Death Orchid

Chapter One

Chapter One

London, neon, night, SoHo in Little Italy. D’Angelo’s, a jewel of an Italian eatery, the diamond beveled into the center strand of pearls of other bars and eateries was shimmering; it was notoriously chic, even for Gumba Ville. The lads loved it, Made or otherwise. The spaghetti La Daviola was primo, the lasagna thick, house wine rich, great for the pallet and the veal white, and never overdone.

It was midnight, another hour to go and the crowds were sparse, few suits finishing up, weapons checked at the door, lots of laughter still. The teak and leather bar glistened from racked crystal on the racks above it, Sambuca, Grey Goose, Anisette, the usual suspects, tantalizing liquors glowing from a blue back lit neon. The rest of the place was sparkling, mahogany, Old School colored leather booths, white table clothes, real silver, English bone-white china, world class stuff. Mario D’Angelo, an English Wop had spared no dimes tricking the haunt out.

Mr. D’Angelo, he was 50ish, 6ft 2, slender, black shock of hair, graying at the temples, hawk nose, delicate chin, blue eyes that forever sparkled, the mandatory tan, black suit, white shirt, red tie was a class act, as far as a f****d up SoHo went. He ran whores, numbers, hits when called for it, extortion whenever it showed. He was a Made Man, no one ever f****d with him, ever.

Sitting at his usual slot at the end of the bar, he glanced at Mikey, his Mick barkeep, then at his mater dei, William, tuxed out, grey hair, sophisticated, standing at the door, talking up some wop pug, who had thieved enough to afford a meal at his bistro.

Off at a booth, two slabs of sausage, massive man, Mario’s men, English thugs, linguine set right before them, chests like kegs of beer, sat, eating, chatting, eyes never far from Mario, he being the soul reason for the continuation of their breathing on the planet.

Mario smoked, sipped at a Sambuca, thought of a trailer filled worth of slag furs his crew had hijacked the night before. His girlfriend, Ginger, blond, aerobics to death, bought t**s, Putney Town i***t, could suck the tiles off a one of Mario’s johns, if ya asked her, was lofted up in a slick condo he owned in Chelsea. Mario knew she would love one of the furry delights, as would his wife, who was just leaving for Rome for a couple of weeks of family, with his daughter, both which he adored.

All that changed of course when SHE walked through the f*****g door.

Gasping, Mario’s blues flicked, blinked, he wasn’t really quite sure his stunned eyes were seeing what he thought they were seeing.

She was smiling, white teeth, tall, unbelievably elegant, thin blond, super short hair, tiny nose, sharp jaw, heart break legs, blink, blink, that’s how white her skin was. She owned blue eyes, seemed almost invisible they were so clear cut. She was poured into a slit at the side white skirt, white blazer, white silk camisole, white Manolo stilettos, which must have made her 6ft 1, at least, was smiling and chatting up William at the door.

Mario stuffed his Galois out in an ashtray, adjusted his tie, fiddled at his diamond pinkie ring, watched as William, bowing, scraping, led the spindle blond across the room to the end of the bar. Once there, she sat, crossed bare legs, which a stealth bomber could have landed on they were so thin and long. Peeling off her white silk jacket, she laid it off to William, who did more bowing, scraping, then backed off, saying hosannas as he did.

“f**k,” Mario whispered, as his eyes bolted out of his head. Now the princess was in a sleeveless, white silk body shirt, small breasts, wide shoulders, collar bones like carved white ivory pressing through her sheer skin, so thin Mario could see each and every one of her rips silhouetted against the white shirt. Simply said, he had never seen anything so exotic and beautiful in his life.

Instantly, Mikey the barkeep flicked eyes at Mario, he nodded, messed with the shirt cuffs, watched as his Mikey walked over, smiled, began the chit chat with the doll. She was friendly, a gorgeous twist, smiled a smile that could of lit the Twin Towers, that is if those f*****g terrorists hadn’t knocked the f*****g things down, Mario thought.

Lips no b***h should ever have, no lipstick, the color of wheat, full and pouting, Mario felt dazed. Then the erection, he was a stud, the girl, seemingly very down to earth, chatted up Mikey, went back and forth, then decided on a Grey Goose martini, like Bond, shaken not stirred, Mario was a goner.

Like Achilles, beauty was his weakness, so as Mikey lit her cigarette, no filter, Galois like Mario, man’s smoke and the haze pearled out from those casaba lips, Mario zeroed in, a U-boat, torpedo’s armed, ready to blitz the blond.

Sidling down the bar, hellos, introductions, I am Mimi, no attitude, invites fluttered from her lips, Mario accepted the sit down. Mario slotted a bar stool, then she spoke perfect Italian, f****d up Mario’s mind, he answered in dago, she smiled, laughed, Mario was a dead man, he was in love. f*****g Italians, go figure.

Time flapped away like her blond eyes lashes, one Grey Goose, two, three is better. Yes, they both loved London, yet, to have the true European experience, Paris was a must for food, fashion, Milan a close second, Cannes for play, though in winter nothing could surpass Gastaad. Yes, she was just stalling out, the limo outside, Heathrow at dawn, Zurich, then Neuchatel, skiing, had heard of D’Angelo’s, more laughs, it was as elegant as her driver had said. Touches on Mario’s arm, more smoke like a guillotine flowing past her white teeth and yes, one must live in Italy, for it was the complete package of ambiance, no passion, no life without Italy, they both agreed, as the martinis flowed like platinum dreams.

Mario was hypnotized, f*****g mesmerized, maybe lobotomized, she, down to earth, slit at the side, bare legs getting more naked by the moment, more touches, smiles could melt mercury. Let’s make a deal. He suggested his mansion on Long Island, just for drinks, you know, a nice place, kick back, chill a little, just until the jet whacked off from Heathrow in the morning.

No problem, she was open, a dazzler, she seemed to adore everything about him, erection super ceding his mind, a few lies, why not. No need for her to know, wife gone, just left, Rome and then on to Naples, real Gumba stuff, old women moaning in black, Guapa, just like the movies, let’s do it, and they did.

Fluffing of his muscle, two guys with no necks, handguns bulging against barrel chests, agreements were bartered, absolutely, her limo was fine, they could hardly wait to mate, and out the door they went.

STANDING naked, the white strand of ribbon stood, water blue eyes, almost translucent she was so ocular. Mario, nude, engorged c**k, eyes dazed, laid on the down, big bed, massive room, rare art on the walls, happy, unable to break the mark. The f*****g queen in white from tip to tiny toes looked like a virgin princess, painfully thin, no form to her body, no fake t**s, like a snow blind memory. Mario can’t break the gaze, she smiles, more white, she moves to the bed, ticks a look at his p***s, pouts, twists a small smile, she looks happy. Her tiny tummy is swelling, Mario blushes, he feels like a f*****g kid again, testosterone unlimited, f**k until his eyes bleed.

Slinking over, slow, seductive, like some kind of albino constrictor, she sits on the bed, reaches fingers so elegant out, wraps the tendrils around his p***s, squeezes, smiles, swallow’s. Mario wants to b***h weep he is so happy. Increased breathing, Mario, blood jerking off in his brain, crazed, and thinking about a divorce lawyer, one his gangster friends had used to jettison his own wife. His brain begins to leak madness like a kid with a new pop gun, staring at a bird on the front lawn.

She smiles, just a little, parts those lips, pouts, a look like a lioness, a hungry one, then she lowers her lips, kisses his tip, Mario winces, then lower, and then lower still, f**k, no f*****g way. Jilting strikes of thought, his p***s is down her goddess throat, up and down, tongue playing some kind of melody. Around and around she goes, don’t stop, don’t leave, test pattern thoughts, b***h has no gag reflex, throat swelling each push down, Mario now knows the face of Satan, he’s a f*****g woman.

She sucks out, straightens, on her knees now, straddles him and holds his p***s with awe. She’s ghostly pale, blue veins leading from her stomach into her cunt, smiling again, Mario is a child again. He is stunned, paralyzed, blood pumping his c**k up, hands now, on her tiny breasts, pink n*****s, her evident ribs, the glowing tummy, her arms raised to the canister of the four poster bed, swaying, humming, dreamy like, and steamy like, heat emanating from her skin. Up a little that tiny ass, now a guide, his p***s, large, prominent, a “Made Man’s d**k,” inside her. Mario drugged, winces, feeling her cunt burning, nothing like it before, she’s a f*****g extraterrestrial, he’s sure of it.

What was the name of that wop divorce guy, f**k it, later, she moves, up, down, a strider of perfection, moans, Mario and her, in unison, pressed white fingers on his lips, cunt like one of those atom smashers over at JPL, v****a shaved, everything blended like the sun. Hands, his hands, touching that skin, her no t**s, no form to her body, up, down, her breathing gasping, lips tight, barred, teeth showing like that lioness again, flow and ebb, up, then down, time moves right along. She hops up, smiles through gritted teeth, guided his c**k to the entry of her anus. He can’t believe any of it, as she rams his c**k into her ass.

Mario gasps, she scream, racks her head back and forth, bangs his chest with her fists. She goes nuts, Mario’s eyes bolted open, nothing he has ever felt has ever felt like his c**k buried into her velvet ass. Time passes, still Mario hasn’t blinked for a f*****g hour and then she shrieks, body shaking, shuddering, eyes twitching, and then Mario explodes, semen filling her, matching flames for flames, as he groans, tenses as she falls along his body. She is shuttering, weeping, as his arms wrap around her nothingness. Skin pressed again skin, tears mingling with sweat as she whispers through saline water drops. “Il mio amore, siete stupefacenti, allineare io adore voi.”

She sits back, teeth chattering, madness in her eyes, her legs spread wide open facing his lug nut eyeballs. Her cunt is drenched in c*m, his and hers. Her slender fingers reach down, touches her c*m, she scoops it up, seductively tastes it, groans, smiles, then begins to masturbate.

Mario, stunned, amped, leers at her as she begins to jerk off violently, minutes pass, she goes insane, blue eyes manic, like a handgun barrel pointed at his f*****g brain. She grits her teeth, her body begins to vibrate, legs undulating as then she jerks her head back, screams and in a guttural groan from barred teeth she moans as c*m explodes out of her cunt washing onto Mario’s lips.

“I…I’m cuming sooo hard.”

She then spills into his arms, body vibrating, weeping, her body jerking, after shock orgasms in rolling spasms stun him to his wop core.

Broken hearted, f****d up and knowing it, holding the child in his man’s arms, Mario touched her spine, her tiny rump, feels her tears on his neck, then whispered back. “La, La ora siete cosi bello, prego mai mi non lasci il mio amore”. “Yes my love, I love you to, please never leave me alone, never.”

Magic moments, surreal for Mario, f*****g romance made in Hollywood, maybe cement stilettos for the wife, why not, he’s done worse. Then the brave little girl finally gets right, leans up, hovers over him, and then smiles, a child really, simply precious in his old world romanced mind. Mario smiles, her fingertips to her own lips, then pressed against his, lies shared, promises sworn to, an encore pursed from her lips, just a moment, the bathroom, giggles, girl stuff.

“Please daddy you can spank me if I’m bad, even if I’m good” more giggles. Mario loves her, she dances away, small feet getting air, a tilt back, a purr, a smile, and air kiss sent COD. Mario grabs it in the ozone, knows he will never let it go, a wedding ring in the morning.

Standing there a naked white ribbon, she touches the-c*m dripping from her cunt, and like a coquettish school girl, touches her lips, a fragile porcelain doll, gives him a broken virgins smile. He almost starts weeping himself.

She turns, looks over her shoulder and throws him an air kiss. He smiles, grabs it from the air like it is a twenty karat grade a diamond.

He now knows he will never let it go.

Bathroom, purse, naked, leering into the mirror, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, truly the white spirit, fiddles in the bag, finds her stuff, no pulse beat, cold skin like white Pieta Marble. Black ice in her hand, wondering, goofing, what’s that in the mirror, can’t look, vomit images, then finished, click, hands behind her back, soft again, warm and fuzzy, s*x pot, god or goddess, more like Satan, out the door she goes.

Standing, swaying, smiling at smiles, hands behind her back, surprises, gifts, as a child, she loved them, no memory of ever being a child ever racks her brain any longer, that she is certain of.

Mandal, not Mimi now, no, not the weeper, frail and so needy, different eyeballs screwed into that angelic face, smiling, fading now, Mario doesn’t get it, he will. She takes a barefoot step, remembering that God takes everything so indiscriminately for the simple reason that he can.

That death, like “Damascus lies Sword” gives life such a special meaning, for without its finality, lives, careless, vapid with no thoughts of reparation within in it, were meaningless.

Hands swung from the small curvature of her spine, hands by her side, Mario in Love, frozen icicles dripping from her eyes, “CLICK,” chambering one of thirteen 22’s into the Beretta, ready now. Mario blinking, naked, waiting for his angel, not expecting the Angel of Death as brief moments of no recognition crinkle his brow, suspicion, not registered yet, can’t be, no f*****g way, lovers don’t hold handguns, especially his white/blond with eyebrows that have suddenly melded into blood colored eyes. She lifts her arm, no words; the moment is frozen in time.

Eyes, his, hers, locked, clarity as if watching a single drop of blood dripping from an open neck wound. Slow motion now, frame by celluloid frame, finger pressure, Mario protests, she smiles.

“PSSST.” Hollow-point racing across time, marked, centered, impacting in Mario’s forehead as blood splatters, brains, skull fragments too, patterned against white pillows, then maybe dead, more incredulous as she tilts her head, eyes on eyes. Curious girl, efficient girl, blood curdling violent girl and then.

“PSSST...PSSST...PSSST.” Three in the heart. Mario D’Angelo has had a visit from the “White Death Orchid” and she was not carrying in her hands white roses.

Humming, naked, a matrix restructured, coming apart as chips of ice from a bullets thump, knowing that she has relieved another good catholic of his life as God so often did, regularly. She feels nothing, numb as always, it is her job, a church could have f*****g fallen on him just as easily. They often do to the faithful, mostly in the Philippines, Jupiter cold in her throat thinking that.

Something then moved, she thought it was her heart imploding, but no, behind her, she turns, Beretta in her hand, naked, leering. Standing there is a fortyish women, gawking, shaking, pressed against her leg a seven year old girl, chin trembling, staring at the blood soaked corpse, and then the dynamic white creature gazing back at her.

Two valises, behind them, bad weather and a flight cancellation, bad time, bad luck, wrong destiny, bad for them, a maze full circled back to death. Mandal, morphed, rewired, curious, blue eyes wondering, constructed of pure evil, not clear where she is, remembering and then lifting the silenced hand gun, feeling a finger against the trigger mechanism, aiming, mother’s forehead centered within the bead. The wife bends to knees taking her cowering daughter and hugging her to her side, as the naked women’s bare feet plant to the floor.

Two steps forward, one life time back, an outstretched arm of bone. Pistol welded to a white grip, blue steel ice eyes UN blinking, no waver, eyes, pleading from a mother protecting her daughter, tears falling, fear, searing fear, tip of a hand gun barrel pressed against her forehead. Then, the bone colored women blinks, tilts eyes to the girl, and ego driven power broker staring at the innocence of virginity, blink again, something so familiar in her child new blue orbs, now tears cascading down pristine youth, then she remembers. “If one is to evolve to be a God then one must do as God does.”

Thumb on the hammer, “Click,” pressure on the trigger mechanism, then a single word. “Mommy.”

Mandal, looks, tilts her head, there is something wrong, God kills the mercifully, the good and the saintly, does she? So this is who she is, no matter, work, safety, her vile ways, then resolve and benediction as the mother closes her eyes and whispers. “Please, take me but not my daughter...Please I beg you.”

Recognition, more eyeballs ticking, closed, open, she bends to one knee, placing her eyes so close to the little girls. She is in the subterranean seas of the girls windows to her soul. Her brow crinkles, she is in awe, she is the little girl before, before what, before she had evolved, made the metamorphosis from human to monster, pistol tip, pressed against the mothers forehead. Mandal touches the girls face, her blond curls, remembers, leans in, kisses her on the cheek, stands, lowers the handgun, c***s her neck, furrows her brow, looks at the automatic in her hand, it feels hot, almost too hot to touch, and then, “Mommy I’m scared.”

In a moment she regains something, perhaps partially, a small piece of her soul.

Hatred, then anger, savages her mind as she feels her naked body might erupt into a fireball of flames and ash, snarling now, teeth bared, she hacks the gun at the dead man, then back at the mother and daughter, she grits out the words.

“I have set you free. DO you see him, he who dishonors you?” Turning, she fires off a silenced bullet. “PSSSST” the gun bucks, the smell of cordite fills the room, as the lead pellet impacts Mario D’Angelo in the chest. Then back, leering, almost rabid, she growls like a starved animal.

“He is a pig and you deserve better. GO, both of you. Make a new life. And then she roared. “BEFORE I f*****g KILL YOU BOTH.”

The wife, still holding beauty, no more than a concubine for a lying, cheating pig her entire life, she knows, has always known. The sluts, the whores, she had turned eyes away, bags still packed, so many reasons to live, stands, is silent, shares eyes with The White Executioner, savior, benefactor. She nods, shares understanding, woman to woman and then hand and hand walks from the room with her daughter and the new life that has been given as a gift from the nexus of darkness, somehow transformed into a women of benediction.

Perhaps as a great bird, ridding its self of its rotting plumage, Mandal falls to her knees, gun on the floor, shattered, evolution not a billion years, only a matter of seconds now. She falls to her back, eyes leering at the frescoes of Tuscany layered along the domed ceiling, yellow washed villas, sweeping fields of amber, red, blue flowers, it softens her, she remembers rejuvenation, a journey so long ago along a road from a Cambridge Girls School to killer, to here. Now she knows, is clear, that it must stop here, terminate, or she will lose herself never to return to being human again.

She begins to sob, tears falling down her cheeks, dripping down her sharp chin, pooling in the clefts of her collar bones. She is now certain that she must escape Anthony Uruguay, the sociopath mobster that had turned her out, owned her, bought her and eventually had made her into a monster w***e capable of killing a mother and a small child.

With bags of his money in tow, and in less than a week, she would be gone, and again as was her MO, a trail of death, pain and sadistic grief would follow her, leaving the only man she ever loved dead.

A genius of languages, art, music, cultures and deviance, she stands, feels disorientated, and then straps her new life to her naked skin, turns and begins to move. She would not look back, the run had begun and she would barely get out alive.