37. Prime
PRIME
Augustus Fontana’s house looms in the evening beyond his high walls.
I pause on the sidewalk across the street and marvel at the roofline and wonder if he’s feeling the squeeze the way everyone else in his world must be.
And I smile, because I know he’s watching the last of his power evaporate like water in the desert, sucked into the earth, gone in an instant.
I land hard on his grass and amble through the manicured trees and bushes. It’s exactly the way I remember it from my last visit. Fucking Fontana—years ago, when he was at his strongest, he never would’ve let someone like me anywhere near this place.
But he got desperate. He wanted to flex and lord over me and prove to himself that he’s still on top.
He should’ve stayed hidden.
The tank at my hip sloshes and bumps with each step. It’s heavy, but worth the extra weight. I wonder if there are any guards waiting, any eyes watching from the shadows, anyone monitoring the multiple cameras and motion sensors I notice all over the property.
If anyone cares that I’m here, they’re not doing anything about it.
I walk on, thinking about Shawn, about how he befriended me when I was nothing and needed him the most, about how he gasped and looked so scared as he bled out in my arms. About running away, leaving him there, hating myself for it.
How that hate only got worse over the years and thickened into a hideous scab over my heart.
Until Deanna came along and ripped it away.
The front door’s locked. I sigh, put the tank down, and knock. Part of me wants to break it down, but it looks like sturdy wood and likely has a solid deadbolt, so why bother wasting the effort? After a short wait, there’s a thud, and it croaks inward.
“Hello? Ah, Mr. Spadaro, are you here?—“
I kick hard. The door slams open, throwing Fontana’s wife backwards in a sprawl. She stares at me guppy-mouthed, dressed for bed in sweats, her hair in curlers. I step onto the threshold and breathe deep the smell of their house: burned candle wax, drywall dust, an undernote of rot.
“What—what—what are you doing?!” She tries to scramble backwards but stops when I raise a gun and aim it at her chest.
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s—he’s not—what is?—“
I cock back the hammer. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs! In his room!”
I release the hammer and lower the weapon. She begins edging away, mewling in fear, as I uncap the gas can and begin splashing liquid across the entry rug. There’s an ugly painting hanging on the wall, two lions fighting in a forest, and I make sure that gets a good soaking too.
“What are you doing, Prime?!”
“You’d better leave if you want to survive tonight.”
“But my husband?—“
I glance at her. “Your husband is dead, Mrs. Fontana. I assume you don’t know much about his business?”
Her face pales. “I know… some things…”
“Does the name Shawn mean anything to you?”
“No? Why would it?”
“You should go.” I stalk to the stairs, pouring more gas down the hall toward the kitchen. “This won’t take long.”
“What are you?—“
I flick open a lighter, hold it up, and smile to myself. I’ve always been fond of fire. Scares the shit out of people and smoke makes it impossible for them to stick around. Want to clear a room? Burn it to ashes.
I toss the lighter on the trail of gasoline. It erupts with a whoosh, flames spreading fast. The stupid lion painting curls and hisses as the oil melts. It was probably worth a small fortune.
“Oh my god! Please, no!”
“Now’s your chance to run.” I climb the steps as black smoke swirls into the space, filling the air shockingly fast. It hits my lungs like tar.
“Please!” she screams but I don’t stick around to find out if she’s smart enough to save her own skin. I keep moving, climbing out of the bad air and to the second floor landing.
I walk toward the master bedroom locked behind a pair of big oak doors.
The house crackles and burns behind me. In years past, this place must’ve been crawling with staff, cleaners, cooks, and dozens of guards.
But now there’s nobody; the whole mansion’s a ghost town.
No men with guns to protect the boss, all because the money’s been gone for years.
Strange how it comes down to this. In the end, it wasn’t about catching Fontana and physically overpowering him.
It was about out-maneuvering him, starving his operations, stealing his people, and crushing him slowly.
Would Shawn appreciate this?
Probably not. He was a stupid fucking kid.
I kick open the bedroom doors. They smash against the far wall.
Fontana’s sitting in his bed, his phone against his ear.
The room is lavish: thick rugs, ornate crown molding, painted black and gray and gold like a king’s private chambers.
“Oh fuck, he’s here—“ Fontana dives sideways, reaching for his bureau.
I fire once, shooting the alarm clock six inches from his face. He recoils, flailing, the phone thrown from his hands. It tumbles across the floor and I don’t bother going after it. Whoever he has on the other end can’t help him now, even if they want to.
“Good evening, Mr. Fontana.” I tip over my gas can with my toe and let the liquid seep out onto the carpet. I walk around to the side of the bed, keeping the gangster covered. “It seems your house is on fire.”
“Prime.” He speaks through his teeth. He’s trying to be brave but the fear’s all over him. “You foolish boy. You realize what’s going to happen now?”
“The real question is, do you?” I stand over him and marvel at how old he looks. Augustus Fontana, the devil in my dreams. How did I ever let a pathetic weakling like this bother me for so long? It seems absurd now.
“They’re coming and when they get here, they’re going to kill you.” Fontana sneers at me. “Unless you’re smart and cut a deal. We can still work together. It isn’t too late. I’ve always said you were clever and enterprising?—“
“How many clever and enterprising young men have you ended over the years?”
His brow furrows. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I wasn’t the first you tried to kill. I’m guessing you’ve been identifying potential trouble for years and cutting it down before it can bloom. Like you’re weeding the city’s garden. But you missed with me and got my friend instead.”
His cheeks turn red. “I thought you were done after that. You disappeared for months. I should’ve finished the fucking job.”
“Probably, but you didn’t, and by the time I emerged, I had some help and you couldn’t touch me anymore.”
“You were beneath my notice by then. Don’t be so full of yourself.”
“How many, Fontana? I want to know. How many like me did you kill?”
“Plenty. Dozens. Hundreds. I don’t know and does it matter?” He leans forward, the covers slumping off his body. His hairy chest peeks out from under an old white tank top. One gnarled finger points at me. “You have just as much blood on your hands as I do, you fucking hypocrite.”
I curse under my breath. It takes a lot of effort not to shoot him right here and now. “Not fucking kids.”
“Kids, women, who give a god damn shit if they’re in the way? We’re the same, Prime, we always have been, only I’m better than you. I survived worse than you over the years, you know that? You think you can come in here and end me? Fucking me?”
“Here’s what you don’t understand.” I move at him, kneeling on the edge of the bed, shoving him down with one hand on his flabby chest, jamming the muzzle of the gun into his mouth. He whimpers, all his bravado gone.
Best way to shut a man up is to shove a warm barrel between his teeth.
I lean close so he can hear. The fire’s getting loud downstairs. Smoke seeps in through the open door. Not too much longer now before the whole house is a bonfire.
“It was never about being the best. It was about taking care of my people. You never did get that, did you? Your whole outfit only existed because you paid your men, but you never made them give a fuck about you. That’s why they all fled the second the tap turned off.
That’s why all your guards are gone and I could walk right in here and kill you like the scum you are.
You deserved worse than this, Fontana, and you deserved it a lot sooner.
Shawn deserved better. All those other dead boys deserved better.
” I shove the gun harder, scraping his teeth.
He moans and tries to thrash at me, eyes wild and wide, tears streaming down his face.
Everyone’s a coward when they’re staring down their end.
“I want you to know, I got something waiting for me at home. I’ll go on, I might even be happy, and sometimes I’ll remember this moment fondly. But mostly I’ll forget about you like the rest of the world will, and we’ll all be better off for it.”
Please, he tries to say, but it comes out muffled.
I pull the trigger. His skull explodes in blood and brain, his tongue tearing in half, jaw missing. His arms give one last twitch before flopping down lifeless, worthless, dead and bloody.
I step back, looming over the body of the man I hated for so long, waiting to feel something, waiting for the revenge I’ve dreamed about to hit me.
Except there’s nothing.
Only the smell of smoke, of shit and death, his ruined face a smear across his pillow.
I turn away and shove my gun back into my belt.
He never mattered. I should’ve seen it sooner, but I’ve been so lost in my grief that I’ve never been able to process it.
Fontana’s worthless. He’s nothing but a bloated corpse and has been for years.
His outfit crumbled with the tiniest bit of pressure because they’ve been on the edge of failure for a very long time.
There’s nothing for me here anymore.
I stride over to the windows and push them open. I climb out onto the back porch, slip once, nearly slide down the roof. I catch myself and clamber onto a drainpipe, an old cast iron thing bolted into the side, and lower down.
Flames lick the back door. I watch them for a few minutes, wondering if his wife got out. I’m sure she did. I doubt there was ever real love in this place.
I turn my back to the inferno and walk away, my shadow cast long across the grass, a big smile on my face.
I’m looking forward to getting home.