FALCONE

“Claudio...?” Nicholas Falcone motioned the restaurateur over to join him by the bar as he walked away from the table where Giovanna sat with two of Falcone’s trusted capos and their wives. Claudio Bennetto smiled and did as he was instructed, a towel tossed over one shoulder.

“Nico, what’s up?” Claudio smiled brightly as the two men shook hands. They’d known each other for years, and while Claud wasn’t a member of la famiglia, Falcone considered him a trusted ally. That’s why he used the restaurant Messima as one of his primary meeting sites.

“Who’s the ditsoon?” Falcone nodded toward the hostess station, where a tall, athletic black woman with dreadlocks stood greeting new arrivals. Falcone thought she was rather attractive, and a marked improvement over the usual hostess whose greatest claim to fame was likely mastering the art of sleeping with her eyes open.

“Ah.” Claudio took in a deep breath. “Yeah, I tried to run it past you. Becca, she walked yesterday. And ever since COVID, we’ve had a shitty time trying to keep people. There aren’t enough Italians to go around. Her name’s Tomi Caldwell. Her address is up in the Bronx. Good worker, very sociable, people seem to like her. It’s her third day.”

“Her name is ‘Toe Me?’” Falcone asked. “What the fuck is that?”

“Full name is Olutomi,” Claudio said. He raised his hands when he saw Falcone’s expression. “Hey, don’t ask me. I didn’t name her.”

“You got her papers?”

“You know I do, Nico,” Claudio said. He looked a trifle offended as he clasped his hands before him, his thin lips compressed into a straight line.

Falcone pointed to the hostess with his thumb. “You hired a mulignan off the street without us knowing? You run it past Vito or Donny while I was in Florida? Or even Stay-Puft?” Stay-Puft was the nickname for Dominic Garza, Vito’s right-hand man. He was a stodgy, overweight man who had originally been dubbed Michelin, both after the tire manufacturer’s logo and the dining rating service. The joke had been, there wasn’t a restaurant small enough to keep Dom from rolling in. But he’d whined about the nickname, so the crew came up with a new one: Stay-Puft, after the Marshmallow Man in the film Ghostbusters.

“No one came in, and I have the Scardini engagement party tomorrow. I needed someone on the door, Nico.”

“What did you tell her about me?” Falcone asked.

“Only that you’re my friend and the number one VIP,” Claudio said. “Nico, cut me a break here. I have a business to run. You know this. Labor market’s tight, and I figured a girl like her would be preferable to some illegal. Besides...” Claudio jerked his chin toward the hostess station. “They say dark chocolate is good for you.”

Falcone turned and took another look at this Tomi Caldwell. She looked over at him at the same time. Her dreads were either a mess or artfully arranged to frame her face almost perfectly. She wore a tight black dress that was neither too long nor too short, but it did cling to her like a second skin. Her breasts were appropriately proportioned, thank God, as was her ass. She had a tight look to her, like an athlete or a long-distance runner, that lean and hungry appearance Giovanna had when he’d first met her twenty-two years ago. She smiled at him, revealing perfectly straight teeth. Falcone smiled back at her faintly, then turned back to Claudio.

“She got a man?” he asked.

Claudio smiled knowingly. “Says single on her job application.”

“Do me a favor...drop off her papers to Doria at the club tonight. You mind doing that for me, pal?”

“Sure I will.” Claudio smirked again. “She’d make for an interesting goomara, right? You want an introduction?”

Falcone grunted and shook his head. “Not until we check her out. Keep her away from Vito, though. You know he doesn’t like Blacks, and I don’t want him pissing her off.” As he spoke, he looked back at the table where his people sat. Giovanna was in a rapt discussion with Vito and Donny’s wives, while the two capos thumbed through their phones. As if he could feel the weight of his boss’s gaze, Vito looked up. He was going gray in the most distinguished of ways, and his tailored suit looked as good as Falcone’s. His dapper appearance was the perfect smokescreen. Vito Camera was as ruthless as they came. At sixty-four years old, he’d seen more and done more than even Falcone himself—his father had nothing but utter and complete trust for the man, which Falcone shared. But Vito’s downfall was that he was eternally uneducated in the ways of life outside of the mob. He still drove only Cadillacs and lived in a small house in one of the last Italian neighborhoods in Brooklyn. His idea of a big night was getting home early enough to watch Jeopardy.

Falcone indicated the table then brought a hand to his mouth, signing drinks? Vito shook his head and mouthed, “Already done.” Falcone nodded.

As he turned back to Claudio, Tomi strutted by, leading a middle-aged couple to their table. As she passed the two men, she smiled at them, but her gaze lingered on Falcone for a moment longer than necessary. Claudio smirked.

“I think she likes you, Nico,” he said.

“Anyone starts moving on her, let me know right away,” Falcone said as he watched the sway of Tomi’s hips as she moved through the rapidly-filling restaurant. The women at Falcone’s table laughed loudly, and he watched a Giovanna looked up at him, smiling broadly. Even Vito and the ever-dour Donny Campanella grinned at whatever had just been said, some saucy crack by Donny’s wife Victoria. She was refined enough to love music by Liberace and Frank Sinatra, but deviant enough to make even Dave Chappelle blanch.

“Hey, I just run a restaurant here,” Claudio complained. “I can’t stop anyone from making a run at her. You know, a lot of the guys, they like Black girls these days.”

“Not asking you to get involved, Claud,” Falcone said, “just asking you to keep me informed. We need to vet her, so if you see anyone chatting her up from my crews, you let me know if you can. Gotta go,” he finished, and headed back to his table. On the way there, he passed Tomi as she returned to her station.

“Enjoy your dinner, sir,” she said. Her voice was a little on the husky side, low and silky.

“Thank you, Tomi,” he said, passing on that he already knew who she was. “Welcome to Messima’s. If Claudio doesn’t treat you right, let me know.”

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TOMI

I knew who he was the second I saw him. I knew who all of them were, even the women. But he was the one I was after. Nicholas “Nico” Falcone, the overlord of the Landini crime family. Started by his mother’s great grandfather and passed down to his son, then onward to Joe Falcone, Nicholas’s father. While the Landinis had been both shrewd in their dealings with the underworld, Joe Falcone had been more brutal. If his son Nicholas hadn’t been his consigliore, then he would have died in prison. But the younger Falcone was a deft player. There was no doubt he was responsible for more than a few murders himself. It was pretty much an open secret that he laundered money through car dealerships, night clubs, bitcoin, strip clubs...even a golf resort in Florida. The FBI had been trying to nail him for years, and even though he’d been brought up on charges of racketeering and narcotics trafficking two years ago, he had managed to elude the long arm of the law once again. Of course, several of his soldiers went down. They were still doing hard time, but the Bureau knew Falcone was keeping them whole by taking care of their families. When they were finally released from prison, they’d receive the welcome of heroes and a ton of cash for observing omerta...the code of silence.

Falcone had evaded wire taps, flipped personnel, even a full forensic audit. He paid his taxes; in fact, he habitually overpaid, but not by a vast margin. He gave to charitable organizations, and was on the board of a private special needs school due to his son’s autism. I thought it was odd, that a craven killer like Nico Falcone could care so much about little kids. It was just another irreconcilable difference that had perplexed the Bureau for so long. Falcone was a career criminal, but his people loved him, even the ones who didn’t work for him. He made sure the garbage was picked up, he prevented stores from being looted during protests and hurricanes, he even made sure little kids got to school during the last transit strike.

Who the fuck does this guinea think he is? The government?

So the Bureau had sent me in. The NYPD knew of the operation, but they weren’t involved. At this point, my bosses at the FBI figured why not send in a mulignan from the outside to see what could shake loose? Claudio Forzetti’s restaurant Messima was the perfect entry point. Claudio himself was an honest businessman, even if he did know the vast majority of his clientele were hooked up with the mob. He catered their parties, their weddings, their communions, and used only the best hand-picked chefs direct from Italy. But even he had to bow beneath the weight of a cratering economy and job market, and that was my entry point. No one knew me in NYC. Even though I’d been born and raised in East Orange, New Jersey, my career with the Bureau had taken me to Detroit, then New Orleans. It was only after I’d transferred to New York in my sixth year of service that things began to happen. When my bosses understood that the Landini family wouldn’t know anything about a Black girl from New Jersey. I was beneath them. I flew right under their radar.

If I could get in close, I’d be in a perfect position to make the FBI’s case and take down one of the largest remaining crime syndicates still operating on US soil. That was how careers were made, and like anyone who’d grown up in East Orange knew, you just didn’t want to stay there. So I’d leaped at the chance. I was twenty-nine years old. I wanted a big win before I turned thirty, and Nicholas Falcone was going to give it to me.

It was a little nerve-wracking seeing him for the first time in the flesh. Tall, muscular, still had the build of a football player and the eyes of a lion. He’d locked onto me the second he entered the restaurant. So did Vito “Sammy” Camera and Donivald “Donny” Ventura. It wasn’t easy not to be unnerved by those cold, calculating eyes targeting me. It wasn’t because they knew me. It was because I was an “eggplant” to them. A Black.

Even more unnerving was how good-looking Falcone was. I’d seen his pictures of course, but nothing could have prepared me for his presence. The man literally radiated *power* in a way I’d never been exposed to. Compared to him, the toughest man I’d ever known—my supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Glenn Moran, a twenty-two year veteran of the FBI who had been on the hostage rescue team among other mile markers in his law enforcement career—seemed no more formidable than a junior accountant. That Falcone exuded some powerful appeal was undeniable. Even in those first few seconds, I felt how seductive he could be...and he wasn’t even trying. I’d always stayed away from entanglements with white men because I could never tell if they wanted me for me, or just to quell their fetish for dark-skinned women. But as he approached the hostess station, I found the image of my long legs wrapped around Falcone’s big body as he hammered me into oblivion was the first thing that came to mind.

My fiancé, Rakeem, would probably not like that.

And neither did I. Falcone would just as soon kill me as fuck me. He was a playboy; they all were, but he was a sophisticated manipulator, able to get whatever he wanted from women without ever breaking a sweat. And as long as he kept his wife Giovanna happy, she was never going to rain on his parade. In the Bureau, she wasn’t known as Mrs. Falcone. She was known as Mrs. Chanel. Despite being a total lothario, Falcone took care of his wife. She was his rock.

“Good evening!” I said to the entourage. “Welcome to Messima. Do you have a reservation?” I asked, automatically directing the question toward Falcone. *Pleased to make your acquaintance, you criminal asshole...*

And there's the premise—I’m a mob boss in New York City, and you’re the undercover federal agent. You know who and what I am; I’m beginning to suspect you’re more than just a restaurant hostess. But the attraction is pretty inescapable. The more you run, the harder I pursue. And...you don’t tell your superiors about this. About any of this.

Kinks are: race play, rough sex, cum play, bondage, throat/cream pies, risky sex, public sex, cheating, forced/denied orgasm, non/dub con, corruption, drama, and literate partners who know how to spin a story. Limits are scat, piss, feet, and underage.

I play through Reddit DMs only. Please for the love of God, no chat requests. I don’t answer them.