Page 2 of Salvation

One month ago…

“What is this?This is not what you owe me, Mr. Mascareni.”

I’m growing increasingly tired of his game.

My fingers pinch my forehead as I try to push the headache brewing back into the recesses of my mind. In my other hand, I hold a measly fifty-five thousand dollars. A mere drop in the bucket of the two hundred forty thousand dollars Eli is indebted to me.

What excuse will he use today as to why he doesn’t have my money?

Max looks at me for guidance as he holds Eli by the arm preventing him from running or doing something stupid, like reaching for the gun peeking out of the waistband of his dirty black slacks.

Just another indication of just how far he’s fallen.

Eli whimpers like the coward he is as Max twists his arm more tightly behind him. I almost hear the tendons straining and the bone waiting to snap beneath Max’s thick grip. “I just need more time, Mr. DeLucca.” He sputters, spittle flying from his mouth as his beady eyes flit across my face, searching for a tiny nuance of pity. “I–– I’ll have your money tomorrow. I–– I just need a little more time. It will all be here tomorrow.”

Glancing at him from beneath my dark lashes, I hastily look him over, noticing the gauntness of his cheeks and the telltale white powder remnants near his nostrils. I can also clearly see the crusted blood just inside.

Shaking my head in revulsion, I breathe deeply before piercing him with my dark gaze. He cringes, jerking back from the disgust clearly displayed on my face. Leaning down, I take care not to breathe in his revolting stench of sweat and grease. “Now Eli, I’ve given you time. More than enough. Why do you continue to lie to me? I have given you the benefit of the doubt… Last month when you couldn’t pay me what you owed me, I even lowered my interest rate for you… as a measure of good faith, and yet, now… here you are with more excuses as to why you have less product than you should, and no money to cover it, or the debt you already owe me.

“You are using my product instead of selling it. I would not care if you could pay for it, but you are letting your pathetic addiction win. And by succumbing to its allure, thus, you are stealing from me.” He tries desperately to escape Max’s iron grip as blind panic races across his face. I straighten and adjust the cufflinks at my wrists.

With a measure of calm, I’ve mastered over the years, I ask the addict on the floor of the empty restaurant kitchen, “Do you know what happens to people who steal from me, Eli?”

His eyes are so wide and terrified they almost bug out of his head. I can see his brain spinning, trying to come up with a lie he desperately hopes I’ll believe. Spittle flies from his pale, thin lips as he gasps out, “It’s my wife… my bitch of a wife. She’s the one who has used all of your drugs, Mr. DeLucca. I cannot sell fast enough to cover what she’s using. She takes so much and it’s never enough. More… more… more… She constantly wants more. She’s even whoring herself out to try to help me pay for it now, but it’s not… enough.”

His cries don’t faze me other than to enrage and disgust me. He’s pathetic. A weak man who has entrapped his wife, the woman he swore to love and honor. A woman he should be protecting from the allure of my poison. He allows, and probably even forces, her to sell her body to whoever will pay for it to cover his debts.

He’s not only caved to the false promises that my drugs make but has made his wife an addict and a whore.

I shouldn’t complain; drugs and guns have made me a very rich man. Though I have never lowered myself to actually partake of my own poison. However, there are lines you do not cross. Some things are simply unforgivable. Women are to be protected, cherished above all else.

The way a man treats his woman is a clear indication of his measure.

Eli continues to cry and plead while spewing more excuses, desperate and pathetic. I’m tired of hearing them. He has wasted enough of my time today. Straightening, I fix the cuffs of my black suit and adjust the already perfect knot on my blood red tie. The heels of my Italian leather loafers click on the stained concrete floor of the kitchen as I turn for the door, dismissing the feeble last attempts to save the life of a man who already knows he is dead.

Max calls out, “What would you like me to do with him, boss?”

I hear Eli thrash as he makes one last attempt to free himself from Max’s unrelenting grasp, though he knows it’s futile. With one final glance over my shoulder, I rake my gaze over Eli. He’s crumpled, kneeling in a puddle on the floor, his stained slacks soaked through.

Pathetic. He’s pissed himself.

He understands what is about to happen.

He’s made his bed. Now he must lie in it.

With no remorse, and barely a thought, I raise my arm, leveling the revolver I’ve removed from the waistband of my own slacks directly at his chest. Eli screams and pleads as he shouts profanities about his wife.

Without so much as a blink, I pull the trigger. The bullet finds its mark, piercing him directly in the heart. The bright crimson quickly spreads across his chest, merging with the days old sweat and stains on his formerly white shirt. He slumps forward, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing as he lands in the piss on the floor. Blood and piss surround him. Shaking my head in revulsion at the shell of the man on the floor, I tuck my revolver away and straighten my jacket, concealing the weapon again, as I call out to Max, “Make sure this is cleaned up. His employees don’t need to be responsible for this. Then dump him in the street in front of his house. Everyone needs to see. They need to know what happens to people who steal from me. Make certain you pick up Mrs. Mascareni before you leave. She needs treatment and I will make certain she gets it.”

Turning, I make my way through the closed restaurant and stop at the front door. The framed photo on the wall catches my eye. It’s of a classically beautiful woman, Mrs. Mascareni is my guess, and a younger, healthier Eli. Removing the frame from the wall, I look it over, taking in the innocence and genuine happiness displayed in the capture. Sighing and shaking my head at all that was lost here, I remove the photo and toss the frame to the floor. The glass shatters as it strikes the worn Formica. Then opening the door, I stride into the heat of the Louisiana summer and tuck the photo into my breast pocket as I cross to the gleaming black Escalade parked at the corner.

The door opens before me and I slide into the blessed coolness of the interior. Davey rounds the hood and climbs into the driver seat before he looks at me through the rearview mirror and asks casually, “Where to, Mr. DeLucca?”

I tell him to head to the battered women’s shelter. He smiles and nods as he pulls away from the curb. He doesn’t seem surprised at my request. Though he shouldn’t. He knows the place well.

Laying my head back on the cool black leather of the headrest, I close my eyes and smile as a picture of a beautiful blonde woman captures my thoughts.

Maybe I can persuade Hope to have lunch with me.

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