Vegarro “Vega” Moretti
Lucky for me, Elana’s night shift ended right around the time mine did. The only difference was that she worked in a strip club, and I worked in the streets.
I had Elana pinned beneath me on the bed, with her legs spread wide as I drove my dick deep into her pussy with hard, relentless thrusts. She was one of the women on my roster. I called whenever I wanted a quick release, and she always opened her door because of my street status and money.
The condom was tight around my thick shaft as I fucked her without mercy.
"Prendi tutto il mio dick," I growled in Italian, Take all of me. My tattooed arms flexed as I gripped her hips and slammed into her harder.
Elana moaned loud, and her body jolted with each aggressive pound.
I leaned down, biting at her neck while my hips snapped forward, burying every inch of my big dick inside her over and over. "Sei così bagnata per me, puttana schifosa." You’re so wet for me, nasty whore.
She clawed at my inked chest but didn't push back. She just took it like she always did when I decided it was her turn.
I flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her ass up, and rammed back in from behind, one hand fisting her hair to keep her in place.
My free hand slapped her ass as I pounded away, the wet sounds filling the room with every brutal stroke.
"Cazzo, ti scopo come vuoi," I muttered, Fuck, I’ll fuck you however you want, in more Italian to push her over the edge.
Her pussy clenched around my dick, but I didn't slow down, just kept thrusting deep and fast until my balls tightened.
I came hard, filling the condom with a low groan as my body tensed over hers.
Then I pulled out, rolled onto my back, and grabbed my phone off the nightstand to check my messages.
Elana lay beside me, curled against my side with one hand resting on my stomach. Her skin was still warm, and the sheet barely covered her ass. She looked comfortable and satisfied.
Looking at my phone, I opened the message from Roman. He had sent confirmation for our meeting that was in thirty minutes, along with a location.
I moved Elana’s arm and sat up.
“You leaving?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
That was all she gave me. She didn’t give me attitude or demands for an explanation. She didn’t ask where I was going, who had texted me, or why I had just finished fucking her only to leave before the sweat dried.
That was what I liked about Elana. She understood what this was. I gave her good dick, treated her with respect, and put a few dollars in her hand whenever she needed something. In return, she didn’t create problems. She was just happy to be fucking me.
But I knew that was for now. I had been fucking long enough to know that women stayed cool only as long as they chose to. Eventually, some of them started wanting more nights, access, and answers. Casual stopped being cool for most once feelings got involved.
Arielle had done the same thing with Prodigy. The difference was, when women got tired of my arrangement, I let them leave. I wished them well and found somebody else to take their place.
I wasn’t against marriage. I could see myself with a wife and kids one day.
Just not now. I was twenty-six and finally had the kind of money that allowed me to move how I wanted.
My brother, cousins, and I had built something profitable.
I could travel without checking prices, buy what I liked, and change plans without needing anyone’s permission.
Why would I rush to trade that freedom for school schedules, shared calendars, and a woman expecting me home every night?
That life might fit me later. But right now, I liked waking up and knowing every choice belonged to me.
I stepped into my boxer briefs and pulled on my jeans and shirt.
Elana watched me from the bed. “You coming back?”
“Not tonight.”
I slid my gun into the holster beneath my shirt. Then I leaned over, kissed her forehead, and grabbed my keys. “Lock the door behind me.”
“I will.”
By the time I stepped into the hallway, the easy feeling from the bedroom was gone. Roman Granger believed he knew who had killed his son. And in thirty minutes, he planned to tell me what he wanted done about it.
Roman chose a private dining room in a restaurant that wasn’t open to the public.
The owner met me at the side entrance, took me through a dark kitchen, and led me into a room with no windows.
Roman sat alone at a long table with an untouched glass of brown liquor in front of him.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered Black man in his late fifties with a clean-shaven head, deep-set eyes behind dark-framed glasses, and a full salt-and-pepper beard trimmed with precision.
A dark blazer rested over a fitted black shirt, making him look more like a powerful businessman than the man the streets whispered about.
Two armed men waited outside the door, but neither entered with me.
I claimed the chair across from him.
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
I nodded once. “No problem.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of my son’s death.” His expression didn’t change when he said it. The grief I had seen him perform on television wasn’t there. This version of Roman was calmer and colder. He looked like a man discussing a business issue instead of the murder of his child.
“I heard.”
“The streets believe he was killed by the Bellamy crew.”
I raised a brow. “Do you?”
“The streets were blaming them before my son’s body was cold.
” Roman picked up his glass but didn’t drink.
“The Bellamys have been pressing us over territory for the last year. They lost three corners on the West Side, two clubs, and a supplier who decided working with me was better for his health. Donovan humiliated one of their captains in front of his own men a few months ago.”
“So, they had motive.”
Roman nodded slowly as he took a drink. “A young woman witnessed Donovan’s death. Her name is Sonnet.”
“What did she see?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You know she witnessed something, but you don’t know what?”
“A police friend pulled the city-camera footage from the area. She was near the lake at the time Donovan was killed.”
“Being near the lake doesn’t make her a witness.”
“No, but she appeared on multiple cameras running from the direction where my son was murdered. She saw something.”
“And you need to know exactly what.”
“That’s why I need her brought to me. I need to know what she saw and who before the police get to her. The police will turn over rocks that have nothing to do with Donovan and use my son’s murder as permission to dig through my entire organization.”
“And you’d rather handle the Bellamys yourself.”
“My son deserves justice from me, not a courtroom.”
Justice was a generous word for whatever Roman planned.
“What happens after you speak with her?”
“She understands that going to the police would be bad for her. Then she goes back to her life.”
“You want me to scare her into silence.”
“I want you to make sure she understands the seriousness of what she witnessed. Bring her quietly. Don’t hurt her unless she forces your hand.”
I ignored that last part. “How close did the cameras spot her at the lake?”
“Close enough.”
“What time?”
He gave me a look that said he wasn’t interested in being questioned.
The explanation was weak. City cameras could place a person near a location. They couldn’t prove what she had witnessed, and Roman was too experienced to confuse the two.
Before I could press him, he slid a folder across the table.
I opened it.
The first page listed her full name, age, home address, telephone number, and employer. Beneath that was a weekly schedule of which train she normally took to work, when she stopped for coffee, what time she left the office, and which grocery store she visited on Sundays.
“How long have you been watching her?” I asked, realizing he’d had this woman under surveillance.
“Long enough to make it very easy to find her.”
I turned to the next page, and her photograph stopped me.
Sonnet sat outside a café with an open book in her hands.
She wore a white button-down shirt that looked oversized on her, layered gold necklaces, and black-framed prescription glasses.
Long, dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves.
Her face was beautiful with full lips, smooth brown skin and calm eyes.
She looked soft, but not weak. She looked like she spent Friday nights reading and correcting people’s grammar in her head.
The glasses should’ve made her look serious. Instead, they made me imagine standing close enough to fog the lenses with my breath while she tried to decide whether she was scared or curious. The thought came fast and stayed longer than it should have.
There was an innocence in her face that reached something possessive inside me.
The part of me that enjoyed control wanted to see how long she could maintain that composed expression with me crowding her space.
I wanted to hear whether her voice stayed steady when she was near me.
I wanted to know what those eyes looked like when they had no choice but to focus on me.
I closed the folder before Roman could catch me staring.
“She lives alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Family?”
“None. She was raised in the system”
Something about the answer bothered me, though I didn’t show it.
“Friends?”
“One close friend. A fairy named Dior.”
Roman knew her home, routine, workplace, transportation habits, and who she trusted. Either Sonnet was more involved in Donovan’s death than she appeared, or Roman had resources reaching much farther than city cameras.
Both possibilities made the job more interesting.
“How soon do you want her?” I asked.
“Asap.”
“That’s rushed.”
“My son is dead. I’m not interested in patience.”
I picked up the folder. “My price doubles when a client gives me incomplete information.”
Roman’s mouth stretched into a thin line. “You have what you need.”
“I’ll decide that.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Roman nodded. “Bring her to me unharmed, and you’ll be paid.”
I stood and tucked the folder under my arm.
On my way to the door, I thought about Sonnet’s picture again.
I had accepted plenty of jobs that started with lies. Usually, I didn’t care as long as the money was right. But this time, the lie had a beautiful face. And something told me Sonnet knew far more than Roman wanted me to believe.