there is a spotify playlist for this fic ! link - there will be changes in the playlist as the story progresses, so u can feel like a hot femme fatale/mafia donna like louis
"P-Please! I'll get your money!"
Louis sighs, slowly shaking his head and leaning back into his large velvet and dark wood throne. "I am not stupid, Gregory. You swore to me that you would get me my money last week." The Donna drags the tip of his knife along his thigh, where his dress rid up. "And, when I sent my people to retrieve it, your filthy apartment was empty." He tsks.
Louis clenches his teeth and tightens his hold on the diamond handle of his knife, "do not think we are blind. We watched you leave your apartment earlier today with bags and my money." The Mafia Donna traces the engravings of the handle of his prized blade, 'La Reine'.
"I had people watching your every move even before you made your first deal with me." Louis slips his knife into the holster of his tight black dress. The clothing fell to his thighs and clung to his body like a second layer of skin. His tan skin contrasting with the pitch black latex and every curve of his figure outlined flawlessly.
"Ma Reine, I promise you'll get the rest of your money," Gregory begs, the sweat dripping from his forehead and soaking the front of his shirt.
"I do not believe I can trust you, Mr. Gregory." Louis singsonged as he stands from his red throne and begins walking towards the nervous man with powerful strides. "You have... ten grand in that bag. That's just a fifth of what you owe me." He cocks his hip to the side and lifts up his leg to land a swift kick to Gregory, sending the latter falling to the ground. "But, you lied. Do you think I would trust you again?" He keeps his foot on the man's chest.
Gregory doesn't answer, only breathes heavily as his eyes shoot between Louis' blood red heel and the man himself standing above him. With Gregory's silence, Louis pushes his heel into Gregory's chest, his shoes are specifically designed for himself—the heel being shaven off and replaced with a mixture of gold and silver. They were his favourite because they were the sharpest. "Mr. Gregory, would you trust yourself?"
The man groans in pain, his brown eyes squeezing shut as the sharp heel pierces through his skin. "No, but you got your money." He answers through clenched teeth.
The Donna adds more weight onto his leg, pushing the point deeper into the man. Louis was born and raised with pain and grew a tolerance—as he watches Gregory scream in pain, he smirks. "And, why not?"
Gregory coughs up blood, choking and looks up at Louis with watery eyes and bloody lips. "Once a liar, always a liar." He utters.
"Menteur un jour, menteur toujours." Louis echoes and slams his foot down. Gregory spits up more blood and the red liquid spills onto the floor. Satisfied with his deed, Louis lifts his heel and returns to his throne, grabbing a towel from one of his men and wiping his shoe clean. He takes the cigarette offered to him and brings it up his lips, "Zayn, débarrasse toi du corps. Je ne veux pas reconnaître ce connard quand tu auras finis."
"Zayn, get rid of the body. I do not want to recognize that asshole when you are finished."
The red and blue lights are bright, reflecting off every surface and the wet concrete. Five police cars and a couple news vans are scattered along the closed-off street. Harry ignores the questions shot at him and jogs over to the other agent after showing one of the officers his badge. He pulls his coat tighter around his body and runs a hand through his hair. "Is it another body?" He inquires.
The buffer man nods, a grimace on his face. "Third one this month." He moves out of the way but after one glance, Harry is gagging and bending over. Liam pats his back comfortingly, "absolutely brutal, right?"
Harry spits on the ground and nods, suddenly feeling nauseous. "That's in the top five for me." He takes a deep breath and asks, "is it the same suspect?"
Liam raises an eyebrow, "don't you mean suspects?" He glances at the reports a few feet away and pulls Harry towards the side of the road. He leans down and puts his hands in his pockets, "it's a whole mafia responsible for these murders, Harry."
"I know that," Harry huffs and crosses his arms. "And, I also know that they're just listening to their leader."
"You know that isn't true." Liam accuses. "A mafia is a family, and no one in that mafia is innocent." Liam states, "La Puissance is the kingdom of crime. And, everyone in that family would kill for each other—and die for their leader, die for their Queen."
The taller man slowly nods in agreement. Harry knows of La Puissance, but who wouldn't. It's the mafia responsible for most of the organized crimes in the Northern Hemisphere for the past couple years and is the strongest and largest mafia in the last decade. And it's estimated that they bring in well over 450 billion dollars a year.
Harry also knows the reason why not one member of the infamous mafia hasn't been thrown into prison, and it's one word: money. La Puissance doesn't work against the government but with them, and if anything, the leader bribes the government.
In all of Harry's years of experience on the job, he has never come across someone who just does not exist. No files, no records. Not even la Reine's family history was recorded on any sort of database. It isn't possible how one whole family tree could have no records at all, they're practically just a myth. The mafia had to be started by someone, and from what Harry was told; it always had two people running it, a Don and a Donna. Never had there been one leader until now, yet the mafia was at its highest in its entire reign of existence.
Harry has also seen their Queen, only in the three pictures ever taken of him. All are from a distance and the most recent is from least two years ago. No one has attempted to snap a shot of the mafia Donna in fear of what happened to the last risk-takers. All three, brutal deaths.
In the pictures, the Donna has sandy brown hair, high cheekbones, thin pink lips, prominent collarbones, and striking blue eyes. He also has one teardrop tattooed on the right side of his face, and one diamond always placed in said teardrop. It was small but glimmered in each of the three photos.
The man himself was like a dream, an aspiration. Harry would consider the Donna to be one of his own dreams if he weren't responsible for the death of hundreds of citizens.
To Harry, the worst thing was that no one knew his name. Bringing up the illusion of the man not being real at all—it can be considered that something without a name doesn’t exist.
No one knows the Donna's name, and everyone just calls him La Reine.