perhaps he'd refuse on principle when he learned that House Powell summoned the feud because of his love affair with Lalienna in the first place.

That would be an awkward conversation. He wondered how it would play out.

'Benvenuto John, vieni a sederti con me, prendi un caffè. Ascolta, ho bisogno che tu uccida qualcuno per me. Il potenziale pretendente della tua ex ragazza a Londra. Ci stai?' (Welcome John, come sit with me, have a coffee. Listen, I need you to kill someone for me. Your ex-girlfriend's prospective suitor in London. Are you in?)

He could almost imagine that man's dark eyes darken even further at the mere mention. He wouldn't have to tell him the truth. Just that it was all business. He'd met Lalienna in London at the Continental. And he'd offered her a job considering she was unattached to any other syndicate or clan. She'd accepted. She was Camorra now under the D'Antonio's. On his payroll. That would do, wouldn't it? He didn't have to say, 'Yeah, I've also made Lalienna my girlfriend. I'm fucking her for you. Because you don't have the balls to keep doing it. Your loss motherfucker. She's my slave now.'

No way. John would empty a magazine into his head so fast he'd not have time to speak his mother's name as his last words. This was dangerous. He'd have to chose someone else. He and Wick had history when their paths crossed in the past. The Russians and Italians acknowledged each other as superpowers in the underworld. Coupled with the English, they were practically unstoppable. They'd taken on the Triads and the Japanese before and won. And lost... but mostly won.

That didn't matter now. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. What mattered right now was Lalienna as she sat on the bed with his tiny, furry son. He was in love. Absolutely in love. Nothing could make him any happier. He wiped at his tears with the back of his hand and kissed her forehead and the baby Cerberus'  tiny ears. The little pup looked up sleepily and snuggled deeper into the young lady's arms. In his little mind, baby Cerberus had decided that this human girl smelled warm, friendly. She... smelled like blood. Mummy blood. He remembered that smell. His mummy smelled like that too. His brothers and sisters. He missed them already. Mummy and Daddy had told him that one day, soon, he would be separated from his pack to find a forever home with a new human family. That his mission would be to grow up big and strong and protect them whoever they were. This human lady was it. He was sure of it. She smelled like she needed protecting. He was tiny, sleepy and still much too little and new to this interesting world to be of any use yet. But he promised to himself, as he heard his name christened. He was Cerberus. Hmm, he liked that name.

He'd like to tell Mummy and Daddy and his puppy pack that the human lady had given it to him. She smelled warm. Gentle. Young, like him. And she smelled of blood. Young blood. Birthing blood. He knew what that smell meant. She had had a pup too... Was he her pup? Now he was confused. He was tired. The other humans were so very nice to him. They were big and strong and they held him gently and made sure he felt safe. They were boy humans. He liked boy humans. They were just like him. And they smelled warm and tender and big and strong. They were protectors. He wanted to grow up just like them.

Mmmh, his Lady Human. He loved her. She was warm... He would sleep here a little.

'Wait for me, Lady Human. I will grow big and strong for you. Just take care of me. I love you.' Were his final thoughts as he drifted in her arms to a comfortable sleep.

"Amore, I'm going to give you and the baby some time alone to get acquainted. I'm so happy you love him. The boys and I wanted to give you someone special. Someone who could love and protect you deeper than even we can. He's yours forever bella. You have to promise me to look after him with your heart and soul. Remember, he has to go wherever you go. You have to protect him and he will lay his life down for you as soon as he gets bigger. You're a mother now. He's going to make you grow up quickly. We're all here to help you raise him. Hector has raised dogs since he was a child, Panchelli as well. I don't doubt the other guards have all had occasion to look after dogs and other animals in their history. We're  all in this together. But  you are his sole legal registered owner. You'll be responsible for his training and feeding and cleaning. Because you're strong and intelligent and it will do you good to focus on his up-bringing. Never let his care make you feel overwhelmed. If you ever need a break, we're here for you. All of us. Bring him to me, I will care for him in your stead. Day and night. He's welcome to sleep on the beds and sofas.  Just be careful he doesn't get in the way of the maids when they're working. And if it rains, make sure he doesn't track puppy paws all over the house. Panchelli is particular about clean floors. . and...." He had so much more to say...

"Lalienna... I love you amore mio. I meant it when I told you there's nothing going on with Chris and I. We're idiots. Playing around, being silly. We didn't mean it. Look, you know us. We're family now. Sure, we're going to kiss and hug and sleep in the same beds some times. That's natural in my house. I do it on purpose because guards that are kept safe and warm become better attack dogs when they have something they feel they really want to protect. If I treated them like mercenaries, paid muscle... They'd treat me like a paid employer. Camorra or not. They'd go where the money and the power goes. It's love that keeps them here. My love. Our love for each other. We're tight babe. Really tight. We have history and you'll have to accept it runs deeper and longer than yours. This is still very new to you, I know. We've been together less than three months. Let's just... grow together a bit. Get your heels dug in. Feel the way we work with each other. Learn that we are family first and foremost. Business partners second."

He kissed her cheek again. His fingers caressing the puppy's warm, soft hind legs as he slept in her arms.

"Lali... we have rules babe. Lines we don't cross. We talked about this in the past but not clearly enough. We make vows to each other. There's a legitimate code of conduct that even though it's unspoken its contractual and we have to adhere to it so we don't get ourselves over-complicated when we shouldn't.  I know... what you saw last night looked like a mess. We were both pretty fucked up. Actually, we all were. I don't let them get loose like that very often. We almost never have hard drugs in the house for that reason. When we're working, we have to keep sober, straight. No booze, no nothing. It clouds your judgment, your perspective is off. Imagine having to make a business deal or negotiate a border skirmish between rival gangs when you're stoned off your face? We didn't get to be number 1 in Rome by taking potshots and injecting crack. We've got a reputation to uphold. We're operatives under The High Table. The Table in Italy is guarded by my father, Lorenzo. He's your boss now as much as he's mine. And beneath him is Gianna. If she says we do something, we do it. We don't ask questions and we don't push back. Rome is ours babe, but there's rules we need to respect. The politicians, the police, the feds. Lorenzo keeps them paid off. Yes it's corrupt but the Mafia has existed for centuries, from Sicily to Venice and back again. If we can't respect each other, and our rules. How are we going to respect them, eh?"  He got to his feet now and made for the door, smiling at her. Loving her.

"Whatever you think you've heard about my past, whatever you think you know. I urge you to ask me up front, tesoro. I mean it. I'm not going to lie to you. I'm loyal in a relationship. I'll be the first to admit I've whored about a lot when I was younger. Guys, girls, anything I wanted. But when I said, enough. That I was gonna settle in with one woman, I fuckin' meant it. No cheating. No backstabbing. No double-cross, or two-timing. It's not my style. I don't play those dirty games because I've had them played on me." He didn't want to say the rest but he did.

"Before you... about three years ago... there was a woman I was gonna marry. Her name was Marissa Conti. We were engaged. She ended up leaving me. It was complicated. Messy. I loved her and found out she was seeing another man behind my back. And sleeping with him in my bed when I wasn't home. We.... never made it past the engagement. I put an exclusive contract out on her lover. I had him beaten, abused, tortured until he confessed everything. Christov and Hector were there. They all knew one way or the other what was happening. They were all paid for what we did to him that night. I paid them to end his life. I was the one that put a bullet in his head for fucking my fiancée. ... I made her watch... And what I did to her... It cost me.....Two years. Complicated. Messy. I don't wanna talk about this now, or ever. But... one day, if you're raw about it, and need to know. Come and find me. We'll have coffee. We'll talk. But at least now, you know where I stand. You know deep down why I went insane when I found out about Devina. And baby, I thought about it. Putting a hit on her. I thought about making you watch as I blew her fucking head off. I would have done it too... But I get it. You had history together. I understand history. So you can sleep easy at night knowing I'm going to keep my word when I tell you Devina is going to live. I'm not gonna fuck with her. For you.... But Lali.... amore mio.... You're not gonna fuck with me either. Okay?"

He'd said more than he was prepared to. He was aching now. He needed time alone. He nodded to her,

"Take care of the baby." The last thing he said before leaving the room and shutting the door.

|||

Ares and Christov were standing in the hallway, chattering with each other using rapid sign language. He couldn't tell what they were saying.

"Hey boss! How'd it go? She loves him right?! We did good, right?" He came forward to meet his friends and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. He kissed both their cheeks and confirmed the idea was a masterpiece. That Lalienna had named the baby dog Cerberus, after the protective hound of Hell.  Both guards were very impressed.

'Ares, can you give us boys a minute?' He signed. The young woman saluted happily. She threw up a peace sign and knocked at Lali's door before letting herself in and leaving Chris and Tino alone on the landing.

"Walk with me." Was all Tino said. Christov did. Following at his boss' heels. He was a good dog. He'd do what he was told without question.

The men made their way downstairs. To the kitchen where Pancheilli was busy organizing rosters with the maids. The old butler immediately brightened and asked if the master could be attended but Santino smiled and told him to continue. He just wanted to make some coffee. Would he take the ladies to another room please to continue their business?

"Certo signore! andiamo, abbiamo molto da fare. Chi ha le schede attività? Vai, vai, il maestro è occupato. Non ha bisogno di noi." (Certainly sir! Ladies, come on, we have much to do. Who has the timesheets? Go, go, the master is busy. He doesn't need us.)

The maids and butler retired to the servants quarters. The chef had gone to the markets to restock the pantry. Santino and Christov were alone. Tino attended the coffee machine and served two rich cappuccinos before suggesting they go and take them on the balcony overlooking the gardens.  

Christov thanked his employer, took both their cups and led the way, holding back the door and settling down next to Tino, serving him his coffee.

"Smoke boss?"

"Per favore." (Please)

Then men inhaled and sipped their cups contentedly. Happy to just be lost in their own thoughts.

"She loves the little dog, eh?"

"Yeah... he's precious, like her. She'll love him like her own son, I know she will."

"We did good boss. I'm glad you bought him for her. She needs this. More than you'll ever know."

"Christov?"

"Yeah?"

"About last night." Chris stung inside. He dropped his eyes. Taking his coffee as the only important thing in the world. He knew this was coming. He was fucking dreading it.

"Lalienna knows something's up. Between us. She thought I'd left the bed to go fuck you last night because she was too weak and high."

"Get out of it."

"I'm serious."

That hurt. Deeply. Santino hadn't looked at him romantically since Singapore. Those kisses last night, through fueled in hatred... were something else. Jealousy. He was hurting inside. Lalienna had overtaken him.  Had taken Santino away. And he knew that would happen. That's fine. Whatever. He wasn't the main focus anyway. He never wanted to be. He wasn't a fag after all. He liked pussy as much as the next guy. He liked Lalienna's. But now... with the baby... or lack thereof. And with Ares. There was too much competition. Santino was home now. Back in the picture. He'd been pushed to the side. Again. The way he had all his life.

"There's nothing going on between us, boss. Don't worry about it. I was high last night."

"Bullshit. You didn't touch a single line. I watched you. You were sober for her. You've been guarding her with Hector and Ares more than any of the others. You know something and you won't let me in on it. Start talking."

"There's nothing to talk about, man. I mean it. She's fucked. You fucked her up good. Broke her down after the affair. She was a mess when you stopped talking to her. I told you about this remember? We had to care for her because you stopped. Because it was inconvenient."

"She's never been inconvenient."

"So long as it suits you."  God! That stung him. Like a kick to the balls. His green eyes darkened. He sucked on his cigarette and attacked.

"Where's this coming from, Christov? Hmm? You jealous?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin' jealous. I admit it. I was pissed off. She's a really beautiful girl and you tormented her by being a dick. I would have taken her place if I could. Anything. Just to be under you."

"Under me?"

"You know what I mean, man. I've been real to you since Singapore."

"The other girls?"

"Paid entertainment. Couple of Athena's whores in London. In and out. Nothing serious." He met his employer's eyes now. And he was burning. Angry.

"Listen, I get it. Really I do. I don't fuck with the family. I don't break the code of conduct, I don't mix business with pleasure and I keep my shit on the down-low. Discreet. Outside of business hours. But what we did in Singapore. You can't tell me that was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing, Chris. It was as real for you as it was for me."

"We were both high."

"We were both lonely."

"I should have taken that bullet for you."

"You gave me another one. It was deeper and it harder than anything I've taken before."

That made him laugh. The two men eased off a bit. Yes there was still heat between them, but it was below the surface.

"Yeah well... you kinda did a number on me too. You'll forgive me for getting antsy about rules. We both blew them that night. When we blew each other. You've been my first and last guy. I wasn't expecting to feel so.... replaced."

"Christov, come on? Really? Replaced? With who? You see me putting a ring on the other boys?"

"You should probably tell Curtis and Tony to cool off then. They were practically fucking each other on the lounge in front of the girls last night."

Another laugh as both men took to their coffees and smokes.

"So we're all breaking the rules. Blurring the lines. Okay. Okay. I get it. If I mean to be a leader then I need to lead by example. And I've not been doing a very good job." Santino admitted.

"Look, London was hard man. We appreciate you giving us space to just be free and blow off some steam. We love Lalienna, really. But she's new and fragile. We gonna protect her. And that includes from our bullshit."

"You got off last night. Tattooing her. I saw you kiss her knee." Chris stiffened in his seat a little. His mouth watered. He'd... touched himself to that memory last night, alone. In his bed.

"Yeah, I did. I kissed her. But.. she wasn't into it the way I wanted to. I got off on it, but she was vacant, man. Whatever drugs she was trippin' on weren't keeping her focused. Fuckin' hot tatt though, am I right?"

"Wet dream material."

"I know, right!"

"Fuck yeah. Thank you, Christov, for marking her for me. For us. I appreciate your hard work. She'll come thank you eventually herself."

"She doesn't need to. I know she's just easing into the idea of being part of our crew. She's got a great ass though."

"Si... she does. I know... I've held it."

"So don't give me shit about being jealous. Respect brother!"

"Respect!" Both men bumped fists. Shook hands. Pulled each other into a tight hug. It lasted. And lasted.

Neither man was willing to be the first to pull away. So they didn't. They just embraced. Feeling the beat of the other's heart against each other's chests.

The air had cleared between them. Santino felt less deceptive now that he'd confronted their affair in the open. Christov roiled in hidden guilt. He shouldn't have done what he did with Lalienna. Letting her come to his rooms. Sleep in his bed. Brought her to orgasm with his fingers, with his tongue. Fuck... A hidden three-way love triangle. Right out of some softcore porno. He still wanted to show her that video. And he'd learn to accept that his relationship with his employer was always going to be a family affair. Whether he wanted to or not. Singapore was ages ago. Years ago. They'd never come back to that intimacy together. They'd gotten close. They'd slept in each other's beds. They'd kissed and fondled each other. Tino had let him suck him off, once... twice... Maybe more. Much more. And it had been incredible. But it was a dream now. Lalienna was here. And he was crossing the invisible line.

Finally, the two men separated. Christov lingered. Closer than he should. He came forward, putting down his cigarette and pulling Tino's out of his lips. He watched his boss blow out the plume of smoke he'd held from the corner of his mouth. And the moment he was done, he came forward and kissed him. Slow... gentle. Just lips touching. Nothing more.

Santino accepted the kiss. Opened his mouth a little. Telling the other man it was okay. So it built. Deeper. They're tongues exchanged an embrace and both men recognized that there was still very much a searing flame of passion between them. Unrecognized. Denied. But it existed. There were fireworks. It felt good. Comfortable. It wasn't pretentious or unsolicited. It was just relaxed. Lazy. Like sex on a late Sunday morning. They pulled away at last. Both men sighed deeply. Smiling at each other. Taking their coffee cups and cigarettes again.

"So... Santino... You breaking up with me? For Lalienna?" He smirked. Cheeky grin. He wasn't going to let this break him down.

"Yeah... for Lalienna. She's my main squeeze now. She's special. So I'm still your boss. But I'm definitely breaking up with you." Both men laughed. This felt good too. Bittersweet. But good.

"'Kay... I'm kinda pissed about it. But, she's a special girl. So I'll allow it. Because I like her too. And she has a great ass. And incredible tits. And I already got deep into her skin when I gave her that tattoo. So in a way, I've kinda already fucked her for you." That was dirty, he shouldn't have gone that far. But he didn't care. Tino laughed it off with a smirk.

"Well... if anyone was gonna honour fuck her, I'd be glad for it to be you. Because... the way she is right now...I don't think I'll be getting laid anytime soon." Tino came forward off the lounge and crushed his smoke into the ashtray. Rising to his feet and blowing out the last of the cigarette through his lips.

"She'll come 'round boss. Just give her time. She's raw you know. Girls on their periods are edgy. She's young. She needs to be looked after. Just like Ares. "

"Pfffft! Don't start me on Ares. I know she's crushing on Lali, hard."

"She'll behave. I'll get her to take it easy. Back off."

"Grazie." (Thanks) Tino said.

"Prego." (You are welcome) Chris replied watching as his employer and one-time lover re-entered the house. He didn't want to go in just yet. The air felt good against his skin. He'd have another smoke first. Clear his head a bit. He'd just been dumped, after all. It was heavy. And he still had to work for the man that dumped him. That would take adjusting. He could do this. Besides. They had a distraction now. He'd visit Lali later with the puppy. Offer to take them both for their first walk around the block. He still wanted to show her that video. Now he wanted to up the steaks. Bet some money on it. They didn't make it clear how they'd determine the winner. But he knew, deep in his heart. He'd end up back between her legs, eating her out. No time soon. Not while she was in the aftermath of abortion. But one day she'd need him. And she knew what to do. Just knock on his door. He'd let her in.

He was her attack dog after all.

Part Two

It wasn't right.

His thoughts screamed it. Even though his body rejected his mind's reasoning. Even though she was overwhelming him with her touch. Leaving him aching, raw. There was something... something about her. He couldn't put his finger on it. It was slipping. It just wasn't right.

And he adored the way she kissed him. Deep, hungry. Chasing his tongue. Cheeky minx. He purred against her lips. Sighing, giving over. Laughing happily against the kiss. His thoughts again interfered, he should have  been ashamed of himself. Tainting her passion when his kiss had just been shared amongst the nerve undulating high of cocaine and inside Christov's mouth. He should have at least brushed his teeth to spare her tasting the remnants of the other man's saliva. That was... illicit. Dirty. He wondered about how she felt, witnessing that scene downstairs. It had been intense. Fuelled by aggravation that started extremely sincere, but when he realized the absolute ridiculous nature of the insult he spat, whatever he was angry about just.. disappeared into the ether. And he was unable to keep a straight face. Nor could Christov. That was wrong. Really wrong. She shouldn't have been subjected to that. Here he was a mere month prior lecturing her, snapping like a dog against her about her indiscretion and infidelity with another woman and he had committed virtually the same sin directly in front of her.

Was she too high to realize what was going on?

He wondered if he'd have to explain himself in time.

He couldn't believe it. This is really what consumed his thoughts even as his lover was lacing her tongue against his throat. Lower.. along his chest. His hands found her back, her silken hair...

"Yeah... yeah that's it baby... more...Uh... yes..." She had him. His nipple in her mouth. Fuck.... fuck he loved it when she did that. He arched off the bed, desperate for contact. His body raging between his thighs. The ache in his manhood becoming blinding. All encompassing. It had been ages since he fucked a woman while high on coke. He loved doing it. Every sensation just heightened a thousand fold. She was edging him beautifully. He was whimpering mess of red desire beneath her lips.

Christov flooded his thoughts again. They'd both been high that night in Singapore. Deep in the underground where they shouldn't have been. They'd escaped by the skin of their teeth. And those possessing drugs of any kind were sentenced to almost imidiate execution without trial. The nation had little respect for foreigners and aliens bringing their filthy narcotics into their clean land. They had both been bleeding. Christov was a dog. He'd begun by wiping the blood from Tino's lips first with his fingers, apologizing for not having served better. Then with his kiss. What came over the two men in that backstreet industrial alleyway was inexplicable. They tore at each other's clothes. Pushed each other against the slightly greasy brickwork and kissed. Not the cordial, respectful, chaste kisses of brothers. No. This had gotten deeper. Darker. They confessed things to each other without saying a word. Just with their eyes. That they wanted to fuck. To break the rules. Because there were some lines that you didn't cross in the Camorra. That honor and family was the most sanctimonious. You just didn't do it. Confused business with pleasured. Blurred the line between colleagues and lovers.

But they did... They did.

That line was crossed.

And they both got off on it with reckless abandon.

They'd never say a word. They'd take this secret to their graves. No one would have to know. But they did. Even though they never said a word to the rest of the guard, they seemed to intrinsically figure it out for themselves. And they weren't angry about it. Why? Because he was their employer, maybe. Because they were wearing his money and riding on his coat tails? Perhaps. Because they were Italian and bisexuality was as normal as the air you breathed. Also a strong possibility. Because they reasoned that his heart wasn't in it entirely. Because his primary focus had always been on women. True. True.

Whatever it was, they relaxed about him. And in the privacy of his estate he relaxed the rules on them as well. He'd know for a while that Curtis and Tony were going likely going steady. Even though they never talked about it and sought to take women as their partners. Mostly for show. Because it was better if Lorenzo didn't have to think too hard about what his High Guard was really like.

He'd been married for almost thirty years. He wouldn't understand anyway. Not without explosive repercussions. They didn't need that.

So Christov never let it go. That one night in Singapore. When they were strung out on cocaine and drunk on fear and pain and pressure. Running from their enemies, running from the law. Running from themselves.

They accepted each other a lot more readily than they should have. But it had felt good.

Ridiculous. He pushed the thoughts of the other man away. Lalienna was working his skin. Descending his abs and stripping him of his will to fight her. Her kisses were hot, burning. He could hear himself begging. But he sounded as though it was coming from somewhere else in the room. It was the coke. He wasn't fighting the high. He was rolling with it. He wanted it... His cock in her mouth... Those deep, decadent strokes. Fuck it. He'd bend her over the bed and take her from behind. He was wild with the desire to see his body covered in her blood. It was a fantasy. A filthy illusion that suggested he'd taken her virginity. She was bleeding for him. She always bled for him.

The scar... healing at her throat that alluded to his initial. He pulled her hair back just so he could see the 'S'. Hear her whimper.

"You high right now, baby?" He needed to know... She didn't feel right. She didn't look or sound right all night since she came downstairs.

"Lali... Tesoro, sei alto?" (Treasure, are you high?) She lapped at his groin, teasing him with her tongue before looking up at him from her knees. Her eyes unfocused. She looked pale. Weakening. She wasn't there. And he knew what that was liked. He'd fucked strung out whores before that made offers to do things that were inhumane just so long as they got enough cash to make it for the next hit.

"Mm? Sort of Papi... painkillers." He nodded shifting back from her. Teasing her. She giggled at his resistance. His gentle fingertips caressed her jaw.

"Do you feel good right now?" He whispered hotly. Praying for an answer.

"Sure... sure I'm okay, Papi... really... Just, let me love you. I've been so bad-"

"You haven't, amore, you've been human. That's no sin."

"I don't deserve-"

"Yes you do... You do angel, you deserve my love. Don't contest it. Now, get up... Up... off your knees. I've changed my mind about what I want."

She hesitated. It was visible and direct and stiff. Unable to hide herself. He tensed. Leaning back against the bed. His fingers working the zip to his fly.

"Non dovremmo farlo quando sei in questa condizione." (We shouldn't do this when you're in this condition.) He swung his legs around her, got off the bed. Fuck... Everything hurt. He'd denied himself her touch for a month. They'd barely been afforded a moment's privacy together and now that they had the perfect opportunity his fucking conscience got in the way.

She huffed angrily. Dejected. He never refused her. This was a first. She wasn't accustomed to his lack of submission. She'd been good at making him fold to her will. Making him submit. Making him cum. And he wanted to. Now more than ever, but he couldn't. This wasn't right.

"Papi, come on... don't be like that... Come back to bed. I wanna make your feel good."

"And I want you to... more than anything, bella mia... but this.. I can't. You're a mess. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?"

"You're fucking high, Papi... " She laughed at him, indignant in disbelief. She was on her feet and following him around the room.

"Have you looked at yourself? You don't look crash hot either."

"Don't deflect on me, Lalienna.. we're talking about you here."

"Words... too hard.. Just.. feel." She was touching him, his bare chest. His arms. He was weak for her. He wanted her. He raked his hands through his hair and pulled away though it killed him to do it.

"Why aren't you eating?"

"Wha?"

"I said, why aren't you eating, Lalienna? Hmm? I know you haven't touched a plate in over 24 hours. Ares told me you keep refusing food. We've talked about this, we're not going down this road. I've been there, done that. Bulimia, eating disorders. You're not going there, amore. I won't let you."

"It's not like that, Papi... I just.. get into moods, 'kay? I don't feel like food right now."

"But will you?"

"I'm gaining weight... it's gross.." She was rambling, dejected. Her eyes unfocused.

"In your imagination, maybe. Not on your body. Have you seen yourself? You're a walking supermodel, baby girl. You've practically got the body of a prepubescent boy were it not for your hips and breasts. You and Ares could be confused for each other, from behind."

She pushed at him, hard. Knocking him off balance so that he landed on the ottoman at the foot of the bed.

"You're killing the mood, Papi... this isn't sexy anymore."

"No, it isn't. But you are. Even if you're fucked up. I still want you. Need you. I wanna do things to you that I've been holding back for too long. Gentle... loving. Nothing hard. Nothing dangerous, nothing that pulls you out of your comfort zone."

She purred his name. Sinking back to her knees between his legs. And he opened them for her. Inviting her. He took her hand then, and pressed it right atop his pulsing heat. Hard for her still as it strained against his grey trousers.

"Feel that? Hmm? That there.. baby girl... It's all for you. I'm yours. Every inch belongs to your heart and soul and body."

"Papi's big." She giggled, mischievous eyes. Hungry... but not.. Something still wasn't right. So he pushed her.

"Lali... what's going on? Between us? Right now?" Her eyes changed in response. She pushed away. He knew it. He fucking knew it.

"Cosa non mi stai dicendo?" (What aren't you telling me?)

"I don't know what I want anymore! I'm scared okay? I'm scared of us.. of you! I'm scared of myself." Tears, her eyes filled and began to drain for the second time that night. He hated this. Seeing her cry like this. It was killing him.

He got up, lifting her from her knees and then arranging her in his arms. He plucked her bodily off the floor. She weighed little that was of any consequence. And she didn't resist him. So he carried her back to the bed and laid her down gently. Taking off his shirt that she wore beautifully. Wanting to take off her underwear. But she whimpered and refused him. He didn't care if she bled through the sheets. He had a mattress protector anyway.  Everything was washable. But she didn't want her lace removed. So he respected that and left her a moment to strip himself naked. His clothes joining hers on the floor... No, he thought better of it. He didn't want her to suffer. So he picked them up. Shook them out and hung them neatly on the back of his dressing chair before striding back to take residence atop the bed with her.

He was tired after all. And the building urge for release was stripping him of his will to think clearly. It didn't matter. He'd be happy to deny himself now that he had her. She'd love him when she was better. They had all the time in the world together. She was his Mistress now. They'd make this up to each other.

He told her so as he covered them over under the rich sheets and elegant black quilt. He hugged her to him. Listened to her, for moments as she cried in his arms. Burying her face against his neck. His shoulder wet with her tears. He shushed her lovingly. Gently. His tender hands at her back. Caressing circles on her skin.

"It's okay...baby girl... It's okay... It's like the phase of the moon... the tides of the sea. Today you'll feel impossible. Run down... Worn out. Tomorrow... it will pass. It will always pass. We don't have to rush things anymore. You're safe now that you're with me. I won't.... I fuck this up for us. We're both not at our best right now. It's been a long week and its only just begun. Sleep, baby. Just sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow when you wake I'll have a new gift for you. A surprise. Something that will make you forget about everything you're going through. Everything you've suffered. Sleep. Heal. Sleep."

God... he thought to himself. She was an angel. He'd torn off her wings when he forced himself within her. Again when he cut her. And she was bleeding out the moment he laid eyes on her. Now she was bleeding again and he could almost taste it. No wonder he was offending her. He almost wanted to attend the bathroom, to shower and brush his teeth and make himself presentable for her. But, her weight was heavy against him. The bed was soft and sleep was calling . Like a siren.

He closed his eyes a moment.

"I love you, Lalienna...."

He drifted on that empty ocean.

He wasn't alone this time.

She was beside him.

Come to dinner, wear a dress.

I came to dinner

He invited me

I wore a dress

In black

For him

He watched me over the dinner table

Refilled my wine

Reminded me to breathe

Though I forgot long ago how to live.

Part One.

Across the oceans, as the sun had set on a wet English afternoon, Judeth Clayton had arrived by private car and been deposited upon the street at the doors of The Continental London. She wore a magnificent floor-length ebony evening gown designed and hand made in Persia with flowing caped sleeves. Her dark hair was pinned in elegant coils and waves about her head. From her ears, she wore singular white pearls, a set that complimented their matching necklace as it adorned her décolleté. Upon her feet, she wore spectacular black Christian Louboutin heels whose timeless red soles were Judeth's absolute trademark. The picture of refinement. The car door was held open for her exit and as she was escorted along the red carpet that led to the hotel doors that were also held by doorman for her arrival. She was flanked by two guards. A man and woman in immaculate black suits. They were inescapable and silent. And they watched the Hand Maid like a hawk. Before leaving the White Tower of London, they had searched the contents of her evening clutch, checking her phone for unsolicited messages and calls. Rifling through her belongings where they displaced her lipstick, pen, tampons and other inconsequential trifles that were typical of a woman's evening purse. Her belongings were insignificant to their interest. What they searched for were pills, hyperaemic needles, and morphine vials. For that was the source of their employment in this mission.

Master Karth Piaf had made it clear that they were to ensure the woman was at no time left unattended or be remotely permitted to interact with, engage or otherwise fraternise with anyone or anything that even remotely looked like they were capable or allowing her to indulge even in the illusion of narcotic use. The pair that served her now were one of two sets of four total guards from Athena's security detail that were assigned to monitor the Hand Maid day and night without fail. They worked in 12 hour shifts between them, rotating at 6AM and 6PM respectively. Their tireless routine was not once interrupted. They had attended to this uneventful and tedious duty without fail or incident every day for the past two months. Karth paid them a generous four digit wage and a single gold coin for every shift they completed where they could report back that Judeth had not evaded their notice or succum to her visceral urge to inject herself. Yes, it was a mindlessly boring task watching the 38 year old woman day in and day out attend to a monotonous routine. But they did not mind entirely for it kept them from the field of battle and off the streets. They were breifed that if questioned as to why they kept up this peerless duty, that the lady was on "death watch". Athena forbade her Hand Maids the luxury of suicide and Judeth's mental health had deteriorated greatly under the strain of high-functioning depression since Lalienna's banishment from the Iron Fortuna Syndicate. The misinformation was readily accepted. The four rotating guards were paid to keep the true meaning of their duty absolute secret on pain of death. They were hand selected by Karth Piaf for their loyal and unshakable qualities amongst hundreds of possible candidates from Athena's Black Guard. They knew what Karth was capable of. Iron Fortuna was revered and feared for its brutal human torture techniques. They weren't about to rock the boat.

Thus, when their search of Judeth's purse revealed nothing that they considered incriminating; they handed it back with a wordless nod. She snatched the designer clutch with abject fury. Her patience was running short with this ridiculous facade. Karth had kept to his word. She was never given a moment's privacy. Not to eat, sleep, work, pray, study, bathe or relieve herself. She had done everything Karth had demanded of her, handing over her list of street and professional drug dealers across the city of London. Her rooms were searched daily. Her phones, laptops, email accounts, text messages and files were scrutinised without mercy. Twice daily she attended Doctor Tanis's treatment rooms to have herself injected painfully with detoxification substances that were administered to reduce her borderline biblical morphine withdrawals. To the rest of the world she appeared outwardly normal. In so much as her removed and cold exterior could facilitate. She only ever showed any semblance of sincere human emotion when in the presence of her son, Philip, who adored and embraced his mother, singing her praises and demanding her attention as he revealed all he'd learned in his school rooms. Those moments of matriarchal tenderness were short lived as the boy was removed from her presence to attend his studies and she forced to attend endless council meetings with the Queen and her advisor's facilitators, debtors and underlings. Athena had denied her permission to return to the field on any further espionage missions until Karth and Doctor Tanis cleared her of being a danger to herself. A concept she found repugnant and laughable.

Alas, she was forced to submit to Karth's will, for he held her son a captive pawn over her, threatening to reveal her addiction if she relapsed. His goal was clear and unquestionable. He'd hide the sin of her drug addiction from the world at any cost, but in turn she would get clean. Karth was never a man that made idle threats. She'd tasted his tortuous wrath more than once. Even if his intentions were pure, it was clear that he and the deceased Gregory Piaf had very much been brothers. Both of the men were disposed to monstrous acts of sinister violence against women.

Judeth was left without a choice. He meant well for her. She knew this. But she didn't expect this surveillance mission to prolong more than a month before he'd get tired of his little game, acknowledge her good behaviour and return her freedom. As the weeks rolled on in London, she realized she had been sorely mistaken. And wondered to herself, how much longer he'd keep this bullshit up for?

Alas, she was escorted by these guards into the familiar glittering warmth of the hotel. It's lobby fireplaces crackled happily to keep out London's Autumn chill and a dozen or more patrons looked on admirably at the statuesque woman and her security detail. Wondering as to who she was and why she appeared so important. Judeth kept her eyes forward and walked the length of lobbys red carpet with elegant strides approaching the grand marble desk and being met by the tender smiles of the Iris twins that beamed at her happily. It was almost 8 o'clock.

"Welcome back, Lady Clayton!"  Began Chantelle

"To The Continental London!" Finished Chervonne.

"Sir Sable is expecting you in the dining room." The blonde ladies trilled together. In perfect pitched unison. The words spoken in stereo.  They were still positively feline in their elegant mannerism and reminded Judeth very much of a pair of sleek Siamese cats. Their deep blue eyes alluring and twinkling with promised mischief. 

Completely beautiful. Judeth offered the ladies a disarming smile and nodded politely before turning off to the right and following the marble floor to the famous hotel dining room. Still flanked by her guards that walked three paces behind her at all times and would not deviate no matter what.

Closed off from the other diners, Judeth was led by the attending maître d'hôtel to the exclusive and private dining quarters of the hotel concierge. The prestigious and decadent 'Table Twenty One' was a positively royal affair with a floral centerpiece adorned with white tiger lilies, tulips, carnations and roses; bordered by a sterling silver candelabra that bathed the white linen, its luxury china and sparkling cutlery in the glow of four candles. Together this complimented the low light of the dimmed chandelier above them. The dining chairs were overstuffed French provincial elegance. Two black and white uniformed waiters in white gloves stood to discreet attention in the corner of the room with their silver meal carts and exotic culinary delights freshly prepared and covered over by silver serving domes. All of this was positively majestic in terms of elegance and refinement. But none of the grandeur of the private dining room held a candle compared to the man that stood at the head of the table and stalked his way around it to stand at proud attention in a faultless silver-grey three-piece dinner suit. That was The Continental London's concierge, Jermey's personal retainer and confidant. The gentleman was known to the London criminal underworld as Sable.

He was breath-taking to behold. His chestnut brunette hair combed delicately away from his statuesque features.  His eyes were the deepest blue and his beard and mustache were the picture of masculine elegance.  The scent of his cologne arrested her senses. Exotic dark spices, rich Italian leather, mid notes of Winter rose and top notes of sandalwood.  Her breath caught in her throat. He was everything a classical male Adonis could captivate. He didn't say a word, but his eyes filled with a sincere and intimate joy as they took in her regal beauty. She was as glorious and arresting to him as she thought him to be of her. He came forward on elegant strides and she met him, raising her right hand and presenting her emerald and gold ring. His lips found the stone, sighing quietly as he bent his head in reverence to the arresting woman before him. He dared... his lips found her knuckles, she did not retract her hand as his kiss rested warmly atop her bare skin. He heard her sigh... inaudible, she suppressed a shudder but he noted the intake of breath as her breasts heaved beneath the plunging neckline of her gown. It was all she could do not to swoon in his presence. He was purely glorious and entirely disarming. And when at last he rose and smiled at her it was with tenderness and complete sincerity. He'd not seen her face since the day he had delivered the blood oath marker she had requested to burden Lalienna with at the Tower. He noted, her eyes appeared colder. Her beauty sharper... tempered into a super models near otherworldly, exiguous charm. There were shadows and dark secrets, endless suffering under the veil of her sea green eyes. Her cosmetics had been applied by a master's practiced hands. But that did not detract from what he saw reflected just beneath the woman's determined veneer. Hunger... sufferance... He'd seen it at the Tower. He'd seen it build in her over the years for every time she entered the hotel and sought safe harbor in his walls. In his private rooms.  She was, detached... disconnected from the world around her. Something about her demeanor always suggested she was both looking at you and through you at the same time. Reading between the lines, off the page... into your soul. The cracks were starting to come through. He'd been one of her morphine suppliers for extended periods of time after battles and altercations. He'd injected her personally. Directly into the vein and watched her chase the dragon. He'd received her message two months ago that said she wished to make a reservation for M. Holt. That was a coded arrangement of words exclusively understood by them alone. It meant her addiction had been uncovered. The repercussions would be devastating. He destroyed any evidence of her supply that linked back to him. He did it instantly to protect her. But he knew what would come its place would be devasting.

He greeted her warmly, tender tone from his silken tongue. And did not fail to note the guards at her back. Two. One male, one female. Hired muscle with a mission. Athena's security detail. The Black Guard. Elite pawns, but pawns none the less. Expendable. He'd not tolerate them in his presence infringing on his privacy with this woman in his own hotel. They had to go.

" Alex Rothman and Margaret Styl, am I correct?" He addressed the pair sharply.

"Aye, that be us, Sir Sable. A good evening to you." Replied the man named Alex. Margaret nodded in wordless approval. Sable continued,

"And tell me, Sir, Madam, what brings you to our fine hotel this evening?" Pointless question. He knew exactly what was going on. But he wanted a confession.

"We have orders from Master Piaf senior to keep Mistress Clayton under twenty-four hour surveillance, Sir. Under no circumstances is she to leave our sight. Thus we escort her to your fine company this evening. We beg of you, dine and enjoy yourselves. We will be as silent and inconspicuous as flies on the wall. You needn't concern yourself with our attendance. We are merely here to monitor the Lady's behaviors and ensure she does not deteriorate." Answered Alex Rothman in fluid, Welsh accent. His companion Margaret nodded in approval.

"I see." Sable returned, nodding his head curtly. He smiled at Judeth politely, almost apologetically and returned his attention to Alex Rothman.

"And tell me, Mr. Rothman... how has your wife been keeping? I'm given to understand the dear lady birthed your...what was it... second child this May, if I'm not very much mistaken?"

He'd chosen his words carefully... and watched, entertained as the colour drained from Margaret Styl's face. She fought to maintain composure. This... this had been news to her. She shot Alex a withering glance. Alex... began to sweat at his brow.

"I...I... Uh... that is..yes... Yes Sir Sable, she is well. T-thank you for asking, Sir..."

"And, tell me... Has she become privy to your evening affairs with Miss Styl at your side there?" Sable pressed... ruthless. Like a blade. Margaret looked infuriated. Positively sick to the stomach.

"You never mentioned you had a wife, Mr. Rothman." She snapped at last, her brows arching high.

"No Miss. Styl, I wouldn't concern yourself. I dare say there are a great deal many things in this profession of ours that Mr. Rothman is likely to keep from you if it means you'll continue to warm his bed on the cold and lonely evenings of the coming Winter. I dare say you do it far better than Mrs. Rothman ever could, encumbered as she is with two baby boys."

Sable's words fell like a revelation upon Margaret's lap.

"You fucking bastard!" She erupted, turning slap Alex fair upon the mouth. Rothman took the blow with stunned ignorance, turning his head back to register the shock.

"Margo... please... you need to let me explain." Alex stammered out

"Why use words Mr. Rothman? I have a perfectly good video of your indiscretions that I'm certain Miss. Styl would be all too pleased to witness." Sable drawled dispassionately. His eyes twinkling in sadistic amusement. They were like insects to him these creatures, these lowly guards.

"And I will show her.... even if she has to be tied down to the chair.... For you see Miss.  Styl, you are not the only woman whom Mr. Rothman makes good his affections with. Our video surveillance shows many private visitations to and from The Red Door with... frequent abandon."

"Sable, you fucking bastard! You're going to ruin me, man!" Alex snapped.

"Nonsense Mr. Rothman, you've rather already done that for yourself. I merely had the opportunity to witness your fall from grace. And your repeated rutting of Miss. Styl in our hotel car park. You really should lock your doors, Mr. Rothman. It's a rough crowd out there, in the dark."

Now Margaret was whimpering, her eyes flooding with tears, her hand flew to her mouth in abject horror as she looked the man at her side over and shook her head no. The words died in her throat.

"What the fuck do you want from me Sable? What's it gonna cost me to keep you fuckin' quiet about this?" Rothman was distraught. Furious in his anger, he paced forward and Judeth stepped out of the way, disinterested in being caught in the crossfire of this argument.

Sable smiled however. And it was the smile of a shark that knew he had his prey on its dying breath.

"How much is Master Piaf paying you to guard Judeth Clayton?" He asked.

"Two thousand Pounds a week, a gold coin per shift for every time we report no incident for her." He bit out vehemently.

"I'll double it. " Sable replied. "I'll give you four thousand Pounds and two hundred gold coins. Plus, I'll destroy the videos of you and Margaret fucking in my hotel if you turn on your heel, and attend the bar for the duration of Judeth's stay in my company. Whatever menial task Karth has put you up for, I can assure you I'm more than a thousand times equal to. Now... take Miss. Styl with you and buy the poor woman a drink. She looks as though she may either spit fire or suffer nervous collapse. Do not leave the hotel grounds. You may collect Lady Clayton when I decide to release her back into your hands for return to The Tower, when and only when I see fit. Do I make myself clear?"

Alex was beside himself, Margaret was openly weeping in infuriated shame. He glared poison daggers at the hotel concierge but relented, dragging his colleague and lover out of the private dining room.  The maître d' shut the door behind them.

Finally, Judeth and Sable were left alone.

His attention returned to the White Woman who rested her hands on the back of her dining chair and looked at him with an intensely satisfied smile.

"Well played, Sir Sable... Well played indeed." Invigorated, Sable helped the lady into her chair before rounding the table and taking his own. The moment they were seated the waiters came forward to immediately grace the table with wine and their dinner plates. Sable thanked and dismissed the wait staff. The moment the door closed... Judeth realized, she and Sable were finally safe...and completely and entirely alone.

"It's been a very long time since I laid eyes on you last, Lady Clayton. I propose a toast to our eventful reunion. " Said Sable, raising his red wineglass in invitation.

Judeth met it with own, a clink of approval as the glasses kissed before both came away and deposited their blood red contents into the lips of their respective holders. The toast complete. The glasses were set down.

Sable and Judeth talked. Over dinner. Three courses, two wines, sparkling Italian mineral water and finally, dessert and coffee.

Sable leaned forward with his brass lighter igniting the lady's cigarette before attending his own. They were comfortable in each other's company. In conversation and in silence. They were old friends. Very old friends. With history. Deep history. Dark history. Intimate history. They knew things about each other they weren't certain they understood about themselves. It was stimulating, enlightening exchanging wits, ideas, ideologies, theories, hopes, dreams and desires with one another. The way only solid companions with a similar wavelength and rich mentality could encapsulate and platonically adore one another. For those two hours, over that sumptuous French dinner, Judeth and Sable danced with words. Complimented each other. Finished one another's sentences. They were both very much alive... and Judeth... for once...she was very much present. In the moment. Fully focused. Everything in sharp detail and attentive comparison. She came alive. Truly. Fully. And it was not the wine. It was not the detoxant that protected her internal organs from catastrophic failure. It was him. Sable. His presence, his very existence was doing this for her. Drawing her, like thread through a weaver's table and building her into a tapestry of rich ornamentation. She didn't need artificial stimulants to get this high. She was alive and had a living breathing son. That was enough for her. In this moment. He was enough for her. More than enough.

So he took his chance. Now that she was in bloom. A flower whose petals were opened before him.

He came to her, words like the wings of a passing butterfly.

"Judeth.... Darling... What are we to do about your Lalienna?"

She exhaled the smoke she held from her lips, the plume billowed into the air and disappeared floating away. He watched her shudder and immediately regretted his decision. He didn't want to watch her fade.

"I don't want him to have her, Sable. I don't want anyone to have her. Save for you and Jeremy. You're the only people in this entire fucking world that I dare trust with my life. And hers."

"You know this time would come though, surely? A blossoming young woman like Lalienna was always going to draw attention. Unwanted or otherwise. We could only ever host her as our ward indefinitely."

"She didn't last a single night, Sable. Not one... The moment she walked through your doors, that bastard D'Antonio and his gang of Italian street thugs had their claws in her. They're vultures, the Camorra. Animals."

"They're steadfast, Judeth. If nothing else, they're loyal to the crown. Loyal to us. They believe in family, solidarity to the death. They'll protect her."

"He fucked her."

"Santino?"

"Who else?"

Sable nodded. He knew the truth. He'd seen the video. It was almost as though he'd filmed it himself. He wouldn't let Judeth know what he knew though. He sighed heavily. Refilling her wine glass and then refilling his own. This was their second bottle of the night. He felt they'd need more for what was likely to come.

"I think, you need to let go a little, darling. And stop playing the wounded martyr all the time. It doesn't suit you."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Sable, I'm not in the mood for your cuts at my tarnished humility. There's nothing martyr-like about grieving the loss of a daughter, in marriage, separation, adoptive or otherwise. "

"That's not what I meant and you know it. But if you're going to force my hand-"

"I'm always interested in forcing your hand," She returned sharply,

"Then.. listen to me when I tell you, you've done the right thing. Having Lorenzo draw up this contract for her probation was a masterstroke. Very clever indeed. But it's not going to last. Lalienna is peerless if she was trained to be a faction of what you're like. He's never going to let her go. And sooner or later you're going to have to admit defeat, Judeth. This is outside of your control. You need to accept that and stop letting it eat you alive. The moment you make peace with this realization is the moment you stop taking to the needle to silence the demons in your head. "

His words seemed to cut at her. He didn't mean to. He was the last person in the world that wanted to watch her bleed.

"Judeth... Darling... You can't go on like this. Destroying yourself. Over things you can't control. Things you'll never control. There's hope while you breathe, while you live. But what you're doing... You're not living... You're barely existing. You've lost control. Of everything. Including yourself."

Silence between them. Judeth smoked... and watched his eyes. Warm... delicate, sincere. Those eyes saw through her. Into her. She was aching.

"So what do you propose?" She asked at last.

"Come back to me. Here... right now. Leave the dead in their graves where they belong with the ghosts and the ashes... But come to me. Like you once used to."

"Don't... do this to me, Sable... I can't."

"You can."

"I won't."

"You will."

"Sable, for God's sake have mercy... My husband's just been killed."

"You never loved him, Judeth. You took his hand in marriage because he promised you shelter he didn't have. He promised you a daughter and retirement from servitude to Athena... But he only ever had his own interests in mind. You know this."

"I know."

"It's not too late to break free." He pressed her, drawing his chair closer now, around the table so he could sit with his knees to either side of her thighs. Close... So she could drown in his presence. He was overwhelming her. Intoxicating her. And he was being cruel about watching her suffocate.

"Athena won't ever let me go... Not until Philip is married to her daughter."

"In what? Ten years time from now? When he's twenty four and you're a hollow husk of subdued madness screaming against the chains of your enslavement? Fuck that! Fuck them, Athena included. Judeth... come to me. I want you. I've always wanted you. You should have never married Gregory, he was a demon to you."

"Sable, please... I didn't have a choice. I had my duty."

"Fuck your duty. You had me and you know I could be twice the man he ever was. He raped you, Judeth... You married him, lost his daughters in torrents of blood and he still fucking raped you. Repeatedly. And you let him do it to y-"

His words shocked into silence, for Judeth threw her wine in his face, horrified... then rose and pitched the glass with such force it sliced through the air like an arrow and exploded into a hundred shards as it impacted against the back of the dining room wall.

"Don't.... do this to me.... Sable.... please.... Please... I'm begging you." The tears came. Slipping over her waterline. He watched them track a path across her cheeks and disappear away onto the floor. He dropped his eyes and wiped at his face with her linen napkin. Irritated. Red wine stained Italian silk. He'd have to take his clothes to the laundry as quickly as possible to ensure the damage would not be irreversible. This outfit had been hand-tailored and cost a fortune in imported luxury fabrics.

He met her eyes again. His heart was breaking in his chest. The light had gone from her eyes... He'd had it there. For a moment. He'd seen it. Ignited like fire. Pure. Beautiful. She was so alive. And now... crushed in her fury. In her depravity. In her loss and suffering. She was empty again. Hollow. A reflection of what a woman could have been. Would have been... If only her ex-husband had not treated her so badly. She might have survived her traumas. Like this. She wasn't surviving. She was dead.

So then what attracted him to her so powerfully.... if not his ravenous desire for necrophilia?

He got to his feet. And launched for her. His hand at her throat, she gasped, frantic as he pinched at her airwaves for a moment then spun her around, forcing her hips to butt against the dinner table. Trapping her between the timber and his body. And she flung out her arms, meaning to dislodge him, but he was faster and had drunk less wine. He caught her upper arms and pinned them back against his chest with one arm, the other, with its free hand took her throat again and brought her head back forcing it to rest against his shoulder. And he felt it... The rush of power take him. Flood his veins. Soak his mind. Drive his libido with something sadistic, twisted. His hot breath in her ear. She was tense... ready to react. To respond on basic instinct because she was a fighter, a warrior. And he knew it. He knew she could have come up with at least a dozen different ways to break out of his grip right now and break his arms, his face and his ribcage if she wanted to. But she didn't. She didn't. She let him hold her... subdue her like this. Dominate and control her. She shivered against him. Feeling the heat of his manhood as it pressed into her rear. Feeling her restraint fail her. Too much suffering... Too much red wine. He was weakening her... Overpowering her with every passing moment.

"Stop fighting..." He whispered, against her earlobe. "Give in to me..."

She tensed... struggled. He held her tighter... Watching. The way her breasts rose and fell against her gown... Intoxicated by the surge of power that radiated out of her skin. His lust was ascending. For her flesh... for her blood.

"What do you want from me, Sable?"

"One night...." He breathed. "In my bed."

"I can't... Please.... Don't make me do this."

"One night... Judeth... Just come with me... Taste it... Against your tongue... Against your skin. One night is all it takes to remind you,  you're still human. You're still alive. That his memory won't be the tombstone that marks your departure from this wretched world."

"It won't be me... You'll be taking." She breathed the words. Barely an echo. Her lips moved but her body was betraying her. She was losing the will to resist him. He was kissing her now. Her skin sparked where his lips touched her. He wanted her. Needed her to submit entirely. To give in. To give way. To let him in. Not just inside her body... inside her head. Even if he had to make her bleed. Under the kiss of his whip. Straining against the bonds of his black velvet rope and insatiable passion. He'd have her this night. He'd tasted her blood before... And he wanted more.

"Beg for me...." He breathed... Lacing the edges of his teeth to her shoulder edge of her neck, just before the junction of her shoulder. She shuddered against him. A roll of electric current exploded like fireworks against her spine. She sucked in the air... But he was drowning her.

"I can't... do this.... Sable... Please... please..." She weakened against him entirely, it took every ounce of strength she had. She said the words he needed to hear in that moment.

"I'm begging you... Sable Ducourt... Release me."

That was enough. It was all he needed. She wasn't ready. And he wasn't about to rape her the way Gregory had. He loved her. Had done so for years. Suffering in silence. She wouldn't let him save her. Even though he begged her to. She wouldn't let him save her now either. He let her go. Stepped away. She deserved her freedom. Precious flower. Black swan. Dark Angel.

She turned to face him.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Until she came forward of her own will. Surrounded him in her embrace. She yielded her lips to his.

She was alive still.

Very much so.

In the depths of that kiss.

She was drowning him now.

And he was letting her drag him under.

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

————

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

All You Can't Leave Behind

She gave this to me...

Before she left

And you made me watch it die.

How long did you think I'd let you live?

I would have ended you, Judeth

I had every intention

Now I'm not sure

You'll ever leave

{[ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento ]}

Be seeing you, Mr. Wick

“Don’t think I wouldn‘t dare...”

John Wick (2014)

John Wick (2014)

Emotions: Focus & Rage.

The entire room seemed to sway slightly under the low light of the lamps and the soothing glitter of the crystal chandelier overhead. The sun had set on a beautiful Roman afternoon and Santino was just wiping the last of a line of purest Colombian cocaine into his gums with his middle finger, enjoying the nerve frazzling high that came shimmering off the drug in a slow burn as he worked down his third glass of Sicilian merlot. Around him, his crew, his family; were seated at their ease about the drawing room. Reclining back into plush leather and decadent well stuffed lounges decorated with silk cushions. The pale walls and their contemporary modern classic elegance paired with the soothing sounds of relaxing deep house chill that played through the surround sound system soothed away their tension as though they were all great cats reclining about after a dramatic hunt.

The large glass and timber coffee table with its turned legs played host to more than harmless homoerotic Grecian art books. Marcus had laid out a crystal bordered mirror as a platter and used a blindingly sharp razor to work pure white powder worth well into the quadruple digits into thread-fine lines of illicit pleasure. They were rarely afforded the opportunity to dabble in recreational narcotic use. But, given Santino's leave now that they were allowed to relax off duty for a week; and the fact that London had strained them to the bone, they sought to relax that rigidity somewhat. 

And it felt good to do it. 

Beside him, on the lounge Tony and Curtis had already taken down three lines each snorted directly up their noses using rolled hundred Euro bills as a conduit to deposit the drug into their systems. Much to the claps and cheers of the others, Hector, who would mix his with a little vodka and drink it down and Tino who rather enjoyed seeing his boys become that intimate. The two men had locked eyes as they inhaled. The moment sensuous between them. They both eased back and smiled wolfishly. That had felt good. Too good. Tony thumbed a stray few grains of powder from Curtis's upper lip and Curtis grabbed for Tony's wrist before he could flick the debris away, instead making his friend watch as he sucked his thumb into his mouth with a moan. The remnants of the cocaine dissipated against his tongue. The air tensed between them. Charging with the heat of unabashed sexual tension. Curtis made no move to pull his thumb out of Tony's mouth. 

Wired, tense and edging as they were: all it would take was one wrong move from any of them and the threat of eruption would drench them all in the heat of searing forbidden passion. They didn't cross the line with each other. They were family. They had duty. They had honour. They had a responsibility to uphold. 

Christov opened his fucking mouth.

"Hey, you pair... C'mon man, don't tease us. We wanna watch you clean each other's guns."

Clapping and cheers. The clink of glasses. Footsteps as Ares and Lalienna finally joined them. The men separated with suggestive looks and took to their drinks. Tony eased back into working on correcting the aim of his combat pistol. A task which he wasn't sure he would be able to exact with the ache between his legs or the high that was coming on in a building wave. 

Beside him Curtis complained. 

"Fuck.... You know that shit is pure when it gets you this hard."

"Um, that's not the blow, amico." Marcus corrected as he racked a new row of lines for Hector's drink. 

"Behave you fags, the ladies are present now!" Santino laughed, sighing deeply into Lalienna's neck and searing at the heat of her touch as she sat atop his lap and caressed him. The couple shared an intimate moment of gentle kisses and embraces. Meanwhile, Ares set a little silver box of illicit pills atop the coffee table next to Marcus who thanked her graciously and helped himself to its contents which she explained to the room in her customary agile hands. 

'Pills boys. Grade 'A' Ecstasy from Berlin.' 

Finally, finally, she had gotten Lali downstairs. Man, she looked beautiful but fucked up. Her heart was bleeding for her friend. The worst part of all this was how helpless she felt to prevent Lalienna's suffering. At twenty-four, Ares had not yet developed the maternal instincts that were apparently essential and second nature to other women. Her lifestyle was a selfish, and highly self-indulgent cascade of events that disallowed her from considering her future or motherhood too deeply. As such, she could not fully comprehend nor imagine the turmoil her friend was churning through. But she proceeded to look over the young woman with veiled glances and declined the lines of cocaine that Marcus offered her so as she could be sober enough to monitor the young woman's behaviour closely. If the slightest thing seemed amiss, she was ready to react against the boys with vicious ferocity and absolute selflessness. That was the extent of her loyalty, considering the romantic moments and positively explosive bouts of heated passion the girls had exchanged since Lalienna's initiation had been approved by Gianna in London.  She accepted a glass of wine from Hector however, but nursed it only to be polite. She kept her hands busy by selecting one of the pistols on the table and proceeded with its unpacking to clean the cylinders and other parts of the weapon as Tony worked beside her. 

Meanwhile across the way, Santino was equally concerned with his lover's body language. Her emotions read pain and dissociated depression across her eyes. Her caresses were clinging, which he didn't mind. But she seemed tense on his lap. Was it her cycle that was affecting her so poorly or the pills she'd been taking? He had no basis of comparison. Whilst Lalienna buried her face into his neck he signed to Ares with one hand,

'She eat?' Fast gesture. His fingers returned to caressing her hip. Ares shook her head no and read the frustration in Tino's eyes. His brows furrowed. He was clearly pissed off. 

"You okay baby?" He murmured against her hair. The girl declined to answer but proceeded to tell him she loved him repeatedly and with heart-breaking sincerity. 

"Ti amo anch'io piccola."  (I love you too baby.) He whispered back, over and over. Meeting her eyes and melting under the innocence of her expression. He'd never considered her child-like, but in this moment she certainly appeared so. So much so, that he was suddenly possessed by a deep-seeded pang of guilt for daring to sexually defile her as he had. 

The fear in him was short lived for Christov called her attention now that he had loaded his machine. Tino was reluctant to let his dancer go, fixing Christov with a clear glare that read: 'Be gentle, or else.' The men exchanged knowing glances as Lalienna shimmied out of her skin-tight jeans and settled into the plush French chaise lounge. Every pair of eyes made quick work of devouring her bare legs and the curve of her rump, though they were prudent and looked away immediately. She was family after all. You didn't look at your little sister like that. All but Santino, who devoured the swell of her rear in its black lace as she settled and exchanged cheeky words with Chris who chuckled to himself and began to work the girl's skin with the kiss of the needle. The men went back to chattering amongst themselves, drinking, playing cards and servicing their weapons. Their eyes were dark and hungry. Something about watching Lalienna being caressed by Christov's hands set their blood to pump hotly. They all jolted when she cried out against the sting with tearing eyes. Hector had jumped to his feet and only relaxed when he was certain her yelping was exclusively related to the pain of the needle and nothing more sinister. His eyes instinctively settled over her groin, knowing that she had likely bled profusely.

When she settled, he looked away and wondered if he should get up to fetch her a towel to cover her modesty. The chaise lounge she sat on was white. He silently prayed she would not accidentally stain the furniture. His primary concern was focused on hiding her bleeding from the other males whom he felt eyed her down like ravenous dogs. He found himself wishing he hasn't drank the vodka/cocaine mixture after all. His pupils had begun to dilate and he didn't trust his reaction times to be fast enough if he had to protect her from their predatory attacks. He doubted they would... But then again, a few years ago, the crew had wordlessly consented to attending an underground orgy in the back streets of Paris where they had fucked willing girls mindless, together in the same room. In some instances, on the same bed. That had been... an experience they'd never forget. And planned to repeat when time and situation permitted. It hadn't. He wasn't sure what brought that memory back. Oh. Yes he was. Christov... He was touching her... Caressing her calf, his fingers against her ankle... His heart was pounding in his throat. Was it the coke? Probably.

Tino had also tensed at her cries but settled into a lull as he watched her, listening to her breaths as she worked through the pain. Her breasts heaved and after a while she seemed able to negotiate her suffering as Chris corrected her movements. Sharper than he would have liked. He didn't approve of Chris' tone and clicked his tongue in frustration. The younger man briskly ignored his employer and settled into his work. The ankles were indeed a painful place to ink a woman, especially one with feet as pretty as hers. Even so, he consumed the art form with a ritualistic attention to detail that bordered on erotic. Every line was a kiss. Deep. Under her skin. His thoughts darkened. She jolted, cursing hotly then settled again. He shouldn't have done it.. But he rolled himself forward on his work stool and pressed his kiss to her knee. Separated his lips... nipped the flesh and sighed before straightening and returning to work. He didn't dare meet his employer's eyes. He could feel them burning into the side of his head. Santino watched the exchange.. Watched her feet, the way her toes curled against the white fabric. His body ached at the sight. His thighs separated just a little further, his fingers stroked over the fabric of his thigh. The drug had sunk its fangs. His perception was dilated... He felt hot.. Raging hot. Without realizing his fingers worked his shirt buttons free and before long his chest was exposed to the air.

"Hector, apri le porte del balcone. Ho bisogno di un po 'd'aria." (Open the balcony doors. I need a little air.) His guard complied wordlessly. The crisp Roman breeze felt invigorating as it lessened the heat in the vast room. It was Lalienna... she was making it so hot. He was convinced of it.

This tense, erotic atmosphere lasted between the eight of them for the better part of two hours. They laughed and talked happily and joked amongst themselves. They worked their weapons, reloaded their bodies with fresh lines of coke when they felt the climax dropping off only to flow again into another riveting high. They were all very drunk, very liberated. All except Ares, Christov and Hector, who religiously controlled themselves. Just in case. Just in case.

They had reason for their concern. The boys began to flirt heavily with each other. Swapping glasses.. swapping kisses that were so far from prudent it was borderline pornographic. Primarily Tony and Curtis whom seemed to have a hard time focusing on their game of Black Jack and got intensely interested in each other's mouths. All whilst watching Lalienna being tattooed.  

However, she didn't seem to respond the way Christov wanted her to. He called her attention, noting her detachment. He had hoped to lull her into the decadent pleasure that came from the sting of pain. Nothing. She wasn't present. And he knew why.

"Hey," He whispered to her, so only she could hear as he leaned over her leg... "You with me baby girl? C'mon sweetheart. I need you present."

Nothing. She was miles away. He let it go. Returned to his art. Her skin was his canvas. Pale flesh and black ink. He wondered if she'd ever come to him again, late at night. Now that Santino was back on deck.

When at last the young woman's skin art was complete, Christov eased back and admired the work with a flush of self-satisfied acknowledgment that bordered on depraved.

"It's beautiful baby... Suits you. Gonna look damn fine when you next get your heels on." He got up and stretched his back watching her as she strolled the distance proudly to her lover.

He realized he was jealous as Santino took her in his arms again.

"Glorioso bambino."(Glorious baby.)  Tino breathed against her ear. The Italian prince had hit a wall inside himself. His caress was hot against her hips. He pulled her down atop him on the lounge and moaned hotly as her weight settled against his thighs brushing hard against his aching manhood.

"Jesus... I need to fuck you..." He purred against her throat. His hands held her tightly. But he felt it.. She was stiff... suddenly unyielding. Conflicted? What? Was he offending her?

Ares knocked on the table sharply, drawing the attention of the entire room. All eyes on her hands.

'Let her go, Tino. She's not into you right now.'

Santino tensed... smirked... laughed it off. But he couldn't shake the feeling his guard was right. His caress lessened. Christov and Hector were watching him... Sharp eyes. He took his hands off the girl entirely.

"She's fine...You're fine, aren't you baby?" He asked quietly, watching her face.

"She was fine before you touched her, man. " Said Chris with a growl. He put down his glass, flexed his shoulders.

Bad move. Very bad move.

Santino dislodged the dancer unceremoniously from his lap, landing her against the lounge where she bounced and looked bewildered. He was on his feet and in Chris' face in seconds.

"Vuoi andare adesso, figlio di puttana? Stai cercando di dirmi cosa posso e cosa non posso fare con la mia donna?" (You wanna go right now motherfucker? You trying to tell me what I can and can't do with my woman?) He spat in venom. Chris retaliated,

"Faresti meglio a pensarci due volte su quel tono, bel ragazzo, o ti farò cadere un piolo." (You better think twice about that tone pretty boy or I'm gonna bring you down a peg.)

Now the entire crew were on their feet. Weapons, cards and drinks forgotten. Ares rushed to Lalienna's side, vaulting the table in one bound and planting herself protectively in front of the dancer. Cursing to herself. She had to get Lali out of here. If the boys were gonna fight, it was gonna be bad.

Christov and Tino stood toe to toe, both of the men shouting and swearing at each other in rapid Italian. Hector grabbed at Tino's arms, forcing the younger man away and trying to be the voice of reason.

"Come on man.... let it go! He doesn't mean it!"

"Fuck you! I do fuckin' mean it!" Chris shouted back, chesting up only to be ripped away by Curtis. The men struggled to pull the prince and his attack dog apart.

"No, Papi! Please! Don't fight like this!" Yelped Lalienna in shock. Why was this happening?! What went wrong, they were all fine a minute ago.

"Let them go, babe, Ares get her out of here." Tony shouted standing firm against the two brawling men at his back.

"You're drunk man! Drunk and fuckin' high! You can't take care of her like this!" Chris bellowed.

"I'm going to fuckin' bend you over and fuck you, fica!"  (cunt!) Tino shot back, pulling free of Hector's grip.

"You wouldn't know how to fuck a man like me!"

"I wouldn't know how?" "No!"

"Jesus, would you assholes just kiss and make up already, you're scaring the girls!" Marcus shouted, shoving Chris so roughly the man stumbled off balance. And broke down... into a fit of laughter.

"I wouldn't know how to fuck you, eh?" Tino spat, his own anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. A twinkle in his eyes... He flicked his hand and would have caught Christov square across the jaw with a resounding slap, except his reflexes were slowed under the kiss of cocaine. Chris caught his wrist and smacked it away only to knock the man back into his seat and come down on top of him hard. Their lips crashed in a carnal mixture of violent, heavy kisses. Teeth and tongues. Rough, aggressive. Neither man willing to back down from the other. Christov demanding control and Santino bucking him off.

The room erupted into laughter.

"Fottuti coglioni. Onestamente!" (Fucking dickheads. Honestly!) Hector laughed, rubbing at his face and tearing Christov off his employer. The younger tattooed man complained,

"Oh come on... I was about to get fucked."

"In your dreams, faggot." Tino laughed.

"What the hell is wrong with you idiots? I mean seriously, you guys are the reason why I drink!" Marcus barked. More laughter from the room as they all settled back down to their seats. Ares too relaxed, turning to hug the frightened dancer and kiss her cheek.

'It's okay. They're okay.' She signed, throwing up a peace sign.

"It's okay girls... settle down. Relax... They're just being idiots. They do this all the time when they're tense. They probably didn't jack off this morning or something stupid..." Curtis assured the ladies, waving them back over to their seats.

"Now we remember why we don't do coke that often. Because everyone wants to fuck everyone else up. You're both morons. Have a drink and shut up already." Tony drawled as she sought to refill his friend's wine glasses with a smirk.

"It's alright bella... relax... I love him...He's a good dog. Aren't you?" Tino smiled, wrapping his arm around Chris who returned the gesture and rested his head on his bosses' shoulder.

The storm had passed. They hugged and apologized and separated back to different parts of the room. Back to their conversations, their gambling, their laughter. Ares still protected Lali in her embrace until Tino strolled over and waved her away. "Let me have a minute with her."

'No! You're high!' She signed back sharply.

"It's okay, Ares, really... Baby girl..." His attention on his dancer, "It's okay. We're all fools. Behaving badly. Just big kids when we're not working. I love them... I'd never hurt them. Forgive me?" He licked at his lip, catching her eyes with his. Mischievous twinkle as he lowered his head. The picture of submissive innocence, until he asked with a smirk.

"So... Do we wanna go be alone now?"

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

————

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

Jagged Edges

Even Gods may bleed out

Against my hands

In love

Out of hope

Out of time

Out of my mind

Stay...

Black Arts

“Have you really thought this through? I mean, really chewed it down to the bone? You dip so much as a pinky back into this pool and you’ll find that something very nasty will reach out and drag you back in.”

Be seeing you, Mr. Wick.

I need you, John.

I need you like a drug.

I need you even though you’re hurting me.

How I do refuse you when you look at me like that?

How do we stop destroying each other?

When I can’t say no.

No, to you.

The Italian Silk Mafia

We’re in this together.

Forever.

For every time we got under your skin

Pulled you out

Pulled you through

We never turned our backs on you

We’re Dogs of War

We don’t let go

Couldn’t if we wanted to

Now that we’re so deep.

Into you.

The Crown

Yes, we are Princes of Darkness.

Blue Bloods of Crime.

We wear the Camorra Crown.

And once you’re in, you’ll never get out.

Not alive anyway.

It was just as well the knocks had come.

Santino had just put down the phone from speaking with his father. And it was just as he expected. Judeth had wasted no time in contacting the Italian Crime Lord of The High Table and making the steaks clear. Lorenzo listened to the White Woman intently and finally, after considering the woman's proposition just and fair, and with his extensive knowledge of his son's unreliable history with women whom he attended to on a romantic level; was satisfied. Lalienna's three month Camorra probationary contract would be written and signed by the following business day. A copy would be forwarded to Julius, owner/manager of The Continental Rome and another dispatched to his franchise colleague Jeremy, owner/manager of The Continental London.  Together the men would acknowledge that Lalienna DeMentriento was still very much an elite independent mercenary contractor whose primary employer was still none other than Judeth Clayton. Hand Maid of The White Tower of London. Separate to Athena. Separate to the Iron Fortuna Syndicate. But still, very much owned and operated by Judeth for the next three months. Lorenzo however made it clear. In the event of catastrophic collateral damage or conflict of interest against the Spanish or the French, Lalienna's execution would be uncontestable. Her body returned to Judeth as a casualty of war. The Camorra would not accept the responsibility for failure but would be the cause of her termination.  Judeth's faith in Lalienna's abilities ran deeply.

She had fostered the girl with the other Tower initiates for five years in total and trained with her for two. Any act of insubordination or insincerity had been very much crushed out of her. Duty, honour, allegiance and servitude had been at the forefront of her education since the day of her arrival. The girls had been made to watch their first human execution at the age of fourteen. Athena herself had taken the head of a wayward infiltrator and presented it in horror to the gasping, feinting young women. Holding it aloft as a spoil of war and speaking out clear and loud:  That she had no need for prisoners. And would not tolerate deviation. She was Death. And Death would come with vengeance. That real power came from the action of those that took the blade in their own hands to complete the execution. Only cowards and bastards would allow the death of a human being to be subsidized by another.  Were they going to grow up as cowards? Were they going to grow up as bastards though many of them were? Or would they be strong? Would they look their victim in the eye and take responsibility for claiming their immortal souls? The choice was there's entirely. Meanwhile, she was Queen. And her actions spoke louder than any words ever would.

The girls were traumatized for years later. But they understood. They comprehended the scope of their work. They understood their Queen. Loved her. Served her. Obeyed her. Because she was Death. She was Destruction. She controlled the four horsemen of the apocalypse. If she would say so, the ground would give way beneath her enemies and suck them all into the abyss.

For this reason the young women were awed. For this reason the young women realized they were not in the presence of a mere aging mortal woman. Athena had ascended from the very depths of the Underworld to reign supreme amongst men. Perhaps she was the Archangel Lucifer in flesh incarnate. And her Thirteen Hand Maids served as the succubus demons of her demonic bidding.

Lalienna knew, none was darker and more tainted of those than perhaps Judeth Clayton. The whispers from the palace were heard. She was known as Judeth The Betrayer. To the rest of the Tower, she was inhuman. A high functioning sociopath, completely and mechanically capable of smashing Athena's enemies in a tidal wave of her wrath and fury. They never saw her coming. She was a shadow in the darkness. A ghost of the imagination. Never directly involved in open combat, death or murder. A manipulator, ravager, saboteur.... They called her 'The Woman'. Her marks never learned her name. Her face was forgotten. She was a master of blending into the crowd. Being anonymous. Because that is how Athena trained them. They needed no narcissism, no titles. They were revered exclusively by their order in The Tower alone.  London knew the tattoos. The coat of arms was a gang symbol that was feared.

They were not as flashy and proud as the Camorra of Italy or the Imperial Dragons of Japan or the Ruska Roma of Russia. No. They were Iron Fortuna. They were English. And the English had a job to do. And they didn't fuck around.

She had proved it to him when he spoke to his father and his father told him, this was going to be the arrangement whether he liked it or not. Because the White Woman of Iron Fortuna were an asset. An ally power. Their sheer numbers and force of prominence in the Underworld bolstered the Italian pride of the Camorra. And he would not let a little shit (he referred to his son in this instance) fuck it up by deciding that Lalienna was incompatible with his sexual preferences. She was power piece. A knight on the chessboard that had come dressed in white. They would foster her, and care for her, and train her as one of their own. And if Santino set so much as a hair out of line with her, she would immediately be taken as a maid of honour by Gianna. And again, Lorenzo reminded his son that he had no say in that. Not after the rape and murder scandal of Marissa Conti. In fact, Lorenzo seconded Judeth's opinion. She had every right to call him a peasant in prince's clothing. Because his attitudes were still extremely immature and his failures outstripped his good deeds ten to one. They were bad odds. And Lorenzo wasn't interested in booking against bad odds.

"Se non vuoi essere trattato come un contadino, non comportarti come tale." (If you don't want to be treated as a peasant then don't act like one.)

These were Lorenzo's final words as he disconnected the call.

Santino D'Antonio was bested. Fucked off. Furious and feeling the pang of impotent rage flood through him. To want to struggle against these family bonds and be shackled by their gold chains harder than he ever had before.

'Fanculo la mia vita!' (Fuck my life!) He thought to himself as he swung open his office door. Hector stood proud, grinning from ear to ear. Eyes twinkling. Cigarette hanging from his lips and laptop in hand.

"Can I show you something, Signore?"

"Certo." (Of course.) Santino replied. Stepping aside and allowing his Guard Commander to enter his office. The door was shut behind them.

The laptop was set on the glass coffee table next to Santino's half-consumed cappuccino. The guard settled into the sofa and gestured for his boss to take residence beside him.

It was done.

"Look at this dog, Tino... Tell me what you think?!" Santino put on his reading glasses and assessed the screen. Indeed, it was a beautifully proportioned Rottweiler puppy. By his cursory glance of the photograph on screen, he made the informed decision that the animal was likely purebred, expensive and ridiculously cute. He'd make a good guard dog to someone very special.

"I think you're showing me a photo of a dog that will become the love of someone's life."

"Lalienna's life." Hector pronounced. He didn't even think about it, he just blurted the words out.

"Scusami?" (Excuse me?)  Santino returned, a raise of his brow as he pulled off his glasses. That was the second time that day he had to repeat himself. He was starting to lose his patience with people telling him what do to in his own house. Hector took his employer's tone to heart and backpedaled immediately with a contextual back-story.

"Boss, listen... Lalienna. She's not well, you know? She hasn't been well for a very long time. When we found her, she was messed up, kicked out of her syndicate. She got caught up with you-"

"Think carefully about what you're saying, Hector."

"Let me finish, Tino, fuck... No disrespect boss, but come on. See it from the girl's viewpoint. She's into you less than a month, she has a passing indiscretion with some girl, you ignore her ass, drive her insane and cut her up... Jesus man, she's barely twenty-one. An assassin? Really? That's no life for some pretty girl like that."

He wanted to say more. To mention the pregnancy. The abortion she was going through right now. He'd assumed she wasn't well by the sickly look on her face when they touched down in Rome. He wasn't surprised to learn that Santino had not had his way with her. Nor was he surprised when the girls did not present themselves at table to eat. None of the guards were. Lalienna's secret would stay with him to his final breath. He would not betray her confidence. He was serious in his proposal. That if Santino would not accept her children, he would. He would step in on the role of father and husband. He'd beg Santino's pardon, perform whatever task was desired of him, but he too would find a way to escape the table if it meant he would rear Lalienna's bastard children. He was ostracized in his youth for coming from a broken home with another father. He would not let a child in his knowledge, on his watch suffer the same fate. His honour depended on it.  But not at this hour it seemed. Lalienna had stepped up to the plate that most women would dread to witness. She had gone through with the abortion. And it was imperative he save her sanity. He didn't care about the cost.

He had watched her deteriorate under Airoldi's manipulation. She did not falterer on the field, she came back strong and unblemished. But she was dying on the inside. Dying because Santino would not love her. And he couldn't stand by and let that go uncontested.

"So you're telling me you want to give her a dog?" Tino asked after a moment's pause.

'Thank God!' Hector thought to himself.  That could have gone much worse. Tino's temper when corrected was explosive. Like a hand grenade with the pin pulled loose. It only took seconds for him to set off and pull down everything within his reach. But this was dangerous too. The calm before the storm. For he knew that Santino was also keeping himself pure. He's commitment to Lalienna had been true and honest and he'd not been whoring in Austria, though he could have done if he wanted to. His blind fury, the violence against the young dancer served as a testament to his fidelity. Santino was loyal when in a relationship if nothing else. Hector was hoping to use guilt against him if it meant the Prince of Rome would consent to the purchase of the puppy for Lalienna.

"She's a child still, boss, c'mon. She needs focus. Something to inject her love into that isn't just honour, family and duty."

"And I'm not enough?" Tino began to bristle.

"You're always enough Signore, c'mon. Don't even talk like that. You see her, the way she looks at you. Pines for you. You're her Papi. You don't know what you put her through whilst you were in Vienna. You didn't see the damage, the tears, the tantrums, the way she stopped eating after you fucked her up. You pushed her away in your fury and gave her to me. So we picked up the fucking pieces and I'm telling you there were thousands. Ares didn't sleep for days and nights drying that girls' tears. They flowed like rivers and they flowed because of you. Christov missed work, stayed back from field just to make sure she wouldn't do something stupid like slit her own wrists in shame... If that's not love, amigo, I don't know what fucking is."

That seemed to have the effect he wanted. Santino leaned forward on the sofa, raking his fingers through his hair and resting his elbows on his knees before returning his watery eyes to the screen. He took no pleasure from his employer's private suffering. He didn't mean to sink that blade so deep. But it was absolutely necessary. He twisted it because he was sadistic. And sadism was a card that he knew Santino responded too extremely well. The Prince of Rome had a gentle heart. And it bled when you used the right words. It bled even worse when you used the word 'love'.

"It's a nice looking dog..." Santino consented at last. "Big paws though... big head. He'll be huge. It's a pity they cut off its tail. They shouldn't mutilate the animals like that."

"They do it because it makes them look tougher. A lot of these dogs earn a lot of money in show and in dogfighting pits." Hector replied, heartened that this was going somewhere positive. He pulled a cigarette case out of his coat pocket and lit up, offering the smoke to Santino who, without ceremony, took it directly out of his lips, placed it against his own and dragged down deep.

The intimacy of the action stirred something in Hector he couldn't explain. Santino had a ferocious allure to him. And it worked just as well on men as it did on women. He pulled a second cigarette from his case and lit up again, taking this one for himself.

"It's not like we don't have room. Dogs are good for people. Lower the blood pressure. Keep you focused. Teach you loyalty, responsibility, humility. They stop being animals and start becoming family. Lalienna has no family man. Dead mother, dad that don't want her. She's displaced. Got nothing, got us, sure. But I think she needs something that's purely her own. Someone to care for that understands the world without the bullshit of business we're in."

The two men smoked in silence. The weight of Hector's words sinking deep between them. And Hector couldn't help but think to himself,

'I wonder how long he can go without a fuck?' That was... unexpected. Out of no-where. It's just that the moment Tino had touched back down in London from Austria and finally gave his apology, the couple were afforded no time to bond together. They wouldn't let him near her. Because of the pregnancy, yes. And what's more. Because he didn't deserve to get off with such a helpless and beautiful girl.  Ares had confirmed that the couple may well have slept together last night, but sex had been entirely off the cards. That meant, by his reckoning, that Santino had not had any form of sexual release inside a woman for well over a month. Masturbation didn't count. Guys jacked off to manage mood more than because release felt good. It was a byproduct of the overall effect. Unless they were gunning for a partner, they worked better on an empty tank. Otherwise, testosterone took over and the majority of their decisions were governed exclusively by the hardness of their cocks. That's why they fought so brilliantly when they were unloaded. They were clear. They knew where they stood. But pent up... aching...It was easy to cloud judgment with unrequited desires.

Hector was a dominant sadist. A man of command because he had so many hidden blades that he used when he wanted to twist people to their knees.

Sex was one of them. And he wasn't afraid to use it.

So he did.

He closed the space between them on the sofa and slid his hand against Santino's upper thigh. Enjoying the feel of the expensive fabric that made up his gray pinstriped trousers. It wasn't anything. It was just a friendly gesture of intimate brotherhood. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't erotic. But the light changed in Santino's eyes. To the Prince of Rome... the touch was purely sensual. Hector purred.

"I think... you should surprise her. Buy her the puppy. Watch her thrive. Watch her bloom. You'll forever be basking in the light of her unfettered adoration because you presented her with a living breathing gift of a lifetime. Unique and pure as the stars. Tino... Lalienna needs this dog." He squeezed his fingers against the younger man's thigh and watched. Watched as Santino's lips opened just a fraction of a millimeter more than was prudent. His fingers tremored as he held the cigarette partway to his lips. It was inaudible, but he heard it all the same. The way Santino held back a sigh. Ravenous... hungry.

His eyes darkened in lust... he looked back to the laptop monitor. The adorable little black pup with its soulful eyes and precious floppy ears sat like a beacon of purity. He liked dogs. He liked Lalienna more. He wanted to make her happy. His home was certainly big enough. This was a good idea. A puppy... A baby... Girls like babies... they liked puppies more...

"Call the breeder. Tell them not to sell that pup. I want him. No matter what the cost. Tell him we'll be there tomorrow morning." His eyes flashed, he rose from the sofa and handed Hector his phone.

The Camorra Commander grinned the grin of the victorious. He'd won this game. He took the phone and made the call with a heart bursting with pride. The breeder screened Hector vigorously before talking business. He was not interested in releasing a pup of this quality to anyone that wasn't already experienced in raising and looking after dogs. Hector was more than ample in pacifying the man. For he had lived with and trained dogs for security firms since he was sixteen. He knew exactly what to do with a little buddle of fur. He gushed over the phone about the baby dog. His voice becoming an octave higher as was the way when he spoke adoringly to animals or children. The owner was satisfied and named a price. Two thousand Euro, no negotiations. The animal was a pure breed and the mother and father were show stud and bitch that had won multiple awards.

Tino nodded his approval. Two thousand Euro was nothing compared to Lalienna's perpetual happiness. He'd already blown well over two million Euro on her house, car, paperwork, bribes, clothes, jewels, perfume, cosmetics and shoes. That was before even paying her a salary. He didn't give a fuck about money. He'd never run out. Not in his lifetime. Not if he could help it. He hadn't attended four years at Rome's premier university to study business management, leadership, and international commerce for no reason.  Plus... his father bankrolled him pretty well. It was a sound arrangement.

 After the call, Hector and Santino began scheming. Planning. Giggling amongst themselves like schoolboys. This was incredible! They were going to present the puppy in a little carrier cage, wrapped in a bright blue satin ribbon with a massive bow. They'd sneak into her room, get one of the others to pull her away and distract her. Then they would set a tiny little puppy bed with a tray for food and water at the foot of her room. They would get leads and collars and baby blankets that were woolen and soft. Lots of chew toys because puppies teethed and it was a good habit to get them to chew toys rather than their owner's shoes and clothes.

Toilet training would be easy enough. Rottweiler's were easy to train with scented hormone drops and puppy pads. There would be accidents, but if they isolated the pup to a smaller portion of the house until he grew accustomed to walking downstairs and requesting to be let out to relieve himself in the garden, they could control the scope of the mistake. None of the crew were squeamish or disgusted when it came to something as innocent as puppy poop or wee. Gods, they had killed grown men and watched the corpse flush its bowels in the aftermath of death because that was what happened to a human being once they passed. Anything a puppy could deliver would be angelic by comparison.

They doubted very much Lalienna would revolt either. Though Santino reminded Hector that Lalienna was terribly OCD about cleanliness, neatness and order. Hector confirmed this knowledge. For once Lalienna, disorientated by her grief, had entered his rooms at the hotel in London and cleaned them for him from top to bottom. Clearly putting the maids out of work.

He thought it was charming but entirely unnecessary. He tried very hard to dissuade the girl, but she barked at him and sent him scuttling out of the rooms like a displaced crab.

The boys went on a tangent from there as Santino explained,

"I can't tell you how many times we're caught up in the heat of passion, stripping off each other's clothes in a frantic bid to get into bed... when she stops part way and folds her clothes... and mine.. neatly..."

Hector cackled, doubled over in laughter, tears in his eyes as he held his stomach.

"And here I am with this massive fucking hard on.... handing her the coat hangers...." Tino continued.

"Oh!!! Oh fuck, boss! That's too funny... ow ow ow.... Oh...my sides... You're killing me!"

"I'm killing you?!" Santino shouted, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Have you ever tried to fold some pants with an erection so large it could invade Greece?"

Then men were in tears, fits of laughter that shook their chests and burned their sides. God it felt good to just laugh and laugh and laugh. The commotion drew attention for Ares and Tony appeared at the office door with a quick knock before letting themselves in.

"Hey there!" Tony began brightly, looking dashing in his half-buttoned dress shirt that showed off his bare, muscled and bronzed chest. "What's the commotion about?"

'We could hear you laughing from upstairs. What's so funny?'

"Tino's dick." Hector choked out... falling back against the sofa.

'What? He pulled it out and showed you? Don't tell me he's got one of those micropenis things...' Ares signed, extremely amused by the comment.

Crude, in his laughter, Santino made the classic Italian grab for his groin rubbing it over his pants. The gesture was both an insult and sexual innuendo that made Ares flip her boss off. Tony chuckled and put his arm around the young woman.

"Not even close babe. I've had the pleasure of pissing next to him in the men's room and I can assure you, he's studding easy six thick Italian inches. Flaccid."

Ares eyes widened in disbelief. She had suspected that Santino was well endowed because that was the genetic standard for most European males of the region. Then again, as she was quite small in her frame, anything over five inches on a man intimidated her a little more than she felt comfortable admitting. Mostly to herself. Hence her preference of making love to women. They were a little gentler in the bedroom. And it didn't hurt so much with a well-lubed strap on... or those sensuous lips... She was suddenly blushing and embarrassed. As though she had walked in on something that was very personal. She'd.... keep that information in her mind stored for later. Lalienna was a brave girl if she could take being pounded by all of that.

"Guys! Listen up!" Santino began. "Come tomorrow morning, we're getting Lalienna a puppy dog of her own. The D'Antonio Estate will welcome a furry companion amongst its ranks. "

"Oh my goodness! Really?! A puppy?!" Tony gushed, striding forward to see the pictures Hector showed him on the laptop. Ares was immediately distracted from her dirty thoughts and began to jump up and down excitedly.

'Oh my god! I'm going to tell her right now!' She gestured happily.

"No! Ares, no! It's a secret. A surprise. Don't tell her anything. Just take her into town tomorrow. Show her the sights. Take her for lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe, keep her busy and distracted. Keep her as sober and straight as possible and bring her back to the house before sunset. Don't let on that you know anything about it. Don't say a fuckin' word or we'll kill you and feed you to the birds, feelin' me?" Hector demanded.

"Can we let the others in on the surprise though?" Tony asked, his eyes twinkling in mirth. Completely swept away in the excitement.

"Of course, but make sure they don't let anything slip either. Ensure Panchelli and the maids know too. The whole house can know what's going on except Lalienna. " Santino sang happily. The crew hugged and kissed each other in joy then took a moment to compose themselves before leaving Santino's office and forcing the spring out of their step. They wouldn't let the secret slip. They each separated to different parts of the mansion and passed on the news in the style of Chinese whispers.

Panchelli was overjoyed by the idea for he too was raised with greyhound racing pups as a young boy and considered the affections of a dog to be remarkably good for a young lady's health.

Likewise, he convened the maids in the servant's common room and filled them in. That a new puppy would take residence in the D'Antonio Estate. The girls were beside themselves. They squeaked and bounced about and clapped excitedly in joy. Oh, they were so happy with this news! They swore on their hearts, mothers, and lives they would keep the knowledge absolutely secret and vowed to kill each other if they found the promise would be broken. But they were all fine, friendly girls that were nothing if not discreet and dutiful.  Keeping a secret was a maid's number one professional calling. Panchelli rested assured. All would be well. Extremely well.

|||

Later that evening, after dinner had been consumed and the crew had moved to the drawing-room to smoke, play music, gamble and drink coffee; Ares had sought to bring her best friend downstairs to join them.

Poor Lalienna, still somewhat stoned off too many of Mama Frita's pills and still refusing to eat anything despite Ares very persuasive coaxing, complained that she didn't feel up to being surrounded by so many men that weren't her Papi. She was in turmoil and had cried many more times that evening after Christov had delivered her gently back to her rooms. Ares took over to cheer the girl with kisses and caresses that were mostly unwelcomed. Ares was at a loss to satisfy the girl. She held her lovingly instead, stopped being playful and cheeky and made sure she wasn't bleeding through her clothes. She wasn't, thankfully. Lalienna had asked for a tampon to staunch the flow of her bleeding but Ares corrected her angrily and thrust a pad between her friend's legs instead.

'You shouldn't have anything in your body right now blocking the flow. You want to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible so you can move on with your life, babe. Really. Just trust me... Use a pad. Alright?' She wrote into her phone, making sure the dancer read it, then kissed Lalienna's forehead. Together the two ladies shared a moment of intimacy that was reserved exclusively for women.  Inside, Ares' heart was singing. Because she knew the secret joy that they were going to bestow on her friend would be only hours away. And she prayed that Lali would respond well to holding a baby dog in her arms.

Christov came to their rooms then, knocking quietly on the door and begging entrance. Two knocks. Which was code for: 'It's not urgent, but can I come in?'

Ares returned the two knocks on her coffee table. Code for: 'The room's clear, you can enter'

The imposing and devilishly handsome tattooed man, dressed in tight torn black jeans, Gucci loafers and an equally tight 'v' neck t-shirt that was cut low and revealed the octopus at his throat and chest, swaggered into the room with a whiskey glass in hand and a playboy smile. Ares loved him when he dressed casually. He wore a black and white paisley printed bandanna and looked every bit the rock star bad boy of every girl's masturbatory wet dreams.

"So ladies..." He began by way of introduction. "The boys and I are downstairs, chillin', hangin' out. And we were wondering... if you girls would like to come downstairs and blow off a little steam with us? No pressure, if you ain't up for it. But... It's been a rough week. So... now that we're home.. and done with dinner... we thought maybe a little music... a little booze... Marcus is racking up a couple of prime lines from Colombia..." He raised his brow, flashing his most devilishly disarming smile. And god it was good. He was a rock god... Those tattoos made him dirty delicious. He was beaming. He knew a secret and caught the look in Lali's eyes. So he strutted forward into the room. Ran his fingers under Ares' chin, making the girl look up and purr darkly. She reached beside her and squeezed Lali's hand for comfort and support.

Chris drew his attention to the dancer and squatted down low before her.

"Babe... I've got some new ink from the U.S downstairs... and my machine... Umm... " He licked his lower lip suggestively stripping her of her clothes with his eyes. Yes, she'd lost a child but still, she was human, female, alive... pulsing with beauty. And he'd comforted her in the past month or more. It was further and deeper than they cared to admit. But their reasoning was sound. Santino didn't have to know. Chris was the keeper of two precious secrets. He slipped his hands over the dancer's knees and squeezed gently, massaging her flesh.

"I think you should come down... It's about time you feel the kiss of an Italian needle." His smile darkened. He was predatory. Tattooing his family was... erotic. Ritualistic. He was lusting. Hard. He wanted the dancer's skin under his hands. He wanted to mark her forever. But not like Santino did, not with at blade against her throat. That was barbaric and monstrous. He was an attack dog... not a savage.

"C'mon girls... Come downstairs. We want you to party with us. Lali... babygirl... Papi's waiting for you. Don't worry, he's in a good mood. We might have gotten him a little high already." He smirked, winking that bad boy wink of his. He rose then and swaggered back toward the door.

"C'mon baby... Daddy wants to make you feel good."

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

————

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

Wait...

Just wait a bit...

Cool down.

Cool off.

He'd set down the phone on the sofa beside him. Reluctant to throw it in his temper. He'd burned through quite a few new phones in his aggression. These devices weren't cheap. Product warranty wouldn't cover willful and malicious damage. He's information was always hosted on private central servers. There was no fear of losing important information and even so he never kept anything important enough on the phone that could be considered incriminating. He'd learned discretion. Not trusting securities breeches that happened with anything that was connected online, to the internet. For all intents and purposes the contents of his phone simply looked like a wealthy Italian business man that dabbled in a considerable amount of foreign trade and international exchange. Stocks, land, financial lending. Art trade. Designer goods and products. Car import and export. The world didn't have to know the truth. That he was the son of Rome's most powerful organized Crime Lord. Footwear. Women's designer luxury shoes. He had a lot of that on his phone. He enjoyed buying footwear for Lalienna. Her tiny frame and dainty feet drove him wild. He could spend hours alone just worshiping her heels, sucking, licking, massaging her feet until she relaxed... until she came. He'd come with her. Incredible. He'd not even touched himself but the act of attending her feet, it was.... mind blowing. Those releases of tension and pressure had been amongst his favorite. The way she made him feel.

Now he watched her, as she kneeled on the floor, black lace hugging her curves and his white Pierre Cardin dress shirt. Fuck! She looked incredible wearing his clothes. Sleeves rolled, those fucking collarbones, the swell of her cleavage. Those eyes... she could get him off with those eyes alone. Her hair was wet. Combed neatly away from her face. He forgot what he was angry about. His cock throbbed painfully between his legs, reminding him he was a man and she was a woman. A potent, powerful women. The instinct to breed was... impulsive. His caress found her cheek, her jaw line. So warm. Droplets of her hair fell against her ear, across his fingertips. She was so sensual. She stole his breath. Those lips.... those eyes...

"Jesucristo, eres jodidamente hermosa." (Jesus Christ you're fucking beautiful.) He breathed.

"What have I done in my life to deserve someone as gorgeous as you, amore mio?" He took her in his arms, raising her gently from the floor. It didn't feel right, having her on his knees to him. Though the position was suggestive and he would have paid tremendous amounts of money just to have her suck down his length the way she did when she was between his thighs. This line of thoughts wasn't helping. She was warm and heavy against his thighs. He embraced her, hugging her to him. She'd seen the tension in his face and misread it for something else. He comforted her. Breathing her in. Placing his nose against her neck and just inhaling deeply. As if he could smell, like a dog, the intrinsic  olfactory patterns that made up her genetic makeup and decode her as his...property. No. She wasn't property. Not like this. Not when she held him, talked to him. Loved him the way she did. And he knew it, that it was true. It wasn't about the money, the prestige, the power. It was the feeling he got when she was in his arms. That he could take on the world and nothing could stop him because he was doing it for her.

His lover... his warrior... his dancer.... Mistress.

"I'm so owned by you..." He whispered into her shoulder. Smiling against the fabric. His rusty curls falling across her skin as he caressed her hips and back.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you with me... Safe... Forever... Contra el mundo, Lalienna." ( Against the world.)

His kiss found the hollow of her throat. He'd missed her. Missed being inside her. Missed her company. He needed it. Craved it, constantly. He was so obsessed. He looked at her now, his docile, loving green eyes absorbing her warmth.

"But your mother....tesoro... Your fucking mother... Vaffanculo!" (Fuck me!) He laughed, taking hold her delicate hand from his shoulder and bringing her fingers to his lips. He kissed her... The ring of the Camorra that Gianna had given her. He lapped at it. Hotly. Like a dog's kiss.

"I called her, like you told me to. And she had words for me, alright. Do you know she called me a slave trader? And a peasant? Me... My family owns this city, my father speaks for all of Italy on The High Table and she called me a fucking peasant. Me!" He said, indignant. The rage starting to burn through him again as he gestured to the luxury of the office that surrounded them. The sofa they sat on alone was made of finest Italian kid leather and valued well into the five digit figures.

Lalienna's brows furrowed in concern. She knew Judeth well. Her diplomacy and temper were often as sharp and direct as a knife blade. It didn't surprise her in the least to learn that her lover had receiving a hefty verbal beating from her adoptive mother. It was all so much, so soon. Uprooting her from one country where she barely had the time to find herself and now put her in another strange gilded cage with other dangerous and vicious birds. Even if they were intrinsically beautiful. She tried to diffuse the  gathering heat in his eyes, pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

"She's just being protective, Papi. We left London so quickly. We didn't even call her to say good bye. Of course she was going to be pissed. How would you feel if someone eloped with your daughter?"

Her reasoning was sound. She was young yes, but not without intelligence and the ability to rationalize and reflect clearly. She was much more focused at twenty-one that he had ever been. Mature. That was impressive. He nodded, sighing and leaning back against the leather, taking her with him to rest against his chest. She felt good. Heavy, female. He felt complete. He didn't give a wild fuck about Judeth or her English whores. They could all burn as far as he was concerned. He was still seething internally from the beating she'd given him. He tsked angrily.

"She wants me to test your employment for the Camorra by giving you a probationary period of three months service. That means she controls your finances and upkeep under The Continental London; keeps you neutral, employed as a contractor. She won't hand me your accounts. And she intends to make my father sign a contract to the same tune. She's.... smart. I'll give her that. She wants to control you, even though you're not Iron Fortuna anymore. Independents with Continental memberships are valuable," He didn't add expendable. She didn't need to hear that right now. "I told her there would be no probation, that I would commit you fully to my care and absorb the cost of your upkeep. You'd be paid a monthly salary that would exclude boarding costs for the estate just like the rest of the High Guard. She's like a dog with a bone... the bitch won't let go."

"Papi!" His dancer complained. She didn't like the insult. Again he clicked his tongue, frustrated. She'd likely already contacted Lorenzo. He'd speak to his father later about this mess.

"Bambina mi dispiace." (Sorry baby girl.) He returned kissing her cheeks. "Business... It's boring. More than you can handle right now. Hey... you look incredible in my clothes.... That shirt suits you..." He tugged at the buttons, one after the other. Revealing a little more of her cleavage. Distracted again by her flesh. His free hand found the swell of her rear and squeezed it. Making her smile. He smiled in return.

"How are you feeling, tesoro? We missed you at breakfast.... again at lunch. Ares' been a good girl and taking care of you eh? She said you were playing video games with her huh? She's good. Very good. What she can't say with her mouth she says with her hands. Games are good. They focus and enrich the mind. You should get her drunk and try play something from the Tekken series with her. That's worth paying for. She always picks Marshall Law because he reminds her of Bruce Lee. She lacks technique. If I want to own her I pick Nina Williams. If I want to tease her I pick Kuma, the bear. You should see how she loses her shit! It's very funny to watch." He brightened considerably now. This was fun, talking about something so innocent.

"Oh, I miss playing Final Fantasy. They are long games but the Japanese have such rich stories and worlds. I don't have the time anymore, but I used to love it. Too much work. Too many other distractions. You're far better than a game... I get to complete sensory overload without having to pick up a controller. Mmmh?" He nipped her ear and listened as she recounted her morning playing Halo again with Ares.

"It was fun, Papi! I really like Ares. She's sweet and tender. She looked after me... I'm sorry for not coming down to eat. Are you mad?"

"Not mad, amore... just.. A little put off. You know me darling, I'm Italian. This is Rome now, not England. There are few if any formalities that will be placed upon you, but sharing meals with your family is amongst one of the most important things you can attend. Sharing food is the way Italians show their love. It marks the history and culture of the region, the depth of our devotion to one another. Even if no one says a word at the table, at least we're together. Grateful, thankful of each other. It's a prayer. Eating with one another. Being with them. I understand, you've been through a lot, we both have. We both need time to adjust. London has not been kind to us. It's been especially unkind to you, amore, so you'll forgive me if I arch up over the White Women. I mean your mother no disrespect but she's fucking with the wrong wolf if she thinks she can push me around in my own house. Bah! Don't worry about that." He shook his head and pushed the thought away. Judeth.... she fucking irritated him something awful. He was smarting from the burn of her voice. In his rage he imagined dispatching his men and just... having her brutalized... raped... again. By Italians. So she could feel the depth of his hold. She had nothing to turn against him. Clutching at straws. This thing about controlling her contract was a farce. He'd wipe his balls with it. It wasn't worth further acknowledgement. So what!

"I'll let you off today. If you don't feel like sitting at table with us for the next few days while you bleed and rest, I'll forgive you without offense. But come next week, I expect you to do your duty and eat with us. We're the High Guard, amore. It's important we spend this time together. I'm going to rest the crew for a week to adjust back to Roman life but then we return to field. We have shit to get done and The High Table doesn't conform to our ideas of relaxation. They're a machine. Faceless Gods and my father is one of them. He says jump, we ask how high. That simple. We want to live in peace and luxury, we want to sleep at night with each other's bodies around us, without the fear of being shot in the head, then we do what we're told.... For now.

He let the ominous slip. Let it hang in the air. Then patted her rump adoringly.

"You look unsettled baby girl.. Uncomfortable. A little stung out. Are you high? Ares keeping you loaded? Hm?" He smiled at her darkly. Not entirely minding the idea of having his lover stoned.

"Look, when you're working I need you to keep clean. No drugs. No dope, no booze. You need to stay sharp on the field when you're dispatched. But you've got down time now babe. You're allowed to spread your wings a little. Talk to Curtis if you want something to take the edge off. Him and Hector may have a few lines of Columbian blow that might make you feel good. Mind you, you they won't give you more than a quarter gram. If you've never touched it before, it could have an adverse affect. And I don't want to rush you to hospital over a bad trip. Okay? They'll take care of you..." He thought he'd let it slip now.

"Christov and Hector seem to be guarding something intimate about you. Like they know something I don't. I'm probably imagining it. You've had a rather deep impression on them. All of them these past few months. I know you two and Ares are tight together. Curtis, Marcus and Tony may not be so clingy, but they're for you babe.... always for you. You saw them in London. Your personal attack squad. They would have gunned me down in cold blood if I didn't yield. That's my boys!" He smiled warmly, his eyes glittering in mirth. He loved his crew. His Italian Silk Mafia.

"Amore... I think... if you're feeling up to it... you should speak to Chris, about getting a new tattoo. Our tattoo. The Camorra crown... somewhere on your body. You've seen mine, I have it on my back. Gianna has hers on her hip, the others wear theirs on different places one their bodies. It doesn't have to be large. But it has to be there. I want it there. It's a sign of our brotherhood. Our creed. It marks us as a unit. Together. ... And... skin art is sexy. I think you'd look good with a tattoo... Something I can run my tongue over when we fuck... And I wanna.... fuck..."  Now his lips found her throat again... Feeling the pulsing vein under his tongue. His hands rolled over her hips... caressed her breasts. Were they sensitive? Some women complained that their brests ached during their cycle. This was the first time in the months he'd loved this woman that he'd been present for hers. He wanted to ask her intimate questions. He'd been away in Austria missing the opportunity to probe her. Now he did. Gentle, lovingly.

"How does that feel? When I touch you like this?" His warm palm cupped her breast over his shirt, rolling against her nipple.

"Hurt?" She bit her lower lip. Not pulling away from the contact but not quite leaning into it either. So he respected her reluctance and let go of her breast.

"Do you want to be loved? During your cycle?" Oh! That was direct. The words sensual, like silk, whispered in his dulcet baritone against her earlobe. He found it erotic. Switched back to Italian she could understand.  

"Non c'è pressione, nessuna aspettativa tra di noi. Quando mi vuoi, sono qui per servirti. Sai che ho sempre fame. Voglio sempre ... amore ... sesso ... con te." (There's no pressure, no expectations between us. When you want me, I'm here to serve you. You know I'm always hungry. I always want...love... sex... with you.)

"It might make you feel good. Orgasm releases hormones that fight pain. Endorphins. Better than any artificial high. I like it when you're stung out on a good fuck rather than stoned on pills. " His lips found her throat again... hot... a deep, sensual roll of his tongue before he pulled away with a groan. Meeting her eyes with his. Sinful.

"You know where my bed is now. If not mine... yours... If not yours... Then any other surface you desire. The windows, the spa, the walls. In the bath... against the shower... In front of Ares on the hood of a car for all I care... Anything... anything to make you cum for me... Mistress." He smirked. Content, Italian charm as he licked his lower lip, catching the swell between his teeth. That's it... he wanted her to be uncomfortable. On edge. If he could keep her horny she'd come to him of her own accord. He wouldn't have to push, to egg or her on or seek her out. He always got what he wanted. From the day he met her he made her do what he wanted. And it felt good. Really good. He swelled under the rush of power that flooded his veins and made his balls throb. Because she was that kind of girl... She did that to him. Made him feel incredible.

 "Go on bella... Go get some rest. You're beautiful, but you look fucked. Not the way I want you to be. You're tired. Make sure Ares brings you something to eat. She didn't bring you a plate and hasn't eaten herself she's so worried about you. That's not good baby, I don't like my girls hungry. I can deal with almost anything but self harm and eating disorders scare the fuck out of me. When a girl stops eating, I panic. It's not natural. Even if it's just biscotti and cafe, you need something. You can't survive on water alone. Understand? I'll have one of the maids prepare some plates and bring them up to your rooms if you don't want to join me for dinner. We eat at 7 usually. Our chef is incredible. But on Sunday I'll cook for you personally. I love cooking for my family. We might even invite Gianna over, if she's not too busy hitting people with her enormous cock."

That got a laugh from his dancer. He was happy. He pulled her off his lap gently and stood up, crossing the room to open the door for her. "Go on, bella... go. Papi has work to do for you. The sooner I can finish the sooner I can relax with everyone else. Why don't you get the boys, or Ares to tour you around the house and gardens? You won't get bored here. There's a beautiful library with a window seat. You can sleep in the Roman sunlight, like a cat. Just be mindful of the boys. They're big dogs and they like to chase pretty things. You'll know where to find me if you need me. I'm usually always here in the office or upstairs in the study. Ask the maids for anything you might need. If you want to go for a drive around town, you're welcome to it. But let the boys take you first. I'll need to organize an Italian license for you and then we can talk about getting you your own car. Or picking something from the garage. Marcus is our resident rev head. He'll tell you the difference between Maserati and Audi.

"You spoil me Papi! You already bought me a car in Austria!" She chirped brightly, clinging to his neck and kissing his cheek. He hugged her back, completely removing the distance between them, he held her. Warm. Tender. Pressing her to his chest. Cheeky, he teased her.

"It's only because I want to get into your garage..."

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

————

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

Two Thrones

“Wear a dress.” He told her.

She was hot and cold at once. The way he made her feel, with just the sound of his voice.

And she knew the time would come when they’d take it all from her. It’s not that she didn’t welcome the change. It’s that she feared the cost was more than she was prepared to pay.

Two Thrones reared to her left and right.

One held by the Prince of Rome, the other by the Knight of the Underworld.

How could she refuse them?

They’d cut her vein into a wine glass and watched her grow cold.

She could read between the lines with their fangs in her throat.

Nothing was at it seemed.

She put on her battle dress and prepared for war.

Meanwhile, within the private confines of his office, Santino leaned into his window frame watching a flock of doves in the garden below as they bathed happily in the stone fountain, chirping to themselves in the afternoon sunlight. He was immensely glad to be home at last. He enjoyed international travel even if the different time zones tired him. Regardless, he found nervous reserves of excitable energy the moment the plane landed, to go out, breathe foreign air. Explore. He'd been to every corner of the globe he could attend, maxing out his passport twice before he was even twenty-eight. No sooner did he land in one city than he wanted to strip it of its beauty and riches and take flight to another. The food, the music, the women, history, art, architecture. They all enthralled him, captivated and enlightened him. His favourite was always travelling across Asia. Singapore, Thailand, Malaysia, China, Japan. So much history, it made him dizzy. The temples fascinated him. The monks and their chanting, their combat. The way they could meditate for hours on end, removing their souls from the living world yet remaining present, focused. Incredible.

Yet, no matter where in the world he went, there was never any place like Rome. His homeland. His birth nation. Here is where he belonged. Where he felt freer and safer than any destination ever before. He would jet set off for months on end, restless, hungry for more... but Rome called him back. A lover to her breasts. He sank into her tender embrace. Here... in his estate, surrounded by his loved ones. This was where he needed to be. He loved London too, the empire humbled him, its vastness outstripping anything Italy was capable of producing in terms of sheer geometric land mass. The people were so unified, so patriotic and good-natured. A little rigid perhaps. Still very Victorian in their behaviours. The class divisions were clear amongst the people. The rich were rich, the poor were poor. A steady stream of middle-class citizens kept the nation rolling on the backs of hypocrisy and terminal bloodshed.

When he attended the Continental, he had no intention of staying any longer than it took to present his face to Athena with his High Guard. A token offering of respect. There were issues with minor gang members and lower Camorra mafia teams that ran a money-laundering racketeering ring along the red light district. Athena had written to him personally, inviting his attention. Inviting... Huh! He scoffed at that. She diplomatically demanded the Prince of Rome present himself in her nation to remind his men of the stringent rules of arranged compliance for their trade in her city... or they would meet with significant family losses. He was at a loss. Gianna gave the list of names a cursory glance and decided immediately that the work was beneath her. Her brother would dispatch on her behalf. She didn't waste her time with two-bit pistol-toting wannabe thugs. That was his job. And he resented her for it.

"Jon Marco è un tuo problema, Gianna, perché devo sempre fare il tuo lavoro sporco?" (Jon Marco is your problem, Gianna, why do I always have to do your dirty work?)

He'd argued with her.

"Perché mi devi, fratellino. Ti ho salvato la vita, mantieni l'ordine lungo la ragnatela. E smettila di darmi problemi. Ne ho abbastanza del tuo piagnisteo. Lavora, per una volta! Fuori dalla vagina di una donna." (Because you owe me, little brother. I saved your life, you keep order along the spiderweb. And stop giving me a hard time about it. I've had enough of your whining. Work, for once! Outside of a woman's vagina.)

Oh Gianna! She infuriated him beyond belief sometimes. That look of tense fury in her eyes, the way she looked down upon him, almost in faux pity. He'd warned her before that wouldn't think twice about slapping that narcissistic look off her face. He hated her puffed up, over-importance. Ever since their mother had left she had assumed the role of lady of the house. And Lorenzo had tolerated it. Allowing the bitch to push her weight around as though she owned the place. God! He argued with their father bitterly, swearing to the Gods that he would not spend another night under the same roof as her. And he didn't have to. For the moment he turned eighteen his father had bestowed this estate upon him with a look of relief.

What was that for? Was he so impossible to live with? It wasn't his fault, it was theirs! Gianna's mainly. He got on well with father. But that bitch sister of his... God!

Well, no matter. He shook the memory away and freed his phone from his trouser pocket, thumbing the screen absently and opening his banking app. He sought to review his statements for the last two months. What he was doing was stalling. He hadn't wanted to front to conversation with Judeth Clayton. That White Woman was... unnatural. Detached. Disassociated from the world around her. She lacked warmth, humility, presence. She was beautiful, yes, some eight or nine years his senior, but already the cracks in her beauty began to show. Those eyes... They haunted him. He found himself remembering them at the oddest occasions and with the memory came a crawling discomfort in his chest. The English were too militant. Too rigid. There was something never quite right about them. Some sort of dark discipline that permeated their presence and stripped the air of its joy. He didn't want to face the call. The berating he knew he was in for. The whole affair in the Continental with Sable and Hector and Lalienna had unhinged a portion f his sanity, leaving him feeling disconnected and powerless. He couldn't accept it. At least here, in Rome he was lord of his own means once more. He needn't fear the oppression of another ruler. He could manage his father. He could manage Gianna. Everything seemed a hundred times more manageable now.

Sort of.

He was unaccustomed to being made to wait or having his summons ignored. It offended him that Lalienna did not present herself at his table for breakfast. She'd not attended lunch either. Nor had Ares. He would make allowances and swallow his displeasure for now. The girl meant no offense and he sympathised with her plight at being transplanted so wilfully across whole countries to please him. She would need time to adjust. Gather herself. They both needed time to heal. To his heart, healing began in the intimate embrace of her body. He'd enjoyed her vigour, her rejuvenating sensuality and nearly unquenchable thirst for heated, passionate love making. He never rejected her advances, relishing in her need to explore his physical terrain, testing the skin to see what would give way beneath her fingers. He rarely rejected her advances, even if he was tired or distracted or otherwise mentally engaged. She seemed to always find a way of dominating his will, to bring him back to her body. He bled himself to love her. But the trip to Austria had been a veiled blessing. In a way, he needed the solitude and distance to ground himself. He'd felt it coming on multiple occasions that in each session of passionate embraces, he was losing something of himself in light of relinquishing it to her needs. She was draining him of his spirit. Through his cock, it seemed.

Until her affair left him cold. Then it had all changed. He was no longer warm and yielding. Rather, he'd pushed her way entirely. Abandoning her to her private demons.

What a nightmare. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look upon London the same way again. That city had brought with it demons and nightmares he was not prepared to endure. And prayed he'd never have to again.

Something wasn't right. Among his men. Among Christov and Hector and Ares. They...they were distracted. Preoccupied at the table. They looked to each other and the rest as if they were in the midst of uncovering something great and he was not part of the unveiling. He couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps it was just tiredness. Lalienna had not attended his needs for days. Then again, he wasn't the same young man he was at twenty-one. His ravening after sex was better controlled. He relaxed knowing he had a Mistress to attend him when and if he desired it. And she was explosive in his bed. But not recently.

He pushed the thought away and with it, righted himself from the window frame, clearing the room and seating himself heavily into his sofa. He closed his banking app and pulled up his contacts, scrolling until Judeth's surname appeared on screen. He connected the call... and waited.

Within three rings the woman answered in alarmingly clear Italian.

"Buon pomeriggio signor D'Antonio." (Good afternoon Mr. D'Antonio)

"Grazie, signora Clayton. Confido che il giorno ti abbia trattato gentilmente?" (Thank you, Lady Clayton. I trust the day has treated you kindly?)

"As well as can be expected. I thank you for your concern." She returned in English. Her Italian was clear and well elocuted, but her English... that accent made him feel things. She was positively delicious to listen to on the phone. He would enjoy this exchange after all. He remembered the power rush he'd gotten off meeting her face to face. The battle of wills between them. The game... It felt good, so long as he was winning. But he couldn't win her. Not for all his charm and swagger, he couldn't win her. So he'd try now. On the phone. The way he did Lalienna whilst he was nations away.  He licked his lower lip, leaning back into the tobacco coloured leather of his sofa and purring, almost sensually into the phone in his richly accented English.

"Lalienna tells me there is conversation pending between us. I called to push it into traction. How can I be of service, Lady Clayton?"

A heartbeat passed between them on the line. He'd chosen his words carefully. She was thinking. Her reaction was like a whip to the shoulder blades.

"You can start by telling me on whose authority you sought to transplant my daughter from English soil to Roman territory, Mr. D'Antonio."

Ouch! The sting. She was so direct. So... aggressive. So completely out of her depth. He liked it. He had her off balance. Which card would he play? How would the tarot fall?

He decided to take her with swords. That seemed the most prudent. The English understood power. Now he would show her his.

"My own authority. " He began, meeting her with a direct thrust. "Your daughter is now my employee, Lady Clayton. The Camorra has absorbed her assets, expenses and losses the moment she pledged her allegiance to my sister, Queen Regent, Gianna. Are you suggesting, we did not make it perfectly clear that she is our property now? She serves a new King , White Woman. Our King. And he is Roman."

God he was sharp. He spat the honorific almost as if it was distasteful. And it was. He had no love for the Tower, Athena or her Iron Fortuna syndicate. Their arrangement was purely statutory as far as he was concerned. A formality. He owed the English crown nothing.

She was silent for moments. Likely bleeding out slowly. But she returned to conversation presently and her tone betrayed no weakness.

"The Camorra has,  in recent memory, been an organization born and bred on the honour of family and its traditions, Sir. As such, I merely enquire as to why you have affronted me with the discourtesy of removing my daughter from the hands of her English Masters without, at bare minimum, a simple phone call to pre-empt me of your intentions to take her with you? Am I to believe I class so lowly; that I was not worthy of your attention? "

Bold move... She retaliated with veiled flattery and the hidden threat of a knife blade. He was stimulated. She was worthy even as she hinted on debasing herself.

"No! Perish the thought!" He assured her. "I admit, I was remiss in not calling to ask for your pardon. Even if I do not feel I had to." There it was, his fire. He threw it in her face and continued. "But I understand family more intimately than you would know, Signora. And I respect that I have caused you anxiety. I assure you, Lalienna is healthy and safe and will come to no harm in Rome under my care. The time has come that we complete her initiation under Lorenzo D'Antonio. Your Queen relinquished her on a political loophole. We merely caught her in the undertow. Her English "masters", as you call them, are as inconsequential to her wellbeing as are her ties to Iron Fortuna. " He meant to tell her that included her. But he held his tongue. He'd said enough. He would not allow this woman to dictate the terms of the agreement to him. What he did with the disowned was his business alone. He'd not justify himself to anyway save his father and sister and even then it was not without heavy resistance.

"I'm afraid her disassociation from my syndicate is not that simple, Mr D'Antonio.  There's still the matter of her hotel membership that needs to be settled."

"I personally take responsibility for her on-going maintenance. I will request Signore Jeremy dispatch her accounts to Signore Julius here in Rome."

"I decline your request, Mr. D'Antonio. Her residency in London's accounts department will stay exactly where they are."

"Scusami?" (Excuse me?) He straightened off the lounge now, raising his brow.

"I said, no, Mr. D'Antonio. I refuse to allow the Camorra Miss DeMentriento's retrenchment of financial maintenance until we formalize a grace period to establish her commission of service to Italy."

"Woah woah woah," He snapped, rising to his feet and pacing toward his fireplace. "There's nothing retrenched about her situation! She had promised herself to my family on her own word-"

"Three months." Judeth insisted, cutting him off cold. "Three months of probationary service and if you find she is unable to meet the needs of the Camorra based on her criteria, then you are to return her to independent service to The Continental London where she is to live and work unmolested and free of your entrapment, do I make myself clear, Mr. D'Antonio?"

The words stung like a slap to the face. He had no intention of enrolling Lalienna's service to his family with any probationary period let alone giving her back to Jermey and Sable if she failed her purpose... alive. He'd sooner break her neck himself than allow her to walk free with any knowledge that could be used against his family. This woman was insane! He told her so.

"Sei fuori di testa, signora!" (You're out of your damn mind, lady!)

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, Prince of Rome." The words like ice as they left her lips. "You don't get to fuck my daughter and then assume you have imperial ownership of her person just because you spilled your seed in her belly."

"Che cosa!?" (What?!) He snapped... completely beside himself. He couldn't believe what she was saying.

"You heard me, you degenerate slave trader. Lalienna's clearly a child. Barely able to wipe her own arse yet. Do you honestly think I'll allow you to chew her up and spit her out like some inconvenient whore? You, are the one who's out of his mind, Santino.  I may not have birthed her, but I spilled blood in her name well before you ever came to the English scene to pluck her from the wild. As far as I'm concerned, she's still an independent contractor on loan from London and will remain so for three months. I will ensure Lorenzo D'Antonio himself is aware of this arrangement and it will remain so, without breech of protocol or God help me I'll fly down there and stick something sharp in you, capisci, pasanio?" (understand, peasant?)

With that, Judeth disconnected the phone and returned it to her coat pocket, flicking up the collar against the Autumn wind. She'd had absolutely all she could stand of that idiot Italian and his self-proposing mind games. He sickened her. She was furious. Completely indignant of entire affair. No sooner did she begin her march across the quadrangle under the escort of her personal guard, than her phone rang again. Irritated she noted the name and answered. It was Sable this time.

"Clayton."

"Good afternoon Mistress Clayton. The Continental extends its compliments and wishes to invite you as its guest to join us for dinner this evening." Still seething from her attack on the Roman Prince, she bristled and responded far too sharply.

"With whom?"

"Me..." Came the reply. Velvet-like. Seductive. "I want you to join my private table for dinner Judeth. I want to talk to you about Lalienna's account."

"It's been paid for, Sable. You know this."

"Judeth... we're not talking about money here. We're talking about contractual obligations. For ten weeks we provided a service to your ward and I second that her bill has been settled. With interest. That's not the point. The point is... Twenty-four hours ago, your ward left English soil under the employ of the Italian mafia who are not known for leaving behind loose ends. I need to know if we're to transfer her paperwork to Rome or not. And considering how delicate this matter is to you, I thought it best you join me for supper first. A little wine perhaps."

When a pause was extended, he lowered his voice and continued. "Dessert."

"Sable...." She breathed the name, a heavy sigh. "Come to dinner, Mistress Clayton. Tonight. Table Twenty-One. Eight o'clock sharp. And wear a dress."

"...Fuck...."

"Dessert. Don't keep me waiting." Mmh. That felt good. He'd enjoyed that call. Sable wore a self satisfied smile as he put down the reception phone. He enjoyed Judeth's company. More than he should, he admitted. But it was good to hear her voice falter under pressure.

"Ladies, take over the desk will you. I'm going out for a little while."

"Ooh Sir!" The twins chimed in, all too happy to relieve the handsome gentlemen of his post.

"While that cat's away..." Sang Chantelle

"The mice....shall.....play...." Chervonne completed. Purring the line with suggestive undertone.

Sable stood proud, adjusting his leather gloves as he fixed the girls with a predatory glare.

"Don't wait up."

He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

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@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

“Tell them....I’m coming...”