Silent Echoes

by Aleisha Maree

  “What,” I bark into the phone.

  “Meeting, Now,” Ian bites out.

  “For fuck’s sake! Really?” I question him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Micha,” he says back and my hand grips the steering wheel of my car, my knuckles white.

  “Well, no. But I am fucking busy,” I snap back at him.

  “I don’t fucking care. I own you,” he says and that instantly gets the hairs on my spine up. No one fucking owns me. I will bring this fuckhead to his knees. I don’t care what my grandfather says, I will cut his dick off and feed it to him.

  “Fuck you,” I grit out, hanging up and stuffing my phone into my jean pocket. I steal one last glance at Layla before pulling out into the street.

  ***

  The street is oddly quiet as I drive toward the strip club where Ian, the sick fuck, holds his meetings. It’s either here or the flower shop with the old man present. I prefer the flower shop, that means it’s something the old boy has ordered not some ‘let’s cause a ruckus because we can’ shit that Ian pulls. I hate walking in here, especially through the front. Seeing those women with blank stares and empty hearts so high they no longer know their own names bothers me. Taking the back entrance, I pull my car next to the king’s overly priced Audi. It’s customized with our family colors and crest. Showboating never appealed to me, makes me feel sick. I feel the bile rise inside my stomach hitting the back of my throat.

  You, Ian Ragen, are a sick, greedy man who will meet my bullet one day.

  “Finally, you decide to join us,” his slithering voice sounds out.

  “You need to learn to watch your fucking mouth,” he says to me, taking a drag on his smoke. My eyes scan the room. The normal two-man ball-sack team that lick his asshole daily are there.

  “Well, you also need to realize that I have other jobs and that I owe you fucking nothing. I am out fixing all your current fuck ups,” I grit out, pulling the seat out from the table and positioning myself the furthest away from them at the table.

  I clench my jaw as he starts to laugh and his minions follow suit. God, men like that annoy me as they are just sheep.

  “You’re lucky I like you, Micha, and respect our grandfather.” Flicking the ash from the tip of his smoke my eyes meet his.

  “I’m lucky. HA,” I slightly laugh out at this fool.

  “You’re the fucking lucky one Ian and respecting the old man, you sure have a funny way of showing it. Now, what do you want?”

  Shaking his head, the other two smack each other in the chest with the backs of their hands.

  “The boldness of this rookie,” one says.

  “Yeah, thinks he’s Mafia royalty,” the other laughs out loud looking at me.

  I lean forward on my knees and pull my Ruger from the inside of my jacket pocket.

  Pointing it right at him, “I am Mafia royalty, fucker,” popping a bullet right inside his kneecap he screams out in pain as the sound echoes around the room and blood starts to drip from where the bullet shot straight through the kneecap it was so clean it was almost unsettling. I watch it pool on the floor; the beast inside pacing wanting more, so much more.

  The way he screams out in pain as the burning feeling rippled through his flesh gets me high. The sweet sound as the blood began to ebb and flow from the wound. I like the sound of blood, I like the smell of it, I like how it drips - each drop so magnificent, so unique looking for a destination to ebb and flow into. But it’s the splatter of blood that intrigues me the most, especially when a gun is involved. The blood basically runs and flows trespassing on anybody and everything that comes close and in contact with it. It will go to anywhere and touch anyone. Marking you, tainting you, yet beautiful in a deep sinful and permanent way.

  When a knife is involved though, it’s like violent whitewater rapids. It’s fast, it gushes out like a flood of broken water. Like anger, especially when a major artery is severed at the neck. That is my favorite site.

  I love to watch the blood gush around men as the glaze of death frosts over inside their eyes, creeping from the edges as they gurgle and splutter on blood as its ebbs from their body painting a crimson portrait of sweet beautiful death.

  My head cocks to the side as fuck boy number one’s mate grabs his gun pointing it toward me. My eyes narrow at him as anger ripples through me as the beast paces, scratching, clawing for release while I’m pointing my Ruger towards his cock.

  “You ever wanna fuck again I would reconsider pointing that at me,” my eyes meet his, annoyed that he pulled my eyes from the masterpiece that is the blood pooling into a congealing portrait on the grey carpet.

  He pulls back his gun, his hands up in the air as clapping sounds out behind me. Spinning around my eyes meet them of my enemy.

  “Gentlemen, Gentlemen no need to stain the carpet is there?” His sick voice fills the now too small room as my eyes meet Ian’s. Shaking my head at him he knows, he fucking knows that he’s walking a thin fucking line between breathing and dying right here, right now.

  “Boss man,” Ian says, nodding his head toward me. “Sorry about that. His temper needs to be checked. He’s a bit wild.” Ian stands as Damon, the sleaze, stalks into the room with two men flanking him.

  “You may want to deal with that. A trigger-happy man is a dangerous man,” Damon says taking out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping some blood splatter from the empty chair. He then takes a seat, crosses his legs and places his hands with his fingers linked around his knee. The monkey that I just shot eyes me with a death glare, sweat running down his pale face. “Shouldn’t have spoken out of turn, fucker. You’re lucky it was ya knee and not ya head,” I seethe out.

  “Damon, I don’t believe that you’ve met my cousin, Micha,” Ian says as he leans over the table passing Damon a glass of whiskey and ice. My eyes dart between the two and my mind runs trying to work out what the fuck is going on here. Why is he giving him drinks? What the fuck was that boss man comment? How am I even still sitting here amongst the scum?

  “No, not formally, but I know of him, yes,” Damon says as my eyes examine his. The longer I look into his eyes the more that day haunts me. I see it roll out like an overplayed black and white film at a drive-in because for each and every night since I was 12, I have replayed it.

  He offers me his hand and I scoff at his advance.

  “You have no fucking clue who I am, and I indeed know you more than you could ever fucking think,” I bite out while placing my Ruger on my knee, pointing it right at his chest and leaning back in my chair. My eyes meet Ian’s as Damon’s men pull their weapons.

  “What I want to know is why the fuck are you here and why does it involve me being in his presence?”

  Regardless of my vendetta with Damon our families have been at war for years. Centuries when you really think back to the old days. The Gallo’s and the Ragen’s/Walsh’s, unbeknownst to him, have had a long war. It’s been battled out for years even before my dick bag cousin and I were born. We all have battled and fought each other in bloodlust. Pure and utter mayhem came from us and them. In return, most say that we have no limits. That we don’t hesitate to shoot anyone. We don’t, and I never have. I will shoot you if I can’t get close enough to slit your throat because that there along with my riddles is my calling card. A lot like my grandfather’s flowers and his father’s deli delivery. His father before him was wine, the father before that was cheese. We all have had a thing, and this is mine.

  We are feared. Well, I am at least, Ian not so much. He’s a waste of oxygen. Aunty should have swallowed him.

  The Ragen and Walsh are ItalianIrish, and Damon comes from Irish blood, just straight Irish, and has wanted the power that both our clans possess. Hence the bloodshed of my family and my now number one priority to torture and kill all that he has.

  Our main priority has always been family and love. Theirs has always been wealth, power and greed. Killing for the sake of killi
ng.

  And because of that, our families have never gotten along.

  I remember my father telling me his Grandfather my Great-grandfather told him stories about them when he was young, then my father’s father told me the same stories. All I really know is that years ago before I was born, Jonny Ragen, the Great-grandfather of my family, fell in love. He fell in love with a member of my Mother’s family, the Irish princess Rosie Gallo. Her family put a hit out on them, but my family kept them safe sending them to the Walsh’s in Italy. They rose to the top over there and returned the most powerful and the most talked about love story in Mafia history.

  They were not innocent, though. They had a lot of blood on their hands and shed a lot on their return. But neither are the Gallo’s. They have shed a lot of blood over the years and tried to muscle in on a lot of business that they shouldn’t have. I know as I’ve been watching. Shady deals and meetings with different gangs trying to re-claim power and the streets. Not happening on my watch. This is why my grandfather has me as his right-hand man.

  My grandfather has tried to find some kind of peace with them. That was before Damon and his crew hit and killed my father and brother. That was, and now it’s just a bubbling feeling of distrust. Now, from what I see sitting here with Ian, a whole lot more of dishonor.

  I have been given the seal of approval to start a new war, one Damon had no clue was coming until a few weeks ago. He still hasn’t fully figured it out. It’s slowly hitting him though. The riddles, the way I kill, but one thing is he has no clue why or that it’s even me, the man sitting across from him in a room. He doesn’t realize that I could kill them all before anyone even got a shot near me.

  “We need to discuss business,” Damon says, pulling me from my mental recap of our family’s pasts.

  “We don’t have any business with you,” I say, my eyes meeting his clenching my jaw.

  “Oh yes, Micha, but we do.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. None at all.

  “Ha, really? What fucking business then?” My eyes turn to Ian. He’s sitting back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks pleased with himself and it takes a lot for me to not hit an SOS to Jimmy and have him roll in here and set fire to this shit pit and run Ian right out.

  “My men are dying right in front of me. Killed by the Riddler and his knife, while he leaves riddles for me to break.” I conceal my smile behind my hand as I pretend to cough. Calling on my best poker face here, I think why the fuck is Ian even meeting with him? He knows I work with riddles, so does our grandfather. He knows I slice before I shoot. And he knows that Damon is a piece of shit who deserves a slow and painful death.

  Biting the inside of my lip, I think this better not be a setup from my scorned cousin. I know that he has just been told he will only have this club from here on out. No more family business. No more family meetings. No more family power.

  “And?” I say pulling a cigarette from my pack inside my jacket, lighting it while my eyes never leave Ian’s.

  Directing my question more to Ian than Damon because out of all the men, well I should say boys in this room, he’s the one I want to hear speak, but he seems to have been struck mute all of a sudden.

  “This, I don’t take too lightly. Particularly as they are my family and doing their job keeping me safe. I also don’t like threats to my life and find that concerning.”

  “Why do you think they are getting killed and the Riddler is seeking you out, Boss man?” Finally, Ian opens his fucking mouth. He’s found his voice.

  “I’m all about helping wipe scum from the earth, but these men are my men and well, how should I word it as to not offend you and your scum.” He leans forward, placing his cup on the floor in front of his feet cracking out his knuckles. My finger twitches on the trigger.

  “Scum? But you’re here seeking fuck knows what, and call us scum,” I say to him as I lean forward blowing smoke in his direction.

  “I said I didn’t mean to offend, but we all know it’s a fact,” he smirks out.

  “No offence taken, Boss man. Right, Micha?” Ian raises his eyebrow at me, his eyes narrowing in warning. “Get fucked, cunt,” I mouth to him.

  “Yes, well it seems that Micha here can’t handle the truth and the truth hurts.”

  Is he for real?

  “You know what I know, Damon? The only scum I see here is you.” I point my finger at him.

  “And you,” I say, pointing my finger at his two monkeys before turning on my cousin and his goons.

  “And you,” I seethe. I’m past reason now as my leg begins to shake in annoyance.

  “This here, this scum that you’re pointing to is my family,” the venom in his voice is toxic. He thinks that the truth hurts me, well I just hit a nerve - the soulless prick actually feels. He’s scared, he’s panicking, and I have him just where I need him, living with fear that the Riddler is bringing the sandman.

  Death is coming.

  “Family! You wouldn’t even understand what the fucking word means and here you are calling us scum. Inside our club. In our part of town, on our streets.

  You’re a boss of Gallo, yet you seek out a Ragen for help.” My tone is starting to ice over, this conversation starting to wear thin on my patience. I got called away from actually watching a beautiful creature move around in a world that’s too sick for such stellar perfection.

  “You and your family are nothing but scum, coming here, taking over like you did,” he spits out, my statement hitting his nerves again. He’s beginning to sweat. Ian thought that I would roll over on family to help this fucking piece of shit! Not likely.

  His statement though is somewhat true. They were here first. Our family migrated back in the early fifties but muscle and more money buy power. So, our business was the source for everyone, especially those that had been dealing with the Gallo family. We made better business deals, carried out our affairs more ruthlessly, but also with love, respect and agreement. Plain and simple. Our money wasn’t clean; it never has been. Our money was made from drugs, hits, underground fighting and guns. Fuck, before my grandfather took over there was even a bit of trafficking and black-market shit going on. A lot of our power was thanks to Rosie and Rene Ragen.

  “It’s like you think you’re speaking to someone who’s not in power here, Damon. It’s like you think you’re the only boss here. You should really pull back because I don’t take to name-calling and threats lightly.” I take another cigarette from my packet, roll my brother’s zippo over my knee and watch as Damon’s eyes move to the movement. They follow the lighter as I bring it up to light the tip of my cigarette.

  “Threats, Micha? I haven’t threatened you yet,” he says winking at me before placing his fingers into his glass on the floor, flicking a piece of ice into his mouth and biting down.

  Standing up from my chair, my footsteps move closer. His eyes go to my feet. I pause, and he shuts his mouth.

  “You’re not talking to some bum boy for the Mafia, some punk who will bow down to you or your men. No, Damon, you’re talking to Micha fucking Ragen and you don’t get to speak to me like that.” His eyes move from my feet to my eyes, his mouth opens, and he tisks me.

  “Don’t you fucking push too hard, Boss man,” I hear Ian say behind me.

  “He will kill you in the heat of the moment, his temper is not something I can control. Fuck he can’t even control it.” Ian walks around the side of me stopping next to me.

  “I told you not to piss him off because it will make it harder to get him to work for you.” My head snaps to Ian as my hand fly’s out for Damon’s throat.

  “I didn’t come here to fight or make more enemies. I wanted to seek out information and form an alliance against a war that’s already brewing,” Damon tries to push out through my vice grip on his throat. I could crush his oesophagus right here, right now and put an end to all this bullshit.

  “If it comes to a war,
I won’t lose, you know this. And as to not making enemies, I think you forget we already are,” I say squeezing tighter as his men’s gun’s train on me. They step in that little bit closer and Damon’s hands go up stopping them.

  “This is why I need you and your men,” he coughs out trying to get air into his lungs moving his head back and forward. “You’re not my only enemies it seems. I have made one with the notorious Riddler.” He tries hard to get out through the pressure. As his face is going red, I let the pressure off slightly.

  “You forgot to think. We are at war with you, you scum bag piece of shit,” I seethe into his face pulling him in closer. He didn’t care when he slit my father’s throat and now that I am this close to him, to the one man that fucking destroyed my life, I am allowing my emotions to get the better of me. The sobs from my mother and the gurgling sounds of my father play inside my mind.

  “Just because you have no morals, and the fucking scum bag name of Ragen, does not mean you will win,” one of his dick bag men say to me. My eyes snap to his, and he steps back slightly under the weight of my stare as my Ruger moves to his face.

  “Wanna look like him?” I question him.

  “If you do, keep fucking talking out of place. Little wannabe gangsters like you know shit,” I bite out.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Ian says pulling on my arm.

  “Let go of him, he’s paying good money for our alliance, and we will do it. You will do it,” he says to me like he’s the boss and can dish out orders.

  “Like fuck, bum boy. You ain’t shit. You’re fucking crossing a line, Ian,” my voice is deadly as I squeeze his throat just a little tighter until his beady eyes bulge and his lips start to turn a shade of purple-grey.

  “Oh, but, Micha, you will,” he struggles to get out as all the air leaves his lungs.

  “I’m fucking leaving,” I say as I drop my hand from his throat. He sucks in air pushing past his goon squad. Just as I get through the door, I hear Ian’s voice.