48. Gabriel
FORTY-EIGHT
We pullup to the industrial park on the east side of the city. Tonight I”m in a black SUV with two of my capos, and a driver. We”re all armed, and none of us are eager to complete this bitter task.
The driver parks on the side of the warehouse, in the darkness. He kills the engine, and we sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what we”re about to do hanging in the air.
”Five minutes,” one of my capos says.
Someone in the car pulls back the slider on their pistol, chambering a round. Then another person, and then I do the same, the clicking and sliding sounds echoing inside the vehicle.
”Boss, you don”t need to do this. We can handle it, you know. You don”t have to get your hands dirty.” That”s Mauro, one of the capos.
Occasionally, a boss does have to dirty his hands, get them grimy and bloody. To send a message to his crew. To prove himself. To exact vengeance.
None of this ever ends, even when you”re at the top.
”I have to do this. Have to make sure this piece of shit”s gone for good.”
But it brings me no joy.
The three of us exit the car, guns in hand, while the driver stays inside with the engine running.
It”s night, and the hum of a high-powered fluorescent light pouring out of a fixture on the side of a warehouse slices through the hush of darkness.
Seconds later, there”s a flash of headlights. A car approaches, and the tension in the air ratchets up.
”Be cool, everyone,” Mauro warns, sliding his gun into his waistband. The other capo does the same.
It”s a blue luxury car, probably cost well over a hundred grand. It stops and the lights extinguish. The driver”s side opens slowly, and a man climbs out.
Bruno DiMarco.
He”s a thin, wiry guy, about my age, with a hipster mustache, a Hawaiian shirt that”s supposed to be ironic, and skinny jeans. He used to be one of my top ecstasy dealers in the region, until he started to steal from me.
”Hey, guys! I didn”t think this was going to be a family reunion! I”d-a brought some wine.” Bruno grins, and that makes me all the more annoyed. Why the hell doesn”t he realize the danger he”s in? Is he that arrogant?
His smirk tells me that he is.
This fucker thinks he”s putting one over on me. Thinks I don”t notice that he”s not handing over my take. Doesn”t realize I have informants all over the city.
He also doesn”t know how bad he”s fucked up, and how I”m going to make an example of him because I”m just that pissed.
Bruno looks at Mauro, then at the other two, then me. ”Why so fucking stone-faced? Why”d you ask me here, anyway?”
None of us say anything.
”Why, Bruno?”
He steps closer to me. ”Why, what? What”s wrong, bro?”
We”re less than a foot away now, and I can see beads of sweat forming around his mustache. ”I gave you an opportunity. I trusted you when you got out of prison. Introduced you around. Fronted you product, all because your old man knew mine. And how do you repay me?”
He holds up his hands. ”Bro, come on. This is a misunderstanding.”
Almost as if it”s choreographed, one of my two men stealthily moves between Bruno and the car, in case he tries to make a run for it. Bruno”s eyes skitter from me to Marco. It registers that he can”t get a visual on my other guy, and his expression turns to panic.
”I can get you the money?—”
”Shut the fuck up,” I say. ”You sold my shit and then turned around and bought from one of the Cubans in Miami?”
He hangs his head. Bastard thought I wouldn”t find out.
”I thought I could make a little extra, you know. Times are tough.” He starts to shove his hands into his pants.
”Keep your hands where we can see them, asshole,” Mauro calls out.
Bruno licks his lips nervously and nods.
”You know what I don”t like?” I ask.
Bruno shakes his head.
”People who aren”t loyal. I thought I made that clear last time.” Last time he did this, six months ago, when he bought crack some fucking two-bit motorcycle club in Lakeland, knowing I despise that shit and ban my dealers from selling it.
”You did, but, hey, I was trying to be entrepreneurial and shit. I”m a hustler.” He splays his hands against his chest.
”You”re a hustler.” I inhale. This is getting tiresome. ”So why didn”t you hustle to get my money? A million and a half is a lot of money, bro.”
”Fuck, man, I dunno.” He sniffles, and seems like he”s on the verge of crying. As he should be.
I reach out and cup his face with my left hand. I”ve known Bruno for years, since I was a kid. He looks exactly like his father, all skin and bones and nerves.
Took a chance on the guy after he served six years in prison for fraud.
”I trusted you. When others said I shouldn”t. They were right.” I raise my pistol and point it at his chest. Part of me, the good side that Riley adores, thinks I should let him go. Give him the opportunity to make it right.
But a mafia boss can”t be defiled more than once. It shows weakness, and I”m anything but weak.
His nose and mouth begin to leak snot and tears. ”Please. I”ll get you the money, I promise.”
”You promised that last time. And as I explained back then, there”s only one second chance, Bruno.”
I pull the trigger. The bullet soars squarely into the chest, tearing his hipster shirt and his flesh and penetrating his heart.
The silencer on my gun muffles the sound. It never ceases to shock me how soft and innocuous a silenced gunshot is when it snuffs out a man”s life.
Bruno crumples to the ground like a pile of bones and old clothes, and I pump several more rounds into his body while my men stand and watch.
Each bullet is a message to those who find him, and to those who might consider crossing me in the future.
We”resilent on the ride back, and once I”m safely within the confines of my compound, I can breathe again. I nod at the men and walk in alone, leaving them to their own business. The trio are the ones I trust the most, the guys who have been with me the longest, the people who would lay down their lives for me.
I am a lucky man to have them.
When I open the door, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon hits my nose. I”m about to head into the kitchen when Andre comes out.
”Sir...oh, God.”
He”s squeamish about blood, which is why he”s my assistant and office manager, and not a capo.
I look down to see blood splatter on my white, button down shirt. Must”ve happened because I was so close to Bruno when I shot him. All part of a night”s work.
”Oh, fuck. What a pain in the ass. Look at this shit.”
I begin to unbutton my shirt right there in the foyer, and Andre shifts from foot to foot, obviously disturbed.
”Sir, uh, I need to say that?—”
”Christ, it”s not like you haven”t seen me covered in blood?—”
A woman”s gasp interrupts me, and I turn my head toward the sound.
”Riley?”
She”s wearing a black apron that says ”Bitch, I”m the secret ingredient,” and normally I”d laugh but this is not the time for humor.
”Is that blood?” she whispers.
I open my mouth, not sure of what to say. My mind reels. Riley and I weren”t supposed to get together tonight. She”d told me she was staying home to bake cookies for a work potluck or some shit.
”You have blood on your face. Oh my god.” Her tone rises an octave.
I”m frozen to the floor. This is not a part of my life I wanted her to witness.
”Riley, please.” I step toward her.
She shakes her head and runs out of the room, up the stairs, her long, blonde ponytail flying behind her.
”Sir, I”m sorry. I wanted to tell you before she got to you, and tried to call you, but?—”
I tip my head back. ”Oh, fuck. Why is she here, Andre? What is she doing in my house?”
”She said her oven wasn”t working and needed to use your kitchen. Said you said it would be okay, and since she”s been spending a lot of time here with you...” He presses his hand against his forehead. ”I didn”t know you were out on, well, that kind of business this evening.”
Normally I”d be charmed to come home and find Riley baking cookies in my kitchen. But I never wanted her to see me like this. After something like this.
After a murder.
”This is a colossal fucking disaster, Andre.”
And I need to make it right. Not sure how, given Riley”s reluctance to accept what I do for a living.
I finish unbuttoning my shirt and strip it off, handing it to Andre.
”Dry clean?” he says.
”No. Burn it.”
Shirtless, I start to walk upstairs.
”Sir?” Andre says.
I turn. ”Yeah?”
”Forgive me for asking this. But...” he hedges, obviously uncomfortable.
”Spit it out, Andre.” My window of opportunity for soothing Riley is closing.
”Can you trust her? I mean, really trust her? She”s a reporter.”
”I know what she is. And yes, I can.”
I turn to go up the stairs. Honestly, I”m shocked Riley didn”t run out the front door. Andre”s question echoes with every step I take.
At my closed bedroom door, I hesitate. How the fuck am I going to explain this? I could lie, and say I was in a fight. That seems bad enough, but miles better than telling her I shot a man in the heart at point blank range. Yeah, that”s what I should say. A fight with a drunk guy, possibly one who was hassling ... an old woman at a restaurant.
A plausible lie, no? A necessary lie, more like it.
I push open the door. She”s sitting on the far end of the bed, facing the open window, her back to me.
”Babe,” I say softly.
She doesn”t move. I make my way over and sit next to her. Not touching, moving gently and cautiously, as if I don”t want to startle her.
She”s staring straight ahead, out the window at the full moon over the water. The bay is like glass tonight, reflecting a long, silver column of moonlight.
We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I really don”t want to lie to Riley, but I know it”s necessary.
For her own good.
”You know,” she begins, her tone soft. ”I used to be afraid of the moon when I was little. My mom read me a kids” book about how the moon came down from the heavens and took a girl up to the sky. I thought that would happen to me.”
I don”t know why she”s telling me this, if there”s some larger meaning. I can only listen, but she doesn”t utter another word.
”I”m sorry you have to see me like this, Riley.”
She doesn”t turn her head to look at me, and my heart pounds at the possibility that I”ve lost her.
”Are you, though? Are you really sorry? I think part of you wants me to know everything about you, every flaw and every blemish.”
”Definitely not. You”d hate me if you knew all of my flaws.”
”No, Gabriel. I might hate myself for adoring you despite your flaws, but I don”t think I could ever hate you.”