by Lily Knight
“But . . . I still . . . I still don't know . . . what it is that I owe you,” I stammered.
“You are the new owner of Canfield Grille, ain't you, Bethany? At least that's what you became when yo' pappy Sal went on to another place. Ain't that right?”
I nodded.
“Sal left the diner to me, yes.”
“Well then you owe us a grand, bitch.”
“Why?” I asked, feeling both confused and afraid.
“Your pappy Sal, he paid us, like the other suckers in this 'hood all pay us. Fo' protection, see? You pay us every month, and we make sure yo' diner here is safe. Yeah, safe an' sound, Bethany, safe an' sound. Sal made this deal with us six months ago, and he been payin' us ever since. But after he left this place, forever, well, we didn't get no mo' pay. And now our patience is up. So, where the fuck is our thousand dollars for last month, Bethany?”
“I—I don't have a thousand dollars on me,” I murmured. My heart was beating so fast in my chest now it felt like it was going to explode.
Tyrese looked up at LaJon and shook his head, scowling.
“You hear that LaJon? She say she don't have our money.”
LaJon, who was tall and lanky and sported a head full of dreadlocks, shook his head disapprovingly.
“I think the bitch is lying,” he said. “An I'mma make her tell the truth.”
He walked over to the display cabinet where the donuts were, and pulled out a baseball bat that he had strapped to his back. He grinned, and then swung the bat with all his might at the glass front of the display cabinet, shattering it and sending a shower of glass shards flying everywhere.
“No!” I shouted. “No, stop, please, please don't!”
“Where the hell is our damn money?!” shouted Tyrese, yelling mere inches away from my face. “Where's the damn money?!”
LaJon then walked behind the counter, casually swinging his baseball bat by his side. He took a look at a shelf full of coffee mugs, and then suddenly took a big swing at it, smashing all of the mugs to smithereens. After that he walked over to a table, and brought his bat down in a vicious arc, smashing the glass surface of the table.
“Please stop, please,” I begged, “I'll come up with the money, alright? Please . . .”
Tyrese looked up at LaJon and gave him some sort of hand signal, after which LaJon stopped his rampage of destruction and put the baseball bat back into the sheath on his back.
Tyrese then stood up and stepped back, and LaJon walked over to join him.
“You have twenty-four hours to come up with what you owe us, Bethany,” snarled Tyrese. “Twenty-four hours, and not a damn second more. Don't test me on this, I'm warning you. If I don't have that money in my hands by this time tomorrow, shit's gonna get real ugly for you. And that pretty little white girl face of yours . . . it won't be pretty no mo', not after we've finished wid' you.”
They turned around and stormed out, slamming the back door shut behind them after they left. For a while, all I could do was simply lie on the floor, trembling. In a sense, what had just happened didn't quite feel real. It felt more like a dream – or a nightmare, rather. But the signs of what had happened were everywhere; broken glass and porcelain littered the floor, and it looked like a hurricane had just hit this place.
Finally, I heaved myself up off the floor. My throat was sore from where Tyrese had grabbed and squeezed it, and my stomach was still aching from where he had punched me, but otherwise I seemed to be uninjured.
I hobbled over to the kitchen and retrieved a broom; all I could do now was clean up, and try to figure out a way to deal with these thugs. I sure as hell didn't want to pay them, but as a lone female running this place on my own, with the only other person here being a disabled old man – who still hadn't showed up yet – it wasn't as if I could actually stand up to them.
While I was lost in thought, I heard a knock at the front door. I checked my watch and saw that it was ten to eight – not yet opening time. I ignored the knock and carried on sweeping up the broken glass, but then whoever it was knocked again, more loudly and forcefully this time.
I guessed that whoever it was wasn't going away, so I reluctantly walked over to the front door, where I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed impeccably in what looked like an actual Armani suit standing there. I was at once taken aback by his appearance; not only was he very classily dressed, but he was also strikingly handsome. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and his deep-set, dark eyes and olive-toned skin and dark hair marked him as being of Mediterranean descent; Italian or maybe Spanish.
“Hi,” I said, aware that my voice would be muffled through the glass.
He waved at me through the glass and gave me a friendly smile.
“Can I come in?” he said, his deep voice muffled and barely audible.
I pointed at the writing on the glass which showed our opening hours, and shook my head.
“I just need a cup of coffee,” he said. “Can you open the door please?”
Still shaken up by what had just happened, I didn't want to open the door, but it didn't look like he was going to go anywhere, and besides, he didn't look at all like the gangsters who had just roughed me up – I mean, he was wearing an Armani suit after all. He looked like some sort of high-profile businessman. I opened the door a crack so that we could at least hear each other.
“Sir, I'd love to help you out, but uh, there's a big mess in here and I need to get it cleaned up before I open the doors for business, so, uh, please excuse me if I sound rude, but could you just wait ten minutes?”
He peered past me and saw the shattered glass everywhere.
“Looks like more of a mess than you can clean up by yourself in just ten minutes,” he remarked. “But I'll tell ya what – how about I help you clean it up, and in exchange I get a free cup of coffee?”
I was surprised at this suggestion; from the way he was dressed, I would have assumed that simple cleaning work would have been beneath him. Still, he was right; it was too big a mess for me to clean up on my own in such a short space of time. If I wanted to get things cleaned up before opening time, I would have to accept his offer.
“That's very kind of you,” I said, “and a cup of coffee is a small price to pay for your help. Thank you so much, and come on in.”
“It's a pleasure to help such a beautiful lady,” he said with a warm smile.
“Thank you!” I said, feeling a lot better than I had a few moments ago. “My name is Bethany Verde, by the way.”
He held out a big, strong hand, which I took and shook politely.
“And I'm Benito Sciotti. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
CHAPTER 3
Benito
I woke up real early, around five in the morning. I hauled myself out of bed, taking care not to wake the nude female body sleeping soundly next to me. I put on my bathrobe and walked out to the balcony. I had not gone home last night; instead, I had slept in the small suite attached to the fitness club, a small but comfortable living area we had constructed just for such occasions, when we'd been working late and drinking and felt like stumbling straight into a comfortable bed instead of facing a long drive home.
It was still dark outside, and the black sky showed no signs yet of the gray of the coming dawn. Instead, a few steadfast stars blazed here and there, fighting against the light pollution that rose from the city of Detroit. There was a chill in the air, and I pulled the robe a little closer around my body as I surveyed the night city. All those lights, stretching from horizon to horizon and glittering in the dark, as far as the eye could see – this was my kingdom, and I was its king. I smiled to myself, satisfied and proud of the work I'd done and how much power I had amassed, expanding my family's territory and area of control, wresting power from the other mob families through both strength of arms and skill in negotiating. I had come a long way from the boy who used to hang around the back of my grandfather's Italian restaurant and deliver envelopes of money on foot for the m
en of his organization, and who then graduated to boosting cars.
I still remembered the first time I had really understood what it had meant, what it had truly meant to be a part of this family, to live it and to breathe it. I had been around seventeen years old at the time. A Hispanic gang had started to encroach on our turf, pushing heroin and dope. Drugs were one thing my grandfather never tolerated; he was a real old school traditionalist that way, and I guess I got my dislike of drugs and drug pushers from him. Well, those Hispanic gangsters thought they could just come onto my grandfather's turf and start selling their junk to kids.
My grandfather was a fair man, and he gave everyone one free pass. But if you blew it, if you took that free pass and tossed it into the garbage, woe betide you. Then my grandfather would bring judgment . . . and wrath.
He sent a messenger to the Hispanic gang to politely inform them that it was his turf they were peddling their crap on. The messenger returned to my grandfather with two broken legs and a promise from the gang's leader that not only would they continue pushing heroin in our area, they would expand their operation.
My grandfather had known then that further negotiation would have been futile, and only a strong, single-minded message would achieve the effect he desired, while also sending out a signal to any other would-be drug pushers that, in no uncertain terms, our territory was strictly out of bounds, and that there would be very profound consequences for anyone who transgressed these boundaries.
My grandfather's intentions were both simple and deadly; in response to the gang's defiance of his orders and their mutilation of his messenger, he was going to wipe them out, wipe them off the face of the earth. To do that, he needed every able-bodied man in the organization to take up arms. I was promoted to the rank of soldier, and was given a gun to use – a .45 semi-automatic. My grandfather set up a sham meeting with the leaders of the gang in a friend's restaurant after hours, so that no regular customers would have to see what was gonna happen, or get hit in the crossfire. Myself and the other soldiers, we were all dressed as cooks and waiters so as not to arouse suspicion. The heads and senior members of the Hispanic gang all arrived, and we served them starters, playing our role as waiters and cooks convincingly.
Then the time came for them to order the main course – which was two bullets for each man; one in the chest, so that they could see what was happening, and then a second or two later, one the head to finish them off.
The man I had been assigned to “clean” was a lieutenant in the gang, a fat, greasy guy in his forties who came from Colombia. I can still see almost every hair on his stubbly chin, and every wrinkle on his tanned, pudgy face as clear as day whenever I think about that night. As we laid down the main course menus in front of them, that was the signal we'd been waiting for. We all whipped our guns out from under our aprons, and then the massacre started.
I remember hesitating for a moment as the gravity of what I was about to do hit me like a boxer's punch. Then the firing started, and the Colombian in front of me reached into his leather jacket for his own piece, so I did the only thing I could do. I squeezed the trigger again and again, pumping not one but five of those heavy .45 slugs into his chest. He was dead long before I finally put the finishing shot into his head – and so was the boy I had been up to that moment. From then on, I was a man – and I was really and truly part of the family.
As I thought on this recollection, going over the events and memories once more in my mind, I heard stirring coming from inside. I shuffled back into the room and saw Janet sitting upright in the bed, the gentle light catching the obviously fake, too-round curve of her silicon-enhanced breasts. She smiled as I walked in.
“You were just amazing last night, Ben,” she purred. “You were a real animal, gosh!”
I think she expected more of what she'd received from me last night, and I could have given it to her, but my mind was already wandering over to thoughts of Bethany, and with her in my head, there was no space for this airhead bimbo.
“You've been off your shift for a couple hours now Janet,” I said coldly. “You'd better leave my room and go back to your job.”
“But . . . I thought-”
“I don't care what you thought. Get out. Now.”
She gathered up her clothes and got changed quickly, not making eye contact with me, and she strode briskly out of the room. I could tell that she wanted to slam the door behind her, but she didn't – she knew that I wouldn't take it well, and she didn't want to lose her job over this.
Now with her gone, my thoughts could return to Bethany, and I could focus on her. It was only a few short hours now before I would see her – before she would be mine. I took out the contract Sal had signed, and read it over once more, as I had done many times over the past few months. She would be mine. No wasn’t an option. Bethany would be mine.
It was still early, but now was as good a time to start the day as any; if I went back to bed now, I would only get around an hour of sleep really. I called up one of the staff who worked in the juice bar downstairs, and got him to make me a green juice to start the day off. He said that he would bring it up shortly. After that I would head out to a restaurant to eat a proper breakfast. I undressed and stepped into the shower, and felt vitality surge through me as the jets of icy water blasted my skin. A cold shower to start off the day was a great way to get your head cleared, and start the day fresh and invigorated.
After I'd had my shower and my green juice, which gave me yet another boost of energy, I put on a dark gray suit, an Armani suit that was one of my favorites. I put my Breitling watch on – one of my favorite watches, as I really wanted to make a good first impression on Bethany – and then got the items that I always carried on me: my .45 semi-automatic (a much newer model than the old thing I'd used for my first kill), a folding knife (you never knew when you might need a blade) my two cellphones (one for regular calls, and one that was only ever used for “family” business), my wallet, keys and my silk handkerchief. After this I headed down to the underground parking, where my black Mercedes SLK was parked. It was a great car; fast and powerful, but not obnoxious and screaming out “look at me” like a Ferrari, or the type of midlife-crisis image that a car like a Porsche projected. Classy and almost understated while conveying an image of power and sophistication; just the car for my personality.
I climbed in and started the motor, savoring the power as I pumped the gas pedal a few times and listened to the muted roar of the exhaust.
I headed over to downtown Detroit, listening to morning radio as I drove, and thinking, of course, of Bethany. I could picture so clearly in my mind her stunning emerald eyes, with the finely-curved brows set at a perfect height above them, her small, cute nose, and the sensual curve of her lips. And how I longed to run my fingers through that dark blond hair, slightly wavy and silky smooth, that cascaded over her shoulders.
I paused in mid-thought, wondering how it had come to be that this woman had such power over me. What was it about her that made her so different to the other girls in my world? Was it her sharp wit and intelligence, her relentless drive to succeed, her indefatigable determination in the face of odds that were stacked high against her? All of these I found to be profoundly admirable characteristics. Maybe it was because she, unlike any other girl I'd ever been with, would be someone who would challenge me, someone who would stoke the fires of inspiration within me. We hadn't even met yet, and she had already done that.
I turned the corner that would take me onto the street on which Canfield Grille was situated, and saw a curious sight. There were two CM gang members getting into a pimped-out Honda, with dropped suspension, black oversize rims, a garish paintjob and other tasteless accessories. I slowed down as I passed them, and recognized one as being Tyrese Wilson, the leader of the gang. We had profiles of every gang in the city; it paid to stay up to date with who your rivals were and what they were up to.
And now these two were here. This street was not officially part
of their turf, so I found it strange that they were hanging out here. Tyrese saw me looking at him and he glared at me as I drove past. I simply smiled warmly at him in response; I was not in the least bit intimidated by thugs like them.
I found a parking spot down the street from Canfield and watched in my rear-view mirror as Tyrese and his buddy took off in their Honda, screeching and smoking the tires as the motor brayed out a loud, flat drone. Sheesh, they needed to learn a thing or two about taste.
Well, this was it – this was the moment I'd been waiting for a very, very long time. I took a look at myself in the rear-view mirror before I got out of the car. I had made sure my hair was just perfect before I had headed out, and with a few strokes of my fingers I had everything in place. I squirted some breath freshener into my mouth, and then got out and smoothed my suit jacket down. I locked the car with my remote and walked over to Canfield Grille. It was closed – as expected, due to it being ten minutes until their official opening time – so I stood by the door and knocked on it. This was weird – I was almost feeling a little nervous at the prospect of finally getting to meet Bethany in the flesh. Nervousness was a feeling almost alien to me these days; few things could shake me. Bethany, apparently, was one of those things though.
Nobody came to the door, but I knew she was in; my observer had informed me that she was in the restaurant an hour before opening time every day, without fail. I knocked again, harder this time, and then saw a shadow moving around inside. The shadow started to move closer, and morphed into the form of Bethany, and seeing her beauty in the flesh at last almost took my breath away. I smiled a great, beaming smile as we finally made eye contact.
I greeted her and asked if I could come in, but she said that I couldn't just yet. The sound of her voice, soft and a little husky, was a real turn-on for me. As we were speaking, I looked past her and noticed that there was glass strewn all over the floor. And it didn't just look like someone had dropped a cup or something – it looked like someone had gone to town on the place with a wrecking ball – or a baseball bat. I offered to help clean up the mess in exchange for a cup of coffee; I needed to get in there to talk to her when she was alone, and didn't want to wait until the official opening time, and besides, there was now this mystery with the broken glass that I wanted to try figure out.