Book II – Chapter 01: Confession

Posted On May 31, 2014

St. Anthony of Padua lay at the edge of Little Italy, close enough to the docks to smell faintly of saltwater and steel. The church loomed on the corner over a narrow bodega, its stone walls as gray as the fog that hugged the street. The building’s threshold was crossed by a ghost — the Ghost, a young man whose complexion had earned him the fitting moniker.

The Ghost, born Demos Giorgetti, wet his fingers with holy water, crossing himself before moving down the aisle. His hand grazed the backs of old wooden pews as he walked, soundless over the burgundy runner. At the votive stand, he repeated his formalities, his face illuminated by dozens of candles. In the last few years, he had come more times than he could count, searching for something he’d seemed to have misplaced. He’d been desperate for guidance, for a higher power to tell him that everything happened for a reason.

This would be his last visit.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he began, his eyes low in the dim light of the confessional. “It has been twenty days since my last confession.”

Demos took in a breath through his nose, taking in the scent of oak and beeswax.

“I accuse myself of these sins,” he continued. “I’ve given in to wrath…”

Images of smoke and bullet chambers flash through his mind, spinning counterclockwise in a haze of red.

“Greed.”

The memory was fresh — the smell of paper bills on his hands and the contrast of silver on dull green.

“I’ve had impure thoughts.”

He thought of sweat and liquor, of longing glances at things he shouldn’t want.

“And I’ve been swearing quite a bit,” he finished, his eyes glancing up at the ceiling of the wooden booth.

“It seems you have a lot to say this morning,” the priest replied, his voice low behind the crossed slats of the window.

“Well, this is my last confession,” Demos replied, unable to help but smile,”for the time being.”

“May I ask why?”

The Ghost closed his eyes.

“I was lost when I started coming here… but I think I’ve found my place.”

“But leaving the church may send you into the world of the lost once more.”

“Nah, I think I’ve got it.”

“Well, I understand. When you’re ready to return, the Lord will be waiting,” the priest responded with a light sigh. “But, for now, let’s look at these sins of yours.”

Outside, a figure stood leaning against a parked Alfa Romeo, using a cloth to clean his glasses. Even after replacing them, Ferris could barely see past his own hands. The mist was relentless — a fat cloud making itself comfortable over the pavement, too lazy to return to its proper place in the sky. Under his breath, Ferris cursed the fog, and then cursed his companion for taking so very long to return.

He, too, had a nickname, though his was more likely to instill hunger than fear. Fishbones had only recently reentered the Ghost’s life. It had shocked him how easy it was to return to it all — to the bloodstains and the churn of money counters, to the initial rush of danger, followed by a terrible, familiar apathy.

The creak of a wooden door caught his attention and he looked up to see Demos descending the stone steps.

“What took you so long?” Ferris demanded, not bothering to hide his agitation.

“He had me do three rosaries,” Demos replied, striking a match to light a cigarette.

“What were you doing, carving them by hand?”

“Hey, I deal with all your… Jewy shit,” the Italian replied with a vague hand gesture. “The least you can do is wait half an hour for this.”

“Forty-five minutes,” Ferris corrected, glancing at the time on his phone before placing it back in his pocket. “Now get in the car. We’re already late.”

The fog entrenched every inch of Southport and the docks were no exception. Dark water lapped against the pier, staining the barnacle-encrusted wood. Victor Giorgetti had grown tired of waiting, gesturing for his cousin to follow as they headed down the wharf. Their forms cut through the gray as they walked, Italian leather shoes clicking on the surface. Seagulls circled unseen in the gloom above, their presence betrayed by their own wretched cries.

Alonzo stared at the back of Victor’s head as they walked, unable to see much else. It was his usual position in life — always in the dark, always a step behind. It was only when Victor made out the silhouettes of their hosts that he stopped — if one could host a deserted pier. There were another two men waiting at the end of the planks and both looked up as the Italians approached.

“Ashes,” the shorter man said in an even Qatari accent. “It’s a pleasure.”

“That’s ‘Mr. Giorgetti,” Victor corrected, the temperature in his voice dropping dangerously low.

“Yes, of course,” he said, masking his nerves by smoothing back his dark hair. “Mr. Giorgetti.”

Victor looked at the man, then the taller one beside him. From the bulge in his jacket, Victor could see that he was armed — perhaps a bodyguard, perhaps more.

“My name is Hassan. We spoke on the phone.“

“I know your name,” the Italian said. “What I don’t know is what business you want with us.”

 “Right — business. We run quite a lucrative one, worldwide. We’ve expanded to Asia, South America, and even dear old Italy. We have our eyes set on the States now, and in turn, you.”

“You want to set up in Southport,” Victor said, his voice slow as he considered the other man. Alonzo remained silent at his side, fighting the twitch in the corner of his mouth.

“That’s correct. We’ve already seen great success in Atlanta and Memphis. We would like to extend that success to you,” he explained, unable to help but smile. “It is said that you run this city, that you have certain influences — certain power.”

Victor said nothing, only narrowing his gaze as he listened.

“We can offer you thirty percent,” Hassan continued.

“And the product?”

“Ah, the product. One that pays for itself. Such a product — it will never go out of demand, nor supply.”

“Cut the shit, Hassan.”

“Sex, of course. Girls. Listen, when we—“

“I see,” Victor cut in. “Well, your interest is appreciated, but I’m afraid you will not be expanding to Southport.”

“But you—“

“The answer is no.”

“Ash,” came a voice from his side; it was Alonzo. “Let the man talk.”

Slowly, Victor’s head turned to lock eyes with his cousin. Though related, the two shared few similarities. Victor was tall and angular, his dark hair striped with white at the temples. Alonzo’s hairline had retreated to the safety of his crown, stark and graying over a set of black eyebrows. His lips, normally in a perpetual sneer, were currently flattened in defiance.

“Lonnie,” Victor warned, his voice just above a whisper.

“You heard him. It’s a billion-dollar industry,” Alonzo continued. “And now that the Marianis are trying to rebuild, we need as much—“

“A word,” he snapped, grasping his cousin by the shoulder and leading him out of earshot. From afar, it might have looked like a simple, familiar touch. In reality, Victor’s fingers were digging quite painfully into the other man’s arm.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Victor hissed, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “Right out in the open? I should never have brought you here.”

Victor gripped harder, leaning closer to whisper his next words.

“You know the rules.”

Alonzo scoffed, fighting back a wince. “Rules? Some bullshit your father decided?“

“Chiudi quel cazzo di culo! No drugs. No women.”

“Just because you have a daughter—“ Alonzo started, but stopped as he felt his limb twist further in its socket. From the end of the pier, the Egyptians watched with folded arms as the two had a seemingly intimate discussion.

“Say it.”

“No,” Alonzo spat, his teeth bared.

“Then leave,” Victor said, gesturing towards the car parked back by the warehouses.

“Don’t tell me what—“

“Leave. Now.”

Alonzo took in a slow breath, the air audible as it sucked through his nostrils. He didn’t blink, his eyes locked wide on his cousin’s face. Victor held his ground, returning the glower without a sound. After a moment, Alonzo’s lips moved, parting as if to speak. They hung open, impotent, nearly trembling as they struggled to rant.

No empowering tirade came forth — not one vulgarity dared to escape his throat. With a gritty scoff, he tore his eyes away, stalking down the wharf and disappearing into the fog. Victor watched until the sound of footsteps faded, then testily looked back towards the water.

Two handguns greeted him as he turned.

“Oh,” the Italian muttered.

“Do you think,” Hassan said, his smile widening, “if I were to kill you now… that cousin of yours would mind?”

Victor smirked. “I doubt it.”

“It’s not too late, Mr. Giorgetti. I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind. If not, well… I’m sure we can find someone to deal with.”

“I don’t think you understand how this works,” he answered, his tone flat in spite of the firearms zeroed in on the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t I? Well, please, enlighten me.”

“As you mentioned earlier, we’re the ones with power here. Not you.”

“Funny,” Hassan said, raising his brows. “You look rather helpless, to me.”

Two clicks cut through the gray air, followed by a pair of figures emerging from the fog. From behind Victor came Demos, a revolver set in one hand and his shoes in the other. Noisy soles so often ruined the element of surprise. Beside him stood Ferris, his face blank as he focused his pistol. They were locked in a stalemate.

“This meeting is over,” Victor said, breaking the silence.

“Clearly,” the other man replied.

“You have four hours to leave the city,” Victor continued. “I ever see your fucking face again, I’ll skin it off and use it as a doily. And then—“

Victor paused, watching the man’s throat bob as he swallowed.

“Then you’ll find out exactly why they call me Ashes.”

For the first time that morning, Hassan had nothing to say. His smile faltered, fading as his jaw went limp.

“You’d better get going,” Victor added, his face low. “Traffic’s a bitch at this hour.”

The wooden planks of the dock clattered as the two men scrambled down the pier. Ferris sidestepped to avoid them, barely turning his shoulders in time. Through the mist, they could hear a car starting, then a hint of headlights as it pulled away between the warehouses. Then, the air was once again silent.

Victor immediately redirected his glare towards his nephew. “Would it fucking kill you to be on time for once?”

“I had a lot of sins to cover, okay?” Demos said, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”

“And you,” he said, turning towards Ferris. “Is that gun even loaded, Fish?”

Ferris lifted the weapon, releasing an empty magazine into his palm.

“…no,” Ferris said. It mattered little. He had no intention of pulling any triggers, loaded or not.

“Ha,” Victor scoffed.

“You should have been fine without us. Why was Alonzo in the car?” Ferris asked, clicking the magazine back into place before concealing the weapon inside his jacket.

“He’s in time out,” Victor explained, thumbing open a cigarette case. “Ran his fucking mouth again.”

Demos sighed, glancing back towards the warehouses. “We’re going to have to do something about him.”

“At least the prick was here on time. You two get back to the restaurant.”

“Us?” Demos asked. “Where are you going?”

“To have a chat with Alonzo. Unless you’d like to spend some quality time with him,” Victor replied, selecting a cigarette from the case.

“No, no… please,” his nephew said with a smile. “Have fun.”

An orange glow reflected off of Victor’s glasses as he lit his cigarette, then snapped the steel lighter shut. The smoke rose into the fog as he walked away, gray mingling with gray in curling plumes.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will.”