Trophy 10

After she screamed her breath out so many times that Bella almost convinced herself she couldn’t breathe anymore, she collapsed. The cold floor mocked her. She wouldn’t stay down on it.

She spotted the thermos where Frank had left it, on the rim of her barless cage, and she ran over to it just to kick it away. With that done, she tried screaming some more, but she was hoarse and her throat pained her. She went to the cot and laid down on it.

The chain felt weighty around her waist. It was heavy-duty stuff. She wouldn’t be able to break it in a thousand years. She pulled on it, then pushed it away, then pulled on it again. Maybe she could hang herself with it. No—there wasn’t anything high enough off the ground. And she didn’t want to give Frank the convenience of disposing of her without violating his precious code.

She felt like a ping-pong ball, ricocheting between terrified delirium and a fatigued attempt to puzzle out her situation. Cold sweat came over her, plastering her lingerie to her body, and then hot perspiration when she panicked—Bella seemed to have so much energy to be frightened and none to think rationally.

There was only one hope she could come up with. Frank had drugged Vito and Romano, not killed them. Not unless he’d gone back later, after he’d knocked her out, or had an accomplice do it. But if anyone seemed the type for such indirectness, it wasn’t Frank.

So they were alive. Able to report that she was missing. She doubted they knew it was the Punisher, but at least the family was somewhat alerted.

And why hadn’t he killed them, if Frank was so determined to retain the element of surprise? Was he really that merciful? Did they not meet whatever criteria he had that made them worthy of slaughter?

If so, that was a good sign. He wouldn’t kill her. His bullshit code gave her at least a shred of protection. And maybe he really would let her go, after he’d killed all the buttons and torpedoes and capos that had been her world from birth till now.

Had she meant it when she said she hated the Beluccis, that she’d let Frank kill them if it were up to her? Even Bella didn’t know. Vito was at least a decent lay and Romano could be sweet. But they all had their dark sides. Bella knew the Beluccis. They didn’t make their money with office pools or cheating on taxes.

Hell, she couldn’t even honestly say they had dark sides. Polite they might have been to her, but that was fearful cravenness, not manners. They were all worried about touching the boss’s stuff. And unless they were in Vincenzo’s physical presence, they gave their lechery free rein. If you painted their hands black, Bella wouldn’t have been able to wear white for thirty seconds, not around any of ‘em.

They were pieces of shit, the kind of individuals you put on the lifeboat last if you gave them a seat at all. Why did she give a fuck if the Punisher executed every one of the bastards? It’d be like kicking a bunch of cellphone addicts out of a movie theater: that’d only improve the show.

Now she felt the ping-pong ball crossing the table again. Only it wasn’t fear she was giving into. It was a kind of bloodlust, and Bella was delirious with it as she ever could be with fright.

What did she owe the Mob? What had they ever done for her but make her life this misery, this half-gilded cage? No freedom, no purpose, sex passing for love, opulence passing for happiness. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. If it would bring her liberty, she’d gladly sell them out.

Hell, it might enrich her life. If the Punisher did manage to kill Vincenzo and all his lieutenants and relations, Bella stood to inherit a tidy sum.

She tried to picture it. All the riches, none of the curse that had produced it. She couldn’t even imagine, with her tired mind, but she did feel a warm glow at the thought. It was a gamble, but so was a parachute when you were in a crashing plane.

Did she really want to stay in that plane all the way down, just because she was in a first-class seat? Because Bella saw now that a long life as a gangster moll might as well be a fall from great height; she’d enjoy both experiences about the same and end up in the same place.

“Castle!” she cried, her voice rejuvenated, hers again. “I’ll do it! I’ll tell you all about the criminal activities of the Belucci and Scaglione crime families!”

But just then, Frank didn’t trust himself to be anywhere near her.

***

“Deeper! Harder! Oh! Oh yes! That’s it, Vito! More! Unh! Mooorre! Unnnhh! Unnh!” she cried out, turning her attention from Vito to the more she wanted. “Come here, Romy.”

Hesitantly he did.

“That’s it. Take your cock out. Yes—nice and hard.”

She took his hand off his hardened erection and replaced it with her own, holding him up to her lips. She greeted it first with kisses, then with spirals of her tongue. When even that taste wasn’t enough for her, Bella took him into the silken dampness of her mouth and delighted in riding one man while she fellated another.

Vito was surprisingly excited to share her. He pumped his hips, going deeper and faster into Bella’s gripping passage. Eyes closed, he swung his hips too, sending blissful convulsions through Bella as she balanced on his phallic thrusts. She began a series of spasms, synchronized to how she bounced on Vito’s groin and drove her head down to Romano’s lap. Each built on the last, on and on, until she was at a blinding crescendo. Bella dissolved into rapture as Vito shuddered beneath her, bellowing out the completion of his efforts.

Barely remembering to keep her tongue and lips active, Bella managed to bring off Romano. He vibrated, then finally went still, and Bella had a second source of warmth spreading through her body, bringing with it a liquid satiation. Bella felt as content as she could be—long experience had taught her it would be some time before any nagging doubt returned to her pristine existence.

Smiling to herself, she spat out her bodyguard and rolled off of Vito, feeling that she hadn’t settled for anything. This sense of peacefulness could only be had by a woman audacious enough to cheat under Vincenzo’s nose, with his own precious son, and she’d gotten to be on top too.

Vito woke slowly from the odd, dreamy blend of his memories and Bella’s. He felt sure he had her pegged correctly, in both senses of the word—she wasn’t such a tough nut to crack, sexually or mentally. If she wanted to use him to get back at his dad, why not? It was good fucking.

If anything, Vincenzo should see the bargain in it. Vito was taking care of his wife’s needs, making sure she didn’t fuck some nigger and catch crotch-rot. No, they were keeping it all in the family.

Family… Vito almost slipped back under, but he was shaken then, jolted into the waking world by Romano. The bodyguard was pulling on his clothes and trying to wake Vito up, both at the same time.

“Get up, Vito, fuck! Get up! Bella’s gone, shit, she’s gone! We gotta call Don Belucci, his wife’s been kidnapped, that motherfucking nut took her!”

Vito held up a hand; with the other he rubbed at the sleep in his eyes. “Easy. Calm down. Nobody’s calling anyone.”

“Yeah, no shit, that bastard took our phones!”

That was actually a relief to Vito. He was too smart to keep anything incriminating on his phone and it kept Romano from doing anything hasty.

He felt unmoored, every moment seeming wildly imprecise as he staggered to his feet. Like he was trying to move through solid Jell-O while the only thing that greeted him was wispy air.

Romano steadied him. Vito patted him on the shoulder thankfully.

“Think, Romy. What are we gonna say happened if we call this in? That we were balling the don’s wife when some nutjob busted in here and coitus interruptus?”

Romano saw the wisdom in what he said. “Yeah… yeah, that won’t work. What are we gonna do?”

“First we’re going to sit down and think.” Vito gestured to the bed. Romano obligingly sat. He might’ve been older than Vito, more experienced, but he was a born follower. He had none of the wolfish verve Vito had inherited from his father.

Vito started getting dressed, but only started. He pulled on his boxers, then bent to rearrange his inside-out pants. He reached into his pockets. There was no cell phone and his wallet felt a lot thinner than before. Then there was the other thing he kept in his pocket…

“We’ve gotta tell Don Belucci something,” Romano argued. “I’m her bodyguard! I’m supposed to know where she is. How am I even supposed to explain this place?”

“Don’t worry,” Vito told him. He flicked the blade out of his pocket knife. “You won’t have to.”

He thrust out with the knife, digging it into Romano’s jugular and then stamping the blade back into the side of his neck, again and again, in case he’d missed it the first time, the second time, the third time—

Romano gurgled on blood, looking at Vito with betrayal in his eyes like a guttering flame, but Vito was already playing out what he would have to do next.

Wash up in the bathroom, at least enough that he could put on his outerwear without it soaking through, then getting to his apartment. Wash again. Dispose of this set of clothes. Get a new cell phone, fast.

He’d have to remember to rid himself of the knife and pick up a new one of those too, though he thought he’d stick with the same brand. The thing was proving pretty damn well-made for what he’d paid for it…

Vito smelled the tart scent from Romano soiling himself and realized the bodyguard was dead. He hadn’t noticed. Oh well: better overkill than underperformance. He went to wash up, taking a moment as he scrubbed to consider what a shame it was. The man was almost as good a cocksucker as his dear stepmom.