Laliennadementriento - Blog Posts

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.

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

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My history is written in Blood & Gold

I am Judeth Clayton; Queen, Interrupted

I am Judeth Clayton; Queen, Disrupted

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

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.

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.

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 things we do for love....

Five days now he'd been home at the Continental London and for those five days Hector and Christov did nothing but protect his dancer like wolves. Refusing him access to her. In any way, shape or form. He begged them, pleaded they let him attend her. He had so much he needed to say. His two months of diligent hard work had finally paid off. The papers accepted, her duel European Visa acquired alongside international residency and secure passage to at least four different safe houses that were level territory with the Camorra. Her alliances secured with nothing more than a photograph. The banks had approved his land purchase as well. He'd acquired her a modest villa by the waterfront  not entirely too far from Schönbrunn Palace in the capital. A Porsche Panamera in stunning hot rod red parked in her private driveway. He took photos lovingly on his phone and set the new house and car keys into a velvet lined black box with a card that read: 'So you may live in love and peace. Santino' He wanted to give it to her desperately but they just wouldn't leave him alone with her for a minute. Ares, Curtis and Marcus were always at her side when Chris and Hector weren't.

They guarded her in shifts, snapping and barking at him like dogs if he so much as looked at her in a way that they often misinterpreted as predatory. He'd snapped at them under the pressure. Retaliating wildly when they would not approve access to her rooms. He was causing a scene, they told him. Being disgraceful. Disrespectful. He argued with the crew bitterly.

"She's my fucking lover!" He screamed at Hector in bitter rage, threatening him. "Have you forgotten who signs your pay checks, bastardo?!" (bastard?!)  Well, that didn't go down well in the slightest. Furious, Hector punched him square in the mouth. The blow so well timed and powerful he'd not even seen it coming. He remembered then why he had chosen Hector as his second in command. But that didn't stop him pulling his pistol free and levelling it at his Guard's head. Hector, in a wild fury, took hold the muzzle of the gun and shoved it directly into his forehead, holding it steady and cursing in Italian. Demanding Santino make good on his threat ad pull the trigger. Daring him to do so. To see what would really happen. Did he have the balls? Here? Now?

"Go on, you fucking cunt! You lack the courage of your conviction! Dickless cur! Pull the trigger, pull it! Pull the fucking trigger Santino, blow my brains out if you think you have it in you! I'll die where I stand but you... I'll see you rot in Hell!"

Santino's finger squeezed the trigger... another millimetre and he'd end this man's suffering forever. Until Sable appeared flanked by hotel security in the hallway and demanding the two men desist their argument immediately and drop their weapons at once.

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PAIR!?!" Sable exploded. Rare. Extremely rare. Sable was always so refined, so in control of his emotions. Seeing him loose his cool like this was haunting.

"A dozen noise and disturbance complaints from this floor, I come to investigate and this is what I find?! The Prince of Rome and his Commander at gun point in the halls of my house?! Are you insane?!"

"This doesn't concern you. Return to your desk." Santino had replied in a fury. Completely forgetting himself or where he was. Now it was Sable that attacked, knocking the pistol clear out of his hand with a deadly precision of movement. He disarmed the Italian prince and threw the weapon at his security guard who caught it mid-air and unloaded the magazine in an instant. Impossible the way they moved. Trained almost from birth it seemed. There were dangerous men in England. Dangerous men in London. But Sable... he reminded Santino and Hector both of who was God in this hotel. And it was certainly him. Sir Jeremy would hear of this disruption of harmony to his house. And he would come down on them both like the hand of God. In vengeance. But that was secondary to what was to come first. They were not polite about it either.

 Both Hector and Santino were arrested and separated by Sable's security detail, stripped of weapons entirely and marched in different directions. Downstairs they were taken. Almost the same route down to the subterranean car parks. Basement level. The boiler rooms. A huge stone chamber that was bare of anything save concrete and iron and the machinery that kept the hotel air conditioning and water systems functional. They seemed to stretch on forever. Twice Santino asked where they were taking him, straining against the cold metal of his handcuffs. And twice they met him with silence. Terror began to sink its fetid claws into the panicked beating of his reckless heart. Would he run? Would it make it worse if he did?

They threw him face first into a rough hewn holding cell with no light, dank air and imposing terror. The shadows played tricks with his eyes. There, in the corners of the cell were shadows that moved. Too many arms... to many eyes... Monsters..

Terrified, the Italian threw himself at the cell bars, screaming and pleading Sable let him free. But no one came to his cries. They left him there, alone, in the dark, handcuffed with the moving shadows of creatures unknown and his own thoughts to torment him into believing he was seeing demons and hearing voices that were otherworldly manifestations of death and torment.

 No light... no sound... Just fear.... fear.... and Lalienna.... Oh his dancer! His Spaniard. His Mistress. He screamed her name into the shadows and they dispersed to reveal.... Sable.

What?! Impossible!!! He'd gone with the other security staff to lock away Hector... how was he here with him this in cell? Wait?! In the cell? Then how would they get out?!

What?! Nothing made sense.

"Signore Sable... please.... please.. I'm going mad... I can't be here anymore, my dancer.. My Lalienna...have mercy on me, let me go to her. I will do anything you say, anything. Just let me out of this fucking cage... LET ME OUT!!!"

"I warned you...Prince of Rome. That the cost of your sins would see to your ruin." Whispered Sable. Black suit. Gloved hands. Those eyes... like the pits of Hell themselves reflecting the screams of a hundred thousand fallen souls at once. And he would be another victim to join them shortly.

Santino pleaded, "Signore Sable, please, have mercy on me. Yes, I did wrong, I pulled a gun in your house, I was mad in my rage but you have to believe me, I wouldn't have killed him.. My Commander! My Guard! Hector... Where have you taken him?! Tell me! Do with me what you will but release Hector, he is innocent of any crime, it was me! I admit it! I did it all... I cut her... I held her down, I lost control. I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He fell to his knees and with it came his grief stricken tears like rain. He'd snapped completely. Babbling, cursing, wretched in his panic. He vomited under the sheer force of the terror that took him.  He thought he would die in this cell. Without ever seeing her again. His men... Ares... Hector, Christov, Curtis, Tony, Marcus... Lalienna...

Those voices... in his head. Lorzeno shunning him, his sister Gianna, turning away. Marissa... That look in her eyes. Haunted. The light gone forever... Like Judeth... Because he'd raped her. He'd taken her against her will.... he'd abused and raped her and killed their child. Blood on his hands. Her blood. She left him... But he'd forever torn out the semblance of her soul.

"Are you ready to repent, Mr. D'Antonio?" Asked Sable calmly, dulcet baritone. Black suit, black gloves, standing outside the bars of the cell door.

Outside? Santino turned in tear-soaked panic. Then if Sable was outside, where was the man he was talking to in the cell?

Nothing there... Shadows and darkness and nothing more.

"How'd you do it?!" Santino asked, throwing himself at the bars.

"Do what exactly, Mr. D'Antonio?"

"Don't play fucking games with me Sable... you were standing in this cell with me a moment ago. Right there! How did you get out without me seeing you?"

Sable was silent, his features changed. Pity infused his hard blue eyes as he looked the half mad Italian man over.

"Mr. D'Antonio.... You watched me leave your side to incarcerate your guard. It's not possible for me to be in two places at once. Although it would certainly improve my efficiently for running this hotel."

Santino's eyes grew wide. Horror filling him. He spun on his heel, his eyes searching the darkness. Sable was right... he was alone. There was no one there... Had he imagined it? But it was real! The concierge had been standing in that cell with him as surely as he lived and breathed this very moment.

"Mr D'Antonio... listen to me. Your guard was good enough to explain your position. You've had a very difficult few months it seems. You're over worked, injured, exhausted and defeated by demons latched to you by the betrayal of a lover. If you want to survive this, I suggest you admit defeat first and make good your apologies. Now, I'm going to let you out of that cage. And you're going to come with me back upstairs. You will join me at the reception desk and you will sign a formal warning notice for wilful intent to execute business on hotel grounds with a loaded weapon. As no harm was done, and your guard has confessed of your troubles, I will be lenient with you and revoke my original intention which was to report your behaviour to management and have our services suspended until further notice. You should be grateful of my mercy, sir. It is not every day one is given the opportunity to teach humility to the Prince of Rome. Alas, I have. And would do so again with extreme prejudice if that is what it takes to disarm you."  

He was freed from his prison soon thereafter. Leaving the shadows of the underground behind. He ascended again to the light and did exactly as he was told. Without question. With extreme hesitation. Sable cleared his throat. A warning. Still he would not sign the paper. He couldn't read the words. He became overwhelmed that this document was in fact his death warrant.

"Sign it, Mr.D'Antonio."  Those eyes... like the pits of hell.

"I want Lalienna..." He pleaded. His voice breaking. The tears would not come though his eyes burned.

"And you will have her again, of that I have no doubt. Now, sign the Warning Letter so we may put this wretched episode behind us quickly, sir. I have business to attend and cannot stand here entertaining your insecurities all day. Do I make myself clear?"

He gave in. He signed.

"Papi?" That voice! He turned and there she was. Flanked by Hector and Chistov, Marcus, Tony and Curtis. Ares too, hugging he girl. His girl. His dancer. His Spanish flower.

He looked to the men, wordless. The tears falling at last. Begging though he didn't say a word that they let him touch her, go to her... fall at his knees for her. Hector nodded.

And that was all he needed. He rushed her, taking her in his arms and breaking down.  He cried with her. Incomprehensible in his anguish. A million terrors and fears flooding through him that he struggled to convey. Two months of torture, separation, madness. Destroyed... By the severance between them.

And she chased it all away with a kiss. And that kiss. It seemed to last forever. An eternity. It stretched on and on and on. Lightening him. Calming him, soothing him. Her skin, her scent, her touch, her taste. His lungs burning, he wouldn't come for air, he'd let her drown him. He wanted to die... Here. Now. It didn't matter how so long as she held him in her arms.

 "I love you, Papi... I've missed you. I was sacred you'd still be angry with me. That you wouldn't come back."

"Non ti lascerò mai più amore mio." (I'll never leave you again my love." He insisted. Holding her to him for dear life.

It was over. The torment. The torture. His anger. His rage. His madness. It was all over.

He turned, to find Sable... But he wasn't there.

"Did you see him?" He asked, cold with shock.

"Who Papi? What are you talking about?"

"Sable! Did you see Sable?!" He was addressing his men now. Praying that they said something that sounded like reason.

"Mr. Sable retired an hour ago, Mr. D'Antonio." He swung around again to see the owner of that voice. A pair of them. Identical twins. The Iris Twins.

"We're here though Sir. And if there's anything you need of us-"

"Paper! Warning Letter. I signed a warning letter, where is it?" He snapped in panic.

"Warning Letter, Sir?" Said Chervonne with a raise of her brow.

"Whatever are you talking about?" Chimed Chantelle, clearly concerned that something was amiss.

 "Boss..." He turned again, clutching the dancer to him. His men flanked him and he winced and retreated from Hector who looked upon him with concern in his eyes.

"You look terrible boss... I think... you should go upstairs... Both of you. Spend a little alone time together. You need each other now."

"Papi? Are you okay? You look sick. I'm worried about you."

"It's okay, amore mio. It's alright. I'm... tired that's all. Tired. Yes... But, Lalienna, I want you to go with Ares upstairs and pack your belongings. Everything we bought together. Everything you own. Tony, help her with her luggage. All of you go, empty your rooms. Pack your belongings and get ready to take the next flight back to Rome."

"Rome? What? Why? Right now?!" Asked Hector, clearly confused.

"Yes, right now. All of you. Pay your checks to the ladies and prepare your passports. We're going home."

"But Papi, it's so late. Are you sure you don't want to just sleep with me first, then we can go in the morning together?"

"No, amore mio. Right now. We're leaving right now. We can sleep on the plane. But we're going home. I'm taking you with me. All of us. I've had enough of this city , this country. I can't stand it a second longer. We're leaving. Back to my mansion. We're going to Rome."

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.

I was wrong.

I sinned against you.

I've always known I was beneath you.

Your dog.

You've always cut me, down to the bone.

And I've never been strong enough to fight you off.

Even if I told myself otherwise.

Stop it. Stop hurting me.

I've got no soul to sell.

I gave you the last piece.

It's killing me.

Losing you like this.

Help me get away from myself.

You bring me closer to God.

{Don't make me sleep alone.}

This wasn't right. She wouldn't look at him in the eyes. She whimpered, coming down to her knees. And for once he didn't stop her reverence. Though it wasn't necessary. They were family, after all. Yes, he was their employer and in front of others it was important that the people understood without a shadow of doubt that he was the one in power here. That these were his men and women. His High Guard. He said jump, they asked how fucking high and liked it. Or he'd terminate their employment. Terminate their lives. The latter an empty threat. He wouldn't dare. He wasn't a savage like the Russians or the Chinese. He was an Italian man. And the Italians were men of honour. He had a reputation to uphold after all. His family name was at stake. He still lived very much under the Table. Under Gianna, under Lorenzo. Where shit actually gets done. He watched the man named Marquis. Looking from him to his apparently unwanted  bastard daughter. And it ripped his heart apart. The way they definitely looked similar. Biologically similar. About the eyes... the nose... She was much finer in her features, smaller frame, compact and powerful, even if she was a whimpering mess in Hector's loving arms. Ares did tell him she was taking pills. Some sort of herbal remedy to steady her nerves. She looked terrible. A nervous wreck. That scar on her neck... where he'd cut his initial into her flesh for her hateful indiscretion, it wasn't healing properly. Just like her broken collarbones. My god! This man said he didn't want her. He wasn't ready to be her father.. and now he had his own children. That tiny little girl. What was she? Seven? Eight? She looked like her father. Marquis left without so much as acknowledging him. Hector raged in fury. Christov and Ares and Curtis... they all bristled... pissed off. Wanting blood for making their sister in arms cry like this. He stepped aside and this man named Marquis passed him. "Figlio di puttana." (Son of a bitch.) Said Santino as he passed his shoulder. Loud enough that he knew clearly, that he was being addressed, even if Marquis did not understand Italian. It didn't matter. "Boss...." That was Christov again, tattooed hand on his shoulder. Tense... his pale eyes that he made paler by wearing those white blue contacts that gave the impression that he was a wolf in snow were unsettling. But they didn't hide the truth from Santino. He knew what was going on here. He shrugged himself away from Chris' hand. "Apetta un minuto." (Wait a minute.) Was his reply. He knew he had a plane to catch. That he was already forty minutes behind schedule. He'd have to make alternate arrangements at the airport. At this rate he'd as good as missed his first class service to Vienna. He didn't care. He'd catch a connecting service and accept the stop over. He'd settle for business class if he had to. Travel always made him tired anyway. But nothing made him as tired as this game they were playing. For...how long? Three weeks? A month? Six weeks? She was crying in Hector's arms. He held her through it all. The temper tantrum, the rage.   Ares signed to him now, 'Please Tino... She's dying slowly. Every day. And it's your fault. You keep this up and she's going to walk out on you. On us. And we're not gonna stop her. You're not gonna stop her. Because we will stop you. We have to. We're family. These are the rules. Your rules. Can you just apologize, please?'

Tony joined them now, catching the tail end of her quick gestures. Yes. He'd seen the text as well. God.. that's what this was all about?! Their boss took off on a business trip, she got bored and hooked up with some girl. Who cares?! Big deal. So hook-ups and break ups happen all the time. They'd all done it. They'd all had flings, two-timed other girls, other guys. Except maybe Hector. He had better morals than all of them put together. And now he was glaring daggers at Santino while he held his dancer and kissed her head and shushed her gently.

All five of them left his side.... left him standing there. Alone. Abandoned him. His family turned their back on him. They made it clear where their allegiances lay. They'd had enough of his angst-ridden bullshit. The entire Camorra High Guard went to stand in a line beside Lalienna. Hector, Ares, Christov, Marcus, Tony, Curtis. They stood beside her. Protecting her. From him. Hector spoke first. His heart was breaking. He'd had enough of this. "Santino D'Antonio. You have been my employer for almost ten years. I have stood beside you. Assembled your men and women. We have fought, bled and cried on the battle field. And in each other's arms. I've tasted your lips. Your blood. Your tears. I've tasted your suffering and your joy. I was there when you fell from grace. I was there to stop your father and sister killing you over what you did, when you did it to Marissa Conti. But I'm telling you right now... you fucking Italian cock-sucking prick...  That I won't stand by a minute longer and let you keep torturing this poor girl over an indiscretion."

"We know, boss." Said Curtis. "We all know now, exactly what happened. And why you're so pissed off with her. Now it makes sense... where that mark on her neck came from."

"You're a pig sometimes, motherfucker." That was Christov. Imposing in his tattoos. Angry. "You didn't want her to go hook up with some other bitch from a past life, well you should have taken her with you to Vienna. Rather than being such a hard ass and leaving her here." "I left her behind to protect her. She's not ready for the world." Santino snapped. "Shut the fuck up, dickhead. We're the one's doing the talking now. Not you." Christov fired back.

"Who do you think you are anyway?" Marcus added in aggravated questioning. "Prince of Rome? Really? You.... When you act like such a piece of shit? Didn't we tell you we'd cut off your balls if you hurt her? You're lucky we let it go on for so long, fuck face. We could have called Gianna any time and had your fucking ass reamed... And you know she'll tear you a new one. Just like she did for Miss. Conti. And that took you two years of cock sucking your daddy before he let you back out of your filthy cage, you cunt."

"I'll have you all killed for this..." Santino whispered, breathless.... Impossible....his own men were turning against him. This was mutiny! Dereliction of duty. Blackmail. Would they really call Gianna? "We'd like to see you try, Prince of Rome. Come on... let's take it outside. You wanna mutilate a girl, because you're a real man? Well we're real men too. Hell, Ares has a bigger pair of balls than you do right about now. Ain't you, baby girl?" Said Tony bitterly.

'You're out numbered, boss. Time to fold 'em. You've lost this hand. And we're not sorry. You're a good man sometimes, but this time... we have to take you down. And we don't need guns, knives or money for it. We're in your head. Under your skin. You let us in. Like vampires. You knew we'd always turn against you if it meant we had to protect one of our own. We're the Camorra High Guard. Lalienna is our solider as much as she's our sister. You don't fuck with the Italians. Santino. You don't fuck with us. Now say you're sorry.' Ares signed in passionate sweeps of her hands.

"Say you're sorry!" All five of them demanded at once. Like dogs... They had a bone in their mouths and they refused to let go.

"Don't make us tell you again." Said Hector. His eyes were pleading. He knew the truth. That Lalienna was pregnant with Santino's child. That she'd lose the baby if he kept tormenting her like this. Santino himself didn't know yet. It was up to the dancer to tell him. Only if she wanted to. If she didn't make arrangements to abort the baby first. Because it was still too soon in the affair. Santino had only started dating her seriously about two months ago. And he hadn't made the moves to buy that engagement ring he was looking at in the Crown Jewelers of London.

It worked. Their fire. Their fury. It was his fault after all. He'd trained them to be like this. To protect their own. They were Italian after all. They had different surnames, different backgrounds, different nationalities. Sure. But they were all raised and grown in Italy. And you don't fuck with the Camorra. His Camorra. He was supposed to be the Prince of Rome. Under Gianna. Under Lorezno

The Prince broke down.... The tears he'd been holding back all morning finally fell like rivers. Over his waterline... against his cheeks. Hitting his shoes... His shaking hands. Sable's words playing over in his head as well. No... he couldn't afford the cost of excommunication. He couldn't afford anything right now. He'd never been so poor in his entire life. Nothing mattered. The clothes, the cars, the money, the jewels. He felt empty. Empty without her. He cried bitterly. The tears fell like rivers.... And he came at her then. Dropping his bags, his overcoat flying off his shoulders as she rushed her and took the dancer in his arms and cried... and cried... and cried.... "I'm sorry.... Lalienna..... Please.... forgive me... I'm begging you... I'm so fucking sorry....I can't.... I'm not living like this any more... I'm dying without you. You're killing me.... Save me... There's nothing left.... I've no soul left to sell because I gave the last piece to you.....Please.... Please.....Lalienna.... Perdonami." (Forgive me.)  

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.

God he was bitter. Blood boiling, red anger. Ares had texted him as he was sorting his bags, ready to leave, take his car to the air port. Unfinished business in Vienna. He left on a "family medical emergency" but they wouldn't hold her papers forever. It had been three weeks now, he had to go back. Even if he did want to slap her face. he pulled out his phone and read the message: 'Boss... you're being a fuck. Her real dad is here. The bastard that left her and her mother to die. He's actually come right into the hotel and he's downstairs with her now. Hector and Chris are guarding. But she's fucked over. And she's aching for you. You gotta let this go, Tino. It's not fair.'

He texted her back. He shouldn't have. But he'd finally had enough of her constant digging. Her and his entire Guard. He couldn't free himself from any of them. Christov, Marcus, Tony, Hector, Curtis.... Ares just added to the fire. So he gave in. Jabbing at his screen. His eyes stinging with unshed tears. And his shoulder burned where he'd be shot last week. Grazed by a bullet because he'd been careless on the field thinking of her in the middle of a hit job in Whitechapel that didn't go down according to plan. She was doing this to him. Making him lose focus. Lose control. 'She fucked another woman.' He pressed Send. Threw the phone on the bed and went to get his jacket out of the wardrobe. His arms had just slipped through when his phone went off again. He picked it up...Though he didn't want to. Unlocked the screen. And read Ares' reply. 'Marissa Conti Mark 2. Your call Boss.'

That cut him. He turned and with a roar he threw the phone into his bedroom mirror with such force the glass exploded in the antique gilded frame sending shards smashing out into all directions. The sound of glass cracking and giving way to impact. Like his heart was. Like his torn soul. Chaos... pain and chaos... Her father was here? Her biological father?   Really? He checked his holster. Four magazines, his beloved Baretta 92S, loaded and ready to go off. He flicked his thumb over the safety, releasing it. Fuck hotel rules. Fuck this stranger in his head. In his heart. He wanted to kill her. That's why he took to the streets and got reckless. Coming home shot up and bleeding over Sable's counter. "Rough night, Mr. D'Antonio?" The concierge asked. "Sempre duro, ultimamente." (Always rough, lately.) He'd answered.

He left the room behind. In the ruins of a broken mirror. His phone on the ground... the words appearing on the spiderweb of cracked glass that made up his broken screen. 'Marissa Conti Mark 2. Your call Boss.'

Ares sent the whole crew an SOS text. 'Guys... I think Tino's coming downstairs. He's going to be pissed off at us, big time. I just learned why he's been so salty this month. Lali's fucked another girl! No wonder! Guys, I mentioned Marissa again... I'm fucked right?'

Curtis responded. Marcus responded. 'We'll make your funeral arrangements babe. What colour you want your casket?' 'I'll go get a priest. Last Rites in Latin. Riposa in pace, Ares Vanguard.'

Sir Sable greeted the Italian crime boss with a bow of his head. "Good afternoon, Mr. D'Antonio. Your car is awaiting collection out front. Is there anything else I can do to ease you into your flight?" Santino's eyes were hard. He'd lost his smile a month ago and walked like a man ready for war. "Mr. DeMentriento, Lalienna's father is here?" "In the drawing rooms, Sir. With Miss DeMentriento. And she appears extremely distressed." "How much to make you lift house rules?" The question was fired as a bullet. He came at the counter now and looked Sable dead in the eyes. The two men glared daggers at each other. Sable was furious. Murder? In his house?! Unthinkable! "Can you really afford Excommunication, Mr. D'Antonio?" A growl, through gritted teeth. Sable reared like a wolf. He asked without flinching. He meant it. He'd make the call to Jeremy. "Can you? Prince of Rome?"

He won. Santino backed away. A smile that didn't reach his eyes played about his features. "No." He stepped away from the counter. Away from Sable whose hand was on the phone. And he stalked the lobby. Ares appeared from the gardens. And Marcus from the stairwell. The pair flanked him. Silent. They were tense. Tight. Militant. Marching two paces behind the Italian prince. The doors of the drawing room were opened back for the trio. There she was.... This was the first time he'd laid eyes on her in a month. And there was a man beside her... in front of her. Talking. Chistov eyed down his employer. Anger and pity upon his face. Fucking Ares.... she'd told them everything, hadn't she? Did they read the text? Did they now know the truth? Why he was angry?

Hector was appeared now, tense and aggravated. He’d gotten the text. He read everything. Christov signed to him: ‘Dude, you were supposed to hold him up? Distraction!’

Hector replied with quick hands: ‘Bad timing. This could get ugly. Watch for his guns. Protect Lali.’

"Lalienna. Santino stopped his march just inside the room. Waiting  for her to turn. To face him. He wanted to see the damage. The ruins he'd dragged her through. Was that her father? That man right there? He breathed in... a shuddering breath. Breathed out. Stepped forward. Extended his hand. This was his lover's father. He'd pay his respects. Even if he did want to put a bullet in his fucking brain. "Signore.... I'm your daughter's intended. Santino D'Antonio, how do you do?"

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.

Only The Finest Will Reign

Welcome to ‘Reign’ - Underworld of Sin. 

House Rules Apply. 

Guns at the Door.

Along with your Inhibitions. 

And your blood money bullshit. 

We’re not interested in your dramas. Your grudges, your family feuds are mute. You come here to party. Heels, Designer Dresses... And your Finest Suit. We want you dripping in Diamonds. We want you dripping in Gold. Right here’s where we want you. Get a drink, get bought, get sold. 

Ladies on the dance floor. Burlesque and poles. Gents grab those girls, back to back, grind ‘em souls.

We come here to dance. Drop our guns and sing. We come here to party. Forget everything. 

‘Coz the streets are dirty. The bullets and bombs.  

But when we come to party. We’re writing new Psalms.

ONLY THE FINEST WILL ‘REIGN’

The Camorra High Guard

Pride of Italy. 

Royalty of Rome. 

Criminal Landmarks. 

It starts and ends here. Even though we are visitors to England. Guests of London. Allies of Iron Fortuna. Under the Table, for Lorenzo D’Antonio. Under the Table, for Gianna D’Antonio. Under the Table far beneath Athena, The White Women, The Tower of London. We are your allies. We stand together. We believe in the power of Family. Because blood will always be thicker than water. We believe in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. We have guns, blades, dogs and money. We’re the first and last Gangsters you want rolling up to your house. Late at night, we’re in the alleyways, in the streets. In your houses, in your car parks. We own our cities and we’re about to own yours. Our brothels, nightclubs and dockyards. And you can say you don’t need us. But we’re still waiting on your protection money. Because we are both Death and Taxes. Checks and Balances. Crime and Punishment. Rules and Consequences. 

Pay up or shut up mother fucker. Yeah, we did. We fucked over your wife, your sister and your mother. We enjoyed it. We’d do it again for fun. While you’re watching. So salute. Step out of that car. Hands up. Stand and Deliver. 

We do this for Italy. We do this for Rome. 

You say we can’t, but you stop us you won’t. 

We are the Camorra High Guard. 

We are the Italian Silk Mafia. 

Game on, bitches. Play on.

When you love till it hurts....

"You must travel dark hallways to get there. And it is a place of sin. The Red Door stands as the gateway to abandon. And you'll do anything if they let you in." ~ Sable

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

I bled. I cried. I apologized.

Now forgive me.

————

There’s something sinister and cruel about making someone wait. They know what’s coming. They know the storm is on its way. But when...thats the real trouble. When will it come? When. When. When. When?! But that was your plan, wasn’t it? She marked me, so you marked me worse. You made me wait... to think about my sins. You asked me if it was worth it. If she was worth it.

No. Never. Because I fucking want you. Only you. And I’d choose you again and again. I’d tear my heart out for you. I’d break my own bones, my ankles and dance for you. I would bring you the moon if you asked for it. I’d break myself if it’d mean you’d be okay. So here I sit with my sin. And I wait. And wait. And wait...wondering when.

Yes, I made her wait. I shut her out. Shut her down. And it killed me to do it. I shouldn't have marked her. I shouldn't have theatened her. But I was suffering, bleeding out. She didn't see it. The way she held me under. Drowning me.

Have mercy lover. I won't survive you like this. There's a piece of the painting that's been slashed away forever. Why did it have to be the wings?

“You thought your could tear off my wings by using your tears to bring me home? Is that what you thought? Really?” - S. D’Antonio 

Medusa Risen: Severance 

She'd betrayed him.

It was all he could think about. There he was, in Vienna, Austria, working for her. To build her reputation, to secure her alliances with people outside of England and Italy for which she might be able to expand herself and come into her own. And this was how she repaid him? He'd worked so hard these past two months, securing papers, documents, passports, licenses. The people he'd had to talk to. The meetings he'd had to attend. The lies he'd had to tell. It was all so tenuous. So dangerous. It could all have come apart so easily. But those people, they trusted him. He was of the Camorra, after all. His reputation proceeded him wherever he went. Such was the power of the D'Antonio family. His father Lorenzo D'Antonio Camorra sat at the eighth seat of The High Table for Italy. A Crime Lord, like no other. Hundreds of years of Mafia tradition passed down from family to family. And now it all rested on his shoulders. Alright, not his shoulders directly. That was currently his sister's burden. Gianna D'Antonio was acting Queen Regent under her father Lorenzo. She spoke on his behalf because their father trusted his daughter's judgments on his affairs across the globe implicitly. Because Lorenzo was only one man after all. He could not do everything himself. It wasn't possible. Yes he had men, yes he had money, yes he had power. But who better to run his affairs for him when he needed to rest than his own flesh and blood? His children, the two siblings, Gianna and Santino. They were good children. Obedient. They understood the ways of the world. One day, they would overshadow him. He would back down in the Winter of his grateful retirement and watch his daughter rise to take the Italian throne on his behalf. His legacy would be secure. He was not a young man anymore and this life... the Camorra, his Mafia... well. It took a toll on you. He'd lost his wife Marcella some many years ago. When his children were so fragile. So young. She walked out on him, broken down. Distraught. The light gone from her eyes. After almost thirty years of marriage. She just left. The wedding ring on the dining room table. No note. No nothing. Just gone. He was a single parent now. Yes, he had money, he had power, he had family, he had friends. He was a Crime Lord. He owned Rome. He owned Italy. But he had a broken heart. And a man with a broken heart is not a good father to young children. At least, not in this life.

He was looking forward to stepping down. In the Winter of his retirement. Yes. His legacy would be secure. He'd managed it. He'd raised his children right. Gianna was a prodigy. Purely exceptional, the way she comported herself. The achievements she'd completed. Her brother... Santino... Well... He was young still. You're not at real man until you reach thirty-five. He wasn't thirty-five yet. He was barely thirty-one. He'd only honestly tried to give a damn about the Camorra in the last five years. And he'd fucked it up horrifically. Mistakes get made. That's to be expected. We're only human, after all. But honestly. Why couldn't he be more like this sister? More dedicated? More confident? At least a little more fucking discreet would be appreciated. Santino's whoring was legendary. He'd brought so much shame and dishonour upon the D'Antonio family with his loose morals and lack of common decency. More like a lack of common sense. That issue two years ago, with Marissa Conti had been the final straw. He either get help and clean up his fucking act; or he'd personally kick down his bedroom door and smother him in his sleep. Even if it was his son. He'd brought him into this world. Marcella D'Antonio had almost died at his labor. Well, he'd return the favor and take him directly back out of it again. If that's what it took, so be it. Lorenzo D'Antonio Camorra was not a man to be trifled with. He honoured his family. He honoured his blood. But honour sometimes ran thicker than blood and definitely thinker than water. Santino knew this. He knew it with every fiber of his being. So he chafed, and burned and brooded and was bitter and resentful and hateful to the world around him. Typical Italian. But he cooled off. He thought it through. His sister helped him clean up the ruins of his life. His punishment for the 'Marissa Conti Debacle' had been paid for in blood, sweat and tears. It took him two years of his life to rise from the ashes of that ruin. Two years was too long to lose your mind over a woman. So he swore to himself, once it was over. That he'd never go down the path again. And it never really was over, because nor his father, his sister nor his colleagues whom he thought of as family and friends would never...NEVER, let him live it down. They would remind him of it constantly. Every time he went out. Every time he stayed in. Every time he took a call, or went to a bar or was trying to read or study or work. They looked at him. With eyes that said, 'We know what you did to Marissa Conti, Santino. And if you ever pull that kind of bullshit again, we swear to God, we'll fucking end you ourselves.'

He wasn't going to argue with that logic. He liked living, even if it was painful the majority of the time. He found love and beauty in everything. In everyone. Anything was possible. Everything was possible. So long as you were alive, all wrongs could be righted. Nothing however, can help you or the world if you're dead. And dead was where Santino D'Antonio did not want to be for a very, very long time. So he cleaned up. Just like he promised. He grew a little tact and better diplomacy. He straightened his back bone. He started comporting himself as less of a disgrace and more of a hero, risen from the ashes of torment and suffering. He was a romantic after all. And a man. And a man in this world needs a woman to love. At least, in his world, he needed a woman to love. So soon after meeting her, he'd been fantasying, day dreaming. Visions in his mind's eye playing on repeat. When he heard certain songs, ate certain foods. Everywhere he went, everything he saw and did reminded him of her. His Dancer. His Mistress.

Gianna had said to him, privately, face to face when they met in London, shortly after Lalienna's initiation into the Camorra employ, “Se arriva il momento che ti rendi conto che la ami davvero, allora non dovresti aspettare. Fai di lei una donna onesta. Prendila come tua moglie. Ti farebbe bene." (If the time comes that you realize you really love her, then you shouldn't wait. Make an honest woman out of her. Take her as your wife. It would do you good.) Oh he obsessed over that fantasy. He knew, it had only been two months of dating her seriously. Of showering her with gifts and love and affection. It was cathartic, what she made him feel. It was precious, sacred. It made him feel whole. Pure. New again. It was love. Yes. He was a man in love and he could not deny his intended was Lalienna.

So can you imagine, how it hurt him when he received that text? Those photos? He was alone in his hotel room, upon the bed. Tired, but he couldn't sleep without wishing her goodnight or calling to say good morning. She was so beautiful. And what she did for his libido was biblical. He'd done a lot of whoring in his young years. He'd been in and out of the petals of many women, lovers, prostitutes, orgies and one night stands, by the dozens, hundreds maybe. Who keeps count of these things? Only an idiot keeps count. You don't count love or passion no matter how you spend it. He certainly didn't. But Lalienna was different. The moment he saw her in the foyer of The Continental. She wasn't wearing anything particularly interesting. Just jeans and a t-shirt. She had a single bag and no attendants. No guards. No nothing. But he'd seen her eyes. They were the eyes of a child that had been ripped from their mother's grasp. And he knew what that was like. When his own mother, Marcella walked out on Lorenzo. So he was intrigued. What makes a pretty girl like that, walk into a place like this? Wearing such plain clothes too. Her lip appeared puffy and split. She certainly didn't look like she had any money. But looks can be deceiving. He knew this. He'd played that game before just to get what he wanted. When he wanted it. He was good at it. He usually won. So he'd sent his best man to tail her. To learn of her movements. To see if something slipped. "No contact. Just shadow." That had been his instruction. If only he knew what he was dealing with! If only! She'd sent his best man back to him with a dislocated shoulder and a very sorry story to tell. 'Little bitch!' His thoughts had raged. 'I'll kill her for this. I'll fucking break her scrawny neck.'   She was lucky. She was staying two floors beneath him in The Continental. And that was difficult to do without money or skill. So if you didn't have either of those, you were either a civilian, which he doubted after what his best man had told him; or you were sponsored by a powerful family. What his man told him started to make sense. She moved like a dancer. She had an attack that was practised military elegance. She didn't hesitate and she didn't falter. She was a little machine of war. And she was apparently un-owned. For now.

That was her. Lalienna DeMentriento, staring back suggestively with sinful angles that made him stroke himself as he gazed on the photos she'd sent to his phone. Fuck... She was good. Too good. She always made him cum. Even if he didn't think he wanted to. Even if he didn't think he could. She tore it out of him, one way or another. He was tired from a full day of travel and back to back business. He'd not even had the chance to eat properly. He'd not slept for more than two or three hours in at least three days. But that didn't matter, he was doing it for the girl in these pictures. Her voice alone was enough to take the edge off any trial he was going through. She released him in ways he couldn't express in human language. She was doing it again. Sending these pictures. Look at those curves! That body! Those breasts, hips and thighs. That neck... that neck.... that..... What's that on her neck? He released his cock from his hand and sat upright on the bed, zooming into the photo. And he saw it. That mark. Just above her collar bone. Her consequences as she had once called them. He remembered every touch, kiss and bite he'd ever given her. He memorised them with such clarity it was haunting. He knew... He fucking knew that wasn't his. So who? Who? Was it Wick again? The fucking little whore. Was Wick back, riding his lover like a horse in his own bed whilst he was away, working?! Is that what this was?!

He was sick. Physically. He literally revolted and vomited a mixture of coffee, wine and pasta directly onto the bed. He was paralyzed in shock. What mess he was making! He forced himself to get up, to run to the bathroom. His head in the toilet bowl without ceremony, he emptied the contents of his stomach with violent retching that left his insides burning and raw. Tears stung his eyes. He tried to tell himself it was the illness that shocked him. But he was lying to himself. In truth it was the betrayal. And it wasn't new to him. This had happened before when he was younger. He'd left lovers because they committed adultery outside of his consent and outside of his knowledge. He didn't need that. He was proud and jealous and ultimately, for all his whoring, he realized that he was actually quite loyal and rather monogamous. If nothing else he was a man of his word. And he would be honest if he wanted another. He wouldn't break her heart. He'd let her down gently with flowers and gifts. Then he'd tell her it was over. That he was sorry. He could not continue this way. It was not fair on her, not fair on him. He was sorry, he knew it was painful. But it wasn't the last time they'd fall in love. They were young. There was always hope. There would always be another. Sometimes the break ups went well. Other times, not so much. He'd always end up in tears no matter how strong he acted. Because it hurt when you were leaving someone. Or when someone was leaving you. It hurt to be betrayed. It was hurting him. And he was crying about it. There, in a hotel bathroom in Vienna, Austria. With his head in a toilet where'd he'd vomited the majority of his dinner after seeing a love bite on the neck of a woman he wanted to propose marriage to. Even if it had only been two months. He was trying to keep it cool. He was trying to take it slow. But he was Italian. Passionate. Excitable. Highly strung. And he was crying.

It took him ten minutes or more to clean himself up. To brush his teeth and wash his face. To have the maids replace his soiled bed linen. He paid them extra for his disgrace, pushing the tips personally into their hands and thanking them profusely. He was sorry they had to see him like that. Poor women were worried for him. They said he looked pale and asked if he wanted them to call a doctor. "No, thank you. I'm just tired and it's been a rough day. I've not been feeling well, but if I sleep I should be better. Thank you ladies. You may leave when you're ready. Again, thank you." He'd said to them. The moment he was alone again, he called her. She answered. Excited. She thought they would continue their long distance game, over the phone with sexy words until they both released themselves with sighs and moans of sheer pleasure. Phone sex was exotic. It was dangerous and dirty and felt so good. He'd enjoyed it once upon a time. This time, he didn't give her so much as a chance to answer. He'd slammed her with his anger. If she were in the room with him he might have picked her up and slammed her against a wall. Until her head cracked against it. He wanted to. God he wanted to. He'd never hit a woman inside or outside of combat. It was.... poor manners. Bad etiquette. Even if they were warriors. And many of them were. But there were things you didn't do to a woman if you were a man. A real man. And that meant you kept your hands to yourself, even if you felt like breaking her neck. You walked out, had a smoke. If you were really pissed off, you had two. But you put your hands in your pockets. Where they belonged. There were ways of dealing with wayward lovers. He had ways.

She was learning them. Slowly. The art of sadomasochism. The art of bondage, domination, submission. Slowly, slowly. He was showing her. Teaching her. Blood play, knife play... edge play, impact play. It was all dangerous. It was all landmine field ready to explode in their face. But his scenes were always consensual. They were always controlled rigidly. Even if it appeared that they were wild and chaotic in his dark lust. It was always calculated down to the last breath. He'd fucked it up once in the early days of their relationship. It had cost him and her too much. They were apart for a full twenty-four hours after and he thought he was going insane. He thought she'd walk out on him forever. Just like fucking Marissa Conti did. Well she didn't. Lalienna came back. She made promises and she kept them, because that was the kind of girl she was. But she apologized profusely on the phone. She rushed a haphazard explanation of some woman from Athena's Tower of London. Said it was an ex-sister. He'd already told her repeatedly he had no regard for these women. That they had cast her out. And whilst he was grateful to have her in his hands now... he fucking hated them with a blinding passion. So she had betrayed him. And she knew he was pissed off. Really pissed off. He told her they would talk about it when he got back.

Now he'd punish her. He stopped taking her calls. He sent them all to voice mail and deleted the text messages. He didn't reply to her emails. She didn't deserve a reply. And she was fast blowing up his inbox. Delete. Delete. Delete. 'Fuck you bitch. Fuck you.' Was all he could think of. Now that he thought about it; What was the point of this trip to Austria anyway? For her? After she does this? Alright, at least he was wrong, it wasn't Wick. And yes, he thought lesbian sex was hot. But... why did it have to be some bitch from the Tower? After what he told her he'd thought of them. They had thrown her out. Out of her home. Out of her mind. And she would still go to bed with one of them!? Unthinkable! It was killing him. Killing him. He booked the next flight straight back to England. Express. No stopovers. He paid extra for First Class. Because he needed the space. He was in a foul mood. He didn't want people around him. No,  you fucking retarded Custom's Official, I don't have anything to declare. What's in this box? Mind your own business, cocksucker. Or I'll make sure you find out. He wasn't in the mood for people. He rented a car from the airport and drove himself back to The Continental London. His High Guard took one look at his face and knew the storm was coming. Something had gone wrong. "Boss? You uh... want us to shake someone down for you?" That was Hector. He was a good man. Still recovering from a dislocated shoulder that his bitch, Lalienna had given him two months earlier. "No. You and the team take the night off. It's just Lalienna and I. We have... an issue, we need to discuss. It's private. Personal. You understand. See to it I'm not disturbed. No one in, no one out. You know the drill." "Si Signore, we know what to do. What's in the box? It's beautiful." "It's a gift for her." He replied. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Hector stopped asking questions. He shook his employer's hand and commed the team. They had a night off. Time for them to go party. At last. The boss is home and he's got stuff to do with his lady. They won't be needed.

He went up to his room. Hesitated for a second in the elevator, looking at the number to level five where she lived and almost wanting to press the button. Almost. He didn't. Level seven. That's where he was going. Room '768'. That was his room. His apartments. He wanted to be alone. He couldn't trust himself in this mood. Everything hurt. He was so distraught. So angry. So bitter. She really stuck the knife in with this tryst of hers. It was really unforgivable. He'd make her scream. He'd make her sorry. All those dark fantasies. All those twisted dreams he had as he walked down the hall to unlock his hotel room door with his gold room key card. So can you imagine his shock, when she was sitting there, on his red leather chesterfield lounge. Looking like a nervous wreck. What a brat. Disgraceful. She knew she was gonna get it. Daddy was pissed off. Really pissed off. She knew it. She took one look at his eyes and began to whimper. She started to apologize in English, Italian, Spanish. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door with such force the room shook. He dropped the carved timber box angrily on the gilded hall side table. She shut up. And sat down. She bowed her head. He turned away. Taking off his overcoat. His blazer, tugging free his tie, taking out the diamond and gold tie pin angrily. She'd bought it for him. Why did he wear it? He pulled it free and threw it at her now. It almost struck her face. But he had good aim. He wouldn't dare hit her face with anything. He'd never forgive himself if he did. But it wizzed past and struck the leather of the lounge, bouncing back onto the cushions before rolling to the floor. She picked it up on instinct. So OCD. She couldn't stand mess or chaos. He didn't really give a fuck. He paid people to look after his chaos. So he didn't have to. It was one of the few things in his fucking life that he had control over. He thought he could control Lalienna. He was wrong. Apparently. He took off his waist coat, his cuff links. Draped the items haphazardly upon the back of a dining chair and across the table where they didn't belong and he did it on purpose to watch her squirm with anxiety. A sadistic game he played with her sometimes, when he realized that something in her mind was a little unhinged. He could deal with cleanliness obsessive compulsive disorder. Hell, everyone had a little control freak in them. He did too. Just not one that wanted to get on his hands and knees and scrub a bathroom floor till it sparkled. Not that he hadn't done it before. He did. He was forced to because a real man knows how to clean and cook and keep a house. Lorenzo did it by himself without the help of hired hands. He was a good father. He cooked and fed and cleaned after his house and children after Marcella left. To prove a point. That his life would not fall apart without her. That he had his shit together even if she did not.

He loved his father's wilfulness. He'd inherited it genetically. And right now, he was about to pull rank on this bitch. Short of turning her back into a pedestrian and having Sable kick her face first out of the hotel on his command. Because that was the kind of bullshit he was capable of. He returned to the table where the thin timber box that he carried had been thrown minutes earlier. "Papi.... please... I can't stand it anymore. You said you would talk to me. Please... I'm begging you, don't shut me out like this, talk to me!" She was crying. She was distraught. She knew she'd done wrong.

"You want me to fucking talk to you? Putana!" Uh oh. Here it comes. The storm. The inside of that elegant carved timber box held a dark secret. An Italian hand crafted 10.25" flat guard flick knife. These.... these were personal. These were his favourite weapons of threat and intimidation. And he knew he shouldn't do this to her. He knew it was wrong. He remembered, what happened, the first time they went into a 'Scene' she wasn't prepared for and he took a blade to her nipple and cut her open and fed off her blood whilst he fucked her on the dining table. It was a nightmare. It didn't work out well. They both got sick. He wanted to kill himself with the shame he felt. But he didn't. He had hope she'd come back. He'd make it right. They could come together again. And they did. It was hard. Painful. He gave her that same knife he'd used on her that night as a symbol of penance. In hopes that she might one day find the will or desire to turn it against him in a 'Scene' she would dominate and inflict. He'd deserve it. He got off on hard S and M. That... and his foot fetishes which were... massive. To say the least. She didn't do it though. He never saw that knife again. So he'd bought another one that caught his eye in Vienna. And this was it. Beautiful hand crafted. Perfectly balanced. Black handle. 4.5 millimetre carbon steel bayonet blade. Solid brass liners, push button and slide safety. It was a work of art. It cost him a fortune. He haggled and got the price down to what he considered reasonable. Then he knocked the merchant down even lower because he was the Camorra prince and he always got what he wanted. It was in his hand now, blade unleashed, he was walking toward her. And she started screaming. On instinct. He came at her in a blaze of motion. His hand over her mouth. Hot breath against his palm. He mounted her hips and locked her down to the lounge beneath his weight. He forced her head back against the leather sending her body jolting sharply. Beneath his fingers she grunted. Her eyes were large, wild in panic. He wanted to laugh at her. All her training! All her combat arts and war skills and she didn't have the balls to pull him off her in a Judo take down? Really? That's what he was paying her for? To be a piece of pretty pussy and little else? Would she disgrace him so much?! Obviously. She was crying now. Going into shock as he berated her. "Silence, bella mia... you keep screaming like that and we'll get a noise complaint warning. And you've seen how Mister Sable handles those, don't you?" She nodded her head once. Sharply. "You're going to be good, yes? You're going to listen to me, and stop your ranting and your yelling and you're going to behave, yes?" Another nod, breathing hard against his hand. His eyes bore into hers. He wanted to... wanted to tear out her soul. She kissed his palm even as he held her mouth. A sign of her submission. To assure him she was sorry and would keep quiet. He pulled away his hand, letting her breathe. He'd marked her face. Pale with his finger marks for a moment before the blood came rushing back to flush her cheek. He wanted to apologise. He didn't.

"You remember this, don't you?" He waved the blade before her eyes. Enjoying the way she visibly recoiled in terror. "Yeah... well... That was then. This is now. And I promise you darling girl, what's going on right here is not a 'Scene'. We're not about to make love. Or fuck or kiss or anything you've been deluding yourself into believing we're going to do to make amends. You once told me you could fuck a thanks. Yeah? Well I've had you fuck a sorry as well. And it was weak. Almost as weak and pathetic as you are right now."

Oh! He was a monster to her! The blade was in his hand, but he was whipping her raw with his words. And he was enjoying it. Like foreplay. He was going to fuck her up, alright. "No safe word for what happens next." He growled. Thick Italian accent. His voice deep, resonating with power and fury. His eyes burned into her. "Papi please. I'm sorry, it's not what you think." "When did I tell you you could fucking talk, eh?" He grabbed her throat, forcing the airwaves to constrict against his fingers. She choked out a sobbing wail like an animal being beaten. He was furious with her. So hurt. So furious! "If she was here right now, Lalienna, with you, I swear on my mother's life I'd end her and make you clean up the blood. That's how angry I am with you right now. Look at this, what's this here? Hmm? She marked you?" The blade's tip drove a wicked furrow into the skin above her collarbone beneath the love bite that was still healing. The redness gone but there was a feint hint of bruising from sharp teeth and fierce sucking. It drove him almost out of his mind to see it in person. It was... almost as bad as having walked in on her during the act its self.   "I'm sorry bella mia," He said to her then. His eyes softening. The blade slicing into her tender flesh and beginning to lift away the skin so she bled. He was so fast and so precise with his blade work she didn't even feel it at first. "This is for your own good. I've told you before, you don't belong to those wretched women anymore. You're my property now. And you've been tainted. So I'm going to fix it so it never happens again. See this skin here? Where she marked you? Sit still. Don't fucking move. I'm about to cut it clean off. I hope you're hungry. Because this is the last thing you're going to eat. For days."

Blood started to flow. She screamed now. Screamed in earnest terror. And he wanted to do it. He would have finished cutting a whole portion off her body and forcing the bloody skin into her mouth and making her chew and chew and swallow. Because he was suffering. He wanted her to feel his pain. He wanted to break her down the way she was breaking him down. But he didn't. She started to struggle, wildly against him, bucking his weight off her lap. She was powerful, even with his hand around her throat. She was disobeying. And she was screaming and crying in horror. In agony. He forced her down. Like the hand of God himself, he held her down. By the throat. Like she was a vapid serpent. And he reversed the blade. And he stuck the love bite above her healing, once broken collarbones. Her consequences. He slashed the mark in three quick strokes. He should have slowed down. Really made her suffer. He should have dragged the blade across her skin. But he was merciful. And he'd given her his word that he wouldn't do this without her consent. But she'd betrayed his trust. So he slashed the bite mark with three quick strokes. And it would scar. Because she was struggling. But it would scar to the shape of an 'S'. For 'Santino'. Because she had hurt him. He was suffering. He loved her and she betrayed him with another.

He flicked the blade closed. Pulled on the safety latch and released her throat. He dismounted her hips and backed away. Leaving her there. To bleed. To cry. To scream. That she was sorry. Sorry. Sorry. "I thought you understood the rules, though they were unspoken, when you gave your vow and body to me. That you would give yourself to no one else. Just because I'm not home. Even if I am. Clearly, you don't understand your place in all this after all, amore. I thought it was enough when I loved you, to mark your body from within with my passion. You lied to me. You betrayed me with another. You're bleeding now but when the scar heals you'll see. Now I've marked you in such a way as you'll never forget who you belong to ever again. Now do me a favor. Stop your fucking whining, get your shit out of my bedroom... and get the fuck out of my apartments. I'll tell you when I'm ready to see you again. Until then, you're finished with me. You can report to Hector for duties. If I catch you in my rooms without my permission, I'll throw you out the balcony, amore, do you understand me?"

She was whimpering. Blood was soaking her black lace. They were shallow cuts. Jagged, yes, but they would heal. She'd get over it. She had once before. Love was a game of give and take after all. He wasn't in the mood to give her anything else right now. Because she was killing him slowly. Because it hurt too much. This severance between them.

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

“Everything you ever did to me. when you did it. Cut like a knife. More than any bullet wound, Lalienna. I would have saved you from the world. But you didn’t trust me enough, did you? It was never enough. You needed more. Nothing seemed to satisfy you. So I can’t force your hand. I’ll get up, get dressed and leave.  But you will remember this hour. This night. You will remember me. I’ll see you ‘round.” - J. Wick. Tower of London. 

There's something pure, in their final moments. When you watch Death. The light leaves their eyes.... It's intimate, primal. It grounds you. Reminds you we are not permanent on this world. Just passing shadows, moving through time and space. I weigh their sins against my hands as their soul departs. I take them in against my blade, like a lover's confession. Cradle the body with infinite respect. I am Death. Their final destination. I pray for their safe passage to the Underworld. Eventually, one day, I will take my place beside them.

“This is, uhm… You’re gonna see Keanu really turn on this sort of reptilian John Wick. It’s just, you know, the audience has been chuckling and laughing and then… John stabs a guy in throat and everyone’s like, “What?! Wha… What?” There’s a little intimacy there. It’s just…the boogeyman’s out of the bag.“ —Chad Stahelski and David Leitch, taken from the John Wick director’s commentary.

Queen of Hearts

Of Snakes

Of Stones

I'll take my penence out on your bones

You'll learn to love me

Give it time

Sink the dagger

You'll be mine

|{ @lalienna-dementriento }|

Judeth Clayton: Blood & Gold

Thirteen Beside the Queen.

And now she’s a broken mask in the Halls of Hell.

The Gods themselves will hold you down.

One last shot, two souls to sell.

Betrayed the cause for Love.

Rose to take the Throne.

Burned them all in revolution.

Fallen back to stone.

{[ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento - Proudly Introducing Judeth Clayton of John Wick || Blood & Gold ]}

John Wick: Rebellion

When you left me, I left I this world.

Buried under cement and stone.

They dragged me back into this moment.

And forced my hand to be disowned.

Now I am again risen.

Vengeance is once more my name.

I am the Bird of Hermes.

Eating my wings to make me tame.

|{ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento A Gift to you my Faithful Friends. I give to you, Excommunicato - John Wick. }|

Medusa Risen || Vivere Camorra

“I watched her through glass. A slender white snake. Her eyes so green. Her scales so pure. And I thought to myself, ‘I want to pull her out of that world, hold her in my hands.’ She sank in her fangs... I should have cut her throat.”

Yes, I gave over.

I regret nothing. Not even in the morning.

Once the dust has settled.

Medusa.... Pull me down.

Inamorata

Drag me down.

@lalienna-dementriento

"Bled myself just love you. Deep.

Coil your skin just around me. Sleep.

Drag me down.

And I'd give anything just to pull you down.

Just to drag me down.

And it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to.

None of this turned out.... out the way you wanted it."

@lalienna-dementriento

'Why didn't you come with me?'