WHO: Declan Donovan WHAT: Declan tracks down Dante's hood. To get his wallet and knife back. WHEN: Tue. Night / Wed. Morning: 3:30 am. WHERE: An alley in Italian turf.
(I’m going to proof this tomorrow.)
Declan was back on Italian turf. It had been several days since the last time he’d stepped foot on Italian territory and he’d woken up in a hospital the day after. That night had proven to be a handful and Declan was sure to remember it for quite some time. He still bared the consequences of his actions that night; the cuts, bruises, aches and pains. His ankle still hurt like a motherfucker. Tonight Declan’s intentions were far more serious though as he had no intention of starting a fight. He had no intention of roughing up some hood for shits; on this night Declan was set on killing a man.
Lorenzo De Luca, a small time hood that worked under Dante Morelli. Lorenzo might not know who Declan Donovan was but Declan damned well knew him. That night things had gone off on a tangent and in the midst of their fight Declan’s kill was taken from him. He was going to drive his knife into the heart of Dante, then and there, but was stopped by the likes of Lorenzo De Luca. To add insult to injury, De Luca took not only Declan’s wallet but his favorite blade as well. If everything went as planned, that blade would be the last thing Lorenzo De Luca ever saw.
Declan sat in his Lincoln outside the alley behind the pawn shop in which Lorenzo De Luca used as a front to sell stolen merchandise. The Italian sold stolen TV’s, jewelry, anything he could get his hands on. Declan knew this because he had spent three of the past five days since the fight following Lorenzo. He followed Lorenzo when he dropped his kids off for school, he followed Lorenzo when he stopped by the hospital to see Dante, and he followed Lorenzo to the pawn shop where he spent most of his time. The key to killing a man you don’t know is finding a pattern. Declan knew that every man has a routine, a system he follows each day whether he likes it or not. You figure that out and you’ll find yourself an opening to make your move.
Declan’s opening was this pawn ship; a hot bed for criminal activity between the Italians and several other groups that worked in the city. Some of the groups Declan recognized like the Arabs that sold stolen electronics or the Jews that sold stolen jewelry. Some groups Declan did not recognize at all like the Asian that Lorenzo gave a bankers bag to the past two nights in a row at 3:30 am, sharp. That was Declan’s chance and tonight he’d make things right because if he couldn’t kill Dante he’d sure as hell kill his boy.
3:15 am. Declan took a drag off his cigarette as he waited inside the Lincoln; the heat turned up all the way as a result of the intense cold outside. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was Frank Doyle; a long time gunrunning underling of Declan’s. Declan was steady, calmer than usual as he stared out the windshield, gazing out into the night. The cigarette between his lips continued to burn as its ash hung low at the end. Declan was a statue while Frank couldn’t sit still; constantly looking around and checking to see what Declan was doing. Finally Frank broke the silence between the two, his voice a mixture of fear and apprehension. “The fuck are we doin’ here Declan? Christ man we’re gunrunners not hitmen. Why the fuck can’t you just let Conor take care of this?” “Because, Francis…” Declan sighed but he did not turn his head to look at Frank. His hand rose to remove the cigarette from between his lips and snub it out in the ash tray on the side of the door. He exhaled smoke in Frank’s direction and the same hand moved to rub his eyelids. “This is not Conor’s problem. Besides Frank gunrunners or not we’ve been through enough rodeos in our line to train an army.” His jaw muscles clenched and he wrapped his knuckles against the dash board for a moment, continuing to gaze at the nothing that waited in the night ahead of the Lincoln. “No…No Francis. This is not some schmuck who owes Conor money. This man did me an injustice. Besides, don’t be stupid. This boyo’s got me wallet Francis. You know what happens if my name gets thrown into this mess? I’ll be killin’ a lot more ‘o’ these dago fucks. Even worse, they find me.” He cleared his throat and Frank opened his mouth to speak but as he did a car turned the corner into the alley on the far end. The car pulled up and parked in the center of the alley, and the lights turned off. It was the Asian from the nights before. “Hand me the gun then, Francis.”
Frank stared at Declan for a moment but not for long, he knew better than to keep Declan waiting. He reached behind his chair to the back seat and grabs the Model 21, double barreled sawed-off shotgun; the barrel cut off just before the wooden stock. The trigger and butt of the gun were wrapped with duct-tape since Declan had no intention of keeping the weapon. Declan popped the gun open to check that both barrels were loaded and snapped it shut, taking a deep breath. “Stay here Francis.”
Declan got out of the Lincoln slowly and limped down the street, going around to enter the alley from the direction the Asian did. He wore a heavy gray coat tonight, a wool Kashmir duster he’d bought himself last year. He kept the shotgun in his hand, tucked inside the coat as he limped into the alley, staying in the shadows along the wall as he crept up behind the car. As he approached the car from the side, Declan came to a stop and waited. He was not going to attack…not before Lorenzo got there.
3:35am. Lorenzo turned the corner into the alley from the street, walking quickly as he kept his hands buried deep inside his jacket. Lorenzo was a big man, probably in his mid 30’s with jet black hair and tan olive skin. All Italians looked the same to Declan. Judgment hour has arrived and Declan knew this was it, knew this was when he could strike. Lorenzo had been the only one in the pawn shop for almost an hour now so here in this alley there was just the three of them; Declan, Lorenzo, and the Asian. Lorenzo moved up to the passenger side of the Asian’s car, bankers bag in hand. Just as he prepared to open the door Declan stepped out from the shadows.
Declan raised the shotgun up, holding the butt of the gun to his hip as he aimed into the back window on the driver’s side. He pulled the left trigger and an eruption of firepower spewed from the left barrel of the gun. Dozens of little metal pellets penetrated the back window of the car but it did not shatter; instead it looked white with the holes and cracks the gunshot caused. The ammunition ripped through the car and penetrated the back of the Asian’s seat, littering the back of his head and torso with the shotgun blast. The Asian was dead before he had time to react and his bloodied corpse fell forward onto the steering well, sounding the horn in the dark alleyway.
“Oh shit!” Lorenzo saw Declan but he must have been unarmed since he never even tried to go for a gun. He turned his back to the Irishman and began to run though he didn’t get far. Declan limped after Lorenzo and lowered the gun downwards before pulling the right trigger. The shotgun fired and the blast tore out Lorenzo’s legs from beneath him, causing him to fall flat on his face. Lorenzo let out a piercing scream of pain in the alleyway but the sound of the car horn covered it. Declan tossed the empty shotgun aside and limped towards Lorenzo. Grabbing the Italian’s coat, Declan flipped him over onto his back, looking down at his mangled legs for a moment. “Remember me do ya?”
Lorenzo had tears in his eyes but the pain and horror that had covered his face slowly turned to rage and disgust as he saw who it was that had shot him. He began to curse at Declan in Italia, spouting a flurry of words which the Irishman didn’t understand. Declan just smiled and began to rummage through the man’s pockets; looking for what was his. “Don’t know what you’re sayin’ mate so you may as well give it up.” Declan continued to stick his hands in the Italian’s pockets, removing Lorenzo’s wallet and cell phone first.
“What’s this?” Finally Declan found his own wallet inside the man’s jacket pocket. He opened it and saw his ID was still inside but the money was gone. Declan growled and continued to search the man until he found the stiletto he’d stolen from him several nights before. “There ‘tis.” Declan grinned as he found the knife, pressing the button on the side so the blade popped out of the hilt. Lorenzo was panting on the ground as the color drained from his face. He glared at Declan as the Irishman reclaimed his things.
“My boss….Dante. He’s going to find you, you mick fuck! He’s going to find you and cut off your balls and feed them to you!” Lorenzo spoke through gritting teeth, his eyes containing the hatred a dead man has for his killer. Declan stuck his wallet in his back pocket and stood up without saying anything. He limped so that he was standing over Lorenzo’s head and sighed, his breath visible in the cold night.
“That may be so boyo, but you’re not gonna be here to find out.” Declan spoke down to him, that insane little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He kneeled down and grabbed Lorenzo’s hair, pulling his head up. Declan took the knife and jammed it into the right side of the man’s neck, beginning to saw while he moved the blade across Lorenzo’s throat. Lorenzo’s low moan of horror began to shift into a gurgling sound as Declan felt Lorenzo’s warm blood spill over his hand, steam rising over the both of them as the hot gore pumped out with each heartbeat. Ear to ear; Declan’s favorite means of dispatching a man. Lorenzo was dead before Declan had even finished cutting. “Shouldn’t take another man’s things boyo. Now you know.”
Declan raised his hand, covered in blood, up to the moon; it was covered in blood and black in the night as Declan looked over it with strange fascination. The Asian’s body still laid on the car horn; the only sound that could be heard in the alley as Declan began to limp away, being met at the other end of the alleyway by Frank in the driver’s seat of the Lincoln. Declan moved around the car and got into the passenger’s side though he never looked at Frank, even as he spoke. “Drive Francis.”