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10-MARISOL
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2026-02-01 01:19:54
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DIRTY ANGELS 27-MARISOL
Lila went downstairs to use Lorenzo’s car.The driver-side window was shattered, damn she forgot about that.She stared at it for a long moment. Considered calling a glazier.Then she scoffed softly.No. Let him deal with his own consequences.She called a cab and walked outside.Dirty Angels was quiet this early, still shaking off the night before. A few early regulars and a couple of staff moved behind the bar. No sign of Ethan on the floor yet.Marisol headed straight for the back, toward the room Ethan had casually marked as her office. On the way, she spotted Remy behind the bar. The same short skirt. The same barely-there top. Same smug sway as she bent to grab glasses.Still dressed like a hoe, Marisol thought coolly.She stepped into her would be office and surveyed the mess. Boxes half-unpacked. Papers everywhere. Old junk that clearly hadn’t been cleared out for her arrival. Her jaw tightened.She turned on her heel and walked back out.“Remy,” she called.Remy looked up, un
DIRTY ANGELS 26-MARISOL
The city lights streaked past, but she refused to look at them, or at Lorenzo. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Stillness between them was a living thing.She had been challenging Ethan in his office when Lorenzo had interfered.“We’re leaving,” he’d said, voice subdued enough that only she heard, but the command had pierced her. She was ready to defy him when he’d leaned in and murmured, “Now, Marisol. Or I carry you.”The threat wasn’t empty. She knew it. So she’d followed him, seething, chin high, and followed him out quietly. They soon arrived in his underground garage, the engine cut.“Get out,” he said. She didn’t move. He turned to her then, eyes gleaming black amid the dim dashboard glow. “No?”“I don’t want to play right now,” she said, voice emotionless. “I’m not your child to order around.”A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Is that right?” It wasn’t a question. “Is that where you want to go tonight?”She held his gaze. “Yes.”He exhaled on
DIRTY ANGELS 25-MARVIN
Marvin and Waylon arrived at the late night meeting just before nine. This mansion screamed old money and power.Upon entering, they surrendered their devices. They were then led down a long corridor lined with portraits no museum would ever see: men in powdered wigs, men in frock coats, men in modern suits whose eyes followed you. All bore the same sharp cheekbones, the same cold certainty.The dining room was small by the standards of the first mansion, only a long mahogany table, twelve chairs, and one candelabrum burning low.Four men waited. At the head sat Otto Rotegarde, ninety-three years old, spine straight as a blade despite the walking stick of ebony and silver beside him. His skin was parchment stretched over bone, but his eyes, black, unblinking, held the weight of centuries. To his right and left sat his grandsons: Nathaniel, managing director of three central banks no one outside this room acknowledged existed; Jakob, the quiet architect of resource wars disguised as h
DIRTY ANGELS 24-MARVIN
The drums had long since faded into a low, persistent throb that lived in the marrow now, indistinguishable from the wet slap of flesh on flesh, the guttural groans that rose and fell like surf.The grand hall of the ancient mansion had become a writhing sea of bodies, limbs tangled, mouths open in silent screams or loud, animalistic cries.Torchlight flickered over sweat-slick skin.The air was heavy, saturated with musk, semen, and the faint copper tang of earlier blood.Marvin moved through it like a shadow given form. His mask still concealed him, though by now the fiction felt thin; everyone knew whose cock had first claimed the virgin at the altar, whose voice had intoned the opening words.Power wasn’t hidden here; it was showcased. He found himself near the base of the obsidian god again. A woman, tall, silver-haired, the kind whose face appeared on currency in smaller nations, knelt before him, lips wrapped around his shaft.She sucked with deliberate reverence, tongue swirli
DIRTY ANGELS 23-MARVIN
The black mask pressed to Marvin's face like a second skin, the edges cool to his temples, the eye slits narrowing the world to slits of shadow and candlelight.’Waylon stood at a heavy table, a silver tray laden with assorted chemicals, to enhance tonight's events. All designed to help him keep up in every way.Beneath the dense cloak, he experienced the familiar buzz racing through his veins, sharpening every sensation while dulling the edges of doubt.The elite estate loomed around him, isolated on acres of private land where no one came uninvited. Tonight, no one left unmarked.“It is nearly time,” Waylon said neutrally.Marvin nodded, taking one last hit before he found himself standing on the raised platform at the far end of the grand hall. Above it towered a statue, thirty feet high, an ancient faceless god, hewn from black marble and studded with rare gems, its form both masculine and feminine, androgynous. The eyes were hollowed out sockets that appeared to watch over all.
DIRTY ANGELS 22-MARVIN
The restaurant was a high-class sanctuary. Marvin Vale sat at the long table. To his left, his assistant Waylon sat, keeping him informed of any current happenings. Across from him, the French President leaned toward his wife, murmuring something that made her laugh low. Around them orbited politicians, designers, models, and an aging film star whose last role had required her to simulate ecstasy for three straight minutes on camera. Tomorrow’s gala would gather the same circle and more; tonight was the quiet prelude.Marvin listened more than he spoke. When a legendary designer lamented the death of style, Marvin smiled and said, “Elegance never dies; it simply becomes more expensive.”Laughter surged. Glasses chimed. Waylon’s fingers glided over his screen, logging commitments, dates, and names.His phone vibrated once against his chest. He excused himself with a tilt of his head and moved onto the narrow balcony overlooking the darkened square.“Daddy,” Isla’s voice came through,
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