Leashed by Luxury: Daddy’s Mob Dream for Me

XIX. Soft Power

Candlelight casts brass shadows over Emmi and me as we lounge on an ochre settee. Warm wood shelves surround us with yellowed books on mythology, philosophy, and probably s****l sociopathy. The spines are worn, the tiny font hard to read while dimly lit. Emmi got me here by asking, "Aren’t your feet aching?" Now, they're slung over her knees. She unbuckles my dainty stiletto straps like it's a perfectly normal thing to do between semi-strangers, chatting with unflappable eye contact.

I never noticed the bottle green of her eyes. How it pops and sparks like moonlit glass as her lowered voice beckons me to come closer without ever saying those words. Irises match the emerald shawl that's left of her dress. Somehow it's more obscene than being naked, framing the package in soft, sheer fabric like nobility would.

She drives her thumbs into my calve muscles, saying, "You're so tight here. Not just toned. You know, people get so offended by California talk of root chakras or grounding, but I've always found it interesting... It just makes sense to think of your legs as the pilars to your life's journey."

"I guess... I don't know anything about that hippie stuff. My family or...boyfriends were never recepetive to it."

Circling a tender spot beneath my knee, she says, "Mysticism like that can seem pretty on the nose, but some truths or connections are that simple." She looks faraway, as if trying to tug on a piece of info she heard or read somewhere. "Tension in the lower legs is supposed to indicate resistence to change, lack of stability or support. Feeling disconnected from your body, or vitality."

I swallow a cough, thinking, Well, it's not MY vitality that's up in the air. But Angel's. And angels--even Lucifer--aren't supposed to use their legs, anyway. That's what wings and other vessels, that are people and higher pow(d)ers, are for.

"Don't go running off on me, Naria," Emmi teases, caressing her knuckles down my shin. "Not like your sister. I want you very in your body tonight, feeling everything." Her gaze drifts over to Ra, standing in the archway off from the dining room, dismissing a few musicians but not all of them. "We both do."

"Is that why he keeps you barefoot?" So you can't run away, or so you feel everything?

A wider smirk, like the Cheshire cut with a Swiss knife. "I just really like these rugs," she laughs soundlessly, flexing her toes in the thick sheepskin. Her voice dwindles to dandelion puffs: "I know you're wary of Raffaele. Likely any man, and with good reason. You don't come from a den of angel--"

"We're not talking about him," I reply too defensively.

"I didn't say we were. But your calves are, your chakras or energy centers are, making you hot and cold on top of that coke..." She squeezes just slightly, making me twitch too much. "I saw how you looked when he walked out on you. But it wasn't for dead,” she murmurs so only we can hear. Almost gentle. “It’s all right. It's fine. Most of us do, the first time they leave us here.”

"'Us'? 'They'?" I quote, playing dumb.

She just bears her natural veneers, not hitting back my birdie. If I'm coy, she's coy. There's only one other girl I've met with a pimp, and she's like the annoying opposite of Emmi: all trailer park bark, pill popping, a horsey gawkiness, loud squealing in place of a laugh. But it's easier to imagine Emmi just dated for money, traded up, than had a 'manager.' Ra must be richer, more diversified in portfolio, than most any sugar daddy she could find down here.

One of us eventually has to say something, so I blurt, "You make it sound like we've washed up on the Island of Misfit Toys," working girls with greedy pimps.

She shakes her head but never that smile. "No, fate is a blessing. I love it here."

"You've made it abundantly clear." Like doth protest to much. Or not enough.

"Oh, Naria," she pats my foot, making it knock back in place like a kinetic cradle. "You're such a cynic." She scoots back, scooching comfier against the button-back, like she's about to tell me a tale. "You've heard how men are visual creatures? That they only see what we show them. Well, what I like about Raffaele is that he sees the parts of us we try to hide...and still chooses us anyway. The royal 'we.'"

See what? I want to ask, but she said being the examiner gets you the boot like Joles. Is it that he helped Emmi discover she likes being an exhibitionist, controlled in certain ways, as long as he's fufilling other needs?

"I used to think I was good at reading rooms and situations," she goes on. "But I was just cynical and skeptical, too. And Raffaele can be like that, but better. More discerning, decisive. Even if he intentionally veers you off the track, his scent... That's rare. Sometimes, being the one he decides to keep feels like the only honest thing left... Creature comforts just make it possible to stay," she finishes as if reading my mind.

She's a pick-me, a wannabe princess, and I don't mean it perniciously. It just sounds like she's been hurt before. Something I can relate to. Daddy certaintly doesn't sound cuddley enough from the outside for me to justify staying. I don't know what Ra looks like behind closed doors...but I might find out tonight. "That sounds...comforting. Nice. He takes care of you."

She nods, licking between her front teeth.

I know that wax feel from the cocaina well. How it loosens your tongue, melts you sappy.

Stretching out, noodling her neck like it's not loose already, she murmurs, "And if your daddy doesn't take care of you...maybe Ra and I can."

Swallowing the tight feeling in my throat, I smooth my dress and face out. Everything feels a little too close to the skin, like I'm sideswiping dry brush on a sunburn before it scratches. My tongue snakes around my mouth as if mapping out desert cracks.

Before I can deflect, Emmi's hand rises to settle lightly at the side of my neck, thumb brushing just under my jaw. A small, testing touch. Flirty in its confidence, not coercive. She leans in just enough that her blue mint breath sweeps my cheek. “You don’t have to perform for us right now,” she says. “He doesn’t need your polished version tonight.”

Yet that sets my heart strumming like the strings left unseen to score our foreplay from the next room. My gaze jumps around the cozy study. Ra flanks the unkindled fire, surveying, head slightly tipped, lids at half mast, astute or arrogant.

When his pet glances over for confirmation, he proffers the smallest permission--or instruction.

He slowly crosses the room. Something military about his straight-leg gait, the copper color pants.

Doesn't reach for me, but Emmi's hand to peck. A pace away, close enough for me to shudder at the cool gravity of him, he looks at me the same way he had the oyster earlier: not indifferent, but assessing an object--or a potential asset.

“You’re getting along well," he says dryly of Emmi and me as she shifts to rest her head against the side of my shoulder. She curls close, loosely looping her hands around my elbow. "Enjoy yourself, Naria." His cadence is measured as ever, but somehow less spiky. “No one is asking you to earn anything...for the next hour.”

Good, I think. Let me larp as a freeloader for a minute, like Daddy, whom I miss only a little. I wanted to be close under the covers with him now. More comfort than claim. Charged with more chemistry and charm than the carnal. But I probably wouldn't get that at home.

Worth a shot here?

I'll drink to that, wish on a salted martini rim.