Ninety Days With The Don

It was dark in the private bar. Ricci DiAmbrossi sat quietly as he sipped his drink, deep in thought. His shoulders were relaxed and yet his eyes were sharp if anything out of the ordinary were to happen. At twenty-seven, he was every woman's dream: powerful and influential, affluent and blessed with looks that people would associate with Greek gods. He had unrepentantly curly hair- a consideration when his father began to call him Ricci in his early years and it stuck. He had a smooth and chiseled face with dark brown eyes and sensuous lips. Underneath his all-black dress pants and button up shirt, taut muscles bulged.

He had always known how his looks affected women he came in contact with on a daily basis. Coupled with that fact, women seemed to sense how affluent he was and that was always a pull. He usually smiled wryly whenever he thought of that. They were going to find out that this diamond was not as shiny on the inside. If he ever let them that close, that is.

He sighed that night as he sat quietly in the private bar flanked by his bodyguards who sat alert on both sides of him, yet giving him maximum space. The waitress came with another bottle of wine. He had requested it. Now, he motioned absent-mindedly for the wine to be poured into a glass. The waitress dutifully did so.

He took the glass to his lips and then realized that the waitress still stood by the small table, her tray hanging loosely in her hands.

She was just a few inches above five feet, and had blonde hair which she tied in a ponytail. Her waitress dress was fitting and he could see she had a decent figure.

He raised his brows at her.

"Is there anything else you need sir?" She asked. "If there's anything you need, anything, please let me know."

Ricci cocked his head slightly, studying her. He dropped his glass on the table.

"Pour me another drink," he said.

The woman eagerly did so, facing him as she did, catching his eye as the front of her dress came into view, a generous amount of decolletage deliberately put in Ricci's view.

He took the drink from her, watched her hesitate at his table and then reluctantly turn to leave.

"Wait," Ricci said.

She turned.

"When do you get off work?" He asked her.

"At four a.m, sir," she replied.

"Executive suite, thirtieth floor," he told her. "Just knock."

She nodded and then sashayed away. Ricci watched her go, mildly distracted.

He loved women who openly showed desire. It was un-womanly and alluring. It took courage to move past the expected behavior to just do what you wanted.

His phone rang then. Sliding the screen, he saw it was his second-in-command on the line.

"Yes, Donato," he said as soon as he picked the call."Have you found him?"

"Not yet sir," the other man said. "But we will have a headway before noon tomorrow."

Ricci got off the call, the manner in which he had abruptly got off the call with his second-in-command an undertone of how angry he was.

He had not come to New York for pleasure despite appearances. As the Boss of one of the biggest and most powerful mafia families in Italy, he didn't have the time to simply waste time on pleasure despite being more than able to expend the resources. He had a family to rule over, had strategic decisions to make, had enemies to keep in check. And he assumed that his latest annoyance was caused by one of said enemies. But why New York? He wondered. Why hide in New York?

A few days ago, Ricci had got a visit from his underboss- Donato- who had had the nerve to give him bad news. Ricci could very well remember how angry he had been when he had heard that an account of theirs had been hacked and twelve million US dollars had been carted off with. Ricci's voice had reverberated with anger that morning asking what the hell their resident computer expert was looking at when his money was stolen.

They had managed to trace the offender to New York and were still trying to nab the bastard. And now, when his stress required good news, his underboss was telling him they still had not found him.

Ricci ran a hand through his hair and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. He left the half full bottle of champagne on the table and left the private bar, followed by his men.

As he passed the bar, he walked straight ahead, and left the bar area. One of his guards stayed back to settle the bills.

He crossed the threshold and headed for the elevator. Once inside, he unbuttoned the first two buttons on his shirt. A tattoo peeked from his neck, highlighting his tanned skin. The other guard stood behind him, removed from what was happening before him like a ghost.

The elevator dinged as Ricci reached the floor that held his suite. He walked on to the suite and slid in his key card. Only he entered his suite now, his guard having entered the other suit opposite his.

As soon as Ricci was inside, he undid the buttons on his black shirt and headed for the table that held his laptop. The well-toned muscles of his chest and arms came into view as he sat on a sofa in the living room, dropping his shirt on it. The exquisite beauty of the suite was lost on him. True he could feel the well-regulated air conditioning and he could see the beautiful aesthetics of the suite- the plush rugs, the fancy lights, the Mediterranean furnishing- they just did not affect him. Not like it would affect for example, the waitress he would have in his bed early that morning.

But nowadays, things hardly affected him.

He sat down on one of the sofas and opened his laptop.

He was on the laptop for quite some time, attending to business. His thoughts drifted to different places while he worked as it had always done when he was distracted. This was not the first time he had been to New York, but he did not like to come here- bad memories.Yet he had to be here. He couldn't wait to meet the son-of-a-gun who had had the nerve to steal from him; he was impatient with anger.

He had worked for a few hours when he heard a knock on his door. He strolled to the door and saw that the waitress from earlier was there. She looked so sure of herself, not at all shy or timid. Now dressed in a blouse- that hugged her bust- and skinny tights, she gazed up at him, her hair loose behind her. Then her gaze traveled down his neck to the exposed chiseled muscles of his torso and stopped at the waist of his black pants. He reached for her jaw with his hand and moved her gaze back up to his face. Then he pulled her inside as his lips came on hers. He closed the door behind her as he kissed her against the door.