Title: Tu sei quello che stavo aspettando. (You are the one I have been waiting for.) [Part I ]
Chapter: 2/7(?)
Summary: It’s a new city, it’s a new start, and he’s a newly Made Man; there’s blood on his slacks to prove it.
Word Count: 6k+
Notes: Part of the Rozuru Mafia AU. Part of Eline’s really delayed present package. Thank you for being you Eline! And thank you for being such a wonderful, amazing, friend!!
Warnings: Violence, mild gore, death mention, torture mention, drugs mention.
Those words tumble out of his mouth: the first words to escape after the meeting. His left hand was cradled in his right; the weight of the rings seeming two fold in sensation. He’s been rubbing at his knuckles while his officers stood clustered about, George breaking the silence only with the clinking of glasses. There’s enough alcohol in the room to put a man to death, but it wasn’t being served. Only water is passed around; the clear glasses beading up with cool moisture on their outsides. The glass that is offered to him is ignored, his thumb working restlessly, impatiently, over his skin as he waits. He waits; his violet eyes sharp and expectant as they pass over his officers. One of them had given the boy the note that allowed him to come inside the house and thus someone would know his name. If he didn’t know it meant the blond was still fresh meat; a newbie that had been plucked off the streets to start benefiting the business and ready to be thrown back into the gutters when his numbers didn’t match up. Someone did know his name and that someone would tell him.
What finally breaks the silence is a cough, a low noise used to garner attention in conversation, and his gaze is drawn to the man who uttered the sound: Robert. “Kita.” Robert pauses, breathing in and taking a gulp of water, like a man about to perform a speech might. “He goes by Izuru Kita.” Goes by; what a dangerous choice of words. The bored expression that sprawls beneath the Caporegime’s intense gaze crinkles, his upper lip jutting out ever so slightly as his incisors descend upon the lower lip and nip.
”What is his real name?” Robert is a smart man, smart enough to hand his glass of water back to George, so he can free up his grip. Large hands undo the front of his jacket, a habit of his, because he hates the wrinkles left on his suit when he tries to reach into it unbuttoned. His gun is visible, the butt of it nasty and grooved from cracking one too many skulls, but he’s not reaching for it. A notepad is drawn out instead, the officer shuffling forward so as to get enough light to read whatever is on the pad.
“Found out that he used to be Izuru Corvi, but it looks him and his family didn’t get along too well; he changed it.” That was better, his jaw relaxing in tiny increments as his tongue lolled about. The tip shoves it at his bottom lip, the self-soothing gesture making a trademark snuff bulge above his chin, and no one comments on it. He’s stopped rubbing at his knuckles; instead he is simply covering his left hand. He’s thinking; his shoulder rolling into the cushions of his chair and his eyes shifting. His gaze drifts away from Robert, a question welling up in his chest, and he’s so proud of William picking up on it before he even asks.
”Robby was sayin’,” a hand flicks into his field of vision, his main officer gesturing at the other officer almost casually. “That the boy’s got grit.” There is a cue, a cue that comes from experience and interaction, and Robert is stepping forward. He holds out his notepad for the Capo, the man’s scratchy, almost backwards handwriting afflicting the blond’s vision for a moment. He relinquishes his ring heavy hand, gently taking the offered information, and he draws it back into the gloomy shadow that the shape of his chair creates. “And,” a pause, no doubt for him to gesture for his officer to continue, which he does; “that he’s good to boot.”
”He killed a snitch for me, to get recognized.” Robert is interjecting calmly, his fingers perpetually ashy in color from ink fiddling with his suit jacket, the buttons being slipped back and the fall of his attire fixed. “Gave him a knife to do it, but I don’t think he would have needed it.” The Capo is listening as he reads, his eyes flicking back and forth over scribbled words, unrelated notes, and heavily written sentences. Robert had a habit of pressing harder with his pencil when he was excited, or upset, and the latter did not seem to set a quiver in his hand. The dots of the officer’s ‘I’s were long, jutting down and up as they merged almost seamlessly into the next letter, and it’s only practice that has the Capo reading the hen scratch fluidly. “The snitch got his knife so Kita took a brick to his wrist.” That was in the notes; the officer’s scrawl bleeding into itself to a degree that the Capo’s brow furrowed as he read. “Stabbed the guy like thirty times before he had to take a breather,” the scrawl sharpens suddenly, “And went back for ten more to make sure he was dead.”
Good is finely printed on the notepad and the Capo bites his tongue.
”I told ‘im he should bring the kid,” William was moving in his field of vision now, the glass of water the Capo previously denied offered back out to him as he hands back Robert’s notes; this time he takes it. He relaxes his jaw, parts his lips to ease the cool liquid down the back of his throat, and he thinks. His left hand, the one that Izuru kissed, has rested unmoving on his thigh since its release finally shifts. It lifts up, takes the glass out of his right, and a stretch of a boney finger towards his cigar box on his desk sends William walking.
“I see.” Did he have more to say? Most probably, but water would not loosen his lips; tobacco would. The box is handed to him next, the cedar wood container traded with the glass of water in his grasp, and he presses his thumbs onto the top. He does not keep his more lavish cigars in his office, or his more expensive boxes, and thus the top slides back easily beneath his touch. He stores only a few cigars in the box, the rest of the room filled up with cigarettes that were not as pristine and deemed unworthy of his cigarette case. The silver case was inside his jacket, quite within reach if he wanted, but he did not bother with it. The cigarette he plucks out is crooked, the paper oddly crinkled, and the quality only deters him in public. It would burn the same, which is proven when William obliges him with a light, the hiss of a match and the sharp scent of a flame tickling his senses as the tip of the cigarette is lit. He breathes the smoke in, his nostrils flaring with the first drag, and he releases the smoke with a lavish rumble. He slides the lid of his cigar box closed, the soft, scratchy sound of wood rubbing against itself filling the silence of the room, and the muted thud of the burned out match being thrown into the fire hearth seems to ring out like a boom.
”Robert,” dark eyes flit up, the officer having been checking over his notes for some reason, but all his attention was back on him; “Tell Izuru I have a job for him.”
He had been sent on grocery duty again that morning, bustled in and out of Robert’s house by the burly man’s wife, and he’s almost grateful. He doesn’t regret not having to stand about as a reminder to certain people to behave, and to pay, but it makes him nervous. All his tossing and turning from the night before has his stomach a little uneasy, his oatmeal for breakfast sitting awkwardly in his gut, so every step he takes shakes him some. He should add a little pep and spark into his actions though, make his steps jaunty and force color into his face, because it would get him better deals. Smiling flattering to the young lady at the bakery got him the better bread loaves and not stooping and huddling got him less questions at the grocery. It was a nuisance, the presentation of faces he didn’t really carry, but necessary; all too necessary.
He manages something that is halfway between ‘gloomy and distraught’ and ‘cheery and calm’ while attending to his errands, his higher steps and gentle smiles disappearing once his arms were loaded with paper sacks. He could easily shove the bag with the bread into the arm that carries the bag of cans, but he might squish the bread. Robert’s wife didn’t like the bread mushed up unnecessarily, unless of course he was being sent out to buy some stale loaves to make crumbs out of. Bringing back pristine groceries would bring such a smile to her face, her dark eyes still shiny and bright with life he didn’t quite see in most of the other normal occupants in her house, and her rough palms would always chap a cheery glow to his cheeks. He still had to wonder what it was with mothers and the pinching of cheeks.
He still contemplates putting the bread in his other arm though, leaving his right arm loose and free, because he’s suddenly got a bad feeling. It’s a nagging sensation in the back of his head and it was coupling with the unrest in his stomach, which eased neither very well. He felt like he should go into the alleyways and cut his walk short, which would seem like backwards logic to most. Thugs and other people who weren’t the best for a young man like him had a habit of hanging out in the alleys, smoking and conversing about themselves. Some of those men were just lookouts, he knew a few were sent out to stand in the cold and keep an eye on things. He didn’t know their names, but he knew how they would hold themselves. He could get past them with ease, but that wasn’t the problem.
Darting into an alleyway now would probably seem shifty, especially since he wasn’t really in a residential area, so he shoulders on. The puddles along the side of the road cast a bright reflection of his drab attire up at him, his slacks looking wrinkled in the ripples and his face looking drawn. He doesn’t dwell on how unflattering that image is, because he knows he looked fairly presentable; he had double checked this morning. Looking good hadn’t always been a goal of his, but it was almost a necessity now. Keeping the shabbiness from his form would benefit him, he knows; he’s been told this more than once.
The puddles that create unflattering images of him are suddenly disturbed, the crunch of stray gravel from the asphalt melting into the splash of water that the puddle makes. Rubber tires support the wheezing frame of a familiarly shaped car, but he has to look twice at it regardless. The police car was moving slowly, the water from the puddles along the sidewalk sloshing around the wheels, but not wholly splattering; he’s grateful. He does take a few cautionary steps from the curb though, hoping to keep his slacks as dry as possible, but also to not look too self-absorbed or too scared. Acting squeamish in front of cops was never a smart move, which is why he makes sure he relaxes his grip on the bags in his arms. The passenger window on the police car was rolling down, what he assumes is a deputy leaning back once he was done fighting with the crank, and the blond can feel his stomach flop some as he looks inside.
”’Ey kiddo~” The voice that comes with those words is oddly drawn out, almost high in pitch, and excessively lax. It is one thing to slur words together, especially when you were comfortable, but this was just— unnecessary. The degree of emphasis on how words blend together is horribly off putting, just like the lazy grin that is on the features of the man who spoke them. His head is bowed some, his temple almost brushing the steering wheel of the car as he squints out through the open window, and the awkwardness of the position would make most people simply look silly. He looks gaunt though, his spine showing on his neck and his throat drawn tight, almost as if he wasn’t healthy, or didn’t have enough food to eat. The badge that seems to be about two finish levels more expensive than the badge his companion in the passenger seat wears would falsify such an assumption. He stops dead in his tracks, holding still as the police car rolls to a stop, and shifts his weight. Standing there makes him only more aware of the gun he hides in his clothes.
The radio in the car is playing softly, the tune something he can’t quite catch, only interrupted with the static of an occasional message. There are some brown bags on the dashboard of the car, probably filled with the lunches the two officers would eat, but that wasn’t a guarantee. “Y’er lookin’ kinda jumpy out there; everything alright~?” It was the officer in the driver’s seat again, his head still ducked down and his squinting gaze still focused upon him. He had very pale hair, the color almost matching his lackluster skin tone, and it makes his clothes seem all the more dark for it. Or perhaps it was the clothes that made the man seem more pale? He wasn’t sure.
”Everything is fine sir.” He tries to keep his voice light, keep it at a level that sounded subdued with sleepiness and not tense with apprehension, and he’s pretty sure he nailed it. The brunet sitting in the passenger’s seat was shifting around, looking obviously unimpressed by this whole exchange. The pale haired officer was flicking the radio’s volume down a few notches, his attention zeroing in on the blond, and it makes his lousy breakfast creep up his throat. He shifts his weight again; masking the action by adjusting the bags in his arms, and feels the gun against his back shift again. The jacket he was wearing over his sweater was hiding the bulge the gun would make, but that wasn’t entirely comforting at the moment.
”Yeah?” The man’s voice was unsettling, somehow, which only encourages him to nod and to try to get away. A hum from between pursed lips barely makes it out of the cab of the car, but he can guess at it, just judging by the look on the man’s face. He seems thoughtful about the response, the idling engine steaming slightly in the chilly morning air, and the Made Man contemplates on just how wasteful it was of the officer to let the car run like this. “Well.” The grinding of a shifting gear makes him jump some, a smile playing on thin lips of the pale haired officer and an amused snort working its way out of the officer sat beside him. “If y’er sure kiddo. Y’a got our number if it ain’t~” It was a horrible joke, one that made his lips thin out into a faint frown, and that really makes the brunet officer snort. The window rolls up as the car rolls away, the blond taking a few more steps back from the curb to keep his slacks dry, and he watches them go.
The tune that was playing on the car’s radio is stuck in the back of his head, replacing the apprehension he had felt before, and it resonates like a toothache. He resists the urge to pull at his sore molar just to encourage some distracting pain and simply hurries on. He does not get to see the laugh or the grin from the pale haired officer, nor the query shoved at him from the deputy that was making rounds with him. “He’s fresh meat if I ever seen it.” They both laugh, enjoying the warmth of that car while the blond cuts through an alley and heads back to the safe house, his flat cap keeping the sun off his pale face and keeping his side swept bangs firmly in place.
He’s eating when Robert shows up for lunch, the larger man walking into the kitchen exactly on time, because his wife already has a plate ready for him. The Officer gets something a bit more impressive than the sandwich he devours, but he doesn’t mind. Some of the juices from the roast that is simmering on the stove had been poured over the chunks of beef that had been slapped together between two pieces of bread, which made it at least two steps up from the food he had been fixing himself the past week. His pantry was running lean again, just as he was, and he knows Mary is going to meow and nag at him to go shopping within a day or so. Without a wife, or a mother, to nag at him he only had his cat, which he was mostly grateful for. Robert’s wife was a very nice woman, her smiles sweet and her cooking good, but she was also pretty scary. Waking up to a cat yowling was scary enough; he didn’t need to wake up to a woman’s shouting.
He mulls over nothing as he eats, taking his time on the sandwich in his grip, and he almost doesn’t notice Robert sit down almost right next to him. The squeak of a chair being pulled back from the table doesn’t mean much to him, not until the gentle clatter of a plate being put down and the grunt of a businessman undoing his jacket reaches his ears. Blue eyes slide over the textured wood of the table in the kitchen, the edges worn with age and the finish flecked with abuse, and land on the gun that is pulled out of its harness and settled down next to the plate. He swallows slowly, watching as a notepad comes next and eventually a pen that no doubt had been stuck in the Officer’s suit pocket and forgotten. He waits, anticipation flaring to life like a wave of heartburn, and forgets how to breath for a moment. Just a minute though, because Robert had simply been divesting himself of unnecessary equipment, and was digging into his meal.
He relaxes despite his better judgement.
They eat in companionable silence, the kind of quiet that good bonds could form within, only broken with interjections from Robert’s wife. She slaved over the stove, or perhaps he should say the stove was her slave, considering how it groaned and creaked every time she prompted it to work harder for her. The smell of gas burning was not off putting, only for the fact that it was controlled, and heavily masked by the smell of cooking meat. Bread was rising on the far end of the counter, ready to be chunked into the oven once it was time, and turn light and crisp beneath inescapable heat. He liked the bread here, but that was probably because it was sweeter than the bread he can afford, and fresh. He finishes off the last bite of his sandwich, laments that the bread waiting for him at home had already gone hard and stale, and moves to get up. He has the plate in his hand, which he will wash and put on the drying rack, just to be polite. Instead he drops it, lets it clatter back to the table top (it doesn’t break, thank god), all out of the shock of the hand closing tight on his shoulder.
Robert still has a mouthful of food that he was working on, but he smiles while he chews. His fingers, darkened from what the blond can assume to be years of working with a printing press (or guns), were white at the knuckles. The grip was tight, warning, and he takes the warning to heart. He sits back down, glances sheepishly at the man’s wife, who was eying him critically for dropping her plate, and faces Robert again. The older man takes his time to chew and swallow, clearing his throat and licking at his teeth, before he flashes a full smile. It was forced, too light and airy for the grip that has not relented in the slightest, and he wonders how dark the finger shaped bruises will be the next morning.
”Relax Kid.” There is an edge to his tone, but it is still at least openly friendly, which is better than some things. The hold on his shoulder finally relents, all so the Officer can clap him on the shoulder and back, and he flinches. Robert lets him go, his hand falling idly in his lap, and he weighs his options and their consequences. He takes a risk, reaching up to rub at his smarting shoulder, and Robert’s smile does not fall. In fact, Robert’s smile doesn’t change at all. This was bad. ”The Boss wants you to do something for him.”
The church itself was nothing exceptional, considering where it was located, and the donations it received. It was small, tucked away where real estate was poor, and looked admittedly shabby. The roof had seen better days, the windows look painted, not stained, and the entry door was scarred from unforgiving seasons. It was a sturdy entry door though; it was heavy enough that he struggled to close it behind him with the wind pulling against him. The gusts outside had successfully ruined the warmth of his lunch and cut him right through his threadbare coat and down to the bone. His scarf was wet either from the drip of his nose or the spiteful drizzle outside and his fingers were red from the chill. A lovely afternoon for him to seek refuge in a beat down, if warm, church.
There was no donation box in the entry hall, as he had expected, but a small prayer box. Or-- perhaps prayer box wasn’t the right word. Lightly crumpled pieces of paper filled the box, their edges studiously straightened, even though it was obvious they had been gripped too tightly in too many hands. There was coffee stains on a few of the pages, stains he wasn’t sure about on others, and even a touch of makeup. He wonders what would consume someone with a great enough need to kiss a piece of paper, or rub it at their eyes, but he remembers where he is. Faith was not something lost on him, merely muted.
There is a foot step down the hall, a click of a heel that suddenly falls silent, and he makes a point to ignore it. He takes his time, instead, looking at the ‘prayer’ box, and pretends he doesn’t hear the carefully slow and quiet steps coming towards him. He reaches into the box, brushing his fingers along the bottom, and promptly removes his hand. One of the pieces of paper falls out as he tries to move away, fluttering gently to the floor, and he stoops to pick it up. The print at the top, “LEVITICUS 24:17”, catches his eye. The woman who had been ‘creeping’ up on him will only catch him smiling and neatly placing the sheet of paper back into the box; all the while brushing fine white dust off his fingertips.
”Do you need some help…?” She’s not hesitant, by any means, with her projected voice and brightly colored clothes. She’s polite though, giving him the moment he needs to collect himself and take off his hat (he had forgotten to take it off before when he first came in) and give her a polite nod of his head in return.
He lets the dryness of his lips spur on the nervous movement of his tongue, a swipe across his lower lip helping soothe parched surfaces, and visibly driving the nervous energy home. “I was hoping I could speak--” He coughs, and manages to sneeze as well, before he can finish his sentence. “Pardon me; I was hoping I could speak to the pastor.” His interrupted confession is met with a stern gaze, dark eyes giving him a strong once over that was nearly as biting as the wind was, and he exposes the long, dark mark on his face by reaching up to unwind his scarf and knocking back his fringe some; it works.
The woman finally breaks a smile, one that is too inviting and warm to be completely genuine. Maybe it could be considered a motherly smile, but he doubts it. He’s seen that kind of smile one too many times to be drawn easily into its warmth. He hurriedly smoothes down his hair, hiding away the flaw on his cheek, and lets her smile at him like a lion would to a lamb. “Pastor Mondt is in the middle of service right now, but you can wait until the service is over, or you can come back.” She doesn’t gesture towards the door when she says this, which means you should stay, and considering the wind outside? He’s wholly too happy to oblige that thought. So he drags up his smile, tight in the eyes and gaunt in the throat, and peeks from side to side underneath his fringe. Her smile gets wider for a moment, but she ratchets it down; he saw it though. He’s done this dance before.
When she beckons him deeper into the church he shoves his hand in his pocket and wipes the rest of the giggle dust off against the unlined wool.
He ends up waiting outside the main hall, sitting on an uncomfortable bench with a coffee mug cradled between his hands, and listens to the service. The exact words roll off of him, his eyes flicking between the doors and the clock, and occasionally the woman who tries to sneak a glance at him from around the corner. The service ends with songs, the off key music of the organ somewhat masked by the congregation of even more off key worshippers, and the buzz of normal conversation helps break the uncomfortable echo of the near silence. He abandons the coffee mug, still full but no longer hot, and disappears into a side room before the doors can open. The side room was actually a closet, a dark closet, but it would do. He’s been in more uncomfortable positions before.
The buzz of conversation takes a while to die down, probably around an hour or more, and he winds his scarf tighter around his nose to stave off the bored chill that creeps up his spine. The buzz rings in his ears even as the voices drift away, only a few voices left, and then finally none. There was only the tapping of heels on the floor, the sounds of someone stopping and starting over and over again. He waits until the annoyingly loud clicking of those heels disappear, going off down the hall, indicating that the woman from before has gone on her way in continued search of him. Ah, oh well; her mistake.
The sun had finally decided to take pity on them, momentarily showing its face through the wind and clouds, and its light was tumbling in through the windows. He was right, before, about the windows: they weren’t stained, but painted. The painting was nice, at least, and done with some amount of care, but it was old. It was fading, chipping, and adding an unpleasant orange glow to the air in the congregation hall. The dust particles that dangled lazily in the air were painted like small, odd oranges in the off color light, which conflicted horribly with the musk that stood stagnant in the hall. The musk being the remains of too many muddled perfumes drifting away from their lady’s necks. It was stifling in the room, in the oddly orange light, and lonely, but not quiet.
The pastor was at the organ, hitting keys too quickly and suddenly to be considered playing, but he didn’t seem to be interested in making music. The tuning process was a loud one, a tedious one, and he hangs back for a while at the end of the pews, just so he could watch him. The man seems oblivious to him though; his brow furrowed and his eyes squinted horribly. He had heard that the pastor was losing his eyesight, due to old age, along with his mobility. The cane and glasses seemed to validate that, even if it hardly mattered; it merely meant that the rumors were true.
He has to clear his throat once he gets close to the man, his fist warmed barely by the sharp exhale of his moist breath, and he can momentarily smell the garlic on his breath from the roast gravy that had been on his sandwich. He ignores the smell, how it creeps up his nose and stays there, making the musk of the room that much more unbearable, because the pastor was turning around. He twists on the bench in front of the organ, his fingers curling into the ivory keys, making the beast of an instrument wheeze in the quiet. Aha, so that’s how he played the music earlier.
A smile breaks out over the pastor’s mouth, finally, and reveals aged, but intact, teeth. “Hello there! You must be the boy that Betty told me about.” Of course the woman had warned him that he was here, somewhere; he should have expected it. All he can do is nod, his eyes darting about the room, and lingering for a moment too long on the door. Mr. Mondt’s smile becomes larger, another lion grin turned towards him, and he wrings the hat he holds in his hands to continue posing as the lamb. “Come here, sit; there’s no need to be so uptight.” A wrinkled hand is gesturing to the pew that is closest to the organ, offering them an impromptu meeting, but he can’t take it. He looks around the room one more time, spots the exit door that was off to the far right, and shakes his head.
”I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
He wrings the hat in his hands a few more times, letting the words settle on the pastor’s mind, and follows a spec of orange dust with his eyes. “Does that mean you wanted to see me for a confession?” He’s more guarded now, but his smile sticks to his leathery cheeks, and the tenacity is interesting. Not impressive, or endearing, but interesting. He nods slightly, a hum dragging across his breath, which gets him the same sweeping gesture of the older man’s hand as before; he ignores it. He fixes his cap, delicately peels out the piece of paper that had been hiding in one of the inner creases, and drags it forward. It’s a shame that the man’s eyesight was failing.
“I have more of a question, than a confession, actually.” He fiddles with the paper, eyes flicking between its surface, Mr. Mondt, and the side door. The man is no longer smiling, but his brow was furrowed, and he was reaching for his cane. He takes a step forward, reaches out with his foot, and knocks the cane over. The clatter of the wood is sharp, echoing in the somewhat large hall around them, and it wipes any trace of a smile off the man’s face. He extends the paper out to him, even as he undoes a button of his jacket, and releases the tension off the middle of his back. “I was wondering,” He lets his jacket fall open as the man brings the slip of paper closer. “Why you hadn’t,” The gun harness is obvious now, standing stark against his undershirt, and his gun is barely warm from being pressed up under his arm for several hours; he grabs it anyway. He drags it out as the man’s expression switches to a familiar sort of horror; his eyes wide and his glasses pushed high up his nose so he could make out the symbol carefully inked on the piece of paper. “Paid your debts.”
“Now son--” He’s trying to stand, reaching for his cane, and the flailing hand is ignored in favor of cocking back the hammer of his gun. He does not attempt to hold the gun single handedly, but his supporting hand is loose, and ready to grab at the man should he need to. The room was too large, still echoing from the crack of the falling cane from before, and the nervous wheezing now coming out of the pastor’s mouth.
“Sit down Mr. Mondt.” He does not raise his voice, or reach out, but the man acts like he’s been slapped. He slumps back down on the bench, his eyes still wide, and his expression settling into the horror. Realization seems to creep up on people in stages, usually starting with denial and ending in acceptance; Mr. Mondt seemed to be stuck on disbelief. “You should have put in a donation box in the entry hall, not an ’exchange’ box.” The heroin will need to be washed out of his coat now, by hand, but that wasn’t a huge deal; he had to scrub out specs of blood and gunpowder fairly regularly now. The drugs were not something he was interested in, or the Caporegime was interested in, but the lack of payment was; it was obvious Mr. Mondt had been hiding his other wallet.
“Listen.” His voice is higher now, nervous, and shaking in time with his shoulders. He was on the ‘bargaining’ stage of realization now, it seemed. “I can pay, I am good for my word, I just--” His eyesight wasn’t so poor to know when a gun was being shoved into his face.
“Need more time?” The last man who had tried that line had then tried to stick a meat hook in his face and had missed; he had been thankful for the drain in the floor helping remove the excess blood on the floor. “You are already two months behind, Mr. Mondt; how more time do you need?” He lets the barrel of his gun warm itself up against the man’s wrinkled forehead, his eyes no longer wide, but squeeze tightly shut; there were tears rolling down his face. “Enough time to abandon your ’flock’?” He had been listening to the service, somewhat, but now he ignores the sob coming out of the man’s mouth. There was no way to earn the sympathy of a Made Man, after all.
“I can make the payment; I can. I just need a little more time. One more exchange and--!” He’s now in the ‘desperation’ stage of realization, which is the most animated, and the most tedious. He reaches out towards him, tries to pull the gun off his head (and out of his grip), and he evades. He draws back, just for a moment, and stoops down. The cane on the floor is made of solid wood, was thick and study, and does not break when he brings it down on the bench seat next to the pastor. The splintering of wood crackles in his ears, makes the orange tinted particles rush away, and the man’s rambling stops; good. He had been here too long as it was.
“Turn around Mr. Mondt.” He lifts the cane from the damaged bench, giving him room to do as he is told, and tosses it aside. It thuds quietly on the strip of carpet that runs through the center of the pews, leading out to the main doors, and signalling the last path of freedom the man might of had. The other door led to the alley, not to the office, and there would be no way to make up his debt in an alley. This wouldn’t make up for his debt either, but that was fine; a warning to the community would be enough.
“I want you to play your favorite song Mr. Mondt.” The man was crying openly now, a hiccup making his trembling hands shake worse, and the first notes of said song were atrocious. The tuning from earlier seemed to help though; considering that through all the shaking and mistakes the music actually sounded better. Maybe he was just too close to the loud noise to hear how off key it might be though; he couldn’t be sure. All he was sure of was that the gunshot was not as loud as the organ, the music wailing and slumping into a long wheeze of a premature end. The pastor’s bowed head on the keys extended the last long sigh of the organ’s music; their collective death rattle. His ears were ringing, but his hand was steady, and there wasn’t even a spec of blood on his clothes. He almost wants to pat himself on the back.
The sudden, unexpected clapping and garishly cheeri ’bravo’ kills that desire entirely.
