Page 89 of Sweet Prison
Holding my gun at the ready, I step out from the cover the wreck provided me and meander past the fallen Camorra soldiers. Halfway to the office trailer, I spot Efisio. He’s slumped on the ground, head bent forward, hand trying to stanch the blood flow from a gaping wound in his chest.
I approach and crouch in front of him. “That was stupid.”
The old man laughs, spraying blood from his mouth. “Damn shame I won’t be around to witness the finale.”
“What the fuck are you yammering about?”
Efisio laughs again, but this time breaks into a coughing fit, spitting out more blood. The stream of it flows down his chin. “So friggin’ long in the making. Almost twenty years. I think he’s gonna make you beg. On your knees. And I’ll miss it. Pissah, ain’t it?”
The fuck?!
I grab his blood-soaked shirtfront and snarl into his face. “Who? Give me his name!”
A choking sound leaves Efisio’s lips. I lean forward, trying to catch the words.
“I wonder”—he pants, his voice barely audible—“what will feel worse: the bullet he’ll put in your head or… his betrayal?”
“Name!” I roar, shaking the son of a bitch.
A small smile forms on Efisio’s lips, and then his eyes roll back. Cursing, I straighten and point my gun between his vacant eyes.
“A man who can make me kneel before him hasn’t yet been born, Efisio,” I bark and pull the trigger.
***
“Peppe, I have to make a detour,” I say into the phone while turning toward the hustle and bustle of Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. “Make sure the remnants of Efisio’s clan know that their situation has changed and that I expect them to be gone within the week.”
Cutting the call, I slow the hell down and cruise along the swanky street lined on both sides with stores, hotels, restaurants, and every other imaginable establishment steeped in an abundance of elegance and charm. The bulk of the architecture consists of old Victorian mansions, but several modern buildings are tucked in amid the lot. Numerous big names grace the storefronts, their window displays beckon shoppers with the latest fashion trends. I dismiss those immediately as too big and imposing. I’m after something else. Something intimate, inviting, and unique.
This location is ideal, and I find exactly what I need about halfway down the stretch. An old five-story brick building with a couple of good-sized windows on the ground floor and lots of greenery around the arched entrance. It’s quaint yet tasteful. Perfect.
Lady Luck must be smiling at me because a car pulls away from the curb right out front, so I scoot my Jag into an empty parking spot and head inside the boutique occupying the lower level. Based on the sign over the door that boasts of impeccable handmade quality and trendy designer styles, the place specializes in haute couture bags and purses.
The older lady behind the counter looks up, her eyes going wide upon seeing me. Obviously, I don’t look like one of her usual customers.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
I take a look around, noticing intricately carved, tall wooden shelves. Zahara is going to love them. “I need to speak with the owner or the manager.”
“What’s this about?”
Reaching inside my jacket, I take out my checkbook and place it on the counter in front of granny. She narrows her eyes at it as if I produced crayons and a coloring book. “I need to know who owns this place because I’m buying it.”
“We do.” A man who looks to be north of eighty comes out of the back room and stands next to the woman. Her husband, I assume. “And it’s not for sale.”
I nod and grab a pen from the cup next to the ancient-looking cash register. “Tell you what… This is how it’s going to go down. Based on the size of the space and the location, I’d say this place is worth around four or five mill.” I write the amount of five million on the check. “I’ll triple it,” I say while adding “one” at the start of the number, “and you make sure your stuff is out of here by the end of the day. Does that work for you?”
The elderly couple blinks in unison, then, both of them look down, staring at the check I’ve turned toward them. I wait for them to say something, but they just keep gawking at the digits.Are they counting the zeros? Seeing this sort of reaction to a personally written check is the only reason I still like using the blasted things instead of the Black Amex in my wallet.
“Hey!” I snap my fingers in front of their faces. “Time’s ticking, so you better start packing up your shit. I’ll have my lawyer drop by in an hour to arrange the paperwork.”
“Sir, I…” gramps starts to mumble. “I don’t…”
I sigh. Reaching inside my jacket again, I pull out my gun, setting it on the counter right next to the check. “Funeral? Or fifteen million?”
A small gasp leaves the woman’s lips before she slams her hands over her mouth. The man just continues to stare slack-jawed at my gun, his face slowly turning a greenish hue.
“Tough choice, I know. The check is real, if you’re wondering, and offers slightly better retirement benefits, don’t you agree?”