PROLOGUE:
Fanelli was fuming internally as he finished tying the redhead to the bondage frame.
Why the hell did I take this job? He examined the limp woman, ran a hand over her
oversized breasts. Plastic surgery here, he yanked at her hair. Dyed hair. He shook his
head. Who’d want her as a sex slave?
Someone did—he’d known that from the time he got the call from Saviano. I told him
I’d do it, but I’m really not in the mood.
It had only been a week since he’d buried his father—and just three days since he’d
shipped off the girl that he’d been training when the old man died. That was no fun at
all! He’d given a lot of thought to his life during that week—thought about retiring,
moving to someplace warm and lazy.
Thought about taking the cop’s way out and eating his pistol.
Suicide isn’t the way, he’d told himself. I’ve got to find something to live for...
Then Saviano had called with a job—and he’d jumped at the thought of having something to
do.
This wasn’t it, though. The redhead wasn’t exciting enough—not as a woman, or a
challenge. Still, he thought. It is a job. The girl groaned as she started to wake up
and Fanelli took that as his cue to get the flogger from his workbench. And one I know
how to do.
She was fully awake when he returned, desperately pulling at the bonds that held her
in place, trying to talk, yell, through the ball gag that filled her mouth. He stepped in
front of her, tapping the flogger into his hand. “Hello, bitch.” He smiled. “I think
it’s time we got acquainted.” He slashed the flogger across her naked belly once, twice,
a third time.
“You may call me master.” He took her chin in his hand, fixed her with his gaze.
“Do you understand?”
She shook her head in negation—and Fanelli smiled. “That’s okay,” he tapped the
whip against her belly, watched her shrink away from its touch. “You will.”
He took a half-step back and began methodically whipping the girl, first across her
belly and hips, then around to her ass and lower back, finally back to the front and her
too-large breasts. She was crying, trying to scream and beg through the gag...
He didn’t care—he had work to do.
Chapter One
An ironic smile worked its way across Bob Fanelli’s lip as he drove his car slowly
along the upper edge of Iowa Avenue, scanning the right hand side of the Tropicana Hotel
for the alley that led to the tiny business centre parking area. I like to think I’m an
honest cop, he told himself. I’m not on the take; I enforce the laws equally... He
shrugged as the reality of his ‘side’ business crept into his mind. Well, most of the
laws...
He found the alleyway he was looking for and turned into it. Yet I find myself
summoned to a meeting with the head of the biggest crime family in the Northeast. He
eased into a parking space, pulled down the visor to display his Police Department Shield.
This should keep the traffic boys from towing the car; he locked the car and headed
toward the ocean. And if I don’t come back... He let his hand brush against the 9mm
pistol clipped to his belt; they’ll have an idea of where to look.
He turned onto the crowded Boardwalk and headed for the Cuban Tower. Joey
Belini—what could he want with me? He’d been wrestling with that question since the phone
call some three hours earlier. I don’t fuck with the mob guys—I leave them alone, hell; I
supply some of them with special orders...
Maybe that was it. Maybe one of those ‘special orders’ had created a problem.
Could I have grabbed someone’s daughter? A sister? Somebody they missed?
Fanelli shook his head. He knew there was only one way to find out for sure—that
was the real reason he had come.
He stepped into the Tower’s lobby and strode past the main elevator bank, heading
for the private shaft that serviced the Penthouse. Turning the corner, he found himself
face-to-face with two very large men. Hard men, he told himself. You could roller skate
on them… The quote from ‘Cat Ballou’, one of his favourite films, calmed him enough that
when the taller of the two asked if he was armed, he was able to hand over his pistol and
holster with steady hands. Now if they don’t search for a holdout gun…
They didn’t. Instead, they gestured him into the elevator beckoning at the end of
the hall. Once he was inside, one of the men pressed the button inside the door and
backed away, leaving Fanelli inside alone as the doors closed. He quickly transferred the
little .25 Beretta to his pocket—then took a deep breath and composed himself—as ready as
he could be for whatever was to come…
Even with that preparation, he was surprised by what he saw when the doors hissed
open.
WHAP! It was the sound of a cane hitting flesh, followed by the unmistakable cry of
a woman in pain.
“Just a minute, Mr. Fanelli.” WHAP! The cane struck again. “I have to finish this
before the bitch forgets why I’m doing it.”
Fanelli watched, eyes wide, as Joey ‘the Fixer’ Belini continued to cane the
dark-haired women tied bent over the high back of a dining-room chair.
WHAP! The skin of her butt was stretched tight by her position, and Fanelli could
see the marks of a number of lashes zig-zagging across her reddened flesh.
“Just one more.”
WHAP! The brunette shrieked into the ballgag that filled her mouth as Belini turned
away, done. He stepped closer to the wriggling brunette, running a hand down the cane to
remove the sweat and blood that stained it. “Now…”
Fanelli watched as the criminal boss took a step to one side—where two more girls
waited, naked, bound, and kneeling in front of the wall. “Hold this.” A beautiful blonde
opened her mouth and accepted the cane, holding it between white teeth.
Belini patted her on the head and turned to his guest. “You recognize them, of
course.”
“Indeed.” Fanelli looked over the three girls—blonde, redhead, and brunette that he
had captured and trained a few months earlier. “So you were the one who put in the
special order…”
Belini nodded. “I know your friend Saviano pretty good—his father and my father did
some business together in the old days.”
“I see.” Fanelli had known that Saviano was connected—but not at this level. “I
assume you called me here because you’re in some way unhappy…” He nodded toward the
brunette. “With your purchase?”
“No! Nothing like that at all.” Belini motioned for Fanelli to follow him. “The
girls are all I expected---more even.” He stepped through a doorway into a large office,
motioning the other man to join him before shutting the door tight. “I called you because
I want you to do another job for me.”
The office was huge, filling at least a fifth of the Penthouse. It was nicely
appointed, with leather chairs and a huge desk that dominated one wall. A floor to
ceiling window looked out over the Boardwalk and the Ocean beyond. Belini went to the
desk and pulled out an envelope, spilling the contents on the front of the polished
mahogany.
“This is…” His face went hard. “…Or was my wife, Teresa.”
Fanelli nodded as he picked up one of the photos that had come out of the envelope.
It showed a beautiful blonde girl, perhaps 20 years of age, smiling at the camera.
“Pretty girl.”
“Her father is Mike DeCavalconi.”
Fanelli knew the name. The DeCavalconi family was the ranking crime family in New
Jersey—theoretically under the control of the Five Families of New York, they had branched
out over the past ten or twelve years and were making noises about getting their
independence. Mike DeCavalconi was the clan patriarch, having made his bones with the
Luchese family back in the day.
“When I married her, I thought I had the best of all worlds--a beautiful wife--and a
way to tie our families together and stop the constant fighting between us.” Belini
picked up one of the photos, glanced at it, and tossed it back down onto the pile. “But
it didn’t work out that way--she was never a real wife to me—she wouldn’t do any of the
things a man really needs—all she wanted to do was dress up, party, and spend money.”
Belini sighed. “The whole thing lasted less than three months—my mother was
broken-hearted when we finally divorced.” The Don turned toward Fanelli. “Which reminds
me—how is your Old Man?”
Fanelli’s face froze. “He died a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Belini‘s voice rang with sincerity. “He was a good man.
I hope it was quick.”
“It was.” Fanelli nodded, thinking about the day some two months earlier when he
had found his father’s body. The old man had taken the girl they had been training to his
bed that night, tying her face down and fucking her up her tight and virginal ass. He
must have had a heart attack at some point in the process, because when Fanelli opened the
door to feed the girl, he found his father lying atop her, his dick, now rock-hard from
rigor and cold as ice, deep inside her.
Fanelli had disentangled the two bodies, taken the hysterical girl to a kennel at
the back of the big training area, than rearranged his father before calling a funeral
home. The undertaker had been unsurprised at the old man’s tumescence—said that sort of
thing happened all the time when a man had a stroke. He took the money Fanelli offered,
buried the old man in the family plot-and kept his mouth shut.
The girl had been a different story—she had required extensive re-training and
Fanelli had passed her to Saviano for the work—he didn’t want to see her anymore—and she
was never going to calm down in the home where she had been through such an experience.
“I think that when he went,” he looked at the Don. “He went happy.”
“That’s good to hear.” Belini sat behind his desk. “Let me know where he’s buried
and I’ll send some flowers.”
“That’s good of you.”
“It’s nothing.” Belini gestured dismissively. “Now, as I said, I would like you
to do a special job for me.”
Fanelli’s eyes went cold as he touched the pistol in his pocket. “I don’t do wet
work.”
“Nothing like that.” Belini shook his head. “In fact, I just want you to do
something you’re already doing.”
Fanelli relaxed and said nothing.
“This woman…” he pushed the pile of photos toward Fanelli. “This bitch has become a
problem for me.” The Don’s face went very hard. “She tells stories about me—degrading
stories. Her father takes her to certain meetings, tells my friends that I’m not the man
they think I am…”
Fanelli thought about it. That could be serious. If the other family heads decide
that Don Belini had gone soft…
“I need her punished.” Belini’s eyes bored into Fanelli. “I need her to regret
what she did—what she is doing!”
“Her father would come after me.” Fanelli knew how far the arms of the DeCavalconi
family reached—at least two of the guys in his precinct were taking money from them.
“They’d take her back and kill me.”
“Leave her old man to me.” Belini’s face was like ice. “We have a meet in five
days—afterwards, I guarantee he won’t be a problem.”
They’re going to kill the old man, Fanelli realized. Maybe the whole family. He
thought fast. And he told me—right out. He glanced at Belini. Is he planning to kill me
too? Or is he showing me that he trusts me?
“I know what you’re thinking.” The Don’s eyes bored into his. “You’re wondering if
I’m planning to get rid of you after you’ve done this little thing for me.”
“Something like that.” Fanelli forced a smile.
“Don’t worry about it.” The Don’s made that same dismissive gesture. “The boys say
you can be trusted. Saviano says you can be trusted.” Belini smiled. “So I trust you.”
He leaned toward Fanelli. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Fanelli took a deep breath. “Now, what exactly do you want me to do?”
“I want you to do what you do--take this woman,” he touched one of the photos.
“Make her hurt--punish her for what she did to me.”
“I won’t kill her—or maim her.”
“I don’t want her dead.” The Don’s voice was hard. “That would be too easy. I
want her to feel pain—real pain-- I want her to hurt in every fibre of her being—to scream
and beg until she has no voice left to scream with.”
“And then?”
“Train her as you did the three out there. I want her to kneel to me and beg to
suck my cock.” Belini leaned back in his chair. “Afterwards, you can do with her what
you will—sell her, give her away—anything you want.”
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