Chapter 4
Zero
We need a boat.
Ship?
Whatever label makes it more comfortable.
I spent two days searching for other options, other sources – with a bit of help from Salay – and to no avail, I couldn’t secure us one.
Um.
The right type.
More importantly – much more importantly – we need permission to be in the waters.
Her waters.
She’s turned people into deck décor for less.
The woman’s basically a human equivalent of the black mamba.
Not because she’s Black – although she is – but because one bite from her can be fatal.
And I do mean that literally along with figuratively.
“Mr. Fiorenzo,” Gyles, Ravencroft’s salt and pepper haired head butler, states in my direction prior to shifting his attention to Garcia, “Guest,” he once more finds my gaze, “The Lady will see you now.”
Another word from him isn’t spoken as he swiftly turns on his shiny shoes to lead the way.
“Guest?” unhappily hisses the well-dressed – and needlessly well smelling – man beside me.
Under non-today circumstances that woodsy scent would be welcomed.
It’d be something to pump one out to while waiting for my migas to finish cooking or my orange soda supply to be delivered, but considering the life-or-death circumstances we’re currently enduring, it’s not.
I need him to reek of fear.
Submission.
Subservience.
Pretty much anything except the “please fuck me” scent he’s giving off.
And I don’t want her to want to fuck him.
It’s bad enough that everyone else wants to.
It would be the worst thing on this big, beautiful, WIFI filled marble for her to do it.
Which she will if that’s what she wants.
Because only her wants matter.
Particularly because she’s so high on the fucking food chain that it’s basically her food chain.
Where she’s going to put you in it is the only question mark about the whole thing.
“Guest?!” Garcia echoes himself in the same displeased tone and low volume. “My name’s not even worth fucking knowing?!”
“Her not knowing your name isn’t a bad thing, my guy.” Our conversation momentarily breaks for me to deliver a polite nod in passing to the terrifyingly, delicious male enforcer known as Gorilla. “Trust me.”
Ravencroft – the woman with one name like Beyonce or Cher – controls one of the four branches of The Empedocles Syndicate, an elusive criminal organization created and operated by four ruthless, female assassins.
That’s right.
Fucking.
Four.
Like the elements.
Earth, fire, wind, and water.
I’ve – thankfully – only had to do business with Ravencroft or “water”.
Usually indirectly.
Typically for one of her lion like pride members.
She has her own in-house digital forensics specialist – just better branding than hacker – for most of her shit.
Me and that dude have crossed paths.
Three times.
Once at a party.
Once at an auction.
And once when I got lost in this place trying to find the bathroom.
He was walking around the hallways, barefoot, shirtless, and gobbling down Goldfish.
I asked where I could piss.
I let him lead the way.
Enjoyed a handful of his b class crackers – Cheeze-Its are infinitely better.
Found out he’s not allowed to eat them in his room, which is evidently across from hers in the main part of this crime lord castle.
Ravencroft isn’t the type of woman you question.
Definitely never challenge.
You know.
If you liked to live longer than that particular conversation.
Our presence in one of her outdoor dining spaces is announced by the very man who brought us here the instant we’ve crossed the threshold, “Mr. Fiorenzo and Guest, Madam.”
“I have a name,” Garcia grumbles out of turn prompting me to cringe.
Shake my head.
Insist he not overstep.
Because this is not the type of person you cross and live to fucking tell about it!
“I have a reputation that precedes me in many of the most prestigious circles.”
“Not now, my guy,” escapes me in a muted volume.
“I have defended wrongful arrest cases for the infamous DeLucas, white collar accusations for wealth management firms such as Rice & Mulligan, and represented Oscar winning starlets like Celestial Lioncourt – who I helped become emancipated from her money hungry parents at fifteen – win civil suits against her PR agents, production companies, and an airline for taking photos they had no business taking.”
Ravencroft’s golden, chai brown skinned face, slowly curls over her black, lace dress covered shoulder to find his gaze.
“My name is worth knowing.” He strikes a cocky smirk prior to standing a bit taller. “And it’s-”
“Victor Ferdinand Garcia,” she finishes, tone completely void of emotion.
Care.
Interest.
Surprise has him tilting his head in question alongside a casual hand gesture. “Ah, so you do know-”
“Who you are. Yes. I know everyone and everything that comes onto my property, Mr. Garcia. For instance…your middle name – which you have a strong distaste for – was meant to pay homage to your great grandfather who claimed that your family had roots that could be traced directly back to Ferdinand Magellan – the Portuguese explorer who at one point became commander of a Spanish fleet – however in actuality your family has no relation to him but a mutinous deckhand who was tired of constantly being on his knees for more than scrubbing.”
The audible croak out of my best friend successfully causes me to cringe.
I tried to convince him not to come.
I tried to reassure him that I could handle this on my own.
That I’m capable of handling some shit on my own.
That I’m fucking man enough to, but he refused.
Insisted he wanted to protect me.
Which was sexy.
Then he turned around and basically lectured me about him not wanting to have to get me out of more trouble than I’m already in.
Which wasn’t sexy.
Just condescending.
He’s def mastered the art of both.
Typical big cat behavior.
“Sit,” she commands at the same time she rotates her frame forward. “And do not speak again unless instructed to, Mr. Garcia.”
There’s no objection.
No second attempt to prove he’s the smartest or most powerful person in the room.
Garcia simply clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and crosses over to the chairs Gyles has pulled out for us.
Holy shit.
That’s a first.
Don’t think he’s ever backed down without a fight outside of a courtroom.
Once we’re settled in our respective seats, Ravencroft casually reaches for her champagne flute, stare drinking in my specially chosen button up shirt. “You remembered to wear leopard print.” The pleased hum that escapes is attached to her leaning back in her seat. “Undo another button.”
Meeting the order is instant.
And despite his best efforts to keep his eyes elsewhere, captures Garcia’s hungry gaze.
He likes me in this print too.
At least she’ll admit it out loud.
Doesn’t make me guess based on a subtle dick adjustment in tailor-made suit pants or find the nearest ginger to play Call of Coochie with to distract from the simple vibe that’s in the air.
“So obedient,” Ravencroft contently coos, glass lingering near her lips. “Speak.”
“I’m here to request a favor,” I swiftly announce, knowing better than to waste a second of her time.
“You mean another.” One sip is taken. “Presence unsummoned was its own, Fiorenzo.”
Yeah.
Should’ve seen that coming.
Like getting kicked in the chest after surprising a wildebeest.
“Yes,” respectfully leaves my lips in a muted volume.
“Intriguing,” the woman at the head of the table purrs prior to enjoying another swallow. “You may continue.”
“I am requesting the use of one of your yachts or ships or bigger boats-”
“Watercraft vehicles.”
“And-”
“Two requests?” She returns her glass to the table. “Are these your dying wishes, Fiorenzo?”
“Quite possibly,” mirthfully slips loose in a way that causes the corner of her lip to twitch. “I – theoretically – owe Prince Thaddeus Weslington of Hoalkey a debt he’s come to collect.”
“In the most dramatic way possible, I’m certain.”
Rather than disagree, I wait for her to add additional commentary like a Tok influencer you’re surprised to know has a degree in whatever crap they’re spewing about.
“Mommie Dearest didn’t give her bratty baby boy enough suckles at her teat until he hit puberty.”
God…please…let her be speaking metaphorically.
“Plus, the man can barely wield his own dick without permission, so whatever microaggression shit he can execute, he will in the most Broadway approved fashion.” She folds her manicured hands on top of the cloth napkin in her lap.
“You want a watercraft vehicle meaning the second request is permission to operate in my waters.”
“Correct.”
And they are her waters.
Ports.
Passages.
People.
The connections of the syndicate itself runs vampire squid deep and dark.
They truly have their own ecosystem.
Have had it – through family dynasties – for like forever.
And things are much better for you when you know your place.
Understand it.
Don’t step out of line from it.
Contemplative silence continues to slowly slink around the table prompting me to physically hold my breath.
No cap?
Just breathing around her wrong can get you merked.
Again.
It’s happened before.
Or…so I’ve heard.
And really…right now…I’m just looking to live long enough to at least finish the box of Cheeze-Its I started nervous eating on the way here.
“Entertain me,” Ravencroft casually commands, fingers reaching for the last dark cherry in her bowl.
I don’t ask.
I don’t think.
I don’t even blink.
“Suck his cock.”
This time there’s no stopping me from leaning forward in confusion and croaking, “Question mark?!”
“He,” she gestures at Garcia with her fruit free finger, “will suck your,” the digit is flung my way, “cock.”
Bobbing my unhinged jaw is all I seem to be capable of.
Which is an improvement from the nothing I could conjure up moments ago.
“The other toys didn’t have time to play with each other,” pouts the certifiably insane woman now nibbling on the piece of fruit, “so you will.”
No.
She…she can’t possibly be serious.
But she can’t like not be serious ‘cause that’s not her style.
But she can’t actually expect him to blow me…right?
This is some sort of test.
Like a real life “take this quiz” for us to pitch you the perfect yoga regime or hair care product or health food delivery service.
She doesn’t actually expect this shit to happen.
She’s just…fucking with us like an ad break during a phone game.
When no words escape my mouth – despite being open – Ravencroft exhaustingly sighs. “This is not hacking into the Pentagon when they’re on a level orange alert complicated, Fiorenzo.”
Yeah.
That shit would be easier.
“You want a vehicle. I want amusement. He wants an excuse to give into the filthy, little fantasies that involve him on his knees that he doesn’t think anyone else realizes he has.
” Her eyes cut over to him. “Except they do. And regardless of the facade most of those in your elite work circle have mastered putting on, they crave the same cum dripping down the back of their throats that you do.”
My focus immediately shifts to Garcia.
Catches the flicker of guilt in his gaze.
Tenseness in his stilled jaw.
Outrage fighting for the right to settle itself somewhere – anywhere – in his expression.
Slothsandskunksslapmesilly…is she fucking right?
Did she just Live Stream truth bomb us?!
Does he actually want me like that?
Has he always wanted me like that?
More than just innuendos and flirty suggestions?
Is this new?
Is this old?
Is it that he just wants me so no one else can have me, honey badger shit?
“On your knees,” instructs Ravencroft before indulging in a larger bite. “On this side of the table.” Her head gestures to where she expects him to relocate. “I want a good view.”
Garcia lets his uncertain glare find mine, wordlessly asking if there’s another way.
Swearing there has to be.
And maybe there is for a boat or ship or kayak or whatever.
But there isn’t for where we need to search.
For where our hunt has to begin.
We need access.
Access that only the syndicate can grant.
“Tick, tock, gentlemen,” mocks the woman menacingly eating her breakfast. “You do not wish to discover what happens when I actually let myself become bored.”
Before I can say or suggest anything else, Garcia calmly pushes his chair back.
Rises to his loafer covered feet and takes a deep breath.
Finds my gaze again and holds it while he transitions himself to the last place, I ever expected him to be outside my own dreams.
As much as I wish he had to work to get me hard, he doesn’t.
My shaft’s been Australian Buloke sturdy on and off since I got my first whiff of him post shower.
“He will undo your shorts,” Ravencroft informs, tempting me to prioritize her rather than Garcia’s thick fingers grazing my lower stomach.
Stiffening my dick to the point of pain.
My balls to the point of exploding in spite of not being touched yet.
“He will free your cock,” she precedes, pushing him to pull the combination of my shorts and underwear down to my ankles.
Prompting any and all remaining air in my lungs to evaporate.
“And he will swallow.”
At that, my increasingly hooded glare gravitates to hers.
“While you, my dear sweet boy,” her back rests against the seat once more, “will beg me for permission to come.” I can’t even fathom speaking before she’s spewing her next order. “Suck.”