The Worst Accident

1

It’s another dreary Wednesday evening, and here I am again, making my way to Tony's Deli. Not for the ham, though. Nope, I’m here for my usual appointment with the local scum. Every month, like clockwork, I walk into that godforsaken place to hand over my hard-earned cash. Not that Tony minds. Hell, the bastard probably gets a cut just for hosting this monthly extortion racket.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside. The smell of cured meats and stale bread hits me like a freight train. Tony's behind the counter, giving me that smarmy grin. His gold tooth glints in the dim light. "Evenin', Vince," he says, wiping his hands on a dirty apron.

"Tony," I nod, keeping my tone as flat as possible. The less conversation, the better. I just want to get this over with and get out of here.

Tony gestures towards the back room. "They're waitin' for you."

Of course they are. I walk past the counter, ignoring the curious glances from the few customers lingering around. The back room is where the real business happens.

Inside, I find Sal and Marco sitting at a small table, counting stacks of money. Sal’s the muscle – a hulking brute with a permanent scowl. Marco’s the brains – slick, calculating, and twice as dangerous. They both look up as I enter.

"Right on time," Marco says, his voice dripping with mock cheerfulness. "We do appreciate your punctuality, Vince."

I drop the envelope of cash on the table. "Here. Same amount as always."

Sal snatches it up, counting the bills with surprising speed for someone with fingers like sausages. Marco leans back in his chair, eyeing me with that predatory gaze of his. "You know, Vince, you could always make things easier on yourself. Join the family, stop fighting it."

I snort. "Yeah, no thanks. I prefer my independence."

Marco shrugs. "Your choice. Just remember, we own you. Miss a payment, and things get... unpleasant."

As if I needed a reminder. I turn on my heel and leave, not bothering to say goodbye. The fresh air outside feels like a blessing after the suffocating atmosphere of that room. I make my way back to my apartment, a dingy little hole-in-the-wall that I call home. It’s not much, but it’s mine.

The stairs creak under my weight as I climb up to the third floor. The hallway light flickers, adding to the overall ambiance of decay. I unlock my door and step inside, locking it behind me. The place is small – a single room with a kitchenette, a beat-up couch, and a bed in the corner.

I toss my keys on the counter and collapse onto the couch. The springs groan in protest. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the ceiling. Then, as always, my mind drifts back to that night.

It was a dark alley, a typical meeting place for shady deals. I was just supposed to deliver a package – no questions asked, no trouble expected. But trouble has a way of finding me.

The guy I was meeting, Joey, decided to get handsy with the package. We scuffled. A knife appeared out of nowhere. It was supposed to be a scare tactic. Just a way to get him to back off. But in the heat of the moment, things went wrong.

Joey slipped, and the knife went in deep. I can still see the look on his face – shock, pain, fear. It was over in seconds, but those seconds replay in my mind like a broken record.

I tried to save him. God knows I did. But there was too much blood. He died there, in that filthy alley, and I knew my life was over, too. Joey was a made man, connected to the DeLuca family. His death meant one thing: retribution.

They found me the next day. Marco and Sal, looking like harbingers of doom. They didn’t kill me, though. No, they had something worse in mind. They wanted me to pay. Monthly, for the rest of my miserable life.

At first, I thought I could handle it. Just keep my head down, make the payments, and maybe they’d forget about me eventually. But it doesn’t work that way. The guilt, the fear – it eats away at you.

Every time I hand over that envelope, it’s a reminder of what I did. Of the blood on my hands. I see Joey’s face every night when I close my eyes. It haunts me.

Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t gone to that alley. If I had just walked away. But there’s no use thinking about that. What’s done is done, and there’s no going back.

I glance at the clock. It’s late, but sleep won’t come easy. It never does. I get up and pour myself a drink. Whiskey – the cheap stuff. It burns going down, but that’s the point.

I take the bottle and my glass to the window, looking out at the city. It’s quiet tonight, for a change. The lights of the buildings glitter like stars, mocking me with their serenity.

I think about the future sometimes. About getting out of this mess. But it’s a pipe dream. The DeLucas have their hooks in me, and they’re not letting go. Not until they’ve squeezed every last drop out of me.

The whiskey helps, dulling the edge of the memories. But it doesn’t erase them. Nothing does. I take another sip, letting the warmth spread through me.

There are days when I think about fighting back. About taking a stand. But I know what happens to people who cross the DeLucas. I’ve seen it firsthand.

Still, the thought lingers in the back of my mind. A dangerous, reckless fantasy. Maybe one day I’ll be desperate enough to act on it. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m just trying to survive.

I finish the bottle and set it aside. The room feels colder now, emptier. I crawl into bed, pulling the blankets over me. The pillow is lumpy, but it’s the least of my problems.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. But as always, Joey’s face is waiting for me. His eyes, wide with fear. The blood, so much blood.

I turn over, trying to escape the images. But they follow me, haunting my dreams. There’s no escaping the past. No matter how much I drink, how hard I try to forget, it’s always there.

Tomorrow, it starts all over again. The grind, the fear, the guilt. But for now, I’ll take what little peace I can find. Even if it’s just a few hours of restless sleep.

As I drift off, one thought lingers in my mind. Maybe one day, I’ll find a way out. Maybe one day, I’ll have the strength to fight back.

But that day isn’t today. Today, I’m just trying to get by. One step at a time, one breath after another.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.