Slipping on a long T-shirt and white panties, she went downstairs and fixed herself a couple eggs over easy, microwaving a pre-made chicken-fried steak. It was her only meal of the day and filled her. Half way though the meal, sitting at the head of the long mahogany dining room table that sat 14, she realised she wasn’t feeling sick after all. It was just the blues.
They came almost as regularly as her period, not coinciding with it, but washing over her like polluted air, causing a sadness, a heartache deep inside, a depression that thankfully lasted only a few hours. She finished her meal in silence, poured herself a tall glass of Zeller Schwartz Katz and went into the study to curl up in front of the big-screen TV, an enormous, flat-screen high-definition Sony, 36 inches high and 48 inches wide.
She channel-surfed from reality shows to old time sit-coms to the movie channels. Looking around she wondered what the place would be like with kids. She could almost see a toddler bouncing from sofa to love seat, maybe a little boy on a tricycle banging into the desk and easy chairs. The babies had dark hair.
Who would be their father?
She took another sip of wine. Playing around was one thing, but who would sire her children? Hot sex was terrific but she wanted more. Lucy wanted the everlasting kiss of love, she wanted wild, passionate love. Could she find both?
She had the best men standing in line for her. Then again, she was the Mafia Whore, the Mafia Aphrodite and in the last analysis, she would follow Aphrodite’s lead. She reminded herself she knew what to do.
She stopped at the opening credits of a movie on HBO, The Bourne Identity. She’d read a Robert Ludlum book once, started a couple others but it was the same book. The wine was soothing and it wasn’t all that bad, alone in the big house, watching Italian fishermen pull Matt Damon from the Mediterranean.
Lucy was never completely alone with the twins walking around outside, coming into the kitchen occasionally for something to drink or a snack. Cal and Earl would never disturb her. She’d have to seek them out and tonight a nearly life-sized Matt Damon on the big screen was enough. Jesus, he was good as an American James Bond, didn’t need the gadgets, just muscle and intellect. She realised the blues had slipped away just as Matt Damon escaped the US Embassy after slamming a few Marines around before he found the girl in the alley.
Lucy was hooked.
Chapter 8
Well, Let’s Hope You Saved Some For Me
AL “THE THRILL” RACCONTO disliked shopping as much as the next guy. Most men only went to a shopping centre when they couldn’t find what they needed at a stand-alone store. They went directly to the correct store in the mall, to the correct section, found what they needed, bought it and got the hell out as quickly as possible, avoiding the old ladies sniffing perfume, the bored husbands holding their wives’ purses while their women tried on outfit after outfit. They dodged the mall rats cruising the clothing stores when they weren’t in the video-DVD stores. Along the way a man would check out the pretty women, but that was about it.
As soon as they’d arrived at Lucy’s beach house and had a quick lunch, Lucy asked if he’d like to go shopping in Gulf Shores. ‘They have some great little shops and boutiques.’
‘Sure.’ He told her he’d like nothing better and wondered how that came out of his mouth when she went to change. He thought maybe she would put on a miniskirt and when she bent over there’d be a show, but no, she came out in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt tied at the waist.
‘You gonna wear that?’ She nodded to his dress pants, so he went in and climbed into the lone pair of jeans he’d brought along. No T-shirt, so he had to settle for a white polo shirt. They took her red Peugeot, her twin bodyguards following in one of the black SUVs.
On the way from Pass Christian, she’d played with his leg a couple times on the drive to Alabama, but that was it, so far. Was her passion waning for him? On the drive from the beach house to Gulf Shores, he kept thinking – Damn, she looks great in those cut-off jeans, that little round ass. He’d day-dreamed about Lucy Incanto for weeks now.
Holding her hand as they walked along the sidewalk past a retro-record store and a jet-ski outlet was nice, but it didn’t seem like the same woman who’d leaned over to show off her perfume before showing off her panties in that little pull-up-her-stockings routine then going naked-crazy at Ames Skye Amusement Park.
She’d thanked him for the silver roller coaster and asked about the weather in Kansas City but the gleam wasn’t in her eyes and he wondered if he’d lost out to one of the other suitors. It didn’t take long for his family to discover who his competition was, a Perito from New Orleans, a Cavalcare from Miami, a Furfante from Chicago and a Comodo from Philly. His uncle, the Don, took Al aside and warned him about keeping his head about all this. ‘You can’t let some trim draw us into something nobody wants. Business is business and our business means thinking with the big head, not the little one.’
‘Then I guess I’ll leave le lupo behind,’ Al joked, which was a mistake. Dons never joke. All he got was a lifeless, shark stare. Before he left KC, two of the Don’s soldati searched his luggage for le lupo, the sawed-off, 10-gauge double-barrel shotgun used in the old country to assassinate fellow Mafiosi. Of course they found no shotgun.
‘I was just joking, for Christ sake.’ He didn’t bother telling them about the phone call from Ox Cavalcare.
Lucy was window shopping only, not going into any of the places, not the shoe stores or the jewellery stores or even the purse emporium. The salty smells of gulf water and sand were pleasant, reminding him this was a vacation. She led him to a nondescript brown building with leather belts, briefcases and suitcases in the small display window. The AC felt deliciously cool.
The old man behind the counter smiled at Lucy and said, ‘I’ll get it,’ and walked away from the counter into a back room. He was a tiny man, balding with wispy white hair. He came out with a present wrapped in silver paper, a blue bow atop. Lucy took it and thanked him. He nodded and said, ‘Any time.’
As they stepped back on the sidewalk, both had to put their sunglasses back on. Lucy pulled something else from her purse, a small white envelope, which she slipped under the bow, turned and handed the present to Al.
‘Happy Birthday, Signore Racconto.’ Al was too stunned to reply. It was his 24th birthday. He’d fudged with Lucy earlier, not wanting to sound so young, but she knew all along, the minx.
‘I … uh … thank you.’
‘Close your mouth and open the present,’ she said.
He did and found a sterling silver set of Mont Blanc pens, roller-ball and ball-point, each with his initial A.R. on them.
‘In the south we read the card first.’
‘Sorry.’ He opened the card which was blank outside and a lilting script in blue ink within that read: It wasn’t Paris, but we’ll always have Ames Skye. Ti Amo, L.’
Ti Amo? ‘You love me?’ He looked into those wild brown eyes.
She put her sunglasses back on and said, ‘A little.’
The denim dress Lucy wore to take him to visit the USS Alabama was more like it. It looked like a vest, sleeveless with four buttons in front and so short it hardly covered her ass. Even with all four buttons fastened, the dress barely closed in front and as she walked, a hint of extra-sheer white panties could be seen by someone in front.
He’d noticed as they crossed the parking lot of Battleship Park where the decommissioned WWII battlewagon was moored next to a tiny WWII submarine, the USS Drum. So did everyone else in the lot, including two big women wearing muumuus. Nothing pissed off a big woman more than a slim woman showing off her body. Thankfully, Lucy and Al, the twins tagging behind, easily out-distanced the muumuus to the souvenir shop where one of the twins bought four passes so they could tour the battleship.
The sky had become overcast and there was a nice breeze flowing in from the bay, which lifted Lucy’s hair and ruffled her dress as they walked past rows of guns along the port side of the ship. Al read the little s
igns next to the guns, 50 calibre machine guns, 20mm cannons, 40mm cannons, 38 calibre cannons all the way up to the behemoths, the 16-inch 45 calibre guns in three rotating turrets.
Lucy seemed interested in the history of the ship when they went inside, stopping to read the plaques and printed notices. At least it was air-conditioned inside. Even with the breeze, the humidity outside was brutal. As she bent over to read the plaques, the bottom of her ass peeked out from under her dress, causing a throbbing erection on Al.
‘This was the sixth ship named Alabama,’ she said, pointing to a painting of a sailing ship. ‘The first, a 74-gun ship-of-the-line, launched in 1819.’
1819? Al’s family, and he was sure the Incantos, were still in Sicily back then. He wondered if they knew each other. He’d asked his old man once if the Raccontos were Mafiosi back in the old country.
‘How the hell would I know? That isn’t even our real name. Our great-great, I don’t know, one of those guys, changed it when he ‘cumma to Amerika’. Racconto was a village in Sicily. Destroyed by the British army during World War II. You saw Patton. That guy Montgomery had all that trouble in Sicily. Not from the fuckin’ Italians, the cowards, but the fuckin’ Germans.’
‘Then what’s our real name?’ Al was eleven.
‘I think it was Nuzzolillo or Biondolillo, one of those big Guinea names. Ask your grandfather.’
He did and his grandfather thought their name was Fuscarillo. So much for lineage when you’re a mongrel from the dusty hills of Europe’s most conquered island.
Lucy pointed out another painting of a sailing ship, reading from the framed print-out next to it. ‘Legendary Confederate raider CSS Alabama captured or sank 69 Union vessels during the War Between the States. Built in Liverpool, England in 1862, she was sunk by the USS Kearsarge off Cherbourg, France in 1864.’
‘Liverpool,’ Al said. ‘Where the Beatles came from right?’
Lucy took his hand. ‘About a century later.’
Apparently the Alabama they stood within saw a lot of action in WWII. Lucy read aloud from the paintings and photos they passed, ‘Kwajalein, Truk, Palau, Yap, Saipan …’
He’d heard of Saipan. Marines, right?
‘ … Battle of the Philippine Sea, capture of Guam, Leyte, Luzon, Formosa and Okinawa.’
He’d definitely heard of Okinawa. It was a bad one.
She stopped and read for the last plaque in the line. ‘On 17 July 1945, USS Alabama bombed a Japanese home island, Honshu, about 50 miles north of Tokyo, hurling 1,500 16-inch shells into mills and factories under cover of darkness.’
It didn’t get interesting for Al until they started down the steep stairways, more like ladders. A couple old veterans, wearing those VA or VFW hats with ribbons all over them, leered up at Lucy as she came down the ladders, ass first.
But it wasn’t until they started ascending the ladders up the superstructure did they pick up a group of explorer scouts who followed Al and Lucy’s ass up the ladders, looking up and asking, ‘What’s up there?’ As if they were interested in anything beyond the fine globes of Lucy’s behind.
‘We’re not explorer scouts,’ a red-headed guy said when Al asked. ‘We’re ROTC students from General P.G.T. Beauregard Junior College.’
Jesus, these guys can’t forget the Civil War, Al thought. Don’t they know they lost?
Lucy felt their eyes as if their eyelashes were brushing the cheeks of her ass as she went slowly up the ladders. When she looked back down, standing over them with her legs spread, she saw the lust in their eyes as they looked at her crotch, Al, the students, the twins. The panties she’d chosen were completely sheer except for a white cotton panel over her pussy lips. The crack of her ass and her bush were there for their perusal.
The old vets got her hot down below, but it was the eager young faces of the ROTC guys, only a few years younger than her, and the lust in the eyes of Al “The Thrill” that sent shivers through her. They’d touched briefly and kissed softly but the lust was building in both and she could barely wait for the inevitable explosion.
It almost came when they visited the submarine, having to climb straight down skinny ladders into the confines of the small boat. She read the war record aloud for Al and the ROTC guys. Cal and Earl remained on deck, saying they were too wide for the openings, which they weren’t but bodyguards weren’t needed in the sub.
‘Of USS Drum’s thirteen war patrols,’ Lucy read from another plaque. ‘She received twelve battle stars for World War II service, sank fifteen ships, a total of 80,580 tons of enemy shipping, eighth highest of all US submarines in total Japanese tonnage sunk.
‘On her fourth patrol, on December 12th, 1943, she came upon the Japanese aircraft carrier Ryuho with a full deck of planes. Drum’s torpedoes stuck the carrier amidships, crippling it, causing a list so dramatic the ship almost sank. The Ryuho was unable to further contribute to the war effort, her damage was so severe.’
Lucy felt a severeness, a hungry-pussy severeness, turned to Al and French-kissed him, much to the surprise of the ROTC guys, who stood in silence watching Al’s hands reach down to cup her ass. She was so hot, feeling the dampness between her legs. Al couldn’t fuck her there, with so many people around, but found moments to touch her, squeeze her breasts, running warm fingers across her pussy lips. She clenched her teeth shut to keep from screeching when he took a few moments to rub her pussy.
In the SUV, Al finger-fucked her, sending her through a sharp climax, good enough to tide her over until they got home, hurrying to the crisps sheets of her bed. She could see Al trying to hold back as he slipped his cock into her. It didn’t help with her pussy on fire, the muscles working his cock, the pleasure exploding in her as she bucked him so high she thought she’d throw him like a wild horse tossing a cowboy.
Kansas City Al held on and came while Lucy was crying in ecstasy, a super climax pulsating through her body, leaving her breathless and exhausted. She felt Al kissing her lips as she sank into a deep sleep. She woke with him inside her again, moving purposefully, working that cock in her and looking down at her with those chocolate-brown eyes. She stared back, their eyes communicating at an elemental level, telling her how much this man cared for her. Well, for her pussy at least.
‘How’d you put it? ‘I’m a very, very good lover’.’
He worked his cock back and forth. ‘I didn’t say that.’
Damn, that was Joe Perito.
He hit her g-spot again and she gasped and started moving her hips.
‘Shut-up and fuck me.’
He did.
‘I’m famished,’ he told her later as they lay side by side on their backs beneath the ceiling fan.
‘Grab a snack downstairs. There’s sandwich makings. But don’t fill up. We’re going to the fête later.
‘A what?’
‘At a fort. That’s why you I asked you to bring a suit.’ She got up and headed for the shower.
Al was ready early and sat on the sofa, his dark green suit coat draped over the back of an easy chair. It was a new Armani with a European-cut jacket, small panels behind the shoulders and tapered by Al’s tailor to accentuate his shoulders. He wore a white linen dress shirt, an Italian silk tie, pale green with flecks of dark blue dotting it. His black loafers were new but felt broken in already. They should at what they cost. His wore no jewellery, just a thin, platinum Cartier watch.
He was on his third Dick Van Dyke re-run, watching TV-Land, when he heard Lucy coming down the stairs, turned and felt a stab in his heart. She looked stunning, stone-fuckin’ gorgeous. She’d taken a couple hours of their precious time, but it was worth it. He stood and watched her move to him with lithe steps, like a cat.
She stepped up and brushed her fingers across the scar on his chin. He caught a whiff of her perfume and felt his heartbeat now. She took a step back and did a slow turn for him.
‘This is the ultimate dress, the holy grail of women’s dresses,’ she said, knowing how good she looked. ‘The lit
tle black dress.’
It was strapless and short but not a minidress.
‘Satin, of course’ she said. ‘Short enough to show off my legs.’ Her eyebrows bobbed. ‘Won’t offend the matrons but they’ll resent it nonetheless.’
‘Maybe the muumuu women will be there.’
She laughed as she reached into her small purse and pulled out the invitations to pass to him. He was still checking out her dress, seeing how it was fitted but not tight, as if it was made for Lucy’s body, showing off her bustline and fine ass.
‘I found it at Saks in New Orleans,’ she said. ‘Can’t wear anything under it except pantyhose. It’s got a built-in strapless bra.’
On their way out, she said, ‘You taking your coat, or what?’
Both twins came along, but had to stay outside the fort with the chauffeurs.
A brisk wind came in from the gulf, a salty-cool breeze that brought the temperature down. Many of the men had taken off their coats, holding them over their shoulder as they stood around their women, everyone sipping champagne or highballs. The men were in dark clothes, the women in bright colours, mostly wearing ankle-length dresses. Several middle-aged women wore short dresses, a couple even shorter than Lucy’s, but those were the thin women.
The grassy open area in the centre of the fort had tables along three sides, piled with food. There were bars at the three corners with lines in front. Lucy and Al stopped just within the arched entrance and looked around.
‘You know anyone here?’
‘I met one of the guards.’
Positioned as they were, Al could see the women checking out Lucy who looked radiant in the subdued light. Not wearing a necklace made her seem positively naked from her bustline up, which she was, those pale shoulders exposed, the curve of her sexy collarbones, her soft neck. The men didn’t miss her either, staring with barely-subdued longing, shooting envious looks at Al.
One of the thin women came up to them, introduced herself to Lucy as Buffy somebody, then turned her blue eyes, which seemed blurred from liquor, to Al and spoke in a deep southern drawl, ‘Mind if I borrow yoar’ man for a minute?’ She hooked her arm around Al and started pulling.
Mafia Aphrodite Page 12