Femme Fatale

by Kirsty-Anne Still

  Once more, Enzo tried to argue with me, but I just ignored him. I listened to what I wanted rather than sat down and rationalized everything for the greater good. I just wanted to murder one final time before I started to hand in my title of Manhattan’s very own Femme Fatale.

  Considering everything, I was shocked he wanted to meet me, but I know how to wrangle this moment with lies and make sure only one of us is left breathing.

  Crack.

  I cringe back to my reality and look back at Big Al across the table. He had already ordered before I even arrived and was now digging into a lobster feast while I was waiting on my first drink to arrive. I have to admit, I never realized how fucking rude and sexist he was to the female race, but apparently not all Italian men worship sexy women.

  “So, why did you want to meet me?” Big Al asks with a mouthful. “I’ve known you all my life and now you want a date.”

  I try to resist scrunching my nose up with disgust and just force a sickly sweet smile upon my face. “Well, before I always thought my father would frown upon it. I mean, with you being close to his work and everything, but after what you did with Zane Maverick, I had to admire that someone felt that dedicated to the Dio Lavoro.”

  “The fucker’s still alive,” Big Al replies heatedly, slamming his fists down onto the table. It rocks, the water already placed on the table sloshing from its glasses and Big Al throws his napkin at the puddle as if it’ll tidy itself up. “I wanted him dead, Amelia. Did you know how badly I wanted him dead?”

  “Possibly as much as my father did?” I counter, trying to defuse his intense hatred to the reality that Zane had very much survived.

  “Try more,” he grounds out, pushing his plate away. “I wanted to make your father proud. Not checking to see if he had a heartbeat wasn’t enough.” He stops only to look back at his meal unsatisfied. “Makes me so angry that I botched this.”

  “That’s actually why I’m here,” I interject his fizzling anger. “Jimmy and Marius had to die, as did Benji. They were still proving themselves. You have nothing to prove to my family. If they wanted to really prove they had everything it took to be a part of the Dio Lavoro, they should’ve put a bullet between his eyes and done it execution style.”

  Big Al chuckles at me. “And here we heard you were insanely in love with him. It was another reason we did it. He was tearing you from your true family and making you blind. We wanted him gone so we could move onto bigger and better things without distractions.”

  I wince heavily at the sound of that, and pray it doesn’t outwardly show. I worry that my overloading emotions will one day be my biggest downfall. Not my rebellion, nor my defiance, but my true emotions. I’ve felt the beginnings of it, but what if love is the biggest killer of them all?

  “Love is blind,” I comment dryly, thankful that my own glass of wine has arrived. I thank the waiter gratuitously and take a large sip.

  When I finish, Big Al nods, picking up his glass of red wine. “L'amore è cieco,” he repeats my words in Italian and raises his glass to me. “Just always remember, Amelia, Il sangue non è acqua. Blood is thicker than water.” He speaks his Italian with such roughness that the words leave a resonating impact on me – is blood thicker than water, though? “Do you want to order?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I tell him sincerely, taking another sip of my wine before placing it back down. “If anything, what I have in store for you will work up more of an appetite.” I give him a seductive grin, leaning forward enough to place my elbows on the table and press my breasts together. “I wanted to offer you a thank-you for making me see sense. Not only where Zane Maverick is concerned, that is, but where my family is, too. I think I’ve spent so many years teasing you, it’s time to give you what you’ve always wanted.”

  “I wish your madre had given me this much attention,” he comments, dragging my mother into the equation. “She was always very much Sal’s woman.”

  “As we said,” I begin, making my voice low and sultry. “Love is blind. Thankfully, I don’t do love anymore.”

  “So what do you want?” he asks, sitting back in his chair only to survey me with a critical eye.

  I laugh lightly, following his actions and leaning back, more in an upright position than his, keeping my body poised and sexual. “Sex. I want a good fuck. No strings attached. Can you offer that to me?” I watch his face illuminate wickedly. “It can be our little secret.”

  “From the way you’ll be walking in the morning, it won’t be a very little secret,” he comments and throws me a look that I guess, if I was an insanely desperate female, would have my panties wet, but right now I’m fighting with my fucking gag reflexes.

  “We’ll see about that,” I muse, trying to deliberately dampen his libido. “I’ve been fucked hard all night before and walked perfectly fine the next morning.”

  “Was that with Zane?” he queries harshly. “You’ve never had Italian cock, love. I know all about your past hook-ups. Bella, you should be after your own kind. Us Italian men will fuck you hard and love you wholly. It’s in our blood to love every inch of a beautiful woman.” He only stops to pull out his wallet, tossing a couple of hundred dollar bills down, and stands. He grabs his jacket but doesn’t bother putting it on and steps toward me. “Let me show you.”

  I decide to make him wait. I pick up my glass, drain the rest of wine to steel my nerves, and grab my clutch purse. I stand before him, pushing my pencil skirt down straight over my hips and thighs and lead the way. I deliberately walk a few steps ahead of him, sashaying my way through the crowd of diners. I hope I’m making him rock hard. I want him eating out of the palm of my hand, and if I can’t achieve that, I’ll have to get inventive.

  Once we’re outside, Big Al’s hand comes to press on the lower part of my back, guiding me toward the valet parking. He hands over his ticket and turns to me. Big Al is not the most handsome of aged men. Once upon a time, he used to be, but now he is showing his true age. Only slightly older than my father, but with that same mop of pure white hair, he has lost all of his dashingly handsome good looks, while my father hangs onto his. Unlike Salvatore Abbiati, Big Al’s skin had been ruined by years of Italian sun and the stress of a villainous side life. His manners and respect are gone, and he feels his power outweighs every other mafia member. That’s why he did this. He has always thought he was above the Abbiati’s, but having not come from mafia descent, he thought being my father’s right-hand man was enough. But over the years his hunger and drive to be the best overruled him and made him into a selfish, demeaning man.

  “There’s champagne at my house,” he comments, striking up a casual conversation. “I’m pretty sure there’s some strawberries and cream, too. If you want to be a little frisky.”

  “All I’ll need is a tie and blindfold.” I flick my words at him seductively, looking up at him playfully. I shrug toward him and then lean in, lowering my tone to a bare whisper. “I prefer it kinky.”

  He begins to laugh but doesn’t answer as his Porsche is brought around to the front of the restaurant. We quickly climb in, and he accelerates away. Neither of us talks during the short journey, the radio playing in the background is the only noise. I decide to put a hand on his thigh, coursing up closer to his groin before lowering my hand again. On the third rub, I run my hand further between his legs, and he moves, relieving the pressure I’m guessing.

  “Stop it,” he comments wryly. “Or I’ll be asking for a blowjob before we’re even back at my place.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” I ask him sarcastically. “Get the party started.”

  “I just got my car detailed.” He throws his comment back at me, killing the mood entirely. “You can make all the mess you want back at mine. The maid will clean that up in the morning.”

  The way he delivers that statement makes me wonder just how many women he’s sexually defiled in his room. How many of those morning afters his maid has had to tidy up and not imagine the unimaginable.


  I allow Big Al to drive. I intentionally didn’t bring a car to this one. I wanted to make it seem a tad more authentic when I offered to go back to his house. Enzo – against all his better judgment – is waiting for my call for a ride home after I am done. I can understand his reluctance, but he needs to be reminded of how I was brought up. In my blood is not just a need for repentance, but a drive to succeed, an ache to never fail, and a craving for approval. They wrap and dance around my desire to just be loved. Within me is a potent mix so toxic that I worry one day it’ll burn though all my dreams and fantasies of a better life and leave with me with my comeuppance – the proof I am an unloved, unneeded failure.

  “We’re here,” Big Al speaks, breaking into my thoughts.

  He pulls left, halting in front of a pair of two iron gates. I remember spending time here when he threw lavish parties, but since growing older and finding our own footing within the Dio Lavoro, the parties have dwindled and life became a business – pleasure not included. When the gates open, he throws the car into first and speeds up the drive toward his large house. We pull up directly in front of the stairs before his front door. Wordlessly, we get out, and while he locks the car up, I walk toward the house, pulling my hair out from its up do.

  I notice that no other lights are on, and realize this is going to be the perfect murder. There are no staff, family members, or witnesses to see what will happen once the door is closed behind us. We walk into his house and the door closes behind us, but before we can even get the lights turned on, Big Al strikes first, and it’s not as I expected.

  He’s rough with me, as he throws me to the nearby wall and covers my body. He has me pinned, not physically, but by an overwhelming sense of dictatorship and aggression.

  I know, from his sheer size, that I’ll need the vial in my bag as well to kill him, but I guess feeding him drop by drop of poison will elongate his death like he wanted to do with Zane. He was left bleeding to death, so Big Al shall have the identical fate. Well, near identical, I want him to really feel the wrath of a Femme Fatale.

  However, it seems my plan is going to unravel before it’s even begun.

  “I know what your game is here, little girl,” Big Al spits, closing in on me. He closes the gap, thrusting fear all over me, and grabs onto my face. He pushes me further against the wall, squeezing tight enough to draw tears in my eyes. “You think I’ve not seen your type before?” he asks me, pushing me heavier into the wall that time with a crushing effect his body pins me. “I know what you’re up to, Amelia, because I know what you do. You’re a filthy, backstabbing, little murderer. Do you really think I’d be fooled by you?”

  “I’ll give anything a try first,” I hiss difficultly through his grasp around my face. “Get off me, you fucking asshole!”

  “Not so easy, Bella,” he converses lightly, his voice edged with grit, but the main component in his tone is soft. He uses the nickname he’s had for me since I was little girl, trying to make me feel small, insignificant, inferior. “Now, I have you right where I want you, and I’m not letting you go quite yet.” He leans his head to side, raising his shoulder to crack his neck and then straightens back up. “We’re only just getting started, and from what I’ve seen, you’re stuck here with me. No one’s going to save you.”

  Unable to accept the fate he’s hinting to, I bring my knee up and slam it into his crotch. I hate I couldn’t have kneed him in the groin as hard as I wanted, but it does the job as he releases me enough to stumble backwards, hands cupping his glory. I move from my spot by the wall and across the hall.

  “Come here, you little delinquent,” he spits, recovering quickly.

  The name catches me by surprise, and I slow in my need for escape. It’s one my father has used on me copious times, and I wonder how much he knows about my insolence toward my family’s name. My hesitation is costly as Big Al grabs my hand and spins me around. The action was only so he can bestow a vengeful fight against me. He backhands me, and I fly backwards. My entire body feels suddenly discombobulated from its reality as I continue backwards with momentum and into a wall. I want to remain standing, but my body is so winded by the forceful blow that I end up sliding to the ground. I sit shocked for a moment, my heels now off, my face stinging, the contents of my purse scattered everywhere.

  “You think you can fucking walk around looking like you do, seduce men, and then fucking kill them like it’s a fucking God-given right.” He’s back up on his feet now, slowly struggling his way toward me again.

  It is a God-given right, my mind curses from deep within. The Dio Del Sangue, my father, gave me the job of seducing men to kill them – therefore this is my God-given fucking right! I force myself up, but I’m too slow for him, even without my heels on now. I yelp the moment he grabs the back of my blouse and pulls me backwards once more. I stumble over my own shoes, and he finishes me off by slamming me down against the floor. I cough as my own air is pushed from my lungs, and he swiftly kicks me, his foot connecting with my ribcage with brute force. After another two assaulted blows from his foot, his body drops down on me, and I find my real battle begin.

  “No!” I fight him off, twisting onto my back so I can throw closed fists at him. However, he catches one of the punches I throw and closes his large hand around my tiny one and squeezes. I scream out and continue to beat him with my other hand. I won’t allow the pain to take me over and weaken my fight. “Please, no!”

  “You going to beg me to stop?” he asks me, releasing me only to slam his hands on either side of my head. I’m trapped wholly beneath him now, his body pinning me in the hardly lit hallway of his house. “Did my men get to beg you to stop killing them?” he asks me, his tone no longer soft, only full of enamored anger. Then, out of nowhere, he begins to laugh at me. He’s ridiculing me; I know he is. He’s laughing at me, not at my current predicament or something that’s come forth from the back of his mind. He’s laughing directly at me. "He begged so pathetically, Amelia. You should've heard him because there was a moment where I wondered to myself why a girl like you would ever choose a weak man like him." There’s a moment of silence, the idea of Zane dying escapes the deep, dark recess of my brain and tortures me. “He cried!” Big Al mocks, chortling at the memory. “Cried like a fucking baby as he lay there bleeding out. He’s no tough man, and he’s certainly not made for you if he’s going to cry at the death he was presented. He’s no man, Amelia! Maybe you’ll see that now before you allow him into your fucking panties! He is a manipulative wimp, and he is no good for you. He is corruption at its finest, and he will be your downfall.” His statement isn’t lost on me and I wonder if the men in the Dio Lavoro have been discussing me. “So, call this your lesson, sweet Amelia. This is to show you that your disrespect only gets you a firm beating back. What I have planned for you is just something to leave a reminder on that pretty little soul of yours. You’ll never forget trying to go for me, Amelia. You will never have me killed, because like you’re father, I am fucking invincible.”

  As if to prove his point, he sits up only using the opportunity to pull my blouse apart and reveal my ample breasts in their black push up bra.

  “Get off me!” I scream at him, fighting back now that he’s released my hand. However, in the middle of the fit I’ve pitched, he punches me. I was so wrapped up with getting him off me I never saw it coming. Pain explodes across my face, and I taste blood as it filters into my mouth and attacks my taste buds. I only turn my head around to find him leering down at me. I have no time to argue as his hands clasp around my neck, and he begins to squeeze against my windpipe, crushing it. I claw, scratch, dig every nail into his skin, and pray he’ll release me. As my hand flies up and catches his face, he finally does, and I cough and strive for a recovery.

  “You bitch!” he swears and only pushes himself lower down my body. “I’m going to have so much fun doing this now.” I go to attack him again, but he takes me by my wrists and pins them down on either side of me. He’s getting closer to tak
ing me, but I know my fight won’t die out quickly. No man has his way with me without my permission. “I don’t do mercy,” he tells me, breathing heavily against my neck. His fresh kisses leave me feeling dirtier than ever. I don’t want this, but my fighting does nothing to grant me freedom. “Fight all you want, Princess, but there is no way you can get away from me.”

  He releases my hand, but my own fear is becoming a paralyzing emotion. Feeling the trail of dirt he leaves upon me is weakening me far more than his punches and kicks have. He shows me how helpless I am by running a greedy hand down my body and lifting my skirt up a little to grip my thigh. Fuck, this is really happening. The touch of his hand sends a wave of reality through me, and I feel the fear multiply within my blood. It thickens, consumes me, and will never let me go if this truly happens. I begin to pound against his chest, fist after fist, punch after punch, but he doesn’t move, and I realize I am helpless. He doesn’t even stop me now. As I continue to fight him off with one hand, I begin to look around, trying my hardest to find a weapon to use against him. I feel hope dwindle as everything seems to be just out of reach until I spot one of my shoes close by. My stiletto is close enough for me to grab before Big Al rips through my tights and panties. It’s a struggled fight between him and me as I try my hardest. I’m defeated when I finally hear material begin to rip.

  “No!” I scream as he manages to hitch my skirt up. My panic skyrockets even more so than before, and my fight seems newly restored.

  I manage to scratch his face, straight across his eye and cheek. My nails leave red claw marks down his face, and he stops. I try to move out from under him, but he reacts quickly and with a balled fist, he wounds me with one hard punch to my kidney and I cough in difficulty as the wind is knocked from my lungs. My eyes roll backwards as hot pain radiates from the site on my side, and I force myself to find composure. I tell myself to just breathe, but even that feat is a struggle.

  The stiletto! My one beacon of hope as Big Al continues to viciously ravage me. Again, I fight by kicking my legs the best I can under him, writhing beneath his heavy mass and stretched out hand.