"Ciao, caro fratello," Aurelio drawled, leaning against my doorframe. My most annoying brother, by a considerable margin. Of my three brothers and one considerably younger, and considerably meaner, sister, he held the undoubted title. (hi, dear brother)
"Get out," I snapped, my irritation a palpable force. "Before I put a bullet in your head."
Aurelio smirked. "Oh, come on, you're joking, right?"
"He's not," Nicolò, my best friend and second-in-command, added from the shadows.
Aurelio's smirk faltered slightly. "Hah. Funny."
Nicolò's expression turned serious. "Got a call. The weapons shipment arrived. They want us to meet them… with cash."
My temper flared. "What?! Didn't we just send the payment?!"
"They said it was only a down payment," Nicolò explained, his tone tight.
"Those bastards," I muttered, grabbing my blazer and heading for the car. The adrenaline was already pumping. This was a blatant attempt at a shakedown.
I slammed the car door shut. "Call Mike," I instructed, trying to regain control. "Tell him to bring the money these vultures want. And tell him to bring backup." My gut churned with a premonition of trouble. This wasn't just about the money; it was about respect, about sending a message that we weren't to be trifled with.
Nicolò was already on the phone, his voice low and efficient. The engine roared to life, cutting through the tense silence.
"Before we go," Nicolò said, his voice barely audible over the engine, "coffee? Please?" His plea was laced with desperation.
I sighed, the tension momentarily easing. "Fine," I conceded, knowing the delay would only add to the already simmering tension. "But make it quick." He slightly demanded, as I as long need my coffee to ease my mind. A sharp mind was more valuable than prompt arrival in this situation.
We pulled up to the nearest café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee a stark contrast to the bitter taste of betrayal that lingered in my mouth. This wasn't just a business deal gone wrong; it was a personal affront. And I intended to make them pay for it.
_____
"Uhm, A… can you buy me coffee?" Nicolò blurted as I parked. The audacity. This guy, after everything.
"You're getting awfully demanding," I said, my irritation simmering.
"Oh, come on, I'm tired," he whined, like a spoiled child.
"And you think I'm not?!" I retorted, my patience wearing thin.
"Come on, mate. Just this once," he pleaded.
"Ask one more time, and I'll pretend we never grew up together," I threatened, my voice tight with annoyance.
I ordered at the counter – two "Asshole's Coffees," a wry joke considering the circumstances – and as I exited, I collided with someone.
"Do you have eyes, signorina?" I snapped, my irritation flaring. Then I saw her. Wow. Stunning. Absolutely breathtaking. Her curves… My gaze lingered, captivated, before I finally managed to tear myself away from the sight of her cleavage.
She snapped, "Eyes up here, signor." Her voice was husky, sultry, utterly captivating. She placed a hand on her hip, accentuating the… assets I'd been admiring. "And keep them there. Don't you dare look at my babies like that."
"Babies?" I questioned, genuinely amused. "You named your breasts?"
"That's none of your concern," she retorted, her cheeks flushed. "And my apologies for the… collision." She turned and disappeared into the café before I could respond.
Well, that was… unexpected.
I returned to the car, handing Nicolò his almost-spilled coffee.
"That was quite a scene," he observed, a smirk playing on his lips.
"It was nothing," I mumbled, trying to play it cool.
"Well, that doesn't change the fact you were checking her out," he chuckled.
"Shut up," I snapped, my cheeks burning.
"Ares's got a crush!" he sang, his voice dripping with amusement.
"Fucking five-year-old," I muttered under my breath as I drove away, a strange mixture of annoyance and intrigue swirling within me. The encounter left me both flustered and strangely exhilarated. That woman… I needed to see her again.
________
As we drive, the bitter taste of the coffee mirrored the bitter taste of betrayal that lingered in my mouth. Nicolò, usually a whirlwind of energy, was unusually quiet, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. The air crackled with unspoken anxieties.
We arrived at the designated meeting point – a deserted warehouse on the outskirts of town – fifteen minutes later. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and decay, a fitting backdrop for the impending confrontation. Mike arrived shortly after, his face grim, a duffel bag heavy with cash clutched in his hand. He'd brought backup – two burly men, their faces impassive, hands resting near the holsters at their hips.
The warehouse doors creaked open, revealing three figures silhouetted against the dim interior. The leader, a man named Sal Demarco, stepped forward, his eyes cold and calculating. He was flanked by two equally menacing henchmen.
"You're late," Demarco said, his voice a low growl. He gestured towards the duffel bag. "And you're short."
My hand instinctively went to the pistol holstered at my waist. "We paid what we agreed upon," I countered, my voice steady despite the tremor in my gut. "This is extortion."
Demarco laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Extortion? Let's just say… unforeseen circumstances arose. We need more."
Nicolò stepped forward, his hand resting on the butt of his own weapon. "We're not paying a dime more," he stated firmly. "We've already been more than generous."
The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Demarco's eyes narrowed, assessing the situation. He saw the resolve in our eyes, the steel in our spines. He'd underestimated us.
Suddenly, a shot rang out. Chaos erupted. The warehouse became a whirlwind of gunfire and shouts. Mike's backup engaged Demarco's men, a furious ballet of bullets and desperate maneuvers. Nicolò and I returned fire, our shots precise and deadly.
The fight was short, brutal, and decisive. Demarco and his men were outmatched, their bravado replaced by panicked desperation. When the smoke cleared, three figures lay sprawled on the concrete floor, their lives extinguished. The warehouse echoed with the silence of victory, a silence punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the survivors.
We left the warehouse without another word, leaving the bodies for the authorities. The victory was hard-won, but it was a victory nonetheless. The message was sent: We were not to be trifled with. The cost of underestimating us was far too high.
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A/N
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