LOGINMikeThe silence after the hammer blow is louder than any scream. A sonic void charged with the horror of what just happened. The scent of jasmine and roses mingles with the subtle, metallic smell of fear. And adrenaline.Kovacs is led away, his moans fading down the hallway. The dark stain on the marble table is not blood, but the sweat of his terror. Tara set the hammer down. The gesture was one of deadly grace. She wipes her fingers with a silk handkerchief, as if she had just finished a slightly unpleasant household chore.She turns to the assembly."Now, my dear friends, dinner is served."Her voice is velvet sheathing a blade. No one moves. They are petrified, eyes riveted on her, on the table, on the hammer that rests there, an object of nightmare rendered mundane.It is at this moment that I push off from the pillar. The sound of my soles on the marble floor breaks the spell. All eyes turn to me, seeking a guide, a reaction, a
MIKEThe night blankets Chicago in a cloak of mist and trembling neon, but here, on the thirty-fifth floor, nothing matters except the electricity crackling between us. The city moans below, its agitated streets like a wounded beast, but in this suite with walls of black marble and sheets of scarlet silk, there are no more laws, no more rules—just us, and the weight of what we have just accomplished.The hammer rests on the coffee table, its mahogany handle gleaming under the halogen lamps, its head heavy and menacing like a reminder of what I had to break to get here. A symbol, yes. But not the one that counts tonight. Not when she is there, leaning against the onyx bar, her lips rimmed in a red as dark as the wine she sips. Her eyes—golden, almost feline—follow me as I close the door behind me, locking the world out."You took your time," she murmurs, her voice hoarse, as if she has already screamed my name a dozen times in her head.
TaraPower is not asked for. It is taken. Mike did it with fire and blood. My father, La Morte, did it with frozen terror. I will do it with both.The incident with Giacomo sowed a wind of panic, but it was a whisper in the shadows. Insufficient. A public punishment is not a discreet murder. It is an opera. A staging where the audience leaves with fear embedded in their souls. I need a guilty party. Not a scapegoat. A real one. A traitor whose punishment will serve as an example to all.The opportunity presents itself faster than I would have believed. One of Mike's lieutenants, a man named Kovacs, responsible for a lucrative port district, has been caught red-handed. Not with money, not with a woman. Worse. He leaked information about a convoy to a rival family, the O'Sullivans. The convoy was intercepted, three of Mike's men are dead.Treason is the worst disease in our world. It is contagious. It must be burned out with a hot iron, before everyon
TaraThe tea is cold at the bottom of my cup, a bitter residue that sticks to my tongue like the taste of their condescension. They are gone. Their expensive perfumes and their facade smiles have dissipated, leaving behind a void filled with contempt.I rise, scanning the room. Everything is luxury, calm, and… illusion. They saw a wife. A pretty upstart, a naive recruit who needs to be taught the rules of silence and submission. They did not see La Morte.My father's blood, a frozen and pitiless river, flows in my veins. I grew up in the shadow of blackmail, executions, smiles that precede the knife's thrust. I learned to count the lies in a gaze before I learned to read. And these women… these women think they are giving me a lesson in survival?A cold, silent laugh shakes me. Their Chicago, with its men's rules and its hiding women, suddenly seems touchingly naive to me.I am not here to survive. I am here to rei
TaraThe dining room of the private apartments is flooded with light, but the atmosphere is leaden. Around the polished mahogany table, five women are seated. They did not shake hands. A nod, a quick glance, that is all. The perfume—an oppressive blend of expensive flowers and something more acrid—fear, perhaps, or the habit of danger—floats in the still air.I am at the head of the table. The place of the mistress of the house. The new wife."Thank you for coming," I begin, my voice calmer than I feel.My fingers graze the rim of my teacup, a gesture to anchor myself. They scrutinize me. Sofia, Marco's wife, Mike's right-hand man. Madonna face, ice eyes. Anna, tied to the old guard, a sideways, wary glance. The three others, names, faces I have memorized, each a piece of the puzzle I must solve."I am new here. In this city. In… this life," I continue, choosing my words with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. "My husband has his responsibilities. I would like to understand mine
MikeThe water is too hot, it lashes the skin, reddens the marks she left on my shoulders, my chest. I lean back against the cold tile, eyes closed, letting the jet massage my aching muscles. I should think about the day ahead. The files. The meetings. But my mind, traitorous, sees only her. Feels only her.The scent of her shampoo, a blend of sandalwood and pepper, still floats in the stall, mingling with the musky perfume of our night. I soap myself mechanically, and the memory of her hands on my body is so vivid that I shudder. My hand slides down my stomach, and I push it away, almost with violence. It is not for me to touch. It is for her. Always for her.When I exit, wrapped in a towel, the vision stops me dead in the doorway.She is at the kitchen table, barefoot on the tile, wrapped in my bathrobe, too big for her. Her hair, still damp, forms black coils on the thick fabric. She holds a cup of coffee in her hands, her pale, slender fingers contrasting with the black porcelain.
MikeThe sun climbs, burning away the pallor of dawn, transforming the bedroom into a furnace where our streaming bodies become weapons. She is above me, a silhouette carved in gold and amber, her hips rolling with diabolical slowness. Every movement is a promise and a torture. I am completely open
MikeThe day establishes itself, pitiless, tracing golden lines across the sweat drying between our bellies. Each thrust of hers is a claim, a reminder that my body is no longer my own, but an instrument she plays with devastating mastery. My hands on her hips no longer guide; they cling, like a ca
MikeThe silence is not a void, but a living thing, thick as the sweat still clinging to our skins. The air, heavy and charged, carries the musky odor of our bodies, that mix of salt, dried semen, and that milky sweetness that escapes her every time I make her come. She is still on m
TaraThe silence that follows is not a void, but a tangible presence, saturated with the scent of our intertwined bodies, of the sweat drying on our skin, of the muffled echo of our breaths slowly calming. He remains inside me, a rooted weight, a backbone to my devastated universe. I







