Mesmerizing Mr. Mafia

Meaner than the Meanest King of Mean

I wasn't greeted with a limo, or even a nice sports car. No, there was a beat up old pick up truck of some sort waiting for me at the end of the driveway when I got there.

I was smushed between Mr. Meatball and Mr. Spaghetti Noodle. These guys were polar opposites of each other, and still neither were even remotely attractive.

"Who do you work for?" I asked for the millionth time, still struggling against the zip ties around my wrists.

"Well, you can kind of assume its no one who likes you," Mr. Spaghetti Noodle said, "So we don't work for that D'Amico Devil in other words. God, he's mean. Meaner than the meanest King of Mean."

That's what I've heard from a few different people now, Luca being one of them. I've never seen a terribly mean side of Angelo though and he certainly wasn't the D'Amico Devil in my book. "So you must work for Italia then, because the only other people after me right now is the Russian mafia...supposedly and you guys definitely aren't Russian."

"I don't get why they call her a criceto," Mr. Meatball said to Mr. Spaghetti Noodle. "She seems more like an evil lupo to me."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Wolf."

I don't know, shoot me if I'm crazy, but I think I liked Criceto better even if the reasoning behind it was a lot less glorifying.

Sudden realization hit me like the hardest brick wall on the planet. "Where is this so called D'Amico devil?" I crossed my arms and tapped my foot impatiently. As far as I'm concerned, this was an easily avoidable situation had Luca and Angelo stayed and watched over me. "He was supposed to be right outside."

Mr. Meatball's signature smirk came back and I all but shuddered in disgust, "Oh. Him and that crazy Luca ditched you, didn't you know that princess? They left and they're not coming back. Did you really think you could ever be something to someone so...heartless?"

"What do you know?!" I snapped, "You're nothing but a fat old meatball! And I don't know about you," I turned to Mr. Spaghetti Noodle, "But I don't like taking advice from food, especially food I'm not fond of."

Mr. Meatball's beefy elbow collided with my nose...

And blackness took over.

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You know, I've been shot before, but for some weird reason that felt like a tiny scratch compared to the way my nose was feeling right now.

I tried to reach up and massage it gently with my fingers, but something was restricting me from doing so.

Opening my eyes seemed like one of the scariest things I could do right now, but I knew it had to be done. Slowly I cracked one open, followed by the other one jolting open in horror.

At least half a dozen people were looking at me through the barrels of their guns. One of these people seemed a little too familiar for my liking.

Italia.

The heels of her leather boots clanked under the cement floor of what I'm going to assume was a warehouse. I mean, it was pretty cliche, but if they liked it here, who was I to judge?

Ok, I've been here before, I concluded after looking around. This place was in New York though, not Los Angeles. Was I really out that long?! Maybe they drugged me after I passed out, so they wouldn't have to deal with me. It seemed plausible.

The loud clanking was doing nothing for my growing headache, but she's the mafia boss of this place so...I was going to stay silent. She stopped right in front of me, anger emanating off her. "It looks like our guest has finally woken up," she smiled, and let me tell you this: it was the most fake smile I've ever seen. "Did you sleep well, Chloe Jai?"