Page 47 of Bitter Poetry
He rolls his eyes again. “You used to be quicker on the uptake than this, mate. You know, every time a woman sucks your dick, your brain shrinks, yeah?”
I snort a laugh. “You should be fucking comatose then.”
He grins and side-eyes me.
But then it fades, and an indecipherable expression takes its place. The same look I’ve seen on his face a lot lately.
He focuses on the traffic. It’s late—early, I amend on checking my watch—but there has been an accident ahead, and everything is backed up. He stares out the front window, but his knuckles are tight around the wheel. I don’t ask. He can tell me when he’s fucking ready.
Only the ants are getting restless under my skin, and I know something is wrong.
We come to a complete stop. Up ahead, in the distance, I can see flashing blue lights.
“I used to be a fuck up,” Jero says. “A drug addict, although not by choice. I’d been picked off the streets and tossed into an underground fight club. It was being run outside the family and without permission. Cedro didn’t tolerate people starting sideline businesses that might draw the interest of the law. He stepped in and shut it down. He selected the best of those involved and set it up for himself.”
He’s never told me about his past, ever. And I’m a nosy bastard, so I’ve asked.
Why tonight? Why now?
The traffic begins to edge forward.
My gut is tight. The traffic at one in the morning, the vibes Jero is throwing off, coupled with his words, have me feeling off kilter, and I don’t like it one bit.
“I came to Cedro’s attention. I guess they must have been discussing whether to kick me to the curb or whether I was useful in some way. Got me off the drugs. The hard way. After I came out the other side, I was called into one of the back rooms where he looked me over, asked me my story, what I wanted to do… I told him the truth. That I enjoyed fighting. That I fucking loathed drugs. That I had no family, and I just wanted somewhere to belong.”
We’re closing in on the flashing lights, and the scene of the accident is coming up ahead.
“I’d probably be dead long ago if not for him. I was a low-ranking soldier for a long time. Kept myself clean. Did as I was told. My big step up came when your uncle offered me the position as his enforcer. I was on the other side of the city when he died. Afterward, Ettore took over as underboss and I worked for him.”
There is nothing unique about his story. Many soldiers come into the service that way, and if they’re smart and keep clean, they can rise through the ranks. The reward is a family and a place to belong.
We finally pass the accident, pick up speed, and lapse into silence.
My thoughts churn over what he just said. But also what he didn’t say.
Cedro took the time to ask him what he wanted, a nobody. There are lessons in power in that seemingly simple exchange. A street rat given a small measure of courtesy for the first time in his life, that builds fucking loyalty, the deep kind that never goesaway. Then my uncle came along, and he asked Jero to be his enforcer.
Don’t get me wrong—there is asking andasking, and I’ve witnessed both kinds.
I mean, Dante was asked to be capo…
Ahead is the new marina and leisure complex. I can already see the big neon sign for Peppermint Moon. When Jero pulls into the underground service parking garage, I know something is going down that I’m not going to like.
He slams out of the car. I’m right behind him. He pops open the trunk and takes out a couple of baseball bats, passing one to me. “You loaded?”
“Yep.”
He nods. “Good. Keep one alive.”
The ants under my skin reach a frenzy. We start walking toward the service doors. Adrenaline is already flooding my system.
“I know you’ll always have his back,” he says. “He’s family. I respect that. I’ll always regret not being there for your uncle Stephano, and for Cedro and his wife.”
We slam through the service door, passing a security guard who steps back instantly as he recognizes us.
His eyes lower to the bats in our hands.
I hear him on the radio, but I tune it out.
