Chapter Two
ROCCO
It smells like rain tonight.
The stormy weather brings a bitter cold that has me tucked inside a thick leather jacket.
Streaks of blood are splashed across the front and I’ll have to burn it.
Blood finds a way of burying itself into every fiber of the fabric.
I didn’t have time to wipe it off, not with the threat of death hanging over my head.
It’s become another favorite clothing item that has to be destroyed for a job I’ve long since lost any love for.
I’ve got a pack of frozen peas over my right hand. My knuckles are bruised and swollen from a few stray punches that connected oddly. I might’ve broken the pinky finger, but I’ll only know once the adrenaline wears off.
I’m in the reception area of my apartment building.
In the distance, Emilio Lombardi is standing by the elevators with his hands tucked deep into his pockets and a toothpick jutting out from the corner of his lips.
Christ, he’s looking old these days. His black hair is peppered with gray streaks, and deep crows-feet are buried in the crevasses around his eyes and mouth.
He’s even lost his muscle mass and has turned into a lanky piece of shit.
I chuckle at the thought of it. I’d never outright say it to the mafia kingpin’s son, but God damn it feels good to think it.
“How did it go tonight, Champ?” Emilio asks as I reach the elevator. He’s got his back against the wall, with one leg kicked up against it.
“It went fine. The Boston Stranglers won’t be a problem anymore. They were a bunch of kids, acting hard and playing dumb.”
“Boston Stranglers? That’s really what they went for?
A little unoriginal, don’t ya think?” He smirks.
“But don’t you start going soft on us, Rocco…
” Having Vincent Lombardi’s organization call me Rocco has never bothered me.
Since the day they recruited me on that beach, it’s become a term of endearment.
But my blood always starts to boil, when Emilio says it.
It’s not the name itself, but the inflection of his tone that drives me up the wall.
I’d kill him if I could, but I don’t think his father would appreciate it much.
“Those runts were stepping into our territory. We had to deal with them. Show them who’s boss. If we go soft on a bunch of kids, some nasty folks might think the Lombardi crime family has gotten weak. We can’t have that,” Emilio finishes.
“What are you even doing here?” I ask, but the answer is simple. He’s checking in on my progress. He’s waiting for me to fuck up. The first time I do, he’s got his golden ticket to point a finger and say, See? He’s never been cut out for this life. He’s useless to us. Let’s get rid of him.
“Just thought I’d stop in and say hi. I don’t get to see you much,” he says. “But don’t let me keep you.”
Emilio walks off, his long, slow steps echoing through the empty foyer. I take the elevator to my floor.
My apartment door is ajar when I get to it. From inside, I hear the TV playing, and Marty McCallan from the news station is passing his audience over to the weatherwoman, Lauren Small.
“Well, Marty, it looks like we’re in for scattered thundershowers across Boston tonight, but tomorrow will be another wonderful Saturday. The sun should be out with temperatures reaching eighty-one degrees.”
I lose Lauren’s voice and her weather report fades, as I feel a thunderous explosion in my chest. My heart’s thumping in my ears, and in an instant the bag of peas is on the floor, replaced by a 9mm Beretta.
Someone’s in my home. For men in my line of work, intruders are never a good sign.
I enter cautiously, with my pistol leading the way. The kitchen holds the first sign of intrusion as I see my bottle of Hibiki Japanese whiskey sitting on the counter. The top is off, and whoever poured it did so heavy-handedly, leaving splashes across the counter.
The bottle is old and it’s been resting on a shelf for the better part of three years – a thin layer of dust coats the outside, which is now sullied by five fingerprints.
From the kitchen, I move deeper into the house.
The living room is empty, but the sliding door out onto the balcony is open.
A heavy gust of wind whips the curtains back and forth frantically.
Outside, I see a silhouette. It’s a black blob, shrouded in darkness.
Today’s as good a day to die as any.
I take precise steps towards the sliding door. Slow, steady, and silent.
The blob’s sitting comfortably on one of the patio chairs, staring intensely into the thin veil of rain. The view is stunning, even with the haze of rain. Light flickers in the distance from ships entering and exiting the Boston harbor and the city skyline illuminates the night.
I bring the gun as close to my intruder as possible before he has a chance to realize I’m behind him.
“You draw a gun on me, you better use it,” Vincent Lombardi says. It doesn’t take him long to break out into wheezing laughter at his comment.
“Mr. Lombardi, my apologies,” I tuck my pistol into my waistband. “Emilio was downstairs, I thought he’d give me a heads up that you were here.”
“Yes, I saw the boy down there, but I didn’t make my presence known,” Vincent says. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips. I wouldn’t have known it was there had the burning ember not lit up his thick mustache. “What did he want, anyway?”
“Beats me,” I shrug. “He inquired about the job.”
“Ah, yes.” Vincent pats down the front of his shirt. From the inner pocket, he removes a box of cigarettes. “Smoke? Or a drink?”
It’s just like him to treat me like a guest in my home.
Vincent Lombardi has a way of commanding any space he walks into and taking it over.
He doesn’t bother asking about how tonight went, because he knows the job is done.
The only time I’d fail to report success would be if I fell victim to hot lead to the head.
“Don’t touch them myself.” I wave off his gesture.
I feel uneasy in Vincent’s presence. I have since the day he recruited me, and the anxiousness has only built since I became the Lombardi crime family’s enforcer.
His company always brings that old panic clawing back.
The desperate urge to chew at my nails like some weak child who needs to suck his thumb and cry for Mommy.
“I’ve always liked that about you. You keep your head straight.” He puffs on his cigarette. “Too wise to touch the slow deaths of this world.”
“Wise isn’t the word I’d use.”
My comment gets a chuckle out of him.
“Well, I’m not going to keep you long, Rocco. I’m here to deliver a gift, then I’ll be on my way,” he says.
“A gift?” I’m not surprised that his interruption has something to do with a gift. Some new toy as a thank you for a job well done. Vincent Lombardi is many things, most akin to the devil himself, but through the years he’s shown me a strange sort of kindness.
I’m sure it’s pity, more than genuine kindness.
“Yes, it’s in the bedroom.” Vincent doesn’t get out of his chair, and I won’t leave his side until I’m dismissed.
He raises the glass of Whiskey to his lips and knocks it down.
He takes another drag of his smoke before killing it and flicking the filter off the balcony.
“I was going to give it to Emilio, but considering what day it is, I thought it would do you some good.”
A present for Emilio passed down to me? That won’t bode well. Emilio Lombardi has it out for me; this will send him further down the rabbit hole. Vincent’s kindness is a major pain in the ass and he doesn’t even realize it.
He lifts himself out of the chair with a labored grunt, and leads me back into the house.
In his prime, Vincent could stand toe to toe with me.
He used to carry thick slabs of muscle on a sturdy frame.
Time has been unkind to him. Where he once looked like an Italian Adonis, age has thickened and hollowed him into something far less impressive.
“The day?”
“You’ve forgotten? A sign of old age,” he snickers. He stops at the closed bedroom door. An old, leathery hand reaches for the golden handle. “Happy Birthday, son.”
My birthday? That’s right. Twenty years serving the mafia makes it easy to forget the small things in life. A birthday is just another ticking clock, and it’s easier to forget than have the yearly reminder of a wasted life.
Vincent twists the handle and pushes the door open.
There’s a woman on my bed. Her wrists and ankles are bound by rope and her mouth is covered with duct tape. She was lying motionless when the door opened, but now she wriggles and squirms, trying to break free as we enter. Her ash-blonde hair is in a mess and strands dangle in front of her face.
She’s a small, delicate beauty. Her body is perfection. Wide hips. Full breasts. Soft curves in all the right places. Her eyes are blue, striking, and exquisite. One glance is enough to sink the hook deep.
Fuck. Staring at her makes me feel disgusting. I’m playing right into Vincent’s hand, yet I can’t bring myself to look away. I’m stunned into admiration.
“Mr. Lombardi, I—“ I want to decline this offer. I can’t take someone as a piece of property, but I can’t find it in myself to refuse a gift from the most dangerous man in Boston.
“You don’t have to say a word, Rocco,” Vincent pats me on the back. “The look on your face is thanks enough.” He gives me a genuine, fatherly smile before taking a step backward. “I’ll leave you two to get… acquainted. Enjoy.”
He leaves, and with his absence, I’m at a loss as to what to do next.