by Daphne Dawn
Naturally, I’m not about to tell him that outright, but, fuck, the racer’s still picking up speed down the next straightaway. My heart pounds as I sail around the next turn.
After a couple of laps to warm up, I’m finally fucking driving for real.
Intuitively, I knew exactly what to do and when. I’m conducting the brakes, the accelerator, and each and every goddamn button and knob on the Ferarri Thrustmaster wheel into a magnum fucking opus of speed.
The world flies straight at me before disappearing into the dust behind my beautifully growling machine.
This is the way to move through life—not staying too long in any one spot, or in any one relationship—when there’s so much of the world to see and embrace in the limited time we have.
The engine growls louder…sexier as I accelerate to the next turn. Unfortunately, this machine isn’t really mine, and I should probably get out before it becomes too difficult to leave.
Giving full power to the brakes, I decelerate easily around the hairpin and come to a perfect stop at the checkered line.
Fucking smooth—I don’t need some crew guy to tell me how to do this shit.
The crew rushes over to the racer as I climb from the cockpit and remove my helmet.
Carmine’s standing right there in the pit, looking a little surprised to see who was under the helmet.
“That helmet suits you—I almost thought it was some veteran racer who decided to drive my car. Of course, that would’ve been a problem.”
The crew is trying to work around me, so I step a few feet closer to talk to Carmine in relative privacy.
“I hope you keep better tabs on your assets than that, Mr. Bocci.”
Carmine laughs, a bit nervously.
“It was a bit of a joke, Mr. Monatello.”
It’s clear that Bocci isn’t ready to make a payment yet.
The way my family did things in the past, that would’ve been a real problem. But that’s not the way I choose to do things.
“How much longer do you need, Carmine?”
Carmine breaks eye contact and laughs anxiously once more, with a touch of shame.
“A month and I should have it all.”
I start at the sound of a loud giggle coming from somewhere overhead—that’s not what I expected to hear right now. Looking up into the nearby stands, I notice two women.
Both of them are wearing racing jackets, and they both have blond hair whipping slightly in the breeze. They both wave as I looked over, and I wave back.
They’re racing fans, probably hanging around to see if they can catch sight of a famous driver between races. While I may not be famous, it seems like they enjoyed the show.
Carmine hasn’t noticed or maybe he knows them and doesn’t care.
“That’s fine, Carmine. I’ll see you then.”
“Oh, thank you, Marco. I...I won’t even bother to explain.”
“No need.” I really don’t care.
A shrill Woooooo from the stands make me look back up. Now that they have my attention again, both women are gesturing for me to come meet them.
“Don’t mind them,” says Carmine, “we get fans hanging around between races sometimes. But I was about to do some practice laps, if you want to get back out there and race.”
“Thanks, Carmine, but maybe some other time.” I was already on my way up to the stands.
3
Franco
I’ve been in the office for only three hours and already I feel like the day has gotten away from me. I didn’t mind taking this job—it’s a great building, with everything onsite and a nice fancy office.
It’s got a nice Italian edge to it, but it’s also very modern and comfortable now that I’ve made a few adjustments. In my father’s heyday, it was packed with heavy furniture. Maybe it was a side business. Fuck, if I know.
This pile of paper isn’t getting any smaller. It’s the worst part of our promise to Papa—turning the business legitimate takes an incredible amount of paperwork. I knew handling the hookers couldn’t be a full-time bag of fun, but I had hoped.
Turns out, even prostitution gets boring when it’s in black and white. I’d been working on paperwork so long I feel like I’m at an actual job. If I don’t get to kick off soon, I’ll completely lose my motivation.
I’m not one of those guys who can handle repetition.
We had to renovate half the rooms in here to turn it into a proper training center. We have a gym and a cafeteria onsite now. Some of the offices are set up as classrooms where the girls get schooled in etiquette.
The highest ranks of our escorts must be utterly flawless. The building is now a super center of activity for our business. I’m pretty sure in Dad’s day it was just a gentleman’s club, and I use the term ‘club’ loosely—more like a cluster of fetish rooms.
I reach for my coffee and curse softly. It was empty again. I should have been through this paperwork at the start of the workday and ready to get on with today’s calendar.
I better have a look now in case something urgent is scheduled for me.
There are interviews for new girls today. I get a real grin on my face at that—meeting pretty girls always makes for a good day, even more so when it’s my job.
Times have changed of course, and that was Dad’s plan all along. No more terrified immigrants being carted around in vans.
No more messing about at the docks with bribes. Positions for today have been advertised, and the girls will get paid very well. It’s not all sex, either–—some will end up as secretaries or cocktail waitresses.
We run these interviews not just to hire the girls but to place them in the business.
I buzz Carlos at his desk and tell him to get all the girls in, in a couple of hours. I don’t want to do individual interviews. It will take too long, and I don’t need to know that much about the candidates.
Carlos grunts his affirmative and hangs up, getting straight on the job. This is why I have him as my second. No chit-chat and no bullshit.
He knows how to support me and get me prepared for every task. None of the others I had hired could keep up, let alone get ahead.
I check the time and realize that if I’m going to workout, I need to go now.
I’ve been sitting at this desk for too long, and the tension is starting to ring through my neck and shoulders.
I really wanted this paperwork done by now.
I buzz Carlos again and let him know I’m headed down to the gym and that he should follow after making the calls.
We had met at a local gym some years ago, and it was his ability to handle my crazy schedule that made me offer him the job.
The guy was wasted as a personal trainer.
I jog down to the gym and change quickly.
There are a few staff members on. Braver ones acknowledge me; most pretend I’m not there.
I’m not a bad guy, not all the time, anyway, but few employees will look me in the eye.
I lift weights for a few minutes until Carlos comes in to spot for me. He notches up the weight, recording everything in an app on his tablet.
“You trying to kill me or what?”
Carlos laughs at me. “It’s not much weight, I only want you to do a few. You need it after all that shredding last month.”
“Alright, man, set it up.” I lie down on the bench press as Carlos comes around to spot.
“So, why are you doing all this hard work anyway, boss? Got a lady friend or what?”
I laugh mid-lift, almost throwing myself out.
“No. You know better than that.” I squeeze the words out as I press slowly.
Lift, and press.
“But you must find someone sooner or later, boss. A man needs to tend to his heart.”
“Not. Me.” Breathing hard now, I push two more, then nod to Carlos as he jacks the bar back in.
I sit up and take a sip of water.
“I worry about you, Franco. You seem to do okay with the girls, but yo
u never have a special lady.”
“Carlos, can we just drop the subject? What do I have to offer a woman but money, huh?”
I was raised by amazing, strong, beautiful women. My Mama and Grandmother. Aunties. All gorgeous, striking, passionate women.
I was always the good boy, getting extra sweets and things like that. They all said I was destined to make a great husband, and I pictured myself like Gram Papa, sitting in his vineyard, just crawling with cousins and grand kids.
Once I started the business with Papa though, they all changed the way they looked at me. I wasn’t the nice boy anymore.
I was one of Papa’s dogs.
Maybe one day, we’ll clean this place up. Maybe then I can say to some woman—should I find a smart, gorgeous, sensual creature with passion to match Dante’s inferno—I’m a good man, and I can offer you honor and a good life. Not just cash.
Maybe then...
Deep down, I really believe that day will never come. Now I’ve become a wild dog; how can I learn to be a gentleman? The sweet kid I used to be is gone forever.
“Let’s hit another set, Carlos. I feel some more tension creeping in.”
4
Antonio
The big silver beast comes to life, hissing and spitting like a giant steam train pulling out of the railway station before a kind of gurgling sound kicks it into second gear. Another minute or so, and I’ll be able to enjoy the best coffee in town.
I call her the beast, since some days she can be temperamental. Actually, we all call her this name.
In the shiny silver of the beast, I can see my reflection.
As I wait for the temperature gauge to heat, I stare at myself. I’ve been experimenting with the five o’clock look, but I don’t think I like it.
It makes me look unnecessarily fierce. I thought it might add some artistic flair, but it doesn’t.
The women seem to fall for me, clean-shaven or not. I think tomorrow I’ll go back to shaving.
Finally, silence.
I grab the mug to fill it with coffee. The machine is totally automated to make sure each and every fucking cup is perfect.
Of course, the type of beans is as important as the amount of coffee. There are some crap beans out there, that’s for sure.
A month ago, I switched brands. I now buy Veneziano, which is of top-notch quality.
I come from a long line of Italian coffee lovers. My motto: If you’re going to have coffee, you may as well have the best. Life is too fucking short to drink bad stuff.
My fingers turn the knobs and dials, and within seconds my beautiful coffee machine is spitting out the perfect espresso.
Two teaspoons of sugar and finito, and it’s ready.
I go back to my desk and sit in my high-backed red leather chair. There are a few minor business things I have to attend to before lunch. Being responsible for the casinos the Monatello family owns, as well as the gambling outfits, keeps me on my toes.
It sounds easy being in charge of casinos, but it’s not.
On bad days, I wish I had a different life.
If I could choose an occupation, it would be an artist. Art is one of my passions. But, fuck, I was born into the wrong family.
There are no fucking artists in my family, or if there are, I’ve not been told about them.
In my family, you do what the head of the family does—did.
Okay, it comes with certain benefits. We’re incredibly fucking wealthy, born with model-good looks, and I can have any pussy I want.
But...
I sigh. No point navel gazing. If I’m to catch this new exhibit in my lunch break, I better get a move on.
On the way out, I leave a note for my personal assistant in case she comes looking for me.
I walk to the small art gallery five blocks away. There’s something satisfying about the independence of walking.
It might not appear so to the ordinary observer, but I’m grateful for my ability to be able to walk. With many people housebound for whatever reason, I appreciate my good health.
As usual, lunchtime brings people into the open. The streets are busy, and the cafés have patrons spilling onto the footpath. Someone knocks into me, spilling his coffee.
“Sorry, man,” he mumbles and keeps walking.
I check my shirt. No stain.
By the time I reach the art gallery, the crowd has thinned out. Not many people venture here in the middle of the day or any other time for that matter.
The building is run-down, there are cracks in the wall, and the render’s peeling off. There’s a bit of work to be done to keep this gallery open. It looks more like a shelter for the homeless than an art gallery.
Just goes to show, never judge a book by its cover.
One single poster to the left of the door announces the current exhibit.
The artist is a young man called Tim Trueheart. I’ve read a review about him online.
He’s got a great ability to capture those rare moments in life we all like to hang onto and make them last forever.
Love.
Hate.
Fights.
Those are his subjects.
As soon as I enter the dimly lit building, my senses are assaulted by a moldy kind of smell, and I can’t help wondering where the mould is and what it does to the paintings.
“Can I help you?” a faceless voice says from the back room to the left of the entrance.
I clear my throat and rummage around my designer jeans pockets for loose change. A small donation is all the gallery asks for.
“Just here to look at the latest collection, George,” I call out to the old man I know to be buried in some type of research about artists and paintings.
“Ah, Antonio.” His cracked face appears in the doorway.
There are more lines in this face than on a city road map. It’s a well lived-in face.
“Hey,” I return the greeting.
“Let me know what you think before you go.”
I nod.
“I should have those plans and an accounting for you in about week,” he calls after me, and I wave my hand in acknowledgment.
It’ll be good to help this little struggling community of artists. I’ve asked for plans and a cost estimate so I can run it past my brothers, but the reality is the amount I’m going to be putting into the place is an afternoon’s worth of gambling in one of our exclusive establishments.
And as far I’m concerned, I’d rather put money into the arts than my own business.
Like I said, I was fucking born into the wrong family.
The main room of the building is a lot brighter, with specific lights placed strategically to make sure the artwork is shown in the best possible way.
When I catch sight of the first huge canvass, my heart beats a little faster. Reds, yellows, oranges, and purples lash out from the painting. It’s as if a giant beast is trying to spew forth anger, hatred and rage.
Wow.
“Pretty good, isn’t it?”
The voice makes me jump. I didn’t notice the woman admiring the work of art. A young attractive blonde, she was wearing heels, a tight black knee-length skirt and a white blouse; probably a PA to someone.
I look her up and down.
“Great on the eye,” I agree and sniff the air.
Sickly sweet perfume wafts in my direction. I suppress a cough.
“There’s one out back,” she says, pointing to her right. “It speaks even louder to me than this one.”
With hands in my pockets, I nod. She may be hinting at more than going to look at a painting, but I’m not interested. Not today.
I’ve got a lot on my mind.
The phone rings, and I excuse myself to move further into the gallery.
“Ciao, Franco,” I greet my brother in Italian.
“Breakfast Friday mid-morning—our usual place.”
I nod.
“No worries, see you there.” I hang up and am relieved to find the blonde gone.
If there’s one thing I don’t like in a woman, it’s too much fucking perfume.
And that chick not only wore too much; she also wore the wrong type.
5
Sofia
It’s after 8 p.m., and The Grand Hotel is finally starting to wind down. I’d been doing menial housekeeping for the last few hours waiting for a chance to get in and debrief. It’s not like in the movies where you can just show up in the right clothes and go unnoticed.
This is a big place, with lots of staff, but often, the same people run the different departments. I must have a decent cover here or it just wouldn’t work.
I don’t mind a little busy work here and there. It’s all part of the job. Now that it’s getting quiet, I can finally slip away to room 696 and use my private key.
As I scan myself in, I hear the unmistakable click of a weapon behind the door. I rap three short knocks and one long one, the secret code.
As I slip quickly through the door, I nod to the agent putting his gun away and move past him into the room. He slips by me into the hall, leaving me alone with the senator.
He’s sitting at his desk with his back toward the balcony, and I approach quickly to debrief. I have researched and compiled the data, double checking it for accuracy. I know it’s accurate.
The dick would have sold me his own heart if I’d asked.
Still, being thorough is my job. It’s why I’m the best. I make sure every word they scream at me in lust or anger is completely true before handing it in.
I hand over the small memory stick as the senator places a large case on the desk without getting up. He’s making notes and has a few files neatly stacked in front of him.
I take my case of cash from him and place it on the floor by my feet. I lean over the desk, placing my hands flat on the hard wood, grinning at the senator, letting my smile soften up my eyes a bit.
Every man I see thinks this is a genuine smile. They also think it’s just for them. Simple bastards.
“You know how I don’t like to mix business with pleasure,” I say gently, still smiling a little coyly. “So I’ll keep shop talk to a minimum. The last job may have gone off without a hitch, but there were potential complications. He has accomplices, which will continue the crime ring even without him. I want your permission to go after them.”
