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We'd met under casual terms, but this disrespectful man forgot his manners along the way. I’ve been told, ‘What the Australian male lacks in brains, he makes up for in brawn’ and I truly hope so. Since being here, we have found a lack of connections, a lack of muscle due to scope - all of Sicily is smaller than this area of Western Australia - and far too many new legalities to. . . manipulate without consultants to advise us. Despite my indelicate means of conversing, the end game is to get Dustin Nerrock and a few other big-name families in this area to work with us.
For us. . .
Dustin's father died last year, leaving him with businesses scattered throughout the area, but with no idea on how to utilise them. Money and dominance are the game. The man under my shoe has more money than sense, an ego that rivals my own, and a name people know. And soon, here, people will know mine.
“Do you have any idea who-” Dustin chokes, struggling to force words out while my boot is pressed to his throat.
Pity. . .
“Oh scusari,”I say, feigning concern. “Did you say something?” His face looks so feeble; I want to crush it ‘til it goes away. Men who bow are ants, small and helpless, but infinitely useful when put to work. I’ve been told my temper is an issue. Apparently, it is obvious when I’m irate; I speak a mongrel version of Italian, Sicilian, and English, and my accent seems to thicken. . .Personally, I don’t hear it. . .
“Madonna Mia,are you going to cry like apaparédda,Dustin. You’re the man about these parts. Stand up!” I yell, and then press my heel further into his jugular. . . so he can’t. “Alzarsi!Stand up!”He can’t. I won’t let him, and the whole idea of that makes my dick twitch.
I find myself tiring of his weak attempts to fight me off. I remove my shoe from his neck, allowing him to gasp and drag some much-needed air into his lungs. And he does, sucking like a man possessed. His palms meet the pavement under the dimly lit street lights and I take a few steps back to allow him room to stand. His pushes off his hands and climbs to his feet, a scowl firmly set on his face. Dustin all but growls at me and then spits blood to the side, his body shuddering slightly while he regains air and stability.
I mock, “Are you okay, paparédda?”
“You’re in deep shit,” he hisses, coughing at the pavement.
The bitterness in the air is tangible, an entity apart. It is time to switch the play and lead the conversation in a more mutually beneficial direction. I've humiliated him, and now I shall woo him.
“Let’s talk like gentlemen, Dustin,” I begin, removing a handkerchief from my pocket and offering it to him as he coughs and clears his throat. “Please oblige me?” I wave the folded white material in front of him, a feigned gesture of a truce.
He takes it and uses it to wipe away the little pieces of gravel pressed to his cheek. “Talk…”
“Perhaps we can start again.Se?”This is my favourite part of conversing - switching the play, manipulating the conversation. “You know who I am now, and I know who you are. You also know what I do,se?”
He stares at me, his brows drawn together, his eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Well,” I say, clapping my hands and grinning widely at him. “That’s an excellent start. May I recommend we take this littleparramuneto a more appropriate place? I know an establishment not too far from here. . . Will you join me for a drink? Put thislittleand unfortunate indiscretion behind us. . .”
***
It didn’t take long for me to gain Dustin Nerrock’s favour. In fact, it took less time than I'd imagined. The man is hungry, power hungry. I recognise it in him. It is indeed a trait we share. After three hours with Dustin, I’m even more convinced that this area holds infinite possibilities. To start with, there is a high crime rate, which, of course, is a huge benefit to my cause as protection comes at a cost. There are strictly governed gun laws, which, of course, means demand, and I am happy to supply. There is a vast class division, which means two things: an opportunity to clean up the riffraff at a cost, and addicts - I love addicts.
My father once told me to never choose a side, but to rather find out their motivation(s) and make them beholden to you. ‘Control the streets; control the city.’ I share this philosophy with Dustin. The final and most tantalising piece of information is that this country is bursting at the seams with minerals and is far too big to secure thoroughly. There is gold, diamonds, and unsealed access roads.
“I have never met a rich man I didn’t like,” I declare, clinking Dustin’s glass with mine.
A grin stretches across his face. The grin of a man whose eyes are suffused in dollar signs. “Well, that said, there are others we need in on this. . .”
"Yes.” I raise the glass to my lips and the smoky whiskey fumes float deliciously up my nostrils. "A man who myCapotold me about.Bigpull in the old country." I use my hands to talk. My Sicilian mannerisms are hardwired. "Bigpull. But he seems quite the enigma. I could not track him down. He has recently married some beauty queen from England and is probably just. . . How do you Australians say it?Fuckingandfucking. No time for business when there is pussy.Se?” We both laugh and I play the game of equals; that is what I want him to believe. “So this man,” I continue, “he is a half-Sicilian, half-Australian, mongrel.Butthe Family. . . They seem to love him. The name I was given was Paul Lucchese."
Dustin’s gaze narrows, his amused expression slipping. “I know who you’re talking about. . .We can’t trust that bastard." And I’m immediately intrigued. . .
“He is very important to the Family.” I feign a sigh, but I’m eager to meet the man who has inspired such a reaction. I have never liked ‘likable people’; it is the unlikable ones I prefer. They have attitude and spirit. They make excellent soldiers.
Dustin seems to study my expression. “He will never agree.”
“He will. I assure you-" My attention is redirected to a clearly inebriated character as he swipes a collection of glasses off the bar; the sound of them smashing rudely invades my senses. I tilt my head and watch from our booth as he begins to yell and threaten the bartender.
Well, this is a pity.
I was having such a peaceful drink, and I have my favourite shirt on. The inebriated man’s grasp of the English language shocks me, and it makes me wonder whether it was his mother or father who has failed him so profoundly; perhaps both.
“Listen, 'ere,” he starts, pointing a shaky finger at the bartender. “I ain’t sellin’ nufin. I’m just ’ere for a drink.”
Interesting. . .
