King Pin

The rain came down in sheets, cold and merciless, turning every streetlight into a smeared halo. A cobalt Packard cut through the deluge like a shark through black water, its chrome teeth catching the neon and throwing it back in broken pieces. It slowed, purring, beneath a cracked marquee that flickered in bruised crimson:

TONIGHT ONLY
VALENTINA LIVE ON STAGE
“Love Betrayed” and other slow knives

His eyes surveyed the scene with satisfaction.
A secret smile played on his lips. He owned this town and everyone in it.

The Packard exhaled its henchmen into the wet night. Dark men in long coats took their positions, eyes scanning the shadows for trouble that already knew their names. Then the rear door opened and the King-Pin stepped out, rain beading on the brim of his hat like tiny accusations.

Inside the club the air was thick with smoke and regret. Joe’s saxophone wept through the haze, bending every note until it sounded like a confession. The King-Pin slid into his private booth, the one with the best view of the stage, the one he’d had installed the week he bought the place and put her name on the marquee.

And there she was.

Valentina.

Hair the color of fresh blood on snow, falling in heavy waves that caught the footlights and burned copper. One bare shoulder rose from a dress the color of midnight spilled on skin, cigarette dangling from fingers that had signed more death warrants than most men’s guns. She finished the last chorus of “Love Betrayed” like she was daring someone in the room to prove her wrong about men, love, and tomorrow morning.

The King-Pin felt the old chill crawl up his spine. “Roses are red,” he muttered into his whiskey, “and red’s my favorite color on a balance sheet.”

The set ended. The applause was polite, hungry, afraid; exactly the way he liked it. He rose, moved through the crowd like a blade through silk, and pushed open the door marked PRIVATE.

A stretch and fade of smoky corridor, and he was in her dressing room.

Alone at last.

She didn’t turn from the mirror right away. Just watched him in the glass, green eyes lazy and lethal.

“Took you long enough,” Valentina said, the faintest Cork lilt curling under the New York ice.

“Place looks good,” he said, glancing around. “You’re welcome.”
She didn’t answer.

He closed the distance, hands already in that red hair. Not rough, just certain. The way a man touches something he already owns. Lips fastened in wanton, hungry bliss. Moans rose like the pressure before a storm. She let him. She always let him. He couldn’t wait; had to get to the garden.

He took what was his.

After, sprawled across the chaos of scattered costumes and spent passion, he reached for his cigarettes, found them crushed. “So, my dear, have a smoke?”

She laughed once, low, like a round chambered. “No.”

He straightened his cuffs, gave her that crooked, half-dead smile.
“Later, Valentina.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Down the hall the saxophone cried once more, a long, slow note that sounded exactly like someone pulling a pin.