Live Wire

Prologue:

He sat behind a polished mahogany desk, gazing through the expansive bay windows in front of him which overlooked the glistening Los Angeles sky line. The finest natural silk stretched over his ample midriff and expensive rings glittered on nearly every finger of both of his meaty hands. Wisps of straw-like, black hair lay strewn across an otherwise, shiny, bald head - just about the one thing that money could not provide him.

Sleek oak doors, inlaid with gilded gild depictions of scenes from the bible (no doubt hand-crafted by some ancient artisan himself and until recently had garnished the front of a Renaissance church in Western Europe) glided open almost silently behind him. A man appeared, donned in the attire of an old-style servant from the Victorian era and murmured in soft Italian: "Perdon, which shall take your fancy for tonight, Signor? May I tempt you with an exquisite French specimen? Perhaps a sweet Italian, imported directly from the shores of Sicily - a taste of home, Signor?"

The fat man was silent as the uniform clad man placed a delicate diamond wine glass on the desk before him - as expensive as it was elegant. Finally, he spoke, his voice was black velvet, caressing the fluid Italian which poured from his thin lips, "I do believe I harbour a want for the produce of Spain this evening."

"Si, Signor." The servant man scurried from the room while the rich Italian resumed his brooding vigil of the sparkling city skyline. He didn't so much as bat an eyelid as a pair of delicate hands  filled the wine glass before him with a rich velvety wine. Finally, he removed his gaze from the view before him and to this new beauty in his midst. 

"Ay, I thought I ordered Spanish, what is this?!" He began to rage at the petite, fiery-haired woman before him, so scantily clad in sheer lace she may as well have been wearing nothing at all.

"Signor, I assure you - you will never want any other nationality again once you've had a taste of me." She purred in such perfect Italian, had he not been looking right at her he would have assumed she had been brought to him directly from the old country. With her deep red curls and porcelain skill though - she was anything but.

"Is that so?" He rasped back at her, instantly mollified as she slipped off he useless, see-through, lace brassiere. 

"Si..." She whispered in his ear, leaning forward and laying a slender hand on either side of his pudgy face. He released a lusty moan of approval as her lips neared his own and one of his hands found it's place, latching onto her upper thigh, ensnaring her in a vice like grip. One of her hands moved to her hair, swiping her unruly locks from between their faces and his moan swiftly turned to a gurgle. She stepped back from the man, removing what appeared to be a harmless hair grip (but was in reality a carefully camouflaged obsidian blade) from the side of his rapidly pallid-growing neck. For good measure, she drew the three inch long weapon across his throat before wiping it clean on his trouser leg and stowing it back in it's sheath, buried in her thick tresses. She held his gaze as he scrabbled for what was more than likely a panic button, expertly concealed somewhere on his desk and within easy reach of a man who was not drowning in his own blood - yet with one last gurgle, the light left his beady, black eyes and he slumped forward - almost shrunken in defeat.

"Signor, your Spanish beauty has arrived, my apologies for the tardiness - she is quite feisty..." The servant mans words cut off as he surveyed the scene before him and the girl at his side burst into hysterics. 

Carlo Martinello's dull, black eyes stared morosely back at them.