Savio
She's the worst dancer I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing. Her awkward swaying has the sex appeal of a spaghetti noodle, totally disregarding the beat of the music, and she keeps almost falling out of her too-high heels. Any man's balls would have shriveled up and gone into hiding by now.
So why on earth am I having to shift in my seat to hide the rising profile of my hardening cock? She gives a tiny, unconscious moan, fighting with the last button on her shirt, and I swallow back a surge of predatory lust. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised; it was long ago that I lost the ability to distinguish between the twin tastes of desire and hate. Ever since my sixteenth birthday, they've melted together into a dark want that fuels all my games: business, the family, and my personal life. I've built my whole life around trying to control that darkness.
For now, I give in to the ache between my legs and play, enjoying how I can stop and start her misery with the slightest of gestures. "Now lap dance." Can she hear the ragged edge to my voice as I picture throwing her down, straddling her hips, shoving my gun into her mouth to stifle her sobs? Her flushed cheeks drain to white. If she breaks and runs, I'll be back to watching her through static photographs, empty of her desperation and doe-like earnestness.
My description of advance pay stops her in her tracks. The tedious years of staying one step ahead, sabotaging job interviews and paying off restaurant owners, finally deliver results. It is all worth it just to watch the knowledge dawn in her eyes that she has no choice but to offer herself to me in any way I demand.
As she limps toward me, I tell my treacherous cock that I'm getting carried away, one of the sins I hate the most. Those who win in business and in life are those who are willing to wait the longest, watching everyone else succumb to desire and satisfaction.
And oh, have I waited for her. In my dreams I hurt her, own her, disgrace her in any way I can think of. When I wake up, I return to systematically dismantling her life, waiting for the universe to align and tell me it's time. Until now, the distance between us has helped me maintain control. The completely unexpected way she stumbled, wide-eyed into my club and volunteered to strip for me has sent me into a miniature tailspin I need to correct immediately.
I snap back to the present and realize that she is standing between my legs, trembling slightly, curled into herself. Her blouse is still lying in a puddle behind her. Up close, I can see how strands of her dark hair tumble across her pale, glowing shoulders. The ache between my legs surges, tangling up my thoughts.
She starts to lean over me, struggling to keep her balance, clearly unsure of what to do. Her eyes glisten with a mixture of fear and concentration, her teeth catching at her lip. In a moment of inspiration, she surprises me by reaching out and tentatively grabbing my tie. The predator in me tears its way free, unchained. Before I can think, my arms leave the back of the bench seat and I lean forward. My left hand brushes the back of her thigh where it emerges from her skirt, teasing the surface of the pantyhose.
My other thumb brushes her soft lower lip, gathering just a hint of moisture. She freezes, her eyes wide, tempting me onward as I drown in her fear. Hungry to feel her pounding pulse, I trail my finger toward her neck, tracing her delicate jawbone.
Her terrified sob forces me back to reality. Pantyhose tearing slightly under my fingers, she wrenches herself from my grasp and stumbles backward. Her breasts rise and fall with panicked gasps, almost falling out of her bra. Not allowing my blank expression to change at all, I fight to wrest control back from my predator.
"I'm sorry," she stammers. The disappointment and stress in her voice make sense to me, but the clear panic response is something new, something I missed. I don't miss things. Why didn't I know about this? Rage finally kills my erection as I stand up. She flinches, as if to rub in my face even more that there are things about her I don't know. I need her out of here before I do something I regret. My surveillance team will be taking the brunt of this.
"Hey," I catch her attention, taking a step forward. "Get out."
She crumples in on herself, grabbing the blouse off the floor and trying to pull it on with shaking hands. "I'm sorry," she repeats. The same confusion I feel is evident on her face. Neither of us are totally sure what just happened. It was hard enough to let her out of the building the other day, when I had a guarantee she was coming back. Now I know that if I get within arm's reach of her, she won't be leaving in one piece.
"Get the fuck out," I growl.
Her eyes widen, the distant expression that had clouded them clearing away. Her voice strengthens. "Can I try again? I was just surprised. I can do the dance better, please."
What does this little creature think she is doing? She is so full of life, moods I cannot understand chasing each other across her face quicker than clouds on a windy day. She is nowhere near broken, even if she doesn't know it herself. I have made a mistake, entrusting this project to my men. Their tepid stories and grainy photos tell me an incomplete story, one I never would have fallen for if I had tracked her for myself.
I hit the emergency dial on my phone without looking as I put it to my ear. "Get her out of here," I demand before Joe can speak a word. He must have recognized my tone, because the door of the private room flies open almost immediately and Luca enters just behind Joe. He shoulders past Natalia, almost knocking her to the floor, and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Sta bene?"
Natalia vanishes, wrist clamped in Joe's hand, and I am finally able to breathe, freeing my hands from where I had caged them in my pockets. I nod, but I can tell Luca is still upset. Despite his Italian name and heritage, Luca is born of a baker, not a mobster. I hired him when he was sixteen pretending to be eighteen, the only person to apply for the personal assistant position at my first business venture. Four major expansions and hundreds of employees later, Luca has never left my side. I taught him to drive, shoot, and manage his money, and he fell naturally into a bodyguard role. He knows me well enough to realize that I am still shaken but won't be telling him why.
We head to the bar, and he pours two glasses of scotch. After we sip in silence for a few blessed minutes, Joe stomps in, looking annoyed. "What the hell happened? I knew she wouldn't be a good dancer, but at least let her get her shirt on before you throw her out on her ass." Like Luca, he knows I won't answer his questions, but he refuses to stop asking.
Joe takes the scotch Luca offers and downs it. "I told her we'd be in touch, ok? You always tell us not to burn bridges." It sounds like he's throwing my own words back in my face, but I know he's actually trying to protect me from myself. I despise men who let their emotions take over, even more so those who make decisions in a compromised state. Part of my mind immediately begins to turn over my options, what I should do with her next. Giving Joe the slightest of nods, I turn back to Luca.
"Tell the surveillance team that they have twelve hours to find out what's wrong with that girl or I'm sending them back to Giovanni." Being shipped back to their old boss in disgrace would be worse than a death sentence. "Find my most persuasive soldier and promote him. Get him working on making sure every low-experience job opening in this half of the city gets filled as soon as possible."
Luca tips his glass to me, downs it, and leaves. Joe is watching me carefully. "Do whatever you want, Savio, but keep it outside the club. You don't need lawsuits."
He must be feeling pushy today. Last night a celebrity had stopped by the club and caused chaos by trying to buy the services of all the girls at once. The permanent dark shadows under Joe's eyes are extra pronounced, so I bite back my annoyance. "I know. Stick to your job."
I glance at my watch, realizing that the orange, slanted light through the windows means I am running late. A fellow capo, Giovanni in fact, has asked to speak to me this evening, after which I have a meeting with someone I actually care about: my bounty hunter. I refuse to tighten my tie or re-button my shirt, but I shrug on my gun harness, a blazer, and an overcoat before stepping into the brisk autumn evening. Orange and red leaves crumple under my shoes as I approach the black Lincoln idling on the other side of the street. Without trying to look through the tinted windows, I tap the glass and stand back, watching the sun sink toward the smoky brick buildings to the west, turning Lake Michigan behind me into a sea of fire.
With the slam of a car door and the flick of a lighter, I hear and smell Giovanni lighting up behind me. Most of the capos know I don't like the smell of smoke and do it to get a rise out of me. Fortunately for them, I don't rise very often. Nevertheless, I start walking briskly down the sidewalk to keep the smoke behind me. Giovanni's squeaky shoes and heavy breathing follow at my shoulder. I intentionally choose to walk uphill, so I can listen to him suffer.
"Savio, Savio," he complains between gasps. "Your territory is a mess. My men see the Irish and the Americans dealing drugs across your borders, no consequences! It's starting to creep into my territory. No one respects the Italians any more. If you don't care to watch your streets, at least let me do it for you."
"Stay out." I increase my pace, my mind elsewhere. I've heard this complaint a million times, and my territory hasn't fallen apart yet. His next words bring me up short, anger burning in my chest.
"I'll help you deal in your clubs, Savio. Think of the customers. You'd make ten times what you're making now."
I adopt an almost bored expression, my eyes blank as I turn to face Giovanni. I step forward until our chests touch, my lean body looming over his pudgy one. I suck in a deep breath of his smoke and stink, closing my eyes as if I enjoy it. Patting the side of his face, I drop my voice to a chest-whisper. "Leave me the fuck alone, Giovanni. Or your territory will be a smoking crater."
Despite his bluster, he takes an unsteady step away from me. "You're not a legitimate businessman, Savio, and you're certainly not a good capo. Choose one before you wreck both."
With a casual wave, I turn and walk away, preventing him from finishing his thought. Instead of calling my car, I decide to take the train a few stops to the restaurant where I am meant to meet my bounty hunter. Luca has begged me to never travel alone, but who among my enemies would be riding the L at rush hour? I breathe in the stale reek of commuter sweat, thinking back on how the girl smelled when she leaned over me. I never thought the whiff of Irish spring bar soap and cheap laundry detergent would turn me on more than the most expensive perfume.