I could feel the cell phone in my pocked buzzing, and I stopped firing. With one hand I clicked on the safety, and ejected the clip. With the other, I removed my hearing protection. I cleared the breach of the last bullet and put down the .45.

"Tserovich." I said, relaxed and easy.
"Nicco, It's Mike, I gotta talk to you. Soon." His voice was odd. Nervous, but whether at having to talk to me, or at someting else?

"How soon? Half an hour at my place in south Boston, or have you got...iIssues right now?" Issues, meaning, are you being followed or about to be shot at?

"Nah, Nah...Half is fine Nicco. Thanks..I.." I ended the connection before he could tell me how much he appreciated it. I hate being called Nicco, and he knows that. I make him VERY nervous, and when he feels out of control, he likes to throw his weight around - act like a tough guy. It's a ludicrous sight, but I occasionally indulge him.

He's not even a Made Man, but He's the boss' kid. Youngest child, and the ONLY boy. My age.
It makes me think about how my life might have been different, but not often. I always seem to get nauseous or a headache when I do that. Funny.

I got "home" in record time despite the hour. What a coincidence.

I fixed myself some coffee and a sandwich. Turkey and rye. I put on a mix tape and waited. I've disovered I like Wagner, and dislike piano pieces. I don't like much rap. "Gangsta" rappers are pawns of the Nephandi. Real gangsters laugh their asses off at the silly little bastards.

If you tough talk all day, what happens when you need to make a threat? Stay mild and relaxed, then kill someone unimportant. THAT'S a threat. Then, apologise, and offer your handkerchief to the fellow next to him, so he can clean off the gray bits, and say your piece. That's more effective than waving your pistol and calling everyone a "motherfuckin' nigga".

My doorbell rang. I answered it. It was Michaelangelo Benito Antonucci. I let the boy in. He was tall, dark haired. He dressed like a rich Guido kid, all gold chains, and expensive jogging suits. His hair was buzzed on the sides and a mass of short gelled curls in the middle. He had a ridiculously thin ponytail in the back.

"So, this is your place hah? Ni-" I cut him off short.

"No, This isn't my place. Your father has a very nice house that he takes care of for me in Arlington, I've been there a few times. That's where my mail goes, and it's the address on my license. THIS, is one of my varying safe houses. I have several. I tend not to stay in the same house two nights in a row....Anymore." I stared at him. He should know better than to ask those kind of questions.

"Uhh..Yeah...I'm sorry. I'm just a little...You know..."

"Nervous? Intimidated? Wondering why your dad has a frothing loony on the payroll?" I offered. Humor is supposed to break the ice..but never seems to do the trick for me.I wonder why.

He stared at me like a bunny in the headlights. His mouth made little fish breathing motions.

"Shoot." I said, and pointed to the table, and the seat opposite mine. It seemed to burst the dam.

"Pop has a hit on him." he said in a rush.

I got cold. Have you ever felt your brain go cold? Not the numbness of confusion, but the pitiless feeling that there can be no mercy, no remorse for those who have wronged you? The feeling that you would perform any action, no matter how cruel as the means to your ends?

Well, that's pretty normal for me.
I got cold.
"Who, when, WHY?" I said, evenly.

"Ramon, from Provdence. He's got some boys in a hotel in Waltham." I got up, and began to remove my clothes. I didn't notice if Michaelangelo had a reaction, he was just a voice giving information to me now.

I went to the bathroom, shaved, and got the scissors from the medicine cabinet. I trimmed my hair until it was an even, 2" bush. At this length it stood up straight.

I went to the closet, naked, and selected a loose black shirt and black combat pants. The knee length, strap boots with the steel heel and toe caps. I placed them on the bed, in order. I strapped the stilletto sheath to my arm, then dressed.

I opened the Armoire, which as fate would have it, is also my Armory. I selected two 9.mm pistols, and silencers for each. Seven clips of ammo. I hovered over the H&K MP5. I decided that would be too much for 4 or 5 guys. I grabbed the twin shoulder holster on the way out.

I sat back down and placed the two pistols on the table and began to quickly strip and clean them with brutal efficiency.Michaelangelo jumped when the pistols snapped apart.

"What does your father say about all this?" I asked.

"He doesn't know. I'm handling this!" His voice was belligerant. I had him good and rattled alright.
"How did you hear about this? I pressed, quietly.

"I have my sources." Arrogance dripped from his mouth like congealed grease.

"Lie." I snapped the final bits back together and loaded the piece. I snapped off the safety, and placed it flat down on the table, resting it between my hands, palms down on the corners of the wooden table. I stared at him coldly.

"OK, OK! I hadda deal with some of Ramon's guys, and I heard some shit! You happy now?" Fear and aggrieved pride warred in his voice.

"A deal? what kind of deal...let's think. Mr Antonucci has you handling half of the protection for the city, Jimmy B is in charge of prostitution, and gambling, and you handle all the approved recreational pharmacuticals for this area." I went down the list casually, like a grocery list of sins.

"Ramon, he's got the coke and heroin, and the crazy backyard burner stuff, that no one else has, and you want to sell that real bad. but the Boss says no. The Boss says "Don't shit where you eat." My voice was barely a whisper.

I put on the harness and slipped in both pistols, and loaded all the ammo and the silencers in the side pockets.

My hand was like a gunshot in the room. The table shook and Michaelangelo jumped to his feet.

"But you won't listen to the man who RAISED you, WILL YOU!" I shouted. "If I tell him this, It will KILL him to hear you betrayed him! And if I don't, I am betraying him."

I grabbed him by the lapels.

"If I didn't love him like he were my own father, I'd beat you to death right here." He knows I don't make empty promises. "But I do. And for his sake I will never make mention of this to anyone.
Never. Do. This. Again." Each word a death threat.

"Get the fuck out. Now." I went back to the armoire and removed the full length leather trenchcoat.

I put it on, and then the designer sunglases from an inside pocket. Looked in the mirror.
I saw a New Wave SS Commando. I took the gloves out of the other pocket, and one by one switched them, my pale white fingers never touching the outside of the glove, leaving no fingerprint.
The old ones, simple driving gloves. The new ones, longer, thinner, and stronger. Custom made. Skintight.

I went out into the night. Dressed to kill.