The Mafia’s Obsession

Alessio

“Nazio is dead?” Dominguez repeats. “I’m so fucking sorry. Shit.”

I sit in the passenger seat of his car, still covered in sweat from when he picked me up after the attack. Everything feels numb.

“What are you going to do?”

I’ve been thinking about that. By this point, Gonzalez will have been informed that I escaped. Which means he’s unlikely to be at his home, or anywhere I can hit him easily. He’ll be at a safe house, possibly even out of state.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t do damage where it hurts.

I check my pistol’s ammunition, then remember that in the blur of the attack, I didn’t even have a chance to fire it.

I’ll have a chance this time.

My hands are steady as I push the magazine back into the gun. “I’m going to send a message.”

***

“You ready for this?” Dominguez asks, slowing down as we approach the nightclub.

I tie my black bandanna around my face. “Last chance to back out. You know you don’t have to do this.”

He snorts. “Yes I do. Shut the fuck up.”

Club XX. Anthony Gonzalez’s main “legitimate” business, and also how he launders his money. If I create problems for him here, he’ll notice. Dominguez pulls over and I get out.

It’s evening. A long line of people goes down the street, all of them waiting to get in. Men wearing their douchey best, women in skimpy dresses. I go right up to the front, where the thick-necked bouncer is denying a group of fratty-looking dudes entry.

I recognize him. It’s Rocco Scalia, one of Gonzalez’s top enforcers. He gets in my face as I reach him, aggressively blocking my path. “Back of the line, fucko! What do you think you’re doing?”

Drawing my pistol, I shoot him in the forehead. Behind me, people scream and start running. I make my way into the club, firing my gun in the air over the cacophony of pulsing music.Têxt belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

Now people inside the club are starting to scream. The dance floor empties, and I see staff sprinting for the back. I let them go unharmed. I’m not here for them.

Between the bar and the dance floor is Club XX’s most famous feature: an enormous, gaudy representation of downtown Bover City, made entirely of glass. The biggest skyscrapers stand as tall as I do, an impressive and expensive display of craftsmanship.

Not for long.

Grabbing a chair from the bar, I hurl it into the glass city. Shards fly everywhere, and I cover my face as a tower collapses intosmashed pieces. I pick up the chair again, and once more, glass shatters.

I don’t stop until the whole thing lies in shimmering fragments on the ground.

Everyone has cleared out of the club now. It’s time for me to leave as well, before the cops show up. I empty the rest of my ammo into the shelf behind the bar, savoring the sound of expensive bottles bursting and draining onto the floor.

Then I dash outside, hop into Dominguez’s passenger seat, and a minute later, we’re blocks away. A line of police cars pass us, their sirens blaring.