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I am starting to cry.
“Well, Chica you are valuable property. You will be marrying Bobby Vincenzio soon. I want to see just how much you are worth to him!” Villalovos announces as he stands up.
My head is pounding. What is Villalovos talking about? This must be a mistake. I am not going to marry Bobby Vincenzio. I have never even met him.
Villalovos walks away. One of his men puts a water bottle down for me. He points to the corner of the room.
“There is a toilet behind the curtain for you to use.”
The three men leave. I hear the door roll shut. I struggle to stand up and walk. I find a small toilet hidden behind a makeshift curtain. The chain is just long enough to reach it. After I use the toilet, I walk back to where my chain is attached to the hook on the floor. I sit down on the cold concrete floor. I drink half the water bottle. The water tastes bitter, but I am thirsty.
My head is spinning. I am shaking. I put my head between my knees. I need to think.
I am going to marry one of Paul Vincenzio’s sons?Paul had been Capo of the Chicago Outfit for forty years until he retired. Paul has three sons - the two oldest are already married. Paul’s youngest son, Bobby, is always on Chicago’s most eligible bachelors list. I have seen pictures of him on my newsfeed always with a model or movie star. Bobby Vincenzio is now Capo of the Chicago Outfit…
I feel sleepy. I lay down on the cold floor and close my eyes.
Bobby
9:00 p.m.
Fuck. I’m tired.
I am Bobby Vincenzio. A successful man. I crave control. Money. Power. Sex. I like violence too, truth be told, but then of course, I am Capo of the Chicago Outfit. I took my father’s place when he recently retired. I am 28 years old. I am the youngest Capo in the history of the Chicago Outfit.
I have just gotten off a private jet that had picked me up in Los Angeles, California. My father had demanded I fly home for a private meeting with him. My father has never done this before.What the Hell does he want to talk about?I am curious.
Unfortunately, I had to cancel my evening of wild sex with Evie Bliss – a 33 year “B” movie actress that wants to become a movie star. She really knows her way around a man’s cock. No gag reflex. She swallows my cock from tip to root. The only reason I have fucked her for six months. A record for me.
My father is Paul Vincenzio. You may have heard of him. He was Capo of the Chicago Outfit for almost 40 years. My initiation into the Outfit happened when I was 13 years old. My Father had me kill a guy. An enemy. He wanted to make me a man. The Outfit taught me how to fight. I enjoy cracking skulls. Always carry a gun and a knife strapped to my calf.
I walk into my father’s mansion in River Estates, a very exclusive private Chicago Suburb. The luxurious house, typically associated with exceptional wealth or aristocracy, is three stories tall. The stately red brick manor stands on a large block of land. I grew up in this house. It smells like home – garlic and olive oil.
The six-bedroom, six-bath home has a library, study, conservatory, theater, greenhouse, indoor infinity pool, bowling alley, and server room. A huge fucking house.
Evie is a plaything. She has spread her legs for every powerful producer in Hollywood. She is no better than a whore. I reward her with unlimited plastic surgery – nose job, boob job, butt implants. She is now pressuring me to finance a movie. I will not. I am just stringing her along.
Evie recently told a tabloid that we are getting engaged. I will never marry her. Everyone thinks I am in love with her. I am not. Love is for weak-minded fools. Women easily spread their legs for me. No challenge. I never have to chase pussy. Never will.
My needs are simple – I want a beautiful woman who loves to fuck. Doesn’t need foreplay. Can come just with my cock in her pussy. Can swallow my cock whole.
I fuck experienced, older women – in their thirties – actresses and models. If a woman tells me she loves me, I ghost her. I am not looking for a relationship. I am not looking for love. Love is weakness. When I am forty or fifty, I will marry a virgin Italian mafia princess to give me an heir.
I check myself out in the oversized, ornate brass mirror in the entryway. I need a shave. I smooth my thick wavy hair down. Straighten my imported silk tie. My Armani suit is a little wrinkled from the flight from LA. I note the time on my gold Rolex watch on my wrist.
I find my father sitting at the old kitchen table. He is drinking a cup of coffee. It is way past the old man’s bedtime. He has a serious look on his face. The overhead light in the kitchen is dim and makes him look sinister.
“Hello, Sir.”
The former capo of the Chicago outfit is intimidating. He was a notorious killer back in the day. I respect him. I want to please him. Impress him.
“Bobby, my son, please have a seat.”
I grab a cold beer from the double door stainless steel refrigerator. I sit down at the small kitchen table across from my father. I have eaten many meals at this table.
Over the years, the dated kitchen has never changed. I remember my mom teaching me to make homemade marinara sauce when I was a little boy. I can almost see her standing at the Formica counter chopping vegetables. She insisted on cooking, even though my father could afford a chef. I still miss my mom. She died of breast cancer when I was ten years old. I didn’t cry when she died. I stopped smiling. I hardly ever smile now. My resting face is a scowl.
My father looks older than his 65 years. His once full head of black hair is now white. His face has more wrinkles than I remember. I see age spots on his hands. He is wearing a robe over his pajamas. My father used to wear designer suits and imported Italian loafers. Not anymore. He prefers jogging suits and sneakers. He has a manilla folder sitting on the table in front of him. Never a good sign.
