I stood in Mr. Salerno’s office, the top floor of his
compound, a fortress of shadows and power, the kind of place where deals were
made in blood and whispers. The air hung heavy with cigar smoke, the scent
clinging to my black leather jacket as I shifted, its zippers glinting under
the dim chandelier. My gray tank top hugged my perky A-cup tits, the fabric
tight against my pale ivory skin, while my blue jeans gripped my shapely thighs
like a second skin, accentuating my plump ass. Black ankle boots with straps
gave my long legs a fierce edge, and my dark, wavy hair cascaded past my
shoulders, framing my heart-shaped face as I caught my reflection in a gilded
mirror—brown eyes with long lashes, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full
pouty lips that could charm or curse in equal measure.
Salerno sat behind his mahogany desk, a 6’0”, 200-pound
mid-50s Italian boss with silver hair and cold gray eyes that could cut through
steel. His tailored suit screamed old-school mafia, a gold ring on his pinky
flashing as he tapped the desk. “You did good, Mira, real good,” he growled,
his voice thick with Italian accent, every word dripping with authority. “That
footage of Daniels—fuckin’ genius, ragazza. Neutralized that stronzo cop
without spillin’ a drop of blood. But I gotta say, I still can’t wrap my head
around you bein’ a fuckin’ tranny. Watched that video ten times, and I’m still
thinkin’ you’re too pretty for that shit.” His gaze lingered on my pouty lips,
then dropped to my shapely thighs, but he kept his hands to himself, a rare
restraint for a man used to taking what he wanted.
I crossed my arms, my leather jacket creaking, and met his
stare with my own, unblinking. “Glad you liked the show, Mr. Salerno. But what
about Tony’s family? They taken care of?” Tony’s death in that mall shootout
with Zion’s Blade had roped me into this mafia mess, and I needed to know his
people weren’t left in the dirt.
Salerno leaned back, exhaling a plume of smoke, his
expression softening just a fraction. “Tony’s wife and kid—they’re famiglia,
capisce? They get a monthly stipend ‘til the boy’s old enough to work for the
crew. We don’t leave our own hangin’, Mira. That’s how we do things in this
life.” His tone was firm, protective, the kind of loyalty that kept his men in
line even when the city’s underworld threatened to swallow them whole. He slid
a stack of crisp bills across the desk—$1,000, my pay for the Daniels job.
“Your reward, ragazza. Don’t spend it all on them fancy boots, eh?”
I tucked the cash into my jacket, the weight of it
grounding me as I flashed a small smirk, my full lips curling. “Thanks, boss.
I’ll make sure it goes to good use.” My voice was steady, but inside, my mind
was already racing. Salerno wasn’t the type to call me in just for a pat on the
back—there was always a catch.
He stubbed out his cigar, his gray eyes darkening as he
leaned forward. “Now, to business. Zion’s Blade—they’re plannin’ somethin’ big,
somethin’ that could fuck up the whole city’s balance. Word on the street is
they’re brokerin’ a deal with the Iron Cross, them neo-Nazi pezzi di merda.
Blade’s sourcin’ military-grade hardware—assault rifles, grenades, even fuckin’
RPGs—from some corrupt foreign agents tied to this allied rogue nation. They’re
divertin’ military aid to line their pockets, not givin’ a shit ‘bout the chaos
it’ll cause. We gotta hit ‘em hard, for Tony’s sake, and cripple their
operations before they turn this city into a fuckin’ warzone.”
I nodded, my brown eyes sharp, taking in every word.
“What’s my play?”
“You find Marco,” Salerno said, his voice low and
commanding. “He’s runnin’ the op. One of my best captains, but he’s got a
temper like Vesuvio. Last I heard, he’s in the yard, probably chewin’ out some
of the boys for fuckin’ up. Get down there, and he’ll fill you in. And Mira—”
He pointed a thick finger at me, his ring glinting. “Don’t fuck this up. We’re
countin’ on you to get this right.”
“Got it, boss,” I said, turning on my heel, my boots
clicking against the hardwood floor as I left the office. The compound was a
labyrinth of corridors, the walls lined with faded photos of old-school
mobsters—men with slick hair and dead eyes, their legacies built on blood and
betrayal. The air was thick with the scent of gun oil and sweat, a reminder of
the violence that simmered just beneath the surface. I passed a couple of
low-level grunts, their Italian accents heavy as they argued over a card game. “Ey,
Vinny, you fuckin’ cheater, I saw that ace up your sleeve!” one barked, while
the other laughed, “You’re just mad ‘cause you’re broke, Tony!”
I ignored them, my focus on finding Marco. I asked a wiry
guy with a scar across his cheek, his hands busy cleaning a Beretta. “Marco’s
in the yard, sweetheart,” he said, his accent pure Italian, his eyes lingering
on my ass as I walked away. “Tell him Frankie says he owes me fifty bucks, eh?”
The yard was a concrete sprawl behind the compound,
surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire, the kind of place where deals
went down and bodies got buried. A dozen guys milled around—some cleaning guns,
others hauling crates of God-knows-what—while the late afternoon sun cast long
shadows across the cracked pavement. Marco stood in the center, a grizzled
mid-40s Italian, 5’9” and 190 pounds, his scarred face twisted in a scowl as he
laid into three of his guys. His graying hair was slicked back, a cigarette
dangling from his lips, smoke curling around his sharp brown eyes as he jabbed
a finger at them. “You fuckin’ stunads!” he roared, his accent thick with an
Italian edge. “You’re short on the protection money again? What, you think I’m
runnin’ a fuckin’ charity here? I should put a bullet in each of your thick
skulls, you lazy pezzi di merda!”
The guys—three young Italians in their 20s, all muscle and
nervous energy—shrank under his tirade. One, a stocky kid with a buzzcut,
muttered, “We tried, Marco, but the shop on 5th wouldn’t pay up—” Marco cut him
off, grabbing him by the collar. “I don’t wanna hear excuses, Bobby! You make
‘em pay, or I make you pay, capisce? Now get the fuck outta my sight before I
lose my temper for real!”
I approached as the guys scattered, my hips swaying in my
tight jeans, my leather jacket catching the fading sunlight. Marco turned, his
scowl softening slightly as he sized me up, his cigarette glowing as he took a
drag. “You Mira?” he asked, his voice gravelly, the words clipped with that
same Italian cadence. “The boss said you’d be comin’. You don’t look like much,
but he says you’re good, so I’ll give you a shot.”
“Mr. Salerno sent me,” I confirmed, my voice low but firm,
my pouty lips curling into a slight smirk as I crossed my arms, my perky tits
pressing against my tank top. “Said you’ve got a job for me.”
Marco flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it
under his boot as he stepped closer, his sharp eyes scanning me from head to
toe. “Yeah, I got a job, alright. Zion’s Blade—they’re brokerin’ a weapons deal
with the Iron Cross, them fuckin’ neo-Nazi bastards. We need to know when and
where this deal’s goin’ down. It’s our chance to hit ‘em hard, cripple both
crews, and make ‘em pay for Tony.” He spat on the ground, his scarred face
twisting with anger. “You’re gonna get that intel for us, capisce?”
I nodded, my brown eyes steady, already piecing together
the plan. “How do I find the details?”
“There’s a Blade thug named Gregor,” Marco said, lighting
another cigarette, the flame illuminating the scars on his knuckles. “Wiry
fuck, mid-30s, shaved head, blue eyes. Hangs out at a bar on 8th—seedy joint,
full of lowlifes. You go in, work your magic, get him to spill the time and
place of the deal. Don’t care how you do it, just get it done. We need to hit
‘em fast, for Tony’s sake.”
“Got it,” I said, my mind already racing with how I’d play
this. Gregor sounded like the kind of scumbag I’d dealt with before—arrogant,
cruel, the type who’d underestimate me until it was too late. “I’ll need a
ride.”
Marco jerked his head toward the compound’s entrance.
“Frankie’s waitin’ for you. He’ll take you to the bar. Don’t fuck this up,
Mira—I ain’t in the mood for more disappointments today.” He turned back to his
guys, already barking orders as I headed for the exit, my boots echoing on the
concrete.
Frankie was leaning against his black sedan, a lean
late-20s Italian with slick black hair and green eyes that sparkled with
mischief. At 5’10” and 170 pounds, he had the kind of wiry build that made him
quick in a fight, his leather jacket and tight jeans giving him a streetwise
edge. “Ey, bella, you ready to roll?” he called, a smirk playing on his lips as
he opened the passenger door for me. “Marco give you the rundown?”
“Yeah,” I said, sliding into the seat, my jeans hugging my
plump ass as I settled in. “We’re hitting a bar on 8th. Some Blade thug named
Gregor’s got the intel we need.”
Frankie nodded, starting the engine with a low rumble.
“Gregor’s a real pezzo di merda, from what I hear. Eastern European trash,
thinks he’s untouchable ‘cause of his Blade connections. You sure you can
handle him, Mira?” He glanced at me, his green eyes flickering with concern,
but there was a hint of admiration there too.
I smirked, my full lips parting slightly as I adjusted my
leather jacket. “I’ve handled worse. Just get me there, Frankie, and I’ll take
care of the rest.”
The drive to the bar was quick, the city’s neon lights
blurring past as Frankie weaved through traffic, the hum of the engine a steady
backdrop to our conversation. “Mr. Salerno’s got a lot ridin’ on this,” Frankie
said, his accent thick as he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him.
“Zion’s Blade and the Iron Cross teamin’ up—it’s bad news for everybody. We
gotta shut this shit down before it gets outta hand, capisce?”
“I get it,” I said, my brown eyes scanning the streets as we
pulled up to the bar. It was a neon-lit dive, the kind of place where the air
reeked of stale beer and broken dreams, the sign above the door flickering with
a buzz. “Let’s do this.”
Frankie parked, turning to me with a serious look. “I’ll
be close, alright? You need me, you text. Don’t take no stupid risks, Mira.”
His voice was firm, but there was a warmth there, a loyalty that suggests I can
trust him to have my back.
I nodded, stepping out of the car, my boots hitting the
pavement as I adjusted my jacket, my dark hair swaying with the motion. The
bar’s entrance loomed ahead, the thump of a jukebox spilling out into the
night, and I took a deep breath, ready to play my part in this deadly game.
I pushed through the bar’s creaky door, the neon glow of
the sign above casting jagged shadows across the sticky floor. The place was a
dive, a chaotic mix of hustlers, drunks, and lost souls, the air thick with the
stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The jukebox thumped a gritty rock
tune, the bass vibrating through my black ankle boots as I scanned the room, my
leather jacket creaking with each step. My gray tank top clung to my perky
A-cup tits, and my tight blue jeans hugged my shapely thighs, drawing eyes from
every corner of the bar as my plump ass swayed. My dark, wavy hair bounced past
my shoulders, framing my heart-shaped face, and I caught a few leers as I
moved, my brown eyes sharp with purpose.
Gregor sat at the counter, a wiry mid-30s Eastern European
Blade enforcer, 5’10” and 160 pounds, his shaved head gleaming under the
flickering lights. His cold blue eyes scanned the room with a predator’s focus,
a glass of vodka in his hand, his thin lips curled into a permanent sneer. He
wore a faded black jacket over a stained white tee, his jeans scuffed and
dirty, a silver chain dangling from his neck. The way he sat—shoulders hunched,
fingers tapping the counter—screamed arrogance, like he owned the place. I
could already tell he was a piece of shit, the kind of guy who’d spit on you
just for breathing his air.
I sauntered over, my boots clicking on the floor, and slid
onto the stool next to him, letting my wavy hair brush his arm as I leaned in.
“Hey, stranger,” I purred, my voice dripping with fake sweetness, my full pouty
lips parting into a smile as my brown eyes locked onto his, lashes fluttering.
“You look like you could use some company.”
Gregor turned, his sneer twisting into a predatory grin as
his blue eyes raked over me, lingering on my perky tits and the curve of my
hips in my tight jeans. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a shithole
like this, kurva?” His Eastern European accent was thick, his voice laced with
a vile mix of arrogance and cruelty. “You don’t belong here with these filthy
goyim.”
I forced a giggle, my fingers brushing his arm, my pouty
lips curling into a teasing smirk as I leaned closer, playing my part. “Just
lookin’ for a good time,” I said, my voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Been
a rough week. Buy me a drink, and maybe I’ll tell you about it.”
He signaled the bartender with a sharp gesture, his cold
blue eyes never leaving me, his hand already creeping toward my thigh, fingers
digging into my jeans with a possessive grip. “Vodka, two,” he barked, his tone
commanding, before growling at me, “You’re too good for this place. Not like
these pigs. My people—we’re the chosen ones, the only ones who should rule this
fuckin’ city, this fuckin’ world. You’d do well to stick with me, little slut.”
The bartender slid the glasses over, and I picked up mine, sipping the vodka,
the burn steadying my nerves as I kept up the act.
I swallowed my disgust, keeping the smile plastered on my
face as I leaned closer, letting my leather jacket fall open slightly, giving
him a better view of my tank top straining against my tits. “I like a man with
power,” I teased, my voice low and sultry, my fingers tracing the edge of his
glass. “But I’ve got a little secret—you cool with that?” I paused, my brown
eyes searching his, then whispered, “I’m trans. Still wanna hang?”
Gregor’s blue eyes widened for a split second, his sneer
faltering before it twisted into something even uglier—a cruel, sadistic grin.
“A fuckin’ freak, huh?” he spat, his accent thick with venom. “I like freaks.
You’ll do just fine, kurva. Maybe I’ll break you in, show you what a real man
does to filth like you.” His hand tightened on my thigh, his nails digging into
my jeans, his touch making my skin crawl.
I forced another giggle, sipping my vodka as I kept up the
act, the alcohol loosening his guard over the next 20 minutes. We traded small
talk—mostly him ranting about the “inferior” people in the bar, his Jewish
supremacy bullshit spilling out like poison. “These goyim, they’re nothin’,” he
slurred, his third vodka kicking in. “We’ll crush ‘em all soon enough. Big
plans, kurva. Bigger than you can imagine.” I nodded, pretending to hang on his
every word, my mind racing as I texted Frankie under the table: Need a spot
for an ambush. Where do I take him? Frankie replied quick: 123 Elm. I’ll
set it up.
I leaned into Gregor, my breath hot against his ear, my
voice a seductive whisper. “How ‘bout we take this somewhere more private?” I
nodded toward a back booth, the leather seats cracked and stained, the dim
lighting perfect for what I needed to do. He grinned, his hand groping my ass
through my jeans as he followed me, his vodka-soaked breath hot on my neck.
“You’re gonna regret teasin’ me, freak,” he muttered, his accent slurring as we
slid into the booth, the noise of the bar fading into a dull hum.
I barely had a second to settle onto the leather bench
before Gregor’s hands were on me, his wiry frame looming as he shoved me down
onto my knees in the cramped booth, my boots scuffing the sticky floor. “You’re
gonna suck me good, you fuckin’ freak,” he snarled, his Eastern European accent
dripping with malice, his cold blue eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He
unzipped his dirty jeans, yanking out his cock—a veiny, uncut 7-incher, already
hard, the head glistening with precum as he gripped my dark, wavy hair, my
leather jacket creaking as I braced myself against his thighs.
“Open that pretty mouth, kurva,” he growled, slapping his
dick against my full pouty lips, smearing precum across them, the salty taste
hitting my tongue as I parted my lips. My brown eyes glared up at him with
defiance as he shoved his cock into my mouth, his tip slamming into the back of
my throat without warning, making me gag instantly. Spit dribbled down my chin
as I struggled to breathe, my hands gripping his thighs, nails digging into his
jeans. “Fuck yeah, choke on it, you fuckin’ whore,” he spat, his hips bucking
as he fucked my throat raw, his grip on my hair tightening, yanking my head
back and forth like I was nothing but a toy for his sick pleasure.
My throat burned with each brutal thrust, the wet, sloppy
sounds of my gagging filling the booth as he kept going, his cock stretching my
throat, my pale ivory skin flushing red from the strain. “You like that, don’t
you, you filthy tranny bitch?” he sneered, his voice thick with supremacy, his
hips slamming harder, making my eyes water, tears streaking down my high
cheekbones. He pulled out for a moment, letting me gasp for air, spit hanging
from my lips in thick strings as I coughed, my chest heaving under my gray tank
top, my leather jacket sliding off one shoulder from the force.
“Look at you, fuckin’ mess,” he laughed, grabbing my jaw
with his rough hand, forcing my mouth open again. He spat into my mouth, the
warm glob landing on my tongue before he shoved his cock back in, deeper this
time, holding my head down until my nose was buried in his sweaty pubes, my
throat convulsing around him. “Swallow it, kurva, or I’ll fuckin’ gut you,” he
hissed, his hips grinding, his dick pulsing as I gagged harder, my body
trembling, my shapely thighs quivering beneath me as I knelt there, taking
every inch of his vile cock.
He kept fucking my throat, switching his grip to the back
of my neck, his other hand slapping my face with a sharp sting, making me
flinch as he thrust faster, his breathing ragged. “Fuck, you’re good at this,
you little slut,” he grunted, his cock throbbing in my throat as he pushed
deeper, my lips stretched wide around him, spit soaking my tank top, dripping
down my chin. He didn’t let up, his pace brutal, my throat raw and aching as I
fought to keep up, knowing I had to keep him hooked for the mission.
Gregor yanked me up by my hair, my scalp stinging as he
shoved me onto the table, my ass in the air, my leather jacket sliding further
off my shoulders. “Time to fuck you proper, freak,” he growled, his accent
slurring as he grabbed my boots, yanking them off with a rough tug, the straps
snapping against my ankles. He tore at my jeans, peeling them down my long
legs, exposing my black lace hipsters, the fabric clinging to my plump ass. He
ripped those off too, tossing them aside, his cold blue eyes widening as he saw
my tiny 2-inch cock and tight balls, my pale ivory skin glowing under the dim
booth light.
“So you weren't lying after all,” he sneered, his voice
thick with disgust as he grabbed my cock, his rough fingers squeezing hard,
making me wince as pain shot through me. “You’re a fuckin’ abomination, kurva.”
He twisted my balls, the sharp ache making me gasp, my brown eyes watering as
he laughed, his grip merciless. “Let’s see how this freak hole takes a real
man,” he spat, spitting on my ass, the warm glob dripping down my crack as he
lined up his 7-inch cock, the head pressing against my entrance.
He didn’t ease in—he slammed into me raw, his cock
stretching my ass with a burning intensity, making me cry out as he buried
himself to the hilt. “Fuckin’ tight, you slut,” he grunted, his hands gripping
my hips, nails digging into my pale skin as he started pounding me, the table
creaking beneath us. My tank top rode up, exposing my perky tits as he fucked
me hard, his thrusts relentless, each one driving deeper, the friction raw and
brutal. “Take it, you fuckin’ whore,” he snarled, his hips slamming against my
plump ass, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the booth.
He reached around, his rough hand grabbing my tiny cock
again, jerking it hard, the mix of pain and pleasure making me moan despite
myself, my body betraying me as he kept railing me. “You like that, don’t you,
freak?” he sneered, his accent thick as he slapped my ass hard, the sting
making me flinch, my pale skin turning red under his hand. He pulled out for a
moment, spitting on my hole again before slamming back in, changing his angle,
lifting one of my legs onto the table so he could drive deeper, his cock
hitting spots that made my vision blur, my hands gripping the edge of the table
for dear life.
He kept going, his pace brutal, his hands roaming, one
squeezing my ass, the other yanking my hair back, forcing my back to arch as he
fucked me harder, my body rocking with each thrust. “Fuck, you’re a good little
slut,” he grunted, his cock throbbing inside me, the heat and friction
overwhelming as he kept pounding, my ass clenching around him, the pain and
pleasure blurring into one fucked-up sensation.
I couldn’t let him keep running the show—I needed control,
or this mission could go to shit. With a sudden burst of strength, I pushed
back against him, shoving him off me, his cock slipping out of my ass with a
wet pop. “Not so fast, asshole,” I growled, my voice hoarse but firm as I
turned, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him back onto the leather bench, his
wiry frame slumping under my weight. I straddled his lap, my knees on either
side of his hips, my pale ivory skin glistening with sweat as I lined up his
7-inch cock with my ass, my brown eyes locking onto his with a fierce glare.
“Fuck you think you’re doin’, kurva?” he snarled, his
hands grabbing my hips, but I slapped them away, taking his cock in my hand and
guiding it back into my ass, sinking down slowly, the stretch burning as I took
him in, inch by inch. “I’m fuckin’ you my way,” I hissed, my pouty lips curling
into a smirk as I started riding him, my hips rolling, my plump ass bouncing on
his lap, the friction intense as I set the pace, my tank top clinging to my
perky tits with sweat.
His hands gripped my thighs, nails digging into my shapely
legs as I rode him hard, my ass clenching around his cock, each bounce driving
him deeper, my tiny cock bobbing between us, leaking precum onto his shirt.
“Fuck, you’re a wild bitch,” he grunted, his accent slurring as he tried to
thrust up into me, but I pinned his hips down, my hands on his chest, my nails
digging into his skin through his tee. “Stay still, motherfucker,” I snapped,
my voice raw as I kept riding, my hips grinding, the heat building as I fucked
him face-to-face, my wavy hair falling into my face, sticking to my
sweat-slicked skin.
I leaned forward, my lips brushing his ear as I whispered,
“You like that, don’t you, you piece of shit?” I bit his earlobe, hard, making
him groan as I picked up the pace, my ass slamming down on his cock, the wet
sounds of our fucking filling the booth. I reached back, grabbing his balls,
squeezing them hard, making him curse in his native tongue, his hands slapping
my ass in retaliation, the sting making me moan as I kept going, my body
trembling with the effort, my perky tits bouncing under my tank top.
I rode him harder, my hips rolling faster, my ass taking
every inch of his cock, the pleasure building despite my hatred for him, my
body on fire as I pushed him closer to the edge. But I wasn’t about to let him
finish—not yet. I slowed down as I felt him tensing up, lifting off his cock
with a teasing grin, my ass hovering just above him as he groaned in
frustration. “What the fuck, kurva?” he growled, his hands grabbing for me, but
I slid off his lap, grabbing my jeans and boots, my pale skin slick with sweat.
“Gotta feed Sir Pouncealot,” I made up a bullshit excuse,
voice dripping with fake sweetness as I pulled my jeans back on, my leather
jacket hanging off one shoulder. “But you can give me a ride back to my
place if you wanna finish wrecking this ass.”
Gregor’s blue eyes burned with rage, his cock still hard,
glistening with my ass and precum. “You fuckin’ tease,” he spat, but he was
already zipping up, his desperation blinding him to the trap. “Fine, let’s go,
kurva. But you’re gonna regret this.”
I smirked, leading him out of the bar, my boots clicking
on the floor as I texted Frankie: We’re on our way. The night was about
to get a lot bloodier.
Gregor shoved me toward his beat-up sedan parked outside
the bar, his wiry frame tense with frustration, his cold blue eyes burning with
a mix of lust and rage. “Get in, kurva,” he snarled, his Eastern European
accent thick with venom as he yanked open the passenger door, his shaved head
gleaming under the streetlights. My leather jacket creaked as I slid into the
seat, my gray tank top clinging to my perky A-cup tits, sweat-soaked from our
earlier encounter. My tight blue jeans hugged my shapely thighs, my plump ass
sore from his brutal fucking, and my black ankle boots scuffed the floorboard
as I settled in, my dark, wavy hair sticking to my pale ivory skin. I adjusted
my jacket, my brown eyes sharp with calculation, my full pouty lips curling
into a faint smirk as I played the part of the desperate party girl, keeping
him hooked.
“Drive to 123 Elm,” I said, my voice low and teasing, my
lashes fluttering as I glanced at him, knowing full well what awaited him
there. “We’ll finish what we started, big guy.” My words dripped with fake
sweetness, but inside, my heart pounded—this was the moment the mission hinged
on, and I couldn’t afford to fuck it up.
Gregor grunted, starting the engine with a low growl, his
hands gripping the wheel tight as he pulled into the street, the city’s neon
lights blurring past us. “You better not be playin’ me, freak,” he muttered,
his accent slurring as he shot me a glare, his silver chain glinting against
his stained white tee. “I ain’t in the mood for games. My people don’t tolerate
disrespect from filth like you.” His tone was laced with that same Jewish
supremacy bullshit he’d been spewing all night, his arrogance blinding him to
the trap I’d set.
I leaned back in the seat, giving him a glimpse of my long
legs as I crossed them, my boots brushing his leg. “Oh, I’m all yours,” I
purred, my pouty lips parting into a smile, my brown eyes locking onto his with
a seductive glint. “Just get us there, and I’ll show you a real good time.” My
words were a lie, but they kept him focused, his cock still hard in his jeans,
his anticipation making him sloppy.
The drive to 123 Elm was quick, the sedan rattling as
Gregor pulled into a quiet residential street, the house at the address a
nondescript two-story with peeling paint and darkened windows. Before he could
even turn off the engine, the ambush hit hard. Three guys burst from the
shadows—Marco himself leading the charge, a grizzled mid-40s Italian with a
scarred face and sharp brown eyes, his 5’9”, 190-pound frame moving with lethal
precision. Two others flanked him: Vinny, a stocky late-20s Italian with a buzzcut
and a broken nose, 5’8” and 200 pounds, and Sal, a wiry early-30s Italian with
slick black hair and a scar across his cheek, 5’10” and 170 pounds. They yanked
Gregor from the driver’s seat, his wiry body thrashing as they dragged him out,
fists and boots flying in a brutal flurry.
“Fuckin’ Blade piece of shit!” Marco roared, his Italian
accent thick as he slammed his fist into Gregor’s jaw, the crack of bone
echoing in the night. “You thought you could fuck with us, stronzo?” Vinny and
Sal pinned Gregor’s arms, their faces twisted with rage as they took turns
kicking him in the ribs, his grunts of pain mixing with the sound of flesh
meeting flesh. I stepped out of the car, my boots hitting the pavement, my
leather jacket hanging off one shoulder as I watched, my brown eyes cold and unfeeling.
Gregor deserved every fucking hit—he was a vile piece of shit, and I felt
nothing but satisfaction seeing him broken.
They dragged him into the house, his body limp and
bloodied, and I followed, my wavy hair swaying as I stepped inside. The
interior was a gutted shell—bare walls, a single flickering bulb overhead, the
air thick with the stench of mold and blood. They tied Gregor to a chair in the
center of the room, his shaved head lolling as blood dripped from his split
lip, his cold blue eyes glazed with pain. Marco stood over him, cracking his
knuckles, his scarred face a mask of fury. “Time to talk, you Blade cazzo,” he
growled, his accent heavy as he grabbed Gregor’s chin, forcing him to look up.
“Where’s the deal goin’ down? When? I ain’t got all fuckin’ night.”
Gregor spat blood onto the floor, his sneer weak but
defiant. “Fuck you, goy,” he rasped, his accent slurring through swollen lips.
“You’re all fuckin’ dead. My people will—” Marco cut him off with a backhand,
the slap echoing as Gregor’s head snapped to the side, more blood spraying.
“Wrong answer, stronzo,” Marco snarled, pulling a
switchblade from his pocket, the blade glinting as he pressed it to Gregor’s
throat. “You wanna die slow, or you wanna talk? I can carve you up real nice,
make you beg for it.” He dragged the blade lightly across Gregor’s cheek,
drawing a thin line of blood, and Gregor’s resolve cracked, his body trembling
as he started to break.
“Alright, alright!” Gregor gasped, his voice ragged, his
blue eyes wide with fear. “The deal—it’s at 3 a.m. tomorrow, an abandoned
factory, 30 miles outta the city. Iron Cross is bringin’ $500,000 cash. Blade’s
deliverin’ the weapons—assault rifles, grenades, RPGs—in a shipping container
on a truck. Eight to ten Blade guys, same for Iron Cross.” He slumped in the
chair, his breathing shallow, his face a mess of blood and bruises.
Marco nodded, stepping back, his sharp eyes flicking to
me. “Good work, Mira,” he said, his voice gruff but approving, his accent
thick. “You got what we needed.” He pulled a silenced pistol from his jacket,
the metal gleaming under the bulb, and without hesitation, pressed it to
Gregor’s forehead. The shot was a muffled thwip, clean and final,
Gregor’s body slumping in the chair, a neat hole between his eyes, blood
pooling beneath him. I watched, my expression hard, a cold reminder of the
mafia’s ruthlessness—Gregor wouldn’t talk now, but it was a calculated move,
one I’d be wise to remember.
It was 9 p.m., leaving six hours until the deal. Marco
holstered his gun, turning to me, his scarred face etched with frustration. “We
got a problem, ragazza,” he said, his accent heavy as he lit a cigarette, the
smoke curling around him. “I can’t get enough guys for this. We need at least
fifteen to take on both crews. I can only scrape together ten. The family ain’t
what it used to be—not like the old days when we ran this fuckin’ city.”
I saw an opportunity, my brown eyes narrowing as I stepped
closer, my boots clicking on the concrete floor. “I can help,” I said, my voice
firm, my pouty lips set in a determined line. “I can shoot, and I’ll bring four
more guys. But you gotta cut us in, Marco.”
He raised an eyebrow, his cigarette glowing as he took a
drag, his sharp eyes sizing me up. “You? And four others? You better not be
fuckin’ with me, Mira. They gotta be able to fight, capisce? How much you want
for this little crew of yours?”
I crossed my arms, my leather jacket creaking, my perky
tits pressing against my tank top as I held his gaze. “$250,000,” I said, my
voice steady, knowing I was pushing my luck. “Half the cash, for me and my
team.”
Marco’s scarred face twisted with anger, his cigarette
dropping to the floor as he stepped closer, his 190-pound frame looming over
me. “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me, ragazza?” he roared, his accent thick with rage.
“$250,000? You got some fuckin’ balls, I’ll give you that!” He paced, his hands
clenched into fists, then turned back to me, his eyes hard. “$200,000, and we
keep the weapons container. That’s my final offer, or you can fuck off and I’ll
find another way.”
I nodded, knowing not to push him further, my brown eyes
steady. “Deal,” I said, my voice calm but firm. “$200,000 for my team, and you
get the weapons.”
Marco grunted, turning to Vinny. “Take this piece of shit
to the river,” he ordered, jerking his head toward Gregor’s body. “Tie an
anchor weight to him and dump him. Then meet us at the compound.” Vinny nodded,
grabbing Gregor’s corpse as Sal helped, the two of them hauling the body out
the back door. Marco turned to me, his cigarette back between his lips. “Get
your crew, Mira. We meet at 1 a.m., parking lot of a motel a mile from the
factory. Bring your own guns, capisce? Don’t be late.”
“Got it,” I said, adjusting my leather jacket as I headed
for the door, my wavy hair swaying with each step. “Frankie, drive me back to
my car.”
Frankie was waiting outside, leaning against his black
sedan, his slick black hair gleaming under the streetlights, his green eyes
sharp as he opened the passenger door for me. “You good, bella?” he asked, his
accent thick with concern as I slid into the seat, my jeans hugging my plump
ass, my boots scuffing the floor.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice steady but my mind racing, worry
gnawing at me as we pulled away, the city’s lights blurring past. I’d committed
five bodies to this fight, but I only had myself. Still, I knew people who
could help. Kemar, my Jamaican ally, had fought Zion’s Blade with me
before—he’d be in. And Blaze, the Iron Reaper biker, might join since the
factory was in his crew’s territory, especially with cash on the table.
I pulled out my phone, dialing Kemar first, my fingers
trembling slightly as I adjusted my jacket, my pale ivory skin still slick with
sweat from the bar. He picked up on the second ring, his deep voice warm with
that familiar patois. “Yuh good, lioness?” he asked, his tone laced with
concern. Kemar was a 6’4”, mid-30s Jamaican with dreadlocks, dark eyes, and a
gold chain, his massive frame always a comfort in a fight.
“Hey, Kemar,” I said, my voice softening as I spoke, my
pouty lips curling into a small smile. “I’m good, but I need you. Another fight
with Zion’s Blade—there’s cash in it, $200,000 split for me and my crew. You
in?”
“Yuh know mi always got yuh back, Mira,” he replied, his
patois thick and reassuring. “Mi in. But yuh need more than that little Smith
& Wesson I gave yuh. Mi bringin’ somethin’ with more punch, seen? Where we
meetin’?”
“Rasta Roadhouse,” I said, my brown eyes glancing out the
window as Frankie drove. “We’ll drive to the location together. Meet me there
as soon as you can.”
“Bet, mi deh pon mi way,” Kemar said, hanging up, his
loyalty a lifeline in this mess.
Next, I called Blaze, my heart racing as I adjusted my
tank top, my perky tits still aching from Gregor’s rough handling. Blaze
answered quick, his voice a low growl, that biker edge cutting through the
line. Blaze was a 6’2”, 190-pound white Iron Reaper in his 40s, with loose
blonde hair, a short beard, piercing blue eyes, skull tattoos, and a silver
chain, his matte-black Harley a constant extension of his raw energy. “What’s
up, darlin’?” he asked, his tone rough but warm, a hint of a Southern drawl in
his words.
“Blaze, I need your help,” I said, my voice firm but laced
with a teasing edge, knowing how to play him. “Got a fight with Zion’s Blade
and the Iron Cross—$200,000 on the table for me and my crew. Factory’s in your
territory, 30 miles out. I need you and two more guys, biggest guns you’ve got.
Meet at 1 a.m., motel parking lot a mile from the spot. You in?”
Blaze chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “$200,000,
huh? You know how to sweet-talk a man, Mira. I’m in—but only if you hang with
me after. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, my pouty lips curling into a smirk as I
glanced at Frankie, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “See you at 1 a.m.
Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’,” Blaze said, hanging up,
his promise sending a shiver down my spine.
Frankie pulled up to my BMW E21, the silver paint gleaming
under the streetlights as I stepped out, my boots hitting the pavement, my
leather jacket hanging off one shoulder. “Be careful, bella,” Frankie said, his
green eyes serious as he leaned out the window, his Italian accent thick.
“You’re playin’ with fire on this one.”
“I know,” I said, my brown eyes steady as I slid into my E21, the engine purring to life as I gripped the wheel, my wavy hair falling into my face. I peeled out into the night, the city’s lights blurring past, my mind racing with the fight ahead. Kemar and Blaze were my shot at pulling this off, but it was going to be a bloody fucking mess—and I was ready for every second of it.
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