It was one of those balmy afternoons where the thick clouds, even though they might not deliver the rain they look like they bear, cast enough of a shadow over the land that it seems later than it is. It was only three in the afternoon but the usual bright late spring sky was dark. She looked out over the city, the half to the right in decay. In its present state it was hard to picture the glamour the area evoked in the 30s. Now it housed petty criminals, pimps and whores and a scene of gangsters trying to work their way up to the acceptance and service of Don Delizzio.
She had dark brown hair and fine features. Though men marvel at her face and figure, it’s when they get closer and fall under the spell of her seductive eyes that they fine her true beauty. She sipped a small glass of wine, the white powder mixed in enough though some grains remained undissolved.
She rolled the fishnets up her legs, leaving enough to the imagination below her red satin dress. Hair curved around the features of her face, ending in a little spiral around her crimson lips.
She stepped out onto the street, the sun well and truly disappeared from the scene now, the street lights glowing with a low hum. Her confident stride provoked some calls from the petty criminal youth hiding in the doorway of a burnt out and abandoned hotel. Years ago it counted the Swedish Royal family and Hollywood’s elite as regular guests. The top floor had been divided into two suites, named for their usual occupants, the Garbo suite and the Bergman suite. Now the hotel was home only to badly made porn films and bums looking for a place to hide from the incessant rain. The cinema across the road still ran but rather than the premieres it had seen in its peak, it now only screened the porn flicks made across the street.
A light brown car, stolen she thought, pulled up along side her as she turned down the wide boulevard. It was darker than the other streets, only the lamp at the end outside the boarded up whorehouse had survived a drunken shootout six months earlier. That same shoot out that had set her on this course when she swore vengeance. The bullet holes were still visible in the surrounding buildings and in the cigarette billboard above the burnt out cinema.
“It’s not safe out here,” a gruff voice said from inside the car.
She kept walking, her coat pulled tight around her. She could feel his greasy eyes working over her legs, up to her shapely thighs.
“Let me give you a lift,” the voice said, stubbing out a cigarette. “A nice girl like you could get hurt out here.”
“You couldn’t afford me,” she said without looking. A police car drove the other way down the boulevard, probably collecting their monthly bribe than actually patrolling the area.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” the voice said.
“Why don’t you try them,” she said looking across the street to the damned church with three girls standing on the steps.
“I have. Before,” the voice chuckled. “Anyway, it’s not me who’s asking. My boss, he’s an important man, he wants you to be safe.”
“Is that so,” she said, still not looking into the car or slowing her stride.
“I’ll take you somewhere nice, he’s waiting for you.”
She stopped and looked at the girls across the street. There were only two now, smoking and leaning against the door.”
“At the Ambassador Inn.”
She knew that the mere mention of the hotel was meant to inspire some giddiness for any girl walking the street. But she wasn’t just any girl. She could still feel some of the white powder in her mouth.
“He saw you earlier. He wants to meet you.”
“I could walk to the Ambassador from here.”
“Please yourself,” a brief glow lit the inside of the car as he lit another cigarette. “He just wants you to get there safe.”
She opened the back door of the car and slid onto the cool leather seat. The smell of cigarettes was strong.
“He’ll be very pleased to see you.”
When they arrived at the Ambassador, the voice in the front seat told her to walk through the doors and into the foyer where the concierge – a man named Leroy – would make sure she got to the right room.
The Ambassador tried to maintain the level of sophistication that the rest of the area had lost so long ago. It was well known that Don Delizzio owned the Ambassador and it was his son who had the other hotels torched, leaving it the only link to the past. The other sons were given other rackets to run, but the Don’s youngest son’s incompetence was well known. Having whores instead of starlets reclining in the bar on the faded red couches and mob men instead of producers and directors did nothing to help the place. There was an air of fraud in the whole place as the strong armed men tried to exude the sense of power and class of those who used to down scotch and martinis there.
A man in a suit approached her, a greasy smile spreading over his oily skin.
“Hello,” he said in a voice that made her skin crawl. “I’m Leroy. I believe you’re looking for room three twenty. It’s on the third floor.”
“Thank you,” she said, as she led her to the elevator. The doors couldn’t close fast enough. She touched up her lipstick, the red one, and put it back in her bag.
When the doors opened on level three, the top level, another greasy suit stood waiting for her. He patted her down, trying to say it was just normal when someone was here to see the Don’s son, but she knew his hands weren’t following normal procedure.
When she was lead through the doors to the suite overlooking the old harbour the Don’s son was wearing a satin robe.
“Thank you, Ramone,” he said, walking over to her and running is hand along her face “You’re truly more exquisite close up.”
She tried to hide her disgust. He was in his mid-30s, his greasy hair slicked back and too much cologne hanging around him in a mist.
“Champagne?”
She nodded, putting her bag on the sofa and looking around at the faded walls and furniture. There were photos of him with famous film stars and politicians but she was sure they were forgeries. The film stars, at least. The lighting was all wrong.
He handed her a flute of champagne, but pulled it away as she reached for it. “Take something off first.” She felt her skin crawl and reminded herself that she had been working to this moment for the last five months. The two drug runners had been practice for this moment. And there was still more work to do before she could rest.
She slid her coat off, leaving her in the short slim red dress. He kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her lip, tasting her berry lipstick then handed her the champagne. She smiled as she sipped from it, washing away the subtle taste of the white powder, the antidote to the poison in her lipstick.
“Shall we?” he said, motioning to the king sized bed on the other side of the suite. She let him lead her into the bedroom.
“I know what I like,” he smiled, looking her over and pushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders, “so you will do exactly what I say. I am used to having people do exactly as I say.”
She nodded and smiled at him then he threw her on the bed. His hands felt up her thighs and he held her hands above her head, rough. She felt his grip loosen, saw his eyes widen as he wondered why he couldn’t control his muscles.
She rolled over on top of him. “It’s a drug to paralyse you,” she said. “That’s why you can’t feel your fingers anymore.”
She pulled her dress back up.
“You won’t feel your fingers ever again,” she whispered touching his fingertips to show him. “And then your legs. Eventually, you’ll lose control of your lungs.” She leant closer. “That’s when you’ll suffocate. And maybe then you’ll be thinking about all those people you watched die. Those you had murdered for no reason. Just because you’re the useless son of the Don. Or because they wouldn’t sleep with you.”
She hit him hard on the face. “You can still feel your face, can’t you?”
She hit him again.
“So while you struggle to breathe maybe you’ll realise you won’t be able to warn your father or your other brothers that I’m coming for them too.”
His eyes darted around, realising the feeling of panic working through him, a strange sensation. One he usually saw in others.
“His name was Fred,” she whispered. “Fred.”
They would be the last words he would ever hear. She struck a match and threw it on the curtains on the far side of the room.
She left him there on the bed, trying to breathe, as she snuck out the south window and climbed down the fire escape. Her heart beat returned to normal after she’d crossed the street and watched the smoke rising from the red glow from the park by the riverside.
By the time she’d returned to the house overlooking the city, thick plumes of smoke were covering the condemned quarter. She crossed off the Don’s son from the list. Two more sons and then the Don remained.