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1
Ronan
A cold wind crashes in through my open window and slaps me across the face. I bite the inside of my lip, daring myself to draw blood—I wonder if it would even be warm? My cheeks are numb and my heart runs slow, but the frigid downtown breeze is the only thing keeping me awake.
I check my phone. I’ve been idling outside of this dump of a bodega for hours now, waiting for a certain slimy bastard to finally show up. But, true to his nature, he’s making life harder than it has to be.
I’m going to make him suffer for it.
The shop on the corner is closed and the rubbery glass door off to its side is dark, as is the window overtop of it. Neon light washes over its façade, drenching the stained bricks in red and yellow and green. The place reminds me of where I lived after I first joined the Barone family. Back then, the peeling walls of my new grubby homestead had seemed like a little slice of heaven, a sanctuary in the hellish landscape of the underworld, but now I see it for what it truly is: a cage for a rat. I was more free on the streets as a scrawny guttersnipe than I am now as a feared enforcer—not that it matters. No one’s truly free in this world. A choice was made for me, and now my life is dedicated to repaying the debt that it created.
I dig my fingernails into my palm until I feel something, anything. A simmering anger broils just beneath my surface; it’s the only thing keeping me from freezing completely over. I almost manage to smile at the thought of not getting the information I need tonight. If my ‘perp’ isn’t in the mood for talking, then I just might get to have a little fun with him. A few hard punches here and there are usually enough to break the ice that encases my soul, if even only for a moment.
The streetlights ahead sway in the frigid midnight gusts. A modest hurricane rips through these streets every night, born off the lake that borders the wrong side of the tracks. This city is wall-to-wall bad news... and I love it. I can’t take a step outside without being beset by grime and false neon dawns; the muck I’ve built up under my soles makes me feel about ten-feet tall. This is my world, the only world I’ve ever known, and I’ve had to fight and scrap and claw just to break the surface—but now I’m nearly above it all. My chest puffs out when I think of just how far I’ve come since Gianni Barone found me on that street corner all those years ago. A helpless kid, transformed into the hand of the king...
Suddenly, I hear the lonely footsteps I’ve been waiting for. They echo through the restless air and I sink down into my seat. I can see my target in the rear-view mirror. A dark man in a lengthy trench coat shuffles up to the bodega’s side door. I sneer and click the safety off on my Glock. Finally.
I watch with furious patience as the shrouded figure fights the wind until his door is unlocked. I slip out of my car just as he slips inside of the doorway. The cold metal of my weapon feels warm against my back. The simmering fire inside of me starts to jump and bubble. I wrangle on my leather gloves and don’t hesitate when I reach the door. I punch through the flexible glass like a cannonball through water and whip the door open harder than any hurricane ever could. The frame creaks off of its hinges just loud enough to cut through the tunnelled gusts that invade the dark staircase. At the top of the steps, I see the shadow of my prey turn to me—there’s a glimmer of fear in his eyes that reflects off the neon light seeping in from just outside. I make sure all he sees is the barrel of my doom.
I step forward.
He freezes.
“Open up,” I growl, pointing the tip of my heat towards his apartment door. My numb fingers are beginning to thaw just enough to hurt. I bite my tongue until I draw some warm blood. I’ve been through this before; I know what it takes
“Listen... I don’t have any—” I interrupt the stammering shadow with the butt of my gun. I hear his nose crack and I’m sick of waiting. I keep my steel on him as I kick open his flimsy wooden door and push us both inside. I have to duck under the doorway.
No alarm is sounded. This scum couldn’t afford one even if he wanted to. I grab him by the scruff of his collar and throw him into a nearby chair. He’s holding onto his nose like it’s about to fall off. Dark blood gushes from his face.
The little apartment is raggedy and water damaged. A thin, torn carpet folds under my feet and a wispy curtain floats in front of a cracked window like a ghost.
“You better start talking,” I command, with the power of life and death resting on my fingertips. I just want to get out of here. You don’t live like this anymore, I have to remind myself. You’ve earned better.
“You... You’re fucking with the wrong person...” blubbers the fool on the couch. “I... I’m connected!”
He spits blood onto the carpet and I take another step forward. “Not anymore, you’re not, Alonzo,” I let him know. The dingy apartment is dark enough to hide my face, but the man wouldn’t recognize me even if it were mid-day. The Barone family likes to keep me hidden away, and that’s the way I like it.
The only light in the room comes from the red digital clock in the kitchen. It’s bright enough to silhouette the coward’s features, but not show his face; that’s too bad, I’d like to see the fear that he’s wearing.
The man hesitates. I can almost hear the gears in his mind turning. “Who are you with?” he gargles, down to a whisper. It’s a legitimate question for someone in his shoes. He’s pissed off both sides of this city’s underworld and it’s only now dawning on him that his own boss could be coming for his throat. Idiot.
“That doesn’t matter,” I assure him. ?
?All that matters is that you answer my next question truthfully—if you don’t, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” I point the tip of my Glock directly between his eyes.
The bloody silhouette scoffs in my direction. He may be a blubbering coward, but there’s no way this is the first time he’s had a gun pointed in his face. This scum is Alonzo Bianchi and we share the same crime boss: Gianni Barone. No one gets through this grimy world without at least a few bullet-burns and steel brandings. I’ve had my fair share—just, as I’m sure, Alonzo has. But it can only make you so bold, to stare down death over and over again.
“Feels like whatever I do next is going to be the last thing I ever do,” Alonzo spits. I’m getting tired of his disobedience. With my free hand, I pull the switchblade out of my jacket pocket. That makes him squirm.
“Are you ready for your question?” I hold the blade up and let it shimmer in the little light that is able to squeak through the cracks of this hellhole. The digital clock in the kitchen blinks like a strobe. I take another step towards my victim.
Alonzo flinches at my approach. He splays out his palms over his face, as if that will protect him from the boogeyman. “What do you want to know!?” he pleads.
I stop my advance, just feet away from him. “Who told you to fuck with Alexai Molchalin?”
I can feel the air being sucked out of the room as Alonzo realizes what’s happening. He doesn’t answer right away. So, I take another step forward—three more and I’ll be close enough to smell his boozy breath.
“We didn’t mean to kill him! I swear, it was an accident. We just wanted to scare him off!”
“We?”
Another moment of hesitation on Alonzo’s part means another step forward from me. Alonzo curls his legs up on the couch like a terrified child. It’s disgusting. This is a grown man. A killer. He deserves no pity. No mercy.
