ABOVE AND BEHIND me the only window in the boxing gym allows for a thin slice of rectangular light to permeate the otherwise neon lit area, giving off a sinister glow.
Even during the day, without lighting, it’s near pitch black in here. Being a solid concrete walled construction, set below the ground, it’s also uniquely soundproofed—scream proof. I tested such a theory an hour ago when I watched a 120kg heavy-weight champion crush the life from the two morons who broke into my warehouse, but not before recovering the identity of the man calling the shots.
Now awaiting my words are two Capos and an Underboss from the District’s Cosa Nostra.
Behind me in the ring, John shadow boxes, his hands high, his head constantly moving as he beats a phantom opponent. He’s from a low-level gang with quick fists and an even quicker draw to compensate for his lack of… Sicilian refinement. But I don’t need another business partner—I have my brothers and father—I need unquestioning loyalty.
Lucky Louis, the Capo across from me, anxious in his boss’s absence, moves his feet with a rightfully hesitant shuffle. His brown eyes dart from the men I have scattered around the gym to the blood stain in the centre of the training mat.
‘We haven’t managed to clean it yet,’ I mention to him, my voice steady and ripe with mocking indifference.
He feigns a neutral gaze. ‘Should we wait for Joe?’
‘He’s here,’ I advise straightaway but give no further explanation as I take a step towards Vincenzo—an elderly Underboss near due for retirement and his Capo, Michael, who knows it. ‘Last night, two men broke into our warehouse, only to smash a few windows, and’—I omit the mention of my little deer—’called the police. Does anyone know anything about this?’
Vincenzo puffs out disapprovingly. ‘This is the Irish. I knew they’d turn on us eventually.’ He is a predictable bore; every discussion with him quickly finds its way to curse the Irish, the Japanese, the bikers. We have treaties with them, however rocky at times, but he’s an old Sicilian man set in his ways. But not ballsy enough to ever go against the hierarchy.
‘They wouldn’t risk losing our agreements, Boss. Where would they wash all that damn cash?’ His Capo, Michael, shakes his head in disagreement.
‘They are no better than thugs, young Mikey.’ Vincenzo throws his shaky arms in the air, spitting out, ‘I never trusted them.’
The arguing continues, intensifies, and I watch them throw the blame around like a grenade that may detonate in their unwitting fists.
‘That’s enough,’ I say, my voice not wavering, calm and direct. Silence descends at my smooth utterance.
Nodding at John, I wordlessly signal for him to retrieve our guest from the rear change room. It takes a few moments for my Family’s gaze to drift to the man being dragged out for them to view.
Joe is gagged and flailing around but otherwise unharmed. I lock eyes with his Capo, Louis, who starts to pant in anger and shock.
‘What the fuck is this, Butcher?’ Louis spits out, his face glowing red with fury. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I smooth my hands down my tie while John pushes Joe to his knees at my feet and removes his gag. Spittle flies around the space between us as he gasps for air. ‘You’re out of control. You’re—’
I kick him in the face. Throwing him backwards to his spine. I provoke a grunt through his lips. He lays still. Hovering over him, I smoothly insist, ‘Boss. Say it.’
He glowers up at me, his dark eyes flaring in defiance. ‘Not on your life, boy.’
Sighing tightly with displeasure, I grit my teeth on the word ‘boy,’ wearing only bitter derision as my expression.
Turning from him, I head towards the seating, hearing a scuffling and the calamity of voices as John drags Joe to his feet. Forcing him to follow me, John does as he was previously instructed.
I speak as I prepare. ‘The two men who broke into my warehouse last night said you were responsible for the hit.’ I drag the knot in my tie down my shirt and remove the silk, folding it, and laying it over a seat. ‘What did you hope to achieve?’ I kick my shoes off, listening to the sound of Joe arguing with John. ‘Did you want the police to find my stock? Our stock, Joe. Your Family’s stock… Are you not with us anymore?’
I turn to face him.
I don’t often get my hands dirty; as the Don, I don’t need to. Which is why this is further significant. I choose to. Choose to handle this like the son of a boxer—the fucking proud son of Luca Butcher.
I walk to the ring, ducking between the boundary ropes, and step onto the mat. Silence thickens until I say to the men standing in wait, ‘He is not with me. I understand that Jimmy allowed you to take a peacekeeping stance when it came to Dustin. It was a Butcher issue.’ I chuckle contemptuously. ‘I know you were allowed to maintain your relationship with him and his operations. I am not that generous. You must pick a side… Joe already has.’
I bounce from foot to foot, the familiar texture of the padding filling me with both pride for the Butcher blood coursing through my veins and with rage that its rule was ever questioned. Boy.
‘Don’t forget to knuckle him,’ I remind John, rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt to each elbow, revealing the ink lacing the muscles in each coiled forearm. The knuckles are to offer him a final favour, for this isn’t a match; it’s an execution.
‘Yes, Boss.’
I stare at Joe, his eyes fixed on the brass now snug within the web of each of his fingers. The weight of that metal often washes over a man like artificial—borrowed—power. I won’t be knuckled. I plan on beating him the same way my father would, the same way my younger brother Bronson took down the man Joe fondly called ‘Boss’ for most of his life.
‘Let’s do this then, boy,’ he snarls, curling his lips and bracing both shiny fists before his face. ‘Don’t pretend this is just about Dustin. This is about the young pussy you are now playing with each night. Dustin’s trashy daughter. Do all our associates know that you have her captive in your house?’
I let him talk.
He glares at me over the glistening brass as he continues, ‘You can kill me, boy, but this is bigger than you are. He will get the girl and the baby.
He thinks she’s still pregnant…
‘Dustin is the only man the blue collars will work for, the only man who the bikers will work for… Jimmy knew this; Dustin grew up with half of those thugs. He was the man in these parts well before Cosa Nostra ever landed in the District. They don’t like Sicilians. You’re never going to win. You really are just the dumb fucking son of a boxer, boy.’
He’s working with the bikers.
Dammit.
Madonna Mia; I know where to find Dustin.
Hiding in the Stockyard Motorcycle Club compound out beyond Morrup.
Fucker.
He is completely untouchable there, within their solid brick walls and barbed wire fencing. Protected from the press. From civilians. Protected by petty outlaws… Dustin wants a damn blood bath. It’ll be the biggest gang war ever recorded in the District, and as the mayor, I’ll be forced into appearing transparent when the streets bleed.
I’ll have to give the media some kind of propaganda, a kind of constructed truth and still manage to hide my part, my family—my little deer. This is where, previously, I would have bid Lorna control the leaks of information… but after breaking our relationship to be loyal to my little deer, well, I doubt she is eager to aid me. My only hope is that she has maintained a healthy and intimate relationship with my wife.
Can I buy the bikers out?
They are like fucking animals.
The casualties will be immense.
Dustin knows this, too.
Joe’s impatient, his growl ripping me from my thoughts. They are all edgy the first time they are knuckled. Eager to see what a thick piece of metal can do to the skull of a man. He thrusts forward towards my face. I duck to the side, and when his shiny brass fingers slice past my ear, I drive my bare fist into his nose bone.
His head snaps backwards.
Louis barks something from behind me while Joe’s groans fill the empty boxing gym. The old man squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find purchase.
I wait for him to regain his vision, and when he does, he roars, rushing me, so I jab him again, sending him backwards into the rope. He bounces on the bungee like a sack of meat, folding down the centre.
He’s old…
It’s not a fair fight.
But no less fair than slicing his throat open with a wire from the backseat of a car or shooting him on the sidewalk, or slinging him up and cutting pieces from his bones.
Her life hasn’t been fair.
Dustin’s trashy daughter—
And he took pictures of my property, of the most beautiful fucking images of a sad girl who has been through too much. None of it is fair, but this life will be more than that to her from now on. The life I give her…
My body creates a shadow over him, a creeping blanket that covers the light cast from overhead. I drop to my knees, hearing the word ‘boy’ echoing in my mind.
‘Hit me,’ I hiss at him, lowering my arms, unguarded, and welcoming, ‘hit me, my friend.’
He lifts up with a throaty growl. Charged, he implants the brass below my right eye, opening my flesh. Blood pours down my face and into my mouth. I smile around the hot, thick fluid.
Then I lay into him.
It is an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but—Dustin’s trashy daughter—I want all his fucking teeth!
I slam my fist into his mouth, ramming several shards of white teeth down his throat, provoking him to raise his hands to protect his face. I break the bone in his forearm.
Crack!
Another hit to the mouth.
I deliver punch after punch.
The next one harder than the last, hearing his disrespectful tone talking about my father, and thinking about the warehouse. The bullshit. The disloyalty.
Fucker.
His blood begins to spray my face as I slowly cave the bones into the soft tissue within, but I keep jabbing. Even as the blood gushes from him like a fountain, as it drenches my shirt, my face.
My knuckles shift around under the pressure, once broken and having never completely healed. I ignore it. And I keep jabbing even as he stops moving, as the silence hangs ominously between each time my fist deepens the cavity now in his skull.
I keep jabbing.
Then I stop, lean back on my heels, and pant.
Still staring down at him, the unseeing glaze of death creeps across his wide eyes.
Boy.
I spit at him, the crimson fluid landing on the bludgeoned mass of his body. ‘Much better.’ I regain my resolve through deep breaths.
Slowly and calmly, I climb to my feet and turn to face the rest of my guests, knowing the sight of their colleague’s blood seeping into my clothes will churn their stomachs.
I open my arms wide, smiling reassuringly, the metallic flavour of blood moving across my tongue as I speak. ‘I will not punish anyone else for his mistakes.’ Walking to the bench, I collect a towel, casually wiping the red fluid from my face and hair. I speak as the white towel is slowly dyed red. ‘Boxing is at the core of my Family. At the core of the Cosa Nostra. I realised yesterday that not everyone has the same respect for the sport. You have never been in the ring, no? And so, I insist you embrace it.
‘Every Sunday, I will welcome you all to my gym, where a member of your firm will be nominated to fight. I pick the opponent. And Vincenzo,’—training my gaze to his stern but respectful eyes, I make clear—’the Irish will be here too. Our entire operation will be welcome. Equal.’ I turn back to the bench and begin to pull my shoes on. They will not only be welcome, but participation will be compulsory. I don’t need to articulate this, of course.
‘The winner will get twenty thousand dollars, and the loser will… also get twenty thousand dollars. We will do business here after. We will bleed here. We will be a Family here.’ I walk towards the freezer chest on the back wall and open the thick lid, white vapour emanating from the gap. ‘I have a gift for you.’
The three men approach carefully, and I watch Lucky Louis peer hesitantly into the steaming cold pit of the freezer. His face relaxes when he sees thick pink legs of pork.
Staring blankly at him, I notice he is fighting to look away from the tightly wrapped meat, still sure he’ll see something unseemly. I lift a leg up to offer him, and he sucks a rough breath in when the side of a human head previously hidden beneath the produce comes into view. Dull brown eyes stare absently up at us.
I confirm, ‘The boy who broke into my warehouse and cost us millions of dollars in weaponry. The other boy is below him.’ I hand Louis the leg, smiling smoothly through the corner of my mouth. ‘For your family, Lucky.’
Lucky, indeed.
For now, I might be able to keep their loyalties through fear, but it won’t be long before they forget what brought them to my side. Wooed by the green I stuff into their fists; they’ll forget about Joe. Enchanted by the lifestyle my generosity will ensure, they’ll become loyal. And they’ll be bonded in blood in the ring, intoxicated by the power rushing through them after their first win. But, of course, the lessons they’ll never forget after their first beat down—
Constructed camaraderie at its finest.
Nevertheless, I have a war on my hands.
What I need to do now is to get my sisters-in-law, my youngest brother, Xander, and my little deer out of the damn District while I bleed the streets with the biker scum safe-housing Dustin. I need to lie to my family.
To keep them safe.
