by Seth Eden
Gabriel snorted and shook his head. “Nah, that was intentional. Marco’s an ass, but he always knows what he’s doing. That comment hurt Dad more than it hurt him.”
“You think?” asked Alessandro.
Wordlessly, I handed Gabriel a loaded gun between the gap in the front seats, grateful for the darkly tinted windows. “Safety’s on,” I muttered; it was my only contribution to the conversation. I preferred to keep quiet before things like this.
Gabriel shrugged in response to our brother. “Yeah, Dad hasn’t lost it like that in a long time.”
“Old man’s losing his mind,” grumbled Alessandro.
A tense silence followed. We all knew it was true, but saying it out loud made it seem more real. The truth was, Angelo Varasso hadn’t been quite right in the head for years. Call it too much whiskey or too much blood on his hands or the loss of the only two women he ever cared for, but something had knocked the Varasso family patriarch off his kilter a little bit. It was the reason so many in the family had started looking up to me as a true second in command. Everyone could sense that it would be no time at all before I was the kingpin.
“Those plates were expensive,” Alessandro added, breaking the tension.
Gabriel snorted. “Auntie Diana gifted them, right?”
“Yeah, Didi’s gonna be pissed when she finds out he chucked them against the damn wall,” chuckled Alessandro. Diana, our father’s older sister, was a force to be reckoned with. Even Angelo did his best to stay away from her bad side.
“Not as pissed as Rick’s gonna be when he finds out he’s going to have to fix another dent in the plaster,” joked Gabriel, referring to the well-loved, well-trusted guy who did most of the renovations in the grand Varasso family home. He was, of course, well paid for his constant patch-ups and quick fixes when ever something went awry behind closed doors.
I finished loading Alessandro’s gun and set it on the seat to give him when we arrived, then closed the box again and returned it to its place on the floor. Outside the windows, Philadelphia was gray and gloomy. It’d been raining for over a week, turning the entire city in a damp, grunge scene. I liked Philly best when it looked like this, though. When it had that particular aura of darkness and depth that no other city could accomplish, not even Brooklyn or Boston.
The weather made the east side look particularly pitiful. Broken glass, trash-littered sidewalks, and boarded-up windows flashed by as Alessandro sped through the thin streets. Passersby huddled under dirty, torn awnings of dusty storefronts, trying to stay dry in the persistent drizzle. Those who did walk the streets did so with quick footsteps, hoods up, heads to the ground. It was nearly dark outside, and this was the part of town you didn’t want to be caught in when the sun went down if you were nothing more than an innocent citizen.
“Bro,” said Gabriel from the front, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. “You’re good, right?”
Alana. Baby. Hospital. I’m going to be a father. I hope she’s okay. Oh, God, what if she isn’t okay?
I exhaled sharply and nudged the back of his seat with my knee. “Yeah,” I replied. “I’m good.”
Alessandro slowed down as we approached an old cement warehouse that had been converted into a rather depressing block of apartments. Chai was the owner of this property and most of his customers were residents. This place was on Roman’s regular rounds; he stopped by here on schedule every week or so.
Obviously, the entire situation wasn’t exactly what you would call moral. Capitalizing on an entire apartment block of addicts in a rather unfortunate part of the city had been Chai’s business plan, and we’d certainly supplied him with the resources he needed to make that happen. But, questions of morality aside, it was lucrative. After all, money makes the world go around. Denying the reality of that was, as my father said, foolish.
Still, Chai would not be impressed by what was about to occur; he only did business with our family. In fact, he usually only did business with our runner Roman or directly with Angelo. The Randolphs were fools if they thought they were about to show up and trick Chai into doing a deal with them. Despite the annoyance, though, I knew the Varassos would never lose his business. In fact, he might even help us clean up the Randolphs.
I held on to the door as Alessandro yanked the Escalade into a narrow alleyway at the last second.
We’d pulled up right behind a familiar bright orange Chevy Camaro and I pursed my lips in distaste. So, Jackson Randolph himself was here. He was the second cousin of the family patriarch’s daughters. Angelo had always laughed at the fact that old Remy Randolph had been blessed with nothing but daughters, but truth be told, those women were formidable. I would have been much less happy to be stuck in a narrow alley with one of them than Jackson.
Jackson Randolph was tacky, just like the rest of the family. Arrogant, self-obsessed, and downright tacky. The neon orange Camaro was evidence enough, but the gold chain and dirty wife-beater he wore really brought the whole image together.
I sighed heavily and cocked my gun. Gabriel snorted in the front seat, knowing exactly what was going through my head.
“Okay, boys,” said Alessandro, heaving a loud exhale. “Let’s get this done.”
With synchronized nods, Gabriel and I got out of the vehicle, guns tucked into our waistbands underneath our shirts. Alessandro stayed behind the wheel, taking his turn at operating the getaway vehicle, just in case things took a turn for the worse. You could never be too safe, especially in this line of work.
Jackson Randolph leaned against the hood of his ugly car and smirked at me and my brother. He had a couple of backup guys I didn’t recognize standing on either side of him, but they didn’t look particularly intimidating.
“Well, look who it is,” purred Jackson, his disgusting mustache curling as his thin lips worked their way into some semblance of a smirk. The expression revealed a row of teeth in serious need of some dental hygiene and my stomach twisted a little at the sight of them. Yikes; just because he was a filthy drug rat, didn’t mean he had to look like one, too.
“Hey, street rat,” I replied, lifting a hand in mock greeting.
“Hmm, it’s the Prince and the bastard,” said Jackson. Gabriel tensed behind me, but kept his cool. “We’re getting the royal treatment today, boys. What an honor.”
Jackson loved the sound of his own voice. In fact, he talked so much, it didn’t take me long to realize that the best way to piss him off was to pretend you didn’t hear or understand a word he was saying. I guessed that it was a side effect of being the lowly boy cousin to a pathetic fledgling drug lord’s street business; he didn’t get enough attention or prestige growing up.
Not to mention, he’d had to grow up as part of the family that was always being compared to the successful and terrifying Varasso clan. Next to us, the Randolphs were just kids playing hopscotch. Funny, and almost endearing in their lack of real power. It was no secret that the Randolphs wanted what we had. It was the reason why they intercepted our runners and caused annoying bouts of trouble in our business; they were trying to get on our nerves so that they could sneak in and get the upper hand while we were distracted with our own frustration.
But, the Varassos didn’t get distracted.
“Heard you messed up our runner,” I said, ignoring Jackson’s taunts.
Jackson shrugged casually. “He’ll survive.”
“Lucky for you,” added Gabriel.
Jackson narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to side as he observed Gabriel.
“Look at you,” crooned Jackson to Gabriel, a sickly sweet smile spreading across his pale, sweaty face. “Always one step behind your big brother.”
But, Gabriel wasn’t a child. He didn’t give in to pokes and prods at his status in the family, or respond to attempts at emasculating him. None of us did. Angelo Varasso raised his sons to have thicker skin than that.
Gabriel didn’t deign to respond to Jackson’s remark.
“Well, anyway,” I said
after a beat of silence. “A little birdy told me that you guys stole our stash.”
Jackson snorted. “Is that so?”
“It’s probably best you give it back before things get ugly here.”
The guy on Jackson’s left shifted forward slightly and I trained my eyes on him. He was short and skinny, but had a scrappy, tough look about him. Some stray street fighter the Randolphs probably picked up along the way.
“Now, now,” tutted Jackson at his guy. “Luca here doesn’t mean me any harm. He wouldn’t want to get blood all over his clothes.”
Both Jackson and I knew that wasn't true. I wasn’t snobby or all that fussed about keeping evidence of the violence I initiated off of my clothing, and Jackson was well aware of that. He was, as always, playing a game. Toying with us. Toying with his own guys, even. I often wondered if Jackson Randolph didn’t even want to be a successful kingpin, and instead if he simply just liked to entertain himself with all the trouble he caused.
“After all, showing up bloody to the hospital when your wife’s about to give birth doesn’t paint a very pretty picture,” continued Jackson. “And the Varassos always like to keep up appearances.”
“Hey,” said Gabriel quietly behind me, just loud enough for me to hear and to remember to stay calm. I didn’t want to know how Jackson knew that Alana was in labor and managed to brush off the comment. Still, I didn’t like that Jackson even knew that Alana existed, let alone that I had a child on the way.
My first instinct was to reply with She’s not my wife, actually. My second instinct was to say, How about you mind your fucking business, asswipe? My third instinct, thankfully, was to raise my eyebrows in faux confusion and act as if Jackson hadn’t just said the one thing that, had I been a less mature and emotionally stable man, would have caused me to lose my shit right then and there.
“Jackson, let’s just stop mincing words,” I sighed heavily. “I’m a busy man, and I’m sure you are, too. How about you give us our stuff back and maybe give us a little apology for fucking up one of our best runners? And then we can all be on our merry way.”
Jackson frowned. He could tell I was mocking him. Everyone knew he was hardly a busy man, given barely any responsibility from his Uncle, the patriarch of the Randolphs. Still, it was him and his two untrained, clumsy guys against three Varasso brothers, the sons of Angelo Varasso himself. One very trashy orange Camaro versus a large, bulletproof Escalade. We were unmatched, unstoppable.
Just then, an old red pickup truck pulled into the alleyway. I recognized it immediately and chuckled to myself.
I nodded once in Jackson’s direction. “You really chose the wrong deal to weasel your way into. Chai’s been a client since 1983.”
A flicker of unease crossed his eyes and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction at that alone. Together, the six of us watched as Chai heaved his creaking, fragile body out of the pickup and hopped down onto the cracked, dirty pavement. He took one look at the situation in front him, his favorite Varassos versus a handful of pathetic wannabe gangsters and snorted to himself.
“What’s going on here, boys?” asked Chai, big white beard muffling his gravelly voice slightly. “Hey, Luca. Gabe.”
Gabriel and I nodded once at him in greeting.
“Randolphs got it in their head to play a little prank,” Gabriel called out to Chai. “They’ve got your stuff in the Camaro.”
Chai’s eyes turned ice cold as they landed on the squirming form of Jackson Randolph. He scoffed. “Not this slimy fool again.”
Jackson straightened up and squared his shoulders to Chai, but the old man wasn’t buying the tough guy act.
“Listen to me right now, son,” growled Chai. “I recommend you hand over my order or you and your pathetic cronies will never do business in this part of town again. Not that you were really doing business here in the first place.”
A tense minute of silence followed, but Jackson seemed to realize that this wasn’t a guy to cross. After all, Chai carried around the same energy as Angelo Varasso; they weren't to be fucked around with. They weren’t also the kind of men you ever said no to.
With an unintelligible grumble, Jackson nodded his head at the guy on his right, who immediately jumped into action and moved around to the back of the Camaro. I watched with growing anger, but also with a sense of satisfaction. Mostly anger, because I wouldn’t have had to come all the way over here and abandon the love of my life if the stupid Randolphs hadn’t gone and stolen Ramon’s stuff in the first place. Still, watching Jackson’s stupid plan be foiled right in front of his eyes did help me feel a little bit better about the situation.
Gabriel and I stood by, knowing this wasn’t over, as Jackson’s unnamed crony opened up the trunk of the car and heaved out a large black duffel bag. Chai hovered at his shoulder and immediately snatched the bag from him.
“Cheers,” he growled. “Don’t let this happen again.”
We all watched in silence as Chai stomped his way back to the old red truck he’d been driving around for decades. He tossed the duffel bag into the passenger side and then climbed back up into his seat. Jackson turned to watch the formidable, practically ancient dealer lean halfway out the window of the driver’s side.
“Hey, kid,” shouted Chai. I lifted my chin in his direction. He’d meant me. “Tell your dad I’ll be happy to offer my… pest control services. Anytime.”
A short exhale beside me was the only proof of Gabriel’s desire to laugh. I shot Chai a smirk and raised my hand in farewell.
“I’ll let him know!” I called.
And with that, the great roaring pickup pulled out of the alley and disappeared down the next street. I raised a single eyebrow at Jackson, who looked visibly uncomfortable. It was obvious what Chai had meant about pest control.
Angelo Varasso had wanted to methodically murder the Randolphs for as long as I could remember. Chai had enough of his own loyal followers who would be willing to help. Nobody liked a slimy wannabe who steals other people’s coke, after all. Together, the Varasso and Chai’s men could make pretty quick work of the entire family. With that large of a number, we could even do it carefully enough so as not to draw any attention from the police or the media.
Not that the cops would care much about the extinction of another fumbling, silly gang on the streets of Philadelphia. As long as father kept lining their pockets and making his generous donations to the city, the police stayed out of our business. After all, the Varassos weren’t just the most powerful organized criminals out here; we were also the cleanest. We had the lowest rates of addiction, inside deaths, and petty crime. Angelo had always made it very clear that he didn’t tolerate foolish, attention-grabbing behavior like that in his family or his employees.
We were professionals. Jackson was, plain and simple, an amateur.
“Well,” I sighed, clapping my hands together once. “That was fun. You’ve managed to piss off a lot of people tonight, Jackson.”
Jackson’s mouth twisted into a snarl and he narrowed his eyes at me.
“King’s fall, boy,” he hissed. “Your family won’t be the strongest forever. Inevitably, someone will rise up and take you down. I look forward to that day.”
Gabriel stepped forward. “Is that a threat?”
I threw an arm out to stop Gabriel from taking another step and Jackson snickered in response. Gabriel shot me a glare, which I answered in turn. He was my younger brother and I would always stop him from putting himself in more danger than necessary. In fact, they were all my younger brothers. I had a lot of people to stand protectively in front of, once I thought about it.
“Are we done here?” I snapped. “Is our message clear?”
Jackson pretended to frown in confusion, causing my blood to boil. I tried my best not to show how annoyed I was, maintaining the practiced, calm features of my father.
“What message is that?” he asked.
Jackson knew exactly what the message was. Stay off our turf, keep your filthy f
ingers out of our drugs, and stop intercepting our runners. But, those were the rules he’d been breaking all along. The entire point was that Jackson enjoyed breaking the rules; the Varassos simply telling him to stop certainly wouldn’t be that effective.
I’d have to kill him. Or someone close to him.
Suddenly, much to my suprise, Jackson snatched a switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open. The blade was razor-sharp and gleamed in the light of a nearby streetlamp.
“I was kind of hoping I could bury this in one of Angelo’s sons tonight,” Jackson mused, twirling the blade in his fingers with expert precision. I could tell it was one of those things he probably practiced for hours alone at night in his bedroom, if only to look more like the scary mobster he wanted to be.
I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. My annoyance took precedence.
With a frustrated, mumbled curse, I reached behind my back and pulled my gun out of my waistband with expert flourish. I’d been holding guns for most of my life; it almost felt like another limb, just another part of my body.
Gabriel, knowing to keep his weapons hidden until it was absolutely necessary, remained standing where he was, but tensed slightly as if preparing for a fist fight.
“Whoops,” I whispered, raising my eyebrows at Jackson in mock innocence. “Did I accidentally bring a gun to a knife fight?”
I had the gun aimed perfectly at the very center of Jackson’s forehead. At this close of a range, the bullet would likely come straight out clean on the other side of his skull.
But, Jackson wasn’t acting as though he currently had a gun pointed at him. He was chuckling to himself, gaze trained on mine instead of the dark barrel glaring down at him. The engine of the Escalade revved next to us, which was Alessandro’s way of telling me to get on with it.
“Not too worried about blood on your clothes, after all?” asked Jackson, his voice light and casual. Was he on some kind of suicide mission? Had that been the point of this entire thing?
I shrugged. “Not particularly, no.”
Suddenly, a familiar click drew my attention from Jackson to his lefthand side where one of his guys had pulled out a small handgun, clearly a bit old and rusty, and probably stolen. Much to my distaste, the guy had it pointed directly at Gabriel’s chest.