THE ROMP
1307 Words
Mariana stepped out of the Maybach like she owned the city.
Every layer of her looked picture perfect.
Tapping the sun drenched pavement were her stiletto heels that sounded rhythmically like a metronome.
Men looked.
Women turned.
She didn't care. She walked like someone used to being followed - and feared. Exuding the swag of someone under the spotlight. The paparazzi effect.
Inside the Transatlantique, everything shifted. Dim lights. Marble floors. Murmurs dipped in whiskey. And smoke - always smoke, curling like incense.
Cassio Luca’s men spotted her before she even blinked.
“Ma’am,” one said. Thick neck. Buzz cut. No necktie, just muscle.
They led her through velvet halls like she was royalty. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Cassio sat in the far corner. Alone, but not really. The kind of man who wore silence like armor. He rose as she approached. Sharp suit. Sharper eyes. A scar just beneath the left one - old, but not forgotten.
He kissed her cheek. His lips lingered.
“Mariana,” he said. “Always a pleasure.”
“That's an understatement and you know it, Cassio,” she replied, easing into the booth, “but you called me here, 'cos you need me more than I need you.”
“True.” He smiled. “But you came. That says something.”
“Curiosity,” she said flatly. “Not loyalty.”
He poured her a drink. Bourbon. Neat.
“I want your husband,” Cassio said. Face solemn.
Mariana laughed, once. Bitter.
“You and half of Miami.”
“I don’t want him dead. Not yet,” Cassio said. His voice, crisp. “I want him stripped. Humiliated. Then buried.”
She sipped, eyes narrowed. “You’re such an impatient chump.”
“I’m thorough.”
She leaned closer. Her perfume hit him like a memory.
“Antonio’s got plans,” she whispered. “Big ones.”
“I know.”
“Lily Rossi.”
Cassio raised an eyebrow.
“She’s his new show pony,” Mariana said. “He’s grooming her. He wants to make her the face of the new front. Push me out.”
“Smart move,” Cassio said. Smiling flatly.
“He thinks so.” Her eyes burned. “But I ’ll bury her.”
Cassio smiled. “I like you when you’re angry.”
“I’m always angry.”
A beat. Then he placed the suitcase on the table. Locked. Black, gleaming leather.
“A gift,” he said.
"I hate surprises.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ll like this one.”
He unlocked it.
The suitcase clicked and he opened it with a faint creak.
She looked inside. Blinked. Once.
Her voice dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Dead.”
She expressed a gleeful countenance. Gladdened by what she saw
He took her hand. Kissed it. Slow. Deliberate.
Then the jazz started. Dim lights. A lone saxophone moaned on stage.
Smoke thickened.
The room turned liquid.
Cassio’s eyes flicked left.
Gianluca Moroni, his trusted hitman, moved suddenly. From behind the bar into darkness.
Cassio’s smile didn’t waver. But he knew.
They were being watched.
He leaned into Mariana’s ear. “Antonio’s little prodigy. He’s here. Somewhere up there.”
He pointed to a slot overhead. Close to the vaulted ceiling.
“Who?” she asked, still playing it cool.
Cassio’s voice was ice. “A f****d up PI”
Cassio knew the Investigator had seen enough. The kiss. The suitcase. The look
He stood up. “I want to turn the heat up a notch.”
Mariana understood. Her grin was rather lascivious. “Where?”
“My hotel.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
He leaned closer.
“Because they’re watching, and I don’t trust anyone in this room anymore.”
“And me?”
He looked at her. A glint of lust, visible in his eye.
“I don't have to freaking think twice that you have already made your choice.”
They moved.
Cassio could see the PI flagging a cab.
This was war.
And it had just begun.
Mariana climbed into Cassio’s sleek Rolls Royce idling at a far end of the driveway. The door shut with a soft, expensive thud.
The leather interior smelled of power and tonnes of drug money.
Outside, her Maybach’s chauffeur stayed put, engine thrumming. Watching.
Cassio slid in beside her. The city lights illuminated their faces, carving shadows from their features.
Miami blurred—neon, grime, promise.
“You always ride in style,” she said, voice smooth as butter.
He smirked. “You wouldn’t come otherwise.”
His right hand moved, slow at first, feeling her succated breasts. Left hand grazing her thigh, tracing heat deep into her pantless gown.
She didn’t stop him. Yet.
“Cassio,” she warned. Soft, but steel beneath. “Can’t you wait?”
“You didn’t push me away at the Transatlantique,” he said, lips brushing her ear.
“That was for show.”
He leaned in, mouth hungry. Kissed her—deep, demanding. His cologne and bourbon breath mingled.
She felt his erect manhood hard against her hip. The car, the city, the night - all shrinking down to that one point.
Her hand went to his chest, firm. “Patience, Cassio. We’re almost there.”
His laugh was low. Bitter. “I’ve had patience. A lifetime of it. Since the Sicilian wars, I have desired you.”
She giggled. “Really?But a few more minutes won’t kill you.”
The city’s pulse hummed outside—sirens, bass from clubs, the whirr of lives colliding. Inside the car, only their breathing.
Cassio stared at her, jaw tight. “You like this. The game.”
She gave a slow grin. “Who said I didn’t?”
“You’re poison, Mariana.”
“And you keep drinking.”
The Rolls soared down Biscayne like a shark through water.
The driver, mum. Professional. Paid to ignore.
Cassio’s hand didn’t move. But his eyes burned.
“Bringing Antonio to his knees would give me real joy,” he said. His tone changed. Sharp now. Edged.
“We can achieve it together. Just work with me.”
“Not if you give me what I really desire.”
“Then stop kissing me and think.”
Cassio’s lips twitched. “Thinking got me here. In this mess. Where the Morellos feel they are feudals like Mussolini.”
“No, cowardice did, my love.”
The car slowed at the hotel entrance. The kind of place with gold trim and men in white gloves who knew better than to ask questions.
Cassio glanced out the tinted window. “Whos the coward?”
“Ask yourself.” She said. Grimacing wryly.
He snorted. “I would rip Antonio to shreds.”
“In due time, my love.”
He remained indifferent.
The door opened. Bellhop grinning, ready to serve.
Cassio grabbed her wrist. His grip, iron clad. “When we go up, stay close. No games.”
“I’m not the one who plays games. Remember that.”
They stepped out. Cameras flashed - maybe press, maybe worse. Miami’s night had eyes everywhere.
The hotel swallowed them.
Marble, mirrors, the scent of cigars and old money. Up the elevator, silence thick as smoke.
Cassio spoke, voice low. “I don’t think we’re alone.”
“No shit.”
The elevator pinged. The suite floor.
Mariana stepped out first. Then froze.
Cassio followed her gaze.
They walked to one of the baize doors that lined the air conditioned corridor.
Walking behind her, he watched how her buttocks shook seductively underneath her outfit
Cassio’s mouth tightened. His manhood again becoming turgid like an Egyptian obelisk.
“Welcome home,” Mariana said, her voice a razor’s edge, easing the door open.
What happened next was inevitable.
- Writer
