Milena's Diary Chapter 10

Thursday 17th May 2001 11:45am

Wow! Being superhuman just keeps on getting better and better! After last night's incredible meeting in the bus garage, I should've guessed this morning's hook-up with Toto wouldn't be boring, but I'm still learning about certain things, I suppose. Just as I'm still learning about my new powers, and my "new" body. And, as far as that goes, every discovery only increases my feeling of control and power over… well… over pretty much everything I come across. I can do anything I want! I can have anything I want! Well, almost anything. And I'm working on the rest…

When I finished the last entry, I'd just got back home from my delightful little rendezvous with Toto Carlucci, his now defunct American friend, and the now equally defunct army tank they'd somehow borrowed for the night. I'm guessing someone lost their deposit on that rental. Anyway, it was still several hours before dawn when I returned, having lost a T-shirt, and gained the Carlucci business empire.

I'm getting used to strolling around this vast mansion, knowing that every room I pass is now mine, every ornament, every chandelier, every painting… And, of course, every mirror. The place is full of them. Big gilt-framed ones in the hallway. Lean full-length ones in the bedrooms. Thinking about what happened to my top, I paused in front of one of the many opportunities to admire my appearance. I pulled off my indestructible vest, freeing my big, heavy breasts. Despite no longer having the tight, superpowered garment to hold it, my chest did not drop even a millimetre. Staring down at myself, I marvelled at the smooth, round perfection of the flesh of each of my mounds. Flawless. There was simply no sign, no indication whatsoever of the countless

bullets that had struck me, the tank-shells that had destroyed my T-shirt as they rocketed into my feminine perfection, detonating uselessly against me less than an hour before.

It's amazing to think, even now as I'm writing about it a few hours later, that a load of guns and an actual massive army tank firing enormous shells at point- blank range, didn't cause a single hair to be damaged or a single tiny scratch or bruise to appear on my magnificent body. Only my outer clothes got ruined. If Toto, or even the real army themselves, want to send a whole load of tanks my way, I already know they can't do a thing to me.

But, I am going to run out of things to wear at this rate. I mean, I could just give up, and only go out in my vest and panties in future. It's not as though I don't look amazing in them, judging by the number of men I seem to have hypnotised with my exquisite curves… I'm just not sure that's how I want to present myself to the world. I feel my new status deserves a wardrobe to match.

No wonder most men enter a kind of hypnotic trance when they see me! It was hard far me to tear myself away from the mirror, but I managed. I was thinking about clothes, which is probably why I decided to enter all the bedrooms one by one, and look in the wardrobes to see if I'd… inherited… anything worth keeping. Perhaps some spare T-shirts that I wouldn't mind getting shot up or burnt…

Most of the smaller rooms were uninteresting. Expensively furnished, of course, but with empty cupboards. Then I checked a side bedroom I'd only

walked past before. The first thing I noticed – the first thing anyone would notice – was the ridiculous large mirror mounted on the ceiling above the bed. This must've been Tony's little love-den, where my Uncle entertained various young ladies of easy virtue. Or rather, where the various young ladies had entertained my Uncle. Definitive proof of that was revealed when I opened the fitted wardrobe, revealing a full-height hanging rail. It wasn't what I expected to find. Rather, the tall cupboard contained an unexpectedly eclectic series of garments. Neatly perched on individual hangers, like items in a dry-cleaner's, or perhaps in a fancy-dress shop, I found a girl's school uniform (adult-sized), a leather cat-suit, an American cheerleader's outfit and a semi-transparent lacy night-dress. "Tony, you dirty old bastard!" I said out- loud.

I didn't try on any of the costumes. No doubt, assuming I managed to squeeze into any of them without tearing the fabric, I would have looked like a teenage boy's wet dream. But I don't need silly outfits to be a fantasy woman. I'm all that, and so much more, just standing in my indestructible vest and panties. It's fitting that the house and the beds are mine now. Unlike Tony's wrinkled, tired bag of bones and fat, my body deserves worship, and is more than worthy of the ridiculously decadent ceiling mirror. It doesn't seem fair that he got to enjoy way more than his fair share of young, beautiful lovers – in fancy dress – and I, with my superhuman beauty, can't seem to get to third base with a man without breaking him. It's the one thing that Tony had, or even – in theory – still has, that I don't now possess. The ability to make love to a partner capable of surviving more than a few seconds.

At that moment, I actually felt a pang of jealousy towards T. I was about to tear the contents of that wardrobe to individual threads in a super-speed, super-strength burst of frustration. Then I thought about Tony, rowing that little boat with one working arm, sent off into exile in a distant foreign land

without any of his money or assets to sell. And I thought about myself, owner of everything that was once his, the businesses, the properties. As well as all of the Carlucci family assets that were about to officially become mine in a few hours. Added to superpowers so unstoppable, I made an army tank my toy before tossing it aside. Not forgetting the looks of a goddess. It suddenly didn't make any sense that I might experience jealousy of anyone else. In fact, I realised, the whole world would be jealous of me now.

And it's not as if I haven't been able to… enjoy… myself since my transformation. I've experienced amazingly intense physical pleasure quite a few times. Sure, I might have gotten nowhere with the men I've tried to make love with. But a grenade exploding inside my invulnerable panties, air-to-air missiles and torpedoes slamming into and exploding against my nipples, even my own super-powerful hands and fingers… they've kinda given me the same thrill I wanted from the guys I broke. Maybe I'll learn how to be more gentle.

Maybe I'll just have to become used to getting my excitement from bombs instead of dicks. All this "super" stuff is still new to me, but I wouldn't change it for anything. Mostly because, when I think about it, what could I swap for my powers that I can't just take using my amazing abilities anyway?

In a way, I'm a kind of goddess now. I can fly! I can't be hurt by any weapons, I can lift huge vehicles, blow hurricanes, move faster than a bullet… It's right that I should have the best house in town, the best of everything. Which got me back to thinking again. My magnificent body, my gorgeous face, they deserve to be presented in the very finest of clothes. Something that screams class and power and beauty all at once. Something that intimidates men with my curves but is still appropriate for a multiple business owner, a boss… a goddess. Definitely not one of Tony's kinky fantasy costumes. I closed the cupboard and left the room.

Downstairs, there were a couple of editions of various glossy upmarket local magazines. I found myself browsing the pages, like any woman with means, glancing through fashion features, hoping to find inspiration. I didn't find it in the various photos and I quickly realised why. Every single model in every single photo just looked… ordinary. Not ugly, not badly dressed, not badly styled. Just… normal. The sort of woman you might see in a hotel bar and think "she’s pretty", but only if you hadn’t seen me. The bodies were slim, some curvy, some angular, but you could tell they needed flattering cuts, supportive bras and precisely-lit photography to sell the clothes they were wearing. I flipped through more pages. Gowns that clung to hips, that plunged at the chest, that flared below the knee. Expensive materials, sure.

Good tailoring. But nothing on those pages screamed "worthy". Nothing said "goddess". There were endless dresses for parties, for premieres… for women who needed their clothes to do the work for them.

I wasn't looking for a dress to make me beautiful. I was hoping to find a dress that understood how beautiful I already am. One that didn’t pretend to improve me, but simply knew its job – to frame and to worship it wearer. And, after a lot of pages, I saw it. A small article on a page I almost skipped. Not even a full feature, just a kind of snobby mention in a social calendar. "Renowned designer René Maranelli’s boutique opens 9am daily.

Appointments by referral only. New exhibition preview rumoured next month." The photo showed a man in a cravat posing next to a model in a ludicrously elegant dark green dress with a single high slit and what looked like actual diamond accents on the bodice. The man looked like a creep. The dress, though… looked interesting.

It didn’t try too hard. It wasn’t desperate for attention. But it commanded it

anyway. Not because of the jewels. Because of the cut. Because of the attitude. That leg-slit… That neckline that was all about daring people to look and risk the embarrassment of getting caught. It was the kind of gown that would look good on any attractive woman. But, on me… It would look like divine. Just right for the goddess it was adorning.

I don’t know if it was instinct or arrogance – and at this point I'm finding it harder and harder to tell the two apart – but it just seemed to fall into place immediately in my mind. Maranelli was going to make me a dress. He just didn’t know it yet. I checked the clock. It was 8:40 a.m. I hadn’t planned to go anywhere until after my meeting with Carlucci which was scheduled for ten, but being able to fly faster than a military fighter plane means I can get a lot done in a day! I quickly calculated that I had plenty of time.

I pulled on a pair of denim shorts over my invulnerable panties, because I've road-tested them a bit with my powers and they seem to have survived flying and super-speed movement so far. I chose an old T-shirt which was a tight fit over my magic, ultra-low-cut vest. Not so tight that the fabric started to tear when I made the slightest movement, like quite a few of my old tops which I've ended up having to throw out, but when I stepped in front of the nearest mirror, I looked like a woman who’d just stepped off the runway at a sexy fashion show, even in my casual gear. I smirked at my reflection. Then I turned, opened the nearest window, and flew off towards the centre of town. It takes me about a minute to fly there, and another couple of minutes to land out of sight on a rooftop and drop down, unnoticed into an alley. The boutique didn't open for at least another quarter of an hour, and even then, by appointment or referral only. But I'd already decided Maranelli would be making a whole series of exceptions for me.

As it turned out, I waited about a minute crouched on a rooftop three storeys up while a couple of teenagers finished kissing in the alley. The delights of young romance aside, it was good they finally moved on when they did, or I might have had to knock them both out with a blast of super-breath or something. I didn't want to be seen, but I didn't want to wait around either. A goddess doesn't wait. Anyway, as soon as the couple had moved out of the side-street, I dropped down silently, and strolled out into the morning light.

The boutique was exactly what the magazine listing had led me to expect. Classy exterior. Stone façade. No actual street-level display window, just two little smoked glass panels either side of the door, with gold lettering above them spelling out "RENÉ MARANELLI COUTURE". One of the panes had a neatly printed sign stuck to the inside. "CLOSED. OPENING HOURS 9:00 – 17:00. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY."

The door itself was some kind of heavy, matte-painted hardwood. Definitely locked. But locks stopped having any meaning for me when the genie gave me superpowers. I sauntered up to it, casually, hands at my sides, and placed just the index finger of my right hand against the frame, just above the handle, and pushed.

There was a sharp part-"Snap!"-part-"Crack!" noise as the internal bolt sheared. Then a longer splintering crunch as the wood around the lock surrendered to my single, lazy finger. The handle sagged. The hinges twisted with a brief shriek. The entire frame groaned and bent. And then the top half of the door, glass, wood, hinges and all. just fell away, backwards, pulling the lower section free with it, until the remains of the whole door crashed loudly onto the floor inside the boutique. The “Closed” sign fluttered free and landed

at my feet. I stepped inside.

The place was even more pretentious than I’d expected. Cream walls. Spotlights. Tall plinths with mannequins in half-constructed gowns. Floor- length mirrors tilted at artful angles. And a faint smell of exclusivity in the form of expensive starch and citrus polish.

At the far end of the room, a man in a deep plum waistcoat and patterned cravat looked up from a cutting table. He blinked at me once, then again. His eyes grew huge as if they were struggling to take in all of my beauty at once. I heard his heart-rate accelerate. It took him a moment to speak, as if he'd momentarily lost his train of thought, or perhaps briefly pressed "pause" on his shocked, furious reaction to the door being smashed in so that he could let his hormones respond to the sight of me.

Eventually he recovered enough to splutter "What… what the hell do you think you’re doing?" His eyes darting from the ruined door to the bits of fractured wood across the floor and to me. Mostly to me. In instalments, I guess because I was just too much to handle all at once. Face, torso, legs and back and forth again. "This is a private building! You can’t just -" That seemed to be all he could compose of the second sentence, his gaze settling on my chest, the sight no doubt making him momentarily lose the power of speech. I didn’t say a word. I just turned to my left, where one of several antique sewing machines on display in the room – obviously purely for decorative purposes – sat on an ornate side-table. It was one of those cast-iron things with a crank wheel and a gold-leaf logo. Heavy. Solid.

I reached out and picked it up, one-handed. I'd be lying if I felt the weight, but the vision of me moving it with such ease clearly amazed him. Bringing my other hand to the party, I held the lump of iron in front of me, between my palms, and then started to gently squeeze. The iron immediately let out a high, tortured screech as it crumpled between my hands like wet cardboard, buckling under my irresistible strength until I'd squashed the whole thing into a tight, dense ball the size of a grapefruit. I gave it a gentle bounce in my palm, as if weighing it, whilst my audience stared in increasing terror. Then I flicked it casually toward the back wall.

The ex-sewing-machine punched through two layers of plasterboard, tore through something metal inside the wall cavity, and clanged against some kind of hard floor in the room beyond. There was a clatter of something falling in there, maybe a shelf or two, and then silence. I turned back to the man who I'd assumed was René Maranelli. He looked like he'd just seen the sky crack open and a dragon emerge, breathing fire, with Helen of Troy riding semi-naked on its back. He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

"René Maranelli?" I asked, or rather, demanded, my tone making it more- than-clear that I wasn't in the mood for idle chit-chat.

"Y… Y… Yes?" he stammered, weakly, as if confirming his identity was the very limit of his mental faculties at that moment. Perhaps it was. He stood up, facing me, terrified, uncertain what he should do. I didn’t waste time.

"Well then, Maranelli," I announced, my voice calm but razor-sharp, my tone measured to leave no room for doubt that I was there for a consultation or a

quote, "you should probably be aware that I’ve recently assumed control of all of Tony Alto’s business interests. And, as of later this morning, I’ll be taking over the Carlucci family’s operations as well."

I let that hang in the air just long enough for the penny to drop. I had no doubt the names would be familiar. Everyone in this town knows my Uncle by reputation, if not directly. And the same could be said for the Carluccis. Of course, neither the Alto nor the Carlucci empires had been built without blood being spilt. Poor old Fillipo – and poor old Tony too – depended on everyone being scared of them. The clothes designer was no exception. His already pale face lost another few shades. His jaw opened slightly, but no words came out. I saw the flicker of calculation in his eyes. Two crime families, both under my control, and the attendant implications of power, money, danger… along with the undeniable fact that I was standing in his shop, having just turned one of his heavy ornaments into scrap metal with my hands.

I took a step toward him. He took a step back. "Which means," I continued, my tone still smooth but tightening just slightly, like a silk ribbon pulled taut, "you now have the opportunity of a lifetime." He blinked, scared.

"You," I said, "are going to design and make me a dress. A proper one. Something worthy of my appearance. Something that honours my new status. A dress that makes it very, very clear to anyone who sees me that I am not someone you refuse or interrupt. Or delay. Or disappoint." I tilted my head slightly before continuing. "A dress that says: this is a woman who can walk into your boardroom, take your business, take your assets, and take your breath away, without lifting a finger."

I took another step forward, slowly, watching him flinch. "You will stop all other work to produce it, and it will be the finest dress you have ever made."

His mouth opened again. He gasped, like a man realising he’s about to fall off a mountain. "I -"

I didn’t let him finish. "Because if it isn’t," I said, letting just the slightest edge of steel creep into my voice, "I will remodel you the same way I remodelled that sewing machine." He swallowed loudly.

"Here is what is going to happen," I went on. "You will not charge me. You will not argue. Either you will create something that does justice to this body…" I gestured slowly, expansively, down my own form, watching his eyes desperately try to follow and avert at the same time "…and quickly, or I will find another dressmaker. And a florist. To send a wreath to your funeral."

If he had a response, he was too terrified to give it apart from his breathing, which was getting faster by the second. I took one final step forward. We were less than a metre apart now. Reaching distance. "Is that understood?" I asked, in a way that let him know there was only one acceptable answer, and that supplying it was obligatory.

He took a moment to reply. It was obvious from his face that he understood entirely, but I waited anyway, letting the question dangle like a blade, until his

dry lips finally managed to stammer out: "Y- Yes. Absolutely." He looked like he was trying to remember how to breathe or how to think.

Then, after swallowing again and scraping together what little composure he had left, he added, "It… it would be an honour to design something for a woman as… as important… and as beautiful as you." I raised an eyebrow at him. I didn’t need the flattery. But it was still satisfying to see him struggle to force the words out. To observe how badly he felt the need to say them. He was staring at my legs when he said the word "beautiful". I don't think he even realised.

He cleared his throat, then forced a professional tone back into his voice. "If you’ll… if you’ll permit me, I’ll need to take your measurements." I didn’t respond. "Oh," he added quickly, "I mean, visually, of course, you’re, well… perfectly proportioned… but I still need precise figures for tailoring…"

"I see," I said, neither approving nor disapproving, folding my arms beneath my chest just enough to subtly lift and frame the very problem he was about to face. I saw his eyes twitch at the movement. His mouth made a nervous attempt at a smile. I returned it with a stony, emotionless glare.

He walked across the room and opened a narrow drawer in a side cabinet. From it, he pulled out a soft white measuring tape, the type that has little gold tips. When he turned around, I was already standing in the centre of the boutique, legs slightly apart, arms relaxed by my sides. He approached slowly, cautiously. Reverentially. Like I was a live wire. Or a goddess who’d crushed metal in front of him and issued death threats mere moments before.

"Shall I begin with the shoulders?" he asked, barely above a whisper, as if about to begin a sacred ceremony.

"You’re the expert," I told him, flatly.

He stepped in close, within my aura now. I could feel the tremble in his fingers as he reached up and extended the tape across the tops of my shoulders, from one collarbone to the other. The tape rested lightly across my skin, but his hands hovered above me like he was afraid to touch. Not so much out of respect, but more out of fear. The proximity of my body to his hands was starting to overwhelm him. I tilted my chin slightly downward, locking eyes with him as he concentrated on reading the number.

"You’re shaking," I observed, deadpan.

"I… no, I… it’s just cold in here." I wasn’t buying it and he surely realised. He measured my upper arm next, looping the tape carefully, delicately, as if afraid I might snap him in half if his equipment brushed against my bicep too hard. Then came the wrist. Then he hesitated. I said nothing. Just stood there, silently daring him to proceed. He swallowed and stepped forward, reaching up again with the tape, this time to ascertain the exact dimensions of my bust.

Predictably, he made the mistake of looking too long. The moment the tape made contact across the curve of my chest, I watched his jaw tighten, his

breath catch, and his ears flush pink. He was trying to read the number. But it wasn’t easy with one part of the tape suspended across the impossibly round, high perfection of my breasts. I could see the sweat forming at his hairline.

"You seem to be sweating," I let him know I'd seen it. "One instant it's cold in here, the next you're perspiring. Or is it my body that's affecting yours?"

"I… I… uh…" It was no use. He couldn't speak. Couldn't think. His face flushed deep red. I could tell it was more than just lust. It was embarrassment. Not at the way his mind and body were being overrun by my feminine beauty. But because he knew that I knew it was happening.

He managed somehow to move on to my waist, fairing little better there. Then the hips. By the time he was crouched, trying to measure the circumference of my upper thigh, I thought for a moment he was about to faint from a mixture of terror and arousal. I looked down at him, standing perfectly still, my hands on my hips, watching him try to keep his hand steady as the tape trembled against my leg.

"I’m starting to think you’ve never had a client like me," I said, with mock innocence.

"No," he managed to admit, almost breathless. "No… I haven’t." I couldn't help smiling. By the time he’d finished scribbling numbers into his little leather-bound notebook, still red in the face, still avoiding eye contact, I could tell he was starting to feel a little bit more stable. As if the routine of writing

down measurements had given him a chance to pretend, for a moment, that I was just another client. I let him hold that fantasy for all of about five seconds.

"I’ll need some time," he began, his voice trembling slightly, but trying to sound firm. "To sketch an original design. Something unique. Tailored. A piece worthy of you. That sort of work doesn’t happen overnight." He took a shallow breath and added, "I’ll need about a month, start to finish."

I paused for a moment, as though processing his words. Then I said, quietly: "No. It won’t." He stared at me, simultaneously confused and nervous. I took a single step forward, closed the last of the distance between us, and reached out with a single hand. He let out a half-gasp, half-whimper as I grabbed the front of his jacket tightly and lifted. Of course, he rose along with the jacket, his feet immediately leaving the floor. It was so effortless for me, he felt as if he were made of foam. I let his shoes dangle awkwardly in mid-air.

Remembering his old sewing-machine, he didn’t dare to struggle. Slowly, and very deliberately, I pulled him forward, toward me, lowering him slightly as I did, bringing his terrified face towards my chest.

I brought him close. Close enough that his cheek was almost brushing my T- shirt. He would have felt the warmth of the swell of one of my magnificent breasts barely a centimetre from his skin. I could feel his body seize in shock. His breath seemed to catch. His heart went into a thumping over-drive. "Watch carefully," I instructed, in a cold near-whisper. Still holding him with a single hand, I shifted slightly, reached out to the side table with my free palm, and picked up a pair of enormous tailor’s shears. Around thirty centimetres long. Beautifully forged. Heavy. Sharp. One of those big, curved pairs with thick steel blades and wide handles designed for cutting through folded wool

and leather.

I turned the huge scissors in my hand, angling the sharp point towards me. Then I looked down at him. His eyes were wide now, wild with confusion and fear and something else he didn’t want to admit. Still holding him steady with one hand, oh-so-close to my left breast, I slowly pressed the tip of the steel blade into the upper curve of my other mound, just above the areola and just below the line of my vest. Right into my glorious, firm, most feminine, flesh.

And then I pushed. Of course the sharp point of the metal didn’t penetrate or even scratch me. It didn't even pierce my indestructible vest. Trapped between the unstoppable force of my slender arm pushing and the immovable object of my big, weighty, round breast, the scissors screamed in surrender and bent. And then they began to crumple. The steel blades twisted in on themselves, deforming, warping, curling outward like a strange flower trying to bloom.

The metal handles trembled in my grip as I kept applying pressure, slowly, deliberately, until they too collapsed under my strength and invulnerability, the whole tool now moulding itself like soft clay around my perfect breast until I reduced it to nothing more than a rounded, contorted bowl, its inner curve perfectly shaped to the exquisite contours of my mound.

I held it in place for another second. Then I pulled it from my chest and turned it around for him to see. A concave steel sculpture, indented in the middle where my nipple had pressed into it through my thin vest. Satisfied he'd had a good look at it, I opened my fingers and let it clatter loudly to the floor. A little souvenir of my extraordinary beauty and power. I looked down at Maranelli, still holding him less than a finger-width from my other breast, and spoke directly into his eyes.

"I can do the same thing, even more easily, to your skull." I informed him, calmly. He whimpered. Then, with no ceremony at all, I lifted him away from me and dropped him back to the floor. He stumbled slightly when his feet landed, managing to steady himself on a tabletop and stop himself collapsing in a heap.

"I’ll be back in twenty-four hours," I said flatly. "I expect you to have something ready for me to try on. Something exquisite."

He was still trying to steady himself, one hand gripping the edge of the cutting table, the other hanging limp by his side. His breathing was shallow, his forehead was shining and his lips were slightly parted, as if he was about to speak but couldn’t form any actual words. And then, finally, the speech part of his brain sparked back into life and he begged "Please… please don’t kill me!"

I tilted my head slightly, not answering. Just watching him. "I… I meant you no disrespect," he stammered, his voice shrill and desperate now. "I just… I want to live. That’s all. Please!"

I said nothing. And I did even less, remaining utterly motionless. I made sure my face was expressionless. Cold, even. So that he could see his pleading words weren't moving me. I think it may have been sheer panic that made him change tactic, made him reach for the only card he had remaining. Whatever it was, he blurted "My brother’s in government! The Deputy Mayor! He knows people in the national offices. Important people! If something were to happen

to me…" he trailed off, clearly too scared to commit to an actual threat, leaving me to work out the implications of his familial connections.

For a couple of seconds, I kept up the stone-faced statue act. Then I allowed my lips to stretch, very slightly, into a smirk. "Oh," I said, quietly, my tone emotionless. "That’s interesting." Something… was it hope…? flickered in his eyes, momentarily competing with the terror that had been there since I’d crushed his sewing machine.

"But it changes nothing," I continued, smoothly, definitively. "What I said stands. The dress, the deadline…" I paused for a moment as I watched the flicker in his gaze fade and die. Then I completed the list "…and the threat to your skull." Then, as if flicking a switch, I gave him a smile. A full, bright, cheerful grin. "See you tomorrow!" And without another word, I turned on my heel, strolled casually over the ruined remains of the door, stepped daintily over the bent "Closed" sign, and walked out into the morning sun.

Turning the corner into the alley, I was pleased to find it deserted. I shot straight up into the air, too fast for my T-shirt which I noticed was scorched and smouldering as I was already descending towards home. I was excited about my new dress, of course. But there was something else clawing its way to the forefront of my mind. It had been so easy to persuade Maranelli to do my bidding. As I landed, perfectly onto my toes on an upstairs balcony, a thought occurred to me. The dress-maker's politician brother wouldn't be any more able to resist me or refuse me than his sibling was. An obedient contact in the local government, one with national connections as well, might be a useful tool for business. I should see if he's available for a little chat sometime. I'm sure I could convince him to make room for me in his schedule. Just as I

convinced his brother to rearrange his.

By the time I strolled into my mansion through the balcony doors, the last wisps of smoke were still trailing off what remained of my T-shirt. I peeled it off with one hand, watching the scorched fabric flake and crumble in places, little blackened threads falling like dead ash to the marble floor. I dropped the rest of it in the bathroom bin without a second thought. That was the fifth top I’ve lost in as many days. At this rate, I’m going to need more than one dressmaker working full-time, just to keep me modest. Not that I need to be modest… I'm just increasingly convinced that I'd like to have the choice.

I stepped into my bedroom, opened the closet, and stared at my options. Nothing inspired me. I wanted to wear the gown that Maranelli hadn’t even made yet. Something elegant and terrifying. Something worthy. Instead, I reached for a plain grey sweatshirt I’d found in one of the upstairs rooms the day before. Probably Tony’s. It hung loose at the waist but clung to my chest like shrink wrap. I pulled it on over my vest anyway and took another look in the mirror. To be honest, I wasn’t sure it was any less attention-grabbing than if I just went out in my magic vest. The sweatshirt concealed my cleavage, sure. But in doing so, it only emphasised the size and shape of what it was failing to hide. The fabric stretched tight over the upper slopes of my breasts, creating two perfectly smooth hemispheres under the material, like twin planets. The dramatic outline of my nipples was muted by my superhuman undergarment, but not completely hidden. And the weight, the position, the astonishing, gravity-mocking uplift… all of it was obvious. If anything, I considered, the absence of visible skin just amplified the mystery. Made it more hypnotic. More impossible to ignore. Still, the neckline was high enough that it at least pretended to be modest. That had to count for something.

With the sweatshirt, I might cause maybe one or two less traffic collisions.

I checked the time. 9:45 a.m. Toto Carlucci was due in fifteen minutes. And, surely, after what happened at the bus depot, he wouldn't dare be late. I gave myself one final glance in the mirror. The sweatshirt really did look good on me. Better than it had any right to. I'm just so beautiful, so perfect, that even an old man's plain sweatshirt looks amazing on me. I smiled. Not long now until I had my new dress, but for now… this would have to do.

I was just heading downstairs when I heard the phone ring. I picked it up the receiver and answered with a flat, “Yes?”

I recognised the breathless panting before the caller confirmed his identity. "Milena… it's Toto…" What followed was a mess of half-words and apologies punctuated with gasps for air. It took him a moment to line his thoughts up into a sentence. He sounded like he’d been running for miles. "I… I’m so sorry. I had to travel to the capital last night to arrange the paperwork for the transfer and some of it wasn't ready to collect until dawn. I’ve been on the road all morning. I’m heading back now. I’ve got everything with me, ready for signing." There was a pause as he caught his breath. I, of course, remained silent.

"I… um… would you mind terribly if we met at the bank instead? The one on Via Sant’Andrea. It’s one of the assets we’re transferring, so I thought it made sense. I've told the staff to prep for signing. Private room. Security.

Everything’s been arranged." He was clearly struggling hard to sound calm, but the speed of his breathing gave him away. He sounded nervous. Scared even. That pleased me.

I paused, letting the silence breathe, toying with his fear. Then I said simply, "Fine."

He hesitated, and I was sure I could hear the relief in his response "R-really? That’s… that’s great."

"But Toto," I spoke softly, firmly, not bothering to mask the steel in my voice. "Our meeting is still scheduled for ten."

"Yes," he blurted. "Yes. I’m… I’m nearly there. Just a few minutes away. I'm just-"

"Good," I said, cutting him off. "Because I don’t like waiting." and then I hung up without waiting for a reply.

At 9:55, I stepped out onto the balcony again, lifted gently into the morning air, and aimed myself toward town. The bank wasn’t far. A slow, lazy flight, keeping my speed down as low as my patience permitted to preserve my sweatshirt, took me barely three minutes. I dropped altitude as I reached the district, drifting unseen between buildings, eventually settling, with my now- perfected control, as light as a feather, on the roof of an insurance office facing my destination.

The bank was an old marble affair, all columns and gold leaf, with a heavy steel frame around the double doors. Very traditional. Very secure. Or at least, very secure if you don't have superpowers… I took a quick look around, saw no pedestrians nearby, and dropped silently into the alley beside the building. From there, I strolled out into daylight again, rounding the corner to the front entrance. As I approached, one of the doors opened, not automatically, but by hand. A tall, well-dressed man in a black suit, probably mid-forties, all gelled hair and nervous pride, was standing there, holding the entrance open like a valet at a five-star hotel.

"Good morning," he said, bowing his head deeply. I didn’t respond, or acknowledge his door-opening services. I simply walked past him without breaking stride. Inside, I saw more like him. Men in suits. Some younger, some older. All male. All clean-shaven, freshly pressed, and standing in quiet formation along the corridor like goons trying very hard to look like bank workers. Carlucci’s men. Obviously.

I had to suppress a smile. If they were Carlucci's men, then, very soon, once the papers were all signed in fact, they would be my men. The thought excited me, even though I really don't need guards. Or troops. Or muscle. The only muscle that counts is already wrapped in my perfect skin and capable of breaking every bone in every one of their bodies with a shrug. But I found I liked the atmosphere and the sense of occasion generated by so many nervous extras. The silent deference. The little nods and bows. It was theatre, and I was the big star that everyone had come to see.

Each man I passed offered some tiny gesture of politeness. A subtle incline of the head. A soft "Signorina." A whisper of "Welcome." One of the older ones,

greying temples, pinstripe suit, thin black folder in hand, stepped forward and gave a small half-bow.

"We have prepared a room for you and Mr. Carlucci," he said carefully. "Please be so kind as to follow me." Again, I said nothing, but wordlessly followed as invited.

The corridor he led me down was silent and wide, with deep carpet underfoot that muted our footsteps. The walls were lined with framed photographs and heavy wood panels, the kind of décor that screams wealth without imagination. I took in every detail, every expensive rug, every polished brass fitting, knowing that, by the end of the hour, all of it would be mine.

The corridor turned sharply and ended in a thick steel door with a biometric lock and three polished bolts the size of my wrist. The man leading me paused, punched in a short code, and placed his thumb on a scanner. There was a muted series of clunks and hisses, hydraulics disengaging, latches rotating, bolts sliding. Then he grasped the chrome handle with both hands and hauled it slowly open. I realised I was about to be led into the vault, and for a moment, I was surprised. I had assumed we’d be meeting in some private corner office. A place with a leather sofa and a stack of contracts.

Maybe a mounted painting or two. Instead, I was being shown into the most secure and secret part of the building. The sanctum. Not just a private room, but a stronghold where the very purpose of the bank, the assets themselves, were stored. I liked it.

As I stepped through the heavy doorway, my footfall shifting from carpet to

cool, polished steel, I took in the surroundings with the detached, commanding interest that seems to become more and more natural to me entering a new space. The set up Carlucci's men had arranged was wonderfully decadent. And fabulously well-staged. The vault’s walls were lined in matte steel, broken occasionally by small, inlaid panels or reinforced conduits. At the far end of the room stood a low, circular table, not metal, not utility, but antique, carved, wood. Vanished, lacquered, polished and elegant. Either side of it, two high-backed chairs had been placed, facing one another. In the middle of the table sat a fine leather folio embossed in gold, a pair of expensive pens, and a glass decanter next to two long-stemmed crystal goblets. All-in-all, the tableau was fit for two world leaders about to sign an historic peace treaty.

But it wasn’t the wine glasses or the chairs that really caught my attention. It was what stood in the far-left corner of the metal room. Steel shelves, neatly bolted to the vault wall. And on those shelves, gold. In small bars. Stacked.

Labelled. I counted at least twelve of them, glinting softly in the recessed lighting. The presence of the precious element thrilled me. It wasn't so much the value they represented in money, or wealth. It was the way, stacked like that, they screamed "power". Power you could touch and heft. Power that was about to become mine. I felt the corners of my mouth lift slightly.

The room was almost perfect. In fact, there was only one key – temporary – piece missing. I turned to face the older man who had shown me into the chamber.

"Where’s Carlucci?" I asked, coldly.

He bowed slightly. "Mr. Carlucci is mere moments away, Signorina," he informed me, obsequiously. "If you would care to take a seat, might I offer you a glass of wine, selected in your honour from Mr. Carlucci's exclusive personal cellar." In silence, I sat down slowly in one of the opulent chairs, crossing my legs with perfect elegance.

"Go ahead," I told him. He lifted the bottle with reverence, like a priest preparing an altar. "A Brunello. A 1985. Decanted and served at 17 degrees," he murmured, as though in prayer, pouring with careful, sommelier-like precision. I raised an eyebrow, took the glass by the stem, and swirled it once, letting the wine catch the light before inhaling the bouquet. Instantly, I knew that this was something exquisite, something very special. It raised the spectacle and the theatre of the setting to a new level of class. I was both impressed and delighted, but I didn't reveal either as I took the first small sip and let the millions of flavours unpack on my tongue whilst as many scents filled my nostrils. There was no-one on Earth better equipped to appreciate the wine, and I stretched out the moment as long as I could, luxuriating in it.

"If there’s anything else you require…" the bank-worker-turned-wine-waiter began.

"Only Mr. Calucci's presence," I said, flatly, lifting the glass to my lips once more. He understood that he was being dismissed and stepped backwards three paces before turning. I didn’t watch him leave. I had closed my eyes to concentrate on savouring the wine. A few seconds later, when I re-opened them, he was gone, and I was alone with the magnificent luxury of the vault. Marble. Leather. Crystal. Steel. And, of course, gold. I took another, slow sip of wine.

I was halfway through my third sip when I heard it. A sudden, low groan. Metal against metal… hydraulic pressure The vault door! At first, I didn’t

move. I didn’t even blink. Then I turned my head, just slightly, to get the visual confirmation. The thick steel door, the one that had been left open behind me… was moving. Inward. Closing. For a moment, I felt the flicker of genuine surprise. Not panic. I'd say it was disbelief. I felt myself blink. Surely not!

Surely, Toto Carlucci wasn’t that stupid! I stayed in the chair, silent, watching the edge of the door creep across the threshold. My first thought was that it had to be some kind of mistake. But I dismissed that. This was actually someone's idea of a plan. A move. I almost laughed. Did they really think they could trap me?

There were almost too many ways I could defeat the doomed scheme instantly. With my superspeed, I could’ve been out of that chair, across the room and reaching the edge of the vault door before a human brain had time to register. I could’ve held it open with a single finger. Or just leaned my shoulder or a single toe against it and let the motors burn themselves out trying to push against my unyielding body. I could’ve used the air in my lungs to blast the door back open, probably even ripping it off its enormous hinges in the process.

But, instead, I did nothing. I merely sat there, stationary, statuesque, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, my fingers wrapped delicately around the wine glass stem, and semi-interestedly watched the enormous steel slab seal itself with a mechanical sigh, and dramatic clank, shutting me in. There were no alarms or flashing lights. The vault just closed. Still, I didn’t move. I took another sip of the superb wine and grinned as the fabulous sensations entertained my super-senses. They thought they had activated a surprise trap.

But I'd already long since realised that they'd achieved nothing beyond gifting me an unexpected opportunity. A chance to make a point. I raised the glass again, brought it to my lips, and took another long, luxurious sip.

A faint mechanical tick caught my attention. No-one else would have heard it, of course, but it was clear as day to me. I turned my head unhurriedly and let my gaze drift across the steel-lined walls until I spotted the source of the sound. A clock. Mounted on the wall. Large, round and modern with a matte white face, thick black hour and minute hands and bold numerals. As I studied it, the thin red hand marking seconds swept past the top of the dial. It was exactly one minute past ten. Sixty seconds after I was supposed to have met Toto. He was officially late. I tilted my head slightly, amused, and smirked, a small, delighted curl stretching the edges of my mouth outwards.

In a single smooth motion, I stood. Calm. Graceful. No rush, no urgency. The chair shifted back slightly, its legs scraping a little on the floor as I rose to my full height until I was standing beside the elegant table like a model in position to begin strutting her runway. I looked down at myself, spotting my sweatshirt and shorts. Thinking of the T-shirt I'd already ruined this morning, I quickly realised that neither of the two items of clothing stood any chance of surviving what I was planning. Rather than write them off, I decided to preserve them. Reaching for the hem of the sweatshirt first, I gripped the fabric at either side and peeled it up, over, and off. The cotton dragged tight across the curves of my breasts, catching briefly on the upward swell, before surrendering. My hair shook free as the shirt came off, loose strands falling across the skin of my now bare shoulders like ripples of silk on silk.

I folded the top with care, taking my time. Then came the shorts. I unfastened

them with one slow flick of my fingers, letting the waistband loosen, then shimmied them down the length of my thighs. My upper legs, smooth and flawless, emerged from the denim like sculpture revealed from wrapping. They slid off my hips and down to my ankles before I stepped cleanly free. Again, I folded them neatly. Then I stacked both garments, placing them on the table beside the bottle of wine. Now, I was wearing nothing but my invulnerable white vest and panties. The only items in the world as resilient as my body itself.

Despite the hydraulic arms, and the thick bolts securing it, the door of the vault seemed the obvious "weak" point. So I ignored it, turning to face the solid steel wall beside it instead. I ran my hands down the sides of my hips once. Slowly. Not to adjust anything. Just to feel the sensation… The amazing luxury of being me. Steel beneath silk. Power beneath beauty. I let both my palms rest on the top curve of my thighs, my thumbs at my sides, my fingers casually lying flat either side of my navel. Then I let my shoulders lean slightly back, just enough to curve my torso so that my amazing, unstoppable chest was magnificently thrust forward. There was no-one else in there to pose for, so I suppose I did it mostly for my own delight. It just seemed… right.

The air inside the vault somehow felt denser, as if reality itself had read my intentions and was bracing. As if the molecules around me had entered a moment of reverent, paralysed awe. I remained perfectly poised, my hands planted on my hips, my back gently arched, my glorious chest proud beneath my white, invulnerable vest. For a second longer, I simply breathed. Not because I needed air, but purely because I wanted to feel the rising and falling of my breasts. The subtle tension of muscle beneath velvet-smooth skin. The wonderful, erotic, feeling of endless, ready, superhuman power.

Then, I moved. My right foot lifted, gracefully, slowly, like the opening note of a symphony. The ball of my foot hovered for a fraction of a second above the steel floor, before I lowered it, deliberately, luxuriously, until the sole made contact. The sound it made was almost imperceptible to normal ears, a soft kiss of skin against polished metal. But to me, it rang like a starting gun. I was in motion. Walking. Strolling. I didn’t stomp or march because I didn’t need to. I strutted forward, elegantly, with the confidence of a goddess who knows that the world will yield to her. I took another step. Then another. Each one more glorious than the last, my pace steady, certain.

My body moved with flawless symmetry. The line of my shoulders. The swing of my hips. The gentle vertical shift of my breasts as I walked, contained, but not restrained, inside the snug perfection of my vest. The tiny brush of muscle tightening and releasing beneath my thighs. Every step I took an act of declaration, carrying me closer and closer to the wall with its reinforced plates, riveted seams and brushed metal finish. The arrogance of man-made steel defences. I continued to walk, not slowing even imperceptibly. This was my moment, my announcement to the world. I was delivering a message: I do not slow down. Not for metal. Not for concrete. Not for architecture or physics or men. I could feel my nipples warming and swelling in anticipation, tenting the magical material of my vest.

I didn’t lunge toward the wall. I let my stride, my rhythm, carry me to it. The moment of initial touch was far too composed, too precise, too luxuriously engineered to be described as a crash. It was a meeting. A coming together. The deliberate union of divine skin and inferior alloy. My body advanced, flawless and steady, until the swell of my left breast, pushed slightly further forward by the subtle arch of my back, made the first contact with the vault wall. The instant was exquisite. There was no bang. No clang. Merely the tiniest metallic creak. It was as though the brushed steel surface could not

wait to yield to the imperious curve of my breast. It seemed to collapse beneath the warmth of my perfect body, the material responding like a enraptured worshipper, rather than a supposedly-impenetrable barrier.

My stride did not break. I took another step, and the full, magnificent weight of my chest began to press forward, refusing point-blank to surrender, the invincibility of my body immediately triumphing as the wall of the chamber instantly gave way and began to deform. It was subtle at first. A soft dimple in the metal, centred exactly where the tip of my breast now pressed forward.

The geometry was unearthly. A perfect concavity, shaped by my sheer superiority. The vault never stood a chance. It had been built to withstand explosives, fire, pressure, drills, time itself. But nothing, it seems, has ever been built to withstand me.

The brushed finish began to ripple outwards in slow, reluctant waves, like a gelatinous lake touched by a goddess’s toe. A groan murmured through the vault’s supports, a steadily growing chorus of submission. My right breast joined the assault now, evenly, perfectly, the symmetry of my advance mirrored by a second dimple forming, directly beside the first. Twin impressions of my feminine perfection. I smiled as I begun my next step, the speed of my walk unchanging. I wasn't feeling myself being challenged or severely tested, wasn't straining, wasn't struggling. It was simply the crushing inevitability of my body advancing into matter, rewriting physics with every millimetre. The metal really did try to resist, and that was a really delicious sensation. My nipples were leading now, stiff with arousal, pushing through the vest like pressure points of living diamond, only so much harder. I could feel them beginning to tunnel their own deeper recesses into the steel, reshaping the vault’s armour with exquisite anatomical detail. The metal didn't shatter, it softened. Bent. Accommodated me. Gave in. Because that’s what the world must do.

I continued forward. By now, the entire upper third of my body was pressing into the wall, my chest fully enveloped by deformed steel, my shoulders beginning to sink into the cold metal embrace. And yet I felt no pressure, no slowing. Only the delicious sensation of my power and the material's failure. My next step brought my right leg forward. My sole stroked the floor delicately, just a fraction of a second before my foot reached the edge of the wall. My toes, elegant, pretty, flawless and, of course, impossibly strong, carved into the base of the steel. The wall offered a slight, shuddering protest. But it had no option. That part of the vault simply began to reshape. To allow the foot and ankle of a goddess to pass. I felt the cool steel wrap around it like a thick liquid. Still, it did not feel like I was forcing my way through. It felt more like being worshipped by the steel. The wall was re-moulding around me.

An instant later, it had to contend with my thigh as well. My glorious, sculpted, silken thigh. It advanced with the same pace as my foot. And the moment it kissed the metal, the vault's fate was sealed further still. The groan as the firm round flesh of my upper leg pushed forward was slightly different to the others. Longer. Shriller. A protest cry that echoed through the structure, as if the entire chamber wanted to express its helpless, agonised humiliation. I kept walking, my stride unchanged, my hips now joining the assault. My wide, sweeping curves of feminine power. Like the rest of me, divine in appearance and in invincibility.

As the gentle outward profile of my hipbone began to meet the barrier, the vault gave another deep, wrenching sigh. The steel, already unrecognisably deformed by my breasts and shoulders, began to buckle lower down now. The centre of the wall was becoming a tribute to the sublime shape of my

body. I was sculpting it as I moved, turning alloy into my clay with nothing more than presence and momentum. My abs, tight and beautiful and eternally hard beneath satin skin, started to enter the reshaped cavity too. I sensed the faintest brushing of cold steel across the perfection of my stomach. My waist glided forward. The steel did its best to embrace me. But it couldn't stop me. Couldn't slow me. Couldn't make me adjust my stride even a millimetre. It could only deform and yield for me.

And through all this, my nipples kept leading. They hadn't yet breached the far side. But I could feel the steel thinning, thanks to my superhuman senses of touch and hearing. It would surrender entirely. Soon. There was something impossibly intimate about it. Thrilling… arousing. Wonderful. I smiled again, my face inside the wall now. Still advancing.

The steel was thick. That much was obvious. But thickness, resistance, opposition… none of those concepts really apply to me any more. The vault wall felt dense, yes. Heavy. But not even stubborn. I would say… "initially reluctant". But now even that had slipped away. The deeper I pressed, the more it felt like I was no longer conquering the wall, but seducing it. My stride continued. Effortless. Regal. The sensation was unlike anything else. The coldness of the steel, the groan of its defeat, the shuddering echo through the entire vault around me, contrasted with the warm, delicious, throbbing certainty rising inside my body as I felt the world surrender to it. I saw myself as divinity in motion. The metal no longer felt like metal. It was becoming soft, yielding. Like ice cream, I thought, beginning to melt on contact with my skin. The friction had gone. The pressure had gone. There was only the sensation of my body carving, melting… almost gliding through, still in that same perfect stride.

And then… something glorious. It happened in an instant, but I savoured every vibration of it. The resistance across the tips of my breasts began to vanish. The sharp little peaks of arousal at the centre of my glorious mounds were no longer simply pressing, they were penetrating. The steel membrane, thinned and warped by my advance, finally tore apart where my nipples pressed forward, unstoppable twin bullets of feminine invincibility. There was a high metallic shriek as the vault wall finally burst. Twin punctures. The sound echoed like applause. My nipples, stiff and glorious under my vest, pierced through to the other side of the wall and claimed the open air beyond. I didn’t slow to celebrate the moment. I just kept walking.

Another half-step, and the soft, unstoppable upper slopes of my breasts followed through. The crumpled metal, desperate to hold shape, tried to cling to the impossible roundness, but the pressure of my motion pushed it back with no more effort than brushing a sheet off a bed. The thick plates bent, groaned, then rolled away, deforming into outward-facing petals of surrender as the rest of my magnificent chest broke through into daylight. I could only imagine the view from the corridor… an eruption of soft white vest fabric bulging through a wall of steel, the firm weight and shape of my breasts and nipples unmistakable, undeniable amidst the deformed, tortured metal. My stride continued. The vault wall was no longer a barrier. It was becoming a memory. But still, I did not slow my stride. And still, I advanced.

The rest of me followed my chest. My waist, slim and flawless, glided forward, carving its own sensual channel through the thick vault wall as easily as the proverbial hot knife through butter. The buckling metal clung desperately to my torso for a moment longer, as if the steel itself had become reluctant to let me go. But the moment I felt my hips begin to swell against it, there was no more doubt. The vault wall was finished. It didn’t shatter. It didn’t explode. It surrendered. Completely. As I took my next step, the steel couldn’t even

pretend to matter any longer. It disintegrated. The core of the wall ruptured outward around me, like a failed dam. Metal peeled and splintered, in deformed waves, each of the countless erupting fragments a testament to the irresistible superiority of my body. As through brushed aside by my body, my power, the pieces of shattered steel, some sharp, some curling, some incandescent with heat from the pressure of my passage, were thrown violently into the corridor beyond. A burst of jagged defeat, like a final release…

The air filled instantly with the scent of scorched metal and blood. I heard screams. Gurgling cries. The hideous tearing sound of hot shrapnel slicing through human flesh. It seems quite a few of Carlucci’s well-dressed men had been standing too close to the vault when I emerged. They weren’t standing any more. One had been impaled through the chest by a strip of buckled metal. Two more were sliced open, one screaming, the other already silent as he bled out. Another lay writhing on the floor, his suit smoking, his cheek melted away by a splash of liquefied steel. I noticed them in the periphery of my vision, but I didn't turn my head to study them. My eyes remained forward. My lips remained closed. My posture remained perfect. My stride did not change. It had not changed when I'd first encountered the metal wall, and it didn't change now as I began walking through air once more. My vest and panties, untouched by the heat, unmarked by the debris, remained pristine, as did every square centimetre of flawless flesh not covered by my brief underwear. I walked into the steel perfect and walked out of it exactly the same.

Stepping through the last of the crumpled rim of the breach, the motion of my thighs effortlessly brushed aside the still-glowing petals of ruined vault wall. The corridor's temperature must have spiked from the molten metal. The few surviving men were sheened in perspiration. I quite liked that… being the

reason for the heat. At that moment, I realised, I was literally hotness personified. Behind me, the vault groaned. Around me, men gasped and whimpered and died. Beneath me, the plush carpet was smouldering from the radiant warmth of my passing. The vault that had been intended as my prison was now a monument to my power. And still, my pace didn’t change.

Some of the men who hadn't been killed were seriously, but almost certainly not fatally, injured. I knew none of them would ever forget the past few seconds. Generously, I decided to let them know why I had just walked through the wall of a closed bank safe, killing quite a few of their colleagues in the process.

"I’ve waited long enough," I pronounced, deadpan, as I continued to walk. My words hung in the hot, blood-scented air like a divine verdict. One of the few men still breathing, his white shirt torn and stained deep red from a long, deep gash in his flank, was directly in my path. His eyes met mine for a moment. That was his final mistake. His limbs froze. His mouth opened as if to plead, but nothing came out. It didn’t matter. I didn’t stop. Didn’t swerve.

Didn’t slow. I let my right hand rise, effortless and precise, and flicked him aside with a casual motion of my fingers as I passed. There was a sound like a meat sack hitting a wall. Which is exactly what it was. His body travelled at a diagonal angle, struck the far side of the corridor with a wet crunch, then dropped to the floor like dirty laundry.

Another survivor, this one younger and leaner, was the next to find himself in my path. He tried to scramble away, slipping on his own panic and the scorched carpet, desperate to get beyond my reach. Again, I made no detour. I simply reached out as I approached and caught him by his flailing wrist

without even looking. My fingers closed around his arm and I lifted, still walking forward. His whole body shot up like a rag doll in response to my easy tug, his feet flying off the ground. I rotated my shoulder with all the effort of a dancer brushing hair from her face, and hurled him back over my head. I heard him slam into something hard behind me. A marble column, probably. The expression on my face didn't alter. And still, I did not break the rhythm of my stride.

Having effortlessly cleared my path, my arms were now free, so I brought my hands back to my hips, elbows wide, owning the space I moved through. I was three steps from the outer wall of the bank. Who needs a doorman – or even a door for that matter – when they're super? Not me! The exterior wall loomed ahead. Old masonry. Reinforced brick. Maybe concrete behind it and who knew what else. It didn’t matter. Compared to the vault, it was paper.

Compared to me, it was less than nothing. And so, I continued. I didn't brace or try to lead with my shoulder. I just walked.

My breasts met the wall and there was a low, soft rumble. Then a crack. Then everything gave way. Brick exploded outward in a fan of crushed red and white fragments. Chunks of concrete were reduced to puffs of powder before they hit the pavement. A portion of the facade of the bank, centuries old, crumbled and collapsed into the street. Plaster split. Iron rods bent. I stepped through the wreckage, one leg, then the other, bare and exquisite, descending onto the cobblestones outside. My stride never broke. From the vault, to the corridor, to the city street, there had not been a single stutter or pause.

Behind me, the vault groaned as metal cooled. The corridor smoked. The bank was in ruins. And in front of me… a street. And…

It took me a moment to believe what my eyes were seeing but there he was. Toto Carlucci, clutching a briefcase, red-faced, pouring with sweat, running down that street… not away from the bank as if trying to flee from me, but towards the building, looking for all the world like a man sprinting to an important business appointment for which he was two minutes late. I blinked once to make sure it wasn't an hallucination caused by melting metal or exploding bricks. It wasn't and I smiled at the absurdity of it. Toto Carlucci.

Running straight toward the ruins of the building I had just walked through. It took a moment for my brain to compute it. This was not a man fleeing the vault his men had tried to entomb me in. He was approaching as though he genuinely was a couple of minutes behind schedule. To say that something didn't quite add up would be an understatement. I had questions that needed answers.

I moved. At superspeed. To the rest of the world, it would’ve looked like I became a momentary blur stretching from the damaged wall of the bank, up the street all the way to where I would have "re-soldified" standing directly in front of Toto. He let out an involuntary screech of shock when he saw me, just in time to stop himself sprinting into me. His eyes grew huge in shock and he actually staggered backward to avoid colliding with me. His foot caught on an uneven cobblestone, and for a second he looked like he was about to topple sideways. I could’ve let him fall, but instead I reacted like lightning, my arm flashing out so I could catch him gently by the collar. His shoes scuffed awkwardly. His cheeks were crimson. He was dripping in sweat and gasping for breath. I removed my hand once he was standing more or less steadily again.

"Milena!" he choked. His eyes were truly enormous. "Thank God. I thought I wasn't going to make it in time."

"And yet, here you are, running in the street, seconds after your men tried to seal me inside a bank vault," I observed, drily.

"What?" he responded. If he was acting, he deserved an Oscar. He seemed genuinely perplexed. "I asked them to prepare a table for the signing in the vault. And to offer you a glass of the very best wine from my personal collection. I was racing to join you! I swear on my father's memory that I gave no orders for anyone to seal you in there!"

"How strange," I commented. "Because I'm certain that big door can't close itself. And it did shut, Toto, with me inside. I had to find my own way out."

Carlucci swallowed hard. He seemed to be looking over my shoulder at the busted wall and trying to make out details of the chaos and carnage inside the bank. "Milena…" he looked me straight in the eyes, "I don't know what happened in there. I've been racing back from the capital with the documents for us to sign. One of my men must’ve decided to act without my say-so.

Please believe me," he was pleading now, "if the plan was to try and trap you, I wouldn't be here, with all the paperwork in my briefcase." He dropped to the ground, and placed the case on the street. For a second I thought he was about to kneel to beg for mercy, but he began fumbling with the catches on the briefcase. He managed to open it and pulled out a thick pile of papers. "Look!" he appealed, "Every document you requested. Every transfer. Signed by the lawyers. Stamped. Ready for your signature. I didn’t betray you. I wouldn’t! I was late, but I came straight here. The plan was always to meet.

The room, the vault… it was meant to be symbolic, I… I thought you'd appreciate it. But I didn’t order that door to be closed. I swear!"

I let my eyes drift down over the papers, then back up to his face. He was practically vibrating with anxiety. The sweat was soaking through his shirt. The stench of his terror, subtle but sharp, hit my nostrils. I had to make a decision: blame him for the failed attempt at imprisoning me and administer a fitting punishment, in the process losing a potentially very useful business manager… or… in the absence of any clinching evidence to the contrary, believe his claims of innocence. I did not reveal my verdict immediately, preferring to, in the most literal sense of the expression, let him sweat for a bit.

He put the papers back into the briefcase and re-closed it, picking it up by the handle once again. And I mirrored him, picking him up by the collar with one hand. I'm sure he felt much lighter to me than the case felt to him. Holding him in front of me, with his feet about twenty centimetres from the ground, I turned around and strolled back towards the shattered side of the bank, carrying him with me like a fashion accessory. He didn't even try to resist or squirm. He did, however, gasp loudly, once when he saw his dead and wounded men littering the corridor of the bank as I brought him back inside, and a second time when he spied the huge torn steel wall of the safe. I retraced my steps of a few moments before, bringing him back into the vault and dropping him unceremoniously into one of the two chairs.

Whilst he tried to recover his breath, I calmly picked up my folded sweatshirt and shorts, and pulled them both in turn back over my vest and panties. I could tell that, despite everything, despite his terror and shock, despite the smell of burning and blood, he still found himself reacting to the sight of me as I dressed. I couldn't help but chuckle at the power of my beauty alone as I took the seat opposite Toto, leaning forward as I sat, daring him to steal a glance at my thrust-out chest.

He was still blinking, trying to find his breath, still fighting so hard not to let his gaze drop to the front of my sweatshirt. I picked up my glass of wine and nodded lazily at the briefcase in his hand before taking another delightful sip. "The documents, Toto," I prompted him. That snapped him into motion. He fumbled with the catches, pulled out the thick sheaf of papers, and began laying them out one by one on the table between us. He was trying to act like a man in control of a complex business transaction. But his hands were shaking. His eyes kept darting to the ruins behind me. To the molten tear in the vault wall. To the scattered bodies and blood trails in the corridor beyond.

I unhurriedly refilled my wine glass. He offered me the first page, a pen already placed beside it. I took the implement carefully in my hand so as not to crush it, and signed with a flourish. He immediately swapped it for the next. And the next. I took my time, occasionally making him wait while I sipped more wine between signatures. It really was excellent, to the extent that I felt he deserved complimenting. "This wine is superb, Toto," I told him, lifting the crystal glass to my lips. "Rich. Complex. Superbly aged."

He seemed relieved by my words. I drained the last of the second goblet and set it down with a quiet clink, catching his eye as I did so. I maintained that pupil-to-pupil link as I informed him, my tone barely changed from when I had been praising the wine, "But we still have some outstanding matters to address. Two… infractions… that I cannot allow to pass… uncommented… on." I paused, watching confusion spread over his features. "Give me your left hand, Toto," I commanded him, softly. He hesitated, but obeyed. He'd seen enough by that point to know it was pointless doing anything else. I'm sure he knows that if I wanted him dead, he'd already be with the angels. And his father…

He was trembling slightly as he held out his palm towards me. Very gently I took it in my right hand, like a lover might hold her man's hand over a restaurant table. I kept my voice soft, almost sweet. "Firstly, Toto, there is the issue of your men trying to lock me in this vault. I believe you when you say you didn't order it. Your men were disloyal to you. Which means they were disloyal to me. And that cannot remain unpunished."

With the minimum needed movement, I adjusted my hold on his hand so that the pads of my thumb and index digit where either side of his little finger, just below the knuckle, near his palm. And then I squeezed. Slowly. Keeping my eyes locked on his as I did so, seeing the pain streak across his irises, his face contort in agony. With my super-senses, it was as though I could actually feel his desperate battle not to scream, to try and retain a scrap of masculine pride and dignity. His back arched. His legs kicked once beneath the table. He clamped his jaw shut so tightly I thought he might break his own teeth but he just about managed to suppress his cry, allowing us both to hear the wonderful damp crunch as I amputated his pinkie. The remains of the digit fell to the table, next to the pile of signed documents.

He shuddered, eyes wet, as I took his bleeding hand back in my grasp. "And," I informed him, the tone of my voice still calm, still gentle, still unbothered, "there is also the problem of you arriving at our scheduled meeting two minutes late…"

I barely even started moving my hand into position when his courage failed him. "Please, Milena…" he pleaded. I slowed my movements, drawing it out, staring into his terrified, helpless, pleading eyes as I leisurely, effortlessly,

crushed the base of his ring finger, enjoying the sounds of him suffering and breaking until my thumb met my forefinger, and his severed digit plopped down next to its companion.

"Count yourself lucky I'm not taking the whole hand," I said quietly, releasing his blood-soaked palm. He stared in shock as the crimson liquid poured down his wrist, staining the sleeve of his shirt. In contrast, the smaller amount of his blood on my two fingers seemed to accumulate into oversized drops and fall away from my skin in a single splatter onto the floor, leaving not a trace on me. "Don't drip on the paperwork," I cautioned him, as if warning a child not to spill their drink. Then I signed the final document.

"I'm so glad we've come to an understanding Toto," I smiled. "I feel confident that we are going to enjoy an excellent working relationship going forward from here. Now, file these documents appropriately, then fix the mess and repair the wall and the safe in my bank," I instructed him, coldly, as I stood up. "If anything should happen to my gold," I nodded in the direction of the small slabs of the precious element on the shelf, "I will hold you personally responsible, and it won't be a finger…" I just could not stop myself grinning as I completed the warning, "…it'll be a different part of you altogether. One that seems to like me a lot." And with that, I walked out of my bank, leaving Carlucci to deal with the mess and the paperwork, this time choosing to exit via the main doors, carefully making sure I did not damage them as I opened them and stepped through to the street. When I strolled around the corner to the alleyway, I found it conveniently empty and took to the sky, headed for home at a sweatshirt-friendly altitude and velocity.

Back home, I padded barefoot through the marble hall, and collapsed

luxuriously onto one of the velvet sofas Uncle Tony so kindly gave me, along with everything else he owned. The fabric sighed beneath me. I closed my eyes for a moment, recalling the taste of the wine and replaying every delicious second of my morning stroll through steel and brick. When I opened them, I reached for the folder I’d left on the side table. A leather-bound ledger, prepared by Carlucci’s team, listing, item by item, every business now under my name. There were a lot of them. Fashion houses. Restaurants.

Warehouses. Shipping firms. Car parks. Something that called itself a "logistics consultancy", whatever the hell that might be. I flicked through the pages, amused by how boring some of them sounded. But the names weren’t the point. It was the principle. All of it, every asset, every floor tile, every terrified employee… now belonged to me.

The sheer scale of it should have been dizzying. A few weeks ago, it definitely would have been. But it isn’t like that at all. It feels… natural. Right. Like the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. Only now it's all been formalised on signed and stamped sheets of paper. Made official. I pictured myself walking into those businesses. The gasps. The stunned silence. The sudden paralysis of men and women alike as I entered their workspace like a goddess descending to walk among mortals. I'm enjoying imagining the sheer panic when they hear the rumours, the stories… from the bus garage and the bank vault… and then find out that I'm their new boss.

And when I stroll in, I'll be wearing Maranelli’s dress, of course. Something that hugs and reveals with style and class. Something that every eye will fall upon and never recover from. Something worthy of me. Maranelli had better deliver. He has no idea how horrific I'm going to make it for him if he lets me down. I'm not the kind of person you disappoint these days. Toto got off lightly, because the wine was that good. And… well… I guess I'm developing a soft spot for him… a bit like a favourite pet. But Maranelli…

Writing down the dress-maker's name has reminded me about his brother. Tony worked hard to have connections in politics, but as I recall, they never lasted… either they died in tragic accidents, or got voted out of office… but a deputy mayor with friends in higher places might prove to be a bit more stable. And possibly influential. At some point, I should pay him a visit, if only to see what he and his kind might have to offer me. Maybe later, after big celebratory lunch at Luigi’s.