Percy2234



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    New York’s Sex Diaries series asks anonymous city dwellers to record a week in their sex lives — with comic, tragic, often sexy, and always revealing results. This week, a 36-year-old Italian mafia boss is trapped in a hotel with a 52-year-old not!retired assassin who’s holding a grudge.

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    06 Sep 2026

  2. Public Bookmark 99

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    Santino always woke up struggling for air. The walls of his cell closing in, crushing him into the present. He was shaky as he got to his feet, closing his eyes, stretching out his hands. He counted the steps to the opposite wall. Then he walked until his back was to the cell door, and counted the steps to the next well. He pressed his head against concrete, breathing in, then out. The walls snapped back into place, appeased by ritual. Santino lay back on his bed, folding his hands over his chest.

    Prison stank.

    It was an unrelenting stink of men crowded into tiny cells for the rest of their lives. Sweat, flatulence, body odour, vomit. Prison perfume. Santino breathed it in. Out. Choked it down. It grounded him in the mornings. People were beginning to stir. Everyone was quiet, save for those who murmured greetings to their neighbours, the words shredded away through concrete.

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    05 Sep 2026

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    “With you it’s always ‘Father this’, ‘Father that’.” Gianna sniffed. “It’s an obnoxious habit. Very childish. Act your age.”

    “Oh? And trying to interrupt a stranger about his business isn’t obnoxious?”

    “You’re such an asshole,” Gianna said, incredulous. “I can’t believe you said that. We’re trying to save a life.”

    “If you were remotely interested in charity of that nature you wouldn’t be in the family business.”

    The stranger was staring at them now, blinking owlishly. It wasn’t an unfamiliar reaction to anyone exposed to his sister and their quarrels. “Do you guys mind?” he said finally. His voice was rusty, seldom used.

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    05 Sep 2026

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    “The problem,” John said, “is that he really has no concept of money.”

    Beside him at the table in the diner, Marie exchanged a long look with Akram. Tall and sturdily built, with a head of tawny, curly hair, Marie Sanchez had retired years before John had, going private with some security firm, where she was presumably finally paid what she was worth. Unlike John, who was in an old shirt and jeans, and Akram, who wore a tattered jacket over slacks, Marie was fashionably dressed. Nice clothes, cute bag. Big enough to hide a pistol, of course.

    “You’re the only person in the world who could possibly think that’s a problem,” Akram finally said. It had been over a decade and a half since they’d first met, a lifetime ago in Afghanistan, and the translator didn’t look like he’d aged much. Just a little more silver in his sideburns against his solemn face. “You really haven’t changed, John.”

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    05 Sep 2026

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    Abram sighed. “What we want to know is. How are things. With the boy.”

    The boy. John frowned slightly. He had left The Boy, as Abram liked to refer to him, occupying the living room of the new house, surrounded by textbooks, pointedly ignoring John. “Fine.”

    “What do you mean ‘fine’?” Abram asked, grimacing. “Do I want to know?”

    Abram,” Viggo growled.

    “He’s still alive?” John wasn’t sure what he was meant to say.

    Abram paled. “What? What did… John. When the D’Antonio family proposed this… arrangement to us in exchange for permission to act against one of the Camorra affiliated operations in New York, we guaranteed Santino D’Antonio’s continued good health in your hands. He’s what, nineteen? Eighteen? Only a boy.”

    “He’s not hurt,” John said, even more puzzled now. “Studying for something, I think. We don’t talk.”

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    05 Sep 2026