Page 22 of Blood and Fire

With each line, her tension tightened. She shook so violently, he was sure she would fall, or at least knock over the table. But she held together, stayed on her feet. On the final line, the wave crested. She threw her head back, shrieking as the climax wrenched through her.

Zoe swayed, staying upright by some miracle. She was flushed, damp with sweat. She sobbed silently. “I can’t help it,” she quavered.

He withdrew his hand from her body and wiped it with the snow white linen dinner napkin. “You’ll learn,” he assured her.

He considered what to do with her next, stroking his penis. He was erect, but it had been a long day. Intercourse was so strenuous.

Fellatio was a pleasant alternative. He tugged her until she sank to her knees. Buried his hands in her hair as she worked on the opening of his trousers. He’d just settled back into the experience and was admiring the inspiring spectacle of Zoe’s full lips fastened around his penis when a knock sounded on the door. They froze, astonished.

Zoe’s eyes went wide, at this unheard of presumption.

“Who is it?” he snarled.

“Sir, it’s Julian.” The boy’s voice was tight with apology. “Please excuse me, sir, but Michael Ranieri is here to see you.”

Oh, for God’s sake. A hiss of annoyance escaped from between his teeth. He gestured for Zoe to get up, and tucked himself back into his trousers with a peevish glance at the clock. One twenty-seven AM, what an ungodly time to show up. But Michael Ranieri was the one person on earth who could demand to be seen by King. Let alone at this hour.

Dealing with this thick-headed goon grew ever more intolerable. It bothered him, that Michael Ranieri fancied himself King’s equal.

Their fortunes had been linked since they’d met in college. Neil King’s brilliance at cook up recreational drugs and Michael Ranieri’s huge appetite for them had guaranteed a long and profitable association. King bankrolled his graduate studies with the business that Michael provided, and with King’s help, Michael Ranieri had slowly transformed his family’s traditional mafioso prostitution and extortion rackets, and evolved the family business into something new. Michael was now acting head of the Ranieri family, marketing much sought-after limited edition designer drugs that King created exclusively for him.

The net of avid users was ever expanding. As were the profits.

Even so, King always knew that he was destined for more than fueling the ego fantasies of the very rich. His dream was not merely to synthesize drugs that make people feel perfect. No, that fell far short.

He wanted to synthesize true perfection. In a human being. To actually improve on the normal human blueprint, with all its inherent flaws. A human was a haphazard rough draft. It needed molding. Careful, mindful sculpting, with an eye towards towering profit.

His project had grown and flowered into something extraordinary over the years. Zoe was a shining example. Arousal made her literally glow in the dark. His body hummed with frustrated sexual desire.

His operatives now made more money than Michael Ranieri ever dreamed of out in the field, discreetly shaping the history of the world while earning billions in fees. And every last cent belonged to King.

But this was none of Michael’s business. The man knew of King’s project, in a vague way, but wasn’t bright enough to grasp the true scope of King’s work. So why burden him with it?

Zoe was pulling her dress back on. He held up his hand. “No, my dear. Stay exactly as you are.”

The dress dropped. She straightened, ribcage tilted to show off her breasts to best advantage as Julian pushed open the doors. He took note of Zoe’s nudity, and gave them a look that implored forgiveness before stepping aside to admit Michael Ranieri.

Michael was tall, stocky, in his fifties, like King, and blessed with the swarthy good looks that graced most of the Ranieri clan. He opened his mouth to complain. It froze open when he saw Zoe. Whatever he had been meaning to complain about evaporated from his mind.

King’s mouth twitched. Michael was so predictable.

The man cleared his throat. “Ah…did I interrupt anything?”

Such a stupid, annoying question. King gave him a friendly smile. “Oh, nothing that won’t keep and be perfectly enjoyable later. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Michael? And at this unusual hour?”

“Can I speak, in front of…?” He pointed at Zoe.

“I trust Zoe absolutely,” King said. Zoe’s eyes shone with delight.

Michael flapped his hand. “I was at my father’s eightieth birthday party,” he said fretfully. “I couldn’t get away until late. They’ve been busting my balls, the whole past month. Ever since we heard about Parr killing himself in the nuthouse.”

King’s mouth tightened. “So sad, isn’t it?”

“Hah.” Michael snorted. “The only reason Howard Parr would die, and his daughter go missing is because he talked. So did he talk?”

Every now and then, Michael showed a brief flash of inconvenient intelligence. “I’m taking care of it, Michael,” King said.

“Oh, fuck,” Michael snarled. “So he did talk. So, this Parr girl, what was her name, Lily? Is she dead? Tell me she’s dead, Neil.”

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