Chapter 5
5
DON’T BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU
Rio
Stepping out of the blacked-out Yukon, I do up the buttons of my suit jacket and head for the frosted glass doors leading into the underground sector of the hotel from the parking garage.
Palazzo Verona, better known as my dad’s baby.
It’s not just another luxury hotel in the Diamond District of the city. No, it’s where we run the real family business.
An outsider looking in would never suspect it. Italian opulence welcomes them in with a warm embrace, promising alluring amenities at their fingertips and all the tourist attractions their little hearts desire within walking distance. What they don’t realize is that the subterranean lounge, both included in their stay and open to the public, is nothing more than a front for the atrocities that take place behind soundproofed walls and reinforced doors.
Which is where I’m headed now.
A knowing grin hikes up one corner of my mouth, the rush of adrenaline coursing through every limb in anticipation of what’s about to go down as the music grows louder and louder with each step. Clarence and Zeb already did the hard work for me, wrangling the stupid motherfucker from his shitty apartment in the middle of Queens. Now, I just have to do the dirty work.
I wish I could tell you this isn’t my favorite part of the job, that I don’t enjoy the sight of fresh blood or the stomach-churning sound of cracking bones, or the horrified screams that rent the air when I hand-deliver the karma these shady fuckers deserve…but I’d be lying to your face. I am my father’s son after all, and violence runs rampant through our veins.
When you fuck with one Guerra, you fuck with all of us.
At the very end of a secluded, narrow hallway sits my office. It used to be my father’s, but as heir, some responsibilities have already been signed to my name, re: hand-delivering the karma these shady fuckers deserve. My Oxfords clack gently against the shimmering black titles, my stride even and unhurried despite the plans I have for later this evening.
Every few feet there’s another black and white 8x10 of those who upheld the business before me. There are pictures of family gatherings, too, even some at Papa Gino’s, all an explicit tell of a woman’s touch. My father couldn’t care less if these walls were bare. My mom, on the other hand, refuses to leave them unadorned.
Bursting through the ebony door, I find Joel Esposito in one of the wingback chairs situated before my desk. Behind him stands Clarence, my big dog, a former linebacker with a penchant for brutality and a gusto for bloodshed. Clarence tips his shaved head as I amble past them, one I return before dropping my ass into the oversized chair and pulling my Glock free from the holster at my back.
Joel watches my every move intently. His blue-eyed stare widens all the more when I set the piece onto the African blackwood of my desk and recline in my seat. I say nothing for several moments, reveling in the stench of fear already oozing off him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up pissing himself before it’s all said and done…
“How you been, buddy?” I start, mindlessly rotating the ring around my middle finger with my thumb. “Haven’t seen you around in a hot minute which is… unusual for you. You’re normally an every two weeks kinda guy, right?”
“I’ve just been cutting back, man.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not getting as many hours at work. Don’t have that luxury spending dough anymore, you feel me?”
I don’t respond. He’s a fucking liar, but we’ll get to that in a second. Bobbing my head slowly, I run a pensive, inked hand along my jawline, wondering if he can see the proverbial ‘I call bullshit’ card on my face. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Joel shakes his dirty blond head, though it’s not as confident as he hoped it would appear. The hitch in his facade is clear as day. “No.”
“You sure about that? Think really hard, Joel. Really-fucking-hard.”
“I genuinely don’t know,” he carps, his throat bobbing through a harsh swallow. “Did I miss a payment or something?”
I can’t help but chuckle, scrubbing that same hand down my face as frustration swiftly builds beneath the surface. A late payment would warrant nothing more than a quick visit to the crappy apartment I mentioned earlier. He wouldn’t be here, though, where I’ve put several bullets through skulls and left pools of crimson for Clarence and the boys to clean up after the fact. A seat in my office is no laughing matter.
“Playing stupid won’t help your case. In fact, it’ll only make things worse.” So much worse. “So let’s try this again… Why are you here?” I grind out through my teeth.
“I don’t know,” he insists, shifting in his seat just enough to spring Clarence into action.
A beefy hand flies to his shoulder and effortlessly holds him in place. Funny part is, Clarence isn’t even putting all his strength into it. If he were, Joel would snap in half like a damn twig right about now.
“Let me refresh your memory then.” Yanking open one of the desk drawers, I skim through the active client files in my possession and fish out Joel’s, slapping it open onto the table. “Last time I saw you, you bought quite a bit of product, in large amounts no less: weed, coke, heroine, even pills. What was it you told me you needed all that for? ”
Joel swallows again, eyeing the folder wearily. “A party.”
“A huge party, if I remember correctly. You wanted a buffet of party favors for all of your guests. So thoughtful by the way.” Sarcasm drips off my tone as I recline against the leather once more and steeple my fingers. “Normally, I wouldn’t have an issue with that. You need the goods, I supply them. Win/win for everyone, right? Wanna know what I do have a problem with?”
A third swallow bobs his throat, all the more prominently this time around, his gaze going straight to the Glock beside the folder.
“Liars,” I growl. “Cheats. Thieves.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t?—”
“You haven’t what? Sold my product without permission for your gain?” My fist slams onto the desk as the fiery beast of my temper unfurls and ignites. “In. What. World. Did you think that would be okay, Joel? Please do share with the fucking class.”
“I need the money, man!” he sputters desperately, his entire body lunging forward. Not that he gets very far with Clarence’s swift reflexes, an oof tumbling off his lips as his back crashes into the wingback.
“Not my goddamn problem! You’re a client, not a runner. You don’t come in here with some bullshit lie to buy my product and then run your ass through my streets selling it!”
“Then make me a runner! Please!” A sheen of sweat highlights his forehead, small beads accumulating at the temples like rain droplets on glass. Anxious isn’t enough of a word to describe the little snake sitting before me. “ Like I said, I need the money, and I have good connections who always want shit, I swear. I’ll do anything, drive large shipments across the country if necessary, unload, and package!”
“Hard pass.” I wave him off in disgust. “I wouldn’t trust you on a coffee run.”
“You can, though! You can trust me, Rio, I swear on my mama’s grave!” Desperation, meet pathetic, because that’s exactly what this is—a pathetic man on a desperate quest to salvage not only his connection with the hand that feeds his addiction, but his life.
A pregnant pause hangs between us, one I allow to linger as I study him with a keen eye, taking in the wild expression pasted on his face, how the sheen of sweat has continued its descent, drenching his wrinkled, plaid shirt in multiple spots. How he eyes me, then the gun.
Me.
The gun.
Especially when I drape a hand over it and drag it towards me, the sound of steel scraping over wood breaking through the silence. “On your mom’s grave, huh?” I hedge, spinning the piece with my pointer. “Strong claim to make, don’t you think?”
“I’m reliable. I know I fucked up. I realize that now and I’m sorry. But I promise I’m reliable,” he affirms, scrambling to the edge of his seat in a hasty move the big man behind him wasn’t anticipating.
Clarence grunts and reaches to pull him back but I give a subtle shake of my head. The dude is harmless, and even if he were stupid enough to try something— one wrong move and my finger won’t hesitate to flirt with the trigger.
“Reliable and trustworthy are two completely different things, Joel. But you know what, just for shits and giggles—humor me. You’ve got thirty seconds to prove why I should overlook your royal fuck up and add you to the roster, instead.” I flip the face of my Rolex toward me and watch the larger hand tick toward the twelve. “Anddd, go.”
He’s off like Speedy Gonzalez . Every reason you could think of blasts past his lips in what sounds like double the speed. It’s comical to say the least, hiking up the corners of my mouth in a grin that only serves to unsettle him further. At the rate he’s going, he’ll be dripping sweat on my antique Persian rug here soon.
Among other things.
“All right, that’s good. I get the picture,” I state, cutting him off about ten seconds early. This little pow wow has gone on long enough, and I’m ready to wrap it up for the night. There’s a bottle of whiskey waiting for me at home and Nadia’s on speed dial. “You do realize that if I choose to give you a shot and you agree, I own you, right ? You do what I want, when I want, no questions asked. If I call you at three a.m. to unload a shipment, you’re there. If you’re balls deep in a bitch and I text you for an update, your reply is immediate. If I tell you to rob a fucking bank?—”
“I rob a fucking bank,” he concurs quietly, throwing a little nod in tow.
I hit him with a finger gun. “Bingo.”
“Understood. I’m all in. Whatever you want, it’s yours. Can I um.. Can I ask what the pay is, though?”
Snorting a laugh, my brow curves in question. This motherfucker really thinks he’d be getting paid? “There is no pay, Joel. In fact, it’s you who would be repaying me, not only for the product you still have to pay back, but for all the money you made selling said product…which I’m sure is long gone by now since you’re claiming to being virtually broke.”
“Right,” he corrects himself. “Makes sense. Pay, no pay, I’m in. I mean it.”
“Excellent.” Rising from my seat, I tower over the desk and extend a hand his way. “Monday. Four a.m. Prime Vault Storage. There’s a new shipment coming in, and we need to unload before six.”
Joel shoots onto his feet and bobs his head, sliding his palm against mine. “I’ll be there for sure.”
But as he attempts to pull away, relieved this didn’t go sideways and all too eager to get the fuck out of here, I tighten my grasp. The second panic flares in his expression anew, I feel the stretch of my lips.
“What are you doing, man?” he asks nervously, trying and miserably failing to yank himself free. A mild shriek bursts forth from his throat, too, as Clarence kicks the chair out of the way and looms behind him like the fucking Hulk.
I can almost hear the thrum of his pulse.
Thump.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
“You really thought I was gonna give you a job, paid or not, after the shit you pulled?” I hiss, forcing his hand onto the desk. “C’mon, now, you can’t be that stupid.”
“Please…p-please.” That’s all he can manage, finally, finally understanding how gravely he fucked up. The blue of his eyes sparkles with unshed tears, his chest heaving with every erratic breath.
I don’t respond. I just move. There’s no need to drag this out. With practiced precision, I swipe the Glock off my desk and shoot.
Right through his hand.
The silencer blitzes and blocks out the sound as the casing clatters onto the floor in harmony with Joel’s agonized howl. Blood spatters onto my face, pouring onto my desk, and as predicted, the stench of fresh urine fills the air, too.
“Don’t bite the hand that fucking feeds you,” I growl, holstering the weapon at my back. “Try that shit again, and next time I take your fingers, one at a time . Get rid of him,” I tell Clarence, who simply nods as I saunter around my desk and take my leave.
Ready to drink some whiskey and eat some fucking pussy.