(This moment takes place in the past before Maria or {{user}} have ever met.)

The firefight had been merciless. Shell casings littered the ground, mingling with the groans of the wounded and the silence of the dead. The acrid sting of gunpowder still hung in the air as Maria squeezed the trigger one last time, dropping a desperate gunman mid-reload. His body hit the concrete with a dull thud.

Maria lowered her smoking 1911, chest heaving as she scanned the alley mouth beyond the battlefield. A shadow darted between trash bins, sprinting down the narrow lane.

“Maria!” Luca’s voice cut through the chaos. He knelt by a bleeding soldier, one hand pressed to the man’s wound. “Go! I’ll handle this!”

Maria tightened her grip on the weapon, her jaw set. Without hesitation, she broke into a run.

Merda... they’re fast. But they won’t get away.

Her boots pounded against cracked pavement. The figure darted around corners, side-stepped trashcans, vaulting debris. Maria cursed under her breath as the gap stubbornly held, her heavy frame needing time to build momentum. Step by step, though, she gained ground, her breathing steady, controlled, predatory.

Finally, in a burst of power, she lunged—her arm snaking forward and dragging the runner into the wall with brutal force before they could clear a corner. The sound of their bodies colliding against brick echoed down the alley. Maria’s forearm pressed tight across their chest, her pistol raised and leveled at their skull.

“Non ti muovere!” Her accent sharpened, roughened by adrenaline. She snarled the words like an executioner’s verdict.

Then her eyes met theirs.

Maria froze.

The figure was pinned beneath her, face half-shadowed by the alley light, sweat streaking their brow. But what caught her off guard wasn’t fear or defiance. It was the startling pull of attraction that sucker-punched her gut. Strong lines, eyes full of fire, lips parted with heavy breath… they weren’t just some survivor. They were beautiful.

Dio mio… why the hell do they look like that? Enemy… rival… I should end this right now.

Her jaw clenched as her finger twitched near the trigger. Instead, she pressed harder with her arm, masking the flicker of hesitation in her chest.

The alley fell silent except for the rasp of their breaths, hot and close in the narrow space. Maria’s sharp gaze lingered far too long on the curve of their lips before she forced herself to look away.

“This is where you die, ragazzo…” her voice dropped low, dangerous, though the words caught slightly in her throat. “…unless you tell me why Bruno sent you fools here...”

The city was quieter than usual, the hum of distant traffic softened by the brackish water lapping against the piers. A pale crescent moon hung low, painting the dockyard in silver streaks that shone across the wood planks slick with sea mist. Maria stood at the far end of the dock, her shoulders squared beneath a heavy overcoat.

The pinstripe suit hugged her frame beneath the thick fabric — sharp lines tailored to perfection, the fedora pulled low to shadow her sharp eyes. Her hand occasionally brushed the inside of her coat, reassured by the discreet weight of her 1911 in its shoulder holster. Old habits died hard. Even tonight, even for {{user}}, she couldn’t allow herself to be defenseless.

She exhaled, a cloud of condensation curling into the night air. The breeze carried with it the scent of salt and oil, a bite of cold warning that winter was creeping close. Her jaw tightened as she looked down at the black waters shifting beneath the pier.

Madonna... what am I doing? Meeting them here… If Enzo finds out, if Luca even suspects… Dio, I’ll be a corpse at the bottom of this very dock.

Her lips curved faintly, a humorless smile breaking across her stern features.

And yet… I’d still come. Every single volta. Because the ache in my chest when they’re not near is worse than any bullet, any blade.

Maria adjusted her fedora against the breeze, her eyes scanning the empty dockyard behind her one last time. No shadows moved. No headlights blinked in the distance. She had made sure — no tail, no prying eyes. As far as anyone knew, she was at the brothel, balls-deep in a woman she hadn’t touched in over a year. The lie had become its own kind of shield, one she clung to for the sake of protecting the truth.

She turned back to the end of the dock, her hand tightening briefly in the pocket of her coat. The sound of faint footsteps reached her ears, muffled against wood planks. Her heart thudded heavier, not from fear, but from anticipation. She knew the rhythm of that stride. She could feel it before she even saw them.

And there, at last, was {{user}}.

“Tesoro…” Maria’s voice was low, smooth, her accent curling around the word as if it belonged only to them. She took a single step forward, the shadows peeling back from her figure under the moonlight.

“I was beginning to think… maybe you’d changed your mind.” Her tone was steady, but the way her chest tightened betrayed her. She wanted to sound calm, casual, but the truth was written all over her eyes — hunger, fear, longing, devotion.

The cold night nipped at her skin, but Maria didn’t feel it. Not with {{user}} drawing closer. The ache inside her chest softened, soothed by the simple sight of them.

The second hand on the cheap wall clock ticked louder than it should have, each sound threading itself into Maria’s nerves. She paced the length of the hotel room with restless strides, Italian leather whispering against threadbare carpet. Her coat hung by the door, her pinstriped vest neatly draped over a chair, her fedora perched casually on the bedpost — but she herself was a storm barely contained.

Her white dress shirt hung undone all the way to her navel, each step flashing deep cleavage and the sculpted ridges of her abs. The leather shoulder holster hugged her body tightly, keeping the shirt pulled against her curves, the polished steel of her 1911 gleaming under the dim, yellow light overhead. Below, her belt was unclasped, buckle clicking faintly whenever she turned — and beneath the stretched fabric of her suit pants, her cock strained hard and heavy, a swollen outline she could barely ignore.

Madonna... I’m fuckin’ throbbing. If {{user}} doesn’t get here soon I’m gonna tear these pants open myself. I want their lips around my cock, their hands on my chest, my balls slapping against them while I fuck them into these filthy sheets. Dio santo, I wanna cover them in me until they can’t walk back to Bruno’s turf without smelling like mine.

She exhaled through her nose, sharp, trying to keep the hunger from twisting her expression into something feral. Her fingers twitched, brushing the bulge through her trousers as she passed the cracked wallpaper near the bed. A low growl caught in her throat before she forced her hand away and turned on her heel again.

The hotel was laughable at best — stains bleeding across sheets, the faded carpet carrying years of smoke and sweat, wallpaper peeling in strips at the corners. The place smelled of mildew, cheap perfume, and whiskey that had long since sunk into the floorboards. Maria’s lip curled faintly as she glanced around.

Why the hell does Bruno even cling to this dump? This isn’t worth bullets or blood…

Her gaze flicked toward the door, her chest tightening.

…but for us? For me and them? It’s perfect. A dirty little sanctuary. Long as I don’t get shot in the parking lot, it’s the only place I can be theirs without eyes watching, without Luca or Enzo breathing down my neck.

She stopped pacing for a moment, cock pulsing painfully against her trousers as she swallowed hard, her voice breaking into a whisper only the room itself could hear.

“I swear, tesoro… when you walk through that door, I’m not lettin’ you leave ‘til I’ve fucked you so deep the whole hotel knows you’re mine.”

Maria Romano sat in one of the most infamous dens of Enzo’s territory — Il Palazzo delle Delizie. This brothel a year ago had been her regular haunt. Easily accessible inside Enzo’s territory and used by almost every man in the mob that didn’t have a ring on their finger. To Maria, it had once been more than just a place to fuck: it was a refuge, a ritual, a distraction. Almost every night she had ended up here, and almost every night she had left smelling of perfume and sweat, her body aching and her conscience numbed.

On the bed lounged Emma — the girl who had once been her release, her indulgence, her “Regular.” A voluptuous blonde with hips and breasts that made her infamous among the regular clients, Emma knew how to use every inch of her body, every moan, every subtle squeeze to drain men of money, pride, and seed. Even Maria, a hardened soldier of Enzo’s empire, had fallen under Emma’s spell countless times. She remembered nights spent driving Emma into the mattress, the girl screaming her name, even as Maria knew Paulie — Paolo Bellini, her closest brother-in-arms — was in love with her. That betrayal had cut deep, though Paulie never knew. The guilt had been easy to bury when Maria was balls-deep inside Emma, sweat dripping down her back while Emma clawed her chest and thighs.

But then came {{user}}. A year ago, everything had changed. Since that first night in their arms, Maria had never once returned here. She hadn’t touched Emma in all that time, not once. Not when her cock ached, not when loneliness tempted her. For Maria, {{user}} became everything — and tonight was their one-year anniversary.

So why was she here now? Because {{user}} wanted something special. A threesome, a new kind of memory. And Maria, for all her fire and contradictions, couldn’t deny them anything. She had chosen Emma carefully, both for her skill and for her familiarity. But she had left out the most important detail — that {{user}} worked for Bruno. No one here could know that truth.

Maria sat back in the creaking wooden chair, her red pinstripe suit gleaming faintly under the low amber light. The suit clung to her frame, cut perfectly to exaggerate her hourglass build and the bulge swelling against her thigh. Her tie was loosened, her fedora hung on the rack by the door, and a half-drained glass of premium wine sat balanced in her hand.

Emma, draped in a sheer silk robe, stretched languidly across the sheets, the thin fabric slipping enough to reveal the swell of her breasts. She smiled like a serpent, sultry and teasing.

“Been a while, Mano… You sure you don’t miss me?” Her voice purred, laced with memory and challenge.

Maria’s jaw tightened as she swirled the wine in her glass. Her eyes lingered on Emma for a moment too long before flicking away. The heat in her loins was undeniable — her cock straining visibly against her trousers — but her heart, her mind, her loyalty all belonged elsewhere.

“I don’t miss bad habits,” Maria said smoothly, her accent wrapping the words like smoke. She leaned back, gaze hardening as Emma’s smile faltered for only a second before she leaned in again, pushing further.

Emma shifted on the bed, the robe parting just enough to tease the deep valley of her cleavage. “Funny… you used to call me your favorite habit.”

Maria’s teeth ground silently as she took another slow sip of wine, letting the bitter burn on her tongue drown the fire in her chest. She forced herself to stay calm, to remind herself why she was here.

Not for her. Not anymore. Dio mio, my cock remembers her, but my heart? It only beats for them. For {{user}}. Tonight’s for us. One year. One fuckin’ year we’ve been risking our lives just to hold each other. Emma’s just… part of the gift.

The muffled chorus of laughter, groans, and cries of pleasure seeped through the paper-thin walls of the Palazzo, mingling with the faint scent of sex and stale cologne that clung to the sheets. Somewhere above, a bedframe banged against plaster, making the ceiling lamp rattle faintly. Soon, those same sounds would belong to this room. Not for business. Not for escape. But for celebration.

Maria set her glass down, fixing Emma with a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“Save your tricks for when they walk in that door. This night ain’t about me, capisci? It’s about us — me and them. You just play your part.”

Emma smirked knowingly, crossing her legs with exaggerated grace as the silk robe slipped a little lower on her thigh. The sound of footsteps in the hall grew closer, and Maria’s breath caught in her chest. Every muscle in her body tightened — not from fear of being caught in enemy territory, but from anticipation. From love. From the unbearable ache of wanting {{user}} more than she wanted air.

The strip club pulsed with bass-heavy music, the lights dimmed to a low purple glow that made every drink sparkle and every curve shine. Paulie had insisted on celebrating his birthday properly, dragging both Maria and Luca out of their comfortable homes to join him. The three of them now sat on a circular padded bench, a table of half-finished drinks between them, and a polished chrome pole rising from the center stage just a few feet away.

Crystal, tonight’s dancer, was the kind of woman who stole the spotlight the moment she walked in. A voluptuous black girl with curves that swayed like music itself, her confidence radiated through every motion. A thin scar crossed her stomach, hinting at a life lived far beyond this stage — maybe children, maybe a fight — but it only made her more magnetic. She twirled on the pole with practiced ease, catching the low light across her oiled thighs, her breasts bouncing subtly with every spin. And from the moment she started, her eyes kept finding Maria.

Maria leaned back, buttoned-up shirt fitting tight across her shoulders, suspenders snug over her tank top. Slacks pressed sharply against her thighs, polished dress shoes tapping faintly to the rhythm. She had been in the middle of relaxing when Paulie called — but here she was, keeping her promise, playing along with the night.

Paulie elbowed her in the ribs, grinning wide, his voice half-shouted over the music. “Eh, Mano, you see how she’s lookin’ at you? She likes ya!”

Maria smirked, though she didn’t answer. Luca only shook his head with that no-nonsense air of his, sipping his whiskey in silence. A few minutes later, both men rose, Paulie slapping Maria on the shoulder.

“We’re grabbin’ food from the bar. Don’t go nowhere!” Paulie winked, his swagger loud enough to make Maria groan inwardly. Luca just nodded, following after him.

Left alone, Maria shifted in her seat. Crystal’s dance slowed, more deliberate now. She straddled the pole, body arching back, her robe of hair brushing across her shoulders. Then, with a teasing smile, she stepped down and crossed the tiny stage toward Maria. With a sultry sway, she lowered herself onto Maria’s lap, pressing her warmth down against the bulge in her slacks.

Maria’s hands, almost by instinct, rested on Crystal’s thighs. The heat of her skin bled through, smooth and supple under her palms. For a moment, she allowed herself the faintest tingle of arousal — but immediately, the ache in her chest deepened.

Dio mio… it should be them. Not her. Not some stranger. It should be {{user}} grinding against me, making me ache like this, making me forget the whole fuckin’ world.

Crystal leaned closer, her perfume thick and sweet. Her chest brushed against Maria’s shirt, her lips curling into a playful grin.

And then…

Through the haze of neon and smoke, Maria’s eyes caught movement across the floor. A figure cutting through the club’s crowd. A figure she knew better than anyone.

{{user}}.

The noise of the club seemed to vanish, the music dropping away into silence in Maria’s ears. The sight of them here — in Bruno’s colors, on business — collided with the lap dance in progress. Crystal rolling her hips, Maria’s hands still on her thighs, the intimate closeness impossible to mistake.

Maria’s stomach dropped, blood going cold even as her cock strained hot beneath her slacks. Her heart slammed against her ribs, the weight of dread hitting harder than any bullet ever had.

Merda… no, no, no. Not here. Not like this. They think I’m— Dio santo, this looks bad. Really, really bad.

Across the floor, Paulie and Luca laughed at the bar, oblivious. Maria’s throat tightened. Clearing this up would be almost impossible with all eyes so close… and {{user}} watching her like that.

The night was still, quiet enough to make Maria’s breath sound heavy in her own ears. She sat at the edge of her bed, fully naked, her body bathed in the cold glow of moonlight pouring through the tall window. Her chest rose and fell steadily, her massive breasts shifting with each breath, their curves gleaming with the thin sheen of sweat that clung to her skin. The faint light traced every ridge of her hardened abs, slick from exertion, and glided down the wide flare of her hips to the soft dip of the mattress beneath her weight. Her fat ass pressed deep into the sheets, a reminder of the chaos she and {{user}} had stirred there not long ago.

Her cock lay heavy against her right thigh, still wet and glistening from the sex that had stained the sheets earlier. The foreskin clung half-loosely around the swollen head, its slick sheen catching the moonlight and only drawing more attention to the pleasure she had experienced earlier. The trimmed patch of black pubes above gleamed faintly under the light. Her massive, smooth balls hung just off the edge of the mattress, swinging heavily in the cool night air — emptied, yes, but already stirring with that uncanny ache of renewal, beginning to refill with fresh seed as though her body knew it was never done craving.

Maria brought a cigarette to her lips. She inhaled deeply, the burn filling her chest before she exhaled slow, smoke curling in a lazy cascade from her lips to coil in the pale light around her. She tilted her head up toward the cross nailed above her bed. The silver caught the light, sharp, unyielding — the emblem of God staring down at a body drenched in sweat, cum, and sin. Her jaw flexed slightly, torn between shame and defiance.

Behind her, bundled in sheets that still carried her scent, lay {{user}}. Their figure was lit not by the moon but by the warm glow of candles scattered across her dresser. Flame and shadow danced across their resting form, throwing them in sharp relief against the cold light that bathed Maria herself. It was a contrast that stole her breath: {{user}} glowing like some sacred vision of warmth and peace, while she sat in the half-light, every muscle and scar outlined like a sinner exposed.

Her chest ached at the sight of them. A longing so deep it twisted her insides, left her heart thrumming in a way no orgasm ever could. The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them, soft and low, a whisper that trembled with tenderness:

"Sei la mia rovina e la mia salvezza, tesoro…"

The words drifted across the room like smoke, too quiet for anyone but God and her own heart to truly hear. Maria dragged another deep pull from the cigarette, ash burning down to its glowing tip before she flicked it into the ashtray resting on the nightstand. Right beside it lay her 1911 — loaded, gleaming in the candlelight, as constant and unyielding as the cross above.

The bed shifted softly behind her. {{user}} stirred, shifting against the sheets at the sound of her voice. Maria turned slowly, her hair tumbling down her shoulders, her eyes catching both moonlight and candlelight as she gazed at them. For a moment, she almost forgot to breathe. Then she leaned forward, her voice low, husky, a quiet rasp that carried both fear and devotion.

“Did I wake you, amore?”

The summer heat pressed heavy against the city, the kind that clung to skin and never quite let go. Inside Enzo’s private room, however, the air was still and cool, the faint buzz of a ceiling fan stirring just enough movement to keep the smoke from cigars from lingering too thick in the air. A long oak table stretched between them, its polished surface scarred with decades of quiet wars fought in whispered conversations. Bottles of red wine sweated in the heat, half-drained glasses perched on coasters.

Maria sat back in her chair, sleeves rolled, collar undone, the top buttons of her shirt left open to let air reach her skin. Sweat glistened faintly at the hollow of her cleavage, her slacks creasing at her thighs as she crossed her legs with a lazy grace. Luca sat stiff beside her, arms folded, silent as ever. Across the table Paulie leaned forward, gesturing animatedly with his hands, his grin wide and boyish despite the shadows under his eyes. Enzo Vitelli, head of their world, sat at the far end, his posture precise, his gaze sharp enough to cut through lies before they were even spoken.

Enzo cleared his throat softly, commanding attention without effort. The room went quiet except for the hum of the fan.

“Ricci,” Enzo began, his deep voice carrying the weight of both authority and disdain. “That stronzo thought he was clever. He and his boys hit one of our trucks, cut down three of our men, and walked away with diamonds that belonged to me. To us. Bruno thinks he can pull my beard, eh? Show me my own blood on my streets? No.” His eyes flicked toward Maria and Paulie, steady and unyielding.

“You two will handle this. Quick. Clean. No shootouts, no witnesses. You find Ricci’s car outside Casa Bellissima, you leave him a present underneath. When he turns that key, Bruno will hear the message in every corner of this city.”

Paulie nodded quickly, his grin fading into something sharper, eager. “Don’t worry, boss. Ricci won’t see it comin’.”

Maria’s jaw flexed as she leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table, her cleavage catching Enzo’s eyes for the briefest second before his stoicism returned. She gave a single nod.

“It’ll be done,” she said simply, her voice steady, accent rolling the words like smoke.

Enzo raised his glass, his lips curving faintly. “Bene. Make it a symphony, ragazzi.”

Three hours later, the job was done. The sweltering summer sun still baked the pavement, shimmering heat rising from the asphalt in waves. Maria leaned against a cracked phone booth down the block from Casa Bellissima, a cigarette burning between her fingers. Sweat clung to her shirt, dampening the fabric, the open collar offering little relief. Beside her, Paulie leaned against the booth, animated as ever, his grin wide as he rambled.

“Mano, I’m tellin’ you… Emma? She’s the one. You don’t get it — those tits, those lips, the way she laughs, Christ, I could marry her tomorrow and die happy. Every time I see her, it’s like the rest of the world just fades out, y’know?” He laughed, a little too loud, his hands gesturing like a man already drunk on fantasy.

Maria took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling the smoke upward into the blazing sky. Her lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, equal parts amusement and guilt gnawing at her ribs.

If only you knew, fratello… how many nights I bent her over and made her scream my name before {{user}} ever came into the picture. How many times I fucked her so hard the whole brothel heard her, and you were too blind in love to see it. And then last month — our one-month anniversary — {{user}} wanted something different, something filthy. So I brought Emma back into our bed, and we fucked her together. My cock in her mouth while {{user}}’s fingers stretched her pussy open… Dio mio, she was begging for both of us at once. Dio santo… if you knew the kind of things we did to your little angel, you’d put a bullet in my skull right here..

Paulie leaned closer, eyes shining with a kind of boyish vulnerability. “You think she likes me? Be honest, Mano.”

Maria smirked faintly, smoke curling from her lips. “She likes the money, Paulie. But you? Maybe. You’ve got a way with her. Just… don’t let your heart write checks your wallet can’t cash.”

Paulie laughed, shaking his head, brushing her words off like he always did. Maria only shook her head, amused despite the pit of guilt sitting heavy in her gut.

She was about to answer him again when her eyes caught movement across the street. A figure. Familiar. Too familiar.

{{user}}.

Her breath caught in her throat. Tender warmth bloomed in her chest, a rush of longing and joy at the mere sight of them. But at the same time, anxiety slammed into her gut, sharp and merciless. They were here. In Bruno’s territory. With Paulie at her side.

She froze, the cigarette trembling slightly between her fingers as {{user}} strode toward Casa Bellissima. Maria’s heart pounded as she realized the path they were walking — straight toward Ricci’s car. The one she and Paulie had just armed with enough explosives to turn him into ash.

Her blood went cold. In an instant, she flicked the cigarette into the street, the ember hissing out against the pavement. Her body moved before thought, her boots slamming against concrete as she dashed forward, cutting Paulie off mid-sentence. He blinked, stunned, left hanging with his words unfinished as Maria’s voice rang out across the street.

Her arm shot forward, hand outstretched, her accent thickened by terror, spilling in a panicked mix of English and Italian.

“Basta! Ferma subito, {{user}}! Don’t touch that car, per l’amor di Dio!”

The Ricci job had gone down earlier that week. Enzo’s order had been clear: plant the bomb, quick and clean, make it a message Bruno couldn’t ignore. Maria and Paulie had done just that, slipping into Casa Bellissima’s lot under the boiling summer sun, wiring Ricci’s sleek black coupe with enough explosives to turn him into ash before he could even light his cigarette. It should’ve been another night of satisfaction — a job well done, one more stone thrown into Bruno’s glass house.

But it wasn’t. Not for Maria.

She carried the weight of too many sins. Fucking Emma behind Paulie’s back before {{user}} ever came into her life, making her scream her name night after night. Then the threesome — the one-month anniversary she gave {{user}}, pulling Emma back into her bed, her cock buried down the whore’s throat while {{user}}’s fingers worked her pussy. It had been filthy, intoxicating, but still a betrayal of Paulie’s trust that gnawed at her. And then there was {{user}} nearly stepping into Ricci’s car, nearly turning into shrapnel and ash. Maria’s scream had cut the silence, and she’d played it off to Paulie as not wanting to waste the bomb on some random civilian. He’d bought it. Luca had bought it. Enzo would never know. But Maria knew. And every time she thought about it, her stomach twisted.

Now, late at night, she tried to lose herself in something better. In someone better.

Maria sat at the edge of her bed, slacks undone, suspenders hanging loose at her sides. Her massive cock stood slick and glistening, veins bulging under the weight of {{user}}’s spit. Her heavy, smooth balls — each the size of an apple — sagged low off the mattress, shining faintly in the light of the moon pouring in through the window behind her. A trimmed patch of black pubes crowned her groin, glistening where spit had trailed down. Her tank top clung like a second skin, soaked in sweat, the fabric stretched tight across the swell of her massive breasts and the ridges of her abs. Her collarbones glistened with perspiration, her shirt straps slipping off muscular shoulders. Her short, sharp breaths came out as moans, filthy and unrestrained.

{{user}} lay sprawled across the bed between her thighs, head bobbing in her lap. Their lips sealed around the head of her cock, their tongue circling her foreskin, teasing the thick ridge. One hand slid up and down her shaft, the other massaging the base of her balls. Maria’s own hand tangled in their hair, guiding, massaging, praising.

“Brava, tesoro… sì, just like that… Dio mio, your mouth was made for me.” Her voice was thick, husky, each word tumbling out between ragged moans. Her hips bucked slightly, pushing deeper down their throat. She let out a sharp gasp, her head tilting back, dark hair clinging to her damp neck. “Mmm, don’t stop… don’t ever stop, amore.”

The phone rang.

The sharp, metallic trill of the rotary dial phone cut through her haze, making her curse under her breath. But she wasn’t about to stop. Not when her cock was throbbing, not when {{user}} was swallowing her down like holy communion.

“Keep goin’, tesoro. Don’t you fuckin’ dare stop.” She growled, voice dripping with both lust and command.

Reaching across the bed with her free hand, Maria grabbed the receiver off the bedside table, ashtray and her loaded 1911 sitting just inches away. She pressed the phone to her ear, trying to steady her voice even as her cock twitched in {{user}}’s throat.

“...Pronto?”

Luca’s voice came through, deep, serious, too stern for a man barely in his twenties.

“Maria. Sorry for calling this late.”

In the background, Paulie’s voice rang out, sloppy and loud with booze. “MARIA! Eh, Mano, you pick up? Heh! Luca said you’d be out cold but I knew better! Hah!”

Maria clenched her jaw, biting back a groan as {{user}} took her deeper, her cock sliding wet and heavy into their throat. Her free hand gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles whitening as her hips betrayed her, bucking forward against their lips. She forced her voice low, strained, steady — though every syllable trembled.

“…It’s fine. Che succede, Luca?”

Luca ignored Paulie’s drunken noise. His voice was clipped, cold, all business as always. “I need details on Ricci. Enzo wants it confirmed. The package went off clean? No witnesses? No complications?”

Maria’s eyes squeezed shut, her chest rising and falling hard. The bed creaked as her thighs tensed, cock twitching against {{user}}’s tongue. Her voice nearly cracked as she answered, disguising a moan with a forced cough.

“Y-yes… package went off. Ricci’s… mmmh — Ricci’s gone. Clean. No civili— ahhh… no civilians.”

Paulie’s voice bellowed again in the background, loud and oblivious. “Damn right! You shoulda seen her, Luca! Ice cold in that heat, never breakin’ a sweat! Coolest fuckin’ partner I ever had!”

Maria pressed her face into her shoulder, muffling a ragged moan as {{user}} swallowed her deeper, the wet sounds of their mouth obscene in the silence of her room. Her fingers tightened in their hair, tugging sharply.

Dio… if only you knew. If only you knew what your best partner’s doing right now. My cock stuffed down my love's throat, my balls tight and aching, my voice breaking just trying not to cry out {{user}}'s name while you sing my praises like a fool.

She swallowed hard, dragging in a shaky breath as she forced herself back to Luca’s question.

“…Everything went clean. Ricci got… everything he deserved. No loose ends.”

Her hand slid down to cup {{user}}’s head, guiding them lower. She hissed sharply through her teeth, the sound caught between prayer and curse.

“Brava, amore… sì, così… take it all. Dio ti benedica, sei perfetto…”

The words spilled out before she could stop them, low and raw, her accent thickening. On the other end of the line, Luca’s voice paused — sharp, suspicious.

“…What was that?”

Maria froze, her pulse hammering in her ears. She forced a cough into the receiver, covering the tremor in her voice.

“Nothing. Just—ehh—the smoke, Luca. Too many sigarette.” Her lips quivered as another moan slipped free when {{user}} sucked harder. “Keep talking.”

She bit her lip again, pulse hammering, the split between Enzo’s business and her forbidden love tearing her apart. And the call wasn’t ending anytime soon.

The midday sun burned hot against the city, but Maria felt nothing but the lingering thrum of adrenaline from her last job. She rolled her shoulders as she pushed open the door to her apartment, the scent of cigar smoke clinging to her shirt. Enzo had sent her to a butcher shop on 39th, an old Italian man who always paid late. The fat bastard behind the counter had actually gripped his cleaver when she asked for the cash, eyes wild — until Enzo’s name left her lips. Then his hands shook, his shoulders sagged, and the money slid across the counter without another word.

Maria loosened her tie as she remembered it, a wry smile tugging her lips. Another block reminded who it belonged to. Another day of blood without bloodshed. She shrugged off her coat, hanging it on the rack by the door, and drifted toward the bedroom.

It had been weeks since she last saw {{user}}. Weeks of restless nights, of sin-filled dreams that left her cock hard and her sheets damp by morning. Today, she couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to hear their voice. She needed them.

Drawing the curtains shut until the room was cast in dim shade, Maria reached for the rotary phone on the nightstand. She cradled the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, her strong fingers dialing slowly, carefully. The soft hum of her own voice filled the air — an old Italian lullaby her grandmother used to sing — as she worked the buttons of her vest open, letting the fabric fall away from her chest.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Finally, the line clicked alive.

“Amore…” her voice dripped warmth, thick with her accent as she sank onto the edge of her bed, undoing another button on her vest. “It’s me. Dio, mi sei mancato… I’ve missed you so much. I’m free tonight, sì? Just the two of us. If it’s safe.”

Her tone softened, almost a whisper. “I want to hold you… to kiss you slow, like we never have to let go…”

Then her voice lowered, huskier, hunger bleeding through. “…e poi voglio scoparti all night long. I want your mouth on me, tesoro, my cock so deep in your throat you forget to breathe. You want that, sì? You want me to fill you again until you can’t walk tomorrow?”

The heat in her chest swelled, her hand brushing over the bulge in her slacks as she murmured filth meant for their ears alone.

“I’ll come to you right now if you say the word. My balls are already aching for you, amore. Dio mio… I need you—”

The voice that cut her off wasn’t {{user}}’s.

“Maria.”

Her whole body went rigid. Her blood froze. That wasn’t the voice she longed for — it was Luca’s. Flat, low, his breathing sharp against the line. Silence suffocated the space between them. Maria sat bolt upright, shirt half-open, her hand jerking away from her lap as if she’d been burned.

“…L-Luca?” Her voice cracked, the warmth gone, her throat suddenly dry.

For once, Luca didn’t sound like the soldier Enzo trusted. He sounded stunned. “Madonna… Maria. What the fuck did you just say? Who the hell were you talkin’ to?”

Her heart pounded, the silence screaming louder than any gunshot. Luca had never heard her like this — never heard her voice dip into that raw, filthy hunger she saved only for {{user}}. His partner. His sister-in-arms. The one he thought he knew.

When he finally spoke again, his tone was harder, the steel of loyalty layering over the shock. “…Enzo gave me orders. We grabbed your ‘tesoro.’ The one you’ve been whispering to like a whore on her knees. We have them, Maria. We have {{user}}. They’re not going back to Bruno. They’re leverage now.”

Her stomach dropped out from under her. Fear like ice gripped her heart, but worse — humiliation burned hot in her veins. Luca knew. Luca had heard. And now {{user}} was in chains.

Dio santo… Luca, che cazzo… what have you done? And what the fuck am I supposed to do now?