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“Make me out to be the prick.” His eyes start to darken. It always happens when he gets angry. His pupils dilate and it makes him look like a demon ready to rip your soul right out. It happens so quickly. One minute he'll be fine, the next you're not sure what he'll do.
“I’m not,” I say, exasperated. “I've just had enough of you telling me what I can and can't do. I don't have a dad and I don’t need one.”
He lets out a humourless laugh and shakes his head. “You’re a fucking brat. I’d do anything for you. I do everything for you but my opinion means fuck all to you. You never fucking listen to me, it’s just your way or the highway.”
I wipe a hand over my face roughly, making a frustrated sound in my throat. “I do value your opinion Tom, but there's a difference between an opinion and telling me that I can't see my friends or leave the country.” I splay my hands. “Or work.” My voice becomes louder, sharper.
“Work?” He shouts, a cruel smile blooming on his face as his body shakes with barely restrained anger. “You parade across a stage naked and grind up against old men for money? Like a fucking whore.” The acid in his tone has me recoiling from him. His words cut. I normally let the judgement roll off my back but when it comes from someone you care about it stings that much more.
“A whore? Fuck you, Tom.” I screech, my face twisting. “You knew what I did when you pursued me. I'm not about to change myself for you.”
He abruptly stands up shoving his computer chair back sending it crashing into the wall and I flinch back from him. “Fuck you right back. You’re an ungrateful little bitch, you know that right?” He storms out slamming the lounge door behind him with such force the whole flat rattles.
He slams the front door just as hard and I start to cry angry tears. Tears because of how he treats me but also tears because I'm still here taking it. This shit is happening too often, these arguments are almost routine for us at this point. Every time I go out with my friends or if he finds an outfit I'm wearing too revealing he makes it a problem. It's never an adult conversation, it ends in both of us screaming until we're blue in the face and him punching a wall or throwing things about and storming out.
I've almost become used to the angry outbursts. I find myself treading on eggshells around him, and I know I should probably leave but part of me hopes he’ll go back to how he was at the beginning. I know I'm not in love with him but I do love him. Or I love who he used to be, the man I still get glimpses of here and there but not often enough.
I don’t leave his flat because he'll be back later and if I'm not here waiting, it will cause a bigger problem. I've left before and he ends up tracking me down because he thinks I'm cheating on him.
I turn the TV on and put the Real Housewives of New Jersey on, nothing makes you feel better like watching other people’s drama play out instead of your own. Teresa just flipped a table when my phone pings.
10:52 PM
Aleksy
5
Enzo
Present-day
Manhattan, New York City
I pull up to Euphoria with my younger brother Raff and enter by the loading bay around the back. It's busy tonight, queue around the block for the front entrance. There's a big event in the upper two levels and a broadcasted MMA tournament in the basement. I feel like the word basement massively undersells the arena that dwells beneath the club. It's famous. It’s where I started Moretti fights. People fly from all over to fight in our cage.
But the sublevel below the basement? That's where we deal with the dirtier side of business. It’s one of the main reasons I bought this club. Discreet entry and exit points and the basement-dwelling underneath. It's practically impenetrable with the expense of security cameras spanning the club. I can see someone coming from a mile out, it’s the perfect real estate for our needs.
We obliterated what Bratva turned up to the fake gun deal leaving one we can interrogate besides Joe. Joe's death will be prolonged for much longer. There is nothing worse than a rat. Loyalty is the foundation of The Family, without it we are nothing. Luca has been here dealing with both of them for the past twenty-four hours. I’ve stopped in but I know my brother, Luca works best on his own. He may come across charming in the media but scrape slightly under the surface and you’ll see the real Luca. He’s the type of man that would love to watch the whole world burn.
He enjoys breaking people. He has a knack for breaking people mentally as well as physically. A couple of hours with him and there isn’t a safe space in your mind you could hide information. Other than when he fights, this is the only time I see him actually enjoying himself. There’s a certain frenzy in his eyes that I recognise but don’t quite understand.
I guess you could blame our father for Luca's fascination with torture. Luca was only nine when Salvatore first started trying different techniques out on him. I was eleven. We took the brunt of his abuse so the rest of our siblings didn't have to endure it. This is why me and Luca are so close. We were forged from the same brutality. Nobody quite understands the darkest corners of my brain like he does.
I just came from breaking the news to Joe’s dad Franco. He had the only acceptable reaction, shock and disgust. So he lives. I had to make sure it was an isolated incident and none of Joe’s immediate family felt sympathetic to his cause. He's part of the Bianchi family, one of the five families that used to control New York before me. This is the first rat I've ever had in my time as almost Boss. I don't want another.
Joe’s laboured breathing can be heard above the dull thud from the base upstairs. Luca leans against the concrete wall already washed and in a fresh T-shirt, scraping the blood from under his nails with his knife.
I take my suit jacket off, unbutton my shirt and hand them to Raff. No sense in getting them dirty. “Having fun?”
Luca’s eyes flick over to me. “Oh yeah, this shit is riveting.” He says in a bored voice. Clearly, Joe didn’t give Luca as much of a fight as he was looking for.
Joe's eyes are swollen shut, blood covering his partially naked body. I drag a chair in front of him and take a seat, resting my elbows on my knees. He tries to open his eyes fully but he can barely see. He’s resigned. He’s accepted his death now. He knows he’s given Luca all the information we need. I’m just here to carry out his final sentence.
“All this for a little extra cash?” I click my tongue.
His face screws up, in pain but more anger. “Extra money?” He scoffs, coughs up a little blood and I pull my face back out of the way. “I’m a Bianchi.” He says as if that's something to be proud of. It's not.
“I am part of the five families. I shouldn't have to bow down and take orders from a fucking Moretti.” His voice cracks a little and I get a sick satisfaction from it.
