My mind clung to the idea that Rex would appear and save me. I imagined him kicking down Drake’s front door and taking care of every person in the room. He’d beat their asses to the ground, grind their bones with his heel, and finally swoop down the steps to pull me from the cage. I’d spit on Michael as he cried for mercy, but Rex would not show mercy. I felt a little childish having revenge fantasies, but there was nothing else for me to do. I had to keep picturing my escape, otherwise I’d sink into the deepest well of despair imaginable, and I’d be completely broken.
Eventually, I heard nearby footsteps. I was entirely cried out at that point, and could only groan and sob tearlessly. The steps got closer and I heard the door to my cell unlock.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” I said, terrified. I couldn’t see anyone, and for all I knew the person was holding a gun to my face, about to pull the trigger.
“I’m not about to hurt you, lass.” I cringed when I recognized Michael’s voice.
“Please let me go, I don’t have anything to do with this, I swear.”
He laughed, and then the bag was pulled off my head. Light flooded into my eyes, blinding me for a second. I blinked as the world slowly came into focus. My eyes took a minute to fully adjust to the light. I was clearly in a basement in a small cage in the back corner. There were barrels and boxes of alcohol stacked all over the place, and I guessed I was probably right about it being Drake’s. I realized that was a good thing, because Rex could more easily find me. Unless that was exactly what they wanted.
Michael crouched in front of me, his smug grin infuriating.
“Can’t let you go, either.”
“What do you fucking want with me?”
He sighed and looked away. He didn’t speak immediately, and I began to feel anxious at his silence. Finally, he spoke slowly and clearly, but quietly.
“Do you know how I got into this business?”
I couldn’t believe it. Was he seriously going to go into his sob story? There was nothing I wanted to hear less.
“I really don’t care,” I said.
He looked back at me, eyes harsh. He stood and started pacing. “You should try being a little more careful, Darcy. You’re tied up in a basement with some very violent folk, if you didn’t already know.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I fucking lie.” He stared at me for a few more seconds, and I felt my body start to tremble with fear. “Like I was saying, I got into this business at a young age.”
“How old were you?” I decided my best bet was to play along and pretend like I gave a shit. I would rather he kept talking than decide he wanted to smack me around. I had to survive, had to get through the night, and tomorrow Rex would make things right.
“Oh, twelve at most. My dad was a boss near here, owned a few streets, a small neighborhood. Dad brought me on part time, cleaning the shop, and counting the take. I did small runs too, petty sort of thing. The way it worked was, dad paid tribute to the big boss, something like thirty percent of his profit. They pushed him around most of his life, but things were different back then. The right people weren’t united, so the Irish were more like peacekeepers and protectors than what we are now. The mob wasn’t a feared, violent folk. We were beloved by the regulars in a lot of ways, and provided certain services that the cops and the government assholes neglected. When there were potholes in the streets, we filled them. When trees fell or windows broke, we helped fix it. When assholes tried to push around a bodega owner, we took care of them. If a gang wanted to push into our turf and threaten our people, we went to war. In a lot of ways, it was simpler back then. That was my dad’s day, at least. Then, finally, things started to change. I was older, a minor boss in my own right, when dad got killed. I never figured out who did it or why, but one day I woke up and he was gone, sunk to the bottom of the Schuylkill.
“Anyway, after my dad’s death, I swore I’d never get pushed around. I rose through the ranks as fast as I could, and it was a bloody business. I cut throats where I had to, and greased palms when I could. Now here I am, running the show, a trail of death behind me, and only more headless bodies in the future. This business, it’s full of shitbrains, tweakers, junkies, and worse. Back then though, we were a beloved protection force. Now, we sell drugs and run guns. We boost cars and chop them for cash. It’s all about money these days, because the people we used to protect are all drifting away. The neighborhoods aren’t Irish anymore, they’re Poles and Chinese and Koreans. More different people mean more criminals, though it’s still our job to keep the criminals in check. There’s a peace right now because we’ve forced all the local outfits, all the right people, to pay tribute under threat of violence. More than that, we have cash to spread around from all the jobs. If the money keeps flowing, the people stay happy. Every once in a while though, strength is needed.”