by Loki Renard
“Everything alright back there?” A young man broke the spell, shouting from the front as he skidded through an intersection.
Mark recognized the voice and the profile. Robert Vitali was driving.
Jack. Fucking. Pot.
4
“We’re fine, Bobby,” Angelo said. “Just get us to a safe spot. This one’s wounded.”
“Hospital?”
“Home.”
Bobby didn’t question the order, just made the turn to get them out of the city. He was a good boy and a better driver. They’d be alright now.
Stupid brutish acts of violence like the one that had just unfolded out of nowhere didn’t necessarily surprise Angelo, but they did piss him off. New York was a big city, but there were far too many smaller players fighting one another these days. The old families and names had broken down and in their place were a thousand little upstarts trying to make names for themselves. It had been one thing when they took shots at one another, but when the Vitali name was no longer respected, things had gone too far.
Angelo glanced at the man next to him. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d grabbed him on the way out. It was an impulse and he’d gone with it. His instincts rarely, if ever, led him wrong, especially in high stress situations.
Their wounded guest was built broad and tough, and the not at all stylish close cropped haircut which was shorter at the back and sides than on top made Angelo fairly certain he was military. Given he was wearing a shredded mesh top and the most gauche leather pants possible, probably ex-military. A dishonorable discharge perhaps. He had that good boy scorned air about him, a certain sulkiness that didn’t quite make it all the way to true brutality.
“What’s your name?”
“Uhm…”
“Uhm?” Angelo raised a brow. “You don’t know your name?”
“Mark.” The word dropped from the man’s lips reluctantly.
“How’s the pain in your arm?”
“Sore.”
“I’m going to take you to my place, and we’ll have a doctor look at you.”
“I’ve got a bullet in my arm.”
“Yes, I know,” Angelo replied.
Was the guy in shock, or was he simple? He inspected Mark’s features, searching for clues as to his temperament. He had a handsome face. In spite of the fact his nose had obviously been broken a couple times before, it was still a decent specimen. Very Anglo-Saxon though. Angelo didn’t detect even a drop of Mediterranean blood in this one. He had nice blue eyes ringed with dark lashes, and very dirty brown blond hair. There was something innocent about him, a hint of a Mid-Western accent too. A country boy. Yes, almost certainly ex-military.
“How long were you in the service?”
“Oh, uhm, I, er…” Mark stumbled over his words. With one hand on Mark’s wrist, Angelo could feel the man’s pulse quicken. He was panicking at the simple question - which meant he had something to hide. Interesting.
“You were in the military?” Angelo prompted again.
“No.”
Now that was absolutely a lie. Even if his pulse hadn’t started hammering in his veins, the tell tale flush on his cheeks and the avoidance of Angelo’s gaze would have told him everything he needed to know. Suddenly, Angelo wasn’t so certain that it had been a random act of mercy that made him grab this man from the ground. His instinct must have picked up on something he wasn’t quite aware of as yet. He’d get to the bottom of it though. That was what he did.
“What’s your last name, Mark?”
“Lo… Long.”
Another lie.
Angelo cocked his head to the side and watched Mark react. He had guilt written plainly across his handsome face. But what was he guilty of, exactly?
“How old are you?”
“Twenty eight.”
This time his pulse stayed steady. Okay, so that was the truth. Twenty eight made him quite a number of years Angelo’s junior. He liked younger men. They were brash and often fun to break. He’d gone through a string of them before Bobby. Since then, there hadn’t been anyone to really compare. Bobby was, in some ways, still unbroken. The challenge kept Angelo interested, and nobody else had truly caught his eye.
But perhaps that had just changed with the wounded military man sitting there lying about himself. Hm. Angelo felt himself thickening inside his pants. This wasn’t the sort of thing he tolerated. This boy would have to learn to tell the truth.
“Bobby!” Angelo called out. “Get the doctor on the line and have him meet us at the house. Make sure he has his surgical equipment.”
“You’re not hit are you?”
“No, boy, it’s for Mark.”
“Who the fuck is Mark?”
Angelo smiled at the pale faced younger man next to him. “Mark’s going to be our guest for a while.”
5
This was undercover like nobody could have hoped for. Angelo Vitali wasn’t just bringing him into his circle, he was taking him to his home! Mark’s mind whirled at all the possibilities for intelligence gathering that presented. He could infiltrate everything. He could hand the FBI the win they’d been looking for. His career would be launched into the stratosphere. This was perfect. All he had to do was keep playing it cool. Angelo seemed to believe him so far, so that was good.
They were heading out of town. He wasn’t sure, but he was pretty sure the agency would be tailing them. At least, he hoped so. Angelo had grabbed him out of the chaos so they might not find him right away, but that was alright. The FBI wasn’t in the habit of losing men.
He winced and shifted in the seat as the road got bumpy.
“Sorry,” Angelo said in that gorgeous Sicilian purr. “The road is not so well sealed here. I like to stay off the beaten track. It’s the only thing I don’t like beaten.”
Mark gave a little half-smile, not knowing how to take that exactly. Was it a threat? A come-on? It was hard to tell with Angelo. Maybe it was both. There were rumors about Mr Vitali’s predilections, though little in the way of evidence for them.
Eventually they drew to a halt outside what could only be described as a country estate in the middle of dense forest. There were guards at very tall gates, at least twelve feet high, and fences that carried electrical bold signs on them.
“I like my privacy,” Angelo explained when he saw Mark looking at them.
Mark nodded and swallowed. Jesus. This wasn’t a house. This was a fortified compound. There was no way the agency was going to be able to get a presence close to this without Angelo knowing. Even worse, this wasn’t on any of their reference materials. He’d seen all the files the agency held on Angelo Vitali. He owned a bunch of properties up and down the state, but this one wasn’t on the list.
Okay, so maybe the FBI wouldn’t find him quickly. In that case, Mark was going to have to just play along until he could get some information and get out. Angelo wouldn’t want to keep him around forever, he was sure.
“Thanks for saving me.” He suddenly realized he should have said that earlier. Would have, if he hadn’t been so distracted by being inches away from Angelo fucking Vitali. “I owe you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Angelo smiled wolfishly. “I’ll find some way for you to make it up to me.”
The house was gorgeous on the inside, very well decorated with works of art, sculptures and paintings that must have been worth millions. Mark was led through the grand foyer and into a room which looked a bit like a bathroom, but without any of the bath stuff. It was covered in tile and had a plug in the middle of the floor. A mud room, maybe. One with a leather surfaced medical bed sitting in the middle of it.
It was weird. Like something out of a movie. What was this even for? Did Angelo perform impromptu surgery here? Mark shuddered at the thought.
“I like to have a place where I can be treated privately,” Angelo said. “Hospitals are so unpleasant. Here, lie down. The doctor will not be far away. He lives locally.”
Mark did as he was told, e
asing himself onto the padded bed. He was surprised when Angelo crouched beneath the table and lifted straps Mark hadn’t noticed at first, draping them over his body lightly to begin with, then walking around to secure them more tightly. In a matter of seconds, Mark found himself hopelessly bound and at the complete mercy of Angelo Vitali.
“What are you…”
“Hush,” Angelo said as he strapped Mark to the bed, restraining him as effectively as any asylum patient. “We don’t want you wriggling for the doctor.”
“I wasn’t going to wriggle.”
“Mr Vitali?”
Mark’s objections were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.
“Ah, doctor, please do come in. I’m afraid we have a wounded young man who needs your attention.”
The doctor was a dour looking older man with white hair and the kind of eyes that had seen some shit. He didn’t say much of anything, he just walked up, donned rubber gloves, cut Mark’s shirt away from the wound, and squirted saline solution around it. Mark let out a scream just in time for Angelo to push a piece of leather between his teeth.
“Shhh,” Angelo said, leaning over him. “I know it hurts, but it won’t hurt for long.” There was a strange quality to his voice that was both calming and utterly terrifying.
“Painkiller,” Mark mumbled through the leather.
“Soon,” Angelo said as the doctor probed around a bit, ignoring the other goings on. “I’ve got a few questions first.”
Fuck.
“Okay,” Mark squeaked around the leather.
Angelo smirked and pulled it back out of his mouth. “Tell me, boy. What is your name?”
“Mark.”
“Mark what?”
Mark panicked. He couldn’t remember what the hell his cover name was supposed to be. Laing? Something L. Something like his real name, but not quite his real name.
“Mark Lark.”
Angelo laughed. “Boy, you can’t keep your lie straight. You were Mark Long in the car. Do you want that bullet out of you? Or do you want another one in you? Somewhere a little more significant?”
As Mark stammered in the effort of trying to come up with some kind of plausible excuse, Angelo pulled a gun from his belt and snapped the slide back, ensuring a bullet was in the chamber. The expression on Angelo’s face didn’t change, but Mark began to pant with fright and pain as Angelo ran the muzzle over his leg, up his thigh, then pushed it down, snugging the end of the barrel against Mark’s balls. The hard shaft imparted the sensation of steel even through the thick leather
It was then that Mark realized Angelo wasn’t just dangerous. He was insane. Not in a gibbering straitjackets and tranquilizers way, but in some magnificent manner that made every cell in Mark’s body want to scream. Angelo was enjoying this. Mark could see it in his eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at Angelo’s face. It was the most terrifying, beautiful thing he’d ever seen. This was a man unfettered by convention or expectation. This was a man who did not care what he, or anyone else thought. Angelo was dark, and devilish and entirely free. Free to save him and then blow his balls off in the same afternoon.
“Your name, boy.”
Usually when someone had a gun to your balls it meant that they were furious. But there was no rage in Angelo. He was perfectly in control. This was a means to an end for him, not something he was emotionally invested in. Mark was absolutely certain that Angelo would shoot him if he didn’t answer.
“Mark Locke! My name is Mark Locke.”
“Mark Locke?” Bobby snorted. “Like Matlock? He’s lying again.”
Mark had hardly noticed that Bobby was still there. The whole world had become Angelo.
“I’m not!” Mark’s voice rose several octaves as Angelo caressed his balls through his pants with the gun. “I swear I’m not!”
“He’s getting hard,” Bobby snorted.
Shit. Mark couldn’t control his erection. Danger had a weird effect on him, especially when the pills started to wear off. He could be scared shitless and yet rock hard. It was confusing, and right now, embarrassing.
Angelo massaged his balls with the tip of the pistol a little longer. “Do you like this, Mark?”
Mark clenched his teeth and shook his head.
“Such a little liar,” Angelo smirked. “Whatever your name is, my boy, you’re utterly perfect.”
He slid the shaft of the gun along Mark’s cock a few times, urging Mark into a stronger erection. Fuck. What was happening? He was wounded and yet Angelo had managed to distract both his mind and his body from that so completely he was responding as if this was foreplay. He could feel his cock straining against the leather of his pants, his balls swelling tighter as he started to pant with arousal and pain and shock and fear all rolled up into one beautiful sensation.
“Mr Vitali,” the doctor droned. “That is making the wound bleed. Do you want me to suture him, or would you prefer to continue your play?”
Censured by the old man, Angelo tutted and put the gun away
“Very well, doctor,” he said. “You may finish. And you can give him some pain relief.”
The doctor took a syringe, found a vein, and Mark was shortly suffused in the warmth of a direct opiate hit.
“Good boy,” Angelo said somewhere in the haze. “Such a good boy.”
6
When Mark woke up he was naked aside from his underwear and in a much bigger, more comfortable bed. Unmistakable morning light was flowing through windows which looked out over a forest which seemed endless. Green flowing into green flowing into green forever. He snuggled into soft, comfortable bedding, sheets with a far higher thread count than he could ever have afforded. It was all so beautiful, and for a second Mark’s brain point blank refused to remember where he was or why.
Then it came back, the memory of gun shots making him jolt beneath the covers. Angelo Vitali. The medical bed. The doctor. The gun. He must have passed out. His pills and whatever the doctor had given him probably weren’t the safest combination of substances, but nothing was safe anymore, and an accidental overdose was the least of what he’d managed to survive.
His arm had been bandaged, but it ached. Adrenaline, beta blockers and painkillers had all abandoned him to his real world suffering. He winced as he sat up.
“You’ll have to wear that in a sling to keep it still.”
The deep voice came from next to the bed. Mark turned over far too quickly, wrenching his arm painfully. Angelo was sitting in an opulent arm chair next to the bed. He was dressed casually, but impeccably in dark slacks and a white shirt. All business all the time, that was Angelo.
“Did you watch me sleep?” The question was on Mark’s lips before he could work out whether it was safe to ask or not.
“No,” Angelo smiled. “I woke you up. I just did it nicely. I can be nice, sometimes, Mark. It’s important you know that.”
Such casual words, delivered with such perfect menace.
“Uhm. Okay.”
“Is there somebody you’d like us to call for you? A wife, perhaps, or a girlfriend?”
“No,” Mark said. The only people he wanted to get in touch with were not people he could tell Angelo Vitali to call. “I’m single right now. I don’t answer to anyone.”
Angelo’s smile broadened again. His dark eyes twinkled. “Well, that’s not true,” he purred softly and somewhat cryptically.
Mark couldn’t show too much fear - even though Angelo had already threatened to shoot him in the dick once. These men respected strength, so he had to be strong.
Angelo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of pills. “Want to tell me about these?”
Fuck.
“They’re my pills,” Mark said plainly. “What’s to explain?”
“An escort who lies about having been in the military and has to take anti-anxiety medication. You know these are nasty, don’t you boy? Heavily addictive.”
“So they say.” Mark tried to play it cool. His arm was aching and
his stomach was starting to churn with the nerves he tried so hard to escape. One of those pills would be perfect right now. “May I have them, please?”
Before Angelo could answer, Robert Vitali entered the room. He was carrying a tray with coffee and toast. There was a venomous look on his elegant, sharp face, as if it was all a bit beneath him.
“Have some breakfast,” Angelo suggested, ignoring Mark’s question.
Now he’d seen his pills, Mark really needed one. More than that, he needed to have them in his hands, to know that if he wanted one he could take one. Seeing that little dark orange vial trapped in Angelo’s hand was like seeing his heart pumping outside his body.
“Uhm, please, may I?” Mark extended his hand hopefully.
Angelo shook his head, and to Mark’s consternation, put the pills back in his pocket. Mark let out a small involuntary sound halfway between a whine and whimper.
“I really need them, Mr Vitali.”
“Ah, so you know my name,” Angelo said, smiling broadly.
Fuck. He was going to give himself away. He was going to blow his cover. He was never going to get out of here. Mark felt his face going red, all the way to his ears. He couldn’t sit still, he kept adjusting his position in bed, trying to relieve the discomfort that flooded him in that thunderbolt moment.
“I know it, yes, you’re famous, Mr Vitali,” he managed to say. “Please. I get sick if I don’t get them.”
“Another junkie,” Robert snorted. “He’s addicted. Just like…”
“Enough, Bobby.” Angelo shook his head and Robert fell silent.
“Please… a pill.” Mark’s heart was pounding a million miles a minute. He took his pulse. It was hammering too damn quickly to count.
