Blood on My Hands

The air in Frankie’s garage hung thick and greasy, a familiar perfume of stale cigarettes and desperation. Frankie, a guy whose knuckles were permanently swollen like overripe grapes, was hunched over a sputtering engine, his face a roadmap of bad decisions. I leaned against a dented ’72 Nova, feeling the familiar hum of anxiety vibrate through the concrete floor. This wasn’t just any Tuesday; this was the Tuesday Vinny “The Viper” Moretti himself had personally requested my presence. Vinny. The guy whose name alone could make grown men sweat. And here I was, Joey Aiello, a kid who used to hawk stolen hubcaps for pocket change, about to have a sit-down with the king.

“Heard you been moving some weight, Joey,” Frankie grunted, not looking up. “Good. Don’t get sloppy.”

“Sloppy ain’t in my vocabulary, Frankie,” I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt. My heart was doing a drum solo against my ribs. Vinny wasn’t known for his patience, and my last couple of deals had been… let’s just say, a little more exciting than I’d planned.