Under the bright flash of a strobe light, sat a bulky man, surveying the crowd with feigned disinterest. The COVID-19 pandemic might have shut the doors on all indoor businesses, but his club was unlike any other. It served as the epicenter of his organization; the meeting ground for underground deals, and in some occasions, the final elimination of partnerships.
Joe Benza might have been starting to show his age with thinning hair and slight sagging in his belly, but he was far from over the hill. As the leader of the West 9th Street gang, he’d been known as the most feared and vicious man in the city for over twenty-five years. A fact that gave him an enormous amount of pride, while at the same time exhausting him. His men were loyal to a fault, good soldiers to have at his side. His specialties ranged from drugs, guns, grand theft and prostitution. Nothing went on in the town of Glen Abbott without his explicit say so; no matter the consequence. It was one thing to be respected; it was quite another to be feared. Fear is what kept the men in line, his enemies at length, and his customers coming back for more.
He took a long drag from his cigar, savouring the flavour of the aged Cuban. Swirling his scotch on the rocks in its tumbler, he replayed the events of the last twenty-four hours. Running an empire like his, it was imperative that he was constantly one step ahead, not allowing any type of error to occur. He demanded efficiency from every man in his employ, the punishment when anything less than that was delivered brutal and unforgiving. His hard ways had cost him many a man over the years, but was crucial to building everything he now had. The deal he’d recently made would take his business into international territory, a feat he’d avoided for years, but now was an essential move that had to be made in order to maintain control. Worry niggled at the back of his mind over the new partnership, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by his right hand man, Fabrizio Greco who was seated on his right side.
“Doubting yourself, boss?” he asked, his piercing blue gaze boring into Joe’s dark eyes.
“No.” Joe’s denial was swift as he straightened the maroon coloured tie at his throat. It was a bold-faced lie, but he was not one to show weakness, not even to his oldest friend and confidante. In his line of work, the second you wavered, that was when the enemy pounced.
The DJ expertly tapered off the pounding music and picked up the mic. “Gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure tonight at Strip on the 9th, please welcome to the stage, Cherry!” Hoots and hollers followed the DJ’s announcement, and Joe made a slow spin in his chair, giving the stage his full attention.
Cherry was the club’s newest asset. Most of the regular girls were in lockdown; not willing to brave breaking quarantine rules to perform at Joe’s club. While not showing up for work in normal circumstances would have meant immediate dismissal, Joe could hardly blame them for being cautious. They were living in unprecedented times; family needed to come first. “Cherry,” the tiny redhead obviously named for her bottle coloured hair, had made her way onto the stage, her skimpy silver sequined number barely covering up the goods. What she lacked in experience, she definitely made up for in looks and bravado, as she took a running start at the stripper pole, catching it with her left hand and swinging her body up into an arc.
“Nice,” Fab commented approvingly, his eyes travelling down the young girl’s fit frame.
“Enough,” was Joe’s only reply, his eye on a commotion at the back entrance to the club. No one used the black painted double doors but himself and his men, all of whom were already inside, scattered throughout the club. His bouncers appeared to be arguing with a few men he didn’t recognize, their voices becoming raised. Not concerned, Joe simply ashed out his cigar and nodded to the brunette bartender to pour him another scotch. His men were all well trained for any situation; vetted and completely loyal to him. No one would dare fuck with him on his turf; not unless they had a death wish.
Joe raised an eyebrow as Tyler, the most hot-headed of his men, grabbed one of the strangers by the back of the neck and with an over-exaggerated show of strength, tossed him out the door. There was a loud crash followed by a series of grunts as the men made short work of disposing of the rest of the intruders. When the door banged shut, Tyler found Joe in the crowd and gave a curt nod, signalling the trouble had been handled.
“Boss, this deal with the Merriott family, you sure it’s the right move? We’ve never worked this closely with another crew before. Who’s to say these assholes don’t try to cut us out of our own damn business? Why should we trust them?” Fab tossed back a shot of tequila and signalled for another.
Joe pinned his friend to the spot with a cold, menacing stare. “You’ll trust them because I fucking said to trust them. You think I’m some pansy-assed leader? That I don’t know how to run my own crew after all these years?” He gained his feet and towered over his second, fury pumping off him in waves.
“No. Of course not. I’m only suggesting that—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re suggesting. Shut that shit up. You ever think that I know exactly what I’m getting into? What my end game is? These motherfuckers won’t ever get the chance to fuck with us—we’ll be the ones running their shit by the time I’m through. You’ve forgotten who the fuck I am, Fab.” Joe straightened to his full height, his smile anything but friendly. Toothy, cold and full of malice.
Fab cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, not worried but not completely at ease either. Joe was known for his impulsive decisions and the last thing he wanted to see happen was his empire fall due to misguided ideas. He also didn’t want to be missing his hands, the fate the last man that dared to question him had suffered.
Before he could form any type of response, a loud bang drew their attention. The back doors of the club were kicked open, a stream of men dressed head to toe in black rushing in. Tyler took out the first two men on his own with short jabs to the windpipe, but crumbled to the ground in a heap when the third man raised a Glock and dropped him with no hesitation, firing only a single shot. On the stage, Cherry screamed and scrambled to take cover, losing her footing on her sky-high stilettos.
A total of ten armed men entered the club, spreading out in a wide arc. Joe’s men immediately responded, not a coward among them and drew their own weapons, each one prepared to go down in a fight. The numbers were close, each set of men keeping weapons trained on each other. The man that stepped forward, clearly the one in charge, didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.
Fab moved to place himself between Joe and the obvious leader, but Joe stopped him with a simple hand on the shoulder.
“Quite an entrance,” he commented, taking a sip of his drink. He tilted his head at Gordon, a skinny kid still earning his stripes, to check on Tyler.
The man stripped off his mask, and ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He was unrecognizable to Joe, but that didn’t mean anything. In his line of work, he met dozens of people and could hardly keep track of them all.
“We have some business to discuss, Mr. Benza,” he stated, drawing a package from his coat pocket. He tossed it onto the bar beside them, nodding for Joe to take a look. Obliging, Joe peeled the foil aside and raised an eyebrow at the kilo of coke.
“What we have is you in possession of my product, Mr…”