Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (4 page)

He's just walking down the street, calm as you like. It's easy for me to keep my eye on him because the reflection off his hair is so bright it's like a spotlight. I just need to keep my eye on that glimmer and follow him maybe twenty feet behind until we can take this somewhere private.

It's nice he made it so obvious for me too, because Chicago is nothing like Atlanta. It's hot as fuck, sure, but everything is so tightly packed here it's easy to feel boxed in.

The way they have all of these neighborhoods arranged: the Italian neighborhood, the Cop neighborhood, the Lithuanian neighborhood… I mean, it's nice to know where you are, where your people are, but everything is so matchy-matchy that it's easy to get lost from street to street.

Every part of the Italian neighborhood looks exactly the same, and looks just like the Swedes and the Poles and everybody else. Greystone building after greystone building, brick bungalow after brick bungalow. A subway station at the corner, though I am told they call it the “L” train here. Cell phone stores and dingy bars.

I'll get used to it. I'm just saying it's different than Atlanta. But it's all right here. I like a little variety, a little taste of this and that.

Besides, I just do what they tell me. Like they told me to move to this Midwestern cesspool and so I did. They tell me to take out this Italian piece of shit and I'm going to.

This greasy fuck turns another corner, and I just keep on going right behind him. Looks like we’re headed toward the financial district. I'm not sure why he's walking. Usually these guys don't like to risk scuffing up their pretty shoes. Not like me. I'll run barefoot over broken glass if I have to. Whatever it takes to get the job done.

He must think he's some kind of genius if he's just out here, strolling down the street like he owns the place. Like there's not a target on his head. Jesus, these Italian fucks can be so arrogant.

You know what smart is? Smart is keeping your head down. Being quiet. Keeping under the radar. Not announcing your business to every donkey that walks by. That's smart. Pop your head out of the hole and it might just get chopped off.

This guy is not smart. He stops for a second to look at his reflection in a dark window glass. I slow down but I don't stop, just give him some room. If he stands there staring at himself too long I’ll cross the street. I see him smile at himself in the glass. He pushes his hair back with his open hand even though his hair hasn't moved a millimeter.

My thumb automatically moves to the cellphone in my pocket and I pull it to my ear, pivoting away so I only see the peacock out of the corner of my eye.

“Hey,” comes Alek’s voice on the other end.

I just grunt. He knows I’m not really calling to chat.

“You done?”

“Not yet.”

“Where are you?”

“Not sure,” I answer honestly. “Somewhere downtown I guess.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Staring at his own reflection, what do you think?”

“Ha!” Alek barks. I knew he’d appreciate that, though he leans toward the pretty side too. Just good genes. It’s not his fault.

The peacock leans forward like he’s going to start walking again.

“You gonna meet me?”

I hear Alek nodding, though I can’t see him. I know everything he does. We’re connected.

“Yeah text me the cross streets or something.”

“Got it,” I say, and slip the phone back in my pocket.

The dago snaps his lapels, straightening out the lines of his suit. It is a beautiful suit, I have to admit. It's too bad I’m going to put a hole in it, but it would never fit somebody like me anyway. If I tried to get my arms in those sleeves I would tear them to shreds.

Finally this pretty boy stops admiring himself and takes off walking again. Coming to another intersection, there's a group of little girls, schoolkids or Girl Scouts I guess. He walks through the middle of them without thinking twice. Like there's nothing in the world that could happen to him.
Zadrota
. Moron.

The light goes green and the walk light comes on, sending the entire group into the intersection. I could take him right now. It wouldn’t be pretty, and I wouldn't get to see his face, but dropping him in the middle of the asphalt would be decent cover. Everybody would flock around him and create the diversion I need to get away. That's just human nature. Everybody's got to look. People can't just mind their own fucking business.

But they're just regular people, what do they know? They don't see him for what he is. And they don’t see me at all. I know this because every time I look around, everybody's eyes just slide right off me like I'm Teflon. I could be anybody. Too ugly to be noticed. I’m certainly not as flashy as the Italian.

He climbs the sidewalk curb and I'm pretty close behind him now, maybe eight feet. So that is starting to feel a little weird. This is a mighty long walk for a made man, and I'm wondering what is he really up to?

He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and puts it up to his ear. I run through possible scenarios in my mind. Maybe he is talking to somebody he was going to meet. Maybe they changed locations so that he had to change his route. That would explain a lot.

Or maybe he knows I’m here. As unlikely as that is, I have to at least consider it.

More probable is, he’s looking to score. This guy wears his fetishes like shiny little badges for everyone to see. Coke. Underaged girls who won’t put up much of a fight. I’ve watched him score one or both a half dozen times while I surveilled him, and I’ve only been in Chicago three days. What a pig.

Normally this guy seems to go for the young ones in tourist bars. Nothing too creative there. He just goes to the loudest club he can find and picks up some girl who looks like she just bussed in from the suburbs. Easy pickings. They see his shiny suit and they’re just all over him.

Of course, a man like that is not going to be able to handle much more of a challenge than your average community college student. I wonder if he even knows what a joke he is.

And now another turn. It's all high rises and chain restaurants at street level. Extra wide sidewalks. It’s past rush hour but I guess these sidewalks are probably full to capacity right around five or six pm. Thousands of people work downtown.

But there's no charm in the financial district whatsoever. It's almost antiseptic.  Uniformly great. A few late business people and stock traders walk by in their matching outfits. Cheap suits and shoes. Ladies wearing pantyhose and sneakers, for fuck’s sake.

I wish this guy would just get somewhere more discreet because I don't think I know this part of town. I studied the maps, I'm pretty good at knowing the general layout, but I haven't been here. I’m really wondering what he is up to.

He skirts a couple of subway grates, and I don't know if that's being practical or if he's just a pussy. Afraid of heights maybe? That would figure.

Something is starting to feel strange and I consider calling Alek again, just to have a sane voice in my head. What would he say?
Caution
.

The Italian slows down in front of a garden that’s set back from street level, fronting a yuppie restaurant. I think for a second maybe he's going in there for dinner, but he doesn't. He picks up the pace, and I have to struggle a little bit to catch up.

I’m starting to want this done because it all has that green, queasy feeling attached to it. After fifteen years in this line of work, I know when something’s starting to unravel. Besides, I'm not confident that I'll be able to find my way back out without ending up in a jam and getting myself turned around.

When he turns a quick right down the service alley, I'm grateful. Let’s do this. My skin buzzes with excitement and I hear every sound around me. My dick gets hard as a rock like it always does. I'm really looking forward to the wet punctuation I'm about to put at the end of this guy’s life. And then a vodka with Alek and a pussy.
Chicago
pussy. I hear it's almost as good as the pizza.

I come in right behind him, taking long strides to cover the distance between us. Then I'm right next to him and pulling in front, reaching into my pants to grab my Makarov.

But as I edge around the front of him, smooth as a dancer, I see it out of the corner of my eye. There's another guy in an alcove for a drainpipe. I see the glint off the narrow barrel of a Colt pistol, and for a split second I'm actually a little bit impressed that these fuckwads showed some ingenuity.

Pretty boy takes a second to sneer at me and pivots to his left so the guy in the alcove can come out. But my Makarov is already up at chest level, and I pop the pretty boy even as his face is starting to look surprised. He doesn't get to finish that expression before his eyes go blank and he drops heavily at my feet.

The pretty boy was kind enough to set himself right up next to him and his hand is slow. He might have had a fighting chance to get the gun raised at least, but I'm just too fast. It’s second nature to me.

Pop pop
.

Two in the heart. He falls to his knees and then forward, planting his face in a deep puddle in the cracked asphalt. I only back up just in time keep from getting a splash of blood on my new sneakers.

Two at once. It's more than I was expecting. And fuck, I almost came in my pants over it.

I need that pussy, right now. Even though I don't know exactly where I’m at, there’s gotta be a bar around here somewhere. I need to make some girl's night. I step over these Italian pieces of shit and stuff the pistol back into the front of my shorts, clicking on the safety because I don’t want to blow my nuts off, especially when they're throbbing like this, ready to explode. Safety first, I always say.

As I step out of the alley a few people squint past me, down the dark space between the two buildings where those Italian fucks lay facedown among the garbage. The streetlights are on now, sending the alley into an inky dark gloom.

One lady scowls briefly then looks away, as though trying to figure out how this scene is normal. She looks vaguely annoyed. It'll probably take ten or fifteen people to walk by and see this before anybody really puts it together.

Mostly, people don't even hardly notice. Unless somebody kicks the bucket right in front of you, your average person is going to assume that everything's okay even if what they're looking at is exactly the opposite. It's human nature. People like to see what they want to see.

I step out off the curb at the next intersection, turning left onto another street I don't really know. I'd like to get off the sidewalk as soon as I can, and my cock is throbbing in my shorts right now. We may be entering the part where this is like a medical emergency or something.

Glancing up, I get the street names off the sign at the intersection and text the details to Alek. He’ll be here shortly, but I don’t want to start without him if I don’t have to.

But I can’t help it; I start thinking ahead. I like to find a nice, sturdy girl after a hit like that. And with the surprise bonus guy, the urgency is doubled at least. I'm all alive and buzzing as I imagine somebody who can take what I've got without too much complaining. Someone broad across the ass, with strong hands so she can hold on to something really good. Someone thick enough for both of us. Someone with stamina.

Like that redhead in Atlanta last week. She was perfect. We should have brought her here with us, but I don't think Stosh would've appreciated another outsider. She looked like a superhero, and had to be almost as tall as Alek.

Soon as I found her in that little diner off the interstate, I knew she would be willing. She was smoking outside the back door, close enough to the dumpsters that she had the smell in her hair. She didn't even seem to mind. Not a delicate flower, you might say.

When she saw us crossing the gravel parking lot after a job, she raised one eyebrow and pushed her jaw to the side, curling up her left cheek in a sneer. She looked right at Alek, and I stopped walking toward the back door to let her have a good look. Then she glanced me over too, but wincing, like it hurt her to see me too much.

Most people just go ahead and run away when they see us coming, especially if the tattoos are showing, but she seemed interested to say the least. I glanced at Alek and he gave me that nodding grin. I was ready for her, and anybody who was going to go ahead and take a good long look at us was somebody I wanted to get to know. At least temporarily, anyway.

She didn't say anything, just turned right around and kicked open the screen door on the back entrance of the diner. I watched her ass cheeks grinding back and forth under that blue polyester skirt as she leaned toward the handle of the men's bathroom. She opened the door and I followed her in, Alek right after.

As soon as I closed the door behind me and locked it, she was sitting up on the front edge of the sink. Alek had her knees open and her skirt sliding up over those luscious, plush thighs. Totally shaven, totally smooth. Absolutely willing. We gave her a solid riding and thirty bucks for dinner and some ibuprofen for afterwards.

See, that's how I like it. I like a girl who is simply down to fuck. I don't need her name. I don't need her life's history. And I don’t want any dainty China dolls either. I don't like cutting myself on things that are too easily broken.