What happens to a woman who is thrown by circumstance into a man's situation? Does she lose her femininity? Does she harden in the struggle to out-man the men? Or does she retain her delicate femaleness, using it to increase her effectiveness in what once was a man's world?
These are a few of the questions explored by Angelo Colombo in this, Volume Two of The Godmother, his latest work. It is a book which is particularly relevant in this age of liberation. In the last decade and a half, women have been proving beyond doubt that which most intelligent men already knew-that the inferiority of the female is nothing more than a myth.
The fields of medicine, law, science, technology, and government have all been advanced significantly by the contributions which women have made. This is true not only today, but also from the beginning of recorded time. Yet, for some reason, society is just now getting around to noticing it.
Battle lines are being drawn over the issue of "women's liberation," its proponents facing off against its opponents. In reality, however, both sides are powerless in the face of society's evolutionary change. In the face of its inevitability, proponents and opponents alike become little more than spectators at a college debate. For the change is unstoppable, like the rising of the tide.
The author, therefore, asks not whether society can adapt to the altered order of things. Clearly it can. Clearly it has. After all, what is society, anyway, if not the changing order of things? Instead, Colombo examines the effect upon the woman herself-the powerhouse of energy whose untapped resources are only lately being recognized.
In this case, the woman is Rosa Cornelli, wife of a notorious Mafia chieftain. Unlike other women in her situation, however, Rosa does not play a background role in her husband's life. She is by his side at all times, listening to his troubles and helping him solve them, even when they involve "family business," a formerly sacred ground traditionally reserved only for men.
When her husband is assassinated, there is no one to avenge him but the widow. In doing so, she finds it necessary to take command of his weakening organization. The effect of the struggle on her own personality and the way that struggle changes her are the subjects of this book. A careful reader will see, however, that it covers a much broader field than that of organized crime.
For Rosa Cornelli is a woman in a man's world.
No more ruthless a world than that of big business. Her success lies not in the cruelty of her methods, but rather in her ability to use the methods of men-the men who preceded her-altering them just enough to make them work for her in spite of their cruelty. Her story is an exciting one. But the stories are all around you.
Every woman who seeks liberation in a world ruled by men faces a struggle like Rosa's. And while few will become master criminals, ruling the underworld of a giant city like Chicago, many will face crises every bit as momentous as Rosa Cornelli's. Watch these women closely. For they are tomorrow.
-The Publishers
SUMMARY VOLUME ONE
Domenico Cornelli's beginnings were humble, but his destiny was determined when he was only a child. Although he was born on a small farm in Sicily, he was orphaned at an early age, when a fire that ravished the countryside killed both his parents. There being no other relatives to take him in, he was sent to the United States to live with his uncle, the don of a powerful Chicago-based Mafia family.
Young Domenico was brought up in the rackets, exhibiting a natural talent for underworld leadership. But his uncle felt that he had been away from the old country too long. And so at the age of eighteen, the young gangster was sent back to Sicily for the completion of his education. There, under the wing of Don Alonzo Cefalu, he met Giuseppe Capanegro and Federico Luchesi, with whom he developed a lifelong friendship. Another companion, Mario Benevento, was killed in an inter-family feud. At the funeral, Domenico met Mario's sister Rosa for the first time.
Struck immediately by the "thunderbolt", he courted and eventually married her, bringing her back to Chicago with him when his uncle the don ordered his return. Giuseppe and Federico joined him a little later, and together, the three friends built an organization of strength. Domenico inherited his uncle's throne when the don died a few years later.
His family grew strong, controlling virtually all of Chicago's crime, as well as a great deal of its politics. Among its legitimate holdings were meat packing plants, auto-wrecking companies and trash-collection services. But in spite of his family's strength, Don Cornelli was not liked by many of the other American dons. Most of them thought him weak, feeling that he was too close with his wife. They considered it shameful that he treated her as his equal and included her in most of his family's business activities. Behind his back they mocked her, referring to her as the "donna" and suggesting that it was really she who ran the organization.
One night Nino Valenti, son of a powerful Las Vegas don, came calling on Cornelli with a business proposition. When he found that Domenico was out, he insisted on paying his respects to the "donna". Uneasy, but unwilling to offend her husband's colleague, Rosa invited him into the living room for a drink. But Nino, swinishly intoxicated and crazed by lust, forced his advances on her, tearing off her clothes and raping her. When his passion was spent, Rosa went for a gun and shot him, killing him instantly.
Don Cornelli did his best to cover the evidence of his wife's vengeful act. But Valenti, who knew his son's reason for being in Chicago, suspected that his death had been met in the Cornelli household. Instituting a campaign of harassment against Cornelli operations in Chicago, he called a meeting of northeastern dons, gathering them at Cleopatra's Retreat, the posh Vegas hotel in which he maintained his headquarters. In return for his promise to cut each of them in on a piece of Chicago's action, the dons agreed to remain uninvolved in the anti-Cornelli vendetta. Only Mancinelli, the diamond-loving don of New York, was uncertain of Valenti's victory. He suspected that the "donna" was stronger than she appeared, but he kept his opinion to himself, agreeing to the terms of the non-involvement treaty.
One night, about a week after the secret meeting, Valenti's moment came. Don Cornelli was at home, enjoying the company of his family. Rocco and Tony, his two personal bodyguards, were on duty in the study, making his house a veritable fortress of security. Seated with him around the table were his wife and his two children.
Nick, his son, was accompanied by his wife Lucy and their little daughter Rosa-Marie. Gina, the don's nineteen-year-old daughter was in the company of Francine, her sexy blonde roommate. The two girls had been discovering the pleasures of lesbian love together for almost as long as they had been friends. But on this evening, Francine had her eyes on her girlfriend's brother.
Nick, always looking for a chance to satisfy his lust, went with her to the garage, where they began making love, almost immediately. It was then that the don's private telephone rang. Since Nick was not there, Domenico went to answer it himself. When he opened the study door, he found Tony dead on the floor. Rocco was nowhere to be seen. A moment later an assassin stepped out from behind the drapes.
There was a big turnout for Don Cornelli's funeral. Almost every syndicate family, in America was represented. Most of the dons sent emissaries, Valenti dispatching a man named Manello. Only Mancinelli was there in person. In the confusion, no one noticed Federico Luchesi whispering quietly into Manello's ear. And only Mancinelli heard the grieving widow's pledge, "I, Donna Rosa Cornelli, will lead my family to victory!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Francine's cunt felt tight and wet around Carmelo Vitale's finger as his hand worked, under the sheltering tent of her flared skirt, to explore her loins. When his knuckle grazed her clitoris, she moaned softly, her lips blowing a warm sensual breeze across his left ear. Tightening her grip on his penis, she stroked it slowly up and down, at the same time grinding her ass down hard against the cushions of the couch in response to the meanderings of his powerful fingers.
Vitale had been staying in the Cornelli home for the past four days, ever since the assassination of the don had resulted in his promotion from street soldier to family bodyguard. Although never noted for his great intellect, the hard-muscled young torpedo was tough and strong, and his loyalty was beyond question. While alive, the don had considered him one of the family's most valued street-men, mentioning his name to Rosa on more than one occasion and saying that he hoped some day to move him up.
Certain that the correct time had arrived, the don's widow allowed herself to be guided posthumously by her husband's judgment. Within hours after the don's death, she arranged for Vitale to move into the house, assigning him to the room formerly shared by Rocco and Tony. Since then, the bodyguard had been dogging her steps, following her through the house as she moved about, and even preceding her through doorways when she walked from room to room.
Carmelo was proud of his new position. It gave him prestige, and an opportunity to associate with a different class of people. On a different level. The work was easy, and he liked it. And, what the hell! If the little blonde squirming on the couch beside him was any sample of what lay ahead, he was sure he could even learn to love it.
He had seen her around before, and knew her to be Gina Cornelli's friend and roommate. So when she showed up a little while before, asking to be allowed to pay her respects to the family, he let her in and invited her to wait in the living room. Following him inside, Francine flopped onto the couch. She seated herself with a flounce that sent the hem of her skirt sailing high into the air to expose the silky white expanse of shapely thigh. Vitale felt his cock twitch.
His eyes riveted to her sensuous curvaceousness, he licked deliberately at his dry lips, his mouth opening as though he wanted to but could not speak. When at last he found his voice, it was harsh and grating. "Family ain't back from the cemetery yet," he croaked, turning away in an effort to hide the rising bulge at the front of his pants. He had been left behind as watchdog while the rest of the household attended the funeral of its fallen don. And the knowledge that he was alone in the house with this lust-eyed little pussy was exciting him strangely. There was something extremely erotic about her. It wasn't just her looks-although they weren't bad at all. She was a little petite for his tastes. But her tits were gigantic, more than enough for any man, even one with hands as big as Carmelo's. There was something else, also. Something in her expression. A look of hunger ... of desire. An uninhibited frankness in her eyes which affected him body and soul, although his mind could not truly understand it. When she stared pointedly at his bulging trousers, a seductive little smile played at the corners of her lips. Yet when she looked at last, into his face, her own wore a parody-mask of wide-eyed innocence.
"I had car trouble," she said, her voice husky and breathless. "And I couldn't get to the cathedral in time. I did so want to be there. Gina's dad was such a nice man. I must offer my condolences to Mrs. Cornelli, and apologize for not being at the funeral. How long do you think it'll be before they get back?"
Vitale shrugged. "I don't know," he rasped. "Half an hour, maybe."
"Do you mind if I wait here?" Francine asked, her gaze flitting from his face to his stiffening cock and then back again. He was obviously nothing more than a flunky-a big dumb ox kept around for moving heavy loads and not gifted with a whole lot in the brains department. But she liked his looks-kind of. He was tall, at least six-two, and built like a brick shithouse. His shoulders were at least three feet across and his neck was thick and full. His hair was thick and blue-black, curling just over the tops of his ears. His eyes, dark and close-set, shifted quickly around the room as she spoke. Like an animal sniffing for danger. Oh, well, she thought. Any port in a storm. Glancing at his cock again, she said, "I'll try not to get in your way."
"Oh, that's all right," the torpedo answered. His balls began to tingle when he saw her looking at his bulge. And his cock was beginning to ache. "I've got nothing left to do, anyway," he said. He had already checked all the doors and windows to be sure that they were secured, and had personally seen to the locking of the gates and the activation of the entry alarms. Nothing could get onto the grounds or into the house without his knowing it. And now there was nothing left for him to do but wait.
"Why don't you sit down with me, then?" Francine asked, licking her lips suggestively. "Maybe I can help you pass the time."
"All right," Carmelo said, seating himself be side her. He was expecting a little flirtation-the kind of sparring which usually goes on between men and women who have begun to develop a sexual craving for each other. But what she did surprised him, for not even his syndicate background prepared him for a girl like Francine.
The moment his ass hit the couch, her hand went to his groin. Her fingers closed gently over the cloth-covered staff of his erect penis, bringing the young bodyguard's blood to a simmering boil. Pulling up her skirt with her free hand, she took his wrist and guided his fingers to her already moistening pussy. She wore no underwear at all, and Vitale gasped with pleasure when his fingertips stroked lightly across the hair-fringed lips of her flowering cunt, moaning when her fingers began working at his zipper.
As he plundered her pussy with his probing pummeling hands, he felt her long cool fingers close lovingly around his cock, extricating it from the confining prison of his trousers. He sighed sibilantly as the room's warm air washed sensually across the head of his penis, stirring its tip to moistly trembling vibration. Francine pressed her lips wetly against his ear, her tongue lashing out to lave obscenely at the swirling convolutions of cartilaginous flesh.
Parting the lips of her cunt with his callused and muscular fingers, Carmelo smeared the moisture of her internal secretions generously over the thick and fleshy flanges, spreading it like butter on the rubbery softness of her vaginal membranes. The blonde's body grew hot, a thin layer of perspiration coating her skin with glistening sheen. She tugged mightily at his cock, its meaty heft filling her hand and focusing her brain.
The mammoth organ was as thick and gnarled as the hawser of a three-stacked ocean liner, a network of pulsating blue veins criss-crossing its turgid length. The head was heavy and round, the size and shape of a billiard ball. Its distended purple glans was speckled with a thousand milky droplets of free-flowing lubricant, and her fingertips danced over its surface, spreading the juice to the throbbing shank as his penis swelled to stuff her hand.
"Nnnnnnggggaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh," groaned Vitale as she jerked rhythmically at his cock. His finger stabbed brutally for the slit of her pussy, driving between its lips to wet itself in warm cuntal juices, bathing all the way to the second knuckle. He could tell that her cunt had gotten a lot of use, by the instinctive way it closed around his finger, milking it like a cock, with a series of rhythmic peristaltic contractions. She was hot, all right. And her excitement was arousing him all the more.
He toyed for a while with the idea of pushing her down and fucking her right there on Rosa Cornelli's living-room couch. But her hand felt so good on his cock that he couldn't bring himself to change position. Not even slightly. Her fingers were working expertly at his organ, tugging at the foreskin until his cockhead was swallowed up inside it. Then, when the distended glans was swollen nearly to bursting, she released the fleshy collar and let it slip back down the rod, exposing the heavy cudgel's tip once again. Stroking it lightly, she moaned into his ear, assuring him that he was pleasing her.
"Ooooooooohhhhh, yeeeeeeeeeeeesssss," she whimpered. "Theeeeerrrre. Yyyyeeeeeesss! Oh, put your finger inside of me." Needing no further encouragement, Carmelo slid his digital probe deep into the cavern of her pussy, pressing his palm flat against the hairy mound of her pubis at the completion of the first instroke. His finger was so thick and muscular that it felt almost like a cock to Francine, and she threw her hips up desperately in a futile attempt to capture still more of its penetrating length.
He searched her ass with his pinky, tickling the downy muscle which ringed the fragrant anal opening, and bringing a sob of excitement from the petite blonde's throat. She held his cock in both her hands now, twisting them in opposite directions as she jerked it up and down. After each downstroke, she cupped his balls lovingly, giving them a playful little squeeze and toying tantalizingly with the hair of his scrotum.
There was something about the men of the Cornelli household which fascinated Francine; a quality about which she had only the vaguest of understandings. They were coarse men-tough and hard-with an aura of violence hanging over them like a storm-cloud on the desert. She had noticed it first with Nicky-something in his eyes that was cruel and bestial, like the terrifying but hypnotic gaze of a leopard. Remembering the way it felt to have his cock inside her, she could almost hear the sounds of his groaning voice as he pumped his fiery load of cum into her waiting uterus.
At that moment he had been under her power, his strength and ferocity harnessed by the fragile softness of her pussy. And it was perhaps this that captivated her most. For although she knew only what she read in the papers, it was obvious that the men who surrounded Gina's family belonged to a special breed of creature. They were rough and untamed-fearless of the society in which they lived and with which they were traditionally at odds. And they were accustomed to getting what they wanted-or taking it. But like all males, their heads were ruled by their scrotums and their hearts were controlled by their hard-ons. And that made her stronger than they were.
As her hands moved slowly up and down the length of Carmelo Vitale's penis, she was conscious of the great personal power that he wielded. A power which enabled her, by the soft and gentle touch of her hand, to subdue the beast and to leash the monster. To turn the young bodyguard from a muscle-bound gun-toting tiger to a docile and simpering lamb.
Spreading her thighs as wide as they would go, she opened the portal of her pussy, rocking forward on her buttocks to slurp wetly at his fingers with her drooling cuntal mouth. It flowered like a sea anemone, closing wetly around his hand and covering it with pungently fragrant ablutions. Tightening her grip on the shank of his vibrating fuckpole, she pulled harder and more rhythmically, matching each upstroke with a plaintive moan of sexual excitation.
"Oooohhhh," she wailed. "Your cock is soooooo biiiiiiig." Her obscene observation made Carmelo's penis twitch, and set his balls to grinding furiously as they toiled and labored to fill the sac of his scrotum with a load of thick and heated fluid. She could tell, by the way it swelled to even greater circumference, that his orgasm was only a stroke or two away. And she rocked faster on the smoothly rounded curve of her ass to slam her cunt hard against his plundering finger, forcing it deep into the well of her spurting, flowing twat.
Biting gently at his earlobe, she whispered, "I'm going to cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmm. I'm going to cuuuuuuuummmmm aaaaaalllll ooooooverrrr yooooouuuuur haaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnd." As her words tickled his ear, Vitale felt her pussy becoming wetter and creamier, drenching his fingers with the syrupy sweetness of her vaginal fluids.
"Yeeeeeesssss," she hissed. "I'm cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmiiiiinnnnggg."
Vitale's cock jumped and jerked in her skillfully manipulating hands, its tubes filling with semen and its cum slit dilating to accommodate the torrent that was building inside him. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnn," he moaned. "Meeeeeeeeeeee, tooooooooooooo!"
The first white jet of thickly steaming semen shot violently from the end of his prick, arcing high into the air and landing with a splash on the material of Francine's loose-fitting skirt. Acting quickly, she bunched the material in her hand, using the broad inner hem to daub at the gunsel's penis, catching his fiery load and wiping him clean after each rollicking spurt of viscous life-giving juice. For a moment she thought that he would pump forever, his cock shooting wad after wad of cloudy liquid into the pocketed fabric of her dress. She jerked and pulled at it, panting like an animal in heat and wheezing like a steam engine on a forty-degree upgrade.
At last the paroxysm contractions of his penis came to a halt, his finger gliding slowly to a stop inside of her vaginal orifice. "That wasn't bad," he muttered, looking into her soft-blue eyes, still glazed with lust and blazing with sensuality. "You're a hot little number. I'd like to see some more of you."
"Anytime, big boy," Francine responded. "I loved every minute of it. What's your name, anyway?"
"Carmelo," he answered, his voice a controlled growl. "And yours is Frances, ain't it?"
"Francine," she corrected. "But what's in a name? A rose is a rose and by any other name, and all that."
"Huh?" queried Carmelo, confused by the poetic gibberish.
"Oh, never mind," she said. "You can call me anything you want, just as long as you don't call me late for...."
Vitale interrupted her by springing to his feet and moving, swift and cat-like, to the living-room window. His sensitive ears had picked up the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house. And he didn't want his Donna to catch him napping. Squinting as he stared through the window, he muttered, "Get yourself fixed up. Mrs. Cornelli is home." His voice was guttural and all business. His body sated, he was finished with her now, and ready to attend to other more important business.
Zipping his fly, he moved quickly toward the front door, his right hand going automatically to his left armpit and patting a familiar and comforting bulge. Leaving Francine in the living room, he walked through the foyer, flipping the switch which unlocked the iron gates and de activated the alarm system. Then, opening the front door, he stood by it, as expressionless and stolid as any member of the London palace guard.
With a screech of tires, the black limousine sped into the long curving driveway, stopping abruptly in front of the door. Two stone-faced bodyguards sprang from the front seat and stood flanking the rear door, one of them reaching swiftly for the handle. Pulling it open, he assisted Rosa Cornelli from the back seat. Gina, her eyes--rimmed with red, got out behind her. And at her heels came another pair of bodyguards.
They walked quickly toward the house, the four strong-arm men huddled so close together that the don's widow and daughter were practically obscured from Carmelo's view. When they reached the front step, the two men preceding stepped aside to let them pass. A moment later a second car pulled into the driveway, and Nicky-his wife and daughter behind him-sprang from the back seat. They too were flanked by four bodyguards as they walked from the car to the house.
The burial was over now, and the traditional "funeral truce" between warring families had ended.
As soon as all members of the family were safely inside the house, Carmelo nodded to the eight assembled bodyguards, signaling that the responsibility for family security was now his alone. The others dispersed, taking up their assigned positions around the house and grounds.
Closing the door, he turned to face Rosa Cornelli and her children.
"Good afternoon," he said, his gruff voice respectful as he addressed his leader's family.
"Good afternoon, Carmelo," Rosa answered. Her words were clipped, and her voice cold and business-like. No time for amenities now. There was much to be done. "Capanegro and Luchesi are right behind me," she said. "Please have them wait in the living room. I will speak to my family alone in the study for a while. Then I will be needing them."
"Excuse me," said the bodyguard. "But Miss Gina's friend Frances is here to pay her respects. Do you want her to wait?"
"That's Fran cine," Gina corrected. But her mother ignored her.
"No, Carmelo," she answered softly. "I'll see her at once. But after this, she is not to be allowed in the house."
Gina opened her mouth to protest, but the words of rebellion got stuck in her throat. There was something in her mother's tone which she had never heard before. Something in her expression which she had never seen before. An attitude of command, and the self-assurance of a natural leader. One who gives orders easily and expects them to be obeyed without question. Biting her lip, the girl said nothing.
"Yes, my Donna," murmured Carmelo respectfully. Nodding his head to show that he under stood, he preceded the Cornelli family into the living room. Francine rose from the couch as soon as he entered the room, and moved quickly toward the door to greet Gina, her mother, and her brother. But Mrs. Cornelli was curt-her smile polite, but unfriendly.
"Oh, Mrs. Cornelli," bubbled the blonde, "I'm so sorry that I couldn't get to the funeral in time. I had trouble with my car again. But please allow me to convey my deepest sympathies. I feel so...."
Rosa cut her off before she could say another word. "Thank you, Francine," she said stiffly. "You're very kind. And now I'm sure you will excuse us. I wish to speak with my family alone." Without another word, she turned and strode away, heading for the study. Nick and his wife followed immediately, baby Rosa Marie sleeping peacefully in her mother's arms. Gina hesitated for a moment, anxious to speak with her friend. But then, as the rest of the family walked off, she turned abruptly and followed them, still silent. Before Francine realized what was happening, Carmelo-his manner cold now, and even a little menacing-was hustling her out of the house.
When Gina, bringing up the rear, entered the study, her mother closed the door behind her. Then, walking purposefully, she stepped around the don's heavy desk and lowered herself into the swivel chair that waited behind it. It was the first time anyone but the don himself had ever sat in that chair, and all who were present realized immediately that great significance was attached to the widow's action. She was installing herself officially as the family's new leader.
"Gina," she said, her voice soft but firm, "I do not like to be alone. I want you to move back into your old room. At once!"
"But...." Gina began, her objection spirited and instinctual. But her mother just stared at her, with eyes that were deep and compelling. And Gina found that she could not speak. Could not oppose her mother's wishes. Could not disobey her donna's command. "Yes, mother," she said, her voice having fallen to an almost inaudible whisper. "I'll ask Francine to gather my things and drop them off here."
"Good," the donna answered. "And now, if you will excuse us, there is something that I wish to say to Nick." Lucy, still holding the baby in her arms, turned to leave when she heard her mother-in-law's words. But the donna stopped her with a wave of the hand. "No," she said. "This is for your ears, too."
Waiting until her daughter had left the room, Rosa Cornelli turned slowly to face her son. "You," she began, her voice cold and devoid of emotion, "are a total disgrace." She pronounced each word as though it was a complete sentence.
Nick's head jerked, as though he had been slapped sharply across the face. That his mother should speak to him this way stunned and disarmed him. And that she should do it in front of his wife shamed and embarrassed him. He felt his legs weakening as his face reddened, and he cast his eyes downward.
Rosa continued speaking, her voice becoming louder and more animated in spite of the attempt which she was making to control her emotions. "You have proven yourself to be worthless!" she said. "To your wife; to your child; to your father; and even to your family. You have betrayed them all for an irresponsible penis. Whoring all over Chicago without shame or honor. Neglecting your home to nourish your ego. And then disporting yourself like a rutting beast with that slut in the garage while your father-YOUR DON-was lured-UNGUARDED-to his death. You're a worm!"
Nick's wife sobbed aloud, but said nothing. She had known, of course. Known, all along, that her husband was a cheat. That he spent more time in the beds of other women than he did in her own. But her knowledge had been a private thing. A burden that she bore stolidly alone. Now that it had been made public-dissected and described by the words of his mother-it became heavier than ever. Tears rolled unchecked over the high sculptured contours of her cheeks, and she bit painfully into her lower lip in a vain effort to contain her sobs.
The donna, her voice controlled once more, continued speaking ... softly now, and in modulated tones. "If you were not my son, I would have you killed," she said. "But, instead, I'm going to give you a chance to become a man." Reaching into a drawer of the don's mahogany desk, she extracted a long white envelope and held it out to her son. Mechanically, he took it from her.
"What is this?" he asked. He felt numb, dazed.
"A ticket to Sicily," his mother answered. "The plane leaves at seven this evening and lands in Palermo by morning. If you have any sense, you will be on it. If you are not, I wash my hands of you. You will be on your own." She brushed her palms together to emphasize her words.
"I have spoken to Don Cefalu, a dear friend of your father's. In Sicily, he is a man of much power-old, but very wise. His family is strong. One of the strongest in all Sicily. He will meet you at the plane and he will give you a place to stay. His godsons will try to give you an education. More than that I cannot ask. Perhaps there you will learn to be a man. Until you do, I don't want to see you. And neither do your wife and baby. They will be well cared for in your absence-I'll see to that. And they'll be better off without a man than with anything less than a man."
Her son looked up at her, unable to believe what he had just heard. Until this minute, he had entertained some vague notions of taking over his father's position of family leadership. And here was his mother, kicking him out. Who the hell did she think she was? Who the hell did she think he was? He wouldn't let her do it. That was all! He just wouldn't let her!
But the steely glint in her dark almond-shaped eyes told him that she was stronger than he. And the granite expression on her finely chiseled face assured him that there was no point in trying to resist her. She was his donna. And there was nothing for him but to obey. Wordlessly, he turned and walked from the room, his wife and baby following behind him, hoping for a chance to say good-bye.
A moment later, the door re-opened and Carmelo stepped inside it. "Anything you want me to do?" he asked. His voice was gruff and harsh, but his tone was as respectful as the best-trained of British butlers.
"Yes," she answered, her features hardened into an expressionless mask. "Ask Giuseppe and Federico to come in. I want to talk to them."
The bodyguard disappeared, reappearing a moment later with the two capos at his side. He admitted them to the study and then stepped out again, standing just outside the door in case he should be needed. The two men entered slowly, stopping short when they saw the widow seated in their fallen don's chair.
She waited a moment, giving them a chance to think about what they saw. Then, she asked, "Well, how does it suit me?"
"Very well, my Donna," said Giuseppe. He stepped forward unhesitatingly, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. By the gesture, he vowed his eternal loyalty and undying respect. Federico, saying nothing, fell behind him and did the same.
"There will be turmoil, at first," Rosa began. "But I will lead us to strength. And in the end we will be stronger than ever." She looked each of them directly in the eye, holding his gaze for a long, compelling moment. Even Federico was impressed by her. She was strong and she was proud. She was not like any woman either of them had ever known. And maybe-just maybe-she was strong enough to accomplish it-to be the first woman in the history of the world to lead a Mafia family. And to lead it to victory.
"In the beginning," she said, "we will need some help. And our friend, Don Cefalu, has offered it. But for our first act we need no help at all. I want you to handle it yourselves; as a lesson in respect to the rest of the organization." She paused for a moment, looking from one to the other. Then, speaking slowly, she continued. "Find Rocco," she commanded. "And find him fast!" She had been making a few calls, following a few leads. There could be no doubt that the missing bodyguard had played a hand in the don's assassination. In fact, it was quite likely him who killed Tony in order to clear the field for Valenti's gunman. She wanted him dispensed with as soon as possible.
Capanegro and Luchesi nodded approvingly at her terse command. The fact that Don Cornelli had been hit in his own home had cast the family into dishonor. And only the swift punishment of his betrayer could completely redeem it.
"As soon as you find him," she continued, "kill him! I want him to take ten hours to die. And then I want him left where he will be found and recognized. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my Donna," the men answered together.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Turning his lighter so that the sunlight flashed in the single perfect diamond which studded its center, Don Mancinelli lit a cigar. He blew a long curling plume of smoke at the high ceiling of his New York City waterfront office, and then looked again at the bejeweled cigar lighter.
"Have somebody wash those windows," he said. "Right away. It's dreary as a tomb in here."
"Sure thing, Jimmy," answered Timpone. His tone was casual, but his manner respectful. "Should I give the job to Genovese?"
"No," said the don. "Pizzuti this time."
Manny Timpone nodded, noting, "Pizzuti-window's!" on the memo pad which he held in his hand and which was his constant companion as he attended his diamond-studded don. The owlish, slightly built man of forty-five was Mancinelli's consigliore-his chief advisor and prime minister to his underworld family. It was Timpone who saw to it that the young leader's orders were carried out and that family operations ran smoothly. Although the "godfather" was more than ten years his junior, he respected him completely and would willingly have died at his command.
"Now, tell me," asked the don. "What do we hear from Chicago?" It had been fifteen days since the shooting of Domenico Cornelli. And according to the promise made by Valenti at the Las Vegas conclave, his empire should already have been cut up for distribution among the eight parties to the treaty of "non-involvement". But, as Mancinelli had suspected, Chicago did not turn out to be the unguarded apple pie that Valenti had offered to slice. Instead, with the murdered don's widow at its helm, the Cornelli family was holding together and defending its city valiantly against encroachments by the Las Vegas army.
Chicago's papers were filled with details of the skirmishing, increasing their circulations with lurid photographs of bombed automobiles and bullet-ridden bodies. But only an insider could hope to comprehend the subtle ramifications that surrounded every blow that was struck, every shot that was fired, and every move that was made in the deadly chess game. For only an insider could understand the complex web of loyalties and cross-affiliations which gave meaning to each act of vengeance, warning, or aggression. Mancinelli's sources were excellent. Expensive, but excellent!
"Something new," Manny answered. "Interesting little item turned up this morning in the Lincoln Park Zoo. Cornelli, if you remember, had two bodyguards-Rocco and Tony. Tony was killed at the same time as his boss. Rocco, it seems, has been missing ever since."
"She got him?" Mancinelli asked, his eyebrows raised in interest.
"According to the medical examiner," said Timpone, "he must have been beaten for hours. Every bone in his body was broken at least once. But it took a bullet in the brain to kill him. Skillful work, I'd say."
Mancinelli nodded. "Nice touch," he said, musing. "Leaving his body in the zoo, I mean. Where was it found?"
"Just outside the rodent house," his counselor answered with a smirk.
"She's quite a woman," said the don in a voice which was almost inaudible. Then, clearing his throat, he added, "What else do you hear?" Timpone shrugged elaborately. "More of the same," he said. "A few skirmishes, nothing else. Street fights, firebombs, a shooting. But no real offensive by the Cornelli bunch. I don't quite know what to make of it." He reflected for a moment, and then added, "But, there's something else, too."
"What's that?" asked his don.
"That's just the trouble," Timpone answered unhappily. "Nobody seems to know. It's something big, though. So big that only the donna and a few of her capos are in on it. Something-or somebody-came in at O'Hare the other day. And since then, security has gotten very tight. Our people can't get anything. But one thing's for sure. She's building up to something."
Mancinelli grinned, snapping his diamond studded fingers in amusement. "I knew she'd have something up her sleeve," he said. "That's one hell of a woman. The other dons have been underestimating her ... selling her short. She's tougher than they realize, and smarter than her husband ever was. Valenti just might have bitten off more than he can chew."
Smiling at his consigliore, he spoke slowly, as though trying a new idea on for size. "You know," he said. "I think I'd like to get close to that woman. To find out what goes on in her mind. To know her better. More intimately, if you know what I mean." There was an egotistical leer playing about the corners of his mouth and eyes. "Think I can do it?"
"I doubt it can be done," Timpone answered. "But if it can, you're the one to do it."
"Damn right I am," said the don, his tone boastful and dripping with oily confidence. "She's tough and she's smart, but she's still a woman. A very erotic and sensuous woman. A woman who's been living alone for two weeks now. After all, who is there for her? Certainly not the men in her organization. Would the queen lie with a stable boy?"
The glitter-fingered syndicate boss stopped speaking to chuckle, self-satisfied, amused by his own clever turn of phrase. "Would a duchess lie with a bricklayer?" he snorted, varying the theme of his witticism. "Of course not," he answered. "Only a don is worthy of the donna." Leaning back in his swivel chair, he yawned, stretching his arms high over his head. "And who knows," he added, "I may be the only friend she has left." He stroked his chin thoughtfully and said, "Maybe I'll fly to Chicago next week to pay my respect to the grieving widow. Why, I'll bet she's out of her mind with desire."
* * *
A thousand miles away, Rosa Cornelli tossed uncomfortably in her bed. She was tired-overtired, perhaps-but she just couldn't fall asleep. It had been two weeks now. Two weeks since her husband fell-the victim of an assassin's bullet-leaving her alone to avenge his death and to maintain the organization which he had spent half his life building. The strain was already beginning to tell on her. Her exotically beautiful eyes were framed in deep shadowy circles of ebony. And her softly curvaceous body ached with fatigue at every joint. But her mind was too active to allow her any rest.
Things were beginning to go well at last. Despite the street soldiers' uncertainty about serving under a "donna," the family was holding its own. Cornelli enforcers were hitting Valenti's people wherever they found them in Chicago. And although the invader had not yet begun his retreat, the Las Vegas mob had certainly not gained any territory. The next step, of course, would have to be an assault on the Nevada stronghold itself. And this, at last, had been made possible by the arrival of Vito Matrone from Sicily, two days ago.
Matrone was the nephew of Alonzo Cefalu, and could be trusted implicitly. His presence was an expression of the Palermo don's support for the "brotherhood's" first sister, for the Mafia's first donna. He had come to assist Rosa, to help her in the planning and execution of her defense and vendetta. Gratefully accepting his aid, Rosa entrusted him with responsibility for the offensive, outlining briefly her retaliatory objective, and leaving the details to him. He assured her that he had matters well in hand. And she believed him!
But still she could not sleep. Her mind reeled chaotically with fragmented thoughts and images-a phantasmagoric montage of memory and reminiscences dominated by visions of her darling Domenico. At first she saw only his face, twisted in the horror of sudden death. But then, as her thoughts began to wander, she saw him smiling-vibrant and alive. She remembered the times that they had together-their joys and their pleasures. How she missed him!
She missed the security of having him by her side, to defend and protect her, to cherish and love her. She longed for the touch of his hand in her own, the nibbling pressure of his lips on her throat. She pined for the caress of his strong but gentle fingers on the curves and the hollows of her sensuous feminine form. And she tossed in frustration, rolling about on the surface of her bed in search of a more comfortable position-a posture in which the aches and the cravings of her womanly body could be stilled and made tranquil. But each repositioning of her limbs, each twisting of her torso, only served to emphasize her discomfort.
"Mmmmmmmhhhh," she moaned, crossing and uncrossing her legs in an effort to ease the tension of her sore and suffering muscles. Her thighs rubbed sensuously together warming the pit of her groin and causing the lips which-rimmed her rosy slash to petal open. Her cunt moist and tingly, infused with an itching that came from somewhere deep, deep inside.
Shutting her eyes tightly, she tried to fill her consciousness with visions of her husband. But now she saw him naked, his long, stiff cock jutting straight out from the hairy triangle at the front of his body. It was thick with desire and heavy with the promise of conjugal ecstasy. The burning sensation in her pussy intensified, spreading from her loins to her thighs and her belly. Involuntarily, her hands stole over her body, stroking the skin of her ribcage and flanks through the diaphanous material of her black, ankle-length nightgown.
Her mind focused on the image of Domenico's cock-purple and throbbing, engorged with blood and pounding with need for the shelter of her body. "Oooooooooooooohhhhhh," she sighed, the fingers of her right hand moving closer to the cushiony mound of pubic hair which tufted out against the folds of her gown. Her left hand moved slowly upwards, towards the swell of her breast. Her fingertips played lightly over the soft contours of her chest and abdomen, reveling in the smoothness of the gentle convex curve which led gracefully to her bosom.
She could feel her nipples stiffening in response to the sensuous self-exploration, thrusting rigidly against the softness of her negligee's bodice. They ached with the need to be touched, burned with the desire to be stroked, soothed, petted, and cajoled. Motivated by a will of its own, her hand continued its upward climb until the tip of her thumb encountered the lower curve of her luxuriously firm breast.
She nudged experimentally at it, jabbing lightly with her fingernail, and gasping as the tingling in her pussy became suddenly magnified. "Hhhhhhmmmm," she sighed, her fingers moving higher to cup the creamy mound of flesh and hold it lightly. The skin of her hand was barely touching the red-capped orb's silky surface, but she could feel its trembling excitement.
Her eyes were closed. And at some sub-surface level of her mind, it was not her own hand which titillated her bosom, but Domenico's. She could feel his muscular fingers grazing lightly and lovingly over the rounded contours of her breast, its puckering pink nipple standing out and straining upwards in a joyful attempt to kiss the palm of his hand. She could feel his thumb and forefinger closing around the rosy nubbin, pinching it carefully, tweaking it, rolling it first one way and then the other.
"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhh," she keened. Her juices were flowing copiously, wetting the meat of her inner vagina and dotting the flesh of her labia with dewy drops of fluid. She lay on her back now, her buttocks pressed hard against the mattress and her knees raised and pointed away from her body. The nightgown had risen nearly to her waist, and her right hand trailed lightly over the skin of her inner thighs. Beginning at the knee, she let the tips of her fingers feather lightly across the skin, fluttering them delicately as she moved up the thigh toward her tingling, moistening slash.
Some trace of inhibition, however-a remnant, perhaps, of her old world upbringing-stopped her fingers just short of the puckering slit. Moving quickly, she brought them skittering coquettishly down the other thigh. There they began the cycle once again. But each time they approached her cunt, they seemed to linger a bit longer at its brink before beating a hasty and embarrassed retreat. And then, finally, it happened.
Just as the fingers of her left hand were closing tenderly over her swollen pink nipple, the fingers of her right brushed gingerly over her pouting vaginal mouth. The lips petaled open immediately, allowing the room's air to wash softly across their deep red inner walls. The tissues were crimson, inflamed with desire. Her fingers moved gently across them in a desperate attempt to soothe the aching burning itch which was tormenting her.
"Aaaaaahhh, aaaaahhh, aaaaaaaahhhhhh," she sobbed as her thumb rolled unexpectedly across the mound of her mushrooming clitoris. The tiny pink bud rose instantly from its sheltering tent of glistening pink membrane to spear at her fingers, demanding their attention.
She found herself drawn inexorably to it, her hand knowing instinctively where to go and what to do. Her index and middle fingers scissored around it, capturing the erect little pleasure button between them. They moved first one way and then the other, rolling the oily marble in a pool of glutinous fluid which had begun to collect around it.
The rollicking waves of pleasure which coursed over her body seared through her with the force and fury of a volcanic eruption, ripping a strangled expression from her throat. She rent the silence with a long sibilant gasp of excitement as, mechanically, without any conscious thought, her fingers began rubbing her clitoris with a slow circular motion. She had not performed the autoerotic act since she was a teenager, but her hands had lost none of their skill. She felt her arousal mounting, building to a pitch which would soon carry her out of the realm of control.
In her mind's tormented eye, she saw the hazy picture of Domenico's penis, dripping with ooze and swollen with desire. It moved closer to her pussy, warming her vaginal tissues with its proximity and hardening the nipples of her tits until they drew together into twin gems of ruby hardness. Her cunt was opening to him, its lips pulling back and inviting his entry.
Slowly, with love and with tenderness, the bulbous purple cockhead approached her slit, kissing lightly against the furry flanges that guarded its erotic opening. Sighing once more, she drew the lips open with her fingers, sliding their tips through the thick coating of slime which sparkled wetly on the inner surfaces. Then, almost imperceptibly, she slipped it inside, prying apart the walls of her tingling vagina and plowing deliberately between them.
Her other hand had left her breast to frame the hairy mound, cupping the feverish hump in her palm to soothe its maddening itch. Her clit swelled and strained against it, trembling each time her cunt-probing finger dug deeper. Her entire body was awash with desire, passionate waves of sizzling hunger crashing across her loins and inundating her belly with lust and a craving for physical satisfaction.
She could refrain no longer. She was a woman, and her body needed release. If she didn't get it, she would go mad with frustration. She would become worthless-to herself and to her family. She would take the satisfaction which she craved without thought to her old standards of morality. Her fingers moved freely inside her now, no longer restrained by the shadow of guilt which had inhibited its meanderings. Joyously, feeling neither shame nor contrition she set about fulfilling the needs of her sensuous body and her healthy libido.
She pulled her knees back towards her chest, opening her cunt still wider and inserting two fingers between its lips. Rolling forward and back, she penetrated deeply with the tapering cudgel until, at last, she probed the very center of her being. Her pussy was hot and wet, its thick syrup juices bathing her hand and lubricating the movement of her fingers. She added a third now to the digital dildo, her cuntlips wrapping tightly around the triple-ridged ram as it plunged relentlessly between them.
She chanted softly, her whispered intonations audible to no ears but her own. "Ooooooooooooo ... oooowwwwww," she wailed. "Nnnnnnnmmmmmmmm. Nnnnnnnmmmmmmmm. Nnnnnnmmmmmmmm." It had always pleasured Domenico to hear the sounds of her excitement, and she had always allowed them to flow freely from her lips. Now, she found that they were arousing herself as well.
"Hhhhhmmmmmmmmnnnnnn," she chanted again, thrilling to the touch of her hands on her body. The fingers of her left hand toyed skillfully with her clit, rolling and coddling it lovingly, bringing her juices to a full rolling boil. Her hips moved in a grinding spiraling circle, pressing her buttocks against the mattress and then lifting them high into the air while her triple crossed fingers pistoned in and out of her dripping drooling slash.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwww," she mewled. Her hands were drenched with thick white creamy love juice which she smeared and buttered over the puffy tissues of her pouting cuntlips. And her entire pubic Vee gleamed with cuntal secretions. The sloshing sound made by her fingers as they fucked rhythmically in and out of her pussy excited her still further.
Her head rolled from side to side on the pillow below it, her rich black hair thrashing about as she moved. She was climbing high on a pinnacle of excitement, her consciousness filled with keening, shimmering pleasure at the self-stimulation of her body. She bucked and she rolled, her skin glowing in the heat of her passion. Her bounding breasts bobbled from one side of her chest to the other, their perky pink nipples stony-hard and swollen with arousal.
For the first time in more than two weeks, her mind was free, relieved of the burden of family leadership and the need for constant alertness. While her fingers explored the cavern of her snatch, her consciousness soared, like a gull on an updraft, spiraling heavenward toward the culmination of her arousal. Like a mighty ocean crashing at the rocks, a continuous wave of bubbling, grumbling, earth-quaking pleasure scoured her frustration, wearing it away and replacing it gradually with the warm healthy glow of contented stimulation.
She was pulling back the lips of her pussy with both hands now, invading its tunnel with two pairs of scissoring fingers. Its velvet-lined canyon loomed deep between her curvaceous thighs, filling the air with the pungently erotic fragrance of a woman in heat. Aware of her own sexuality, she inhaled deeply, flooding her nostrils with the aroma and moaning in her excitement.
"Aaaaaaaaaiiiiilyyyy," she intoned softly through clenched teeth. Her cunt was crawling over her fingers, licking and lapping at them like an overfriendly pup. Her womb seemed to be sucking them inward, drawing mightily with the power of a vacuum hose, and swallowing their length in its sweet cloying interior.
Carrying a wad of cuntjuice to her clit on the balled end of her finger, she began rubbing it once more, coating the vibrating nubbin thoroughly with cream before returning cuntward for another load. She continued smearing her clitoral shaft with lubricant, feeling the sensitive blossom twitch at each light-fingered contact.
Her head was filled with swirling visions of hill and sky, a hazy hallucinatory recollection of her homeland. She saw olive trees, and rolling hills. She saw shining blue water and sheer cliffs of stone. And she saw a little cabin on the outskirts of Don Cefalu's olive plantation in the hills outside of Palermo-the honeymoon cabin in which she gave her virginity to Domenico. The cabin in which he speared her with his strong and mighty penis, the thick rod of meat to which she had pledged her eternal loyalty.
Her fingers worked desperately inside her, churning her secretions to a thick and foamy froth. Like chassis-grease, it coated everything that touched it and eased the friction of her desperately hungry rhythm. Faster and faster, her fingers plunged her vaginal depths, bringing torrents of fluid from her cuntal well like a relentless Archimedes screw.
Striving for relief, she worked at her pussy, fucking it with her fingers and pummeling it with her thumbs. She was coming closer and closer every minute. Closer to the explosion that would release her from the prison of her frustration. She diddled desperately, seeking the climax for which her body longed.
She was groaning rhythmically, her voice droning steadily with a guttural sound that began in her throat and resonated in the cavern of her slightly open mouth. "Ooooooouuuuuhhhh," she wailed. "Mmmmmnnnnaaaaahhh. Wwwwwwuuuuuuuuoooooo. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh." Her passion was mounting. Building higher and higher. Lifting her, buoying her, carrying her up, up, up, over the barrier of worldliness and into the plane of energy-the domain of feeling-where not even emotion can interfere with sheer sensual experience.
"Yyyyiiiiiiii, yyyyiiiiiiiieeee, yyyyyyiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeyyyy," she howled, the sound of her passionate expression inciting further torrents of syrupy goo to flow from her cunt. She could feel it beginning, like a towering wall of tension which was beginning to topple, shatter, and crack, nourishing itself with fear of its own destruction. Then it began, a pulsing, alternating current, which rocked her physique and reverberated through her psyche.
Rivulets of gism ran unchecked from the cavern of her pussy as the bubbling blasts of orgasm possessed her body and liberated her soul. It was mounting-bigger and more ferocious-filling the field of her awareness with flashing lights and crackling balls of fire. Shafts of multihued illumination intersected across her mind's eye, sparkling hotly and blinding her with their brilliance. Her ears were filled with celestial music-the tinkling of delicate glass bells and the resounding boom of a huge golden gong.
Her body rolled and floundered like a pinned snake on the mattress as the powerful rollicking climax possessed and electrified her. Bolt after bolt of lightning-like static electricity coursed across her pelvis, making her pussy twitch and galvanizing her clit-button to tremoring vibration. Then, at last, she began the downslide, the fury of her orgasm spending itself slowly in the satisfaction of her desires.
She coasted languorously, riding a gentle slide to the level from which she had come. Her juices continued to flow, mild waves of euphoric stimulation washing compellingly over her buttocks and pubic hump as the intensity of her pleasure mellowed and she returned contentedly to earth.
As she drifted into a peaceful and relaxing sleep, her jumbled visions began sorting themselves out and her mind slipped comfortably into a state of total repose, approaching an absence of conscious thought. For a fleeting instant, however, she remembered Vito Matrone and had a long penetrating recollection of his dark hair and strong handsome features. She listened for a moment to the mental replay of his cultured, softly accented Italian voice assuring her of victory over the Valenti forces.
But then all went blank. And she slept.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wrapping a thickly absorbent turkish towel around his wiry, hard-muscled body, Vito Matrone settled comfortably into a sitting position on the long tile bench which lined one wall of the heavily misted steam room. It would be a big night for him and his men, and, as was their custom, they were preparing for battle by spending the day pampering their bodies into a state of total relaxation. Occupying a Cornelli family massage parlor, which at Vito's request had been closed for the day, they had already been idling around for hours, discussing their mission and clarifying their plans.
Although Vito had never been to Chicago before, he felt completely at home in the great, bustling metropolis, where privacy is not hard to find and even total anonymity is easily come by. He had fought in many American cities, as well as those of western Europe. For Vito Matrone was a "travelin' man"; an intercontinental trouble-shooter with a legendary reputation among the "outfit's" far-flung membership.
Having received his early training at the feet of his uncle, the well-respected Don Cefalu of Palermo, Sicily, he had struck out on his own at the age of twenty-five-just eleven years before. Taking six of his uncle's most talented young street-soldiers with him, he formed a group of his own-a group which had become known in syndicate circles as "Matrone's Mission Impossible."
Although not actually affiliated with any family, Matrone's organization continued to pledge allegiance to Cefalu. And, in fact, it was this pledge of loyalty that had brought him and his associates to Chicago. For when his uncle had learned, just a day after it happened, of the assassination of his American protege Domenico Cornelli, and of the ascension to power by Cornelli's widow, the aging don had rushed to offer his support. In doing so, he declared his unhesitating acceptance of the Sicilian brotherhood's first sister, of the Mafia's first "donna". But because politics and geography made it impractical for him to supply her with men or materials of his own, he had requested the intervention of his nephew and his notorious team of underworld commandos.
Matrone usually charged exorbitantly for his services, offering them only to dons of the international Sicilian brotherhood. He specialized in tricky situations, and more than one family leader owed his strength and position primarily to the efforts of "Matrone's Mission Impossible."
No job was too big or too complicated, if the price was right. Once, at the request of a South American don, he had actually engineered a revolution, deposing and assassinating a dictator who made the mistake of pledging to rid his country of organized crime. On another occasion, he had done battle with a veritable army of red Chinese espionage agents who were interested in a shipment of heroin which .was passing through a Hong Kong port before being delivered to the family which controlled northern Japan. After a bloody shootout, which resulted in fourteen Chinese deaths and one Matrone casualty, he succeeded in snatching victory-and the junk from communist hands. Placing the heroin in the hands of the Japanese don, he collected the second half of his two-million-dollar payoff.
But in this instance, he was happy to be working for free. For it gave him an opportunity to repay his uncle for some of the many favors which the old don had rendered. And it gave him a chance to get close to Donna Cornelli, one of the most fascinating women he had ever met. Aside from her beauty, which was exquisite, there was something strong and independent about her personality. A quality which he found especially attractive in a woman of her physical attributes. Maybe after tonight he would get to know her better. He could think of nothing that he would like more.
Matrone was a handsome man of thirty-six, with dark flashing eyes and hair so black that it appeared to have an indigo cast. He was just a shade over six feet tall, and had a firm muscular body. He usually spent an hour a day working out in a gym, and his figure showed it-with muscles that bulged and rippled at every movement of his arms or legs. He smiled easily, his full red lips framing twin rows of white, perfectly even teeth. But something in his dark flashing eyes proclaimed him to be something other than the pleasant-dispositioned, soft-spoken gentleman that he seemed. For, when the situation called for it, Vito Matrone could kill without batting an eyelash and without forgetting to flash his charming, TV-model, smile.
When he first met Rosa Cornelli, he was impressed by her beauty as well as by the boldness of her plan. He listened intently while she outlined her sketchy retaliatory scheme. Then, when she was finished, he nodded once, smiling broadly. "Consider it done," he told her. "Just leave all the details to me."
He would say nothing further about the operation, refusing to depart from his policy of total independence. He considered it the primary reason for his success, since information could never be leaked from the lips of those who knew nothing. Only his associates-who had been handpicked and could be trusted with his life-knew the details of his plan. But the donna believed in him and asked no unnecessary questions.
Breathing deeply to flush his lungs with steam, Matrone turned suddenly to one side to face a small but powerful man with dark oily skin and a thick black moustache. "Well, Luigi," he said. "Do you think we are ready?" Though he and his men were all fluent in several languages including English, Spanish, Italian, French, and German, he spoke in Sicilian dialect so that none of the semi-nude attendants who walked in and out of the steam room bearing fresh towels would understand what they were saying.
"We are ready," Luigi responded, his eyebrows raised dramatically. "But Valenti may be ready too. We'll be walking right into the lion's den."
Matrone grinned, shrugging his towel-covered shoulders casually. "Well," he said philosophically. "Nobody lives forever. You were not planning to live forever, were you, Luigi?"
The shorter man snorted, his moon-shaped face twisted in amusement. "Planning?" he echoed. "I plan nothing, my general. I leave all the planning to you." He saluted smartly, like an Army recruit in the presence of rank for the first time.
Vito laughed. "And don't you forget it," he said, cuffing Luigi affectionately on the back of the head. Actually, although he was the group's planner and therefore the one who directed its activities, Matrone did not consider himself the general. And neither did any of his men. For the seven syndicate commandos were equals-inseparable friends and lifelong companions. And this too contributed to their success. There was hardly a moment that any of them did not know what the others were thinking.
Rising to his feet, Matrone stretched lazily, his towel falling open to reveal the thick rope of his penis hanging straight down between his muscular thighs. "Well," he said. "I think my skin has had enough. It's time to take care of my balls." Winking at a passing attendant to signal that he was ready for a rub, he began strolling toward the steam room's exit. The girl was at his side in a flash. The pink bikini which she wore did little to cover the hills and valleys of her sexy young body.
"Yes, sir," she said. "I see you're ready for your message. Is there anyone special that you'd like to have?" She had been told to take special care of the seven VIPs; that her job as parlor manager would depend on their satisfaction. She simply assumed that they were wealthy businessmen visiting from Europe. She had entertained their kind before. Lousy tippers, as a rule. But what the hell. A job was a job.
"The blonde," he said. "The one with the big tits." He had been watching her all morning, and his cock had begun stiffening more than once at the sight of her.
"Yes, sir," said the attendant, smiling. "You must mean Greta. I'll have her join you right away. Just go into room four and make yourself comfortable."
Inside the little room, Matrone dropped his towel, stopping to admire his body in the full-length mirror which hung on the back of the door. The heat of the steam room had caused his usually olive skin to redden, and the coarse black hair which covered his body glistened with droplets of beady perspiration. A silver medal which he wore around his neck shone brilliantly against the dark furry background of his chest. It was a token of St. Cristopher and had been given to him by his uncle when he was just five years old. He had worn it ever since.
Looking critically at his face, he examined the place where his nose turned slightly to the left. It had been fractured so many times that the plastic surgeons gave up on it. The disfigurement troubled Vito at first, but he had grown to like it. As the one blemish on his otherwise perfect face, it only served to underscore his masculinity. He didn't mind it a bit anymore.
Walking to a massage-table which stood in the center of the tiny cubicle, he lifted himself onto it, stretching out naked on its padded surface. He lay on his belly, pillowing his face on his hands. A mirror mounted on the wall before him enabled him to see the rest of the room.
A moment later the door opened and a bosomy girl with long golden hair entered the room. She was dressed in skimpy, almost nonexistent, hot pants and a loose-fitting' see-through top. Her tits were the size of footballs, their ripe red nipples round and full. When she walked they bounced, rolling proudly from side to side. The puckering pink caps drew semicircular arcs in the air before them as they swung and swayed with each step she took. Matrone felt his penis stiffening to press achingly against the table beneath him.
"Hi," said the girl in a voice that was soft and musical. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, making Matron's heart pound excitedly. "I'm Greta. And I'm flattered that you asked for me."
"You're beautiful," he said, speaking to her mirrored reflections. "I haven't been able to take my eyes off you."
"Why, thank you," she answered, looking genuinely pleased by his compliment. She rested one hand idly on his right buttock, the fingertips curling toward the split of his ass-crack. When the muscle twitched beneath it, she squeezed gently, and asked, "What's your name?" She spoke in a whisper so low that he had to read her lips in the mirror in order to understand what she was saying.
"Vito," he answered, watching her intently. She placed her other hand on the back of his thigh, her breasts moving sensuously beneath the transparent blouse. "Why don't you take off your things," he suggested. "I'd like to see you better."
"I thought you'd never ask," she quipped, skinning her blouse off over her head and stepping swiftly out of her shorts. She stood a moment, completely naked, for his examination, while he stared into the mirror, devouring her with his eyes.
Her tits were full and round, with surfaces as smooth and white as whipped cream. Her hips were wide and gracefully contoured, flaring suddenly from a narrow tapering waist. Her pubic mound was richly prominent, furred thickly in spun gold. The fleshy lips which bisected it were pink and puffy, sparkling clean and gleaming with moisture.
His cock began to throb and his balls started to ache as she placed her hands on his buttocks once more. Moving them slowly, she stroked downward toward his ankles, her fingers fluttering like a butterfly's wings. Working her way up again, she increased the pressure gradually, until, when she reached the upper thighs, her fingers were pinching his well-toned flesh, rolling it sensuously as she petted and caressed him. It felt wonderful.
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh," he sighed, his eyes closing like a cat's as he surrendered to the mounting waves of pleasure which the intimacy of her touch was stirring within him. She was stroking his inner thighs now, drawing them further apart as she worked closer and closer to the place where they joined. His scrotum, a hairy bag of nuts, lay between them on the white sheeted surface of the padded table. She allowed her fluttering fingertips to graze it lightly as she moved up and down the length of his sinewy legs.
"Yyyyyyyeeeeeeaaaahhh," he sighed in response to the feather-light contact. But in a moment her hands were in motion again, roaming unfettered over the cheeks of his ass and delving gently between them to stroke lovingly at the crack of his shadowy anus.
He had a strong masculine body, and she enjoyed working on it. Too many of the parlor's customers were flabby men in their middle ages with pale lifeless skin and soggy toneless muscles. Just looking at them was a turn-off. But this one was a real fox-like something off a Hollywood set. His arms were thick and full, and his legs were like iron columns. His ass was sturdy and powerful with rippling muscles that jumped and twitched at her touch. She could really get into it with this one.
Vito was moaning unashamedly, like a lazy ocelot having its belly scratched. He had disconnected himself from the tension of battle, giving himself over, without reservation, to the sensuality of physical stimulation. His juices were churning, assorted sex-hormones coursing through his bloodstream and inciting his testicles to flurrying activity. He lifted his body slightly, using his knees as a fulcrum, so that she could reach under him to cup his scrotum and scratch gently at his penis.
It felt thick and massive in Greta's hand and she felt her pussy moistening with desire. "Why don't you turn over so I can see what you look like," she suggested. "I'll try to make it worth your while." Her fingers wrapped gently around the shank of his penis, offering a sensuous little jerk as collateral for her promise.
Matrone did as she asked, rolling onto his back to look directly at her for the first time since she entered the room. Her reflection in the mirror had been like a two-dimensional fantasy image which suddenly came to life before him. Now he could see the softness of her skin and the fineness of her burnished yellow hair. Licking his lips, he ran his eyes slowly over her body, his gaze sliding deliberately over the gracefully curving mountains of her bosom and dipping inquisitively into the shadowy cavern of her navel. When he looked at her pussy, it was as though he were caressing it with his glance.
Her downy yellow pubic hair formed a freeform triangle around the entrance to her sex, curling delicately in all directions and stroking the skin of her belly and upper thighs with its flourishing ends. Reaching for her, he pressed the back of one muscular hand against the cushiony softness of her mound, knuckling her cunt open and wallowing manually in its pungent fluids. He could smell her pussy, ripe and spicy, filling the air with its erotic fragrance.
Gripping her by the hips, he pulled her closer to him. But she drew back.
"Easy, Tiger," Greta murmured, placing her hands on his chest. "Let me ;do my stuff. I'm good at it." He let her go, settling back comfortably in hard-penised anticipation. After giving his cock a playful little squeeze, the girl began rubbing his chest.
She pressed hard at first, easing up suddenly, to bring his nipples to erection by her sudden change in technique. Then, taking them between her thumbs and forefingers, she rolled gently. He could see her own rosy tit-caps hardening erotically as she played with him. Reaching for one of them, he tweaked it softly before returning his hand to the table top.
"Mmmmmmmmmnnnn," Greta sighed. "You've got nice hands."
"So have you," he answered. Her fingers were trailing slowly over his abdomen, zig-zagging through the tangle of his body hair and toying with the meat at the base of his prick. His organ was throbbing painfully, and oozing drop of pearly goo squeezing slowly out of the slit at its swollen purple tip.
Bending forward so that the ripe pink nipples of her voluminous tits brushed lightly at his skin, Greta planted a single wet kiss on the head of his cock, lapping quickly at the shining droplet with a darting movement of her pointy tongue. The towering male member twitched, like a redwood in a tremor, and appeared to grow fully an inch in length. Faaaar out! she thought.
Wondering how much further it could go, she stood up again, this time wrapping her fingers around the hard-on's thick and throbbing shank. A pulsing blue vein which ran along its undersurface, beat and throbbed in violent heated response to the touch of her skillful fingers. When she stroked him, the underworld commando arched his back, lifting his ass clear off the tabletop and pressing his cock hard against her hand. She smiled. It was nice to see a real man enjoying her caresses. It kind of excited her.
She began rubbing and petting his cock, pulling the thick collar of flesh which ringed its shaft up over its head, and running the tips of her fingers lovingly along its silky underbelly. She held the blunt instrument in both her hands, turning them in opposite directions to bring his balls to a churning roiling peak of activity. His eyes were riveted to her breasts, focusing on the bright rosy tips which had puckered to stiff and turgid erection.
Unable to contain himself any longer, he reached for them, cupping his hands over their magnificent roundness. He stroked and caressed her titties with his fingers, tweaking and pinching at the nipples with steadily increasing force. They became richer and fuller as he titillated them, like two fruits maturing on the tree. Finally, when they reached a peak of delectable ripeness, he drew her towards him, using her massive boobs like a pair of handles to manipulate her body into position.
Her hands still working expertly to arouse and stimulate his cock, she allowed one breast to brush lightly across his face, the pointed pink nipple raking at his cheek. When it approached his mouth she lifted herself up slightly, making the rosy tidbit dangle just out of range for his hungrily puckering lips. Reaching for her with his tongue, he strained for a taste of the delicately formed morsel. But she pulled back, teasing him with her frustrating proximity.
She could feel his cock burgeoning still bigger in her hand, increasing in both length and girth as her hands toyed with its heft. Relenting, at last, she lowered her nipple into his eagerly waiting mouth, allowing him to lave at it with his tongue while she speeded the tempo of her penis jerking manipulations.
"Mmmmmmmmrrrrrrffff," he moaned, his cries muffled by the thickly cylindrical nubbin of sensuous meat which he held between his lips. Opening his mouth as wide as it would go, he sucked her flesh inside. Then, when the little pink pap, together with a creamy swatch of the white flesh which surrounded it, was held captive within the prison of his mouth, he bit gently, increasing the pressure until she moaned involuntarily.
"Ooooooooohhhhh," she intoned. "You're huuuuuurrrting me. But I liiiii-like it. Uuuuuuuuuuuhhhhh, feeeeeeeeelllls soooooooo goooooooood." She cupped his balls in her hand, juggling them skillfully between long-clawed fingers. Teasingly, she ran the sharply pointed tip of one fingernail down the back of the bloated sac, tickling the hairs which-rimmed his pulsatingly contracting asshole. She began squeezing his scrotum, applying force in proportion to the pressure of his bite on the sensitive membranes of her tit.
It was a subtle kind of sado-masochistic game that they were playing, neither pressing hard enough to cause any real pain. When Vito bit twice in rapid succession, Greta squeezed his balls three times. And when Greta moaned in feigned discomfort, the Sicilian howled in mock agony.
His hands went to her loins to begin diddling her hungrily, his fingers working their way between cuntlips to tickle softly at the delicate membranes which lined her vaginal interior. His middle finger extended, he worked it rhythmically in and out of her twat, spearing at her cervix and knuckling at her burgeoning clit. With a strangled moan of excitement, she pulled her breast from his mouth and fell upon his cock, her lips seeking its vibrantly pulsating tip and her tongue lapping boldly at its dewy coronal ridge.
"Aaaaaannnnnnggggg," grunted Matrone, surprised by her sudden oral caress. He fell back against the table top, lifting his buttocks into the air as he raised his cock to meet her lingering kiss. Her lips nibbled at him, tasting the fluids which oozed from his cum slit and caressing the satin skin which covered the shank of his massive pulsating rod.
Then, opening her mouth to form a wide sensuous "O" with soft pliant lips, she puffed a blast of moist warm air over the bulb which capped his mighty lance. Lowering her head slowly, she took it between her lips, holding it gently in place with her teeth while she licked thirstily at its slick and rubbery surface. It was a wonderful cock-a rich, fat, Sicilian sausage-filling her mouth with its rich and spicy pungency while it throbbed with promise of even more to come.
Matrone, holding her ass in one of his hands, lay passive, allowing her to dominate the encounter and abandoning himself to lustful stimulation by this hot-assed little cock-jockey. She was good, and she knew it. Every fluttering stroke of her fingers; every brushing caress of her lips; every laving lap of her tongue was the work of an expert. She was an artist, controlling his emotions as she measured his reactions. Her expertise made it nicer for him. It gave him less work to do, made it easier for him to relax.
It wouldn't be long now. He could feel the climax beginning to take form somewhere deep inside his gonads. His balls were tingling with excitement and his cock was thick and as hard as a rod of steel. Her mouth was working its way up and down his shank, moving lower with each swallowing nibble until she could feel his penis nudging at her tonsils. Then, with a skillful contraction of her muscles, she opened the first chamber of her larynx, taking the head of his organ deep inside her throat.
There, her esophagus sucked and railed at it, stimulating it with a series of spiraling peristaltic paroxysms. She milked at his cock like the teat of a Nubian goat, her tongue flapping arousingly against its silky surface and her lips pressed tight around its burgeoning circumference. Easing upward again, she swirled her tongue around inside of her mouth creating a bubbling hot jacuzzi of saliva which bathed and laved at his penis, making it tremble and quiver with desire.
As the thick load of cum that his balls had produced began flooding the tubes of his phallus, Matrone dug his fingers into the cheeks of her ass, hurting her with the strength of his vise-like grip. "Mmmmmmnnnggggg," he cried, his heels beating a rhythmic tattoo against the top of the table. He was thrashing and mewling like an animal in heat, uninhibited and unashamed about his display of raw bestial lust. This was a girl who would understand.
She sucked harder, turning her throat into a vacuum hose which pulled and dragged at his cock until it slid even further inside. Finally, when it was ensconced once again in the clutching constricting chamber of her throat, she waved her tongue against it like a pennant fluttering in the breeze.
She could taste the flavor of his seminal juices changing as the thick cargo of sperm worked its way closer and closer to the single outlet for his body's reproductive system. The pressure of his excitement was mounting within him, forcing the creamy fluid of his testes toward the tightly drawn escape valve at the tip of his cock. Soon it would jet powerfully from his body into her waiting sucking throat.
He humped and he rolled, throwing his penis up against her and then drawing it back again. Each time her tongue rolled across its moist round head, he howled-a wolf-like sound that filled the room and made her cunthair stand on end. This was it!
Raising her head so that only his hard-on's mushroom-shaped cap remained in her mouth, she sucked voraciously, laving the rubbery red surface with long flowing motions of her velvety tongue. Her hands were working assiduously at his scrotum, rolling his balls between them. She fingered the crack of his anus each time he arched his back to lift himself off the table. It was coming with the force of a tornado. Moving higher and higher within the tower of his penis. And then it was at the top, bursting and billowing forth like a gushering oil well, filling the cavern to her mouth to overflowing with its first searing blast and following it immediately with another, and another, and another.
Greta's cheeks bloated in an attempt to contain all of the seething white gism. But the vessel simply wasn't big enough, and she couldn't prevent a slimy rivulet of semen from oozing out a corner of her mouth and trickling obscenely over her chin. She swallowed desperately in a futile attempt to keep pace with the squirting shooting hose-like nozzle which pumped slug after slug of congealing joy-juice into her overflowing mouth. But it was a hopeless contest. More and more of the thick and viscous secretion was escaping from between her lips, covering the lower portion of her face with a sticky coating of glutinous goo.
Matrone's cock contracted, ejecting huge missiles of whirling bubbling semen, and then expanded as it sucked a fresh load up from the well of his testicles. His mind was filled with thoughts of breasts and pussies, of asses and bellybuttons. They came slowly together into a composite picture of his feminine ideal. For a moment, she filled his field of awareness, dominating his ejaculation. And then she faded, the vision of her body replaced by an image of a single womanly face. The face of Rosa Cornelli.
Oblivious to his fantasy, Greta continued to suck, her belly filling with sperm and her mouth emptying gradually as the force of his climax began to taper. A full two minutes after it began, his pleasure was spent and his well had run dry. Still holding him in her mouth, she licked his shriveling cock until it was sparklingly clean. Then, letting it slip from between her lips. She winked at him obscenely and swallowed elaborately. Licking her lips, she said, "I liked that. Should I come back in half an hour or so?"
"No," he answered, opening his eyes at last. "I liked it, too. But I have to be going. Big night ahead of me." He watched silently as she got back into her clothes, his cock still not completely flaccid. Under other circumstances, he might have stuck around for a while, to see how she checked out on other sexual skills. But not today. She had served her purpose, and now it was time for business. In just four hours, he and the boys would be stepping off a plane in Nevada, loaded for bear and ready for action.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Don Benito Valenti stroked and pulled at his own steely erection while he watched the naked teenaged couple cavort uninhibitedly on the bed before him. They had no idea of whom they were entertaining, of course. They had been told only that he as a honcho-a bigwig with enough influence to get them the dancing gig that they wanted so badly. And that if they pleased him enough, the job was a shoe-in. Genuinely enthusiastic, they worked furiously at each other's bodies, stimulating themselves and their solitary observer to feverish excitement.
Valenti did not usually have anything to do with the hiring of theatrical talent for his chain of Las Vegas hotels and gambling casinos. He considered it too menial a task to warrant his personal attention-one which was better left to professionals, specialists in their field. But in this case, he made an exception.
He had been tense lately, weary from the strain of battle, and much in need of recreation. So when the family booking agent came to him, telling him about the young dance team and reporting that they were available for private entertainment, he decided to audition them in person. It might be just what he needed to relax his body and return him to the peak of efficiency. Now, looking at them, he was glad he did.
The youngsters were close in age-in their middle teens he would imagine-and they claimed to be brother and sister. There was a good deal of similarity in their appearances, and it might even be true. They were both tall for their age, and of medium build. The boy's body was hairless, except for a sparse silky tuft at his loins. And his skin was still colored by the blush of blossoming youth.
But his sister's physique had developed more precociously than his. She was already graced with a womanly pair of full and ample breasts which jutted proudly from the front of her chest, forming twin mounds of fleshy desire. Their nipples were the color of ripe strawberries, turgid with desire and erect with mounting excitement. The hair around her pubis was dense and thicker than her brother's, but, like his, a light sandy brown in color.
Carl and Carla, as the teenagers were billed, had been in show business for years. They had practically learned to dance before they even had learned to walk, participating in their parents' nightclub act as soon as they were toilet-trained. They had been supporting themselves ever since the accident which caused their parents' death two years ago.
But getting work wasn't always easy. So they had to take what they could find. And this wasn't the first time that they had gotten paid for a private-and unadvertised-performance. This one has a bonus, however. For he had the power to get them a lucrative, legitimate dance-gig. And, although they were doing what they enjoyed the most, the thought of all those bucks made them doubly enthusiastic. So they worked doubly hard at pleasing their audience of one, hoping that a word from him-whoever he was-would help them to land the contract.
Carl's hands fairly flew over his sister's body, tweaking her breasts and rubbing her belly. His cock was so stiff that it ached him, but he put his discomfort out of his mind. He had to make this last, at least until the customer had gotten his satisfaction. And although he was young and nearing the peak of sexual capacity, there was never any telling when his still-maturing cock would let him down. So he concentrated on his sister-on bringing her to orgasm as quickly as possible. For he knew that once she started coming there was no stopping her and that hardly a man lived who did not react climactically at the sight of so young and tender a girl orgasming repeatedly with mounting intensity.
Valenti's breath was coming in long wheezing pants as his fingers toyed with the skin of his penis. He was excited, all right-excited enough to stick his cock into the little girl's box and bring it to an end right here and now. But he was in no hurry. He was enjoying the show, and suspected that it would get better if he was patient and gave it plenty of time. After all, at his age, once in a night was the most any man had a right to expect. So he fought to control his breathing, easing the pressure of his hand on his sex. The tingling in his groin did not let up, but the throbbing urgency that had flooded his scrotum, bloating its sack with heated sperm, began to subside. Breathing deeply, he allowed his head to roll back against the chair, resting it comfortably on the cushion.
The don's hair was white and his face attractively wrinkled. He wore his age with grace, accepting the passing of the years with a philosophical resign, and thus turning them to his advantage. His looks-called handsome in his younger days-had become distinguished. His voice-once gruff and unnerving-had mellowed like wine, becoming smooth and easy to take. He watched his diet carefully-when no one was watching him-and worked hard at retaining the slim, hard-bellied profile which looked so good in his conservative, hand-tailored suits. Right at that moment, his cock was as stiff and as strong as the organ of a man thirty years his junior.
He began stroking it again, aroused by the sounds which were rippling from the big-breasted teenager's throat. "Nnnnnnnnnnggggggggg," she gurgled, her breasts bobbing about in her brother's talented hands. He poked and tweaked at one of her nipples, twirling its rubbery erectness between thumb and forefinger. With his other hand, he cupped her breast, squeezing it until streaks of crimson distorted its surface.
"Ooooooowwwww," she moaned, obviously delighted by the less-than-gentle caress. She liked it when Carl got rough with her, especially when somebody was watching. From the corner of her eye she could see Valenti-breathing hard again, and pounding his cock rhythmically with a gnarled and hairy hand. Tangling her fingers in her brother's hair, she pulled him hard against her, bruising the surface of her tit with his chin and scraping her nipple against his teeth.
"Oooooohhhhh," she moaned again. Reaching for his cock, she cupped it tenderly, rolling its hydrant-shaped head between tenderly cradling fingers. It was beginning to moisten, and she dabbed carefully at its glistening tip with a delicate fingertip. Using it to gather prostate lubricant, like nectar from a flower, she carried it to her lips, smearing it on like Chapstick and rolling her eyes in excitement as she did so. She could see that her antics were having a powerful effect on Valenti by the way he gasped, increasing the tempo of his masturbation.
Then, her sweet young face distorted into a mask of maniacal lust, she licked her lips, savoring the taste and aroma of her brother's pun gent cockjuice. "Mmmmmhhh," she groaned. "Tastes good." The young boy's cock was purple with desire, another drop of pre-gism forming where the last had been removed. Taking Carl's hand in her own, she guided it to her pussy.
He began petting her snatch, first with his fingers and then with the palm of his hand. The delicate pink lips started flowering open to reveal the beefy redness which lay behind them. Staring, Valenti sighed. Looking at her vulva was like looking at a rosebud. It was diminutive and tightly puckered, half of its beauty lying in the promise of what its maturity would bring. It made Valenti think, for a moment, of the half century which separated them.
But then, as the puffy little flanges curled open, pulling back to form a wide and inviting oval which beckoned and called to him, he forgot the years, absorbed completely in the erotic spectacle unfolding before him. The lad was diddling her, his fingers moving rapidly in and out of her pussy, while his other hand continued playing about the curving prominences of her boobs.
From where he sat, Valenti could see her clitoris hardening. Slowly, the tiny bud of teenaged desire poked its head downward, into her cuntal slit, demanding attention from Carl's marauding fingers. "Sssssshhhhhwwwwuuuuuu," she hissed, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth. Her brother's fingers were slithering into her pussy and titillating her clit all at the same time. The pleasure which resulted was almost more than she could bear.
She leaned back, lying full-length on the bed, and spread her thighs so that her gaping pussy faced the old john in the chair. She could see him stiffen, his muscles tensing as his cock pounded achingly. But still he remained glued to his seat, enjoying the tableaux too much to become involved as yet.
Lifting her legs, she pointed her feet at the ceiling, her splayed thighs forming a giant "V" looming above the surface of the mattress. When her brother had finished smearing the juices of her pussy over every corner of her glistening cuntal slit, he knelt before it, his back to Valenti. Leaning forward at the waist, he planted a loud and juicy kiss on the hair-fringed slit which bisected the obscene angle's apex.
He began licking her, wetting her clitoral hood thoroughly before working his way downward to lap and lave at her puckering cuntal slash. When it shimmered and glistened with saliva, he dropped his head still further, driving his tongue between her smooth-skinned buttocks to stab excitingly at the puckered brown hole of her anus with the tip of his twisting curling tongue.
"Aaaaannnggg," she groaned, humping down against his ass-probing tongue. Reaching for her ass with both her hands, she gripped the moons of her buttocks, prying them apart to allow his tongue deeper entry. The backs of her upraised thighs faced Valenti, enthralling him with their satiny smoothness. But he could only imagine what was going on between them, for the boy's body blocked his view.
His cock was throbbing painfully, and he knew that he just had to see more. Rising slowly from his chair, he approached the bed, his firm naked body appearing almost youthful in the dim light of the heavily curtained room. Finally, his knees touching the edge of the mattress, he bent over the writhing pair of teenaged siblings, his hand still gliding up and down the length of his cock.
He could see everything now ... Carl's pistoning tongue driving in and out of his sister's hairless asshole while her cunt pumped oozing rivulets of syrup over the gleaming contour of her buttocks. Bending her knees, Carla placed the soles of her feet on her brother's shoulders, using him as a pedestal onto which she could lever the weight of her body. She raised her anus high into the air, giving his tongue more convenient access, and rolling her hips from side to side to screw him still deeper inside her.
With one of her hands she rubbed and petted her clitoris, sobbing with delight each time her fingers grabbed its quivering head. With the other, she clutched at Carl's brown hair, pulling him more tightly against her. "Your cock," she sobbed at last. "I want your cock. Put it in me. Please put it in my ass. Oooooohhh, yyyyeeeeessss. Put it in my aaaaaaaaaaasssss."
Her eyes were tightly shut and she seemed oblivious to Valenti's presence. There was room in her brain for only one subject now-her body and its mounting billowing needs. "My ass," she whimpered again, her voice hardly audible to the masturbating silver-haired don. "Please put it in my ass."
As though he had just heard her, Carl straightened suddenly, pulling his tongue from her anus and evoking a sigh of disappointment from her lips. Still kneeling, he stroked his adolescent prick, pointing its blunted tip at the glistening plane of his big-bosomed sister's sex. The spectator was ready, all right. There couldn't be any question about it now. The only question was, which one of them would he want? Carl and his sister had long ago stopped being surprised at the great number of johns who preferred his ass to her tight teenaged cunt. So they had devised a method of giving them their choice.
While the boy pulled his cock, his sister rolled over, rising swiftly to her hands and knees. Valenti gasped at the sight of her richly moistened asshole. Its lips were parted in preparation for her brother's penetration. From where the old don stood, it looked just like a cunt-a tiny pubescent pussy. He watched her brother approach it. Placing the head of his cock between her softly rounded cheeks, Carl bathed in the moisture which coated her orifice. Then, inching forward a little bit at a time, he pressed the tapering tip against the puckered ring of muscle which guarded her anal opening.
It resisted him for a moment, objecting elastically to his attempted intrusion. But the protest was only a token, for within seconds it was flowering open for him, accepting his onslaught without complaint. His penis had been there before. Many times. They had started experimenting with each other's bodies years ago, when she was eight and he was only seven. And they had gotten better at it as time went on.
When her asshole had swallowed the entire bulk of his pulsating cockhead, the youth pressed forward, driving half its length into her rubbery anal canal. "Aaaaaaiiiilyyyyy," she wailed, her rectal membranes stretching painfully to accommodate the penile invasion. She humped back at him, her asshole swallowing his rod until the sparse brown hair which ringed its base tickled erotically at the smooth-skinned cheeks of her magnificent maturing ass.
This time Carl grunted, the tightness of her nether passage torturing the sensitive skin of his penis. "Unh!" he growled, rolling his hips to ease the friction of his penetration. She rolled against him, however, punishing him again with the tightly contracting muscles of her pulsating rectum. Meeting her with his thrust, he hit rock bottom, his cockhair flattening wetly against the rearmost curve of her equestrian body.
His prick buried to its veiny hilt in the cavern of her anus. Carl began moving, rocking his body forward and back like a bull who has mounted a heifer. Her tight anal sphincter pulled and dragged at the tissues of his cock, bringing his testicles to shimmering alertness as the hairy little bag which contained them swung wetly forward against the wide-open slash of her back turned pussy. They were presenting the big-shot with alternative number one. If he accepted it, lucky Carl would be right smack in the middle, his asshole skewered by the honcho's cock while his own penis drove obscenely in the tight little ass of his sweet darling sister.
He rolled and he humped, fucking her asshole with unfeigned enthusiasm, and enjoying every minute of it. If the john wasn't interested in buggery, they would move directly into phase two.
"Oh, I love it," wailed Carla, her body moving so violently that her breasts flew through the air, their nipples describing an erotic pair of streaming arcs. "Give me more. Give me more. Give me mooooooore." When she saw that Valenti was making no move to mount her brother, she knew what had to be done.
"Ooooooohhhhh," she moaned plaintively. "One isn't enough. I need another cock. Please. Give me more. Give me another cock. I need it in my cunt." Bending her elbows and rocking forward on her knees, she lowered her body until she lay face-down on the mattress. Carl, his penis still buried deep inside her nether opening, lay flat on top of her, his hands reaching around her to cup her massive titties.
Then, with a mutual effort developed only after many hours of practice, they rolled over, Carl's cock never leaving the security of his sister's asshole. He lay on his back, now, Carla atop him. His member was buried right to the base in the tightness of her rubbery ass-passage, and his hands clutched tightly at her bosom, his fingers rolling and tweaking the rosy paps which capped it.
Only her pussy was unattended, and she spread her legs wide to demonstrate that fact to the heavy-breathing spectator. His penis was violent with desire and it looked as though he would explode into self-induced orgasm at any minute. Still holding his scepter in his hand, he stared like a zombie at the erotic picture unfolding between her thighs.
Her cunt was wide-open, its meat-colored interior winking lewdly at him. Just below it, he could see her asshole stretching tightly around the wiry girth of her younger brother's developing manhood. The sight was almost more than he could stand. He had to have some of it. And he had to have it now.
Looking into his lust-misted eyes, Carla knew that he was ready. Now was the time for the final invitation. Framing her cunt with the splayed fingers of both her hands, she began to sob un controllably. "Oooohhhh, aaaahhh, uuuuuuhhh," she chanted. "Fuck my cunt, mister. Please fuck my cunt. Don't make me wait any longer. Fuck me now."
She rolled her head from side to side as she murmured her obscene supplication. The gray-haired old man was coming closer now, his penis throbbing visibly as he groped his way onto the bed. Crawling carefully between the upturned feet of her brother, he moved toward her, his body threading its way betwen the two pairs of legs that thrashed before him.
Her pussy was soaking wet now, droplets of ooze drooling out from between the lips and rolling across her thighs to lubricate the movement of her brother's fleshy muscle in her brown eyed nether orifice. Valenti edged closer, the tip of his trembling prick grazing lightly across her puffy vaginal lips. When the contact was made, she knew she had him. There would be no moving back now.
Her vulva reached out to him, sucking him inward like the trunk of an elephant toying with a peanut. Before he knew it, the don was inside her, her slimy cuntal membranes lapping deliciously at his pulsating hard-on, treating it to a thrill which it had been missing for more years than he liked to think about. Her snatch was tight. Tighter than the cunt of any mature woman he had ever known. And pulling it even more snugly around him was the penis of her brother, jammed so tightly into her asshole that it considerably decreased the size of her cuntal gash.
The fit was exquisitely constricting, causing the rubbery lips to pull shut around him the moment that his cockhead was safely inside. It felt warm and wet and wonderful, and the aging Las Vegas don found himself wanting the troilistic encounter to go on forever. It excited him more than anything had in ages. It was lasciviously bizarre, with each aspect of its perverted framework adding to the pleasure.
The fact that the girl was so young-not yet grown to the peak of her maturity. And the fact that the boy he shared her with was her brother. The fact that her body was torn between two males, skewered doubly on a pair of staffs that delved deep inside the dual openings in her loins. And the fact that she herself was aroused beyond the bounds of description. All these combined to heighten his excitement, impelling him to drive another three inches of hotly pulsating cock into the hot wet hole that opened slowly before him.
He could feel her brother's cock moving against his own, separated only by the paper-thin membrane which divided her anus from her vulva. And he could feel her legs wrapping languorously around his ass, pinning him to her as she rolled her ass back against her brother's pubic ridge. With a strangled groan of delight, he threw himself forward, burying his cock to the hilt inside her with a single punishing stroke. Her body began rotating at once, dividing its attention equally between the two pricks which ripped through her pelvis.
The man and the boy timed their thrusts to coincide, each' pummeling forward at the same time, and then pulling slowly outward together. At the end of each double-instroke, the big-titted teenager grunted, her sexual openings filled to bursting and her tubes stuffed to capacity. Her cervix throbbed as Valenti's cockhead rammed against it, causing her anal sphincter-muscle to draw tightly around her brother's tunneling shank. It wouldn't be much longer now. Not for any of them.
She could feel her orgasm building, lifting and carrying her to a craggy cliff of sensuous delight. And she knew that when it started there would be no holding back. She would cum and she would cum, pouring her juices over the two men's cocks and wetting the bedsheet with their combining fluids. The bubbling beginning was just inches away.
"Oooooouuuhhhhhh, fuuuuuck me," she howled. "Do it to me good. I'm going to cum any minute." Her words inspired her brother, impelling him to rock harder, jabbing at her hind-hole with his sperm-bloated young penis. And the rollicking motion of her hips got to Valenti as well. His stiff cock thickened as its tubing filled with gism. And his balls began to churn as his climax crept gradually up on him. Like a tub that was filling with water, his excitement mounted slowly, by immeasurable degrees. And then, all of a sudden, it burst forth, long billowing torrents of stringy goo bubbling from the end of his prick to inundate her pulsating hole.
She bucked and she rolled beneath him, her own orgasm beginning with a wave of mind bending release that flooded her being with warmth and brought the membranes of her cunt to searing degrees of shimmering heat. Carl's adolescent penis began spurting inside her ass at about the same time, thickening before each blast of whirling super-heated gism shot potently from its tip to wet the walls of her pulsating rectum.
She writhed and she twisted, riding wave after wave of orgasmic fulfillment as her body accepted the dual flood of semen. Her loins took as much of it as they could contain before allowing it to trickle out from between the lips of her cunt and anus. Above her, Valenti bucked and rolled like a man in his prime, his thick cock spurting wad after wad of creamy white joyjuice into the free-flowing cavern of her nookie.
Even after his passion was spent, he continued to roll atop her, inspired by the groans of unabashed passion that issued continuously from her lips and throat. Carl's cock had finished spurting, but remained youthfully hard within her as he continued skewering her asshole with it. The expression on the pretty teenager's young face told the don that she was ready to go on forever, if they would only let her.
But Valenti's age was showing, and within minutes he found his penis hopelessly shriveled and his scrotum run dry. At last his cock slipped helplessly from between her pussy's lips, a long white string of sticky gooey gism connecting them for a moment. Exhausted, he fell to his back beside her, too tired even to pay attention to the performance that she and her brother were continuing to present.
When the phone started ringing, he almost didn't answer it, his body aching with unaccustomed fatigue. But realizing that the switchboard would not have disturbed him unless it was important, he reached reluctantly for the receiver. Pressing it to his ear, he croaked, "Yeah?" His throat was parched and his voice gruff and hoarse.
"My don," said a breathless voice, "I have to see you at once." It was Manello, one of his most trusted capo regimes. He knew that something urgent had come up. Otherwise the lieutenant would not have dared interrupt him at his pleasure.
"In my office," he answered, snapping instantly alert. "In forty-five seconds." Hanging up the phone, he jumped out of the bed and hurried into his clothes. "Wait for me here," he told the teenaged couple. "Something has come up. But I'll do my best to get right back to you. Meantime, don't go away." He felt as though there was another shot left inside him, and he hoped that he could dispense with Manello's business quickly so that he could get back to it.
When he got to his office, located two floors below the pleasure-suite, Manello was already waiting. His lips were white with tension, and his expression was grim. Reaching for his leader's hand, he pressed it to his lips, in the traditional gesture of friendship and respect. Don Valenti realized that the unsolicited pledge of loyalty and allegiance was being offered in connection with the news that the capo was about to deliver. And he steeled himself for the blow. For he knew that it would have to be serious to elicit such conduct from the battle-hardened Manello.
"All right," he said, dropping into his chair and preparing himself for the shock. "Give it to me straight. Has someone been hit?"
"Worse," Manello answered. "Our casinos have been bombed. It happened just a few minutes ago. First stink bombs to clear the crowds. And then, when only the employees remained inside, the explosions. Most of the tables and machines have been destroyed. And the cash losses are impossible to estimate."
Valenti sighed. Manello's attitude had worried him at first. And he had prepared himself for a shock. But a couple of casinos? Hell! It didn't amount to a row of beans. Smiling to assure his lieutenant that everything would soon be all right again, he asked. "Which ones?" He was calmer now, having returned a casual tone to his voice by a deliberate act of will. It was always better to greet his underlings with aplomb. It gave them greater confidence in the strength of their organization.
But nothing could have prepared the graying don for the news which he was about to receive. "All of them," Manello responded. "All but Cleopatra's Retreat. That must be why you didn't hear the blasts yourself."
"What?" Don Valenti shouted, his face turning white and his hands beginning to shake. "That's impossible. We have thirty major holdings in the downtown area alone. You can't be trying to tell me that she got them all. It can't be. She just isn't strong enough."
"It's true, my don," said the capo, his eyes downcast and his voice dripping with defeat. "I don't know how she pulled it off, but it went like clockwork. One after another, with only seconds between them. At least three dozen of our best dealers and stickmen have been killed. And we haven't finished counting the wounded. The cashiers' booths were demolished, and the gaming rooms completely wiped out. There's nothing left. Nothing. It'll take months to rebuild what we lost. And all the energy we've got. It looks like she's won."
"Bullshit!" shrieked the don, his voice shrill and almost hysterical. "I won't let her get away with this. We've got to strike back. Our honor and our good name depend on it." Manello shook his head, certain that his leader was not completely rational. "Where's my consigliore?" demanded the don. "Why didn't he bring me the news. I'm going to be needing him tonight. There are calls to be made; plans to be discussed." But even as he spoke, he could see by the look in Manello's eyes that the worst news had been saved for last.
"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, my don," the capo answered at last. "But Costello is dead. He was trying to find the stink bomb that emptied the Silver Saddle when the explosion hit. They're still looking for the pieces."
"No," Don Valenti whispered, unable to believe his ears. Costello had been more than a consigliore. He had been the closest thing to a friend that the old don ever had. And his loss would cripple the organization even more than the loss of cash and equipment. He just sat, staring blank-eyed at Manello and not even trying to collect his thoughts.
"Is there anything I can get you?" the mobster asked solicitously.
"Yes," answered the don. He felt old and tired. "An aspirin. Please bring me an aspirin."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rosa Cornelli smiled as she refilled Mancinelli's glass and handed it to him. They had been sitting on the couch in her living room making small talk for the past fifteen minutes, and she found the situation rather amusing. The New York gang leader had called her a couple of days ago-just before the Las Vegas bombing-to inquire about her health and her family's well being. He was planning a little trip to Chicago, he said, and he'd be honored if she would allow him to call upon her to pay his respects.
He sounded sincere enough, but Rosa wasn't fooled for a moment. She had known for some time about the Las Vegas meeting in which the northeastern dons pledged their non-interference in return for Valenti's promise of a piece of Chicago. And although her sources were unable to furnish the names of all who had been present, Mancinelli's was one of which they had been sure.
Since he had called her prior to the bombing, she could only speculate as to what his original intentions might have been. But now that he saw Valenti's empire beginning to crumble, it was obvious that he was considering a change in affiliations ; a switch to the winning side. He was all oil and unction-a saccharine smile on his lips and a falsely solicitous tone in his voice. But he was charming.
The roses which he handed her when he entered the house had been a nice touch-the first attempt by anyone, since the death of her husband, to treat the donna like a lady. Oh, he was smooth, all right. And lesser women than Rosa Cornelli might easily have been deceived by him. But she could not be led off the track so easily. She was too determined; too dedicated to achieving her goal. For she had set out to avenge the death of her husband, and nothing less than total retaliation would satisfy her. No matter what it took, and no matter what she had to do! The bombing was only the beginning. The best was yet to come. And Diamond Jim's intentions were of no importance. She had plans for him. Big plans.
Mancinelli looked at her over the rim of his glass as he sipped his drink. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her face was a Da Vinci masterpiece, and her body a Hugh Hefner playmate foldout. Although she was a few years older than he, her age made her even more attractive. For the womanly softness of her figure, and the sensuously rounded curves of her breasts were attributes not commonly found in younger girls. She was magnificent. Simply magnificent. Aware that she was watching him, he allowed his eyes to travel slowly up the length of her body, silently appraising and openly admiring her.
Rosa was pleased. He was already beginning to nibble at the lure, his eyes attracted to her physical beauty. Soon he would be squirming on the hook, a nice fat fish gasping for breath and ready to be gutted.
"I hope you'll excuse me," he said. "But this I must tell you. You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen."
Looks like he's going to be direct, she thought. Nothing to do but take the bull by the horns. Looking demurely at the floor, she smiled and said, "Jimmy, you mustn't. A woman who has been alone as long as I have is easy prey to such compliments. Even if she knows that they aren't true."
Mancinelli grinned. This was going to be even easier than he thought. She was practically panting already. Why, he'd have her in bed before she even knew what hit her. "Not true?" he echoed. "I'd sooner cut off my arm than lie to a beautiful woman. I swear it!" He placed his diamond studded hand over his heart as he had seen the older "moustache Petes" do when they wanted to embellish their sincerity. "You are the most beautiful woman in Chicago; in the United States; perhaps in all of North America. May I be struck by lightening if it isn't true."
He closed his eyes and winced as though expecting disaster to strike. Then, exhaling in relief, he said, "You see? No lightening. Every word was true."
Rosa laughed, genuinely amused by his antics. Seducing him wasn't going to be as unpleasant as she had expected. He was rather droll, in an egotistical sort of way. It might even be interesting.
"Now that I've convinced you," he said. "How about another drink." He held out his empty glass and unbuttoned his collar.
"Oh, I'll pour you one," Rosa said. "But I don't think I'd better have one. I never was much of a drinker. And I'm already beginning to feel all warm and tingly inside."
"Why don't you sit down then," Mancinelli said, rising from the couch and offering her his seat with a flourish of his arm. "I'll pour the drink and I'll bring it to you."
He walked to the bar, carrying both glasses in one hand. After dropping an ice cube into each of them, he filled them both nearly to the brim with whiskey. Then to Rosa's he added a splash of water. That ought to do it, he thought. Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. Handing Rosa the glass, he sat down beside her on the couch, their hips practically touching.
"To success," he said, raising his drink and extending it toward her. She touched hers to it and took a quick sip.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "isn't this drink a little strong?"
"No," he answered. "I made it mostly water. Here, taste mine. You'll see what I mean."
Sipping at his glass, she made a face. "Oh, yes," she said. "Mine is much weaker than yours." Tilting her head back, she drained her glass. Then putting it on the table beside her, she said, "Ooooooohhhh, I feel kind of strange. A little dizzy."
"Really?" he said. "Would you like a glass of water?"
"No," she said nervously. "Don't get up. Let me just rest my head on your shoulder." Slurring her words to make it sound as though she was drunk, she leaned against the New York don, allowing her head to droop limply against him. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, letting his hand dangle idly in front of her, just a few inches from the swell of her breast.
"Here," he said. "Why don't you relax?" He shifted position so that her head would be pillowed more comfortably on his shoulder. And as he did so, her body moved forward, her breast grazing the tips of his fingers. He made no attempt to move his hand, allowing it to rest casually on the softness of her bosom. After a moment, he shifted position again.
Rosa, allowing her body to remain limp and pliable, fell forward, deliberately filling the hollowed cup of his hand with the rounded fullness of her tit. She could sense a quickening of his pulse-beat. And she felt her own nipples stiffening. It surprised her, for she had never viewed her seduction of Mancinelli as anything but a tactical maneuver, a minor skirmish in a great and noble war. The fact that she was becoming aroused by his touch upset her at first. Made her feel a little guilty. As though she was being disloyal to the memory of her husband. But she conquered her guilt by remembering her purpose ... to avenge Domenico's death-to redeem his family's honor. It justified anything. Anything at all. She was sure that he would have felt the same way.
In spite of the fact that her blouse and bra separated them, Mancinelli could feel her nipple hardening against the palm of his hand. He liked that. It was a good sign. A sign that everything was going to go his way. But he had to take it slow; careful not to do anything to jolt or jar her out of the passive complacent mood that the liquor had induced. Leaning slightly toward her, he brushed at her hair and forehead with his lips, keeping the contact feather-light.
"Your perfume," he murmured. "It's almost hypnotic. I feel my reason slipping away."
"Hhhhmmmmm," Rosa sighed, relaxing against him and moving her erect nipple against his sweating hand. Tipping her head back, she parted her lips and licked them with the point of her moist pink tongue. Then she moved toward him.
Realizing that there was no longer a reason to wait, the New Yorker met her lips with his own, pressing them against her in a long, lingering, passionate kiss.
She was pliant, at first, permitting the kiss but not participating in it. Then, gradually, as though her resistance was slowly melting away, she began to return the pressure of his lips, gluing her mouth to his at last, and writhing excitedly against his body. His hand kneaded gently at her tit as her tongue stole between his lips and began to explore his teeth and gums.
Moaning in pleasure, the New York don met her lingual thrust, their tongues fencing in a lascivious duel which led them from his mouth to hers, and then back again. He moved both hands over her bosom, cradling one breast at a time and stroking their nipples with tender expertise. They had hardened to diamond-like pinpoints of desire, the touch of them making his cock throb with lust. It was as thick as a tree limb and as stiff as a pipe, its blunted head rubbing painfully against the material of his trousers. Clutching at the rubbery nipples through two layers of fabric, he rolled them sensually between thumbs and forefingers.
"Aaaaahhh," the donna sighed. Turning her head to brush at his ear with her lips, she whispered, "Be gentle with me Jimmy. It's been so long. Soooooo loooooong."
Her words kindled a fire in his scrotum, bringing the juices of his passion to a simmering boil. His penis twitched and bucked with desire, a large moist circle spreading over the tented material at the crotch of his pants.
Holding one breast in each hand, he pressed them gently together, toying with their magnificent softness and their mountainous bulk. They were firm and resilient, easy to mold with the pressure of his fingers, but quick to resume their full elongated shape when he held them more lightly. Concentration was becoming difficult for him-lust dominating his rational thoughts.
"Oh, Rosa," he whispered passionately. "I want you so much."
"Yes," she murmured. "I want you too, Jimmy. Take me. Make me feel good.
Having her full consent now, he began kissing her again. At the same time, he lowered one hand until it was moving lightly across the curving slope of her abdomen and playing about the topmost boundary of her hairy pubic triangle. Lifting it slowly upward again, he slipped his fingers under her blouse, allowing them to trail hungrily over her smooth and naked skin.
"Hhhhhmmmmmmmnnnnnn," she sighed. Returning the pressure of his lips, she let her hand drop casually to his thigh. Mancinelli's cock jumped at the contact. He was more excited than he could remember being in a long time. She was a tigress! A real tigress! And in just a few minutes she would be his.
When his hand encountered the crisp material of her tight white brassiere, his fingers stopped their progress. Poised on the brink of her soft and unprotected bosom, they fluttered this way and that, arousing her with their teasing motion. Then, carefully, he slipped a finger under the garment, nudging at the softly curving bottom of her ripe melon-like boobs.
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhh," Rosa moaned. There was no longer any need for her to fake it. It felt good-much better than she thought it would. Her nipples were puckering hard against the taut cotton bra-cup, and she longed to be freed of its confinement. "Undress me, Jimmy," she implored. "I want you to see me. All of me."
The don gasped, involuntarily, at her brazen request. He had been certain all along, that he would succeed in seducing her. But he never believed that it would be this simple. Reaching behind her, he began to unbutton her blouse, his fingers working deliberately and without hurry. He continued stroking her bosom lightly, with his other hand, petting her softness through the fabric of her brassiere. When he finished unbuttoning her blouse, he started work on her bra clasp, tugging and twisting at it until it came undone.
The weight of her mammoth titties lifted the garment away from the front of her body, freeing themselves of its merciless restraint. His hand was cupping her nudity now, feeling the sensuous warmth of her flesh against his skin and rolling the rubbery hardness of her nipples between his fingers. He moved quickly from one tit to the other-rubbing, petting, and stroking them until her body crackled with fire. The groans and the gurgles which rippled from her lips were completely genuine now ... expressions of the passion which his kisses and his touch were inciting within her.
"Ooooooohhhhhh," she sobbed. "I need it so much." She moved her arms for him, allowing him to slip the clothing from her shoulders and toss it to the floor. Lifting herself above the cushion, she helped him to unzip the back of her skirt, breathing heavily as he worked it down around her hips. Hooking his fingers under the elastic waistband of her panties, he pulled them from her with the skirt, tugging them off over her ankles to leave her totally naked. Then, stopping to look at her, he whistled softly.
"You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen," he said again. Only this time he sounded like he meant it. With a strangled moan of passion, he threw himself forward, taking one strawberry nipple into his mouth and sucking voraciously at it.
"Nnnnnngggg," she groaned. She trembled as his tongue laved lovingly over the peak of her turgidly erect little blossom, caressing and stimulating it until the warmth in her breast began spreading through her entire body. Her skin felt as though it was on fire-the removal of her clothes having heated instead of cooled her.
Her pussy was moistening, and she could feel its lips petaling open as his mouth and hands grazed arousingly over her tits. Sliding her palm upwards across the length of his thigh, she took hold of his cock, wrapping her fingers around its cloth-covered circumference.
"Yyyyyeeeeaahhhh," Mancinelli sighed, her touch making his stiff penis ache. "That feels so good." Inspired by his words, Rosa's fingers became bolder. They worked desperately at the tab of his zipper, tugging it slowly downward to open the front of his pants. Undressing him felt strange for her. It was the first time she had ever done such a thing to anyone but her husband. But it felt good, too-exciting in a new and different way. And it fit right in with her plans!
When his pants were undone, she took his hotly throbbing cock in her hand, running her fingers along its smooth virile length. It was unlike Domenico's-longer and thinner. And instead of having a rounded bulbous head, it tapered gradually, its tip almost pointed. She rolled it between her fingertips, spreading the moisture that oozed from his cum-slit. It felt slick and silky, like a glove made from the finest of doe or the softest of kid. Wrapping her hand tightly around its girth, she pulled it up and down, jerking him slowly while he sucked at her tits.
With her other hand, she groped for his scrotum, tugging it out from between his thighs and cupping it gently, like a flower of rare beauty. "Your cock is so big," she murmured, the breath of her words washing hotly across his ear. "Bigger than I ever imagined it could be."
"Have you thought about it?" he asked her.
"Often," she said. Then, turning away as though embarrassed, she pulled still harder on the pulsating shank. Looking at her naked ankles, she said, "I want to feel it inside me." Her voice was so soft that Mancinelli could hardly hear it. But her meaning was clear. Take me, she was saying.
What the hell am I waiting for? he asked himself. This is too good to be true. Rising quickly, he unbuckled his belt, letting his pants fall slowly to the floor. Then, shoving at his underwear, he stepped out of them, naked from the waist down. His jacket and shirt fell quickly into a heap beside the pants. When he turned to face her again, he was totally nude, his cock long and turgid, bobbing up and down with every motion of his body.
Rosa looked at it, her cunt incredibly wet. The sight of it was arousing her-making her realize that her pussy was about to be treated to the real thing again, instead of her own diddling finger. She had become quite good at satisfying herself with it, but nothing-NOTHING-could take the place of a cock. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she needed him. In spite of the fact that he was treacherous, and very likely affiliated with her enemy, she needed him. Needed the stone-hard virility of his penis. Needed the softly caressing comfort of his hands. It was good to be a woman again.
She lay back slowly on the cushions of the couch, her legs spreading like the petals of a flower. She lifted one foot and hooked it over the back of the couch, exposing the pinkness of her glistening cuntal slit. Its lips were puffed out, the shiny inner membrane showing through a rift between them. Her clit had hardened to turgid rigidity, its penis-like head emerging from a thick roll of sheltering cuntflesh. The raven black hair which framed and surrounded her box was thick and bristly, glistening with droplets of pearly cuntal dew.
Forgetting her luscious tits-the twin orbs of delight which had been pleasuring him until now-Mancinelli concentrated on her pussy, his mouth watering at the very sight of it. He was tempted to bury his face between her shapely and curvaceous thighs and to give her a tonguing she would never forget. But she had asked for his cock. And he was too much of a gentleman to let a lady down. Besides, if he played her right, there would be plenty of time for other things.
Dropping to his knees on the cushion of the couch, he crawled between her thighs, his cock waving and bouncing as he moved, and coming within inches of her pussy. She was a piece, all right. A real hot cunt. Lowering himself into position, he moved toward her, letting his cock find its own way into her waiting slit. It hit the mark immediately, her lips pouting open so wide that the target was almost impossible to miss. As soon as he was inside, he threw himself forward, burying the entire length of his rod in the tunnel of her cunt.
When he hit rock bottom, she wrapped her legs around the small of his back, locking his body into place atop her. He tried to move away from her, pulling back for another thrust, but she glued her cunt to his pelvis, moving with him and refusing to release her pussy's grip on his prick.
"Ooooooohhhhhhhh," she crooned. "It feeelllls ssssooooo gooooooooood." She wasn't faking it any longer. She had lost herself now, given her body over to the warmth and the comfort of sexual stimulation. And Mancinelli's attitude was undergoing a few changes as well.
It had never felt this way for him before. Not even with the little girls that he paid so exorbitantly to fuck. With his cock inside Rosa's cunt, it felt as though his entire body was penetrating her. As they rolled together, their naked torsos merging in the heat of sexual union, the New York don felt something that he had never experienced before. Something that he was afraid to put a name on. She was different than the others. Different from all the females he had ever known. Rosa was a woman. A real woman. And somehow he couldn't think of her as hot cunt any longer.
For the first time in his life, he found himself working for her pleasure instead of his own. He wanted to excite her, to arouse her, to make her feel good. He wanted to make up for the long lonely weeks that she had been sleeping alone, her husband sent to an early grave by the bullets of a greedy, malicious assassin. As he felt the tide of gism rising in his nuts, he fought to control it, fought to hold back the climax that threatened to burst him apart. He couldn't cum. Not yet, anyway. Not until she had been satisfied. Not until he had treated her with the love and consideration that she deserved.
Rolling his hips, he worked his body around in a tightly spiraling circle, his pulsating cockhead scouring at the inner walls of her cunt as it pivoted erotically on the fulcrum of her pubic bone. She could feel him reaming her, massaging her cuntal membranes and inflaming her sensitive nerve endings. He was heaving rhythmically now, his long tapering cock pinning her to the couch and then sliding slowly outward and arousing her to even greater heights of excitement.
Dropping his head, he took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking on it as his prick continued pummeling at her pussy. It was all he could do to keep from popping his rocks, but he had to hold back, had to take care of her, had to treat her like the excitingly sensuous and blatantly erotic woman that she was.
Then-slowly-it started to happen, coming as a surprise even to Rosa. The sexual tensions which her masturbation had only partially released were building to a climax, making the nerve-cords of her body vibrate like the strings of a viola. She was trembling and shuddering like a kitten in a blizzard, guttural sounds of joy and excitation ripping unrestrained from her rich red lips.
"Ooooooohhhhhwwwww," she whined. "I think I'm gooooooiiiiiinnnnnggg to cuuuuuummmmm." Her body was undulating and thrashing wildly on the sofa beneath him, her breasts rubbing hotly across his hairy chest. The walls of her cunt were contracting, tightening around his cock until they sucked and milked at it. He felt that he was going to burst into flames at any minute, but still he drove on, rocking forward until the first crashing wave of ecstatic fulfillment brought a shriek of relief from her tortured throat.
"Yyyyeeeeeeesssss," she howled. "I'm cuuuummmmmmmiiiiinnnnngg. I'm cuuummmmiiinngg." Torrents of rippling joyjuice bubbled from her cunt, bathing his pistoning penis in steamy warmth and stimulating his testes to churning activity. He had done it-brought her to the peak of shimmering ecstasy-and now it was his turn. Relaxing the tightly clenched muscles of his groin, he plunged forward, reveling in the slimy heat of her roiling vaginal chasm. Another stroke. And another. And then it began-a spurting, jetting, pumping, whirling series of searing hot liquidy blasts that shot from the end of his desire-bloated flesh to drench her pussy in semen. Her sex-starved body had just begun to release, however, and she continued mingling her fluids with his cum until long after his cock had ceased its pumping. Wailing with delight and sobbing with joy, she rolled and bucked her hips until all her passion was spent, her jockey pleased to remain in the saddle. Then, when there were no fluids left to flow, she allowed her legs to relax and fall to the couch once more.
Mancinelli, his cock soft and shriveling fast, rolled off her and sat on the floor, breathing heavily and waiting for his fluttering pulse to return to normal. Sighing, he said, "That was wonderful. Was it for you, too?"
Her body sated, Rosa's mind was freed once more, to return to her plan of action. The orgasm had been a surprise. She had expected to fake it. But now that it was accomplished, there was work to be done. She let her lips start trembling and turned quickly toward the wall.
"Hey," said Mancinelli. "What's this? Wasn't it good? Didn't I please you?"
"Yes," she answered, sniffling back a sob. "It was very good. And you pleased me very much." She let her voice drop to a barely discernible whisper, adding, "Too much, maybe."
"What do you mean?" the New Yorker asked. "Don't you like me?"
Rosa turned quickly away before answering him. But he could see her shoulders heaving in an attempt to hold back the sobs. Finally, her voice crackling with emotion, she said, "Yes, Jimmy. I do like you. I like you a lot. And that's the trouble. I'm not just a woman anymore. I'm a donna. It isn't enough for me to like you. I have to trust you, too. And I don't know if I ever will be able to." She turned to face him again, her cheeks wet with tears. And something inside him snapped.
She was incredibly beautiful, the sight of her sparkling eyes like a harpoon shot straight to his brain. Just hearing her admit that she liked him had done strange things to his heart-altering its tempo and interfering with its rhythm. She was strong and she was determined, yet when the chips were down she was just as soft and as helpless as any other woman. And that's what turned him on. The tears which glistened in her eyes were like barbed hooks which had found their way into the chambers of his consciousness. He wanted her to trust him. Needed her to trust him.
He sat looking at her for a long silent moment, ignoring her luscious body to concentrate on the heavenly haunting beauty of her face. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft and careful, as though they were whispering in church. "If it's trust you're worried about," he said, "I think you'd better look a little closer to home."
Rosa's ears perked up, her mind alert to whatever it was he had decided to tell her. But her eyes remained downcast and filled with tears. Deceiving him was even easier than she thought. Because he, like all of his colleagues, underestimated her. And that put her at an advantage. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice quivering with emotion.
"I'm talking about Luchesi," answered the young don. "I'd watch him if I were you. He's been talking to Valenti."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Thank you, Vito," said the donna, facing Matrone across the desk in the study of her home. "I needed the confirmation. And, frankly, I couldn't trust it to any of my own people."
"I understand, Rosa," he said, his dark eyes flashing. "My sources are good. And they are completely trustworthy. Unfortunately, no one can say what went between them, but there is no doubt that Luchesi has been speaking to Valenti. Mancinelli told you the truth."
"I don't know why," she said. "But I never really doubted it."
"What are you going to do about it?" Vito asked. He respected her abilities as a leader almost as much as he admired her beauty as a woman. And he was anxious to see how she would deal with the treachery which Mancinelli's tip had revealed, and his own investigation had verified.
Rosa sighed before she answered him. She had given the matter much thought, and although she knew what she had to do, she was not happy with it. But her eyes were cold and hard, reflecting the determination that inspired her, driving her onward towards her goal.
"There are two problems," she said at last. "First, I must clean my house of traitors. And second, I must test the ones who remain. Luchesi is a traitor. He must go. But who is to do it?"
"I will be honored, my ... Matrone began. But Rosa interrupted him.
"Capanegro!" she said. "Capanegro and Luchesi have been friends since their boyhood. Together with Domenico and my brother, they were an inseparable foursome in Sicily. Like brothers. And now, with Domenico gone, Federico is all that Giuseppe has left. There is only one person in the entire world to whom he should owe a higher loyalty."
She paused for a moment, staring off into space and thinking as she spoke. Matrone realized what she was saying and smiled at the perfection and simplicity of it. "His donna," he murmured.
"I must leave Luchesi to Giuseppe," she said. "And then I can be sure of them both."
"My congratulations, Godmother," said Matrone, his lips drawing back into an admiring smile. His eyes met hers, communicating with her in a deep, extrasensory way. Both of them felt it-a spiritual contact which connected their consciousnesses for a moment and then broke clean, leaving only a tingling awareness in its wake. He wanted her-desperately. Wanted to take her in his arms and crush her against him, flattening the softness of her bosom against his hard-muscled chest and burying his tongue deep in the hollows of her warm honeyed mouth. But he remained seated, looking at her in stone-faced silence.
Rosa returned his gaze for a moment and then looked away. She was conscious of his desire, almost as much as she was of her own. It was an aching, gnawing, itch which started at the center of her pussy and spread throughout her groin, flooding the tubes of her reproductive system with sweet flowing juices. How handsome he was. And how much a man. How nice it would be to lie with one such as he-to turn her body over to him for pleasure and fulfillment. How much better it would be than with Mancinelli-a starry-eyed boy whose thoughts were dominated by diamonds and the demands of his stiff throbbing cock.
But she turned abruptly away, bringing her emotions swiftly back into line. She couldn't. Not yet, at least. She couldn't afford the luxury of a real man. Not until she had finished what she set out to do. And there was work to be done. A great deal of it. "Vito," she said, "I am expecting a visitor and I think it would be better if you were not seen with me. Will you call me this evening?"
"Certainly," answered Matrone, springing to his feet and bowing slightly in a formal but charming Old World way. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it softly. Then, turning, he left the room. When he was gone, Rosa sat staring at the heavy wooden door which he had closed tightly behind him. Then, sighing, she turned to a pile of papers which cluttered the center of her desk.
About twenty minutes later, there were two soft taps on her study door. "Come in, Carmelo," she called, looking up from her work. When the door opened, her bodyguard stepped quickly inside, moving silently and stealthily, like a cat.
"Mancinelli is here," he said. "Shall I bring him in?"
"No!" answered Rosa curtly. "Only my friends come in here. I'll see him in the living room. And, Carmelo, I want you to give all the cars a thorough examination. Look for bombs, bugs, and brake line tampering. It should take you about two hours. I'll be all right in here. Don't worry."
"Yes, my Donna," said the torpedo. He was no genius, but he knew when he was being told to get lost. He only hoped that the donna knew what she was doing. He would hate for anything to happen to her.
When he had gone, Rosa got out of her chair and went to a mirror located on the inside of a closet door. She fixed her hair, making it look loose and casual. Then, stepping back, she gave her reflection a long, self-appraising look. The soft one-piece jumpsuit which she was wearing was tight in just the right places. Its clinging material drew snugly across her breast, outlining the pointy silhouettes of her semi-turgid nipples and highlighting the softly rounded curve of her mountainous titties.
Turning slightly to the side, she looked at her ass. It was full and curvaceous, the twin moons of her buttocks clearly prominent beneath the jumpsuit. She was accustomed to dressing more conservatively-with a bra to hold up her boobies and panties to upholster her cunt. But dressing without underwear and in sexy revealing .clothes was exciting in a way. She could feel the softness of the jersey-type fabric caressing her naked skin each time she moved or shifted position. Mancinelli would be aroused as soon as he saw her. And that would make the whole thing go quickly, and more easily.
Taking one last look to be sure that everything was in place, she left the study and walked to the living room. The New York don was sitting on the edge of the couch, a drink already in his hand. When she entered the room he rose to greet her, his heart pumping furiously.
They had seen each other three times in the past week, and the New Yorker felt a strange new emotion burning inside of him. When he was with her, the world felt right. But when they were apart, he felt unfinished, incomplete. His trips to Chicago were becoming longer and more frequent. And he was spending less time in New York than he should have been. Some of his capos were beginning to talk, and his consigliore had already decided to speak to him about it.
But now he thought of none of that. His mind was too crowded with the image of Rosa Cornelli. There was no room in it for business. When he saw her, his breath caught in his lungs. She was beautiful! Magnificent! He wanted her. Immediately!
"Rosa," he murmured, stepping forward and placing his glass on a table. She moved quickly toward him, falling into his arms and gluing her lips to his at once. They kissed passionately, with a panting desperation which seemed to fill the entire room with shimmering heat. He held her tight against him, his hands moving slowly over her back to stroke and caress her buttocks and the backs of her thighs.
"Oooooooooohhhh, Jimmy," she sighed, her lips brushing at his ear as she began nibbling his throat. She could feel his fingers exploring her body through the softness of her outfit. They were tracing the curves of her asscheeks, dipping between them to probe at the cloth-covered crack that separated their resilient fullness.
Her own arms moved up to encircle his neck, pulling him against her until the rock-like points of her turgid pink nipples were boring twin holes of burning desire through the front of his shirt. Her tongue-tip was darting in and out of his ear, tracing the outline of the curving convolutions that corrugated its outer chamber. Carefully, she sucked his earlobe into her mouth, chewing gently on it with her teeth and caressing it softly with her lips and tongue.
"Hhhhmmrammmnnnnnn," moaned Mancinelli. His cock was stiff, and its long tapering end was bruising sorely against the inside of his pants. The softness of her filled his encircling arms and ballooned his scrotum with desire. He could feel her tits, firm and ripe against him, their juicy and exotic fullness reaching deep into his soul. He rolled his hips against her, grinding his ramrod erection across the gyrating plane of her undulating pelvis.
;
"I feel it," she whispered. "So stiff. And so hard. Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhh, Jimmy, I feeeeell iiiiiiiiit."
Her words aroused him yet more, and he felt a hunger for her burning at the pit of his groin. Turning his head, he met her lips with his own, sucking life from them like an infant at the breast. They were soft and pliant, returning his pressure and nibbling experimentally at his exploring tongue. His hands were moving erratically over her, filling their hollowed palms with flesh. He tweaked her nipples and pinched at her curvaceous thighs. He cupped her buttocks and palmed the mound of her moistening hair-fringed cunt. The feathery material of her jumpsuit crackled between them, insulating her body from the roughness of his urgent caress. But it did little to hide the erection of her nipples or to mask the pouting dilation of her puffed-out cuntal lips.
His lips were moving slowly over her chin and easing down to the plain of her throat as his fingers began tugging at the tab of her zipper. He pulled it slowly downward, following its motion with his lips as the veed opening grew wider and delved deeper. First, the tops of her tits were exposed, huge and magnificent in their swarthy skinned roundness. Then, the mountainous curves loomed larger into view, the rosy pink edges of their puckering aureoles rising higher upon contact with the naked air.
His lips grazed lovingly over their smoothly : contoured surfaces as the front of her garment fell open, exposing a long vee-shaped swath of . nakedness to his hungrily devouring eyes. Pulling back the outfit's edges, he revealed her bosom in all its glorious entirety. With a strangled groan of bestial desire, he fell upon it, sucking a huge juicy nipple into his mouth and hanging on like a prize pit bull. The sweetness of her set his penis to throbbing, and he was filled suddenly with a need to see all of her at once.
Growling like a lion on the trail of its mate, he drew back, pulling and tugging on her clothing until she stood naked before him. Then, inhaling deeply, he drank the beauty of her rich exotic fragrance. She was dark and smooth-the color of Sicilian olives. Her perfection took his breath away. His hands, trembling like those of a novice teenager, began fumbling with his shirt buttons, struggling to undress before he died of desire.
Then he, too, stood naked on the living room rug, his long turgid erection jutting straight out from the front of his body to point at her like an arrow of lust. A dewy drop of viscous lubricant dribbled animatedly from its slit, forming! roundly at the tapering end of his glistening cockhead. Each time he drew a breath, the long ominous shank twitched threateningly, like a crossbow getting ready to fire.
Rosa stared wide-eyed at it, genuinely fascinated by the length and shape of his pulsating weapon. She was beginning to feel a rising tremor of excitement taking hold in her flowering moistening pussy. Its lips were parted, their glistening inner aspects coated with a rich unctuous moisture which gleamed in the room's soft illumination. Licking her lips, she took a step forward, her eyes riveted to the bobbing bulk of his cock.
Then, as though approaching a statue of the blessed Holy Mother, she fell to her knees before him, her face just inches from the tip of his manhood. Mancinelli looked down at her, aroused beyond belief by what she was preparing to do. She had never kissed his penis before. And although he had wanted her to-perhaps more than anything else-he had somehow never been able to bring himself to ask. She seemed too high-born, too noble. It was as if his prick would soil her lips, his erupting seed corrupt her contracting throat. But now she was ready to do it on her own!
Inching forward on her knees, she brought her lips to within a hair's breath of his cockhead, opening her mouth to puff a single hot blast of steamy exhale across its vibrating surface. Then, pursing her lips delicately, she planted a light, loving kiss on its shiningly dewy tip.
"Oooooooohhhhh," sighed Mancinelli. "Uuuhh."
Rosa's hand reached up to cup his hairy scrotum, her fingers moving softly over the velvety sack of stones. She could feel his thick, heavy balls rolling about as her stroking fingers altered the wrinkled sac's flexible shape. With the tip of a pointed fingernail, she traced a wavy line through the hair-covered leather. Then, as if handling eggs, she squeezed it gently in her hand, his cock jumping to the lightly erotic contact.
Her other hand went to his prick, urgently encircling its hairy pulsating girth. It was thick and hard, but its surface was smooth and silky, giving the impression of softness and fragility. Slipping her tongue between her lips, she jabbed at his cockhead with its pointed pink tip. The sudden moist contact made him gasp with delight, and his cock twitched wildly, as though prodded by an electrode. Holding the trembling shank between circled thumb and forefinger, she conveyed it to her lips, pressing them lightly to its silken-skinned surface.
"Wwwwwoooooooouuuuuuhhhh," he whimpered when she kissed her way lightly across its creamy smooth underbody. She showered his trembling penile shank with a fluttering series of gentle labial caresses, making it vibrate like a piano tuner's fork. Then, with an elaborate gesture that he could not mistake, she ovaled her lips and positioned them over the head of his throbbing tingling prick.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she moved forward, encircling the tapering cudgel with her open mouth, but not closing her lips around it. She continued moving forward until the ooze moistened tip was nudging at the back of her throat. Then, with a hunger born of sheer and undiluted lust, she closed her mouth around him, cradling his mammoth cock in the salivary warmth of her richly flowing oral cavern.
"Sssssssssshhhhhh" he hissed, the exhaled breath blowing through his teeth like air from a punctured balloon. He could feel her tongue, its wide blade flat and rough, scouring at the underside of his cock, moving back and forth across it with a wiggling, waggling, zig-zagging motion.
His balls were on fire and his entire pubic plane was melting slowly into the flames. Reaching for her tits, he filled his hand with their softness, cupping and squeezing them until the nipples puckered tightly, darkening to a deep black-raspberry hue. He tweaked and he pinched them, rolling the rubbery nubbins in fingers that trembled with desire.
"Oh, Rosa," he wailed. "I want to taste you like you're tasting me." Dropping slowly to the floor, he stretched out on his back, spreading his legs and pulling back his knees to angle his tapered rod-like penis toward the ceiling. Understanding what he wanted, Rosa climbed on top of him, her head to his feet and her knees straddling his face. She moved slowly into position, lowering her slavering cunt towards his mouth and bowing her head to lap at his twitching stem of desire.
Mancinelli's eyes widened as he looked up into her splayed cuntal opening, its beef-red interior glistening wetly from between thick, fleshy, pink lips. He could see her clitoris, already aroused enough to begin poking its head out into the open. And he could see her asshole, nestling safely between the firm white mounds of her softly rounded cheeks.
Her pubic slash was covered with thick oozing cream, a fragrant fluid which tickled his nostrils with its strongly erotic aroma. Craning his neck, he reached upward, his tongue darting out from between his lips to lick lovingly at the fleshy cuntal tissues. Sucking a knot of her cuntflesh into his mouth, he chewed erotically on it, his tongue grazing enticingly across the shining surface of the dentally-imprisoned membrane.
"Aaaaaaaaaiiiiilyyy," she wailed. "Aaaaaiilyyy. Ooooooouuuuuuuwwwwww. Aaaaaaaaaahhhh." It felt wonderful, and her expressions of pleasure were completely unfeigned. She sucked harder on his cock, filling her mouth with the stiffness of its shank and pressing her tongue against the firm tapering majesty of its swollen purple head. It tasted salty and rich, like clams in spicy sauce. And when she rolled her tongue across it, her body shuddered with excitement.
She was truly aroused-both by the taste of his cock as it nestled in her mouth, and by the titillating stimulation of his cunt-probing tongue. It felt fantastic, turning her on breathlessly with a hunger and a craving that was not to be denied. She eased her pelvis lower against him, forcing his tongue still deeper in her contracting cuntal canal. Her lust was overpowering, filling her pussy with the fragrance of sensuality and making her mouth pull convulsively on the shank of his love-distended erection.
She could feel the tip of his nose, nudging softly at her asshole, and she rocked back against it. The motion opened her pussy's lips still further and admitted what felt like his entire face to her drooling cuntal depths. He was slurping and licking with his tongue while smacking and kissing with his lips, the sounds of his cunnilingus filling her ears with an obscurely erotic cacophony.
Rocking forward again, Rosa worked her asshole lower, luring his tongue towards it and shuddering as its tip found the puckered brown opening. She screwed herself backwards, filling her rectum with the muscle of his plunging lingual reamer, rolling and bucking like a pony with a burr under its saddle. His tongue was buried deep inside her anus, its curling spiraling tip treating her to a thorough internal massage.
Then, when her asshole was thoroughly wet, he returned once again to her pussy. He licked and he lapped at it, his tongue laving lovingly over its moistening membranes until the flavor of her fluids began subtly to change. She was heating up and he could taste it. Her savor was becoming richer, heavier, sweeter, and riper-tasting. He sucked gobs of it up into his mouth, rolling its syrupy sweetness over the fluttering membranes of his tongue.
He could feel her sucking away at his cock, her mouth pulling at it like a vacuum hose. It was tingling with excitement; glowing with superheated inflammation. She drew it deep into her throat, tormenting it lovingly with the spiraling contractions of her throat muscles.
"Aaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnngggg," he grunted, the sound of his exclamation muffled by the enveloping softness of her slimy wet pussy. He redoubled his efforts, licking and lapping at the juices of her vagina and swallowing them satisfiedly into his trembling belly. Pursing his lips, he moved towards the tremulous button of her super-sensitive clitoris.
Sucking the little pleasure organ into his mouth, he drew his tongue lightly across its quivering surface, pleased by the gasps of pleasure and moans of delight which greeted his ears in passionate response. She would not be able to hold back much longer. He was sure of that. He wanted to time his own climax to coincide with hers-to fill her mouth with hotly swirling gism at the precise moment that she drenched his lips with her juices.
Lifting his hips to arch his back off the floor, he thrust his penis up at her, lodging it deep in the back of her throat. "Mmmmmmrrrrrrffffff," she gurgled, her tongue pressed to the bottom of her mouth by the great glistening gargantuan that penetrated her oral orifice. Rolling back against him, she swabbed at his cunt-sucking mouth with the lips of her pussy, scouring at his nose and chin with her thick and bristly mat of dark shadowy pubic hair.
She was building to a tremendous orgasm, and she knew it. It would be big-bigger than any she had experienced since Domenico died. And that was good. It would turn him on more than anything else. She wanted it to be perfect for him. Because tonight, she would be putting him to the test. And if all went well, she would be planting the seed of her victory and establishing the foundation of her success.
"Ooooooooooohhhhhh, Jiiiiiiiimmmmmmyyyyy," she wailed, opening her mouth to croon around the shaft of his pistoning rod. "It's wwwooooooo nnndeeeeeeeerrrrrfuuuulllllll. I'm going to cuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmm." At that moment, she began filling his mouth with her fluid, drenching his lips and tongue in thickly heated cuntal dew and practically drowning him in her vaginal saliva.
The gushing river of love-juice drove Mancinelli over the brink, making his stiff white cock tremble with energy as it swelled to twice its size, filling with hotly bubbling cum-juice. Then, rearing back like a horse under the whip, it spat a long curling arc of shimmering white gism into the waiting tunnel of her throat. She could feel the sticky goo splashing hotly against the roof of her mouth and trickling down her palate to fill her nostrils with the pungent aroma of fresh fish.
She swallowed it hurriedly, trying to beat the next spurt but not quite making it. She felt the whirling bugs of semen cascading into her body, flooding her mouth and gullet, and filling her belly with its trickling viscosity. A thin white rivulet managed to escape from a corner of her mouth, rolling obscenely over her chin as she continued sucking him off. Her twat was exploding like a deluxe Roman candle, filling her brain with spinning balls of glowing blazing color, and keeping the juices of her ovaries flowing heatedly from her snatch to his mouth.
They bucked and they rolled on the living-room carpet, licking each other's sex organs clean and then continuing to suck just for the sheer plea sure of it. Even when all their passion was spent, they licked each other's bodies, savoring the joy of sweet-tasting after flow and committing themselves to one another in the trembling aura of mutual ecstasy. Then, at last, their tonguings diminished, ceasing completely when Rosa rolled over, lying next to her sated, cunt-lapping lover.
They lay together for a long breathless interval-remarshaling their strength before even attempting to talk or move. Then, Rosa broke the silence with a long soul-rending sigh. "Hhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmnnnnnn," she keened. "That was wonderful. Better than ever."
"Yes," answered Mancinelli, his voice heavy with emotion. He was about to do something which he had never done before, and that scared him. "Rosa," he said, "there is something I want to give you." Crawling naked across the rug, he made for the spot where his clothes were lying, heaped disarrayed on the living room floor. Fumbling with his pants, he withdrew a small package from one of the pockets before crawling back to where she lay.
"I think you'll like this," he said. "It was my father's. I want you to have it." Opening the package, he handed her a small black jewel box. She stared at it for a moment, not certain of what she should do. Then, as he watched her, she opened it slowly.
Inside the box there was the brightest and most glittering cluster of diamonds that she had ever seen. It looked like a pin of some kind, probably a scarf-pin or a brooch. It contained at least thirty stones, each of them weighing half a carat, and each perfect in color, clarity, and shape.
"Jimmy," she said breathlessly. "It's beautiful. But isn't it a rather lavish present?" She looked at him demurely, an innocent expression lighting her exotic features in spite of the fact that she was naked and her inner thighs streaked with sexual fluids.
"It's not lavish enough," he answered. "I can't explain it, Rosa. But something is happening to me. Something that I've never experienced before. I think I'm falling in love with you." He paused for a moment, needing to catch his breath after making so earth-shattering a statement. The donna looked down at the floor, her skin soft and nakedly beautiful.
"I think I feel it, too," she whispered. "Although I didn't think it would ever be possible again. I think I love you, too."
The New Yorker's eyes shimmered with joy, but he bit his lips to hold back his excitement. There was something else that had to be said. Something even more difficult. "But there is something I must tell you. Something that you have a right to know," he said, pausing to recompose himself. "There was a meeting in Las Vegas, just prior to the death of your husband. A meeting at which I was present. There, eight northeastern dons conspired against your family, agreeing to give Domenico to Valenti in exchange for pieces of Chicago." His voice dropped suddenly, so that she had to lean forward to hear him. "And I was one of those dons," he added.
Rosa looked shocked, her eyes clouding over and her lips drawing tightly together. But then her expression softened and she smiled at him once again. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for your honesty. I have known of the meeting for some time. The only thing I wasn't sure of was the identity of those present. I never thought that you might be among them." She shook her head sadly.
"But I want to make it up to you," he insisted. "To prove my love and to convince you that I'm really on your side." Taking a slip of paper from the pocket of his rumpled pants, he said, "Here is a list of the others at the meeting. At least now you can know who your friends are."
"And my enemies," she said softly, taking the wrinkled paper from his extended hand. "I am glad that you are no longer among them. Because you have become too much a part of my life. I find myself living for the moments that I will spend with you-dreaming about them when I'm asleep and thinking about them when I'm awake. I am no longer satisfied with seeing you every night or every once in a while. I want you with me all the time-from the moment I wake up until the moment I close my eyes to sleep. And then I want to feel your body beside me."
"Oh, yes, Rosa," he exclaimed. "I want that, too. More than anything I've ever wanted before."
"We belong together," she told him. "A team. An invincible pair. New York and Chicago are only the beginning. Between us we can build an empire. Establish a dynasty." Her voice was building in excitement, taking on a breathy quality which was contagious. Mancinelli found himself becoming infected with her enthusiasm, caught up in it and carried away by it.
But then her voice dropped and her tone became doubtful and uncertain once again. "But...." she began. "I just don't know. After all, with what you have just told me, how could I ever be sure of you? How could I ever be certain that you are really on my side? Really in my corner?"
"Anything," he said, his voice desperate and urgent. "Ask anything of me to prove my love and loyalty. Test me! Try me! I swear I'll never let you down."
"There is one way you can prove it," she said slowly at last. Her voice was calm and deliberate, but her heart was pounding inside her chest. This was it. The big move. The coupe de grace. "I want you to kill Valenti," she said. "And then when you have done it, I want you to deliver his body to one of my meat-houses. Then, and only then, will I know that I can trust you." Mancinelli looked at her, stunned at first by the enormity of what she was asking. It shocked him, taking him by surprise and rocking him back on his heels. But he knew that he would do it. He really had no choice. He loved her. And he wanted to make her his. The fact that Chicago came with her was almost not important. Staring intently into her eyes he said, "All right, my donna. I will do as you command."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was Antonio Capella's night to forget. To forget about the capos who awaited his instructions. To forget about the godchildren-numbering in the thousands-who awaited his favor. It was his night to forget the pressures of being a don; to relax, kick back, and enjoy being a man. He tried to do it once a week-oftener, if possible. Sometimes he found it necessary to call upon the tremendous resources of the Capella family organization in supplying himself with the perversions that tickled his fancy.
But tonight's was an easy one ... two girls, one black and one white. The women he had chosen were extraordinary; specialists in their field, and well worth the five hundred dollars which they were receiving for the night's pleasure. Grace, the white one, was a tall statuesque redhead with broad curving hips and tits the size of watermelons. Laverne, her dark-skinned sister of joy, was a goddess.
Her hair was black and woolly, cut in a moderately short Afro which framed the high angular shadows of her magnificent face. She was even taller than Grace, with slim sensuous shoulders, and breasts that were high and full, like juicy and exotic fruits of the jungle. Her nipples were hard and black, like two small lumps of coal, contrasting darkly with the light milk chocolate color of her skin. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, flashing animatedly when she exhibited emotion. Then her nostrils would flare and her thick coffee-colored lips would draw back to reveal twin rows of perfectly white teeth, sparkling like stars in a moonless sky.
Capella and the girls had been cavorting naked for hours in the large hotel suite that the don kept reserved for such purposes. But it was definitely Laverne who dominated the action. She seemed to have no sexual limitations, and was a veritable fountain of sensuous energy.
At first, she had turned him over to her partner, watching quietly while Grace played with his cock to stiffen it and warm him up. It didn't take long for her to get into the act, however, her fingers finding their way between his penis and the redhead's cunt when the fucking began. She let Grace get it on with him just once before she took over. And then she left little room for competition.
She accepted his throbbing organ into every orifice of her body, shrieking loudly each time it began on a new hole. She moved her body with a skill born of experience, fucking him to a head spinning frazzle. He came repeatedly, his cock spurting again and again. And after his gism had overflowed her cunt, and her asshole, and finally her mouth, she gave him a break.
But even while he rested, she kept her juices flowing, entertaining herself with her big-breasted associate. She lay naked atop her, her face buried between the redhead's thighs and her tongue probing deep in the red-fringed, sperm filled slash of her cunt. Her own pussy glued obscenely to Grace's sucking mouth, she bucked and rolled above her, climbing to climax after climax as the redhead groaned ecstatically.
And now, while Capella lay back and attempted to gather his strength, she stood posing before him, her middle finger probing shamelessly in the cleft of her vulva and a look of burgeoning pleasure on her face. She stood with her legs apart, her hand cupped lovingly over the hair covered mound of her pussy. Her fingers moved hungrily across it, toying with the softness of her cuntlips and delving repeatedly into its wet and heated center.
Laverne wasn't truly a nymphomaniac, because she was capable of orgasm. But although each climax succeeded in satisfying her, the next one always seemed to satisfy her more. And once she started getting off, she found it hard to stop. So now that the john was too weak to continue, and now that her partner had settled back for a smoke-break, there was nothing for her to do but play with herself. It was one of her favorite occupations.
The chasm of her pussy was familiar territory to Laverne's tapering fingers. They spent many hours there-exploring and arousing, amusing and experimenting. She knew the landscape of her snatch better than that of her own front yard. Every fold and every wrinkle was home ground to her. Every ticklish spot and every sensitive nerve ending had been charted and plotted in the cartography of her mind.
While Capella watched, she reamed herself slowly, twisting her fingers as they slid into her gash. The crimson inner membranes were wet and puffy, spreading open as her hand fucked rhythmically against them. The black of her skin and the glistening steely wool of her cunthair made a seductively erotic frame for the orifice, drawing lascivious attention to its slimy wetness and to its heated inflammation.
Winking lewdly at him, she took her hand from her groin and held it in front of her. Then, with shining middle finger extended, she brought it to her lips. She sniffed delicately, her nostrils dilating like a hunting tiger's as the erotic fragrance filled them. Then, her lips parting a little at a time, she sucked it into her mouth, licking obscenely at its wetly glistening tip.
"Mmmmmmmm," she murmured, taking her hand from her lips to rub her belly languorously. Then rolling her eyes in ecstasy she smacked her thick brown lips. Her hands were moving lightly over her body, stroking her proudly jutting tits and caressing the hair-covered hump of her clitoris. Her chocolate skin was covered with a light sheen of sensual perspiration, her excitement raising the temperature of her body to a fever level.
She liked having people watch her perform. It made her feel beautiful. Sometimes, when there was nobody else to look at her, she stood naked in front of a mirror, admiring her own curves and valleys while she masturbated herself to orgasm. She enjoyed seeing the way her clit came forward when it wanted to be touched. It was like a living creature, with a mind of its own, that just happened to be living inside her cunt.
She had a symbiotic relationship with the little pleasure button, like a shark has with a pilot fish. No matter what she was doing-whether walking, or sitting or riding in a car, or making love-she made sure that her clitty got some stimulation. And in return it gave her pleasure made her body tingle all over and kept her juices at a simmering boil. Her only regret was that she would never be able to kiss it, to thank it personally for what it did for her. But she did her best to make up for that inability by petting and stroking it whenever possible, keeping it in a nearly perpetual state of erectile arousal.
Capella could see it, its turgid purple head protruding from the black-lipped tent of scarlet membrane which housed and sheltered it. As she finger-fucked herself, she rubbed the palm of her hand across its vibrating prominence, sending a wave of excitement rolling over her torso. With her other hand, she was cupping her tits, squeezing the dark-skinned orbs between tapering brown fingers, and rolling the tense black nipples joyfully.
"Wwwwwweeeeeeeeee," she sang happily. "It feels so gooooooooood." She spread the creamy juices of her pussy over her abdomen, making it sticky with gleaming honey. Her pubic hair was slick with the stuff, plastering wetly down against her shining chocolate skin. And the aroma of her sexual arousal was filling the room, spraying from her cunt like scent from an atomizer. It hadn't been more than thirty minutes since his last orgasm, but Capella could feel his prick beginning to stiffen once more.
Grace, who lay cuddled up against him, was aware of it at once, her hand straying casually to the livening rope of cock-muscle that was slowly uncoiling at his groin. She could feel it hardening, rising to fill her hand as her fingers wrapped possessively around it.
"It's a good cock," she whispered. "Just give it a little rest and it's all ready to go again. What more could anyone ask." Sitting up quickly, she bent over his naked body and pressed her lips to its head. Nibbling and nuzzling at it, she kissed the burgeoning weapon back into total erection. She moaned gutturally as it swelled, as if the only thing in the world which could make her happy was there, growing thick and firm between her lips. Lifting her head to look at him, she said, "I'm going to give it a bath." Extending her tongue and winking, she left no doubt as to her meaning.
Capella looked from her bobbing cock-sucking red head to the brown-skinned girl who stood finger-fucking herself before him, and then back again. There was nothing like a threesome to make a man feel like a king. Making himself totally comfortable, he stretched out naked on the huge kingsized mattress, his back against the satin sheet and his cock pointing up at the ceiling. Grace, who was sitting crosslegged beside him, bent over almost double to fill her mouth with his joystick. Looking over her flaming red hair, he could see Laverne, her fingers still occupied with her drooling oozing pussy.
"Come here," he said, his throat so dry that he croaked. "I'll handle that for you. I think your girlfriend needs some help." Her eyes sparkling with excitement, the black girl moved toward the bed, her hand still working at her snatch. She lay down next to him, with her feet on the pillow beside his head.
Turning, he bit gently at her toes, taking one of them between his lips and sucking lightly at it. He could feel her moving against him, her wiry Afro hair brushing at his thighs. Then, with a flashing stab of pleasure, he felt a second tongue join Grace's on the quivering shank of his organ. Gasping, he reached for her pussy, his fingers meeting hers in the wet vulval canyon. For a moment, they shared the erotic orifice, their hands clasping together as they fingered and manipulated it.
He felt the two girls licking him, their tongues working cooperatively across the vibrating purple surface of his cockhead to lap at the ooze which flowed from its slit. When their points met, they dueled briefly, the lingual skirmish taking place on the battlefield of his super-stimulated penis. He shut his eyes tightly, enclosing himself in a world of flashing lights and bleeding colors. He could feel one of the feminine mouths moving slowly up towards the top of his pole. Then, with a quick nibbling motion, it gobbled his cock inside, holding the bulb at its head between lips that were soft and pliant.
Meanwhile, the other mouth was nibbling at his scrotum, sharp teeth nipping lightly at the wrinkled leathery skin. The tongue, pointed and fluttering, worked its way up along the underside of his shank, stopping just short of the point where lips nuzzled at the cartilaginous coronal ridge. Suddenly, the mouths changed position, crossing like a concert pianist's hands. He felt a new tongue licking delicately at his shaft while the other mouth accepted his cockhead inside, bathing it in roiling salivary warmth.
It felt good, and he allowed the sensation to carry him away, like a magic carpet fluttering on the breezes of his imagination. For the time being, the worries and the cares of Detroit's underworld were as far from his field of reality as the craters of the moon. He had abandoned himself to pleasure, committed himself to hedonistic satisfaction. He was freed of the need for rational thought. The tongues which were working him over were like mystical massagers, imbuing his spirit with strength and keeping him fit for the vigor of family leadership. It was therapy. Occupational therapy.
His cock was iron-hard now, throbbing with desire as the pair of talented mouths nursed and cajoled it. His fingers were wet and sticky, buried to the third knuckle in the steamy gash of Laverne's magnificent pussy. And his brain was buzzing with the sensuously vibrating image of two beautiful women worshipping at his staff of life.
He arched his back, raising his ass off the mattress and driving his penis deeper into the mouth that enclosed it. There was an orgasm building in his scrotum, and he prepared to pump his simmering fluid into whatever receptacle was available. But the women had other ideas.
They both sensed the approach of his impending climax. And they knew that no man, not even the legendary Antonio Capella, could go on forever. So they decided to make it last. Communicating silently, by a system of vibrations that traveled on a plane which transcended all human understanding, they pulled their mouths from him at the same instant, leaving his cock suddenly unattended.
"Nnnnnnnnoooooooooo," he groaned, in urgent frustration. "Suck it! Don't stop sucking it." But the girls simply ignored him, knowing that what they had in mind would please him even more. And it might get them a little something besides. They watched for a moment, smiling at the look of chagrin which darkened his features, and enjoying the spectacle of his desperately writhing body.
Then, nodding to her partner as a signal that she was ready to begin, Laverne mounted him. She straddled his waist with her knees, moving her cunt into a position just inches from the tip of his pulsating fuck-pole. Lowering herself slowly, she entrapped the swollen head of his thickly erect cock between her soft and rubbery cuntal flanges, wetting its tip with the oozing slime of her sexual secretions. His prick was jumping with excitement, twitching like a lizard with the St. Vitas dance. She could feel it slipping smoothly inside her, filling the tunnel of her pussy with meat.
When she had absorbed almost half its length in her pulsating joy-slit, she reversed direction, moving slowly upward until only the mushroom shaped head of his blunt-nosed cudgel remained encased in her vaginal cavity. The naked god father bit his lip, moaning uncontrollably with the pleasure of the insertion.
"Oooooooooohhhh, yyyyeeeeeesss," he keened, his entire body undulating with mounting passionate desire. When she began the downslide again, he lifted his body up at her, in an attempt to speed the penetration. But her movement was inexorable, and could be neither stopped nor hurried along. When her pussy had swallowed more than two thirds of his penis, Laverne went into action. Rolling her hips in a slowly spiraling circle, she worked the rest of his cock inside her. And then, like an automated rocking horse, she began a glory-ride on his magnificent hard-on.
Grace, waiting until the penetration was complete, moved into position above him facing her partner and straddling Capella's face. She settled slowly down atop him, her pussy covering his face like a moistened washcloth. The smell of her sex was potent, and sensuously pungent. And it made his mouth water for a taste of her sweet flowing fountain.
Drawing a deep sibilant breath through his teeth, he lifted his head slightly, touching the tip of his tongue to the fluid-moistened lips of her cream-covered pussy. The taste was exciting, galvanizing his body to rhythmic activity and mobilizing his hips into an undulating up-and-down motion on the satin-sheeted surface of the bed. His long pulsating hard-on-comfortably nestled in the warmth of Laverne's cunt-drove deeper, burying itself to the hilt in her soft, wet, dilating cavern.
Plunging forward with his tongue, he penetrated the white girl's slit and tasted of her internal fluids. The contact made her moan, sounds of pleasure tearing agonizingly from her tightly compressed lips. "Ooooooooowwwwww," she wailed. "Please. Suck my cuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnt."
But it was Capella's turn to play the tease. Instead of tongue fucking her, he withdrew abruptly, lapping lightly at the puckered pink flanges which flanked the sweet-smelling slit. She rolled down against him, trying to get his tonguetip inside her, but it was no use. He continued playing around the perimeter of her vaginal orifice, tickling and titillating its membranes with hot swabbing movements of his tongue until she was twitching with desire.
"Plllleeeeeeaaaaaaaaasssssse," she whimpered in frustration. "Don't torment me that way. Please. Give me what I neeeeeeeeed." But the don was ruthless. There was little that pleased him more than listening to a woman beg for his loving. And he intended to make the pleasure last as long as possible.
Laverne was in sympathy with her sister, however. And as soon as she realized what the redhead was enduring, she brought her own little twat into the game of sexual extortion. Lifting herself quickly, she allowed his cock to all but plop from the softness of her vulval mouth. Remaining poised above him, she kept the contact between his penile tip and the lips of her pussy almost nonexistent light. She didn't break away from him completely, however. That he could have endured. But this-this tormentingly grazing stimulation-was almost more than he could bear.
With a muffled groan of desire, he plunged his tongue deep into the chasm of the red hair-fringed pussy which loomed wet and shiny above him. Its bristly mat of hirsute growth scraped and scoured at his lips, tantalizing him with a long, lingering, grazing, cuntal caress. Laverne, who could see now, that her fair-skinned soul sister's needs were being filled, relented, lowering her pussy over the rod of his lust-bloated cock once again.
Don Capella sighed with satisfaction. His itch was being scratched; his lust was being satisfied. He slurped joyfully at the white woman's pussy, conditioned by Laverne's threat to know that he must give pleasure in order to receive it. Each time the black girl dropped her naked loins against him, burying his rod in the softness of her snatch, he pressed forward with his tongue, tasting the sweetness of Grace's hotly gushing slash.
Whimpering in excitement, the white girl reached forward, placing her hollowed hand on the proud, high-crested knob of Laverne's soft, chocolate-colored tit. The black sex-kitten responded by hissing sibilantly, a warm rush of air passing swiftly through her smooth white teeth. Then she, too, began fondling the breasts which bobbed before her.
Grace's tits were gigantic, the size of twin, over-inflated balloons. And her nipples were like sweet, well-ripened strawberries, their hardening points turgid and trembling with passion. When the tips of the tapering black fingers closed carefully around them, coddling them erotically with softly stroking caresses, the redhead sighed with abandon.
"Ooooooouuuuuuuuuhhhhh, yyyyeeeeeesss," she hissed. "Play with my titties like I'm playing with yours." She pinched at the black little nubbins, increasing the pressure as they puckered tightly against her passionately clutching fingertips. She rolled them and she tweaked them, her fingers thrilling to the touch. In spite of the immensity of her own melon-size boobies, she was slightly in awe of the black woman's bosom.
For while Grace's tits sagged under the burden of their fullness, Laverne's were high and firm, their nipples turning slightly upward to point erotically at the ceiling. The twin mounds of black titflesh were gracefully elongated, shaped like mammoth Anjou pears with raisins where their stems should be. The redhead could not resist the temptation of tasting them, savoring their sweetness while she bucked atop the man who was licking her pussy with sensuous enthusiasm.
Bending forward, she took one black blossom into her teeth, holding it tenderly in place while her tongue sailed lovingly over its wrinkled puckering surface. It felt hard and diminutive-like a tiny pinpoint of desire standing out darkly against the soft chocolate background of smooth unblemished breast. The taste of the delicate black bud brought quivering tremors to her limbs and speeded the tempo of her already fluttering heart.
Her cunt began to grow moister, filling Capella's mouth with the flavor of her abundantly gushing sexual secretions. He dug deep for them, curling the tip of his tongue to form a spoon with which he gathered the nectar of her womb. He filled his mouth with it, rolling the erotic liquid over his gums and swallowing it a droplet at a time. Though he had already exploded into orgasm half a dozen times in the past few hours, he felt his excitement mounting once again.
His testes ached from the strain of constant performance, and his huge vibrating prick was throbbing so hard that it hurt him. But he rolled his hips upward, skewering the black girl's vulva on the fleshy, blood-engorged lance of his penis. It would be spurting soon-filling her with gism and easing the agony of his scrotum.
The taste of Grace's fluids began changing subtly, becoming thicker and more syrupy. He could tell by the acrid, fish-like flavor that pervaded her juice that she was about to have a climax. And if he knew anything about cunts, it would be an explosive one. The mammoth-titted redhead was doubly aroused by the combination of his tongue in her pussy and her dark friend's hands on her tits. She was going to burst like a dirigible, showering the countryside with sparks and pieces of flaming debris, blinding all spectators in the dazzling heat of her flaming explosion.
"It's cumming," she murmured. "It's cumming soon! And it's cumming fast! I think it's cuuuuummmmmmmmiiiiiiiinnngg nnnooooooooowww." She sobbed and she wailed, bucking madly as the juices of her ecstasy flowed freely from the tunnel of her cunt. Her fluids were wetting the gang leader's lips and bathing his tongue in soothingly erotic warmth.
A moment later he felt Laverne's cunt flowing too, drenching his cock in a torrent of tropical sensuousness. The hair which surrounded the base of his blood-inflated flesh was shiny with her secretions, its limply wilting curls flattening wetly against the base of his belly. She threw herself upon him with unstoppable animation, slamming her feather-smooth buttocks against his hairy and muscular thighs as she slaved at his cunt-penetrating piston. Each rollicking downstroke brought him closer to his conclusion, drawing the fluids of lust from the slowly refilling well in the sac which sheltered his balls.
He, too, would be cumming any minute now. He too would be experiencing the blissful satisfaction of release. Harden and harder he worked, struggling to drive his cock into the softly swirling whirlpool of Laverne's tender twat. He could feel her juices steaming, stewing around the shaft of his pile-driving sex organ. They were warming his prick to discomfort, singeing its hair and drenching his loins in frothy perspiration.
It was building higher. And higher still. The sorely overworked prick was straining for the release of fulfillment. It couldn't be much further away. He could feel it, right around the corner closing in on him with an urgency that pounded in his brain. It grew louder and more distracting-a rapping, knocking, beat that called him slowly back from his evening of relaxation. Someone was beating on the door. And since it could only be one of his bodyguards, there had to be a good reason.
He toyed for a moment with the temptation to go right on fucking, to ignore the urgent summons until he had eased his mounting tension. But he couldn't. No man who had clawed his way to the position of power that Don Capella occupied could have done it. For it had required an almost insane, preoccupied dedication to business for him to build his empire. And such a dedication overpowered by far the lust for sexual fulfillment.
Shoving the women from him, he went to the door, not even bothering to put on his pants. Opening it slowly, he peered out through the crack. His bodyguards were there, all right, but it hadn't been them who knocked on the door. It was Fidelio, his consigliore. That meant it was serious.
Throwing open the door, he invited the counselor inside. Then, stepping quickly into his pants, he waited wordlessly for the girls to leave. They had been around. And they knew when they were no longer needed. Dressing quickly, they went to the door. Then, turning to flash him a smile, Laverne said, "The evening's still young. So if you need us later on, give us a call." Not waiting for an answer, she led Grace from the room. The don and his counselor were alone.
"What is it?" Capella demanded.
"It's important, my don," answered Fidelio. "And I was sure that you'd want me to interrupt you. It's this package. It arrived a few minutes ago-delivered by a special messenger." Extending his arms, he held out a small paper-wrapped box to Capella. It appeared to be quite heavy for its size.
The godfather's manner was cautious. He knew, of course, that his consigliore could be trusted; that anything which came through Fidelio's hands was completely safe for him to touch. But a natural predator's instinct told him that the contents of the package would surprise him, no matter how he tried to steel himself against the shock. There was something in the counselor's eyes that said it all.
Unwrapping it carefully, Capella tugged at the flaps, nearly tearing the box in his effort to look inside. Finally, when it was open, he bent to examine the contents. At first they were hard to recognize-a sloppy mass of white and red nestled horribly in a bed of absorbent cotton. But then it came sharply into focus. It was a knee joint, hacked viciously from the body of a human being. Part of the thigh was connected to it-long stringy fibers of tendon and muscle hanging obscenely from the bloodstained epidermis. And part of the calf.
Capella was strong, but for a moment he thought he would retch. Controlling his fluttering stomach, he looked at his counselor, trying to make sense out of what was confronting him. Fidelio looked grave.
"There was a note with it," he said, handing the don a crisp white envelope. After looking quickly at the typewritten salutation on the envelope's face-"Don Antonio Capella"-he pulled it open and extracted a folded sheet of paper from inside it. Written in what well might have been blood, it contained but a single sentence. The sight of it set his hair standing on end.
"You bargained for a piece of Chicago," it said. "But a piece of Valenti is all you receive." Capella stared at it for a long disbelieving instant.
"Is this true, Fidelio?" he murmured at last. "Can she have gotten to him?"
"Nobody's sure yet," answered the counselor. "Vegas isn't talking. But one thing is certain.
You're not the only one who got a package. We've already heard from Grimaldi and Lazaro. They got 'em, too. And I'll bet you a Stetson that all of the others-Mancinelli, Finzi, Maldonado, Ricci, and Cozzo-are on that same messenger's list. She turns out to be quite a broad."
"Quite a broad," echoed the don, his head shaking in shocked disillusionment. "Quite a broad!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"All right, then," shouted Federico Luchesi angrily. "I'll see you in ten minutes." His features contorted with fury, he slammed the phone back into its cradle. The sound of its crash brought Josephine, his wife, from the kitchen. She was wiping her pudgy hands on a towel and frowning.
"Federico," she said reprovingly. "You've got such a temper." Josephine Luchesi was short and fat, with a pasty jowly face that put her husband in mind of a bulldog whenever he looked at her. She had been sharing his bed and his board for more than twenty years, but for the past eighteen he had done little more than tolerate her. She cooked and she cleaned for him, and once or twice a month she spread her chubby thighs for him, but the hot and passionate emotion that had surrounded their early courtship had long since dissipated.
"Shut up," he told her curtly. "That was a business call. I have to go out. Don't wait up for me." Turning quickly, he walked to the door, slamming it behind him as soon as he was out side. He walked quickly to the car, taking the keys from his pocket as he slipped into the front seat. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb in a single abrupt motion. Accompanied by the sound of squealing tires, he left a pair of long black parallel lines of smoking rubber on the pavement in his wake.
Things "had not been going well for him. Not going well at all. A whole series of setbacks was robbing him of his power of rational judgment. Donna Cornelli was turning out to be stronger and tougher than anyone had given her credit for. And it was already becoming obvious to him that he had made a serious mistake in throwing in with Valenti. Rosa's attack on his stronghold had taken everyone by surprise, throwing the entire Las Vegas organization into turmoil.
Valenti's losses, both in money and manpower, had weakened his family to the point where it took all of its energy just to defend what little it had left. The guerrilla offensive, with which it had harassed Cornelli forces in Chicago, had all but stopped; most of Valenti's advance-men having been called back to Vegas to assist in the rebuilding process. And the Cornelli position was looking better every day.
But there was something else, too. Something that Luchesi just couldn't put his finger on. An important event had taken place-a crucial battle which might well determine the outcome of the war. The grapevine said that Valenti had been hit-assassinated-right in the heart of his own Las Vegas domain. But so far, Luchesi had heard nothing but rumors. And that's what frightened him!
After all, as a capo regime in Donna Cornelli's army, he should have been getting information directly from the source. Instead, he was finding it necessary to rely on the "street-soldier's telegraph"-an underground system of gossip which kept everyone informed, but only up to a point. There was too much which he didn't know, which she wasn't telling him. Too much. It was as though he was being systematically excluded from the inner circle. He didn't like it at all!
It all seemed to begin around the time of the Las Vegas bombing. Not once, during the entire operation, had he received anything but the vaguest of hints that a major offensive was in the offing. And after its conclusion, he felt more in the dark than ever before. She was not taking him into her confidence at all, treating him more like a street-man than like an upper-level member of the family organization. He had tried to speak with the donna three times in the past week, but found her unavailable on every occasion. She seemed to be avoiding him.
Luchesi was worried. Had been for the past several days. And the strain was beginning to show on his face. His skin had become pale-almost gray. And his eyes were pink,-rimmed with deep circles of black. His nights had been long and sleepless, his consciousness haunted by fantasy images which sickened and upset him. He remembered Rocco, the bodyguard who had sold out to the other side, fingering Don Cornelli for assassination. And he remembered the way that he and Giuseppe had beaten him slowly to within an inch of his life and then shot him as an act of mercy.
If the donna even suspected that he had been in contact with Valenti, there was nothing that would save him from a similar fate. For in addition to being strong and tough, Rosa Cornelli had proven herself to be a true Mafiosi, with a man's sense of honor and a Sicilian thirst for revenge. She would stop at nothing to avenge an act of treachery. And there was no doubt in Luchesi's mind that "treachery" was the proper name for his crime.
He had been careful, of course, his contact with Valenti always clothed in a maximum of secrecy. And in addition, he had the Las Vegas dons' promise of complete and unimpeachable security. But now they were saying that Valenti was dead. And what good was the promise of a dead man?
The fear was upon him, and there was no controlling it. It turned his head when he walked, to scan the sidewalks behind him. It quickened his pace when he crossed busy intersections. He was becoming jumpier by the hour. And his disposition was souring rapidly. The call from Inga, his blonde blue-eyed mistress, had been the straw that broke the camel's back.
He had told her never to contact him at home. Had explained that he believed in keeping his home life private-completely separate from his life on the outside. But she disregarded his instructions, calling him up and demanding to see him as if she was a school teacher and he was a naughty boy being kept after class. Well, I'll just have to set the little bitch straight, he thought. Teach her to remember her place.
To Federico Luchesi, that place was definitely in the home. All women belonged there. All the time. Wives-fat and sloppy, with curlers in their hair and ladles in their hands-belonged in the kitchen, bending over kettles of spaghetti sauce to sniff with wart-covered noses. Mistresses-blonde and beautiful, with sveltely curvaceous bodies and sweetly pliant red lips-belonged in the bedroom, their thighs pulled back and their cunts wide open. But none of them had the right to intrude on a man's peace, or his privacy.
Pulling up alongside the curb, he parked his Buick in front of a fire hydrant at the end of Inga's street. She lived in the Hyde Park section of Chicago, and there was rarely a legitimate parking spot to be found for blocks around. But Luchesi didn't worry about that. The Mayor's Office Courtesy Shield on his sun-visor would protect him against parking summonses. And even if some rookie meter-maid was dumb enough to give him a ticket in spite of it, it could be pulled and fixed up easy enough.
Moving quickly, he walked to Inga's house, climbing the front steps two at a time. She lived in a well-kept brownstone that looked pretty much like all the other houses on the block. Federico had been paying the rent for the past three years, along with all the other bills. And, as far as he was concerned, that made him the boss.
He pounded noisily on the door, anxious to let her know, right from the start, that he was pissed off. It opened a crack, a brass safety chain tautly spanning the opening. He could see her peering out at him through the crack. Then, unhooking the chain, she opened the door all the way and invited him in with a welcoming gesture of her arms. She was dressed in a flowing red negligee which contrasted erotically with the paleness of her skin and the light golden color of her long straight hair. She looked as if she had just stepped out of a milk poster-clean, big-breasted, and sexy.
But Luchesi wasn't having any, at the moment. "What the hell do you mean by calling me at home?" he demanded, his voice an angry staccato. "Haven't I told you never to call me there?"
"Oh, Freddie," she answered, smiling sultrily. "I'm sorry. But you haven't been over to see me in almost two weeks. And I've been so lonely." She inhaled deeply, thrusting her breasts out at him as she spoke. Their high conical points lifted the front of her nightgown, inviting his caress. He was too angry to notice them, however.
"Goddammit," he bellowed, stepping menacingly toward her. "Who do you think you are?" Drawing back his right hand, he swung at her, slapping her heavily across the face. She wasn't expecting the blow, and it rocked her backwards onto the heels of her feet.
"Friddie," she said, gasping. "Don't hit me. Please don't hit me." But he had just gotten started. Swinging again, he struck her on the other cheek, her face reddening with the welted outline of his fingers. A tear which had formed at the corner of her eye began rolling slowly down her cheek, leaving a curving trail in the powdery softness of her skin.
"I had to call you," she wailed. "I haven't got any money. How was I supposed to pay the grocer? I have to eat, you know." But her arguments fell on deaf ears. Luchesi was angry. And there was nothing but a tantrum that would calm him down.
"So it's money, then," he screamed at her. "Why didn't you fuck for it? You seem pretty good at that." Drawing his lips back into a violent snarl, he hit her again, this time with closed fist. Catching her just under the right breast, he knocked her backwards against the bed. She fell back against it, but Luchesi, reaching for the front of her nightgown, dragged her back to her feet.
He felt the garment ripping as he pulled at it, and the sound had a strange effect on his cock. As he hit her again, and again, he felt it beginning to harden. Inga was crying uncontrollably now, a tiny trickling rivulet of blood beginning to flow from one corner of her mouth.
"Please," she whimpered. "Don't hit me again. I'll do anything you say. Only please don't hit me anymore." Her sobs jolted Luchesi back to reality, bringing him out of the angry preoccupied daze that he had been moving through. She looked weak, now. And helpless.
He could see one of her tits through the torn front of her diaphanous nightgown. Its skin was soft and creamy white, forming a perfect globe of firm ripe resilience. The nipple which capped it was turgid and puffed, a juicy red maraschino cherry. And suddenly, in the midst of his violent outburst, he found himself driven by a craving to touch it. To roll its enticing erection between his fingers and to stick it softly in his mouth.
His cock throbbing wildly inside the prison of his pants, he took a step toward her. The woman cowered away from him, at first, fearful that his advance would precede another blow, heralding an even more thorough beating. But then she saw, by the expression of lust which clouded his eyes, that his fury had passed. That the storm had blown over. A different urge was taking possession of his will. An emotion which was far less destructive though no less intense
"Don't be angry with me, Freddie," she whispered, his obvious sexual hunger making her bold once again. "I know what a bad girl I've been. Why don't you let me make it up to you." She advanced on him slowly, her hands moving toward the throbbing mound of his cloth-covered hard-on. Circling its thickness with her fingers, she pressed her lips softly to his neck, nuzzling him erotically just under the right ear.
"Inga," he growled, his anger having dissipated completely. "I ... need ... to ... fuck ... you." His words were soft and halting, as though fatigue had suddenly overcome him and was threatening to reduce him to prostration.
He felt weak and a little dizzy, overburdened by the pressures that had been weighing so heavily on his shoulders. Meekly, like a lamb away from its mother, he allowed her to lead him toward the bed. Standing beside it, he swayed slowly from side to side, closing his eyes and allowing her to be the aggressor. She began tugging at his clothing, removing it quickly and piling it untidily on the floor. When he was naked, she drew back for a look. He opened his eyes to watch her, while she drew her nightgown over her head, baring herself to him in all her fair skinned glory.
The sight of her made his breath catch sharply in his throat and stiffened his already throbbing penis to iron erection. She was perfect-like a statue carved by a committee of masters. Her legs were long and shapely, and her breasts were high and perfectly formed. Her smooth white belly was without blemish, curving gracefully toward the shining shock of silvery blonde hair which carpeted the hump of her pungently fragrant loins.
She was sex personified. A pink-lipped dew moistened cunt with arms, legs, and a seductive smile. When he looked at her, all else faded into the background. All thoughts of gangland warring and all fears of family retribution were banished, by his lust, to the furthest corners of his mind. Only one thought occupied his brain, only one desire sparked his awareness. He wanted to drive his cock into her sweet wet pussy, burying it so far inside her that their bodies would fuse.
Taking his cock in his hand, he stroked it slowly, licking his lips as he moved hungrily toward her. When they were only inches apart, he stopped and reached for her tits, holding them in his fingers and toying idly with the raspberry paps that topped their milk-white loveliness.
Inga smiled, breathing deeply as his hands moved over her body. "That's so much better," she crooned. "Isn't it, Freddie?" But Luchesi ignored her remark.
"Turn around for me," he commanded urgently. "And bend over."
"Oooooooooohhhhhhh, yyyyyyeeeeeeesss," she cooed. "Dog fashion. I like it like that." Turning quickly, she bent forward over the bed. Resting her weight on her hands, she leaned all the way over, presenting him with a premium view of her naked cunt and buttocks. The sight of the twin openings turned him on, making his cock pulsate painfully with desire.
Her thighs were like a pair of sensuous arrows, pointing suggestively at the crack which bisected her back turned loins. He could see her pussy, pink and puckering, its lips petaled half-way open to reveal the dark red wetness of her warm cuntal interior. And he could see her asshole, a tiny dark nut with tightly compressed lips. He liked to put his cock in it sometimes; to revel in the tightness of her elastic-lined nether opening. But that was too much like work. Tonight he would settle for cunt.
Shuffling forward, a short step at a time, he brought the swollen head of his cock to within inches from the smoothly flowing contour of her buttocks. Then, taking it in his hand, he guided its motion as he stepped still closer. Her cuntlips flared obscenely open, a soft velvety cleft forming between them to grin wetly at his advancing penis. Grinding forward with his hips, he placed its wetly throbbing tip in the moist pink valley of her snatch.
With a series of short jerking bucks, he humped it in, delighting in her sudden squeal of arousal. When the bulging knot of his purplish swollen cockhead had completely penetrated her slit, he stopped abruptly, looking down to ob serve the erotic union of their bodies through eyes that were lidded with lust. Rolling his hips, he pushed another inch of meat into her gobbling pussy-mouth, watching as her cuntlips closed around it.
Drawing back, like a hunter cocking his rifle, he slid outward until no more than his cockhead remained inside her once again. Then, with a single powerful thrust, he drove forward, burying his rod to the hilt in her shuddering cuntal depths. She had lowered the upper half of her torso until her face was pressed tightly to the mattress. And this opened her up for the deepest possible penetration.
Like a hot knife through butter, his cock sliced into her, shoving back the well-greased walls of her vaginal cave and plundering her body to its dankest, darkest, depths. She felt its distal knob crash at her cervix before drawing back for another penetrating thrust. When it came this time, she rolled back to meet it, slamming her tender white buttocks against his hair covered pubic ridge and twisting her belly from side to side.
Luchesi could feel his penis pivoting, pressing tightly against the top wall of her cuntal opening and ramming its head against her hardening clitoris. It felt like it was going to slip out. Standing on his toes, he rocked forward, driving it inward again and bathing its length in fluid vaginal heat. It was good fucking her this way.
She was all cunt. And from where he stood, he could see everything.
Placing his hands on her broadly curving hips, he pulled her back against him, working her body like some warmly throbbing masturbation machine. The encircling walls of her drooling pussy slid downwards, dragging erotically across the surface of his cock as it swallowed him inside. Then, as he pushed her forward for the outstroke, they smeared his pulsating shank with frothy cream-colored secretions. When he pulled her backwards, he humped heavily with his hips, reaming her pussy like a pile-driving well-digger.
"Unh!" she grunted. "It's in me so deeeeeeeeeeeep." Her words were muffled, her face pressed tight against the mattress, but the sound of them excited him still further. His balls were in an uproar, their bubbling cargo of sperm rising higher and higher in the leathery bag which contained them.
Leaning over her, he reached for her boobies, cupping them in hands that were hot with excitement and moist with perspiration. The nips were hard and pointy, scoring sharply-curving lines in the skin of his palms. When he tweaked them and rolled them, pinching gently between thumbs and forefingers, they stiffened still more. She was moaning and sobbing in a way that could not be feigned. He could see that he was getting to her.
The beating he had given her had aroused him even more than he realized, and he was already beginning to feel the rising tide of scum filtering into the tubes of his penis. He rocked forward against her, his hands squeezing mercilessly at her full fleshy tits as his cock plowed a furrow through the membranes of her pussy.
"Oooooooooowwwwww," she groaned, her boobs aching painfully. "You're hurting me." But her protestation inspired him to even greater roughness, and he began pinching at her nipples cruelly, as though they were made of rubber. She bit her lip hard to keep from screaming, and her eyes filled with tears. But her pussy grew wetter and her belly trembled at the brink of ecstatic explosion.
She liked when he treated her rough. It made her feel more like a woman. And although she knew that she'd have black and blue marks wherever he had struck her, the pain of her bruises had already metamorphosed into something closer to pleasure. A climbing, mounting, tingling rush which built higher inside her and threatened to drown her in its fluid excitation. An orgasm was building. And when it came it would be something truly special.
Federico could feel it, too-the crackling tension of static electricity which sizzled through their love-nest like heat-lightning on the prairie. It was galvanizing his prick and animating his hips, driving him onward to fuck-thrusts that were deeper and more powerful than any that went before them.
Her twat was so hot that he could smell her arousal. It hung like a blanket of perfume in the air, titillating his nostrils and bringing water to his eyes. Her ass was rolling wildly, undulating erotically under his pummeling cunt-stuffing thrusts, and swinging obscenely in a never-ending spiral of lust. Each time he drove forward, his balls swung like a pendulum, smacking resoundingly against the back turned mound of her moistly stimulated clitoris. The hair which furred the wrinkled sack was sticky with her fluids.
"Ooooooooohhhhh, Freeeeeeddie," she moaned breathlessly. "I think I'm going to cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmm." Her hips bucked insanely, the lubricous gash of her pussy rocking sidewards, backwards, inwards, and outwards all at the same time. Her pleasure was increasing, her stimulation nearing its peak. She could feel his thighs, hairy and columnar, driving his body against her. And she knew, from the way that his muscles were trembling, that he too was preparing to climax.
His bare feet shuffled over the floor, searching for a toe hold as he got ready to give her the final blast. He was hornier than he realized, not having fucked either his mistress or his wife in something like two weeks. A tidal wave was building-an unstoppable, indivertible flood of simmering fluid that would wash powerfully over his body, liberating him from the tensions that had been building inside of him.
It was coming. It was coming. It was here!
When it struck it was like thunder, a rumbling, crackling release of energy that seemed to emanate from the roots of the universe itself, shaking everything in its path and announcing its superiority to an awed audience of millions. In an undulating series of paroxysm contractions that seemed, for the moment, to dwarf even the eruption of Vesuvius, his penis began to spit, pumping gob after gob of whirling white semen into her waiting vaginal slash.
At the same moment, her river started to flow-a slowly meandering stream at first, but growing soon to become a potently gushing Niagara, its frothy spray wetting all that came near it. Her lust-contorted body was rolling and humping on the mattress before him, her ass lifted high to give total access to her box. They were glued together, the mingling epoxy of their warmly flowing sexual juices forming a bond which could join them forever.
But then, as their climaxes reached high points, and the long gradual downslide began, they drew slowly apart once again, the room's sexually heated air washing tepidly between them as their bodies separated. When Federico's load had been totally spent, he drew away from her, his shriveling cock slipping helplessly from the still-flowing cavern of her pussy. Taking a long deep breath, he threw himself forward onto the mattress be side her, relieved and relaxed, freed for the moment from the pressures of life.
When her own breathing had returned to normal, Inga got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. A few moments later, she returned. Federico was lying on his back, staring silently up at the ceiling. She could see by the expression on his face that their love-making's afterglow had been extremely short-lived. Whatever preyed on his mind was haunting him-making him miserable and making it impossible for him to relax.
Lighting a cigarette, she placed it carefully in his mouth, watching as he took a long lung searing drag and blew the smoke at the ceiling. "Freddie," she murmured, "why don't you tell me what's bothering you. Maybe I can help."
But he just turned away. He was finished with her now, and the empty feeling that had possessed him earlier was returning again. When the telephone rang, he knew instinctively that it was for him. Reaching for the receiver, he pressed it to his ear. Gruffly, he said, "Hello?" It was Giuseppe.
"Federico," he said, "get dressed in a hurry and meet me downstairs. There's no time to lose." Luchesi hung up and got into his clothes. There was something wrong. He was sure of it. Something in Giuseppe's voice was different. Not as it should be. When he was dressed, he turned to look at his girlfriend. She looked clean and beautiful, lying naked and spread-eagled on the mattress before him. For some reason that he didn't understand, he found himself doubting that he would ever see her again.
"Good-bye, Inga," he said softly. "This ought to hold you over for a while." He dropped a roll of bills onto the mattress beside her, not bothering to count it. It was all that he had in his pocket, and he knew that it totaled over three thousand.
Sadly, he walked from her apartment.
When he got to the street, Giuseppe was waiting. His hand was in the pocket of his jacket and he gestured menacingly with it at Luchesi. "Get into the car," he said. There was no friendship in his voice.
Federico moved slowly in the direction of his Buick. It was all over for him. "Where am I going?" he asked cautiously. But he already knew. He opened the door and got behind the wheel.
"We all go there eventually," Giuseppe answered sliding into the seat beside him. His voice was wooden, mechanical-devoid of emotion. He was not happy with what he had to do.
"I understand," said Luchesi. There was no point in fighting it. He had been marked for a hit. And none but the Almighty could save him. "Did it have to be you?" he asked quietly.
"Somebody had to do it," answered Capanegro. Then he was silent.
Luchesi started the motor and pulled slowly away from the curb. After a moment he murmured, "But you are my friend." There were tears in his eyes.
"I'll try not to make it hurt," said Giuseppe.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"I've enjoyed working with you, Rosa," said Matrone. "But I'll have to be leaving almost immediately. My services are required elsewhere, and there are a few things I must do back in Sicily before I can get started."
Rosa smiled at him across the top of her desk in the study. "I shall miss you, Vito," she said warmly. "You've been wonderful. I don't know how I'll get along without you."
"Oh, I have a feeling that you'll survive," Matrone answered with a chuckle.
The donna was doing fine, and it was obvious that she didn't need his help any longer. Chicago had been secured, and Cornelli family agents were already beginning to move into Las Vegas, reaping the spoils of her hard-earned victory. Messages had been received from several of the dons acknowledging her position of leadership and offering their cooperation.
The Cornelli organization had clearly been made stronger by its battle with Valenti, and its strength was increasing by leaps and bounds. Traitors and subversives had been rooted out and dispensed with, and much dead wood had been pruned away. Her lieutenants and capos had all been tested under fire, those who remained with her having proven both their loyalty and their effectiveness. A few street-soldiers were moved up from the ranks to take the places of those who had been purged. And the organization which resulted was tighter knit than ever, and almost impenetrable. Giuseppe Capanegro, his allegiance now beyond question, had become her right-hand man, serving as a buffer between Rosa and the rest of the family.
No. She would miss Vito Matrone, all right. But she wouldn't really need him. Not on anything but a personal basis, anyway.
The dark-haired free-lancer had been much on her mind lately. Sometimes, he was all that she could think about. Something about him excited her, firing the erotic in her hot-blooded Italian soul. He was all man-tough and hard-and one hundred percent Sicilian. He seemed to have the capacity for infinite cruelty and infinite tenderness all at the same time. And although she had only fantasies to support her belief, she was certain that he would know how to please a woman in the bedroom.
She wanted him-openly and lasciviously with a passionate yearning that stemmed from the very depths of her being. She had felt it from the first moment that she met him. But until now, she kept it hidden, buried in the deepest recesses of her mind. There had been no time for such frivolity, no justification for such self-indulgence. She had a mission ... a goal.
But now her goal had been achieved, and the mission accomplished to her complete satisfaction. Domenico's murder had been avenged, and the family that had ordered it, destroyed. Its leader was dead and his holdings were falling neatly into her hands. Most important, she was receiving the respect of those who had conspired against her.
In earning that respect, it had been necessary for her to do many things that she didn't like. She had humbled herself before Mancinelli, opening her thighs willingly to his penetrating assault, and opening her mouth agreeably to his ejaculating insertion. She had even abandoned herself to pleasure at his hands, knowing that he was, in part, responsible for the death of her husband. She had orgasms with him, riding his penis to glory while her mind schemed unceasingly toward the achievement of her vendetta. Then, when all the orgasms were done, she had used him like a pawn in her dangerous chess game. And now it was complete. She deserved her reward.
She felt entitled to Vito Matrone. He was a prize ... a sexual symbol representing all that she had been struggling for. As a donna, she could meet him on equal ground, a full partner in their sensuous union. As a leader of men, she could approach as the aggressor, without fear of bruising his ego or injuring his masculine pride. Her cunt was already moist, and she saw no reason to wait any longer.
Rising slowly from her swivel chair, she stood looking at him. Her eyes moved slowly over the muscular bulging contours of his body, examining and appraising him silently. Then, pointed pink tongue darting out to lick lightly at her slightly parted lips, she began moving in his direction. The white pants and black sweater that she was wearing outlined and highlighted every curving prominence of her body, attracting all of Matrone's lustful attention as she flowed gracefully toward him.
Her intentions were obvious, and her aggressiveness thoroughly exciting. It neither startled nor surprised him, however. For he had always been sure that they would come together at least once before they parted. And he knew that when the time was right, the first move would be hers. Now she was making it.
He waited until she was standing directly in front of his chair before rising to his feet. He stood looking at her, their faces just inches apart, their eyes locking on one another's gaze. Then, stepping forward, he took her into his arms. He held her gently, at first, his hands barely gliding over the curving slope of her neck and upper back. A little at a time, he tightened his grip, hugging her to him and pressing the softness of her bosom against the front of his shirt.
"Rosa," he whispered. "I have been waiting a long time for this."
"And so have I," she murmured in response. Then, pressing her lips passionately to his, she kissed him long and hard on the mouth. He could feel the tip of her tongue stealing gently between them to lick gently at his lips before retreating hurriedly to the warm honeyed cavern from whence it came. He could feel her hands exploring the muscular hardness of his back, her fingers moving up to toy with the curling strands of hair which rolled over the edge of his shirt collar.
When they came up for air, she pressed her lips to his ear. "Not here," she whispered. "Take me upstairs. To the bedroom. I want to make love to you in bed. In my bed."
He kissed her again, his lips searching downward for the softness of her throat and his tonguetip working arousingly at her goose pimpled skin. His arm around her waist, he turned her toward the door, allowing her to lead him to the stairway. He held her close against him while they walked, his hand moving downward to caress her buttocks and then sliding upward again toward the sensitive skin at the back of her neck.
The donna was so excited that her breath came in short struggling pants. She felt dizzy, and out of breath. Her ankles wobbled as she walked on the thickly carpeted treads which led to her bedroom at the top of the stairs. She felt for a moment as though she would fall down, and was grateful for the strong masculine arm which kept her on her feet.
Her panties were sopping wet, having absorbed all they could hold of her copiously flowing vaginal dew. Each time she stepped up, their narrow crotchband dug deeper into the crack which bisected her loins, working its way maddeningly between the lips of her pussy. At the same time, she could feel the material working its way between the cheeks of her ass to draw tautly across the puckering slit of her anus. She wanted to reach behind her and pull the material from her crack, but she couldn't. Not with Vito there beside her.
Instead, she quickened her step, leading him straight to the bedroom and not stopping until they stood, arm in arm, in front of its door. Turning the knob quickly, she threw open the door. Then she fell into his arms. They kissed heatedly for a minute, and then he lifted her off the ground, cradling her in his arms like a sack full of feathers. She glued her lips tightly to his, her tongue delving deep inside his mouth to fence erotically with his own.
He carried her easily toward the bed, lowering her gently to its surface. Her hands were upon him at once, tugging at his belt buckle, working at his shirt buttons, and pulling at his zipper, all at the same time. Within moments he was kneeling naked at the side of the bed. His cock was so stiff that it drove straight into the side of the mattress as he leaned forward to run his lips over the softness of her darkly rounded shoulder.
Her fingers were working feverishly at her own clothing now, tugging at the buttons of her sweater until it fell open, revealing a black lacy bra, its erotically truncated cups filled to overflowing with twin mounds of mountainous mammary. While she worked at the pants, he pressed his lips to her bosom, kissing lightly across the curving expanse of bare unblemished skin that ran out over the top of her undergarment.
Reaching beneath her, he began working at its clasp, twisting it open and then pulling the brassiere straps off over her shoulders. She was, at the same time, kicking free of her pants, her writhing body clad only in a pair of skimpy bikini-style panties of bright erotic red. The filmy material was soaked through and through, the twat-tormenting crotchband completely obscured by the puffy lips of her love-slit's opening.
Bending over her, he brought his lips against the cunt-dampened material, licking and sucking at it until his mouth was filled with the pungently erotic flavor of her sexual secretions. Then, gripping the strip of fabric between his teeth, he pulled it from the slit of her pussy, yanking the drawers away from her loins. The diminutive garment resisted for a moment, and then yielded to his tug, slithering down over the softly rounded curves of her hips to uncover the silky smoothness of her pillowy buttocks.
When he had pulled the panties to her knees, he took them in his fingers, rolling them the rest of the way down. Catching the wet wisp of material on the end of her toe, she raised her leg and kicked it from her, completely naked now and exposed to his lustfully lascivious examination. He moaned softly when he looked at her, his prick aching with desire for her vulva.
Her nipples were erect, twin nubbins of rubbery red firmness. And her cuntlips were parted, their fleshy flanges pulling open to expose her pulsating hole. Her thighs were like twin pillars of finely sculpted marble. And he wanted nothing more than to crawl between them. To bury his virility in her beauteous femaleness. But he would wait. Until he was sure that she was ready. She was of noble stature, now, a donna. He would treat her pussy like the royal box that it was.
Placing his left arm under her knees, he lifted her legs into the air, turning her loins up toward the ceiling and giving his mouth a wide open field. He pressed gently downward with his hand until her knees squashed insistently against her breasts, flattening them like over ripe honeydew melons.
Then, leaning forward, he kissed her on the cunt, his lips smacking loudly for her to hear. Rosa's juices flowed copiously in response to the erotic sound. Her cuntlips gaped wider, offering him an unobstructed view of her vaginal interior and inviting entry by his tongue. He obliged her immediately, thrusting the lingual probe deep between the fleshy flanges which guarded the sacred opening to her womb.
"Aaaaaaaaannnngggggg," she grunted, shuddering when his tongue tip worked its way inside. She tried to roll up at him, so that she could control the depth of his insertion, but he wouldn't allow it. His arm pinned her to the mattress, pressing her knees against her, and holding her pussy helplessly open to his plundering exploring tongue. It felt wonderful!
She could feel him searching for her clitoris, his tonguetip plowing gently through gelatinous folds of cuntflesh in quest of the tiny erection. The excited nubbin of pleasure began growing for him, expanding in size and giving his cunt lapping tongue an easier target to hit. When he found it, she expelled her breath with a sensuous rush of warm air.
"Ooooooooooooohhhhhh," she intoned. "Yyyyyeeeeesssss, that feeeeeeelllllllss sssooooo goooooooooooooood." She was gasping for breath, like a drowning swimmer who had just been pulled from the water. It almost sounded as if she was losing control of her emotions. And that turned Matrone on even more.
Still pinning her legs against her, he clambered up onto the bed. There he stood poised on his knees, his erect and throbbing joystick pointing directly into the opening slash of her pussy. Moving closer to the puckering slit, he pushed her legs back with his hand, forcing the points of her turgid pink nipples to dig deeper into the skin of her knees. Her pussy spread open even further. Placing the tip of his cock against it, he swabbed at her cuntal flanges, using his prick like a paint brush to coat them with a sheen of her own vaginal fluids.
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh," she sighed, her entire body vibrating with sensuous pleasure. She placed the soles of her feet on his shoulders, lifting her buttocks clear of the bedsheet and offering herself to him lewdly, her cunt begging wordlessly for the insertion of his cock. "Fuck me," she murmured softly. "Please! Fuck me now."
Matrone, needing no further encouragement, fell forward, his prick finding its own way to the soft-membraned folds of convoluting cuntflesh guarding the entry to her sex. It felt soft and infinitely deep, and he thought for an instant that he would be swallowed up in it. He drove deeper and further, plowing a path to the hottest depths of her volcanic epicenter.
The donna squirmed beneath him, her naked buttocks pinned to the sheet like a butterfly in a glass exhibit case. Her breasts slapped heavily at her knees and her thighs as he bent her almost double in his search for her core. Her softness was all around him, enveloping his rigid organ in syrupy warmth and bathing its iron hardness in steamy heated moisture. His penis was filling her body, stuffing it like a piglet being trussed for roasting. And although she feared that her pussy would burst-split open by the bigness of his bludgeoning member-her body craved more of it.
So she lifted her ass up against him, using her feet on his shoulders for leverage. The movement brought the sheath of her pussy riding higher on the shank of his love-dagger, slamming the hair-covered ridge of his pubic bone against her own furry hump. Then, taking her feet from his shoulders, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling his body tightly against hers and embedding his cock to the hilt in her shuddering vulva. Locking her ankles behind him, she squeezed him against her with all of the strength in her long shapely thighs.
Matrone allowed her to overpower him, falling limply against her and throwing his throbbing cylinder of meat wildly into the pit of her pussy. She could feel its massive head scrape painfully at her cervix, but she didn't mind in the least. Her face distorted lustfully with each resounding contact, and a low guttural grunt of arousal tore bestially from her lips.
"Unh!" she bellowed. "Uuuuuuuuuhhhhh. Oooooooooohhhhhh. Aaaaaaaaaaaaiiiilyyyyyy." Her entire torso was in motion, her naked body bucking below him like a sacrificial virgin in the throes of spiritual ecstasy. She was committed to him, for this one infinite moment in time, her body welded inexorably to his in a mutual quest for bliss and ecstasy. Her fingernails raked long bloody tracks in the hairy skin of his back, heightening his excitement and buoying her to a new level of super-arousal.
Her loins were split like a tomato under the knife, his cock plunging deep in the bloodless gash which bisected them. Rolls of membranous mucus stroked at his pistoning cock, working it over like the brushes at a drive-in carwash. He could feel her sex-moistened flesh dragging wetly over his tool, massaging it from all directions at once and bathing it in tingling vibrating sensuality.
His ass humped forward as he bucked his hotly pulsating flesh into her opening, the hair which surrounded its sinewy base mingling erotically with her own flowing pubic curls. Supporting his weight on his knees and one elbow, he reached with his free hand for the mountainous contour of her bosom, filling his palm with her tit's satiny softness and rolling her nipple between fingers that trembled with passion. It was hard and erect, pointing proudly at the heavens and quivering under his loving tweaking touch.
His cock was juicing freely, oozing rivers of pre-orgasmic lubricant gushing from its tip to mingle with her sex-fluids. The grease eased the motion of his penis in her pussy and reduced the friction of their contact to the barest of minimums. So instead of building rapidly in intensity, his responses mounted slowly, allowing him to ride her until all of her needs were fulfilled.
He could feel her heating up, the juices of her pussy running freer and more copiously. He doubled the tempo of his lunging rhythm, bringing a series of plaintively staccato sobs from her exquisitely tortured lips. "Ooooohhh. Ooooohhh. Ooooohhh," she whimpered. "I'm climbing higher. And higher. But it's such a long way to gooooooo."
Vito grinned, pleased with the way things were going. She was a hell of a woman, and she deserved the best that he could give her. He was taking her up slowly, easing her to plateau after plateau of new sensual discovery, and pausing on each level to give her a thorough opportunity for total enjoyment. But he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. His balls felt like they were on fire, and his cock was so distended that it hurt in spite of the warm soothing jacuzzi into which it had been thrust.
Resolving to bring her off before his own climax began, he pumped harder, rolling his hips in a spiraling circle to gouge at the walls of her pussy with his pivoting weapon. Moving in and out, in and out, he stroked at the inside of her cunt with a pulsating jackhammer of lust, each jabbing thrust bringing her closer to the peak of fulfillment. She could feel the precipice looming just ahead of her-infinite abyss which threatened to swallow her alive. But she offered no resistance.
A fiery tingle, that had started in her vulva was spreading swiftly to the rest of her body, swaddling her loins in simmering vaginal lava and lifting her up to a pinnacle of fulfillment. "Yes, Vito," she panted desperately, "I'm going to cum. I'm going to cum all over your cock. I'm ... I'm ... I'm ... Heeeeeeerrre it cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmms."
She wailed and she moaned, her body writhing mindlessly as the first crashing wave of her orgasmic fulfillment passed resoundingly over her. It grew stronger and more intense as he pummeled her pussy. Blinding flashes of brightly colored light flitted madly across her consciousness and earth-shattering explosions went off repeatedly in her head. It was beautiful! Glorious!
Matrone could feel the change in her, the sudden burst of erotic energy which galvanized her body to hysterical reasonless reaction, whipping her limbs irrationally about on the surface of the bed and tousling her raven hair. Its long silky strands spread erotically around her on the pillow under her head, framing the beauty of her features like the halo in a Renaissance painting. His balls ground almost audibly, pumping a load of semen that was flooding the tubes of his cock. It was engorging them powerfully, forcing its way up into the void and infusing his penis in the tingling glow of pre-ejaculation.
Rosa could feel the mammoth organ swelling inside of her, and she knew that a new flood of gism would soon be filling her passages. There it would mingle with her own erotic juices to form a lewd sexual cocktail that would eventually dribble onto the mattress below her. Closing her eyes tightly, she envisioned the sight of his prick at her portal. The puffy pink lips were drawn back tightly, massaging the skin of his organ like a living electric vibrator. And a whitish river of ooze was working its way slowly out from the bottom-most corner of the dripping slit.
She could feel her twat stretching tighter around him, its membranes expanding elastically in an attempt to accommodate his burgeoning girth. And then, at last, it began ... a bursting, splashing, bubbling fusillade of jetting scum-bugs, shooting from the end of his penis to flood the dripping chamber of her pussy. Like a powerful fire-hose, it spewed spurt after spurt of sizzling semen into her vulval canal, filling each of its folds and every one of its wrinkles. He pumped harder and harder, driving his cock into the hilt inside of her. The excitement built inside him, and he feared that he would shatter, the pieces of his soul flying perilously through the air before crashing in ashes to the ground below.
"Ooooooooohhhhhh, Rrrrroooooooooooossssaaaaaa," he wailed. All efforts at control had been abandoned to the glorious pleasure of lust-fulfilled. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnn." He groaned and he moaned, his body riding hers like a bronc-buster at a rodeo. They pumped oceans of fluid at each other, their juices reacting to cement their loins together for a long instant in eternity. Then, like leaves after a rain, they drifted slowly to the earth, each of them struggling to fill burning lungs with air. At last they lay still, both completely satisfied, their passions fulfilled to a level which exceeded their most fantastic expectations.
Both remained silent for a long shimmering interval, all need for communication having been eliminated by the spontaneous union of their perfectly matched bodies. Then, as soon as their strength returned, they made love again, the donna on top this time. It took longer, and built even more slowly, but when their mutual climax arrived, it was stupendous. Even better than the first time.
When it was ended, Rosa cuddled securely in his arms. Her lips were pressed lovingly to his firm pink nipple, and her tongue toyed lewdly with the skin of his breast. "I'm sorry that you're leaving," she whispered at last. "But I am glad there was a chance for this before you had to go." Matrone said nothing. After a moment, she broke the silence again. "When you arrive back in Sicily," she asked, "will you check on my son Nick? He has great possibilities, but he needs so much help."
"I'll make it my personal project," Vito assured her. "For as long as I'm there." Disengaging himself from her arms, he rose slowly from the bed, searching for his clothes among the rubble on the floor. He would have liked to lie with her forever. But he was flying in the morning and there was still much to be done.
The donna just lay there, reveling in her nakedness while she watched him get dressed. He was handsome and manly, and just looking at him was an erotic experience for her. She thought for a moment of how sweet it would be to retire from the tensions of family leadership and to settle down comfortably with a man like Matrone to warm her bed every night. But it was only a dream, and the ringing of the telephone jolted her back to reality. It was the red extension, her private line. Rolling over, she reached for the receiver.
"Hello," she said softly, speaking into the mouthpiece while she watched Vito fasten the front of his pants. "Tonight? I'm afraid that's impossible. What time will your plane be arriving? I see. Well, if you wait at your hotel, I'll phone you just as soon as I can break away." When she hung up the phone she looked pensive.
"Is anything wrong?" asked Matrone.
But she disregarded his question, preparing to ask one of her own. Mancinelli was coming to Chicago, and she had a decision to make. "I need your advice," she said slowly. Her voice was soft and deliberate. "Your opinion as a man." Matrone was attentive, the smile frozen to his face. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation of her question.
"What would you think," she asked quietly, "of a man who changed his allegiance? A man who broke promises, for the love of a woman, turning against those who were once his allies?"
The Sicilian's dark eyes flashed. He had a pretty good idea of who she was talking about. And although he had never met "diamond Jim," he had already developed a healthy dislike for him. When he spoke, his voice was hard, completely devoid of emotion. "A man who would do that," he responded, "can never be trusted. He is no good to himself or to anyone else. Not even to his woman. If you were planning to include such a man in your family organization, permit me to say that I think you are making a mistake."
"No," she answered slowly. "I was not planning to include him. I just wanted another opinion. Since we are in agreement, there is one more thing I would ask you to do before you go back to Sicily."
"I shall be honored, my Donna," he said with a bow. "It will be my pleasure."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vito Matrone slipped into the airport phone booth, waiting patiently for the sound of an ascending jet plane to subside before making his call. He was ready to leave Chicago at last, the final piece of business having been attended to just a few moments ago. His associates were already gone, departing on an earlier flight. But a last-minute chore delayed him for a few extra hours.
He hadn't bothered telling his men the details, just that he had something to do and would be catching a later plane. This was nothing which concerned them. It was not a business matter, but a favor to be done. For a close personal friend. A favor that gave him great pleasure to do.
He suspected all along that the donna's relationship with Mancinelli had been close enough to be called intimate. And although he was too independent a man to be guilty of anything like jealousy, he was not at all pleased by the thought of her naked body in the arms of the diamond don. So when she asked him to dispose of the New Yorker, he was glad to oblige.
The job had been easy. Too easy to be thought of as work. Mancinelli was waiting in his hotel room, just as Rosa predicted, afraid to leave for a moment lest he miss her call. He was completely unguarded, having decided not to let anyone in his organization get an inkling, yet, of his relationship with the donna. Infatuation had dulled his senses; romance had made him stupid. His spirit was bathed in an aura of joy and his heart was filled with gladness. It never even occurred to him that he might be in danger. Certainly not in Rosa's city.
When Vito knocked on his door, he told only the truth. "The donna sent me," he said softly. "I have to see you for a minute." Mancinelli, dressed only in his underwear and looking like he had just gotten out of bed, admitted him at once. Matrone slipped quickly inside, turning the lock behind him. The don just smiled, anxious to receive Rosa's message.
He lost his look of conviviality, however, when Matrone removed the garrote from his pocket and stepped quickly around behind him. Ideas flashed swiftly through the New Yorker's brain in that final moment of life. He thought of running for his gun or of jumping through the window and hoping for a ledge. He even thought of falling to his knees and pleading for his life. But the last thought he had, as the thin nylon rope tightened around his throat, was of Rosa.
He saw her face-dark and angelic, surrounded by a halo of black silken hair. And he saw her body-soft and sensuously naked on the living room carpet. Then everything went blank.
Matrone did not usually like working with the garrote. It was too personal a weapon-not really suited to his cold and emotionless professionalism. But it did have its advantages. It was clean and it was silent. It was impossible to trace. And it was too common an item to serve as evidence in a murder trial. After all, it was really nothing more than a nylon rope. The kind used for tying heavy packages.
But this time for Vito there was an additional advantage. It brought him closer to his work. It made him a real participant in the destruction of this worm. After holding it tight around Mancinelli's throat for just a little longer than necessary, he let the death-cord slacken, easing the limp cadaver to the floor. Then, returning it to his pocket, he walked calmly from the room.
The afternoon newspapers would carry the story. It made terrific copy, and there hadn't been any real action in Chicago for the past couple of weeks. But Vito couldn't resist telling her himself, taking advantage of this last opportunity to talk with her. Dropping a coin in the telephone slot, he quickly dialed her number.
After a moment, Rosa answered the phone, her voice heavy with interrupted sleep. "Rosa," he said, speaking softly, "I just wanted to let you know that I took care of that problem for you. You should be hearing all about it in a little while."
"Vito," she said huskily. "How can I ever thank you?"
"I'll try and think up a way," he answered.
"Does that mean I'll see you again?" she asked shyly.
"You can count on it," he said affirmatively. "The next time I get to the United States. No matter where it is, I'll see you. And that's a promise."
"Good-bye, Vito," she said softly. "I'll miss you."
