Making my way through the winding hallways, I stray away from the bustling of the bar. Long gone was the sound of glasses and jeering, as my black strappy heels glided across the flooring. Making a sharp turn, I grew closer to the private rooms of the club.
Breathing in deeply, I could smell the acidic stench of cheap whisky. The type that wouldn’t burn your throat in satisfaction but would more than likely flame it by the chemicals. The thundering of deep laughs broke through the door, as I stood outside.
The native twang of the words became apparent, even with their slurred letters, alcohol dripping off the vowels. Of course it was those fucking Romanians.
“The shipment we intercepted went to plan perfectly” came one voice from inside, it being stern and towering over the residual laughter.
“Exactly, they never even fucking saw it coming.” Started another voice. “We will lay low for the next couple of days, then accept the payment” the man continued, inhaling heavily.
I clicked my tongue at this, tightening my jaw, trapping the inside of my cheeks with my teeth. I submerged the urge to laugh at the stupidity that they lived by. Fucking ‘lay low’ they said, while cackling and sniffing up half of the shipment that they had just abducted.
I guess the ‘don’t get high on your own supply’ was just a myth to the dogs, but then again it wasn’t their supply, it was fucking mine.
Taking a thin black hairband from my jacket, I flipped over my red locks, tying it tightly above my head. My long hair still draped downwards behind my back, but less than the way it did before. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I swung it open swiftly, all while using my other hand to reach for the two knives that were strapped to the inside of my thigh.
Stepping inside, I took a minuscule couple of seconds to observe my surroundings. The room was dark and small, a couple dim light fixtures casting some warm lighting across the cold atmosphere.
In the centre, stood a green covered poker table, many playing cards shuffled and splayed across every angle of it, while glasses and substances also decorated it like a lovely little Christmas tree.
Three men, all in their somewhat fifties all peered up towards me, and darting their eyes to the blade that I had casted towards them. Finally after my patiently waiting, they all decided to draw their hand guns, a little to late for my liking but better late than never.
Bullets soon started to cascade upon me, as I dodged the cross fire I had caught myself in and quickly made my way toward the man furthest to my left. He seemed to have paused his shooting, taking his jolly well time re-loading his gun.
Lifting my hand, knife in hold, I brought it across his body., bringing my foot into his ankle, feeling him buckle into my hold, causing him to be my knew found shield against the array of bullets.
His scream of pain was cut short, as my blade found its way to his neck like a magnet, slicing straight across it, severing the front half of his head away from his stocky body.
The sensation of the clean cut caused a sinister feeling to course through me, as I sliced the other knife upwards and threw it across the room.
It planted itself rather nicely into the skinnier Russian on the far side of the room, crimson now leaking from his chest into his white shirt.
Despite it being my doings, I did feel bad though. The stain would be a bitch to try and get out, I thought. But I guess dead men need not worry about their laundry troubles.
Focusing my attention on the task at hand, I bounded my way toward the last Russian. His gun pointing directly in-between my eyes, as his fingers flickered and lay above the trigger.
“Awh now that’s not very nice” I quipped. “We didn’t even get to finish the game of poker”.
He moved the gun closer, just so I could feel the cool metal against my temple.
“Its over for you Calisto” The man spoke, his features mimicking mine into a smirk.
Sharply turning, I grasped the barrel of the gun in my grip, pivoting and turning it back on him. I always found it funny how one moment of hesitation could be your greatest mistake; that being one of the main lessons of leading a mafia 101.
Still having one knife in my hand, I brought it up to his cheek, stroking it diagonally across, just breaking the skin.
“I’m gonna give you a choice...” I began, “either you tell me who paid you to take the shipment, or I carve a little mosaic upon the stubble on your cheeks.” It’s almost like I saw the grown man gulp, but I knew that was just a figure of my imagination.
" I mean I’m no Picasso, but I’ve dabbled with a bit of art from time to time”, I say, still continuing my line across his face.
“I’d rather slit my on throat than gift you any information” He rasped. I could tell I was affecting him, my cutting growing deeper.
That could be arranged I thought, looking at the hearts that littered by knife handle, and the spades that covered the handle still in the Russian’s chest. How ironic that I had brought these knives to this lovely gambling session.
“That could be arranged” I spoke as I thrusted the blade into his shoulder blade. Curses resonated from his throat, a I twisted it back and forth.
I then began my work by scraping it downwards, the thick blood oozing from the incision.
“Fute” (fuck) “Okay, okay I’ll tell you just stop with the knife, god damn it”
I stopped my torture, listening. Not prepared for the words that he would say.
“It was Bianchi”. I quirked my brow, amusement flowing through me. “He payed us to steal the shipment”
Interesting, I thought. I quickly pierced his heart, with-drawing the weapon from both him and the man on the wall. While I stepped over the wreckage of chairs, drugs and blood, I couldn’t help notice a phone, laying idle, strew across the floor.
Picking it up, I slipped it into my pocket, creating a mental note to give this to Bellatrix, and made my way back to head quarters.
Hours later, I pulled up to the building, the old abandoned wreck before me. Large planks of metal hung from the edges, and wires floated through the air loosely. The abandoned building was a danger, shrapnel hanging from pipes; ready to fall at any second. But even despite it’s outside exterior, I waltzed in and couldn’t help but admire the sleek dark beauty of the black interior of the HQ.
The HQ was the exact definition of ‘don’t judge a fucking book by its cover’. Ink coloured pillars stood tall throughout the entry way, showing wide stairs that narrowed upwards to the second floor. There were many corridors branching out from the hallway, and a large chandelier falling from the ceiling centre. A reception at the back wall, and offices to the left.
To anybody else, it would look legit, almost like an expensive hotel. But to me it was home, the sort of home where million pound gun trafficking deals would take place, or where government hacking would come from, but my home nevertheless.
Making my way through, I noticed Earl coming from the direction of one of the meeting rooms. He was wearing a dark grey suit, with the same coloured tie to match. In his clutch was a brief case, and you could just make out the outline of a Glock 43 gun, leaking out from the side of his trousers.
Earl always had been serious and stern, just like my father. His one duty in life as my father’s consigliere was to make sure everything that me or my father wouldn’t handle was taken care of.
Despite his stoic nature, he had raised me to be the fighter I am today. Even when I was at the mere age of 5, he would give me intense knife throwing lessons and target practise, or at 9, when he showed me around the warehouse for the first time. And even at the age of 14, when he gifted me my fast gun, the engraving of his nickname for me still on the handle.
What can I say? Me and weapons have a old, close-knit bond, I’d say we are inseparable.
Increasing his steps, I could make out his neutral face slip for a second, as small slight of a smile forming. Behind him bustled many other workers, explaining his demeanour not shifting off of ‘work mode’.
“Hello Earl” I smiled, a genuine smile, which was rare these days.
He acknowledged me with a slight nod of his head, “Tina”.
“Where is my father?” I enquired, already knowing the answer.
As if sensing my thoughts, Earl gave me a knowing look, his face turning warmer, maybe in pity-but I wasn’t too sure.
“Okay, thank you” I said, making my way up the stairs, and turning a couple corners until I reached the double doors at the end of the hallway.
Pushing the heavy slabs of wood, I made my way into my fathers study. It was smaller than the other rooms in the building, only with a desk and a chair in front of it. Stacks of paper work piled before him, as he began signing blotchy signatures.
Not even looking up he stated ” How many times have I told you...”
“Yeah yeah to knock I know”, I finished, the lack of interest quickly flooding away from me, as I walked around the desk.
I sat down on the chair opposite, grabbing a stack of papers and signing my own signature on a couple. “The shipment wasn’t intercepted by the Russian Mafia like we thought”, I began, now peaking the interest of daddy dearest.
It was amusing to me, his ears would only perk up when it came to business. It had been years since we had had a normal conversation, one that didn’t involve the constant facts and figures of cartels, buildings and weaponry.
“I mean we should have fucking knew it wasn’t the Russians, why would they decide to steal from us, just before our meeting in the next couple of weeks?” I said.
Now reflecting, there would have been no need to go behind our backs with this. We had already discussed connections with them and had scheduled a talk with ‘Edik’, the Don.
My fathers knuckles clenched, my expression mirroring his, even despite the quirk of my lips going upwards, at the sight of his anger. “Call in Beatrix” he spoke.
Sighing and drifting into the chair, I sent a quick message to her to come to the study. Almost as if she was right outside the door, In pranced the female extraordinaire, also known as my best friend, Bellatrix.
Looking into her eyes, I could just make out the knowing glint from her eyes, my own casting down the the laptop in her grasp. The sneaky bitch was ease dropping outside, then again what would you expect from Britain’s greatest thief.
“Boss” She acknowledged to my father, just as she began typing away at the keyboard. A silence cast over us for only a little, until there was the final click.
There on the screen, was the scene of the robbery. There in pixels of black and white, was the very same men that had just met their defeat with my knives, loading millions worth of drugs into their lorries.
The skinnier one from today was patrolling, ushering the men around and moving crates. Looking deeply, you could just make out the lining of a gun in his trousers, but none of the others seemed to display it.
Even as they were driving away, their job was sloppy. Their faces clear on the screen in front of me, their bare hands also on display, not one wearing gloves.
“They did a shit job at it” Bellatrix started.
“But they still got away with it” I seethed. How could a sloppy job like that be disguised and vanish right before our eyes?
“Unless...” Came the gruff mummering of my father. “Unless they wanted us to know about it”
A sense of realisation hit me, it made sense. If they were going to sell it on, there would be no need to have the upmost experience in the game. They were the pawns, the mannequins on the shelves that would always get knocked over, if in the way.
“It was the Bianchi’s, they were taking the shipment off of them, but really they were just using them.” My blood was begging to boil, my sharp coffin cut acrylics making their way into my skin, “they wanted us to know that they have the power, and that they can get to us by doing the simplest things.”
“But why take the shipment? they have a much larger drug empire than us, it’s common knowledge it isn’t our main speciality.” Bella questioned. That was true, despite the English mafia and the Italian being very close on the hierarchy scale, it is known that we specialise more with weapons then drugs.
Only in the last couple of years, did we decide to get into that sort of business, a gap in the market opening up and offers we couldn’t refuse becoming apparent.
“I don’t know... but once I do, I’m tearing the Italian Mafia down pezzo dopo pezzo (Piece by piece)” I announced, even If it will be the death of me.
Because, if I’m gonna be a bitch, I’m gonna make sure I’m a damn rich and powerful bitch at that.
Domenico Bianchi, Valentina Calisto is coming for you, and she’s bringing much more than fire and flames to the war.
Are you enjoying my ongoing story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, Isabellethewriter1Write a Review