(Note: Rough language and violence ahead. If you aren’t up for it, you aren’t up for it.)
Morretti was charred beyond recognition once the job was done, and the funeral service went on with lilies in every corner of the church and a closed casket lying on the altar. Bella would not arrive to greet her father, even in death—Allesio understood why. Even if her mother didn't, he did. Morretti and Allesio lived dark lives, lit only by the flames of hell. They were never meant to be understood. They were never meant to be tolerated.
They say killers always come back to the scene of the crime.
If Morretti were still alive, he would've called it crap. "Only idiots and psychopaths do something as stupid as come back to get themselves caught," he would say in his heavy accent that Allesio learnt to mentally translate into English. “It’s plain propaganda, assuming our side lacks intelligence. I don’t care what we do or where we’re going after we die; a tongue wet with lies will always outweigh a hand caked in blood.”
It was common for Morretti to spit out such deviances to modern morality, acting as if they were the truth. Allesio grew to expect it. The old man was a product of his environment, his world view bent by the orchestra of bullets that echoed in the back of his head, his heart scorched and shredded by the deaths he’d overseen. The closest he would ever come to paradisio lied in his past, in a country where saints walked alongside sinners to death.
Morretti was a true blooded Italian, a traveller to the land of opportunities. Allesio has only heard stories of Italy, the streets of Sicily paved in blood and gold. They've cleaned up their act to some extent over the years, but the Mafia still had a reasonable hold of the land—it was still home, to their kind. New York City was another beast entirely. In the Big Apple, even the smallest mistake meant death.
They sold, breathed, lived death. They were the last pair of eyes rivals and snitches would ever see, they were the guns to go to when going to war. When you pay them, you don’t pay to get rid of one soul. You pay to get rid of three. Their salvations were on the market, and both learnt not to care for what happened after. “To beat the Devil, someone has to go to hell,” Morretti once said, “It might as well be us.”
But they weren’t battling the Devil. They weren’t working for him, either. Allesio lay awake most nights, recreating the dying screams in his head. I might scream, too, he’d think to himself, on the patched mattress in his two-room apartment, I might die one day. What’ll happen then? What would I do?
What would he do?
There was a job before Morretti’s departure. An easy one, compared to others they’ve worked with. Morretti received the call from his burn phone, assigned only two weeks after the last job. “Young man. Scott Jettison,” he said, entering Allesio’s flat with a flare undeserving of such bare walls and colourless furniture. “Works as an accountant to some big shot firm round these parts.”
“A curious fellow?” Allesio asked.
“Not nearly as much as you, kid,” Morretti pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, slipping a fag between his lips and lighting it with a match. “Now shut your trap hole before it gets ya killed.”
Allesio refrained from speaking too deeply of the matter, afterwards. He was well aware of what a pair of lips can do in this world—though discussing the motivations of their clients was always amusing, he’s seen what happen to hitmen who can’t keep their mouths closed.
But this was different. This wasn’t just a job. Not to Morretti, at least.
They spent some time in a coffee shop near the accountant’s workplace, watching the little man with square rimmed glasses and a polkadot tie that would look better on a clown slip in and out of glass doors, a tablet in one hand and a book in the other. It felt ordinary, at first. The target was affable at best, peculiar at worst—a man of eccentricities but with a healthy social life, showcased by how he talks to his colleagues. Morretti would joke about how the man would probably soil his trousers once they got a hold of him, espresso staining his bottom lip. “He won’t last a second once we get the Colts out,” he cackled, “You’ll see. Before you know it we’ll be cleaning off the blood from your suit and picking up a bruschetta on our way back.”
The night came. They followed Scott Jettison to his little apartment on Main Street, up three stories and to the front of a little white door. The hallway lights flickered before them. Scott Jettison looked back occasionally, only barely aware of their presence. “Evening,” he said, amiably, as he stood on his apartment door.
Allesio only smiled at him. He fingered his gun in his coat pocket, timidly. “Evening.”
Scott nodded. He opened the door, then, inciting a chuckle from Morretti. It was a short-lived chuckle. One he would regret. “Hey, honey,” Scott said, “It looks like your dad’s here to see you!”
For a few seconds, there was no sound. “Scott, don’t play pranks with me,” a voice from the inside said, laughing, “Come back in here.”
“No, really—he’s got a friend with him, too!” Scott called out. “He looks just like the pictures you showed me. Except, you know, with a menacing fedora.”
Morretti held his breath.
“Scott, I’m still in my uniform--”
“Oh, never mind your goddamn uniform, Bella,” Scott disappeared into the apartment, “Don’t you know it’s impolite to leave your old man waiting?”
There was a pause in between, filled with invisible mirth and saccharine conversations loudly whispered past the door. Finally, just as Morretti was looking at Allesio as if he was about to storm out, a young woman in unmistakable blue police garments stepped outside. It wasn’t her uniform that caught Allesio off-guard, though—it was her smile. Morretti’s smile. Morretti’s grin, slowly fading from her mother’s countenance. The silence as they stared at each other.
“Papa.”
Something itched at the side of Morretti’s mouth. “Bella.”
The girl glared at the two of them, then, staring at their pockets. She shook her head, turning back to the apartment. “Wait,” Morretti called out, running towards the open door, “Bella, please--”
The girl slammed the door in front of his voice. Distant footsteps stomped against wooden floorboards, a murmuring that resembled “Call 911” bouncing from the door. Morretti slammed his fist against the door, letting out a guttural roar before dissolving into a puddle of remorse. “You’re an idiot. A beautiful, idealistic idiot,” he whispered. “Don’t shut us out. Not again. Not this time.”
Allesio opened his mouth, his hand hanging dangerously above the other man’s shoulder. “Morretti,” he said, “We may have blown our covers.”
Morretti looked over to him. “I have,” he said. “She doesn’t know who you are.”
...
She didn’t.
The next few days after the incident were hectic. Morretti received more calls from their bosses, asking why they haven’t gotten rid of their client’s target. “Look, I already told you we’re going to get this crap over with soon, alright?” Allesio heard the old man shout into his burn phone, “Calm your tits. We’ll get to it in a couple of weeks, once everything calms down.”
But nothing calmed down. Morretti still received calls on his phone, but it wasn’t from their bosses. It was from a woman. A voice, like a high-pitched version of his own. Dinners at an old Italian classic were often interrupted by the familiar vibration against his pocket, a conversation of mutterings and awkward laughter. He kept his mouth shut. Allesio knew what happened to hitmen who didn’t.
It didn’t stop the questions from popping up in his head. He’d look at the other man’s wrinkled complexion, his balding head perpetually hidden under a fedora, wondering of him and his daughter. Why’d you let her be a cop, Morretti? He questioned, silently. Why have I never heard of her? Are you ashamed, Morretti? Does she remind you of everything you aren’t? Does she snap you out of your deranged fantasies?
Do you wish things could’ve been different for the both of you?
He would never get a direct answer from him. It was surprising, then, when he was given the opportunity to obtain answers elsewhere.
Allesio’s killed most of the strange men he’s ever known, either because he was getting paid to do it or because of self-defence. Three strange men came to hit bare-walled apartment, one day, and to his surprise he didn’t end up killing them. “Allesio. My child.” The man in the middle was comically small, compared to his colleagues. He wore a white suit, contrasted to his colleague’s black, his greying hair and dark skin fitting fairly well with it. “You may not recognize me.”
“No, no I don’t,” Allesio touched his trouser pockets, regretting the fact that he had no gun on him. “Who are you?”
“My name isn’t particularly important,” he confessed, grinning. “Though, if you’re interested in pleasantries, my friends and I could use a cup of water. We’re dying of thirst.”
They enjoyed their coffee scalding and bitter. They huddled around his small kitchen, the two bigger men barely fitting into the room. The little man in the white suit simply sat there, sipping at his cup of coffee. “Our business is simple, my son,” he said, calmly, “We handle what you and Morretti do, and we fit it all into the bigger picture. Whoever you kill, we need dead. You’re a pawn, and pawns must behave according to their function.”
Are you the Devil? He found himself asking, silently, sitting on the opposite side of the table. Or are you God? “I still don’t understand who you are.”
“It’s all for the better,” the man said, kindly. “We just need you for one job.”
Jobs. Is that what they’re in here for? What a dramatic way to request a death. “Alright. Alright, that seems simple enough,” he said, calmly. “What job is it, then?”
“We need you to kill a misbehaving pawn.”
He paused. “And who is that?”
The little man chuckled, revealing two rows of pearl teeth. “Now, see, that’s the difficult part to say,” he said. He thought over his words. “Well, not exactly. It’s easy to say, difficult to execute. But I assure you, my dear Allesio, your rewards will be bountiful.”
Allesio bit the insides of his cheeks, shaking his head. “Who do you need me to--” he stopped, thinking of the word. “Erase?”
The little man smiled. “Morretti,” he said. “Michael Morretti.”
And in that moment, everything was chaos. Allesio glared at the little man in the white suit, his face melting into confusion, reforming into a disgusted laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?” he said. The little man answered him with a look. “Morretti’s never overstepped his boundaries. Shit, he’s the one who taught me what the boundaries are. He ain’t stupid enough to get himself killed.”
The man in the white suit sighed, looking up at his two colleagues. “Are you aware that Morretti has a daughter?” he asked. “A young volcano, just like her dad was back in ’87. Hot-headed, rebellious, hell bent on one thing and one thing only. We only wish that one thing wasn’t taking people like her father, or me, or--” he gestured to him. “Or, well, frankly you. And your partner, he’s grown a little soft over the years. And it only makes sense he breaks a little bit for his bambina.”
Allesio shook his head, standing up. “Leave. Now.”
The man in the white suit smiled. “I understand your concern--”
“I will not have three strangers convince me to murder one of my closest friends,” he said, scowling, “Now get out of my apartment.”
The man arched a curious brow, before smirking. “If that’s how you’d like to play it.” He pushed his chair behind him, looking to his friends. “Leave the briefcase with our dear child, boys, and our number too. Perhaps he’ll find himself needing it later on.”
The two nodded in unison, standing up and leaving the two objects on his table. The little man in the white suit ushered the two of them out of the room, then, heading towards the door. Allesio narrowed his brows, looking to the suitcase. It was unlocked. He cracked it open, green paper flashing underneath. He snapped towards them. “What the hell is this?”
“Hm?”
He closed the briefcase, holding it up. “This,” he said, “What are you giving me this for?”
The little man turned to him, smiling. “Why, your getaway budget, Allesio,” he said, good-humouredly. “Once Bella manages your address out of Morretti, you’ll very much need it to evade the police. Days out in roach motels, long drives, old counties down in the South or a shelter in the icy tundra.” He smiled. “Unless, of course, you’re looking forward to being arrested and sent to Rikers.”
Allesio let his jaw drop slightly, before closing it again. “That won’t happen.”
He raised his eyebrows in amusement. “I’ll pray that it won’t.”
…
He didn’t remember much of the incident.
He only recalled the warmth of the flame, the feel of a gun in the palm of his hands. The nights of staring up at ceilings seemed to culminate into this—into his conversations with a dead man, under an abandoned factory, his best friend swallowed by red.
“Why?” He had asked, earnestly. “Why did you do it?”
He remembered the charred man’s face, creased and deathly, shaking his head. “She’s my kid, Allesio,” he justified, feebly, “My own flesh and blood. I couldn’t do anything less.”
Allesio had stared at him, gun in hand, close to tears. “I don’t want to do this,” he confessed. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“Then you deserve to die with me,” Morretti frowned. “I already told ya, kid—to beat the Devil, someone’s got to go to hell.”
“You aren’t an angel, Morretti. You’re not working for God,” he shot back, “You’re human. You’re sick, you’re vile, you’re twisted, but you’re human.”
He had laughed. The old man stood there, glaring at him. Laughing. “Haven’t you figured it out already, kid?” he said, smirking. “God is a sick bastard, and I’m his right hand man. We get along nicely, don’t you think? He tells me to kill, and I do as He asks. But I’m done now. It’s your turn, now.” he said, remorsefully. “Go help Him out. He’ll need it, once I’m gone.”
Allesio had shaken his head. “You’re insane.”
Morretti had smiled at him. How he hated that grin. “Tell my baby girl I’m sorry, won’t you?”
After that, it was a blur of bullets and gasoline. He felt guilty, leaving the old man burning like he did. He didn’t know what he’d already told his daughter. He didn’t know whether or not he was too late. He didn’t know if the man in the white suit was lying or not.
Morretti was charred beyond recognition once the job was done, and the funeral service went on with lilies in every corner of the church and a closed casket lying on the altar.
The man in the white suit was among the many mourners, sitting quietly beside Allesio on one of the pews. “You did good today, son,” he said, patting Allesio on the shoulder. “We’ll find you another partner, soon enough, and he’ll be better than Morretti. Wiser. More well-behaved.”
Allesio stared at him, rage building in his throat. He could’ve done anything, anything at all to the man. He could’ve started a screaming match. He could’ve threatened him. One could argue he could’ve choked him to death, if he wanted. Whatever the consequences, it didn’t matter to Allesio. He could’ve ended the man in the white suit. It shouldn’t have been difficult.
Instead, he nodded, solemnly.
Because it didn’t matter what he did. It didn’t matter how he felt of the issue. It didn’t matter what he could’ve done to fix the situation, or at least make it less bitter. In the end, Morretti and Allesio lived dark lives, lit only by the flames of hell. They were never meant to be understood. They were never meant to be tolerated. They were only meant to burn.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
