The Don's Doctor

The Octopus

Vincent's POV

On the city’s outskirts, in the areas where no decent people would be found, the Barone family had opened a betting shop. That was the guise of the outer premises. Inside, everything from soliciting to drug dealing would be evident. These businesses were what kept all the families in profit, but the way we, the Benedetti family, conduct our businesses is vastly different from other families.

Morality isn’t why we are here tonight. Territory is at the heart of our descent into the fourth ring of hell, keeping our criminal boarders solely occupied by our own businesses intrinsically connects me to the absolute power as the Don of Dons, the single ruler of the crime families of New York. Barone has made an obvious challenge to my power, and now he has to be made an example of.

Picking my anonymous soldiers to infiltrate the displaced business, they had gained access earlier in the day, posing as gambling sleepwalkers, with enough money to keep Barone’s leaches feeding off them until we appeared. As stipulated, I only arrived with my underboss, Renzo, and one of my capos, Marco. Marco is a last minute decision, but knowing his affinity for peace, he could be useful to cap the violence if things don’t go to plan, and if he is planning to betray us, this will be the giveaway. If he didn’t shoot Barone’s men, it would be because he was one of them.

Renzo and I enter unarmed, but that won’t be a problem. We have more than enough expertise in distorting the purpose of everyday objects, and Barone won’t be difficult to over power-he likes his whiskey and cigars too much. Flashing his men the silk lining of my coat to show we are unarmed, I charge into the premises, the smoke from my cigarette is billowing from my nose. Debt dwellers on the ground floor that haven’t been sucked into the game of luck swiftly flee the building, self-preservation triggering their instinct to hide. They don’t need to know who I am to sense the danger that is bellowing from the pit of my stomach too deep to listen to, it’s a type of danger that has to be felt. This force is the cause of the hair that pricks up on their arms. I can hear the front door slamming shut repeatedly while I climb the stairs to reach the office on the first floor.

Barone is sitting on his high-backed leather chair, cigar in his mouth and a whiskey glass in his hand, pretending not to be afraid. The way his limbs are spread out to make him appear bigger than his actual size is repulsing and the intrusive thought that he looks like a humongous, fat octopus enters my mind. Sweat is dripping heavily from his temple, and his brown shirt has rings of sweat under his arm pits and chest. It pleases me to see him like this: terrified. At least he has the sense to be petrified. Perhaps he realises he has planned his takeover too late, I have re-strengthened all my alliances, and his suckers are barely holding the interest of the other families. Nevertheless, a show of strength has to be demonstrated.

“Don Barone, less than twelve months ago, a truce to not cross into each other’s boarders was declared. For everyone who disobeyed that truce, an example would be made. In the interest of maintaining peace, I return your soldiers to you in one piece, more or less. You have had my men shot and killed. Accusations were made that they were pulled into your part of the town. I decided to ignore these rumours until evidence was found. However, I am now forced to consider that you have been murdering my men and framing them, because you have broken our agreement by opening a business in my region. You have shown yourself to be a man of no honour, because you have gone back on your word. I believe that you did capture my men, took them to your side of town and executed them.”

“This has always been a questionable dominion, and verges on our agreed land…” Barone tries to defend himself by dabbing his sweaty forehead with tissue that disintegrates on contact.

“Exactly, it boarders, but it is mine. You have twenty-four hours to move this den of disrepute out of my area, or I’ll set it aflame, with you and your people locked in it.” Coldly, I outline the eventualities of his choices.

Bravado can compensate for many inadequacies, but there is no cure for a lack of intelligence. Everyone knows that the octopus is the prey of the shark, but he still refuses to blend in to the natural order. The air around him shifts laboriously when he first births the idea of reaching for his gun. By the time his finger twitches, I’ve already grasped the half empty whiskey glass from the table. That is when the red fog covers my vision. I know my body is moving, I can feel someone pushing or hitting me, but the sight and awareness are gone from me. Until sounds gain clarity, I continue to hit the slimy substance beneath me. As quickly as my anger had formed, it disappeared.

Screams. That is the sound I recognise.

Huddling on the floor with his forearms covering his head. I marvel at the savagery of my stance. With one knee on the floor, and my other foot pinning him down by his shoulder, I clasps his jaw in my hand, immobilising him. His cheek is a chandelier of blood rubies and diamonds, the fragments of the crystal glass are embedded into his skin, the impact made what was left in my hand feel like fine sand in my palm. Rising, I look around his demolished office, knowing I am responsible for its present condition. I am aggression’s apprentice, losing myself in the attack. I can only recall Polaroid snippets in unwelcome flashes, but no-one can know that I have lost control again. I have to make it seem intentional. I stand up and adjust the knot in my tie, pretending that everything has gone as I planned. Renzo stares at me like I am a wild animal, and he has just fallen into my enclosure. We’d known each other since we were children. Did he know that I blacked out so that I could commit these acts of barbarity?

“He was reaching for his gun.” I explain, while shrugging away his judgment.

“I didn’t see that.” He replies warily.

“You were too far back.” I criticise, but I wasn’t sure if that was true. I have no idea where he had been.

Just as he is about to open his mouth to reply, gun shots from downstairs kill whatever response he had.

“Where’s Marco?” I ask, and Renzo just points downstairs, before reaching for his gun.

The gambling shop looks like a mock scene in an elaborate, violent video game. Arcade games have been pushed over to provide coverage. Marco was shooting at the bar, where clumsy intermittent shots are returned. Beside him is one of my anonymous soldiers. He is lying in a pool of blood. Needing this to end, before the cops that we haven’t paid off arrive, we creep closer to the bar and open fire from above. Vodka, whiskey, lemoncello and blood covers the floor where the two dead enemies lay, disjointedly and grotesquely against the fridges. I am a monster.

Our other solider appears from the back of the room, speckles of blood on his face. Between Marco and the new arrival, who is picking his teeth with a toothpick, they heave our injured soldier into the car.

“What’s your name?” I ask our uninjured solider, before he walks away.

“Tullio, Don Benedetti.” He answers respectfully, but remains cool and unflustered.

I hand him five hundred dollars, and pat his shoulder. After all, he has taken on more than he bargained for, but somehow I know he can be trusted. He nods, and goes on his way. I will have to remember his name in the future.

“What happened up there, boss?” Marco asks, skeptically.

“He reached for his gun, and he had to be dealt with!” Renzo answers, a little sharply.

It was only me who knew him well enough to detect the doubt in his words, but I didn’t miss the expression of doubt on Marco’s face. His doubts anger me.

Marco heads off, saying he will have to wash off somewhere, before his wife sees him. Thankfully, this is a risk of the job that neither Renzo nor I have to concern ourselves with. Luca has always told us that this life isn’t meant to be for the women we love. It wasn’t until my mother died that the truth of his advice fully took root.

My father trained me to take over from him, by using Roman Emperors for guidance. He had wanted me to run this city like the greats, with wisdom, always acting for the greater good. Tonight, I am Nero, and that realisation scares me. Pulling an inconsequential phone from my pocket, I call Doctor Federico. He’d be able to help the kid.

“Come now!”