K. Alex Walker's Blog, page 15

The Shadow

The Shadow is officially with the publisher, which means I’ll have the release date details for you soon. Since I’ve gotten this question a few times, as it currently stands, I don’t have any plans in the works for a Curtis book. However, I do have one for Joel that will include elements from Curtis’ life.

Mike Huang was the son of one of the most powerful men in China until the empire his family built for centuries suddenly crumbles. The betrayal of a family friend sends him into hiding at the age of ten, and the only life he’s ever known has been on the run. There’s no normalcy for a man like him. No settling down. Everything he’s ever had has come by way of fighting for it or fighting against it. So when Xara Merritt enters his life, he tries to fight feelings he’s never experienced. He fights to remember why he can’t have her, no matter how much he wants her. And he fights until he loses because, from the very beginning, he knew he would have her. Claim her. Consume her. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know who he really is, or that she’s fallen for the son of a killer.

When Xara first meets the mysterious newcomer in her hometown in Henry, KY, it’s while he’s wrapped up in the middle of a fight that, at first, she assumes he’s losing. As she races to help him, she realizes he doesn’t need her help and he’s nothing like anyone she’s ever met—he’s silent, he’s lethal, and he’s hiding a lot more than he’s willing to admit. Still, she can’t help but be drawn to him, no matter how many walls he puts up, and it’s only a matter of time before she strips him bare, exposing the secrets of the man she gives her heart to . . . a heart she prays isn’t broken by what he finally chooses to reveal.

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The Darkest Knight #14

FAMIGLIA – Part II

Online Only. Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. Mature (18+) audiences.

Read Episode 13 here.



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They all turned toward the sound of wood scraping tile. Behind them, walking in from the house’s exterior, was a group of people. Three men in the front carried wooden high chairs. A fourth carried a modified chair with an insert she knew was meant for Aleksi. There were at least twenty, with more pouring in by the handful.

She glanced at Giorgio’s hand.

It twitched, and then stopped moving.

Oh no.

Because of the fact that Giorgio had, in essence, “settled down” with her, it made a lot of people assume it meant that he’d somehow become normal. That she’d tamed him, so to speak. And while many of his compulsions had been quelled by having someone who cared deeply about him, the other reason was because he’d killed his father. His controller. The master behind the murder strings.

However, he’d just massacred an entire compound of people not even a month ago. Laundering his clothes could sometimes be a fucking nightmare. She’d known what she’d walked into when she first met him and had accepted that being with him wouldn’t be like the relationships she’d dreamed about growing up. In some ways, she’d been wrong. He was supportive, attentive, funny in his own way, and made her feel loved. In other ways, he was the man he’d always been.

Giorgio Pozza didn’t like surprises, and his response to large, unfamiliar gathering had historically been to “cull” the herd.

Mo reached out and grabbed his wrist. He glared down at her and she returned the intensity of the look. People wielding high chairs weren’t dangerous. He needed to better assess the situation rather than look at it as something that needed to be neutralized.

He pulled his hand away.

She grabbed his wrist again. “No, baby. Please.”

His head reared back in offense. If she didn’t pull him back soon, he’d sink to where she wouldn’t be able to retrieve him. Giorgio and Giorgio alone would pull him back up for air, and when he did rise, there would be bodies in his wake. Considering some of the guys were there, it would be less bodies, but bodies nonetheless. And based on the incidents that had been going on with them, she wasn’t certain they wouldn’t simply just add to the carnage.

The crowd continued to grow. They began to clap and sing and chant. Mo wished they would all just shut the hell up. She was in the middle of a crisis.

She looked over her shoulder and whispered, “Guys. Help.”

Julien rose from the table and moved to where Stefania stood in the crowd. Mo stood, Giorgio’s wrist still in her grasp, and eased close enough to him that Aleksi’s warm body pressed against his father’s.

“We can’t make it dangerous for him,” she said, voice calm. “Aleksi could get hurt.”

Even more people poured through the door. She could see Julien speaking with Stefania across the way, the woman’s smile falling with each word he explained to her. They needed to hurry up. Giorgio’s already dark gaze was disappearing into a black hole and, in that split second, Mo did something she never did—question whether or not it was a good idea to have pursued a relationship with him. At least, accepted. He was the one who’d pursued her. In the cutest of ways. But there were times where she did wonder whether being his wife and having a home and child with him was akin to trying to tame a wild animal. Eventually, they all returned to the ways nature had given them.

“I will hurt Aleksi,” he asked, studying her face. “This what you think?”

“What I think is that no one is here to hurt you.” She looked around, hoping she was right. It had been a hell of a crazy last several weeks. The year leading up to them hadn’t been that great either, especially for Joel.

Giorgio’s gaze fell. Aleksi had woken up from his nap, and his head was wiggling in the carrier. Mo unlatched the hooks and straps and then held him out to his father.

“Hold him,” she urged. “Hold your son. He’ll show you everything’s okay.”

His large, scarred hands wrapped around Aleksi’s body. The courtyard had gone silent. Mo looked up to find Stefania with her hands spread out in front of the gathering, whispering to them in quick yet harsh Italian. It was in that moment that it was verified, for her, that the woman had to be Giorgio’s aunt. She’d likely had the entire reunion set up, inviting people from in town to meet her nephew. However, the minute she realized her nephew had a particular aversion to large groups, she stood in to control it.

When she had the crowd controlled, she hurried over, hands flailing. “Non volevo, Giorgio. Scusate.”

“She’s sorry,” Julien translated when Giorgio didn’t say a word. “Now, she’s inviting us to eat inside where it’s quiet and more intimate.”

Giorgio’s jaw pulsed. Mo felt guilt rushing over her but she didn’t let it show. She’d made a scene over him, made a big deal over him. He hated attention and control nearly as much as he didn’t like unfamiliarity.

He didn’t say a word as he, carrying Aleksi, made his way from the courtyard. Stefania started after him but Mo stepped in her way.

“Let him go,” she said. Even if she didn’t understand the words, Stefania was able to read her expression.

The crowd dissipated. The rest of their crew remained behind, and it wasn’t until dinner had transitioned from outside to Stefania’s cozy dining nook that Mo found herself even able to start to explain.

“He’s different,” she said.

Stefania cocked her head to the side from the other end of the large, rectangular wooden table. “Different? Is it like,” she mumbled, searching for the word, “mental?”

Mo stared at Julien for further explanation.

“She wants to know if he has, like, a condition,” he said.

Mo shrugged. “I don’t really know. He’s just . . . let me start from the beginning. Tell me, first, about your sister, Giulia.”

Stefania pushed up from the table, disappeared, and then came back with a handful of photos she lay on the table between hot dishes and crocheted doilies. She then indicated one, and Mo picked up the black and white photograph of a woman with dark hair. An ornate veil covered her head, and a bouquet of flowers was perched high on her chest.

“My mother,” Stefania said, in English before returning to Italian. “Can you see him in her?”

Mo shook her head, swallowing. “No ma’am.”

“He doesn’t look like his mother either,” Stefania added. “Does he look like his father? Have you met him?”

Mo handed the picture off to Tayler on her right so it could make its way around the table. Shortly after Giorgio, Gage had also left. While they all knew Giorgio didn’t need anyone checking on him to make sure he was okay, he was still their friend. Their family. All of them were close but the guys more so because of everything they’d gone through, even before there was a Mo, a Tayler, a Larke, or an Ari. She liked to think of Gage as the closest thing her honey had to a best friend.

“Um . . . in a way,” she said.

“My sister never told me how she got pregnant,” Stefania went on. “She ran away with a man when she was sixteen. When she came back, she confided in me that she was going to have a baby, but things didn’t work out with the man so she came home.”

That solved the mystery of how Otto had been able to lure the girls.

They’d all been young and from small towns, inexperienced about the world and the devils that hid among its shadows. All it would have taken was the right person to say the right things, promise her a life where she could see the world. He’d probably sent out his own sons as sentinels to seek them out. The girls would then end up walking right into his trap, a snarl of a smile on his wolfish face as he removed his coat made of sheepskin.

She’d left Australia with the same stars in her eyes, and Australia was hundreds of times larger than the towns most of Otto’s women had been torn from.

“What happened after that?” Mo prodded.

Stefania’s mouth turned down, her eyes darkening in sadness. “She left again. In the middle of the night. I never saw her after that.”

Mo took a second picture the woman handed over.

“Giulia,” she said. “At sixteen.”

Still, there was no Giorgio anywhere on the woman’s face. She did see someone else, however. Sophia, the girl from Helmine’s.

Son of a bitch.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” Mo said, heart aching for her husband. “I think your sister had a girl.”

A girl whose ass I just destroyed.

Stefania’s brow furrowed. “What?”

It was Otto’s last hurrah. His last “fuck you.” He’d named his sons after the towns where their mothers had been kidnapped. All save for Giorgio. He’d named him after this place, this dead-end, as a way to bury his golden child’s identity for the rest of his life so that Giorgio would never be more than “Otto’s son.”

His possession.

The story Helmine had told wasn’t Giorgio’s and likely not even Helmine had known that.

Mo stood. “I’m sorry, Stefania. We have to go.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”

“I don’t think Giorgio is your nephew,” Mo informed her. “I wish he was. I wish with every fiber in my being he was, but—”

A realization suddenly dawned on her.

“We have to go,” she quickly finished. “Thank you for all of this. It was lovely.”

She wished she could have given the woman more information about her niece, but she probably wasn’t the best person to do so.

Tossing apologies behind them, everyone made their way from Stefania’s back to the villa. On the way, Mo called to make sure it was where Giorgio had gone, and Gage told her that it was. They were “hanging out” on the backyard terrace.

When they arrived, Mo found him still on the terrace. Gage made his way inside to give them some privacy. She pulled up a chair next to Giorgio but when she went to sit down, he grunted and tugged her over to him, onto his lap.

“I thought you were mad at me,” she said, situating herself so she could ease her head into the crook of his neck.

“I am upset with you.” He brushed his cheek over the top of her head. “You cannot fix.”

She cupped the side of his face and kissed his jaw. “I’m sorry, baby. I love you.”

“You are forgiven,” he said, simply.

She smiled, shaking her head.

“You are back soon. Why?”

“The better question is, why’d you leave?” she countered.

“The people, Bez. The noise.”

“You really think you couldn’t stay without hurting at least one of them?”

The way he looked down at her gave her the answer.

“I saw a picture of Giulia,” she said.

“And she does not look like me.”

“No. In fact, she looks almost exactly like Sophia.”

His brow lifted. “Who?”

“Sophia? The one I fought at Helmine’s? Giorgio, I believe I learned her name from you.”

He shrugged, as if it had no importance when she’d been in a battle to the death with the woman he’d so easily forgotten.

“Giulia’s not your mother.” She squeezed him tight when she revealed the news. He’d never show her he needed the extra affection, but she knew him well enough to know it would help.

“Okay,” he said.

“But I know who is.”

 

#15 – THE END



04/30/2020







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Giveaway Alert!

Who is Giorgio's mother? 

I have THREE $10 giftcards from Amazon for the first three people who get it right. (If you've read the book, this should be pretty straightforward, IMO)

Comment below with your guess and why you think you've got it!

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight #13

FAMIGLIA

Online Only. Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. Mature (18+) audiences.

Read Episode 12 here.



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Giorgio cocked his head to the side, studying the woman in front of him. He looked too much like Vater for him to see any similarities between his and this woman’s face. He wondered how much she looked like his mother, or if she was lying. People were more often liars than they were honest. He couldn’t imagine what these people, in their small farming town, would have to lie about, but the only reason he was here was because of a story Helmine had told him. The entire thing could have been subterfuge; a last-ditch effort by the witch to try to take what was most precious to him because he’d bled her dry of every penny and asset she was worth.

“You cook?”

He blinked. Stefania was no longer looking at him but at the blade he didn’t remember reaching for never mind pulling out. She didn’t look afraid even though he could tell she knew exactly why he’d brandished it. For the sake of the rest of the people in the osteria, which he had already figured out was her restaurant, she was trying to keep everything calm and cool. It made him wonder if his mother had had a similar temperament.

“Da.” He sheathed the knife. “Yes. Sometimes.”

She gestured behind him. “What are your friends’ names?”

“Dez. Gage.”

She switched to heavily-accented English. “Come, okay. Dez. Gage. Eat.”

“We will have to come back later,” Giorgio cut in.

“The food is good,” she protested, back to Italian. “I make it myself. You can eat authentic Italian cuisine while I tell you about your mother.”

“I have a wife and son. I want to bring them to meet you.”

Stefania’s hand flew to her mouth. Happy tears built in her eyes. He knew they were happy tears because his Bez had them all the time, especially when it came to something Aleksi did. Right after he was born, they would come at least three times a day.

Stefania reached into her pocket, pulled out a small spiral notebook, and spun around, fingers wiggling. One of the restaurant patrons handed her a pencil. She scribbled something on the pad, returned the pencil, tore the sheet from the metal loops and then handed it to him.

“My house,” she said. “It is very easy to find. Please, bring your friends and your wife and your son for supper. How old is your son? Does he like pizza?”

Just thinking about Aleksi brought a surge of pride to Giorgio’s chest. Now that he had his own son, it made Vater’s depravity that much more salient. He couldn’t imagine harming a hair on his Little Fish’s head when Vater had done so much worse to his own seed.

“Aleksi is a baby,” he told her. “He drinks only milk.”

“A baby?” She turned and rattled something off so fast to her patrons, he couldn’t follow a single word. Whatever it was, it made everyone happy and start to clap while chanting a song. In the song, he made out the word famiglia.

When the ruckus faded, she faced him again. “Please, bring them tonight. Everyone. How many?”

He did a quick count in his head. “Thirteen. Five are children.”

The happy tears returned, this time spilling down onto her ruddy cheeks. Before he could stop her, she drew him down for a hug. She was a short, buxom woman, her height probably just gracing five feet. Yet, she’d gotten him to bend against his will as she wrapped him in a tight embrace. She smelled like oregano and flowery perfume, and the gesture felt authentic.

He didn’t return the hug, primarily because he’d been caught off-guard and random bouts of affection from anyone other than his Bez made him uneasy. She didn’t seem to care as she gave him one last tight squeeze before she released him.

He started to turn, prepared to leave, but he had one last question.

“Do I look like Giulia?”

Stefania studied his face, more intently taking in his features. “Not very much,” she revealed. “You must look like your father.”

Which he already knew. It was what he’d heard his entire life, what he’d seen. He wasn’t sure if her seeing his mother in him would have changed anything or helped to lessen the blow of what he’d been through.

“Okay. We will come back.”

Stefania nodded. “Good. Thank you . . . ” Her brow wrinkled when she realized he hadn’t given his name. “What did she name you?”

“She didn’t name me,” he said. “I am Giorgio.”

She smiled. “Beautiful. See you later, Giorgio. My nephew.”

* * * * *

Mo bent her body in half in a downward dog position. Aleksi was fed and fast asleep and the view from the balcony outside her and Giorgio’s room was the perfect backdrop for a quick yoga session. She’d stopped doing them after their son was born, never really taking much time for herself. Everything was a moment she’d wanted to capture—on her phone, a professional camera, in a professional studio. She hadn’t been able to convince Giorgio to take photos in a studio but the ones she had on camera were just as beautiful. She didn’t even have to wait long to get the iconic snap of Aleksi, at four weeks old, on Giorgio’s chest while they both slept. It happened the day after a particularly long, colicky night.

Now, she would make sure she carved out as much time as possible for herself. She’d scoffed at the parenting books she’d read while still pregnant that warned taking care of a newborn could make her inadvertently push her own needs to the backburner. She’d sworn it wouldn’t happen to her when she saw Tayler, Larke, and Ari fall victim to the same thing. Then, she’d gone and done just that. Maybe she could warn Xara while there was still time.

She transitioned into a high plank, facing the mountain range in the distance. When she pushed back into another downward dog, she felt hands on her hips.

“Hey, baby.” She looked down through her legs at Giorgio’s behind her. He’d been home long enough to change into sweats. “How’d it go?”

“My mother, her name was Giulia,” he said, positioning his pelvis against the curve of her behind. “I meet her sister, Stefania.”

Mo lowered down to her mat, faced him, and sat cross-legged. He’d paired the gray pants with one of his MMA T-shirts he usually wore at the boxing gym back home. She’d brought entire workout outfits, most with the tags still attached. Today, she was wearing a rose-patterned white crop-top with its matching leggings.

“I know that look,” she said.

The right side of his mouth pulled back.

“Join me.” She patted the mat. “It’ll help us both unwind.”

He started forward. “You want me to stretch you.”

“Wait.” She held up a hand. “I want you to stretch with me. I have a second mat, and I really need this dick-free time, babe. Tell me about your visit while we’re going through a quick session. That is, unless you don’t think you’d be able to do it.”

A brow lifted. “Why do you need, as you say, ‘dick-free time,’ Bez?”

“What I meant was—”

“You are not happy.” He looked down at his crotch and then back up at her. Murderous intent darkened his already pearl-black irises. “You have another.”

“No.” She pulled in a deep breath, chest rising with the movement. “Jesus, no. You’re being ridiculous, Gio. I don’t want anybody else but you. I simply just need a moment to relax that doesn’t require your penis. I love it. It’s beautiful. But mama misses her yoga.”

He studied her for an hour-long second and then disappeared through the slatted balcony doors, returning with her second mat. She smiled at the contrast of the mat’s deep purple-pink against his clothing. She’d recently gotten him to step out of his comfort zone of gray, white, and black with a forest-green T-shirt that, stretched across the expanse of his wide chest, had looked as good as a tailored suit. At least, to her. Ari said she was obsessed but it wasn’t unusual to be obsessed with your husband . . . was it?

He lay the mat across from hers, and she unfolded her legs to restart the sequence.

“Okay, first, we’re going to start with some easy poses. We’ll start with downward dog.”

She transitioned into a series of warm-ups that Giorgio easily replicated. He even had the nerve to look bored.

She upped the ante, slightly, to an Eagle Pose. “So, how’d you find your mother’s name?” she asked.

He answered, not yet out of breath. “There is osteria inside town.”

“That’s like a small restaurant, right.”

“Da.”

They moved into Triangle Pose. When he spoke again, she heard the first indication that his body was being challenged.

“Woman who own osteria is Giulia’s sister.”

“So that would make her your . . . what?”

He looked her way. She hid her grin.

“Aunt. Stefania.”

The flowed through a few more positions, maneuvering between challenging and easy so she could lull him into a sense of comfort. He was able to fully execute a handstand, which didn’t surprise her because he did them often during his own workouts. Some of his stretches were very yoga-esque, but when she tried to bring it up, he would wave it off.  

“Okay, now, this is Crow Pose.” She lowered her palms to the mat and then used her core muscles to pull up her lower half. “Was Stefania able to tell you anything about your mother?”

There was no response.

“Gio?” She looked up.

He was in the position, but his face was red and covered by a sheen of sweat. His shoulders rose and fell in quick breaths.

“Deep, slow breaths,” she coached, her voice unshaken. “Now, about Stefania.”

He groaned. “She invite . . . everybody . . . for supper.”

“Tonight?”

Another groan. “Da.”

She extended a leg out behind her and tilted it up toward the sky, still balancing on her palms. “That sounds lovely. When you say everybody, you mean even the rest of the group?”

She heard what sounded like a struggle between him trying to pace his breathing and hold onto the pose.

“Da.”

She switched legs and decided to lead with an open-ended question. “What is Stefania like?”

He muttered a curse.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“Nothing, Bez.”

“You doing okay?”

“Fine, Bez.”

She decided to go easy on him with a few easy poses again and then jumped right back into Shoulder Pressing Pose. She amazed even herself that she still had the core strength to hold each position. It felt wonderful in her stomach, back, and shoulders which made her wonder why she hadn’t jumped back into it sooner after pushing out a kid.

“Did she recommend that we bring anything to dinner?” she prodded.

Silence.

“Gio?” She looked up. “Gio?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the mat, face flushed, damp hair stuck to his forehead, and brows knitted as he watched her. Realizing she’d won their impromptu competition, she finished her series with a couple more relaxing poses before mirroring Giorgio on her own mat.

She grabbed her water bottle sitting nearby, took a couple long drags, and then squeezed some of the cool liquid onto her chest.

“No,” he said, expression changing. “She said only to come to eat. She will love Aleksi.”

She squeezed more water from the bottle, letting the streams hit where the water would spill over her nipples, perking them up.

His gaze lowered, and he started to push off his mat.

She did the same. “What are you doing?”

“You are teasing me,” he accused.

She gasped. “I’m not. I’m just hot.”

This time, she squirted the water directly onto her breasts.

“I cannot obey your wish, Bez.” He pulled the edge of his bottom lip into his mouth. “How many ‘pose’ you can do on my dick, you think?”

She hopped up and ran toward the patio doors. He caught her in a couple of steps, hooked her around the waist, lifted her off the floor and walked them to the bathroom. She didn’t have a name for this pose, but she did enjoy being stripped, propped up against the shower wall, and fucked with her legs wrapped around his middle.

She enjoyed it very much.

* * * * *

Stefania’s home was quaint with a very traditional, rustic style. Inside was mostly stone, and a brick archway welcomed everyone into the living room from the entryway. The floors were cool tile. The smell of spices and seasonings perfumed the house. She greeted everyone with a hug and kisses on the cheeks as if they’d known each other for decades.

Mo watched Giorgio as Stefania embraced him. He wasn’t the most comfortable with touch, but he did an excellent job masking it, in her opinion.

Stefania nearly crushed her in an eager hug and would have probably done so if Aleksi wasn’t strapped to her chest in a baby carrier.

“So many little ones,” Stefania said, looking around. “I have missed these days. So much.”

Giorgio and Julien took turns translating. When Stefania first heard Julien speak her native tongue back to her, she’d all but swooned.

After introductions, they followed her to a wide-open terrace where a large table had been set up with enough chairs for everyone, and then some. A tablecloth with a handstitched floral pattern covered it from end to end. Sprigs of herbs were strategically placed, as decoration. Mo smelled sage and mint.

“Do you have any children, Miss Stefania?” Ari asked, helping her and Julien’s oldest child, their daughter Thandie, into her seat.

“I never married,” Stefania answered, gesturing for them to sit. “I did not want a husband to hold me back from my dreams. Plus, there are only so many men in my town. I think, if the men in my town had looked like you all, I would have married too much.”

While they sat and mingled, Stefania disappeared to the kitchen. She refused any help, telling them all to sit tight. With each trip, she brought out dish after dish—lasagne, ribollita, osso buco, bruschetta, and pizza topped with cheese, fresh greens, and a scattering of olives and tomatoes. Mo’s mouth watered at the sight of the crust alone. The best pizza she’d ever had was when she’d visited New York for the first time, but something told her this experience was about to move into that number one slot.

She returned with two bottles of wine which Giorgio offered to open. While he did so, she studied is frame and profile.

 “When my sister ran away, I knew she was pregnant,” she said. “Not a day went by where I didn’t think about her and her baby.”

“She did not run away,” Giorgio said.

Stefania tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Mo tapped him on the leg beneath the table. It wasn’t time yet for that discussion. The woman had a nephew walk into her life she barely knew existed. Vater’s torture and deception wasn’t exactly dinner conversation.

“Non importa.” He shook his head. “Later.”

They all turned toward the sound of wood scraping tile. Behind them, walking in from the house’s exterior, was a group of people. Three men in the front carried wooden high chairs. A fourth carried a modified chair with an insert she knew was meant for Aleksi. There were at least twenty, with more pouring in by the handful.

She glanced at Giorgio’s hand.

It twitched, and then stopped moving.

Oh no.

#14 – ONLY A COUPLE LEFT!



Vote HERE For Who Should Be Next.



04/24/2020

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight #12

GIORGIO’S MOTHER

Online Only. Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. Mature (18+) audiences.

Read Episode 11 here.



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Getting back into a routine after the last few weeks they’d had was more difficult than Mo had anticipated. They’d gone home after leaving Germany to pick up Aleksi and see their friends. The first night back in their house, in their bed, she’d gotten maybe two hours’ worth of sleep. The next night, it was the same. When it started happening frequently enough that Giorgio asked her about it, she told him it was just her internal clock trying to reset to Aleksi’s night schedule. They’d switched and he’d taken over the night shifts with Aleksi, but she would still wake up, sometimes covered in sweat, and lie awake while Giorgio’s deep voice echoed from the bedtime stories he told their son.

She was still too sore from fighting to make love but not too sore to lie on her back or lean against a wall with Giorgio’s head between her legs. He wouldn’t allow her to return the favor, however. Not until all her bruises had healed and she “seemed more like herself.”

Now, it was three in the morning. No hungry wails came from Aleksi’s crib, which they’d brought into their room. Next to her, Giorgio’s shoulders lifted and fell with each sleeping breath. It would be another night she didn’t make it all the way through, and they had a flight to Europe in the morning. Thankfully, some of their friends were coming along, which made her feel better about the trip, but it did nothing for her right now.

She leaned over, pressed a kiss against Giorgio’s shoulder, and slipped out of bed. Before she left the bedroom, she walked to Aleksi’s crib and watched him for a moment, making sure he looked comfortable and his breathing was fine. The air conditioner was extra cool against her satiny chemise where a little bit of sweat remained, so it threw off the actual temperature in the room. If he was curled into a ball, she’d go turn up the thermostat or lay him next to his Papa.

Aleksi slept soundly, his hair a ruffled mess and his arms splayed wide. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. She knew it was normal for parents to find their baby cuter than all others, but her little gumdrop was gorgeous.

She smoothed a hand over his head and then left the room, headed toward the kitchen.

In the first few months after she joined the assassin’s circuit, a similar thing had happened. Sleep had been hard to come by. Anxiety had plagued her to the point that she would often have spells where she would shake, uncontrollably, as if she had chills from a fever. She’d contemplated giving up and dropping out because of it; most of the other hitmen had come from broken lives so were used to that level of stress. Her upbringing had been not only traditional but, for the most part, normal. It made no sense that she’d ended up where she had.

But then, she’d met a certain monster.

Yawning, she padded to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a Tupperware container of leftover Spaghetti Bolognese. Since being home, takeout and easy dinners had been the norm. And, although she wasn’t hungry, food would be a decent enough distraction from the fact that she felt sleepy as hell but seemed unable to do anything about it.

She closed the refrigerator, placed the container on the countertop, and then opened a cabinet in search of a plate. Warmth enveloped her from behind and she stopped mid-reach, dropped her hand, and leaned back into Giorgio’s chest.

“You are not sleeping,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her up close against him. She still loved how hard he was. No matter how much she trained, how lean her arms got, or how flat her stomach, there was still something about the way their bodies contrasted. Against him, she felt soft and smooth.

“Not through the night, no,” she admitted, resting her head on his bare chest. “What are you doing up? Did you hear me?”

“Every night.”

“So you knew I was lying about readjusting to Aleksi’s sleep schedule.”

“Da.” He stepped back and took her hand, broad palm and longer fingers closing around it. “Come.”

He walked them downstairs and through the French doors that led to their back porch, sat down in a patio chair, and pulled her down on top of him. She positioned herself so she was straddling him and leaned forward, hugging him while her forehead pressed against his shoulder.

“Tell me,” he urged, hands rubbing up and down her back. “I worry for you.”

“It’s just anxiety.” She squeezed him tight. It felt amazing just being in his arms. “After everything that’s happened, my body and brain are trying to rewire themselves. I don’t have the resilience you do.”

“You are . . . resilient,” he insisted, moving carefully through a word she’d never heard him use, and one he’d likely never had to use before. Not in English.

“I know, but not like you. Us normal folk need a transition period.”

He kissed her shoulder. “You have nightmare?”

“I’ve had one or two disturbing dreams, but I don’t think that’s what’s been keeping me up.”

He pried her away from holding him and eased her back so he could see her face. His thick, dark locks were nothing like their son’s. No matter what they were doing, his hair always seemed to fall right back into place. At most, all he needed to do was shake his head to move the strands out of his line of vision. Her tresses, whether they were straightened or a headful of cottony curls, always needed taming. Aleksi would likely fall somewhere in between as he got older, but for now, he was stuck with baby smooth strands and cowlicks.

She ran her thumb over the marbled scar that ran through Giorgio’s brow, smoothing the hairs as she traced. “You’re so beautiful, Gio.”

A glimmer lit up his irises. Where her other hand rested, her palm flat against the left side of his chest, his heartbeat sped up. No matter the expression on his face, his body always gave away what he really felt.

“Tell me,” he repeated, eyes closing as she continued to smooth his brow. “Everything.”

“I just had the one or two dreams,” she said again, mind hazing when his caresses dipped lower. “I’ll fall asleep, wake up a few hours later, and then take forever to fall asleep only to wake up again. When I do wake up, I’m covered in sweat and my heart is racing.”

He palmed the swells of her behind. “Like a panic?”

“Just like I’m panicking.”

“And?”

She sighed. “I think I’m worried that our reality will be having to fight for our lives until we’re too old to, and I don’t want that.”

He slipped his hands underneath the chemise, his rough palms an erotic sensation over the surface of her skin. “This is because of me,” he said. “And I do not know how to . . .” He thought for a moment. “Mne zhal’.”

I’m sorry.

Tightness built in her throat. “You don’t have to be sorry. These are things that happened to you, not that you caused.”

“Do you know, in Russian, bez and poza mean same thing?” He stared at her face, and the way he did made her own heart race. “Is fate, me and you.”

She grinned. “Except you gave me the name ‘Bez.’”

“I did not realize, at the time.” His hands moved up her ribcage, stopping just beneath the swells of her breasts. “And because, you are trouble.”

His thumb caressed the soft curves.

“Bez, I love you.” The pads of his fingers moved over her erect nipples, sending pulsing pleasure between her legs. “I will do everything, anything, for me and you and Aleksi, until you are better. But please, tell me. If I am able to help, I will do it.”

“I thought I could still handle my part of the marriage and parenting while all this was going on,” she protested, voice breathy and raspy with need. “But, I get what you’re saying. I should trust you more to take care of us when I need you, just like I’d expect you to trust me.”

His hands disappeared from her nipples, slipping from under the night dress. She began to whimper in protest until she felt his fingers on the lacy cups, dragging them down and exposing her breasts to the warm night air. She held her breath, waiting, and when the warmth of his mouth covered her nipples, she almost came right then.

She thrust her fingers into his hair, grasped the back of his head, and pulled him closer. His tongue was soft, flicking and teasing the puckered bud before his mouth clamped down. A hand lavished the other breast with attention, circling the nipple until it drew taut and kneading the flesh.

Mo’s head fell back, a chorus of moans rising in her throat and pushing through her lips. Her whole body shivered, goosebumps prickling at her skin and her clit pulsing. She wound and rotated her hips to ease some of the ache, applying more sweet pressure when she felt his hard erection through the cotton of his pajama pants.

“Gio, please.” Her tongue moistened her lips. “I’m ready.”

He leaned back, letting her breast slip from his mouth, and slid his hand back up her dress. When he pressed against a tender spot on her ribcage, she winced.

“You are not ready, Bez.” He blew cool air against her nipple.

She locked her gaze with his. “Then I’m going to suck your dick.”

Another glimmer lit like a flare in his eyes, this one clear primal desire and raw lust. His lids lowered slightly until he was looking up at her through his full, dark lashes. At his lack of response, she eased off his lap, lowered to her knees, and tugged at the waistband of his pants until his cock sprung free.

She felt him watching her as she wrapped her hands around the thick column and dragged her tongue from the base to the gleaming tip, in appreciation. Her tongue darted, lapping up the sweet-salty moisture she found there. The powerful muscles in his thighs flexed when she repeated the motion, licking her way along the veiny length. When she reached the tip, she closed her mouth over the head, and sucked.

“Fuck.” He groaned, followed by a hiss. “Fuck.”

He was hard and heavy on her tongue, just the way she liked it, as she slid her mouth back and forth over his length. As much as she wished she could swallow him whole, he had more girth than she had throat, so she used her hands to milk him where her mouth couldn’t fill.

“Bez . . . “ His fingers slipped into her hair. “Fuck, Bez.”

He was so gone, she’d reduced him to two words.

She smiled briefly against the wide expanse of cock in her mouth before concentrating fully on her task.

Soon, the fingers in her hair became his hand, then two. She braced her own hands on his thighs as his hips jutted, thrusting his length into her mouth. She watched in appreciation as the veiny shaft slipped, glistening, between her lips. His groans, deep and sensuous and guttural, gave her an illicit sense of power. She was the only one capable of getting him here­—dizzy and vulnerable with desire. On the edge of a powerful orgasm she could already taste in the back of her throat.

But Giorgio being Giorgio, he didn’t relinquish power that easily.

Or ever.

He slipped his cock from her mouth, lifted her from the floor, and guided her down directly onto it. Somehow, he managed to go slowly, filling her at an aching pace.

“You are ready?” he asked, lust and anger in his voice. “Show me.”

He thrust up.

She had no response.

He held her against him as he impaled her from below. She could feel, from the stickiness on his thighs, just how slick she was. Her body went limp, her ribs and limbs aching but the ache between her legs so much sweeter. She tried to ride him but he was in control, driving up into her, his pace measured torture.

He latched onto a nipple. Pleasure flooded her body.

She squeezed his forearms, grip going tighter the nearer she got to climax. His large, hard body made her drunk and horny, as if she’d never made love to him before in her life. And when her orgasm exploded, she cried his name. He came not long after with a grating moan as if he’d been right at the edge of holding out.

She kissed his face as they came down together, wrapped her arms around his neck. He stood and walked them inside. Instead of going back upstairs, he lowered her onto the large sofa in the living room. He tugged the waistband of pajama pants back up over his hips, left her to retrieve a blanket, and then rejoined her. He tossed the blanket over both their bodies before pulling her into his warmth.

“You hurt.” He didn’t ask.

Mo buried against him. “I’ll manage.”

“On internet, I read that sleep in different room help with, what is word, problem with sleep?”

“Insomnia?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Da. And fucking.”

She laughed. “You read that sex and sleep can help with insomnia?”

“Yes.” He looked down at her, a smile in his eyes. “You laugh, why? Is good article.”

The fact that, even before she’d told him she was having problems sleeping, he’d been looking for a solution, made her happy inside.

“Let’s see how it works, then.”

Not long after, tired and tender but feeling wonderful and safe in his arms, her lids grew heavy and she drifted to sleep.

* * * * *

The town of Pozza was so small, they didn’t have any hotels or inns where everyone could stay, so Mo and Giorgio found a place an hour-and-a-half outside the town in nearby Spoleto, a province in Perugia, Italy. Julien, Gage, Dez, Larke, Ari, and Tayler joined them.

The villa-style home was large enough to comfortably fit everyone. It had several balconies that offered views of the country’s lush, rolling green and mountains with their heads in the clouds. The air was fresh and clean, which Mo knew Giorgio needed. Her man was quiet, but his silence had been taken to another level on the trip. He was, hopefully, about to learn who his mother had been, and that information wasn’t something anyone could handle lightly. Not even her ever calm, ever self-assured Gio Pozza.

Inside, the villa had classic rustic Italian décor. All the rooms had massive, four-poster beds. Terracotta, wood, and natural stone elements flowed throughout. The owners, an elderly couple who’d told them the house had been in their family for decades, left zeppole and coffee in the kitchen for them to eat when they arrived. When the couple learned they would be arriving later than expected, they’d made sure the dessert and coffee were fresh and doubled back to leave them a hefty lasagne.

They’d ravaged the food before collapsing into bed.

Now, the next morning, she, Tayler and Larke were poolside. Ari and Julien had gone on a hike with Thandie and their little boy, Ty. Gage, Dez, and Giorgio went to check out the town of Pozza to make sure Mo and Aleksi would be safe when they visited.

“This is exactly what we needed,” Larke said, face to the sun as she lounged on a poolside chair. “A trip to the Italian countryside with friends.”

Mo held Aleksi in her hands while he splashed in the pool. “Thanks for coming. Gio could never handle this alone.”

In the shaded area near the pool, Grey crouched in front of Monroe, trying to explain something in babble only he understood. Monroe was sitting, her chubby legs tucked under her, shoveling play sand into a bucket.

Tayler glanced over at them.

“Who do you think Grey takes after more?” Mo asked. “Personality-wise.”

“Me,” Tayler said, immediately. “He’s definitely more like me.”

They continued to chat, Mo “swimming” Aleksi around in the pool, her mind on how Giorgio was faring. By now, they’d reached the town. She just hoped he felt comfortable there.

* * * * *

All heads turned as Giorgio, followed by Gage and Dez, stepped inside a small osteria just inside the town limits. A hush fell over the room. There weren’t many people inside, maybe fifteen. The casual eatery had an echo of the same rustic elements from their villa. Stone walls and drawn curtains made it feel even smaller, darkening the room, but there was no feeling of stuffiness. Candles and pendant lights over the tables likely had something to do with that.

Then, murmurs began.

A robust, middle-aged woman in the corner pointed at him and cried, across the space, “Sembri Giovanni.”

You look like Giovanni.

Giorgio ticked his head to the side. “Chi è Giovanni?”

Several of the restaurant goers cringed. He was used to it, the way people reacted to his voice.

The woman left her seat and walked over to him. It had been a while since he’d had to speak any Italian. Not only was it probably rusty, it likely sounded odd with a heavy Russian accent.

He repeated his question. “Who is Giovanni?”

“He lives here in town,” she explained. “You are from out of town?”

“Yes. I live in America. These are my friends.” He gestured behind him. “I’m actually here looking for my family. I was,” he searched for a plausible, less traumatic explanation than the truth, “adopted.”

“Do you know any of your family’s names?” she asked.

“Just one. Francesca. Francesca Pozza. She would have been my grandmother, I think.”

Her brows raised, pushing her hairline back. “Do you know your mother’s name?”

He shook his head. “No. Only that she was Francesca’s youngest daughter.”

The woman slapped a hand over her mouth. Giorgio reached out just as she wavered, steadying her.

“Giulia,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Francesca’s youngest daughter was named Giulia. I am Stefania. Her sister.”

#13 – FAMIGLIA



04/17/2020

Stefania studied his face as she spoke. “When my sister ran away, I knew she was pregnant. Not a day went by where I didn’t think about her and her baby.”

Due to the current crisis and quarantines across the globe, I have extended this series. I hope to see you all along for the ride. Let’s all work together to stay safe and healthy

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight #11

ÜBERGANGSRITUS

Online Only. Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. Mature (18+) audiences.

Read Episode 10 here.



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Helmine’s bony fingers came together on the desktop, her gaze like a laser in Giorgio’s direction. “Your mother was the youngest daughter of the woman my husband swore, one day, he would kill. She was from a little city in Italy called Pozza. Have you ever heard of it?”

Giorgio didn’t respond.

“Most haven’t. It’s really not much of a city. It’s more of a remote village, really. I can’t for the life of me remember when it was founded or by who, though.” A nervous titter fluttered between her lips. “Has something like less than five-hundred permanent residents.”

Giorgio took a seat in one of the chairs across from Helmine’s desk.

She nodded. “You’re right. You didn’t come here for a history lesson.”

He felt the presence of two men in the doorway behind him, but he didn’t turn. Both him and the old woman knew the men would do nothing to unsettle him. When it was all said and done, he and Bez would leave after doing exactly what they’d come to do.

Seconds ticked by. A wooden clock on the wall behind her emphasized the count, each click coinciding with the pulsing vein along the side of her head. Her throat moved, swallowing more saliva than she was likely capable of producing. The way her hands swept over each other, squeezing and caressing and releasing, told him they’d gone damp.

“I never learned her name,” Helmine said, switching to German. “Your mother, not your grandmother. Your grandmother was named Francesca. She carried the surname Pozza, like yours. She was part of the Italian Resistance in the early part of the twentieth century. She was part spy, part rebel. A major grassroots organizer. Traveled for weeks from her hometown to Northern Italy.”

“And you know this, how?” Giorgio asked, in the German language he despised all because of one man.

A smile tugged at Helmine’s wrinkled mouth, her red lipstick staining the creases. “She was captured by Italian fascists in the 40s and deported to a German concentration camp, where she later escaped. Some say she walked right out. Others say she hid among the trash for days without food or water. Otto, as you know, was a scientist—”

“Ublyudok.”

She bristled. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Russian.”

Giorgio eased forward, elbows on his thighs.

“Well, she was one of his, um, well, you know . . . subjects,” Helmine went on. “Otto was just a child back then. I mean, intellectually, he was a prodigy but he was still a child. His mind was warped.”

Giorgio brandished a knife and set it on the top of the desk. Movement sounded behind him, but he paid no attention to it. “You want me to slit your throat.” He cocked his head to the side. “Correct?”

She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Then do not fuck with me.”

“Right.” Her tongue smoothed her top lip. Sweat dampened the space beneath her nose. “Well, Francesca was one of the first solo interrogations Otto had to perform and, when she escaped, his superiors were not happy about it. He was seen as inferior. He was ridiculed. I see now how that is of minor consequence compared to his deeds, but I’m not here to defend his behavior. It’s simply information . . . ”

Giorgio’s thoughts went, briefly, to how his Bez was holding up. When he was finished here, he would go to her. She hated when he helped, said it made her feel like dama v bede. She’d used Russian, but it didn’t make much sense to him that way. It had to mean something different in English.

His brow quirked. “Translate dama v bede.”

Helmine paused, mid-story. Her gaze darted to the door and then back to him. “That’s Russian and I don’t—”

“Translate.”

“Damsel in distress.”

He went back to his thoughts.

His Bez hated when he helped because she said it made her feel like a “damsel in distress.” He sort of understood—damsels were considered to be unmarried women and she certainly was not unmarried. If consummation of marriage had still been a requirement, then she would have been a hundred times over married to him. As for the distress part, she was always distressed about something, but she practiced refusing his help like an instrument.

She didn’t understand. No matter how much she complained, it would never change that he felt responsible for his family’s protection. Any man worth his salt, even in modern times, still felt that twinge of primitive instinct when he started a family. What sense did it make to bring his Bez and their Aleksi into his life and not do everything to make sure they remained there until he was dead and obsolete? The purpose of having children was to carry on a legacy and—

“Auserwahlte?” Helmine called.

Giorgio’s gaze flicked to hers.

“I’m sorry but I can’t help but call you that,” she said. “You are simply magnificent. Scars and tattoos and all, you are incredible.” She placed her palms flat on the desktop and pushed onto her feet. “Can’t you feel it? You have an aura about you, a kind of divine confidence. I have never feared you in name but here, across from you, I tremble even in my blood.”

“Because I am here to kill you,” he reminded.

“I suppose that’s part of it.” Her head and shoulders lowered as though suddenly too heavy for her body to support. “But you were such a beautiful child. I was supposed to be there, when you were born. You were to be my son. I got to hold you when you were six months. I demanded that Otto let me see you and he did. I still remember . . . ” She made a cradle with her arms. “Your hair wasn’t as dark, of course, but you still had a full head of it. You had these eyes that were wise beyond your years. I never wanted you to become what he wanted you to become.”

Giorgio ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the strands out of his face. They fell back into place the minute he lowered his hands. “You tried to take my son.”

“Because he belongs with us,” Helmine defended. “You both do.”

“This is not a decision you get to make.”

“Scientists are breeding and crossbreeding plants to make perfect foods for human beings. This kind of genetic engineering could even help address world hunger. Why can’t the same apply to people? The sick, the disabled, and the elderly are draining our countries’ resources. They are a burden on healthcare systems. Wild animals naturally cull, and we are not that far removed from our insentient counterparts. It’s not savage. It’s Darwinian.”

He tipped his chin in her direction. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Yes. We will start with you.”

She toppled back into her seat as if shoved. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You are sick.” Giorgio motioned to her frame. “You are elderly.”

Helmine dragged her fingers across her chest. “But I’m not a drain on any country’s resources. Matter of fact, I’m an asset.”

More footsteps, several this time, rumbled behind him. Knuckles sounded on wood. Helmine looked up, brows drawn down.

“Yes?”

“Ma’am, there’s been a problem,” a man’s voice quivered. “Everything’s gone.”

Helmine pushed back onto her feet. “What are you talking about?”

“Every asset, every dime . . . it’s all gone.”

Giorgio lifted from the chair and started toward the door. Helmine’s footsteps dragged along the marble floor, following him.

“What did you do?” she hissed.

He stopped, turned to face her, and switched back to English. “I apologize, but I do not understand German.”

She punched his arm. The man from before, middle-aged with graying hair, small eyes, and a pinch of a nose, closed his eyes and drew his elbows into his ribcage. Like he was waiting for a major impact.

“You son of a bitch.” Spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. “What did you do?”

Giorgio bent, placing their faces inches apart. “I have killed you.”

She thrust another weak fist at him, into his chest. “Where’s my money you bastard?”

“You try to take my son, my rybka, that I love more than my life. I take your money, which you love more than yours.”

She extended a long finger in his direction. “One of you idiots just standing around, do something!”

There were three men inside the room, including the one who looked like the Wagner family’s accountant. All three looked at each other and then back at Helmine.

“What?” Her voice grew small. “What’s the problem?”

“We’re no longer on your payroll,” a second man, taller with broad shoulders and a scar crossing from one side of his face to the other, said. “You have nothing. Why should we obey you?”

Helmine shuffled across the floor, over to him. “Because I own you.”

“You own nothing,” the man snapped. “You took me away from my family, my Mama, promising a better life for them. She died waiting for me to return home. When I did get back home, nothing had changed. It was worse, because I could not be there to provide for them. You should be grateful to leave with your life, and that’s if I do not change my mind.”

Giorgio left the room and headed for the main entrance. The man in uniform who’d escorted Bez and the other woman away stood in the middle of the massive foyer, waiting.

“Take me to my wife,” Giorgio requested.

The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Right this way.”

* * * * *

Mo ducked a roundhouse kick that came flying at her head. Little Sophia Bayeux was a lot more talented than she’d given the woman credit for. She barely had time to recover as she dropped into a low squat, fell onto her back, rolled out of the way, and popped back up onto her feet. The pain in her ribs likely meant one of them was cracked. Blood streaked the side of Sophia’s face from a blow she’d landed that had knocked out one of the woman’s teeth. Her forearms and shins were screaming.

“You move quick for someone with that body,” Sophia said, motioning to Mo’s bare midsection.

Mo grinned and swiped a hand down her sweat-covered abs. “You mean Fatima?” She gestured to the virtually unnoticeable soft lump left behind from Aleksi’s journey into the world. “It’s what I call my pooch. What do you call yours?”

Sophia rolled her eyes. One of them was starting to swell.

“You started it,” Mo said, stretching the muscles in her shoulders.

“You really think you’re worthy of him?”

“You mean, Gio?” Realizing she was in for a conversation, Mo sat on the floor and crossed her legs in front of her. “He’s barely worthy of me.”

Sophia sputtered a laugh. “You’d do yourself well not to believe that.”

“Is that why you’re so mad at the world? You were never good enough for Otto and, in your mind, it didn’t matter as long as his precious Giorgio never lived up to standard. Now that you’ve met Giorgio, what do you think? My baby’s sexy, ain’t he?”

“He is my brother,” Sophia spat.

“Shouldn’t stop you from seeing how gorgeous he is . . . even if, once upon a time, he was essentially a high functioning sociopath still being manipulated under your precious Vater’s thumb.” Mo scratched the back of her head. “God, what is wrong with me that I fell in love with him? Jesus.”

Sophia let out a cry and charged in Mo’s direction. Mo rolled out of the way and, in a half squat, released her foot into Sophia’s lower back. At the same time, something long and black was released from Sophia’s hand and went sailing into the back of Mo’s head.

Pain swelled. The back of Mo’s head felt like a rubber band stretching and wrapping itself a dozen times around the apex of her skull. The feeling made her want to throw up.

“Thought the rules said no weapons?” she asked, looking up at Sophia.

Sophia shrugged. “I grew up rich. I have never not had what I wanted, so I do what I want. Rules do not apply to me.”

A smile pulled at Mo’s cheek. Steel poked her in the sternum. She pushed onto her feet and, after stumbling slightly, righted herself.

“You think I care about whatever ‘grand plan’ Helmine has for my brother?” Sophia asked.

The door to the room opened. Giorgio stepped inside followed by the man in uniform who’d brought them to the room. Mo held up a hand to let him know if he tried to intervene, she’d take him down too. This was her fight. Yes, Aleksi was their son but, as his mother, she felt more responsible for putting him in harm’s way. He’d been inside her body, growing and changing her in ways she would have never anticipated.

Sophia charged, baton extended. Mo detached the blade from the band of her sports bra and met Sophia halfway. She took three blows—side, thigh, and forearm, so she could get close enough to lodge the blade into Sophia’s shoulder. Before Sophia had a chance to cry out, Mo retrieved the blade and sunk it into its next position—Sophia’s lower left flank.

They broke several feet apart. Mo felt beat up but Sophia looked it.

“You brought a bat to a knife fight,” Mo said, trying for a laugh but the pain in her rib wasn’t having it.

“Is baton,” Giorgio called out. “Is not—”

“Not now, Gio!”

Sophia covered the wound in her side with her hand. “Giorgio taught you to do that because Otto taught him. You missed, though, if you were looking for an artery.”

Mo started after Sophia. “I wasn’t.”

They met each strike blow for blow, Mo’s blade hitting the steel of the baton. She didn’t have much left in her. Inhaling felt like hell, her limbs were burning, and she was pretty sure she didn’t have it in her to kill this woman. She already felt past the point where she’d be able to pick up her son and not envision all the blood she’d shed and caused on his onesie.

Sophia swung the baton at Mo’s head. Mo angled so that it brushed off her cheekbone. She then grabbed the baton, pulled it away from Sophia, and tossed it in Giorgio’s direction should Sophia feel the need to retrieve it.

“Bitc—”

Mo dropped the knife, grabbed Sophia around the throat, and pushed her backward until her head smacked against a wall. Sophia tried to strike out but Mo dodged the blow, formed a fist with her free hand, and rocked it against the side of Sophia’s face. With each blow, she saw her innocent little boy and the life she’d willingly brought him into. Every ounce of frustration she’d felt over the last couple years culminated in that moment.

“I want this to be over!” She pulled Sophia off the wall only to ram her back against it, Sophia’s head bouncing off the concrete. “I’m sick of this shit. I didn’t ask for it! Leave my fucking family alone!”

When she released, Sophia slumped to the floor. Then, Mo realized she hadn’t exactly released. Giorgio was behind her, her wrist in his grasp.

“Fuck!” Screaming, she dragged away from his hold and crouched, folding over. “I can’t do this anymore, Gio. I can’t. Not to my baby. Not to my family.”

“This is finished,” he reassured her, motioning to Sophia. “And Bez, I follow you in tunnel in Russia. I have done this to our family, not you.”

“But I didn’t have to let you play with my titties and then go with you to your hotel room,” she argued. “I could have just walked away.”

A sound rumbled throughout the room. When she looked up, he was laughing. He still didn’t do it often even after all this time. His smiles had become more frequent, however. He’d had little to no reason to laugh for most of his life so it made sense it was still awkward.

“Why are you laughing?” A tear tickled her cheek. “I’m serious. I could have just walked away. Not all this is your fault.”

“You did leave me, Bez.”

“But I never stopped thinking about you.”

“I know. Come, my love.” He held out a hand.

It was the first time he’d ever called her his love in English.

She grabbed his hand and pulled herself up, wincing when her body brushed against his. The humor left his face.

“Do you want her dead, Bez?”

She glanced at Sophia, swollen, bruised, and unconscious. “I don’t have it in me anymore, Gio.”

“I have, in me.” His eyes glowed in that way she was familiar with, like a lightbulb with a short, flickering between light and dark.

“There is another option,” the man in uniform, who’d remained the entire time, spoke up. “We can take care of her for you, Mr. Gio. It’s the least we can do for having the Wagner estate distributed to us, our families, and the places that need it the most.”

Giorgio toppled Mo into his arms.

“Gio did what?” she asked.

“I explain another time,” Giorgio said, turning to the man. “You handle. I have to take my wife now.”

She let her head fall into the crook of his neck as he carried her from the massive house. At some point, she fell out from exhaustion because the next thing she knew, she was waking up in the private jet’s bedroom. Her injuries had been tended to and Giorgio was sitting in a chair in the seating area at the other end of the room, watching her.

“Why aren’t you in bed with me?” she asked, grimacing as she sat up.

“That is reason.” He motioned to her with his chin. “I will hurt you.”

“I want you next to me. I want you inside,” she hissed, “me.”

Giorgio shook his head, eyes rolling, and leaned back in the chair. “Stubborn woman.”

“It’ll help me heal faster.”

He sent her a look.

“Fine.” She lay back down on the pillow. “I’m going back to sleep for a bit.”

“I want to go,” he said.

Mo craned her neck to look down at him. “Go where?”

“Italy.”

#12 – GIORGIO’S MOTHER



04/10/2020

“This is exactly what we needed,” Larke said, face to the sun. “A trip to the Italian countryside with our family-friends.”

Mo held Aleksi in her hands as he splashed in the pool. “Thanks for coming. This . . . is big.”

Due to the current crisis and quarantines across the globe, I have extended this series. I hope to see you all along for the ride. Let’s all work together to stay safe and healthy

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight – Update

Hi loves!

Things . . . are . . . crazy.

I don’t know if you’re like me and feel sort of stuck in this weird “don’t panic” and “you’re not panicking enough” limbo, but that’s where I am. With everything that’s been going on, I hope everyone is doing all right, washing their hands, and social distancing when possible. I have immediate family members who fall within that very high-risk category and being asthmatic myself, I’m taking a few extra precautions. Still, I’m more focused on making sure I do my part to make sure no one gets sick because of me and has to face the reality of losing a loved one. You all are like my extended family. We’ll only get through this one way, and that’s together.

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I know episodes of the “The Darkest Knight” usually drop on Mondays; however, this week, I’ll need to push back your GioMo fix to Friday. This will give me time to finish The Shadow. Right now, we need art to help us get through, and I want to make sure you all have creative content to consume. But, I’m also in the same boat as many of you who are now having to tap into our grandmothers’ and great-grandmothers’ genes when it comes to making ends meet!

It’s been an adjustment period. There are those of us with anxiety and/or depression, and even those who, for the first time, might be experiencing feelings of panic, hopelessness, and despair. Don’t forget that these are circumstances many of us have never seen, and things will get worse before they get better. Be kind to yourselves during this period. We are only human. Lean on virtual relationships, open your curtains, and be courageous enough to be vulnerable. Allow yourself to feel angry and then peel back the layers of that anger to determine how to adjust going forward. When you find yourself wanting to give yourself a hard time, think about how those words would sound if you used them on a loved one.

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Like I said, we can only get through this together. I will do my best to give you all something to take you away from reality, even for a little bit, over these next few weeks/months. Know that, behind this computer screen, I’m confused and anxious and have days where writing just isn’t on the docket. And there are also days where I have to avoid tying down my father because he won’t keep his a$$ in the house.

I’m in this with you.

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Alex

The Darkest Knight #10

A LITTLE CITY CALLED POZZA

Online Only. Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. Mature (18+) audiences.

Read Episode 9 here.



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Mo glanced across at Giorgio to see if he looked even a little worried, but his head was down. They’d exchanged the van for an SUV, and she felt guilty that the rest of the team had to get involved in their family matter, but she would have done the same for them.

His elbows were bent on his thighs and his hair hung forward. It had gotten longer. He usually didn’t like for it to get longer than it was when they met. Over the years, she’d learned that because of his impoverished and destitute childhood, he liked to indulge himself in certain luxuries. An expensive haircut was one of those luxuries. It helped to negate the nights he’d spent itching from the lice sucking on his scalp, the days he’d had to escape just to dunk his head in a creek because his hair was so matted, and the weeks he would go with his hair falling out in soft clumps due to malnourishment.

They’d gone back to where Tayler had been hiding out with the boys. Larke, Dez’s wife, had joined her. Julien and Ari were still overseas. Huang was still in the area, lying in wait as usual, and Joel . . . no one knew where Joel was. They all just hoped he was okay.

They’d rehabbed their injuries and spent some time with their son. Giorgio, despite agreeing that she could go with him to meet this old woman, had tried to get her to stay behind. And, she’d considered it. She was a mother now. From what she understood, some things were deemed no longer acceptable once a woman said “yes” to motherhood. The problem was, she’d never been one for the normal, the conventional, or the “supposed to.” The woman had sanctioned the abduction of her son. It wasn’t something she could take lightly, lying down, or back home hoping Giorgio could handle it all and come home to them.

“I hear the words in your head,” he said, head still down.

Smiling, she leaned back against the interior of the SUV. “You ‘hear’ my thoughts?”

“You worry.” He lifted his head and flipped his hair back out of his eyes. “‘When it will end’ is what you ask to yourself. It is what I ask.”

It was the first time she’d ever heard him contemplate them both taking a step back from their chaotic lifestyles. “I am starting to crave a life, even for a short while, where we don’t have to face madmen stalkers or piranha-infested waters. I mean, Aleksi’s a baby now so he doesn’t really care too much about what’s going on. One day, he’s going to get older. He’s going to start asking questions.”

Giorgio turned his attention to the window. “Ya znayu. I know this.”

“So what do we do?”

“I do not have these answers, Bez.”

She nodded. “I know. Neither do I.”

They continued the ride in silence, her falling asleep sometime in between. When she woke up, her head was on Giorgio’s lap. His thumb was stroking the fine hairs behind her ear and down the column of her neck. She pretended to still be asleep a few moments longer, taking the time to enjoy the gentle caresses before they walked, face first, back into carnage.

The doors opened. Giorgio’s thumb moved to the side of her face.

“We are here, my Bez.”

Helmine Wagner and who Julien had identified as Sophia Bayeux had hightailed it back to Germany after receiving word the California complex had been infiltrated. A federal investigation had been opened, and Julien uncovered that there were several additional “breeding” communes in the US and the UK. He was still working with officials in other countries to help ID the rest.

They stepped out of the SUV and were transported to a private plane. They boarded and, almost immediately, Mo fell back into another deep sleep in the jet’s single bedroom. This time, as if finally feeling they were safe enough to allow sleep, Giorgio pulled her into his body and drifted off.

* * * * *

The Wagner estate was located just outside Berlin. According to the articles Mo scrolled through as they rode from the airport, it had been around since the earlier part of the twentieth century. Otto’s father, who’d garnered his wealth by dabbling in oil and munitions, had started the construction. After the war, everything ceased. It sat empty, with the exception of vermin and squatters for decades thereafter and didn’t see any improvements or renovations until after the fall of the Berlin Wall. To Mo, it looked a lot like Buckingham Palace. Otto had probably modeled it after a castle having seen himself as royalty over the decades. She would have preferred his life cut short after being sentenced to death after a trial in Nuremberg.

Helmine knew they were coming and, had it not been for a single sentence, they would have never agreed to this formal meetup: “If you let me live, Giorgio, I will tell you about your mother.”

“You okay?” Mo asked, glancing over at Giorgio. He was way too big, even for the large Mercedes wagon that picked them up at the airport.

He sent her a look.

“I’m allowed to ask that question, even to you,” she defended.

Giorgio never talked about his mother. Granted, he’d never met her or had a clue who she was, but he never talked about wanting to know or find out. He didn’t seem to hold any malice or contempt, whether ill-placed or not, toward the woman. Instead, he seemed content with how he’d come into the world as if, after years, he’d finally made peace with it. Therefore, it had come as a surprise that he’d agreed to Helmine’s offer.

He returned his attention to the window. She took his hand and slipped her fingers between his. He didn’t look at her, but he squeezed.

They passed lakes, long stretches of green, and stone structures. Mo found herself wandering what the trees had seen over the course of their lifetimes out there in the hidden landscape, away from prying eyes that could wield judgment.

The driver slowed at the entrance gate to the estate. An armed guard peered inside the vehicle before motioning them through.

“I will say this,” Giorgio spoke up, in Maōri. “To see that this is where Vater would rest his head at night after where he kept boys he claimed to love, it gives me a different kind of hate.”

The car stopped in front of the opulent structure. The driver started around for the door, but Mo pushed it open and stepped out. It was frigid on this side of the world, so she’d gone for fleece-lined leggings, a skirt, fitted sweater and leather jacket, and boots—things she could stretch in should the need arise. Giorgio looked the most casual she’d ever seen him in all black—sweater, pants, boots—with a gray coat thrown over the outfit. It was a pairing so sexy with his dark hair and features, she was starting to consider leaving California for the sake of seeing him in winter clothes more often.

They were escorted inside. A man in uniform attempted to take their coats, but the look Giorgio shot him let him know they weren’t there as overnight guests. That avenue shut down, he escorted them down a long hallway to a room where Helmine sat behind a desk, the Sophia woman standing behind Helmine’s left shoulder.

“Please, have a seat.” Helmine gestured to a pair of chairs on the other side of the desk.

Mo and Giorgio remained standing.

“You need to talk to him,” Mo said, pointing to Giorgio. “That’s one part of the agreement. If I recall well enough,” her gaze landed on Sophia, “there was another part.”

Sophia’s mouth pulled up into a smile. “You know, when I started all of this, my only goal was to kill the Auserwahlte,” she said. “But, if you insist, I can add you to that list.”

The uniformed man returned. He reached, as if to take Mo by the elbow, but Giorgio grabbed his hand and squeezed until the man’s face turned crimson and his knees bowed.

“Do not touch,” Giorgio warned.

The man nodded.

Giorgio released.

“Miss Bayeux, Mrs. Pozza, if you’ll follow me,” the man said, motioning.

Mo pulled Giorgio in for a quick hug. “I know, I know . . . I’m the wife of a beast,” she said.

Giorgio smiled. “And more, Bez.”

She pressed a quick kiss against the side of his face and followed the uniformed man. Sophia walked beside her.

He took them to the other side of the mansion to a sweltering, empty room. Mo went to one corner, shrugging out of her jacket and pulling her shirt off over her head, while Sophia took the other, doing the same.

“As you understand, this is the Übergangsritus, a rite of passage challenge,” the man said. “Miss Bayeux, you have challenged Mrs. Pozza—”

“Call me Mo,” Mo insisted.

The man nodded, continued. “Yes, of course. Miss Bayeux, you have challenged Mo to a fight to the death. Mo, you have accepted. This will be hand-to-hand combat only. No weapons.”

“I don’t need any,” Sophia boasted.

“Any questions?”

Mo shook her head. Sophia flicked her hand in the man’s direction.

“Okay, then.” The man’s audible gulp echoed around the empty room. “Do your best.”

* * * * *

Helmine’s bony fingers came together on the desktop, her gaze like a laser in Giorgio’s direction. “Your mother was the youngest daughter of the woman my husband swore, one day, he would kill. She was from a little city in Italy called Pozza . . . ”

#11 – ÜBERGANGSTRITUS



03/30/2020

The back of Mo’s head felt like a stretching rubber band. “Thought the rules said no weapons?” she asked, looking up at Sophia.

Sophia shrugged. “I grew up rich. I have never not had what I wanted, so I do what I want. Rules do not apply to me.”

A smile pulled at Mo’s cheek. Steel poked her in the sternum.

Due to the current crisis and quarantines across the globe, I’ll be extending this series. I hope to see you all along for the ride. Let’s all work together to stay safe and healthy

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight #9

A MISCREATION, A DEMON

Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. This one contains some gore. Mature (18+) audiences only.

Read Episode 8 here.



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Mo shook her head again, each movement side to side like she was juggling a bowling ball. When her head tipped right, she spotted a lamp.

And it was within arm’s reach.

“Why so quiet?” the guard asked, brushing the side of his face against hers, his tongue wetting her earlobe. “What about all that talk you had earlier?”

He made his way down her body.

She felt lips against her stomach.

She gathered as much strength as she could, gripped the lamp base, and swung it at his head. It was a pitiful swing, like a slap from a piece of cooked spaghetti, but it apparently did what she’d intended. It crashed against his skull and knocked him off the bed where he proceeded to get further knocked out by the wooden floor.

Dazed and under the influence of some kind of tranquilizer, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress. After three tries, she made it to her feet and shuffled toward the door, using the wall for stability. She tried the handle only to find it locked from the outside—no surprise there. No way would they have made it that easy for her to get out. She hadn’t exactly gone willingly into the entire situation.

The only other way out was through the open sliding doors and the dark, mystical body of water that lay just one step down from a small ledge. If she’d been otherwise not hopped up on meds, it would have been easy to swim across it to the embankment on the other side. However, in her current condition, drowning was inevitable. Her arms and legs were so heavy, they’d pull her under almost immediately.

“Come on, Mo. Think.”

The guard on the floor moaned. She stumbled over to where he lay, dragged the lamp from the bed, and dropped it onto his head. The porcelain base smashed against the sweat-dampened tendrils of his hair, and he released a long groan before slipping back into unconsciousness.

She searched his body and found a combat knife, string that he probably kept to use as a garrote, ammo, and a 9mm pistol.

“I guess you brought these just in case you couldn’t physically overpower me?” she asked his lifeless form. She secured the knife under her top, tied the rope around her wrist, and then checked the chamber of the pistol. It was fully loaded.

A loud thump against the door had her dragging herself down to the floor to hide behind the bed.

“What was that?” a voice called from the other side of the door. “Dmitri, you should be finished by now.”

Mo looked down at the first man, the so-called Auserwahlte. “That was like, what, five minutes? You’re no ‘Chosen One,’ Dmitri.”

Keys jingled. The handle rocked. The door pushed open and a woman dressed like a nurse from an earlier decade—white apron, cap, stockings—stepped into the room. “Dmitri, what was that noise I heard?”

Mo rose from the other side of the bed, using one hand on the mattress to push herself up, the loaded gun in the other. “Don’t scream.”

“How are you moving around right now?” the nurse asked, examining her from head to toe.

Mo lifted a shoulder. “Sheer will to get the hell out of here.”

“You won’t.”

“Try me.”

As if just noticing the gun that had been pointed at her the entire time, the nurse’s already large eyes went even rounder. Her lips, like two thin sheets of pink paper, parted. Her skin paled.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked.

“I don’t want to,” Mo said. “Well, scratch that. I want to, but I would prefer not to.”

“I’m just a nurse. I watch over the girls to make sure their pregnancies go smoothly. If you kill me, they’ll have no one.”

“Catch me on a day when I care.” Mo lowered the gun and fired a round off into the woman’s foot.

The nurse cried out and crumbled to the ground, her hands lowering to wrap around her increasingly bloodied shoe.

“You guys abducted me from my home.” Mo slowly made her way over to the other woman. “You threatened my husband and child and you want me to show mercy?”

She checked to make sure the nurse didn’t have any communication devices, and then made her way through the door out into a long, empty hallway. It felt like standing in the middle of an asylum. It was, at least, lit well enough that she could make out a door on each end. When they’d brought her from her room, she remembered the bed having to bank a right to get inside, which meant they’d come from the left. Since that wasn’t the way she was going, she dragged her body toward the door on the right.

The adrenaline from her encounter with the guard and the nurse had helped to push whatever drug they’d administered through her system, so she felt slightly lighter than she had a few moments ago. It still felt like she was wading through waist-deep water, however.

A staircase greeted her through the righthand door, sloping uphill. As she made her way up the walkway, voices rose behind her.

“The assassin woman escaped!”

“Which way did she head?”

“Shut down the entire complex.”

The last command stopped her dead in her tracks.

“We have a major problem heading this way from the gates.”

Gio. It had to be him. It was probably why the halls were empty. He would have to be contained. Heaven help them if he didn’t come alone.

At the top of the stairs, she pushed at what looked like a basement door, but the heavy wood barely budged. Through the slit, she spotted a padlock.

“Damn it!”

She couldn’t shoot at it, not in this small of a space.

She shoved again. Maybe someone on the outside would notice. Even if they didn’t intend to help her, if she got them to unlatch it, she’d be able to overpower them. Hopefully.

“Hey, is anybody out there?” she called. “Hey, open up!”

A bullet shattering wood caused her to jump backward. At the bottom of the stairs were two men with guns pointed in her direction.

“You can’t shoot in here!” She motioned to the space. “You’ll kill all three of us.”

“Then come to us,” one of the men shouted.

Above her, the door rattled.

“I don’t want to go back there.” She mustered as much emotion as she could, breaking and cracking the notes in her voice. “You lied. It wasn’t the Auserwahlte. It was one of your guards.”

The other man piped up. “He wasn’t supposed to be in there. It won’t happen again.”

Another rattle sounded. This one was definitely coming from the outside. Somebody was tampering with the lock.

“Put down your weapon,” the same man requested. “Come to us. We would prefer not to hurt you.”

Mo pretended to swipe a tear from her eye. “I would prefer if you didn’t hurt me, either. I don’t feel so well. I’m really tired. So very, very tired.”

The doors swung open. Light burst into the room. Both men started to put up a hand to shade their eyes but two bullets came flying into the room, lodging in their bodies. While they went down, she felt herself being hoisted by the underarms up out of the bunker.

Around her, men in uniform were firing out of the encampment at something she couldn’t see. When two went down, one right after the other, and they continued to shoot aimlessly into the abyss, she figured out at what they were firing.

She faced the person who’d pulled her out of the hole and tossed her arms around his neck. “Oh my god. Mike.”

Huang hoisted her up into his arms. “Are you okay?”

“They gave me something. A tranq or something.” More men went down around them. “Is it only Gage?”

“Nah, that’s Dez,” Mike said, starting off toward a fence that wrapped around the commune. “Gage is with Giorgio laying cover fire.”

Relief burst, sweet, in her chest. “And where is Gio?”

Huang smiled. “Having himself a good ol’ time.”

* * * * *

Giorgio stalked into the commune, a Katana in each hand. He’d completely forgotten he owned them. He’d stolen them while tracking a target in Japan around four or five years ago. Possibly seven or ten. The swords had been part of the man’s collection and too beautiful to use on their previous owner. That luxury he’d bestowed upon a rapier, mostly because he’d found it humorous to use a rapier in the twenty-first century.

“Kontsentrirovat’sya! Focus, Little Pozza!”

He could hear Godmother Irina’s voice like she was walking right next to him.

“When you lose focus, you become what he says, my Giorgio.”

Bodies fell around him, courtesy of Gage’s deadly accuracy. Somewhere.

Someone stepped into his path and Giorgio whipped the blade through the air, not caring on which part of the body it landed. As long as it was above the neck, he wouldn’t have to waste time stopping to make sure the heart was no longer beating.

“Do you remember the poem, my Giorgio?”

He rammed the sharp tip of the sword through the hollow of someone’s throat. It didn’t matter who. If they were in his way, they were trying to stop him from getting to Bez. Even if they were begging, they were in his way.

“Yes, Godmother,” he said to the specter of the only mother figure he’d ever known.

A person was within arm’s reach. He wrapped his fingers around their throat and pushed them back into the wall, squeezing and slamming until the weight against his forearms grew heavy. Then, he released and continued on.

Godmother Irina’s voice rang through his head, bouncing from ear to ear.

“There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound.”

One of his blades went up and through the soft space behind the chin of someone whose face he couldn’t make out.

“The heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness.”

His elbow connected with bone, somewhere, on somebody.

“Like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts.”

There were more bodies in front of him, running now. None of their faces, he could see. Not even when they looked back at him.

“As though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.”

Giorgio called out to the shadows of faces, in both Russian and German so they understood. “Pochemu ty beshish’? Warum rennst du? Why do you run? Is it not me you have requested?”

A low hum started in his ear. As the faces faded behind doors and cowered in corners, the hum transformed into a buzz. A voice.

“I have her. It’s Mike. I have Mo.”

He stopped mid-stride. “Yey bol’no.”

“A little help here, Gage?” Huang asked. “Dez?”

“He’s asking if she’s hurt,” Gage translated. “I think.”

“Da,” Giorgio cut in.

Then, he heard his Bez’s voice. “I’m okay, Gio. They injected me with something so I wouldn’t move, but it’s wearing off.”

Giorgio craned his neck, searching the space. He’d somehow ended up in some sort of examination room. “Inject?”

“It’s so the women won’t fight when—”

“Tell me who, and I will kill.”

“There’s three,” she said. “A Maxwell, a Thomas, a guard who threatened me earlier, and then the one who tried to force himself on me.”

She rattled off their descriptions.

He headed from the exam room. “Is four, Bez. Maybe you do not teach Aleksi to count, da?”

“The third one, save him for me,” she said. “And we agreed we’d help Aleksi with his homework until like ninth grade and then send him to Julien.”

“I remember.” He enjoyed what his body did whenever he heard her voice. It was almost never the same thing more than once. “And I will find, moya lyubov’.”

He found the Maxwell one with the Thomas one in another exam room. There was a woman on a metal table with her legs spread. The Maxwell one had his head lowered between the woman’s legs while the Thomas one stood with a gun pointed at the door.

The Thomas one was terrible with a gun which made dispatching him—Giorgio grinned as he thought about the rapier and how it would have been more appropriate for “dispatching”—rather easy. For the Maxwell one, he’d lowered the Katanas and used one of the surgical tools on him. Afterward, he kept them. He’d never used surgical tools before. They were so precise, he could write words with them. In skin. And they were so light, like a pencil.

“Focus, Little Pozza.”

He left the woman in the room, her belly a mound beneath the sheets. He wasn’t interested in reassuring her help was coming. He didn’t care enough to explain what was happening or tell her not to be afraid. She didn’t scream, and he heard her ask a question about who he was as he left, but he didn’t want to talk to her.

“Gio? Baby?” It was his Bez’s voice again, in his ear. “Dez found the guard, so you only have one left.”

Giorgio stalked through the compound until he came to the room Bez had described to him. It was the only one with water and after spotting the lake from the outside, he’d been able to figure out the layout inside that would lead him to it.

On the floor were two men. One was clearly dead, but it wasn’t his Bez’s handiwork. He knew her handiwork. He’d helped her hone it. The other one was pushing up to sit, groaning and shaking his head. His forehead was bloody, and blood had dried beneath his nose and on the collar of the shirt peeking beneath his uniform.

The man looked up. “Who the fuck are you?”

Giorgio swept across the room, lodged both Katanas just beneath the man’s clavicle, and lifted him off his feet. The man’s cries were almost musical. Pain and agony tore from his throat, a symphony. When this was over, he would need his Bez to remind him why he didn’t do this as often as he used to. Why he couldn’t do this every day.

He walked over to the open doors, lowered the man into the water, and used his boot to slide him off the edge of the blades. Shock rendered the man lifeless as his blood pooled around him, tinting the surface of the water.

Giorgio waited.

The shock subsided and the man began to thrash.

A swarm of silver rose up from the bottom like bubbles. After the first bite, the man’s thrashing increased.

He liked these fish, Giorgio realized. He’d been expecting something else—alligators, giant catfish, the Kraken—because it was the only thing that had made sense. Why there was a body of freshwater located where it was.

He turned to leave the room. “I am done.”

“We’re at the gate entrance with the van,” Dez said. “The compound’s been contained. We have a unit coming in for the pregnant women, and we should be able to find the old bat before she gets notice about the current state of their breeding factory and goes into hiding.”

Giorgio heard the words, but none of it made sense. They didn’t fully register until he reached the platform where Gage, Dez, and Huang were watching his Bez kick some man’s ass. The man had been relieved of his weapons, and by the way he couldn’t fight back even against a sluggish Bez, Giorgio knew the weapons had been the man’s only source of “power.”

He walked over, didn’t stop even when she started yelling, tugged piano wire from his waist, and wrapped it around the man’s neck.

“Gio!”

He tightened the cord.

“Gage, make him stop!”

The man flopped, thrashed, and scratched air.

Giorgio didn’t let up until all the nonsense stopped. He then stood, reattached the wire, and faced Mo. “What is thing you say when we leave house late even when is your fault?” he asked, searching for the phrase. “You say, ‘we are on’ . . . something crunchy.”

She rolled her eyes. “A time crunch.”

“Da. We do not have time for you to play, so I kill him. I will get you puppy, make it better.”

Gage hopped into the van. Dez and Huang went in a different direction. His Bez climbed into the back, so Giorgio climbed in the back with her. Less than a full second after he closed the door, she was on him, her arms wrapped around as much of the breadth of his shoulders they could manage.

He returned the hug, folding her into him.

“I will come for you always, Bez,” he said against her hair. “You are for me, only. Mine.”

She nodded, her head brushing his chin. “Yours. Always. Thank you. I’m so grateful for all of you.”

“We will take you to Tayler for fixing. We will see Little Fish. Then, you will come with me?”

She tilted her head to look up at him. “To go ahead and take out that old woman and that one bitch?”

“Da.”

“You know it.”

The van pulled off down the one-lane road. They were a bloody, disheveled mess but outside, the sky was clear and pale blue. The sun was shining, and the clouds looked like white puffs of smoke slowly dissolving. The world carried on.

“Bez, if I get you dog, I would like fish,” Giorgio bartered.

“What kind of fish?” She eyed him. “Like a goldfish?”

“Is like . . . same.” He pinched air with his fingers. “Tiny. Safe. Not dangerous.”

She searched his face. Then, her brows narrowed. “We’re not getting piranhas.”

“I never said is this fish.”

“Giorgio, are you asking about piranhas?”

He ticked his head to the side. “Is possible.”

“No.”

“You know this is what I mean, how?”

“Because I’m married to you, you’re my best friend, I know you, and . . . wait.” She raised a palm. “How is a piranha ‘same’ like a goldfish?”

“The two of them, they swim—”

“And there’s nothing tiny and safe and ‘not dangerous’ about piranhas. You know, if you hadn’t just saved my life I wouldn’t be able to deal with you right now. A piranha? Where are we supposed to keep a piranha? I love you, baby, but try to walk in our house with a tank talking about you bought . . . ”

While she continued her rant, he pulled her closer.

My Bez.

#10 – A LITTLE CITY CALLED POZZA



03/23/2020

“If you let me live, Giorgio, I will tell you about your mother.”

Two Episodes Left!

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight #8

HIGHWAY TO HELL

Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. This one contains some gore. Mature (18+) audiences only.

Read Episode 7 here.



[image error]

Giorgio stepped from the back of the van, the sunlight slicing him across the whites of his eyes. Gage tossed a duffel bag which he caught with one hand, sat it on the van’s rear bumper, and pulled down the zipper.

“Spasibo,” he said, rifling through the blades, some of them slicing open the skin on his fingers in the best of ways. He could almost smell them—the leather on the handles, the oils he used to keep them pristine, the bodies that had come before.

“It’s nothing,” Gage said. “You’ve got a whole collection. It’s not like it was hard to—”

“Nyet.” Giorgio pulled out a dagger and balanced the tip on his index finger. “Diya Aleksi.”

“Come on, mate. He’s my nephew. That goes without saying. I’d do anything for him.”

“A tvoy syn?”

“Grey? He’s good. He’s perfect. The boys are safe.”

Giorgio tossed a knife over his shoulder. Gage snatched it from the air.

They’d stopped at a location on top of a hill a little over two hours away from the farmhouse. Directions had been preprogrammed into the vehicle’s navigation system, but Gage had “pried” information about the van’s destination from the former driver anyhow just to be certain they were on the right track. However, the driver hadn’t known the purpose behind abducting Giorgio or what they would find once they reached their destination.

It didn’t matter.

Even if his Bez wasn’t here, whoever was would give him information or die. Give him information and die.

Giorgio walked to the edge of the hill and peered down. At the bottom was a valley decked out with small cottage houses tucked neatly together, each delineated by a rainbow of shingle colors on their roofs. Tall fencing surrounded the properties that sat in the center of the slope like an isolated village in Europe. There was even a body of water where a small rowboat sat although, considering the size of the body of water, there wasn’t much anybody could do with the vessel but spin in circles. A single road led the way in and out.

Gage walked up beside him and looked down. “Looks like a modern-day hippie commune.”

They were several miles off so could only make out specks Giorgio assumed were people. It went without saying that if this was where they were holding his Bez, the fence definitely was surrounded by heavy security.

It didn’t matter.

He started off on the long trek down the hill, Gage in step next to him. His fingers were sore, cracked, and bleeding, and he delighted in the sensation. Once upon a time, his Bez had hated when he killed. She’d been afraid that his need to spill blood had been part of Vater’s mechanism of control, and she hadn’t been all the way incorrect. But this? This hard, beating pulse and these steady hands? They were not under Vater’s command. They were barely under his.

He was not a normal man nor would he pretend to be. He was a deviant. A demon. A miscreation borne from a mother he would never know and a father who’d spilled evil with each release of his seed. Bez had chosen to love him and be his wife. She’d given him a son, she tucked his hair behind his ears at night when they were in bed together, and she opened up her body to him without restraint. She was his in every way—ears, lips, heart, brain, nose, throat, pussy, breasts. There was no going back for her, not even if she tried. Not even if she wanted. If he was a beast, she was his master.

So no, he was no longer in command. Everyone . . . every-fucking-one . . . all who thought they were going to interfere with him giving his woman and his child the quiet and safe life he’d vowed to provide . . . would die today.

The right side of his mouth hitched up.

 

* * * * *

 

“Why do I have to stay caged in like an animal?” Mo asked, peering out at some kind of morbid congregation of pregnant women. While she sat perched on her screened balcony, two armed guards located at each side, the other women had been allowed to gather and chat and share fruit around a firepit.

They all looked so happy, it made her sick to her stomach. They were being duped. They thought Giorgio, her Gio, was the father of all their babies. They were giggling and chattering about finally meeting him in person after seeing him only in images. From what she’d learned from Anisa, all the women were impregnated in a dark room. A tall man with dark hair was all they’d been able to make out. He spoke Russian and copulated with them. Apparently, they’d all been willing participants in the act, ready to make their mark on the world.

When she asked Anisa about the man’s voice, Anisa didn’t shiver. When she asked about the man’s smell, Anisa had said he smelled “smoky and mint-like.” Finally, when she asked about the man’s penis, Anisa had used the word “normal.”

Mo laughed to herself. One of the guards looked back. She sent him a smile sweeter than a Werther’s factory.

There was nothing normal about her man’s dick, Giorgio hated the smell of smoke so he would never smell like it, and his voice was something the woman would not have forgotten. His voice, to virgin ears, was like razors slowly being dragged along the back of the tongue, complete with the taste of blood.

She loved it, so naturally, that made her crazy.

“Hey.” Mo banged on one of the screen’s posts. “I’m serious. I want to know. Why can’t I go out and have fun?”

“You only need sunlight,” the guard on the right spat, his accent one she couldn’t place. “You are getting sunlight.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “But I can’t make friends from all the way over here.”

The left guard blew out a snort of a laugh. “You think we would let you roam free?”

“I should get special privileges,” she argued. “I’m the only one Giorgio’s truly ever knocked up.”

The right guard spun and leveled his gun at her. “Shut up.”

“I will not shut up,” she countered.

“I will shoot you first and ask for forgiveness later.”

“Go ahead, then.”

His brows narrowed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest pitched high, nearly into his neck, before lowering. When he lowered his gun and went back to his post, Mo released a silent sigh of relief. For a moment, she’d been certain he would have shot at her and dealt with the consequences later.

One of the women walked over to the screened-in enclosure. “Hi,” the woman greeted, waving and with an expression on her face that screamed naïve and easily duped. “I’m Anisa.”

The woman didn’t look like what Mo had been expecting. Her skin was flawless and the color of peanut butter. Her dark brown hair fell in curls ranging from tight to barrel sized. She was around five-four, on the slim side, and a round belly peeked from beneath her surprisingly modern linen dress.

Wait.

Mo took in the rest of the women. All of them, every last one, had brown skin.

“I love your hair,” Anisa said, pointing the straight style that was beginning to revert. “Did you do the color yourself?”

Mo shook her head. “No. God did.”

Anisa took a step closer. “Your hair is naturally blonde with your complexion?”

“Yep. There’s few of us but we do exist.”

A pout formed on the other woman’s face. “If Auserwahlte decides to take a wife, do you think he might take you?”

“Because of my hair?”

“And your face.”

The right guard scoffed. “Auserwahlte wants a woman of substance. A woman who will bow to him and take care of his every need. Not trash like this.”

Anisa gasped. Another smile spread across Mo’s face.

“Oh, you have it bad,” Mo said. “You want me.”

The guard didn’t turn.

She stood, walked to the edge of the enclosure, and placed her palms flat on the screen. “You want to fuck me,” she taunted. “You don’t like women like me, those who don’t do as you say, who don’t submit to you. From the minute you saw me, you wanted to stuff your teeny little pencil cock inside me to teach me a lesson. Shut me up.”

The gun was back in her face, closer this time and directed at her head.

“Shut up!”

Mo glanced down. “Look at that. You’re all hard for me. How sweet.”

The left guard reached out, grabbed the gun’s nozzle, and lowered its aim from the center of Mo’s forehead. “Control yourself,” he warned his comrade.

“Yes, control yourself,” Mo echoed.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you.” The right guard spat the words like they were chewing tobacco. “Just wait.”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips against the mesh. “Well, you better hope that when you give me what’s ‘coming to me,’ you kill me. If not, I . . . will . . . fuck . . . you . . .  up. Not my husband, me. And you can put that on everything.”

A bell sounded. Anisa, whose mouth was still gaping at the exchange, spun around and followed the women back inside what Mo could only describe as a compound. They all lived in individual units, but it appeared the units were connected by a series of halls and tunnels. She hadn’t detected a change in elevation when they wheeled her from the exam room she’d woken up in, but the tunnels were definitely underground.

The left guard ticked his head at her unit. “Playtime’s over. It’s time to go back inside, ma’am.”

She eyed him for a moment before spinning around and making her way back inside the studio right into a group of armed men. Thomas had returned and Maxwell stood next to him, his head lowered like a child who’d just been scolded.

“We’re going to take you for a test run,” Thomas said. “Now, are you going to come willingly or do we have to tranq you?”

Mo tossed up both hands. “Fine. I’ll come.”

The door opened. A hospital bed was wheeled in.

Thomas patted the middle of the bed. “Climb on.”

Mo made a quick note of every face she could see before climbing onto the mattress. Her arms and legs were strapped again, and they wheeled her back out into the hallway. This time, she paid close attention and felt the change in elevation when they descended underground. All the ceiling tiles were the same, and the wall paint was too monotone for her to use as an indicator, so she remained quiet and used the changes in her body.

After a few minutes of rolling, the bed stopped. A door opened. The ceiling tiles became a ceiling painted black. The monotone walls transformed into shiplap, also painted black. Soft lighting made the room less of a dungeon and more of a cozy space. A wall of sliding doors opened up to a manmade lake. It was the kind of place she would have preferred to book for a vacation with Gio.

The team, including Thomas and Maxwell, left the room. Seconds later, someone she couldn’t see reentered, and she felt a sharp prick against her neck. She immediately began to feel dazed and sleepy, like an anesthesiologist had given her every drug for her surgery except the one that would put her completely under.

She felt the straps come off, felt her body being lifted from the hospital bed to the softer, more luxurious one in the center of the room. Then, a door opened and closed and she was alone again. At least, she’d assumed. A tall, dark-haired stranger came into view at the foot of the bed.

“I have heard about you, Moana Grace,” the stranger said, in a Russian accent with a normal voice that didn’t feel like barbed wire on an open wound. “Tonight will not be about copulation. First, in order to breed the mare, she must be broken.”

She heard a belt. A zipper followed. Then, what sounded like fabric falling on wood.

“This will be so good,” the stranger went on. “I can tell just by looking at y—”

His sentence was cut short and replaced by gurgling. Her view was hazy, going in and out, but she knew that sound. It was the sound of a knife through the vocal cords.

“Gio?” Her eyelids felt like they had weights attached, but she struggled to keep them open. “Is that you?”

The dark-haired stranger was shoved out of the way. Another face came into view. It was the guard from earlier. The left guard.

His hands lowered to his waist. “Talk like you were earlier,” he urged.

Her arms were bare, but they felt heavy, like they were strapped.

“No.” She shook her head. “Please, don’t.”

He climbed over her.

She felt the hairs on his legs brush the skin on hers.

Mo shook her head again, each movement side to side like she was juggling a bowling ball. When her head tipped right, she spotted a lamp. And it was within arm’s reach.

#9 – A MISCREATION, A DEMON.



03/16/2020



ONLY A FEW EPISODES LEFT!

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com

The Darkest Knight #7

THE CHOSEN ONE

Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios. This one contains some gore. Mature (18+) audiences only.

Read Episode 6 here.



[image error]

When Mo opened her eyes, she felt something cold against her back. Her legs were numb and propped up in stirrups. Her arms were strapped along her sides. An oxygen mask covered her face and someone was visible down between her parted legs, pulling a long cotton swab from a plastic pouch.

“Are you familiar with the 1936 Olympics, Moana Grace Pozza?”

She tugged on the restraints, the frilly sleeves of an ugly nightgown they’d slipped onto her body sliding along the leather.

The person turned around. Green scrubs peeked from beneath his white lab coat. She couldn’t tell his age just by looking at him. He didn’t have lines or wrinkles in his skin, but silver hairs peeked between the blond ones on his face.

“You’re not getting out of those.” He nodded toward the tight straps securing her wrists and forearms. “Now, answer the question. Are you familiar with the 1936 Olympics?”

Mo’s gaze darted around the room, behind his head, and then down at the straps.

“Quiet today, hmm?” He turned, back facing her again. “If not the Olympics, then maybe you are familiar with the study of eugenics?”

From what she could see, the room was windowless, white, and sterile. The scent of rubbing alcohol sanitized the air. The table she was lying on felt made of metal, surgical instruments were on a counter next to where the man worked, and a light at the end of a flexible tube was pointed between her legs. She needed to get to those surgical tools. All she required was something that could cut through the leather on her arms and then pierce human flesh. An eyeball.

“You’re American,” she pointed out. It was the first non-German accent she’d come across since the entire fiasco began.

His shoulders moved as he laughed. “Well, yes. What did you expect, German? The study of eugenics used to be more widely accepted, even in the United States. Nazi experiments turned it into the perversion it’s known for today.”

He spun back around and lowered the swab between her legs. She groaned when she felt the uncomfortable sensation in her lower abdomen, a pressure reminiscent of a routine gynecological exam.

“We want to make sure you’ll be free of any infectious illnesses,” he explained, nonchalant as he placed the swab in a vial. “I’m also testing your cervix and the strength of your pelvic cradle.”

She continued her perusal of the room. “Are you going to try to sterilize me?”

“Sterilize you? No, Moana Grace. There are things about your people that are still useful, and there are things about you, specifically, that are like a scientific discovery. You are a magnificent creature.” His lids lowered. “I can see how the child who was raised to be a monster was reduced to merely a man because of your presence.”

A laugh climbed its way from her throat. “You think Giorgio’s no longer a monster? Because of me?”

“He’s not the same boy from the woods. He’s not the same man who killed on command, killed because he couldn’t help himself.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s not.”

The man reached for a container from the table and poured liquid between her legs. Mo gritted her teeth at the hot pain that vibrated through her entire being, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a scream.

“Hot water and alcohol,” he said.

It felt like she was in labor, all over again. “I’m going to pour that same mixture down the tip of your penis once I’m free of this.”

He put away the container and walked around to the side of the bed. His gaze lingered on her breasts, and his demeanor slowly transitioned from professional to something darker. Something salacious. It was just like a man to have a woman strapped on her back and legs wide and can’t help but want to stick his dick in her.

“You’re so strong,” he said, gaze still fixed where her breasts were slightly visible in the sheer nightgown. “I’ve always been fascinated by your race’s wombs. Your son, Aleksi, we didn’t think he would ever be a possibility. We didn’t think Giorgio would ever have children. Lord knows we tried to bait him—blondes, redheads, brunettes with a touch of auburn. It appears we were way off when it came to what would break him.”

Mo turned away. “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather not hear about all the women my husband had sex with before me.”

He trailed a finger from her collarbone down to the top of her breast, stopping just before his fingertip grazed her nipple. His tongue streaked across his bottom lip, and he tapped the finger as if contemplating whether to descend.

“Maxwell, she’s not here for you.” Another man’s voice came bursting into the room. The new man pushed “Maxwell” out of the way and stood over Mo. “Did he hurt you?”

This man was definitely younger, probably in his early to mid-forties.

“No,” she answered.

“Did he touch you?”

She glanced at Maxwell. “A little.”

The man shot a glare over his shoulder. “I’ll be taking her now. You’re done for the day.” He brought his attention back to her. “I’m Thomas. Relax. You’ll be fine.”

“Thomas” maneuvered around the bed. She heard something unlatch. He then moved to the bottom and started pushing, the bed rolling toward the entrance he’d used to barrel his way into the room. Maxwell watched, unmistaken longing on his face as they left the room and entered a corridor just as sterile as the room had been.

Thomas didn’t try to engage in conversation; he simply pushed her down the hallway until sterile turned into soft blue walls, minimalist artwork, and wooden doors. Even the air felt warmer, and as the bed rolled, she noticed the floors transition from tile to hardwood.

“This is your room,” he said, stopping to push open a door. He then wheeled her inside, the door shutting behind them.   

They were in some combination of what looked like a studio apartment and a nursery. There were animal prints on a wall overlooking a wooden crib, changing table, and dresser. The adult furniture was modern and looked high-end. A seating area sat tucked next to a small kitchen. There was even a decent-sized window and screened-in balcony.

Where the hell am I?

Thomas took a step back from the bed. “We’ve done lots of research over the years, and we’ve found that immediately taking the baby from its mother hurts the baby’s growth,” he said, answering some unspoken question.

Mo’s skin prickled like ice picks were being dragged along its surface. There was no way he could be, but she couldn’t help but ask. “Is Aleksi here?”

“Not yet.” Thomas looked toward the door. “You can’t hide him from us, you know. We have Giorgio, so whoever you left your son with, we will find them, and we will kill them.”

Mo smirked. “You guys really didn’t do your research.”

She heard the door open, felt the room fill with bodies. Several men and women entered, surrounding where she lay. All of them held guns in their hands. She wanted to laugh and even did laugh, a little.

“I’m going to release your restraints now,” Thomas said. “Behave. They have orders to shoot to kill.”

Mo glanced around the room. “If you kill me, how will you get your babies?”

“You are a twin. A twin who’s not as ‘talented’ as you are.”

She wanted to kick back a response but refrained.

“Behave,” Thomas repeated, walking toward the bed.

She let them undo the straps, guns aimed at her from all angles.

She let them leave her in the room that smelled like baby powder with the stuffed animals and patchwork quilt.

She behaved.

Mo tucked herself in a corner of the room and tilted her head back against the wall. Though she couldn’t find them, she knew there were cameras watching her. At the very least, Aleksi and the boys they’d rescued from Vater’s shack in the woods were safe. They were staying at an orphanage Giorgio bought, renovated, and took ownership of. They’d vetted the staff together and had Julien and Huang set up the security. Not even presidents, chancellors, or prime ministers had automatic clearance into the place that reminded her of a storybook land.

“Hello?” A muffled voice sounded through the wall. “Is somebody there?”

“Who’s asking?” Mo called back.

“My name is Anisa. Your room’s been empty since I got here. What’s your name?”

Mo did another quick sweep for cameras. A red light flickered on the wall furthest from her, partially obscured by a hanging plant in a vase. “How long have you been here, Anisa?” she questioned.

“At least thirty weeks,” the woman said.

“Thirty weeks?” Realization snaked through her. “You’re pregnant.”

“Yes. Thirty weeks along. I was here before that, but I don’t remember much else before the baby.”

The red light flickered again, twice in a row. “How did you get pregnant, Anisa?”

“I was in a room. A man came in.”

Mo scraped a hand over her face. “That’s some Handmaid’s Tale shit right there, Anisa.”

The other woman laughed. “I miss TV shows, but we do get recreation time. Plus, this place is much nicer than what I used to live in. There are five women here. Six now, including you.”

“And all of you are pregnant?”

“Yes. Soon, you will be too.”

Mo rolled her eyes. “I’m not staying here, Anisa.”

“That’s what the last woman said. There were six of us before.”

Well, that “last woman” wasn’t me.

“It’s not so bad,” Anisa went on. “They treat us well, the food is good, and we all have a special purpose. A higher purpose. We are carrying the children of the Auserwahlte.”

Mo pushed onto her knees. “Come again?”

“It means ‘the chosen one’ in German. We are carrying his seed and soon, we’ll finally get to meet him.”

“That’s impossible.” One, her husband wasn’t the man who’d “come in” the room where this woman had been impregnated. Two, there was no way they’d been able to get their hands on Giorgio’s semen, not when she milked him dry with every chance she got. Hell, he’d barely wanted to give her any to try for another baby after they lost the one before Aleksi.

“It’s very possible,” Anisa countered, and she pictured the woman rubbing her belly. “He will be here soon, they have told us. I hear he’s very handsome.”

Just when she thought she’d be getting a partner-in-crime, Mo realized this woman was way past brainwashed. Getting out of here would be a one-woman job but, brainwashed or not, she wouldn’t be able to leave this woman, or the others, behind.

She lowered back onto the floor and tilted her head back against the wall. “Tell me everything I need to know, Anisa,” she requested. “And tell me more about this ‘chosen one.’”

 

* * * * *

 

Giorgio watched the bodies that surrounded him through partially closed eyelids. At his side, his hands sat completely still. His chest barely moved with each breath. There were four of them, two masked and the other two with the black fabric pulled up, displaying their faces. They were smiling and laughing. Joking. Playing air guitars. Highway to Hell blasted throughout the interior of the van. They were having a good time because they assumed he was under the influence of something that would warrant their ability to relax. However, whatever it was, it had already made its way through his system, burned through by his metabolism. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t protect them any longer.

From the way his body felt, light and unbalanced, he could tell his weapons had been removed. So sad for them that they had seen him fight with blades so much, they forgot, once upon a time, he did not need them.

He pushed up and shot out a fist at the nearest body, his knuckles smashing against a windpipe. A gasp rose in the air as the tube collapsed, and the desperate intake of air sent a familiar trill of satisfaction over the hairs on his arms.

He grabbed another body, by the back of the head this time, and smashed it into the side of the van once then twice until it slumped to the ground when his fingers unfolded. A third person, one of the two unmasked men, pulled a blade from his clothing, and the satisfying trill covered Giorgio from head to toe when his eyes landed on the beautiful steel.

“Krasivaya,” he said, eyes flicking to the weapon.

The man maneuvered toward him, swinging with what would have been aim and precision had his opponent been someone else. Giorgio dodged the attack, reached around, and grabbed the blade’s handle in one hand and the man’s wrist in the other. He flipped the knife around in his hand and then brought it to the man’s throat, slicing from one end of the man’s clavicle to the next.

Blood splattered his clothing, tinting his vision. He pushed back against the smell of it, the feel of the metal in his hand, the compulsions. The last man watched him, the hollow of the man’s neck racing. Giorgio could almost hear the man’s thoughts: He’s not supposed to be awake. Why’d they only leave me with three others? Is he going to kill me?

Giorgio nodded. “Da.”

The man reached his left hand toward his waist. It was stupid to try to shoot in such a small compartment, but fear made men stupid.

Giorgio grabbed the wrist. The man brought his right hand around and crashed a fist into the side of Giorgio’s head. Giorgio shook off the blow, jammed the blade into the man’s shoulder, and let it sit there while he swiped an elbow across the man’s face.

Blood and spittle went flying. The man’s cry was drowned out by the AC/DC still on full blast in the back of the vehicle.

Giorgio wrapped his hand around the man’s neck and squeezed. The man tried to scratch at his face, but he soon learned only one hand worked. The other hand flopped, useless, courtesy of the blade in his shoulder.

Giorgio didn’t release until the man’s movements ceased. He then checked the other bodies for movement. Finding none, he retrieved the knife—it was cool, he liked it—and sat along the seat near the partition separating the back from the driver and passenger seats. He kept his head down, hair falling in front of his face and moving with each twist and turn of the vehicle. Dancing.

Faithfully by Journey came on next, and a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Giorgio’s mouth like an old fisherman trying to reel in a cantankerous marlin.

The van came to a stop. He kept his head down, swaying slightly from side to side, the movements continuing even after the vehicle was shut off, taking the music with it.

The driver’s side door opened, closed. Footsteps crunched around the side of the van, stopping at the rear. Knuckles rapped on the doors in the back.

“Aye, we’re here, mate.”

Giorgio lifted his head and tossed his hair back, out of his eyes.

#8 – HIGHWAY TO HELL



03/09/2020

“Spasibo,” he said, rifling through the blades, some of them slicing open the skin on his fingers in the best of ways. He could almost smell them—the leather on the handles, the oils he used to keep them pristine, the bodies that had come before.

“It’s nothing,” Gage said. “You’ve got a whole collection. It’s not like it was hard to—”

“Nyet.” Giorgio pulled out a dagger, balanced the tip on his index finger. “Diya Aleksi.”

“For Aleksi? Come on, mate. He’s my nephew. That goes without saying.”

“A tvoy syn?”

“My son? Grey’s good.”

Giorgio tossed a knife over his shoulder. Gage snatched it from the air.

Mo and Giorgio are from the book, “Angels and Assassins: The Dark Knight.”

Available on Amazon.com