Page 9 of Rotten Men

“And you’ve never failed me in doing so,” Vincent counters.

“Is that all? You sure it’s not because your uncle thought it was best to keep your friends close but your enemies closer?” I venture further teasingly.

His gallant features abruptly turn rigid in contemplation. I look into his eyes, and his hazel brown orbs are suddenly replaced by a glimpse of dark forest-green, a color we both have been deprived of.

“And because you are the one that reminds me of her most,” he hushes out, standing up from his seat, done with today’s moment of honesty.

Three

Dominic

“Where you off to in such a rush?” I hear a melodic voice call behind me.

I turn around and see my underboss leaning up against a wall, his arms crossed as if he was waiting around for me after Vincent’s meeting was called to an end.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he were. He’s never been shy in tagging along with me when there was fun to be had. And busting heads is the very definition of fun for both of us. Sadly, what’s on today’s itinerary isn’t half as entertaining.

“Gotta head out to the farm and leave a package before it gets ripe. Wanna join?” I ask skeptically, since the two-hour drive out to the country isn’t exactly appealing.

“Why not? I have a package of my own to dispose of,” Ciro replies, leaning away from his resting place.

“Don’t you always?” I tease my tattooed, somber friend. “You know you shouldn’t have that shit in the trunk of your car like that. What if the cops pulled you over? You’d be in hot water, my friend. And not because of the pigs, but from the boss for being so careless,” I warn.

“Non mi rompere i coglioni,” he answers back annoyed. Walking over to his SUV, he retrieves two heavy duffle bags, and places them both in my trunk, next to my own parcel.

“Let’s leave our dicks out of it, yeah?” I joke.

“Why? Feel intimidated there, do you?” Ciro taunts, a little gleam of amusement striking over his ocean-filled gaze.

It’s a rare occurrence to uphold, and I’m positive I’m one of the few people he lets have a close enough view of it. And when he lets the veil fall, I’m reminded of another Romano with similar features. A man whose name is best kept silent to ensure his ghost andhersdon’t continue their haunting ways.

“Vaffanculo!” I chuckle, giving him the classic Italian arm gesture to drive my point to the arrogant bastard.

A small smile appears on his face, as he pats my shoulder amicably.

“Enough foreplay, dear friend. I want to be back in town before nightfall,” he informs, opening the car door and climbing inside to make his point.

I’m actually quite grateful to have his company. Whenever I spend too much time alone with my thoughts, they end up depressing me. With Ciro riding shotgun, the next couple of hours will be filled with work talk and finding new ways to inflict pain—a skill I have perfected over the years with all the practice. Still, there are some twisted, sadistic things I’ve watched others do, which I feel are beneath my reputation. WatchingThe Butcher’swork in action comes to mind. Understanding why he was given the nickname in the first place is something I don’t wish on anyone.

In my mind, we can give a dying man some dignity even if we are the ones holding the ax over his head. Unlike Bianchi, humiliation and cruel torture for the fun of it has never been my way of doing things. Well, at least not until today. To be honest, if his name were ever on my kill list, I would make that rat bastard suffer gruesomely for days on end.

Fuck dignified death.

I’d make sure he left this earth suffering the same tormenting lacerations he was so keen to shell out on others weaker than him.

This afternoon’s little nick was just a small appetizer, not even close to giving me any true satisfaction.

“Think you could swing a couple of days to meet me in New York?” Ciro questions, crumbling away at my own vengeful thoughts.

“Hmm… Don’t think so. Got some people who earned a visit from me. My calendar is fucking full as it is,” I reply, thinking of the long-ass week that awaits me.

Growing up, I never thought an enforcer’s job was so time-consuming. But the years have taught me to be on the clock twenty-four-seven. I think the celebrated phrase of ‘no rest for the wicked’ must have been coined after the likes of us. Because a mafia’s executioner is always on call and downtime is a thing for lazy pussies.

“Shame,” Ciro adds, looking out his side window.

“Why? Think you’ll be lonely or something?” I mock teasingly.

“Aren’t we always?” I hear him mumble, and my abrupt frown burrows deeper at his astute proclamation.

---