Enrico stood nude in front of the full-length mirror. He didn’t know if he liked what he saw because he didn’t know who he saw. Was this the new him, the him he’d always been or was it the him Joey had created? He didn’t recognize his own mannerisms, his own style. His walk felt artificial and uncomfortable; even his thoughts felt as much as implants as the implants he was contemplating to fill out his hips.
Enrico had begun to take hormone supplements, estrogen, and he could see his breasts starting to come in. He anticipated them like a girl on the verge of puberty, combined with a cancer watching the burgeoning of a growth. He was torn emotionally. But one thing he was sure of was his love for Joey. All of this was for Joey. It was what Joey wanted, or rather what Enrico discerned that Joey wanted. Joey only smiled encouragingly or remained impassive, which Enrico read as disapproval.
They would lie in bed and Joey would tweak his nipple and remark, “If you had a little more to grab, eh, I’d have the best of both worlds.” A few days later, Enrico told him, “I’m going to start taking estrogen.” Joey would smile and kiss him passionately.
So gradually, Enrico came to the idea to announce to Joey, “I’m going to have a sex change operation.”
“Are you sure?”
Enrico searched Joey’s eyes to find his own sense of certainty. When he thought he had found it, he answered, “Absolutely.”
Joey took him to bed and fucked him royally.
So as he stood in front of the hospital mirror, about to undergo surgery, he didn’t know what was looking back at him, but he knew whoever he was, he wanted to be loved.
“Mr. Valdez,” the nurse began as she entered. After seeing that he was naked, she turned her head, adding, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were…”
“It’s okay,” Enrico replied in an apologetic tone, as he slipped back on his hospital robe. “I was just…saying goodbye, I guess.”
She gave him a matronly look.
“It’s a big step.”
“I know.”
They exchanged an awkward glance.
“The doctor will be in momentarily.”
“Thank you, nurse.”
“You’re very welcome,” she smiled warmly then walked out and closed the door behind her.
As they whizzed him into O.R., Enrico wished Joey was there to hold his hand. But Joey was becoming a big star. His bit role in Marty’s movie had gotten the town, as Hollywood insiders called it, buzzing. So Joey was off negotiating another film.
“Count back from ten,” the doctor told him.
“When I wake up, I’ll be who he wants me to be,” his heart told him, but his head was saying something different.
“10, 9, 8, 7…”
Meanwhile, Joey was in New York, doing what he did best: living the Diamond life. His role in the movie may have been small, but since he was already larger than life, the perception was only magnified. Everybody wanted to take a picture with him, be seen with him, and party with him. But everywhere he went, he kept Te Amo with him.
“You’re going to be ripped to pieces,” Te Amo said while smiling for the paparazzi, posing with Joey.
“Whaddya mean?”
“Look at all those women that want to be in my shoes,” she remarked.
Joey looked around and had to admit that the plastic expression on many a female’s face looked more like pageant-style clenched teeth and not genuine smiles. So Joey turned to Te Amo and scooped her off her feet, making her giggle uncontrollably.
“So, give ‘em to them,” he suggested, and she did, kicking her shoes off and launching them into the crowd like a bouquet at the end of a wedding. The NY Post headline would read the next day:
Who’s That Girl?
He carried her into the club and sat her on his lap. As the night wore on, many came by the table to pay homage; gangsters and civilians like. The civilians came just to be seen, but the gangsters came because Joey had begun to share his ill-gotten gains with each of the five families, even the Diamantis. He was making so much money off the ecstasy distribution network that he could afford to be generous, and that generosity he used like political leverage in Congress. He was not only a ruthless adversary; he was a valued ally. He was Machiavellian in all his dealings.
“Joey, there’s a guy here that wants to see you,” his bodyguard Mike whispered in his ear.
“Yeah, who?”
“Anthony Braza. Says he’s Gambino.”
“Never heard of him,” Joey sniffed.
“He says you’ll remember him once you see him.”
Mike pointed and Joey followed his finger. When Joey saw him, he immediately recognized him from the New Year’s Eve party of 1989: the guy he beat up.
“Oh yeah, the guy I knocked on his ass,” Joey chuckled. “Sure, I’ll humor ‘em. Send ‘em over.”
Mike went over and came back with the guy. He approached with his hand extended. Joey reached out and shook it.
“How you doin’? Sit down. I would offer you a drink, but you and alcohol don’t get along so good,” Joey quipped, good-naturedly.
“Mr. Diamanti, my name’s Anthony Braza. I’m a friend of the Gambinos. And I just wanted to apologize for that night. I never got a chance to, and it’s been kind of killin’ me ever since. So when I saw you over here…”
Joey held up his hand.
“Hey Anthony, forget about it, eh? I’m not the type to hold grudges.”
Anthony breathed easily, and it looked as if he had finally taken a breath after a year.
“Thank you, Mr. Diamanti.”
“Call me Joey.”
“Thank you, Joey.”
“Okay, Anthony. Is there anything else?” Joey asked, already bored with humoring a nobody.
“Actually…there is,” Anthony replied, carefully.
“Then let’s hear it.”
Anthony looked at Te Amo on Joey’s lap, then at Joey.
“No offense, Mr. Diamanti. I mean…”
Joey studied Anthony’s expression for a moment, then turned to Te Amo. “Slide over for a minute.”
When she did, Anthony got closer to Joey and whispered in his ear, “I thought you outta know that I got this cop, you know what I mean? He can tell me what color underwear the Mayor’s wearing, you get me? Beautiful fuckin’ arrangement. Anyway, he tells me that he knows a few things about the hit on you.”
Joey looked at Anthony intently.
“Anthony, you’re talkin’ about a very sensitive subject with me.”
“I can only imagine, but I’m tellin’ you…Joey this guy, he don’t miss.”
“So why’d he tell you?”
“Cause he’s in my pocket and don’t know how to get in touch with youse.”
Joey pinned his eyes with a gaze so direct that Anthony squirmed under it.
“Honest to God, Joey, I wouldn’t bullshit about somethin’ like this.”
“You better not…Listen, you give Mike your number. Set up a meeting with this cop and I want you there, capeesh, Paisano?”
“Sure thing, Joey. No problem.”
“Okay…and if this thing’s legit, you got a friend for life,” Joey promised.
Two days later, Mike drove Joey to a section of Hoboken, NJ near the docks and warehouses. He pulled up behind another car and parked. Joey got out, and then got in the back seat of the other car. Waiting inside was Anthony Braza and a middle-aged man with a potbelly and graying temples.
“How you doin’, Joey? This is Detective Clooney,” he introduced.
Clooney turned and extended his hand over the seat.
“How are you, Joey? I’ve heard a lot about you,” Clooney said.
“Yeah, apparently more than most. Tell me what you know,” Joey replied, cutting straight to the chase.
Clooney looked at Anthony.
“Ay, Joey, no disrespect, but Clooney here usually sells this type of information,” Anthony told Joey.
“Yeah, I’m sure he does, and I’m sure it’s all very lucrative, but what I’m askin’ for is an introductory offer, a sample of the goods. You prove to me what you have is that good, and I’ll make you both very rich men,” Joey counter offered.
Clooney looked through the rearview into Joey’s cold blue eyes. Even in the dark, Clooney could see the determination and confidence. He knew Joey was a rising star, one he wanted to hitch his wagon to.
“Okay,” Clooney relented, “but next time—”
“Next time I’ll pay you triple, and then I put you on the payroll.”
That was all Clooney needed to hear. He handed Joey a bulky manila folder. Joey took it and slid out the contents. There were mug shots, surveillance photos, several typed pages, and even a cassette tape. Joey glanced at a couple of the photos, but in the dark, he couldn’t see much.
“Okay, so walk me through this,” he told Clooney.
“The four mug shots are the shooters that tried to take off the piece of work on you. They were brought in from Cleveland.”
“Cleveland?” Joey repeated in an impressed tone. “They’re a regular Murder, Inc. They grow killers like weeds. Who brung ‘em in?”
“That I don’t know, but I can paint you a picture. It’ll be up to you to connect the dots.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m assigned to the New York State Organized Crime Task Force, a pie job if there’s ever been one because nobody really gives a fuck; it’s all political, you follow me? It’s a tap dance for the Feds. Anyway…the way it works is there’s supposed to be a unit assigned to monitor each of the five families.”
“Who are you assigned to?”
“The Diamantis,” Clooney smiled and looked at Joey in the rearview.
“The Big Dog! Congratulations,” Joey quipped.
“I said supposed. Actually our budget is non-existent, so I basically cover them all. But after they tried to clip you, I start getting mixed signals from my Diamanti surveillance.”
“Mixed signals?”
“Yeah, like every other family figured it was your old man ‘cause you were…”
“I know what I am. G’head.”
Clooney cleared his throat.
“Yeah so, that was the consensus, only I hear Benny Bagels on the phone sayin’ that your old man was pissed and he wants Frankie to find out who tried to clip you,” Clooney explained.
Joey couldn’t believe his ears. His old man hadn’t tried to kill him! It felt like a two-ton rock had just been lifted off his heart.
“Okay,” Joey said, barely audibly.
“But Benny says, the guy doesn’t give a fuck; the guy says to make it look good. I don’t know who the guy is. Listen to the tape; it’s all there,” Clooney explained.
“Go on,” Joey replied. He knew exactly who the guy was.
“Then a few days later, Benny Bagels keeps sayin’ that he can’t get Vinnie Boom Boom on the phone because he wants to make sure his ass in covered in Cleveland. So I think…Cleveland? Somebody else was talking about Cleveland and Vinnie Boom Boom.”
“Who?”
“Peter Amuso.”
Joey’s ears perked up, because now he could see it all.
“But this was a week before the hit. So I trace back and I monitor all flights to and from Cleveland outta LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark.”
“Smart guy.”
“Thanks, I try. The night of the hit, I got four guys leaving from Newark. But I don’t know I’ve got a jackpot until I cross check, and the same four guys came into JFK three days before the hit. I run the names, all aliases but one: a James Weston. He has a charge on his alias, so I get a mug shot. I call in a favor in Cleveland and boom, it’s Jimmy Callahan, an Irish killer who runs a crew that’ll make the Westies look like fuckin’ pansies.
Joey sat back, trying to digest the intricacies of the plot. It was complex, but oh so simple, and it had been in his face the whole time.
Joey ran his hand through his hair.
“Who else have you told about this?”
“Nobody,” Clooney replied.
“Don’t fuckin’ shit me, Clooney! Who knows?” Joey barked.
The sudden change in tone caught Clooney off guard.
“Nobody, Joey, I swear to God.”
Joey felt like he was telling the truth, because he didn’t know what Joey knew. He didn’t know what filled in the blanks that made it all make sense. One thing was for sure: Clooney thought the Gambinos were involved. That’s why he had taken the information to Braza. That’s what Joey wanted him to keep thinking.
“Okay,” Joey finally said, after a prolonged silence. “Okay,” he repeated, this time with more finality, as if he had decided on a course of action.
“So whaddya think?” Anthony asked, looking back at Joey with a content smile on his face. He felt he had made a friend for life.
“I think somebody’s playing a very dangerous game, and I can’t afford to let them find out I know,” Joey replied, and with that he lifted his .456 and hit Anthony and Clooney, point blank, two apiece in the heads, drenching the windshield and inside of the front of the car with brains and blood.
Joey sat back in the seat, thinking. Several seconds later, Mike ran up to the car, gun in hand. He snatched Joey’s door open.
“Boss, you okay? What happened?” he asked.
Joey looked at Mike.
“I fucked up…I shouldn’t have done that. But I had to.”
Mike couldn’t understand, but he had no time to process it.
“We gotta get outta here!”
“Yeah. Find the shells.”
“Huh?”
“We gotta find the fuckin’ shells. I hit ‘em with an automatic!”
Mike knew that Joey hadn’t planned on killing them, because he would’ve never used an automatic. He wiped the back of the door handle then opened the passenger door so the interior light would come on.
Anthony’s bloody body flopped out.
“Fuck!” Mike spat.
With the light on, all somebody had to do was drive by and see it all. They frantically searched the back floor. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours until they found all four.
“Got ‘em. Let’s go,” Mike exclaimed.
Joey tucked the bulky manila envelope so nothing would fall out. Then they fled, leaving behind the single biggest mistake Joey Diamonds would ever make.
“Chief Sorenson, what was Detective Clooney doing in New Jersey with Anthony Braza, a reputed Gambino mobster?” the reporter questioned.
“That, uh hasn’t been fully investigated, but we think Braza was one of the Detective’s informants,” the Chief responded.
“Chief Sorenson, wouldn’t that type of information be well documented?”
“No comment. Listen, we are investigating all possible avenues, but rest assured, we will find out what happened. The budget of the Organized Crime Task Force will be substantially increased and will be an effective factor in ridding New York of—”
Joey cut the TV off and sat in the darkness of his own thoughts. He was in the bedroom of his New York City condo in the Trump Towers. He knew killing the cop could be a problem, but letting him live would’ve been more of a problem. Whoever was behind this couldn’t find out he knew, so Joey went with the old adage: the only way two people can keep a secret is if one of them is dead.
His thoughts turned to that guy. He listened to the tape. He heard every word. He knew who Benny Bagels was. What about Frankie Shots?
Frankie had been behind the hit, but his father hadn’t. That was both a relief and a problem. Frankie could’ve never made such a move without a powerful ally, and Joey felt like he knew who it was. But he needed to be sure. Absolutely sure. And then...Te Amo entered.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” she asked.
“Thinking.” He paused.
“Enrico is on the phone,” she said then handed him the cordless.
He took it. She looked at him. He looked drained.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Never better,” he replied.
She knew it was a lie, but she let it go and walked out.
“Yeah?”
“Joey?”
“Yeah Enrico, it’s me. How you doin’?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Just peachy…Listen, I’m right in the middle of somethin’ here, so talk to me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I could call back,” he offered, feeling awkward in the moment.
“Yeah, but you called now. Enrico, please.”
“I just wanted to tell you that…I did it.”
[Pause]
“Did what?”
“The surgery,” Enrico replied, a little impatient because Joey should have known what surgery.
“Yeah, right… Listen, I’ll be back on the Coast in a coupla weeks; we’ll talk about it then.”
“Joey, you haven’t heard a word I said.”
“Sure I did. You said you’re having surgery.”
“Had Joey, had. I had the surgery,” Enrico seethed.
“Yeah, had. I’ll talk to you later.”
Joey hung up then went into the living room where Te Amo, Mike, and Maria were. They looked up when he entered.
“Te Amo, get Zev on the phone. Tell him we’re gonna need a few guys.”
She nodded and took the phone from his extended hand.
“Mike, get us six seats. We’re going to Cleveland. Maria, call Amanda. Nobody else needs to know,” he announced then walked out. From then on, everybody would be on a need-to-know basis.
Salley and Pirelli, the same Detectives who’d nabbed Sammy had worked Sammy’s wiretap into the indictment of Mike Rizzo. They had Mike in the same interrogation that they had Sammy. They played a few tapes for Rizzo, and Rizzo turned green. He knew it was over.
“Yeah, Rizz, we’re calling ‘em the greatest hits of Mike Rizzo; you like?” Detective Salley taunted.
Rizzo replied, “I want my—”
Pirelli stopped him, saying, “Hol’ up. Think about what you’re doin’. We’ve got you on this tape, not only making drug deals, but badmouthin’ Gotti. You questioned his right to take over after Big Paul. You even have him responsible for Big Paul’s death. Now, if you lawyer up, this tape becomes public knowledge because we’ll use it to justify no bail. So, you’re fucked either way!”
“Unless,” Salley chimed in, “unless we can find a way to…compromise.”
“What’s John gonna think when he hears this tape, huh? He’s not gonna be too pleased.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ rat,” Rizzo protested.
“And you’re not a dead man either…yet. Mike, you fucked up—maybe not with us, because maybe you can win the case—but can you win with John? With that temper?”
Rizzo thought about what he said. He knew he had said too much. His mother always said his big mouth would get him in trouble one day, and she was right. But she never said his mouth would get him out of trouble one day, too. But today would be that day, not because he was afraid of doing time; he was afraid of not doing time and suffering John Gotti’s wrath.
Rizzo sighed hard; it was the sigh of resignation.
“Listen…If I do this, I want witness protection for me and my family.”
The Detectives looked at one another, and then back at Rizzo.
“Whatsa matter, Rizzo, you don’t trust us?”
“Fuck you. NYPD is a joke. Federal WP or I lawyer up,” he replied.
Salley reached out and shook Rizzo’s hand.
“We’ll make it happen.”
The Shamrock Pub was packed to capacity. It was Friday night, and Cleveland’s working class Irish were out to drink, fight, throw up, and pass out. A perfect night for a robbery…or what would seem like one. Te Amo, Maria, and Amanda had gone in first and were flirting it up with Jimmy Callahan and his crew: two Irish men, two Italians. All killers. The Shamrock was their watering hole of choice; a fact that Joey found out easily through the Calamini family goons.
Once the girls were in place, the four of Zev’s Russian goons with ski masks ran into the club, waving AK-47’s, letting off a few short bursts of gunfire, accompanied by shouts of: “Everybody on the ground! This is a stickup!” Those in the room quickly fell flat on their faces.
Jimmy and his crew were slow to get down, but once one of the Russians drove home the point by driving the rifle butt into one of the Italian’s noses, they knew it was a serious situation.
“Do you fucking bastards know who the fuck I am?” Jimmy laughed as he got down. “You’re gonna be dead, on the front page of the news if you don’t shut the fuck up!” Te Amo growled as she cuffed Jimmy behind his back.
“I’m Jimmy Callahan!”
“Good; that means we got the right guy!” she replied.
The Russians grabbed the four-man crew and dragged them out the back to an awaiting van, driven by Mike. They all jumped in and then skidded off.
Once they got to the abandoned warehouse and unloaded the four-man crew, Joey took Mike aside and said, “Dump this van, torch it, and get back to New York ASAP. Anybody asks, I never left, got me? I never left,” Joey carefully instructed.
“I got you, Boss.”
“Okay, go.”
Mike left. The Russians tied the four men to chairs. One handed Joey a .45. He walked up to the first man who was Italian. He shot him in the kneecap without warning. The man bellowed in pain.
“You guys recognize me, huh? I’m the guy you tried to kill, but you obviously missed as you can see. I wasn’t killed. Now…who ordered the hit?”
No one said a word. They all stared ahead, all resigned to die. Joey shot the same guy in the other kneecap. He bellowed like a beached whale, but didn’t say a word. Joey put the gun in his mouth and hissed in his face, “You fuckin’ piece of shit, who ordered the goddamn hit?”
Joey looked in the guy’s eyes and could see absolutely no fear. He slowly extracted the gun from his mouth then blew his brains all over the Italian next to him. Joey stepped back and eyed the three remaining men. His eyes stopped on the other Italian.
“Was that your brother? Because you guys look alike. But I’m sure you don’t want to look like him now, do you Guido?” Joey taunted, but despite the man’s obvious fear, he kept his mouth closed.
“You had a little accident, huh?” Joey remarked, referring to the urine running down the man’s leg, forming a puddle at the bottom of the leg of the chair.
Joey’s crew laughed.
“Your brother, now he was a tough son of a bitch,” Joey snickered, referring to the dead man. “Even after I blew off both kneecaps, he still kept his mouth shut. What a waste. I would’ve loved to have him in my crew. Oh well.”
Joey stepped closer to the dude.
“Hey, you got brains on your face,” Joey remarked, using the dude’s shirt to smear it even more, as he put the gun between his eyes.
“What’s the matter? You don’t look so tough no more. I can imagine what’s going through your mind right now. Probably, ‘I fucked up’ has crossed your mind,” Joey chuckled. “Now I’ll ask you like I asked your fuckin’ brother down there: you cock suckers tried to kill me. I wanna know who ordered the hit?”
“Go fuck yourself,” the dude hissed.
Joey laughed.
“You Goombahs outta Cleveland got balls, I’ll give you that. So let’s see what happens here,” Joey said, then pointed the gun at the guy’s testicles and blew them off.
The guy bellowed and slumped in the chair. Joey grabbed a handful of his hair then began to savagely pistol whip the man’s face. When he finished, the gun and Joey’s hand were covered with blood. He wiped it on the guy’s shirt.
“Who…ordered…the…fucking…hit?” Joey barked in the guy’s face.
The guy just glared at him through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “Fuck you.”
Joey raised the gun and blew the guys brains out. His lifeless body slumped and twitched in the chair. When Joey pointed the gun on the third man, he wasted no time in blurting out, “Frankie Shots, it was Frankie Shots that gave us the hit!”
Just hearing the name made Joey’s blood boil. He had figured as much, but hearing it made it worse.
“Smart guy,” Joey remarked, referring to the third guy. In return, he made his death quick by putting two in his head at point blank. The fourth guy, Jimmy Callahan started laughing. Joey aimed his gun at him.
“I never thought I’d see somebody die laughing,” Joey cracked, with a straight face.
“You dumb Italian fuck,” the man roared with a pronounced Irish accent. “You can’t see the forest for the trees! You think that was a hit?” Jimmy guffawed. “You don’t know jack!”
“So introduce me,” Joey shot back.
Jimmy spat at Joey, the spit landing near his shoes.
“Go fuck your mother!”
“So be it,” Joey replied then pumped three slugs into Jimmy’s face, the force of which blew him and his chair backwards.
Joey looked at the dead men with disgust. He hadn’t broken them, so all he had gotten was revenge.
“Burn it to the ground,” Joey growled, heading for the door.
“You look like Te Amo.”
Those were the first words Joey spoke when he first laid eyes on Enrico after the operation, but that wasn’t what Enrico heard. What he heard was, “You’re a fake, you’re a fraud, you’re not Te Amo, nor could you ever be!”
It was said with the intent of ridicule, as if to humiliate and add insult to injury; it was said in front of Te Amo. The irony was that Enrico hadn’t wanted to look like Te Amo; he simply wanted Joey to see him like Te Amo. He had achieved the form without the substance.
The three of them stood in the living room of Joey’s West Coast mansion, three points in a strange triangle. Te Amo could see the pain in Enrico’s eyes, and her heart wept for Enrico. She knew Joey was being intentionally cruel.
“No. No, not at all, Enrico. I think you look beautiful Enrico…or should I call you something else?” she ventured timidly.
“Call ‘em Two Amo. Get it, Two…Amo?” Joey snickered, adding, “I mean, what is this all about?”
“What do you mean, Joey? We talked about this,” Enrico replied, fists clenched, as if that would assist him in holding back the tears.
“I’m going to go,” Te Amo announced, turning for the door.
Joey protested, “Go for what? What’s the problem?”
Te Amo looked at him, shook her head, and walked out.
Joey shrugged, “Suit yourself.”
Joey loosened his tie and sat down on the couch.
“Enrico, Enrica, whateva, get me a drink.”
Enrico glared at him then fixed him a drink. He came back and handed it to Joey.
“Now…can we talk?” Enrico questioned intently.
Joey looked at him. He had his haircut asymmetrically to highlight his newly acquired femininity. His chest swelled with estrogen and his hips curved with shapeliness. He looked every bit a woman, but he was simply a figment of Joey’s imagination.
“Whaddya want me to say?” Joey asked. “Congratulations, you’re a broad.”
Enrico smirked with an expression behind which he hid to stifle the pain.
“I should’ve known you would do this. Why do you do it? Why do you play games with people’s lives like this?”
“What makes you think it’s a game?” Joey shot back.
“Because you don’t take anyone seriously enough to acknowledge that they have the right to exist independent of you,” Enrico accused.
Joey smiled but his eyes stayed cold.
“Don’t ever think you can figure me out, Enrica,” Joey said, emphasizing the changed ending of the name with a mocking tone. “…because you’ll fail.”
Joey got up and started to walk away.
“It’s not my fault that your father won’t accept you for who you are, Joey,” Enrico blurted out, no longer able to hold back the tears.
Joey stopped and turned around.
“What’d you say,” he hissed in a dangerously calm tone.
“Because he won’t accept you for who you are, you want to turn me into someone else so you can reject me too!” he cried.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Joey barked.
“No! I won’t! I won’t let you make me into you! That’s where I draw the line! Haven’t I stood by you? I busted my ass to help you build this empire so I’ve earned my rights, Joey! I’ve earned them!” Enrico cried.
“Right to what?” Joey growled.
“Your love,” he sobbed. “Is that too much to ask? You broke me, Joey. You win. I’m not fighting it anymore, so why are you fighting me?”
Despite his rage, Enrico had found refuge in the only emotion Joey reserved for the broken: pity. So when Joey reached to caress his face, what Enrico took as tenderness was really the condescension emanating from Joey’s god-complex. He thought Joey wanted to break him; the truth was much more evil than that.
Enrico kissed the palm of Joey’s hand and then his wrist, then he seized his mouth with his own with a passion that had him peeling away Joey’s clothes as he fell to his knees to worship at the fleshly temple. Joey watched this tempest, allowing himself to be ravaged. Enrico took Joey’s swollen manhood into his mouth and began to feast with tongue and lips with feverish abandonment.
Joey pulled Enrico to his feet, opening his mouth and placing his mouth on his developing breast. Enrico gasped deep in his throat as Joey undressed him then laid his back on the floor. Enrico wrapped his legs around Joey’s back, as Joey slid his dick deep inside him and began to stroke him slowly while running his tongue over his nipples.
“Oh my God, Joey, I love you so much…so much,” Enrico cried, the long, slow strokes sending vibrations through his whole body.
For the first time, instead of simply fucking him, Joey made love to Enrico. Out of pity, he felt Enrico deserved a little heaven, because he was headed for a whole lot of hell.