Page 48 of Bitter Poetry
“Sometimes you don’t get to pick a side, ya know?” Jero continues. “Sometimes circumstances thrust one upon you, and you have to roll with it… You don’t need to treat me like the enemy, mate. You’ve got Dante’s back, and when it comes down to it, when it’s important, I’ve got yours.”
DANTE
There are neither questions nor threats. Only blows.
With each and every one of them, I’m more convinced that this has been orchestrated by Ettore and not one of Jimmy’s disgruntled minions.
My lip is bleeding; My right eye is swelling shut. The leather-covered fists land against my stomach: slow, deliberate, precise blows. Time to breathe between them, to savor, to anticipate the next.
I took boxing while at college, so I know how it feels to take a hit. But it’s been a while. Also, in college bouts, they stopped before it got to the cracked ribs stage, and I didn’t have my wrists bound at my fucking back.
Leon is going to come back at some point.
Another blow.
Another breath.
The trouble in VIP was probably a distraction.
Where the hell is Leon? Fuck, I hope he’s not lying on the floor.
Another blow.
Another breath.
What the fuck happened to the rest of my security?
Another blow.
I’m going to puke.
The door slams open. The first man has taken a bat to the side of the head before I realize Christian is the man wielding it.
He crumples to the floor.
Christian drops the bat and draws his gun. He has blown out the kneecap of the one holding me and stalked over to put a bullet in the final man’s skull while I’m still grappling to process that he’s here. My head is ringing. He casually steps over to theone he kneecapped who is screaming on the floor and blows out his skull, too.
I might take a moment to appreciate his skill if I wasn’t busy grappling with the urge to retch and fighting to keep my legs from buckling.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The words come out slightly slurred.
My legs win the what-next decision, and I slide down the wall until my ass hits the floor. It brings fresh agony to my aching ribs.
Christian grins at me and shakes his head before it shifts to a grimace. “Didn’t I tell you I would always have your back? You don’t have the disposition for this shit. Were you even carrying a piece?”
“I’m a capo. I shouldn’t need to shoot anyone.”
He helps me to my feet. I spit out a mouthful of blood.
“Get a piece, yeah?”
“Trust me, the learning curve may be steep, but I’m pragmatic.”
Movement snags my eyes, and I notice Jero standing in the doorway.
How much of that did he hear?
He gives me a chin lift. He’s got his phone in his hand, talking to someone. The man on the floor groans and tries to rise. Jero plants a boot in the center of his back and continues with his call.
