For Nothing (18 page)

“Surprised to see me,
Uomo Anziano
Aldo?” The assassin let loose a thin line of smoke as he talked. He waited for Aldo to speak.

The old man was in no hurry as he took a prolonged drag on his cigarette. When he spoke, it came out slow and with purpose.

“No, I think not, my old friend. To be surprised I would have been forced to underestimate you. I ful y know what you are capable of doing. Tel me why you are here.”

Rafael scoffed at the statement, “Do you not know? No, I think you do.”

Aldo slammed his fists down onto the table with a force that belied is age. “So then, are you here to kil me?” he yel ed. Anger rimmed his eyes and he stood up halfway, leaning over the table toward Rafael Rontego.

As he stood up, Rontego shifted his feet to blade the target, years of experience coming together. His pistol stood between the two of them, dice looking up at the assassin as the barrel tilted downward forty-five degrees between the two men.

“I am but a frail, old man. What good is it to you to see my death?”

Rontego, unfazed by the outburst, put his cigarette out on the table in front of Aldo. “Frail in body, Marano. In body only. If I could unlock your brain from that ancient head of yours, you would already be dead. If I was here to kil you, I would not have spared them,” Rafael motioned towards the youths behind him. “Nor would I have taken my time here with you any more than a hunter would take his time with a cornered fox.”

“So you are not here to kil me. I am lucky then. Perhaps not as lucky as Sonne Pieri? Why are you here Angelo Del a Morte?”

Aldo eased back down. He waved off the teen that was lurking in the background. Each of them was okay to let the matter between them and Rontego pass, as the uninjured one tended to his wounded compatriots.

Rafael almost smiled at the nickname “Angel of Death.” As bad as it sounded, it was a sign of respect. Rontego took great pride in being able to strike fear into his enemies, but Aldo, just like Muro, was not always so. Aldo coined the phrase “Angelo Del a Morte”, in regards to Rafael after he did a hit for the old man at the beginning of his career. There was history here, but Aldo and Muro chose their side in this civil war.

“Listen careful Aldo. Don Ciancetta wants to have a sit down with Mr. Falzone. There has already been a lot of bloodshed. Something needs to be hammered out.”

The assassin knew that it was useless to suggest a meeting between the two factions this late in the game. He had his orders though and he assumed that the advice of The Pope must be at play somewhere in al of this. Rontego felt that the pride of Ciancetta would never have al owed for the thought of anything but total annihilation of the enemy to enter his mind.

Aldo Marano must have had a similar thought, as he laughed. The old man’s eyes twinkled in amusement at the statement. “Why does he think we would want to work out a deal with him? There is no ability to go back on what has happened, and we would not want to, Rafael. Or have you not noticed that we are winning this little war that Don Ciancetta perpetuates. Go back to your little boss and tel him that if he wants peace, al he has to do is step down.

I am sure Falzone would al ow Leo to retire peaceful y.” Aldo’s voice was sarcastic and he developed an air of superiority that disturbed Rafael Rontego. He had the look of a man claiming checkmate.

Time to take him down a notch
, Rontego thought.

Marcus leaned over his wounded friend. Tony was bleeding from his shoulder and Marcus couldn’t get it to stop. He glanced behind him and saw Aldo Marano talking, deep in conversation with the bastard who just shredded his buddy’s shoulder.

There was blood everywhere.

It wasn’t that Marcus was scared of this guy, he told himself. Someone needed to make sure the wounded were tended to.

Fuck,
Marcus thought.

Tony was shivering and looked pale. The blood was pooling around him now.

“Marcus, remember…remember when we were in ninth grade and we were in Ms. Salidina’s class?” Tony was moving his legs from side to side and his lips were looking blue.

“Yeah Tony, I remember.”

Marcus just wanted to keep him talking. If he was talking, he was alive. What he didn’t know was that a fragment of bone separated itself from the torn clavicle and shot through Tony’s lung. Each breath he took was drowning him. The question was whether he would bleed to death or drown first.

“Man, she was hot. I should have asked her out. I should of, I should of….”

Tony’s voice trailed off into a gasp and his legs stopped moving. Marcus looked at his hands.

There was blood al over them. A rage built upside of him and he looked back at the two men talking and then at the floor. He saw what he was looking for, a better weapon than his tiny blade.

There was Tony’s pistol.

Marcus’ face twisted into the steel visage of resolve. He scooped up the pistol, saw his target, and began to sneak up on the man who murdered his friend. Marcus made a name for himself as of late anyway. Being a gun for Aldo and Muro had been life-altering.

*

Rontego dropped his back hand into the pocket of his coat.

“You would be wise to consider such a kind offer from the Don, lest you wind up like other adversaries of his.”

As Rontego spoke he threw the contents of his pocket onto the table in front of Aldo. It was a waded handkerchief.

Aldo glanced at the cold stare of Rafael Rontego and then down at the handkerchief. His old hand reached forward and unfolded the unexpected package. As Aldo unwrapped it and the contents came into view, his face turned a shade of ashen grey and he paused.

There in his hand was the finger of Sonne Pieri. The family crest was stil on the finger which turned pale with no blood to give it its normal color.

It took Aldo a moment to center himself. The air of superiority shifted to Rafael and he relished the moment. His grey eyes danced with the inner fire of victory. It was not every day that a mental victory could be claimed over Aldo Marano.

Then, just as fast as he was taken aback, Aldo regained his composure. Rafael could see the wheel turning in the old man’s head. Aldo seemed to settle on some thought or another and then his lips curled upward into a knowing smile. A smal laugh cracked forth from his weathered lips.

“Oh Rafael, you serve a smal master and his victories are even smal er. So, you flaunt that you have kil ed a young man in our organization. Let me ask you, Rafael Rontego, Angelo Del a Morte,” his voice was now dripping with sarcasm and Rontego did not like the nickname very much at al , “where do you suppose Don Ciancetta’s other soldiers are?

Why is it that you seem to be doing al the work alone? Do you suppose it is because you are the best? My dear Rontego, you are very good at what you do. So why is it that your boss would so misal ocate his resources? Why are you here in this dangerous situation instead of some goat ripe for slaughter? Perhaps you are the only one left.

Perhaps you know too much and your death would not be so greatly missed?”

Rontego gripped his pistol as the old man rambled. He wanted nothing more than to put a bul et in his brain and end his reign of mental domination.

The assassin looked down at the finger sitting next to Aldo’s glass of water. As he listened, he saw a slight flicker of movement in the glass. It seemed that one of the youths gathered up some nerve after al , during Aldo Marano’s motivational speech.

during Aldo Marano’s motivational speech.

Let him come
.

The kid sporting the facial hair seemed to have grown a set of bal s. He was stealthy. If Rafael had not seen him in the glass, the kid might have gotten the drop on him. It is amazing what someone’s back to you can inspire.

“If only Muro and I col ected trophies this week, we might be able to compare fingers with the great Rafael Rontego.”

Aldo’s eyes shifted to Rafael’s left as he spoke and that was al the indication the assassin needed to turn and get the drop on his would-be ambusher.

The youth carried a pistol in his clenched hands. It was leveled at the back of Rontego’s head.

Rontego didn’t hesitate as he whirled around. The youth did, however, as he did not expect Rafael to be aware of his intent. Marcus’ eyes widened as he realized the miscalculation.

The skil ed assassin swung his left hand around as he spun, knocking Marcus’ weapon from his grasp. Without slowing down his motion, Rontego’s right hand fol owed through and up, smashing the butt of his pistol against the left side of Marcus’ head.

Usual y a hit like that would knock an opponent out at once. Instead, the youth seemed to rol with the hit, crashing sideways into a dive. It was Rafael Rontego’s turn to register surprise as the youth flicked his switchblade out. It wasn’t that this youth was stil awake, though that was surprising enough, but the quickness with which he snapped his blade out and to the ready that troubled the assassin. This kid had some ability.

Marcus shook the stars from his head and flipped his blade open. He was recovered now from the surprise of his failed ambush. More important, he was motivated by absolute anger at the death of his friend. He was going to taste the blood of this kil er if it was the last thing he did.

Marcus sidestepped the barrel of the murderer’s gun and caught the kil er’s arm between his body and his own arm. Marcus lifted his free arm up and smashed an elbow into the neck of his adversary. He was satisfied as he heard a gasp escape the man and was even happier when he heard his opponent’s pistol drop to the floor.

Marcus released the man’s weaponless arm and brought his blade towards the kil er’s throat.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be the last thing he did after al .

*

The assassin felt the ful force of the blow on his neck and a gush of air escaped his throat.

Through the pain, he realized that in these close quarters, his gun would be useless. Rafael dropped his piece to the floor.

Just as Rontego intended, the youth released his arm and went for his opportunity at the assassin’s neck. Just in time, the assassin caught the blade-wielding hand at the forearm. This kid was strong. The blade inched closer to Rafael’s neck as he backed against a pil ar standing alone next to Aldo’s booth.

The youngster brought his second hand up and pressed it against the tangled arms, using the leverage to gain an even greater strength advantage on the assassin. He wanted the kil .

It was the youth’s ambition that was his undoing. He forgot about Rafael Rontego’s free hand, which pul ed a smal blade of his own. At the last second, Rontego rol ed to the side, sending his young opponent’s head smashing into the pole behind the assassin.

Simultaneously, he slashed with his knife across the young man’s chest and sidestepped the col ision. He crashed to the floor, bleeding from a long diagonal gash stretching from his right shoulder down past the left side of his bel y. The knockout blow to the forehead was a blessing in disguise. If he’d been awake, that gash would be the most searing pain he experienced in his short life.

Rontego knew it.

Not short enough
, thought the assassin as he walked toward his fal en victim.

He lifted his blade to finish the deed when he felt it. There was blood trickling from his neck.

Little bastard got closer than I thought
, he mused.

The blood was trailing down his neck in a thin line and Rafael felt his knees getting weaker. Aldo was eyeing Rafael’s gun on the floor at his feet. He went for the pistol but Rafael halted the old man in his tracks as he brought his second pistol to bear.

The assassin stumbled forward and scooped the hand cannon off of the floor, holstering it. His companion pistol stil trained at Aldo, he offered a few parting words.

“Think long and hard about having a sit down.

You think you know what I am capable of, but you have no idea old man.”

With that, Rafael Rontego, stil bleeding, walked through the back kitchen into the al ey outside. His legs were getting weak as blood was stil flowing unabated from his neck. He knew he was on borrowed time if he did not get some pressure on his wounded throat.

Moving fast, the assassin pul ed out a set of keys. There was a safe house nearby.

Damn the daylight,
he thought.

The last thing he needed was to get pinched.

He lifted his col ar up, hiding the bloody wound as best he could. Then, without further delay, he half ran, half stumbled down the road.

Just a couple more blocks
,
feet don’t fail me
n o w.
Rontego heard the remote sound of an ambulance down the road. The two blocks seemed like an eternity but he forced himself onward. The wil to survive sustained him and he slammed into the door to the apartment building he used often as a hiding spot.

He unlocked the door and starting pul ing himself up the three flights of stairs to his room.

Blood was dripping down his pant leg now and leaving a speckled trail behind him. Then, as Rafael leaving a speckled trail behind him. Then, as Rafael reached the fourth floor, he fel down, his legs abandoning him.