Ramses
This fucker will talk because I’m going to make damn sure to make him sing.
I fist my black, gloved hands, swinging back, and smashing his face over and over until it’s a huge blue and black bruise, blood flows from his broken nose.
“No! Please stop,” Avysitta yells, squeezing his eyes tight.
Avysitta is of average height, thin, with long dark hair and a huge prominent nose. The moment that the fucker showed up late to the meeting, his first meeting, I smelled the rat. The man wants to be an Associate of the Alberti crime famiglia, but it’s not happening.
My men looked into his background, his cell calls, the GPS tracker I installed on his car, and the cameras to see why he was late and nervous. We went back six months to the day that Moren Marc sponsored Avysitta. The evidence reveals that he was meeting with the FBI, and that fucking sealed his demise.
I was fucking right.
But now, I need to hear him and ascertain what he knows.
The vein at Avysitta’s temple beats rapidly, telling me that the fucker, is scared and in pain.
Perfect.
The fucker is scared shitless, and that’s precisely what I want to make this mole sing. The far wall has several tools we use to encourage them to share. I walk over to the wall and look at the different devices.
My weapon of choice is my Glock, and, of fuckingcourse, my AR-15 rifle. I’m not going to lie to you, I don’t give a fuck if I need to kill the son of bitch.
The Mafia is in my blood; it’s my legacy.
The Don, Muyeo Alberti, is my Padre, so what else can I say. My Capo, Ereh Capella, and my Underboss Carlos Capon work for my Padre; they’re ten years my senior, so they’re young men in important ranks.
No, I’m not going to move up the ranks; first, I’m not interested; the second reason is that the next rank wouldn’t be available for a long time. The Mafia is not visible as it was in the early days, but it’s extremely active.
As a Made Man, a Soldato, and the attorney to the Alberti crime famiglia, the mafia Don in San Diego, and most importantly to the Elites along with my twin Stephano.
Our job is to protect the Elite and the Mafia from the federal government agencies. But, yeah, it’s not a secret, and it will never change; the FBI will always look for reasons to capture the Mafia crime families.
But the Mafia works stealthily protecting the Cosa Nostra and keeping the omertà, the code of silence, from being broken.
Elite Power comprises the world's top six wealthiest, most powerful families. They control everything, like fucking puppeteers.
Yeah, that means they control the Mafia, including the Alberti crime family, and absolfuckinlutely the worldwide underworld. Very few people know of their existence, and it’s our job to keep it that way.
Our law firm is in San Diego, Alberti, Alberti, And Conti, located on the east of Hwy 101. The beach is on the other side, the view from my office is spectacular, and it fucking helps to relax at the end of the day. Most of my days are fucking long, so yeah, I spend lots of my time at the office when I’m not playing exterminator.
“Which alphabet are you working for,” I yell, grabbing the baseball bat from the wall.
My face is completely stoic; I’m in full control, walking over to the stand in front of the mole. I swing the bat back, then swing and hit the fucker, smashing one kneecap.
“No,” Avysitta shouts, crying, and snots run down his face.
“Yes,” I shout, swinging the bat again, and smashing his other knee.
It’s the same every fucking time!
The fucker has fucking balls to walk with the Mafia and work as an associate to fucking spy. But it’s my fucking job as a Soldato to vet the fuckers, and this one stunk.
The bastard is fucked.
One thing that pisses me off is when they break down, all of their badass attitudes disappear and break down like fucking babies.
The fucker is a whimpering idiot.
The knife is a birthday gift from the Don, who happens to be my Padre, so you bet my knife is beautiful and sharp and slices Avysitta’s index finger as if it was slicing through butter.
“Motherfucker,” howls Avysitta.
“Answer motherfucker,” I growl, grabbing the next finger and bending it back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Avysitta bellows.
“I have all the time in the world, so I’m going to work you until you talk,” I growl, cutting off the finger.
“No,” Avysitta yells, passing out.
Stupid fucker knows I’m going to kill him, so why not give me the DETS.
“Ramses, do you want me to wake him up,” Lorenzo asks, standing against the wall.
Lorenzo is one of the Wiseguys, one of my men that works closely with me, has proven himself, and is loyal.
The room is cold, humid, and dark. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling next to two hooks dangling from a chain. The concrete floor has a big drain to wash down the blood.
The old warehouse has been in the famiglia for decades; we use it for all sorts of Alberti business.
“Yes, I need to finish asap. I have tons of shit to get done,” I huff, cleaning my knife on the fuckers pants.
“Alright, boss,” Lorenzo grunts, walking over to grab the plastic pail of water.
Avysitta’s head hangs down and rests on his chest. I lift my chin, and Lorenzo walks over, grabs Avysitta’s long, shoulder-length black hair, pulling it back.
“Wake up fucker! Answer my question,” I growl, kicking his sides.
“Fuck! Stop,” Avysitta yells.
“You’re fucking stupid, talk, and I promise to take your life with further pain,” I roar, walking close with the bat.
“Yes, yes, it’s true. I’m an FBI agent,” Avysitta cries, trying to look at me through the slit of his swollen eyes.
“What are you looking for,” I growl, looking at his fucked up face.
“What the fuck do you think we want, Alberti? We want what we always wanted, to bring down the Alberti crime famiglia, to sink our claws into the Don, Muyeo Alberti,” scoffs Silver, lifting his head and trying to glare at me.
“It’s never happening because we can smell a rat, motherfucker,” I yell, swinging the bat and smashing his side.
The sound of ribs cracking gives me satisfaction.
“Take care of him,” I grunt, looking at Lorenzo and dropping the bat on the concrete floor.
“Will do, boss,” Lorenzo says, nodding.
Finally, I’m done with the fucker, and I need to shower and change. My crew will do an in-depth clean-up; they’re fuckingtastic.
I pull out my cell from my black leather jacket, sliding my fingers over the screen, and call my Capo.
“Yes,” Ereh says.
“Finito,” I say.
“Eccellente,” Ereh says.
“See you in a few,” I say.
“Molto bene,” Ereh says.
The key to not getting caught, get rid of all evidence.
It takes me a few minutes to get to my Capo’s house, a mansion on the San Diego coastline. I drive through the gate, up the circular driveway, and exit my car. I take long strides, walking to the door, and the door opens before I knock. Of fuckingcourse, the staff is always alert.
“Ciao,” the soldier says.
“Ciao,” I say, walking into the foyer, down the hall to the office, and knocking on the wood door.
“Ramses, enter,” Ereh says.
I open the door and walk inside the opulent office decorated with a rich mahogany desk, navy velvet curtains, and a sofa.
“Ciao Ereh,” I say, walking over to stand in front of Ereh.
Ereh, my uncle, is a few years younger than my Padre, a few years older than me, and is being groomed to be the next Don. So, I’m good with that; as I said, I’m not interested.
Ereh always looks impeccable, with his black shiny black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
In his Capo signature style, he always wears a black wool custom-fitted Italian suit, a white shirt, and a black tie, presenting a commanding lethal persona.
“Give me the DETS,” Ereh says, pulling at his cuffs and adjusting the gold diamond cufflinks.
He leans back in his chair, staring at me with dark brown eyes that look into your soul. It’s like he searches for any deceptions, any weakness.
I fall onto the navy velvet armchair, leaning back, and pull out my cigarettes, offering one to Ereh. He takes one and lights up, inhaling deeply.
“The motherfucker Avysitta is an FBI, but he has been eliminated. The fucker didn’t get any DETS on us,” I say, taking the cigarette from the box and lighting up.
“Bene, we have been contacted by a motorcycle club in Folsom, Evil Bastards, and they want to purchase some drugs. I need you to be the main contact, vet the fuckers, and handle orders and payments,” Ereh says, taking a drag, inhaling the nicotine, and exhaling.
“Va bene, please give me their information,” I say, nodding, and take a drag.
“This is the burner cell; call them,” Ereh says, handing me the burner cell phone.
“Is that all,” I ask, sliding the burner cell into my jacket pocket.
“Si,” Ereh says, nodding.
“Ciao,” I say, pushing off the chair.
“Ciao,” Ereh utters, nodding.
