Good Faith

I don’t get the yearning to do Flash Fic often but this morning…well…this one’s all Meredith King’s fault. Plot bunny like…whoa! I might even do a full length of this at some point. Mobster MMM? What do you think?

NSFW – Explicit – Unbeta’d

The first time Michael had been dragged to a meet with the Italians, he’d done what everyone else did the first time they saw the kid. Sneered at his long hair and tight waist, smirked at the obvious way he licked his lips when he looked at the Don’s kid, the way he draped himself over furniture like a bored cat, picked food from the guy’s plate and sucked his fingers clean even. Like there was no one in room but the two of them. Like he owned the fucking place.

Except, Michael had gotten a look that could freeze a volcano and a sharp word in his ear from his uncle that had wiped the derision off his face pretty damn quick.

The stories didn’t reach Michael until later. Even then it seemed like an afterthought, as they were stripping off their overcoats in the hallway, going over the events of the day.

“And you, you stupid fuck.” His uncle hadn’t called him by his name in a long while. “Keep your fucking smart mouth to yourself next time. I don’t need you starting a goddamn war ‘cause you think you’re a comedian.”

Michael had scoffed and rolled his eyes. “He’s just a fucking doxy. Jesus.” It was no big deal. His father had always had some side-chick to hand, ready to lift her skirts so he could take the edge off, fucking her over his desk while the help waited quietly for him to be done. Or one memorable time while a horrified police commissioner was sat across the desk from him. The backhand Michael took to the cheek made it pretty clear he was never to use that term again.

His uncle handed him his pocket square and turned on his heel, leaving Michael to dab at the blood flooding from the gouge under his eye that the family ring had left, and a couple of the muscle—big strong guys, animals, street-fighters turned enforcers who had dished out more violence than anyone Michael had come across—to explain to him in hushed, quivering voices about the Don-in-waiting and his boy. Not just his lover but his protector. The utter fear in their eyes telling Michael more than the tales of body parts and pain and exquisite cruelty dealt to anyone that even thought about crossing his man. It was more than punishment. It was horror.

By the time they’d finished, leaving him hunched in a chair with the sound of the grandfather clock striking ten echoing around the cavernous room, Michael was trembling. He thought about the sinful mouth, and the dark eyes, and the split second that their gaze had fallen on him––the heat in that look. Like a secret. Looking down at the blood-soaked handkerchief in his fist, he wondered what the kid looked like with blood on his face. Wondered what he would look like under him. Wondered how he could make that happen.

He stood up slowly and stopped wondering. His uncle always thought Michael was a spoilt brat. And he wasn’t all wrong. Michael knew how to get what he wanted. And he did like a challenge. Especially, when he put his mind to it.

The envelope was plain but thick. No return address. Simply his name on the front in blue ink. Carmine had a fancy letter opener on his desk across the room but the kid couldn’t be bother with that affectation, or getting out of bed, and simply ripped the paper open with one long finger. His heart sped up a little as he slid the little package out.

A handwritten note on thick card. And a blood-soaked handkerchief. The old fashioned linen kind. The blood was browning and made the fabric crunch in his fingers, but still he held it to his lips and inhaled as he read the note. It was simple enough. Unsigned but he immediately knew who it was from. As love letters went, this was the kind that might even turn his head.

“That from your secret admirer?” Carmine rolled over and plucked the card from his fingers, turning it over to check the blood stains on the back.

The kid smiled. “I think I like this one. He spelled my name right, at least.”

“He’s got balls. I’ll give him that.”

“What else would you give him?” He said, sliding down under the sheets and letting his hands find his lover half-hard again.
Carmine raised an eyebrow. “You want this one?”

Laughing, the kid pushed him back and pounced, straddling him in one practiced move. “And you don’t? I saw you looking at him yesterday. I could get him for us. If you wanted.”

Carmine hmmed and grasped his hips, digging into the inked skin there. “Pops was talking about doing some business with them. I’m sure Flanagan wouldn’t mind giving him up. As a sign of good faith and all.”

“Good faith. Yeah, that’s what it would be,” the kid sighed out the words as he sank down onto his lover, imagining what it would be like to have Michael inside him too. “Good. And faithful.”

.

.

NB – Copyright of the image remains with the copyright holder. Credit to follow. I own nothing on the page except the words.