by Loki Renard
“I told you what I wanted in the beginning. I want you. All of you. Everything you have. Everything you are. Every tight little hole. Every dark little thought.” Angelo reached out and took Bobby’s face in his hands. “Your lust. Your fear. Your evil. Your love. Your tears. Your pain. I want it all.”
He spoke with elegant intensity, his accented voice holding the closest thing to love Bobby had ever felt. Angelo cradled his face and gazed into his eyes and Bobby felt his heart swell with emotion he didn’t know how how to contain.
“Take your clothes off. I want to fuck you.”
The sudden shift reminded Bobby that Angelo didn’t ask for sex. He demanded it.
Angelo rose from the table, drawing Bobby up with him, then pushing him down to the floor where he grabbed his clothes, tearing seams and holes, baring him roughly. This was unbridled lust. This was everything Bobby had craved in those dark days locked away with only his shattered self for company.
Angelo’s kiss crushed his lips, his tongue forcing his way into Bobby’s mouth. Bobby suckled on it, desperately spreading his legs as Angelo’s fingers slid down over his stomach, ignored his cock and found the prize between his cheeks. He had lube at the ready, a tub in his pocket which he opened to smear thick dollops on Bobby’s asshole.
“Your punishment isn’t over,” Angelo growled into his mouth. “You’re going to do hard time, Bobby. On your back, being filled.”
He felt Angelo’s cock against his ass, his rod rampant. There was no foreplay. There was no preparation. Angelo thrust roughly inside him, the buttery lubricant doing its job to make it bearable as he rammed deep.
“I’m not going to play act again, Bobby,” Angelo said, rearing up, his hands wrapped around Bobby’s ankles, holding them up and apart. “The next time you send a man for me, the bullet will be real. And the darkness will last so much longer. And you will never ever have this again.”
He pushed forward, filling Bobby’s ass all the way. Bobby felt Angelo’s hips pressed hard against his lewdly displayed cheeks, his asshole stretched so fucking wide he could hardly take it.
“What do you want, Bobby?” His dark eyes stared down at Bobby. “You want me dead? You want me alive?”
“Alive!” Bobby screamed the word. Alive. He needed Angelo alive so he could live. Because this was living as he never had before. This was living in shadows and lies, but so deeply and so much more completely than ever before.
He’d been stupid. For so long he’d thought he was the smartest man alive. He’d outsmarted his competitors, and he’d destroyed his competition. He’d carved out a place in the world just for him - a lonely, precarious little hidey-hole that Angelo had ripped him out of and shown him just how pathetic, desperate, and plain dumb he was.
“You’re mine, Bobby,” Angelo growled, thrusting in and out hard and fast. “I own your fucking soul, boy.”
“Yes!” Bobby screamed in agreement. Days of isolation and contemplation of Angelo’s death and what he had been sure was his own impending demise had made everything clear. Angelo was everything. Angelo was the fucking universe as far as Bobby was concerned.
As his ass was ravaged roughly, Bobby let his head fall back against the carpet. He shouted his pleasure and his pain, his submission to the man who owned him. Angelo reached down and grabbed his cock, his long fingers wrapping around Bobby’s hard shaft.
“Bad boy,” he snarled as he started to stroke Bobby’s cock in time with his thrusts. “Such a bad little boy. I’m going to have to fuck this ass every day, aren’t I, Bobby. I’m going to have to remind you what your hungry hole loses if you do ever get the balls to kill me.”
His hips jackhammered against Bobby’s ass, slam fucking him roughly against the carpet, burning Bobby’s back with the violent thrusts until he jammed himself deep inside and came hard, filling Bobby’s bare ass with his seed.
The feeling of Angelo cumming in his ass set Bobby off. His own orgasm erupted from deep within, his balls giving up their load at Angelo’s insistence, thick spurts of cum shooting hard and at an angle Angelo’s hand determined. He felt hot sticky seed slap across his nose and lips as Angelo laughed.
“Good cumming on your own face, boy. Saves me the trouble.”
Angelo pulled out and stood up, standing over Bobby, his thick cock fisted in his hand.
“Stay there. Don’t you dare wipe that cum away.”
Bobby laid there, cum leaking out of his sore, used asshole, his face coated with his own pungent seed as Angelo looked down at him, the tall, dominant man taking great pleasure in his state.
“Remember this, Bobby,” Angelo purred, stroking a few last drops of cum out of his cock. They fell in a warm rain over Bobby’s prone body, spattering his skin. “You’re a set of holes for me to use. No matter what happens, never forget that. And make sure you carry lube with you from now on, because I won’t.”
24
ANGELO
Two months later…
“You wanted me?”
“Come here,” Angelo said, smiling at his little captive.
The boy had presence as he slid into Angelo’s reading room, and he looked good. The suit he was wearing fit his athletic frame perfectly. His hair wasn’t slicked back in a wanna be mafioso style anymore. Instead it was a little looser, shinier, healthier. He was growing into his own, not as Bobby Cornoli, but as Robert Vitali.
Angelo had given the boy his name. Not because they were married, but because Bobby was his, and everything he owned had his name. Most people mistook Bobby for his son, which was fine by Angelo. It was a little sick and twisted, but so were most things in his world.
“What are you watching?” Bobby slid his ass onto the arm of Angelo’s chair and looked down at the tablet he was holding.
“Just a wedding video. I love a good wedding, don’t you?”
Bobby snorted sarcastically. “Oh yeah.”
Angelo tilted the screen toward him and felt Bobby stiffen as he recognized the bride and the groom. Angelo was certain Bobby had never met either one of them in person, but Mason Malone was a very well known figure, and Ellie Taylor-Chapman had been in the media since her teen years.
“Thought you’d like to see Mason’s happy day,” Angelo purred. “He is the reason I have you after all.”
In the video, Mason Malone stood at the altar, holding his beautiful young blonde bride in his arms. Off to the side, Aiden Taylor-Chapman was flanked by two large bodyguard types. He was a cute boy. Angelo could see why Bobby had lost his mind over him.
“See that, Bobby?” Angelo paused the video and gestured to the bride and groom. “Two very rich people tying the knot, and one of them owes me a very big favor. Our whale just became a leviathan.”
“Happily ever after, Angelo? For them and for us?”
Angelo quirked a brow at Bobby. “Ever after is quite a goal. Happy for now.”
Bobby’s grin broadened. “I’ll take it.”
“We’ll take it,” Angelo said with a full toothed smile. “We’ll take everything. Now, on your knees boy. I want your mouth wrapped around my cock.”
Bobby had learned his lesson well. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation as he slid down to the floor, crawled between Angelo’s legs and took his cock out of his pants, wrapping his lips around the semi-hard shaft.
As Bobby began to suck him full erection, Angelo sighed with satisfaction. Mason Malone was indebted to him for getting the little psychopath between his thighs off the streets. Bobby was indebted because he knew damn well he owed Angelo his life. Win. Win. Win. A perfect outcome. And all it had taken was a little creativity and an utter disregard for what was good, or right, or legal.
“Perfect,” Angelo purred as he tapped play on the wedding video, watching Mason kiss his new wife for the first time. “So fucking sweet.”
THE END
Perfect Evil
1
He was prey.
Why did he look so much like a predator?
Mark
had been staring at the monitor for hours, waiting for this man. It was the first time he had ever laid eyes on Angelo Vitali in anything other than a picture and it was an experience he’d never forget.
His breath caught in his throat as the powerfully built Sicilian man came down the stone stairs, followed by a younger, slimmer man with jet black hair and an arrogant gaze. They were breathtakingly similar in a way that was difficult to quantify. It wasn’t that they looked the same, but there was a definite familiarity which wasn’t quite physical. It was like seeing one soul in two bodies.
Mark rubbed his eyes and blinked them several times to break the spell. He wasn’t supposed to be coming up with poetic descriptions of these men. He was supposed to be observing them for any hint of behavior that might give their plans away.
Angelo Vitali scanned the street like a hawk surveying his territory. He looked dead at the van and Mark’s heart beat just that little bit faster.
Angelo was in his late forties, but he was still stronger than most men in their twenties. His salt and pepper hair was starting to be more salt than pepper especially around the temples, but it didn’t take anything away from him. He looked like a Roman senator, Mark mused in another moment of inappropriate poetic description. Stern. Strong. Those dark eyes seemed to see so much more than other men saw.
“He’s on to us,” Mark said to his supervisor, who was knuckle deep in a donut. Powdered sugar covered Gareth’s polyester pants and he had a bit of jam in his mustache. Not exactly an imposing sight compared to the lean criminal mere feet away from them.
“He’s not on to us,” Gareth said. “We changed this van out yesterday. There’s no way he can be on to us.”
Mark pushed the uncomfortable anxiety away. Gareth had almost thirty years experience in the field. Mark only had three months. He wasn’t in a position to be second guessing his superiors, even though he’d had a bad feeling about Angelo Vitali from the moment he’d laid eyes on the surveillance pictures.
Angelo was handsome, but that alone wasn’t noteworthy. There were handsome men everywhere, especially in the FBI. Angelo he carried an air of easy, natural menace. He didn’t try to look tough. He didn’t try to impress those around him in any particular way, he just was a naturally impressive specimen and everyone around him reacted appropriately.
His much younger lover, Robert Vitali, was also a piece of work. Son of Polish immigrants, he had made a name for himself as Bobby Cornoli before throwing his lot in with Angelo and becoming his partner. How that had happened precisely was a bit of a mystery. There were rumors on the streets that it had been a hostile takeover, but there wasn’t any sign of that now. Robert and Angelo weren’t overtly physical in a PDA sense, but there was an easy intimacy between them that spoke to a close connection.
As Mark watched, Angelo brushed a non existent speck off Robert’s lapel and together they got into one of the black BMWs they liked to use. They rarely had the same license plate two days in a row.
“Are we following?” Mark asked Gary.
“Too obvious. We’ll hang back, pick them up later.”
Mark felt a pang as the dark vehicle swept into the street and headed toward upper Manhattan. His gut twisted. Nerves. He hated nerves. He needed another pill, but he had to wait until they got out of the truck to take one. Gareth was an old school guy. The kind that didn’t believe in mental health medications. His idea of self care was a bottle of Scotch and a whore.
“I need some air,” Gareth said. “Stay here and run that tape again. See if we got anything.”
They didn’t have squat. A month of surveillance and all they knew was that Angelo preferred linguine and Robert thought that the Mets were going to win the World Series. The apartment they shared in Manhattan was a total dead zone, swept for bugs almost constantly. Mark had watched the agents do their best to get tags and taps on, but they never lasted more than a few minutes - and after the first few had been found, they’d had to stop trying temporarily. Finding a bug was like a big FBI calling card letting the Vitali men know they were under surveillance.
Something about this felt off. Mark tried to push the paranoia away. He had next to no experience. How would he know if something was off? How would he know if something was on? He watched as Gary got up, brushed half-heartedly at his donut adorned belly, farted, and stepped out of the truck, leaving Mark to marinate in a stew of methane and candy. The second he could, Mark reached into his pocket, pulled out the bottle which contained his little lifelines, slammed a pill, and swallowed it down with some cold coffee.
He felt better right away - sooner than the pill could have actually worked, but just knowing it was inside him, blocking his betas or benzoing him out or whatever, made it better. Then he did as he was told, scanning through the footage of Bobby and Angelo frame by frame. It could have been a shoot for a modeling catalog, they were both so perfectly presented.
Gareth came back about fifteen minutes later with a fresh donut and more coffee. “I’ve called a few of the other guys on this case,” he said, stuffing the custard filled thing into his mouth. “Let’s get back to the office.”
2
Their office was on an unmarked floor of a mid town building. Mark loved the place because it didn’t look like what it was. The sign on the door proclaimed it to be a paper supply company.
Gary dragged him into a meeting right away. Mark could tell his boss was getting impatient. If they didn’t build a case against Angelo Vitali soon, they’d probably have to shelve it. Resources were needed elsewhere. The FBI didn’t have the time, the money, or the manpower to chase him endlessly.
“Okay,” Gary said. “One last push. We have to have something on this asshole. Something we can use. A fucking parking violation. Anything! Work with me here.”
Mark shuffled through paper, as he’d done a hundred times before. There was nothing. Angelo Vitali kept his public persona squeaky clean. Hadn’t even been late to return a library book.
Part way through a few more agents joined in to consult. Mark gave up his chair for one of the more senior guys and ended up standing with his back against the wall.
By then the discussion had been going on a while and frustration was starting to show in the tones and expressions of the more experienced agents. Mark got the impression that most targets were easier to take down than Angelo Vitali was. Getting in any way close to the man was almost impossible. He didn’t socialize outside a very small circle of people he knew very well, and he had a habit of dropping off the radar entirely for weeks, or even months at a time.
“Is that his son or his lover?” One of the newer agents asked the question innocently.
“Same thing,” Gary snarked.
The agents laughed and made comments about how sick Angelo and Bobby were. Mark stood uncomfortably by with a half smile that didn’t let on that he shared that same sickness. It wasn’t a secret that he was gay. Gary definitely knew. Had found out in the intake interview when he asked about a wife or girlfriend. It hadn’t been a big deal since then for the most part. None of the men present would have called themselves homophobic, but that didn’t stop them throwing around gay slurs about Angelo and Robert Vitali.
Mark spent so much time schooling his features into an expression that pretended he didn’t care that he didn’t hear the formative steps that lead to their final plan.
“Okay, that’s it,” Gary said, slapping the table with his palm. “We’ve got one shot, as I see it. He’s a confirmed guest at the Belli Hotel tomorrow afternoon for one of Anton Levoir’s gatherings. Levoir always hires male eye candy for the event. I say we send one of our pretty boys in. Angelo has a weakness for younger men. It’s about the only weakness he has. It’s about time we exploited it.”
Mark nodded along naively, until he realized everybody in the room was turning to look at him.
“What? Me?”
“You, pretty boy.”
Mark frowned. He was not exactly a pretty boy. At least, he didn’t t
hink of himself that way. When he looked in the mirror he saw a fairly standard guy. Blue eyes, dark blond hair, a general sort of face that was more or less operational. He was built too big to be some cute twink escort. His features were too hard, his body too broad.
“I don’t think I really fit the pretty boy mold.”
“You’re pretty, Mark. You’ve got a pretty face.”
“Thanks,” he said. “But I really don’t.”
“Shut up, you’re gorgeous, and you’re going in.”
There wasn’t really a choice, and Mark knew it.
“What am I going in as? I can’t just show up and say ‘Hi, I’m gorgeous, tell me about your crimes,’ can I?”
“All you need to do is get close enough to listen. Get in their orbit. You don’t have to get to know them. It’s better if you don’t speak to them at all right away. Vitali has to be finessed, seduced. You get that, right?”
“Uhm.”
“Take your shirt off.”
“What? Why?”
“We need to make you an online profile just in case they look you up. We want you to be searchable.”
“You think Angelo Vitali would look me up?”
“You wish,” someone snorted.
This was not what Mark had signed up for. Not even close. He’d figured undercover assignments would involve posing as a criminal of some kind - not as a man who slept with other men for money.
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
“Shirt. Off.”
He could refuse. Of course he could refuse. Then he could find his ass slung back to some paper pushing job and he’d never see a field assignment again. First impressions were absolutely everything. This was a test, and he was going to pass it.
Agent Dupris let out a wolf whistle as Mark pulled his shirt off. He was in good shape, of course. Working out and eating clean was pretty much all he did when he wasn’t working. You didn’t make it in the agency by being anything less than obsessive, especially as a rookie.