Chapter Eight: Little Lark

Oswald sat at the head of the table. The other Heads of the Five Families sat across from him.

Butch stood behind him, along with Gabe.

Mr. Bell stood at the door with his hands clasped together in front of him.

Sylvia sat on Oswald's left side. One of her hands rested on the table innocuously; the other occupied space on Oswald's thigh, closest to his knee, her thumb rubbing circles over his pant leg.

There were topics to discuss, including increasing protection taxes. Strange's monsters had scared half of Gotham's population; the other half were furious that these monsters had taken over the functionality of their homely lives. All five Dons of the Families had grown increasingly restless, and all had questioned their own protection status amongst the rabble. Things as silly as dock taxes, fees for transporting drugs, importing illegal products, and exporting fake things for quick turn of profit were at the bottom of the list.

While one topic was disputed, rejected, accepted, debated and then crossed off the list—Oswald being the judge of what would or wouldn't be acceptable from here on out—Sylvia was never more disinterested in the conversation. No one aside from Oswald would be able to tell; her slighted smile appeared as though she was agreeing with whatever her husband declared, but really, it was because her hand was slowly making its way between his legs.

What made the crooked smile widen was when Oswald slightly re-positioned in his seat so his thighs parted just enough to invite her in. He didn't so much as look at her or even give the notion that anything was happening beneath the table.

In the meantime, the Heads were unhappy.

This included Don Anderson, head of the Anderson Family and father to the late Drake Anderson.

Ronald Maroni represented the Maroni Family. He was actually second-in-line to take the place but his niece, Maria, had declined, not wanting to be a part of the Family's infernal mob line. Ron Maroni was just as portly as his brother, Salvatore, but less hotheaded.

The third was the Dray Family. The Head was Maximillian, who preferred to be called 'Max'. He was gray-haired, and had an elastic face, and was commonly mistaken for a Halloween decoration. But to his credit, he and the rest of his party were always the most sensible and the least unnerved.

Then there were the Belichs of Russian and French descent. The Head of the Family was a Frenchman by the name of Jock. He was in his late twenties, and always wore a symbolic leather brown jacket, and a five o'clock shadow. He could speak both French and English, and regularly had to translate anything that was discussed back to his people.

The last of the Heads was Isaac Paddock, who served in the United States Air Force for nearly 30 years, and after he was denied VA benefits, he turned to a life of crime. As a pilot in the USAF, most of his hearing had gone and he was declared legally deaf by his doctors. He couldn't hear anything, let alone someone talk.

"How great is the protection fee?" asked Don Anderson sarcastically. "People are scurrying to their homes, afraid to walk at night. And how protected are we from these monsters? I saw one rip the roof of a car right off like it was a plastic top for a butter bowl!"

Isaac Paddock, head of the Paddock Family, nodded in agreement, able to read lips and primarily had read Don Anderson's. Being that he was Deaf, Isaac Paddock signed his response.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia for translation.

Sylvia removed her hand from his lap, signing exactly what she was saying so all parties could understand what words were being exchanged, including Oswald.

"Don Anderson," Sylvia translated, "is worried that he, along with the other Heads of the Families, will not be able to protect themselves, owing to the monsters being able to unroof cars. That Gotham's people are scared to walk around the city at night. Mr. Paddock says that Gotham's people have never been able to walk around the city at night, because of people like 'us'."

Paddock smiled, reaffirming what she had said with a sign of his own. A few minutes passed during which Paddock and Sylvia conversed. Whatever was discussed, Paddock appeared not only humored but placated, after which he placed his fingers near his mouth, moved it forward while he smiled sincerely.

"You're welcome." Sylvia returned gracefully.

"Well, this is a jovial discussion." Mr. Dray uttered hoarsely.

Ron Maroni chuckled, "I get it. The joke. Because we don't know what they're saying."

"This is ridiculous," Anderson muttered. He leaned forward and said loudly to Paddock, "Learn to hear."

"Mr. Anderson!" Sylvia snapped. "That was rude!"

"Wanna know 'rude'?" He questioned, slowly getting to his feet. "It's when someone like you comes into my home, and slaughters my son right in front of me."

Sylvia frowned and stood as well.

"Your son had not only once but twice tried to undermine me. You're lucky I spared him the first time; otherwise, he'd been dead long ago!"

"What gives you the right! He was stubborn, of course he was, but never did that warrant a death sentence!"

Sylvia leaned over the table to match his aggressive stance: "Mr. Anderson, your son was not only stubborn but he was an idiotic jackass."

"Enough!"

Sylvia and Anderson glanced at Oswald who looked irately at them. Wordlessly, the both of them sat down although they leered at one another across the table. Oswald sent Sylvia a warning glance and she shrugged carelessly; her smart remark quelled, at least.

Gabe and Butch, both of whom stood behind Oswald exchanged glances while Mr. Bell, who stood at the door, looked like he'd made up his mind as to whose side he was on.

"There is enough anarchy taking place outside," Oswald said diplomatically. "We do not need a war amongst ourselves. While there was an unnecessary spillage of blood in the past—"

"—Yes, quite unnecessary—" Anderson emphasized, glaring at Sylvia.

"That being said," Oswald continued loudly to thwart another interruption, "I propose that from here on out, all future assassinations will be discussed with me prior to its due merit."

"The assassination of Drake Anderson was discussed, Oswald." Sylvia declared coldly. (He looked at her calmly.) "I spoke to his father the day before." She looked past him to Anderson, adding emphatically, "He never told me not to do it. He even agreed with me that Drake's vile attempt to persuade the other Families to contest me warranted a death sentence!"

She stood and glared at the Head of the Family: "Those were your exact words!"

"I said it could warrant a death sentence, not that it did."

"Are you really going to twist your own fucking words?"

"How dare you—"

"You were put in the middle of a dilemma where you chose the business over your own family, and suddenly you want to be the victim. After the fact. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I said I would punish him! I said I would do it! There was no discussion of a strumpet—"

"—Who the fuck are you calling 'strumpet'—"

"—If you behaved like this in the past, the other Families would have—"

"You're not the only one who has been in this business long enough to know what they would have done. They wouldn't have done anything, because they fucking know better!"

"Then I would have—"

"—Would have what!" Sylvia challenged.

Anderson had scooted out of his chair and bared over the table to argue with her.

They'd been arguing over the surface, pointing, glaring, spitting curses at one another. While the disarray occurred before their eyes, it prompted the other Families to question their own safety and leadership, throwing them into a panicking shouting session as well. Meanwhile, Gabe and Butch exchanged incredulous glances while Mr. Bell, who was curiously still, stood at the doorway.

Oswald sighed sharply. He took the gun from beneath the table, stood, pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The gunshot silenced everyone, including Anderson and Sylvia who looked as though they'd claw each other's throats out unless someone stopped them.

"That's enough!" Oswald ordered. "We'll circle back to this conversation once the other topics have been discussed."

He politely asked for Anderson to retreat back to his seat, which he did. Oswald sent Sylvia a warning glance but it was hard not to lose his temper with her but could he really blame her for that passionate outburst?

Being made the villain of the piece when she'd done her due diligence…Oswald could empathize with her situation to the fullest degree.

Sylvia sat back down, crossing her legs at the ankle. Oswald watched her until she seemed to (at least physically) calm down. What she was thinking, he didn't want to know.

Paddock looked at all of them. He needn't any translation as to what had been discussed. He was more than perceptive.

"I've not seen Fish anywhere," Ron Maroni mentioned loosely. He said carelessly, "I guess she's down for the count, huh?"

"I still can't even believe she's alive." Mr. Dray said as he rubbed a hand through his grayness of hair.

"Guess she'll be leading the monsters," Maroni said with a dark chuckle. "That sounds like something she'd do."

Sylvia ignored the conversation. She wasn't interested in talking about Fish. In fact, she really didn't feel like being a part of this discussion at all. What she wanted was to smack Anderson over the head with the marble ash tray that currently sat in front of Maroni, who was juicing the hell out of a pipe for the moment.

But since this wouldn't be allowed, Sylvia sought other ways to quell her anger.

She placed her hand on Oswald's thigh, hoping that it would dissipate into something more productive. He watched her carefully before he decided to the move the topic from Fish Mooney to something more profitable: importation and exportation.

With her one hand, she slowly undid the top two buttons of his trousers. Her left hand remained on the table, her thumb fiddling with her wedding ring. From above the surface, not a soul could tell that she was up to no good. Her eyes remained on any one of the Families; normally, it was whomever was speaking at the moment.

Paddock signed a question. Sylvia translated for Oswald: "He wants to know what you plan on doing with the captain at the docks; apparently, he wants to decrease fishing taxes. His workers have been unionizing for better working conditions."

Sylvia leaned into him and whispered, "Evidently, not everyone is so eager to obey you…" She licked his ear. "Not like me, baby."

Oswald took in a sharp breath before he relayed an answer to the men. Her double entendres were seductive, to say the least.

Her hand stroked over his lap and she found a hardened extension of him. Gently, her palm massaged his hard-on so it allowed him to speak without stammering over his words.

"It's easier said than done." Ron Maroni explained, exhaling a large cloud of smoke from his pipe. "Those captains either want decreased taxes or more money. We can pull them to our side if we do both."

"Well, it can come out of your check then," said Belich. "I'm not a….a uh...Quel est le mot que je cherche." He looked Oswald and Sylvia, saying, "uh...'rapiat'?

"Cheapskate," Sylvia and Oswald answered simultaneously.

"Exactly!" Belich said, gesturing emphatically as he turned to Maroni. "I'm not a 'cheapskate'. But how many captains do we have at the ports, hmm? How many do we bank roll a week? That's a lot of money."

"Well, we decrease their taxes and give them more money. We get more captains, and we get more money."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dray stated. "If you're decreasing your taxes and giving them more money, you're losing all profits!"

"No, but we're getting more men who will get us more money!" Maroni explained passionately. "That's the beauty of it!"

"But you've got to get the men first!" Anderson snapped.

"We have the men!" Maroni explained. "It's so, so simple."

"It's idiotic, that's what it is." Belich said, shaking his head. "What if you lose captains at the docks? Then you're losing money, giving more money to what's left—at the bottom of it, you've cut your profits in half."

"In half?" Maroni responded, surprised. "What's this 'in half' business? I was thinking 'one percent'….this in half business? Where did that even come up?"

"You said it!" Anderson said, gesturing to him.

"I said we'd cut taxes—but not in half! Maybe you should take a day off, man. You're still grieving if you think I'm gonna cut anything in half, never the less the tax!"

While the Dons argued, Sylvia continued her mischievous play. Normally, Oswald wouldn't allow any of this conversation to go out of hand, but he wasn't paying attention to any of it. Instead, he was more concerned with Sylvia's hand slipping inside the waistband of his trousers, her fingers coiling around his stiff cock, teasing him.

She kissed his jawline and he heard her sultry purr: "I want you to bend me over this table and fuck me."

Her dirty whispers were getting to him; she could tell. His cock twitched happily when she spoke to him in her low, soft timbre.

She kissed his neck and blew so softly that her warm kiss became a source of chill. Oswald shuddered when she purposely moaned into his ear, only loud enough where he could hear.

"You don't understand," laughed Maroni. "The tax ain't getting cut in half—"

"Yeah, it's not the tax—it's our profits," Belich reminded unhappily. "That's what you are proposing."

Sylvia rubbed his cock, feeling the muscle of him harden. Her thumb rolled over the tip. With her free hand, she ran her fingers up his chest, over his vest and tie, and then cradled his throat in her palm—their audience, forgotten. As though he was operating purely by instinct, his head craned back; her voice whispered again in his ear: "I want you to fuck me, Oz. Fuck me. Own me."

Oswald took her hand from him—both of them—looking at her as though she'd put him under a spell. Then again, was it far from the truth? Sylvia smirked at him and he looked at the other men in the room who were arguing amongst themselves. Preferring not to stand and reveal to the others what Sylvia had been doing to him under the table, Oswald insisted that they all take a break and come back to the meeting with clearer heads.

Disgruntled, they all left. Meanwhile, Sylvia looked innocently on.

"Boss?" Butch voiced, glancing at Oswald curiously. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong." He responded almost immediately. "If you would, actually, please escort the others out and make sure they stay in the area. I'll have a talk with them the moment I'm finished."

"Finished?" Gabe repeated uncertainly.

"I'm going to speak to Sylvia privately, Gabe."

"Oh." He muttered. He and Butch left with Mr. Bell, along with the others, closing the door on their way out.

Sylvia smirked as Oswald stood, watching her dangerously.

"Why do you look so angry?" She asked, still unable to hide her devious grin. "You look like you were enjoying it."

"Did you mean any of that? What you were whispering to me."

Sylvia said sweetly, "Of course, I meant it. There's nothing hotter to me than watching you work, Oz. You should know what that does to me by now. All this talk of politics and diplomacy….it really gets me worked up."

To prove her point, she scooted out of her chair and walked over to him. Calmly as ever, Sylvia took his hand in hers; she coaxed him to her as she sat on the table, separating her legs and placing his hand under her dress and between them so he could feel how hot and wet she was.

Oswald licked his lips when his fingers ghosted over the pooling wetness in the front of her panties. Yes, he felt it. Her heat.

"I doubt it was the discussion of the people paying a protection tax." He said sheepishly.

"You're right. I could care less about tax. But I do like listening to you talk. There's a reason why I like attending these meetings. And look…See what you do to me without ever even trying?"

Oswald allowed a smug smile to reach his lips. He couldn't help it. He was still amazed by how attracted Sylvia was to him. It was just about as much as he was attracted to her.

He pulled her into a kiss, one that was tender and soft; when his fingers dipped inside her panties and felt the full effect that he had on her, Oswald prodded his tongue between her lips, happily gaining entry with little effort. Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Fuck me, Oz." She insisted in between kisses. "Fuck me."

"It's getting harder to deny you anything, Pet."

"That's not the only thing getting harder in this room."

Oswald groaned when she palmed him through his pants.

"They'll be returning in ten minutes."

"Then you best get a move on."

Just hearing her—Oswald threw logic and condition out the door. He proceeded to unbutton his trousers the rest of the way half-haphazardly, and tore Sylvia's panties right off her body. Sylvia wasn't protesting; in fact, the dilation of her pupils grew bigger.

"Own me, baby." She panted.

"Shut up."

He pulled her off the table, bent her over it and Sylvia let out a dark chuckle when her dress was lifted above her lower back. Oswald fingered her pussy from behind until her excitement dripped down her thigh.

Her cries were needy and hungry: "Yes, yes…oh my god, fuck!"

The sound of his belt loosening, and his pants dropping made her spine tingle.

He leaned forward, not just to thrust his cock inside her wet pussy but to wrap his hand around her jaw, muffling her moans as he moved in and out of her.

Sylvia was enthusiastic; he didn't have to know what she was saying to understand her emphatic response, but he sensed that she was trying to legitimately tell him something. He hoped she wasn't trying to tell him 'stop'; he doubted he'd be able to contain himself if she did. Oswald lowered his hand from her mouth. Craning her neck to look at him, she spoke.

"Don't be gentle. Fuck me like I'm your whore."

His hand moved to her neck, fingers wrapping around her throat; her head craning back. He moved her closer. Sylvia looked up at him, her eyes wide but filled with lust; her back against his chest, her palm and fingers spread over the table top.

The edge of the table dug into her thighs as Oswald kept her pinned against it. She let out a little, desirable laugh when his grip tightened around her neck.

"You're such a mouthy little brat today, aren't you," He chastised, sliding his cock in and out of her, pumping so fast that the table, holding a great deal of Sylvia's weight, was creaking.

Sylvia responded to him, the creases of her eyes meeting a mischievous smile.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Oswald questioned, reaching down with his free hand to rub her clit. "Knowing there are people outside who can hear you, knowing at any moment they can just walk in—" (Sylvia nodded helplessly) "and see you…."

Sylvia grunted when he pushed her forward on the table completely, his hand leaving her mouth so he could keep her steady; his fingers spread, his palm between her shoulder blades.

"Stay fucking still." Oswald ordered.

Sylvia nodded quickly.

He was breathless, panting even. But his cock moved without a trace of exhaustion slowly inside her pussy, hitting that perfect G-spot, before pulling out completely just to ram itself right back in.

"Hold the table."

Sylvia reached out to the sides and held the edges of the table.

He kissed the nape of her neck so gently, so tenderly. Then he whispered in her ear: "Don't make a sound. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," She answered obediently.

"Good girl."

He pulled back.

Oswald then stood in her vision, putting himself back in order before going to the door. He spoke with a gentleman outside—whether that was Gabe, Butch, Mr. Bell, another house servant, or a Don, Sylvia didn't know. She wanted to hear what he was telling them, but…there was a call for subservience. And she wouldn't disobey.

Sylvia watched as Oswald closed the door once more. He came strolling back, and while she wanted to greet him openly, she waited instead.

"You didn't move." Oswald noted aloud.

"Not a centimeter."

She didn't even turn her head as she acknowledged him.

"Mouthy, but obedient." He praised.

He ran his hands down the bareness of her back, the taut straps of her gown along her shoulders, pulling them down her arms and when he asked her to lift her hands off the table so the straps fell forward and away once she did as he instructed. His touch was simple, soft as he ran his fingers down her body once he stood behind her; simple, feather-light touches, but they were like electric, numbing tingles, which dove straight inside her core.

She turned her head slightly, watching him stand behind her. While he touched every part of her that was revealed to him with one hand, Oswald was stroking himself through his pants with the other. Now, that was a tasty sight.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He breathed from behind her.

"I have an idea." She responded honestly. "What do you plan on doing about it?"

Oswald grabbed her ass with both of his hands, then pulled her gown above her lower back to admire it in its glory. Hearing her remark brought about another jolt of excitement and untethered arousal. He jostled with his trousers, pulling his cock out again and didn't waste any time as he thrusted it deep inside her. She let out a wanton keen.

It didn't take long. Between her lusty moans, her wet, hot walls sheathing and contracting around him, he was certain he wouldn't last much longer. When he saw her nails raking the table, her thighs quaking, Oswald anticipated her orgasm; when she came, she came hard…and he pounded through her climax, listening to her moan and writhe as he did.

"That's it, my little Lark." Oswald moaned. "Sing for me."

Sylvia's moans became louder. He pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her onto the table. The top of her gown fell down the rest of the way, puddling around her waist; Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands grabbing at any part of him to make him move closer to her. Her hips desperately lifted to meet his quick pace. He buried his hand between them, rubbing her clit hard until she came again.

And he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

Sylvia moaned, a soft whimper leaving her lips as she felt his cock bury deep inside of her, the feeling of him filling her up in more ways than one. Oswald panted, trying to catch his breath while Sylvia looked up at him.

"'Little Lark'?" She said quizzically, smirking up at him. "So, now you're calling me that too?"

Oswald said reproachfully, "In my defense, it suits you."

Sylvia sat up.

"Fine. I'll be Lark to everyone else. That's fine. Just as long as I'm only your Pigeon." She said, matter-of-fact.

"Always." Oswald promised, smiling happily at her.