2. Vegarro “Vega” Moretti
VEGARRO “VEGA” MORETTI
The client’s name was Wallace Pierce. On paper, Wallace owned three laundromats, two carryout restaurants, and a small trucking company that moved produce between Chicago, Indiana, and Michigan.
In the streets, he was an old-school, money nigga who sold a lot of drugs when he was younger, and now fronted cash for drug dealers, who often got killed when they couldn’t pay Wallace back on time.
Wallace wasn’t my type of nigga, though. He smiled too much, wore too many rings, and was way too flashy. But I respected the way he did business. He paid on time, kept his problems quiet, and never called me for something petty. That was why I listened when he told me Tremaine Wilks needed to die.
Tremaine had worked under Wallace’s nephew, Jalen, collecting money and moving product through the West Side.
He got greedy and started skimming. When Wallace’s nephew caught him, Tremaine arranged a fake meet, shot him, dumped him behind a closed daycare, then showed up at the funeral crying beside the boy’s mother.
No matter how much I trusted a client, I never just took their word. I did my own research. I watched Tremaine for three days, and I found footage that placed him with Wallace’s nephew less than an hour before the body was found.
I found out Tremaine had taken the dead boy’s chain and gave it to his little brother for his birthday. Then I saw his little brother wearing Jalen’s chain on Instagram two days after the funeral.
That was all I needed.
Wallace could have taken care of Tremaine himself, but I was who niggas called when they wanted someone killed without risking being attached to the murder.
I caught Tremaine behind a lounge in Bronzeville at 2:13 in the morning.
The back door opened, spilling music, smoke, and laughter into the alley before closing again behind him.
He came out alone, phone pressed to his ear, keys swinging from one finger.
Tremaine laughed at something the person on the phone said as he crossed toward his black Charger.
The busted security light above the lot threw his shadow across the pavement.
I stepped from between two dumpsters before he reached the driver’s door. His laughter died immediately. Then his expression changed to terror.
He lowered the phone slowly. “Vega.”
Tremaine knew my name because the streets knew who moved in the dark. I wasn’t a careless or flamboyant killer. I didn’t post guns or boast. That wasn’t how I worked. But in rooms where real money changed hands, my name carried weight.
I had started in the game as an enforcer and crisis handler.
Clients called me when a situation was beyond negotiation.
If a worker was stealing money, a supplier refused to deliver after accepting payment, a witness needed convincing, a rival was applying pressure, or if a problem needed to stop breathing without starting a war, they called me.
The enforcer part was simpler. When somebody needed to be hurt, frightened, retrieved, or removed, I was the man they paid.
My brother, cousins, and I made more than enough money in the drug game now that I didn’t need the side jobs. But I kept taking them because I liked the rush. I enjoyed violence more than I probably should have, especially when it came with a purpose.
Tremaine had heard enough stories about me to know what it meant when I appeared from the darkness.
“Look at that…” A cruel grin spread across my face. “You know how to recognize when you’re in the presence of a real nigga. Good boy.”
Tremaine took one step back. “Whatever Wallace told you, he lyin’.”
My grin widened. “How do you know it was Wallace that sent me?”
He cursed under his breath, realizing his guilt had given him away that quickly.
His throat moved when he swallowed. “I’ve been hearing in the streets that he’s been blaming me for his nephew’s murder, but that old nigga emotional. He lookin’ for somebody to blame.”
He glanced toward the mouth of the alley.
“Don’t do that,” I warned.
His eyes came back to mine.
“I’m going to give you one chance to die with some dignity.”
“I didn’t kill—” He tried insisting, but my fist drove into his stomach hard enough to fold him over. His phone hit the ground and slid beneath the car. I grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed him face-first against the Charger’s window. The glass cracked beneath his cheek.
He groaned, trying to twist away from me, but I slammed him into the car again.
“I didn’t do shit, I swear,” he gasped.
“Your stupid little brother posted himself wearing Jalen’s chain.”
His mouth opened, but he couldn’t think of a quick enough lie.
“You went to the funeral,” I recounted. “You hugged his mama.”
His hand twitched toward his waist. I caught his wrist before he touched the gun and twisted it until his knees buckled.
He screamed.
I took the gun from him and cracked it across his mouth. Blood sprayed across the pavement.
“Reach again, and I’ll break every finger you got before I kill you.”
Tremaine dropped to one knee, spitting blood. “Please, Vega.”
“Don’t beg. It’s embarrassing.”
“I can pay you.”
“I have money.”
“I can leave Chicago tonight.”
“You should’ve left before you killed him.”
“I made a mistake.”
“No.” I stepped closer, looking down at him. “A mistake is turning down the wrong block. You planned a murder and performed at the funeral. That ain’t a mistake.”
His breathing came out ragged and wet.
I crouched in front of him. “You know what pisses me off?”
Tears gathered in his eyes.
“You niggas always want mercy after you make everybody else suffer without it.”
He shook his head. “I swear I’ll make it right.”
I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him deeper into the alley, past the dumpsters, beyond the reach of the flickering light. He kicked, clawed, and swung wildly.
I let him fight for about ten seconds. Then I drove my fist into his ribs once. ‘Then twice, and the third hit cracked something.
Tremaine made a sound that barely sounded human and collapsed against the brick wall.
He tried to crawl away, and I let him get a few feet away.
Then I caught him by the back of his shirt and yanked him onto his back.
His head hit the pavement, and for one second, he stared up at me like he finally understood nothing could save him.
“Look at me.”
He didn’t, so I pressed my shoe against his throat until his eyes snapped to mine.
“Look at me.”
His chest heaved.
“You made Jalen look at you, didn’t you?”
His bottom lip quivered.
“That’s why I know you’re a coward. You wanted him to see your face when you betrayed him, but now you can’t even look at mine.”
“I’m sorry,” he cried.
“No, you’re not. You’re dying. That’s different.”
I pulled my blade from my pocket. The metal caught the weak light for half a second.
Tremaine’s body went still. “Vega…”
He tried to grab my wrist, but I caught his hand, pinned it to the ground, and leaned over him. “Tell Jalen I said Wallace misses him.”
Then I opened his throat. The blade slid through skin, muscle, and everything soft beneath it.
Blood spilled hot and fast over my hand, rushing down both sides of his neck before soaking into the collar of his shirt.
Tremaine’s eyes grew wide with panic as both of his hands flew to the wound, fingers slipping uselessly through the red pouring between them.
A wet, broken sound came from his mouth.
His heels scraped against the pavement as his body fought for a life he had already lost. Blood bubbled at the cut with every desperate attempt to breathe.
His chest jerked. His mouth opened and closed, trying to form one last plea. Nothing came out but a gurgle.
I stayed crouched over him, watching the fight drain from his body second by second. His hands weakened first. Then his legs stopped kicking. His eyes remained on mine until the life behind them disappeared, leaving only an empty stare and a body twitching through its final reflexes.
As the alley went quiet again, I wiped my blade on his shirt, stood, and let the rats have what was left of him.