THE HIT BACK SERIES (Order From Chaos)

chapter one

THE
WORLD UNDER
{A text edition on the science of the underworld}



The story revolves around a Black American—Paul, taken under the wing of a Sicilian-American Crime Boss—Rafael Visconti, and thrust into the mean universe of the underworld at a tender age by cruel, implacable fate. This story gives the vivid accounts of his education in the Mafia’s way and their strange world, his knowledge of his past, the strains and tension between his new family and the distrustfulness and treachery of his new world. The story shows how Paul must learn to thrive in a quick-changing world of the underworld, show where his loyalty lies, and avenge or make peace with the past which now reared its head in the present.

































CHAPTER ONE
           {The name is Paul}

My name is Paul. Surname and middle name? I have got none. And I bet you must be thinking I’m an anomaly, or something close. But I’m not one, so you had better do away with such thoughts. I haven’t the vaguest idea what my mom or dad looks like, or anything about any of my families, either. But still, I’ve got this one man worth more than any of my pedigree if they ever lived at the moment. He made me journeyed the path of no weakling. He’s my Godfather; the pop I’ll regret not knowing.
Am a tall, feat-bodied guy with a quick-fire temper, and dark hair buzzed in a brush cut. I stood supplely at six-feet-two”. I do do beers, gambles a lot, keep my distance from bitches, but mind you, I ain’t no saint. I must add that, I’m a high school dropout—dropped out of Millennium Senior High in ninth grade, after coming to grips with the fact that I wasn’t cut out for formal education and her stringent systems. But anyways, I found out I was cut for a fate even greater, and was later schooled and groomed in another; The Criminal class. An ever-changing world of intrigues.
Seventh Avenue, Westside Manhattan, New York City had been the bigger part of my history. For one; I was literally raised from cradle here. The bulk of my life can be defined by this place. Walking up 39th street on the famously known Garment District on a fine, starry night like this, I’m more drawn to the streets and the City as a whole. The bright light of Manhattan was like no other in the whole of New York City. The crystal blue air of the day and the vibrant nightlife are just so amazing that I have never dreamt of a future without this place.
And for a city that never sleeps, the streets of Manhattan are always busy all night long, with nocturnal creatures—hustlers, cutpurses, muggers, and cutthroats just about everywhere from alleys to dead-end streets, ready to pounce on easy targets at the off chance.
As I made my way along the sidewalk, I can easily spot dark, menacing eyes flashing from their hidden places afront shopfronts, alleyways, and street corners.
    How can I possibly see them? I know you must be wondering. But, I’m a ‘Made Man’, I hope you will always remember that!
    And as a member of the underworld, wariness and stealthiness is a trait, as is good judgment. Another good thing about being a mobster of course is, you can tell if the air was literally walking, and can as well distinguish what from whatnots.
My destination tonight is my usual hotspot—FLASHDANCERS NYC, a strip club on West 45th street off the theater district, and the intersection that connects Timesquare with Seventh Avenue. An approximately fifteen minutes walk from my home and turf. Drinking alone in a club with my guard down serves me a purpose; I get streetwise. And I would wager, the case is one and the same for all gangsters.
Fully aware that I might be put down just anywhere, at any tick of the clock with the squeeze of a trigger, I still must live my life. Well, I guess as gangster as I am, I’ve got only one shot at life like everyone else. Also, I figured walking down the street alone as a cloud and frequenting a strip club both serves the purpose of getting a message across to my enemies, too: I was not afraid to die; and that I guess is enough problem for an enemy, who’s half wise or sound.
***
Wild revue and riotous noises rented the air from every corner of the club as the seamless flow of electronically synthesized music blasted from the concealed woofers and subwoofers systems scattered across its sprawly main floor area. Accompanying the techno music wafting through and through the big hall of the club were dashing lattices of laser beams, projected colored images, and loads of visual effects, which cast off their alluring lights across the main floor in brilliant longitudinal spires and strips. On every angle and corner of the large exquisite main floor, patrons seated at the ‘ringside’ gyrated along with the music in their own wild, torqued motion while watching performers all around the main stage whirled and twisted around poles like monkeys. The lights coming from various lightning fixtures; Neon, laser, and LEDs dancing over their half-unclad bodies.
In the middle of the racket and revelry, I sat quietly by the counter at the main bar, chugging at a dry Martini provided earlier by a red-haired bartender at my order, and leaving the once brimful tumbler empty. Unbothered still, I rested my forearms on the countertop, staring wide-eyed into empty spaces, and paying little or no mind to my vibrant surroundings.
Dredging memories to me is like keeping your wounds open and fresh. It always brought to the surface memories that are best kept buried in the dark and in a box. I know very little about myself, and that little, I’ll share with you as relayed to me by the man I called my pop; Rafael Visconti.
“A penny for your thought, handsome.” A brunette lady in a black scanty outfit said, flouncing sultrily into my line of vision, and cutting right through my reverie.
Seemingly annoyed by this act and unwilling to show it, I feigned indifference, flashing a ready smile. “Hey beautiful, wanna hit some bottles with me?”
She let my question passed without a response, squeezed her way to the tight spot between my thighs in one fluid motion, and ran her acrylic fingernails over my chisel-carved jaw. 
   “I’ve noticed you’ve been all by yourself since you step in couple of minutes ago. How about some company to keep you from being lonely?”
“Not too bad an idea, darling. But in as much as I will hate so bad to turn you down, the strange fact is, I’m never lonely in my own company. Which means I will be just fine by myself.” I stated flatly, yet sounded cool.
She ignored my cold response, filled the empty tumbler lying idly on the counter, and helped herself to a swig.
    “A company could never go wrong, y’know?” she remarked drily after polishing off the content of the tumbler, and setting it back on the counter.
I only gave a nod to that, trying my daring best to keep my eyes off her exposed thigh that ran amuck with inked tattoos. And at the same time concluding in my mind that she was a performer here in the club.
“The name is Jane. And I work part-time here in the club.” She said against my neck after some time, further confirming my inward conjectures.
“Paul, and nice to meet ya. I’ve never seen your face around here before, Jane.” I maundered back and watched as she squeezed away as before from the juncture between my laps, lewdly drinking in my details. Her bright almond eyes alit with the flame of a passion so mundane and carnal, and something far darker.
“Guess that’s because you’ve not been looking at the right places. See you around here some other time, Paul.” She said slickly, spun around, and sauntered back through the way from before.
“That’s it then, Jane.” I hollered back, not meaning a word of it, and watching as she retreated deeper into the background of the club’s main floor.
        When I looked away from her and back at the main stage, the atmosphere around it had become fully charged and pepped-up, with a stream of fog already growing and spreading through every inch of the hall, and the boisterous patrons were twice ecstatic as before.
          I’ve learned earlier in life that we’re made by our past, and that sometimes, cutting off with them is one hell of a mistake. We are who we are; The sum product of our past and present.
          And for me, my past had begun on a night; eighteen freaking years ago. A murky, dismal New Year's eve’s night. My fate had been sealed that sullen night, and so did the path which I must tread through life.
                            ***
Growth is a painful process. The round-eye, fourteen months’ toddler staggering across the vinyl floor of the big, ample living room was learning this the hard way as he picked himself up from the floor after yet another fall.
Now upon his feet, he looked over his shoulders, at the member of his family cocooned around the TV set some paces away, waiting for any form of pacification or encouragement from any of them. And getting none, he moved on, angling his way across the room in his unstable gait.
Jimmy Kimmel had been a household name since the early 2000s, and his show, the Jimmy Kimmel live! —a popular American primetime late-night talk show, which aired on ABC with a viewership of almost 3 million in its first year in a country of over 281,000,000 had run for a year and six months long. And just like any other typical family of the turn of the Millennia America, the husband and wife, and their four years old son, all of whom had shunned the famous Timesquare New year’s ball to stay in their home had their noses literally buried in the screen of their TV, while enjoying another beautiful night of Jimmy Kimmel live!
Angelina, the frail wife, and mother of the family looked away from the screen just in time, and caught sight of her toddler son spilling on the floor from the corner of her eyes.
And in swift response, eased herself gently from the arms of her husband wrapped around her neck like tentacles, and made toward her jowly son, now seated on the floor resignedly.
Seeing he, at last, had the attention he had long desired, the boy beamed a smile and let out a gurgle as his slight-figured mother crossed the room, and closed in on him with a smile of her own.
“You’re getting there already, boy. All you need is some time.” Angelina remarked, hoisting the boy off the ground and bringing his head to rest on her bosom.
With smooth, even strides, Angelina returned to her husband’s side, sinking back into the couch with her cute, little boy bouncing in her arms.
“The boy is making huge progress every blessed day,” Angelina said concerning the boy, nestling her head in the deep hollow of her husband’s neck.
“Good of you, my little champ. Papa loves you.” The dad commented, combing his fingers through his wife’s dark, fleecy, straight layered hair, and returning his attention to the screen.
But his attention was suddenly seized within a second of that by his older son. “Dad, can I have some more chocolates?” The boy asked with a soft, pleading look.
“Only this once, son.” He replied curtly, clearly unwilling to be disturbed.
“Thank you, papa.” The boy mumbled his thanks coyly.
“Now, go get some chocolates, boy.” He ordered, rumpled his undercut hair, and transferred his attention back on the TV screen as before.
Angelina from where she was seating snugly beside her husband watched her eldest son scurry away from the living room, feeling the beat of her husband’s heart against her ears as she laid her head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
As if he never left, Angelo their eldest son returned with some chocolate bars, his face scattering in a broad smile.
“I got you some chocolates too, brother.” He said upon his arrival, freeing the chocolate from its nylon wrap and handing it over to his little brother, now bouncing off their mother’s laps.
He watched as his brother mirrored his countenance with an innocent smile of his own, before wolfing down the chocolate.
Angelina and her husband spent most part of what remains of their New year’s eve split between ‘Jimmy Kimmel live!’, and attending to the occasional needs of their kids.

Moments later, Angelina waltzed through a gap in the door into a small, rectangular room with her toddler son tightly clutched to her chest. He’d drifted off to sleep some minutes ago, whilst they were nose-deep in Jimmy Kimmel live! And had devoured his chocolates to the very last.
Careful not to disturb his sleep, she laid him gently on his back in the comfort of the crib, watching in a mother’s adorable way as he turned on his side.
“Sweet dreams.” She said shortly afterward, leaning in a little to plant a kiss on his forehead.
With the thought of ‘Jimmy Kimmel live!’ still airing at the back of her mind, she wasted no further time, turned away from the cot, and the boy laid in it, walked through the door from before, and left it silently shut behind her.

Angelina, all tensed up and panicky broke another sweat and felt as it slid down the side of her face, and fell silently onto the vinyl floor of their living room. Rounded up with her family in front of the TV screen still displaying the ‘Jimmy Kimmel Show’, she knelt, held at gunpoint by three men, dressed in black flat caps and Ulsters—a long, loose Irish overcoat made from frieze fabric.
Their pleasant family time on this New year’s eve which had continued long after she had returned from the bedroom with ‘Jimmy Kimmel live!’ had come to a sudden end the minute the three unknown men had plumped in on them in their living room. Hence, turning a New year eve’s atmosphere that had once been charged with warmth and laughter into a strained, tense one within the fraction of a second.
Shaken almost to her core already, she made one final bold move, daring a glance from under her thick lashes at the men, whose faces were partially hidden by the flat caps worn on their various heads.
Having grown up in a cold world of even stranger men, where even the subtlest changes in expression can tell a million tales and determine true intent and where loyalty lies, she had learned to tell people’s intention through their expressions. And had tried looking at the faces of the men in the hope of gaining insight on their intent, but was unable to find the slightest hints on their unrevealing and impossibly deadpan faces.
But, luckily for her, what their faces had refused to show, she was able to grasp through their comport and bearing. And once she did, she was filled with a sudden chill, which sent the beat of her heart spiking and a little over normal.
She had gathered from her minute assessment with a judgment so keen and acute as a gangster’s that, these men were no ordinary thieves or burglars, but are no less evil.
They were in fact, crueler and worst than thieves and burglars. And their faces were the last name of fear.
And from the vast experience she had garnered from that strange world she was raised in and her father, she had known men of their profession come not to reap in belongings and possessions, but only to reap from them one thing; their lives.
They are nothing but a messenger of doom. The last faces seen by every of their victim.
And she feared in their case, it would be no different. And also knew with a conviction solid as a rock, there can be no escaping from this with just a scratch, except through divine manifestation, which she very much doubted exists.
After minutes of stunned silence and growing tension, her husband seemed to find his voice and courage and stuttered out a few questions. “W-ho a-re y-ou? A-nd what do you want from us?”
To which none of the three men reacted in the slightest or gave a response.
They are hatchet men, Angelina thought in response to her husband’s naïve question, staring sidelong at him in a cold, penetrating way, as if by doing just that she would be able to transfer her own thoughts to him.
And their faces are probably what we will last see before we die, she thought even more drearily this time, clasping a hand over the face of her older son, who knelt by her side, equally shaken by the sight of the three gunmen.
As she watched the men disengage the safety of their guns and her final moment drew closer, she thought back on her father, who she’s been estranged with for long now, wondering in her own small way if he was in any way responsible for this. And would be the reason why they all have to die.
Had her father truce with his associates in the underworld fallen out? Had a business proposal fallen through and a gang war ensued? Is this a personal vendetta, or strictly business? The thoughts came in a rush as she recalled one of her father’s teachings: ‘There’s no effect without cause'. No smoke without fire.
She bobbed out of her reverie the minute she heard a shot fired, going numb and stock-still as she watched the impact of the shot knocked her husband hard and cold against the floor.
Angelina, thawed out from her frozen state, and now delirious with strong, raw emotion lost every semblance of control the next minute, taking her hands off her son’s eyes, and scampering over to her husband, who lay sprawled and unstirring on the floor. Dead.
It took some time for this to register with Angelina, who sat sobbing as she rocked his body, and the moment it did, an ear-splitting cry decibel over the sound of the TV playing in the background tore off her throat, shaking the building to its root and foundation.
Time dragged painfully slow before any of the men could see this as a red flag and react. And in reaction, they subdued her by emptying one round each into her body and the small boy’s, watching as they both dropped to the ground, like a flipped coin.
As Angelina laid down there dying, eyes opened to a mere slit, she reached out a hand to her older son, from whose punctured chest and torso a puddle of blood was now forming across the floor. But despite her push and strains, she was unable to come within reach of his outstretched hand.
Coming in and out of consciousness now and giving that up already, she thought back on Vince, her younger and other son, who was still sleeping in the bedroom and whose existence she had kept hidden from the gunmen. Trying her best to bring to the fore of her mind his sunny smile and cute innocent face, at the same time she prayed to the God, in whose existence she had doubted for the past ten years to spare and keep him safe. For her.
Before the darkness that crept onto the edges of her vision come full circle and blackened out every semblance of light, Angelina saw a light, divine and blinding in its glory, like that of a thousand diamonds glinting at once in the sun.
Heavens, she thought with a small smile, before light and life left her eyes and body respectively.
The men seeing their job was done after her death, left the room unannounced as they have done earlier, leaving behind a room once filled with the voices and laughter of people to the sound of a TV playing and the rank smell of death.
***