Strong winds rendered thousands of yellowed leaves airborne in a suburban neighborhood as yellow buses whisked children away to school. In the basement of a house like any other in this area, a group of men played a card game. These men drank and laughed and dealt their cards with hundreds of dollars at stake. Sat in the corner of the room, fiddling with a notebook and pen, was Declan “The Fixer” O’Malley, who was utterly undisturbed by the noisy men beside him.
“Whatcha you doing there, Declan?” Finnegan Callahan asked, his speech slightly slurred by alcohol. “These men are easy pickings. They couldn’t bluff their way out of a paper bag.”
Declan’s eyes remained focused on what he wrote. “Ensuring our survival, Finn. From here on out, every step we take will be through a minefield.”
The wrought iron door of the basement whistled open, its hinges in need of maintenance. Three men descended the croaking stairs, spearheaded by a tall man with sleek black hair and dressed in a pinstripe double-breasted suit that accentuated his elegant stride. Every man in the room stood up, including Declan, some even taking off their caps.
The tall man took Declan’s hand in a firm handshake. “It is good to see you, Mr. O’Malley. And in good health, I trust?”
“Likewise, Consigliere,” Declan replied. “It would take more than a thousand nosey cops to affect my health.”
Both men laughed and exchanged more greetings. The man was Carlo Martino, advisor to the Don, and he greeted each and every man present before returning to Declan.
”Only your trusted men, I hope?” Martino inquired.
Declan nodded, glancing at the men. “Yes, in light of many of my men becoming informants, which put me behind bars, I had to limit who I interact with now. Plus, I’m still wanted.”
“Of course.” The Consigliere nodded as well. “The Boss would like to see you, Finnigan, and Nikolai.”
“It’s about damn time.”
“You have to understand the wait. With the FBI and Shadow breathing down your neck, we had to make certain you weren’t compromised.”
“Oh, I understand,” Declan said, waving Finnegan and Nikolai over. “It would be asinine not to take the appropriate precautions.”
The lengthy drive upstate took several hours, passing through his hometown, The Big Apple, until they finally reached a small county nestled along the Hudson Valley. This area was renowned for its vineyards and orchards, making it a beloved destination for the exclusive members of The Black Book. Perched on a hill overlooking the county and the majestic Hudson River, stood the Woodland Manor. It was an exquisite blend of stone, brick, and wood, cleverly concealed by towering oak trees.
As they drove past the ornate gates, then past meticulously maintained lawns and a prominent ornamental fountain, they found themselves at the side of the manor, where a stunning stone gazebo adorned with intricate carvings of nude women awaited them.
“Let us await the Boss here,” Martino said, settling into a seat beneath the comforting shade. “I hope you find the scenery to your liking.”
Declan smiled at the Consigliere, savoring the rich aroma of blooming flowers and pine needles as he poured himself a glass of red wine. His men, Nikolai and Finnegan, settled down, looking rather tense. Finnegan, in particular, seemed like a man who found himself in a hospital room with doctors dancing around his wife who was in labor. As Declan consumed the wine, he noted that it tasted rather sour with tension. Perhaps he was stressed as well.
Within minutes, Don Massimo arrived, accompanied by a group of men flanking him. He was a robust man, his head adorned with a mane of black-gray waves. Clad in a simple pineapple shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, he exuded an aura of tranquility and ease.
Don Massimo spread his hairy arms when he drew near, embracing Declan into a tight hug while his guards remained outside the gazebo, their expressions unreadable. Declan noted Finnigan’s nervous gaze darting back and forth.
“How long has it been, Declan, my fixer?” Don Massimo said when they separated, his hands still resting on Declan’s shoulders. The Don’s voice was deep and gritty, yet carried soft inflections.
“About five years,” Declan answered. “Give or take. It is good to see you are in good health, boss.”
“Thank you, thank you. A lot of time has passed since… And I am grateful to God for his mercy.” The Don exchanged looks with his Consigliere. “Well, enough about me. How is your family, Declan?”
“Well, I can’t exactly check in with them. But from what I gather, they are doing alright.”
“I told you I will take care of them, my friend. You had nothing to worry about. Your sweet daughter, Caitlin, is entering catering school.”
Declan nodded, tears welling in his eyes, which were quick to dry.
The Consigliere stepped out of the gazebo and joined the circle of men surrounding the structure. An unnerving feeling jolted Declan’s spine. “Why the extra men, boss? We are having a sit-down, are we not?”
“A sit-down?” Don Massimo scuffed in disbelief, his smile fading. “How are things going down in Hermosville, my fixer?”
Finnigan tried to stand up.
“Sit down, Finn,” Declan commanded, then sighed, thinking of his next words. He understood the situation laid before him, his mind wandering back to what he told Finnegan earlier today. Declan truly stood in a minefield. One wrong word and he could say goodbye to all his worries.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Look, boss,” Declan said, looking the Don in the eye. “The local cops, NYPD, FBI, and HAVEN have had it in for us this last decade.”
“Don’t forget Metal Shadow,” Don Massimo added.
“And he too. Frankly, the major thorn in my side. Not to talk of the Grimshaw Gang that eats into our territory daily and the Colombo Syndicate with a major foothold in the north, waiting for the right moment to deliver the killing blow. I made the mistake of thinking I was untouchable. Too big to be infallible, since I had the cops in my coffers. But now I know I was smoking the largest hubris of all. It won’t happen again, boss. I have seen the error of my ways.”
“Have you now? What was the sixth code of the Omertà you swore to 30 years ago, Declan? When I brought you in, against the judgment of the commission. Now the other families laugh at us.”
It felt like Declan had swallowed acid, his heart pounding out of his chest. He glanced at Nikolai, who sat comfortably, sampling from the assortment of grapes on the table. The relaxed nature of the Russian man with some hint of stiffness, who put complete trust in his boss to get him out of this sticky situation, calmed Declan’s beating heart.
“The code of secrecy,” Declan replied. “I am to avoid drawing attention to myself when conducting The Black Book’s business.”
“Which you have woefully failed at,” Don Massimo said. “You’ve got half the law enforcement in the tri-state area on your tail. Our enemies mock and take from us. Our clients shy away, scared of the infestation of rats you’ve got going on in your city. How is any of this good for business, Declan? You know, before your escape, I was thinking of sending Zora down to clean the mess you made. Give me a good reason to think otherwise.”
“Three years,” Declan said. “Give me three years to get New Jersey under control. That’s all I need. The rats? I’ll kill every last one of them. They’ll regret the day they fucking turned on us. I’ll destroy the Grimshaw gang. The Colombo syndicate will wish they never stepped foot in Hermosville.”
The Consigliere stepped forward. “With what manpower? Most of your men are behind bars or dead in a ditch. How could you possibly make such bold claims?”
“You all call me The Fixer, Consigliere,” Declan said, a sly smile spreading on his lips. “Let me do what I do best.”
Don Massimo exchanged a long look with his Consigliere before placing a large hand on Declan’s neck while raising a finger with the other. “You have one year to fix your mess in Hermosville. One year. Do not make me regret this, my fixer.”
The Don stepped out of the gazebo, turning back to look at Declan one last time before walking off. At last, the men pulled off, following behind the Don. Declan shot a smile at the stern gaze of the Consigliere, who was the last to leave.
A relieved sigh escaped his lips when they all left. Then, turning to his men, he said. “Not too bad, eh?”
Finnegan handed him and poured him another glass of wine. “Other than the fact that we almost got our heads blown off, it wasn’t too bad, boss.”
“So what’s the plan, boss?” Nikolai asked.
“I’m expecting a call,” Declan said. Not long after, as he savored his wine, his phone rang. “Looks like it’s right on time.”
He pressed the phone to his ear.
“Hello, I’m—”
“Don’t mention it,” Declan said. “I know who you are. Three hours from now, take a walk at Stormhaven Park. Admire the symphony of nature. Then, take an evening stroll along Heritage Bridge. Make sure to enjoy the views.”
Declan cut the call and urged his men to come along. The beating heart of Hermosville was ripe for the taking. There was no time to waste.
❊ ❊ ❊
At Stormhaven Park, a gathering of families pitted their dogs against each other in a contest of speed and ingenuity. A black greyhound was currently running away with the prizes, the other families shocked in disbelief at how easily the dog trounced its competition.
Sat by a bench, Jalen ate some ice cream, enjoying the show laid before him. For the first time in a while, Yun wasn’t draped around his shoulder. She had taken an excursion, exploring every nook and cranny of the city. He didn’t mind, valuing the alone time afforded in her absence. After finishing his ice cream, he stood up and walked again, leaving the park and making his way to Heritage Bridge through several city blocks.
The tall spires of the ancient bridge, a relic of the twentieth century that marked the age of industrialization, peaked over the horizon as he drew nearer. Along the busy road leading onto the bridge, a black sedan pulled over near him, its window lowering.
The driver stared straight ahead. “The Fixer sends his regards. Get in.”
He obliged, nestling into the back seat. The car continued on its journey, its tire groaning as it passed the bridge’s expansion joint.
“Have you been followed?” The driver asked.
He pulled his gaze from the tall spires draped with suspension cables whipping by. “You tell me. After all, you’ve been tailing me since I stepped out.”
The driver remained silent the rest of the way, allowing his mind to wander about the past week, which was filled with non-stop coverage of what happened at The Radiant Tower. Considering HAVEN’s spokesperson’s standard PR speech about their efforts to understand the perpetrator’s motives and their drive to apprehend anyone who was responsible, the media could only speculate. And speculate, they did.
When they came back to Hermosville, Ella went with Caleb to meet his mother, no doubt planning to cry and mourn over Rebecca, so he elected not to go. However, something Caleb said before he left played in Jalen’s mind over and over. The sun was setting as Ella hailed a cab when Caleb scooted over, muttering. “I guess you were right in the end. She wasn’t fit to become a superhero. And neither was I. I couldn’t even move when they pointed a gun at me.” Then the teen sauntered off to cry, not waiting for his reply.
As the car rode on, he chose to honor his sister’s resolve to find Killer Cell and anyone responsible for Rebecca’s death. Because if she didn’t, he would have taken that burden of retribution upon himself.
The car toured the outskirts of Old Town, a historic district where cobblestone streets and Victorian architecture evoked a bygone era. Then it parked beside a restaurant called La Dolce Vita Ristorante. As he stepped out of the car, a breathtaking view greeted him. The front of the restaurant boasted colorful curved floor-to-ceiling windows, giving it a touch of elegance. The decor inside the establishment clearly drew inspiration from the Amalfi Coast, featuring sandy-colored floor tiles and beautiful aquamarine glass mosaics.
Declan O’Malley, the runaway fugitive, stood in the doorway leading into the kitchen.
The man shook Jalen’s hand firmly. “I am glad that you made it. Come, we have much to discuss.”
He followed Declan, weaving through narrow pathways in the industrial kitchen, as chefs prepared food for the night’s guests.
“For a wanted man,” he said. “I expected you to be… hidden. Not walking about in a restaurant.”
“Chef Ricci and his staff remained loyal during my incarceration when others turned,” Declan said, halting before a large stainless fridge. “I trust them dearly. Besides, we don’t have that many safe houses left.”
Declan pressed a hidden button that caused the fridge to hum and slide away, revealing a door. The duo descended into a narrow corridor with recessed spaces large enough to cover gunmen. Past the corridor was a well-furnished living space lined with different-sized couches that served as a meeting place for entertainment and business matters.