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The Don's Woman

Lucien

There is a kind of fluid grace in her as she moves away and makes to get up, gently freeing herself from his restraining hand and floating to the bathroom as she disappears from view; at least, that is what it looks like to him as he lies, spent, his c*ck limp, his eyes on her.

He is tired. He has drunk more than he intended to. And he has just killed a man, shot him, for being a traitor.

*

The news reached him that Orif Karimov, a man he did business with, another arms dealer from Uzbekistan, had been feeding information to the Monk. Without wasting a minute, Lucien had driven down to the wh*re house where the man had parked himself, secure in the belief that the Mafia Don would not find out about his treachery.

*

Lucien had walked to him, as Karimov lay sprawled on the bed, with three wh*res servicing him. His large eyes had almost bulged as the door was thrown open and Lucien Delano had entered with his men.

‘What…hey man…’ the man had spluttered in his thick English accent,
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