1

It had smelled great, looked great, but went down like shit. Marco could barely choke it, and it seemed like it was noticeable.

“How’s your risotto, Marco?” Geno asked, smiling from across the table. “Please, be honest. I took a liberty with the sausage--it’s American--but I’m no good at judging my own work.”

Geno was young for his position at thirty-two, and the stresses of his work hadn’t aged him a day. With warm olive skin, slicked back hair, a nice suit, and a winning smile, it was hard for most people not to take a liking to the man right away--a nice trait to have when one’s career depended greatly upon being liked. The only negative trait Marco could see was the lack of muscle on his bones and the gauntness of his cheeks… Being around him made Marco self aware about how he must’ve looked: his flannel shirt was stained, his jeans the same, his boots muddy from the site's ground. Even his own olive-colored skin seemed less than in comparison, his own hair greasy, his own average weight bulbous… And his face wasn’t much better too, housing a black on blue the size of a tomato on his left cheek. He was rubbing it.

“Marco?” Geno said.

He moved his hand up. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention…” Marco admitted, absently stroking back his greying hair.

Geno smiled, showing that no harm was done. “The risotto, how is it?”

“It’s good.”

“Hmm…” It was a sound of distrust. “Igor, taste it and tell me.”

The Russian, who had been standing just behind his chair, seized the spoon and stabbed at his plate, picking a hefty portion before taking a bite. Igor was the name of some deformed freak working under Dr. Frankenstein in a movie he’d seen once; a small, pathetic, and dumb man. Even though the giant of a man stood over him at almost seven feet was the opposite of small or deforemed or pathetic or dumb, Marco felt it was fitting. Igor ground the rice between his straight jaw the same way Marco imagined he would grind human bones if he had the chance, his blue eyes never wavering from the eye contact they were sharing, and swallowed.

The giant looked back over to his boss. “No lie. I like it enough.”

“It’s like I said. Good,” Marco added quickly. 

The man leaning by the corner of the room chuckled to himself. He was a man that the term “rat-like” fit perfectly, all small, ugly, and skinny. Aldo was his name and Marco had never liked him. Still a goon, he thought.

Geno straightened his back and the man stopped. “Be quiet and leave him alone,” he said. “This is no doubt a stressful situation for him. Isn’t that right?”

Marco nodded, feeling claustrophobic despite the large apartment they were eating in. Larger than his, at least, with two bathrooms and a kitchen separate to the dining room. Strangely, the fact that Geno chose to live in a modest apartment just above a bar he owned seemed like the most eccentric aspect of the man, especially considering his income.

“See? How can a man think straight when under this kind of pressure?” Geno asked, looking at the two as if expecting an answer. He wasn’t and they knew it, both nodding as if they understood. “Now, you tell me, Marco; you, who hasn’t been doing business with us for about eighteen years, why have we called you here?”

Marco rubbed his chinned, feeling the stubble massage his fingertips as he studied the mafioso. “It’s Vincenzo, right?” he asked, letting his hand fall on the table. “Did something happen to him?”

“No, not yet,” Geno admitted. “But here’s hoping.”

Marco feigned surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“Marco, you know me. I don’t sugarcoat the truth. Vincenzo has to die. The Don gave the order himself,” Geno explained. “Now, believe me when I say I tried to tell him otherwise.” He smiled in spite of the news he was giving. “I’ve actually done it for the past two years! Realistically, he should’ve died after the Lenny situation--but I saved him. And I want you to remember that, okay? That was your fuck up.”

He knew it was his fault, felt it was his fault, but hearing it out loud… It felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. That expression was accurate because he had been stabbed once in his younger years.

“That poor girl…” Geno said. “Burning to death… A terrible way to go… And you know how the Don is, his punishments and all…”

“Is that why you have that?” Marco questioned, pointing at the artifact on the wall behind him.

“That?” Geno muttered, turning to see. It was an antique flamethrower--made in World War Two by the look of it--in what seemed to be mint condition, hanging above his white leather couch. “That was my grandfather’s. But don’t mind that.” He turned back to Marco. “Stay on subject. Vincenzo’s time is up, there’s no changing that. If it’s not going to be me, it’s going to be someone else… Which is why you’re here.”

“What? What do you want me to do?” Marco asked, his voice low.

“I want you to do it,” said Geno. “You can make it painless. You can make it unexpected. You can make it… tasteful. What better man to do a job like this than the man who changed his diapers? Now before you explode at me, just remember that we get our way. No matter what you do, as long as he stays in Italy: he is a dead man.” Geno leaned back. “What would you rather have happen? Me send Igor to take care of him? Or you?” He smiled crookedly, probably knowing how much it made Marco want to jump over his shit food and shove his thumbs in his eyes. “Igor’s crazy too, and that isn't an exaggeration, my retired friend. He’s actually insane.” The smile fell as the rest of his face became serious. “You don’t want Igor to do it. I promise you that, Marco. Igor doesn’t use guns like you or I. He uses his hands, Marco. His hands.” He took another bite, chewed it, and ate it. “Best it be you.”

Marco pretended to reflect on his question, trying his best to seem like a man in the middle of contemplating his own son’s murder… And Geno seemed to buy it.

“I know that this is a… difficult decision, Marco. I have nothing but respect for you considering your history… Actually, I looked up to you ever since starting out. I still do,” Geno said, a little grin on his lips. “And Vincenzo, he’s been terrific. Smart, strong, ruthless, suicidal. As one of my men, he’s been invaluable. I mean that too… And you know how I feel about taking them so young. It breaks my heart…”

“Can I ask why?” Marco asked, seeming pathetic. “Why now? Why today? Of all days?”

Geno looked at him so long that Marco almost began to fear that he was seeing through his act, but luckily, the fear that came only solidified his role. “Because he is smart, strong, and ruthless… Just like his real father. The Marino family has made the mistake of putting a Guerriero in power once, but never again. And the Don, like I said, is done with him. War’s been over for months now. So, have you made your choice?”

Marco pretended to wonder a moment longer before “caving” into the pressure of it all. “I’ll do it!” he said, holding his head over his plate and throwing his elbows on the white tablecloth to support it. “I’ll do it, okay?! Fuck…!”

Geno gave him a sympathetic smile and rose. “Best you go now. If you don’t get it done by tonight…”

“I already know,” Marco said. “Just leave me alone… It’ll get done…” He stood up slowly. Which is a lie, he thought, fireworks went off and an opera sang in his heart. We’ll be on a plane halfway to America by the time the sun rises. Both of us with new identities. Him, in a place where he can start fresh, away from this nonsense. Away from you! Smile about that you traitorous cunt! “Now move, I need to do it now, before… before I change my mind.”

Geno nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said, leading him towards the door. “Oh, and Marco?”

“Yes?”

Geno gave him one last wan smile. “Good luck. I mean it, truly.”

Marco looked at him and tried his best to somberly nod before opening the door--but Igor stopped him, his own pale hand slamming it back shut. “No,” the giant said simply. “Something is wrong.”

His icy blue eyes cut deep, freezing him solid. Marco said, “What?”

“What’s the problem, Igor?” the rat-man, Aldo, asked, stepping in front of the door.

“Leave him be,” Geno commanded. “Let him go already, he’s got a job to do.”

Marco met Geno’s eyes for a moment. He knows I’m lying, Marco realized grimly. But if he knows I’m lying… Why let me leave? Why let me live?

Then he remembered. Marco. I have nothing but respect for you considering your history… Actually, I looked up to you for quite some time. I still do, he had said. Good luck. I mean it, truly.

“Do I have to repeat myself, Igor?” Geno asked, growing annoyed. “Let him through.”

A wave of pure relief that seemed almost impossible to hide came over him when those words echoed within his brain. “Come on,” Marco said. “He watches that TV around this time; it’ll be easiest now.”

The rat-man retreated from the door discouraged and unhappy, the imaginary tail Marco imagined following swiftly behind. Even Igor seemed to step back, and it took all of Marco’s being to not jump up in glee. He was half-expecting never to walk out of the place alive. 

Then Igor’s massive hands grabbed him by the shirt and tore it open the same way someone would tear a sheet of paper, and Marco just stood there, dumbfounded, the phone taped to his t-shirt bare for all to see.

“Rat,” Igor said. “I knew it. I smelled rat.”

Marco looked over to Geno for support but found none. As long as no one knew, Geno could get away with letting him leave and taking Vincenzo with him; but not then.

Geno sighed, rubbing his eyes in defeat. “Igor, hold him down.”

The Russian threw him to the ground as if he were a child, pinning him with just one knee and one arm he used to hold both of Marco’s arms behind his back. “Already done. Good thing floor is wood, yes?”

“Sure,” Geno agreed, grabbing a knife from the kitchen. It was a small four inch blade; the situation didn’t seem to merit anything larger. “Marco, do you have any last words? Before I…” he halfheartedly flicked his wrist with knife in hand, “you know?”

I’m going to die, Marco thought. Oh, God, say something already! “Y-yes, I do.”

“What about phone?” Igor asked. “I can turn him over, still.”

“Leave it. I doubt it’s the police he’s calling,” Geno said, kneeling down. “Go ahead, Marco, say what you have to say.”

Marco swallowed his spit and shut his eyes, looking for what to say. He was dead already. All he could do left was beg or threaten. So why not both? He glared at Geno. “Geno, don’t kill him,” he said. “He’s just a fucking kid! You hear me! You touch him and you--!”

The knife slid through the front of his throat, cutting him short. All he could do was produce a weak gurgle that petered out to nothing as blood filled his lungs and his eyes drained of life… The last thought that entered his mind was his own failure as a father. His failure to protect his son. His addiction that caused Vincenzo to fall prey to neglect, to fall prey to horrible things that caused him to only hate…

All thought ended.

2

Geno got up again and sighed, frowning at the blood spreading out from the body's neck. “What a waste.”

His toilet flushed and Igor’s son, Pasha, emerged from the hall and stopped when he saw the still-warm corpse on the ground. “Holy shit,” he said. “Wha--”

“Just clean it up,” Geno ordered. He turned over the flesh that used to be Marco and grabbing the flip-phone taped to his chest. “Chop him up in my tub and get rid of it.” The phone claimed a call had been going for thirty minutes. He snapped it in half. “Now! We’re gonna have company…”

“Want me to call some guys?” Aldo asked.

“No.”

“No?”

“You heard me,” Geno said, staring him down. “We’re all we need.”

3

There was no moon, no stars, and even the lamp posts that dotted the empty street he was parked on seemed dim. Vincenzo held the phone, long silent after the line had been disconnected, completely still. He was a big guy, six-foot-five with a broad frame that made being strong easy. He was very pale, practically white as milk like Igor. And his eyes were black. If someone was walking down the sidewalk, he guessed, they’d probably walk across the street to get to the other side. He rubbed his shaven head, feeling the small black stubble massage the skin of his palm while he stared down at the black screen.

Marco died, he realized, somehow still not believing it. His dark eyes were glued to the screen with an unblinking resolve, as if staring would somehow reverse all that happened. And they want me dead. Sure, he never tried to make friends with any of them--even Pasho, who was only a couple of years older at twenty-five, and friendlier than the others--but he didn’t think they’d try to kill him. Well, except Aldo… No way, Marco’s not dead, he assured himself. This… this is just some elaborate prank or surprise or something… I mean, it’s my goddamn birthday! I’m gonna march over there, armed to the teeth, and then they’re just gonna jump out and yell, “Surprise!” And I’m going to be standing there looking like an asshole. He walked over to the trunk of Marco’s incredibly small car and opened it. There’s gonna be a cake… There’s gonna be… be a…

The phone slipped out of his hands and bounced off the sidewalk, its glass cracked. Marco usually kept some water in the trunk, to bring to work and all, and he was getting thirsty--but there was no water. Just a duffle bag. He unzipped it slowly and looked inside, and saw money; money separated in two plastic containers, marked “F” and “S”. My money and his, he realized. The last four items cemented what had happened over the phone as a complete truth: two passports in fake names, both authentic looking, and two plane tickets to Texas.

He almost fell over but managed to catch a nearby lamp post, using the small amounts of strength that hadn’t vacated his body to stop him from falling flat on his ass. And then the anger came, bringing back power to his legs and balance to his body, forcing him upright as the murderous rage reached his face. “MotherFUCKER!” he yelled, slamming the trunk door so hard the entire mustard-colored thing jumped. But like all old cars that were near falling apart, the trunk door rose again. He slammed it down. It rose. “Piece of shit!” He slammed it. “Stupid cunt!” He slammed it. “Dumbass bastard!” And slammed it again. “That… fucking…” He shut it more gently as the feeling of something crawling up his throat sent him to his knees, and he was forced to keep himself from crying. “That… That…” he tried to say, but he knew that if he finished the sentence he’d end up bawling in the middle of the street. So he stopped, took a deep breath in, and managed to stand back up. This time, he calmly shut the door, and it stayed. The closest he came to crying in years were a pair of watery eyes--just how it should be. He was surprised again. Not at the fact Marco was dead, he had already accepted that; he was surprised that he cared… Frankly, he thought he hated the man. But you were about to cry like a little bitch just now, his brain pointed out. You don’t cry over someone you don’t even like, so why did you come close? Vincenzo didn’t know…

He did, however, know one thing: they were gonna pay.

He entered the driver's seat of the ancient Fiat Panda and turned the keys in the ignition, whose engine sputtered into life. Just one stop beforehand, he thought, staring at the bobbing Hawaiian figurine dancing on the dash. He tapped it once, watching its grass skirt sway from side to side in a little dance. He loved this stupid thing, he reminisced, flicking it to make it dance faster. His black eyes widened when he remembered something else Marco had loved, sending his left arm into the glove compartment to dig through its contents.

Marco was a laborer, heading to construction sites that were sometimes hours away, and he loved one kind of music more than any other: heavy metal. The nook was filled with CDs from different bands from all over the world, and Marco loved them all.

Vincenzo hated them, but he guessed that was less about the music and more about Marco himself. Still, for some odd reason, he wanted to put some on. He grabbed a CD--he didn’t care which one, he just grabbed the first one his fingers hand pinched--popped it in the player, turned up the volume, and drove to the sound of crashing drums and electric guitars. And for some odd reason, it was comforting.

4

He parked on the street opposite the cathedral and pulled himself out of the driver’s seat, keeping a watch on the place as he did. It was supposed to be a sort of peace zone between families in times of war, providing sanctuary to those who entered--but he didn’t feel like he could be too careful. He felt confident in a fight, but, in the end, a bullet to the back of the head was no fight. “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “In and out, one second…”

He grabbed the duffle bag out the trunk and jogged towards the double doors of dark wood, and opened them. He knew I was coming, he realized with a shudder. The doors were usually locked. His left hand secured a sling over his shoulder while his right grabbed the gun in his suit pocket and pulled it out, aiming the small pistol from his waist. The inside was more ominous than the out as grey stone and red carpet made the place seem more like a dungeon than a place of worship; but that wasn’t what unnerved him. That wasn’t what brought a sensation of spiders crawling up and down his back the closer he got to the main room, to where he was waiting. He inched closer to the door, so quiet that no one would realistically hear, his breath growing shallow and long to make him completely silent. That was how he moved throughout the dim hall leading to the nave, his left hand pressing the dufflebag against his hip so it didn’t bounce off his thigh, and his right aiming his pistol. His only other movement apart from the methodical crawl was the turn of his head, scanning every door for any sign of light or movement; there was nothing. The only door with anything amiss was the one straight ahead, a dull glow seeping out from the bottom. From what he knew the place was only open in the day, it’s less legit activities at--but only in war time--at night. For now, it was a regular church. No one should've been up. You know who’s up, he thought. Just grow a pair and open it already. He did, doing so slowly so that the aged wood and rusted hinges didn’t even creak… But even though he didn’t make a sound, even though it was almost midnight, even though he didn’t even breathe, the Father was already staring back at him from the first pew. The crucifix behind the podium and the rest of the place were lit by sparse candles, but the door he entered from was almost pitch dark. The Father was blind. It was obvious in his clouded grey eyes which the young man found himself staring into..

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Father said, waving him over. “Now, come. Sit.”

“But how?” Vincenzo felt the need to ask. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, not for a second, but… “I…” He sat down beside him and placed the duffle bag on his lap. “I thought I was quiet.”

“You were,” Father said. “I never heard you.”

“But--”

He raised a wrinkled hand and stopped the giant--compared to his small, feeble frame--from speaking. “You know how. You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t.”

The old, bald, blind priest in front of him was known to all families as a sort of fortune teller. Some didn’t believe, but many--including those at the top of their families--relied on him. That was as much as Vincenzo knew. “I know why you think I’m here, but that’s not it. I just came to drop this off…”

He started to unzip the bag, but the Father stopped him. “The money, yes?”

Vincenzo looked at him nervously and unzipped it fully, setting both piles of money on the pew beside him. “The money, yeah.”

“And why would you leave that money with me?” Father questioned. 

It was an easy decision. The money was stained in blood and it would leave a bad taste in his mouth if some mafioso got their hands on it. So why not leave it here? A safe zone for gangsters was just one thing the church did; the other was settling money “donated” for his fortunes. Seeing the future didn’t come free, and the Father assured that all money donated would get donated to some orphanages, and hospitals, and probably some very skinny African kids, and a bunch of other charities that he didn’t care to remember. But that was all just fluff, fluff behind the only thing he really wanted was to get out of another bastard's greasy hands. “Don’t you already know?” Vincenzo said with a scoff.

The old man shook his head. “It’s a fickle gift, I feel. Some things are clear, some are not, and some are wrong… Omnipotence is something only God has claim to. I’m just right every now and then.”

“I’m sure…” he said, but his tone implied the opposite. “I don’t need this. The passports, the tickets, the money… Marco doesn’t need it either.”

“And why not?”

“He’s dead,” Vincenzo said, “obviously…”

“But you’re alive,” the old man pointed out. “That money is something you earned--through violence, yes, but it’s yours. Why won’t you be needing it?”

He gave the Father a grim look despite the fact that the old man was blind. “I’m going to get revenge,” he said. “On Igor, Pasha, and Geno… They’re gangsters, and so am I. It’ll work itself out.”

“Is that what Marco would’ve wanted?”

“He’s dead,” Vincenzo said, glaring at the blind man. “He doesn’t have a say.”

The Father shook his head and grinned, never blinking. “That man came to me, asked me for advice, and told me to give that advice to you. So, just this once, he speaks through me.” He leaned closer. “Do not go. He has left what you need to live someplace else, maybe happily, maybe not… But that choice is yours. Look at me as if I was him, and then make your choice…”

“You aren’t him. And if you say that again, I’ll kill you,” he said coldly. “Understand?”

The Father giggled at that, straight in the face of the man who could probably rip his head off if he was so inclined. “I don’t think you will. You’d kill a man for no reason in particular--and you have--but you won’t kill me.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Vincenzo asked, feeling anger bubble up. “You’re not making it hard.”  

The Father stopped laughing and shook his head, before turning towards the large wood cross hanging off the stone in front of them. “Marco said so.” The Father turned back to him. “He’s sorry. He’s sorry for everything.”

And that hate he was harboring disappeared. Marco apologized a bunch of times, but… hearing it from another seemed different somehow. But forgiveness… he wasn’t ready to give that out, and he didn’t know if he ever would. “Hey, Father,” he said, “where do you think he’s going? Honestly.”

The old man was silent, closing his foggy eyes in contemplation before opening them with a nod. “I’ve met horrible men. I’ve met wonderful men. And both have done horrible things… But do you know the difference between them? What makes a man saved, and another damned?”

He shook his head.

The old man smiled. “It’s something you must find out for yourself. But if you must know, I believe that Marco has gone to heaven.”

“That’s…” he started, trying to find the words, “good, I think. Whatever…” He stood up. “I’d say ‘see you later,’ but I don’t think they’ll be a later. And also, blow out those candles. I don’t know how you lit them, but you really shouldn't have. The whole place’ll go up…” He started back. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Wait,” the Father said. “Don’t you wanna know where you’re going?”

Vincenzo looked at him, looked at the cross, looked at the door he came through, before finally settling back on him. “Hell, right?” There wasn’t any humor in it. “I’ve done enough to deserve it.”

But the Father shook his head. “Not heaven or purgatory either. You’re heading to a fourth place, unknown to me, and I’m guessing most.Your future in the next hour is clear. You will die. But after…” He turned back to the cross. “I don’t know. It’s unclear. But I will wish you good luck. Wherever you are going, I will wish you luck.”

“Thanks,” Vincenzo said, shutting the door behind him. “But don’t waste your breath.”

5

Waiting around without a single idea as to when the skinhead would come by made Aldo more than a little nervous, especially waiting in the alley by the bar’s back door. The cigarette’s glow lit his face, but that was all, the only other source of comfort being the street light at one end of the alley--and even that was dim. All he had to see with was a weak flame and a weak light. At least it’s a dead end, he thought, looking to his right to see brick blocking the way. One direction to worry about.

Pasha was hiding in the bar, watching the front door. And Aldo was on the back. And Igor was guarding the door to Geno’s office up in the apartment. All entrances covered.

He took a deep inhale, shortening the cig to a butt before letting it fall and crushing it, leaving him in the dark. Only the streetlight was left and he intended to keep it that way. He looked up and blew the smog out of his lungs and stifled a cough, gripping his pistol tight. Three hours, this asshole has us waiting, he thought. What’s he trying to do? Did he run…? No, I doubt it. Vincenzo was suicidal, it felt like. There was no way he’d run. Aldo focused on the street, made a little nervous by its silence. Jesus, when’s the last time a car came by? I know it’s three o’clock, but come on! Someone always has to get somewhere, no matter the time.

He shoved those thoughts away and leaned further into the crevices of the night, becoming invisible in the darkness. “Come on, Skinhead,” he whispered. “I’m waiting for ‘ya.”

6

Pasha slowly drank his bottle, raising it high over his head as he let the beer flow into him, and upon emptying it, he threw it to the wall and shattered it. Like his father, he was a big man with blue eyes, blonde hair, and pale skin; but he never considered himself like Igor in the slightest. But that wasn’t important. It was the man coming to kill them that he should be focusing on. That’s why he was drinking in the first place. He didn’t dislike Vincenzo at all, to be honest. Hell, he actually kinda liked the guy for what it was worth… But work was work and orders were orders. And the drinks helped loosen him up to the point he could actually see himself offing the guy. Just one, he thought, staring at the door. One in the head and he’s gone. Quick and painless. The recent memory of chopping up Marco in his captain's bathtub returned and he looked down at the red stains on his shirt, a little drunk. But would he do the same? After what happened? He doubted it. He guessed that the kid--a weird, yet correct way of thinking about him--was ready to make him die slow. Pasha was ready for a lot of things, but he wasn’t ready to die. He was only twenty-six, at his apartment he had a girl ready to suck him off at any time, and he was making better money than anybody else his age. If it was him or Vincenzo, he’d choose Vincenzo.

Some strange sound in the distance roused him from his thoughts. Music? It was incredibly faint and his own breathing managed to drown it out so he stopped, trying his best to hear. It was getting closer. A car… he knew, but kept listening out of curiosity. A car playing… rock? Yeah, rock. I think. It was a heavy sound full of drums, electric guitars, some kind of weird synthy-sounding third thing that he couldn’t quite identify. And it was getting really close. There was a street outside that almost led straight into the bar, so he guessed that was the road it was coming down. It was getting so close that he could even hear the lyrics, but they were in English, so he couldn’t tell what they were saying. The rev of the engine seemed like it was on top of him and the realization of what was about to happen sobered him up. “No fucking wa--!” he said, standing.

“FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS!” the song screamed. A car splintered the front door and wall as it barreled through the place, stopping only when it crashed in the back wall! “TIME MARCHES ON!”

Pasha managed to dive out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding--judging from the carnage it wrought on the once comfy place--getting killed. He grabbed his pistol and fired at the car with one hand, using the other to get himself back up. Aldo kicked open the back door with all the force his short body could muster and did the same, resulting in the two unloading full magazines into the vehicles widows--every piece of glass on the sides and back were covered in some kind of black paint--as whatever song was playing continued.

It took a moment for Pasha to figure out bullets had stopped coming out the barrel because he couldn’t hear the clicks.

“HEY!” Aldo yelled, straining his voice to carry it over the instrumental. “HEY, STOP!”

Pasha got the message, lowering his gun as Aldo started to investigate. He covered his ears as he peeked inside, and found it empty. Black plumes of smoke started to rise from the engine and into his lungs, and violent coughs followed as he waved the smog away. Aldo pulled away and screamed again.

“WHAT?!” Pasha asked, wondering if they had him. “I CAN'T HEAR YOU!”

Aldo screamed something a second time, visibly frustrated.

“WHAT?!”

Aldo formed an “X” with his arms and shook his head, pointing to the street outside; Pasha understood. Vincenzo wasn’t there. Adrenaline pumped fast and he tried to fumbl in a new magazine. Aldo tried to do the same and kept his eye on the open wall Vincenzo had graciously gifted them, but cursed when the music stopped him from focusing. He turned around to turn off the music--but stopped dead when he noticed a figure standing just a couple of feet away in the back door’s frame.

Five shots later and Aldo was knocked on his back, Vincenzo standing over him with a smoking gun in hand.

 Pasha dry swallowed, still fumbling the pistol in his sweaty palms. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Vincenzo greeted, not smiling, training his pistol for him next. Pasha could read his lips. “Stand still.”

 Pasha sprinted across the bar for the kitchen doors as Vincenzo fired the rest of his clip, bullets ripping through the overturned tables and chairs as the giant Russian tackled the metal entrance, disappearing inside…

7

“Shit,” Vincenzo said, backing up to the car stereo and turning it down to a more manageable volume. He kept a calm gaze on the metal Pasha had run through, knowing that there was a gun in the Russian’s hand. He gripped his own with both hands, creeping towards the still swinging metal, waiting for it to stop completely. He reloaded, thinking of how well the plan actually worked. Just a brick on the pedal and a nearby bike were all he needed, and the blaring music seemed to mess them up a good bit too. Marco was in that music. Don’t get carried away, he reminded himself. You got one, okay? You still got three left. Aldo was easy shit. Short and stupid, the man was a goon. But Pasha had a head. “Three left,” he repeated under his breath. “Igor, Pasha, and Geno. Time for Pasha.” He ripped off his suit and untucked his white shirt, loosening the tie around his neck too. Before his brain could overthink, he kicked the door and ducked away, seeing and hearing bullets rip through the metal where his body would’ve been if he had just run in. The door swung a little before creaking back into place. Five small holes poked through the thing, letting him know that the Russian had about three left in his mag. At least he thought so, hoping that the vague metal shape in the Russian’s hand was a 1911. In fact, it could’ve held less. Vincenzo fired three of his own through the door into the kitchen, baiting two more blind shots from Pasha in retaliation. He grew still and held his breath yet again, trying to hear if Pasha was reloading instead of keeping his gun trained on the entrance--the sound of his beating heart made it hard, but not impossible.

It was silent. He kicked the door again hoping for another shot to come, but none did. He’s waiting to see me, he knew. A fake-out isn’t going to work a second time… He wants a sure shot. That’s good. I do too. So he began to think of a plan, looking to the kitchen door and the door that led up to Geno’s apartment to make sure he wasn’t getting company, feeling time slip away faster than he wanted or needed. Even though he had the Russian cornered, it was obvious who had the advantage. All Pasha had to do was hold the angle while one of the two--maybe both, all things considered--others finally decided to come down and investigate. Each second he spent waiting for the Russian to do something was another second the fuckers upstairs spent were making their minds.

Vincenzo groaned. “Screw it!”

He took a step backwards from the door and charged, bashing his shoulder through as he sprinted across the kitchen!

It was cramped, the long metal table built into the middle of the ceramic floor was littered with kitchen tools and the like, separating the room into two thin alleys. Pasha was at the end. Vincenzo took aim but the Russian already had his gun up and fired into his gut, fucking up the shot the black-eyed man had lined up. He fired five shots in his attackers direction, gritting his teeth from the pain, but Pasha--just like when Vincenzo’s car had crashed through the place--dove behind the end of the table before the he could actually take aim. And there was a moment of silence.

He flattened his back against the fridge and felt the wound on his stomach, craning his head down at his hand stupidly; it was covered in a blood, red like the fire he felt around the place the bullet landed. “You cocksucker,” Vincenzo growled, glaring at him as he stood back up. “You shot me!”

“I actually liked you, you know,” Pasha said, putting the gun on the table and replacing it with a six-inch kitchen knife. “I’m not going to like this at all!”

“Sure,” he muttered, setting his own gun down and pushing himself on the fridge. Not enough space between them to reload, he knew, and it was obvious Pasha got the message too. “Don’t think this’ll stop me. I’m gonna gut you. And I’m gonna enjoy it.” He pulled the handle of a steak knife with a three-inch blade and took position in the alley. It wasn’t the best weapon but it’d have to do. Pasha did the same. He actually shot me, Vincenzo’s mind repeated. That fact was ammunition for the rage he was feeling, dulling the pain.

“Try it,” Pasha challenged. He crouched his giant body down a little and readied himself,  holding one arm out to grapple with and the other to slash and stab.

Vincenzo did the same, falling silent. They inched towards each other, each one hesitant to make the first move, each one careful not to take their eyes off each other for a single moment; a single moment’s all it would take. And just like before, time was against Vincenzo. He didn’t know what exactly, but he knew that Pasha had managed to hit something important.

Pasha lunged, flipping the knife in his hand down as he stabbed at him. Vincenzo grabbed his fist with his left and tried to stab at his stomach with his right, but Pasha grabbed his fist with his free hand before almost getting disemboweled. They grunted as they wrestled, both pushing instead of pulling, before they both broke off, breathing heavy. Pasha came again, this time, flipping his knife in an attempt to stab Vincenzo’s throat. The black-eyed man stepped forwards quick, closing the distance and raising his left shoulder to eat the damage while his knife glided towards the tendon in the inside of Pasha’s elbow--it worked as they both hit their marks, causing grunts of pain and blood to spray. But Pasha’s eyes darted to his hand as he grabbed the handle of a frying pan and slammed the metal into Vincenzo’s face, knocking him back! It was the Russian’s chance to secure the kill so he took it, coming for him again--but without pause, the black-eyed man grabbed a meat tenderizer with his left and hit Pasha right in in his left blue eye before the Russian’s knife could find its target. 

“FUUUCK!” Pasha screamed, instinctively grabbing his eye in pain.

It was a mistake that everyone would make, but that didn’t make it any less fatal. Vincenzo stabbed him quickly in the stomach and slammed the Russian’s body onto the stove, using the dwindling strength in his left arm to hold both others at bay, while his right stabbed and scored Pasha’s stomach in what was no doubt an incredibly painful way--Pasha lost his composure and began to let out short yet terrifying shrieks of pain and fear.

Vincenzo laughed, feeling an unhealthy joy from the triumph. “Huh?! What did you thay befowe?!” he yelled. “Huh?!”

Pasha was wailing the way a gazelle would when a lion mounted it, a true death wail.

“You thaid, ‘twry it,’ wright?!”

He tossed the knife away and shoved his right hand in the bloody mess that used to be Pasha’s abs and rummaged through the area, pulling out what he could only guess were his small intestines. Pasha’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as his life escaped in one final shudder.

“How’th thith!?” he screamed, and let go of the man as he quieted and crumpled to the floor. Vincenzo dropped the gore on his face, feeling the sticky blood drip from his hand. “Huh?! You’re not talking thit now, wight?! Fucking morohn…”

But Pasha couldn’t answer. His exhausted panting barely slowed as he rested against the  table, unable to look at anything but the flesh that used to be Pasha, scooting farther from the corpse when the blood started to pool.

“Fuck meh,” Vincenzo finally managed to say, his bloody hand staining half his face before he remembered that it was, indeed, bloody. He pulled it away, looked at it a moment, and wiped the rest off on his shirt. My nose is broken, he realized, pain returning. Front teeth are broken too.

It was just like that one time, he thought, when the group was hanging around Geno’s apartment doing coke. He wasn’t crazy about it and refused at first, but Aldo--the motherfucking rat piece of shit--said some shit like, Don’t pressure him, he’s just a kid. And while it sounds innocent enough, it was that rat’s smug grin that really pissed him off. So he did a line--more than a line. Next thing he knew, he was waking up in an alley next to some guy he vaguely remembered beating to death. And he didn’t even know why he did. It all felt… pointless… Don’t look away, some part of himself commanded. You did it. Own it.

So he did. Two to go.

He stood up, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, nose, and stomach. He got me good, he knew. Real good. Which is when he finally noticed Igor by the open door, staring at him with the same eyes he’d used to stare at an interesting looking car driving down the street, a pretty sunset, and roadkill. Igor looked at his son and back at Vincenzo, his face expressionless the entire time.

Then he lunged, huge hands grabbing him by the neck, choking the life out of him. Vincenzo reached for his knife, or anything that he could use to bash the Russian’s brain or slice his throat with, but Igor pulled him up with ease and smashed him against the table, bouncing the Italian’s shaven head against the solid metal. Vincenzo couldn’t get a breath in, his bloody mouth gasping, bubbling up blood into a foam. Igor’s hands were like clamps. He tried to curse at the calm killer but only a gurgling came out, and he started to strike at his face, landing a solid blow against Igor’s straight nose, crushing it. But the Russian didn’t even flinch, only strangling the Italian even harder as blood poured from crooked nostrils and onto his face. In thirty seconds, if Vincenzo didn’t break Igor’s old, he was fucked. He moved his hands to Igor’s wrists and forearms, trying to pry them off his neck--but Igor was strong, crazy strong. That wouldn’t work. In one final act of desperation, with long arms, he reached out and dug his thumbs into the Russian’s dead eyes, and even that only resulted in a tighter grip. Igor was fucking crazy. There were maybe ten seconds of thought left, and he used it. If Igor had no eyes to watch, he could grab something without having to worry about the back of his head getting bashed. Without turning his head, he groped for his knife, blind to everything as red fell into his black eyes. There were five seconds left as he frantically grabbed around, but everything he came near he accidentally pushed away, and so his grasping grew even wilder. Come on! Come on! Fuck, anything, give me anything! he prayed to no one. Nothing met his palm. I’ll take a goddamned toothpick, just give me something! He was fading and everything started to seem fake. Please! Come o--! He got the handle of something and swung at Igor, and that something connected. The Russian’s hands retreated and Vincenzo spit out the froth, taking in air as it came, his throat on fire. “Basthtard…” he choked out, coughing after the one word. He wiped his eyes clean to see what he’d done.

Igor’s hands were wrapped around his own bloody neck, his blue eyes gouged out--even then, they were looking at him. Vincenzo looked down at his right hand and found another knife, its blade red. He finished the job and staggered out, making his way for the door leading up to Geno.

One to go.

8

He shot the knob and let himself in, wincing at the metal pebble floating around somewhere in his body and his broken nose. “They’we all dead, Geno, you athhole! Igor, Aldo, Patha--I got them all! It’th your tuwn! Now get out herwe before I drag you out! Make thith eathy on me, ow I’ll make it hawd on you! You got that! WELL!?” He made it up the stairs and shot the second knob, storming in gun drawn.

He stood in the middle of the living room, hearing the muffled sound of sirens approaching in the distance. Where is he? he thought, looking wildly around the place for his captain. There’s no way he ran! But the notion seemed realistic. “Geno!” he said, holding his stomach, feeling anger’s painkiller work its magic. “Whewe awe you! Get out here! Don’t make me--!”

But something caught his attention, making him even paler. The space just above Geno’s couch was empty. Oh damn, he thought. He heard a door creak open behind him and turned his broken face.

Geno stepped outside of the closet right next to the entrance, wearing the weapon on his back, glaring at his target with a silent determination.

But it wasn’t just Geno there. Behind him was a shape. A womanly shape. A dark shape whose intent was on him. It was a ghost.

9

Time seemed to stop. All Vincenzo could do was watch as Geno’s finger paused on the trigger. He couldn’t move, though he was trying a hell of a lot. The only thing he had any power over were his eyes; they went to the ghost. Standing just behind Geno with its black head peeking out from over his shoulder, it watched him back. That’s when it all made sense.

I get it, he thought. I’m going to die. I’m going to burn… Isn’t my life supposed to flash before my eyes? It was more than fine that it didn’t happen. There wasn’t much he wanted to relive. The few good memories he had were tainted by the bad. Nothing good in his life had stayed good. Now he was going to die. But I knew that. The Father told me this would happen, and I believed him, then… He felt calm--ready. He’d been ready for a long time. And now was the time. That’s fine. At least I’m not leaving anything behind. Vincenzo had no friends, no family (Marco was it and he was dead), and not even a lover.

He looked at the ghost. It was an angel, or a demon, or some kind of messenger of death, or some kind of guide to the afterlife. Whatever it was, it was an emissary of the End.

Without a word, it sunk behind Geno.

Time continued on.

10

Vincenzo began to take aim, but Geno was quicker--a great breath of fire shot out the nozzle and covered him completely.

You motherfu--was his last sane thought before all he could think about was the pain. He managed to fire twice before he completely succumbed to the torture, hitting Geno’s tank, causing another explosion to spread all over the apartment. He heard it happen. It was a dominating, horrible feeling as the fire ate away his skin, burned his eyes, ripped at his penis, and made the only feeling he could manage one of agony… The only thing his half-crazed mind managed to do was send him smashing against every wall, spreading the flames all across the small room, before he blindly charged ahead, screaming.

That was when he burst through the window and fell, falling three stories onto his skull, ending his suffering in an instant.

And then the burning stopped and he started to suffocate, a warm slime surrounding his body on every side, and all at once his sanity came back to him. He opened the eyes he had felt melt inside his skull just seconds prior and saw blackness, and he opened his mouth and felt a liquid earth fill his tongue and squirm down his throat. Panic got his arms and legs moving before his confused mind had the chance, feeling the mud--he knew it was mud by the sensation of it on his naked skin and the taste in his mouth--give way as he thrashed upwards, the wish for air trumping any questions he might’ve had in calmer circumstances. He spit out what was in his mouth and pressed the lips that had curled and fell off in the heat tight, shutting his eyes as the rest of him tunneled up and up and up--and finally one arm made it into the open air where it fell back on the ground as his only grip, until his other arm caught a hold too. With that he pulled himself out out and drank his first breath since he was set on fire, wiping the mud from his eyes.

His first sane thought as half his body--caked in black mud, but otherwise unharmed--and felt the breeze of a forest of night was such: “What the fuck is going on!?”