The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Corruption Games

(By S.B.)

14 — L’Angelo Cremisi

Paolo Accardi was only nine years old when he killed his first man. It was an accident, an unforeseen outcome of a burglary gone wrong but, despite the randomness that led to it, there was no denying one simple fact. Even at such a tender age, he liked it. He liked it a lot. His path was forged the moment the serrated kitchen knife pierced the distracted men’s ribs, blood gushing on his innocent face, and Milan’s newspapers were shocked.

Too young to be tried and given the circumstances surrounding it—it was considered self-defense, after all!—Paolo never faced any real consequences for his actions except mandatory counseling sessions for the following two years. The authorities were concerned about future psychological damages. No one wanted to see his usually carefree smile twisted under layers of irreparable trauma and so he received the finest help available, one that proved worthless.

For you see, like so many other children, young Paolo was prone to fabulation, the art of story-telling. Words came naturally to him and so did ways to use them to hide his true feelings and motivations. He always knew what people wanted to hear and adjusted his narratives, accordingly. He was so good at it the doctors that cared for him never realized his dissimulation and when the two years of therapy were up, everyone was eager to put this dark period of the city’s history behind them.

Everyone except him.

It is customary to say the first of something is always special. The first kiss, the first job, the first child... a first kill is no different. The stupor he feigned when asked to recall the moment his blade ended the assailant’s life masked the blissful rush that took over his hand when it happened. It was like an unbridled orgasm even though he had no idea what those two words meant. Feeling it once wasn’t enough.

By the age of eighteen, Paolo had already learned fifty different ways to kill a person, some as bloody as they got, others perfectly clean and sterile. His natural inclination laid in the former, the extravaganza of red splatters and exploded organs that were a feast to the eyes, but there was also beauty in the restraint of the latter, disguising the unnatural by natural means and making everyone believe there was no foul play to be had. He had all the knowledge he needed yet none of the practice, a fact he decided to change on his birthday.

The gift he gave himself was the life of a homeless man, a wayward soul easily tempted by a bowl of hot soup and some new, warm clothes. His demise was quick, a dripping circlet around his neck but what the police found the next day was something else, a macabre posing that even the most courageous cameras avoided to capture. It was if The Heavens had rained down their majestic fury on a crater of ichor. Paolo had never been happier with his work and he chose to perpetuate the bliss.

L’Angelo Cremisi, The Crimson Angel as the TV stations started calling him, operated on Milan and its outskirts for almost seven years. Forty-three victims were confirmed to be his work, with at least twelve others remaining unverified. It was the most gruesome chapter in the city’s police department, one that came to an end the moment Paolo realized killing for fun was nowhere near as attractive as killing for massive sums of money. He disappeared into the shadows only to return twenty-four months later as a gun for hire. His professional status quickly became the stuff of legends until the day someone discovered his true identity.

He was lounging by a five-star hotel pool in Palermo, Sicily, half-empty daiquiri glass to the right, gun hidden on the underside of his foldable chair, when two men stole the sun with their stern poses and long coats. They were both American and didn’t seem too worried about standing out in the middle of the tourist frenzy.

“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Accardi.” Said the first.

“Apparently not that hard,” he replied, facing his opponent. Now getting close to his thirties, Paolo had grown from a skeletal boy who had trouble holding the handle of an edged weapon into a fine male specimen whose only true flaw was his taste for violence. He had muscled legs, impeccably tanned skin and a Latino smile women loved to fall for. A tattoo of a rattlesnake wrapped around his waist, head resting above the navel. Natural black curls of hair waved over his sage green eyes. “And you are...?”

“Someone who’s aware of your activities throughout the years. All of them.”

Paolo took notice of the special emphasis and grinned: “I see... is this a professional call then?”

“It can be, provided we reach a mutual understanding.”

“That will be prove difficult unless I know who it is I’m speaking to.”

“I’m General Rupert Hayes, and this is my associate Colonel Henry Gibbons.”

“How fancy... And what does the US Military want with a poor Italian man trying to make a living?”

“It doesn’t. We’re above that. We represent an organization that works outside the known parameters. We’ve been assembling a team of experts in their fields for a while now. You’re the next name on our list so were we are.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or shocked.”

“Since we both know you’d be pretending either emotion, best not to be anything and just listen to what we have to say.” Colonel Gibbons intervened.

“Oh, I’m listening! You’ll just have to excuse me for not being used to receiving a job offer in such a non-conspicuous way.”

“It’s not really an offer, more of an opportunity.” The General retorted.

“Opportunity for what?”

“To put your... proclivities to good use on an exclusive basis.”

Paolo smirked. Now that was a word he didn’t hear often. “Ah... and I suppose that if I refuse, there will be hell to pay...”

“Not hell, Mr. Accardi, just an angel who will lose its wings forever. How’s Milan this time of the year?”

“Far away where it’s supposed to be. Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I don’t respond well to threats.”

“Assume we know everything because we do. And we’re all aware how you respond when you’re cornered which is why we brought an extra dozen operatives with us to this meeting. You met one already. She spiked your drink ten minutes ago.”

“Hmmm...” he muttered, a bittersweet taste of black cherries on his lips. “What do you know? You like to play dirty...”

“We play the game in any we have to. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself feeling groggy but know it won’t be for long.” Colonel Gibbons noted.

“Poison?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. While you most certainly deserve death, you’d be of no use to us that way, don’t you think?”

“I think I’m no longer amused by this conversation.”

“And yet, you can’t escape it. Please don’t try to reach for the gun. Let’s not make this any more complicated than it needs to be.” The General declared.

“What is your proposition?”

“You come work for us and in exchange Milan will forever remain at the same distance it is now. No point in stirring old memories that will end with a lifetime in prison, is there?”

“You certainly have a point, but if you think I’m going to forget how we got here...”

“Mr. Accardi, it’s take it or leave it.” The General reached for his phone. “I have Milan’s Questore on speed-dial and he doesn’t forget easily, either. What will it be?”

“I’ll take it but you better make it worth my time.”

“Play your cards right, and it most certainly will be.”

The General wasn’t wrong. Under the Division’s authority, Paolo discovered a different side to his predilections. His targets became drug cartel leaders, warlords, and other enemies of the state. His skills sharpened, new techniques were uncovered with each assignment. Although The Crimson Angel was no more, his blood-thirst did not go unquenched. Hit jobs from a safe distance became his specialty but, occasionally, he would take care of “cleaning” after the fact or provide invisible backup to other agents in the field. That’s how he and Alexandra met.

The mission was simple: to go to Amiens and infiltrate a party at the mansion of Jacques Clermont, widely renowned French politician, philanthropist, and Far-right extremist. A terrorist in the making, it was said he kept a list of his known associates in a private safe no one but him had access to. All she had to do was...

“... seduce him, hypnotize him, and get the info out of there. I know the drill, General, and certainly don’t need the company.” She complained.

It was one of the rare meetings they had outside his office. Alexandra had insisted on a private conversation to express her disagreement and he had complied like he always did. Dreams of truly running the show were still nothing but that, and a feeling of helplessness pervaded his every action. Both remembered the exchange too well. She, because of his unrelenting stubbornness in admitting something was amiss, and he, because of the tantalizing purple dress she was wearing.

“I know you don’t, but the orders came straight from The Pentagon. Recent intel suggests Monsieur Clermont will be entertaining other guests besides those on the public list, two of which are of great importance to the development of our foreign policies.”

“And by that you mean they’re liabilities that need to be dealt with. While I do my thing, The Italian Executioner takes them out of the equation, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“I could take care of them as well, no bloodshed required.”

“No doubt about it, but the powers that be don’t see that as a viable course of action. Not this time. I understand your position, but the blood will not be in your hands, just ours. Focus on what you do best and leave the rest be.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“It will have to be, Alexandra.”

“And if he loses control? What then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play the fool with me. I know who my backup is and everything he did before his recruitment.”

“You shouldn’t have had access to that information!”

“By now, you should know it’s impossible to keep secrets from me. Why did you hire him?”

“Because if we hadn’t, someone else would. It was a strategic call.”

“There are more important things in life than strategy.”

“You’re right, but this is also an act of self-preservation. Mr. Accardi’s tendencies, while despicable at heart, have been kept on a tight leash since forever. What makes you think he’ll snap now?”

“Call it a gut feeling. His actions are coming back to haunt you.”

“I’m already haunted. Everyone knew what we were getting ourselves into when we recruited L’Angelo Cremisi. We’re fighting an unseen war every day. I’d rather have him on our side than on a enemy power’s payroll.”

“You know, Sir, unlike sexy brainwashing, repeating those lies over and over doesn’t make them true.”

That was the end of their talk and the beginning of their problems, a dark hazard made even darker by Paolo’s insistence in fraternizing with her the day before the assignment.

Alexandra sat in the bar at Underground Level 8, legs crossed, a diamond pendant hanging loosely from her left hand. Despite not trying to hypnotize anyone at the time, whispered sighs could be heard all around as unwary consciousnesses remembered past pleasures kneeling at her feet. She smiled vaguely at the shadows of half-entranced men, saying nothing. She would have continued to stay quiet were it not for the most overplayed and obnoxious question of all, ringing in her ears.

“Is this seat taken, 47-D?”

“I wish it were.” She tried to ignore him.

“Ouch! Are you always this cold with your fellow agents?” Paolo pulled the chair towards him and sat with his hands behind his neck.

“What do you want, Accardi?”

“Please, call me Paolo.”

“I’d rather not call you anything.”

“Well, that’s too bad because you and I will be working together on this one whether you want to or not. It would definitely clear the mood to have some sense of familiarity between us.”

“Familiarity is for my friends and those I care about. The Crimson Angel doesn’t get to fill any of those roles. Not today, not ever.”

“That was a long time ago and besides, haven’t you ever done anything you regret before?”

“Do you? Do you regret butchering all those people back in Italy?”

“It wasn’t my finest moment...” He admitted, yet showing no sign of true remorse. “Luckily, I have a purpose now, thanks to General Hayes and this fine organization. It’s been fun.”

“Once a killer, always a killer. You’re not fooling me.”

“No, that’s your job, right? Alexandra Ryder, former stage hypnotist turned secret agent that loves to makes fools out of everyone... funny how things go, isn’t it? Does that mumbo-jumbo actually work?”

“Are you asking for a demonstration?”

“Would you give me one if I did?”

“Not even if you paid me. Too much death in that head of yours. Not a place I want to be.”

“You sound like my ex. Quite talkative that one, except on the horizontal. It was the best position for her, anyway.”

“Now, you’re just being nasty for the sake of it. Not that I’m surprised.”

“Honesty begets honesty, Alexandra. If you’re not bothering with masks, then neither will I.”

“You still haven’t told me what you want. I suggest you do or get the fuck out. I’m busy, here.”

“I want you to know I’ll be keeping a close eye on you like I’ve been asked to. Clermont’s ‘friends’ are a real piece of work. It would be a shame if one of them surprised you during the party and there was nothing you could do to stop him.”

“Let them come. I can take care of myself.” She made the pendant spin.

“And yet things would definitely be better for both of us if we were to become... close during this mission.”

“If that’s the kind of shit you went with to get your ex swooning over you, I pity her mental faculties.” Alexandra kicked his chair.

“I love a woman that plays hard to get.” He simpered, right hand hovering dangerously over her thighs. “We’ll be having a blast together, I’m sure. See you at the airport tomorrow, ma chérie.”

“What?”

“The General didn’t tell you yet? We’re on the same flight to France.”

Alexandra sighed as she watched him leave. Ten hours sitting next to a misogynous buffoon with a regrettable past was more than enough to give her a headache. Perhaps, she would really have to resort to her good old bag of tricks for some peace and quiet along the way... Until then, some fortunate soul would have to keep her entertained but who? The guard in the opposite corner whose gun around the waist paled in comparison to the size of his engorged genitals or the cute tech guy standing ten feet behind her, and trying desperately not to drool as he followed the almost imperceptible swings of her pendant?

“Two are better than one...” she beckoned, already thinking of all the ways they could be of service. One other man followed her lead, a tall, Scandinavian god that had just been transferred to the Communications Department. His vitreous eyes were screaming “Take me, too.” and, at least for once in her life, she did as asked.

It was the last moment of respite before the nightmare began.