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Chapter Text

Starry night, this is the fable of the rose,

The rose he gave his love -

So young and tender, so in bloom,

Filled with a faint perfume, is lying crushed and faded in her room.

Starry night, this is the fable of the rose,

The rose he gave his love -

Beyond all dreams of her caress, he may as well confess

That she only loved him slightly, maybe less.

Yet her smile so strangely taunts him,

All the thrill of it haunts him,

And so it goes, the fable of the rose.

- “The Fable of the Rose”, Benny Goodman

Gomorrah is only the stuff of dreams for those who have none. It is a place where dreams of biblical proportion are snuffed out in less than the blink of an eye. It is where dreams come to die quietly, and their dying breaths are used as little more than props for showmen. Only for the irreligious – those who’ve never read the Bible – it is heaven on earth.

Above, lights flash and dim before flickering out completely. In their stead, one lone spotlight takes its place, it’s a rich, amber color used for occasions like these. This is an old tradition of his tribe, one that survived the transition from Slitherkin, to Omerta. Many of their traditions once served only to earn them fear and loathing from outsiders, but now, many of them exist for the sake of prestige and profit.

Those are but two ends in his ambition, an exacting thing that was enabled by the same power grab every upstart tribal had done to their former leaders when Mr. House offered them the Strip.

He reaches to light another cigarette, a luxury denied him until these golden years. Before he proceeds with the soothing motion of fishing a lighter from his suit jacket’s pocket, he’s beaten by Cachino, a piggish man under his employ.

One little quirk of his supple lips is enough to assuage any budding stem of sedition. A man of few words must have his ways, and these are his.

“Seen the new girl? Beauty – fresh and young, little. Rosy cheeks, long hair.. she’ll be more than enough to meet Reeves’ debt.” Yet another man under his employ. Under his dark shades, he’s ten years younger than he sounds.

Just as a lover worships the lips before his plunge, so too does the smoke burn his lips before entering his lungs. His men lean on the railing of the upper Zoara, in the same way a flock of birds wait for worms – with greedy anticipation. Even when the worms come, they remain gluttonous bystanders.

“Wonder if that motherfucka knows he’s bein’ cheated.” Sal, his right hand, booms from directly beside him.

Even among peers, he is peerless. Who are these men? Certainly no friends of his, they didn’t have the stuff for it. In another year or two, they might just be going in the same direction as him, but he’ll already have been fifty miles ahead by then.

More smoke enters and leaves his lungs in a matter of seconds, he denies his lungs oxygen whenever he can. His thrills are more refined, more subdued. Nero is a finicky man.

“’Course not. The addicts ‘re our best clients, never know when they’re gettin’ the raw end of the deal, ‘s why they keep comin’ to us.” Sal’s laughter is grating to his sensitive ears.

“’Cause gettin’ cheated by Omerta’s addictive. Must be, them motherfuckas keep comin’ back for more.”

Their handler, a congenial guy – Diego, appears on the stage then, he must’ve sensed the crowd growing impatient. Scant little gets past him, he’s the most reliable, least ambitious of his men on the ground. Safe, if that kind of person existed here.

Soft jazz from the top speakers accompanies him, it isn’t everyday this tradition is practiced in this city. Once every few months, if that. Diego knows how to handle their product, and he knows how to handle the crowd too. As a Slitherkin, he was a procurer, but the Omertas have less of a need for that when the product comes to them nowadays.

A showman’s grin extends across his warm, inviting face, and he spreads his arms to the crowd. The resulting applause is raucous, Nero hates this part. It doesn’t sit right with his delicate sensibilities, he prefers the quiet.

“We know why you’re here tonight, gentlemen! Why you’re willing to risk it all… but what’s a little risk for a big reward? We all take them..” He trails off, meeting Nero’s dark, critical gaze, searching for his rare approval.

He nods only after taking one last smoke from his cigarette. An ashtray is waiting for it, built-in to the floor, a small mercy from Mr. House, one of a few.

“For those with clean palates, tonight’s a special night. For those who don’t, well..” Diego shrugged, meeting the eyes of the seated gentlemen. “I’d like to introduce our newest hostess, from a little town south of here. From here on out, when you hear the name ‘Novac’, she’ll be all you can think about.”

Polite laughter filled the spacious theater then, it was only a cover for their real inclinations. Nero’s chin rested on his closed palm, his long fingers stroking the pale skin there, this display appealed to him in concept only. Pretty, like all old things. He would rather be networking from his office, reading Proust.

But a man like him must have a weakness – his is in beauty, displays of very particular traits. He is an exacting man, specific in his tastes, a hard critic of beauty who is impossible to please. He is a true connoisseur surrounded by prose.

“Tonight, I present to you.. Josephine. Layla, bring her, my honey.” Their lady-boy acquiesces immediately, tonight he is relieved from the laps of eccentric gentlemen to be at the call of Diego.

Layla disappears behind the stage’s scarlet curtain, this Nero notices because the lady-boy is impossible to miss, as tall if not taller than most men. He’s the flavor for every eccentric within a fifty-mile range, more profitable than half of his kin’s products.

The men surrounding him wait with bated breath, this tradition touches them the most, reminds them of a simpler time, when exchanges didn’t only end in money. They had no innate understanding of civil economics, but Nero had acclimated.

His handler is once more gentle as he turns around to guide Josephine on stage, and he can be heard calling out to her as any father would soothe their despondent daughter.

“Come, sweet Josephine. There are gentlemen waiting to meet you.” He chances one glance to the audience, smiling reassuringly at them.

If beauty could be bought and sold, his men had certainly done it. The slight girl on stage had all the gangly innocence of youth, but all the breathtaking charm of womanhood. How she hesitated to let go of Layla’s hand for Diego’s, it was nothing short of a masterpiece. Around him, his men salivated with lust – to deflower the girl was a rare treat.

Stage fright became her. Nero waits for Cachino to light another of his cigarettes, though happy to do it himself, it’s his guilty pleasure to test others.

Josephine was so slight that she failed to reach Diego’s shoulders, and he was a man of short stature by normal standards. A thousand bushels of wheat must have gone missing from the sharecroppers’ farms, for it had certainly been stolen to make her long, red-gold hair, a color so rarely seen. Nero favors the rare things.

More desperate than usual, Nero takes a smoke from his cigarette, and feels his strong jaw flex of its own accord. His is a look that could either kill or seduce. None of his men notice the tight grip he has on the railing, they too are taken with the woman-child being presented.

“Surely, one of you would have the honor? If so.. let him come forward!” Diego’s arm is around her shoulders, his hand strokes her shiny hair. The girl’s angelic face is resolutely blank, save for her wide, fearful eyes. “Starting at 200 caps to take sweet Josephine’s flower!”

Nothing comes without a price. Before he learned the operations of this casino, it’s something even his primitive mind had known. Ordinary things have no price at all, even fewer of them have worth. Treasures are expensive, and some of them are even priceless.

A tourist stands, a stout and unbecoming man. Nero sneers, a nasty motion on most men, but he is not most men, and it suits his handsome face. He’s a man who’s easily disgusted, that is why his leadership works now, of all the lifetime of their family, something he’s abundantly aware of.

“210!” Even his voice is unsightly.

“230!” Comes the offer of another tourist. Nero nurses his cigarette patiently, he takes his eyes off of her only when he has to.

His tongue absentmindedly rolls around his mouth, prodding the hollows of his cheeks. It isn’t that he’s not smooth with women, it’s that he prefers to look, rather than touch. Just like the poker chips he collects, this collection of beauty is no different – he never uses. Tonight is no different, he assures himself. He does a lot of that before refusing himself a pleasure.

The angel was cracked as soon as Cachino cut the deal, but she’s not broken yet. He’d know if she was, he encounters broken things everyday in his casino.

A set of naughty lingerie wouldn’t suit the rare fruit, was his wry inward remark. As a man of few words, he makes many of those. Diego understands tastes, it’s his job. So he knew that dressing her in a plain nightgown, more like a robe than anything else, was the necessary sales tactic. It isn’t white, but off-white, and a little too big around her shoulders and waist.

Stunning.

Nero is interested to know how much they’re willing to pay for it.

“250!”

Not enough, even Sal’s less disparaging eye realizes that.

“Only the brokest motherfuckas so far. More’ll come.” Sal’s droopy eyes are fixed on the same girl as any man.

Either he innately dislikes a thing that everyone else likes, or he wants it for himself. There’s no room for gray areas in his life. With another cigarette spent, more ash piles in the tray. They know better than to leave a full ashtray with him around.

“300!” A more chancing man, it seemed.

The girl tries hard to seem impassive, but she’s a small town girl, and this is no place like she’s seen. It’s artistry, the way she clings to Diego, her executioner. His act is as good as some of his best night workers.

“Oh, 300? Can we not do better than that, gentlemen? Come on, she’s worth more!” He raises his hands and beckons forward. Josephine manages to keep her footing despite the movement, she must have a grace that girls her age do not have.

“310!”

While he stares at the object of his attention, the path of his tongue takes it over his teeth, stopping at the sharp canines, sharper than any outsiders’. The Slitherkin sharpened their canines so to resemble their namesake – agonizing ritual, he’s glad to be done with it.

“350!” His eyes narrow at that man, a handsome one.

In the event that one takes her, he may be tempted to intervene. Maybe.

“What’ll she charge after?” Cachino asks. Besides being a lieutenant, he is also a kiss-ass, and likes to pretend that he understands business outside of drug dealing.

“Gonna set the bar as high a bit we can, new ones never bring in much with the regulars, but she ain’t old or ghoul. 150, more if she’s worth it.” While his right hand leaves much to be desired – any right hand does, that’s why a left exists – he’s a blessedly terse man.

They know better than to ask him what he thinks, since it’s Sal’s job to repeat exactly what he thinks. Their operations are simple, and easy to understand, that’s why their casino has the highest revenue.

“450!” A wealthier client bids, an older Brahmin baron.

By the time the bid climbs to 550, Nero begins to question his earlier assurances. Josephine has no idea what is going on, or she is too shocked to look outraged like many of the others often do.

A server comes to supply their liquor, but Nero refuses to drink in public, a setting he dislikes to begin with. Between his men sloshing around their whiskey, and the auction below, his senses are overwhelmed and he is decidedly displeased.

“700!” His brow twitches, threatening to raise completely.

A deep, smoky chuckle rasps beside him, it is Sal of course, Sal who makes him rethink not having a left hand.

“800!” The men are growing more desperate now, stirred by the cracking, soft angel on stage.

The hostility this tradition breeds is legendary, it’s a tribal game being played by highbrow Californians, and they don’t even know it.

“1000!” The handsome one offers, his face was flushed in greed that would’ve suited Nero far better.

That is it, then. Nero straightens, standing to his full height, where he can look over his men with ease. The prize is sweet enough that he can’t bear to simply look. It’s an instance where he wants what everyone else wants.

His right hand senses that he’s growing impatient with something, he can only ever guess why half the time. Those beady, drooping eyes assess him, but he’s slow on the draw, an unremarkably common thing for him. But those are just his standards, which are higher than what was reasonable for a former tribal.

“On the house. I’ll have her.” The eyes of his close-ish circle of men are on him, agape at the irregularity. He’ll laugh at the memory in privacy. “Go on, announce it.”

There’s few things he loathes more than being watched by a crowd, but he’s made already made an exception tonight, another exception will only make his kin step more carefully with him. They already think he’s unpredictable, on account of his solemn brooding. In reality, he is highly predictable, and plans most of his days by the hour.

Sal’s voice has this dubious quality to it that simply carries.

“The house!” The silence that comes over their customers is almost as worthy as the reward herself. Almost.

An arm wraps around his shoulder then, a gesture he allows because it’s necessary. Diego has to know who he’s sold her to, Nero figures he deserves that much. Every head turns to the balcony then, first to look at Sal, then to him. An unprecedented irregularity. He needs another cigarette if he’s going to do this, but he can’t possibly with this attention, and he’s chainsmoked the whole night already. Regardless, his lungs seek for it with the resignation of the dying.

His handler whispers a few mollifying words in her ear, his dark eyes are glued to the action. Irremovable.

Oh, but to have those sad eyes trail up to the balcony, and meet his from so far away. His throat is dry, and it isn’t from smoking. Diego slithers in her ear, no doubt instilling her with reassurances, perhaps he tells her that she’s won big. She has. It’s improvisation that keeps Diego from reacting the wrong way.

As with any other, the ceremony will proceed as surviving traditions do. His lieutenant and his right hand, along with his guards, trail after him on his way down to the ground floor, a tedious walk made more so by having to do it in front of hundreds of scandalized eyes. He hopes that what he’s enduring is worth what he’s gaining. But he didn’t get here by being a bad strategist. He convinces himself that this is a strategic move, but he can’t lie to himself. He just wants it.

It is one thing to move a crowd with greed, and a wholly other one to move a crowd with envy. Envy is nothing new in his position, he knows that even Sal envies having House’s ear. But it isn’t that his displays of power are showier, nor does he have the glib of the checkered Chairman, it’s instead in his singular brooding tact, his ability to think long-ranged. That’s rarer than glib, and that’s why the Chairman hates him more than he hates those sorry gourmet fucks.

The jazz is louder down here in the open area, too loud for his liking, but that is why he stays in his own space more often than not. Complaints are useless if he’s not going to do anything about them. He’s picky about a wide variety of things, but especially with what problems he cares about correcting.

Their showgirls await them, the winners of the auction. That the house wins 99% of the time is no closely guarded secret in Vegas.

Joanna and Layla – two favorites with his customers, whisper advice in her ear, much to the inconsolable quiver of her sweet, full lips, pinker up close, and positively red from weeping. Josephine looks up to him in that way stags can’t resist when they’re in range of the barrel of a gun.

A softer tune picks up then, sparing the loud brass for the gentle strokes of the piano. He nearly sighs in relief.

In line with the tradition, every other showgirl in the Zoara claps, with the winner of the auction standing only feet from his prize. His gaze roves over every inch of her, especially admiring of the fragile heart shape of her face, as cracked as the organ itself must be.

Beautiful, he thinks, and worth earning the wrath and envy of every man who placed a bid. This was Gomorrah, after all, they would know a thing or two if they read the Bible.

Regardless, he’s won, and the hand he extends to her is not chivalrous, but the first transaction. Her refusal to take it is mouth-watering, he feels a rare delight threatening to spread through his chest and down his lean stomach. Only the promise of having her is enough to keep him from freezing under the crowd’s attentions.

Joanna is too soft to push her, but Layla has something close to the keen judgment of a man, and nudges her forward, close enough that he can grab her arm rather than wait for it to come to him. He is impossibly impatient right now.

Their eyes meet properly then, and he runs his tongue over his canines in a familiar, nervous habit to stave the pressure of the crowd, whooping and hollering. His resulting wince can only be seen in his eyes, hooded from this height, for she is small.

His family knows better than to urge him, he likes to take his time when he can – but the crowd is unaware of the likings of their mysterious host, and is torn between sordid, vicarious arousal and jealousy, and they are the ones who urge him to hurry. He sweeps one last, adoring glance over her, and tears her from the ground.

The angel that graces Gomorrah is weightless hanging over his shoulder.

Her hips don’t yet have the curves of a grown woman, but they fit perfectly against his pectorals. Goosebumps form underneath the dark suit he wears, her long, golden-red hair tickles the skin of his neck, an innocuous sensation that nonetheless stirs his arousal, just as the clinging hands that hang around his neck, tight enough that any other time, he would be in a fit of silent rage.

“’Bout to be a woman, little girl. Don’t know how good you got it right now.” Sal’s abrasion cut through the air like a hatchet, drawing tears from the girl where earlier they stubbornly refused to fall.

“And they don’t know how bad they’ve got it.” Nero gestures toward the crowd behind him, growing smaller with the distance he and his men made down the hallway. Diego was still consoling them, what a pity.

Whether that repulsive rasp is Sal snickering, or the abhorrent process of ghoulification, Nero doesn’t know, but he does know that he is tired of being surrounded by people. As soon as they reach the penthouse, he’s sending his men away – he never follows a tradition to a line.

That she clings to him, her despoiler, is simply divine, poetic in that way few of his fellow tribals dare to ever sample. Sweat forms underneath his suit jacket, sticking to the dark, curly hairs there.

His elevator is blessedly, finally, silent. It’s a silence that brings discomfort to lesser men, but it empowers him. No small talk is exchanged between his kin, he’s got no use for that – he’s sure they’ll start yammering as soon as they’re dismissed. He’s not father of the family because he’s a good talker.

Ding, she rouses in his arms at the sound, putting up a weak resistance. He’s sure that Diego told her what that would earn, but his handler had no way of guessing, the Omerta father hadn’t done this before.

“Back to the ground then. Sal, go and handle our new supplier. Cachino, keep those NCR fucks in line, I won’t have them chasing off paying customers.” For the second time, but that was left unsaid, there were lots of that action in chats with him. “Get lost now, shoo.”

If it was stage fright that kept him from making a move before they made their very slow move down the very slow elevator, then it’s a blessing he’s not a performer.

The door to his penthouse was locked – a measure that would be unnecessary for anyone else, but he’s not anyone else. The hand that wasn’t holding onto her fished in his suit pocket for his key, and hurriedly unlocked the door, looking forward to the comfort of his own room. Away from the probing stare of every eye in his casino, the lean muscles of his tense shoulders could finally relax.

He is gentle with the darling woman-child when he places her on her tiny feet again, and finally , he can have that anxious cigarette, and light it himself. His eyes never leave hers, the teary, hazel, and heartbroken little gems.

Because there is something of a gentleman in him after all, he blows the smoke away from her. Her shoulders shake – a slender voluptuous leaf in the wind, and she slowly backs away from him, her eyes are widened comically large, but he follows her with larger footsteps. Between the two of them, he can cover more ground, she is no tribal, former or otherwise.

Her palpable vulnerability compels him, it’s as pretty as a picture. He lets his cigarette dangle from his lips while he removes his  suit jacket, wondering if the action would stir her somehow, that it’s a test sounds better than how hot and sweaty he truly is.

An audible swallow. He follows the movement in her delicate throat, and finds himself mimicking it.

“What do you know about me?” He has to ask, he so rarely gets to.

“That you want to take something from me.” Disarming. Her voice is that of a soprano’s, as light and weightless as her body.

Nero finds himself amused by her cheek, she’s surprisingly direct for the position she is in. It isn’t clear to him if it’s naivete or brass. It isn’t often that he analyzes the habits of little girls.

“How old are you?” His cigarette is relieved from his lips then, held between two fingers while he braces her without actually bracing her. He has that effect sometimes, he is uncannily terse and forward.

It’s beyond aggravating when she hesitates, he’s used to getting his way, but he also doesn’t go out of his way to hurt people, so he refrains from shaking her shoulders and demanding an answer. He’s intrigued by her, people never intrigue him.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t answer, but I’ll wait. In the privacy of my own room, I can wait indefinitely, cry baby.” He christens her with a name of his own, he thinks it’s fitting – a baby doll’s name, for a beauty that matches it.

“14.” The rims of her eyes are pink with tears.

“Do you know what kind of place this is?” She nods, looking away from him to stare at his wardrobe. Her response is full of the hubris of youth, trying to convince adults that they’re in on a secret. It’s a rare treat to see here, of all places.

He approaches her then, reaching over her to grind his cigarette out on an ashtray, following her as she backs away, further entrapping herself.

“Then you won’t mind if I do this…” There is secret, hidden desperation in the way he runs his hand over her shoulder and down the pane of her slender stomach. He is too proud to show that he is being undone.

Tears cloud those pretty eyes again, he finds himself wanting to soothe them, just for the pleasure of it. His hand slows its journey down her stomach, and instead grasps her chin, soft and unmarked by a hard life. His fingers sweep across her cheeks, those round apples are just now finding their angles.

“Shh…” He coos, glad to have recalled her attention on him. He hates it when people won’t meet his eye, but he understands just the same. “You have no idea what this place is, do you? But I can teach you the easy way, or the hard way. We both know which you’d prefer.”

Definitely worth the profits lost.

“My daddy is a-” His snort is derisive, but his smile is adoring.

“I’m the Father of the Omertas. Your daddy hasn’t got a chance, sweetheart, and you’re under my protection now, all things considered.. I’ll be a better daddy to you than he ever was.” He longs to kiss her, he knows it’ll be her first, he wants that freshness.

Nero dislikes unclean people, he is sensitive to just about everything. Greasy, oily, sticky things bother him, the stench of other men on a woman disturbs him, but Josephine has none of that, she’s clean and he doesn’t have to worry about the sweat, blood, and seed of other men on her. His arousal is hard, ready, but he’s no caveman. He was glad to leave that behind.

“Take off your gown, I’ll show you the easy way.” But his flower was resolute, stubborn and green. He preferred it over the annoying and failed attempts at craft within his own family. “Or not?”

His left hand joins his right, going in the same direction on either side. He slides her sleeves down, loose enough on her slender body. It takes no effort at all for the rest of it to follow, and what greets him is enough to enamor the rocks his kin used to sharpen and coat with poison.

Those budding breasts are a handful in his palms, pert and attentive. A war is taking place in her mind, he can see. She doesn’t want this, but he is handsome, and she’s a sensitive young thing, unwise to the trade.

Below her breasts his a russet nest of short curls, beckoning him to lick, bite, nuzzle, something he’d not do if she’d had another man inside of her. He is particular among his kin.

Their kiss is one-sided, but it soothes him nonetheless, he is no stranger to taking an unwilling woman. But she is not a woman, and he has pissed off an entire casino to have her. He will take his sweet time and savor her. Unable to resist the urge any longer, he slides a slow hand down her stomach to wander through her curls, finding there a small trickle of arousal, but not enough for the easy way.

Her body tenses at his touch, drawn as tight as that soft, pink part of her surely was. Still clothed in his suit, he picks up her nude and criminally enchanting self, and lays her down on his bed. Other women will cut her hair in her sleep, with the way it fans out over the sheets as it does.

Whether she’s aware of it or not, she traps him between her hips, an instinct that doesn’t serve her virginal sensitivities. The crooked smirk on one side of his lips is usually an ill omen, is an ill omen tonight in some ways. It’s rare enough of a motion to convince him it might not be an ill omen. No one can ever convince him of anything, it’s always he, himself, him.

There’s no perfume on her skin, and certainly not the stifling kind his product wears – only a faint, uncorrupt scent of soap, it clings even to her small, pale feet, which he brings up to his mouth. Nero likes feet, it’s something only he knows, but he knows she’s safe. The resulting tears are guilty ones, girlhood only knows a few. It’s only a broad philosophical guess though, he barely remembers his miserable boyhood enough to be an expert.

Josephine’s leg trembles, his hot breath tickles the skin of her foot, and it’s sweet enough to rot his otherwise clean teeth.

“Ticklish?” It’s not supposed to be answered, but he wonders if she’ll answer it. She’s beyond green.

“Y-yes actually..” She tries to jerk her leg out of his grip, but he only responds by suckling a few of the smallest toes.

He’s got the weirdest arousal right now, turned up high and hot by her tickled breaths, he’s never been more relieved to have taken off his suit jacket. But those tight fucking suspenders, something needs to be done about them.

Christ, he thinks to himself after pulling them loose with his free hand. She refuses to meet his eye as he makes sweet, sweet love to those sweet little toes of hers, tickled, ashamed, fearful. At least she still has shame to give, it’s a rare commodity around here.

The path down her leg and up her thigh is a long, winding one, and he’s rewarded by being tickled by her when the russet curls are playing with his long, aquiline nose. That’s the nose of the Julio-Claudian line.

Her squirming is girlish and conflicted, she pulls away in that instinct all virgins have, and because she’s beginning to understand what’s about to happen. His grip on her thighs only tightens, his pity for virgins is beginning to wane right now. He wants to know if her sex tastes as good as her little toes.

And it does. It’s salty and sweet, not yet tangy from cigarette smoke like every grown woman in this casino. It isn’t the taste he enjoys though, it’s the rare act that he’s committing, and he’s careful with rare things, possessive with them. His tongue circles her in that way artists take their slow, careful time with a quality canvas. She tries to scoot away from him, but she doesn’t yet realize those sightly, but simultaneously gangly, fingers in his hair only pull him closer.

He’s never dipped his tongue in before, never likes the idea of that finicky part of him being inside of a woman. Her scream is loud enough that his guards at the other end of the hallway are probably getting nosebleeds, it bothers him. He likes his privacy. She’s warm around his probing tongue, her quivering muscles are tight and flexed, virgins don’t know that this only makes it harder, but they can’t help it. It’s a shame.

“Please, please don’t- don’t do it.. it’s not right.”

“What’s not right?” He removes his tongue from her, his shaved jaw glistens with her now.

“R-ra..pe.” His eyes darken at that, pissed now. He’s no rapist, and doesn’t like that little title next to ‘Nero’ on the dotted line.

“It’s not rape, sweetheart, rape doesn’t start like this.” A long finger spreads the arousal over her little bud, glistening from his donation. “I don’t expect you to know any better though, so daddy will forgive you.” He tells her like it’s a secret, his voice has that quality.

Really, he is the daddy of this family, he almost never gets to say it, but she gave him that word earlier, now it’s sticking, kind of like the sticky on his fingers, a kind of sticky that isn’t repulsing him.

“But, I don’t want it. Isn’t that what it means?” He rests his chin on the curls of her mound, effectively slowing anymore nervous twitching.

“Not exactly, because you want it more than you’d want it from those tourists. Nothing’s black and white, sweetheart.” He liked it when people thought that way though, secretly. There’s not much else he really likes about people, they’re at the bottom of his priorities for the most part.

It’s too bright in here. Nothing ever goes as right as he’d like it to. He’s got something to prove to her, so he pecks a bittersweet goodbye on her inner thigh, and leans over her to flick the light switch, leaving only the dim light of the nightstand on. He’s got two switches for the chandelier, just in case one of his guys sneaks up in the middle of the night.

“They wouldn’t have taken the time, what they would’ve done to you is too gruesome to detail. That’s what it means,” he throws her words back at her, a habit of his. He doesn’t have natural charisma, just the precise art to know how to press a specific person.

He fingers the tie at his neck, loosening it and throwing it behind him. His is the best tie, his learning is the quickest. There’s no reminiscence for a simpler, tribal existence – he likes cigarettes and kirschwasser too much. A suit and tie is a big fucking part of that.

After the tie comes the plain white Oxford button-up, she uses this moment to try to close her legs, but he doesn’t give her the chance. He smacks her thigh with a gentleness that simply didn’t belong in the action, for a lesser man at least. His tongue soothes those sharpened incisors behind his supple, stoic lips, more controlled than his namesake. What a moronic little blockhead, ruin of the glorious Julio-Claudians. Great name, though.

The snakeskin belt that comes off is a real antique, the only wear he’s kept from the snake days. The wide-eyed Josephine watches it nervously, he almost wants to pop it, but that isn’t his fucking style. It isn’t something Nero would do.

“Did your daddy ever pop you with his?” She swallows, looking from it to him with an intoxicating innocence. She bites her lip, something that stirs him an awful lot, but it’s to keep those pretty tears from falling. Her head begins to nod, but he shakes his, a slow and reprimanding gesture. “No, no, I never did and I never will. He let you slip between his fingers, but I have a tighter grip. You won’t be slipping from my fingers, sweetheart.”

Yeah, he’s going to have to find another way for Reeves to pay his debt, because there’s no way he’s letting his clients paw at her, not when she’s given him the rare pleasures. Another idea for Reeves is on its way already, it’ll be more effective. This is why he’s the Father.

Damn, but the cool draft from the vent isn’t enough to soothe his arousal, even when his suit pants are off. It’s a large one, larger for her, a rare privilege denied to most women.

He slides further between her legs, and he can’t resist sliding himself through the wet, sticky arousal that’s there, grinding himself between those tight, pink folds. They cling to him like her arms clang to him earlier, like her legs unwittingly cling to his waist now.

“Kiss me.” He doesn’t mind taking her saccharine kisses for he and himself, but he likes telling her what to do – whorish women know how to do it and when to do it, and they disgust him.

The air between them is shared now that his lips rest on top of hers, full and red from crying. Her tears are beautiful, but he doesn’t want to see them right now. His cry baby has to know that.

It’s the first time she’s kissed a man, she’s clumsy, half-willing, and trembling, but he swallows it down like he swallows a glass of kirsch when he’s alone. It’s the sweetest kiss he’s ever been given. Because he’s more experienced, and he’s the winner here, he can’t resist taking over, and sliding his tongue between her lips, salty from her tears. She doesn’t know what to do with his tongue, a detail that earns a rare, sincere smile from him, but no one, not even she, can see it.

The hand that isn’t holding her delicate jaw is palming his arousal, preparing for that final plunge. He decides to take it then, his groan is guttural and unlike him once inside, surrounded by her on all sides.

She doesn’t understand what her ankles are doing when they pull him deeper, doesn’t understand that the shocked, pained cry is her own doing as much as it’s his. Sweat beads on his forehead, he can’t push all the way through, he’s got to take his time. He swore that he’d savor her.

One little push, and he’s farther than his tongue had ever been. Oh, it’s worth having to rethink Reeves’ debt, though he loathes returning to past problems. He’ll do it to keep her from every other man.

The muscles of his lean stomach tense and flex, and it isn’t stage fright this time. She’s got him wound up like no whore ever could, even when they overperform for a little slice of Nero’s attention. Nuh-uh, he can’t go back.

At her hilt is when he finally, finally grunts, a deep, raspy sound that spends most of its long life in her mouth. Either of his hands make to grab her slender thighs as leverage, so that he can withdraw only to pump again a second later, a movement that bounces the small breasts flush against his chest.

Because she is her, he doesn’t have to restrain himself. She’s not like the rest of his family, he doesn’t have to play the formal Father to her. Those tight, drawn muscles flex around him, they’re almost his undoing. His mouth leaves hers to hide itself in her pale, slender neck, he’s feeling a bit shy. This isn’t something he does often, and he especially never gets cozy with them when he does.

Those cries of hers are something of a mix between pain and pleasure, the first and last of their particular kind. He’s never liked the tradition more than he does now, something he repeats over in his head as his hips pump between her thighs. That sweat on his forehead washes over her skin, they’re bathing together right now and she just doesn’t know it. There’s a lot of things she doesn’t know, but he might like to teach her. No, he will like to teach her. Nero doesn’t play with hypotheticals.

She tries to push at his chest, but it’s half-hearted, a virtuous gesture. His cry baby is pure, too stubborn to show any hint that she likes it.

“Ugh…” He slows his pace somewhat, grinding himself in a sensual, circular motion, his grip on her thigh tightening. He’s close, already.

His cry baby just doesn’t know how undone she’s made him. It’s effortless, like the best work usually is. They have that in common.

Unbidden, his hands stroke up her waist and thighs, petting the soft, soft skin there, heretofore untouched and unclaimed. His movements become more erratic, and he pulls away from her neck to stare into those adorable, hazel eyes, wide and teary as a Botticelli’s.

He lets go with an untenable wail, it’s the undoing of Nero, and it somehow relieves every tight muscle in the coiled, snaky fabric that he’s cut from. He can’t pull out of her, he’s too cozy where he’s at.

So he rests his nose against the small button that is hers, and gives a few more ragged pumps of his hips before he’s content to slow down. Her lips are parted, but not in the way of a whore’s – it’s shocked and scandalized, a sweet, sweet scandal. He licks the corners of them, swiping his tongue up the roof of her mouth before pinching her top lip between his white teeth.

Another kind of sticky coats her thighs when he withdraws from her to reach for the discarded suit jacket for his cigarettes. She says nothing, only staring at the ceiling like she’s waiting for a savior. She doesn’t realize he saved her tonight, and while he’s far from an angel, he knows he’ll be better to her than anyone else would be. He’s the only savior that will come for her – many, many times in many, many ways.

The pop of his flip lighter doesn’t even break the solemn cry baby from her doubtlessly sickly sweet inner monologue, but even still he blows the smoke away from her, and rests his elbow on the same pillow she’s lying upon. His dark eyes wander her face, licking her where his tongue hadn’t thought to.

His breaths are still deep and ragged, deeper still from the cigarette.

He hesitates before speaking, it’s a classical shortcoming of Nero’s that in actuality makes him appear even more brooding.

“You won’t be on call. I’ll get your brother for what he did, and he’ll earn my forgiveness another way. Does that make you feel better?” He finds himself wanting to know what’s on her mind. She’s enigmatic in a way a gangly, slender little teenager shouldn’t be. It almost unnerves him, but he has a liking for these things. No answer, and she refuses to look his way. He takes another, deeper inhale. “You’ll be my little cry baby.” Still nothing.

Maybe he could have peace and quiet after all.

Chapter Text

I’ve flown around the world in a plane,

I’ve settled revolutions in Spain,

And the North Pole I have charted,

Still I can’t get started with you.

Around the golf course, I’m under par,

Metro Goldwyn have asked me to star,

I’ve got a house, a showplace,

But still I can’t get no place with you.

‘Cause you’re so supreme, lyrics I write of you

I dream, dream day and night of you,

And I scheme just for the sight of you,

Baby, what good does it do?

I’ve been consulted by Franklin D,

Greta Garbo has had me to tea,

Still I’m brokenhearted, ‘cause I can’t get started with you.

- “I Can’t Get Started”, Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra

A rustle of blankets disturbs him from his light sleep. He’s never been too good of a sleeper, he picks up on these things quicker than the cash that’s stacked on his desk every morning. Sal’s already stacked it, if he knows what’s good for him.

To be Omerta is to fall in a cruel little dotted line, it always has been. If anything, Nero’s just made it cooler and simpler – easier to follow. He watches the draping canopy of his bed, swaying under the cool draft of the vent, he’s more taken with the motion than usual. It’s early morning yet, his mind isn’t as quick as it usually is at this time. His inner alarm is never late.

Before he faces his cry baby, he needs a compulsory, early morning smoke. These movements are instinctual by now. He’s not himself until he can go through with it. This time, the pop of the flip lighter causes a snap from his right side. Had he woken her? With his cigarette lit and his fingers busy, he can face the music, and he likes this song better than most.

The penthouse’s curtains are cracked just enough to let some early morning light through, casting her angelic, sad face in a biblical glow that just didn’t belong in Gomorrah. The skin underneath her eyes is raw and pink, fatigued from the little sleep he’d clearly just snapped her out of. Nero blows smoke away from her, and props himself up on his side, hovering over her.

“You’re very pretty.” It might have been awkward if not for his voice – his perpetual savior. “Tell me about yourself, pretty girl.”

“What is there to say..” She croaks, the church bells of her voice are scratchy from tears. “You’ve taken everything that I am.” What follows is a beautiful, pathetic sob that almost inspires his sympathy.

“If your flower’s all that you are, then you’ve got bigger problems than my theft, you little cry baby. I know that can’t be, though, you’re just shy.” Like him. Smoke billows to the left of him, a cloud that gets illuminated in the crack of morning light. His free hand travels down to her face and chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Hmm? No need to clam up for your new daddy.” He’s sure she regrets having brought up her father now, but he just can’t resist, she’s too charming.

Like a flower that wilts up in the dry season, she scrunches her nose and looks away from him, but he gives her chin a gentle little shake, and those two little gems are back on he and him, the serpentine looks that were as venomous as they were handsome.

“We’re not leaving this bed until you tell me one thing about yourself. And don’t lie, I’ll know.” He flicks some of the ash onto an ashtray on his side of the bed.

“I paint.” His eyes snap back to hers, a painter’s eyes.

Nero has a weakness for art, it’s why he acted out last night and took her from wealthy clients. And like the greedy art vulture that he was, he honed in on her, and grinds the fire out of his cigarette before returning to her side of the bed.

“Would you paint for me?” He asks, it’s inquisitive but it sounds like a tease. He can’t help it. There’s never been much room for curiosity in the way he speaks.

Josephine looks away from him again, to the cracked curtain at his window. He swears that he won’t give into the temptation to shut it, but his fingers drum on the cover nonetheless, itching to jerk her face toward him. Who would’ve thought he wanted attention from a little girl? Certainly not him, he has to keep this on the low.

Maybe it’s her blessed silence that appeals to him right now, his ears are so sensitive.

“No?” He’s almost genial, but his fucking voice just isn’t letting it happen.

A small, hesitant shake of her head tells him what he wants to know, what he already knows is true.

“If you had some paper…?” He presses, it’s something he wouldn’t normally do. Again, he doesn’t make inquiries to people, one question is usually enough. “Look at me, cry baby.”

“Please.. stop calling me that.” Her request moves him, but it’s really just her sudden responsiveness.

Nero arches one dark, thick eyebrow, and leans down to get closer to her – she smells like him. Every morning, he dabs musk on either pulse on his neck and wrists, in the late afternoon he does the same, it’s the same scent on her collarbone and slender neck, a secondhand scent that he gave her.

A prewar magazine he read had said that perfumes smelt different depending on the chemistry of the person who wore it. The musk smelt different on Josephine.

“Or what?” He challenges her, because her blush is too pretty to not steal. Stealing things from her is fast becoming addictive.

Theft was his game. Recovering things from unworthy hands is what he did as a Slitherkin, back when he did what he’d now call fieldwork. Unfitting, he wasn’t built for the elements. This is where he’s always belonged, he takes to it better than most of his kin. Air conditioning is a treasure, like the treasure he has below him.

He wants her again, evidence of it is pressed against her soft stomach.

“What are you going to do to your daddy if I call you cry baby? You are a cry baby, the prettiest cry baby, who’s going to paint for me.” Any protestation she may have made was silenced by his mouth on hers, but his kiss remains to be returned.

Oh, and when she bites his lip, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, catching it between her teeth to try and stop him. It simply doesn’t work, because he wants it. The sound she earns is somewhere between a sigh and a groan, an observer might not be able to tell if he was taking a particularly delicious meal instead.

His lip is bleeding he knows, but he doesn’t care, it’s proof of her dignity and it’s intoxicating. He takes her in his arms, pale but forever weathered by that icky, rough tribal life, and sits her up against his pillow, snaking his way between her thights – she’s not quick enough to close them.

In the mornings, he’s harshest, it’s before he’s had his coffee, and he hasn’t punished his lungs enough to be in a good mood. He doesn’t prefer her to be the object of his morning grump, but he simply can’t resist. Hadn’t he tried to last night? Yeah, that’s a distant memory now. What’s he going to do with her when he leaves for his office?

That’s the thing he considers when he slides himself between her sensitive legs, plunging himself in, to her abject humiliation and to his pleasure. Tonight he’ll be gentler, the last thing he needs is for someone he actually likes to be bitter with him.

“Are you gonna bite my lip again if I kiss you?” He asks when he’s buried inside, taking her chin in one hand. She knew better now, what a fucking shame. Beneath him, she squirms, and grows wetter, and tighter, around him. “Do it anyway.” He whispers to her, a kind of quiet command he gives often. He never yells.

Regardless of whether she’s going to listen to him – he hopes she doesn’t, that’s what a hooker would do – he kisses her, a sloppy, ragged one. He blames it on not having had any coffee.

Mornings are never this kind to him. He slides out of her, watching in fascination as she flinches, unsure of whether she should give in or continue to resist. But the seedy pleasures are his trade, he knows a thing or two about women’s arousal, and there is a part of her that enjoys it even if she fights it. Her resolve inspires him.

A few more deep thrusts have him undone, any small mercy is doubly so in the morning. His nose feels longer than usual, cocooned in her neck like this, catching his breaths.

“Ever used a shower before, cry baby?” She’s clean, but he doubts she’s ever had the luxury of a high pressure shower. The sticks only had cold baths. “No?” He thinks that shake is a resolute no, but she’s still too scandalized to talk with him. “How many first times have you had in the past day? Come on, come get cleaned up with Nero.” He’s never showered with anyone before, he can’t stomach the thought of getting dirty as he was getting clean.

Her despondence is as pretty as any other mood he’s seen flash over her face, all except the pleasure he hasn’t seen. He wonders if her happiness is as pretty as everything else, he’ll check tonight.

Sighing, a truly broken sound, he pulls out of her and scoops her up like the doll she is. His bathroom isn’t anything special, it’s not like he entertains much up here. His room is off limits to all but his right hand. He loathes any tentative privacy being interrupted.

With one long leg, he closes the toilet lid and sets her down on it, running a cursory glance over her body, exposed under the bathroom’s light. How beautiful, but he’s spent, his vigor takes the backseat right now to let his aesthetic sensibilities take over.

He stops to admire himself in the mirror – the skin between his brows is looser than usual, a weight’s been lifted. His strong, angular jaw is relaxed, and there’s a small shadow of stubble growing over it. He’ll shave it tomorrow, it’s something only he would notice, as picky as he is.

On his way to the tub, they lock eyes, on her end it only lasts less than a second. She looks at his spent manhood, hanging limp between his legs, before looking away with a blush, forever virginal despite the circumstances. When the water is hot to his likeness, he beckons for her with two fingers, and to his relief, she doesn’t deny him. Bathtubs are slippery, after all, he doesn’t want to pick her up only to drop her.

There’s a limp in her gait, and he also notices some dried spots of blood on her thighs. How he hopes it hasn’t gotten on his sheets – he hates having the girls downstairs clean his room. It isn’t a chivalrous gesture, but a tactical one, when he helps her step into the tub, the resulting wince almost earns her a kiss, but he doesn’t want to be late. He’s never been late before.

That hot water is too much for her, and her yelp is positively helpless, a shaking little flower that leans into his stomach behind her.

“You’ll get used to it, my little cry baby. It’s good for your skin, opens up the airways and increases blood flow.” Like he needed that right now.

“It hurts to stand..” She says, more to herself than anyone. He follows the path of her head as she looks down her legs and between her thighs, and screeches, almost sending them both falling. His grip around her body is solid, it’s like holding back air from being breathed – she’s so little.

“Shh.. it won’t hurt for too long. I’ll kiss it and make it better tonight, save your tears for when I can see them.” The sweep of his hand over her navel is that of a gentle lover’s, the kiss he plants on her neck is the ghost of a peck. “Now we have to hurry the fuck up, you understand? I’m a busy man.”

He presses himself against her, not unpurposefully, because the soap is a foot away from him. Now, he really does have to hurry, he has a reputation to uphold, and he has to figure out where to put her in the meantime. Doubtless, she’ll need food, water, all the basic necessities, just like every other worker under his employ, but where to put her? He’s stumped.

No way is he letting her slip through his fingers and place her in the Brimstone under that brainless fuck’s watch. The girls in the courtyard would only teach her how to hook, that isn’t something he needs, but it would look suspicious if he kept her around, he can’t have his guys knowing he’s sweet on her in any case.

Oh, she’s so tantalizingly slow, that shuffling thing she does with her aching thighs almost tempts him to be late. But he’s nothing if not honest – he is a busy man, and he shows her how just how busy he is when he rips the soap out of her hands and lathers her hair, mapping the rare color, darker under the water.

“What did you paint?” He asks, again sounding like he’s teasing her, but he isn’t, he swears he isn’t.

She sniffles, a broken sound for a broken doll. His hand is off to lather her body now, trailing soap down the soft skin of her back, lingering on her bruised hips before swiping down her backside, much to her discomfort. It isn’t because he wants to grope her right now, he really does just want her to be clean, he’s got no patience for uncleanliness in himself or others.

Washing the soap out of her hair is a trying chore, but he does it faster than her meandering, shaking hands could. That’s the price of having a cry baby with long, long hair, the kind of hair you can get away with in a comfortable life. Her life here could be comfortable, it’s within his means, but his definition of comfort isn’t conventional. Sacrifices have to be made for the sake of his family.

Even with that in mind, the comfort he could give her was a courier’s mile ahead of letting her hook.

She’d have to stay in the Zoara, within sight but far enough to be proper, if this was the place for propriety. He gives her neck one last kiss before turning the water off, and reaching for a towel behind the closed shower curtain.

First is him, first is always him, and he pays close attention to patting his face dry, only dabbing the towel instead of dragging it like a clueless halfwit. That was bad for his skin. With Josephine, he does the same treatment, it would be a damn shame if her blushing cheeks had acne.

“Wrap your hair in that.” He motions with the towel, but she looks cluelessly at it, he knew there were towels down in the sleepy town she came from. “If I have to do it-”

“I don’t know what to do!” She exclaims, and he could bite the round and flush apples of her cheeks.

“I’ll show you how to do it, for a price.” It’s ironic, given the circumstance. He taps the hollow of his cheek then, “Just a kiss right here, cry baby, and don’t make me wait on you.”

He even bends down and gives her his cheek, his permanent frown quirking at the corner when she rises to barely peck him on the cheek, the way a fearful child might to a reprimanding relative. His nose brushes hers when he straightens back up, it’s sensual miscalculation is what it is.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He can’t keep his hands off of her. Damn, he really needs a coffee, his head is killing him right now. “Bend over.”

Josephine doesn’t know to be nervous about that suggestion, another rare treat of hers. He’s only seen the courtyard workers do this after a dip in the pool, so he isn’t a fucking expert, all he knows is that he doesn’t want her thick, long hair dripping all over his carpet. So he does what he sees workers do, mimics their whorish motions with some of his own.

“Now, stand, and don’t let it fall. You can take it off when you’re dressed.”

Because he’s feeling charitable right now, he helps her out of the bathtub and over to the sink. The glaring problem, the last fucking thing he needs this morning, is that she has no clothes. How’s he going to get some clean clothes delivered up here?

Well, it’s simply not possible. One of his Oxfords is going to have to cut it, his men know how he is about dirt and grime. It’s the first time he’s shared a toothbrush with anyone, but he supposes she’s clean enough, having only had himself on her, and he’s safe.

“Don’t walk like that, everyone will give you a hard time, and then they’ll get a peek of my tears.” Nero doesn’t have occasion to give his good two cents often, but he doesn’t want her drawing too much attention, it’ll only lead to the disappointment of his clients.

“That’s the only way I can walk.” She has the brass of youth, alright. He looks at her from head to toe, he doesn’t want to push her around, she’s just sweet enough that it would make him feel like a villain.

“Then you can do it faster. Daddy can only protect you so much, and everyone here is a fucking snake, got it?” It’s genuine advice, but he really just doesn’t want her getting cozy with his workers – they’d be a bad influence to his cry baby. “They’ll ask you about me, and you won’t waste a pretty little word, or I’ll know.” Then it’ll be the hard way.

This morning he takes two Oxfords out of his dresser, and hands her one. Gomorrah’s no stranger to bare legs, but the girl also has no shoes, and he loves her feet too much to let her walk around barefoot. Two pairs of socks this morning, then.

It’s those large, teary eyes, so pitiful and sad, that almost make him want to apologize, but he can’t remember the last time he did that. He rarely ever says anything that would warrant one. Nero’s impersonal in almost all of his chats.

“Come here, cry baby.” It’s his own eccentric amends, dressing her is a one-time thing, he assures himself. She’s not a toddler.

His shirt is meant to be tucked into men’s pants, and it’s comically long on her, enough to cover her knees. It’ll do. And it isn’t that he wants an excuse to touch her feet again – he certainly doesn’t need one – but these socks are long, and her thighs are aching.

“Where-” His eyes snap to hers then, and he leans in at the promise of a short chat with her.

“Go on. Don’t get cold feet now, of all times.” He lights a cigarette then, his second of the morning. He does count them.

He wants to shake her by the shoulders when she gapes at him like that, because it’s pretty and aggravating.

“Where am I going? Diego said-”

“Diego doesn’t get the last word, I do, and I told you that you’re not going to be on call. You’re not going to be fucking other men, if that’s what you’re asking, and you better not try.” Not likely, in any case, she’s a skittish baby, without a seductive bone in her body. That’s why she’s here.

“Or you’ll know?” No one had talked to him like that in a long time. It was an innocent kind of question that could be passed off with plausible deniability. But she said it so sweetly that it couldn’t be cunning.

No, he doesn’t want to hit or slap her, but he does grasp her chin in his hand and force those pretty green-brown eyes up to his. A lump passes through her throat, a nervous swallow. Her eyes are wide and her pupils blown, he likes that he can actually see them. He can never see his own except under a bright light.

“Yes, I’ll know. That’s my family’s trade, not that a little cry baby would understand.” And that’s how he would like to keep it. “You’ll come with me down the elevator and stay in the Zoara with Diego.”

Relief passed over her then, at least he thinks that’s what the slump of her shoulders was. It makes him jealous, but there’s nothing he can do about it, Diego was good at soothing scared girls and he most certainly wasn’t.

“Are you hungry?” He decides he wants her to like him more than Diego, who is a serial rapist.

“No.” She lies, and shakes her head. He releases it from his grasp with a flourish.

“Don’t lie to me, cry baby. I’m Omerta.” He supplies, as though she knows what Omerta entails.

“My stomach hurts too bad for food. I..” The way she stops, he can’t really tell if she wants to chat or if she’s nervous.

“You..?”

Second cigarette gone, he tells himself he won’t have another until his breakfast and coffee.

“I’m allergic to bread, my town physician told me I have a gluten intolerance. That’s the-” He waves her off, close to insulted.

“I know what gluten is, cry baby. Cachino gave you some on the way here, didn’t he?”

Nero knew these kinds of things. He’s particular about his foods, his drinks, and just about everything else, and when he’s not running the business he’s reading a book. There’s a lot of secrets to Nero – that he collects books isn’t one of them, he makes it known so that they come pouring in. It’s a classically Nero stratagem.

“You must not like Cachino if you’re going out of your way to tell me that.” He doesn’t blame her. Cachino’s handsy and nasty, like a rutting pig. “So, you got a stomachache? Christ, let’s just get the fuck out of here. Daddy’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

One more look-over. That’s all. No naughty lingerie would work for sweet Josephine, this appeals to his liking even more, and it’s economical too. His socks are too big for her feet, they make her look even more juvenile, and it’s prettier than any picture.

Before he leaves, he checks that his cigarettes are tucked in his suit, it’s a dark gray one today, his least favorite. He prefers the black ones, but none of them are clean right now. But he’ll have his black suits clean by tomorrow, or Sal will have strong words, because he sure as hell won’t. He doesn’t waste his breath lightly.

He can’t touch her in front of his men, he should be able to, but he’s got a reputation to maintain. They may be a hundred miles behind him, but they’re Omerta, they sniff out weaknesses like a snake scents the air with his tongue.

The guards at the elevator follow him onto the stuffy box, it always makes him nervous with other people. He can hear every unsightly rumble of their stomachs, their heavy breaths, it’s stifling, and he’s not sure that cigarette can wait for coffee. His coffeemaker isn’t quick enough for his liking, few things are. Josephine isn’t one of them, she shuffles behind him with the resignation of someone marked for death.

No one misses the filthy, dark rumbles that shake his men as they take in his cry baby, the charming, sobbing doll that follows him because he’s familiar now. Nero sneers at those noises, worried that they’ll breathe on her, or worse, him.

“Escort her to Diego, inform him that she’s not going to be working.” Just one more look at her baby doll face, before he lands a blank stare on Lonnie, one of the more stone-faced men under his employ. “Tell him to have her checked.”

Yet another child he would have to take care of – one was enough, another would ruin his overall disposition, which was brighter than usual. The Khans might not get shorted today, after all.

“Where are you taking me?” He hears as he turns away, the first walk to his peacefully quiet office. He almost feels sorry for her, but she asks it too prettily.

“You’ll see, come on.” Lonnie’s voice is growing farther away, thankfully.

Nero’s a man who can walk through his lounge without even batting an eye at the workers on stage. It just doesn’t move him, not like cry babies do.

And it might be his pleasure to make love to a cigarette at least thirty times in any given day, but it certainly isn’t his pleasure to walk through the byproducts of his clients’. Sal’s waiting for him on the stairs, blinking away sleep from his droopy eyes, like one of those prewar hounds. ‘Basset hounds’, he finally remembers. He likes categories of things, breeds of animals and classes of plants especially.

That is why he’s peerless, even among peers. His men know how to fish the nectar of the devil’s trumpet, but they don’t know that it’s datura stramonium.

Brassy jazz is too loud for him out here, carried by ten or more blaring speakers. In his own time, he likes Chet Baker and Sinatra, when he can close his eyes and not open them to find people watching. Even now, he can feel his clients’ stares on his back, and the lingering, whorish attraction of his workers. He squares his jaw uncomfortably, it only serves to make him look dangerous.

He’s envisioning a fitting extraction from Reeves on his way to his office, but this sensitive process is constantly interrupted by the aimless number playing around him, growing more and more muffled as he made the familiar walk up the balcony and away from the stifling sounds of Zoara.

Away from the grubby clientele and their grime, he can finally relay to his right hand what needs to happen. He’s thought it through carefully, because he’s finicky with the problems he cares about, and that gives those he does solutions with fidelity as high as his personal radio.

An idea remains unclear until he voices it or writes it, even if it’s just to himself. It usually happens to be to himself. There aren’t many who can see the forest among the trees, except Mr. House, and it isn’t good for his ego to run ideas by Mr. House, even if he is the most insightful bastard he’s ever met.

None of his kin particularly respect House, but Nero does – they understand each other, and just because he respects him doesn’t mean he likes him.

“I’ve got an idea for Reeves. We need to turn the profit of the Tops to our advantage, and by contract we can’t clear their casino.” Nero must be the only one of his family to have read and reread the contract, looking for loopholes in between every clause.

“What the fuck is Not-At-Home gonna do? How many rules ‘ve we broken under his watch?” As soon as he’s in his office, the coffeemaker is already begging for water like a bartender begs for tips. He and the coffeemaker are well-acquainted.

“You would know, if you read the contract. There’s a pretty big difference between clearing another family’s casino on a Saturday night, and bending the rules in our own casino.” Not every clause could be equally enforced, this is where Nero shines, he tests every single one of them for weaknesses.

“You really trust that twitchin’ little weasel to snatch some wins in blackjack?”

Oh, he didn’t, but there were other reasons for this being a stroke of brilliance, not the first of its kind for him. He also wants to screw that checkered suited fuck, and see if he’ll take action against the family over it. The Chairman’s got a quick wit, but his hand is even quicker. He’s impulsive.

“No..” He admits, because Sal’s good at keeping his mouth shut, and there’s some infinitesimally small part that likes him. “I don’t trust anyone that isn’t family.” He doesn’t trust anyone who is family either, but he has to be a good Father. “I only trust outsiders to do what they do best, and that just so happens to be acting out on the Strip.”

Just as nails rake down on an antiquated chalkboard, Sal wheezes, beginning to understand where Nero’s motives lie. It’s about time, he’s always a few seconds too slow for his standards.

“We only lost a tiny margin of our supply on Reeves, that won’t happen again. Families learn from their mistakes, and so will Reeves. We gave him a nice little handout, spoiled him like any puffed up child. Puffed up children always act out,” he’s pouring the coffee now, the aroma already has him in a clearer mood, he can’t wait to sit down and smoke. “And get spanked afterward.” He thinks of his cry baby then, wondering if he’ll ever need to spank her. “Ergo we win. Benito will blow steam all the way over here because he doesn’t have one tactical thought in his head, and if Reeves does just so happen to hit lucky with a few games, Benito’s revenue will tank long enough for our liking.”

After months of surveillance, he’s managed to work out some of the operations at the Tops, it’s simple for him. Playing cards are simple , but deep, kind of like the satisfaction he gets from the steaming coffee on his desk. Now if Reeves manages to retain one strategy for clearing the house over at the Tops, that leaves a few others for later. Nero likes trying one thing at a time.

“And if Reeves tattles?” Sal’s got a good mind for self-preservation, if nothing else.

Nero lights a cigarette, watching the smoke blend with the steam rising from his dark roast. The best kind comes from Mexico, imported by associates with the Crimson Caravan. The black and green interface of his terminal plays with the sharp angles of his face, handsome in a sinistral – left-handed – kind of way.

“It’ll be on Ricardo.” A real shame that the guy had to use his own supply, but Nero waits for betrayals like these so that he can use them later.

“Gotcha. ‘Bout time that spineless motherfucka got his. ‘ll make sure Ricardo’s got his orders, and pays for his indiscretion.” His mouth quirks up in one corner, accompanied by a little dimple that some might call shit-eating, it does its job to wordlessly encourage his right hand.

Oh, that coffee burns almost as good as his cigarette. He dislikes when he finishes the smoke before his coffee – so the reasonable solution is to finish the coffee quicker. The more he smokes, the more antsy Sal gets, for a tough guy he’s sensitive to the nicotine.

“Gonna go have a little chat with Ricky.” His silence tends to have that effect on people, it can turn even the shrewdest men into chatterboxes, sometimes they reveal their intentions.

It isn’t intentional, Nero just has nothing else to say. The best strategies are often those that are effortless, that’s a kernel of tribal wisdom that he’s retained. He watches Sal turn and leave out of the corner of his eye, checking to make sure he pulls the door exactly to. Even the littlest noise disturbs his work.

Now he can close his eyes for the last few hits from his cigarette and turn on a soft jazz tune. Holliday, that’s one of his favorites, the earlier years, because later in her career her voice reminds him of some of the women under his employ.

My man don’t love me, treats me awful mean…

He can smile now, and he does – a sincere one that only his cigarette is witness to. They’re the witnesses to a lot of his deepest secrets.

He wears high-draped pants, stripes are really yellow…

That impulsive Chairman will take the bait, he knows him from his tribal years. Either of them were procurers of a type, either of them scouted for weaker groups, a peer that wasn’t truly a peer, because the Boot Riders were too soft. Needless to say, they saw each other too often for Nero’s tastes, and Benny’s not among them.

But when he starts in to love me, he’s so fine and mellow…

The least imaginative part of his work is compiling financial documents for House’s monthly report. Cooperation was the seventh clause, but Nero always manages to snake some of the money away for his kin’s personal use. Embezzlement is an art that he’s perfected.

Love will make you drink and gamble, make you stay out all night long; love will make you do things that you know is wrong…

Breakfast is as he likes it, efficient on the caloric intake, low on the carbohydrates. Those make him feel tired if he eats them in the morning. His server is the same hooker that’s always doing it on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, those three awkward middle men of any week. Delilah wants a piece of him, and she’s easy on the eyes, but he doesn’t like whores. Someone has to have restraint here.

He doesn’t mind his men having fun with them, those Slitherkin inclinations are long and hard to die. His tongue snakes along his sharpened canines, considering how to make this month’s embezzlement convincing enough for House. Mr. House was continuously focused on some mysterious, more pressing issue than the Strip’s affairs, Nero’s secret was in keeping it that way.

That’s how his morning passes, spent checking and rechecking reports for tomorrow’s check-in. One or two miscalculations here and there – he’s a tribal, after all – they’re things Mr. House might chide him over a little ways down the line, but nothing ruinous.

Five cigarettes later, and he’s getting hungry for lunch. Afterwards, he’ll watch his clientele from the shadows and identify wealthier patrons. His days are planned by the hour, some of his more delicate motions are planned by the minute. He dislikes routines that aren’t self-imposed.

Yucca fruit, Brahmin tips, and a handful of peanuts is enough to fill his stomach until dinner. With the way he chainsmokes, his hunger is never very excessive.

His guards follow him down the hall from his office to the balcony overlooking the Zoara. By now, Sal’s in bed – they take shifts, and Nero’s is the day, so any stunts he pulls have to go through Cachino, if indeed a stunt needs to be pulled. With the way he has things running, the clientele usually dig their own graves without his pushing.

Out of the forty or so clients in his Zoara, ten of them are currently indebted to the family. Nero hates using the phrases of others, but it truly was addictive to get cheated by them. Debt is an economical way to keep them coming in, coercing them to take their business here rather than to the other families. All the best ideas are his, he’s riding a hundred miles ahead of the rest of his kin.

A low rate for a night or two with one of his workers is usually sufficient enough to get them one good time, it might have them crawling back for a month or longer. His family might lend them the money, and they always choose to pay in increments – interest begins at 5%, and by the next week, it’s up to 20%. Lessons in economics have been disastrous to the wallets of everyone who comes into his casino.

He has ways of getting money from the unwilling. A dazzling example was his little cry baby, the pretty fixture in the Zoara, milling about behind charming Diego. Even her listlessness is beautiful. Her hair looks like burnt gold, a little spot in the corner of the dark club, seated next to one of his workers, who’s braiding her hair. That gets his attention.

It was easy for him to be Nero, but it wasn’t easy for him to act like Nero should. Nero wouldn’t care what a little girl is doing, and most certainly wouldn’t care that she’s speaking to one of his workers, but wouldn’t speak with him. He didn’t get this far without having a flair for competition, but he’s never had to compete with a whore.

Oh, how it bothers him. He’s used to silent rage, and it’s used to him.

It’s just not his thing to complain about problems he doesn’t plan to do anything about, and there’s nothing to do about this one. He’s running a business, not a daycare center. If that could make money for his family though, he’d probably do it.

His sweet tooth has never bothered him more than it does now.

“Get Diego for me.” Mincing words isn’t his thing. Before he was the boss, he had to do a lot of word mincing, but he likes being candid, it gives him more time to think.

Midday is a quiet time in Gomorrah. The mornings see his clientele leaving, and the evenings see them coming in, but again with the awkward middle men – midday is one of those. By six in the evening, there will be hundreds, but he won’t be here to see it. He graces the public only on very special occasions, otherwise he observes from here. As with most things, he looks, but doesn’t touch. Except with the cry baby. That was an unprecedented irregularity.

To know someone is disappointed, even from so far away, it’s one of his rarer traits. He imagines those cry baby tears threatening to fall and feels goosebumps on his arms, the dark curls there are doubtlessly standing at attention just like countless other things, namely Diego, who’s taken his sweet time leaving sweet Josephine behind with reassurances of his return.

“Was she to your liking?” Diego asks, in that sneaky way he does when he’s away from the girls. He’s a man of many, many words, most of which are flattering, but he’s one of the only guys he can mostly trust. He’s not ambitious, his work ethic is good because he likes his job.

Nero takes his eyes off of the Zoara, and pulls out a cigarette, which Diego doesn’t light, because he doesn’t need anything from him. Even still, he’s never felt more hostile toward his handler than he does now.

“You bet.” His handler snickers at that, but it wasn’t supposed to be funny, he’ll let it slide this time. He doesn’t actually expect people to understand his thought process. “And I’m keeping her, so I need clothes. Age appropriate.” Especially panties, because she’s not wearing any right now and he won’t have his clients see what he sees.

His handler is one of those talkers, a real chatterbox, and he’s got this quality of speaking that simply goes on and on, from one topic to another, only tangentially related. Nero wishes that sometimes, he could magnetically repel people. It’s ironic that people simply want to talk to him.

The cigarettes keep him from acting out, so relieving that he watches the smoke as it plumes all the way to the ceiling. Hypnotizing.

“That good, huh? I might have another one like her if Cachino plays his cards right. Josephine is a sweet girl, when you want her working, she’ll bring in a loyal niche of men, like lovely Layla. I had Lena teach her how to play a hand of Caravan, she’s a quick learn, but so very solemn. They always are, until they see the money that pours in-”

I Feel Good comes on then, snapping Nero out of his careful contemplation with that vexing little howl James Brown does in the beginning of the number. He frowns, his mood is always ruined for awhile after a shock like that one. His jaw squares and he purses his lip around his cigarette, it’s a kind of cringe that looks nasty on other men.

“No, don’t teach her to play any other card games, got it? Don’t introduce her to clients, and keep her away from alcohol. The age appropriate clothes will suffice for now.” Having to listen to James Brown causes him a special kind of cluster headache.

No, he won’t have her hooking, because that just wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be a good look on her – money hanging off of a fishnet stocking. A fishnet stocking, instead of a long, white, slightly large sock on a gangly leg. Rouge, instead of tear-stained lips. Mascara, instead of those little teardrops that cling to her lashes. He’s an exacting critic of art, and she’s raised his standards.

He loathes the way Diego acquiesces to an order, but his stare has five-hundred yards less than his own.

“Yes, patrón.” Spanish is his kin’s first language, a tough habit to shake. It’s a vulgar language, Nero recalls reading that it comes from vulgar Latin, the Julio-Claudian kind. “Josephine won’t disappoint you tonight. I’ll have her ready, and not a speck of dust from our clientele will be on sweet Josephine.” He’s a man who overdoes everything, a class performer who doesn’t know when to stop performing.

It isn’t just that he’s tired of talking in public, it’s also that he has nothing else to say, it only serves to make him unreadable. Only he knows he and himself, and that’s how he keeps it. Nero can admit inwardly that it makes him nervous.

Chapter Text

Amapola, my pretty little poppy,

You’re like that lovely flower, so sweet and heavenly.

Since I found you, my heart is wrapped around you,

And loving you, it seems to beat a rhapsody.

Amapola, the pretty little poppy,

Must copy its endearing charms from you.

Amapola, Amapola,

How I long to hear you say ‘I love you’.

- “Amapola”, Benny Goodman and His Orchestra

Blessedly alone again. No more James Brown, or Ray Charles, or Elvis fucking Presley, just a meal to himself, and a cigarette right after. Those reports still have to go into Sal’s meaty hands for House, though, and he’s occupied with Ricardo at this very moment, enlightening him on Nero’s special instructions for Reeves.

Who are the men who want his ear tonight?

Oh, but he still has to meet with his supplier. Until he finds a sweet place for a lab, he’ll keep punishing the Khans. Their contract with him is very one-sided, it benefits only he and his family – bulk product goes to Omerta. Nero understands how contracts work, and because he never stops looking for unmentionables between the dotted lines, he knows where they’ll try to sneak their way out of it.

This is a once a week thing. It would be less, but half of their profit is in Med-X. At least he doesn’t have to order and sterilize the needles, he doesn’t like getting his hands greasy, sticky, bloody, or oily. Just the mention of having to get that grime on his clean hands sends shivers down his spine.

A knock on his door – it’s a good thing his plate is empty, he can’t stomach being watched when he eats, that’s when he’s at his weakest, because it certainly isn’t during his light sleep.

It’s just droopy-eyed Sal, come to be briefed. Nero doesn’t waste his breath, he needs to stand up anyways, because he’s not going to lead Sal into thinking he wants a long chat. He can run those tests later.

The first cigarette after any meal is almost as soothing as any mornings’, he knows it’s the blood sugar spike that causes his fingers to want to twitch like a deranged pianist without a piano. Embezzlement’s never been prettier until it’s in Nero’s handwriting, clutched between his free hand’s fingers and ready to be admired by Sal.

“He hasn’t caught on yet. I thought it’d be good for him to go tomorrow night after deliverin’ Not-At-Home’s goodies is said and done.” Nero nods at that, his slow blink is in silent agreement with his right hand. It has the desired effect.

“A good call.” He’s in one of his rare good moods tonight, he assures himself that it isn’t because he gets to be gentle with the cry baby tonight. “Let’s meet with our good friend Regis now, shall we?”

Wisely, he pours a finger of kirsch for he and Sal, it’s only enough to stop his hands shaking from the long day. He decides he’ll have a couple fingers in his suite, he might even share with Josephine.

He fingers the rifle under his desk, pulling the sling over his shoulder – it’s a comforting sensation, like being hugged by an extension of himself. Two of his only friends are dear ones, by the names of Smith & Wesson. They’re a refined favorite, for his refined palate.

Another cigarette is donated to his ashtray, it’s almost full from these two days. Who wants it as a gift? Certainly the Khans would, they smell foul enough to take it that way. Either he and Sal finish their glasses, and his right hand cracks the door to let his guards know he’s ready. This is a process that always makes him uncomfortable.

It isn’t the drugs, but the Khans themselves. Just as the masks at the Ultra-Luxe make him uncomfortable, he knew them before they were one of the rival families, and he’s secretly got a weak stomach for their vices.

Nero sneers at Regis and his men, who drag their grime into his office. That’s ten extra minutes of having to look at a hooker doing room service. Tomorrow, it’ll be Martha, Martha whose breasts are so large that it almost makes him queasy with disgust. Maybe his cry baby knows how to clean.

“Evenin’, boys.” Sal rasps, it’s a touch rougher than its usual inborn hostility. “Come in and have a seat!”

The cash is in an envelope locked in his desk, and Nero thinks it’s dim of them to request inflated NCR currency, but it isn’t his fault that NCR traders are operating in the mountains.

Two Khans follow Regis like dogs, it looks better when it’s Nero doing the dog walking. They’re packing two bags, it’s the Jet and Med-X – Nero loathes checking the Jet, but his clientele love inhaling shit fumes so he has to give at least a look-over. He straightens his tie before doing so, and at his behest, Sal follows.

It’s Sal’s job to count the product, while Nero counts out the cash. This is their routine, if he and Sal share anything. In reality, they share a lot of things, but he hesitates to put anyone in a position where they can compare themselves to him.

The Khan sits on his couch, that’s five more minutes that Martha will be in his office, and another suave sneer that moves his supple lips. He unlocks the drawer of his desk and pulls out his envelope.

Oh, it’s a big, fat one, because NCR cash is going the path of the Weimar.

He and Regis lock eyes, it’s a staring contest that Nero wins, because he’s not the kind of guy who gets uncomfortable staring at someone, especially not at a filthy, unwashed Khan.

It’s painstaking to count every single bill in that envelope, and he’s never more desperate to be in his private suite than during these weekly meetings with the Khans. Just one warehouse is all he needs, he already has a theoretical understanding of the chemistry for manufacturing, all he needs is a lab, and a reason to break contract with the Khans.

But, he can’t do that until he gets a lab for his family.

Unpleasantries are exchanged only upon validating the product, and never before, not even by his more talkative right hand. Omertas have never been known for their gift of gab, this is especially true for Nero.

“Very amusing.” He says to himself, watching the retreating backs of the Khans.

Sal’s stare could probably be felt from a mile away, he feels it on the side of his face right now, right around the severe angles of his jaw. Nero’s a tall man, and so are his kin. Former tribals are always taller than other people in the wasteland, who happen to be very short.

It just so happens that the checkered Chairman, impulsive Benito, is the same impressive height as Nero. But it’s not enough to be Nero’s peer. Who’s his peer? Certainly not the Chairman.

“Swanson needs our product tonight, so deliver it to him and make sure he pays triple for it, per his agreement.” The sorry fuck had made it last week, right before sticking it to one of his workers.

His guards know where he’s going. Where else? Tomorrow night he might get some air in the courtyard, just to confuse them. Everything’s smoke and mirrors with him, it’s why his leadership is effective. No one oversteps because they don’t even know where the line is drawn. It’s not that he needs to voice it, it’s that he’s a man of few words.

Ding, goes the elevator, it’s a relieving sound, it means that in less than a minute, he won’t have people breathing down his neck, literally speaking. No more words are exchanged with his kin, his guards are all terse men, just as he likes it.

When the lock clicks, he immediately clicks it back once inside.

Finally, he can take a good, deep breath, and turn on the radio at a low volume. Mr. New Vegas wisely plays Sinatra, in a way that makes Nero wonder if he’s reading his mind and knows that he’s beyond aggravated.

The suit jacket’s the first thing to come off, after that, the suspenders are loosened and he can breathe easy again. He loves a suit, loves how it compliments the pale olive of his smooth complexion, but beauty can and often does hurt. His cry baby hurt him with it, her beauty is a heartbreaking one.

Where is sweet Josephine?

Still with Diego, he suspects. In her absence, he’ll pour a couple fingers of kirsch, straight and undiluted with juice. When he drinks, he likes the burn of alcohol.

Oh, and how it burns all the way down his throat, it’s enough to earn another cigarette and hold his lungs hostage. It dries his mouth out like any good liquor should. Another finger later and he feels some sweat forming at his brow, and warmth pooling in his chest, it’s enough for now.

He sets the glass down and takes a deep inhale from his cigarette, watching his reflection in the window. Those shoes of his are a nuisance too, so he kicks those off, but soon thereafter makes sure that they’re stacked neatly. Stacking a pair of shoes isn’t an easy thing to do when he’s got an inch of ash dangling from his smoke, but he’s quick enough to make it to the ashtray in time and dash it off.

In the meantime, he reopens his antiquated copy of The King in Yellow, a hard won horror title that he’s reread twice now. It’s not his favorite genre, but this one’s a rare exception.

One gentle knock on his door tells him it must be Diego’s slight knuckles. On one hand, he’s irked about being disturbed, but on the other hand, he’s been waiting for this for a couple hours now. He can be patient.

Josephine waits under Diego’s arm, outfitted in a frilly, girlish nightgown that ought to be made illegal on anyone but her. It’s got little flowers all over it, faded by the passing of time like most of his collection, and those flowers are planted in a pretty, off-white little garden.

In Diego’s arms are held a few other knee-length dresses, an easy find because no one dresses like this in Gomorrah, no one but the cry baby.

His handler nudges her toward him and through the crack of the door, handing Nero those pretty dresses over her head.

“Goodnight, patrón. And goodnight, little Josephine.” His smile for her is saccharine, but it isn’t the kind that Nero wants in his suite.

Her shoulders shake when the door closes, he even tried to make it quieter. He’s also bothered by loud sounds – and low sounds, they’re always loud when it’s quiet.

Oh, it’s sweet when she inches away from him, she doesn’t know that there’s nowhere else to go. It’s the most rewarding trap he’s ever laid. She’ll get used to the layout of his suite soon enough, and realize that she ends up backing into a wall no matter where she goes.

“Stay out of trouble today?” He asks, trapping her between his arms, his lean body, and the wall.

Those pretty eyes water, and it’s worth counting those bills out and embezzling from Mr. House, worth looking for another avenue for Reeves to pay his debt. Nero can make these things work.

The waves of her pretty hair are doubly so from the braid done by one of his workers. It’s as soft as a cloud that an angel sits on, and he rarely gets to touch those, so he studies it between his fingers, watching it fall in the spaces between them.

Her first sniffle of the night catches his attention, and he studies that instead.

“How was dinner?” It’s ironic, that he must break the ice between them. He’s got no skill for it. Out of habit, his tongue runs along his sharp canines, growing impatient. “Answer your daddy, hm? Answer me and I’ll get you some paper and pencils.”

His resulting breath is one of impatience, he grabs her chin and forces her wet eyes to look at his, impassive but cracking under the circumstance. So, she saved her tears for him.

“I want to be gentle tonight, don’t you want that too?” She nods, and he mimics the action, whether it’s out of hypnosis is unclear to him. “Then let’s sit down, you can tell me about your day.”

Like what workers she’s met today. Some are craftier than others, but all of them are crafty enough for naive Josephine.

It’s the first time he’s ever held a little girl’s hand, it’s small and soft, and most importantly clean. There’s no polish or manicure, it’s an effortless kind of beauty.

She winces when he has her sit down next to him on the bed, tears blooming again, these are of pain. They’re more stubborn, and she doesn’t let them fall and join the other tear stains on her cheeks.

Another cigarette is lit, the pop of the lighter draws her pretty eyes to his hands. He blows the smoke away from her, and sets his ashtray on on his left side.

“Why do you smoke so much?” It’s a question he asks himself a lot, but no one’s ever had the brass or naivete to ask him themselves. It’s not the kind of question someone asks a man like him.

He swears he’s not looking incredulously at her, like she’s dumb, he doesn’t think she is, she’s just green, as green as many of the flowers on her gown. Around the cry baby, he doesn’t need to be careful, all she’ll do is cry anyway, so he can lounge next to her, propped up on one elbow.

The deep inhale he takes in response is an ironic one.

“I like the way it feels. Why, are you curious?” She’s got wandering, curious eyes, he has no doubt that she’s nosy in an innocent sort of way, like a child studying their toys. It’s intoxicating. “Don’t be, if so. It’s a nasty habit.” On everyone but him.

It’s a good thing he turned the light down, he likes the way his nightstand’s plays with the colors of her hair. The one on the ceiling disturbs his sensibilities and turns drab everything it touches.

“That’s what my-” She pauses then, and he smiles around his cigarette, he doesn’t mean for it to be a left-handed one, but it’s just the fabric he’s cut from.

“What your other daddy said? Well, he was right, but your new daddy’s righter. How is it that he let Reeves take you here?” What a shame, but he can’t feel too bad about it. He rarely does when the prize is this good, and it’s never been this good.

Josephine, his cry baby, suddenly finds her feet more interesting than him. He doesn’t know for sure if he agrees or disagrees, he is an interesting man, but her feet are divine, pale and honeyed and hidden behind his long socks.

He takes another inhale, and blows it away from her, never taking his attention off of the side of her soft, round jaw. His focus is as pristine and concise as the way he speaks. As spotless as anything else of his.

“He can’t be worth mentioning if he let you slip away from him. Shouldn’t you forget about him, cry baby? Talk to me instead, because I’m not letting anyone steal you like he did.” Finally, she looks at him without having to have her chin shaken.

Oh, but those eyes are wide and expressive, and so sad that he almost feels sorry.

He swears he’s not teasing her, “How does it make you feel that I take better care of you than him?” If she hadn’t so prettily mentioned her father, he may not have ever gotten the idea. It bothers her as much as it tickles him. Precious few things tickle him.

This is a sensitive one, but one he can’t possibly withdraw from, not when it brings those pretty tears out of their hiding place. Next he sees Reeves, there’s going to be an interrogation. If there’s anything that sets his teeth to grind, it’s being unawares about the few things he really wants to know something about.

But Nero’s a man of higher reasoning, he doesn’t expect people to know the depth of his greed. He reassures himself that there’s no good reason to work himself into a rage over this, and what he repeats to himself is true – he doesn’t want to hurt the cry baby.

“Why are you being so mean to me? What have I done to deserve this?” The cry baby is too well-spoken for a gangly, sightly little girl. He knows that not everyone comes from a tribe, she’s probably had education, has known how to read since she was four or five.

A lesser man would be meaner, but Nero isn’t an unnecessarily cruel man. He never went through a phase wherein he tortured animals, he dislikes the gore, and avoids it when he can. Again, he’s clean, and has always maintained a semblance of it even as a Slitherkin thief.

The hesitation he gets is from watching her bruised lips curl around those green words, he’s no stranger to the feeling, it makes him look careful, and he is.

His soft radio fills the silence when he can’t, but it’s not good enough of an answer for the cry baby.

“Have boys always been mean to you? Pulled your hair when you weren’t looking?” He finds himself asking, genuinely intrigued, but it’s the way he speaks, it doesn’t make room for it. His hand is at her hair now, playing with the bouncy waves, watching them bounce up when he pulls down. “That is mean, if so. I haven’t been mean to you, cry baby. But you tell me if another boy pulls your hair or makes you cry, and he can get well-acquainted with daddy’s Smith and Wesson.”

Just like every little tumbleweed and delicate thing gets blown in the wind, so too does little Josephine wince and drop his eye. But he’ll get it back. Every piece in his collection thought it could get away from him at some point or other, but he clutches these things close to him in the way that a gambler clutches and hides his black cards from everyone else.

“No, that’s not- not fair. You hurt me..” Even this dress is too big for her slender shoulders, as graceful as they are bony in that juvenile fabric Josephine is cut from. She’s like a little girl’s doll whose clothing never manages to fit right.

He leans closer to her then, like he’s about to share a secret with the cry baby. His brooding has that effect.

“And I said I’d kiss it and make it better, didn’t I? Everyone’s going to want to hurt you, cry baby, but no one’s going to kiss it away.” She doesn’t understand that what he says is true, but he’s never had to console a cry baby before, his experience is limited and so is his patience. “Has no one ever hurt you before?”

Her large, wandering eyes flutter shut then, and those pretty eyelashes are like blades of grass after a rainstorm, watery and fresh and so ripe for the taking. There’s little that passes his noticing, he can’t ignore pleasant or unpleasant stimuli, it’s always bothering him wherever he goes, but little Josephine is quiet and subdued, less bothersome than others, especially other women.

“Yes – you.. you took my life away.” There’s more she wants to say, but the angelic chimes just can’t ring when they get stuck between her throat and lips, wet and stained by tears.

His lips are supple and dangerous like a bow string, and hover at her ear. There’s a tiny freckle right below it, he nuzzles his nose over the skin, the long and straight cartilage that made the Julio-Claudians.

“And I’ve given you another, haven’t I? I had my life taken away once or twice, but no one ever offered me another, not like I’m offering to you, sweetheart. I’ll give you a life where you can paint, and do the things that cry babies like to do.. just tell me what cry babies like to do.” He certainly doesn’t know, he doesn’t run a fucking daycare.

Those hands are small and fragile, but they have long, spindly fingers that are too long for them. It’s the undoing of Nero, he wants to hold them and test their weight, despite knowing they’re weightless.

“I’d like to go back home.” The sobbing doll is doing what a pretty baby does, and he’s never thought crying was more beautiful than it is in this moment. As an exacting critic of beauty, this is unprecedented.

Like a flower in the rain, her colors are also more brilliant. She doesn’t understand that she’s a temptress with the awesome power of ensnaring him.

“This is your home, cry baby. You even have a family.” Nat King Cole saves the moment with his soft, dulcet tones. He places a kiss on the juncture between her ear and shoulder, careful not to get that hair caught in his mouth. “Tell daddy what I can do to make it better. If it’s in my reach, I will.”

Her shoulders are shaking again, he wonders if she’s thirsty after all those pretty tears.

“So, nothing? Does that mean we’re already there? Quiero bailar contigo, nariz con mejilla si tengo que hacerlo..” He’s never claimed to have the most coherent sense of humor, but he licks his lips and snickers at himself against her cheek.

“What did you say?” The church bells chime again, pulling him away from his own refined humors. He takes her chin between his fingers, and looks directly at her, her pupils are blown in the darkness of the room.

“Do you really want to know?” She casts one hesitant look-over, he licks his lips again, they’re dry from the liquor. Cry babies don’t speak Spanish, that vulgar first language of his. “I told you I wanted to dance with you. Do you want to learn how to say yes?” He’s never taught someone that private language of his family.

His long fingers hook around the sleeve of her dress, pulling it down her pale shoulder, clean of any scars or trauma. He’s a man of reason, but when a cry baby’s shoulder asks to be kissed, he answers it like he answers any worthwhile request.

“Si papi, llevame a dar una vuelta.” He even says it slowly. A soft piano fills the space that his words can’t, it’s sensual improvisation. “Say it, cry baby. Si papi... llevame a dar una vuelta… say it, and I’ll be gentle.” He’ll be gentle anyways, he’s in a good mood right now.

Oh, when she says it so brokenly and awkwardly, it moves him and stirs something gentle in his heart, down to his navel.

That’s when he smiles, a wide and satisfied one. The light catches his sharpened incisors, and she startles at the sight. Goethe was wrong. Faust is a little girl sitting on his bed.

“Touch them.” But she doesn’t, he doesn’t want her to obey right now. Little Josephine isn’t a whore. So he takes the small hand with long fingers, and lets them hover below his canines. No woman has ever put her hand in Nero’s mouth, he’s a bit nervous about it.

Oh, but when she tries to pull away, he bites down in that way Catullus begged from Lesbia.

Josephine gasps, and he lets her pull her finger away this time, only to find a little speck of blood on it. A single, lone corner of his lip quirks at the skittish cry baby.

“The girl who was scared of everything.. it’s a good thing I’m scarier than most of them.” He swears he’s not teasing her again when he runs his tongue over the sharp teeth, tasting some of the salty blood her little finger left behind. “I can just bite them.” He’s tempted to clench his teeth together to try and make her laugh, but that’s not his fucking style.

“Diego has them too.. he showed them to me earlier, does it-” His tentative smile has already fallen at the mention of his handler, but sweet Josephine doesn’t notice these things. “Did it hurt?” So she is a nosy cry baby.

What a shame. This is the most interesting conversation he’s had in years, his own men have been outshone by the sobbing doll, not that this is a great achievement. It’s an effortless skill, like all the best ones are.

“You’d die from the tears..” He slips her dress down then, with the ease that the wind blows away dust. “Then you’ll be glad that daddy’s there to save you.”

It’s no task at all to push her down until she’s lying on her back. The nipples of her small breasts are as sharp as the teeth that cut her, they’ll never grow large on such a small body, he’ll never have to swallow his disgust as with Martha, the fat cow. His standards are impeccable and fixed.

His arousal has been bothering him for many long minutes now, but he likes the torment and the pain of it. It’s a hot, throbbing pain that dries his throat as well as any cigarette or glass of kirsch.

She lifts her hips to help him take the dress off completely, there’s a part of her that wants it, but his cry baby is pure and coy in a way a whore could never be. Those bony, developing hips are supple beneath his fingers, his lips are growing drier, and he licks them for the second time tonight.

The rare delicacy is his tonight, the only thing that’s ever been inside her is him. He doubts she’s even been inside herself before, only whores explore themselves like that. Cry babies wait for a man to do it for them.

“I told you I’d kiss it away, didn’t I?” He slides her thighs apart then.

Things couldn’t be going better. His despoiled cry baby is beneath him, Benny is going to come and make a fool of himself on Saturday, and Ricardo will soon face punishment for betraying the family. Nero makes sure every decision of his is economical, he loses one thing and gains two others.

Oh, he can’t not kiss it. It’s blushing the same color as her round cheeks, and smells so clean. His cry baby has never smoked or drank. Nero’s a sensitive man, and his senses never fail him.

He drags his tongue over her so slowly, and holds her bucking hips down. She doesn’t know that it only serves to make his tongue more urgent, now that she’s meeting it. But she and his tongue know each other well by now, he’s just past introductions. Sweet Josephine doesn’t know whether she wants to flee or remain, she’s a curious girl with curious eyes.

There’s one thing he’s never done, he longs to do it with his squeaky clean cry baby. Even her bottom tastes clean, and his lips quirk upward at the squirming she does. Ticklish.

His laughter is a sinister kind, he is the Omerta, who meets every standard of the family. If she wasn’t so pretty, and if he wasn’t giving her the rarest treatment, he might feel sorry for having to hear it.

The pulses at her inner thighs will smell like musky cologne in the morning, if they don’t already.

There are new tears in her pretty hazel eyes when he sits up to unbuckle his pants, he’s throbbing with arousal, and he’s restrained himself for too long. A man of few words has to have a weakness or two. His weaknesses become more apparent when he’s in his suite.

“Don’t cry, little cry baby. You’ll enjoy this.” He kisses her then, his tongue slithers behind her lips and licks her with a gentleness he doesn’t get to indulge often. “I’ll make sure of it..” His hips grind over hers then, sliding himself between the shiny pink folds between her thighs. “Maybe I’ll let you watch your big brother get stuck, too.”

He pushes himself inside then, nosing her cheek and sighing the long sigh of the dead. His lean stomach flexes and releases, over and over, slotted against her slender body like that – it’s enough to rethink how close he likes to get.

The pace he sets is slow but steady, there’s no room for hurrying. He rips the sock off of the foot that’s closest to him, and sucks the little toes there. His cry baby is tense and so are her toes, they curl in his mouth and taste faintly of detergent and sweat, it’s effortless seduction from little Josephine.

His groan is deep and primal, a vestige of those tribal years seeping into the golden ones, but he can’t help it when she almost giggles, it’s a tickled one, and he responds by running his teeth over her big toe, inspiring a series of choked girlish sounds, contained only by her juvenile stubbornness.

Her toe gets released with a low pop, and his attention for two things at once is put to the test. He has to keep his pace while licking her feet, because those schoolgirl giggles are undoing him, especially when she hides her face behind her hands in shame. He’ll make sure she keeps her shame, it’s the most decadent treat for the most critical connoisseur.

“What’s so funny, cry baby?” He asks lowly, not expecting an answer from the giggling doll.

Oh, he’s not a class act in the Aces, but the sounds she makes is causing him to rethink a career in comedy. It’s the heat of the moment.

But he’s not running a comedy act, after all. He pumps hard then, drawing out a sharp cry from the cry baby. His gaze is sinistral as it follows down the slender neck that every sound is coming out of. Her foot falls out of his grasp, and it’s back to tears for the cry baby.

Not tears of pain – but tears of shame.

It isn’t like he wants to taste those tears when he licks up her cheek like a snake, it’s just something that a man of exotic tastes has to do.

“Daddy said I’d kiss them away, didn’t I?” He pulls out of her then, and just as quickly returns, he reassures himself that it isn’t to feel those breasts bounce, if they could bounce.

His last thrust is deep and agonizing, the pulsing of a spent arousal is sweeter when it’s she who tugs at it.

The stains on his pants will be worth it, it’s the pinstripe grays that he’s never been terribly fond of anyways. Like any art critic that’s hesitant to pull away from his favorite painting in a gallery, he pulls out of her, and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand.

“Was that better, cry baby? Did I kiss it away?” He asks, blowing smoke away from her.

With her hair fanned across his pillow, she looks like his own personal Botticelli, but a fixture that he could never simply look at. He’s handsy with this particular Botticelli. Her lips open and shut, slower than the lashes sweeping over the tops of her cheeks.

A blush creeps over her neck and shoulders, moving upwards until it finds a seat on her cheeks. When the blushing cry baby tries to look anywhere but at him, he grasps her chin with his free hand, and forces her to look.

Another smoke, it helps him consider what’s next. What’s next only leaves a little room for the cry baby, he’s about to be a busy man when impulsive, springheeled Benito comes steaming into his office.

Oh, he can’t wait to see the fucker’s face if the gambit works and his house gets cleaned of chips.

It’s the clarity of the cigarette, blushing Josephine, and the falsetto singing on the low radio. He almost forgot it was on, the cry baby’s a better singer than Nat King Cole ever was.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His question is dark, but it’s not any intention of his. It’s the dryness of his throat, and that unerring focus of his that makes it scratchy and chilling all at once.

He asks because Josephine’s trying to move – it’s the sock she wants, which he quickly swipes out of her reach. The tease is the sweetest of its kind, especially when he holds it up in the air and dangles it in front of her. It’s a playfulness that’s classical of Nero, if Nero gave into it as much as he’d like to. He doesn’t, because he’s got a lot of work to do and a lot of debt to create.

“Cold feet? What are you going to give me for this sock?” There’s no answer, and he takes a deep, deep inhale before flicking his cigarette on the ashtray and gracing the cry baby with his attention. It’s an undivided thing at its best. “Everything’s a bargain, so what are you laying down for me?”

Any smile he can offer is as coiled as the snakeskin of his belt, it’s a dangerous look that in reality, isn’t intentional. It just works that way, to the grief of everyone who’s lucky enough to see it.

“I’ll- I don’t need my sock-”

Oh, she doesn’t know she’s misspoken.

“My sock, you mean? A woman doesn’t need socks, but a cry baby does. Or else…” He pulls her onto his lap then, capitalizing on her sweet surprise, and pulls at her bare foot, brushing his fingers across the skin. Her breathing hitches – so ticklish. “There’ll be nothing stopping me. So, what will it be?”

He’s not being undone for the second time tonight, not even when he twirls the short curls of her navel around his finger.

“We won’t sleep until you tell me what it’ll be.” He’s businesslike now.

Her breathing is too graceful to be ragged when he pulls on the bud of her sex, sensitive and sticky with his seed.

“I’ll.. kiss you.”

With a finesse his namesake certainly didn’t have, he and himself is in her face, looking between the two blinking gems that fear holding him too long. He doesn’t blame her, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. It’s not easy trying to beat him in a staring contest, precious few ever try anymore. It’s not that he tries to beat them, it’s just that he can only stare at one thing at a time.

“Go on then, cry baby. Give me a little kiss, will ya, huh?” Another private joke between he and himself.

Little Josephine takes a deep breath before closing her eyes and meeting her end of the bargain. It’s clumsy and perfect, insecure and melancholic and beautifully hopeless. Because this is a bargain, he does his part and keeps her lip from accidentally slipping between his teeth.

Nero’s not always a man of his word – he doesn’t say enough of them for that to be the case, but he lets her slip away from him this time, and drops his sock in her lap. By her confused expression, he reasons that she’d forgotten about it entirely. Cry babies don’t have a very long memory, but his job is to make deals and remember them until they’re seen through.

Chapter Text

A room with a view, I’ve got a room with a view,

Of wonderful you, my next door dream,

‘Cause you’re the one and only one my heart really adores,

And I’m so glad my window pane is just opposite yours.

It isn’t the moon way up in heaven above,

It isn’t the stars I’m dreaming of,

I’m only looking forward to the time when I’ll be sharing with you

Our heaven for two, a room with a view.

- “A Room With a View”, Russ Morgan and his Orchestra

The lights are dimmed in his office, it’s one of those rare, cloudy days in the Mojave. It’s good for his complexion, he’s got scars all over his arms and stomach from the Slitherkin days, scars that would make a lesser man look like a monster.

But he’s not a lesser man. Even still, he’s got high standards for himself and others.

Even for the man who’s about to come charging in here. He pours a finger of whiskey and lights a cigarette, because it’s come to his close attention that the Chairman is on his way here now. His rifle’s slung over his shoulders and across his chest, it’s a comfort issue. These few comforts are precious to an uncomfortable man.

Oh, but the cigarette takes him away, and he savors the thing like he savored tickling little Josephine this morning. But a father has to be quiet in his favoritism, lest he risk the ire of his other children.

The single light at the corner of his office flickers once, and then twice, much to his stoic rage. Any disturbance is doubly so when he’s working, triple if he’s relaxing. He’s tactical like that – he chooses to have his disturbances when he’s already being disturbed. That’s tactical provocation.

Smoke wanders out of his supple lips and snakes through his fingers, in that way rain seeps through cracks in a sidewalk. He hopes it will rain, the last time it did was July, the month that made the Julio-Claudians. Four months is a long time for his complexion to wait for a cloudy day. But he refuses to be impatient toward things he can’t push.

He runs Gomorrah, so he’s sure no one up there would be charitable toward him. A man like him has to have conviction, he has to be sure of himself and other things or he runs the risk of being unsure, and the Father of the Omertas has no business being unsure of anything. Confusion and skepticism is no friend of his, he can set both of those straight with five minutes and a cup of black coffee.

Before the Chairman comes down his hallway, he turns down the radio until it’s just a low buzz. Vegas looks as sad as drunk fools on a row of stools, but he covets sad things. He watches it while he can, narrowing his eyes and scratching at his adam’s apple, a classically Nero motion. It looks sultry, but he doesn’t mean for it to, he just itches. 

Those footsteps couldn’t be anyone else’s. Accompanying them is Sal’s loafing bulk, he’s a slow and meandering walker, unlike himself. Nero’s footsteps are quick and deliberate, he doesn’t ever waste his fucking time.

He throws his spent cigarette out of the open window and watches as it falls to the ground. His fingers stroke the Smith & Wesson, having already mapped it awhile back, he just wants to feel.

Impulsive Benito doesn’t have to speak to be sensed, he’s got a smell and a stride to him that can be picked up on from a mile away. That they’re the same impressive height doesn’t mean they’re equals. Who is his equal? Certainly not Benny.

Locked in his desk are the several strategies to cleaning the house at the Tops, it’s something he considers while he stands in front of it, leaned against it like it’s going to disappear. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t kill Benny outright. All he can do is make him fail, and he’s already making easy work of it.

Sal opens the office door – kept unlocked for this very occasion – and lets Benny and a few of his Chairmen inside. Swank is an impressionable young man, fearful of Nero, and is so devoted to Mr. House that every time there’s a monthly report, he could swear there were wedding bells being rung. But Benny’s not afraid of Nero, they’ve known each other too long.

Only that Chairman can know someone for long and still be clueless about their motivations. But the Chairman isn’t dim, Nero doesn’t expect anyone to understand his delicate thought process.

“Benito. What can I do for you?” He is straight-faced now, the thrill of winning is cut short by dirty shoes in his office.

He sneers when Benny lights a cigarette, he’s sensitive to the smoke of others.

“Nothin’, how about that, buddy? Nothin’-” The Chairman’s already blowing a devil-may-care gasket, he’s a man of impetuous violence and is indiscriminate with his vices.

“Then why the fuck are you here? Our secretary can reserve a lounge in Brimstone if that’s what you’ve come for, if not, she’ll answer any questions you have.” They stare at each other then, Benny’s face is growing a deep red, he doesn’t know how to school it, not like he and himself.

“Did you tell the fuckin’ secretary that you were planning to send some twitching jethead to the Ben-man’s casino? Bet you didn’t, Toro, throw my old name at me, and I’ll throw it right back at you, pally. You’re cryin’ in the rain if you think I’m gonna let you get away with it a second time! We played fair with you, got a nice set up, and you’re just getting off on ruining our gig. No good reason for it, but there never was with you.” Sal’s hand twitches then, he sees it because he doesn’t miss anything. He can’t possibly.

He’s already in the middle of lighting a cigarette by the time the Chairman’s done, it serves to make him look like he doesn’t care, but he does. This situation is delicate, and it has to be handled with caution if he wants to turn it into profit for the family.

Because the ploy actually worked. Reeves won 6,000 caps, twice the amount of his debt, it was enough for him to be roughed up by Benny, but Benny only knew it was Omerta when Reeves was later seen chatting with Ricardo on the street.

That leaves Nero with a cry baby and 6,000 more caps, as well as a disgraced family member who got busted. Omertas don’t get busted, so it’ll be one less Omerta. Kicking the Tops out of commission for a night or two will bring more clientele to his kin, but incensing Benny was a reward of its own.

“Where’s your proof?” That’s all Nero supplies, and around a cigarette it sounds more volatile than without.

“Um, hello? Ricardo’s your boy, ain’t he? Now why would he be cozy with that twitcher right in front of our place? There’s your proof, dig?”

One thick brow arches at that, it isn’t good enough proof.

“That’s no proof. Ricardo isn’t Omerta, Sal can take you downstairs to get a look for yourself.”

The Chairman flexes his jaw, and gives a once-over – on Nero’s face, it would look condescending, but on Benny, it only looks like impotent rage, because he knows he’s beaten. There’s disgust too, because a man of violence like Benny has to have a code.

Oh, even Benny has a code. Nero’s is stricter.

“Nero, you sick little punk-ass. I haven’t had to use Maria in a long time, but if one of your little rascals comes scamperin’ into the Tops ever again, then it’s gonna be Bullet-Town baby. Mark my fucking word.” He can’t help that little quirk of his lips this time.

Just to further infuriate the Chairman – rubbing something in is a serious art, and he’s a critic – he takes his slow time grinding out the cigarette on his ashtray.

“So, some fiendish character comes and happens to hit it big, and you blame Nero because that’s your flavor of the week? Come back with something useful to say and we can talk. Until then, you can fuck right off, Tonto Benito.”

But Benny wasn’t done, he didn’t take lightly to being called foolish. 

“C’mon, ya bitch. Two can play this fuckin’ game, Toro.”

“You heard him, you criss-cross motherfucka. This talkin’ of ours is ova. March your lizard ass outta here, Gecko.” Sal’s voice carries, it’s like long, dirty nails on a chalkboard.

“Shoo.” Nero waves his hand then, an innocent little gesture in any other man.

“You’ll get yours, Nero. Let the best man win, I can wait too.” Benny’s turning now, Nero decides he’ll watch him leave from the balcony. Other families never do well in Gomorrah, they can’t keep their act together.

They turn away then, not before an exchange of glares. This is their class act – this is how they know each other.

Only after they’re a little ways down the hallway does he leave his office to watch. It’s late afternoon in Gomorrah, and the clientele has just started to pour in. No one gets shy on Saturdays, except at the Tops on this Saturday.

It’s usual of him to overlook the Zoara from his balcony, to scout moderately wealthy clientele for his family. His eye is critical enough.

He leans onto the balcony and stares, it makes lesser men’s skin crawl, but that’s no fault of Nero’s.

Here they come, leaving empty-handed and humiliated. It’s almost picture-book.

Oh, but Benny gets a good look at the cry baby who’s sitting in the corner with Martha, and doubles down, changing his direction immediately. That’s when he knows that it isn’t over, and it’s only just begun.

His left eye twitches the longer he watches the checkered Chairman make a one-sided conversation with the cry baby, but he’s already warned her not to answer questions about him. She doesn’t understand that Benny’s not family, but Nero has that covered too – family’s not to be trusted either.

It isn’t that he’s jealous, he reassures himself.

Then Tonto Benito feels his eyes on him, they’re as black as sin and hard to miss. Benito casts one more glare up at Nero, and mouths something that looks like ‘you sick fuck’. He’s not careful with his words. That’ll be 6,000 more caps from the Tops, in due time.

For now, he’ll bide his time and find a place for a lab out in the sticks somewhere. Novac might be ripe for the picking, and he’s got a native right in front of him. Being a father of a family is a never-ending job, but fatherhood is a reward in itself, right behind profit.

“Bring Josephine to my office. Need to have a chat with her.”

Back in his office is when he reapplies his musk, first to his neck then to his wrists. He runs a hand down his face and neck – he has little tolerance for disturbances, but he’s managed to keep them within an hour.

Normally he wouldn’t take another coffee this late in the day, but he has work to do tonight. Having work to do means that the cry baby will have to be kept occupied. He’s got a stack of paper for her to draw pretty pictures while he’s busy, because favoritism has to be done quietly.

Oh, and how sweet it is to see little Josephine at the door, so displaced and helpless, he almost feels sorry for her, but every emotion that crosses that expressive canvas of pale skin is too pretty.

“Come in. Close the door behind you.” Sal will be going to take a short nap by now, because his right hand is still on for night.

It’ll be a cold day in hell before he takes a night shift – he doesn’t reminisce his tribal years like the rest of his kin.

Just as Josephine shuts the door behind her, and so quietly – she’s wiser than most of his kin – his coffeemaker dings, and he takes a seat in his chair. There are odd bumps and lumps in the leather, on rougher days it disturbs his sensibilities.

“Have a seat, girly.” A cup of coffee can’t go without a cigarette, it’s a mistake that Nero would never make. Mistakes are as rare for him as rain is for this desert. It isn’t because he’s never fucked up before, it’s because he keeps his mouth shut and makes sure it doesn’t get blown out of proportion. Those mistakes are just dips in the road, it happens when a man is moving as fast as he is.

Those hazel eyes are so dreamy that they’re almost unnerving. They’re large and widened in perpetual surprise. Flattering curiosity. But they’re also sad and have rivers of beautiful tears to offer.

“How was your day?” He’s never asked this question before, and he swears he’s not going to start now.

“It was.. okay.” He knows she has a lot more to say, and he’s torn over where he should shake it out of her. His usual silent treatment doesn’t work.

“Just ‘ok’? Why is that, cry baby? You can tell daddy anything.” That Smith & Wesson is catching her attention, it has that effect on people.

“No reason, just.. I miss my friends, I miss my home, and I miss my books and schooling. I miss everything.” Women hate school, but cry babies like them apparently. There’s those pretty little wet tears again, threatening to fall in that way he hoped for rain from those clouds outside his window.

“Even me?” It just sounds like a tease, but it has that sensual effect of coaxing one tear down her wan cheek. “There’s no need to worry about those books, cry baby. Books are replaceable, and I’ve got hundreds of them. I might let you read them if you answer a few questions for me.” He finishes his last drop of coffee, and licks any remnants off his lips. It isn’t supposed to be seductive.

One more smoke, and his cigarette is spent. His long finger is running a slow, debauched path back and forth over the ashtray.

“Come here, cry baby.” Just a little wiggle of his finger, and she knows better than to disobey.

The sobbing doll hesitates, but his eyes always hold a promise that his words aren’t capable of. Pulling her between his thighs is like pushing air in another direction – it’s as simple as whispering.

“What did that man in the checkered suit say to you, hmm?” It’s the soft, cajoling voice of a lover. He nuzzles the top of her arm, it’s got all the wispy frailty of a child’s, but it’s as graceful as the most beautiful woman’s.

“Benny was nice-” He ground his teeth at that, he dislikes answers with ornament. But the cry baby doesn’t know that’s what she’s doing – there’s a lot she doesn’t know.

“Tell me straight, you little cry baby. What did he say to you?” He pulls her hair then, evoking a soft cry that could’ve been the song on his radio.

Come with me, my love.. to the sea, the sea of love..

“He asked me how old I was, and.. he asked me why I was here. Please, Nero- you’re hurting me..” The fucking nerve of little Benny. Because he’s feeling nice, he loosens the grip on her scalp and instead threads his fingers through the strands, it’s like counting gold.

Do you remember when we met? That’s the day I knew you were my pet..

“And then? What did you tell him?” It’s a simple question, with a simple answer. The hard way.

“I told him I was 14, and that.. my brother brought me here.” The easy way, then – he prefers it.

“Good girl.. you can borrow some of daddy’s books.” It’s better than letting her socialize with whores all day. If he could keep her in his office, he would, but he’s a busy man and he doesn’t know how to entertain little girls. “Next time a man comes asking you questions, you’ll tell him you’re too busy. They just want to hurt you, cry baby.”

“Like you?”

Oh, the brass of youth, it’s not snark, it’s naivete. Sweet Josephine doesn’t know it only makes it harder for her.

“No, not like me.” He pulls her hair again, and slides himself against her bottom. “When I ‘hurt’ you, it feels good. Pain doesn’t feel good, does it? No, it doesn’t. See? I even answered the question for you.”

“When will you let me read?” He stares at a lock of hair like he’s about to seduce it, and wraps it around his finger. The cry baby has to go soon, he’s got to go watch Ricardo get taken care of.

“Right now.” Because he’s through with fucking around, he’s got places to be.

His collection isn’t age appropriate – he doesn’t know much about little girls but he does know that they don’t read the eclectic titles he owns. The first volume of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire should do, it’s a basic read and he’s already read it enough that a few cry baby tears won’t change what he already knows.

“See that bookshelf behind you? Pick the one that’s got Rome in its title.” Romans aren’t age appropriate, they’re foul and unrefined, unphilosophical and uncouth, but they had their ways, just like he has his.

“I like Rome, I always wanted this book but our traders never had it.. my momma was a Follower before she married my- father. Who’s your favorite Roman god?” He smiles at her misstep, it spends most of its short life unseen.

“Don’t have one. I’m not the religious kind. But if I had to pick one, it’s Pluto.” The question on her sweet tongue is why, but he doesn’t give her time to answer. “Because I want all of his fucking money.” Her gaping mouth is scandalized then, offended on behalf of her dreams. It’s the most beautiful scandal.

He kisses her neck just once, then her chin – again, once – and pushes her out of his lap, it’s gentler than it could’ve otherwise been. Nero’s not a man of rushed actions, his are deliberate and planned, he’s sensitive to movement and the sounds and sensations it produces.

“Now, get out of here and read my book. And don’t leave it lying around. Keep it on you at all times.” It doesn’t take long for him to light another cigarette after she leaves, every motion she makes is languid in that way only children possess, but he knows that bounce in her step is from his generous gift.

It isn’t everyday that he lets someone borrow something of his. His boundaries are inflexible, and he’s scrupulous in enforcing them, austere. Until he isn’t.

To punish one of his kin derives from him only a speculative pleasure. In actuality, he is already wondering how the traitorous child can be replaced, it isn’t easy to induct Omertas. Previously, it was impossible to induct Slitherkins, that was when his kin were ethnically and linguistically homogeneous.

But in business, there’s no use for that, it’s something Nero understood quicker than his kin. One of a few early lessons from Mr. House – he can’t imagine he’ll ever have any worthy cause to attend them again. A man like House doesn’t inspire warm fuzzies, nor does Nero. They’re incompatible.

Pacing his office lets him get a good idea of how much dirt the Chairmen left behind, footprints and the like, and the smell of a loathsome cologne. He cringes around his cigarette, a disdainful snarl that only serves to make him look patrician in the way a former tribal should never be.

With one last, longing look toward the open window, he shuts it and the curtains, and slings his rifle over his shoulder. This is one of those showy displays that he’d rather be done with a quick bullet to the head, but it keeps his men in line, makes them fearful of double-crossing the family. He’ll need his cigarettes for this one.

His guards follow him down the staircase and to the basement, where all of his guys, low-ranking and senior, await him for the ill-fated festivities. He’d rather be looking for an isolated warehouse for manufacturing, or reading the meandering words of Marcel Proust.

Ricardo is held prone in the middle of the dimly lit room, blindfolded and jeered at by his men. Down here, there’s no neon signs, no sultry lighting or radio, it is the kind of room that causes Nero’s teeth to itch, his tastes for décor are particular and the basement doesn’t meet them.

Every man’s head turns to Nero, his slow pace looks calculating, but he is only adjusting to facing a crowd of a hundred men. He adjusts his neat tie and narrows his eyes at the prone figure kneeling below the single, bright lightbulb. This is an old tradition, another one with an unreasonably long life expectancy.

“Ricardo,” He addresses, caressing the vowels in the wake of that vulgar first language. “You’ve betrayed the family and my trust. You broke the only law we enforce and used from the family’s stash, you exposed our plan to the Riders. You are no longer Omerta, but you can only leave the family one way.”

It is then his right hand’s turn to speak, there is sleep in his voice but only Nero would notice. He withdraws to the shadows, vexed by the bright fluorescent lightbulb that hung by a string. Surrounded by his men, the cigarette he pulls out is not his own to light.

“One rule, ya fuckin’ Judas.” Nero observes through the smoke of his unfiltered, there’s longing to be in his suite, to put an end to this long day. It is the same feeling he gets every evening. “The code is simple, and you broke it, knowin’ full and well what that entails. Omertas don’t give second chances, ‘cause once you break the first, you’re kaput. But the family’s gonna give you one last gesture of love.” His right hand speaks to the room then, “And make it snappy, boys.”

Here is when his sensitivities become apparent. Violence doesn’t move him, it never has, but the sound of a man being broken in is repulsive – the sound of betrayal is even more so, thus his tolerance. The first man to do so is Cachino, as his rank and vices dictate. That piggish lieutenant of his is only brainless when he doesn’t have something to stick himself inside of.

Cigarette after cigarette, and it still doesn’t end. Even when the cries of Ricardo become little more than incoherent pleas, his men still take turn after turn with the man. Those inclinations are normally outlawed under a less tenable code – faggots are punished the same way treacherous Ricardo is being punished.

No matter how many times he’s seen it, once the traitor is broken in and the blood follows, his stomach grows weaker and he imagines guzzling a gallon of water.

“Sal.” His right hand is discussing something with Cachino under his breath, and Nero watches Sal’s beady, droopy eyes narrow at whatever Cachino had been saying.

“Yeah? Was just talkin’ to Cachino, he’s saying that clients are waitin’ on us, told him they can wait a little longer.” They don’t need to speak so low, those nasty screams are loud enough that they drown even Sal’s voice out. His cluster headache has spread to both eyes and his forehead.

“No, they can’t. Kill Ricardo, have Mateo fetch a price for the pieces at the clinic, that should cover the supply he stole from us and more.” Every setback can be turned into profit. Vegas’ clinic was always in need of organs for its complicated procedures, and unlike the Masks, Nero had no reason to keep them.

Now, he has to find Diego and fetch the cry baby and return to work from his suite. For over a year now, his dream has been in manufacturing. If the Khans dislike that, it’ll be no trouble pushing them further into the mountains as he has before.

One instrument that never bothered him was the saxophone, it’s a sound that he could relish in for hours.

Oh, and when the saxophone and piano make sweet love in a slow rhapsody, he can almost pretend he’s not surrounded by hundreds of people in the raucous dark of Zoara. A discomforting dryness itches at his throat, he hasn’t drank enough water today. He adjusts the tie at his throat and continues his search for the cry baby so that he can get the fuck out of here.

What he finds is beyond aggravating. Of course, he can’t run clientele off by brandishing his rifle, and nor can he find a perfect place for his prize to be placed during his work day. Gomorrah’s no place for a little girl, but he’ll make it work. He always does.

So instead of clearing his throat – that’s not something he does – he watches the sordid exchange. It’s a test that no one but him has the correct answers to. That’s what makes his leadership effective.

“How much?” One of the NCR troopers asks her.

It’s pretty, the way she scoots further away, leaning into the wall like it’s going to save her. He doesn’t much appreciate her doing it for other men. That’s his treat, and he hides his favorite ones from others at all costs. This one’s a person, though, a cry baby with tears that draw attention in the same way a full moon pulls at an ocean’s shore.

“I’m busy.” His scowl is saved by the words parroted by the cry baby, its only witnesses are the shadows where he finds sanctuary.

He sneers at the cavalier attitude of the trooper, a puppet of his family’s devices, trying to stretch the strings that kept him afloat to begin with.

“Don’t look too busy to me. C’mon… we won’t hurtchu. We’re big guys-”

“That’s the one Omertas auctioned the other night. I remember now, Joanie, Josie? That’s your name?” That one’s handsome, but generically. Disgusting.

“Josephine, I-”

Like a serpent uncoiling from beneath a rock, Nero steps out of the shadows with his rifle still slung across his shoulder. The two fuckers had only just begun the motions of reaching for little, naive Josephine, but his eyes are as dark as sin and his sinister good looks are hard to miss.

“Not for sale, gentlemen.”

Oh, to be the savior of little Josephine’s virtue is tempting, if he hadn’t already taken most of it for himself. He lit another cigarette with the end of the spent one, he’s gone through too many to count today.

Theirs are nervous glances – the Omerta Father is shrouded in mystery and smoke, many different kinds.

“Our manager, Diego, will cater to your tastes. Best you go and find him.” He hates when they hesitate, but he can’t exactly blame them. He doesn’t leave much room for clever retorts, he’s already thought most of them through. “Shoo.”

They scatter like flies, they know who he is without even needing to hear him speak. His looks are noticeable, singular among former tribals. It’s another commonality between he and Benito, but there’s never any doubt over whose is more striking. Nero’s thick head of black hair also sports a little curl on his forehead, but no one would ever say it’s boyish. Mephistopheles is a black-haired devil, and Faust cowers in front of him – a little girl of four feet nine with captivating red-gold curls.

He doesn’t know what to say, he hesitates, and it scares the cry baby. Intoxicating.

“Come, Josephine.” He almost smiles, another inside joke that a cultured man would appreciate.

You had plenty money in 1922, but you let other women make a fool of you…

Things were beginning to slow to a sultry halt in the Zoara, a few of his workers were donning their decorative feathers behind the stage’s curtain, painting their lips with whorish rouge and tightening their stockings to hold the NCR cash. 90% of it would be family’s.

He never stayed to watch – the way the feathers’ glitter caught the light always worsened the persistent headache between his brows. And that music? It’s too loud for his sensitive ears.

Why don’t you do right, like some other men do?

Behind him, Josephine was quiet as any graveyard, she doesn’t fuss in public. His guards are becoming used to the sight of quiet Josephine, not that he needs them to. They’re specially chosen because they’re the quietest blockheads in the family.

Get out of here and get me some money too..

It sounds better when it’s at a lower volume and not being sung by a prostitute. Nero understands the necessities of the game, that doesn’t mean he likes them. Pimping is just business, and he’s got a lot of those, he values some over others.

The smell of the Zoara changes around this time in the evening, to some it’s inviting, but to a man like Nero, the sharp aroma of naked martinis and stale cigarette belong in his suite, otherwise it’s a nuisance.

Guests clear from his path, and wisely decide to wait their turn for the elevator. He’s got a cross expression that speaks volumes where his words just don’t suffice, it’s that kind of expression where his jaw seems to take on the sharpness of a knife and his eyes hold the dark promises of his casino’s underbelly, something the clientele ignore.

There’s a desperation to close his eyes and take five or six or more deep breaths, the elevator always inspires these feelings in him, especially when he can hear Lonnie, the rockish man, breathing behind him. Earthquakes have less force than his clenched teeth do right now.

Ding. Finally.

The cry baby follows at his ankles, not because she’s a dog, but because he’s been gentle. Their sensitivities aren’t so different, but he’s not a green little girl. However, he is finding that he prefers the company of a little girl to virtually anyone else, even the family – not that he’s ever had peers among them, even as Slitherkin.

His door is locked immediately when both he and the cry baby are inside. Their eyes lock, and there she sweetly stands with his book clutched at her middle, having taken his advice to heart.

Oh, at a time like this, his lips couldn’t wait. The corners of her lips taste like fruit, it should’ve bothered him – remnants of food usually do, but he knows she’s clean. He’s made sure, every morning, and no other men have been inside of her.

“Aren’t you going to kiss daddy back?” His question is whispered against those pink lips.

Her silence is stunned, and he takes that class opportunity to swipe the book out of her hand and hold it over her head. It’s nothing he would do to anyone else.

“A kiss, for a book.” The pout of her sad, cry baby lips comes to his close attention. Between his long fingers, her soft, developing jaw is lighter than air. Insatiable.

He catches her lip between his teeth, and manages to snake his tongue behind her lips. There is no frilly dance of tongues as there is with whores, sweet and svelte Josephine doesn’t know how to use her own. It’s also unflattering when a woman breathes through her lips in an act like this, but a cry baby can get away with it.

Oh, and when she accidentally bites his lip, it’s sinful. The cry baby undoes a long-lived sigh from him, it’s not that he’s unable to resist – it’s just the day.

“And another, for saving you.” That was never part of the deal, but he’s never claimed to be chivalrous. This is his trade, there’s always more words written behind the dotted line.

This one’s a peck, he lets her get away with it, because he does have work to do, after all.

“Why are you named Nero?” It comes from a place of unquenchable curiosity, and it’s fighting any displeasure she has for the circumstances. With the place she comes from, he’s uncertain why there would be any displeasure.

But he can’t see the pretty question on her face when she’s following behind him. His desk isn’t a place for cry babies.

“Why are you named cry baby?” He lights yet another cigarette, but swears he’ll drink a cup of water afterward. Holding his lungs hostage isn’t free, there’s a price to pay for everything. “Because I named you cry baby, just like I named myself Nero. Why, do you not like it?”

The startle of her shoulders when he snaps around is delectable. He doesn’t mean it as a reprimand, but he has no skill with the light of heart.

He follows the lump she swallows down her throat, mimicking the motion – it isn’t intentional.

“No, I mean, yes, maybe.” He arched a dangerous brow, it’s meant to be teasing but it just doesn’t belong on him. “I just read about him earlier, and, I remembered him. And I spend so much of my time with you, and you took my-”, she refuses to say it outright, he prefers it that way. “But I don’t know anything about you.. except that you smoke a lot.”

His resulting scoff is criminally derisive, it isn’t meant to be. It’s just the dryness of his throat.

“I do smoke a lot.” That’s all he knows to say. Regardless, it sounds suave in his voice, it’s the fucking gift that keeps on giving. “Nero was a happening guy. But your daddy’s got it happening better than that towheaded fucker ever did.”

She wants to laugh, there’s a pretty motion at either corner of her full, bruised lips and she stares at her socked feet rather than at him. It’s a close draw to her tears.

“Anymore questions? No? Then it’s back to work for daddy.” He doesn’t need to tell her to be quiet, she’s always quiet unless she’s asking him questions. He swears he doesn’t like to be asked questions, but it doesn’t hold up. He’s got a lot of answers to a lot of questions.

The suit jacket’s the first to come off, it’s always the first to come off. Today’s is the black pinstripe, it compliments he and himself like none other, accentuates the leanness of his arms and stomach.

From his desk, he can only barely hear the slide of sheets as Josephine climbs onto them, her little shadow can be seen out of the corner of his eye.

“Can- Can I ask you a question?” His snort is low and musing.

“You just did, cry baby. And now your limit’s up.” He’s got a map of Nevada right in front of him, planning this is the stuff that he’s got that lesser men don’t have.

“But I was going to ask, if I could go outside tomorrow? I haven’t been outside in.. days.” It’s not that his teeth are clenching together, it’s that his jaw has a mind of its own. Outside – it means hookers and pools, and plenty of neat little tents and apartments where cry babies can be taken to.

However, if he has learned anything – and he has learned a lot – it’s that everything is negotiable. That’s the most basic tenet of economics.

So he lets one ponderous, loose curl of hair fall over his forehead, and stares at her from the side, sitting on the bed with her arms locked around her knees. He pulls out another cigarette.

“Maybe, if you do a little something for me. I don’t let cry babies go outside without conditions.” Pop, he closes his flip lighter and sets it down on his desk, taking one smooth drag from his cigarette. “Tell me about Novac first, and then I might let you go outside.”

Silence. It stretches on for seconds and seconds, he needs to know about that sleepy little town that may or may not have an empty warehouse, or warehouses.

His eyes still watch her despite the turn of his head, she doesn’t see it with all the smoke unfurling above and around him. That’s the price of smoking unfiltered quality tobacco from south of the dubious border. He’s getting reimbursed by those comforting tingles in his hands and that lightness in his head, that particular feeling’s elusive these days.

“It’s a small town that’s built around a little prewar motel, what’s funny is that they only named the town Novac because when they found the motel, its No Vacancy sign was broken. No-Bark says that commies are putting devices in the neon to spy on us, but I’ve also heard stories that there’s a hybrid Brahmin-Gecko called Henderson Bovine, have you ever heard of it? Supposedly, they’re not friendly.” He reassures himself that he only let the diatribe go because he’s busy smoking like a Chinese banker.

“No such thing, I would’ve seen it if so, and daddy’s seen a lot.” Who’s entertaining the fantasies of a cry baby? Certainly not him. “How spread out is the city? Are there lots of empty buildings or is it a.. happening town?”

The crying doll is a giggling one, hiding her mouth behind a hand and away from his sight. She’s a proper girl, or she’s stubborn.

“No, it’s.. not a ‘happening’ town. It’s very small and sparse, with lots of empty buildings on the outer limits. One of them is huge and No-Bark tells me that in the old days, he ran tests in there on cazadores and figured out that they have-”

He puts up a hand then, the one that holds his cigarette.

“Tell daddy about those cazadores later. How big is that huge empty building?” It isn’t that he doesn’t care, he is intrigued now to hear the timid doll talking, but he’s a busy man and his focus is limited to one thing at any given time.

“Um.. big enough to run cazador experiments in? Why do you ask-” It’s not snark, it’s naivete. His glare is half-baked and running on that small cup of coffee he had. “Uh, very big. Supposedly, it was a supermarket back in the prewar days, but-” Prewar supermarket – that meant concrete and industrial fans.

“Don’t listen to No-Bark, cry baby. He sounds like a fucking madman to me.”

“He’s my friend, he taught me everything I know about southwest critters, critters that no one believes exist but he’s seen.” He’s got a few critters down in his casino that no one believes to exist, but he’s not telling little Josephine about them.

Novac will be scouted, then, and that huge building might be repurposed. That far down south, the Khans would never get a whiff, and if they did, the family would have an excuse to do what they were willing to do when they pushed them back into those mountains.

“Has No-Bark come to visit you? No. He’s not your friend, cry baby. I am.” And there’s no visitations allowed, he’s an exacting man. “But you answered my question. I’ll have Diego escort you to the courtyard tomorrow. Now be quiet, daddy’s got work to do.”

There were a few prime locations. Vegas is one of them – in Freeside the family would not only have customers but easy movement of the product to his casino. It’s a simple concept, with a complicated execution. There aren’t any empty buildings ripe for manufacturing, just that fucking tooling factory that has something to do with Mr. House.

Nipton or Novac. Nero narrows down his options, he’s got no time for hypotheticals.

In the meantime, he’s got something for the Masks. Omerta is no one’s friend, and he’s read and reread the clauses for a hole to slither through. Like them, he also has a pool, and every pool needs chlorine and a supplier. That’s a basic economic principle.

Whether it’s a serpent coiling or it’s his supple lips, he smirks to himself and begins drawing a plan for dominance over those masked fuckers, it’s in these plans that he has no equal. He’s a man of reason and evidence, so he knows best how to conceal them.

Oh, but the cry baby’s flipping pages and it’s disturbing his focus. Flip , flip , flip . At least the cry baby reads, he’s surrounded by illiteracy.

“Stop that.” He doesn’t need to say anything more.

“Stop what?” The church bells chime then, but it isn’t Sunday yet and he’s never gone to church. He can only admire their sophistication, it’s one of those things where he looks, but doesn’t touch.

“Stop reading.” He doesn’t need to look at her to know that she’s about to burst into tears.

“That’s.. that’s not fair.” A return to the sobbing angel, a tear-stained voice. He feels the tears trickle through his chest and down his navel. “Why are you so mean? Why do you always want to hurt me?”

Another cigarette, then. He’s gone through two packs today, but it’s not unusual on Saturdays. It’s certainly not because the cry baby’s undoing him with her sobs. Satisfaction guaranteed.

He drops his pen. It’s a loud sound in the quiet room.

“Come here, little cry baby.” When she doesn’t, he leaves his chair, and comes to collect.

This isn’t a fucking daycare, but when he picks up the sobbing Josephine, he can almost pretend he’s running one, and he finds that it’s a rewarding enterprise with a one-man team.

Oh, she clutches his shirt in that way a baby pulls on their cradle blanket. It’s desperation, torn between accepting his arms and running away from them, but his grip is strong.

So he returns to his desk, because this work is urgent. All of his is. And the cry baby is tucked under his arm, struggling to break free, but it’s so weak that he might be caught in her loving embrace.

“If you don’t stop..” He doesn’t mean for it to be sultry, and certainly not like he’s telling her a secret. He slots her against his lap, and grinds against her, it’s an effortless threat. His groan is making love to her tears in ways his body isn’t. “Is that what you want?”

She shakes her head and sniffles the tears, he grabs her chin to look at them before they’re gone.

“Then you’ll be silent, and sit right here until I say it’s time to read again.”

Every movement of hers stirs his arousal, it makes his impeccable handwriting bolder and darker , and by the time he’s satisfied with an outline for that chlorine supply, he’s thirstier than he can remember.

That cup of water doesn’t last longer than five seconds when he’s through with it, and he needs more. There’s two packs of cigarettes behind that guzzling.

Oh, when he moves them out of his chair, it’s reprobate the way she moves against him. Those thighs are slender and bony, but they have a grace that a whore’s could never.

He nudges her toward his unlit bathroom, with his cup in hand. In the dark, she watches him in that way a stag watches its killer. Out of habit, his tongue rolls over those sharpened incisors.

“Drink. I know you’ve had none all day.” He has ways of knowing.

This is one matter that little Josephine doesn’t disagree with. What a shame. Her throat bobs as she drinks the water, and when she finishes..

Oh, those juvenile mistakes are his undoing. Fascinated, he watches the excess water trickle from the corner of her lip, a stunning display, and were she not a cry baby, he would reprimand for the uncleanliness.

He fills the cup again, much to her chagrin.

“Drink it all. This is how you drink water, cry baby.” A lesson from the tribal years, to wait until he’s thirsty before he drinks a lake’s worth.

Her sips are tentative and slow, far from the last cup. Over the rim of the cup, she meets his eye but soon drops it, because she knows he’s looking at her with a promise. She doesn’t understand how it works, but she knows what comes after.

Chapter Text

To you, my heart cries out, Perfidia,

For I found you, the love of my life

In somebody else’s arms,

Your eyes are echoing Perfidia,

Forgetful of our promise of love, you’re sharing another’s charms.

With a sad lament, my dreams have faded like a broken melody,

While the gods look down and laugh at what romantic fools we mortals be.

And now I know my love was not for you,

And so I take it back with a sigh, perfidious one,

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

- “Perfidia”, Glenn Miller and His Orchestra

Evenings in the courtyard are never without strings attached. It’s an oasis for those who’ve already quenched their thirst, it’s not for him.

And the conversations echo out here in a way they don’t inside of his casino. It’s the pool and the empty spaces – every unbecoming laugh, long-lived groan of pleasure, and vapid little whisper is suddenly a hundredfold louder. His ears are sensitive, but depriving himself of cool night air only serves to worsen his bad moods.

The fresh air is good for his lungs, he knows that the smoke is more efficiently absorbed by his lungs when he’s outside.

But that isn’t why he’s outside tonight. A man like Nero has to have a number of reasons for everything he does. The sharp scent of the chlorine stings his nose, but it’s the product itself that keeps him coming back.

He’s going to make something happen to Marjorie’s chlorine on its way into the pool, and when that happens, he’d like to have some menus prepared in advance for when it does. These things have to be thought through, and because he has no rivals, the family won’t either.

Those cavalier Chairmen know exactly what this means, their casino is just now recovering from being cleared. And so, he and himself are reimbursed with profit and clientele.

The burn of the cigarette is as acerbic as his wit, and just as repelling. No one approaches the brooding Father of the Omertas, it’s effortless calculation. But it isn’t no one who approaches Nero for a chit-chat, it’s his right hand, and he’s tactical about his disturbances.

“Ricky fetched 4,000, the broad wouldn’t take the liver, said it was too scarred.” It would be. Even still, that’s 4,000 the family didn’t have before, it’s enough to hire new workers. Nero’s always expanding.

“Fine. I need you to send a couple guys out to Nipton and Novac to look for a warehouse.” He flinches at the grating laughter of Sal, he’s the right hand that needs a left hand to check him.

“Jeez, you never fuckin’ quit. Want my advice?” He doesn’t, but Nero’s a man of few words. “Nipton’s where it’s at. They run a pretty good gig in that town, small-time but it doesn’t have to be for long. The mayor’s a man of vices, so’s his place. Seems to me it’s ripe for the takin’.”

“Possibly, but I won’t risk a better opportunity. Novac doesn’t have a game, but it could.” And he’s a host of game, the kind of game that’s always rigged in his favor. Any other kind of game discomforts him in the same way a raucous crowd does. “That’s why both of them will be scouted. Make it happen, and we’ll see which one serves the family better. And one more thing..”

He takes one more puff of the cigarette, and crushes the butt under his heel.

“Arrange a meeting with our chlorine supplier. You already know to keep it hush.” He doesn’t much care for Sal’s awe, it’s no trouble for a man like Nero. But the way Sal looks at him reminds him of having his face licked by a dog.

These are the golden years, and they’ll last his lifetime.

Their chat ends there, the family knows he doesn’t talk small. It’s not only that he doesn’t want to, but he has no skill for it. He’s finicky about how he wastes his time.

His supple lips purse in displeasure as he watches the cry baby with Sarah, one of the youngest of his workers. The whore is dim and simple-minded unlike his cry baby, but that makes her safer. She doesn’t understand that the family is as loyal as it is ambitious, and everyone wants to have playing cards on the enigmatic father. It’s not a matter of disloyalty, but a matter of guile.

He tolerates it because it makes them believe they have power.

And who has power? Certainly not them. Omerta is a strict code, with a hierarchy that’s as easy to follow as it is to cross.

Oh, the way the cry baby stares at the pool with the same longing he watches her. It almost makes him feel sorry for her, but a cry baby only garners sympathy insofar as the hazel gems of her face water with the same dazzling intensity of the pool. In those moments, he can only look for so long before needing to touch.

His fingers twitch at his side, it’s because the wind is as soft and inviting as the strands of her hair, as golden as the lightest desert sand and as red as its clay. He is a connoisseur, so he can watch while the piece is being admired by another. It only serves to make him greedier.

They whisper among themselves, a darling image of two schoolgirls, only sweet Josephine is littler than Sarah, and Sarah is not a sobbing doll. This isn’t a daycare though, this is a fucking brothel, and his patience is stretching thin. The last thing he’ll tolerate are whores trying to teach the cry baby how to hook – it’s all they know. He doesn’t despair, that’s for problems with solutions.

Cool, autumnal wind blows the lone black curl on his forehead, on another man it would look boyish, but on him it’s with the same infidelity with which Vaughn sang Black Coffee. Perfidia.

The cigarette he pulls out is his own to light with his guards so far behind him. His walk is unaccompanied, as he prefers. Footsteps are louder in the courtyard, and his ears are as sensitive as the heart of his sobbing affection.

The cry baby doesn’t notice him leaning on a decorative tree, his reflexes are those of a serpent’s, a close cousin to his dark eyes. His only give away is the eerie, orange glow of his cigarette, and the sinistral good looks behind it. It ought to be criminal on any other man.

“How’s Nero?” His eyes snap to the back of Sarah’s brown hair. It’s clean only through the grace of chlorine.

The hooker is a girl of seventeen, who came without an auction, and without a debt. To work for the family without a price held over her head. She is a whore.

Sweet Josephine hesitates, wringing her hands together as a nervous child does when they beg an adult for permission. It’s a motion of the same kind he enacts when he’s being watched.

More smoke fills the air around and above him, it’s sending signals that only he knows the language of.

“He’s usually in a.. bright mood for him, I guess?” A small, secretive smile curls around his cigarette.

“Not what I meant!” Then, a sneer, a brand served by looks that can flatter it. “I meant.. how is he, in bed? Everyone wants to know.” A whore’s scandal, spoken with the same craft that cattle would use if they could convince their owners out of ranching.

Oh, the scandal of the cry baby, who’s greener than the most verdant slice of lawn in his casino’s courtyard.

“Uh, I don’t know if I should- he’s.. very strong and handsome, but he can be so..”

“Brooding? Nero’s always been a brooder, and he is very handsome. Other girls think you’re lucky, but you don’t seem to even know what it’s about. Like.. you’re too innocent to know. I mean, you just thought I meant to ask how he was doing! Boys think that’s cute, it says a lot that Nero thinks so too.” He’s not interested to know what all it says, especially coming from those painted lips.

“Why would anyone think that’s cute? I just.. I don’t understand any of it, I feel stupid and I’ve never felt stupid before.”

Nero doesn’t interrupt, it’s his outside smoke, and he has several reasons to be out here, it just so happens to be his personal art gallery tonight. The best gallery is the one that can move within the spaces he finds himself in.

“Don’t feel stupid..” Sarah tells her in that segue every woman uses before they make another woman feel stupid. But the cry baby isn’t a woman. “Every girl feels smart until they come here, then they find this huge world that makes everything else behind them feel so backward and dull!”

“But I don’t think that my life was backward or dull.” Her voice is as svelte as her gangly, slender limbs.

“That’s just what you think right now, I felt the same way! Hooking’s not all glitz and glamour, but you meet people you never would’ve met before, Omertas are a dangerous bunch, especially Nero, it must be so exciting for you. Don’t try to deny it, Joe. Can I call you Joe?” He winces around his cigarette, the hooker’s voice is as obnoxious as a crowd of one-hundred.

“Uh, sure, some people call me Joe or Josie, but I prefer Josie. What’s- what’s ‘hooking’?”

That’s when he steps away from the tree, and throws his cigarette on the concrete. Sarah’s the first to bat her eyes up at him, a whore’s senses are keener than a cry baby’s.

“Come, Josephine.” A motion of his pale, lithe hand is enough to take her attention, a fragile and indecisive thing.

It isn’t that he wants his avoidance of his worker to be smooth and aristocratic, he simply has nothing to say to her. His work isn’t in the managing of his workers – his is a broader discipline.

Her hesitance tempts him in ways lace and silk never do, and those wide eyes have a reservoir of tears that are always waiting to be savored by he and himself, and that’s another mark of his temptress.

The undoing of Nero begins when she tentatively comes to his side and keeps a lackadaisical pace that’s always a few footsteps behind his long, lean legs. The scandal of his workers begins and ends because the cry baby’s full lips are as quiet as his standards are high.

“I can’t see as many stars here as back home.” Josephine’s dreamy voice only adds to his reverie.

“It’s the city lights, Josie.” One corner of his lips quirks at her gaping expression, the shame of a child who’s been caught.

Clientele begins pouring into the courtyard, right when he takes himself and Josephine away from it. A lesser man might bend to the scandal that plays on their unsightly faces, but he always reserves an impassive sneer for these occasions.

It’s the delicate motion of his upper lip, and a disdainful jerk in his brow that serves to hide his nerves.

Evenings in Gomorrah are a slice of heaven for those sinners who’ve never read the Bible. He’s no exception – he’s read the Bible, and he finds the evenings here to be too uncouth and dissonant for his particular tastes. A man like him has to have standards, unlike the checkered Chairman who falls prey to his business’ own vices.

Like something that seeks its level, I wanna go to the devil!

Customers line the dark foyers of his casino, leaning against the dark walls and blowing their smoke indiscriminately. Behind him, a stubborn cough can be heard making its way out of the cry baby, the cigarette smoke of others will be a loathsome smell, but he’s good at correcting problems.

I wanna be evil, and cheat at jacks! I wanna be wicked, I wanna tell lies!

He’s always first on the elevator. It’s not because he’s selfish, it’s because he walks faster than everyone else. He has more reason to, he’s a busy man.

It’s his impeccable stratagem that decides to light a cigarette on the elevator, shrouding the plush, carpeted walls in smoke and hiding it from other attendants. The pop of the flip lighter shakes Josephine’s wan shoulders, where her thin dress is already falling off. Doubtless, she smells like chlorine and cigarette smoke, it isn’t a flattering smell and he won’t have it in his bed.

Ding! It’s this self-imposed order that he relishes – one last smoke before one last vexatious elevator ride. His guys remain behind to guard the elevator, and the cry baby is following him with that sluggish, melancholic step that fills any emptiness her tears leave behind.

Inside of his suite is when it always begins. First, with the suit jacket, which he shrugs off carefully, owing to the cigarette his lips are occupied with. The ash hangs off dangerously, and he dashes it against a half-empty ashtray on his dresser.

The soft sound of his radio fills the silence, making it pregnant with the kind of atmosphere he enjoys in privacy. One last smoke, and his eyes flutter closed. Slowly, he grinds the spent cigarette over the ashtray, watching the last plumes of smoke waft through the still air above the dresser.

Oh, and when he turns around to find svelte Josephine taking his socks off her delicate feet, it’s almost picture-book.

They lock eyes, and it may be the first time she’s never wavered within seconds. Her lips part, and her pink tongue makes to moisten them. A serendipitous scene, a sensual play that only he has viewed. He’s finicky about letting others get a look at his treasures.

“Let your daddy help.” He’s in front of her then, and quick to grab the socked foot. “You smell like a swimming pool, cry baby. Was your time outside worth it?”

It’s a test that he has the answers to, this is something little Josephine doesn’t understand. For a man like him, a question is rarely ever without strings attached to it, like any deal he strikes.

“Of course, I met Sarah, she’s only a few years older than me, and said she was born in Reno. Where is that?” He knows where Reno is, it’s where many of their most profitable workers come from. It’s a debauched city, where fucking is a film attraction.

“Nowhere a cry baby belongs.” He removes the sock then, and pets the soft skin of her feet – it has the desired effect on the apples of those round cheeks, and the rising and falling of her chest. “Be careful with Sarah. Sarah is a whore, and her friendship is always bought.” His voice is husky, it’s the cigarettes.

“Is that what hooking means? To sell your friendship, among.. other things?” The question is asked out of a certain flavor of naivete, his favorite of hers.

His hand wanders up her ankle, to her knee, and to her thigh. His eyes are blacker than sin, and sharper than two pieces of jagged flint.

“Yes, that’s what hooking means.” She can’t help the way her hands wrap around his neck when he kisses those pink lips of hers. But he can’t stomach the stench of chlorine in her hair and on her skin, and relinquishes the treat to pick her up the way a father might his daughter.

Though her lips part in sweet confusion, her ankles wrap themselves around his lean stomach. A juvenile reflex.

“Doesn’t sound flattering does it?” He reassures himself that it’s not because he fears she’ll disagree.

“No.. why would anyone sell those things? I never heard of that before I- was here.”

With his free hand, he flicks the light switch on in his bathroom, a bare space of the barest necessities. He doesn’t entertain in his suite, and rarely entertains elsewhere.

“They do it for money, cry baby, like most things. Like Pluto..” He swears he’s not teasing her, but it’s his voice again. “Take it off.”

She resists, as he hoped she would. From the corner of his eye, he sees her in the mirror, her dress swaying beneath the draft of the air conditioner. It’s not the cold that has her lithe hands rubbing the tops of her arms, it’s only the unspoken words he conveys, with only a look.

“Why?” Again, he doesn’t like questions, but he always has answers.

“Because we’re in the bathroom, why else would I take you here?” Landslides have less force than his sharp, merciless jaw.

“I- I don’t want to take another shower today. I want to go to bed.” He swallows.

“That’s too bad, pretty girl. No bed, until you get that stink out of your hair.” He pulled that hair then, drawing tears at the corners of her eyes.

What happens next is inevitable, it’s those delectable lips fighting his, those lithe hands pushing against him, she doesn’t know that it only undoes him further. His arousal is hard and clothed as it brushes against her stomach, a promise of what’s to come.

The smell of blood oxidizing in the tight space between their lips is the first thing he senses, afterward is a sharp pain and a trickle of thick pleasure that’s immediately answered by the most desperate sound that’s ever left his lips.

“So the pretty baby thinks daddy’s handsome? Too shy to say it to my face?” He pulls back then, licking the trickle of blood that’s starting a path down his chin. Her eyes are wide and fearful, the hazel is nearly gone. These are the vestiges of a virginal instinct.

His sharpened canines catch the light, it isn’t supposed to make sweet Josephine cower further into the wall, but it does tend to have that effect. There is nowhere else for her to go. Trapped between his lean body and the wall, the odds don’t favor her. He leans down to brush her nose with his, baptized by the Julio-Claudians.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t like it, cry baby.”

Oh, the copper on his tongue only moves further south.

“I don’t-” It’s only to convince herself.

“I think you do..”

And when he trails his hand up her thigh, he finds the evidence. He is a man of reason. Those gold-russet curls are soft in his palm, and he cups the mound of her sex with ease, finding there the source of the moisture.

His smirk is a volatile one, the cry baby is ashamed, it’s that comely pink coloring over the tops of her cheeks that give it away.

Out of that lovely virginal instinct, there comes a tiny hand that wraps around his wrist when the first long finger is plunged inside. She doesn’t know whether to give into it, or squirm.

But instead of withdrawing – he sees every matter through – he picks her up, and supports her on his thigh. Every emotion that crosses the cry baby’s face wars against her own sensibilities, it’s a gallery with a thousand pieces of the same subject.

It doesn’t end with only one finger, another long, pale one follows soon after, and her whimper is as pathetic and graceful as her tears. Initially, her muscles are drawn so tight that she resists, but he’s a man who’s known for tying and loosening ends all at once – he is a man of smoke and mirrors, but now slender, irresistible Josephine can see her reflection.

There’s an infinitesimal amount of delight in teaching this lesson to the whimpering doll, an astounding thing since the pleasure of others is his last priority. But there is profit in this, and he’s an economical man.

“Nero, please, stop..” It’s a different sort of plea this time, it’s conflicted and unsure of itself.

Oh, but when those wide, wandering eyes roll to the ceiling, he can only admire her slender, wan neck, and condescend to run his teeth over it. The taste of sweat is flattering on her skin, a stretch of white so smooth that angels covet his darling.

Hers is the call of a mourning dove – a coo, it doesn’t have the brashness of a woman’s, but the allure of a temptress naive of her awesome power.

Her hips lack the force of a wanton woman’s, but they too crave when they buck against his hand, and his resulting bite is that of the sparrow’ s beak on Lesbia’s finger, sharp and bruising and made to last, like every precious thing.

The resounding cry could’ve come from the cry baby, or it could’ve come from a pretty songbird. She tightens around his fingers before releasing with a silent scream that a whore could never mimic. Authenticity is the cry baby’s virtue, it’s naive and stubborn.

“Very pretty.” Words don’t suffice, and his rarely ever do.

The rise and fall of her chest is urgent, and the force of her legs deflate as she slackens in his arms, leaning forward and laying her head on his chest. She is nubile if smoke can be seen through.

He brushes a hand against her flushed face, and her eyes flutter to his if only for a moment, before watching his lips behind lidded eyes.

Oh, he can’t resist taking it a second time, and when his soaked fingers leave her, he takes her lips in a kiss, and it’s returned with dazed, clumsy motions that entice and torment him. He sighs against her, unraveled by fickle Josephine.

When his free hand unzips his pants, she is too beside herself to resist, and her sex is as welcoming as it is spent. He pumps into her open thighs, and is nearly undone by her clinging arms around his neck, a tight hold for lesser men.

“Ugh..” That’s her baby doll voice – he resolves to be gentle this time.

The lean muscles of his stomach flex and release, over and over, slotted against her stomach, pushing and withdrawing with a slowness he often denies himself. Her small breasts shake against his shoulder, and he leans down to press wet kisses against the exposed skin that her dress doesn’t cover.

“Sweet Josephine..” He whispers against her skin, thrusting as slowly as his patience allows him.

He is spent minutes later, clutching at her slender backside and spending himself inside of her, where no other man has been before.

Afterwards, he lets her slide down and land on her feet with the grace a girl of her age shouldn’t have.

“Let’s get you clean now, hm?” He swears that the exhausted husk of his sultry voice is not because he has been thoroughly undone, but from the cigarettes.

Chapter Text

When the roses bloom again,

And the fields feel the plough,

We will meet again sweetheart, somehow.

When the birds take back to sky,

And the night smiles above,

We’ll be free again to live and love.

‘Til then, oh, how I’ll miss you,

The laughter and tears we used to shed,

‘Til then, in dreams I’ll kiss you,

And seal every dream with a prayer.

When the roses bloom again,

And the world starts anew,

I’ll be coming home sweetheart, to you.

- “When the Roses Bloom Again”, Peggy Lee

He can always tell when something is not quite right. A man who spends so much time alone can sense these things.

So when moonlight glows through the cracked slit of his curtain rather than sunlight, he knows he’s not been awoken by his internal alarm clock. It isn’t just that his internal alarm is the impeccable device of an efficient man, it’s also that he’s too exhausted to wake himself up in the middle of the night.

Circadian rhythms are touchy things.

But he can’t shake the urge to quietly return to bed, that compulsory cigarette has to be smoked.

The pop of his lighter fills the otherwise quiet room, and the darkness is only kept at bay between the glow of his cigarette and the moon.

For days now, he’s been mapping a plan for the Ultra-Luxe, one that leaves absolutely no trace of evidence behind that would indicate the family. If he can’t get good rest, the other families won’t either.

When he checks the other side of his bed, he’s shaken by the cry baby not being there – she is a heavy sleeper. A tearful series of pants and sighs catches his attention, and unbidden, his jaw tenses around the cigarette, already comprising of an impressive pillar of ash. The cry baby is so small that he hadn’t seen her sitting below the window.

Under the moonglow, her long, pretty hair is golder than it is red.

He takes another smoke, pursing his supple lips around it. The hollows of his jaw – a truly unfair, partisan detail of his cruel beauty – debate whether he wants to say something.

It isn’t that he’s intrigued, it’s that he’s stewing in silent rage over having his sleep interrupted. He’s a busy man.

Grinding the cigarette on his nightstand’s ashtray, he throws the sheets off of him and stands, baring his nude body to the cool draft of the room. He sleeps in the nude, and has since the tribal days. It’s those minor primitive habits that stick with a civilized man, because a man can’t let go of all of them.

“You woke me with your tears, cry baby.” He stands beside her, leaning one hand against the window and watching closely the girl below him. His eyes are tired, but the light of the moon means he doesn’t have to strain them. Small mercies.

She says nothing, only continuing to weep those pretty tears, and wiping her runny nose on her arm. He winces at that, at the snot-nosed little girl who’ll sully his sheets, washed only three days ago.

There’s a hand towel on his desk. He tosses it down next to her.

“Stop that.” He leans down and catches her arm before she does it again. He doesn’t mean for his grip to be bruising, but his patience runs as thin as the walls of his casino. “Why are you crying?”

His question comes out huskier than he meant it to, and he swears he doesn’t care why the cry baby cries – that’s what cry babies are supposed to do.

This time, she does use the worn hand towel, and buries her face inside of the fabric. He longs to shake her shoulders and demand answers from her, perhaps even grip her chin and stare at her straight, but his actions are carefully considered and deliberate. Nero wouldn’t do these things.

“I don’t understand why I can’t leave.. you keep me here, and I don’t know why. I miss my home..” The melancholy that leaves those tear-stained lips is tantalizing. Beautiful.

It could’ve been a child’s doll that he touched then, petting the long, thick strands of her comely hair, a scarce and extraordinary color that entices him and sets him ablaze, from chest to loins.

“Because your bastard of a brother owed us, and you were the only playing card that he had.” His words are abrupt and discomforting to naive Josephine, whose shoulders quake to hear the truth that he’s always so eager to give.

“But.. I’m not a playing card. I’m a person .” She doesn’t understand that there’s few distinctions here, he’d like for it to last indefinitely, but his is a rational mind with a scathing wit. There’s little room for anything else in his curt etiquette.

“There aren’t many differences in the real world, cry baby.” He’s only a few inches from her wan face now, the leanness of his body supports the discomforting posture of his back.

“How.. how could Mr. House let it be that way?” His resulting snicker contrasts prettily with the whimper that leaves her full lips.

It’s not that he’s teasing her, it’s just too delectable a naivete to ignore. Josephine understands very little about the grit of reality, it’s a gift until it isn’t. Pretty for his critical eye, and detrimental for her.

“Are you going to run along and tell Mr. House? He won’t care, he’s a big-pictured man, sweetheart.” And it’s true, Mr. House is too absorbed with mysterious, pressing matters to bat an eye at the business of the family. This suits his interests just fine. “How do you even know who he is ?”

Her eyes look over him with an incredulity he wouldn’t expect from the quiet, sobbing doll. He watches the motion of her pink tongue lapping the tears that have fallen over her lips, she’s forgotten about the towel, to his discreet pleasure.

“Everyone knows who Mr. House is.. even in Novac. He patented the common computer terminal models, and invented all their operating systems, there isn’t anyone alive who hasn’t seen his name somewhere or other. It seems like.. he wouldn’t see people like that, I read his biography and he seemed like a good person who cared about people’s freedom.” The arch of his black brow is dark and skeptical.

“Mr. House cares about his freedom, cry baby, not yours.” For everything he’d like to say, there is only ever one execution, this one is poorer than he’d like. “Be thankful your daddy’s better to you than you would’ve gotten otherwise.”

That is when the floodgates open – a nerve has been struck. It wasn’t his intention, he’s a man of few words and none of them are very flattering. He takes his dark eyes off of her for the second it takes to look out over Vegas, a city that never sleeps, a privilege for those sinful people with nothing better to do. His clientele.

For many moments, the cry baby is silent save for her teary hiccups.

“I hate Reeves.. he’s always been so cruel. And our da- our father, he preferred him over me, even when.. even when he would come back home after months of being away. He would…” The sob she gives is heartbroken, it almost evokes his sympathy, if he weren’t exhausted. “He ignored me, that’s why I spent so much time with No-Bark, he was my only friend.. like a grandfather, he would let me drink coffee with him in the mornings and teach me about all kinds of critters. There’s so many. Even when Reeves was away, he – our father – he would ignore me, and then Reeves would come back from whatever trouble he got in, and then they would bully me for.. nothing, just for being myself. Mama wasn’t around, she passed a long time ago, and left behind all her books. They were all I had . And our da- our father, he hated them.”

For a man of few words, confessions like these disturbed him, when he cared about the contents being said. As a man of profit and gain, it’s hard to comprehend why anyone would confess their dearest secrets. But the dark brood of his shoulders, and the fixation of his eyes caused a flow of confident words to spill from people’s lips.

Her chin is as weightless as a feather when held between his long fingers, and he shakes it back and forth in a motion that might be reassuring, if he had any skill for it. He doesn’t.

“And look where that got him. Replaced .” He whispers it like a secret between them, it’s a quality owing to the perennial allure of his voice, it doesn’t belong on any other terse man. “Want me to kill them, cry baby?”

It isn’t like the family needs Reeves anymore, nor will he let him borrow caps for his habit, now that he’s proven to be an unpredictable asset , and has exposed himself, as he intended. Omerta has no use for civil scandal, only for infamy.

In fact, Reeves’ parts could fetch a good price, liver aside – 4,000 or more caps that could be used to kickstart the family’s manufacturing. He’s particular about which money goes where . An economical man must be discerning.

His question was only half-baked, but the scandalized gape of her mouth makes him rethink whether it should be.

“Daddy was a tribal once. See?” He bared his teeth to her then, causing a predictable jump in her shoulders. “I have the teeth to prove it. Scared? They’d be too, especially your worthless brother, he’s already been in trouble with your daddy once.”

A tinkle of church chimes – a girlish giggle, hidden behind a pale hand. That sound doesn’t belong in Gomorrah.

“He had a nasty debt to us, but it’s paid off now. Free real estate.” That earned him another begrudging smile from the stubborn doll.

“No.. I don’t want anyone hurt. It’s just who he is, he’s still my brother.” Her reply is one that’s as green as any mowed lawn.

His deep breath is the one of a man who needs a cigarette. It must be two or more hours before he normally wakes, there hasn’t been one single sign that morning’s coming.

“I might do it anyways.” He’s thinking of the money he’ll receive from the clinic now.

“Please, I couldn’t live with myse-” He presses one long finger against her moistened lips then, it isn’t supposed to be sultry, he wants her to be quiet.

“Yes, you will. Forget about that fucker, let’s get back to bed. Daddy’s got a lot of work to do tomorrow.” There’s no chance he’ll forget about him, and especially not the 4,000 caps that will pour in his wake.

Sweet Josephine’s lithe hands reach to the window to support herself, and she stumbles into the wall like a wallflower who doesn’t want to move. On the sheets she lays once more, red-gold hair fanning across his pillow, her eyes are torn between watching his agile stride and the bed’s canopy.

Before he climbs back into bed, he’ll have a smoke, because he’s feeling jittery. Every time he takes more coffee than usual, he forgets that this is the undesirable result. The sting of caffeine works marvels for his work ethic, but it does little for his nerves. Every compromise must have its reward. What’s bought has to be worth more than what was given. That’s basic economics.

He takes a deep smoke, and sits on the side of his bed, dragging the ashtray onto the satin sheets beside him. They’re the same sheets all of his casino enjoys, except they’re about as black as his eyes instead of a suggestive red. Before the ash burns a hole in the floor, he taps his cigarette against the tray, and strokes his jaw – his thoughts are sifting those devious waters where Reeves must be killed and clientele must be brought in from the other two families. Manufacturing is a solution that corrects about ten of his problems, even still nothing meets his exacting standards.

To his deepest misfortune, it is he who runs a casino and resort, so there is no rest to be found for his nerves. Dreadful .

Taking one more hit from his cigarette, he grinds it into the ashtray and puts it back on his nightstand.

Underneath his sheets there’s a warmth that doesn’t belong to a whore’s, a kind of warmth that isn’t too unclean for his bed. There is still residue on the sobbing doll’s arms, however, and that will need to be washed off as quickly as he finishes the rest of the night’s sleep.

“Why did Sarah say you were dangerous the other day?” His eye roll has the force behind it of a busy man who hasn’t gotten his rest.

Nonetheless, the cry baby is finally filling the pregnant silences between them. He only complains about problems he intends on fixing, he’s finicky like that.

“Because people seem to die when I’m around. I’m an ill omen, cry baby.” Beside him, she’s curled her little body into a fetal position, as childish as it is endearing, the temptress doesn’t know her power.

“That can’t be true, you haven’t-”

“Are you saying I’m a good omen? Am I growing on you, little cry baby?” The quirk of his supple lips is like the uncoiling of a snake.

He reassures himself that he wants to sleep, because he does , but he has to see her scandalized face, so he turns on his side and leans an arm on her pillow. The flush on her cheeks is the same dazzling color as the pinkest desert flower.

“That’s not what I said, I just..” His smile is smug, but the narrowing of his eyes leaves no room for any playfulness. That is incompatible with his style.

“Careful. Our words and actions can have a hundred different meanings beneath them, yours are no exception.” Contemplation pulls at her brows, two soft wings with feathers that are somewhere between red and blonde. “That’s how people die when I’m around.”

F ear . It’s one of the prettier emotions that cross his darling’s face. Her full lips purse, and the whites of her eyes become even whiter – a masterful backdrop for swirling golds, greens, and browns.

His kiss goes without being met, but the path of his tongue convinces her otherwise. On the pillow, there are few other places she can retreat to.

Oh, the way she sweetly opens her lips to him, and her bewilderment of how her tongue can manipulate and beguile his loins. He catches her full lip between his teeth, and snakes his tongue over the roof of her mouth. Eve is a woman-child of fourteen, a darling with the cherubic face of a baby doll.

His nose, the long and straight delivery of the uncouth Romans, rests on hers when he withdraws. After all, he is a busy man.

“Now, quiet down, and let your daddy get some rest.”

Any sleep he does get is broken and as light as sweet Josephine next to him. It’s the caffeine.

It turns out that only an hour remained until the sun rose, and when he wakes, he recalls longingly the coffeemaker in his office. He’s tempted to move it into his suite, or buy another. He certainly has enough money.

That first smoke is how he calms those nervous morning twitches, it’s between that and the path of his hand that’s rubbing circles over his tense forehead. That headache never truly goes away, and gets worse in the morning. The longer he waits for a cup, the harder it throbs.

If his guys know what’s good for them, they’ll avoid even glancing at him in the foyers this morning. Even from behind their sunglasses, he’ll feel it, he’s a man of acute senses.

He watches the smoke as it hovers between and around the rays of early sunlight gracing his suite. What he feels is the same resignation cattle must feel when being prodded into a corral. This will not be a good day. The frown of his lips around his cigarette speaks volumes about this intuition, succeeding where words couldn’t possibly.

Oh, there are storm clouds with higher pressure than the ache beginning at his forehead, down through his eyes, and all the way over to his left ear.

When he finishes the cigarette, he guzzles a full cup of water, and feels some of the headache recede. He is nervous and twitchy, exhausted and depleted. These days are not uncommon for him.

“Josephine.” He calls, it’s husky despite the water.

Hers is a deep sleep, as secure as a child with a toy held in their arms. If she was a girl who inspired envy, he’d feel it.

When she doesn’t stir, he wraps his fingers around her wrist and shakes her. Her nose twitches – it’s joined by the quick flutter of her lashes as they open to meet his expectant gaze, fearless in these first few moments in the morning.

“Time to get up.” His voice becomes him when everything else is out of his reach.

Like a petulant child, she looks anywhere but him, but especially at the sheets underneath her chin.

“But I feel like I just went to bed.. please, just a few more minutes.” She yawns, and he almost shows mercy, if not for the dark clouds that hang over and pull his lips into a look of deep frustration, unbecoming on any other man.

In that way a father stares at his daughter when she misbehaves – the warning before the reprimand – Nero shoots a glare full of promises. This isn’t a fucking daycare.

“That’s because you did . Every bargain has a price.” His jaw tenses, sharp as glass.

He pulls her up by the wrist, to her resistance and to his quiet pleasure. His arousal twitches, bare to the cool air of his suite. There’s already a warmth pooling in his loins, a throbbing that will need to be taken care of. It’s just the stress of this morning.

“Stop struggling! We do this every fucking morning!” It’s been a long time since he’s raised his voice as he does when stubborn Josephine, in a juvenile fit, refuses to walk to his bathroom.

“I don’t want to go to the Zoara! Please, let me go back to bed, I’ll stay up here!” She tries to jerk out of his grip, but his is tight and her wrist is small .

It only serves to stir him further, he pulls her closer to him, pressing himself into her backside. Every movement of hers is done out of a tasteful innocence specific only to the sobbing doll in his arms.

Oh, when he pulls the dress down, she feels the cold just as he does, and shivers before resuming her struggle.

She wants it insofar as mountains can move and a rushing river is calm.

“Let go of me!” But he doesn’t, he only pulls her dress down until it pools at her feet.

“Back to the bed. It’s exactly what you wanted.” He whispers in her ear, blowing those pretty strands of thick, long hair.

The struggle of her limbs is his undoing, she is not as urgent as she could be, she is ashamed in her want , and confused by why . But he’s a man of reason, and he knows why. Her struggle is the envy of every whore’s, her chastity is emulated by them, and all of it is coveted by him. His avarice is inspired by highly specific kinds of beauty.

He lays her on her stomach and parts her thighs, pumping his hips into her only seconds later. His groan is as broken as her scream, he wraps his arms around her waist, a delicate thing that’s already bruised from his hands.

She doesn’t understand that every flighty jerk of her wispy hips brings him only further inside, it’s an effortless art of hers – to know so little without being stupid. He sighs into the back of her head, withdrawing only to thrust again with a manic intensity he often denies to himself.

The black curl that rests on his forehead bounces with every thrust, until the sweat on his brow is so thick that it no longer can. Beneath him, the cry baby is also sweating, it’s their bath before they get clean, and she doesn’t know it.

He grabs her chin and tips her head up – the red-gold hair spills down her back and tickles the thick hairs on his chest. Her cheeks are flushed and unshed tears are in her eyes, but there is the unmistakable gape of her full lips, opened in a dubious, scandalized scream. Their kiss is as wet as the moisture between her thighs, and lasts as long as he does.

With the intensity of a man possessed, he thrusts into her one final time, and buries his nose in her neck, flushed and drenched in sweat. His breaths are heavy, as heavy as the weight that’s been lifted.

The lines of his forehead have smoothed, and his cluster headache has receded, if only somewhat. It’s enough that he remains inside of sweet Josephine, catching his breath and nuzzling her neck with his nose and lips.

Oh, the way she looks at him from the corner of her eye. Her wet lashes flutter in quick succession.

But he can’t stay here indefinitely. He has work to do.

“You can’t stay in my suite, the halls are dangerous for you .” Again, his voice saves him. He reassures himself that it’s just fatigue, and no coffee.

“I won’t leave the room.” She supplies so sweetly, but he didn’t get here by trust alone.

“Then how will you eat, cry baby? Your daddy can make a lot of things happen but I can’t levitate food to the fucking room. I’ll let you go to the courtyard today, at a price.” This is his trade, after all. “You won’t leave Lonnie’s sight. If you do…” He leaves it unsaid, as he does with so many other things.

“I won’t! I promise I won’t.” The cry baby has forgotten that she’s tired now, it’s the exuberance of youth, so bewitching.

“Fine. Now, let’s get clean.”

He watches her walk with a renewed vigor in her step – she will doubtlessly want to swim – her legs are long and gangly for her four feet nine figure, as slender and graceful as the dove whose coo she mimics.

Inside of the shower, she is slow to lather her hair, but he’s quicker. He reassures himself that it’s impatience that forces him to bat away her slow hands and rinse the hair with his own. But when he lathers the soap over her stomach and through her thighs, he rethinks his earlier reassurance.

Under his care, he knows she’s never been cleaner. Her skin is so smooth and clean that food could be served on it, and he would eat it.

He dries himself first, giving her the towel after, which she uses to wrap her thick hair inside of, the way he taught her. Those languid motions of hers aren’t the same as the whores he’s watched.

“Go on. Get dressed.” He sends her out of the bathroom so that he can shave the stubble at his throat and jaw.

First, he wets his face, and leans so close to the mirror that he can see every dark lash flutter and close. His good looks are sinfully elegant, his long, straight nose is as august as the dictator himself. The skin is pale but for the dusky, umber glow, it is smooth and well-maintained by a regimen he learned in Gomorrah’s early days.

The lights in here are dimmed, as he likes – bright lights disturb him like nothing else. He takes his sharp razor blade, and applies the gentlest pressure across his jaw, above the stately bow of his lips, and his chin. He does this with the precision of a former tribal whose skills were in these things.

Afterward, comes the volatile process, the one that keeps his skin smooth and elastic – resilient for a man of thirty-four.

It takes an understanding of the subtleties of herbs to know how best to use Datura Stramonium in liquid form. To extract its nectar is a rare art that the Slitherkin perfected, but they know only the Sacred Datura, and nothing else. Datura is equal parts miraculous as it is deadly, packed with deliriant compounds that can make a man forget his own name, his own family, and most importantly, his boundaries. When the devil’s trumpet is laid out to dry, the powdery residue can be blown into the faces of unsuspecting travelers. Profit guaranteed.

And, it has the most redeeming effect of revitalizing the skin. Lesser men wouldn’t dare touch the Sacred Datura , but Nero is no lesser man. It’s one-part cactus flower extract, another alcohol, and lastly a small drop of Datura nectar. He dabs it on with a wet rag, and closes his eyes at the soothing touch.

Now, to get dressed.

The cry baby waits on his bed, reading his marked copy of Proust’s The Fugitive – oh, the little angel. These are sophisticated tastes. It is no book for a cry baby, so he snatches it away from her and sets it on the nightstand. It isn’t meant to be aggressive, he just wants his coffee.

“Can you.. uh, can you borrow me another book?” She asks, looking guiltily at the floor.

Oh, she has been taught boundaries, or else the shame of pilfering through another’s things wouldn’t be coloring her cheeks as it is. She is curious, and somewhat nosy in a subdued way.

“And, in return?” There is always a price, but Josephine doesn’t understand these kinds of exchanges.

“I’ll.. kiss you.” His smile is daring.

“That isn’t enough.” He licks his lips then, tasting there the sweet aroma of cactus flower.

Her eyes wander the floor before locking to his, only to fall to his adam’s apple shortly after. Beneath her bashful scrutiny, he swallows.

“I’ll hug you while I kiss you.” He snickers, taken with idyllic Josephine.

He pulls on his Oxford and grabs a beige tie from his dresser.

“Then come and conclude our deal.” He waits for her, half-dressed – he doesn’t want his tie to be skewed, after all. Nero is fastidious.

The dress she wears stops at her knees, and creeping up his darling’s slight figure are polka-dots against a burnt yellow. Her arms are bared, and there are goosebumps forming as she reaches up, waiting for him to lean down. Like any adult about to be kissed by their child, he bends lower, a smirk pulling at one corner of his sinful lips.

She fastens her arms around his shoulders, and gives him a kiss so chaste that it has no business being so seductive. Their bodies slot together, he almost rethinks being on time. Insatiable.

“You’ll get your book tonight, cry baby.” The resulting smile is uncertain, awkward and as gangly as her waist and limbs.

The cigarette he lights is the same one he enjoys on the elevator, it keeps the nerves at bay. In the elevator, his savior is his brooding, it’s the last line of defense from a racing heart and twitching fingers.

“Take her to the courtyard. Don’t let her out of your sight under any circumstances.” He tells Lonnie, who nods – that one is a man of fewer words than him.

He allows himself one last glance at the polka-dotted cry baby, and turns abruptly toward the direction of his office. Clientele only now leave his casino, after fucking and finding themselves indebted to the family. They smell like cheap booze and whorish perfume, the kind that sears his sensitive nose and aggravates him to no end.

Before climbing the staircase, he leaves a cigarette butt in an ashtray, and gives the empty Zoara a compulsive once-over.

There are many things that need to be done today, things he will brief his right-hand on as soon as he joins him in his office. But first, the coffee. His coffeemaker is dreadfully slow, a prewar artifact that came with the property. He brings the sling of his rifle over his head and checks the safety before lying it on an empty corner of his desk.

Only a few seconds before the coffee is done, Sal knocks on the door. The ruckus of the coffeemaker is his only answer. He lights a preemptive cigarette, and grabs the cup just as his right hand comes in, droopy-eyed and stout.

“Mornin’. What a fuckin’ night, you won’t even believe what happened. These NCR motherfuckas come in, and start askin’ questions about that bird of yours – where she is, and where they might find her. Says their names are Vargas and Boone.” His jaw tenses around his cigarette, and the coffee burns him smooth enough that he forgets about that nervous tension.

He doesn’t want to talk to Sal, but a man of few words has little options when push comes to shove.

“And? What did you tell them?” This one’s pertinent. The cry baby grew up in the sticks, where everyone knows each other’s business. Awful .

“I told ‘em Omertas don’t entertain questions, there’s plenty of broads who might have the name Josephine. They said she went missin’, and that they weren’t leaving until they found her.” The arch of his dark brow is devilry at its finest, and is cloaked behind the fog swirling upward from his black coffee.

He takes a deep smoke, and crosses his legs at the ankles. It’s not supposed to be as suave as it is.

“It looks like they’ll be here a long while, then.” He is already searching for a solution to this very problem. “Do they use?”

“No. Both are clean-shaven NCR fucks, Bitter Springs vets, looks like.” His standards are never quite met by his right hand, but he does have a despairing eye for these things. But Nero only shows his approval with a slight quirk of his lips.

“Every man has their vices. The family always finds them and capitalizes, get a couple workers and have them hooked. They’ll forget about why they’re here.”

He doesn’t let treasures slip through his fingers, especially when they meet every refined taste on his palette. Another drink of coffee, and his headache is only a dull thrum, felt only between the stretch between his brows.

“Delilah and Carla, I’ll let Diego know.” His stocky right hand tries to pretend the unfiltered doesn’t bother him. Nero smiles, and the only witness is the silky black of his coffee. “Oh, and I got word from that chlorine supplier. He says that the Masks order their supply by the month. Brainless motherfucka, givin’ away the movement of a-”

“Fucking explosive.” Nero finishes for him, drinking the last drop of his coffee and dashing his cigarette against the ashtray. “Have it intercepted. This-”

Unlocking the key to his desk, he pulls out a paper detailing the interception of the shipment. It has to be contaminated, and then be accepted by the White Gloves. He places the sheet discreetly on his desk, and pushes it forward with a flourish of his hand.

“Is all you will need. And another thing. Kill Reeves, have Mateo sell what’s left of him.” He ties loose ends as much as he leaves them. A man like him can’t waste his time.

“If the Californians stay awhile..?” Nero loathes questions like this.

“No chance. We have ways of taking out the trash, we’ll do it by the contract if we need to. I’ll talk to them.”

When Sal leaves, he pulls open the blinds of his office, and watches the comings and goings of the city in that detached way a man might watch ants leave an ant hill. There’s always a mass exodus of tourists at around this time, leaving with their bags and even suitcases behind them – in every casino save for Gomorrah, where people tend to have a hard time saying goodbye.

Owing to his men’s findings in the south, he’s decided to set up business in Nipton and have a few of his kin operate there. Novac is too sleepy a town, and the gain wouldn’t pay off for the compromises made.

Jet is a drug he doesn’t want manufactured in his own casino, he can barely stomach examining it during his meetings with the Khans. Shit fumes are about as unsightly as he can imagine, and to his misfortune, he is a man of great imagination.

However, it’s a cheap drug to manufacture, and is the most popular with all of his clientele – rich or poor. The NCR in particular are dealing with a nasty epidemic of Jet abuse, so he must appeal to his most profitable customers.

His breakfast quells the rest of what was left of his headache, and that dull throb retreats further until it’s only a beat on a tiny space between his brows.

The cigarette afterward is one that he lets dangle from his lips, on account of having to type a private entry of this months drug sales. As an economical man, he always compares months to see what direction business needs to be moved in – sales have been going up steadily for two months now, with his family’s supply now outperforming his workers.

To be in his position, he must be willing to innovate and expand. This is why he’s the father of this family. As Slitherkin, precious little ingenuity existed, they were tribals without a long-term goal. But his ambitions are the kind that would never have been stomached by the last leader. Nero is a man of squeamish nerves and delicate tastes, he’s under no illusion his leadership would’ve been effective during the tribal days.

He reassures himself that he’s not like the Chairman in these peculiarities, but he doesn’t deny reason when it looks him in the eye.

Letting the cigarette hang from his lips, he turns on his radio at a soft volume and languishes in his office chair.

B enito too would’ve been ineffective as a leader of the Riders , his rival is a man whose wit is as quick as his hands, and he belongs in civilized life. Either of them took the same gambit when they murdered their former chieftains on behalf of Mr. House.

T hat’s why the Chinks do it, Japs do it, up in Lapland little Lapps do it.

He lights another cigarette off of the end of his spent one, and compares the numbers of last month’s to November’s. Christmas is a holiday new to a former tribal, but all of his clientele practice it, and he’ll have hookers dress up as that fat prewar saint if it brings in more money.

Maybe Layla can play a good Santa Claus .

Well, let’s do it. Let’s fall in love…

Sal would play a better Santa Claus, but the hierarchy has to remain clear and easy to follow for the sake of the family.

I n Spain the best upper-sets do it, Lithuanians and La ts do it. Well let’s do it, let’s fall in love…

In privacy, he can snicker quietly to himself, and avoid the bewildered scrutiny of other men.

S ome Argentines without means do it, people say in Boston even beans do it. Well let’s do it, let’s fall in love!

He’s already making a preemptive report for Mr. House – he’s jury-rigging the clauses as much as possible. Nero’s read the contract hundreds of times now, and always finds a new vulnerable point on the dotted line.

Embezzling is an art he’s determined to perfect. Lesser men might say he already has, but he’s never content to rest on his laurels.

T he Dutch in old Amsterdam, not to mention the Finns…

Oh, that tingling feeling in the back of his head, and the lightness of his feet. It’s an elusive pleasure. He takes the cigarette between his fingers and blows the smoke over his desk, before giving a once-over of the contract, a booklet with folded corners and one small coffee stain that aggravates him to no end.

T he birds do it, the bees do it, even under-educated fleas do it! Well let’s do it, let’s fall in love!

Outside, he can hear the heavy, repugnant footsteps of his kin – leaving tracks all over the carpet undoubtedly – his reverie is shattered, as it always is. It’s those quiet , muffled voices that come after that cause his right eye to twitch in silent rage. He takes a deep inhale of his cigarette, and watches the smoke mix with the muted sunlight pouring through his office.

His dark brow remains high and restless until the voices outside move on.

He switches the radio off. He loathes the Andrews Sisters . They’re in a tie with James fucking Brown .

That report will be even more daring than the last. Every month, he embezzles a little more, testing the waters.

By the time he usually takes lunch, it’s done. It’ll need a little editing by the time it’s due, but he’s confident in this gambit. He has to be.

As for the holidays, he has big plans, charitable celebrations that will reimburse he and himself with.

Oh, that tang of smoke and cheap liquor has his stomach roiling when he steps out of his office for the first time in hours. He clenches his teeth together, and overlooks the Zoara from the balcony. Swanson, a modestly wealthy NCR citizen, has returned.

By now, the pudgy man’s debt is enormous, and he chooses to pay in increments rather than take the smart route. They always do. It’s why Omerta is richer than the other families.

It’s exasperation that follows when Diego finds his way over to Nero’s side – there will be a show tonight, but it wouldn’t do for Nero to attend his second in the span of a month. He’s finicky about which public events he attends. The cry baby’s auction was the last one he’ll make an appearance at for another month.

“Those troopers are troublesome, patrón . They have promised not to leave without our sweet Josephine. As per your orders…” Diego is a slight man of cunning flattery, but he is safe. “ I have convinced lovely Delilah and Carla to subdue them. However, they are stubborn.”

People are not usually among his list of precious things, but the cry baby has managed to make it, and he guards his things with a singular greed. It isn’t that he’s worried, it’s that he’s enraged. That flexing of his sultry jaw should be a criminal offense on any other man.

Nero sneers, a flattering pull of his upper lip. His sharpened canines shine under the orange glow of the ceiling lights.

“They’ll not be a problem much longer.” He reassures both himself and his handler.

When he walks toward the staircase, he is joined by Diego and his guards – his handler is undoubtedly surprised by his action. Nero operates under the cover of smoke and mirrors, his motives are only ever guessed at, and he thrives on his apparent unpredictability. In reality, he is very predictable.

His dark gaze roves over the Brimstone’s bar, where he searches for the two men with the same intent he used to search for Benito at drops. They have a look of hostility and distrust, but Carla has convinced them to drink with her – she is a black beauty save for the whorish bat of her eyes.

It’s always the same stares when he makes a public appearance, the Omerta father is sinfully dashing and calculating in ways a former tribal shouldn’t be. Their stares weigh on him however, his fidgeting is saved by a cigarette and the feel of his rifle hanging from his shoulder.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” It’s Carla who hushes first. Indeed, appearances like these are an ill omen, as he told the cry baby this morning. The cigarette between his long fingers is what grounds him. “I heard you were looking for someone.”

“Yeah. We are.” The pale one has a nasty frown on his lips, it would look better on Nero’s.

“We’re looking for a little girl by the name of Josephine Bacri. About fourteen or fifteen, stands about this tall..” The darker one is looser with his tongue. He gestures with his hand a little higher than the bar’s counter. “Her father says her and her brother have been missing for weeks now, and mentioned that he comes here often.”

Nero takes a deep breath around his cigarette, and blows the smoke away from the veterans. Carla is whispering the ear of the other, causing a quirk in his thin, frowning lips.

“He might. What’s this brother’s name?” He licks away the dryness of his lips like a serpent scenting the air.

“Reeves. He’s a troublesome guy, and that’s a big deal in our town. Um.. he’s blond, a few inches shorter than yourself. Not much mettle to him, though.” Nero’s eyes snap to meet the Khan’s . He certainly has the look of them, and that last sentence dug his grave. “ Reedy guy. First time I ever saw him was in North Vegas, it isn’t the first time someone’s been sent to look for him, but it is for Josie.”

His smirk goes unnoticed by the other men. The soft trickle of a jazzy piano fills the unnatural silence that he cannot fill. He’s never had the gift of gab.

“North Vegas. You’re a Khan, then?” At the widening of the ex-Khan’s eyes, Nero’s free hand points at his own shoulder, exhaling smoke out of his nose. “Those collar marks aren’t easily mistaken. I’ve seen many of them up close.”

The easy smile on the man’s face falls, and his nerves are soothed by the promise of this chat being closed up. He’s got things to do.

“You Nero?” His stare is impassive, the savior of the nerves he feels out in the open like this.

“I am Nero.” He swears he isn’t teasing, it’s only the pleasure of that regal name being spoken.

That ugly frown on the pale man deepens. What sounds like a hesitant breath – the sure sign of a cautionary segue, leaves the ex-Khan.

“We’re not looking for trouble, man. A little girl goes missing, it’s gotta be looked into. And since this is the Gomorrah, it only makes sense that she’d end up here..”

“And why is that?” He asks in that same way a thief asks a victim about their stolen furniture.

Incredulity. It’s not uncommon for his underhanded words to inspire it. They want to believe he’s telling the truth, it’s just the dubious, breathy quality of his voice that brings out some instinct.

“She’s a pretty girl, and too trusting for her own good.” He agrees, and that’s why he’ll have them out of his casino by nightfall.

“One of my guys tells me you’re not leaving until you find what you’re looking for. We can’t accommodate you forever, because our accommodations are for adult’s entertainment, and the family doesn’t babysit children.” He sneers then, feeling the hairs on his neck sticking up. There’s an older woman watching him from the end of the bar. “So stay here, we appreciate your business, but if you keep asking questions, it’s the family you’ll answer to.”

He straightens his tie then, and meets the eye of the ex-Khan before turning for the courtyard. Diego remains in the Brimstone, much to his relief, his stare is invasive and discomforting. He’s a performer who doesn’t know when to stop performing.

In the courtyard, he takes a deep breath of air, but with this many people, there’s no chance of enjoying it. He’s a private man.

The weather is cool enough now that his suit jacket is warranted, and sweat doesn’t worry his brow. These are his preferred seasons. When he was Slitherkin , these were the months that he pulled his most laudable stunts. People tend to keep their belongings in neat little pantries in the winter.

As he lights another cigarette, he recalls a December when he took Benito’s drop, and the way the impulsive man tried to fight him over it. He’d knocked on the door of the farmer’s house, and clung to the shadows while the old man chased Benito out. In the meantime, he cased that joint and never returned.

Those are days that bring him no joy. Few things do. If they did, his leadership wouldn’t be effective. Unlike the rest of his kin, he doesn’t reminisce about the tribal days.

He watches the cry baby swim in his pool, joined by Sarah, and watched closely by Lonnie.

The whore chases her, they make a childish game of closing their eyes and looking for each other, it’s a picture-book scene, and he’s mesmerized by the way the short, wet gown hugs her girlish figure. It could be a dove’s coo when she yelps from being captured by Sarah.

Oh, and how those little toes kick at the surface of the pool – the doll is a mess of gangly, pale limbs and long, wet hair that seems to float with the same languish as the water. Those pink lips part and release a series of ecstatic giggles particular to delicate girlhood. He takes a deep smoke, and catches the eye of the cry baby, currently being held captive in the arms of her friend . The cry baby doesn’t understand that there are no friends in Gomorrah.

He feels a tight uncoiling of his lean stomach, set in motion by their eyes locking.

Although Sarah’s whispers are incomprehensible from here, he knows she tells the cry baby to go to him. But Nero is a busy man, and before the cry baby is pressured to come, he turns and leaves before the exhilaration has him rethink his work.

Chapter Text

Day by day, I’m falling more in love with you,

And day by day, my love seems to grow,

There isn’t any end to my devotion,

It’s deeper, dear, by far than any ocean.

I find that day by day,

You’re making all my dreams come true,

So come what may, I want you to know

I’m yours alone,

‘Cause I’m in love to stay,

As we go through the years, day by day.

- “Day By Day”, Jo Stafford

The turn of the month always puts his teeth on edge. It’s nothing new. He’s an uncomfortable man, and discomfort is good for the kinds of things he makes happen.

Oh, and a lot of things are happening. Soon, something will be happening to the Ultra-Luxe’s pool. The imprecision of the timing is what worries his brow and makes a ruminating bow out of his supple lips.

There’s too much to do, and no time for rest. He remembers that he runs a place where people come to get away – there’s nowhere for him to go. It ought to be illegal. However, when he has nothing to do, that discomforting heat flares in his chest, and spreads to every limb, he’s overcome by nerves when there’s nothing to hold in his hand.

His flip lighter pops and he takes his bi-hourly delight. Ordinary men like to fuck and drug themselves into a daze, and though Nero likes to fuck – he is a man, after all – all he needs are cigarettes and coffee. His refined palette leaves room only for cry babies and nicotine, both of which seem constantly out of reach. There’s not enough of them to sate him.

Oh, if little Josephine could be drank from like a glass of kirsch, he’d be an alcoholic. As it is, he’s a busy man, and his darling is a precocious woman-child who has no business being in his business. He makes it work, though, he always makes it work. His pleasures are so few and discreet that he is resolute in doing so.

He lets the cigarette dangle from his lips, overlooking the city from his suite’s window. If he wants to work from his suite today, he’ll work from his suite. It isn’t often that he does, but he’s feeling the tension today.

That coffeemaker is on his dresser, just begging to be used.

He scratches his neck, feeling the stubble poke into his fingers. It isn’t supposed to be a sultry act that invokes colored prewar magazines – the Datura makes him itch, and he knows his blood is up high enough that it doesn’t help.

With the hand that isn’t holding his smoke, he leans against his window, with a dubious quirk of his brow. He frowns and takes a deep smoke from his cigarette, tempted to turn on his radio. In the privacy of his own suite, he won’t have to worry about interruptions or constant footsteps in the foyer.

But the nerves are still there, they sit in his stomach and make him queasy.

In the window’s reflection, he watches the cry baby in his bed. She’s moved from her side to his, the side that’s drenched in musk from the pulse of his neck and his wrists. His tongue rolls lazily around his mouth, stopping on the sharpened canines.

He cracks the window, takes one last smoke, and tosses it to the ground outside. That’s the window that makes him rethink having a window at all, it’s loud and squeaky, hundreds of years old by now and a catalyst of too many headaches to count. That’s nothing special, a lot of things make Nero’s head hurt.

Only because he has to, he dresses himself in a pair of slacks and a half-done dress shirt, and leaves his suite to inform his men that he’s working from his suite today.

“Have Cachino watch the Zoara, and Mateo, the lounge.” The hierarchy has to remain concise and easy to follow, it’s what makes his casino the most profitable. “And have two trays of breakfast sent up.”

He is almost apologetic when he gives Lonnie this order, but there’s no sense in pitying the expressionless face of a rock.

Back inside his suite, he can breathe easy again, and take off his dress shirt, letting the cool wintry wind blow through his short black curls. He joins the sleeping doll on his bed, leaning against the pillow she sleeps on. Her lashes are long and light, between red and gold as every other strand of hair on her svelte body. The pout of her full lips is juvenile and tantalizing, begging to be teased apart for a glimpse of the soft, pink tongue inside.

He leans down, and wraps his arms around the sleeping Josephine, nuzzling her soft, thick strands of hair with his nose.

“Pssst.” His voice is sibilant as it whispers in her ear, blowing strands of hair. “Wake up, you little cry baby..”

She stirs only after a few shakes of her body, and he’s faced with two large, greenish eyes staring at his nose. Unlike so many with red hair, her nose and cheeks are blessedly free of freckles and any other scars. Hers was a comfortable life before, but it’s more privileged now. Little Josephine doesn’t understand how much of a mercy she’s been given, it’s the hubris of stubborn children her age.

“Is it time to go?” She asks, her sweet voice is thick with sleep.

“Where are we going?” It’s meant to be a tease, but what his voice lacks in droll it makes up for in sensuousness. “Iré a donde pueda lamer cada uno de tus labios rosados.”

The cry baby flushes, a color only a few shades lighter than her lips. The vulgarity of his first language isn’t just in its words, but in how he speaks them.

His fingers trail up her sides and then her neck, brushing over the bruises and faded bite marks. His tribal scars are never more noticeable than when his skin is on hers.

“What did you say?” Her curiosity gets the better of her, it always does.

But he shakes his head so slowly that it might just be a trick of the wind. His grip on her chin isn’t supposed to be strong, but she is too pretty to withstand the temptation. Tears prick at her widened eyes, and her lips part further into a delectable kind of shock. He laps over her lips with the same intent with which the serpent coiled itself around Eve.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, mi rosa sollozante?” He pulls her lip between his teeth, and sucks. “No, I don’t think you would. Too crass for cry babies.”

“What does crass mean?” One corner of his lips quirk at the question. Her brows are scrunched so sweetly, the little wings are trying to touch each other.

“What can you give me for it?” He needs coffee, and soon, he loathes eating breakfast before his morning cup.

“It’s- I don’t want to know what it means anymo-” His finger shushes her then, and taps against her lips in a motion that might be impish on another man.

“Too late, you started a bargain, cry baby. Now it’s time to pay up.. what’ll it be?” Like any stubborn child, she blinks, and fumbles with the blanket nervously. “A kiss? Or… a kiss and a hug?”

Josephine doesn’t answer – on rare occasions she shows a resolute determination that belies her sweet timidity and mildness, like a cactus flower who suddenly thirsts for water.

Instead of answering him, she wraps her arms around his neck, and leans up to catch his lips in a kiss that shouldn’t be as graceful as it is. She offers him the sweet aroma of her lips, and he gives her his first love – smoke. A blanket separates their bodies, but flush against her, he can feel the outline of her budding breasts, and the gangly stretch of her shoulders.

When she pulls away from him, he trails his lips all the way up her jaw until stopping at her ear.

“It’s another word for crude. Unrefined. Indecent.” Her lips purse into a little ‘o’, probably wondering what his Spanish meant. The cry baby is naive, but she isn’t stupid.

Even on an off-day, he still has work to do, so he leaves the cry baby to her thoughts. Her wonder is as clear as the comely color of her eyes, it’s a parting of lips and the worrying of her brow.

Now, for his coffee. It’s long overdue.

He turns on his radio to a low volume, and downs a full cup of water, soon refilling it and setting it on the nightstand for the half-awake doll on his bed.

Right before he pours his coffee, he lights a cigarette, closing his lighter with a loud pop. The coffee burns all the way down his throat, but for a man who smokes as much as he does, it’s even less than a minor inconvenience. He’s learned to savor it, with the same fervor he savors the cry baby.

The wind blows through the window, disturbing his unbuttoned Oxford and surrounding him in an eruption of white linen. Fresh air always smooths the burn of the cigarette, and his lungs are rewarded and punished at the same time.

I’m wild again, beguiled again, a simpering, whimpering child again…

With those NCR veterans gone and his prize secured, he can once more focus on his other troubles. His focus is intense, but it only extends to one thing at a time.

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I…

A man must have his weaknesses.

Lost my heart, but what of it? He is cold, I agree… he can laugh, but I love it, although the laugh’s on me…

“Can I have some coffee?” The cry baby asks, with the same persuasion as a child about to stick their hand in the cookie jar.

I’ll sing to him each spring to him, and long for the day that I’ll cling to him…

“A small cup. My brew is too strong for you.” He is halfway through his own cup, and sets his own down to pull out an empty one from his shelf, letting his cigarette dangle from his lips.

The cup he pours measures less than half a cup. His ears prick at the sound of his sheets rustling, and a second later he feels the presence of the little cry baby beside him.

He returns to nursing his cup, and lights another cigarette off of the last one, throwing the butt into his ashtray.

“Want a smoke too?” It’s a test, but she doesn’t know it. From behind her cup, she fixes him with a wide-eyed stare and he stops her before she says the wrong thing. “Too fucking bad. I don’t like to share.” And, he doesn’t want her smelling like an ashtray, despite his own cigarette smoke clinging to every inch of her. He’s safe.

He watches her take a tiny sip from the coffee, and give a wince at the strength of it. There’s enough grounds in that cup of coffee for a divorce.

With the last drop of his coffee gone, he can return to watching the cry baby try to drink hers. It’s with that same impressionability that all people her age do it – to convince adults that they can handle it. There is no end to how endearing it is, especially when her lips purse around the black, silky liquid and she squeezes her eyes shut against the bitter taste.

A knock on the door disturbs the trance he’s found himself in, he reassures himself that it’s just the pleasure of a smoke and a cup of coffee, but it’s really the pleasure of watching the cry baby’s innocuous struggle.

It’s Martha who serves their breakfast, she is always trying to catch his eye, but he’s particular about who he privileges with it. A picky man must be. That lump in his throat is the result of Martha’s disrobing stare. He clenches his teeth together and takes the two trays away from her, shutting and locking the door as soon as his hands are free.

Little Josephine is still nursing her coffee when he sets the trays down on his dresser. He can see that she’s only halfway into her cup, his is a ruthless gaze that dissects and scrutinizes every displeasure that crosses her face and saves it for later.

He watches her abandon the coffee for her food – that is Josephine’s savior. Like a stag who gets saved from the end of a rifle, she sets the coffee down and takes her tray to eat on the floor.

“Why are you eating on the floor?” His instinct is to sneer, but disgust is at war with intrigue.

“I always eat on the floor, it keeps butterflies out of my stomach.” She sets aside the bread, it’s those allergies of hers.

He blinks.

“Only because it makes digestion slower. You should eat standing up.” A man of few words only has scathing wit and a devilish voice on his side.

Oh, but when her lips wrap around the roasted yucca fruit, he rethinks telling her his scathing truth. Around his own food, his gaze darkens until it’s blacker than the sin of his discreet vices. Little Josephine can’t feel his eyes on her, nor can she hear the force of his jaw as it tightens, nor can she see that the lean muscles of his stomach flex and uncoil.

The food is like ash in his mouth, in front of a sweeter fruit it’s but a drab necessity that he chews and swallows unconsciously. His arousal

is palpable, it’s a few swipes of his tongue over sharpened canines, and a thickening of the length between his thighs.

Among his few pleasures is resisting it, the heat that pools at his loins is the most delightful pain, a pressure that throbs deliciously at those sweet lips wrapping around a yucca. He’s no more concerned with the White Gloves as with his food, which he finishes with the swiftness of a busy man.

Inspiring. The darling doesn’t know her power, or that every motion of hers threatens to undo him.

She is slow in everything she does, it’s the privilege of her age. While she finishes her breakfast, he lights another cigarette, and watches her from the corner of his eye, mapping every movement of hers. Under the glow of morning light, her hair is a waterfall of curls of the lightest copper, with pillow tangles that might make his fingers twitch if they weren’t occupied with a cigarette.

“Why are we eating up here, Nero?” His name is always said with a kind of brass unique to the cry baby.

He takes another smoke and licks his lips, snapping his dark gaze to hers. It’s not something she keeps for long before settling somewhere around his chin. He’s noticed that she does this to everyone, and he so loathes sharing the sweet privilege with other people.

“We’re staying up here today.” It’s all he supplies, too absorbed with his cigarette and her lips. He swears the huskiness of his smooth voice is from the smoke, but it just doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

When she licks the tips of her fingers, his is a glare so dark that it could spark firewood. Flint doesn’t even begin to compare, he thinks wryly, tightening his lips around his cigarette. It’s an effortless art that the cry baby can move the art gallery to every room she occupies.

The lump he swallows doesn’t dissipate in his throat, but twists and turns all the way down his chest, before finally landing at his navel and dispersing a heat that’s both discomforting and indulgent. The last burn of his smoke is ignored in favor of the sordid fever taking hold of him. He throws the cigarette into his dresser’s ashtray.

A shower is ideal. Those oils that pile up in his thick hair are unnoticeable to anyone but himself, but he is fastidious in his cleanliness. Someone has to be. Even in those distant tribal days, he preened like a bird of prey.

He doesn’t waste his time, and while he’s waiting for the cry baby to be done – such a scene should be saved and collected for later – he opens a book from his eclectic collection. No one can be too picky in the wasteland, not even him.

He only gets five pages in before his ears prick at the sound of a fork being dropped. He winces, a look that’s largely hidden and witnessed by the pages of his book. The cry baby’s only sensitive to people’s words, and she often doesn’t notice things in her peripheral, or indeed the world around her. She’s drenched completely in girlish fantasies and dreams, to the sweetest string of consequences he’s ever seen.

“Set the tray on the dresser.” It’s spoken with lingering desire, and when she climbs off of the floor and locks eyes with him, the apples of her cheeks flush. Those cheeks are particularly pretty, they’re still round, and only just beginning to find their angles.

Oh, the blushing cry baby doesn’t know her breathtaking power.

Out of the remnants of her timid, virginal instinct, she backs away from him when he steps closer, but his cry baby always lacks know-how of the world around her, and the wall is right behind.

When he’s near enough to touch, he bends down, and takes hold of her thighs between his hands, and lifts her until she has no choice but to wrap her ankles around his hips. Resisting the urge to take her is an indulgence in itself, and bodes ill for the blood that’s been rising for half an hour now.

So instead of tearing that gown down her shoulders, he cups her slender backside and places a wet kiss on the pale expanse of her neck. His arousal is slotted against her thighs, and the hiss that leaves his lips could’ve been a snake’s. There’s a scandal being written in her eyes, at war with the feeling he knows she wants. But she is not a whore, and is sweetly coy in every desire she has.

In his arms, she’s weightless as air, and in the bathroom, he sets her down on the toilet while he turns on the shower, running his fingers through the water.

And when he takes his shirt off, it isn’t supposed to be sultry, it’s only his special brand of deliberate. All of his products are top shape. Satisfaction guaranteed. Josephine joins him soon after, exposing her body to the dimmed bathroom light. He watches the slender shape of her backside in the mirror.

She knows the consequences of trying his patience, so her stubbornness takes the backseat during their showers.

He steps into the shower after her, and makes swift work of that open space between them, pressing himself between her thighs, but withholding from the submersion, the plunge that would ruin the exquisite throb in his loins. He is particular in his tastes.

Oh, but he can feel himself twitch between those svelte thighs, the lips of her sweet sex enfold him like the arms of a gentle lover. But he is a man of impressive will, a rare thing in this city. He breathes heavily into her neck, just as his hands lather her body in soap and tickle the skin just below her belly button.

He mimics her giggle with a breathy scoff of his own, and trails his long fingers down her stomach until they rest on her russet curls. A demure sigh leaves the cry baby’s lips, swallowed almost completely by the rush of hot water.

Right as he finally begins to lather her hair, he closes the space between their lips and presses a wet kiss, plunging his tongue into her resistant mouth. His kiss is quick – he has to write down his business plans for the month, after all.

Christmas, that civilized holiday, has a lot to offer for the family. This is where his mind dwells when he dries himself, going through the motions of his self-imposed morning routine.

From the bathroom, he can hear the radio being turned up, but his razor blade is on his jaw, too close to his jugular to risk jerking his head.

I stanbul was Constantinople, now it’s Istanbul not Constantinople!

His right eye twitches.

Still it’s Turkish Delight on a moonlit night!

Oh, that deep frown is all he can do to not throw the door open and knock the radio against the wall. Over and over .

Istanbul…

An annoying song. Mr. New Vegas loves playing it, though, and it’s a sure way to set a flame to every nerve ending in Nero’s agile body.

T ake me back to Constantinople, no you can’t go back to Constantinople…

But he can’t expect people to read his mind. He’s a man of few words, ruled by reason, and the cry baby is too young to be perceptive on these matters. She’s not family, and doesn’t understand crossing a man like him is unwise.

After he finishes with his skincare, he immediately leaves the bathroom and turns the radio down until his nerves are corrected.

“Don’t do that, cry baby.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a threat, it’s just his voice.

The tears she blinks away almost earn his pity, if they didn’t complete the canvas. Those tears are like the final touches of a brush.

Oh, and only he gets to view the painting in its entirety.

He dresses in an Oxford, which he leaves unbuttoned for the cool wind drifting in. If his feet weren’t sensitive to those dust particles and specks on the floor, he wouldn’t wear socks. Little Josephine has on one of her dresses – a flowery affair that only barely covers her gangly knees.

The pop of his lighter is louder than the radio, and shakes the shoulders of the cry baby. It is, blessedly, Glenn Miller on the radio now, a tune that can easily fade into the stillness of his suite.

He moves his ashtray to the desk, and takes a deep smoke from his cigarette, exhaling out of his nose. His morning is spent between cigarettes and a pen.

He knows the other families fumble with the traditions of outsiders, as do his kin. It’s time to change that. There’s no room for stagnancy in Nero’s plans for the family. Only a small number of their own traditions can survive and thrive in these golden years, and they’re all done on behalf of money, which is the trade his kin have succeeded at under his leadership. But his standards are impossible to meet.

Setting up that lab in Nipton will have been the most profitable decision come a couple of weeks, just in time for the influx of tourists around the holidays. He’ll have a couple of his workers dress for the festivities and hand out supply with strings attached. It’ll be the easiest interest trap he’s laid.

And just in time for those weeks, the Ultra-Luxe will lose some of its clientele to the safer conditions at Gomorrah. He makes these things work with just a cigarette and a finger of kirsch.

When lunch comes around, the cry baby is growing restless, but he has no playground for her to traipse around on. So on his off day, he takes a break from his work to eat with her.

Delilah takes the breakfast trays in exchange for their lunch, eyeing the cry baby as she does so. When the woman hesitates to leave, he leans on the doorway and waits, fixing the hooker with a stare that has made hundreds’ skin crawl. It suffices where words don’t.

He loathes having his privacy infringed on, but a scandal is to a woman as a deck of cards is to a man.

“Shoo.” With a flourish of his hand, the woman is gone.

Just as with breakfast, little Josephine ate on the floor, and the only thing that redeemed any chance of his disgust was the manners with which she did it. Demure, until she isn’t. She is demure only insofar as she is nubile. The cry baby doesn’t know enough to meet these standards.

It pleases him, because that’s the behavior emulated by whores.

“Te adoro..” He says when she’s done, wiping the fruit nectar from her lips.

He could almost believe her body knows how to entice him even if her mind is unaware, but Nero is a man of rationale.

“What?” He shakes her jaw back and forth, slipping a thumb between her pink lips.

Oh, she doesn’t know what the sporadic tongue does to him. Hers is the sparrow’s beak that nips at Lesbia.

“Daddy doesn’t show his cards, cry baby.” It’s the husk of his voice, and the darkening of his eyes – she knows what is coming, and her own eyes widen in an anticipation that’s caught between fear and excitement.

Their kiss is gentle and slow, as slow as Nero can be. The slide of his zipper is louder than the soft jazz playing on his dresser, and belying that are the wet sound of his lips on hers.

Chapter Text

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter of the rain,

Let us cuddle while the rain

Pitter-patters on the pane,

And we’re alone.

A chance to wile away a dreamy afternoon,

A lovely, peaceful afternoon,

No one can see us…

Rain, it’s so cozy in the rain,

There’s no reason to complain

If she’s with you.

To hold her hand and then

It’s 10 ‘til 1,

You kiss her in the rain, rain rain.

- “Rain”, The Honeydreamers

It’s always a risk to leave the walls of the Strip.

Ironic, then, that Nero, a former tribal, risks anything at all when he makes sporadic trips to Freeside. He remembers when it was a bloodbath and not a ghetto filled with hookers too unsightly to hook in the family’s casino.

Under the threat of storm clouds, he slides his rifle further into his faded black trench coat, a vintage piece that came with his casino. Streetlights flicker on in the gray overcast, and flatter his devilish good looks with an orange glow. People run inside at the first crack of thunder, to his imminent relief.

The putrid odor of Freeside is only worth the risk for running clothing and antique sprees. An economical man has to run the figures.

He fishes a cigarette out of his coat and shields the flame of his lighter from the wind.

Behind him is the cry baby and two of his guards. As a deeply uncomfortable man, the idea of leaving her in Vegas makes him more so. He’s under no illusion that the family wouldn’t have her hooking within the ten minute span it took him to get from his suite to the north gate.

The cry baby would be the most profitable worker under the family’s employ, a fact acknowledged even by his stout right hand. He guards his things with a single-minded, brutal efficiency, and he trusts none of his kin completely.

On occasion, he makes these trips, and only at times like this. At night, or under bad weather, when there are less curious eyes staring at him. A man of his many trades has no business being out in the open, so he clings to the shadows of Freeside’s many derelict buildings, searching for the sign that says Mick & Ralph’s. At the back of their shop, they always have antiques for him. He’s their best-paying customer.

The Mojave Express will take care of the stock they don’t have on display.

“Where are we going?” The cry baby asks in a small voice.

It’s when he brings the cigarette to his lips, that the first raindrop falls on his straight, august nose. Relief. He’s been waiting for the skies to part like this for months now. It keeps his complexion pristine when he does have occasion to go out. The black stetson keeps the rain off of his combed hair.

“You’ll see.” Supplying her with anything more, especially out in public, deeply unnerves him. He didn’t get here by being a trusting man.

Only a light sprinkling is coming down in the alleys of Freeside, and not enough to throw his cigarette out. That soothing motion of hand to lip is all that keeps him stoic, notably when a crowd of Impersonators begin gathering underneath the awning of their base, throwing a fit over the unexpected weather. One side glance of his keen, dark eyes is enough to reassure him that little Josephine hasn’t slipped through his fingers.

Her footsteps are meandering as she follows, an endearing trait of a girl without restraint or limit. He takes another tormented smoke, and rounds the corner where Mick & Ralph’s is located.

The rain picks up just in the time that he reaches the shop. One last tantalizing smoke, and he throws the butt down, letting the embers sizzle out under the rain.

The upturned jeer of his nose becomes him – it’s the stagnant, stale smell of antiques that waft past it that disturbs his sensibilities. It’s dark in here, save for the dingy, decrepit ceiling fans that are missing exactly two light bulbs.

“Nero! Welcome back, what can I interest you in today?” Ralph is the one manning the counter, with an NCR newspaper and cigarette in hand. He’s a flippant man.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say, he’s just choosy about when to waste his breath.

Nonetheless, he runs cool, dark eyes over the other man and swallows, a captivating bob of his adam’s apple. The natural skepticism of his full brows serves only to alarm the man, without having to breathe a word. In reality, he is nervous. To disarm a man with only a look, is the province of Nero, and it’s with an effortless finesse that he does it.

“Business good, eh?” Ralph’s question is a mollifying one, tainted by the careless cigarette dangling between his lips. Then, the other man does the unthinkable, and diverts his nervous stare to the cry baby. “Never seen you before, new to Vegas?”

“Business is good.” He answers, before the cry baby can. The rain is coming down harder now, staining the antiquated windows of the store. From the back, he can hear a record playing at a low sound, Dean Martin.

Beside him, the cry baby wrings her hands and looks around at the knickknacks hanging on the walls – old farming tools, yardsticks, and magazines. The actual goods are at the back, locked away in a room for men of means like him.

“I want to look at the products in the back.” Ralph puts out his cigarette in an empty coffee mug, and gets up from his chair.

Then, the other man rests his arms on the counter, and Nero purses his lips, giving the man a severe once-over.

“Can’t allow kids back there. It’s uh.. our policy.”

“I’m not a chi-” Little Josephine begins to argue, it’s petulant and headstrong.

“Hush.” Nero silences her, “Stay out here with her.” He leaves Fulvio with her, taking Lonnie with himself.

Dean Martin’s voice croons softly from a speaker in the far corner of the room, growing louder with each step he takes beside Ralph. Nero is a tall man, and thus every step of his long legs takes him a couple inches ahead of the short shopkeeper.

In the back of this store is where he’s claimed over half of his books, hard-earned lessons in literacy that most former tribals just can’t comprehend nor do they want to. Most of his kin is still illiterate, or half-literate in ads and signs, but Nero had taught himself and his right hand within the first month of renovating the Strip.

Nero has the best of both ways – the cunning of a tribal and the know-how of the civil. That’s a dangerous thing out here.

Ralph unlocks the door with a set of keys, and Nero bends his neck to avoid the decorative beads hanging just in front of the doorway. Inside are hundreds of antiques, some of which are treasures, and others are too worthless to waste his time meticulously cleaning. Even fewer will be priceless.

A broken, brass pocket watch is one of the first things that catches his eye. He runs a gloved finger over it, and gently lifts the chain to get a closer look. Its hands are long and black, stuck at 4:35. He cocks a dark brow, and wonders if it was in the AM or PM that it broke – that old adage of a broken clock being right twice a day – the prewar people were clever.

“Just received that one from a collector out from Oregon’s way. A Follower, apparently with a liking for the old’n gadgets.” It’s a redundant thing to say, but then his brooding silences do tend to have that effect.

“Don’t all of them?” There’s no room for conviviality in his stinging retort.

The beginning notes of Moonlight Serenade cut through the otherwise silent, dusty room, muffled behind the door. He studies the pocket watch closer, and finds the numbers 1987 etched in tiny writing on the back. The handwriting is that of a man with large hands trying not to strain or bend the pocket-sized metal.

“I’ll offer you 150, 185 if you can fix it.” Nero holds it under the dim fluorescent lights, inspecting the brass for nicks. Brass is one of his favorite prewar metals, it seems to shine even through the most stubborn layers of dust and inspires images of those engraved brass speakers he’s seen in prewar turntable ads. “190 if you can get the right time.” It’s supposed to be teasing, but its quality is too close to a secret.

“Tell you what – I can fix it tonight for 200.. even have it delivered to the Strip.” His dubious gaze drifts over the other man through his lashes.

“190, and I might just let you keep the tools you use to fix it.” Ralph responds with a series of smarmy, nervous chuckles. A corner of Nero’s supple lips quirk upward, a twitch that could be a trick of the light.

“Hard to refuse such a.. magnanimous offer.” The shopkeeper breaks eye contact with him then, finding the brass more pliable than him. Lesser men have spilled their dearest secrets underneath that same frankness, consistently taken as glib rather than a gnawing, inner angst that rarely ever finds itself put to words.

“Fine. I’ll have one of the family pick it up on Wednesday.”

The flippant shopkeeper procures a small box and with a carefulness no one would expect from the man, wraps the pocket watch inside for safekeeping. It’s a ritual Nero’s seen the man do many times, and no matter how many times they’ve gone through the motions, the shopkeeper never grows used to those choleric moods that distinguish him from lesser men.

Another shiny chain catches his eye – and that primitive instinct all tribals have repeats the word gold, over and over, in the same fervor that rain is prayed for in a desert.

His long legs make short work of the distance between him and the gold piece, a bracelet engraved with insects and flowers that he only knows through the classification charts he likes to look at. They’re lilies and dragonflies, two things that have no business being out in the graceless and rugged Mojave.

The cry baby likes critters, as she so sweetly calls them.

It’s not out of infatuation that he will buy the gold wrist chain, it’s out of an eye for particular beauties. Gold is the most expensive metal, but an economical man can make the most complicated jams open-and-shut with nothing but a flourish of his hand.

The concept of ‘prewar’ is strange to a former tribal, but he’s never been a very superstitious man, and adapts quickly to new, even conflicting, information. He covets prewar luxuries.

Nonetheless, gold invokes a primitive lust in him. He needs a cigarette.

“320 for that one, that’s solid gold, prewar-quality, got it off a ghoul from the east coast.” But Nero can haggle it down.

“300 and I’ll give you a free night of drinks at my casino.” And he’ll make sure the store of fine liquor has been locked that night. “And your associate too.”

It isn’t satisfaction that makes the shopkeeper blink his eyes shut and scratch at his neck, but shame, because no one could refuse that offer. And the man knows that Nero’s a man of means – a customer that he wants to keep. It would be unwise to refuse him, and just as unwise to try to haggle with him.

Regardless, he’s missing his suite right now, and lights a cigarette to halt that uneasy pressure in his chest. He takes a deep smoke, and looks down at Ralph, who’s still debating how he wants to answer.

He runs one hesitant glance over the assault rifle slung across his chest, and exhales a breath with enough force to match that heavy rainstorm outside.

“Deal.” Ralph offers his hand, and those nervous flutters of Nero’s lashes only serve his sinistral looks, before he accepts the hand.

At the touch, the necessary conclusion of a bargain, his jaw twitches nervously, blanketed behind unfiltered smoke.

Now he’s got a budget of 1000 caps, and he’s unwilling to part with more than that, so he instead browses the clothing on display, finding there a few sets of two-piece suits, none of which are in good enough condition for his tastes.

None of the dresses either, on account of not being age-appropriate. The red halter is what a whore would wear, not the cry baby.

“Purse.” He holds his hand out for Lonnie, and takes the heavy purse of caps.

This is the most aggravating part of any exchange of caps. He’s read that the prewar people had electronic methods of storing and managing their money. Blown out husks of those banking terminals can still be found on the sidewalks of outer Vegas – he wishes they could be reestablished, he loathes the weight of bottlecaps.

Ralph, the flippant shopkeeper, offers him a worn out ceramic to grind his cigarette, and then he can begin counting out the money.

Caps can’t be weighed. There’s too many kinds, and unlike the Strip, there’s no advanced technologies to scan a handful of caps to account for their quantity. So he has his guard join him in counting out exactly 490 caps, a dreadful waste of twenty fucking minutes that he’ll never get back.

“One of my men will come back for that watch. Look for him on Wednesday morning.” He pockets the golden bracelet, and immediately lights up as soon as he’s leaving the back displays.

“Yep. ‘ll have it in working order by then. Come back soon, we got a shipment of Legion weaves coming in, tunics and the like.” He’ll not be returning for crude, eastern tunics and skirts. All he has to do for that, is go to the basement and find Slitherkin ceremonial garments.

“Very amusing.” He says it on account of having nothing more to say, it’s supposed to diffuse tension but it never does.

He gives the store a cursory glance, and skips a breath when he notices the cry baby and Fulvio gone. It’s that same panic a jeweler might feel when he discovers he’s lost his most deluxe piece. His heartbeat is a series of low drums in his keen ears, and a rush of adrenaline is coursing through his arms and legs. His fingertips are tingling and it isn’t from smoking.

“Did you notice anyone leave?” His sibilance has a force greater than the storm outside. The ceiling lights flicker in response to the crack of thunder, and the shopkeeper shrugs guiltily, pupils blown in panic.

“No, I was back there with you the whole time! Your kid missing?”

He doesn’t answer, and throws his cigarette into a counter mug before adjusting his stetson for the rain. Outside, it’s coming down as hard as it had in February – enough to knock the power infrastructure of Freeside’s ghetto.

An awesome, burning panic sets his every nerve alight when he sweeps his eyes over the front of the shop, only to find a flickering streetlight and exactly no cry babies.

“You look right, I’ll look left. Do not return until you’ve found her.” He leaves the or unsaid, not because he means to be foreboding, but because he is wracking his mind for places to look for her. His thoughts are unclear and rushed, and holding his reason captive.

But he is a former tribal, this was his trade – finding things that don’t want to be found.

He’s ankle deep in murky gutter water, awash with litter and rubble. Normally, a handsome sneer would stir his upper lip, but he is too busy keeping his rifle tucked away from the water, and scoping the alleyways for any flash of red-gold hair.

Lightning crackles overhead and strikes in the far direction of McCarran. Part of Nero’s success is in his immediate preparation for worst-case scenarios, and since Fulvio is also gone, he’s already led to the conclusion that he’s in danger of losing the sobbing doll. Thoughts of finding her corpse deeply unsettle an already unsettled man.

If Fulvio despoiled his treasure, then he’ll take it like Ricardo did.

Oh, but how uncommon it is for that baseline discomfort to fully realize into a primal fear.

A splash of water catches his attention. Out here, even his sensitive eyes can’t see farther than a few feet ahead of him. Once or twice a year, it rains like this in the Mojave.

Down an alley between a derelict department store and bank, he sees a figure rush behind an old garbage can, and another figure at the far end of the alley. Omerta is the scariest thing in Freeside at this hour, so he wastes no time scoping out the alley, and the tension he feels is so palpable that it could be sliced with a dull pocket knife.

A small shadow is huddling behind the rusted metal of the trash can. Like a serpent uncoiling from under a rock, his agile leg kicks over the can and scatters its contents toward the end of the alleyway.

The cry baby is there, of all places, completely drenched and bracing for an impact.

His trigger finger has already turned the safety off by the time the figure reappears at the end of the alleyway. It’s Nero’s quick reflexes and deliberately unpredictable stratagems that made him infamous among rival tribes, and when he finds cover under the awning, there’s nothing the figure can do but take the rapid fire of his rifle.

That man falls to the pavement before the roar of thunder that always follows lightning. For a man like him, it’s an effortless art.

Where his pupil begins and the dark brown ends would even pass under his scrutiny. He throws a perfunctory glance over the sobbing cry baby, and shoulders her lithe, weightless body in that way he did on her auction night.

Out of instinct, her ankles wrap around his waist, and her pretty, heartbroken sobs shake even through his thick coat. A rush of pleasure – that same pleasure a sinful man gets when he wins at poker – soothes his nerves unlike any cigarette. He saved her on her auction night, and he’s saved her again today.

He checks the safety of his rifle, and with Josephine settled on his hip like a child, he quietly leaves the alley and the body on its other side, and follows the flickering orange glow of streetlights. The wind howls, and he is a blur of black fabric as his coat blows with its directive.

Safely beneath the awning of Mick & Ralph’s, he gently lets the cry baby slide down his body so that he can get a better assessment of her face, still pink and wracked with sobs that might be prettier under better circumstances.

“How the fuck did you get that far from the store?” When she refuses him in favor of tears, he shakes her in quiet rage, still stricken by having lost sight of her. “Answer me.”

Oh, he’ll not let her leave his sight outside of the Strip ever again. Too many men want to share with him, but he is not known for his generosity. It is not the first time Ralph has learned this lesson.

“Th-there were men who came around… and..” He clenches his teeth at the stuttering, beyond aggravated and impatient. Another of his kin is lost in the course of a month. Two more men will have to be made Omerta. “Your guard said they were… raiders, and he told me to run, so I did.”

His eye roll could reduce a mountain to a pile of ash, filled with murderous rage toward the stupidity of Fulvio, and his own failure to recall that many of his kin waited for conditions like this to launch aggressive assaults and enslavement of Khans. However, it is his man’s fault.

“And why didn’t you yell?”

Those pretty eyes of her widen, guilt-stricken and caught red-handed.

Oh, tonight he will indulge in the rare delicacy that nearly slipped through his fingers.

“Thought you could hide from daddy? Your daddy was a tribal, I could smell you if I wanted to, little Josie.” The rain begins to let up then, dissipating somewhere between a sprinkling and a storm.

He puts her back on her feet, and checks his peripheral for any sign of people. They are blessedly alone on the street corner – everyone has sought refuge inside, lesser men fear these elements.

The cry baby is soaked, from her long hair to her over-sized shoes, a pair borrowed from one of his workers. Even still, her angelic face moves him, and he doesn’t want to hit or slap her, despite that twitch in his fingers longing to reprimand her for her fruitless attempt to run away. She is a little girl, after all, and his to safekeep.

So as a father might chastise his misbehaving daughter, he shoots her a glare, and violently grasps her chin, forcing her to look at his eyes, darker than sin and as furious as the devil when he is about to lose a bargain. New, watery tears threaten to spill from her eyelids, already puffy with a delicious flush.

“If you ever try that again, you won’t see the outside of my suite for a week. Got it?” He cocks his head at her inaction, it’s a dangerous movement of his, sardonic until it isn’t. His grip on her chin tightens until she whines in pain.

“Yes, yes, Nero. Please-” She pleads, those pretty tears are falling from her eyes, and he is almost tempted to kiss them away, but Nero doesn’t give mercy lightly.

He decides that he’ll drag her to the Strip, rather than let her meander behind him and be stolen. He needs a drink and a cigarette, and a plan for replacing Fulvio, whether he lives or he died in those alleyways. It was he encouraged the cry baby to run. He can’t rely on any of his kin, but this is nothing new – they have never met his standards.

The grip on her wrist is bruising when he pulls her all the way to the Strip, only loosening it when they’re behind the gates and Lonnie rejoins them. They are alone save for the securitrons.

He suspects that those raiders were no coincidence, a man like him makes many enemies, and with his means, they doubtlessly hoped for an extortion. But extortion is the trade of his kin, he’d find them in less than the time it took for sundown.

There are few times he can recall being this cross, and he will ensure he never feels it again. He glances at the cry baby, narrowing his eyes and nudging her through the door of his casino. Anyone who was usually in the streets was crowding the lobby, even having surrendered their weapons just to hide from the storm.

Foolish, but he is more occupied with his four foot nine problem.

They part for him, and his rumination is so severe that he doesn’t stop to remark on the sting of cheap liquor, nor the crude smell of their cigarette smoke, nor the raucous, bawdy laughter of his clientele.

In the silence of the elevator, little Josephine’s maidenly instinct is to pull away from him, but he only pulls her closer with a cruel jerk of her wrist, until she is secured against his side. It isn’t that he’s reeling from having almost lost her, he reassures himself, but he can’t lie for long.

He is enraged mostly with Fulvio, which leaves only a trickle for little Josephine, who doesn’t know better. He is finicky about what he chooses to complain about, and he won’t complain about a quality that he adores – her utter greenery, like Eve before the apple.

He lights a cigarette as soon as his suite’s door is locked, taking a deep smoke and threading a hand through his black curls, knocking off his stetson in the sultry motion.

Turning on the radio is an attempt to recalibrate and shuffle his deck.

“Off.” He points to her soaked dress, still trickling water over the floor.

Her frown is stubborn, her refusal is done in a silence that aggravates his cluster headache. He takes a deep smoke that penetrates his nerves and soothes the pounding of his heart, and if he wasn’t holding a cigarette, he might be tempted to slap her until a pretty, pink hand print appeared on one round cheek.

“Do you want me to take it off?” It’s a proposition that leaves no favorable decision for little Josephine. How she manages to entrap herself in these bargains is as whimsical a thing as her endearing childish illogic.

“N-no.” Her answer is small and pitiful, and as shaky as the lithe hands that remove her dress and expose her body, moistened by the rain.

He takes one soothing hit from his cigarette, and abruptly grabs her arm with a violence he too often denies himself. She squirms, but soon finds herself bent over his desk, bare save for the frilly white underwear that covers her bottom.

He longs for everything to disappear but the delicate things happening in his suite. The first strike against her backside draws a sharp breath and a scream that he can feel through his fingers, a sensation that moves down his spine and settles at the base of his loins.

It’s relief and anger. He is beyond enraged at his man, and fearful of losing the cry baby.

Smack!

Her cry is exquisite, a balm for his nerves. The bruises he’s leaving behind are a soft punishment for what he might give to the family in the event of their disobedience.

I don’t know why, but I’m feeling so sad, I long to try something I’ve never had…

His arousal pulses between his thighs, twitching in response to the tears streaming down her wan face, as soft and pale as a dove’s throat with a coo to match.

Got a moon above me, but no one to love me, lover man, oh, where can you be?

“Stop!” Little Josephine weeps, and he hesitates before resuming, his pale cheeks flushed with rage. “I’m sorry, Nero! I was scared! I wasn’t.. I wasn’t trying to.. run away from you..”

Oh, the way her nude body is flush against his, it’s enough to undo him there.

“Please don’t hurt me! I didn’t do anything!”

But he cannot withdraw, that is not his style. Like a phantom designed to extract every ounce of feverish pleasure and anger, she is there and pliant, sweeter than any vice he possesses, a delicacy in his collection, a gift that continuously gives.

It should be criminal for fury to be as possessing as it is on his dark good looks, and on lesser men it gives them an unsightly impotency.

This is romance, it’s a moment of splendor, yet you fail to surrender to a night such as this…

“Go on, cry baby. Your daddy’ll listen.” He whispers into her neck, cupping her aching backside.

I’m in a trance, let me be heaven-bound dear, this is paradise found dear, sweetheart this is romance…

“He told me to run, so- so I did..” Her whimper sets his loins aflame. “And they followed. I wasn’t- I wasn’t hiding from.. you.”

“Prove it.” A man like Nero must be concerned with the loyalty of those around him. He is not a trusting man.

Like a doll, her wet lashes are almost too pretty to be real, as is the pink flush over the apples of her cheeks, and the delectable lips rouged with tears – an inspiring beauty without peer.

Lesbia is a girl less than half his age, and he is the sparrow whose beak longs to suck, nip, and bite, until and after the heat is extinguished from his loins.

The dim lights of his suite flicker, as they do in exceptional weather – the Dam strains itself during these times, or so the Bear claims.

“There were many of them, they didn’t.. they didn’t look like thugs, one of them talked like Benny..” He turned her around then, his dark gaze fastened on her own and his hands holding her delicate shoulders.

“Did he tell you what his name was?” That checkered bastard is too impulsive to succeed.

So, it was a Chairman he shot earlier, one kinsman for the kinsman of another.

The cry baby shakes her head, her hair is still wet and clings to the skin of her fragile neck, like a leaf that doesn’t want to be shaken off.

“No, he looked kinda.. young, and he wore a pinstripe suit. Some of his friends were outside, they all talked like Frank Sinatra.” Against his will, his lips quirked at the quaint description.

Oh, he is already contemplating how to profit from this exposure. He is an economical man, after all.

It was Swank, then, and an entourage of disposable Chairmen, come to try and get those 6,000 caps back, only to find his cry baby.

“Tell your daddy.. did he have a mole here?” With one long finger, he pointed to that short stretch of supple skin between his nose and upper lip.

Before she answers, those white teeth scrape against her pink lips, an invitation to be licked and captured that she doesn’t know she’s sending. He mimics the action, and trails his hand down her neck, lightly bruised from his prior attentions. She’s a canvas that he can impose himself upon, without endangering the breathtaking beauty. He’s safe.

She nods, a guileless bob of her head. To be guileless and imaginative all at once, is a rare gift that the cry baby is blessedly endowed with, for his pleasure only. Satisfaction guaranteed.

All across his carpet, there are wet stains and drying pools of water, yet another thing that stains his belongings.

The innocence of his darling is enough to move him from rage to deliberation. A bold attack against the family and its property is something he’s prepared to act against with prejudice, but only after this next gambit has blown over. A man like him must have restraint and a strategy to justify it. His discretion is what makes him singular among former tribals.

“Daddy forgives you, little cry baby. But you should have yelled, and not followed Fulvio’s orders. He is not your daddy, I am. You should’ve known better…” He cupped her jaw with what would’ve been sweetness in a virtuous man, and leans down to whisper in her ear, “What’s a daddy without his cry baby? Don’t ever run from me again, te extrañaría demasiado…”

Light rain patters on the pane of his suite’s window, as soft as the radio on his dresser. He wants a drink, but he wants sweet Josephine more.

She shivers beneath his touch, torn between running and leaning in, it’s the game they play – she’s too enticing for her own good, and her power is in her naivete of it.

The tip of his nose wrinkles at the smell of rainwater clinging to the cry baby’s hair, saved only from the smell of wet-dog by her own charm. But even her own charm can’t save her from a shower, he is fastidious in his hygiene and has no tolerance for those who don’t.

“Go wash yourself. I’ll wait.” He nudges her toward the bathroom, but her gangly legs hesitate before she moves, they’re too long for her small body, and if it weren’t for her beauty, their length would be oafish instead of lascivious.

Those legs are two white pillars that support a piece frailer than any canvas – starting with her developing hips that draw attention to the dip of her back and the visible spine there, another gangly detail that is striking on the cry baby. Teasing her delicate hips and spine is the head of golden-red hair, a novel color especially among tribals.

When he hears the squeak of his shower’s knob, he pours himself a glass of whiskey, and lights a cigarette, considering what needs to be done. A lot will need to be done. He shrugs his coat off, and changes his wet socks, letting the cigarette rest between his lips, an incense for surly men.

The burn of the whiskey reminds him of what needs to be done, drawing his attention away from what has been done.

You turned the tables on me, and now I’m falling for you…

He watches the rain outside of his window, now a light sprinkling. Through the drops on his window, the lights of the Strip are at once blurred and blanketed behind a cryptic, gray mist.

I always thought when you brought the lovely presents you bought, why hadn’t you brought me more?

There are few pleasures finer than the burn of a cigarette after a sip of dry liquor.

But after thinking it over and over, I got what was coming to me…

That impulsive Chairman will pay out of pocket for disturbing his tenuous peace. If he can’t have any, then neither will any of them.

Just like the sting of a bee, you turned the tables on me!

He rolls the cigarette between his fingers contemplatively, his gaze fixed on an indefinite space outside. The telltale sound of water pressure being adjusted lets him know the cry baby is turning the water cooler now that he isn’t there to deny her.

The only witness to the amused upturn of his handsome lips is his empty glass.

He lights another cigarette, and closes his eyes, a slow fluttering of lashes too sensual to be honest. Using his free hand, he loosens his suspenders, letting them fall below his hips. The breath he takes afterward is ragged and beside itself, for his listening only.

In the tribal years, he would find nooks to hide within, just to catch his breath without being gawked at by his kin and their slave women. Those slave women comprise most of their workers now. Layla was an exception, he is family, but the family has and always will be patriarchal, leaving opportunity only for virile men.

It’s an old tradition, survived through these golden years. A woman is not family, she’s an associate or subordinate of it. This is a practice retained because it is profitable for the family. He’s careful about which traditions he keeps.

They can no longer be ethnically homogeneous, though. That serves to no gain whatsoever, it’s a lesson he learned quickly from his humbling dealings with Mr. House, lessons he’ll never attend again.

Fulvio was a guard of his, and Ricardo was a distributor, either of them will need to be replaced with new Omertas. He’ll brief Sal on this tomorrow.

By the time the cry baby is done with her shower, the rain has slowed completely until it’s little more than a mist and a few rumbles of forceless thunder. Raindrops still streak down his window, further shrouding the lights of the city until they’re intangible blots of red, orange, and blue ink.

He closes his book at the hint of footsteps on the other side of the bathroom door, and watches her reappear, enticingly unclothed with her hair wrapped in a towel.

“Come here, cry baby.” Her eyes are wide and puffy when they nervously land on him. It’s his lips that quirk at her hesitancy, responding to the warmth pooling at the base of his spine, trickling down all the way to his navel, and dissipating into the satin sheets.

She stares at him in that way a stag stares wide-eyed into the barrel of a gun, and those soft hands of hers are massaging the bruises on her wrists. They’ll serve as an incentive against running elsewhere. Little Josephine doesn’t understand it’s a mercy none under his employ would receive.

“I have something for you. Leave the towel.” It’s the intent of his gaze that moves her to listen, even the cry baby’s stubbornness is beaten by it.

On the nightstand, he sets aside his book, careful not to disturb the makeshift bookmark.

The cry baby stands just beside him, and he pulls her closer until he can take hold of one leg and place the ankle in his lap. The touch of her feet strains the arousal in his pants, something she watches closely. Her breath hitches, and she looks instead at the lone black curl on his forehead, boyish on any other man.

It might have been a desert flower that decided to give its hue to those pink cheeks.

The shine of gold catches the dim lamp of his nightstand, yanking even the darling’s attention away from him.

“It’s your Christmas gift.” That is how the civil celebrate, it’s the only tradition inside of it that he finds worthwhile. His Christmas gift will be the one Benny gives him when he clears that joint again.

Though solemn as any cry baby should be, her wide eyes are surprised, and wondrous to behold.

“Thank you, Nero… it’s so pretty…” His gaze falls from her eyes to the russet curls of her navel, her thighs are spread just enough to reveal the top of its pair of lips. He swallows, a sensual bob of his adam’s apple follows.

“Pretty enough, for your pretty feet.” His smirk is sinister as he undoes and clasps the bracelet around her ankle.

“Why do you.. like my feet? Aren’t they icky?” He reveals his sharpened canines then, they scrape against his bottom lip.

His response is in palming the ankle, and brushing his lips against the flat of her delicate foot. The breath of his handsome nose draw a series of girlish squeaks to leave the cry baby, somewhere between a giggle and a scandalized sigh.

“I don’t expect a cry baby to understand.”

Then he takes her in his arms and pulls her to his chest, grabbing her foot and tickling the soft skin there, much to the excitement of those shrieks that leave her pretty, full lips. They set his loins on fire with no exit in sight, only a burn that when extinguished, hurts as much as it relieves.

Their kiss is pregnant with a promise in the shape of his fingers parting her thighs and petting the short curls there, before spreading her on the sheets beneath him.

A stubborn, sticky wetness is waiting for the plunge of his long, middle finger. The clench of her muscles is only a tease for how she clings so tightly to his arousal.

Oh, and that coo that escapes her lips when he buries his finger inside, despite her resistance – it’s enough to undo him.

Love is just like a faucet, it turns off and on...

And the way she bucks against his tongue is as sinful as the darkness of his eyes. He curls the flat of his tongue up and down, before slipping it inside with his finger.

Sometimes when you think it’s on, baby, it has turned off and gone…

Her ankles fasten around his shoulders, and bring his tongue further inside, her thighs are the clasps that caress and surround the sharp angles of his jaw. With the same fervent attention he gives her sweet mouth, he makes slow love to these lips too, flexing his tongue in an achingly familiar motion.

And those sweet fingers of hers can’t resist resting on the black curls of his hair, with her short nails tickling his scalp. He runs his free hand down her leg, stopping on the dainty bracelet, before unzipping his pants and palming himself in anticipation of that plunge.

His tongue withdraws soon after his finger, and he pulls her further down the pillow before leaning over her, and grinding his hips against hers, teasing the pink folds of her sex.

His is the sigh of a sinful man’s first sip of wine. He thrusts into the thighs wrapped around his clothed stomach, whose muscles flex and loosen with every shove of his hips crashing down on hers.

The plush mattress squeaks under the force of his thrusts, and he lifts her hips for the privilege of plunging deeper. A man like him is strategic, and he takes advantage of her parted lips to tease the roof of her mouth like a serpent scents the air. Her full upper lip will be bruised and rouged by that evocative abuse of his lips and teeth.

Sweet Josephine is coy when she tightens around him, when the little death is a tight, virginal shut of her eyes, and a musical sound that has no place in the sin of his casino.

“Eres mi tentadora, mi perdición…” He whispers into her stunned lips, observing her behind hooded eyes. “No me dejes, o seguramente nunca tendré un final mejor.”

A few thrusts of his hips take him closer to that end – both bitter and succulent like the most delectable citrus.

He captures her hips in a bruising grip, and spills himself inside, and those erratic pulses of his spent arousal draw heavy, ragged breaths from his supple lips, just a hair’s width from her own.

That scathing eye roll is in response to the heavy knock on his door - dinner.

Chapter Text

I’m wild again, beguiled again…

A simpering, whimpering child again,

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I.

Couldn’t sleep, and wouldn’t sleep,

When love came and told me I shouldn’t sleep,

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I.

Lost my heart, but what of it?

He is cold, I agree…

He can laugh, but I love it,

Although the laugh’s on me.

I’ll sing to him, each spring to him,

And long for the day when I’ll cling to him,

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I.

- “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”, Helen Forrest

Family’s forever. The bonds that held the Slitherkin was shared blood, but what holds Omerta together is money.

Even still, money’s about as forever a concept as blood. He takes a smooth hit of his cigarette and assesses the two 80s from the north, blowing smoke to the side. Redundant, because the cold draft of the basement just sweeps the smoke in front of him, hiding his sinful good looks from the tribals.

“Do they speak English?” He asks his right hand, who brought them in to replace their guard.

“No. Nuestra lengua.” He takes another contemplative smoke.

Mr. House taught he and the other tribal leaders many things, chief among them was that tribals were impressionable and a blank slate that can be drawn on. He didn’t say it so plainly – House is a man of clipped, equivocal chatter – but a man like Nero can infer what isn’t said, because he’s a man of few words himself.

He clucks his tongue, and lets his cigarette rest between his long fingers.

“They’ll never be family, but they’ll go through the initiation.” It’s an excruciating one, one that remained in the wake of Ordeño del Veneno, the legendary adulthood ritual of the Slitherkin wherein boys’ canines are sharpened to a point.

Under the listless, dangling light bulb, this half of the basement is where every man is inspected for their crimes against the family, or in their case, inspected for employ. The light makes them nervous, as it does Nero. If not for the cigarette in his hand, his fingers might twitch like a deranged pianist’s.

Like the family’s thousands of victims, the men will take the Sacred Datura, and be convinced out of their former affiliations. His kin’s infamy is in poison and treachery, like their former namesake.

It’s Cachino who joins them then, his piggish lieutenant whose impressionability is more reliable than his brains.

He takes another smoke before shifting an unsettling gaze on the intruding pig. It isn’t supposed to be threatening, he just dislikes Cachino largely because he finds him repulsive.

“New blood, huh?” He likes to pretend he’s a member of that intangible space that Nero occupies.

But a man of few words rarely has the opportunity to show his cards, and even more rarely does he think they’re worth wasting his time over.

He drops his cigarette to the hard ground, and crushes the butt under his heel. The bawdy music of his casino roars overhead, muffled, but enough to roll a few sheets of ice down his spine. He’s supremely uncomfortable.

“Fa now. The family needs muscle, to fill in for what we lost. An’ it’ll be up to you to give them Las Visiones tonight, 7 PM sharp.” He can sense four pairs of eyes on him, it’s a discomforting sensation that never fails to make his skin crawl.

All that can save him is that devious bow of his lips, and the brood of his broad shoulders, held as straight as a rod, the posture of a man who’d rather be reading in his office with a glass of kirsch.

“’Course. But there’s some news from the Ultra-Luxe, that’s why I high-tailed it down here.” Nero’s eyes snap to the piggish man, and his lieutenant swallows in response. “Four tourists injured in some chemical explosion in their pool. One of our customers told me they’ve closed off the whole area until it’s safe again.”

The look Sal gives him goes over the heads of anyone else in the dank room, which is really more like a dungeon than a basement. Any time spent down here is too long for his tastes.

How he makes things happen is by never letting his left hand know what his right hand is doing. Otherwise, betrayals would be more catastrophic than money loss. Ricardos would be using information to gain favor and prestige with Mr. House, or any other higher bidder. That is the way of the family, bound only by a brutally enforced code of loyalty.

He trusts none of his kin completely. Nero has a lot to lose, unlike many of them.

“Very amusing. I’m sure Mortimer will enjoy himself.” His voice is a distant relative to wry, but the handsome pull of his upper lip ensures it’s derisive.

That the White Gloves are cannibals is only a secret among the Strip’s tourists. The other families are under a strict contract forbidding them to reveal their identity. But every clause on the dotted line has a hundred unwritten ways to hoodwink it. That’s his prerogative.

His headache worsens when he recalls that Las Visiones needs the father to witness its completion. He’ll attend the very beginnings of it, when the scopolamine enters the bloodstream, and the family binds them to their seating, before terrorizing them into compliance. The way Datura Stramonium works could be magical, if he were a superstitious man. He’s never been.

“Use our newest, freeze-dried batch. They’ll get dust.” He tells Cachino, then diverts his disparaging gaze to his right hand. “Have Diego crush it into powder.” That is his handler’s specialty. There was a time when all of their slaves were procured by Diego’s dustings.

These two men will be fit for muscle, but will never be allowed around clientele, nor he or Sal’s private suites. They will be as close to slaves as is legal in Vegas – and there’s a lot of wiggle room for that.

Oh, how he wishes he could spend his night uninterrupted in his suite, but these things are delicate, and they have to be observed for the sake of the family. Otherwise, he’d ruthlessly set them aside as he had many others.

Both of them are dark, as all 80s are. Theirs is an utterly savage and cruel tribe, but many of their people fell just the same to the poison of his kin. Many, by his own lean hands.

As soon as he leaves his men, he lights a cigarette and is joined by his guards in the foyer. The overpowering smell of incense is the first thing his smoke does away with. Tension makes his brows ache, from his hairline, to those brooding circles beneath his dark eyes.

I’ve got you under my skin…

The blare of a whore’s voice is impossible to shake away, and his teeth are porcelain mountains crushing against one another, his shapely cheeks are concave as he takes a long, deep smoke to diffuse those nerves in the pit of his stomach. He should be relieved that the Ultra-Luxe has been successfully fucked over, but he has never been content to rest on his laurels. It’s why his leadership is effective.

I’d sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near!

His ambition is an exacting thing, and it’s not even a quarter realized. Lesser men take one thing gained by chance and rest on it for as long as it lasts. Those are his customers, and he ensures those gains don’t last long. Nero looks beyond his own victories, and instead focuses on what he hasn’t won. He’s a critical man.

In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night, and repeats and repeats in my ear!

That soothing motion of mouth to lung is what keeps him afloat among a sea of unwashed bodies, all ogling the elusive Omerta father, whose ominous good looks were endowed by a very, very unjust force. It’s the lone black curl that rests on the pale, dusky stretch of his forehead – that is the bow on the packaging.

There’s a lot that needs to be done in so little time. Their rates need to be adjusted for the holidays, the house at the Tops has to be cleaned, and he has to ensure Marjorie’s customers don’t turn to the Tops for entertainment.

Oh, but if he had the rest he wanted, his hands would have new reasons to twitch.

He reassures himself that he lingers in the Zoara as part of his usual haunt, but he can’t lie to himself. That consolatory smoke pales in comparison to the cry baby, the prettiest vice that he’s known. And he’s finicky with those.

She sits with her arms wrapped around her legs, with her chin propped against her knees, laughing at the joke of another man. If looks could kill, that old man would be six feet under. His glare is darker than night, and nothing that sinister has any business being flattering. On another man, it would surely look impotent.

But he will watch, and she will sense it. His undivided attention tends to have that effect.

It’s one of the Brahmin barons, Cliff Averton, he is 2,000 caps indebted to the family, and although Nero refuses to poison the well of his clientele, he is enraged at the audacity of a regular customer.

That next and last smoke is enough to make his throat itch for a cough, which he resists in public – there are too many stares on him as it is. Nonetheless, the beat of his pulse quickens when she finally looks up to meet his withering glare. Even the alluring naivete of his darling is not so fathomless to avoid a promise like that.

Even still, she hesitates, and the severe line of his jaw tenses, shifting hotly. That oafish brahmin rancher catches on quickly, and wisely engages Delilah, the endowed blonde who’s serving drinks.

It could’ve been the sluggish flight of an injured dove when sweet Josephine understands what he wants and closes the long space between them. She weaves herself between many bodies, graceful enough to avoid touch – to his liking – and is so small that she’s swallowed by the crowd, and reappears beside him. It’s 10 ‘til 6 on a Friday, and filled to the brim with customers and men who would surrender their right eye just for a taste of the cry baby.

Just as a gambler hides his hand, so too does Nero clutch his things tightly, in that way any thief might hide the shiniest gem he’s scored. And coincidentally, Nero was a thief, a legendary one.

“Josephine, come.” He takes her by her wispy arm, a gentle touch that contrasts with the searing avarice he feels.

She wears a new gown, one that he ordered from a visiting trader. Its sleeves are short and cuffed and its neckline is square and just shy of scandalous, if she were furnished with a woman’s buxom figure. He’s particular about colors – where they should go, and which ones suit a specific beauty. Hers is a pastel green, the most comely shade on the sobbing doll by far, just like the dress he bought.

At her wince, he wraps a tentative arm around her shoulders, and tugs her toward his office. He’ll not be in his suite until well past midnight. She nearly stumbles up the stairs, and the flush of her humiliation when she looks up at him is so delectable that it should have icing to savor it with. He fixes her with a once-over that’s supposed to be something close to a tease, but there’s no room for it in his left-handed ways. It’s too calculating.

Inside of his office, he can breathe easy, and stretch his aching neck and shoulders. Outside of his window, the sun is already setting and bathing the room in a warm orange hue that makes a shadow of every piece of furniture. It’s particularly flattering on little Josephine’s hair. In morning light, it’s golder than it is red, but in the evening, it transforms into a vibrant, brassy orange.

He twirls one of the strands around his finger, provoking a shamefully pink flush over her full cheeks.

“Pretty girl.” He purrs, leaning in and letting the long strand tickle his nose, that handsome Julio-Claudian affair. Then, he yanks the strand, drawing a sharp, titillating whimper. Tears bloom at the corners of her eyes, but she resolutely looks away from him. “How many men have you talked to today, pretty girl?”

“I don’t- I don’t talk to anyone. They talk to me, please Nero, I’m not talking to them! Please stop, you’re hurting me!” Her tears fall so easily. Her tears are like raindrops falling on the pane of the most lascivious white window. He angles her head back, and nuzzles her neck, folding his arm around her waist from behind.

“Are you looking at them?” He asks thickly, exposing his canines in that heat of passionate greed.

“When.. when they talk to me.. yes.” The sob is his undoing.

Oh, he might feel bad for her if she didn’t evoke such passion in his heart and loins.

“Then… don’t talk to them.” His whisper is too husky to be sincere advice, he swears it isn’t because of how her slender backside is slotted against his hips. “Don’t even look at them, just say… you’re busy.” His smirk is cruel, and tracing the soft skin of her neck like a snake might scent a mouse.

“What if they pester me?” His arm tightens around her waist, and he bends over to get a look at her beautiful, weepy eyes.

“What if they pester you?” He follows the orange glow of her hair in the evening sun, and watches the shadows it creates on the other half of her pliant body. “Just tell them that daddy doesn’t like it. And I don’t.”

He then lets go of her, instead opting to savor that delicious torment of resisting her. A finger of whiskey will soothe those nerves for tonight’s performance. Las Visiones doesn’t disturb his sensibilities, but he’s seen it enough that its ramifications are no longer novel. Datura has a predictable profile.

The color of his whiskey reminds him of her hair, and like her hair, it flows, swirls, and acquiesces to each demand of his dexterous hands. Little Josephine is as nervous as the first night he saw her, standing in the middle of his office, wringing her hands together, like a curious child who longs to ask an inappropriate question.

With one long finger, he beckons her closer, and fishes a cigarette out of his suit jacket’s pocket.

Mad about the boy, I know it’s stupid to be mad about the boy…

The radio croons softly behind him, it plays the tune of one of his favorite vocalists. Sometimes, Mr. New Vegas is right on the target.

I’m so ashamed of it, but must admit the sleepless nights I’ve had about the boy...

“Come here, sit with your daddy. I’ve got places to be soon.”

On the silver screen, he melts my foolish heart in every single scene...

As soon as she’s within arm’s reach, he pulls her between his thighs until she’s half-straddling him. He’s careful not to splash the whiskey, and sets it down so that he can light a cigarette.

Although I’m quite aware that here and there are traces of a cad about the boy...

“Where are you going?” Her sweet voice is curious, and he reassures himself that he doesn’t like answering questions. However, he’s always got answers.

...this odd diversity of misery and joy…

“Why? Do you want to come with me?” It’s almost playful. Las Visiones is no tradition for the cry baby. “It’s no place for a cry baby, but daddy can cover your eyes.” With his free hand, he does an impression over them, and feels the flutter of her lashes against his skin.

A bashful series of giggles – like a church chime ringing – leaves her lips and finds its way straight to his chest and down his navel.

Oh, that small movement of her thighs is enough to draw a heavy sigh from him, which he covers with a deep smoke. He blows it away from her, and takes another drink from his whiskey.

If he wanted to take her, he could, but women aren’t allowed to take part in ceremonies like those. Although, the cry baby isn’t a woman, but caught somewhere on the early cusp of womanhood. Vivacious.

“Is it.. is it another show like the one I had to do?” He takes another hit from his cigarette, and dashes ash into his desk’s ashtray.

“No, little cry baby. I doubt their performance will be as inspiring as yours.” He places a soft kiss on her cheek, lingering there only long enough to whisper. “Grown men aren’t as gifted as cry babies.”

“How long will you be gone?” He grabs her chin then, and turns her head to look at him, letting her soft strands of hair fall behind and over his arm.

“Will you miss me? Growing on you, hm?” He takes another hit of his cigarette, and blows the smoke away from her. “Awhile. Long enough that you’ll stay in my suite.”

He checks his new pocket watch to find the time is only 30 ‘til 7. There are so many places he’d rather be than in the basement at night. He has work to do, and it’s miles more important than watching his kinsmen torture two 80s from the north. Diego’s probably having an excitable aneurysm with his mortar and pestle.

The roll of his dark eyes is too flattering to be legal, and the love he makes to his cigarette afterward would end in his conviction in a lawful city.

“I have some paper for you.” He grinds his cigarette out on the ashtray then, and downs the rest of his whiskey, before opening one of his file cabinets and taking out a stack of blank paper. “Draw some critters for your daddy.” That’ll be his Christmas gift.

“But, I need pencils, not pens.” The skeptical arch of his brow could freeze hell.

“Says who?” It’s those dark undertones in his voice that have men spilling their secrets, and it’s effortless, born of a gnawing angst and apprehension.

However, the cry baby has a kind of brass unique to her, it’s naive and inflexible.

“That’s always how I do it, so mistakes can be erased.”

“How can it be a mistake if you make it?” It is supposed to be coquettish, and it might’ve been if it didn’t sound so mocking.

Nonetheless, it’s worthwhile for the color flattering her cheeks, so round and edible. He wonders how she can be so soft despite her upbringing.

“I think you’re trying to distract me when you say things like that..” The cry baby is outspoken on sensitive things. “And I know it. I’m not- I’m not stupid.” And headstrong, when it doesn’t matter. She is too little to be strategic.

“I never said you were stupid. I asked how your things are flawless.” He watches her lips, two blushing petals, constantly bruised red from his attentions.

“I.. I hate you.. until you’re near.” His eyes snap on hers then, but she looks at his chin instead of him.

“What a strange thing to say, cry baby. Because your daddy could never hate you, not even when you behave like a petulant little child.” His lips are a hair’s width away from hers then. “Especially not when you act like a petulant little child. Kiss me.”

Oh, when she licks her lips, she can’t miss his bottom lip.

His eyes are two dazzling, black gems, so dark that they seem to have stolen some color from his darling’s.

Their kiss is chaste save for the way he slots her against his hips, and grinds upward in a circular motion. He doesn’t need to be undone right now – he is a busy man, after all.

He releases her lips only after sucking the bottom, which bounces back so plump and red. It’s a comely hue when it’s not on a whore.

“Time to go.” It’s husky, and he swears it’s from the cigarettes.

Oh, the slide of her body against his, it almost makes him rethink his duties as father.

He turns the radio off behind him, and gives little Josephine the blank papers for her drawings. She takes them, and holds them securely to her chest, as a child might a stuffed animal.

His guards join them in the foyer, and he takes one deep breath before he gets on the elevator. It’s the handling of Josephine’s little shoulder that keeps him from twitching like a madman, and from the front of the elevator, he can instead look at the door instead of his guards.

That doesn’t mean he can’t hear their repulsive breaths. It’s enough to spark a cold chill down his spine.

Ding! It’s one of his favorite sounds.

There’s this off , repugnant feeling every time he steps off of an elevator. It’s that same feeling a drowning man feels when he gets a gasp of air – painful and relieving.

And he’ll have to make the same trip twice. That handsome snarl on his upper lip only serves to make him look critical. In reality, he is exhausted and beyond aggravated.

“Be good, little Josie.” He says when he has her inside.

And procuring a pencil from his dresser, he leans in closer to her, holding it above her. The quirk of his lips is cruelly handsome.

“I’ll give you the pencil, for a price..” The way her eyes break away from his, in that solemn art she’s mastered – it leaves a perversely hot pool in his navel.

He cups her backside, and pulls her closer, until the angles of her slender hips are swallowed under his.

“A hug, and a kiss.” That was her bargain to begin with, and now it’s a favorite of his exacting tastes.

That innocent gesture – how she wraps her arms around his stomach and kisses his cheek – it shouldn’t be as wicked as it is, but it tempts him more than leather and lace, and stirs something remote and primal in his loins.

But he is half undone already by the time she pulls away, and the pencil is like ash in his hand when he offers it to her, while he watches the path of her wandering eyes.

He locks the door behind him, and checks his pocket for his case of cigarettes. He’ll be needing them for the tedious evening.

It’s Lonnie that he leaves to guard his suite. The pitiless rock of a man is used to long hours watching the cry baby by now. Maybe it’s he who should manage his daycare business, he thinks wryly. A man of few words has a lot of thoughts like those.

The Zoara is filled with hundreds of clients, but he doesn’t linger. He never does in the evening, and he’d prefer even the dull, discomforting basement over his most profitable lounge.

Twenty or more of his men wait for him in the basement, with Diego in the center of the room, dark hair slicked back from his gel, looking as serpentine as a man could.

“Patrón!” His handler’s exclamation unsettles him.

He pulls a cigarette out of his suit pocket, but it isn’t his to light this time. Cachino lights it, and remains at his side – Sal isn’t here to occupy the piggish man, to his deepest misfortune.

The 80s are brought to Diego, and tied to two chairs, directly under the lone light bulb swinging from a long string.

It’s their fear that’s palpable, despite the layers of dank dark in this room. In fact, it’s so thick, that it could be sliced and served. And it will be, by his handler, whose greatest pleasure is to take part in the ritual that’s swiftly becoming defunct.

Diego is a superstitious man, a serial rapist who believes doing so brings him nearer to the snakes their kin once revered.

Nero thinks it’s distasteful only because it’s a risk more than a gain in these golden years. He’s an economical man.

“Cuales son tus nombres?” His handler asks excitedly, wiggling his eyebrows and offering a comforting smile to the tribals.

Oh, that drag of his cigarette is a sweet reprieve from what is about to transpire. His gaze is impassive as it falls over the two dark men, built stockily like all 80s are. They’re unaware of what’s to come, but willing, unlike the thousands before them.

He has better things to do, but a man of few words has only a limited number of options.

He follows the path of his smoke, creeping upward toward the ceiling, stained by hundreds of years of use. It’s times like these when he swears he can see shapes in his cigarette smoke – when a common and familiar sight becomes all at once stimulating, the centerpiece of his vision.

Their answer is cut short by the cunning of his handler, who offers a toothy smile that has lured countless women.

“No, dilo más fuerte! No podemos oírte!” And that is when he gets them. Either of them open their mouths and angle their heads back to answer, but Diego is faster.

The Datura powder is held on a tiny, flat mirror behind his back, and when he takes it under his chin and blows it toward the men, a brilliant ray of yellows and whites shimmer under the light, as small as specks of dust. Every man who stands close is forced to duck his nose below their shirt collars to avoid breathing the dust.

While his guys laugh at the panicked sneezing and wheezing of the tribals, Nero cringes around his cigarette, fastened on the sticky wet droplets that fall to the ground, and the nosebleed that follows shortly after. It dries the sinuses.

“Been awhile since the family’s seen this.. it makes you wonder why we ever stopped.” Cachino says beside him.

A tiny quirk of his lips is sufficient to stave off any seditious sentiments from his lieutenant. For a man like Nero, it’s the closest thing to praise the family ever sees.

But Cachino can’t understand why Las Visiones is no longer practiced. His is still a mind for unmotivated brutality with no real comprehension for angles. The how’s and why’s are lost on a man like him.

What follows a dusting is hard to put into words for a man who says so few of them.

His handler would be able to write a book about it, if he was literate. He’s playing with the men now, checking to see how far gone they are, and making faces in that way a person does to a vulnerable stray dog. Nero’s on his third successive cigarette by the time they lose their capacity for complex speech.

“De donde vienes?” Diego asks them, hidden among the smoke of ten or more lit cigarettes.

The only answer he gets is delirium – seen in the enlargement of their pupils, the restlessness of their legs, and the hollow stare a blind man would have if he could see after years of going without. If he was a superstitious man, he could say that this is the closest thing to hell on earth for a person. But he’s neither superstitious nor particularly scrupulous about these things. This is taking time out of his day.

“Vienes de la nada.” They struggle at their bonds, though they no longer know why. “Siempre has servido Las Omertas.”

That begins the induction. Many of his workers, taken as slave women by the Slitherkin, have experienced the delirious visions and memory loss that only this plant can inflict. In a matter of minutes, any man or woman can be rendered obedient and suggestible, and even surrender their closest belongings. The concept of ‘self’ and ‘others’ is lost entirely, the names of their family are forgotten, and if it’s done right, these things can be lost forever. That’s a long time for the family to be making money.

A hundred miles ahead. He thinks in the long term.

“Arañas!” The left one’s screams are like an avalanche against his skull, thrumming with the force of tons of sediment. “Quítatelos! Quítatelos!”

That one pushes against his ropes, only managing to get himself further tangled in the fibers. His brother, blessedly quieter, looks to the rest of the room, staring listlessly at the suited men jeering in his direction. Nero takes a deep smoke of his cigarette, and stares somewhere very, very far ahead, desperate to escape the agonizing shrieks that disturb his sensitive ears.

Cachino knows better than to talk small with him. That displeased quirk of his brow serves to make him unapproachable where words fail.

“Di que sirves Las Omertas, y yo te quito las arañas!” His handler’s voice carries throughout the crowded room, bouncing off the bare walls and into his aching skull. His right eye twitches. His next smoke takes him further away from the detestable sounds.

“Sirvo Las Omertas!” His scream is that of a dying man’s, he doesn’t know that this will continue for three days.

Diego snickers, looking to Nero for approval. His nod is barely noticeable, a trick of the light if it were dark enough.

“Otra vez! Dilo y las arañas se irán!” He tosses his hands in the air, always addressing a crowd even if it’s only kin.

He reassures himself that it’s reasonable to think of the cry baby, tucked away in his sheets, instead of these dreadfully loud noises in front and around him. In those long few hours, he considers which stratagem should be used to clean the Tops, and what kind of retaliation the family might face in its event.

Benito has Mr. House’s favor – this is no secret. It will need to be done discreetly enough that impulsive Benito won’t have any evidence against the family.

Chapter Text

Now a man is born to go a-lovin’,

A woman’s born to weep and fret,

And stay at home and tend her oven,

And drown her past regrets

In coffee and cigarettes.

I’m moanin’ all the mornin’,

And moanin’ all the night,

And between it’s nicotine and not much heart to fight,

Coffee… feelin’ low as the ground,

It’s drivin’ me crazy

This waitin’ for my baby to maybe come around.

- “Black Coffee”, Sarah Vaughan

Streaks of early morning light is the first thing he sees behind his lids, before his keen eyes flutter open, faced with the broad expanse of his bed’s wooden canopy. Draping it are layers of familiar scarlet satin, which sway at the slightest provocation of his suite’s draft. It’s a moderate warmth that blows through his casino, the nights have been treacherously cold.

It’s the temperatures he likes.

His work days have been too long lately. Those dark circles underneath his eyes are growing deeper, and if it didn’t compliment his sinful looks, he would look haggard. Small mercies.

The amount of time he spends in the public is exhausting. Each time he spends more than five minutes in an open space, gawked at by a crowd of a hundred, that gnawing inner angst grows more insatiable, and he’s tempted to perform half of his work from his suite, where his concentration can’t be disturbed by brash footsteps in the foyer, or sly whispers between his guard outside.

Four hours of sleep, or less. In privacy, he can wipe at the fatigue in his eyes, and slide one hand over the stubble of his jaw and neck.

“Nero?” The cry baby’s small voice calls from beside him.

He turns a dark, drained pair of eyes on her, watching her from his peripheral. It’s irregular for her to wake up before him, but his mood is too dark, and his mind is too exhausted, to wonder why.

“Cry baby.” He rasps, reaching over to his nightstand for a compulsory morning smoke.

The pop of his flip lighter is particularly jarring in the silence of his suite. But that first smooth inhale of nicotine is a balm for his ragged nerves, shredded and torn apart by extended hours spent in the company of suppliers, clientele, and most recently, Mr. House. Last night, that bastard sent a securitron to give him business advice for the holidays.

Oh, he knows it’s for the man’s own gain, not that he’d gain any extra. Nero’s sharp about the delicate art of embezzlement.

“You look so sleepy..” One side of his lips quirks up at the lightness of her voice, witnessed only by the cigarette between his teeth.

“No sabes el alcance de mi agotamiento…” With his free hand, he wipes at his eyes. “How are your drawings, cry baby? I want some for Christmas.”

He dashes some of the ash on his nightstand’s ashtray, and takes a deep, penetrating smoke, holding his lungs hostage. It’s for the liberty of his mind and those nerves in his chest. When the light shines in his eyes, he snarls and leans onto his side, supporting his elbow on the cry baby’s pillow.

“Well, I think they could be better, they’re not my best.. but I started a new one, it’s- uh, it’s of you.” His gaze snaps to hers, and though his delight is a rare commodity these past few days, he manages a smirk, a crooked shift of his supple lips. He takes another hit, and blows the smoke away from her, before trailing his hand in the spot just above her brow.

“Really? How quaint.” He doesn’t know what else to say, but he’s saved by guile. “When are you going to let daddy see it?”

She leans further into the blanket, and he follows the bashful flutter of her lashes, hundreds of little gold-red fans against an expanse of pale white. Irresistible.

“When I’m done with it, and not before.” He scoffs, and leans over to set aside his spent cigarette before returning to her side.

Beneath the sheets, he caresses her slender hips, and feels his arousal pulse in response, as a virile man’s does in the early hours. He pulls her gown up her hips, over her budding breasts, and off of her shoulders without resistance. Her skittish desire is as charming as her tears when she tries to deny him.

There’s a film in his throat that thickens when he takes her small hand, and pecks the soft skin there, the supplication before the service. He pulls it back under the sheet, taking it with his own to the pale dusky skin of his thigh.

“Touch it.” But she looks shyly up at him, her hazel eyes wide and naive. “Don’t be shy, cry baby. Put your hand around it, like this..” His voice is as rough as sandpaper when he guides her hand around him, and tugs upward.

Little Josephine doesn’t understand that she’s endowed with a certain finesse, curated to his particular tastes. Her hand is fumbling, but that too is endearing on the cry baby. He guides her hand around him, stroking up and down, drawing a rare, desperate breath from his lungs. It’s her eyes that innocuously stare at the outline of her hand underneath the blankets, which he pulls down for her viewing.

He is a large man, and every angle of his body is lean and agile, gifted to him by an unfair creator. A man like him knows it too, and uses it where words fail him – and they often do.

So when he leans into her fumbling touch, it’s with a dauntless assurance in his left-handed looks, it’s a flexing of the lean muscles of his stomach, bared to the warm draft of his suite, and watched by the cry baby with a barely-hidden curiosity. It’s that curiosity all little girls have, especially when they want to convince a man that they’re a woman. But Josephine doesn’t understand that he knows better. That curiosity is unsightly on most girls, a lie on every grown woman, but well-fitted to the cry baby, who’s as green as the dresses she wears.

A sigh leaves his lips when she pulls just a little too hard, and he is almost undone there, he reassures himself that it’s from the stress of his work, but it doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

The crack of morning light through his curtain plays among the tousled waves of her soft, red-gold hair, drifting languidly down her back and sides. A strand of it tickles his loin, where her elbow rests. He longs to close his eyes and drift back into his unfinished rest, but he’s too taken by the sight of her attentive perusal, followed by the tightening of her fist around him.

In that way a drowning man gulps his first breath of air, a frantic groan – tasteful on his lips – leaves him, and remains suspended in the air above his bed.

Gently, he threads a hand through her hair, and guides her head down to his hips, a motion she’s unable to defy.

“With your tongue, cry baby.” It isn’t supposed to be as husky as it is, but he is becoming unraveled. It’s the undoing of Nero.

She looks up at him, confused or coy, or both, but his eyes are blacker than sin and leave no room for defiance. Even stubborn Josephine knows this, and not a second later, runs her tongue along the tip of him. The muscles of his stomach pulls, tensing and releasing as he watches the cry baby take him with her sweet lips.

It isn’t sordid, as a whore might be. The movement of her tongue is guileless, exploring, and so indecisive. A smile pulls at his lips when he watches her try to do what her hand was doing. The sharpened incisors glean in the pale morning light, they’re as potent a sight as his dark eyes.

He grinds his hips into her open mouth, much to her bewilderment, and her shame, a vestige of her virginal sensibilities, that thing he prizes. She chokes, a small gag that brings pretty tears to her widened eyes. She doesn’t know it brings him further inside, splayed on her soft, velvety tongue. Her teeth brush against him, gently enough that he swears he’s never felt a more sensuous use of them.

The hold he has in her hair is a close relative to bruising, but it’s unintentional, a grip that the cry baby has become used to. She’s grown to like it, though she still tries to flee its grasp.

Oh, the way her unpracticed tongue sweeps over him is with the same fascination a stag might have for a new, delectable feed. In her mouth, he finds a warmth distantly related to her thighs, and just as lascivious. Her gag only stirs him further, and he pushes himself further down her throat, until over half of him is behind the cry baby’s bruised lips.

His eyes roll, and it isn’t out of aggravation. The thrust of his hips is slow – the cry baby isn’t a whore, her shame is his to safeguard. Tears roll down her cheeks, though they’re not from her sweet melancholy this time.

He thrusts his hips upward, and manages to forget all that has been tormenting him. With those sweet, rouge lips around him, it’s a task that takes no effort. Hers is an effortless finesse.

His hand bobs her head up and down, in tandem with the roll of his hips, until his final plunge. His seed lands on the flat of her tongue, and she winces around him, trying desperately to pull away, but he holds her there, until the pulsing between his thighs has finished.

When she pulls away, she spits his seed out, over the dark curls below his navel. He can’t recall a time he’s been simultaneously drained and soothed. He needs a cigarette, but not before he pulls her up for a wet kiss – he’s safe. He experiences the rare delicacies with the cry baby, who’s never had another man inside of her.

Their kiss is tantalizing, sultry, despite how mollified his vigor is in that moment. His kiss upon her lips is almost tender, but the sharp angles of his jaw and lips leave no room for it. He pulls her between his legs, until her head – and its long, luscious hair lay somewhere between his neck and chest.

The pop of his lighter shakes her delicate shoulders, a jerked motion that he feels through his chest. He takes one deep smoke, and blows it away from her, shutting his eyes and surrendering entirely to the seconds that tick by. A man like Nero has little time for that, but with a cigarette in his hand and a cry baby splayed over him, he can indulge the rarer delicacies.

“Smoking is bad for you, Nero-” The cry baby is informative. When she learns something from his books, there is no end to her endearing, impassioned tangents.

“Concerned for daddy’s health?” It’s supposed to be a tease, and it would be, if not for the lingering come-hither in his sinister sibilance. “Don’t be.. you’ve seen my teeth, haven’t you?”

The church bells ring then, a series of girlish giggles that pet the thick, black curls of his chest. He snickers, a dark sound that would denigrate a lesser man.

In the middle of taking a particularly penetrative smoke, she presses a curious finger to his lips, forcing him to blow the smoke before he can inhale, and acquiesce to the prying of her lithe fingers, parting his lips for her perusal. It’s a privilege he’s never given to anyone, and he watches her ravishing exploration with a trickle of subdued excitement.

When her finger brushes over a pointed canine, he applies pressure, only enough to watch her quick retreat a moment later. It’s the faint rumble of his chest that serves as the only sign of amusement, a display that deepens the flush in her round cheeks.

“They’re so sharp. I can’t imagine that pain, why did you do it? Diego won’t tell me.” Omerta is a code of silence.

“To nip at cry babies like you.” He takes another smoke then, blowing it to the side, and throwing the butt in the nightstand’s ashtray.

“That can’t be why.. is it because you’re a former tribal? I’ve heard that there’s some tribes in the east that mutilate their own skin, and cut circles and elaborate designs on it to ward off evil critters and spirits. Do you know anything about that?” It’s not that he can’t resist the intrigue of her large, expressive eyes, it’s that he’s spent and undone.

“I know a lot about that, cry baby.” That insatiable curiosity is ignited at the vague confession. A man of few words has a lot of those. “The 80’s still do it, but most of the tribes in the East have been disciplined out of those customs by the Legion.”

Like that compliant pair of 80’s being trained to guard his casino. Their Spanish is less comprehensible than it was before, but his men will make short work of that. Datura has a way of making words spill eventually.

“Have you ever seen Caesar’s Legion?” She asks, and he gives her a slow once-over, before threading his fingers through her soft hair.

“Yes. They got fucked on this side of the Colorado, not long ago. They shouldn’t interest you, cry baby, especially not since you’ve read The Decline.” Her brows quirk at that, and the frown on her lips is one of disappointment.

“They sound scarier than anything I’ve ever heard of.” The admission is a green one, as soft and pretty as the long hair brushing his skin.

“Then you haven’t heard much..” That cock of his head is dangerous, especially when his dark gaze trails downward, over her eyes and bruised lips. “Daddy could scare them away. Especialmente si trataron de llevarte, y lo harían…”

“What-” He fixes her with a devious look, uncoiling like a snake at the scent of a bargain. “That’s not fair.” Her petulance moves him, and he grabs her chin to force her gaze upward, onto his.

“A fair’s where you get cotton candy.” There’s no end to the cleverness of the prewars. “Life isn’t fair, mi chiquita. But I’m fairer to you than it’ll ever be.”

Oh, that shameful flush makes him rethink getting up for coffee. Even still, after a short kiss, he climbs out of bed, and downs a glass of water before refilling it for his coffeemaker. It’s a soothing routine, the self-imposed kind that keeps him as grounded as the coffee itself.

He turns the radio on, only to quirk one dark brow at the festive music that croons softly under the sounds of his coffee brewing.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light…” His gaze snaps over to little Josephine’s, her eyes are fluttered shut while her lips sing along with Sinatra. “From now on, our troubles will be out of sight…”

These are customs that are only profitable to a man like him, the warmth associated with Christmas is a peculiar idea to him. His clientele enjoy the antiquated, festive décor in his casino, and are a touch less frugal when those little string lights are draped across the lobby’s wall.

Here we are, as in olden days, happy golden days of Yore…

The cry baby is too concerned with singing along, that the pop of his flip lighter goes right past her. He pours his coffee, and walks across his suite to overlook the city.

Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more…

He watches the Tops, with the intense fixation he’s known for. Today he’ll be briefing his right hand on cleaning it out, a gambit he’s planning for January, when holiday earnings have stacked enough to his liking. Nero’s a man who can stack and fold with one wave of his hand.

Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bow…

“It’s my first Christmas away from home..” There are tears in her sweet voice, even if he can’t see them.

He looks down at his cup of coffee, and takes another smoke, before downing what remains of his cup.

“This is your home, cry baby.” He says, before taking one last hit from his cigarette, and crushing it in his empty coffee mug.

That protest of his lungs would make any other man look vulnerable, and with a deep cough, he turns to the cry baby, whose svelte hands cover her pretty tears. Behind them are sniffles, so pathetic that his sympathy is almost bought. It’s too alluring, however, and stirs his loins even in the afterglow.

There’s a twitching between his thighs, but he ignores it in favor of returning to his bed and pulling her hands away.

“This’ll be the most happening Christmas you’ve had. Daddy’ll make sure of it.” She blinks some of her tears away, and a few stubborn twitches pull at her full lips.

She knows what’s coming when he nudges her thighs apart, taking one slender foot in his hand and laying it over his shoulder, like a flower that hangs off of a basket. Her gaze shifts from his chin to his eyes, to that languid, black curl on his forehead, too devilish to be boyish.

He spreads her legs wider, and pulls her toward the edge of his bed, pumping into her with a weariness his short sleep left behind. Like a pretty doll, her lips part against her will, and it’s with sinful pleasure that he takes them between his teeth, rolling them around and nipping the plump flesh.

Once he’s buried inside, he pulls away, and pushes back with enough force to bounce her budding breasts, two small mounds with buds pinker than any desert flower. He releases her lips, and slides his tongue down her throat before ravishing it with a sharp bite, earning him a pained yelp from the darling.

Her arms tighten around his neck with each merciless thrust of his hips, and the flat of her foot draws wantonly over his shoulder where her coy, virginal sensibilities stubbornly resist.

It’s the bath before their shower, when the sweat of his body covers her, and paints a thin, sultry sheen over his darling’s skin.

He nips her collarbone, and finishes inside of her, for the second time in the slow, lackadaisical span of thirty minutes. After his coffee, however, he only feels reinvigorated, and ready for his morning shower. He loathes sticky, oily, or sweaty sensations on his skin.

Oh, he would commit a thousand more sins just to remain in his suite today, but there’s so much that requires his close attention.

That warehouse in Nipton is fit for manufacturing, after weeks of preparing it and gaining reputation with clients in the debauched town. The bow of his upper lip pulls into a handsome sneer, thinking of Jet and its fumes in such a small and enclosed space.

His disgust is nothing new, and he’s under no illusion that his leadership is only effective in a more civil life.

He’ll give that directive to Cachino, then, since it’s that piggish man whose perversity is rivaled only by his skill at managing the flow of product. An economical man has to make sure compromises are worthwhile.

And though he swears it’s not the cry baby’s doing, a heavy load’s been lifted from his shoulders, and the muscles of his brows are more relaxed than they were before he went to bed last night. He feels the hot water of his shower soak through his muscles, still lean and sinewy from that distant hard life.

After his shower, he goes through those achingly familiar motions, idly contemplating that ambition he has for the family’s future while lathering the diluted Datura oil onto the smooth skin of his face. His is a deadly beauty – sleek, symmetrical, and cut from the hardest boulder of pale sandstone. That pout on his supple lips is unfair to all the lesser men who try emulating it.

His cry baby is already dressed when he puts on his Oxford, and ties the best fucking tie the Strip has ever seen. He lights a cigarette, and lets it dangle between his lips while he puts on his suit – it’s the dark gray one today. Before he buckles his belt, he dashes the cigarette against the ashtray, and afterward smooths his free hand through his thick, black curls.

“Don’t forget your papers, Josie.” Her mouth forms a little ‘o’ shape, and she grabs her papers off of the floor underneath the bed. “I expect my portrait very soon.”

When she joins him by the door, he leans down to pet that moist blanket of red and gold, and takes her lips in a soft kiss – gentle, if he were another man.

He crushes his cigarette in his ashtray before nudging her out of the door, and locking it behind him.

Oh, that first fucking elevator ride. Today will be hectic, and with only a few short hours of sleep, he’ll get lost in the familiar motions of his self-imposed routine. There are clients he has to brace today. It’s his right hand’s job to say what he thinks, but his thought processes are delicate, and he handles the clients who need a special touch.

So he leaves the sobbing doll in the Zoara, under the supervision of Diego, and is followed by Sal into his office. Immediately, he closes the blinds. His headache is already phenomenal.

“Ready for manufacturing?” Nero asks, lighting a cigarette once he sits behind his office desk.

Sal tries to pretend the unfiltered smoke doesn’t bother him. Even his darling woman-child tolerates it better than most of his men. His small smile is secretive, a man of few words has a lot of those.

“Sure thing… Rosco’s got a good thing goin’ with the mayor, man’s a fiend for drugs and women. Just the right client for the family, but Nero, we got just a slight motherfuckin’ problem. Marjorie’s people are pointin’ the finger, that criss-cross motherfucka at the Tops is my guess.” He takes a smoke, and blows it away from Sal, staring intently at the floor beneath his right hand’s feet. It’s that look a mathematician gets when he’s both frustrated and exhilarated by an equation.

“Those fuckers have no evidence. We made sure of that.” Then, he turns his dark gaze to Sal, one of the few people who can keep it. “Conjecture’s not enough to retaliate. It’s sure as fuck not enough for House, if they decide to tattle.”

“I don’t think they will. Word has it Mortimer’s scoring cadavers, if those motherfuckas tattle on us, we got more ammunition than they do.”

He hesitates. It’s a habit of his, and of every man whose words fail to realize their thoughts. He takes a smoke, and winces at the flash of light pouring in through the cracks of his blinds, but it only serves to make him look calculating.

“In more than one way.” His right hand roars in laughter, in that voice that carries so far. It almost splits his skull. “Make sure our guys in Nipton have everything they need. I’m not concerned with the other families right now, this is my primary concern, it’s what the family needs more than anything.”

Oh, after the holidays, his concerns will be more flexible. But his leadership is effective because he shifts his focus to one, single thing at a time.

“Had another one come in and ask aboutcha bird.” He blows the smoke out of his nose, and crushes the butt in his desk’s ashtray.

It’s a slow, sensuous move of his fingers. Those are the long fingers of a pianist, and they play music no matter what he’s doing. In reality, his nerves give them a twitch, and he’s drumming his fingers on a hard surface when he doesn’t have a cigarette between them.

He tries to hide his avarice, but his eyes are darker than even that sin.

“Who?” That’s all he’ll be offering.

It’s never wise to let the family know the contents of his private life. He is possessive with his things, and guards them with the same determination that the devil collects his dues.

“Tourists, looked a bit that way. Told ‘em it ain’t no one’s business who the boss is fuckin’.”

There’s a tiny trickle of panic then, easing its way down his spine. In that way a thief panics when he fears being caught, he panics at the idea of having the cry baby stolen, as those Riders might have in Freeside.

He doesn’t know why tourists would come asking, but his mind is swiftly making work of it. His mastery is in preparing for worst-cases, in each scenario.

“No, it isn’t.” He says it on account of his mind working a hundred miles quicker than it might otherwise be. “I’ll see Miles now. Next time someone comes asking about the family’s business, have them shadowed.”

Omerta is a kinship that dwells in smoke and mirrors, bound by one oath. There’s wealth in secrets and vice, two trades they’ve always specialized in, and he’s not going to have that be intruded on by suspicious minds. There’s no rest for a man like Nero. His is a life of success and discomfort in equal servings.

“’ll make it snappy and show ‘em what happens when they try playing in the snake pit.”

In a silent rage, he lights another cigarette, and sneers at the door pulling to. With Sal gone, he can shut his eyes, and run a hand over his handsome face, massaging his temples as he does so. It’s futile.

A knock sounds on his door, and his lips purse at the interruption. He crosses his legs at the ankles, and lands one longing look at the window to his left.

“Come in.” It leaves no room for warm fuzzies, but he’s not a man for those. Anyone who wants to deal with him knows that.

It’s Miles, the stocky man from the Baja. He’s here to make a bulk purchase of the family’s supply, because Omerta is taking the business of Khans. Their fall from grace profits the family.

“Ey.” Before he takes a seat on the couch, he leans over his desk to offer a hand. Nero takes a smoke before hesitantly grasping the hand, and giving a clipped shake of his hand. “My associates are tired of walking that stretch of the mountains, more.. what’s the word?” The other man takes a seat on the couch and gestures wildly. “Convenient, to source from your people.”

Satisfaction guaranteed.

“Isn’t it?” It’s supposed to be congenial, but it only makes the other man twitch in discomfort. “The family’s eager to have your business, señor. All that we ask for is your signature.”

They stare at one another, in that way two bulls might. The man on his couch isn’t dim and nor is he a soft man, but no other man can play a staring contest with Nero. He lights another cigarette off of the embers of his other, and watches in a discreet, sordid pleasure as the other man looks away.

“That’s actually.. why I wanted to talk with you, señor.” His brow cocks at that, and the tilt of his head is an irresistible, sinister assessment of the other man. “I can’t sign a contract that leaves me with only one source, not when there’s 300 miles between Lost Wages and San Diego.”

He drums his fingers on the surface of his desk, a motion that soothes the hand that’s not busy.

“It’s as easy as putting your name on a dotted line, señor.” He licks his lips, sultry and slow. It’s that his lips are dry.

“Can it be negotiated?” That frown of his only flatters him, it’s sinful how these things work.

“The contract itself is non-negotiable. Our rates, however…” It could’ve been the shine of onyxes when he followed each movement of the man on his couch.

Oh, that gulp is a promise of his acquiescence. Money and reputation for the family.

He’s a man who spends a lot of his time reading and rereading contracts, he’s a connoisseur of this niche in business. It’s a similarity to House that he would adamantly deny.

“We’ll do what we can to earn your business, señor.” That’s the same smile the devil gives when he strikes a deal.

“What kind of rate adjustments are we talking about?” It should be Cachino or Sal having this chat, but he can’t trust his lieutenant not to fuck this up.

“We’ll offer you morphine at 1500 an ounce. No lower, that’s our offer to you. Jet, 6 a canister.. the rest is in the details.” A few minutes spent in the same space as Nero usually suffices to change the opinions of lesser men. He isn’t a born salesman, he’s just economical, and he understands it better than Miles.

He’s peerless, even among peers. Who is his peer? Certainly not this man.

It’s been well over a week that Miles has been trying to negotiate with the family. His oafish lieutenant would’ve convinced him out of the contract Nero had drawn up, and his right hand was too militant to talk someone into signing a one-sided deal.

Now, if he could knock those poppy farms out in the East, a hundred more of his problems might be solved. But he’s not going to delude himself into believing the ambition ever reaches its climax.

Khans charged 8 a canister, and they often cut their morphine on account of having no regional competition to encourage them to polish their product’s quality. But Nero’s always been a deeply competitive man. It’s an ironic thing, because he has no real competition. Among former tribals, he has no rival, and among the civil, his cunning leaves the pool wanting for fish.

“That’s fairer, I accept your business, señor. Khans hold a gun to your head when you try to haggle unreasonable prices down.. and Papa Khan’s not what he used to be. Reckless cabrón, gambling with his people’s customers by cutting that mountain’s talc into his supply.”

It’s the contract he’s fingering on his desk, while the pen waits to be used. That pen could probably wait longer than Nero, whose patience has been growing thin ever since he woke up with the feeling that his head was being split in two. When Miles gets up, Nero mimics him, taking a hit of his cigarette and looking down at the other man from his long, straight nose.

That dark hand has to be taken again, it’s chapped and dry, and has too much force for it to not belong to a man filled with impotent vindication.

Chapter Text

This is romance, there’s a sky to invite us,

And a moon to excite us,

Yet you turn from my kiss.

Ah, this is romance,

It’s a moment of splendor,

Yet you fail to surrender

To a night such as this.

The dreamy magic of your eyes enchanted my heart,

But will the magic of your love be granted my heart?

I’m in a trance,

Let me be heaven-bound, dear,

This is paradise found, dear,

Sweetheart, this is romance.

- “This Is Romance”, Al Bowlly

Heaven on earth, for those who haven’t read the Bible. That’s what Gomorrah is, it’s a paradise for the illiterate and impure.

Out of all his kin, Nero’s the only one whose literacy was accomplished with gusto. He read the Bible in two weeks, because those holotapes of House’s mentioned it, always in sordid, sardonic tones, in that way all sinners mention it before they sin.

He doesn’t miss the irony of thinking about the Bible, overlooking the Zoara’s debauched, New Year’s show.

Only a lesser man would slander that old book. He’s not a pure man, nor is he a man of scrupulosity, but he secretly likes things of sound, pure morals. He’s a man who can absorb information quicker than the desert sands swallow sparse rain. Former tribals don’t understand the Bible, but Nero does, just like he understands economic theory, despite coming from an uneconomical people.

He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket, and it’s Mateo who lights it with a pop of his flip lighter. Every few seconds, he feels that discomforting sensation of eyes on the back of his neck, on his sharp jaw, or on the fastidiously cleaned suit jacket he wears. A man like him inspires seditious envy and adoration in equal measure.

“5,000 tonight.” Cachino, his piggish lieutenant, is leaning on the balcony and watching the burlesque show. “That’s my rough estimate. What about you, Mat?”

Oh, he’d read the Bible from front to back once more if he could just do it in privacy.

However, delicate matters like these require the finishing touch of a sensitive man like him.

The lights flicker and dim until a lone spotlight, white and unnerving, shines on the stage, illuminating a sight that fails to stir him. His tastes are too sophisticated, and his sugar is so refined. She’s sitting just in the corner behind the stage, only visible from the balcony.

“Softly, As In a Morning Sunrise!” Diego announces, and the deafening sound of one of Artie Shaw’s numbers comes on from a number of the Zoara’s speakers.

It’s then that the pace of their lewd burlesque dance shifts, their faux feathers decline, to give glimpses of their painted faces. The glitter of their feathers catches his eye, just as it catches the lone spotlight. Unavoidable. He loathes unavoidable distractions, all of them occupy that same space that breaths in an elevator do.

His good looks are hidden behind a cloud of smoke, but anyone with a good eye could see the brood of his jaw that seems to glow in the shadows of the theater, that handsome stretch of his face was finished by the cruelest artist. Even in his deepest discomfort, it’s his savior, and that arch of his brow is continuously misunderstood as glib and pretense, when in reality it’s a response to those tingles in his arms and legs that he always gets in crowds like these.

Nonetheless, a man of few words rarely complains, and even fewer ones are made about things he doesn’t intend to change.

There’s less to complain about when a bulk shipment of morphine is making its way to his casino right now, straight from the family’s lab in Nipton. One of the first things he’s going to do is order another coffeemaker from Ralph, even if the flippant collector has to brace every passing trader for it.

Cachino’s passing comment goes unaddressed, because his men are too taken by those scantily clad hints of Joanna behind her fan of faux feathers. Nero’s eye is constantly being drawn back to the cry baby, like a jeweler checking and rechecking his display cases.

He takes a deep smoke, and assesses the audience below, clamoring and erupting in bawdy applause. Each one of them paid fifty caps for this New Years’ show, those festive string lights keep bringing them back, because it is addictive to get cheated by Omerta.

Every time he can find out which raucous voice belongs to who, a shiver rolls down his spine, and the concave angles of his cheeks become even more so around that cigarette he holds between his fingers. Those are the fingers of a pianist without a piano, long and languid and incessant in their nervous reflexes.

A small crowd of hookers, led by Joanna, encircle his handler, a slight man whose purpose it is to be at the center of attention, so that Nero doesn’t have to be. The painted women swish and sashay around him, brandishing their faux, glittering feathers like those proper prewar women fanned their faces and necks.

“Welcome, all of you good and esteemed gentlemen. We don’t need to know each other personally for us to know your appetites are… ritzy.” His eyebrows bounce suggestively then. His handler’s a swarthy man, whose dusky skin is a few shades darker than the rest of his kin.

The crowd erupts in laughter, none of them know what kind of man is behind that congenial display. They don’t know how many countless people he’s blown Datura on, nor that brutal ceremony that comes afterward. Theirs is a family of smoke and mirrors, with plenty of ostentation to keep it blowing.

“And because we know what you gentlemen want, we’ve arranged a show for this new year, from our lovely ladies, to you. Let’s meet them, shall we?” His handler’s answer is a hundred or more unnerving claps from his audience, enraptured and entranced by the sickly flattering words.

Diego claps, a short affair that lasts less than two beats of a heart, he’s an energetic little man. Nero lights another cigarette, and flicks his dark gaze back to little Josephine, whose gaze finds him only a second later, only to return bashfully to her drawing paper. If she was someone to envy, he might envy her ability to drown out the roaring sounds of the theater. That’s the finesse of a little girl, whose responsibilities are so small that she can ignore these things.

He feels her studious eyes on him a second later, and quirks his lips up around his cigarette, returning her study with a dark promise of his own. He can’t see the flush of her delicate, round cheeks, but he knows it’s there – they’re like two delectable apples, and he often ponders what it would be like to sink his teeth into them.

“Joanna! Come here, pet.” His handler beckons the tall woman with a wave of his hand.

Their most profitable product is that woman hiding behind a flutter of her feathers, lowering them to show a tall figure standing on one heeled foot, batting her eyes in a show of schoolgirl coy. He’s particular in his tastes, however, and that show is inauthentic, attached to a buxom woman like that.

“Tell us about yourself! These gentlemen are… dying to hear..” Another suspenseful number of Artie Shaw’s plays on the speakers, Nightmare. It’s a hit he approves of, if it were playing softer.

Joanna kicks out one stilettoed foot, and wraps an arm around Diego’s shoulder, leaning into the microphone like a lover leans into someone’s ear. The stage is hidden behind a cloud of cigarette smoke, it’s the sanctuary that an uncomfortable man takes to, in between glances to his darling below.

“I am Joanna, as most of you know..” She tosses her head back and laughs a whore’s laugh. “Otherwise known as the mistress who makes all your dreams come true, even the ones you don’t know you have.”

Oh, that is the sound of money, when the crowd coos for his most dedicated worker.

Despite his distaste for the woman, she’s more dedicated than most of the family. She’s one of the slaves from the Slitherkin days, another one whose life was turned around by a dusting of Datura.

“Señor Diego… is that drool at the corner of your mouth?” She asks, cocking one light brow.

His handler chuckles at that, a smarmy sound that makes him wish for Catullus in one hand, surrounded and cocooned by the satin drapes of his bed, and the gentle croon of a low radio.

“Are you propositioning me, pet?” He then turns to the audience, wearing a scandal across his swarthy face. “What do you gentlemen think? Oh, I believe I know just what all of you are thinking, no need to rush to answer Diego.”

A kiss on his cheek ends in two barely visible prints of rouge, which go ignored by his handler, already gesturing for the next worker.

The way he leans on the balcony suggests he’s immersed in the display on stage, but it’s just his legs growing tired from all the standing he’s done today. Beside him, droopy-eyed Sal knocks back a shot glass of whiskey, served by one of their workers behind them.

It’s Layla’s turn on the stage, and that’s when he knows tonight will be profitable, more fruitful than the uneconomical Cachino suggested earlier. Every eccentric in the crowd is sitting on the edge of their seat when the lady-boy is paraded by Diego, his feathers have a gaudier touch on them, darker than the women’s.

Yes, Basin Street is a street where the folks, they all meet in New Orleans, the land of dreams…

Oh, how the erratic movements of his glittery feathers catch the light, and shoot straight into that invisible crack in Nero’s skull, worsening that cluster headache behind his eyes.

Oh, it’s a treat, swingin’ on Basin Street!

He withdraws further into the ulfiltered smoke shrouding his face from the public, merging with that cigarette Mateo is nursing a few feet away from him.

You’ll never know how nice it seems, or just how much it really means.

That handsome sneer returns to his lips when it’s Martha’s turn, she’s less a whore, and more like a cow with full udders.

His free hand is beginning to grow antsy on the balcony, drumming against it like a man possessed. The music is too loud in here, carried by ten or more speakers, most of which are installed on the upper reaches of the club lounge. It’s that fucking trombone, it gave all that prewar swing a fuller, brassier sound, tasteful when it isn’t directly above his ears at the highest volume.

His gaze snaps to the cry baby’s movement below, setting her drawing papers down and standing up from her seat. That off-white gown of hers is glowing in the shadowy theater, impossible to miss, especially when it serves as a blanket for her pretty, long hair to rest on. Tonight it’s up in a loose braid, skillfully plaited by Diego’s practiced hands.

The cry baby is leaving for the bathrooms.

Behind her, a generically handsome man follows, and so does Nero, a moment later.

It’s not uncommon for Nero to leave without a word, since he says so few of them to begin with. Only his guard, Lonnie, follows behind as he makes his way down the stairs. As a connoisseur of the sobbing doll, he knows best what a man would follow her for, especially when everyone’s attention has been so thoroughly captured by Diego’s performance on stage.

Oh, but the depths of his avarice are fathomless when he sets his sights on the other man down the hall, who follows closely behind the cry baby. She’s too green to be suspicious.

But he wants to know what the client will try to do. These tests of Nero’s are commonplace, and are what make his leadership so effective. He lets clientele toe the line with only vague warnings, so that the family can come to collect. They do have a policy against abusing their workers and property. Products have to be respected.

This one, shadowing little Josephine, is of an average build, dark hair, and looks that are too common to be daring. The way he swaggers is telling of the kind of man he is.

Everyone wants the cry baby. Usually, he’s torn between wanting and despising what everyone else covets, but his greed knows no end where the sobbing doll is concerned, so he follows both of them down the foyer and watches Josephine enter the bathroom, and the man follow just behind.

Nero’s a man who can turn anything into a gain for himself and the family, and so he’s already considering how much he can charge this fucker for putting his hands on the family’s property.

The fluorescent lights of the bathroom are searing, but he ignores them in favor of staring a hole through the back of the other man’s suit, whose body is already crowding the cry baby against the far wall.

“Señor.” It’s all he offers, it’s quiet but it echoes off the walls in an empty room of mirrors and tiles like this.

In discreet pleasure, a corner of his supple lips quirks at the shock of the man’s shoulders as he turns to face him, hiding the cry baby from view. It’s no hard thing. She’s small, even for her age.

“Nero!” That regal name is even prettier coming from those sweet lips. Maybe she does have some stratagem, when she uses that second to run to his side.

“There’s a fine for what you just did, señor.” Like a hound with a tail between its legs, he looks anywhere but Nero’s eyes. “Nothing to say?”

“If I pay for her services, can it be forgotten?” The bow of his lip purses, it only makes him look more critical. The other man looks away again, between Lonnie and little Josephine.

“Not for sale. 300 now, or later. It’s your choice, of course.” They always choose the second, because getting into debt is as addictive as their morphine.

He crosses his arms, and tilts his head, seeming more patient than he actually is. He wants this to be over now, and the stuttering client is testing his patience. The show will go on until midnight, and he’s only got half a case of cigarettes left in his pocket.

“Later.” His is the smirk of a serpent’s, coiling back under its rock after a meal.

“Fine. Our secretary will take care of you in the lobby.” He adjusts his tie, loosening it somewhat around his neck. “Shoo.”

He takes the cry baby’s arm, and leaves the bathroom behind. His black hair is lustrous under the orange glow of the hallway lights, and particularly striking on little Josephine’s.

“Why are you charging him money?” He glances at her, meeting her teary eyes, too stubborn to let them fall.

“Why do you think, cry baby?” The Zoara’s brassy jazz aired a muffled, recurring tune through the desolate halls. It was empty save for the family’s guards, every client was watching the New Year show.

“Because you’re a bully.” It was said with the bold hubris of children. It’s fast become his favorite brand.

Nonetheless, he stops, and takes her chin in his hand, just a touch away from bruising. Like a pitiless rock, his guard watches motionlessly, he’s used to the cry baby’s antics by now.

“You might be thankful for the bullying your daddy does for you one day.” She doesn’t understand that her situation is better than other women’s, especially in Gomorrah. But he doesn’t expect her to, angle is the skill of men. “You don’t even want to know what he would’ve done to you. Too gruesome for a cry baby to hear.”

Like any child who hears reason in a scolding, she looks down at her feet and flushes a delicious pink. One lone tear falls out of the corner of her eye, and he catches it with his finger, bringing it to his lips and sucking.

With more grace than the man before, he backs her into the foyer’s wall, careful to keep out of sight of any unwanted clients. A scandal in Gomorrah is as weighted as the stack of money waiting for him in his office.

“What’ll you give me for saving you, hm?” He caresses the soft skin of her face, paying close attention to the fluttering lashes of her wide, hazel eyes, still fearful and shaken.

Because hers is an art that’s effortless – any that can undo Nero is laudable – she wraps her arms around his neck, and bends him further down, to place a kiss so light that it could’ve been the wind, if it didn’t taste so sweet. His smug victory is lost in the shape of her full lips, and sees fit to lather her with his tongue, a short sweep of her warm, velvety mouth, which she sighs into, a sound reminiscent of her virginity lost. He took that too.

“You’ll stay with me, then. No more running off tonight.” He tells her, a sultry whisper against her lips.

Her arms are still around his neck, a pale crown of laurel for Nero.

“What about my drawings?” He narrows his eyes, it’s not meant to be calculating, but it always is.

“We’ll get them when we leave. Come now, cry baby.”

With the cry baby in tow, he returns to the Zoara, and climbs the stairs, letting go of her wrist as he returns to Sal’s side on the balcony. The show has Joanna playing as General Oliver, a sure hit with the NCR clientele, especially with those famous military fatigues replaced by scant leather.

He’s no great admirer of the Californians, but it isn’t because he’s a former tribal. He admires them insofar as they make good and consistent clientele, when they’re not demanding favors on account of their heroics at the Dam.

“No one to talk with, all by myself… no one to talk with, but I’m happy on the shelf!” Then, Joanna does an impression of a military salute, to the tune of another worker on the piano, “Ain’t misbehavin’, savin’ my love for you, for you, for you…”

To his rare pleasure, a row of uniformed NCR troopers erupt in applause, laughing among themselves at the impression of their own idols. This is Gomorrah, where false idols thrive. Just a few steps to the left, the cry baby sits alone on the floor, watching the show with a pretty smile.

“Like Jack Horner (who?)…” Joanna shrugs then, joined by a flock of feathered whores. “In the corner, don’t go nowhere! What do I care? Your kisses are worth waitin’ for, believe me!” She winks at one of the troopers then, and plucks a feather to throw at them.

It’s a kind of seduction that works on lesser men. He takes a cigarette from his suit jacket’s pocket, and finds his men too engrossed to light it. His flip lighter’s already in the palm of his hand, however, and he makes short work of it, blowing the smoke off of the balcony.

Only his right hand notices the cry baby a few feet away from them, but remains tactfully silent. Nero’s pleasures are rarely ever questioned, because they’re rarely ever voiced. It’s a tactical way to keep his precious things in a neat little stack, tucked away from everyone’s prying eyes, and a man of few words never kisses and tells.

No amount of cigarettes can puncture the agonizing headache that’s managed to spread from behind his eyes to his forehead, beading with small hints of nervous sweat. He’s exhausted, and aggravated beyond reason. The finger can be pointed at those speakers, and that singing whore on stage, and whoever that bastard from earlier was. He wasn’t a regular client of the family.

Oh, but he will be, because he chose the long way. No matter what choice they make, Nero always gains.

Itching to leave, he checks his brass pocket watch, and finds the fingers pointing to just twenty minutes from midnight. Relief. It’s as thick as the smoke on his tongue that’s about to take his lungs hostage. It’s no less than they deserve for failing his nerves.

One of his men approach Sal – they know better than to approach the enigmatical father, the stately man behind clouds of smoke that are as silky and sultry as his voice. He’s peerless.

They converse in low whispers, as low as a man like Sal could possibly be. It doesn’t matter, because every eye is glued to the stage, including the cry baby’s. Endearing, because she thinks it’s funny. It’s something they have in common – bawdy displays like these don’t appeal to his sensibilities save for his eccentric humor.

Sal turns to him then, angling his body away from the other men on the balcony. His leadership is effective because the left hand never knows what the right hand is about.

“Goodies are here.” Even his whisper is loud. His wince is hidden behind so much smoke that even the cigarette couldn’t have seen it.

“Fine. Lock them in the basement freezer, guarded.” His right hand nods, and leaves him for the Omertas waiting for their orders.

That’s when Diego enters the spotlight once more, surrounded by twenty fluttering feathers, the entire stage probably smells of stifling sweat. His cringe goes unnoticed.

The risque jazz slows to a halt, to a more fitting outro for the year’s end.

I’d work for you, I’d even slave for you, I’d be a beggar or a knave for you, and if that isn’t love, it’ll have to do until the real thing comes along…

Workers appear from the shadows then, on the sidelines of the seated audience, all too enraptured to see the baskets of confetti until it’s being thrown on top of them.

I’d gladly move the earth for you to prove my love and its worth to you, and if that isn’t love, it’ll have to do until the real thing comes along…

“I’d like to think we’re making worthwhile resolutions this year, but based on what I see here, gentlemen, I see that it’s a waste of time!” They laugh at the charm of his handler, drenched in shreds of festive confetti.

My heart is yours, what more can I say? Want me to rob a bank? Well, I won’t do it!

“Guess we’ll have to wait for next year’s…” Diego looks at Joanna, whose cheeks have the most unsightly flush. “What do you think, lovely Joanna?”

“Oh, I don’t know.. I think I could go again, in an hour.. tops.” The slap of his skin on the whore is lewd.

I’d even sigh for you, I’m about ready to cry for you, I’d tear the stars down from the skies for you!

“There’s one reason not to make a resolution if I ever heard one, gentlemen!” Nero looks at the cry baby, and would keep looking if it meant this show would end sooner.

If that isn’t love, it’ll have to do baby, ‘til the real thing comes along.

His handler looks to the balcony, searching for his approval. They lock eyes, and blessedly, that bottomless angst stays a secret. He nods, and Diego claps his hands together.

“And from our family to yours, we have a gift for you, to celebrate the New Year. Lovely Joanna, of course. Whoever can make it to the stage and sweep our sweetheart off her feet, gets the damsel for the night. On the count of…” Some of them are already gripping their armrests. Nero sneers. “Midnight!”

At the strike of 12 , he’s already pushing himself away from the balcony and pulling the cry baby beside him. He considers himself lucky when James fucking Brown comes on only after he and himself are away from the clamoring crowd and booming speakers of the Zoara.

Like a father might monitor his child, he waits for her to collect those drawings from the backstage, and takes her arm when she returns, clutching the papers between her soft hands.

When the elevator ding’s on his suite level, he’s a minute closer to that deep breath he’s been waiting hours to take.

With his suite door safely locked, he can take that deep, restorative breath he’s been waiting for, and pour himself a glass of kirsch from his cabinet. Moonlight streaks through his dark suite, offering a cool glow that soothes his sensitive palette, pining from the events of the week. The last time he was this exhausted, was in those distant tribal years.

“You need to start looking behind you when you walk, cry baby.” His husky tones sound sultry and come-hither, but he’s only smoked too many cigarettes tonight.

“But-” Her resistance is always to her detriment, and to his exhilaration. She’s unraveling that pretty loose braid, and hooking her fingers in the loose curls.

“Nothing. He could’ve napped you. Do you really need daddy to tie all of your shoes?” He lights yet another cigarette, coughing after his first inhale, and closing the space between he and little Josephine. “This isn’t a fucking school, Josie. Everyone down there wants to hurt you. Remember that.”

Even when he gives sincere advice, there’s always this hint of teasing derision, it isn’t meant to make the cry baby cry, but that is what it tends to do.

“And you don’t want to hurt me?” He coughs again, but soothes his aching throat with another swallow of his drink. “You’re smoking too much, Nero. You.. you smoked twenty-four cigarettes tonight.”

His gaze is bewildered when he looks her up and down , taking another wry smoke from his cigarette and tousling his dark hair, shining in the moonlight – a dull white glow in an otherwise pitch-dark room.

“What do cry babies know about these things?” His question would be a rasp on any other man, but it’s only low and husky on him.

His pursuit is slow and creeping, and ends with her back on the wall, a repeated occurrence that never loses its allure. This is his game, the only two-person game he enjoys. She’s enveloped between his lean arm on the wall, and the dresser on her other side.

He takes another hit from his cigarette, and blows the smoke away from her. The way the moonlight strikes the sharp panes of his cheeks, his jaw, and his brows – it should be illegal, and although his fatigue is painfully clear in those dark circles below his eyes, those too only flatter his sinister beauty.

Those large, expressive eyes of hers could flatter anyone, but he’d always grab her chin to pull them back to him.

“What do cry babies know about it, tell me.” He wants to devour the pout on her lips, and debauch the pink tongue behind them.

Her hair is more golden in the moonlight, and he reassures himself that he can resist touching it, until his fingers are already tangled in the soft strands.

“I’m not stupid, Nero. Everyone knows that cigarettes are bad for you, and you’ve smoked a lot tonight. I was drawing you, that’s how I know. And you’ve got those,” She lifts a small hand to his face, and traces the skin just below his eye circles. “Under your eyes. I.. I don’t have to be a smoker or a.. Omerta father, to know these things.”

His flinty glare isn’t out of spite. It’s the effortless seduction of his darling, whose innocent touches always find their way into a hot pool in his navel. He swallows – a sultry bob of his adam’s apple.

“What if you did?” His query is supposed to be teasing, but it only manages to be provocative.

“Then..” She swallows, and looks away from his chin to flatter his tie instead. “Then I guess I wouldn’t know anything at all. But I do.”

He doesn’t often have occasion to laugh, but when he does, it always begins in a low, vibrating rumble in his chest, until he tosses his head back and reveals his sharp canines.

“Te adoro, mi chiquita, pero no te puedo decir en ingles.” He strokes the side of her head, fondling her in a touch that might be tender on another man, a lesser man. When she parts her lips to inquire about that vulgar language, he leans into her, nuzzling her nose with his own. “You do know a few things, but you’re still a cry baby.”

“I’ve never been able to stop the tears once they start.. everyone I grew up around, made fun of me for it, especially my father. Just.. when I feel them coming, it hurts to hold them back, and it feels good to get them out.” He wraps one pretty strand of hair around his long finger, and tugs , watching it bounce back into a soft wave.

“They don’t know how good they’ve got it now, because if your daddy saw that…” Their gazes cross for one second. “They’d be in so much fucking debt. They wouldn’t be on a money-making journey, they’d be on a money-making pilgrimage .”

It’s worth it for those intoxicating giggles that shake her delicate shoulders and flush the succulent apples of her cheeks. His kiss is deep and desirous, and a balm for his wretched nerves. His strained brows relax, and the taut muscles of his back loosen. The darling cry baby is a siren that’s made for him, and she just doesn’t know it.

Her gown is the first thing to come off, her svelte body makes it an effortless task. Those gangly shoulders and legs sate his particular tastes, and set a fire in his loins like nothing else. No fruit is sweeter than little Josephine, the rare delicacy that he would take in every course, and still be dissatisfied with the portions.

Few things are more rewarding than taking that suit jacket off, and loosening the suspenders and tie afterward. Blissfully free of his clothes, he takes her weightless body and lifts her in his arms, before moving to his bed.

Oh, he can feel the lips between her thighs clinging to his arousal, teasing him with a sheen of sticky moisture. It’s a kind of sticky that he doesn’t want to wash off of his skin. He cups her backside, and slides himself between her silky thighs.

“Do you know what to do, cry baby?” He leans up, to whisper huskily into her neck.

He takes her slender arms, and wraps them around his neck. The sensation of her short nails on his hairline.. his shiver is covered by a low groan, when it’s she who pulls him inside, grinding her hips against his. The motions are uncertain, but it’s instinct, even on the early cusp of womanhood, little Josephine knows .

In that way a drowning man might cling to the shore, he wraps his arms around her waist, covering the bruises that are already there and drawing a pained gasp from the sobbing doll. He thrusts his hips upward, his are bolder, certain . Her budding breasts bounce like two eager purslanes in the morning sun, and slotted against his shoulder, he can feel them pert on his skin.

He closes his eyes against the slow rock of her developing hips, and takes her lips in a wet kiss. When he jerks her waist down, he brings himself further inside, and her soft keen – like the coo of a dove – is lost in his kiss.

His suite is only a blur from within the cover of her beautiful, golden-red hair, cocooning him on either side of his handsome face. The softness of her pliant waist reminds him of a child’s doll, too perfect to be real skin, and too pure to be found in Gomorrah . He’s then reminded of the attempted theft earlier, and he bites her lip, before thrusting his hips with bruising force.

The resulting shriek is pretty , and girlish, and all the things he attributes to the cry baby.

Oh, when he sits up straighter, there is nowhere for little Josephine to go, especially not when he begins pumping into her hard enough to slow the tentative rock of her hips. Her head is left to loll on his shoulder, and her arms, to cling to his neck. Her cries are too earnest to be wanton.

He pulls her hips flush to his, and finishes inside, the pulses are maddening and blur his vision. The last pulse slackens his sharp jaw, and he jerks his hips upward one more excruciating time, before reclining back onto his sheets with the cry baby still gripping his spent arousal.

That cigarette after fucking is always as sweet as the morning’s, and the love he makes to it is as languid as the circles the cry baby is drawing on the thick curls of his legs. Her feet are as cold as her wan hands, but he is always wanting for the coolness on his skin, hot from that tension that tugs his muscles as tight as a bow string.

“What was life like as a tribal?” The bow of his lips is discerning around the cigarette, and his eyes narrow out of habit at the intrusive question, too inquisitive to be premeditated.

“I had a yurt.” It doesn’t fit the bill, but his words rarely ever do.

Oh, it’s time for church when the bells ring, when her hair tickles his chest as she tosses it back in subdued, girlish laughter, the kind where they cover their lips with their hand.

He blows the smoke away from her, and tilts his head in what might pass as guileless taunting in another man – picking .

“That can’t be all there is to it!” He takes her chin, and shakes her head side to side , so slow that it could’ve been her own motions. “ Please.. I never got to ask those questions back in Novac, nobody had ever lived that life.”

Except that Vargas bastard that came looking, but a man of few words doesn’t mention these little things. He always weighs the worth of what he’s going to say.

“Since you said please , cry baby…” Her eyes are wide with sweet, juvenile curiosity. He reassures himself that he only answers because he’s exhausted and carried away by those buzzing tingles from the cathartic smoke of the afterglow. “ Your daddy had a yurt, with beads and bone chimes on the opening. Their music is more tasteful than you might think.. I rarely had occasion to stay very long, so it was sparsely decorated.”

“Why?” His gaze darkens then, a warning. Omerta is a strict code of silence, and as the father, he makes sure it’s upheld. “It’s just.. I’ve spent so much time with you, and you took- well, you deflowered me, and you make love to me, and we do so many things together, and I feel like I know almost nothing about you. It’s.. it’s not right, to always be left in the dark with nothing to guide me.” He’s never heard the term making love sound so chaste and erotic in the same breath.

His next smoke is contemplative – leisurely and slow. The only lights in his suite are the embers of his cigarette, and the pale glow of the moon through his cracked curtains. His sobbing doll glimmers under that moon glow, and her long hair is brassy and gold, with few traces of auburn left to compete.

“Did you.. did you have kids?” The smoke of his cigarette billows from his nose, it’s a left-handed snicker, comely on his sinful looks.

“No. I can only handle one cry baby.” He leans over to the nightstand, and grinds out his spent cigarette on its ashtray, watching the smoke trail upward to the ceiling until it dissipates entirely. “Never had the chance. Your daddy was too busy, even then.. I hate children, but, I do like cry babies.”

Oh, he’s never wanted them, even if it’s expected of him as the Omerta father. Theirs is a deeply patriarchal family, where blood is still heralded as the gauge of a man’s value. He knows they’re descendants of some Roman Catholics from below the dubious border, but he would never say this to his kin. Some things are better left unsaid, and in his world, most things are left unsaid.

“They would be very pretty, you know.” It could’ve been a snake uncoiling when his lips quirk at her appraisal.

He arches one dark brow, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, caressing the skin of her jaw, whose soft curves are just now finding their angles.

“Is that an invitation, little cry baby?” Her lips form a little scandalized ‘o’, and when she tries to look away from him, he forces her to look at the cunning smirk on his supple lips and the gleaming onyxes of his eyes, narrowed like a desert fox’s watching its prey. His maker is cruel, indeed. “I may not say no to you.”

“But I am so-”

“Little? Your daddy would take care of you, then, I’d have two cry babies to take care of.” Venom should be pooling at the tips of his exposed canines. “ Si ese honor le pertenece a alguien, eres tú. ” He’s a finicky man whose standards are rarely ever met, and sometimes, not even by himself.

“I wish I had known my mama longer. Everyone said I looked just like her, except she had brown eyes.”

It’s with supreme difficulty that he could sympathize, he has no such sentimentality toward his mother or his father. A man like him has no business, or time, for that. He doesn’t explain to her what motherhood meant to the Slitherkin .

Words often fail him, and they fail him right now, so he solves it with a kiss on her sweet lips, lathering her tongue with an answer that his own couldn’t form. He pulls her off from his lap, and lays her down beside him, his is a deep kiss with a hundred, or a thousand, words inside of it.

“Did you know your mama?” She asks, when he pulls away to nuzzle her cheek.

“No.” That’s his short answer, and the truest he can give. It’s a whisper so soft that it could’ve been the draft from his suite’s vent. “Don’t waste your tears on someone else, you cry baby. I’ll always steal them back.” Those tears are blooming right now, teasing him like a spring flower.

The resulting smile is watery – melancholic, as all his exacting tastes are.

Chapter Text

Stars shining bright above you,

Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’,

Birds singing in the sycamore tree,

Dream a little dream of me.

Say ‘Nighty-night’ and kiss me,

Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me

While I’m alone and blue as can be,

Dream a little dream of me.

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss,

I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear,

Just saying this.

Sweet dreams ‘til sunbeams find you,

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you,

But in your dreams whatever they be,

Dream a little dream of me.

- “Dream a Little Dream of Me”, Doris Day

Oh, the rumble of his new coffeemaker is like music to an enervated man. An economical man has to make sacrifices for his yields, and Nero has an extended family to take care of.

Fatherhood is exhausting, he thinks to himself, with a wry, hidden smile behind his coffee cup.

Today is the day he’s been waiting for since that walk in the rain. It’s Swanson that’ll be cleaning out Benito’s coffers. He’s knee-deep in debt to the family, and he knows the price of betraying his debtors’ motives in the Tops. This one’s the winning method, one that’ll have to make its one-time use worthwhile. The swan song’s going to be to the tune of 10,000 caps, enough to keep Nipton’s operation afloat for six months, or more.

In the meantime, he’s having his men renovate the courtyard more to his liking. More apartments will bring in longer stays, maybe even tenants. There’s a shortage of real estate business in Vegas, and a man like Nero has to be prepared to tailor his products to his clientele’s needs. It’s the needs that have more wiggle room for profiteering.

He lights another cigarette, and checks the report on his desk for errors that Mr. House might catch. That mysterious goal has him busy enough that he overlooks the extraneous details, to Nero’s satisfaction.

It’s the second cup that encourages his mood into something easier. On him, any enthusiasm is as elusive as a cube of sugar in black coffee. It dissipates into a critical sneer, or the straight, stoic line of his lips, and becomes unfathomable in that handsome picture of overall vexation. Looking at him is a guilty pleasure.

He swears that his easy spirits aren’t because of the rare delicacies this morning, the hard fucking with his cry baby, but it doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. It works, because he can compartmentalize, or else he would be thinking about those full lips around him, or the damp of her thighs, like an altar standing on a pair of gangly legs that are too long for her little body.

He makes these things work.

Idly, he swirls the coffee around, and watches the grounds at the bottom of his mug, illuminated by the sun creeping through his blinds. He takes a blissful smoke from his cigarette, watching the haze play in the sunlight of his office with a thoughtful appraisal of his dark eyes. The way he lets the initial inhale linger just on the tip of his tongue – it makes him look careless, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth. His is a hallway of mirrors without an end, with enough smoke to hide the reflection.

In reality, he is a highly predictable man with clear motives, but few of those exacting plans ever leave his lips in enough detail for people to know.

Oh, that Duke Ellington melody on the radio plays so softly, that he’s almost tempted to close his eyes, but he’s a busy man. It’s The Single Petal of a Rose, one of his favorites. The melancholic notes of a piano appeal to his sensitive ears.

But no delight of his ever lasts long enough, and when the hushed voices of his men outside interrupt his process, an earthquake has less force than his clenched teeth do. He winces, and takes an irate smoke of his cigarette, flicking ash into his desk’s ashtray.

He loathes loud sounds, but he particularly loathes those tiny sounds in an otherwise silent room.

Nonetheless, it draws his attention back to the report on his desk, which he finishes and signs with a delicate, effortful signature of the regal four-letters. Embezzlement and duplicity have never been more flattered than when they’re written by his peerless left hand.

He sets the report aside and massages his temples, a soft touch from a man who’s not known for it.

Those whispers out in the foyer, and those fucking footsteps evoke a flattering snarl on his lips, drawn tighter than a bow string. If a glare could kill, every man of his would drop dead in less than the second it took him to fix it on that door. Its wood is too thin, but a problem has to be substantial for him to spend his time over. He knows it’s unsubstantial, and he’s a man of reason – so he does nothing, but that little vein on his forehead is protesting.

His walk to the balcony is a tedious one, and the trees he finds just aren’t bearing the fruit he needs. None of the clients down in the Zoara have the stuff.

“Get Cachino.” He lights another cigarette, and leans against the balcony, keeping a close eye on Leon, the only client worth his attention right now.

That man is a trader with connections to the far East, where the poppies grow and are painstakingly smuggled through Legion lands. He’s got the dark, leathery skin of someone from the distant lands of Dixie, where everyone’s cotton and opium poppies come from. 

With the swiftness of an impressionable man, his lieutenant is by his side. He can feel his probing gaze trying to gauge whether his mood is too choleric to try to impress. Nero purses his lips into a straight line. It makes him look severe, but really, he is just uncomfortable with being stared at.

“Go and chat up Leon, get him into my office by the end of the hour.” An approving quirk of his lips does away with any seditious urges the piggish man might have. He’s more cautious in his dealings with the family than he is with clients.

The family is to be venerated, but it isn’t to be trusted. When loyalty has to be brutally enforced, these things have a way of happening on their own. That’s the way of the Slitherkin, and the way of the Omerta. It’s the type of family he cultivates, and it keeps everyone in line. The hierarchy is viciously efficient and cutthroat, and too sacrosanct to cross.

When Madam Pompadour was on the ballroom floor…

His grip tightens on the railing, watching the cry baby laugh at some vapid punchline Layla is telling her. That is one worker he really doesn’t want the cry baby talking to. That one is perverse, more so than the others, given the sordid inclinations he entertains. He is also a man, despite having the symmetry of a woman.

Said all the gentlemen ‘obviously, the madam has the cutest personality!’

But Layla is at least half of a man, and has the keenness of one, for he senses Nero’s glare before anyone else, and looks between he and little Josephine before wisely deciding to excuse himself for the Brimstone. At least he isn’t in his bawdy, black leathers today. The last thing Nero will tolerate is having the cry baby see the hint of another man.

And think of all the books about Du Barry’s looks, what was it made her the toast of Paree?

Only after that lecherous lady-boy is gone, does sweet Josephine grace him with a pair of large, twinkling gemstones, the stars of his prestigious collection. The cry baby has no tact, for she waves an innocuous hand at him in greeting.

Why are certain girls offered certain things like sable coats and wedding rings, by men who wear their spats right?

His only response is an arch of his brow, before taking another smoke, and assessing that chat between his lieutenant and Leon.

That’s right! So don’tcha say I’m smart and have the kindest heart, or what a wonderful sister I’d be!

Only four dancers are out at this time of the afternoon, much to his relief – the music is only ever loud when there are enough unwashed bodies seated in the rows of chairs.

Just tell me how you like my… ‘personality’!

A lewd song. Tasteless save for the cry babies who don’t understand it, like the one sketching him downstairs. Her hands are so languid, and her touch is so mild, that he almost envies the pen its privilege. But he is a man of reason, and turns his attention instead to the cigarette between his twitching fingers, before crushing it on the balcony’s ashtray and exhaling his last over the railing.

While he watches the two men chat, his tongue rolls over those sharpened incisors, it deepens the hollows of his cheeks. It’s not supposed to be sultry, it’s just the fabric he’s cut from.

Oh, every time he feels her stare on him, he’s tempted to change his course by running an undressing glance over the cry baby, and watch her full lips form a scandalized ‘o’ shape afterward.

Shortly after he makes sure Cachino is following that inarguable directive, he returns to his office and pours a small glass of whiskey, nursing it to some soft saxophone number playing behind him. With no other interruptions, he can cross his legs at the ankles, and recline into his chair with Proust in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

The very thought of you, and I forget to do the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do…

His lips quirk at Bowlly’s crooning, so rare in Gomorrah. Only Mr. New Vegas has those prestigious tunes. Doubtlessly, they’re from Mr. House’s private collection, uploaded onto his many holotapes.

I’m living in a kind of daydream, I’m happy as a king, and foolish though it may seem…

The afternoon sun is a warm, orange glow on his otherwise cold beauty. Not even the sun can warm those sharp angles.

Why to me, that’s everything.

To pull the kind of gimmicks he does, a man has to be uncomfortable, and he is, even in these slow hours when he has a chance to catch his breath and relax his tense brow.

The mere idea of you, the longing here for you…

If he was comfortable, he might be tempted to think nothing needs to change. In these golden years he’s established for the family, he’s learned that while fatherhood is rewarding, it’s a thankless task, and a job that never ends. But if it did, only cigarettes would be able to busy his fidgeting hands.

You’ll never know how slow the moments go ‘til I’m near to you…

He takes a slow, indulgent drink of his whiskey, without looking away from the pages of his book, weathered and fragile from the passing of two centuries. Every book of his is a rare find, but even Nero can’t be too picky about the quality of his books out here.

Oh, but the peace never lasts. There’s a knock on his door, and underneath it, he can see two shadowy footsteps shuffling outside.

As with the rest of his precious stack of treasures, he hides his book in his desk, and lights a compulsory cigarette for the discomforting chat he’s not looking forward to. He becomes even more terse and unpersonable when he doesn’t have something to keep his hands busy.

“Come in.” He calls. He never raises his voice, it’s an unnerving detail in his arsenal, but it’s only because his ears are sensitive.

In comes piggish Cachino and the leathery trader from Dixie, an unclean man whose visit will leave tracks of dirt and other things on his carpet and couch. His fingers tighten around his cigarette when that predilection turns out to be true, when Cachino doesn’t just usher in a wealthy southerner, but a trail of dusty footsteps and the smell of cheap liquor.

Just one impassive stare at his lieutenant is enough to shoo him away. His wince is imperceptible behind his cigarette, caused by the slam of the door. Cachino has no awareness of these things, his tribal is not very inner at all.

“You can sit on the couch.” It’s supposed to be a polite suggestion, but there’s no room for it in a man like Nero. It sounds too imperious, and too serpentine to be honest.

Only his men speak with Leon, the Dixie trader with friends in the far East. Normally, Sal would take care of these things, but the more sensitive negotiations are done by the father.

Oh, but Leon doesn’t know that this is a negotiation.

He’s no salesman, he doesn’t have the glib despite that handsome sneer that’s always lingering on his supple lips. What he does have, is a thorough knowledge of how money works, it’s a study he’s spent years undertaking now, and he has the looks, and the determination, to sell it.

“Your man Cachino said you wanted ta talk to me? Yer Nero, right?” He takes a deep smoke then, blowing it to the side and away from his desk.

“Yes.” He swallows then, it’s a sensuous bob of his adam’s apple that distracts him from the nerves. “How long does it usually take your friends to get here from Dixie?”

The terse way he speaks isn’t supposed to take people aback, or turn them into stumbling clients, but he is a tactical man of many angles. The sparse sunlight catches his eyelashes and bathes his face in a comely glow, without softening the hard glass of his jaw. He could very well be an angel, if he hadn’t read the Bible.

It’s his unwavering stare, not his gift of gab, that always has answers spilling. His silence acts like a segue for other men’s confidence to gush out like water gushes from a dam.

“Usually… oh, four to six weeks in a Brahmin convoy.. business is slower in the winter.” Leon’s eyebrows shoot up, in that way all gossiping old men’s do when they’re revealing something people don’t know they need to know.

Nero keeps a straight face. His cards are like personable smiles and welcoming handshakes – they’re things he never shows.

“Always slower in the winter.. roads are dangerous on the long stretch of north Tex. That Caesar feller..” The old man points the finger of a gossip, a redundant gesture. Nero’s jaw tenses and grinds dangerously behind his lit cigarette. “Now he’s gone and done a whole lotta misdeeds, hear, but who hasn’t? That man is keepin’ the roads in the Arizonas spiffy. Ain’t no trouble movin’ anythin’ through the roads west o’ Tex-”

“Anything? It sounds very generous of Caesar to allow anything to pass through his lands without trouble.” Nero is succinct. He’s the kind of man who can say a hundred things in the short span of a few words. It’s an effortless finesse.

“Well, I wouldn’t say anything. They ain’t too keen on shinin’, not even the stuff that comes outta the Appalachians, no tobacca either. Gotta be careful.” He taps his nose then.

He checks the clock on his desk, only to find that it’s 20 ‘til 5. He eats dinner early, it’s better for the gut.

“I have a proposal for you, señor.” He leans forward to crush his cigarette in the ashtray then, exhaling smoke out of his nose. “The family needs lágrimas amapola, and we’re prepared to compensate you for arranging a deal for us.”

The other man breathes a deep, raspy breath, and relinquishes his stare to the window, but Nero keeps his fixed. His scrutiny is untenable.

“Mm, morphine then? Thought fer sure most of y’all’s out here came from California. Not a real bad idea ta look ta Dixie for it, more competition out there between plantations, which means better prices ta us middle men.” He looks back at Nero then, but diverts instead to the more pliable wooden desk. “Yeah. Yer family’s been fair with me, I’ll be yer middle man fer the southerners. Now, uh, what kinda compensations are we talkin’ about?”

He leans back in his chair, it’s a languishing posture on any other man. His long, pianist fingers stroke the skin of his jaw. It makes him look devious, but it’s really that his fingers have nothing else to do.

“We’ll give you 5% of our morphine sales, a place to stay when you’re on this side of the Mojave, and we’ll even spare you two of our guard to protect your caravan, as a gesture of good faith.” His eyes are as dark as sin while he makes that tantalizing deal, they compel the other man to look.

Oh, but what Leon doesn’t know is that he has two very expendable men that were only recently inducted through Las Visiones. He makes sure that he is the only one winning the game. He’s a hundred miles ahead of everyone else playing it.

“When ya say 5%, what are we talkin’ about?” Nero doesn’t underestimate people. A father’s hand has to be strong for his children and for outsiders, in equal measure.

Few can equal to the cunning of Nero. Who’s his rival? Certainly not the old and weathered Leon.

“Roughly 1,200 per bulk sale. Think on it in your suite tonight. Come by tomorrow, 1 PM sharp, and we’ll put it on paper.” The custom, to his deepest misfortune, is to shake hands upon completion of any deal. But even a reluctant spider has to leave its web for bigger catches, so he takes his weathered hand, and swears he’ll be washing his own afterward.

When he’s alone once more, his relief is so thick that it could be cut with a knife. For all the nerves he swallowed during that chat, he’s going to be compensated.

But then, yet another knock. He runs a hand over his eyes and down his straight nose, that Julio-Claudian gift that just keeps giving.

“Come in.” He says, but he’s left his chair, because a solemn man like him has to take action where words fail, and he doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea – that he wants to chat for longer than it takes to get to the fucking point.

The assault rifle is like a child’s blanket across his chest, and he runs his fingers along the sleek metal to placate those agitated twitches.

It’s Mateo, and he’s the man of the hour, because no one else is getting his time tonight. He’s the lieutenant of his right hand – the one who keeps his left in suspense. Like anyone in the family, Mateo is a relative of his, a half-brother, and he almost has the looks to show for it, if his nose was straighter, or his shoulders broader, or his hair as black as midnight. Only a critical eye could see the resemblance.

As it is, his build is too sturdy and inelegant to rival Nero’s, but his mind is sharp enough that he’s given management of more delicate tasks than running his casino’s operations. There is an expectation that because he is brother to the father, that he is treated with more privileges.

When the door is shut, Mateo approaches him, for no one can be too careful here. Nero looks away uncomfortably, having one of his lieutenants whisper into his neck is something he doesn’t want before dinner.

“Hit it big. 15,000 caps! You fucking genius…” He lets it go, because Mateo is flippant and useful.

Because he can’t stomach having him breathe into his neck any longer, he leans back to assess Mateo’s face, and removes he and himself from that stifling space.

Oh, now he can breathe again, and it could’ve been the slow undulation of a serpent when his lips lift at one secretive little corner. His eyes glitter with greed and disdain, two ebbing little cocktails of the darkest brown. His glare is one of triumph, just like that handsome smirk at the corner of his lips, a nasty sight on any other man.

“Fine. Have Sal bring his earnings to our vault.” But Mateo’s stare is only eager, wanting for the rare praise of his older half-brother. “Bien hecho. Estoy orgulloso de ti, hermano.”

He only appeases him because the circumstance calls for it. Otherwise, he has no familial affinity for little Mateo, those old notions serve no real purpose to a man like Nero.

“What about Swanson?” He turns his lustrous, dark eyes back to his lieutenant and gives him a perfunctory once-over.

“Have Diego take care of him. The Sacred Datura is thicker than blood or water. Do not tell Diego his… offense.” While his handler is a touch more trustworthy than every other Omerta, financial matters aren’t his business. The hierarchy remains intact at all costs. “Keep it hush.” His whisper is sensuous, it’s because of Benito’s heavy loss. “Inform the women I’ll have two dinners served in my suite. Este momento, shoo.”

That cigarette is almost as sweet as the sight of the cry baby, that darling woman-child spinning circles with Sarah in the lounge, a dance that shouldn’t be half as lascivious as it is.

He reassures himself that he’s not mesmerized by little Josephine, he just wants to count the gold that’s being spun underneath the orange glow of the Zoara’s lights. He takes a deep hit from his cigarette. Today has been fruitful, and he’ll be taking his next delectable fruit in a short while. She’s occupied with her whorish friend, but he waits and considers how Benny will recover from this.

The Tops will have to redirect its remaining assets to the theater instead, while they wait for those coffers to fill up again for their gambling clientele. Benny’s not a long-range thinker, he only thinks of the immediate, so Nero expects that the checker-suited bastard will throw a tantrum for Mr. House, and be dismissed shortly after for having no evidence.

He feels a pair of eyes on him then, and looks down to find the cry baby pulling away from Sarah, to send him a small, guileless smile – two pretty rows of white teeth, they summon him to the primrose, and he follows them to its meandering end.

He knows the whore is her friend because she wants that association to the father, a privilege no other worker has. That Sarah is sixteen has nothing to do with it, because Sarah is a whore, not a blushing pubescent flower.

Like rain seeps into the crevices in a concrete sidewalk, smoke billows outward from between his long fingers and surrounds him in a remote space that no one else is privileged enough to share in.

Wah! I feel good!

His shoulders shake, and he winces around his cigarette. Those are the disturbed movements of an already disturbed man, and James Brown is his cue to leave. Tonight’s show is starting, and a sensitive man like him doesn’t need to be told twice.

A suggestive jerk of his head is enough to have the cry baby say her goodbyes to the whore, and collect her drawings. He still hasn’t gotten his Christmas drawings, she’s dreadfully slow and meandering in that vein of charming fickleness all little girls have.

If he smokes a little harder, he can usually stomach the sound of his casino’s unruly clientele and distastefully loud music. That’s the only thing keeping him on earth when he takes Josephine’s arm and makes that last walk to the elevator. Half of his problems would be solved by moving his office to his suite floor, where he could work undisturbed.

It’s with great restraint that he doesn’t reach behind him and shake his guards’ shoulders for breathing too loud so close to his neck. But Nero isn’t a fucking madman, and someone has to have restraint in Vegas.

Ding!

The first thing he does when his door is locked, is take off the suit jacket. It’s always the first thing to come off, as stifling as it is. It isn’t that he’s not triumphant, it’s that he doesn’t rest on his laurels. Having 15,000 more caps isn’t anywhere near the end of this long road he’s speeding down.

It’s his suspenders that follow, and the neat tie afterward – he can breathe again, and he does. A deep, phlegmatic breath that’s so intoxicating that his head spins long enough to make him rethink that little indulgence.

Oh, but he’s a connoisseur of little indulgences, and his favorite is sitting on his bed, about to remove his socks, comically large on her pretty feet.

“Let your daddy do that, girly.” Her large eyes wander over him then, like a stag caught by a particularly hypnotic predator.

He sits on the edge of his plush bed, and pulls her ankles into his lap. They’re two knobby junctures that lead to the cleanest, prettiest pair of feet he’s ever seen. His hand trails down the smooth skin, it’s a pale dusk over a canvas of pure, virginal white.

His fingers hook around the sock, and he watches her lips part and hint to that blushing velvet inside. The cry baby is more pliant than a child’s doll. She has the charming beauty of that craft, but a breath that supersedes it. A child’s doll has much to learn from her.

The hem of her gown skirts up her slender thigh when he takes the bare foot to his lips, and at her long intake of breath, his dark gaze snaps down to her own, forcing her to look away in disgrace. As her grace is his to safeguard, he takes it as jealously as he took the blushing flower between her legs.

His tongue is as dexterous as his fingers, and slides over her toes while his supple lips suck and his sharp teeth nip at the skin, inspiring a series of involuntary giggles that shoot straight through his chest and down to his navel, where they wait to be tended to.

She wiggles her toes, trying to retract her foot like any ticklish child might. She doesn’t understand that this only tightens his grip on her ankle, and further thickens that arousal below his hips.

Oh, it’s like a sea of sweet nectar, the way her chest rises and falls like waves in the throes of her girlish pleasure. He releases her toes with a pop , and runs a tongue down the flat of her pale foot, keeping a tight hold on the ankle she jerks so tantalizingly.

From there, he maps his way up her calf and over her lithe thigh, running his sharpened incisors over the delicate skin, still bruised from this morning. His darling is always a fresh canvas for his particular delights. A finicky man must have his standards, and these are his. He pulls her frilly panties aside, and runs the flat of his tongue over the lips of her thighs, blushing pinker than even her cheeks.

Oh, and she always tries to escape when he dips his tongue inside , but she’s never fast enough, and nor does she want it to stop. It’s those virginal sensibilities that still linger and beckon him to his undoing. Her cries are like the coo of a dove, and she is desperate if its lovely heather wings can fly.

Those tight russet curls tickle his nose, and he draws beguiling little circles over her lips with the same fervor he usurps her sweet tongue. He is palming his arousal, and trailing upward to her neck when one of his workers knocks on his suite’s door.

His sharp jaw tenses, and he glares the stuff of murder at her blameless neck.

The cry baby’s cheekiness sees fit to run her foot down his navel, with a childlike playfulness that almost undoes Nero more effectively than he can tolerate.

“You’ll get yours, little cry baby.” He whispers into the side of her neck, and nips before lifting himself off the bed.

There are dark, roiling clouds over his shoulders when he answers the door, unseen save for the disparaging darkness of his eyes. Lightning has less urgency than he does when he takes the two trays from Delilah, and closes the door with a resounding kick. He is an impatient man, and he loathes his privacy being disturbed, especially when he’s making the most of it.

Little Josephine comes to collect her tray, but his gaze lingers on the one, uncovered foot, the unsuspecting song of a siren who doesn’t know her allure.

“You should eat standing. It’s better for you.” But the hint of her inner thighs makes him rethink his advice, that derisive suggestion that’s supposed to be informative, but never is.

He flips the switch on the radio, and cuts into his tenderloin, bloody and tender to his liking. It’s good for his iron intake, and he’s fastidious about his nutrition.

“Why are we eating up here tonight?” He mimics the innocuous little gulp she takes of her juice, pleasantly sweetened with the succulent nectar of the agave.

“Why not?” He arches a brow, and forks a mouthful of potatoes. “It’s quieter.”

She blinks up at him, undoubtedly rehearsing some saccharine monologue in her head.

“Why do noises bother you so much?” He reassures himself that he loathes questions, and it’s just that he has all the answers.

His thought process is delicate, and strained by sounds, sensations, and bright lights, he doesn’t expect anyone to understand these conditions on his sensitivities. His chewing is slow and risque, the meal before the gorge.

“Your daddy’s a busy man. I dislike interruptions in my work.” He finishes remarkably quick, and looks down to find her only halfway through with her meal.

In the meantime, he has that after-meal cigarette, and pours himself a finger of whiskey from his shelf. The dim glow of his dresser lamp turns the liquid into a fire that pales in comparison to the sobbing doll’s hair. Nonetheless, it delivers that dryness that he likes, and the next smoke hits harder.

“I’d gladly move the earth fo’ you, to prove my love and it’s worth fo’ you..” She sings along with the Fats Waller tune on the radio, in a sweet, soprano cadence. “If that isn’t love, it will have ta do!”

“Pretty voice.” His praise is gruff around his cigarette, and he leans one arm on the dresser while he watches the cry baby pick at her food in between verses.

“I never heard it before New Years.. I always like it when Mr. New Vegas plays Fats Waller. He had so much rhythm and soul. And he’s so.. funny.” He’s funnier. But he’s not going to be jealous of the long-dead Fats Waller. He’s a man of reason, he assures himself. “Listen baby! I’d even die fo’ you! I’m ‘bout ready to cry fo’ you!” Her laugh is like a tinkle of little bells, but the only witness to his resulting delight is his cigarette.

“Can I try?” She suddenly asks, pointing one thin finger at his glass.

His dark eyes narrow into two sultry slits, and he rolls his tongue reflexively over his canines.

“What’ll you give your daddy in return?” He looks down at her over the rim of his glass, watching the languid breaths that escape her full lips.

“Well, I.. I’m done with my drawing of you, and I’ll give you my dragonflies too.” He arches one dark brow, the kind that a father does before he chastises his daughter. He licks his lips, and takes another hit from his cigarette.

“Done.” She wipes her hands off with a clean rag, and closes the space between them, eyeing the forbidden treat. “You’ll have to take it from me.”

That stubborn pout is back, her full, blushing lips do it a service.

His is the stare of the devil when he’s about to collect a due, mercilessly fixated on every hesitant path of those tawny, exploratory eyes. He tilts his head in curiosity, but his good looks are too left-handed to accommodate so pure a notion.

Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open it to speak, are you smart?

It isn’t that he can’t resist leaning invitingly into the cry baby’s guileless touch when she tugs him downward, nor is it that he can’t resist parting his lips in indulgent expectation. He swears it’s exhaustion. He doesn’t spare a glance to the ashtray he’s grinding his cigarette over. He exhales his last smoke out of his handsome nose and to his side, never dropping his eyes from hers. His focus is legendary.

Don’t change a hair for me, not if you care for me…

Her kiss tastes like agave nectar, and he remains still, testing her to see if she’ll give him the rare delicacy.

Stay, little Valentine… stay!

Oh, and she does. She scrapes her teeth along his lower lip, and with discreet pleasure, he allows her to take it. He never loses the game, though, so it’s his grip on the glass that loosens. He lets her take it, with a brassy grin that remains on her lips before she takes a sniff of the rim, curling her nose at the sharp, woodsy smell.

For each day is Valentine’s Day…

She takes one tiny sip, and that face she makes is the same likeness as biting into the bitterest citrus. She coughs, and pretty tears bloom at the corner of her eyes. He takes the glass back, smirking at her behind the rim and downing the rest of it.

“That’s disgusting!” The pink of her cheeks is from the liquor, and he knows she’ll feel a hint of it in a few minutes. The cry baby has never drank before. “How do you drink that? It tastes like.. like how I would imagine turpentine to taste.”

He sets the glass down, and his stalk is deliberate when he backs her onto the bed.

“Smelling turpentine, are we?” He purrs into her neck, lacing his arms around her waist. “That’s no haunt for a cry baby.”

“I use it to clean my brushes..” He inhales from her neck, a hot breath on cool skin.

“Let daddy see your drawing..” His suggestion is unexpected, it’s the smoke and mirrors that surround him. It isn’t supposed to gauge her coy desire, but he is a man of a hundred angles. He makes these things work.

He steps away from her, and watches the skittish doll toss him a shameful glance before taking her papers from the dresser. She sits on the edge of the bed, and he follows after in that way a jeweler follows the sparkle of gold.

That girlish flush of her cheeks is suddenly hidden by that soft curtain of red and gold, and just like he parts the curtains of his suite, he tucks a few strands behind her ear, and lingers there to touch.

“These are my dragonflies. I don’t have any color for the critters, but..”

“They’re mine. Time to pay up.” With a gentleness he often denies himself, he takes the paper from between her fingers and inspects the critters.

They follow the same naturalist schemes that are in his classification charts, those hard-won booklets that lesser men could never appreciate. Little Josephine’s hand is steady, and she has a passion for the flying critters, and their painstakingly elaborate wings, portrayed on paper with the unfettered devotion only a whimsical child could have.

He’s no expert on little girls, but he knows they’re not usually serene enough to work a pen like this.

“Very pretty, cry baby..” Words fail him, so he instead treats her with a rare, snakelike smile. It’s his savior. “Les das vuelo…”

Next is his drawing. He rests his chin on her shoulder, and displaces the red-gold strands of her hair with every breath.

“This is yours.. it’s some of my best, I think. When you looked down at me from the balcony on New Years, I felt like I had to go back and make that face again. And since you smoke so many cigarettes, it only felt.. right, to give you one.” She is rambling and nervous, and he silences her with a nip at her ear.

In the cry baby’s eyes, he is a Mephistophelean devil, and every steady angle of his jaw is drawn in that likeness. He is leaning over the balcony, though the details of it are less developed than his supple, frowning lips, or his sinfully dark eyes, or the neat, black curl that always rests on his forehead, boyish if he were another man.

“You must think I’m handsome, cry baby.” The drawing does him justice, and he will guard it jealously as he does its creator. “Is that it? Do you think daddy’s handsome?”

“Why would you-” It’s her stubbornness, she’s offended on behalf of her art. He didn’t intend for his remark to be so biting, but a man of few words has even fewer options.

“Shh. Let me have it. So that each time you refuse to call your daddy handsome, I can show it to you, as proof otherwise.” He pulls her chin to him then, and takes a kiss from those sweet lips. She closes her eyes, and he sets her drawings down to pull her onto him.

He offers her no more words, his sensuous lips offer more than his words ever could. When he parts her thighs, she knows what comes next, and he takes her leg to hang onto his broad shoulder, exactly like a flower hangs out of a basket, and with just the colors to match.

Chapter Text

Don’t cry, cry baby,

You’ve got no reason to cry,

Don’t cry, cry baby,

I never told you a lie.

Someone said we were three,

And you believed it could be,

Someone was teasing you,

‘Cause nobody heard it from me.

I oughta thank you, cry baby

For even having such tears,

But let me thank you, my baby

For feeling I’m worth all your tears.

I don’t mean maybe

When I say I’ll always be true,

So don’t cry, cry baby,

‘Cause I love nobody but you.

- “Don’t Cry, Cry Baby”, Harry James and His Orchestra

It’s that time in Vegas when rain comes down as regularly as that heavy stack of money on his desk. The cold and drizzling weeks of late January and early February were once the enablers of his finest pickings. It’s the prime time for theft out in the deserts.

A thief can never really quit the habit, though. A man has to have his weaknesses, and his is greed.

His greed embodies specific criteria for rare, beautiful things.

He watches the rain from his suite’s window, leaning one sinewy arm on the pane and following the path of those fat little raindrops that streak down the glass. The neon lights of Vegas are a myriad of red and white blurs, inscrutable. But he’s seen them enough that he knows the sign behind each one. His keen senses are rivaled by none. Certainly no one he knows.

It’s shadowy and quiet in here, and the only sounds are the soft page-flipping and brew of a coffeemaker. His suite’s vent is blowing hot air, a dreadful thing that robs his skin of moisture and dries his sinuses. That lone black curl on his forehead sways underneath the draft, and the smoke he takes is a concentrated one.

Oh, there’s few pleasures more refined.

From his window, he can see one of the far corners of his casino’s expansive courtyard. It’s easy to get lost in those droplets of rain bouncing on the pool’s surface. He takes another smoke, and crushes it in the ashtray before lighting another one with his coffee.

Those 15,000 caps fast became untraceable when he signed that deal with the Dixie trader. He’s quick on the draw like that. The family’s morphine business is now the most profitable in all of the Mojave, and he’s expanding. He has a reputation to uphold, and Nero never stops.

And because his idea of a man’s reputation differs from other men’s, he’s getting into real estate, and he’s not telling House about it. That bastard might be the cleverest he’s ever met, but they’re just not compatible. It’s bad for his ego.

The Khans have been knocking on his door lately, and he’s been letting Sal answer it until today. They want an audience, and they don’t know he’s a busy man. He’s going to give them ten minutes, and within those ten minutes, he’s going to show them how they broke their contract. He knows his way around them at this point.

A clause or two, or three, that he’s not unpurposefully broken himself just to tease the Judas out of them, because the Khans are only half-literate. Perfidia. His own brand is so becoming that it’s addictive – everyone keeps coming back for more.

Regardless, it’s his off day, so he’s making it as happening as it can be. In Nero’s world, that means peace and quiet, and a book or two. He’s a voracious reader and can finish the thickest in a day.

The swallow of his coffee is deep and purposeful, unintentionally brooding, especially when that steam flatters his dark eyes above the rim. It makes him look dangerous, but in reality, he is only aggravated. That incessant page-flipping is beginning to rattle his nerves, and he takes a long hit from his cigarette so that he doesn’t give into that burning temptation to shake her shoulders until she drops it.

Oh, he is torn between pulling her hair and making a song request, when she begins humming that new favorite Fats Waller tune of hers. It’s the same intense episode of passion that all children have toward a new, novel word or turn of phrase. Hers is an earnest passion, dreamy and enigmatic as no gangly girl of four foot nine should have. People are usually at the bottom of his priorities, but he often prioritizes the cry baby. Few things of his are as priceless as his darling.

He reassures himself that he’s just too busy nursing his cigarette to reprimand her, but he can’t lie to himself. He likes it.

“Make it Duke Ellington or don’t do it at all.” But he is still very particular in what he wants to see and hear.

It has the effect of pouring cool water over a roaring fire, and the embers that remain are those incessant page flips. He let her borrow Poe, age-appropriate stories that are melancholic enough for the sobbing little doll. If he plays his cards right, it might even provoke her pretty tears, for his pleasure only. Satisfaction guaranteed.

He crushes his cigarette into the ashtray, and reclines on the bed beside her with a magazine in his hand. It’s one of those health and nutrition magazines that the prewars made too many copies of. But he likes coming across fruits and vegetables he’s never heard of, and adding them to the various classification charts he likes to study.

The kicker section of the magazine is that segment about tribal life in the Yucatán, where the reporter meanders about the virtues of their simple life. What that fucker probably doesn’t know about are the inelegant struggles that make their bodies stronger and taller, like malnutrition and ritual scarring, and elaborate deliriant rituals.

Nero doesn’t reminisce those days. They weren’t exactly generous to his sensibilities – those high standards that have been compelling him for as long as he can remember. Reflexively, he rolls his tongue over his sharpened incisors. They complement the cunning edges of his good looks, but they make teeth-grinding a hazardous habit to have. It’s just one of many of his.

A sniffle breaks his concentration, it’s like the scent of blood to a snake, and his head snaps to her direction. Although the brassy red curtains hide her sobbing eyes, he sees her shoulders shaking, and looks over them, only to find The Raven. It’s an early Valentine’s gift, those tears are the gifts that never stop giving.

“Let me see.” He leans in closer, and takes her chin. He’s the supreme aficionado of the sobbing doll.

And what he sees never disappoints. His men could learn a thing or two from sweet Josephine, but they’re not vivacious little girls that set his loins ablaze. She refuses to look at him, instead trying to hide her face behind those lovely waves of hair. But he only tightens his grip, and sets his magazine down because this is an art that has to be appreciated with both hands.

The rain beats harder on his window, and a strike of lightning engulfs his entire suite in brilliant white light for the second it takes to wipe those tears off with his finger. He didn’t get this far without being an opportunist. It’s those natural sounds that don’t bother him, like the roaring thunder that follows afterward.

He doesn’t long for the tribal years, but he still reveres those gods in the sky. He doubts they care much for him, though. His is a handsome fixture that inspires envy and begrudging respect, not warm fuzzies. He is a difficult man to love, and even more difficult to know.

“Let daddy kiss them away, cry baby.” Her defiance is resolute, ashamed and upset, but his hands are stronger, and his lips, more desperate.

Her soft skin is a succulent fruit whose nectar sings to him, leaving him with no other choice than to run his tongue from her full lips, up across her round cheeks, and to the alluring tears that still cling to her lashes.

“Giving Poe all of your tears?” His question is less like one than a taunt, it’s a gift-wrapped little souvenir of a sinfully low voice that’s always only a few notes away from a whisper. “He cried a lot too, but none of his tears were as pretty as yours.”

That pouting look she gives him, with puffy, hazel eyes brimming with tears.. it’s picture-book, and it’s not just his eyes that collect it. His loins also stir, the cry baby never understands why, but he doesn’t expect her to. Nero doesn’t expect anyone to understand those patrician tastes that have no business on any other former tribal.

Their kiss is the triumph for Nero, and the sweet applause he gets is her small hands pushing him away from her, but he grabs those too, and deepens the despoiling only to find his lip between her teeth, a faulty, virginal defense. His resulting growl has the same force as that thunder outside, and though she tries to wiggle away from him, he’s faster.

He slots her body against his, and when her back is on the sheets, she has nowhere else to go, and has to look up at him. He didn’t get this far without being greedy.

“Please, stop making fun of me! You remind me of-” His smirk is slow to appear, and if it wasn’t so dark in his suite, it might’ve been a trick of the light. “Stop!”

It’s no longer a sob that wracks his darling, but a wail, and on anyone else it would look wretched, and his handsome sneer would be their only consolation. Her body is a small, delicate flower that shakes under the winds of a rain shower. The tears leave her puffy eyes quicker than he can collect, and he is left only to hold her body against his, and pet her long, pretty hair while she cries into his shoulder.

“Shh…” He tries to calm her, but it only comes out as a whisper from a lover.

Her hands cling to his Oxford, staining it with tears, but he might overlook it this time. She is clean, he makes sure of it every morning. Because he doesn’t know fuck-all about little girls, his hand is dead weight in her hair, and goes completely past the inconsolable doll in his arms.

“I wanted to be a painter…” She sobs into his shoulder, and not even the prettiest leaf can do those quivers any justice.

Another round of thunder rumbles through his casino, and its comfort is miles better than anything he can give. His idea of comfort isn’t exactly conventional. But he’s never let anyone cry into his shoulder before, into that broad, sinewy privilege that few people ever get to have or hold.

“You can still be a painter, Josie.” It’s supposed to be comforting, but it only pushes the frequency of tears up.

Day by day, I’m falling more in love with you, and day by day my love seems to grow…

This time it’s Jo Stafford who sings to fill in those blank spaces his words leave behind.

I find that day by day, you’re making all my dreams come true…

“No.. how can I be a painter, when I’m your whore?” His jaw tightens at that, and he takes her watery chin in his hand to force her to look up at him.

I’ m yours alone, ‘cause I’m in love to stay, as we go through the years day by day…

“Who the fuck told you that?” He loathes when she comes with questions about words his workers use. She looks away guiltily, while his fingers trace the tears falling down from her lashes. “Christ. Whoever told you that is no friend. Do you think daddy would let a whore live up here with me? No, think about that more next time you parrot whatever those real whores said to you.”

Her lips are salty with tears when he steals a kiss from them, idly petting her hair.

It’s a classical shortcoming of Nero’s to hesitate, but it always serves to make him look brooding.

“Your daddy’ll get you some paints..” That whisper could’ve been the gentlest hiss from a snake, it doesn’t suit his disposition. “And this’ll be the most happening gallery in all of Vegas.”

Hijacking those tearful hiccups are the stubborn hints of laughter, and he swears that he smiles only because of the rare indulgence of seeing two of her prettiest emotions cross her baby doll face.

“Do you promise?” She rubs at her eyes, giving them an even pinker flush around the edges.

He leans downward, and brushes his nose against hers, a gentle nuzzle on another man. Every sensuous movement of his lips on hers is a language that she’s too little to understand, but it’s those unspoken words that he’s better at communicating. A solemn man like Nero has to have something that he can rely on.

“Yes, I promise.” The lightning that strikes afterward gives his promise more ostentation, it has the same effect as the flourish of his dexterous hands.

“Will you.. will you stop making fun of me?” He smiles a secretive smile, shit-eating, in any other scenario.

“I just might, if you play your cards right.” He leans onto his side, and brings her closer to him, curling one arm around her slender waist.

“But.. I’m really bad at cards.” He snickers that, a sinful exposure of his sharp canines. “Can you teach me how to play poker?”

His dark gaze snaps to hers, his has a frisky gleam, if derision hadn’t claimed them years ago already. No one challenges him to poker. Occasionally when that blue moon comes around, he’ll play a few games with his men, and remind them why he is the Omerta father.

“Playing poker with daddy isn’t wise for a cry baby. My wins will be so stacked that I won’t be able to reach over and wipe those tears from your eyes.” His restless fingers drum on her clothed hip. “I don’t think you’re prepared to cash in my poker chips anyways.”

He lifts her dress up her hips, hoisting it above her waist, until he can hook a finger around the frilly underwear that matches the blush on her cheeks. He runs one long finger over the damp sticky between her thighs, and with his free hand, forces her to look at him.

“Or, you are?” When he dips one finger inside, the cry baby can do nothing but wrap a desperate hand around his forearm, and relate the dove’s coo to his sensitive ears.

Oh, it’s a wicked tease to have her sex cling to his finger like that, it entices him more than leather or lace ever could.

Only, the dexterity of his fingers allow him to coil and uncoil with a finesse his arousal can’t. It’s the gift he gives before those paints he’s promised. He’s an economical man.

Out of that sweet, girlish instinct, she curls one gangly leg around his waist, and gives him that unspoken permission to slide his fingers deeper inside, before curling them in a tight, come-hither motion. Her parted lips are his to take, and he takes them with a merciless slither of his tongue.

Sweet Josephine is too tender to resist this delicate assault – she tenses and tightens around his long fingers that move in a way that is supposed to be generous, but is only violent on him. He rests his forehead on hers, and watches the pretty flash of desperate emotions that are too earnest to be wanton.

Then her muscles loosen, and the leg that’s hanging onto him slackens, and she is still caught between a silent scream and clinging to his forearm. Her brows are two golden feathers that are trying to touch, scrunched together over a pair of puffy eyes that still carry the stain of tears. A cry baby’s mascara.

It’s then that he unzips himself, and plunges inside, holding her svelte thigh for leverage. The cry baby is as inconsolable as she was only minutes ago, but he considers himself an expert where cry babies are concerned.

He sinks his teeth into her collarbone, and bites before thrusting hard enough that he gets himself a laurel crown for Nero. Both of her arms wrap themselves around his neck and splay over his head of sinfully black curls, where her fingers lather through them and coerce a series of sensuous hisses from between his clenched teeth.

“Ugh..” He groans when she tenses around him, and his grip on her waist will bruise. He’s something of a painter himself.

He runs a hand down through her backside, that delicacy he would never touch on anyone else. But the cry baby has never had another man inside of her, and he’s safe. He teases one finger inside, and the thrust of his hips grows more and more indelicate when her response is to slot her hips against his to resist the abrupt and sensuous intrusion.

Oh, but how it undoes him is laudable. His eyes flutter shut, and it’s his seed that he thrusts inside of her, to the cry of a dove beside him. He doesn’t mean to push all of it inside of her, but he’s efficient in every matter he undertakes. Someone has to be.

When he withdraws, he can feel the product of his slow, sultry undoing, running down the wan skin of her thigh and disappearing into his dark sheets. His sheets are due to be cleaned tomorrow anyways, and he reassures himself that this is why he’s not wasting one of his dangerous snarls over it. In reality, he is entirely spent, at an entirely too early time of the day. Those Khans might get the better end of the stick, after all – if Nero’s composure remains spiffy.

As is, not even the cry baby can make him more approachable or pliable. When he makes his mind up about anything, he sees it through. Nero can’t afford not to.

“Daddy’ll get those paints for you tomorrow.” He wants to reassure her, because he’s got something to prove. His reputation’s on the line.

“Aren’t they.. expensive, or harder to find?” Her voice is scratchy from cooing.

“Remember I said I’d take fucking all of Pluto’s money? That bastard finally paid up, and now you can get your pretty-”

“Acrylics. That’s the-” He is almost insulted.

“I know what acrylics are, cry baby. Pluto’s money’ll cover that.” He winks at her, it’s one of the scarcer gestures in his sinful repertoire. Her bemusement fast becomes those honeyed giggles that would stir him if he wasn’t already spent.

He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket, and lights it with a flourish of his hand and a pop of his lighter. He takes a deep smoke, and blows it toward his bed’s canopy, watching the lazy swirls and reclining on his pillow.

“Can you blow rings?” That smoker’s cough covers any bewildered, raspy chuckle that might’ve made its way out.

That contemplative quirk of his brow is like a confession of joy for Nero, if indeed he’s ever been satiated enough to feel it. That’s the only reason he acquiesces to the cry baby’s curiosity, a rabbit hole that has no end.

But he doesn’t smoke to do magic tricks.

All of me, why not take all of me?

Nonetheless, he blows a few rings for the sobbing doll, and he’s reimbursed by the wondrous gasp of her lips, and those two twinkling eyes widening in juvenile astonishment.

Can’t you see I’m no good without you?

“What do I get for it?” His are the words of an undulating snake. “Everything has a price..”

Take my lips, I want to lose them! Take my arms, I’ll never use them!

His darling woman-child is timid, but when she isn’t, she is cheeky and stubborn. It’s her cheek that earns him a hesitant kiss on his lips, and a pair of willowy arms straddling his shoulders. She gives, and he takes, because he’s never been wasteful. He holds his cigarette away from her, and lazily dashes it on the nightstand’s ashtray before holding her chin and taking another kiss from those sweet, bruised lips.

You took a part that once was my heart, so why not take all of me?

He’s a busy man though, even on the least productive day in a year’s time. None of his rare pleasures are abundant enough for him to indulge himself for very long, and when he leaves the bed, the sun has already stolen back the sky from those dark thunderclouds. That’s yet another pleasure he can never have for very long.

“Where are you going?” She asks, still lounging on top of his sheets.

“Why? Missing daddy already?” He asks from behind a cloud of smoke, letting his cigarette dangle between his teeth while he ties the best tie that ever graced this city.

He grinds his cigarette against the ashtray, and takes one, longing look toward the window, and then to his bed, before flourishing his suit jacket and twisting his arms into it. He regards himself in the bathroom mirror, straightening his tie, and adjusting his jacket, before emptying his cup of water.

“I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

Oh, and he can’t forget that sleek Smith & Wesson. That familiar action of checking the safety, and slinging it over his head and chest is what quiets the nerves that are already firing in his hands and feet. This meeting could get ugly, but his trigger finger is faster than any Khan’s.

At this time of the day, just 10 ‘til 1, his casino is blessedly quiet. Noon is that awkward middle man when business is slow, if there’s any business at all.

The lights of the Zoara flash and strobe even at this time, and when one flashes in his eyes, his handsome sneer comes right back to collect, and he lights a compulsory cigarette for special, consolatory purposes. It’s the Zen cigarette that he smokes on his way to his office, where Sal is waiting at the doorway with a few of his men.

“The weasels just showed up, and tried to get slick with some of the girls, implied they were going to kill our secretary if you didn’t show your face quick enough for their tastes.” It could’ve been nails grinding on a chalkboard, but it was really Sal’s raspy chortle that shook Nero’s shoulders.

“Mm, very chancy for a tribe to say, when it was us who pushed them into that fucking rat nest.” His men erupt into oily laughter then, it pricks at his sensitive ears, but he only takes one brooding smoke from his cigarette. “Then, we give them our business. They’re Khans, there are one-hundred better horizons in every fucking direction that’s not theirs.”

“Talc-cutting..” Mateo snickers behind his own cloud of smoke.

“Very amusing. Our rocks have a sharper edge, wouldn’t you agree?” It sounds smoother than it should, but then, he’s never had much control over his sultry voice – only the terse words it compliments. “Enough waiting, then.”

“Them motherfuckas are going ta regret complaining about our tardiness.” His right hand doesn’t have to yell for his voice to carry. It just does. “Ten inches of Omerta cock in their mouths, and their asses would start yammering about how bad they got it.”

Nero doesn’t want to laugh at that crude turn of phrase, but he’s feeling less terse than usual right now. He swears it’s not because of his walking, talking, crying art gallery.

His men follow behind him on his way to Sal’s office, a more accommodating space for filthy, dirty boots to tread, complete with two squat little couches and a table. Inside, Cachino is chatting with the unwashed Khans, and behind him are two Omertas, brandishing their submachines.

Every eye snaps to Nero then, it’s an uncomfortable sensation that he’s too familiar with to be surprised by. But nonetheless, he takes a deep, reassuring hit from his cigarette, and walks across the room with his men behind him, effectively cornering Regis and his four guys. His stride looks violent and deliberate, but it is only because he’s feeling nervous.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” But he can tell it hasn’t been that good to them.

Regis fixes him with a glare that could wither lesser men, but Nero’s just not one of them. The Khan’s got that look about his upper lip that looks like a word is stuck, and he’s trying to make it unstuck. Scandalized.

Only Omerta can scandalize other tribals. It’s because they’re harder than the rest.

“You cheated us, Nero. Papa’s heard all about your deals with other suppliers, why’d you go southern, huh?” The next smoke he takes makes him look more patient than he actually feels. “Then we hear you’ve got yourself another place. Our only agreement was that your people would take Khan shipments. Nothin’ to say?”

But Regis knows better than to start another war his people can’t finish, and wisely, he waits.

“Yeah, we got a thing or two to say to you, you fuckin’ weasel. Our agreement was quality, you done broke it before we ever did.” It’s Sal who speaks first. It’s his job, to say what’s on Nero’s mind, and while his standards are too high for Sal to meet, he sometimes comes close.

He probably comes closer more often than Nero’s willing to admit.

Sunlight streaks through the office window then, but not even the sun can warm that handsome derision on those severe angles of his face. It should be illegal.

“That was never part of-” The only witness to that quirk at his lip is the smoke billowing out from between his fingers.

“Yes it was. Talc contamination? That’s not quality.” He crushes his cigarette into a ceramic on Sal’s desk, and supports either of his lean arms on it, locking his legs at the ankle. “Come back with proof that it wasn’t. We didn’t break anything, because you can’t break something that’s already broken.”

The Khan’s face turns comically red, and he makes that face that all men do when they’re about to lose to Nero . They always purse their lips into a straight line that would look so much more comely on he and himself, then the y mimic that wretched foxlike narrowing of the eyes, unsightly.

“You.. you fucking cheat.” From the corner of his eye, he can see that his men are already brandishing their weapons, including droopy-eyed Sal, who looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

He wants this to be over with, but he wants to end it carefully. Omerta has a lot of enemies, and exactly no friends, it’s one of those lingering traditions that’s passively survived through to the golden years.

“You better believe Papa will get his pound of flesh over this one, you snake. You can’t keep fucking people over without having to pay a price, and believe me, you won’t.”

“Is that a threat?” Mateo asks, but Nero’s too busy winning a staring contest.

Oh, and when Regis’ gaze is coincidentally pulled away and given back to his man beside him, he knows he’s won.

“It might be.” But it’s too impotent to carry any weight.

Nonetheless, he’s already preparing for any backlash. He’s going a hundred miles faster than anyone else in this room. Who are his peers? Certainly not any of these men. A few customers up near the mountains might run them further into the ground, and force them to act. And it’s economical, too.

“Threatening me in my own casino?” His fingers stroke the Smith & Wesson almost lovingly, if he were anyone else. It only serves to make him look menacing. “Well, if that’s all you came here for, shoo.”

He stares down his nose at the right hand of Papa Khan, and waves his hand dismissively.

“Haz que se vayan, pero dispara si es necesario.” He lights another cigarette then, and is followed closely by Sal and his guard as he turns to leave.

Halfway down the foyer to his office, he hears a struggle, but it ends before any shots can be fired. A vein throbs on his forehead, and his adam’s apple bobs at the nervous swallow he takes. He makes sure there’s only ever one option to choose, it’s a hindrance that’s classical of Nero, but he makes these things work.

Chapter Text

Have you ever heard two turtle doves

Bill and coo when they love?

That’s the kind of magic music we make

With our lips, when we kiss.

And there’s a weepy old willow,

He really knows how to cry,

That’s how I’ll cry in my pillow,

If you should tell me farewell and goodbye.

Lullaby of Birdland, whisper low,

Kiss me sweet and we’ll go,

Flying high in Birdland, high in the sky up above,

All because we’re in love.

- “Lullaby of Birdland”, Ella Fitzgerald

An abrupt knock on his office door disturbs that close attention he’s paying to the next month’s business plan. It’s the cry baby, answering a summon of the Julio-Claudian kind.

He turns the radio down until it’s just a low chatter behind him, as unnoticeable as the whipping winds outside his window pane. It’s the first hint of Spring in the Mojave, when the winds pick up and the sunlight grows warm but not unbearably hot. It never lasts long enough, nor does Winter.

Rays of that lukewarm sunlight peek through his blinds and turn his dark good looks into that of a fallen angel’s.

“Come in.” It’s a touch more inviting than when he calls his men inside.

It’s becoming more common for him to call her in here. He swears he has some greater purpose, but it just doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. In reality, he just wants to see her.

The knob turns at the gentle twist of her hand, and in comes the sobbing doll, who’s beaming at him. She’s become a happier doll since he gave her the acrylics she needed for her painting. His darling is a painter – he wakes up to art in the morning, and finds it on his desk.

The thick strands of her hair are plaited into two comely little braids, and it only makes her cheeks rounder.

Oh, they’re trying to find their angles, but it will be years yet until they’re taken over by the sharp tells of womanhood. Womanhood would treat her better than it does others, for those two budding breasts will never grow very large, and those hazel eyes will never grow any smaller. Hope springs eternal.

She slides a sheet of paper onto his desk and blushes like he is a teacher who is grading her. He grinds out that cigarette he’s been holding between his fingers like an incense stick, but not before taking one hit from it. He blows the smoke away from her painting, and gives it a cursory glance.

The Omertas under his employ could learn a thing or two from the cry baby, for she rarely ever disappoints.

That sheet of paper has already brightened his day, but he’d vehemently deny it to anyone who asked. Nero doesn’t give praise lightly. On a blank background are two mourning doves, one smaller than the other, and tucked into one another like the old adage about those pretty songbirds. Their downy feathers are beautifully elaborated – and the gray shades lend them a gossamer sheen that’s prettier than any spider’s.

His smile is more secretive than it is appraising, but isn’t for a lack of trying.

Those doves’ eyes are as black as his, and behind them are the outline of two delicate little almonds.

“Precioso, como tu.” He rolls his tongue across his canines, and fixes her with a stare as dark as her doves’. The cry baby is waiting for her grade, and those round apples blush pinker under his scrutiny. “So beautiful, that I’m afraid.. daddy will have to keep it.”

Oh, he almost envies her teeth the privilege of biting that pink lip.

“I’ll let the painter see it, of course. If she pays the price.” He then quirks his head to the side, and points to one sharp cheek with his finger.

Then, she comes behind his desk, and wraps her arms around his neck before pecking him with a sweet, tantalizing kiss. But a man like Nero didn’t get this far without seizing moments. And he seizes this moment by seizing her waist, and pulling the beaming doll between his thighs and onto his lap. Her squeak shoots straight down to his navel, and that light, girlish laughter is the icing on his cake.

But he is a busy man. He gets her where he needs her to be, lounging somewhere between his thighs and leaning her head back onto his shoulder. He can then return to his work, to those plans he’s outlining for next month’s business.

The radio croons softly behind him, and the draft of his office blows the cry baby’s hair into his nose. He blows it away, and refocuses his attention back on the terminal.

Lonesomest whistle, is the whistle of the train that’s taking my baby so far away…

Gomorrah’s courtyard is still being renovated to accommodate more apartments, and he’s planning on leasing them to traders that operate locally.

The awfulest feeling, is the feeling of the pain that fills my aching heart, breaking heart, everyday.

And when the family reopens its pool for the warmer weather, the Strip’s tourists won’t forget that theirs is safer than the Masks’. Business is going smoother for the family than it ever has, and the stack of money on his desk gets larger every morning.

When she gets to Chicago, I’m afraid she’ll tarry there, should she stay in Chicago, she may forget her promises and marry there…

The cry baby grows still in his lap, and her head reclines further into his neck, right below his chin. Idly, he runs his free hand down her arm and over her waist, where it stays and curls into the soft fabric of her dress.

Oh the lonesomest whistle, is the whistle of the train, the train that’s taking my baby so far away…

Although his hands are busy, his lips are free to graze the exposed skin of her neck, and he’s never been the kind of man to turn down a winning opportunity. He nuzzles her soft jaw as lazily as he plays with her waist, leaving him only one hand to type. A man with his sinistral looks has to have the left hand to prove it, and that’s his hand.

To the Slitherkin, it was considered a blessing from the snakes they revered. His handler still believes he’s gifted by the sly, slithering gods of their tribal years. Old habits like those take a long time to die for his kinsmen.

In reality, being left-handed can be a hazardous shortcoming at times, because the prewars just didn’t make things for hands like his. But he makes it work, like anything else.

Those Khans know exactly how he makes things work, they’re learning it right now, if his men know what’s good for them. He’s expanding his business into the mountains. He’ll have the family be the only suppliers in the Mojave in four months’ time. He knows competition is good for making money, but he can’t let it go on for more than the five minutes it takes to learn he has competition.

He knows that the worst they’ll do is take action, and then his hand will be forced to knock them out of business permanently. His kin have been at war with every single tribe in the southwest at least once – and multiple times with the Khans. They don’t tend to keep friends for very long.

Careful not to jostle sleeping Josephine, he lights a cigarette, and reads and rereads his terminal entry at least five times in the course of a minute.

Friendship can’t be built on begrudging respect and envy. That’s just rivalry, and he doesn’t have any of that. The only man who might come close is Benito, who’s been kicked out of the game for awhile. Gamblers don’t go to casinos when they have problems cashing in chips.

He takes a thoughtful smoke of his cigarette, it brings attention to his sultry, concave cheekbones. The skin is smooth for a man of thirty-four, and it glows handsomely under the sparse rays of sunlight pouring through his office. Luciferian.

Dinner’s about thirty minutes around the corner when the cry baby begins to stir. It’s the brush of her backside between his thighs, a gentle and innocuous movement that earns her a hiss through clenched teeth, and a deep, ragged breath afterward, right into the pale skin of her neck.

“What time is it?” Her question is scratchy with the deep sleep of children, and the yawn that follows would be unsightly on other women.

“30 ‘til 5.” His response is less clear between that cigarette and the thickening between his thighs.

He’s a man of reason, but he rethinks that when she stretches her arms, and grinds herself against him, and he’s left to wonder if it’s cheek, or naivete. But he can’t help wrapping his arm around her tighter, and meeting the coy motions she’s making with her slender, developing hips.

That smoke almost finds itself in the ashtray before it can be finished, but he’s not a wasteful man. He nurses it, while he chases his half-undoing at the clothed gap between her thighs, holding her flush to his lean chest.

Her kiss is sweeter than agave nectar, and if that nectar was priceless, he’d be tempted to believe he’d just been given some. He sets his cigarette in the ashtray, letting it billow upward like incense, while he wraps either arm around her waist, and cups her supple backside.

But he is a busy man, and he’s not going to have his men outside be enticed by the coos of the sobbing doll. He’s singularly greedy with his favorite things, and he doesn’t share them with anyone.

It’s him who pulls away, and trails his dark eyes over her face, down her neck, stopping at where he knows her navel to be. Her full lips are bruised and colored a dark pink, a natural rouge that whores only dream of. He wraps a finger around one of her braids, and is torn between thoughts of Papa Khan and real estate.

“You’ll get yours later, cry baby. Daddy has work to do.” His fingers drum a rhythm over her waist. The triumph of Nero.

The regal four-letters have never been more flattered than when he stole them from that fat, towheaded motherfucker.

“But I’m.. I’m bored.” Her brows scrunch like an aggravated child’s. He takes a deep breath, and it’s too steady to be sincere on a man like Nero.

He’s reminded that he doesn’t know the first thing about little girls and what they’re entertained by. The cry baby is his for keepsake, and he’s taken care of her for months now, but it’s these little things that go past a grim man like him. His idea of entertainment is singular.

“Well, that’s too fucking bad. You’re staying here until we go up.” He clenches his teeth at her attempt to wiggle away, it only makes him feel hotter.

“Why?” She asks, but he only slides her away from his thighs, because someone has to have restraint around here.

“Because daddy said so. Stop squirming, we’ll leave after dinner.” To her detriment, because he’s not letting her get away with that stunt she just pulled.

It’s a rare delicacy, to hold onto the second course before dinner, and he swears that his teeth have never ground so hard in all his long, uncomfortable years. It isn’t the same gnawing angst he feels when he senses a few pairs of eyes on him, though. This is a kind of pliable discomfort that winds him up with as much ease as it winds him down.

Fatherhood is a thankless task. Holding little Josephine without sinking his teeth into the rare fruit will never earn him any recognition, because the cry baby doesn’t understand her power – it’s the remnants of her virginal allure, that tantalizing thing that even Nero couldn’t steal away.

A knock on his door steers his gaze away from his terminal.

“Go get those.” He tells her, because he won’t have anyone think Nero can be distracted. When she refuses, he taps her thigh, and nudges her off of him. She turns, only to treat him with a childish little glare that’s too stirring to have any real force behind it.

Their meals are nearly identical, except the cry baby always gives him her bread, on those occasions where he takes dinner with her. Just below him, she picks at her food like one of her doves, poking around it, only to shove it down indiscriminately. Such displays usually disgust him, but few of hers ever do.

There are always remnants of juice or fruit that lingers on her lips. That pair might be the only blushing flower that doesn’t wither under his attentions. Among his many talents is gardening.

Oh, how the evening sun turns her hair into a color that’s even more vibrant. Even the sun envies his darling for the hair that seems to outshine its own burnt oranges and brassy golds. One of her braids is hanging down her back, clinging to the sweet skin like a leaf that doesn’t want to shake. The other teases her cheek with loose strands of hair that her ribbon just doesn’t want to restrain.

He finishes his meal in just enough time to watch her make a slow meal of the baked yucca, wrapping her lips around it, and revealing a set of white teeth to bite. He lights a cigarette to calm those twitching fingers, and his eyes are sinfully dark while he watches her through his smoke-filled sanctuary.

Oh, his only defense is to cross his legs at the ankles, and indulge that throbbing waiting game going on between his thighs. His pleasure is to let it burn him as hotly as the sun that his darling’s hair was stolen from.

“Taste good, cry baby?” On anyone else, his voice would be a strangled husk, impotent and powerless.

He wants to know if she licks her fingers in front of other men when she eats in the Zoara, but he’s not a fucking madman, and if she does, there’s nothing he can do about it. His eyes narrow dangerously at the way her lips wrap around her lithe fingers, suckling the juices off of them with a languish only a little girl could have.

“I’m not picky with my food.. Martha’s always a good cook, she even gives me second helpings of cornmeal churros at breakfast. She knows I can’t have bread, but I don’t think the others do.” She lathers her finger one more time, and removes it with a pop. “We never.. had food like this at home. Normally, I had breakfast with No-Bark, but he was.. well, a really.. uh.. his cooking was an acquired taste.”

“That’s because he was a schizophrenic madman, little Josie. He probably swapped salt for sugar.” Her lips form a scandalized little ‘o’, and he arches one quizzical brow that’s more derisive than it was supposed to be.

“That’s not true! He just grieved his wife, and he wasn’t a madman. He was just unique, with unique ideas.” Her cheeks are flushing, and she wipes her fingers on the reusable napkins that every casino has.

“Mm. You can be unique without being el loco. He’s the one who told you that the communists have spy devices built into neon signs? Well, daddy’s never seen that, and daddy was a tribal who’s been to lots of happening locales.” He takes a smoke then, and exhales out of his nose, in every direction but the cry baby’s.

“But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen things. You don’t have to be so… close-minded, there’s a whole world full of critters and things we can’t understand.” His lips quirk around his cigarette, and he takes one long smoke before grinding it in slow circles in the ashtray, never cutting his gaze from little Josephine’s.

He scoffs, exhaling his last and locking his terminal before leaving his desk.

“I’ve seen the most important bits, and I understand most of what’s going on out there. It’s only wondrous from far away.” He takes either of their trays, and pulls her up by her wrist, before opening his office door.

Only his right hand is allowed into his office when he isn’t there, so he sets those trays down beside the doorway for privacy’s sake. He can’t stomach the thought of a whore rifling through his belongings, especially his books, precious treasures that’s taken him years to collect.

That tiny wrist in his hand is all that consoles him on the elevator, that dreadfully enclosed space that inspires murderous, swarming insects in his stomach. Even his frown is plush, though. No displeasure ever manages to break those looks of his, they’d be illegal in a lawful city.

Ding!

When his door is locked behind him, he takes off his suit jacket, and loosens his suspenders, even taking off his belt because that’s been torturing his throbbing arousal for almost an hour.

It’s only the cry baby that’s surprised when the first thing he does is take her chin, and press a hot, wet kiss to those full lips. The nerves of his work day are far behind him, and the dim light of his suite is warm enough that his eyes can stop straining, and his dark brows can halt that tension headache they’ve been creating since this morning.

He takes her hand, and trails it down the tense muscles of his stomach before wrapping it around his hard, thickened arousal, straining at the zipper of his suit pants.

Oh, the pulse is deliciously painful when she palms him gently, and pulls back to grace him with her wide, curious eyes, framed by two thick braids on either side. It’s her stubborn hesitancy that he adores, and he is the sparrow once more when he nips at her bottom lip, and works to unzip his pants.

Not even the cool air of his suite can simmer the heat pooling in his loins, especially not when she wraps one, uncertain hand around him and tugs. His groan is that of a drowning man who can breathe again.

“With your mouth, cry baby.” He sweeps a finger over her lips, which promise a warm, velvety tongue behind them.

Her knees are shaky when she finds herself on them, her look is a close relative of that endearing one she gave him when she set the two doves on his office desk.

A hint of that pink tongue catches his eyes when she parts her lips, and takes him as shallowly as he might expect from the skittish doll. The way her tongue moves is unsure of itself, and clumsy enough that it hits all the right places on accident. Hers is an effortless finesse.

His hand finds itself around one of her braids, and tugs her scalp behind it, bringing himself further inside, and hissing a snake’s sibilance. She chokes, but he doesn’t demand from her throat too harshly, Josephine is no whore.

He undoes his Oxford and tie, and throws it into a neat pile beside his dresser, while keeping a grip on the back of the cry baby’s head. He thrusts his hips forward, and she pushes against his thighs with her hands, but to no avail. That’s when he feels the gentle scrape of teeth on him, and he’s almost undone. He thrusts into her lips with the same pleasure he thrusts into the lips between her thighs.

Nonetheless, he refuses to give the cry baby the same treatment those men would’ve given her on her auction night. Nero loathes the idea of rapist being on the dotted line next to his name. His darling is no whore.

So he pulls out of her bruised lips, and wipes some of the wetness off of her lips and chin, with a touch that might’ve been tender on another man. On him, it looks fastidious.

On the bed, he lays her on her stomach, and that plunge of his hips between her thighs resounds with a sweet slapping sound that his sensibilities couldn’t possibly despair. To the tune of a few light chirps, he wraps his arms around her waist, and thrusts himself deeper inside, to the resistance of her tight muscles.

He can now wrap his other arm around her shoulders, and pull her up for an assessment of her soft neck. His lips make short work of that pale expanse of skin, and flatter it with his sharpened incisors. Hers is a canvas that he can nick but never scratch, and one that’s pliant enough that he can bend over and despoil without harming the delicate beauty he admires.

His nose is caught in the loose strands of her braid, that girlish arrangement that tickles and excites him in equal supply.

It isn’t that he can’t resist further despoiling, it’s that his hips have a mind of their own when their thrusts become rougher, needier, eliciting sultry sounds below and around him. It’s these sounds that he never forgets, they’re the only comfort for an uncomfortable man.

He takes her chin, more violently than he intends, and plunges his tongue into her parted lips, tasting the delectable agave nectar from her last meal, as well as that musky scent he rubs on his pulses everyday. Between his cigarettes and his musk, there’s little room for a singularly cry baby scent to linger beyond the smell of agave and soap.

Oh, the way she flexes, it doesn’t end at the tight muscles of her stomach. He feels it around him, and thrusts hard enough that he’s gifted with a whimper no whore could ever emulate.

His movements grow more and more ragged, like a serpent that’s in danger of losing its prey. And just like that serpent, he coils even tighter inside of her, and releases with a low growl into her lips, lost in the depths of her throat. The fire in his loins is reduced to only embers, and he pulses before slowing entirely, and grinding his hips lazily in the afterglow.

Their kiss is wet and sensuous, slow and unhurried. When he parts from her, it doesn’t take long for his legs to make short work of that case of cigarettes on his dresser. He watches her slowly climb further onto the bed, and remove those lovely braids from her hair, fingering the gentle waves that follow.

With a lit cigarette, he returns, and leaves only his nightstand’s lamp on. He removes his suit pants before climbing onto the bed beside her, leaving the ashtray on the sheets.

In that hazy afterglow of a low lamplight and an indulgent cigarette, he can recline until his back is flush against the plush mattress, cocooned by the sleek, satin sheets. The cry baby joins him a minute later, with a curious light in her eyes that reminds him of a child about to poke and prod at an insect.

He’s preparing for a string of guileless questions without any rhyme or reason to give them a predictable pattern. Unlike him, the cry baby is unpredictable, it’s her age.

Her palms are like a pedestal that hold her pretty face on display, cupping at her round cheeks while she stares at him with an innocent wonder. Her arms are so delicate and knobby that he wonders how the priceless piece of art doesn’t shatter. The four foot nine, sobbing doll has no business being as graceful as she is.

“When did you start smoking?” He smirks around his cigarette, and dashes it against his ashtray for good measure.

His dark, hooded gaze snaps down to hers, and he’s feeling more gracious tonight than usual – less terse.

“Three years ago. I hated the smell at first, but there are worse.” The orange glow of his cigarette turns his dark looks even more sinister.

“Can I try?” She takes one look at his cigarette, and then up to him.

Oh, he’s been especially undone tonight for even considering letting her try a cigarette.

He takes one deep smoke, and blows it away, before holding it between his fingers and offering it to her. Like a skittish cry baby, her hands shake when she takes it, looking to him for guidance.

His resulting scoff is too delighted to be condescending. Nonetheless, makes a gesture with his fingers, and motions with his sultry lips an inhale. His canines glean in the lamplight when she takes it between her lips, and looks over to him nervously, before mimicking the motions he taught her only seconds before.

Marvelous.

Little Josephine winces before she can even inhale – not that she knows how to inhale – and blows the smoke over to him, with the cough of the plagued. His response is one of those rare, full laughs, reserved for those instances which he can only count on one hand.

“Pathetic.” But it isn’t said in bad humor. He takes the cigarette back from her, and works on finishing the rest of it.

Tears are still blooming in her wide eyes when he chances one more look down at her, and snickers at the series of coughs that he can only christen with the word precious.

“Come here, you pathetic cry baby.” He blows his smoke away from her and grinds his spent cigarette into the ashtray before setting it on his nightstand. He takes her in his arms and slots himself against her chest, still clothed in her gown. “Nauseous? It’ll pass. Bet you never want to try it again, hm?”

That citrusy wince is still pulling at her lips. He brushes his thumb over the lower lip, and teases the bottom row of her teeth. When she shakes her head, his smile is as left-handed as the cock of his dark brow.

“No way, hm?” He slithers out in that teasing way a father reprimands his daughter. “Don’t look so put out, cry baby. We all pay the price for our curiosity.”

Finally, she manages to eek out a sound that’s too melodic to be disgusted.

“How was I supposed to know it would make me feel so.. sick? Why does it make you feel sick? Why would you want to feel sick like that all the time?” He draws his finger down her lip, and watches it spring back like the peel of a ripe fruit.

“Because nicotine is an insecticide, cry baby. But.. you stop feeling so sick after a little while, by then it’s just a sick little habit that has no business on cry babies.”

She pouts over that for a few long moments, before coming up to rest her head on his pillow, idly running her fingers through the thick curls on his chest. His gaze follows her closely, darkly.

“Do you love me?” His jaw tightens at that one short question which he’s never been asked before.

That hesitance that’s characteristic of Nero weighs thickly in the cool air of his suite, it makes him seem brooding, but he is only caught off-guard, in that way he vehemently avoids just as he avoids being in close spaces with others.

His occupations, both as Slitherkin and Omerta made him unavailable, and it isn’t as though his kin have ever encouraged saccharine notions like love, theirs was the hardest tribe in the southwest – a highly patriarchal society that left no room for warm fuzzies. That is exactly the kind of family he also cultivates, because these notions aren’t profitable to a man like him. The family is one of players, who gain from the lesser men who are taken with the idea of lust.

“Si te amo, eres la primera.. mi chiquita. No podría amar fácilmente, y es aún más difícil amarme a mí.” English fails him, so often does that vulgar first language as well. “I adore you, mi chiquita. Cada respiración es más fácil contigo cerca..”

“What does that mean?” He scoffs then, and takes her lips in a short kiss, before turning his lamp off.

“Learn Spanish, and you will know.”

Chapter Text

I’d work for you, I’d even slave for you,

I’d be a beggar or a knave for you,

And if that isn’t love, it’ll have to do

Until the real thing comes along.

I’d gladly move the earth for you

To prove my love and its worth for you,

And if that isn’t love, it’ll have to do

‘Til the real thing comes along.

With all the words dear, at my command,

I just can’t make you understand,

I’ll always love you darling, come what may,

My heart is yours, what more can I say?

- “Until the Real Thing Comes Along”, Fats Waller

The Zoara’s lights flicker and die, followed by a lone, bright spotlight, that highlights his sly handler, a man who was born to cheat and perform. He’s a little man with enough agility and chutzpah to compensate his size and fragility.

Nero fishes a cigarette out of his suit jacket, and is met with the flip lighter of Mateo, his flippant half-brother who is too useful to dismiss to the ground floor. Besides, a man of few words has to pick his battles wisely.

Tonight was not the father’s idea, but Sal’s. It would be ingenious, if he hasn’t thought of a hundred other things that would be more cost-effective. Simply, it’s an ostentatious show meant to boast of the family’s success these past few months, and to lure clientele that wouldn’t otherwise spend their money at Gomorrah.

They can certainly afford it, as the wealthiest family in Vegas, and perhaps all of the Mojave. But a critical eye like Nero’s is always looking past the silver lining for what should be.

It was Sal who invited performers from Reno, a swing band that performed reiterations of prewar hits, most specifically Glenn Miller, that delightfully antiquated perfectionist who could make even Nero hum along. In privacy, of course. Nero doesn’t hum.

Oh, but the crowd does, and it’s causing his sensitive ears to prick to attention. He tucks himself further into his cigarette, and runs a cursory side glance over to the cry baby, who leans on the balcony a few feet away from he and his men. It’s unwise to have her so close to him in front of other people, but his greed is exceptional, and there are too many people down there tonight.

Bushels of coppery wheat must have been stolen just to weave her hair, and it shows in the long, thick waves that cling to her arms and her back. It gleams golden in the glow of that single spotlight. This is one of their first age-appropriate shows, one that the cry baby will understand. Cry babies don’t understand burlesque. Her excitement is a potent thing, it turns her lips up at either corner, and even touches the hazels of her eyes, glittering with anticipation.

The cry baby sees it as something of a birthday present, since the four foot nine doll is turning fifteen in only a week’s time. He swears that he didn’t buy and wrap a new set of acrylics for that, but it doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

A red show curtain parts to reveal a band of twelve. The brassy gleam of two trombones makes his jaw tighten and flex around his cigarette, and his eye roll is so decadent that centuries past, it would’ve been a criminal offense. Their bandleader is a tall man, but he is as unsightly as Glenn Miller himself was, with a pinched little face and two red cheeks that don’t belong on a grown man.

He sneers, an elegant souvenir of Nero’s biting criticism.

“Allow me to introduce to you the Reno Melogents, from our family to yours.” His handler passes one hand to his chest, right over his heart. “I would tell you that you could bring your lovely children to our show tonight, but… well..” The audience laughs, it’s like music to the little man’s ears. These kinds of displays give him a nosebleed. “Come and introduce yourself, Arthur.”

The audience, as well as the cry baby, claps. His is somewhat less enthusiastic, on account of those nerves that make him rethink attending. In fact, he questions if he’s even there. These men he’s surrounded by are no peers of his, and those loud applauds below are so overwhelming that he questions if they’re human at all. And himself, for that matter.

“I founded the Reno Melogents two years ago. My dream has always been to reintroduce brass sections to the audiences, and pen sheet music in the same style as the great prewar songwriters. But like any bandleader, can’t deny I have a real love for the classics, so I thought I’d bring them to you tonight.” He clears his throat then, and tall Arthur recedes a few inches under the cheeky attention of Diego.

“Wonderful! I’ll give you the stage then, but don’t get too clingy. She’s my love.” Another round of applause. His tension headache disperses from his brow, to his forehead, where a single black curl hides a nervous sheen of sweat.

His handler bows flatteringly to the bandleader, and reassures the audience with a few suggestive bounces of his brows.

From here, he can hear a few indiscernible whispers passed between the band members, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see little Josephine trying to get a better look at the band by leaning over the balcony like Juliet.

Another cigarette is lit by Mateo, and a flash of red-gold slides closer to him on the balcony, coming to only two or three feet away from him. It’s a safe distance if smoke is clear. He trails his dark eyes down her body, but instead of reprimanding, he takes another smoke, and blows it off the balcony.

“You can never get enough of Noble. Let’s start with something very old. The Very Thought of You, of course.”

The ivories start tickling in that familiar number, and a plain-looking man enters from behind the rest of the band, dressed in a beige, pinstripe suit with a little flower tucked in its jacket pocket. He gets cozy in front of the microphone before tossing a patented showman’s smile at the audience.

Instead of the violin he’s heard in the original, the brass section picks up a soft harmony, it’s somewhat more tasteful than others. He takes a deep smoke and prepares for an unromantic blare, the hard fucking of Al Bowlly.

“The very thought of you, and I forget to do… the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do.” The singer licks his lips then, “I’m living in a kind of daydream, I’m happy as a king… and foolish though it may seem, why to me, that’s everything.”

Those big cry baby eyes flatter the crooner, but Nero isn’t a madman. Even still, he’s a close relative to the mythical dragon on behalf of his stockpile of gold.

“The mere idea of you, the longing here for you.. you’ll never know how slow the moments go ‘til I’m near to you. I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above.. it’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love!”

Oh, that’s when the brass section blares, just as in the original. He retreats into the silky smoke that shadows his handsome face, and risks one glance at the cry baby to find her cooing along with a lopsided grin on her full, pink lips.

“It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you… my love..”

She claps along with the audience, the flattering, wondrous attention that only his darling could give. There’s a quirk at his lip, but blessedly, it remains hidden, like the nerves he’s feeling. His savior is the brood of his shoulders, and the critical arch of his brow.

His workers make small conversation with the attendants, serving drinks and mixing cocktails at the bar. To his discreet pleasure, there are no lewd displays tonight, perfectly age-appropriate and suited to his particular sensibilities.

“And now, a little number from Shaw. Stardust.” The bandleader waves his arms in a flash of motion that only worsens Nero’s headache.

Oh, but he can never complain about a clarinet.

He’s in the middle of taking a deep, consolatory smoke when the cry baby gets closer to him. His glare is flinty enough to spark a clearing, but a man of few words has to be careful with the few he tells.

Little Josephine takes his wrist, shaking it somewhat, making that face that everyone makes when they want to whisper something in his ears. That grind of his teeth is dangerous when he leans down to acquiesce – the rare privilege.

Pop!

It’s not that near, metallic sound of a flip lighter, that music that follows him around in every single hour of his waking life.

Oh, it’s not a flip lighter at all. His horror is muted and classically Nero when he looks down to find the cry baby’s lips parted in a silent scream, clutching at her stomach, where a light red is blooming beneath her fingers.

He catches her before she falls, and hears the orchestra halt, and sees a flash of long, dark hair when Layla manages to apprehend the attacker. He pays no close attention to that, because his focus has always been a touchy thing. And it is difficult to pay any mind at all, when the passing of time slows so dramatically that it doesn’t belong in real life.

“Nero..” She manages to whisper, clutching at his suit jacket with bloody fingers. He has no soothing words, he never does. He’s angry about it this time.

He supports the cry baby by pressing a strong hand on her wound, and looking to his men, who are already filing down to the ground level, doubtlessly scoping for any other attackers. But Nero ’s attention remains on the doll, who at once, becomes the bleeding doll in his arms. He once imagined that any thing would look beautiful on sweet Josephine, but he decides that blood isn’t one of them.

His heart is beating out of his chest, that inner angst has grown into a stampeding herd of deathclaws.

“Get a stimpak and gauze! Now!” Nero never yells, but his urgency is so thick that it could be sliced with a dull knife.

Because the cry baby cannot die. Certainly, his dearest pleasure, that doll that stirs his loins, that woman-child he adores, can’t be as fragile as his wry thoughts have always suggested.

“Going to fix you, cry baby. Don’t fucking die.” He grabs her chin, and fixes a look at her that’s more poignant than fearful.

She holds on tighter to the lapels of his suit jacket, smearing blood all over his white Oxford. It’ll wash, and he swears he’ll make her wash it just because he can, as proof that she’ll live. That’s the proof that a restless mind needs.

“Please Nero… help me.” Her sweet voice is little more than a strangled rasp, and though his casino is unbridled chaos right now, he can only focus on the cry baby’s desperate plea, weaker than any other she’s given.

Like a draft of fragrant air, she is weightless in his arms. He picks her up, mindful of her wound, and lets her head loll over his shoulder, while applying pressure to her stomach – anything to stop its bleeding. His long legs make short work of the basement, where the family keeps an industrial stockpile of stimpaks and other drugs.

It isn’t the discomforting ceiling lights that bother him, nor is it the dank smell of the basement or its refrigerator. His critical eye takes a backseat for this one, he can’t recall an instance where he didn’t have the time to think something derisive or wry. That fucker who banged his cry baby will pay, but what will it be worth if she doesn’t have the privilege to see it?

He lays her on the long, wooden table, and it’s Lonnie that joins him only a moment later, that pitiless rock who spends almost as much time with the cry baby as he does.

“Apply pressure here. Don’t take off your fucking hand. Keep it on there, if you drop it, you’re getting ass-fucked. Got it?” It leaves no room for argument, and when Lonnie takes his place and presses a solid hand to her wound, he can search through the freezer for a stimpak and gauze.

No gauze down in these parts, but his Oxford is clean enough. He unbuttons his suit jacket and rips the hem of his shirt, and returns with a stimpak. By now, the cry baby has grown dangerously pale, and those pretty, pretty eyes start losing their color, when they threaten to flutter shut.

His hands shake at the worst possible time when he lifts that gown to inject a stimpak, leaning down to caress her neck with bloody fingertips. She’s covered in it, and the blood has only gotten thicker, darker.

“Daddy’s not going to let you die.” But the cry baby doesn’t hear him, and doesn’t respond at all.

That’s when he panics, and checks her pulse with two bloody fingers, and reassures himself with a weak pulse. Stimpaks don’t work miracles, but they can on people who’ve never used them before.

No stimpak has ever taken longer to reach someone’s bloodstream as it does the cry baby’s tonight. Her hands are shaky when they try to grasp his forearm, it’s the motions of someone who’s desperate – someone who’s letting actions speak for them, as the cry baby has never done before.

“Do you… do you love me?” When did his eyes become bloodshot?

“Yes, you cry baby.” He whispers into the skin of her neck, and pets her hair while he waits for the stimpak to mend some of the damage on her stomach.

“I love- love you too, daddy. Please.. please don’t let me die.” He’s got that unfamiliar grief written on his handsome face. Nero’s a man unhinged. “It hurts.”

“I know, daddy’s gotten shot there before. That’s how I know you’re not going to die.” Her smile is weak, too agonized to admire the pretty tears that cling to her lashes. “What’ll we do for your birthday, hm? We’ll stay in the suite, daddy even got you a present to open. Wrapped it too, ‘cause you’re the lady of the decade.”

“What- what is it..?” She wheezes, and pulls harder at his lapels, drenching him in dark, drying blood.

Words always fail him, but his is an intimidating presence. Those fucking words will have to submit to him tonight, even if he has to steal a thousand of them from his men and clientele.

“Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise. You’ll know in the morning, daddy’ll make it an early birthday gift.” His eyes are entirely too black to be reassuring, not that they’ve ever had that elusive power.

Oh, when that stimpak is gone, he knows he’ll be getting his way – Nero makes these things work. Her skin is already knitting together, save for the bullet wound. That will have to be extracted by Mateo. That flippant brother of his is missing, he should be here, but Nero’s a man of reason.

It isn’t the wound that’s stealing her vitality, it’s the blood loss, and he turns to Lonnie then, dry blood clinging to his chin and transforming him back into that desperate, cunning tribal.

“Go find some blood packs. Now.”

When Lonnie is gone, he lathers the sobbing doll in frenzied, wet kisses, and supports that pretty red-gold head in that juncture between his neck and his shoulder. His heartbeat is like a war drum in his ears, pumping at a frequency that would give lesser men a heart attack.

Her grip on him slackens, a process that he counts in fastidious seconds. That lithe hand – the one whose fingers are too long for it, slides down his lapels, until falling onto her chest. Her breathing slows to a halt, like that calm before a storm.

Oh, if words could explain the agony. If words could explain that agony he feels when he checks her pulse, only to find silence, he might’ve been a poet after all. Fury. Rage. Grief. And that strange feeling of denial, more potent on a man of reason than not.

“No, no, no, no…” It’s too light to be reasonable, it’s that same voice a parent might use to shush their crying child.

One hand on her heart tells her what he doesn’t want to know. It’s the greatest heist of Nero , his cry baby’s life has been stolen. His fingers roll into a fist, gripping the fabric of her gown with a strength that will surely bring her back.

Nero’s thievery was legendary, but even a man like him can’t steal from the gods. And Nero doesn’t ever brim at the lids with tears, but he does. It’s anger, he reassures himself. The great cheat has been cheated. Mephistopheles has lost the bargain.

That kind of gentleness with which he takes her cool lips should be a blaspheme on a man like him. There is no resistance from her velvety tongue, there are no virginal teeth to bite him, and regret it afterward. His kiss is one-sided, and even if it went on for eternity, it would always remain that way.

It’s the last kiss he steals from her lips, before he looks into those lifeless eyes one more time, so pretty – even without life to give to them. His darling is gone, and all he can do is shut those large eyes, and pretend she sleeps, so he can give himself to white-hot fury instead.

Before he leaves, he pulls out his pocket knife, and shakily, he takes a thick lock of her beautiful hair and slices it off for keepsake. It’s a tradition of the Slitherkin , one he’s never felt particularly compelled to do until now. Not even his mother, nor his father, had the privilege of having their lock of hair stashed in the pocket of Nero.

Like he told her months ago, he is an ill omen, but just how ill can only be seen in the malintent that exposes his canines to the light, the livid brood of his shoulders, and eyes gleaming with intoxicating vengeance.

Oh, he will get his pound of flesh.

His clientele, whispering among themselves in the halls, avoids him like he is a sickness. Their vapid stares are beyond his nerves, which have been shot and supplanted by rage. That snarl he wears is wicked, it’s the thousand promises before damnation.

He bumps shoulders with countless clientele, whose roving, defensive gazes no longer move him.

Mateo waits in the Zoara, together with Sal and his other lieutenant. They look at him, then look down at the floor, then look away, like they have already rehearsed this minutes previously.

Blood covers the lower half of his jaw, that sharp affair that’s drawn tighter than a bow string. It’s the cry baby’s blood that fills his senses with copper and iron , and stain the Oxford and pinstripe suit jacket. He looks at his men expectantly, but only manages to make them hesitate, with a few bobs of their adam’s apples.

His tongue rolls over his exposed canines, and he cocks his head to the side, more nonchalantly than he intends.

Oh, he’s losing it, and he doesn’t think he’ll get it back.

“Take me to him.” His half-brother’s eyes widen, but Nero only gives him a ruthless once-over.

“Yes, mm. Sígueme hermano, ya está esposado.” He ignores the probing stare of his right hand, because his focus is phenomenal.

He follows Mateo to the other basement, down those empty, discomforting corridors that are too bright for those dark clouds that have taken up his broad shoulders.

“He’s beside himself. Keeps mumbling about children. Sal thinks he meant to kill you, but banged your bird instead. But you will be able to find the truth, and if Sal’s right, Omerta is fortunate for this sacrifice.” He’s too far gone to slap that petulant little jaw of Mateo’s, because Nero doesn’t believe in that wishful notion of lesser evils. His darling should not be lost, and nor should that man have been able to shoot.

“Cállate.” Not even a glance is wasted. His eyes are on the basement door, and his hands itch when they open the door, to find a pathetic man underneath the ceremonial hanging light bulb.

It’s clear that he’s tribal, that scarring underneath his unkempt and undone shirt speaks volumes that the man can’t over his self-reassuring mumbles. Nero’s hand forms that angry fist once more, and he thinks of that doll again, whose heartbeat was stolen only to be given to his – that pulse in his ears is menacing, quick, and thrumming with a myriad of emotions that have no business being seen on Nero .

“ Out.” His words are terse and inarguable.

The door slams behind him, it’s a thick and fortified metal whose resound is always promising, and nerve-inducing, if he had any left to spare.

That cigarette he lights does nothing for him, it only reminds him of how little Josephine tried smoking one only days ago, sprawled on his bed in the afterglow of what she called love-making, coughing and sputtering the smoke of a cigarette she didn’t know how to inhale from. Images of that darling woman-child promise him that she’s not truly gone – not really – but he can’t lie to himself.

His foot kicks the man with the force of a steel-toed shoe. It’s a violence he never reveals, because someone has to have composure, but he has none of that to spare either.

“ Who are you!” He bends down to inspect the tribal, that pitiful fucker trying to escape his cuffs. “ Who are you, to take my girl?”

Tears fall down his ruddy cheeks, they’re unsightly, and would’ve looked so much better on her. They only incense him further, enough that he privileges the bastard with the cry baby blood on his hands, forcing him to look at his furious glare.

“ Bernie . Please, I didn’t mean to! He said.. said to pop you. Paid me, to get you, not the.. not the kid.” His grip on the man’s neck tightens, and his snarl parts to reveal a set of sharp, white teeth.

“ Who ?” His question is spoken between clenched teeth, a few notes away from a whisper .

When he refuses to answer, he begins by pressing into that little pipe on his neck, stealing his breath away, and giving it back, over and over . It’s only the beginning for Bernie , the thief who took his most precious treasure.

A kick, square in the tribal’s chest, sends him sprawling on the floor, gasping for air.

He only follows him, and takes Bernie’s chin in a bruising grip, as though he could crush the man’s jaw with his own fingers. His nails have a sadistic mind of their own, and dig into the ruddy flesh of his jaw, eliciting cries that will never be answered.

Oh, he’ll get his. There is no easy end for a man who crosses Nero as this one has. Few have ever provoked this primal rage, and none have ever lived to tell about it, certainly not about that malicious glint in his eyes, completely black with an unspoken declaration of war . His teeth clench so hard that his lips twitch and writhe beneath that murderous snarl.

“Benny… the Chairman. We were… Khans were paid.” Pathetic Bernie’s eyes bulge under the pressure at his throat and jaw.

Until Nero’s expression falls to an ominous dispassion , a whisper away from blank , like the background where the cry baby’s doves cooed together, tucked into the other like that old adage about those lovely birds.

“ Benito .” He says it more to himself than to listless Bernie, nodding his head at some unspecified speck on the floor.

That checkered bastard, so impulsive, so unsuccessful, that he missed Nero and got lucky with sweet Josie instead. Something profound and fathomless sinks into his chest, and spreads to his every limb. It’s defeat , and it leaves a foul taste in his mouth in its descent down his throat and into his chest, right where his heart beats. That’s the heartbeat that was stolen from the cry baby, pounding harder than he can recall.

“ You stole something from me..” It isn’t over, he’s got big plans, and it isn’t just for the wretched bastard below him. The Ricardo treatment. “ And Nero won’t ever get it back. But I’m gonna steal something from you , to even the playing field. You ever had a hundred Omertas inside of you, back to back?”

His whimper is all he manages to get out, before Nero slaps one sadistic, pale hand over his mouth. It’s not a smile that quirks his supple lips, those are the currency of an uncomfortable man who has a small slice of comfort. That slice is gone, there’s no cry baby waiting for him in his suite, only doves, and dragonflies, and little girlish gowns that will never be worn again.

Often, he muses to himself about cry babies, but there is and was, only one cry baby.

“ No. Probably not, you wouldn’t be able to sit down ever again without being reminded of it.” He cocks one, vile dark brow, it’s calmer than that storm ripping and raging in his chest. “ I’ll let Benito see the damage after, Papa too, before I take your fucking soul.” Like Pluto, but there are no cry babies to laugh at that anymore.

He lets go of him, lights a cigarette, and blows the smoke upward, into misty white clouds that dissipate above and around the hanging bulb. It isn’t contemplation that he exhales out of his captive lungs, it’s a kind of stoic rage that’s been injected with waves of grief, shock, and a loss that he’s not accepted yet. Nero doesn’t accept losses.

“ Just kill me? I’m no one.. I have a woman, and a daughter ..” His plea falls on deaf ears, there’s no room for indulging them.

“ Maybe I’ll take them too.” He takes a deep smoke, and contemplates the worth of what was stolen.

But a woman can never pay for Josephine. His darling was no woman, but caught on the cusp of early womanhood, stuck in the beloved limbo he quickly learned to covet. She had the roundness, and the gangly limbs of a little girl, that warred with the beauty a grown woman could only dream of.

Before he leaves to call his men to the basement, he leans down to grind his cigarette over the ruddy cheek of Bernie , and is bade to press harder when a series of strangled groans and screams escape his wretched, chapped lips.

“ Believe Nero will be fiddling when the Tops burns to the fucking ground. I might even let Papa watch too, if his asshole can manage.” He flicks the spent cigarette onto the ground, and kicks the man for good measure. That’s the winning kick – one less rib for his kin to break when they take him like a whore on the hard floor of the basement. “ What? Afraid of being broken in?”

Oh, that look the other man gives him is deplorable. It’s that look all men give before they’re about to get pushed off a cliff by a close friend. Perfidia.

“ I’ve heard the pain is exceptional. A pilgrimage, if they have those, in hell.” At the scandal in the other man’s wide, cloudy blue eyes, he gives one last, lingering snarl, that kind of sin won’t be easy to forget for Bernie. “You fucked with the Omertas, don’t be so bashful. Everyone pays our price eventually.”

He stands, and straightens his tie. He can smell her blood on it, he’s tempted to take it off and leave it in a neat, preserved pile for keepsake, just like that thick lock of hair in his pocket.

That lone light bulb does cruel things to his handsome face. It draws attention to the shapely, concave cheeks, casting a shadow over his severe jaw. These two fixtures are the only evidence of his grief. Otherwise, he is enraged and beyond that unfamiliar feeling.

Outside, that circle of men who are not his peers, wait for him. Theirs is a tight-knit family, despite those cutthroat impulses that thrum through the blood of all of them. Although he’s tempted to return to the cry baby’s side, Nero doesn’t do these things, and he is a father, with a family that always needs a steady hand to nudge it in the right direction.

“ Gather the family. Give him our love .” Each of his men know this euphemism, a snake always knows the language behind the incoherent hisses . “ Have him brought to Benny afterward. He tried to kill me.”

He neglects to tell them that it’s not self-preservation that’s stirring him, but his kinsmen don’t need to know that. They are family, but the family isn’t to be trusted, and they cannot know how undone he is by the death of his darling Josephine .

Droopy-eyed Sal nods, but it is piggish Cachino who calls the family over. Their get-togethers never spell any thing good for outsiders. Omerta has no friends, and nor does its father.

It’s the four foot nine darling he thinks of when his men file into the basement, leaving only guards in the empty halls of his casino. Nero could’ve taken that bullet, as he had before. The scars on his pale, dusky skin are proof of it. It would’ve been nothing to sew it together, and tuck away like it never happened. His tolerance for pain is unrivaled, as is his ability to doubt the depth of his loss.

A rational man shouldn’t think about what could’ve been, only what should be. He took many of the cry baby’s first times , and she has left him with one of his own.

Chapter Text

Starry night, this is the fable of the rose,

The rose he gave his love -

So young and tender, so in bloom,

Filled with a faint perfume, is lying crushed and faded in her room.

Starry night, this is the fable of the rose,

The rose he gave his love -

Beyond all dreams of her caress, he may as well confess

That she only loved him slightly, maybe less.

Yet her smile so strangely haunts him,

How the thrill of it taunts him,

And so it goes, the fable of the rose.

- “Fable of the Rose”, Benny Goodman

He fills a glass to the brim with kirsch, and lights a cigarette to accompany it. From his suite’s window, he watches the Strip’s tourists mill and whoop in awe at the neon city, always brighter and livelier at nighttime.

There is nothing lively about his nights anymore, nor are they particularly bright. The full moon must have some mercy, because that glow it’s sharing is the only redemption for those severe angles he’s cut from. They’re more ruthless than they’ve ever been, but this too only serves his devilish looks. He almost pities the men who would look haggard, but it’s those kinds of men that took something from him.

That gulp of liquor sets his throat on fire and dries it well enough that the cigarette that follows is almost close to satisfying. But it’s more like that kind of resignation a gardener feels when he settles for daisies instead of roses – it’s good but it isn’t enough.

It’s out of that hollow resignation that he runs a hand over his eyes, and down his face, stopping to massage his stubbly jaw. Nero doesn’t get lonely, but he knows now how it feels to not be lonely. That’s all he’ll admit, he’s not a man of warm fuzzies or heartfelt confessions.

Those dragonflies and doves are his constant reminder of that elusive not-loneliness, and though the little critters distract him throughout his days, his hand just isn’t strong enough to tuck them away, to refuse the most wistful, most bittersweet of his pleasures. He’s a man that covets the melancholic, the doom and the gloom, but he’s beginning to rethink whether he can withstand them for the sake of his eccentric tastes.

Little Josephine liked sad things, too.

The cry baby never made it to her fifteenth birthday. He remarks that she’s the forever-child, that darling of his who’s frozen forever to the tune of one-four. She is the forever-child who will forever stir his loins, and ignite his most secret passions. Hers is an art he will keep a secret, not that anyone would inquire. To his kin, she is just collateral. To Vegas, she is just another claimed soul hidden behind those neon lights and spiffy, ritzy suits and cocktail dresses.

But he is more sensitive than the others. He is a contemplative man of a thousand angles, all of which scream at him to do something. Mr. House refused to let him collect, it was a poorly-planned confrontation with the bastard – he’ll admit that much.

Nero can’t let this pass. If not for his darling, would-be painter, then for the family. The Legion is moving across the river, and it’s the wiggle room that he’s after, not friendship. He loathes them, he made no secret of it when he told Josie his thoughts on the matter, but a man of his stripe has to be willing to make compromises for the sake of his ambition, or his vengeance.

Although he can’t play a fiddle like his towheaded namesake supposedly could, he’s a deft shoot with an assault rifle.

Oh, he’ll sell this city for the gold-carat opportunity to kill that bastard at the Tops. He shoots a murderous glare over at it, and takes a violent hit from his cigarette. He’ll keep the family’s casino, he might even spare the foundation of the Tops if he’s feeling generous. Nero’s never been a very generous man, though. His creator cut him from the hardest, most exquisite plate of sandstone and must’ve forgotten to imbue him with charity, to every other man’s deepest grief.

The radio croons softly behind him, every song is tinged with an unfamiliar longing. When he closes his eyes, he could hope to hear the soprano chirp of little Josephine, but he never keeps them shut for very long. His is the curse of reason and rationality.

It is, of course, Bowlly on the radio.

“Fucking no one else, who else?” His remark is wry and a close relative to self-deprecating, and goes unaddressed.

Goodnight sweetheart, all my prayers are for you, goodnight sweetheart, I’ll be watching o’er you…

He’s heard stories of Lanius, from his clients who walk the long road east.

Tears and parting may make us forlorn, but with the dawn a new day is born…

And he’s heard stories of Legion camps popping up around the Colorado, which is exactly the same thing that happened before their last invasion. That Graham bastard isn’t at the head anymore, this invasion might be different.

So I’ll say goodnight sweetheart, sleep will banish sorrow…

That next smoke is more thoughtful, he’s weighing the compromises of selling the family’s alliance to Caesar, if they cross the river. If they don’t he’ll need a backup plan, anything to get his pound of flesh.

Dreams enfold you, in them dear, I’ll hold you, goodnight sweetheart, goodnight…

He grinds his cigarette into the ashtray, and blows his last toward the window. His look is one of longing when he watches the smoke hover instead of dissipate, illuminated by the moonlight peeking through his curtain.

In the painfully long stretch of a week, he’s moved his office up to his suite, along with all of its paraphernalia, even the cry baby kind. Those doves sit on his desk, his favorite, even more than his own handsome portrait. He fingers the lock of pretty, red-gold hair in his pocket, tied securely for those discreet reveries of pleasure when he wants to run his fingers through it.

Otherwise there is nothing left of the cry baby, she is ashes in a ceramic urn stowed away in his dresser. That is the Slitherkin way, just like that delicate lock of hair he caresses.

He swears he’s not declaring war on the Strip for the sake of his late darling, but it just doesn’t hold up. Nero does not know the etiquette of love, he is a succinct and unpersonable man whose priorities don’t typically extend to people. But he doesn’t particularly care about etiquette, and he never has, especially if there is no gain.

He reassures himself that there are a hundred other reasons to conspire sedition, and there certainly is, although his own preferred reason is one that he’ll keep to himself.