Chapter Text

Il Fortunello

Royal Flush

“Fortunello.” This is the name you have been called since you started your job at Lussuria, a night club in the centre of Naples frequented by members of Passione. In particular those who have a secret taste for handsome and lecherous men.
The night club offers a variety of entertainment: gambling, dancing, food, alcohol, and even prostitution. Luckily, you are spared from most of it. The owner of the place (your owner), Signor De Rosa, has set specific rules regarding his club. He knows about your situation, but even if he dislikes people like you, he considers you an important source of income, since a lot of customers would pay just to have you sit on their lap. You are assured protection while doing your job. You enjoy dancing on the stage: having all their eyes pointed at you, in your corset that covers the last scars of your surgery, and leather thong filled with a nice erect packer so as to not draw suspicions. No one other than Signor De Rosa knows about you. They just love this legal boy who looks very young and refined, seemingly an ephebic god among them. The most beautiful of the whole club, very different from the rough men who perform here. Sometimes, you have to work as a waiter, and even in those occasions, there’s never a lack of compliments, touching, and banknotes tucked between your skin and the elastic of your pants.
But why “Fortunello”?
Your owner decided it was the perfect name to protect you from getting abused. They say that your presence alone at someone’s side could grant them victory at whatever game they are playing, be it Texan poker or roulette. Sometimes, in the middle of one of your dance performances, you will be called away by a rich man ready to bet his money and asking you to sit on his lap: les jeux sont faits. It doesn’t cost you much to just stay there, feel the bulge of the man under your butt, sometimes his hands sliding on your waist, since it’s sure that the other opponents will be distracted by your gazes and movements and your man’s going to win, sharing with you part of the loot. However, no one can force you to do this. If you refuse, they can’t complain, as per the rule to never force the “lucky boy,” since “luck” is free to choose who it will bless with a kiss, and forcing it may cause the opposite result. You’re quite lucky really, that those men are pretty superstitious and believe in this kind of stuff.
As if it weren’t enough, while you are allowed to give them hand and blow jobs, you are forbidden from doing anything more than that. Signor De Rosa fears that if these men were to discover that you’re a trans boy, he would lose customers. He himself is a skilled gambler, and it’s not rare to see him participate in matches even against dangerous gangsters.
It’s not easy to judge the benefits of your lifestyle: On one hand, this job allows you to pay for all your needs with some money to spare, and it’s a pleasure to be at the center of the attention of the handsome men who attend the club from time to time. Other times, old and ugly men put their hands on you and feel you up, making you feel like crawling out of your skin. You remind yourself that you’re the true winner, since at the end of the night you’ll be the one to drain all their cash and return home victorious.

This night is not much different from the ones before.
In your private dressing room you prep and preen yourself. You prepare for the performance by painting your face with your goth makeup style: black lipstick and dark eyeshadow. Never forget to put some concealer on the scars on your chest to hide them better. Then comes the tight leather thong and full packer, the black leather corset, and studded high-heeled ankle boots. You’re perfect. You breathe in and out to calm yourself and... you’re ready to put on a smile and go!

As you walk onto your stage, you glance over the crowd. It’s strange: there aren’t many people, unlike the past few days. Oh, that’s not good! You can’t spot any of the familiar faces of your more faithful admirers. Without them you feel a bit insecure. Your gaze falls on one of the tables closest to your dancing platform - new customers! Seven men sit at the table together, probably waiting for some drinks. The height of the man sitting at the head of the table is striking: he’s enormous! You’ve never seen a man that tall and imposing before, and his dark glasses and clothes don’t help his image. He must be the reason why the other customers left the pub; he must be a pezzo grosso (big shot)! The men accompanying him look dangerous as well. They all seem like high-ranking Passione types. Calm down, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re just doing your job, and they seem like people who are friends with Signor De Rosa. Maybe they just want to play a match and have some fun like the other patrons.
The tall man looks towards you and you feel as if ice water has been poured down your spine. Have you been staring at him for too long? Oh god… you divert your eyes and try to focus on the thunderous music coming from the DJ podium.
You’re dancing under the stunning colorful lights, your body following the rhythm of the music. You’re at ease. Everything seems to proceed as it should; some clients come closer to you to throw you money and compliments, while Signor De Rosa, as you expected, joins the new men at their table and offers them the best drinks from the bar. Perfect, they’re all playing Texan poker together. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.
Half an hour passes and you’re ready to take a short break to relax your tense muscles and let your tired feet rest, when you hear Signor De Rosa yelling for you. “Fate venire il Fortunello!” (Call Fortunello to come here!)
Great! One of those gangsters probably knows about the “legend” of Lussuria and wants you to sit in their lap. Means some extra cash for just resting your ass!
“Eccomi, eccomi!”(Here I come!) you put on a sweet smile as you hurry to the table. Rosa must be winning, as usual, and one of the men feels they need a boost in luck to not go bankrupt.
But as soon as you reach the table, you notice something terrible: your owner has no more money! How is that possible? Has he lost? No, no…
“Ah, so this is the Fortunello?” the tall man lowers his shades; crimson irises embedded in charcoal sclera take in your figure. “Pretty. Very pretty, now that I can see him close up.”
You nod and try to be courteous, greeting the man with a small bow.
“So Risotto, do you accept the terms?” De Rosa demands in a trembling tone.
“How could I refuse now?”
Before you can discern what they are talking about, you feel your wrist being grabbed by Risotto’s massive hand. You slam against the table-top, face down on the mahogany wood and immobilized as your arm is pinned behind your back.
“T-That hurts! Signor De Rosa, help!” You try to lift your eyes searching for aid, but you are only met with the smirks of the other gangsters. Your owner is too focused on his cards to spare you a glance.
“P-Please let me go, it hurts!” you cry and try to wriggle away in vain.
“Oh? Hasn’t your master told you about our little wager?” Risotto’s tone sounds almost mocking.
“What wager?! L-Let me go, you c-can’t touch me! You’re g-going to lose!” you try to reason but nothing changes.
“Ah, poor thing, so guileless…” you hear the others’ merciless giggles, “your magnanimous signore has decided to bet you as his last resort. If I win, I’ll take all his money and you.”
You can’t believe it.
“I-Impossible!” you whimper as the burning pain in your arm increases: you hope he hasn’t dislocated the joint.
“Well, Signor De Rosa? Will you show me your cards?”
The table falls silent. The thumping pop music and colorful blinding lights fill the room around you. You feel betrayed. A part of you hopes De Rosa will lose just to teach him a good lesson for selling you like that! The other part of you really does not want to go with this frightening stranger and his thugs. But you can’t do anything either way. You know your job has risks, but this? You had never imagined such a scenario.
De Rosa drops his cards on the table: a full house! Good, he has a high chance of winning!
“A very good hand, Signor De Rosa…” Risotto nods, then huffs.
What does it mean? You can’t spot the cards in his free hand from your position.
“A pity, truly a pity…” he shakes his head as he lays his cards on the table, “hm, royal flush.”
No way! No way he won! You can’t believe he got the combination of cards laid out in front of your face!
“N-No! Signor De Rosa? Please? Is this a joke?” your eyes are wet, warm tears streaking the makeup you had applied with such care.
“Sorry gioia but you’re coming with me,” Risotto yanks you off the table and you fall into his arms. De Rosa doesn’t even face you, instead one of your colleagues throws you a bag filled with your belongings that you fumble to catch. Just as soon as you have it, the man with dark-brown pony tails takes it away from you and rummages around inside it with his buddy with the buzz-cut. You don’t have much in there: just your makeup tools, some money for a taxi ride, candies...
So, this is all real.
“Hush hush… behave, my delicious prize,” his strong hands sooth against your naked skin. He attempts to reassure you, but there’s no way you can calm down! His gentle touch just worries you even more!
“No, lasciami andare (let me go)…” you cry and put on a submissive disposition. Maybe you can make him pity you? You look adolescent despite being legal, will he show you some mercy?
“Scordatelo (forget it),” he states and the others get up to follow him out of the pub, “I worked hard to obtain you.”
“I’m not an object!” you throw a kick at his face.
“What a nasty boy.” He manages to intercept your movement and traps your ankle with his hand. His grip tightens - it’s bone crushing! A pathetic sound escapes your mouth as you struggle to free your leg.
“Don’t be stupid, there’s no way you’re getting out of this, and I would rather not have to destroy that cute face of yours,” he scolds you as if you were a bratty kid. He releases his grip on your ankle, only to grab you by the face and pull you to him again. Your cheeks burn and you can only guess what shade your skin turns as you are made to stand face to face with him. Warm breaths entangling in the frigid night breeze.
He’s right. If you rebel again you’re going to get badly injured. Better save some strength for now; maybe you’ll find a way to escape later. With a resigned nod you lean in to rest your chin on his shoulder, while he embraces and shushes you.
Now that you have stopped resisting though, you are both swarmed by his men. They all reach out to grope and prod at you. You feel as one of them slides a hand between your thighs to grab at the soft skin... You are like a piece of meat brought among dogs. Risotto uses his large frame to at least prevent you from getting yanked around by them.
“Capo, capo! Oh, let me hold him, please!” a man with lavender hair hops in front of Risotto and reaches out to try and feel you up.
“No! Levatevi dal cazzo (Get out of my way)!” Risotto roars, and his only glare is enough to shut down the harasser.
“Ah, Capo, you’re not going to keep him all for yourself, are you? we are a squadra and we must share!” the lavender menace ogles you as the one with curly blue hair interjects, “No fucking way! I’ll be the first to screw his ass! He’s a virgin right?”
You shiver and cling to Risotto’s neck, almost climbing him to try and avoid their hands.
“Yeah, he must be if the rumors are true…” Risotto pauses to search your face, “... aren’t you?”
After a moment you nod. Maybe this will deter them, but you have your doubts.
“See? He’s a delicate, immaculate flower. No way I’m letting his innocence be destroyed by you, Ghiaccio,” Risotto shuts him down. This crude man, Ghiaccio, continues to bluster and seems to just get even more mad than before.
“What?! And why not? What’s wrong with me? At least I will not kill him with my cock since it’s not a 30 centimeter long perch!”
The other men burst into laughter at his furious proclamation, save for Risotto.

Risotto rolls his eyes, but doesn’t grace him with a response. You really hope Ghiaccio was just exaggerating, 30 centimeters would be… well above average for a human. You are not cut out for that.
“Ehi ehi Ghiaccio is right, Capo!” The man with six ponytails, the tallest after Risotto, approaches Ghiaccio and slings his arm over the other’s shoulders, “well, since he’s a virgin, I think we should go from smallest to the largest. That makes sense, no?”
You really don’t know what to think anymore. Yeah, it makes sense? But you’re not an object! No way they are gonna take turns abusing you, regardless of their size! You’ll end up with your innards mangled anyway; you could even die!
“And who is the shortest? Have we ever checked this?” the lavender hair man stops, looking at his buddies with an inquisitive gaze. Is a public ally really the best place for this conversation?
“Formaggio of course! And if he’s not he can just shrink himself, ahah!” the dark-brown man snickers.
“Hell no!” Formaggio yells, furious. “Ghiaccio must be the smallest since he’s the shortest among us! It’s simple maths…” he reaches the duo and yanks his tallest friend.
“Non c’entra un cazzo l’altezza, coglione (height doesn’t matter, scumbag)!!!” Ghiaccio snarls back. “You have the smallest prick, I’m pretty sure yours is even smaller than this little bitch’s!”
In a swift leap Ghiaccio stands in front of you, clawing Risotto’s arm and yanking it downward to break his protective grip on you. “Let me check! Let me see it fuck! I have to show this bastard that I’m right!”
The grappling takes Risotto by surprise and he almost drops you to the ground. On reflex you drag your nails in the soft skin of his nape to try and get a grip, scratching him. Ah! You didn’t do that on purpose! You just didn’t want to fall into Ghiaccio’s arms! You hope Risotto won’t kill you for that.
“Enough,” he rumbles in his guttural and serious voice. Ghiaccio crashes to his knees, coughing and spitting blood from his mouth. What... happened? Is he sick?
The bulky green haired boy who has been silent the whole time starts shaking and whimpering as the blood stains the sidewalk, as do the two mates who stole your bag.
“Capo damn! You went too far with this, cazzo!” Formaggio complains while his friend helps the injured Ghiaccio to stand up.
Risotto ignores them as he continues cuddling you, even more now that you have been scared half to death.
“It’s alright tesoro, he just drank and spoke too much,” he murmurs into your ear. but you know it’s not just alcohol: being drunk doesn’t make you vomit blood! And Ghiaccio didn’t even seem drunk. You can’t explain what just happened, but you’re positive that Risotto did something.
“Don’t tell me you are scared of a little blood, hmm?” he presses his forehead against yours; he’s mocking you with that tender voice again.
“N-Not at all b-but…” you stammer as you view the cruel scene from the corner of your eye. Ghiaccio is now standing on his feet, no more coughing, but his clothes and hands are drenched, not a nice sight- “that was… harsh.”
“See? That’s what will happen if you try to cross me: remember it,” he says with a vicious chuckle. He ruffles your hair as he walks towards one of the cars parked in the alley behind Lussuria.

The man with well-combed blond hair opens the door and takes the driver’s seat, while Risotto sits in the passenger seat with you on his lap. Good, at least you’re not in the trunk of the car so you can see the roads they’ll drive on and be able to find your way back!
Your thoughts are interrupted by Risotto’s voice in your ear, “Sorry amore, this will hurt a bit.”
You don’t even have the time to ask what he means before you feel a sharp pain in the back of your neck and your mind goes blank.