Author's note: Took some thought to get to this point, but the intrigue should pick up from here. Hopefully. Still can't promise that updates will be any faster, especially with the onslaught of a new semester. Oh, I am excited about this story. :) Also, mildly smutty material ahead. Thanks for reading, please review.

He rang her bell at a quarter to one. Luigi was nervous as hell, but at least he looked good. Three different consultants had made sure of that. Their lives had depended on it. Button-down white shirt, blue cravat, pinstripe jacket, crisp trousers. All ironed, all tailored perfectly, not a stitch out of place. He'd had a shave and his hands were gloved, to minimize the risk of a germ issue. There were many factors that would always be beyond his control in this pseudo-dating situation, as his therapist delicately reminded him. He owned the world, but he did not own this girl.

He didn't know if she could be bought. Most people could be, one way or another. But Wallace seemed different. He had money, and if she made it worth his while, he would make it worth her time. The idea of owning that little slice was hot, no denying it. At his beck and fuckin' call. No need for fantasies or elaborate props and costumes; all he needed was to feel that he owned her.

But then again, that had been a problem. Once a woman was under his employ, he lost interest completely. They became accessories, toys which he quickly grew bored with and tossed aside.

She undid the lock, not the latch, and showed her eyeball and a sliver of nose and cheek through a mostly closed door. She scanned him down-up. "Hey," the woman said, and without her appearance to focus on, he noticed that her voice wasn't deep, but breathy and happy. It wasn't a voice that tried to be sexual.

"You going to open up, or do I have to wait out here all day?" he asked more irritably than he felt, tapping his shoe on the linoleum to let her hear that he was a busy man.

She undid the latch and opened the door all the way. She was wearing hardly any of a violently white dress and matching top hat and flats. Her legs seemed to end prematurely but, no, he remembered now that she was a runt of a woman. The same could be said for her whole figure. He was viewing an uncut, unaltered version of a girl, and however old she was, she was not filled out in as many places as most women were. A sweet, floral perfume hit him in the eyes, only it wasn't refined enough to be proper perfume.

It just smelled like she was clean.

"Not too shabby, Wallace," he said after giving her a once-over of his own. He was able to meet her eyes in spite of the array of feathers at her decolletage, pushing out for attention. There were hints of pride and hesitance in her eyes.

"Good enough to be seen on your arm?" she wondered with a hint of warm, friendly irony. She shut and locked the door. The tarnished key disappeared into an oversized, feathered purse.

"It'll do."

When they walked, she didn't grab at his hand or cling to his arm. When they reached his car, she didn't yell for him to open her door. When he was driving, she didn't turn on the radio, or chatter chidly, or primp and preen in a mirror. She didn't try to exert a presence, and maybe that's why he felt it more than with other people. Admittedly, he glanced over once... or twice... and found that her rouged cheek was pressed to the sun warmed glass, and her eyes would be glazed over until she felt him watching. Then, her attention would flicker to him, and he'd look back at the road without a word.

She was pretty enough to look at. He could say that to himself, albeit begrudgingly. She didn't buy into his family brand. That should have made her plain, except it obviously didn't. The person in the passenger's seat was a bauble, a doll, even without upgrading her trashy heredity. This did not answer the question that pricked and needled at his brain: What were they doing together?

He parked his car, screaming at the valet attendants that he could do it himself. Pay someone else to potentially scratch or wreck his property? Who did they think they were? She casually asked if her purse could be left in the glove compartment. Most people would have been cowed by his rage, even if it hadn't been directed at their particular brand of incompetence. Not her. She was quiet as a mouse, but strong. They rode up in an elevator and an attendant in blue and grey opened the doors, ushered them in.

It wasn't formal by his standards; she, on the other hand, gasped and looked all around, impressed and baffled by everything. Funny, he thought she'd stopped being a recluse. Then he remembered that she probably couldn't afford to come here.

That was the thing about peasants. They were poor, and that was one of the qualities that separated them from him.

The maitre d greeted them both by name. He'd been instructed beforehand and practiced his movements a dozen times, and still the sweat squeezed out of his palms like diamonds. The wait staff had been similarly prepared. Luigi wanted people to be impressed with him, so call him by last name and cower. Largos don't want physical contact, so only take his coat if it's offered. The date is Shilo Wallace, and she is to be treated like a lady and her glass must never, ever be dry. It was busy, yet a snap of his fingers caused the two of them to be taken to a private table hidden from the rabble by a dividing wall and plants.

A waiter pushed in Shilo's seat and she smiled, a smile which fell when she saw the numerous silverware aligning the plates.

"What have we here... Uh-oh," she said, examining the forks one by one for differences. "How do I know what to use?"

He rolled his eyes, put his hand over hers to stop the repetition. "I own this place, and every place. It doesn't even matter, get it? Do whatever the fuck you want."

"Oh, I will," she said earnestly.

He realized his hand still covered hers. He stopped when a waiter came by with their drinks, and his face felt bright and hot with something unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

In an attempt to pass off the moment as unimportant, he snidely said, "Eat with your hands, for all I care."

"What you're saying is that there aren't any rules?" she chuckled.

"Not for us."

She smirked at him and popped her hat from her head and onto his. "Can I do that?"

He scowled and chucked the hat away. It spun and landed on a tree with shiny, plastic fruit dangling from its branches. "Not on your life," he said.

"Wow." She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, toward him. "That was an impressive arm, Luigi." She took the cherry from her drink and lowered the red, red fruit into her parted mouth. He watched, fascinated that a woman could hypnotize him even while he was aware that she was doing it. That was skill. "But then, that's not the only thing impressive about you, is it?"

He stared at her in silence as she perused the menu. "They don't have a dessert menu?" she whined. "That's the best part of going out. Restaurant desserts are overpriced, but they're at least fifteen times better than anything I could scrounge together at home."

"You want dessert? You'll get some," he said, waving a waiter over and telling him to forget about dinner, just find a decent dessert cart. Shilo clapped her hands excitedly and asked for something with strawberries.

Figures that the girl would want something expensive. Fresh fruit would cost extra. Nothing he couldn't handle, of course. He could eat imported food every day of the week if he wanted to. Luckily for his pocketbook, he liked his meals greasy and cheap. The waiter hesitated at the lady's request, but Luigi nodded an acquiescence. The man hurried away.

"I haven't had strawberries since I was a little girl," she remarked. "Thank you. I bet they'll be as sweet now as I remember."

"Whatever." He waved it off. "I'm not here to listen to you talk about when you were a snot-nosed brat."

"No, you're here because I asked you and you said yes. Fancy that," she mused. "Is this a charity case, sir?"

He sneered. He was here because he had nothing better to do, because he had more money than he had common sense, and because she wasn't horrible company. There was no reason to assign ulterior motives to it beyond the usual ones: sex, namely. "Don't be stupid. You're the one who's got to explain herself."

"I guess that's fair." She brushed a stray piece of hair from in front of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. It made her appear thoughtful, but likely as not she had her words memorized. He'd learned in school how to trick people into thinking you were bright and not dumb as dirt. She could've picked up the same talents on her own. "Then again, when have our lives ever been fair. I think we're the most unbalanced individuals there are."

He smirked at her. "Yeah, I'm easily three times your weight."

"That's one way of looking at it. I meant class. You're aristocracy," she said. "You're sort of royalty. And I'm a pauper in spite of my more than reasonable rates." Here she sighed, but it wasn't sad. She smiled. "Hm, I think I'll get the salmon."

The whole matter was dropped for that afternoon. Their conversation fell into an odd and easy syncopation. She'd talk, he'd say something mildly sarcastic and offensive, and her shoe would tap his under the table. Other times, she'd become absorbed in eating, pushing vegetables around on her plate, being more polite than she had to be to frightened waiters. He didn't get laid. She didn't even kiss him. Instead, once they got to her door, she took his phone and scheduled herself into his week: another date, same time, same place. Her reason was that the dessert cart looked so good, she wanted to try it twice. Not normally a patient man, he put up with it. It gave him time to call ahead and make sure they'd have strawberries. They were even able to sit at the very same table. She was right on time.

They spoke a little bit. How are you, did you kill anyone lately, that sort of thing. And then Shilo got to the meat of it.

"You know, we wouldn't even be sitting here if it weren't for our genetics."

"How do you mean?" he asked.

When she leaned forward like that, her mosquito bite boobs squeezed together in the loose-fitting shirt. They didn't flop around like big breasts, or point stubbornly in one direction like silicone-filled ones. It took a concerted effort for Luigi not to stare at her cleavage. She obviously wanted him to. It was a conspiracy.

"Our dads. You know. That old feud, bringing their kids together."

That killed his boner. "So what?"

"They crossed our lines permanently. We're connected, me and you and, God, even Amber and Pavi. But especially you and me, for one especial reason. Two events that helped your parent take out mine." Her face was a mask, betraying no emotions. He clenched his fists, expecting a trap.

He snapped, "If it's one thing I can't fucking stand, it's stupid guessing games, Wallace. Spit it out."

"What, you think Rotti would've had a snowball's chance in hell against the monster himself without a little help from his cohorts? You and me." The blue-lined eyes flashed. "Autopsy after his death showed that Repo Man had a concussion. And I know you stabbed him. Made him helpless." Slyly, she added, "At your poppa's behest?"

Slack-jawed, he nodded.

He had never made that connection. Never. Not in all the times he'd - proudly or sadly - rethought his actions that night. She was right. Without them, Nathan wouldn't have been an easy target. And before Pop had expired, he didn't take two seconds to thank either of them for making his partial victory possible. What a disappointment... and it had been disappointment in Rotti's voice before he crumpled.

Her voice brought him back.

"And a lot of good it did either of us. It scared me at the time. Only seventeen and bludgeoning a serial killer," she griped, biting a nail as she looked vacantly at a fishtank. Whatever fog she'd put herself in, she jerked herself out of it a second later. "But, uh... that's not why I wanted to see you outside my bedroom."

"Right. We both hurt your fath- Repo Man," he said, feeling it would be touching on a potentially exposed nerve if he brought the point too close to home. She looked flinchier than she had a minute ago. "I'm following you so far."

"Luigi, we did something huge because we worked together. I've put a lot of thought into this, and I think it's possible." Without a speck of a smile or any other indication that she could be joking, she steepled her fingers together, balanced her chin on her hands, and said, "I can help you take back GeneCo."

His thoughts as they crashed through the bathroom door were one clear statement, dumbfounded, mentally spoken over and over: I have never fucked a broad in public. And he couldn't understand why. He'd done more than his share of fucking. He'd always thought this was cheap. In his mind, public sex made him think of Amber soaring on Z in some dirty alley with a grungy graverobber, or Pavi humping girls on the sidelines of operas, or anywhere he could catch them.

No, Luigi had always been above that. Until now. He couldn't tell if he was shoving her or she was dragging him; all he knew was their bodies were travelling. They'd agreed on it and said forget the meal, because she was a devious tramp and he had never been more turned on. And then the bathroom door swung shut, and she jumped on him, locked her arms and legs around his body. He squeezed her close, moaning sharply because her kisses were turning violent, more bites than licks, and he staved off her teeth by engaging her tongue. He gripped her hair tightly at the nape of her neck and yanked.

They slammed against the wall. "Behave," he snarled into her mouth, yanking on her hair again. She'd put it in an untidy bun. Well, what had been untidy was now an unruly mess of hazel curls.

She whimpered. "Never," she said. She nudged his chin and bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark.

She put her feet on the floor, her hands glided teasingly down his chest, and he hungrily kissed her, sucking at her tongue. He shoved his knee between her legs, demanding a reaction. She pressed against him hard, panting, dragging her mouth away to bash her head to the wall in gasps. He smacked his hand over her open mouth. Gloved, as per usual. She halted her exaggerated gasping, perplexed.

"I don't need the gloves anymore," he said meaningfully.

Shilo nudged his palm until his fingertips rested on her bottom teeth, and she closed her teeth delicately over the fabric. He pulled his hand back, leaving the glove in her mouth. She turned her head and spat it onto the mercifully clean tiled floor. There was something vulgar and dainty and polished in her action that blew his mind. His hand went between her legs, up under the ridiculously miniscule skirt she was wearing. He moved her underwear aside and jammed two fingers into her, pumped them in and out, made her squirm and pant. She raised a leg around his back, giving him more room.

"Wait, wait," she gasped. "I want to, to..."

She fumbled with his fly with one hand, her other arm braced on the wall.

Finally, oh finally, fuck, she had her right hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and as she started to slide her hand up and down, they staggered their motions together, trying hard to get the other to moan without getting too wrapped up in their own mindnumbing pleasure. Or maybe the sounds she was making were of discomfort, but he loved how she felt clamped around his fingers, and, his face screwing up, he came into her hand. She grunted and reached for a towel to wipe her hand, then reached down for his wrist, where it was limp and awkward between her thighs. She guided his hand, ensuring that his movements were slower, more careful. "That's how you do it," she said encouragingly, her voice melting into a sigh, and then she squeezed, pulsated, her breaths skyrocketing, eyes closed.

She settled down from the natural high, straightening out her legs and slumping somewhat. It took her a few moments to let go of his wrist, and the whole time, he was conscious of her soft hand loosely circled there. There was a pleasant flush over her cheeks and chest. Some minutes later, they were still against the wall, panting for breath. Shilo kicked on the door experimentally and it flew open. It had been unlocked the entire time. In their excitement, they hadn't thought about checking.

Neither of them gave a fuck. She grinned at him cheekily. He just laughed. It wasn't derisive. She hadn't done anything pathetic. He still laughed.

"Come on, Wallace," he said. "Let me take you home."

She turned to a mirror and fixed her hair. "Okay. Oh, and Luigi, about next time..."

"Yeah?"

"I think it's about time I see what's become of dear Amber Sweet."