The taverns were all lined up in an intricate maze of block shaped buildings with narrow cobblestone roads and alleys. Sloshing through rank puddles of rainwater, barely able to see in front of him as pockets of moonlight guided his way, he paced himself trying to gain his bearings. Fear had a hold of him now, and Fish never responded well on the rare occasions that he was scared. He drew both knives he kept on him. Their long blades shielded in leather, he stumbled twice to unsheathe them. He’d cut and gut both those motherfuckers if he must to survive.
An unmistakable sound of running feet echoed behind him. They were close. He looked up and the darkness prevented him from seeing the end of the alley. He didn’t know how many Battaglia goons were in pursuit of him or if any waited with guns raised.
“Fuck! Fuck!” he panted.
Fish would have to take a stand. The darkness could be his friend. It was so thick thanks to the cloudy sky it would be possible to surprise ambush one if not both of them. He may be trapped, but he would take those bastards out with him. And it had been some time since he ran his blade into soft flesh.
When he stopped running, the men chasing did as well. Fish stood there with both knives in his hand, breathing hard, face drenched in sweat. The temperature was much colder in northern Italy than the southern region this time of the year yet his fear had sent a fever through him and boiled his gut.
Lorenzo stepped out of the shadows.
Fish licked his chapped lips. The pair curled into snarl. “Mi difenderò! I will defend myself,” Fish shouted.
“Lecchino!” A younger voice snapped. Carmine stepped out from the shadows and came up behind Fish. He pointed the gun to the back of Fish’s skull, and Lorenzo’s brow arched in amusement. Apparently Carlo had thought to put some assistance in the alley. It was time for Fish to squirm, and tell him where the fuck Angelo hid. Fish’s shifty gaze lowered, and the blades dropped from his hands.
“Lorenzo?” he spoke in a breathless voice. “You have to know it was never personal.”
“It has always been personal.” Lorenzo challenged.
“Where is Dominic? I worked in favor of the Battaglia’s against the Calderone’s for years. I can be of use to you again.”
“A di merda! You worked in your best interest only!” Lorenzo scoffed.
Fish slowly raised his hands in surrender but his sneer and steely glare held a deadly warning. Men like him didn’t respond well when cornered. Not even when they were outnumbered. Lorenzo trained his gun on him ready to act if needed.
As of late, Lorenzo could never get close enough to Giovanni to mend the rifts between them that were slow to heal. Yes, they were bound together by blood and cause, but Giovanni held grudges. Most men in their world often did. Lorenzo knew his cousin never truly forgave him for what his betrayal had cost them both. He held strongly to his last secret. The real reason Giuseppe had needed to die was thanks to the assassin’s bullet he’d put into Papa Tomosino because of Lorenzo. He would kill everything living with the name Calderone to ensure that secret never surfaced.
“This is where you beg for your life.” Lorenzo smirked.
“Vaffanculo!” Fish spat. “Fuck you!”
Lorenzo put his hand to his chest and feigned shock. “I thought it wasn’t personal?”
Carmine smacked Fish in the back of his head with his gun and the blow drove the man to his knees. Fish was dangerously close to his knives. Lorenzo had once heard tale that he could throw them as well as wield them. He stuck his gun in the front of his pants and stepped forward, kicking the closest knife away. Lorenzo grabbed Fish by the damp thick hair at the top of his head and forced his face to turn upward. “I want to know where your boss sleeps, shits, fucks, all of it. I want Angelo Calderone.”
“And what? You will spare me?” There was a hint of maniacal humor in his voice and eyes.