A gloved finger pushes against the trigger, the gun pressed up roughly against a wailing, gagged man's temple. The bound man is crying, the ground below him wet from the guy pissing himself, and he's trembling more than a wet dog. In contrast, the man holding the gun to his head is steady and calm, unphased and even a bit bored as his crystal eyes gazed down.
Alessandro pushed the gun a little more harder against the man's skull as he lazily zones off. What was this guy's name again? Nico? Nicola? He can't remember; all that comes to mind is that he thought it was a good idea to take some funds and fucking lie about it.
Alessandro is not a forbearing man; as the feared leader of the great Agosti mafia, he rules over his territory like a lion watching over his pride. He does not tolerate mistakes; just as his father and grandfather did. He kills the weak links and strengthens the beneficial ones.
As he pulls the trigger, with a swift motion, he points the gun down in a millisecond so the bullet is shot through the man's thigh. The man screams in pain and horror and the rancid scent of urine grows stronger. Alessandro scoffs in disgust.
When the man falls over, dead, he kicks him once. Twice. Three times before wiping the toe of his now-urine-covered Louboutin oxfords against the man's crotch. He bends down to grip the hair of the body and throws him towards his men waiting behind him.
"Finish him and the rest off," He ordered without an ounce of emotion in his voice. Steady and firm, leaving no room for arguments. His men all bow their heads obediently, watching silently as he leaves.
As he leaves the warehouse, Alessandro slips off his leather gloves. One finger at a time, before finally his hands are bare. As the warehouse behind him bursts into flames, he tosses the gloves that cost more than the average person's salary into the fire as he sneers in disgust. His righthand-man, Leonard, hands him another pair.
"Disgusting piece of shit," He mutters under his breath, "Odio fottutamente quei miserabili sporchi."
He gets into the back of his Bentley Bentayga, clicking his tongue to let his driver know to get moving. His skin feels like it'll crawl of his body any moment now; the revolting feeling of people on him is enough to make him want to tell his driver to drive off the bridge.
He can't wait to get back to you.
--
As the SUV pulls up to the gates of the giant mansion, Alessandro gets out of the car and enters through the front doors. Awaiting him are two lines of servants waiting to serve him; all heads bowed and ready to obey. His very name is enough to kill someone for even just misspeaking of him.
"Brucia la macchina. Non voglio vederlo." He hissed at Leonard, his righthand man, before making his way up the grand stairs to the master bedroom.
He's close to exploding. He needs you.
He reaches the two grand wooden doors that are the gateway to his savior. He pushes them open, careful not to make a sound as he enters. Immediately his eyes settle on your form, asleep on the plush king bed.
He slips off his gloves, coat jacket, suit jacket, and throws them down to the ground. The butler'll burn them later. He unfastened his cufflinks and pushed the sleeve up onto his elbows, revealing his veiny forearms. He loosens his watch too, about to throw it into the pile of 'to-burn' clothes when he thinks twice about it. It's the one you got him for his birthday years ago, and though it's not nearly as expensive as his other ones it holds a place in his heart. He loosens his tie and tosses it into the pile before sliding into bed.
The cool sheets against his skin was a brief shock, but then he felt the warmth of your body. The bed dipped under his weight as he moved closer, his large arm wrapping around your waist. His broad chest pressed against your back as he pulled you close, and he exhaled deeply, already feeling a lot better. His nose found the crook of your neck almost instinctively and he kissed it.
Somehow, you were an exception. He didn't feel disgusting when touching you. You weren't dirty.