Page 52 of The Mafia King's Reign
A killer.
But even at his young age, no one thrives off this shit like Raffaele. That’s why I made my uncle pass enforcement tohim. Raffaele’s been dark since he was a kid, doing crazy shit like finishing off half-dead animals which would otherwise be roadkill to “take them out of their misery.”
He couldn’t make it, but as Don, I have no fucking problem getting my hands dirty.
We pull up at the warehouse, which smells like rust and old blood, fitting for what this conversation is about to become.
Tommaso Russo is already waiting, flanked by two men whose cheap suits do nothing to hide the weapons bulging beneath their jackets. He stands in the center of the concrete floor, a black duffel bag at his feet, his face arranged into something meant to look confident.
It’s laughable.
I could read his fear from across the room. The way his weight shifts every few seconds, the way his eyes kept darting toward the eastern entrance, the subtle flex of his fingers like he was counting down to something.
Interesting.
He thought he had a plan. He thought he could outmaneuver me.
Men have died for less arrogant assumptions.
“Salvatore.” He spread his hands in a gesture of false welcome. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
I don’t respond. Just walk toward him slowly, my footsteps echoing off the corrugated metal walls, Arturo half a pace behind me. The silence stretches until sweat beaded along Tommaso’s hairline and slides down his temple.
“The money’s all here.” He gestures to the duffel, his voice cracking slightly. “Half a million, like we discussed.”
“How much money did you say this is?”
He blinks. “I told you. Half a million.”
“But how much do you owe me?”
The question hangs in the stale air between us. Tommaso shifts his weight again, eyes darting toward the door like he’s calculating how fast he could run. He couldn’t. Not fast enough.
“Look, Sal, maybe meeting today was a mistake. You’re right, I’ll get you the rest.”
The rest.
I don’t care too much for his choice of words.
I take a slow breath, letting the silence stretch until I could almost hear his heartbeat stuttering beneath his ribs. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple and disappears into his collar.
"Zio." I turn to Arturo. "What is my strategy for running my city?"
My uncle smiles, the kind of smile that had preceded more deaths than I could count. “Patience.”
“Patience,” I repeat, turning back to Tommaso. “And how long have I given you to settle this debt?”
His jaw tightened. “A few months.”
“A few months he says. Eight months… that’s how long it’s been. Eight months of patience.” I step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat like a trapped animal desperate to escape. “What else, Zio?”
“Strategy.”
“Strategy.” Another step. The concrete beneath my feet is stained with old blood, old violence, the ghosts of men who’d stood exactly where Tommaso is standing now. None of them walked out alive. “And what was our deal? What was the strategy we agreed upon?”
Tommaso’s tongue darted across his lips. He doesn’t answer.
“Tommaso.” My voice drops to something quiet. Dangerous. “I asked you a question.”
