I love to watch the blood gush around men as the glaze of death frosts over inside their eyes, creeping from the edges as they gurgle and splutter on blood as its ebbs from their body painting a crimson portrait of sweet beautiful death.
My head cocks to the side as fuck boy number one’s mate grabs his gun pointing it toward me. My eyes narrow at him as anger ripples through me as the beast paces, scratching, clawing for release while I’m pointing my Ruger towards his cock.
“You ever wanna fuck again I would reconsider pointing that at me,” my eyes meet his, annoyed that he pulled my eyes from the masterpiece that is the blood pooling into a congealing portrait on the grey carpet.
He pulls back his gun, his hands up in the air as clapping sounds out behind me. Spinning around my eyes meet them of my enemy.
“Gentlemen, Gentlemen no need to stain the carpet is there?” His sick voice fills the now too small room as my eyes meet Ian’s. Shaking my head at him he knows, he fucking knows that he’s walking a thin fucking line between breathing and dying right here, right now.
“Boss man,” Ian says, nodding his head toward me. “Sorry about that. His temper needs to be checked. He’s a bit wild.” Ian stands as Damon, the sleaze, stalks into the room with two men flanking him.
“You may want to deal with that. A trigger-happy man is a dangerous man,” Damon says taking out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping some blood splatter from the empty chair. He then takes a seat, crosses his legs and places his hands with his fingers linked around his knee. The monkey that I just shot eyes me with a death glare, sweat running down his pale face. “Shouldn’t have spoken out of turn, fucker. You’re lucky it was ya knee and not ya head,” I seethe out.
“Damon, I don’t believe that you’ve met my cousin, Micha,” Ian says as he leans over the table passing Damon a glass of whiskey and ice. My eyes dart between the two and my mind runs trying to work out what the fuck is going on here. Why is he giving him drinks? What the fuck was that boss man comment? How am I even still sitting here amongst the scum?
“No, not formally, but I know of him, yes,” Damon says as my eyes examine his. The longer I look into his eyes the more that day haunts me. I see it roll out like an overplayed black and white film at a drive-in because for each and every night since I was 12, I have replayed it.
He offers me his hand and I scoff at his advance.
“You have no fucking clue who I am, and I indeed know you more than you could ever fucking think,” I bite out while placing my Ruger on my knee, pointing it right at his chest and leaning back in my chair. My eyes meet Ian’s as Damon’s men pull their weapons.
“What I want to know is why the fuck are you here and why does it involve me being in his presence?”
Regardless of my vendetta with Damon our families have been at war for years. Centuries when you really think back to the old days. The Gallo’s and the Ragen’s/Walsh’s, unbeknownst to him, have had a long war. It’s been battled out for years even before my dick bag cousin and I were born. We all have battled and fought each other in bloodlust. Pure and utter mayhem came from us and them. In return, most say that we have no limits. That we don’t hesitate to shoot anyone. We don’t, and I never have. I will shoot you if I can’t get close enough to slit your throat because that there along with my riddles is my calling card. A lot like my grandfather’s flowers and his father’s deli delivery. His father before him was wine, the father before that was cheese. We all have had a thing, and this is mine.
We are feared. Well, I am at least, Ian not so much. He’s a waste of oxygen. Aunty should have swallowed him.
The Ragen and Walsh are Italian\Irish, and Damon comes from Irish blood, just straight Irish, and has wanted the power that both our clans possess. Hence the bloodshed of my family and my now number one priority to torture and kill all that he has.
Our main priority has always been family and love. Theirs has always been wealth, power and greed. Killing for the sake of killing.
And because of that, our families have never gotten along.
I remember my father telling me his Grandfather my Great-grandfather told him stories about them when he was young, then my father’s father told me the same stories. All I really know is that years ago before I was born, Jonny Ragen, the Great-grandfather of my family, fell in love. He fell in love with a member of my Mother’s family, the Irish princess Rosie Gallo. Her family put a hit out on them, but my family kept them safe sending them to the Walsh’s in Italy. They rose to the top over there and returned the most powerful and the most talked about love story in Mafia history.
They were not innocent, though. They had a lot of blood on their hands and shed a lot on their return. But neither are the Gallo’s. They have shed a lot of blood over the years and tried to muscle in on a lot of business that they shouldn’t have. I know as I’ve been watching. Shady deals and meetings with different gangs trying to re-claim power and the streets. Not happening on my watch. This is why my grandfather has me as his right-hand man.
My grandfather has tried to find some kind of peace with them. That was before Damon and his crew hit and killed my father and brother. That was, and now it’s just a bubbling feeling of distrust. Now, from what I see sitting here with Ian, a whole lot more of dishonor.
I have been given the seal of approval to start a new war, one Damon had no clue was coming until a few weeks ago. He still hasn’t fully figured it out. It’s slowly hitting him though. The riddles, the way I kill, but one thing is he has no clue why or that it’s even me, the man sitting across from him in a room. He doesn’t realize that I could kill them all before anyone even got a shot near me.
“We need to discuss business,” Damon says, pulling me from my mental recap of our family’s pasts.
“We don’t have any business with you,” I say, my eyes meeting his clenching my jaw.
“Oh yes, Micha, but we do.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. None at all.
“Ha, really? What fucking business then?” My eyes turn to Ian. He’s sitting back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks pleased with himself and it takes a lot for me to not hit an SOS to Jimmy and have him roll in here and set fire to this shit pit and run Ian right out.
“My men are dying right in front of me. Killed by the Riddler and his knife, while he leaves riddles for me to break.” I conceal my smile behind my hand as I pretend to cough. Calling on my best poker face here, I think why the fuck is Ian even meeting with him? He knows I work with riddles, so does our grandfather. He knows I slice before I shoot. And he knows that Damon is a piece of shit who deserves a slow and painful death.
Biting the inside of my lip, I think this better not be a setup from my scorned cousin. I know that he has just been told he will only have this club from here on out. No more family business. No more family meetings. No more family power.
“And?” I say pulling a cigarette from my pack inside my jacket, lighting it while my eyes never leave Ian’s.
Directing my question more to Ian than Damon because out of all the men, well I should say boys in this room, he’s the one I want to hear speak, but he seems to have been struck mute all of a sudden.