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Life was never the same the day you shook the nameless man’s hand, held close the sheet of paper with a scrawled address, a crinkling plastic sleeve of white gold, and did him a favor that struck a match within you.
A simple exchange between strangers, barely a sentence shared, and it was all over.
After the deed, your heart hammered in your chest, unbelieving the existence of the thick stack of cash in your pocket.
That very first behemoth of a paycheck effectively paved the way for another.
You could see only upsides; paying your parents’ bills, your friend’s tuition, never worrying about making your own outrageous rent ever again—and for minimal work and only a burning fissure of terror at any wrong turn? It seemed too good to be true.
For the first few times it seemed so, it all never quite registered as reality until a particular man said you had been recommended to him. By name.
Sales seem to be something you excel at; willingly accompanying men with jagged smiles into dark, smoky rooms to exchange what you don’t lay a finger on for a wad or a hardtop case of the biggest bills you’ve seen.
What surprised you most, but not for long, was the broad array that came to your door. Notable politicians, doting fathers, shrewd men of the cloth and everyone in between.
You never knew how far simply being a woman would take you in the line of work you stumbled into. With an ounce of sultry dagger and lipstick bravado, you are the dark, whimsical mistress that commands the legions of the night with only a word.
Business moves by the silver lining of your tongue, a sharp, newly dipped nail, and a dazzling painted smile that makes everything feel coyly personal to your clients. Unfortunately you lack a massive mahogany desk to drape yourself over.
The role fell around you easily, and in time you were wrapped up in designer garb you only dreamt of owning, feeling fresh and manicured every waking moment, and you must be honest—the men that visit treat you better than the common man; kindly, practically kissing up your feet and spilling every sweet word imaginable. They greet you with a peck over your soft knuckles, more on either cheek, and a never relaxing croon of your name.
Truthfully, you understood why they only behaved correctly only around you. Another half gram or even a full kilo could be added on at a moment’s notice. No genuine adoration—only favors pass between you. Goodwill is only for the benefit of the self once the doors close.
Eventually everything else fell into place. Bookkeepers, movers, and watchful giants of men acting as unofficial bodyguards basically assigned themselves to you. Product grew in mass, and you quickly outgrew your very first commissioner in wealth and reputation.
Men balance you on their arm like you are just as valuable as what your nameless lackeys haul in unmarked vehicles. You take spins in luxury rides without a single mile on them, return home with armfuls of Gucci, Versace, and Balenciaga, and are satisfied with fine food and drink.
Every one of your dreams came true. All you had to do was sacrifice your free time, authentic exchanges with men, and whatever righteous justification you had for making the first deal.
You are a rising fledgling, the radiant sun just now hitting the wax upon your wing. Glory your lift, envy your rutter, there is nothing but upward.
Sunset drips hotly over the city of Sanremo’s sea. Massive designer shades balance on the bridge of your nose, keeping you blind from the water’s fulgent glints as you pass through the automatic doors to exit the mecca of commerce—the mall.
You and others cut from the opulent cloth bought out the other exclusive establishments back home in Naples. Greener pastures sway beyond the outskirts.
Straps of your shopping bags dig into the crease of your hooked elbow, little tufts of tulle-like paper sneak out from the tall walls.
Suddenly your shades lose all purpose as you enter the parking structure, and you tear them off to plop them into a container.
Your heels clack from polished floors and onto the dreary grey concrete of the parking structure, your beloved, brand new Porsche just out of sight all the way at the other end of the floor, hidden behind a great line of mismatched vehicles.
Balancing some filled bags on your knee, you twist to fish the compact keyfob from your clutch.
You’re angled in such a way where a stray gust of wind knocks your composure clean off, and packed contents from a boutique spill weakly to the ground.
You emphasise the impact with a deep sigh.
“Motherf—”
“Need a hand?” says the low voice of a stranger from your side.
Nearly jolted straight out of your skin, you manage to resist dropping the rest of your bags. You hadn’t heard anyone flanking you. You sharply whip to the source of the spook and give him a good once-over.
He’s an olive-skinned fellow of modest height, with bold features and even bolder attire—a venerable kaleidoscope of woolen coastal flair. Tight, striped pants in fine leather with no doubt an astounding pricetag, atop his blackish locks an odd sort of cap, and below the hem of his pressed cashmere turtleneck peeks his exceptionally sculpted middle.
All in all, he’s a striking sight.
A man’s physical appeal can be just as valuable as your own. Someone like him gets far in life, oftentimes without even breaking a sweat.
Birds of a feather.
The split second assessment earns your goodwill.
Again he speaks, yet with a familiar accented drawl and quality of cheer. “You seem a bit down on your luck.”
Glossy bubblegum lips push out in your pout of a smile as the unknown man closes the distance.
“I guess so!” you giggle.
You arrange your burden to achieve some stability before you bend to stoop, but the handsome stranger beats you to the punch, diving down to fetch the dropped garments and shimmering lumps of gold.
Thank goodness none of your new frilly unmentionables came tumbling out. You’re certain your face would melt off from embarrassment.
He scoops them into his arms, gently, and dumps them back into their proper place. “There. Name’s Mista, by the way.”
Why does the name sound a little familiar?
By the looks of him he runs with a certain kind of crowd. Not unlike yourself. Maybe you’ll see more of him next time you visit Sanremo—or wherever he calls home.
You share your own. “Well, thanks, Mista, and it’s nice to meet you.”
“Gotta say not many people tell me that,” he chuckles, scritching the back of his neck.
“I would shake your hand, but…” you add, jostling the cumbersome haul occupying each of yours.
“Oh, right! Lemme lighten your load there.”
“Please and thank you! I’m glad to see someone in this town with an ounce of chivalry.”
You bestow him the bags with a grateful, apologetic smile. He’s got popped veins on his hands, knuckles furry and roughened.
He stares you down through dark lashes. “It ain’t dead yet.”
Wow, what a nice guy.
Hands now free, you take the opportunity to locate that pesky keyfob. Mid-stride, you command your Porsche to unlock with Mista, without a command, trailing close behind.
To the side of your car there’s a vacant parking space, so squeezing between vehicles with Mista in such close quarters is out of the question. Too bad. He probably smells nice. Your silly little smile can’t be stopped.
The short journey comes to a close, and you feel your heart is content after a stellar, full day. What more could you ask for than endless frivolous purchases followed by respectful attention from a handsome man?
You pop open the passenger door and Mista takes the liberty of placing his rustling burden peacefully on the seat and floor. He makes no comment on the pungent new car smell—a common irritation among those that sit beside you.
The car door snaps closed under your touch.
Joviality drips from your lips to foster an innocent flirtation. “Thank you kindly for your help, Mista. You’ve been an invaluable asset to my success out here. How ever can I repay you?”
He snickers, charm oozing off him like honey. “Ah, nothin’ really. Though a chat wouldn’t hurt.”
“Sure,” you agree. “You go first.”
Suddenly, all of his rugged kindness fades completely. A staggering, stomach-dropping entire one eighty.
“I didn’t expect a drug-peddlin’ scumbag like you to look so fuckin’ good.”
A knot of dread bursts deep in your gut.
“Excuse me?”
Mista creeps closer, your legs frozen stiff. “Must feel nice. Lotsa cash for nothin’ really. All you do is put dope right into a kid’s hands. That’s where it’s going. You do know that, don’t you?”
Your sight, spotty and thumping with your pulse, darts over his shoulder to eye a clean way out. Chuckling, you play dumb. “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
Mista flippantly waves his hand. “Don't bother. Listen, I get why you feel like your hands are clean. You think you’re only a drug dealer when you’re out in the streets, right? All that spreadin’ your legs for shit you let some other poor fuck sell must be totally unrelated.”
Anger begins to sizzle in your throat.
“Sir,” you lilt, the term putting the cards in your hand most times. “I’d be more than happy to give you a little something to help you on your way.”
You play with the clasp of your clutch. Nobody can say no to a little more lining their pockets—you wouldn’t.
“Nuh-uh, babe, ain’t gonna work.” Suddenly the look about him phases into a terrifying poise, like a ravenous tiger ready to strike. “Meat that hangs around too long goes bad, y’know. I think it’s high time you got your just desserts.”
Mista has a wicked twinkle in his eye, like he’s deriving pure joy from this situation. Taking only a moment, your peer around for any other soul to call to your aid. Fuck. Not a damn one.
Time for your very last resort. “H-how about a bump? No charge. Special, just for you.”
Mista smirks hungrily. Ghostly fluorescents on the grey walls buzz to life and gleam on the apples of his cheeks. He’s handsome—a heartbreaker, and he’s lethal.
When did it get so dark out?
“Save yourself the trouble, sweetheart. I got somethin’ else in mind.”
He moves to extract something from behind his back, presumably tucked into his waistband. In a flash what he’s got is pointed directly at you, and within the same breath you’re staring head-on into the bottomless black barrel of a pistol.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, hands flying up in surrender. Clutch and fob burst from your grasp in the process, clattering to the ground forgotten.
You scan the area fruitlessly for anyone else around. It could very well be that every other human being vanished apart from you and the dashing stranger who suddenly has a gun aimed right at your skull. From where you’re standing, it would paint the parking signage with your brains and skull splatter.
“Sorry, but here’s the end of the line. Hope you had some fun. Now turn around.”
“Please, god, please you don’t have to do this.”
The steadiness of your tone surprises you.
Mista pulls the hammer back. “Turn. Around.”
Hands still up, you oblige, and focus on the unfeeling industrial wall and yellow-painted tirestop—the last few things you may ever lay eyes on.
Mista gives you no time to take in the details. “Knees, babe.”
“What?”
“Get on your fuckin’ knees.”
You hike up the skirt of your dress, dropping down to let your printed stockings take the brunt of the impact. For some reason, you feel no pain—overridden by fear alone. Worrying after your bruised kneecaps could come later. You’re completely concealed by the sleek shields of vehicle after vehicle.
Mista closes in behind you, boots scuffing at the ground. “Hands too. Put ‘em up there.”
Fingers splaying, your damp palms slap against the tirestop. You keep your painted nails out of the textural roughness.
“No, no, no, no,” feebly pours from your mouth. The pit of your stomach feels tight and acidic.
“Keep still for me, alright?”
His calculated, even demeanor is jarring given the circumstances.
With aching knees you shamble in a slow, pitiful attempt to make space from the chopping block.
“Oi! Don’t you fuckin’ move or I’ll blow your brains out here and now. Got that?”
In an instant you halt. Mista doesn’t even have to flat-out yell to make you swear off disobeying ever again.
He takes a step, and he makes first contact, the cold tip of his gun jabbing against your temple. “Well?”
“Yes! Fine!”
Mista crouches to your level, gun not even shifting as he descends.
“Please, please, I beg you, Mista. I’ll tell you who I buy from, w-where it’s all kept, everything!”
He snickers. “It’s kinda funny how you change your tune once your life’s on the line. Well, go on then. Won’t change anything though.”
You have enough savings and good favor to keep afloat just fine—as long as you make it out of here. “I won’t sell another ounce! I swear! Take everything I have, I don’t care, just please have some mercy!”
“So cute how you don’t quite get it. You crossed a line, babe. Who am I kiddin’—you’re just a dumb little spring chicken that don’t know any better.” His tone falls to a low hum. “You got some fucking nerve sellin’ on Passione turf.”
Dots connect. Fuck.
Loose lips of the men you commune with spin tales of Passione scrubbing the tawdry corners of Naples clean, their prowess relentless and foothold absolute. Mista has no shortage of lavish hints he may belong to a gang, but no outright, visible proof.
Was it so outrageous to think you’d have space to operate and thrive, even as you dwell on another’s territory? Come on, what’s the harm in yet another cog in the sleaze machine when your allure keeps you so unassuming?
Something else you’re reminded of: the tales of Passione’s crusades are told only by those uninvolved and thereby unharmed. There are no survivors when Passione crosses paths with your kind.
“I’m sorry I—”
Mista coos, “Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright. I’m sorta glad you’re a piece of shit. Means I get to do whatever the fuck I want to you.”
He covers you with his hard body, gun still etched in place. You were so wrong in your prediction. His scent is like sandalwood, oil and fear with sweat and impatience baking under his climate inappropriate apparel.
“Ah! Stop.”
Purring low in your ear, his hot breath fans over the shell. “Can you feel it?”
Mista’s hips roll, his horrifyingly hard bulge up against your backside. Static collects under your gown’s material. Bile’s sharp taste soaks the inside of your mouth.
“Fucking—get off me, asshole!”
Mista chuckles heartily. “Baby’s got some mouth! I like that. But I got just the thing to fix it.”
You prepare yourself for the deafening boom of his pistol firing, turning your head into grey-pink paste, but it never comes. Mista’s free hand pushes up your dress to reveal your bare ass and cunt. Underwear lines under a Givenchy gown don’t exactly scream haute couture. You yelp.
“No panties? Wow. I mean, I go commando too, but…” he trails off, swiping a rough thumb through your folds.
“Hey!” you squeak, body jolting, itching to move and cover up.
“Just look at that pussy. Damn!” The same thumb spreads you, cunt fostering a glint of unmistakable slick, the sight of which causes Mista’s ribs to rattle with his laugh. “You enjoyin’ this? Sick puppy.”
Your stomach flips. “No! Fuck! That’s not true!”
“That’s funny, ‘cause I’m starin’ right at it and you’re just drippin’ all over the place. Oh, what the hell. Let’s get a closer look.”
He flicks the hammer back to position, uncocking it.
Mista swirls the gun around your lips, flitting between folds and shallowly dipping in and out. The metal is icy, your thighs quivering. As you writhe he seems to allow it, when he’s simply lost in the greed of your pussy.
He presses in until the invasion curdles to pleasure, the gun firm, deep and you can’t help but let out a groan.
Mista freezes his exploration.
“Nah. I’m not here to play nice with you.” He speaks mostly to himself, in one move unholstering from your cunt.
The barrel rises, jamming between your cheeks and harshly penetrating your asshole. It burns like nothing else, and you swear you can taste the rancid metal in your throat.
“What the fuck?!” You shred your voice in a guttural shriek of opposition, feeling defiled in a single moment.
Mista’s smile is in his words. “Awww, too cold? I coulda shot you first to warm it up. Want me to do that?”
“No! Fuck!”
“You sure? Alright, just say the word,” he chuckles.
He rubs your pallid skin all over, a cold sweat under the gaps between his fingers with the fleshy curve of your rear.
“God, I’m gonna tell my buddies all about this ass.”
Mista slowly drags out his intruding gun.
You sigh, vacantly hoping he’s had his fun before your blood runs cold at the sound of a small unzip. It’s followed by a sick, small splat—spit in his palm. Gasping, you squirm to no avail.
His hot, hard cock hits the precipice.
“Jesus,” you eke out, throat burning.
The gun didn’t do much of anything but provide minimal iciness, numbing your tightest rings and granting some inadvertent relief.
Mista breaks the boundary, and inch by horrible inch he buries himself.
“Holy shit. What a tight ass.”
Only a breath passes before his hips sharply snap his wretched cock in and out, your shrieks pushing out in equal nauseating pressure. It’s horribly foreign, and you’re certain by the unwavering burn your hole is ruptured—or at least rubbed raw.
“It hurts!” you cry, limply banging your fist against the concrete below.
He chuckles darkly. “Normally—hmmph—I don’t have much fun doin’ this stuff. But with you? Man, I’m havin’ a blast.”
A harsh slap harmonizes, and not a second later you feel the sting on your left asscheek. Words labored, Mista spits, “Loosen up.”
As if speaking it into being, his pistoning thrusts move easier, perhaps wetted by blood. Every arduous pummel you squeeze out a word. “Please fucking stop already!” The last syllable rings the end of your composure. You sound more animal each breath you take.
“Scream all you want, babe. Folks know better than to interfere with a man’s work.”
You may be sacrificing a chance at being saved, but this man deserves no satisfaction. In an attempt to muffle the shrieks ripping from your hoarse throat you chomp down on the flesh of your forearm, drool quickly slipping over the abraded flesh.
Mista’s fist knits deep through your hair, to the root, and yanks. Hot pain blows through your scalp. “I didn’t say to quit.”
Defeat’s throes turn your heart black. “Just kill me.”
“Nah, not yet. Not until I cum.”
As your fight fades, exhaustion and limb-prickling fatigue clutching tight, your upper body falls limp over the tirestop. Your consternation crumbles like stone, giving way to a dejected apathy.
“Isn’t this nice? This is the last thing you’ll ever do—get filled and fucked. Only thing whores like you are good for. Dumb bitch shoulda kept her nose clean and her ass up.” For emphasis he gives each cheek a deafening smack.
Adrenaline spoils, prying away the cork to your inevitable waterworks. Tears trickle freely as your strained gasps turn to sniffles.
“That’s so fuckin’ hot baby. Keep cryin’. That’s a good girl.” Mista’s thrusts stutter. “Shit, you got so tight just now. You like being a good slut?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, hot anguish bubbling forcefully down your cheeks. “Just fucking cum and be done with me please.”
“Speakin’ of that…” Mista groans loud and it echoes off the cold concrete pillars around you. “Close.”
You mumble vague, incoherent confessions, breaths unwasted on pleas for benevolence. Gasping, Mista yanks free from your battered insides. A gale of a scream utterly winds you.
“Ah, fuck,” he hisses at the sight of your winking gape. “Flip over.”
Gun jabbing the inside of your hip, he gets you moving. Numbly, you shift, tailbone against the tirestop. Pain radiates from your abused hole up your lower back, and you’re held up only by your shaking elbows.
Mista moans at the sight of your pigment-streaked face, ravenously rutting into his palm. “Mmmfuck. Yeah, gonna cum.”
A rippling shudder overcomes him, the sight making your pussy throb which sends disgust up your windpipe. He gasps, endless deep eyes boring into your busted face.
He busts with an open-mouthed hiss, decorating your tear-soaked cheekbones, nose and chin with ropey cum, gun shaking.
Long, diluted strips of blood begin to dry on his shaft as he softens, himself basking in the afterglow. He sits back on his haunches to tuck himself unceremoniously back into his pants. There’s an awkward beat of pause, the simple act difficult with only one free hand.
Mista gets to his feet, patting the dust and grime off the knees of his pants. A whistle slips from him as he basks in how absolutely wrecked you are. Whatever makeup you put on this morning has all but melted down your neck, snotted and sweaty. You’re splayed limp and prone, dress disheveled. Your will shattered, spirit torn—felled by a singular stranger.
“Wish I had a camera.” He shrugs. “Oh well.”
Mista cocks his pistol. One last, final grief-struck sob escapes your swollen lips. Regret pours out and leaves you boneless, shivering and sick to your stomach.
“I’d hate to blow up that pretty face of yours.” He aims at the chamber of your aching heart, pulling back the hammer with his thumb. “But I don’t mess with fate.”
Mista’s finger curls tight around the trigger.
You flew straight into the sun.