Chapter One

 

London, neon, night, SoHo in Little Italy. D'Angelo's, a jewel of an Italian eatery, the diamond beveled into the center strand of pearls of other bars and eateries was shimmering; it was notoriously chic, even for Gumba Ville. The lads loved it, Made or otherwise. The spaghetti La Daviola was primo, the lasagna thick, house wine rich, great for the pallet and the veal white, and never overdone.

It was midnight, another hour to go and the crowds were sparse, few suits finishing up, weapons checked at the door, lots of laughter still. The teak and leather bar glistened from racked crystal on the racks above it, Sambuca, Grey Goose, Anisette, the usual suspects, tantalizing liquors glowing from a blue back lit neon. The rest of the place was sparkling, mahogany, Old School colored leather booths, white table clothes, real silver, English bone-white china, world class stuff. Mario D'Angelo, an English Wop had spared no dimes tricking the haunt out.

Mr. D'Angelo, he was 50ish, 6ft 2, slender, black shock of hair, graying at the temples, hawk nose, delicate chin, blue eyes that forever sparkled, the mandatory tan, black suit, white shirt, red tie was a class act, as far as a fucked up SoHo went. He ran whores, numbers, hits when called for it, extortion whenever it showed. He was a Made Man, no one ever fucked with him, ever.

Sitting at his usual slot at the end of the bar, he glanced at Mikey, his Mick barkeep, then at his mater dei, William, tuxed out, grey hair, sophisticated, standing at the door, talking up some wop pug, who had thieved enough to afford a meal at his bistro.

Off at a booth, two slabs of sausage, massive man, Mario's men, English thugs, linguine set right before them, chests like kegs of beer, sat, eating, chatting, eyes never far from Mario, he being the soul reason for the continuation of their breathing on the planet.

Mario smoked, sipped at a Sambuca, thought of a trailer filled worth of slag furs his crew had hijacked the night before. His girlfriend, Ginger, blond, aerobics to death, bought tits, Putney Town idiot, could suck the tiles off a one of Mario's johns, if ya asked her, was lofted up in a slick condo he owned in Chelsea. Mario knew she would love one of the furry delights, as would his wife, who was just leaving for Rome for a couple of weeks of family, with his daughter, both which he adored.

All that changed of course when SHE walked through the fucking door.

Gasping, Mario's blues flicked, blinked, he wasn't really quite sure his stunned eyes were seeing what he thought they were seeing.

She was smiling, white teeth, tall, unbelievably elegant, thin blond, super short hair, tiny nose, sharp jaw, heart break legs, blink, blink, that's how white her skin was. She owned blue eyes, seemed almost invisible they were so clear cut. She was poured into a slit at the side white skirt, white blazer, white silk camisole, white Manolo stilettos, which must have made her 6ft 1, at least, was smiling and chatting up William at the door.

Mario stuffed his Galois out in an ashtray, adjusted his tie, fiddled at his diamond pinkie ring, watched as William, bowing, scraping, led the spindle blond across the room to the end of the bar. Once there, she sat, crossed bare legs, which a stealth bomber could have landed on they were so thin and long. Peeling off her white silk jacket, she laid it off to William, who did more bowing, scraping, then backed off, saying hosannas as he did.

"FUCK," Mario whispered, as his eyes bolted out of his head. Now the princess was in a sleeveless, white silk body shirt, small breasts, wide shoulders, collar bones like carved white ivory pressing through her sheer skin, so thin Mario could see each and every one of her rips silhouetted against the white shirt. Simply said, he had never seen anything so exotic and beautiful in his life.

Instantly, Mikey the barkeep flicked eyes at Mario, he nodded, messed with the shirt cuffs, watched as his Mikey walked over, smiled, began the chit chat with the doll. She was friendly, a gorgeous twist, smiled a smile that could of lit the Twin Towers, that is if those fucking terrorists hadn't knocked the fucking things down, Mario thought.

Lips no bitch should ever have, no lipstick, the color of wheat, full and pouting, Mario felt dazed. Then the erection, he was a stud, the girl, seemingly very down to earth, chatted up Mikey, went back and forth, then decided on a Grey Goose martini, like Bond, shaken not stirred, Mario was a goner.

Like Achilles, beauty was his weakness, so as Mikey lit her cigarette, no filter, Galois like Mario, man's smoke and the haze pearled out from those casaba lips, Mario zeroed in, a U-boat, torpedo's armed, ready to blitz the blond.

Sidling down the bar, hellos, introductions, I am Mimi, no attitude, invites fluttered from her lips, Mario accepted the sit down. Mario slotted a bar stool, then she spoke perfect Italian, fucked up Mario's mind, he answered in dago, she smiled, laughed, Mario was a dead man, he was in love. Fucking Italians, go figure.

Time flapped away like her blond eyes lashes, one Grey Goose, two, three is better. Yes, they both loved London, yet, to have the true European experience, Paris was a must for food, fashion, Milan a close second, Cannes for play, though in winter nothing could surpass Gastaad. Yes, she was just stalling out, the limo outside, Heathrow at dawn, Zurich, then Neuchatel, skiing, had heard of D'Angelo's, more laughs, it was as elegant as her driver had said. Touches on Mario's arm, more smoke like a guillotine flowing past her white teeth and yes, one must live in Italy, for it was the complete package of ambiance, no passion, no life without Italy, they both agreed, as the martinis flowed like platinum dreams.

Mario was hypnotized, fucking mesmerized, maybe lobotomized, she, down to earth, slit at the side, bare legs getting more naked by the moment, more touches, smiles could melt mercury. Let's make a deal. He suggested his mansion on Long Island, just for drinks, you know, a nice place, kick back, chill a little, just until the jet whacked off from Heathrow in the morning.

No problem, she was open, a dazzler, she seemed to adore everything about him, erection super ceding his mind, a few lies, why not. No need for her to know, wife gone, just left, Rome and then on to Naples, real Gumba stuff, old women moaning in black, Guapa, just like the movies, let's do it, and they did.

Fluffing of his muscle, two guys with no necks, handguns bulging against barrel chests, agreements were bartered, absolutely, her limo was fine, they could hardly wait to mate, and out the door they went.

STANDING naked, the white strand of ribbon stood, water blue eyes, almost translucent she was so ocular. Mario, nude, engorged cock, eyes dazed, laid on the down, big bed, massive room, rare art on the walls, happy, unable to break the mark. The fucking queen in white from tip to tiny toes looked like a virgin princess, painfully thin, no form to her body, no fake tits, like a snow blind memory. Mario can't break the gaze, she smiles, more white, she moves to the bed, ticks a look at his penis, pouts, twists a small smile, she looks happy. Her tiny tummy is swelling, Mario blushes, he feels like a fucking kid again, testosterone unlimited, fuck until his eyes bleed.

Slinking over, slow, seductive, like some kind of albino constrictor, she sits on the bed, reaches fingers so elegant out, wraps the tendrils around his penis, squeezes, smiles, swallow's. Mario wants to bitch weep he is so happy. Increased breathing, Mario, blood jerking off in his brain, crazed, and thinking about a divorce lawyer, one his gangster friends had used to jettison his own wife. His brain begins to leak madness like a kid with a new pop gun, staring at a bird on the front lawn.

She smiles, just a little, parts those lips, pouts, a look like a lioness, a hungry one, then she lowers her lips, kisses his tip, Mario winces, then lower, and then lower still, fuck, no fucking way. Jilting strikes of thought, his penis is down her goddess throat, up and down, tongue playing some kind of melody. Around and around she goes, don't stop, don't leave, test pattern thoughts, bitch has no gag reflex, throat swelling each push down, Mario now knows the face of Satan, he's a fucking woman.

She sucks out, straightens, on her knees now, straddles him and holds his penis with awe. She's ghostly pale, blue veins leading from her stomach into her cunt, smiling again, Mario is a child again. He is stunned, paralyzed, blood pumping his cock up, hands now, on her tiny breasts, pink nipples, her evident ribs, the glowing tummy, her arms raised to the canister of the four poster bed, swaying, humming, dreamy like, and steamy like, heat emanating from her skin. Up a little that tiny ass, now a guide, his penis, large, prominent, a "Made Man's Dick," inside her. Mario drugged, winces, feeling her cunt burning, nothing like it before, she's a fucking extraterrestrial, he's sure of it.

What was the name of that wop divorce guy, fuck it, later, she moves, up, down, a strider of perfection, moans, Mario and her, in unison, pressed white fingers on his lips, cunt like one of those atom smashers over at JPL, vagina shaved, everything blended like the sun. Hands, his hands, touching that skin, her no tits, no form to her body, up, down, her breathing gasping, lips tight, barred, teeth showing like that lioness again, flow and ebb, up, then down, time moves right along. She hops up, smiles through gritted teeth, guided his cock to the entry of her anus. He can't believe any of it, as she rams his cock into her ass.

Mario gasps, she scream, racks her head back and forth, bangs his chest with her fists. She goes nuts, Mario's eyes bolted open, nothing he has ever felt has ever felt like his cock buried into her velvet ass. Time passes, still Mario hasn't blinked for a fucking hour and then she shrieks, body shaking, shuddering, eyes twitching, and then Mario explodes, semen filling her, matching flames for flames, as he groans, tenses as she falls along his body. She is shuttering, weeping, as his arms wrap around her nothingness. Skin pressed again skin, tears mingling with sweat as she whispers through saline water drops. "Il mio amore, siete stupefacenti, allineare io adore voi."

She sits back, teeth chattering, madness in her eyes, her legs spread wide open facing his lug nut eyeballs. Her cunt is drenched in cum, his and hers. Her slender fingers reach down, touches her cum, she scoops it up, seductively tastes it, groans, smiles, then begins to masturbate.

Mario, stunned, amped, leers at her as she begins to jerk off violently, minutes pass, she goes insane, blue eyes manic, like a handgun barrel pointed at his fucking brain. She grits her teeth, her body begins to vibrate, legs undulating as then she jerks her head back, screams and in a guttural groan from barred teeth she moans as cum explodes out of her cunt washing onto Mario's lips.

"I...I'm cuming sooo hard."

She then spills into his arms, body vibrating, weeping, her body jerking, after shock orgasms in rolling spasms stun him to his wop core.

Broken hearted, fucked up and knowing it, holding the child in his man's arms, Mario touched her spine, her tiny rump, feels her tears on his neck, then whispered back. "La, La ora siete cosi bello, prego mai mi non lasci il mio amore". "Yes my love, I love you to, please never leave me alone, never."

Magic moments, surreal for Mario, fucking romance made in Hollywood, maybe cement stilettos for the wife, why not, he's done worse. Then the brave little girl finally gets right, leans up, hovers over him, and then smiles, a child really, simply precious in his old world romanced mind. Mario smiles, her fingertips to her own lips, then pressed against his, lies shared, promises sworn to, an encore pursed from her lips, just a moment, the bathroom, giggles, girl stuff.

"Please daddy you can spank me if I'm bad, even if I'm good" more giggles. Mario loves her, she dances away, small feet getting air, a tilt back, a purr, a smile, and air kiss sent COD. Mario grabs it in the ozone, knows he will never let it go, a wedding ring in the morning.

Standing there a naked white ribbon, she touches the-cum dripping from her cunt, and like a coquettish school girl, touches her lips, a fragile porcelain doll, gives him a broken virgins smile. He almost starts weeping himself.

She turns, looks over her shoulder and throws him an air kiss. He smiles, grabs it from the air like it is a twenty karat grade a diamond.

He now knows he will never let it go.

Bathroom, purse, naked, leering into the mirror, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, truly the white spirit, fiddles in the bag, finds her stuff, no pulse beat, cold skin like white Pieta Marble. Black ice in her hand, wondering, goofing, what's that in the mirror, can't look, vomit images, then finished, click, hands behind her back, soft again, warm and fuzzy, sex pot, god or goddess, more like Satan, out the door she goes.

Standing, swaying, smiling at smiles, hands behind her back, surprises, gifts, as a child, she loved them, no memory of ever being a child ever racks her brain any longer, that she is certain of.

Mandal, not Mimi now, no, not the weeper, frail and so needy, different eyeballs screwed into that angelic face, smiling, fading now, Mario doesn't get it, he will. She takes a barefoot step, remembering that God takes everything so indiscriminately for the simple reason that he can.

That death, like "Damascus lies Sword" gives life such a special meaning, for without its finality, lives, careless, vapid with no thoughts of reparation within in it, were meaningless.

Hands swung from the small curvature of her spine, hands by her side, Mario in Love, frozen icicles dripping from her eyes, "CLICK," chambering one of thirteen 22's into the Beretta, ready now. Mario blinking, naked, waiting for his angel, not expecting the Angel of Death as brief moments of no recognition crinkle his brow, suspicion, not registered yet, can't be, no fucking way, lovers don't hold handguns, especially his white/blond with eyebrows that have suddenly melded into blood colored eyes. She lifts her arm, no words; the moment is frozen in time.

Eyes, his, hers, locked, clarity as if watching a single drop of blood dripping from an open neck wound. Slow motion now, frame by celluloid frame, finger pressure, Mario protests, she smiles.

"PSSST." Hollow-point racing across time, marked, centered, impacting in Mario's forehead as blood splatters, brains, skull fragments too, patterned against white pillows, then maybe dead, more incredulous as she tilts her head, eyes on eyes. Curious girl, efficient girl, blood curdling violent girl and then.

"PSSST...PSSST...PSSST." Three in the heart. Mario D'Angelo has had a visit from the "White Death Orchid" and she was not carrying in her hands white roses.