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Mario glared at the voluptuous woman sitting in front of him in the limo. She hadn’t stopped snapping her gum, tossing her waist length bleach blonde hair and being a general bitch since he’d met her a half hour ago. He’s already tuned her out so many times he was afraid he was going to be deaf. He sighed. It was ok. She could learn.
He absolutely was already regretting kidnapping her, but it was tradition. His sister had been taken and was now married, and apparently happy with the eldest son of the Cincinnati Venna family. He heard from her occasionally, assured she was alive, but happy to keep his distance and be assured she was behaving as a wife and princess should.
He gritted his teeth as the vicious patter of her voice continued. He considered lowering the divider and asking for music, but the less people exposed to this creature, the better. He sighed, his mind regretting his choice. He had seen the blonde, leggy model from a distance after another wedding of the family, and had set his eyes on her. He’d begun his research weeks ago, as he wasn’t a man prone to rash action. Victoria Vincenzo was the youngest child of Vincent Vincenzo, the head of the Italian Vincenzo crime family in Seattle. Victoria had walked the catwalks of Milan, New York and Paris, and held degrees in business and fashion design.
Now, as they rode away from the Vincenzo house, her hands bound, and her hair in disarray, the bitch would not shut up. 22, blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, model beautiful, curves for days, and evidently, just enough brain to keep her mouth going, not enough to filter what came out of it. A tall man at 6’4, easily 250 of muscle, he had wanted a tall, beautiful woman, with some breeding that would look good on his arm. At 34 he was ready to settle down and make a family. He’d heard she was spoiled. He was fine with high maintenance. Nails, hair, whatever kept her beautiful and happy. He had his own preferences. Fine.
This wasn’t spoiled. This….this was a harpy, who didn’t have the intelligence to have a scrap of self preservation.
“I don’t know what the fuck your thinking, taking me like this. You’re dead. A dead man walking. My daddy will skin you alive and throw you to the…the…seals.” She screeched, her voice a harrowing scrape along his brain.
Did she think seals ate bodies?
He raised an eyebrow. His cousin Alfie, sitting next to her, coughed lightly to cover his aborted laugh.
“I thought I told you to be silent.” he murmured. He wasn’t a man prone to raising his voice, or tolerating raised voices directed at him.
“Oh, fuck YOU. My daddy will be here and I’ll watch him kill you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll say whatever I want to you, you teensy-dicked idiot.”
His eyes narrowed. This one hadn’t the brains God gave a cricket. He breathed deeply for control as his hand itched to raise the Glock in his hand, and simply pull the trigger. Truly, he’d be doing everyone a favor.
She continued, blue eyes squinched in a glare, “If you think, for a single second that I’m going to float around in your house following the whims of your whore of a mother, you’re a stupid idiot.”
His vision flashed red. His mother, the sainted vision of patience and kindness, Maria, was off limits. It was a rule anyone who had any knowledge of him knew. It had been her suggestion that he find a wife, as she had seen him take woman after woman to bed and the toxicity of it eat his soul as they took advantage of his nature to be generous with his lovers. Yes, he had a temper, and could be violent, but he'd never raised his hand to a woman, and he had a generous nature that leaned towards treating the women who shared his bed like princesses. Clothes, jewelry, trips, whatever they wished. He preferred intellect with his beauty, the ability to hold a conversation, and the idea that this woman possessed a business degree, or even a high school diploma, was ludicrous.
He pitched his voice over hers, as necessary to shut her up for a moment.
“I was informed you had a bachelor’s degree. Business. Yes?”
She stared at him, and scoffed. “College? Oh, fuck no. Daddy had that forged for my agent. Apparently some agencies want education. Like it takes math to walk down a runway. Ugh.”
He nodded, mouth pinched. As he'd thought.
“I prefer my women to have degrees also. I value intelligence.”
She burst out laughing. His fists clenched. He should really put down the gun before he accidently shot someone. Alfie, at the window, tensed, knowing an explosion was imminent.
“You think I’m stupid enough to do school when I look like this?". Another toss of the hair. His blood pressure spiked. Again. His temple throbbed. He should get that looked at.
"You’re the stupid one. I’m hungry. If you’re going to take me, you have to feed me. For protein, Caviar is preferable, but otherwise lobster will do. Not a restaurant, I only eat with my private chefs menu who understands my macros.” Her voice prattled on, uncaring that the two males in the car looked utterly murderous.
“You’re not going to be modeling anymore, so your macros are not a concern for me. You'll eat what you're given. ” He purred, his hold on his temper tenuous and fading quickly.
He wasn’t prepared for the impact of her bound hands that rang across his face, and his vision went black with rage.
As it cleared, he found himself trembling violently. His cousin had the female in his grasp, holding her back into the seat by her shoulders. Never, not once, had he ever raised a hand to a woman. He wanted to now, but his mothers upbringing was better than that. He nodded to his cousin, who released her with a shove. She tossed her hair back and glared at them both.
Mario sat back, considering, his hands on his knees. Shooting this bitch was too good for her. Too simple. Too messy, and he didn’t want to redo the upholstery.
An alternative occurred to him, and he smiled. He'd normally reject this option, but...when needs must....
He quickly cleared and put away the gun in his lap for everyones safety, and pulled out his phone as she resumed, voice pitching as she began wailing about contracts, macros and clothes, and dialed a contact he’d never dialed before. He winked at Alfie, who looked positvely pained as his ears were assulted by her proximity.
As his call was answered, he looked out the window to ascertain their location to the docks.
“Leon speaking.”
“Leon, Mario.”
A sharp inhale of shock from both Alfie and Leon. He smiled, sharklike.
“I have a package for you." he continued into the silence. "5’11, 130, DD, blond, blue eyes. Literally a model. Needs a home, and I’m close to the docks.”
Victoria still had not realized the danger. She still had not shut up long enough to listen.
Leon swallowed noisily. Mario could feel his greed through the phone.
“Picture?”
Prepared for this request, he quickly sent the one he’d been sent before this entire debacle had started.
A subtle ding echoed as the image arrived. “…Oh. Christ. Yes. Yes. Um, 15 minutes? Damn. Price?”
“Free.”
Silence. Utter silence.
“…..What’s… wrong with her? No pussy?”
“ Oh no, she’s intact. But you’re in for a treat. Have you heard the screaming and wailing? That’s her. Dumb as a box of rocks.”
“Oh. Well. I have a couple in mind that could work with that.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the challenge. I wish them luck.”
“Sure. 15 minutes. Dock C. Our man’s on the gate. He’ll expect you. I’ll owe you one."
“We can... call it even in this case.” Mario said, firmly. There was no obligation here. No, if anything, he owed Leon.
He hung up, satisfaction a glow on his face as he, now calmly, his mind serene, listened to her angry screeches. The scenarios going through his mind with her face and body attached would have sent a better man straight to Hell, and gave him no trouble at all. He quickly messaged the driver to adjust the route.
Twenty minutes later, he watched as the struggling, tied and gagged blonde was loaded into a yacht for a rendezvous with a freighter in the Carribbean.
Alfie stood next to him, silent, but not judging. Relieved, if Mario had to guess.
“That was too close for comfort, Alf. I nearly married that bitch. Thought I wanted to.” He said consideringly. He ran a hand through his hair, his relief leaving him uncaring if his hair was mussed in the moment.
“How long did I have her?” He asked Alfie. It had seemed interminable.
“45 minutes.” The tone held no judgement, no emotion from Alfie. Good man.
“Fuck. I gotta be more specific.”
A quiet "Yes, please."
Together, they walked back to the car for the blessedly silent and bloodless ride home.
Figuring out the war this was bound to start was a problem for tomorrows Mario.
Epilogue:
A week later:
Mario sat at his desk in his office and considered the box of Cohiba cigars in front of him, and the large bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 23 year old whiskey placed next to it. The lavish gift delivered today after his aborted future father in law had found what happened to his daughter was...unexpected to say the least.
He'd expected soldiers and AR-15's. Bullets and bloodshed. Retribution and revenge. Expensive tokens of gratitude hadn't been in the realm of possibilities.
The note attached provided some clarity.
" Would your contacts like another just like her with some age and experience?"
Damn.