Luciano

I step into the alleyway, scrolling through my phone. Holy crap, it's late! These hours are ridiculous.

I sigh, looking for a cab. I start to call the number, when I notice a commotion. I put the phone to my ears, ignoring the noise. There's always noise around these parts.

"Hello," an accented voice called to me on the other line.

"Hi, is there any way you can get to 13..."

A gunshot rings out. Oh shit.

"Ma'am? Ma'am what's the address?"

I hide behind the dumpsters, cursing my rotten luck. No way I'm getting a cab out with a shooter out here on the loose.

I crouch as far down as I can, cursing.

"Hello? Hello?"

"What's that noise?" One of the people say.

Shit! I need to turn this damn phone off!

"Go check it out! Go!"

Damn damn damn damn!

I crouch even further. My nose tingles at a familiar scent. I look down. Wait, is that? Oh, no!

It's basil. I'm allergic to basil!

"Achoo!" I sneeze.

No sooner than I do, I'm discovered. I have no where to go.

Two tall men, Italian I think, stand over me.

"Boss! We have a witness." One calls.

Another man approaches, looking at me disdainfully.

He pulls a gun on me without so much as an explanation or a how do you do. Rude.

He presses it against my skull. My breath shudders.

"Y'know, I would've love to fuck you first, but I just don't have that kind of time." He says regretfully as he pushes the barrel further into my skull.

"And who says I wanted to fuck you anyway, Murderer?" I spit.

If I'd meant that to be offensive, I would've been disappointed.

He chuckled, his whiskey colored eyes on mine.

"Oh, kitty has claws! Was I supposed offended? I have a gun to your head; what else would I be? A clown?"

"You look like one," I murmur, unable to help myself.

My mother did always tell me my mouth would get me killed.

I just don't think either of us would've expected it to be this damn literal.

"You like talking. Don't you?" He asked conversationally, like the cold metal of the barrel of his gun wasn't still pressed between my eyes.

"I do," I challenge him. "Gotta problem?"

"I gotta gun. More official than a problem, don't you think gattina?"

"Don, i russi sono andati via! Hanno preso la spedizione!"

(Don, the Russians got away! They took the shipment!)

Just like that, the slightly playful, extremely homicidal Italian changed into an extremely homicidal and slightly demonic one.

His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched, the grip on his gun tightened to the point where I saw the metal give way a bit.

"Che cazzo vuoi dire, 'che hanno preso la mia spedizione?!' Perche 'cazzo non stai buttando giù quei figli?"

(What the fuck do you mean, 'they took my shipment?!' Why aren't you gunning those motherfuckers down?)

A rapid answer in Italian was sent back, making the muscular man in front of me roar in anger.

Turning his glare on me, he said:

"I can't dick whip you, so I suppose a pistol whip will have to do."

"Wait what?"

Before I could fully finish processing what he said, he had laid a pistol across my forehead and knocked me out.

"Can we have a piece of her?"

"Touch her and die. Lei è la mia fino ad un altro momento. Which means, let me find something,"

"Aw, Boss you're no fun,"

"Y'know what's fun? Clowns. Y'know how I can make you fun? I can slit your throat from ear to ear. Don't fuck with me, Paolo."

"I promise you won't like it half as much as I will."

• • •