Femme Fatale
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Dirigible on 12-12-2010, 21:15:28</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Femme Fatale</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dirigible</strong> on <strong>12-12-2010, 21:15:28</strong>
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				(http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5162/5255287074_3b4b98992b.jpg)<br><br>Michaelangelo Sanguinetti (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=45831.msg4003713#msg4003713) stood like a fallen version of his namesake, silhouetted against the half-moon and blue velvet sky. A cigarette perched between his fingers, the tip smouldering balefully as he leaned against the railings of the Felice mansion's roof-top observation walk. He might as well have been a statue for all that he moved and for the classical masculinity of his proportions, though few statues wore immaculate pinstripe suits tailored to the hard lines of their bodies.<br><br>The house was not huge; no bigger than, say, twenty or thirty of the little hovels Angelo had grown up in. Ivy clambered up the front, winding around marble pillars smuggled from a ruin in Naples. Tonight the windows sparkled, the steps were scrubbed and even the roof had been swept clean; Don Celso wanted to make a favourable impression, and had commanded his wife and staff to make everything <em>perfecto</em>. The mansion had been built by the founder of Port Dante's stock exchange, one of those men for whom the words 'tycoon' and 'magnate' had been invented. That appealed to Celso's vanity, and he had bought the place up for a lavish sum when the owner passed away. Celso saw himself as a kindred spirit to that tycoon... not only a man who made money, but who invented the apparatuses of money. To everyone else, though, he was just a bootlegger with more luck and viper cunning than brains or guts.<br><br>Cars rolled individually up the winding driveway from the wrought-iron gates. Expensive cars; that was something the capos of Port Dante's criminal families had in common, a love of fine machinery. A silver Rolls-Royce roadster followed a cobalt Chrysler limousine, their lights flashing as they arced around the oval garden before the mansion. The Grimmaldis; the Avanzo Boys; the Malabrancas; the Volonte Mob. It seemed every family in the city with a love of pasta and Chianti was there, save the <em>(hack; spit)</em> Giovannis. He watched as Don Grimmaldi, a squat man in a white suit with a face like a frog got out of his car, followed closely by a stiffly lumbering giant of a man with grey skin and a mournful, unblinking stare. Grimmaldi was tight with the necromantic labour unions, and his bodyguard made sure everyone knew it.<br><br>Angelo finally stirred, shaking his head. This 'summit' was a bad idea. While the families were sharing dinner and venom under Celso's sweaty-palmed largesse, the Irish, the Jews, the Russians, the Jazz gangs and even the unincorporated Italian <em>brigantes</em> would be wondering why everything was so quiet, and taking the opportunity to make a move. What did the don hope to achieve? He had no plan, beyond begging the capos for more time. He was just going to make himself look weak, and ensure the knife, when it came, would strike all the deeper. But then again, if Celso was in the habit of listening to Angelo, they wouldn't be in this mess.<br><br>The Felice Syndicate controlled the black-market booze trade in Port Dante. That was a given. Celso had all the moonshiners, the farmers, the chemists and the smugglers locked into tight arrangements. For all his glaring flaws, he could negotiate a shrewd bargain. Not a drop of liquor came into the city without him getting a cut, and along with it came alchemical reagents and spell components, the nasty, illegal things needed by black magicians. That many occultists owning yo a favour carried a lot of weight in the underworld, figuratively and literally. Celso sold the booze to the other families; they ran the speakeasies, the gin joints, the clubs, and in return gave him a taste of the protection rackets, numbers games, guns, junk and girl.<br><br>It all worked out pretty nicely... until the G-men came down like a ton of bricks on the supply lines, trucks, warehouses and suppliers. People in Port Dante were getting thirsty, the capos were getting testy, and Celso looked like more a fool than ever.<br><br>Angelo shrugged, settling his jacket around his broad shoulders and stubbed his cigarette out on the marble railings. Bad idea or not, they were here now... time to see what his employer needed doing. The tall man turned and strolled with a fighter's footwork back towards the door and downstairs.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Femme Fatale</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>DobbyDevotchka</strong> on <strong>16-12-2010, 02:04:28</strong>
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				&nbsp; Evelyn Felice &nbsp;(http://www.fwallpapers.net/pics/girls/kelly_brook/kelly_brook_032.jpg), familiarized by her 'peers' as Evee [ ee - vee ], glowered a penetrating stare from the rim of her tumbler as she brought it up to her mouth to sip at the aromatic liquor, a 50 year old scotch that came from some ambiguous and remote village hidden in the rolling hills of Eire.&nbsp; Her blood, thinned by the 3rd cap of the evening, burned hot, the fever pitch of her temper rising as she watched her husband Celso pace the floor in front of her.&nbsp; The interior of their master bedroom was nothing short of opulent; anything worth doing was worth over doing.&nbsp; Aged mahogany furniture inlayed with ivory and gold embellishments, most of which Evee hardly regarded as necessary.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; The reason both husband and wife were standing-off was because Evee couldn't keep her damn fingers out of the pot.&nbsp; She had to stir that shit pot, try to interfere with Celso's own well bred plans.&nbsp; HE gave the orders, his people delivered.&nbsp; This maintained order of things&nbsp; also applied to the way he handled his wife; she would be smart to keep her damn nose out of his business, let the men be men.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; He was so helplessly deluded, naive to the fact that all of the Capo's, all his sworn mens loyalties were fading.&nbsp; That was the nature of this business, was it not? His own wife, perhaps the most mutinous of all,&nbsp; toe'd the line that kept her from doing something drastic, and this disagreement was well on its way to pushing her over that imaginary line she had drawn.<br><br>&nbsp; Evee didn't like that Celso dabbled in the dark magics.&nbsp; Alcohol was his primary staple, he did -that- well, so why did he want to complicate his life with things he didnt understand?&nbsp; Why not pass those responsibilities over to someone more akin to the supernatural, like Don Grimmaldi with his walking dead imposter of a bodyguard. Successfully convincing Celso of this would take a lot more tact than Evee was willing to spare him,&nbsp; and time was running thin, the summit was about to begin. <br><strong><br>&nbsp; "You are a fool, Celso.&nbsp; And I hope you find out the hard way, that what you're doing is ludicrous.&nbsp; You risk everything!"&nbsp; </strong>Her words hurled, like weighty stones of judgment.&nbsp; Celso returned her warning with a look so vile and resentful, one would question that they shared a common bond in matrimony.&nbsp; He raised a hand, his porky digits grasping at an invisible throat, clenching with the intensity to render his eyes a frightening bulge.&nbsp; The message behind his gesture was clear, but the threat fell upon desensitized conscious.&nbsp; Evee was no longer staunched by his empty confrontations. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp;"You will mind me in my home, woman.&nbsp; Tend to our guests before I tend to your <em>face</em>..."&nbsp; He growled, in finality, daring her for that one second before swiftly turning his back to leave the bedroom.&nbsp; In a classic expression of defiance, Evee whipped the now empty tumbler at the door, and it glanced the elegant carved wood trim, exploding into an array of sharp jagged pieces that now littered the threshold of their room.&nbsp; 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Femme Fatale</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dirigible</strong> on <strong>01-01-2011, 00:57:34</strong>
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				Prowling down the steps from the balcony door, Michael passed between recessed gaslights, their warm, oily smell preparing him for the heat and grease of the six family meeting. The house creaked and groaned, as if preparing for the guests and their gluttonous gourmand appetites, or perhaps steeling itself against the innumerable attempts at backstabbing that would take place that night. The man closed his eyes briefly as he stepped out into the bedroom-wing corridor, hoping against hope that the <em>capos</em> would remain at least a little civil, so that his role as chief of security for the event wouldn't necessitate turfing a potential future employer out the door.<br><br>Michael cocked his head as he heard the velvet whiplash of Donna Evelyn Felice's voice striking in the master bedroom. He smirked a little, admiring both the intoxicating allure of her tone and her clear grasp of the situation. The man growled something guttural in reply, and then the floorboards were shifting under his weight. Michael swung forwards, so that he appeared by Celso's side as soon as the man stepped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.<br><br>“They are arriving, Don Felice,” Michael said smoothly. “The Grimmaldis and the Avanzo Boys just pulled up, the rest not far behind.” Once, he had enjoyed making his employer jump with these surprise approaches, but now? It was just sad watching the old man jump out of his expensive suit.<br><br>“<em>Jesu, Maria,</em> Mikey,” the don wheezed. His bodyguard/gun-for-hire/consigliere only gave the slightest twitch of one cheek muscle to demonstrate his dislike for that nickname; Celso either didn't notice, or ignored it, using the diminutive to express an iota of power over the bigger man. “All right, all right... Heh, at least they're punctual. Anyone shows up 'fashionably late', I'mma gonna let them go dry. Let's go meet them at the door.” He was about to add more, when the sound of exploding crystal came through the door. Celso's round face dropped into a scowl, and he spun and marched off towards the sweeping double stairs that lead to the atrium, gesturing sharply for Michael to follow him.<br><br>“<em>Una momento,</em> he said to the mob boss, glancing after him then at the door. Michael reached out and pushed it open, smiling wryly as he heard the broken glass tinkle. He turned his cool grey eyes to the don's wife, and efficiently shrugged his dress jacket off. He bowed dramatically, sweeping the garment out and the muscles of his back flexing as he laid it out like a cloak over the gleaming shards, then extending his hand to Evelyn to help her balance as she crossed it. <br><br>“Wouldn't want you to slip or cut those dainty little feet,” he smirked.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Femme Fatale</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>DobbyDevotchka</strong> on <strong>03-01-2011, 22:31:07</strong>
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				&nbsp;Evee had just finished repositioning the bust line of her white satin dress as Michael smoothly opened the door, the fitting fabric hugging all of her ess curves, leaving no room for speculation that she had the proportions to fill out a provocative ensemble.&nbsp; Her baleful gaze flicked toward the creak of the opening door, half expecting to see Celso lurch after her with teeth bared.&nbsp; The taught posture of her neck loosened when she noted Michael's presence,&nbsp; the tight line that her lips maintained quirked almost imperceptibly at the corners.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp;<strong>"Angelo...&nbsp; Your chivalry saves the day again."</strong>&nbsp; Her voice still held the remnants of poison that had been directed at Celso, but her thoughts on Michael were far and above different than the thoughts she harbored for her husband.&nbsp; This man had been born with assets, a natural talent at maintaining an order of things, at being able to take the reigns of authority and drive his followers in the right direction.&nbsp; But of course, the much deserved were never bestowed that kind of recognition.<br><strong>"Careful, you don't want to be seen sympathizing with 'the devil'... as much as she appreciates it."</strong> <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp;Smoothly, she reached for his outstretched hand and gripped softly as she tread over the covered glass shards with the timed precision of a seasoned fire-walker.&nbsp; She thought that she would replace his suit jacket the day after&nbsp; the summit was wrapped up, to repay him for his thoughtful actions.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>&nbsp;It was time for her to do what she did best.&nbsp; Act the perfect, immaculate wife of Don Celso Felice; put on the airs that the Felice mansion was sound, and that all business was running smoothly.&nbsp; She would tend to the matters that a hostess was responsible for, beverage, food and entertainment.&nbsp; Never had she been permitted to sit in on the meetings that transpired between the capos, despite the apparent need she had to express her own concerns. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Femme Fatale</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dirigible</strong> on <strong>11-02-2011, 08:47:38</strong>
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				“They <em>do</em> say the devil can assume pleasing form...” Michael murmured slyly, making only the slightest token gesture to keeping his eyes gentlemanly and away from her exquisite femininity. She called him <em>Angelo</em>, as few save his lovers did, and the diminutive held a sweet promise on her lips. His thumb brushed the back of her gloved hand as she helped her cross the broken glass, and held it a lingering moment longer than necessary once she was across and stable in the corridor. “<em>Donna,</em>” he bowed over her hand, lifting it almost, but not quite to his lips in a respectful yet sinfully insubordinate kiss. Straightening, he turned and made his way to the stairs, having his own part to play in the drama unfolding below.<br><br>That part was implicit threat. A reminder to the other capos that Felice's stranglehold on the smuggling rackets had raked in enough cash to buy him capable muscle, and the recent troubles hadn't changed that – not entirely, at least. Michael padded past the thugs in badly-fitted suits that waited outside the dining hall in a state of concealed-carry détente, the tension in the air knotting a little at his passage. He ignored it, and pushed open the double doors, letting the servants slide them closed behind him as he stepped in, surveying the assembled kings of the underworld chessboard and their various bodyguards and lieutenants.<br><br>“Ahh, Mikey,” Celso grunted, trying to hide his relief. The rings on his fat fingers rattled against the wide bowl of his brandy glass as he steadied his hand and raised the other to beckon the fighter over to his fine leather wingback chair. “Here's my man,” he grinned at the other dons as Michael swallowed his annoyance and moved to take the don's back. Michael's measuring gaze flicked over the others; Grimmaldi's grey-faced undead guardian; the rambunctious Avanzo Boys, all five of them handy enough with a knife and a gun to need no protection; Malabranca's man, a grinning, moustachioed Sicilian who swaggered with the weight of knives on his hips; and Volante's <em>consigliere</em>, a silver-haired man who looked old enough to have fought with Giuseppe Garabaldi in the wars of reunification.<br><br>Volante himself, corpulent as an opera singer stretched in his own chair, grinning mirthlessly. “Where's that wife of yours with my drink, Don Felice? If it's this dry in your own home, the G-men must be choking your suppliers pretty hard...”
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