2
Damon
Dressed in a stylish black suit, with one hand on the wheel of my Ford Mustang and a gorgeous blonde escort beside me, I supposed that I really looked like a living, breathing Florida cliché. On my left were the sandy beaches, bikini babes and surfer’s waves that made Miami such a draw to people from all over the world, and on my right, just past the blonde locks and blue eyes that kept flicking my way suggestively, there was the city. It seemed to be bulging with possibilities, whether for law-abiding citizens or for a guy on the wrong side of the tracks.
A guy like me.
A guy who killed for a living.
The escort looked at me again, batting her eyelashes. “Ever had a BJ while you’re on the road?” she asked.
I glanced over at her as she waited for a response with an arched brow. “No,” I replied. That wasn’t true, but I didn’t want her to think I had any interest in her doing it.
My associates in the Caruso mafia family would likely think of me as crazy for not reveling in such a moment and failing to take advantage of the escort girl’s willingness to blow me right here in the car as I drove, but she was nothing but a cover for me, and there was other business at hand before I could even think about getting my dick wet tonight.
At least that’s what I was telling myself for now.
I guess the truth was that I wanted none of it. Not only this, but I was beyond caring how much of an oddball my alternative lifestyle choice would make me appear to those I had spent years amongst, building up a reputation that was respected and valued. My reputation had been crucial in keeping me alive, considering that I’d started out working for a rival crew and, if judged to be expendable, would’ve been shot in the back of the head and dumped in an alligator-infested swamp without so much as a second thought. Without my reputation, I wouldn’t even have been important enough for wise guys to shrug and say ‘What are you gonna do?’ as they did when circumstance meant having to take out someone notable. I was completely subject to requirements and yet the Caruso’s had kept me, employed me and now valued me as integral to their operations.
But not as one of their own.
Never as one of their own.
The mafia was an entity born from the soil of exclusivity, but they were nothing if not pragmatic, and my skills and principles didn’t go unnoticed…even though my trigger finger had been responsible for taking out some of their own in the past.
They probably thought me proud of this perverse achievement, but I couldn’t care less how much others might envy my position and abilities. I wanted out of this mafia shit. I didn’t want the blonde, or the Mustang, or anything of the city on my right at all; I was even getting a little fed up of the gangland tattoos on my neck that kept flashing into view whenever I glanced up at my rear view mirror, as if they were somehow a product of the same existence.
I wanted out.
If only life was actually that simple.
I couldn’t claim to have been a victim of mob manipulation when picking up a gun in the first place—I’d become a contract killer for the money after a shitty childhood that demanded I grow up quickly to survive. Back then, it seemed that playing an aggressive role was the best way of existing, even if I hated the world for giving me no other option but a choice of differing immoralities. I’d grown older and wiser since then, however, and would choose something else if I could, but my story was just another example of being inescapably tied up in the mafia’s infamous web.
Something of a cliché, without a doubt. All the books and all the films depict it so, but I’d yet to find any proof to declare it as a construct. The mafia owned me; an ownership solidified by the consequences of daring any other choice.
Back when I’d fallen into their clutches—when my activities as a contract killer for another gang that met with a naïve bloody end had transpired—I’d fully expected to join my employers in whatever afterlife was waiting. Indeed, my initial response to the mafia’s shocking offer of recruitment was disinterest. I’d given in; was sick of the killing by then. Let nature take its course and take me out of the game as well, I’d thought. I was sick of playing it and stained by the blood on my hands, and if another route was possible then I would’ve taken it, but I was too proud to work for the enemy and didn’t even move when they endeavored to blackmail me with my life.
My skill as a hitman must have really impressed to cause them to persist even then, but somehow the mafia were adept at not taking their problems too personally unless there was some kind of disrespect involved. I hadn’t disrespected them. All I’d done was kill a few members of theirs, and that was neither here nor there. They wanted me on their side, respected the fact that my involvement was professional rather than personal and even admired me.
None of that added up to a flexible outlook on my prospects, however. They were used to getting what they wanted and finally had me cornered into doing their bidding, using the only person I loved against me.
My sister, Felicia.
It’d been made clear to me that if I refused to work with them, she’d be the next one on their list. I couldn’t say no to that; couldn’t let my innocent sister become another victim in all this shit.
So that’s why I was on the way to town with a loaded weapon, poised to pull the same trigger that had once been aimed my employer’s way.
The Carusos treated me well, and I’d even made genuine friends within the organization as a result of working for them, but that was scant consolation. I wanted freedom—real freedom—more than ever, and I permitted myself a lingering stare out towards the blue body of the Atlantic and the many sails that were visible dancing on the waves. It was a strange twist of fate that I’d discovered a hobby I loved while being tied to the tunnel-vision of mob existence, but my oddball idea belonged out there at sea and I didn’t care that my associates would consider it to be a stupid pipe dream. Quite the opposite. I was proud of the fact that, after a lifetime surrounded by dirty misdeeds, I still had it in me to envision a better life elsewhere.
If only there was a real way to make it happen.
That seemed unlikely, however; not with hostility growing again between the rival gangs and matters set to become bloodier than ever. This time, the reason for the feud was the escalation of the cocaine battles. The main issue was controlling its distribution, and that could be difficult when every second member of every single gang was high on the stuff most of the time. I didn’t bother with snorting blow myself, but controlling the profit from its distribution was a highly fought over privilege, and so cocaine was due to direct my activities for some days to come.
Or years.
Rather than being able to dawdle over my yearning to be out on the open ocean, I was heading into the city to observe my next target at some shitty nightclub called Tantra; a place frequented by yuppies, sleazebags and attention whores. My target was a rather nasty guy from a rival crew by the name of Batista, and his behavior towards our own crew had become increasingly aggressive over recent months.
That meant he needed to be taken out.
My task for the evening was likely to observe him only, sizing him and his fellow heavies up for the counterattack that would likely result in his brains being splattered over the road somewhere later on. The feud had already escalated to a point almost certainly beyond mutual compromise. This Batista had kidnapped, tortured and brutally murdered family members of my boss’s closest friend. As pragmatic as the Caruso bosses had proven in my case, the decision to use torture as an attempt to intimidate the mob meant that no such courtesy would be offered to Batista, unless bizarre events elsewhere led to some tactful deal. That was not unheard of, but didn’t seem likely to me. This rival cartel was getting high on itself and enjoying the power and notoriety as much as the profit. My investigation was the precursor to receiving the final instruction, and I was sure that would come soon. So far I’d received only a cautious request to take the problem out if necessary and possible, but I’d always preferred to complete my work at the earliest stage rather than waiting for my employers to get desperate and call for something a little more gung-ho.
I usually worked alone, but this night required fitting in with the usual club-goers at Tantra, and so the escort girl provided a convenient cover. I’d told her that was all it was, though for some reason it didn’t seem to hold her back from making ‘fuck me’ eyes at me. It confused me as to why a woman in her line of work—who probably had enough of the physical stuff going on in her life—appeared so willing to please, but it would probably prove to be a benefit for appearing authentic once we were inside the club, because I’d look like a regular douchebag clubber showing off my girl rather than a hitman there to send a message about who was going to be Florida’s next cocaine lord.
There was a long queue outside the club when we got there, but I’d done my research and knew exactly which name to give at the door to bypass having to stand around. A good hitman learned to plan ahead and accomplish every motion with as much ease as possible. Waiting around outside would have achieved nothing, but once inside I could get my bearings and observe, weighing up the opportunities so that, if a scenario as subtle as it was shrewd transpired, I could bring an end to the Batista problem there and then. Otherwise I would take what information I could and set a new approach to take him out at a later date.
The club was pumping, and it was an easy place to blend in. Batista wouldn’t be seen dead in anything but the coolest surroundings, though ironically that made him so much easier to get to. Guys like me knew that the best way to play out notoriety was discreetly and behind closed doors, rather than by rubbing it in everyone’s face like this new fish was doing. He might be feared for his actions, but all kinds of fates—whether from rival gangs or the cops—were awaiting him, and one of them would prove decisive sooner or later. It just so happened that I was the likeliest to be the one to step out, pull the trigger and blow his brains out.
On arrival at the bar, where the escort girl and I sat for a good central vantage point, I found that I didn’t even get to the end of making our first order before being able to spot where my target was positioned. Some criminals with reputations proved surprising upon meeting them, coming across as more down-to-earth than their infamy suggests, but Batista was every bit as I had pictured—a loud and egotistical presence who had chosen the largest seating area overlooking the dance floor, where he’d surrounded himself by five heavies and scores of beautiful women draping themselves all around, or else coming to and from the dancefloor and bar in a state of animated excitement, no doubt because of the quantity of drugs his crew had plied them with.
Somehow the tattoo-covered beast, whose etchings made my own look like kids play, succeeded in looking a picture of fury and contentment at the same time. I found it difficult to imagine those lips ever forming into a smile, and yet I knew the man was reveling in his position, surrounded by minions and amusements committed to obeying his every demand. Batista hardly sat still, standing up and waving his arms whenever someone nearby needed another drink as if his underlings should have been reading his mind and were in the process of doing so anyway.
In spite of this, I could tell that the asshole was far too content upon his makeshift throne to be suddenly moving into convenient proximity for a swift and brutal end. The chance of a sudden conclusion to proceedings looked dim, so I ordered more drinks and passed the time by chatting with the escort.
“You know, I can tie a cherry stem into a bow with my tongue,” she said, leaning forward and grabbing a cherry from her cocktail glass.
“Really?” I replied, feigning interest even though I couldn’t care less about her thinly-veiled attempt at bragging about her oral sex skills.
She nodded, batting her heavily-mascaraed eyelashes and pouting her lips at me; lips that had clearly had too much filler injected into them. “Uh-huh. Wanna see?” she said, practically purring the words.
“Sure.”
There was little else to do than pretend to flirt with her, and she was still giving me those ‘fuck me’ eyes, so I let her list a few reasons as to why I should let her seduce me, all the while keeping a subtle eye on my target. Experience had taught me that this was best achieved by believing my own disinterest. Batista didn’t become a real target until he was in position, and the worst thing to do was to allow desperation or impatience to enter the equation. Either the moment would come or it wouldn’t—and if not, I wasn’t the type to worry.
Surrounded by his crew as he was, Batista was easy enough to keep an eye on anyway. The worst detective in the world could’ve done so without straining. Unusually, however, I allowed myself to become distracted in the process.
There were plenty of hot women in the club, dressed in the tiniest little tops and skirts, but that wasn’t what distracted me. There was a girl walking across the room, and the second I locked eyes with her, I knew she was different; totally unlike the other girls who frequented clubs like Tantra. Those other girls almost always had fake tits, tattoos, overly-processed hair and more makeup than the country could ship in, but this girl was the opposite of that. She was something special. She had smooth skin unblemished by tattoos or piercings, and her wide dark eyes seemed to radiate a sense of purity.
As I stared at her, she gave me a shy smile and then looked away, and suddenly I felt it—a skipped beat in my heart, a burst of heated energy in my groin, a jolt of energy. She was the sexiest girl I’d ever laid eyes on, and judging by the picture of innocence that her face was, she had no idea how gorgeous she was.
Many men of particular tastes might ask me why I was staring at her when I had a leggy blonde sitting beside me who was practically begging me to fuck her, but there was just something about this petite brunette that made it impossible to tear my eyes away from her. It wasn’t just how she looked. There was an out of place quality about her, and I wanted to know who she was and why she was in a seedy place like this. I wanted to know everything about her.
It was too bad I was here on business, so I couldn’t go over and strike up a conversation. But that was okay. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know why, but something told me this wouldn’t be the last time I laid eyes on this girl. I’d see her again.
I just knew it.