"Who would have thought that the guy who came out of nowhere claiming to have money would turn out to be a fraud?"

Absolutely no one said. But there stood Crimson, a mafia boss with the judgment of a cocaine-fueled blowfish, signing shotgun marriages as if they were bad checks, and of course, when the scam was uncovered, Chaz ended up as a decoration in the living room.

But that was just the appetizer. Then came Moxxie's friends: a bride with more knives than words and a boss with emotional trauma and a gun in every pocket. Boom! Part of the mansion was exposed more than the CIA files on WikiLeaks.

And if that weren't enough, now Crimson's mafia crew (the same people who used to kiss his rings with suspicious enthusiasm) are starting to question him. Question him! As if this were a shareholders' meeting and not an underworld cartel.

But of course, Crimson can't just do what he does best: empty magazines with style. Because if he kills every underling who raises an eyebrow... in two weeks, he'll be leading a criminal empire comprised of himself, his shadow, and a cactus wearing a tie named "Silent Tony."

Crimson was so desperate he wasn't thinking with his head anymore... well, not the one upstairs. After Fizzarolli's kidnapping didn't move a muscle (except for a very offended Asmodeus, who told him to go to hell), the aging mobster found himself on the ropes, with no allies, no money, and more debt than an influencer. The solution: A brilliant plan? A well-thought-out strategy? Of course not: he simply put his gigantic ass up for sale, not expecting so many clients willing to stuff it like a Christmas turkey for cash.

That's right: Crimson, the same asshole who mocked his son's bisexuality as if it were a cursed teenage fad, was now dropping his pants in front of the same mobsters he swore he'd never make dirty deals with.

The guy went from "never" to "what position do you want me to take?" faster than Blitzo watching drama and tequila. And all for a couple of wads of cash and the promise that his organization wouldn't crumble like his homophobia.

Irony? Completely. Crimson, the alpha male, ended up being the "mafia sugar baby" of the underworld. Who knew saving your criminal empire would require more Vaseline than bullets? And the best part: while his gigantic ass was being penetrated for hours on end, Crimson was thinking, "This doesn't count if I close my eyes and think about women, right?" Spoiler: it does.

One of the most powerful mob bosses in the Ring of Lust had become their most frequent client. Because let's be honest: if it weren't for that succubus's "favors," Crimson wouldn't be in a tastefully decorated office with dim lighting... he'd be tucked away in a corner, wearing fishnet stockings, a bargain wig, a miniskirt, and a sign that read "Fuck me today, fund my tomorrow."

That night, under the sickly green glow of the Ring of Lust sky, Crimson's office looked more like a vintage brothel than a mob headquarters. Only a fireplace lit the place, and there he was, perched against his own desk, pantsless and without dignity.

"Stop staring at my fucking ass so much and get it in there, damn it!"

He growled, with the tone of someone who still wants to appear intimidating while about to be... financially penetrated. With a smile so lascivious it would melt stainless steel, they grabbed him by the waist like someone grabbing a two-for-one deal.

"Okay, Crimson. Breathe... You've done this many times before. Think about money. Think about power. Think about... don't think about his cock, DON'T THINK ABOUT HIS COCK!"

And just as he was about to enter capitalist zen mode, whoosh! The first thrust disconnected him from the thought.

Ugh! Ah! Shit, you said you'd start easy!

He groaned with a mixture of pain, surprise, and a little bit of "please don't let anyone record this for blackmail."