Hearts in Chains

Trouble in Paradise: The Beginning.

     A soft purr left Damien's car engine as he drove on the bumpy, pot-hole infested roads. One hand on the steering wheel, the other began to fidget with the radio, tuning it to his preferred station. He kept a subtle gaze on the road, watching for traffic and pedestrians, as lunch hour was quickly approaching.

     While driving, Damien's phone began to buzz, indicating a phone call. He picked it up, reading the name that popped up on the screen. After a moment, he answered.

     "Hello?" Damien spoke up on the line, staring through the windshield at the road as someone spoke on the other end.

     "Damien," the voice spoke his name, thoughtful yet slightly concerned. "We need to talk."

     Damien slammed on his breaks at a red light among hearing the sound of the deep, almost raspy voice on the other end.

     "Alright," Damien finally answered, holding an uncertain breath of air in his lungs. "Where should I meet you?"

     "Howards Place," the voice told him, the tone as cold as winters air. "I'll be expecting you."

     The line then clicked, indicating the person speaking had hung up. There was an eerie silence left in the air, the aura inside Damien's car becoming deeply uncomfortable.

     Damien tossed his phone into the passenger seat, rubbing his hands over his face. He sighed, cursing under his breath as he looked up at the stoplight that was still red.

     "Fuck," he growled under his breath, watching as the light finally switched to green.
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     Howards Place.

     A well known, highly respected restaurant adored by mayors, mafioso's, the rich and wealthy, and common city folk alike when they could afford it.

     Damien had eaten there a couple times with his parents when he was younger. But, now that he was older, he found himself less drawn to the peaceful and elegant atmosphere.

     He walked inside through the large double doors, the strong scent of tamales and radish wafting in the air like a storm cloud.

     Damien looked around for a moment, trying to configure his surroundings. Eventually, a deep, thick Italian accent spoke his name.

     "Damien," the voice spoke, a baritone or husky sort of sound.

     Damien turned his head towards the voice, his eyes looking back at the man he saw in his vision.

     The man, Eduardo Hummington, better yet known as the Italian mobs leading dough dealer and mafioso, had called this meeting up between he and Damien. He was a man no older than forty-five years old. He'd been a mentor to Damien, a friend in his time of need. He trusted him to do a job and complete it without protest, and he expected nothing less than success.

     Eduardo had been catching wind of some gang who went by the name "Spider". Rumor was that the gang had come down to start moving drugs out the city; heard it'd be a more off the grid sort of style. The idea was that as long as everybody co-operated, things would run smoothly. The thought had aroused suspicion in Eduardo, and in all the gangs that plagued the city.

     This new gang was a problem. That was a fact.

     Damien approached the table the man sat at, unsure of what to do. He would never admit it to anyone else, but the man made him nervous. He sat down after a second of arguing with his conscience, awaiting the man's next line of words.

     "We've got a problem," Eduardo stated, not leaving room for petty discussion. "Ever heard 'bout a gang called "Spider"?"

     "Nah," Damien replied. "Not much."

     "Well," Eduardo began to speak again. "You might wanna get acquainted with them."

     He leaned back in his seat, staring back at Damien. His eyes began to go around the restaurant, seeing all the couples and groups of people that crowded it.

     "Little birdie tells me that they plan on comin' down here and settin' up shop."

     "Down here?" The thought made Damien's brow arch. "Why?"

     "Money," Eduardo said. "I want those fucks gone just as much as anyone else. But, when you need a cop, you can't ever gain access to one."

     Damien sighed, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

     "So," Damien spoke up next. "What do ya want me to do about em?"

     Eduardo tapped his finger against the polished wood of the table he had the pleasure of sitting at. He felt the texture, his fingers smooth against it as he caressed it.

     "Get rid of em," he then answered. "Only way we can keep our share. Don't need no chumps comin' in and takin' what we've worked so hard to create."

     "It ain't gonna be easy," Damien added, staring at him.

     "It's never easy. That's the point," Eduardo sucked his teeth, his brain working strategically.

     "We find out who they're affiliated with, get names, addresses, social security numbers—hell, anything we can get our damn hands on. But, I want em wiped out."

     "This ain't a one man job," Damien mentioned. "Jerry and Vincent in on this?"

     "When you catch word of them, tell em to come see me and I'll explain things further, yeah?" Eduardo began to stand, grabbing his cane. "Till then, rest easy and keep your head low, understand?"

     Eduardo distanced himself from the table, exiting the restaurant. Damien stayed seated.

    Part of him wanted to agree, wanted to say that the gang needed to be wiped off the playing board. Yet, at the same time, he needed to observe. See how they operated.

     Still, he couldn't do much yet. If he was gonna get rid of them, he'd have to do as Eduardo said—"get acquainted with them".

     Until then, he'd rest easy and try to do what he did best—sell drugs and keep up a good rack with who he was in with and who he was close to. That's all he could do.

     For now..