Page 22 of Salvation

Ah, Mr. Cabella. It seems as though you are not used to being questioned. Or challenged.

I see his hand reach around his back for the weapon he keeps at his waist.

Mr. Cabella’s hard gaze is centered on me and everyone else at the table seems to be pulsing as they wait for the next move. I gesture around the table as I casually lean back in my chair. “I would advise you to stand down, gentlemen. I am well aware of the weapons directed at me from under the table, and I can assure you that should any of you have the brilliant idea to fire off a shot, my sharp shooters will drop everyone at this table before you can so much as wiggle the cramp from your finger. And then we’d simply have a hell of a mess to clean up.”

All eyes glance around the warehouse uneasily at my comment. Red lights from the lasers mounted on the guns in my men’s hands throughout my warehouse suddenly appear on my company’s chests. Several men sigh uneasily and look to the man in charge of this operation, the man between two ordinary henchmen to the right of the table.

He nods at them curtly and says to Mr. Cabella, “Everyone relax. I’ll talk with Mr. DeLucca now.”

My smile spreads over my face and I regard him callously. He smiles back just as coldly before nodding at me with a sign of respect. “I see the rumors about you are true, Mr. DeLucca.”

“Which rumors would those be, Mr. Whitesmith?”

He chuckles. “You are not a man to underestimate. You are young in age, but sharp in mind, and have an enviable poker face.”

Chuckling dryly, I drum my fingers along the table’s edge. My nails make a sharp tapping sound. “Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Whitesmith, I’m not much of a gambling man. I never play poker.”

His face creases with his smile and I can see another sign of his grudging respect displayed there. Leaning back, he waves his hands in the air, dismissing his men. “All of you leave us. Mr. DeLucca and I need to talk business. It’s time to hash out the details of our pending business relationship.”

Mr. Cabella sputters in disagreement, but Mr. Whitesmith ignores him, brushing off his arguments with a firm flick of his wrist. Mr. Cabella immediately quiets, though the disquiet on his face is evident, as he roughly stands and flips his suit jacket harshly as he strides away.

Mr. Whitesmith and I talk for a good two hours and at the end of the meeting, we shake on our agreement.

As we stand, he stops and looks at me with reverence. “Everyone is correct about you. You have the face of a fallen angel, but your mind is your weapon. You are a formidable ally, Mr. DeLucca. I look forward to our lucrative relationship.”

I nod and smile before walking past him, with Max flanking my left side, to the front doors of my warehouse where we conduct a lot of these “meetings.”

As the doors open, I hear an animal wail as if it’s in pain. A dog barks and then wheezes. It sounds like it was struck. My head swivels toward the sound and I see a small puppy snapping at the heels of one of Mr. Whitesmith’s men as he callously taunts it. He’s waving beef jerky in front of the starving puppy, taunting it. As the puppy tries to reach it, he kicks it harshly in the ribs. He laughs as the puppy falls to the ground and rolls. The tiny animal whimpers in hunger and pain while the man laughs as though this is his entertainment.

My gaze goes red as I watch him once again raise his foot as if to kick the puppy. My voice roars out, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

The boom of it bounces off the sheet metal of the warehouse. Everyone stops and stares. Storming with intent across the packed dirt, I stop just in front of the young puppy and look down at it. It’s cowering on the ground in fear, and as I look it over, I see its ribs are sticking out from its frail form and it’s lifting its right front paw as if it’s injured. Reaching down, I stop as it growls at me. But once I see it makes no attempt to lunge at me, or attack, I take care to gently lift it, stroking my palm over its mangy and matted head, before carefully passing it to Max. “Hold it for a minute.”

Once the pup is safely in Max’s burly arms, I return my attention to the idiot that was just torturing the puppy. “You were torturing an innocent animal.”

He glares at me in defiance and puffs his chest out. “Yeah, so! It’s a stupid dog! Look at it. It’s going to die anyway!

“What do you care? It’s not like it’s your dog!”

Reaching behind me, I grab the Glock holstered at the back of my waistband and whip it around before he can can so much as exhale. The handle of the revolver strikes him in the temple, and I can feel his skin split with the force of my blow. Blood spatters on my hands, and the front of my suit, as he screams in pain. Falling backward, he splays on the ground. His hand is gripping his head and blood is pouring out from the deep, gaping wound, running down his face, and seeping through his fingers. His hands and face are coated with the deep crimson as he screams in pain, humiliation, and anger.

My foot rears back and I kick him as hard as I can in the ribs. I repeat the act a few more times and can feel the bones crack from the blows as he screams in agony. It ends on a wheeze as he gasps for breath. Looking down into his bloody face, pinched with pain and fear, I coldly say, “You are correct, it wasn’t my dog, but it is a helpless animal.” Removing my handkerchief from my breast pocket, I wipe the blood from my hands and delicately pat at the spatter on my jacket. “Now look at what you’ve done. You’ve ruined my jacket.” Returning my dark gaze to the man twitching on the ground, moaning in anguish from his split temple and cracked ribs, I calmly look around at the men surrounding me. Their faces are a mixture of uncertainty and anger though the fear deep within them at my actions is also evident. I reply, “Any man that can abuse an animal like that can also abuse a woman or a child and that makes him filth.

“No man should raise his hand or attempt to harm those that should be protected!”

Glowering down at the man whose blood is pooling in the dirt as he uses one hand to cover his gaping head wound and the other to cradle his broken ribs, while he desperately tries to breathe, I say, “Not so tough when it’s you on the receiving end, now are you?”

He gasps again, his lips turning blue, as he attempts to fill his lungs with air while his blood continues to create red rivers down his face and stain my dirt. The way he’s breathing, at least one of his lungs are punctured, probably both.

Turning, I leave him there and calmly walk back across the way. Davey is waiting by the vehicle and Max is standing next to him, holding the squirmy puppy. I gesture to Max to get in and instruct Davey, “We’re bringing the pup to the vet. It needs X-rays.”

As I climb into the car and Davey slides into the driver’s seat, I glance over at Mr. Whitehead, who is standing in the threshold of my warehouse, looking from me to his henchman as he struggles on the ground. I wave once. “I’ll have the merchandise ready for pickup on the agreed upon day.” Pointing to the man on the ground, I curtly say, “Please remove your trash from my property. I’d prefer he not die in my parking lot. You should be more careful with who you hire.”

The door closes and Davey looks back and asks, “Which vet am I going to, Sir?”

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