"We are talking about anger here, Fraser, a human emotion. Are you human? Because if you are, human beings feel things. Okay? They feel anger. They feel love. They feel lust and fear. And sometimes, I know you don't want to hear this, sometimes they even cry."
[Okay, so he got the threat well enough about the name. The shut the fuck up before I really do hurt you threat that actually gets Stanley falling quietly, chewing silently on his gum as he follows, peering around to take note of what goons were still paying attention. There were plenty eyeing him wearily, but none that seemed too overly concerned now that he'd been de-clawed, so to speak. It seemed like Armando's confidence was enough to keep the rest of the team feeling similar, and ain't that a sign of good leadership? Stay calm and they will follow. Clever.
The limo doesn't surprise him. Of course some higher up mobster is going to have a limo, of course. These guys have money to throw away at anything, they earn more in a few hours than he makes in a year and-- damn, he never got to cash in those chips. Oh well. Maybe another day.
It's not fear that has him hesitating, but e does his best to get a good assessment of the car's interior while he can. Tinted windows. No witnesses. Mafia car. They could easily blow his brains out in the back seat and just replace the car. No one would know and the repercussions would likely be non existent beyond an ineffective search by his own department with a possible but reluctant involvement with the Vegas PD. Even if shooting was the likely outcome, he couldn't prevent it. They'd just as likely get him for bolting, or even just for refusing to enter.
Easiest route was still to play along and bide his time. He could still get the information he needed and get out of here. Just keep with the program and maybe turn the cockiness down a little before he gets an actual fist to the nose.
And so he moved when ushered in, sitting opposite and sparing a glance around the cushy interior because this is fancier than anything he's used to. He's just a poor Chicago boy, he's not used to riches of Vegas.
When the handcuffs land next to him, he reaches for them, his eyes drifting from them up to Armando and then staying there, as if watching the suit will somehow prevent him from drawing a weapon. Ray does exactly as he's told, slapping a cuff over his left wrist and then leaving the other dangling uselessly as he smiles proudly, and maybe he's being a smart ass or maybe he's just being a dumb ass, it's often hard to tell with him. It's only after that he notices there was a question hanging in the air. An odd question about buttermilk that has him squinting just slightly in confusion.]
Uh.
[Regret it later? Cocaine? Never done it before. Cute.]
Nah thanks, man, I'm not a user. Legalities, y'know?
[ It was a really unpleasant thing to say to a guy who was actually envisioning peril to his life, but as far as reminders went it wasn't a bad one. Ray - if that was really his name, which was unlikely - was playing a dangerous game. He had his pick of places to attach the handcuffs to. He didn't. He was probably envisioning throwing himself across the car and trying to strangle Langoustini.
But that wouldn't be a smart move, would it? As soon as the car pulled over, a half dozen mobsters would convene on him with automatic weapons. It'd be a bloodbath.
Armando sat back, not rising immediately to the bait, sipping his buttermilk serenely. His hands were both folded around the glass, doeskin leather gloves covering slender fingers. ]
As for the legalities, I shouldn't worry about it. I'm prepared to write you a written statement releasing you from your responsibility and explaining how I forced them on you. By the time I'm done with you you'll be grateful I did.
[ The glass went down into its holder in the rail, and Armando eased even further back, one arm on the rest behind him to either side, all but spreading himself across the entire seat. He possessed it easily, while Ray still looked impossibly nervous and very, very much like he didn't belong. And who did? Riding in a limousine? What sort of life was this?
He was all but inviting Ray to try his luck, and yet--and yet if he did, he'd be furious with him. ]
You know my name, but you don't really know who I am. I'm royalty. I'm the president, the king and the pope all rolled into one. You see, I like this life. I can have anything I want. I can do anything I want, to anyone I want; but that doesn't come for free. You have to earn fear. Yes, fear, not respect. Respect is a joke down here, it doesn't exist. But fear. Fear is better. It takes upkeep. I need to show a strong front. And that's why I can't be seen to be taking it easy on you.
And that's a shame. I like you. I think you're ballsy. In another life we might even have been good friends, shot a few rounds of pool together, drank a few beers. I am going to help you find what you came here for; I am if nothing else irrevocably a man of my word, but for what you did back in the casino--I'm afraid there's no escaping that debt. A balance needs to be struck, and I have to tell you, liking you or not, a part of me is gonna enjoy it.
The real question - the one you really ought to be asking yourself - is how much you like the fingers on your right hand. I know you've just been burning to hit me. I might even let you. But if you try it, I have to take my recompense. I'll break every single finger. Every one. It isn't personal, it's just business. It's just too bad that you'll never hold a gun again, but I suppose that's not gonna be a problem. Not like people shoot at you every day or anything, right?
Your call. Remember, it's like I said. Cooperation's a good look for you.
[If there's one thing he can learn from all of this, it's that villains really do like to monologue and that this guy really does like to talk. A lot. But Ray listens, he has to listen in case he misses something important in it all. It's all about self preservation and balancing that out with his usual cockiness. He's starting to realise his smugness isn't going to get him many places, not when there's threats of debts and finger breaking and other typical mafia lines that he really doesn't doubt are true. He's in the back of a limo, gunless and at the whim of some higher up in the mob, you can bet he's concerned for his own safety.
So maybe he should do as he's told, which is why he's finally reaching up towards the assist handle above the limo door and clipping the other cuff onto it, rolling his eyes as he does so and then snapping his gaze to Armando with an obvious 'happy now?' look on his features.
He won't be doing any more pouncing and punching. Not yet. There's still far too much risk involved in it especially now that he's got the possibility of finding the Mountie he came in search for just by cooperation. He doesn't doubt that stupid actions from him could result in the death of himself and the guy he's come to aid.]
Okay, sure, give me a glass, I'll take it.
[Of all the things to be drinking in the back of a limo, he gets stuck with butter milk. Limos in the movies always have champagne and martinis and plenty of hot chicks to go with it all. But whatever, he'll take what he can get right now.]
There's plenty that's stronger than milk. [ He gestured. ] Nothing I'm going to give you. Alcohol turns cocaine into a poison, multiplies its lethality, and like I said--I like you.
[ He liked him better cooperating, with his hand cuffed to the rail and his ass in the opposite seat. Politely he leaned forward, picking up the second glass and offering it to Ray.
It had actually been the capofamiglia who'd pointed him toward buttermilk; an early gaff on Ray's behalf, but which he'd covered for quickly enough. It had been a week after he'd started augmenting his coping ability with drugs that he'd been brought the glass of buttermilk by instruction. He'd waved it away, and gotten a dirty look for doing so. Look, if it's between your buttermilk habit and another year long battle with bronchitis, I know which I'd prefer, the boss had snapped, and Ray had hightailed it into drinking buttermilk whenever possible. At the very least it kept him away from alcohol for the aforementioned reasons.
As habits went, it wasn't the worst one he'd picked up. It sharpened his mind when he had to turn it to all the maths. Maths; nobody had told him that filing his tax returns was all the practice he was going to get before the FBI made him the bookman for the mob. Then it had been his job to make those numbers vanish, but vanish legitimately. Hell, without the cocaine he'd be dead already. They'd have sussed out he was fraud months ago.
But here he was, alive and well, and maybe a little raw around the edges, but he'd very quickly picked up the mantra that he'd do whatever it took to live through this experience. The deeper he got, the more he betrayed of his own moral values, the more important it became that something come of it.
It was part of why he'd been so pissed off when Fraser showed up here. Here he was risking his life... ]
What's it matter to you, this friend of yours? He owe you money or something? [ Please explain it, Ray, because he had no idea how to. Fraser was infuriating, and this was a big risk to take, and Ray knew sure enough that he'd be doing the same thing were he in this guy's place.
[Ray didn't know this guy's story and he was pretty sure he didn't want to. It was always the same with mob guys anyway, some Goodfella bullshit story about a climb to the top and constant threats to their authority. Armando had already confirmed some of that with his little lecture about respect and fear. They were all the same and most of them ended up the same way too; dead, and Ray could at least take some comfort in that, even if this guy might be one of the better ones. Might. He knows there's plenty who play the good guy just long enough to stab you in the back. No honour among thieves.
So maybe he had learned a lot of that stuff from mafia films, but he'd also witnessed and heard enough about it on the streets of Chicago to get the general idea of how these interactions went down. And interactions that involved one guy ushered into a limo with a higher up? They didn't usually end well.
And there was Ray, sat with a hand willingly cuffed to the car with little hope of swift movement, sipping at buttermilk while chatting to some guy named Armando who was supposedly some big name in Vegas. Chatting about cocaine and lost Mounties, no less.]
He's my partner.
[No lies there, but at the moment Kowalski doesn't see much point in lying. What good is it going to do him when they already know he's a cop? And a cop looking for another sort-of cop can only bring up so many results.]
He's not from around here- America, I mean. He don't know how our world works, so I guess you could say I'm kinda like his babysitter. Maybe a mob guy like you knows what its like to have a guy by your side through it all, I dunno, but it's hard to give up on a pal that'd take a bullet for ya. Y'know, a real pal, not some goon who's paid big bucks to keep you safe.
[And still the truth, heartfelt, even. Ray's not afraid to show how much he needs to find this Mountie of his.]
You show me where he is and we got no problems. I take him back to Chicago and everyone forgets this ever happened. It's a fair deal all around.
[ Maybe this guy had sussed out the real reason why they couldn't do anything to escape Fraser. He depended on them; he'd die without them, die a thousand times over. But he was their friend; he'd take a bullet for them, and Ray had a still healing wound in his shoulder that said that he'd take one too. God, he missed Fraser. He missed feeling this way about him. This guy still had that. This imposter, who'd come in and stolen his life, and his name, and his Mountie, stolen even the way he felt about him.
And Ray had to sit there and listen to it, get insulted and dismissed, because he was just some mob guy with a bunch of goons who would shoot him dead if they thought it'd get them his job and his money.
Now he wanted to hit Ray. Or cry, maybe. This assignment sucked. He missed Fraser, missed Chicago, missed being a cop more than he could stand, and here was Ray Vecchio to remind him just how much. ]
You're right, I wouldn't know anything about any of that. I haven't had a real friend since I was nine, unless you count dead Presidents.
[ He made it sound like he counted those dead Presidents, but the truth was he didn't. Money was great, but Ray didn't rate it. The job was lonely. Mostly it was lonely because coming out of Vegas with an addiction to coke was a lot kinder to his body than coming out of Vegas with venereal diseases. He'd made his choice.
He tilted his head toward the window as they turned and changed speed and direction. They were pulling out of the worst of the traffic now, heading down through the long, winding roads that led down to the oasis where the millionaires lived. They turned again, drove into darkness, and came to a halt in the cool underground garage of his home. There was a grind of electrics as the gate doors came rolling down, and when they stopped with a clunk, Armando finally moved, shifting forward and patting Ray on the knee. ]
Let's continue this conversation inside, shall we?
[ He left him where he was, stepping out of the door when it was opened for him and tossing his key to the driver. A second car had pulled in beside them, full of curious men, and Armando stopped to pat one of the younger ones on the shoulder before speaking to a man closer to his age. ]
I need three hours. Then send Nicci back to pick him up, and Si--bounce me in a couple of clean up guys. He's a cop, I'm not going to kill him, but you know how it is, things might get out of hand. It's been a while since I got to have any real fun, and with all this stress going around recently... Well, you know how it is. I figure I may at least enjoy myself.
[ He tilted his head back over his shoulder, smirked dangerously back through the doorway into the car. His driver had climbed in to unlock Ray's handcuffs, and Armando took a step away as space was made for his replacement to get out of the limousine. ]
Come on then, Raymondo. Let's take a walk. See you later, Si. Right this way.
[Go figure, the mob guy's only friend is money. To be honest, Ray wishes he could say the same. Before Fraser, his only friend had been a turtle, so maybe he won't go judging gangsters on a lonely life. At least this guy had a limo, probably a big house, lots of goons and maybe even a few maids or butlers or something, that's more than Ray's ever had. Sure, he wouldn't replace his Mountie for that, not now that he has such a friend, but before Fraser a life like this might have been real tempting, were it not for the moral issues. Kowalski was a cop for a reason; he had a basic understanding of right and wrong, and maybe he blurred the lines a little from time to time, but it was always for the greater good.
He feels the change in speed and direction and vaguely realises he has absolutely no clue where they're going. Fraser could probably pinpoint their location just by the car's speed and distance travelled and turns made, but Ray wasn't any good at that. He couldn't even say if they were going north or south, and if he somehow manages to get a call into the police, he won't even be able to tell him his location. Yet more proof that he's just a little fucked right now, but he's still keeping his cool other than the usual jitter that vibrates from him.
He only bothers with half of that buttermilk before shoving it aside in the nearest cup holder, back to chewing the gum he's still preserved. And then they're stopped and Armando's leaning forward to address him. Ray stares right back, offering up a forced smile that has all the obvious bitterness behind it that one would expect from a guy cuffed inside a car, at the whim of a bunch of mobsters. He put himself in this situation, he had to remind himself of that, and just maybe he'd do it again if it meant saving Fraser at the end of it all.
He waited for his release, listening in on the conversation that happened outside the car for any warning clues. He hears mention of clean up, but also that he's not likely to be killed which is... reassuring. But his 'pick up' after this could result in a bullet to the head anyway. Really, there's nothing extra he can garner from that that he'd not already worked out for himself.
At least he's getting released, not even bothering to do anything stupid as the cuff comes free, even if punching the driver would be amusing. However a few seconds of entertainment isn't worth whatever he'd get from the small group standing by, and so he keeps his movements obvious, hopping out of the car while rubbing his wrist and heading towards Armando despite the guy looking like a fucking psycho with a smile like that.]
Why not? We should all get to see how the other half lives, right?
[ So maybe Ray thought that he was telling a good joke, haha, getting out of having his fingernails peeled off or whatever, but life was never so simple, and Armando, content in his own environment once again, dropped an arm across Ray's shoulder and steered him up the ramp toward open sunlight. They were underneath a veranda overgrowing with climbing roses and butterfly bushes. Night blooming primrose hung low, intertwined with the other plants, creating a sort of green shade that stretched along the side of the single story whitewashed building to their left. The building arched around, growing from one floor to two as it circled the vast blue pool. Its roof slanted inward, and most of the inward facing walls were windows, showing finely designed white walls with rich, dark brown furniture, Italian leather couches and glossy white marble surfaces. This wasn't a family home; it was a show home, a hotel, or the ultimate bachelor's pad, so pristine that it was impossible to believe that anyone lived there. The most expensive looking pool table in the world dominated one of the rooms; it was felted in white, trimmed in gold with inlaid marble sides. It looked like the kind of pool table God would own.
But it was just one part of the entire effect. Armando patted Ray on the shoulder. ]
Don't worry, huh? If you scrimp and save enough for the next thirty years, and if you manage to get yourself nearly killed in the line of duty, and if you don't get married or waste your time on kids, you might be able to afford--oh, two nights in a place like this?
Sucks, doesn't it?
[ He stepped away, clearly not caring whether Ray came with him or not, but since he hadn't told him where Fraser was yet, and since he'd followed him this far, and quite possibly since he didn't know which way was the way out, he would just have to follow him. Armando led the way carefully around the outside of the pool, opened the seamless wall of windows, which apparently included secret french doors, and held them wide for the other man to enter after him. Once again a blast of cool air erupted from the well air conditioned home, like they'd both just stepped into the refrigerated section of a grocery store rather than a house in the Mohave desert.
But as he closed the door behind him, he at last removed a gun - Kowalski's, actually - turning it thoughtfully in his hand. If he traced this weapon, would he find that it was registered to Ray Vecchio? Had the FBI managed to transfer over even that? Or would he find out what this guy's name really was?
Well, there wasn't time for that now. He'd get to the bottom of it, maybe jot the serial number down and call up his snitch in Vegas PD after he'd sent the cop on his way. In the meantime he lowered the firearm to his side, and decided to see just how far Ray's cooperation went. ]
Strip. Right down to your underwear, take it all off. It's not a fantastic suit but it's gonna look better if it's not covered in blood when you walk outta here. So take it off, fold it up, and put it over there, on the top of the piano.
[He takes the arm at his shoulder without argument, letting Armando steer him towards the outside world. Sure, let's pretend to be fake buddies for a few minutes longer, why the fuck not? Maybe it'll soften the blow of whatever's to come, because right now Ray's not liking his chances too much with this all just being happy fun times at some guy's mansion.
And it is a fucking mansion. The second they're out in the open Ray's smacked in the face with a million different things to look at, and every bit of it like a slice of pure perfection. The plants were full of life, the pool spotless, the architecture amazing, everything was clean and in it's place, and every inch of the home and the garden and the furniture and whatever else was made from the finest materials. Ray's no expert in interior design, but even from this distance he knows good leather when he sees it, he even knows real marble and real gold. The pool table alone is probably worth more than he pays for a years rent at his apartment. It's probably more than he earns in a year.
Armando isn't wrong about it sucking, even gets a vague nod of agreement. A guy like Ray couldn't save this sort of money in a hundred lifetimes, not on his salary. No wonder there's so many cops bitter about being in 'the wrong business' when they see what the other side are getting. Live a life of justice and servitude and all you get is shit pay and long hours. Live a life of crime and you get mansions, whores and spare time to play pool. Fuckers.
He doesn't even hide the slack jawed stare at it all. This was so out of his league that he's not even sure he should be allowed to step inside. He might make the place dirty just by being near it, but then Armando's moving away, heading off inside and Ray decides it's best to follow. Where would he go if he didn't? Maybe he'd get off the property before they picked him off, but that's really a best case scenario, more than likely he'd be shot the second he started bolting for it, or at the very least caught by a few thugs and dragged back to face harsher consequences or risk his partner getting injured.
And so Ray steps inside, standing like he's not quite sure what to do with himself as he watches the other shut the doors behind them and then man handle his gun. His gun in the hands of a mobster. Never a good sign.
When he first gets the order he can't help but exhale a sharp noise of amusement, although almost immediately realising that maybe it wasn't a joke.]
It's uh, it's alright. Yeah.
[His chewing quickens, jittering just slightly on the spot as he thinks, staring from Armando to the gun and then the rest of the room. He doesn't want blood on his suit. He doesn't want blood anywhere, not unless it's the mobster's blood. Hey, maybe they can just brawl, he's cool with that, and he can do that in his suit just fine. He does, however, shift to remove his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and then holding it by his side because it's getting a little too warm with his heart beating a million times a minute.]
Y'know, I think I'll keep the suit on. It's a little cold in here. I wouldn't wanna catch a chill.
[ It wouldn't be the first time he'd given the order. Beaten or killed, it was easier to keep the work clean if it happened without clothes. If they stayed on, they'd need to be burned or otherwise disposed of, there'd be fragments of gun oil and gunpowder on the burned fabric threads in the wound, and anything that could be traced back would be. Not that they could convict just on that kind of evidence, but it slowed down trials and cost tens of thousands of dollars a day in lawyers, and a good trial could cause a lot of financial pain to the criminal element even if it didn't get them put away.
It was always about money and staying out of jail.
He reached up with his free hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Armando had probably seen it all in his time, but Ray had been through this a half dozen times himself. Usually it took a gun pointed at them for the guy to jump into action. One had said "You're not gonna shoot me in here," and Ray had buried a bullet in his shin and had the crippled thug pay for the redecoration himself. Twenty-six thousand dollars of it, on top of the two hundred thou debt he'd already run up. He'd sold his house, lost his wife and kids, but hey--that was the business Armando was in, which meant it was the business Ray was in. It disgusted him, but as undercover gigs went this was the ultimate test of nerve, and if he didn't have it...
He wasn't going to shoot Ray in the knee. He wasn't going to shoot him at all, but he had to make Ray think he was capable of it. When he left, he had to think: Armando Langoustini is a scary ass piece of shit, and I hope I never cross paths with him again. ]
Sure, I bet your Ma wouldn't like it if you came down with something, eh? But then she probably wants her son back in the city in one piece, too, so why don't we do what's best for her, and you, and move things along a little bit, shall we?
[ He strode forward. They both knew that the best way for this to not become a struggle, wrestling for a weapon, where one of them ended up accidentally shot in the head, was for him to keep his distance; but Armando was pure confidence, and besides, Ray had demonstrated a hell of a lot of common sense so far. He'd come all this way, and he hadn't done it to get his face shot off trying to get his gun back now.
He brought the muzzle up to Ray's jaw, standing almost in his space, and raised his other hand to Ray's throat, loosening his tie directly, showing absolutely no hesitation or second-guessing about it as he moved, business like, from there to the buttons, working open Ray's shirt. ]
Usually when I shoot a guy I like to bring the music up, you know. It's not really my thing, but it drowns out the sobbing. I can't stand the sobbing--Mammy, mammy, sweet Mary Mother of Christ it hurts etcetera. And I like to call in the doctor in advance. I mean, you shoot a guy and you mean to kill him, you just get it done. One in the head, no fuss. You shoot him to hurt him and it really helps if he doesn't bleed to death, or lose it from the shock. He can't learn anything from the experience if he's delirious, or dead. [ He flattened his hand on Ray's bare chest, just over his sternum, and tilted the gun over slightly, nudging his chin a little higher as he did so. ] So you tell me, Ray. Do I need to get my doctor in here? Am I gonna have to shoot you to get you to pay attention to me?
What do you say? You think you can take it from here?
[He hadn't expected to get away with it, not really, but testing the waters was worth it, even if it did result in Armando approaching far too closely. Ray wasn't going to push it more, he didn't need the hassle of being 'punished' for being a smart ass, he liked his fingers unbroken and his body relatively bullet free, but the occasional experimenting poke and prod got him to test the mettle of this guy in front of him. He needed to see how much of a push over he was, how much of his bark would be backed up by bite, and how much he can get away with in the long run.
As Armando approaches, Ray doesn't move beyond a slight lean back, instincts and self preservation telling him to get away from the gun muzzle pushing up towards his jaw or fight back and wrestle the gun back, but he grits his teeth and bears it. Nothing will be achieved by trying to grapple for that gun, nothing that wouldn't result in risking getting himself shot. His chin lifts, forced to by the solid metal pressing against him, sight strained down to keep watch on the whatever the fuck the mobster is attempting to do.
Looks like the suit has to come off, and he sees the logic in it. No point in letting a guy get covered in evidence, not when it's evidence that can get people convicted. No point in letting the suit owner cover it in their own blood either. Ray realised that doesn't bode well for himself, all things considered. Once he gets that suit off anything could follow, and he doubts any of it is going to be happy fun times for himself.
Right now he's just got to weigh out his options (which are limited) and decide whether he'll preserve himself more by cooperating fully or fighting back. At the moment it's the former, but that doesn't mean the tables won't turn. It's the hope of that, and that he'll be getting Fraser back at the end of it, that drives him on. Ray doesn't have the fear that plenty of the thugs that have been here have, he's not there to beg forgiveness or receive consequences for a screw up, he's there as a cop looking for information, and sure he may not be in the best situation right now, but his confidence stays.]
I got this.
[A low mutter than has a slight edge of reluctant obedience. For now.
His hand movements are slow, learning long ago not to make any jerky or sudden shifts around someone holding a gun to you, but he does as he's told, fingers finishing off the work on his shirt and carefully rolling the shirt off his shoulders. His belt comes next, loosened with ease and then working at the fastening of his suit pants, everything getting dropped by his feet to reveal a pale and lithe body beneath, anxiety getting him shuddering just slightly.]
On the uh, on the piano?
[He'll get the shoes and socks wrestled off the second he can bend over without the fear of being shot for it, and while his folding isn't exactly skilled, he'll still do a vague attempt at it.]
[ The problem that Ray was still working over - he wasn't as quick to the draw as some people - was that he had to develop a way by which to keep Fraser away from Vegas when this was all said and done. He could convince this guy for sure, that would be easy. A whole bunch of bruises and cuts and a couple of burns would turn him away from the Strip for a decade so long as it got him the Mountie back, but keeping Fraser out of this was going to be harder.
No, he needed Ray to be so traumatized by the experience that he would beg Fraser not to go, and if Ray knew his friend - which he did - if he implored him desperately enough then he would back off. For his partner's sake.
He had an idea where this was leading him, but honestly, he felt fucking awful about it. This guy hadn't asked to be dropped into his life, hadn't asked to have a wanderlust driven Mountie who couldn't let anything go as a partner. He hadn't asked to become Ray Vecchio--or hell, maybe he had? He might feel better if that were the case, maybe he could convince himself of it. Maybe he'd done something so awful that the only way he could escape it was to spend so long undercover he forgot who he was.
Armando drew away, putting the gun away inside his jacket. He gave Ray all the room he could need, and a little bit of space too, mostly keeping his eyes off him as he scrabbled out of his socks and shoes and head over toward the piano. It paid to give people space when they had their trousers around their ankles. In the meantime Armando kept hold of Ray's tie, holding it in both hands and rolling it back and forth through his fingers. Cheap processed silk and polyester--he almost missed ties like this. All his were silk with die motifs on them and playing cards, and the occasional unicolored black or white or red. He missed his old suits, and his car, and eating pizza with Fraser while they chatted about hockey, and he missed Dief stealing half of that pizza when he wasn't looking.
Fuck this guy for bringing it all back. And fuck Fraser; this was all his fault. It was his fault he had to push this guy so hard toward that edge that he'd swear blind to Fraser, no matter how persistent he was, that Armando Langoustini couldn't possibly be his former partner; he was a dirty scumbag mafioso and that was the end of it. Finished.
He put the tie in his pocket, then finally raised his eyes to Ray, looking him over thoughtfully. Real pale, but that wasn't a surprise, it wasn't like he'd spent the summer in Nevada. Chicago summers were stuffy rather than hot, sticky, but only ever uncomfortable briefly before just as quickly they were gone again. It wasn't exactly the place you went to rack up a tan. There was muscle there too. Ray had the arms and back of a boxer, and he looked like he could kick a guy in the head from ground level, neither of which surprised him given the way he'd come across that table. He punched straight, right down the length of his arm - smack - and that probably helped around Fraser. It probably helped a whole lot. So stay away from that right hook, check. Something that'd become more important soon enough. ]
You're alright. So long as you keep it up you're gonna be fine. Keep your eyes on the prize, Ray. Three hours, and all this is going to be a painful memory.
[ He crossed the room, opening a recessed door and holding it wide. There was no cool air emerging through this door, and in fact a heat rolled up the descending staircase, dark within. It was lit only by red runners underneath the steps, by a red glow and the purple of blacklights in the basement level below, the walls all painted black, and Armando held the door wide.
God knew when he'd seen this room for the first time he hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't. Mostly it was for show, but there were signs of use that made it clear that the former man to hold the name had made more use of it. It'd rattle Ray, sure enough. It had made the FBI guy who had mentioned it to him in his briefing shudder, and had never come up in conversation again or since. When he talked to his handlers, they called it The Red Room, and that suited its purpose just fine. It was the place people went to bleed. ]
Go ahead. [ He instructed, and waited to follow him down.
The full view wouldn't be visible until Ray had reached the bottom of the stairs, the room practically as hot as the desert outside - deliberately so - and as he emerged into the hot red spotlights that crisscrossed the room, he'd discover a ceiling-to-floor cage, such as they put dancers in; chains and poles and bars; a nasty looking chair covered in metal rings and leather straps; an actual full sized crucifix... Fragments of mirrors stabbed the wall in jagged shapes, but by far the most striking thing was the mirror that crossed the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, reflecting all the light and making the room seem twice as large as it already was.
If Ray stopped, which Vecchio expected him to, there'd be nowhere to go, no way back. Armando would be behind him waiting. ]
All I can say is this guy better be worth it, don't you think?
[The suit is folded roughly, shoes and socks laid on top and taken over to the piano just like he's told to. Probably for the best, it's one of his only suits and it cost him far too much despite being a cheap piece of shit, it's nothing compared to the price of the stuff this Armando guy owns but he gets what he can afford.
And then he stands, waiting, hands forward slightly to cover the front of his underwear, shoulders hunched like somehow he'll feel less exposed the more covered he can get himself. It's obvious he's uncomfortable like this, especially when being eyed up, his every day armour stripped away. He supposes that's half the point, to humiliate on top of the practicality of it all, and while he's not ashamed or embarrassed of his body, he really doesn't at ease when practically naked in front of a guy who's promising pain.
Three hours. He had to deal with this for three hours unless he got out early. And the only way he's going to get out early is fighting his way out, which he's already established is a poor idea considering location and amount of goons and everything in between. He's really not reassured by words like 'you're alright' and 'you're gonna be fine', not when they're followed by 'painful', but he's been through it all in the past, shot and stabbed and fallen ridiculous heights. This can't be worse than that. It won't be.
Except Armando's opening up a stairway that leads down. Down is bad. Down is away from living quarters. Ray does shift forward to take a peek at the doom and gloom stairway, curiosity getting the better of him, but then he realises he'll be getting more than just a peek as the mafioso beckons him in.
Shit. No thank you. He'd really rather not.
But he does. Because he has to, taking a slow, steady inhale as he steps forward, bare feet giving a careful placement at each step, the heat from the room billowing upwards, stale and humid. Ray can only imagine what's in there, but even he couldn't come up with what he sees as he descends. It's like a fucking dungeon. Torture? Sex? Both? God, he doesn't even want to know what's happened in this place. He hopes it's just for show. Somewhere to take people to fuck with their minds, and it works damn effectively even if it is just that. The unknown can be scarier than the known after all.
He halts on the second from last step, looking back behind him, although he's not sure whether he's looking for an escape plan or reassurance.]
Guess he better be. And he better be in one piece.
[Not that Ray is going to trust the word of a mobster.]
[ At the bottom of the stairs, Ray stops - expectedly - and Armando drops his hand onto his shoulder, squeezing gently, almost reassuringly. Almost, and then the touch is gone, replaced with a very hard push off the bottom step. He moves down after him. The heat is unbearable, of course, but Armando is still in his full suit, with his tie, his cufflinks, his 24 karat gold tie clip...
Hot. But he can sort himself out when he has Ray under control. He still has to be Armando, and Armando would have Ray under control first. In fact, if he doesn't--well Ray is a detective. He'll detect. He'll detect that there's something funky about this guy who's supposed to be a big, bad, nasty mobster.
He tilted his head, looking over Ray's shoulder. ]
He showed up a week ago out of nowhere, came down in a penguin suit shaking up the blackjack tables worse than you did. He kept giving his chips away to the women wishing him luck. A player, but good natured, attractive. Hooker bait. We figure he'd won and given away three hundred thousand by the time we stepped in. That shouldn't be possible without cheating--I mean, you and I both know our people are doing everything they can to make the cards fall in our favor.
I sent people in to pick him up, but he slipped between our fingers. He outran them, slipped away into the crowds like a ghost. But that was fine. He tracked me here the very next day. Good at that, your friend. He got all the way in here. Tresspassing, they call that.
[ But he was assuring him that yes, he had seen Fraser, he may have even stood right here, and Ray was doing the right thing by following along with this because in fact, this was the only way that he was ever going to see his friend again.
He took Ray's tie out of his pocket, reaching down to loop it around his wrist, knotting it, and pulling it tight. He stepped forward, using it as a leash and leading him further into the room. Ray seemed reluctant, and he wasn't going to be much use if he had to be pushed through everything, forced through every jerk and gesture.
Ray got it. Really he did. This room was terrifying, and he was naked, and rapidly running out of nerves. He wasn't ready for what might happen next, he was starting to wonder whether going to the casino was really worth it. Good. Afraid was good. ]
We call this the Red Room. For obvious reasons. And for all the other reasons.
[ He kept a tight grip on the tie, turning back in toward Ray, raising his hand very slightly.
I'm gonna restrain you now. And I don't expect anything that comes after that is gonna make you very happy, but...well, it's a compromise; a business deal. I need certain things from you, you want certain things from me. Just business. So don't take it personally, huh? There's a good boy.
[ And Ray patted him on the cheek, and gestured to the big chair. ]
Take a seat. It's comfy, I swear. Like a big armchair.
[That squeeze at his shoulder (was that reassurance? Probably wishful thinking) is gone in seconds, replaced by a shove that has him stumbling down the last step and trying to get his footing again like he's all limbs. It's hot, even for him standing there in just his boxerbriefs, that stifling sort of heat that almost instantly makes it feel like he's got sweat prickling at his forehead. Although that could just be nerves that has him sweating, because yeah, he was nervous, he could admit that. He was allowed to be when stuck in some dungeon with a fully dressed and likely psychotic mafia guy. They were all psychotic, they had to be to do shit like this. What sort of normal person has a fucking dungeon in their basement?
As Armando talks of Fraser, Ray lets the information sink in deep, letting the mental image of his Mountie in a tux trying to play it smooth in Vegas casinos sink in deep. The thought was enough to get him smiling vaguely to himself, eyes drifting up as he takes note of the mirror above them. Maybe this place did double as some weird ass BDSM room.
He watches the reflection of Armando get closer, watches him withdraw the tie from his pocket, finally dropping his gaze again as he feels the brush of fabric on his wrist. That mirror could prove useful later in seeing things he might not be able to from his current position. The darkness in the room doesn't help, but at least that mirror is a slight advantage, even if he doesn't necessarily intend to react on much of what he sees. He'll use whatever advantage he can get, even as he's led further forward by a tug at the tie.
The pat at the cheek has him all but sneering back, and it's gestures like that that make him want to punch the guy all over again, his free hand curling into a fist and just for a second he can't stop it jerking up and snapping it back. He does, thankfully, stop it before it's barrelling forward, and then he's gradually lowering it again, the threat gone like it was little more than a growl of warning. That could be his last chance to swing a hit, but he's not sure it's worth it, not by the looks of this place.]
Looks real fuckin' cushy. [He grunts, his exhale almost sounding like a snarl while he eyes up that chair, all rings and straps and not at all like anything he'd have in his lounge. But fine, he'll do as he's told, moving when the tie allows it, stepping in to take a closer look at the seat before turning and carefully perching on it, his attention snapping straight back to Armando to keep the surprises to a minimum.]
[ When Ray recoils his fist, ready to plough it into his face and show him exactly what all that muscle is for, Vecchio doesn't even flinch. He grew up with this sort of crap, between his father and the street criminals and the lower level mob guys pretending they were even remotely like the high rollers in Vegas and New York. They weren't. They didn't know what they were talking about. But it had prepared him for this, and so Ray bore it out, not even smiling - because he knew that usually made the situation worse - and sure enough Kowalski worked out his error and lowered his hand again.
He wanted Fraser back, after all. If he had hit him... Well, if he'd hit him, everything would have changed on the spot. Any hint of cooperation from Armando would have fallen apart on the spot.
Instead he steps forward, staying at the other end of the tie as Ray moves into the chair, and when he's down, perching nervously on the edge, he looped and knotted the other end in one of the big D-rings.
Standing behind the chair now, he removed his own tie, moving to Ray's other hand and slipping the fabric across his wrist. The silk was an entirely different texture, soft and dense and perfect. It tightened into an impossible knot when he hooked it through the ring on the other armrest.
Then came the classical music; classical music to disrupt the FBI's listening devices. They'd be furious with him, but fuck them--what had the FBI ever done for him? Only then did he speak again. ]
Well, you see, unlike you, your friend told someone else where he was going. He'd befriended the head of one of the other families, and you know, the situation here is a delicate one. We don't want to start another war; no-one makes any money when we're all shooting holes in each other, and the Feds like it a whole lot too much. So a car rolls up to pick him up and he gets walked out of here like a prince and driven off in a limousine. Sadly for me, I wasn't even home when this was going on. Prick gets to walk around my house for an hour, a cop--god knows what he thinks he found, cause as he's being escorted out he's insisting on organizing a meet with me, like he has something on me I can't afford to dismiss.
[ In the meantime, Ray had retreated across the room. There was a cabinet built into the wall, and he ran the doors open and switched on the interior light. Immediately cool white flourescents lit up the various items inside, masks and paddles and...well. Things. Things covered in spikes and things made out of rubber in new-agey blob shapes, and things wrapped in studded leather straps. And a nailgun. Things. ]
Only after that he vanishes, but I'm interested by now. I want to know who this guy is, how he's managed to get into such good graces with one of the most powerful Italians in the city, what he was doing in my house--and I want what he has. I put people out there to find him so we can have a well overdue chat, and I get the information back here and there. I find out about a hotel, and a floor, and a suite. I find out the FBI have picked this guy up, and they're holding him under bullshit charges because he's getting right up in their business down here.
[ He ran his hand along the shelf thoughtfully, and as he reached the end of it, he turned to look a little harder at Ray. He smile was very cold, as cold as he could make it. ]
And you're thinking 'great, the FBI have my friend, they'll give him back, no problem.' But if that's where your head's at, you're forgetting how stupid they are. They're charging him with conspiracy. He'll go to jail. And worse, whatever he has on me he might give to them. Obviously neither of us want that. [ He raised his hand, turning and taking down an ornate knife, which had been otherwise propped up on its display stand. He strode back toward Ray, looking purposeful, and his voice sunk to a deeper growl as he leant into Ray's ear. The cool flat of the knife nudged against his bare shoulder. ] So I'm gonna give you some help, a distraction, and you're gonna walk in there, and you and your friend are going to get the hell out of Vegas and never come back, and if I so much as see a hair from either of your heads around here again, you're both gonna be on a meat train to Lousiana by daybreak, mashed into beef mince. That sound fair to you?
[He made a good call resisting that punch, he knows that. Tempting as it would have been. He's not so sure he made a good call showing up to Vegas in the first place, but how else was he meant to find his partner, especially when his only clue was an address and a name. No, he's where he should be, getting the information he needs to get, however unpleasant the environment around him might be. Maybe Fraser could stroll in here and make friends with both sides like he's some fucking saint, but that's Fraser, Ray just can't do it no matter how much he turns on the charm. No surprises Fraser's managing to make a fuckery of all of this, he supposes.
That tie at his wrist is knotted into the arm of the chair, Armando looping around the back to slip another- probably his own judging by the feel of silk- at Ray's other wrist. And that's that, he's stuck to a chair by two bits of fabric that will undoubtedly make his life a living hell for the next few hours. Maybe he'd get away early, or get away with some sort of warning, but he wouldn't count on that. No point in getting ones hopes up before it's even begun.
He shifts back into the chair, getting himself a little more comfortable rather than perched and arched and killing his back for no reason. He briefly wonders how many others have sat here and how many have come out alive, but that's probably not a great mind set to get himself into either.
Instead he keeps his focus on the mob guy, squinting as he retreats away to a view that Ray can't quite focus on. Maybe he should have brought his glasses. Totally useful in this situation, obviously. He catches the general gist of shapes though, even from his spot, and yeah okay sex dungeon seems like another use for this place because he's pretty sure those are paddles, and he doesn't even know what the fuck those blob shapes are and it's probably best he doesn't even ask. He feels like he should be glad that Armando chooses something as normal as a knife, and then he realises he must be funky in the head right now if he's glad to see a mafioso holding a knife, especially a mafioso looking like that towards him.
His breath hitches as he sees the glint of the blade approach, leaning back and up against the chair as he feels the coolness of the blade touch against his too-hot skin. He's doing his best to keep the rest of his body away from it, although his chin tucks in to try and protect his neck, even as he tries to keep his breath under control and his voice level.]
I'll be in and out, no problem. I don't like the Feds any more than you do. Anythin' to make them look like morons and get my buddy back.
[Confident, if not just slightly apprehensive, but how else should he sound when he's got a knife held against him?]
So uh, we're good, right? We can skip the red room stuff.
You suggesting I take you back upstairs and we play buddies? I don't think so. Not unless you want to play the 'I hire two hookers to come have sex with you and take lots of dirty photos so I can use you to run guns through Chicago' scenario. But hey, you might even enjoy that version, and I'm not here to do you more favors than I need to.
[ The knife flicked away out of sight, but not before nicking Ray's bicep, just above his tattoo. The blade was so sharp and precise that it cut a sharp straight line; it'd heal without a scar, but it'd sting, and bleed, and really it was all about making a good impression. He'd leave Ray looking worse than he felt, and hope that the detective had the good sense to pretend it was pure agony.
With a sharp thunk, he jammed it into the wooden part of the chair beside Ray's elbow, and then there followed a rustling of fabric; Armando getting out of his silk suit and cotton shirt, stripping in fact all the way down to nothing, and pulling on a crisp white kimono from the wall behind him. He left it to hang open--it'd be destroyed when he was done, but it'd have the desired effect--any blood that splashed his way would stain the silk red. He dragged the sleeve deliberately across Ray's bleeding shoulder as he reached to pick the knife back up again. ]
No, Ray. You see, you attacked me in public, in front of my men, and if you aren't limping out of here looking like half a man, they're gonna start thinking I'm not one either. That I don't keep my word, that I'll let anyone walk all over me. That I forgive easily.
[ This time when he brought the knife up, he let the sharp edge lay against Ray's shoulder, and then dragged it up like a flat razor, following the contour without leaving a single mark, but with the full knowledge that his first cut had made Ray very aware of what pain felt like, and that it was very likely to happen again.
In fact, he scraped a layer of skin away as he followed the stubble along the curve of Ray's chin, leaving behind a dense razor burn. His grip loosened, and the blade came up higher, curled in until the base of the blade was set against the bottom of Ray's ear. He didn't cut, but he did lean closer, whispering against him so close that his mouth touched Ray's ear, his breath condensing on the cool blade. He might just let his tongue linger between words, flicking it against salty sweat skin, tasting fear.
Don't move, the position said, no matter how much I bait you. It's going to hurt. ]
But you know, I don't blame you. Vegas prostitutes--you might as well beg me to shoot you in the head. You know I haven't had sex in more than a year? That's why I'm giving serious thought to fucking you, Ray. You're from out of town, that's gotta count for something.
[So maybe that was wishful thinking, to assume they'd made an agreement and could now forget all this. He'd attacked Armando, he can agree to that, and despite not actually hitting the guy, he knew how gangs and mobsters worked. It was all about saving face; you let one guy jump you, next you've got guys trying to get away with more and more. It's all about fear, just like Armando had said.
He barely feels the cut, as sharp as the blade is, but he he sees it, his arm recoiling just slightly in instinct to get away as he gasps out a sharp;] Ah!
[The first of what could be many. It's not as bad as it could be, clean cut and relatively painless beyond a constant stinging from the nerve endings that stayed intact, but deep enough that it's pumping out a far amount of blood on the initial cut, covering his tattoo and down to where his elbow is settled. At least the blade is sharp.
He barely flinched as the knife came thudding down beside him, steeling himself for what's to come with slow, deep breaths that stutter occasionally due to a thrumming anxiety he never has been able to control. The pause in play is almost worst than continuing, his eyes flicking up towards the mirror in an attempt to catch what's going on behind him, although dropping it again when he catches on to the fact Armando's undressing.
The next thing he sees is a sleeve of white silk and then the blade is back in action, his eyes following it until it gets out of view up towards his collar bone. The deep scrape across his chin has him hissing out sharply, but he doesn't move. In fact, he's all but frozen as he feels the cool blade far too close to his ear for his liking. He's seen those movies where ears come off, he'd rather avoid that, even if it does mean enduring Armando's hot breath against his ear and-- was that his tongue?
That knife is the only thing that's stopping him from jolting away.]
Jesus, you sick fuck. That is not my fuckin' problem. Just get a whore from outta state.
You seem to be forgetting, Ray. You're in Vegas, where information isn't free and everything has a price. Well this is mine. You're my price.
[ The blade stayed put. It was doing its job, and now he lavished Ray's ear with the flat of his tongue, hot and wet and steady, giving him the sensation in a predictable fashion because he no more wanted Ray to jerk away and make the knife slip himself. He might end up cutting his own tongue, never mind this guy's ear.
At last he drew back, and just to show how pleased he was that Ray hadn't made him cut his ear off, he didn't leave a mark in the skin. Instead he brought the blade down to a much safer spot flattened against the other man's pectoral, letting the feel of his racing heart thump against the inside of his wrist. There was no danger from the blade unless he turned it, but the warning was still there regardless--the warning that he could and would cut him if Ray fought too hard.
His free hand reached as far as it could over the top of the chair, knotted in Stanley's hair and pulled backward, exposing his throat. ]
You are my whore from out of state, Ray. It works for me. This way I kill two birds with one stone. And you know, value for money: I'm a busy, busy man. Three hours out of my schedule when I could beat you blue in two minutes is kind of a big deal for me.
[ He closed the space again, this time lashing his tongue against the bloodied graze he'd left on Ray's jaw. Hah. You wouldn't do that with a Vegas prostitute.
He dragged his teeth back across the wound, then withdrew, finding Ray's eyes in one of the fragments of mirror on the other side of the room. So okay, he did want to do this. There was something almost biblical about it--or maybe primal was more accurate. This guy had come in and taken his life, after all, and somehow by taking him he could...he could wrangle some part of it back. Reclaim something. Or maybe it was just about scaring him away from Vegas permanently; probably not. If it was just work, he wouldn't already be hard, straining in his designer underwear. This was about power.
But that was okay. It was more than possible that this job was going to get him killed, judging by what it had been like so far. He'd never have to meet this guy face to face as Ray Vecchio, probably wouldn't even be buried in his own grave. How fucked up was that? And this poor bastard...would he have to keep pretending to be Ray Vecchio after Ray Vecchio was dead? It was bad enough he'd come here to save Ray's partner and ended up on the wrong side of the mob, worse still on the wrong side of a guy who had to do whatever it took to maintain his cover, but on the wrong side of Vecchio himself, when he'd clearly gone a little bit nuts? That really did suck.
Okay, so he was thinking too much. He wasn't remotely high enough for this, and this guy probably wasn't either. Lowering inhibitions, taking the edge off reality, raising the heartrate--those were the things that cocaine was best for. And Ray would be grateful, in a manner of speaking. At least he could claim thereafter that it wasn't his fault, it was the drugs. It might alleviate some of that burden. He'd get it next time he changed tools.
First, holding Ray's gaze, he ran the knife down a few inches, turned the blade and flashed it in a light arc from just underneath one nipple around to the top of Ray's ribs. It was deep enough, once again, to hurt and bleed, but that was all. Ray could handle a little blood, a little pain. Hell, he might even be the kind of guy who liked it. ]
You know the only problem with this is I don't usually pay whores who'd bite my tongue off if I kissed them. You'd do that, wouldn't you? Mouth full of blood, you wouldn't care. Anything to not feel so helpless, so used.
[When he'd got into this mess he'd expected the typical beat downs, cuts, maybe even a few bullets, what he hadn't been expecting was to be held at knife point while some mafioso lathers up his ear with his tongue like Ray's some two-bit whore from Vegas.
He doesn't appreciate it, of course he doesn't, but he does endure, jaw clamped tight in annoyance, even as the blade creeps down and flattens against his chest, and even as his head is yanked backwards with a hand fisted into his hair.
While Armando speaks, he keeps his mouth shut, heart raising and breath huffing out in steady breaths as his throat is laid bare. He still can't tell if this guy is for real or whether this is some big bluff that's used to scare the captives. It's effective enough; threatening to fuck a guy would put the fear into plenty, just as effective as cutting off fingers. Actually doing is effective too, leaving a lasting impression for any that do push their luck. And Ray had pushed his luck, in front of far too many witnesses, but he was just expecting to be shot for it, not this.
He snarls at the sting of a warm tongue on his fresh wound, and then snarls all over again, sharper, as teeth drag across, and he does have to give credit for dragging out the pain from the smallest of cuts and abrasions. It wasn't always about the wounds, but what you did with them that counted, not that Ray knew all that much about torture techniques beyond what he'd seen in movies. Chicago cops really shouldn't be getting involved in this sort of shit. This was way over his pay grade.
Throughout it, he can't seem to drag his gaze away from the mirror ahead, catching the gaze of the other and locking it, like he could some how portray just how pissed off he was by a reflected glare alone. It's his annoyance that has him grunting at the sliced arc on his torso, rather than any shout of pain, but then again the cuts like that were the least of his worries at the moment. He could endure surface wounds like that just like he could endure injuries in a brawl, they'd heal quick enough, but his pride was something that took a lot longer. Knife wounds didn't hurt his pride, but a mobster talking about screwing him sure as hell did.]
Why don't you give it a try, scumbag? Wanna risk seein' if my bite is worse than my bark, huh? C'mon, I fuckin' dare ya.
[Bearing his teeth in something caught between a snarl and a smirk, all but ready to use them. And he would. Right now he'd genuinely consider ripping the tongue out of this guy's mouth if he got the chance.]
[ Fight fight fight. Ray would be fine so long as that fight didn't die, so long as he kept growling and struggling and doing everything he could until the bitter end. If he could get a hard kick across Armando's jaw during the process, then that sure as hell would give him some kind of satisfaction, some kind of reassurance that he'd done all he could to defend himself. Oh, he wouldn't ever come back to Vegas, not even for a sure bet. Hell, the sound of slot machines would probably make him inexplicably jumpy hereafter, but physically he'd be alright; physically he'd be in one piece, and only a guy who was in one piece could save Fraser. And only a guy who was beaten down to within an inch of his pride could keep him safe.
Ray snarled up at him, his eyes dark with anger, pain, fear; the bruises to his ego already showing. There was no doubt at all there. Armando didn't need to be able to talk. If need be he could find Fraser another way, he could knock on the door of every hotel room in the city or beg the FBI for help finding him, but he couldn't take this back. He'd bite his lips off, rip his tongue out with his teeth, all without shifting so much as an inch out of the chair, and he'd do it with his teeth bared into a bloodied smirk. That'd sure be one to explain to Si and Mikey and the others--why he'd let a cop bite his face off. ]
Oh no, no. I wasn't born yesterday. I know not to bet against a sure thing.
[ Which had to be a victory for Ray, right? It meant his bark had somehow made contact with him like his fists hadn't been able to, that Armando was actually afraid of doing something to him because Ray still held some element of power, could still defend himself. He'd keep his distance, and that had to be something. ]
But that's good. [ He growled, digging his fingers tighter into Ray's hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. ] I fucking love that. Fight me with everything you've got. C'mon, tough guy, Chicago tough guy, you may be tied down in that chair but you're larger than life. You're not gonna give up the goods that easily.
[ He let him go, peeling back, circling around toward Ray's left, and leaving a nick on his back as he went. That one would look much worse than it felt; there were less nerve endings to cut, and while it was likely to sting, Ray would probably forget all about it quickly enough. He'd appreciate the care he took to layer up the marks later, when he was being escorted off the premises and even his thugs looked at him warily, like all that blood and bruising was the perfect reminder not to fuck with the boss. Ray would at least be walking, though they'd miss that, and the come down from the cocaine would of course make it look a whole lot worse too--they'd miss that. Let them see what they expected to see.
For now, he reached across Ray's lap, knife in hand, hooked it under the leg of his underwear, slicing upward, leaving a slightly deeper gash on Ray's hip as the knife tugged free. Damn. Damn damn damn, that one had been unintentional, and worse still it would be a physical reminder of being stripped, connected inexorably with the physical act. It could take the better part of a month to heal, and even then it'd leave a neat white line for most of the next year. Shit.
This time, reaching across to the other leg, he was a lot more careful, but there was more flexibility in the fabric, too, and the tip of the knife stayed away. It didn't stop him fretting about the blood though, and he pulled Ray's underwear free, rolled it into a ball and jammed it in against his hip. Then, pretending he'd done no such thing, touching the now bloodied flat of his blade to Ray's abdomen, way too close to the base of his cock for any man's comfort. Make him pay attention to that, and he might overlook the act of relative kindness. ]
Just think. [ He murmured, softly. ] If I really wanted to make you remember me this could be a whole lot worse. There's a couple of things around here you could do without. [ And now it was his turn to flash a nasty smirk, before he withdrew both the knife and himself, put the blade down under the chair, out of reach, and walked back across the room to the shelf. He stepped out of his underwear while he was there, shivering despite the intolerable warmth of the room as the brush of silk whispered against is bare thighs. And yes, he was already hard; achingly so. He resisted the urge to touch. It had been way too long.
He turned to look back at Stanley, judging him, then began plucking items off the shelf, among them shackles, a riding crop, lube, latex gloves--pausing after a moment to hold up a string of anal beads. ]
What do you think? Hot or not? Me, I'm not sure. I've never tried them. But let's suppose they do what it says on the box, huh?
[ He had no idea that Ray couldn't see from this distance. Frankly even if he'd known he'd have still done it. He added them to his collection of items and made his way back, putting everything down with a metal clink and clang on the easy to scrub down rubber floor, and staying well clear of those feet in the process. ]
Here we are then, look. [ He held up the little white bag so that Ray could see. ] This is the best stuff, safe as houses, not split with baking soda and fucking ground up aspirin like the shit you get in Chicago. You understand? No one in the right mind would fuck me on this. So. [ He tilted his head. ] You may be thinking "No fucking way", but look at the advantages. No accountability. Not when you get hard, not when you come, not when all that pain goes away. I'm gonna force it on you either way, but it's easier if you cooperate. We've established that much already, haven't we?
[ The gloves went on first, as though he was concerned that traces of the drug would get on his hands - he wasn't, unlike the real Armando he was at no risk of being put away for possession or handling banned substances - and then he was bringing a dose of it to Ray, offering it at head height. It put his hand and wrist very close to those teeth. ]
[It was a personal victory, however small it may be, that Armando didn't even attempt to get his tongue near. Ray had proven that he was more than just a pretty face, that he could defend himself and that he was true to his word. It meant Ray's words had some substance to them and weren't just coming across as idle threats. It also meant Armando was a smart guy and knew when to step down from vocal abuse; some might have taken Ray's challenge and gone for it due to pride alone, but they'd also be withdrawing with little to no tongue left.
Ray allows himself the slightest moment of smugness, even as his hair is yanked at even harder, throat bobbing as he harshly swallows down any noise he might be about to make.
Fight me with everything you've got. He doesn't miss that comment, taking it as a full put permission to hit back now without repercussion. Oh, he'd been careful up until now for Fraser's safety and his own, but if Armando wants him to fight, he'll show this Vegas pussy what a Chicago tough guy can offer. A guy like this? With limos and mansions and goons at his beck and call? He probably hasn't seen what the real streets are like in years. He probably barely ever sees tough guys any more, not after they're in a room like this and pissing themselves. And Ray doesn't blame any tough guy for that, because it's damn hard to act tough when your tied down and at the mercy of some mobster psycho, he's learning that pretty quickly.
That nick in the back is another wound to add to the slowly growing number, his skin cringing against the knife and his breath hissing, but his attention drawn to where Armando- and more importantly the knife- were headed. He forces himself not to jolt away from the blade as it hooks into his underwear, well aware too much sudden movement when there's something that sharp near his groin was a bad idea, but the flick upwards has him flinching heavily because jesus, he doesn't want that near his dick. It takes a couple of seconds for the cut to sink in, for his nerves to send the right signals to his brain and his visual cue of quickly pooling blood to be processed. That smarts. That stings a hell of a lot, enough that it's got Ray hissing out a very silent swear that comes out sounding like an; 'Ah, faaaak'.
He barely even pays attention to the slice of fabric the other side, although takes note of his now mangled underwear being jammed in against the bleeding, which almost seems counter-productive to the whole process of cutting and bleeding and-- well he's not given much time to question the action anyway, because the knife is right by his dick, exactly where he didn't want it to be. He gets the threat, he really does. There didn't even need to be the verbal confirmation, but it solidifies the fact that this psycho could slice his dick off right now without any hassle to the family. But it's merely a threat (for the moment) and Ray's exhaling a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding as the mobster puts away the knife and heads off again.
There's some squinting from Stanley as he tries to catch sight of what's going on, his gaze only broken briefly as he gives himself a once over to double check on his wounds. Superficial, he'd survive them, even if the one at his hip is throbbing and seeping through the makeshift bandage. And he has the possibility of three hours of this shit?
He doesn't even want to know what the guy's holding up and questioning him about, doesn't even ask as he shakes his head anyway, head dropping towards the items as they're finally brought over to the floor nearby. They look like some sick things to bringing to a guy tied to a chair, he can assess that much and how he'd love to be able to kick them away. Or even better, kick Armando, but right now he's staying smartly out of reach while he talks of high grade cocaine and blah blah, Ray doesn't give a shit how good it is.
There's no point in trying to argue his values with some coke user, so he does exactly what Armando asked him to do; he fights. Or more accurately; he bites. Of course he does. How can he not when there's a hand offered up so beautifully right in front of him? He goes right for the fleshy part at the base of his thumb, quick as a flash, teeth sinking in and pressing down harder and harder with every intention of causing pain, an obvious 'fuck you' without ever having to utter a word.]
[ Really, between telling Stanley to fight and putting his hand in full range of those teeth, he'd set himself up for something like this. He'd asked for fight, and that was exactly what he got, and before he can even realise what a fucking awful idea it was to have had his hand anywhere near Ray's mouth, let alone tug it out of range, those straight white teeth are snapping into flesh, ripping latex, digging deep with absolutely no compunction where causing pain is concerned. He feels the skin tear, the suddenly searing, lancing pain as Ray's teeth go deeper, into muscle and flesh--it leaps up his arm, through his shoulder, and his entire body buckles into the chair in response.
Idiot. Idiot. He'd wanted to give Ray something to work with, sure, but he was thinking maybe a clip to the face as he untied him, not this. This was going to scar, and it was going to look nasty, and more importantly it hurt like fuck, but then Ray didn't know he was fighting a guy who was only pretending to be a vicious Italian mobster. Ray thought he was fighting the real thing. That was good, that was the point, but fuck, he'd really taken his eye off the ball to let this happen.
He yelled, reeling his fist back as though he intended to punch the detective in the head, but managed to stop himself. If he wanted Ray's teeth to snap through the tendons in his thumb and permanently disfigure him, maybe he could go ahead and hit him. But no--no, there was no way out of this but to think about unlocking those jaws pragmatically. But his brain was fuzzing over from pain.
The funny thing was, he thought, he'd dropped the straw of cocaine on Ray's chest, white powder raining down over his bare skin, frosting his pubic hair. Okay, so it wasn't funny, it was the pain that made him whimper out laughter.
Think think think.
Okay, tools. He had tools. He had... His hand scrabbled on the floor beside him, fingers trailing across the various mostly unfamiliar objects. He picked up the metal thing it had taken him two hours of speculation to work out when he'd been down here the first time months ago. It looked more like a kitchen implement than a sex aid. A grip handle, and jaws that opened as pressure was applied, smooth metal jaws that closed into the center as narrow and smooth as a candle. It wasn't for prying open jaws, but he shoved the end of it between Ray's teeth anyway, his eyes flashing pain as he squeezed down with everything he had, it served its necessary purpose. He snarled, animal-like fury, as the metal tool forced those teeth apart.
And then he withdrew, panting, pulling his injured hand against his chest. It was bleeding profusely, and his thumb hurt to move it, but at least nothing was dangling or broken. That was always a bonus. But now injured, he ought to be furious, and that had to turn back on Ray. He couldn't afford to succumb to the agony for the sake of appearances, and that was the only reason why he kept his other hand on the tool in Ray's mouth. Hissing in pain, he reached down with his injured hand and picked up the most ridiculously large dildo he'd taken down from the shelf. He hadn't brought it over to use it, just to fuck with Ray's head, but now he shoved it through the space between the tool's wide metal jaws, and with all his strength pinned Ray between it and the back of the chair, slumping against the arm of it and glowering fiercely at him. ]
Cocksucking little shit. [ He poured all of his pain into the words, and they sounded like the bitterest, most intense loathing for it. Good, he could use that. He jerked a little on the dildo, not really meaning to choke him, but at least to give Ray the feeling that he might. Blood was pouring down his arm, dripping off his elbow onto Ray's thigh. He reached down with his good hand and manhandled the bag of cocaine, taking out the other straw and bringing it to Ray's nose. It wasn't like he could breathe through any other orifices--he'd inhale, and then Ray would retreat, throwing the makeshift gag down in anger and pacing away from the chair.
He was back just a moment later. Idiot. God. Walking away from the painkillers. He picked up the bag and stalked away with it, paced back and forth as he set about it, then set the rest down on the stainless steel surgeon's bench and shook out his hands and arms. He rubbed his nose, turned, and resumed his glaring at Ray, nursing his injured hand, trying to assess the damage. His lips were curled back. His anger, flashing in his dark eyes, made him look half insane; positively homicidal. ]
[So perhaps Ray could have gone for a simple nip or quick bite, but that seemed too weak compared to the shit this guy was threatening. He needed to get his opinion across, and his teeth had been his best point of contact for that, and while a nip would have hurt, hanging on like a bulldog hurt a whole lot more. After all, this guy had made him bleed so he was just returning the favour while fighting like a Chicago tough guy. And he does hang on, he hangs on through the yelling and the grappling and the metallic taste of blood seeping onto his lips and tongue.
It might have been that'd he'd let go eventually of his own accord when the satisfaction was enough or his jaw had ached, but who knew how long any of that could take. Could be hours. Armando's wise to try and find an escape route that doesn't involve hitting Ray around the head, and Ray hadn't quite been expecting there to be anything nearby that could release him easily. It's why he's almost jerking back as he feels the metal at his mouth, a forceful movement jarring his jaw open and finally getting him to release his hold on the other.
He'd expected that to be that. At least until Armando could retreat and lick his wounds and come back for round two, but Ray had to hand it to the guy for retaliating while still dribbling blood from his fresh bite. Those metal... what were they? Tongs? They were enough to agitate, Ray leaning against them just enough to try and bite back down on them until suddenly there's an imposing fucking object ramming at his open jaw, straight into the gap presented. A dildo. A huge fucking dildo that fills the entirety of his mouth and has him pinned back against the chair in an attempt to escape the invasion.
It did fuck with his head just to know something like that existed and was down in this creepy ass dungeon to start with. Made worse by the fact that it was right beside him. And now he was practically choking on it as his body fought against his gag reflex, entirely unused to that sort of sensation pressing down against his tongue and pushing to the back of his throat. Jesus, he doesn't want to choke on some oversized fake cock, but for a second he seriously wonders if that's the way he'll go as he meets the eyes of one pissed off mafioso.
Then there's that bag back in view and the straw brought to is nose and just for a few ridiculous seconds he's doing is best to hold his breath. It can't last though. It's virtually impossible to hold his breath when he's still soft gagging desperately. Naturally what follows a pause in breath results in a deeper inhale, which in hindsight isn't the best of ideas, but then just like that Armando's pulling back, leaving Ray to drop his head and choke back a few well needed breaths.
And then sniff.
And again.
His head snaps back up, blinking rapidly until he can focus on the figure that's glaring daggers at him like some murderous fucker-- but jesus, it feels like his brain just blew out the back of his skull. He can hear his own pulse, rushing in his ears, pumping at a million miles an hour as his heart kicks up a notch and it's like the weirdest combination of an anxiety attack and a massive adrenaline rush, which is pretty damn unfair considering he's tied up and can't do a fucking thing.
But he smiles. He smiles right back, lips and teeth still tinted red from the mobster's own blood.]
You asked for it, pal, literally asked-- ngh, fuck, my heart's gonna explode. I need to... to go.
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[Okay, so he got the threat well enough about the name. The shut the fuck up before I really do hurt you threat that actually gets Stanley falling quietly, chewing silently on his gum as he follows, peering around to take note of what goons were still paying attention. There were plenty eyeing him wearily, but none that seemed too overly concerned now that he'd been de-clawed, so to speak. It seemed like Armando's confidence was enough to keep the rest of the team feeling similar, and ain't that a sign of good leadership? Stay calm and they will follow. Clever.
The limo doesn't surprise him. Of course some higher up mobster is going to have a limo, of course. These guys have money to throw away at anything, they earn more in a few hours than he makes in a year and-- damn, he never got to cash in those chips. Oh well. Maybe another day.
It's not fear that has him hesitating, but e does his best to get a good assessment of the car's interior while he can. Tinted windows. No witnesses. Mafia car. They could easily blow his brains out in the back seat and just replace the car. No one would know and the repercussions would likely be non existent beyond an ineffective search by his own department with a possible but reluctant involvement with the Vegas PD. Even if shooting was the likely outcome, he couldn't prevent it. They'd just as likely get him for bolting, or even just for refusing to enter.
Easiest route was still to play along and bide his time. He could still get the information he needed and get out of here. Just keep with the program and maybe turn the cockiness down a little before he gets an actual fist to the nose.
And so he moved when ushered in, sitting opposite and sparing a glance around the cushy interior because this is fancier than anything he's used to. He's just a poor Chicago boy, he's not used to riches of Vegas.
When the handcuffs land next to him, he reaches for them, his eyes drifting from them up to Armando and then staying there, as if watching the suit will somehow prevent him from drawing a weapon. Ray does exactly as he's told, slapping a cuff over his left wrist and then leaving the other dangling uselessly as he smiles proudly, and maybe he's being a smart ass or maybe he's just being a dumb ass, it's often hard to tell with him. It's only after that he notices there was a question hanging in the air. An odd question about buttermilk that has him squinting just slightly in confusion.]
Uh.
[Regret it later? Cocaine? Never done it before. Cute.]
Nah thanks, man, I'm not a user. Legalities, y'know?
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[ It was a really unpleasant thing to say to a guy who was actually envisioning peril to his life, but as far as reminders went it wasn't a bad one. Ray - if that was really his name, which was unlikely - was playing a dangerous game. He had his pick of places to attach the handcuffs to. He didn't. He was probably envisioning throwing himself across the car and trying to strangle Langoustini.
But that wouldn't be a smart move, would it? As soon as the car pulled over, a half dozen mobsters would convene on him with automatic weapons. It'd be a bloodbath.
Armando sat back, not rising immediately to the bait, sipping his buttermilk serenely. His hands were both folded around the glass, doeskin leather gloves covering slender fingers. ]
As for the legalities, I shouldn't worry about it. I'm prepared to write you a written statement releasing you from your responsibility and explaining how I forced them on you. By the time I'm done with you you'll be grateful I did.
[ The glass went down into its holder in the rail, and Armando eased even further back, one arm on the rest behind him to either side, all but spreading himself across the entire seat. He possessed it easily, while Ray still looked impossibly nervous and very, very much like he didn't belong. And who did? Riding in a limousine? What sort of life was this?
He was all but inviting Ray to try his luck, and yet--and yet if he did, he'd be furious with him. ]
You know my name, but you don't really know who I am. I'm royalty. I'm the president, the king and the pope all rolled into one. You see, I like this life. I can have anything I want. I can do anything I want, to anyone I want; but that doesn't come for free. You have to earn fear. Yes, fear, not respect. Respect is a joke down here, it doesn't exist. But fear. Fear is better. It takes upkeep. I need to show a strong front. And that's why I can't be seen to be taking it easy on you.
And that's a shame. I like you. I think you're ballsy. In another life we might even have been good friends, shot a few rounds of pool together, drank a few beers. I am going to help you find what you came here for; I am if nothing else irrevocably a man of my word, but for what you did back in the casino--I'm afraid there's no escaping that debt. A balance needs to be struck, and I have to tell you, liking you or not, a part of me is gonna enjoy it.
The real question - the one you really ought to be asking yourself - is how much you like the fingers on your right hand. I know you've just been burning to hit me. I might even let you. But if you try it, I have to take my recompense. I'll break every single finger. Every one. It isn't personal, it's just business. It's just too bad that you'll never hold a gun again, but I suppose that's not gonna be a problem. Not like people shoot at you every day or anything, right?
Your call. Remember, it's like I said. Cooperation's a good look for you.
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So maybe he should do as he's told, which is why he's finally reaching up towards the assist handle above the limo door and clipping the other cuff onto it, rolling his eyes as he does so and then snapping his gaze to Armando with an obvious 'happy now?' look on his features.
He won't be doing any more pouncing and punching. Not yet. There's still far too much risk involved in it especially now that he's got the possibility of finding the Mountie he came in search for just by cooperation. He doesn't doubt that stupid actions from him could result in the death of himself and the guy he's come to aid.]
Okay, sure, give me a glass, I'll take it.
[Of all the things to be drinking in the back of a limo, he gets stuck with butter milk. Limos in the movies always have champagne and martinis and plenty of hot chicks to go with it all. But whatever, he'll take what he can get right now.]
You got anything a little stronger than milk?
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[ He liked him better cooperating, with his hand cuffed to the rail and his ass in the opposite seat. Politely he leaned forward, picking up the second glass and offering it to Ray.
It had actually been the capofamiglia who'd pointed him toward buttermilk; an early gaff on Ray's behalf, but which he'd covered for quickly enough. It had been a week after he'd started augmenting his coping ability with drugs that he'd been brought the glass of buttermilk by instruction. He'd waved it away, and gotten a dirty look for doing so. Look, if it's between your buttermilk habit and another year long battle with bronchitis, I know which I'd prefer, the boss had snapped, and Ray had hightailed it into drinking buttermilk whenever possible. At the very least it kept him away from alcohol for the aforementioned reasons.
As habits went, it wasn't the worst one he'd picked up. It sharpened his mind when he had to turn it to all the maths. Maths; nobody had told him that filing his tax returns was all the practice he was going to get before the FBI made him the bookman for the mob. Then it had been his job to make those numbers vanish, but vanish legitimately. Hell, without the cocaine he'd be dead already. They'd have sussed out he was fraud months ago.
But here he was, alive and well, and maybe a little raw around the edges, but he'd very quickly picked up the mantra that he'd do whatever it took to live through this experience. The deeper he got, the more he betrayed of his own moral values, the more important it became that something come of it.
It was part of why he'd been so pissed off when Fraser showed up here. Here he was risking his life... ]
What's it matter to you, this friend of yours? He owe you money or something? [ Please explain it, Ray, because he had no idea how to. Fraser was infuriating, and this was a big risk to take, and Ray knew sure enough that he'd be doing the same thing were he in this guy's place.
As he had been, in fact, several times before.
So why the hell did they do it? ]
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So maybe he had learned a lot of that stuff from mafia films, but he'd also witnessed and heard enough about it on the streets of Chicago to get the general idea of how these interactions went down. And interactions that involved one guy ushered into a limo with a higher up? They didn't usually end well.
And there was Ray, sat with a hand willingly cuffed to the car with little hope of swift movement, sipping at buttermilk while chatting to some guy named Armando who was supposedly some big name in Vegas. Chatting about cocaine and lost Mounties, no less.]
He's my partner.
[No lies there, but at the moment Kowalski doesn't see much point in lying. What good is it going to do him when they already know he's a cop? And a cop looking for another sort-of cop can only bring up so many results.]
He's not from around here- America, I mean. He don't know how our world works, so I guess you could say I'm kinda like his babysitter. Maybe a mob guy like you knows what its like to have a guy by your side through it all, I dunno, but it's hard to give up on a pal that'd take a bullet for ya. Y'know, a real pal, not some goon who's paid big bucks to keep you safe.
[And still the truth, heartfelt, even. Ray's not afraid to show how much he needs to find this Mountie of his.]
You show me where he is and we got no problems. I take him back to Chicago and everyone forgets this ever happened. It's a fair deal all around.
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And Ray had to sit there and listen to it, get insulted and dismissed, because he was just some mob guy with a bunch of goons who would shoot him dead if they thought it'd get them his job and his money.
Now he wanted to hit Ray. Or cry, maybe. This assignment sucked. He missed Fraser, missed Chicago, missed being a cop more than he could stand, and here was Ray Vecchio to remind him just how much. ]
You're right, I wouldn't know anything about any of that. I haven't had a real friend since I was nine, unless you count dead Presidents.
[ He made it sound like he counted those dead Presidents, but the truth was he didn't. Money was great, but Ray didn't rate it. The job was lonely. Mostly it was lonely because coming out of Vegas with an addiction to coke was a lot kinder to his body than coming out of Vegas with venereal diseases. He'd made his choice.
He tilted his head toward the window as they turned and changed speed and direction. They were pulling out of the worst of the traffic now, heading down through the long, winding roads that led down to the oasis where the millionaires lived. They turned again, drove into darkness, and came to a halt in the cool underground garage of his home. There was a grind of electrics as the gate doors came rolling down, and when they stopped with a clunk, Armando finally moved, shifting forward and patting Ray on the knee. ]
Let's continue this conversation inside, shall we?
[ He left him where he was, stepping out of the door when it was opened for him and tossing his key to the driver. A second car had pulled in beside them, full of curious men, and Armando stopped to pat one of the younger ones on the shoulder before speaking to a man closer to his age. ]
I need three hours. Then send Nicci back to pick him up, and Si--bounce me in a couple of clean up guys. He's a cop, I'm not going to kill him, but you know how it is, things might get out of hand. It's been a while since I got to have any real fun, and with all this stress going around recently... Well, you know how it is. I figure I may at least enjoy myself.
[ He tilted his head back over his shoulder, smirked dangerously back through the doorway into the car. His driver had climbed in to unlock Ray's handcuffs, and Armando took a step away as space was made for his replacement to get out of the limousine. ]
Come on then, Raymondo. Let's take a walk. See you later, Si. Right this way.
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He feels the change in speed and direction and vaguely realises he has absolutely no clue where they're going. Fraser could probably pinpoint their location just by the car's speed and distance travelled and turns made, but Ray wasn't any good at that. He couldn't even say if they were going north or south, and if he somehow manages to get a call into the police, he won't even be able to tell him his location. Yet more proof that he's just a little fucked right now, but he's still keeping his cool other than the usual jitter that vibrates from him.
He only bothers with half of that buttermilk before shoving it aside in the nearest cup holder, back to chewing the gum he's still preserved. And then they're stopped and Armando's leaning forward to address him. Ray stares right back, offering up a forced smile that has all the obvious bitterness behind it that one would expect from a guy cuffed inside a car, at the whim of a bunch of mobsters. He put himself in this situation, he had to remind himself of that, and just maybe he'd do it again if it meant saving Fraser at the end of it all.
He waited for his release, listening in on the conversation that happened outside the car for any warning clues. He hears mention of clean up, but also that he's not likely to be killed which is... reassuring. But his 'pick up' after this could result in a bullet to the head anyway. Really, there's nothing extra he can garner from that that he'd not already worked out for himself.
At least he's getting released, not even bothering to do anything stupid as the cuff comes free, even if punching the driver would be amusing. However a few seconds of entertainment isn't worth whatever he'd get from the small group standing by, and so he keeps his movements obvious, hopping out of the car while rubbing his wrist and heading towards Armando despite the guy looking like a fucking psycho with a smile like that.]
You gonna give me a tour of your house?
[That's totally why there here, right?]
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[ So maybe Ray thought that he was telling a good joke, haha, getting out of having his fingernails peeled off or whatever, but life was never so simple, and Armando, content in his own environment once again, dropped an arm across Ray's shoulder and steered him up the ramp toward open sunlight. They were underneath a veranda overgrowing with climbing roses and butterfly bushes. Night blooming primrose hung low, intertwined with the other plants, creating a sort of green shade that stretched along the side of the single story whitewashed building to their left. The building arched around, growing from one floor to two as it circled the vast blue pool. Its roof slanted inward, and most of the inward facing walls were windows, showing finely designed white walls with rich, dark brown furniture, Italian leather couches and glossy white marble surfaces. This wasn't a family home; it was a show home, a hotel, or the ultimate bachelor's pad, so pristine that it was impossible to believe that anyone lived there. The most expensive looking pool table in the world dominated one of the rooms; it was felted in white, trimmed in gold with inlaid marble sides. It looked like the kind of pool table God would own.
But it was just one part of the entire effect. Armando patted Ray on the shoulder. ]
Don't worry, huh? If you scrimp and save enough for the next thirty years, and if you manage to get yourself nearly killed in the line of duty, and if you don't get married or waste your time on kids, you might be able to afford--oh, two nights in a place like this?
Sucks, doesn't it?
[ He stepped away, clearly not caring whether Ray came with him or not, but since he hadn't told him where Fraser was yet, and since he'd followed him this far, and quite possibly since he didn't know which way was the way out, he would just have to follow him. Armando led the way carefully around the outside of the pool, opened the seamless wall of windows, which apparently included secret french doors, and held them wide for the other man to enter after him. Once again a blast of cool air erupted from the well air conditioned home, like they'd both just stepped into the refrigerated section of a grocery store rather than a house in the Mohave desert.
But as he closed the door behind him, he at last removed a gun - Kowalski's, actually - turning it thoughtfully in his hand. If he traced this weapon, would he find that it was registered to Ray Vecchio? Had the FBI managed to transfer over even that? Or would he find out what this guy's name really was?
Well, there wasn't time for that now. He'd get to the bottom of it, maybe jot the serial number down and call up his snitch in Vegas PD after he'd sent the cop on his way. In the meantime he lowered the firearm to his side, and decided to see just how far Ray's cooperation went. ]
Strip. Right down to your underwear, take it all off. It's not a fantastic suit but it's gonna look better if it's not covered in blood when you walk outta here. So take it off, fold it up, and put it over there, on the top of the piano.
How do you feel about classical music, Ray?
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And it is a fucking mansion. The second they're out in the open Ray's smacked in the face with a million different things to look at, and every bit of it like a slice of pure perfection. The plants were full of life, the pool spotless, the architecture amazing, everything was clean and in it's place, and every inch of the home and the garden and the furniture and whatever else was made from the finest materials. Ray's no expert in interior design, but even from this distance he knows good leather when he sees it, he even knows real marble and real gold. The pool table alone is probably worth more than he pays for a years rent at his apartment. It's probably more than he earns in a year.
Armando isn't wrong about it sucking, even gets a vague nod of agreement. A guy like Ray couldn't save this sort of money in a hundred lifetimes, not on his salary. No wonder there's so many cops bitter about being in 'the wrong business' when they see what the other side are getting. Live a life of justice and servitude and all you get is shit pay and long hours. Live a life of crime and you get mansions, whores and spare time to play pool. Fuckers.
He doesn't even hide the slack jawed stare at it all. This was so out of his league that he's not even sure he should be allowed to step inside. He might make the place dirty just by being near it, but then Armando's moving away, heading off inside and Ray decides it's best to follow. Where would he go if he didn't? Maybe he'd get off the property before they picked him off, but that's really a best case scenario, more than likely he'd be shot the second he started bolting for it, or at the very least caught by a few thugs and dragged back to face harsher consequences or risk his partner getting injured.
And so Ray steps inside, standing like he's not quite sure what to do with himself as he watches the other shut the doors behind them and then man handle his gun. His gun in the hands of a mobster. Never a good sign.
When he first gets the order he can't help but exhale a sharp noise of amusement, although almost immediately realising that maybe it wasn't a joke.]
It's uh, it's alright. Yeah.
[His chewing quickens, jittering just slightly on the spot as he thinks, staring from Armando to the gun and then the rest of the room. He doesn't want blood on his suit. He doesn't want blood anywhere, not unless it's the mobster's blood. Hey, maybe they can just brawl, he's cool with that, and he can do that in his suit just fine. He does, however, shift to remove his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and then holding it by his side because it's getting a little too warm with his heart beating a million times a minute.]
Y'know, I think I'll keep the suit on. It's a little cold in here. I wouldn't wanna catch a chill.
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It was always about money and staying out of jail.
He reached up with his free hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Armando had probably seen it all in his time, but Ray had been through this a half dozen times himself. Usually it took a gun pointed at them for the guy to jump into action. One had said "You're not gonna shoot me in here," and Ray had buried a bullet in his shin and had the crippled thug pay for the redecoration himself. Twenty-six thousand dollars of it, on top of the two hundred thou debt he'd already run up. He'd sold his house, lost his wife and kids, but hey--that was the business Armando was in, which meant it was the business Ray was in. It disgusted him, but as undercover gigs went this was the ultimate test of nerve, and if he didn't have it...
He wasn't going to shoot Ray in the knee. He wasn't going to shoot him at all, but he had to make Ray think he was capable of it. When he left, he had to think: Armando Langoustini is a scary ass piece of shit, and I hope I never cross paths with him again. ]
Sure, I bet your Ma wouldn't like it if you came down with something, eh? But then she probably wants her son back in the city in one piece, too, so why don't we do what's best for her, and you, and move things along a little bit, shall we?
[ He strode forward. They both knew that the best way for this to not become a struggle, wrestling for a weapon, where one of them ended up accidentally shot in the head, was for him to keep his distance; but Armando was pure confidence, and besides, Ray had demonstrated a hell of a lot of common sense so far. He'd come all this way, and he hadn't done it to get his face shot off trying to get his gun back now.
He brought the muzzle up to Ray's jaw, standing almost in his space, and raised his other hand to Ray's throat, loosening his tie directly, showing absolutely no hesitation or second-guessing about it as he moved, business like, from there to the buttons, working open Ray's shirt. ]
Usually when I shoot a guy I like to bring the music up, you know. It's not really my thing, but it drowns out the sobbing. I can't stand the sobbing--Mammy, mammy, sweet Mary Mother of Christ it hurts etcetera. And I like to call in the doctor in advance. I mean, you shoot a guy and you mean to kill him, you just get it done. One in the head, no fuss. You shoot him to hurt him and it really helps if he doesn't bleed to death, or lose it from the shock. He can't learn anything from the experience if he's delirious, or dead. [ He flattened his hand on Ray's bare chest, just over his sternum, and tilted the gun over slightly, nudging his chin a little higher as he did so. ] So you tell me, Ray. Do I need to get my doctor in here? Am I gonna have to shoot you to get you to pay attention to me?
What do you say? You think you can take it from here?
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As Armando approaches, Ray doesn't move beyond a slight lean back, instincts and self preservation telling him to get away from the gun muzzle pushing up towards his jaw or fight back and wrestle the gun back, but he grits his teeth and bears it. Nothing will be achieved by trying to grapple for that gun, nothing that wouldn't result in risking getting himself shot. His chin lifts, forced to by the solid metal pressing against him, sight strained down to keep watch on the whatever the fuck the mobster is attempting to do.
Looks like the suit has to come off, and he sees the logic in it. No point in letting a guy get covered in evidence, not when it's evidence that can get people convicted. No point in letting the suit owner cover it in their own blood either. Ray realised that doesn't bode well for himself, all things considered. Once he gets that suit off anything could follow, and he doubts any of it is going to be happy fun times for himself.
Right now he's just got to weigh out his options (which are limited) and decide whether he'll preserve himself more by cooperating fully or fighting back. At the moment it's the former, but that doesn't mean the tables won't turn. It's the hope of that, and that he'll be getting Fraser back at the end of it, that drives him on. Ray doesn't have the fear that plenty of the thugs that have been here have, he's not there to beg forgiveness or receive consequences for a screw up, he's there as a cop looking for information, and sure he may not be in the best situation right now, but his confidence stays.]
I got this.
[A low mutter than has a slight edge of reluctant obedience. For now.
His hand movements are slow, learning long ago not to make any jerky or sudden shifts around someone holding a gun to you, but he does as he's told, fingers finishing off the work on his shirt and carefully rolling the shirt off his shoulders. His belt comes next, loosened with ease and then working at the fastening of his suit pants, everything getting dropped by his feet to reveal a pale and lithe body beneath, anxiety getting him shuddering just slightly.]
On the uh, on the piano?
[He'll get the shoes and socks wrestled off the second he can bend over without the fear of being shot for it, and while his folding isn't exactly skilled, he'll still do a vague attempt at it.]
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No, he needed Ray to be so traumatized by the experience that he would beg Fraser not to go, and if Ray knew his friend - which he did - if he implored him desperately enough then he would back off. For his partner's sake.
He had an idea where this was leading him, but honestly, he felt fucking awful about it. This guy hadn't asked to be dropped into his life, hadn't asked to have a wanderlust driven Mountie who couldn't let anything go as a partner. He hadn't asked to become Ray Vecchio--or hell, maybe he had? He might feel better if that were the case, maybe he could convince himself of it. Maybe he'd done something so awful that the only way he could escape it was to spend so long undercover he forgot who he was.
Armando drew away, putting the gun away inside his jacket. He gave Ray all the room he could need, and a little bit of space too, mostly keeping his eyes off him as he scrabbled out of his socks and shoes and head over toward the piano. It paid to give people space when they had their trousers around their ankles. In the meantime Armando kept hold of Ray's tie, holding it in both hands and rolling it back and forth through his fingers. Cheap processed silk and polyester--he almost missed ties like this. All his were silk with die motifs on them and playing cards, and the occasional unicolored black or white or red. He missed his old suits, and his car, and eating pizza with Fraser while they chatted about hockey, and he missed Dief stealing half of that pizza when he wasn't looking.
Fuck this guy for bringing it all back. And fuck Fraser; this was all his fault. It was his fault he had to push this guy so hard toward that edge that he'd swear blind to Fraser, no matter how persistent he was, that Armando Langoustini couldn't possibly be his former partner; he was a dirty scumbag mafioso and that was the end of it. Finished.
He put the tie in his pocket, then finally raised his eyes to Ray, looking him over thoughtfully. Real pale, but that wasn't a surprise, it wasn't like he'd spent the summer in Nevada. Chicago summers were stuffy rather than hot, sticky, but only ever uncomfortable briefly before just as quickly they were gone again. It wasn't exactly the place you went to rack up a tan. There was muscle there too. Ray had the arms and back of a boxer, and he looked like he could kick a guy in the head from ground level, neither of which surprised him given the way he'd come across that table. He punched straight, right down the length of his arm - smack - and that probably helped around Fraser. It probably helped a whole lot. So stay away from that right hook, check. Something that'd become more important soon enough. ]
You're alright. So long as you keep it up you're gonna be fine. Keep your eyes on the prize, Ray. Three hours, and all this is going to be a painful memory.
[ He crossed the room, opening a recessed door and holding it wide. There was no cool air emerging through this door, and in fact a heat rolled up the descending staircase, dark within. It was lit only by red runners underneath the steps, by a red glow and the purple of blacklights in the basement level below, the walls all painted black, and Armando held the door wide.
God knew when he'd seen this room for the first time he hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't. Mostly it was for show, but there were signs of use that made it clear that the former man to hold the name had made more use of it. It'd rattle Ray, sure enough. It had made the FBI guy who had mentioned it to him in his briefing shudder, and had never come up in conversation again or since. When he talked to his handlers, they called it The Red Room, and that suited its purpose just fine. It was the place people went to bleed. ]
Go ahead. [ He instructed, and waited to follow him down.
The full view wouldn't be visible until Ray had reached the bottom of the stairs, the room practically as hot as the desert outside - deliberately so - and as he emerged into the hot red spotlights that crisscrossed the room, he'd discover a ceiling-to-floor cage, such as they put dancers in; chains and poles and bars; a nasty looking chair covered in metal rings and leather straps; an actual full sized crucifix... Fragments of mirrors stabbed the wall in jagged shapes, but by far the most striking thing was the mirror that crossed the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, reflecting all the light and making the room seem twice as large as it already was.
If Ray stopped, which Vecchio expected him to, there'd be nowhere to go, no way back. Armando would be behind him waiting. ]
All I can say is this guy better be worth it, don't you think?
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And then he stands, waiting, hands forward slightly to cover the front of his underwear, shoulders hunched like somehow he'll feel less exposed the more covered he can get himself. It's obvious he's uncomfortable like this, especially when being eyed up, his every day armour stripped away. He supposes that's half the point, to humiliate on top of the practicality of it all, and while he's not ashamed or embarrassed of his body, he really doesn't at ease when practically naked in front of a guy who's promising pain.
Three hours. He had to deal with this for three hours unless he got out early. And the only way he's going to get out early is fighting his way out, which he's already established is a poor idea considering location and amount of goons and everything in between. He's really not reassured by words like 'you're alright' and 'you're gonna be fine', not when they're followed by 'painful', but he's been through it all in the past, shot and stabbed and fallen ridiculous heights. This can't be worse than that. It won't be.
Except Armando's opening up a stairway that leads down. Down is bad. Down is away from living quarters. Ray does shift forward to take a peek at the doom and gloom stairway, curiosity getting the better of him, but then he realises he'll be getting more than just a peek as the mafioso beckons him in.
Shit. No thank you. He'd really rather not.
But he does. Because he has to, taking a slow, steady inhale as he steps forward, bare feet giving a careful placement at each step, the heat from the room billowing upwards, stale and humid. Ray can only imagine what's in there, but even he couldn't come up with what he sees as he descends. It's like a fucking dungeon. Torture? Sex? Both? God, he doesn't even want to know what's happened in this place. He hopes it's just for show. Somewhere to take people to fuck with their minds, and it works damn effectively even if it is just that. The unknown can be scarier than the known after all.
He halts on the second from last step, looking back behind him, although he's not sure whether he's looking for an escape plan or reassurance.]
Guess he better be. And he better be in one piece.
[Not that Ray is going to trust the word of a mobster.]
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Hot. But he can sort himself out when he has Ray under control. He still has to be Armando, and Armando would have Ray under control first. In fact, if he doesn't--well Ray is a detective. He'll detect. He'll detect that there's something funky about this guy who's supposed to be a big, bad, nasty mobster.
He tilted his head, looking over Ray's shoulder. ]
He showed up a week ago out of nowhere, came down in a penguin suit shaking up the blackjack tables worse than you did. He kept giving his chips away to the women wishing him luck. A player, but good natured, attractive. Hooker bait. We figure he'd won and given away three hundred thousand by the time we stepped in. That shouldn't be possible without cheating--I mean, you and I both know our people are doing everything they can to make the cards fall in our favor.
I sent people in to pick him up, but he slipped between our fingers. He outran them, slipped away into the crowds like a ghost. But that was fine. He tracked me here the very next day. Good at that, your friend. He got all the way in here. Tresspassing, they call that.
[ But he was assuring him that yes, he had seen Fraser, he may have even stood right here, and Ray was doing the right thing by following along with this because in fact, this was the only way that he was ever going to see his friend again.
He took Ray's tie out of his pocket, reaching down to loop it around his wrist, knotting it, and pulling it tight. He stepped forward, using it as a leash and leading him further into the room. Ray seemed reluctant, and he wasn't going to be much use if he had to be pushed through everything, forced through every jerk and gesture.
Ray got it. Really he did. This room was terrifying, and he was naked, and rapidly running out of nerves. He wasn't ready for what might happen next, he was starting to wonder whether going to the casino was really worth it. Good. Afraid was good. ]
We call this the Red Room. For obvious reasons. And for all the other reasons.
[ He kept a tight grip on the tie, turning back in toward Ray, raising his hand very slightly.
I'm gonna restrain you now. And I don't expect anything that comes after that is gonna make you very happy, but...well, it's a compromise; a business deal. I need certain things from you, you want certain things from me. Just business. So don't take it personally, huh? There's a good boy.
[ And Ray patted him on the cheek, and gestured to the big chair. ]
Take a seat. It's comfy, I swear. Like a big armchair.
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As Armando talks of Fraser, Ray lets the information sink in deep, letting the mental image of his Mountie in a tux trying to play it smooth in Vegas casinos sink in deep. The thought was enough to get him smiling vaguely to himself, eyes drifting up as he takes note of the mirror above them. Maybe this place did double as some weird ass BDSM room.
He watches the reflection of Armando get closer, watches him withdraw the tie from his pocket, finally dropping his gaze again as he feels the brush of fabric on his wrist. That mirror could prove useful later in seeing things he might not be able to from his current position. The darkness in the room doesn't help, but at least that mirror is a slight advantage, even if he doesn't necessarily intend to react on much of what he sees. He'll use whatever advantage he can get, even as he's led further forward by a tug at the tie.
The pat at the cheek has him all but sneering back, and it's gestures like that that make him want to punch the guy all over again, his free hand curling into a fist and just for a second he can't stop it jerking up and snapping it back. He does, thankfully, stop it before it's barrelling forward, and then he's gradually lowering it again, the threat gone like it was little more than a growl of warning. That could be his last chance to swing a hit, but he's not sure it's worth it, not by the looks of this place.]
Looks real fuckin' cushy. [He grunts, his exhale almost sounding like a snarl while he eyes up that chair, all rings and straps and not at all like anything he'd have in his lounge. But fine, he'll do as he's told, moving when the tie allows it, stepping in to take a closer look at the seat before turning and carefully perching on it, his attention snapping straight back to Armando to keep the surprises to a minimum.]
So what happened to him?
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He wanted Fraser back, after all. If he had hit him... Well, if he'd hit him, everything would have changed on the spot. Any hint of cooperation from Armando would have fallen apart on the spot.
Instead he steps forward, staying at the other end of the tie as Ray moves into the chair, and when he's down, perching nervously on the edge, he looped and knotted the other end in one of the big D-rings.
Standing behind the chair now, he removed his own tie, moving to Ray's other hand and slipping the fabric across his wrist. The silk was an entirely different texture, soft and dense and perfect. It tightened into an impossible knot when he hooked it through the ring on the other armrest.
Then came the classical music; classical music to disrupt the FBI's listening devices. They'd be furious with him, but fuck them--what had the FBI ever done for him? Only then did he speak again. ]
Well, you see, unlike you, your friend told someone else where he was going. He'd befriended the head of one of the other families, and you know, the situation here is a delicate one. We don't want to start another war; no-one makes any money when we're all shooting holes in each other, and the Feds like it a whole lot too much. So a car rolls up to pick him up and he gets walked out of here like a prince and driven off in a limousine. Sadly for me, I wasn't even home when this was going on. Prick gets to walk around my house for an hour, a cop--god knows what he thinks he found, cause as he's being escorted out he's insisting on organizing a meet with me, like he has something on me I can't afford to dismiss.
[ In the meantime, Ray had retreated across the room. There was a cabinet built into the wall, and he ran the doors open and switched on the interior light. Immediately cool white flourescents lit up the various items inside, masks and paddles and...well. Things. Things covered in spikes and things made out of rubber in new-agey blob shapes, and things wrapped in studded leather straps. And a nailgun. Things. ]
Only after that he vanishes, but I'm interested by now. I want to know who this guy is, how he's managed to get into such good graces with one of the most powerful Italians in the city, what he was doing in my house--and I want what he has. I put people out there to find him so we can have a well overdue chat, and I get the information back here and there. I find out about a hotel, and a floor, and a suite. I find out the FBI have picked this guy up, and they're holding him under bullshit charges because he's getting right up in their business down here.
[ He ran his hand along the shelf thoughtfully, and as he reached the end of it, he turned to look a little harder at Ray. He smile was very cold, as cold as he could make it. ]
And you're thinking 'great, the FBI have my friend, they'll give him back, no problem.' But if that's where your head's at, you're forgetting how stupid they are. They're charging him with conspiracy. He'll go to jail. And worse, whatever he has on me he might give to them. Obviously neither of us want that. [ He raised his hand, turning and taking down an ornate knife, which had been otherwise propped up on its display stand. He strode back toward Ray, looking purposeful, and his voice sunk to a deeper growl as he leant into Ray's ear. The cool flat of the knife nudged against his bare shoulder. ] So I'm gonna give you some help, a distraction, and you're gonna walk in there, and you and your friend are going to get the hell out of Vegas and never come back, and if I so much as see a hair from either of your heads around here again, you're both gonna be on a meat train to Lousiana by daybreak, mashed into beef mince. That sound fair to you?
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That tie at his wrist is knotted into the arm of the chair, Armando looping around the back to slip another- probably his own judging by the feel of silk- at Ray's other wrist. And that's that, he's stuck to a chair by two bits of fabric that will undoubtedly make his life a living hell for the next few hours. Maybe he'd get away early, or get away with some sort of warning, but he wouldn't count on that. No point in getting ones hopes up before it's even begun.
He shifts back into the chair, getting himself a little more comfortable rather than perched and arched and killing his back for no reason. He briefly wonders how many others have sat here and how many have come out alive, but that's probably not a great mind set to get himself into either.
Instead he keeps his focus on the mob guy, squinting as he retreats away to a view that Ray can't quite focus on. Maybe he should have brought his glasses. Totally useful in this situation, obviously. He catches the general gist of shapes though, even from his spot, and yeah okay sex dungeon seems like another use for this place because he's pretty sure those are paddles, and he doesn't even know what the fuck those blob shapes are and it's probably best he doesn't even ask. He feels like he should be glad that Armando chooses something as normal as a knife, and then he realises he must be funky in the head right now if he's glad to see a mafioso holding a knife, especially a mafioso looking like that towards him.
His breath hitches as he sees the glint of the blade approach, leaning back and up against the chair as he feels the coolness of the blade touch against his too-hot skin. He's doing his best to keep the rest of his body away from it, although his chin tucks in to try and protect his neck, even as he tries to keep his breath under control and his voice level.]
I'll be in and out, no problem. I don't like the Feds any more than you do. Anythin' to make them look like morons and get my buddy back.
[Confident, if not just slightly apprehensive, but how else should he sound when he's got a knife held against him?]
So uh, we're good, right? We can skip the red room stuff.
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[ The knife flicked away out of sight, but not before nicking Ray's bicep, just above his tattoo. The blade was so sharp and precise that it cut a sharp straight line; it'd heal without a scar, but it'd sting, and bleed, and really it was all about making a good impression. He'd leave Ray looking worse than he felt, and hope that the detective had the good sense to pretend it was pure agony.
With a sharp thunk, he jammed it into the wooden part of the chair beside Ray's elbow, and then there followed a rustling of fabric; Armando getting out of his silk suit and cotton shirt, stripping in fact all the way down to nothing, and pulling on a crisp white kimono from the wall behind him. He left it to hang open--it'd be destroyed when he was done, but it'd have the desired effect--any blood that splashed his way would stain the silk red. He dragged the sleeve deliberately across Ray's bleeding shoulder as he reached to pick the knife back up again. ]
No, Ray. You see, you attacked me in public, in front of my men, and if you aren't limping out of here looking like half a man, they're gonna start thinking I'm not one either. That I don't keep my word, that I'll let anyone walk all over me. That I forgive easily.
[ This time when he brought the knife up, he let the sharp edge lay against Ray's shoulder, and then dragged it up like a flat razor, following the contour without leaving a single mark, but with the full knowledge that his first cut had made Ray very aware of what pain felt like, and that it was very likely to happen again.
In fact, he scraped a layer of skin away as he followed the stubble along the curve of Ray's chin, leaving behind a dense razor burn. His grip loosened, and the blade came up higher, curled in until the base of the blade was set against the bottom of Ray's ear. He didn't cut, but he did lean closer, whispering against him so close that his mouth touched Ray's ear, his breath condensing on the cool blade. He might just let his tongue linger between words, flicking it against salty sweat skin, tasting fear.
Don't move, the position said, no matter how much I bait you. It's going to hurt. ]
But you know, I don't blame you. Vegas prostitutes--you might as well beg me to shoot you in the head. You know I haven't had sex in more than a year? That's why I'm giving serious thought to fucking you, Ray. You're from out of town, that's gotta count for something.
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He barely feels the cut, as sharp as the blade is, but he he sees it, his arm recoiling just slightly in instinct to get away as he gasps out a sharp;] Ah!
[The first of what could be many. It's not as bad as it could be, clean cut and relatively painless beyond a constant stinging from the nerve endings that stayed intact, but deep enough that it's pumping out a far amount of blood on the initial cut, covering his tattoo and down to where his elbow is settled. At least the blade is sharp.
He barely flinched as the knife came thudding down beside him, steeling himself for what's to come with slow, deep breaths that stutter occasionally due to a thrumming anxiety he never has been able to control. The pause in play is almost worst than continuing, his eyes flicking up towards the mirror in an attempt to catch what's going on behind him, although dropping it again when he catches on to the fact Armando's undressing.
The next thing he sees is a sleeve of white silk and then the blade is back in action, his eyes following it until it gets out of view up towards his collar bone. The deep scrape across his chin has him hissing out sharply, but he doesn't move. In fact, he's all but frozen as he feels the cool blade far too close to his ear for his liking. He's seen those movies where ears come off, he'd rather avoid that, even if it does mean enduring Armando's hot breath against his ear and-- was that his tongue?
That knife is the only thing that's stopping him from jolting away.]
Jesus, you sick fuck. That is not my fuckin' problem. Just get a whore from outta state.
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[ The blade stayed put. It was doing its job, and now he lavished Ray's ear with the flat of his tongue, hot and wet and steady, giving him the sensation in a predictable fashion because he no more wanted Ray to jerk away and make the knife slip himself. He might end up cutting his own tongue, never mind this guy's ear.
At last he drew back, and just to show how pleased he was that Ray hadn't made him cut his ear off, he didn't leave a mark in the skin. Instead he brought the blade down to a much safer spot flattened against the other man's pectoral, letting the feel of his racing heart thump against the inside of his wrist. There was no danger from the blade unless he turned it, but the warning was still there regardless--the warning that he could and would cut him if Ray fought too hard.
His free hand reached as far as it could over the top of the chair, knotted in Stanley's hair and pulled backward, exposing his throat. ]
You are my whore from out of state, Ray. It works for me. This way I kill two birds with one stone. And you know, value for money: I'm a busy, busy man. Three hours out of my schedule when I could beat you blue in two minutes is kind of a big deal for me.
[ He closed the space again, this time lashing his tongue against the bloodied graze he'd left on Ray's jaw. Hah. You wouldn't do that with a Vegas prostitute.
He dragged his teeth back across the wound, then withdrew, finding Ray's eyes in one of the fragments of mirror on the other side of the room. So okay, he did want to do this. There was something almost biblical about it--or maybe primal was more accurate. This guy had come in and taken his life, after all, and somehow by taking him he could...he could wrangle some part of it back. Reclaim something. Or maybe it was just about scaring him away from Vegas permanently; probably not. If it was just work, he wouldn't already be hard, straining in his designer underwear. This was about power.
But that was okay. It was more than possible that this job was going to get him killed, judging by what it had been like so far. He'd never have to meet this guy face to face as Ray Vecchio, probably wouldn't even be buried in his own grave. How fucked up was that? And this poor bastard...would he have to keep pretending to be Ray Vecchio after Ray Vecchio was dead? It was bad enough he'd come here to save Ray's partner and ended up on the wrong side of the mob, worse still on the wrong side of a guy who had to do whatever it took to maintain his cover, but on the wrong side of Vecchio himself, when he'd clearly gone a little bit nuts? That really did suck.
Okay, so he was thinking too much. He wasn't remotely high enough for this, and this guy probably wasn't either. Lowering inhibitions, taking the edge off reality, raising the heartrate--those were the things that cocaine was best for. And Ray would be grateful, in a manner of speaking. At least he could claim thereafter that it wasn't his fault, it was the drugs. It might alleviate some of that burden. He'd get it next time he changed tools.
First, holding Ray's gaze, he ran the knife down a few inches, turned the blade and flashed it in a light arc from just underneath one nipple around to the top of Ray's ribs. It was deep enough, once again, to hurt and bleed, but that was all. Ray could handle a little blood, a little pain. Hell, he might even be the kind of guy who liked it. ]
You know the only problem with this is I don't usually pay whores who'd bite my tongue off if I kissed them. You'd do that, wouldn't you? Mouth full of blood, you wouldn't care. Anything to not feel so helpless, so used.
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He doesn't appreciate it, of course he doesn't, but he does endure, jaw clamped tight in annoyance, even as the blade creeps down and flattens against his chest, and even as his head is yanked backwards with a hand fisted into his hair.
While Armando speaks, he keeps his mouth shut, heart raising and breath huffing out in steady breaths as his throat is laid bare. He still can't tell if this guy is for real or whether this is some big bluff that's used to scare the captives. It's effective enough; threatening to fuck a guy would put the fear into plenty, just as effective as cutting off fingers. Actually doing is effective too, leaving a lasting impression for any that do push their luck. And Ray had pushed his luck, in front of far too many witnesses, but he was just expecting to be shot for it, not this.
He snarls at the sting of a warm tongue on his fresh wound, and then snarls all over again, sharper, as teeth drag across, and he does have to give credit for dragging out the pain from the smallest of cuts and abrasions. It wasn't always about the wounds, but what you did with them that counted, not that Ray knew all that much about torture techniques beyond what he'd seen in movies. Chicago cops really shouldn't be getting involved in this sort of shit. This was way over his pay grade.
Throughout it, he can't seem to drag his gaze away from the mirror ahead, catching the gaze of the other and locking it, like he could some how portray just how pissed off he was by a reflected glare alone. It's his annoyance that has him grunting at the sliced arc on his torso, rather than any shout of pain, but then again the cuts like that were the least of his worries at the moment. He could endure surface wounds like that just like he could endure injuries in a brawl, they'd heal quick enough, but his pride was something that took a lot longer. Knife wounds didn't hurt his pride, but a mobster talking about screwing him sure as hell did.]
Why don't you give it a try, scumbag? Wanna risk seein' if my bite is worse than my bark, huh? C'mon, I fuckin' dare ya.
[Bearing his teeth in something caught between a snarl and a smirk, all but ready to use them. And he would. Right now he'd genuinely consider ripping the tongue out of this guy's mouth if he got the chance.]
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Ray snarled up at him, his eyes dark with anger, pain, fear; the bruises to his ego already showing. There was no doubt at all there. Armando didn't need to be able to talk. If need be he could find Fraser another way, he could knock on the door of every hotel room in the city or beg the FBI for help finding him, but he couldn't take this back. He'd bite his lips off, rip his tongue out with his teeth, all without shifting so much as an inch out of the chair, and he'd do it with his teeth bared into a bloodied smirk. That'd sure be one to explain to Si and Mikey and the others--why he'd let a cop bite his face off. ]
Oh no, no. I wasn't born yesterday. I know not to bet against a sure thing.
[ Which had to be a victory for Ray, right? It meant his bark had somehow made contact with him like his fists hadn't been able to, that Armando was actually afraid of doing something to him because Ray still held some element of power, could still defend himself. He'd keep his distance, and that had to be something. ]
But that's good. [ He growled, digging his fingers tighter into Ray's hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. ] I fucking love that. Fight me with everything you've got. C'mon, tough guy, Chicago tough guy, you may be tied down in that chair but you're larger than life. You're not gonna give up the goods that easily.
[ He let him go, peeling back, circling around toward Ray's left, and leaving a nick on his back as he went. That one would look much worse than it felt; there were less nerve endings to cut, and while it was likely to sting, Ray would probably forget all about it quickly enough. He'd appreciate the care he took to layer up the marks later, when he was being escorted off the premises and even his thugs looked at him warily, like all that blood and bruising was the perfect reminder not to fuck with the boss. Ray would at least be walking, though they'd miss that, and the come down from the cocaine would of course make it look a whole lot worse too--they'd miss that. Let them see what they expected to see.
For now, he reached across Ray's lap, knife in hand, hooked it under the leg of his underwear, slicing upward, leaving a slightly deeper gash on Ray's hip as the knife tugged free. Damn. Damn damn damn, that one had been unintentional, and worse still it would be a physical reminder of being stripped, connected inexorably with the physical act. It could take the better part of a month to heal, and even then it'd leave a neat white line for most of the next year. Shit.
This time, reaching across to the other leg, he was a lot more careful, but there was more flexibility in the fabric, too, and the tip of the knife stayed away. It didn't stop him fretting about the blood though, and he pulled Ray's underwear free, rolled it into a ball and jammed it in against his hip. Then, pretending he'd done no such thing, touching the now bloodied flat of his blade to Ray's abdomen, way too close to the base of his cock for any man's comfort. Make him pay attention to that, and he might overlook the act of relative kindness. ]
Just think. [ He murmured, softly. ] If I really wanted to make you remember me this could be a whole lot worse. There's a couple of things around here you could do without. [ And now it was his turn to flash a nasty smirk, before he withdrew both the knife and himself, put the blade down under the chair, out of reach, and walked back across the room to the shelf. He stepped out of his underwear while he was there, shivering despite the intolerable warmth of the room as the brush of silk whispered against is bare thighs. And yes, he was already hard; achingly so. He resisted the urge to touch. It had been way too long.
He turned to look back at Stanley, judging him, then began plucking items off the shelf, among them shackles, a riding crop, lube, latex gloves--pausing after a moment to hold up a string of anal beads. ]
What do you think? Hot or not? Me, I'm not sure. I've never tried them. But let's suppose they do what it says on the box, huh?
[ He had no idea that Ray couldn't see from this distance. Frankly even if he'd known he'd have still done it. He added them to his collection of items and made his way back, putting everything down with a metal clink and clang on the easy to scrub down rubber floor, and staying well clear of those feet in the process. ]
Here we are then, look. [ He held up the little white bag so that Ray could see. ] This is the best stuff, safe as houses, not split with baking soda and fucking ground up aspirin like the shit you get in Chicago. You understand? No one in the right mind would fuck me on this. So. [ He tilted his head. ] You may be thinking "No fucking way", but look at the advantages. No accountability. Not when you get hard, not when you come, not when all that pain goes away. I'm gonna force it on you either way, but it's easier if you cooperate. We've established that much already, haven't we?
[ The gloves went on first, as though he was concerned that traces of the drug would get on his hands - he wasn't, unlike the real Armando he was at no risk of being put away for possession or handling banned substances - and then he was bringing a dose of it to Ray, offering it at head height. It put his hand and wrist very close to those teeth. ]
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Ray allows himself the slightest moment of smugness, even as his hair is yanked at even harder, throat bobbing as he harshly swallows down any noise he might be about to make.
Fight me with everything you've got. He doesn't miss that comment, taking it as a full put permission to hit back now without repercussion. Oh, he'd been careful up until now for Fraser's safety and his own, but if Armando wants him to fight, he'll show this Vegas pussy what a Chicago tough guy can offer. A guy like this? With limos and mansions and goons at his beck and call? He probably hasn't seen what the real streets are like in years. He probably barely ever sees tough guys any more, not after they're in a room like this and pissing themselves. And Ray doesn't blame any tough guy for that, because it's damn hard to act tough when your tied down and at the mercy of some mobster psycho, he's learning that pretty quickly.
That nick in the back is another wound to add to the slowly growing number, his skin cringing against the knife and his breath hissing, but his attention drawn to where Armando- and more importantly the knife- were headed. He forces himself not to jolt away from the blade as it hooks into his underwear, well aware too much sudden movement when there's something that sharp near his groin was a bad idea, but the flick upwards has him flinching heavily because jesus, he doesn't want that near his dick. It takes a couple of seconds for the cut to sink in, for his nerves to send the right signals to his brain and his visual cue of quickly pooling blood to be processed. That smarts. That stings a hell of a lot, enough that it's got Ray hissing out a very silent swear that comes out sounding like an; 'Ah, faaaak'.
He barely even pays attention to the slice of fabric the other side, although takes note of his now mangled underwear being jammed in against the bleeding, which almost seems counter-productive to the whole process of cutting and bleeding and-- well he's not given much time to question the action anyway, because the knife is right by his dick, exactly where he didn't want it to be. He gets the threat, he really does. There didn't even need to be the verbal confirmation, but it solidifies the fact that this psycho could slice his dick off right now without any hassle to the family. But it's merely a threat (for the moment) and Ray's exhaling a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding as the mobster puts away the knife and heads off again.
There's some squinting from Stanley as he tries to catch sight of what's going on, his gaze only broken briefly as he gives himself a once over to double check on his wounds. Superficial, he'd survive them, even if the one at his hip is throbbing and seeping through the makeshift bandage. And he has the possibility of three hours of this shit?
He doesn't even want to know what the guy's holding up and questioning him about, doesn't even ask as he shakes his head anyway, head dropping towards the items as they're finally brought over to the floor nearby. They look like some sick things to bringing to a guy tied to a chair, he can assess that much and how he'd love to be able to kick them away. Or even better, kick Armando, but right now he's staying smartly out of reach while he talks of high grade cocaine and blah blah, Ray doesn't give a shit how good it is.
There's no point in trying to argue his values with some coke user, so he does exactly what Armando asked him to do; he fights. Or more accurately; he bites. Of course he does. How can he not when there's a hand offered up so beautifully right in front of him? He goes right for the fleshy part at the base of his thumb, quick as a flash, teeth sinking in and pressing down harder and harder with every intention of causing pain, an obvious 'fuck you' without ever having to utter a word.]
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Idiot. Idiot. He'd wanted to give Ray something to work with, sure, but he was thinking maybe a clip to the face as he untied him, not this. This was going to scar, and it was going to look nasty, and more importantly it hurt like fuck, but then Ray didn't know he was fighting a guy who was only pretending to be a vicious Italian mobster. Ray thought he was fighting the real thing. That was good, that was the point, but fuck, he'd really taken his eye off the ball to let this happen.
He yelled, reeling his fist back as though he intended to punch the detective in the head, but managed to stop himself. If he wanted Ray's teeth to snap through the tendons in his thumb and permanently disfigure him, maybe he could go ahead and hit him. But no--no, there was no way out of this but to think about unlocking those jaws pragmatically. But his brain was fuzzing over from pain.
The funny thing was, he thought, he'd dropped the straw of cocaine on Ray's chest, white powder raining down over his bare skin, frosting his pubic hair. Okay, so it wasn't funny, it was the pain that made him whimper out laughter.
Think think think.
Okay, tools. He had tools. He had... His hand scrabbled on the floor beside him, fingers trailing across the various mostly unfamiliar objects. He picked up the metal thing it had taken him two hours of speculation to work out when he'd been down here the first time months ago. It looked more like a kitchen implement than a sex aid. A grip handle, and jaws that opened as pressure was applied, smooth metal jaws that closed into the center as narrow and smooth as a candle. It wasn't for prying open jaws, but he shoved the end of it between Ray's teeth anyway, his eyes flashing pain as he squeezed down with everything he had, it served its necessary purpose. He snarled, animal-like fury, as the metal tool forced those teeth apart.
And then he withdrew, panting, pulling his injured hand against his chest. It was bleeding profusely, and his thumb hurt to move it, but at least nothing was dangling or broken. That was always a bonus. But now injured, he ought to be furious, and that had to turn back on Ray. He couldn't afford to succumb to the agony for the sake of appearances, and that was the only reason why he kept his other hand on the tool in Ray's mouth. Hissing in pain, he reached down with his injured hand and picked up the most ridiculously large dildo he'd taken down from the shelf. He hadn't brought it over to use it, just to fuck with Ray's head, but now he shoved it through the space between the tool's wide metal jaws, and with all his strength pinned Ray between it and the back of the chair, slumping against the arm of it and glowering fiercely at him. ]
Cocksucking little shit. [ He poured all of his pain into the words, and they sounded like the bitterest, most intense loathing for it. Good, he could use that. He jerked a little on the dildo, not really meaning to choke him, but at least to give Ray the feeling that he might. Blood was pouring down his arm, dripping off his elbow onto Ray's thigh. He reached down with his good hand and manhandled the bag of cocaine, taking out the other straw and bringing it to Ray's nose. It wasn't like he could breathe through any other orifices--he'd inhale, and then Ray would retreat, throwing the makeshift gag down in anger and pacing away from the chair.
He was back just a moment later. Idiot. God. Walking away from the painkillers. He picked up the bag and stalked away with it, paced back and forth as he set about it, then set the rest down on the stainless steel surgeon's bench and shook out his hands and arms. He rubbed his nose, turned, and resumed his glaring at Ray, nursing his injured hand, trying to assess the damage. His lips were curled back. His anger, flashing in his dark eyes, made him look half insane; positively homicidal. ]
You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?
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It might have been that'd he'd let go eventually of his own accord when the satisfaction was enough or his jaw had ached, but who knew how long any of that could take. Could be hours. Armando's wise to try and find an escape route that doesn't involve hitting Ray around the head, and Ray hadn't quite been expecting there to be anything nearby that could release him easily. It's why he's almost jerking back as he feels the metal at his mouth, a forceful movement jarring his jaw open and finally getting him to release his hold on the other.
He'd expected that to be that. At least until Armando could retreat and lick his wounds and come back for round two, but Ray had to hand it to the guy for retaliating while still dribbling blood from his fresh bite. Those metal... what were they? Tongs? They were enough to agitate, Ray leaning against them just enough to try and bite back down on them until suddenly there's an imposing fucking object ramming at his open jaw, straight into the gap presented. A dildo. A huge fucking dildo that fills the entirety of his mouth and has him pinned back against the chair in an attempt to escape the invasion.
It did fuck with his head just to know something like that existed and was down in this creepy ass dungeon to start with. Made worse by the fact that it was right beside him. And now he was practically choking on it as his body fought against his gag reflex, entirely unused to that sort of sensation pressing down against his tongue and pushing to the back of his throat. Jesus, he doesn't want to choke on some oversized fake cock, but for a second he seriously wonders if that's the way he'll go as he meets the eyes of one pissed off mafioso.
Then there's that bag back in view and the straw brought to is nose and just for a few ridiculous seconds he's doing is best to hold his breath. It can't last though. It's virtually impossible to hold his breath when he's still soft gagging desperately. Naturally what follows a pause in breath results in a deeper inhale, which in hindsight isn't the best of ideas, but then just like that Armando's pulling back, leaving Ray to drop his head and choke back a few well needed breaths.
And then sniff.
And again.
His head snaps back up, blinking rapidly until he can focus on the figure that's glaring daggers at him like some murderous fucker-- but jesus, it feels like his brain just blew out the back of his skull. He can hear his own pulse, rushing in his ears, pumping at a million miles an hour as his heart kicks up a notch and it's like the weirdest combination of an anxiety attack and a massive adrenaline rush, which is pretty damn unfair considering he's tied up and can't do a fucking thing.
But he smiles. He smiles right back, lips and teeth still tinted red from the mobster's own blood.]
You asked for it, pal, literally asked-- ngh, fuck, my heart's gonna explode. I need to... to go.
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