Revenge
Feliciano Vargas slipped inside the little café, letting out a small relieved breath as the heat washed over him. November held Turin under a chill that threatened a rough winter for the old Italian city, but inside the little absinthe café, it was warm enough for Feliciano to shed his jacket as his deep brown eyes scanned the many tables. This place had become a dingy little haven for some of Turin’s most notorious criminals, and a place for the “good” people to indulge in some of their less virtuous passions.
In seconds, Feliciano found the man he was looking for. As usual, Kiku Honda sulked in the back corner of the room, talking quietly with the two other men at his table. Even as Feliciano made his way across the dark café, he saw the quick exchange of money, saw the little package rest on the table for a brief second before it disappeared into the vest pocket of Kiku’s client. These two were familiar as well; though they both looked alike, with shoulder length blonde hair, Feliks Lukasiewicz was much more outgoing than his scowling partner, Vash Zwingli. Feliks was a Polish businessman, and one of Kiku’s most valuable clients. Vash, on the other hand, Feliks would only refer to as his “business partner,” but everyone knew the stoic Swiss blonde was paid handsome money to make sure that anyone who threatened Feliks’ business enterprises ended up at the bottom of the river. What everyone didn’t know (except Feliciano, of course) was that Feliks and Vash also had rough sex in Feliks’ penthouse almost every night.
He watched as the two blondes got up, murmuring a quiet “scuzi” as they passed by him on their way to the door, and seated himself in the same chair that Feliks had just vacated.
“Your French fuck toy, the teacher? He’s here with his wife,” Kiku scowled by way of greeting, taking a delicate sip from the lurid green liquid in front of him. “I thought you two were doing business tonight?”
Feliciano winced. He knew full well that Francis was here, and he didn’t want to think about it.
“We are,” he sighed in response.
Kiku shook his head.
“It’s just not decent, taking out your wife the same night you plan to spend with a prostitute,” he growled, glaring across the café at the Frenchman’s mane of golden hair.
Feliciano shrugged.
“He’s French. They have different ideas about what’s decent and what’s not,” he said, determinedly refusing to look at Francis’s table.
“It’s not just him,” Kiku said darkly, “this entire city has no idea how to behave. For one thing, the new chief of police is here. Now, normally I wouldn’t care too much, it’s not like the police have any power over me, but she’s a woman! And not only does she think she can make men work beneath her, but she’s not even wearing a woman’s uniform! Every man in this café is staring at her legs, and the American waiter couldn’t even string two words together when he went to her table. She had to make the order in English.”
“She’s not even Italian, is she?” Feliciano asked, scanning the little café for the offending female. It wasn’t long before he found her; her long blonde hair shone eerily in the dimly lit café. “She’s from some Eastern European country…”
“She’s Belarusian,” Kiku scowled.
It was all Feliciano could do to keep a straight face as he watched his Japanese friend scowl down at his glass of absinthe. Normally, Kiku had an impassible reserve about him. There was only one thing in the world that could make him this grumpy, and a quick sweep of the café proved Feliciano’s suspicions.
“So I take it you’re still pining over the Turk?” he asked lightly, smirking as Kiku’s scowl deepened into a nasty grimace.
“The Spaniard left him,” Kiku snapped, drumming his fingers on the table and shooting daggers at the table in the far corner, “left him for a woman, one of his patients, and all Sadiq can do is cry and drink! He won’t even look in this direction,” he added a little despondently.
“Sadiq? So you know his name now?” Feliciano teased. “Did you go to the fire department and ask for the name of their Turkish employee? Or did you give someone in the fire department a discount in exchange for information?”
His smirk widened into a malicious grin as Kiku’s cheeks colored a delicate shade of pink.
“Look, you’ve been lusting after this Turk ever since he came to Turino,” he continued more seriously, “why bother with him? There are thousands of lonely men in this city, and you only want the one you can’t have.”
“Yeah? And how many of them were lonely after they found you?” Kiku asked nastily, his dark eyes suddenly meeting Feliciano’s.
Stung, Feliciano felt the color rise to his own cheeks as the grin fell from his face. Involuntarily, his eyes darted over to Francis’ table. That was how he met the Frenchman, after all. Loneliness. Francis had come to him in this very café, his handsome face etched with anxiety.
“Is it true? Are you the one they call La Feminuccia?”
His cheeks had blushed as he said it, making even the derogatory nickname sound beautiful with his French accent. For that was Feliciano’s name in this underground word; La Feminuccia, “the little female,” the lover of men.
The truth was, Francis loved his wife, but he craved penetration. Many men did, and Feliciano had made it his job to give it to them. Let them have the sex they craved; let them moan and sweat beneath him in the bedroom, if only so that they could go back to their wives and love them properly. As long as he was paid for it, he didn’t care how the occupation affected his reputation. That was how it started with Francis, but Feliciano had done something wrong with the fetching French teacher. Somehow, Francis had stolen Feliciano’s heart, and he couldn’t even look at Signora Bonnefoy without feeling a throbbing pain in his heart. She was the person that Francis truly loved. He was only the person that Francis fucked. That was the point of it after all, wasn’t it?
“Please don’t misunderstand, I love my wife. It’s just… it’s not enough…”
“I’m sorry,” Kiku said, jerking Feliciano out of these bitter thoughts, “that was uncalled for. I’m just frustrated.”
Feliciano shrugged.
“You know what your problem is, my friend?” he asked, smiling to soften his words, “you’re too afraid to talk to him. This man, Sadiq, he can’t know you’re interested if you sulk here in the corner all the time.”
Kiku’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you saying?” he asked finally.
Feliciano let his smile widen once again.
“I know how to set you up with your precious Turk,” he said, standing up.
“Wait!” Kiku hissed frantically, “what are you doing?”
But it was too late. Feliciano was already making his way across the café, heading straight for the table where the tall Turkish firefighter sat alone, staring down miserably at the greenish dregs of his drink.
“Scuzi, Signore,” he said, seating himself without invitation across from the tall man. He could understand why Kiku lusted after him; he had strong, masculine features, wide, dark eyes, and a sprinkling of rough stubble on his chin. Sexy. That was the word to describe the way this man looked.
“Though absinthe is truly a marvelous beverage, I know someone with another green solution to your problems that might be a bit more… lasting,” he continued before Sadiq could speak. He could see that the man understood what he meant; he had counted on it. All these Middle Easterners did was smoke, after all.
However, instead of taking interest, Sadiq’s wide eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Green, huh? And what makes you think I’d be interested? You and I both know it’s illegal,” he said.
Feliciano smiled.
“Don’t worry, I don’t work for the woman,” he said, jerking his head at the Belarusian chief of police, “I make this gesture purely out of friendship. Just find the Japanese man at the back of the café. If he gives you trouble, tell him La Feminuccia sent you.”
That did it. All suspicion melted from the Turk’s dark eyes as he looked curiously over his shoulder for Kiku. Feliciano smirked bitterly. Of course, no one in his right mind would pretend to be La Feminuccia, so his offer must be legitimate.
“Gratzie,” the man said to Feliciano, preparing to get up, “I think I’ll go talk to him right now.”
Feliciano merely nodded, standing up himself. He didn’t wait to see if Sadiq found Kiku; knowing that he had helped his friend gave him no pleasure at all. No, all satisfaction came from the decided feeling that someone was staring at him.
As he made to leave the café, he made a point to walk right past Francis’ table, laughing internally as he felt Francis’ gaze follow him out the door. It had been pure luck that the Turk was sitting right next to Francis and his wife, but he knew that his little game had succeeded. There was no mistaking the look in Francis’ blue eyes; he was jealous, suspicious of Feliciano’s little conversation with the handsome Sadiq, and even the presence of his wife across the table couldn’t quench that feeling.
Perhaps Francis did love his wife, but he really belonged to Feliciano. They all did, eventually.
In seconds, Feliciano found the man he was looking for. As usual, Kiku Honda sulked in the back corner of the room, talking quietly with the two other men at his table. Even as Feliciano made his way across the dark café, he saw the quick exchange of money, saw the little package rest on the table for a brief second before it disappeared into the vest pocket of Kiku’s client. These two were familiar as well; though they both looked alike, with shoulder length blonde hair, Feliks Lukasiewicz was much more outgoing than his scowling partner, Vash Zwingli. Feliks was a Polish businessman, and one of Kiku’s most valuable clients. Vash, on the other hand, Feliks would only refer to as his “business partner,” but everyone knew the stoic Swiss blonde was paid handsome money to make sure that anyone who threatened Feliks’ business enterprises ended up at the bottom of the river. What everyone didn’t know (except Feliciano, of course) was that Feliks and Vash also had rough sex in Feliks’ penthouse almost every night.
He watched as the two blondes got up, murmuring a quiet “scuzi” as they passed by him on their way to the door, and seated himself in the same chair that Feliks had just vacated.
“Your French fuck toy, the teacher? He’s here with his wife,” Kiku scowled by way of greeting, taking a delicate sip from the lurid green liquid in front of him. “I thought you two were doing business tonight?”
Feliciano winced. He knew full well that Francis was here, and he didn’t want to think about it.
“We are,” he sighed in response.
Kiku shook his head.
“It’s just not decent, taking out your wife the same night you plan to spend with a prostitute,” he growled, glaring across the café at the Frenchman’s mane of golden hair.
Feliciano shrugged.
“He’s French. They have different ideas about what’s decent and what’s not,” he said, determinedly refusing to look at Francis’s table.
“It’s not just him,” Kiku said darkly, “this entire city has no idea how to behave. For one thing, the new chief of police is here. Now, normally I wouldn’t care too much, it’s not like the police have any power over me, but she’s a woman! And not only does she think she can make men work beneath her, but she’s not even wearing a woman’s uniform! Every man in this café is staring at her legs, and the American waiter couldn’t even string two words together when he went to her table. She had to make the order in English.”
“She’s not even Italian, is she?” Feliciano asked, scanning the little café for the offending female. It wasn’t long before he found her; her long blonde hair shone eerily in the dimly lit café. “She’s from some Eastern European country…”
“She’s Belarusian,” Kiku scowled.
It was all Feliciano could do to keep a straight face as he watched his Japanese friend scowl down at his glass of absinthe. Normally, Kiku had an impassible reserve about him. There was only one thing in the world that could make him this grumpy, and a quick sweep of the café proved Feliciano’s suspicions.
“So I take it you’re still pining over the Turk?” he asked lightly, smirking as Kiku’s scowl deepened into a nasty grimace.
“The Spaniard left him,” Kiku snapped, drumming his fingers on the table and shooting daggers at the table in the far corner, “left him for a woman, one of his patients, and all Sadiq can do is cry and drink! He won’t even look in this direction,” he added a little despondently.
“Sadiq? So you know his name now?” Feliciano teased. “Did you go to the fire department and ask for the name of their Turkish employee? Or did you give someone in the fire department a discount in exchange for information?”
His smirk widened into a malicious grin as Kiku’s cheeks colored a delicate shade of pink.
“Look, you’ve been lusting after this Turk ever since he came to Turino,” he continued more seriously, “why bother with him? There are thousands of lonely men in this city, and you only want the one you can’t have.”
“Yeah? And how many of them were lonely after they found you?” Kiku asked nastily, his dark eyes suddenly meeting Feliciano’s.
Stung, Feliciano felt the color rise to his own cheeks as the grin fell from his face. Involuntarily, his eyes darted over to Francis’ table. That was how he met the Frenchman, after all. Loneliness. Francis had come to him in this very café, his handsome face etched with anxiety.
“Is it true? Are you the one they call La Feminuccia?”
His cheeks had blushed as he said it, making even the derogatory nickname sound beautiful with his French accent. For that was Feliciano’s name in this underground word; La Feminuccia, “the little female,” the lover of men.
The truth was, Francis loved his wife, but he craved penetration. Many men did, and Feliciano had made it his job to give it to them. Let them have the sex they craved; let them moan and sweat beneath him in the bedroom, if only so that they could go back to their wives and love them properly. As long as he was paid for it, he didn’t care how the occupation affected his reputation. That was how it started with Francis, but Feliciano had done something wrong with the fetching French teacher. Somehow, Francis had stolen Feliciano’s heart, and he couldn’t even look at Signora Bonnefoy without feeling a throbbing pain in his heart. She was the person that Francis truly loved. He was only the person that Francis fucked. That was the point of it after all, wasn’t it?
“Please don’t misunderstand, I love my wife. It’s just… it’s not enough…”
“I’m sorry,” Kiku said, jerking Feliciano out of these bitter thoughts, “that was uncalled for. I’m just frustrated.”
Feliciano shrugged.
“You know what your problem is, my friend?” he asked, smiling to soften his words, “you’re too afraid to talk to him. This man, Sadiq, he can’t know you’re interested if you sulk here in the corner all the time.”
Kiku’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you saying?” he asked finally.
Feliciano let his smile widen once again.
“I know how to set you up with your precious Turk,” he said, standing up.
“Wait!” Kiku hissed frantically, “what are you doing?”
But it was too late. Feliciano was already making his way across the café, heading straight for the table where the tall Turkish firefighter sat alone, staring down miserably at the greenish dregs of his drink.
“Scuzi, Signore,” he said, seating himself without invitation across from the tall man. He could understand why Kiku lusted after him; he had strong, masculine features, wide, dark eyes, and a sprinkling of rough stubble on his chin. Sexy. That was the word to describe the way this man looked.
“Though absinthe is truly a marvelous beverage, I know someone with another green solution to your problems that might be a bit more… lasting,” he continued before Sadiq could speak. He could see that the man understood what he meant; he had counted on it. All these Middle Easterners did was smoke, after all.
However, instead of taking interest, Sadiq’s wide eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Green, huh? And what makes you think I’d be interested? You and I both know it’s illegal,” he said.
Feliciano smiled.
“Don’t worry, I don’t work for the woman,” he said, jerking his head at the Belarusian chief of police, “I make this gesture purely out of friendship. Just find the Japanese man at the back of the café. If he gives you trouble, tell him La Feminuccia sent you.”
That did it. All suspicion melted from the Turk’s dark eyes as he looked curiously over his shoulder for Kiku. Feliciano smirked bitterly. Of course, no one in his right mind would pretend to be La Feminuccia, so his offer must be legitimate.
“Gratzie,” the man said to Feliciano, preparing to get up, “I think I’ll go talk to him right now.”
Feliciano merely nodded, standing up himself. He didn’t wait to see if Sadiq found Kiku; knowing that he had helped his friend gave him no pleasure at all. No, all satisfaction came from the decided feeling that someone was staring at him.
As he made to leave the café, he made a point to walk right past Francis’ table, laughing internally as he felt Francis’ gaze follow him out the door. It had been pure luck that the Turk was sitting right next to Francis and his wife, but he knew that his little game had succeeded. There was no mistaking the look in Francis’ blue eyes; he was jealous, suspicious of Feliciano’s little conversation with the handsome Sadiq, and even the presence of his wife across the table couldn’t quench that feeling.
Perhaps Francis did love his wife, but he really belonged to Feliciano. They all did, eventually.