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The clackof the keyboard fills my ear as I press down letter after letter, my hands moving in a smooth motion and a rhythm only I am accustomed to. My gaze is fixed on the screen, trying to catch just one slip-up from the man I’m watching.
His name is Lorenzo Grus. As of last night, he’s a fucking enemy to the D’Angelos. He wanted what he shouldn’t have and now he’s going to pay the price. Carlo steps forward to lean against my chair behind me, watching the screen just as intently.
“He still at the hotel?” my brother asks.
“The fucker’s taking forever to blow his load,” I mutter in irritation.
“Can’t really blame him, Don,” Nico, one of my cousins, calls. “The woman he took in there was smoking hot.”
It’s 7 p.m. and we’re inside a van, parked in a dark alleyway, waiting for Lorenzo to arrive. The man walks by here every night on his way to his favorite gambling den and we’re determined to get him tonight.
“I don’t give a fuck if the woman was burning hot. If he doesn’t come outside in ten minutes, we’re going in there,” I state.
Nico gives me a look. “Chill out, boss. We’re on Santos territory, remember that.”
I rub the back of my neck. I do remember, and although the last thing I want to start is a fucking gang war, I also really hate betrayals. Why couldn’t Lorenzo have just done the shit he was ordered to do?
“What are you going to do with him?” Carlo asks me.
“What do you think?” I say under my breath. “I’m going to fuck him up. That way, no one ever even thinks of messing with us again.”
Fortunately, Lorenzo steps outside the hotel five minutes later. I watch through the CCTV camera I hacked into as he staggers on his feet. The man has clearly had too much to drink and isn’t in the right state of mind. My mouth curves into a smile.
“Nico, Brut,” I start. Both men are immediately attentive, waiting to hear their orders. “Bring him here. Quietly.”
When they leave, I grab my gun, a silver ’45 my father gave me and the only gun I treasure. Carlo hands me a silencer so the gunshot doesn’t make any noise, alerting people to our location. Although, judging by the neighborhood, gunshots are probably the least worrying things to be heard.
By the time we’re done prepping and grabbing our weapons, the sound of a scuffle is emanating from outside the van. Carlo and I step out.
“Lorenzo. It’s been a long time,” I greet, a sardonic smile on my face.
The man pales as he looks at me and his hands start to visibly shake. I never handle these matters on my own. A Don personally doling out punishment means you fucked up in a way that will leave you begging for your mother. Lorenzo sinks down to his knees, his green eyes wide and fearful.
“Boss,” he cries. “I know I fucked up.”
I lean against the van, as I wait for him to finish his plea.
“You’ve got to understand, my mama’s sick. Really sick, and I’ve got three other siblings to take care of. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
My jaw tightens. “You had every choice, except to steal some of our dope, Lorenzo.”
He was our man on the inside with Desantos, sending us information if they were trying to make a move against us. And ensuring trade relations between us remained tight. Desantos provide us with guns, we provide them with drugs. That’s the way it works. But those relations are fragile now thanks to him. Desantos didn’t get their complete order yesterday and they’re not happy about it. I’ve got to broker a new peace.
“Did you really think we weren’t going to find out? We’ve got other men on the inside, Lorenzo. Not just you,” I tell him. “And you should be glad I’m taking care of this myself. If Desantos found out, a bullet would be the least of your worries.”
He nods in understanding, and I watch as a single tear rolls down his face. The man knows he’s reached the end of the road.
“I just… I had to take care of my mama.”
I get on my haunches and look straight into his eyes. “You could have come to me, told me your mama was sick and needed extra cash. And I would have helped you. You know that. Instead, you stole. We don’t condone stealing.”
He looks down at the ground. “I know, boss.”
“Good,” I tell him, standing up again and pointing the gun at him. “Head or heart?”
His eyes flutter close. “Shoot me in the head.”
