The Game Changer

by Scott Hildreth

  I stood, folded my arms in front of my chest, and let out a sigh. “I asked you to—”

  “Sit.” He pointed to the stool. “I’ll listen.”

  I sat, regretting I had started the conversation, but knew there was no way I could escape the truth. Not now.

  “I met him in a coffee shop. You asked me about him a month or so ago, and I didn’t tell you the truth—”

  “I’m your father. You should always tell me the truth. Since you were small, I have told you and your brother. Always tell the truth.”

  He was one to talk. The man who evaded the truth more than any politician in the history of the world. The godfather of the mob who swore there was no mob.

  “It’s not easy with you.”

  His eyes went wide. “Why?”

  I shot him a surprised look. “Really? I feel like I’m being interrogated. All I want to do is tell you about my life, and you’re...you’re...”

  He lips pursed and he nodded once. “I’ll listen.”

  “I was in the coffee shop. Remember, you agreed to listen. Right?”

  He lowered his chin.

  “Okay. Vincent wasn’t the man you thought he was. He was mean. Hateful. And he was violent.”

  His nose wrinkled, and his eyes thinned until only slits remained.

  I had remained reluctant to tell my father much about my past with Vincent, but to have him fully understand the value in Michael’s protective nature, I felt the need to be open and honest.

  “So, I was at the coffee shop, I was on my computer, and Vincent came in. It was after we broke up. A few months after. So, he came in, and he grabbed me.”

  His eyes widened slightly.

  I knew Vincent simply grabbing me wouldn’t call for too much concern, but what I was about to tell him would undoubtedly get his full attention.

  “When I told him to leave me alone, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me outside. I was kicking and screaming, afraid for my life, and no one did—”

  He didn’t give me a chance to finish, but again, I didn’t expect him to.

  He jumped from his seat. “He pulled you by your hair?”

  I gave a slight nod.

  “Figlio di puttana,” he growled. “I’ll cut off his hands.”

  “Papa. Let me finish.”

  He crossed his arms and huffed out a breath.

  I pointed to his chair. “Sit.”

  “I’m standing.”

  I chose to remain seated. It was less confrontational. “So, he was dragging me across the parking lot, and my shoes came off, and he kept dragging me. The people in the coffee shop were all looking through the window, just watching what was happening. No one did anything. I was screaming and kicking, knowing he was going take me to his car and beat me.”

  Simply saying those words brought back a range of emotion I thought I’d never feel again. I swallowed the bitter taste of being an abuse victim. My gaze fell to the floor.

  “Beat you?” he interrupted. His voice became elevated. “He hit you?”

  I inhaled a choppy breath, and hoped he didn’t notice.

  I should have told him when it happened long before now, and wondered if at least part of what I felt was a result of keeping the truth from him for so long. He was my father, and he deserved to know. I nodded a shameful nod, and then met his gaze.

  “He hit me all the time. I hid it from you with makeup and scarves. It wasn’t an overnight matter. At first, he told me he was sorry. But it continued. And then it got worse. I was desperately afraid, and not sure what everyone would do or say, so I never told anyone. Papa, I felt alone.”

  He stood. Although it seemed he intended to speak, the words never came.

  My heart slowly sank into the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to continue. Speaking to my father of how Vincent treated me—even though I knew it would never happen again—was difficult.

  He walked around the island and held out a shaking hand. After giving me a long hug and a comforting kiss, he raised his hands to my cheeks and looked me in the eyes.

  “He’ll never touch you again. This is my promise to you.”

  “Thank you.” His recognition of the seriousness of what happened had me on the verge of tears. “Let me finish. Please?”

  He nodded, kissed my cheek and turned away. After I sat, he returned to his stool.

  “While Vincent was dragging me across the parking lot, a man started walking toward us. His eyes, Papa. His eyes told me everything was going to be okay. He told Vincent to let me go, and Vincent argued with him. The man took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and gave Vincent one more chance to let me go. Vincent told him no, so he beat Vincent until he let me go. He beat him down to the ground.”

  My quick recollection of that day brought everything to the forefront of my thoughts. My heart swelled at the thought of the man who quickly became—and still remained—a hero to me.

  With his lips pursed tight, and his eyes filled with sorrow, my father sat and shook his head.

  “He saved me from Vincent.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “He did. But there’s more.”

  “Finish.”

  “He wanted nothing from me. He didn’t ask my name, or for my phone number. He was a true gentleman. Then, a week or so later, I saw him again. He came in for a cup of coffee, and I was there. We talked and decided to go to dinner and a movie.”

  “He’s a Catholic boy?”

  No, he’s not. But he’s charming, and polite, and he’s got this undeniable swagger.

  And a really, really nice cock.

  I sighed. “Let me finish.”

  “Italian?”

  “Papa...”

  He grinned. “Finish.”

  “We went to a movie together. After the movie, on our way to the car, a man with a knife tried to rob us. He said he was going to rape me.”

  Papa’s eyes shot wide.

  “My date, the man from the coffee shop? He took the knife from the man and then he beat him to the ground, just like he did Vincent. When the man didn’t apologize to me? He twisted the man’s arm behind his back until it broke.”

  It wasn’t the entire truth, but I knew it might help convince my father to allow Michael and me to be in a relationship without him intervening.

  “Who is this man?”

  “He’s just a simple man with a big heart. A man who will make sure I’m always taken care of.”

  He looked worried. Although I hadn’t given it much thought, I now suspected the thought of losing me worried him.

  “What’s his family’s name?” he asked.

  “He’s not Italian, Papa. And I’ve got more to tell you about him.”

  He shot me a scornful look, but didn’t speak.

  So far, I felt things were going extremely well. He now knew Michael wasn’t Italian, yet he was willing to allow me to continue, which was good.

  “When we met, I didn’t tell him my real name. I didn’t tell him I was an Agrioli. I made up a name.”

  He glared at me. “You lied? About who you were?”

  An audible sigh escaped me. I desperately wanted to resolve the problem that I had so selfishly created. I hoped my father would accept everything about Michael, and support my effort to find a resolution.

  If so, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

  I realized my father’s tie to the mafia was a sensitive subject, so I continued cautiously. “People hear about you on the news, Papa. I know all of it isn’t true, but they hear it. And they believe it. After we met, I liked him, so I told him my name was something else. I wanted him to give me a chance.”

  He leaned back and lifted his chin slightly. “What did he say? When you told him the trut
h?”

  And, just like that, my heart fell right back into the pit of my stomach.

  “I didn’t. I haven’t.” I swallowed hard, and then looked up. “Yet.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You never told him who you were?”

  “No.”

  He stared back at me without responding. He didn’t have to. His eyes told me all that I needed to know. He was dissatisfied in me, and more so than I was in myself. It hurt to see the disappointment in his eyes.

  I swallowed heavily, knowing there was so much more to say, and that none of it would make him any happier.

  “I have more. A lot more,” I said.

  He reached for the bowl of pasta. As he ate, I continued. “We’ve been seeing each other for several months. He’s the perfect man for me. He’s honest, protective, kind, compassionate, and he’s not after sex.”

  Again, not the entire truth, but a necessary embellishment of Michael’s characteristics. I paused and waited for him to speak.

  He swallowed the food he was chewing and lifted another forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. “He still doesn’t know who you are? That you’re an Agrioli? My daughter?”

  “No, Papa.”

  “Does he make you happy?”

  “Happier than I have ever been.”

  “Does he treat you the way—” He slurped the pasta from the fork, then continued. “Does he...does he treat you the way...the way a woman should be treated?”

  He studied me as he chewed his food.

  “He does. He’d make you proud, Papa. Very proud.”

  He swallowed, reached for his wine and took a long drink. He then cleared his throat. “I want to meet him.”

  He walked around the island, wiping his mouth as he approached me. I stayed seated, struggling with whether to tell him what I was about to say, or not. In the end, I decided I needed to be as truthful as possible. It would make things much easier afterward.

  I looked up. “I think you already have.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “What’s his name?”

  “Michael.” I said. “Michael Tripp.”

  Chapter Three

  Michael

  We were in a butcher shop owned by a man named Meatball Pete. With the dead man stretched out on a stainless-steel butcher’s table in front of us, I couldn’t help but question what appeared to be common practice for the mafia.

  I glared at Mad Sal. “We’re going to cut him up with handsaws?”

  He held the saw at arm’s length and nodded.

  I was wearing an eleven-hundred-dollar suit, but had no desire to saw a man in pieces regardless of how I was dressed. “You can cut him up. I’ll stand watch.”

  He glanced over each shoulder, chuckled and tried to hand me the saw. “There’s nothing to watch.”

  “I’m not interested in ruining a suit.”

  He shrugged. “Put on an apron.”

  “I provide a protection detail. This is above and beyond my area of expertise,” I said. “And my paygrade.”

  He laughed. It wasn’t a forced laugh, or even a chuckle for that matter. It was a full-fledged laugh. After he caught his breath, he looked at Meatball, then at me, and lowered the saw. “You’re an associate. An associate that I’m not convinced I can trust. Grab a saw, pretty boy.”

  Having my integrity questioned by anyone normally brought immediate consequences. My jaw and my fists clenched at the same instant. I wondered where Meatball fell in the ranking of the mob, and wondered just how much Agrioli would miss him.

  “Hey, whatever your fucking name is,” Cap snarled. “How the fuck do we know we can trust you? I shot this motherfucker. You stood with your cock in your hand and watched while he was threatening Tripp. And, in case you forgot, Ol’ Tripp here probably saved your asses from being arrested by the cops. Man’s got a sixth sense. If he says this guy’s a cop, he’s a cop.”

  “Grab a saw,” Sal seethed.

  A box of rubber gloves sat on a small table in the center of the room. Cap pulled a pair over his hands, and then snatched the saw from Sal’s hand. “You think I’m afraid to cut this prick into pieces? Why don’t you grab a saw?”

  He grabbed the dead man’s wrist and lifted it from the table. With half a dozen strokes of the saw, the hand came off, and the arm fell to the table with a thud. Cap tossed the severed hand toward the end of the table and turned toward Sal.

  “What are we doin’ here? Cuttin’ off the hands and pullin’ this fucker’s teeth?” Cap asked. “Just like on The Sopranos?”

  Sal nodded toward Cap, and then chuckled. “I like this guy.”

  Cap looked at me. “Better get a hand while the gettin’s good, or you’ll be pullin’ teeth.”

  Despite an argument from my stomach to the contrary, I pulled on a pair of gloves and grabbed the saw. I shot Meatball a quick glare, and then grabbed Wesley’s arm with the full intention of proving myself. I lifted the saw, paused and then swallowed the bile that had risen into the back of my mouth.

  With the saw clenched in one hand, and the arm in my other, I gazed blankly at the dead body. This wasn’t a street gang, nor was I a probate for some ratty-assed motorcycle club. This was the mob. I was either in, or I was out.

  With each stroke of the saw, I sealed my fate a little further.

  I tossed the bloody stump toward the end of the table, and dropped the saw.

  I glanced at Sal. “Your turn.” I looked at Meatball, who had remained quiet and calm throughout the entire ordeal. “And don’t think for one minute that you’re not going to get a turn.”

  “He’s been tied to the family for twenty years,” Sal said. “You can trust him.”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” I said. “He either pulls some teeth or else.”

  “Or else what?” Meatball asked.

  “Refuse to be involved and find out,” I responded.

  Meatball Pete laughed no differently than Sal had earlier. “Where’d Tony find this guy?”

  Sal picked up the pliers and shrugged. “He’s the one that saved Little Pete from the Russians.”

  Meatball looked me over. After gathering a satisfying eyeful, he looked at Sal and nodded. “He’s a funny fucker.”

  He could have passed for Mad Sal’s brother. At over six feet tall, and weighing what I would have guessed to be 280 pounds, he wasn’t a small man by any means. Nor was he fat. More than likely one of the mob’s enforcers, it was clear his butcher shop was used as a disposal for the bodies of the unlikely few who crossed Agrioli’s path.

  “A real comedian,” Sal agreed. “Him, too.”

  Cap chuckled. “Yeah. I’m full of jokes.”

  While Sal began to pull the man’s teeth, Cap walked to my side.

  “Don’t you think whoever finds this fucker’s gonna think this was a mob hit when they find him with no hands and no teeth?” he whispered. “Kind of a mob signature, ain’t it?”

  “Maybe they want to send a message?”

  “Ask ‘em.”

  I cleared my throat. “Whenever this poor bastard is found, it’s going to take a detective about ten seconds to figure out this was a mob hit. No hands and no teeth? That’ll point them in Agrioli’s direction for sure.”

  “Cartel does the same thing,” Sal said over his shoulder. “We could feed him to Meatball’s hogs, but...” He shrugged. “That doesn’t send a message.”

  “Cartel cuts off the head,” Cap said. “They don’t fuck with pulling teeth.”

  “And there’s no cartel in Kansas City,” I added. “At least not that I know of.”

  Meatball looked at Sal and shrugged. “Maybe we should cut off his head. Make it look like the Mexicans did it.”

  “Got six teeth pulled already,” Sal said. “His head’s staying.”


  “I vote we cut it off,” Meatball said.

  They continued to argue about whether to cut off the head or leave it. I looked around the room. The totality of it all sank into the pit of my stomach like a heavy stone. I should have known when I agreed to become involved with Agrioli’s “business” that the money wasn’t going to come easy. Hacking a man into pieces and tossing his dismembered body into the Missouri River wasn’t, however, what I expected the difficulties might be.

  Spending retirement in paradise with the woman I loved was my main goal, and I wondered if the risks I was taking were worth the end reward.

  In a matter of days, I had made a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If the pattern continued, I could easily be on pace to retire in months, not years.

  After a few more moments of deep thought, I decided the risks were well worth the reward. My line of work brought along with it similar hazards, and so far, I had been fortunate. I didn’t consider myself lucky, it was my experience that kept me out of the watchful eye of law enforcement.

  And, if I didn’t let greed overcome common sense, I saw no reason why I couldn’t continue doing what I did best.

  Making large sums of money for being willing to take a gamble most men weren’t willing to take.

  Chapter Four

  Terra

  The expression on my father’s face was new to me. It wasn’t one of worry, nor was it of joy, but it was somewhere in between. In all honesty, everything thus far had gone far better than expected, and I was pleasantly surprised.

  He blinked a few times. “Michael Tripp?”

  I’d seen my father coming out of the parking lot at Michael’s office, and had fully intended to give him an opportunity to lie about knowing him. Now that I had the chance to lure him into doing so, I felt proceeding along those lines wasn’t a good idea.

  Considering his demeanor, it certainly wasn’t necessary. I decided to simply continue with the truth, and in doing so, hoped I might find out more about my father’s relationship with Michael.

  “A few weeks ago, I was going to see him. I saw you pulling out of his office.”

  “He’s a business associate.”

  Thank you.