The Beautiful People (The New Mafia Trilogy)

by Fechenda, E. J.

  “Natalie, Mr. Genovese would like for you to sit with him.” I could tell from his tone that this wasn’t a request. I looked around uncertainly. Marco’s face grew darker the longer I hesitated. Fearing the consequences if I disobeyed, I sat down next to Mr. Genovese and clung to the very edge of the booth, trying to keep our bodies from touching. He reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering on my chin. The burnt tobacco smell from his fingertips stung my nose and made me want to gag. Who was this man and what gave him the right to touch me? I attempted to inch further away. Mr. Genovese grabbed my wrist and yanked me closer to him. I resisted and he yanked harder.

  “Ow! Let go of me!” I yelled and looked to Dominic for help. He was raging and I thought he was going to bust a vein, but he didn’t come to my aid.

  “Natalie, Mr. Genovese is interested in your company this evening. Behave.” Another order.

  “She is a feisty one isn’t she?” Mr. Genovese wheezed approvingly. His hand moved up my thigh and under my skirt. I flinched. Dom’s dad, Rico, and Uncle Al wouldn’t meet my eyes. I saw Rico’s jaw clench. Still, no one would stand up to Mr. Genovese. Miranda breezed up the VIP stairs and froze when she saw me sitting in the booth. Fear registered on her face, only briefly and then she composed herself and walked to her father.

  “Miranda, glad you’re here. Natalie won’t be working the rest of the night. Send Brittany up here to replace her.” I wasn’t working the rest of the night? Was I going to be stuck here next to this awful man?

  “Right away Dad.” Miranda radioed down to the main floor.

  Grant escorted Brittany up and she happily bounced into action. Her pupils were dilated, leaving no doubt she was high as a kite. I could see the fury in Grant’s eyes, but it wasn’t for me. Mr. Genovese seemed amused at the anger being directed towards him. He reached up and caressed my cheek. I cringed, repelled by his clammy, smoky skin. I thought Grant was going to bust a vein too, but he stayed frozen in place. What was wrong with him? Of all people, Grant was the one I could count on to kick some ass and get me out of this situation. Instead he stood by, letting this nasty old man rub his smelly hands all over me.

  Brittany entertained the group with her hyper antics and her incredible, overly enhanced boobs captivated the attention of most of the men at the booth, all except Mr. Genovese. He was insistent on exploring my body. I clenched my thighs together in a death grip, blocking his probes. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, he leaned in close and sniffed my hair, inhaling deeply. Brittany kept throwing sympathetic glances my way. Every time I tried to move, Mr. Genovese pulled me back. He would laugh as if he liked my resistance.

  When I realized that I wasn’t going to be allowed to leave Mr. Genovese’s side, I waved for Brittany. She didn’t bounce over, instead she approached with trepidation.

  “I want a Stoli and Tonic…and keep them coming.” I was going to get so drunk that I didn’t remember tonight. I needed to be numb. After I placed the order I glanced over at Dominic again. The rage was still there but he also looked sad.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouthed and hung his head as if defeated, the fight had deserted him.

  With each drink I became more removed from the situation. The voices and faces blurred around me. By the time I was on my sixth round, I couldn’t feel my legs, which was perfect because then I couldn’t feel Mr. Genovese touching them.

  I vaguely remember getting up as the group prepared to leave. I started to walk away, but was pulled back.

  “You’re coming with me.” Mr. Genovese commanded. Narrowing my eyes, I tried to concentrate what he was saying. It sounded like he was speaking underwater. The room spun and I teetered to the left, unsteady on my black leather heels. Mr. Genovese had a vice like grip on my upper arm and prevented my fall. For a man with small stature, he was deceptively strong. We walked by the bar and I reached my free arm out towards Dominic. His eyes were a dark, mossy green and full of desperation. He started to come around to the front of the bar towards me.

  “Do not interfere,” Marco warned him. Dom stopped and I was yanked along with the rest of the group and taken out the back exit. Right before I left Crimson I looked up and saw Grant being held back by Anthony “The Giant” and Miranda stood in front with her hand pressed against Grant’s chest. Anthony seemed to have a hard time holding my brother back. Grant looked like he was ready to kill.

  A black Cadillac sat idling in the lot behind Crimson. A driver opened the door and Mr. Genovese forced me in the back seat. The group dispersed to other cars in the lot. Like a funeral procession, the dark sedans moved in a line down Columbus Blvd. At some point along the way I passed out. Mr. Genovese shook me awake and roughly pulled me out of the car. We were in front of The Speak. I hadn’t been here since that fateful night. Visions of bodies lying in pools of blood filled my head. I closed my eyes and was instantly dizzy. Mr. Genovese grabbed my arm again and started leading me to the front door.

  I balked and stood my ground. “I am not going in there.”

  Without warning or hesitation, Mr. Genovese backhanded me. My head snapped and I rocked backwards on my feet, grabbing onto the railing for support. Stunned, I rubbed my stinging cheek and glared at the older man. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins and I felt more alert, more sober. Reflexively, I slapped him back. He grinned, a crazy, unsettling grin.

  “I do like the feisty ones,” he commented as he looked me over. I was suddenly self-conscious of my revealing outfit. The unspoken rule at Crimson was that the sexier you dressed, the more tips you received. Dominic understood and enjoyed watching me pour my body into tight outfits. Tonight I had chosen a ridiculously short black skirt with a black leather corset top. The corset enhanced my average breasts, which helped me to compete with the cosmetically enhanced ones of my co-workers. Black pantyhose and high black heels completed the ensemble and made my legs look endless. I considered my legs my best feature, the running I did helped to keep them sculpted and muscular. Now, I wished I had chosen a nun’s habit to wear instead.

  Marco, Rico and Al walked up the sidewalk and stood behind me. The rest of the men from New York arrived seconds later and I was surprised to see Brittany with them. None of the Nuccis had joined the party.

  “Stop being difficult Natalie,” Marco demanded. “Get inside.” The menacing expression on his face made my skin cold. Defeated, I followed Marco up the stairs and into the house.

  We moved past Sam, the doorman, and into the bar area. The bartender was extra attentive when he saw who had entered the room. He hustled around accommodating the men from New York, especially Mr. Genovese. I had surmised that Mr. Genovese was the boss of NYC. Why else would everyone dance around at his beck and call? Mr. All Powerful kept a firm grip on my wrist, forcing me to stay by his side. My buzz was wearing off and the numbness subsiding. I ordered more drinks, determined to block as much of this night from my memory. Brittany pulled out a vial of cocaine and sorted out lines on the bar counter. She was surprised when I took the rolled up twenty dollar bill out of her hand and snorted a line up each nostril. I tilted my head back, pure bitterness sliding down the back of my throat. The effects were felt almost instantly. My heart sped up and my pulse was audible. A sip of the vodka tonic washed the rest of the bitterness down. The numbness was almost complete.

  After the cocaine was brought out, the party really started to get out of hand. Everyone was wasted. Brittany started to do a strip tease and I had to look away. The sexual tension of eight men in one room and only two women was tangible. Despite all of the alcohol and the coke, my nerves were on edge.

  Mr. Genovese – Luigi to his friends – started to get a little too friendly. I tried to shrug him off and he got more aggressive. I stepped away and broke free of his grasp.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” I grumbled. The bathroom was off of the hallway. When I turned into the hall I half expected the bodies to be there with blood oozing from broken skulls, but no evidence of the crime was visi
ble. I was too caught up in my memory that I didn’t notice Uncle Marco following me out of the bar. Grabbing me from behind, he spun me around, pinning me against the wall with his hand on my throat. I gasped for air and struggled against his grip.

  “You will do whatever Luigi wants and you will stop being difficult. I own you and I own your brother, remember? You will do as I say.” It felt like my eyes were going to burst from the pressure and little black spots danced in front of me.

  He released me and I collapsed in a heap on the floor, sucking in big gulps of air. “I und-er-sta-nd,” I managed to choke out. Satisfied, Marco left me on the floor. Down by the front door Sam stared off into the corner, pretending to be oblivious. Crawling into the bathroom, I struggled to regain my composure. I looked into the mirror to assess the damage. My eyes were wide with shock, and dark next to my pale skin. An impression of Marco’s hand remained a red phantom on my neck. I combed my fingers through my hair, splashed cold water onto my face and focused on getting my breathing under control. I really wanted to hide in the bathroom and wait the nightmare out, but I wasn’t easily forgotten as Marco was soon pounding on the door.

  I started to open the door slowly, but Marco forced it open. “Mr. Genovese is waiting for you upstairs, the first door on the left.”

  So this is how it was going to be; pimped out like some cheap whore? I was backed into a corner without any options. Unwillingly, I made my way up the stairs. The door on the right was slightly ajar, it revealed the sofa I had woken up on months ago, Brittany was pinned down, naked and was being brutally raped by one of the men from New York, and two others waited in line. Her screams were silenced by the gun forced in her mouth, but her eyes pleaded for help. I looked away consumed by the fear that I was about ready to face the same fate.

  I bolted down the stairs, missing the last two as I leaped for the door. One of my high heels snapped from the impact of the landing. Sam blocked the doorway and pushed me back. Marco appeared in the entryway of the bar. “I thought we had an understanding,” he glowered.

  Sam escorted me, shaking and on the brink of hysteria, back up the stairs. Ignoring my begging and pleading, he forced me forward to the first door on the left. In one fluid movement he opened the door, pushed me inside the room and slammed the door shut. Mr. Genovese sat on a bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. He was wearing boxer shorts and a wife beater. His suit was folded in a neat little pile on the windowsill. The white fabric of the wife beater made his skin look jaundiced.

  “Ah, Miss Ross. Glad you finally made it.” He sat on the edge of an old, bare mattress decorated with a pattern that was popular twenty years earlier. It might as well have been a throne the way he sat there with authority, his back straight and shoulders squared. He didn’t say anything to me, just patted the empty space next to him, inviting me to sit. I stayed rooted to the floor and didn’t budge. He smiled at my defiance. Then he stood up and walked over to me so he was right in my face. I held my breath and turned my head away so I wouldn’t have to inhale his noxious odor. Grabbing my chin, he dug his fingers in and forced me to look at him. I glared back. He smiled, briefly, before he kissed me. He pried my lips apart and invaded with his tongue. He might as well have shoved an ashtray in my mouth. I started to gag, bile rising in my throat. I placed my hands on his chest and tried to push him away. His arousal grew the more I struggled and he made sure to press against me as I protested. I lifted my knee up and hit him square in the balls. Instead of dropping into a fetal position, which is what I expected, he backhanded me again and I felt my lip split open. The pain was sudden and surprising, but I would take that over his nasty mouth on mine.

  He shoved me against the door, my skull cracking hard on the wood. Dazed I shook my head, trying clear my vision. Mr. Genovese used his body weight to subdue me and attempted to rip my skirt off. His shoulder leaned in towards me so I bit, sinking my teeth into the flesh as deep and as hard as I could. He howled in what I thought was pain, but when he looked at me I saw a tobacco stained grin and anticipation in his eyes.

  “Feisty and a biter – even better,” he declared. I was horrified. All my self defense efforts were working against me. He was getting more aroused the more I fought back. Catching me off guard, he grabbed me, spun me around and threw me onto the bed. My one hundred fifteen pounds didn’t offer much resistance. He ripped off my skirt, shredded my pantyhose and went for my underwear. I kicked and thrashed, trying to inflict as many blows to his head as possible. He laughed as if enjoying the challenge.

  My thrashing got weaker as exhaustion set in and my head throbbed with every movement. Finally I stayed still. All the fight in me was spent. I prepared for the violation. Mr. Genovese licked his lips with anticipation as he traced is fingers up my legs to the waistband of my underwear. His hand slid underneath the corset and he twisted my left nipple, painfully. He paused as if waiting for a reaction. I stared vacantly at the blank wall, my vision blurry from tears. I felt the mattress shift as he moved off of me.

  He glared at me frustrated, the tent he’d pitched in his boxers was deflating. He turned away from me, put on his clothes and silently left the room.

  I don’t know how long I laid there. I heard faint voices downstairs, the front door slamming and then silence. The room lightened to gray as the sun began its ascent in the sky. People would be getting up to go to church, to the grocery store, or maybe take a day trip to the shore. I just stayed there, beaten and bruised, afraid to move.

  The stillness of the house was disrupted by a soft whimpering. My ears perked up and focused on the location of the sound. Someone else in the house was also crying and in pain. Then I remembered Brittany. She had been through worse than me. I forced myself into a sitting position and when the dizziness subsided, slowly stood up. My broken shoes were useless so I kicked them off before I walked across the room to retrieve my skirt. When I opened the bedroom door, Brittany’s cries were much louder and filled the small landing. I crept across to her room. She was completely naked and curled up in a ball on the floor. Blood stained the back of her thighs. She twitched when she heard me approach. Both of her eyes were bruised and swollen shut, it was obvious she couldn’t see who was in the room with her. Her whimpering grew louder.

  “It’s ok, Brit, it’s me, Natalie.” At the sound of my voice, she broke down into deep heaving sobs. I knelt down beside her and pulled her partly up, so she could lean against me. The force of her sobs wracked my body too. I rocked her gently, like a baby and her sobs slowed down. The damage to her body was far worse than mine. In addition to her swollen eyes, her nose was crooked and bloody and her lips were puffy, most likely from the gun being forced in her mouth. Bruises were beginning to darken and covered the front and back of her torso. I looked around the room for her clothes and couldn’t find them. I remembered her strip tease downstairs and figured that’s where they were.

  “I’m going to go get your clothes. Can you stand?”

  “I…I think so,” she answered in a hoarse voice. I helped her to her feet, steadying her as she trembled on uncertain legs. Blood was smeared down the inside and front of her thighs too. I grimaced at her condition and was grateful she wasn’t able to see herself. I helped her over to the sofa. As I straightened up the front door downstairs slammed. We both stiffened, fear raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Nat, are you here?” a familiar voice echoed through the house. Dominic. I almost cried in relief.

  “Up here!” I managed to yell out. Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Dominic appeared in the doorway, Grant’s head barely visible behind him.

  “Oh my God!” Dominic stopped in his tracks when he saw us. Brittany was cowering behind me.

  Grant forced him through the door and followed Dominic into the room. Miranda was right behind them. Her eyes grew wide with horror when she saw us; color fled from her face before she bent over and threw up. Grant rubbed her back and sat her down in one of the club chairs. He and Dominic rushed to my si
de.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. I wasn’t, but compared to Brittany I was perfect. “We need to get Brittany to a hospital.” Grant grabbed his cell phone and spoke quietly into it. He snapped it shut. “A doctor is waiting for us. He’s able to see both of you now.” He inhaled sharply when he saw the full extent of Brittany’s injuries.

  “I was just going to get her clothes. I think they’re by the bar downstairs.”

  Miranda had recovered from her initial reaction and she ran down the stairs. She returned in seconds and helped me dress Brittany.

  We slowly made our way down the stairs. Dominic helped me get Brittany into the back seat of the Mustang. Brittany was clinging to me and refused to let go so I slid in next to her. We followed Grant’s Lexus as he weaved through the South Philly neighborhoods; block after block of row homes passed in a blur. A few minutes later he stopped outside of a small clinic. A wiry, middle aged man paced out in front. He jumped when he saw us pull front and he hurried over to talk to Grant. He gestured for us to follow him inside. Dominic helped me out of the car and I turned around to help Brittany. She winced in pain with every movement. I suspected she had some bruised or broken ribs.

  The cool, sterile atmosphere of the small clinic was refreshing. The doctor started to take Brittany back to the examination room and she threw a fit, demanding I go with her. Grant went to follow us and I stopped him.

  “I don’t think Brittany’s ready for more male company.”

  “Oh, right,” Grant responded awkwardly, taking a step backwards.