Vittorio
“Whew,” the girl sighed as she finessed her tight black skirt back over her petite little ass. “That was amazing,” she purred. She slowly inched her thong back up her thin, yet soft, thighs.
“Yeah,” Vittorio Contarini said, vague disappointment and disinterest in his voice.
Ever since he got there, this dumb slut had been shamelessly flaunting herself in front of him at the club, shaking her hips and groping herself on the flashing dance floor, making wild eyes his way from between thick rings of eyeliner.
It hadn’t even taken much to get her to follow him into the bathroom—just a smile and a nod towards the door. She’d been waiting for him in the stall, the deep V neck of her dress pulled open to reveal a bright fuchsia lacy bra. Her ‘fuck-me’ eyes bored into him like lasers; the whole process had been too easy. Vittorio was pretty sure the girl had told him her name, but he hadn’t bothered to remember it.
You’d think, with as much practice as they get, these sluts could be a better fuck, Vittorio thought as he zipped up his pants.
“So… can I get your number?” she asked coyly, walking her fingers up his chest.
Her body coiled into his, way too close and overwhelmed his nostrils with the heavy perfume she wore. Her wildly teased hair tickled under his nose and made him itch. The bright yellow acrylic tips of her snaky fingers dug into his skin and he brushed her hand away, annoyed.
He yanked his shirt down over his rippled stomach and grabbed his jacket from where it hung on the back of the stall door. He fiddled with the shitty lock and pushed the metal stall door outwards as he slipped his arms into the sleeves and checked himself in the mirror, smoothing his black hair back down where the girl’s claws had mussed it up.
“Nah,” he said casually, watching the hurt and shock register across her overly made-up face in the mirror. Avoiding further eye contact, he finished buckling his belt, pulled his phone out of his pocket and lit up the screen. Fuck, he thought. Six missed calls.
“Aww, why not?” the club slut pouted her smudged red lips. She probably thought she looked cute, he realized, but she just looked trashy. He almost pitied her. Almost.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said sarcastically. “Did our dirty toilet stall fuck give you the wrong idea? Are you expecting me to propose now? Get out of here.” He nodded at the door.
“Hey, asshole…” she started indignantly, her face twisting into an even uglier sour expression.
“Later, slut,” Vittorio didn’t spare her a second glance as he pushed his way out from the bathroom and back into the chaos that was the nightclub. Maybe she would follow him, maybe she wouldn’t. There he knew there was no way she’d be able to push her way through all the grinding bodies the way he could with his impressive height and strength.
The thumping electronic music drowned out any noise, so he couldn’t hear if she was calling after him. He made his way to the door, nodding at the bouncer as he left.
Once outside, he tapped on the red missed calls icon on his sleek touchscreen. They were all from his associate and personal friend, Marcello. The chilly wind nipped at his hands as he waited for an answer.
“Finally,” Marcello said four rings later. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Just walked out of the club.” Vittorio told him. “Got buried in a broad.”
“Of course you did,” Marcello chuckled. Vittorio’s womanizing habits were common knowledge with his friends. “Well I just got word that the Anafestos are holding an auction tonight. Was wondering if you wanna go check it out. Could be where they took those girls of ours.”
Vittorio adjusted his freshly milked cock in his pants and said. “Yeah, let’s go. You know where I am.”
“Already on my way. See you in five.”
Vittorio hung up his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He dug around his jacket pockets for a pack of smokes and a lighter. He took a long drag of dry, bitter smoke and blew it out, watching the smoke and his misty breath curl in the night air in slow, almost hypnotic patterns.
The heavy flow of strangers on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth and Vittorio liked it that way. It wasn’t surprising really; no one wanted to fuck with the six and a half feet of pure muscle and bad attitude that was Vittorio Contarini.
His height and intimidating stare usually enough, but the sleeves of tattoos curling around his thickly muscled arms were what really stole the show. He’d been told by one of his crazy Italian grandmothers that his aura was black and off-putting. Those were some of the only few lucid words of an old lady slipping into dementia, and Vittoria thought they suited him just fine. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of letting anyone in, and his near-addiction to power was fueling a successful career in managing the fortunes of the Contarini Crime Family. He saw no need to change.
Such was the life of a Mafia Don. He didn’t make his money in an office; he made it on behind abandoned warehouses reeking of sawdust and dried blood, and cleaned that money up in sticky bar booths under the cover of flashing lights and near-deafening music.