“He’s going to kill you for this. He’s going to fucking destroy you!” the guy snarls.
“Whew. Apparently, he’s already planning on killing me for turning down his offer. I’ve already earned my death twice today, and all before lunch. Big day for me, huh? Now, about that face…” I haven’t used knuckle-dusters in a while. I haven’t needed them; the bones in my fists are as strong as steel these days. So many hours spent smashing my fists into a speed bag (along with a number of people’s faces) have conditioned them to be stronger than strong. I hold him by his crushed throat as I bring my fist down once, twice, three times. Each time I strike, the Italian makes a sick moaning noise, until the fourth hit, when he stops making noise at all.
The fucker’s lost consciousness. I drop him to the ground and straighten, which is when I notice the woman on the other side of the street with a paper bag of groceries in her arms. She’s stood stock still, frozen to the sidewalk, her mouth hanging open an inch as she stares at me with wide blue eyes. “I—I don’t—I didn’t—”
“Caught him trying to break into this house,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. I toss the Italian’s gun into the Denali through the broken driver’s window, and then I proceed to collect the unconscious guy underneath the arms and drag him into the back seat. “Nothing to worry about now, ma’am. I’ve already called the cops. They’re on their way to get him.”
The woman shivers, clutching her groceries tighter, as if her onions, and her baking soda, and her Starbucks Chai Latte mix is enough to shield her from what she’s witnessing. “Ri—right,” she stammers. “Do you need me to stay? Or can I go?” she asks quietly. I can barely hear her.
“You should get home, ma’am. Make sure you’re safe indoors. I’m sure this guy wasn’t working alone.”
She starts, like a jolt of electricity just fired through her. There are more? There is an unknown number of violent, well-dressed Italian thieves in the neighborhood? I can see the fear in her eyes. At some point, later on tonight maybe when she’s had a chance to calm her nerves, she’s going to second guess what I’ve told her and begin to think that something was amiss here. That maybe I wasn’t the good Samaritan that I was claiming to be. That’s if I’m lucky. She might get ten feet down the road and call the cops herself, just to make sure I wasn’t lying, and then I’ll really be screwed.
The woman hurries off, and I bundle the Italian into the back of the Denali, trying not to think about worst-case scenarios. How fucking stupid would it be if I got picked up for this? Too fucking stupid. I pull out my phone and jam it against the side of my head as I climb into the Denali and gun the engine. Michael picks up on the third ring.
“I need you to get out to Charlie’s old place right now. I need you to come and get the Camaro.”
“I assume you’ll explain why later?”
“Sure. If I’m not in jail.” I hang up, sliding my phone back into my pocket, and then I’m tearing through the streets of Hunt’s Point, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. Thankfully it’s not that difficult. There are plenty of nice cars in this neighborhood, all the Richy Riches driving around in their Bugatti’s and their Lambos, and so the Denali is actually pretty decent camouflage. As soon as I’m six blocks away, four blocks over from Charlie’s place, I slow the fuck down, driving like all of the other retirees around here, too scared to scratch their nice cars.
About halfway back to the warehouse, the guy in the back begins to stir. I have to pull over at a gas station and climb in the back so I can restrain him. Thankfully, the Italian came prepared. God knows what he thought he was gonna fucking do to me, but there are zip ties and a fat roll of silver duct tape in the glove box, which comes in very handy. I wind the tape around his head three times just to make sure he has absolutely no chance of dislodging his gag, and then I double zip tie his hands behind his back, as well as at the ankles. No point in taking any risks. By the time I’m done fucking around, making sure he isn’t going anywhere, the Italian is awake and shooting daggers at me. His sunglasses are on the floor at his feet, so I pick them up and place them back on his face, pinching his nose for good measure—must hurt like a motherfucker given how badly it’s broken.