Flame within the Grey

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The used-up cigarette stub dropped to the black tarred street. Roman blew out its last smoke into the chilled air. His hand touched his head, smoothing out his gelled, slick hair that was black as midnight as the sky above him. The night was empty and cold. Not a star in sight, the dimmed half-moon curtained by grey clouds.

He crossed his arms against his black leather jacket and leaned against the Rolls Royce as he waited for the boss to come out from his business in the Irish pub. His left eye twitched, and he avoided touching his scar beneath it. It hurt from time to time.

He turned his head down the avenue, checking. Not a car in sight. A wastepaper fluttered by on the empty street. He circled right. The same sight was seen. Good, he thought. Nobody suspicious lurked. People skulking at this ungodly hour were up to no good or operating unlawful business. These days, Roman and his boss would be their business too.

But he knew the mob business very well. Racketeering, murder, money laundering, loan sharking, illegal gambling. It involved plenty of bloodshed and mayhem in the criminal underbelly of the city. That's where Roman entered. His number one business... taking out necessary individuals.

Roman operated at mostly at night. Darkness was his ally. It kept bad things hidden in the shadows. 'The triggerman' for the East End gang. That's what they called him. He was the finisher for the Irish mafia and one of their top killers. He was damn good at it. Roman earned it by 'taking out' 24 people to date, killing, torturing, or beating up anybody who ever crossed the boss. Most of them didn't see him coming. If you crossed him or his men. You crossed the mob. It was simple as that. A formidable force to be reckoned with.

His job tonight was to drive the boss, Danny Shiner. Everybody in town called him Smiley since he had a permanent grin on his face. He had a long-term injury in his jaw that made it twitch. Danny hated the nickname. But he loved the mob. He came up with the name East End gang, running it for over ten years.

Roman glanced through the restaurant's blurred windows. The boss was still in a meeting with the crooked politician. Roman scoffed. It was amazing what people will let slide for an all-paid family trip to Hawaii or paying for a five-course meal. Either way, he was hardened that people could be bought. Politicians and law enforcement alike.

Two fucking hours dragged by that Roman waited on the side of the street, playing fucking lookout boy for the boss, making sure no trouble came their way. Ever since he came out of prison for a dumb robbery four years ago. The boss made him his personal lap dog, doing his dirty work.

And he had his work cut out for him. People in town feared Roman and for good reason. He painted these streets with people's blood. Sending the message loud and clear: whoever disobeyed the mob, betrayed the mob, challenged the mob or go against them. Saw Roman's fists, knife or gun.

Killing people and witnessing them being tortured and die turned Roman hard and rigid. He became unsympathetic and unfeeling. But it came with the territory. He lived by the gun. He craved power. His greed for money blinded him. And nothing stood in his way. Except for his fucking boss, he had to babysit.

He scowled as he looked at his watch. It was thirty minutes past midnight, and he had other fucking business of his own at the strip club.

"Where's this motherfucker?" Roman breathed out. His jaw clenching. He wasn't a patient man and being instructed what to do by a small-framed mobster wasn't his list of accomplishments. But you didn't move without the boss's go ahead. You couldn't approach anybody, take out anybody without Danny's permission. Roman was grateful for the Irish mob. They took him in when he had fucking nothing, and he learned a lot. The boss grew a shining to him, despite his Russian descent. Entrusting him with the big tasks.