For Blood and Beast: Tomas, For Blood (Garko Book 1)

by Gia P. Leonne

  Can the oldest Mississippi Prison, the (MSP), also known as Parchman Farm and the Prison Without Walls,

  Survive the storms and a Beast...?"

  Fucking drama.

  The weather was its own beast. Mississippi is known for its turbulent storms, anyone heard of Katrina, and add fucking global warming... yeah, it's a thing. But they'd rather blame me.

  I'd take it as long as it served my cause. However, citizens launched a campaign, they wanted me to go home and questioned why my cursed-Italian-New York Yankee, ass was not at Rikers.

  The outcry made Agent Riley nervous. Believing our scheme compromised, he pressed the FBI, who had initially indicted me, to push the Mississippi Governor to exonerate me, as was planned, only the release came much sooner than later, as in immediately. The Governor was reluctant, having been privy to the farce from the beginning, someone had promised I would remain behind bars until his 'tough on crime' campaign won him reelection. This farce was now a disaster. That is until Ernesto Massimo Garko paid a special visit to the governor's mansion.

  Who called Nonno in on the commotion, no one is willing to confess?

  I debate whether to inform Ernesto of my surprise International call. I'm sure it's best I do. Don Marco, Donavan Lucian Marco, just so happens to be a Mafia Don with the name Don, but I digress, he has no business calling me personally. His role as the acting chairman of The Siculi, the oldest Italian organized Mafia sect, dictates he does not lift a finger to reach out to minor Boss's or ex Boss's in my case. Yet he has passed over numerous staff, just to listen to how I would respond personally. Nothing good could come from this.

  "Ciao,"

  "Ciao, Tomas, wonderful to hear you are alive and busy. Your resiliency against all odds is remarkable." I stop in my tracks.

  "Thanks. How can I help you, Don Marco?"

  "Tomas, I am an old man who believes in signs. Do you know what the signs are telling me on this day?"

  "I am a man to follow instinct also, which sometimes I can only reason because my gut says so. What are the signs telling you, Don Marco?"

  "Transformation of great proportions is coming to us by way of force. This change will undoubtedly stain what once was pure. However, we will survive to kill another day."

  Fuck was that a threat? And to what? Whom? Did he just use my name or was I not to take him literally?

  "Don Marco, any alteration on the horizon will need the force of the temblor plummeting Campania in 80'."

  "Ah, yes, devastating the village of Conza over 2,000 people dead. Who do you think could bring as much Mal upon us, as that? ... Anyhow, I have other news. We are hosting the seminar here in Naples. Some believe you will have a seat on The Committee at this time. You should prepare either way. You have been called."

  The Committee is The Siculi, for lack of a better term wife, a little companion. Formed in 1936 based on expansion opportunities, manly in the West. Thus, the American Italian Mafia was born shortly after. Now the Siculi doesn't actively do shit, they have all the power to maim through a phone call here or a meeting there. All it takes to have an entire Mafia house, which sometimes consists of two hundred or more people, wiped out is the agreement of five people.

  "Thank you, Don Marco. As I have not ascended, I will take your invite as a vote of confidence in mine and Ernesto's future endeavors."

  "Yes, I see. Goodbye Tomas." Click

  I'm still in wonder. Fuck was that shit?

  His call comes a day after our La Familia meeting is no coincidence, either. A gathering Don Marco shouldn't know occurred. If you gave La Familia enough rope someone would hang himself. I did not suspect the rat or rats had the ear of a Siculi. La Familia, the underground, the criminal underbelly of Garko's, whatever they call themselves in my eyes they are not viable as a group to warrant, Siculi attention.

  Everyone wants to be a Big player in My City… My World. I'll award truth to the headlines they sensationalized into lies—weather anomalies, Dark Beasts haunting a prison. This time, when death strikes by lightning-- justified, my name will appear.

  Too bad no one has prepared for the storm.

  CHAPTER 14

  An Invitation

  Evee

  Please follow me for a moment, grant me license for some wackiness, while I explain my current state of mind.

  A car named Lust is on a racetrack, as it passes each marker its speed or, intensity increases. The first-mile marker has a message, it reads– common sense ends here—which I can attest I passed, too long ago. The second-mile marker reads— Batshit Crazy begins here—it points onward, also a skull crossbones icon lets you know to detour would be wise. I ignore it and speed ahead,

  I hear my mother's voice, "Evelyne, why do you march heavily, where you should tread lightly?"

  No time for mother dearest.

  Of course, by now the car has derailed itself and passenger, off the road, and caught fire.

  Why such a dire fate for a vehicle named lust and its passenger? What metaphor could relay my current state of insanity? The need to cut a lock of Tomas's hair, frame it, and keep it, forever and ever?

  Somewhere I fixated on the man and forgot the mission. Not my mother's mission of marriage and control, but another possibly less worthy one—sex. I want him to fill me up with cock, over and over again.

  What has sent me into my latest frenzy? His absence. Does he ignore me willingly? He's not on a sickbed, unable to come to me. I've checked, he is well. I stopped going to the lounge because too many eyes were on me, there, confident Tomas would search and find me. Then I could innocently claim to those who were against my pursuing him, "He sought me out. What was I supposed to do?"

  Truth hurts— that a man with resources like Tomas should have found me by now.

  Just last week, two men found and tracked me for days—human traffickers I am sure of it--. They finally tried to corner me in the 'Which Wich' restaurant. Both had an 'I eat steak and more steak for breakfast lunch and dinner,' appearance, causing them to stick out as soon as they followed me inside. I ditched them, circled back around to watch them as they entered a vehicle. My phone didn't get a good picture of the license plate. The numbers and one letter clear enough to copy, I'm running through a finder program. Traffickers will be punished.

  My point is I hesitated to think just maybe, a desperate Tomas sent them in his pursuit for the girl who got away before I began filming them live with defaming commentary.

  His rejection is endangering my life.

  It's pissing me off.

  I tell myself, no Evee, no more, mountain hiking with binoculars around the cliffs that surround his house. Tomas is not for you. But soon I am drawn in, like Big dick gay porn. I know it's not meant for me, but fuck it's a lot of dick, they are huge, and usually come in multiples attached to gorgeous men… men named Donovan and Derrick. I am rambling. Just another consequence of no common sense.

  No worries tonight, however, cause Evee Basso has the most delicious distraction, from porn and a neglectful Mr. Garko. An exclusive invitation to the Pit.

  "Cynthia"

  "Yes, Chica."

  "Guess where our hot asses are going tonight."

  "Nowhere chica', I got a date… with a man."

  "Oh. Well ok, I guess I'll just go stag to the Pit. Bitch"

  "Ahhh! Ahhhh!" She screams. "I'm going to wear my red leather corset and your new boots. You talented Bitch how did this happen?" She never asks to wear my things, mostly she'd drown in my clothes. It warms my heart— Cynthia and I sister-like relationship.

  "What about your date… with a man."

  "Fuck him. Spill it, Chica."

  "I don't know. You know I have been questioning people at the gym how to get one but everyone is fucking tight-lipped about it. I've outright begged even let it be known I would blindly be someone’s plus one. And nothing until now. The invitation came by messenger."

  "Oh, that Facebook Internet shit might not even be real, Chica."

  "A door
messenger, like a real person, came to our door and handed me an envelope with embalmed lettering and a wax seal."

  "Hmmm, fancy … is my corset going to be tacky."

  "Of course, not it's a fight, in a pit, underground somewhere. I'm getting ready here at the gym. Pick you up at nine."

  Casing the inside guests, I am glad we are dressed in our best slut apparel. It is a mixed crowd of street kings, and corporate big rollers, with their big boob'd wives or escorts. Socialites looking for a taste of the wild side and other fighters you spot by their Lycra shirts advertising the ability of pain they might put on the next opponent. These people fill a venue with no chairs, just bleachers wider than your average school gym. Wall to wall bodies pack the underground warehouse whose design theme screams Dungeon of the cruelest Master.

  Walking to find an empty spot we miss the first fight, which ended as soon as it started, but notice a good one right before the main event. The lights flicker and the music rumbles, vibrations under my feet excite me and I am sucked into the crowd's hyped vibe. I have long forgotten to search for our mysterious benefactor. If he watches me or expects anything for his gift is of no consequence, now. The bass increases and my neighbors begin to stomp their feet. Cynthia and I join them.

  "Hell yeah," the intoxicated crowd screams, along with the music I do not recognize, but the singer's raspy voice chants in a whisper,

  Let The Bodies Hit The Floor,

  Let The Bodies Hit The Floor.

  Some men behind us shout, "Oh shit, YouTube's national anthem."

  "Dudes, that's Drowning Pool's, Bodies. Force is rocking my old shit." Did he say, Force? The crowd joins in counting,

  One ... Let The Bodies Hit The Floor

  Two … Let The Bodies Hit The Floor

  Three … Let The Bodies Hit The…

  The entire arena screams in unison,

  'FLOOOOOOOR!!!'

  The entire crowd goes insane.

  My eyes wide, my body thrums from the music and hyped crowd atmosphere, I turn to look at Cynthia, when our eyes meet, we both scream and laugh. I am fucking loving the States and I love this dark place. My neighbor above me is a bit over the top in his enthusiasm so I keep my face forward waiting for him to tumble down his raised bleacher. I'm ready to do a quick side lean and permit his fall without taking me with him. As I search through the crowd, bright lights— I doubted this place of darkness allowed— fill the space and the music stops, drawing our attention to the fighter. I observe a pair of golden eyes kissed by the sun, rimmed with long, dark lashes, lock on my face … the fighter… Force?

  Only… its Tomas.

  But strange, not my Tomas.

  His six-man entourage stands motionless dramatizing his entrance. A feral glare captures me, nostrils that flare, lips tight over his mouth guard, he radiates aggression, hunger … for me? I turn to look behind me. Possibly there is someone else.

  "Chica, that motherfucker lookin' at you like he know' you. You know Force?"

  Oh. My. Oh my... I am going to fuck him one day, soon. Stare for stare, his glare is paralyzing.

  His chest contracts

  Inhale…

  Exhale…

  This time I join him.

  Deep breath in…

  Deep breath out…

  Lamaze worthy synchrony. We are ready for a baby. I smile, bite my lip, and his nose flares; my stallion is ready. My eyes and eyebrows must be ready to pop off my head. Force breaks our trance to glance above my head. I turn to see what stole his attention. My partying neighbors hold a sign it reads EL FORZE. A woman comments, "He is fucking huge, like Dwayne Johnson, the Roc huge." I agree.

  Had he been as tall in the lounge? A man next to me says, "Damn that's one big Italian. I didn't think they came that big."

  "I heard he's a half breed," an anonymous onlooker says.

  "Ohhh," they all nod in unison

  .

  CHAPTER 15

  Vanity

  Tomas

  "Your probation is over, what have you to prove, to these people?"

  A better question is what the fuck is he doing here at the Pit, in his Italian, three-piece suit?

  "Nonno, we always meet in the best places."

  "My point exactly," he picks an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. "I put money on you tonight. You gonna beat this kid's ass or what?"

  "What did you do to me the time I told Mrs. Zolla, she was cagna grasso."

  "You mean the only time you called someone's wife a fat bitch. Masi," he called Leonnne.

  "Boss?"

  "Go put ten more G's on my grandson."

  Mrs. Zolla was Ernesto's next-door neighbor who ratted on Donny and me for some stupidity we were guilty as shit of committing. Ernesto made me apologize and beat me until he sweat, through his linen shirt.

  The first and only time I saw my nonno sweat. I remember screaming, between strikes, for Donny to call 911. Donny was only five years old and although frightened to death, still ran to grab someone's phone. He nervously fumbled with the dialing, screaming while our uncle Torro chased after him around the yard. I was eleven, with a black eye, bruises all over my body, and a sprained arm. CPS never showed. Good times.

  It was not my last beating, but when I turned fifteen and my height grew to 6'0, and my weight 190 lbs. they ceased. Yes, I looked like an underfed grown man, but I did not stop growing until I was nineteen, measuring 6'4 and 240 lbs. due to my time spent in junior boxing training. Yes, I was one big motherfucking teenager.

  The middle school counselor, after many teacher conferences, told my nonno as he saw it, I only had a couple of choices. It didn't matter, I had tested with an IQ of a future scholar —I'd been disciplined, sent to the office for my aggressive tendencies towards my classmates half the school year, and absent the other half. This path suggested the justice system would take care of me well before I reached any college campus. He suggested sports, as a possible therapy to teach me discipline. First, individual sports— team building could come later— and boxing he thought fit my body type. As a side note, he told Nonno getting my ass kicked in the ring might trigger empathy towards my fellow classmate-- victims. So, I boxed.

  He was wrong. You cannot cure mean.

  "This is your last fight. Thought I'd come to cheer you on."

  I laughed. "I've never even heard you yell. Now you're going to cheer."

  "Figure of speech, figlio."

  "Who's this kid you're fighting?"

  "A man who's going to get the shit beat out of him."

  "Our venture ready for mediation," He asks even when he knows the answer.

  "Si, I expect you to see it through, especially the trip to Villa de Moraes." I remind him.

  "Si, you meet with the Blood and his friends tonight?"

  "Here, after the fight."

  "Is it safe, these different men who fight each other without ceasing, to gather in one place to listen to you, an Italian?"

  "They would come here without the meeting to see the fight, like they do every month, without casualties. Jengo's associate runs a tight ship, any fists thrown outside the ring, or guns going off within a mile radius get you and your crew banned. Everyone covets an invitation to the Pit. It's the safest place in The City tonight."

  "Force, you're up. Let's go." I rise to enter the arena, a girl waiting outside the door, steps out.

  "Stop looking at me like that?"

  "Like what?" she purses her glossy lips.

  "Like new pussy that wants to get fucked."

  "You want to see me later. After?" she bites her bottom lip.

  "I'm busy after."

  "After that?" Her persistence in front of everyone feeds my ego. Yet surprisingly, I don't experience the interest for her, my typical type of female, built for pleasure.

  I keep my options open.

  "It will be more like morning."

  "Doesn't matter." She slips me a piece of paper that I hand to Tank before we walk out.

  The atm
osphere of the Pit is amazing, appreciation, and honor. The arena hierarchy is built on one's skill, and not a hyped reputation. No one here is afraid to hurt an ex-mafioso Boss for fear of retaliation. They would beat my ass if they could. Some imagine most Italian crime bosses as fat, pasta eating sociopaths whose chances of breaking a sweat is highest when pushing the phone number of their enforcers. My body is in the best training shape of my thirty-one-year-old life, steroid-free, thanks to the Jackson State Prison. My bisnonna once told me 'don't feed what you don't want to keep'. Well, the beast is hungry.

  White cloth catches my attention to my right, a banner. What do I discover standing under this sign, mouth pursed and eyebrows meted together? I almost laugh at her perplexed expression. Evelyne Ponti-Basso. Yes, I'd found her and lured her here.

  The music begins,

  The cd is screaming the lyrics...

  One, nothing wrong with me!

  Two, nothing wrong with me!

  I think about my therapist, briefly.

  It was a risk, not talking to Evee, but sending an anonymous invite, but it was worth the surprise I witness on her face, now. Everything with this girl is an adventure to me, new, fresh, and tempting as fuck. I was right she couldn't resist a fight at the Pit. I found her sparring, at my local gym, beating the shit out of another girl. Fuck if seeing her ass go untamed on that chick, did not make my cock hard. Her Machina sparring gear, someone painted on, and a shoulder tattoo which reads "Sweat Bullets, Throw Bombs," her outline perfection, full, strong, and tight.

  Look at her now, mouth agape, face flushed our connection is indisputable to onlookers. As she breathes in sync with me, I know I could reach up, drag her to the floor and fuck her in front of all these people— she would not mind one bit. While I revel in the power, I have over her, she bites her lip.

  I experience the surge, knees first, weakness from hunger … need, then it spreads to my cock. In front of all these fucking people. That would break fucking Twitter, Instagram, and Tik Tok.

  Beast stirs, 'Innocence'… 'Mine', he growls.

  And Donatello nudges me, "fuck you doin?" His look says.