Time Soaked With Blood
Wasted
“You are impossible, Brian Haner!”
I laughed and extended my arm higher in the air, holding my girlfriend’s cell phone far from her reach. As she began to jump up to try to grab it, I replied, “And you are adorable, Michelle DiBenedetto. And you’re not getting it back until you tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, smirking wide.
“Hmm, let’s see,” I started, grabbing her wrists with my free hand gently to stop her smacking my chest. “Late-night phone calls, sneaking out and in without telling me you’re leaving, my birthday right around the corner…”
She finally managed to grab the phone from my grasp and, grinning in accomplishment, kissed my nose before bouncing toward the door. “Be back later!”
I laughed as she drove off and went to relax on my couch. I truly got lucky the day she became my girlfriend. My happy mood was instantly darkened, however, by my phone beginning to ring in my pocket. I looked at the screen and became exceptionally nervous when I saw the caller I.D.
“Haner here,” I nearly croaked.
“Boss needs you,” the thickly accented man on the other line said. “He’s not too pleased, either. Get over here immediately.”
“Right,” I answered, before standing up shakily and throwing on my sunglasses and fedora.
After the short drive down the road in my black Maybach, provided by my ‘job’, I found myself to be standing in front of the man who controls my life, Anthony Ricobono. He was sitting in his chair, nursing a whiskey and puffing away at a cigar as he surveyed my seemingly calm stature. I’ve learned to control my emotions around these people over the years, and it’s most likely saved my life by now. Weakness is a sign of failure, and with Ricobono, failure costs you your life.
I was the first to speak. “You wished to see me, sir?”
“Sit,” he instructed, pointing lazily at the chair next to me. When I was situated, he continued. “I have a task for you, and for you alone. You have your firearm, I presume?”
I nodded briskly. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he said, setting down his glass and standing up. “There is a butcher shop on 27th Street. The owner, a mister Basilio Vittore, owes me money. The problem is, he’s two months past the time he claimed he’d give it to me.”
He waited for me to nod my head in understanding before finishing his order with, “Waste him.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, bowing my head slightly before walking out of his office and back to my car.
I knew the place he was talking about well; when my friends and I were teens, that shop was the only one in the city that didn’t have a silent alarm, so at night we used to pick the lock and have parties in the back. I’d never met the owner before, which made the job microscopically easier. I pulled up to the back, where I’d have an unnoticeable exit, and assembled my .22 caliber pistol. Once loaded and silenced, I got out of the car and walked around to the front. Lucky for me; hell, lucky for anyone in this business, the place was empty when I entered. I heard the muffled call of, “Be with you in a minute!” from the back.
After a few seconds of patiently waiting, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an extended waistline wearing a blood-stained apron walked out from the freezer. “How may I help you, sir?”
“Are you Basilio Vittore?” I asked, cutting to the chase to make my time here short as possible.
He frowned. “Yeah, that’s me. Why?”
I pulled the gun out from under my jacket and said, “Taking care of business.”
A look of fear stuck his eyes, much like the bullet that pierced his temple a moment after, sending him to the ground in an obese heap. I stepped neatly over the body, careful to avoid stepping in the pool of blood slowly expanding over the floor, and headed through the back to find his belongings. It’s mandatory for us to bring the identification of the victim to Ricobono. Once armed with his driver’s license and sum of money in his wallet (acquired by handling the possessions with a clean handkerchief), I ran through the back door and into my car, wasting no time in speeding out of the alley.
I laughed and extended my arm higher in the air, holding my girlfriend’s cell phone far from her reach. As she began to jump up to try to grab it, I replied, “And you are adorable, Michelle DiBenedetto. And you’re not getting it back until you tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, smirking wide.
“Hmm, let’s see,” I started, grabbing her wrists with my free hand gently to stop her smacking my chest. “Late-night phone calls, sneaking out and in without telling me you’re leaving, my birthday right around the corner…”
She finally managed to grab the phone from my grasp and, grinning in accomplishment, kissed my nose before bouncing toward the door. “Be back later!”
I laughed as she drove off and went to relax on my couch. I truly got lucky the day she became my girlfriend. My happy mood was instantly darkened, however, by my phone beginning to ring in my pocket. I looked at the screen and became exceptionally nervous when I saw the caller I.D.
“Haner here,” I nearly croaked.
“Boss needs you,” the thickly accented man on the other line said. “He’s not too pleased, either. Get over here immediately.”
“Right,” I answered, before standing up shakily and throwing on my sunglasses and fedora.
After the short drive down the road in my black Maybach, provided by my ‘job’, I found myself to be standing in front of the man who controls my life, Anthony Ricobono. He was sitting in his chair, nursing a whiskey and puffing away at a cigar as he surveyed my seemingly calm stature. I’ve learned to control my emotions around these people over the years, and it’s most likely saved my life by now. Weakness is a sign of failure, and with Ricobono, failure costs you your life.
I was the first to speak. “You wished to see me, sir?”
“Sit,” he instructed, pointing lazily at the chair next to me. When I was situated, he continued. “I have a task for you, and for you alone. You have your firearm, I presume?”
I nodded briskly. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he said, setting down his glass and standing up. “There is a butcher shop on 27th Street. The owner, a mister Basilio Vittore, owes me money. The problem is, he’s two months past the time he claimed he’d give it to me.”
He waited for me to nod my head in understanding before finishing his order with, “Waste him.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, bowing my head slightly before walking out of his office and back to my car.
I knew the place he was talking about well; when my friends and I were teens, that shop was the only one in the city that didn’t have a silent alarm, so at night we used to pick the lock and have parties in the back. I’d never met the owner before, which made the job microscopically easier. I pulled up to the back, where I’d have an unnoticeable exit, and assembled my .22 caliber pistol. Once loaded and silenced, I got out of the car and walked around to the front. Lucky for me; hell, lucky for anyone in this business, the place was empty when I entered. I heard the muffled call of, “Be with you in a minute!” from the back.
After a few seconds of patiently waiting, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an extended waistline wearing a blood-stained apron walked out from the freezer. “How may I help you, sir?”
“Are you Basilio Vittore?” I asked, cutting to the chase to make my time here short as possible.
He frowned. “Yeah, that’s me. Why?”
I pulled the gun out from under my jacket and said, “Taking care of business.”
A look of fear stuck his eyes, much like the bullet that pierced his temple a moment after, sending him to the ground in an obese heap. I stepped neatly over the body, careful to avoid stepping in the pool of blood slowly expanding over the floor, and headed through the back to find his belongings. It’s mandatory for us to bring the identification of the victim to Ricobono. Once armed with his driver’s license and sum of money in his wallet (acquired by handling the possessions with a clean handkerchief), I ran through the back door and into my car, wasting no time in speeding out of the alley.