tagRomanceMobster Makes the Princess

Mobster Makes the Princess


This story is true except for all the bits that aren't.


I'd given the afternoon off to Vito, the soldier forced on me by Guido Vannese's family while I visited their patch in Florence. Guido knew I was just a tourist and strictly speaking no longer a family man. But still, as a friendly gesture and sign of respect, the Vanesse godfather insisted I have a minder.

Vito, a huge man so ugly taxis wouldn't stop for him, was temporarily out of sight doing whatever a Vito does with his time off. Oiling his piece, wringing rabbit's necks, or more likely, shopping for a new, more tasteless fedora.

Myself? I was back in Italy reconnecting with my ancestors' genes. The piece of them that says guys walk down the street appreciating the signorinas - the blondes, the redheads, the brunettes.

As I browsed the crowded stalls in Florence's San Lorenzo market, the signorina alert system spotted what any fair judge would describe as a first class backside. Its taut, round, apple curved perfection was not ten yards in front of me. The owner was wearing a gold chain belt that matched her gold sandals, and clinging jeans that highlighted a show-stopping package of long legs and delicious ass. Her head was crowned by a stunning aurora of brilliant red hair that cascaded in lustrous waving locks past her shoulders.

The redhead half turned and I realized she wasn't a teenager, but an actual woman -- a milf in her very beautiful thirties. Then suddenly - whack! A young black man in a dirty shirt and greasy trousers jumped from behind a stall and flung her to the ground. She screamed out and scuffled, clinging desperately to her handbag as he tried to wrestle it from her. He slapped her face and pressed the blade of a large skinning knife to her cheek and, wide eyed with fear, her red hair fanned out over the pavement, she released her grip on her bag. The thief tore it from her hands, spat a sadistic yellow gob in her face, and shoving her away, sprinted clear.

"Turisti," he sneered at the redhead and charged towards me, waving his blade to menace any idiot stranger who intervened. These days I stay under the radar -- its part of my family's "respectable" job description. But I had a wild unreasoning flash of anger, and launched myself, crash tackling him. I grabbed his knife hand, slapped it on the pavement, rolled him on his chest and punched my knee into his back. He dropped the handbag and I held him hard on the ground.

"Oh thank you, thank you," she called tremulously as she ran up behind me.

"If you're okay, pick up your handbag. Check your passport's still there, your wallet too."

While the thief wriggled to break my hold, I could hear her behind me breathing hard, as she scrabbled inside her bag. "Yes, they're both here."

"Stay safe behind me. I don't want the police, and the guy's still got his knife." I pulled the bag snatcher back up keeping my knee in his back, and the blade clattered to the pavement. "Vamoose. Shove off," I yelled pushing him away. He staggered, then fell to his knees, and felt around his ankle.

"He's got another knife,' she screamed.

"Stay behind me," I told the redhead. Cursing, he came at me hard, the knife scything. His first stab stung my fending left hand and as I tried to avoid the second thrust I was in trouble. But he overstepped, and I caught his knife hand at the wrist. With my mind erupting red with anger, I hissed "Coward, Bastard," and sunk a Nike into his balls. He doubled over clutching his jewels, so I kicked him in his stomach and as his pop-eyed face lurched forward, I ploughed my left hand into his cheek and followed through with a right fist straight into the bridge of his nose. I felt it squash and break.

It spurted streams of blood as he sprawled at my feet, heaving and vomiting. I jumped back -- hell I didn't want his chuck on my new sneakers. The pool of spew sobered me, and I stood clear. He scrambled to his feet and ran off. Twenty yards free of me he turned, his face contorted with pain and hatred, gave me the bird, and mouthed something useless like: "I'll be back."

"He's sliced your hand," she cried, and flipped a blue scarf from her neck to pull it around the wound. "Thanks for being so brave. I can't begin to...." she quavered toffily, digging furiously in her purse. I thought for a moment she was going to tip me.

Actually, she came up with a handful of tissues, and as I saw her face, I knew the startled deep blue eyes, and the unforgettable beauty. It must be her, the virgin queen of my teenager years. But she'd never remember me. It was at least fifteen years since I'd admired the unattainable co-ed, Felicity Brown. And suddenly, here she was, the stuck up WASP from college days, binding my hand in a street in Florence.

"You okay?" I asked. She was in good shape for a woman who's just been rolled round the pavement. She nodded, and looked at me, her face puzzled.

"But don't I know you? Let's see-- why, of course. Weren't we in history class together? You're - you're Danny. Yes, Danny the --- Ohmigod! I'm sorry." Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Danny the Dago," I offered. "No drama, I know I was called Danny the Dago, but no one ever said it to my face."

She turned crimson. "I'm sorry. We were all so stupid back then," she blushed. "Danny Caluzzi. I read about you in the newspapers. But you won't remember me?" To me this was as silly as Angelina Jolie saying: "Hi, you won't remember but my name's Angelina."

"It's Felicity isn't it? And don't believe what you read in the newspapers -- there's more truth in the comics."

She looked at me carefully, then took my bleeding hand and inspected it. "Well Danny, there was never a guy I was gladder to see than you. I know the man behind the bar across the street here. Let's see what we can do about this blood."

The cut had bled badly, but it was shallow and didn't need stitching. Felicity borrowed strips of plaster from her friend at the bar and inexpertly bound my hand. She held it up, examined it closely, and then smirked. "We'll you're in better shape that the thief. He's got a Caluzzi fist tattooed on his nose for life.

"Now - let me buy you coffee." I watched her beautiful ass sway back to the counter. Felicity Stuck Up -- a snob endowed with classic redhead looks. With fair skin, fine features, pearly teeth, sparkling eyes, and a lithe yet curvaceous body. Women like her shouldn't be allowed. Fifteen years ago I'd been doing a business major, and she was studying Fine Arts. She came from a Brahman family of East Coast bankers and which was followed breathlessly by the social pages while my own family got followed by the FBI.

Felicity Brown returned to the table smiling. "So what brings you to Florence, Danny?"

"The olive oil business," I joked.

She laughed out loud. "No -- just a holiday," I added. "But you - you know the guy behind the bar. So you live here?"

"No, I'm finishing three months as artist in residence at a big gallery called the Accademia Molinera. It's a perk for my art being almost famous. I take a few advanced classes and give them two paintings when I leave. But what do you do Danny? You work for the Mafi.. ahh.... Well are you employed in your family's business?"

"Sure Felicity, I'm in banking."

What did she mean by Mafia?" She thinks I guillotine thumbs and garrote old ladies? Look, the family went legit two generations ago when my grandfather Angelo went down for tax evasion and founded a bank from his cell in the old Sing Sing. Our bank's a damn sight straighter than Wall Street, but to be scrupulously fair, by "legit" I mean "mainly legit." Occasionally there are offers we don't refuse, and we still look after a few old friends who hang on grimly to the famous Caluzzi connection. This creates the odd inconvenience -- like I can't lose money in peace in Vegas. The guys insist I get looked after. Last year - the final hand of my final night - they had me win twenty thousand with a pair of threes. I ask you.

"Banking," she said. "Well, that must be int-er-esting."

I'll spare you all the details. We talked half an hour and to my huge surprise I got on well with the Princess. Although to be entirely candid, when you're staring down the barrel of a pair of 38s like Felicity's, you're tolerant of the aristocracy. Big tits keep you focused, especially when you find you like their owner. I was plucking up the bravado to invite Miss Brown herself out for dinner, when we were interrupted by an elegant, middle aged Florentine dressed in an impeccable navy suit.

"Ah, here we are Felicity. I'm sorry I've been delayed." He assessed the intruder on his territory coolly. "And pray, who do we have here? Is it your babysitter?"

"Danny is an old acquaintance who's just saved me from a bag snatcher," she said carefully. I noticed she avoided my surname. "Danny, this is Professore Vincento Guilamo, the head of Accademia Molinera. She smiled slightly. "He's my director and the boss."

"So Danny, you're here with your secretary for some sales conference? Or maybe Italy is your big search for culture?" he asked superciliously. Shit, he was pushing it.

"Sure -- it's the culture. I just bought the gold miniature of your David statue. It goes neat with the Leaning Tower ashtray from Pisa."

The clown took me seriously. I stayed another ten minutes, but the atmosphere had changed. My presence was not welcomed by the Professor, and made Felicity feel awkward. I made polite farewells, and figured I'd never see her again. So, what the hell, sometimes I can't help myself.

"Gotta say Felicity, you're the best piece of ass I ever saw. Back then, now too."

I didn't see Miss Brown's reaction because the Professor sprung to his feet in front of her, deploring my impudence and bad manners. But anyway, I was gone.


I had a suite at the Villa Medici on via Il Prado, just a few steps from the river. It was nice except I had to put up with the bad smell of Vito hanging helpfully round the hotel room entrance hall. The next morning I was stepping out of the shower when the telephone rang.

"Danny, I'm glad I caught you -- its Felicity Brown."

"Hi, Felicity -- look I'm sorry I ---."

"You said you'd like to see the Uffizi Gallery. I hoped you'd let me give you the guided tour."

"So you're still talking to me after I said you were, ah, good looking."

There was a nasal wheeze. Maybe she'd laughed. "Actually, it's the nicest thing anyone said in a while," she allowed

"Yeah, but it didn't impress your Professor."

She didn't take the bait. Still, I met her that afternoon outside the Palazzo degli Uffizi and of course she looked a million dollars, absolutely heart stopping. She flashed a guide's badge which took us past the queue that snaked around two blocks, and then spent the afternoon opening my eyes to Titian, Michelangelo, and Botticelli.

Felicity surprised me. She was a sparkling, insightful guide and the fawning office staff at the gallery couldn't do enough for to smooth the way for their American friend. We left at closing time, and she walked me to nearby bar, and while I ordered drinks I'm sure she secretly popped a couple of buttons on her blouse, because her tits were flashing like she was a lingerie model. She began immediately.

"Danny I need your help or maybe your advice." "Sure, what's the problem? " I said, surprised at Miss Brown's directness. She examined her long, elegant fingers.

"It's the Professor. Vincento Guilamo. He's got huge influence in the art world, and he keeps pressuring me to start a secret affair and become his mistress. Adultery doesn't worry husbands here. He's getting impatient. You might think I've got pull here but they think I'm just another spoilt American. The problem is I can't offend him because he could do a lot of damage to my future.

"So you think I can do something about this guy?"

Felicity looked me in the eyes and I realized she was pleading.

"Not sure I can," I said carefully. "Besides I've got to head down to the Vatican tomorrow for this audience with the Pope."

"The Pope sees you personally?"

"Yeah, the Vatican's a Caluzzi Bank client. It's always the same when I go there. They take me into the Pope's chapel. Some cardinal whispers my name in his ear, and the Pope says "Bless you Daniel Caluzzi, for you have sinned. Yada yada yada. Next they take me out the back and rob me blind. I never look forward to the Pope, I swear.

"So tell you what. I'm away three days. How about you see me Friday night?"


I'm watching the news Friday evening while I dress carefully for my date with Felicity, and the main story is the professor. He's been found togged out like a nun, hanging from a bridge over the Arno. I swore at Vito.

"You Vannese idiots -don't you understand English? Fuck - I told you DANGLE him, not STRANGLE him."

Before Vito could engage the mental gears -- the guy doesn't have automatic transmission - I heard the end of the news story. The professor wasn't actually dead. He was alive, embarrassed, and locked away at the Accademia Molinara in hiding from the baying media, who wanted to know what kind of sick fuck this exhibitionist kink in a nun's outfit was.

"Just like you tell me, I warn the Prof he's gotta treat Miss Brown like she's his fucking sister. Or maybe his Mother Superior," said Vito. "Good fellow," I told him. Vito basked in the approval.

Guido Vannese had booked me his own table at his favorite restaurant and when I got there I found the "table" was in fact a small but elegant private room that sparkled with mirrors, glass and crystal. I'd been seated five minutes when Vito knocked, and opened the door for Felicity Brown.

"You want me to frisk her in case she's carrying?" he asked hopefully. The short deep blue outfit that clung to Felicity was an elegant designer number which had space for her tits, but that was about it.

"No Vito. Go Vito," I said. "I don't want to see you till tomorrow." Miffed, he grumped sideways out the door.

So --I ordered the Dom Perignon champagne. And she gave me the heartfelt thanks re the Prof. I said I knew nothing about it. She didn't believe me. It was going about how you'd think it would, except Felicity was whacking back the Dom like she'd been on rationing. By the time we'd eaten the lobster starter, I was still on my first glass, and she'd finished the bottle.

"Sorry I'm rushing it," she said, as a waiter entered, poured from a new bottle, and retreated. "I've spent the last three days trying to screw up the courage for something, and I figured I'd only do it if I got tiddly first. It's kind of awkward."

"What's up then?" I asked. She hesitated, and fudged for a few moments. Just when it seemed she wouldn't go on, she blurted it out.

"Danny, I need you to fuck me," she said, blushing furiously. "I know this isn't ladylike. I'm sorry, but if it's the last thing I ever do, I want you to do it to me - even just once. It's been my fantasy since I was an 18 year old, and wanted you to take my cherry. Sorry, I'm a bit tipsy, but I thought I'd never see you again, so I have to say it..."

You could have knocked me flat with a Cadillac, or told me my uncle was into incest with his daughter. But then she surprised me still more. I mean, REALLY surprised me. Still pink with embarrassment, she leaned forward across the table and pulled her silky dress down off her shoulders. She slipped her beautiful big tits over the top of her lacy midnight blue bra, and pushed them out on the table cloth - which believe it or not, jutted them perfectly towards me, like they were supported by a Wunderbra. They were just spectacular -milky white, long and pear shaped, with pointy pink nipples which quivered as she talked. The erotic sight was framed beautifully by her pretty face, the cascading red hair, and the silver knives and forks laid out perfectly each side of her tits.

If Gourmet magazine did a classy cover shot for topless dining, I was looking at it.

"I've noticed you staring at them. So up close, what do you think?" she asked.

I mumbled something sensible like: "You seem in good health."

"When I called you Danny the Dago the other day, it was a blonde moment. It just slipped out. Sure, that's what the guys called you, but they were just jealous little boys. You didn't get it that we were all a bit scared of you -- almost in awe." Her tits jiggled.

"You were in awe of me? You gotta be kidding. How about how I saw you? Miss Snooty, the WASP princess, the Homecoming Queen. I could no more approach you than ---"

"Me the Princess? Jeez, that's a laugh, when it's you was the handsome Mafia Prince. I'd go to bed thinking of you, and I'd..."

"Shit Felicity, if you knew the number of wanks I had to confess, because of you..."

Well, we were laughing by now weren't we? "Danny, I hardly know you, and I find myself discussing masturbation," she giggled. One of her breasts slipped off the table and emboldened I reached across, squeezed its soft lusciousness, and put it back on view. She took my hand and held it in place against it.

"Okay. I got daring and started this. So I get to choose - you've got to let me go first."

Felicity was no longer blushing. She stood up, leaned across the table with her gorgeous boobs swinging, and brushed my lips with hers. "I know what I'd want to do. So-- see you in a minute," she breathed.

She stepped back, lifted up the floor length cloth, and slipped under the table. She was invisible, but I heard her voice whispering from underneath.

"Undo your belt Danny. Unzip your trousers and lift your backside for me." God, Felicity had a stuck up voice. Her hands slid my shorts and trousers down past my knees to my ankles.

"You sure nobody can see. No voyeur out there peeping?" she asked.

"Uh uh. It's just you and me."

"Good. So spread your legs wide and sit right forward on the chair. I want to feel your cock and balls dangling down over its edge."

I moved forward and felt them fall out over the front of the chair. For a moment nothing happened. She'd gone silent. Then I felt a breath of warm air fanning my hanging balls, and the firm tip of her tongue licked the crease between the two of them - just once. I waited, tense, not knowing what was coming next.

"Come further forward off the chair," she urged me. Now I felt the tip of her tongue again. She reached it up to find the crease running from my ass to the back of my balls. She wiggled her tongue slowly down the crease, and caressed my balls with her fingertips, as she licked and nibbled at the back of them.

My cock was by now rock hard and with each luscious stroke of her tongue along the back of my hanging balls, it bounced excitedly against the underneath of the table.

Her fingers took my cock and I felt her tongue move to the front side of my balls. She licked them long and slowly, lapping me from where my balls hung lowest over the edge of the chair, up to where my sack joined the underside of my cock. Next she ran the tip of her tongue the length of the underside of my throbbing cock, while I shivered with pleasure in my chair.

I felt something new --something soft and silky -- close tight around my dick. Felicity had wrapped a loop of her red hair around it. She softly sawed the noose of hair up and down my cock, using it to pull my foreskin back and forth over my now slippery tip, while she licked her way back down my cock to my throbbing balls.

Suddenly my right ball was bathed in hot wet warmth. She'd taken it inside her mouth and was sucking and tonguing it. She moved back and forth, one ball to the other, breathing warm air on them, gently nibbling, tickling with both fingers and tongue, then slowly sucking them through her lips into her warm wet mouth. I couldn't help bucking my hips because of the intensity of the pleasure throbbing in the deep spot between my balls and my cock. I was writhing when her mouth and lips suddenly deserted my balls.

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