A Life in DC Ch.6 [DC Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in DC

Chapter 6 - Harley Quinn

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Vieri’s two days off felt longer than they should have. The house stayed quiet after Selina slipped out the window that last night, but the smell of her—leather, cherry lip gloss, and something that was just her—still hung around the couch and the sheets. He didn’t bother opening windows. He just sat there with a beer, staring at the TV without really seeing it, replaying Montoya’s offer in his head like a looped tape.

By the second night he made the call.

“Detective Montoya? It’s Oronzo. I’m in.”

Her voice on the other end didn’t waste time. “Good. Briefing room, third floor, zero-nine-hundred tomorrow. Bring coffee if you want it to stay hot. We’re starting with what we’ve got on the Queens.”

That was it. No pep talk, no thanks. Just business. Vieri liked that.

The next morning the precinct smelled like burnt coffee and floor wax, same as always. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, nodding at the usual faces. A couple of uniforms gave him the side-eye—word had already spread that the quiet guy from patrol was moving upstairs. He ignored it. He’d ignored worse.

The briefing room smelled like it always did first thing in the morning: stale coffee left too long in the pot, fresh Sharpie ink from the whiteboard markers, old paper from the endless case files, and the faint metallic bite of gun oil that seemed to follow every detective who’d been to the range recently. Underneath it all was the sharp citrus of Renata Montoya’s shampoo—clean, bright, cutting through the heavier precinct odors like a knife.

She was already at the corkboard when Vieri walked in, back to the door, reaching up to pin another grainy still of Harley Quinn laughing outside a burned-out bodega. The stretch pulled her white button-down tight across her shoulders and upper back—broad enough to carry real weight, narrow enough at the waist to make the tuck look effortless. Dark slacks hugged solid hips and long thighs; when she shifted her weight to one leg to reach higher, the fabric stretched just enough to trace the curve of her glutes and the faint outline of black practical underwear beneath. Five-nine, maybe five-ten in the boots. Strong legs, runner’s calves, the kind that came from chasing suspects down alleys and up fire escapes for years.

Her dark hair was scraped into a high, tight ponytail that left the nape of her neck exposed—smooth olive skin, a tiny scar just below the hairline that Vieri had noticed last time but never asked about. Sleeves rolled to mid-forearm showed corded muscle and a few faint freckles from summer stakeouts. The top two buttons of her shirt were open from the way she moved, not on purpose—practical black bra edges visible when she turned, full high breasts shifting slightly under the cotton as she reached. A thin gold chain disappeared into the shadow between them; Vieri caught the glint when she leaned forward. No perfume, just clean skin, citrus shampoo, gun oil, and the warm, subtle musk of someone who’d already done an hour of PT before shift.

She didn’t turn right away.

“Coffee’s on the table,” she said, voice low and steady. “Black, two sugars, right?”

Vieri set the tray down with a soft clack.

“You remembered.”

Montoya finally turned, arms crossing under her chest. The motion lifted her breasts slightly, pulling the shirt snug—full C-cups that filled the cups cleanly, no push-up nonsense, just natural shape and support.

“File says you take it like a grown-up who doesn’t need a latte. Bien hecho.” (Well done.)

He gave a small half-smile.

“¿Todavía hablas mejor que yo?” (You still speak it better than me?)

She snorted softly, the sound warm.

“Desde el Bronx, pendejo. Tú sigues con ese acento pugliese que no se te quita.” (From the Bronx, asshole. You still have that Pugliese accent you can’t shake.)

Vieri shrugged one shoulder.

“Mis viejos no me dejaron olvidarlo.” (My old folks wouldn’t let me forget it.)

Montoya’s eyes flicked over him—quick inventory: shoulders filling out the hoodie, steady stance, no fidgeting. He doesn’t posture, she thought again, same as she had after reviewing the Gilded Cage footage for the third time last night. Doesn’t try to own the room. Just stands there like he already belongs. Calm under pressure, precise shots, no wasted words. Rare. Attractive in a way that had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with competence. She pushed the observation aside. Focus.

“Sawyer’s transfer cleared,” she said, turning back to the board but keeping him in peripheral. “She’ll be here next week. Until then it’s you, me, Allen, Owen, and Glass. Five bodies. We stay lean.”

Vieri dropped into a chair and pulled the top folder toward him. The paper smelled faintly of toner and old filing cabinets.

“¿Cuál es el plan hoy?” (What’s the plan today?)

“Patterns. Safe houses. Money trails.” She paced now—easy rolling stride, hips shifting naturally with each step, boots clicking soft on linoleum. “Harley’s bouncing between East End and the old amusement park docks—three confirmed sightings in ten days. Ivy’s plants popping up in abandoned greenhouses; we’ve got three active sites. Selina…” Montoya’s mouth twitched, the name sour on her tongue. “Still the ghost. Jewelry fences, high-end pawns, then gone. But the three of them moving together? That’s new. And dangerous.”

They spent the next two hours digging in. Montoya paced while she talked, gesturing with her whole body—leaned over the table to tap a red pin on the map, collar gaping just enough for Vieri to catch black bra strap, faint tan line from rooftop surveillance last summer, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing under the cotton. She drifted closer without seeming to notice: hip brushing the arm of his chair when she reached past for a marker, forearm grazing his shoulder when she pointed at a photo, ponytail swinging near enough that the citrus shampoo scent mixed with warm skin and gun oil hit him again.

Vieri kept his eyes on the map, the stills, the reports. But he noticed. She moves like the space is hers, he thought. No performance—just comfortable. Strong shoulders, solid hips, legs that look like they could run down anyone in the city. The way she leaned close wasn’t deliberate; it was just how she worked—animated, focused, body following her words. The open buttons, the way the shirt pulled across her chest when she crossed her arms, the faint sheen of morning sweat at her temples from whatever workout she’d done before dawn—it all registered without him staring. He was still human. He just didn’t let it show.

By ten-thirty she slapped the last folder shut with a decisive smack.

“You still want street-side? Solo recon. East End. Harley’s been spotted twice this week near the old Falcone warehouse. Low profile. Eyes only. No hero shit.”

“Copy that.”

Montoya studied him—dark eyes steady, searching. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t brag. Just nods like the job’s already half done. She liked that more than she wanted to admit.

“You handled the Gilded Cage better than half the SWAT guys I’ve seen,” she said. “Calm. Precise. No cowboy bullshit. I need that again. Don’t get cute.”

“Never do.”

A beat of quiet. Then she gave a short, satisfied nod.

“Bien.” (Good.) “Dismissed. Bring me anything solid and I’ll buy the next round of shitty precinct coffee.”

Vieri stood, gathered the empty cups. As he passed her toward the door, Montoya’s hand landed on his shoulder—brief, firm, warm through the hoodie fabric. Her fingers squeezed once, almost unconsciously, before letting go.

“Bienvenido al equipo, Vieri.” (Welcome to the team, Vieri.)

He felt the warmth linger. Not just the touch—the trust behind it. For the first time in years it didn’t feel like a setup waiting to burn him. It felt solid.

He met her eyes for a second.

“Gracias, Renata.” (Thanks, Renata.)

She let her hand drop, but the small squeeze had been real.

“When it’s just us—Renata. Montoya when the brass is around.”

“Vieri,” he answered. “Not Oliviero unless my nonna’s yelling from the grave.”

A real smile—small, quick, gone in a flash, but it reached her eyes.

“Vieri it is.”

He walked out with the ghost of her hand on his shoulder, citrus shampoo and gun oil still in the air behind him.

Montoya watched the door close, then exhaled slowly.

Shit, she thought. He’s going to be trouble. The good kind.

She turned back to the board, but her mind stayed half on the quiet cop who didn’t posture, didn’t leer, didn’t fill silence with noise—and somehow still managed to take up space in her head without trying.

She shook her head once, hard, and reached for the next photo.

Work first.

Always work first.

The next two days Vieri ran recon the way old-school cops still did it—no drones, no fancy GPS pings, no chatter on the radio that could be intercepted. Plainclothes: faded black hoodie, dark jeans, scuffed boots that blended into any East End sidewalk. The Civic was perfect for it—beat-to-shit silver sedan, dents in all the right places, windows tinted just dark enough to hide his face without screaming “undercover.” He kept the radio off. Just the low hum of the engine, the slap of tires on wet asphalt, and the occasional burst of static from passing police scanners he didn’t bother tuning.

He started each shift at dusk, cruising slow loops through the East End grid: Kane Street to the riverfront, up through the old garment district, back down along the derelict rail yard. Eyes everywhere—alleys choked with overflowing dumpsters, rooftops lined with rusting fire escapes, the flickering neon of pawn shops and check-cashing joints that doubled as high-end fences. Harley’s clown makeup and twin pigtails were a beacon if she wanted attention. Tonight she didn’t.

First night he caught her twice. Once at 20:47—a red-and-black blur vaulting from one rooftop to another near the old textile mill, pigtails whipping like flags in the wind. Too fast for photos, but he marked the time, the block, the wind direction (southwest, 12 mph, carrying her giggle faintly toward him before it vanished). Second sighting at 22:19: a shadow dropping into an alley off Sullivan, landing light on trash bags, then gone. He circled back twice. Nothing. Just the smell of wet cardboard, motor oil, and distant cooking grease from a late-night noodle stand.

He logged everything in a small black notebook he kept in the glovebox:

20:47 – Subject visual, rooftop transit, 400 block Kane. Direction: northbound. No visible backup.

22:19 – Alley drop, Sullivan & 12th. No follow-up movement observed. Weather: overcast, 54°F, light drizzle starting 21:30.

Clean. Precise. Montoya would like that. She’d called him “methodical” once during the briefing, and the word had stuck in his head like a good review.

Second night was quieter. One possible sighting at 21:03—high-pitched laugh echoing off brick near the abandoned bottling plant—but when he doubled back it was just a couple of teenagers messing with a broken fire hydrant. He stayed out until 01:00 anyway, running the same loops, same slow rolls past the same corners. No impatience. Patience was the job.

Third night the rain came back for real. Steady, cold, the kind that soaked through jackets and made streetlights halo. He finished the last pass at 23:15, rolling the Civic into the usual pull-off behind the warehouse district: a narrow service alley between two derelict loading docks, hidden from the main drag by stacked shipping containers. Engine off. Heater ticking as it cooled. Rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers.

He reached for the ignition key to head home.

A gloved hand slid around his throat from the back seat—fast, professional, leather cool against his skin. Before he could react, the other arm hooked under his chin, locking him in place. The giggle that followed was unmistakable: high, delighted, pure Harley.

“Night-night, big boy.”

Chloroform rag pressed over his mouth and nose. Sweet, chemical, dizzying. He tried to buck, to slam an elbow back, but the grip was iron and the fumes were faster. Vision tunneled. The last thing he registered was her breath against his ear—warm, bubblegum-sweet—and then black.

He came to slowly, head throbbing like someone had used it for batting practice. The Civic was still running, heater on low, fan whispering. Parked deeper in some alley he didn’t recognize—tighter walls, graffiti tags he hadn’t seen before, rain sheeting down the windshield in thick rivulets. Streetlight filtered through in weak yellow smears.

And there was a mouth on his cock.

Warm. Wet. Enthusiastic.

Harley Quinn was crammed into the passenger footwell, knees braced on the damp floor mat, black-and-red leather jacket unzipped and hanging open, white tank top shoved up under her tits so the pale undersides showed. His zipper was down, boxers tugged aside, and she already had half his length in her throat—pigtails bobbing in slow, deliberate rhythm, tongue swirling lazy, practiced circles around the swollen head like she had all night to savor it.

She pulled off with a deliberate, wet pop. Thick strings of spit stretched from her glossy lips to the glistening tip, snapping when she licked them clean. Blue eyes—wide, manic, sparkling with that familiar unhinged glee—locked on his.

“Mmm, wakey-wakey, Daddy,” she purred, voice husky from the effort, playful edge still sharp. She dragged her tongue flat from base to crown in one long, slow stripe, humming like she was tasting the world’s most expensive ice cream. “Red and Kitty been fightin’ over this monster like it’s the last slice of pizza at a sleepover. Figured it was my turn to try the special.”

Another long lick—base to tip, then a teasing swirl around the slit that made his hips twitch involuntarily.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, eyes widening in genuine awe. “No wonder they’re obsessed. This thing’s a fuckin’ baseball bat with a heartbeat. Thick, heavy, veiny… mmm. I could worship this all night.”

Her gaze flicked sideways to the tiny spy camera she’d stuck on the dashboard vent earlier—small black dot, red recording light blinking steady. She blew a kiss straight at the lens, then winked.

“Smile, girls. Harley’s joinin’ the club. And I’m playin’ for keeps.”

She dove back down without warning, taking him deeper this time. Throat relaxed, lips stretched wide, nose brushing his pubic bone as she swallowed around him. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the car immediately—gluck-gluck-gluck—rhythmic, obscene, mixed with her happy little moans vibrating straight through his shaft. Spit dripped down his balls, soaking into his jeans. She bobbed faster, cheeks hollowing, one gloved hand wrapping around the base to stroke what her mouth couldn’t reach.

Vieri’s hand found the back of her head—not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through red-and-black strands. His brain was still rebooting, synapses firing slow through the chemical haze and the sudden flood of sensation.

“Harley… the fuck are you—”

She popped off again with a loud, satisfied slurp, grinning around a mouthful of spit that glistened on her chin.

“Shhh. Daddy doesn’t get to talk yet.” She gave the head a loud, playful kiss—loud smack—then dragged her tongue along the underside in a slow tease. “Daddy gets to sit there and let his favorite clown take care of him. Red had her plant-worship hour with all those creepy vines. Kitty had her sneaky rooftop quickies. Me?” She pumped him once with her fist, slow and firm. “I’m makin’ this official.”

She leaned in, lips brushing the tip as she spoke, hot breath washing over him.

“Callin’ you Daddy is my move. Nobody else gets to. Not Kitty with her little purrs, not Red with her fancy flower names. Just me. Makes it special, right? Makes me your special little psycho girl.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She took him deep again—deeper—throat fluttering around him as she hummed a cheerful little tune against his shaft. The vibrations shot straight up his spine. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, thumb pressing just behind them in slow circles. Spit ran in thick rivulets down her chin, dripping onto her pushed-up tank top, darkening the white fabric over her nipples.

Vieri’s head fell back against the seat.

“You’re insane,” he rasped.

Harley pulled off just long enough to grin up at him, mascara already starting to run from the effort and the rain humidity.

“Insane for this dick, Daddy. Been watchin’ you for days—those slow loops, that cute little notebook you write in, the way you never rush. So patient. So controlled. Makes me wanna break you just a little.”

She dove back down, faster now—head bobbing in earnest, throat opening to take him all the way each time. Gluck-gluck-gluck-gluck. The car filled with the wet symphony of it—her moans, the slick slide, the occasional gag when she pushed too far and her eyes watered. She didn’t care. She loved it.

One hand braced on his thigh for leverage; the other kept stroking the base in perfect time with her mouth. She pulled off again—gasping, strings of spit connecting her lips to him—then slapped his cock lightly against her tongue, once, twice, three times, the wet smacks loud in the confined space.

“Look at the camera, girls,” she panted, turning her head so the lens caught her profile—swollen lips, tear-streaked cheeks, spit shining on her chin. “Watch how I take care of Daddy. Watch how much better I am.”

She winked at the red light, then swallowed him whole again.

Vieri’s fingers tightened in her hair—not guiding, just holding on.

“You’re gonna get us both killed, Harley.”

She hummed around him—happy, teasing—then pulled off with a gasp.

“Worth it,” she whispered, voice wrecked and gleeful. “Totally fuckin’ worth it.”

Before he could get another word out, Harley moved like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact second.

She scrambled up and over the center console in one fluid, athletic motion—knees braced wide, black combat boots scuffing the worn leather of the driver’s seat as she planted them on either side of his hips. The skirt—already bunched around her waist from the footwell blowjob—was shoved higher, exposing pale thighs slick with her own arousal. No panties. Nothing between them but heat and wet. Her pussy glistened in the dim streetlight bleeding through the rain-streaked windows, lips swollen and flushed dark pink, a thin trail of slick already running down the inside of one thigh.

She wrapped gloved fingers around the thick base of his cock—still shiny from her spit—and lined him up with a practiced flick of her wrist. No hesitation. No teasing slide. She sank down in one smooth, greedy drop, taking him to the hilt in a single, devastating motion.

The stretch made her hiss through clenched teeth, head snapping back so hard her pigtails whipped against her shoulders.

“Fuuuuck,” she breathed, the word drawn out into a long, shuddering moan. The car rocked violently on its shocks—metal groaning, springs creaking—as her ass settled flush against his thighs. Every inch disappeared inside her, the fat head kissing her cervix, her walls fluttering wildly around the invasion. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Daddy… you’re splittin’ me open. Rippin’ this tight little clown cunt in half.”

She didn’t give herself time to adjust. She started moving immediately—hips rolling in that signature Harley rhythm: wild, frantic, half-burlesque dancer, half mechanical bull rider who’d forgotten the word “slow.” Her hands shot up to brace against the roof liner, palms flat, fingers splayed, using the leverage to slam herself down harder with every stroke. The thin white tank top—already damp with spit and sweat—stretched tight across her tits. Nipples poked through like bullets, dark and stiff, bouncing with every downward plunge.

The car filled with sound: wet slaps of skin on skin, the rhythmic creak of the suspension, her sharp gasps turning into full-throated moans that echoed off the fogged windows. Every time she bottomed out the thick shaft stretched her visibly—her lower belly bulging just slightly from the depth—and she ground her clit hard against his pubic bone, chasing friction like it was oxygen.

“Look at the camera, Daddy,” she panted, arching her back in a deliberate, pornographic curve so the tiny red light on the dashboard vent got the money shot: her tits jiggling under the soaked tank top, nipples straining the fabric, the glistening shaft disappearing inside her over and over. “Tell Red and Kitty how much better this feels. Tell ’em Harley’s the one who can actually take every goddamn inch without passin’ out like a delicate little bitch.”

She slammed down again—harder—grinding in slow, filthy circles at the bottom, clit mashed against him, walls rippling in hungry little spasms. Her first orgasm hit like a freight train derailing. No buildup. No warning. Her whole body locked up, thighs clamping around his hips, back bowing so sharply her head almost hit the roof. Walls clamped down in violent, fluttering pulses, milking him like a fist.

“FUCK! DADDY! I’m cumming already!” she screamed—raw, happy, completely unhinged. “Shit—shit—shit—this cock’s too fuckin’ good! Too thick! Too deep! I’m—oh god—I’m soakin’ you!”

A hot gush of slick flooded out around his shaft, drenching his lap, running down his balls, soaking into the driver’s seat leather in dark patches. The smell hit him instantly—musky, sweet, unmistakably aroused, mixing with rain, leather, and the faint chemical ghost of chloroform still clinging to his nostrils.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. She rode straight through the aftershocks—faster, wilder, pigtails flying like red-and-black banners, filthy mouth never shutting up for a second.

“Gonna make you forget their names, Daddy. Gonna fuck this dick so good it only remembers me. Your little clown slut. Your favorite crazy bitch. Say it—say Harley’s your favorite. Say it while I’m creamin’ all over you.”

Vieri’s hands snapped to her hips—fingers digging in hard enough to leave deep bruises under the leather gloves she still wore. The grip anchored him as much as it controlled her.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, Harley.”

She laughed—breathless, delighted, head thrown back so the camera caught the long line of her throat.

“Crazy for this dick. Crazy for you. Now shut up and let me cum again—watch me fall apart on you like the good girl I pretend to be.”

She redoubled the pace—short, sharp bounces now, ass slapping against his thighs with every drop. The car rocked harder, shocks squealing in protest. Her tank top rode higher with every movement, exposing the soft undercurve of her tits, the faint freckles scattered across her sternum. Sweat beaded on her collarbones, ran in thin rivulets between her breasts, darkening the white cotton until it clung transparently to her skin.

Her second orgasm built even faster—riding the tail end of the first, no cooldown, just escalating pressure. Thighs started to tremble, walls fluttering erratically around him, clit grinding desperately against his base. She locked eyes with the camera again—wide, glassy, mascara-streaked—and grinned like a shark.

“See that, girls? See how I take it? See how wet I get? This is what Daddy likes. This is what he needs. Not your fancy vines. Not your sneaky paws. Me. Harley fuckin’ Quinn.”

The climax ripped through her without mercy. Whole body seized—back arching, mouth falling open in a silent scream that turned vocal half a second later.

“YES—FUCK—DADDY—I’M CUMMING AGAIN!”

Her cunt clamped down in brutal, rhythmic pulses, milking him so hard it almost hurt. Fresh slick gushed out, soaking his jeans, pooling on the seat beneath them. Legs shook violently, threatening to give out, but she kept riding—desperate, greedy, chasing every last tremor.

Eyes never left the camera. She wanted them to see every second: the way her tits bounced, the way her thighs quivered, the way his thick shaft stretched her wide and glistened with her release every time she lifted.

Vieri felt the shift hit him like cold water. The post-chloroform haze finally burned away completely. Adrenaline, lust, irritation, all of it crystallized into something sharper. He wasn’t just along for the ride anymore.

His hands tightened on her waist—hard, possessive. In one smooth, powerful motion he lifted her clean off his lap—cock sliding free with a wet, obscene pop—and flipped her forward over the center console.

She landed bent over the center console with a sharp slap of palms against the passenger seat cushion—fingers splaying wide for balance, knuckles whitening as she braced. Her ass arched high, skirt flipped completely onto her lower back like a discarded flag, exposing everything: pale cheeks still flushed from the ride, the deep red handprints already blooming from earlier slaps, and the slick, swollen mess between her thighs. Two orgasms had left her pussy visibly wrecked—lips puffy and dark pink, clit engorged and peeking out, inner folds glistening with thick strands of her own release that stretched and snapped every time she shifted. A slow drip ran down the inside of one thigh, pooling on the console leather in a small, obscene puddle.

Vieri didn’t give her a heartbeat to catch her breath.

He shoved the driver’s door open wider with his shoulder—cold rain air rushing in, mixing with the humid, sex-thick heat already fogging the windows—then crowded in behind her. One knee braced on the edge of the seat cushion, the other foot planted on the floor mat for leverage. The tight space forced him close—chest brushing her back, thighs caging her hips. One big hand clamped down on her left hip, fingers digging into soft flesh through the bunched skirt, anchoring her exactly where he wanted her. The other wrapped around the slick base of his cock—still gleaming from her mouth and the two loads of her slick he’d already fucked out of her—and lined up with brutal precision.

He drove in with one single, unforgiving thrust—full length, no pause, no mercy. The fat head punched past her entrance and didn’t stop until his hips slammed flush against her ass, balls slapping wetly against her clit.

Harley’s whole body jolted forward—tits mashing hard against the console, nipples scraping rough fabric through her soaked tank top. A sharp, surprised yelp tore out of her throat, morphing halfway into a long, filthy, drawn-out moan that vibrated through the car.

“Fuuuuck yes, Daddy!” she wailed, voice muffled against the upholstery, cheek smushed sideways. “That’s it—wreck me! Split this little clown cunt wide fuckin’ open! God—yes—stretch me till I break!”

Vieri didn’t ease in. No slow build. No teasing drags. He set a punishing rhythm from the first stroke—deep, heavy, bone-jarring slams that made the entire Civic rock side to side on its suspension. Springs squealed in protest. The chassis groaned. Every forward snap of his hips sent a loud, wet smack ricocheting around the tight space like suppressed gunshots—skin on skin, slick on slick, the obscene squelch of her soaked walls gripping him on every withdrawal.

His free hand slid up the center of her back—slow at first, tracing the knobs of her spine through the damp tank top—then tangled hard in one red-and-black pigtail. He yanked her head back—not cruel, but firm—enough to arch her neck sharply, forcing her to turn sideways so the tiny dashboard camera caught her profile: flushed cheeks, mascara tracks running from the corners of her eyes, lips parted in a permanent wet gasp, drool shining on her chin from earlier.

“Smile for your girls,” he growled, voice low and gravel-rough, breath hot against her ear. “Let ’em see what happens when you sneak up on me and think you’re in charge.”

Harley laughed—wild, breathless, half-crazed, the sound bubbling up between moans.

“Hi, Red! Hi, Kitty!” she panted, forcing her eyes toward the blinking red light even as her body rocked forward with every brutal thrust. “Watchin’ your boy rearrange my guts? Bet this feels better than your fancy vines slitherin’ around and your sneaky little paws, huh?” She shoved back to meet his next slam—ass jiggling with the impact, cheeks rippling. “Look how deep he’s goin’—fuckin’ look at it disappearin’ inside me. Balls-deep every time. You two could never take it like this. Too busy bein’ classy. Too busy actin’ like queens. Me? I’m built for Daddy’s big dick. Made for it.”

Vieri tightened his grip on the pigtail—using it like a handle now—pulling her back onto him harder with every stroke, forcing her to take the full length even deeper. The angle made her gasp every time he bottomed out—cervix kissed, walls stretched to their limit.

“Keep talkin’,” he said through gritted teeth, hips snapping forward again. “You wanted to play games. This is how we play.”

She moaned louder—voice cracking into a string of broken, filthy curses every time he filled her completely.

“Yesyesyes—punish me, Daddy! I’ve been such a bad girl—stalkin’ you for days, druggin’ you in your own car, suckin’ you off while you were out cold like a little creep. Spank me! Choke me! Fuck me till I can’t walk straight—till my legs shake and I’m leakin’ you for a week!”

He released the pigtail just long enough to bring his palm down on her right ass cheek—hard, stinging crack that echoed louder than the rain outside. Pale skin bloomed bright red instantly, the handprint perfect and angry. Harley squealed—half pain, half pure delight—and shoved back even harder, grinding her ass against him like she was trying to take more.

“Again! Harder! Mark me up so Red and Kitty know who Daddy’s favorite is! Brand me—make me yours!”

Another smack—left cheek this time—then another right after, fast and deliberate. Each impact made her clench around him involuntarily—walls fluttering, gripping him like a fist. Fresh slick gushed out around his shaft, running down her thighs in rivulets, soaking the console and the seat beneath her palms.

Vieri switched hands—grabbed the other pigtail—yanked her head the opposite way so the camera caught her full face: cheeks flushed scarlet, mascara streaking in black rivers down her temples, lips swollen and parted in a permanent wet O of pleasure, tongue lolling slightly as she panted.

“Look at the lens,” he ordered, voice rough and commanding. “Tell them who owns this pussy now.”

Harley’s eyes rolled back for a second—lost in the overload—before she forced them forward, staring straight into the tiny red light like it was her audience of two.

“This pussy—” she gasped between thrusts, voice cracking on every word as he slammed home again, “—belongs to Daddy! Harley Quinn’s Daddy! Not Poison Ivy’s pretty little pet project! Not Catwoman’s sneaky side piece! Mine! All fuckin’ mine! He owns it—he stretches it—he fills it—he wrecks it—and I love every goddamn second!”

Her third orgasm hit like a sucker punch to the gut. No slow build—just sudden, violent detonation. Legs shook violently, thighs quivering uncontrollably, knees buckling against the console edge. A fresh, hot gush of slick flooded out—running in thick streams down the insides of her legs, soaking the upholstery, dripping onto the floor mat in audible patters. She screamed—raw, happy, completely unhinged—body convulsing so hard the car windows rattled in their frames.

“FUCK—DADDY—I’M CUMMING! I’M CUMMING SO HARD—OH GOD—YES—YES—YES!”

Her walls clamped down in brutal, rhythmic spasms—milking him desperately, trying to pull him even deeper as her whole body seized and shuddered. Head thrashed against his grip on the pigtail, pigtails swinging wildly, tears of overstimulation mixing with mascara and spit on her cheeks. She kept pushing back—greedy even through the climax—chasing every last tremor, every last inch.

The camera caught it all: the red handprints glowing on her ass, the way her body rocked forward with each punishing thrust, the slick shining on her thighs, the wrecked, blissed-out expression on her face as she stared straight into the lens and came apart.

Vieri didn’t slow down. Not even for a second.

He fucked her straight through the aftershocks of her third orgasm—hips snapping forward with mechanical precision, balls slapping wet and heavy against her swollen clit with every punishing stroke. The wet squelch was obscene now, louder than her broken moans, a filthy, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick that filled the car like white noise. Her slick coated him completely—dripping down his shaft, soaking his balls, running in warm rivulets over the console leather and pooling in dark, sticky patches on the seat beneath her palms. Every time he pulled back, strands of it stretched between them, snapping with each forward slam.

“You’re leakin’ all over my seats,” he growled, voice gravel-rough and low. He brought his palm down on her ass again—sharp, deliberate crack—right over the glowing handprints already there. The impact made her clench hard around him, walls fluttering like she was trying to trap him inside forever. “Gonna have to detail this whole fuckin’ thing tomorrow because of you. Gonna smell like you for weeks.”

Harley grinned through fresh tears—mascara rivers streaking her cheeks, lipstick smeared from ear to chin—eyes glassy and wild.

“Worth it,” she panted, shoving back to meet his next thrust even as her legs trembled. “Worth every goddamn drop. Fill me up, Daddy. Breed your crazy little clown. Pump me so full I’m drippin’ you for days—let me walk into whatever room Red and Kitty are in and show ’em the mess you left. Show ’em how you claimed this pussy. How you owned it.”

He felt his own edge creeping closer—pressure coiling tight low in his gut, balls drawing up hard and heavy, the familiar burn spreading through his shaft. But he wasn’t done. Not even close. He wanted more. Wanted her completely ruined before he let go.

He pulled out suddenly—wet, sucking pop loud enough to echo in the tight space. Harley whimpered instantly at the emptiness, hips twitching forward like she could chase him back inside, cunt clenching around nothing, gaping slightly and leaking a fresh trickle of her own slick mixed with the remnants of her last orgasm.

Before she could whine or beg, Vieri’s hands clamped around her hips—fingers bruising through the bunched skirt—and hauled her backward. He manhandled her through the narrow gap between the front seats like she weighed nothing, twisting her body with practiced strength. She landed on her back across the rear bench seat with a soft thud—legs splaying wide on instinct, skirt still rucked up around her waist, tank top shoved high under her tits so the pale undersides showed. The position left her completely exposed: chest heaving, nipples stiff and dark through the damp cotton, pussy flushed deep pink and glistening, inner thighs shiny with sweat and release.

Vieri followed without hesitation—climbing over the console, knees sinking into the seat cushion on either side of her hips. The back seat was cramped, forcing him low and close—his chest brushing hers, heat radiating between them. He hooked her ankles over his shoulders in one smooth motion, folding her nearly in half until her knees pressed close to her ears and her hips tilted up, cunt presented like an offering. The angle opened her completely—lips parted, clit throbbing visibly, entrance still twitching from the sudden emptiness.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease in. He lined up—thick head nudging her soaked entrance—and slammed back inside with his full weight behind the thrust. The force drove the air out of her lungs in a sharp, punched gasp—eyes flying wide, mouth falling open in a silent scream that turned vocal a heartbeat later.

“Fuck—Daddy—too deep—gonna break me—” Her words dissolved into a long, keening moan as he started pistoning—short, brutal strokes that made the whole back seat bounce and creak. Springs groaned under the assault. The car rocked on its tires with every snap of his hips. Windows fogged thicker from their combined heat and ragged breathing, rain outside a distant drum against the glass.

Vieri braced one forearm beside her head—elbow sinking into the seat cushion—while his other hand gripped her thigh hard enough to leave deep fingerprints on pale skin, holding her folded and open while he pounded down into her. The new angle let him hit deeper than before—cervix kissed with every stroke, the fat head bullying past that tight ring until she felt him in places she didn’t know she had.

“Look at me,” he rasped, face inches from hers, breath hot against her tear-streaked cheek. “Not the camera. Me.”

Harley’s eyes—wide, glassy, pupils blown to black—locked onto his instantly. Mascara tracks ran in dark rivers down her temples, mixing with sweat. Lipstick smeared across her chin and cheeks from earlier. She looked utterly wrecked—beautifully, gloriously wrecked—hair plastered to her forehead, lips swollen and parted, chest heaving under the rucked-up tank top.

“You’re mine now,” he said, voice low and rough, almost tender beneath the raw lust. “Every inch. Every scream. Every drop of cum I pump into you. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she whispered, voice cracking on the words, barely audible over the wet slap of their bodies. Then louder—desperate, broken: “I’m yours, Daddy! All yours! Fuck—don’t stop—gonna cum again—gonna cum so hard I black out—”

He reached down with his free hand and mauled her tits through the soaked tank top—fabric clinging transparently now, outlining every curve. He yanked the neckline down hard—ripping the thin cotton slightly—so her nipples popped free: hard, pink, begging. He pinched one between thumb and forefinger—twisted slow and deliberate—then rolled it until she arched off the seat with a sharp sob, back bowing so violently the bench creaked.

The other nipple followed—pinched, tugged, twisted—then he leaned down and took it into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud while his hips never stopped their brutal rhythm. Harley’s hands flew to his shoulders—nails raking down through his hoodie, leaving red trails she couldn’t see.

“Cum for me,” he ordered against her skin, voice vibrating through her chest. “Show the camera how good Daddy makes his little clown feel. Show Red and Kitty what they’ll never have.”

That did it.

Her fourth orgasm crashed through her like a tidal wave breaking over a seawall. Back bowed off the seat in a painful, rigid arch—spine curving so sharply her shoulders dug into the upholstery. Nails dug deeper into his shoulders—half-moons of red blooming through fabric. Legs locked tight around his neck, ankles crossed behind his head, heels digging into his back as her cunt clamped down in violent, rhythmic spasms—milking him with desperate, fluttering pulses that tried to pull him even deeper.

She screamed his name—Daddy—over and over, voice hoarse and cracking, raw from earlier cries.

“DADDY—FUCK—DADDY—I’M CUMMING—I’M CUMMING SO HARD—OH GOD—YES—YES—YES—!”

Her whole body shook—violent tremors rolling through her limbs, thighs quivering uncontrollably against his shoulders, hips bucking up to meet every downward slam even as she convulsed. Fresh slick gushed out around his shaft—hot, thick, soaking his jeans and the seat beneath her ass in a dark, spreading stain. The car rocked harder on its tires—side to side, front to back—like it might tip if he kept going.

The sight—her arched back, tear-streaked face staring blindly at the ceiling, wrecked mouth open in a silent scream that turned vocal again—the sound of her screaming his name—the feel of her cunt spasming and milking him in frantic waves—sent Vieri over the edge.

He buried himself as deep as the angle would allow—hips grinding hard against her clit, pubic bone mashed to hers—and came with a low, guttural groan that rumbled from his chest. Thick ropes of cum flooded her—pulse after heavy pulse—filling her until it leaked out around his shaft in creamy white streams, dripping down her ass crack and onto the seat beneath her in slow, obscene rivulets.

He stayed locked inside her—hips still twitching with aftershocks—forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathing like they’d sprinted miles. Her legs trembled around his neck. Her hands slid weakly from his shoulders to cup his face—gentle, almost reverent despite the mess they’d made.

The camera kept blinking—red light steady—capturing every second of the ruin.

He stayed there a long moment, forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon. Harley’s legs trembled around his shoulders. Her hands slid up to cup his face—gentle, almost sweet.

“Best ride ever,” Harley murmured, voice hoarse and wrecked, goofy smile spreading slow across her flushed, tear-streaked face. Her mascara had run into black rivers down both cheeks, lipstick smeared from chin to ear, hair plastered to her forehead in damp red-and-black strands. She looked like she’d been through a war and won. “You’re stuck with me now, Daddy. No take-backs. I’m your problem forever.”

Vieri exhaled hard through his nose—sharp, shaky. The post-orgasm haze was evaporating fast, replaced by the cold slap of reality. The car reeked: thick, heavy sex smell—musky arousal, her sweet bubblegum shampoo mixed with sweat, leather seats soaked through with slick and cum, the faint chemical ghost of chloroform still clinging to the headliner. Windows were completely fogged—opaque sheets of condensation that turned the alley outside into a blurry watercolor smear. Rain tapped steady on the roof, the only normal sound in the whole damn vehicle.

The tiny camera on the dashboard vent kept blinking—red light steady, mocking, still recording every second of the ruin they’d just made of each other.

He pulled out slowly—careful, deliberate—his cock sliding free with a wet, sucking sound that made Harley whimper at the sudden emptiness. A thick, pearly stream of cum followed immediately—hot and viscous—spilling out of her well-fucked cunt and pooling on the bench seat beneath her ass in a slow, obscene lake. It ran in rivulets down the crack of her ass, soaking into the upholstery, mixing with her own slick until the leather glistened dark and sticky. She clenched reflexively around nothing, hips twitching like her body was still chasing him, a soft, needy sound slipping from her throat.

Harley didn’t move. Just lay there—legs still splayed, skirt bunched uselessly around her waist, tank top rucked up under her tits, nipples hard and flushed from the mauling. Chest rising and falling in ragged little pants, goofy smile never quite fading even as fresh tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

Vieri sat back on his heels—knees braced on the seat cushion, chest still heaving, hoodie clinging damp to his skin. He looked down at her: sprawled across his back seat like a conquered territory—flushed pink from neck to thighs, handprints glowing red on her ass, mascara tracks, swollen lips, the creamy mess leaking out of her and staining everything it touched. She looked spent. Satisfied. Proud. Smiling like she’d just won the fucking lottery instead of getting railed into next week in the back of a cop’s personal car.

A moment of clarity cut through the fog like a knife.

He could cuff her right now. Plastic zip-ties from the glovebox. Radio it in—quiet channel, no fanfare. “Subject Harley Quinzel in custody, East End alley off…” Montoya would be impressed. The task force would have a win on day three. He could end this whole insane spiral before it got any messier—before the Queens turned his house into a revolving door, before Montoya’s trust turned into suspicion, before Selina found out and decided he wasn’t worth the risk anymore.

But the weight of the past few days settled heavy in his gut like lead.

Selina—curled in his bed, soft and dangerous and gone before dawn. Montoya’s hand on his shoulder—brief, warm, real. The briefing room smell of coffee and gun oil, the way Renata had said his name like it mattered. The task force finally feeling like something solid instead of another dead-end assignment. Cuffing Harley now would burn all of it down. He’d be the guy who fucked a suspect and then arrested her. The paperwork alone would bury him. And deeper than that—something he didn’t want to name—there was the tired, bone-deep knowledge that Harley wasn’t just chaos tonight. She was a symptom. A loud, messy, laughing symptom of the fact that the Queens already had hooks in him, and yanking them out violently might do more damage than letting them stay.

He reached over—slow, almost gentle—and nudged her shoulder with two fingers.

“Get up, Harley. Get out.”

She blinked up at him—slow, dazed, smile faltering for half a second like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Then it came back—twice as bright, twice as manic.

“Aww, you’re not gonna arrest me?” she cooed, voice wrecked but playful. “You’re such a nice Daddy. My sweet, soft-hearted cop Daddy who lets his crazy girl ride him stupid and then sends her home with a tummy full of cum. That’s romance, right there.”

“Out,” he repeated. Voice flat. Tired. Done.

Harley giggled—high and delighted, the sound bubbling up even as her legs shook when she tried to move. She stretched like a cat—slow, deliberate—back arching off the seat, tits jiggling under the ripped tank top, skirt still bunched around her waist. Cum leaked out of her in a fresh trickle as she shifted—dripping onto the already-soaked leather with soft, wet plips.

She rolled sideways—graceful even when wrecked—slid off the seat onto unsteady legs. Tugged her skirt down (pointless—the hem was soaked and wrinkled). Pulled the tank top back into place (fabric stretched and torn, nipples still visible through the damp cotton). Wiped her mouth with the back of one gloved hand—smearing lipstick and spit across her knuckles—and leaned in quick.

She planted a sticky, open-mouthed kiss on his cheek—tongue flicking out for a second, tasting sweat and skin—then pulled back with a wink.

“See ya soon, big boy. Don’t miss me too much. I’ll be dreamin’ of this dick till next time.”

She hopped out—literally hopped—landing light on the wet pavement despite the way her thighs trembled. Rain immediately plastered her hair to her scalp, pigtails drooping like wet flags, but she didn’t care. She skipped down the alley—actual skips—pigtails bouncing, skirt flapping, laughing softly to herself like she’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

Once she rounded the corner—out of sight, out of the car’s line of sight—she slowed. Dug into a hidden inner pocket of her jacket and pulled out her phone—screen cracked but still glowing. Thumbed it open with a wet glove. The video file was right there—labeled simply “Daddy.mov”—thumbnail already frozen on a frame of her mid-ride, back arched, tits bouncing, his cock disappearing inside her.

She opened the Queens of Crime group chat—named “Queens & Their Big Toy 💖🔪🌿🐱”—and attached the file.

Group members:

Ivy (Poison Ivy – green leaf emoji)

Selina (Catwoman – black cat emoji)

Harley (herself – jester emoji)

Message body:

“ladies… i win 😏

watched the whole thing. he’s MINE now. called him Daddy the whole time. check the footage. tell me who’s the favorite. xoxo your ex-clown princess who just got bred stupid 💦👑”

She hit send. Watched the upload bar fill. Grinned wider—manic, triumphant—rain dripping off her nose.

Recipient: Puddin’ (Joker’s old number, still saved under the clown emoji).

Message: Hope you enjoy the show. xoxo your ex-harley

She hit send. Grinned wider.

Back in the car, Vieri sat there for a long minute—chest still rising and falling too fast, skin cooling, the smell of her still thick in the air. He stared at the fogged windshield like it might give him answers.

Then he reached up—slow, deliberate—ripped the tiny camera off the vent with a sharp yank. Plastic cracked. Wires snapped. He opened the driver’s door, stepped one foot out into the rain, and crushed the thing under his boot—heel grinding until it was just shards and circuitry in a puddle.

He slammed the door. Started the engine.

The heater kicked on—warm air stirring the heavy scent of sex and rain.

He pulled out of the alley—slow, careful—headlights cutting through the downpour.

Behind him, Harley’s laughter echoed faintly off brick walls, then faded into the night.

The drive back to the precinct felt longer than the three miles it actually was. Rain had picked up again—steady, cold sheets that hammered the roof like impatient fingers and turned the windshield into a smeared watercolor of red taillights and sodium halos. Vieri kept the heater on low, just enough to keep the fog from closing in completely, and cranked the defroster to high. Hot air blasted against the glass, carving temporary clear patches that the wipers immediately swept away. It didn’t help much. The smell of sex clung to everything—thick, unmistakable: Harley’s bubblegum shampoo mixed with sweat and arousal, the musky tang of cum and slick soaked into the leather seats, the faint chemical aftertaste of chloroform still hanging in the headliner like bad perfume. It was in his clothes, his hair, under his nails. He cracked the driver’s window an inch despite the downpour—cold, wet air rushed in, sharp with ozone and wet asphalt. It helped. A little.

He didn’t let himself think about Harley skipping away down the alley—pigtails bouncing, laughter trailing like smoke. Didn’t think about the crushed camera pieces still wedged in the tread of his boot, grinding into the floor mat every time he shifted. Didn’t think about the video she’d almost certainly already sent—probably to Joker first, then maybe the Queens chat, maybe both. He locked those thoughts in a box and focused on the road: the red smear of brake lights ahead, the rhythm of the wipers slapping back and forth, the low hum of tires on wet pavement. One thing at a time. Always one thing at a time.

By the time he pulled into the employee lot behind the precinct it was pushing one a.m. The building looked the same as always—squat brick box lit by buzzing sodium lamps, exhaust curling white from a couple of idling cruisers out front, rain bouncing off the hoods in silver sparks. He parked in his usual spot—far corner, away from the floodlights—and killed the engine. Sat there another thirty seconds breathing through his mouth, letting the heater fan wind down, listening to the rain drum on metal. His hoodie was damp at the shoulders, jeans sticky against his thighs, skin cooling fast now that the adrenaline was gone.

Then he got out, locked the car with a chirp that felt too loud in the quiet lot, and walked inside like nothing had happened.

The bullpen was graveyard-shift quiet—fluorescent lights humming overhead, a few uniforms hunched over keyboards typing reports in slow motion, the night desk sergeant nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee that smelled burnt even from twenty feet away. Vieri cut straight through to the task-force wing—still just a borrowed corner desk with a second-hand monitor, a stack of legal pads, and a single flickering desk lamp. He dropped into the chair—springs groaning under his weight—powered up the computer, and started typing.

SUPPLEMENTAL FIELD REPORT

Detective Oliviero Oronzo

Date: xx-xx-xxxx

Operation: Queens of Crime – Reconnaissance

Location: East End, vicinity of former Falcone warehouse district

Time frame: 2230–0015 hours

Subject: Harley Quinn (real name Harleen Quinzel) confirmed active in target area. Visual confirmation at 2312 hours near loading dock entrance, red-and-black attire, distinctive pigtails. Subject displayed evasive movement patterns consistent with prior sightings (rooftop transit, quick alley drops). Attempted to establish closer observation; subject evaded before apprehension or extended contact could be made. No direct engagement. No visible weapons, no apparent backup during observed period.

Additional notes: Subject appears to be operating independently or with minimal support during observed window. Recommend increased patrols along riverfront access points (Kane St. to amusement mile) and proactive monitoring of abandoned industrial structures in the grid between 12th and Sullivan. Possible safe house or staging area in play—focus on buildings with intact loading bays or rooftop access.

End report.

Clean. Factual. No lies—just strategic omissions wide enough to drive a truck through. He read it twice—slow, line by line—made sure the timestamps matched his notebook entries, hit save, printed a hard copy on the ancient shared laser in the corner (it jammed once; he cleared it without swearing), and walked it down the hall to Montoya’s office.

The door was half-open, light spilling into the dim hallway in a warm rectangle. Montoya was still there—sleeves rolled even higher now, exposing the full corded length of her forearms, ponytail loosened so dark strands framed her face and clung slightly to the damp skin at her temples. Feet up on the edge of her desk, ankles crossed, she scrolled through something on her laptop with the focused intensity of someone who hadn’t left the building in sixteen hours. The room smelled like her: clean citrus shampoo cutting through the precinct’s burnt-coffee haze, faint metallic gun oil from the range bag in the corner, cooling paper from printed reports, and underneath it all the subtle, warm skin-scent of someone who’d showered after morning PT but hadn’t quite shaken the day.

Vieri knocked—two soft knuckles on the frame. She looked up immediately, dark eyes flicking from the screen to him in one smooth motion.

“Thought you’d be home by now,” she said, voice low, tired but warm, the kind of tired that still carried affection.

“Got delayed.” He held up the printout. “Fresh from recon. Harley’s moving in the East End. Slippery, but she’s there.”

Montoya took the pages—fingers brushing his for half a second. Not accidental, but not deliberate either. Just the natural overlap of two people handing off paper in a small space. Professional. No linger. Still, the contact registered: her skin warm, callused at the fingertips from range time, nails short and unpainted. Vieri felt it like a static spark—small, harmless, gone in an instant. He kept his face neutral.

Her eyes dropped to the report. She scanned fast—down the page, flip, down again—nodding once at the timestamps, flipping back to nod again at the patrol recommendations. She didn’t speak for a full minute. Just read. The quiet stretched, comfortable but charged, the only sounds the soft click of her mouse wheel and the distant hum of fluorescents in the hall.

He’s steady, she thought, gaze still on the paper but awareness split between the words and the man standing in her doorway. Doesn’t fidget, doesn’t fill silence with bullshit. Just waits. Most guys would’ve started explaining by now, trying to sell the report like it’s a used car. He lets it speak for itself. She liked that. Liked it too much, maybe. The way he stood—shoulders relaxed but posture straight, hoodie stretched across a chest that clearly saw the gym even if he never bragged about it—made something low in her belly tighten. Not lust, not exactly. Curiosity. The dangerous kind that wondered what else he kept quiet about.

When she finished she set the report down carefully—like it was evidence she didn’t want to smudge—and leaned back in her chair. The motion pulled her shirt tighter across her chest—full, high, the faint black bra outline visible under white cotton when the fabric shifted just right. Vieri kept his eyes on her face. Mostly.

“Good detail,” she said. “Times, location pins, movement description. This is the kind of intel we can actually use. Not the usual ‘saw a clown, maybe’ bullshit we get from patrol. You even flagged the loading bays. Smart.”

He shrugged one shoulder—small, economical.

“Eyes only, like you said.”

She studied him a beat longer than necessary—dark eyes steady, searching, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile.

He doesn’t preen when you compliment him, she thought. Doesn’t deflect either. Just accepts it and moves on. Rare. Her gaze drifted—quick, involuntary—to the way rain had darkened the shoulders of his hoodie, the faint sheen of sweat still at his temples despite the chill outside. He looked tired. Not weak tired. The kind of tired that came from doing hard things well. It made her want to reach out, smooth the tension from between his brows. She didn’t.

“You look like hell, Oronzo. Rough night?”

“Long one.”

Montoya swung her feet down—chair creaking—stood slow and deliberate. She walked around the desk until she was leaning against the front edge, arms crossed under her chest again. The position closed the distance to maybe three feet. Close enough he could smell her shampoo clearly now—bright citrus cutting through the precinct’s stale air—and see the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, the small silver St. Michael medal glinting at her throat when she shifted. Her hips rested against the desk edge, slacks pulling taut over solid thighs, the faint outline of muscle shifting when she adjusted her weight.

He’s close enough I can see the pulse in his throat, she thought. Fast. Not nervous—something else. Adrenaline tail? Or just the night catching up? She felt her own pulse kick up a notch—quiet, steady, the way it did when she was on a good lead or standing too close to someone who interested her. She didn’t step back.

“You’re giving me usable leads on day three of being attached to this thing,” she said quietly. “Most new guys spend the first month chasing ghosts and filing excuses. You’re not. You’re delivering. I like that.”

“Not my style to waste time.”

A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—real, not polite.

“Bien. I like that too.”

God, that voice, she thought. Low, rough around the edges from fatigue, but steady. The kind of voice that would sound good murmuring in the dark. She pushed the thought down—hard—but it left a warm afterimage. She uncrossed her arms, reached back for a thick manila folder on her desk, and handed it to him.

“Preliminary profile updates on Quinzel. Psych evals from Arkham, last known associates, favorite escape routes, behavioral notes from her last breakout. Read it tonight. Tomorrow we sit down with the rest of the team—Allen, Owen, Glass—and start building the operational picture. Sawyer’s in next week; we’ll have her energy then.”

He took the folder—thick, heavy with staples and tabs. Their fingers brushed again—longer this time, the overlap lingering half a second past professional. Her skin was warm, slightly rough from range time. His was cool from the rain outside. Neither of them pulled away too fast.

His hands are big, she thought, unbidden. Callused. Steady. Bet they’d feel good— She cut the thought off, jaw tightening slightly. Work. Focus.

“Copy that,” he said. Voice even, but she caught the faint huskiness—fatigue, maybe, or something else.

Vieri felt it too—the brush of fingers, the warmth of her skin against his, the way her citrus scent wrapped around him when she leaned in to hand off the file. She’s close, he thought. Too close for just handing over paperwork. Smells good. Looks tired but still sharp. The way she stands—hips against the desk, arms crossed like she’s daring the world to try her—makes it hard to look anywhere else. He kept his eyes on hers. Mostly.

Montoya pushed off the desk—slow, deliberate—stepped past him toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob—half-turned, ponytail swinging, the motion pulling her shirt tight again across her chest.

“One more thing.”

He turned.

She looked at him—really looked. Not suspicious. Not accusing. Just… assessing. Like she was trying to read something written under his skin in invisible ink.

“You smell like trouble,” she said quietly. “Not the bad kind. The kind that follows you home and doesn’t knock politely.”

Vieri held her gaze—steady, unflinching.

“Comes with the job.”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head—small, thoughtful—dark eyes flicking over his face, lingering on the faint stubble along his jaw, the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t flinch when I call him out. Doesn’t make excuses. Just owns it. Something low in her belly tightened again—warm, insistent. She ignored it. Mostly. “Just don’t bring it into my briefing room unless it’s wearing cuffs. We clear?”

“Crystal.”

She gave a short nod—satisfied, final—and opened the door wider.

“Go home, Oronzo. Get some sleep. You look like you need it more than I do.”

He didn’t argue. He walked out—folder under his arm—past the empty bullpen desks, down the stairs that smelled of floor wax and old coffee, out into the rain.

The Civic started on the first try—engine coughing once like an old smoker clearing his throat, then settling into its familiar asthmatic rumble. Vieri let it idle for ten seconds, listening to the fan belt whine softly under the hood, giving the oil a moment to circulate. Rain hammered the roof harder now, a steady white-noise roar that drowned out the distant city hum. He pulled out of the employee lot—slow, headlights cutting pale tunnels through the downpour—and rolled the windows down despite the wet. Cold air slapped his face immediately—sharp, clean, carrying the smell of wet concrete and distant river rot. It stung his eyes, cooled the flush still lingering on his cheeks, cleared some of the fog from his head. Not all of it. Never all of it.

The radio came on low when the ignition turned—classic rock station he never bothered to change, some old Springsteen track already halfway through. “Thunder Road,” maybe, or “Born to Run”—one of those highways-and-heartbreak anthems that always sounded better in the rain. He didn’t touch the dial. Let it play. The guitar line cut through the static, Bruce’s voice rough and urgent, singing about escape and promises that might not hold. Vieri didn’t sing along. He just drove—hands loose on the wheel, eyes on the smeared red taillights ahead, letting the song fill the empty spaces the rain couldn’t reach.

The streets were mostly deserted. A few late-night delivery vans, a lone cab with its dome light on, puddles reflecting neon from the few signs still burning. He took the long way home—not consciously, just muscle memory steering him past the old Falcone warehouse district instead of the quicker riverfront cut. He didn’t look for red-and-black blurs on rooftops. Didn’t scan alleys for pigtails or giggles carried on the wind. He just drove. One streetlamp after another sliding across the wet hood.

By the time he turned onto his block the clock on the dash read 1:47 a.m. The porch light was still on—warm yellow glow cutting a soft circle through the downpour, same as always. He pulled into the driveway—gravel crunching under the tires—killed the engine, and sat there. Rain drummed steady on metal. The Springsteen track faded out; the DJ came on with a low murmur about playing the deep cuts tonight. Vieri didn’t move for another minute—maybe two—just breathing, listening to the roof take the hits, letting the cold air keep slapping sense into him.

Then he got out. Locked the car. Walked up the three cracked steps to the front door, key turning smooth in the deadbolt like it always did.

Inside, the house smelled the way it was supposed to: lemon polish from the hardwood he still waxed once a month, old books on the living-room shelves, the faint ghost of lasagna from days ago that refused to fade completely. No leather. No cherry lip gloss. No bubblegum. No sweet-chemical aftertaste of chloroform. Just quiet. Just home.

He kicked off his boots by the door—left them to drip on the mat—dropped the manila folder on the kitchen table without opening it. The table was the same scarred oak his parents had bought in the ’90s; the folder looked small and harmless on it. He opened the fridge—cold light spilling across the linoleum—grabbed a beer from the back row. Twisted the cap off with his thumb, the metal biting into skin just enough to feel real. Took a long, slow pull. The cold bit his throat, grounded him, chased away the last clinging traces of her taste.

Then he walked into the living room and sank into the armchair.

The same one.

The same worn brown leather armchair Harley had straddled him in that first night with Selina—the same one where everything had started spiraling, where the quiet house had stopped being quiet and started being something else entirely. The cushions still held the faint indent of bodies, the leather still carried ghosts of sweat and perfume if you knew where to breathe. He didn’t lean back all the way. Just sat forward, elbows on knees, beer bottle dangling between his fingers, staring at the blank TV screen.

Rain-streaked reflections moved across the dark glass—streetlamp glow, water running in thin rivers, the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car. He watched them without really seeing them.

Tomorrow he’d read the Quinzel file—every psych eval, every escape route, every note from Arkham shrinks who thought they understood her. Tomorrow he’d sit in the briefing room with Montoya and the others—Renata, with her citrus shampoo and steady eyes—and map out the next move. Tomorrow he’d keep pretending the Queens weren’t already inside his house, his car, his head. Tomorrow he’d write cleaner reports, run tighter recon, act like the task force was still just a job and not the only solid thing he had left.

For tonight, though, he just drank the beer—slow sips, letting the cold spread through his chest—and listened to the rain.

It drummed on the roof, on the gutters, on the skeletal trees outside. Steady. Soothing. Almost meditative. The kind of rain that washed the city clean for a few hours, even if it never really stayed clean.

He finished the bottle—set it on the side table with a soft clink—leaned back at last, head resting against the cushion that still remembered two women and one long night.

The city outside kept moving—sirens in the distance, a car horn two blocks over, the low rumble of a late freight train crossing the river bridge. But in here, it was just rain and quiet and the faint, stubborn smell of home.

For the first time in a long time, the weight of Gotham didn’t feel quite so heavy on his shoulders.

Not tonight.

Not yet.