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1
Luka
Their fear tingles against my skin like a whisper. As my leather-soled shoes tap against the concrete floor, I can sense it in the way their eyes dart towards and away from me. In the way they scurry around the production floor like mice, meek and unseen in the shadows. I enjoy it.
Even before I rose through the ranks of my family, I could inspire fear. Being a large man made that simple. But now, with brawn and power behind me, people cower. These people—the employees at the soda factory—don’t even know why they fear me. Other than me being the owner’s son, they have no real reason to be afraid of me, and yet, like prey in the grasslands, they sense the lion is near. I observe each of them as I weave my way around conveyors filled with plastic bottles and aluminum cans, carbonated soda being pumped into them, filling the room with a syrupy sweet smell.
I recognize their faces, though not their names. The people upstairs don’t concern me. Or, at least, they shouldn’t. The soda factory is a cover for the real operation downstairs, which must be protected at all costs. It’s why I’m here on a Friday evening sniffing around for rats. For anyone who looks unfamiliar or out of place.
The floor manager—a Hispanic woman with a severe braid running down her back—calls out orders to the employees on the floor below in both English and Spanish, directing attention where necessary. She doesn’t look at me once.
Noise permeates the metal shell of the building. The whirr of conveyor belts and grinding of gears makes the concrete floors feel like they are vibrating from the sheer power of the sound waves. A lot of people find the sights and smells overwhelming, but I’ve never minded. You don’t become a mob underboss by shrinking in the face of chaos.
A group of employees in blue polos gather around a conveyor belt, smoothing out some kink in the production line. They pull a few aluminum cans from the line and drop them in a recycling bin, jockeying the rest of the cans back into a smooth line. The larger of the three men—a bald man with a doughy face and no obvious chin—flips a red switch. An alarm sounds and the cans begin moving again. He gives the floor manager a thumbs up and then turns to me, his hand flattening into a small wave. I raise an eyebrow in response. His face reddens, and he turns back to his work.
I don’t recognize him, but he can’t be in law enforcement. Undercover cops are more fit than he could ever dream to be. Plus, he wouldn’t have drawn attention to himself. Likely, he is just a new hire, unaware of my position in the company. I resolve to go over new hires with the site manager and find out the man’s name.
When I make it to the back of the production floor, the lights are dimmed—the back half of the factory not being utilized overnight—and I fumble with my keys for a moment before finding the right one to unlock the basement door. The stairway down is dark, and as soon as the metal door slams shut behind me, I’m left in blackness, my other senses heightening. The sounds of the production floor are but a whisper behind me, but the most pressing difference is the smell. Rather than the syrupy sweetness of the factory, there is an ether, chemical-like smell that makes my nose itch.
“That you, Luka?” Simon Oakley, the main chemist, doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’ve got a line here for you. We’ve perfected the chemistry. Best coke you’ll ever try.”
I pull back a thick curtain at the base of the stairs and step into the bright white light of the real production floor. I blink as my eyes adjust, and see Simon alone at the first metal table, three other men working in the back of the room. Like the employees upstairs, they don’t look up as I enter. Simon, however, smiles and points to the line.
“I don’t need to try it,” I say flatly. “I’ll know whether it’s good or not when I see how much our profits increase.”
“Well,” Simon balks. “It can take time for word to spread. We may not see a rise in income until—”
“I’m not here to chat.” I walk around the end of the table and stand next to Simon. He is an entire head shorter than me, his skin pale from spending so much time in the basement. “There have been nasty rumors going around among my men.”
His bushy brows furrow in concern. “Rumors about what? You know we basement dwellers are often the last to hear just about everything.” He tries to chuckle, but it dies as soon as he sees that I’m not here to fuck around.
“Disloyalty.” I purse my lips and run my tongue over my top teeth. “The rumbling is that someone has turned their back on the family.”
Fear dilates his pupils, and his fingers drum against the metal tabletop. “See? That is what I’m saying. I haven’t heard a single thing about any of that.”
“You haven’t?” I hum in thought, taking a step closer. I can tell Simon wants to back away, but he stays put. I commend him for his bravery even as I loath him for it. “That is interesting.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Why is that interesting?”
Before he can even finish the sentence, my hand is around his neck. I strike like a snake, squeezing his windpipe in my hand and walking him back towards the stone wall. I hear the men in the back of the room jump and murmur, but they make no move to help their boss. Because I outrank Simon by a mile.
“It’s interesting, Simon, because I have reliable information that says you met with members of the Furino mafia.” I slam his head against the wall once, twice. “Is it true?”
His face is turning red, eyeballs beginning to bulge out, and he claws at my hand for air. I don’t give him any.
“Why would you go behind my back and meet with another family? Have I not welcomed you into our fold? Have I not made your life here comfortable?”
Simon’s eyes are rolling back in his head, his fingers becoming limp noodles on my wrist, weak and ineffective. Just before his body can sag into unconsciousness, I release him. He drops to the floor, falling onto his hands and knees and gasping for air. I let him get two breaths before I kick him in the ribs.
“I didn’t meet with them,” he rasps. When he looks up at me, I can already see the beginnings of bruises wrapping around his neck.
I kick him again. The force knocks the air out of him, and he collapses on his face, forehead pressed to the cement floor.
“Okay,” he says, voice muffled. “I talked with them. Once.”
I pressed the sole of my shoe into his ribs, rolling him onto his back. “Speak up.”
“I met with them once,” he admits, tears streaming down his face from the pain. “They reached out to me.”
