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Franky August 1988
“You’ve lost your touch, Costa.” Milano’s gravelly voice spoke from the shadows. His gun pointed at Garrett’s chest. Franky stood silently a few feet from Bianchi. He slowly moved toward Bianchi, using his body as a shield for his boss.
“Check ‘em,” Milano spoke to his henchman.
“Running low on help these days?” Costa asked. He seemed just as relaxed as he had been in the house without a gun pointed at him.
“You thought you’d get me? Me? I’ve been running this town since before you were born.” Milano’s chin jutted out at Costa and then Bianchi. “Since you were a punk street fighter.”
“Times they are a changin’, old man,” Costa said. Bianchi’s body was tensed, poised to strike if and when the opportunity presented itself.
Milano’s man patted down Franky while keeping his eyes and his gun on Bianchi. He knew Franky wouldn’t make a move with his boss’s life in danger. Franky was relieved of his three pieces. Two were tucked away into the man’s coat. The third he held on Franky as he stepped away.
“What’s your name?” Franky asked him.
“Shut it,” the man said. He must be one of Milano’s street crew. Franky’d never seen him before. Milano was scraping the bottom of the barrel. His other men were either dead or jumped ship.
“Not much muscle left these days. Where did you find this one?” Milano didn’t acknowledge Franky’s comment. Franky hoped Milano would keep talking, giving him time to think of a way out of the situation. Franky, Costa and Bianchi outnumbered Milano and his helper but they’d been caught with their pants down. Milano held all the chips right now.
“What’d you think? You think you’d take me down?” Milano jabbed his gun at the men as he spoke. “Now who’s done? You cocky pissants, standing out here with no backup.”
“Are you positive?” Costa asked. His hands rested in his pants pockets like he was out for an evening stroll. Personally, Franky thought it was a bad practice. Hands tucked in pockets prevented swift reactions when needed. Although Franky would bet Costa was playing Milano psychologically at this point, trying to look relaxed without a care in the world.
“Yes, I’m pos’tive. We checked. I’ll take joy in killing you both myself.” Franky hoped Costa could keep him talking. Franky still had access to his knife. He couldn’t trigger the release without a swift movement of his arm, but he may be able to if he could get the right angle away from Milano’s thug.
“This is over, Charles,” Costa said. Antonio had yet to speak. Frank locked eyes with Bianchi before taking a small step forward. Franky’s movement kept his body between the thug and Bianchi, but Franky hoped Antonio understood what Franky needed him to do. Antonio may have been off the streets for years, but he kept himself in shape by boxing three days a week. Franky would choose him in a street fight any day of the week. Franky needed Bianchi’s speed and strength now.
Milano’s gaze locked on Costa’s giving Franky a chance to take another small step. One more and he’d be in position.
“Are you aware of your biggest flaw? Arrogance. You should’ve shot us from the tree line like a coward,” Costa said.
“I wanted you to know who was ending you. I wanted you to know who’ll still be on top.”
Another step.
“My point exactly. Arrogance,” Costa said while Franky pushed his wrist into his hip bone. The release made a small popping noise, but Costa’s words covered it. Franky watched Antonio and his man, but neither seemed to have noticed. “It has always been your weakness.”
“Who’s weak now?” Milano used the gun again for emphasis. Franky could see the cracks in Milano’s demeanor. Being hunted down by Bianchi and Costa had taken its toll on the old man. Milano knew he couldn’t win. Even if he killed then all, right here and now, others would fight for the chance to control the families. The first order would be to find Milano and kill him. No matter what, Milano knew his days were numbered without a network of his own. His only hope was to kill these men and hope the chaos it caused gave Milano enough time to sneak out of town and disappear. With sweat popping across his brow, Milano used his sleeve to wipe it away. He’s wasn’t in as much control as he’d wanted to project. He was scared and hoping to make one last stand. This night would make or break him. He knew he was coming to an end.
The knife slid down into Franky’s palm. He used tiny movements to wiggle it down until the hilt was in his hand. Franky kept the knife against his leg, hoping the shadows would conceal it.
Milano turned his focus to Bianchi, giving Franky a clear shot of his chest. With only six feet separating them Franky knew he could make the throw. He’d done it a thousand times in practice. Franky brought his arm up, snapping it at the elbow. The knife released from his hand and plunged into Milano’s chest. Milano fell back with a look of shock on his face. Costa was right. His arrogance never allowed him to think he’d lose the fight.
At the same time that Franky threw the knife, Bianchi stepped toward the other man. He used both hands to grab the guns, pushing the man’s arms apart. Antonio locked his hands around the man’s wrists, keeping the guns pointed over his shoulders and out of harm’s way. Any wild shots fired would miss. Antonio headbutted the guy. Blood spurted from his nose. Antonio released his hold on the guns to give a one-two punch. The man fell to the ground out cold.
Franky and Bianchi stood over the men watching. Costa leaned down over Milano. Gone was his congenial face. The wolf had shed his sheep’s clothing. His face showed his anger, his rage. No, thought Franky, not rage. His face showed his lack of any feelings at all. It showed his cunning and ruthlessness. Costa placed his finger on the end of the knife, moving it incrementally. Milano cried out with each new pain. Costa took pleasure in knowing he was causing Milano so much discomfort with nothing more than the power in his one finger.
“A lesser man would pull this knife from you and let you bleed out quickly. But, now it’s your turn. The tables have turned, Milano. I’m going to watch you die a slow, painful death. I’m going to stay right here, looking you in the eyes while you take your last breath. Now who’s on top?” Costa’s grin sent chills down Franky’s back.
Milano coughed, dribbling blood down his chin and reached for the knife. His arms fell back, too weak to move the few inches to his chest.
Bianchi bent over the unconscious man, picking up the man’s own gun. He pulled the trigger twice, point blank, firing into the man’s chest. He took his last breath in the next moment.
Franky watched the scene playing out before him like he would a movie. Bianchi, the bulldog, went for the straight attack. Franky realized he would always be able to see a man like Bianchi coming for him. Like his old man, Bianchi didn’t pull punches or play behind the scenes. If you were in his crosshairs, you knew it. You’d feel the tingle down your back until the deed was done.
Costa became even scarier to him at that moment. Twenty minutes ago, Franky was pushing for the families to unite. Now, he was questioning his decision. Costa would always be a snake in the grass waiting for his moment to strike. Franky would forever be on guard. Always trying to stay one step ahead. His life would be exhausting. And Franky knew, with a doubt, one day Costa would come for him, too.
It took Milano another twenty minutes to take his last breath. The twenty minutes were an eternity to Milano. And to Franky. Franky prayed the whole time that it would end. Franky had killed before. Always in self-defense. And always quickly. If a man looked like he might hang on Franky showed compassion and put another bullet in him. This was his first time watching a man die slowly. This was his first time watching another man take so much pleasure in watching one die. Costa continued to taunt Milano throughout the twenty minutes, slowly moving the knife back and forth. Sometimes, pulling it out partially only to plunge it back in.
When it was finally over, Costa rose, brushed his hands on his slacks and turned toward the house. Franky could see him pick up a phone in the kitchen. The call lasted less than a minute. When he finished, Costa returned outside.
“This will be cleaned up shortly. Due to these unforeseen circumstances, I believe our time to ponder our alliance has come to an end.” The wolf had donned his sheep’s veneer again. The cruelty had been put away to be covered in niceties. A chill ran up Franky’s spine. A cruel man Franky understood. Even a nice one, to some extent. But one who could switch between the two facades so easily? Not at all. That took a special kind of madness. Franky realized he would spend his life dancing like the women on stage that Bianchi hated watching so much.
Bianchi remained quiet throughout. After shooting the man, he leaned against his car and watched Costa torture Milano. Never speaking. Never taking his eyes off the event playing out in front of him. Franky didn’t know what Antonio was thinking, didn’t know how his boss was going to vote. Franky held his breath waiting for Antonio to decide their future. Either way, alliance or not, they would need eyes in the back of their heads for the rest of their lives.
“And then there were two.” Antonio said as he reached out his hand to shake Costa’s, sealing their fate.