Taken (Goddess & Vyttor)

The Doors. Janis Joplin. Jimi Hendrix. Rolling Stones. Even Echo & the Bunnymen. An awesome albeit ominous playlist and a glass of creamy cold vodka. Those were the two gifts Andrey allowed himself for his 27th birthday. He was deeply involved in something big, and could not afford getting wasted in stupid parties. Unlike the musicians blaring on his headphones, he had better things to do than die at age - if anything, he planned to be reborn.

The single heir to self entitled Tzar Kavaliou, time had come to prove he was no longer a child, but a dignified leader ready to oversee the operations of the greatest Russian mafia in the West. It was no secret that several of his father's bishops doubted his ability, although he had no lack of skill in politics, tactics, or arms. He loved arms and excelled in their use, the sharp ones more so than the firing kind.

No, he was a grown man, and his dreams had never stopped growing. It was time to make them real. It hadn't been easy putting all the pieces together, but this was perfect: bringing down their main adversaries and at the same time taking some inconvenient cousins out of the way.

Some trusted thugs had brought the initial information and secured and adequate location for surveillance right in front of the jewelry. That was the one market on which the Kavaliou family had yet to set their claws... and if Andrey got it his way, they would be taking over an already well settled business.

***********************

Two days later.

The target location stood on a high end neighbourhood and Andrey dressed accordingly so that nobody would notice the handsome young man entering the apartment building across the street. A luxuriously cut dark grey suit covered his lean athletic body, a discrete black hat hid his sandy short hair, and his favorite wooden cane - the one with the concealed blade - completed the touch. Adjusting the golden rim of his glasses on his long nose, he scanned the street casually before going in and disappearing up the stairs.

Nightfall came and everything proceeded with clockwork precision as he watched from the 2nd floor window. The limo parked precisely at 17:36 and the young woman crossed the sidewalk alone into the store. Andrey watched with intent focus as if balancing the tip of a blade in between an opponent's eyes. Co-opted policemen appeared on each corner of the block - these would later be easily linked to his most defying cousins, but by now they would ensure no unforeseen reinforcements. After 10 minutes, hired actors started walking into the store, one by one. They had been paid as "mystery shoppers" - that would frame another cousin - but the real intention was to keep the store swarmed and the security busy. Time to move in.

The driver came out for his usual cigarette. Stupid habit will be the end of him, Andrey thought, not actually referring to what was about to happen. Pristinely polished shoes click-clacked on the street as he approached the much larger man, a mountain of muscle with the face of a baby, holding a map and posing as a tourist looking for information. Oldest. Trick. In the book. Knife hidden below the map, quickly bit into the man's thigh, the toxin flowing into his veins. A leather glove prevented him from screaming anything as he lost his strength and collapsed unconscious. The cigarette would have burned his thick fingers by the time he finally woke up.

Keys in hand and body out of view, Andrey climbed into the driver's seat and prepared the interior of the car. He switched the lock system so that the passenger would be locked in the back and threw two pairs of cuff links on the back seat. The fine Swiss watch on his left wrist indicated a few seconds to go. Time enough to properly position the seat and mirrors, check the safety gun tucked under his jacket, and adjust his tie. The rear door opened. Fish had taken the bait. He smiled at her maliciously through the center mirror as he finished rolling up the window and set the vehicle in motion.

A white Versace dress . A pair of Louis Vuitton black heels, with a red sole and an open toe, revealing perfectly red toenails. A red Channel bag. Everything Chiara Santorelli wore made her look nothing short of a princess. Why wouldn't she? She was not only the only daughter of the man leading the DiCapaggio crime syndicate's, an organization that was as elusive as it was well known, but she was also the most well-suited to rule it, and to rule anything you have to look the part, specially if you were an ambitious woman in a chauvinistic Italian family. With a degree in business and plenty of hands on experience in martial arts, she was a lot more than her 15:00 appointment at the nail salon let on.

Chiara was already 27, born and raised in bad times and all too used to her father's violent outbursts whenever things didn't go his way. It was almost as dangerous to betray the man than to fail at a job. Of course, his daughter could do no wrong, so she was spoiled rotten. With that sort of growing up, it was no wonder she looked like no more than a spoiled little bitch, and showed little to no interest in the matters of men, unless it had to do with money and authority. Her mid-back length brown hair was parted to the side and showed impressive volume, and despite her short height, 5'1, she commanded an air of respect. Her skin, a beautiful olive color, was as close to flawless as good products could get you, her chest was voluptuous, her hips were wide, and her short legs gave the illusion of being longer by the height of her heels.

Arriving at the jewelers at 17:36, the small, spoiled princess waited for her driver to open the door for her, not bothering to do even that. Her brown eyes, hidden by cat eyed, red Louis Vuitton's didn't even bother looking both ways before crossing the street, wanting to get business out of the way fast to get to the finer things in life, like her teleromance. With a scowl in her thick, red colored lips the whole time she was there, the young woman made sure that all affairs were in order and that the jeweler didn't dare misreport a single number. She noted the high number of clients, wondering if business was picking up, but she was too preoccupied with the math to pay it any further attention.

With a final once over on the man as she gazed at him with a slight raise of her sunglasses, she shrugged, deciding things were in order. He didn't seem any more nervous than normal when dealing with the proud woman. Her heels once more made the way to the car, and although the black tint of the windows didn't let her distinguish the driver, she scowled and let out a sound on disgust as she was forced to open her own door, sitting down and leaning back on the seat with her legs crossed.

"Giuseppe, I like you, I really do, but you know better than not to open my door," she declared. "Are you looking to get on my bad side? Because papi will hear of this, capice?"

Chiara saw manly lips smiling back at her through the central mirror. Only they weren't Giuseppe's lips, nor was it a subservient, apologetic smile. It was rather malicious, victorious, and the lips were thinner and much more charming, sitting in the manly square jawline of a face much slimmer than the big oaf of a driver she had. His teeth were much more shapely and white as well.

"I'm afraid your papi will hear of a lot more, my dear." Accustomed to the Western life, Andrey's English was flawless, with perhaps a hint of British accent if anything. He turned around and pointed the gun at her. "Now be a dear and cuff your wrists and ankles. It would be a shame to have to use this."

His gaze followed her dainty hands carefully to make sure she wouldn't try anything stupid while chaining herself. The smile never left his lips. As she finished he eyed her over once, drinking in her curves. Boy, this may end up being a lot more fun than expected, the though was clear on the light brown eyes behind the thin lenses of his glasses.

With that taken care of, all there was left to do was to ensure the cell signal scrambler was working properly so nobody would be able to track them and his personal hideout would remain safe. Not even his family knew about the big mansion on the suburb. He couldn't take no risks, no one was to be trusted - he knew perfectly well that each family had rats inside the other.

He left the gun at easy reach and set the vehicle in motion. As he circled the corner the cops saw the big man lying on the ground and ran to him. That was bound to generate some confusion. Good. He drove slowly through the streets avoiding any unwanted attention.

Upon hearing the foreign voice, Chiara's first reaction was to grab the door handle, pulling it so hard that she almost yanked it out, but it was to no avail: the doors wouldn't open, and soon the other's gun was in view. Maybe if she hadn't taken the chance to open the door, she could have reacted fast enough to attempt to grab the gun from him before it was properly pointed at him, but despite her simmering anger, she obeyed, her jaw clenched and her eyes stern, always on him.

She looked at the smile on his face and returned a disgusted grimace. A man, thinking he was better than her, thinking he had her under control... She'd make him pay. Her small, soft, manicured hands clenched into fists on her lap as she leaned back, her breathing uneven but not because of fear, but because of anger.

"Just you wait, testa di cazzo, I will get away from here and I will destroy all you hold dear," she told him, her accent thick and Italian, obviously used to code switching even if she didn't fully master her father's mother tongue. Seeing the signal scrambler was enough for her not even attempt to use her cell phone yet, so she powered it down to save the battery, her long, red colored nails softly tapping against it.

Chiara was not one to drive much, so she didn't know the streets he was taking. She knew that, through the tainted windows of the vehicle, her attempt at calling attention would be useless. so she stayed poised and calm. "When I get my hands on you, stronzo, you will wish you had a pussy so you wouldn't feel what I'll do to your dick and balls

Soon the buildings around them started becoming more widely spaced apart, and they entered a roadway. The limo picked up some speed. All was going well.

"I'm glad you're cooperative. I'd hate to be forced to ruin that pretty face of yours," he affirmed as she complied with the cufflinks. But all that swearing during the trip annoyed him a little, though he was a very self-centered man.

"Oooh I'm so afraid of those big bad words papi" - he made sure the word sounded as mocking as possible - "taught you. Just take care not to break any of those pretty red nails and then come whining to me."

Then he looked back over his shoulder, his lips curved in a menacing growl. "You know, perhaps I wouldn't mind that much giving you some well-deserved punishment. You keep on behaving like that and I'll give you some taste of my dick and balls." His gaze alternated between her face and her chest. "Capice?" He wasn't sure he pronounced the Italian word right, and he didn't care much.

Soon some buildings started showing up again, but these were larger and more luxurious. The houses here were so spaced apart that the distance in between them served as sound proofing. Gardens were wide and no cars were seen on the streets. Andrey relaxed and started slowing down as they were approaching the intended neighbourhood.

Sitting proud and tall, Chiara leaned back into her seat, looking at him with disdain. She didn't recognize where they were going, but she knew it was a place for the rich. Damn American houses, always looking the same...

"Vaffanculo, faccia di merda." Chiara rolled her eyes, scoffing at his words. She didn't need her papi to teach her anything, and as soon as she was in an advantage, she would let him know just what a tiny Italian woman was capable of. "I hardly think dickhead and ballsack are big words," she said, through gritted teeth. "The only thing I'll be breaking is your face."

Even in this position, she couldn't help but be haughty, she was too proud a woman to let any man tell her what to do. As he mentioned punishment, she snorted. "Go ahead, try to gimme a taste of that tiny salami and I'll bite it right off," she warned, crossing her arms awkwardly. "We'll see who punishes who, finocchio."

The houses were getting bigger, she knew they were closer, her jaw clenched, her breathing even. As soon as the gun was not a threat, she would rip him a new one. There was no way that Chiara Santorelli, only daughter of the DiCapaggio crime syndicate and self proclaimed Italian princess would take this humiliation lightly. There was enough space now, enough chance that they wouldn't crash into anything too dangerous, and he was no longer holding the gun. Chiara took a chance, using the same handcuffs currently around her wrists to wrap around his neck in one swift motion, grabbing him hard and in an upwards motion to choke him just above the Adam's apple. She held him strongly, soft sounds of strain escaping her through gritted teeth. All she needed was for him to lose control of the car, to grab the gun and find a way to escape him. It wouldn't be long now

On one moment, everything seemed quiet. On the next one, air was suddenly cut from his lungs and Andrey was flailing an trying to shout. "Wh*gasp*! nnnn-Fuck!" He was angry, more than anything else. Enraged even. Crazy bitch! She'll get us both killed! If he had the time, he would have remembered what his father had always said about Western women, and Italian ones in particular. As it was, his memory wasn't quite focusing on that side.

First he tried pulling. He was no mountain muscle, but he was surely stronger than the lithe girl. However she had the advantage of better position - from her point she could use her whole body against the back of his seat, while he could only pull with his arms. No contest there. Air running out, gasps and more gasps and choked out insults.

The car swerved out of control, tires making loud noises on the road. Andrey had to put his left hand back on the wheel. What could he possibly do with one hand? He would pass out! They just passed close to a hedge, then flew to the other side of the road and almost hit a low stone wall. He managed to put it back on the road. The gun was lost on the floor beneath the passenger seat by his side.

Andrey tried hitting the girls arms with his right fist, but she was holding him fiercely. He started slamming his feet wildly around the pedals, stomping hard against the floor once, twice, three times, hitting empty air or the accelerator until finally he managed to hit the brakes with all the might he could summon. The car stopped so abruptly that the air bags would likely have popped out if it were a newer model.

The chain loosened a bit and Andrey felt like he was drowning on air for an instant as it flowed back into his chest. He heard the bump of her body - probably that generous chest of hers - against his seat and felt the impact pushing him further against the seat belt. Seizing the moment he put one wrist in between the cuff and his neck, and only then started pulling it out, immediately cursing with all the air recently breathed into his lungs.

"Stupid rat-assed bitch! Delusional mad cunt! I'll make you a one-breasted cow, you piece of shit!" His voice was still rasp.

Skillfully drawing the knife from under his jacket, he let go of the seat belt and turned around quickly to check whether the girl was still conscious, pointing the blade at her to make sure she would behave at least for a moment.