Challenge Submission You didn't see that coming, eh?

[Nico]

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

Spoiler: Trigger warnings

Contains mention of sex, drugs, abuse, strong language, weapons, blood, trauma and murder.
Please read at your own discretion.

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"Voglio che sparisca. Sai cosa devi fare, ragazzo."

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It had not taken him all that long to have the target on the hook. A week at best, but it wasn't difficult to find out where that one hung out. With a little bit of intel from his contacts on the streets, it was soon clear where Mr Wentworth enjoyed spending his evenings. Flatiron Room or SoHo Cigar Lounge. A lot of the city's so-called Elite frequented those places. It took Angelo all of five minutes to have the man's attention and five more to have the old sack 'invite' him for a drink in a more intimate setting. After all, the man must have had a long day and the young Italian knew how to wrap them around his little finger. They were easy targets when they were frustrated from a long day. Whispered promises of relaxation and a good time usually did the trick.

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"Don't take too long, pretty boy. I'm not done with you.."

'Yeah, yeah you old sack of shit. Gonna take a while for ya to get it up again anyway. Chill, for fucks sake.'

"Just gonna get us a new bottle, signore." one of those slow smirks and a teasing wink accompanied almost whispered words while he stood from the bed. Slowly, of course, fluid and smooth, despite the ache. His voice bore that delightfully raw flavour. No miracle after half an hour of deepthroating. Whoever claimed that his job was easy, asked for a bullet. The black leather belt was still around his neck. Fuck. He took a moment to slip back into the black dress pants, slowly pulling them back over his ass, leaving them unzipped, though. Why bother?

Mr Wenthworth was still moaning and panting on the king-sized, Park Avenue Penthouse bed while Angelo meandered out of the bedroom and across the expansive salon, toward one of the hallways. 'Try to not fuckin' die on me, yeah? I ain't done with ya.' What was that one doing again? Ah yes, something with Wall Street and a whole lot of money. Not that it really made a difference to the young Italian what they were doing to hoard more dollars, mind you. A dick was a dick and it just didn't make a difference if someone was a banker or whatever when they were riding his ass. Or trying to. Emphasis on trying. If those men had decent skills in the bedroom -or some balls in most cases- they wouldn't need to spend their money on paid companions.

This one, however, was as far from being a decent human being as the earth was away from the next black hole. The young Italian was certainly used to sadists, narcissists and sick in-the-closet-assholes with issues but this one made him want to choke him. Slowly. 'That's what ya dig, don't ya?' But if you always expect the worst of people, little could surprise you anymore. Or disgust you. Not even assholes getting off on murdering boys they lured in with the promise of making some money with movies. 'Whatever would your wife say to that? Or your bambini, eh?' It was just a job, nothing more, nothing less. Mr Wentworth was a piece of trash, that whole Stock Exchange business was merely a cover-up for his other ventures. He and his 'friends'. A veritable swine for sure. Monster? Yeah, some people might call him that but it wasn't important in the end. The likes of his might as well get murdered in prison by some inmates. Even that sort had some kind of ethics.

As it was, the man made the mistake and pissed into the boss' cornflakes. Trying to run some trafficking without La Padrona's permission was stupid, to say the least. But some Americani were so ignorant and felt so superior, thinking they could do whatever they wanted. Big mistake, that. They all had no damn clue about honour. This one here was due. Not because he was a perverted piece of shit - but because no one got into La Padrona's face and was allowed to keep breathing. Fuck, Angelo knew some of the boys that vanished for good. Didn't take a genius to figure out what happened to them. 'Movies'. Yeah, right. Fuck that sick shit. He was in this shit business for too long to not know what that was about.

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Leaving the salon behind, the young Italian meandered down the hallway before he pressed the button near the door, to let the concierge down in the lobby know they needed some more Champagne. Afterwards, however, he snatched his phone from his coat and retreated into the bathroom. The client will need some more minutes to catch his breath anyway. Enough time.

Raccolta dei rifiuti tra circa un'ora, padrona.

After he sent the message off, he set the phone down on the counter by the sink before he inspected the damage done to his neck in the mirror. Shit, leather belts always left nasty bruises, he knew that much. Black and blue, with a dash of dark red. That damn buckle sure as hell left a cut. Expected, however. It had taken him all of two minutes to assess that one. He turned the cold water on and splashed some water on his face, both hands on the edge of the counter afterwards.

Inhale. Exhale.

He knew that he needed to keep his wits together or he won't get out of this alive. Fucking up wasn't in the cards, an order was an order and this particular one came from the one who had the say in this city. He wasn't afraid, however. Fuck, no. Pissed off was more like it. It was all fair game if someone paid for some rough play, but what that stronzo was doing was playing with fire. If too many bodies turned up, it quickly had the rats too eager and nosy and La Padrona was furious enough as it was. If he'd fuck this here up and got out alive, he would be the one who would have to explain this shit here to her and to her husband as well. Angelo knew that his sort always was the one who had to pay for mistakes. If you want to keep your sorry ass alive, you keep your damn trap shut, do as told and don't question orders.

Bravo ragazzo.

The soft, buzzing sound on the marble surface startled him and pulled him right back to reality. The young Italian opened his eyes and took a deep breath, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Just a bit of Candy to take the edge off and keep him from crashing until this job was done with.

"They think you are not fierce when you kneel. Not knowing that is where to gut a man best."

A slow smile crept over his lips when he remembered those words, whispered into his ear once. It was so true of course. Give a man something to lust after and he wouldn't think of anything else, least of all assuming they were in danger. Give them the illusion of being in charge and they will underestimate their company. The men who purchased him thought of him as nothing but a toy, a willing slave for their desires. Not once they would think of him as a danger. As much as they paid, for those people, he was still a whore and it was so easy to underestimate a piece of skin - even an expensive one. That was this one's second mistake.

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'Let's get this shit done.'

Eventually, he pushed away from the counter. One last look in the mirror before he left the bathroom and made his way back to the salon. His phone was left behind, he only snatched something else from his coat in passing. Slipped into a back pocket of his slacks while he sauntered back to join his client.

Perhaps he ought to be concerned that he didn't feel mercy for that man, that he didn't think what was about to happen to him was wrong. Shouldn't he feel pity? Or remorse? Anything, for fucks sake? But wait - he knew exactly why he didn't give a fuck and a half about that one. Not only because he got into his owner's face. Not only because it would be one sick bastard less wasting oxygen. But because it would be his ass on the line if he fucked this up. Not gonna happen. He wasn't eager to kick the bucket because of some freak with too much money on their hands. This was about survival. End of story.

The moment he returned to the salon, Mr Wentworth was pouring Champagne into the glasses. The young Italian quickly assessed the situation. His fucking life could depend on it.

Glass table - Check.Top
The Penthouse door locked. - Check.
Mw Wentworth in nothing but a bathrobe. No weapons. - Check.

He turned his head to leer at his companion for the night, apparently not quite satisfied, yet. Angelo knew those looks. Of course, the man's eyes lingered on those bruises on the young Italian's neck while he licked his lips. Like a hungry wolf ready to pounce on its prey.

"Ah, there you are. C'mere and be a good boy."

The man was graced with a slow, handsome smile while the young Italian approached him. It was still pouring outside. Weird how he noticed that just now. The mans not-so-subtle glance down at the floor didn't come as a surprise. Nothing in this business was surprising him anymore but he wasn't going to complain. It was perfect, in fact. Not that Angelo could blame the dude for wanting another round. For god's sake, those wealthy assholes didn't pay a fortune for sloppy blowjobs and half-assed service. Mr Wentworth sipped from his glass, expecting Angelo to be his good boy of course and do what he did best. Angelo knew that he had him right where he wanted to have that one. He could play that sort with ease.

After approaching he was, indeed, a good boy. "Si signore." They all worshipped it when he spoke in his native language. While French may be the language of love - Italian was the language of pure, unbridled passion. Combined with him being such a good, obedient plaything, their minds were right in the gutter. Perfect.

One might think it was difficult to remain focused while some old moneybag fucked his throat and he had to listen to their groans and grunts while calling him a dirty little cockslut. Angelo let the man do as he pleased, he felt the belt tighten around his neck at one point the man's fingers fist his hair with each thrust. The young Italian merely waited for the right moment. Just a little longer and he's gonna blow. Both hands on his back of course, neat and submissive. All this notwithstanding, Angelo had slipped a hand into a back pocket, his fingers coiling tightly around the switchblade. It had been a gift, its handle matched the colour of his eyes. Come l'oceano.

The groans and grunts intensified, the man's breath became more laboured with each thrust down his throat and it was in the moment the man came when the young Italian swiftly pulled his hand from the back pocket. Now or never. The sharp blade cut the flesh of the lower abdomen with remarkable ease and deadly precision, leaving a cut from one side to the other. Blood immediately splashed across the young Italian's hair and face, running down his bare torso and staining the tile floor in a sea of crimson. All this while he still had that poor excuse of a prick down his throat. What a climax, no? Mr Wentworth howled out in pain the moment the blade cut his flesh open, his fist tightened in the young man's hair, yanking his head away from his still throbbing prick. He was stumbling, desperately trying to cover the gash with both palms while blood kept running down his hands.

Angelo was lithe and fast, however. The moment he was yanked away, he was back on his feet and stabbed the man again in his stomach this time, grabbing the other man's hair with his free hand. "Signor Mazzarella sends his regards, you heap of shit." which had the man's eyes go wide in shock and realisation. It was too late, however. He was bleeding like a pig from the slash across his lower abdomen and the stab in his stomach. He was still howling, spewing vulgarities and groaning in pain when the young Italian shoved him forward before he slammed the man's head against the edge of the glass table.

Once. Twice. More cries of pain, more unintelligible babbling, more attempts to struggle. 'How does that feel, you sick piece of shit, huh?' It was personal at this point. More blood was splattering, coating the glass in crimson and he could swear that he heard some sickening crack after the third slam. The man's body was limp, just weak, pained moans remained when he yanked the man back by his hair. "Go to hell you rapist pig." he couldn't care less if the man still heard him but it would be the very last words that one would hear before the young Italian cut the man's throat with a swift move, letting the pig go afterwards, to bleed out on the glass table. He spat down at the man. The only thing he felt right now was that rush, tainted by disgust.

'What a damn mess.'

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The hot water from above provided a stark contrast to the cool tiles he was leaning against, just letting the water drizzle down on him, filling the shower cabin with steam. Washing away the blood on his face and in his hair, slowly spiralling down the drain. It was almost soothing to watch it disappear. Like some fucked up kind of purging. And yet - fuck, he was still riding the adrenaline high, pumping through his veins like some good Cocaine. Shit, this here was almost better.

'Serves ya right, ya scumbag. Better you than me.'

And yet, it was so fucked up and it messed with his mind for a moment. The moment when he realised that he still tasted that idiot's load. It mingled with the blood that ran down his face from his hair, trickling down his face. Such a goddamn rush! His heart was pounding in his chest. It almost felt like when he was riding in an elevator - just that the walls didn't seem to close in on him. No urge to scream, no cold sweat and he didn't feel as if he was suffocating.

'That asshole didn't deserve anything else.'

The human mind was unpredictable, however. Was he a monster now, too? Just like that freak he just watched bleed to death on the expensive Italian tiles outside? Or was it pure self-preservation? Him or he. Keep breathing or catch a damn bullet. On one side, he was still riding the adrenaline high and on the other side, there was this subtle sense of panic slowly creeping up his spine. What if? Questions. Assumptions. Like the nightmares and flashbacks that haunted him every so often.

'Just. Keep. Breathing. You'll survive. You always do.'

The sudden pounding against the bathroom door was what stopped it all. It startled him and he almost felt as if he was jumping out of his skin - but it was only the hot water still pouring down on him, removing each trace of what happened outside. The tiles against his back, the bathroom filled with steam. An all too familiar voice bellowed some -

"Vattene da qui, Lombardo. Garage, Fabio sta aspettando."

As much as he loathed the boss' little brother and his gang, it was good to hear a familiar voice. Fuck, he wasn't high enough to deal with this crap right now. He spat out and turned the water off, grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower. He never dropped his pants but at least the blood was washed away.

All he wanted was to get out of here, pop some damn pills and drink until he'd pass out. Just another memory he didn't care to have.