SHE WAS SCARED of me last night. For the first time, perhaps ever, there was a glimpse of true fear in her golden-hazel eyes. That rips at my guts. I fucking force that down, the way I begged her, the way she rejected me, the way I left, the way it made me feel. . . fucking helpless. Fuck. Yep, I ram it all fucking down.
I glance out the window of my Chrysler 300 and take a sip of my whiskey neat. All my attention should be on the mob at Stormy River. The fucking Italian trash that won’t last the night. Won’t be going home to their families.
Cassidy.
I can’t stop seeing her wide, confused eyes. Can’t stop recalling how she lied to me about why she wanted to stay at home. Home. That place isn’t her fucking home anymore.
I take another sip of my whiskey. My fingers tighten around the glass. Tighten with the urge to shatter it in my fist. To feel the shards pierce my skin. Open me up. Like she does. Fucking Cassidy Slater and her gentle, sweet nature. Hopeful. She pressed her little palm to my cheek and bared me down with that simple, mundane action. She opened me up. It’s a dangerous thing she is doing to me. She is making me want her too much. With that, my skins crawls with the need to get back to her. To order my driver to turn around so I can fix whatever is wrong between us. I don’t.
I can’t.
I am being escorted to this perceived casual meeting, my car following the convoy of black, bullet-proof, high-end vehicles – Cadillacs and Chrysler 300s. I know that a few cars ahead, Jimmy is drinking red wine and being sucked into a good mood.
As is his style before an execution.
Butch will be stoic – I still don’t understand that man.
Clay will be all business, to him this is nothing personal.
Bronson is probably bouncing with anticipation.
Xander will most certainly be nervous.
I couldn’t care less how Salvatore feels.
As we roll through the fencing towards the abattoir, I see Marco and his mob jump out from within a black van. All nine men were crammed in, shoulder to shoulder, and I can’t think of anything worse. Except. . . maybe polio.
I exhale through a growl.
My car pulls up behind Clay’s, but before we step out, we sit for a while. The sight of nine tinted boss cars looming in front of the heads of them is like a warning. The Stormy River mob straighten. Puff up.
Once again, our differences are bleedingly obvious. While I watch my family step out wearing suits and ties, the Stormy River Italians shuffle around dressed like they are hitting the clubs – shirts open, gold chains, fucking sneakers. It’s an embarrassment.
Before leaving the car, I pull my jacket off and lay it over the leather seat beside me. It’s a fucking hot night for October. Usually in the back of my mind, I am calmed by the peaceful thought of Cassidy in my bed. My little piece of purity in this world. Of goodness.
Tonight though, as I walk into the abattoir, flanking Clay, Bronson, Butch, and Jimmy, I’m reminded that she isn’t in my bed, and my angry mood is stoked by that thought.
When I stop within a few metres of our ‘associates’, Xander appears beside me, his demeanour measured. Salvatore quickly moves to stand beside Clay – the little fucker’s way of trying to claim a spot on the hierarchy. Even though not a single soul in the Family would promote that piece of shit.
This is a soldier-free interaction.
And we’ve kept our end of the deal.
Jimmy and Butch take the few steps needed to embrace and kiss our guests like well-mannered Sicilians. Although I find it distasteful, I move forward to do it too, and I do it with confidence. It’s an insecure man who doesn’t plant those kisses firm and hard. There is often aggression in that greeting. A silent show of power; we can just as easily kiss their ugly faces as we can slice them the length of their smiles.
It’s all the same to us.
‘Marco,’ Jimmy coos, his tone welcoming and warm and anything but.
‘Jimmy, it’s been too long.’ He greets Butch and then us, the gold in his teeth flashing as he smiles widely.
I size our company up, noting their skills, calculating our plan. Beside Marco is his twin brother, Paul. Both men are overweight, but they’re strong. On the other side of Marco, with gold rings on his fingers and dense, curly, black chest hair visible between the V of his white shirt, is his right-hand man, Gabriele ‘The Fist’ Russo. He’s been known to one punch men to death on several occasions, and I’ve often wondered how he would stack up against Butch.
As they all exchange pleasantries, catching up on the latest deals, business, and women, or in The Fist’s case, boys, I slowly meander around the abattoir, leaving my brothers feigning engagement beside Butch. If Bronson had been the one to step away, the pricks might have suspected something. But I’m the uninterested Butcher. The one who appears bored at most meetings, and I know this because the bastard Italians have said as much to my face.
‘I suppose you heard what happened? Se?’ Jimmy finally gets to the fucking point.
‘-stolen on the road,’ Marco mutters with a tsk, and I move a little closer, still pretending to be preoccupied with my own thoughts.
‘Se, I’m here to offer you some work. I need five good men to accompany my nephew Salvatore to India.’ Salvatore steps forward, pride on his smug face as he gets the first important job in his weasel existence. ‘That is where the product has landed.’
Jimmy wants to keep us on the front line while important things are taking place in the District. While Clay works his way up into the spotlight, we need to keep things peaceful on the streets. It’s what Butch wants too. To keep us all together in this city he has built alongside Jimmy. And it’s what I want. I want to be close to her.
Peering over my shoulder, I see The Fist’s lips twitch with a smirk and then it’s gone. At that, I move behind them, making a fair amount of noise so they feel comfortable with my presence. Obvious. Unthreatening.
‘Your boy still bored of shop talk, Luca? Or is he thinking about that cute, barely legal pussy he’s been seen with lately?’ Macro sneers, and I’m so very glad he does. Coming up behind him, I sling my garrotte wire over his head and pull him with me as I step backwards. I hear gun shots from Clay and Salvatore. See Bronson pull his Glock out and release bullet after bullet into The Fist’s chest and cock. Am aware of Xander now holding Paul with a machete to his throat, forcing him watch as we destroy his firm.
Jimmy and Butch stand coolly and still, observing the chaos like fucking mafia kings.
The fat fuck flailing around in front of me howls, his hands clawing at the wire shredding his flesh. Blood drips over his glistening gold chains and slithers down his shirt like little snakes before splattering onto the floor.
Jimmy steps forward like the reaper himself, and I make certain not to kill Marco before he can hear what he has to say. ‘Have you ever had blood drained from your body before? I often give blood, I’m that type of man. But I’ve never been drained of it. I hear it’s quite a spectacular sensation. Your heart rate becomes frantic. Head beats like a drum. You lose all senses. My pretty face will be the last one you see.’ He moves in closer. ‘If you tell me where they landed, I will give you one life.’
I loosen the wire so he can speak. ‘Trichy,’ he manages to choke out between bile and blood.
Jimmy leans in and kisses Marco’s forehead. ‘You’ll only steal from the Family once.’ Then he straightens and nods at me. ‘Remove his head.’
Marco lets out a loud howl, his back vibrating on my chest as I saw at his flesh, through his carotid artery, blood blanketing the both of us. He is silenced completely when I sever his vocal cords. I keep rocking the wire from side to side, slicing through muscles and tendons and vessels. I grit my teeth as what he said about Cassidy repeats in my mind. As I think about how he’s probably beat one out fantasising about her small tits and petite physique, which, yes, to some, may appear barely legal – he likes them young.
My eyes see red.
I keep sawing.
Once I feel the wire snag on his spine, I drop his body like a sack of potatoes. I taste the fuck’s blood in my mouth. Feel it sliding down my forehead and chin. This isn’t usually my way. But after spending last night alone with only Cassidy’s scent, I don’t feel much like myself. So maybe I can compartmentalise like my brother can.
Maybe.
I look up from the bloodied mess as Paul wails with grief. In my peripherals, I can make out that most of his men are now merely bodies spread out around him. I pull out my gun and shoot between the flaps of Marco’s neck, aiming for his exposed, crimson-coated spine.
I finish the job and walk the dripping head over to Paul. When I place it at his feet, the sliced and hacked neck flesh, gummy and wet, slaps the concrete, smearing a wing of blood in front of him.
Falling to his knees, Paul cradles the severed head of his twin as if it were a baby. We all stand by and allow him to grieve.
After a few minutes, his time is up.
‘I gave him one life. You. And now, I’d like to offer you the same job,’ Jimmy says smoothly. ‘Five men. India. Get my product back.’
Tears fall quickly from him. They don’t make me roll my eyes; instead, for a moment, they make me glance away. Marco got off easy. Paul, on the other hand, will have to work alongside the very people who killed his men and with me, the one who decapitated his brother in front of his very eyes. It’s a reality I would never live. I wouldn’t drop to my knees while my brother’s murderer breathed the same air as me.
AS THE CAR pulls away from the curb, I study every flourish of the cursive writing on my finger, which is now tainted with track lines painted in another man’s blood.
Ardent One.
In Latin it means ‘to burn’. And she does burn me down to my core. I inhale deeply and exhale even louder. The shrill wailing of screams now gone only seems to make the silence more vivid. More unnatural.
As the car cruises slowly through the streets, its tyres spinning, rolling, its movement becomes rhythmic. The engine hums. Soothes. And I think about hazel freckles. Slouching into the seat, my head drops back against the rest. I close my eyes.
And I see hers full of fear.
