Falling Angel | a Mafia Story

Chapter XI

"Young blood, heaven need a sinner,

You can't raise hell with a saint"

-36 hours earlier-

"He will be here soon, Antonio," Dario assured, checking the expensive watch around his wrist for the one-hundredth time.

The dim light that was dangling from the ceiling of the empty warehouse sent ghostly shadows across the tall man's face, the light catching in his amber eyes that were searching around the room, constantly flicking to the double doors that were sure to open up at any moment.

The crackling tension in the room hung heavy in the air, and the deafening silence was only broken occasionally by low groans leaving the hunched over figure that struggled to stand upright in front of the three men.

Antonio stood in the middle, his tall frame towering over Dario and Lorenzo who stood either side of him, their guns drawn and pointed at the D'Angelo that stood a few feet away from them.

The trembling man was holding his wrist close to his body, the fingers on the right hand swollen thickly and sticking out in unnatural angles, a grotesque purple colour spreading around the tight skin of the obviously broken hand.

"He's late," Antonio remarked, no attempt made to hide the plain annoyance in his deep voice.

As if on cue the double door swung open with such force that it crashed into its hinges with a strained crunch.

Through the doorway stepped an old man, dark beady eyes glaring out from a hollow face, but the viciousness that was flashing in them made up for the otherwise stout frame of the aged mafioso.

Behind him entered another man, much younger, nervous eyes shooting around the room. He was taller than the old man in front of him, but his broad shoulders deflated in an uneasy manner, as if he was trying to make himself invisible and be anywhere else but next to the repelling picture of a man next to him.

"Silvano," Antonio called out with a bone chillingly casual tone, a sickly-sweet smile plastered onto his stone-cold face, "so very kind of you to honour us with your presence, old man."

The old mafiosos shot him a toothy grin that morphed his wrinkled face into a vile grimace as he scanned the room, barely acknowledging his mangled kinsman that still stood in the middle of the room, cradling his broken hand in his trembling fingers.

"I see you brought your guard dogs, Antonio," Silvano snickered, nodding his stubbly chin in the direction of Dario and Lorenzo with a click of his tongue, "tell me, do they do special tricks when you whistle?"

Dario, who's gun had been aimed at the shaking hostage up to that point, flashed his teeth in a wicked smile, directing his aim towards the old man instead, his steady finger resting on the trigger. "Why don't you find out, D'Angelo!"

The threat seemed to simply bounce off of Silvano, who stepped further into the room, his eyes travelling to the young man next to him with a sneer, his hand shooting out to grab him by the shoulder and pull him upright. "Stand up straight son, goddammit!"

"I see you brought your own lap dog along," Antonio mused, referring to the young man that was obviously very uncomfortable in his skin at that moment, his forest green eyes trained onto the ground. "Your son Dino, I suppose?"

"Sadly," Silvano spat, shooting his son another distasteful glance and shrugging his shoulders, "nothing I can do about that I suppose."

"He's kinda cute..." Dario's voice piped up, a wicked grin on his face as his eyes scanned the face of Silvano's son, who's cheeks turned a deep shade of red instantly, "look at that, he's fucking blushing. I'm calling dibs!"