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small-fortunes · 5 years ago

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“You thought your could tear off my wings by using your tears to bring me home? Is that what you thought? Really?” - S. D’Antonio

Medusa Risen: Severance

She'd betrayed him.

It was all he could think about. There he was, in Vienna, Austria, working for her. To build her reputation, to secure her alliances with people outside of England and Italy for which she might be able to expand herself and come into her own. And this was how she repaid him? He'd worked so hard these past two months, securing papers, documents, passports, licenses. The people he'd had to talk to. The meetings he'd had to attend. The lies he'd had to tell. It was all so tenuous. So dangerous. It could all have come apart so easily. But those people, they trusted him. He was of the Camorra, after all. His reputation proceeded him wherever he went. Such was the power of the D'Antonio family. His father Lorenzo D'Antonio Camorra sat at the eighth seat of The High Table for Italy. A Crime Lord, like no other. Hundreds of years of Mafia tradition passed down from family to family. And now it all rested on his shoulders. Alright, not his shoulders directly. That was currently his sister's burden. Gianna D'Antonio was acting Queen Regent under her father Lorenzo. She spoke on his behalf because their father trusted his daughter's judgments on his affairs across the globe implicitly. Because Lorenzo was only one man after all. He could not do everything himself. It wasn't possible. Yes he had men, yes he had money, yes he had power. But who better to run his affairs for him when he needed to rest than his own flesh and blood? His children, the two siblings, Gianna and Santino. They were good children. Obedient. They understood the ways of the world. One day, they would overshadow him. He would back down in the Winter of his grateful retirement and watch his daughter rise to take the Italian throne on his behalf. His legacy would be secure. He was not a young man anymore and this life... the Camorra, his Mafia... well. It took a toll on you. He'd lost his wife Marcella some many years ago. When his children were so fragile. So young. She walked out on him, broken down. Distraught. The light gone from her eyes. After almost thirty years of marriage. She just left. The wedding ring on the dining room table. No note. No nothing. Just gone. He was a single parent now. Yes, he had money, he had power, he had family, he had friends. He was a Crime Lord. He owned Rome. He owned Italy. But he had a broken heart. And a man with a broken heart is not a good father to young children. At least, not in this life.

He was looking forward to stepping down. In the Winter of his retirement. Yes. His legacy would be secure. He'd managed it. He'd raised his children right. Gianna was a prodigy. Purely exceptional, the way she comported herself. The achievements she'd completed. Her brother... Santino... Well... He was young still. You're not at real man until you reach thirty-five. He wasn't thirty-five yet. He was barely thirty-one. He'd only honestly tried to give a damn about the Camorra in the last five years. And he'd fucked it up horrifically. Mistakes get made. That's to be expected. We're only human, after all. But honestly. Why couldn't he be more like this sister? More dedicated? More confident? At least a little more fucking discreet would be appreciated. Santino's whoring was legendary. He'd brought so much shame and dishonour upon the D'Antonio family with his loose morals and lack of common decency. More like a lack of common sense. That issue two years ago, with Marissa Conti had been the final straw. He either get help and clean up his fucking act; or he'd personally kick down his bedroom door and smother him in his sleep. Even if it was his son. He'd brought him into this world. Marcella D'Antonio had almost died at his labor. Well, he'd return the favor and take him directly back out of it again. If that's what it took, so be it. Lorenzo D'Antonio Camorra was not a man to be trifled with. He honoured his family. He honoured his blood. But honour sometimes ran thicker than blood and definitely thinker than water. Santino knew this. He knew it with every fiber of his being. So he chafed, and burned and brooded and was bitter and resentful and hateful to the world around him. Typical Italian. But he cooled off. He thought it through. His sister helped him clean up the ruins of his life. His punishment for the 'Marissa Conti Debacle' had been paid for in blood, sweat and tears. It took him two years of his life to rise from the ashes of that ruin. Two years was too long to lose your mind over a woman. So he swore to himself, once it was over. That he'd never go down the path again. And it never really was over, because nor his father, his sister nor his colleagues whom he thought of as family and friends would never...NEVER, let him live it down. They would remind him of it constantly. Every time he went out. Every time he stayed in. Every time he took a call, or went to a bar or was trying to read or study or work. They looked at him. With eyes that said, 'We know what you did to Marissa Conti, Santino. And if you ever pull that kind of bullshit again, we swear to God, we'll fucking end you ourselves.'

He wasn't going to argue with that logic. He liked living, even if it was painful the majority of the time. He found love and beauty in everything. In everyone. Anything was possible. Everything was possible. So long as you were alive, all wrongs could be righted. Nothing however, can help you or the world if you're dead. And dead was where Santino D'Antonio did not want to be for a very, very long time. So he cleaned up. Just like he promised. He grew a little tact and better diplomacy. He straightened his back bone. He started comporting himself as less of a disgrace and more of a hero, risen from the ashes of torment and suffering. He was a romantic after all. And a man. And a man in this world needs a woman to love. At least, in his world, he needed a woman to love. So soon after meeting her, he'd been fantasying, day dreaming. Visions in his mind's eye playing on repeat. When he heard certain songs, ate certain foods. Everywhere he went, everything he saw and did reminded him of her. His Dancer. His Mistress.

Gianna had said to him, privately, face to face when they met in London, shortly after Lalienna's initiation into the Camorra employ, “Se arriva il momento che ti rendi conto che la ami davvero, allora non dovresti aspettare. Fai di lei una donna onesta. Prendila come tua moglie. Ti farebbe bene." (If the time comes that you realize you really love her, then you shouldn't wait. Make an honest woman out of her. Take her as your wife. It would do you good.) Oh he obsessed over that fantasy. He knew, it had only been two months of dating her seriously. Of showering her with gifts and love and affection. It was cathartic, what she made him feel. It was precious, sacred. It made him feel whole. Pure. New again. It was love. Yes. He was a man in love and he could not deny his intended was Lalienna.

So can you imagine, how it hurt him when he received that text? Those photos? He was alone in his hotel room, upon the bed. Tired, but he couldn't sleep without wishing her goodnight or calling to say good morning. She was so beautiful. And what she did for his libido was biblical. He'd done a lot of whoring in his young years. He'd been in and out of the petals of many women, lovers, prostitutes, orgies and one night stands, by the dozens, hundreds maybe. Who keeps count of these things? Only an idiot keeps count. You don't count love or passion no matter how you spend it. He certainly didn't. But Lalienna was different. The moment he saw her in the foyer of The Continental. She wasn't wearing anything particularly interesting. Just jeans and a t-shirt. She had a single bag and no attendants. No guards. No nothing. But he'd seen her eyes. They were the eyes of a child that had been ripped from their mother's grasp. And he knew what that was like. When his own mother, Marcella walked out on Lorenzo. So he was intrigued. What makes a pretty girl like that, walk into a place like this? Wearing such plain clothes too. Her lip appeared puffy and split. She certainly didn't look like she had any money. But looks can be deceiving. He knew this. He'd played that game before just to get what he wanted. When he wanted it. He was good at it. He usually won. So he'd sent his best man to tail her. To learn of her movements. To see if something slipped. "No contact. Just shadow." That had been his instruction. If only he knew what he was dealing with! If only! She'd sent his best man back to him with a dislocated shoulder and a very sorry story to tell. 'Little bitch!' His thoughts had raged. 'I'll kill her for this. I'll fucking break her scrawny neck.' She was lucky. She was staying two floors beneath him in The Continental. And that was difficult to do without money or skill. So if you didn't have either of those, you were either a civilian, which he doubted after what his best man had told him; or you were sponsored by a powerful family. What his man told him started to make sense. She moved like a dancer. She had an attack that was practised military elegance. She didn't hesitate and she didn't falter. She was a little machine of war. And she was apparently un-owned. For now.

That was her. Lalienna DeMentriento, staring back suggestively with sinful angles that made him stroke himself as he gazed on the photos she'd sent to his phone. Fuck... She was good. Too good. She always made him cum. Even if he didn't think he wanted to. Even if he didn't think he could. She tore it out of him, one way or another. He was tired from a full day of travel and back to back business. He'd not even had the chance to eat properly. He'd not slept for more than two or three hours in at least three days. But that didn't matter, he was doing it for the girl in these pictures. Her voice alone was enough to take the edge off any trial he was going through. She released him in ways he couldn't express in human language. She was doing it again. Sending these pictures. Look at those curves! That body! Those breasts, hips and thighs. That neck... that neck.... that..... What's that on her neck? He released his cock from his hand and sat upright on the bed, zooming into the photo. And he saw it. That mark. Just above her collar bone. Her consequences as she had once called them. He remembered every touch, kiss and bite he'd ever given her. He memorised them with such clarity it was haunting. He knew... He fucking knew that wasn't his. So who? Who? Was it Wick again? The fucking little whore. Was Wick back, riding his lover like a horse in his own bed whilst he was away, working?! Is that what this was?!

He was sick. Physically. He literally revolted and vomited a mixture of coffee, wine and pasta directly onto the bed. He was paralyzed in shock. What mess he was making! He forced himself to get up, to run to the bathroom. His head in the toilet bowl without ceremony, he emptied the contents of his stomach with violent retching that left his insides burning and raw. Tears stung his eyes. He tried to tell himself it was the illness that shocked him. But he was lying to himself. In truth it was the betrayal. And it wasn't new to him. This had happened before when he was younger. He'd left lovers because they committed adultery outside of his consent and outside of his knowledge. He didn't need that. He was proud and jealous and ultimately, for all his whoring, he realized that he was actually quite loyal and rather monogamous. If nothing else he was a man of his word. And he would be honest if he wanted another. He wouldn't break her heart. He'd let her down gently with flowers and gifts. Then he'd tell her it was over. That he was sorry. He could not continue this way. It was not fair on her, not fair on him. He was sorry, he knew it was painful. But it wasn't the last time they'd fall in love. They were young. There was always hope. There would always be another. Sometimes the break ups went well. Other times, not so much. He'd always end up in tears no matter how strong he acted. Because it hurt when you were leaving someone. Or when someone was leaving you. It hurt to be betrayed. It was hurting him. And he was crying about it. There, in a hotel bathroom in Vienna, Austria. With his head in a toilet where'd he'd vomited the majority of his dinner after seeing a love bite on the neck of a woman he wanted to propose marriage to. Even if it had only been two months. He was trying to keep it cool. He was trying to take it slow. But he was Italian. Passionate. Excitable. Highly strung. And he was crying.

It took him ten minutes or more to clean himself up. To brush his teeth and wash his face. To have the maids replace his soiled bed linen. He paid them extra for his disgrace, pushing the tips personally into their hands and thanking them profusely. He was sorry they had to see him like that. Poor women were worried for him. They said he looked pale and asked if he wanted them to call a doctor. "No, thank you. I'm just tired and it's been a rough day. I've not been feeling well, but if I sleep I should be better. Thank you ladies. You may leave when you're ready. Again, thank you." He'd said to them. The moment he was alone again, he called her. She answered. Excited. She thought they would continue their long distance game, over the phone with sexy words until they both released themselves with sighs and moans of sheer pleasure. Phone sex was exotic. It was dangerous and dirty and felt so good. He'd enjoyed it once upon a time. This time, he didn't give her so much as a chance to answer. He'd slammed her with his anger. If she were in the room with him he might have picked her up and slammed her against a wall. Until her head cracked against it. He wanted to. God he wanted to. He'd never hit a woman inside or outside of combat. It was.... poor manners. Bad etiquette. Even if they were warriors. And many of them were. But there were things you didn't do to a woman if you were a man. A real man. And that meant you kept your hands to yourself, even if you felt like breaking her neck. You walked out, had a smoke. If you were really pissed off, you had two. But you put your hands in your pockets. Where they belonged. There were ways of dealing with wayward lovers. He had ways.

She was learning them. Slowly. The art of sadomasochism. The art of bondage, domination, submission. Slowly, slowly. He was showing her. Teaching her. Blood play, knife play... edge play, impact play. It was all dangerous. It was all landmine field ready to explode in their face. But his scenes were always consensual. They were always controlled rigidly. Even if it appeared that they were wild and chaotic in his dark lust. It was always calculated down to the last breath. He'd fucked it up once in the early days of their relationship. It had cost him and her too much. They were apart for a full twenty-four hours after and he thought he was going insane. He thought she'd walk out on him forever. Just like fucking Marissa Conti did. Well she didn't. Lalienna came back. She made promises and she kept them, because that was the kind of girl she was. But she apologized profusely on the phone. She rushed a haphazard explanation of some woman from Athena's Tower of London. Said it was an ex-sister. He'd already told her repeatedly he had no regard for these women. That they had cast her out. And whilst he was grateful to have her in his hands now... he fucking hated them with a blinding passion. So she had betrayed him. And she knew he was pissed off. Really pissed off. He told her they would talk about it when he got back.

Now he'd punish her. He stopped taking her calls. He sent them all to voice mail and deleted the text messages. He didn't reply to her emails. She didn't deserve a reply. And she was fast blowing up his inbox. Delete. Delete. Delete. 'Fuck you bitch. Fuck you.' Was all he could think of. Now that he thought about it; What was the point of this trip to Austria anyway? For her? After she does this? Alright, at least he was wrong, it wasn't Wick. And yes, he thought lesbian sex was hot. But... why did it have to be some bitch from the Tower? After what he told her he'd thought of them. They had thrown her out. Out of her home. Out of her mind. And she would still go to bed with one of them!? Unthinkable! It was killing him. Killing him. He booked the next flight straight back to England. Express. No stopovers. He paid extra for First Class. Because he needed the space. He was in a foul mood. He didn't want people around him. No, you fucking retarded Custom's Official, I don't have anything to declare. What's in this box? Mind your own business, cocksucker. Or I'll make sure you find out. He wasn't in the mood for people. He rented a car from the airport and drove himself back to The Continental London. His High Guard took one look at his face and knew the storm was coming. Something had gone wrong. "Boss? You uh... want us to shake someone down for you?" That was Hector. He was a good man. Still recovering from a dislocated shoulder that his bitch, Lalienna had given him two months earlier. "No. You and the team take the night off. It's just Lalienna and I. We have... an issue, we need to discuss. It's private. Personal. You understand. See to it I'm not disturbed. No one in, no one out. You know the drill." "Si Signore, we know what to do. What's in the box? It's beautiful." "It's a gift for her." He replied. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Hector stopped asking questions. He shook his employer's hand and commed the team. They had a night off. Time for them to go party. At last. The boss is home and he's got stuff to do with his lady. They won't be needed.

He went up to his room. Hesitated for a second in the elevator, looking at the number to level five where she lived and almost wanting to press the button. Almost. He didn't. Level seven. That's where he was going. Room '768'. That was his room. His apartments. He wanted to be alone. He couldn't trust himself in this mood. Everything hurt. He was so distraught. So angry. So bitter. She really stuck the knife in with this tryst of hers. It was really unforgivable. He'd make her scream. He'd make her sorry. All those dark fantasies. All those twisted dreams he had as he walked down the hall to unlock his hotel room door with his gold room key card. So can you imagine his shock, when she was sitting there, on his red leather chesterfield lounge. Looking like a nervous wreck. What a brat. Disgraceful. She knew she was gonna get it. Daddy was pissed off. Really pissed off. She knew it. She took one look at his eyes and began to whimper. She started to apologize in English, Italian, Spanish. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door with such force the room shook. He dropped the carved timber box angrily on the gilded hall side table. She shut up. And sat down. She bowed her head. He turned away. Taking off his overcoat. His blazer, tugging free his tie, taking out the diamond and gold tie pin angrily. She'd bought it for him. Why did he wear it? He pulled it free and threw it at her now. It almost struck her face. But he had good aim. He wouldn't dare hit her face with anything. He'd never forgive himself if he did. But it wizzed past and struck the leather of the lounge, bouncing back onto the cushions before rolling to the floor. She picked it up on instinct. So OCD. She couldn't stand mess or chaos. He didn't really give a fuck. He paid people to look after his chaos. So he didn't have to. It was one of the few things in his fucking life that he had control over. He thought he could control Lalienna. He was wrong. Apparently. He took off his waist coat, his cuff links. Draped the items haphazardly upon the back of a dining chair and across the table where they didn't belong and he did it on purpose to watch her squirm with anxiety. A sadistic game he played with her sometimes, when he realized that something in her mind was a little unhinged. He could deal with cleanliness obsessive compulsive disorder. Hell, everyone had a little control freak in them. He did too. Just not one that wanted to get on his hands and knees and scrub a bathroom floor till it sparkled. Not that he hadn't done it before. He did. He was forced to because a real man knows how to clean and cook and keep a house. Lorenzo did it by himself without the help of hired hands. He was a good father. He cooked and fed and cleaned after his house and children after Marcella left. To prove a point. That his life would not fall apart without her. That he had his shit together even if she did not.

He loved his father's wilfulness. He'd inherited it genetically. And right now, he was about to pull rank on this bitch. Short of turning her back into a pedestrian and having Sable kick her face first out of the hotel on his command. Because that was the kind of bullshit he was capable of. He returned to the table where the thin timber box that he carried had been thrown minutes earlier. "Papi.... please... I can't stand it anymore. You said you would talk to me. Please... I'm begging you, don't shut me out like this, talk to me!" She was crying. She was distraught. She knew she'd done wrong.

"You want me to fucking talk to you? Putana!" Uh oh. Here it comes. The storm. The inside of that elegant carved timber box held a dark secret. An Italian hand crafted 10.25" flat guard flick knife. These.... these were personal. These were his favourite weapons of threat and intimidation. And he knew he shouldn't do this to her. He knew it was wrong. He remembered, what happened, the first time they went into a 'Scene' she wasn't prepared for and he took a blade to her nipple and cut her open and fed off her blood whilst he fucked her on the dining table. It was a nightmare. It didn't work out well. They both got sick. He wanted to kill himself with the shame he felt. But he didn't. He had hope she'd come back. He'd make it right. They could come together again. And they did. It was hard. Painful. He gave her that same knife he'd used on her that night as a symbol of penance. In hopes that she might one day find the will or desire to turn it against him in a 'Scene' she would dominate and inflict. He'd deserve it. He got off on hard S and M. That... and his foot fetishes which were... massive. To say the least. She didn't do it though. He never saw that knife again. So he'd bought another one that caught his eye in Vienna. And this was it. Beautiful hand crafted. Perfectly balanced. Black handle. 4.5 millimetre carbon steel bayonet blade. Solid brass liners, push button and slide safety. It was a work of art. It cost him a fortune. He haggled and got the price down to what he considered reasonable. Then he knocked the merchant down even lower because he was the Camorra prince and he always got what he wanted. It was in his hand now, blade unleashed, he was walking toward her. And she started screaming. On instinct. He came at her in a blaze of motion. His hand over her mouth. Hot breath against his palm. He mounted her hips and locked her down to the lounge beneath his weight. He forced her head back against the leather sending her body jolting sharply. Beneath his fingers she grunted. Her eyes were large, wild in panic. He wanted to laugh at her. All her training! All her combat arts and war skills and she didn't have the balls to pull him off her in a Judo take down? Really? That's what he was paying her for? To be a piece of pretty pussy and little else? Would she disgrace him so much?! Obviously. She was crying now. Going into shock as he berated her. "Silence, bella mia... you keep screaming like that and we'll get a noise complaint warning. And you've seen how Mister Sable handles those, don't you?" She nodded her head once. Sharply. "You're going to be good, yes? You're going to listen to me, and stop your ranting and your yelling and you're going to behave, yes?" Another nod, breathing hard against his hand. His eyes bore into hers. He wanted to... wanted to tear out her soul. She kissed his palm even as he held her mouth. A sign of her submission. To assure him she was sorry and would keep quiet. He pulled away his hand, letting her breathe. He'd marked her face. Pale with his finger marks for a moment before the blood came rushing back to flush her cheek. He wanted to apologise. He didn't.

"You remember this, don't you?" He waved the blade before her eyes. Enjoying the way she visibly recoiled in terror. "Yeah... well... That was then. This is now. And I promise you darling girl, what's going on right here is not a 'Scene'. We're not about to make love. Or fuck or kiss or anything you've been deluding yourself into believing we're going to do to make amends. You once told me you could fuck a thanks. Yeah? Well I've had you fuck a sorry as well. And it was weak. Almost as weak and pathetic as you are right now."

Oh! He was a monster to her! The blade was in his hand, but he was whipping her raw with his words. And he was enjoying it. Like foreplay. He was going to fuck her up, alright. "No safe word for what happens next." He growled. Thick Italian accent. His voice deep, resonating with power and fury. His eyes burned into her. "Papi please. I'm sorry, it's not what you think." "When did I tell you you could fucking talk, eh?" He grabbed her throat, forcing the airwaves to constrict against his fingers. She choked out a sobbing wail like an animal being beaten. He was furious with her. So hurt. So furious! "If she was here right now, Lalienna, with you, I swear on my mother's life I'd end her and make you clean up the blood. That's how angry I am with you right now. Look at this, what's this here? Hmm? She marked you?" The blade's tip drove a wicked furrow into the skin above her collarbone beneath the love bite that was still healing. The redness gone but there was a feint hint of bruising from sharp teeth and fierce sucking. It drove him almost out of his mind to see it in person. It was... almost as bad as having walked in on her during the act its self. "I'm sorry bella mia," He said to her then. His eyes softening. The blade slicing into her tender flesh and beginning to lift away the skin so she bled. He was so fast and so precise with his blade work she didn't even feel it at first. "This is for your own good. I've told you before, you don't belong to those wretched women anymore. You're my property now. And you've been tainted. So I'm going to fix it so it never happens again. See this skin here? Where she marked you? Sit still. Don't fucking move. I'm about to cut it clean off. I hope you're hungry. Because this is the last thing you're going to eat. For days."

Blood started to flow. She screamed now. Screamed in earnest terror. And he wanted to do it. He would have finished cutting a whole portion off her body and forcing the bloody skin into her mouth and making her chew and chew and swallow. Because he was suffering. He wanted her to feel his pain. He wanted to break her down the way she was breaking him down. But he didn't. She started to struggle, wildly against him, bucking his weight off her lap. She was powerful, even with his hand around her throat. She was disobeying. And she was screaming and crying in horror. In agony. He forced her down. Like the hand of God himself, he held her down. By the throat. Like she was a vapid serpent. And he reversed the blade. And he stuck the love bite above her healing, once broken collarbones. Her consequences. He slashed the mark in three quick strokes. He should have slowed down. Really made her suffer. He should have dragged the blade across her skin. But he was merciful. And he'd given her his word that he wouldn't do this without her consent. But she'd betrayed his trust. So he slashed the bite mark with three quick strokes. And it would scar. Because she was struggling. But it would scar to the shape of an 'S'. For 'Santino'. Because she had hurt him. He was suffering. He loved her and she betrayed him with another.

He flicked the blade closed. Pulled on the safety latch and released her throat. He dismounted her hips and backed away. Leaving her there. To bleed. To cry. To scream. That she was sorry. Sorry. Sorry. "I thought you understood the rules, though they were unspoken, when you gave your vow and body to me. That you would give yourself to no one else. Just because I'm not home. Even if I am. Clearly, you don't understand your place in all this after all, amore. I thought it was enough when I loved you, to mark your body from within with my passion. You lied to me. You betrayed me with another. You're bleeding now but when the scar heals you'll see. Now I've marked you in such a way as you'll never forget who you belong to ever again. Now do me a favor. Stop your fucking whining, get your shit out of my bedroom... and get the fuck out of my apartments. I'll tell you when I'm ready to see you again. Until then, you're finished with me. You can report to Hector for duties. If I catch you in my rooms without my permission, I'll throw you out the balcony, amore, do you understand me?"

She was whimpering. Blood was soaking her black lace. They were shallow cuts. Jagged, yes, but they would heal. She'd get over it. She had once before. Love was a game of give and take after all. He wasn't in the mood to give her anything else right now. Because she was killing him slowly. Because it hurt too much. This severance between them.

|{ @lalienna-dementriento @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat }|

#johnwick #medusarisen #santinoxlalienna #laliennadementriento #rpasthetic #inspiredbyfilm

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