Siren’s Glare


Casa Nova
‘Missing you Akira dearly’ All characters, situation & dialogue is Copyright Protected By & 8/5/2010. ‘This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.’

The True Fabrication of…


“I may be no better, But at least I am different” J-J R




Casa Nova
Disclaimer This story has nothing whatsoever to do with my personal life or mental feelings towards anyone you guys know, so in the unlikely eventuality that you were going to ask, if I was okay when I was writing this ‘fictional’ tale….to answer you now…NO I WASN’T…but I would feel better if you just read it with no negative connotations or sentiments. Also…remember that this is almost, entirely imaginary and even though some parts have characteristics similar to our everyday life…nothing at all pertains to anything I’ve done or would do….Just letting you know…Hope you enjoy!!! Advisory to Readers: Rated R for strong, brutal, bloody violence and disturbing images. Sexual content is limited, but not absent, and is rated PG-13. Also IGNORE comments or any Author’s Informative if you desire, for they contain minor spoilers and my self-praising rants. Contains some abusive language, so you’ve been WARNED!!! Justification of the Name Now everyone at least once in their short life has heard of the synonymous term of Casanova, which means „promiscuous and unscrupulous lover‟. Yet when I first became aware of this word I thought it just that, a word. Until I thought to use it in my story and researched its origin, to find that the man name Casanova was real; a living, breathing, human being and not a fictional character spread through Europe by the loneliness of gossiping housewives in the 18th century. I must say, I was intrigued by his reputation, his sexual exploits and his novelized autobiography was fantastic to a point. Finally after having my full of him and digesting it, I realized that I wanted to be him, to be an unscrupulous lover myself but that prospect was little above obtainable at this time, so I settle for something I could achieve. I would write about him. Yet I honor and revered him so I thought that if I used his true name, Geicomo Casanova, somehow that would be a defamation of character, a character that I admired dearly so I separated the Surname of infamy, making „Casanova‟ two separate and distinct words, Casa Nova. Thus creating a new family and lineage called the Novas, where Casa was a son in present times.
By Randy Akeem Griffith


Girls, girls….GIRLS!!! They are definitely the most mysterious creatures on the planet. Creatures so strange and bizarre, that they can be blissfully happy at one moment and totally upset in the next. Scientists have progressed through the ages; discovering the coverts and behavior patterns of almost all the species on the planet, mastering the sciences, conquering the planet‟s elements so to harness the strength for their own. After such marvelous achievements like electricity, skyscrapers and short lag space travel, we as men still have yet to wrap our mind around the greatest lasting anonymity since Adam realized his solitude on earth, that anonymity we called …the female.

“What if Adam could control Eve…instead of being influenced by her…would the world be different today…would we be immortal without the knowledge of good and evil…?” “Nothing would have changed…it was Adam‟s choice and our fate…!” By RAG
‘The True Fabrication of Siren’s Glare: Casa Nova’ Back-Book Summary:

History depicts the Novas as exceedingly rich, extraordinarily handsome
and especially influential men; natural womanizers-no female could resist their innate charm…a lure so powerful, so magnetic, it appeared supernatural…because it was!

Now young Casa Nova believes he is a protagonist in a depraved narrative,
for the events that occur in his presence are those that only ensued in estranged plots by evidently youthful writers, events such as: initially, seeing persons in the mirrors that aren’t there; secondly, having outrageous sex with impossibly beautiful girls and lastly, monstrous creatures trying to rip out his and his brothers’ eyes in order to steal their hereditary powers….yes…he definitely believes he’s a character of some fictional tale….but bad news Casa….this is your life and it’s all real.
By R.A.G


Prologue: ………………………………………………………………………………6 Stanza1: Siren‟s Glare: Casa Nova Epoch Chapter 1 Goodbye Venice and Virginity…...……….…………………….8 Chapter 2 Femme Fatale…………………………………………………………26 Chapter 3 Broken Pedigree……………………………………………………..34 Chapter 4 Bim in Caribbean……………………………………………………….. Chapter 5 Slumming it Middle Class……………………………………….... Chapter 6 Second base in Secondary School………………………………..

This is a Part of the Full story, used as a promotion or draft for my friends and fellow writers…so be disappointed


Few girls had passed through his seventeen years of life; but he had seen all the types the old, the young, the rich, the poor, the gorgeous, and the not-so-attractive-but-okay-to-bewith-for-the-moment and of course the crazies, yeah he had his crazies, but he always knew how to manage. Girls, to him, were mere interlocking spurs of pleasure and trouble, and his heart had felt pinches of adrenaline and pain when they left, either by his hands or their will, but he naturally never cared. Yet at the moment his heart ache with a pain so fresh and new it distressed him. Her name was Eve, or that was what he would referred to her as, for Eve was what she was, the first of many things to him: she was indeed and absolutely, the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on, she was the first girl he honestly believe was worth his time on earth to listen to and finally she was the only one, after many, who had ever made his heart crash and burn at the mere bashing of her words. “I am going to run away, okay!” Eve said to him, her voice sounded pained but still perfectly sweet. “Please don‟t,” he pleaded holding back the weakness in his own throat. “I will,” she continued as she walked away and he followed. He grabbed her hand to impede her, she didn‟t resist. Pulling her closer he examined her. No girl he had ever met before had made him feel so insecure, so weak; he normally held the power but he didn‟t with her. This is what made her special, the fact that she dominated and not him. “This is stupid. Don‟t leave because of what happened!” he begged, wrapping his hand around her slender waist. “I must…this pain is too great...I have to leave you or else!” she tried to shove him but he wouldn‟t budge and eventually she yielded in his tender grasp. They hugged tightly for a long while. Then she pushed him away but he pulled back. After which, she kissed him gently, and as passionately as possible; he knew it was a good bye kiss, for it was seal with a confounded look, a look given to him by past girls, anytime his relationship with them had ended. Now she had given him that look, that dreaded, godforsaken look from those beautiful lidded eyes, he wanted to weep at the moment but he fought it, the glance lingered for a time equivalent to eternity and he cried that night regretting his inability to attempt to control her. His heart pounded vigorously as if broken and his eyes glowed an unusual bright yellow; he would never use „that‟ on her. She was too special. She was his true love but he wasn‟t hers.


SIREN’SGLARE: (Stanza 1) Casa Nova Epoch
A Note To Let You Know Where You Stand
2007, August 1st, Inside the Ca' Salvioni, Palazzo, Venice,

Every guy, at least once in his life sees a girl and admires her from afar. He watches her in awe, either from the corner of his eye or from earshot. Gawking at her like a hungry predator to his prey because she has everything he craves and desire, everything his mind lusts after. She has the exquisite body he fantasizes about when his alone and the faultless face of a Barbie doll, which forces him to ponder if she is truly real. But these girls, the girls a guy gives second, third and fourth glances to, aren‟t too common in Bim or easily obtainable without great incentives, sad to say, unless you from the upper-middle class… with big cars, fat wallets, beach houses and envious good looks, don‟t waste your time. It‟s like that taunting designer Rolex, behind the six inch glass case in Diamond‟s International that costs a little around fourteen thousand. It has an unwritten sign that you can‟t miss because it‟s in bold red in your mind, „Look But Don‟t Touch...Remember You‟re Broke Nigga!‟ Well, it‟s no huge secret that lots of money is the fastest way to a girl‟s panties, „EAARRLE‟, money gets Prada and Louis Vuitton; girls drop their shit for that shit. But don‟t worry if you don‟t have any cash… because you‟re still lucky, at least you get to read about people who do. It‟s true what the old folk say, „money can‟t buy happiness,‟ but „it can buy everything else…if you have lots of it,‟ and trust me, we do. Now if you‟re probably wondering who I am. Let‟s just say I‟m the man in the mirror; a better half to be precise, who unfortunately sees everything and knows all. On the outside, the Nova family may appear perfectly normal, excluding the fact that they‟re worth a disclosed amount of millions…but on the inside-which is where I am, they are far from that common outlook. However I can‟t spoil the plot for you. I‟m not going tell you about the backstabbing friendships, deceitful relatives and scandalous females that entrenched the Nova‟s teenage life, that wouldn‟t be fair…to me, of course- not you- you‟re unimportant…you‟re just an envious reader. I prefer to just let you see for yourself and be green with jealousy while we are green with money; nevertheless I will place my contribution callously like an officious neighbor…so you know I‟m there. BTW….you should probably note this day. Unfaithfully yours,
Man in the Mirror.

Chapter 1 Goodbye Venice & Virginity
Now life has three types of persons in it: those who strived for what they want; those who seek to take what others have and those who are born with everything. Everyone knew that the Nova family belonged to the latter. „Lucky bastards!‟ They came from a long pedigree of wealthy aristocrats, all who had pleasant lives and untimely deaths. But none, excluding the original, had ever had a life like him…the

legendary and infamous Casa Nova.

Casa Nova glanced hard at the gleaming, marbled laced mirror. It was the fifth
time he thought he spotted something in it; something beside his own average reflection that is- an outlandish something…an unmistakable something, like blood in your urine. But he was probably just giddy from his third glass of wine- he quaffed like an expert drunk. Yet fourteen year olds shouldn‟t drink aged wine…as often as he did; he knew this well-especially Lafite 1986- for if they did, they would piss themselves and have dreams of committing bestiality, so he was told. He chuckled internally at the sheep he dreamt of the night before. The villa, Ca‟ Salvioni, which his family, the illustrious Novas spent practically three months living in, was now quiet, too quiet: it was so abnormally quiet, Casa could actually hear things he couldn‟t weeks before, like; his father pacing heavily in his disposable study, searching for some long, lost article which recently gained significance to one of the several corporations he owned; his mother bellowing about her new designer dress being ruined before the party by the clumsy maid, Linda; and finally his older brother pounding away callously at another Venetian model in his room, for the third time that evening. The last he wished he honestly couldn‟t hear, but alas the villa was too quiet and he liked it that way, for quiet was a rarity in his life, the life of a Nova.

He stared closely into the vanity mirror, swearing on his trust fund, that he had seen something in it, something strictly eccentric. Then with one last gulped of wine he forgot it like everything else that troubled him in life. His reflection gradually became blurred by the alcohol consumed. Usually the refined glass, would revealed, a five foot seven, olive skin teen with unusually dark eyes and wiry brownish hair, who constantly wore Cashmere cardigans like if he was a clichéd, cartoon character. Casa knew his reflection remarkably well. He had too, since he was relentlessly gazing into mirrors every waking moment he spared…actually anything that casted a slight reflection from sun-drenched windows to the back of his iPhone, he employed as a mirror; a habit he procured from his narcissist sibling- Its sad but vanity is the

known curse of being handsome- or being a Nova, whichever comes first in their world.
He was troubled at present hence the vintage wine he drained. His parents had done it again. They had taken his fun summer and ruined it, something Casa believed they took immense elation in doing. Now the sight of his suitcases, being packed and readied by the help, between his four poster bed and the redwood bureau, made his reality very vivid. His time in Palazzo was up and he truly didn‟t want to leave. “I can‟t believe I am leaving Italy in the morning,” Casa told his only friend in Venice, Abigail as they watched the help; Linda and Margaret, packed his four closets of clothes into ten suitcases. It was a tedious task preparing to leave a country but it was even duller when you watched your maids do it. “I mean, I‟ve never spent more than a year in one place…mom and dad keep going from place to place like they are avoiding something?” Casa continued as he grabbed his expensive cologne from the vanity and handed it to Linda. She placed it in the purple, plaid suitcase, where all Casa‟s colognes and other bodily products went. “C‟mon Casa, your parents are wealthy and they want you to have worldly experiences and besides you‟re going to Caribbean…to Bim. I heard it‟s really exotic, better than here in Palazzo.” Abigail said in a feeble Italian accent muddled by American influences, bad television. She was helping Margaret herded the various pieces of Cashmere into its individual colored bags in the midst of cheering him up. “I really don‟t care…,” Casa cried, flopping onto his overly fluffy bed, “I prefer it here in Venice. Not on some strange, tropical island. I know nothing about!”

“Nothing-But doesn‟t your mother‟s family live there?” she asked puzzled, dropping down next to him. Unconsciously he inhaled her scent- it was vanilla, not an average vanilla but a creamy, French vanilla, like the one he got in Mocha lattes while sitting on the National Museum‟s steps back in Britain. Shamefully, after a long breath, he turned away from her. Casa didn‟t want her to see his dismayed face, his blackened brown eyes; he didn‟t want her to know that the reason he didn‟t want to go was because of her. It was an unprecedented motive but it was his. “Abby, I‟ve never met the people. Don‟t want to either.” “But they are your family, you must want to…” Abigail stopped short as Casa groaned loudly indicating to her not to venture there. He despised that side of his family, the poor side. She knew there was no debating or changing his mind now. He really didn‟t want to leave and she believed she knew why. Yet to change his mood like only she could, she said, “I have two gifts for you.” “Really, presents….for what, my birthday isn‟t until next month? But then again I‟m leaving tomorrow, so what is it?” he said promptly facing her: their noses began to touched, rubbing faintly as they breathed heavily against each other. There was a long, teasing pause as Casa‟s cool, minted breath brushed against her chin. Her round face turned red as she smiled clandestinely, “Here,” she dug into her pocket and gave him a gold chain with a hoary ring looped around it. He examined it closely; rubbing it gently between his fingers like it was the most delicate thing, he frowned. “The ring says friendship,” she told him as though he couldn‟t read. “Ohh…friendship….thanks,” he nodded, masking his disappointment behind his lone dimple. He placed it carefully in his pocket. The gesture was kindhearted, but it made the horrid notion that he would be on a plane in the morning an unpleasant certainty. They‟re friendship or whatever it was would be dead as soon as he entered Marco Polo airport. Knowing his family, they wouldn‟t return to Venice soon, if they did rapture was going to be a decade early. “What‟s the other gift?” “Don‟t worry you‟ll get that later on tonight,” she said sticking out her narrow, cherry tongue. Several hours gradually passed in the villa, bringing it to life with noise of methodical activity. The curved moon revealed itself brightly behind the wine drapes as Abigail

gave Casa a momentous stare into his deep black-brown eyes, which startled him out of lawless dreams. His head was still pounding slightly, even after a two hour nap and six Panadols the alcohol-induced headache didn‟t completely subside. Abigail forced him to shower and change his clothes since he stink of wine and day‟s old sweat. He frequently took his showers, reluctantly. Now to finish, he flaunted on some Acqua Di Gio cologne beneath his semi-musty pits. His favorite purple cardigan was buttered with trickles of the wine from his drinking episode, so he threw on a red one, over a custom Van Heusen shirt and knotted a tie to finish. “Oh my head still hurts,” he bleated as he washed his face in the bathroom sink. There in the ornamental, Victorian mirror he saw something again, the strange thing. The strange thing that wasn‟t there when he looked closely at his reflection and focus, “Oh my god…I think I‟m still wasted. I keep seeing things…” “You‟re not.” “How do you know?” “I just do.” “Right?!” he said incredulously, with one last look at his image. “C‟mon Casa…no time for whining… let‟s get downstairs…you can‟t hide up here all night, I mean your mother‟s party is below…an exclusive Helen Nova‟s party! You cannot not go,” Abigail exclaimed grabbing his hand and dragging him with her. She was right as always. There was an outrageous celebration in full swing below that was dedicated to his family‟s departure tomorrow. He didn‟t want to commemorate leaving Venice; he wanted to stay, for it was the first place in his fourteen years of life that he actually made a real, non-using friend. Not saying that Casa didn‟t like his fake friends, who were only attracted to him because of his name and what it entailed but „truly he didn‟t like his fake friends because they were only attracted to his name and what it entailed.‟ Now Abigail Moretti was a dark rooted, Venetian blonde, who from first glance could pass for a fallen angel. Birds sang when she walked and seas parted in her presence. Noah didn‟t need a staff for the Red sea...he just needed Abby. She was „the girl‟; the one, other girls envied, hated and followed like acolytes in a cult; the one, every gauche boy wanted to fuck once and every decent one claimed to be in

loved with and promised to marry until she was overweight and unattractive from the stress of bearing ten of his bastards. Yes, Abigail was that girl but she was also Casa‟s only friend, who he wanted to screw, but resisted….obviously. As they both came down the spiraling flights of stairs, Casa peered through the chesthigh, mahogany balusters. It appeared that everyone in Palazzo was invited; his mother, Helen didn‟t seem to spare a pretty penny on the party, knowing her, if she was going out of Venice, she was going out with a bang. She meant that all the Venetians should be talking about her epic, highly exclusive party until years later. The majority of attendants were politicians, lawyers, models, local celebrities and businessmen; high society and upper-middle class folk; the norm, all of whom Helen probably only knew by surname; all with either some kind of overpriced booze or wine in hand; the servants were passing out, Amarone and Baralo, Italy‟s finest red wines like if they were generic party favors. Ca Salvioni, the villa, held a fairy tale look during the party that mesmerized even the most prominent guests. It was sixteenth century architecture that with the help of Helen‟s personal decorator, Catherine Lope, was exclusively made into a heady mix of luxury and history for her highly anticipated dinner party. It had been recolored from a silk white to a bright scarlet and turquoise blue. The ground was plastered with traditional checkered Bijan rugs and the vast living room publicized various antique gold tapestries and full-scale photos of the Nova family. Expensive art pieces, which were severely fantastic that they made true artists cry with inspiration, were laid across the room organized in such a professional approach that it appeared random to the common eye. Luscious porcelain plates were spread atop the stretched granite dining room table. The plates consisted of many delicious-looking, Venetian delicacies from Pesce Fritto Misto and Seppia al Nero, all of which Antonio, the beefy chef, dragged up from the bottom of the canal outside after spending the majority of the shopping money on his own personal stash of food supplies. “There you two are,” an alluring male voice rose as Casa and Abigail entered the enormous dining room, where scores of faces was unknown to them. It was Casa‟s older brother, Maximillian. He was on the lavender chaise, holding two tall glasses of sparkling booze. “This is for you Abigail.” He offered a glass to her with a perfect grin ignoring Casa‟s presence totally.

“Ummm… NO!” Abigail rejected it and scoffed at him, his smile broadened. Casa and Maximillan were both under the drinking age but also they were both the children of the elite. They could drink booze without fear of being ridicule by their parents, who also drank booze from ridiculously young ages. Once they didn‟t humiliate them by getting too shitfaced to talk properly or at least walk; they could drink all night, until Venice‟s wine cellars were dry. “You remember what mom and dad told you about drinking wine Casa?” It was an imprudent query from Max, for he could see that Casa was vaguely hazed, the lasting effect of the traditional Lafitte. “Yeah they told me if I drink too much….I would end up like you!” “Partially true!” Maximillian chuckled delighted, “…but then again it‟s impractical for that to happen. No matter how closely related we are, there is only one me, only one Maximillian Nova.” “Hallelujah! Praise Jesus for that,” Abigail boomed spitefully, “one is already too much.” Maximillian‟s signature smile widened as her crappy attempt at submission failed. But he wasn‟t daunted by her effort, more like enchanted -Maximillian Nova love girls who tried to make him submissive…the key word is „tried‟, cause after a night

with Max, all girls realized that a Siberian tiger is much less an animal and far more tamable than him.
Casa glared lightly at his brother‟s enjoyment. He knew Max. He always had a malicious stratagem in place when it came to girls he never slept with. He was an insatiable predator and girls were his subtle prey, a prey he enjoy eating. Yet he wasn‟t worried. Abigail wasn‟t liked the dumb, bimbos that Max normally enticed. Abby was smart and extremely gorgeous. She already knew what kind of person he was and she was definitely not a gold-digger. She constantly kept him at bay to his own twisted, delight. Casa was confident that Abigail could handle herself; although

confidence is overrated when you‟re dealing with a son of a Nova.
“I don‟t drink,” she told him in an offended way, “You know that Maximillian! I told you this yesterday…the day before that…and the day before that. Can‟t you get that through your thick skull!? Why do you want to get me drunk so badly?”

It was highly rhetorical. He smiled coyly, his chiseled face unstirred by her words, he continued, “I don‟t want to get you drunk,” it was a blatant lie, “We‟re in Italy…this country is praised for its fine wines. I just want you to savor some with me. Just rolled it gradually on your tongue and then swallow it whole…let the wetness hit the back of your throat” He sipped the booze sensually, “…then tell me how it tastes, is it warm…and rich with flavor?” “Ewww…” she uttered repulsed by the double innuendo, “Your sick…!” “That he is….you‟re a real character, Max” Casa scorned pushing Abigail‟s glass back at his brother, “that‟s why all the girls you date- all those models you like so much, never stay with you after the first night.” He gave Casa a lighthearted nodded and swigged his glass empty. “So true, little brother, so true…. but ask yourself this…who say I wanted any of those girls to stay! I only ever had eyes for one girl.” He eyed Abigail amiably while running his fingers backward through his magnificent, greased up curls. “Ewww…” she repeated in revulsion as he licked his lips erotically at her, LL Cool J style, “Pathetic!” she added rolling her green, blue pupils at the sight of him. Maximillian was every girl‟s dream- but more like Abigail‟s nightmare! He was tall with a flat muscular body which he covered frequently with a different Valentino shirt and tie. Yet, at the moment he wore a long, dark brown Hugo Boss Sondrio shirt with his silver, spring 2001 Guess watch and designer tartan slacks- no need to dress fancy, just throw on any old thing, Maxi. His dark curly hair was smoothed backwards with a quarter tub of Maybelline styling gel as always. Rising high cheekbones and deep dimples accentuated his immaculate smile, which he shot to everyone in the party, every chance he got like a Used Car salesman trying to sell you a hardly working Volvo. He had envious, evened bronzed skin like silk and rare dual colored eyes that appeared to be topaz mostly. He held model good looks from his parents, the perfect combination unlike Casa and he knew it. Basically Maximillian Nova looked like a Greek god- titled „the god of models‟ that is, for he ravished a different model, every night, like if they were his own sacrificial virgins birthed to appease him. He would find them from all the assorted cafés,

museums, parks, canals and restaurants, the standard model sites in Venice and then like a predator, he would lie low before he‟d pounce. As a general rule of thumb, he anticipated them to make the first move and take his alluring bait but that infrequently happened and when it did he got bored quickly, it was all about the chase. Yet, like a professional fisherman, he waited patiently, his equipment readied; his face the pretty lure, which drew them in and his silver tongue the hook, line and sinker. He found he was most successful by the Grand Canal, where the most gorgeous European and American females tend to linger during the day, mostly taking candid snaps of the scenery and themselves with wide lens Canons. He would approach them warily, asking if they would mine taking a picture of him and after seeing him, immediately they always agreed. Then they were caught in Max‟s net.

You know everything that sparkle isn‟t gold. Max surely isn‟t.
Subsequently, ensnared by his good looks, his witty charm was now next up on the frontlines, prepared and deemed to reel them in. Talking/ coercing, he always brought his new dates/victims to the main channel first, before he took them home. There the slow moving gondolas held a certain magic that allowed a girl‟s panty to become even wetter than the vessel she was in. He utilized them continuously. Plus the way Max portrayed himself to unsuspecting belles, could‟ve fooled even his own parents. He was pleasant, caring, romantic and courteous; a prime individual; only to the lucky girls who weren‟t taken instantly by his inhuman good looks. Though his true adjectives, appeared after he sexed them- scheming, rich, seductive

nymphomaniac. Incapable of a true relationship with a female- he‟s undoubtedly my new role model…move over Charlie Sheen, there is a new misogynist in town.
Max knew he looked overly handsome and he used this aspect to hit on everything with a pussycat rubbing between its legs, especially blondes, they were his favorite and now he had his sights set on Abigail Moretti, the blonde beauty his deluded younger brother befriended and brought to the villa regularly. She entangled his interest, not because she was prettier than the bulk of girls at the party, even though she was, but because she played hard to get, she didn‟t drink and somehow she had a perturbed impetus to hang with Casa and turn him down, „HIM‟, the sexiest animal on the planet-„the Maximillian Nova‟.


“I don‟t like you,” she told him, it was the first time he‟d heard those words said so stoutly by a girl, with actually legitimacy behind them. „No matter!‟ he thought with heightened bravado. She was the one girl deserving of his true charm, a charm which he was forbidden to exercise, by his own will, but she‟d earned. Raging, primal male instincts meant that Max would enjoy the challenge. It was all about the chase. He wouldn‟t be fool by Abigail‟s half baked impressions of being a good, decent, perfect girl, for he too could act and he had a secret weapon.

„Intermission is starting, and all that‟s left is the final curtain call; be careful Abigail, Maximillian normally gets the girl who is „mostly‟ sober.‟
****** Abigail couldn‟t believe that Max and Casa were related…they look alike… but ultimately they seemed like two random children adopted by some rich family at best. They were so different in nature it was unfeasible. Their personalities had as much in common as a mosquito has to a blue whale, which was practically nothing. In her opinion, Casa was gentle and compassionate, almost incredibly innocent while his brother had the poise and the attitude of the devil himself. Somehow Mr. and Mrs. Nova had produced two children with similarities that only exceeded outer appearances. “Poor Casa…only when you mature you will understand, there is no girl that a Nova can‟t get, especially me.” Maximillian stated with ultimate confident that Casa almost felt immediately convinced by the eccentric claim. Abigail swallowed dryly, for she too felt the overarching confidence that radiated from Max‟s words, she wanted to refute his statement but she couldn‟t. His topaz eyes locked her, gazing direct into her soul. Her body shuddered for an unmeasured time as she felt lured by his yellowish stare; somehow attracted by his eyes odd beauty. “Okay…c‟mon Abby, let‟s go find my mother,” Casa broke the trance with his soft voice. Bewildered at the sweat that traveled across her face from Max‟s sensual glance, she replied fickly but also gladly, “I think that‟s a great idea Casa, Mrs. Nova probably wondering where we are.”


“Hmm! whatever you two… do whatever you want,” Max uttered rolling shut his yellow eyes. Moving towards a serving maid to refill his glass, he stated primly, “I‟m going to enjoy this party either way. You two go find Helen. This is the only company I need at the moment, Castello di Brolio” he toasted the yellow bubbly and emptied the glass. “…it‟s fantastic, well not as fantastic as you, Abigail but you know what I mean. Just a little hint Casa…Mom, is probably still entertaining the guests by the baby grand with her extended anecdotes of how she met dad in Paris…for the hundredth time tonight,” he concluded boorishly as he exchanged his empty glass for a new one. It was true that Helen Nova told that story of how she and her husband James met constantly that night while mingling in and out of her preferred guests, the Griffins, the Marshals, the Moretti and the Caravellos. While her husband, James spent most of the night on the balcony smoking Churchill cigars with his seemly conniving, business partner, Thomas Maxwell; „business before pleasure‟ James always asserted to her. Helen would‟ve preferred that her overworked husband was beside her as she regaled the guests of their exciting past of romance…for all the romance, Helen

talked so proudly about, was truly in their past!
Listening attentively, the erratic guests; Fredrick Griffin and his two scandalous daughters, Courtney and Melanie; coy but filthy rich Peter Marshal and his wife, Jane; Abigail‟s aunt, the highly respected, founder and CEO of Moretti‟s Modeling Agency, Sandra Moretti, and the successful twin brothers of Caravellos Mattresses, Carl and Craig Caravellos. All of whom were insatiably eating the great range of bruschetta appetizers as Helen recalled the tale of her whirlwind romance in the city of love for the sixth time that present hour. “…so there we were, under the magnificent Eiffel Tower, with the rain pouring heavily on us and the stars our only light and suddenly James grabs me, holding me tightly to his soaked, strapping chest, whispering gently into my ear that I was the one, the only one, his true love. Then astoundingly he went on one knee and pulled out a Tiffany‟s ring box with the most splendor diamond ring ever, I nearly cried…” there was a dramatic pause, all the women went literally at the edge of their seats with anticipation while the men frowned and yawned continuously in tedium at women‟s poignant interest, “….he asked would you, Helen, Janise, Firewood marry me, and I said…” dropping another cliffhanger, Helen Nova savored the looks on her

audience‟s faces, she devoured the expressions of jealousy, zeal and awe as she concluded spectacularly with a huge, crowed, “Of course James Nova, I will marry you.” It was essentially a television romance scene, which seemed unreal to the horde of invitees that heard it. But even though the rendition appeared extremely fabricated, the proof was in the pudding, for Helen was indeed a Nova‟s wife. Her audience applauded generously after the narrative. Many of the women started to congratulate her around the polished piano like if her engagement just happened days ago and one lady which, Helen didn‟t know but saw came in on the end of her tale, actually offered to planned a party, huge laughs erupted at Baby Grand afterwards for she was married nearly twenty years. Essentially the women, her friends, were all huge suck-ups. Out of the few who were earnest towards Helen, there was those who weren‟t, “I can‟t believe it, that was so romantic,” Jane Marshal exclaimed like a spontaneous teenager, throwing her left hand into her husband‟s right while giving him a mystifying glare, which if Helen cared to notice, read „that bitch doesn‟t ever stop bragging about her life doesn‟t she?! Just because she‟s married to a Nova,‟ only if Helen or Peter Marshal could read expressions they would cower at the green ogre called Envy brewing in Jane. “Oh my god, you are so lucky Mrs. Nova,” Courtney Griffin stated dubiously as she popped another bruschetta into her mouth and washing it down with bubbly. It was her eighth for the night and at the rate she downed them the skinny bitch would resemble a baby whale before long. “I wish I could find a guy who liked me half as much as your husband loves you.” Helen wished the same thing. Melanie Griffin watched her sister revealed blankly her lasting fixation; her gaze crossing over the room towards the notorious Maximillian Nova, who apparently was very busy with his new sexual escapades. He was casually sitting on the chaise, legs lapped, scouting and rating the girls at the party, who he wanted to fuck before his rumored departure. Presently he was examining a long legged brunette, who had a kickass figure but lack the stunning face to match, so she was rated „not happening‟, qualifying her for immediate dismissal. “Thank you, Courtney. I‟m really glad you and your sister made it here tonight from Paris. Your father told me that you guys were really busy at you‟re new nightclub. What is it called again?”

“Yeah we were…it‟s called the Le Point G (the G spot).” “Oh!” Helen uttered uneasily at the Griffin Sisters‟ renowned sexual decadence. She emptied quickly her glass and pretended to look at her gemmed, encrusted Rolex, “Well, glad you‟d made it.” “Us too,” said Melanie smartly. “We wouldn‟t have missed it for the world.” Courtney replied thrilled, still gawking greatly at Max. She examined him, slowly becoming damp below at his splendor image. Six foot something, caramel skin like a low fat Mocha- muscular facade, a heavenly countenance, a laid back, cool, overwhelming, confident demeanor and a huge trust fund on his eighteenth . He was ideal, from first glance even without his intangible attributes. “Helen, I‟ve heard you‟re staying in Bim, more than for just vaca, is this true?” Jane Marshall asked sneeringly, her Amarone tipping out her glass cup. The other ladies in the room ears perked up, for this was somewhat immense and odd news, for gossip stated that Helen was going to Hawaii, could gossip be wrong? The unperturbed men couldn‟t be bothered. Generally Helen would overlook the sneaky question but since it was her party and she made it her duty to always be the centre of attention, she reluctantly entertained Jane‟s spiteful query. It wasn‟t something new that Jane furtively despised Helen and wanted to ruin her every chance she got. Many things disturbed Mrs. Marshall about the luxurious Helen Nova: the first, she had everything she ever wanted: an exaggeratedly handsome hubby; an affluent entourage of friends; three striking children and a flourishing family empire with limitless cash flow. All these attributes summed up why she loathed Helen but conclusively she was disgusted by the fact that a „black‟ woman, who was only a few shades darker than her, had entered the refined class from the slums of the Caribbean and now she had everything she was born with and more. Jane wasn‟t racist, she just believe that black women (if only slightly black) shouldn‟t out-dress, out-rich, out-husband and out-live her. It was anomaly of the wealthy, one she planned on seriously rectifying; she wasn‟t going to be out-classed continuously by a „Negro‟. “Oh! I don‟t know how you found that out Jane…” Helen said with equal scorn. She definitely knew how Jane found out about her staying in Bim: a couple thousand

dollars in a private investigator‟s patchy pocket would ring an accurate bell, “Well yes, Jane, I‟m going to Bim for more than R&R, I‟m going to visit my mother and probably stay the entire year.” Several ladies gasped, many out of jealousy, some just from pure shock, though the minority just remain composed for they knew running to an island to stay a lengthy duration was the telltale sign of escaping from trouble, financial or otherwise. “That‟s nice,” Sandra Moretti, Helen‟s closest acquaintance, stated. “Are you taking the kids with you?” Appearing like an average question-it wasn‟t, Sandra was one of the few women that knew Helen well enough to know she never visited her mother or even mention the woman unless there was something horrible happening in the Nova life. “Of course, I‟m taking them. Can‟t leave them here on there own. Even if they don‟t want to come they‟re going. Though the oldest, Maxi couldn‟t be bothered if we leave Venice and go to Timbuktu, once the place we go to has girls in it, he‟ll be fine. However Casa seems to be attached to Venice. Strange enough, he was really upset when we told him we were leaving. It isn‟t like him. He‟s normally the first to rush and pack when we are departing a country.” “Casa‟s upset?! I wonder why?” Sandra speculated in pretense. It was plain as marijuana in a model‟s nose to see that young Casa Nova had a thing for her niece, Abigail (but who didn‟t), and odder Abigail him. Everyone loved Abby from birth, for she was exceedingly beautiful, some would say almost too beautiful. Sandra recalled the aged lawyer, Jeremiah Thorn, who assisted in Abigail‟s adoption, after her sister and brother-in-law death, (Abby‟s parents); the lawyer said acutely that Abigail‟s level of beauty was unfeasible, at the tender age of ten. He told Sandra to dress her as conservative as possible (to quote like a nun) and send her to an all-girls institute, for if not she might attract the wrong kind of attention too early in life. Sandra was always a worrywart. Plus, she noticed the abnormal splendor of the child too and heeded the old man‟s words. From day one, she dropped Abby into a private institute surrounded entirely by women, from the teachers to the janitors. It was basically an Amazonian school, one Abby despised until graduation. But it was necessary to protect her from early sexual experiences…with men that is.

Casa and Abigail appeared from the mist of people in the dining room, who were dance-walking slowly to the Classic Indie band jamming on the erected podium, when Casa noticed his mother. It took him nearly thirty minutes to locate her in gigantic living room full of stuck up individuals courting and bragging about their assets and careers. However he spotted her in a jiffy among the small group of guests at the piano. She was wearing a lovely outfit. It was a multicolor Cashmere dress with elegant cross-hatching stitching on the side, which came up to the neck of the back. Glancing at her, she had out-dressed her audience as usual, looking like a red rose among dry thorns. It was her favorite part of any party she planned. He began to approach her when Abigail grabbed his hand and pulled him aside, “Casa what‟s the true reason you don‟t want to leave.” This question caught him totally off guard for it seemed to have been playing on her mind all night long. She knew what she wanted him to say but he didn‟t. He pretended not grasped her query and replied, “What do you mean?” “Don‟t do that! You know what I mean,” she snapped dropping her foot down. She was wearing velvet Dollhouse heels that made a bizarre noise against the gleaming white tiles. Her Italian accent had become grudgingly powerful as it always did when she lashed out. „Girls were so strange,‟ he thought, “Do what? I didn‟t do anything. What are you getting so upset about, Abby?” She said nothing and he became very anxious. “I have no idea what you‟re talking about,” he lied, using the standard phrase of a cheating husband. “You don‟t?! Really?!” she hissed, feeling somewhat patronized; her pretty pink lips curling at his indifference. The obnoxious band was playing in a loud, mellow manner; some old-ass songs that Casa was sure that even dinosaurs wouldn‟t recognize. He didn‟t respond at once. He couldn‟t say what he wanted, which was „I don‟t want to leave Palazzo because I like you.‟ It sounded stupid and childish. Besides it wasn‟t like he had a choice or a say in the matter. His parents traveled where they want, when they want, dragging him along without heed of his feelings


like some kind of pet. He was merely a discarded bottle in the sea, being carried aimlessly by the tides of his family‟s will. “Okay…,” Casa said with a wayward glance to his mother. He wanted to beg her to stay in Venice two more weeks at least. But as he witnessed all the big shots leisurely drinking down bottles and bottles of his parent‟s champagne, he knew it was futile. He was definitely leaving tomorrow and he would have to make the most of his time now with her. “Okay Abby…!” He took a long breath. It prepared him for what he wanted to say. He bent over to whisper to her the words he choked on for months, his face burned red and his dark eyes began to glow a brighter, odd hue and he suddenly felt extraordinary confident, “the reason I don‟t want to leave Palazzo tomorrow-the reason why I was so upset earlier, the reason is, that I liked you, Abby.” She smiled under her half opened lids and whispered back with a kiss, “I know.” ***** Three stumbling girls approached Maximillian giggling, all with faces similar to Vogue models and tight, slender bodies of ballerinas, which now appeared weary and sluggish after many glasses of dry scotch. Two were Abigail‟s closest friends/ worshippers/stalkers, Brooke and Cheryl, the third was new, stunning and blonde; Max noticed intrigued. The drunkest one, Cheryl, for both were partly drunk- but at different acceptable levels, whispered…well shouted to Max, “You know you‟re just too handsome to be real.” He smiled his spectacular, white smile in agreement, he was. Both recognized girls joined him on the leather futon, slumping down on either side of him while the nameless beau stayed above. “So Maximillian… Brooke here,” indicating to the red head with blue eyes on his left, “she…well we, we wanted to know if you would assist us in something?” “Something we know you‟ll enjoy,” Brooke expressed tickling his right ear with the warm tip of her tongue. “A Ménage à trois!!!” “You‟d fucked both of us already. But that was individually. Can you handle us together?” Cheryl muttered with a deep, enviable look in her coffee hued eyes. She

turned to Brooke and they exchanged the pleasing glance and a long kiss; two actions that stipulated the lone thought of Maximillian exploring their insides, again and again, like only he could. “Okay,” he stated casually. Max ignored them; they were sloppy, slack and tiresome girls. Though he embraced/enjoyed the acts of opened lesbianism, they had loss his sexual interest weeks ago, along with their pride. For all he know they could be walking incubators for every STI out there. Plus his gaze focused on the new, untouched blonde in front of him, with the most sensual curves and juicy thighs he‟d seen all night. Cheryl shuddered at his coldness. She hadn‟t had sex in three days and now she desperately had an itch only Maximillian could scratch but wouldn‟t. Every time she thought, saw or even heard Maximillian, she got totally wet and painfully horny, with no satisfaction. Something about his very scent, his enthralling essence, captivated her and made her wanted to scream, drug and rape him. “Who‟s your lovely friend Cheryl?” he asked interested, his topaz stare baiting her to meet them. She wore a Ralph Lauren original- a burgundy high cut with a laced halter and the highest pair of Jimmy Choos. The outfit was sexy on her or was she sexy in it, either way she‟d became Max‟s new sexual focal point- being naturally

blonde that is.
Cheryl grinned awkwardly and responded with alcohol tainted breath, “She our close friend from the States…she‟s on a trip across Europe with her graduating committee and tonight is their last night in Italy. So I invited her here, to your mother‟s going away party… wanted to show her a good time that is.” „Good time‟ is

a matter of relative perspective- horrible friend much?
“Her name is Delilah,” Brooke added, “by the way.” Slightly seizing her milk white hand, Max watched her flushed as he lilted harmonically, “Here there Delilah!” It was exceedingly corny, but he was Maximillian Nova and his words no matter how pitiably clichéd resounded coolly on the ears of females. “My name is Maximillian Nova.” “I kno-w whoo yo..u ar-e,” Delilah stuttered, her obscured eyes quietly shifting behind her shaded, Prada glasses. He could tell that she was intimidated by him

from her exceptionally hesitant speech and pose. It was very common; many girls got that way while in his gorgeous presence. He enjoyed it. The fact that they became utterly fumbled when talking to him made them easier to control in his mind. He shot his usual perfect smile at her to see the result. She exploded with redness at his dazzling teeth; ready to burst like a scarlet balloon on an Airhead commercial. Covetously Brooke rolled her glamorous blue eyes and with three simple words she tried to deter him from her, “She‟s a virgin.” The words were marred with scent of booze but he knew she was telling the truth. He possessed that gift, a talent of being born a Nova. The knowledge of her virginity explained a lot, exposing the truth behind her shyness. Now she became merely a defenseless fawn in the presence of a famished panther. Her behavior warranted, for the infamy and history that surrounded Maximillian and almost all the other Nova males, was that they were creatures made for sex. Something a virgin, like Delilah, might have yearned and feared, and now it was in her reach, obtainable because Maximillian was attracted by new toys, which is how he saw her, a toy he would discard after he

played enough.
Contrasting Abby, Max didn‟t find it remotely difficult to get Brooke and Cheryl into his bedroom and beyond. A matter of fact, it was hardly a challenge, even excluding that there was no alcohol involved, which he didn‟t take pleasure in. It was quick and dirty, which left an everlasting impression on them both and a bad taste in his mouth-literally. “A virgin!” Max topaz eyes flared as his dimples deepened. “Do you want to lose it?” There was a credited silence. A scared, panicky expression darkened Delilah‟s face as she lied halfheartedly, “Nooo I a-am goo…ood.” The awkward question died and no one said anything further for an extended while. The band began to play a classic oldie, which sounded like futuristic tunes compared to previous endeavors. Therefore the older guests took the floor, in their executive pairs. It was like an old person‟s retirement home; everyone was over forty and couldn‟t dance even on a

DDR. All they could do was the Tango, Waltz, Samba, Quickstep and Paso Boble, the easy ones.


Thanks to the quietness, Max‟s mind wrapped tightly around the word „virgin‟, embracing all it entailed: innocence, inexperience and inner tension. Indeed! He couldn‟t remember last time he tainted a virgin but all he knew it would allow him to grow as a person-Don‟t ask why or how, it just did!!! He loved the idea of being a girl‟s first. After he was through making „love‟ to her she would seek him constantly in other men. Men, who would never satisfy her like he did…he would be remember as the first and ultimately the best. “Brooke, why would you say that she‟s a virgin?” Cheryl inquired with a risen brow, “…remember he‟s Maximillian- Maximillian Nova.” Surprisingly to Max, she quickly grasped his intentions; she could tell that Delilah being a virgin wouldn‟t discourage him but quite the opposite.

Foolish Brooke!
“I don‟t know maybe it was the alcohol,” she admitted miserably. Brooke, the nineteen year old redhead, had been spilling everyone‟s deep dark secrets all night long, especially her own; example: she told an inquisitive congressman who seemed interested, how she slept with her „distant‟ cousin twice at her grandparents funeral, got pregnant and had a back alley abortion, „bad impression‟, “Am I that wasted Cheryl? LOL, I‟ve been saying lots of stupid shit I wouldn‟t usually say.” “That is so true,” approved Cheryl. Digging into her E-Cup bra, she pulled out two white boxes, “You probably just need a smoke. It will calm the nerves.” “A smoke!? Weed or cigarettes?” “POT,” she yelled a little too loud. “Be quiet you idiots. There‟s something called discretion,” Max interjected. He shook his head and returned his attention totally to Delilah. It wasn‟t uncommon for privilege children, like them, to have Weed, Meth, Ecstasy and Ambien on their person, at all times, but it was extremely rare/ (STUPID), to announce it aloud to everyone at the party full of government officials. Delilah retorted disdainfully, shocking Max, “You don‟t need weed! Cause you‟re just a really dumb bitch most of the times.” Bewildered and holding back his mirth, Max perceived that Delilah had a forceful side when she wasn‟t fumbling all over his looks and reputation.

“Am not!” she shrugged sheepishly, “I‟m a sexy bitch.” “Well you‟re still a bitch.” “True.”

With friends like these, who need friends?
“Whatever!” Brooke cocked her eyes, omitting her friends; she threw her hand around Max, who swiftly removed it as he initialized his plot. First, he would take Delilah‟s virginity and then he would woe Abby into fucking him. Two blondes in

one night, not a personal record but it will do.
“Delilah would you like a glass of wine? It‟s Castello di Brolio,” he offered.

Like she knew what that was.
She had on a pretty dress with a cute face, and was attending the social event of the summer, in the greatest European country, but it was unadorned as the Projects on X-mas that she was far from upper class! It was something Max could distinguish a mile away. Her whole composure was visibly out of place, mortified, euphoric and astonished by the very sight of celebrities he and everyone else were so accustomed to, for they were the celebs. But who cared if she wasn‟t from his circle, Max surely didn‟t! She was a pretty unadulterated virgin and he was a defiling god, a bad combination if I ever saw one. Great kings, politicians and generally most powerful men, all had VIPs, and Max was now going to have one too.VIP being the exclusive acronym for Virgin Imported Pussy). Currently all he could think about was sticking his tongue down her throat, gingerly grabbing her puny tits and slowly but intensely carrying her to the depth of true womanhood. “Yeah sure,” she approved daringly to the drink.

Doesn‟t Delilah know agreeing to drink with a Nova is as bad as taking off your all your clothes…both lead to the same thing if you‟re not careful.


Chapter 2 Femme Fatale
For all those who are consumed with jealousy by reading this „recollection‟ don‟t be…cause it okay to be „poor‟ (if you are), cause without you we wouldn‟t be rich. So thanks! Isn‟t equality of wealth fantastic…I believe so and I bet my friends think so too! (Would say “Sorry” but we‟re “Not”)

One by one, Max‟s clothes fell to the mauve carpet while his lips remained in a
dead lock with Delilah‟s. He had become a professional stripper during the summer, after lots of early practice with models; he could now de-clothe in a matter of milliseconds, while pleasuring his fresh sex toy. Equally Delilah‟s clothes fell quickly; it was the honed talent that Max‟s slick fingers developed over the seventeen years of his life. “Wow, I never felt like this before,” Delilah gasped heavily into his ear. She was almost fully naked, the only thing still on was her „sexy‟ lingerie; Hello Kitty panties, taut between her thick, flawless thighs. Max almost erupted into laughter at her childish undergarment but he knew that laughing at someone before sex almost definitely ruined the mood. Yet it didn‟t matter, he could laugh and give two fucks about the mood due to the fact that Delilah was drunk as hot piss and there was no mood. It wasn‟t like he was trying to charm a sweet, little virgin into loving him with a candle lit room and roses and chocolates at hand. NO! Max was hardly chivalrous. But he would try to make the sex play as painless as possible that was his only courtesy. Accordingly, Cheryl and Brooke abandoned Delilah, after a feeble guarantee from the classic Maximillian charm. He easily convinced them that he would „take care‟ of her. At first they were rightfully crossed, for they both wanted to be the „one‟- the one, Max fucked that night, not Delilah. They could give two shits about her- but the smashed blonde insisted that they leave her and reluctantly like „good, reliable‟

friends they did. Feeble gratitude was extended to Delilah from Max for he didn‟t have to persist; persuasion being another talent of his, one though he preferred not to exhaust. “Alone at last…” he breathed against her fine hairs. “At last….”she trembled inhaling his honey drenched pant. Near the bed, Max assailed her neck with soft kisses like pecks, which sent ecstasy cascading through the blonde‟s back. Taking each finger on her hands, he steadily bathed them with his tongue, trailing expertly until he came to her chest. She wiggled and threw a bite in his shoulder as he cupped and mouthed her entire left breast. Max‟s disregarded the pain; it was universal for girls to gnaw, scratch and moan out of the sheer pleasure of his sensual skills. Professionally bringing the virgin up to her pinnacle, he paused, “Are you ready?” he asked as he placed her atop him. She nodded, fixing her dark glasses on the bridge of her nose. Max thought it was strange, that she kept them on all through his marvelous foreplay but he knew the glasses read „Prada‟, and somehow that particular brand made girls, even rich girls, passionate and overprotective, like some kind of maternal predator looking after its young. “Don‟t you want to take those off?” he asked reaching for the glasses. She firmly slapped away his hand and softly replied, “N-ot yee-et.” „Not yet‟, he thought absurdly, when he started ravishing her, there wouldn‟t be any time for her to do anything but shout his name and break the first, second and third commandment- A new Nova martyr. “Okay then, keep them on,” he said knowingly, without care. Honestly, he thought girls were sexier in glasses to Max- It‟s like an uptight Liberian, whom appeared perfectly civil openly but was a real sex freak behind closed doors. He would explore her trapped talent. “Ready?” he asked geared up to revealed his true sadistic colours. His shakily hand trailed down her silvery hair, it felt really soft and flimsy; so eccentric it was practically dreamlike; touching it was like touching gas; smooth and illusionary. Max caught himself, forgetting about his plan momentarily; he had never seen hair like

that. It was a pale, bleached blonde colour but under the artificial light it sparkled as monochrome as a rainbow. “I tth-hink I am,” she stammered bringing him back to his intentions. He skimmed her cartoon underwear to a side and began slowly. Her face burned crimson with a unique idiom as he entered and began to do his usual routine, touching all the right spots in and outside of her. Candidly, something illogical happened. After eight minutes he had suddenly finished- Max, no comment! He couldn‟t have climaxed. He just couldn‟t. Never in his life had that happened so dreadfully premature, for he was Maximillian Nova. He brought girls to the big „O‟ by simply kissing them. Adding insult to injury, Delilah didn‟t seemed to have notice or pretended not to (the SHAME), so being an opportunist he rapidly willed his junk back to life and continued in inner disgrace. „She is just a virgin,‟ Max told himself continually as he tried his best to not cum early, again. Delilah grinned acutely and began to move like a greatly accomplished contortionist. Doing positions that professional MILF porn stars took years in their trouble youth to master. „She was a natural,‟ Max deduced, too natural for she wasn‟t even bleeding. “You sure you‟re a virgin?” he asked trying to distract himself from the rising pleasure, hardly convinced. Delilah responded with increased tempo and proficient hip movement. „NO!‟ “Oh my…!” Had they switched places unknowingly? For he currently felt like a virgin and she acted like the nympho. She was in POV style after alternating from the Doggie to the Spread Eagle, making him wonder if she was of Amerindian descent, completing some kind of tribal dance on his penis while he was crying for God and begging her to slow down. Ironic!!! After uncounted minutes Delilah stopped inexplicably. Barred he ogled the blonde, lamenting the pleasure. Her face wasn‟t the visage of bliss and excitement of the minutes before. A sinister, caustic look took her face that called on death alone. A treacherous idiom of a beast, a beast Max had seen only once before. Delilah removed her Prada glasses, exposing evil darkened black eyes….demonic eyes, like the pit of hell itself. The glasses weren‟t shaded as Max thought, her eyes were.

Maximillian Nova was petrified instantaneously-he knew the sex was too good to be run of the mill, especially for a claimed virgin. Struggling feverishly to pull out of her, it was futile. He was thoroughly ensnared by the creature‟s warm growing cold crutch. He was one with it now-one with the creature. This girl- no, this thing that held the image of a girl, was one of them. The creatures of the night sky…creatures

with no true face.
“Are you ready Maximillian?” the fiend named Delilah hissed gagging him with her Hello Kitty panty. Max always knew vagina would be the death of him but this was


On the veranda, overhead of the hedge maze garden, James Nova repeated the action of drawing on his Churchill. With a huge gray puff, he rattled the intaglio banister as he inhaled the fresh night air and coughed. The bald gentleman beside him copied his action while James released, “Only you and the gods know what will happen if my family does not leave Venice tomorrow morning.” Thomas, James‟ cube-ball headed business partner, puffed in response, “You might be right, but that is no reason for your unprecedented rush. We have so many things to do at the company. This is crunch-time James…you know this. I can protect you but you have to settle the issues here first, this is your real life after all.” Thomas chopped another piece of his cigar and hauled. James quaffed the scotch on the smog covered table between them as he weighed his predicament. Thomas help was appreciated but improvident. Now normally a successful millionaire is afraid of very few things but James Nova was afraid of all the very few things. Recently his life had taken a drastic turn for the worst. Everything depended on how he handled one crucial situation, if he succeeded or failed, it would change his life and his family‟s life forever. His legacy, the Nova legacy rested on him. “I know the company desperately needs me since the investors are threatening to pull out Nova Corp. - faster than a guy with a broken condom. I know that son of a cheap brothel whore, Stanford embezzled millions from us and disappeared somewhere in the Hamptons. I will rectify all of these issues in due time but right now if I don‟t leave Palazzo in the morning, a lot more

could be lost. Things that can never be regained. Your men are good but under these circumstances the results are still dire.” “I see.” Thomas avowed unenthusiastically, “Your situation from what I deduced sounds pretty dim yet they must be reason for your privacy, even from me. But let me ask you this, are you at least accompanying your family to Bim?” The bald man motion for the retort, but his face stood still. As awaiting something else. He had met James Nova‟s eyes. Eyes them appeared to be made of actual gold. Eyes that screamed of power, true Nova eyes. “No, Thomas. Helen and the children are going to Bim. She will visit and stay with her mother, Janet, while the children attend school there. I am going to a covert location. Somewhere really, really far. Very undisclosed.” “What you mean is, you can‟t tell me?” “Precisely. I can‟t even tell Helen or the kids…no one can know where I‟m going. Privy to my next location could mean the end of your life, my good friend. You must know what I mean. Information though harmless to one, could be utterly deadly to another.” James finished with a strong yawn, tucking his dark combed lots behind his ears. Usually Thomas would‟ve pry further, as it was his maddening personality, but he didn‟t. He uncomplainingly accepted the vague statements. Without much reasoning, one‟s mannerisms vanished while in front of James Nova. James commanded that, a certain reverence in his presence. No one, friend or foe, family or stranger, king or peasant, ever resisted his innate ability to gained unconscious admiration and invoke lack of inquisitiveness. But Thomas knew why and how James accomplished this queer happening, so he was affected as little as possible by his own will against it. After an hour or so of smoking up a batch of good ones and emptying a crystal bottle, James and Thomas completed their standard routine and headed into the starlit terrace. Walking silently below the night into the grassy maze, enveloped by their individual thoughts, troubled thoughts, Thomas began their real discussion. Several yards behind them followed James‟ superfluous shadows, his personal bodyguards. A millionaire is not a millionaire without them. He waved to them to wait at the maze‟s entrance.

Comparatively, Thomas Maxwell was a tiny man to James Nova. For the multimillionaire, James Theodore Nova towered over many. He was bordering on seven feet and was rumored to be handling something even longer. Rumors! Where would we be without them? James, like his sons, had his favorite truism outfit, a two thousand dollar suit, tailored exclusively by European designers, which he wore with the same cause and effect as a thesis. James aren‟t you the clichéd millionaire. Everything about Mr. Nova, like his spouse Helen, screamed to onlookers, „be very jealous…you know wish you were me…I‟m the best aren‟t I,‟ and he was and they were. In looks, James wasn‟t a tiny bit pretty or a little handsome. Anyone who called him that deserved lynching, after being painfully sodomized and castrated, in that order. He was downright gorgeous; a true specimen of a man, a Nova man. Murderous muscles sliced through his luxurious suit while his dark hair fell perfectly aligned to his back with gravity. He pocketed his ring hand into a receptacle of his outfit and admired his surroundings. He would miss Venice dearly. Even though he loved Italy more than any other place he‟d been and considered it his home, he‟d never bought a permanent stay or ever would. The Nova life, well his life, forbid it, his heritage was too deeply embellish in the city of canals and this was another thing he feared. “So Thomas what‟s the real reason you returned from Egypt so soon?” The question ranged silent. “The pyramids of Cairo gave us little info on them and digressing, we took too long! There are recuperating from hibernation…” Thomas Maxwell chewed his thumb and coughed as they enter the fortress of leaves. He was indeed a very odd, bald, dwarf like man, who James feared and appreciated simultaneously. For even though James Nova loomed over him with looks, size and power. Thomas Maxwell still had an advantage over James; He was a shark among sharks. The type of devious and underhanded person you preferred to have on your side rather than against you. He was a jack-of-all-trades; a valued asset that James made sure was his from their first encounter. Now he worked as James‟ go-to-guy, his right hand man. “What….” James exclaimed in terror. “Our people just found a few nests in a remote suburban town…well a ghost town that is….all the houses were empty except for the bodies of the dead town‟s folk. We

cleaned it up and released a cover story to the press that it was a deadly outbreak of some foreign disease in the area.” Thomas whispered a whisper of whispers. “No. It can‟t be. Not already. Not so soon. Tell me you are joking?” “I am not!” replied Thomas humorlessly. Taking three long breaths of cool night air and wiping the sweat that materialized across his brow, James contemplated. “Really?! I knew they would awaken but not this soon…I felt them stirring in my dreams, in the darkness of my mind, bidding time. They should not have fully recovered from that slumber,” James said scanning the leafy walls of the labyrinth as though it were eavesdropping. He ran his hand across the hedge‟s face and picked a strayed stem. Loosening his black tie he stated, “This is bad!” “It gets worse, much worse.” “How?” he called muffled with disbelief. “They‟ve have spawn too, now there is more of them. We found two empty shells. More of the foul beasts have been birthed. But worse is not their increased numbers but the younglings‟ temperament. They will seek first blood from your family, Rite of Passage to their powers and then they will collect their disguises from cadavers.” “Over my dead body. I will let no harm come to my family…not by those depraved creatures, anyway,” James swanked aloud, hearing his own voice and wishing he hadn‟t. Thomas glared him with a face of no good news. He enjoyed this. Coldly Thomas told him, “Your cousin, Richard, the one that owned that chain of resorts in Hawaii has been killed.” He overtook James and paused by the incepting lime corridor. Waiting. Not for him to catch up. But for his entire response, a retort of his stance towards the subject of Richard, he‟d show minor concerned. “How?” James inquired with equal coldness regretting his previous statement even more. He was stunned, but only from the fact that he didn‟t know about the death until present.


“The usual way,” Thomas replied, “Castrated, internal organs removed….you know, the really, really dead way. Bang up job. It speaks ill-the handiwork of the hatchlings.” “Oh.” James said trying to hold his alcohol down, “…and what about his face? Was it…?” “Yes, his face…it was completely devoured and his eyes were gone too, obviously.” “Obviously,” repeated James with a shiver that said Thomas got too much pleasure from reporting this. „Forgive me Helen, Casa and Maximillian.‟


Chapter 3

Broken Pedigree
We all had that summer when we‟ve went abroad and fool around with someone- the summer with no pestering parents, no school, no rulesyou know what I mean, „summer flings‟- romances where your own clichés don‟t apply and someone always get lucky or hurt. Question is…Is Casa in one and will he get lucky? Who knows? But I‟ll bet the Nova‟s summer home in Switzerland that we will find out.
Casa slid a pair of binary doors open and followed Abigail onto a garden deck. Snaking her way outside her, he followed paces behind like a pilot fish watching in awe as her luscious blonde hair shimmered and brush gently her doll-like face under the artificial fixtures. Abby wanted them to be alone and so did he-big shocker. “Outside is so beautiful tonight; the moon is brilliant and the stars look like diamonds, don‟t you think?” “Yeah. I guess.”He nodded stupidly, observing the patio‟s environs. There was a slender array of rich cultivated grass that stretched for acres around the house before reaching a ten foot tall, five metre width wall that cocooned the perimeter. The wall, from what Casa had gathered from his time at Ca Salvioni, had three entrances all a short drive away from the grand villa. At each entrance three or more guards were stated, one of which always escorted the Nova family or any visitor from the entrances and back. Outside of the main entrances and the road that led to the villa, the guards hardly took other stations around the wall and when they did his family was informed in the early, nonetheless Casa perceived two bulked, dark suit clones waiting by the hedge maze‟s opening. Thanks to the moonlight, he could distinguish them as his father‟s personal. “I knew it,” Abigail said shutting the doors behind them. “Knew what?” he asked sheepishly. He felt like he was in a continuous dazed after their kiss or kisses. Their snogging lasted almost fifteen minutes but in Casa‟s mind it felt like an eternity. It wasn‟t his first kiss - (which also was nothing to write home

about) - but it was the first kiss he wanted so bad he would commit murders over scary. Abby‟s lips were so soft he felt them melt against his as their tongues playfully fence and gently forfeited together. And somehow, afterwards, Abby had become even more gorgeous in his eyes - if that were possible- for she looked like a golden seraph. She sat down on one of the dozen patio chairs allied together, holding Casa‟s hand loosely in hers. He looked at her for a long while being consumed by the deepness of her eyes, and she uttered blushingly, “I could tell that you „loved‟ me. You‟re always smiling when I‟m around.” Casa smiled instinctively and then tried not to, embarrassingly. He couldn‟t. His reddened cheeks stood high until they ached. Abby blinked twice and then ran her hand vigorously through Casa‟s curly mulatto hair. He purred gently as she caressed the softness of his stringy tresses. His eyes closed tightly trying to hold the moment. “You remember the first day we met?” she asked as he sat on edge of her seat. It was the first week Casa had been in Venice and already he had done everything normal persons should do there and much more. He chased pigeons in the magical and sinking San Marco, „the drawing room of Europe‟, under the mildly perverse eyes of Napoleon Bonaparte; renewed his musical mores by reluctantly attending an exclusive opera with his mother and her frenemies in La Fenice and some political visit to Doge‟s Palace with his father-sadly this was bonding time. He was had done so much in Venice but with his mother busy entertaining, his father working and Maximillian sexing-he hadn‟t anyone to reveled in it with-no friends of his own, thanks to his constant country hopping.


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