13 comments/  61671 views/  96 favorites

Capo di Foia Ch. 01

By: MsArcher



CHAPTER ONE

"Sam?"

The voice broke her concentration; Samantha sighed and spun around in her chair, begrudgingly grateful for the reprieve. Her eyes felt strained after so much time in front of a computer screen.

"Whatsup, Kevin." She looked up to see him peering disapprovingly into her cubicle. 

"You're still doing record checks?" he asked incredulously.

"No. I'm looking for leads on this RICO case." She stretched and Kevin refocused his attempt to appear unfazed as her lithe body extended before him, the buttons on her blouse straining against her swelling chest. God, her chest... Kevin forced his gaze down to the carpet, feigning boredom. 

"Jo. Give it up. Let the IRS lackeys hash this one out." Samantha shook her head. 

"I know there's a nexus here; I've dug up 38 counts of 1952(a). It's the 59 I'm after," she said. "If Franco keeps getting his boys to take the hit for our arrests, we're never going to pin him down." 

Under long dark lashes, her emerald-green eyes glinted with determination. Kevin pursed his lips before speaking. "Look, Jo, I know you just got back, but let me remind you that you're WORKING...IN FEDERAL...GOVERNMENT. Nobody expects results!" 

Samantha scowled and swiveled back to her screen. Even with her hair swept back in a sloppy bun, Kevin took in its luster – a rich mahogany - a few loose strands grazing the nape of her neck.

He swallowed in desperation and continued. "You haven't been out once since you came back. I've called you. You don't come out for happy hour. Nobody sees you at lunch anymore..." No reply. He tried again, his tone gentler. "I'm not saying I blame you after what you've been through -"

Samantha closed her eyes and fought to stem the torrent of thoughts swooping in.  The boy's look of seething fury, the sweep of his overshirt and the black hollow of the barrel. 

"Kevin. I'm fine. You've just got to give me some space right now."

Three pops – she learned later it was four – and the dark pool spreading rapidly over his chest. She rushed to his crumpled frame, fought to shake off the boy's screaming mother and barked at Perez to call the locals. They said it was a good kill. "Good kill", if there was such a thing. He clearly displayed intent to kill first. Hadn't he?

"- I'm cool with that. But I also think you need to loosen up and get away from the casework," Kevin admonished. "I'm going to check in with the AUSA, then I'm headed over to the Cop Shop for some new gear. They've got a clearance sell that ends this weekend."

Her hands, her clothes drenched in warm blood as she fought to revive him... She kept pumping his chest in anguish and despair while liquid crimson seeped out into the carpet. She knew it was too late.

Samantha turned. "I'm good – really," she affirmed with a limp smile. "Go get your tactical fanny pack or whatever it is you load up on. I'll catch up with you later."

Kevin regarded her for a moment then nodded, trudging back to his desk. 

The field office was empty, 7 p.m. on a Friday, when she found it. A new address surfaced on one of the subpoena returns; the residence hadn't been associated with any other records thus far. This could be it, she thought to herself, a triumphant grin spreading across her cherry lips. 

Franco was nothing if not immaculate. Samantha knew he would make every attempt to isolate himself from his - admittedly, untraceable - paper trail of illicit operations. In this respect, he was a new breed of Mafioso kingpin. His pristine criminal enterprise was rarely prosecuted, and continued to climb the ranks of New Jersey's tight-lipped Cosa Nostra network. Even so, she suspected his culpability in no fewer than 23 murders, countless money laundering and fraud cases, and a bevy of other yet-unknown crimes.

Samantha grabbed her keys and slipped on her coat, mechanically feeling for her creds in the left pocket and dropping her blackberry into the right. She shut off her computer and tucked the case file into her shoulder bag before heading to the door. She paused, deliberating whether or not to take a fleet vehicle out for her address check. No, she decided. It wouldn't take very long, and she would be more discreet in a cab.

Samantha peered through the taxi window, straining to see in the growing darkness, and asked the driver to slow down. They were in Alpine – one of the wealthiest suburbs of New York City. Franco must be hauling in some major cash, even by mob standards, to live here. She couldn't make out anything beyond the brick wall and the leafy oak branches. She'd have to get out on foot. It was smarter, anyway; the taxi turned out to be conspicuously malapropos for the neighborhood. 

She directed the driver to a discreet spot at the end of the street and instructed him to wait for five minutes. She pulled her trench coat over her sidearm as she stepped out of the vehicle.

The wind was blowing; a racing gust swept her hair across her face. She brushed it back and looked up. The walls had to be at least 12 feet high; her only chance of seeing anything would be at the gated entrance. She looked behind her to see the taxi idling, lights off, and strode toward the property's main gate. Not two minutes later, she saw two dark figures in long coats emerge, rounding the corner of the block. Samantha's pulse quickened, but she forced herself to keep walking, lest she raise any suspicion. She never did active surveillance alone, and she never intended this to be anything more than a quick drive-by. 

Somewhere in the neighborhood, she could hear a dog barking over the whirling wind. The men continued to advance. Samantha tried her best to appear indifferent as she sized them up; one was nearly 6-foot, the other at least 6'4", dark hair – likely Italian. She pegged them both to be between 30-35. She hoped she might pass as a trophy wife out for an evening stroll, but the two men in black overcoats looked ominous as hell at best. Act calm; think rationally, she admonished herself. They were only 20 yards away now, watching her as they approached; Samantha removed her hands from her pockets, her right hand intuitively inching closer toward her hip. 

She felt a surge of relief as she heard a vehicle approaching from behind. The cab driver was coming for her! She turned to make a sudden escape as the car screeched to a halt next to the curb.

Samantha froze in her tracks. It wasn't the taxi, but a large black suburban with tinted windows. Frantic, she looked back to her drop-off point and saw her cab had disappeared. 

Samantha drew her Sig Sauer but the two men peeling out of the vehicle already had their weapons trained on her. She heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked behind her – twice – and realized the men in overcoats were on her six o'clock. She was surrounded and outgunned.

The bald man in front of her, his square jaw fixed in a menacing grimace, spoke. "Drop it and we won't kill you." Samantha knew she was outmanned. Tunnel-vision. That's what they called it. Even in the dark, Samantha could make out scratches on his gold ring. Within microseconds, her mind raced through every possible option and outcome – none of them bode well for her survival. 

Before she could pull the trigger, she felt a force knock against her head and she lost sight; simultaneously she felt her firearm stripped from her hands. They'd grabbed her from behind. Instinctively, she kicked backwards at the shin of one of her assailants. 

"Fucking CUNT!" she heard him cry out, but his vice-grip held tighter. Samantha put all her might into stomping his foot as she thrust her elbow back. Her foot made contact; the elbow did not. She tried throwing her head back, but the muscled arms kept it firmly in place. Another pair of hands was already wrapping up her feet. She felt hands wrap over her mouth, too – muffling her scream – as they easily hoisted her into the suburban. 

Inside, bands were swiftly, expertly tied around her hands, eyes, mouth and feet. 

"She has no fucking clue," she heard one say. 

Samantha struggled to think clearly in the overwhelming enormity of despair. She choked back tears at her stupidity – how could she be so reckless to venture out in the field alone? 

The majority of the drive was silent – she tried to count seconds or make sense of their route, but quickly lost track in her state of panic. In a glimmer of hope she thought to press her arms over her blackberry pocket – perhaps it might dial out - but the men on either side kept her rigidly in place.

"Do you think he'll fuck her or kill her?" a voice from the front seat asked.

"Likely both," the man to her left answered; the quiet smack of his chewing gum overtook the silence.

Samantha made no attempt to speak, pleading silent prayers to a god she'd never believed in. When she could pray no more, she made anxious entreaties to logic: it was only a matter of time – minutes, hours – before she'd be reported missing. She was a fed, after all. Every LEO in a 100-mile radius would soon be on the search, she reasoned. She knew she was lying to herself, but it was a lie she desperately wanted to believe. 

Behind the blindfold, her rattled brain tried and failed to block out pictures, law enforcement bulletins she'd seen of gruesome killings and assassinations. In her line of work, there was no shortage of people who wanted to do her harm; she never thought she'd be at their mercy. They were Mafia; that much was clear. Franco paid men like these top-dollar to do his dirty work. She was trembling, and hated herself for it.

They may have driven 20 minutes or over an hour; all she could tell was they were moving very, very fast. After a time, the car slowed to a momentary stop before proceeding; Samantha gathered they were entering a facility or compound. When the car came to a full stop and was turned off, she heard all four doors open, and felt the men on her right and left sides deploy from the vehicle. Now she felt hands on her ankles, dragging her toward the door. She let herself go limp. Any one of the men could sling her over their shoulder like a sack of flour, she knew. But anything she could do to impede their progress might buy her time. 

"Go grab her arms" the man at her feet said, and she felt one appear at her side. Once she was halfway out of the car, Samantha suddenly drew her knees up and kicked out. The force of the blow against his abdomen caused the man at her feet to stumble backwards, and Samantha went with him, her head slamming onto the edge of the car as she fell. She cried out at the shattering pain, felt hands catch and grip her painfully before she could hit the floor.

The man's profanity-laden groan awoke her from the immediate, staggering dizziness. Her mind stopped swimming and registered the cold floor beneath her for only a second before lightning-fast concrete– a train? A sledgehammer? – cracked her cheek. As the force of the blow ebbed, and a swelling ache surged to replace it, Samantha realized he'd hit her. Somewhere, she tasted blood. And remembered nothing more. 

Samantha awoke to a crippling pain throbbing at the back of her head. Her eyes blinked open and it took a moment to register that she was staring down at her own breasts. She tried to move her hands, but they held fast, bound tightly behind her chair. She was dressed, though her shirt was half-unbuttoned. She wondered idly if she'd been strip-searched - or worse. Turning her head, she tried to take in the room around her and stilled, feeling the colossal ache at the side of her face, extending down her jaw. 

She was in a dim-lit office, a towering bookcase and dark green armchair to her right. Her gaze swept over a 1920s art deco-style desk lamp... And there he was.

On numerous occasions, Samantha had come face-to-face with her subject – it was always a surreal, unsettling experience to see the same visage in mugshots and surveillance footage staring you in the eye. Gabriele Franco was no exception. His gaze was dark, cold – an unnerving compliment to his easy posture in the tall leather chair. Like a king on his throne, Samantha thought, realizing the parallel wasn't far off. 

He watched her, his index finger perched against the cupid's bow of his lips, as he sat motionless. He looked much older than his mugshot, but then he was only 19 at the time. He was handsome, Samantha acknowledged; in his tailor-made grey suit and plum silk tie he was the embodiment of power. This would be her dark angel of death. 

"How long have you been after me?" he finally spoke. His words came out in a somber, casual tone. There was a trace of a Brooklyn accent.

Samantha swallowed. "A long time," she lied.

"This case file doesn't do any favors for your investigative prowess, Agent Brier." She looked down to see the manila file laid bare on his desk. Shit. "Is this all you have on me?"

"We're working on it," Samantha answered wryly. "The kidnapping and assault charges will help," she deadpanned.

Franco wasn't amused. He spoke again in his contemplative, deliberative manner. "Do you know what we do to people who try to take us on?"

Samantha forced herself to hold his steady gaze.

"Typically, they're pistol whipped unconscious and thrown in an incinerator," he answered despondently. "But then, we both know you're no stranger to killing."

Silence. Samantha burned with fury and shame, but couldn't find the means to speak. A scarlet blush colored her cheeks.

"Not many people watch us without me knowing," he continued. "I may know more about you, Ms. Brier, than you know of me."

As Samantha took in his measured glare, she realized she believed him. It chilled her to the core.

After a long pause, Franco sat up in his chair and watched her carefully. "You're lucky you're very beautiful," he stated with finality, his dark eyes appraising her lips, long neck and panting chest with cool disinterest.

He's not going to kill me, Samantha breathed. Deference might get her somewhere after all.

Franco looked up and gestured with the slightest wave of his hand. Suddenly, Samantha was flanked on either side and dragged to her feet. These men were not the ones who took her earlier, she noted, surveying their muscle-bound black shirts and slacks. Franco had no shortage of henchmen. 

He stood and strolled with languorous ease around the desk toward her. He stopped, less than a foot in front of her. His proximity carried the subtle musk of cologne and a hint of spearmint; she felt enveloped by his presence. Her green eyes looked up, frantic and pleading as his blackest gaze took her in. 

"They'll come after me," she promised.

"No they won't," he answered calmly, matter-of-factly.

"Killing a federal officer is a capital offense," she asserted, her adrenaline pooling.

She felt his long fingers grab her chin, holding it in place. His jawline grazed against her cheek and she felt heat whisper against her ear. 

"I may not kill you, but you will scream," he murmured, almost inaudibly.

He turned, and Samantha felt the men drag her away like plunder. 

Capo di Foia Ch. 02



 Dear Readers,

"Capo" marks my first-ever attempt at story-writing -- certainly my first foray into publicly read erotica. What an extraordinary and deeply humbling experience! Thank you for your comments and encouragement; your feedback is tremendously appreciated. 

If any of you fall into the "long-time reader/never submitted" category, I encourage you to take up the pen (or open the Word doc); it's quite a bit of fun. 

Finally, for anyone chomping at the bit to see some hard-core action... be patient. I promise it will come. 

All the best -- Ms. Archer 

CHAPTER TWO 

Samantha awoke with a start; she found herself in utter darkness, but the ache in her jaw and the plush, unfamiliar bedding confirmed the sickening realization. It wasn't a dream. She was a hostage.

She remembered sobbing over the comforter after they locked her in the room. She must have crashed. What time was it?? She leaned across the bed and fumbled around the lamp on the nightstand until she felt the click, bathing the room in an ethereal golden light. 

The room seemed more spacious now -- it was at least three times the size of her own. The walls, a dark pewter, were adorned with massive gold-gilded frames; inside them lay sketches of neoclassical figures in various states of repose. 

The wall opposite her was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, boasting a staggering number of leather-bound volumes. Across her four-post bed sat a large crème-colored couch. The end-table next to it bore a silver bowl of fresh fruit; a tangible still-life. An enormous charcoal, shag-woven rug lay sprawled on the polished walnut flooring. 

As lockups go, it would appear I got the luck of the draw, Samantha couldn't help musing to herself.

No windows. And no television. Samantha's eyes darted around the room in search of any tools she might employ to her advantage. There were fragrant candles in glass votives, but no matches to be found. Throwing off the considerable weight of her sateen comforter, Samantha steadied herself as she stepped out of bed. She took notice of the security camera discreetly positioned in the top corner of her room and scowled. 

Beyond the partial wall supporting her bed, Samantha found a corridor leading to the bathroom; a palatial space framed with ruggedly hewn limestone. The shower was, unsurprisingly, absurdly large -- three glass panes enclosed two oversized shower heads mounted in the white stone wall; in one corner a carved stone slab protruded from the limestone, a low-lying bench. 

She warily scanned the room; there were no cameras here, that she could find. Walking toward the vanity, she found herself admiring the potted planter of purple orchids in full-bloom - phalaenopsis, Samantha noted. 

One glance at the mirror, and she recoiled at the reflection before her. A dark nebula of purple and pink covered much of the left side of her face. In morbid fascination she stepped in closer. She'd gotten bruises before -- they were a regular occurrence in training -- but never like this. Gingerly, her fingertips traced the darkest part and she winced. It smarted something fierce. 

Her eyes were tear-stained with traces of bleeding mascara, her hair matted. They'd left her in her own clothes, although her gear belt and shoes were now gone. She felt dingy, fatigued. With a wary glance at the shower, she ambled back to the bedroom. 

On the wall she noticed an antique clock; it read 6:25. A.M. or P.M.? She realized she didn't care. She hoped to sleep forever; tucked away from any tactile reminder of her new hell.

* * *

It was A.M. The assumption was confirmed with a knock at her door within what seemed like minutes after dozing off. Samantha kept her eyes closed as she heard the door open. She heard clinking as something was placed on the floor, then the door-latch closed and locked. It only took a moment before the aroma of what had to be the most tantalizing breakfast wafted through to fill the room. 

Pulling the comforter over her head, Samantha turned and committed herself to sleep. She felt too sick to eat.

* * *

For the next two days, Samantha lay in bed. She was left utterly alone, unharmed and in a realm of churning mental replay and self-reprimand. She was gratified to learn that this sudden onset of depression enabled her to sleep more than she ever had in her life. The only interruptions to her lethargic escape included the occasional need to relieve herself - which stopped altogether after the first day -- and the prompt, thrice-daily delivery of her food, which assaulted her senses with a barrage of mouthwatering temptations. Each time she would hold a pillow to her growling stomach and constrain herself to the misery of her uncertain fate. 

By the time breakfast arrived the third day, Sam could bear it no longer. She promptly carried the plate to the bathroom and disposed of its offerings in the toilet. She grimaced at the powdered French toast circling its way to oblivion, before striding toward the sink to allow herself a rare intake of faucet water. 

* * *

That night, Samantha awoke to the transcendent smell of broiled halibut and garlic. She'd never liked fish, but rolled over and allowed herself to breathe in the undeniably glorious aroma. 

"Are there any particular dietary restrictions you care to tell me about, or have you just resolved to behave as stupidly as you can?" a voice spoke from the darkness. 

Samantha bolted upright in her bed to see Franco slouched against the far corner of her room. His arms were crossed and his expression veiled, a single eyebrow cocked as he watched her. 

"What the fuck are you doing in my room?" she challenged. 

"Your room? " he asked pointedly. "Ms. Brier, one would think it abundantly obvious you're in no position to make any sort of stipulation -- least of all from me," he said dryly.

Samantha glowered at him. 

"Why aren't you eating," he demanded. 

"I choose not to," she replied, looking away. "If this is the life you've relegated me to, I choose not to live," she said simply.

Franco started to advance. "Samantha," he spoke softly. "You do realize I could make this so.. much.. worse for you," he said, punctuating each word with a step toward her. Samantha's sideway glance across the opulent room confirmed the veracity his statement. Reluctantly, she nodded once.

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"That you understand how much worse it could be."

Samantha blinked. "Say the words."

"I understand... how much worse it could be for me." 

The utterance brought a dark smile to Franco's lips.

He was standing at the foot of her bed. Without thinking, Samantha pulled the comforter closer to her chest, eyeing him.

"If I were you," he continued, "I would be much keener to convey my gratitude." He looked across her body as though he approximated her worth at nothing.

She watched him closely. She'd been trained to read people, negotiate her terms. Surely the equation wasn't this unbalanced.

"You must be terrified," she replied knowingly. "The news reports, the tri-state manhunt... You know they're looking for you."

This made him smile again, the left side of his mouth twisting upward. "Samantha. Think," he urged. "What did you have on your person when we found you?"

Samantha did a quick scan of her memory. "My creds," she answered. He could have faked her death - a mugging, a horrible accident perhaps. Any of which would prompt an investigation.

"No. Think harder," he admonished, a look of disapproval clouding his face.

Samantha stilled. Her blackberry.

"You're not ready to return to duty," he continued, reading her thoughts. "You asked for more time off -- a leave of absence. It's remarkable how understanding the feds can be when you make your first-ever kill ," he said condescendingly.

There would be no search. The realization hit her with the force of a thousand blows. He could send, say anything on her behalf; the way she'd carried on in the office after the shooting - they would believe it too. Her eyes welled with tears. She was so fucked.

"Why are you here," she asked, dejected.

Franco's chin lifted ever so slightly. "I wanted to let you know I took care of the man who did.. that," a curt nod gesturing to her cheek. 

Samantha touched her face. It barely hurt anymore. She sat in silence.

"What do you mean 'took care of him'?" she finally asked, regarding him suspiciously.

"Do you really want to know?" Franco stood still at the edge of her bed.

"Yes," Samantha answered, and immediately regretted the decision.

"I beat him to death," he replied, devoid of emotion.

Samantha was stunned. How could he -- why??  She realized she'd never even seen her aggressor; she was blindfolded. Somehow that realization made the man's execution even harder to stomach.

"I don't beat women," Franco continued impassively. "Neither do my men. If someone on my team can't take a 140-lb. female with some semblance of civility, there's something wrong." 

He's insane, Samantha told herself, her distress swelling in waves. Here she was, locked away in his custody-- and he beats the shit out of his own accomplice, citing some sense of... Honor?? Chivalry??

"Please leave," she told him, her voice smaller than she willed it.

Without a reply, Franco turned on his heel and walked to the door.

"Don't bother bringing me any food," she called out defiantly. "I won't touch a single thing you give me."

Franco paused at the door. He turned to her with a nearly sympathetic expression.

"I'm not in the least bit worried about it," he replied.

She struggled to conjure up a retort.

"You see, Samantha - we both know that, when temptation comes, you've never been all that good about holding out." 

With that, he departed and closed the door.

* * * 

The next morning, Samantha ate breakfast. She'd practically licked the plate of Eggs Florentine clean, before scarfing down a banana and two handfuls of red grapes from the silver bowl.

Feeling sick and three-fold overstuffed, she decided to undress and lie in the shower. As soon as the steaming gush of water cascaded over her body, she wondered why she hadn't treated herself to this earlier. She directed one of the streams over the stone slab and reclined upon it. It chilled her skin at first, but soon warmed. Samantha closed her eyes, savoring the pattering splashes of heat on her chest and legs.

* * *

Ten days passed, uneventfully. Franco did not return. Samantha spent the time developing a mild routine of sorts, pathetic as it was. After breakfast, she would relax in the shower for 40 minutes or so (because, after all -- what the hell else did she have to do?), then get dressed. She discovered the large closet in her bathroom housed a full wardrobe of upscale labels; most of the items seemed to fit her, more or less. She cringed at the racy La Perla lingerie, opting for the simpler sheer or white-lace bra and panty sets.

After dressing, she would make her bed, place the food tray near her door, and select a book from the library to consume over the next several hours. When it was time for lunch to arrive, she'd watch as one of the men (frequently a different face) unlocked the door and removed the old tray before setting down the next meal.

The food was always divine. Samantha found it difficult to abstain from eating every item on her plate -- which was typically accompanied with butter and bread, fresh-squeezed juice, and some varied sweet morsel. She soon felt an almost imperceptible snugness in her pants; this spurred the implementation of a strict fitness regimen before dinner: three sets of 50 push-ups, a long series of P90x-inspired crunches, 100 lunges, and any other exercise she could conceive to try in a large room bereft of equipment. They helped, although Samantha realized she sorely missed her evening runs. Never thought I'd see the day, she said to herself. 

After her exercise, Samantha did a long and thorough stretch before sitting on the floor in quiet meditation. She'd never meditated before -- hell if she knew what she was doing. But it gave her time to focus her turbulent, vengeful thoughts. Mostly, she dreamt up outlandish methods and schemes for escape. 

She missed her friends; at times she'd will her mind to a happier place in their company. She wondered if they'd try to reach her. Surely April or Bryan or Kevin would call... Samantha had no family. Her father left a long time ago. Her mother died when she was 14. It was only now that she began to realize how terribly lonely her life had become.

Before dinner arrived, she would settle down on the sofa to read again (always a different book from her morning read). This spot gave her a prime vantage point to see whichever of Franco's men who happened to deliver her meal open the door and switch out trays. They always watched her, cold and vigilant, as they did. Her early attempts to attract their attention, perhaps unbuttoning the top half of her blouse, repeating her post-workout stretch, or biting her lip and gazing darkly, were met with such indifference she soon gave up entirely, feeling foolish. 

The silence was the most grating part of it all. For the better part of the day, it didn't occur to her -- absorbed in The Odyssey, Sun Tzu's Art of War, or Atlas Shrugged. She'd always been a reader, until her overtime-laden career left no room for it. But while reading, she might become aware of the soft scrape of the turning page, or spoken conversations far beyond her locked door, and she wanted to scream -- anything to fill the silence. 

The surveillance camera, too, became a regrettable fixture of her environment. She took great care to only dress/undress in the bathroom, and tried her best to ignore its presence. Early on, she had to stifle the urge to give its all-seeing lens the finger -- make faces at it or mouth the words fuck... off.

It was a Thursday, she'd counted, when Samantha resolved to make her escape. That morning, she brought a candle with her into the bathroom. With the shower running, she made repeated attempts to smash the glass votive against the stone wall. The damn thing wouldn't crack. Not even a chip. 

Looking anxiously at the door, she backed up and pitched it as hard as she could; the glass shattered with a muted smash, and Samantha nearly jumped for joy as it fell to the floor in pieces. 

Running over, she surveyed the remnants. Three smaller shards had broken off from the larger main piece. The candle lay mostly untouched, save for a sprinkle of wax flakes on the floor. Carefully, she retrieved the broken votive and threw it again -- this time she found a more satisfactory piece. She nestled the fragment between her knuckles and traced the edge. She'd have to dig hard to do any real damage.

Throughout the day, Samantha forced herself to carry on with business as usual. The camera, ever watchful, was more unsettling today. Was she so sure they weren't watching her in the bathroom? 

When dinner came, she made a point not to eat too much; she would need to bolt at top-speed if she had any chance of making it out. She really didn't have much of a plan, Samantha acknowledged bitterly. All she needed was to be within lunging distance of a gun. She bit her lip, lost in thought. What if it didn't work? She shuddered at Franco's threat of so much worse. He'd killed his own man; why not her?

She couldn't allow herself to think about it. Tonight was the night -- she would run for her freedom, or die trying.

* * *

He'd only been on post an hour when Anthony - Tony they called him -- heard her groan inside the room. "Oh my god," she whimpered, before retching violently. He stiffened, suspicious at first. What to do? He considered calling out for backup, but it was late and most of the compound had turned in. He hated the thought of waking Gabriele needlessly. Leaning his ear against the door, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the phone. He could hear her breathing hard, then heaving again. She was sniffling, mewing before another bout of retching. 

Soon he could only hear convulsive dry heaves. Jesus Christ... Tony searched through his contacts and found Gabriele's doctor. He sent an urgent text before placing his ear back against the door. Suddenly, he heard her collapse; her body hit the wooden floor with an unmistakable thump. As quickly as he could manage, he unlatched the door and looked in. The room was dark. He took a careful step in, his arms stretched out low, feeling for her. 

Tony barely saw the flash of shadow when he felt something jagged lodge in his temple, barely missing his right eye. Then it pulled, tearing through flesh with savage ferocity. He cried in agony, a horrible, guttural cry. 

Instinctively, he slapped his hand to his face to stop the blade, his other hand grasping blindly into darkness to grab her. 

He felt, rather than saw, her dart past him. 

Pumping with adrenaline, Samantha took an immediate left out of her room -- she was in a large corridor of carved wooden walls, doors flanking either side as far down as she could see. She bolted, sprinting faster than she had in her entire life. The sound of her shoes striking the carpeted floor reverberated through the hallway with a heavy thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

She heard a door to her left swing open wide, arms extended in her periphery - then she crashed to the ground, a heavy weight upon her. Screaming, she writhed to get out from under it, until the pressure let up, and she felt herself grabbed by the shoulders and spun around. Before she even looked, she knew it was him.

Franco was on top of her, astride her, seething. Demons never breathed such fury. 

Throughout the hallway, she heard doors opening and men spilling out into the corridor. But she didn't dare turn from their master's raging countenance. This was it. She was going to die. 

Franco looked up, his face suddenly frozen, his eyes turning darker still. He bolted upright; in a second Samantha found herself on her feet, gripped tightly in his arms. 

"What the fuck did you do, Samantha??" he growled, turning her to face what he saw. A young, muscular man walked limply toward them, blood streaming through the hand that held the wound, dripping blots of red across the carpet. Two men rushed to his aid. 

"Let me see it, Anthony," Franco spoke from behind her. Hopelessly, she tried to wriggle free of his grasp, but his body was an immovable stone. He held her in place as a sacrificial witness to the wound she'd inflicted.

Tony dropped his hand, and Samantha's eyes widened in shock at the sight of the gash; she could see the lower flap of skin dangling as blood poured from the gape. "Oh my god," she whispered, horrified.

"I'm so sorry, boss" Tony begged. His face, mournful and streaming blood, was the most harrowing sight Samantha had ever seen. "She got me before I even had a chance to grab her."

"It's alright, Anthony," Franco said, an underlying softness in his words Samantha had never heard before. "I promise we'll take good care of you."

One of the men re-appeared with a towel and pressed it against Tony's face to help stem the blood flow. "Doctor Caselli's here," someone announced.

"Take her to her room," Franco ordered, his voice low and gravelly. "I want her tied up."

Three men surrounded her and dragged Samantha roughly down the hallway to her room, paying no mind to her kicking and screaming. 

She was slammed against one of the bed posts; calloused hands held her arms behind her back as her legs were tied. Someone wrapped cord around her wrists, holding them firmly in place. Samantha was shaking, tears streaming her face. The last of the men finished tying a single cord around her neck, bracing her upright and tightly-bound to the bed post.




Capo di Foia Ch. 02



A tall shadow appeared in the doorway. 

"Leave us." The room was empty in seconds. The door latched shut.

Samantha heard Franco's steps across the wooden floor. He approached the bed, but continued walking. Suddenly, she heard a match strike. 

"Three candles. So that's how you managed." Samantha tried to turn her head but couldn't see behind her. The dark room became alight with dancing shadows. She felt him approach. Suddenly, his hand was on her neck, his long fingers caressing her skin. She shuddered.

Franco stepped around to face her. Through his woven shirt, his chest and shoulders appeared much larger than she'd noticed before; this was a man capable of administering his own beatings. He spoke.

"Samantha," he began solemnly. "You should know that I will never stand by and allow any harm come to those I love." She didn't dare to speak, his dark eyes scorching any courage she'd ever possessed. 

"Quite honestly," he continued, "I would slaughter the man who did that to Anthony." Samantha looked down, trembling with fear.

"HOW. How could you cut his face?? What did he do to deserve that?!" Franco half-snarled.

Suddenly she didn't know; her reasoning no longer made sense. She hesitated, searching for words. "I... I wanted to break free," she said, her voice breaking. 

SMACK. The sting of his slap burned her cheek, shattering the train of self-pity. She'd barely opened her eyes and lifted her head before his hand smacked across the other cheek. She waited, face turned, anticipating him striking again. He did not.

Franco watched her, panting. "You nearly blinded him," he finally said. "Two tours in Afghanistan didn't do to him what you did."

The sight of Tony's rueful face, apologizing and coursing blood, stirred in her memory. She was prepared to kill the boy, a man who'd never laid a hand on her. 

"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry," she breathed, tears welling up anew. 

She heard a soft "click", and looked down to see a Stiletto switchblade in Franco's left hand. He took a half-step back, his jaw fixed. 

"NO!! Please, please -- no!" she whimpered.

She cried out as the knife lunged toward her stomach, but Franco tilted the blade and ripped through the fabric of her blouse. Her eyes tightly shut, Samantha heard the cloth tear, felt her stomach and chest exposed to the cool air of the room. She felt the blade sweep down across her stomach, the tip's precarious tickle eliciting goose-bumps. She tried to still her panicked chest from rising and falling. The knife slipped under her waistband, and in a single, long slash the fabric was torn to reveal her thigh and leg. Franco repeated the action on the other leg. 

Samantha heard the knife hit the floor, and was suddenly gripped by a new fear, her clothes hanging loosely off her shoulders and at her feet. 

She opened her eyes, but Franco's gaze no longer met them. His head bowed, he was looking over her exposed flesh, fervidly, with unconcealed desire. The method of his appraisal, coal-black eyes traveling over her collarbone, her breasts, her arms, across her stomach and down her legs made her feel more exposed than she'd ever been in her life. She squeezed her legs together as tightly as she could.

He stepped in closely; she could feel the fabric of his slacks and woven shirt skim her bare skin. His hand found her hair and pulled her head back sharply. Samantha gasped a pained intake of air. 

Now his velvet lips were on her neck, muzzling, brushing and then nibbling exquisite kisses across the most tender parts of her skin. She made no sound, but couldn't silence her panting.

His finger slipped under one bra strap, lifting it away from her shoulder, before peeling it slowly down her arm, letting the fabric brush across her skin. The other hand moved to her face, cupping her cheek in the most tender of gestures. His thumb brushed across her parted lips, as he continued his assault, licking and gently sucking the delicate flesh above her collar bone. Samantha's hands strained against their binds and a whimper escaped her lips.

Franco stepped in closer and she could feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants press against her lower stomach. More, she thought. She wanted more. 

His lips grazed hers -- just once - sparking a flush of electricity she'd not felt since her very first kiss. Samantha extended her chin, begging for him, and Franco answered. He kissed her fully, expertly -- his impassioned lips blazing heat and beckoning her own. Samantha licked to taste the warmth of his mouth, and soon their kisses were deep and wet, alternately fierce and tantalizingly soft. 

Samantha felt his knee force its way between her thighs, and nudge each leg out of his way before pressing his groin into the apex of her thighs. Jesus, Samantha realized she must be dripping wet but answered his call by grinding lewdly against him.

His kisses worked their way down below her chin before he pulled away, searching her spellbinding emerald eyes. He burned with passion at the site of her, overcome with hunger and nearly undone. She watched his eyes drop to her breasts, the frightened nipples protruding through her sheer bra. One hand held her chin firmly in place as the other dropped to her breast. The thumb grazed across her nipple. "Oh god," Samantha whispered, swooning with need.

"You make it very hard for me to punish you," he answered gruffly, his voice thick with desire. Samantha watched his head dip down to her chest, and take her breast in his mouth, lapping his tongue across the sheer fabric and bathing her pert nipple in ecstasy. 

"Please..." she whined, as he turned to lavish the same attention to her other breast. 

"God, god, god -- I want it," Samantha begged, and Franco returned to her lips, peeling both bra straps off completely before taking the weight of her full breasts in his hands. 

"Believe me, Samantha, I want it too," he breathed against her ear. "But you keep misbehaving," he said, slamming his lower body into hers. Samantha groaned, feeling the wetness in her panties. Franco kissed her again before biting her lower lip, steadily increasing pressure until Samantha feared he might draw blood. She whined, straining against the bedpost. 

He released. Samantha's lip felt swollen. "Such a filthy girl," he chided, holding her face in his hands. 

"Fuck me," she begged him, fear in her eyes.

Franco licked his lips as he stared down at her. "No."

"Why not?" Her eyes widened.

"Because," he answered. "You're being punished."

Franco left the room, and closed the door.



Capo di Foia Ch. 03



Dear Readers --

Once again, thank you for your extraordinary kindness and support. I apologize for the delay in posting -- I never expected how time- (and thought-) consuming this process can be!

I acknowledge there's a lot of build-up, certainly more than I would have anticipated. But I think it's important to lay a framework for our two lead characters; hopefully it makes their development a bit more interesting. As always, I love your feedback -- keep those suggestions coming!

Happy reading. -- Ms.Archer 

CHAPTER THREE 

Samantha looked up from the page. She had read and attempted to re-read the same paragraph over the last thirty minutes. It was impossible to concentrate; apparently having all the time in the world was not enough to sort her thoughts. She scowled, examining the overlay of the fibers on her sofa. 

She felt changed, irrevocably. He'd violated her. She knew this happened to hostages -- and inwardly, she snapped at the voice that told her she'd barely been touched. He'd stripped her, fondled her, and all against her will. Her mind was a dizzying reel of moments, playing in shadow with peeving alacrity. She thought of his gaze in the candlelight -- the way his dark eyes burned with pleasure at every touch and each reluctant moan that escaped her. And she wasn't moaning; he'd elicited a response. He knew that. He was playing with her -- she knew that.

If he'd wanted to rape her, he could have, certainly. Gripped the fabric of her underwear, suddenly, and yanked it to her knees. He might have watched her fear as he freed the bulge in his pants and let the tip of his heavy cock drag across her stomach, a string of precum visible in the flickering light. He was a large man, and Samantha wondered at the breadth and feeling of his size until she caught herself.

She was agitated; a flurry of heat and swirling thoughts. He was a gorgeous man -- by any standard. He looked like a fucking celebrity; chiseled brow and soft lips. A man like Gabriele Franco could've had any future he wanted; instead he'd chosen a life of pervasive crime and backroom dealings -- seeding himself in an illicit network of extortion, lies, loyalty, and killing. 

She ASKED HIM TO FUCK HER. Her cheeks flared in embarrassment. He'd provoked a physiological response; it would have happened to any woman. It did not change her consent. She did not consent to him violating her -- touching her as he did.

She stretched her neck to her right, kneading her fingertips deep into the muscle. The stubborn knot strung a blunt pain down to the top of her back. She'd spent the rest of the night tethered to the bedpost and finally fallen asleep. Franco's lackeys came to cut her down at what must have been morning; she'd felt humiliated in her underwear and ripped clothing. After her shower, Samantha found her breakfast waiting. She tried turning to her latest book, Siddhartha, to calm her mind. But the pain in her neck made it impossible to concentrate.

What was she doing here??  Franco had no reason to keep her. It was so pointless -- the books and the bedroom and the abject monotony. Was she a prisoner? This was a most unorthodox prison. For how long?  What could he hope to gain by keeping her in custody? Samantha resented the nagging memory of him, the predatory hunger in his eyes as he took in her bare flesh. 

He wanted her, on whatever twisted plane his mind operated. The understanding both allayed and aggravated her fears. It bestowed a weapon she felt powerless to wield. How did he want her? Was it his plan to seduce her? Hurt her, use her? Was he manipulating her? 

Samantha was no stranger to desire; she was beautiful, she knew, and innately conscious of precisely when and how to employ her charm. Early on in training, she was insistent -- determined -- to submerge any hint of feminine allure. What good was an agent if she couldn't run as fast or shoot with best of them? She deplored the stories of female agents "sleeping their way to the top" or opting not to wear a gun to the office. She would be an agent -- first and foremost. The resolution spurred countless late-night sprints at the track and harsh self-admonishment whenever she failed to nab a top score on the exams.

She was relieved to feel a sort of self-emergence after arriving at the field office. Here, ability was no longer measured by bench weight or grappling ability. She was sharp and doggedly thorough in her casework, not to mention highly effective in field interviews and liaison work. In a male-dominated field brimming with alpha males and knuckle-draggers, Samantha learned her strengths as a woman frequently gave her the upper hand, set her apart from her colleagues.

Still, the shooting -- obliterating as it had been-- was an affirmation of sorts. So many had teased, scoffed that she didn't have it in her, and deep down, she'd feared they were right. If she ever had to pull her gun -- could she? When it came down to it, would the hits count?

In the blur of phone calls, statements, psychological assessments that followed, she felt a repressible swelling of pride to hear her story had swept across the agency. Her precision was remarkable -- one round grazing the lower right rib and three in a 2-½ inch diameter in the center of the chest. Considering that LEOs under stress shoot anywhere between 10 to 50% of their usual accuracy, her performance was admirable. Perez had even called her reaction "surgical" and Samantha felt guilty for reading her co-workers' congratulatory emails. 

The vindication was a blessing; the media blitz that followed was not. While she successfully managed to elude the photographers perched in front of her home and outside the courthouse, the picture(s) of her with NYPD the night of the shooting were recycled for weeks in subsequent articles covering the civil suit. It was because she was a female agent -- not just a fed -- that it got any coverage at all.

Management had been supportive. Her supervisor, Paul, even stopped by her house the next day. At their insistence, she met with an agency-designated counselor, not that it cured the insomnia and recurrent nightmares. She hated her therapist, a saccharine pinhead of a woman with all the personality of a curtain tassel. The mandatory admin leave -- too many days spent trying to fill time - left her feeling vapid, aimless. 

Samantha suddenly realized her solitude in the room felt all too familiar. 

She wondered how Franco had managed to delude her office for this long. How could he excuse her absence without even a trace of suspicion? Samantha knew they would come for her; it was an impossibility for them not to realize something was seriously wrong. 

* * *

Afternoon came, as did a knock at the door. Samantha started to get up off the floor before realizing she had no reason to. The door opened, and a 50-year-old man with a bristled goatee and grey eyes walked in. Her pulse quickened. Where was Franco? 

"Ms. Brier, you and I have business to attend to," he said, resigned. He looked tired. 

"What do you mean?" Samantha eyed him cautiously.

"You'll find out momentarily." The words made her stomach plunge. Maybe they were going to kill her after all... She felt panic overtake her.

"I'm afraid you've earned a reputation for being difficult," he continued. "So let me level with you. We can go about this like normal people and you follow me, or we do the handcuffs, the whole shebang. What say you?" 

Samantha wasn't expecting that. She watched the man's face, searching for motive. He bore the presence of an old retired cop, equal parts loyal and world-weary. His eyebrows rose, awaiting a response. Somehow, his grey eyes seemed kind. 

"Yeah. I mean, yes," she answered. "I'll be civilized."

"Good. Don't make me make this unpleasant for you. Let's go," he said, and walked out the door. Samantha hurried up from the floor and followed him into the hallway. Being there took her back to last night. She couldn't see any trace of Tony's blood. All of the doors down the hall were closed. 

The compound -- mansion, whatever it was -- proved to be larger than she'd estimated. Samantha tried to commit each turn and passageway to memory. The halls, opulent near her quarters, began to appear more Spartan. She looked up at her escort. 

She half-cleared her throat. "What do you do for him, exactly?"

"I oversee Mr. Franco's security apparatus," he answered.

"Oh." His candor caught her off-guard. "How big is it?" she asked.

The man gave her a sideways glance, and Sam felt herself blush. "I mean, how many men does he keep onsite?"

"Enough," he answered simply. 

The two rounded the corner, and the man opened a large black door. Samantha followed him in. 

There Franco stood, in front of a single metal folding chair.

He looked pensive -- any hint of passion from the night before erased from his expression. She hated him, this sick, brooding, cold-blooded man. 

"Ms. Brier, take a seat," the man behind her encouraged.

A large television screen was mounted to the wall. Samantha sat, felt the ice-cold chair against her skin.

"You're going to make a series of phone calls," Franco said as he walked toward her. 

Samantha tried her best to appear unphased. 

"Before we do that," he continued, "I thought it appropriate to incentivize your good behavior." 

As if on cue, the television flickered to life. 

Samantha looked at the screen. She saw a white door, the number "25" on front. From the corner of the screen, an arm knocked. She realized she must be watching some kind of hidden camera feed -- perhaps a spy camera. Then the door opened. Samantha paled. 

It was April.  They were fucking AT her doorstep. She shot a look of fury up at Franco, her eyes filled with desperation. She could hear a man's voice onscreen but couldn't make out the words. 

"Yeah, sure. Come on in," she heard her friend say. Samantha's mind was screaming. APRIL! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!  

"Samantha, listen to me," Franco spoke evenly. She looked up at him, fighting to suppress a surge of tears. "You be a good girl and do as you're told, and I promise you, no harm will come to your friend." 

"Why are you doing this?" Samantha pleaded. 

"I need to ensure you won't try to pull a stint like last night."

Samantha turned back to the TV. April was walking her intruder to the kitchen stove. What would he do to her??  She had to find a way...

He continued. "I'm going to give you a cell phone. The first call you're going to make is to your boss, Paul." Samantha looked up again, her brow furrowed. "You're to tell him that you're unable to return to the office. Indefinitely." 

"How do you expe --"

"Samantha, you're a sharp girl," Franco said as he loomed over her. "I trust you'll know what to say." She recognized the familiar scent on his clothes. "Now if you try to call for help or make any mention of me or what's happened," he warned her, "Jack here will see to it this turns out very badly for April."

Samantha looked over at the older man, her mind grasping for a way out. How could she relay she was in trouble?? 

"Mr. Franco prefers to avoid brutality where he can," Jack spoke. "But do not underestimate him in this instance, Ms. Brier." A single tear slipped down her cheek; Samantha quickly wiped it away.

Jack continued, "I would advise you to follow his instructions to the letter, and your friend will remain unharmed."

She looked back at Franco, defeated. He held out the phone and she took it; it was a pre-paid cell. Carefully, she punched in the number to the office and hit send. She looked up onscreen to find the camera wearer prodding around the stovetop with tools. She turned in her chair to face the other direction. Jack watched her patiently, his phone in hand, thumb poised on the buttons.

The line rang three times. "Lambert speaking," a voice answered.

"Paul," Samantha said, relief flooding her "It's me. I need to talk to you."

The conversation went worse than she'd feared. Paul reamed her for not answering her blackberry, demanding to know why she could send emails but was too busy to answer her goddamn phone. She apologized as contritely as she could; the fear in her voice made her story easier to sell. "I'm going through a really rough time right now," she kept saying, trying to block out the scene behind her. When Paul told her the SAC was threatening to drop by her house in person, Samantha explained she was staying with a friend until she got back on her feet. 

"I want to help you, Samantha -- really, I do," Paul said. "But I'll be honest; you're putting yourself in hot water with headquarters. If they have any doubt you're unfit for duty, they'll redo your background check -- they could strip your clearance and then you're S-O-L." A pause. "Have you been seeing that therapist?" Samantha glanced at Franco for guidance. 

Franco shook his head. 

"No, I haven't," she answered. "But I found a new one," she added quickly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Franco's approving smirk. "I promise, I'll get through this. Just please give me more time." She wished he would stop staring as she spoke; it rattled her already raw nerves.

"Samantha..." Paul sighed. "Look, the SAC said you've exhausted your admin leave."

The line fell silent. Samantha suddenly hoped he would remain stubborn. If they expected her at the office, then they would send someone out eventually...

"Alright," Paul finally spoke. "I'm presuming you have personal leave, right?"

"Yeah," Samantha swallowed. "I have a lot of sick time."

"How much?"

"Over 200 hours" she said. Samantha had never taken a sick day. 

"Okay. I'll put you down for sick leave. But I would advise you to get a note from your therapist. And you'll have to fill out the forms when you get in." As supervisory agents go, Paul was the ultimate paper-pusher.

"Understood, sir. Thank you," Samantha answered despondently. She'd have to hang up soon; this call was her lifeline, her only window to the outside world. Franco held out his hand to collect the phone.

"Samantha?" Paul spoke.

"Yes, sir?" she said, grateful for the extra time.

"What you've been through, this is all part of the job," Paul admonished. "As an agent, you're required to be able to use deadly force when necessary. If this is too much for you -- and I'm not saying it is... but you may want to consider another career choice."

The words stung. Samantha looked away. The fucking asshole. "Yes, sir..." she said after a beat. She relinquished the phone to Franco, fighting a tempest of emotion. She heard the blip as he ended the call.

"Ms. Brier, your bullshit is commendable," Jack said, jolting her back to the room and her perilous situation. 

Samantha looked to the TV. There was no sign of April onscreen. The camera was angled toward the lights overhead in the kitchen.

"What's he doing?" Samantha asked.

"April's just fine, Ms. Brier," Jack spoke. "One more phone call."

Franco looked down sternly at her. "Who is Kevin?" he asked, his coal-black eyes studying her.

Kevin. A whisper of hope fluttered in her chest. He'd been trying to reach her. She hesitated before speaking. "He's my friend," she said. "He's my very dear friend." God, were they after Kevin too? 

"You work together," Jack offered.

"Yeah, we do." Samantha shifted uncomfortably.

"Call him," Franco instructed coldly. "Give him the same story you told Paul -- I expect you to sell it." He handed back the phone.

"Okay," Samantha answered softly.

She dialed the number, her eyes fixed on the TV as the phone continued to ring. Then she heard the familiar recording; she'd reached his voicemail. She looked to Franco, but his expression gave her no reprieve. The message beeped.

"Hi, Kevin...it's me. Um..I'm sorry I've been M.I.A. for so long. If you couldn't tell, I'm sort of having a mini crisis —" Samantha saw Jack raise his phone in warning. "—but don't worry, because I'm just taking some time for myself and I'm gonna' get through this. I'm staying with a friend for the next few weeks but I promise I'll be back in the saddle soon—" back in the saddle? Who says that? "—and I promise we'll catch up then. Okay. So take care. Bye."

Samantha ended the call and exhaled. 

"Do I make the check out to you or the gas company? " she heard April speak on camera. Thank god, she was still okay. The relief soon turned to anguish. She'd had two phone calls with the outside world and no one had any clue she was kidnapped.

Franco rested his hand on her shoulder. She fought the urge to bat him away. 

"Good girl," he said, and left the room.

* * * 

Jack escorted Samantha back to her chamber. They walked in silence, but Samantha didn't notice. She felt completely broken, and simultaneously numb.

When she entered her room, she saw it had been polished and scrubbed. He'd sent someone in. All her laundry in the bathroom had been collected; her towels were gone. On the vanity sat a large box with a black satin bow. What the fuck is this.

Sourly, she loosened the knot and lifted the top of the box. Inside lay a luxuriously-woven Turkish bathrobe. Samantha couldn't help running her hand over the royal-blue terrycloth. 

He can kiss my ass, she muttered to herself before turning to take a nap.

* * *

That night, Samantha stepped out of the shower. Holding her body, she cursed, remembering they'd taken the towels. She hurriedly tip-toed over to the box and removed the robe, donning its sleeves and wrapping the soft fabric around her body. Cinching the belt in a quick knot, Samantha looked at herself in the mirror. Strands of wet hair framed her face, her cheeks red from the hot shower. The robe fit her beautifully.

After wringing out her hair, Samantha sauntered into the bedroom and stopped in her tracks.

The room was dark, save for an ominous blue light bathing her nightstand. 

"Clasp your hands above your head," he spoke from the darkness. 

Samantha summoned her wits. "No." she said indignantly, her eyes searching the room. A tall dark figure stood from the sofa and moved toward her. Instinct urged her to run, but her feet refused. She would not run from him. 

"I would expect nothing less from you, Samantha," his features now visible in the soft blue glow. His half-grin was menacing, all-knowing. She clenched her fists. "Sometimes I think you're practically begging to be disciplined," he said as he approached. 

"You're sick," Samantha said bitterly. "I despise you. I'd kill you the first chance I got."

Undeterred, Franco continued to advance. "Is that so?" 

He was a mere ten feet away. "Why. Why are you keeping me here?" she demanded. 

He was closing in - two arm-lengths away. She angled her stance. "Come one step closer and you'll regret it."

Franco stopped, cocking his eyebrow. "And what do you plan to do with me, Samantha?" 

She hated the way he spoke her name. "Let's find out, you filthy son of a bitch."

Franco lunged, a tiger pouncing prey. She'd barely had time to react before she was firmly encased in his grip, his hungry gaze leering over her.

"Filthy..." he said, relishing her wide-eyed dismay before scrutinizing every curve of her body hidden behind the heavy robe. Samantha began to struggle, but he easily and effortlessly seized her hands, freezing them at her sides as he drew her firmly against his hard body. Samantha groaned as he did.

He bent over her ear, the low cadence of his voice luring her in. "You have no idea how filthy I could be." She felt her breasts swelling against his ribcage. "But you wonder, don't you, Samantha... You've wanted this."




Capo di Foia Ch. 03



Samantha tried to shake her head, but found it difficult pressed so close against him. "You know how blatantly your body betrays your desire?" he whispered harshly in her ear. "Stop fighting, Samantha, and give in."

"No," Samantha strained. "I don't want this."

"Yes you do," he replied knowingly. 

Samantha shifted to knee him in the groin, but Franco was already throwing her onto the bed, his body on all fours atop of her. Under his dress shirt, she could see the smooth skin of his collarbone. 

She fought - kicking, punching, attempting every ground tactic she knew to get out from under him; it was pointless. His eyes danced with pleasure as she struggled, and Franco made light work of thwarting her efforts. Within minutes he had her arms and legs pinned under his heavy frame. 

"Now..." he growled, and shoved her body abruptly toward the bed frame. Samantha fought to regain her breath as he reached over her, his shirt grazing her face as he did. His scent -- sandalwood, cedar, and something sweet - overwhelmed her senses. She registered a distinct texture against her wrist (was it leather?) and struggled to push him away with her free hand as the band closed tightly around her. Franco repeated the same process with her left wrist, her arms now restrained above her. 

Samantha realized the more she struggled, the more her body writhed up against him. She stilled, feeling the hard bulge of his erection against her stomach. 

Franco moved down the bed, seizing one bare ankle and securing it with another band. Samantha found herself wondering if the restraints were recently affixed to the bed, or if they'd been here longer. Her other ankle was bound; her legs splayed with an almost uncomfortable strain. Samantha watched in fear and humiliation as he crawled up over her. 

"You underestimate me," he said, brushing his thumb across her lips. His piercing gaze held her transfixed. "You think I don't know each and every thing about you. Your wants, your desires..."

She turned away scornfully; Franco grabbed her chin and held it firmly in place.

"Samantha..." he murmured against her cheek. Suddenly, he thrust his body hard against hers. A throaty gasp escaped her parted lips. Heat was pooling between her legs. "You think I don't know what you're searching for..."

"What do you mean?" Samantha panted, her pulse thrumming in her veins. 

"I see right through you," he said softly, his gaze penetrating. "No one else might expect it, but I knew it the moment I saw you." His eyes turned dark. "I've stood in your room, read your letters, seen your browser history. Everything confirmed my suspicions."

The thought unnerved her. "And what do you think you know about me?" Samantha asked.

Franco's eyes narrowed, as if confirming his assessment. "You strive so hard for control.... Every act and every accolade, you're straining for validation. You took aim at a laudable career because no one thought you could do it; three years in, you're still trying to prove you're worth something to a thankless hoard of good-ole-boy bureaucrats. Such a brazen girl, rebuking herself in a never-ending effort to please... " Samantha held her breath, infuriated and yet not daring to miss a single utterance. 

Franco moved in against her ear. "Just once, you wonder, what it might feel like to relinquish such control. To be stripped of everything -- the overthinking, the endless chase for approval. To be subjugated."

The word bestowed an eternity of erotic promise as it fell from his lips.

Franco continued. "To be unapologetically submissive to one man who understands and rewards your darkest desires... Samantha. You long to be possessed. Taken... Owned." 

Samantha arched underneath him; the restraints held tight. Franco leaned up, a secret smile lingering on his lips as he looked over her body. 

Gently, he traced his index finger along the part of her robe, dragging the terrycloth to reveal her sternum. Samantha watched, rapt and frozen in trepidation. The hint of her revealed skin provoked his teeming lust, and Samantha lay helpless as his hands gripped and spread the robe apart. Straining against the bonds once more, she followed his gaze to her chest -- her breasts rising and falling, the nipples straining to be touched.

She closed her eyes as Franco ran his hand lightly down the middle. She watched his intent expression as his fingertips traced excruciating circles nearer and nearer her nipple, before running his thumb once over it -- barely skimming the pink mound. She remembered the wet, velvety touch of his tongue last night, lapping away at her flesh.

Now both hands were on her breasts, cupping them almost fully. He bounced them softly, her full breasts responding in gentle ripples. He started grazing her tits repeatedly with the pads of his thumbs. Her nipples were firmer and more pronounced than she'd ever felt; the sight of them in the blue glow of the lamp was undeniably erotic. Franco bent down to kiss each one, innocently, over and over again. Samantha wanted so badly to push him away, but instead laid her head back in exquisite acquiescence. He would not lick, but soon kissed each breast more and more fully until he suckled each one in an artful, throbbing kiss.

Then the sensation ceased, and Samantha looked up -- questioning. Franco was still poised at her breast, his mouth barely an inch from it, his eyes affixed menacingly on her own. 

"Tell me you know what's next," he dared her. Samantha's eyes widened. Franco repositioned himself between her spread, tethered legs.

Samantha bucked until the restraints began to hurt. "No. Please. I'm begging you... Franco. Please don't do —"

Savagely, Franco tore open the lower half of her robe. His eyes were trained on her revealed pussy as he carefully draped the terrycloth fully on either side of her thighs. He looked lost in reverie. Samantha swallowed, her breathing quickened. She was completely exposed and helpless to stop it. 

"Samantha," he breathed. "You have. The most perfect pussy," she heard him say. Samantha had never seen him more earnest. She turned her face away, wanting to die of mortification. 

She felt the weight of his hands press on either thigh. Samantha peeked down, gripped by the unbearable suspense of his obvious intention. His eyes looked hungrily at her flesh, the tip of his tongue resting on his upper lip. Lower, and lower he dipped. Stillness.

And then a lick.

Tenderly, and directly over the length of her clit, Samantha groaned loudly, then shuddered. Franco stilled, taking in her full-throttled response. 

"Please," she panted.

"Please, what?" he breathed hot against her pussy. 

"Please stop!" she whimpered, her mental fortitude melting to mush. 

Franco licked again, broadly. And again, pausing to circle the tip of his tongue around the hooded bead for full effect. Samantha pulled desperately against the leather bonds and Franco smiled, feeling the muscles in her thighs flex and strain, before settling into work. 

He French-kissed her sweet pussy, savoring the folds of flesh and lapping, probing with his tongue. He sucked fully on her mound, immersed in the growing heat and rising pleasure. She was already starting to drip and in carnal satisfaction he moaned deeply against her. The vibration caused her to jolt and Samantha winced from the pain around her wrists and ankles.

Her face a resplendent study in agony, Samantha shook her head and whimpered. She looked down to see his mouth devouring, his tongue purling her wet pussy. It was too excruciating to watch; she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the bed. 

Franco moaned as he tasted, smelled her sweet musk -- his tongue dancing over her clit, stopping only lick up the sides of her lips. True to form, Samantha's pussy tasted divine, and her sopping wetness made his cock ache. He circled his hips against the bed once as he repositioned. God, he wanted to ravage her, fuck her wet little pussy until she screamed. Soon enough, he promised himself, and his licking became more pronounced. He wanted to make her come; he needed to feel her come.

Samantha's thoughts were suspended in a sea of heady pleasure. He licked tirelessly, broadly -- coating her clit with his saliva and lapping with fervent need. It was a hedonistic symphony, swelling with each stroke, and she was his instrument.

She couldn't do this. He was making her so close -- it was so, so, so wrong. She made a final, desperate attempt to escape, stretching and straining with all her might against the leather bands that held her at his mercy. In response, Franco swept across her clit in circles with the underside of his tongue. It was ecstasy, and Samantha capitulated in response. Her body was exhausted. Sweet mother of god... she could only think.

How good it would feel to fuck his cock over her wet mound, Franco mused, sucking her clit into his mouth and bathing it with his tongue. Eagerly, he placed his hand just underneath her dripping pussy in an impulsive urge to feel her juices pool. His sack ached; it was everything in his power to keep from fucking her.

She was getting close now. He could smell it distinctly; suddenly he was frenzied with need. He fought to maintain the same pressure and pace, his tongue methodically orbiting over and over her swollen clit, driving her closer and closer to the sweetest destination. 

Samantha's pleasure started to build, and swell, and swell as he continued to lick. Now she was cut free, racing at exhilarating pace - a force propelling her with merciless certainty to the brink... Franco knew she was there, and -- without warning - drove two fingers into her sopping pussy. His cock twitched in response. How could she be so tight?? 

"Ohmygod..." Samantha breathed. 

And then she fell...

The pull on all four bedposts caused them to creak as she bucked in pleasure. It was a pounding, plummeting waterfall she rode into the abyss of ecstasy -- wave upon wave of sublimity, exhilaration, perfection emanating through her core. Involuntarily, she drew the current inward, registering the fullness of his fingers inside of her.

Franco could have come himself at the intensity and beauty of Samantha's orgasm. He continued to lick tenderly, as her tight pussy clasped and milked his fingers, not wanting to rob them both of a single pulse of pleasure. God, he needed her. He must have her. 

Sweet god, she belonged to him, Samantha sighed inwardly.

The waves receded, and Samantha felt herself returning to the room. There she lay, soaked and spread-eagle with Franco at the juncture of her thighs. She burned with shame until the two locked eyes. His expression was ardent. Dear god, what had she done?? 

Franco removed his fingers, sucked the tips clean, before leaning over to remove the restraints. Fatigue and confusion washed over her as she felt the blood return to each hand. Franco massaged her forearms lightly before planting a soft kiss on the underside of each wrist.

The blue light clicked off and Samantha lay astonished as she felt his hair, his head rest against her arm, wrapping his still-clothed body around her own. She looked straight up into the darkness, not daring to acknowledge the disarray of emotion surging in her addled mind.

Samantha did not know it, but she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep. 



Capo di Foia Ch. 04



 Dear Readers; 

I can't apologize enough for dropping off the face of the earth after Chapter 3. (For those who haven't read the previous chapters, you'll want to.)

Work has left me no time to write, and I feel a tremendous obligation to do justice to these two characters and the dynamic between them. The potential story arch seems overwhelming - especially now that I understand the time investment. That said, the story writes itself and like many of you, I haven't been able to put it aside.

Extraordinary thanks to those of you who haven't given up on me. I only recently discovered your encouragement and feedback via a never-checked email account. If anyone has anything to suggest or contribute, I welcome your comments and swear I will do my utmost to write back.

I hope this chapter was worth the wait... Here's to taking up the pen. 

* * * 

CHAPTER FOUR 

Samantha's eyes blinked unwillingly as she rolled over in bed. Still half-asleep, she became aware that her arms were her own again, no longer restrained. The recognition awoke her fully; she threw off the covers and stretched for the lamp switch on the nightstand. 

She was alone. Of course she was.  The blue robe lay bunched up beneath her bare legs, a withered reminder of what transpired that night. Samantha suddenly felt weak. He'd eaten her out... He made her come.  She sat frozen, replaying the moments of stolen intimacy. How she wished to purge the whole experience from memory... 

She looked at the clock: eleven. She hated her room - with no windows, the space was perpetually dark and bleak. Samantha scowled. She wouldn't have slept so late if they'd given her a sliver of daylight. 

Breakfast was waiting by the door, long since cold. Samantha sat up, rubbing her eyes in a daze. It was a dream. It had to be a dream. This never happened, she told herself. She forced herself up; her legs were sore. So were her wrists. She gave a hateful look at the robe before flinging it off the bed. She would shower without it. 

* * * 

 I come to a place where all light is muted,

Which rumbles like the sea beneath a storm

When waves are buffeted by warring squalls.
And as the starlings are lifted on their wings - 

She heard the door latch turn. Samantha felt her heartbeat pommel her chest in response. She set the book in her lap, glaring at the unwelcome interruption. "What do you want," she glowered at him. 

Franco stepped in the room, his eyes downcast, and the door closed behind him. Brooding, as usual, she thought.

Her eyes followed him, a caged animal regarding her intruder. Her fury curled and seeped; she hated this man... and then he looked at her. 

Something in the sight of it - his head bowed, eyes upturned - stirred the memory of last night. She remembered him lapping, sucking, swirling her clit as he feasted on her bare flesh. His tall composure was a stark contrast to the image that simmered in her thoughts - Franco, abject between her thighs, self-debasing in the most ardent frenzy to make her come... 


Samantha flushed and looked away. She could not bear the intimacy of his gaze.

"I'm going to be away on business for the next eight days," Franco spoke. Samantha kept still, hoping her fixed expression revealed nothing. Inwardly she felt a faint stab of loneliness. "Before I leave, I need to know if there's any issue requiring my immediate attention."

Samantha's brow furrowed; she blinked in disbelief. "Umm. Okay, here's an issue. How about you've locked me away like I'm quarantined in this fucking room?? There's an issue."

Anger, or something like it, flashed in his eyes - a dark reminder of the fear she should hold for this deadly creature. In that glare, Samantha was given all the warning she could need. 

She looked down, hesitating. "...Well you asked me. I'm just saying I hate it here," she closed the book in front of her. "There's nothing for me to do but read. It's dead-quiet, all the time..." she trailed off. She sounded more plaintive than she intended. As if he would even care..  "I'm just saying, maybe a day-trip or some music or something..." she muttered.

Franco looked down, as if weighing her words. Then he spoke again.

"What are you reading?" His eyes darted to the book on her lap. 

"Everything," she answered sullenly, refusing to meet his gaze. The room was quiet.

"I'm on Dante's Inferno," she continued, in an attempt to fill the silence. "Thought it was apropos," she added for her own satisfaction. 

"Gran duol mi prese al cor quando lo 'ntesi," Franco spoke in melodic Italian. The foreign cadence of his voice caught Samantha off-guard. "Peró che gente di molto valore conobbi che 'n quel limbo eran sospesi." Her high-school French was no help discerning the words. 

"What's that supposed to mean," she demanded.

"The Divine Comedie," he replied. "You lose so much in the translation." 

"Well I don't speak Italian," she answered curtly.

"You serve on a task force for Organized Crime."

"I think it's safe to say most of you assholes speak English," Samantha said dryly. If Franco heard the retort, he did not show it. 

A beat. "...You studied Dante?" she asked grudgingly.

"Passages of the Inferno were required reading in Catholic school. The ministry thrives on a weighty dose of fear," he paused, lost in reflection. "It wasn't until college that I could say I fully studied it."

Samantha watched him cautiously. During her investigation, she had speculated on his background; little was known beyond his family's biographical data and Franco's solitary arrest record - a single assault charge, no less. Even then, he was hard to read, she mused. She needed to know more; anything he gave her was a potential lead.


"Are you religious?" she asked.

"No," he answered. 

"Not anymore, you mean."

Silence. His eyes offered no explanation.

"Where did you go to school?" Samantha ventured. 

"I received my undergrad at University of Bologna," Franco responded, "before studying economics and philosophy at UCL."

"California?" Samantha was surprised at this. 

"... University College London," Franco replied. Samantha grimaced inwardly.

She re-opened her book in a vain attempt to mask her surprise. He was educated; this was not the life she'd imagined for her subject. It was a rare occasion Samantha felt intellectually bested, least of all by a mob boss. She considered her next approach. 

"You're more of the Nietzsche persuasion."

Franco watched her. "How do you mean?"

"God is dead." She looked up at him. "It's easier to kill and extort and corrupt when there's no value system in place."

"You seem to have no qualms killing under yours," Franco responded.

Samantha was ruffled. He knew about the shooting. "My value system?"

"The government to which you've sworn 'true faith and allegiance' has stolen more money, killed more innocents and corrupted more completely than few entities ever will," Franco answered. 

He continued. "If you read Nietzsche you'd understand that's exactly what he meant. We killed god, and in killing him resigned ourselves to chaos and decline. That's why we build our own gods. Like everyone else, Samantha, you made your own code."

Samantha stared at him, scowling. She hated being lectured to.

"No. Not everything in the universe is subjective - there are laws and absolutes - even in science, that's a given -"

He cut her off. "Nietzsche would tell you science is man-made, like every other god we fabricate - philosophy, psychology, karma." He spoke with a grating air poise and self-assurance. 

"But it's so much easier to employ a prescription, a methodology for being, for hope, isn't it, Samantha. Constructs like that make it easy to ward off the darkest depths of human truth," Franco's eyes narrowed. "I've come to see the world for what it is, and I have no tolerance for institutions that delude and enslave their followers."

His condescension was grating. "So what's your god?" she retorted.

"Power." he answered, and the word silenced all protestation. 

"Loyalty and power are the only concrete objectives that will give you anything in life," he continued. "You're far too bright to bank on idealism." He paused. "And you cling to it, oblivious to its origins or where it might leave you." He stepped closer toward her. "You would be very wise, Samantha, to let that go."

Samantha glared at him, unyielding. What sense was there debating ethics with a sociopath?

Franco turned toward the door. "Unless you're hell-bent on further discussing moral imperatives, I should be leaving."

"-Wait." Franco paused. Samantha instantly regretted her entreaty.

He turned. "Samantha?" The gleam in his eyes betrayed his cool demeanor.

"I need to ask you something." She felt overwhelmed by shyness; she rallied her senses and pushed forward.

"What you did last night..." Franco's expression became one of keen interest as Samantha struggled to find the words. It didn't make any sense. Tying her down taut to the bedpost against her will, then licking her exposed pussy until she careened with pleasure...

"What d-... Why did you do that to me??" she finally blurted out. 

Franco was unphased. "And what would you say I did to you, Samantha?" he asked, stalking forward.

She looked away. He wanted her to recount his offenses; she would not indulge it. 

"You know what you did," she answered coldly. She hesitated, staring down. She saw no words, only tissue-thin white pages imprinted with stark, black typeface. "You did that against my will," she said.

"Is that what you think, Samantha?" Franco replied, assured in the knowledge of what she could not say. "Never before has a woman come so hard for her aggressor," he admonished.


Samantha shook her head - she could not allow this perverse thought process to go unchecked. She was a victim. Abusers, assailants always tried to lay blame on the victims.

"I never asked for that. I told you to stop - why else would you have to tie me down?" she retorted, standing to her feet. 

She could tell by his smirk there was ammunition in something she said. "Because you would not have let me pleasure you otherwise." 

"Exactly! I wouldn't have LET YOU!" Her spite was swelling like vitriol inside her. "Look at yourself! How desperate does a man have to be -"

"Make no mistake," Franco spoke softly, but his words easily overtook her. "Tying you down was no prerequisite for pleasuring you. Only two nights ago you stood stripped and sopping, begging me to fuck you like the beautiful whore you are. If fucking you was all I was after, I'd have done it sixty times by now."

Samantha could only stand helpless as his words assailed her. 

"I tied you up, Samantha, as you wouldn't have let me pleasure you in that way of your own free will. You feel too ashamed, too embarrassed to ever let a man put his mouth on you. When was the last time you came that way?"

She ignored the question. It was true. She hated letting a man go down on her. For as much as her lovers coaxed or begged, the experience was shamefully uncomfortable - as sublime as the pleasure always was. Samantha eyed her captor. She didn't know how he'd come upon this intimate knowledge - reading through personal emails, interviewing ex-lovers - but he knew.

Franco stepped closer until he towered over her. "But you love getting your pussy licked, don't you," he admonished. His dark eyes undressed her as he spoke. His scent was her undoing.

Samantha could only nod. 

"Answer me." The way he spoke the words made her slave to his bidding. 

"I love getting my pussy licked," she spoke softly.

"Just saying that makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it." Franco's gaze seared her to the core. Samantha nodded, her pulse throbbing.

He touched her cheek, stroking softly with his thumb. "I have every intention of assaulting your senses until those reservations crumble and your inhibitions wholly surrender. By the time I'm done with you, Samantha, you'll be screaming for me to eat that beautiful pussy."

Samantha's countenance had clouded with a sordid depth of confusion and desire.

"I'll be back in eight days," he whispered against her cheek, and left the room.

Samantha hated his departure more bitterly than his arrival. 

***

Samantha lay in bed, two days later, when she heard a deep rumble rolling down the hallway. She wondered idly what they were moving; she heard men's voices in consultation, then grunting as they heaved their freight - whatever it was, it was heavy. She imagined it was a large safe. Or stone? From what little she'd seen of the house, Franco had amassed a vast collection of art and antiquities - necessary outlets for money-laundering. 

She considered what the bureau might do with the items seized.They'd reap a healthy chunk of change - even by their standards. She thought about Franco's entire collection at auction. 

The rumbling came nearer and nearer. She sat up, straining to hear the voices outside her door. Then it opened. 

Jack. It spoke to her degree of isolation that the man's familiar face and kind gray eyes brought such a surge of comfort. 

"Sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Brier." He sounded sincere; the gravelly timber of his voice reminded her of an old teacher in high school. In different circumstances, she would have liked to have known this man. 

"Hey, Jack. You're fine - I think it's pretty obvious I've got nothing going on," she said, getting up off the bed. Two of Franco's men followed into the room. 

"I've been asked to oversee a delivery," he said. "I think it goes without saying, but I would appreciate your not stabbing anybody while we move this in." 

"Okay..." Her curiosity was piqued. "What is it?"

Jack looked to the door as the two men wheeled in the cargo. She eyed them, briefly assessing their loyalty; their stern expressions told her they worked for him. Just like everyone else.

Carefully, the movers hoisted the shipment on its side. As they did, she heard a distantly familiar cascade of string chords. Samantha stepped forward. Underneath the moving blanket, an exposed glint of sleek black caught her eye. He couldn't have.  Samantha inhaled and nodded dumbly when they pointed to a corner of her room. 

She stood transfixed as they loosened the belts and removed the blanket, revealing the gleaming body of a magnificent grand piano. On its side, the beast towered over her. As the men adeptly fixed two of the legs into place, Samantha approached. She took in the tower of black and white keys and grazed the black paneling in reverence with her fingertips. It was a Steinway. 

"I take it you play?" Jack's voice awoke her from reverie.

Samantha nodded. "We used to have one - not like this." She swallowed. "I haven't played in years."

Franco's lackeys helped the movers heave the instrument onto its feet, lifting it carefully onto the ground. One of the men fetched the bench just outside the door while the other attached the third leg. 

She could feel Jack surveying her as she dared to touch they keys. Timidly, she pressed her index finger against middle C, testing the key's resistance. She pushed harder, and the hammer struck the clearest, most resonant note she'd ever heard. A chord now, and the reverberating strings sang in joyful response. D, F♯ - even the highest octaves trinkled in perfect mirth. There was no finer instrument. 

Samantha realized the men were all watching, and looked up, bashful. 

"It's beautiful," she muttered. 

"Ms. Brier, we'll leave the two of you alone," Jack said and the men began to clear out of the room. "I trust you'll let us know if you need anything."

She found herself thanking him, before it crossed her mind how stupid gratitude sounded in these circumstances.

The door closed. Samantha stood alone with her new grand piano.

Franco. This was his gift to her. He bought me a piano... She ought to loathe it - if it weren't so achingly spectacular.

Samantha sat, letting her fingers splay out onto the keys. They felt smooth and reassuring, responsive to her touch. She sampled a few notes before trying a song she'd committed to memory. She felt her soul - lifting - as the familiar melody began to play out in tender resplendence. Then a brash discord of notes as her fingers fumbled on the keys. She replayed the sequence, three times, to smooth it out before realizing her hands no longer remembered the rest of the song. She paused, tried to sample the keys for the right notes but her muscle memory failed to recall the rest.

She attempted an easier piece - Canon in D - and the room was effulgent in sound until she stumbled on one of the variations. She tried reworking it, but as soon as she figured out the treble clef the series of notes for her left hand clanged discordantly in error.

Samantha had forgotten it all.

She recalled her mother, harping on her after dinner to practice. Samantha loved to play - hated practice until, after years of mom's encouragement and discipline, the lessons became less regimented and the music more soothing. She had progressed much further than her mother's labored sight-reading, and Samantha remembered the warmth of her body on the shared wooden bench as she would play each of mom's requests while she softly sang along...  She missed her mother.  

Her hands retreated from the keys and she sat in vapid silence. 

Until a thought brushed her mind. 

Samantha stood up from the bench and lifted the leather seat. She grinned, triumphant, at the stack of sheet music awaiting her discovery.  Brahms, Bach, Gershwin ... A wealth of material, and hours upon hours of concentrated escape.

***

Over the next week, one might have mistaken a music teacher to live in Samantha's room. Music was a perpetual constant drifting down the hallway. Awkward and leaden at first, the pieces were fleshed out until - gradually - they began to flow in more resplendent strains. 

Samantha devoted herself wholly to her practice, taking her meals at the bench - her eyes flashing through notes that became progressively easier to read. By the sixth day, she'd relearned Moonlight Sonata, mastered two pieces by Mozart, and determined she decisively adored playing Chopin. 

Time no longer dripped in agonizing perpetuity. Samantha discovered a sacred intimacy - a solace - with her new companion. In supplication she sat before its keys, her own disciplinarian, until every slip and blunder was made perfect; and then emotion - anger, loneliness, despair - bled from her soul, spilling out in melodic consummation, alternately tender and turbulent. 

Samantha sat in the stillness after one such practice when she heard a soft scrape near her door. She turned to find a white envelope on the hardwood floor. She could only restrain herself a matter of seconds before lunging to retrieve the bait. 

The envelope was heavy, made of fine parchment. The flap was affixed with a blood-red seal, an ornate crest pressed into the cold, hardened wax. Impatiently, Samantha ripped it open; a single notecard with finely-inked lettering lay inside. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but she knew its hand. 

 Seven days prove an interminable distance from your scarlet temperament.

Grant me the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening. Dinner at 8 p.m.

-G

"The fucking Middle Ages..." Samantha muttered to herself, ignoring the swell of anxiety in her chest. 

He wanted her for dinner. She scanned her room: the plate of leftover crusts and crumbs on the piano, hundreds of books still untouched on the shelves; she hadn't even made her bed today. Samantha realized she would do anything for a break from this prison - even if it meant breaking bread with Franco.




Capo di Foia Ch. 04



She returned to her bench and resumed practice. The piece sounded notably more resolute this time. 

* * * 

Samantha dabbed her face with a cold washcloth; fresh from a hot shower, she couldn't stop sweating. She'd worked out for two-and-a-half hours this morning - her limbs felt rubbery and she knew she'd pay dearly for it tomorrow. 

She opened the door to her wardrobe, surveying its contents more carefully than she'd had cause to before. The pieces all fit well and were made of soft, luxurious fabrics. Most were separates - slacks, jeans and blouses. She shimmied into a knee-length, emerald dress but decided it looked more fitting for a cocktail party than dinner. 

Samantha frowned.  How the hell should she know what to wear?  She realized how stupid she'd feel if he were planning something more casual - calling in pizza, perhaps... But she knew him better than that. She decided to play it safe, opting for a scoop-neck cobalt blouse and gray pants.

No sooner had she stepped into the room to check the clock than she saw a large, sleek bag with tissue paper. She groaned.  What the hell is wrong with him?  she thought, but couldn't resist inspecting its contents. Samantha reached in, feeling folds of lace. Carefully she hoisted a long, black-lace gown with a plunging neckline and trumpet skirt. The delicate beading and details were expertly sewn. She shuddered to think of the cost. Okay, so not pizza. 

She hated the extravagance, the sheer lunacy of it. Why the fuck would she wear a ball gown to dinner, anyway... But curiosity was killing her; naturally she had to at least try it on. 

It took a concerted effort of sucking in and persistent tugging on the zipper before she got the garment to close. She dared to look in the mirror for the end-result. Her reflection was staggering. 

The dress was shockingly beautiful; it hugged every curve, elongating her body and propping her cleavage to full effect. And yet the delicate black lace rendered the look undeniably elegant. Samantha hardly recognized herself - she pictured herself a dark queen and felt suddenly powerful. She would meet Franco, but dinner would be on her terms.

It was five minutes before 8 that Samantha finished getting ready. She had spent the last hour preening, curling and perfecting her makeup - she was relieved to find her bathroom cabinets stocked with cosmetics (she recognized none of the brands and knew they must be expensive).

The dress was no easier getting on a second time, but her confidence was buoyed by a final check in the mirror. She looked stunning. 

Deciding to kill time and pacify her nerves, she sat at the piano, carefully smoothing out the train of her dress - self-consciously, she realized she looked a bit like a pageant queen. She began to play, but only her best pieces. She didn't want Franco walking in on her stumbling through any songs she hadn't polished.

She felt her heart skip when she heard a knock on the door, but continued playing. 

"Ms. Brier, you are a vision." Samantha's heart now fell at the sound of Jack's voice. She stopped playing.

"Thank you, Jack," she answered shyly, feeling foolish for the effort she'd made. "Are we going somewhere?"

"I'm here to escort you to the dining room," he said, canting his head in a polite bow and offering his arm. 

 So I'm not leaving the house.  Samantha sighed in consternation as she stood up from the bench. As she turned to accept the arm of her escort, she felt her heel catch in the folds of tulle and - in a half-skip tugged by the snare - felt herself plummet toward the floor. 

Reaching out to brace her fall, Samantha felt the hard clutch of Jack's embrace. He'd caught her - only inches from the ground. The man was good.

"Oh-my-god," Samantha winced, looking up at him.

"You alright?" he grunted, looking concerned. 


"I'm fine," she answered. "Just can't believe I biffed it." She suddenly felt eternally grateful it was Jack and not Franco who'd come for her. 

Awkwardly, Jack helped Sam to her feet, offering his arm for balance while she tried to dig the heel of her stiletto out from the thick mass of tulle. She swept a loose strand of hair away from her eyes. 

"You ready, Grace?" Jack asked.

Samantha's face flushed red. "Yeah... let's go."

Jack led her out of the room, and she took note of the guard outside. As they made their way down the hallway, Samantha carefully placed each step. She looked forward to sitting - these stilettos were a liability. 


"Please don't tell Franco," she muttered. "I'll kill you if you do."

"I won't breathe a word of it, Ms. Brier," he answered, and Samantha realized Jack would be nothing without his discretion. God only knew what secrets he kept. Did he know everything that transpired between her and Franco?

"Speaking of killing," he spoke again. "I'll be keeping a close eye on dinner tonight. So for both our sakes, I hope you're not feeling too stabby." Samantha tried to suppress a smile. 

She realized she had a new opportunity to memorize the route through Franco's mansion, and tried her best to concentrate while maintaining a conversation with Jack.  Another right and through the double doors.. 

"You play beautifully. How old were you when you started taking piano?"

"Ten."  Past the still-life with the gold frame..  "I did lessons for about four years. I never took it as seriously as I should have; I wish my mother had never let me quit."

"My father played trumpet," Jack said. "In fact, I still have the very instrument he played in high school-..." Samantha feigned a smile as she half-listened.

 A mural... She'd never seen this before. And now they were at a grand staircase - the route was new to her.  Jesus, how many staircases did Franco have?  She tightened her grip on Jack's arm as she negotiated the stairs. She saw two looming, ornate wooden doors down below and wondered how far she was from freedom. Surely this was the main foyer.

Jack was still talking. "... and every time I hear that song, I think of him." Jack said.

"I'll bet your father was a great man," Samantha said, sounding more sincere than she intended.

"Fathers tend to be that way," Jack smiled, lost briefly in the memory.

He spoke again. "Dinner will be this way, Ms. Brier."

Samantha was led through a set of doors, only to find a pair of bodyguards posted at a second set.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...

The doors creaked open to reveal a chandelier, and a round formal dining room bathed in candlelight - Franco stood waiting at the end of the table. The sight was unearthly, gothic. Summoning her courage, Samantha approached. 

It seemed much longer than a week since she'd seen him. He stood tall and imposingly handsome in a tailored black suit and tie; he'd cut his hair. His dark eyes, expressionless, appraised the length of her. 

She noticed the way his chin tilted ever so slightly when she walked in the room. Samantha knew that if ever she was capable of enslaving a man, it was tonight. But somewhere in Franco's cold stare she recognized a predator locking on its prey. 


She heard the doors close behind her.

It was a soft pattering - the sound of rain - which filled the room and called her attention to a panel of windows to her right. Transfixed, Samantha stepped toward them. The candlelight on the glass reflected a celestial display of glowing orbs.

She could see nothing outside in the darkness, only rain trickling down in streams. But the sight was unmistakable proof of life beyond these walls, and the reminder stirred her spirit. He did not speak, though Samantha felt Franco's searing stare. 

"I haven't seen the sky in 28 days," she said. The utterance exposed an unnerving degree of desperation. 

"I had intended for us to dine outside tonight; weather did not permit."


"No. That's not what I meant," she said, turning. 

"You've kept me prisoner," she continued. "I spend every day in isolation - in the same goddamn room, on the brink 0f insanity without even so much as a glimpse of the outside world." Franco was unmoved.

She continued, "... No hope of living my life or ever seeing the people I love. There are mornings I wake up wishing I'd  die than spend another day in that room." 

"You would have relegated me to the same fate," he spoke coldly.

Her flush of shame was quickly replaced by aggravation. Franco deserved a life behind bars - not the candlelit, blood-wealth luxury that imprisoned her now.

"Sit," he ordered. She hesitated briefly in rebellion, but the way he spoke the command Samantha dared not defy it. Thunder rumbled outside as if in warning.

Carefully she sat, and felt hands on her chair. Samantha looked back to find a grey-haired "maître-de" of sorts pushing her toward the table. 

Franco looked angry. Dinner was off to a rough start; she reached for her napkin and draped it over her lap. She'd have to redirect her approach if she wanted this night to be even moderately useful.

"Any preference of wine this evening, sir?" the man asked. 

Franco took a moment to contemplate the question. The candles around the room lent an unnerving glow to his dark visage.

"We'll take a bottle of  Clos des Papes" Franco said. His French was passable. Or his accent anyway.

"Of course, sir." The man left the room, leaving only the sound of drumming rain.

Franco spoke. "How is your piano progressing?"

The question surprised her. "Good. Very well, actually," she replied. Samantha hesitated. "I had wanted to thank you for that."

"It's nothing," Franco answered dismissively. 

A thought occurred. "How did you know I played?" 

He glowered at her, easing back into his element. "I know all sorts of things about you, Samantha." 

"Okay." She looked at him squarely. "Where did you learn I played piano when I was young?"

He glanced down. "We'll call it a lucky guess."

"Or you just tell me."

"You enjoy Rachmnaninov. That would speak to your classical training."

"You found my iPod," Samanth replied. "What else have you been rummaging through?"


"Chateauneuf-du-Pape, sir" the the maître-de reappeared. Franco straightened in his seat as the man poured a sampling of the vintage. As if he were in a five-star restaurant and not the fucking dining room... Samantha scanned the silver-rimmed china in front of her and made a conscientious effort not to linger too long on the knife. Or the forks... Franco sipped his requested vintage and gave a subtle nod of approval. The maître-de-dining-room poured the wine into crystal stemware before proceeding to Samantha. 

He poured a fraction of the amount Franco had received; this irked her until she realized he was waiting for her own endorsement. She reached for the glass and took a hurried sip; a velvet assault of bold tang hit her tongue. She tried to stifle her reaction; Franco was watching her. Samantha wasn't keen on wines but voiced her approval with a quick "Mmm" and a nod as he waited. 

Carefully she placed the glass back on the table. Her lipstick left a blotted kiss on the rim. The old man filled it with an overzealous serving and left the room. "You were saying?" she asked.

Franco regarded her patiently. "About searching my home?" she prodded. 

"You've served enough warrants," he said, reaching for his glass of wine, "to know how that works."

The thought of Franco's thugs rifling through her apartment - ransacking drawers, searching through her closet, examining keepsakes and letters, and leaving without a trace - incensed her.

"When did you do this?" she demanded. 

Franco took in her resolve with casual indifference. "Early." he answered, taking a sip of wine. 

"You did it because I was investigating you?"

"Partially," he answered.

She took in a deep breath. Her focus tonight was information, not retaliation.

"Fair enough," she said, reaching for her own glass. Bringing the rim to her mouth, she paused and set the glass back down. 

"Look. I'm here. Clearly - to whatever extent - you've won." She felt a pit in her stomach as she acknowledged the truth of the admission. "And since I'm not  going anywhere, it would help me to know why this is happening."

Franco sat leaning in his chair, gently swirling his glass of wine.  Pompous asshole.

The maître-de returned, two plates in hand. A rotund chestnut-haired woman followed and delivered her offerings to Samantha's place setting. Samantha's eyebrows rose as she took in the ornately crafted dish before her - a deconstructed salad of sorts. 

On the other plate, three prosciutto-wrapped morsels were artfully arranged and speared with tiny silver swords. Dinner at the Franco residence had panned out to be quite the swanky affair.

She waited for Franco to retrieve his fork. Judiciously, she selected one of the wrapped bites, pulling it off the pick with her teeth. 

 Oh dear god.  It was heaven. 

"The objectives of your organization stand in direct opposition to the success of my own. In that respect, Samantha, you've been very much on my radar." Franco spoke. Samantha stopped chewing then hurried to swallow her bite. 

"When did you learn about the investigation?" she said.

Franco paused, and then set down his fork.

"Samantha, you know I didn't ask you here to discuss business." The sweep of his glance across her décolletage was as unnerving as it was gratifying.

"Then you're fooling yourself," she replied, her confidence growing. "The only reason I'm in this house with you is because of what you call 'business'."

She waited to gauge his reaction before reaching for her glass to take a sip. The wine was no more palatable a second time.

Franco seemed wholly engrossed in the plate of food before him. "What would you like to know?" 

"How and when did you learn we were building a case on you?" she asked. 

"You mean  you were building a case on me." Franco made no attempt to hide the tedium in his reply. "On August 7th you were at the crime scene for Joe Santoro. You and your partner started making rounds; that's when I first knew of you."

August. That was nine months ago. Samantha glanced away, recalling the gruesome corpse in her mind.

"And what did Santoro do to deserve four shots to the face?" she asked. Evidence had implicated a Gambino affiliate but - no surprise - he disappeared that same week.

"You're suggesting I had some sort of involvement. I can assure you I did not." Franco told her. 

"So who was it?" 

"Not one of mine," he said simply. "It wasn't until subpoenas were served at two of my financial institutions that you had my attention," he continued. "My associates did the courtesy of tipping us off."

Samantha scowled.  Fantastic.  

"Your associates broke the law. The judge issued an ex parte order; nobody was supposed to disclose anything —" she stopped mid-sentence, wilting under Franco's patronizing expression.

"You've built quite an empire for yourself," she said finally, taking another sip of the bitter wine. 

"It was then I tasked someone to look into you. I didn't expect you'd be making headlines one week later."

Samantha breathed an audible sigh of indignation. She hated the press. The onslaught of headlines and the bureau's unrelenting examination and re-hashing in the weeks that followed. The cruel twist of fate she was even there that day. And fucking Paul - daring to suggest it was all too much for her to handle.

Franco seemed receptive to her discomfort. "I don't envy you that experience. Your agency made a fucking circus out of that shooting. They should have offered you better protection."

Samantha traced an infinity sign through the sauce on her plate. "Yeah, well. It's over now."

"What inspired you to become a fed?" he asked.

She looked up. Franco was taking a knife to his steak. 

"I always wanted to be a lawyer, and after my undergrad I got accepted to Cornell" she said. She saw no reaction to her narrative. "When I was a 3L I did my clerkship with the U.S. Attorney's office in Hartford, and I wasn't impressed."

"Why not?" 

Samantha looked away, remembering. "It just wasn't what I thought it would be. I worked so hard to get there, and I hated it. Just the culture, and the people - the AUSAs will work a 16-hour day, go home for 5 hours and come back and do it all again. My friends at the firms had it even worse. And living it, I decided it wasn't where I wanted to spend my life." 

She took another sip of wine. "I knew a few agents who came by our office... So I applied."

Franco seemed wholly unsatisfied. He sat still, waiting for more. 

"They had a cool job," she shrugged. "They were smarter than you'd expect." Her stomach growled at the steak in front of her; she decided to dig in. "I never dreamt I'd actually make it through the hiring process. None of my friends did, either."

"What kind of wine do you drink?" he asked, abruptly.

"I haven't finished mine."

"Clearly my selection left something to be desired. What do you drink, Samantha?" he asked.

She hesitated. "To be honest, I don't know wine very well. I do like Malbecs." A roommate had made the introduction back in college.

Franco gestured to the doorway. He must keep staff waiting just outside the room.  Were they hearing all of this? 

"And how was training?" he asked without a beat. 

"Challenging. Engaging," she said, cutting into her steak. Red juice seeped out onto the plate; the meat looked nearly raw in the center.

"Howso?"

"There's a lot to learn. In every way - physically, mentally, emotionally, they try to push you." She'd been conditioned to hate training. But in many ways, it was the best year of her life.

"I'm assuming most of your colleagues were male?"

"Yep," she said, taking a bite.

"And what was that like for you, Samantha?" his eyes scrutinized her. 

"Just fine," she lied, chewing.

Two glasses of Malbec later, conversation flowed more freely. As it did, Samantha read him with as much scrutiny as she gave any of her subjects. There was little variance from his baseline - it was difficult to elicit an emotional response - but this seemed more an exercise in control than overt sociopathy. 

She saw muted sadness in his eyes and noted the measured way he spoke when he talked about his older brother - half-brother - who'd died in a car crash when he was six. Cautiously, she inquired about the brother's father; Franco related an encounter with the man but left out the name or any descriptors. 

To build on the rapport, Samantha told him about her semester abroad in Paris and the fiasco of having three host-families; he'd even laughed - a shy burst of reluctant amusement. He went on to share his studies abroad in Italy and London at length. 

Samantha had asked about his benefactor but Franco would say only that he was on scholarship, and a family friend had paid the rest of the way. If the sponsor was mafia (he'd have to be), Samantha mulled a possible link with the Genoveses; top-tier connections coupled with the Malangone hold on Brooklyn in the 90s - it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

Franco shared reverential musings of his professors. When Samantha asked what it was like to live in Italy, he said that, like Paris, it was better experienced than described.

Any attempts to discuss his criminal background were reliably unsuccessful, and usually met with questions about her crim unit or their methodology which routinely put the topic of business at an impasse.

Samantha was on her fourth glass of wine. Her dress, already tight, felt unbearably constricting after so much food.

"How many subjects have you arrested?" he asked. Samantha sighed; he'd manipulated the conversation so many times. From all that she'd shared, she'd been able to glean so little. Of anything valuable, anyway...




Capo di Foia Ch. 04



"I don't know," she lied. She'd had far too much to drink. But the wine had eased the edge off her nerves and the lush boldness of this particular bottle - Achával-Ferrer, the label read - was nothing short of sublime.

She paused and smoothed back her hair. "Twenty three" she replied. "But those were all my own. There were more that I assisted on." Thunder crackled faintly in the distance.

"Do you remember them all?"

"I'm sure, if you asked me." She stared at her wine glass. "Some were harder than others."

Dessert was served and cleared as Samantha tried steering the conversation away from her casework. She explained the waning support for her division, with the budget increasingly directed toward targeting upstart terrorist cells across the city. (This probably wasn't news to him, and Franco likely exploited the trend to his full advantage.)

"Does that interest you?" Franco asked. "Counterterrorism?"

A bitter smile swept her face. "Why. Any Al-Qaeda cells in my room worth investigating?" 

She could feel the wine pulsing through her body as the room fell silent for the first time in over an hour. She nearly regretted the retort.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room with a ghostly smack of brilliant white. She looked at Franco as if to confirm that it happened. Thunder - the type that might instill the fear of God - boomed a second after and the windowpanes quivered in response. Judging by Franco's bemused expression her reaction wasn't nearly as dignified as she thought.

The rain outside grew louder - beating against the glass in a chorus of rage. The room, lit by waning candlelight, seemed much darker now.

"I love thunderstorms" Samantha looked out, unable to suppress her satisfaction. She felt mildly intoxicated and sorting through the haze, she wondered how the night would end. She tugged at the top of her dress; her neckline was dipping lower as the night wore on.

"Would you like to watch the storm?" he asked.

She regarded him. He looked polite, reserved - but somewhere in his eyes Samantha recognized the lure which vowed the darkest of intentions.

Samantha hesitated, teetering on the brink of prospect and safety, the thrill of expectation flooding her nerves and piquing every sense . She had a choice - she might return to her room and crawl into the safety of her own bed, or within a word - ignite everything. Franco's gaze consumed all rationality like kindling.

"I'd like that," she said finally.

In that moment, all was spoken.

* * * 

Franco stood and walked deliberately towards her. He extended his hand, but it was his expression that beckoned. 

Samantha took it, and rose to her feet - the touch of his fingers surged through her body like an electric current. His hand was large enough to envelope her own, but he held it carefully, the caress of his soft skin suspended in a measured display of maddening propriety.

She gripped his arm as he guided her up the stairs - less for support than to confirm the tangible veracity of what was happening. Through the smooth fabric of his suit she could feel the bulk and strength of his arm. Samantha paid no mind retracing her route through the house; in a blur of wood-paneled corridors and muted thunder she felt every step taking her closer and closer to the inevitable. What would she allow him to do? She felt so dizzy. 

Franco stopped at a large black door in a familiar hallway; was his room so close to hers? 

She heard the door unlatch. Ignoring his gaze, Samantha walked in. Thunder reverberated across the room.

The walls were painted a dark charcoal, the ceilings high. An ornately framed mirror looked down over the fireplace, reflecting - across the room - four perfectly positioned paintings with gleaming gold frames. 

From the vaulted ceilings, a modest chandelier hung suspended over the bed; she couldn't help surveying the crisp white sheets on the severe, Victorian-style frame. A bench upholstered in red leather caught her eye - it was the only splash of color in the large, foreboding room. Even had he not led her inside, she would have known it was Franco's. 

A streak of lightning, followed by a second, called her to the patio doors; there was a balcony outside. In a dark trance, Samantha walked toward them. The sky was vengeful, ferocious. Under the crackling sky, Samantha could see a vast expanse of trees - a dark valley stretched out below them. There would be no one for miles and miles. No escape.

She felt, rather than heard, him approach behind her.

Anticipating the touch of his fingertips, Samantha drew an intake of breath. She could feel him against her dress now, he edged closer until she could feel his broad chest pressed firmly against her back. He swept her hair away to reveal her neck as goose-bumps rushed up her arms. Samantha kept her eyes trained on the violent sky in front of her. His mouth now nuzzled dangerously close against her ear. 

"Samantha..." He breathed against her cheek. She waited in response. 

His fingertips swept across her collarbone and up her neck. There was a persistent, tantalizing patience in his touch as he traced along her skin, dipping lower and lower to her décolletage. Lightning flickered in her eyes as Samantha fought to resist him. His hand, strong, gripped her shoulder and now she felt his lips brush across her neck. Oh god... He was kissing - softly, fervently - down her neck, assuaging her resolve in a crippling attack on her senses.

His right hand brushed up her hip and up across the front of her gown, stopping at the top to trace where the fabric met the curve of her breasts - all the while caressing the length of her neck with the heat of his lips. A whimper escaped her. Helpless, Samantha, looked down. She could see his fingertips dancing over her chest, illuminated in spectral flashes of light. 

The hand on her shoulder retreated, clasping her cinched waist before moving up the side of her rib cage. Effortlessly, his fingers found the zipper. Samantha winced, biting her lip, as he slowly drew it down. 

She could feel the gown loosening around her, freeing her from its confines and exposing her flesh to the cool air of the room. He caressed her shoulders, before violently tugging the dress down, fully revealing her breasts. Franco's low growl rumbled against her ear. 

His hands cupped her, brushing back and forth, over and around her breasts, his fingertips teasing her hard nipples until she shivered at his touch. 

Samantha kept her eyes trained on the storm; the raging thunder scolded her trembling heart. With one hand he grabbed her hair, exposing her neck and holding her firmly in place. He feasted on her neck, the passion in his touch growing harder as he groped her breast. Samantha moaned, paralyzed with desire. She felt his hands gathering her skirt, hungrily inching the gown up to reveal her legs. His fingertips grazed the bare curve of her upper thigh.  NO. 

Abruptly she spun to face him, the skirt of her dress dropping back to the floor. She pushed away but Franco grabbed her wrists. His gaze swallowed her whole as thunder echoed around them. 

"Kiss me," he asked her. 

Samantha tilted her head back; the gesture was meant in defiance but Franco reached for her chin, held her in place, brushing his lips against her own. Her lips trembled, feeling the heat of his breath. 

Without warning, he took her violently, and Samantha's body throbbed with need as she capitulated to the passionate kiss. He crushed her body against his -his warm, soft lips enticing her surrender as his expert tongue pleasured, probed and bathed her mouth in certain promise of what was to come. Each kiss grew more desperate than the last, and she could feel him hard now, pressed against the folds of her dress. 

And then he stopped, and pulled away. His eyes never left her as he removed his jacket. He loosened the tie around his neck, deliberately, and removed it. The sight was excruciating. Her eyes pleaded with him as he stepped closer. 

He stood still against her, she was grateful she faced only his chest. Gingerly, she touched the collar of his shirt. She wondered if he would be as susceptible to her, and resolved to reach up to kiss just above his collarbone. She exhaled, breathing, taking in the musk and the smoothness of his skin. She felt him sigh as a brazen force within pushed her to suck and lick his neck. 

She could feel his hands now cupping her ass, grinding her against him.  More.  Feverishly, her hands worked to undo the buttons of his shirt; she saw what looked like fury in his eyes as watched her. His chest was exposed, and her fingers brushed the sculpted muscles before her, longing to be naked, pressed against them. 

"Samantha. Now," he urged, swooping her off the ground and into his arms. Not four steps to the bed, and she was tossed onto the mattress like a rag doll, her bare chest panting as she took in the towering figure before her. Lightning flickered as Franco ripped off his belt, and unzipped his pants. A primal surge of need washed over her. 

Standing over her, his eyes burning with lust, she watched him free his cock.  God , he was huge. Involuntarily, Samantha squirmed underneath her dress. Her eyes widened in trepidation. She wanted this. 

He crawled up over her; she could feel his heavy, hanging cock drag across her body over her gown. He was completely naked, except for the white shirt that hung loosely from his chiseled arms. His chest heaving, he cupped her cheek, staring intently over her.

"Ask me." He said. 

Her brow furrowed. "Ask what?" she said, her heart pounding in her chest. With one knee he parted her legs before grinding once into her; his bulging cock was unyielding to her hesitation. She realized her panties were pooling. 

"Ask me," he growled. 

Samantha looked away from his scorching gaze, raising her hips and circling them against him, so desperate was her urgency. He gripped her chin, harder now, forcing her gaze toward his own. His expression looked feral.


"Ask. Me." He demanded. 

Samantha reached up to pull him toward her for a kiss. He straddled her now - with both hands, held her down. His grip made her wince. 

"Samantha," he said through gritted teeth. "Tell me what you want me to do ."

Samantha shook her head, her expression pleading. 

She could not.

Franco growled and pinned her hands above her head with one hand, reaching to bundle the folds of her gown above her thighs with the other. His expression was cold, ruthless. She wouldn't have a choice. The reality of his intent sobered her senses.

"Please no," she whimpered as he released her hands to remove her underwear. Desperately, she fought to cover herself. But he was already poised over her, his hand guiding his thick shaft against her opening. As if in mockery, Franco swirled the smooth tip of his bulging cock in her slippery juices. She was so wet. He watched her now, anticipating her reaction as he guided his dripping wet cock over her clit. Samantha squirmed and tried edging away, but he grabbed her hip and held her fast. 

"You won't deny me, Samantha" he whispered harshly, leaning over her. "Will you."


With that, he plunged into her - Samantha cried out, feeling his thickness engulf her. Unmoved, he eased out only enough to force himself deeper; Samantha's wetness let him in, even as she braced herself to accommodate him. Franco stilled only a moment to collect himself. 

"Fucking hell, Samantha..." he groaned. 

Samantha could only register his size - she opened her mouth to beg him to stop, just as he drove into her again. She moaned. The fullness sated and somehow provoked her most carnal need. 

"Yes..." she relinquished her fight, hissing under her breath

Franco began to move, driving into her, circling his hips over hers. And then he stopped. 

Samantha opened her eyes and mouth to protest, felt his hands on her bare thighs, and now his tongue began to bathe her pussy in its wetness. She stiffened. In the darkness her hands tried to push him away before her fingertips brushed through his hair, struggling for a grip. Her thighs began to quiver. Insistently, urgently he licked her clit, coaxing an ever-growing pull towards weightlessness. She could hear him lapping, groaning as he tongued over her in broad, swirling strokes. Distantly, she realized the storm was passing on. She thought of him pushing into her. 

His knuckles brushed the tender spot underneath her pussy as he licked. The pull was too strong, she felt herself ready to burst. Samantha jolted, a throaty cry of ecstasy escaped her. And then he sucked, drawing every wave up with his mouth, amplifying the intensity of unfathomable pleasure. She forgot to breathe. "Sweet Jesus  she panted as the delirium abated. "Oh my god." Still, Franco licked until she pushed at him to stop. 

As the elation receded, she felt a surge of emotion swell through her - an onslaught of rapture and fear and shame. She struggled to fight back tears but was powerless against it. She burst into heaving sobs. In an instant, she was wrapped in Franco's arms. He held her in his embrace, his hands smoothing her hair as he hushed and kissed her forehead. She wanted to hide from everything. She buried herself in his chest, crying until the swell of his breathing lulled her to sleep.