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Fucker.
He continues, "I'll take photos of 'em with my phone, send 'em to you so—"
"No," I state, outwardly staying still, controlling my breath, to not abandon the smallest twitch in case it's the catalyst for my temper. I need them in my hands. I need my girl's image inmyhands… And he can't come here in case he's followed from the docks. "Grab them all. Light it up. Get out of there before the police arrive. Take the burnt off-road. The fire won't jump it. Go home. Que will meet you there and collect my possessions."
"Yes, Boss."
"And John—" I state his name with severity smothering my voice over—a warning of my own. "Don't look too closely at those photos. They are not for you."
He exhales hard. "Yes, Boss."
Good boy.
CHAPTERSIX
clay
Above and behindme 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'sCosa 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…Sicilianrefinement. 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.
