Underworld {h.s.}

prologue

Brooklyn, New York circa. 1925

/ / /

"Alright Styles," Tony said with a low voice, "you're a good kid. Loyal, smart, good looking, you know how to handle people and more importantly, how to handle money. I've thought long and hard about this and decided that you'll be the one who I give my business to."

We were sitting in a booth at the back of the crummy 17 Black Hotel, one of the many joints Tony owned. The place reeked of cigar smoke, cologne and bootleg whiskey, but what could you do? At least there were women everywhere so it gave you something nice to look at, but I couldn't get distracted from my business. Besides, with my job there were bimbos practically throwing themselves at me, just one look at my expensive suit and rings and their legs would open wide.

"You don't know how grateful I am for this Tony." I reply, placing my hand on my chest to indicate my sincerity.

"Don't worry 'bout it kid alright? You're like a son to me." He smiled as he lifted a cigar up to his lips and took a big puff, conscious not release the smoke near my face.

"What're you talking 'bout 'son'? I'm seven years younger than you!" I chuckle using my hands while I speak, a trait I got from my mother.

Despite the small age gap, Tony had been like a father to me. I wasn't doing too well in school, disappointing my mother of course, and when I got kicked out he was like a teacher for me. Putting me in to shape, turning me into the upright man I am now. Well, I wouldn't use the term 'upright', more like, I was more respected amongst the crowds now.

Coming from an immigrant family wasn't too great growing up, sure my dad had a good job and payed rent n'all, but it was still tough.

"Alright alright calm down there crumpet boy." Tony chuckled using the nickname he had given me eleven years ago when we first met, fuck I didn't realise it had that long ago!

"When will you give that name up? People are 'gonna start thinking I'm a baker or some shit."

"When 'ya lose that British accent and tell your old man to start speaking like an American, then I'll stop!" He answered chuckling, increasing the volume of his tone with each word. Like he could talk, the Italian accent never left his voice when his family moved to Manhattan in 1898.

Some heads turned towards our table due to the loud noise, but they knew not to question anything he did. After all, he was the Boss of the joint. Though it wasn't easy for him to get to the top and I knew it would be even harder to pass it down to me because I wasn't family, but what could the guy do? His girl wasn't knocked up and he had no bastards running 'round so he why not give it to his second in command?

"I'm givin' 'ya the keys to the kingdom my friend, I wouldn't be complaining." He took another puff from his cigar, momentarily scanning the joint and looking a bit disgusted by the condition of it all.

"At least the girls are clean." I joked with him, earning a low chuckle of agreement.

"You know you're a funny guy Styles, from a dumb ass kid to a guy in a nice suit you're fucking funny."

I gave him a smug grin because I knew I was funny. I was also smart and cunning, unlike most wiseguys who spoke illiterately. Some even crossed over from Italian to English constantly and if you couldn't understand them then tough shit, looks like you're at the wrong end of the Tommy gun.

I knew how to speak Italian, granted I had a British accent so it was hard, but my mother was from Naples so she taught me how to speak it when i was young. You couldn't be in the business I was in without knowing how to speak Italian.